Jo Clayton: Shadow of the Warmaster

“Aukma Harree’s blessing on her little head.” Kumari yawned. “I was getting bored doing nothing. Lean on her, Swar; someone that close to being offed should have a strong idea of how much her life is worth.” She made her happy noise. “A lean for a lien; the one on your share.”

“That’s not even worth a groan. You finished, Shadow? Come on, let’s find some air without verbal farts in it.”

I like towers so I built myself one; taller than the tendrij it is, faced with fieldstone and paneled with the finest wood on Telffer. Makes you want to reach out and caress it and I’m not saying I don’t if I’m alone so I don’t embarrass myself. My office is on the top floor of the tower, got a desk and all the gadgets I need to keep my peace unruffled, a pair of tupple chairs for my clients, a stunner or two in the walls in case one of ’em gets ambitious. A droptube under my chair, same reason. Handknotted rug from Gomirik, couple of paintings I like, a stone sculpture by a man on University, what’s his name… ah! Sarmaylen. Place looks nice if I say it myself. The tower’s tucked into the southeast corner of the main house, you get to it through the living room, there’s no outside entrance, at least not one I show an ordinary visitor. The guest rooms are freestanding, connected by a walkway; they’ve all got outside doors, for my privacy and theirs.

Harpcase bumping against her backside, strap over her shoulder, Shadith followed me in.

The woman was standing in the middle of the living room, prissy disapproval in the curve of her downturned mouth. Hmm. There was a bit of a mess in there, so what. Nothing to do with her. Her eyes flickered when she saw Shadith, but the expression on her face didn’t change. Looked like she was plated with stainless steel, a lot of anger underneath, though; no passion, no warmth, only anger and a hard control as if she’d explode if she let go her grip a single instant.

“Come,” I said, and palmed the tube open. “My office is the tower’s top floor.”

She nodded, a taut economical jerk of her head, then followed Shadow and me into the lift tube.

1. Approaching zero.

Quale’s Nest/Telffer.

The flickit was battered, rusty, with an intermittent eructation in its field generator that jolted a grunt out of Adelaar every time because it wasn’t regular enough to let her get set for the drop. The seat she sat on was dusty, streaked with ancient grease and sweat, polished to a high gloss by years and years of antsy behinds. When the driver pulled open the door for her and she smelled the interior for the first time, her stomach lurched and she couldn’t help flinching from the filth, but she climbed in without comment. She couldn’t afford to antagonize the driver/owner; he was the only one willing to take her out of Prin Daruze, the only one. If he dumped her, she’d have to do her negotiating over the com circuit and that would be like broadcasting her woes to the world. Specifically, to Bolodo Neyuregg Ltd. Besides, she had to see Quale, to know him. So much depended on him.

The driver was a dour and silent man. Pressed to go faster, he slowed to a crawl; she recognized defeat and kept her fuming internal. The trip wasn’t all that long, only about an hour, but his stubborn silence meant there was nothing to distract her from her fretting.

The past three plus years had been a heavy drain on her resources; she’d taken her best researcher off markets and tech breaks, set him hunting out mercenaries, she’d put in escrow a sum for hiring the most reliable of them once she located her daughter, she’d left Adelaris Ltd. in Halash’s hands. He was a good manager, he’d keep things going, but he wasn’t up to finding new markets or people, the company would be treading in place. She’d drawn her travel and research expenses from Adelaris’ current account; the search had taken far longer and was more costly than she’d expected, the account was dangerously low now, she really couldn’t pull more out without destroying her business, bankrupting herself and her partners; they’d been patient with her. They more or less had to be, she was Adelaris. Without her patents and processes, without her energies, Adelaris Security Systems wouldn’t exist, but there was a limit to how much she could ask of them. If Quale didn’t work out, she’d have to tap into the escrow fund and that might start a hemorrhage that would kill all chance of getting Aslan back. The driver’s fee was one more stone on the pile, which didn’t make it easier for her to tolerate his sour misogyny.

The flickit flew west and a little south, labored along a steep-walled river gorge which cut deep into mountains that rose and subsided like waves of stone, each wave higher than the last, narrow grassy valleys dividing them, mountains thick with trees and brush, with fortress houses scattered widely along the slopes. It labored through a pass and came out into a broad valley, turned several degrees farther south and followed the river to a house on a mountainside, a rambling structure with scattered suites like nodes on an angular vine, a tower at a corner of the largest node.

The Telff circled wide round the house, set down at a detached landing pad at least two hundred meters off, clanked the door open for her and settled himself to sleep while he waited for her to finish her business or send him away. Whether she went back with him or not, he’d gotten a roundtrip fee from her. When she was out, he cracked an eye. “Stay on the path,” he said. “You won’t like what happens, you go off it.”

“Thanks.” She shut the door, looked around. There was a sleek black flickit on the pad, a ship’s flit beside it. She frowned, walked over to the flit, nodded. That girl, Shadith. Tick’s Blood, was that a setup? She shivered, feeling trapped and loathing it, banged her fist against the side of the flit, shivered again, with rage this time. Impatient with herself, she shoved away her apprehension and went striding off along the metaled pathway. There was no time for this nonsense; she was here, she’d know what she needed to do once she met the man. Everything else was unimportant. Aslan, ayyy, three years gone, she could be dead, no! I won’t think that, she’s a survivor, she let herself be trapped, but killed? No!

She followed a small floating serviteur along a hallway; past several closed doors. The wood of the walls and ceiling had a deep shimmering glow, the grain was a subtle calligraphy flowing like music under the buttery shine of lightberries on golden bronze stalks. She narrowed her eyes at the serviteur, eased closer to the leftside wall, drew her fingers along the wood. After a few steps she dropped her hand and walked faster.

The serviteur led her into a room full of light, gray light from the gathering storm, spidery with distant lightning, a room without corners, irregularly shaped with a bite out of one side where the tower was. Huge windows ran from floor to ceiling, a ceiling more than ten meters high with cathedral beams a distant richness of texture and line; polarizing glass in them, pale now, the windows looked out across the valley or up toward the mountain’s peak. Chairs were clustered about these windows, comfortable, leather covered, ancient design. Trays on the floor, remnants of today’s noon meal congealing on plates and bowls. Books and papers piled haphazardly about, drifts of them next to the chairs. Set into the wall opposite the door there was a huge fireplace meant to take logs, not limbs or splits, a table in front of it littered with several pieces of wood and some gouges, chips and curls of wood scattered about, a glass with a sticky residue coating the sides and hardening in the bottom, a bowl of fruit with a half-eaten apple turning brown, a tea tray with a plain pot and drinking bowls.