Jo Clayton: Shadow of the Warmaster

Tea set, windows, walls, chairs, the nubbly dark green rug on the floor, stone and wood sculptures scattered about, tapestries, paintings-from the moment she came through the outer door, she’d been bombarded with texture and color; that said something about the man, she wasn’t quite sure what.

Also clutter. She looked around and silently sneered at the debris of living in what might have been an elegant room. He had serviteurs, he wouldn’t have to lift a finger to clean up after himself once he’d properly programmed them, that he didn’t could mean he was comfortable with this mess, maybe even preferred it to order. Cluttery mind. Cutesy mind. Quale’s Nest. She began to feel a little sick.

He came into the room followed by the young girl who may or may not have rescued her.

A tall man. Thick black hair, a streak of white running through it, extending the line of a scar which touched his eyebrow with a dot of white, skimmed past his eye and swung down to the corner of his mouth. Pale gray-green eyes, droopy eyelids, nose like a predator’s beak, mustache, beard, both clipped short. Broad shoulders, long arms, a loose, easy body. Easy body, easy man, if you left him alone, at least that was her first response to him. He wore scuffed old sandals with bronze buckles, heavy tan trousers, cut off above the knees, a shirt made from the same cloth, sleeves ripped out. Faded, softer than velvet after many washings, wrinkle on wrinkle, frayed at the seams and edges. Unimpressive, she told herself. Unprofessional. She didn’t believe it. He moved like a man comfortable in his body, not an athlete or a dancer, nothing so self-conscious, just one who expected it to do whatever he required of it without fuss or lagging.

He crossed to the bulge of the tower, looked over his shoulder at her. “Come,” he said and palmed open the entrance to a lift tube. “My office is the tower’s top floor.”

At least the office was neat. He gestured to a tupple chair hanging soft and shapeless beside a tall window, waited until she was seated before rounding the desk and settling himself. “A moment,” he said, “there’s some business I have to finish.”

He beckoned Shadith to him, tipped up a sensor plate, touched a sound barrier between Adelaar and them. He looked up at the girl, raised a brow, said something, his mouth blurring so Adelaar couldn’t read it. Shadith smiled, made a quick curving gesture with one hand, spoke rapidly, leaned on his shoulder as he worked the sensor plate. Adelaar watched his hands. They moved with the controlled clumsiness of a craftsman, no flash to them, easy, slow, sure. Long scarred fingers, tapering to spatulate tips, nails cut short, clean but scratched, he didn’t take care of his hands. Too bad. They were the best part of him as far she was concerned. She sighed and looked away. The storm had broken outside, rain streaked the window glass. The valley was green swept with silver, the river cloud-black and rain-silver. Soundless rain, the office was too insulated from the outside to let the patter through. Too bad. Still, the storm gave the room a cozy feel, especially when she looked around again and saw the girl was gone, ambiguous uncertain figure that reminded Adelaar how little real control she had over events.

Quale leaned forward, forearms on the desktop (another of Telffer’s jewel woods), hands clasped, watching her, waiting for her to tell him what she wanted from him.

She touched the controls and brought the tupple chair humming closer to the desk, slipped the diCarx from her belt, laid it in front of him. “Adelaar aici Arash. Droom. In the Hegger Combine.”

He collected the diCarx and fed it into the Evaluator, glanced at the plate. “Ah. Adelaris Security Systems. He looked up, his eyes laughing. “I’ve heard about you, never could afford you.”

She lifted a hand, let it fall. “I have a daughter,” she said. “Tenured Associate. University. Xenoethnologist. Awarded a Grant, permission to study the Unntoualar on Kavelda Styernna. Framed. Torture of a subject. Perversion. Sentenced, death. Sentence commuted to thirty years Contract Labor. Bolodo Neyuregg Ltd. the Contractor. I want her out of that. What’s it going to cost me?”

“Depends on where she is. Do you know that?”

“No. I know how to find out. It took me more than three years to get that far.”

“Those men Shadith stunned, the Directory placed them. Looks like you annoyed Bolodo sometime during those three years and they managed to ID you. Shame, that.” He drew his thumb along his bearded jawline, ruffling the short black hair. “They’re not too worried yet, or they’d ’ve sent pros instead of depending on local talent.” The ends of his mustache lifted, subsided, a shadowed smile. “Assuming there’s something they’re twitchy about that involves your daughter. Otherwise they’d ignore you. It doesn’t cost them anything if you peel her loose, they’ve got their fee. Looks to me like Bolodo’s up to something that’d give them big trouble if it came out. Give us trouble if they think we’re getting close. Hmm.” He sat back, his eyes fixed on her face. “You know what it is. No? You’ve got some idea?”

“Yes.”

He lifted a brow. “Terse.”

“So?”

“Hmm.” His eyelids drooped until his eyes were slits, he brushed the tip of his forefinger slowly back and forth across his mustache as he thought that over. After a moment he leaned forward, tapped in a code that brought a large viewplate unfolding from a slot in the desk top. “Kink,” he said, “Kumari, Pels, Conference.” He looked up. “Bring your chair round here,” he told Adelaar, “but keep your mouth shut, if you don’t mind, unless you’re asked something.”

The plate split into three cells. Furry cuddly type with twitchy ears set high on its head. She didn’t know the species. Milkglass maiden, pale hair thick and silky, pale skin, pale gray eyes cool and intelligent. Hadn’t come across that kind either, interesting. Ropy coils, clusters of succulent black eyes, colored pulse patches, hairy exoskeleton, Sikkul Paems, them she knew. Adult with a yearling bud crouching by ves head. Quale’s Crew?

“Bolodo Neyuregg,” Quale said. “You heard. We start this thing, we’d better be prepared to dodge a lot.”

What’s this? Adelaar thought, Tick’s Blood, do I have to sell all of them? Multiple maledictions on my miserable luck, I hadn’t planned on letting any of this out. Not until after we closed the deal anyway. Why did that girl have to be tied up with him?

The milkglass maiden opened her pale pink mouth (what species? not one of the cousin races, must be some backwater bunch that never made space). “Snatching.” She had a husky purring voice, more life in that than in her face. “Slaving undisguised. What else. Considering what Jaszaca ti Vnok told us.” Her voice was cool, her cool eyes distant. “Spotchals has to suspect something chancy is going on, but they won’t press it as long as no one rubs Spotchallix noses in the mess. I’d say the trade is small but enormously profitable, otherwise Bolodo wouldn’t risk it. They’ve got a strong base in Spotchals, but they’ve got to be careful; they own some pols and some career functionaries; even so, they’ve got potential for problems, remember?”

The fuzzy one lifted a black lip, exposed a yellowed tearing tooth four centimeters long (carnivore, she thought, deceptive little thing). “Yeah, I was in this bar the night before we left. Couple of Bolodo security come in. Hunh. One minute you wouldn’t ’ve noticed a grenade go off in your lap, next you could hear your hair grow. Spotchallix, they like the taxes Bolodo pays, but they hold their noses when they hear the name. If it came out Bolodo was slaving, I’d give them a year at most before they were gone.