Shadowplay sq-1
Page 21
The beast screamed suddenly, she felt the swell and scrape of the shout in her own throat; he fought her hold and because she'd been driving him lightly, just a touch now and then to keep him moving, he broke free and began swimming frantically for deeper water.
Shadith let him go. She didn't understand his panic, but she felt its power through the link that joined them and knew she'd better look round for what touched it off.
When she reached, she found sweeping spirals of seabirds filling the skies. That many birds, they wouldn't be more than a kilometer or two offshore, would they? Ahlahlah, I wish I knew more about the sea…
She slid into one of the larger birds and scanned the water around the capsules. Tsoukbaraiml Not surf. Steamer? Something's pumping smoke out that funnel. A warship of some kind. Bow could slice onions and look at those cannons! Coming like its tail's on fire. Sari Might as well be yelling Get out of my way, I'll stomp you if you don't. No wonder old toothface split. And what you bet it's coming for us? Yeh. It's slowing. Stopping. Didn't know you could stop in the middle of the ocean like that.
The capsule split around her.
Hands were reaching in, pulling her out, pulling out the harpcase and her travelpouch. The wind was very cold and the sudden brightness of the morning sun was like broken glass. Her legs were shaky and her knees kept threatening to unhinge so she was grateful for the arms that held her up,.though she didn't much like the avid curiosity in the faces of the young navas pressing about her. She blinked and pushed away-and saw they were about to open Nagafog's capsule. Even without trying she could feel his rage and bloody intent. "Wait," she cried, or thought she did. The word was a croak and dropped like a stone. Impatiently she pushed at the hands that reached for her again and half-ran, half-fell across the short stretch of deck to the capsule that was already beginning to crack open. She wasn't worried about the navas, he might bloody one or two of them, but she knew only too well he'd be shot before he had a chance to get a good massacre started and she couldn't see any reason for wasting a creature only doing what his nature demanded. Besides, she was a lot fonder of him than she was of this world or its people. Hoping they'd hesitate to shoot a girlchild, she flung herself in front of the big cat and froze him as he shoved his head and forelegs through the gap.
"Don't open any more of them until I have him calm," she screamed; this time she was loud enough to be heard.
As she worked with Nagafog, rubbing at his head, stroking under his chin, touching all his peacepoints, she heard the shouted order to keep away (from someone with a loud voice and the arrogance of command), then she heard muted mutters, the scrape of feet on the metal deck. "That's a good li'l ki-cat," she murmured, "goood baby. I know, I know, stuck in the dark and banged around like that, goooood cat, pretty cat, looove the cat, Nagaaa Fogeee, Nagee, goood cat, let those little muscles go loose, thaat's it, goooood cat…" She laughed as she felt the tension flow out of him and heard a basso purr break loose. "All right, baby, you sit there and enjoy and I'll unpack Magi for you."
She got, to her feet, looked calmly around until she spotted the Pihtatipli (Captain of a Steamship) leaning over rails about a platform of sorts that was the flat roof of a flit cradle; she smiled at him, knowing he thought he was safe up there from her and the cats. Fool. Nagafog can jump twice that from a standing start and will if you give me cause.
She turned her back on him and located Magimeez. Pointing to the capsule, she said, "That one next, open it and give me room to work. Then you can open the others, there's no problem with them."
Sassa stood on the deck, shaking himself, flexing his wings, then he screamed his anger and delight and launched himself into the wind, cold wet wind that fought him until he won control of it and soared free.
Kikun leaned against Shadith, shrunken and shivering, his skin a nubbly green-gray rag hanging lank on his bones; once again he'd half destroyed himself to save them, this time from Puk's malice and his missiles. Magimeez and Nagafog were stretched out on the deck beside the Ciocan, making their muscles ripple and switching their tails, pleased with the attention they were getting. Rohant was ignoring everyone with gloomy intensity, working the knots out of his muscles and his temper.
They were surrounded by AWE, battered by AWE. Rohant might pretend to ignore it, but he felt it. Kikun fed on it, used it to plump himself out again-which disturbed Shadith despite her fondness for the little man and all she owed him. She fought the smother and heard, dimly, the Pihtatipli yelling orders to his men. After this is over I'd better get Lee to show me how to block inflow or I'm going to burn out. This Reading thing keeps getting stronger on me.
She rubbed at her eyes, shivered, moved closer to Rohant, using him and the cats to shield her from the emotional battering.
Watching the Three every spare moment, the navas shut down the beepers and dropped the capsules over-side, cracked open so they'd sink to the bottom and stay there.
Shadith watched them go with considerable satisfaction. Puk thought they were dead or he wouldn't have gone off and left them. If he ashed the EYEs, maybe even Ginny thought they were dead. She sighed. Unfortunately, that wouldn't last long. The Pihtatipli's ambition was skunk strong; the minute he hit shore, half the world would know what he fished from the sea. Aina'iril. Seems like we've spent a year trying to get there, and now I'd rather not go. Wonder if Arel got off all right? Should I tell the others about him? No. He's the Jack up my sleeve, my Wildcard. Definitely we should go for the skipcom, best to have two shots, make sure one gets through.
"Hunter." The Pihtatipli was leaning over the rail again, looking eager.
The Ciocan stared back. "What?"
"Will you come below? You will be more comfortable." Shadith sniffed, pulled her mouth down. Almost wagging his tail, and so he should, how he's planning to use us. Come on, Ro, give him an answer, I'm freezing my ass off out here.
As soon as the Three were settled in the Tipli's Quar ters (the Pihtatipli hovering hospitably, leaving the running of the ship to his Second), the engines were brought up and the destroyer began racing for the harbor at Aina'iril.
WATCHER 7
The cluster of Cells focused on the Pilgrim Road were filling up with hordes of people as if the countries along the Road were draining into it. Ginbiryol Seyirshi scanned them repeatedly, tightening the focus onto individual eccentricities of the pilgrims, rejecting all but a few of the images, blending the remnant into a collage to heighten the feel of a swarm building toward an immensity powerful enough to eat the land.
Rebel activity in Nakiskwen (west coast), Kwamitaskwen (central plains), Kwamaskwen (north plains) and Swamiskwen (south coast) dipped to nothing as the population decreased to a skeleton of skeptics and thieves (public and private); in Wapaskwen (east coast) where the Mistiko Otcha Cicip was, where everyone was going, the rebels were growing more frantic, more disorganized-more violent. Ginbiryol clucked with satisfaction as he tasted and took scene after scene of burning and bombing, of streetfights and stoning, of kanaweh and kipaos killing and being killed, of Na-priests on the Question floor doing torture by the numbers because there was too much work for personal attention; what had been art was now mechanical process. The Pliciks drew in on them selves, retreated behind armed guards, bars, and a hardening resistance to change.
Ginbiryol labored steadily at his assemblage until he heard an exclamation from Ajeri Kilavez. He looked up. "What is it, Jeri tiszt?"
"Smuggler's pram. He's offworld and scooting for the Limit, Puk's on his tail, no chance of catching that pram, but he might get a missile off in time… yes, there it goes. Missed! Shit."
"Language, Ajeri tiszteh. Continue, please."
"Puk's after him… more missiles… the pram must have a slide shield, it's slipp'rier than a bead of mercury… Puk's dropping behind fast, I've never seen anything go like that sublight, 'specially that size… Puk's still trying, but he hasn't got a hope… you want me to keep on?"
"No. Call him back, there is no poi
nt in continuing this. Have you begun the Crust assessment yet?"
"The kephalos is working on that now…" she touched a sensor, scanned the readout, "it'll be finished in approximately twenty minutes. You want a preliminary, or shall I call you?"
"Call me." He went back to his editing, dumping and saving, cutting and juxtaposing, focusing down or expanding to wideshots.
CELL 44
Children with Pakoseo ribbons tied in their hair clapped hands in a circle dance about other children who were swinging folded paper birds from strings tied to long slicks; they shouted the Nataminaho Song, the Hunter singing to the birds and beasts:
He is coming, Nataminaho the Hunter is coming, run before him for he will take you to feed the People.
Around them the marching adults smiled indulgently but stopped them after a short while so they wouldn't exhaust themselves and have to be piled on the supply wagons in order to keep up with their families in that grueling, all day, day on day on day march.
CELL 45
Fires dotted the Plain from horizon to horizon along the Pilgrim Road, north and south, east and west.
Ghostdancers in black and white paint came out of the dark and danced their secret, subversive, and very sacred mime tales. They danced to ancient music, music that belonged to them alone, that was never heard outside the secret societies except on the Pakoseo trek, music that was forbidden by the Gospahs and lightside priests of all degrees, music that brought the singer, musician, or dancer instantly to the Question if he was discovered. The list was endless, that name roll of ghostdancers forced to deny and abandon their rites, their dances, their music; whole families seemed to lose ancient, hidden traditions, but the patterns survived, the music lived, the dances were performed and passed on, generation to generation. And every Pakoseo had its ghostdancers, as if the earth herself spawned them in swarms too vast to count.
CELL 46
Tagwit priests stirred the vast cauldrons of beans and soup, starting new pots as soon as one was emptied. Day on day on day, dishing out bowls of food to the horde marching past, a meal three months long without interruption. More supplies came in every day, meat animals from the Plicik ranches, beans and rice from the Collective Farms, the Pakoseo assessment given freely by some and grudgingly by others. Soup and beans, beans and soup, steam curling up from the cauldrons, odor of sanctity, pleasing In the nostrils of Oppalatin.
CELL 21
Grumbling under his breath, the kana climbed into the flit. "This is gettin to be like work, Weeshk, we might's well be fuckin plainboys chasin fuckin bos out 'n the fuckin Grass."
"Shut up, Wakso, you worsen a sore toe. Sit down and strap up. We got a job to do, might's well get at it." Kaweeshk waited until his sour grumbling partner was settled, then he thumbed the starter…
The flit exploded, molten metal and metal shards slammed into other flits garaged at the Kasta, they began to burn, fuel caught, there were more explosions, alarms were clanging, there was confusion, panic, that gradually devolved to order as a few effective leaders appeared.
When the fire was out, two men stood by the twisted sooty rail of a walkway. "Bomb," one said. "At a first guess, one would say packed with thermit."
The second man was in such a rage he was trembling. He slapped his left hand against his leg, again and again and again, a dreary monotonous slap slap slap that he didn't realize he-was doing. After a long tense silence, he said, "Them!"
"Not much doubt of that. In here, too. Looks like we've got rats in the walls. Who was it in the flit?"
"One doesn't know, it doesn't matter. A brace of scuts on street patrol, no one Important." He grabbed the rail with both hands, shook It. "May their souls rot in hell's cellar. It's deliberate provocation, no question. And they're going to get what they asked for. Come on. One has to report to to the Math Hen. How long before one has your assessment of the debris?"
CELL 30
Shadows flickered from house to house; night in the Maka quarter was busier than a broken anthill. Flits whined overhead, stabbing searchlights into the murk, missing with an impatient inevitability everything they were trying to find. Squads of kipaos marched with equally ineffectual arrogance through the potholed, twisting streets of the Quarter, shining the beams of their hand lumens into the sidestreets, blind alleys, the barred windows, and the recessed doorways of the crumbling structures that passed as houses In this part of the sprawling city; they were terrified, sweating with it and stinking, despite their armor and their weapons and the poverty of the people they were hunting. The smells, the shadows that moved in the corners of their eyes but vanished when they swung round to confront them, the miasma of rage and hatred that stirred like smoke in the rancid air, all this spooked them more and more; several times a number of the younger recruits shot holes out of the air or blew up piles of garbage. They were growled at, warned of punishment detail when they got back to barracks; it didn't help, their Immediate fear was too great.
CELL 19
In the village three bodies were laid on improvised biers before the village Wikhouse, the Mehewik, a boy and two girls, none older than seven. The Wik priest stood on the steps of the Mehewik and spread his hands in helpless grief. He could not meet the accusing eyes of the Maka, nor could he blame them, whatever happened. He'd pushed for a probe Into the deaths, pulling every string he could get his hands on though he was warned off, told he would be severely disciplined if he persisted; he even tried to reach the Wapaskwen Gospah, but all that brought him was a visit by a triad of Na-priests and an order from the Gospah to cease and desist if he wanted to retain his seat; if he refused he would be declared contumaceous and brought to Aina'iril for re-education at the hands of the Question. He was from a relatively poor but unusually gifted Kiser family and was deeply devoted to the service of Oppalatin and to the Poor Ones beloved of God, the Make working the soil who were His Own Children. The Wik priest looked at the dead children and their kin and was bitterly angry at the hierarchy, at the greed and the maneuvering for influence and power, the corruption of those who should have cared for these Little Ones. He sighed and stared down into his open hands, then quietly took off his cassock, stood there shivering in his underwear. "Wait," he said. He tossed the cassock into the dirt beside the steps and went inside. When he came out, he had on the trousers and sweater he wore when he worked in the garden. He left the door open'behind him and•came down the steps to join the men. "I'll bring him out to you," he said. "What you do, do it quickly and without unnecessary pain; he is a beast, not a man. Give him the swift death of a beast."
They went silently to the?Ispisaco, but the man they sought was not there and no one would say where he had gone.
CELL 1
CELL 4
The thin wiry man sat at a kidney shaped table, scanning papers with a nervous rapidity, jotting a few words on a pad with each; when one padsheet was filled, he tore It off and spiked it. Brilliant morning sunlight streamed through the wall of windows to his left, touched his face with an innocent, unintended cruelty, exaggerating the hunger in it, the neediness that was the outward aspect of his ambition, the coldness and amorality in the man.
A soft chime broke the gently rustling silence. The man scowled, thumbed a button down. "Yes?"
The Aide's voice was a calm drawl, baritone verging on bass; he had perhaps been chosen as much for the quality of that voice as for his administrative skills.
"Piskwakan from the Port asks to speak to you, Makwahkik Sa-pe. He will not say why, save that it is very important and something you have expressed strong interest in recently. Will you speak to him?"
Makwahkik drummed his nails on the desk. "Tell him scramble, put him on."
"Makwahkik Sa-pe, we have them, we have the Avatars." The scrambler turned Piskwakan's voice scratchy and shrill, but the words came through clear enough to turn the listener's face weasel-hungry.
"How?"
A moment's silence as the Port-Director got his facts in order, Makwahldk was an
impatient man. "Just after dawn the SD picked up a distrees call, corning from out toward the Islands, emergency beepers on a clutch of escape capsules. The Kiyakipao on duty had instructions to whistle me up if something like that happened. Was a tip from a local mouth, he said something important was coming at us, he's a straight mouth,, gives us good whistles. Bit, he said, maybe even Kiscomaskin or his bro. Was a destroyer in port, ordered it out to collect the capsules, bring 'em back softly, softly. Something peculiar. The capsules were all over first, then they were in one lump, bumping together, then they started moving shoreside. Pihtatipli brought back tracings to verify this, also photos of the capsules, standard types with no motive power. Also photos of the Avatars and the beasts. One collected all those, prints and films both. One will send them with the Avatars. There is… um,… a complication. The Pihtatipli's an ambitious man. And a brainless twerp. But a twerp with powerful connections, they bought his commission, otherwise he wouldna got near a ship. He's swore to keep his mouth shut, but he'll spill the whole with his first bottle of 'pishka squeeze. One wouldn't waste your time, except he's not just a Plicik, he's some sort of eighth cousin to the Nistam. Out of one's league. You want, one will order him to patrol the swamp; trouble is he makes one corn call and one gets one's butt kicked and he gets the order quashed. One has been able to muzzle him for the moment, but he's getting impatient. So over to you, friend. You want to fetch this lot or shall one shove them into a flit and ferry them over to the Kasta?"
"Send them. What about the destroyer's crew?"
"They've seen the Avatars and they know damn well what they were looking at. One can shut them up onboard the ship for twenty-eight hours, no more. Even then there'll be rumors leaking off before a third of that time has passed. This is a Port, Makwahkik Sa-Pe, you know what that means."