by Jo Clayton
Kiscomaskin came in quietly, no fanfare, no kaboom-here-lam-look-at-me, but the carping died immediately and the Five turned to face him. He waved his bodyguards out the door, pulled it shut and dropped into a chair. "Tell me."
A Maka with long red-brown hair plaited into half a dozen thin beaded braids, Nastrldmas leaned forward, elbows on knees, a frown on his lean, worn face. He was the leader of the Shawanalotah (windwalkers), the Action Triads of the Council of the Five, nightstalkers hitting inside the strongholds of the Pliciks and the Priests. There was a price of five thousand wiyas on his head.
"We've got access to the Kasta, right into the Maid] Hen's bedroom." He took a keypac from his shoulder pouch, dangled it from long, bony fingers. "With security blanked out where it counts."
Kiscomaskin tapped his fingers on his thigh. "And?"
"Miowee the streetsinger. You know her. She was picked up a few months ago, she got word to us while she was with that girl supposed to be Nilcamo-Oskinin, when she was practicing the Pakoseo Songs in the Kisa Misthakan. She got these out an hour ago." He rattled the keys. "Malch Hen made a big mistake; he thought he could control that girl by making Miowee a whipping churl. Instead, he going to lose the Three, that's the price for this." He swung the keypac again. ''We bringing them out tonight, long with Miowee and her daughter." He straightened, raised his thumb In defiance, grinning as the rest of the Five shook their thumbs with him. "And slit the Makh Hen's throat before he know what hit him."
The Tanak Mohecopah cleared his throat. He was a sturdy, sour-faced man, with broad hands and large feet, a hard, solid body, dark suspicious eyes and a straggle of brown hair kinking about a bald spot the size of a saucer. He was a total loss as an orator, but one-on-one he could sell a man his own skin and make a profit on it He was the one who maintained the web of support services in Aina'iril and throughout Wapaskwen, providing intelligence, housing; food, even coin. He had a prodigious memory and could usually produce people, tools, and supplies for whatever projects the Council of Five had working. The price on his head was fifteen thousand wiyas.
"I keep trying to tell you all," he said, his harsh voice strident with anger. "We can't kill the man. It would ruin everything. Hold him to ransom. Keep him as hostage so the kanaweh won't firebomb the Quarters. Otherwise, don't touch. We kill him, we trigger a massacre. What then? Who's going to listen to us when their families are dead? When they're all dead?"
"You!" The word was an explosion from the second Maka, Dencipim. He was a thin, intense man with gray-streaked black hair plaited into the Make braids, a bum scar along his jaw and a number of thin white knife scars on his face and neck, the backs of his hands. He led the strikes, the marches, the barricade fights in the streets of Aina'iril. His temper was notorious, it gave him a ferocious energy and drove him to acts of legendary daring. The price on his head was ten thousand wiyas. "You make me sick," he shouted. "I spit on that weasel talk. I spit on you."
The Kisar Lihtaksos hissed Impatiently. "The both of you, we've been through this and been through it. The decision was made, Mohecopah. Makwahkik is one of the few loyal and able men the Nistam has. Too able. He is more dangerous to us alive than dead. And dead he'll be when the Shawanalotah go in." He crossed his legs at the ankle, tented his hands, touching fingertip to fingertip in a characteristic pose-for what he called far too many years, he'd been a lecturer on Early History at the University, a colleague of Asteplikota. He was a fair, frail man, with fine lank gray-blond hair and faded blue eyes. That frailty was misleading; he had a tough incisive mind, a resilient body and an undentable will. He lived on the run, in cellars and rags, eating when he could, snatching sleep whenever he could find a safe hole, but he never lost his poise and his worn elegance. He was the mediator of quarrels among the Five, the least known to the people in the streets. Because he had difficulty with ordinary chit-chat and few close friends outside his work circle, he had no constituency. Among the Kisars, even including his family and clan, he was held to be both traitor and fool. The price on his head was the smallest, only a thousand wiyas.
The fifth sat silent, watching, the Kawa Wetaklsoh, a small, wiry man huddled in heavy, embroidered robes, the scalplock of the Kawas trained to fall past his left ear along with the totemdangles of his personal clan, small copper ovals hanging on copper chains, with the namska fish stamped into them.
Ex-smuggler, ex-trader, he was the Five's tle Into the disaffected Kawa clans, reaching men who were too cautious to declare themselves but were willing to provide services and supplies for the rebels; he understood and shared the prudence of his caste, kept his head down himself until the Nish'mok forced him into the open. The price on his head was five thousand wiyas.
He stirred as Lihtaksos finished speaking. "We're wasting time," he said. His voice was a deep soft basso, a gentle rumble that was as misleading as the scholar's frailty. "The Shawanalotah are waiting. Kiscomaskin Sa-Pe, have you anything to tell us?"
Kiscomaskin tapped his fingers on his thighs. He wasn't happy at having this pushed in his face, but he couldn't let it slide. He was hardly past puberty when he learned that the prime secret to being a leader was the ability to recognize a developing consensus and to articulate it before anyone else.
All the Five wanted Makwahkik dead, even Mohecopah, but what troubled him was troubling the others-and more than they were willing to admit. "I have a thought. Nashkimas, you've made copies of that pac?"
Nashkimas tossed the keypac into the air, caught it and dropped it into his shoulderpouch. "Of course. Make one, make ten, doesn't take all that long. Why?"
"Send in an additional Triad. Once you've taken out the Nish'mok, don't leave his body there, have them get it away while the rest go about their business. If they can, they should take it to the middle of the bay and drop it In, weighed down with enough scrap metal to keep It there till woridsend. Leave the kanaweh a mystery to investigate, not a death to avenge. While it might be satisfying to cut his throat, don't.
No. Get him some way that doesn't leave traces behind that you can't clean up. The strangler's cord. Yes. Yes. Yes! How appropriate, don't you think? Use his own tool against him." He sat back, smiling at the shouts of approval. "Right. Now, where you going to put the Three when you get them out?"
Ginbiryol set the Pet aside and began entering short notes into his mm pad. There were two strands developing below, two promising fates for that girl: the Fire at the Culmination and Kiscomaskin's assassination plot.
Ginbiryol was not sure which he wanted to come to fruition; he was also unsure whether he had any say in the matter. He preferred the burning. He wanted to see that girl writhing in the fire, the others did not matter that much, but she had earned the fire over and over by what she had done to him, to them all; she had made a mockery of them. He replayed the scene between the brothers and brooded over the exchange. He could not make up his mind whether he should call off Kiscomaskin or let the man try what Puk had so disastrously failed at; he had a strong feeling that the local would not manage it either. The girl by herself was bad enough, put her with that lizard man, they were hoodoos of major proportions.
He watched Cell 14 and brooded some more. He could call Kiscomaskin off. Probably he had better do that. Letting the girl get at the Kiskaid might be… no, would be disastrous. She knew too much. She talked too much. Even before she got him killed, she had wiped out Makwahkik's usefulness. If he lost Kiscomaskin as well… On the other hand, Kiscomaskin had a nose for smelling out weaknesses no matter how deeply they were hidden. Ordering him to keep off would send him digging at the girl as soon as he thought he'd dropped his watchers. No. The least intrusive way was the best. Let events play out. It did not really matter. Nothing the locals could do would change the end. He rubbed at his jaw and stole a look at Ajeri. She was reading one of her magazines, ignoring the cells. The girl had gotten to her long before this, she could not stand to look at her now. Well, Ajeri tiszteh, come the burning you will be right again. Come the burnin
g…
CELL 5
Black fabricwings rode the eddying winds to the roof of the Kasta. The Shawanalotah made the precarious landings with precision and silence despite the slant of the leads and slimy mixture of dust and dew that made the roof a potential deathslide. After folding the kites and tucking them behind the parapet, the five Triads ran bent over toward the lit-up area of the Nish'mok's private flit landing.
Miniature crossbows loaded with drugged darts in their left hands, the front Triad crept forward, moving with the undulant predatory grace of blackvipers. The leader took out the dozing sentry before he knew he wasn't alone on the roof.
After a quick scan failed to locate anyone else up there, the leader waved the others forward, keyed open the lift, and punched in the code that would take them down into the heart of the Kasta.
Fourth level: two Triads peeled off, trotted for the armored doors of the Nish'mok's suite.
Third level: one Triad stayed to hold the lift, one scattered to plant the firebombs they carried in their sacs, the third followed a small black cat through the maze of corridors.
Twenty-three olph. The leader checked the designation, opened the squint. Throaty growl, smell of cat. "Ah," he breathed. "Hunter."
The word was a thread of sound, but the answer came back immediately, a snarl filled with hostility. "What?"
"Get ready, you leaving. Singer say this: Miralys have your skin you mess this up, kitcat's word on it." He keyed the lock and swung the door open.
A snort from the darkness, the sound of something big moving about, then Rohant appeared in the doorway, pouch over his shoulder, cats at his heels.
The Triad collected Klkun, then Shadith, swung Miowee into a leather harness, strapped her onto the back of the largest Shawal and went trotting back to the lift to wait for the bomb planters.
CELL 4
One ansit. The number glyph and the letter glyph were ornate, thick silver shapes inlaid with elaborate gold scrolling; the door Itself was steel veneered with purplewood, polished and waxed and shimmering like gemstone in the brilliant white light that kept the hallway clear of shadow. The lead Triad spread out, a Shawal facing each way along the hall, the third trying the keys on the lock. The second Triad trotted off toward the armory-they were were going to collect what they could carry and set the rest to blow once they were away. The child lay on a pallet at the foot of a wide bed, a blanket over her, a chain from her leg to the bedpost. Though the Shawanalotah came as quiet as shadows moving across a wall, she started from a troubled sleep and sucked in a breath, preparing to scream. A Shawal sprang at her, got a fistful of blanket across her mouth and held her as gently as he could, pressing down on her leg so she wouldn't rattle the chain.
Makwahkik was deeply asleep, but something must have reached him, because a faint snore broke in half and the springs creaked as he shifted position. The Shawanalotah rushed him, one caught him by the hair, jerked his head up, the other whipped the cord about his neck, pulled it tight.
Makwahkik clawed at the Shawal stranglers leather gauntlets until the second Shawal caught his wrists and forced his arms down. When Makwahkik went limp, the Shawal dropped his wrists and stepped back. He stood a moment looking down at the man responsible for the death and torment of so many of his kin. "Too easy. Too fuckin easy." He turned and trotted out.
The Shawal with the child eased the pressure on her, brought his head down close to hers. "Kayataki," he murmured, "Your mum sent us to get you. You'll be seeing her In a little while if you're quiet and good. She said you'd worry whether we were telling the truth, she said tell you remember Mohe-mohe the turtle and how he used to cry." He began easing the blanket off her face. "Don't be afraid now, we wear these things so people won't know who we are. You're a big enough girl to understand that."
She stared up at him unblinking, her body taut with rage, not fear, a rage his words did nothing to diminish. "Him," she whispered.
"He's dead."
The slight body relaxed suddenly, the child gulped and began to cry, silently, making no fuss about it, as if something inside her had chosen that moment to break.
He lifted her, held her close, patting her back and murmuring comforting syllables in her ears. The other Shawal tied off the cord, then came to the foot of the bed and began trying keys on the cuff around the girl's ankle. It fell away with a dull clank and the Shawal got to his feet. "Come on, you take his legs and let's get out of here. I don't trust those timers far as I can spit."
Ginbiryol Seyirshi watched as the Shawanalotah streamed from the lift, collected their kites, and liberated three flits from the Nish'mok's personal fleet. They went skimming off, flying low, almost brushing the rooftops, avoiding the areas where the kanaweh were ending their nightly scramble. He locked in the sequence where Makwahkik went tumbling toward the cold black water out near the mouth of the bay, a good distance from the moored freighters and government armships, then he turned his attention to the chaos and destruction as the bombs began going off and the Kasta started to burn, gloating at the pain-hate-fear his pathe-EYEs were sending up to him.
Chapter 21. Running again
The flits darted flat and dark into the murk of the swamp fringe south of the city, landed on a sandy island thick with intertwining puzzletrees, a small, clear spring bubbling from the side of a hillock near the middle. The Shawanalotah piled out; a pair of them began work on the propulsion systems, breaking recklessly into the sealed units.
Shadith hauled her harp overside, hefted out her travelpouch and trudged with them to the fallen tree where a Shawal had deposited Miowee, Ler daughter, and her gear; Kikun came and squatted beside them on a patch of grass; Rohant strolled over carrying his pouch and Kikun's, the cats pressing close to him, irritated and unhappy. He dropped the gear to the grass and settled on the trunk beside Shadith.
"Didn't have a chance to say before," she said, "it's good to see you two again. What's that about?" She nodded at the flits.
He snorted. "Suicide," he said. "Or stupidity."
Miowee clicked her tongue, irritation momentarily chasing anger. "Not half, Hunter; talk about what you know. They've done this before, they know what they're doing."
She turned to Shadith. "They're inducing shorts, they're going to use the flits like flying bombs, send them at the Kiceota, that's the Nistam's pile up there on the Horn."
"Seems chancy."
Miowee shrugged. "We can't keep them anyway, have, to get rid of them, why not stick a bomb up the Nistam's arse?"
"Makh Hen's going to be spitting mad. He'll go through the Quarters with a burning rake."
"No, he won't." The child's voice was shrill and loud, colored with a disturbing satisfaction.
"Kaya?" Miowee sounded startled. "What do you mean?"
"They killed him." Kayataki yawned suddenly, groped for her mother's hand. "They took him away. Gonna dump him deep. What they said,"
– Miowee looked fierce and squeezed her daughter's fingers. "Good." She spread Kayataki's hand on what was left of her thigh, smoothed it with gentle strokes as if it were a kitten sitting there. After a minute she winked at the girl. "We'll have to swear off fish for a couple months or old monster's like to give us a belly ache."
Kayataki giggled drowsily, pressed her face a moment against her mother's stump, then cuddled against her; she was shivering, the night was chill and damp and all she wore was a skimpy white shift. Her lids kept drop.. ping, she was swimming with sleep, but when she looked up, her dark blue eyes were as fierce as her mother's. She had reason, there were bruises over all her body-. abrasions, burns, and ligature marks. Makwahkik had used her ruthlessly, knowing whatever he did would be erased when he had her killed which he'd scheduled for the day after the Culmination when there'd be no one left to claim her. Shadith watched her, sickened by the ugly mess of hurt and hate she read in the child and by the memory of what she'd seen in that bedroom; she hadn't said anything about it, and Miowee hadn't asked, perhaps because she didn't need to.
No doubt the Nish'mok had thought his tastes were secret; like many of the ruling kind he'd have been appalled to learn just how much of his private life was known to the underclasses. All of which was beside the point, he was too dead to care what anyone knew. And they were alive and needed to get on with living.
The Shawanalotah clamped the workports shut and stood waiting beside the flits. They watched the sky and ignored their ex-paksengers, except for the Shawal who'd been carrying Miowee. He left the group, ran to the downtree, tossed a small bluedsteel handgun into the singer's lap, trotted back to his Triad.
"Friendly types," Shadith muttered. "I feel like lost luggage. Cheap luggage."
Miowee snorted. "What'd you expect, flunkies bowing you around?" She removed the clip, examined and replaced it, made sure the safety was on, tucked the gun into the case with her kitskew.
A third flit came skimming under the trees and landed beside the others. A Triad climbed out. The leader wiped under his mask, readjusted it. "Feeding the fish," he said. "Finished?" He nodded at the other flits.
"Ready to go. What about yours?"
The leader tilted his head back, measured the progress of the stars. "No time. Only an hour or so till dawn. There's a couple incendiaries left over, I'll set those before I jump. Let's go."
Rohant got to his feet, stood watching the flits vanish into the fog gathering over the water. "There's brave men and fools and that bunch is both. I wouldn't have got back in those things with a gun at my head. Shadow, any trouble close enough to bother about? I want to take the cats hunting, they're getting hungry, so am I."
Shadith sighed, gave Miowee a quick halfsmile. "I have to tell you, Mee, we didn't do all that well the last time we were in here." She put out feelers, tasting at the life forms around them; for the moment there seemed to be nothing threatening, no Pariahs for one thing. "Nothing I can smell out."