Skeen's Return

by Clayton, Jo;

  “Not even a hungry gnat.”

  “You’d better shut down the Gate. I don’t know what kind of sensors the Junks might have scattered about here.” She walked to the cart and stood scratching her back against a corner as she frowned at Timka. “Too bad I had to dart Ti. That sister of hers just about gave me a hernia and now her.” She wiped at the sweat beading on her brow, swore, then bent to lift the comatose Ti-cat.

  “Still the same sweet temper,” Tibo said.

  Skeen swung around so fast she staggered; she steadied herself, slipped the knife from her arm sheath and started for the man standing in the ragged gap between two of the higher walls.

  “Get a hitch on it, love.” He raised the stunner he’d been holding casually against his thigh. “Just to make sure you listen.”

  She straightened, looked at the knife, slid it back into its sheath. “Tibo you baster, where’s Picarefy?”

  Tibo stood in the opening, the stunner steady on her, lithe compact little man, his walnut brown skin gleaming in the white searing light of the sun, his black eyes laughing at her. “Safe. That’s the point of the exercise.”

  “What? Never mind. Where is she? That’s the only thing I want to hear.”

  “Marigold Pit.”

  She gazed at him a long moment, then sighed, tension draining out of her so completely she barely found the energy to keep standing. “Why?” It was a question she dreaded asking, its answer something she dreaded even more.

  “Abel Cidder.”

  “What! Where?”

  “I was working on Sessamarenn the Aviote. He’d hinted he wanted to finance a backcountry dig outside channels. We were in the Golden Wheel, in one of the privacy alcoves, a high hole, he said it reminded him of his perch back home; we had the field up and tight and were doing some of the preliminary chat, both of us looking down at the main floor. Abel Cidder came in with a Junk, the Brolmahn no less. They were talking, friendly as tronchai in a cold winter.”

  Skeen ran her hand through damp sweaty hair. “I thought a lot of things, but never Abel Cidder.” She ran her tongue over dry lips. “We’re going to have to do something about him.”

  “You’d get a lot to agree with you. So, after Cidder went upstairs with the Brolmahn, I chatted a bit more with Sessamarenn; it felt like I was sitting bare ass on a zarb mound, but old Sam’s no fool. If I ran out right after Cidder showed, well, you see what I mean. We finished the meal with each understanding the other pretty well, about where I expected when I sat down with him, so I must have handled myself well enough. I tell you this, there was just one thing in my head. Picarefy. Cidder had the clout to confiscate her if he nosed her out. The name change and the papers were good enough for the Junks but once Cidder started sniffing through reports which we both know he does, may his nose get the tichzenrotte and fall off, he’d have us cold. I caught a jit to the shuttle port, my gut in knots. When the shuttle ferried me up with no trouble and there were no sett buoys anchoring her, I relaxed a little, but I knew there might be no time left. I didn’t dare go back down, not even to leave you a message. I didn’t know where you were and there was no time to hunt for you and going through Picarefy’s com, well, I didn’t know who might be listening. I explained the situation to Picarefy; we agreed you could take care of yourself well enough while we were gone, that I’d get back soon as I could manage it and collect you once I’d calmed you down enough so you’d listen. Marigold was the closest Pit. I left her at Ambo’s. Cream was in and hungry. I hired him to bring me back and hang around looking like he was planning to buy something. He’s not one of Cidder’s pets, not like us.” Tibo grinned. “Cidder only persecutes the very best.” He sobered. “I figured you’d be ready to roast me over a slow fire, but I didn’t expect you to vanish. I’ve spent the last five months going slowly crazy, Skeen. I even broke into Records to see if they’d shoved you into a work camp, sweating blood the whole time afraid they’d killed you. You know what I found, a record of a saayungka chase that ended in this valley and a lot of notes about mysterious disappearances here. Folk who melted into air and never showed up again. This is the third time I’ve come here; I’ve just about wiped out my stash in bribes. Yours too, I’m afraid.”

  “Cidder still in Chukunsa?”

  “No. Seems he left the day after you disappeared.”

  “I’ve been thinking evil thoughts about you, Tibo.”

  “Still?”

  “No. I believe you. Thanks. If I’d lost Picarefy … um … and you, of course, I don’t know what.…”

  He tucked the stunner away. “Ah, love, I know my place, I do.”

  Lipitero came round the cart, handed the darter to Skeen. In Trade-Min it took Skeen a second to understand, she said, “Looks to me like this one is no danger to us.”

  “No. He’s a friend of mine. Djabo’s hairy tongue, Petro, you’re going to have to learn synspeech.” She looked down at the cat’s body. “When Ti wakes up, maybe she can handle that. Her sister gave me the Trade-Min, let’s hope this language business works both ways.”

  Tibo came cautiously over to them. “Who’s that?”

  The abrupt switch from language to language was making Skeen feel a bit dizzy; she was thirsty and near exhaustion, her head ached and she had some major shifts of attitude to negotiate; she caught hold of her temper’s tail and said with more than her usual patience, “Her name is Lipitero. I wouldn’t be here without her help. You might say she’s our boss for the next few months. I’ve got one whiz of a story to tell you when we have some free time. By the way, how did you get out here? I hope not walking.”

  “Nope. You’ve beaten the odds before so I expected you to show sooner or later and I thought I might need some speed when you did. Got a scoot up there,” he nodded at the next mountain over from Tol Chorok, “in a place with some shade and water.”

  “How long will it take you to get there and bring it back?”

  “Bring it back?” He looked from the cart to Lipitero, raised his brows. “Why not come with me, both of you?”

  “Because there’s three of us and there’s a cartload of things I don’t want to leave behind.”

  “Skeen, it’s a scoot, not a freighter.” He nudged Timka with his boot toe. “This cat the third? I know you can go weird about animals, don’t think I’ve forgotten that python you infested Picarefy with. This beast doesn’t look even half as friendly as Py and he tried to eat me. I’m sure she’s a lovely pet, but by the gods, Skeen.…”

  “Don’t let Ti hear you calling her a pet. She resents it.”

  “I’m missing something?”

  “Fuckin’ right you are, love.” She grinned at him. “Just wait till you see what it is.”

  Tibo set the scoot down on the dust flats outside the ruin and helped Skeen pull the cart out to it. He eyed the swords with approbation and hefted Lipitero’s gear with apprehension, but loaded it anyway, hoping to have an excuse to leave the cat behind; Skeen read it in his bland face and sly sidewise glances. As soon as she saw the scoot, she knew it could carry the two of them plus the baggage and nothing more. Lipitero was going to have to follow on her own. No problem. With the heat being what it was, there’d be plenty of thermals she could ride, minimizing the amount of assist she would need and the danger of her being picked up on Junk sensors. Timka was even less trouble. She could use her own wings. Skeen grinned at the thought; she was looking forward to seeing Tibo’s face when Ti shifted.

  Timka stirred as they were carrying her out to the scoot. Her body twitched, she moved her head, produced a breathy growl.

  “Ease her down. Gently, Tibo, you’re not throwing one of your cousins through a routine. Petro, fetch her a clean robe, will you?” Skeen went to the cart for one of the waterskins, leaving a nervous Tibo squatting beside Timka, his hand on his stunner.

  Skeen squeezed a few drops into Ti-cat’s mouth. “Come on, Ti, it’s hot out here. Wake up and get rid of that fur, you’ll feel a lot better.”

  Ti-cat t
ook another mouthfull of water, then lurched onto her feet. She stood a moment, twitching all over, moving head, shoulders, haunches, legs, as if she checked them out to make sure they were working. A last shudder, then she shifted. She glared at Tibo, snatched the robe from Lipitero and slipped into it.

  Tibo pulled his hand across his mouth, opened his eyes wide, shook his head. “I don’t believe it. I see it and I don’t believe it.”

  Skeen giggled. “I know. That’s how I felt the first time I saw it happen.” She turned to Timka. “Think you can do a language transfer? From me to you and Petro? It’d make life easier for all of us.”

  Timka pushed her tangled black curls back from her face, looked around, grimaced. “You and Petro kneel, if you don’t mind; it’ll work better if I touch both of you.” She knelt between them facing the opposite direction, stroked her fingers up Skeen’s face, feeling into her, stroked fingers up Lipitero’s face, feeling into her; she pulled, felt Lipitero quiver under her fingertips. When the transfer was finished, she sat on her heels and sighed with weariness.

  Lipitero was rubbing at her temples and frowning.

  Skeen got to her feet. “This is one time it’s really better to give than receive. The worst ache will be gone in an hour or so, Petro. Can you still soar?”

  Lipitero started to nod, grimaced and decided to try out her painfully acquired language. “Yiss I can, it takes little strenth.”

  “Ti?”

  “Give me the direction, I’ll put on feathers and find a windstream that’ll carry me faster than that thing.”

  “Let’s go then. The sooner we get offworld, the happier I’ll be.”

  As the scoot skimmed along a dozen meters above Kildun Aalda’s surface, Skeen lay back in her seat, closed her eyes and let herself go limp. Her judgment was vindicated and that pleased her well enough, but she had this peculiar feeling of uncertainty when she should have been relaxed and content. As if she hung by her thumbs over an ocean of boiling oil and her thumbs were giving way. Tibo had changed … no, that’s wrong … no, he’s what he’d always been … I’ve changed … no, that’s not it.… She finally decided that during the time on Mistommerk she’d built Tibo into something more than he was. She’d need to relearn the man, the capable flamboyant little man who needed people a lot more than she ever would. She brooded over the Mephistophelian figure she’d created in her mind and was fascinated by it, by how much more dangerous and unstable and interesting her invented Tibo had become. She smiled ruefully, secretly. I’m going to miss that Tibo. She thought about Lipitero soaring over them. Another job starting, maybe harder than getting that Gate open. Rallen and the Ykx. Rallen, Rallen, where are you, Rallen?

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Skeen Trilogy

  PART I: THE SEARCH

  SCENE: THE BUZZARD’S ROOST, SUNDARI PIT.

  A long oval room filled with tables, glass cases, crates, bales, alcoves with viewscreens and reasonably comfortable chairs (several not made for bipeds’ behinds); shelves cover most wallspace, gaps where things have been taken away, otherwise a chaotic collection of small items. The room is cluttered, dusty to a reasonable degree, but gives an overall impression of richness, variety, the excitement of maybe-treasures. It is a very good room to be in.

  SKEEN ENTERS.

  She is followed by a small stubby ’bot carrying the things she is here to sell or put out on consignment.

  Skeen picked her way through the clutter on the floor to the small cleared space tucked into one end of the oval, shielded from view by some ceiling high shelves, the ’bot whirring frustration behind her as it rose on extensible braces and drew its wheels into a tighter configuration, balancing precariously as it turned and twisted along the narrow paths between boxes, bales, and piles of miscellaneous debris. She rounded a set of rickety shelves, stopped and stood, hands clasped behind her, watching the solid old man probing at a crusted object with an antique steel tooth scraper. He was a big man with broad, blunt-fingered hands that should have been clumsy but weren’t. “Ta, Buzzard,” she said.

  He looked up, made a sucking sound, tongue against teeth. “So so,” he said, a wheeze in his voice. An instant decrepitude slicked over him as he got ready for hard bargaining. “Back already?”

  “Dropping by. Got a few things you might find interesting.”

  He set the conglomerate aside, tucked the scraper into his shirt pocket. “So so, what you got?”

  Skeen snapped her fingers. The ’bot whirred past her, stopped beside the desk, opened and extended his topknot pack into a long thin display shelf, with the contents tucked into transparent boxes, visible but temporarily untouchable. “Nothing very old, but interesting, that you’ll give me once you see this collection.” She clicked open a box, took out a heavy gold chain, solid links alternating with open circles set with odd dull gems; spreading it on the desk before him, she said, “Take a close look at the chasing. Hasn’t been any work like that since the Nagamar worlds were ashed. You know I prefer to provide onsite fots and anecdotal background, but that’s not possible this time; you can name me as source for whatever that’s worth, but my name’s the only documentation you’ll get … um … I can say this, I’ve found a tiny remnant of Nagamar still alive.” She grinned at him. “And a couple other remnants. Pallah and Skirrik.” After running a soft cloth over them, she set the Poet’s swords down beside the chain. “These items are for sale outright.” ’She began setting out the bijouterie and bric-a-brac she’d picked up with the swords and slid smoothly into the cross talk of bargaining.

  Skeen settled into the chair the Buzzard summoned for her and sighed. “You’re a hard man, Buzzard.”

  He looked up from the film he was wrapping about a sword, grunted and went back to twisting the film tight. “Hot air and foolishness,” he said. “You screwed your price out of me, no pity for a poor old man trying to make a meager living.” Eyes the color of dried blood laughed at her. “What else you got?”

  Skeen brought out the lumpy objects from Coraish Gather, set them on the desk.

  “So so. Rallen work. Now where did you get that, shtoshi-mi?” He took up the lump, let it warm in his hands. The dun blob changed; opaline colors glowed and flowed along the mutating forms, primarily green and gold with flickers and sudden flares of purple and crimson, no configuration of shape and color ever exactly repeated the whole time he held the blob. He clicked tongue against teeth. “Consignment, percentage for me?” When she nodded, he relaxed. “A wonder,” he said, “much better than its mates you saw here a while back.”

  “Not Rallen work.”

  His eyes narrowed to slits. “Another remnant? Rumor says you went to Kildun Aalda, looking for a way to take on the Junks.” He set the change work down; it began to fade and after a few minutes was once more imitating a squashed dun turd. “You have a source?”

  “Buzzard, now I ask you, am I going to tell you or anyone?”

  “Hmm. Are you?”

  “Hard. Hard. Adamantine man. Look at this first.” She began spreading the Min jewelry across the desk, putting the sweetamber pieces together in one corner. “You’ve never seen any work exactly like these or heard of it.” She lifted one of the larger pieces of sweetamber. “Warm this in your hand, no, it’s not going to shift shape, hold it awhile then take a sniff.” She watched his face, laughed when his eyes snapped open and his breathing turned ragged. “Doesn’t matter the species, as long as they have a minimum body warmth and live in an oxygen atmosphere, you get an effect. I’ve been told it’s different for different species.” She shrugged. “I wouldn’t know about that. Where I got it everyone seemed to prize the stuff.”

  “Where you got it?”

  “I can just about guarantee these items are uniques. Nothing like them coming in from anywhere anyone can get to, nothing about to pop up either, in any market, not for the current century anyway. You can offer them as uniques and be ninety-nine point nine percent et cetera sure that assertion won’t come back to haun
t you.”

  “Playing games, Skeen.”

  “Sure. Why not. It’s all a game, isn’t it, one you enjoy more than most.”

  “This collection, anything to do with Rallen?”

  “Nothing.”

  He raised scraggly brows, the freckles on his forehead diving into heavy wrinkles. “Hot?”

  “Cold as Winter on the Far Side. Mostly a fee for honest labor. Don’t be like that, it’s true enough. The rest, well, the previous owners hadn’t a hope in hell of coming after it.”

  He began gathering up the jewelry and replacing it in its boxes. “Uniques. Hmmm. Going to take some doing, getting the word out. I don’t know if I want to tie myself up like that. No, not for less than a quarter. Years, Skeen, going to take years out of my life and that’s the truth. This kind of thing isn’t bargain counter, you know. Can’t possibly take it on for less than a quarter share. My overhead is something fierce, keeps me running in place just to have a roof over my head. Got other business you know, the only way it’s worthwhile for me to handle these, I’ll have to arrange an auction. You got any idea what it’s going to take to get folk together who can afford to bid on these?” He went on with the gentle flow of words as he worked to extract the largest commission he could tease out of her. His hands caressed the delicate pieces, his eyes flickered from the amber to the change sculpture to the polished woods set in filigree of gold, silver and translucent opalescent shell, moving over them as lovingly as his stubby fingers, though he tried to control his appreciation since his desire for them gave Skeen an edge in the game. Skeen settled finally at eight percent of purchase price. Buzzard sat back and sighed with satisfaction. “I know five who’ll bid against each other till they drop.”

  Skeen snapped her fingers. The ’bot folded itself together, hiked itself up and rolled away. She got to her feet, watched until it reached the Roost’s exit and squatted there to wait for her. In her chair again, she stroked a forefinger along the crease beside her mouth. “Like to earn another percent?”