Staré: Shikari Book Two

by Alma T. C. Boykin

  Rigi and Makana wound their way through the busy market, Martinus staying close to Rigi’s right side. The chilly rain seemed to have no effect on the Staré buying and selling, although Rigi ducked more than one rain-shade. It took three tries before she found the sort of material she wanted. Well, she reminded herself, the warm season came soon, and Staré as well as humans bought lighter materials for the long dry, hot time of the year. And some of the prints! Her eyes burned with the after-image of the painfully pink and yellow-green paisley hood and half-cape worn by a blotched sixth Stamm female. Her four hoplings sported matching hoods and half-capes, perhaps so they could be seen easily in a crowd. Rigi found the source of the fabric in the second shop and decided that she didn’t need to look too much more closely at the rest of the material there. However, the third try still had a nice stock of heavier weight material, twills and a lush flannel that Rigi decided to get now and use later. She also bought two and a half meters of a wide, deep green material for a worship day dress.

  The fourth Stamm clerk seemed quite pleased with her, or perhaps just pleased to get rid of the almost out-of-season materials. She folded the fabric into a compact, heavy bundle, then tied it with a wide navy blue ribbon. The clerk presented it on her forefeet and bowed to Rigi. The pouchling peering over the top of the clerk’s modesty apron ear bowed and Rigi smiled, took the material, and hand bowed. Once outside she put the fabric in one of Martinus’s panniers.

  Buying the material proved to be far easier than finding the chalks. Makana took over after the fourth stall professed no knowledge of such things. “This way, Miss Auriga, please,” he said, raising his voice. He puffed //mild annoyance// with an undertone of something almost familiar, something Rigi had smelled before but in a far different setting. She shrugged and followed, mindful of the people around her and watching for tails and tips of feet. Martinus eased closer and she kept one hand on his shoulder, in part to keep him from going on alert because of the proximity of so many bodies. A narrow path seemed to appear before Makana without anyone saying or doing anything. As they went farther into the market, into the old section that dated to the founding of Sogdia’s Staré community, Rigi noticed Staré gesturing discreetly among themselves, especially the pale lower Stamme Staré. They’d probably not seen a human in this area for quite a while, let alone an m-dog, Rigi decided, and didn’t worry. Truth be told, she felt safer in the mass of Staré than she did around some humans.

  Makana stopped, pivoted, and walked to a small doorway. He tapped twice, bowed, and then spoke and gestured to the person who opened the door. The person replied and Makana bowed again before stepping back and assuming a guard stance. “This shop, Miss Auriga, has what you seek.”

  “Sit Martinus. Stay.” Rigi approached the doorway, caught a glimpse of very dark fur and gulped a little. She hesitated at the threshold, bowed, and waited for a forefoot gesture beckoning her to enter. She’d never been into a shop with a first Stamm proprietor.

  “Greetings and honor to the shop,” she said in Staré, as best she could.

  “Honor to the wise, and greetings,” an almost black male replied, hand bowing from behind the counter. “What seek you?” He spoke Common slowly, with very little accent. A veritable rainbow of colors and patterns overflowed from the shelves behind him.

  Rigi hesitated for a moment before asking, “If it is permitted, I seek the colored chalks, the sticks, used for festival drawings. I wish to match the colors, so that I may better depict the old places.”

  He folded his long forefeet one on top of the other and studied her with unblinking eyes. His ears remained still, and she could not smell anything but the faint musty, chalky, oily scent of the shop. “Show me.”

  She blinked. No Staré had ever ordered her before unless danger threatened. But he was first Stamm, and Rigi didn’t protest. Instead she pulled one of her little pads out of her bag, found a drawing of one of the buildings from White Leaper Site, and showed it to him. He pointed at the top of the counter and she set the pad down, then backed away with a hand bow. He picked up the pad, held it close to a lamp, studied it, sniffed it, then nodded once. She caught a combination of scents, overlain with //approval/agreement/sorrow.// Sorrow? He returned the pad to the counter, turned around, and began pulling leaf-wrapped sticks of color from the little cubbies, a dozen and a few more, wrapped them in white paper, and set them on the counter beside the pad. “Bring the image when done. From the wise to the wise. You are what the hunter has claimed.” He folded his forefeet and pointed to the door with his ears. “Go, bring the image in payment.”

  Rigi took the color sticks, curtsied to him, then hand bowed, backed four steps, and ducked out the door. Makana closed the door behind her. She showed him the bundle and he inclined toward it, //satisfaction/honor.// After she tucked the bundle in Martinus’s second pannier, Makana led the way back to the main market. She stowed the pad away again in her bag and followed him.

  This time a wide path opened and Staré stopped what they were doing to watch them go by, a few lifting up young hoplings and older pouchlings to see her, Martinus, and Makana. Rigi wondered what attracted their attention. She wasn’t wearing anything odd, and the crowd acted curious and respectful, not hostile. Was it Makana? Martinus? No, they ear pointed to her. And it seemed to be lower Stamm Staré. Yes, she realized, fourth Stamm and below, even a few of the rare white-colored eighth Stamm, the lowest of those still inside the Stamme. The crowd thinned a little as they reached a busier area, but she still attracted attention and of what seemed to be wisps of //honor/approval.// What had the thumping network, as Col. Deleon put it, said about her? What had Kor said to the first Stamm male, and why was Kor even talking to such a person? Rigi wanted to ask Makana, but not here in the market.

  They stopped by the dressmaker she favored and left the green cloth for him to use. She left the fabricated skirt and jacket and blouse that needed to be replaced so he could use them as a pattern. He ran the material of the skirt between the toes of his forefoot, peered at the tiny seam allowances, and sniffed, ears tipped to the sides. “Machine make. Thagh,” he spat. Rigi wanted to apologize for daring to bring such things into his workspace. “We make better. Three days from tomorrow, all ready.” He bowed and returned to his curtained off work area. Rigi paid the assistant and departed. The crowd had dispersed for the most part, as had some of the rain clouds, and she watched as Makana removed his coat, rolled it, and hooked the bundle to the back of his belt. They bought some sweets from a stall by the wombow hitches, and a bag of candied dried fruit for Lonka, Shona, and Siare.

  They walked back to the carts a bit slowly. Makana had discovered Shona’s reaction to people eating shop-made breads and pastries in his kitchen by getting his ears scorched for daring to do such a thing. He and Rigi finished their little sweet buns and spiced braided cookies, then rinsed hands and forefeet at the fountain reserved for that. The flowing water coming out of the different color-coded spigots would not affect Stamm the way a shared basin might, and prevented accidental or deliberate contaminations. Rigi mentally checked everything off of her list, and started to pull her coin bag out to give a tip to the Staré minding the carts and wombows. Makana held up one strong forefoot, stopping her. “Someone by the carts.”

  Rigi eased to the side and peered around his shoulder. “Mr. Smargad.” And several other people with Staré rights signs and sashes on, all of them between her and the cart. For a fraction of a second she thought of ordering Martinus to bluff-charge them, chasing them away, but stopped the thought almost as fast. The law considered such an act to be assault as much as if she ran toward them herself with a club or knife. Several clusters of Staré watched, and the cool breeze brought the scent of //confusion,// //amusement,// and possibly //irritation// to her nose. Makana’s ears twitched, and his tail thumped the ground rather firmly. She needed to get home, and did not care to linger to see what Smargad and his associates intended to do. Two seventh Stamm with the human protesters acte
d, not exactly uncomfortable, but exceedingly confused, Rigi decided. One of the women seemed to be speaking to them and gesturing quickly. “Does she not understand the Stamme?” Rigi wondered under her breath.

  “It would seem not, Miss Rigi, if she desires understanding.” Indeed, the two pale Starés’ ears tipped front and back, then returned to vertical, a sure sign of absolute perplexity.

  Other humans’ ignorance was not her problem, Rigi decided, although she felt sorry for the Staré. “We go.” She and Martinus led the way to the cart. Makana took the tag back to the parking manager as Rigi checked the wombow for rubs or injury, untied him, and held him as Martinus climbed into the cart. She’d programmed him not to jump in unless commanded. She didn’t trust the strength of the wood in the rented cart.

  Mr. Smargad gave her an oily smile that failed to reach his eyes. “Miss Bernardi. I’m surprised to see you here.”

  “Likewise, Mr. Smargad.” She’d be polite but no more than that.

  He studied the cart and her. “And still with the dangerous ‘bot. So you do not trust the Staré, do you?”

  I trust them far more than I trust you, she muttered inside her mind. “I believe my father’s instructions to his m-dog are his business, sir. If he wishes to send the dog with me, he does.”

  The man came closer, not close enough to threaten but closer than Rigi felt was polite or comfortable for a man from outside her family. “And abusing a wombow, as well as demeaning Staré. Truly, the apple does not fall far from the tree.”

  “Thank you, Miss Auriga,” Makana said. He reached for the reins and she gave them to him, then got into the back of the cart. He gusted //irritation/frustration/obedience,// and Rigi guessed what he wanted to do. Her guess proved correct, and Smargad stared, then scowled as Makana climbed onto the diver’s position, clicked his tongue, and backed the cart. The humans moved out of the way, several of them staring and pointing, as if they’d never seen a Staré drive before. Rigi thought one young woman might faint, she’d gone so pale. Makana drove until they’d passed well out of sight of the market, and stopped the cart. The seat was not designed for Staré. Rigi leaned forward as he got down, then took the reins. Makana stepped forward, holding the wombow’s bridle and keeping the him steady as she in turn clambered down from the back of the cart, and up into the driver’s seat. Makana took his preferred place on the Staré seat in back and they finished the trip in peace.

  10

  Colliding with Ignorance

  Blessed Creator, why did you make adults so hard to understand, Rigi half-asked, swaying from side to side as she held Paul. She caressed his back, bouncing a little on her toes and patting him gently until she heard a soft “burp,” and smelled baby spit-up. Paul sighed and wiggled a little, apparently happier now that he’d outgassed. Rigi wiped his face with a clean towel corner and rocked him a bit more, then laid him in his cradle and rocked it. He smiled, wiggled, and went to sleep. She probably ought to check his nappy, but a sleeping baby meant a happy household. Rigi dimmed the light and crept out, carefully avoiding that squeaky spot on the floor, and closing the door curtain. If only adult humans could be pacified so easily.

  Rigi put the towel into the dirty towel bin, then waved to her mother and went upstairs. Siare and the males had the day off for the festival marking the end of the wet cool season and the official start of the dry, warm time of year. Rigi’s mother had conceded at last that Paul was ready for the occasional bottle, and seemed to appreciate napping along with him, letting Rigi and Cyril as well as Siare feed, hold, and change the baby. He seemed to be growing by the hour, and Rigi wondered if he’d end up as big as Cy was. If so, she ought to start saving her credits to buy a little house of her own, just so she could have a bit of peace and quiet, assuming she wasn’t married by then. She settled into her chair and resumed the tedious work of color matching the last of the Staré pastels.

  Rigi almost hated to do it. Once she finished, she’d have to destroy the original color sticks, unless she found a way to use them entirely herself and then fix the images so that no one could scrape and then analyze the material to duplicate the sticks. A message for her had arrived the day after she’d been give the sticks, from Tankutshishin himself, with instructions on how to dispose of them properly. The Staré did not mind her matching the colors, but the sticks ingredients’ had to remain secret for religious reasons. Rigi almost wondered how Tankutshishin had learned of the colors, but the Staré’s thumping network seemed to pass messages faster than light-speed. He probably also knew what kind of stuffed bun she’d had as a snack that afternoon.

  Rigi adjusted the lights on her object camera, then studied the picture of the color stick, comparing it to what she saw beside her and to the image on the screen. After three tries, the blend on the screen was still too pink, she decided. The stick had a touch more blue to it, and she tweaked the color by two tenths of a point. Not quite enough, so she went a little lower. Close. She closed her eyes for a moment, then looked again. A pinch greener? She saved what she had, then added a tenth of green. No. She undid the green and adjusted the red. Ah, that looked right. She closed her eyes again and counted to thirty, then looked. Rigi stood, turned off the room lights, and looked again, comparing the stick as it was to the color on the screen. Yes, she’d finally gotten the match.

  Rigi saved the file, backed it up to her secondary drive, then turned on her remote back-up and sent everything to her code-locked off-site server, as well as sending the file to a second server, one that she and Aunt Kay shared. “It is not paranoia, my dear,” Aunt Kay had informed her. “The universe is out to get us, and the server that this accesses is double locked. I won’t say that it is hack-proof, but it certainly is snoop resistant. As your uncle discovered.”

  A muted “Harrumpf,” had come from the other side of the room, out of sight of the video feed. Aunt Kay had looked at the ceiling and Rigi had smiled. Then she’d fought off a bout of giggles as a Staré forefoot appeared behind her aunt’s head, paired toes spread, mimicking Staré ears, then disappeared. Once more she wondered just what the relationship between her uncle, aunt, and Lexi was.

  At the very least it was far more complicated than Mrs. Debenadetto, Mr. Smargad, and the other Staré-rights proponents seemed to think. They’d never believe that Lexi worked for the Trents of his own free will, or that Shona had left instructions to be told if her parents returned to Shikhari, or that the first Stamm would order Makana to come work with her. With a little reluctant sigh Rigi bundled the deep burgundy stick in with the others, wrapped them all in the leaves and cloth that they had come in, and tied the package closed. She’d take it to the burn basin later, per instructions, clear the basin and burn the package to ashes, then rinse the basin and scatter the water on the grass and in the garden. Normally such care would have been excessive, but those had been the First Stamm’s instructions, and given the way Mr. Smargad kept appearing at the wrong moment…

  Rigi stretched her legs and arms, went down to get a nibble and check on her sleeping mother and brother, then came back upstairs. She logged into her news feed, read the first headline, and groaned, but quietly. “Citizens for Staré Rights Demands Decolonization,” the large print announced, over a picture of a group of earnest humans and a handful of low Stamm Staré presenting what Rigi guessed was a petition to the royal governor’s representative and a Corporate official. “In addition, complaints about the treatment of Staré were filed with the Crown Labor Ministry and Colonial Ministry, and the Corporate Ombudsman, alleging abuse of Staré working in the agricultural sector and underpayment as well as unsafe working conditions for Staré in commercial and industrial jobs.” She skipped over the close up of Mr. Smargad glowering at someone as people behind him held signs demanding Staré rights and an end to the caste system. “Mr. L. Smargad, Human-Staré liaison for the Citizens for Staré Rights, and Mrs. E. Debenadetto, associate for education of Staré, have also submitted petitions on behalf of the Staré of Shikhari reque
sting decolonization and the removal of human presence on the planet. ‘The sapient residents of this world have made their feelings clear, as the Indria Plateau incident shows,’ Mr. Smargad told reporters. ‘Colonialism is a blot on humanity’s record and should never have begun, let alone been permitted to continue. Are the Staré not sapient? Do they not have feelings? When you cut them, do they not bleed?’ A second petition for the opening of the reports on the Indria Plateau Expedition’s findings and accounts of the encounter with the local Staré has also been filed. ‘We only want the truth. Nothing more, and nothing less,’ Mr. Pol Nguyn said.” Rigi quit reading before she started pounding her fist on the desk.

  Instead she went to her message list, promptly deleted two, and flagged a third, forwarding it to the temple Matron. There’d been a wave of false pleas for financial assistance by someone claiming to belong to a Temple on Eta Tolima, and the Guardians and Matrons had requested that all such requests be sent to them for confirmation. The very fact that such things claimed to be from off-world raised all sorts of warnings to begin with, given the cost and slowness of message transport and signal transmission. Rigi happily opened the short note from Tomás, read it, and sat back, chuckling. No, it probably hadn’t been funny at the time, but a stink-lizard in the mess during guest night conjured all sorts of entertaining mental pictures, so long as she was several kilometers and days away from the event itself. She sent him a polite and solicitous reply and agreed that indeed, the wildlife of Shikhari did appear to be out to get him. Should she remind him of the centipede that proved to be a stick? No, that would not be kind.

  The message from Mrs. D sent her back in time almost five years, and she flinched. Rigi didn’t want to open it, but she’d said she would consider assisting Mrs. D, and ladies kept their word whenever possible. Rigi opened the message, read it, thought about the request, and decided that she’d at least go meet Mrs. D to hear and see what she had in mind. If it were a straight commission, Rigi would consider it as she did other commissions. If Mrs. D wanted free work, well, Rigi did not work for free.