Staré: Shikari Book Two

by Alma T. C. Boykin

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  As if the dance were not enough to distract her, a few days later Makana presented her with an envelope. “This was given to me to give to you, Miss Rigi.”

  “Thank you.” He extended his forefoot and she took the envelope, careful not to touch him directly. She missed the days when she had been too young for Stamm to matter. The envelope felt thick and a little rough to the touch, meaning it was Shikhari-made paper, probably from white-frond leaves. A careful hand had written “Miss Auriga Bernardi” on the envelope. She broke the little seal and opened it as Makana left to finish a task elsewhere. Rigi unfolded the heavy paper and blinked.

  “Miss Rigi,” it began. “Mister Trent sends greetings. Do not be concerned about his absence. He is on business, as am I. He cautions that you beware of false assumptions, and keep a hand-shooter close. Trust Makana and Siare.” The message ended with an ornate mark and a little drawing of a Staré in profile. Lexi had written the message or had dictated the message. Rigi re-read it, and then stared in the direction Makana had gone. Lexi had passed the message to Makana to her. She wanted to demand from Makana what was going on, except did she want to know? Trust Makana and Siare, the message said. And that Uncle Eb was fine. Well, she’d better tell Aunt Kay that much at least, or she’d be on her aunt’s bad list along with Uncle Eb and Lexi.

  “On business. Those exact words?”

  “Yes, ma’am. ‘He is on business, as am I.’ That is what Lexi wrote.”

  “Hm.” The little grunting sound from the other end of the voice-only comm helped Rigi picture her aunt’s expression. Then she said, “That changes things. They will be back when they are back and I’m not going to scold them. Much. This time.” She sounded firm, surprising Rigi.

  “Ah, ma’am, do you know what it means?”

  “It means exactly what it says, dear. And I’ve been through this wormhole before. I just hope he doesn’t ruin all his clothes this time.” Now the familiar sigh. “That man is death on trouser knees. Lexi would be too, if he wore trousers. His mates are most unusual females to be willing to put up with him.”

  Rigi bit her tongue hard, because Aunt Kay sounded exactly like Rigi’s mother did when she talked about Aunt Kay.

  “On a different but related note, have you been able to avoid the news feeds recently?”

  Now Rigi sighed. I seem to be doing a lot of that. “Mostly, ma’am. I’m glad Company Security had so many witnesses from the market.” The poor Staré and human males responding to the calls of a scent-sick female had been overwhelmed by the number of witnesses, truth be told, and after thirty-eight interviews had told everyone else to go home. Any rumor of murder had died aborning. Rigi was even happier now that she’d not shot the female.

  “So are they, I suspect.” Aunt Kay’s tone shifted to frustration. “I will be so glad when that Debenadetto woman finds a new cause to champion and is not on the feeds every single afternoon. Has no one told her that low Stamm Staré cannot learn, and that is why they are low Stamm?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Rigi rubbed her forehead, then remembered that she’d been rolling a graphite stick between her fingers. Oops. “She refuses to believe what she sees. She thinks it is everything but the congenital inability of the lower Stamm Staré to grasp abstract concepts.”

  “She’s doomed to frustration. Which makes two of us. Thank you for the call and I will let Lexi’s primary mate know that he’s not just sunning himself on a beach somewhere, or watching nature holos and eating candied rind.”

  “You’re welcome, ma’am.”

  After her aunt ended the comm, Rigi washed her forehead, then drew a sketch of Lexi reclining in a basking chair on a beach beside a sun umbrella, dropping a piece of candied rind into his mouth. She added a hole in the canvas for his tail, and after a moment of thought propped an eyeshade against the base of his ears. She couldn’t imagine the real Lexi doing anything so undignified, but there was that comm when he’d given Aunt Kay Staré ears… Rigi initialed the sketch and turned to a clean page.

  Later that afternoon, as she looked through her dresses to find something that would not cause Cy to fuss, Rigi thought about the news. Perhaps the Staré-made maroon dress? No, she wore that for worship and it was quite warm, too heavy for a dance in the warm season. She moved it aside. Mr. Smargad had been interviewed several times, as had a few younger men and women, and they all insisted that what they wanted was only the truth. “If the Staré on the farm were killed in order to cover up abuse, or breaking the law, the other Staré have a right to know this. Yes, it could be that a Staré who had access to shooters killed them, and the Staré have a right to know if that was what transpired. But they need to know. It is their right, their people who died.” He’d sounded so earnest and sincere, but his eyes seemed cold and slick. Rigi reminded herself that holo images did not flatter all people, and that she could be reading her own dislike of the man into things.

  Rigi considered another dress. The dark blue? That might work, and the high collar over the narrow neck opening should appease Cy, while the loose sleeves and bodice made the dress cooler than it looked. At night she didn’t have to worry about sun heat, so the dark color wouldn’t be a concern, unless something in white gravy threatened, or a gentleman sneezed across the foam of a glass of punch, and she would not be that close to any gentleman off the dance floor.

  That evening Rigi browsed the news feeds, looking for more information about how many Staré really wanted the humans to leave, specifically upper Stamm Staré. After an hour and a half she closed the feeds and logged out, then stretched and shook her hands. “Well dust and dander,” she grumbled. “There’s nothing there.” No, she reminded herself, there was one reported quotation from an Elder in the Staré community near Huglig claiming to want full independence and for the humans to leave, but that came from a source Rigi trusted about as much as she trusted Martinus to grow a full coat of purple fur. The Company investigation into the Klippard Farm murders revealed very little new information. The three Staré had been seen with Staré rights workers, and research revealed several complaints about work practices at the plantation, but those dated to a previous manager’s tenure three years ago prior, and the investigators found exactly two recent violations, one of those a fruit quality matter instead of a labor and safety matter. Rigi rubbed under her nose. She’d also found no upper Stamm Staré in any of the pictures or quoted, aside from the one suspect case. Her media search located only two instances that Staré had presented decolonization petitions on their own. Two out of eighty seemed oddly low.

  Rigi rejoined her parents and Cy in the family room downstairs. Her mother seemed drained and instead of her usual needlework or other projects, just sat, hands folded, eyes half-closed. Her father was chuckling. “I suppose this means we need to move everything not tooth-proof up a meter.”

  “He’s your son in every way,” her mother said, shaking one finger but not lifting the hand. “And I told Siare no more purple potato, no matter how much he likes it. It stains too badly.”

  “Mother, do all babies do that?” Cy sounded worried, or was it amused? Rigi couldn’t tell, and he seemed to be working hard not to have an expression.

  “Yes, Cyril, they do. In your case it was crimson beets from Eta Tolima while we lived there.” As Rigi watched, her brother turned almost the same color as the vegetable in question. “Lyria and sweet potato, and Auriga digested green-stalk too fast.” Now Rigi felt her own face warming. She really did not want to think about that sort of thing, let alone hear it. And green-stalk tasted far too strong, like anise but more intense, even when chopped fine and hidden in other things. Shona had fixed it once and had banned it from his kitchen so long as he was in charge. Even her mother hesitated to challenge him, and so the pungent plant remained on the prohibited list, along with something native to Shikhari that smelled like rotting meat as it cooked.

  “Setting the topic of Paul’s, ahem, exhaust emissions, aside,” her father
began. “Auriga, do you have what you need for your work? I will be placing an order for off-world goods in the next week, and if there is something imported that you require, please let me know soon.”

  “Yes, sir.” She’d have to go through her stocks and update the inventory. More of the larger sketchpads, and she dearly wanted more of the oil-paint powders, but did she need those, truly? She’d have to see.

  Cy interrupted her mental inventory. “Rigi do you know a Sanjay Patel?”

  “Hmm, I’m not certain.” Rigi sifted through her list of names. It sounded familiar, something about not quite right name, and her mother, what was it? “Ah, oh! I have met him, yes, but I, oh dear, yes. He is the young man who mistook me for a professional acquaintance of his and who was terribly embarrassed when he learned the truth. Terribly embarrassed, and most apologetic and confused. He seemed polite and well mannered otherwise.”

  “Hmm. He’s been asking about you, or so I heard from Troy Pappandreau.” Cy gave her a firm look, more parental than fraternal. “He does know that you are not of age to consider courting, I trust.”

  Rigi wanted to stick her tongue out at him, but not in front of both parents. “Yes, Cy, that was part of his confusion. He has been so informed.”

  “Hmm.” He picked up his document reader. Rigi found a book of reproductions of ancient art works on the shelf and sat down to look at the images. There was one of an animal from Home called a rabbit that she especially liked, and she wanted to see if she could draw a Staré or wombow or perhaps a striped leaper with that level of detail and authenticity.

  “Lt. Carlovi, it is truly a pleasure to see you again,” Rigi said, smiling at the young officer as he straightened up from his bow.

  “Thank you, Miss Auriga, but the pleasure surely is mine. May I have this dance?”

  “Yes.” She left her small wrist bag on the seat of the chair and he took her hand. Together they joined the line of couples for the next set, a complicated line dance that broke into a quadrille. Rigi hoped she wouldn’t make him look too bad. She always had trouble with the transition. They faced each other, and as the first notes came from the musicians, the men bowed. Then the women curtsied, and the two lines advanced, touching left hands, then retreating to the starting point. Then they advanced again, touched raised hands, and circled around the center, and retreated once more. Rigi and Lt. Carlovi got through the difficult transition to the quadrille without colliding or tripping, unlike two other couples, including the unhappy Miss Brown. Her escort seemed a bit clumsier than Rigi thought usual, and she wondered if he were ill.

  After the dance, Lt. Carlovi escorted Rigi back to her seat. “Thank you, Miss Auriga.”

  “You are most welcome, Lt. Carlovi.” By saying most welcome and naming him, she told him that she would dance again with him if he asked. Her mother had taught her the rule and it saved a great deal of face and confusion indeed.

  He bowed once more and left. By custom she could not dance with the same man twice in a row unless he were a relative, since this was not a card dance and she was not courting. Rigi fanned a little and watched the couples shifting and re-forming. Cy seemed to have found a pouty-lipped young lady in a painfully orange dress to partner, and Rigi wondered who had told her that brilliant orange favored her light coloring. The person, if it was not a salesbot, should be ashamed of themselves, Rigi sniffed.

  “Since the guardian of your virtue is entranced with Miss Sorenson, might I have this dance?” Tomás looked as grave as his voice sounded, but laughter filled his eyes.

  “Certainly, Lt. Prananda.” As before she left her bag in the chair and they began the slow, turning dance.

  “Thank you, and my toes thank you,” he breathed. “Miss Arkangli is a charming young lady but lightness of foot is not one of her virtues, which nonetheless are many.”

  Rigi smiled, trying not to laugh at his relief. “You are welcome. Have you heard from the prodigal uncle?”

  “No, have you?”

  “Lexi sent me word that they are away on business. Aunt Kay says that for that reason she will not scold Uncle Eb too excessively, and that Lexi’s mate has decided not to douse him in fur-curler while he sleeps.”

  Now it was Tomás’s turn to fight off laughter. “I am glad to hear that Aunt Kay is her usual moderate and reasonable self, and that Uncle Ebenezer is doing well.” They turned and danced for several more measures before he asked, “Have you changed your mind about the map?”

  “No. I do not disagree with your observations, Lt. Prananda, but I still disagree with the proposed causes and Elders’ interpretation of the symbols on the original.”

  He seemed disappointed, and they finished the dance in silence. As the last note sounded, a robot server with a tray rolled up to them. “Lt. Prananda, message.” A piece of paper on the tray affixed to the top of the server had his name on it, and he picked it up and read. He paled.

  “I fear you must pardon me, Miss Auriga. Duty calls.” He added in quiet Staré, “Possible murder, one of mine.”

  “Duty truly before pleasure, Lt. Prananda. Go and the Huntress be with you.”

  He bowed, kissed her hand, and raced through the couples toward a Staré in uniform who stood near one of the doors. Rigi saw herself back to her seat. Or was it her seat? She’d left her bag right there, because she remembered the overly-friendly potted plant just behind her, and the silver trim on the mis-matched chairs to the left and right. Rigi looked around, then as gracefully as she could she crouched and looked under the chair. Something back beside the plant caught her eye, and she eased the chair aside, then went behind it and found her bag. Someone had likely knocked it off by accident, as happened rather often during some or the more sprightly songs. She’d keep it on her wrist henceforth.

  Rigi breathed a silent prayer for Tomás and his men, human and Staré. Oh, she hoped it was not a murder, but an accident, or something far less serious. Then she did her best to put the matter out of her mind. Cy returned from dancing with Miss Sorenson and sat in a way that suggested great concern for the stability and safety of the seat. “Has anyone been bothering you?”

  “No, Cy. I danced with Lt. Carlovi and Lt. Prananda. No one has acted anything other than polite and welcoming, certainly not overly familiar.” Cy, you are fast wearing out my patience.

  His shoulders rose and fell. “Good. Look out for Franklin Grimly. I think he began the evening early.”

  “Ah, was he dancing the second set with Miss Brown?”

  “Yes. You noticed?”

  “I noticed a rather clumsy gentleman and an unhappy Miss Brown.” She kept her voice low and her expression pleasant.

  Cy nodded once, a firm vertical jerk of his head. “That’s him. He was supposed to be her escort for the evening, but that was changed this morning, for reasons I don’t know.” He took a deep breath before adding, “But I fear I can guess.”

  As the person in question swirled past, half-dragging a petite and confused young lady in soft blue, Rigi risked a discreet sniff. Something sour, not sweat but something else, something familiar that disappeared when he did. “Does the individual to whom you referred use tobacco, Home or native?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Thank you.” She did not care for the smell on Mr. Grimly. Cy got up and went to see to something or someone, leaving Rigi to watch and rest.

  Three dances later, after Mr. Patel returned her to her seat, Franklin Grimly approached and said, “Good evening, Mish, ah Miss Auriga. Might I have the favor of this dance?”

  Rigi considered cutting him, then changed her mind. It would be a short, fast dance with little opportunity for trouble. “Yes, you may.” The small, thin man almost pulled her out of the chair in his haste. He moved jerkily, at odds with his slow and slipping words. The scent about him raised the little hairs on her neck, and Rigi wanted to leave him on the floor to get away. Instead she kept him as far from her as possible, touching him as little as she could. He didn’t seem to notic
e, instead watching the floor and the people around them, anything but her. He was perspiring heavily, enough so that it soaked through his coat and left damp spots under his arms. His hands might have been under water, they felt so wet. Sour smell and bitter, perspiring too heavily, moving too fast, Rigi wondered what was wrong with him. Then he swung his hand, almost slapping her!

  She dropped his other hand and dodged another swing. “Mr. Grimly, what is the matter?”

  “Flies. Too many damned flies. Ugh, how can a person stand them?” He swatted again. “Allow me to take you back to your seat, Miss Auriga.”

  “Thank you, you are too kind.” He waved away more invisible insects and almost ran into a couple still dancing.

  “Excuse me!” the older man protested, drawing the attention of the matron closest to them, and Mr. Brown.

  “Ugh, the flies are terrible,” Grimly swatted again, and Rigi dropped his hand and hurried faster than was proper to get away from the fuss. Sour smell, seeing things, moving too fast, what caused that sort of behavior?

  “Mr. Grimly, come with me, please,” Mr. Brown said, taking his guest’s arm.

  “Damn it man, what did you do, bring trash in from the street? The flies are terrible.”

  Two of the matrons stepped back from him, and Brown clamped his hand on the elbow closest to Rigi, all but dragging Grimly off the dance floor. “This way, sir.” Rigi saw two other, even larger men watching, and she guessed who they were. Indeed, one of them took Grimly’s other elbow as soon as he was close enough and led him out of the room.

  Mrs. DiNatali, one of the matrons, stopped Rigi a few minutes later as she returned from the floor. “My dear, have you seen Miss Chin?”

  Who hasn’t? Rigi blinked. “Not for the last three dances, Mrs. DiNatali. I believe I saw her with—”

  “How dare you?” a woman hissed. Rigi and the matron turned to see a mature woman and her husband bearing down on Miss Lea Chin and the couple’s son. “Step away from my son. He is not in a position to court and neither are you.”