The floor shifted under them.
"What the hell is this place? It's moving." He sounded so indignant that Shadith was surprised into a giggle.
He glanced at her, snorted, then crossed the room in two long strides, slapped his hand against the broad button on the jamb.
The door opened toward him, nearly hit him in the nose. He snorted again, ducked through the opening.
Shadith blinked as Kikun came round her and went out after the Ciocan; she'd forgotten him completely. It was as if he'd erased himself from her senses-all her senses. Which was very odd indeed. She was ALWAYS aware of people around her. She might not pay any attention to them, but she knew they were there. Slowly, thoughtfully, she followed Kikun and walked into a bare box like the room she'd just left, though about twice as large and with a few welcome additions, her harpcase, for one, and her travelpouch, along with two other, smaller pouches sewn from twill.
She toed a twill pouch. "Yours?"
Rohant shrugged. "If they're strangers, I suppose so. Courtesy of our captor."
She opened her case, smiled as she touched the instrument inside. Swardheld had spent months on the harp, getting her shape right, polishing her wood, dark chestnut streaked with umber, until it glowed, carving her floral cartouches, laying in her ivory plates and scrolls of copper and silver wire. Shadith set her hand flat on the strings, a gentle caress meant as much for Swardheld as for the harp herself. She shut the case, clicked the catches home and began looking through her travelpoucheverything in place, even her weapon satchel. She thumbed the locks on the satchel, scowled as nothing happened.
"That bitch, she broke my locks."
She tipped back the lid, took out her stunner, checked the charge. Topped up. Busy little minkhas, aren't they. Needier? Yup, clip's full, juiced up and ready to go. Cutter. Pry-tractor. EY Es. Picklocks. Rand-read. Miniprobe. Knives, one, two… uh… hunh! All seven. With fingerprints all over them.
She didn't like people handling her things, she didn't like it almost as much as she didn't like that creep guard handling her. She found a scrap of sham and began polishing the blade of the buwie.
"You're a surprising little kit-cat, Shadith." Rohant the Ciocan wiggled his shaggy brows. "Where you taking all that?"
"University." She inspected the steel, smiled when she saw the fingerprints were gone. She slid the buwie into its slot and drew out the crystal stittoe, swore at the cloudy marks on the transparent blade and exchanged the sham for a glassrag.
"Always struck me as a peaceful sort of place. You planning to make war on the professors?"
"That's stupid. We'll get along a lot better if you forget what I look like and stop treating me like some vacant-brained nit. While I'm finishing here, why don't you.." she looked around, scowled when she saw Kikun had gone somewhere; she'd missed him again, "… that little man's a ghost! Why don't you follow him and find out what this place is?" She began working on the stittoe's blade, very careful around the edges.
He grunted, went stomping off.
Shadith smiled. Should be used to it, old lion. What I hear, a Ciocan's Toerfeles beats up on him just for the practice.
She inspected the stittoe, slotted it and took up the first of the throwing knives, then worked steadily until she had all the blades smooth and gleaming and back in their slots. She looked through the rest of her instrumentation, gave the surfaces a quick wipe with a dustcover. She tried out the latches; they snapped home with satisfying chinks. The locks were broken, but she could clamp the satchel shut and be reasonably certain it'd stay closed. She rubbed at her nose, contemplated its battered simleather sides, thinking over what had happened to her, wondering where she should go from here. I'd forgot what it's like being weak, how you have to behave, how wary you have to be. It sucks, having to walk round ready to massacre people. Words, words, Shadow, just words. Why'd you bring these toys if you didn't plan to use them? Wrong mindset, that's what. If you'd had one of those shooters back there, what would it've got you? Dumped in a lethal chamber, that's all. Can't fight the fuzz with force, you've got to use your head, not your gut. I suppose so. Right. You should have gone straight for Guard Headquarters, dropping Lee's name whenever you had a chance. You should have flattered them, got them to show you around their operation as a courtesy to Hunters Inc. You played the child well enough for Ginny, why not for that creep's boss? Tell that High Hoofta stories enough about Lee to addle his brain, if any, and tickle his gizzard, tease him into escorting you to the shuttle. What could the creep do then? But your mind wasn't right, was it? Blind and bedamned. I suppose so, but cleverness doesn't work all the time; people can be so sharp they cut themselves. I need friends, connections, backing. And in the meantime, I need the damn gun.
She opened the satchel, took out the needier, clipped it inside her shirt. Swardheld had pulled a Pa'ao Teely weaponsmith out of a bad hole last year and got the needier as a thank gift; he passed it on to her along with the harp. He was a good friend, generous, and she seriously adored him, but she was getting deathly sick of saying thank you, thank you for everything she owned. She twitched her shoulders and bent over the satchel, running her finger along the knife hilts. She chose her hideaway knife, its hilt and blade molded from the same piece of Jaje braincrystal. It was flexible as an armsdealer's morals and a bitch to use with any skill, but it was as close to indetectable as a weapon could get. She slipped it into the crystal-lined sheath in her left boot and stood.
As in the other room, there was a band of carving in low relief about three hands wide around the top of the wall, blocky, simplified, animal forms which incorporated side, front, and top views in each image, along with inside and out. A berry vine (click on the langue imprint: amtapishk) twined about them and spread its leaves between them, punctuating the spaces with its bumpy fruit. There were ventilation slots above the frieze and holes pierced through it among the twists and turns of the amtapishka vine; the light coming through those holes was diffuse and unsteady; a rustling whisper came with it along with an assortment of muted creaks and groans; if she had to guess she'd say whoever built the place had mirrors bringing in sunlight from outside.
She slung the strap of the harpcase over her shoulder and went out.
The hallway beyond the door ended in a wall on her left; to her right she could see several other doors, each with a spiral of running felinoids (click, mioweh) in a central cartouche with a white card in the paws of the ursinoid (click, maskin) at the heart of each spiral.
She turned round. There was a card on the door she'd just closed behind her with an arrow scrawled across it, pointing away down the hall. The spoor of the Ciocan. Or is it Kikun? Hmh.
She took the card, put it back blank side out. Better not leave obvious traces.
The wind noises got louder, the floor moved under her feet. All right, all right, don't have to get snarky about it. I'm going.
She went round one corner, then another, following the track of the arrows, flipping the cards as she came on them, passing several crossways as she had when she was running on a leash inside the Station, an uncomfortable comparison she put out of her head as soon as it occurred to her. She moved faster and faster in her impatience to get out of there.
The card trail ended at a wide, heavy door, every inch of it deeply carved into a single beastform, maskin male in a threat posture; it was less complex than the frieze designs, more realistic. The maskin's massive back was turned to the hallway, his snarling muzzle in side view so his teeth and tongue were visible, one little squinty eye.
She closed her hand into a fist, banged it against the stud in the center of the iron wrist-ring on the maskin's left forepaw. There was a low thunk and the door opened a crack. She gave it a shove, stepped onto a small platform and looked around. Tree. We're up a damn tree.