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 burning…
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 leveclass="underline" two Triads peeled off, trotted for the armored doors of the Nish'mok's suite.
Third leveclass="underline" 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."