Royal Guards in gilded armor, Plicik men and women in beaded silks with quIckfirers In silver studded straps, Kisar Judges and Scholars in their blowing beaded crimson robes, kanaweh in flits and prowling about on the edges of the throng, in the midst of all these (sweeping along with him the angry, reluctant Avatars, Miowee and her daughter) the Nistam and his Court PROGRESSED to the wagon. ("So that's your Nistam," Shirai' whispered to Miowee. "What a weed."
"Of course It isn't," Mlowee whispered back. "The real one's even worse, he wouldn't dare stick his nose out where it could get shot off. Everyone knows that. That's his fifth double, the others were poisoned or stabbed or something. Look at the bastard sweat."
"If everyone knows, why should he be sweating, who'd waste his life on a double?"
"You're thinking rationally, Shadow. That's a mistake. Someone might lust decide to send a message to the Nistam, keep him nervous."
"Hunh! Sweet folk, yours.")
When the Procession reached the wagon, the PseudoNistam was Installed on his throne, his court settled around him behind screens of pelletproof glass. The Avatars were taken to the shell, Rohant told to sit on a massive bench at the back, the cats flanking him on their own benches as Sassa came circling down and perched on the rod at the apex of the shell. The Ciocan was a magnificent figure with his springing mane and golden eyes, his huge size and powerful musculature, the brilliant, barbaric clothing he was given to wear-black leather beaded all over In crimson and gold, azure and emerald. Against the matte white of the shell, he sprang to the eye; there was a hissing of approval from the watchers out beyond the ring of guards.
Kikun was led to a round dance platform and told to squat there. He wore a fringed harness hung with copper chains and totem dangles, and was painted head to toe in horizontal black and white stripes. There was a shudder of pleasurable fear among the watchers as he took his place.
Three Plicik honormaids took Shadith to a white bench halfway between Kikun and Rohant; she wore a long white leather robe beaded in lapis lazuli and gold with crimson beads in a diamond between her breasts, she supposed it was meant to represent her heart. Her hair was an explosion of tiny curls, the tips bleached to gold; they shimmered in the sunlight, making a gilded halo about her face. Her Plicik attendants spread out her skirt panels, arranged her limbs in the proper position, slapped her spine straight, fluffed out her hair, smoothed pearl powder over her face and arms, clucking as they always did at the darkness of her skin. She sat glowering through all this, only smiled when they brought Miowee and Kayataki to her and settled them at her feet. When the Plicik maids moved to take their own seats; she bent down. "Is this thing really supposed to move? And what happens to this foofaraw if it rains?"
Miowee snorted. "It gets wet, what'd you think?"
"You mean we get wet."
"That, too." Miowee winced as the drum corps started banging away. "Get ready, Shadow, another minute and you're on."
"Give me half a chance, I'd…"
The only way you could get out of this now is invisible or dead. Your choice."
"Fool." She laughed, tapped Miowee lightly on her head. "So… where'd they get that lot of tin-eared dead arses? They're not the ones, we practiced with." She wrinkled her nose. "I've heard more rhythm from a seaslug."
"They're Pliciks, what did you expect? They've never had to please or starve. They bought the right to make fools of themselves."
CELL 19
The wagon creaked out of the city and plunged into the throng of Pilgrims. Following the pattern drilled into her during practice sessions in the Kisa Misthakan, Shadith played the sacred Paleka Kitskew and sang the traditional Pakoseo songs, Miowee and Kayataki blending with her, their voices picked up and amplified by concealed lug-ikes.
As they plunged deeper and deeper into the Pilgrim throng, the people took hold of the song and began singing with them, the sound spreading and spreading until it filled the space under the bowl of the sky.
Sometime around mid-afternoon there was a disturbance by the right front corner of the wagon. A man as elaborately dressed as Rohant was screaming something that was partly drowned by the shouts of the guards and partly carried off by the wind. He tried to climb onto the bed of the wagon, laying about him in a frenzy of desire and determination with a seasoned quarterstaff, his strength multiplied by his insanity. In a lull when the wind dropped, Shadith heard what he was screaming: I am Nataminaho, I AM, not HIM, not that IMPOSTER. I AM NATAMINAHO, I AM ANOINTED BY OPPALATIN, I AM…
He was driven back, knocked down. A moment later she heard him scream as the broad wheels began to roll over him.
Ginbiryol scowled at 18 as he recognized the shouter, one of Puk's protйgйs, the country Plicik with the taste for torturing children; he had some effective scenes from that one, this would finish the tale, but there was a problem with the style of the end. He considered a moment, then isolated the sequence; a good many of his clients shared the tastes of that local and would be insulted by his ignoble death, seeing it as a judgment on them; however, there were two or three who had a sentimental gloss on their attitudes toward children, they'd enjoy the pain, the writhing, the blood, and feel a special glow of virtue as they also enjoyed the wretched end of the torturer. He dumped the sequence into a special file for a Limited Version of this Limited Edition. Though finishing the story off satisfied his aesthetic sense, it was a dangerous ploy. If he misjudged his audience, it wasn't merely a matter of refunding the purchase price; he would have some very unpleasant people angry with him, people who had a propensity for direct and bloody retaliation for anything they considered an insult.
He continued monitoring the Cells, brooding over timing as he watched. The emotional content of the scenes was intensifying to the point of exaltation and the autumnal odor of endphase was strong as burning leaves. Time is now, he thought, I had better set the Banger in place. He tapped his forefinger on the armrest. Ajeri wasn't here. She'd taken to avoiding the Bridge.
The kephalos tracked her and found her in the gym where she was exercising with grim determination, sweat rolling off her body, her face a grotesquerie of strain.
Ginbiryol watched a moment, decided to leave her where she was. He called up the record of what she'd already done with the Planet-Killer, nodded with satisfaction when he read its current status; he finished activating it and used servos to ease it into the drone' which Ajeri had already programmed. All he had to do was pop it out and send it down.
3
The drone dropped in a slow lazy spiral, taking most of the day to reach the surface. It slid into the ocean and drifted down and down for another half a day until it nosed into the muck at the bottom of a vast chasm in the seabed, near hotvents that went even deeper into the worldheart. When the slavecircuit beeped to notify
Ginbiryol the Banger was in place, he set his sandwich and kaff aside to contemplate the dark bulk in the darker rift and savor in anticipation Shadith's consternation as the world blew up around her.
4
Almost as an afterthought, he started a quartet of quiverworts droning out to Teegah's Limit. These quasi-plants, which had been developed by the Sikkul Paems from their own root stock were ordinarily not available outside the Paem system though there was a good deal of interest in them because they were sensitive to disturbances created by surfacing starships, were the most reliable alarms around. Ginbiryol had acquired his worts by means devious and expensive and was careful to keep their presence on his ship from the Paems who cared for his drives.