Panting and dripping slobber, he trotted beside her as she moved about the hangar, using a minute pinlight to see what the Ptaks kept in that vast gloomy building.
There were four fliers parked in the center of the stained metacrete floor. A fifth was racked with one of the lifters stripped, waiting for repairs which a certain thickness of dust suggested no one was rushing to complete.
None of the locks were engaged.
They were standard haulers with the cargo hold below the passenger module. The hold was a rectangular box with a grating floor, straps for tying bales and bundles, and a series of wall bins. Stowing away wouldn’t be difficult if she could figure out which flier the Cobben planned to use.
She moved away from them and stood, hands on hips, scowling at four large shadows. “Well, dog, it’s really too bad you can’t talk. Or would you even know? Maybe they haven’t decided themselves which beast they’re going to ride. Shays! I really don’t want the noise it’d make if I had to steal one of those things. It’s a nest in the rafters for me, dog. Sleep out the night and watch which one they load up with supplies and hope they do it ahead of time.”
The dog pushed his muzzle against her hip and wagged his stumpy tail as she dug her fingers into the ruff round his neck.
“You’re a love, aren’t you?” She chuckled. “Deadly little love. I’d be cold meat without the mindride. Ah, spla, my fault, not yours. Should have read the building before I went in. Hmp. Time for you to get back to work and me to find myself a perch.”
Early morning sunlight was streaming through the narrow clerestory windows when the large doors slid open. The dog trotted to the door, stood a moment, ruff bristling, a ridge of hair rising along his spine. There was a sound that Shadith felt rather than heard. The dog relaxed and trotted out of sight. A moment later a cargo carrier hummed in.
It settled beside the nearest flier, then a small wiry man followed the handler out. Lying on a rafter high above them, Shadith smiled tightly as he spoke. Cobben on the job. The voice told her which. Orm.
With the loader ‘bots working steadily and in spite of Orm’s fussy interference, the transfer of the goods was quickly finished. As the handler loaded the ‘bots onto the carrier, Orm climbed into the passenger section of the flier. Shadith tensed, listening to the clinks and clunks he made, wondering if he were going to settle in and wait for the others. The Coryfe said noon and that was several hours off, but maybe they’d changed the time.
The handler walked round the carrier, making sure the ‘bots and the stakes were properly in place, then he slammed down the locking lever and climbed into the cab. The hum of the lifters filled the hangar. Orm dropped from the flier’s cabin and ran to the carrier.
A moment later the hangar’s door hummed shut.
Shadith circled the flier, Digby’s readout telling her that Orm had activated some sort of alarm. The readout wasn’t sensitive enough to do more, so she clicked it off and crouched in the shadow next to the cargo hatch, eyes shut, trying to trace the energy flows. Since most of the system was potential rather than actual, it was a bitch to read. She was sweating and her head was throbbing by the time she managed to trip the switch and shut the thing off.
She used the quickpic to unlock the hatch and crawled inside; there was just room to wriggle along on top of the padded crates. At the back of the hold there was a small pile of unused padding and a space large enough for her to sit with some comfort. She slipped her arms from the straps of her gearsac, pushed it to one side, lowered herself onto the padding, then sat scowling at the crate in front of her, trying to decide if she should reset the alarm.
If it was internal as well as external… if she needed a passpartout to convince it she was part of the cargo… dogs were easier…
The Cobben might have gotten sloppy through easy living, but she couldn’t count on them missing an obvious thing like a switched-off alarm. She closed her eyes, found the configuration after a few moments of fumbling about, sucked in a breath, and flipped the switch.
Nothing happened.
Right. Now all I’ve got to worry about is boredom. Hours of boredom. Do I dare sleep? Better question is how do I stay awake? She yawned, arranged one of the pads behind her, curled up as comfortably as she could, and went to sleep.
19
When the Twig is Broken, Peril. Body, mind and soul on the brink of the Abyss.
Chapter 7
Thann adjusted the net with a flex and bend of xe’s wrists and sent it skimming out, the wet cord resisting the mischief of the wind that boomed in xe’s ears and teased the water into jadeite shards. Xe’s father had a saying-a talking wind makes bad fishing-which had proved itself over and over this day. Xe tugged at the steering lines and began pulling the net in, alert to a certain liveliness in the feel that told xe that xe’d finally caught more than weed and driftwood.
A scream. Isaho! Thann dropped the, guides and started to turn.
Hands caught xe’s arms, a loop of rope was round xe’s wrists and dragged tight. A moment later, xe was facedown on the river bank, another loop about xe’s ankles pulled tight and tied off. Xe writhed around, spat dirt from xe’s mouth, and began struggling against the ties.
The mal who’d trapped xe wore a peddler’s red shirt, faded and stained, a peddler’s humpy hat with the wide brim to keep the sun from his eyes, a peddler’s iron rings in his ears. The bits of his crest hair poking from under the hat were streaked with gray. He watched xe struggle, his leathery face impassive, then cupped his hands round his mouth, yelled, “Got the kid, Yal?”
“Ehyah, Baba, but she fighting like crazy, you wanna stake that ’un down and come gimme a hand?”
Thann whistled xe’s distress as Yal and the peddler came from the vevezz brake, Isaho’s limp body slung over the mal’s shoulder. Yal was a mallit perhaps two or three years older than Isaho, swaggering along beside his father, a red rag braided into his crest and wooden plugs where the rings would go when he finished his apprenticeship.
The peddler dumped Isaho on the bank beside Thann, turned to his son. “Keep y’ eyes open.” He flicked a bony forefinger against barrel of the pellet rifle the mallit carried. “But don’t go wasting ammo on shadows, or I take it outta your hide. You hear?”
“Ya, Baba.”
“And keep y’ hands off the femlit. She worth good coin if she fresh meat.”
“Ya, Baba.”
The boat was a flat-bottomed scow with a single mast and a shack built of weathered planks for a sleeping cabin, the deck cluttered with barrels and bales, an old sail that was more patches than original cloth tied over these. It was nosed against the bank, the sail dropped in a crumbled mass on the boom, an anchor cable taut and straining over the side, holding it against the push of the current.
The peddler splashed into the water on the downstream side and swung himself on board. As he began turning the crank to lift the sail, he called to his son, “Yal, haul ’em over. Hop it, mallit, you want that Imp phela to come over hill and see what’s happenin’? Nah! Not the femlit, the anya. That’s the one that’s real walkin’ money. What I keep tellin’ you, make sure of the money first.”
“Ya, Baba. Uh anya, xe’s made a mess of xe’s wrists.”
“Ne’ mind that. Patchin’ comes later. Move it.”
Yal hefted Thann and rolled xe over the side. The peddler caught xe before xe hit the planks and dumped xe down by a bale of old clothes that smelled of sweat and rot, then went back to working the crank as the mallit struggled along with a writhing, screaming, biting Isaho.
When he reached the boat, Yal dropped Isaho over the rail and swung himself up after her, hauled her across to Thann, and went to help his father.
Thann nuzzled at Isaho, trying to comfort her, driven half insane because xe’s hands were tied and xe couldn’t speak. In the middle of xe’s anguish, xe remembered the peddler’s words and felt a flare of hope. Impix phela, he said. If only they would come, anything would be better… Xe’s hope died as quickly as it was born. He wasn’t really worried, he was lessoning his son. If he thought the Impix were close enough to be trouble, he’d have done the carrying himself instead of leaving it to the mallit, and we’d be going down river already. Isa, ah, Isa, we’ll get out of this. Somehow. I promise… hush, Shashi hush, baby… oh, God, help us, give me strength… Xe moistened xe’s lips, tried a soft whistle; it was more air than sound, but xe turned it to a lullaby that seemed to comfort xe’s daughter.