Jo Clayton SQ 01 Shadowplay

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Bittersweet
Is better neat
And tastier
Than honey
I would not let him go But he faded so
Like smoke he blew away.
They sang for her when her song was done, then danced with her while some
played flute and some
played drums and one plucked strings on a round-bellied gourd.
Time passed unnoticed, until it was very late indeed and they fell into bed
pleased with themselves and each other and slept away the remnant of the
night.
She woke with a thick head, a throat someone had used a grater on, a burning
cut on her palm from the fake fingernail she d forgotten, to take off last
night and a lazy good feeling that rolled like warm water back and forth along
her body.
She yawned and stretched and the silence began to seep in on her; the more she
thought about it, the emp-tier the building felt. Her leg twitched and began
to itch, she curled round under the quilts and scratched at the side
of her calf, sighing, with pleasure at the relief. The skin between her
shoulder blades began to itch. With an explosion of impatience she flung the
quilts aside and rolled out onto her feet.
Someone had washed and ironed her underclothing, laid it out on a chair; the
same someone had sponged off her shirt and trousers and hung them over a hook
screwed into the door; her boots had been polished until they gleamed and were
standing by the foot of the bed, look-ing better than they had in years. On a
table beside the bed there was a tray with a pot on it swathed in a towel, an
overturned cup and a plate with a warmer lid over it.
She dressed quickly, ate a little, then left the room.
A girl was mopping the hall outside, swinging the mop in damp sweeps that
barely moistened the flags, elbows flying, narrow body working with explosive
energy to finish a job she detested, her distaste so evident it was almost a
separate thing walking beside her. After a mo-ment s effort Shadith dredged up
her name. Hasski, she called. The tray, what shall I do about it?
The girl halted her furious progress, looked back at Shadith. Leave it. I ll
take it down when I m finished with this.
I ll do it if you point me in the right direction.
Just leave it.
Hasski pushed impatiently at hair strag-gling into her eyes. I don t have
time to fool with you, I m due at work like now. She snapped her head around
and went back to her mopping.
Shadith raised her brows; she leaned against the jamb and watched thoughtfully
as Hasski mopped her way round the corner.
Mood s a bit different come the morning, it seems. Work? She can t
be more than fourteen, fifteen. What was it Aste said? The Islanders
tolerate no one who cannot earn his way either with a skill or as a weapon
against the Priests and the Plicik.s. Ever. children, it seems. Wonder if they
know about unions, maybe I should drop a hint. Na, keep your nose out of this,
Shadow, you re not going to be here long enough to spit on the floor. If
you re lucky. Chil-dren, though. Maybe they re in school. Early for school,
isn t it? Not that I know much about schools, don t want to know, either. Hmm.
Let s get out of here and see if we can find old Lion or Kikun.
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It was earlier than she d thought, the sun barely clear of the horizon, wispy
patches of mist lingering in the shadows, damp glittering on every surface, an
erratic breeze blowing from an icebox somewhere, licking at her ears and
fingers. She hesitated on the steps, decided she might as well trundle on down
to the harbor and wait for the others to show up.
Though this was the heart of the town, the street and the structures along it
seemed as empty as the
Hostel, as if everyone that lived there had poured forth with the rising of
the sun and been swept away.
Her Talent con-firmed what her ears and eyes told her. No one there. Like
Hasski said, work. What work? . Who knows. She began walking downhill, the
heels of her boots loud on the paving.
Several large buildings had an official look; their doors (with totem
forms in circular cartouches carved in deep relief) were closed and shades
were pulled across the windows. The other structures were small rowhouses
each sharing a common wall with the next, all of them turning a blind blank
face to the street, one single window in each facade, round and set with
stained glass and lead canes; it was opaque and tarry, like a mole on the brow
of the house. The doors were painted in bright colors with a vertical row of
black glyphs along the left side, announcing the family lines of those
residing behind that
door. If there were gardens or outside living areas, they were around back.
There were no shops, no sign of a produce or fish market, not here. Kiskai had
motorized vehicles of all sorts, as well as lift sleds and other fliers. No [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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