Shadow of the Warmaster

19

They strolled along a shady path that more or less paralleled the section of creek that ran through the enclosure. “… so we figured Bolodo would show up again in about six months standard and we’ve been looking about for ways to take the transport and run for civilization. Maybe not this time, but the next for sure.”

Xalloor flicked a woven grass fan back and forth in the futile hope that moving air would be marginally less oppressive. “I heard talk in the pen, a snatch here, another there. You’re not the only ones. So what happened? It’s obvious you aren’t all that hipped on the idea.”

“I’ve been thinking about it and trying to plan something from the minute I put foot to ground and saw the transport was the only insplitter around.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

“I know. I just wanted you to…” Aslan pushed sweaty hair back from her face. “One of the people at the Sea Farm, she told me it’d happened before. Slaves took the transport, got it flying.” She put her hand on Xalloor’s arm, stopped her. “You hear anything about what’s up there? Hanging over us?”

“Huh?”

“Ever seen one of those battleships they call Warmasters?”

“Shee-it. Yeh, a client once took me through one, it was defanged though. You telling me…”

“Yeh.”

“It got the transport.”

“Fffft!”

“Think Parnalee knows?”

“Haven’t told him.”

“Maybe I should change my mind about moving over.”

“Nice having someone to talk to.”

“There is that.”

They started walking again. After several minutes, Aslan said, “I don’t like helping Tra Yarta put the boot to the Hordar.”

“Nothing much you can do about it and keep your own skin whole.”

“I can um put a twist on what I tell him.”

“Get yourself whomped some more. Maybe turned into fish bait.”

“I’ve already started. You might not want to be involved.”

“Daarra dai, Lan, do me good to practice my kicks.” Xalloor chuckled. “Could even be fun.”

1. Half a year before Aslan lands on Tairanna/ three years before Adelaar hires Quale and crew.

Airship/over the Duzzulkas/cloudless summer night.

Karrel Goza tugged a length of wool from the skein, draped a few loops over his thigh. Ruya was brushing the horizon directly ahead of him, fatly gibbous, Gorruya was nearly out of sight overhead, an anorexic crescent riding a fan of stars that were particularly brilliant this night; the wind was still, even the veil of dust that generally hung over the southern Duzzulkas had settled for the moment. The land was flowing dark and silent beneath the airship, the watchfires of the herders were scattered pinpricks of red beside spreading shapeless blotches, yunk herds, nubby black against the ripples of silvery black grass. The clock on the panel gave him another twenty minutes before he made Koy Tarla; the pylon lights should be visible soon. He was a thin dark man, short, neatly made, a man at peace with himself; as his hands manipulated the needles and the bulky gray wool slid steadily about his fingers and the sleeve grew longer, his mind drifted without effort from image to image.

Three sweaters by the time I get home. Not bad. Ommar keeps hinting I should get married. Hmm. I don’t want to shift Houses, whoever it is will have to adopt in. Gily? Ommar’d eat her alive. Her father’s tavern’s doing good, be a nice add to the family business. No, she’s all right to warm a bed, not for a long haul, too changeable, I’d never know who she was getting off with when I was gone. Long haul. Hmm. I don’t like Sirgыn sending me out alone for this haul. Dangerous. And I’ll have to lay over at some Koy and catch some sleep. Isn’t the stopping I mind, it’s the god forgotten Noses with their stinking questions, wouldn’t believe you if you said the sun was shining. Nehir. She’s a weaver, that’s good. Prime weaver. Bring a lot to the family. Even Old Pittipat likes her work. She wouldn’t mind me being off flying so much. Not going to quit flying, wife or no wife. What would I do if I had to quit? Don’t think about that, Kar, it won’t happen. Nehir, Nehir. I don’t know. She’s not bad looking, but… I like her brother. Not marrying her brother. Good solid business. Hmm. Doussi? Prettiest woman in gul Inci. Wonder why she’s not married yet? Five years older than me. Keeps the family factory ticking steady. There’s always someone needing motors for new airships. Sirgem Bol could use new ships, replace this old whale. He rubbed his foot against the control stick, smiled dreamily, shook his head. They haven’t bought a new ship for two years, hmm, maybe more. Something’s going on. Maybe I should think about changing companies. Percin Hizmet left last month. Hasn’t found a place yet. That’s odd. He’s a top mechanic, he shouldn’t be having trouble getting on somewhere. Casma. Wonder if she’d be willing to stay onshore. I doubt it, being she’s a diver. Divers are too scrappy for me, I can do without fights when I’m home. Way she dances would make a statue stand. Maybe we could work out something. I’m gone so much, she could spend those days at the Farm, be on land a couple weeks when I’m home. Affiliated to a Sea Farm, mmh.

The needles clish-clashed, small clicks and ticks came from the instrument panel, a ghost of wind noise filtered through the windows, wire stays sang sustained sweet notes into the shifting creaks of the gondola, cables burred deeper, stronger notes into the cargo bales hitched beneath it. Inside the cockpit, the light was dim, bluish, mostly from the panel though a small spotlight shone on his hands and woke watery gleams from the sea-ivory needles. Girls’ faces, fragmentary musings, dim apprehensions drifted in an unhurried stream through his head until the alarm chimed.

He set the knitting aside, looked out. Lights in two columns above the much fainter glows from cracks in curtains and the occasional yellow square where an unshuttered shopwindow announced the business was still open. “Koy Tarla.” He patted Fud-40’s panel. “Good old girl.”

He cut out the automatic pilot, began matching maneuvers and hit the pylon latch dead center first try. The noselock wouldn’t click home. He swore under his breath and made another pass, slipped loose again. Fud-40 hadn’t been properly serviced for months, there were a lot of parts that needed replacing, nose gear was so worn it was near unusable. The third time he tried, he revved the motors up more than he liked and held her vibrating against the pylon until the instruments gave him a GO. Swearing some more, he brushed the back of his hand against his sweaty brow, swiveled a rotor and nudged the side of the gondola against the platform extending from the pylon, watching the panel anxiously until the readouts told him he was set in solid. He released the rearend cable, felt the gondola shudder as it unreeled. When the hook hit the ground, a buzzer sounded and he shut off the motors with a sigh of relief and a fleeting suspicion that he wouldn’t finish this long haul with bag and self intact, a thought he immediately suppressed. He rolled up his knitting, stuffed it in its bag, clicked off his harness and got to his feet. The locks held the gondola stable; besides, Fud-40 was heavy with bales of yunk wool. It’d take more than his weight to knock her about.