Shadow of the Warmaster

6

The winds around the Fehdaz’s Mountain Place were clawing at each other and coiling into knots while an icy rain hammered verticals and horizontals alike. Karrel Goza tried sliding from one current to another, fighting to get close enough to the Hold to let the women down inside the walls. The rain blinded him, the winds knocked him away again and again, driving him toward the ground, skidding him toward the walls and the three-hundred-foot cliff behind the Hold, coming close to flipping him end for end. He backed off, climbed into a region of comparative peace.

“She’s a sweet ship,” he said. “Tougher than I thought, plenty of power, but she is little. Not enough weight. Another thing, that lightning, if we’re struck, goodnight all. I don’t know…”

Elmas Ofka frowned at the clock on the panel, looked over his shoulder at the silent women sitting on the floor behind her. “We can wait maybe half an hour, maybe three-quarters if we really push it, some of us have to be back in our beds before sunup. Let’s see if the storm will calm enough to let you take us in.”

He nodded. “Even a half hour could make a big difference.” He reached under the chair and lifted up the shoulderbag he’d brought with him, took out a mass of knitting and settled it on his lap. Hands busy, eyes flicking back and forth between the needles and the panel, his face intent, he knitted steadily, the warm brown wool dancing through his fingers.

She watched him, fascinated by this stranger who without intending it was showing her just how little she knew about her own kin and landfolk everywhere. It was disturbing, it was challenging, it was infuriating because she knew all too well that she couldn’t do a thing about the forces that kept her pinned where she was. Mostly she was too busy to fret about her limitations, she had other things on her mind; now there was nothing to do but think and she didn’t much like what she was thinking. Even when she was still Indiz Farm’s premiere Dalliss, her life was circumscribed by her talent and her duties and everything her Family expected of her. She fidgeted, wishing she had something to keep her hands and her mind busy. He knew he was going to wait maybe an hour for us, damn him, he’s set, why didn’t I get ready for a delay? Sssa, woman, you’ve got to do better… Forethought, Ommar Ayrinti beats her finger in the air, forethought saves aftertrouble. If you’d just think before you stepped in something, Elli, just take a meesly second and think a little, ay girl. The gnarly forefinger like a bit of dried floatstem beat beat beating at the air before her face. Sssaa… She moved her shoulders impatiently, swung her chair around so she wouldn’t have to look at the man, pulled her legs up and settled herself to doze away the wait. If she could.

Half an hour later the winds were still gusting, but the worst of the knots were teased out and the rain had diminished to a few spatters. Karrel Goza took the miniship in a ragged spiral about the largest structure inside the walls, brought her low and hovered her over an open stretch in the kitchen garden.

Elmas Ofka knelt by a hatch, swept the spotter in a wide circle, slipped it back in the case snapped to her belt. “No guards,” she said, pitching her voice so she could be heard above the thrum of the motors, the whine of the wind. “Harli Tanggаr, Lirrit Ofka, go.” She watched them slide down ladders that twisted and bucked with them and went streaming away at an angle when they dropped free; they landed in rows of hanannas and moved quickly into the shelter of tall groaning beanpoles. “Melly Birah, Hessah Indiz, go.” She counted a dozen breaths, watched them jump free when they were more than a manheight from the ground; they landed on the trampled hanannas and ran for the hedge that circled the garden; they went to their stomachs behind coldframes there, merging with the inky shadows. “Binna Tanggаr, Jirsy Indiz, go.” She turned her head. “See you, Karrel Goza. Our turn, Tez.” She tipped through the hatch, caught the ladder and began dropping. The ropes whipped through her gloved hands, the wooden rungs slammed into her knees, her breasts, her face. By the time she reached the ground, she felt like she’d been beaten with rods.

Her isyas came out of the shadows and drifted around her, shadows themselves, knitted hoods over all but eyes, black gloves on hands, narrow black trousers, knitted tops that clung like tight black skins. They were armed with deadly little darters the weaponsmith made for them and cutters that went through metal like a wire through cheese, braided leather straps that came away from their belts with a quick jerk, daggers thin and sharp as a wicked thought and broader all-purpose knives. At the kitchen door, she looked over her shoulder at them and was filled with pride; she pulled her hood away from her mouth, flashed them a grin, then waved Harli Tanggаr up to deal with the door.