Shadowkill

4

Arring Pirs came into Allina’s sitting room. He stood behind her, watching her work on her tapestry, then crossed the room to look into his son’s cradle. He bent, touched the sleeping baby’s cheek, then came back to her.

She looked up, managed a smile. “Are the guns what you wanted?”

“Wanted.” He poured heavy irony into the word, rested the tips of his fingers on her shoulder. “Not new,” he said, “but they work. P’murr’s finishing the inspection.”

“When will you be leaving, you and P’murr?”

“I’m not taking P’murr.”

She stabbed the needle into the canvas, left it hanging there, caught hold of his hand and held it against her face. “You will,” she said. “You must.”

“No.”

“Amurra. Amurra. Amurra,” she whispered. “Please, please, kiya-mi, kaltji-mi. If you’re worried about us here, what happens to us if you die?”

“You have Paji now. Father will take care of you.”

She was silent. She couldn’t agree and he wouldn’t hear her if she tried to argue.

In her corner Shadith continued to play softly, shivering at the anger and helplessness in the Matja. She knew what Allina was thinking. It wasn’t just the war that was waiting for Pirs; it was Mingas’ spite, Utilas’ jealousy, Angakirs’ stupidity. Allina was sick with fear that Pirs wasn’t going to come home from this, especially if he left P’murr behind.

“I have Tinoopa and Kizra, Wuraj for the men, the chal and chapa,” Allina said after several moments of silence. “Don’t you trust them, mi-Arring? Take P’murr, please? For my peace of mind, if nothing else.”

“No.” He pulled away, angry. “I have said, Matja.”

“I hear, Arring.”

Two days later, Pirs left with fifty chal in three trucks, a fourth truck loaded with supplies.

Matja Allina stood on the steps for the Ceremony of Leavetaking, calm, smiling, pride stiffening her spine. When the last truck vanished through the gate, she signaled the young Amur-drummer.

He played a quick roll, then blew into the convoluted shell of a land snail.

Matja Allina looked down into the faces of her people. “You know what this means,” she said. She spoke slowly, her voice carrying to the farthest corners of the court. “Chal, explain to chapa. Chal and chapa, take great care of your lives, you are dear to us and you are needed. There will be tumaks come to burn and kill. Don’t go beyond the walls alone, don’t go without a guard. I will see you have them when you need them. P’murr, bring the herders to the Great Hall in one hour. I will have arms for them. And ammunition.” One by one she named the leaders of the men, those left at the Kuysstead after Pirs’ winnowing, setting a time for each to bring his men to the Hall. “We must go on,” she finished. “Shearing waits for no man’s war to end, planting has its seasons.” She signaled the drummer, turned, and went inside to the rattle of his sticks.