Shadowkill

##

Miji pattered along an offshoot of the main corridor. There were cells on both sides. In a cubicle in the middle of that cellrank, a man.

Miji’s startle response alerted Rohant to the presence of the man; the speed with which curiosity replaced wariness suggested he posed no threat.

Miji pattered into the cubicle and began nosing at the man, poking and tugging at him with his agile, six-fingered hands, gaining confidence every moment as the man showed no response.

In his cell Rohant was sweating with the effort to stay calm. He could feel what Miji’s fingers felt, he got the textures of the cloth and the skin, the prickle of the fine hairs, the looseness of the muscle under the skin. He knew when Miji had worked his way up the man’s body to his arm.

There was something under the sleeve. A sheath. Leather, probably-because Miji nibbled at it. A metal rod in the sheath. Short, about the length of Rohant’s thumb, but thinner. It could be a stunrod. Rohant squeezed down his surge of excitement; it was disturbing Miji who backed off and was about to scuttle away.

Sweating, his face twisted with concentration, he coaxed the sakali back to the arm, got him to pop the snaps, take the rod from the sheath, and bring it away.

Again and again he had to convince Miji to bring him the rod; he caressed and cajoled the little sakali, kept him trotting along on his hind legs, the rod clutched to his chest.

After what seemed an eternity, Miji was crouching outside the grill, his bright black eyes sparkling with satisfaction.

Rohant knelt by the grill, reached between the bars and brought him into the cell, palming the rod at the same time, getting it into the front of his prison shirt. He sat with the sakali on his knee, scratching gently about the frill with the tip of his foreclaw. Miji closed his eyes and went limp, his tongue hanging out; he trilled with pleasure, a tiny bubbling whistle that was pure joy.