Shadowkill

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As Uri and Gintji retreated among their friends, Kizra kept on playing, sliding into another tune that seemed to drip from her hands, a strongly accented upbeat thing that had the women clapping and stamping before she’d played a dozen phrases.

Matja Allina let the play go on for about five more minutes, then she nodded to Aghilo, got to her feet and went out, leaving a buzz of talk behind.

Kizra felt the women’s eyes on her as she went out, sensed speculation and some resentment, with a few spikes of outright dislike. Favor, she thought, they don’t like a newcomer landing such a cushy job. They liked my music well enough. Not me. No, not me. She bit on her lip, tried to tell herself bunch of backwater provincials, don’t mean a hiccup to me. I’m out of here first chance I get…

Weavers, embroiderers and fancyworkers, clerks, mechanics, turners and joiners, leatherworkers, herbalists, blenders, oil pressers and gardeners, field workers, millers (in the watermill on the riverside, the air white with flour and gritty with bran), herders in from the field, beast tenders in the home paddocks, the sick and wounded in the infirmary, pregnant women, prisoners serving out drunk-time, or recovering from the lash given for assault and other offenses, they visited them all, Matja Allina had a word with one or two, then Kizra played and learned songs while Matja Allina rested, drank more broth.

Allina rested, but she never stopped; weariness grayed over her emotions, but she didn’t show any of that; she listened, smiled, saw everything and moved on.