Shadowkill

1

Jacket hung round her shoulders like a cape, Autumn. Rose sat on a lichen-crusted bitt and watched the surging bay water as the sun set gaudily behind, her, turning the clouds into salmon chunks and touching the foam tips on the waves with a fugitive vermilion. There was a narrow alley past her left shoulder, a strip of weedy ground between two blocky warehouses, beyond that the street and across the street the Rumach where she was staying.

On the next wharf over a handful of ladesmen and night-watchers were sitting with their backs against a brick incinerator, chugging down dalbir from two-handled stoneware jugs and eating meatrolls they’d heated on wire skewers spread over the sluggish fire burning inside the brick enclosure. Even this far off with the wind blowing in off the sea, whipping her hair about her face, she could smell the grease and the gahwang.

Maybe she only imagined the gahwang. Everything she’d eaten during the last two weeks had been laced with the herb. Probably her own sweat stunk of it. She lifted an arm, sniffed at the inside crease of her elbow, straightened up, and smiled at the memory this evoked.

On the first morning Kikun slid out of bed, stretched and padded over to the basin; he opened the cold tap wide, cupped his hands to catch the stream of water, splashed his face and delicate leafform ears.

The light streaming through the window beside the basin turned them into jade, pale green and translucent. He soaped a washcloth, washed with care all the folds of skin on his face and body, then round his sheath and testicles. He extruded his bone-white penis, washed that with the same care, let it slip neatly back and lifted his foot onto the basin’s edge and began to wash it.

When he’d finished soaping himself, he rinsed out the cloth and went over his body again with the same meticulous thoroughness, cleaning away every trace of soap. Autumn Rose lay with her fingers laced behind her head, watching all this with bemused amusement.

He padded to one of the chairs, shook out his trousers and tunic and pulled them on, then slipped his feet into his sandals and turned to look at Rose, a challenge in his shining orange eyes, or so she read what she saw there, but all he said was: “Don’t forget to get a key made.”

She frowned. “It’s going to be a problem, isn’t it. You go out, I forget about you, so I forget everything to do with you. How do I remember the key thing? Or anything else I’m supposed to do for you?”

“Yes.” He scratched the folds beneath his chin. “I’ve been thinking about this.” He crossed to the bed, rested his fingertips on her wrist. “May I?”

For an instant she hesitated, but curiosity and need were more powerful than her faint revulsion. “Whatever. Unless you start biting off chunks of me.”

He grinned, then bent and nuzzled the inside of her elbow, rubbing his nostrils against her, moving back and forth, back and forth, his skin soft as old leather, warm…

She kicked her heels against the bitt. It sent shivers of heat along her body when he did that. You’ll remember now, he said, then went quickly to the door and was out and gone before she’d recovered enough to answer him. He was right-oh, yes. She wriggled on the smooth worn top of the bit. Every morning after that, he did the same and left. She understood what he was doing after she’d thought about it. He must have scent glands at the base of his nostrils. He was marking her. She couldn’t actually smell anything, but she certainly didn’t forget him again.

She rubbed her thumb across the place where he nuzzled her and wondered if there were pheromones in the exudate; she was getting so hot it was a wonder she didn’t burn his nose… long, hectic time since she’d laid down in lust… She licked her thumb, grinned, mocking herself. That was her grandda talking through her, she wouldn’t exist if he hadn’t done a lot of laying about in lust himself, engendering her mama in his scattershot sowing, but he was a hypocrite without peer… She giggled again. Well, in the end he was mostly peering, if what mama said was right. Hypocrite about women, yes, the few times he’d actually beaten her were when he’d heard her cursing one or another of the Chateau boys. Tied up my tongue… when it comes to sex, anyway. Digby would say he didn’t do much for my working vocab.

The wind was getting stronger and most of the color had died out of the clouds. A raindrop splattered in her hair. She swore, hugged her arms across her breasts. Where the hell is that little worm…? She freed one arm, brought her hand close to her eyes so she could see the ringchron. Supposed to be here a good twenty minutes ago. If I have to winkle him out of some hole, I’ll twist that rat into his boots, there won’t be a grease spot left.

There weren’t any ships right where she was sitting, through there were a number on both sides of her, sailing ships, the wind and the swell making them rock and rub against the fenders, their wood sides creaking, their ropes slap-slatting with monotonous regularity. The men down by the incinerator had stopped talking. They were watching her. She pushed her arms into the jacket sleeves, pulled it closer around her. It was getting cold. And dangerous. Vaarlords didn’t waste good money on useless lights. They had guards and torchmen if they wanted to go out after dark. Five minutes, worm…

Bungkuk slid out of the alley and squatted in the shadows on the side of the bitt away from the incinerator. “Fife pera,” he muttered. “I am haffing got all you are asking.”

“Nothing till I hear. Then we’ll see.”

He fished in his vest, brought out a packet wrapped in leaves. With finicking small gestures he peeled back the outer layer of leaves and bit of a section of the plug inside. Kunja root. Chewing busily, a strong musky, oversweet odor rising from him, he refolded the leaves and put the packet away. He dropped his arms onto his knees and contemplated the heavy, heaving water. After a moment he spat, wiped his mouth. “You are giffing me fife names, ia? So. Syous Uppato. He is being hilang-iceer. You are understanding hilang?”

“Gone, vanished.”

“More than that, estralluar. It is meaning put down a hole. Not something he was doing hisself. Vaarmanta are getting ’im, is being what they say.” He chewed some more, spat.

“There’s a hole where he was,” Kikun said when he came in the second day, Syous Uppato, he meant. “I looked around his place,” he said, “and did some listening. There’s a couple thugs sitting there waiting to jump anyone who’s fool enough to ask questions. Uppato had his name on his door. Someone painted over the name and cleaned the place out. Not a smell of him left.”

“Ia,” she said. “And?”

“Ghia Granzadoman is being a tjispoht… what you would be calling a dirty sneak who is sticking his nose here and there and selling what he snoff in. Got it? Ia, sure. Y’ are not wishing to deal with ’im. Not if you are wanting to keep y’ bizness prifaat.”

“Why’s he alive, then, not vanished like Syous?”

“Better the tjispoht you know, is so? B’sides he is working for the Beza Preszao, what y’ are calling Bigman Policer. He is specializing most in tax ’n tariff.” He shrugged and spat. “Maybe one day he is going down a hole hisself, screw old Beza, ’cause Gratz the Tjis is liking to squeeze anabody gif ’im the chance, for the fun a it.” He set his fists together and turned them in opposite directions while he chattered his teeth.

On the sixth day, Kikun said: “I followed Granzadoman the past three days; he runs errands sometimes, but mostly just hangs about. I saw him meet people, get money from them, decided I should see what I could see about them, trailed more than one of them back to the Troc Istana, that’s the High Vaar’s little shack. Looks to me like he’s an informer.”

“I’ll pay for those two,” she said, “go on.”

Bungkuk excavated the wad from his mouth, pitched it into the water, wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Hary Prechar is doing drugs. Y’ name it, he is going to be hafing it. I am not knowing what you are needing from this lot, but Hary is being no good for anathing but pops. It is being a very bad idea to hit ’im for cash, is being even worse to get names or like that. He is having so many blocks, is taking him half hour to be getting into his own head. He is letting effabody know this, he is not liking pain, is so.”

On the ninth day Kikun came dragging in. When she asked him what he’d got, he shook his head. “Was looking into Prechar,” he said. “Can’t get close to him, not even me. He’s busy, all right, got people going in his place all hours, in and out, never staying long. He’s paying off the local Vaarmanta, got the city guards keeping order, shooing people on if they hang about too long.” Kikun shuddered. “What I saw of him, he’s crazy. Smells like he’s going to implode any minute. Just as well we keep as far away from that one as from Granzadoman. And there’s this, if I make too much of a point of my being in a place, the thing doesn’t work, Rose, so I can’t fool around there without getting pinned. Be easier to get at the High Vaar.” He sighed, flung himself onto the windowseat. “What about you, Rose, you come up with anything?”

She rolled over, pushed up on her elbow. “I found a skambler, a hustler,” she said, “a mangy little dried-up mouse who knows things, name of Bungkuk. We had a conversation in the park where I met those Angatines and the blind one laid the curse on me. They weren’t there, thank whatever. He’s going to meet me round sundown, the wharf across the street from here.”

“You be careful, Rose.”

She grinned lazily at him. “It’s not like I haven’t done this before, Kuna. I’ll have a stunner in my pocket and eyes in my backhair.”

“Right,” she said. “That’s three. I’ll buy it. Go on.”

“Sai Jinksay. He is knowing effabody, is doing a bit of effathing. Is having no high contact, but if you are wanting to put together a small deal not too complicated, is the man you are wanting to see. Or if you maybe are wanting to find someone, he can do that.”

“Downside?” She pushed her hands into her jacket pockets, shivered as another stray raindrop splattered across her face. “Tjis?”

“No. He is not selling it. He is getting his throat cut if he is selling it, but Beza Preszao is having him picked up effa so offen and is squeezing him dry. The squeeze is being due any day now, it is being only to wait a week or so if you are wanting to use him.”

“Hmm. Right. Go on.”

“Jao juhFeyn. Huh. He is being different from the others. He is being offworlder, but he is being connect, you knowing what I mean. Is being married to High Varmantianne. Mostly he is being taffernaman. The Kipuny Shimmery is being his place. Where people are coming for meeting without guards ofer effa shoulder. Or where they are coming for playing Ffagnag without taxman or tjis are sniffing about their winnings and losings. Jao is knowing more things and more people than Jinksay, but efen High Faar is not putting squeeze on him. Is being too useful for wasting. He don’t be talking, he don’t be bothering anabody, they don’t be bothering him.” He snapped his fingers at her, the sharp, breaking sounds almost lost in the whine of the wind. “Is being payday, estralluar.”

She sat hunched over, the cold beginning to strike to the bone. A lot of what he’d told her she’d already found out for herself, either her or Kikun, but there was enough new there to justify the price, plus the fact she was fertilizing a source. Besides, it, wasn’t her money she was spending, not coming from an expense account she’d have to fight Digby on, blood out of a stone any old day. “Right,” she said finally. “Worth five.” She took her right hand from her pocket, dropped the pouch into his twitching fingers.

As he counted and felt each coin, she could almost smell him speculating about her possible vulnerability and how much cash she might be carrying and she knew the moment he decided it was better to go with what he had.

“Be you wanting more,” he muttered, “you are knowing how to find me. The sounds of his movements covered by the wind, he went scurrying off.

She ran her hands through her hair, it felt stiff and wet, beaded with sweat and condensation from the chilling air. Best have a bath tonight, she thought, wash the mop. Or I’ll be scratching everywhere. Hmm. Wonder if I’ve got pale roots showing. Better fix that.

She glanced down the wharf. The men at the incinerator were still watching her. She got to her feet, shook her hands and arms, then went strolling off, her senses alert, her hand on the stunner in the pocket of her jacket. It was only a step to the rooming house, but one of the first things Digby had ground into her was closest to your base is your biggest danger.

In the narrow way between the warehouses, the wind mugged her as she walked, snatching at her, blowing gravel against her hard enough to bruise her even through the heavy cloth of her trousers.

There was a cluster of sounds behind her. A scrape. Another. Several small crackles.

She didn’t bother looking back, just moved as quickly as she could without actually running.

The street was dark and empty and getting damp as the rain started falling steadily; there were a few lights from windows in her Rumach’s facade and from other Rumachs along the street, pale amber squares with dark lines of bars crossing them, not much illumination on a night without moon or stars. She slowed once she was out of the alley, strolled across the street. The short hairs on the back of her neck were standing up and itching like crazy. In her right-hand pocket, she slid back the sensor cover on the stunner, felt the handle vibrate minutely against her palm. In her lefthand pocket, she separated out the front door key and held it ready.

When she was about to step from the street onto the short wooden walkway leading to the stairs and the front door, she heard another a flurry of scuffs. Coming on his toes, the oof’narc…

She whipped round, triggered the stunner and dropped him, a heavy dark figure, a blob in the slanting rain, bulky, without grace in his standing or falling. Then she was back around, sprinting up the walk, thrusting the key into the lock.