Shadowplay

Chapter 17. Aina'iril at last

It was a big room, filled with light, light from the ceiling strips, light pouring through the ceiling-to-floor windows at one end; it was meant to express the power and importance of the man behind the broad table-the Nish'mokkipsao Makwahkik, head of the Secret Police-and it did. The side opposite the windows broke open into a smallish alcove where the shadows not permitted in the main room almost but not quite obscured the art deco bulk of a skipcom. Shadith saw it seconds after she stepped through the door, touched Rohant's arm. He saw it, met her eyes, one brow raised.

"Why not," she murmured. "Room's mine, that's yours."

"When?"

They were being hustled closer to the table, Kikun quiet behind them, the cats left in the anteroom with Sassa. The Pihtatipli kept trying to push past them to get to the Nish'mok, but the quiet Aide kept a firm grip on his arm and held him in place by the door. The squad of guards spread into twin horns on either side; they looked alert enough, they had to, the Nish'mok was their ultimate boss, but they weren't really expecting the Three to act up or cause problems for them; Kikun, Rohant, and Shadith had carefully cultivated a mild bewilderment that engendered a cozy degree of carelessness in their escort.

"On three," she said. "One." She moved away from him, drawing a pace ahead of the guards, looking around, playing the child again with a childish eagerness that disarmed those guards and even the Nish'mok. Her smile widened into a grin as she saw that. "Two." She moved faster, reached the table several paces ahead of the rest. "Three." She sprang at the table, slapped her hands down, wheeled over it, landing a solid kick on the chest of the Nish'mok, knocking him back before he could reach the alarm sensors of any weapons if he had them there. She hit the carpet and came onto her feet with the darter in her hand, took out the one guard who reacted quickly enough to get his gun up, pressed the business end of the darter into the Nish'mok's nape as the swivel chair rebounded from the wall and he caught at the table to stop its gyrations. "Don't! move a hair or you're dead! Look at the guard and you'll see what I mean."

On the count of three, Rohant charged for the alcove, scattering guards like gamepins. By the time Shadith was making her speech, he was at the console, bringing the skipcom online.

When Shadith vaulted across the table, Kikun slipped to the door and had it open before anyone noticed him. He whistled softly; the cats came bounding in and trotted over to Rohant; they settled by the arch like totem beast-wards, huge and beautiful and deadly, speaking beyond the physical to ancient archetypes in the Kiskaid psyche, pulling the guard's eyes irresistibly to them, commanding the Pihtatipli's attention. Even the Aide lost his calm and stared. Still mostly unnoticed, Kikun relieved a guard of his sidearm and stationed himself at the door.

The action had taken less than a minute, going as smoothly as if they'd spent hours rehearsing it.

The Nish'mok sat quite still; he was more angry than afraid, but above all else, he was controlled. Shadith could feel him plotting; she didn't mind that, it would most likely keep him occupied long enough for the Ciocan to get the message out.

Rohant stepped to the arch. "Shadow, the corn's blocked, I think I can get through, but it'd be quicker if I had the access codes." He folded his arms, stood with his eyes fixed on the Nish'mok. "Want me to do some arm twisting?"

Shadith tapped the nose of the darter against the back of the Nish'mok's neck. "Tell the man, oinkoid. Won't mess up your arrangements, it's private business we're into."

He stared at the door, muscles knotting along his jaw. When he spoke, his voice was harsh, flat. "One of my kanaweh is dead."

"Too bad. He would've killed me if I let him. Look, let's get this over with. You think I don't know what you're doing? Keep your hands on the table, buuk. Longer you hold us here, the bigger the chance we trip over our own feet. Right? Never mind, I don't need an answer to that. And my leonine friend over there, be doesn't NEED the password, he can get round your blocks sooner'n you think. They won't be complicated, will they. Just something to keep the unauthorized offline. And not many of those reach this far, right? Ro, better get at it, you might even break through before I have to shoot someone. Uh-huh. You heard me, Primo Pig. Pig? Oh, merely something I picked up in my researches, ancient epithet. You get the gist, I'm sure. Another item for your consideration, the darts in this weapon don't have to hit anyplace special; they explode, but it's the poison that kills.

You saw how fast your kana died. It's painless, almost merciful you might say, certainly compared to your methods, what I've heard of them. Tell you what, I'll let you pick my next target. I'm going to shoot one after another until you give Ro the word. Which one's it going to be?"

The man sat rigidly silent. Abruptly, she saw it wasn't going to work. To answer her would be to diminish himself in front of witnesses and he wouldn't do it for a threat, she was going to have to dart someone… No, Shadow, be honest, KILL someone. Damn. There's no way I can justify… Stupid, stupid, stupid, painting myself into a corner like this. Well, keep on keeping on. If I have to back down, I back down. No point in anticipating the debacle, though. We'll see what we see. Maybe the bastard'll buy it.

"No preference? Well, looks like eeny. meeny miney mo and phut to you." She stepped back from the Nish'mok, keeping the darter steady on him while she let her gaze drift around the room, lingering briefly on one then another of the locals, her eyes as shallow and emotionless as those of the cats, pretending to herself as well as to the locals that she actually would shoot one of them if she had to.

Magimeez yawned, stretched out, over three meters of live black power; she left the arch and strolled among the guards, nosing at them, pawing at them claws out, growling deep in her throat; as she circled the room, the tension in the air thickened until it was almost unbearable.

There was a stir at the back, close to Kikun. The Aide came smoothly through the arc of guards, hands out and empty; he stopped a few paces from the table. "There's no point in this," he said. "Hunter."

"Nahwac." Ignoring or forgetting Shadith, the Nish'mok leaned tensely forward, his hands flattened on the table top. "No."

"Yes, Nish'mok. I repeat, there is no point in putting more lives at risk for so little. Hunter."

Rohant stepped into the arch. "What is it?"

Nahwac glanced nervously at Makwahkik, straightened his shoulders, his mind made up. "Silitipisim. That will open channels out."

"Thanks." He ducked back, got busy with the sensorpad.

The Aide looked past the Nish'mok. "Singer, you have • what you want, put the weapon away."

"When the Ciocan is finished, then, well, we'll talk about it."

In the alcove, Rohant had switched to Dyslaer and was talking rapidly to someone, apparently one of his family, Shadith could hear the satisfaction in his voice though she couldn't understand the words.

The Aide listened, frowning, confused, his calm eroding with every minute that ticked past. He'd tried to take on himself an action that the Nish'mok would not, could not entertain; it was his duty and his pleasure to facilitate for Mikwahkik, he'd done it so often and so well that his move was as close to automatic as a reasoned act could be, but now he was beginning to think he'd misread the situation. For all he knew, Rohant might be calling death onto Kiskai, or if not on Kiskai, on them-revenge for his kidnapping, his capture, or their previous attempts to kill him. Shadith didn't need her Talent to read his uneasiness, she could see it in the shift of his eyes, their flick flick flick from the arch to the Nish'mok and back as the incomprehensible conversation in the alcove continued.

The spitting growl of the Dyslaer stopped abruptly and the whine of the skipcom cut off. Rohant came to the arch. "That's…"

There was a crashing noise, a stink-an agony in her shoulder. Then nothing.