Shadowplay

CELL 14

"They're turning against us…"

"No, that's not it, the Pakoseo helped us in the beginning, now it's hurting. The Maka have no time for us, no thought for us, they're getting ready to walk away. Tanak, they're worse. We're losing our base."

"No, that's not it, it's the Three, Ayawit's got his claws in them somehow, I've heard…"

"And I've heard, and I've heard and I've heard, I'm tired of hearing.."

"Whose fault is that? If you DID something…"

"Do what? Makh Hen's agents are like fleas, they everywhere and you don't know when they're going to light or who on…" The acrimonious exchanges went on and on in the basement somewhere in the Maka Quarter where the Five were meeting, waiting for a sixth to arrive-the Council of the Five, all of them with prices on their heads, the men who provided whatever organization and leadership the chaotic rebellion possessed, the reality where Kiscomaskin was the shining symbol, the grounding under his feet.

Kiscomaskin came in quietly, no fanfare, no kaboom-here-lam-look-at-me, but the carping died immediately and the Five turned to face him. He waved his bodyguards out the door, pulled it shut and dropped into a chair. "Tell me."

A Maka with long red-brown hair plaited into half a dozen thin beaded braids, Nastrldmas leaned forward, elbows on knees, a frown on his lean, worn face. He was the leader of the Shawanalotah (windwalkers), the Action Triads of the Council of the Five, nightstalkers hitting inside the strongholds of the Pliciks and the Priests. There was a price of five thousand wiyas on his head.

"We've got access to the Kasta, right into the Maid] Hen's bedroom." He took a keypac from his shoulder pouch, dangled it from long, bony fingers. "With security blanked out where it counts."

Kiscomaskin tapped his fingers on his thigh. "And?"

"Miowee the streetsinger. You know her. She was picked up a few months ago, she got word to us while she was with that girl supposed to be Nilcamo-Oskinin, when she was practicing the Pakoseo Songs in the Kisa Misthakan. She got these out an hour ago." He rattled the keys. "Malch Hen made a big mistake; he thought he could control that girl by making Miowee a whipping churl. Instead, he going to lose the Three, that's the price for this." He swung the keypac again. ''We bringing them out tonight, long with Miowee and her daughter." He straightened, raised his thumb In defiance, grinning as the rest of the Five shook their thumbs with him. "And slit the Makh Hen's throat before he know what hit him."

The Tanak Mohecopah cleared his throat. He was a sturdy, sour-faced man, with broad hands and large feet, a hard, solid body, dark suspicious eyes and a straggle of brown hair kinking about a bald spot the size of a saucer. He was a total loss as an orator, but one-on-one he could sell a man his own skin and make a profit on it He was the one who maintained the web of support services in Aina'iril and throughout Wapaskwen, providing intelligence, housing; food, even coin. He had a prodigious memory and could usually produce people, tools, and supplies for whatever projects the Council of Five had working. The price on his head was fifteen thousand wiyas.

"I keep trying to tell you all," he said, his harsh voice strident with anger. "We can't kill the man. It would ruin everything. Hold him to ransom. Keep him as hostage so the kanaweh won't firebomb the Quarters. Otherwise, don't touch. We kill him, we trigger a massacre. What then? Who's going to listen to us when their families are dead? When they're all dead?"

"You!" The word was an explosion from the second Maka, Dencipim. He was a thin, intense man with gray-streaked black hair plaited into the Make braids, a bum scar along his jaw and a number of thin white knife scars on his face and neck, the backs of his hands. He led the strikes, the marches, the barricade fights in the streets of Aina'iril. His temper was notorious, it gave him a ferocious energy and drove him to acts of legendary daring. The price on his head was ten thousand wiyas. "You make me sick," he shouted. "I spit on that weasel talk. I spit on you."

The Kisar Lihtaksos hissed Impatiently. "The both of you, we've been through this and been through it. The decision was made, Mohecopah. Makwahkik is one of the few loyal and able men the Nistam has. Too able. He is more dangerous to us alive than dead. And dead he'll be when the Shawanalotah go in." He crossed his legs at the ankle, tented his hands, touching fingertip to fingertip in a characteristic pose-for what he called far too many years, he'd been a lecturer on Early History at the University, a colleague of Asteplikota. He was a fair, frail man, with fine lank gray-blond hair and faded blue eyes. That frailty was misleading; he had a tough incisive mind, a resilient body and an undentable will. He lived on the run, in cellars and rags, eating when he could, snatching sleep whenever he could find a safe hole, but he never lost his poise and his worn elegance. He was the mediator of quarrels among the Five, the least known to the people in the streets. Because he had difficulty with ordinary chit-chat and few close friends outside his work circle, he had no constituency. Among the Kisars, even including his family and clan, he was held to be both traitor and fool. The price on his head was the smallest, only a thousand wiyas.

The fifth sat silent, watching, the Kawa Wetaklsoh, a small, wiry man huddled in heavy, embroidered robes, the scalplock of the Kawas trained to fall past his left ear along with the totemdangles of his personal clan, small copper ovals hanging on copper chains, with the namska fish stamped into them.

Ex-smuggler, ex-trader, he was the Five's tle Into the disaffected Kawa clans, reaching men who were too cautious to declare themselves but were willing to provide services and supplies for the rebels; he understood and shared the prudence of his caste, kept his head down himself until the Nish'mok forced him into the open. The price on his head was five thousand wiyas.

He stirred as Lihtaksos finished speaking. "We're wasting time," he said. His voice was a deep soft basso, a gentle rumble that was as misleading as the scholar's frailty. "The Shawanalotah are waiting. Kiscomaskin Sa-Pe, have you anything to tell us?"

Kiscomaskin tapped his fingers on his thighs. He wasn't happy at having this pushed in his face, but he couldn't let it slide. He was hardly past puberty when he learned that the prime secret to being a leader was the ability to recognize a developing consensus and to articulate it before anyone else.

All the Five wanted Makwahkik dead, even Mohecopah, but what troubled him was troubling the others-and more than they were willing to admit. "I have a thought. Nashkimas, you've made copies of that pac?"

Nashkimas tossed the keypac into the air, caught it and dropped it into his shoulderpouch. "Of course. Make one, make ten, doesn't take all that long. Why?"

"Send in an additional Triad. Once you've taken out the Nish'mok, don't leave his body there, have them get it away while the rest go about their business. If they can, they should take it to the middle of the bay and drop it In, weighed down with enough scrap metal to keep It there till woridsend. Leave the kanaweh a mystery to investigate, not a death to avenge. While it might be satisfying to cut his throat, don't.

No. Get him some way that doesn't leave traces behind that you can't clean up. The strangler's cord. Yes. Yes. Yes! How appropriate, don't you think? Use his own tool against him." He sat back, smiling at the shouts of approval. "Right. Now, where you going to put the Three when you get them out?"

Ginbiryol set the Pet aside and began entering short notes into his mm pad. There were two strands developing below, two promising fates for that girl: the Fire at the Culmination and Kiscomaskin's assassination plot.

Ginbiryol was not sure which he wanted to come to fruition; he was also unsure whether he had any say in the matter. He preferred the burning. He wanted to see that girl writhing in the fire, the others did not matter that much, but she had earned the fire over and over by what she had done to him, to them all; she had made a mockery of them. He replayed the scene between the brothers and brooded over the exchange. He could not make up his mind whether he should call off Kiscomaskin or let the man try what Puk had so disastrously failed at; he had a strong feeling that the local would not manage it either. The girl by herself was bad enough, put her with that lizard man, they were hoodoos of major proportions.

He watched Cell 14 and brooded some more. He could call Kiscomaskin off. Probably he had better do that. Letting the girl get at the Kiskaid might be… no, would be disastrous. She knew too much. She talked too much. Even before she got him killed, she had wiped out Makwahkik's usefulness. If he lost Kiscomaskin as well… On the other hand, Kiscomaskin had a nose for smelling out weaknesses no matter how deeply they were hidden. Ordering him to keep off would send him digging at the girl as soon as he thought he'd dropped his watchers. No. The least intrusive way was the best. Let events play out. It did not really matter. Nothing the locals could do would change the end. He rubbed at his jaw and stole a look at Ajeri. She was reading one of her magazines, ignoring the cells. The girl had gotten to her long before this, she could not stand to look at her now. Well, Ajeri tiszteh, come the burning you will be right again. Come the burning…