The Burning Ground

3. Icisel: nervous and crowded

Icisel was lit so brightly it was like day on the streets, the glare from the bulbs reaching far out into the deep placid harbor, turning the ships that thronged there into patterns of black and white. Refugees from coastal villages and from Yaqshowal were blotches of black in whatever shelter they could find, one standing watch against thieves, the rest trying to snatch a few hours of sleep before the city guard came by and moved them on.

The Nightplayers among the Iciselli walked around and over those unwelcome visitors, ignoring them with the notorious Ciselle arrogance, the same arrogance with which they ignored the war itself. Fantastically painted and decorated-what they wore looking more like sculpture than clothing-adorned with sound as well as shape and color, music trickling from song wires winding through their hair, the Nightplayers swarmed from playhouse to casino to dancehall, doing the eternal night-round. The Impix triad were all there-anya, mal, and fem-sometimes firm in the tribond, sometimes changing partners with the fluidity and fickleness of raindrops sliding down windowglass.

Shadith circled through the patchy clouds above the city, searching for a way to reach the radio station without being spotted.

The roof of the station was steeply slanted, the ridgepole a jumble of spiky metal objects whose purpose escaped her though they very effectively barred her from landing there.

She. circled a last time, swore under her breath, then turned the skip toward the hideaway she’d found for herself inside a grove of thile trees growing beside the river that emptied into Cisel Harbor.

An hour before dawn the city was quieter, though not much darker. The nightround was over and only thieves and sleepers were still in the streets.

She came in low, skimming the roofs until she reached the station, then she brought the skip down and landed in an alley beside it. A quick probe told her there were only two people inside at the moment; Digby’s reader found no alarm system, so she picked the lock on the back door, fed a little power into the skip, and pushed it inside.

Shadith pulled the hood up to conceal her face and tried the latch. It moved under her hand and the door to the control room opened a crack. She listened, suppressed a grin, pulled the door wide, and went in. She stopped just inside and stood looking down at a mal and fem engaged in noisy and energetic sex.

The young mal howled his completion and collapsed on top of the fern. She pushed him off, glaring at Shadith. “Stinking Godmal, what you staring at?”

Without waiting for an answer, she hauled the mal to his feet. He stood leaning against her with glazed eyes and shaky knees. The fem smiled at him, patted a trim buttock. “You go have a nice warm shower, maldoll. When you get back, we’ll think of something new to pass the time.”

When the mal had vanished through the door, the fem raised her arms over her head and swiveled on her toes with a dancer’s grace, head thrown back, long dark hair brushing at her buttocks. “Like what you see, Brother? Want a turn in the saddle?”

Shadith chuckled. “Hardly.” She pushed the hood back. “My tastes run otherwhere.”

“Prophet’s piss, what t’hell are you?”

“A singer, kazi. With some songs to peddle.”

“Now would these be them going round on pirated songwires?”

“Why don’t you listen and see? You could do a few duplicates for yourself at the same time.”

“What d’ you want?”

“To have the songs broadcasted as frequently as possible, spread as widely as possible.”

“What’s in it for you?”

“My business, your profit. That’s all you need to know.”

“Maybe. If you are that singer.”

“The proof’s in the singing. You could always erase the wire.”

“True. Studio three’s set up. Let’s hear what you have to offer.”

The mal learned round the door. “Hajja…”

“Go keep it warm, hon. Be with you later. This is business.”