2. Yaqshowaclass="underline" under siege
The land around the harbor at Yaqshowal was grass from horizon to horizon, grass dotted with herds of ruminants whose thick loose skin fell from their spines in folds that shifted with every step they took as they wandered about on their own, their herdmals dead or fled. Dark red glows marked the places where carcasses roasted in huge pits to feed the Pixa phelas which had gathered there to attack the city.
Big guns boomed continually. Those belonging to the phelas were mounted on massive wagons pulled by teams of lumbering red and white skazz; smaller wagons moved with them, piled with shells almost as large as the mals loading them into the guns.
Guns inside the city answered them, the shells rarely dangerous to the phelas though, as Shadith lingered in the clouds above the city, she saw one munitions pile go up and take a gun wagon with it.
The harbor was lit with strings of naked lightbulbs; the harsh shadows they cast seemed to breed swarms of Yaqshowans shouting and shoving, waving bags of coin as they tried to buy their way onto the few ships that were tied up there.
The radio station was deserted except for a single nervous mal who twitched at every loud noise, but kept a close eye on the spools as the wire snaked past the heads, sending out a mix of music, messages, and pleas for help.
He squealed as Shadith burst in, took a look at the rifle she held, and sat where he was, sweat popping out on his temples. In the recent past his crest must have been a bright orange and green, but the hair paint was flaking off, and now it simply looked diseased. His face was thin and pinched, with a network of tiny lines across it that deepened about his eyes and mouth.
The lines deepened even further when Shadith pushed back the hood of the robe and he saw her face.
“I have some songs I want you to record and play,” she said. With her free hand she dug into a belt pouch, pulled out half a dozen heavy silver coins and, one at a time, tossed them at, his feet, the metallic chinks as they landed loud in the small room.
“Ah. I think I know which you mean. A sailor I met had a song wire that got rather a lot of attention.” He glanced at the coins, his mouth curving in a tight, sardonic smile. “Happy to do business with you, kazi.”
3. Iciseclass="underline" 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.”
4. Dreaming Gajul
Gajul lay beside a broad river flowing into a bay shaped like a leaf with three pointed lobes-a bay so big it was almost an inland sea. Shadith circled through scattered high clouds, using her binocs to examine the city that sprawled below her, its streets serpentines of glowing polychrome against a velvet black ground and in those streets a richly gaudy throng of wanderers that never seemed to stay anywhere for more than a breath.
The Nightplayers of Gajul had a lighter, more whimsical touch than those of Icisel; there were fewer refugees, and most of those were housed in a tent city on the far side of the river where groves of maka and thile trees hid them and the Brothers of God who cared for them from the dreaming gaze of the Gajullery.
She scanned and swore at what she saw. The streets and pocket parks around the radio tower were the busiest in the whole city. The tower itself was twice as tall as the one in Linojin. It was a mass of metal rising from four elegantly curved legs, with the station itself laid like a square egg between those legs. There was no way she could slip in as she had in Icisel, not without announcing to a few hundred Nightplayers and prowling street guards that something odd was happening.
With a sigh of frustration she left the city and followed the river until she found a thile brake nestled in a wide sweeping bend; it was deserted except for birds and a scatter of small beasts.
She made camp, fixed a quick supper, and rolled up in blankets to catch some sleep before she tried again.
About three hours after midnight, she was over the city again. Gajul was quieter around the edges, but in the center where the station was, some street musicians had set up in a small park and were playing for Gajullery who’d taken a notion to dance under the stars, at least what stars were visible. It was a lovely summer night, just cool enough to be pleasant, a wandering breeze to lift and flutter ribbons and set heart-shaped maka leaves to shivering, and the dance showed every sign of lasting till dawn. The streets themselves had gained another group, no hairpaint on mal, fern, or anya, sober clothing in dark colors with long sleeves-visitors from the farms and the lesser merchants out for a night on the town. Brothers of God moved through the mix, white motes in Brownian motion.