Sing us a sad song, Shadow, they called to her, make us weep, Shadow, sing of thwarted lovers and heroes dying young, sing us a sad song, Shadow, oh Shadow.

  Nineday. Market day. Farmers and ranchers in from the grasslands to the north, flying in with produce to supplement the kitchen gardens, red meat and fowl; fishermen with loads of fish, foresters in with herbs and tonics and flasks of fancy liqueurs, loads of fine woods, new flowers and plants. Shadith is mobbed, they won’t let her stop singing, won’t let her sing anything but the Shayalin patterns, mobs of listeners filling the k’shun and overflowing into the talishi.

  Sing us a mad song, Shadow, Shadow, sing a nonsense to make us laugh, sing us silly, oh Shadow, oh Shadow.

  A miner came in from the forest with a pack full of amber. Tjepa confided to Shadith that he’d cached ten times what he brought in to spend with smugglers after he’d fixed up his family and sated Pajungg greed. Everyone knew about it, no one said anything.

  Sing us of triumph, oh Shadow, oh Shadow, sing to us songs of silk and sweet ease, sing of our dreams, oh Shadow, wise Shadow, sing us of triumph, oh Shadow, our Shadow.

  An emissary came from the doawai, a minor hiepler in the cathedral hierarchy accompanied by a decat of enforcers. He pushed through the listeners and stopped in front of her. “Singer,” he said, “this is korbeday. On sukanday you will sing for doawai.”

  “Fine,” she said. “On sukanday I sing in Sebela k’shun. Harm’s tavern edges it. If your doawai wants to sit and see, he can rent one of Harin’s balconies.”

  “No, no,” the hiepler said hastily, “you will sing in the cathedral.”

  “No, no,” she said, “I most certainly will not.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t like walls. The doawai wants to hear me, he comes outside.”

  “The doawai doesn’t come to people, they come to him.”

  “Too bad. He must miss a lot that way. He’s going to miss hearing me sing.”

  “It’s an honor to be summoned.”

  “It’s an honor I’ll live without.”

  “You refuse?”

  “Good, it’s finally sunk in.” She ran her hand across the harpstrings, the sweep of sound a period to the discussion. “Now go away and let me sing to these good folk.”

  He looked around him, saw the numbers, felt the hostility there. With a jerk of his head in a parody of a polite bow, he stalked off, pointedly ignoring the crowd that parted before him and the silent enforcers stumping along behind him.

  Sing us a song, oh Shadow, sing us a dream of owning our world, sing us, oh sing us of freedom, oh Shadow, of living the lives that we want to have, sing us, oh sing us out of our apathy, sing us, oh sing us out of our fear.

  It was the excuse she needed, almost the excuse, anyway. The next time the hiepler came, Perolat warned her, he’d bring a summons to a hearing before a heresy judge and the offer to avoid it by coming with him then. But he wouldn’t arrest her; that would come later when she didn’t show up for the hearing. If she fled Keama Dusta, well, wasn’t that what everyone did? If she ran into the outback and did her singing in forest and grassland villages, who could say it was all a plot? From the bits and pieces she’d picked up, she knew the area where the Ajin was most active; if she voiced her resentment and her fondness for the world, if she sang provocative songs and moved on before the Authority could land on her, chances were she’d be recruited by the Ajin’s men. He might even order her brought to him directly. She grinned into the darkness. Why not? What a propaganda artist I’d make. She slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb Linfyar, and padded into the other room, thumbed on the light, found the book she’d been reading and settled down to wait the coming of the dawn. For one accustomed to four or five hours of sleep, these sixteen-hour nights were a penance to be suffered far from gladly. She curled up in a chair, opened the book and lost herself in the extravagant fantasy, amused by the way the writer toyed with treason in the guise of literature; the book had the church’s imprimatur—probably a lazy or stupid censor passed it for publication, someone whose mind was on other things. Or maybe he was a sympathizer; odder things had happened. She relaxed and let the words carry her along. Four hours till dawn. No more thinking, just go with the flow.

  Early morning in the smugglers’ market.

  A k’shun larger than most, within the miners’ quarter where enforcers never came and even spies were rare. Pember k’shun, deep in a maze of crooked talishi. You had to know

  where it was before you could find it. If a church spy dared show up there—they were ail known, even the youngest miner child knew faces and names—groups of men and women and children began nudging and shoving him toward the edge of the k’shun, working him away from the tables, never acting directly against him, all done with the blandest innocence—but he was out of the market within minutes of his arrival, and if he was too persistent at trying to get back in, he was gently clipped on the head and removed, waking up later in some other part of the city, usually drenched with one of the more odorous liqueurs.

  Leaving Linfyar to running about with Tjepa and his friends, Shadith wandered among the tables, astonished by the amount and variety of the offerings, most of them forbidden by the church. She wasn’t much worried about Linfy getting into trouble; like most young animals, Tjepa was a trifle wild and could be thoughtless, but he knew from much painful experience that anything too bad he did would be reported with copious incriminating detail to his mother. Minor irritations the Avosingers would let slide, but there was a line he knew better than to cross. It was a fuzzy, ill-defined line, and sometimes he misjudged it—to his sorrow and sore behind. He came to their morning practice session a few days ago, fidgeted a bit and wouldn’t sit down, then rushed out an explanation; seems he’d tied two jinkas’ tails together and dropped them in old Kaus’s chicken coop—an unrepentant grin, you should have seen the feathers fly and the noise was loud enough to wake a wino after a wet night—but the jinkas were Dihann’s pets and she didn’t think the joke was funny at all and old Kaus was foaming at the mouth. “Mam, she tore up my behind and I got to work a nineday doing whatever old Kaus tells me. And go comb the jinkas’ fur and take care of them for Dihann.” He sighed. “All day. Except Mam says I can still come for my lessons. If you don’t mind.” His friends were much like him, three miners’ sons and a lone wild girl who was all legs and hair and audacity, a version of what Perolat must have been at that age. She almost envied that girl’s freedom; her own childhood had been strictly disciplined, little play allowed, no one to play with; her sisters were almost adults by the time she hatched.

  She wandered among the tables, bought some books and a sack to carry them in, thought about a silver filigree headband set with moonstones, but it was too fragile to last through the turbulent times ahead. Enjoying the bustle and color, she worked her way to the section where the bolts of silk and avrishum, brocades and broideries were, loving the sheen and shimmer of them. She rounded a high pile and stopped, her mouth dropping open. I don’t believe it. Arel and his pet killer Joran. Vannik must be guarding the ship.

  She strolled by the table, suppressing a smile. Here and there among the offerings she spotted a bit of the old Queen’s jewelry. She looked at the delicate gauzes and rolls of brocade, sneaked another look at Arel. His bony sardonic face was much the same in spite of the years that had passed since he left Aleytys on Maeve. I’ll have to tell her I saw him. He’s looking prosperous. Not really so strange he’s here—this is smugglers’ heaven. Wonder what he’d think of her now. She’s changed from that naive mountain girl he bedded so sweetly those days. Shadith felt a heat growing in her and quickly shifted her thoughts. Joran hadn’t changed much either. Those cat ears still twitched all the time, some streaks of gray in the black hair, no lessening in the aura of deadliness that clung to him. Funny to think she knew so much about them and they wouldn’t have a clue about her. She sighed. They’ll be gone in a day or two. Maybe after this job is done I can hunt him up and say hello. Be interesting if … Hah! Shadow, get your mind on your business. Grey comes first.

  She ambled on, picking up more about the Ajin in snatches of conversation about her … a jaktar robbed of revenues from the church casinos in Windsweep and Sapulake … a flier vanished over the forest somewhere north of the Ular River … a customs boat sunk in Moster Bay … enforcers dropping on Kotican just two hours after the Ajin cleared out … a truck convoy of enforcers and their gear vanishing between two checkpoints …. Every day I linger here, she thought, that’s another day of torment for Grey. But if I rush around like a fool, what good does that do anyone? I need my cover, my excuse to get the hell out. She glared up at the administration towers. Come on, you, I’ve defied you, do something! Come at me. Give me an excuse to cut out of here. I have to go slow, I have to be covered all the way, I have to keep out of Kell’s trap, or all this is wasted. Grey’s wasted, I’m wasted, do I have to kick you in the gut? Do something ….

  Shadith’s second nineday. She has just finished a performance, is getting ready to join the celebration of the Amun-Bar. The hiepler pushes through the stirring crowd around her, stops in front of her, reads from a paper that she is required to present herself in the court of the Impor Melangg to defend herself against charges of heresy and suspect activity; if she agrees to come with him and perform in the cathedral while she listens to the wise and benign teachings of the doawai, the hearing will not be necessary.

  “I have said to you I will not come behind walls.”

  “If you refuse again, your chattels are subject to confiscation. That instrument”—pointing at the harp—“your pet, the singing beast”—pointing at Linfyar—“everything you own.” The hiepler stared at her, face set, eyes hostile. “Perhaps we should take them now.” He lifted his hand.

  “No.” She leaped to her feet, thrust Linfyar behind her. “You will not.”

  Before the hiepler could react, the crowd started pressing in on him and his escort, a low angry growl coming from a thousand throats, a thousand pairs of cold angry eyes fixed on him and his entourage.

  He knew Dusters well enough to understand what was not said, so he contented himself with the pronouncement that the church considered all minor children without adult relatives, Pajungg or not, as wards of the state, under its authority and protection. Then he swung around and stalked off, his escort scrambling after him, losing a good portion of their dignity in the speed with which they departed.

  Shadith grinned and dropped back down, began a comic song she’d translated into Avosinger Pajunggeesh, the tale of an extraordinarily maladroit but lucky spaceman. With Linfyar whistling and clapping in accompaniment, she sang the Saga of Jigalong Jon until well into the Amun-Bar, the miners and their friends clapping and shouting out the refrain while she caught her breath and got ready for the next verse.

  That night, after supper, she took Perolat aside. “Whatever you all do about this,” she said, “don’t do it for me but for yourselves. I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but I just as much don’t want that kind of responsibility on my head.” To herself she thought, All those years of living in Lee’s head, some of her fussing has rubbed off on me. She tried to mock herself into her usual easy glide through life, but she couldn’t manage the trick anymore. “Don’t push too hard, you miners, you’ll drive the church into crushing you. I’ve seen it happen before. I won’t be even a proximate cause of such a disaster.’’

  Smiling, Perolat drew the tips of long fingers across Shadith’s brow. “Such a serious child. We keep our freedom day by day, act by act. If we don’t exert ourselves now and then, we certainly will be swallowed up. We don’t allow our friends or our own to be harassed within the bebamp’n. Outside, you’re fair game to the predators. Remember that.”

  “I will. If I leave, you’ll know I’ve gone freely and will take the consequences.”

  “May they be small and light. The blessing of Po’ Annutj on you and your reason for coming here.”

  “Pero …”

  “No, no, what we don’t know, we can’t spoil. You mean us no harm, that’s good enough.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  Perolat laughed. “Come back sometime when you’re not tied into fancy games.”

  Shadith watched her go back into the kitchen, shook her head. “Loudmouth Forest,” she muttered to herself, and started walking back to her cabin. Another day of singing to satisfy pride and make the Pajunggs think I’m going to hang around defying them. Tomorrow night, late, steal a flitter from the Flying Man and hit for the back country. Have to leave the flitter’s price with Perolat; don’t mess your nest, she says. Umm, better leave most of the take with her, she’ll keep it safe until I can pick it up, god knows what thieves they’ve got out there. Damn you, Kell, I hope Aleytys takes your skin off an inch at a time. This is a good place; why’d you have to ruin it? Tjepa, you crazy little jinka, I’m going to miss our sessions. You’ve got a gift, don’t waste it, make your mam find you another teacher. This is going to get tricky. Wonder where I should head. Kotican? Don’t think so, spies there, called the enforcers when the Ajin showed up. Still, he did show up. Cabin’s dark. Linfy must be asleep already. Maybe Windsweep. Nice name. Hey you out there, you in the forest, give me a clue, huh? Chuckling, she palmed open the door.

  Dull crunch … exploding pain … nothing ….

  Shiburr On Gynnor

  Vrithian

  WITNESS [1]

  A MISTRESS IN SHIBURR

  My name is Xanca. I am not young. I am not pretty. I have found being neither pretty nor ugly something of an advantage. Rich men marry beautiful women to show the world their virility and their power, then they fill houses in back streets with women like me. I work hard to learn my patron’s needs and satisfy them. Half the time he doesn’t know himself what he wants. How stupid these powerful men can be. Yes, I have great contempt for all my patrons. How …oh, you can tell from the tone of my voice. Most days I am more careful how I speak. It’s the puatar, I usually don’t indulge when I have company, it makes me careless. Your company too, and the funeral. Yes, my last longtime patron died. With what he left me and with what I’ve saved the past years, I am finally free. Like the undying. I have seen how their women walk, arrogant as any man, not even their own men ruling them. I want to walk like that. Me. Xanca. Well, I won’t, I’m not foolish. Free to be myself but not that free.

  The undying. They rub the gloss off everything. One thing I noticed, whatever my patron said, whatever he did not say, the undying were always in his mind, the demon mistress in that dome up there on the mountain. He boasted to me of his wife. The most beautiful woman in Chiudu, a frail creature with the prized fire in her hair. A most unpleasant woman if I believed what he said about her, and I did. Some of it. Pour me another drink from that bottle; being honest like this is cold, like I was stripping myself bare in an ice-wind. Where was I, oh yes. I believed some of it, though not like he wanted me to. I believed his tales because in her place I would have done much the same. There. You see? Isn’t that honest? Cold, greedy and arrogant. I used to dream of being her after I had to spend a long time with him being soft and submissive, using every trick I knew to make his flabby member hard, cooing at him, lending a soft accepting ear to his whining. She was supposed to have demon blood in her. Now and then the undying have taken women from Chiudu, but I’ve never heard there was issue from any of those couplings. None of the women came back with child, the few that did come back. Still, the brightheads are rare enough among us to raise the possibility and they’ve played that card to lift themselves high, oh yes.

  He had another mistress, the one he showed off when he was with the other big men in the city. A beautiful child, fourteen at most. He showed me her photo. They envied him, those hungry greedy friends of his, that was the point of his having her. She is truly quite lovely, being kept by one of his closest friends now. He told me she was like a beautiful beast, soft of skin, very alive, filled with an energy that exhausted him almost beyond bearing. Except that she was always at him to buy her things, he said he wouldn’t know she could speak, hadn’t an idea in her head. Animal. That’s what he thought of her. I tell you he knew nothing. He understood nothing. Not me. Not himself. He would change nothing in his life even though the way things were made him ill. Killed him too, I suppose. He bragged to me once how he and his friends had sniffed out and secretly executed every member of a plot to sneak up the mountain and attack the demon mistress there, drive her and her kind from Shiburr. He feared the undying, but that was not the reason he was so adamant against the plotters. He feared more losing his place, his wealth, his position, in the shaking out if the demon fell. If he could, he would not drive the demon from the mountain. If he could. Hah!

  You say if I know all these things, if I despise my patrons so much, why do I submit? I survive, my friend. I live as I must. If you seek to lay blame on me for the way I live, if you seek to shame me for growing comfortable with the humiliations I have endured, then I say to you that you are no different. If the demon on the hill says to you lick the dust off her feet, you will fall on your belly and lick.