Woman's Work: Shikari Book Four Read online

  Woman’s Work

  Shikari Book Four

  Alma T.C. Boykin

  Copyright © 2019 by Alma T.C. Boykin

  Cover art by Saul Botcher at IndieBookLauncher.com

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  1. Marital Miss

  2. Home Are the Hunters

  3. Adjustments and Rumors

  4. New Lands and Challenges

  5. New Lands, Old Irritations

  6. Discoveries

  7. More Discoveries

  8. Scouts’ Honor

  9. Sticks, Stones, and Bones

  10. Dancing with Danger

  11. A Matter of Honor

  12. Fighting Words

  13. Aftermath

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Also by Alma T.C. Boykin

  1

  Marital Miss

  “Oof!” Rigi sat firmly on the dry ground beside the wombow shed. “That’s not supposed to happen,” she told the recalcitrant piece of leather. Makana and Lonka had made getting the wombow harness in place look easy. The lower chest strap of Slowth’s harness flapped in the breeze like a rude tongue. “Well, they had that soft old harness to work with, and Stodge. Slowth is not Stodge.” She got to one knee and shoved herself to her feet.

  She got the strap pulled tight on the second try, latching the attached belly band despite Slowth’s wiggles and grunts of complaint. The brindled brown wombow always fussed about the harness, she’d discovered. The man who sold her the beast had neglected to mention that little flaw. Deep down Rigi suspected that if her husband had been with her, she’d have been shown different animals and could have gotten one as docile as Stodge. But Tomás was at advanced scout training with Kor, and some things a woman had to do for herself. Rigi planted her fists on her hips and studied the cart and Slowth. “Do not run away. Or I’ll turn you into wombow stew.”

  Slowth’s stubby round tail wagged vigorously, warning her that she couldn’t dawdle. “Nahla, any additions to the list?” Rigi called as she took a firm grip on Slowth’s guide lines and walked him and the cart backwards away from the shed.

  “No, mistress,” the young third-Stamm cook and general helper called from where she sat on the little porch, shelling moon peas. Her forefeet moved at lightning speed, splitting the tough purple-spotted husks with her flat claws, then scraping the white peas into a bowl. The husks went onto a pile on a piece of scrap canvas beside her. Slowth considered pea pods tasty, and Rigi hoped she could get out of the yard before he smelled them.

  “Thank you,” Rigi called back out of habit. She should have had Makana with her to drive, but he’d gone to assist his brother with packing her parents’ home for the annual cool-season move to Keralita. Rigi and Tomás didn’t have that much to shift, at least not yet. She had a feeling that would change within the next few months once Tomás returned to Shikhari. She hoped it would change. Babies needed so many things. “Walk on,” she told Slowth, shaking the go-fast stick. He got the hint and stepped out at a brisk pace, probably as glad to be out of the shed as she was to be away from the house. The cool, humid air seemed to stir something in wombows, as if they suddenly recalled their much larger wild wombeast cousins and wondered if they too should be migrating across the continent. Rigi watched Slowth’s round back end bouncing up and down as he trotted along, his soft feet thumping quietly on the dirt and shredded bark wombow path. Two robo-transports trundled by on the vehicle road, probably loaded with someone’s cool-season furnishings. The boxy vehicles rolled through an intersection without stopping and she groaned to herself. Not another software malfunction! She slowed, stopped, and looked carefully before letting Slowth turn right. He fussed a little before accelerating again. He liked to nibble the landscaping at that corner even though it made him sick.

  They reached the market before the pick-up queue grew too terribly long. Rigi directed Slowth into line behind a very large four-wombow wagon. It creaked forward and she let Slowth keep moving, then stopped him after four meters or so. The queue should move quickly, she thought, since this was for people who had pre-ordered their staple goods. She’d already collected the fresh produce for the week, and Rigi let herself relax a little, watching the wombow carts and a few motorized vehicles coming and going. She seemed to be the only human present, at least for the moment. Staré from the third through seventh Stamm moved around the market and warehouse, pushing floats of bulk good, or pulling order pallets. A pale-grey female Seventh swept the walkway, her attention fixed on the task as the broom swished back and forth, back and forth, advancing a few centimeters at a time. Rigi watched, memorizing the scene. The dark blue wagon ahead of her rolled forward and she shook the guide lines a little, encouraging Slowth to move as well. A two-wombow cart pulled in behind her, driven by a third Stamm male wearing a large sun shade. Rigi wondered if the bright green cloth tied around the crown was a new fashion, like pastel vests had been last year.

  To her great delight, a swarm of Staré maneuvered two pre-wrapped pallets of goods into the wagon ahead of her, fast-loading the vehicle. The driver stepped into view and reached out to sign the order pad. She blinked a little. Mr. D’Angelo muttered something she couldn’t hear, shoved the e-pad back at the second Stamm male managing the loading dock, and stomped around the wagon, confirming the safety straps. Should she speak to him? No, she decided, not unless he spoke first. The Matron and Guardian said that forgiveness brightened the day and pleased the Creator and Creatrix, but he still owed Makana fifty credits. Moral forgiveness did not include debt forgiveness. The big wagon groaned into motion, howling as wood and metal rubbed on wood and metal, and she winced in sympathy with the cringing Staré. Mr. D’Angelo really needed to see to the axels, she sniffed, before the poor wombows got hurt or someone went deaf. Slowth moved forward without being asked, and stopped at exactly the right place. “Good Slowth,” she told him.

  Rigi climbed down and secured the guide lines as a young fifth Stamm female approached, reaching for Slowth’s halter to hold the wombow still. Rigi hand-bowed to the black-ticked-brown male with the data-pad. He bowed back. “Mrs. Auriga Bernardi-Prananda,” she said in Staré.

  He bowed even lower. “It is an honor to serve the Wise,” and puffed //awe/respect/mild worry.// “Your order, Wise One.”

  Rigi sighed to herself for the thousandth time. She wished the Staré would quit acting as if she were someone special. She stepped onto the loading platform and inspected the stack of goods on the float, checking them off against her order list. Everything appeared to be correct, so she moved out of the way of the pair of sixth-Stamm loaders. “Thank you. Everything is as it should be.”

  The loaders ear-bowed and began transferring the goods from float to cart. Rigi signed the data pad, careful not to accidentally brush against the supervisor. He wore forefoot covers to prevent contamination, but decent people still took care to avoid breaking Stamm if they could help it. He bowed once more, the beast-holder ear bowed, and Rigi climbed back onto the cart’s driver’s bench. She settled her skirt, untied the guide lines, and braced as the wombow holder let go. Slowth lunged forward, trying to run over the female before she could hop a pace out of the way. “Bad wombow,” she scolded in Common. He snorted and pulled against her hands, but she kept him from bolting. Only when he stopped pulling did she command, “Walk on.”

  The four-year-old wombow gelding showed les
s interest in running once he felt the increased mass behind him. He settled for a brisk walk, which pace suited Rigi quite well. The breeze played with a few of the black curls that had escaped from under her sunshade, and she glanced up at the sky. High clouds wisped over from the south, a sign that the wet might be coming sooner than planned. Well, that was for the Creator and Creatrix to determine. She had a grocery order to unload, a wombow to curry, and that illustration of the newly discovered species of feather-tailed creeper to finish. The iridescent shading on the tail eluded her, and she was almost ready to give up and beg her aunt to take over. Once more, she decided, watching for traffic and smiling as the wind swirled a light-tan fan-tree leaf back up into the air for a moment. One more try and then she’d call for help.

  To her delight, Makana had returned by the time she reached the little rented house. “Mistress Rigi, why did you not wait?” he half-scolded, holding the guide lines as she climbed down.

  “Because I did not want to be delayed by all of NovMerv rushing to get their orders at once. Tomorrow is a holiday,” she reminded the medium grey male. He released the acrid scent she had at last realized connoted scolding-without-words. “I did not touch the load,” she assured him as she got a good grip on the opposite side of Slowth’s headstall.

  “Very good, mistress.” Nahla had emerged from the kitchen as they spoke and she hop-walked down the low steps, opened the side of the cart and removed several wrapped parcels, hop-walked up the steps and disappeared into the open doorway. Another //scolding// issued forth, this time aimed at the female who insisted on acting below her Stamm—third Stamm females did not carry parcels and goods for others, and as a professional cook, Nahla was even farther above such things. By now Rigi knew better than to remind Makana that Nahla had not been raised entirely by Staré. The young orphan—barely more than a hopling, really—had a pathological need to please and to serve, and if that meant taking tasks a little below her Stamm, then she would do it and apologize later. Makana staged the groceries and household supplies onto the porch, emptying the cart with great speed. As soon as the last parcel reached the pile, Rigi led Slowth back to the shed. She unhitched him, intending to finish removing the rest of the harness after—

  He jerked out of her grip and almost ran her over when he smelled the pea pod hulls in his food trough. “Bad wombow!” Loud crunching noises answered her complaint and Rigi sighed. She removed most of the harness, then groomed as much of him as she could reach, making certain that nothing had rubbed his round shoulders and body. That done, she inspected the pads on his feet and his claws to ensure soundness. His little round ears and round tail flipped and wagged with delight as he ate the crisp, juicy pods. By the time she finished her task, Makana appeared. Together they pushed the cart back into its proper place. Then he made shooing motions with his broad, flat forefeet, chasing her out of the shed. He'd finish removing the rest of the harness.

  Rigi went inside through the back door. As she changed from outdoor shoes into house shoes, she idly tried to recall when she’d last been in a house without a mud room and other Shikhari-native spaces. Was it the VanDane’s? No, the Patel’s I think. Her and Tomás’s rented house could have been a model for Shikhari-style dwellings. A deep, partially screened-in verandah surrounded the building on three sides. One back door led into a small room for leaving muddy boots and wet coats, as well as wiping hind-feet clean. A second back door opened into the kitchen, like in her parent’s house. A short hallway led to a cross-hall that connected with the primary bedroom, a Staré room, and the kitchen. The main hallway connected the back of the house with the dining area, the family room, and the visiting room. Most guests never passed the visiting room, because the humans who had moved to Shikhari adopted the Staré practice of separating family-living from guest-living. A small washroom for visitors completed the front half of the house. An unfinished attic-like space took up half of the second floor, reachable only by a ladder at present. Rigi and Tomás had managed to find a slightly larger house than originally planned, so they had an office in addition to the Staré room, and three small cottages for Kor, Makana, and Nahla. The deposit and rental had eaten most of their savings, but Tomás had insisted that Rigi have a separate work space. What they’d do when they had children remained undiscussed.

  “Wooeef?”

  Martinus, Rigi’s m-dog guard, flashed green optical sensors at her when she walked into the office. Good, he’d finished deep-cycling and all diagnostic checks tested one-hundred percent. She unplugged him and put away the deep–charging cords and monitors. “Good boy,” she assured him, patting his head and brushing the black synth-cloth material on his back and shoulders. He wagged his metal tail rod, currently sporting the carnifex-leaper tail trophy he’d collected many years before. After another green flash, his eyes reverted to their customary brown lights.

  Rigi sat down and logged into the computer. She heard Staré feet on the wooden floor, and turned her head a little as Nahla appeared, balancing a tray with cool drinks on one forefoot and carrying a small folding table with the other. Rigi knew better than to interrupt and watched out of the corner of her eye as the dark-tan shading to dark brown female unfolded the table, set the tray on it, and hurried out. Poor Nahla needed to please, but she did not want to be noticed, either. She had yet to recover from accidentally surprising Rigi’s sister-in-law, who had screamed and jumped when Nahla appeared on silent hindfeet. Adele Sorenson-Bernardi had tipped over her chair, almost dragging the tablecloth with her. Poor Nahla. Rigi helped herself to a glass of cold lemon-heart tisane, spiced with a touch of n’card’mon to keep the stomach from cooling too quickly.

  Rigi opened her business account first and found several messages. One confirmed payment for a completed image, and Rigi danced a little in her chair since no one was watching. That would finish paying this year’s rent on the house. A second message conveyed a vague suggestion of possible interest in commissioning Rigi to do a fine-art piece, and would she send samples so the patron could decide? Rigi set the request aside for further research. She’d heard about other artists who had fallen victim to idea and work theft through just such requests. The third message was a solid request from former customer and included a contract. Since it was her standard contract, updated with the details of the commission and payment scheduled, Rigi “signed” it and forwarded a copy to her tax file as well as replying to the customer.

  She finished her drink, visited the washroom, then poured a second glass before reading the last message. “What?” She blinked, backed up two sentences, and read the opening paragraph again. “How dare you!” Apparently Mrs. Alemain dared quite easily, and Rigi’s green eyes narrowed as she finished the message. “I fear you are in error, Madame,” Rigi told the screen. “In grievous error, as your legal speaker will soon discover.” Without looking away from the screen, Rigi reached to the left and tapped the button that active the house knocker.

  She heard a faint pattern of taps. Before the sound faded, Makana appeared in the doorway. “Ma’am?”

  “Come here, please. I believe your testimony will be required.” She shifted to the right, making space for him. Since he read Common, she pointed to the third paragraph in the message and waited. He read, his long ears tipping to the right and forcing her to duck a little as he worked his lower jaw side to side.

  Makana straightened up and backed up a pace, //irritation/bored.// “The usual document, Ma’am?”

  “I believe so, yes. And if you would be so kind as to notify Lexissol as—” The incoming comm alert chimed and Rigi pushed the text to the side, allowing the comm to come in.

  “It appears that he is aware,” Makana intoned. Given Lexi’s wide eyes, side-flopped ears, and rapidly moving jaw, Rigi suspected that that was indeed the case. Her uncle’s research assistant and scout partner’s demeanor did not exactly project an air of soothing happiness.

  “Good afternoon, Mistress Rigi,” Lexi said.

  “Good afternoon, Lexi. Am
I correct in suspecting that this is not strictly a social call?”

  “Alas no, for it is occasioned by the unfortunate ignorance of one Mrs. Alemain, an ignorance that appears bounded only by the edges of known space.”

  A human voice from behind him averred, “Lexi, you are too generous by half.” Her aunt Kay Trent appeared and Lexi shifted, allowing Aunt Kay to sit while he stood at her shoulder. “Have you gotten a message from one Alemain, represented by that Petrason boy’s law firm?”

  “Yes, ma’am, and Makana was getting ready to pull the usual documents for me.”

  “Wait, please. We need to get Micah involved, since he is the finder-of-record and his name is on the formal documentation of the site. When does Kor return?”

  Two days, three hours, and eighteen minutes, Rigi thought, but did not say aloud. Proper military wives did not count the minutes until their husband returned, after all. “Just over two days, ma’am, unless their transport was delayed.”

  “That soon?” The older woman blinked. “Only eight Home months?”

  Only was not the word Rigi preferred to use, but compared to her aunt’s stories about how long similar training had taken Lexi and Uncle Eb, only did make some sense. “Yes, ma’am. There’s a new fast-learning method the army uses.”

  “Well, and unlike Eb, Tomás and Kor had a little experience before training started,” Aunt Kay allowed. “We will need Kor’s affidavit as well as yours and mine. After two years, you would think this sort of thing would have stopped.”

  Rigi rubbed her forehead. “I am beginning to suspect that foolishness travels even slower than inter-planetary communications do, ma’am. And it propagates in a wave pattern.” She smiled as Lexi stuck his long pink tongue out of the side of his mouth in a rude gesture. Makana was probably doing the same thing behind her. Rigi didn’t look. “Dare I ask what Uncle Eb said?”