Michael Flynn - In the Lion’s Mouth

Francine Thompson d.b.a. Bridget ban, a Hound of the Ardry

Graceful Bintsaif a junior Hound

Lucia D. Thompson d.b.a. Marana, a harper, daughter of Bridget ban

Ravn Olafsdottr a Shadow of the CCW

Donovan (the scarred man) d.b.a. the Fudir, sometime agent of the CCW

Rigardo-ji Edelwasser a bonded smuggler

Swoswai Mashdasan garrison commander on Henrietta

Dawshoo Yishohrann Leader of the conspiracy

Gidula an old Confederal Shadow (black, a white comet)

Oschous Dee Karnatika field marshal of the rebel shadows (scarlet, a black horse)

Geshler Padaborn a revolutionary

Poder Stoop the Riff of Ashbanal (blood red, a Maltese cross)

Tina Zhi a functionary in the Gayshot Bo

Little Jacques another rebel Shadow (swallowtail, red with border)

Manlius Metataxis brother to Dawshoo (sky blue, a white dove)

Domino Tight a young Shadow (tawny, a lyre proper)

Big Jacques Delamond a large Shadow (white, a blue trident)

Shadow Prime Father of the Abattoir (black)

Ekadrina Sanmazy field marshal of the loyal Shadows (black, a taiji)

Epri Gunjinshow a protg of Prime (forest-green, a yellow lily)

Pendragon Jones a loyal Shadow (silver, a golden mum)

Jimjim Shot the Beautiful Name, the Mayshot Bo

Retainers, smugglers, boots, sheep, magpies, couriers, Shadows, Names

Planar projection of the Confederal Borderlands and the Triangles. View isfrom Galactic North. Not all worlds or roads are shown. Worlds are not all onthe same plane.

The winds whistling oer the breasts of the Dngodair Hills carry much of the loneliness that can be found in those remote peaks and scatter it like pollen across the eastern plains, so that the Beastie boys, and the Nolan Beasts they tend, suck it in with every breath, and even the bluestem and inching grass, and the rip-gut in the wet bottomlands whose leaves are serrated knives soak up despair like sunshine and release it to the breeze. Thus it is that the rustle of the tallgrass can wring a sigh from a strong man and drive a lonely woman to weeping.

When night falls over the gloaming prairies of the Out-in-back, it falls complete. The city lights, such as they are, glow like hearth fires on the far side of the Dngodairs; but their gleam does little more than limn the crests with a narrow pale-white band. Otherwise, green is simply another kind of black, and for half the year even the sky holds little more than a second pale band: the distant shore of the Orion Arm across the Rift of stars. It too, is the glow of distant hearths: the ancient home-stars of mankind.

Amidst such engulfing shadows, what is one more shade drifting oer the heath?

Clanthompson Hall sits an oasis of light on a swell of the prairie atop a deep, clean well; but the light is tightly held within fortress walls, and leaks out only through slits and windows. Her towers bespeak an earlier epoch in the history of Dangchao Waypoint, when her stone facing was more than mere decoration, and warring clans fought over water rights and control of the open range. The range wars are long over; and over the generations the squat functionality of her battlements has softened to more graceful and moderate lines. She stands now a stately matron, surrounded by her family of outbuildings, barracks and mess hall for the ranch hands, repair shops, a helipad, orchards, and a few tastefully hidden gun emplacements.

Oh, she is still a fortress in her heart! For Clanthompson Hall is the keep of Bridget ban, a Hound of the Ardry, and therefore for some a target. The rise the Hall sits upon is not much to speak of, let alone to speak of it as a hill. It does not so much as bear a name. But from it, and for miles around, nothing can approach unseen.

Or almost nothing.

It is called a sitting room, but two of the three women in it are standing. The first is Francine Thompson, d.b.a. Bridget ban, mistress of Clanthompson Hall. She stands by the large bay window that overlooks the endless prairie, though she herself overlooks nothing. The curtains are drawn open and the night without is held at bay only by lamps burning bravely on tables. Even so, night has won his victories here and there, in darkened corners, in shadowed alcoves. Bridget ban wears high riding boots and a casual, loose-fitting blouse in the reds and yellows that the Thompsons favor. Her hair is a bright red and her skin a deep gold. She stares into the night, her back to the room, while she listens to the report.

Graceful Bintsaif, who is delivering the report, is a junior Hound and wears the powder-blue undress uniform of that grade. It bears at present only a single blazon, but it is a worthy one and, quite properly, she will not speak of how she won it. She is lean as a whippet and seems always to be straining forward, as if against some unseen leash. She interrupts her report to say, Shall I kill it?

Not yet, says Bridget ban, who does not turn from the window.

Lucia Thompson, the third woman present, is seated on a stool. She is an ollamh of the clairseach, a master harper, and plays under the name Marana, which means both fingers and, by a shift in accent, swift. She is her mother, stamped at an earlier age, though with sharper corners, and with flint in her eyes. She has, it is said, a cutting glance, and she turns that gaze toward the window. Where is it now?

By the maintenance yard. Behind the baler. Continue, Bintsaif.

The junior Hound stands with arms clasped behind her back and feet slightly spread. She has already loosened the flap on her holster. The Bartender on Jehovah, she says, is convinced that Donovan has left the planet. Furthermore, he believes that Donovan left voluntarily. He had spoken earlier of coming here.

Bridget ban turns her head to look at the junior, and then snaps her attention back to the yard outside. But she is too late. The shadow is no longer by the baler. Her eyes search and do not find it. So she sighs and takes a teaser from the drawer in a lamp-table and checks the charge.

Does this ever grow easier? asks Graceful Bintsaif, drawing her own weapon.