Hyena Eyes

On the third day, she found him by his furnaces, warming a pot of cloudy green soda glass. His face was sharp with intent.

"You're going back to work?" She felt a warm rush of relief.

He smiled tautly. "Well, I'll try."

A week passed, and another. Genoaro worked with a strangely fierce concentration, as if he were determined to build from his labors a refuge of some sort. He seemed to be willing himself into thoughtless exhaustion. At first Cayten welcomed his absorption as a sign of returning normality, but after a while she found it increasingly disturbing.

He was always in his studio, not even pausing to take meals with her. His face grew more drawn with each day that passed, until he wore a look of constant haggard desperation.

When she asked him what was wrong, he shook his head and said, "I've gotten behind, Cayten. I'll have to work very hard for a while, or I'll lose too many clients."

"Genoaro... they'll make allowances."

He darted a hot glance at her. "I don't want anyone to make allowances."

She couldn't understand his anger.

She never found a way to discuss the Level with him, though she tried more than once. Each time she mentioned the Level to Genoaro, he turned the subject away, as if it were a dagger she had thrust at him. Finally he shouted at her. "That's over, Cayten! You do me no good bringing it up, making me think about it. You can help me most if you never mention the Level again."

"I won't, then," she said, though she wondered if it was the right thing to do.

One day soon after, a Linean came to their door to fetch a work it had commissioned.

The alien, a rotund blue batrachian creature, lifted the brown glass poniard from its velvet-lined presentation case. "Fine work," it grunted, as it turned the edge so that the blade threw a delicate glitter into Cayten's eyes.

"Thank you," Genoaro said stiffly, waiting impatiently for the Linean to finish its examination.

Acting on a sudden impulse, Cayten spoke. "Kingly one," she said - that being the proper term of respect for a Linean of elevated rank. "May I ask for whom the poniard is intended?"

Genoaro glared at her, shaking his head. But the Linean responded courteously. "One of our elder diplomats soon will retire."

She ignored Genoaro's obvious displeasure, and spoke again. "A lovely gift to commemorate your honored person's service, then."

The Linean shook its greasy blue head. "No gift. With this will we cut the honored person's aged throat, it being essential to demonstrate the proper respect."

She drew back, still smiling, though she was sure her smile had gone as glassy as the poniard.

When the Linean was gone, Genoaro looked at her wordlessly.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"It doesn't matter," he said, turning away. "You know what sort of work I do."

"You aren't responsible for the use your clients make of your work."

"No, of course not," he answered in a muffled voice. "But I like the work, you see. I like to make sharp things; I like to make things that love blood. I won't ever find another line of work I like as well."

"But...."

"No, I won't find a new job. I might as well cut out the middleman. Don't you think?"

In the morning he was gone again.

Two days after Genoaro left, she went to see Shinvel Dward.

She announced herself at the door to Dward's apartment, and a long time passed before the door slid up and a pretty bond servant motioned for her to enter.

Dward lounged on a curved divan, her muscular bulk swathed in magenta spidersilk. "Cayten Borlavinda. An interesting and delightful surprise. How may I help you?"

"Citizen Dward...," Cayten began.

Dward made an impatient gesture. "Please call me Shinvel. Let's not stand on ceremony; sit here beside me."

Cayten sat in the corner of the divan. Dward rolled to her belly, struck a grotesquely adolescent pose, chin in hand, bare feet waving in the air. "Tell me," she said in a chummy voice.

"Well... Shinvel. It's about Genoaro."

Dward raised her heavy eyebrows. "Who?"

"Genoaro Maryal. He runs with your pack. My lover."

Dward's broad face shifted through a quick cycle of emotion: recognition, disdain, withdrawal. "Your lover? I know him only vaguely. You're a novice on the Level; I can tell. Otherwise you'd know there is no 'pack.' Hyenas aren't true pack animals. They come together to hunt, but the alliance is loose and soon dissolved. Never love a hyena, dear; they're inconstant." Dward put a large hand on Cayten's thigh, smoothed a tiny wrinkle from the fabric of Cayten's bodysuit.

Cayten repressed a shudder, but Dward noticed and jerked her hand away. The big woman sat up abruptly, face hardening. "You're wasting your time," Dward said. "That one's lost." She snorted dismissively, and gestured for a bond servant. A wispy girl with short lavender hair and a silver-striped face ran forward, bearing a tray.

Dward took up a long-stemmed pipe, filled it with some pale green herb from a cloisonne humidor, lit it. She took a deep pull and offered the pipe to Cayten, who shook her head.