“This is not hospitable,” she said, suddenly furious. “This is what they no doubt wanted of me, that I be naked and helpless.”
A laugh, without humor. “Woman, you do not know them if you believe that, and as for us, we have no designs on your body. We do need to assure that you carry nothing to our hurt, but you may choose. If you like, we will open the grille and you may go out the way you came.”
Fighting tears, she leaned her staff against the stone and took off the hooded robe with its porous, insulated helmet that kept the sun from frying the brain, then the under-robe Awhero had given her. Finally, with some struggle, she removed the silken bodysuit that covered her from throat to below her elbows and knees, laminated to her belly and thighs by the dried breast milk.
“How old is your child?” someone asked. A softer voice. Not so crisp.
“Almost a month,” she said, gulping tears. “His name is Dovidi.”
“Sandals, too,” said the first voice. “And stockings. Put everything through that hole by your foot.”
The lantern wagged, showing her the gap in the grille, large enough to put shoes or wadded clothing through.
“Turn around, slowly.”
She turned, holding her hands out, away from her body. She heard whispers.
“… one of the intended …”
“… all nonsense, look at that unmistakable nose …”
“… rather as we had been told?”
After a long pause, her outer robe came back, and she wrapped it around herself.
“Where did you get these sandals?” someone asked.
Where had she got them? “I was told they were a gift,” she said. “From the wives of the Shah. So that I could walk with them in their garden. My own shoes were … what do they say?” For a moment she couldn’t remember the caste word and substituted another. “Befouled?”
“Arghaste. That is the Mahahmbi word. It means ‘soiled by being foreign,’ that is, from originating elsewhere than Mahahm. You yourself are arghaste, while the untouchables are malghaste, soiled by birth. In addition, you are c, soiled by being a woman. Even wearing Mahahmbi shoes, you would not have been allowed to walk in their garden. It was a ruse, a ploy. Something, perhaps, to gain time.”
“But I had walked in their garden,” she cried. “I’d been there before!”
Silence. Ominous. Gathering.
Then another voice. “Describe the occasion. Where? Who did you meet?”
“I don’t know where. A walled place, not too far from the house we rented. There were three of them, the Shah’s wives they said. They were all new mothers, and one of them said & they’d earned the right to go … to paradise. To Galul.”
A long silence, then very softly: “What did they look like?”
“They wore veils, heavy ones. I saw one face, only for a moment. They said … no! She said, the only one who made sense, she said they had earned this … candidacy, whatever it was.”
A long pause, then a weary sigh. “Perhaps, under those circumstances you would have been allowed to walk with them.”
“Except that we didn’t walk,” said Genevieve. “We sat. I said something, and they would say nonsense. At least one of them could talk as well as I, but all but one spoke only nonsense aloud. They gave me some tea. I didn’t drink it. I didn’t like the smell.”
Another silence, less ominous. “Perceptive of you. What did you do with it if you did not drink it?”
“Dripped it into my robe, under my veil. You can see, the stain is still there. I had no time to wash it before I left.”
“Did the wives sound young? Or old?”
“The one who spoke said she was thirty-three years old. She said she was old for the trip, but her husband hadn’t wanted her to go until now. I assumed the others were younger.”
A pause. Then, “Why did you pick these clothes for this journey?”
Despite herself, the tears came. “I didn’t pick anything. Awhero gave me the robe and told me to wear it when I went out. I had the under-robe and the sandals on because I was summoned to visit the women again. And Father had gone to find out the details from the Shah’s people. Then Awhero came running in to tell me assassins had taken him and were coming for me and Dovidi. I didn’t doubt her. Others of our party were away, my father was missing, there was fighting where my husband had gone! My husband’s spare sunhelmet and cloak were still hanging by the side door. Awhero said take them, so I threw them on and ran.”
“Where is your son?”
“Awhero said if I took him, he was as good as dead. She said she could hide him, pretend he was one of them. I trust her, but I honestly don’t know if he’s … if he’s still alive.”
“She’s malghaste?”
“Yes.”
“You took no food or water?”
“My husband had left a little sack of way-food in the pocket. I took a water bottle and this staff from the door nearest the guard post. I filled the bottle at the untouchables well, then I started north.” She rubbed her head, trying to make the pain go away. “The guards weren’t at their post, and it made me uneasy, so I went out the malghaste door.”
“Guards wouldn’t have been there,” said the softer voice. “Not if men were coming to abduct you. The guards would have been invited to be elsewhere, so they could later say they had seen nothing, that perhaps you had been stolen. Women are stolen. It’s always believable. Where is the bottle you carried?”
“Wherever I stopped to sleep this morning. I heard the birds screaming, so I rolled away from under a bonebush, and then I ran. When I found it was gone, I didn’t dare go back and look for it. It can’t be far from here, for I only walked an hour or so before seeing the banner.”
“What is this device in the pocket?”
“A locator. It’s just … it focuses on the navigational beacon in orbit above Haven and it can tell you where you are. It’s more useful in Haven than here …”
“An off-world device!” The pitch went up, the sharpness slashed. “You’re from Havenor? From the Lord Paramount?”
“I’m not, no, though the leader of our party is. I suppose he is. We did come in an airship. I’m sorry. I thought you knew. Though, why would you know? We’ve been here for some time. I guess I thought everyone knew …”
“Was this device brought with you?” The words were sharp, demanding. “Did anyone in Mahahm-qum see it?”
Why did they care? Then, wearily, she understood. “No, the people in Mahahm-qum don’t know I have this device. They probably have no idea I can keep to a direction in the desert, which would explain why they kept finding my trail and losing it. They don’t know that I had talked to Awhero or that I knew anything about Tenopia or this place. Awhero called it wahi oranga, or marae morehu. That is what the name means, isn’t it? Place of refuge?”
A long silence. Evidently they had closed a door across the grille, for she heard nothing. The lantern had gone with the voices. She pulled the cloak around her and slumped against the grille, head on bent knees, simply waiting. At least nothing from outside could get at her here. When the voice came again, it actually wakened her from a doze.
“We’ll open the door. There’s a small room here, where you can be comfortable for a while. You’ll stay here while we check what you’ve told us.”
“What about my other clothes?”
“We’d like to know what they gave you in that tea, so we’ll keep that robe for a time. Here’s your bodysuit, and we’ll find you some other clothing. We’re keeping the sandals. Someone will carry them away from here, a good distance away from here. The soles have tracking devices in them.”
“Tracking devices?”
“Scent emitters. Sometimes women escape, but their shoes are made to lead hunters directly to them. You’re lucky. The devices were blocked with mud …”
“The well,” she cried. “When I filled my bottle at the well. It was muddy.”
“Was your ship here, on Mahahm?”
“Outside the city. As I went out, I yelled at the communications man to tell them what was happening.” Or had she? She remembered doing it. But then, she might have imagined doing it.
“The people of Mahahm-qum would expect you to go toward your ship. They would not expect you to have listened to a malghaste woman’s tales. So, because they are creatures of their preconceptions, it is unlikely they have any idea where you are. If we are lucky, they will assume you are dead. One of us may backtrack to the place you left the bottle, however, as we would prefer that it and the sandals be found somewhere else, a long way from here. On the way to some oasis.”
A breath of air came from her left as the grille slipped into a wall pocket and a door opened upon a white plastered room where the day’s last light pooled around the high, barred window and seeped a melancholy dimness onto the narrow bed and stone floor below. Beside the bed a small table held a glass carafe of water topped with an inverted cup. She almost fell over herself in her scramble toward it.
“Slowly,” said the voice from somewhere across the room. “Take it slowly. A few sips, then a few more. Otherwise you may vomit it up, and that would be a waste. Don’t eat anything until you’ve bathed and settled down and are no longer thirsty. Bring your staff, and also the lantern. It will soon be dark.”
The lantern stood in its own circle of light on the floor by the grille. She fetched it and set it upon the table where a bowl covered a plate of fruit, sliced meat and a loaf of brown, crusty bread. Though she ached with hunger, she obeyed the voice. She sat on the bed with the cup in her hand, drinking little by little, refilling the cup twice. The dryness of her throat and nose slowly eased. For the first time she noticed the little jars near the plate, one of them half-filled with something waxy, herbal, perhaps an unguent.
“Can I use this on my lips?” she asked the walls, turning the jar in her hands, seeing the label too late to forestall the question. “For desert-burned skin.”
“Never mind,” she said, swallowing hysterical laughter that caught in her throat when she read the label on the other jar. “To dry your milk. Take one with each meal.”
To dry her milk. She choked on tears, swallowed them. Well then. Whatever help they might offer, it wouldn’t run to getting Dovidi back, not soon. She had best plan on staying here for some time and be thankful for what it offered: drink, food, and a place to wash herself. Someone had definitely mentioned bathing.
She picked up the lantern and walked the perimeter of the room, three meters by five, the entry door now closed off by a sliding panel. Through a pointed arch opposite the entry she found a boxlike hall with three more of the sliding panel doors: left, right, and straight ahead. Two of the panels were immovable, but the one to her right slid easily, opening on a stone-floored alcove furnished with a large, shallow copper pan, an ewer of tepid water, cloths, a low stool, and in the corner, a privy hole like those in the house they had used in Mahahm-qum.
Shutting the panel behind her, she set the lantern on the floor, threw off the dusty robe and ladled water into the pan. Sitting on the stool she washed her feet and legs before standing in the pan to wash the rest of her. The water had a sharp, resinous smell, some cleansing agent that rinsed away without residue and took the grime with it. Even the sweaty stiffness of her hair dissolved when she poured water through it. When she had finished washing herself she fetched her bodysuit and sloshed it about in the pan until the dried milk was gone. She wrung it out and spread it across the stool. The dirty water went down the privy hole and the folded cloths went over the edge of the pan. One dry cloth was long enough to wrap around her body, covering her aching, swollen breasts. She wasn’t expecting company, and it covered her almost decently. Certainly it would do to eat in.
When she returned to the table she found a comb lying atop a folded shift, a perfectly simple white garment woven of the same fiber as the robe Awhero had given her. Plant fiber of some kind. Less harsh than wool. Well then. Someone was watching her, someone who could come in and out without her hearing. Not precisely a comforting thought, though the items spoke of concern for her welfare. Give them, her, whoever, credit for trying. The shift covered her from neck to elbows and ankles. The comb pulled the snarls from her hair. She left the wet strands loose down her back while she rubbed unguent onto her hands and feet and face. Later, when she had rested, she would braid her hair out of the way.
Then the food. The bread was chewy and full of crunchy inclusions, nuts and seeds and shreds of the same rich, peppery pod Awhero had once given her in the rooms below the kitchen. The meat and slices of melon were delicious, the one partially dried and salty, the other juicy and sweet. After a brief spasm of rejection which was almost anger, she took one of the pills from the jar and swallowed it. Emotionally, she hated the idea, but she would need all her strength. If Dovidi couldn’t use her milk, it would be stupid to stress her body to produce it.
When she had eaten less than half the food, she caught herself drowsing, head on chest, breathing deeply, lips half opened around a partly chewed mouthful, a bit of bread still in hand. She roused enough to cover the food remnants and drink a last half cup of water before setting the cup over the neck of the carafe. If she was being observed, let them give her a good rating for neatness and parsimony. Who knew how long this ration was intended to last?
Her last thought before sleep was of Awhero. She wished the old woman knew she had come this far safely … well, seemingly safely. At least there were no hunters, no voices from the sky. At least she was away from the thorn and the sun. She did not think of the Marshal or Delganor or Dovidi. She did not think of anything but this moment, well fed, comfortably warm, and without thirst. As Tenopia had said, she could afford neither grief nor anger. She could not afford anything but the day, each day from waking to sleep, each such day to be set down after all other such days, a long journey which one must not think of as even having a direction. If one went on, steadily, perhaps at the end there would be explanations, even justification.
The end was the only possible destination. One could not, ever, go back to the beginning.
ONE
Blessingham School
GENEVIEVE’S TOWER WAS SLENDER AND TALL, AN ARCHItectural conceit added at the last moment to the otherwise undistinguished structure of Blessingham School. Gaining access to this afterthought could not be accomplished on the way to or from anywhere in particular. Climbing the hundred steps to the single room at the top was both inconvenient and arduous. Despite the nuisance, Genevieve had chosen the tower room. For the quiet, she said. For the view. For the brightness of the stars at night.
Though these were at best only half reasons, they satisfied Mrs. Blessingham better than the real reason would have done—a reason which had to do with the billowing foliage of the surrounding forest, the isolation of the star-splashed night, the silence of the sky. On stormy nights the boughs surged and heaved darkly as a midnight sea, and on such nights Genevieve would throw the casements wide and lean into the wind, the white curtains blowing like flung spray as she imagined herself carried jubilantly through enormous silken waves toward an unknown shore.
The imagined sea, the waves, the inexorable movement of the waters were implicit in the instructions her mother had given her. The jubilance, an emotion she had touched rarely, and only at the edges, was an interpolation of her own which, she feared, might be shaming if anyone knew of it but herself.
As Mrs. Blessingham would have observed: the tower was nowhere near the sea; Genevieve had never seen the sea since she had been no farther from Langmarsh House than a single trip to Evermire; Genevieve, like other noble daughters, would not have been allowed to swim. As Genevieve did not wish to explain: her sea was not a planetary wetness, exactly. It was inside her as much as it was out there in the night, and though she wasn’t quite sure what her instructions amounted to vis-à-vis swimming or sailing or floating, they meant more than simply disporting herself in the water.
Every evening Genevieve
submitted patiently as her hair was braided by the lady’s maid trainee—who took twice the time Genevieve would have taken to do it herself. Each evening she was courteous as she was helped into her nightgown, though she was perfectly capable of getting into a nightgown without assistance. She waited calmly, without fidgeting, as the bed was turned down, and she smiled her thanks when the trainee departed with a curtsey, shutting the door behind her. The moment the latch clicked, however, Genevieve slipped from her chair and put her ear to the door, hearing the retreating clatter of hard soled shoes down steep stone stairs. Only when that sound had faded did she open the window and lean out into the night to evoke the ocean feeling, the inner quiet that dissolved daytime stiffness and propriety in a fluidity of water and wind, a thrust and swell of restless power.
Though by now, her twentieth year, she did this habitually, even earnestly, it had begun as a requirement. The ritual was among those her mother had taught her, and every night, whether in storm or calm, Genevieve did as she had been taught to do. Standing in the window with closed eyes, she focused outward, cataloging and shutting out all ordinary sounds: rustle of the trees, shut out; murmur of voices from the kitchen wing, shut out; clack of the watchman’s heels on the paving of the cloisters, out; whisper of song from the siren-lizards on the roof-tiles, out; bleat of goat in the dairy, out; each day-to-day distraction removed to leave the inner silence that allowed her to listen.
The listening could not be merely passive. Practitioners, so Genevieve’s mother had emphasized, must visualize themselves as spiders spinning lines of sticky hearkening outward in the night, past time, past distance or direction, toward something that floated in the far, waiting to be heard. Sometimes she spun and spun, remaining in the window for an hour or more, and nothing happened. Sometimes she heard a murmur, as though some immense far-off thing had swiveled an ear and asked, “Where?” or “Who?” or even, once or twice, frighteningly, “Genevieve?”
Singer From the Sea Page 2