House of Zeor

by Jacqueline Lichtenberg

  Valleroy looked around at the others in the audience most of whom had come for the show rather than to buy. It seemed they agreed with Klyd. “I suppose,” said Valleroy scathingly, “you don’t get people like him in the Householdings?”

  “It’s extremely rare among Simes. Narvoon is from out-Territory originally. I’m told he had a particularly hard time of it, and he was warped by the experience. Some say he hates himself for being Sime, and can’t stand the thought of having children. Others say this is his way of committing suicide, and it’s working. I don’t know, but he certainly isn’t well.”

  Valleroy looked again at Narvoon, seated a little apart from the others around him. He was a veritable skeleton of a man, with sunken cheeks and hollows at the temples that gave him a death’s-head aspect. When Valleroy looked back at Klyd, he found the channel exchanging signals with Nashmar under cover of his cloak. Nashmar nodded and signaled the auctioneer a double raise.

  Narvoon rose jerkily and stalked out of the amphitheater, cloak flying behind him like bat wings. There was a stirring among the rest of the audience that Valleroy interpreted as a surprised approval of the Householding’s move. Evidently, Nashmar gained some public sympathy for the Tecton along with three raw recruits.

  But to Valleroy it was a chill victory. From a grand total of thirty-six Gens auctioned, only seven had gone to the Householdings.

  The crowd’s buzzing rose to a full crescendo as groups formed and drifted toward the exits. Numb with the realization that it was really over, and Aisha was still missing, Valleroy sat staring at the empty stage. Around him, the Householders began to gravitate toward Klyd, forcing Valleroy to resume the role of Companion.

  He watched Klyd pass something to Nashmar. It looked like a small purse, but Valleroy wasn’t given a chance to ask. One of the other channels, wearing a cinnamon brown livery, greeted Klyd expansively and then said, “You surprise me! Not one purchase for Zeor? Was the grain harvest so poor?”

  Chuckling, Klyd introduced Valleroy, saying, “The harvest is ample this year, Siml, but Zeor is Gen-high at the moment.”

  “Then what brings you to Iburan?” asked one of the Companions.

  “The pendulum always swings. A talented Gen must be retained against the day of need.”

  “Aha!” exclaimed the Companion, grinning. “Wife-hunting are you?”

  “Must I answer that?” said Klyd.

  “No,” said Nashmar reasonably, “but answer me this. What is this great talent that must be retained?”

  “Such talent cannot be described in words, my dear friend. But you shall see with your own eyes at Arensti.”

  “Zeor plans to win again this year?”

  “No way we can avoid it,” declared the channel.

  The glances that were exchanged after that solemn pledge left no doubt in Valleroy’s mind about the high position of Zeor in the Tecton.

  “Naztehr,” Nashmar said to Valleroy, “you are a designer?”

  “And artist, Sectuib.”

  “But you are Zeor’s Arensti Designer?”

  “Zeor has so honored me.”

  The looks of pure respect that that earned Valleroy gave him a little shock. If he’d known the degree of confidence Zeor had placed in him, he might have refused to try. In fact, at that moment, he suddenly felt like withdrawing his design, afraid it would tarnish Zeor’s illustrious reputation.

  But he wasn’t given time to think about it. Nashmar drew Klyd to one side as the company began to disperse. “House of Imil would like to submit a proposition for Zeor’s consideration.”

  “Zeor listens,” said Klyd’ formally.

  Taking his cue from Nashmar’s Companion, Valleroy assumed a station to one side and slightly behind the channels. He listened quietly to the conversation, straining his brain to infer the gaps in his vocabulary.

  “Imil requires the services of an exceptional artist to do the catalog for the spring collection. So we would like to borrow your Arensti Designer for a few days.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that. Zeor has much work for him....”

  “We can pay well to a Gen-high Householding. The prestige of putting out a catalog done in the hand of the winning Arensti Designer would be worth, say, a young channel at least.” Nashmar abandoned all pretense of bargaining. “Just think what this will mean for the Tecton! A Householding triumph at Arensti, a superb spring collection bound to sweep the field also done by a Householding, and a catalog of that Householding’s collection that will win prizes for sheer artistic perfection, designed, executed, and printed by our Gens!” He emphasized the last two words, leaving no doubt that it would be a historical achievement proving that Gens are capable of higher creativity.

  Frowning, Klyd said, “You have a point, Nashmar. However, despite my confidence in Zeor, the judging at Arensti isn’t over yet. By the time the winner is announced, Naztehr Hugh will be deeply engaged in Zeor affairs....”

  “By then it would be too late for us. The catalog must be completed before the Arensti winner will be determined. Imil is willing to gamble on Zeor’s chances.”

  “It would be no gamble. Win or lose at Arensti, Hugh is still the best artist this side of the river.”

  “Then we must have him at all costs. Come to Imil with us now so we can discuss terms in a more congenial atmosphere.”

  Klyd hesitated.

  “Where else can you stay the night? This must have been the longest action on record, and it’s nearly a seven-hour ride back to Halfway House. There isn’t a hotel in Iburan that would have you. And,” he intimated slyly, “Imil has many marriageable daughters suitable for a Companion.

  “True, but....”

  “Besides that, I have three high-field Gens to transport. I could use an escort.”

  “Thodian road isn’t safe any more?”

  “Andle and his holier-than-thou’s have been agitating in that quarter of the city. No place is safe since Zelerod published that paper.”

  “Yet still we grow. In the last year, Zeor gained fifteen Simes.”

  “And Imil, ten. It’s been a record year, and I expect the rate to increase. You’ll require another channel, soon, so why not buy one with a few days’ time?”

  “It’s a tempting proposition, Nashmar, but....”

  “So let yourself be tempted into a night’s lodging and some serious bargaining.”

  “Well,” said Klyd, glancing helplessly toward his Companion, “I do owe you the escort.”

  “Good. Get your horses and meet me at the pick-up block around back. My wagon’s with Tubrem Stables.”

  They parted company, Valleroy resuming his place at his channel’s side, filled to bursting with objections that had to be swallowed whole.

  CHAPTER SIX

  HOUSE OF IMIL

  The trip to Imil was the most exhausting trial Valleroy had yet faced. He rode beside the flat-bed wagon on which the captives, fetters removed, sat in a securely locked cage. From time to time, the three glowered resentfully or spat lurid profanity at him.

  Klyd rode beside him, physically near yet so abstracted in his own thoughts as to leave Valleroy alone to bear the brunt of verbal assault. And never had Valleroy felt so alone.

  All his life, he had hidden behind a cloak of Gen conventionality. It was such a deep-grained, well-constructed front that even the people who called him a Sime-lover didn’t really believe it.

  Still, every interrogation assignment opened a crack in that front. The day-and-night questioning of a Sime prisoner, sometimes lasting almost a month, always left him feeling more sympathy for the prisoner than for the Gens the prisoner had killed. He’d never been able to bring himself to watch a prisoner die of attrition.

  When that time came, he would go to Aisha, depressed and guilt ridden...even though he hadn’t understood the magnitude of the horror the Sime faced. She’d never called him a traitor because of that guilt.

  They’d talk and talk, sometimes all night while the prisoner died in
some faraway place. By tacit agreement, they never spoke of Simes. Yet he knew that she regarded Simes as people, and the torture of Simes as degrading to Gens.

  On such occasions, he was never able to make love to her, a fact she accepted without question. Now, Valleroy wished they’d talked about it. He wished he’d been able to explain why he’d never asked her to marry him.

  If a child of his turned out to be Sime, he wouldn’t have been able to destroy it. Then, Gen law would have turned against him, leaving his wife a widow. But if his child were Gen, he’d be unable to teach him a proper hatred of Simes...and the traitor in him would be revealed.

  He’d be savagely glad for that, thought Valleroy, because it would settle things once and for all. His own doubts would be gone. Or would they? Here he was, dressed like a Sime, riding within touching distance of a Sime, while his Gen allies sat caged and humiliated beside him. Yet something deep within him refused to admit that what the captives said about him was true.

  After a long period of silence, one of the captives called to Valleroy, “Hey, Turnie...you with the Sime hands...come over here!”

  Even if “turnie” wasn’t the most polite form of address, it was the most civil thing they’d called him so far. Valleroy nudged his horse a little closer to the wagon.

  “Hey, Turnie, you do speak English, don’t you?”

  “Everyone in this party speaks English.”

  “Yeah? You’d never know it,” said one.

  “Shut up, Grenel,” said another, gripping the bars and staring at Valleroy’s hands. “A guy shouldn’t have to go to his grave thirsty. Even a turnie ought to see that.”

  “You’re not going to any grave, only to Householding Imil. And there, people ask politely for what they want.”

  The third captive staggered to his feet on the swaying wagon bed and bowed mockingly toward his brother. “Vrian, may I have the pleasure of killing you?”

  The others laughed raucously at Valleroy’s discomfort while Vrian rose and bowed smiling. “Not if I can kill you first, Prins.”

  Angered, Valleroy said, “You ought to be grateful Sectuib Nashmar bought your freedom!”

  The first captive gripped the bars, fine muscles bulging. “Grateful! If I can just get my hands on him, I’ll break every bone in his skinny body! Nobody buys the Neromein brothers!”

  As if that were on old rallying cry, the three chanted, “Death to all Simes!” One of them added, looking straight at Valleroy, “And all cowardly Sime-lovers and Judas-goats. Tell me, Turnie, how many Gens have you trapped for them?”

  “None!” spat Valleroy.

  “What do they pay you with, Turnie?”

  Prins rattled the bars at Valleroy. “They’ll kill you, too, you know.”

  “These Simes don’t kill!” shouted Valleroy.

  “You don’t really believe that?”

  “It’s true!”

  Vrian elbowed his brother out of the way. “You’ll find out the hard way, Turnie, but then it will be too late. Get us out of here, and we’ll see how many of them we can get before they kill us. Give us a fighting chance, and we’ll know you’re no turnie.”

  Disgusted, Valleroy spat. “Go to hell!”

  “Nothing doing! It’s hot there, and I’m too thirsty already.”

  “Bloodthirsty, you mean,” said Valleroy.

  “Just gimme that canteen and I’ll show you what I’m thirsty for.”

  Valleroy looked around at the other members of the party. Nashmar and his Companion, Loyce, riding on the other side of the cage and the two Simes driving the wagons were too far away. Klyd was near, but wrapped up in some world of his own. All were steadfastly ignoring the exchange. On impulse, Valleroy unlimbered his canteen, nudging his horse in close enough so he could lean out to hand it over.

  Reaching for the canteen strap, muscular fingers closed on his wrist and jerked!

  He fell, scrabbling for a hold on his saddle. His fingers slipped off the pommel. The slick material of the Zeor coverall slid bit by bit as he tried to grip with his knees. Frantically, he grabbed for the bars of the cage to keep from falling under the wagon’s wheels. His boot caught and twisted in the stirrup.

  He hung suspended between horse and wagon, fighting desperately to keep his hold as one of the captives secured a stranglehold on his throat. Klyd’s voice, shouting, was only a faint sound behind the buzzing in his ears.

  The wagon slowed for what seemed like forever. Finally it came to rest. Sime hands and tentacles dragged him loose. He sat on the ground rubbing his neck. Klyd’s tentacles poked and probed at his injuries. In Simelan, the channel muttered, “Wild Gens are dangerous animals. Now maybe you’ve learned that lesson?”

  Only the crooked grin on the channel’s face kept Valleroy from punching him in the nose.

  “The rule, Naztehr, is to ignore them until they’ve been civilized. It doesn’t take too long.”

  Valleroy pushed the Sime hands away. “I’m all right. Let’s go.” He climbed back on his horse, and they resumed the ride through sparsely settled countryside.

  When they arrived at Imil, the horses and the captives’ wagon were taken around back of the court buildings...very much like Zeor in appearance...and the riders entered through the main gate.

  Having missed lunch, Valleroy was very glad to be greeted by a lavish table set along one side of the main cafeteria. They arrived just in time for the last dinner shift, but most of the department heads had waited for Nashmar’s return.

  Though glad of the food, Valleroy wasn’t in the mood for social conversation. He addressed himself only to the meal and steadfastly held his peace. In this company he was a respected craftsman whose services came at a high premium. He’d sustained enough abuse that afternoon to make his status here terribly important to him.

  “Hugh,” said Klyd softly, “it’s been a long day. Wouldn’t you like to get some rest?”

  Valleroy looked up dazedly to find the long banquet table deserted but for the remains of the meal. He gulped the rest of his drink and rose. “Guess I just failed my diplomacy exams.”

  “Eccentric behavior is expected of artists. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

  As Klyd and Valleroy moved out into the corridor, the kitchen staff swarmed out with clean-up wagons as if they’d been waiting for the visitors to leave.

  “You must know this place pretty well?”

  “Imil is laid out very much as Zeor, except it is oriented west to east and in mirror images. We’ll have the guest suite overlooking the main gate.”

  “I’ve never been up there...I mean in Zeor.”

  “You will, no doubt, be pleased to note that the suite has two large, separate bedrooms.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t that bad.” Valleroy blushed pink under his tan. He had lain stiff as a corpse the whole night, afraid Klyd would make some unthinkable advance.

  Turning into a wide staircase, Klyd laughed. “If Yenava knew what you were thinking, she’d faint! Channels are virtually incapable of anything but a vigorous, if intermittent, heterosexuality.”

  “You must be reading my mind.”

  “Of course not. But your emotions are a blazing beacon to anyone who has studied Gens as intensively as I have.”

  At the third floor, the stair led into a richly hung hallway lined with sculptures that seemed to be genuine antiques. They marched the gauntlet of pre-Sime statues acutely aware that their common ancestors had created these masterpieces.

  The artist in Valleroy hungered to study them more closely, but his eyes were too heavy with sleep.

  Klyd ushered him into the guest suite. “That will be your room. I’ll take this one.”

  Nodding blearily, Valleroy made his way to his bed and fell into a sound sleep that was broken only by bright sunshine and a persistent knocking on his door.

  “Naztehr! Naztehr!”

  It was an unfamiliar voice and an unfamiliar title. Only half awake, Valleroy growled, “Yes? What do you want?”

&nb
sp; “Naztehr Hugh, Sectuib Farris requests your attendance in the Sectuib’s office as soon as possible.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Almost noon, Naztehr.”

  Valleroy groaned. He’d slept the clock around and more, a very rare thing for him to do. “Tell him I’ll be there as soon as I get dressed.”

  “Thank you, Naztehr.”

  Valleroy wasn’t accustomed to veneration. Coupled with the luxurious surroundings, it made him uncomfortable...as if he’d stepped far out of his class and was about to be caught gate-crashing. He hauled himself out of the cozy bed to face the day, whatever it might bring.

  Half an hour later, scrubbed, shaved, and immaculately attired in clean Zeor coveralls that had been laid out for him...new and apparently tailored to an exact fit...he presented himself at the office of the Sectuib of Imil.

  He was shown into the inner sanctum immediately, as if he were somebody important. The young women working in the outer offices turned appraising eyes on him as he passed. It all made him very nervous.

  The inner office itself was very like Klyd’s...clean, businesslike, well organized, and overflowing with work. But there the resemblance ended. One wall was hung with layer upon layer of life-size fashion sketches. In the corner near the court window, a mannequin was dressed in a flowing evening gown, while behind the door posed a well-dressed athlete mannequin resplendent in iridescent shirt and incredible tan. They were, Valleroy noted, Sime mannequins.

  But the most startling thing in the room was the fact that Nashmar leaned against a bookcase while Klyd lounged at ease in the chair behind the desk. Valleroy gaped at this reversal of roles. To cover his reaction, he said, “Good morning, Sectuib....” and then realized he didn’t know the plural of the title. “Uh, Sectuib Nashmar, I’m sorry if I kept you waiting.”