The Kindly Ones

by Melissa Scott

  "Will you walk with me, Medium? Herself doesn't like latecomers."

  "I will, thank you," I said. The others the Matriarch had summoned were pushing back their chairs, too, hastily collecting shawls and jackets and workbags. The Patroclans, in particular, looked nervous. I gave them what I hoped was an encouraging smile, but got nothing in return.

  "I don't understand them," Rohin said, involuntarily, as we followed them down the length of the dining hall. His father, hurrying past us, shot him a reproving glance, and the Demi-heir shrugged uncomfortably. "Well, I don't. Are all the Urban Worlders like them?"

  "No!" I said quickly, and Rohin grinned at the unfortunate emphasis. I had to smile back, reluctantly, and said, "Patroclus is the exception. It's in the trade ring, but it's not really part of the Urban culture. I'm an Urban Worlder myself, you know."

  Rohin nodded. "You're not like them," he agreed. "Why—what makes them so strange?"

  As a trained Mediator, representative of Conglomerate and Urban society, I knew I should respond with some platitude about no human society being truly strange. But the Patroclans were unique among the Conglomerate worlds, and no one except natives or a few specialists made any pretense of understanding them. "I don't know," I said. "Patroclus is a hard world; there was a lot of trouble settling it. And then almost everything on the planet, plant or animal, has a symbiotic partner of some kind. But anyway, for whatever reason, they developed a culture based on pairs, and that's the standard social unit, not the individual."

  Rohin nodded again, and said, with surprising insight, "But then, I suppose most of the Urban Worlds think our society's a bit odd."

  That was very true, though I was not about to say it, or to admit that I agreed with that opinion. However, the lag between the first colonial ships—massive generation ships, all of them—and the development of a true FTL drive, had let a lot of peculiar cultures flourish, especially on the more distant planets. Only on the urban Worlds, close enough to make interplanetary trade feasible from the first year of FTL travel, had any more universal culture developed. The Conglomerate itself existed only to enforce a semi-uniform commercial code, not to provide a cultural base. Orestes was not so different from other worlds of the Rim, or the Farside. . . . I couldn't go that far. Orestes was different, very different, from worlds like Herne or Bastet. On those planets, the long separation from other human cultures had produced intricate and apparently anomalous societies, but none of their customs had the deadly strength of Orestes' honor. I had been an actor, before I realized I would make a better Mediator, and I had been in enough tragedies to lose patience with honor as a cause.

  Rohin was looking at me rather oddly, and I brought myself back to the conversation with an effort. "Probably. And you'd probably find any of the Urban Worlds pretty peculiar yourself."

  "I suppose," Rohin said, without conviction, and then we had reached the solar.

  I had never suspected that Rohin harbored an interest in the Urban Worlds, or in anything off-planet. There was a rather wistful expression on his face as he tapped on the door of the solar, and well there might be. As a Halex not merely of mainline Family but in the direct line for the genarchy, it was highly unlikely that he would ever have the opportunity to go off-world.

  Then the door opened, breaking my train of thought, and we went in. The Matriarch's solar was a low-ceilinged, almost triangular room at the point of the pentagonal Tower. The heavy shutters were pushed back to make the most of the sunlight, and the holdstone floor was perceptibly warm underfoot. The Matriarch herself sat with her back to the windows, her heavy, hooded armchair drawn close to a small table. Her face was invisible in its shadow. She was busy with some piece of handwork, which she released long enough to gesture toward the chest that held the coffee service.

  "Welcome, Rohin, Medium. Serve yourself, if you please. We are as Family here."

  "Thank you, ama," I said, and crossed to the chest. I took my time, choosing spices and sugar and a shot of the local whiskey to help offset the taste of the coffee, surveying the assembled group. Rohin and I had been the last to arrive; the other Family members had been quick to choose chairs standing either in the wedge of sunlight or beneath the slender pole lights, and most were busy with some handicraft. The Patroclans, looking more ill at ease than ever, were perched on matching drumseats by the short inside wall. Moved by some obscure, defensive instinct—after all, I had been the one who had suggested Patroclus; despite their peculiarities, they were among the best engineers in the Conglomerate—I settled myself in an armchair next to them, facing the Matriarch. She leaned forward, reaching for a tiny pair of scissors, and I saw her smile.

  "Well, Medium, I have a verbal report from these, and I'm promised a written one by Sunset. What did you think of the situation in the hills?"

  I took a sip of the scalding coffee, trying to buy time. "I'm not an engineer, ama. I don't know what I can add to their report."

  "I didn't expect you to answer engineer's questions," Herself shot back. "What about the people?"

  "In brief, ama—" I began, and the Matriarch said sharply, "Not necessarily."

  Magan, the balding Heir, sighed deeply, and gave me a sympathetic look. I said, as though she hadn't spoken, "In brief, ama, I found the area still much depressed. The retraining has helped, and the subsidies for the factories outside the mine towns, but not everyone's willing to leave. The public works have helped, too, but there's only so much you can do." I took a deep breath. "There were some other matters I wanted to take up with you—a 'death,' and some troubles with para'anin—but I'd prefer to follow Slade's example and give you a written report. Will you allow me the same deadline?"

  Magan nodded thoughtfully and, when his mother did not answer, said "Ama, I would appreciate seeing a written account."

  The Matriarch ignored him. "A 'death,' Medium?"

  "Yes." I took another sip of coffee, marshalling my thoughts. The case had not been pretty, a girl—a seventeen-year-old girl of beauty and talent—accused of a seemingly trivial breach of code that the settlement council had insisted on viewing as mortal. I said, carefully, "There was a case at Feibourg, four calendar-months ago. The council insisted on the strict construction of the code, though the accused was very young and there were both mitigating circumstances and some evidence of malice. I have copies of the documents. With your permission and consent, I'd like to press for a review."

  The Matriarch leaned forward again into the light, the corners of her mouth turned down in disapproval. "A review?" She glanced down at the heap of yarn, took two quick stitches. "I'll see your report first, Medium."

  "Of course." Any review of that sort of judgment would not be undertaken lightly, and I had not expected that it would be.

  "And the para'anin?" the Matriarch went on, still stabbing at her knitting.

  "Ama." Magan set aside his own work, a rounded, competently abstract animal shape of seastone that he was polishing, and glanced quickly in Coronis's direction. "Surely we could leave that for tomorrow's cabinet? This is a social occasion, after all."

  Coronis flushed, but bent over her workbox without a word. After a moment, she retrieved a child's wool jacket and unfolded it on her lap, fumbling in the box for needle and thread. Her hands were trembling. I couldn't help but feel sorry for her, set apart from her own family and from her husband's kin, but didn't know how to turn the conversation.

  It was Rohin, to my surprise, who leaped into the breach. "If all these reports'll be due by Sunset," he said, "maybe we could make an expedition into Destiny after Dark. I don't think the guildmasters have seen any of the sights."

  Ixora, one of Rohin's agemates, a wild-haired, high-tempered hellion who belonged to one of the Halex cousin-lines, looked up from the underboot she was laboriously knitting. "You'll be going into the Necropolis, then." It was not a question, nor did her tone seem malicious, but Rohin scowled.

  "That's the best part of the city, in the Dark." He met his grandmother's stern
gaze, and said defiantly, "And the theater's worth seeing."

  The Matriarch snorted. "They say the plays are worth seeing. However, the company you have to keep to see them. . . . Ghosts and para'anin, all of them, and most of them more whore than actor. Though how you can tell the difference, I don't know."

  The Patroclans exchanged an embarrassed glance. I took a deep breath, controlling an old, instinctive anger, and Jesma said quietly, from her place by the window, "I think you exaggerate, ama. Certainly customs differ—as I'm sure Trey would tell you."

  It was neatly done, reprimand and reminder all in one. A spasm, as much of pain as of embarrassment, flashed across the Matriarch's face, and she said, stiffly, "I had forgotten your former profession, Medium. No offense was intended."

  I knew that this was not the time or the place to champion actors, or to justify the popular conception of their morals. Even so, it was hard to give the right answer, and I could hear how stiff I sounded. "And none taken."

  The Matriarch swivelled her attention back to Rohin, her frown deepening. "If you intend to go into Destiny during the Dark, I expect you to behave properly—no, carefully. I don't want anyone to be able to say anything against you."

  "Have I ever given cause?" Rohin asked, fairly reasonably.

  The Matriarch glared at him. "That's not the point. There are—" She checked abruptly, reminded of Coronis's presence by the younger woman's sudden movement, and continued, in a more subdued voice. "There are enough people who would like to see our Kinship discredited, for whatever reason. I don't want the Demi-heir to give them fuel."

  Rohin took a deep breath, and said, "I'll continue to set a shining example, ama."

  Ixora laughed, and was silenced by a look from Herself. She bent hastily over the underboot, concentrating on the complex pattern of its cuff, but her sidelong glances betrayed her amusement. Coronis's lips were white-edged, pinched tight with anger. She continued to set small, precise stitches, jabbing vindictively at the jacket's torn hem. Jesma gave her a compassionate glance, and said, "Have you been to the new mills in Destiny yet, Coronis?"

  "No."

  Jesma ignored the curt monosyllable, talking gently on about the yarns she had seen there. She was working with half a dozen different yarns herself—subtle gradations of color and texture that showed to advantage in the strong light from the window. After a moment, almost in spite of herself, Coronis began to respond, and Magan put aside his polishing cloth to examine Jesma's delicate work. Even Ixora added a comment or two, though she was known for her lack of interest in the usual Oresteian crafts. She only made what she could not afford to buy. I knew that underboots with patterned cuffs that showed above short bootshanks were very popular with the sporting set, and guessed that they were correspondingly expensive. But Ixora was part of the sporting crowd, who raced teams of the immense, ox-like hoobeys across the frozen Little Steppes, in the north of the Axtell Mandate. She would hardly allow herself to go without the latest fashion, even if she had to do the tedious work herself.

  I leaned back in my chair and took a swallow of my cooling coffee, wishing I had put more whiskey in it. I was getting tired of the constant crosscurrents within the Halex Tower, the obsessive analysis of every word and glance. I was not cut out for court life, no matter how you defined it. . . .

  I shook myself then, and sat up straighter in the chair, taking another sip of the laced coffee. I was tired indeed if I was seeing scheming courtiers in this company. I needed a break—perhaps I should go into Destiny myself, during the three-day Dark. I had a few friends in the city, mostly off-worlders, and Moraghan, captain of the six-week mailship, should have landed by then. I could at least have dinner with her, maybe sample some of the delights of the Necropolis, and get my mind off the Halex Kinship for a while. I nodded to myself as I finished my coffee. I would ask for a few days' leave when I turned in my report.

  Secure in that decision, I set the cup aside. The conversation ebbed slowly, and the Matriarch's needles moved more stiffly. At last, with a sigh, she bundled the fabric together and tucked it into her battered workbox. The others, recognizing the signal, began putting away their own work. With Magan's discreet help, the old woman hauled herself to her feet, leaned heavily on her cane for a few moments, and dismissed us. I, for one, was not sorry to make my escape.

  As I headed up the stairs, however, I heard Rohin call my name. I was tempted for a moment to play deaf; but then the Demi-heir was clattering up the stairs behind me.

  "I'm sorry for what happened," he said. "It's just—Herself has a thing about actors."

  "I gathered," I said, rather sourly. I could feel that it was getting late, despite the unchanging sunlight outside, and wanted very much to go to bed. Rohin grimaced, and I shook myself, trying to be polite. "Look, it doesn't matter. I'm not an actor anymore."

  "No, but—I think I owe you an explanation," Rohin said. He grinned suddenly, almost sheepishly. "And there was a favor I wanted to ask you, but I'm not sure this is the time. Could I come in?"

  We were at my door already. I hesitated for an instant, then shrugged and twisted the old-fashioned handlock, motioning him inside. Rohin slipped past me with a murmur of thanks, and there was something in his eyes that made me glad I had said yes.

  Sunlight was streaming in through the open thermal blinds, warming the outer room nicely. I waved Rohin to the nearest seat, and said, "Coffee?"

  The Demi-heir shook his head, stretching his feet into the triangle of sun, but pulled himself up abruptly. "Thank you, no."

  "Esco?" That was the liqueur I had brought with me from Athene. It was expensive even there, and I was a little relieved when Rohin shook his head again.

  "Nothing, thanks."

  "As you wish." I settled myself in the hooded chair opposite him, turning it slightly so that my feet were in the sun, and waited for him to say something. "You really don't owe me any explanations, you know," I said, after a moment, and the Demi-heir cut in.

  "But I do. Herself may be unreasonable—" He paused, then grimaced. "All right, she is unreasonable, but it's not the way you think." He paused again, searching for the right words. I waited, and realized after a moment that I was folding my hands, acting the psychiatrist waiting for a confession. Deliberately, I moved my fingers apart, resting each hand on its armchair.

  "You know my sib, Rosser," Rohin said at last. I didn't see quite what that had to do with anything, but I made an affirmative noise. I knew him, all right. Rosser was thirteen, almost old enough for the Choice—the ritual acceptance of the code's strictures—and eager for it.

  "There's also Rehur," the Demi-heir went on. "My twin. He's dead."

  He had used the common form, not the inflected word that meant true-dead: so one of the mainline Halex was a ghost, and not just any mainline kinsman, but the son of the Heir himself. I didn't say anything, however, and Rohin seemed to relax a little.

  "He didn't do anything, really. It's what he didn't do. . . . Rehur went off to Destiny, spent a lot of time in the Necropolis, in the theaters—with actors," he conceded, with an odd little smile, at once protective and worldly, and I had no trouble translating what he meant by the cautious phrase. "And instead of getting himself declared para'an, he just ignored everything, the whole family, so Herself had no choice but to declare him dead—and she's never forgiven him for it."

  Privately, I had to admit I could see her position, and it did go a long way toward explaining her attitude. It seemed the height of irresponsibility to allow yourself to be declared a ghost, with all the restrictions that entailed, when you could become para'an by fulfilling the ritual obligations. A para'an was at least visible, could speak and be spoken to. . . . I pulled myself together, and asked, "He's an actor, your twin?"

  "Yes, in the puppet theater. He's with a company now."

  There was a strong note of defiance in Rohin's voice, and I could understand why. "Real" actors generally looked down on the holopuppet theater, though many of them had gotten
their start there, claiming that puppet theater required no talent except a good body—some said the less talent the better. It was at least partly true, but the new-style companies, the ones that mixed live actors and holopuppets, needed actors with a good deal of talent. And the new style was very popular on Orestes. Dimly, I remembered reading about an Oresteian company winning one of the Dionysian competitions, to a great deal of critical acclaim. That had been while I was on Delilah, though, mediating a particularly complicated trade-rights dispute, and I hadn't paid much attention to the details. I'd been to the theater often enough since coming to Orestes, though, to see that the puppeteers were doing something new and exciting, and said as much.

  Rohin grinned at that, relieved. "I'm glad you said that, you know, since that gives me the excuse I needed."

  "Oh?" I waited. You never knew if you were going to regret it when a Halex asked a favor.

  "You remember I said tonight that I wanted to go into Destiny at Dark?" the Demi-heir began. "Well, Herself's right when she says we have to be careful these days, even if she couldn't speak plainly in front of Coronis. The Brandr are just itching for a chance to put one of us in front of the Council. That way," he added, seeing my confused expression, "they could also bitch about us bringing in off-worlders, whether it's an act of cowardice or not."

  It was on the tip of my tongue to say that I didn't see how even the Ship's Council could call it that, but I was on Orestes, and I stopped.

  "But no one could object," Rohin went on, "if I were accompanied by the family medium. Would you come with me, act as medium for a few calendar-days?"

  I had been looking forward to a little time away from Orestes and my responsibilities, but then I saw the look in Rohin's eyes. "I take it your twin's performing?" I asked.

  "Yes," Rohin said, rather defiantly. Then, as I said nothing, his pose crumbled a little. "His company, Witchwood, was invited to take part in a khy sonon-na, and I really want to see it."