Unable to effectively communicate with her peers, she was essentially mute, unable to really make friends or join the slave subculture. Her future was looking pretty damned bleak. She was beginning to believe that she would spend the rest of her life in this godforsaken place, lonely, mute, blind, and enslaved.
4
Some Failures to Communicate
Enu was a purplish fruit that tasted like a melon but grew on trees about ten or fifteen feet tall. The picking was tricky, since you could not pick them until they were almost ripe but if you guessed wrong and the fruit grew too large to remain on the tree and fell to the ground it was useless. It was also somewhat messy, since the trees needed a near-constant trickle of water gotten to them by a small but expertly planned network of irrigation ditches and canals and it was muddy right along the trees themselves.
The only reminder that this was not a totally normal farm or grove was the presence of armed uniformed soldiers riding back and forth. They would seem menacing but they barely paid any attention to the pickers; their concern was keeping the pickers from being rudely interrupted by denizens of the Wastes who might want anything from stealing fruit to stealing them.
The picking technique was to take a small wooden ladder and a basket, plant the ladder firmly, then go up it with the basket right into the tree itself and then pick the fruit. Due to both the heat and the mud, most pickers opted for what was basically a panty for the females and a jock strap for the males, a thick bandannalike headband to catch perspiration, and a pair of work gloves to protect the hands in the actual picking. Basically you walked along an irrigation ditch in the mud until you came to the first tree in a row not being picked, you planted your ladder, went up with your basket, then leaned and squirmed and picked what fruit was there, often going down to empty your basket into a collection basket—there were many spread evenly out along the work area—and then back up again, perhaps on the other side, until you picked it clean. Then you went to the next tree not being picked and did the same.
Each picker was assigned a quota of trees that he had to pick before the day was ended based upon his physical abilities or handicaps and done, from the looks of it, fairly enough. Few really needed a quota; the pickers all seemed quite happy doing their work and proud of it as well; they competed against each other to see who would exceed their quota and by how much.
It wasn't hard but it did wear you, and that was where the makuda came in. Makuda was some sort of potion guaranteed to do no physical harm—there were even some pregnant women out there—that was, nonetheless, a pretty good stimulant that also quenched thirst and helped retain body moisture. You could get it anytime you needed at the collection bins, and Sam definitely felt the need after less than an hour out there on that first afternoon. Living so long with Boday, she had no real qualms about such potions, not when they were obviously mixed to such a common and positive purpose.
And the stuff really worked. Not only did she feel the aches and pains vanish, but she felt very energized, willing to work, and much more comfortable. It also tended to lull the mind a bit, so grumps and complaints about working and worries of all sorts, seemed to fade and you found yourself concentrating on and even enjoying the routine. She felt herself through the afternoon almost merging with the other pickers into a collective consciousness in which nothing else really mattered and there was an instant comradeship, even though the pickers were the usual settlement assortment of men, women, and, well, whatevers.
When she rode back in on the carts with them, she had done a reasonable afternoon's work and felt fairly satisfied as she saw the nargas pulling carts of the fruit along with them and thought, Some of those are mine, picked by me.
As she made her way from the worker's housing area back to the residence, however, the drug began to wear off and she began to feel her tiredness and all the aches and pains of the day. All she wanted now was a soak, some food, and sleep. Avala, however, had something different in mind.
"My Lord the Duke wants you to have dinner with him this evening," she told the tired refugee. "He always wants to meet anyone new who comes here."
She groaned. "Oh, I don't know if I can! I'm feeling every damned enu right now. I'm so tired I might fall asleep in my salad."
Avala gave a wry smile. "It can be a bit hard until you get used to it and your muscles get built up," she admitted, "but My Lord Duke knows this. That is why tonight, when you have worked only part of a day, and not later on. There is a potion similar to makuda that will give you energy and ease your aches but leave you with a clear head, and if he keeps you late you will not have to work tomorrow. Come, I will help you get clean and dressed, and then you will see."
The potion was slower to act but very effective. By the time she'd finished her bath and felt reasonably clean and presentable, she also felt very good, almost as though she'd just gotten up. She hoped that this stuff didn't wear off very quickly, either.
The outfit wasn't much—just the top from the cinnamon stretch suit and a patterned long but slit skirt that somewhat matched and the boots, but it felt, well, civilized after spending the day mostly naked in mud that tended to bake on.
The governor's quarters were upstairs, where the administrative offices were. The whole wing was rustic-looking but very nicely appointed, and you could tell immediately that you were in an upper-class area by just looking at the quality of everything and the perfection at which it was maintained. Never before had Sam been at this social and economic level on Akahlar, and it was impressive.
Avala left her at the top of the stairs, and Sam was surprised to be met by Medac, who was actually wearing a pair of trousers and boots, which looked incongruous on a man with wings and no arms.
"Hello, there," the winged man greeted her. "I am happy to see you looking so well."
"It's drugs," she responded. "I'm dead tired, really, but I could hardly refuse."
He chuckled. "I understand they had you in the enu groves. Yes, I have watched them from above. I wanted to, well, caution you a bit, before we go in. I have seen how tolerant you are of changelings and I think it is most admirable, but I wish to prepare you for my mother."
Sam's eyebrows rose. "Your mother?"
He nodded. "We were returning in a caravan from one of those silly ceremonial visits, to foster goodwill and all that, that members of the royal families have to suffer through from time to time. It was in Gryatil, one of our own lands, not a day from home and safety, when a changewind hit. It was sudden, unexpected, and brutal. We had Mandan cloaks, of course, but you are supposed to have some warning and seek the lowest point, then huddle beneath them until the Navigator signals all clear. That is fine advice if you have warning and can see it coining, but we were very near the point where the wind broke through into Akahlar from wherever such winds originate. We barely had time to get on the ground and pull the cloaks over us. It was in heavy grass on uneven land, and no one had ever warned us about the true force of such a storm. The Mandan cloaks are very heavy, but they must be just so. Mine was lumpy and had an opening. The great winds came straight at us, and my cloak actually lifted up as I was facedown and the wind went through, under, before falling back down on top of me again. I tried to reach up without looking up and bring it down but by that time I had no arms. I was fourteen, and the mere sudden realization that the wind had gotten me caused me to scream in panic and terror."
She nodded. Although she'd only seen one changewind, and that in a vision, she could imagine the scene.
"My mother was in front of me, facing me, and she heard my terror and could not stop herself from looking out to see what terrible thing had happened. Her face, and neck, were totally exposed. Each wind is different but it tends to have its own, unique, consistency. She will be present, not only because it is duty but also because I cannot feed myself in any sort of polite surroundings. She cannot speak, but her mind is still the same. I would not like her hurt."
"Don't worry. I worked with people far more biz
arre today than any I had ever dreamed about and had no trouble. The men who attacked us and committed those terrible acts on us— they were Akhbreed. Their leader was a changeling, but they were what we would call 'normal' on the outside. Inside, they were hideous, evil monsters. I do not judge people on how they look. I will not embarrass you or your mother." I hope, she added to herself.
He smiled. "I thank you for that. Now, come with me if you will."
They walked down a long corridor filled with portraits and antiques.
"I am curious," she said to him. "Just curious. Only part of you was exposed, and yet you were changed in more ways than just wings. Hollow bones, and apparently whatever was needed to allow you to fly and have enough energy and strength to do it."
He nodded. "That is the nature of the winds. Consistency, of sorts, is always preserved. No one is ever left who is not put together as a functioning being, no matter how much or little the exposure or where it is, although only the exposed areas are radically changed. Although my mother has no wings, internally we are consistent beings. Were it not unthinkably incestuous, we could actually mate and produce similarly structured creatures that would either be her way or mine. Impossible for us, of course, but there are actually some very small races, the products of the winds, that breed true. Ah! Here we are!"
Two guards uniformed in full military dress stood at the large wooden doors and opened them for the pair as they reached the entrance. Inside, there was a large rectangular paneled room with a long table at its center capable of seating six on a side and one at each end. There were candelabras lit on the table, and the chairs were lined with satin. It was very regal, and Sam felt decidedly underdressed, although somewhat relieved that only a few places were set.
The Duke clearly sat at the head of the table; Medac showed Sam to one chair to the Duke's left and apologized that he could not pull it out for her. She understood.
Almost immediately the Duke entered from the rear of the dining room, followed by his wife and one other man who might well have been an aide to the Duke. The Governor himself was a strikingly handsome man, the kind of man who seems to grow even more handsome and distinguished as the years go by. He had thick, curly gray hair and a bushy but perfectly groomed gray moustache, and a rugged, aristocratic face and bearing. He was the kind of man who could command attention anywhere, and in any crowd.
So would his wife, but not for the same reason. It was difficult to say what she had looked like but not a bad bet that she had been a perfect match for the Duke. Even at her age, which was probably not that much less than her husband, she had a strikingly good figure and a formal dress that fit perfectly. The fact that the head that now sat upon those slender shoulders was that of a huge, falconlike bird of prey emphasized the tragedy of the family.
Sam stood silently as they entered, and reminded herself that no matter what she must not stare at the Duchess. Idly she wondered how you greeted a Duke. Did you kiss his ring or bow or curtsy or what?
"Please, please! Be seated!" Duke Alon Pasedo said in a friendly, low baritone that matched the appearance perfectly. "We do not stand on ceremony here unless we have to. It is one of the few truly bright spots to living out here." He saw his wife to her seat and made certain that Medac was also seated. Sam realized that the chairs were all designed to allow the winged man some comfort so long as he kept his wings in. Then the Duke took his place and the other man took his next to Sam.
The stranger was fiftyish, balding, with thick glasses, and his face showed signs of weathering and wear.
"I am Alon Pasedo, and this is my wife, the Duchess Yova, and the gentleman to your left is Kano Layse, the Director of the Refuge we have established here. My son you already know. He is quite adept at spotting and guiding those lost and in need to our establishment. But, come! Let us eat, and then we will talk."
It was a hell of a meal, even if Sam didn't know what half of it was and had never tasted the variations of the half she did recognize before. If most of the staff were refugees, as they seemed to be called here, then one must have been a master chef. Food was served by a team of two men and two women who picked up dishes from windows into the kitchen hidden behind decorative screens and then brought them to the table. The servants had the usual evening dress of the house staff, but their skirts and sarongs seemed to be of very high quality, their flower garlands fresh and exotic, and they were both made up and immaculate.
The Duchess took no food herself, nor drink, either, but spent the time cutting and then hand-feeding her son. Medac seemed to have outgrown any embarrassment for the situation, since he was in fact helpless in such a dining room, and Sam suspected that what that falconlike head could eat, and how it ate it, would not be suitable for polite company.
The Duke controlled the talk, which was light and generally directed at her.
"You are not from an Akhbreed hub," he said casually, "although you speak the language quite well. Were you born a colonial in Tubikosa?"
"No, Your Grace," she responded, figuring out the proper form of address. "I am not native to Akahlar at all. I am one of those people who—dropped in, as it were, to my very great surprise."
"Ah! Fascinating! And yet you speak Akhbreed so well. It is a horror of a tongue, in spite of its versatility as a language. Deliberately evolved, I suspect, because even the smartest colonial can't master it on his own unless raised with it. Tell me, how did you learn it so well?"
"Sorcery, Your Grace," she responded. That was no lie, although it wasn't the complete truth.
"Ah, yes. 1 remember my staff saying something about an Akhbreed sorcerer's curse. That explains it. Usually the only ones from the Outplane who can learn our tongue are natural sorcerers themselves. But the better sorcerers can endow it, to their own purposes."
He very suddenly dropped that line to Sam's relief. She did not want to have to lie or admit that in fact she was allegedly some natural kind of sorcerer and that was how she knew the language and why she was such a prize.
There was more small talk, and then the Duke asked, "Is your home world like any of ours that you have seen?"
"Not really, although people are people, it seems, both good and bad and even indifferent. We had far more machines, for example. Flying machines and even personal machines that replaced the horse."
The Duke nodded. "I have heard of such worlds. That is one of the pities of Akahlar, you know. We could build flying machines, but with the kind of conditions we have and our instabilities we would never be able to get them or any other high-speed conveyance where we wanted it, or be certain that complex mechanical contraptions would obey the same minute physical and chemical laws in one place as they did in another. Even communication is a problem here. We could have a system that might work inside this building, for example, or perhaps through the whole complex, but it would always have static and interference. As for any distance—it is impossible. The shifts and constant changes in our borders cause impossible static. Still, there is much to be said for the old, tried-and-true ways. Slow and clumsy at times, perhaps, but also reassuring no matter where you are. And they keep our weapons development, our armies, on a level that does not assure total destruction."
"Where I came from .they could destroy the world with a push of a button," she responded. "It always hung over us like a cloud."
"Exactly my point! Single-shot guns and cannon and swords and the like are more honorable, and far easier to control. The argument for super weapons is always that they will stop wars. But, tell me, did they stop wars and conflicts in your world?"
"No," she had to admit. "They stopped the really big wars but not all the small wars."
"Yes. And in Akahlar the big wars are impossible—the same conditions I spoke about prevent them, and the equality of the kingdoms maintains stability. We, too, have our little wars but without any threat of a global one. Who, after all, could conquer thousands and thousands of worlds? And what conqueror could be safe if he did not? No, the drawbacks her
e are the sorts of dungs that make a place like this necessary."
"Your Grace means the intolerance of the different."
"Yes, exactly. We already have to deal with thousands of races, many of them only remotely what we think of as human, but each is, after all, the natural denizen of his world. You would think that with so much variety there would be little trouble in at least tolerating the different, the unique, the ones and twos of a kind. But the sight, the existence, of one who was once Akhbreed terrifies them. It is not like one who is born different—that is natural. But the thought that one of their own could become so alien a creature, that touches a basic fear in our society. The system discriminates against anyone who does not meet the basic standards. Not everyone is that way—I was never that way—but a few rational thinkers have no way to change something which is deep in the fears of a people and their culture and society. One does not need a changewind or a curse, either. Those two girls you have with you are a fine example."
Sam nodded. "I don't know how to handle that, really, Your Grace. In my world they would get guardians, the state would provide homes, and they would inherit. Here—they are outcasts, even by their own."
"Exactly. Minors cannot inherit here, and unmarried females have fewer property rights. Your system is far more humane, or so it sounds to me, but the rigidity of this system is its true curse. They do not have to change, therefore they do not. I would not wish the suffering of my family on anyone, but I often believe there was some purpose to it. I had money, position. I could shelter them until I could arrange to move here and gain this appointment. I could afford to seek out like-minded, progressive thinkers who were frustrated by the system and bring them here. If criminals and traitors could find refuge here, then I saw no reason why good, decent unfortunates could not as well. Here there is no reason for ones like your girls to be sold to brothels or turned into chattel, or for people crippled or maimed to wind up in the gutters and back alleys. Here those afflicted with curses and those unfortunates who were caught in changewinds but not mentally deranged could find some peace and purpose."
Riders Of The Winds Page 10