Fire in the Sky tst-1

by Jo Clayton

  “No. It is the short answer and a simple one, but it is the truth. The long answer is this: The word of your existence has spread too widely and will attract too many who want to wring profit from you and your world for you to be as you were. You could do worse-much worse-than the Yaraka. If you deal with them wisely, they will protect you from the…” Aslan said wolves and Shadith hesitated as she searched for an equivalent, then hurried to catch up. “The tukeol. And right now you need protection. What I can do is teach you about the Yaraka while I learn from you how your lives go. Knowledge brings power; ignorance, death.”

  “You speak with eloquence, Scholar, but you don’t say much.”

  “What can I say? What I know about you is what I see. I speak with the Harper’s tongue and listen with the Harper’s ears because I haven’t had time to learn your speech. I know even less of who you are and how you live. When one wishes to explain something, one needs to understand at least a little of what the listener knows and does not know, otherwise two people will only speak past each other and much misunderstanding will arise.”

  “That is true. But we do not know this Harper. How does she know us?”

  “It is her Gift to understand strange speech. I can’t explain, only be pleased to use it.”

  “Why do the mesuch want you here?”

  “The Chave are testing them, trying to drive them away. The Yaraka don’t have the time or resources to do what I’ll be doing for them, they’ll be too busy defending themselves and conducting their side-glance secret war. You do know about the Chave?”

  “The mesuchs across the sea? We have heard. They are different?”

  “Different worlds, different interests. Rivals. Enemies. You can use that, you know-if you learn how to play the Yaraka. You can’t get rid of them, but you can control to some extent the change they bring to your lives.”

  The talk went on and on, the scribe stamping the wedge-shaped end of xe’s stylo in complicated patterns down row after row of the pages of the tablet. Shadith stopped thinking about what she was hearing, giving the words only the attention needed to translate them.

  Aslan explained over and over what her purpose and intent was, what University was, the kind of things she was going to record, what would happen to the record, what was her exact relationship to the Yaraka, what did she know about the Chave, why did they act that way, who would be able to read what she recorded.

  “Anyone?” The Metau’s heavy features drew together.

  “Anyone who has the money to purchase a readout. As long as the data is not flagged for limited access, which this would probably not be.” Aslan thought a moment (Shadith moved her shoulders, grateful for the momentary pause; she considered asking for a glass of water, but her need wasn’t urgent and she didn’t want to break the flow). “The Yaraka might consider it proprietary information and therefore privileged, but our Meruu of Scholars have strong feelings about unrestricted access to information, as long as the seeker can pay for it. They would probably deny such a request.”

  On and on.

  The Alsekumers on the benches shifted position, whispered in hisses, went out, and others came in; Shadith could hear the faint rustles of their movements and envied them. She was getting stiff from sitting and her throat was beginning to burn.

  A basso note of considerable power broke through a question; there was a sharp edge of impatience to the sound and a demand implicit in it. Shadith looked up.

  An Eolt had moved out over the open center, holding position with a single tentacle. A long slit pursed open and snapped closed among the cilia in xe’s base and more sounds poured out of xe, a wordless music that was at the same time an announcement that the Eolt had something to say and was tired of waiting xe’s chance.

  Ruaim and Chachil exchanged grimaces, then the Teseach sang, “Mer-Eolt Lebesair, be welcome to Alsekum Meet. Is there word you bring us from the Meruu of the Eolt?” He put frills on the words, made a fine production of the question.

  (“What’s that about?” Aslan murmured.

  “The Meruu is some kind of council, this Eolt is a rep from that council, here to look us over, I suppose.”

  “Wish xe’d opened xe’s mouth earlier. Saved my ears and your throat. Have you picked up any idea what the relationship is between our floating friend up there and the walkers?”

  “I’ve a few notions but they’re too vague to talk about right now. Ali! Xe’s warming up for a speech. I need to concentrate for this. When the floaters talk, it’s complicated.”)

  3

  Maorgan watched the two women as they answered the tedious and silly questions from that phrata pair preening on the dais. The Harper amazed him. After years of dealing with offworld traders and now these invading mesuch, he’d only acquired a few hard won words of tradespeech. To reach out and absorb a whole language well enough to make songs in it-that was a gift of gifts. He couldn’t tell how much she really understood of what she was saying, but she set word against word in a proper way.

  It made him think.

  For the first time he wondered about Bйluchad. Eolt drifted here and there, sioll-bonded Ard moved with them, back and forth from continent to continent. Sometimes places made new words and if they were good words, Eolt and Ard put them in their songs-like stirring soup so the flavors blended. There was one speech everywhere and no need to learn how to learn another.

  The mesuch were different. The ones over here spoke their own langue, as well as tradespeak, and probably others. He had no doubt the mesuch on Melitoлh were much the same.

  He stroked his hand along the harpcase, remembering the made-look of the woman’s harp. Someone had put knife and plane to that wood, hadn’t lived with the growing matrix and shaped it with song and caress into a companion and complement. Some of the strings were metal with a harsher tone than his sweet singer but also one that was more precise, steadier. He wanted to hear it again, to learn its song. He wanted to tell Teseach Ruaim and Metau Chachil to shut their yammering mouths and listen to the song he could make with her and Melech.

  He didn’t, of course. The relationship between Ard and Dumel was a prickly one, oversweet reverence with a backtaste of resentment. If it weren’t for the sweet bouncy flesh of Fior girls, he’d stop at a Dumel only when he needed to shelter from a storm. He caught here and there furtive glances from ordu girls on the benches and some that boldly challenged him. An Ard baby brought honor to a family and there seemed several here who’d like to try for one.

  He looked up as Lebesair lost patience and stabbed a call for attention into the babble below xe, then he waited for an announcement that would match the imperious demand for hearing.

  Into the silence that followed Ruaim’s song, Mer-Eolt Lebesair launched a great mourning bellow that battered at the court. Concentrated sorrow. Keening for the dead.

  FIRE leaping to the sun an Eolt dies

  sport for mesuch killing with light

  FIRE dropping like rain death DEATH

  CURSE the killers SOULless MONSTERS

  FIRE mourn for the dead Mourn MOURN!

  After the echoes of the final word had died, the Eolt shifted mode to simple-speech.

  “Every day on Melitoлh Eolt and Denchok die, hunted like beasts by the mesuch. Others are driven from their Dumels and their fields. Fior males are killed or made slaves, Fior women are killed in terrible ways or live as slaves. A Sleeping Ground was burned a week ago and news has come that mesuch have gone back and ripped the husks from the few Sleepers still in life. This I leave for you to think on. Remember the Shape Wars. Remember the sorrows a thousand and a thousand years ago.”

  Maorgan shuddered. The old songs had been leached of their anger and pain by the passing of centuries, but if that time was coming again, there were horrors waiting that put a chill in his soul. He thought about what the Scholar said-you can do worse than the Yaraka. He didn’t like these mesuch thieves-what else were they but thieves, taking what didn’t belong to them-but the contrast
between the reports from Melitoлh and the way the Yaraka had treated Glois and Utelel and the rest told him she was right.

  “The Meruus of Eolt and Fior are called to a Special Meeting. Tomorrow is Chel Dй’s day. The Meruus cry out to you to make it a day of meditation and prayer. Especially pray for the success of this meeting.”

  4

  Aslan listened to Shadith’s translation with fascination, distress and anger. She tucked away the name Shape Wars as something to investigate and steamed as she thought of all the omissions in the Yaraka Rep’s report. She was also angry at the Goлs; though he did try to persuade her to live inside the Fence, he hadn’t given her any reasons or said word one about these killings. Sniping between two Companies was one thing, this other business could lead to… well, she didn’t want to think where it would lead. If Id known, she thought, would I even be here? Is this going to turn into another Styernna?

  Waves of chill ran through her.

  Shadith’s hand closed round hers, warm and reassuring.

  Her breathing steadied. I need to think about this. It changes things.

  The Chave were killing sentients for sport. If they didn’t know that now, they would soon enough-maybe as soon as she sent out her first reports since the Ykkuval probably had bought out one or more of the Goлs staff. Once University heard about this, they’d work to get Chandava Minerals blacklisted on Helvetia. The Ykkuval responsible would likely be called home and stripped of his standing and the minute he realized that, this side-glance war would go real. Have to talk to the Goлs as soon as I get loose. Do I call this off now? Have to talk to Shadow and Duncan, see what they say.

  She kept her listening mask firmly in place, but slipped in a quick glance or two at the benches. She didn’t know Keteng expressions yet, but the Fior were still Cousins enough that she could feel their fear and a rising anger.

  “Ignorance is death, the Scholar said, and that is true. Sioll Maorgan has reported that the mesuch have a way of transferring understanding of strange speech. Strange and frightening as those devices are, the Meruus ask that some among you who are closest to the mesuch show the courage to undergo this, transfer. The Bйluchar must know what the Scholar knows and hear what the mesuch say.”

  5

  Shadith sighed as she passed on that last bit. Having to do all this translating made her feel caged, as if she were a machine bolted to the floor. I’m not a Scholar, she thought. Won’t ever be. I haven’t got that kind of patience. The body has some age on it now and I can look even older if I have to. Hm. Digby keeps after me to work for him. Maybe when this is over…

  She glanced at Aslan. A muscle jumped at the corner of the Scholar’s eye; sweat beaded on her forehead and her mouth had a stiff look as if her lips were trying to tremble and she willed them quiet. She’s been scared half to death since that Eolt starting speaking.

  “This is important because the Meruus think of calling the Scholar’s Harper to the Klobach so that she may contribute to the deliberations. They have asked this Mer to discover if such a notion would be wise. Harper, heed me. Sing for us. Not our songs, but yours. Show us your heart. Teach us who you are.

  Shadith looked up, startled, then reached for the harpcase. “Happy to,” she said. “And if you have a wish to join in at any time, honored Eolt, feel free.” She smiled at Maorgan. “And you, Ard Maorgan.”

  She bent over the small harp Swardheld had made for her, touching the strings lightly as she considered what she should play. Play your heart, the Eolt said. Which heart? She smiled as she thought that.

  Something stirred in her-a need she hadn’t fed since she took Kikun home. I wonder… no, can’t think of him now. She closed her eyes. Dance for me, sisters. Let me have Shayalin again. You have to come alone this time, no Kikun to power you, no dream pollen to make you real again.

  Shayalin was raided again and again to make slaves of the Weavers of Dreams. What the Eolt had said about the killings hit her; before this, she’d been detached, not really listening to the sense, letting her Gift change the words for her and pass them on to Aslan. Now…

  The raiders came down on Shayalin, killing the Shallana males and the makers like her who were the fertile ones, the ‘tween generation born single, not six. Carrying away the Weavers to dance dreams for men who had no understanding of what they really saw.

  She burned with memory and sudden kinship and hatred for the Chave who were suddenly all the raiders who’d ravaged her world and destroyed her family. She knew what she should play.

  She stilled the strings, then began to play. Just music at first, not calling her sisters’ names to bring them back to memory.

  As she played and prepared, she saw Maorgan bring forth his harp. It was a strange one, grown not made. Alive. Eyes closed, face taut with concentration, he stroked it and it changed shape. It was a slight change, but her eyes widened as she saw it.

  When the shift was finished, he joined her, the harp new-tuned to match her own; the tone was more mellow and didn’t have the volume of her own, but there was something about the sound… I’ll have to have one, she thought, I HAVE to have a harp like that. She closed her eyes and sought focus.

  In her mind her sisters came. Naya, Zayalla, Annethi, Itsaya, Talitt, and Sullan. In her mind her sisters danced and she made the music for them.

  She sang the ancient croon mated with that dance, a mourning dance for everything that dies. Her human throat could not produce the full sounds, but Maorgan’s living harp seemed to read her need and he played the other tones.

  And sometime later the Eolt began to sing.

  The sound thrummed in her blood and bone and filled the court and spilled out of it; at the fringes of her being she felt the wonder in the Bйluchar beyond the Meeting House.

  The Eolt, the Denchok, the Meloach, the Fior-they gave her the fullness of her grief for the first time in the millennia she’d lived past the death of her world.

  6

  The blai was a low, rambling complex of rooms and arcades, a guesthouse for travelers, merchants and peddlers, Ard and Eolt, youths on their wanderyears. The area they were to occupy was at the back, little used, dust on every surface, a musty smell clinging to the walls.

  Aslan came into the room where Shadith, Duncan Shears, and Marrin Ola, the laconic student Aide, were taking apart crates, turning them into work stations and stacking equipment on them. “Leave that for a moment. We need to talk.”

  Shadith straightened. “What the Eolt said?”

  “Yes. And the implications. I want you in on this, too, Marrin. We have to decide what we’re going to do.”

  Duncan’s nose twitched. “Moment,” he said and moved to a small crate at the top of a pile pushed into a corner of the room. He unsnapped the clips, lifted the lid, and took out a box. “Where?”

  “My room,” Shadith said. “It’s the one with the least stuff in it.”

  Duncan opened the box, took out a privacy cone, and set it in the center of the braided grass floormat. He clicked it on. “Our business,” he said and arranged himself on the floor beside it.

  “Thanks.” Aslan dropped to the mat, waited a moment as the others seated themselves, then said, “One of the Eolt made a speech at the meeting. It’s a sentient being, connected somehow to the non-Cousin species here. Chave techs are hunting them for sport, touching them off to see the flare. Apparently they’ve already killed hundreds of the Eolt and are still doing it.”

  Marrin Ola blinked, leaned forward, then remembered he was only an Aide and subsided.

  “Say it, Marrin.”

  “Do they know?”

  “Good question. The Chave are not noted for their sensitive souls, but they aren’t stupid. If this gets off-world with any kind of reasonable proof, they’ve got problems.”

  Duncan grunted. “Styernna.”

  “A lot like that. Yes.”

  “Um…” Marrin frowned. “Why? No courts, no laws. Shit happens all the time.”

  Aslan nodded. “
Right. Prespace indigene comes close to meaning extinct. But there are a few twists in that. The Eolt are beautiful, especially wonderful when they sing; flakes passed around of what we heard yesterday and today would be very bad for Chandava business if news of the killing got out. And there’s Helvetia. The Yaraka aren’t important, Helvetia wouldn’t listen to them. It doesn’t get involved in trade wars. University is another thing altogether. Marrin, ever heard of a contract labor company called Bolodo Neyuregg?”

  “Huh?”

  “Right. They aren’t around any more. They slipped over the edge into slave-dealing. I know because I was one of the slaves they dealt in. Helvetia doesn’t approve of slaving. Blacklisted them. Cut off fund transfers, loans. Their client list evaporated. So did they. Helvetia doesn’t approve of the gratuitous slaughter of sentients. If University got proof of what the Eolt said, Chandava Minerals would go the same road as Bolodo Neyuregg.”

  Shadith leaned forward. “You’re going to tell the Goлs.”

  “I thought about not, Shadow. Telling Goлs Koraka hoeh Dexios would be the same thing as shouting it in the Chave Ykkuval’s face. Both of them are bound to have spies busy as black biters on a summer day. But when you think about it, that doesn’t really matter.” She moved her shoulders, shifted her legs. “If the Ykkuval doesn’t know by now about the Eolt’s status, he will soon enough. And as soon as he does, he’ll realize that he can’t let news of this get offworld. It’s make or break time, folks. Do we stay, or do we get out of here so fast we leave holes in the air?”

  Shadith dropped her hands on her knees. “I’m staying,” she said. “I’m separate, Lan. It’s in the contract that way. What I do lays no burden on anyone.”