A hand fluttered: Shaalrim the Lazy. “Sisters, I think we get too excited about stone. If someone wants to share little stone-bits because they’re pretty and bring smiles to children’s eyes, why not?”
There was a slippery truth in that. “The traders agreed to respect our Unspoken once more,” someone pointed out.
“Are we dreaming?” Yinevra exclaimed. “Trawlers still clean out rafts full of fish—and their noise still drowns the starworm’s song. How long must this go on? I say, let us Unspeak them all, for good.”
“Unforgiver, we know what you say,” declared Trurl. She asked the Gathering, “Who else is ready to Unspeak our guests from the Stone Moon?”
Several moved, but none jumped to respond. After a decent interval, Merwen observed, “Even our own Unspoken sisters stay bound to us, by submerged branches to our central raft. What bonds hold us to Valans?” She was thinking of Nisi and Spinel.
Shaalrim had something else in mind. “Don’t forget all the good things traders share with us, from kitchen knives to starworm cables. They can’t be all bad.”
Lystra burst out, “But that’s just what we’ve got to steer clear of! We can’t depend on traders, ever. Their very words carry poison—even Spinel the stoneshaper says that.”
What notion was this? Merwen had seen too little of Spinel lately.
“And which of us is perfectly dependable?” Shaalrim asked.
Lystra frowned defensively. “Some more than others. Traders depend on force only. We pulled out of their grasp; now let’s keep it that way.” She sat down. Not bad, for her first time, thought Merwen.
Trurl’s eyelids nearly closed. “What force wins yields to force, Intemperate One.”
There was an uncomfortable pause. Someone muttered, “How can infants who can’t even name themselves ever know what true force means?”
In the end there was no agreement, on Raia-el or beyond. Clickflies told of Gatherings that kept up the boycott, of others who relaxed, and of others whose debate raged on. Among the Per-elion rafts, individual witnessers continued at the traders’ raft—beside the shop steps, not on them. Trade reopened, but volume returned to a fraction of what it had been, despite the lowered “prices.”
For her part, Lystra made up with Nisi, ending the Unspeech between them. And one day, for the first time in over two months of vigils there, Lystra entered Kyril’s store for business—a small errand, and not for herself.
Her glance, brief but penetrating, took in the shelves which were filled to bursting with bolts of cloth, wire spools, firecrystals, and the everpresent bewitching gemstones. In an aisle Lalor was stacking plastic bowls. “To stock up against the next boycott,” she cheerfully explained.
Lystra glowered without deigning to reply. What a disgrace, for a shockwraith hunter.
Kyril laughed heartily at the joke. “Why, Lystra,” he said, “is it really you? Share the day, what an immense honor it is, and a pleasure too, to see you indoors for a change.”
“Good day,” Lystra said clearly in Valan. “I am called the Intemperate One now.”
The trader shook his head. “Why must you sisters beat your breasts with your names? Be positive, I say; look where the wave catches sunlight.”
She stopped, an arm’s-length from the counter. “I only came to pick up mail for Spinel the stoneshaper.”
“Ah, the Chrysolite boy. What’s he been up to?”
“Spinning our seasilk. And hunting shockwraith,” she pointedly added.
“Earning his keep, eh? Glad to hear it. Well, here’s the freightship mailbag.” He fished out two smudged bits of web-thin material. Lystra wondered how such inert objects could carry thoughts to Spinel all the way from the Stone Moon. “They’re pretty old by now,” Kyril said, “but I’m afraid you’ll hear nothing recent from Chrysoport for a while because—” He stopped himself for some reason and pretended to rummage beneath the counter.
Lystra handed over a pod of redleaf medicine that Usha had grown and powdered, to share for the mail handling. With his usual bad manners, Kyril weighed out a small portion for “payment” instead of accepting the whole. “Anything else?” he asked. “Did you look at our stock? All cut-rate—get your steel cables for next to nothing.”
“And gemstones too.”
“But we don’t touch anybody with a problem, no way. On the Trade Council’s orders, did you hear? Hyalite himself drew up the new rules. You left us no choice, and that’s a fact. The customer’s always right, I say. And did you hear even Malachite is coming to Shora? Once the swallowers clear out, that is.”
“That reminds me,” Lystra said. “How do you keep swallowers so far away from your raft?”
“If you like, we’ll send a crew to protect your raft, too.”
Lystra waved her hand in disgust. “Just watch which poisons you use here. The first dead fish I see floating—”
“Come now, Lystra, that was before your time. Say—” Kyril sprang up a ladder and pulled down a handful of plugged squeeze tubes. “New type of roofing cement, guaranteed stormproof for five years. Why not give it a try?”
“No more trading for me.” She fingered Spinel’s letters.
“Look, just try one, for free.”
“A gift?”
“Sure, why not? Tell all your sisters to come back, too.”
Lystra set the rest of her redleaf on the counter. “Then this, too, is a gift. I don’t want your children to starve. But so long as one gemstone sits on your shelf, I won’t depend on you, Kyril.”
2
ONE GLIMPSE OF the two worn envelopes filled Spinel with joy. He tore them open and feasted his eyes on the pages of ledger paper covered with his mother’s dense, sloping handwriting. The first letter, dated two days after his departure, was full of news and chatter: how the stoneshop was doing a brisker business than usual, especially rubies, for lads off to the regiment, and Cyan had finished the tombstone for old Amberlite, and Beryl was holding up well, and Oolite was crawling forward as well as backward. And when was Spinel going write home about his new life?
It had never occurred to him to write, himself. Spinel could barely manage a sentence, in any case. Clickfly webspinning was much more fun. He glanced up at Lystra, who was eyeing the page curiously. “Could I send a clickfly to my mom?”
Lystra cocked her head to one side. “Would she treat it right?”
“Of course she would.” Indignant, Spinel turned to the second letter. This one was brief—one paragraph, scrawled three or four words on a line. Spinel frowned; his mother never wrote like that. My dear son, it read. We are all well and please forgive me for not writing often. Your father has lots of orders. Beryl sends love, and Oolite. Work hard for your sponsors, and don’t worry about us. Your loving mother Galena, Cyan stonecutter’s wife.
Spinel looked up from the page.
“Well, what does it say?”
“It doesn’t sound right.” Nothing, not even about Beryl, who would be expecting soon. What could have happened? Had the business finally gone under, despite the gift from his Sharer sponsors? His mother would not lie outright, though like himself she would tell a tale in her own way. His lip twisted. “I better write back and find out.”
“Hurry up, then. Swallowers are getting so thick, soon we won’t be able to sail to the traders’ raft.”
He stood up to look out to sea, at the four or five spots, still distant, where raft seedlings were swirling toward oblivion. His muscles had hardened and he had gained height since he first arrived; his eyes were nearly level with Lystra’s now.
Later, just before evening learnsharing, Spinel came upon Lady Nisi as she was pulling on a white blouse and tucking it into a severe black skirt.
He stepped back at the sight. The clothes were plain enough, but their unexpected appearance only exaggerated Nisi’s female curves. A flush of heat came over him. “What’s that for? You going home or something?”
She walked past him to her mirror. The tapping of her sandal
s brought back warm memories of footfalls on Chrysolite cobblestones.
“Lady Nisi, where are you going? Have you a lover among the traders?”
“Heavens, no. Your tongue grows as long as a shockwraith’s arm.” She patted her scalp, as if arranging nonexistent hair.
“Why won’t you tell me, Nisi the Deceiver?”
The lady paused, then spoke in her most cultured Valan tones. “I am due for a chat with the High Protector. Via image transmission.”
“The High Protector of Valedon? Oh, please, can I come too?”
“Please don’t,” she said quietly. “It’s…official.”
“I see. I guess he wouldn’t give fool’s gold for anything I’d have to say.” His toe traced a circle on the floor. “Well, even if my folks are common, could you just ask him to check up on them, in Chrysoport? Please, Nisi, I’m awfully worried about them.”
“I’ll mention it.” She clipped her opal to her blouse and briskly stepped outside.
Within the submerged station, Berenice sat with her skirt tucked under, and Talion across from her. Talion’s shape squeezed and expanded from signal interference, but otherwise he looked as usual, an aging, careworn administrator perpetually dressed for a board meeting. He brought welcome news: General Realgar, now High Commander, would escort the Malachite delegation to Shora.
“Marvelous. I’ll be so glad to see him.” Realgar was the one part of Valedon she truly missed. “And such a diplomat he is, just right for the job.”
Talion’s smile broadened. “I’m glad you are pleased.”
Why should she not be pleased? Then she recalled their confrontation in Iridis, before she left. “But of course, he’ll just bring an honor guard for Malachite.”
“Of course. Now, my lady, a quandary for you: whom shall the Envoy call on, if Shora has no Protector?”
She smiled mischievously. “They have nine hundred thousand Protectors. Minus children,” she corrected herself.
Talion waved an impatient hand. “All-powerful though he is, Malachite can’t very well visit every man, woman, and child of—you know what I mean. Surely there’s some sort of authority figure, a chief witch-doctor or whatever.”
Her lips worked in and out, oddly reluctant to respond. Yet she had known from the beginning what she would say; why put it off? “There is one who enjoys respect in every ‘galactic’ of raft clusters: Merwen the Impatient One.” She shrank from the role of kingmaker. Merwen’s reaction, had she understood just what Berenice was doing, would have been unimaginable. Berenice, however, saw no other way.
“Merwen the Patient,” Talion noted for his monitor.
“Impatient,” she corrected. “And please tell—that is, ask Malachite to choose a ‘selfname’ of some sort, or the Gathering will not receive him.” This, too, was bending the rules, and if Yinevra or Lystra were so impolite as to inquire further—
“How about Malachite the Lowly Worm?”
“Too conceited. Worms are highly useful creatures.” Talion, she thought, was definitely off-guard tonight, almost distracted. She wondered whether that signaled good or bad.
“Do not take offense, my lady. Merwen the Impatient will receive the Envoy, with all due honor. What a help you are, Berenice. I know I can always count on a Hyalite.”
She smiled despite herself. Thank goodness that boycott was over. “Since I’m so useful, may I ask a personal favor?”
“Whatever you wish.”
It felt almost like the old days, when she was first married, and Talion dined weekly with the House of Hyalite. “Please check the current status of one commoner, Cyan stonecutter of Chrysoport.”
Talion called at his monitor and watched something outside the range of her view. “Sorry, the file is inactive at this time.”
“Oh?”
“Dolomoth is still keeping the lid on, to consolidate their hold.”
“The town’s occupied?”
“Dolomites have wanted a seaport for Torr knows how long, and now they’ve got it. It seemed appropriate, once the Pyrrholite siege was concluded, given their assistance with the campaign.”
“I see.” In fact, she had expected the siege to drag on a year, at least. She disliked to admit how out of touch she was. She would have to catch up at the trading post.
“Now, Berenice. This trade business is still a bit of a bother. We’ve made enormous concessions, as you know. Why hasn’t trade volume got back to normal?”
She sighed. Where to begin? “The stone trade, for one thing. Its very existence is hateful to many Sharers.”
“If they hate it so much, why is stone our most lucrative commodity?”
For answer, she only returned his stare. Talion must know the sordid truth; why should he make her say it?
“Well, there you are,” said Talion at last. “If the natives can’t reach consensus among their own ‘Protectors,’ then by their own rules what can they demand of us?”
“Those who care the most shame the rest. And we’re learning to do without Valan goods. Sharers have resourceful minds. And long memories, too; it’s not nice to get dumped in the sea, even if you swim like a seal.”
“Why can’t they be reasonable, for Torr’s sake? This season is rough on us too. What about the trawler lost to a swallower last week?”
“So I heard. Who rescued the crew?”
“The natives were cooperative, in that case. But a good ship sank, which makes for red ink.”
“It is hard. We lose rafts every year.”
Talion was silent a while. Berenice shifted her legs beneath her skirt.
“Berenice, we have to get a handle on these people. The stone trade won’t do, it’s dead in the long run. I see how the wind blows, although the Trade Council may not yet. But what next?”
Suddenly she was wary. “What does Malachite suggest?”
Talion’s pause was longer than time lag. “Malachite is inclined to consider this an internal matter.”
“Internal? Like one planet?” So the Sharer “Protector” might end up reporting to the High Protector of Valedon. This notion was new, the first she had heard of Patriarchal intent. She turned it over in her mind. “Then Sharers will get full protection of Valan law. That should simplify everything.”
“Yes, but you see, it will be up to us, myself in particular, to control them. How shall I do that?”
The question revolted her, and puzzled her as well. Was it not enough that Sharers went naked and unarmed? Her eyes narrowed. “I’ll think it over,” she said politely. “Please remember, I am not your agent.”
“Then what are you? Would you like a salary?”
She was on her feet before she knew it. “You go too far.”
“Lady, I require certain information. I need to know where the weak links are—all of them. We can make it easy for you.”
“Never! If you set your Sardish mindbenders on me, I’ll—” She stopped. Of course he would know her “final precautions,” since Realgar did. Except for one…Her voice steadied. “I will disappear, now, for good. My parents never found me, the last time.”
“Go ahead, then. But first hear this: Pyrrhopolis is empty. Leveled. By the hand of Malachite.”
“Pyrrhopolis? Leveled? What do you mean?”
An age passed between them. “The city was evacuated beforehand, of course. He gave us time. Then his ship did something, and—” Talion shrugged. “The city crumbled to sand.”
Berenice fell back onto her bench, shaking.
“A vast beach of sand, all that’s left.” Talion looked old, she realized; even his shoulders drooped forward. Pyrrhopolis, where the mightiest of architects built towers of gold. “Why?” she asked at last, though she knew the answer.
“The Patriarch could not wait for a year’s siege, so Malachite said. The Envoy can stay only a few months before he reports back to Torr. He could hardly leave Pyrrhopolis in the hands of atom-smashers. The lives at least were saved, I—I pressed for that. But it had to be so.”
“Of course.” Atom-smashers smashed themselves in the end; that was the dogma of Torr.
“Berenice, the same holds for biological warfare. If Sharers have forbidden science—”
Her thoughts were in confusion. What could she tell him? How to subdue Shora? Who would more surely destroy Shora, Malachite or Talion himself? Not the Envoy, he was too wise. He would learn soon enough what Berenice knew, that Sharers were harmless despite their powers. But then he would depart, for ten long years. What dare she tell the High Protector of Valedon?
Share learning, always, so Merwen had said. Never fear to share what you know, because true strength frees itself.
But what did Merwen know of High Protectors?
Berenice studied Talion’s eyes and the very fine lines that grew above and around them. For the first time she saw fear in them, fear of a greater power. What shame and despair it must have brought him to watch a Valan city crumble because he himself had ruled too lightly. And now he faced Shora…
“My lord, I have one truth to share: So long as Sharers know that you are human, you have nothing to fear from Shora.”
It was said, and she nearly swooned. Then she saw that Talion did not understand, perhaps never would, no matter how hard she tried. Once again, despite herself, she had earned her name.
3
THE TRUE GIRTH and shape of a seaswallower was not known, even by Sharers who knew so much about lifestuff, down to the very atoms. At the water’s surface, a single whirlpool could pull perceptibly within a range as broad as Raia-el. By now, the beasts crowded so closely that their ranges overlapped, and the sea was a mass of sinking holes.
Spinel watched from the rooftop, to see how close they would come to the raft. Lystra was outstretched in a blue curve of roofing, her breasts braced against a seam. Her eyes squinted into binoculars. “They’re moving in,” she said through clenched teeth. “Grandmothers and great-grandmothers. Thicker yet they’ll get, before the crest passes.”
“But they’re practically on top of each other already.”
“Swallowers spread seed and eggs as they go. The closer they swim, the better chance for union.”
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