Wellen and Weia pounced on the drapery skin, squealing and rolling in its folds until all at once it snapped into nothing again. “Don’t suffocate, girls,” Usha scolded. The silver pyramid hovered in front of Spinel with its shrill song and evaded his attempts to capture it.
Merwen said, “These stones seem alive. Do they reproduce?”
“We produce them in numbers that would fill your sea.”
“A sea of toys,” said Lystra, “for a world of children?”
Nisi gasped and covered her shock with a cough. Merwen guessed that the subject of “children” might be sensitive for Malachite, however well he repressed it.
In fact, Malachite only nodded toward Lystra. “Trillions of children sleep safe in their homes under the care and protection of the Patriarch.”
Merwen’s attention wandered as she thought again, A world with no ocean at all, only stone. She caught herself and invited the visitors into the silkhouse for refreshments, freshly picked seaweeds of several rare species. Usha warned Weia not to gobble too much from the bowl, since her elder sisters had dove long and hard to find these delicacies.
Malachite sat himself with perfect composure upon a seasilk mat. His leggings creased less than Realgar’s did. “Your rooms breathe,” he observed. “Yet there are no doors.”
“Only a door to outside, and one to below. All others are within ourselves.”
“You see how customs differ. Now Torr is called the planet of a thousand doors, nothing but doors among countless chambers, from the surface to the very core.”
Lystra said, “It sounds like a planetful of coral, to me. How can you live in that? Where do you swim for fish?”
“Coral,” said Usha, “is all dead at the core, like raftwood. This planet sounds more like a sponge, to me.”
Realgar’s cheeks puckered in that peculiar way of Valans who try not to laugh. At the bowl of seaweed, Weia sneaked under Usha’s arm and grabbed a good handful.
“How many planets are there?” Spinel wanted to know.
“Ninety-six were inhabited, four years ago. Several are in initial stages of ‘terraforming’ for settlement,” Malachite said, adding a Valan word.
“Wow! Is there a planet where they talk in birdsong?”
Malachite paused just an instant, then whistled a phrase.
“That’s it, that was Dak’s little tune.” Spinel was delighted.
“A world that was once,” said Malachite. “It failed, sadly, to learnshare the perfection of the Patriarch.”
Something snagged in that sentence. Merwen spread her fingerwebs. “Sorry, I don’t understand…perfection?”
“The Patriarch is the perfect judge of humankind. His perfect judgment has been demonstrated for a thousand years of human survival.”
“Then He must be dead.”
Nisi blinked and her lips parted, but no sound came out.
“Now, lovesharer,” said Usha, “must you be so literal? Of course only death achieves perfect balance among life’s shifting molecules. But allow for poetic license.”
Nisi bowed her head and clasped her hands. “Please…you can’t judge the Patriarch by human standards.” All the while, Malachite ignored her and the others but watched Merwen as if expecting her to continue.
“Listen,” Merwen went on, annoyed at having to lecture. “What is the name of the perfect good? Is it freedom? Perfect freedom is death. Is it peace? Perfect peace is death. Is it love? Perfect love is to choose death, that others may live.”
A silence absorbed her words. For the first time Realgar spoke, saying in Valan, “What a motto for a soldier.”
“Since you so disdain ‘perfection,’” said Malachite at last, “I will share with you my selfname, the Perfect One.”
“Ah, now I see. Excuse me.” A version of “hubris,” the name was unusual but not unheard of. Merwen thought she understood, now.
“And, as the Lady Berenice indicates, the Patriarch is an entity beyond human. His is the perfection of that which you call ‘coldstone.’”
Merwen shook her head, mystified again, and Usha waved her finger at him. “Coldstone, you say,” said Usha. “That’s what Valans like to think. Valans replace legbones with coldstone, instead of growing them back. But those are far from ‘perfect.’”
“Do you regenerate limbs?” Malachite’s words came quickly.
“When required, Shora forbid. In fact—” Usha paused to glower at Weia, who had just snitched the last of the rare seaweed from the bowl. “Trurl’s daughter is still recovering in the lifeshaping chamber. She had barely a head and chest left after we fished her from the fleshborers. But she’s growing back, now.”
“It would please me to see this.”
An avid look came into her eyes. “Of course, you must come down to the tunnels and see.” Usha was always ready to hook another apprentice for those skills that took decades to share.
The Envoy’s reception pleased Berenice, so far. No irreparable damage had been done. Even Realgar was on his best behavior and bowed out without needing her to explain that he must not accompany them to the Gathering. The Gathering, though, would be something else again.
As sisters converged within the central hollow, a lively mood prevailed in the wake of a successful shockwraith hunt—nine arms taken, one of record size, with no injuries sustained. Yinevra was the hero of the day, and talk buzzed over the latest techniques in baiting and how to cut at just the right segment behind the neural node. Malachite faced a flood of questions.
“Where is your ‘Patriarch,’ Perfect One?” Yinevra asked. “Why does He live so far away?”
“The Patriarch shares care of many planets,” Malachite replied. “He can’t be everywhere at once. That is what the Envoy is for.”
“Still, you can’t let a pack of children run a planet.”
“Why do you say ‘children’?”
“Valans behave as children. Except for the Deceiver.”
Embarrassed, Berenice hugged her knees and stared at the clump of weeds beyond her feet.
“How is the Deceiver different?” Malachite asked, unperturbed.
“Nisi the Deceiver shares our way,” said Yinevra. “She has risked life to save life, and she chose her own name. She shares our Gathering.”
“Valans have their own ways and their own gatherings. Have you ever shared a session of the Trade Council?”
This suggestion met blank stares. Berenice took the chance to point out, quietly, that Sharers were not even permitted to board House space carriers, much less to attend the Council.
Malachite said, “That will change.”
She sat up straight. This was exactly what she was hoping for.
“And what about those greedy fishing boats?” someone asked. “No excuse for that.”
“Already, Valan trawlers are shut down, until my environmental study is complete.”
This was a delight. Talion had never hinted at such measures.
“And the stone trade?” asked Yinevra. “Will that stop too?”
At that, the Envoy paused, not just to gather his thoughts, Berenice believed, but to emphasize his reply. “What I have shared here suggests to me that the entire system of trade between the planets, in its present form, may have to cease, to be rebuilt only along very different lines.”
Berenice was amazed. Her lips parted and she stared without seeing, while she thought, Could it really all come true, so soon? With Malachite, it could. His judgment had come swift and sure, even as it had for disobedient Pyrrhopolis.
6
MALACHITE SPENT SEVERAL days touring rafts; the places of lifeshaping were of particular interest to him. In the meantime, reports confirmed his word: trawlers were idle at the traders’ rafts; House spacefaring vessels were opened to Sharers, although at a prohibitive cost; and gemstones actually vanished from the traders’ shelves.
Captain Dak’s battered moonferry, which had never refused a Sharer, resumed its regular schedule now that seaswallowers had passe
d. Spinel sailed behind a glider squid out to the landing as soon as he heard.
The old ship looked smaller and even more patched up than he had remembered. “Dak?” Spinel cupped his hands to his mouth and called up the ramp, “Dak, old bird, are you there?”
No answer. Spinel hopped up the rattling steps three at a time and skipped through the open door. Inside, it was dark; he paused until his eyes adjusted.
A song grew from the darkness, a low, wavering whistle. Spinel traced its source to the passenger cabin, where Dak sprawled in a seat with his legs splayed out in the aisle. The song was compellingly sad, the most sorrowful music Spinel had ever heard. It froze him where he stood, and his eyelids grew heavy. It ended with an almost unbearable version of the home phrase that Malachite had echoed.
Dak turned and gasped. “Torr’s name—a halfbreed?”
Spinel blinked and wiped his eyes. “It’s me, Dak, remember?”
“That you…starling?” Dak squinted forward in the dimly lit cabin. “Thought for sure it was the bottle. Is that really you, the starling who came on board clinging to the nonexistent skirts of a couple of Sharer gals? Torr’s name, you’re black as hell and a head taller since then.”
“Well, not a head.”
Dak reached up to clap Spinel’s arm. “Granite muscles, too. Man, what do they feed you out there?”
“Oh, everything. And I cheated the swallowers, too. But listen, Dak, you’ve got to help me. I’m awfully worried about my folks in Chrysoport.”
“As well you might be, since the Dolomites swallowed the town.”
“What?” His knees faltered.
Dak pulled himself up. “Hey there, take a seat. And some of this.” The bottle smelled strong, all right. Spinel sipped while Dak told his tale, first of Pyrrhopolis, how the City of Fire was besieged by Sards on the one hand and Dolomites on the other, only to meet its end in a mountain of dust. Dazed, Spinel shook his head. “Malachite did that?”
“Sure as I’m sitting here. You should see Iridis; refugees clog the lowstreets. The beggar population tripled in a day. Thieves crawl up even to the highstreets, until the scanners burn them out; newcomers don’t know those tricks.”
“But Malachite talked to us…so quiet, like.”
“Well, you don’t fuse atoms.”
No, Spinel thought, my atoms just “tunnel through.”
Dak frowned at his bottle. “Did I hear right: the Torran Envoy talked to you?”
“Well, sure. He came to see Merwen.”
“The same Merwen that traveled my junkheap of a ship? I’ll be a troll’s cousin,” he finished thickly.
“Come on, Dak, hurry up and tell me about Chrysoport.”
“Don’t hurry a millennial man, starling. For assisting the siege, the Dolomites got their reward, a seacoast at last, including your home town. Don’t look so glum. I hear it was a clean takeover, hardly a man lost. I tell you what: I’ll go look up your folks, next time down. How’s that?”
Spinel looked up. “That’s swell of you.”
“Tell me about the Envoy,” Dak insisted. “Is he still the same, after nine centuries?”
Spinel shrugged listlessly. “It’s kind of funny, how he treats Lady Nisi.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, her and the General, both—he looks down on them, almost the way they look down on commoners.” He nearly said “us commoners.”
Dak shook with laughing, in his weird quiet way, then he leaned forward until his hot breath brushed Spinel’s face. “A wise man you’ve become. Tell the truth, though—you still a starling underneath?”
Spinel sighed and stretched. “I guess so. I don’t even have a selfname yet.”
While the Torran Envoy toured Shora, Berenice went to call on Realgar at the traders’ raft, where he had set up a temporary headquarters.
“Realgar…Imagine, to say your name again so soon.”
He kissed her so hard their teeth cracked together. Luxuriously her fingers combed his hair, which was smoother than seasilk and the color of sunrise.
Realgar framed her head in his broad hands. “You gave me such a start, the day we arrived.”
“I know. I’m as bald as an eggplant.”
“You looked like you hadn’t a stitch on, at first.”
“Ral, you know how I live among Sharers. It’s only natural.” Teasingly she twisted a lock of his hair. If only she had time to grow her own back.
“Too many men around, nowadays. Who’s that young fellow that lives with you now?”
Irritated, she pulled back. “You needn’t put it that way. He’s a common boy that Merwen took in. Do you trust me or not?”
His eyes were laughing. “By Torr, you’re headstrong. I simply can’t stand to do without you, you see.” He kissed her fingertips. “You’ll settle down, once we’ve tied the knot.”
Her mind threw up a wall. Pass that threshold when it comes.
Realgar led her to a chair of russet cushions with legs ending in lion claws, Sardish style. The claws stood upon a carpet of hunting scenes tightly woven in red and bronze. Berenice shared his taste for Sardish tapestry, its earth-toned elegance. From the ceiling, a servo arm snaked down with a glass of her favorite wine; the fragrance was heavenly, after so long. “You travel well,” she noted.
“To guard the Torran Envoy is a great honor.”
“It caps your career. Though the Perfect One hardly seems to require your aid.” She watched him closely.
“Not at all, practically speaking. For your ears only, he carries a regiment’s worth of protection on his person.”
She watched the reflections in her glass and waited for her pulse to slow. Malachite must have told him to tell her, for her to tell Merwen…but of course she would not. “Protectoral Liaison,” indeed. What trollheads they were—that is, Talion was; not Realgar, who was only following orders, or Malachite the All-knowing, who was learning soon enough.
“Yes,” Realgar added, “remarkable things are made on Torr.”
She changed the subject. “How are Cassiter and Elmvar?”
“Splendid. Cassi is getting to be a crack shot, I’ll be sending her after the bears, next.”
“Torr’s name—that little darling?” Cassi must have overcome her noise shock, after all these years. Tell me, Berenice wanted to say; tell me, you didn’t lose patience and send your own daughter to a mindbender?
“She’s still sensitive,” Realgar said, “but she faces it down. A real trooper, she is.”
“She must be.” Berenice had joined his expeditions in the Sardish wilderness, where trees grew so vast that ten men could hide behind one, and gray bears stood up on their hind legs tall as prehistoric trolls. To look down a bear’s throat took the same courage as to face a seaswallower.
“They still ask for you, though. Elmvar wants to know when you’ll come home and be his mama.”
Two hints within five minutes. With her sandal she traced the outline of a snarling tiger woven in the carpet.
“Your own mother asks too, Berenice.”
Quickly she looked up, and her nails dug into the chair. “What for?”
“Easy, now. Their only child, and when do they see you?”
“Once a year, I manage. Ral, they forfeited any right to ask.” Screaming beacons haunted her eyes. No place to hide but the shockwraith’s lair…
Realgar took her hands in his. “A time comes to let wounds heal.” The voice of a diplomat, gentle yet firm. No wonder he had risen far.
But it was Merwen who had said that Valans, if quick to anger, were as quick to forgive. “All right, I’ll go.” She sighed.
“Excellent.” He pressed her hands. “When will you return, my love?” His eyes compelled her.
“Before the sea swallows next,” she made herself say, to retain some leeway.
For a moment she could have cried out, I want to be with you now and always, but everything that holds you, surrounds you—makes you what you are—holds me back.
“Ask Malachite. Between us, Berenice, those Sharer friends of yours have got his circuits whizzing. I think he’s never seen the like of it.”
“Oh, no?” Berenice sipped at her glass to steady herself. Just how forbidden is their “lifeshaping,” she wanted to know. But it would be tactless to ask and pointless to expect an answer—yet.
This Malachite was a strange one, Merwen thought, as she rested at noon, floating among new green sprouts of silkweed that cascaded from the branches, while the shaded waters cooled her toes. While he was here, Malachite came and went in silence, with barely a footfall, and always alone after the first day. Always courteous, he never refused a request outright, yet for himself he never took food or drink and never entered the sea, even to relieve himself. There was a barrier, whether of extreme distrust or pride or stoicism, Merwen could not guess. He did bring about constructive behavior among Valans, as Nisi had promised. Yet the change seemed cold and sudden. How could one mind share change with so many, so fast? Merwen felt that the longer one took to change, the longer the change might last.
Malachite did come once more to sit with Merwen, this time out on a raft branch. The sea was lively that day, and some spray caught his feet. Merwen sighed and thought, Perhaps the sea has named him, after all.
Serenely, as always, he announced, “Tomorrow I share parting with Shora.”
“I see.” Sudden again. Merwen wished to express regret, but somehow it seemed inappropriate.
“I have changed my mind about Shora,” he said. “Initially, I had expected Valedon to absorb your needs with ease, but now I prefer an alternative.”
“I see.”
Malachite added, “Your numbers are small now, but you will grow. Your Gatherings will need their own ‘Envoy from Torr.’”
Confused, Merwen shook her head. “Why should our numbers grow?” Every conception of a child was a decision for the Gathering. Even Usha had been allowed a second child only after she had adopted Flossa, an orphan from a swallowed raft. Shora had only so many souls to go around.
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