Sheri Tepper - Singer From The Sea

by Singer From The Sea(Lit)

  Karom Veswees, a sinewy and pliant male with beautiful bones and hands, was a different breed of lizard. "I'd like to do you all in beads," he said, observing her from several angles, including crouching on the floor to look up at her. "Or maybe feathers! What a marvelous face. You're quite divine, Lady Genevieve."

  She was more amused than annoyed. "Sit down," she said, pointing to a chair. "Do not flitter about. This is serious business."

  Simpering only slightly, he sat in the chair, hands folded, being the good child. Despite herself, she smiled.

  "You see," he crowed, "what a face!"

  Genevieve summoned her most businesslike voice, "I am told you dress the Lady Charmante. She was wearing something filmy the other evening, red, with lines of amber and gold in it?"

  The simpering look vanished and was replaced with a grimness about the lips.

  "Silk batik, from the aboriginal commune on Strayne V, off-planet needless to say, obtained by the Prince for his 'consort.' I'm sorry, Your Ladyship, but if you want something like that, you're out of luck. Unless your father is far wealthier and more dishonest than he is reputed to be."

  She frowned at him, then rang for a footman and ordered tea before coming to sit beside him. "You'll stay to tea, won't you, Mr. Veswees? I think you have knowledge I need, and I will buy many dresses from you if you will tell it to me."

  He cocked his head. "You're just in from the country, aren't you? You're not up on things."

  "Completely at sea." She smiled, deciding suddenly to allow this most improper person into her confidence. "I don't understand this off-planet business. I know our ancestors, in their wisdom, decided that a non-industrialized life which made small demands on power and raw materials would be more sustainable over the ages. I know the Lord Paramount and his counselors, in their wisdom, have decided that we must make what we need, except for things like medical personnel and a few other essentials. Until a moment ago, I did not know that the list of such things included luxuries like imported silk."

  "Well, that particular import wouldn't be publicized, would it?" he said, giving her a searching look.

  "There's something that's been bothering me for a number of years, Mr. Veswees..."

  "Karom. Call me Karom. Everyone does."

  "All the more reason I should call you Mr. Veswees." She smiled sweetly. "We learned in school that Haven is what might be called a poor planet, partly in fact, partly by choice. We learned in school that interstellar transport is hideously expensive. We learned in school that the Lord Paramount has a list of things we must obtain from elsewhere-" She interrupted this catalogue when the footman entered. He bore a tea service that must have been poised nearby, ready if she should ask.

  Veswees nodded, looking up with a smile at the footman who placed the tea service on the table between them. "Everything you say you have been taught about Haven is quite true," he said.

  She went on, "What no one has ever told me, however, is what coin, what medium of exchange we here on Haven use to purchase these off-planet things."

  The footman knocked over an empty cup, making a clatter. "Your pardon, lady," he said, righting it with a slightly trembling hand.

  The noise had drawn Genevieve's attention away from Veswees's face, and she missed the glance he shared with the footman, rapt attention mixed at once with apprehension and elation. When she looked up, he was as he had been, pleasantly interested, nothing more.

  He said in an innocent tone, "I have wondered about it, too. Perhaps we have artists or singers or people with other talents whose services can be sold," he murmured.

  "Wouldn't we have heard of this? If someone were that talented, wouldn't that person have a local reputation? Wouldn't we have known of him, or her?"

  The footman bowed himself away. Veswees waited until the door had closed behind him. "Perhaps the talents are... private ones, Your Ladyship."

  She considered him over the rim of her cup. The sexual innuendo had been explicit. She could neither have missed it nor misinterpreted it. "Do you think so?" she asked, as casually as she could.

  He sipped, turned the cup on the saucer, played with the spoon. "Don't you think our medium of trade must be something like that? This world of ours is poor, as you say. There were no prehistoric forests to store oil and coal for our use, but we have large rivers to provide hydroelectric power. We have a few mines to supply metal, a few forests that give us wood for burning in our stoves. Our population is kept at a level that can be sustained by these rivers, these mines, and these forests. Nonetheless, we must import certain needed minerals for food additives and for our agriculture. We have no gems of note. We have no rare foods or seasonings or wines. We have no rare ores or biologicals that are in demand- or at least none that are mentioned in the marketplace." He sipped again.

  "And then, too, you must have noticed how few... pretty young women we have at court."

  She thought back to the recent dinner party. There had been no young woman but herself. The others had all been well past middle age, though they would not have thanked her for so judging them. "I do not consider Havenor to be the most healthful environment, Mr. Veswees. It is chilly here, I am told, even in summer. Young women are of an age to have babies, and perhaps they prefer to stay in the provinces with their children."

  "Perhaps. Certainly motherhood proves difficult for many of our noblewomen."

  She frowned. "Why so?"

  He shrugged. "It seems to be a pattern among some of my favorite clients, young women who came here for a time, who returned home to have their children and who never returned. All too often I have heard that they succumbed, usually to batfly fever..."

  "But the court has off-planet doctors," she said.

  "Who can do nothing for batfly fever, or so I've heard."

  "Well then," she said. "Tell me about batfly fever, for it is one of the subjects I must learn about."

  "Where did you live, before you came here?"

  "At school in Wantresse. Or at Langmarsh House, also in Wantresse."

  "Wantresse is hill country, and you were fortunate to live high up," he said. "I am told the batfly flourishes at lower altitudes, especially in the moist herbage along the rivers and the lakeshores. The flies are said to carry the fever virus in their blood, which would do us no harm if it stayed there. The flies, however, are said to be infested with mites that suck up the virus, and when the batflies are flying, they are also shedding mites onto everything below, trees, people, animals. The mites are tiny, transparent, almost invisible, and when they burrow into a person seeking blood, the person gets the virus."

  "But not in the hills?"

  "Evidently not, nor along the shore of salt seas. The batflies, I am told, prefer rainy woods along freshwater rivers and ponds and lakes and during wet years there are millions of batflies dropping zillions of mites onto people, though in drier years, one hardly hears of a case."

  "Dreadful! Really dreadful!"

  "It would be, we are told, without P'naki."

  "And what does P'naki do for us? It's horrid tasting!"

  "If you know how it tastes, you must have known what it was for!"

  Well, I knew it was medicine, without at all comprehending the reality. Delia gave it to me when I was a tiny child and we were visiting Lord Fenrider, Earl of Evermire. What does it do?"

  "A dose every ten or twelve days is supposed to make people poisonous to the mites. Before it even nibbles, the mite simply shrivels up and dies."

  She made a face. "I can understand why Prince Thumsort would be worried," she said. "According to his son, Edoard, his father talks only about batflies and fish."

  He smiled at her. "Life has many pitfalls, my lady, and few of them make pleasant conversation. I would rather discuss something much more amusing than either flies or fish, such as how we are going to dress you to advantage!"

  So derailed, she did not return to the subject until late that evening when, prepared for bed, she sat before her mirror while Delia b
rushed her hair. "What do we have on Haven," she murmured aloud, "to trade for off-planet goods?"

  "Pearls," said Delia, without missing a stroke.

  "Pearls? On Haven? Pearls are an Old Earth thing. You know the ones that Mother gave me. They came from some ancestress, but I assume they were brought from Earth. I've never heard of Haven pearls."

  Delia smiled at her in the mirror, rather grimly. "They don't talk of it in the marketplace, my lady."

  "Well then, why do you say it's pearls?"

  "It stands to reason it has to be something! And we've explored all the land on Haven, so it's nothing on land or we'd know about it. So, it has to be something from the sea, and whatever it is, it goes off Haven in ships."

  "If no one knows what it is, how do they know what goes off Haven?" "Nobody knows, but everybody guesses. And we do know some things. We know sometimes a starship comes to Haven. It sends down a little boat, like a sailing ship sends a dory, and it lands down at a place at the edge of the Plains of Bliggen in Barfezi, where it's flat and rocky and out of the way. There's always someone waiting for that ship, someone dressed in the royal livery, all sparkles and gold, and that person marches out to the boat and he hands over a box, not a big box, a small one, the size of a glove box, maybe, and the little boat goes up and away. Then, some later, a bigger ship comes down with people or things for the Lord Paramount, like doctors, or machines. And there's always men on the hills nearby, watching their sheep, and others in the copses up the valleys, burning charcoal, and they watch the ships and they say it's pearls in the little box, because they can't think of anything else it might be. And one of them's my cousin, and I've heard him tell all about it."

  "Something small. Well, it could be pearls, I suppose," mused Genevieve. "Though one would think one would have heard of it, if that had been the case." She yawned. "I am tired out."

  "No wonder. All that toing and froing of dressmakers. Did you like that crazy one? Veswees?"

  "I did, rather," she said drowsily, sliding between the cool sheets. "He told me what to wear to the concert, which helps. That is, if Father wants me to go. He hasn't said, yet." She mused a moment, eyes closed. "Veswees knows something he'd like to tell me, but he can't, or won't, or shouldn't. And he drew some exciting dresses. He'll be back in a day or two, with muslin patterns, for a fitting..."

  But Delia had already gone.

  In the night Genevieve dreamed of Aufors. The two of them were sailing away somewhere, having a conversation with fish. She didn't know where they were going or what they were talking about, but things grew more interesting the longer the dream went on.

  8: A Proposal and What Followed

  A messenger came on the morning with a note from Alicia, Duchess Bellser-Bar, inviting Genevieve to accompany her on a tour of the royal greenhouses. Genevieve gave the messenger her acceptance, with thanks, and the ducal carriage arrived in an hour. The Duchess was well muffled up, her face half-hidden in furs, for though the skies were clear, the weather continued cold. They rode through a city wild with wind, the trees on the boulevards twisting in a frenzy, the banners atop the pinnacles lashing, everything in motion, even the gemmed and broken light that jigged and glittered from the long, jewel-faceted conservatories.

  A footman helped them from the carriage, another opened the doors, and inside a cultivation of gardeners stood slowly from their work, tools still in their hands. The Duchess was obviously a well-known and well-liked visitor, for they greeted her with smiles and moved eagerly to help both her and Genevieve with the furs and scarves that were now unneeded, for the women had come from chill chaos into an eden of blooms, elegance, and moist, calm air.

  The Duchess, retaining the scarf around her throat and face, thanked each of them by name, then took Genevieve's hand and walked with her slowly down the graveled pathways among flowering trees laden with epiphytes, urns burgeoning with trailing blossoms, and beds of succulents and rare Old Earth species. As they went she kept her face turned away, drawing Genevieve's attention to this bloom and that leaf until they were out of earshot of the gardeners, at which point she led Genevieve behind a large pillar draped with fuschias and ivy, removed the scarf, and said in a shaking voice, "My dear, I need to presume on short acquaintance. I need your help greatly, very greatly indeed."

  Now, with the Duchess facing her, Genevieve could see what the scarf had hidden on the way: an unusual pallor, pinched lines around the lips, eyes pooling with unshed tears. She reached out a hand, all sympathy for the older woman's obvious distress. "Of course, Alicia. What is it?"

  The Duchess took her arm again and drew her farther along the aisles, away from the busy men, her voice barely above a whisper:

  "My daughter. My daughter Lyndafal. Genevieve, she's about to have her second child." She buried her face in her handkerchief, blotting her eyes.

  Genevieve waited a moment, then said in a puzzled voice, "Is that a troubling thing?"

  "She's married to Lord Solven, Earl Ruckward of the Sealand. He's somewhat older than she. She's his second wife. He already has heirs..."

  "He didn't want another child?"

  Alicia looked heavenward, hopelessly, making a frustrated gesture. "Genevieve, could you... will you do something for me without my having to explain? I really don't think I can explain. Will you allow that I have good reasons, though they might seem silly? Will you help me without knowing what they are? I must somehow help my daughter get away from Ruckward. I believe with all my heart that her life depends upon it."

  Genevieve stared in incomprehension, her mind tumbling with all the questions she was being forbidden to ask. "You can't invite her to visit you?"

  "She's due to deliver any day, and Solven won't let her leave the place now. It's within his rights, in accordance with the covenants, so I can't... I... Genevieve, please!"

  Genevieve bit her lip in indecision, finally shaking her head and saying, "You ask me in friendship, which demands I do what I can, but I must ask you, why do you want her to defy the covenants?"

  The Duchess took a deep breath. "Knowing would only endanger you, Genevieve. Sometimes we can do in ignorance what we could not do in knowledge. I can only swear to you that it is a matter of her life."

  "Why do you ask me? I know almost no one, I have very little freedom of action."

  The Duchess grasped her arm. "It's your being from Langmarsh that makes me think you can help. My daughter is a good sailor. Since she grew up in Merdune, she could scarcely be anything else. The baby is due soon. Lyndafal has sent me word by a trusted messenger that on the tenth of Early-winter, whether the child is born or not, she plans to leave the estate in Nether Ruckton and sail out onto Havenpool as she does, often, in all weathers, sometimes taking her little daughter. This time she will keep going, eastward, along the Randor Islands to Ramspize Point.

  "Have you any acquaintances in Evermire who could meet her and hide her? I will pay, of course, and she is a sturdy girl. She can braid up her hair and work as a farmer or fisherman..." Her eyes went into her handkerchief again and she breathed deeply. "Oh, I have no right to ask..."

  Genevieve patted her arm. "I'll talk with Delia, my maid. She's related to half the people in Evermire."

  "Don't tell her it's my daughter. Make up a story. She will use the name Bessany Blodden. Perhaps she could be a servant girl fleeing from an irate father."

  "Something like that," Genevieve mused. "The immediate problem is that I may need to hire a messenger, and while Father provides adequately for the household, he gives me almost no pocket money of my own."

  "Oh, child, don't worry on that." She reached into the pocket of her cloak and brought out a clinking bag. "Coin. Not at all traceable, as royal notes would be. Take what you will and keep what's left over as my gift of thanks. How soon, do you think?"

  "I don't know. We'll need to meet again." She thought furiously, erupting with, "Are you sure, Alicia? Are you sure you want to do this and that I'm the best person to ask? I know so little of
what's going on..." Her voice trailed into troubled silence.

  "That's why, girl. No one will think of you or ask you questions. You're an infant. You have the experience of an egg. Anything that goes on with you goes on inside you. You don't gossip, you don't twitter. I'm presuming on our kinship, ancient though that is. And on our friendship, young though that is." She burst into silent tears once more, letting them flow without hindrance.

  "Shhh. I'll do what I can. You must think of some other jaunt we can take two days hence, and I'll tell you then what's arranged. Now. Dry your eyes. You don't want them seeing you've been crying. It'll make people wonder."

  Making people wonder, according to Mrs. Blessingham, was the first step on the slippery slope of perdition. Covenanters disliked wondering. They preferred certainty.