Sheri Tepper - Singer From The Sea

by Singer From The Sea(Lit)

  "Oh. He's coming back?"

  Aufors did his best to look honestly amazed. "Where else he go?

  Terceth stared at him a long time, a stare which Aufors returned with a wounded, reproachful look of his own. Finally the man reached into his pocket and took out the packet of lichen powder that had been in Aufors's pack. "Can you tell me what this is? And where you got it?"

  "Stole it," said Aufors, who had anticipated the question. "From palace. It was in locked box, so I thought it was important. Medicine. Valuable, maybe?"

  "Ahh," said the officer. "Well, well. Can you show us where you got it?"

  Aufors scratched his head, reached back, tenderly touched his wounded head. "No."

  "Why no?"

  "Can't remember where. Remember going to palace. Remember weapon. Remember box. Can't remember palace. Head hurts when I try. What'd he hit me for?" Aufors, listening to himself, thought he sounded an absolute fool which was, probably, what was wanted. He glanced up to see Awhero beaming at him approvingly.

  "You don't mind if we keep this, then?" asked Terceth.

  "Keep it. Don't need it. Do need weapon and food and water. You give them back, we go away, not bother you."

  "We'll see. You just wait patiently. You shouldn't move too much right now anyhow. Let your head settle."

  Terceth moved to Awhero, drew her away, out of earshot, and questioned her, the old woman answering volubly, waving her arms. The baby began to cry, and the old woman took out a pack of baby food and waved it about, making demanding noises. Someone was sent to bring hot water.

  Well, except for some of them like Obrang, they weren't barbarians by nature. They weren't trying to be cruel. They were just set on taking over Mahahm. Or...

  Aufors looked up at the nearest guard and said plaintively, "You should go to Haven. Haven has good land. Haven has wine, and lots of food. Good things. There's nothing good here."

  "Don't you worry, desert-rat. By this time we've got Haven, too." The guard grinned. "Some of us landed in Havenor soon after we landed here. We're taking over the whole place. And we're all going to live forever!" He laughed, a quiet and very satisfied chuckle.

  Aufors subsided against the wall. Well, and well. He could fill in the blanks. The Lord Paramount had been selling long lives in return for frippery and security forces. Some of his customers on Ares figured the price was too high-or they couldn't buy enough-so the customers decided to take over the store. But they didn't know where the store got the stuff, not yet. They were looking for something, but they didn't know what they were looking for. If they went out onto the dunes and found those bodies, they might figure it out soon enough.

  Awhero said something to Terceth, who threw up his hands and let her go. Cradling the hungry baby in her arms, bottle at the ready, she came to sit next to Aufors once more.

  "I'm going to try to get them to let you go," said Aufors. "These people are looking for you-know-what, and if they find those bodies out in the dunes, they'll soon figure out why they're there. Somehow, you've got to get your people to dispose of them."

  She rocked to and fro. "I can't reach my people. All messenger birds went south. Malghaste left marae, now they hide. Some go to Galul."

  "How far? Too far? Damn. Who's left in the city?"

  "Women," she said. "Babies."

  "Women." He thought about it. "Could they... ?"

  She whispered, "If they were not drugged, perhaps they could understand, but they are drugged."

  "But with most of the men gone, who's doing the drugging?"

  "Old men. Keepers. Maybe it's in their water. I don't know."

  "So they probably can't bury the bodies?"

  "Why bury them? Just dragging them away from where they are would be enough. I don't think Mahahmbi women could do even that."

  "I can't figure out how the Shah keeps the secret? I can't be the first traveler to have stumbled over bunches of bodies. Even having seen the Old Friend, you'd think some Mahahmbi men would have gone out there and tried themselves."

  She shrugged. "Perhaps risk seems too great. If they do not want to become statue, Shah's blessing is essential."

  Remembered the conversation he had overheard in the city, he fell silent. It was true the two old men had spoken of the blessing. And of the vow of silence. Pray heaven they kept silent. It would be a very bad thing if the Aresians found out where the life-powder came from.

  26: The Lord Paramount

  Late the Lord Paramount had found his nighttimes increasingly wakeful. He was often aroused by small disturbances or sounds which would not have bothered him a few years before. It was true that the longer he reigned, the more anxious about his reign he became, for he was fully aware of the machinations of Prince Delganor. He knew the Prince had killed others in the line of succession. He knew the Prince conspired against himself, Marwell. He also knew, however, that allowing the Prince to operate with apparent freedom limited the field of possible aspirants, rather as turning goats into a pasture keeps down the weeds, not wiping them out, necessarily, but preventing their seeding or spreading. Better an evil one knew intimately than an evil one only guessed at. Thus far, the Prince had served admirably in the capacity the Lord Paramount had assigned him. Mower of aspirants. Cutter down of presumptives.

  Marwell had always known the Prince would eventually become so powerful and so intricately enmeshed in Havenor's affairs that it would be necessary to kill him. The Lord Paramount knew that this point had now been reached, which required that he, himself, watch matters very, very closely and make his moves very, very cautiously. These concerns made the Lord Paramount sleep even more lightly than usual.

  On the night of the invasion, therefore, when he was wakened by a scuffle in the courtyard, he made no attempt whatsoever to investigate the cause, but did instead what he had many times practiced doing: he stepped directly from his bed to the control panel of his secret elevator, opened the concealed door, closed the double layer of sturdy, metal-backed paneling behind him, and dropped the cage halfway down its shaft before he was even fully awake.

  The elevator was well supplied with sensors covering most of the palace, inside and out, and from the safety of his cell-like enclosure, he observed the palace being occupied by his own Aresian guards, their forces supplemented by a great many other Aresians who seemed to have materialized out of thin air.

  The Lord Paramount was shocked and surprised. He felt the shock quite palpably. He had imagined an attack from every quarter but this! He was at first a bit dazed, though when it became clear there was no level aboveground free of Aresian troops, he managed to calm himself sufficiently to dress and arm himself. Then, for the first time in almost a century, he went on down to the "upper cellars" beneath Havenor. Though the Aresians knew there were belowground warehouses-they had seen freight shipments being lowered-it would be some time before they found the access routes and began a search. By that time the Lord Paramount had gathered additional weapons and some other odds and ends of supplies before dropping even further down, into the gigantic lower caverns that constituted his subterranean storehouse. This area was known only to him, to the criminals he had sentenced to work there, and to the computer that ran the inventory. The last act of the Lord Paramount before leaving the elevator was to press a button which sealed off all the access shafts to these lower caverns as well as closing access to the inventory computers. If all went well, he could cancel this order at some later time, but he would have to do it from the elevator itself.

  When, very shortly thereafter, the Aresians searched the upper caverns, they found a great quantity of light weapons and an enormous quantity of junk, all of it ill stored and in general disarray. There was no sign of the Lord Paramount. The occupying force considered this disappointing but not critical, as it was assumed many noble Havenites would possess the knowledge the men of Aresia wanted.

  In this they proved to be mistaken. No one they spoke to knew anything at all specific about long-life stuff. There wer
e no very old men to be found, though there were a surprising number who looked and claimed to be between the ages of sixty and eighty. There were no very old women, either. In fact, there was a definite shortage of women of any age!

  When questioned, Count Daviger of Farmoor said yes, the Lord Paramount did give an expensive health drug to certain favorite courtiers, but he got it from off-planet somewhere in exchange for women. This was confirmed by Gardagger, Duke of Merdune, and by Lord Listley, Earl Northmarch, and by Prince Thumsort of Tansay in Sealands, plus all the other earls or counts or barons residing in Havenor, most of them in that highly suspect sixty to eighty year range.

  When the invaders in Mahahm had time to question the few old men in Mahahm-qum, they learned that the Shah did dispense a health drug to a few favorites, and that he obtained the stuff from Haven in return for women.

  Would the drug let them live forever? the informants were asked.

  No, of course not, said the prisoners. What a silly idea.

  So stymied for the moment, brothers Ogberd and Lokdren Ygdaleson summoned brother Terceth to Havenor for a strategy conference with their father, Ygdale Furnashson. Terceth arrived in his own battle cruiser, settling it outside the city next to those of his father and brothers and the several smaller vessels owned by minor Aresian warlords, the four large and several small vessels constituting the entire Aresian fleet. The Chieftain and his sons, after a nightlong discussion, settled down to a more lengthy occupation than had been planned. They did not believe the long-life stuff came from off-planet. They did not believe it was only a health drug. While they were not barbarians, while their sportsman's code made them dislike inflicting pain and suffering, it was obvious that they were not going to get the information they needed without some very cruel methods of extraction.

  The men of Ares were so very body-oriented, so very out-of-doorsy, so very much into tramping and swimming and climbing, and overall heartiness, so very much unaccustomed to sedentary pursuits that they did not consider the possibility of archival technology. No one among them considered examining the archives to determine the real ages of the men they questioned. Inasmuch as the lower levels of the archives had been blocked as tightly as the lower levels of the caverns, even if the Aresians had thought of it, they would probably have found nothing.

  Deep below Havenor, the Lord Paramount, dressed in mufti with his second-best crown a-cock, wandered in darkness of air, darkness of stone, and darkness of dust lying deep. Oh, the caverns were darker than remembered, or than he remembered remembering. Had he actually come here, ever? Or had he only told people to create these spaces, drain them, warm them, make them fit for storing all the treasures, all the pleasures of the king. The king. Himself, who had always been a king though he was not called a king. The cosettlers had not wanted a king, but they had accepted a Lord Paramount, a chief Lord, a more lordly lord than lesser lords. Marwell would have preferred to be king. He had always preferred to be king.

  When he had seen his own guards taking over the palace, caverns, something strange had happened to him. He had been furious, of course.

  He remembered his anger. And he remembered it building into a fury which had grown tighter and tighter, humming like a taut violin string which had then, oddly, snapped as he stepped out into this dark world. He had felt the tightness break, a quite tangible and organic feeling, a cord somewhere inside himself giving way, as though something springy but nonessential had been stretched too far. The sensation had been disquieting, and for the moment he had forgotten his anger, and when he returned to it a moment or so later he could not find it. Anger was more or less gone. Or perhaps it had merely lost its focus. What had been red fury was now only... a sallow swirling, an ashen agitation, a pale pique. He giggled at this. His fury was still there, oh, yes, but it was no longer such an irritating ire. Not anymore.

  Without it he felt more comfortable, less driven to do or accomplish at once. There was time. Plenty of time. So, he wandered, lantern in hand, along a roadway deep in dust that rose before his feet in little clouds. He had dressed in his disappearance clothes and shoes, but no matter how he tried, he could not step high enough in those shoes to avoid kicking up the dust. Sometimes he kicked it up just for fun. Some places it rose high, making him sneeze. Other times it merely fountained and fell in opaque puffs, a recurring geyser at his feet.

  He spent some time exploring a mountain of crockery. Much of it he remembered seeing before, the patterns were strangely evocative, the extravagant ornamentation of gold and platinum carried hints of old longings and desires. Oh, with a dinner service like that, everyone would know he was more than merely Lord Paramount. So, why had he sent it down here to be stored so clumsily? Who had let it fall so far, who had let it break into such tiny pieces? It was kingly china, he was sure of it, sure as he had been at the time, most kingly, as were the porcelain ornaments in the next box and the crystal goblets in the next heap-one of which he found unbroken and carried with him as he examined scraps of linen and lame in the next pile over but one. When he struck the goblet with his thumbnail it rang, like a tiny bell, and so he went, ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling, betimes straightening his crown, which did not accord with his clothing, but which, nonetheless, he refused to forsake.

  He found carpets. He remembered those carpets. He had contemplated them for a year before ordering them, deep, and rich in color, and made by the innocent hands of children in the far mountains of some other world. Chamis, perhaps. Or Alfrenia. Or Verchop's World. Oh, there had been many carpets, so many, enough for the whole palace, but they had been improperly stored, fallen into ruin and decayed, soaked with lizard filth and burrowed through by creatures.

  Oh, he told himself calmly, he would hold someone responsible, yes, he would. But first, first he had to find the war machines, somewhere down here, and put them into action, to drive away the invaders, the Aresians, the faithless, the false, the traitorous, the terrible... The adjectives were enough. He did not need to feel anything. So long as he knew they were dreadful people, that was enough.

  He hummed a little as he went, licking a finger now and then before thrusting it into the small jar he carried, bringing it out laden with P'naki to be sucked off, like a child with a lolly as he went singing-tinging, crown-acock, down the lanes of his fortune, his treasury, his wonderful, wonderful things. So, they were a bit tattered, but they could be mended. They were quite all right, really, quite fixable, once he had found the machines, he would set about putting things to rights...

  But, obviously, someone had erred. People down here had not Done Their Jobs Correctly. Things were Not in Good Order. Why, here, here, see! His pets! How long had they been here? When had they arrived? And why had no one told him they had come? Pretty things. Oh, pretty things. Well, now, he would put that to rights himself! It was only a matter of pulling the little tabs and setting the little valves into motion. He would let them out into the world, he would, of course, where they belonged. There, one. And there, another. And here a whole bunch of them in a row, eyes staring out through glassine and vitreon, eyes staring deep into his own. And here others, and there, down a twisting aisle barely wide enough to wriggle through, more, and more yet.

  So the tabs were pulled and deep within lights began to glow and wheels began to turn and fluids began to pulse in tubing as creatures long, long asleep began to waken. And he, Lord Paramount of Haven, burrowed into the stack, finding them all, setting them all in motion before he came out, humming, to continue down the dusty way, seeking the person responsible for this inadequacy, this disorder, this mismanagement of the dream, this corruption of his Eden.

  27: Shah Mahtt

  When Ybon Saelan woke after an uncomfortable night in the bare and waterless refuge, the others were still sleeping, except for the sentry officer who stood bolt upright in the outer gateway, pivoting to keep each of his dune-top sentries in view.

  "Report," grated the minister.

  "Nothing to report, sir. The night was quiet.
We didn't see anyone or hear anyone. Marshal came to take a look at the sentry posts early this morning, before dawn. That's the sum total of it."

  Ybon seated himself on a convenient rock. "Was the Marshal satisfied with your sentries?"

  "Don't know, sir. Haven't seen him since he went out there. He's quite the soldier, sir. Came out in full pack."

  "Ah," said Ybon again, puzzled.

  "Sir?"

  "Yes, Guardsman."

  "I... maybe I shouldn't mention it, sir, but the men are muttering and turning quarrelsome. It's worrisome. They're not regular guards. They don't have the discipline to go along without knowing all the details... well sir, it's the Shah's manner that's got them uneasy. He's headed us off nobody knows where, and he's ready to cut out the tongues or chop off the heads of most anybody, maybe the whole lot of us..."

  "Ah," mused Ybon. "I'm sorry to hear that. Well, I'll see if I can't calm him down."

  He went back into the refuge, to the room where the Shah's bedding and furniture had been set up, where the Shah himself was still noisily asleep, the rasp of his breath clearly audible. On the small table by the door stood a carved box, an ornamental water cooler of porous clay, a folded napkin, a cup, and a small spoon carved of seabone. The box contained P'naki. The Shah had a spoonful of it on his morning cup, every day. The Shah, as a matter of fact, was by now using almost as much of the lichen as the rest of Mahahm put together.