by Jaine Fenn
When she came out from the cover of the umbral she looked up at the Sun, reduced to a bright patch in the pale shadowland sky, then back down over the fields. She skirted the first field then crossed an irrigation ditch lined with hard, cracked earth to cut farther in towards where the land dipped. The buzzing whisper of the umbral breeze through the treetops fell away.
The next field had some sort of corn growing in it, stems bent and heads dried out. But there was a handbreadth of water in the irrigation ditch on the far side. She scooped up enough to drink – muddy, but she was used to that – then used her ironwood trowel to dig into the ditch, creating a pool deep enough to half fill the waterskin.
That was a lucky break; some days she visited a dozen fields before finding any water. She decided to carry on anyway; the waterskin needed filling completely if possible, and staying out postponed having to face Etyan.
In the next field paper-thin leaves wilted across dusty ground; beets of some sort, maybe already dead. The next field was covered in a blue-grey tangle of oilseed, one of the few plants that tolerated the drought.
The field upslope held rows of knee-high bean plants. She leapt the ditch, which had a trickle of liquid mud in the bottom, then crouched down and pulled a pod from the nearest plant. When she cracked it with a fingernail it tore like dry skin but revealed beans that looked plump and relatively moist. Tasted good too. There were several dozen pods within easy reach. Good job she’d brought the veg net.
Etyan was dozing outside the shack when she got back. She plumped the half-full waterskin and bulging net down next to him. “Tonight we dine on the finest beans!”
“Where from?”
“From a field.” She pointed vaguely behind her. “Over there.”
He stood to look her in the eye. “We talked about this. Those belong to a farmer.”
“A farmer planted those beans, yes.” She had been aware, as she picked the beans, that this was stealing; it had added pleasure to the experience, a pleasure she’d almost forgotten.
“But they need those beans. The drought is making it hard for people.”
“The drought is making it hard for us, Etyan.”
“Yes, but we can go out into the skyland and find stuff to eat. And there’s always my sister.”
“Isn’t there just.”
“Farmers don’t have those options. This is all they’ve got.”
“This,” she kicked the bag, “is a tiny amount of what they’ve got. So tiny I doubt they’ll miss it. Anyway, since when did you care about farmers?”
“Since I was taught to. It is a noble’s duty to ensure the people who provide your food are well cared for.”
The nobility card: she hated that. “Those lands don’t even belong to your House. Why do you care if they’re not your farmers?”
“That makes it worse!”
“What? Why?” Her voice was rising.
“Because if the farmer owed allegiance to House Harlyn I could ask Ree to compensate him.”
“For a handful of beans? Really?”
“It’s the principle, Dej.”
“Oh right, and you’re all about principles.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know what. If principles matter so much to you then why did you run away when you were accused of murder, rather than face your accusers!”
“I did not kill that girl!”
He always called her “that girl”. Not that Dej ever met the poor bitch. But “that girl” must’ve had a name, and a life. “No, but you acted like you had. And something happened that night–”
“Drop it, Dej! I was set up. The court exonerated me.”
That was what he always said, or some variation on it. But she wasn’t going to drop it today. “Why won’t you trust me enough to tell me the truth?”
He looked hurt. “Because I want to let the past go! Don’t you?”
“Yes. No. But I’ve told you how I got here, about the crèche and the clanless and everything. I know almost nothing about your old life. I don’t even understand why you left Shen.”
Etyan shook his head and whispered, “Because I’m an idiot.” He looked past her into the trees.
“Are you an idiot for going off with me?” she whispered.
“Of course not! You’re my future.” The first time he’d said that she’d been filled with joy, but now it sounded like a well-worn phrase. His voice hardening further, he added, “It was nothing to do with you. Can’t you just accept that?”
“I guess I’ll have to.” She threw her hands up and turned on her heel.
“Dej! Where are you going?”
“To get us a nice fat horrible grub to eat. Feel free to return those beans to the farmer while I’m gone!”
CHAPTER 5
Rhia wrote two letters immediately after her visit to the duke. One to Cardinal Marsan, requesting a grand trial with a full year to prepare. The other letter, to Etyan, explained her situation and asked, no told, him to come to the city at once. She softened the tone with an apology: he would be expecting her, not merely a letter, to be waiting at the estate for his next scheduled visit, but she dare not leave the city until she had the Church’s answer.
She had also faced up to the growing pile of household correspondence. Markave ran the townhouse efficiently despite not having a housekeeper since the unfortunate business with his wife. Mereut, her estate manager, did an equally good job in their holdings beyond the city. But some items still needed her attention, as nominal head of House Harlyn while her brother was “indefinitely absent”.
The two dozen other letters she wrote over the next few days took more thought. Assuming she was granted a grand trial, she could call up to five witnesses and read depositions from up to twenty more. The obvious witnesses would be her fellow enquirers, assuming any were willing to travel to Shen.
The right words were essential, and as words were not her strong point, it took a full day just to compose a draft. She then had to modify and tailor her request to each enquirer, depending on their area of knowledge and previous dealings with her.
The enquirers in the six shadowlands adjacent to Shen were close enough to consider appearing in person but those farther afield might offer written testimony, and she needed to allow time for them to receive her request and send their answers.
Her defence would rest on two pillars: the provability of her theory, and the fact that it did not directly contradict the Scriptures. For the former, she was on her own. For the latter, there was one obvious ally in the enquirers, a respected religious scholar from a nearby shadowland who nonetheless kept an admirably open mind. But she had reason to distrust Meddler of Zekt. She did not write to him.
When the effort of dealing with words got too much she returned to the more-vital-than-ever task of making the numbers fit the observations. The real problem was the Strays; none of her calculations explained their erratic movement across the sky – which was ironic, as her observations of these three most prominent stars had prompted the realisation that the Sun was at the centre of the universe.
When she could no longer hold a pen she either went up to her observation platform or, in daylight, tinkered with her celestial model. She had used her father’s writings to design it, employing cogs and wheels to build a device that would – hopefully – emulate the movements of heavenly bodies. But she was not the engineer he had been; whenever she fixed one part, something else jammed or broke. Again, the Strays were the problem. The spheres on sticks representing the outer two, the Matriarch and the Crone, had not moved for weeks. Of course, had Francin provided iron cogs then perhaps the mechanism might run more smoothly.
The longer she waited for the Church’s response, the harder it became to concentrate. She kept coming back to how little control she had over events, and how matters might play out.
There was one matter she had control over, however distasteful. And it needed to be resolved. She could not put off confronting her collea
gue any longer.
Rhia did not visit the middle city much, save occasional trips to the guilds to order items for her work, and it took a while to find Theorist of Shen’s house. Then again she had only visited Shen’s other natural enquirer once, long ago.
When his housekeeper answered the door Rhia said, “I wish to speak to Andar Olashin.” She had considered sending a note ahead, but did not want to give him the chance to find some excuse not to see her.
The woman’s gaze pulled away from the lacquered mask covering the area around Rhia’s left eye – always the first thing a stranger’s glance went to – to take in her fine clothes and lack of escort.
“Who shall I say is calling please?”
“Rhia Harlyn.” Enquirers needed to know each other’s real names in order to write to each other.
“Of course, m’lady. If you will wait in the parlour I will bring refreshments.”
“Just some cordial please.” It was too hot for tisane.
Andar Olashin was an architect by trade, and his minimal but pleasing decor and furnishings reflected this. He – or perhaps his wife – had a good eye for colour, matching pale golds with lavender and pastel blues.
The housekeeper returned with a cool beaker of cordial. After the servant curtseyed and left, Rhia suppressed the image of Sur Olashin creeping out the back door to avoid her.
The natural enquirers valued independent thought; meeting in person was frowned upon. Hence also, the two enquirers in a given shadowland focused on different areas. So she, like Father before her, was Observer of Shen, a position stressing the practical side of enquiry, in contrast to Theorist of Shen’s more abstract concerns.
Father knew his son was not as suited to inherit his role as his daughter; by the age of fifteen Rhia had already compiled books of sketches and observations of the natural world and begun the study of optics that would culminate in her sightglass. Ever one to think the best of people, he had wanted Shen’s other enquirer to get used to the idea of a woman in the network. Their reception by Theorist of Shen had been somewhat cool. She expected no better today.
The door opened.
“Good afternoon, Sur Olashin.”
“M’lady.” He had not been young when they first met, and was truly old now, his hair reduced to wisps and his movements ponderous. He lowered himself into the seat farthest from her with a grunt. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visitation?”
“I find myself in trouble with the Church.”
His face remained suspiciously bland. “How unfortunate.”
“I am being called to task for some of my work for the enquirers.”
“Are you now? That sounds quite serious.”
“It is. And I am guessing by your reaction that you are not overly concerned for me, or my work.”
“I fear you may be right, m’lady.”
He was enjoying this, damn him. She may as well come out with it. “Did you inform the Church of my new theory?”
“I did, m’lady.” To his credit, he held her gaze.
“And would you have done so were I a man?”
For a moment, Andar Olashin was silent. When he spoke his voice was pensive. “I find a feminine presence in the arena of knowledge… disconcerting. However I would have alerted the cardinals to your heretical theory regardless. I acted according to my conscience and my faith.”
And there was, Rhia knew, no arguing with faith. “Well, at least you had the good grace to admit it to my face.”
“We are enquirers. I owe you the truth.”
“Indeed you do.” Through her disappointment, cold anger flared. “Even though your actions broke our code. Our work is not to be shared with unsympathetic parties.”
Sur Olashin made a hmm noise deep in this throat, then said, “It is not, no. But the enquirers’ code is not a binding and enforceable law.” He was right. And calling for his censure from their peers might not endear her to those very people she had just written to seek aid from. Sur Olashin continued, “And I had the interests of the network at heart.”
“Really? I fail to see how bringing our work to the attention of the Church will benefit the enquirers. Quite the contrary, in fact.”
“I am bringing your work to the attention of the Church. Not the network’s as a whole. If we lived in a shadowland where enquirers are persecuted, I would have stayed silent rather than draw any attention. But in Shen we are lucky. We can work freely – provided our work does not offend Church or State.
Your radical theory offends not only my own beliefs but the institution of our Church. Better to dissociate the enquirers from it now than have it become public knowledge, and bring our wider work into question.”
“So betraying me was a matter of expedience as much as faith?”
“My decision to pass on your work served both causes. I do not regret it.”
“Then I will not take any more of your time.” She stood.
“I can see myself out.” She turned on her heel and strode over to the parlour door, yanking it open, only to stop on the threshold. Two young men stood immediately outside, one leaning forward as though to hear better the proceedings in the room, the other with a warning hand on his arm. They looked as shocked to see her as she was to see them.
“Oh,” said the younger one, straightening.
The other, slightly older, managed a hasty bow, “M’lady!”
His companion shadowed the bow, clumsily.
From behind her Sur Olashin shouted, “Boys! What is this?” These must be Sur Olashin’s apprentices.
Under other circumstances she might have enjoyed the absurdity of the situation. But right now she just wanted to get out of this man’s house, so she swept past, and out the front door.
CHAPTER 6
Dej stalked through the thinning trees towards the light. She should return to the shack and get a bag for the grub but she’d rather spend a week locked in his sister’s study than go back to Etyan right now.
Her route through the nearby skyland was so familiar she barely noticed the usual towers of cloud above and the patchy bushes, scrubland and occasional vegetation-furred rocky outcrop below. The landscape immediately beyond the umbral was quite healthy, thanks to the occasional downpour from the umbral storms. It smelled good too; she’d forgotten the richness of smells-withadded-sensation that filled the skyland: sweet-sharp like fresh orange, spicy like warm stew, clean like crushed mint. All at once. She breathed deep.
She needed a drink. The ground was damp from a recent cloudburst but there weren’t any springs or standing water. So, honey-bug later, water-bug now. They were easier to find anyway. She cast around until she saw a tell-tale patch of mauve-grey lichen-stuff, by which time she was out of the umbral overcast and into the silvery skyland Sun. Half dried- out and not much bigger than her palm, the bug’s surface parts were easy to miss by sight alone but it also smelt sweet, like drying hay, and dormant though the bug below was, she sensed its life.
She pulled the trowel from her belt and concentrated on pinpointing the bug. Sometimes they strayed to one side of the surface mat that absorbed water for them. Nope, directly below. Good. She stabbed the trowel-blade into the middle of the mat then dug down as fast as she could. Half a dozen hastily shovelled scoops of soil later she glimpsed a dark brown shape. She thrust her hand down and grabbed the bug. Small one, no longer than her hand, and its casing had already began to harden. Getting the trowel under it she lifted her prize, then slammed it down on the baked earth and stabbed it with her trowel-point. A smell/sound of rot/insolent fear hit Dej between the eyes, but she’d expected that. She lifted the brown lump in both hands, tipped her head back, and pulled the punctured beastie apart. Cool liquid rained into her open mouth. Not water, but thirst-quenching enough and better tasting than a lot of skyland life. The first time she’d brought Etyan out here and caught a bug for him he’d said the taste reminded him of wheat beer. She had no idea what wheat beer tasted like, but she’d enjoyed impressing him w
ith her animus-given knowledge and competence. Shame it only worked in the skyland.
She teased out the bug’s stringy flesh with her teeth, then threw the drained husk to one side and sat back on her heels. Her heart was pounding. She smiled to herself. Surprisingly exciting to hunt, water-bugs. They’d never fight back, but they’d harden their skin into an impermeable casing as you watched. She’d once tried carrying the encased bugs back to the shack but nothing short of dropping a huge rock on them cracked the shell, and that just left a useless spatter of bug bits. Find them, kill them, eat them. Nice and simple.
The evening Sun was lighting the undersides of the high, sculpted clouds clinging to the edge of the shadowland. Dark soon. But she could picture Etyan’s expression if she returned empty-handed now.
The remains of last night’s rabbit were a distant, queasy memory. Honey-bugs had to be cooked, so even if she found one she couldn’t eat it. She cast about, looking for a bush whose leaves smelled safe to eat, or even better, one with proper fruits.
She located a stand of pale knee-high spikes that exuded a lemony scent: lemon-spikes, as she called them; no point making up fancy names. Only the central cream-coloured spine was edible and it didn’t taste of lemon, or of anything she’d ever eaten before, but the spongy mass was good and filling.
By the time she’d eaten, the Sun was touching the horizon. She wouldn’t be going back tonight. Whitemoon was already up, and Greymoon was rising. The Harbinger was up too, nearer the horizon than the last time she’d seen it. She lay down on the cooling earth and watched the night sky blaze into brilliance around her. She might not feel the need to write stuff down about the heavens, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy them when her view wasn’t blocked by trees or clouds.
After a while just looking and not thinking, she felt better. Lighter, less worn down. But not tired.
She sat up, then stood, revelling in the feeling of shedding something invisible yet heavy. With both Moons up and the night-glow of the plants she could see well enough to avoid any nasty night-time critters on the ground, and it wasn’t like you got nightwings round here. She may as well carry on. She kept just enough of her attention on her surroundings to distract herself.