by Gayle Greeno
Koom rippled his skin, impatient at her hesitancy. “Do it, stop maundering, get it over and done with so they’ll understand. Mysteries enough abound. They’re not children. Then it’s out of your hands for a time, but not out of your direction. We can only wait and see.”
“As you all have gathered, there was something beyond the ordinary in Oriel’s death and Saam’s injury. The ghatti are especially concerned by the rupturing of the mindnet. That required an incredible force, and we’re still unsure whether Saam’s extreme, near-terminal anguish and pain engendered it, or if it came from without rather. than within. Things occur that we’re not always meant to decipher—the Lady’s doings remain part of a larger pattern that we are not always privy to—yet this is not the first strange thing, and seems to be part of a veiled design that we but faintly begin to perceive.
“You remember Tabor Fairchild’s and H’maw’s deaths this spring, battered lifeless when they were trapped in that sheer cut by the flash floods. We assumed drowned, but they suffered head injuries very like Oriel’s. We put it down to the tumbling through the flood waters, the battering of the rocks, uprooted trees, the length of exposure before we could locate them.” She forced herself to breathe evenly, keep her voice dispassionate. “In retrospect, I now wonder.”
“Then there was Khem, venerated by all, sharp and wise at near thirty, until one day we found him wandering in circles, miaowing to himself. Vreni, Geradus was nearly beside herself when she tracked him down. Memory and mindspeech gone, no obvious wounds. Twylla judged it a stroke of some sort, a short-circuiting of his brain. Regrettable but not improbable at his age. And he lay on his blanket like a newborn ghatten, his paws milk-treading, looking for something to nurse against, murmuring and mewling, until he curled up into a tight little ball and drifted off and died. Vreni still sorrows that she could never bid him farewell.” She paused, the length calibrated to let them remember Vreni’s anguish. The steeliness in her voice when she continued startled them all, herself included.
“But what you don’t know is that after we buried him, the grave was exposed and the body stolen. I convinced Vreni and the Tribune that the fact should not be made public.” She commanded their attention now, though they remained expressionless, wary. The ghatti twitched in discomfort, her words as biting as innumerable invisible flies against their skins.
“There have been other, similar cases involving brain injuries over the past few years, although we aren’t sure how many. None have been as close together as these three cases, or so close to a pattern that we cannot detect the weave of. Oriel’s death—and the manner of it—is already known, already being talked about, not just by us but by the rest of the city. The ripples, the rumors, are spreading beyond that.”
The twins wound their fingers together, mirror-imaged guilt. Swan gave a marginal shake of her head. “No,” her voice reproved them. “No fault pertains. Stealth, secrecy, had no place in your actions. You were right to do as you did, especially with Saam to consider. Discretion is a nicety we can’t always afford when a life is at stake.”
“But what do you want of us? Where is this all heading?” Doyce spoke in a desultory, apathetic tone, then retreated back within herself without waiting for an answer, mouthing unspoken complaint. Rolf made as if to hush her, then contented himself with laying a restraining hand on her shoulder to avoid another interruption.
“Well, what do you want from us?” he asked, still holding Doyce in check. “We can’t decide or agree until we know what you’re after and what we’re after.”
Koom mindspoke on the intimate band. “Yes, you can order them, you have the right, but I wouldn’t.... Don’t let your tiredness and your tears push you to that.” He broke contact long enough to lean over and lick Saam, soothing the increasingly restless ghatt. “I’ve been telling him everything you’ve said. Remember, he can’t mindspeak or understand human speech, other than the few simple words and commands we all know of each other’s languages.”
“Coincidences in all I’ve mentioned? I think not. Evil stalks us, mocks us. A crime has been committed and we must determine the guilty party, as it has always been the task of the Seekers Veritas to do. If we do not find out, a worse menace may await us. Oriel’s death was the first overt act of which we are sure. What if there are more? But these crimes are not the only things we should dread.” A pause, lengthening, as she strove to find the right words, her lips pressed tight to still her jangling nerves. “If we cannot seek out the Truth about what destroyed one of our own, what will the world think of us? At best we will be viewed as deceivers, frauds, as amusing’road show mountebanks; at worst, as traitors to their honor and trust, guilty of gulling and victimizing and betraying them. What will a loss of faith in the Seekers Veritas mean to Canderis—whom can the people trust for the Truth, who will determine the right or wrong of things in lieu of us? The very fabric of society may be tom asunder!”
Her cry of the heart, despite the despairing calmness of her voice, left the others shaken, the full implications of her words already beginning to sink deep. The Seekers seen as charlatans, the ghatti hounded, hunted to death for having made dupes of the people. A Seeker could strip off the tabard, go into hiding, assume a new identity, but a ghatt could not.
“For near two hundred years we have been seen as ... infallible, above reproach. A heavy burden but one that we have carried honorably and well. That is why we must find the Truth of Oriel’s death... or never be trusted again. We must not abdicate the legacy that Matthias Vandersma and Kharm left us after their long search for acceptance, a way to fill a sorely needed role in our society.”
Face bleached white, strained so taut the skull outlined itself beneath the skin. Rolf choked out an inarticulate sound of protest and rage, but she shushed him relentlessly, watching for an emotion, any emotion, on Doyce’s frozen face, only the hazel eyes exposing a wary, banked spark of comprehension. She’d feared Doyce incapable of it, the grief so raw and new already mortaring itself to the old sorrows and pains. And she knew too well that the last time Doyce had seen an opportunity to expose a group as charlatans, a group she had belonged to, she had fled rather than do so. How would she react to this challenge of proving that the Seekers were anything but charlatans? Proving the tangibility of a seeming intangible such as Truth had more pitfalls than uncovering a mere falsehood.
“Not ours to judge, never that, but always to seek the Truth.” Swan raked short-nailed fingers through the white, shingled hair behind her ears, her naked earlobes. “We must try to draw out this evil, determine its cause. We must plan.” Swiveling in her chair, she fixed Doyce with her eyes. “Doyce, I want you to replicate Oriel’s last circuit, follow the exact route. Do as you would normally do on any circuit, but keep your senses open to anything and everything. And that goes doubly for you, Khar’pern Bondmate. Someone along the route may know something, some little thing insignificant to them but not to us. Even evil has to leave some sort of back trail.” The ghatta dipped her head once in agreement as the Seeker General continued her strategy.
“Bard and M‘wa, Byrta and P’wa, you’ll follow behind, each of you two days after the other on Doyce’s circuit. You’ll both be there to pick up any transmissions, report back to us, aid Doyce and Khar if they should need it.” The twins touched each other’s hands, then raised right fists to hearts in salute, nakedly relieved not to be separated any more than usual.
The others waited, tense but wary, to hear their roles. “Seekers Rudyard and Brueckner, Parcellus and Sarrett, you and your Bonds will remain here, combing the records for other strange cases or incidents involving Seekers, all the way back through our founding if it seems necessary. Find out if there’s a pattern or a clue we’re. overlooking, or whether I’m a doddering old fool arching my back at shadows and skittering leaves. Not everyone in the Tribune agrees with me. I need support from within or someone may try to take this beyond our con-trot—and I’m not ready to admit defeat yet.
“If
you need to, use T‘ss and Per’la as runners, trackers, send them off to follow any leads you may find promising, to gather any new information from other records that we may need. The eumedicos for one have promised to open their files to us if it seems necessary and relevant.” Did Doyce know of Mahafny’s relationship to Swan? She thought not.
Sarrett shook her head, desperately considering. “Doyce is a better researcher than I am, you know that. That was her specialty for years with the eumedicos and afterward. Give her a few strands and she can weave the pattern complete.” Her face pleaded with Swan Maclough. “I’m merely competent. It would make more sense to send me in Doyce’s place and let her stay here to do what she does best.” And Swan hardened herself not to respond to Sarrett’s unspoken plea: Don’t make Doyce relive it league by league, knowing she’s coming closer and closer to where Oriel died at circuit’s end. Commendable of the young woman, but the wrong tack to take. For once she’d make Doyce act, not stand aside, regretting what she hadn’t done or should have done.
Swan regarded her unwaveringly until Sarrett blushed, tilted her head forward to shelter behind her long white-gold mane. “You’re too noticeable, my dear, and you know it. Even on your ordinary circuits your looks attract more attention than they should, through no fault of your own. You ride in sunlight wherever you go, perfect, desirable, and yet distant, unattainable. People don’t chat with you on the streets, in the taverns, the way they do with Doyce. She’s more ordinary and approachable.” She kept her voice sympathetic. “And besides, you show more talent as a researcher than you think, as does Parcellus there with his love of puzzles. He doesn’t have the slightest idea of how truly good he is. But he will find out, and you’re going to help him and help us.”
“That leaves me and Chak,” Rolf’s voice was neutral, despite the fine sheen of nervous perspiration filming his face. “Too old to ride and too old to research, I suppose.”
“Think that if you will, but you know it’s not so. No, your places are here, learning, preparing to be a part of the Tribune. Charlton Sisset and his Bond wish to retire back to their village, although they won’t do so if you do not accept. They know I need their support. Do you wish to accept?”
Chak and Rolf mindspoke, then they turned to the Seeker General. “It is an honor we had not expected, to be chosen for our governing Tribune. A great honor. We accept.” And Sarrett, Parse, Bard and Byrta swarmed around him, hugging him, pounding his shoulders, stroking Chak, laughing, weeping, buffeting him back and forth until it looked as if both his frail trimness and his composure might break.
In the midst of the confusion and impromptu celebration, Doyce’s words carried only far enough for Swan’s hearing. “Yes, we accept as well. We’ve looked into your mind and Koom’s. There is menace you give no name to, but the Truth you speak is clear. We shall seek and we shall find. When?”
“Two days hence.”
Koom rested his chin across Saam’s back. “Those who Seek, find ... as you shall. Sometimes the Seeking hurts, but it is always worth it in the end.”
“What about Saam?” Khar asked.
“I don’t know, but I believe a place will be found for him when he is ready.”
Whimpering, paws flexing, Saam seemed to sense they were speaking of him, then he sighed in resignation and slept.
The infirmary lay hushed, the only sound that of a vaporizer hissing and misting to try to loosen the stubborn, harsh cough of a Seeker ensconced in one of the rooms down the hall. Saam curled on his blanket, chin flat on the floor, Koom and Mem‘now sitting in front of him, though the gray ghatt barely acknowledged their presence. Saam was separate, the “other,” unable to join in the mindspeech that flowed between Mem’now and Koom.
“Don’t press him so much,” Koom urged, sliding a slantwise glance in Saam’s direction. “He’s had an exhausting day on top of everything else that’s happened to him. Swan said the tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Humans do have interesting expressions sometimes.”
Mem’now limbered his spine, made himself taller, then taller still before he relaxed and sank back to his normal height. “We have to press him to extend himself. Twylla compared it to a temporary paralysis; if we don’t want his mind to atrophy, waste away, we have to constantly exercise it, repattern him, reprogram him from the very beginning. Finally, maybe his mind will remember.” He dipped his head to Saam’s level, coaxed in falanese, “Saam, I’ve a story for you, a ghatten tale.”
“Don’t want a story.” One yellow eye half-opened, then closed in weariness. “What I want isn’t possible, I want Oriel.”
The two ghatti shivered at the naming. Koom, ruddy and solid as a brick, hunkered level with Saam. “I know. The wanting will never stop, but it will become less painful.”
“Traitor!” Saam spat weakly.
Koom chose not to take offense, merely rubbed a fleck of spittle from his nose. “No, realist. Oriel is dead.” The words tolled in the air, ringing with a finality that hurt. “But do you not wish to regain your mindspeech? Khar and Doyce are going to Seek the answer, the Truth as to what happened to Oriel, taking your place since you cannot go. What if they need your help?”
“I don’t know. Does it matter? I don’t know anything, I’m not always sure that I know you. I hear you say my name and wonder who you call. Who is Saam? Who was Saam?” The steel-gray ghatt half-rose, struggling, slithering off his blanket, claws scraping wild scars on the polished wooden floor. Yellow eyes burned. “My brain feels walled in and I am a stranger to myself! By the Elders, I do not know who I am! Who are the Elders?”
“A chink of light,” Mem’now spoke with a professional interest. “One tiny chink and all may not be lost.”
Koom shouldered against Saam, pushing him onto his blanket, forcing him to settle, making little soothing sounds. “You have more faith than I, Mem, but I hope you are right. He is too good a ghatt for us to surrender without a fight.”
A breathy little purr burbled from Mem’now, his yellow stripes rising and falling, rippling in a gentle wave pattern. “Hush, Saam, hush. It will all come clear eventually, don’t fret yourself over it, let it flow. Relax and listen, listen to what you once were like, what we all were like when we were ghatten. Listen and learn.” And the Tale began....
“It came to pass on a beautiful summer day that a ghatten set off to explore the world, though he never got farther than a broad roll of meadow crammed with all the delights a youngling could dream of. The sun spangled and sparkled and an errant breeze twisted and fluttered the leaves and grass, set them nodding in agreement at the perfection of the moment. The ghatten danced with joy, sprang and raced, tore from one side of the meadow to the other and back again, lord of all he surveyed as he twisted and pranced. Bees hummed and bumbled from flower to flower, and the ghatten sniffed each flower to test its scent, decide which he would prefer if he were a bee, then raced on to the next one. A beckoning creeper vine captured his attention, come-hither quivering in the breeze, and he stopped and crouched, hind quarters swishing back-and-forth and back-and-forth, as he chanted his skills as the noblest, cleverest hunter of them all. And then he sprang and pounced on the beckoning vine tip, growled to show it who was in command, cuffed it into submission, and dashed off again.
“Bounding, bouncing, spring-twisting in the air, he chased his own tail, spinning in gloriously giddy circles, until his spiraling course landed him near the one patch of shade in the meadow’s center, a thickly-leaved elm, tall and densely dark with whispering leaves. And he chased his own tail in and out of the shadows and sun until suddenly his ears pricked at the sound of high-up, hooting laughter. Well, he sat and stared up, stretched back and back to see because he did not like the sound of being laughed at. No ghatt, ghatta or ghatten does, of course, for being laughed at is very different from being laughed with, and the hooty chuckles he heard belonged very definitely to the first variety and humiliation nipped his skin like sand fleas.
“He stood, bri
stly with indignation, tail a spiky exclamation of his feelings. ‘Who laughs at me? What are you laughing about?’ he rowled.
“ ‘Oh, to be young and foolish again,’ came a voice from above, harsh yet with a soft clatter. The ghatten slitted his eyes to see and what he had taken to be the stub of a dead, lightning-struck branch moved, rustling feathers bleached gray as the dead wood, claws shifting and scratching against the bark. ‘Yes, foolish and fancy-free in the summer sun.’
“ ‘Foolish!’ hissed the ghatten. ‘Owl, how dare you call a ghatten foolish, how dare you call me that! I am not foolish, the wisdom of the ghatti flows in my blood! I can even catch my own tail! Can you say the same?’
“Another hooting laugh unscrolled itself toward the ghatten, made him quiver and want to wash himself, but he resolutely held his head erect, trying to catch the owl’s eye, except that the bird’s head swiveled from side to side. ‘Well, can you?’ he insisted. ‘Can you catch your own tail?’
“ ‘I don’t believe I’ve ever tried, and I doubt I could if I tried. But why would one want to catch one’s own tail? Mouse tails, squirrel tails, yes ... a very useful handle in the hunt.’ He shifted, clacked his beak. ‘But to catch one’s own tail, a pleasant foolishness of the young. No harm to it, but no use either.’
“The little ghatten swelled with anger, a thready little hiss of resentment sizzling the air. ‘But I am not foolish, I am one of the ghatti! I know the Truth, all ghatti do! We are very wise!’