by Mark Eller
"Strange bunch of jabbers, aren't they?" an Isabellan asked from beside Aaron.
He was a thin man, almost too bony to be called healthy. His face was long and narrow, sprouting a thin blade of a nose beneath two overlarge, shifty eyes.
"Not strange," Aaron disagreed. "Just different. There's always a reason for what they do so I won't question this technique, although I do wonder what's going on."
"They're carving some sort of holy stick," the man answered. "It's to replace one destroyed a few years ago. They call it Versase el something something Mar Torac."
"Versase el Hectorate Mar Torac," Aaron supplied. "The Wand of War, although they used it for a great deal more than war. Most often, to prevent war. Haarod Beech destroyed their last one during the first conflict."
"Yeah, well whatever," the man said. "It's all superstition anyway, just like their belief in the One God."
Aaron smiled politely and thought about debating the man. After a moment's reflection, he changed his mind. While it was true he had sort of met the Lady, and while it was also true some small part of him seemed to be an auxiliary holding tank for The One God's Blessed Power, he had no way to prove it. The mark of Heralda's kiss could easily be a tattoo, and most of his experiences with the "Gods" were entirely subjective. He might be able to heal somebody for the fellow, but it would prove nothing. A healing could easily be attributed to a fluke or to one of the rare Talents.
Nothing, he realized, short of a miracle would sway a true skeptic. The thought saddened him somewhat because he had once been a skeptic himself. It took several small miracles before he set his skepticism aside and believed.
He did believe, but in his most secret heart he did not worship. The Gods, or something like unto Gods, were out there. The problem was Aaron did not like what they had done to him. He owed them little or no loyalty, and he did not understand why they deserved his worship just because they owned the biggest set of pecs in town.
A man, he realized, needed to love himself, to be at peace with himself, before he could love the Gods. Aaron Turner no longer loved himself. He seldom even liked himself.
"Name's Roger Khante," the man said, holding out his hand for a shake. "I'm a Professor of Social and Political Philosophy, here from N'Ark University to complete my studies on primitive societies."
Aaron reluctantly shook the man's hand even though the fellow's aloof condescension for the Clan made Aaron want to punch him in the nose. While it was true Aaron had not spent much time studying the Clan, it was also true he lived with them for long enough to know they were a complex people possessing knowledge and skills most Isabellans could not comprehend.
"Just call me Aaron," he said while grasping long, thin fingers seeming a bit too callused for a university professor's. "There isn't much Mister and Mistressing on this side of the mountains."
"Which is exactly why we should cling all the tighter to the polite conventions," Khante insisted. "We are located in a savage and untamed land, surrounded by people only two steps above living in caves. It seems to me we are honor bound to provide an example to our inferiors. A few moments observing us at our best might drag one or two of these savages out of their quagmire of ignorance."
"Or," a male voice said tightly from behind them, "it may teach us that 'civilized people' are narrow and shallow. Your example shows us Isabellans are bigoted, blind, and too narrow to understand what isn't stuck in front of their faces. I admire much about Isabella. Unfortunately, her ugly side is exhibited by people like you."
Aaron turned to see a neatly groomed clansman wearing a precisely tailored light gray suit. He stood straight, confident, and his eyes, surrounded by tanned and weather worn features, glinted insult.
"This is a private conversation," Khante snapped. "You are invited to leave."
Grimacing, Aaron made a motion with his hand, distancing himself from the statement, letting the newcomer know Khante and he were not a team.
"This is a private ceremony," the clansman rejoined. "You are not welcome."
"If it were private," Khante noted, "it would be held inside a tent."
"If it were held inside a tent," the clansman pointed out, "an important part of the ceremony would be neglected. You are not welcome here. I advise you to leave."
A contemptuous half-smile marred Roger Khante's face. "I think not."
Aaron closed his eyes, but closed eyes didn't stop him from wincing when he heard a fist strike flesh. Khante groaned. Aaron heard another smack, a third, and then the sound of a body dropping.
"You killed me," Khante gasped.
Aaron opened his eyes to see Khante lying on the ground, curled around his belly.
"If I were to philosophize on the nature of death," the clansman said conversationally, "I would only partly agree with you. The identity which you designate as Roger Khante still exists. It is self-aware and continues to make noise. This negates the entity's hypothesis that it is dead. However, I must admit, on a smaller scale, you are partially correct since my actions did cause damage and destruction to more than a few cells. This means Roger Khante does not exist in the exact same state as he existed only a few moments ago."
Nodding, the clansman took a step closer. "Of course, we are never the same person from moment to moment, and this is still a private ceremony. Leave."
"I can't get up."
The clansman drew back his foot in preparation for a kick.
Aaron thought it amazing just how quickly Khante's logic proved faulty. He leaped to his feet and hurried away with an alacrity gratifying to see, leaving a bit of something on the ground where he had lain. Aaron stepped over, picked it up, and found himself holding a pamphlet.
Shoving it into his pocket, he turned to the clansman. "Your counter-argument seems to have been successful. Hello, Delmac."
"Turner." Delmac's voice seemed hardly warmer than it had moments earlier. "If you weren't an adopted Freelorn, I would chase you off, too."
"No need," Aaron assured the man. Delmac had never been his friend, and despite the civilized facade given to him by the suit, Delmac was seldom far from a desire to stick a spear through those he disliked. "I was only curious, and then Khante felt the need to explain matters to me."
"I suppose you came here to cause trouble." Delmac made a quick gesture, indicating they should move off. Taking the cue, Aaron headed toward the broch with Delmac walking by his side.
"I need three or four books on archeology to bribe someone," Aaron explained. "More would be better if we have them. A cave has been uncovered near a city I'm building close to the Chin border. We found some pottery shards on the floor and a bunch of charcoal paintings on the walls. I want an archeology team to look at it because any papers they write will put Chin in front of people's eyes in a different way from what they're used to seeing. Problem is the only real archeologist who'll consider the project wants me to sweeten the pot with books."
"There is an agreement," Delmac stated flatly. "We are the guardians of those books. We determine which ones will be released. We decide where they go."
"The Elders decide," Aaron pointed out. "Not you."
"I am a chief."
"But not an elder and I doubt you're a chief anymore. It's been years since you've taken up those duties. Your job as envoy and ambassador to Isabella has seen to it."
Delmac made a noise and spat as they drew near the broch's door. "I spent too many years buried in your city's filth. My duties have been passed to another. Yesterday I came home."
"So you're a chief once again?"
"Honorary."
One word was enough. Delmac had lived inside N'Ark for more than fifteen years, during which time the daily running of his clan was seen to by another. Most likely, Delmac had assumed he would one day return to assume his duties.
Fifteen years, however, was a long time, more than long enough for the temporary chief to consolidate his position. Long enough for Delmac to have lost many of his Clan ways. He would be almost a st
ranger to his own people.
"He wants to strip us of some books," Delmac explained to the guards who stepped forward to block their entrance into the broch. "I forbid it."
"It is not your place to give or deny permission," one of the guards said carefully, an indication her Jut was but recently learned. A pretty woman, the wind and sun had not yet sandblasted her face into a leather mask. "Flessant, inform the Elder in Residence the Turner wishes to be admitted."
Without a word, one of the four guards leaned her spear against the broch's doorframe and trotted inside. Delmac growled irritably at the delay.
"Kereen, I have sent the man, Khante, away from the ceremony," Delmac told the lead woman. "He paid too much attention to the rites. Let Tradare know he is to be watched."
Her face turned thoughtful. "This Khante is too curious about too much. I cannot leave my station. Perhaps you should tell her."
"I might leave at any time," Delmac explained. "She is hunting and may not return for a day or two."
Kereen nodded. "I will tell her."
Less than two minutes later, the guard returned from her errand. "Crendlar says for him to come inside." She gave Delmac a careful viewing. "You look city."
"I just arrived with the latest batch of politicians yesterday." Delmac's glare defied her to make a snide comment. "New clothes are being made."
Ignoring Delmac, she looked to Aaron. "A man has gone soft when he depends on others to make his clothes."
"I guess I'm soft then," Aaron told her. "I never made a piece of clothing in my life."
"Never?"
"Not with my own hands."
She nodded knowingly. "Soft. Uncle, you may enter, too."
"It is my right!" Delmac snapped.
"It is, for now."
She stepped grudgingly to the side, allowing Aaron the exact amount of space he needed to squeeze past. He had to turn sideways to avoid touching her as he went by. After stepping through the doorway, he turned back, waiting for Delmac.
Delmac, head held proud high, made less than a minimal effort to walk through the provided gap. Right shoulder, side, and leg crashed into his niece. They both staggered and stumbled, but Delmac recovered first and strode past her with a long stride.
"Not so soft after all," Flessant said with ill-hid satisfaction.
Spinning on his heels, Aaron double paced until he caught up to Delmac. "Was that really necessary?"
"I did not wish to kill her," Delmac said plainly. "Such insults cannot be ignored."
"But she's your niece."
"Yes," Delmac agreed.
"And you would have killed her over words?"
Delmac remained silent for a few steps. He swerved to avoid a distracted woman who wandered in front of him, and then he stopped and frowned.
"No," he answered, "I would not. She is correct. The death would have been mine because I have grown soft."
In some ways, Aaron realized, he would never understand these people. They were a warrior culture with traditions and teachings totally alien to him. He supposed their outlook was not so different from his Chins'. Both cultures were nomadic, although the Clan was only partly so. Both peoples revered physical prowess and self-sufficiency, and for both peoples, a loss of public face was a terrible thing indeed, something worth dying over.
Aaron knew he was a man of many convictions, even if he had not paid attention to a good many of them for the last few years. Despite those convictions, he was not sure he valued any one of them so greatly he would die to protect it; certainly not his good name or his honor. Both of those had been mortgaged off long ago.
"There you are," an age-weakened voice said. "I am Crendlar. What is this about you wanting some books?"
By Clan standards, the woman appeared ancient. Not yet seventy, her voice quavered, but her eyes remained clear with understanding.
"Archeology," Aaron answered. "Purely academic. I don't see any potential for profit in them."
"Well," Crendlar scratched her head. Small white flakes flew away from her fingers. Some of those flakes landed on her shoulders to join a thin carpet of white atop her tan deerskin shirt. "We've never done this before. Doesn't matter. We keep the books, but you do own them. Which ones are you looking for?"
Aaron shrugged. "I don't know. I just bought every college book I could find when I abandoned Jefferson, and I still don't know what they all are. Something about caves and cave paintings I suppose. Maybe something on excavation methods."
Pausing, he thought a moment, pondering exactly what he had read about archeology during his time in this world. Mostly, all he could bring to mind was the excavation of a few cities and the study of some stone monoliths found on a depopulated island. It wasn't an area of study he cared much about.
A thought hit him, and Aaron grinned. "Just for fun, how about something on dinosaurs?"
She looked skeptical. "Dinosaurs?"
He held his hands apart. "They're big lizards that lived--oh, never mind." Looking up, he saw the landings above him, four separate sections of round walkways and large windows. At one time, those windows were raw openings to the outside. Now, since the broch held something more valuable than dead leaves and abandoned bird nests, they were glassed over and shuttered. Shelves, loaded with books, rose up from several locations. A significant number of people sat at tables along the edge of the ledges, writing notes. Others walked among the shelves, peering at titles or delicately leafing through a book like its pages were almost too precious to touch. The scene was a strange juxtaposition of the surreal since many of the people dressed conservatively while others wore buckskins.
"Never mind," he said. "Just lead me to the archeology section."
Crendlar pointed a wrinkled hand toward a woman who perused one of the lower shelves.
"You will have to do what she is doing."
"And that is?"
"Look at every title," the old woman replied. "We knew nothing of groupings and order when you put the books in our keeping. Few of us knew how to read, and those few read poorly. Because of this, we just placed each book in the next open space."
"Even I know your system isn't efficient," Delmac noted. "There must be two or three thousand books to search through. It could take close to forever to find anything."
"Six thousand four hundred and three," Crendlar corrected. "We could have placed them in a more organized state, but we did not. This way a person must show effort to prove she truly desires a specific book."
Aaron felt troubled. "I only approved a few be released every year."
"Years have passed," she reminded him. "Those beginning few are now hundreds. Those hundreds are placed randomly among the thousands."
"But somebody could pull out a book she isn't entitled to see."
Crendlar shook her head. "We know where the approved books are located." A hand gestured toward the watching guards. "A person who reads from the wrong text is evicted from the broch and never allowed inside again. This is our final test of integrity."
Aaron was not too sure of the Clan's methods. They struck him as crude, but then again, those methods seemed to have worked successfully for the last thirteen years.
"I better get started then," he sighed. "This will take a while."
"I will wait," Delmac said.
"For what?" Aaron and Delmac had never pretended to be friends, or even friendly. Why would the man wait while Aaron did his search?
"There will be war inside your empire," Delmac noted. "Years have passed since the Clans last fought, and I have grown soft. When you return to your new lands, I will go with you."
"But there's always a war someplace. Why come with me?"
"I desire to see you die," Delmac explained. "The wait has been too long."
"It'll be a good deal longer," Aaron promised.
"I will wait," Delmac said. "While you search for your books, I will see if my clothing is completed."
Chapter 5
"And I swear he's no bigger than yeste
rday's leftovers," Autumn gushed. Shifting so her leg curled beneath her, she leaned forward on the couch. "I've already taught him he loves his sissy Autumn best of anybody. Did you know he likes broccoli? What little kid likes broccoli?"
"No," Missy patiently answered from her seat in the oversized rocker, Aaron's favorite sitting chair in his receiving room. "I didn't know he liked broccoli. In fact, I didn't know Chase existed until you started talking about him thirty minutes ago."
"Wait until you see him!" Autumn exclaimed. "He'll make you want to have a kid all your own."
"No, thanks." Missy laughed and then threw a meaningful look at Aaron. "I don't want no brats tying me down, not for another twenty or thirty years anyway."
"But you'll be so too old."
Missy hooked a finger around her neck-chain and lifted it until the beginnings of a leather bag showed above her blouse's neckline.
"Oh, yeah." Autumn sounded abashed. "I forgot. Your Talent Stone."
"Three decades will barely put me in my biological thirties," Missy pointed out. "I'll be ready to get preggers then." She cast Aaron a sly glance. "Mind you, I intend to practice a good deal so when the time comes I know how to do it right."
Coughing, Aaron shifted on the high-backed chair he had been delegated to, his face warm. Autumn's musical trill drowned out Missy's chuckle.
"Daddy, you embarrass so easily. Nothing's wrong with practicing. Everybody does it."
"This is not a proper conversation for you to have with your father," Aaron pointed out.
"Why not? I'm old enough to get married if we lived in Isabella. It's about time I learned this stuff. Remember, I only look like a kid because of my Stone."
"It just isn't right." Aaron insisted.
Missy and Autumn's exchanged questioning looks. Aaron didn't blame them. His answer wasn't the least bit satisfactory. Unfortunately, it was the only one he had. Some things should remain private, but he was damned if he could explain why in terms these two would understand.
Autumn looked like she wanted to continue the conversation so he changed the topic."What did you do with Delmac?"
"I sent him to the baths," Missy answered. "The man hadn't bathed in days. He exuded a peculiar odor."