by Ann Maxwell
“Not all. You’re here, and we’re here. There must be others. Rheba and I will find them. We’ll gather them up and take them to a new world. Bre’ns and Senyasi will dance again.”
Ilfn’s smile was unbearably sad, but she did not say aloud that slaves had no right to dreams. “Fire dancer. Lheket is a rain dancer. Very strong.” Her whistle slid into a minor key. “Too strong for a child only eleven years old.”
He whistled sympathetically. “Rheba is strong, too. And too young to have lines of power touching her shoulders.”
With a last smoothing of Kirtn’s gold mask, Ilfn’s hand fell. “I think only the strongest dancers survived.” Her eyes were pale brown with green lights, but little except darkness moved within them when she remembered Deva’s end. “I’m glad that Lord Puc listened to my plea.”
Kirtn’s whistle rose on a note of query.
“I asked him if you were alive,” she explained, “and he said yes. Then I asked him if I could see you. He shouted and hit me.” She made a dismissing gesture when she saw Kirtn’s face change. “No Loo can make a Bre’n hurt with just bare fists. And Lord Puc is weaker than most.” Her lips thinned into a bitter smile. “Lord Puc is very soft in my hands. When the time comes, he’s mine. I’ve earned him.”
The last was spoken in Senyas, and was as flat as the light in her eyes.
“When the time comes . . . ?” he whistled.
Ilfn hesitated, then whistled softly. “I suppose I must trust you.” Then, defiantly, “If I can’t trust the last Bre’n man alive, I’ll be glad to die!”
He waited, then hummed encouragement.
“Rebellion,” she said in Senyas.
“When? Where? How many?” He spoke Senyas, too, a staccato rush of demand.
“Last Year Night, the final night of the Concatenation, during the Hour Between Years. It’s an hour of chaos. We know the gate codes of the compound. There’s a spaceport just a few mie from the Concatenation amphitheater. We’ll steal a ship and get off this mud-sucking planet.”
He hesitated, not knowing how to criticize the plan without seeming ungrateful for her confidence. She smiled again, and he realized that she was old, much older than he.
“It’s not as foolish as it sounds in Senyas,” she said. “On the night of Concatenation there is an extra hour of time after midnight when they adjust their yearly calendar. It’s a time of no-time, really, when all rules are suspended and slaves wander the streets. When the hour is up, the New Year Morning begins. Until then, the highborn Loo and their guards stay in the Concatenation amphitheater, bidding for various Acts.”
He stood quietly, absorbing the information and its implications for escape. “What’s the amphitheater like?”
“It’s an ancient place connected to this compound by a tunnel.” She switched from Senyas to Bre’n, emotions ringing in her whistle. “There aren’t any guards in the tunnel, and there are many rooms, many turnings before the tunnel reaches the amphitheater. We’ll stay in the tunnel until the last Act is over. No one will notice old slaves mixed with the new Acts. When the last Act ends and the Hour Between Years begins, we’ll escape. We’ll seal the exits behind us, go to the spaceport, grab a ship and lift off.”
“If it were that easy, there wouldn’t be a slave left on Loo,” Kirtn said in dry Senyas.
“Easy or hard, we’ll do it.”
He looked narrowly at her, hearing the desperation that lay just beneath her clear whistle, coloring it with echoes of despair. “What is it? What aren’t you telling me?”
Her whistle shattered, then she was in control again, and it was as though the instant had never happened. “Lheket. He’s only a boy, but already he’s as tall as my shoulder. Lord Puc is jealous. He can’t believe that no Bre’n akhenet would touch a Senyas child. He sees my love for Lheket and calls it lust. Someday it might be, if Lheket grows into a mature love of me. But that day is twenty years ahead. Lord Puc can’t believe that. He sees only Lheket’s height and beauty and the boy’s love for me.” Her eyes closed, then opened very dark. “He’ll take Lheket from me soon. Then there will be a time of rez and death.” She looked up at him, lips tight around precise Senyas words. “So you see, I’ve nothing to lose by rebellion, no matter how badly planned.”
He had no response. There was no way to change her mind, and no reason to. She understood her choices, few and bitter as they were. “Can you trust the other slaves not to betray you?”
Ilfn’s whistle was double-toned, indicating that the question was unanswerable. “They came to me because I’ve heard the outer-door codes when I go to Lord Puc. Their plan required the right key.”
“You.”
“Yes.” She turned her hands palm down and then palm up. “They trust me because they must, but I don’t think they’ve told me their whole plan. I think many slaves are involved, in and out of the compound. But I know only two names, and those the least important. I don’t know how many slaves they expect to take with them. At least one of the two I’ve met is a pilot. She recognized the ships I described to her.”
“Ships? Are you allowed to go to the spaceport?” demanded Kirtn.
“No, but I can see it from my window at the far side of this building. That’s how I knew you were here. I saw the shape of a Senyas ship against the dawn. Since then, I’ve waited by that ramp every time newly Adjusted slaves were released. When I saw you—” Her hands clung to him suddenly with a strength he had not felt since Deva, Bre’n strength. “And then the guard scourged you and you fell. I was afraid you were dead, that I had killed you with a welcoming whistle.”
Kirtn held Ilfn while she shuddered. It was the Bre’n way of crying, and it was as painful to him as it was to her. Even when she stopped, he continued to hold her, knowing that it had been too long since anyone had comforted her.
The thought of her being used by Lord Puc made anger uncurl in Kirtn like an endless snake. Even though he probably would not have chosen her for a mate on Deva, she was a good woman, brave and akhenet. She did not deserve to be a Loo-chim toy.
“If we get to the Devalon,” he promised, “you’ll be safe. And Lheket—” He hesitated, switched to unemotional Senyas. “Lheket will have a mate when he’s old enough to give my dancer a child. It’s not how we would have done it on Deva, but Rheba is akhenet and knows her duty.”
“Duty,” murmured Ilfn. “A cold companion, but better than none at all.” She looked up, measuring him with pale-brown eyes. “I don’t think we would have chosen each other on Deva. You’re much younger, yet much harder than the men I loved . . . but as soon as we’re off this planet I’ll bear our children, akhenet. Do you agree?”
“I’m akhenet,” he said simply. “Of course I agree.”
“But? Don’t tell me you’re too young to father children?”
Kirtn smiled. “Young, yes, but not that young.”
“And your akhenet? How old is she?”
“Neither child nor yet akhenet woman,” he said bluntly.
Ilfn pushed away from him with an embarrassed whistle. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb your desires. My sympathy, akhenet. You’ve a hard time ahead.” She smiled ruefully. “Your whistle didn’t describe her as a child.”
“Tm afraid I don’t often think of her that way.”
“How old is she?”
“Twice your boy’s age.”
“Then she won’t be ready to accept you for at least ten years,” she said thoughtfully, switching to Senyas. “Yet you already think of her as a woman .. . ?”
Kirtn’s whistle was harsh, answering her unspoken questions. “I’ve never touched Rheba as a woman—except once, to fool the Loo-chim into believing that she and I had to trade enzymes in order to survive. Then she—once—to irritate Lord Jal.” His whistle deteriorated into a scathing Senyas oath. “It doesn’t matter. She is what she is—too young!” In his anger, he lashed out at Ilfn. “And I’m not here at Lord Puc’s demand, but at his sister’s. I’m supposed to breed y
ou so that Lord Puc will go back to his whore-sister’s bed!”
The Bre’n woman looked at him for a long time, understanding his anger without being angered in turn. “You can’t. With your akhenet neither child nor woman—no. Mating with me would only heighten your desire for her. Impossible. You’d risk rez.”
“If I don’t mate with you, my fire dancer will be taken away from me. You know what that would do.”
“Rez,” she whispered. Her hands knotted around each other. “Did we survive Deva and the Fold just to be driven into rez?”
“I don’t know.” His whistle was flat and very penetrating. “But of the four of us, I’m the least vital to our future.”
“What? What are you saying?”
“If you carry Bre’n babies, the race won’t die. Your akhenet must survive until he can give Rheba Senyas children. Rheba must survive until she can bear those children. But I—once you’re pregnant, I’m the least important of us.”
“Hard,” she whistled in a keening tremulo. “I saw it in your eyes, like hammered metal.”
“Do you want children who will wail and die at the first obstacle,” he said brutally, “or will you mate with a man who can give your children the strength to survive?”
“You misunderstand. I’d have no other Bre’n, now that I’ve measured you. You’re the Bre’n the Equality demands. I’m too old and you’re too young, but together we’ll breed a race of Bre’n. Survivors, Kirtn. Survivors breeding survivors.” She looked at him for a long, silent time. “And perhaps . . . perhaps your fire dancer will understand your need before rez claims you.”
“Perhaps,” said Kirtn.
But neither one believed it.
XVIII
Fssa hummed soothingly, overriding the sound of Dapsl’s complaints. Rheba caressed Fssa with her fingertip, then turned her whole concentration back on the J/taals and their clepts. M/dere looked over, saw that Rheba was ready and signaled the beginning of the Act. Dapsl yelled several phrases that Fssa ignored; the snake was bored by the purple man’s lack of invention in epithets.
“Stop! Stop! You don’t begin until I give the signal!” screamed Dapsl. The body-length nerve wrangler in his left hand lashed back and forth as though it were alive. The flexible tips dripped violet light, warning of energies barely held in check. The nerve wrangler licked out, rising against M/dere; violet fire ran up her arm. “Listen to me or we’ll all end up in the Pit!”
M/dere stood unmoving, though her eyes were wide and dark. She did not look at Dapsl. She looked only at Rheba, her J/taaleri. Rheba badly wanted to suck the energy out of the deadly whip and send it back redoubled on Dapsl. The only thing that restrained her was the fact that he already suspected that she was more powerful than she appeared. He was afraid of her. If she disarmed him, he would probably run away screaming to the lords about powers she desperately wanted to hide. The Concatenation was only seven days away. She could hold on to her temper for seven more days. She had to.
The nerve wrangler hissed outward again, setting fire to M/dere’s arm. Rheba’s hair whipped and seethed as she leaped to her feet in rage. Fssa turned black with fear.
“No more,” said Rheba, her voice low, frightening. “If you use that whip on J/taal or clept, I won’t work for you. The Act will be nothing and you’ll be sent to the Pit!”
“So will you, kaza-flatch!” spat Dapsl, more afraid than ever of the alien whose hair was obscenely alive, dripping fire like the whip in his hand.
“I’ll survive the Pit,” she said. “You won’t.”
Dapsl hesitated for long moments while the nerve wrangler responded to his unconscious commands by writhing sinuously, bleeding violet fire. “Lord Jal won’t like this. He gave me the whip because those lazy animals wouldn’t work any other way.”
“Make your choice. The Act or the whip.”
With a savage twist of his hands, Dapsl broke the nerve wrangler. It sputtered lavender sparks, then died. He threw it into the corner of the room and turned back to Rheba.
“Whenever you’re ready,” she said calmly, returning her attention to the Act
Dapsl’s lips flattened into thin black lines, but all he said was, “On four.”
M/dere took her cue from Dapsl this time, and the Act began smoothly. The J/taals were in a loose group on one side of the area that was marked off as the stage. Rainbow, very subdued, was at their center. They were in contorted positions, moving very slowly, their faces anguished and fierce. They and their silently snarling clepts were the very image of souls caught and tormented in hell. They moved as though swimming up out of an infinite black well, bodies straining. Yet for all their effort, they went nowhere; this was hell, the core of nightmare in which man fled but could not move his feet.
Rheba watched without really seeing. Her whole mind was focused on gathering energy in the dim room, taking that energy and shaping it into uncanny flames that coursed over the straining bodies of the J/taals.
In her hair, Fssa transformed himself into a musical instrument. His sounds were eerie, sliding into minor harmonics and then dissolving into screams as primitive as the fear of death. Fssa’s screams broke suddenly, regrouped into a keening harmony that made her skin tighten and move.
The keening was Kirtn’s cue to come onstage in his role of Hmel, seeker of lost innocence. But Kirtn was not there, had not returned from his nightly excursion to Ilfn’s bed. That was the reason for Dapsl’s ragged temper, and her own. She sucked in more energy, drawing from a window high in the ceiling, the only source of energy in the darkened room. Where Kirtn should have been she created an outline of him that was the color of molten gold.
Dapsl gasped and stepped back before he caught himself. His fingers curled, longing for the feel of the nerve wrangler. It was one thing to see her draw lines of fire around a living Bre’n; it was quite another to see the lines without the Bre’n.
The outline keened softly, a soul held in an immaterial cage of fire. Slowly, with great effort, the outline quartered hell, looking for his sister’s crown. Hmel had given it to a demon woman in return for a night of passion such as a human woman could never give him.
By increments Rainbow, in the role of the missing crown, brightened to draw attention to itself. It was surrounded by J/taals and clepts, each straining upward, each never leaving its place.
The outline of Kirtn/Hmel turned toward the crown with a cry of hope. But when Hmel tried to penetrate the ring of demons around the crown, a sheet of purple fire flared. The outline screamed, agony as pure as the color of the flames. The outline of Hmel reached for the crown again, and again violet lightning leaped. Hmel was not strong enough to brave the fire demons surrounding his chim’s lost crown.
A sound of despair came from Hmel’s incandescent form, a cry that began as a groan and ended in a scream so high that it was felt as much as it was heard.
Rheba waited until there was only silence and flames and echoes of despair. She walked onto the stage as though in an exhausted daze. Feigning exhaustion was not difficult. The effort of holding fire on J/taals, clepts, and also creating an outline of Kirtn was enough to reduce her to mumbling and stumbling. It would have been easier to wait for Kirtn, to use his body to shape the bright outline; but he was not here and there was no more time to wait. Jal was choosing his three Concatenation Acts tonight. Some of those Acts had been rehearsing together for nearly a year. Her Act could not afford to waste one instant of practice time.
A tall form slipped by her in the dimly lit room. Kirtn. The outline shimmered, then reformed subtly. Her fire creation was more alive now. It moved with greater grace and conviction, for it was the result of Bre’n and Senyas working together.
Relief was like a tonic to her. She felt energy course through her, expanding the intricate lines of power on her body. Her head came up—and she saw that Kirtn had not come into the room alone. Lord Jal was in the archway. Next to him was the male polarity of the Imperial Loo-chim.
“I must protest
, Lord Puc,” said Jal in a low voice. “This Act is all but unrehearsed. To decide now whether or not it is good enough for the Concatenation stage is unreasonable.”
“It’s the right of the Imperial Loo-chim to review any Act at any time,” said Lord Puc. “If what we see pleases us, you’re assured of a place on the Concatenation stage. And if it doesn’t please us, you’re spared the embarrassment of presenting an inferior Act to the gathered chims.”
Fssa’s whispered translation from the master Loo language went no farther than Rheba’s ears. She had only to look at Kirtn, however, to realize that he already knew. Something had gone very wrong, and the male polarity was at the center of it.
“And your chim?” Jal said. His voice was clipped, as close to disrespect as he could come without further antagonizing his lord. “Doesn’t your chim want to judge this Act with you?”
Lord Puc’s glass-blue eyes fixed on Jal. After a long moment, Jal bowed and turned toward the Act. When he spoke, it was in Universal, a language the Imperial Loo-chim did not deign to understand.
“You did your job too well,” Jal snapped at Kirtn. “The bitch has been listless in Lord Puc’s bed these last nights. The female polarity is pleased. The male polarity is not.”
“Ilfn is pregnant,” Kirtn said. “She won’t willingly accept sex with him again until her children are born.”
“So she told him. He took her anyway, of course, but he didn’t have much pleasure of it.”
Kirtn’s expression shifted as his lips flattened into a silent snarl. Immediately, Rheba went to his side. Her hand rested lightly on his arm. Gradually his eyes lost their blank metallic sheen.
“Now,” continued Jal, “Lord Puc is after revenge. All that is available at the moment is a command performance of your Act.”
“If he doesn’t like it—and he won’t—we go to the Pit,” said Rheba, more statement than question.
Lord Jal’s mouth pulled into a frown. “Crudely put, but accurate. I’ve sent word to the female polarity.” He shrugged. “She should have been here by now. I hope she hasn’t changed her mind about bedding your pet.”