Earth Logic

by Laurie J. Marks

  “What is it?”

  “A book, of course. It will tell her what she needs to know. You’ll see.”

  Standing in the doorway, Zanja watched J’han, bowed under his heavy load, limp down the track to the apple orchard, where the apples were starting to become visible as they blushed red. She could hear, distantly, the swinging chant of the people cutting hay, who made a noise all day long so as to know where each other was without having to look. The sky was soft, hazy with warmth. The rich land moved languidly toward harvest.

  In the orchard, J’han paused to shout at the ravens in their tree. Apparently hearing no answer, he continued down the road. He was out of sight when one of the ravens lifted up to follow him.

  Zanja went back into the kitchen. Emil, frowning absently, sipped his tea. Medric, now that he had started to dust the dishes, was methodically emptying the cupboard. Norina, still on her stool, made a concentrated study of the blank wall.

  It was possible, Zanja realized suddenly, that Norina might not ever see husband or daughter again. As though Zanja had spoken her thoughts out loud—and she might as well have, for the Truthken would know them soon—Norina turned to her and raised an eyebrow. Zanja said, “Don’t you think that we’ve lost our minds?”

  “The three of you have always seemed mad to me.” Norina added dryly, “It’s kind of you to pity me, Zanja. But it’s also a waste of energy. Unlike you, I know exactly what I’m doing and why.”

  “But you’re supporting us and not opposing us?”

  Norina smiled, very slightly. “How do you know I’m not opposing you?” she said.

  Chapter 12

  Before the Sainnites introduced smoke addiction to Shaftal, the land had surely not been entirely free of ne’er-do-wells. Yet, examining the wretched woman who had rowed herself in through the water gate in a leaky old boat, Clement felt the vague guilt she always felt in the presence of a smoke-user. The people who know such things had informed Clement of the shocking amount a smoke user must pay nowadays for the drug, and Clement laid out on the table enough money to give her guest a week without worry. The half-starved woman’s fingers twitched eagerly.

  “Tell me what you know,” Clement said.

  The woman leaned forward, and Clement simultaneously leaned away from her stink. “They said the G’deon was coming,” the woman said earnestly.

  “I’ve been hearing that story for years,” Clement said. “If there were a G’deon, then why would she linger so long? If she bears the power of Shaftal in her flesh, then why hasn’t she laid her hands on me, or on you, and done whatever it is G’deons do? Kill, heal, whatever.” Clement put her hand out to gather up the coins. “You’re wasting my time.”

  “One of them saw her. Talked to her.”

  Clement held up a single small coin, pinched between her fingertips. “One of them? What is this group?”

  “Death-and-Life, they call themselves.” The woman watched avidly as Clement lay the coin onto the table and pushed it towards her. A swift snatch, and the coin was gone.

  Another coin: “And who is this one the G’deon spoke to?”

  “Their leader, of course!” Seeing that Clement would not relinquish the coin, the woman added reluctantly, “His name is Willis.”

  “Willis? What kind of name is that?”

  The woman tightened her lips, until Clement handed her a coin, and held up another. “A South Hill name, I hear.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “Brown hair, muscular.”

  “Like everyone in Shaftal? You never saw him, did you.”

  “These were just people in the streets! How was I to know if I saw him or not? They gave us food, but only if we ate it while they watched. No money. The bastards.”

  “No money,” Clement echoed, closing the coin in her fist.

  “They say he was a vagabond,” said the woman desperately. “A vagabond from South Hill. And then he had a vision. How many people like that are there in the world? The South Hillers look after their own!”

  Clement grunted, and let her have the coin. She would send an inquiry to South Hill, which was too far away for a casual journey, and see if the name Willis was known to the garrison there. Perhaps she might even get a decent description. “What did this supposed G’deon say to Willis?”

  “Ha! A lot of nonsense, I guess. That she was coming, of course. That she had chosen him to announce her coming and to mobilize her people. That there would be war, and you Sainnites would all die at her hand.”

  “At her hand? How?”

  “Well, not from pleasure!” The woman leered at her, in a dreadful display of gums and occasional teeth. “By fire,” she said, “And plague, and floods. By mountains falling on your heads and trees crushing you under their weight. By freezing wind and heavy snow and—of course—by bloody battles.”

  Sweating in her filthy uniform, Clement felt a chill. Wasn’t this in fact how Shaftal was killing them, quietly, steadily, irresistibly? She said, “Such things happen naturally in this bloody, bitter, hostile land.”

  “Is that a question?” the woman asked. “You expect an answer?”

  Clement contemptuously tossed the coin to her. “Yes, do tell me why I should be afraid of this supposed G’deon’s supposed threat.”

  The smoke user said, “Because the supposed G’deon can make these things happen only to you.”

  “I’ve heard enough nonsense,” said Clement. “This soldier will show you out.”

  But after the smoke user had gone, her stink remained. Clement had left the windows in Cadmar’s quarters closed to retain the cool of morning, but now she flung them open, and looked out over the wrecked garrison. As she watched, the crazy, tilted remains of a building collapsed in a cloud of ashes and dirt. Two months after the fire, debris was still being cleared, even as, here and there, a few buildings gradually rose, the construction fraught with error and delay. Ellid’s rebuilding strategy was dictated by the rapid changes of Shaftal’s seasons. On the foundations of the burned buildings, new timber frames were constructed, and on those went the roofs, so that the walls and windows could be built during the rain of autumn and even the snow of winter.

  By freezing winds and heavy snow we’ll die, thought Clement, remembering the smoke-user’s hollow, ravaged voice. To this drug-addicted informant, there had been no reason to make a distinction between the acts of an individual, this supposed G’deon, and the acts of nature. Gilly had more than once called the abilities passed from G’deon to successor as the power of Shaftal, and what was Shaftal’s power, if not the very powers the smoke user listed, of fire and plague and generally rotten weather? Powers of irresistible destruction, whether slow or sudden. Looking out at the evidence of the burned garrison, remembering the horrors of that night, Clement saw the full scope of her own lingering despair.

  The summer was already two-thirds passed. At the main gate, a crowd of witnesses maintained their vigil, but their numbers were few enough now that the siege gate had been opened, and it was usually possible for a guarded wagon, or a company of soldiers, to pass in and out. Clement went out a postern gate, though, alone on horseback. The bored gate guard, an old man whose job it was to ring the bell for help if the iron-banded gate happened to be assaulted, had no choice but to let Clement through. No doubt her exit would be reported to Ellid, who later would berate Clement as much as she dared. Clement went out, into a lavender twilight that suffused the narrow streets of Watfield with an unearthly blend of vivid light and purple shadow. Late shoppers, hurrying home with baskets of bread and eggs, pressed themselves to walls decorated with blooming vines to let her pass. Drinkers in taverns, who escaped the outdoors into the cooling streets, looked at her askance and, scowling, nudged their neighbors.

  By the time Clement reached Alrin’s pristine townhouse, the shadows had nearly overcome the light. In the spotless parlor, a painted screen concealed the cold fireplace, and the discreetly drawn summer curtains billowed delicately in the evening
breeze. Here Alrin sat with her feet on a stool, dressed in clothing as light and loose as her billowing curtains. Her gravid belly, her rich breasts, these were discreetly displayed by the light cloth. She offered her hand, apologizing that she did not rise. Weak-kneed, Clement bowed over her cool, delicately scented fingers, and said in a rough voice, “I trust that you are well.”

  “I miss your company, of course.”

  “Of course,” said Clement, trying not to sound skeptical. With the garrison tight as a lockbox and every last soldier working dawn to dusk on rebuilding, Alrin’s business must have suffered terribly. Clement did not quite know what to make of the message, passed on verbally through the gate guards, inviting her blandly to supper. Was Alrin resorting to unseemly recruitment? Yet Clement had come, and had even, with some effort, taken something resembling a bath, and put on a uniform that wasn’t as filthy as the others.

  Alrin, never awkward, created topics of conversation from thin air. Over hot buttered bread and deliciously vinegared vegetables, she pretended interest convincingly as Clement obliged her with an account of the garrison attack. Over fowl in aspic and jellied fruits as lovely to look at as they were to taste, Alrin entertainingly described a disastrously bad concert she had recently attended. Over peaches and cake they both praised the fine weather and expressed hopes that it would be a late autumn. Clement turned down brandy, accepted tea, and sat sipping it by the window, stunned by such a quantity of tasty food after so many months of deprivation. Alrin asked her for the fourth time if she had eaten enough, and if she didn’t want a few biscuits or a nice piece of cheese.

  Clement said, “If I ate any more I’d fall unconscious. It’s very kind of you to rescue me for a few hours—but the commander will go into a panic if I don’t return soon.”

  The courtesan smoothed the cloth over her pregnant belly. Clement, who had only observed pregnancy from a distance, caught herself examining Alrin’s round, taut abdomen with fascination. Alrin said complacently, “My last child.”

  Clement glanced up at her face. “How do you know?” she asked. She had heard that Shaftali people knew some methods for preventing pregnancy besides the obvious one practiced by the Sainnites, of simply forbidding sexual congress between men and women. Clement herself felt no particular desire to do what men and women do with each other, but soldiers of both sexes would bless her if she could learn the Shaftali secret.

  Unfortunately, Alrin’s answer was unrevealing. “You haven’t heard that I’m leaving Watfield in the spring? Marga wants to move south, where the winters aren’t so hard. So I’m going into the window and bottle business, purchasing a glassworks.”

  “I hadn’t heard,” said Clement. “Windows and bottles?” she added, trying not to sound overly doubtful.

  Alrin said gravely, “I do understand business.”

  “Of course you do. You’ll be missed. I wish you well.”

  “Thank you. Marga and I will be very preoccupied with running the enterprise, we expect. This child—it’s unfortunate, but we can’t possibly raise it. It will go to its father, as is proper.”

  Quite belatedly, Clement realized, as Marga came in to clear the table, that the stout woman was not Alrin’s housekeeper, but her wife.

  “If the father is interested,” said Alrin, as Marga left with a loaded tray.

  Clement, feeling dreadfully embarrassed, poured both of them more tea to save Alrin the trouble of standing up, and also to give herself a chance to recover her own composure. “I heard there were several interested parties,” she said.

  “Oh, well,” said Alrin vaguely, “Sometimes fate intervenes.” She accepted the tea cup with a gracious smile. “It is presumptuous of me to even suggest you might help me a little. But I valued our friendship, Clem—”

  Clement, though she was commenting to herself on Alrin’s acting ability, felt a brief surge of desire.

  “—and I dare hope you might sometimes think of me fondly,” continued Alrin. With the tea cup at her lips, she gave Clement a steady, suggestive look.

  Clement said, “All officers are lonely. You gave me something I wanted, and I did appreciate it. Is there something I can do for you?” Of course there would be—Alrin had not invited her to supper out of compassion because the people in the garrison had nothing but slop to eat.

  “A great man like the general must want a legacy,” Alrin said.

  “Cadmar?” said Clement. “Good gods!” And she began to laugh, and could not stop herself. “I beg your pardon,” she managed to gasp at last. “This child is his, then?”

  “It might well be,” said Alrin stiffly, “As you know perfectly well.”

  Clement wiped her eyes. “I’ll mention it to him. But I can tell you now that you’d better find another candidate.” She set down her tea cup and stood up. “I’m sorry I offended you. Thank you again for the delicious meal.”

  “Must you go?” said Alrin. She offered her hand for Clement to clasp. “Must you?” she said again, pointedly.

  But Clement’s flush of desire had evaporated. She bid Alrin farewell. She’d never see her again, probably, and she certainly would not even mention this absurd conversation to Cadmar when he returned. But it would be great fun to recount to Gilly.

  Five days later, a bugle signal at the main gate announced Cadmar’s return to Watfield. Clement was in the middle of dividing, replanting, and top dressing her mother’s flower bulbs. She went down to the main gate with horse manure caked on her knees, and her pockets bulging with bulbs. There was a scuffle outside the gate, as soldiers forced back the crowd to allow a clear passage for Cadmar, who glared with fierce dignity from the back of his magnificent, nervous horse. Once or twice, Clement spotted Gilly, gray and drawn, mounted on a sturdy brown nag. Both he and his horse looked rather bored, though they were tangled in a knot of escorting soldiers who were busy with their clubs. She had missed that ugly man!

  When they were in, and the soldiers had gotten the gate shut, then the soldiers on the walls remembered belatedly to cheer the general’s arrival, though the angry shouts of the crowd outside the gate were louder, and less demoralized. Ellid had arrived, and stepped forward to make the official greeting. Cadmar dismounted and clasped the garrison commander’s hand with every appearance of geniality. But Clement heard him say, “Shoot the rabble.”

  “General,” said Clement, stepping forward hastily, “We’ve tolerated these people’s presence—better a few people at the gate than a roused city. And the weather will drive them away soon enough.”

  “Tolerate?” Cadmar’s gaze was without comprehension. “Are you a farmer now, lieutenant-general?” He wrinkled his nose at the manure stink she carried with her.

  “I beg your pardon, general. You’ll find your quarters ready for you. And the stable has been rebuilt, so your horse will also be comfortable.”

  Looking past his shoulder, she caught Ellid’s gaze. The commander looked rather pale, but at Clement’s glance she gave a slight nod. Clement soothed Cadmar until he allowed that he was tired, and let himself be convinced to go to his quarters and be looked after by his long-suffering aides. When he was gone, Clement said to Ellid, “Give the citizens fair warning first, and then shoot over their heads. They’ll run out of shooting range, at least, and then you can send the guard out to disperse them.”

  Clement turned, and found that Gilly had been helped from his horse, and was leaning rather unsteadily on his cane, observing her with a rather red-eyed, dubious expression. She offered him her arm, and he leaned on her heavily. “The horse will be comfortable?” he rasped, apparently in the throes of a summer cold.

  Clement said, “Actually, the horses are uncomfortably crowded because the stable is now the barracks for the soldiers displaced by Cadmar’s arrival. We’ve cleared the soldiers out of your room, too, and I think I’d better put you to bed. You’re uglier than ever,” she added affectionately.

  “You’re crabbier,” said Gilly hoarsely. “For a moment I thought you were goi
ng to clout him.”

  “What does he think, that I’ve saved a clean uniform to wear for his arrival? The laundry hasn’t been rebuilt, and I gave Ellid half my clothing, since hers was burned.”

  “You’ve been free of Cadmar for two months. You’ve got nothing to complain about.”

  They moved down the road, Gilly leaning heavily on her arm, at more of a shuffle than a walk. The horses were led past them in a clatter of shod hooves on cobblestone. Behind them, Clement could hear the gate captain shouting orders. “I wouldn’t clout Cadmar,” Clement said. “His fists are twice the size of mine.”

  Gilly chuckled, then coughed wretchedly.

  Gunshots. Clement flinched. Fearful cries. She said loudly, “What is written on those pieces of cloth those people wrap themselves with? Did you notice?”

  “It was names.”

  Someone was screaming. Apparently, injuries had not been entirely avoided. “Gods of hell,” Clement muttered.

  “Some veteran you are,” said Gilly dryly.

  “Why don’t they give up and get busy breeding more children? It doesn’t take any particular effort!”

  Gilly looked at her. “It’s not children they want,” he grated. “It’s those particular children. No, never mind—you’ll never understand it.”

  She took him to his room and put him to bed. She told him about Alrin’s attempt to sell her child to Cadmar, but she could not remember why it had ever seemed funny.

  Chapter 13

  In those days before autumn mud, Norina Truthken observed some remarkable things, and commented on them to nobody. She was famous for her acerbic tongue and quick temper: brutal weapons in the control of a subtle mind that no one underestimated more than once. In those days, she found herself exercising that subtlety without the weaponry, and though she saw much worth commenting on, and even criticizing, she merely watched in silence.