by S. L. Viehl
No such place existed. “If I have time to make repairs, I can,” Reever said. “But I will not leave until I find the woman for whom I search.”
“You came here for a woman?” Daneeb sputtered in disbelief. “Are you such a nothing that you could not find one among your own kind?”
“This woman is special.” He only wished he could tell her how, but that, too, might create a hazardous situation. He looked at the smaller vral. “She belongs to me.”
Despite the mask over her face, Skjæra seemed to stare at him for a moment, and then dropped the bloody gauze into a small bag, which she tucked into her pack.
“So?” Daneeb made a scathing sound. “You are a man. You can always find another one.”
“Have you seen a Terran woman anywhere during your travels?” he asked.
“No,” Daneeb snapped. “Our kind are not permitted near the living, only the wounded or dead.”
Skjæra applied a topical anesthetic, and then used the suture laser to close the bolt wound.
“You must keep your face dry and clean if it is to heal,” Daneeb told him.
“I will. Thank you.” Reever saw the Iisleg were growing restless again. He wanted to stay with Daneeb and Skjæra, but the restrictions under which they lived would make his search impossible. “What happens now?”
Daneeb eyed the Iisleg. “We tell the hunters that you have a soul, and are honorable, so they will not kill you here. You will keep your word and do no harm, so they do not kill all of us.”
The smaller vral replaced the supplies in her pack.
“They will take you with them to their camp, or perhaps to the nearest iiskar,” Daneeb continued. “If you make no trouble, they may let you live. I will talk to them now.” She left them and went to the hunters, who watched her approach with visible terror.
Skjæra moved the pack under her robe and hung it from her shoulder. She seemed to notice him at last, and lifted one hand, perhaps in a gesture of farewell. She had not said a single word the entire time she was treating him.
“Cherijo.”
The smaller vral didn’t respond. Reever wasn’t willing to leave it at that, not without being sure, so he reached out and grasped her wrist. “Cherijo, is it you?”
She said nothing.
“I’m going to remove your glove.” He exposed her hand and pressed his palm to hers. “No one can hear our thoughts.” He reached into her mind.
One thing became immediately evident: Skjæra was not Cherijo.
The woman’s thoughts were as blank and smooth as the mask covering her face. If Daneeb lived in the day, her companion seemed to live in the moment. She thought only of walking back across the ice field. There was nothing before that, and nothing after. Reever had left no impression on her mind whatsoever.
Despite his disappointment, Reever realized that the vral was in some manner gravely mentally ill, and immediately broke the link.
“Forgive me,” he asked, although he didn’t know why. She had been completely unaware of his mental intrusion. As, on most levels, she was indifferent to him.
What happened to her, to destroy her mind so thoroughly? If she had known anything about Reever’s wife, whatever had been done to her had destroyed those memories.
That was what disturbed him most. She had no memory center. Whatever happened to her in the present was all she carried in her mind.
Daneeb rejoined them. “They have agreed to take you back to their iiskar, which is not far from here. Stay with Hathor, the hunter in the gray outfurs. He will see that you are not harmed. We must go. Farewell.”
Skjæra said nothing, but simply walked away with her companion.
As the hunters surrounded him, Reever stood watching the vral crossing the empty ice, walking into nothingness. The nothingness disturbed him almost as much as the smaller vral. A woman as small as Cherijo, with a mask possibly made of Lok-teel. Cherijo had carried a Lok-teel. But that blankness—that terrible emptiness in her mind—to have no memories …
No memories.
He looked at the hunter wearing predominantly gray furs and pointed to the vral. “I must follow them.”
Hathor shook his head.
Reever took Aledver’s chain and crystal from around his neck and offered them to the hunter. “Take this as payment.”
The hunter hesitated, then took the crystal and tossed it to another man. “You follow them, ensleg—you go alone.”
Reever nodded and set out to track the vral.
A week after Resa came to work in the salvage sheds, she had learned enough of the people’s words to communicate. Ygrelda, who had been kind to her from the first day, helped by correcting her words and explaining many things. Like the name Hurgot had given her.
“What do Resa mean?”
Ygrelda looked up from the pile of small salvaged parts she was sorting. “What does Resa mean?”
Resa nodded.
“It is from the Time Before stories, when we lived on another world. Our people would beseech their gods when a person died, and sometimes that person’s spirit was returned to their flesh. When that happened, the person could live again. Spirit made flesh. The word for such a person brought back from death was resa.”
Resa frowned. “I was not death.”
“You were not dead, but …” Ygrelda sighed and went back to sorting. “It is not good luck to speak of such things. You are here, and you have a name.”
Not good luck prevented the people from doing many things. It was not good luck to eat with the hand on the left, or to spill soup, or to touch a sleeping person. It was not good luck to say why. Some of it made a little sense, such as the spilling of soup, for the people never had much food. Not spilling it prevented waste.
Mlap stopped by their table and eyed Resa’s pile of sorted salvage. It was twice the size of the other women’s. “You make us look lazy, ensleg. Slow down or the gjenvin master will expect us all to do the same.”
“Leave her alone,” Ygrelda said. “She can work as she likes.”
“Not for long.” The heavy-bodied woman gave Resa an unpleasant smile. “The winds whisper that someone wishes a particular thorn removed.”
“Someone?” Ygrelda stopped working to turn and glare. “Who?”
Mlap snorted. “Who cannot bear it if she is not the barb embedded in everyone’s ass?”
“I know that,” Resa said, happy that she had the answer from hearing two women discussing the same thing. “Sogayi.”
“Resa.” Ygrelda made a silencing gesture. To Mlap she said, “She has done nothing wrong. She has been obedient. She has worked hard. She keeps clean and modest. Why should she be punished?”
Resa had the feeling that her friend was no longer speaking of the headman’s woman.
“Why?” Mlap gave the younger woman an incredulous look, and then lowered her voice to demand, “Why do you care? You know what will happen if you cross her. Do you wish to strip dead bodies for the remainder of your miserable life?”
Resa looked from one woman to the other. The woman called Sogayi was the one who belonged to the rasakt. Ygrelda had made her understand a little of how important the headman was, and that to be his woman was a great honor. The puzzling thing about it was that Sogayi’s name was never mentioned except in whispers colored by fear or anger. That, too, was how Hurgot had responded to her presence—Resa had never forgotten that. She had felt pity for Sogayi, for despite her privileged position among the people, it seemed she had few friends.
Resa had to be more worried about her own position now, for as Ygrelda and Mlap continued to speak, it became apparent that they were talking about Resa being taken from the salvage sheds and driven from the camp.
It was not fair. She had tried very hard to learn the people’s ways, because she did not want them to make her leave the iiskar. She did not think she could return to the ice now, not after living here with Ygrelda and the other women. Even Mlap, who never showed kindness to her, was better than facing tha
t emptiness again.
“I am sorry,” Resa interrupted the conversation between the two women, and put a hand on Mlap’s arm. “I do better, work harder, Sogayi not be angry, yes?”
“Idiot ensleg.” For once Mlap didn’t look upon her through angry eyes. “You have no choice in the matter.” She glared at Ygrelda. “Neither do you, so you had better prepare her.”
“Where?” Ygrelda asked.
“Where do you think? Only watch or Sogayi might flick fresh blood on her first.” Mlap trudged back over to her own table and went back to work.
Ygrelda gave Resa a sober look. “Resa, this is trouble.”
“I make bad luck?” Maybe by being with the people she had violated one of their customs.
“I don’t know.” The younger woman frowned at her salvage pile. “Let me think.”
Resa worked in silence, excusing herself only to void her bladder once. Had she been with the cats, she would have done so outside the cave, in a hole she would dig in the ice, as the cats did. The people had a special shelter for their needs, which stood over two deep pits, one for urine, the other for feces. Plank benches were propped over each pit and, like the shelter, could be moved to a new spot when the pits were full. Fresh hides and skins were kept for a time in the urine pit, where they soaked for many suns in the collected fluids. Resa had thought this practice odd until Ygrelda explained it was part of the process of making them ready for use.
As Resa left the privy, she walked slowly back toward the salvage sheds. Ygrelda had told her never to look directly at any of the people, especially the males, as it was discourteous. But her trips to the privy were the only chance she had to see anything but the women who sorted salvage, so she could not resist looking around.
There was always much activity within the iiskar. Men moved freely among the rows of shelters, usually in pairs. Those who were hunters often brought heavy sacks of meat into camp, and were greeted with admiration by the other men. Others carried tools and building materials as they went to repair or build onto the shelters. Every man carried a crossbow and a blade. Several carried other, strange devices that resembled some of the salvage Resa sorted.
Although she wasn’t supposed to watch the men, Resa enjoyed doing so. Most seemed to like their work and talked openly as they went about it, which allowed her to pick up more words.
The women of the camp always kept their heads wrapped outside the shelters, and did not speak to anyone unless first addressed by a man. They carried water, food, or clothing. None of them possessed any sort of weapon, and Resa had already figured out that women were not permitted to do so. They did not show happiness or any other emotion, but rather behaved in a furtive manner, as if not wishing to attract attention.
Resa paused when she saw a woman chasing after a little boy who had run out of one of the shelters. A big man intercepted and scooped up the child, tossed him into the air a few times, and then set him into the waiting woman’s arms. The man then did something Resa had never seen done before among the people: He tugged away a fold of the woman’s head wrap, and caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. The two said nothing, but their affection for each other needed no words. After rubbing her cheek against the man’s hand, the woman wrapped her face and took the squirming boy back into the shelter.
It happened so quickly that Resa doubted anyone but her had noticed it.
Resa’s scalp prickled and felt cold. Ygrelda had cut off most of her hair during the first night she had spent among the women. Resa hadn’t liked that, because her hair kept her head and neck warm, but she knew it was to make her look like all the other women.
A passing hunter scowled at her. “Get back to work, ensleg.”
Resa hurried back to the salvage sheds. Only when she had stepped through the flap did she release her breath.
Ygrelda came over to her. “What is the matter?” She looked all over her. “Resa, you are shaking.”
“Cold outside.” Resa made a show of rubbing her hands together. Her wrist was throbbing again, as it had done when she had first come to the people.
“Come and warm yourself.” Ygrelda led her over to the heatarc. She took something from her sleeve and pressed it into Resa’s hand. “Here. The chief gjenvin said I might have this.” She made a face. “It is pretty, but it serves no purpose. I want it to be yours.”
Resa examined the object Ygrelda had given her. It was a small circle of flat, square metal links. The metal was scratched, and exposure to the elements had taken away most of the shine the object must have once had, but it was pretty. “What this?”
“A necklace of some kind. Let me.” Ygrelda did something to separate two of the links, and then placed the chain around Resa’s throat before joining them again. “There. It looks right on you. It is an ensleg bauble; I thought it would.”
Resa tucked her chin in, but the chain of the necklace was so short she couldn’t see it. “I thank you.”
The midday meal was prepared and served, and Resa left the sorting tables and stood waiting for her portion. She was always last to be given food, but Ygrelda waited with her. Resa noticed how her friend checked her bowl each time, as if to assure it was filled properly. Today the old woman, whom Ygrelda called a renser, handed Resa a brimming portion, as well as two slices of dark, heavy bread. Renser prepared all the food in the iiskar. Since no one else was given the bread, Resa felt confused, and tried to give it back.
“No,” the renser said. She gave Ygrelda an odd look. “It is the last, and cannot be divided evenly. Besides, you will need it.”
Resa thanked her, which only made the renser look away. Ygrelda’s mouth became a hard line when she saw the other women staring at them, but she said nothing.
Certain foods like bread had become scarce since Resa had come to the people, and she felt uncomfortable with being so favored. She liked bread very much, but it was not appropriate for her to have the last of it, not when she was still treated as an outsider by so many. Ygrelda had already given her the gift of the necklace. Her stomach, too, was still clenched after the brief encounter with the scowling hunter. Once Resa and Ygrelda had found a place to sit near the heatarc, she offered the bread to her friend. “I not very hungry,” she said truthfully. “You take.”
The other women around them looked at the bread, and then at Ygrelda. Some seemed unhappy. Others looked strangely distressed.
Ygrelda’s mouth relaxed. “No, Resa. None of us wish to have it. It is all right for you to eat it.”
Another kindness. It confused Resa, but she lowered her hand and smiled. “I thank you. Again.”
Ygrelda looked away, as the renser had.
Resa wanted to ask so many questions, but she did not have enough words for them. She wanted to tell Ygrelda about the cats, and the ice caves, and how grateful she was to be accepted by the people. How much the kindness Ygrelda and the other woman had shown her meant to her. How hard she would work, if given the chance to stay and earn her place with the people.
She wanted to ask about the big man who had caressed the cheek of the woman chasing the boy. She understood the attraction between males and females—even the cats displayed such—but surely desire among the people was not usually shown so openly. She had never seen such a thing before now, and it confused her.
“Resa,” Ygrelda said, her voice low. “We have work to do. Eat.”
Resa ate. The bread was a little dry and hard, but she broke it into pieces and dipped it in her broth to soften it. She ate both slices, and drank every drop in her bowl. The other women sitting around them ate slowly, and no one spoke. The silence seemed to press on Resa’s ears, so accustomed was she to the women’s daily chatter.
She wanted to cry out, What have I done? but that was not the way of the people. She was afraid to know, as well.
One of the women nearest the flap suddenly darted away from it to crouch nearer to the heatarc. “Kheder.”
Without warning, all of the women stopped eating. Those wh
o were standing dropped down quickly to crouch on the floor. Those who were already sitting tucked their hands into the ends of their sleeves, hunched over, and stared at the floor. Resa looked around until she saw a tall male wearing heavy furs and standing just inside the flap.
“Down,” Ygrelda whispered, tugging at her arm until Resa assumed the same position as she. When Resa opened her mouth, Ygrelda quickly pressed her finger against her lips.
“Bring the ensleg to me,” the man said.
EIGHT
The frost-covered body of the dead pilot was hauled out of the wreck by two skela, who brought it before Teulon.
“He was still sitting at the helm,” Hasal said as he came to stand over the corpse. “The ship’s engines are functional, and there are no signs of failure, although most of the reserve fuel was vented.” His eyes shifted to the dead man’s whitened face. “He was either a terrible pilot, or a very good one.”
“Toskald pilots do not crash.” Teulon crouched by the body to examine the dead man’s face. He looked over the ensleg garments it wore, pried up the frozen material, and inspected the torso beneath. “What killed him?”
“One must assume the impact, Raktar.” Hasal handed him the scanner, which he used to take readings of the dead man’s internal organs. “He did not suffer. Death was instantaneous.”
The injuries from the crash were evident on the exterior of the cadaver’s torso, but none of them were severe enough to cause a broken rib to pierce his heart.
Teulon skimmed the readings on the scanner before he stood and handed it back to his second. He made a brief trip inside the launch to inspect the helm, where he saw blood in two places, and spaces within the storage units to indicate a significant amount of gear had been removed from them. There had also been some tampering with the helm console.
He departed the launch to walk around the site. There had been little fresh snowfall, so the marks left by those who had paid a visit to the wreck were still evident. It had been a small group, perhaps hunters searching for game and picking up the launch’s thermal signature. They would have come here on skimmers, and yet there were faint markings indicating at least three had walked out on the ice.