by Gayle Greeno
“No, nor them either,” she whispered again, faintly miffed. Was this some silly joke van Mees played on her? Parading Normal after Normal back and forth in front of her? The evening continued in that vein, her senses heightened for the merest twitch from the dowsing rod. Nothing, absolutely nothing. Failure.
He eased her to a bench outside the barn. “Everyone’s come who’s coming.” Scratched his head. “Not a one? You’re sure of it?” Miserable, she nodded as a man edged their way, waiting patiently to be noticed.
“What, Thorstyn?” van Mees shouted over his shoulder. “Didn’t think ye’d be by. Just bringing the sheep down, aren’t you?”
And she jerked to her feet, the wand dipping and waving, vibrating through her hands, practically keening a high-pitched song of hunger that resonated through her entire body, feet to hands to head. It bobbed and dipped as if alive, almost scenting the man, Thorstyn, who remained beyond van Mees in the shadows.
“Dogs’ll hold them steady till I get back. Listen,” he twisted an old beret in his hands, ceaselessly circling it. “Heard you had a water witch here tonight. Wanted to ask her hire for a day. Well’s dry again. Plenty of sweet water down below, but pipe ain’t driven in the right place, hit hard pan or some such thing.”
She could almost feel her hair fanning out, each strand alive with an electric power, feared her fingers and eyes glowed with nascent light. Yes, yes, yes! He was it, he was the one! She held van Mees’s gaze, saw that he’d caught her strange, rapt demeanor, sensed his surprise and rising approbation.
“Well, Thorstyn, ask, she’s right here. But let me show you something first. Lovely Janus-bred heifer in the barn I want your opinion on.” Van Mees death-gripped the visitor’s elbow as they headed into the barn, toward the two or three who waited, entrusted with van Mees’s secret.
A dull thud, the next sound a sharper crack. The sound of a shovel blade striking blunt-side first, then its edge, slicing into a skull. The faintest moan, quickly tapering. Van Mees hurried out, wiping his hands on the beret, face almost lascivious with satiation, relief. “I thank ye!” He pried one of her hands loose, pumping it. “Always wondered, always mistrusted him keeping himself to himself like that up in the hills. Too bad he lives alone or we could have exterminated a whole viper’s nest!”
“Only him, no others.” Each word distinct and painful, throat muscles straining. “That I’m sure of.”
“How can I thank you? What can I do for you?” He dug into his pocket.
“No, there’s no bounty on each Gleaner head. My bounty is free.” And merciful, she hoped. A mercy to save them from themselves.
“There’s nothing ... ?”
Tired from the strain, she arched her back. “Tell them, those you trust. Make the word known, discreetly, of course. I need help if I’m to cover as much ground as possible, hunt out as many as I can. Have your friends pave my way. Others may start tracking me soon.” Her eyes bored into his. “Guardians, them you can fool. But if Seekers come, be circumspect, give them no reason to request a formal Seeking.”
He nodded, his Adam’s apple rippling like a mouse trapped in a stocking. “Mum’s the word when it comes to them. Lady bless you. Lady and her Apostles bless you!”
“By the New Year,” she blurted, “we should be saved by the New Year. Have faith until then!” And walked away, cutting across the fields to where she’d left her cart and, she hoped, Harrap snoring sonorously, mind floating through muddled, happy dreams, the ghatt as well. Barnaby would guard them, keep them safe for her, his bark shrill enough to wake the dead, though not poor misguided Thorstyn, might he rest in peace.
“Come on, Alyse, I’ll give you a leg up.” The Monitor cupped his hands, ready to help Alyse DeVanter into the saddle. Legs spread, he braced himself, but Alyse was lighter than expected, her swirling cabbage rose-printed pantaloons, the tented, nubby jacket only hinting at ample weight within. A false promise, though, Alyse’s overripe succulence had withered with age.
“Rather someone’d give me a leg up on Zander Nugent—preferably on his backside,” Alyse DeVanter fumed, glowered more as Darl Allgood worked to hide a smile.
“Now Alyse,” Kyril van Beieven swung tiredly into his own saddle, “just turn Zander Nugent and Fleur Massoon over your knee. Administer a good spanking. Don’t get all grandmotherly and coddle them. Discipline them. They both need Merchanter services.”
While Alyse looked for all the world like someone’s rosy-cheeked, twinkly-eyed grandmother—and was, twelve times over at last count—she currently headed the Merchanters’ Ward, elected for a two-year term to supervise and administer the rules governing all Merchanters. Two years was all anyone could afford, since those two years meant neglecting one’s own enterprise for the good of others—in Alyse’s case, as a Merchanter of fruits, one of the most perishable of commodities. No wonder she preferred trading in dried fruits, usually had a pocket of samples.
“It’s not as easy as that, and well you know it.” He certainly did know but wouldn’t let on to Alyse, wouldn’t confirm her suspicions. Even with her back turned, she could spot a transgressor in the next town, had caught out her sons and their best friend, Rilly van Beieven, more often than he cared to remember.
He’d been invited tonight to mediate amongst three Wards: Merchanters, Growers, and Artisans. Alyse had been trapped neatly in the middle of tonight’s verbal free-for-all. The Artisans’ Ward, headed by Fleur Massoon, fretted over increased trade with Marchmont, certain their goods were flooding the market, driving down prices on similar Canderisian articles. They were asking for protection, quotas, complaining that members would be driven out of business without it. The Growers’ Ward, headed by Zander Nugent, a wheat farmer, wanted no such thing, his members prospering as trade boomed with Marchmont, a kingdom cursed with a shorter growing season because it was so far north. Poor Alyse DeVanter and the Merchanters were dependent on both, her people trading in all commodities, some wanting restrictions, others opting for open trade. A contentious meeting, full of finger-pointing, and unlikely to be resolved without negotiations with their Marchmontian counterparts, including Lysenko Boersma, Lord of Commerce. Fleur Massoon couldn’t grasp the basic “tit for tat” concept: put a quota on a Marchmont product and they’d surely slap one on something from Canderis, most likely agricultural.
The meeting had finally adjourned, Alyse riding with Kyril and Darl, a Guardian in the lead with a torch, another following behind. Kyril hated having an escort. Never before had it been necessary, but these days he wasn’t so sure. Anything could happen. Hadn’t that anonymous letter hinted at that? Lady help him, if he took every gimcrack, garden-variety threat so seriously, he’d be paralyzed. Well, Anonymous was wrong about Darl, but that didn’t make the danger any less acute. Any innocent citizen could be adjudged a Resonant, too many already had been.
Alyse and Darl chatted away. More accurately, Alyse indulged in a barrage of babble. It was her specialty: wear an opponent down, wait till his eyes glazed, and then nail him with a demand. Darl, however, seemed to be holding his own, actually shoehorning trenchant observations into Alyse’s monologue, making her stop and reconsider her point. From what he could hear, Allgood was being scrupulously neutral despite a tendency to side with the Growers, Wexler being a grape-growing province. Most of Darl’s Grower constituents were also winemakers. That had been his reason for coming to listen tonight.
“Alyse, isn’t your throat dry from all that? Mine is—just from listening to you,” the Monitor interrupted. “Let me buy you an ale at Myllard’s. You can fill me in on the grandchildren’s doings, not business. I’ve heard all I want for tonight.” Though it was late and he hated to lose sleep, he just didn’t feel like going straight to bed. “Agreed?” At her nod, he shouted to the lead Guardian, watched him change course.
He listened, as understandingly as he could as Alyse changed gears, pattering on about the various goings-on of her two daughters, two sons, and twelve assorted grandchildren. M
arie listened to this sort of thing better than he, but he did care. Alyse had changed his own diapers often enough, he’d half-grown up at the DeVanter house. Darl quickly untangled whose children were whose, chuckling at the right moments. Strange, he didn’t know whether Darl had children or not, had never heard any mentioned, had never asked. Come to think of it, he barely knew Annette, Darl’s wife—pleasant but excruciatingly shy, bookish, he thought. Had seen her once or twice with Marie in the sewing room, but she’d been as attentive a listener as Darl. Perhaps it went with the territory; undoubtedly the wife of a Chief Conciliator, now a High Conciliator, learned things from her husband best not spread through gossip. Circumspection, a deliberate and prudent regard for not spreading stories, was paramount.
They were passing through a narrow street of shops, shuttered and dark, when Darl spotted lights in a saddler’s at the far end of one of the pocket hanky-sized squares that dotted the area. Only the smaller merchants had establishments here; larger, more ambitious ones demanded broader streets, heavier traffic to attract customers. Shops here were either elite, attracting a discerning, select clientele willing to go out of their way, or down-at-the-heels, eking out a genteel subsistence. Darl pointed out the light seeping around the shutters, the sounds of voices, raised sometimes. “Late for customers, isn’t it?”
“I know. And if it’s a burglary, they’re not exactly subtle.” Van Beieven gave a whistle, brought the lead Guardian swinging round as their rearguard caught up with them. “Probably nothing, Gelthaart, but check that out, please. Knock on the door, make sure nothing’s amiss. At the least we can’t be faulted for ignoring possible trouble, showing our concern.” It should stand him in good stead when word got out that the Monitor himself was ever-vigilant, concerned with his citizens’ safety and livelihoods.
Dismounting, Gelthaart knocked, torch held high in one hand, his other dropping to his sword. From behind, Kyril heard Jollis partially unsheathing his sword, alert for trouble. To one side of him Darl looked merely curious while Alyse munched at some dried apple slices, somber and watchful. Nothing to be concerned about, it couldn’t be.
The door flung open, Gelthaart jumping back to avoid being hit, keeping his torch at the ready much as if it were a weapon. They burst out of the shop as if they were a pack, incapable of independent action but deriving communal cunning and strength from the group. As near as Kyril could count, nine men and three women bunched in a wedge, the man at its point folding his arms across his chest, chin thrust forward pugnaciously. “Just checking,” Gelthaart soothed. “Are ye the shop’s owner, sir? We were worried about the lateness of it, lights, activity. Most are home abed by now.”
Darl Allgood shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, and Kyril followed his gaze, blessed the farsightedness of middle years. Tiny at this distance, obscure except for the glint of torchlight at the same place on each collar. Silvery crescents catching the light, winking obscenely. Blessed Lady preserve and protect them, they’d stumbled across a Reaper meeting!
“Yes, this is my shop. Name’s Corliss Singletary.”
It seemed to Kyril that every one of the twelve had fixed Darl Allgood with a cold, implacable eye, assessing him. An ominous forward milling from two or three of the most bold, as if they’d rush out, drag Darl from his horse. The Monitor felt faint, trepidation turning to grinding fear. Wanted to scream, “Darl, run. Escape!” Didn’t dare the exposure, acknowledge Darl’s guilt.
Singletary took a step, arms still crossed. Not a young man, at least the Monitor’s age. Taller, trimmer, no excess settling around his gut. “Well, well, our esteemed Monitor Kyril van Beieven and...” he squinted in the torchlight, “Mistress Merchanter DeVanter and...” slowed further to savor the name, “High Conciliator Darl Allgood, Wexler’s finest.” He turned to survey his followers, ignoring the Guardian beside him, swung back, an insolent smile playing across his face. “Concerned citizens, van Beieven, that’s what we are, merely concerned citizens having a meeting to discuss our views, assembling to address our concerns. Nothing wrong with that, is there?” He threw out the words like a challenge.
Van Beieven discovered he couldn’t take his eyes off the man, his throat constricting, pulse pounding. Felt totally impotent, unable to cope. It wasn’t true, it couldn’t be true! Not Darl, not Darl! How could they know, how did they know? And how could Darl sit there, reins loose, and not be trembling in terror? Except he wasn’t a Resonant, no reason for him to be frightened beyond the obvious tension anyone would feel at an unexpected confrontation. Take yourself in hand, van Beieven, he ordered himself. But the guilt lodged in his heart for even thinking that about Darl.
He forced his gelding forward to face Singletary, mouth dry, hands shaking so much he held them out of sight, one folded over the other on the reins. “If you’ve concerns, Mr. Singletary, bring your concerns to your Chief Conciliator, your High Conciliator, to me, if need be. We’re always ready to listen, to help.” His voice sounded high, strained, even to him.
“And your concern’s appreciated as well, Monitor.” The saddler unfolded his arms and van Beieven jerked his horse to an abrupt halt, sensing a threat. “But it’s late and I think we’ve discussed all we need to for one evening. Might as well be on our way. Much to do on the morrow, and the morrow after that as well.” With a wave of his hand, Singletary’s followers began to drift away, some arrogant, pressing much too close, forcing Darl’s and Alyse’s horses back, others flitting along the square, putting as much distance as possible between the Monitor’s group and themselves.
Gelthaart hurriedly took his place, whispered with Jollis as they pressed closer to their charges. The Monitor wavered in the saddle, dizzy, weak. Moisture trickled inside his pants legs—had he shamed himself that way, too?
“Kyril? Are you all right?” Alyse grabbed his hand, chafed it. “You’re white as a sheet. Don’t wonder the way they were all staring at you, practically licking their chops as if you were a tasty mouse and them a dozen starving cats.”
“Staring at me?” he repeated blankly. “Me?”
“Well, of course every eye was fixed on you—you’re the Monitor, after all.”
They’d been staring at Darl, he knew it. How could Alyse not have realized? He wiped a hand across his eyes as if it would help him see more clearly.
Darl was beside him now on the other side, hand on his arm, solicitous. “Gelthaart thinks it’s safe to move on now. We should pick up the night watch at the next block. Good job, Kyril, good job. But I think we all need brandy, not ale. You appeared perfectly calm, but I’ll confess—they gave me quite a start.”
The Monitor kept shaking his head, mouth partially open, words beyond him. Staring at Darl, staring at him? Did it matter or not? All he knew was that he’d been petrified, near craven with terror, and it was a feeling he never wanted to experience again.
“Blast all, Saam, why would they put my valise down here?” She hadn’t begun to rummage in earnest yet, had contented herself with picking her way through the narrow aisles between benches and tables, piles of strange equipment she couldn’t put a name to or identify a use. An overriding smell of damp masonry and seeping stone, a whiff of mildew and rot, and dust, dust enough for her to write her name in ten times over.
“An exaggeration:” Saam angled by her, tail accidentally swiping a low shelf beneath a tabletop. He stopped, sniffed fastidiously, debated licking but decided to shake it clean. ”But only a slight one. At least gray on gray doesn’t show. Much:’ He ducked under the shelf, surveying from ground level. “As to why down here, you told the servant to put it away, out of your sight, and that if you tripped over it once more ...” He let her finish the thought for herself.
“That meant in the closet, under the bed, someplace like that. I didn’t think the blasted fool...” she caught his faint “ahem” of reproach and emended, “the misguided servant would interpret me so literally. More fool I.”
Where to begin baffled her. Asking for help would be sensible,
but this gave her something to do, a place to poke around, ignore the summons she’d received earlier in the day, asking—no, demanding would be more accurate—that she return to Gaernett immediately. And hadn’t she just been there? True, her stay had been brief, but it was hardly her fault if the Monitor couldn’t make time to see her. Devise a way to identify Resonants, an accurate, foolproof method. Kyril, she snorted, was becoming a high-handed fool, ordering her about like that. No, that wasn’t fair—increasingly overwrought, and with good reason. But if she knew how to do it, didn’t he think she might have mentioned it?
“What is all this junk? It looks like discarded scientific instruments and...” she turned in a tight circle, prodding, touching various bits of machinery jumbled amongst the standard leftovers of any life that migrate to attic or basement, too old or worn to use but somehow too good to throw out. “I can’t imagine what they’re for, what they do. They’re not things eumedicos would use for experiments.” Grease from a gear mechanism smeared her fingers. She’d dislodged something and it squeaked ominously, swaying back and forth, ready to spring to life.
Saam paused, jumped straight up to land on an impossibly small surface clear of machine parts, wending his way through the maze without disturbing a thing. His paw prints left a faint impression in the dust, but nothing beyond that to suggest his passing. “More like illegal technology.”
It took her aback to have the ghatt mention it. For years technology had been scrupulously thwarted, allowed at only the lowest necessary level to sustain their society. Eumedicos enjoyed the greatest latitude in its use to save lives. The people of the planet Methuen refused to become slaves to technology, dependent on devices that would ultimately fail them, destroy by their very absence. Hadn’t their ancestors been betrayed by their broken spaceships, the remnants of high technology that mocked with their utter uselessness, or even turned rogue, like the Plumbs? Nothing more, never again. Mayhap they’d been too careful, conservative. Attempting to pass down knowledge in the abstract, not banning its study for fear of losing precious information, yet rejecting its practical applications. Theoretical speculation went just so far without empirical experimentation.