by Jaine Fenn
‘We going to this meeting then?’ Taro asked, interrupting his reverie.
‘Sorry, yes.’ He followed Taro between the bushes. Nual, waiting for them on the other side, fell into step next to Jarek, on the opposite side to Taro.
The path led them through further pleasant landscaping, complete with a bubbling stream, to a clearing shaded by golden-leaved trees that emitted a faint but soothing rustle. The ‘land’ had been built up into shaped banks covered in soft grass, and one of these natural seats was occupied by a small dark woman wearing a black one-piece suit. She stood as they entered the glade. Jarek couldn’t tell her age, but she had an open, welcoming face. From the way she checked them over he guessed she wasn’t going to miss much.
Before she could speak Vy rushed over to her and gabbled, ‘I need to speak to your patron! It’s urgent!’
After a momentary loss of composure the woman replied evenly, ‘Apologies: your request is not feasible. There is no patron.’
‘You’re human, aren’t you?’ asked Vy rudely, thrusting his face up at hers.
Jarek started at Nual’s mental observation. For a moment he was illogically worried that even their thoughts were being monitored, but that was rubbish, of course. Only female Sidhe could read minds. The males’ talents lay in different areas.
‘Assertion: this individual is lingua,’ the woman was saying, ‘and as such does not answer to any one patron. You are Khesh’s avatar, aye-okay?’
‘Yes, yes. I need to speak to someone in charge, now.’
‘Your request is conveyed. However, the situation is complicated. Please allow explanations to be provided, after which all may ask questions freely.’ She didn’t sound offended at being shouted at by a crazy kid-avatar. Her gaze flicked from Vy to Jarek. ‘Query: is the preference for conversing whilst sitting, standing or walking?’
‘I’m fine standing if everyone else is,’ he said, looking at the other two, who both nodded. Given Vy’s unreasonable behaviour, he wanted their hosts to know that the rest of them weren’t going to be any trouble.
Vy waved his hands. ‘It’s urgent,’ he said, offended that their host dared pay attention to anyone else when he was there.
‘Clarification: the relevant parties are now aware of your request,’ she replied gently. ‘Any response will be passed on at once.’
Her reply satisfied Vy enough to make him back off. He flopped onto the ground and started to pull up grass.
‘Sorry,’ said Jarek, ‘he’s been like this since we got here. I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name?’
‘Clarification and apology: this individual is lingua, and lingua do not generally employ names when fulfilling their function.’ Seeing Jarek’s confused expression she continued, ‘Further clarification: lingua act as natural speakers, mediating between the patrons – those you call Sidhe males – and as such, lingua speak with one voice, or rather, as a conduit of many voices.’ Her smile softened. ‘However, lingua – we – use names amongst ourselves, and mine is Ain. The choice is yours, whether to use a designation or a name when dealing with this individual.’
‘Names are good,’ said Jarek carefully. He wondered if she was having to do some mental gymnastics to fit in with his world-view.
Ain went on, ‘Statement: this lingua forms the interface between you and the patrons. Please be aware, if you were not already, that your presence is controversial. For this reason it has been decided that only a single lingua should have face-to-face contact with you.’
‘So we don’t get to meet any of the old males, then?’ Taro asked, sounding a little disappointed.
Jarek tried not to wince. Their assigned lingua was their only source of info, and as the males were no doubt listening in, he’d been planning on avoiding that kind of awkward question, at least to begin with.
‘Affirmative: you will not meet any patrons.’ Was that amusement in her tone, or shock?
‘What about avatars? You got them here?’ Taro asked.
‘Affirmative: most patrons support avatars, but to let any one avatar come here would be seen as favouritism to the patron it represented.’
‘Shame.’ Taro’s tone was sarcastic. He looked down at Vy, still sulking at their feet.
Jarek noted her use of it to refer to an avatar. ‘You were going to explain the complexities of the situation?’ he prompted.
‘Clarification follows. Please interrupt if this lingua repeats known facts, or if you require additional information regarding any points raised.
‘Know that Aleph has many patrons. The patrons rarely agree, but they have the wisdom not to let their disputes become disruptive to the system at large.’
‘When you say “many patrons”,’ said Jarek, ‘how many are we talking about?’
‘Clarification: just over twenty thousand hold voting rights in the Consensus. The Consensus is both the place and method of our governance. Any decisions affecting multiple domains must be taken in the Consensus.’
‘And a domain is the extent of a given male’s influence?’ Jarek asked. Twenty thousand non-cooperative Sidhe males living in one system certainly qualified as complicated in his eyes.
‘Aye: domains vary greatly in extent and nature. Some patrons live entirely virtually, taking little or no interest in the universe outside. Others support self-sufficient worlds or habitats.’
‘And humans live on these worlds? I mean, aside from your people.’
‘Affirmative. Humans live in or on approximately one third of the domains. Lingua have no homeworld, unless you count the physical site of the Consensus, where we are birthed.’
Jarek had a sudden suspicion. ‘Are you a clone?’
‘Affirmative. All lingua are clones.’
Jarek quashed his uneasiness; because of their problems breeding true, most female Sidhe were clones. But Nual said Ain was human. ‘How about the humans in the domains: are they clones?’
‘Negative: cloning is forbidden save to make lingua.’
‘So the understandably-peeved pilot of the lightship I spoke to when we first arrived is an ordinary human?’
‘Affirmative.’
‘That ship looked like it was heading out-of-system; where was it going?’
‘It travels to the nearest star, possibly beyond. I am not party to the intentions of its patron.’
‘I thought you – well, the patrons – were stuck in the one system.’
‘Affirmative, to an extent. As you now know, journeying here is a more traumatic experience than making a transit within humanity’s home galaxy. For the patrons it was worse still. Even you’ – for the first time she directly addressed Nual – ‘only experienced a fraction of what they endured. When added to their previous transit experience, this was enough to destroy many who made the exodus. Insanity or death took them. Most of the survivors built themselves into constructions too large to enter shiftspace. Even those still relatively unencumbered would never risk repeating the journey. However, the patrons used up much of the matter in this system in building the structures they now rule and inhabit. To procure more, patrons occasionally send ships crewed by humans to nearby stars, where they secure rare resources, returning them via mass-drivers; they may also set up colonies there. Other patrons send human crews out to explore without knowing what they will find. Without shiftspace travel, such missions take many years, and the crew must either pass the time in stasis or else live out several generations.’
‘How about the patrons themselves? Do they ever leave?’
‘Affirmative. Any patron who feels unable to live within the Consensus may fix a drive to his domain and leave. Some of these remain in contact with the Consensus. Some do not.’
So the inhabitants of Aleph were expanding, just very slowly. One thing still puzzled Jarek. ‘The lightship we accidentally damaged: it had a hi-tech sail, but why use a lightship at all when you’ve got zepgen?’
‘Request for
clarification: the term zepgen is not familiar.’
‘Right. It’s a power-source.’ Jarek hoped he hadn’t screwed up by mentioning it.
‘Query: does zepgen draw energy into our universe from outside?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Such a device is known to us as a dimension-engine. It is amongst the technologies that are reserved solely for the use of patrons.’
Jarek might have expected the males to be jealous of their tech – which brought him back to their reason for coming here in the first place. ‘And how about beacons? I assume you know about them, even if you’ve never seen one.’
‘Beacons are not a subject the lingua have much knowledge of. The patrons have informed this lingua that they are complicated to make, which is why these accommodations have been provided for you. You may have to wait here for several days for the beacon to be completed and brought here.’
‘Ah. I hadn’t realised that. Not that it’s a problem.’ Though Jarek wasn’t sure Taro would feel that way, given the current situation with Nual.
‘While you wait,’ Ain went on, ‘you may summon this lingua whenever you need, and you may ask whatever you wish. It is a lingua’s function to inform; this individual’s presence should be viewed as part of the patrons’ hospitality.’
‘Thanks, that’s good to know,’ said Jarek. He didn’t mention the deal with Khesh. Though the Minister had given them the impression that the Aleph males were providing the beacon as a favour, Jarek doubted it was as simple as that. But for now at least, he wasn’t going to question the arrangement.
CHAPTER TWELVE
For the rest of that day, Ifanna lay unmoving on her filthy bed. She was vaguely aware of daylight growing, and of pain receding. The bar of light from the high window moved across the wall; as it crept up onto the ceiling, the healer returned. The woman cleaned up the last of the blood and examined Ifanna again.
‘My – the child?’ whispered Ifanna, not sure what she was asking.
‘Gone to the pyres with a priest’s blessing,’ said the healer gently.
That was something, at least.
After the healer left, Ifanna wanted to pray, but the words would not come. Instead she waited, empty and numb, for death.
When the door opened the next morning, it was almost a relief.
In the doorway stood the Rhethor of Plas Morfren, a muscular man of middle years who would have looked more like a farmer than a priest without his shaved head and robes. She might have expected the Rhethor himself to come for her, because he was the Reeve’s judge and a powerful priest, one who would not easily be turned by her will. She circled her breast, though it felt strange to make the gesture lying down.
‘The healer says you are able to stand,’ he said, ‘so get up.’
He did not call her chilwar – child – as a priest should when addressing a lay person, and Ifanna was chilled by this confirmation that, in the eyes of the servants of the Mothers at least, she was already beyond redemption. She stood, though it took some effort.
The Rhethor gestured behind him and men dressed in the Reeve’s livery came in to bind her. There were four of them in all; two held crossbows trained on her while the others hobbled her feet and tied her hands. Ifanna was oddly gratified at still being subject to such careful precautions. She wondered if the fear of her had grown; perhaps her fame had spread as she languished here. While the men checked her bonds, she asked, ‘Gwas, will there be many there?’ She called him ‘Father’, the priestly title of respect: to do otherwise would acknowledge her damned state.
‘What do you mean?’
‘At— At the trial.’ She should have given more thought to this! She determined now that she would retain her dignity to the end, and not beg, or curse.
‘You are not to be tried.’
‘I—’ Would they just kill her, without justice being seen to be done? ‘My mother said the Reeve would want a trial!’
‘Your mother is dead.’
‘Dead?’
‘She died some weeks back. She was one of the last victims of the falling fire.’
So Maman had gone to the Skymothers. No doubt she had died without speaking out against Da. Ifanna felt a quick flash of anger at her mother’s cowardice. Hard on the heels of that came shame, that she should think so badly of her own dead mother, and grief, for now she would never be reconciled to her. ‘And what of me?’ she asked faintly.
‘You are being given a chance you probably do not deserve,’ said the Rhethor. Then, to the men, ‘Bring her.’
Ifanna did not resist. Flanked by the guards, she let the Rhethor lead the way out of her cell. Though the corridor outside was as grim as the cell, the sight of a view that stretched beyond three paces nearly made her miss her step. She caught herself and carried on. By the time they came to the turning that led out of the cellblock she had adjusted to this small freedom, and to the possibility of more. ‘Gwas!’ she called out to the Rhethor, ‘what is to be my fate?’
For a moment she thought he had not heard her, or perhaps had decided to ignore her impudent question. Then he stopped, holding up a hand to stop the guards, and turned to face her. Beyond him Ifanna saw light, a door open to a bright morning. Her eyes drank in the sight.
‘Your mother came to see the Reeve while you were awaiting your trial,’ he said. ‘I do not know what passed between them, but after her death, he asked that I petition the Tyr to have you sent there rather than be tried in Plas Morfren. I believe he did not expect this request to be honoured, but he felt obliged to make it on Mistress Aelwen’s behalf.’
‘I do not— I am to go to the Tyr? To Dinas Emrys?’ She had heard tales of the City of Light, but never met anyone who had seen it for themselves. Yet her mother had travelled to Plas Morfren, no doubt against Da’s wishes, in order to petition that Ifanna be sent there. She felt a renewed wash of mingled shame and grief.
‘Aye. Once within the Tyr you will be judged by the Beloved Daughter of Heaven.’
‘The— The Cariad herself is to hear my case?’ Even as Ifanna’s hand circled her breast, dread began to descend.
‘I too was surprised when the Reeve’s request was granted, yet such is the will of Heaven.’ The Rhethor’s voice was sharp with resentment.
‘But—’ The Cariad would see into her soul, and be appalled at the corruption there. ‘This is not what I want! Let my end be here, please.’
The Rhethor took a step towards her. His face was in shadow, but Ifanna knew the signs of fury in a man. She cringed, tensing for the blow.
He did not strike her, but his voice was low and harsh. ‘How dare you question this decision! I would see you drowned for the abomination you are, but others have ruled that this is not to be. Now, you will not speak to me again, do you understand?’
Ifanna nodded, and the Rhethor turned on his heel. Ifanna followed, her heart racing. When they came out into the courtyard she bowed her head under the weight of the open sky, then forced herself to straighten. As she started to look around, something was slipped over her head. She flinched at the pressure across her eyes, until a voice behind her said quietly, ‘Steady there, and keep those eyes closed.’
She heard the Rhethor mutter, ‘Have you a spare blindfold?’
‘Aye, Gwas.’
‘Then use it to stop her mouth.’ As they tied the gag he called, ‘I would keep that on her, chilwar, lest her words corrupt you.’
Hands grabbed her arms and she was half-dragged, half-pushed forward. More hands lifted her up, and she was laid down ungently on a wooden floor. She heard voices, but could not make out any words, until someone ahead yelled ‘Hyup! Hyup!’ and the wooden floor began to move. So she was in a cart of some sort, most likely pulled by oxen . . .
She spent the rest of the day lying in the bottom of the cart, listening to the steady plod of hooves and the occasional snatches of conversation above her. It took her a while to differentiate the voices, but she had little else to do. She was being accom
panied by three people, plus a driver. One was a priest, one a woman; the other appeared to be a guard, possibly the woman’s husband. Ifanna did not recognise any of the voices, and nothing they said gave her any further clue as to her fate in Dinas Emrys. She had awakened without hope this morning, believing her situation could not worsen, but she had been wrong: now she was to face Heaven’s judgment directly, while she yet lived. The Cariad’s fearsome gaze would reveal her every sin; her lies would be uncovered, her small powers of deception and control crushed by the will of the Skymothers’ earthly representative. All her secrets would be brought into the light – and those dark secrets were all she had. Of course the Skymothers knew everything already, but the Cariad was here, within Creation, as the living manifestation of their will. Ifanna wondered if her maman had wanted to send her to the Tyr for that very reason. Unable to face bringing the truth into the light herself, she had turned the task over to the gods. Ifanna dismissed the thought as unworthy at best, blasphemous at worst.
Yet the Rhethor had called it ‘a chance she did not deserve’ – did that mean she might somehow escape death? Or was he talking about a chance to redeem her soul, to not be eternally condemned to the Abyss? That was her deepest hope, and she turned her prayers towards it.
When the cart stopped for the night her gag was removed, though the blindfold and bindings remained. The woman held a cup to her lips and spooned pottage into her mouth, then replaced the gag and led her away from the camp to relieve herself.