by Jaine Fenn
‘Your face. ’Tis plain as a baby’s.’
‘And yours is as painted as— as—’
‘A whore’s? Of course it is!’ The girl’s tone was contemptuous, but Ifanna sensed the fear beneath it. Before she could ask what the girl meant, the priest in charge looked up and bellowed, ‘Silence, you two!’
Ifanna made to move away, but the girl looked into her eyes, and to her surprise, Ifanna heard her voice, though her lips did not move:
Ifanna tried to hide her astonishment.
The girl spoke silently again,
By this she presumably meant the silent speech. Ifanna tried to form her thoughts into words.
Ifanna was glad she had not had to admit that out loud. Her carefully won calm was ebbing away.
Ifanna was too shocked to respond.
The guard walked between them, and the contact was lost. Ifanna was unable to re-establish their strange communication as they were led forward in single file.
Now the procession was accompanied by much chanting and wafting of incense bowls, but Ifanna was barely aware of the ceremony attending their progress down the corridor. Could she become one of these holy whores? The thought of strangers using her body sickened her – yet the girl had said the Beloved Daughter of Heaven would ensure she took pleasure in being so used. Obviously the Cariad was quite capable of reshaping hearts and souls, for she was a goddess . . . yet Ifanna had sensed doubt beneath the girl’s brave scorn.
They stopped before a pair of massive doors which shone like the sun on water. Ifanna had not known so much metal existed in the whole of Creation!
The doors opened silently. Not that Ifanna could hear much over the pounding of her heart.
Beyond was a strange and wondrous room: a dome, cut into the rock, large enough to fit the whole of the Reeve’s manor into. The space was lit by the same cold lights she had seen elsewhere in the Tyr – or rather, half-lit, for the far side of the room remained in darkness. Then, even as she strained to see through it, the darkness was dispelled by a golden light, like a sudden and miraculous dawn.
The light revealed five men in ornate robes. They must be the Escorai: the most powerful men in Creation. Each one was dressed in the colour of his goddess: red for Carunwyd, orange for Medelwyr, green for Frythil, blue for Turiach and yellow for Mantoliawn. They were ranged about a throne, and on it sat the Cariad herself, resplendent in black and silver, her face hidden from unworthy mortal eyes by a shining veil.
Even as she circled her breast and fell to her knees, Ifanna found herself wondering what that veil hid. Was the Cariad truly so beautiful that a glimpse of her face would strike the unworthy blind? She caught the thought, suddenly terrified the Cariad might sense it. She looked down, and noticed the line on the floor, separating her party from the divine one. The room was divided by a chasm: did it lead to the Abyss itself? Ifanna’s head swam; had she not already been kneeling, she might have fallen. She dug her nails into her palms, determined not to show weakness.
The Escori of Mantoliawn, Mother of Justice, spoke up. ‘You stand before us today to receive judgment.’
Then the Escori of Medelwyr added, ‘None but the Cariad can reveal the will of the Weaver.’
‘You are tainted, but you are not yet beyond the healing power of salvation.’ This from the Escori of Turiach, Mother of Mercy.
‘For your bodies may yet be given a sacred purpose,’ added the red-robed Escori of Carunwyd.
The words gave Ifanna a small glimmer of hope; she was in the hands of the Skymothers. All was not lost. Though the darkness in her soul would be exposed, the Weaver might yet have plans for her! She could find a place in the Mothers’ designs, if their Daughter would only accept her – and change her, to make what she must do bearable.
‘You will now hear the charges laid against you both,’ said the Escori of Frythil, speaking for the first time. ‘Hylwen Tremglas. You used your skycursed powers to drive two boys to fight over you, until one killed his erstwhile friend for your pleasure. You enchanted another young man to steal and lie to indulge your whims, thus bringing about the death of a jewel-merchant.’
Ifanna stole a glance at her companion – Hylwen – and saw that the other girl was still as a rock, her face set. Even with the cosmetics she looked too young to have caused such mayhem.
‘Ifanna am Nantgwyn.’ Ifanna flinched to hear the Escori of the Mother of Secrets speak her name. ‘You are known to have killed the man to whom you were wed; no doubt other unholy acts have gone unrecorded.’
The Cariad would reveal her every secret. She shuddered, and realised that next to her, Hylwen was beginning to tremble, her shoulders quivering and her fingertips twitching.
‘The Cariad will look into your hearts, and you will each be treated as you deserve.’ The green-robed Escori’s voice was heavy with contempt, leaving no doubt as to what fate he believed they merited. But it was not up to him.
In the silence that followed, Ifanna felt utterly, unreservedly penitent. Yet she also wanted the Beloved Daughter to know that she could still be of use, that if she willed it, to serve as a Putain Glan would be a fate she would welcome gladly. I want to live, she thought, I will do anything to live.
The room was utterly silent. Her knees ached from kneeling on the rough floor, and the air was chill on her damp hair.
And she sensed . . . nothing.
She began to panic: had her presumption counted against her? She should not have assumed she had any right to life: she had no rights. She was nothing. She opened her heart to the Cariad, trying not to think, merely to be ready to receive judgment – whatever that judgment may be.
But she did not hear the voice of Heaven – and when even a lowly witch could speak in Ifanna’s head, why did the Cariad remain silent? She tried to think directly to the woman on the throne, as Hylwen had shown her – it might be a blasphemous act, but this empty silence was unbearable.
There was no response.
Finally the Cariad spoke. ‘Hear now my judgment, for it is the will of Heaven.’ Her voice was soft, almost gentle, though it filled the room. ‘You shall not be made into Putain Glan.’
Hylwen whimpered, but Ifanna made herself stay calm. Death was her rightful lot; she had been foolish to ever think otherwise.
‘Instead, you will be taken from this place and escorted to the edge of the marshlands to the south of the city.’ They mean to drown us after all, thought Ifanna, feeling suddenly cheated; some twisted part of her had hoped to die by the Cariad’s own hand, as though that might redeem her soul. The Cariad continued, ‘There, you will be given bread and fresh water, enough for five days, and be set loose. You will never return to Dinas Emrys.’
Around her, Ifanna sensed confusion.
‘Such is my will and decree. This is the will of Heaven. The girls are to be sent into exile.’
She was not to be killed, nor yet given over to the priests for their pleasure. She would live.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
‘What happened?’ asked Jarek sharply. ‘You say there was an accident: what sort of accident?’ He managed not to look at Nual as he spoke. Christos, Taro, he thought, don’t you dare have got yourself killed, you stupid, stupid boy.
Ain looked away for a mome
nt, ‘Clarification,’ she said quietly. ‘Perhaps “accident” is not entirely accurate.’
‘Explain!’ snapped Nual.
‘This hab is very new; parts of it are still being . . . consolidated. It is possible an error occurred.’
‘What do you mean “an error occurred”? What sort of error?’
‘This individual cannot—’
‘You do not believe this accident was due to a fault in the hab’s fabric at all, do you?’ interrupted Nual.
‘No,’ said Ain miserably. ‘This lingua suspects it may have been matter-eaters.’
‘Matter-eaters? What the fuck are matter-eaters?’ Jarek didn’t try to curb his emotions: the lingua already believed Taro was more than a friend to him.
‘They are . . . You have a word—’ The lingua mastered herself. ‘This – I believe you call this technology a nanite plague? All that is known currently is that something ate through the outer shell of the hab before local failsafes neutralised the effect.’
‘Is there any danger now?’ asked Nual coldly.
‘No. The affected area has been isolated and the nanites deactivated.’
‘And what about the problems with the lights and the coms?’
‘When the nanite plague began, some of the hab’s internal systems experienced a— the—’ She stopped, then started again, ‘I believe your word is datastrike – this lingua is sorry for all this and for, for failure to act, and now to communicate properly!’
‘It’s all right,’ said Jarek, gently. It wasn’t the lingua’s fault.
‘It would have been quick,’ continued the lingua, ‘when they died. Very little suffering.’
‘Let us be clear about what has happened here,’ growled Nual. ‘At the same time as a datastrike affected the hab’s internal systems, nanites penetrated the hull in the area where Vy and Taro just happened to be, and it depressurised. Is that correct?’
‘Aye, exactly. The closed door you found saved the rest of the hab.’
‘Assuming this was not some internal problem with the hab – and the timing of the datastrike implies it wasn’t – then how did this nanite plague get here? Because you said we were safe!’ Jarek had never heard Nual so angry. For the lingua’s sake he hoped Ain wasn’t going to dissemble.
‘Apologies . . . this lingua truly believed the hab was safe! The exclusion zone was not violated: as far as can be ascertained no one approached the hab. Perhaps a micro-missile, too small for the hab’s sensors to detect or – or something planted beforehand, like the worm must have been . . .’ The lingua’s voice trailed off. She had obviously only just begun to consider the full implications of the attack for herself. It had to be an inside job.
She recovered herself a little and said, ‘All this lingua knows has now been imparted. Whatever else is discovered will also be shared.’
‘Who might have done this?’ asked Nual.
‘Currently there is no way of knowing. A number of patrons oppose your presence, but such an act . . . There will be consequences.’
Right now Jarek didn’t care about consequences, he cared about the life of his friend. And the longer the conversation went on, the more he began to believe that Taro really was dead. He found himself demanding, ‘I want to see Taro’s body. Vy’s too.’
‘Aye-okay, of course. This will happen as soon as external coms are restored and a retrieval mission can be organised.’
‘Make it a priority,’ said Nual fiercely, ‘and keep us informed.’ With that she swept off, leaving Jarek and the lingua standing in awkward silence.
Ain said, ‘This lingua should return to the core to oversee the repairs.’
‘Good idea.’
‘This individual again conveys sympathies. Your loss grieves th— grieves me.’
‘Please, just go.’
After Ain left, Jarek sat down on the ground. If he’d had the strength he might have gone after Nual, because she’d be feeling even worse than him, however well she hid it. He decided that for the sake of his sanity he was going to assume Taro wasn’t dead. When Ain produced the body . . . well, he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.
Even aside from the possible loss of Taro and Vy, they were in big trouble: someone had sabotaged their ‘safe’ haven. Jarek cursed his ignorance. He’d been thinking of the Aleph males as a single group who were broadly sympathetic to his cause, and that had been an enormous mistake. Not all of his enemies’ enemies were his friends.
He wondered if he’d always been so reckless. Perhaps he wouldn’t have let himself get into a situation like this, back before the Sidhe violated his mind and took away his memories. He still wasn’t sure he’d got all those memories back, but he did know he’d never been one to respect authority, and he believed he’d always been a bit crazy. But looking at the way old friends had treated him since he returned from Serenein, he suspected he’d become more extreme in his passions and less careful in his decisions. He couldn’t know for sure, of course; that was a question for philosophers. Or possibly for Nual, if he ever dared ask her to probe him to find out the truth . . .
The realistic garden included realistic morning dew, and it was seeping into his clothes. He stood slowly and then, his mind made up, took the quickest route to the airlock.
Before he reached the Heart of Glass Ain commed him. ‘This lingua earnestly hopes that you are not planning to leave.’ She sounded concerned, rather than angry.
‘No, I’m, not.’ Tempting though it was, he had no idea what he’d end up running into if they bugged out now. ‘I’m going to my ship, as I told you I was. But just as a matter of interest, what would happen if I did undock? Would I be shot down?’
‘Of course not!’ Ain sounded shocked. ‘I told you yesterday, space weapons are not permitted.’
She was right; she’d said that any patron who owned weapons capable of intruding into another’s domain would be jumped on by the ruling Consensus. She hadn’t said anything about localised comp viruses or nanite plagues, he noted. ‘Tell that to whoever killed Taro and Vy,’ he said, and cut the connection. There: he’d said it, admitted Taro might really be dead.
Back on the ship, he went over the logs in detail, as much to distract himself as because he expected to find anything. Whoever had checked his comp must have either had access to serious antisurveillance tech, or free access to the ship’s systems: the airlock camera didn’t show anyone coming aboard, and the bridge logs claimed the ship had been locked down and empty since they’d arrived. He went deeper, trying to unravel exactly what had happened on his ship while it had been at the mercy of their hosts.
At last he found the hack that had looped the surveillance feed, though he had no idea how he could recover the missing eighty minutes’ footage. He’d be willing to bet his visitor was a Sidhe male’s avatar.
The sensor log didn’t flag up anything suspicious, though that might just be because it had been tampered with too. Though he was no expert – he had the comp and coms knowhow to run his ship – he spent a while reviewing the sensor feed anyway, checking for suspicious movements. The delivery system might not have been visible from here, as the nanite attack occurred on the far side of the hab, but he left the system on full sensitivity, just in case.
Still feeling paranoid, he checked the com system – and was surprised to find a problem. According to the log, the ship’s coms had gone offline some time during the night, and come back only when Nual had commed him to wake him up. But the ship’s system was completely independent – so no way did it just happen to randomly fail at exactly the same time that the shit hit the fan on the hab. So what had happened, Jarek wondered: had the males hacked into his ship remotely? He thought that unlikely, given the Heart of Glass’s old-fashioned design. Why would they even need to, when they could easily have boarded the ship and planted a timed glitch into his coms system, synced to the datastrike on the hab’s comp and the nanite plague inception.
So it was beginning to look like whichever male
had checked the ship’s navcomp to make sure Aleph’s coordinates had been removed was almost certainly also the one responsible for the attack on the hab – and for killing Taro and Vy.
Should he tell Ain about his suspicions? Maybe later – but Nual needed to know now. He decided not to ask her to come to him; given the recent violation of his ship’s systems, the Heart of Glass didn’t feel like such a safe space right now. Instead he suggested they meet in the garden; he had a wilfully naïve idea that the hab’s surveillance might not be as close there.
He found her sitting on an ornamental bench, looking pensive. She stood as he approached and opened her arms, her face full of sympathy. For a moment he was confused, then he remembered: he was meant to be the one in pain, she the one offering comfort.
As she hugged him, he projected silent sympathy, and her response hit him like a stim-hit laden with despair. Tears flooded his eyes as her anguish spilled over into his mind. He didn’t fight it, or stop her using him to express her grief.
When the worst of the emotional backwash had passed she thought to him,
Her mental cry made him flinch, and he pulled away. Nual’s eyes were damp, but her expression remained impassive .
Nual, still outwardly calm, steered him to the seat, where she sat next to him, holding his hand while he sniffed out loud and spoke in silence, communicating his discoveries so far.
Finally he said out loud, ‘I’m moving back to the ship, Nual. Ain isn’t happy about it, but that’s tough.’
‘A very sensible move,’ she said, letting go of his hand. ‘I think I may join you shortly.’
Back on the Heart of Glass, Jarek dug out his portable bug-sweeper kit – most freetraders carried one on board, to reassure not-entirely-reputable potential customers looking to trade not-entirely-legal cargo that though they might be meeting in not-exactly-secure places, whatever was said would nonetheless be entirely confidential.