Ambrov Keon

by Jean Lorrah

  “Why did you ask if I’m allergic to wool?” she asked.

  “Sensitivity to certain foods or fabrics is a price some channels pay for their talents.”

  Channels? Those were the perverted Simes who drew selyn from Gens without killing them, and transferred it to other Simes, who thus lived without killing. “I’m not—”

  “You are a channel,” he said positively, his nager accentuating his certainty. “You do not function as a channel, but you are one. Keon needs you.”

  “Needs?” For a moment she thought he had misused the word, the kind of error even new Simes made if they had come from Gen Territory and were just learning Simelan. But it was obvious that Simelan was this Gen’s native language. He meant exactly what he said.

  “Our householding has grown so that our channels cannot keep up with the demands on their time and skills.”

  “Then you will have to put an end to your perverted lifestyle.”

  He paused, then asked in a carefully neutral tone, “Do you consider what you and I just shared to be perverted?”

  “Yes,” she replied at once.

  “Why?” he asked, indignation flaring in his nager.

  “You’re alive.”

  His field became a neutral wall between them, as he dished out cereal and more tea. Only when Risa was dawdling over the last spoonfuls in her bowl did he speak again.

  “If you will not thank me for saving your life, will you at least tell me your name?”

  “Risa Tigue,” she replied.

  “So you know what it is to have a family.”

  Many Simes did not have family names, even in these civilized times, for many still did not settle, marry, found families. “Ours is an old family,” Risa said proudly. “Ask anyone in Norlea about Tigue’s General Store. My grandfather founded it, and my father built it into a thriving business.”

  At the thought of her father, the moment of his death returned. Grief welled up to overwhelm her.

  “Then you can understand—” Sergi began, caught sight of her stricken look, and asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “My father,” Risa choked out. “He’s dead.”

  The words made it real. She would never see him again, never hear him call her by the pet name she hated, never again have him to turn to—

  * * * * * * *

  AS THE GIRL DISSOLVED INTO TEARS, Sergi moved to her side, trying to remain emotionally neutral. He had seen such post-transfer reactions before. In the last days of the Need cycle, Simes became numb to emotions, unable to react even to tragic loss until released from the repression of Need.

  “Go on—cry,” said Sergi, digging in his saddlebags for a clean handkerchief. She accepted it—again without a thank you. But that was her culture—a Gen was not a person to her. “If it will help,” he offered, “tell me about your father.”

  “He was j-just getting everything he’d worked so hard for,” she said. “All he ever did was work. The st-store was thriving. We went out-Territory to trade. Best trip ever. Then the storm—the raft—”

  “Today?” he asked in shock. “Oh, Risa, I am so sorry!” But she pushed him away when he tried to put a comforting arm around her. “Did he drown?” he asked.

  “He was wounded when the raft broke up. Bled to death...voided to death...what’s the difference?”

  The image of Erland ambrov Carre rose to haunt Sergi. “It wasn’t your fault,” he said. “In that storm—”

  “Nobody’s fault,” she sobbed, “but he’s dead. Oh, Daddy, Daddy!”

  He let her cry until she subsided into hiccupping sobs. Then he asked, “Is the rest of your family in Norlea?”

  “Only my brother Kreg. We’re all that’s left. I have to take care of Kreg now that Dad’s gone.”

  “Kreg is younger than you are?”

  She nodded.

  “Then...Risa, has your brother changed over yet?”

  “No. He’s still a child.” She wiped her eyes and squared her thin shoulders. He admired the way she put aside her grief when she thought of her responsibilities—she already had one of a channel’s most important disciplines.

  “What will you do if he establishes as a Gen?”

  “You don’t think I’d sell my own brother into the Pens, do you?” she snapped indignantly.

  “You would break the law if you took him to the border, and you would never see him again. Risa, you require sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow—but I want you to think about something. There is one way you and your brother can remain together, even if he should turn Gen. You can join a householding.”

  “My brother is going to be Sime, like me,” she insisted. Nonetheless, she accepted the bedroll he offered her, curled up like a child, and went off at once into exhausted slumber.

  * * * * * * *

  RISA WOKE AT SUNRISE. She couldn’t remember feeling so positively good since changeover. Except for the glowing coals of the fire, it was pitch dark inside the shrine. She zlinned the strange Gen sleeping soundly. Last night had really happened. It was not a disorientation dream.

  All trace of disorientation had disappeared. It was normal for a Kill to put an end to disorientation suffered in the middle of a Need cycle...but she doubted even that could end all symptoms, including nightmares, within a day.

  She went outside, and found her time sense back to normal. The sun was just up. Birds sang merrily. A few scattered clouds, last remnants of the storm, floated away to the east. The air was fresh, rain-washed, morning-cool.

  Risa had wrapped herself in the red wool cape. Perhaps she could dress and leave before the Gen woke. Away from his strange nageric spell, she found the thought of last night unsettling. The fact that what he called transfer was better than any kill she had ever had was even more frightening.

  There were two horses tethered a short distance away. And the Gen had had two bedrolls. Two saddles, she remembered, inside the shrine. Last night she had been too caught up in events to wonder whose the second horse was.

  Inside, Risa found Sergi awake and making tea. “Good morning,” he said. “Is the storm over?”

  “Yes. It’s a beautiful morning.”

  “And you’re feeling well, I see.” He left the shrine, then stuck his head back in to say, “Would you brew the tea, please, when the water boils?”

  “Of course.”

  Risa’s undergarments and shirt were dry, but her denim trousers were still damp. Those she carried outside and spread in the sun, using the cape as a skirt.

  Her moccasins were still soggy; they joined the denims. Sergi returned as she was trying to smooth her hair with hands and tentacles. He watched her expectantly for a moment, then asked, “Risa, why won’t you even ask to borrow a comb?”

  “I don’t want to take anything from you.”

  He stared, then started to laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” she demanded.

  “The junct mentality. You take my selyn because you see any Gen’s selyn as yours by right. But you won’t thank me, or ask for commonplace favors, for that would be to recognize a Gen as someone to whom you owe common courtesy.”

  He ducked into the shrine, emerged with a small case, and handed her a comb. Annoyed at his smug attitude, Risa pointedly said, “Thank you,” and began combing the tangles out of her waist-length hair.

  Sergi brought two mugs of tea out into the sunshine, hung a mirror on the rough bark of a tree, pulled a razor from the case, and began to strop it.

  Risa shuddered. The knife in his hands last night had been bad enough, but this—!

  As if sensing her unease, he said, “If you don’t zlin me, you won’t feel anything if I do cut myself—which I have no intention of doing.” He brought the last of the hot water outside, and lathered his face.

  “You are a Gen, alone, carrying at least two lethal weapons,” Risa observed.

  He took a careful stroke down his jaw, then answered as he rinsed the lather, “I am a lethal weapon, as much as any Sime. My razor is for shaving, not f
ighting. My knife has a hundred purposes, but slicing up Simes isn’t one of them.”

  “But suppose a patrol picked you up?”

  “It would be a nuisance, that’s all.” His speech was punctuated by long pauses for even strokes of the razor. “Nedd would have to pay the fine, which Keon can’t afford. I’m low-field, thanks to you, but it’s still possible to be caught. I could escape easily enough—you know the dimwits in the militia—but I’m too easily identified. Keon would be assessed a double fine for my escape—I might even be confiscated. Then I’d have to leave the territory. Since Keon needs me, if I were caught I’d just have to sit in their shidoni-be-flayed Pen and wait for Nedd to bail me out.”

  “And what happens to a Gen caught stealing horses?”

  “Stealing—? Oh. The other horse belonged to the channel I was escorting to Keon. He...died in the storm.”

  The Gen’s field went absolutely flat as he spoke. Risa watched in silence as he put the razor back into the case. She fastened the braid of her hair, and handed him the comb.

  The Gen’s hair was thick and dark blond, the top layer sun-streaked to a lighter color than his tanned skin. His eyes were a vivid dark blue, his features disturbingly alive and intelligent.

  What he had said last night came back. You could join a householding.

  If Kreg turned out Gen—

  She imagined her brother like Sergi, afraid of nothing. That was not how Gens were. Gens were either stupefied animals or terrified children running for their lives. Fear was the Gen nature—fear that Simes reveled in and fed upon.

  A fearless Gen was a freak of nature. Wer-Gen.

  Sergi had gone back into the shrine, emerging with a pair of clean, dry denim trousers. “These were Erland’s,” he said. “I think they’ll fit you well enough for riding...if we can make an agreement.”

  “An agreement?”

  “We’re both going to Norlea. If we go separately, you walk, and I take the woods and back roads, each taking twice as long to get there as if we travel together. Pose as my escort, and you may ride Erland’s horse.”

  “I could just take the horse...or both of them.”

  She zlinned an interesting clash of responses in his nager. For a moment she thought he would say she could not take the horses. What he did say was, “But you would not. You are no thief.”

  “It wouldn’t be stealing. They’re not yours. A Gen cannot own property. You are property.”

  “No, I am not. The householding charters with the government provide that our Gens are members of the householdings, not owned by them. The wording makes little difference to the politicians, who tax us just the same, but it makes a great deal of difference to us.” He added, “My horse is mine. I will return Erland’s to Carre.”

  It was a sensible arrangement. The journey would be much more comfortable on horseback than walking. While Risa knew little of the technical matters governing householdings, she did know what everyone knew: their Gens were not allowed outside the walls of the householdings without Sime escorts.

  “Very well. I will escort you.”

  The trousers Sergi offered fit well enough once she belted the waist in and rolled up the cuffs. She was ready.

  Inside the shrine, Sergi was checking into the corners with the lamp, to be sure nothing was forgotten. Risa was about to pick up the smaller saddle when he said, “I must do one more thing before we leave.”

  He played the lamp over a design carved into the stone wall: a five-pointed star superimposed on an even-armed cross. Over the symbol were carved the words, “Have faith in the starred-cross, and do not fear the Sime in Need.”

  Sergi had replenished the firewood. Now he chose a weathered piece of pine, and took out his knife. His hands moved deftly. He did not measure or mark on the wood, but in moments carved a small replica of the design on the wall.

  Risa had seen starred-crosses before, usually wood, often just the design burned crudely into a medallion. Even when made by Simes they were usually lopsided—hurried creations made in a desperate attempt to protect a fleeing child.

  In bare minutes, Sergi ambrov Keon created a thing of beauty. The star stood out from the cross, and he whittled out the points to form a filigree. Then he rubbed it, the oil from his hands smoothing the finish, and threaded it on a thong. “There,” he said, hanging it on a peg under the design on the wall. “Someone may want that before long.”

  “Do you really believe in that superstition?” Risa asked.

  “It isn’t superstition,” Sergi replied. “The symbol represents the true union of Sime and Gen. And you have experienced what happens when a Gen does not fear.”

  “It doesn’t work for most Gens,” said Risa. She had seen starred-crosses on the corpses of selyn-drained Gens.

  “It works for those who believe,” he replied.

  They saddled the horses. Risa was shortening her stirrups before mounting when Sergi came up to her. “Risa,” he said, “you fear your own Need. Every junct does.”

  He drew something from under his shirt, lifted it over his head, and held it out to her on the palm of his hand: another starred cross, this one made of precious metals, white on yellow gold. It was beautifully crafted, exquisite in balance—and Risa suddenly remembered that she had heard this Gen’s name before. The jewelry made by Sergi ambrov Keon was fast gaining a reputation in Gulf Territory in spite of its creator’s being a householder. But it had never occurred to anyone of her acquaintance that such an artist could be Gen!

  Sergi spread the chain and dropped the charm over Risa’s head. “Simes don’t wear the starred-cross,” she protested.

  “They should,” he replied. “You should. I will wait for you at Carre, Risa. When Need stalks you, do not fear. Come to me.”

  “I can’t—”

  “You can. You will. We will share transfer, and then we will go home to Keon, where you belong. You and your brother—come and live where you can always be together.”

  At that moment it seemed plausible—but when they were working their way through woods and swamps to the eyeway, Risa shook off Sergi’s hypnotic spell. What nonsense! She had a business to run. How badly had the storm hit Norlea? Was Kreg all right? She wanted to gallop the moment they reached the eyeway, but they had a long, hard day’s journey ahead.

  At midmorning, Sergi suddenly pulled his horse up and started down a side road toward an inn.

  “Where are you going?” Risa asked.

  “To get breakfast. Come on.”

  “We can’t go in there!” she exclaimed. “That place caters to—”

  “Perverts?” He laughed at her, then added, “This is the only place between here and Norlea where you and I can be served a meal at one table. Since I’m buying, I refuse to be fed slop in a holding room.”

  “You’re buying? I can’t let you—” She remembered that she had no money. “Well, I don’t have to eat today.”

  “You certainly do!” he insisted. “If it will ease your conscience, you can pay me back when we get to Norlea.”

  “I will do that,” she promised, then realized that she had acknowledged herself in debt to a Gen. She had never met anyone who could confuse her as much as Sergi ambrov Keon.

  The inn was situated a day’s journey from Norlea, but Risa’s father had always passed it by, refusing to enter a place with such a terrible reputation. She didn’t know what she expected—certainly not a clean, light place with the smells of stew and freshly baked bread permeating the air.

  The decor was simple—wooden tables and benches—and one window was boarded up, aftermath of the storm. But nothing about the place suggested the unnamed acts of dark perversion that Morgan Tigue’s attitude had hinted at.

  A man came out of the kitchen, wiping hands and tentacles on a clean apron. “Sergi! I zlinned you the moment you left the eyeway. Welcome, Naztehr—and you, too, Hajene,” he added to Risa with a little bow.

  Risa saw Sergi smother a knowing grin. “Risa, this is Prather Heydon. H
is kitchen produces the best food between Keon and Norlea. Prather, Risa Tigue.”

  At her name, the man frowned, and his nager swirled with curiosity—but Sergi’s field plainly said, Don’t ask questions. Aloud Sergi said, “We’ll have some of your stew, fruit, bread, and tea.”

  “Just bread and honey for me,” said Risa.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” said Sergi as if to a recalcitrant child. “Stew for both of us, Prather—a double order for me. I’ve had nothing but some cereal since yesterday.”

  When the man had gone, Risa said furiously, “How dare you—!”

  “Do you want to have any teeth left five years from now?” Sergi interrupted. “Risa—juncts eat all wrong, if they eat at all. Half the month they have no appetite, and the other half they eat sweets instead of good body-building food. Most Sime diseases aren’t diseases at all—they’re deficiencies.”

  “What makes you such an expert?”

  He laughed. “That’s my job. Companions keep channels healthy, so channels can keep everyone else healthy. Ah—there comes our meal. Eat up.”

  Prather Heydon was even taller than Sergi, but thin in the Sime manner. His skin was a deep mahogany, his hair black and tightly curled. He smiled when Sergi praised the food, and Risa noticed his strong, even, white teeth—at variance with the sprinkle of white in his hair that said he was many years past changeover. Much as she hated to admit it, the Gen was right—most Simes did have missing teeth by the time their children were old enough for changeover.

  The thick vegetable stew smelled delicious. Once she started, Risa found it easy to eat the portion she had been served, along with a dish of orange and grapefruit slices. She hadn’t had such an appetite since before changeover!

  Then she realized that the appetite was Sergi’s, broadcast on his nager. He finished his double servings, along with a slice of nut bread, and said, “Now you may have bread and honey if you wish.”

  “Now I don’t want it,” she replied, sipping tea. “I never eat like that.”

  “But you should. Not just today, when you are healing an injury, but every day.”

  “If you hadn’t been so hungry, I wouldn’t have thought about food.”