Law of Survival

by Kristine Smith

  Tsecha crossed his arms and shoved his hands into the sleeves of his overrobe. “And what is your job, nìa?”

  “To keep you from wrapping yourself around a tree.” Jani swatted at another insect that buzzed past her head. “To keep the wasps away.”

  “To keep the wasps away.” Tsecha pronounced each word most distinctly. “You are my protector, in the way a suborn sometimes is?” He watched Jani’s motions still, and knew they shared the same thought. He slipped close to her, grasping her right hand in his before she could move away. “Then where is your ring, nìa? My suborn should wear my ring.” He straightened her fingers, so long and thin and brown, then held out his beside them. His ring of station glittered, cagework gold surrounding an oval of crimson jasperite. “It looks much as this one, I believe. You have not lost it, have you?”

  Jani refused to look him in the eye, as she always did when he inquired about her ring. “No.” She pulled her hand away, slowly but firmly. “It’s in a bag, on the shelf of my closet.”

  “In a bag. On a shelf in your closet. Perhaps I should ask you to keep your concern there, as well.”

  “NìRau—!”

  “Our Hansen died wearing his.”

  “His ring fit him out of the box. You didn’t have his ring made too small so he’d have to shrink into it. The fact that he wore his didn’t signify that he had become point man for a new race!”

  “Point man…out of the box…” Tsecha patted his pockets and wished for his handheld. “You confuse me with your words as no other.”

  Jani strode away from him, flexing her arms as a youngish bird. “If you’re so easily confused, maybe you shouldn’t talk so much.”

  “I did not risk my life and soul to come to this damned cold place so that I could remain silent!” Tsecha rounded his shoulders in irritation. Jani’s constant twisting made his own muscles ache. He closed in on her, his back hunched in anger. “All I hear from you is censure! Lecture as to how I should act. Why? There are no wasps. They cannot threaten to kill me anymore.”

  Jani slouched in response, so quickly and smoothly that Tsecha straightened in surprise. “Don’t be so sure.” She slipped into Low Vynshàrau, her muted gestures hard and swift. “If I told you it was as Rauta Shèràa, I would not be far from wrong.”

  Tsecha looked up at the sky, its clear blue broken only by the swoop of seabirds. “As Rauta Shèràa, is it? Then where are the demiskimmers, nìa? Where are the bombs?”

  “Explosives aren’t the only things that can blow up in your face.” Jani must have sensed his abating temper, since she drew up straighter as well. “Will you behave until I tell you it is safe?”

  Tsecha twitched his shoulder as he had seen her do so many times, when she wanted to seem to answer without actually telling him anything. He had gotten quite good at it, in his opinion. “No more disputation with Anais?”

  Jani smiled. “On the veranda, or in your rooms, fine. But not during public meetings.”

  “No more musical gatherings with Colonel Derringer?”

  “Good God, no.”

  “You worry after me.”

  “Constantly.”

  They regarded one another. Tsecha sensed fondness in Jani’s relaxing posture, which he always knew to be there. He sensed exasperation, as well, which he had grown to accept. He turned to walk back to the embassy, beckoning her to walk ahead of him, as was seemly. If he needed to behave, now would be a good time to start. “You are well, nìa? I notice that you seem pained.”

  Jani looked him in the eye. The afternoon sun struck her full-face, lightening her green irises to the color of new leaves. But the bright light overwhelmed the diffusing ability of the filming—her pale green sclera showed beneath the hydropolymer the way a dark shirt showed beneath a pale overrobe. “I’m all right. Just a little achy.” Then the shadow of a tree branch played across her face, sharpening bone and darkening skin to gold-brown. She lifted and cupped her right hand in a gesture of resignation, the movements as smooth as though performed beneath water.

  Tsecha watched her move as no human could, and felt the clench in his soul. You are as Rauta Haárin now, and truly. She had become as he always knew she would, as he always wished she would. Why then did he feel sadness? Why then did he feel fear? “Winter comes,” he said, because he could think of nothing else to say.

  “Yes, nìRau. I can feel it in my bones.” Jani’s voice sounded as dead. As she turned her back to him, a wasp swooped near her face. She reached out and caught it in her animandroid left hand, then with a single swift movement opened her hand and smashed her palm against the grid of the pestzap installed alongside the entry. The wasp shot through the grid opening and vaporized in a flash of blue. Jani brushed her hand against her jacket and disappeared into the darkness of the embassy.

  They heard the commotion well before they saw the cause: the babble of voices from around the next corner, Anais Ulanova’s piping above them all.

  “I told you, Colonel. Isn’t it lovely!”

  Jani looked back over her shoulder at Tsecha, then quickened her pace. Tsecha hurried, too. He recalled only too well the rooms located down that hallway, the clatter of renovation that perpetually sounded from them. The buzz of drills. The hum of sealers.

  The shatter of old tile.

  “I haven’t seen work of this quality since I toured the Pathen Mosaica on Nèae. Flowers so well detailed, they looked real. The shadings! The hues!”

  Tsecha broke into an unseemly trot, catching up with Jani just as she rounded the corner.

  The crowd stood packed around the doorway of one of the rooms undergoing refurbishing. A secondary altar room, Tsecha recalled, the same one in which he had prayed with his Jani prior to her very first à lérine. The embassy workers had installed a small laving area for the washing of blessed vessels and cloths, but the final decorations had yet to be applied.

  Jani pushed through the crowd. Tsecha shoved after her, his eyes locking on the anger-bowed back of Suborn Oligarch Shai, who stood just inside the doorway next to Anais Ulanova.

  “It would not be seemly, nìaRauta.” Shai gestured stiffly, her hands clenching when they should not have, her voice catching when it should have flowed.

  “But it could serve as a gesture of good faith during a tense time.” Anais nodded to Lescaux, who nudged to her side. “We would be most happy to arrange some sort of exchange. One of our finest craftsman could design something suitable for your embassy.” She said something to Lescaux, who shook his head. “We must admit, though, that we will be hard-pressed to compete with this.” She crossed her hands over her chest, glittery-eyed rapture softening the harsh planes of her face.

  Tsecha looked past her into the altar room, where an Haárin male dressed in dull blue work garments wiped the surface of the freshly tiled wall that served as the backsplash for the altar sink. He wore a leaf-patterned wrap around his head to keep the grime out of his hair. He also kept his back turned toward the crowd so none could see his face or his attitude.

  Tsecha looked at the wall on which the Haárin worked. The cava shell was only half-completed—the head and the horn-like flare of the opening had yet to be tiled, and shown in lead-sketched simplicity beside the finished portion. Nature scenes were common décor in Vynshàrau rooms—at first, the shell did not appear at all remarkable.

  Then Tsecha studied the work more carefully. The lower half—the sand-colored body striped with darker brown, the pink-tinged curve where the shell opening began—at first seemed painted. Upon closer examination, the shell would devolve into precisely cut triangles and curved slivers of carefully colored ceramic. But for now, graced by distance, the fragments seemed to form a glorious whole, an emerging perfection, as though the shell itself had been buried within the wall and was now being slowly uncovered. A wondrous work, assembled by an artist of godly skill.

  The Haárin continued his polishing, oblivious to the commotion behind his back.

  Tsecha flinched as an elbow jostled
him in the side. “Dathim Naré,” Sànalàn hissed in his ear, her Low Vynshàrau roughened by anger so that it sounded harsh as Haárin dialect. “I told you of him. I told you to speak to him! Now look what he has done!”

  Tsecha glanced over the heads of the crowd, and sighted his Jani on the opposite side of the gathering. She stood between Lucien and Treasury Suborn Kern Standish, her arms folded, watching the Haárin.

  “I do not know what your craftspeople can bring to us,” Shai said. She, too, watched Dathim. Her back had unbent, but her voice still held the guttural sharpness of anger.

  Anais waved a small, bony hand. “Precedent exists in the colonies. I know of several instances in which humanish craftspeople worked in idomeni buildings, and your tilemaster mentioned several more when he escorted me through the public portions of the embassy.”

  Dathim the tilemaster, having now lost his ability to mention, tossed his polishing cloth aside and resumed insetting bits of tile.

  Tsecha pushed past Derringer and Lescaux so that he stood at Anais’s shoulder. “How easily you accept our Haárin’s presence when they have something you want, Ana—”

  “We will discuss this in private, Minister Ulanova,” Shai interrupted. She backed out of the altar room, pushing the crowd behind her as if they formed one body. “In my rooms.” She beckoned in a humanish manner for Anais to walk with her. Tsecha watched in befuddlement as they proceeded down the hall, humanish and Vynshàrau alike trailing after, until only he and his Lucien and his Jani remained.

  “What did I tell you? They’ve shut you out. You need to take care, nìRau.” Jani did not look at Tsecha as she spoke. Instead, she watched Dathim Naré tap and arrange.

  Only once did Dathim look at her. Their eyes met for only the briefest time; he then returned to his work, taking care to position himself so that she could not watch his hands, or see over his shoulder.

  CHAPTER 7

  Jani trudged up the access road that ran along the idomeni embassy property. The blue-green groundcover that the Vynshàrau had imported from Shèrá gave way to terrestrial grasses and shrubs as she entered the “demilitarized zone” that served as boundary between the embassy and the Exterior Ministry. Her back ached. Her stomach growled. The L station lay a few hundred meters ahead, elevated tracks and silver bullet cars glinting in the afternoon sun.

  The Exterior Minister’s disruption of the afternoon’s agenda had released Jani from an afternoon’s diplomatic servitude and prevented another confrontation with Derringer. With luck, Anais’s determination to have the Haárin tilemaster redecorate her annex would keep the colonel occupied for several days. That probably wouldn’t give Jani enough time to figure out why someone tried to set up Nema as a traitor to his people, but it would let her do some initial fact-finding.

  Shai’s had it with him. Jani didn’t believe Shai had arranged the faked precis—that would have scaled heights of Byzantine treachery beyond the reach of most humans. But if she suspected that he had betrayed the idomeni, she would send him back to Shèrá in restraints. And there Cèel would be waiting, eager to mete out the justice that had been denied him so many years before, and repay Nema for bringing humanish into their lives. Nema had talked his way out of execution once. He wouldn’t be allowed to do so again.

  Jani stepped onto the grassy berm when she heard the hum of a skimmer approaching from behind, and turned as it slowed to a stop beside her. A deep gold sedan, lightened to gilt by the sun.

  The passenger-side window lowered. “Jan!” Kern Standish called through the gap. “You need a ride?” He jerked his head toward the woman sitting beside him in the passenger seat. “I’m dropping off Dena at Commerce—I can swing by Armour no problem.”

  “We tried to catch you after the meeting, but Gene tackled you first.” Dena Hausmann, the Commerce Finance chief, raised her hand to shield her eyes from the sun. She was a straw blonde with skin almost as pale as John Shroud’s—even the weaker autumn light overwhelmed her. “He didn’t look happy. Did you have a falling-out?”

  “Eugene thinks I should be seen and not heard.” Jani strolled up to the skimmer, mindful of the two pair of politically astute eyes watching her. This road heads north—they’d normally use the south exit to return to the city. They tracked me on purpose.

  Kern snorted. “Ivy said she heard you two barking at one another all the way down the hall.” Ivy was his Admin-slash-spy. “So what do you think about what happened?”

  Jani didn’t need to ask which what he referred to. “I think the idomeni study us as much as we study them. They’ve figured out that Nema contradicting everyone in public makes them appear disorganized. Shai may be trying to reel him in.”

  Dena squinted up at her. “Rumor has it that Shai’s been sent here to replace him—think there’s anything to it?”

  Rumor’s been getting up to no good, hasn’t he? Jani hesitated. Kern and Dena were two of her supporters in the Cabinet purview—she owed them some sort of answer. “Nema will remain an influence, no matter in which capacity he serves.”

  “But he’s the most pro-human of all the idomeni. If he loses any influence, we’re in trouble.” Kern waited for Jani to speak—when she didn’t, the pretense of good humor fell away. His voice sharpened. “Jan, we should be working hand-in-glove with Anais on this, but whatever she knows, she refuses to share. Our Outer Circle Annex is on my back because of this Elyan thing. I’ve got Commonwealth–Shèrá trade and GateWay licensing agreements to examine. I’ve asked Anais for help, I’m not getting it, and frankly, my idomeni expertise could be inscribed on the head of a pin.”

  Then what the hell are you doing in this job? Jani thought of the piles of paper on her desk, and sighed. “Shoot ’em over—I’ll see what I can see.” She returned Kern’s smile, as much as she could. “Any word on what she had to say about the white paper?”

  “About what you’d expect.” Dena grinned. “You’re the Antichrist whose appearance signals the end of the Commonwealth, didn’t you know that?” She glanced at her timepiece, and gasped. “Staff meeting in an hour—”

  “Gotta run.” Kern nudged the skimmer out of standby. “Jan, I owe you. I’m going to ask Jorge to kick you up to permanent retainer status.”

  “He won’t do it.”

  “Bet you lunch. You’ll keep us updated on Tsecha?”

  “If I find out anything worth a damn, I’ll let you know.” Jani waved after the skimmer as it pulled away. “If I live that long.” She kicked at a tuft of grass, then resumed her trudge to the L. “No. N-O. It’s a very simple word—why the hell can’t I learn to use it?”

  She veered onto the berm again as another skimmer approached. A dark blue four-door this time, the mainstay of the Fort Sheridan vehicle pool. The driver’s-side gullwing popped up, and Lucien poked his head through the opening. “Get in. Nema ordered me to drive you home.” He disembarked and walked around to the passenger side. “He thinks you’re not feeling well.”

  “I’m fine.” Jani hitched her bag and bent low to enter the skimmer. “I—” She fell silent when she spotted Lescaux sitting in the backseat.

  Lescaux held his briefbag up to his chest as though he expected her to grab him by the lapels and drag him out. “Lucien’s giving me a lift into the city.”

  “How nice of Lucien.” Jani glared up at the nice Lucien, who regarded her blankly as he pushed the door closed.

  They rode in silence. Jani sensed Lucien’s sidelong examination. He knew he’d dropped a small bomb, however unwittingly; she knew he relished the resulting tension.

  As they swept up the ramp onto the Boul artery, a throat-clearing sounded from behind. “I guess we’re going to have an Haárin laying tile at the annex sometime soon. That should prove a joy to organize.”

  “I’ll be surprised if Shai allows it.” Lucien spoke with the cool assurance of one who had taken a class on the subject. “If what I’ve seen in the colonies is any indication, that Haárin was advertising his services. He wants to do mo
re than tile one wall in the Exterior Annex—he wants to start a business. Once Ani realizes what happened, she’ll retract. She can’t block the colonies doing business with Haárin, then turn around and do so herself. That would be ballsy, even for her.”

  “Nothing she does would surprise me anymore.” Lescaux paused to ponder. “Does the shell have any significance? I saw it on a lot of Haárin walls during my colony years.”

  “The Vynshàrau like representations from nature,” Lucien replied when he realized Jani wouldn’t. “Shells, flowers, scenery. The Laum preferred symbols—geometric tracery and scrollwork. I don’t think any of the born-sects go in for faces or figures, do they?” He looked at Jani and arched his brow in question.

  “The Oà like portraiture,” Jani mumbled.

  That was all the opening Lescaux needed. “You made quite an impact at the meeting.”

  “Not enough,” Jani replied eventually.

  Lescaux grasped her words like a rope, pulling himself forward until his head poked between the front seats. “But do you really feel that a colonial government should contract with Haárin at the expense of their own people? Wouldn’t it be better if we streamlined a way that the Karistosians could obtain materials and services from businesses on Elyas or elsewhere in the Outer Circle?”

  “Yes, but what do they do for water while they wait for a half-dozen merchants’ associations to argue whether the intercity dock tax should stand at a quarter or a third percent of sales price?” Jani exhaled with a grumble. She had sat in on those sorts of meetings over the summer, and had barely restrained the urge to throw her chair through a window. “If the Elyan Haárin have a filter system that works, Cèel should allow them to sell it to the Karistosians, and they should be allowed to install it. If a new plant comes two or three years down the road, let it come. But let’s take care of now what needs taking care of now.”