Sànalàn had once more gripped the edge of the work table, but whether she did so out of anger or fear for the steps she took, she did not make clear by her posture or gesture. “You deny the will of the gods?”
“I interpret what I believe their will to be. Cèel and Shai deny my interpretation because it does not suit their beliefs. They defer to me as propitiator, yet deny me the right to act as is my duty. So humanish are they in their conflict between words and actions, it is as though they have already hybridized.” Tsecha savored the anger that leached into his words, and rounded his shoulders fully in gratifying announcement of the emotion. He wished his Jani in the room, so he could hear her yell at him to wait until it is safe. It will never be safe, nìa. It will only…be.
“You dishonor the Oligarch and his suborn with your words. You spread disorder as the winds strew sand.” Sànalàn’s own posture bowed to match his. “I should challenge you.”
“Yes, nìa. You should.” Tsecha fought back the impulse to shout aloud in joy. Only a little while before, he sat at his work table contemplating shadows. And now I have this glorious declaration! “But before you do so, consider the certain result. Consider that never in the history of the Vynshà Temple have declared enemies served as chief and suborn propitiator. Chained by tradition as Cèel is, do you believe and truly that he would allow such a thing?”
“Cèel is not so chained, nìRau.” Sànalàn straightened in respect as she uttered the Oligarch’s name. “He is the one who commands us to act as walls before the humanish—it is you who seek to shackle us by your interpretations of tradition. To scare us with your talk of hybridization, when we all know the blending will never be!” She bowed her shoulders again, in a hunch only possible in one so young. “You are disorderly! You are unseemly! I do challenge you!”
Tsecha could hear Hansen’s voice in his head. You get them where you want them, and then “Gotcha!” Hansen spoke of the Consulate humanish, of course, but if idomeni were determined to behave as such, let them learn what it meant. “You must petition your dominant for the right to offer challenge.” He slumped in grave dignity. “Do you petition me, nìa?”
Sànalàn’s spine wavered as a young tree in the wind. “Yes, nìRau, I do petition you.” Her voice lilted with uncertainty as the gravity of her action bore upon her.
Tsecha nodded in humanish nothingness. “Petition is conveyed. Right is granted. Challenge is accepted. Which of us will inform Suborn Oligarch Shai, nìa?”
The joy of challenge left Sànalàn’s posture. Her left arm crossed over her soul in dismay. “NìRau?”
“Yes, nìa?” Tsecha bared his teeth.
“NìaRauta Shai will take no joy in this!”
“You are quite correct in that, nìa, and truly.” He tried to imagine his Jani’s reaction when she heard of what had transpired and felt his own soul clench, for his Jani scared him more than Shai ever did. “You have taken steps against me that no other suborn has ever taken against their dominant. In your fear of change, you have changed beyond belief.”
Sànalàn’s arm dropped to her side as her anger revived. “It is your Kilian’s fault! I do this because of her!”
My toxin. “Yes, nìa. So you do.” He jerked his shoulders in a maddening humanish shrug. “So do I.” He turned away from his newest enemy toward the blue lawns of home. “So do we all.”
“This is a desecration and a denigration! This is anathema!” Shai paced before her work table, a humanish trait that she had acquired during the War. “This cannot be!”
“Challenge cannot be retracted after it is accepted by the challenged, Shai.” Tsecha stood in solitary censure in the middle of the Suborn Oligarch’s private workroom. Sànalàn had long since been escorted to her rooms by Diplomatic Suborn Inèa, who had pledged to serve as her support, much to Shai’s consternation.
“You knew this would happen, Tsecha.” Shai lapsed into the short sentences and truncated gestures of Low Vynshàrau, as was her habit when angered. “She is as youngish, and your constant public declarations of Kilian have dishonored her. She sought to discuss the matter with you, and you lured her into the worst show of disunity that we have ever displayed!”
“You sent her to trap me into blasphemy. Your attempt failed. See the price of failure when you play as humanish?” Tsecha pressed a hand to the point where his left leg met his hip, and winced. “I am sitting down, Shai.” He limped to a low seat set against the wall opposite Shai’s desk.
Shai stopped in midstride. “You are not…?”
“No, I am not ill, Shai.” Tsecha stressed the word for sickness because he knew Shai disliked such things discussed openly. “I am only tired.”
Shai swept her right hand across her face as though she brushed away one of Jani’s wasps, a gesture of profound displeasure. “I did not send your own suborn to trap you.”
“Do you think me stupid, Shai—of course you did.”
“Do you call me a liar?”
“Does that shock you? I have called you worse.” Tsecha maneuvered a cushion so that it padded a particularly sharp metal prong. “Have you learned anything of my Jani?”
Shai hesitated. “You will be most happy to hear that she is apparently most well. She roams the city. Lt. Pascal remains in the Neoclona facility. He is to leave soon, I understand. His injuries were not insignificant, but humanish augmentation precipitates rapid healing.” She gestured in confusion. “How openly they speak of their illnesses. It stuns me continuously.”
Tsecha sat so his left leg stuck straight out. A bizarre posture, complicated by the unfamiliar irritations of Shai’s furniture. “It is wise to get past an enemy’s ability to stun before imitating them in everything they do.” He lapsed into Low Vynshàrau as well—the roughened language complimented his physical discomfort. “One of our soldiers would have explained such to you if you had asked.”
“You are arrogant, Tsecha.”
“I am arrogance itself, Shai. So I have been told many times.” Tsecha felt the pain ease in his hip, a muscle cramp only. “When will the challenge be allowed to take place?”
“There will be no challenge.” Shai walked again, this time to the far end of the long room and back. She had arranged all her furniture against the walls so nothing impeded her loping stride. “I will return you to Shèrá before I allow such.”
“But you plan to do such anyway, Shai.” Tsecha bared his teeth. “This is the excuse for which you have searched! Most excellent, Shai, and worthy of the most deceitful humanish.”
“This challenge would devastate us. It will not be allowed to take place.”
“As I am the challenged, it is for me to relinquish the right, and such I will never do.”
“I will tell Cèel of this.”
“Yes, Shai, you will tell. Such is your way.” Tsecha rose and walked to the door, holding onto the heavy wood of the entry before pushing himself away and into the hall.
The news of Sànalàn’s challenge had already traveled into every corner of the embassy with the air and the light. The greetings Tsecha received were delivered with gestures of perplexity and question, surprise and anger. He looked forward with thankfulness to the solitude of his rooms. Now, the prospect of turning pages held the promise of rest, which he needed most surely.
His step quickened as he approached his door. He did not notice the shadow across the hallway until it stepped forward into his path.
“You will walk with me, nìRau.” Dathim wore the drab colors of a crafts worker, a dark green cloth wrapped around his shorn head. He spoke in statement, not in question, as though the possibility of refusal did not exist.
Tsecha again pressed a hand to his hip. The ache had returned, dull but persistent. Idomeni philosophers made much of the mind-focusing abilities of pain, but he had lost patience with such, and truly. I must sleep. And take sacrament—it had been seasons since he recalled a true longing in his soul for such.
Then he caught sight of the weighty sling pouch ha
nging from Dathim’s shoulder, of the sort used by craftsworkers to carry their tools. “Yes, ní Dathim.” He took a step forward and suppressed a groan as pain shot down his leg. “I will walk with you.”
“The Exterior Ministry is a most strange place.” Dathim’s stride covered ground as rapidly as a skimmer. His speech came too quickly for his gestures to keep up—his posture altered so quickly he appeared in spasm. “Storage rooms next door to work rooms instead of in separate wings. Humanish sitting at work tables out in the open, in the middle of hallways!”
“They are called receptionists, ní Dathim.” Tsecha struggled to match the Haárin’s stride, but finally surrendered to pain and fatigue. “Or sometimes, they are just called desks, like the furniture at which they sit.” He limped to the first bench he saw, and sank gratefully onto the sun-warmed surface. The radiant heat warmed him through his robes, a gift from the gods, and truly.
“Remarkable!” Dathim circled the bench, head down, like a youngish inscribing a games boundary. “NìaRauta Atar advised me to seek you out, nìRau Tsecha, for absolution. Such were the things we saw that she felt it necessary.” He stopped in place and glanced at Tsecha. “This is why we speak here, nìRau. Because I seek absolution.”
“Wise, ní Dathim.”
“In case we are asked why we speak so frequently. It is because my soul is troubled by so much contact with humanish.”
“I understand, ní Dathim.”
Dathim turned full-face. His gold eyes altered to molten yellow in the bright sunlight. “You are not well, nìRau.” Again, he spoke in statement, not in question.
“I am tired, ní Dathim.” Tsecha shivered as a lake breeze brushed him. “I have not slept since we spoke amid the trees.”
“I slept most well.” Dathim sat, legs splayed in the sprawl of a humanish male. “It is wise to do so at times such as these.” He lowered the sling pouch to the tiles at his feet and freed the closures. “Humanish are strange.”
“Reading of and hearing of does not prepare one for the reality, ní Dathim.” Tsecha paused to untangle one of his side braids, which a gust of breeze caused to entangle in an earring. “At times, the disorder is enlivening. Other times, it is most vexing, and tru—” His words expired to nothing as Dathim opened the sling pouch, and he saw what lay inside.
“They have no idea, nìRau.” Dathim reached into the pouch and lifted out a documents slipcase. Beneath it lay more slipcases, folders, and wafer envelopes. “None.”
“Dathim.” Tsecha leaned forward and ran a finger over the slipcase.
“They meet us outside, the humanish. Minister Ulanova is one of them. She laughs too loudly. Her hands flutter as a youngish. I do not like her.” Dathim sat back, hands in tense rest atop his thighs, yellow eyes watching the water. “They lead us inside. Me. NìaRauta Atar, who does not belong but she is my facilities dominant, so I cannot argue. Ní Fa, who is suborn to me. The young pale-haired one, who looks as the lieutenant who was shot—?”
Tsecha visualized an angry red face. “Lescaux.”
Dathim nodded. “Lescaux. He takes over. He precedes us, which is odd, considering his station. He should walk behind, and let one of his suborns lead, but such are humanish.” He nudged the sling pouch with his booted toe, so that the gaping opening closed. “He is despised.”
“Despised?”
“Beddy-Boy, they call him when he cannot hear.” Dathim raised a hand and let it drop, a gesture that meant nothing. “Ulanova has elevated him. She touches him when she thinks they are alone, the way humanish do. Why do the others laugh?”
Tsecha flicked his right hand in puzzlement. “Humanish make mockery of such, I have learned. The difference in age and station bothers them. It makes no sense. Such elevations are most seemly. Most orderly.”
“Maybe humanish get it wrong. Like Lescaux leading us. I have noticed that humanish often get it wrong.” Dathim sat in silence, his gaze still on the water. “They show us the lobby first. It is an open space with many windows. Most appropriate for a wall mural or a floor work. Not both. NìaRauta Ulanova wants both.” He reached up and tugged the cloth from his head, exposing his sheared scalp. “A smaller space, I tell them. Otherwise, it is too much. So they take me upstairs, to the conference room.”
Tsecha grew aware that he held his breath, and forced himself to inhale.
“The room they show me is in the same wing with the dominants’ rooms. The offices. I watch the humanish walk from one to the other as if what belongs to one belongs to all. No hand readers. No ear scans. They label the doors with the names of the residents. It is as walking into my workroom and taking a tool from its hook!” Dathim’s breathing rasped, as though he ran. “They take me to the conference room. It is beside Ulanova’s office, connected by an inner door.”
Tsecha closed his eyes.
“They take me inside the conference room. It is large, with a window. I say I can tile the wall opposite the window. Ulanova says she wants the floor, as well. I say, too much. She says, what of the short wall? Perpendicular to the wall I will tile. Opposite the wall with the inner door.” Dathim’s breathing slowed. “I needed to sight. Several times. I say I need room to do such. Lescaux opens the inner door. I sight. Several times. The first time, I walk by Ulanova’s desk. I look at what is there. I cannot tell what concerns your Kilian. The second time, I take a file from the middle of a stack, and put it in my pouch. The third time, another file from the top of a stack. Four, five, six times I sight. Each time, I take a file from a different place, except for the last time, when I take the wafers from a holder beside Ulanova’s comport.”
“But you do not know what you took?”
“It is on a dominant’s work table. It must therefore be important.”
“Yes.” Tsecha opened his eyes, then squinted as the glare of the sun off a lakeswell pained him. “Ní Dathim?”
“Yes, nìRau?” Dathim sat forward in another humanish posture, elbows on knees, legs still open, hands hanging inward.
“When humanish steal, they follow certain protocols. Either they ensure that the thing they take will not be missed, or not be missed until they are well away.” Hansen’s rules played through Tsecha’s memory, in his Tongue’s mellow, musical voice. “It is best that the thief not be around to be linked to the thievery. Nìa Ulanova will realize quite soon that these files you have taken are no longer in her office. It may not take her long to determine that you took them, and you and I will still be here in this damned cold place when she does so.”
Dathim held up his hands, then let them drop, yet another variation on the ubiquitous humanish shrug. “They would not think a Vynshàrau could do such things, nìRau.”
“You are Vynshàrau Haárin, ní Dathim.”
“How well do the humanish know the difference, nìRau?”
“They will soon learn.” Tsecha rose slowly and trod the short path that led from the bench to a stand of shrubs. His hip no longer ached, but his head pounded.
“I did as you asked, nìRau.” Dathim’s voice pitched low in anger.
“I asked you to look for documents about my Jani.”
“I did not have time to read, nìRau, only to take!”
“Yes, and now you must get rid of that which you took quite soon, and truly.”
“How?”
“If I admit I have them…the humanish call such an incident, ní Dathim. Humanish do not like incidents.” Tsecha turned and walked back to the bench, kicking at the pouch with his booted foot as he passed it.
“An incident?” Dathim’s voice held a tension beyond anger. “As your suborn challenging you—that is an incident, also?”
“So, you have been listening to conversations in hallways again. Yes, ní Dathim, that is also an incident. I am quite good at them, and truly.” Tsecha kicked at the pouch again. “I can think of only one way to get rid of these.”
Dathim passed a hand over his clipped head. “Tell me, nìRau.”
Tsecha told him.
/> CHAPTER 18
Jani returned to her flat to find a great deal less open space than when she left.
“Now this is more like it.” Steve sprawled across one end of the room’s new centerpiece, a large couch upholstered in ivory polycanvas. “And there’s a table in the dining room now. With chairs yet. One can actually sit and eat and not have to chow over the kitchen sink—that’s a concept I can live with.”
“You’ve gone soft in your old age is your problem.” Jani sat at the opposite end of the couch, picking through the leafy innards of her Neoclona vegetable sandwich as she surveyed her new furnishings. A pair of off-white chairs now sat in the far corner. Adding to the new decor were a few strategically placed birch tables, brushed steel floor lamps, and a huge oval rug in shades of sapphire, cream, and tan.
Jani popped the last bite of lunch into her mouth, then thumped the cushion on which she sat—it was thick and firm and buffered her back marvelously. “I’m going to miss that wide-open feel.”
“Blow yer wide-open feel. Every time I talked, I heard an echo.” Steve stuck an unignited ’stick in his mouth, and chewed reflectively. “So, what’d ya do at Sheridan?”
Jani plucked at the cushion edge. “Visited Frances Hals. I figured she’d heard about the shooting, and I knew she’d worry until I checked in.”
“Could have called her. Saved a trip.”
“Some things should be handled in person.”
“Jan the Goodwill Ambassador. Will wonders never cease?” Steve lay back his head and stared at the ceiling. “I figured you’d have stopped by Intelligence, asked a few questions about Blondie. Found out whether that embassy thing he came to take you to were a load or not.”
It was. Jani reached into her jacket pocket and felt for the casino marker.
“Did ya hear me, Jan?”
“I heard you.” She slipped out the plastic disc and examined it under the light of one of her new lamps. It was a hard, bright green, like a cheap gemstone. Three centimeters in diameter, smooth surfaces trimmed with a ridged rim.
Law of Survival Page 22