The room flowed with warm, ever brightening glee as Solamar felt Lexy working the fields with him.
Everything in Rimon wanted to flee out the front door and climb to the new catwalk. This will spoil her homecoming. I don’t want her stressed like this.
He shifted a few steps to his right, wrapped his grip around Bruce’s fields and took charge of Lexy and Solamar’s fields as Rushi, the Tanhara Companion trainee, mounted the stage beside the Fort Hope channel who had the shiltpron. The channel struck up a strange tune but Rushi seemed to know it and began to sing. Within the first three bars of the tune, half the room was up and dancing.
The shiltpron, when played by any Sime created music that could be both heard and felt nagerically. When played by a channel, working with a Companion, the instrument was a powerful nageric amplifier that could damp the Sime’s awareness of Need, or sharpen it to an irresistible pitch. In a large group like this it was potentially either therapeutic enjoyment or a major disaster.
This Fort Hope channel had musical skill, and worked smoothly with Rimon and the two other dominant channels in the room to raise the mood. Maybe that’s what Fort Hope is about, thought Rimon, hope.
Jhiti reached Rimon first and stood tapping his toe in time with the dance music, enjoying the ambient. “I called a meeting, Rimon. We all have to talk.” The guards who had followed Jhiti in converged through the crowd.
“Lexy hasn’t had a minute to rest since she rode in.”
“She’d be more upset if she didn’t hear this first hand. And I don’t think any of those new Councilors will be here. We have to craft a decision.”
Now Rimon understood the channel taking the shiltpron, using the artistic field work of the instrument and the mass of dancers to obscure any nageric hint of the secret meeting taking place in the middle of the party.
“New Councilors?” asked Lexy, and by turn as they arrived everyone else filled her in on the growing factionalism threatening to paralyze the Fort building efforts before shelters were completed for the winter.
Tuzhel, joining them last, finished the story with, “And just this morning, Alind told Val not to let me have transfer from Rimon because it would be a waste of Rimon’s channeling talent.”
“Alind said that?” asked Rimon astonished. Val won’t pay any attention. He locked eyes with Val and shook his head. She grinned back.
Lexy drew Tuzhel close to her side with one arm, reaching across him to embrace BanSha too while Garen put his arm around her shoulders from the other. She zlinned BanSha no doubt looking for any trace of changeover as she said, “Alind thinks that’s what he was elected to do?”
“Lexy,” interrupted Rimon. “We’ll talk about this Council problem another time. Tuzhel, don’t you worry about your transfers. Lexy, Solamar and I will take care of you. You are not a waste of our resources.” Privately, Rimon was worried about Tuzhel. If he was skittish about his next transfer now, only four days after his second disjunction transfer, he was headed for trouble.
Jhiti said, “It’s this whole Fort’s wellbeing that I wanted to talk to you all about.” He looked around at the senior management of Fort Rimon, the group of people from which the Council was usually drawn. “I’ve been talking to Oberin all day, getting updates on what the scouts have been seeing over at Shifron. Then tonight, came this report.” He flicked a tentacle at his scouts. “Go on, Kreg, tell them.”
Rimon recognized Kreg as one of the first three Fort Hope scouts to arrive, a frostbite case. Now he was walking around in a boot without a heel.
“Tuib Farris,” said Kreg, “the Freebanders are raiding out-Territory, have been we think since they took Shifron. As you predicted, they’re stockpiling Gens for the winter. We followed a group of them, all in Need, to the border, and waited. They returned not in Need, hauling unconscious Gens slung over horses, with a dozen more Gens walking behind a wagon loaded with grain. Some of the bags leaked leaving a trail we followed. In the bushes near a latrine pit, we found this.” He pointed to a folded paper Jhiti held.
Jhiti handed it to Rimon. “Looks like Genlan to me.”
“It is,” said Rimon, whose training had included the Gen language, but he couldn’t decipher the handwriting that appeared to have been written clumsily in blood not ink. Probably pricked a finger to get the blood, and if so the author is long dead. The selyn disturbance, even from a tiny prick, could trigger Killmode in a Raider. Rimon handed it to Tuzhel. “Can you read that?”
Tuzhel took the paper and held it up to the light shed by the overhead chandelier. It held smoky tallow candles among the usual beeswax ones. They could be short of candles before spring, too.
A drop of wax fell on the paper like a tear. Tuzhel stepped back from Lexy’s shadow. Reading, the young renSime paled, his nager spiraling in on itself. “They’re taking us to a town called Thiprin, it says. It’s got to mean Shifron. It says their leader is named, I don’t know. It’s spelled out like it sounds. I think it’s the Simelan word Stonedragon like in the working song the stonemasons sing.”
That puzzled everyone. Tuzhel continued reading, “Something blurry, and then it says they seem to worship her. Don’t try to save us. Burn the woods on the sides of this valley and in spring the floods will drive them out. Be sure to get their outpost too. It’s on a hill with a wall, so it could survive a flood.” He looked up. “It’s signed by my best friend’s mother. She was a kind woman who made the best roast goose ever. Was. She’s dead, isn’t she?”
For several seconds, Solamar, Lexy and Rimon were very busy containing the nageric pulse that statement produced in all of them. The shiltpron and whirling dancers masked it from everyone else in the room.
Rimon agreed, “I’m very sorry, Tuzhel. I wish there were something we could do to save them all.”
“I know. Everyone’s told me all the stories of what happens to Forts that interfere with the juncts. I guess I know why they hate you so much, don’t I?”
“I’d guess you do,” agreed Lexy gathering him up against her again. “But if we can survive, one day there won’t be any more Kill. No Gen will ever even think to fear a Sime. No Sime will ever crave Gen pain.”
Her words echoed the vision Rimon had almost forgotten, of standing in an amphitheater and reading to more people than anyone could ever imagine gathering all in one place. It was a vision that would one day come true.
Unconsciously, he put one hand on his belt buckle, took a deep breath and focused again on the matter at hand. “But who’s this Stonedragon?”
“I don’t know,” said Tuzhel. “There’s always new people, and they give everyone a new name when they join.” He looked shyly up at Rimon. “Tuzhel isn’t my name, you know, it’s just what they called me.”
Rimon was mortified. “I’m so sorry I never thought to ask your real name.” Tuzhel simply meant Shorty.
“I’ve kind of gotten used to being just Tuzhel.”
Emotional adjustments to the unthinkable were nearly instantaneous during the first few weeks after changeover. “You may choose any name you wish here. You don’t have to accept what the Raiders decreed.”
“Let’s just keep it Tuzhel, unless I get taller. When I rode with them, I never heard of anyone called Stonedragon, and I wouldn’t expect anyone to just show up and suddenly become leader of the band. They had a sort of order among them and fought to be leader.”
Rimon noted how Tuzhel thought of the Raiders as “them.” Psychologically, he was disjuncting already, though his body might be giving him a fight.
BanSha said, “I know who Stonedragon is!”
They had all forgotten the child among them. A child’s nager was so faint, even Rimon couldn’t clearly zlin him in this ambient. “Who could it possibly be?”
“Clire of course,” answered BanSha. “Remember she always wore that little stone dragon around her neck? She always ended up bossing everyone.” He amended with swift embarrassment, “Except you, Lexy and Aipensha.”
It was pu
re supposition, but it fit. Rimon nodded and then said, “Kreg, you intercepted this message, and that may buy us some time before someone in that Gen village decides to wipe us out. Were there any Gens following the Raiders back in-Territory?”
“Not that we could zlin,” answered Kaires, a renSime Rimon knew as Tanhara’s best tracker who often partnered with Kreg on scouting missions. “I climbed a tall tree and zlinned their backtrail, but there was nobody as far as I could make out.” She ran tentacles through her short graying hair. “If you’d like, I can run their backtrail and zlin what the Gens are up to.”
“No,” said Rimon and Tuzhel together. “Don’t worry, Tuzhel,” said Rimon. “Kaires is not junct. She wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
“I’m sorry,” said Tuzhel.
BanSha moved a little closer to Tuzhel.
Rimon looked around at the people who had grown into their positions in Fort Rimon, and noted how the Fort Hope and Fort Tanhara people blended smoothly into them. He zlinned the room and noted the absence of Fort Butte.
Rimon gave his decision. “The only thing we should be doing right now is racing to get shelter built before the really bad storms. That, and stockpiling firewood and storing the food dry and safe from vermin. Jhiti, you and Oberin should bring in your scouts to help with the building, as Benart recommends. I want to spread the augmentation work evenly among our renSimes and give the Gens as much physical labor as they can manage side by side with the Simes to stimulate their selyn production. If Clire survives the winter among the raiders, we’ll deal with her then.”
He didn’t think she would survive. If she lost the baby, she’d probably die of complications. If she kept Killing often enough to survive the baby’s prenatal selyn drain, she’d probably die of complications. If she gave birth prematurely, she’d no doubt die of complications. Meanwhile, she was using that supremely well educated brain of hers to engineer raids on Gen Territory, Raids more successful than any Freebanders had managed before.
The Gens would retaliate because the out-Territory Gens didn’t differentiate between Freebanders, Licensed Raiders, town juncts, and Fort holders.
The small meeting broke up before any of the new Council’s followers came in to warm up, and they went their separate ways to carry out Rimon’s decision.
After the party, he had a long talk with Lexy and Garen in one of the infirmary rooms while Solamar worked an extended shift in the Dispensary. Bruce fell asleep the moment he sat down, though every once in a while would wake up to interject, “He’s right you know, Lexy.”
Eventually she agreed. After that, they all worked to keep things moving without involving the new Council.
By noon the next day the weather watchers predicted a big storm within three days. Foundations for fifteen large houses were finished, and the logs for their walls had been split, and piled beside the foundations. The hearths were in, though the chimneys were not yet complete.
Walls went up at a panicked rate, and by the time the storm hit full force, most of the fifteen new buildings had three families huddled together in unfurnished open space trying to keep warm despite the partially functioning hearths. They calked chinks with bits of flax, felt, tenting fabric, anything handy. They had people sleeping in the infirmary, the Collectorium, and the dining hall, as well as taking turns in the underground shelter.
Since Fort Tanhara arrived, the only way they’d had enough blankets was by sleeping in shifts. Now with Fort Hope people unequipped for a mountain winter, and with everyone indoors and inactive, clothing was inadequate and blankets went to the Gens so the Simes wouldn’t have to endure a frigid ambient too. But nobody was left in a tent.
The winter had finally closed in.
* * * * * * *
The day before Tuzhel’s third disjunction transfer, a few hours before dawn the Fort battened down under the assault of another in a series of major snowstorms. Going off-shift, Solamar cornered Rimon in his office.
Solamar was supposed to be sleeping as were all those on his shift. Lexy, on light duty now that she was more than a month into her pregnancy, was supervising and working Collectorium. Solamar’s shifts had been getting longer as hers got shorter, but he didn’t mind as long as she lingered to talk before heading off to rest.
Solamar strode into Rimon’s office the instant Rimon’s nager signalled that he’d noticed a visitor. He spoke before he reached Rimon’s desk. “Rimon, you’ve been having nightmares again.”
Rimon set aside the slate he’d been reading. “You should stay out of my nightmares. Surely you have enough of your own.”
“Tomorrow’s your Turnover day.”
Rimon met his eyes. “Yes.”
“If the belt has failed you, I have to know about it.”
“I was hoping whatever had gone wrong with me had cured itself when you stopped the incidents. So I slept without the belt on, only twice. Right after my transfer.”
Solamar was sure he could name the day and time when Rimon had set the belt aside. “Eskalie would appreciate the consideration, I’m sure, but I’ll bet you woke her with your thrashing later.” The nightmares had been shattered, confused images centered on one figure.
Rimon propped his elbows on his desk, rippled his tentacles through his arched fingers and zlinned Solamar. “It’d be ridiculously easy to get to dislike you,” the Farris said deadpan, but his showfield danced with embarrassment.
“Rimon, I did tell you, several times, you have more to learn. A simple Starred Cross on a belt buckle is not going to change anything. Only work can do that.”
“I’ve been working.”
“Not channeling. Exercises designed to teach you how to leave your body on purpose, but not by accident.”
Rimon suppressed a shudder and leaned back in his chair. “Sit down, Solamar.” Solamar settled into the guest chair before the desk and waited.
“Here’s how I understand it,” said Rimon at length. “Something went wrong with me when you and I put on that little performance on the wall during the battle. Something else happened to me when you and I joined to get a transfer into Tuzhel. Whatever happened left me unsteady somehow....” He waved a tentacle, searching for a word, then made one up, “disattached to my body in some strange way. As I figure it, that injury will heal itself with time, if I can just keep from stretching and straining the wound.”
“I knew we should have talked about this sooner. That isn’t the right model for this problem.”
“Talk? When?” asked Rimon. “I’ll probably hit Turnover tomorrow, and in all that time it hasn’t happened again. It probably won’t.”
Rimon was right. There really hadn’t been time to talk. Before Lexy returned, they were shorthanded and scrambling to get all the Fort Hope people back on their feet expecting Lexy to pick up the slack as soon as she returned.
After she returned pregnant, Rimon began reducing her working time in noticeable increments, saying she had to get used to a reduced workload before the baby’s draw became a serious impairment.
During the storms that hit them every few days, they had worked hard to get everyone in shape to work non-stop the moment the storm let up.
The work crews were still building, which meant strained tendons and burn wounds from the fires to soften the ground. They were laying un-mortared stone because the mortar froze before it could dry, but the precious metal tools would freeze and shatter, which meant slice wounds, punctures and even a couple of concussions from falls.
Still, with all that, they had five more buildings habitable, and the school building cleared of residents so the children were back to learning again. The firewood consumption increased so they had to keep foraging teams out and they returned with more injuries to heal.
Between injuries, frostbite and renSimes over-augmenting using too much selyn and requiring early transfers, the channeling staff was overloaded whether there was a storm or not.
“I concede the point,” said Solamar. “There hasn’t been time to breathe
, let alone talk. But now we’ve got until Bruce’s Companion Staff meeting lets out to settle this. So let me teach you one of these exercises.”
Rimon shook his head. “I don’t think so. Look, Solamar, this last time it happened just wasn’t the same.”
“Nightmares right after transfer?” asked Solamar. “Wouldn’t you say that’s a bad sign?”
“It was different. It wasn’t that I was out of my body, not like before.”
Solamar sat up and provided his full attention.
Rimon slumped. “It’s a ghost. I’m sure of it. I’m haunted by a ghost. It wasn’t a nightmare, it was a visitation.” He looked up. “It was Clire.” The guilt resonated off the walls. “Solamar, she must be dead. How else could she torment me like that?”
“Clire?” Solamar remembered the nightmares he’d stumbled into thinking the figure was merely another dream symbol among the many whirling through Rimon’s unconscious. “Very tall woman, taller than Lexy, bushy black eyebrows, wide set black eyes, long fingered hands, a dimple in her chin? Looked a lot like Lexy but not as beautiful?” Beautiful? Why did I say that? “Wearing dark brown coveralls and a white shirt? Come to think of it, there was some kind of pendant around her neck.”
Rimon leaped out of his seat and began pacing. “Yes. That’s what they wore in Intalace, what she was wearing when she arrived here. That little stone dragon of hers. I know you were there, in my dream. I saw you. Solamar, I’m so guilty over what I did to Clire, I could have just made her ghost up out of sheer Postsyndrome. Or maybe Clire’s dead and really haunting me. I’d deserve it.”
He hasn’t discussed this even with Bruce. “Rimon, you didn’t make it up, and she’s not haunting you, even if she’s dead. This has happened to other channels I’ve known, and the cure is more not less.”
Rimon stopped and gazed at him, zlinning warily. “Where did you know such channels? Fort Faraway?”
The Farris Channel Page 17