Watcher's Web

by Patty Jansen

  “The natives are the majority of the population. We grow the things you want to sell. You negotiate with us. And we will not be mistreated.”

  Jisson Semisu added, “The Barresh council can’t tolerate barbaric acts against any of the city’s citizens. We are natives, too.”

  Commander Satarin eyed both men in a moment of silence. “If I’m hearing you correctly . . .” He licked his lips. “Losing the support of Miran would be very unwise. What do you think would be the viability of an entity the size of only a city, especially one dependent on us for services and export?”

  The guards next to him tensed. Sweat pearling on his brow, Jisson Semisu glanced at the councillor next to him, who gave a tiny nod. “We are not part of Miran. We are independent. Some independent Traders have never deserted us, and more will come once we’ve upgraded the Exchange. We have people who are committed to the education of our citizens.”

  One of the guards reached for his crossbow, but Commander Satarin held him back with a hand gesture, directing a smile at the mediator. “Of course, Barresh has the right to decide.”

  “We do indeed. So here is what I do with our agreement.” Councillor Semisu held the contract in front of him and ripped it in half. “I know Barresh has issues to be set straight, but when that is done, we will be applying for full Union membership. You will be welcome: as visiting foreign official.” He ripped the card again and again and scattered the pieces on the wind. They fluttered through the air; one came to rest at Commander Satarin’s feet.

  He ignored it, his face still an unemotional mask. “Very well. It is your right. Don’t expect it to solve any of your problems. Worse, we will be taking everything we have paid for.” He gestured to his guards. “Evacuate.” Then he turned on his heel.

  Within moments, commands rang out over the square and the population of Barresh watched, first open-mouthed, then in mounting disbelief, as line after line of soldiers marched through the gate.

  They cheered and whistled, Pengali pulled out instruments and within moments, the square was awash with music.

  Jessica stood amongst the councillors, the soft and squishy arm of a rotund councillor around her waist, the councillor’s daughter’s hand on her shoulder.

  Merilon Damaru shook his head. “Do you really think they’ll be gone forever?”

  Councillor Semisu snorted. “Of course they won’t. They’ll make life as hard for us as they can.”

  Sunlight had turned orange and gilded the trees that half-covered the façade of the Barresh Exchange. The heaving mass of Pengali revellers had left for Far Atok and once again, the square lay deserted. For the first time in over three hundred years, no Mirani soldiers stood sentry at the airport.

  Jessica sat on a bench under a tree, reluctant to go back to Councillor Semisu’s house, reluctant to mingle with the crowd. She felt sick and dead tired, like she could sleep all day. Recover from all the emotions of the past few days and prepare to start studying for the Union citizenship.

  A rustle of cloth sounded next to her.

  Without a word, Daya came out from behind a tree and sat down on the bench. He sighed and sat in silence for a while longer. Finally, he said, “You’ve been busy.”

  That was true. In the morning, two keihu girls had come in, the first ones who wanted to be taught, but she didn’t want to talk about that; she shrugged. “So have you.”

  He glanced at her and then looked away. “I’m sorry . . . I’m . . .”

  “Sorry?”

  “Well . . . I noticed . . . I heard that . . .” His gaze strayed to her stomach.

  Disappointment flooded her. He knew, and she had wanted to tell him, and he didn’t even seem happy. “I’m not sorry.”

  “But I shouldn’t have treated you as I did. I hurt you, and that was never my intention. It was the smell—no, that sounds like I’m shifting the blame and I’m not . . .” He jumped up, clawing his hands at the sky. “I’m no good at this personal stuff.”

  “Daya, stop it. I said I’m not sorry and I mean it. A few days ago, I decided to have the baby. That was my decision. I’m happy with it.” Her voice cracked as she added, “I don’t want to be alone any more.”

  He averted his eyes, fiddled with the hem of his tunic. Jessica sent out a careful tendril of power, but it bounced.

  Daya, please.

  “I came for this.” He pulled out a small box and pressed it in her hands. “You may have noticed I wasn’t there for the counting. I would have liked to be there, but Jisson said, no he insisted, that I take time off from official things and do this first. Open it.”

  Jessica pulled the ribbon, wondering, dreading maybe, what she would find inside the box. She wasn’t ready for another marriage proposal, and seeing the tenseness on Daya’s face, it had to be something like that.

  Her hands trembled. What would she say?

  Was there a good way to tell him I need more time? A way that wouldn’t hurt him and drive him away?

  No, she knew. If he asked, there was only one thing she could say.

  Yes. It had to be yes, because he was the father of her child, because no one else could be beside her when she wandered off to places no other person could go, but ultimately, because his smile warmed her heart.

  She opened the lid . . . no wedding ring, or any piece of jewellery, just an oval device, made of gleaming metal, a few buttons on the side that faced her.

  “What is this?”

  Then she noticed the note tucked underneath it. Her hands trembled when she unfolded it. “Number one, Sunset Street? What is there?”

  He rose, a spring in his movements. “We will have to go and have a look then, shall we?” Puzzled, she followed him across the square, past the market stalls, and into the street that ran along the very edge of the island.

  They stopped at a freshly painted gate. Jessica recognised the flower pattern in the wrought iron, even if she didn’t recognise the yard. Someone had swept the path and removed all loose tiles, cleaned out the fountain, which once again twinkled with water. The old furniture had gone from the porch, including a solid wood door replacing the one that had fallen off its hinge. The old Pengali safe house.

  Daya opened the gate, which no longer creaked. He took the box from her hand, passed her the device, pointing at the buttons. “Go on, press here.”

  Jessica pressed, and a flood of light came on. Under the porch, inside the rooms, in two lines along the path.

  Jessica whispered, “Wow.”

  Slowly, she walked across the yard, past newly planted flowers, up the steps to the porch. The door clicked open. Late afternoon sunlight shone in through coloured glass in the ceiling, making coloured spots of light over the fountain in the hall. All cleaned-up, the place looked amazing.

  Daya followed close behind. “This was all I could get done today. Most rooms are still a mess, but there’s one room upstairs that’s very comfortable. You should see the view. Much better than living with Councillor Semisu and his gossiping wives, I’d say. Look at the size of the hall. You could have your lessons there. There’s also a perfect room for a library—”

  She interrupted his nervous stream of words. “Daya.”

  He froze; his eyes met hers. “Go on, go inside. It’s yours.”

  The whole house? “What about you?”

  “Oh, I’ll stay in town, at least for the time being. I’ll live in a different part of the house, unless you don’t want me here at all, which I could understand, but—”

  She grabbed his hand. “Daya, stop it.”

  He eyed her, drops of sweat pearling on his upper lip, then he averted his gaze. I’m no good at this. “I can do all the arranging.” He shrugged. “Buy you a house, arrange for the parts assembly to come here, talk to Union delegates, work for the council, but . . . up until I met you, I mean really met you, and we . . . I thought I knew everything. Now I realise I know nothing. I cannot expect you to share my ideals.”

  “But you still need me for the plan? You
still want to resurrect our race?”

  “Yes . . . no. Maybe there would be a keihu woman who has enough Aghyrian blood to cross with a zhadya-born man, but the other men are still in Miran and I need to think of a way to get them out . . . Yes, my plan needs you, but I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about you . . . me . . . us. I need you, too. I don’t want to be alone. I had never envisaged our relationship like this—” His voice faltered. He took a deep, shuddering breath. Moisture glistening in his eyes.

  You discovered you have feelings.

  He looked away.

  “Daya, listen. Of course you have feelings. We are to be parents. That is not something you do without having feelings. A child is not just some dot on a line in a breeding programme; it’s a living being to love. This child will probably share our abilities. Do you think I’d want to cope alone with that? We don’t want to abandon this child, like we’ve both been abandoned.”

  Then a silly thought struck her. I guess I do want to be a breeding cow, with some provisos. She did want to bring her race back, put back the pieces until they had enough genetic material for an Aghyrian settlement. A community of people who shared her ability and her looks.

  Slowly, he unclenched his fists. He licked his lips.

  Jessica pressed her hands together before her face and an instant later, let the light float into the air. It hovered before his face until Daya, too, made the light without even using his hands. The two lights frolicked around each other like a piece of firework. Heat radiated from him into her, first a trickle, then a flood. Images of dark tunnels, of Jisson Semisu’s face, all dirty, looking up at a drain cover from below. Then there was a bolt of jubilation I’ve found her and an image of herself, wide-eyed and frightened, emerging from a rubbish compartment, and herself staring up at him, running her hands over his back.

  Whoa, stop. Not everything at the same time.

  He withdrew his light and her vision cleared, but his warmth still surrounded her, caressed her like loving arms. His face was so close she could count his individual eyelashes. Then his arms were around her in soft warmth and he kissed her. She groaned softly, nestling in his arms, breathing his delicious scent. When he released her to catch his breath, she said, “Can I see the rest of our new house?”

  A Word of Thanks

  Thank you very much for reading Watcher's Web. The story is not finished here! I hope you will go on to read Trader's Honour, the second book in this series. (Turn the page to see a sample chapter.) Find out what deeper secret is responsible for Iztho Andrahar's betrayal and how a young Mirani woman gets horribly tangled up in this mess. Find out where to get Trader's Honour here.

  As author of this book, I would appreciate it very much if you could return to the place where you purchased this book and leave a review. Reviews are important to me, because they help readers decide if the book is for them.

  Also be sure to put your name on my mailing list, which I use exclusively to notify subscribers of new fiction. All other chat about my writing or worldbuilding and interaction with readers happens on my blog Must Use Bigger Elephants, which you are welcome to follow.

  From: Trader’s Honour

  Chapter 1, Book 2 ofReturn of the Aghyrians

  THE ENVELOPE LAY in the middle of the table, between the silver tableware and the gold-rimmed plates. A bowl with rolls of fish bread stood on one side, and a steaming terrine of bean soup on the other. Father, dressed in his Lawkeepers tunic, sat at his usual place at the head of the table, Mother on the other end and little Liseyo with her silken hair on Father’s right hand side. Old Rosep stood at Mother’s elbow while ladling soup into her plate and talking to her in a low voice.

  All of them were looking at that envelope.

  Mikandra hesitated in the doorway. Her face still glowed from having run from the hospital against the biting wind to be home in time for dinner. Father cast a Meaningful Glance at the envelope, and then met her eyes in that severe way of his that said Young lady, I demand an explanation.

  Mother stopped talking to Rosep, and Rosep scurried out the room as fast as his sore knees and bowlegs allowed, shutting the door behind him with a soft snick. The fire popped.

  “Good evening, Mother and Father.” Mikandra sat down at her regular spot at the table, facing Liseyo, who looked at her with large eyes.

  Into the heavy silence, Mother said, importantly, “A Trader Guild courier brought this for you this morning.”

  Totally unnecessary. The envelope could have been anything if it wasn’t so unforgivingly carmine red, and that colour meant only one thing: Trader Guild. And the Guild only ever used couriers to deliver these types of messages.

  Mikandra licked her lips and, avoiding her father’s penetrating gaze, picked the offending object off the table. The paper was heavy and smooth in her hands. It exuded a faint smell of ink, which was old-fashioned and classy all at once. A white label affixed to the front held her name, written by hand by the Guild’s calligraphers in Coldi and Mirani script. Mikandra Bisumar. As if there was any doubt.

  She clutched it on her knees, out of the reach of her parents’ penetrating gazes, and met Liseyo’s eyes, whose expression said, Well, aren’t you going to open it?

  Mikandra didn’t want to, not here where her parents were watching her; not now, before she’d sorted out this part of her future, because certainly, the Trader Guild wouldn’t use a courier if her application to the academy had been rejected, would they?

  The thought filled her with panic. She hadn’t expected a reply so quickly; she had expected a rejection, because almost everyone who didn’t come from a Trading family got rejected, right? Because at night in bed, she’d been telling herself that she was full of stupid dreams to even have applied and that she should prepare herself to bandage frostbitten fingers in the hospital for the rest of her life. And if her dreams ever came true . . . well, didn’t the older people say that dreams looked good when you were young, but seemed silly in a yeah-like-that-is-going-to-happen way when you were older?

  Going to the academy had been such a silly dream, something she’d never seriously thought would happen, but now she had this letter and all of a sudden, the dream that had been her childhood wish became frighteningly real.

  She didn’t want to open the letter at the table while her family was watching.

  But Father would never let her leave the room. He’d stop her before she could reach the door, grab her by the arm and lift her up so that her shoulder would be jammed up against her ear and then his fingers would dig into the soft flesh under her arm and he would demand that she show him the contents. She still had the bruises on her arm from last time he’d done that. That time it had been about her not wanting to audition for the boring classic theatre. This was worse. Much worse.

  He said, in his hard and unforgiving voice, “Open it, daughter.” In that unemotional tone that masked his worst kind of anger.

  No choice then.

  Mikandra turned the envelope over and prised her fingers under the seal. The waxy paper ripped. Her hands trembled and made sweat marks on the red paper.

  Folded inside the envelope she found a cream-coloured sheet and some printed papers, all in the antiquated dialect of Coldi which was the official language of the Trader Guild.

  She spotted the words Registration details at the top of one of the sheets.

  Her heart thudded like crazy. The field of her vision narrowed while black spots danced in the edges. It was as she’d hoped, dreamed and feared.

  The very large, looming, huge problem of course was that this response came before she’d worked up the nerve to tell her parents that she’d applied.

  Acknowledgments

  Before this book arrived at its finished state, many people have read and commented on it. I would especially like to thank my friends from the Online Writers Workshop for Science Fiction and Fantasy, and in particular Stelios Touchtidis, Sherry Thomas, Sue Curnow, Phill Berry and Linda Dicmanis.

  About
the Author

  Patty Jansen lives in Sydney, Australia, where she spends most of her time writing Science Fiction and Fantasy.

  Her story This Peaceful State of War placed first in the second quarter of the Writers of the Future contest and was published in their 27th anthology. She has also sold fiction to genre magazines such as Analog Science Fiction and Fact, Redstone SF and Aurealis.

  Patty has written over twenty novels in both Science Fiction and Fantasy, including the Icefire Trilogy and the Ambassador series.

  @pattyjansen

  patty.jansen

  pattyjansen.com

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  The Far Horizon (For younger readers)

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