by Sharon Lee
Saxony Belaconto closed her eyes, thinking of the Vornet and all of those who waited upon it—uneasy allies all too ready to turn wolves, should the Vornet be seen to falter.
"We go through it," she said, barely recognizing her own voice. "Today, we don't take 'no' for an answer."
Menlin nodded and mopped at his face, which was no longer red, but gray. He licked his lips, as if he would say something.
The Gatekeeper reappeared.
"The Seeker and his companion will be seen," it announced without emphasis. "Follow my steps, if you will."
It took Saxony Belaconto a moment to understand that they were being admitted without a fight—and she nearly had to run to catch up with Menlin and the Gatekeeper.
* * *
The air grew cool, cooler—nearly cold. The Gatekeeper walked on and on, following a corridor of rock that twisted this way and that. After five minutes, Saxony stopped.
"Where are you taking us?" she demanded.
The Gatekeeper walked on, pace undisturbed. Jarge Menlin cleared his throat.
"I—please, umm. Gatekeeper. My—we wonder where you are taking us."
The sticklike figure turned around. "You asked to be seen and your request was granted. You are shown to the Chamber of Viewing."
"It seems a long way," Jarge persisted. "Do you need to walk so far, when you go to announce us?"
Almost the gGatekeeper smiled. It did raise its hands, tracing a complex sign in the air. "When one has grown old and understood much, there are other ways to go, aside walking. This way." It turned again and plodded off, Jarge Menlin following.
After a moment Saxony Belaconto followed, as well. Seething.
* * *
The Chamber of Viewing curved away into vastness, its roof and sidewalls shrouded black, center brilliant with torches. The Gatekeeper left them in that center, standing on the cold stone floor, and vanished into shadow.
From the left, five figures filed out of the dark, each shrouded in green robes, hoods pulled up to conceal five faces, hands tucked deep into wide sleeves.
Silent, they came across the stone, lined up opposite Belaconto and Menlin and turned as one to face them. No word was spoken.
Jarge Menlin cleared his throat. "I am the one who came and took the Trident away. I am here to claim my tithe of hesernym, which the chief in the valley will not give me."
The figures rustled as if a strong breeze had blown through their ranks—steadied. Several heads turned, several pairs of eyes peered from hooded faces.
One of the figures stepped forward, turned its head so that its hidden eyes seemed to stare at Saxony Belaconto, then at Jarge Menlin. The figure turned and walked away, down room, to the edge of the torchlight. . ..
"Let's go," hissed Menlin and went after, and Saxony Belaconto again followed, trying to ignore the prickling between her shoulder blades.
* * *
The hall bent twice in crazy succession, then opened into yet another room, this smallish. The chill air was warmed by a tiny fire in the pit at the room's center. The stone floor was soft with rugs and tapestries and pillows. There were several low tables here and there among the cushions; one held a samovar, another a tray of fruits, yet another, a jug and several glass beakers.
Their guide slid long hands free of copious sleeves and neatly laid the hood back about her shoulders. She looked gravely at Jarge Menlin and bowed, with astonishing reverence.
"Please," she said, "be seated."
Jarge did so, half-falling onto a pile of pillows. Saxony Belaconto settled more gracefully, keeping her legs coiled under her, ready for the springing of the trap.
"Refreshment?" the woman asked Jarge. "Tea, or wine? Fruits?"
Fruits. Saxony considered the tray; perfectly formed, perfectly colored apples and peaches—the mark of a hydroponic garden. Was there a hydroponic plant within this vast cavern, she wondered. How advanced were these Bindalche, anyway? Once, she had misjudged a person, a situation. Never again would she make the mistake she had made with Gem ser Edreth.
"Wine," Jarge was telling the woman and Saxony looked up to find the reddish eyes on her.
"Wine," she rasped and the woman bowed with serene courtesy. She moved to the table that held the jug and poured from it into two beakers. The first went to Jarge. The second came to Saxony Belaconto. This hostly commission dispatched, the woman sank gracefully to a cushion opposite and turned her grave, ageless face to Jarge.
"In the Room of Viewing it is not permitted to speak," she said. "The message the Gatekeeper delivered was that you wished to see the Telios, rather than you wished to speak to one of the Telios. No doubt an error in translation. Here you may be comfortable, and speak what is in your heart."
Jarge hastily swallowed a gulp of wine. "Umm—thank you. Not the Gatekeeper's fault—I believe I did ask to see the Telios—not a precise speaker. Apologies . . ." Saxony shifted on her cushion and his eyes were on her instantly, his damp and more than a little crazed.
"We've come," she prompted him, with awful patience, "about the tithe."
"Yes," he agreed breathlessly, "about the hesernym tithe." He looked back at the woman. "The chief in the valley refuses me my portion, even though I was the one claimed the Trident—you know that, you were there. All the Telios were there."
"Recalled," the woman said, "that you were Chosen of the Smiter. Recalled, that in your company the Smiter did take to the stars. Recalled, that you asked of us a certain number of the tremillan flowers." She folded her hands carefully in her lap and looked earnestly into his face. "All recalled, with honor and with respect, Jarge Menlin, Trident-Chosen."
"Well, that's fine," Jarge looked gratified and had another deep draught of the wine. The woman rose silently and refilled his beaker, then returned to her seat. Jarge swallowed more wine and leaned forward.
"Then you'll tell the chief down below to release the tithe to me and to my—associate—so we can get about our business."
"Ah." The woman looked over at Saxony, a world of pity in her eyes. She returned her gaze to Jarge. "Where is the Trident, Jarge Menlin? Where is the one who is Shlorba's Eyes and Memory?"
He cleared his throat. "In a safe place, both of them. It's a dangerous universe, you know, and I'm a man with—with enemies. Seemed best to just tuck them away safe, where no enemies could find them."
"I see," she said, still grave, still courteous. "But coming so, there is no assurance that the Smiter chooses still to be with you. It is possible, Jarge Menlin, always possible, that the Smiter has chosen another—no lack of honor to yourself."
"Chosen another—" he blinked and the woman bowed her head, then turned to speak to Saxony.
"This happens, of times. We will care for him, if you want it. If there is no other place where he will be kept with honor and with safety. To bear Shlorba's Smiter is a great thing, a heavy thing. It is not unknown that the loss of the burden makes the former Chosen foolish—as a child, and forgetful."
Saxony considered that, what little seemed to make sense. "You'll take care of Jarge?" she said, carefully. "And render him—honor?"
"Assuredly," the woman said, with a soft, sad smile.
"And," Saxony said cautiously, "the hesernym?"
The woman shook her head. "The hesernym was the tithe named by Shlorba's Chosen," she said softly, as one explaining an immutable force of the universe. "There is no tithe due those deserted of the Smiter. Only care is due them, and honor, and peace."
Saxony sipped the appallingly bad wine, considering, feeling Jarge's eyes on her, feeling his wordless shriek: Don't leave me here! Don't—
She sipped again, considering the weight of the gun beneath her arm, the timing . . .
The timing stank.
She forced a smile and nodded at the woman. "I appreciate your—help. Your clarification of my friend's status. I will have to consult with others—tell them what you have said. If I may come again, to tell you what has been decided?"
The woma
n bowed from her seat upon the cushion. "Come again two suns from now, at the same time. The gatekeeper will expect you." She rose, effortlessly, and bent to offer a hand to Jarge.
"Come now," she said softly, as if he were a biddable child. "It is time to go back out to your ship and attend the counsel of your friends." Jarge climbed to his feet and let her take the glass away from him and clap her hands together sharply, twice.
The Gatekeeper appeared in the stone archway.
"Show Jarge Menlin and his friend to the Supplicant's Gate," she directed and raised her hands to pull her hood into place.
"Yes," said the Gatekeeper, and, "Follow my steps."
And so they did, all the weary way up until they stood in the hot entranceway, blinking out into the afternoon sun.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
The last lifepod had broken free of the GenShip and headed out-system. Data had been traded 'round the InRing, analyzed and, finally, accepted.
When the consensus was reached—when every pilot on the ring acknowledged the GenShip was empty—then Milt and Ria moved in to set the beacons.
"Why here?" Milt asked as they launched the first marker and watched it settle into sympathetic orbit around the big ship.
"Why here what?" Ria returned.
"Why abandon it here, where there's nothing except a Combine blockade and three interdicted worlds? What were they doing here?"
Ria shrugged, busy with the equation for the second launch. "GenShips go where they want," she said, speaking linearly for a change. "GenShip crews're star-scarred—crazier'n ore pilots. If they had a reason, it wasn't sensible—believe it. Might've just been on their way someplace else. GenShips're old. Limited ability for sustained translation."
"So they dropped out of hyperspace for a rest and then noticed that the ship was in bad shape—dammit, there's nothing redlined on this ship! Nothing they probably haven't known about for months!"
Ria locked in the equation. "Let 'er loose," she said and he did. The second beacon wobbled a bit and seemed to have trouble orienting.
Milt was reaching for the remote when he heard Ria inhale, air hissing through her teeth—"What the nub—?"
"It's breaking up!" he yelled, hands already moving across the board, sending them into a tumble away from the GenShip while he squealed a warning to Dez and the rest of the InRing and the board under his hands was showing red and Ria was taking care of that part, shunting systems and closing out nonessentials. . ..
Above them, in the looming bulk of the GenShip, the bubble of what he had thought was an observation room continued to rock back and forth, sending cables and sheets of shielding spinning free. With one final, gargantuan heave, it broke completely free, sending a meteor-storm of ship-metal scattering toward the InRing.
Free, it fell. Fell toward Bindal, like a meteor itself.
Milt hit the magnification and swore, softly and with disbelief. Beside him, Ria was quiet.
He zipped the image and hurled it at the Big Ship, half-hoping that one of the brass would tell him that there were no trees in that falling bubble. . ..
* * *
They landed on a baked strip of rock some small distance from a huddle of dun-colored tents and scraggled trees. Corbinye rolled out last and stood between Anjemalti and Witness, squinting. She could feel the moisture being sucked out of her pores and the glare of the sun upon her unprotected head was fearful.
"Well . . ." Anjemalti murmured. "I think, my friend, that it is time for you to lead."
Witness raised his hand and drew one of his incomprehensible patterns in the harsh air.
"Lead is what I may not do. It is for the Trident and the Bearer of the Trident to forge the way through event. It is mine merely to follow—and recall."
"A hard enough task," said Anjemalti, and coughed. He motioned toward the tents with the Trident. "What place is that?"
"The camp of Ven kelBatien Girisco—a young chief, scrupulous in her dealings. She bides near the Telios by choice and invitation rather than through transgression. An honor. Her folk are gatherers. It is they who harvest the tremillan flowers and render it to hesernym."
"Flowers—" Corbinye looked around at the frying earth. "Hard to believe flowers grow here."
Witness looked at her gravely. "Before the Combine's sacrilege, the land was lush: Grain, fruit, game were plentiful. The land sobs for water now, and labors to put forth sufficient sustenance for the Bindalche, caretakers of the land. Event has moved the Combine into grievous error."
"The Combine needs no help," Corbinye told him, "to find grievous error. Or to rejoice in doing harm."
"I don't know about the rest of this ship's company," Anjemalti interrupted, "but I am being cooked. Before I become half-baked, I suggest a move toward yon village and perhaps a chat with the chief." He glanced at Corbinye. "The sooner we return the Trident, the sooner we may embrace air-cooling."
"And other business," she agreed, matching his stride toward the tents.
Witness came one step after, his private heart exultant in the return to the homeworld.
* * *
Long before they reached the tents, a woman had come from the center of them and stood waiting on the edge of their meager shade, hands held empty before her, buckskin-cased legs braced wide. Her shirt was open to the waist and her sweat-slicked belly was flat and hard; around her waist was a wide leather belt, hung with fobs and trinkets and bearing a sheathed knife. Black hair hung below her shoulders, with feathers and tremillan flowers braided into it.
Gem stopped some paces away, feeling how his own clothes clung damply to him, braced the end of the Trident against the ground, and bowed. "Do I address a Chief of the Bindalche?"
"I am Ven kelBatien Girisco, Chief of Tremillan Tribe, servant to the Telios." One sturdy brown hand rose from the belt and traced a sign in the air. "The Trident Bearer is seen and will be known. May Tremillan Tribe know his name? For the songs."
He hesitated. "Anjemalti Kristefyon," he said finally and waved at Witness and at Corbinye. "According to these."
She touched her ear. "It is heard. And according to you is the name—?" She met his gaze levelly, her eyes the color of sand. "It is understood that a man may own more than one name."
"Gem ser Edreth," he told her, compelled, someway, by those eyes.
Her hand came up, fingers closing, as if she caught the name he tossed to her. She brought her closed fist to her breast and opened the fingers wide. "My heart has heard yours," she said solemnly. "This, too, for the songs."
Gem opened his mouth to say—what? But there was no need, the chief's gaze had already moved beyond him.
"Shlorba's Eyes, I greet you," she said and looked to Corbinye without awaiting an answer.
"Beautiful lady, your name?"
Corbinye swallowed a painful ration of parched air. "Corbinye Faztherot, W—" She stopped and stared into the woman's eyes.
"I am a Chief of the Bindalche," the woman said. "Your name is safe with me."
"Alas, that my name has been untimely shortened."
The woman frowned.
"Death's Warrior," Witness intoned from his position behind Gem's shoulder, "walks at the Seeker's side."
"Ah." Barely more than a sigh. The chief laid palms flat over her breast, then held both hands out, palms up. "I have lived to see wonders. All honor to you, who takes up again the pain of life, and willingly relinquishes peace." She lowered her hands, face and eyes shining. "Shlorba send when death comes to me, she walks so fair as you."
Gem cleared his throat. "We thank you for your welcome," he said. "And are sorry to impose upon your hospitality." He moved the Trident slightly and the sandy eyes shifted to track the motion, then flicked back to his face.
"The Trident Bearer need only ask."
So, Gem thought. Now, if only the Trident Bearer knew quite what to ask. He licked his lips.
"One wishes to speak to a—teacher, perhaps. Someone wise in the ways of the Smiter, who might listen t
o what I say and aid me in decision."
"The Trident Bearer wishes to speak with one of the Telios." The chief nodded her head. "There is no easier thing." She turned and pointed across the blaze of the land.
"Yonder lies the Grotto of the Telios. You need only present yourself and your request to the Gatekeeper."
Gem shielded his eyes. "How far yonder?"
"An easy walk," she assured him, "except at midday."
"And it is currently what time of day?"
She looked surprised. "Going toward evening."
"Going toward evening," Gem repeated. "Good. Is there someone who might be given the task of guiding us to the Grotto?"
She laid her hand over her heart. "The Trident Bearer need only ask."
* * *
They got underway without any more asking, to Corbinye's short-lived relief.
The chief led them a twisting route among the tents, which spilled forth men who might have been the Witness' brothers, gaunt women and thin brown children. Eyes followed them, and whispers and louder voices, and Corbinye felt tension prickling between her shoulder blades, she who was the Captain's sworn protection. She strode on, keeping herself as often as possible between him and the tent-folk, fingers itching for her knife.
The chief led them down another sandy street, made thinner by the folk gathered there. Corbinye gritted her teeth and dared to sigh relief, just as one of the stocky males surged into the way, facing Anjemalti with a look on his face that only could be madness.
Her knife was in her hand and she had thrown herself forward, crying aloud—"Hold!"
"Hold!" An echo from the chief and Corbinye kept herself from the thrust, though the knife shone killing-bright in the wicked sun.
"Hold," Anjemalti murmured behind her, and she felt his fingers on her shoulder. "Be at ease, cousin."
He stepped forward, even with her, all but touching noses with the Grounder. He planted the end of the Trident in the rock-hard ground and leaned slightly forward, blue eyes contemplating the madman—
—Who reached out a callused paw and stroked Anjemalti's hair, once, fingers trembling as if with fever.