by Mary Gentle
Reading that in records, I had been sad, a little shocked: she wasn’t old. And when she was (to use the common tongue) Crown, Hal was a Crown Messenger; the first of those intelligencers that I ever met.
‘After that, the provinces rubbed along well enough; and the T’Ans mostly returned to their own telestres.’ He set his goblet down carefully. ‘That’s not to say they won’t name a new Crown, if they see the need for one.’
‘The lack of one is confusing someone I know,’ I said, thinking of Molly, and the likely reaction of the other Pacificans.
‘I can see that we have to talk – or is it still Douglas Clifford that I should speak with?’
Noise came from the other part of the room. I guessed there were people coming in.
‘I haven’t had time to talk with Doug myself … He and I know each other from way back. And every time he’s looked at me since I got off the ship, I’ve seen him thinking the same thing – what the hell’s she doing with a multicorporate?’
‘What are you doing?’ Haltern asked waspishly. ‘More to the point, what are you doing with them on Orthe?’
‘Minimizing damage,’ I said. ‘Or at least, I hope to.’
‘Is Witchbreed technology the only interest they have in us?’
‘As far as I can make out.’ You can’t expect a Pacifican Company to learn from a “post-holocaust” world.
There was a pause. I thought I ought to go and greet the newcomers, but he stopped me with a word: ‘I can’t help but think back. Christie, do you remember what Ruric Orhlandis once said? “You are utterly unlike us, and when you come here we can’t help but alter. And if we’re ever found to have something that Earth requires –”’
‘“– why then Goddess help us, because no one else will!” Oh yes. It’s something I’ve never forgotten. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I had to come.’
He blinked, that old male, in the fire’s yellow light; and as I stood to go, touched my arm. With that I knew we had – somehow – resumed an old friendship; not unchanged, no, but still there.
‘Hal, what happened to Ruric?’
‘She died, on the Coast. It was many years ago.’
I’d heard, by Service rumour, but I wanted him to say it. Records can be wrong and she was only one woman in what was – for those not involved – only a very minor political incident, on a primitive world. The record might have been wrong.
‘Are you sure?’
His gaze, alert, was that of an old spymaster. There was the automatic, professional pause before he spoke.
‘I made certain to enquire. And I had word, also, from the servants of the Hexenmeister – you have good cause to remember the Tower’s veracity.’
Ten years ago I met that ‘serially immortal’ (as the Ortheans term it) custodian of the Tower and the Tower’s Archives, the Hexenmeister of Kasabaarde; an ancient male whose investigations cleared me of the accusation of murder. Hal and I, we were deep in that together.
‘Will you …’ I offered him my arm, to rise, but he shook his head.
‘Later.’ He had a covert smile, that meant there were other conversations he wanted to overhear. ‘Yes, we must talk later. Go and meet the others now.’
I left him playing ochmir with Cethelen (unsurprisingly, he was winning) and walked back round into the main part of the room. If anything there were more ashiren present than before, older children who’d act as messengers.
Molly, rising to stand beside me, said confidentially, ‘Things are moving fast. Some of these people are just opportunists, they want a piece of what the Company has to offer, but there are a few that are genuine. One in particular. See that one there, by David?’
The other Pacifican was talking with a group of male and female Ortheans, seated beside a brazier with the Almadhera and Doug Clifford. One youngish, dark-maned male had winterscale skin splotched with those mottled patches that Ortheans call “marshflower”. It made his features seem large, crammed into a small face.
‘Don’t be so sure these people want what the Company can offer. What about him?’
‘His name is Rakviri. He’s prepared to take us out to his telestre, tomorrow. And by the description he’s given me, there’s something there worth investigation.’
‘Christ, things are moving.’
She said, ‘They’ve had ten years to think about it, Lynne.’
The room was crowded now, but I detected an air of expectancy, as if not all the unofficial takshiriye were yet present. That was confirmed when the cords of the bead-curtain swung apart, and an Orthean male walked in. He pulled off his cloak, under which he wore the britches and slit-backed shirt of Rimon province. Two harur-blades – the harur-nilgiri, that is too short for a sword; and harur-nazari, too long for a knife – were slung from his belt, the hilts worn with use.
‘You know him?’ Molly said.
‘Oh yes.’ I shook my head in wonder. ‘Lord, two old friends in one evening? First Hal, and now –’
I took an instinctive step forward. It seemed at first that he stood half in shadow, this stocky male with the cropped yellow mane, but the shadow that lay over half his face was a scar. A burn. I saw a whiteless blue eye, bright in ruined flesh; and as he turned, his other profile was a lined face, looking not a day more than forty.
‘Blaize n’ri n’suth Meduenin,’ the Almadhera said.
‘Blaize!’ I held out both hands. I couldn’t keep the grin off my face.
His expression changed. I thought, Good God, have I altered so much, don’t you recognize me?
Without taking his eyes from me, he spoke to the Almadhera: ‘Your ashiren brought me the name. I thought it might not be true, but I see that it is. I shall have to leave.’
One hand rested on the hilt of a harwr-blade, that gesture so familiar; and all I could think was, After all these years he still speaks Morvrenni with a Rimon accent.
And not believe that cold tone.
‘Blaize –’ I took my hands back, colouring like an adolescent.
The Orthean woman spoke to Blaize, Doug Clifford to the Pacificans; I attended to neither:
‘We really need you to talk to these s’aranthi –’
‘– highly advisable to speak with the Meduenin –’
It might have been a smile that made something grotesque out of his scarred face, or some quite alien emotion. There was an authority about him that was new, and plain in the way he spoke to the other Ortheans, and I felt cold, faced by that impenetrable anger.
‘How you can come back here –’ Blaize Meduenin turned to the others. ‘Cassirur Almadhera, t’an Clifford; I’m sorry. I refuse to engage in any discussions while this woman is present.’
5
The Customs of Orventa
A morning wind blew across the flat roofs of the city, fluttering cloth-robes hung out to dry. Windvanes rumbled, ceaselessly turning. Few Ortheans were out in the wide avenues, but I could see bright dots moving down on the quay, where (far off and silent) the sails of a jath-rai flapped, the crew hurrying to catch low tide.
I leaned on the rim of the brick parapet, on the flat roof of the Residence. My only clear view – since all the buildings are on a level – was seaward, through a gap between them. I saw the outlines of two other Freeport islands, Little Morvren and Southernmost one behind the other, each with their windvanes and Watchtower and low Wellhouse dome; clear as glass images. The top of the Rasrhe-y-Meluur was hidden in cloud.
‘I’ll be glad when I get adjusted to local time,’ Molly Rachel called, coming up the steps that led from the Residence’s inner courtyard to the roof. She was kneading the back of her neck with strong fingers.
‘You do adjust – sleep a couple of hours midday.’
She yawned, wide-mouthed as a cat. ‘Lynne … is Douglas Clifford as much of a fool as he likes to make out?’
I chuckled. ‘Not by any means.’ And when she looked enquiringly, added. ‘I used to know him well. And also, he and Max were colleagues, when th
ey were both groundsiders – sorry: both in the home Service, I should say. Of course, I didn’t see Doug as often as I might; I was offworld a lot of the time.’
If I hadn’t been offworld then Max –
Such pain is unexpected. I thought I’d given up that false guilt long ago, knowing that accidents don’t fail to happen just because people stay on one world together. It would have made no difference if I’d been on Earth.
News had to come to me on Parmiter’s Moon, six weeks after the event. When everything else is gone, that fact remains: I wasn’t there. I wasn’t even there to see him buried.
Molly Rachel leaned on the brick parapet beside me and looked down. I could smell the morning meal cooking, down in the ground-floor kitchens.
‘You can see what’s happening here, Lynne. For all that Clifford says, it’s obvious. This culture’s falling apart. When the lines of administration and authority go down, what’s left?’
Local Residence reports mention Watchtowers that stand empty; the Seamarshal’s palace boarded up. Now the sound of dawn gongs came across the roof-tops. How do I tell her? It isn’t the cities that are important, it never was.
‘I’ve got to justify being here, Lynne.’
‘How long will home office let you carry on without results?’
She squinted up at the high dome of the sky, and the daystars that lay thick as frost. Crowsfeet laced the corners of her eyes. Because she’s Pacifican and young, I tend to think she’s uncomplicated. That’s always an error.
‘It isn’t home office. If I think the outlay isn’t justified … I can’t bleed resources for no return, it’s got to benefit us all; that’s the way the Company works. I know there’s something here. All the hard evidence points to it. But if there’s functional Witchbreed technology, we ought to be picking up readings from power-sources –’
Was that a turning-point, could I have pushed her to a negative decision then? Smaller things have discontinued missions. But all I did was suggest, ‘Perhaps we do pick up readings, and can’t recognize them. Maybe it’s something we can’t program the analysers to recognize.’
‘Just possible,’ she conceded. ‘Then the Company really would be on to something. When you were here – but that’s ten years ago. With the speed of cultural decay here, they might have lost even the few artifacts that do exist, by now. Wouldn’t that be ironic? Two or three thousand years since the Witchbreed culture fell, and we arrive ten years too late …’
‘Molly, you do say the damnedest things!’
She had to laugh at that. She raised her head, looking towards the estuary and the sea; taking stock.
‘And now?’ I said.
The wind drummed in my ears, cold, but with the promise of thaws. Morvren Freeport lies in more southerly latitudes than Tathcaer. Spring will come sooner.
‘I’m going along the coast, inland, to that telestre. Rakviri, the name is. That’s what happens now.’
‘We’ve only been here yesterday and today!’
‘There’s no point in wasting time,’ Molly said. ‘Unless the telestres are different from this technophobic city, the Company won’t be interested in the Hundred Thousand. But in any case, I don’t want anyone getting in ahead of us. We’re not the only multicorporate that could find Carrick V attractive.’
The Pacifican woman turned, looking at me speculatively. I must be slow this morning, I thought, what’s she leading up to? The light was behind her, and full in my face; deliberately so. I’m too old to be foxed by tactics like that.
‘I think I have to ask,’ she said, ‘since these people have influence with the telestres, and we need access to the telestres … What was all that with Blaize Meduenin?’
‘Molly, you needn’t feel any concern. It won’t affect PanOceania’s relations with the Hundred Thousand.’
‘Don’t patronize me,’ she said amiably, ‘and don’t be so bloody pompous, Lynne. I’m head of mission; I need to know. What’s the explanation?’
‘I don’t see why I should be expected to understand the Orthean mind when I don’t even know how the human mind works.’
‘Lynne –’
If ten years age-seniority gives nothing else, it gives an ability to shut kids up. I stopped her mid-sentence with a look.
‘I’ll get it sorted out,’ I said, and crossed the roof, went down the steps, and never heard a sound from her.
That determination carried me out into the chill of the street, and across the city, walking briskly from the Residence to where Cassirur Almadhera had her quarters. I found no adult Ortheans there, but an older ashiren directed me down towards the quay.
The sky was hazed, a high milky blue, and the air had a thin clarity. The human body senses difference: sunlight too thin, wind too cold – still, this day felt like the beginning of Spring season. I walked down between biscuit-coloured walls, remembering how late Hanys in Morvren Freeport is hot and glaring and harsh, and how jath-rai from this port sail out to all the coasts of both continents.
The wind whipped the estuary into choppy waves. I felt the spray, shivered; looking up the quay and down. A few coastal jath-rai were moored down towards the Port-master’s office, and there were more across the channel in the docks of another Freeport island. Ten years ago I stood here and saw Kel Harantish traders leave (but Morvren Freeport has always had an odd reputation). Ten years ago I was running blindly south, in good company, to what I didn’t then know would prove a refuge and a sanctuary: Kasabaarde’s Tower …
I turned to walk along beside tall warehouse frontages, and stopped.
He stood in the open entrance of a warehouse, one thin, strong finger jabbing at the Orthean male he spoke to. The other claw-nailed hand rested back on the hilt of harur-nilgiri. Sun illuminated his yellow mane. I noticed that he now habitually stood so as to put his half-scarred face in shadow.
Blaize you bastard –
Anger made me hot and cold. The thought of our last meeting was like a slap across the face.
The younger male saw me. ‘T’an s’aranthi, give you greeting! Have you come to speak with the takshiriye? This is Blaize n’ri n’suth Meduenin, if you don’t know him.’
‘I do have a passing acquaintance. Two assassination attempts on my life, wasn’t it? And an occasion when you gave false evidence at a trial?’
A brazier burned in the warehouse entrance, and I stepped up to warm my hands at it, giving him back stare for stare, not displeased to have said that in front of witnesses. The young male inclined his head, and precipitately left.
‘I won’t speak with you.’ Blaize Meduenin turned to follow.
‘You will.’ I put myself between him and the quay outside, too furious to consider danger. As I have cause to know, Ortheans have no scruples about violence. ‘I won’t be treated like this. None of us can afford personal quarrels. I … can be professional enough to forget your behaviour last night.’
He stopped. That pale gaze raked me up and down. What does he see now – an alien: a tall woman, blonde hair flecked white, thinner than health demands? I never could read mirrors truly. And I was so much younger when we crossed the Barrens …
The wind blew his mane across his eyes, that yellow mane cropped in the Rimon style, that grows out silver where the burn-scar is. Plain slit-backed shirt, boots, britches; all dusty with warehouse chaff. And harur-blades at his belt. Still a fighter. And swordfighters in their middle years are dangerous: experience replacing strength, doubt replacing confidence.
He met my eyes and smiled, quite deliberately. And said, Td thought there could be no worse betrayer of the Hundred Thousand than Ruric Orhlandis. But what would even she say now, that kinsister of yours, if she were living? To see you as you are?’
Using the dead woman’s name was such deliberate malice that I could escape the hurt of it. Only to fall prey to memory: You used to call me your kinsister, Blaize Meduenin.
Cold air cut through warmth, and the smell of burning lapuur-wood in the brazier. Orthea
ns shifted crates in the interior of the warehouse, and ashiren outside the nearby companion-house chanted an atonal rhyme, but it felt as though we two were alone.
‘I don’t understand you.’ Frustration choked me. ‘And what I do understand, I don’t like. I was prepared to be reasonable, more than reasonable – you humiliated me –’
He took a few steps towards the entrance, looking out at the docks and bare masts of jath-rai ships. Then he turned to lean up against the mud-brick arch, with that automatic gesture that swept harur blades out of his way. His pale eyes cleared. A stocky Orthean male, fair-maned, ageing; still carrying himself with a fighter’s grace. Age, as it does with some, made him more solid, more himself.
‘Are you so certain you’re right, to be afraid of Earth?’ I meant it to sting. He shrugged.
‘I know what the Witchbreed were. How their engines devastated this world. And I know how like them you offworlders seem –’ He broke off. Then: ‘I’ll negotiate with Clifford. With the Company, if the takshiriye must. I’ve had to negotiate with all kinds of people, here, over the years – even Dannor bel-Kurick’s Harantish Witchbreed. But not with you.’
‘Because I’m doing what I’m paid to do? Be reasonable –’
‘I took Guildhouse oaths, and served who paid me! I never pretended moral necessity to mask it.’ His voice was loud with disgust. Someone in the warehouse called his name. He ignored it. Carrick’s Star brightened, casting the shadow of the archway at my feet, striking fire from the harbour beyond.
‘I remember your mercenary “ethics”! How ethical was it when you abandoned me in the wilderness at Broken Stair? And Marie with me, and ke no more than a child – I thought then, you’re nothing but a paid killer. As if what happened before we were hunted out of Roehmonde hadn’t told me that!’ Anger left me breathless: ‘Don’t play soldier-turned-statesman with me. You may be in the takshiriye, but you still don’t have any conception of the wider issues over the personal –’
He shrugged, almost sullen. ‘SuBannasen telestre paid me and I made two attempts to kill you. And it might have been better for Orthe if one of them had succeeded. Is that view wide enough for you? Impersonal?’