Ancient Light

by Mary Gentle

  What?

  And if I don’t, if I take that path, then maybe I’m stopping any chance of Trade&Aid to the Coast, help that the hiyeks desperately need.

  That simple: in a small, shabby room overlooking the cylindrical pit that is Maherwa; among mercenaries and hiyek-Ortheans, a little after the furnace-hours of midday. That simple: what do I do?

  Calil, with a pure and pitiless curiosity, said, ‘Shan’tai, I think you not unfamiliar with my city. Why fear to deal with us? You have had dealings with Kel Harantish before.’

  Did she mean that visit with Molly Rachel? Her words keyed memory, took me back to heat and dust and how, as I stood by that city, I heard from Pathrey, for the first time in ten years, the name of Dannor bel-Kurick, then and now Emperor-in-Exile –

  I am standing beside a great block of some translucent substance. The Hexenmeister lays his palm flat on its surface. It clears from the centre, as if viscous compartments become transparent.

  ‘Where –’ My voice is husky.

  That old male, the Hexenmeister, his face is shadowed, the eye-sockets full of darkness. ‘There are no other devices like these left but here, and in that ancient city, Kel Harantish.’

  The image forming in the block is clear now, and through it I see a room. In that other room are geometrically-patterned carpets, and candlestands whose holders are shaped like beasts’ skulls. Candlelight and the ruins of technology.

  And an Orthean – his face framed by a bleached mane: narrow chin, broad forehead, and half-veiled eyes the colour of wet sand. And he is no more than nineteen or twenty.

  Dannor bel-Kurick.

  I recall the face of Santhendor’lin-sandru, Phoenix Emperor, when the Golden woman brought the Empire down. Dannor bel-Kurick is a poor second to that, though he might pass, now that the Last Emperor is forgotten.

  This half Breed, this Halfgold, this Witchbreed boy –

  ‘I make no quarrel with the Emperor-in-Exile,’ the old male says. ‘But I remind him that his city is a city of exile, and survives on trade. Can you eat rocks and sand?’

  A communications device. A viewscreen. This degree of power – whatever the energy source – ought to show up like a beacon on satellite surveys of Carrick V. Did they miss it, skimp the survey, have a transmission failure?

  ‘Your assassin, Havoth-jair,’ says the old male. ‘She spoke of ships that went north to the Hundred Thousand, ships that carry gold, to subvert telestres …’

  What of it?’ the boy asks tiredly.

  ‘Nothing. But if I hear of any more ships of Kel Harantish in Tathcaer, then something.’

  Defeat visible on that young face.

  ‘I am Golden!’ He stares at the Hexenmeister. ‘I am Emperor! How many lies have you fed me, old man, telling me I’m nothing but a hollow man ruling a dying city? There’s a price paid for power here that you never paid, never in your lives!’

  The image fades to clarity.

  ‘Let him have his temper,’ the Hexenmeister says, ‘he’s cruel and wilful and cunning, but I could find it in my heart to be sorry for him.’

  One thing bothers me (and it doesn’t bother me as much as it should). In my reports to the government on Witchbreed technology, I went fully into their past history, mentioned the ruined cities in the Barrens. I never mentioned the communications devices used by the Hexenmeister of Kasabaarde.

  It’s unimportant, not worth mentioning, it doesn’t worry me.

  And it should.

  It should!

  Sweat sprang out on neck, brows, palms. I met the gaze of the young Harantish female. Nictitating membrane slid back from eyes as yellow and clear as honey, with pit-black pupils that reflect a star of white light.

  A friend’s eyes in a stranger’s face … In desperate pain, memory overwhelmed my sight. The dark face of the dead woman Ruric Orlandis. Yellow eyes that laugh in that thin face, raven’s wing of mane falling over the high forehead; she astride marhaz, harur-blade slung for lefthand use, right sleeve empty and pinned up – amari Ruric.

  Ah, Ruric, why is it that you’re dead and your betrayal isn’t?

  Memory threatens again, the tide of the past, and if giving in to it is desertion –

  We’ll trade.

  That simple: what do I do?

  If it’s desertion, then I can’t help it. Ten years vanish as if they were so many minutes –

  It is night, in the Citadel, in Tathcaer. The small room is candlelit, and crowded. Here are Haltern n’ri n’suth Beth’ru-elen, Crown Messenger; and the Crown herself, Dalzielle Kerys-Andrethe; and others, too. And Ruric.

  Our eyes meet, and I look away. She stands, in blue and silver, the candlelight like honey on her black skin. Tall, gaunt, carrying herself with a crook-shouldered balance.

  ‘My intention was to discredit the Earth envoy, and so also that world.’

  I ask bleakly. ‘Why not kill me?’

  ‘What use would that be? They’d send others. I wanted us rid of you and your world.’

  And Dalzielle Kerys-Andrethe, called Suthafiori, Crown of the Hundred Thousand; slow and amazed: ‘You never agreed with me on that, but I didn’t imagine you traitor because of it.’

  ‘I’m not traitor! All I’ve done, even to murder, I’ve done for the Hundred Thousand.’

  Haltern (young, then): ‘Even to taking Harantish gold?’

  ‘I see no reason not to take my enemies’ gold, if I can use it for my friends’ good.’

  Ruric within a foot of me, the vibrant breathing warmth of her body, the energy of her eyes. Keeping her hand flat on the table, making no move towards harur-nilgiri. The calm of the professional soldier: T’An Commander, T’An Melkathi.

  ‘If you’ll have reasons,’ she says simply, ‘they are these. Earth will destroy us. Either it will change us out of all recognition, or it will destroy the land itself. As I love the Hundred Thousand – I love it more than life – so I have tried to protect it.’

  I say, ‘We’d never do it.’

  ‘Never is a long time,’ she says, “and while we’re a backwater world with nothing desired from us, perhaps we’re safe from war. But even then, not from change. 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, Christie, because no one else will!’

  Ten years dead, that voice; and she lived on a little longer, branded exile. Ah, that’s no life.

  ‘I knew –’ My voice was thick. ‘Knew a woman who had Golden blood, and dealing with your city, Calil – what did it do to her? What will it do to me?’

  Haldin Damory’s voice said sharply, ‘Christie!’

  Images faded, like water soaking away into sand. I saw the tan face and dark mane of Haldin Damory. No sign of Calil’s yellow gaze … I was sitting on one of the del’ri-padded benches, without any idea of how I got there. One of Haldin’s mercenaries stood at the door, harur-blade drawn.

  ‘Ahhh –’ I stood, swayed. If this were a physical pain I could bear it, could cry out, scream; but not this, this fear, this void that suddenly opens underfoot, that –

  ‘T’an, please, be quiet!’ Haldin Damory caught hold of both my arms. Her grip was strong. Her dark eyes veiled. ‘What is it? Are you poisoned? What?’

  My throat felt sore, I must have cried out. When I could focus, I saw no one but Haldin and those half-dozen other young males and females, her mercenaries.

  ‘I said you were ill. I got the Harantish Witchbreed out, in case they …’ She let go of my arms. ‘Was it them?’

  All I could say, stupidly, was, ‘Havoth-jair.’ The words that Haltern Beth’ru-elen spoke to me in Rakviri telestre came back with preternatural clarity –

  ‘– since you spent time within the Tower, and left it so changed –’

  So changed.

  What is it I can’t remember?

  I dreamed that we went down into the maze of levels under the Brown Tower, to a cool dry hall lit with
a faint blue iridescence, a light the colour of lilac and lightning; and there, there were alien machines that had the shape of sarcophagi …

  And when she left the Tower in Kasabaarde, to come with us and give evidence in Tathcaer, she was little more than a zombie; Havoth-jair, whom the Hexenmeister put to the question –

  I knew, with a cold certainty, exactly what I had to do. I fumbled in a belt-pouch for coins valuable in the Hundred Thousand. That cold metal touch threatened to overwhelm me with memory, memory of once sending Blaize Meduenin on a mercenary errand. Hadn’t I said, days ago, As if it were my year on Orthe repeated, in a darker key?

  Haldin Damory took the coins doubtfully. ‘T’an …’

  ‘You’re still under contract to me. Leave half your troop here in Maherwa – I want that woman, Calil bel-Rioch, I want her kept away from the Company people here. Don’t kill her, mind. I never said murder. Keep her away.’

  A fair-maned Medued mercenary said, ‘We’ll try, t’an.’

  ‘And you, Haldin.’ I held down the tide of synaesthesia, the visible and sensory memory that threatened to flood my mind. ‘You bring the rest of your troop. You’re my escort.’

  ‘But, t’an, where?’

  I had no guard on my tongue, thoughts spoken aloud: ‘If I let Molly put me on a shuttle, I’ll be back on the orbiter, on my way back to Earth – no! I can’t leave now. Not like this, not without knowing why … There are canals, boats, jath-rai. I’ve travelled Orthe before. Haldin, you keep me alive, you hear? That’s your contract. Asking questions isn’t your business. And I’m leaving Maherwa now.’

  PART THREE

  13

  Violence and Vision

  I woke from a deep sleep, thirsty and hot. Light shone in through a round-arched window. The air smelled damp. Voices sounded in distant rooms. A del’ri pallet on which I lay scratched against my skin. I stared up at the ceiling: the white plaster and hairline cracks.

  Something flopped down on the del’ri mattress.

  ‘Max?’ I said sleepily.

  When I turned my head I saw a tiny face, narrow-chinned, with a short pale mane. A child, no more than two or three seasons old. Ke yawned, showing teeth; then lay down on the pallet, curled up against my back; a small lump of heat, breathing with a rhythm that is not human.

  I should know something from this, I thought. A child so trusting, the air that smells of rain. Before I could work it out, I fell into sleep like a stone falling down a well.

  Waking clear-headed, as from long convalescence.

  First one note, then two or three more, then a chorus: the thin tintinnabulation of rashaku lizardbirds. The air felt wet and mild, and somehow full of energy; sparky with ozone and the smell of the sea. The window was a hoop-arch in a curving white wall. Morning put soft blue shadows across the ceiling of the dome, ten or twelve feet above my head. I rolled over on the del’ri pallet, and saw a young Orthean male sitting on a bench by the doorway.

  His dark crop-maned head was bowed. He sat with booted feet splayed apart, leaning forwards with his six-fingered hands clasped together between his knees. Sleeveless slit-backed jacket showed his bony torso. He wore straps for harur-blades, but no blades.

  ‘God give me strength!’ I said, sitting up. ‘Should I know you, shan’tai?’

  The air was warm on my skin – I realized I was naked: coverall, CAS-IV, wristlink; all gone. A dirty meshabi-robe was my blanket. I pulled it over my head, tied the belt slowly.

  ‘Sent t’check,’ the young male said. His dark mane stood in a cut crest. No more than sixteen, seventeen? Barely out of ashiren. His surprisingly deep voice slurred a Morvrenni dialect difficult to understand.

  ‘What?’

  ‘T’check on you. ’S difficult, t’an. You keep moving round the Order Houses.’ He stood. ‘I’ll get Damory.’

  Order Houses?

  I stretched, feeling the meshabi-robe slide across my skin. Aches slid awake as I rubbed the last sleep from my eyes. I looked up at the boy: ‘I think the traditional question is “where am I?” – but I know where I am. Try: how the hell did I get here, and why?’

  He muttered something inaudible and, when I queried, repeated, ‘You ordered it, t’an. I heard you.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  He had dark eyes, far apart and slightly slanted: nictitating membrane slid down to cover them. ‘I’m Branic. Haldin Damory’s troop.’

  The tiled floor was warm underfoot. I stood, walked to the window, leaned on the wide sill. The sky was a pale blue, in this dawn hour still freckled with daystars. A haze silvered the high arch of the sky. Damp shadows fell towards the west, lying on the white earth, the white dust. Rashaku called.

  Pale, rounded domes rose up from the earth, here with scarcely an alley’s space between them, and some doors were shaded by awnings on rickety poles, and some had only a flight of low steps and an archway. A group of four or five Ortheans sat on the steps of this dome. There was no talk among them. One rocked back and forth, back and forth. Three had their faces masked. As I watched, another Orthean male came out on to the steps and began to brush away the dust with a broom. His meshabi-robe was clean, the rope-belt woven with coloured thread.

  ‘The inner city …’

  I have known this, even in my sleep. Kasabaarde’s inner city, that breeds within its walls philosophical violence and brutal vision. Why did I think I needed to come here, of all places on Orthe?

  ‘The Order Houses of the inner city … And this is Wintersun what?’

  The boy grunted. ‘Not Wintersun. Wintersun’s over. It’s Stormsun-18.’

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘I’ll fetch Haldin –’

  ‘I’m coming with you.’ I glanced round the small chamber again. It was bare. Through the arched exit, I could see the steps that went down into the underground rooms – but that would be equally fruitless. ‘They didn’t even have the decency to leave my boots, the little thieves –’

  No translation for that last word in his language. The boy, as we walked through to the outer chamber, said, ‘I ’spect someone’s using ’em, t’an.’

  I almost laughed; held it back. The Orthean male sweeping the outer steps stood aside to let us pass, and bowed slightly. I hesitated, turned to Branic, and held out a hand for his cord of coins.

  The Order House male smiled. Standing on the top step, his head was just level with my shoulder. He looked at the coins I offered.

  ‘You do forget,’ he said coolly, ‘though we told you when you came here. This is the inner city. By ancient custom, here you may eat and drink freely, and freely be sheltered. The Order Houses will clothe you,’ he said, and I smoothed down the wrinkled meshabi-robe. ‘This is not the gift: the gift of the inner city is time. And that breeds violence and vision, idleness or wisdom.’

  Yes, I remember …

  Branic looped the cord of coins back over his neck, and signed himself on the breast with the circle of the Goddess. He turned away without a word. I followed. The customs of the inner city are difficult to follow: my instincts screamed criminal!

  Earth was damp under my bare feet, and the dawn wind mild. I briefly worried about mundane things: sickness, infection. And then thought, Stormsun-18! with utter incredulity. The boy began to walk down winding alleyways, going towards the dawn, and I followed him, hard put to keep up with his pace.

  As we came out into an open space, and saw a high wall before us, I said, ‘Branic, where is Haldin?’

  ‘Trade-quarter. All of us.’

  I stopped. The wall in front of me was high, as high as the dome-roofs, and built of massive sandstone blocks. About thirty yards away, it widened. A low gatehouse was set into its twelve-foot thickness. Most of the Order Houses here looked deserted.

  ‘No. Tell Haldin to come into the inner city, to me.’

  He scratched at his cropped mane, and his hand automatically fell to where the hilt of harur-nilgiri would have been, at his hip. ‘I can’t – she won’t – they make you lea
ve weapons at the gatehouse! She won’t come in unarmed.’

  ‘She has no business to be outside, she’s still under contract to me.’

  The boy’s eyes cleared, then veiled. ‘Are you well? Then you’re well enough to pay us.’

  I did laugh then; stood in the dawn sun with the scent of kazsis-vines in the air, and laughed until I was weak and breathless, and had to grab hold of the boy’s shoulder to keep my balance. He looked affronted. I clapped him on the shoulder, sniffed, and managed not to laugh again.

  ‘I don’t know why they send idiots like me to places like this … Branic, please don’t agree with me.’ That got a flicker of humour from the boy. ‘Tell Haldin Damory she must come in and see me, now. I’ll be at –’ I dredged memory for decade-old names ‘– at the Order House Su’niar. That’s near the Seagate. Tell her that I can’t leave the inner city now. It’s the only place where I’m safe.’

  He left, but for that moment I hardly noticed he had gone.

  There. All other problems set aside, Company and government, Coast and Hundred Thousand; all else secondary now, because there – I see it clearly. Between the low white domes, over the stunted fronds of lapuur, in the heart of the inner city. That small and squat building, surrounded by gardens, built of dark bricks and no more than two storeys high: the Brown Tower.

  A bowl hit the wall: ceramic splinters flew. I ducked down. The tall female still stood with her arm upraised. A dark-maned ashiren shouted something unintelligible. Then both turned and fled up the steps from this underground hall, one maybe in pursuit, maybe not; and quiet fell again. A fair-maned male on the next bench drew a splinter of clay from his hand, and stared with fascination at the trickle of blood. Mirror-reflected light shone on the benches, on the now almost empty hall.

  ‘Goddess!’ Haldin Damory came down the steps from the entrance-dome. Her claw-nailed hands clenched, went to her empty belt. She grunted, and all but fell on to the bench beside me. ‘Goddess, it’s hot up there! So you can talk sense again, can you, t’an? I thought Branic was joking.’

  A young female with Su’niar Order House’s colours woven into her rope-belt brought over a jug of arniac and more ceramic bowls. With no expression of surprise or distaste, she then fetched a broom to sweep up the broken bowl. She paid no attention to the fair-maned male’s injury.