by Mary Gentle
‘The Brown Tower has stood for ten thousand years,’ he says softly, ‘and hasn’t been above borrowing Golden technology when needed. Machines fail, you see. Even these. Though not for a time yet, I think.’ He takes a few unsupported steps into the hall, resting his hands on the edge of metal casings. ‘These are precious to me beyond all price, their like is not to be found in the world today.’
An underground hall, banks of machinery, screens and cubicles like sarcophagi. Quiet, chill; a subliminal hum.
‘You have heard,’ he says, ‘of those of us who possess a perfect memory?’
‘Yes. Some humans have that.’
‘These transcribe, store, and transfer such a person’s memory intact to another person.’
Is my disbelief so apparent? The hypno-implants might pass as a primitive prototype – but no, such a thing isn’t possible!
‘And that person, also, to another and another.’ He smiles. ‘With no loss of detail, down through the generations.’ And touches his thin chest. ‘I am not immortal, but the Hexenmeister is. In a few years, when I die, there will still be a Hexenmeister. Who’ll remember speaking with you, Christie, remember this moment as I do. Who will be me – as I am all who went before me.’
‘It’s incredible!’ I realize I’m pacing; come to a halt in front of the old Orthean male. ‘What real proof do you have?’
‘If it were proved to your satisfaction that these machines act as I claim?’
‘I don’t have the technical training to prove or disprove that.’
‘And language is inadequate. Perhaps we misunderstand each other more than we know.’ He reaches out, grasping my arm for support. ‘It will be obvious to you, I suppose. I wish to record your memories, Christie, so that I will know your world. And as trade is the mark of Kasabaarde, I am prepared to offer you access to some of my own memories of Orthe. I know this world. Perhaps I am the only person who truly does. So when Orthe comes to deal with other worlds – I am the only one qualified to speak for us.’
Assuming it’s true, I think, and assuming alien technology can be adapted for human use as well as Orthean – how dangerous will it be? Physically, mentally, politically? I’d be a fool to do it. And a fool not to.
And then there is a memory of days spent in Kasabaarde, that long-ago spring. Dry, dusty days. Held back by fear: it’s beyond my brief as envoy, have I the right to pass on information about Earth? And pushed forward by knowledge: if Earth deals with this world, it must know this world. It must. I must.
Daystars, half-invisible points of light over the domed roofs, the glare of Carrick’s Star drowning them. White dust, and heat. And I was alone, and not yet thirty, and I did it anyway.
‘Have you rested?’ the Hexenmeister asks, some days later. ‘That’s well. We can begin. First, though, I ask you to undertake never to speak of what you see or hear.’
‘That’s not something I can promise. As envoy, I have to report fully.’
Now I can hear the irony in his tone, that I never heard then. You knew, old man. Of course you knew.
‘Well then, envoy, say that you will report it only to your own people, and then only if you believe it to be necessary …’
The cubicle is slick under me, with a sensation unlike metal or stone. I know it now – chiruzeth. There is a hum that might be sound or vibration. I close my eyes, sick with panic. Closed in alien science like a sarcophagus, a tomb.
I feel a sensation that – if it lasted more than a microsecond – would be intolerable agony. No way to describe how it feels: as if the closed confines of the self fragmented into pieces in an ever-expanding maze.
Total fear: and I struggle, his memory happening to me with all the force of synaesthesia, entangling, inescapable.
Pain, memory, memory not mine: and I am a mirror shattered into a million pieces, a million lives.
14
Exiles
Outside the window-arch, rain slants across a slate-blue sky. A sky that seems too bright to human eyes. Carrick’s Star glares whitely beyond the clouds.
‘It wasn’t that I couldn’t talk about it,’ I finished. ‘It was almost that I couldn’t think about it – even to myself. I knew I’d been in the Tower, but my mind kept telling me it was unimportant, trivial, to be forgotten … I couldn’t even think in terms of being mentally blocked, let alone blocked by something someone had done to me. All I could do was remember someone else whose mind had been tampered with by the Hexenmeister. Havoth-jair.’
Doug Clifford drank from his bowl of arniac, grimaced, and paused to pick a fallen kazsis-bud out of the scarlet liquid.
‘Lynne, I find myself some what at a loss … I might go to the Tower, myself, I suppose. Send a message in to the Hexenmeister’s people. I am still government envoy to Carrick V.’
Qualified support, but support none the less. I would have thanked him, but tension made my mouth dry. I stood to pace the Order House’s confined floorspace, too restless to sit still.
‘Douggie, assume for the moment that I’m right, what will the Hexenmeister do when he knows I’m here?’
Doug said lightly, ‘If you had to choose a place to be, you’ve picked the right one. I dare say even the Tower won’t be too eager to interfere in the Order Houses.’
The inner city is separated from the trade-quarter of Kasabaarde by a wall and a millennially-old rule of amnesty; and from the Tower that lies at its heart by a few strips of garden land and a vast gulf of philosophy.
‘… which, I suspect, is why the hiyeks are holding their peace conference in here. That reminds me, Lynne. While I’m busy, you’d better contact David Osaka or Pramila Ishida, hadn’t you?’
A touch of malice in those last words. I am still Company-employed. And besides, you don’t have dealings with Ortheans for long without picking up the respect they have for the Tower. Clifford, I thought, you’re rattled. And who can blame you?
‘You’re right,’ I said mildly, ‘I’ll find them. Douggie, when you speak with the Tower, remember one thing. It’s what I told you at Maherwa. You’re not doing this to help one person who’s been badly affected by some kind of alien technology. The Hexenmeister told me once that he was the only person with the knowledge to speak for all of Orthe – and if I’m right, and he is, then with a situation as precarious as this one, we’re going to need someone with that knowledge.’
Walking through the inner city towards Westgate, I came, between one Order House and the next, to the edge of a crowd. I pushed between male and female Ortheans, in brightly-coloured meshabi-robes. Some sat on steps, on benches under awnings, or on woven del’ri mats. The scarlet, blue, and emerald-dyed meshabi-cloth was patchily coloured, often frayed. A deafening hum of talk beat against me – hiyek-Ortheans gesturing unrestrainedly, heads together, gathering in groups. I passed some that clustered round a spirit lamp, boiling arniac, while an old male in Order House robes looked on worriedly.
It was difficult to pick a way between the seated groups. Heads turned as I passed. Manes braided with crystal beads flashed in the sun. Being a head taller than most hiyek-Ortheans, I drew the eye; and some called comments, and I answered noncommittally and walked on.
A few desiccated lapuur trees occupied the wide empty space near the Westgate’s gatehouse, their ash-grey fronds uncurling by reflex under the heat of Carrick’s Star. Pramila Ishida was standing under one lapuur. An Orthean stood with her.
Two together: a contrast of fair and dark. The dusty yellow mane of Sethri-safere was thrown back as he laughed – no way would you miss being here, I realized – and there was an answering smile on the sallow, round face of Pramila. She wasn’t speaking to him, but into her wristlink. Then she saw me, and stared in complete amazement.
The young male followed her gaze. His tawny eyes opaqued, then cleared, and a smile twitched one corner of that wolverine mouth. His white meshabi-robe was dusty, and (this being the inner city) no hook-bladed knife hung at his belt.
‘How’s Molly an
d the Company these days?’ I asked. He had the grace to look disconcerted.
‘Shan’tai, I haven’t seen her – I’m here with the south-Coast hiyeks, for the talks. I’ve got them together without slitting each other’s throats, that’s an achievement, wouldn’t you say?’
We spoke the Maherwa dialect with a fluency that I saw Pramila couldn’t follow. I met Sethri’s gaze. His insouciant humour had an edge. I mean to make a friend of you, he had said, and proceeded to ingratiate himself with Molly instead. When I spoke, it was with malice.
‘Some advice, Sethri, if you like. When you’re on your way up the ladder, don’t kick the rungs away behind you. You’re going to need them, coming down.’
He placed one hand on his breast, bowed slightly, with a rueful amusement. ‘Forgive me if I underestimated you in Maherwa, shan’tai. I have much to learn.’
‘Not that much.’ I switched to Sino-Anglic, and to Pramila, who still held up her wristlink, mouth open in silent bewilderment. Before she could speak, I said, ‘Is that Molly on the comlink? Tell her I apologize for my unavoidable absence. I was taking advantage of an opportunity that arose.’
Pramila made as if to speak, stopped, stared at me with total incredulity, and then said, ‘“Opportunity”?’
‘To investigate the political climate among the influential hiyek-families on the Coast –’
I always say, if you’re going to tell a big lie, do it with style and a smile.
‘– I knew the hiyeks would be meeting the Hundred Thousand here, for talks. I thought Molly might want a wider view of the Coast culture than just the area around Maherwa. There is over four hundred miles of inhabited land you know.’ I paused, and stepped into the scant shadow of the lapuur provided. ‘Is that Molly you’re talking to?’
Pramila Ishida stared at me for a full thirty seconds. Then she said absently, ‘No, it’s David, we’ve grounded the shuttle outside this settlement. “Opportunity” … but there was no report! We haven’t known where you were, what you were doing –’
‘I see …’
When I like, I can use all the old Service noncommittal urbanity.
‘That’s most irregular … Yes. I’ll have to have words with certain people when I get back, I can see that. If you weren’t aware – good grief, Molly must think I’ve gone completely insane! I must get on the comlink to her. Perhaps I’ll come out to the shuttle with you. I need to use a shuttle’s resources in any case, pick up a supply of protein and vitamin supplements …’
‘I can’t go yet. I have to help Sethri-safere set up additional venues for the talks.’ She rubbed a hand across her forehead, tucked a strand of black hair behind her ear. She was sweating. And not greatly fooled, I thought, by a more than threadbare excuse.
‘Molly will want to speak to you,’ she said. ‘She may think it better if you return to Maherwa, or the Freeport.’
She wore a CAS-IV holster on her belt, the comlink connected her to the shuttle: this small and somehow compact figure standing in the noon heat. It was an odd contrast with the stunted lapuur, the white mud that was cracked and drying, with Sethri and the Ortheans at the nearby Order Houses.
‘Maybe you’d better patch me through the shuttle and the orbiter,’ I said. ‘I’ll stay in the city for the talks. Who’s here?’
I could see her internal debate: how much to tell this unreliable, eccentric woman – who is, however, still special advisor to PanOceania on Orthean affairs.
‘Hiyek-Anzhadi, Pelatha, Thelshan.’ She paused. ‘The Freeporters, the takshiriye. I think there are some Ortheans from the Kerys-Andrethe telestre, and the Telmenar Wellhouse. And Meduenin; there are Meduenin here.’
There would be. A knot of tension began to form in my stomach. For a moment I fiercely resented that. Don’t I have enough to concern me, without having Blaize Meduenin continually on my mind? The tension remained, no effort of will able to dismiss it. And we shall meet, I thought. It’s inevitable, both of us here. God damn it. Some part of me was outraged that my peace of mind should depend on anyone but myself.
And then with resignation I thought, That settles it, girl. When your sense of humour vanishes, you have got it bad …
Pramila Ishida said uncertainly, ‘We’re acting as neutral arbitrators. With all the Coast people and the Freeporters here, some of the Houses are saying they can’t provide food for them.’
The inner city’s Order Houses finance themselves from the tolls and taxes all traders pay to enter and leave Kasabaarde’s trade-quarter. It gives the inner city a deceptive appearance of inexhaustible wealth. Looking at the crowds round us, I thought, But it wasn’t designed to cope with this.
‘You’ll want to talk with the heads of the Order Houses, and the hiyek-keretne.’
So easy, to slip back into the Company frame of mind. But half the memories I call up about the inner city are not mine. And all I can think now is, How long until Douggie’s message to the Tower gets an answer?
‘I’ll give you a hand here,’ I said. ‘Let me talk to Molly first, though.’
Pramila keyed in a contact through the wristlink. I wished briefly that I could get out to the shuttle. YV9s may be old models, they do at least contain clean-up facilities and spare uniforms. Then Molly Rachel would see in her comlink a neat, middle-aged woman, smart in PanOceania coveralls and logo; hair bleached, skin tanned, otherwise no trace of that month’s journeying from Maherwa …
Who are you fooling, girl? I came out of the daydream: dirt-stained, hair straggling, barefoot, with only a threadbare meshabi-robe to keep off the sun – but still, I thought, I have the presence now to convince Pramila I’m in authority, and that didn’t happen before.
‘Here.’ The Asian-Pacifican girl handed me her wristlink, and stepped aside out of earshot, conferring with Sethri and – Jadur, is it? – of hiyek-Anzhadi.
The ’link cleared, showing in miniature the interior of a grounded shuttle, and the Aboriginal woman’s face. Stark light from an open port made her squint, put specks of brilliance in that black hair. Her coveralls were stained with dust. There was a rim of dirt on her face, marking the edges of just-discarded eyeshields.
‘It is you,’ she said grimly.
I said, ‘I must apologize for being out of contact for so long. Quite inadvertently, you understand –’
‘Bullshit!’ Molly Rachel interrupted. “If I had a spare hour out of the twenty-seven, I’d shuttle up to Kasabaarde and find out what the hell you’ve been doing. You’re advisor to PanOceania, Lynne. The Company’s interests are your interests. And your tin-pot government’s, tell Clifford!’
She took a breath.
‘I ought to have you shipped back to Earth on the first ship out of Thierry’s World!’
‘“Ought to”?’
She glared, and then wiped her forehead, and looked absently at the pale dust on her dark fingers.
‘I ought to bust your ass, Lynne. You know that. Just be grateful I don’t have the time. Things are happening here.’
The tiny image of her face showed exhaustion, and a febrile excitement that might mean success. But now is not the time to question her.
‘Lynne, are you all right? Pramila said you seemed …’
‘In my right mind? Yes. I intend to check with the Psych people on the orbiter later on, but yes.’
‘So it was offworld syndrome. I’m relieved. There’s enough going on here.’
I could glimpse, through the open port of her shuttle, the bleached moonscape of the south-east Coast. I faced that Pacifican smugness, hating for a moment that all their answers are (for them) easy.
She sighed, shook her head. ‘Lynne, why are you so bloody unreliable? I can have you offworld tomorrow – I was going to, I still can; but I could use your help, with Pramila and David, on condition that I know where you really stand on Carrick V.’
‘Were you ever in any doubt?’
‘You were,’ Molly said. ‘Now you know, and we both know, that you want the Company off
Carrick V. Fine. Work for that. Just tell me if you’re still willing to give specialist advice. And if I listen to it, I’ll bear the rest in mind.’
Why do I underestimate her? God knows it doesn’t pay.
Then she laughed. I had to laugh, too. We’d be watching each other. Watching ourselves. But maybe we have a modus operandi.
‘Call me again later today,’ Molly said, ‘and we’ll talk it through. There isn’t time now. We’ll talk. Lynne, it’s good to have you back.’
The wristlink image blinked out. For a moment I was shamed by her honesty. And then I thought of the Tower, of memories that are not mine, and of Havoth-jair.
How many hours now until there is an answer from the Hexenmeister?
Stormsun-18 wore away to evening, and a hot and humid twilight. I slept a few of the afternoon hours at the Order House Thelmithar, and then came out to sit on their shallow steps, and drink one of the last flasks of del’ri-spirit that the House had.
Evening’s citrine light shone on a group of us. A tan-skinned female from a mid-Coast hiyek, two thin and languid males who claimed origin in the Rainbow Cities, and an older male who didn’t speak.
– that same citrine light, a Coast evening ten years gone: I see an Orthean girl sitting on the rim of a fountain, in gardens of stunted arniac and lapuur, her arms cradling a child perhaps a year old. She is pale-skinned, tan mane braided with beads, wearing the brown meshabi-robes and rope-belt of the Brown Tower. Just past ashiren, not more than sixteen. Her face is unsmiling, bent in concentration over the child that plays with her six-fingered hand.
‘There is one of this generation’s apprentices,’ says that old male, the Hexenmeister. ‘She has many of the memories stored in her mind. Another few years – when I die – and she may be Hexenmeister. And she’ll remember speaking with you, Christie, remember this moment as I do. And she will be me. As I am all who went before me.’ –
The memory is small and hard and clear, like a brightly-coloured pebble that I can take out and examine, and now put away. Because I have learned that it is only memory, not madness. I wondered if Doug will hear that an Orthean female is Hexenmeister now. Could the old male still be alive, after all this time?