Ancient Light

by Mary Gentle

  ‘Those figures are open to other interpretations. The essential thing is that, by causing some unavoidable suffering, which the Company deeply regrets, we have put an end to the possibility of an all-out native civil war.’

  Doug Clifford shook his head. ‘Not clever.’

  ‘Sometimes they sink themselves,’ the WEBcaster said; and his holo-image went on smoothly:

  ‘I understand there is a native force of some seven hundred ships now on a course for the northern continent. Commander, isn’t this that “all-out civil war” you’ve been trying to avoid?’

  ‘I have no comment to make at this stage; I suggest that you contact the acting Company representative.’

  ‘Thank you, Cory,’ I muttered. As the image dissolved into an interior shot, whose curved brown walls I recognized as Ashiel Wellhouse, I glanced up at Lutaya. ‘This is a ’cast I’ve seen and approved?’

  ‘The tidied-up version.’

  No Mehmet Lutaya in this shot, only the image of a woman: fair-haired, approaching forty, in coveralls with the PanOceania logo – that’s never me, I thought. As I always think. She sits on one of the Wellhouse’s couch-chairs, face too seriously intent; there are lines of age on that face that I never see in my mirror.

  ‘Ms Christie, you’re the acting representative of the PanOceania multicorporate on this world, following the murder of Representative Molly Rachel. Can you tell me what Company policy is in the current war situation?’

  ‘Firstly, I would like to make it clear that this isn’t a war situation – we have had some hostile incidents, which our policy is to contain wherever possible.’

  Doug raised his head from the tank. ‘Now who’s simplifying issues? Not to mention a degree of obfuscation …’

  ‘I have to get this stuff past the Security staff on the orbiter, you know.’

  Now the holotank image showed Lutaya, sitting across from me as I remembered:

  ‘In your view, Ms Christie, what caused these “incidents”?’

  ‘In my view – purely and simply: poverty. This is a world of people living in the margins. Living in the few areas that weren’t reduced to sterile bedrock, thousands of years ago. There have never been many areas of Orthe that could support communities – and in some that have done, in the past, it’s just not possible now. The land is exhausted. Particularly on the southern continent, which is where the fleet you mentioned originates.’

  ‘Could have done with better editing there,’ Lutaya said dispassionately.

  ‘And yet there was no war until PanOceania started its operations on Orthe.’

  ‘Earth technology upset the social system – triggered off what would have happened eventually, as more and more communities reached the poverty line. Yes, that’s true. It’s also true that Earth technology can put this right – with a properly-funded Aid Programme to the starving areas.’

  ‘Is that possible now?’

  ‘You could hardly ask for a better cue,’ Douggie observed.

  I watched that image of myself pause, and had time to think, Too pompous, too ingenuous. And hope that what I said carried enough overt support of the Company to pass through intact the covert criticism.

  ‘It’s possible, if we can halt the fighting … Orthe’s social balance is so delicate, so artificial – after all, there are very few post-holocaust societies in existence – that it can take hardly any outside contact. We’re considering this very carefully. By “we”, I mean the British government, my Company, any other multicorporates in this sector, and of course the Ortheans themselves –’

  ‘Of course,’ said Haltern, silkily.

  ‘– and it may be that some restrictions may have to be made. Carrick V may need a Protected World Status. PanOceania doesn’t wish to be responsible for inflicting severe culture shock on an alien hominid civilization.’

  Too busy thinking, Why didn’t I just tell them we’ve done terrible damage, and we’re desperately trying to put it right; I didn’t register the image-change until I heard Pathrey Shanataru’s sharp intake of breath – he, and Haltern n’ri n’suth Beth’ru-elen. The ‘tank snowed with interference, that only cleared slightly, but it was enough to show this for a satellite-image of the wasteland to the west of the Ai River. The silver gleam of sterilized bedrock: the Glittering Plain. Lutaya’s voice spoke over the image:

  ‘Serious as the situation may seem, it isn’t the whole story. The Orthean situation began with the discovery of Witchbreed Old Technology. This is one of the continent-wide areas of submolecular devastation, left by the use of unimaginable alien weapons, millennia ago. I asked a senior member of the research team, Ravi Singh, about the possibility that this technology also exists in a functional state.’

  ‘Did you clear this one through me? I don’t remember it.’

  Mehmet Lutaya shrugged, not looking away from the holotank image. Ravi’s dark features appeared, against what I took to be the comlink-dome on Kumiel Island.

  ‘Professor Singh, isn’t it possible, as other examples of working alien technology have been found on Orthe, that the technology to create this destruction also exists?’

  One look at Ravi’s face made me wince. Why not pick Chandra, I thought; or any other member of the Company team? Why pick the most conservative man in PanOceania?

  ‘I’m afraid you have more than one misconception there, as is not uncommon with WEBcasts. A technology cannot exist without its hinterland – without the society that trains its members, so that they can create the industries – mining, manufacturing – that in turn can create the actual technological devices. All of that is gone, on Carrick V.’

  There was a grin from the aquiline-featured Chandra, on my left, who murmured, ‘Once a lecturer, always a lecturer …’

  Lutaya’s image persisted:

  ‘Your research team has found artifacts in working condition, that date from approximately two and a half thousand years ago. Why shouldn’t weapons have survived?’

  ‘Even if that were possible, which I strongly doubt, the knowledge to use such technology is lost.’

  ‘Professor Singh, the southern continent has a functioning canal and water-purification system, dating from at least two thousand years ago, which the local population seem to have no difficulty in operating.’

  ‘That was never proven.’

  Ravi’s expression shifted from irritation to a kind of smug regret:

  ‘Unfortunately, with the tragic attack on Dr Rashid Akida, Company research records have been lost. However, I can assure you, no evidence was discovered to prove that the canal-system isn’t operated purely by rote, handed down in that oral culture.’

  The image changed from Ravi to Lutaya, the WEBcaster standing on Kumiel, a blue and daystarred sky behind him.

  ‘That’s how the situation stands today, with the –’

  ‘T’an Christie.’

  I looked up from the holotank, half-dazzled by its bright images; and at first couldn’t make out who had interrupted me. Then I glanced down, and saw the black-maned ashiren standing in the doorway: Cassirur’s child. Ke gazed up at the group of us with a remarkable self-possession.

  ‘What is it, ashiren-te?’

  ‘There is a messenger to see you, t’an.’ The child looked at the others who stood in that sunlit, dusty room; the Ortheans and the humans. ‘It’s the t’an S’aranth that the message is for.’

  ‘I’ll come down.’

  ‘I’ve got on-the-spot ’casts from the Morvren Freeport settlement.’ Lutaya keyed the ‘tank on hold. ‘I’ve also got some of the Home World WEBs’ reactions.’

  ‘That’s what I want to see – I’ll be back in a few minutes. Douggie, if you’ll excuse me …’

  He smiled, and inclined his head; and I heard their voices start up as the bead-curtain slid back into place behind me, and I followed the ashiren down the interior steps of Westhill-Ahrentine to the ground-floor rooms.

  33

  Mutable Shadows

  Intrigue in t
he telestres is second nature so I gave no thought to this request for a private meeting, except to run through the names of those T’Ans that might wish to gain some advantage from PanOceania’s representative – which was all of them. The ashiren darted down the steps and through the bead-curtain that led into the ground-floor kitchen. These rooms are slate-floored, cool even in Tathcaer’s summer; and I walked through into the main one, past l’ri-an busy with preparations for the midday meal. The bead-curtain of the outer door was tied back. Tendrils of kazsis-nightflower curled round the wooden frame.

  And a woman with skin as black as jet leaned up against the larger table, and reached across it to pick up a sweetmeat which she passed to the child: ‘Thank you, ashiren-te. Give you greeting, Christie.’

  One of Kasabaarde’s soft leather masks covered her face. She fumbled at the strings with her single hand, and then pulled free; shaking her head and that cropped black mane. She grinned. Eyes as yellow as sunlight … Now she stood, and harur-nilgiri and harur-nazari clashed; both slung at her shoulder for left-hand draw. She wore a plain shirt and britches, that could have been any mercenary’s gear. Her feet were bare and calloused.

  ‘Are you out of your mind?’ I said.

  ‘Tethmet just asked me that.’ Ruric reached across the table again, picking up a handful of kiez-fruit and stuffing them in her mouth. She said indistinctly, ‘Let’s go outside. We’re less liable to be interrupted.’

  ‘You are out of your mind.’

  ‘Which one?’ And she grinned again. ‘Let’s say, a lot of my past-memories are of your opinion. I think differently. We shall see.’

  About to follow her out into the courtyard, I suddenly stopped. ‘But Tathcaer – you can’t be seen in Tathcaer.’

  She stopped in the doorway, turning her head; and the sun outside made her a silhouette of brilliant blackness. Her face was shadowed. Those ten years lay heavily on her: she is not the T’An Commander now, or the T’an Melkathi who was named in the great Square below the Citadel, here in the white city, Tathcaer.

  ‘I don’t plan to be here long. And I’ve spoken with the T’An Suthai-Telestre. With Nelum Santhil Rimnith …’ She chuckled. There was a kind of amazement in it. As she turned to go out of the door, she indicated a tray of siir-wine and ceramic bowls. ‘Bring those, will you? I need a drink, if you don’t.’

  ‘But …’

  By the time I carried the tray out to the table in the courtyard, the dark Orthean woman had seated herself there in the ziku’s shadow, and was taking no apparent notice of the fenborn male who stood before her.

  ‘– have a responsibility; you should never leave the Tower! What if you’re killed?’

  ‘I have apprentices in the Tower still.’ Ruric Hexenmeister glanced up, staring at the upper-storey windows, and at the daystarred sky; and membrane slid down lazily over those yellow eyes. She leaned back against the ziku’s trunk. Her mane, that had grown a little longer, fell back from her forehead, and I saw the puckered scar of the exile’s brand. As if she felt my gaze, she smiled; and her eyes cleared.

  ‘You think I’m mad to come here? The young ashiren and l’ri-an won’t know me, and I wear the mask in the city. Your s’arantki, of course, won’t care who I am.’ She gestured with that single hand, and I sat down opposite her. ‘Is there anyone here in the Residence I have to worry about?’

  Thinking aloud, I said, ‘The Harantish, Pathrey Shanataru, he’s never met you – or heard you, I suppose. Then – Ruric, Hal’s here, Haltern Beth’ru-elen.’

  The fenborn male looked at her with as plain an “I told you so” as I’ve ever seen on an Orthean face. He turned his back on us, staring at the arched courtyard entrance; disapproval in every line of that skeletal body. Ruric began to pour siir-wine. Her face had changed. She said softly, ‘I’ll see Haltern before I go.’

  ‘Ruric –’

  ‘No,’ the Orthean female said. ‘If I were Ruric, I wouldn’t be here. It’s because I’m Hexenmeister, and because, for years immemorial, the Hexenmeister has had some influence over the hiyek-families – and even, it may be, influence over the Kel Harantish Witchbreed.’

  Sitting here, the noise of the city came plainly to me; and the voices of the young Ortheans in the kitchens, and someone in the distance singing one of the atonal Dadeni songs. Hot, dusty; and I thought how much hotter and barren it is to the east, where Calil’s fighters and the hiyek guerrillas wait in Melkathi – wait for the ships that sail on a south-west wind.

  ‘When did you leave the Tower?’

  ‘A week past – no, eight days,’ she corrected herself. ‘My people brought me word of hiyek ships in the Archipelago, and rumours that Morvren would be attacked. That I thought might come. Then I had word from Annekt, in Kel Harantish. He said: the city is deserted, the bloodlines are gone, crept out in Coast jath in the hours of darkness; Calil bel-Rioch, who would be Santhendor ’lin-sandru, is gone from Kel Harantish …’

  She lifted the siir-bowl and drank, put it down, and wiped her mouth on her wrist. There was a sardonic humour on that dark face.

  ‘I’ve left the Tower to come and argue with the Harantish Witchbreed – which is the act of a fool, I don’t doubt, but what else can I do? I am Hexenmeister. All the weapons I have are words. What weapons Calil bel-Rioch might have – that is what frightens me. I suspect she has none, but can I take the chance?’

  Something dawned on me at that point. I waited until I caught her gaze, and said, ‘I’m not going to tell you you acted wisely in coming back to Tathcaer. Particularly when four-fifths of the reason isn’t that at all, but because the Hundred Thousand’s being attacked – am I right?’

  That pointed chin came up, and she stared at me with the arrogance of the Hundred Thousand; the look that Dalzielle Kerys-Andrethe used to wear as T’An Suthai-Telestre. All humour gone, she said, ‘What makes you think you should tell me anything?’

  ‘I don’t know. I never could tell you much. Not that you’d listen to, anyway.’

  Her mouth, drawn into a tight line, twitched unwillingly; she deliberately looked away, staring at the upper windows, and then she snorted; threw her head back with a bark of laughter, and swore. Amari S’aranth! Of all the Motherless offworlders –’

  ‘You’re being too reckless. Taking too much of a risk.’

  ‘No more than anyone else.’ The dark Orthean woman sat, shade-dappled: points of light brilliant on the hilts of harur-blades. She glanced at Tethmet’s stubborn back. He gazed across the small, dusty courtyard, oblivious. She smiled. ‘There are others who can take my place.’

  ‘No.’

  Her gaze fell. Those yellow eyes clouded; cleared; and she shot me a look that made me think, What did she hear me say? And wonder, myself. In the moment’s silence that followed, I took a sip of siir-wine. Its acrid taste dragged me into the present, out of memories that are eight years gone.

  ‘I’m undecided … whether to go back to Rimnith and Keverilde, or to try to contact the hiyek fleet. They should be south of the Medued estuary now. What do you think?’

  She reached up with long dark fingers, knotting her empty sleeve more securely. That six-fingered hand paused to rub, as if amputated flesh still pained her after all these years; and the white sunlight wiped all the lines of age from her face.

  ‘Speak with the families sailing jath and jath-rai. I’ll come. I’ll want to see your s’aranthi records first.’ She smiled. ‘S’aranth-te, yes. I would like you to tell me: this is the right action for the Hexenmeister.’

  Then the smile slipped, and it was a solemn child’s face that for a moment I saw: the amari child run off from its telestre and come to the white city, thirty years ago. She looked up, yellow eyes under dark brows. On a shaky, indrawn breath, she said, ‘Tell me you think it’s right, Christie. You might help convince me. There – we – I couldn’t not come.’

  And at that moment, when she should have been most Ruric, I found myself tongue-tied because of those other, ancient memories; th
e other lives of the Hexenmeister, that I sensed in her. I opened my mouth; could think of nothing to say.

  ‘Master,’ the fenborn warned quietly.

  Movement disturbed the empty courtyard: the bead-curtain at the top of the outer stairs was pushed aside. The dark figure of Pathrey Shanataru appeared; and with him, Haltern, leaning on his hanelys cane, and peering myopically out into the sunlight.

  ‘Is that the Empress’s Voice?’ Ruric asked. I nodded. She stood, pushing back the couch-chair, that scraped across the paving-stones. Her one hand looped the soft leather mask over her head, hiding yellow eyes behind dark eyeshields. All her attention was on that old Beth’ru-elen male: sleek, stooped, the white wisp of mane. I wished that I could see her face now.

  ‘Talk with the Voice of the Empress,’ she said, standing with that crook-shouldered fighter’s balance; and at her voice, even kept low, I saw Haltern’s head come up. She for a moment rested her hand on my shoulder, and then she walked across the courtyard and up the steps.

  Pathrey moved aside. I saw Hal frown, half reach out a hand and let it fall back; deep lines of bewilderment on that bland face. Ruric reached the top of the steps. They stood for a full minute in Tathcaer’s white sunlight. Then, together, they went inside.

  Argument with Cory Mendez occupied me for the better part of an hour, through a snatched meal; interrupted by discussion with Douggie, and with Pathrey Shanataru. The comlink-contact with the Freeport proved fuzzy. All I could get from Cory were protests about Company Security.

  ‘It isn’t merely hazardous, it’s foolhardy,’ she said. Her holo-image flickered: a rumpled, white-haired woman in the cabin of an F90 shuttle. ‘You’ll end up dead, or held hostage; and Company policy with a hostage situation is to refuse any co-operation. Lynne, this is a local situation. It is not one in which the Company should interfere.’

  ‘It’s a situation that the Company created.’

  Her gaze dropped. Part of the mulish stubbornness faded. She said reluctantly, ‘My people will complete an image-analysis for you. Lynne, I wish you’d reconsider.’