IV ON RICKETY THISTLEWAITE
There is an ancient Terran word: rickety. It is not clear to scholars what this word meant exactly, but that it applied to Thistlewaite was undoubted. “Rickety Thistlewaite” had been its appellation from the beginning, from the days before even the First Ships set down. At least, if you can depend on their legends, which like everything else there, are shaky. The planet’s nature can be seen in its propensity to earthquakes. Somebody had forgotten to caulk the seams of her plates and they slip and slide with greasier abandon than they do on more gritty worlds. “As sturdy as a Thistlewaite skyscraper” is a proverb on half the planets of the South Central Periphery. The Thistles are not so mad as to build skyscrapers—and so the proverb does double-duty. What can be more sturdy than something left unbuilt, runs a Thistlean joke. A building never erected can never fall down. Ha, ha. But the Thistles have developed a keen sense of balance along with their mordant wit, and a fatalistic conviction that nothing can ever be done that will not eventually fail.
They have contrived no fewer than fourteen states in the tropic belt between the Mountains Acreeping and the River Everwinding, for their political structures are no more permanent than their architectural ones. There had once upon a time been a single state—an Empire, in a modest Thistlean fashion—but it, too, had collapsed.
“In the days of the gods, the seedships came,” begins an ancient story of theirs, the first of the Cautionary Books. Most of the Periphery takes the gods only half seriously, but on Thistlewaite they are taken wholly so. Of course, the gods are real—and they are absentminded and fumble-thumbed. How else to account for matters? Only the great sky gods—Einstein, Planck, Alfven—are steady and reliable. And who can blame them? The starry heavens above have alone not come crashing down upon them.
The harper and the scarred man disembarked the throughliner without exciting interest, and here the money that the Fudir had cast upon the steward—as well as a certain grip exchanged in the hand clasp—returned value a hundredfold. The steward had agreed to slip them into the exit queue as smoothly as the Fudir had slipped the buckshish into his palm; maintain otherwise the fiction that they were still aboard ship; and on arrival off Harpaloon see that their trunks were delivered to the Phundaugh Plough and Stars. Terrans would do anything for buck’ and sometimes even for Brotherhood.
It was three days down from Curling Dawn to Floating Hyacinth Platform in stationary station above Hifocal Big Town, the once-upon-a-time imperial capital. The bumboats and platform were operated by House of Chan, which contracted for port operations on any number of worlds. From Floating Hyacinth, ferries rose and fell to each of the Fourteen States.
Bridget ban had supervised the relief work from Jenlùshy, in Morning Dew sheen, where most of the devastation had occurred. “Sheens” were what the Thistles called their states, and Morning Dew was the literal translation of Jenlùshy. “Everything means something,” Méarana said, “if you dig deeply enough.”
Donovan believed that if you dug even more deeply, all meaning would vanish; but he did not share this thought with his companion, nor was he single-minded about it. The scarred man was said to be most disagreeable; but most of his disagreements were with himself.
They took the “high speed line” from the shuttle port into Jenlùshy. The train was slow when judged against those of less rickety worlds. There is a limit to the velocities one gambles when the land may ripple the monorail in surprising and undesired ways. On the other hand, there was a sense that the faster the trip, the less likely that a quake would catch the train along the way. Hence the motto of the Thistlewaite Bullet: “Hasten slowly.”
Jenlùshy had sat on the epicenter of the great thistlequake and two-thirds of the sheen had been knocked about like jackstraws and flinders. This in itself was no great thing. Many of the poorer buildings were routinely constructed of little more than paper reinforced by’ boo-poles. But the Palace had been made of sterner stuff, and the One Man, the Grand Secretary, and five of the Six Ministers had perished in its collapse. Across the countryside collapsing province-towns, mountain landslides, floods, and fires had swallowed two-thirds of the District Commissioners, along with half the dough-riders. In a state as highly centralized as the Jenlùshy sheen, that was the equivalent of a frontal lobotomy.
Some Administrative Commissions kicked like pithed frogs, but every decision a Jenlùshy official made required ratification by an official higher up—and most of the high-ups had been laid low. The praefect of the Eastern Marshes, on her own initiative, traveled to Hifocal Big Town in the next sheen over to ask for League help over the Ourobouros Circuit. She was publicly caned by the Eastern Marshes Surveillance Commission for this breach of filial subservience—it didn’t matter that there had been no superiors to be subservient to—but Bridget ban had arrived shortly after, took matters well in hand, and for nearly two years was, for all practical purposes, Empress of the Morning Dew.
She had overseen the restoration of sanitation, of water and utilities, of housing and roads, of public order, and did this primarily by providing in her own person an authority figure to whom the surviving Commissioners could give their devotion. The entire society was based on the Family writ large. The Eastern Marshes praefect had, in effect, gone looking for a mommy or daddy to kiss the hurt—and had been soundly spanked.
The late Emperor had clearly lost “the approval of the sky.” What more proof was needed beyond the descent of his replacement from that very sky? (Thistles knew that Bridget ban had arrived by ship in the normal fashion, but they read meaning into every concatenation.) A change of dynasty was called for, and Bridget ban chose Jimmy Barcelona, who had been Chief of Capital District Public Works Unit. At her suggestion, he selected the office name of Resilient Services and for his regnal theme, “a robust and reliable infrastructure.” It rang less glamorously than most regnal themes, but was surely apropos, all things considered.
The surviving Minister held a different opinion, but when he and three of the imperial censors opened debate by opening fire, he discovered that where a Hound was concerned the decorative could also be deadly. The vote was four to one against Jimmy, but Bridget ban had the one vote, and so he was installed and the others cremated.
No one could do business in Jenlùshy without the emperor’s permission. Certainly, no one could go about making a nosy nuisance of himself without what the Terrans called a “heads-up.” Normally, obtaining an audience with a Thistlewaite emperor was a long, laborious, and expensive affair. The recovery from the ‘quake was still in its final stages, and Resilient Services had better things to do than put on a show for Peripheral touristas. Donovan had counted on this as yet another delay to the harper’s journey, although he had by then given up on dissuading her entirely.
But if the visitor was the daughter of the very Hound who had placed the emperor on the Ivy Throne, doors swung open with disconcerting ease.
The Grand Secretary did insist that protocol be observed. A certain formality of dress was required, although the sumptuary details differed for folk from different worlds. Happily, the harper had brought with her several bolts of Megranomic anycloth, so the morning of the audience, she consulted Benet’s Sumptuary Guide to the Spiral Arm and programmed the material to assume the chosen color, cut, and texture.
The Fudir watched. “Technically,” he said, “we don’t need the One Man’s permission to enter the Corner.” There was a Terran Corner in most major cities across the Spiral Arm. Having been deprived of their home world, Terrans had found no home anywhere, and so could be found everywhere.
Méarana looked up from her ‘face. “We.’ Do you mean us, Terrans in general, or the mob inside your head?” Donovan’s use of the first-person plural was idiosyncratic.
“Oh, Terrans, memsahb.” The Fudir dropped into the patois that he sometimes affected. “Thistle see no many-folk-one-folk, but for Terries.”
She rolled her eyes. “Speak Gaelactic, Fudir. I can’t follow the j
ibber-jabber half the time.”
“You aren’t meant to, half the time. Corporate bodies, I mean. There are none here. No universities, no cities, no guilds, no medical societies.”
The harper inserted the datathread into the port and ran the program. The cloth began to ripple. “Dinna be silly. They have universities and doctors; and if this be nae a city we’re in, what is it?”
“A department of the imperial court. It takes more than a lot of people living close together to make a ‘city.’ Jenlùshy Town doesn’t govern itself. It isn’t recognized at law as an entity. The same goes for Imperial College: it’s a Department of the Grand Secretariat under the Third Minister. And doctors are employees of the Second Minister. It’s the Minister who sets rules and regulations, not a ‘medical society.’ The Terran Corners are the only places on the planet recognized as self-governing corporate bodies.”
“You sound proud of that.” She detached her clothing from the’ face and made way for the Fudir to sit down. “You want me to do your clothing for this afternoon?”
“You don’t think I can achieve ‘the appropriate level of formality’? Of course, I’m proud of it. It means that when I go to the Palace as a Terran, I have certain rights and liberties. So does a citizen-rancher from Dangchao.”
“I don’t get it, then. If we’re legally outside the imperial system, why the fancy getups for—what did they call the audience? High Tea?”
The Fudir grunted. “There’s law and there’s custom, and custom is the stronger. They may lack legal recourse if we dress uncouthly—but that doesn’t mean they have no recourse at all.”
The harper wore a leine of pure white linen with fitted sleeves, and intricate red geometric embroidery at the neck, cuffs, and hem. It was pulled up and Housed though a leather crios at the waist, in the pouches of which were placed the tools of the harper’s trade. Over this she had thrown a woolen brat in bright green with gold borders. She wore it like a shawl fastened at the right shoulder by a large golden brooch showing a snake entwining a rose. She walked unshod and the nails of her feet and hands matched the color of the embroidery of her leine. Her red hair fell free, to indicate her unwed status, but she wore a silver ollamh’s circlet at her brow.
The scarred man wore Terran garb, and if fewer eyes caressed him than caressed the harper, it was because he was a moon to her sun. He dressed in a dark yellow sherwani over embroidered jutti and matching kurta paijamas. His sandals were plain and of brown leather with golden crescents on the straps. The scars on his head were decently covered by a skullcap, and across his shoulder he had thrown a gharchola stole. Gold lac-bangles adorned his wrists and ankles, and rouge had reddened his cheeks. When he wanted to, the Fudir could cut a figure.
In the anteroom to the audience chamber, the Fudir bowed to the Grand Secretary, and said, in a croak resembling Thistletalk, “This miserable worm prays that these poor rags do not find disfavor in the eyes of noble Grand Secretary.”
That worthy went by the name of Morgan Cheng-li and was known therefore among the backroom staff as “Jingly” in a play on both his name and the sound of the coins that so often crossed his palm. He had that air of self-importance often found among underlings. His frog-like mien—pigeon-chested, eyes bulged, cheeks blown out—gave the impression that he had been holding his breath for a very long time.
The Fudir had learned from the Terrans in palace maintenance that Jingly fancied himself a calligrapher, and so he produced a Gladiola Bill of significant denomination. “Perhaps,” he said, ducking his head by an appropriate amount, “most-accomplished-one might give this humble servant educated opinion on engraving of this wretched bill?”
The Grand Secretary made a motion with his hands, and an underling’s underling scurried over, took the bill between her fingertips, and held it before Jingly’s eyes. “Barbarian work,” the latter said after a moment, using the local term for off-worlders. He placed a loupe in his right eye. “Not without merit, but lacking…” A wave of the hand. “…panache. Perhaps,” he added distastefully, “designed on computer.”
“Your eminence is wise.”
“Pfaugh. Child see such flaws. Observe portrait visage. Where serenity? Where balance?”
“Perhaps expert hand may attempt improvement. Perhaps, use this bill as model.”
“Pfaugh, again. Work for apprentice draftsman. No great skill. But one may essay task as étude.” A nod to the underling caused the bill to disappear into a fold of her gown before she scuttled back to her station.
At the appointed time, the Grand Secretary directed the Assistant Palace Undersecretary of Off-World Affairs to escort them into the throne room. “Rags?” the harper whispered in Gaelactic as they proceeded down the hallway. “After all the work I put into this wardrobe?”
“Self-deprecation is mandatory here,” Donovan answered curtly. The Fudir added, “You should see officials defer for places at a banquet table.”
“Och. Mother and I hold to a faith that values humility, but that sort of servility smacks of unseemly pride. And I thought off-worlders were exempt from the rules on bribes…”
“Do you tip service workers? A bribe is simply a tip offered before the service. Besides, I only asked his opinion on the calligraphy of a Gladiola Bill.” Donovan interrupted and said, “Hush, both of you. And remember what we told you. Don’t mention that your mother has vanished. She came from the sky; and if she’s vanished into the sky—”
“Then she’s lost the Approval of the Sky,” the harper returned wearily. “I know. I know.”
Donovan turned to her. “And through her, the emperor she appointed. Tell them your mother’s gone missing and it’s tantamount to a call for revolution. And don’t think old Frog-Face back there won’t lead it, either.”
At the Assistant Undersecretary’s nod, White Rod knocked on the Golden Doors with the head of a mace. These doors ran floor-to-ceiling and were made of intricately carved rosewood displaying in each panel scenes from the life of Morning Dew. The whole was painted over with a golden lacquer. Méarana admired the attention to fine detail: the studied indifference of the scholar at his terminal, the boredom on the face of a bhisti shuttle-pilot. There would not be the like of these doors anywhere in the Spiral Arm.
The doors swung open on a broad room. The throne on which Resilient Services perched was fashioned of solid gold. The stiles had been molded in the form of climbing ivy and from them on threadlike wires hung leaves of artfully tarnished copper. This gave them a greenish cast and, when movement caused them to sway, they tinkled like wind chimes. Under the throne, for some age-long and forgotten reason, rested a large stone. The high back rearing above the yellow-robed emperor, bore four ideograms: the motto of the sheen. “Behold the August Presence,” the Voice of the Sheen cried out. “Behold the Resilient Services Reign, who provides the sheen with robust and reliable infrastructure!”
Now there’s a battle cry to rally the troops, said the Brute.
It works for them. The earthquake destroyed so much. Why not make its restoration a quasi-sacred duty?
The Fudir scolded them. “Quiet. We’re not here to mock their customs.”
“Who,” the Voice demanded, “approaches the August Presence?”
The Fudir bowed, sweeping his arm to the right and holding his left over his heart. “I hight Donovan buigh of Jehovah, special emissary of the Particular Service to the Court of the Morning Dew. My companion is the ollamh Méarana of Dangchao, master of the clairseach.”
The emperor had gone, first pale, then flushed. “Ah. So,” he said. “You much resemble my illustrious predecessor, and I had thought… Ah, I had thought she had returned to resume her duties.” He clapped his hands and a flunky struck a hanging gong. “Bring forth the crumpets and scones!”
Underlings and flunkies scurried about in what appeared to be absolute confusion, but from which in short order emerged a table in the center of the hall, dressed with cloth, napkins, and fine bone-china cups. Three soft-b
acked chairs were arranged around it, and a silver tea service wheeled into place. A tray of biscuits, ceremoniously escorted, was placed on the table, and the visitors were shown to their seats. The emperor stood and descended from the Ivy Throne, unhooking his yellow robes of state and handing them to the Assistant Deputy Undersecretary, Count Wardrobe, who bundled, folded, and scurried off with an economy of motion.
Beneath his robes, the emperor had been wearing a simple day suit: a cutaway cloth coat of dark blue possessed of brass buttons over a plain buff waistcoat and matching pantaloons. His feet were shod in riding boots with golden spurs; and at his throat was gathered a stiffly starched cravat. He took the seat at the head of the table and, with a flick of his wrist, dismissed his ministers and staff. These scurried to the walls, where they stood in various poses pretending to converse with one another, but watching always for a summons from the Presence.
“Tea?” the Presence said, holding a cup under the samovar.
He proceeded through the ceremony with meticulous detail. One lump or two? Cream? Scone? Jam? Each motion practiced; each stir a precise radius and number of revolutions.
The Fudir supposed this was the Thistlean equivalent to the Terran ceremony of bread and salt. More elaborate, of course, in that mad and fussy Thistlean fashion.
When all had been served by the emperor’s own hand, Resilient Services intoned formally, “We shall now make small talk.”
The harper was uncertain how to begin; but the Fudir said easily, “How do matters stand since the great thistlequake, your imperial majesty? Recovery proceeding apace, I hope?”
“Oh, yes. Quite, thank you,” the emperor responded. “And for duration of Tea, you call me ‘Jimmy.’ Port Tsienchester not yet fully operational; but perhaps by end of sixmonth. You.” He pointed at the harper. “I mistake you for another. She, too, from Kennel. She give mandate to rule. How I curse that day.”
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