Donna rose and crossed the room, where she fiddled with her sundries on the vanity. “Is that the only reason I would have followed?”
“Isn’t it?”
“Do you suppose there ever was a Treasure Fleet?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Donna turned around in surprise. “Why not?”
“It only matters if Mother thought there was, and went looking for it. Remember the message Sofwari left on Harpaloon? We’ll find her down that path, whether a treasure lies at the end of it or not.”
“If you find her at the other end, would that not be treasure enough?”
The remark astonished the harper. But perhaps the Silky Voice had a gentler perspective on such things than Donovan. “I think…I think they had found a secret road somewhere in a place called California and they hoped to create a safe haven—colonies far to Rimward of the prehuman zone, from which they could strike the prehuman heartland from the rear.”
“And this secret road led them to the Wild? By the gods, girl! No wonder they call it the Wild! What could be wilder than such speculations?”
“But if there is…No wonder Mother went in search of it. What if there is a remnant out there of old Commonwealth technology? Something that would ‘ward us from the Confederation for aye.’”
The older woman grunted. “Like it warded the old Commonwealth? A great deal of hope to place in a couple of maybes and a fable.”
But Méarana was adamant. “Could a fable keep my mother from returning home? She is no fool. She must have known something else. There is something still out there. A Lost Colony—decayed, or devolved, or defunct—and this…” She brandished the medallion. “This is connected somehow.”
“Enter the Wildman, Teodorq Nagarajan.”
“Yes. He knows where these medallions come from and tomorrow he’ll tell me.”
Donna laughed—and Méarana thought she heard an echo of Donovan in the laugh. “He will tell you nothing. Your mother was no fool? Neither is he. What is your quest to him?”
“But, he told me…”
“He told you to come back tomorrow. His reasons are teleological. They are formed to an end—his end. He considers how he might delay that. So, he has not told the Boldlys where he hid the girdle. They delay the execution, hoping to learn. He tells you he knows where your medallion comes from. Maybe you have influence and can free him, or delay the execution. He doesn’t know that you do, but he doesn’t know that you don’t, either, and so the bet is worth the flyer. I don’t doubt he’ll play some similar game with those news people from Alabaster and Sumday He’ll put off his day of doom as long as he can with things like that. He’ll try to give everyone he comes in contact with some reason to stay the axe. He’s a clever sod. Don’t let that barbarian simplicity fool you.”
“Then, we have to rescue him.”
“Do we? Why?”
“Because he does seem to know something we need. Because being a man is not a crime.”
“It’s a crime here.”
Méarana looked the faux-woman in the eye and cocked her head.
Donna shrugged. “I never said I wasn’t a criminal.”
Méarana leaned her elbows on the writing table and rested her chin in her hands. “Now, how do we break him out? Security seemed rather loose. He could overpower the sergeant and walk out the front door.”
The old woman gazed toward the ceiling. “And how do you plan to take him off-planet? Buy tickets on the sky ferry to Charming Moon, maybe?”
“That’s Donovan speaking. There’s no need for sarcasm. Billy can rent a ship, bring it down to some agreed rendezvous, and haul us off. And then…”
“And then eight days’ crawl at least up to Stranger Station—where the the station police for the Joint Matriarchal Council will simply ignore our fugitive asses…? I don’t think so.”
“But actually, I was thinking of taking him legally,” Méarana said. “Maybe I can use my Kennel chit to commandeer him. That was how Greystroke pulled you off New Eireann.”
“You have a fairly broad definition of ‘legally.’ And while I admire the flexibility, remember your are not a Pup. I don’t know that the matriarch’s courts would hand him over to an ‘authorized representative’ with an expense chit.”
“You have a chit, too. Maybe if both of us…”
“Dame Teffna doesn’t have a chit, especially one that identifies her as Donovan buigh of Jehovah.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, dear. Oh. What you need is a ‘get out of jail free’ card.”
“A what?”
“A notarized League warrant, chopped by a Hound.”
Méarana slumped. “Where would we get one? Even if Greystroke is still on Yubeq…”
“He is.”
“…a swift-boat would need weeks to reach Siggy O’Hara and queue a message on the Circuit, and weeks for the O’Harans to swift-boat the answer back here…”
“Let me think.”
“And that’s assuming Greystroke gets the message and responds right away.”
“I said let me think!” Donna strode across the modest room and sat once more on the bed, where she fell into closed-eye silence. Méarana heard the other woman mutter under her breath in a tone that she recognized as Donovan’s. She rose and padded silently to the other side of the room, where she drew the curtain aside.
The sun was setting behind the hotel, throwing long shadows forward into Boditown, as if night were advancing on it in columns, like an army. It was a small town. Smaller than Jenlùshy, much smaller than Pròwenshwai, likely no larger than Preeshdad. But it was less ramshackle than either Preeshdad or Jenlùshy, the buildings solid, wider than they were tall, embracing central courtyards. Trees were plentiful, at least along the winding streets and in several parks visible from her vantage point, though sparser toward the red-lit horizon, where housing gave way to rolling grasslands and security bastions against the bad ones.
She heard Donovan say, “But we dare not draw attention to ourselves. We’ve only got the one.” And she turned from the window to see Dame Teffna rise from the bed and go to the ‘face on the writing desk.
“Do you have something?” she asked.
Teffna pulled from her scrip a standard brain, which she inserted into the receptor. “While I was changing into my dainty self back on Siggy O’Hara,” she said, “I sent a Circuit message to Greystroke. He heard back from Kàuntusulfalúghy, by the way. Sofwari last contacted the College of Scholars about eight weeks after Bridget ban dropped from sight. He was on Ampayam, heading out the Gansu Corridor to collect samples in the Wild. As far as they know, he never came back.”
“Then we should heigh for Ampayam as fast as e’er we can!”
“Don’t slip the leashes yet. First things first. There’s more than one world out the Gansu Corridor. Greystroke can’t leave Yubeq just yet, but he did send Little Hugh to Ampayam to suss things out. He also sent me a warrant.”
“A warrant! Then we can get Teodorq out of prison!”
“We could…except the warrant doesn’t say ‘Teodorq Nagarajan’ in the right places. I’ll have to make some changes the Gray One might not approve of. But if it works, we’ll be well away from here before the paperwork clears the Kennel. No Circuit station here.”
“Can we have it ready by tomorrow? I already set up an appointment.”
Dame Teffna shook her head. “I don’t know. It’s many years since I’ve practiced the skills. A League warrant is not the easiest thing to alter, and this is one world where I cannot call on the Brotherhood. There are any number of sisters in the Brotherhood, but I’d rather not lean on divided loyalties.”
Méarana had never seen Donovan so conflicted before. “I understand. If you’re caught…”
“If you are caught. I can’t present the warrant. My chit identifies me as Donovan, remember? That’s why I’m worried. If you present it and it doesn’t pass muster, then you’re for the women’s prison. It wasn’t supposed
to be this way. Vagosana! It wasn’t supposed to be this way.”
The harper suddenly understood. “Donna…Who was the warrant for?”
Without a word, Dame Teffna turned the screen of the face so that Méarana could see it. She leaned closer.
The warrant was “to secure the person of Donovan buigh of Jehovah and deliver him to the custody of Greystroke Hound or his Pup.”
Méarana turned to look into Donovan’s eyes. For once, they were steady. For once, all of Donovan was looking back. “This is…”
“I promised Zorba I would take care of you,” Teffna muttered. “I had to catch up and drop to Boldly Go with you. I had to visit the prison with you. I had to be close enough in case the bad ones came looking for fresh blood for their cloning tanks. Rama-rama!” She struck the desk. “What if one these tarka devis harm you? What I tell then Uncle Zorba, hey?”
Méarana reached out but Donna flinched, so she touched the screen gently instead. “This was your ‘get out of jail free card.’ In case your were exposed…”
“I would find some way of telling you where to find it and you’d throw some serious Kennel weight around and spring me.”
“So if you alter it to spring Teodorq…”
“Greystroke wouldn’t like writing a second one. He stretched a point to write this one. The Kennel doesn’t give them out as party favors.”
The harper shook her head. “You can’t take the chance. We can pick up clues to the medallion elsewhere.”
“Of course. But where? We could wander Lafrontera for years before we stumble on them. Besides,” and he entered a command even as he was speaking, for the Fudir’s skills at forgery did not require the Silky Voice’s silence, “Nagarajan deserves to be rescued for his own sake.”
Méarana cocked her head. “He does? Why?”
“He staged a panty raid on an entire planet on a drunken bet. A man like that belongs on a hopeless quest.”
They sat in a drab outdoor café whose striped canvas awning fended off the blistering midday sun. Lazy fans stirred the tepid air. The white strap-chairs and tables, the “spressaba,” and other tattered and faded equipment seemed to have come from their packing crates already sun-worn and in need of repair. Dame Teffna wore a white borke; Méarana, a more dignified cut. She had programmed the anycloth to a trim powder-blue coverall with tabbed pockets and epaulets. It was not a uniform, certainly not a Pup’s uniform, but it suggested that it might almost be one. She wore no insignia or patches. That would have been pushing matters too far. The Kennel would, in the Fudir’s words, “throw the book at her” if she crossed the line from “special representative” to “impersonating a Hound.”
“But,” said Dame Teffna, “the Boldlys may not be too clear on what a ‘special representative of the Kennel’ can do. So act as if it means more than it does. Act like the true quill. Show confidence, but try not to lie more than is necessary. The Kennel really does want to learn where Bridget ban was going when she…Where she was going. So it’s not a lie to say that the Kennel wants Nagarajan as a material witness.”
“Donna,” said Méarana, “I know how to act like my mother.”
The Fudir wagged his head. “I wish it were me going in. If they detect the forgery…”
“All the more reason why you can’t. Donna, I appreciate the risk you’ve taken for me.”
Dame Teffna lifted her coffee and the tasse vanished behind her face-veil. “What risk?” she said as she put it down. “You’re the one they’ll seize if my handiwork fails. That’s the hard part, you know. It’s not hard to risk yourself. It’s risking others that gnaws at you.” She toyed a moment with the empty tasse. “What time is your appointment?”
Méarana glanced at the Salon of Justice across the street. A heavy, three-storey building, it consisted of a central cupola and two wings. One wing housed the prosecuting magistrates, the other wing housed the police and their laboratories.
“It wouldn’t do to be late.”
“I know that.”
“Does Judge Trayza know why you made the appointment?”
“I told her dark it was Kennel business and let it go at that.”
“Good. Good. That helps create an air of importance. ‘Need to know,’ and all that.”
“I’m no fool.” With a brisk, snapping motion she opened a tunic pocket and pulled out a timepiece of the Die Bold style. “It’s time for me to go.”
“Is that set to metric time?” Die Bold and the other Old Planets famously preserved their ancient dodeka time scales in the face of not uncommon confusions with other League worlds.
“All three,” she said. “Doo-dah time, Taran Green Time, and it picks local time off the planetary tock.” She meant the satellite system that transmitted the standard times around Boldly Go. “Stop fretting. I’ll be fine.”
Judge Trayza Dorrajenfer was a tall, graceful woman, elegantly dressed in a flowing dark-blue robe and a gold filigreed circlet binding her hair. Her office was an airy room on the first floor of the north wing, adjacent to her courtyard. Everything was done in plaster or plastic or metal, except the desk and chair, which were wood imported from Kwinnfer in the forested northeast. In the corner stood a rack of spools that Méarana took to be law books. A small fountain emitted a fine spray that kept the room cooler than it otherwise would have been.
The judge came from behind her desk and took Méarana’s proffered hand between both of hers. “Welcome to my chambers, Méarana Harper,” she said, guiding her to a pair of shapeless bags which, to the harper’s surprise, turned out to be chairs. When she sank into the one indicated, it conformed itself to her contours.
“My, these are comfortable, your worship.” “Please. Call me Trayza. You’ve never seen smarticle chairs?” “I’ve heard of them, but I’ve never seen them. I’m surprised to find them here—”
“There may not be another set on all of Boldly Go. These are imported from Valency, where they are all the fashion. The smarticles are micron-sized particles, I am told, that use the same sort of techne as any cloth. That is an any cloth outfit you are wearing, isn’t it?”
Méarana had the judge pegged now. She had been born to money, and while she had the graciousness of her class, she also had more than her share of its conceits. In her first few sentences, she had alluded to her wealth in that indirect manner the wealthy had—There may not be another set on all of Boldly Go—and put Méarana in her place. Bolt-for-bolt, any-cloth was expensive, but a full, dedicated wardrobe was the mark of class.
“Why, yes,” she told the judge, fingering a sleeve. “Where I go, it can be important to travel light. On my estate on Dangchao…”
“Dangchao belongs to Die Bold, does it not?” the judge asked. “I’ve always wondered if there were some ancient connection between your world and ours.”
Méarana doubted that, but she would not secure Nagarajan by debating demographics with the judge. “I really don’t know much about the migration era. There is a science-wallah drifting about the Periphery collecting facts that may answer that question. I think he may have stopped on Charming Moon to swab cheek samples.”
“Him? Everyone thought he was mad. There was a woman, about ten or twelve weeks earlier, asking about him. She was a League marshall, so when this wallah bike showed up, we thought she had meant to take him into cutody for his own safety.”
“The League marshall—the Hound—did you meet her?”
“Me?” Trayza laughed. “I am only a simple servant of the courts. We don’t see many Hounds here, so everyone was chattering about her. There was talk of a reception. But she landed in Nest Admantine on the western plateau, and the bad ones had cut the monorail line out of the mountains. So…What may I do for you, mistress harp?”
Méarana handed over the brain and a print copy of the warrant. “I have been requested by Greystroke Hound to secure a prisoner in your custody.”
The judge did not glance at the print copy. “Let me guess. The Wild-man, Nagarajan. You visite
d him two days ago.” Méarana was not surprised. Boditsya did not run a surveillance state, but that did not mean they lacked the means to discover where she had gone since landing.
“Yes,” said Méarana. “We—that is, the Kennel needs him as a material witness in a case.”
The judge grunted and held the print copy of the warrant. “What is the case, if I may ask.”
“Ah, this is embarrassing…”
The other woman made a face. “No need to rub my nose in it.”
“They don’t tell me everything, either,” Méarana said to take out some of the sting. “The warrant came to Siggy O’Hara because I was coming this way.” Donovan often said that the truth was the best sort of lie, and she understood now what he had meant.
“The Kennel is using harpers now?”
Méarana shrugged. “You know how thin the Kennel is spread. They often use auxiliaries for minor tasks. I happened to be in the right place, and I had a special advantage.”
“Really. What advantage does a harper have for the Kennel?”
“My mother is a Hound. You almost met her when she was here.”
The judge retreated a little in her bag chair. “The case involves her?”
“Yes, but you will understand that I can tell you no more than that.” Leave the matter vague, the harper told herself. Bridget ban had come to Boldly Go asking after Sofwari. Later, Sofwari appears. Then the Wild-man comes, apparently on a feckless adventure. Shortly after, the daughter of Bridget ban comes with a warrant chopped by Greystroke demanding the person of that very Wildman. Greystroke could not have known of Nagarajan’s imprisonment when he wrote the warrant. And that meant the Kennel really had intended to pick him up before he had even landed on Boldly Go. Perhaps the Wildman had deliberately gotten himself imprisoned to escape the Hounds—only to find he had jumped from the kettle to the fire.
Méarana let these thoughts circulate unspoken. It was a tissue of misdirection, and a tissue will bear not too much weight. Such things are more persuasive the less they are stressed, and when they hold just enough truth to give them substance.
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