by Jo Clayton
We, Karrel Goza thought, that’s interesting. He didn’t say anything, just followed Birey Tipis through the tavern’s swing door.
3. Four months after the Duzzulka flight.
Speakers Circle/Ayla gul Incl.
Karrel Goza rubbed his back against the stone of the wall, watched the clot of heavily robed men mill about atop the minaret, a thirty-foot-tall column of stone with a round shingled roof rising to a graceful point above the broad arches that went round the speaker’s platform. He was listening to the talk around him, soft muttered voices punctuated with slitted suspicious glances at everyone else, angry voices, kept murmurous by the fear that a wrong word at a wrong time was deadlier than poison, a fear justified by the events of the past months; almost everyone knew someone who’d vanished as quietly and completely as a sailor washed overboard in a summer storm; almost everyone thought he or she knew why. There was the unexpressed hope that the missing were in prison somewhere not dead; there was the equally unexpressed fear that they’d been airshipped out over the ocean and dropped in Saader’s Cleft.
Geres Duvvar came threading through the crowd in the Circle, in each hand a paper cone smudged with grease from the estani nuts inside. He gave a cone to Karrel Goza who moved over so his cousin could lean against the wall beside him. “You got some change coming, Kar. There was a little war going on over there ’tween the peddlers.”
Karrel Goza grunted, dug cautiously into the hoard of hot nuts.
Geres Duvvar swallowed. “Hurry up and wait, huh.” He waggled the cone at the group on the speaker’s platform.
“Yeh. Don’t look like there’s much good to say or they’d be saying it.”
The clacker sounded, the crack of wood against wood reverberating through the dull mutter of the crowd. Silence spread like fog.
The Stentor separated from the other robed men, spread his arms. “Sim, O Kisil, sim sen, Hear o People, hear thou. Thy Ollanin return to report the outcome of their petition.” There was a pause. Behind the Stentor one of the Ollanin murmured to him. He nodded, faced out again. “Sorrow, sorrow, the petition was heard, the petition was denied.”
The crushed nut in Karrel Goza’s mouth was suddenly bitter. He spat it out, ignoring the scowl of the woman whose skirts he spattered with the bits. Geres Duvvar beat his hand slowly steadily against the stone, cursing under his breath.
“Sim, O Kisil, sim sen. This is the Imperator’s reply. Let those among you who are needy apply to the Houses for bread and work.”
A groan rose from the crowd.
“Sim, O Kisil, sim sen. If you who are needy are turned away, give word to the Fehdaz. Every House and every Farm who turned you away will be assessed two score rosepearls or the equivalent in tapestries and art pieces.”
A swelling of sound, with a double center, on one side those who have, on the other those who have not.
“Sim, O Kisil, sim sen. Two of thy Ollanin lifted their hearts against this and spoke. The Divine one cast them down into a dark and stinking cell. The Ollanin who murmured but spoke not, the Divine one had them taken from him and sealed into their rooms. For two days, thy Ollanin saw not the sun nor the moons, for two days thy Ollanin drank only water, for two days thy Ollanin tasted not bread nor meat.”
Rising-falling moan filled with fear and rage.
“Sim, O Kisil, sim sen. The Divine One spake unto your Ollanin thus: It has come to me that the merm beds and the rosepearls are a State resource. It has come to me that it may be wrong for such a resource to remain in the hands of Families, not the State. Be warned, O Kisil, thus the Divine one spake, I will cease my wondering for this moment, I will not act as my heart requires if I am not stirred to it by thy unruly importunities.
“Sim, O Kisil, sim sen. And then it was that the Divine one cast at the feet of thy Ollanin the two of them whose hearts had rebelled. And then it was the Divine One spake again: Take these and let me not see them, let me not hear their names, let them be as nothing in my sight and thine.
“Sim, O Kisil, sim sen. Thy Ollanin have come to thee in sorrow, ashes in their hair and heart, thy Ollanin say to thee, we have failed thee, what is thy will?”
The Stentor folded his arms and stepped back. Robes pulled tight about them, cowls drooping over half-hidden faces, the Ollanin started down the stairs. When they reached the pavement, the crowd in the Circle, silent, impassive, gave way before them, opening a corridor so they could cross the Circle and pass into the Fekkri. They didn’t wait for an answer, they wouldn’t get it then; that was coming three days later. Karrel Goza and Geres Duvvar wouldn’t bother coming back to hear it. At least the City Ollanin had tried to help, that was more than the Fehdaz had done. He was old and sick and about to die, his sons had died before him (there were rumors about that, how they died and why, Incers were very nervous about the character of the next Fehdaz), his grandsons and the Nephew were all there waiting like vultures, no one in the place bothering their heads about anything else.
Karrel Goza counted the coins in his hand, closed them in his fist. “Gidder’s should be open by now. What about a beer?”
Geres Duvvar slipped his watch from its pocket, clicked it open. “Do we have time? Old Niffiz is getting touchy about checking in.” He shut the watch, shoved it back. “He’s Immel. He’s got a thing about us in Goza-Duvvar-Memeli. You don’t want to give him an excuse to boot us, not the way things are these days.”
“May he fall in yunkshit up to his honker.” Karrel Goza put the coins away. “Let’s get back. That wormy old skink won’t give an inch.”
4. Ayla gul Inci/Waterfront/one year and six months after the return of the petitioners.
The bay was gray and leaden, an echo of Karrel Goza’s mood. He took out the notice, reread the single line of print. His head throbbing with resentment and fear, his body cold and sick with the horrible emptiness of failure, he tore the paper into small hairy pieces and dropped them into the water. One breath he was angry at Geres Duvvar for holding onto his job with Sirgыn, the next he was dead ash, wondering how he was going to tell the Ommar he was a drag on the Family, not a support. Out on the bay he saw boats coming in. He straightened, stared. He’d played in these waters when he was a baby; when he was older, he’d taken girls out sailing if he could talk a cousin into lending him a boat; he knew enough of the sea’s caprices and her moods to understand what he was seeing. There was a bad blow coming. He watched the gray waters heave beneath the pier and hated her, Mother of Storms, treacherous unfeeling bitch, stealing from him his last respite from shame. He had to get back to the House and help tie down for it, no time to get a little drunk to pillow the pain. He cursed softly, bitterly, cursed Sirgыn and the Huvved, the Kabriks and their obsession with new products, the mushbrained Imperator and his mushbrained advisors, the Fehrazes and the Fehdazes, the city council, the sneaks and most of all the alien slaves who made all this trouble for workers.
“They are that.” A girl’s voice.
He swung around. “What?”
“You heard. What happened, you laid off?”
He looked her over. She was small and dark, brilliant eyes, not exactly pretty, but coming into a room she’d be the first you noticed. The fine wandering scarlines on her arms were very white against the dark gold of her tan. A Dalliss. No one ever completely tamed a Dalliss even when her diving days were finished. His mouth curled down with dislike, but he touched eyes and mouth and spread his hands in polite acknowledgment of her presence. “Blessings, Dalliss.” He turned and started past her.
“Oh my, the little man’s soul is bruised.” She closed her fingers about his arm, said, “You’re a pilot. I need a pilot.”
“For what?” Disgusted with the leap of hope he couldn’t help, he pulled free. “Storm coming. I’m going home.”
“Couple hours before you need to start tying down. Stop a while and give me a listen, you might like what I’m going to say.” She stepped back from him, swung herself onto a bitt and sat kicking her bare heel
s against the agatewood, watching him with a hard bright expectation that sent warning tremors along his spine.
He lowered himself to the planks and sat with his legs hanging over the edge, his back against another bitt. “Job?”
“Not for taking home to Ommar. We could come up with some coin if you’ve got to have it.” She swept her arms wide, waggled her small slim hands as if to say you can have what you want, it doesn’t matter long as you do the thing. Whatever the thing was.
She had beautiful hands, he noticed that with a small jolt of surprise, delicate, supple wrists. And fine ankles. Like a lot of women these days, she’d taken to wearing trouserskirts, wide-legged things made out of the new yosscloth, its silky flow clinging to her legs in a way he found exciting. The top she wore was a tube knitted from black kes yarn, it had a square neck, no sleeves, she wanted to display her arms with their scars, the badge of her achievement. Used to be pearlers wore long sleeves and lace mits to hide the merm marks. Not this one. He found himself approving her pride. He looked away, frowned out across the heaving water. “Just tell me what it is.”
“Remember Jamber Fausse?”
He started, went still. “Why?”
“Show you I know a thing or two. You lifted him South after he hit the Fehraz Ene Karrad’s strongroom and dropped half the coin to the Kiks that Karrad pushed off his Raz. You’ve been a busy little man the past few months.
The cold was back in his bones; he stared at the water and said nothing.
“No need to sit there shivering like an ishtok out of water, Karrel Goza. This isn’t a noose about your neck. If you don’t want to fly for us, forget it.”
He turned his head. She was leaning toward him, hands braced on her knees, taut, eager, willing him to accept the proposition she hadn’t yet made. He was interested; it would be immensely satisfying to hit back at something instead of going meekly home to mama., “Same sort of business?”
“Not quite. This could get you killed. The pilot we had before is in Saader’s Cleft. No, the bitbits didn’t drop him there. He died. We didn’t want some asslicking official eager to make points getting curious about how that happened. He was shot, bad, but he got us away and the ship home before he died.” Her eyes were suddenly bright with tears. “He was…” Impatiently she scrubbed the tears away. “Could happen to you. So?”
“You’re the ones.”
“What?”
“You’re the ones that hung the Nephew naked from the minaret. Painted insults on him hair to heels. I wondered how someone got him there without being caught. You fixed him up in his paint and harness, I suppose, and waited until Ruya and Gorruya were down; then you dropped the noose over the roofpeak and left him dangling. Ktch! your pilot must’ve had Pradix’s hand on his neck to operate blind in that battlerose of winds.”
“He did, besides there isn’t a man alive or dead who can match his touch.”
“Wish I’d seen it. Geres Duvvar was home, he told me about it, he said the Fehdaz was howling mad. Not that he liked the Nephew that much, it was the idea that some Hordar would have the nerve to lay hands on one of his Family. On one of the holy Huvved. Ktch!”
“Herk the Jerk. Yeh. He wanted to top every Hordar he could get his hands on, but his Sech talked him out of it.”
“Old Grouch? I’d have thought he’d be sharpening his ax for Hordar necks.”
“He’s scared of a Surge. You’ve been away a lot. I don’t think you really know how bad things are getting.”
“Hmm. So, what are you plotting now?”
She scratched at her forearm, rubbed a bare foot against the bitt. “Herky Jerky’s been hatching ideas again. Three months he’s had his hands on the Daz, he keeps thinking that ought to mean something, but every time he has a flash, Old Grouch digs the ground out from under him. I suppose he’s tired of it. From what we could find out, he maneuvered so the Grouch had to go to Gilisim Gillin to talk to the Grand Sech. Soon as the old man’s back was turned, Herk snatched some Farm boys who’d come in to gul Inci to visit relatives and carted them off somewhere, who knows why. Probably something to do with merm beds and rosepearls. Doesn’t matter what maggot he has in his head, we’ve got to pull them out. It was just luck, really, finding out what happened to them, a friend of mine was over the wall meeting me, we saw the bitbits make a snatch; we were too far away to stop it, but we managed to follow them to where a miniship was moored. They shoved the boy in the gondola and left. We thought about trying to get him out, but there were more bitbits around guarding the airship. No way we could reach it. Next day some other friends of mine managed to find out who was gone and where they might be. Some others and me, we’re going in after them, but we need a pilot. That’s it, that’s what we want you for.”
“In where?”
“Mountain Place.”
“I’ve flown out of Inci in that direction. Not over the Place. The winds there are tricky. It’s the steam out of the crater that does it. Fehdaz’s pilots know the currents; even so they pick their way and go in round noon when things’re quieter. What’s your ship like?”
“A mini.” She grinned at him. “Used to belong to Herk.”
“Hmm. The instruments?”
“Crude and crudest. That’s how Muhar Teget described them.”
“I didn’t know he was still alive.”
“He’s not. He’s the one in the Cleft.”
He gazed at her a long time, then looked away. “Get me fired?”
“No.”
“You followed me here.”
“Yes. I was going to see if you were off for a few days and might be able to fly for us. Muh said after him you were the best on Tairanna.” She combed her hands through her hair, spread them again, waved them; she seemed to like waving her hands about, maybe someone told her sometime they looked like little white birds. “Pushing my Luck,” she said. She dropped her hands into her lap, laced her fingers together. “I saw you shred that paper and made a guess, that’s all.”
“You know my name.”
“Ah.” Her mouth twisted into a half-smile. “That’s a bit of a difficulty.” She searched his face for a moment, then shrugged. “Why not, Grouch knows me well enough, he doesn’t need a name. Elmas Ofka, Family Indiz-Ofka-Tanggаr, Farm Indiz.” She hesitated, shrugged again. “Divorced, outlawed.”
He’d half suspected who she was, but it was a shock all the same. Elmas Ofka. They said she killed a Huvved who thought he was going to rape her, sank a knife in his belly and opened him up like a yunk carcass. He’d always thought that was somebody’s dream, that she probably stole some pearls or sassed a touchy tribute-collector. Every now and then the Huvveds got antsy and took hunting parties out searching for her, but they never saw hair nor heels of her, so they shot a few erkelte and pretended that was what they were out for. “You’re crazy to be here in daylight like this.”
“Crazy has its advantages.”
He laughed, he didn’t quite know why. “At least it seems to be working.” He rubbed thumb against middle finger, not sure what to say next. “Ah, who else is coming?”
“My isya. Cousins, some friends. Women. That bother you?”
“Not if you know what you’re doing.”
“We know.”
“Tonight?”
“Right. Herk’s had them three days already.” She was silent a moment. “One of them’s my brother.”
“Ah. Sorry.”
Her mouth tightened. “They will be. One of these days we’ll hang Herky Jerky from the Minaret and we won’t use a harness.”
“I need a little time to get used to the ship. You know the bay better than I do, what about the storm?”
“By the time we leave, it should be mostly blown out, enough rags left to give us cover. At Mountain Place any of the sentries supposed to be on the walls, they’ll more than likely be inside with a fire, no one’s going to be miserable for Herk the Jerk. If there are some mushbrains outside, we won’t have any problem spotting them.” S
he hesitated, made up her mind between one breath and the next. “Some aliens are living with us. They jumped the Wall at the Palace and happened onto us at a delicate moment.” Her hands fluttered, sketching metaphors for the embarrassment of both parties. When she noticed the expression on his face, she smiled and shook her head. “They won’t be coming with us.” She folded her hands again. “One of them was the Imperator’s own weaponsmith. Strange creature. He doesn’t like people much, and I got spanked for that kind of language when I was a girl, so I won’t try telling you what he thinks of our esteemed Divine One. He’s been making gadgets for us. Stunners and spotters you could wear in a ring almost. Sniperguns.” She narrowed her eyes at the sea, then the sky, chewed her lip a moment. “You can get away without eyes on you?”
“Yes. When and where?”
“You know the Dance Floor in the Watergarden out north of Inci?”
“Been there a time or two.” He tried a quick grin.
She grinned back, her eyes narrowing into crescents, her nose flattening. “I expect you have.” She sobered. “I’ll bring the ship down an hour after midnight, give or take five minutes each way. I can manage that much, there’s room for mistakes out there. We need to be at the Mountain Place around three hours before dawn. Will that give you enough play to get the feel of her before we start?”
“Too much. If I can’t learn her in twenty minutes, I might as well give up. Make it second hour, unless you’ve got a reason otherwise.”
“Second’s better, but I wanted to make sure you had plenty of time for test runs.” She slipped off the bitt, stretched, yawned. “Anything else?’
“What you expect me to do? Besides flying.”
“Nothing. You won’t be coming in with us. You’re the only one who can get us away from there.”
“Good enough.”
“See you tonight then.” A flutter of a hand and she was running away down the pier, her vitality printing her on his mind even after she vanished into an alley between two warehouses. He smiled. He felt a lot better now. He couldn’t tell anyone about this, but it went a long way toward erasing the sense of failure that’d been the worst effect of the layoff notice. His dread was gone, he could face the Ommar without feeling like a lump of yunkshit.