by Vernor Vinge
Pilgrim shrugged. “Woodcarver thinks it’s just Old Flenser sadism; after all, he didn’t provide you with any details. Personally, I don’t think Flenser-Tyrathect is truly sadistic. He just wishes he was.”
Johanna waved away his point. “But if this is more than Flenser games, if Vendacious is playing with Nevil…”
The comment seemed to bring Pilgrim up short. He was quiet for a moment and then his voice was serious. “Okay. You’re right. We need to squeeze some of those details out of Flenser.”
Johanna’s look was haunted. “We know Nevil is a self-convinced son of a bitch. But Vendacious is a monster. A soft little politician like Nevil wouldn’t stand a chance with him. Maybe … maybe we should warn Nevil. There are games that are too deadly to play.”
CHAPTER 16
“So what does this word ‘crone’ mean?” Belle pointed a snout at the page in Timor’s storybook, Fairy Tales of Old Nyjora.
“Um, I don’t know,” Timor replied. His brow furrowed the way it did when he was puzzled. “We can look it up the next time we’re over at Oobii.” When she had first known this Child, such a question would have provoked a panic attack. Timor’s eyes would get wide at the shock of realizing there was a question for which he didn’t instantly have an answer. Such was the best evidence Belle had that these human creatures had once been something like all-knowing.
Nowadays, when confronted with a question, Timor would ask someone else or go to the public place on Oobii or devise the answer from materials at hand. Right now, the boy was paging back and forth through the storybook, his nimble human fingers flipping the pages. “Okay!” he said. “Here on page thirteen, the wise archeologist is talking about the lady who was called a ‘crone’ on page forty. He says she’s a ‘beldame.’”
“Belle means beautiful,” said Belle. It was her taken name, one of the earliest any pack had chosen in the human language. That had been a bold move, even if it was right after she was kicked out of Woodcarver’s cabinet, when her former name, “Wise-Royal-Advisor,” became a mockery.
Timor squinched his mouth in a smile. “I know. Hei, and I remember from the story of the ‘Princess and the Swamp Lilies’—‘dame’ is just a word for lady. So ‘beldame’ must mean ‘beautiful lady.’”
“Hmm.” Maybe she could become “Beldame” or “Beldame Crone.” Those had possibilities for chords and trills. She played with the possibilities even as Timor returned to reading the story aloud. There was a time when Belle had really concentrated on learning from books such as these, the Two Queens’ mass-printing project. Such books would surely give insights into Ravna Bergsndot’s clever plans. That was before Ravna had been deposed.
And the stories in this particular book? If you discounted the ugly tropical background, and the necessary weirdness of humanity, they were very much like the folktales of Tinish realms. In her speeches, Ravna had talked about Nyjora again and again, claiming it was a model for what she was trying to do here. That had snared Belle’s early interest in stories of Nyjora. But even though Timor liked this latest book, it had turned out to be frankly fictional. From eavesdropping on the older Children, Belle had gradually come to realize how stupid Ravna Bergsndot was. The history of Nyjora meant something deep to her, but to the Children it was as much a myth as this little book. If anybody had asked Belle (the Crone Belle Dame, that sounded even better), she could have told them that Ravna Bergsndot was headed for a fall. Which now had come.
One big difference between Ravna and Belle: Ravna still lived in what was nearly a palace. Belle had gradually figured out the politics behind that. There would come a time when Nevil Storherte could not continue to ignore Belle and her Timor—
“I’m sorry what crone turns out to mean,” said Timor, closing the book and reaching around to hug her nearest shoulders. “Do you want to read another story tonight?”
Usually Belle paid more attention to what this Child was saying. But all any of her remembered was how Timor had looked around at her a few minutes ago, when she was deep into her little fugue. Timor could rattle on for hours about this and that even when he wasn’t reading aloud. It wasn’t natural—or at least it wasn’t Tinish—how many different things he could talk about, all without making the tiniest mindsound. For a moment, she considered confessing her inattention. He seemed to guess at it occasionally. But no, she could sneak back later, when he was asleep, and find out what “crone” was all about. Maybe she should read the whole book tonight and be done with it. But then the next few evenings would be really boring.
Outside something big was banging along the street. It sounded like a six-kherhog team, pulling multiple wagons. It had to be something big to be heard through the noise-quilting that was built into the walls. There were high-pitched screeches and pings, as if the wagon wheels were throwing up pebbles against the walls of the houses. Their little house was at the south edge of town, right on Haulage Way. When it had first been built, Belle had thought Woodcarver had fallen into imperial madness: the way was so wide and so perfectly graded. Now, after she’d seen the freight that streamed along it, bound for Cliffside harbor, Belle acknowledged (to herself) quite a different opinion.
She was half-minded to go outside and scream at the drovers. Instead she fell back on something more practical. “Timor, don’t you think it’s unfair that we live in this hovel?” Never mind that it had brightness and warmth at the click of a claw, even in the northern winter. Never mind that it was more comfortable than anything that royalty owned before the Sky Children came. It was the comparison with what some others had that made it poverty.
Timor stroked her shoulders, trying to comfort her. It was strange that he had actually been with her long enough that it really did comfort. She did her best to shrug away the thought. He should despise their situation even more than she did. It was Belle’s great good fortune that she had her own personal human; it was her bad fortune that Timor Ristling was the most accepting and even-tempered and reasonable creature she had ever met:
“We could live in the general dorms, Belle, with the other kids and their Tinish friends. Or we could probably room with one of the new families. You know, like with the Larsndots, down on Hidden Island. I thought you wanted us to have our own place?”
If Timor had been one of the other counselors back when Belle was still “Wise-Royal-Advisor,” she would have been sure that this was a devilishly clever counterattack. Instead, with Timor, she knew it was absolute innocence. Of course, Belle wanted to have private quarters! How else could she keep this Child for herself, keep him from falling in with human friends or even with some other pack? Timor had been her meal ticket for almost nine years now. If she lost her status as his official caregiver, she couldn’t even afford to live in this house.
“No,” she said and made the sound of a human sigh. “I just think you deserve better. You know I only think of what’s best for you.”
“Oh, Belle.” Timor set the book down and wiggled back among the four of her. “If you really want a better place, I could complain to Ravna. I just don’t like to do that.”
Who cares about Ravna? thought Belle, but she didn’t say that aloud. The Bergsndot human was out of power, at best a minor player. On the other hand, Timor himself was becoming an important one, even if he didn’t realize the fact. Down in the New Meeting Place, Belle often lay at his feet pretending to sleep while eavesdropping on the humans.
As far as Belle could tell, Timor’s parents had had roughly the same social status as did offal collectors in the Domain. Timor had inherited their talents—and somehow those abilities were rare and precious down here. Nevil and his friends didn’t like Timor. They didn’t like his innocent opinions or the effect he had on the other Children. One way or another, Timor is my lever! The main thing was to pick the right time and issue to use against Nevil and his pals. She was already planting the seeds for that: “Maybe we could complain to Nevil, or that nice Bili Yngva.”
The boy yawned. “I guess.�
� He gave a little shiver. “I’m too tired to read any more now. I need to go to bed.”
When Timor had been just a puppy of a Child, she had tucked him in every night. It had become an unnecessary ritual. But the boy was still as small as he had ever been. He hadn’t grown like the other Children. And there were other problems. He weakened so easily, and he still needed a lot more sleep than any human or pack she had ever known. Even if he stayed loyal to her, she might still lose out.
She led and followed Timor up the stairs to the tiny sleeping loft. At the top was one of those wonderful little light switches. With a tap of a snout, there was a bluish glow from a ceramic square mounted on the wall.
“Huh, the light’s kinda dim,” she said.
“It’s okay,” said Timor. “But the room is colder than usual. I’ll bet there’s some problem with the steam pipes.” That happened often enough. Their little house had been one of the first with a heating tower, hence it had one of the crummiest of the devices.
Tonight’s cold was something substantive they could complain about. She checked the small glass windows. They were all shut tight, no trace of a breeze. The nearest street lamp was broken, so there wasn’t much of a view either. They’d have a very nice list when they finally went complaining.
The rest of her was busy tucking Timor in. “We’ll use extra blankets,” she said. She topped them with a frayed green quilt, her only prize from the last real shipwreck. She had almost lost Timor’s loyalty over that. He’d accused her of robbing from the dying. Hah! But who had been dying? Not a single pack. And what was left of the Tropical mob was sitting pretty now, in its semi-mindless way. Besides, no one ever came looking for goods lost in the sea.
She had used her old bone needles to make a quilt out of the green fabric, stuffing it with froghen down. It was a crude job, the stitching irregular; not a single member of herself had direct memory of sewing skills. After eight years, the stitches were coming loose, and the fabric was riddled with insect holes. Now it was Timor who insisted they keep the thing.
“Is that warm enough?” she asked.
“Yes, it’ll be enough.” He patted her nearest head.
“I’ll just listen for a while then.” This was part of the ritual too. One of Belle scooched down to the end of the bed and sat on the covers. Another lay on the floor by the bed. The other two sat a few feet away, listening and watching. She flicked off the light. “G’night, Timor.”
“G’night, Belle.”
Now the room was really dark. On this winter night with the street lamp gone and the clouds she had noticed earlier, it was probably too dark even for Timor to see. On the other hand, she could hear everything in the room, and when she emitted squeaks up in the range of Tinish thought, she could hear the walls and the floor. With work she could have even made out the shape of Timor’s face. And Timor’s heart and lungs made so much noise that even without such effort she could make out his form under the covers.
Eight years ago, when Timor was just out of coldsleep, he had cried himself to sleep every night, cried for his lost parents, cried for things he couldn’t explain. In those first years, Belle would sometimes sit two of herself on his bed, cuddling him. He hadn’t cried in years now, and he said he was too old to cuddle, but he still liked her to lie in the dark and listen for a while.
She didn’t mind. She’d always been a planner and a schemer. She’d never been fast at thinking on her feet, even when she’d been Belle Ornrikakihm and not Belle Ornrikak. With Ihm dead, she was down to four. A pack of four could be a clever person. More often it was dull and unimaginative. Sometimes, sitting here in the dark, slowly slowly creating strategy, she wondered if she was only fooling herself to think her plans were clever.
Timor was still awake and restless, but she could tell he really was tired. Funny how much she knew his mind even though his thoughts were silent. Sometimes even silent, he could be almost member useful: Without climbing, he could reach higher than some of her. His fingers could solve problems that her Tinish snouts would just fumble over. At the same time he was as smart as a whole pack, and like all the humans he had the strangest ideas.
A clever pack could see the power in those ideas.
If only I was a royal advisor once more. That damned Woodcarver had always favored Scrupilo and Vendacious, her own offspring packs. If I had guessed that Vendacious was a traitor, I could have unmasked him and now I would be second in the realm. Sigh. She was edging toward that waking nightmare, where she came more and more often: she might never climb back from the trap she had made for herself. She had not the cleverness, and with Ihm gone she had lost the last of herself who was fertile.
While Ihm was still alive, she had the possibility of trading puppies with some other pack. But she had not tried hard enough for a match, or maybe even when she was five, she still was not attractive. Now she was four barren old ugly females. Her schemes would never carry her so high that she would have the pick of a decent litter. In truth her choices were very few. She could go to the Fragmentarium, adopt some dregs. She could run away from herself. Or she could simply die off one by one, until she was nothing, as dead as poor Timor would someday be.
Timor still wasn’t sleeping. This might be one of those rare nights when he stayed awake longer than Belle. Then she noticed that he was shivering. The room must be too cold for him, even with all the blankets. He hadn’t complained, but then he rarely complained. This just proved that there was something seriously wrong with the house’s features. Tomorrow she’d advance her schedule and stuff Timor’s torment down the throat of Nevil Storherte. She and Timor would pry some really nice digs out of this outrage.…
But what if the cold made Timor really sick? He was so fragile, and he could die all at once. She’d be left with nothing.
Okay, something had to be done about this tonight. She could call in and complain—assuming the phones weren’t broken too. She thought for a moment about how these homes were powered. The teachers at the Children’s Academy had talked about that in mind-numbing detail, more than the four-sized Belle could properly remember. Hot water boils into steam, which can “do work.” So a water pipe had been laid all along the Queen’s Road, with an outlet at every house on nearby streets. The skyfolk magic was in the fact that they didn’t need a thousand bonfires to keep the water from freezing—or to make it steam. The starship Oobii had limitless fire somewhere inside and it could deliver the heat of that fire to any point that was visible from its upper hatchway. (Think on that, enemies of the Domain! Belle had often wondered why Ravna and Woodcarver didn’t make more of Oobii’s awesome deadly power. Back when she had still had Ihm, Belle had concluded that the only explanation for the humans’ meekness must be that there was an upper limit on the rate that the heat could be pumped out. She no longer understood the reasoning, but she held the conclusion close in her remaining mind.) Anyway, all the homes near the Queen’s Road had a view down upon Oobii. They should never lack for warmth, and the steam also powered the smaller magics like the lights. And the telephones?
She slipped off the end of Timor’s bed and all of her headed quietly for the stairs. She was mostly on the steps when Timor’s voice came to her, soft and half asleep. “You’re a good person, Belle.”
“Um, yes,” she replied. “G’night.” What did he mean by that?
Now back in the downstairs sitting room, she flicked on the light. The glow lamp came on, but it was so faint she could barely see it. The steam pressure must be near zero. She walked across the room, easily avoiding the knickknacks that she and Timor had collected. There were just too many books, too. She shuffled them out of the way, digging down to the telephone. It was made for both humans and Tines. A foursome could easily manage it. She was still smart enough to voice some righteous indignation on behalf of Timor Ristling. The poor Child could die with these terrible housing conditions! One way or another they were going to get the house they deserved. Just don’t waste your rage on the starship’s call dir
ector. The Oobii had a perfect imitation human voice (at least at low frequencies), but it was almost as dumb as a talky singleton. Once she had mistaken the telephone call director for a real human. She’d railed at it for five minutes, uselessly of course. No, she would just say she was Belle Ornrikak, Best Friend to Timor Ristling, with an emergency call to, hmm, Nevil? In any case, save the rant for some real person.
She held down the base and raised the receiver to one of her low-sound ears. There was no wire tone, and none of the little clicks and sputters she had grown used to. She hissed an ultrasonic obscenity. So steam pressure really was necessary for telephone service! Belle stomped around the crowded little room, whacking at whatever was in claw range—but quietly, so it wouldn’t disturb Timor. It would be hours before she could unload her wrath on the incompetents who were running things. A proper politician would use that time to sharpen its rhetoric, but she wasn’t in the mood. And in fact … Belle opened all her mouths and waggled her heads. She could feel the bite of frost on her tongues. It really was getting cold. Without cloaks, even a pack would be uncomfortable.
She hunkered down and tried to think things out. Why would steam pressure go away? Well, because the water wasn’t hot anymore! Maybe Oobii had screwed up; maybe it wasn’t targeting the heaters in this area. Since she didn’t hear anyone out in the street, complaining, the failure might be just affecting this one house. She could just go up the street and ask around. Maybe Timor could stay overnight at one of the houses that still had heat.
Belle sat in the dark for several minutes, painfully trying to figure the pros and cons of the scheme. Such an emergency move in the middle of the night would certainly prove how seriously Timor had been abused. But she was very afraid that someone like Ravna or Nevil might use it as an excuse to permanently move Timor in with others.
That thought should have vetoed any plan to get help from the neighbor Children. But now, where Belle was sitting nearest to the window, she was chilled. All this strategy is worthless, if Timor dies. The thought was strangely terrifying, even worse than the silence of mind she’d felt in Ihm’s last days.