by Lyn Gala
“Is that the Bible?”
Shan nodded. “The Book of Job. God decided to test a good man in order to prove a point to the devil. Div tells me that I should spend less time reading Job and more time reading Matthew.”
Temar had no idea what that meant, but he was starting to see Shan as not only a flesh and blood man with a life apart from the church, but also as someone who clearly didn’t see himself as a particularly good priest.
“I always thought you were a good priest,” Temar blurted out.
“Um… thank you.” Shan frowned. “While I always appreciate a compliment, is there a reason for this one?”
Temar stood up from the bed and moved to the wall. Someone had painted a picture of a lander, with its heavy, shielded bottom, rockets firing as it came down on the face of Livre. This room faced the rock, and it didn’t have a window. So the painter had painted a frame around the scene, as though the person in the room was looking out onto those early landings. “When you were drunk, you were saying some things.”
Shan groaned. “I imagine I said quite a lot.”
“You insulted yourself a lot.”
“Why does that not surprise me?” Shan sounded tired. Temar turned around to look at him. “I suppose you could say I’ve been having a crisis of conscience lately.”
“About me?” Temar asked. He could put some of the pieces together. Shan’s father had hurt Naite, and Shan hadn’t understood that as a child, so he’d done his own share of trying to get his revenge on their father’s favorite son. Given that background, Temar wasn’t surprised that Shan had assumed that Temar’s father had hurt him, that he had missed the signs. However, during all their walking, Shan kept talking to both Temar and some hallucination of Temar, and some things simply didn’t make a lot of sense.
Shan’s gaze dropped to the bed. “I’m trying to figure that out for myself, Temar.” Shan seemed for force himself to look up and make eye contact. “Sometimes people expect priests to be perfect, and we’re people, with all the same flaws as the rest of the species.”
“Like fear?”
“Like fear,” Shan agreed with a nod.
“And lust?”
Shan froze. Temar could see the way he paled. “I wouldn’t ever….” Shan stopped and took a deep breath before changing tactics. “I took a vow. I committed myself to the church, and if I’m struggling with that vow, I still won’t break it.”
Temar didn’t even know what Shan meant by that. “So, you’re going to stay a priest?”
Shan closed his eyes. “I may question my faith, and I may choose to leave the priesthood, but I won’t break a vow. You are safe with me. I would never touch you,” Shan said in a contrite voice. “You don’t have to be afraid of me.”
Temar studied Shan. He’d never been afraid of Shan. Never. Okay, maybe a little at first. Or a lot. And when Shan moved fast, sometimes Temar’s heart pounded fast because it panicked before Temar could really stop and remind it that Shan would never hurt him. Drunk and suffering, Shan had still protected him. “I’m not afraid of you,” Temar said.
When Shan looked up, it was clear that he didn’t believe Temar at all.
“I know you’re not like Ben. I know that,” Temar said firmly. He needed to hear the words out loud. He needed to remind himself that not everyone would hurt him. His father had been a gentle man, even when drunk. The moment he thought that, Temar remembered a time when he’d been ten or twelve when he’d yelled at his father, and his father had exploded in rage. However, that had been the rare exception. Violence wasn’t inevitable. Shan hadn’t been violent. “Sometimes movement startles me… I remember Ben’s hands on me, or I’ll see something out of the corner of my eye, and I’ll think it’s Ben reaching for me,” Temar admitted.
Shan swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he fisted the sheets. Temar looked around the room, uncomfortable with Shan’s sudden discomfort. It happened. He didn’t want to give the memory more power than to just accept that it happened.
“When a blower has a piece explode in his hands,” Temar started slowly, feeling his way through the words, “he has to learn to watch the glass more carefully, or he has to give up working glass. I’m more careful, Shan. I’m not going to stop working glass.”
Temar looked over and made deliberate eye contact with Shan. Shan met his gaze and held it for several minutes.
“I’m glad,” he finally said. “Whatever I said when I was drunk, I apologize. I may not have behaved well—”
“You did your best to protect me, even when you were so drunk you fell on the rhubarb,” Temar interrupted.
Shan cringed a little. “Not my finest moment. And I suspect that I was verbally clumsy, so if I’ve said anything to make you worry about my commitment to the priesthood or my lust, I am sorry.”
“I have to pee,” Temar said before he turned and fled for the bathroom, not willing to have any more discussion on the point. You didn’t cool the glass too quickly. Glass had to settle on its own time, or it would shatter. Behind him, Shan didn’t say a word as Temar closed the bathroom door. Too late, Temar wondered if Hannal had heard any of that. If she had, Temar could only hope that they could trust her. His stomach churned at the thought that this was getting too large—too many people knew, and any one of them could let something slip to Ben. Worse, they didn’t know who else might be working with him.
Temar took his time coming out, and then he listened at the door before edging carefully out.
“Is Hannal around?”
Shan shook his head. “She’s got two kids of her own under six and four more young ones from workers on the farm. She’ll have her hands full until nightfall, when the workers get in from the field.”
Blowing out a relieved breath, Temar came the rest of the way into the bedroom and grabbed the bowl of fresh peas. Ben’s farm didn’t have children, but most did. Retired unskilled workers, who couldn’t handle the fields anymore, would settle on some farm with kids and live out a sort of retirement as they tended the ones too young to go to school yet and did small odd jobs they could still manage with swollen fingers. If Tom had that many families on the farm, he would have even more school-aged kids who would return from Landing when school ended.
“We’re going to have trouble getting out of here without being seen.”
“If we leave before three or four in the morning, yes, we are,” Shan agreed.
Temar popped several fresh peas into his mouth. Peas tasted the way Temar imaged Earth must have smelled—green. They were an expensive crop and a luxury that Temar rarely got to enjoy, so he took a second to savor them. “Do we just stay here and wait for Naite to do something?” Temar wasn’t sure what Naite could do. Ben had covered his tracks well. When Temar thought Landholder Young stole their water, it took him six months to collect enough data to even justify a full investigation. And Ben had burned that.
“When Naite dragged your sister over to your old farm to try and make her show him all your old hiding places, Naite threw a fit about the state of the land. As a council member, he demanded a full water audit of the entire line.”
“And no one’s suspicious?” Temar figured that Ben had to be a little worried at his point.
Shan shrugged. “Everyone thinks Naite’s being a sandcat because his idiot brother got reckless with his bike and drove it off a cliff.”
Temar blinked. “They what?”
“Someone found my bike at the bottom of a narrow canyon, southwest of Red Plain. Apparently I have a reputation for being careless with my driving, and everyone thinks I wrecked, trying to shed speed coming off a dune.”
“So everyone thinks you’re dead?”
“Yeah. And everyone is wrong about my driving. I could drive a sand bike by ten, and I haven’t lost control of one since I was thirteen. I didn’t even lose control when I had people shooting at me, so assuming that I would drive off a cliff is a little insulting.”
Temar smiled. If Shan could complain about somethi
ng that trivial, maybe things weren’t all that bad. Shan grinned with him.
“You’re not what I expected,” Temar admitted.
“We can both say that. So, do you think Naite’s audit will find evidence against Ben or his partners?”
Temar shook his head. He hoped it did, but he wouldn’t hold his breath.
“Me, either. Unfortunately, you were asleep, and trying to get Naite to listen to me would take a miracle beyond my questionable talents, and God wasn’t intervening.”
“So, what do we do?”
Shan took a long time to think about that. “First we heal up and sleep, and in a couple of days, I say we head out to the one place that has data that can’t be faked.”
“Livre Communications Relay?” Temar asked. The relay building was the center of all the tech put down by the first settlers. Three valleys had to share the limited terraforming water, and the relay tracked all of it. If the inner planets hadn’t decided to break their contract to terraform Livre, the relay would be the center of distributing terraforming water, microbes, seeds, and animals. As it was, the relay sat in the middle of the desert, at a point roughly between Hope Valley, Landing Valley, and Zhang Valley, watching as the three valleys and the towns slowly died. It might take a few more generations, but those instruments measured how the desert reclaimed more life with every season-end.
“Can’t Naite call for the relay to audit the Landing water lines?”
Shan nodded. “Yes, but if Ben has stolen from everyone on his line, including himself, where is all that water?”
Temar closed his eyes as he realized what Shan was saying. Someone at the relay was part of this conspiracy with Ista and Ben. There were so many people involved in this that Temar had no idea how they’d managed to keep it secret or what they planned to do.
“This doesn’t make sense,” Temar said.
“I know,” Shan agreed. “But right now we both need to sleep a little more and eat and drink a lot more before we can do anything about it.”
That was true. Pushing the dark reality to one side, Temar ate his peas and studied the painting. The underside of the lander was hot, like glass out of the glory hole, and Temar wondered if the artist was one of those people who had been around to see those old landers coming through the atmosphere. If so, the painting had to be old.
Chapter 18
SHAN sat at the main table and scratched his healing leg. The healing was worse than the burn. Of course, he’d been falling-down drunk for the worst of the burn. However, right now he was even more bothered by the fact that Temar had chosen to stay in the closet with a light and a book, but he couldn’t ask the man to trust anyone else, not even Hannal. She would put her life between an innocent and any danger, but Temar had already committed himself to trusting both Naite and Tom without knowing them, and Shan figured there was a limit to how much any man could be asked to take on faith. As a priest, he shouldn’t believe that, but he did.
He sat at the table while Hannal did the farm’s accounting on a small computer, and Tom stirred the stew. Outside, children’s voices shouted, and Shan could distantly hear the song of some worker. Computers and even books were getting rarer every generation, so the songs and ballads of the settlers, the inner planets and their wars, and even local celebrities like Lilian Freeland showed up in song.
“I think it’s done. Do you think it’s hot yet?” Tom asked as he stirred.
“If you want some, take some,” Hannal said with an edge of frustration. Then again, Tom had asked about dinner three times now.
Tom sighed. “I’ll wait until it’s hot,” he said, letting go of the spoon and coming back to the table where Shan and Naite sat. Hannal looked up at him with some amusement. “How is Cyla taking the disappearance of her brother?” Tom asked. Shan looked up so he could watch his brother’s reactions. Naite kept secrets better than any man Shan knew, but he’d learned to read his brother a little better over the years. It didn’t take a genius to see the distaste flash on his brother’s face. Four days with Cyla, and Naite had pretty much decided he hated her. However, he wouldn’t let that keep him from the plan.
“She’s mouthy. I don’t know how she survived Ista Songwind’s temper with that mouth of hers.”
“Sometimes people can strike out verbally when they don’t have the freedom to walk away,” Tom said mildly, but Shan could see the flash of shame on his brother’s face. This man had owned Naite, and yet Naite sat at a table with him and his wife. Some things Shan would never understand.
“I know that. I just never thought I’d have to be on this side of the bad temper,” Naite said. He sounded tired.
Hannal put her computer down. She was a formidable woman, with hair that had a mahogany glint that showed up in the sun and strong cheekbones. “No one would blame you for letting someone else handle this,” she said. “I understand why you feel like you have to hide Shan until you can find out who attacked him, but you’re trying to investigate two mysteries at once. You could let someone else handle the search for the Gazer boy.”
“And the water waste on the Gazer land,” Tom added.
Hannal nodded. “Most people think you’re pushing too hard, especially since they think you lost your brother. They worry that you’re pushing this instead of dealing with your grief.” Hannal looked over at Shan.
“You know I’m not,” Naite snapped, and Hannal looked back at him.
“No, I think you’re pushing this instead of handling your fear over nearly losing your brother. I think you’re searching for the Gazer boy and chasing demons in the water line because you’re angry that someone tried to hurt your family.”
Naite clenched his teeth, and Tom got up and grabbed a bowl and started filling it with stew, even if it wasn’t hot yet. “I don’t need advice on how to handle my business.” Naite just about spit the words out.
“Yes, you do, but you’re not likely to take it from me,” Hannal said as she poked her computer’s power button. She looked over at Tom and then back to Naite. “So ask for the honest opinion of someone you do listen to, Naite. Ask Tom for his opinion on this. I’m going to eat with the farmhands.” She picked up her computer and left the room, slamming the door a little harder than necessary.
Tom stood at the stove with his bowl of stew in one hand and his spoon in the other as he ate, and Naite scowled at no one in particular.
“I didn’t say anything,” Tom defended himself.
“I know you didn’t,” Naite said.
Shan looked from one to the other. “If you were going to say something, what would it be?” Shan asked Tom.
That earned him nasty glares from both men. Naite stood up fast, his chair sliding over the floor with a screech. “I’m not out of control.”
“No, you aren’t,” Tom hurried to say. “You’re just angry. You have every right to be angry.”
Naite turned and gave Tom a cold look. “You’re doing it again.”
“What?” Tom asked with exaggerated innocence before he shoved a big spoonful of stew into his mouth. He concentrated on chewing for a time, and Naite glared.
“Naite?” Shan asked, “what’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
Tom didn’t answer, but he snorted.
“I’m not tipping my hand to Ben or the others,” Naite snapped.
“No, because you’re angry with everyone,” Tom pointed out. “Not that I have anything to say about it.”
“So you agree with Hannal? You think I should stop looking for Temar?” Naite demanded with a meaningful look toward the bedroom door where Temar was hiding.
Tom sighed. “No. I just think this is going to take a lot longer than the four of us originally thought. I think we might need to consider bringing more people in, because you’re tearing yourself apart, Naite.”
“I’m fine.”
“It’s not you I’m worried about. It’s the rest of the world.”
Naite clenched his teeth. “Meaning?” In that one moment,
Shan could see their father’s fury in Naite’s face. He’d brought this problem to his brother, and now his brother was suffering for it. Guilt gnawed on the edges of Shan’s conscience.
“Meaning you’re reaching a breaking point, and you and Cyla are probably aggravating each other to the point that any sane person would leave the planet before dealing with either of you,” Tom said, calmly enough. If Shan had said anything near that sharp, Naite would have exploded. Instead, Naite seemed to sag as all the fury vanished under weariness Shan had never seen in his brother.
“I’m fine,” Naite repeated, and he didn’t sound any more convincing, now that his voice came out thick with exhaustion.
“No, you aren’t. This bastard has hid his tracks too well, Naite. It’s time to bring in some mechanics, someone who can track the missing water.”
Naite’s eyes flicked over to the bedroom door. “So, we break our word to him? We tell more people his secret?”
“No, we talk to him about why we need to change the plan,” Tom said calmly. He came over and sat down at the table carefully, the way a farmhand might approach a boar. Shan kept his mouth shut, because he suspected that anything he said would set Naite off.
“I’ve checked every water line, dragged Cyla from one side of the valley to another. I can’t find anything. What makes you think someone else can?”
“Because none of us are mechanics. We don’t have a clue about how someone would go about stealing water on this scale.” Tom made a good point, except for the fact that Shan did have a pretty good idea. He’d been over a year into his internship with Holmes before leaving for the church, so he had the general mechanics down, even if he knew more about a bike than a water system. Water theft, beyond a simple changing of the gears or levers controlling flow, would require the use of the terraforming pipes that connected the valleys, and that meant going through Livre Communications Relay. Shan had suggested that earlier and been verbally slapped down by Naite.