Tangled Up in Blue

by Joan D. Vinge

  He looked down at his dress uniform, at his fingers fidgeting aimlessly with the fringe of the red mourning scarf, which he wore over the sling that protected his arm and side. At least they had finally given him back the right to wear the uniform that had cost him so dearly—doing it as much, he suspected, because he had agreed to keep his mouth shut about what he’d seen on the docks that night as because of his part in tracking down the murderers.

  The Police Commander and the Judiciate officials had appeared to take his accusations seriously; the fact that Gundhalinu had told them the same story, and Gundhalinu was a Kharemoughi, hadn’t hurt. But whether the brass were really resolved to root out corruption on the force, or only giving lip service to a further investigation because Aranne, Jashari, and the rest were conveniently dead, he had no idea … any more than he knew why Gundhalinu hadn’t told anyone how Jashari had died.

  In the end, it was impossible to be certain of anything. In the end, it hadn’t really mattered. He had gotten the ones who were actually responsible for Staun’s death, and that was all he needed to be sure of.

  Whatever the truth, the Commander had been desperate to avoid another scandal, especially one so closely associated with the warehouse massacre. The force was still reeling from that blow, he said; they were already undermanned and demoralized. The killers had been brought to justice. Why cause more grief for the families of those involved, or spread more suspicion among the men who had served under them or with them for so long…?

  Gundhalinu had gotten a medal out of it, for “service above and beyond the call of duty.” Tree had not attended the ceremony. It was enough simply that he had been given back his rightful place on the force … Staun’s final legacy to him.

  Haig KraiVieux, who was leading the memorial service, spoke Staun’s name and then Tree’s. Tree wiped his eyes, and got up from his seat. Clutching the reliquary, he limped stiffly down the aisle to the front of the hall. He climbed the steps at the side of the stage, one at a time. Passing through the symbolic wall of greenery—none of it any species he recognized—he followed the path lined with lanterns substituting for the luminaria that should have guided him to the altar.

  Two potted trees, their branches lashed together, formed a living portal above the altar set up at the front of the stage … creating a space that by tradition lay neither here nor there; a place where the membrane between the world of the Seen and the world of the Hidden was most tenuous.

  He set the reliquary on a small table covered with the altar cloth from the watch chapel, where he had spent the past two nights alone with his memories. The cloth was embroidered with idyllic vistas of the Beyond. He knew every stitch on it by heart now; though he was no more certain that it was anything besides a piece of cloth covered with pretty scenes of a place that looked too much like his homeworld.

  A bowl, filled with water flowing perpetually over stones, sat on the altar. Alongside the bowl were a single unlit candle, and a holographic image of his brother. He stared at the image for a long moment, oblivious to the expectant rustling of the crowd.

  At last he looked up from his brother’s face to the sea of faces that filled the hall. He saw the men Staun had served with and been friends with—the ones who were still alive—and the families of the men who were being remembered here today. He was surprised by the number of Tiamatans in the crowd. Some of them were wives or lovers; the others, he realized, had simply come to show their respect for the Hegemonic Police, whose duty it was to keep other offworlders from doing them harm.

  As he realized it, a clenched fist of bitterness deep in his chest suddenly released its hold on his aching heart. He took a long, full breath, and the air he inhaled was sweet with gratitude and release.

  The murmuring crowd grew hushed as he lit the Candle of Life, and the sweet scent of blooming sillipha began to fill the air. He picked up his brother’s picture and held it in trembling hands. Only Staun, of all the men who had died at the warehouse, had not had the Words spoken for him in a traditional prayer service.

  He should have been there to speak for his brother, at the proper moment, in the proper way; not here like this, not in a rented hall.… But whether he blamed the gods or the brass or himself, that perfect moment was gone, and he would never get it back. He glanced over at KraiVieux with a brief, grateful smile. KraiVieux had insisted he go through with this, had made certain that he would have the opportunity to speak the Words in the presence of so many witnesses.

  He looked down again, concentrating on his brother’s face until the hall and its occupants became a radiant field of light. As he felt their focused life-energy breach the intangible membrane between Staun’s future existence and his past, Tree began to recite the Words, calling on his brother’s grieving, exiled spirit to come and put a seal on the cruelly unfinished business of his life.

  The sound of his own voice speaking his native tongue fell strangely on his ears. He remembered the last time he had spoken this much Klostan, the last night he had spent at home with his brother and a handful of friends … remembered suddenly that all of them were dead, their deaths as brutally senseless as his lone survival.

  Staun’s image blurred out of focus. Tree’s voice faltered, panic rising in him as his memory tried to tell him it had forgotten the order of the prayers—

  He shut his eyes, and found a thousand images of his brother’s face, heard the echo of Staun’s speech in his every spoken word.… Blind faith, and a luminaria of unbroken memories, showed him the path through the trackless void of loss; the patterns of prayer began to flow easily again. He finished the ritual of opening, without dropping a single fragile strand.

  KraiVieux came to join him; and then others, climbing up the steps from the audience. Each one in turn placed some small token in the open reliquary, reciting the Words with him, or responsively: asking forgiveness and granting it; speaking of loss, of grief; swearing the pledge that any family Staun had left behind would never want for the basic needs of life.…

  “… that your life was lived with honor, and your death was not meaningless.”

  Tree glanced up at the unexpected valediction, spoken in flawless Klostan, and found BZ Gundhalinu standing in front of him. Gundhalinu nodded in silent acknowledgment before reaching up to unfasten the medal he wore, that he had been given only yesterday. He placed it in the box, and moved on.

  Tree looked down at Staun’s picture, his gaze clear again, and his voice steady. “… And that you now can rest in peace,” he murmured, “because I paid the Boatman’s Due, Staun. I paid for all of you … I got the killers.” He laid the tin of bitterroot chews in the box. “I love you. I miss you. I’m sorry. I forgive you.…” He took a deep breath. “I set you free.” He placed his brother’s picture in the box, and closed the lid. “Let nothing hold you here: not pain, not regret. The veil is torn; pass through.” He blew out the candle.

  He did not raise his eyes as the other mourners filed away, leaving the stage, merging into the rustling flow of departure as the crowd began to rise and stir. He looked up again only when the scent of sillipha in a whisper of smoke had faded, like the sound of the crowd going out from the hall.

  “Thanks, Sarge,” he murmured, as KraiVieux returned to his side. KraiVieux nodded, waiting while Tree took the reliquary from the altar, before he began to gather up the ritual objects and the cloth.

  Tree descended the steps with painful care. As he reached the bottom, he stopped and gazed around the nearly empty room. Gundhalinu stood midway up an aisle, waiting for him. The few Newhaveners still filing out glanced at Gundhalinu with looks that ranged from surprised to resentful. He only moved aside, to let them pass, his attention fixed on Tree.

  Tree walked up the aisle to meet him. They had barely spoken three words to each other since that night on the docks; yet it seemed completely fitting and perfectly logical that Gundhalinu should be waiting for him today. “Is the Kharemoughi service over already?” he asked, stopping by Gundhalinu’s
side.

  “I didn’t go. I’ve been here all along.”

  “Why?” Tree asked, surprised.

  Gundhalinu only shook his head. “Loyalty, and honor…” he said at last, the words barely audible. “I guess they had more in common than I realized.” He turned away abruptly as his composure began to slip. “Someone wants to see you—” He gestured toward the rear of the hall, glancing back at Tree as he started up the aisle.

  Tree walked with him; Gundhalinu’s stride slowed to match his halting pace. “Any news on Mundilfoere?” Tree asked, falling back into the familiar patterns of duty and routine with a profound sense of gratitude.

  “She got away clean. She’s gone offworld.” Gundhalinu sounded almost relieved; although maybe it was just his own relief at finding the conversation back on safe ground. “Word has it that she screwed both the Queen and the Source out of that Old Empire tech, as well as us.” He made a disgusted face. “I suppose it’s comforting to know there’s someone out there who can do it to them … since we never will.”

  Tree grunted. “And we never even got to thank her.”

  “For what? For almost killing us?” Gundhalinu flashed him a gallows grin. “Or for saving our lives…?”

  “Take your pick,” Tree muttered, and Gundhalinu began to laugh in earnest. Tree laughed with him, simply because it was better than the alternative. “What the hell do you think that was all about, anyway?”

  Gundhalinu stared at his feet, watching their steady forward motion. “I don’t suppose we’ll ever know,” he said at last, shaking his head. He gestured at Tree’s side. “How are you doing?”

  Tree looked down at the sling, at the red scarf. “All right, I guess.” His gaze lingered on the reliquary, held against his heart. “At least one of us has found peace.” He smiled painfully. “How about you?”

  “Finally getting a little sleep.…” Gundhalinu still wore splints on his fingers, but most of the bruises were gone. “I’m doing all right—considering the alternative.”

  Tree nodded. “Yeah. Considering the alternative.” He glanced down again, seeing only his uniform this time. “Gundhalinu?”

  “What?”

  “Why didn’t you tell them? About Jashari.”

  Gundhalinu’s shoulders tightened imperceptibly. “I told them everything I knew.”

  “No you didn’t. You didn’t tell them that I—”

  “It was self-defense.”

  “I shot him in cold blood. You saw me do it.”

  “LaisTree—” Gundhalinu broke off, shutting his eyes. “It was justice.”

  “But can you live with it…?”

  Gundhalinu took a deep breath. He nodded, looking out across the empty hall. “When the ‘truth’ is a barefaced lie, what does a lie become?” He looked back at last. “The case is closed, Nyx. It’s over. It’s over…” he repeated softly, almost to himself.

  Jerusha PalaThion stood waiting for them by the exit.

  “Inspector.” Tree came to attention and saluted, more because it felt good having the right to than because she was expecting it.

  “Welcome back, LaisTree.” She smiled, returning his salute, and glanced to one side before stepping through the doorway into the room beyond.

  Following her glance, he found someone else sitting in the shadows in the last row before the door.

  “Devony…?” he murmured in disbelief. He had been told that she would not be allowed to leave the hospital for another week.

  He sat down in the seat next to hers and touched her cheek, gently, uncertainly—touching the slick surface of bandageskin that still covered most of her body, in the aftermath of the energy backwash that had shorted out her sensenet. The doctors had promised him that her burns would heal well, without scars.

  She smiled at him. “I wanted to be here,” she whispered. “I have to go back soon.”

  He nodded, and looked down. He had spent as much time at her bedside as her doctors and his would allow before she had regained consciousness. Since then, he had been to see her only once.

  Glancing up, he held out the reliquary, passing it into Gundhalinu’s safekeeping. He turned back again, putting his good arm around Devony with infinite care. Shame caught him by the throat as he tried to speak. He held her close until he could manage words. “Dev … gods, I’ve missed you. Oh, gods, I’m so sorry—” He felt the wetness of tears on her bandaged cheek; dried them as gently as she had once dried his own. At last he helped her to her feet, guiding her slow, awkward steps through the doorway and out of the auditorium.

  Gundhalinu stayed close on her other side, shielding her from careless passersby, as they made their way through the crowd that still lingered in the outer hall over drink, condolences, and cakes.

  PalaThion was waiting outside with a patrolcraft, to take Devony back to the hospital. Tree looked up the Street toward the Medical Center and Blue Alley, tracing the profiles of building facades—all the ancient, seemingly distinct structures that were really no more than a superficial intaglio impressed on Carbuncle’s seamless, ageless singularity. He saw how their patterns merged as the Street’s inexorable spiral folded them back into the tesseract that was the city. He looked the other way, seeing the same view … realizing how many things always lay hidden in this place where it was always day. Carbuncle kept its secrets, as it had since the beginning; it kept them very well.

  He helped Devony settle into the back seat of the patroller. She clung to his hand as he straightened up again. He glanced at PalaThion long enough to say “I’m going with you,” before he looked back, not letting his eyes leave Devony’s face until he saw her smile.

  Then he turned one last time to Gundhalinu, who stood waiting, watching the two of them together. Gundhalinu offered him the reliquary with a look that was equal parts melancholy and satisfaction.

  Tree took the box and smiled. “Thanks.” He glanced down at his uniform. “For everything.”

  “Likewise.” Gundhalinu’s empty, bandaged hands dropped to his sides. “We worked pretty well together. I learned a lot.”

  “Yeah.” Tree grinned, suddenly remembering Herne’s face at the moment of truth. “Yeah, me too.” He hesitated. “You ever like to go out for a beer, BZ? Or play interactives?”

  Gundhalinu shook his head. “No. Not really.” Then, slowly, almost uncertainly, he began to smile. “But ask me sometime, will you, Tree? I think I should get out more.…”

  “You should.” Tree’s smile widened. “‘Never’ is not often enough.”

  Gundhalinu grinned briefly, putting his hands in his pockets. “I don’t know if you heard, but Mantagnes will be the new Chief Inspector.”

  Tree nodded. “Yeah, I heard. What’s he like?”

  “I don’t know him, really. The Inspector says he’s a tightass; but then—” Gundhalinu made a wry face as he glanced toward PalaThion, waiting in the patroller. “You know.… Have you heard anything yet about who your new partner will be?”

  “KraiVieux’s still working on the roster; he’s got so many goddamn holes to fill.…” Tree looked down. He looked up again. “Why? Do you actually want permanent street duty?”

  “Well, I thought.…” Gundhalinu pulled his hands from his pockets, and stared at them. “No,” he muttered. “No. I just wondered.…”

  “Yeah, I would. Take you on as a partner.” Tree shrugged, smiling, as Gundhalinu looked up in surprise. “Just in case you ever change your mind. You’re greener than sweetgrass; but gods, we must be each other’s luck. It’s a miracle we’re still alive—and we actually get to go on doing what we both wanted to do all along.”

  “Luck.…” Gundhalinu glanced up the Street toward Blue Alley. His smile faded. “It’s going to take more than that.”

  Tree followed his glance. His own smile disappeared, as he looked back and met Gundhalinu’s gaze. He opened his mouth, closed it, shaking his head. He got into the patroller beside PalaThion, and the gullwing doors dropped down into place.

  He
turned in his seat, looking over his shoulder as the patrolcraft rose effortlessly above the crowd, beginning the short journey up the Street to the Med Center. Devony’s smile was waiting for him; he smiled back at her. But for just a moment, his eyes moved past her, to the place where Gundhalinu still stood, watching them go. Watching their backs. “Likewise…” he murmured, as he reached out to take Devony’s hand.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Joan D. Vinge has been described as “one of the reigning queens of science fiction,” and is renowned for creating lyrical human dramas in fascinatingly complex future settings. She has won two Hugo Awards, one of them for her novel The Snow Queen, which began the series that includes Tangled Up in Blue.

  Vinge is also the author of the bestselling The Return of the Jedi Storybook, World’s End, and Psion. Kirkus called her novel Catspaw “complex, deftly woven … an engrossing and satisfying read.” The Summer Queen, a sequel to The Snow Queen and a Hugo Award nominee, was published in 1991. Dreamfall, which Publishers Weekly called a “richly detailed and suspenseful sequel to Catspaw,” was on the Locus 1996 Recommended Reading List.

  Most recently, she wrote the Random House Book of Greek Myths. She lives in Madison, Wisconsin, where she is currently writing a novel set in the Bronze Age.

  BOOKS BY JOAN D. VINGE

  THE SNOW QUEEN CYCLE

  The Snow Queen

  World’s End

  *The Summer Queen

  *Tangled Up in Blue

  THE CAT BOOKS

  *Psion

  *Catspaw

  *Dreamfall

  *Heaven Chronicles

  Phoenix in the Ashes (story collection)

  Eyes of Amber (story collection)

  *denotes a Tor Book

  Raves for

  Tangled Up in Blue

  “Vinge’s Tangled Up in Blue makes for a triumphant return … This is an exceptionally well-told tale by one of the enduring stars of science fiction, a writer of grace as well as imagination.”