“It would shrivel and die,” Pelōŕios says in a quiet mix of words and whistling.
Right. Mix of namer, flame-thrower, and something like a tagmat. Meant to fight, not understand.
The pea plants are up, just up, they’re going to be head-high and full of flowers on the best trellises anyone’s ever had, but right now it’s all two small leaves and hope.
All that hope, sun-climbing spring, and it’s a pea-plant. Pea-plants are easy, so something like a good choice. It takes ten minutes, the shrivel-and-die threshold would be somewhere down around five, and the little spectral ball of understanding, not this one plant, the idea of being a pea-plant instead of a daisy or any other of the extensively numerous relatives.
Hand that to Pelōŕios, well, present it for a hesitant neck-stretch and head-lowering before a kind of slow inhale. There’s spectral swirling, more like waving your hands through steam than breathing mist. Lots of horn-brightening, and Pelōŕios’ eyes get brighter, and you can’t say it’s tail lashing, it’s freeform slow curves. This has Pelōŕios’ whole attention. I’m not sure if it requires whole attention or not, not enough experience to be able to tell.
There’s a, not a whistle, I don’t know the name for that particular noise. Then close to ten minutes of staring at the specific pea plant, with the tail-twitches winding down to nothing.
“It came to no harm.” Slow and startled whistles, if I’m learning as much as I think I am.
“I’d be a wretched gardener if it did.” I’d be a wretched gardener if I gave in to the desire to think grow at everything, too, and that’s a lot more tempting.
Unicorn has several words for wretched, I use the “through own incompetence” one, not the inherent-condition one or the subjugated-and-defeated one.
I get a nod, and then another, much slower one, tipping the horn just out of line is politeness, way out of line is mockery, straight on is offense or threat or a bunch of other things.
“Try,” Pelōŕios whistle-whispers, head lowering until our eyes are nearly level. I put a hand on the offered nose, horn shining over my shoulder.
What a complete mess.
Not Pelōŕios, specifically, though there’s got to be ways that’s true, there’s mostly heredity, someone did something, there was trait flow of some kind, four or five thousand years ago, not something huge, and then it’s nine thousand years back and it’s like looking at a wall that’s been made out of everything that used to be in the house, there’s bricks, all right, but also a sink and the stove and several poorly preserved bits of cast iron something, plus random cobbles from the path and hacked up lengths of water pipe is the only way I can think to describe it, you could get fifty years of publications out of cataloging all the peculiarities.
It’s amazing you get that shiny black coat and thistledown tail tuft out of this, it’s astonishing you get anything at all, there’s no redundancy, it’s heavily reliant on the Power, if the species ever loses the idea of being unicorns, the idea isn’t redundant either, they’re going to go away in a generation.
The generation they won’t be doing. It’s, if someone tried to do something like this in the Shot Shop, this complete incohesive mish-mash, the team leads would forbid them the grounds the entire rest of their lives, it would never get to Blossom.
Which is good, because this is something Blossom would be harsh about, and Blossom can’t be, people would kill themselves. Blossom being mildly, tactfully critical, the shot-shop joke is that it’s like trying to get ink out of water with a spoon, to get Blossom’s disapproval out of who you are today.
I don’t want to turn into this, this is a very bad idea, dozens and dozens of very bad ideas, that somehow manage to not be completely dysfunctional. Well, honesty, it’s quite functional, it’s just hasn’t got any depth, it’s the kind of thing that goes suddenly extinct, no adaptive repertoire, no diversity to respond to change. The Power’s holding it together, but that’s brittle. Turning into this, I could lose the ability to turn back, this is one single idea imposed on the world with Power, I don’t know what this was intended to be, the idea underneath, it wasn’t horses, before someone got impatient and angry and insisted.
An image comes to me, tentative and cautious. Okapi is an unfamiliar name. The shape’s right, though, unicorns are the hyper-cursorial sophont version, there’s another image, something much smaller, two forked horns, tendons a marvel of elasticity, that’s the fast in the family. How could anybody with both of those to work from manage to botch a physicality like this? The semi-fixed, you’re never going to get a unicorn with any other talent flavour, expression of talent, the connections to the Power, those are all competent, the predatory part’s deliberate, it’s not a case of being left unfinished, someone wanted cavalry that could eat magic and accepted “must always eat magic” to get it in a way that would be much harder to defend against.
Really a name, okapi is a true name, the other isn’t, there’s a full sense but no name. Don’t want to summon any, not even this as it was, want to understand what made the clade of living creatures.
Deep breath, really deep breath, much larger lungs. Little bit of whistle on the exhale. Shape I was born into, unicorn, born, unicorn, born. Several more careful breaths. Unicorn, and reach. I didn’t get stuck in the horn structure, still a life-tweaker when I’m like this, still not militant at all, so I did that part right. Not a predator, either, it’s not much of a difference, it’s not like the Power has any inherent objections to providing for the metabolisms of any number of stranger things.
Me. The diversity of my classmates and teachers.
My born-shape and careful whistles. “Thank you.” Like crawling through strangle-vine to say in Unicorn, it’s just possible if you’re very, very careful.
Pelōŕios snorts once, visibly thinks about what to say, Pelōŕios isn’t hurt, altered, or weakened, I was exceedingly careful, makes a pressure-cooker failure noise and spins left, toward Mulch’s tree.
Toward the Independent Mulch, standing there on feet.
Chapter 12
Zora
The Independent Mulch came through for two days when we were putting in the sanitation ponds, we’ve been using their instructions ever since. And their starter culture for the first pond, and thinking about it for the first time since being glad to get those barrels, Mulch must have made that, it’s not like there was any place to get it from. That’s a really impressive level of organic synthesis.
I think it was an impressive level of planning, too, because that Mulch was neat and calm, and this Mulch is … wild.
I put a hand on Pelōŕios’ withers, there isn’t even a twitch, it’s not even close to being a polite action, but it might help. Sorcerers and unicorns getting into staring contests, staring while Mulch’s hair goes even less orderly and Pelōŕios’ horn starts to be casting-shadows bright, isn’t certain of a peaceful outcome.
“You said okapi.” It’s an odd sentence to be saying in gentle, placid tones, but I manage.
The Independent Mulch smiles, very widely, as though they are about to burst into tears, and says “Yes” like it has four syllables.
“That was very helpful, thank you.”
Which is certainly true, but I have no idea what to do. I think Mulch is having trouble coming out of tree-time, they weren’t necessarily entirely well when they became a tree here, I remember a mention of Power exhaustion, that they’d been working much too hard in the Folded Hills, trying to get productive fields in when the Displaced first moved. I don’t know what that means, Power exhaustion can be anything from a severe case of talent-tired to having damaged your mechanism for conveying the Power, something that doesn’t necessarily grow back on its own, without help, or at all.
There’s a faint crunch behind me. I feel Pelōŕios twitch, it wants to be a leap away, but that direction of away would be toward Mulch.
Of course it’s Halt. There isn’t anything in the world you could possibly mistake for Halt.<
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“That was well done, Zora dear.” Halt’s smiling the approving smile, which is only a little unsettling. “Perhaps you could take Pelōŕios for a run? If you get to Blue Creek, be sure to turn around.” Halt says that with a twinkle.
Halt’s chin lifts, entirely unnecessarily. “I should like to have tea with my colleague and catch them up on the news.”
The whistles Pelōŕios make translate to something stronger than “right this minute, yes, excellent idea,” so away we go. I only have to switch to human and explain twice, Pelōŕios is very good about stopping and not looking aggressive when I do. On the way back, people wave. I make plausibly waving auroral lights in reply.
Mulch is there at dinner, still looking somewhat wild. Though I suppose being sat at Halt’s left hand, next to Dove and across from Wake, might be a little unsettling for almost anybody. The grownup side is Wake, Blossom, Grue, space, Captain, most nights; having Mulch there means I’ve got Chloris right next to me, instead of the matching space, mostly matching space, my space doesn’t fill up with sleepy infants who want to lean on Grue.
Pelōŕios settles down very precisely, which is entirely usual, at the far end of the table from Halt, there’s a good acoustic spot there, and stretches their neck right out, so their head is on the floor, eyes closed, which isn’t usual at all. We did make it to Blue Creek, I had thought Halt was joking, but even at an easy run it wasn’t three whole hours, there and back.
“Shalt not the unicorn die for pride?” Mulch says. I think Mulch has complex feelings about unicorns, Mulch looks like a completely new set of facial expressions to learn, neither Grue’s view, directly, nor Blossom’s, via Dove in the link, come with any helpful hints or annotations.
It took me about a season to get used to a teacher whose face would wriggle through adjustments depending on what I was seeing. Creek social norms, what it was I’d be annotating if I was trying to explain Grue’s expressions, went quicker. That really did make sense right away as something Grue wanted to do, to be able to be understood as Grue meant to be in the Creeks. Treating someone’s face wriggling subtly as a regular thing was a lot tougher than explaining what I was seeing.
The unicorn would be, well, the unicorn wouldn’t be here at all if not for the unfortunate, no, honesty, it’s stupid, obligate metaphysical predator element of its ancestral design. Though if I can keep up running and not need that, I wonder how much can be done with shapeshifting.
Not that much, Grue says.
“Perhaps the unicorn shall live for Peace,” Chloris says, utterly serene, and Mulch’s face shows no expression at all. Chloris likes Pelōŕios. They all do.
Pelōŕios doesn’t believe that, hasn’t got any way to start to believe that. It’s a minor triumph that Pelōŕios’ ears have swiveled toward the music, being willing to make the visual admission that the music is valued.
Tell me long-term responsibility to care for someone is bad for you, Dove says, meaning me, and passing Blossom the pickle caddy.
I couldn’t do that, and Dove knows it. A garden’s a whole lot but it’s not the same. Having, well, not precisely a patient, someone specific to help, someone where I get to see the help being help, that’s a good way to avoid feeling useless.
Tonight’s five reed-horn players, in various larger sizes, and someone with a coil-horn. No piano, no strings, it’s different. Written by a survivor of the March, one of the drovers, not someone in the Line, I can pick that off the general mass of thoughts without being wildly unlawful by looking in any specific person’s head. The music is very ordered and peaceful, but there’s something in it. I can feel Dove’s spine react, Edgar reaching for Dove, Constant reaching for Chloris. They’ve done drills, out in the Eastern Waste. Given the choice, those are the pairs they fight in. I did mostly triage drills with Grue and horribly realistic illusions, and tried to ignore the noise and the Power-slosh. Blossom, who was making the illusions, pointed out that the Power-slosh made it better training.
It’s a good thing there’s a custom of not talking when there is music playing, because I’d never manage a conversation with my thoughts like this. It takes some effort to pull myself in, to not, it might be wake or it might be agitate, Pelōŕios. Who does need the rest.
Who needs the running, too. Exercise, if nothing else, but I think it’s at least as important for not feeling trapped. Not being able to run’s not a habitual state for a unicorn.
Running is simple. Simple is relaxing. It’s not remembering being part of the whole working link ripping five thousand tonnes of salt apart. It was fun to do, it’s a satisfying exertion and it felt skillful, not just large, I don’t know if it’s legitimately skillful to the just run of Independents but on average we have to be getting somewhat skillful, none of our teachers would want us to not be skilled, novel form of Power use entirely notwithstanding.
Why, well, I didn’t sit out all the fighting drills, nothing says I can’t link up and push even if I’m not going to be taking executive in a fight and we practiced enough to make sure theory and practice were in agreement. Dove’s point was that everybody would have a nearly-reflexive response to the air going bad, let’s see what happens to the illusory opponents in a cloud of sodium ions, never mind the chlorine gas, they’ll expect the chlorine.
Dove thinks about things like that the way I think about how to make strawberries a tall bush plant without making it too difficult for the plant to get enough water up to the berries.
If I’m going to resurrect a dead species out of Halt’s memories and improve it I can at least keep the berries properly succulent.
This is obviously a stay-for-tea night. How I know that is starting to bother me, no one ever says anything, I just know. It isn’t like being a grownup, not even a very junior grown-up, but it’s like an expectation that you’re going to be, not that far in the future.
It bothers me.
A lot of things have been bothering me, it’s not enough to learn. I’m going to have to decide.
Just as soon as I can figure out what I’m deciding.
Chapter 13
Zora
Tea is risky.
Not physically risky, though I’m still glad Ed hatched in unreasonable degree because people stopped fussing about the possibility of the diligent young Regular Three drinking wood lettuce root tea by mistake. Trying to explain to the occasional still-worried person how someone can just decide to have a metabolism that can eat pretty much anything without being disturbingly detailed or invoking Halt hasn’t been easy.
Especially when I’m pretty sure it is invoking Halt, and I’ve very carefully not checked if there’s another instance of Halt somewhere when Halt shows up to sort out our potentially public difficulties. I’m almost as careful not to mention Ed getting giddy on cesium perfluoroheptanoate, a vast and amiable darkness, or Grue’s reasoning about why that would work, after the usual metal salts in ammonia stopped working and Ed had an inappropriate advantage in the recovery-of-regular-function part of the shapeshifting classes.
That line of thought gets me a twinkle with my very formal teacup. The set with the peach-coloured glaze rims, you can see shapes through the porcelain, and the tea itself is a robust substance that I can’t identify to precursors. There’s more than one precursor, it’s not all the same plant providing the leaves. It is leaves; Halt likes at least two kinds of tea that are roots, one of which is heavily processed and the other is just grated, I don’t think it’s even dried.
Dove and Edgar get back from it being their turn to shift dishes and sit down. Pelōŕios is still asleep, really restfully so. I will have to make sure running up and down the Canal towpath meadow is an accepted use when you’re in the form of a unicorn.
I can’t tell what Mulch is seeing, what we seem to unfamiliar eyes. Mulch doesn’t look especially pleased about it.
Doucelin, the Galdor-gesith fylstan who was assigned to the notional school we’re going to last year, comes over and sits down where the Captain w
as. It’s Third Day, Ed and Halt had both nodded at the Captain’s inquisitive look as the Captain headed out, so this won’t take too long.
Ed’s not nervous. No sense whatsoever in trying to tell if Dove’s nervous. Chloris has a lap full of immaterial ocelotter. Spook treats Chloris as solid, but is shimmering through the table in the process of obtaining a proper and extensive head-scritching. Creating the sort of scene that torments poets is no part of Chloris’ or Spook’s purpose or awareness.
Doucelin looks up and down the table before producing a formal message, rolled up in a tube and the tube’s sealed with an active binding, not just wax. That’s extremely formal, your annual countdown notice concerning your necessary return to be judged for an Independent isn’t nearly that formal.
The message is for Mulch, who reads it, and mutters something.
“The Commonweal’s present state does not constitute an emergency.” Doucelin grins, Doucelin’s not the formally-a-Clerk sort of clerk, there aren’t enough of those ever and being a fylstan is more about talking to people than deciding if the mechanisms of society will work the way Parliament intends. All our nominal school supposedly needs is someone to keep records and handle the inescapable accounting and attestations as we start being asked to do more regular work, and Doucelin’s very good at that. Doucelin told us the story about the formal correspondence that began “the Commonweal does not presently exist in a state of emergency” and the water that got into the letter tube after the time Dove said “Six Hills Township has been extirpated.” Dove meant a part of a weeding job was done, and Doucelin knew it, but it’s still the sort of thing that causes upset when it gets into formal correspondence.
Upset, all the nervous questions and the uncertain inquiries, Doucelin’s very good at handling those, too, which is why we’ve got a fylstan who qualified for Clerk and didn’t take it because people were too much fun to give up.
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