Only everything’s been stood on its head.
“Doucelin, has anyone done an analysis of outcomes?” I sound beguiling. I hate it. Can’t not.
“Which outcomes?” Tens of thousands still living is obvious, so not what I mean.
“Zora could, Zora knows this, make someone into an entirely material object. Halt might be able to tell, but you’d have to see it happen otherwise.”
Don’t fidget, no picking up teacups.
“What Zora’s done has been to make a lifelong desire work unreasonably well, and then offer that capability to a guest of the Peace who needs it to stay in the Peace. Zora, not the unicorn, is Zora’s experimental subject.”
Doucelin’s memory casts back. “Horse-thing recipes.”
Spike and Halt and I all nod. “I think Zora would rather run themself.” That recipe worked, as distraction and cheer and source of hope, that first season.
“There isn’t any way to make Death and Constant Strange Mayhem reassuring. Not directly or personally, not any more than Blossom can be.” They’ll do what needs doing. Reassuring in limited circumstances.
“Zora, though, Zora’s figured out how to have a talent that’s nearly purely be-thou-in-thus-wise and goes and introduces a unicorn to the Peace with it, makes food with it, figures out how to weed less destructively with it.”
Halt nods once abruptly.
“The entelech and the necromancer and the absence of mercy so influence and are influenced.” Halt’s not quite smiling.
“Doucelin, please do consider what historical records expect from pre-eminent flame-thrower talents, or entelechs, or exceedingly powerful necromancers, and how much it is not to be described as either public works projects or perhaps excessive shows of affection.”
No one has any idea what Constant is.
Doucelin nods at Halt. “Everyone hasn’t met them. Threat analysis goes by capability. People have ways to think about Halt.”
“Which is why they’re eating in a gean refectory and are encouraged in their social existence,” Halt says. “A balance of related and remote.”
Awkward newcomer, everyone knows that one. Even when it’s a unicorn.
“Social connection matters,” Spike says, taking my hand.
Ours not a complete success.
Chapter 32
Zora
Two days later, the carousel is entirely done, Halle’s decided that being floated in the air and taken for a run by unicorns is the very most enjoyable thing imaginable, Mikka’s decided that you take the child-minding that’s available, even when your sister’s gone quadrupedal, and members of Dove’s family arrive early in the afternoon.
Their arrival shouldn’t wake Halle up, since producing glad cries for two solid hours would be exhausting even without the arm-waving. Well, and all six sides of the sleeping rooms have repeated layers of hard smoke in them, so about the same ability to transmit sound as five metres of sawdust. It seemed useful for sleeping rooms, and Mikka has been emphatic that we’ve got to teach a collective how to make the wall panels. Anything material and legal that keeps the infant’s sharp ears from deciding that they’re missing something interesting in the middle distance will be greatly desired.
Grackle doesn’t look like Dove’s mother. It’s not a polite thought, but I can’t avoid it. Grackle looks like someone’s mother, but not Dove’s.
Dove’s sister Hawthorn looks like Dove’s sister. Older sister, which is backwards. Slighter sister, which is only to be expected. Hawthorn’s team lead on a heavy rock-crusher-sorter focus in a roads-and-excavations collective. Hawthorn’s children, Swift, Junco, and Nimblewill, are four, three, and two years past infants, so they’re all in school. Even Nimblewill remembers Aunt Dove from before Aunt Dove became a sorcery student. So does their cousin Poesy, Junco’s age and brought along because Poesy’s mother has a lover visiting this Festival and Hawthorn sees little difference between wrangling three kids and four.
Which, well, I wouldn’t, it’s not a problem where I could apply sorcery.
All four kids call Blossom Aunt, not Auntie, and mean it, much as Hawthorn and Grackle met Blossom and agreed with Dove about Dove and Blossom being sisters, and meant it.
Blossom was entirely flummoxed, but it’s been three years, and now it’s at least revered custom.
Nimblewill insisting Constant manifest as tangibly as possible and explain a math problem Nimblewill is vexed with visibly rattles Mikka, right in the middle of the inevitable discussion of gardens that goes with first meeting other adults.
“Shy little bird with big eyes, never see them unless you’re right under the right tree early in the morning and hear the one song,” Hawthorn says, smiling. “Got that about as right as Mother got Dove.”
Not a time to explain to Mikka that Constant’s reassuring. Constant’s rummaging in the library for images of the bird nimblewill, Nimblewill’s only ever seen two live ones. Doesn’t prevent an argument in favour of tree-climbing being essential to living up to one’s namesake, or appreciating Constant’s making the life-size illusion to show.
Life-like, moving, it will sit on Nimblewill’s finger and sing, but only sing once, because the live bird sings once at dusk and once at dawn.
“It will be swifts and juncos, next,” Dove says, smiling at Hawthorn.
Halle’s holding Mikka’s left hand and Pelōŕios’ off foreleg. Politely and not too hard, not clutching, but still a surprise. Quiet feet on the stairs.
If must walking learn, must come caution after.
I couldn’t miss the protective intent, not for trying.
“There were sparkles,” Halle says, which Mikka doesn’t understand and I’m afraid I do.
Grackle asks Mikka, or maybe Mikka and Halle, “First visit?” in entirely kind grandmotherly tones.
Mikka says “Yes.” Halle nods once, while Mikka looks at the floor, over at Halle, up at the join between roof and windows, and then sideways at me, or Pelōŕios, it’s quick. “I didn’t read between all the lines in Zora’s letters.”
There’s a smile from Hawthorn. “No scale.”
“I was thinking I didn’t think about how much it was to reassure me, instead of Mother.” Mikka waves at the resolute architecture. “A ‘pond pavilion’ that takes four days to build sounds like something that might not have walls.”
“If it isn’t at least better or at least faster,” Dove says, smiling, and everybody nods. You don’t do it with the Power, without at least one, if there’s another way. Lots of other ways of building.
Grackle starts making this-way-children motions toward the east doorway, the one that doesn’t lead to the patio with the tub in it. “If it isn’t twelve kilometres long,” Grackle says. “I was up to Old Lake last year, they needed some chemists.”
Mikka says “Chemists?” in a politely interested way. Chemists are sure not to involve the Power, because the Power encourages chemistry to misbehave, randomly and usually horribly.
“They’ve never had domestic cattle there before. No one had the least idea where the strange taste in the milk came from.”
You’d really want to know. Not every weed uses the Power, and not everything poisonous is a weed.
“It was some wild relative of onions,” Grackle says. “Not harmful, strictly, though the taste was dire.”
Everyone’s outside, it’s a lovely day, there’s the long porch facing Big Pond, it extends out to the east so as to not interfere with the north wall’s windows. Lots of actual furniture, nothing illusory whatsoever and much of it iron frames and cruncher-leather.
“I got to travel a bit, up the new canal about half way past Morning Vale. I spent, oh, nearly two hours wondering where Kind Lake was before I realized I’d just crossed it.”
“Wouldn’t have thought it was obscure,” Dove says, the smile all in Dove’s voice.
“If you think made things are that size,” Grackle says a bit severely. “Or that old. There are trees five metres through right by
the water when you get to the exit locks.”
“Zora does good work,” is Edgar, coming in the end of the porch floating the big standing urn with lemonade. Chloris has a tray of small cakes. Not very far back in the link is a recent memory of a discussion of suitable cake flavours to go with lemonade, neatly flagged, it appears as a white and gold pennon shape in my mind, which means “amative context.”
I can infer from how long fetching lemonade took, but the rest of us try diligently to be polite.
No. The rest of us are polite, diligently and with more delicacy than I can properly expect. I still feel enraged about it.
“Excellent work,” Grackle says. “Some of the newly arrived people have been getting set up to make scents, teas, and flavours from forest flowers, and they have nothing but good to say about the rearrangement.”
Dove’s quietly producing beer mugs, simple glass ones from a shelf. A keg lives on the porch, in a resolutely dark corner with a constant temperature. The mugs live under the keg.
“It’s a specific memory,” Dove says, handing a mug to Grackle.
Grackle doesn’t say anything, but Hawthorn snorts and smiles and nearly demurs before Chloris herds all four kids out to go see the swans, which they want to do and aren’t willing to do without an adult.
Hawthorn and Mikka look at each other and visibly decide to believe in the re-domestication of swans. Pelōŕios’ ears do the forth-and-back flip I’ve learned is a chuckle.
Dove says, in a quiet and positive voice, “Powerful militant necromancer.”
“Who got the lemons how?” Mikka says. Mikka’s had to take sips of Halle’s lemonade because Halle is insistent that the degree of goodness can only be appreciated if Mikka drinks some.
“From a memory of Blossom’s.” Which gets me a severe look from Mikka.
“Blossom’s people are from the City of Peace, which is far enough north to grow citrus. Blossom’s memory of really good lemonade that one summer day as a child can be transmitted to the working link, and then we all know.” I’m skipping so much, and making it sound much more difficult than it is. It makes me almost sympathetic to all the things our teachers don’t try to explain.
“We can all rearrange matter into food, if we’ve got a pattern for the food.”
“Some recompense,” Grackle says, kindly, noticeably kindly.
I must look puzzled. Even Dove feels a bit puzzled.
“I have my third set of teeth,” Grackle says. “I have children, grandchildren, respect for skill enough to be called to find out what’s ruining the cheese even if I mostly make sure soap is kind, instead of fit for a tannery. I know who I am, and what I can do, and how life goes, so I shan’t spend several centuries always uncertain and astonished.”
“Grow up or die just keeps going” I say, and Dove and Edgar and spectral Constant all nod. Away down the path, Chloris has just extracted an abashed Poesy from an illusory bell jar, which served to make it clear that, really, no running ahead.
All four kids look impressed.
Chapter 33
Zora
The only teacher there at dinner is Halt.
Halt, I don’t understand quite how, manages to reassure Hawthorn about children feeding swans. It might be the intonation on “thoroughly domesticated,” or it might be the way Halt says “helpless” when explaining that, no, truly, this isn’t Dove’s vigorous expectations, the swans are well able to know how unwise it should prove were they to misbehave. It might just be taking all of dinner to do a thorough job.
Junco was still subdued going in to the kids’ side of the refectory, which, as Dove pointed out, wasn’t entirely a bad thing. Hawthorn had agreed, and seized Dove by the shoulders and said “You were bad enough before!” before everyone sat down, Grackle and Hawthorn and Mikka where Wake and Blossom and Grue usually go. No infants coming in with the nibbles to lean on Grue bothers me somehow.
Ed’s down the far end tonight, talking with the Captain. Ninth Day, so a sword lesson but this sounds like battalion-level logistics considered as a terseness contest.
“Feeding swans what?” is Eirene, drifting by to extend properly informal welcome.
“Cracked maize, wild rice, and crushed barley,” Chloris says. “Restructured from water plants to considerable interest.”
Eirene gets an amused expression. “Complicated way to improve the taste.”
“Might improve diligence,” Dove says. “Junco and Poesy were fascinated.”
“It was an abstract explanation,” Chloris says, face still and perfect. “It isn’t fair to make the swans wait too long, and the cygnets are still moving between adorable and manners.”
“Don’t think diligence will serve,” Hawthorn says. “Solid talent, over average, but not sorcerers.”
Halt nods. Halt is knitting something that might be a shawl, and is certainly confined to the regular three dimensions.
Mikka says, carefully, “Dove, how do you know how the children reacted?”
Dove having been the same place Mikka was the whole time, and the kids didn’t talk about feeding swans on the walk down. It’s a long walk for a kid, and there was a collective decision that they were too hungry to talk about any kind of food. There were hopeful questions about Festival and some grim and silent slogging.
“We remember,” Dove says.
Mikka makes gestures of conceptual distress, pauses for words, and then makes the gestures again. “When was there time?” Time for Dove to go look at the memory.
“It’s a joint memory, it doesn’t work like reviewing records from a focus with a recorder.” Dove waves images on the air, the working link considered as an accumulation of experience.
That’s looking like real distress now, which isn’t good at all.
“It works better.” I get Mikka’s attention, thankfully. “There was a tax barn, still is a tax barn, in Eight Wide Landing that needed new roof beams, to go with the new roof. Only in the last three hundred years a row of houses went in behind and a rope walk went in across and there’s a school and a brewery to either side, so there weren’t any places to put a crane or a hoist. And the walls are masonry, so the new trusses have to go in exactly straight, no twisting or the wall suffers.” Oak queen-post trusses, fifteen of them, fifty centimetre square main beams, a great present expense of effort and timber.
“Whole décade of calculations with the building under tarps before they admitted there wasn’t any way to set a crane to get the old beams out or the new ones in,” Dove says. It was close, but not on the right side of close, and no one had calculated anything before the roof came off on the strength of an eyeballed close.
“So we got the job, and had one of us in the street, with the new trusses, and one inside, and somebody on both flanking roofs to see down and everybody saw all of that. You close your eyes or you get really dizzy.” You’d better not be trying to do it with your physical brain, either, but I’d rather not tell Mikka that.
Mikka takes a careful breath, and waits to say anything, because Halle’s wandered in, hugged Mikka, plumped down next to Pelōŕios, accepted a gracious nod, and slumped asleep against a shimmering black flank.
Cruel is infant courtesy. Pelōŕios is entirely amused.
“Yours are fine” Dove says to Hawthorn. “They’ve been put to sorting cutlery.”
“Cannot imagine your children would accept you looking through walls,” Grackle says to Hawthorn, smiling.
Hawthorn’s head shakes. “Probably not.”
“Aren’t you looking through each other’s heads?” Mikka’s voice, this has gone emotionally real, the way things do when you can see them.
I have to answer this.
“It’s our head. My mind’s mine, but the link is whole and ours.” Careful inhale. “It’s just about impossible to tell from outside what’s which, Blossom can’t if Blossom isn’t in the link, Wake uses ‘students’ as a non-count noun, you certainly can’t tell from how we talk, but it’s not muddled inside.”
Eirene has ghosted a chair over. Halt’s chair takes silent delicate steps left, so there’s room for Eirene at the head of the table.
Ed and the Captain get up and head out, Ed waves, Chloris blows a kiss and Ed looks, of an instant, bashful.
“My brain is skipping, but that’s unsettling,” Mikka says. Ed and the Captain are both small and slight, as ought to recall the tipping middle of youth.
I keep remembering that the Peace is young.
Halt chuckles. Dove smiles in a shy sort of way that makes Grackle and Hawthorn look astonished.
Mikka’s head turns, side to side, and looks baffled. “You never act affectionate.” Towards Ed, Mikka means. Ed and Chloris, Dove and Chloris, various youths look elaborately pained by unexpected witness on a regular basis, but you never see Dove and Edgar be affectionate.
“You don’t see Dove and Edgar be affectionate because people would go mad or die. We can cope with it, Grue only just can, Wake looks like the benevolent and imperturbable are work, Blossom grinned and gave Ed a mock version of the ‘and don’t you hurt my sister’ lecture until all three of them were laughing too hard to talk and we could all feel Constant being baffled.” Chloris’ careful recitation of facts voice.
“Halt goes a bit misty.” So is this, out of respect for completeness or Halt.
“Halt goes misty.” Hawthorn’s tone is perfectly “and next I shall behold ducks work the cider press.”
“‘Misty’ is Halt’s adjective,” Dove says. “Halt can be sentimental.”
Halt is looking just a little misty now, tea and knitting notwithstanding.
“You being sentimental?” Hawthorn’s flat practical question to Dove makes Grackle nod, just a little. Not disapproval, not anything I know how to describe. Families have to form from the people in them, and nobody in my family enjoys conflict. Grackle might not, Grackle might have borne a hero’s children and wondered at these daughters.
“Practical,” Dove says, smiling. “Aside from all the reasons to be us-together, I get a best gal who shall be at little risk of dying twice and a particular lad between us who’s … ” and Dove gets stuck for the word.
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