Safely You Deliver

by Graydon Saunders

  The rest of us have made a huge light show but the samarium got mined and they’ll be heading way south on Blue Creek tomorrow to deal with some awkward drainage. Just dirt, no one has to worry what happens if any of the rest of us have to deal with vegetation someone wants.

  I miss them. It’s still much more peaceful when they’re far away, I can’t say Death and Constant Strange Mayhem is tumultuous, as a thing distinct from the individual people, but it’s much too absolute to be peaceful. No slow processes like organic growth.

  Pelōŕios thinks half a thought at me, wondering if I’m worried about possible metaphysic dangers.

  Not even a little. If it’s something militant, Halt’s got it. Halt’s got a million people, true, but right now Halt is here.

  “It’s not that I have a million people, Zora dear, it’s that a million people have me. No one in the Commonweal has tried to kill me in five hundred and forty one years. This is something of a record.” Halt can’t quite do peaceful, but this sounds entirely contented, even without the needle-clicking.

  I keep failing to imagine how it seems to the old ones, some place where things get run by voting and calculations of everybody’s survival.

  “Voting isn’t really how things are run,” Halt says. “Clerks run things, voting is a way to object, mostly. What matters is who benefits. Someone always benefits, or they won’t do the work of keeping the thing running. It usually turns into a fight over control of the benefit.”

  The blunt end of a knitting needle points at the eustacen. Eustace says “baah?” and Halt makes patting motions on the air. The brutal great head dips and the long ears ruffle. “Those have cleared a hectare each per day. There were, to begin, oh, not quite four hundred hectares of Screaming Buttweed here. Three décades of work, and another décade or so moving the flock to the next patch of weeds, for which someone must pay the shepherds, and me, for the work of my creatures. Not any different in principle from paying the drover and the drover’s helper for the assistance of the draft team and the waggon.”

  I nod.

  “Yet there are many waggons and but one flock of eustacen.” Halt’s a little bit amused, and I remember I have no idea what Halt called them. “Eustacen” was someone who had to fill out a report and didn’t know what Halt had called them either.

  “And there’s lots of weeds people can’t easily clear.” You do not light Screaming Buttweed on fire, or flood it. The good thing about an established patch is knowing where it is, spread the tiny sticky spiky seeds and you’re facing a much worse problem.

  Halt nods. “In traditional societies, you get a fight for control, to establish certainties of whom the resource will benefit.”

  Us, much more than the eustacen. It would take me four hours to weed this patch only if I was exceedingly scrupulous about it.

  “The Founders were clever to see that the only way to avoid that struggle for control was to limit benefit. Trying to make benefit the same, to distribute evenly, ignores luck.”

  Halt has a low opinion of ignoring luck.

  So does the Food-gesith; there’s a list, somewhere, with priority categories for weeding by eustacen, and then some clerks established witnesses with ritual formality and rolled dice before a Null for where the eustacen would go this year. We only don’t get that because we’ve got the whole watershed. Though the first year we nearly did, Wake had a second list with half the weeds on it, by priority, in case the full list wasn’t going to get done in time.

  I’m a bit surprised the shepherd-collective, there has to be more of it and some dedicated pastures somewhere, doesn’t own the eustacen.

  “Someone must be responsible for them,” Halt says.

  Which, right. Halt, Blossom, Dove, and Ed. A Line company or other sorcerers could win a fight with one, or the flock, Wake or Chloris could just say die at eustacen if needs must, but the droop-eared oh I suppose you’re in charge reaction doesn’t happen for anyone else but those four, and Halt can’t have been planning on Dove or Ed. The eustacen visibly view the shepherds as menu planners and rake-wielders for when their wool is feeling matted, rather than as anyone in charge. It’s a lot like how Spook views half the populace as a source of warmth or petting.

  Someone had to provide the very substantial investment, too, though that should have been at least four geans.

  “The Galdor- and Food-gesiths, jointly,” Halt says. “In recompense for the interminable paperwork,” gets pronounced with a distinct twinkle.

  Chapter 51

  Zora

  Pelōŕios and I run from the head of the fourth valley across to Edge Creek the next day, there’s an infrastructure problem and the rest of us will wind up there after they get a pesky problem with an eroding fill channel sorted out down at the bottom of Blue Creek. Easier to have us do it than to dig the whole lock surround out.

  Ed’s memory’s full of sympathy for the embarrassed lock-clerk, maintenance hasn’t been happening if it isn’t obviously needed as everybody tries to get enough infrastructure built in the Folded Hills. They’re still horribly embarrassed to have their lock go out of service.

  Edge Creek’s problem’s trickier. The Displaced are fitting in fine, housing is mostly a matter of digging along Edge Creek, the water supply can handle the population increase, and terrace crops expand just as fast as you can build the terraces, which is really fast if you swap dredge and shovel focuses between teams and start with wicker edging and worry about stone or ceramic later.

  Four distinct wreaking collectives have developed generalized rip-and-sort refinery enchantments, the designs are different but they’re all big and need thousands of people to run at useful rates. The workbench demonstrations take hours to get through ten grammes with a single wreaking-collective sorcerous person pushing, and then you need to make sure the stuff you don’t want stays stable, which doesn’t have any fully general solutions. We do that consciously, and maybe the really big refinery focuses proposed can do it consciously, too, a big focus can have subsidiary nodes and sub-teams.

  People want to put the refinery on the East Bank, well up from the actual Edge Creek. East Bank’s a fifty-kilometre straight stretch where the land up and east from the Creek is fairly flat and tilted away from the Creek as soon as you’re up the steepish high banks, so you could get food to people without too much trouble and still keep a refinery away from the water. “Away from the water” means no short canals in, so you’d have to do all the ore and output moving with more focuses, which is new and slow and means making wheels you don’t have the steel for until the whole thing is working, but the Commonweal needed something last year.

  None of that is our problem. There’s close to eight thousand people here, three-fifths of them Displaced, busy as anything to get it all built. They need us to do the major ward-working for them or they won’t dare use the refinery focus until the available wreaking teams can get the whole works warded, which can be expected to take a couple of generations.

  Blossom and Dove and Constant expect to spend a big chunk of today arguing ward design. Wake or Blossom really ought to have been called in very first thing, despite a considerable hope that there was a work-around for the expected size and Power requirements. As an explanation, hope makes Blossom cross.

  I expect to spend a big chunk of today sitting still and looking interested, there won’t even be math to check until tomorrow sometime. Don’t have to remind the others to drink enough fluids anymore. So I’m going for a dawn run with Pelōŕios, the whole way round the East Bank. Everyone’s been told about sorcerers looking like unicorns.

  We’re most of the way around, headed back, when we hear the short choked scream.

  Unicorn-shape means I’m sure what I heard and I know just where the scream was. Pelōŕios doesn’t argue about sprinting over there.

  Not a Creek, young, I think, Regular-sized, and not doing a very good job of holding still. They’ve staggered out second through an empty doorway in the long side of incomplete la
rge building, three sides of thick masonry wall that doesn’t seem tall enough to be finished.

  Nobody else in there. Bind a ward across the doorway, it doesn’t have to last long or do more than keep life from crossing the threshold.

  The forearm full of spines means there aren’t any right up close to the eyes. None in the nostrils, either. Plenty in the rest of the face, whole left side, cheekbone down to the jaw.

  Lots of weeds have spines that wind up in your nostrils and start crawling as fast as they can.

  Throat would be pretty bad, throat is why I get the second one. The four actual medics are on the first one out who did get spines to the throat. The medics are looking like this is not at all what they were expecting to do this morning, they were walking to breakfast and had to sprint to get up here.

  That first person might have inhaled a few spines, too. There isn’t any sense of increasing control of the situation coming from behind me.

  Pelōŕios goes simiform out of willingness to hold this patient still, but that’s not good practice. You want to keep flesh away from weed spines, even unicorn flesh, not every weed in the world’s simple enough that a metaphysical metabolism is enough to stop it.

  “You’re going to have to hold still.” Not sure my patient hears me.

  Pelōŕios, would you fetch two stretchers, please? A proper stretcher’s got ways to stop the writhing and that would be more tactful.

  Pelōŕios does the odd little step-clatter-step thing involved in switching forms while already running and zips off. People in Westcreek Town are getting used to unicorns on medical errands, I don’t see why the rest of the Commonweal can’t manage.

  Not going to be enough time, drat it. There’s something growing around the spines, and it’s already the size of a green gooseberry around every one. About the same internal consistency, you can see the skin ruche up as the spines swell. Spores, spray, just trying to ruin skin integrity, or maybe the spines launch back out to try to get anyone trying to help.

  Or it’s the first step toward turning the victim into more weed. No idea which weed this is, I don’t recognize it and I have no time to commune with the internal library.

  “This is going to hurt. I’m sorry about that, but I need to make sure your nerves still work.” Whatever this is does a very good job of faking the victim’s body chemistry, I need to be able to feel the nerves working to know if they’re dead or not, some of them are.

  Hungry, vicious, I can’t tell those apart sometimes.

  The medic behind me doesn’t turn around, they do hand something back, snatched out of a pocket, and I take it and say thanks and pop it, unwrapped, I cheated some on the unwrap, into the guy’s mouth.

  “It’s a bite pad. Keeps you from hurting your teeth.”

  Turn the patient’s motor nerves off, I hate to, but not much option. I just have bare hands, too, I haven’t got a ward I could work through, I’m not sure that thing of Halt’s is technically a warding. Plus I get much less useful if I have to get this stuff out of me. There’d be flailing if that was possible. Switch the muscle to relaxed, too, that will feel really odd.

  “I’ve made it so you can’t smack me with the weedy bits, and so it won’t give you bad cramps, I hope.”

  There’s the first bit out of the arm, it’ll pull free live, it’s trying to grow but not anchor itself. Very unhappy noise around the bite-pad, to go with distressed thoughts.

  “It is not better to die.”

  Next three, in a little clump, and they try to close their eyes in distress. The skin of their face pulls around spines in their cheek and the pained scrunch stops.

  They still close their eyes.

  “Better not to look, though.” Trying to sound reassuring. Savage gooseberries, a little slick with blood and lymph and you can still see the spine down the middle, new ivory white and tapered and the surface has all these tiny hairs, they’re meant to move steadily forward, that’s not doesn’t-come-out barbs, doesn’t-come-out barbs aren’t that long and wriggly.

  Best to be honest, too. “Of course I’m reading your mind, just the top, so I know how distressed you are. Not every weed lets go when you pull it.”

  Top of the forearm, it looks like an accident with a powered rivet set, all these little punched out holes. Coagulate all of that, don’t want blood everywhere or shock, the chemical swamp in there makes shock all too likely, surprised, oh, the ghastly stuff, histamine reactions everywhere, those are at least easy enough to fix, get the thing that fixes those set up and hang it on a binding, don’t stick the binding to their forehead, too many weeds still in their head, just hang it in the air, Chloris said ghost hook the first time and now we all do.

  Eyes back open, going wide, looking at the glow and the ghost-hook and the complex little tangle. They’re in the kind of job where some talent-sensitivity’s an advantage.

  “That’s a binding to run a little spell for me, the weed wants you to have an allergic reaction, and I’m disagreeing.” I’m really glad Grue insisted I practice people-versions of this, it’s not difficult but I had to do it fast.

  That’s something like a whimper, but the weed’s all out of their arm, none, oh, rot these spine-barb-hair-things, not literally, how do I get those out? They’re circulating, bad thing to have in the bloodstream, no actual malice in them, it’s all chemistry, unstructure the lot. Tiny mass, not much heat, looking flushed but I’m going to go with that mostly being the histamines, face spines are still calmly swelling, nothing signalled them, better make sure, hang another binding on the ghost-hook and re-coagulate the arm holes, make sure I’ve got all of them, all the possible lingering hairs, some of them could be stuck in muscle and working toward blood and not there yet.

  Deep breath. Only one, might not have time for even one, but I need it.

  “All out of your arm.” Lots of tears leaking, this really has hurt a whole lot.

  Less muscle in faces, so the skin’s tearing over the swellings. Just not as much depth for the spines to get stuck in, even the six or seven in the malar aren’t in deep, they’re stuck, so are the other dozen along the jaw, this weed is nasty, it’s working away at the bone as best it can. Chemical signalling, these are a little more set, I don’t need another try at fatal allergies.

  “Take a deep breath.”

  They do, thankfully.

  Right at the bottom of the inhale all the spines come out of their face, straight back out, all the spines and hairs and the savage gooseberry effect, all of it. Messy, horrible, half a thought to be sure I got it all and then I can put a hand on their face and put back the way it should be.

  Arm, too. Little tiny mind-tweak so they believe they’re whole, down in their spine. Arguably not permitted to, but if I don’t they won’t stay whole, especially with an exercised talent, you really have to believe the injury is healed.

  Histamine check, shock, no, they’re breathing fine, they’re in that funny state where the pain has stopped and you don’t really believe it yet. Take the histamine blocker off the ghost-hook. De-relax the long muscles, not the whole way, some.

  “Looks like that’s all of the weed out, you’re all back together.”

  Unparalyze their motor nerves, carefully, they’re not looking happy at all.

  They don’t take a swing at me, I can see the thought, but then they look at the blob of savage gooseberries floating a metre away from my left shoulder in a containment bubble and then there’s a shout from behind me and we’ve got to move.

  I pick them up, they’re struggling, there’s nothing organic wrong, I’m pretty sure not, but they’re still wobbly and that was definitely a “move this instant” kind of shout.

  All four medics are moving back, one’s got a hurt hand, forearm, the others clearly aren’t willing to risk touching them, the other casualty, the one with the spines to the throat, it’s hard to tell it was a person, and then the whole thing is floating up, not me doing it.

  I push my clump of savage gooseberry over to
the ward, Blossom lets it through.

  Then I hand my hurt person to bipedal Pelōŕios, with a Be gentle, they’re hurt and their team-mate just died and for a wonder, Pelōŕios entirely is.

  Not much understanding of mercy in unicorns, everyone says. Certainly not much expectation of it anywhere in Pelōŕios.

  Grue sends me a huge wash of approval and a narrow question. I say “Yes” as fast as I can, then Grue’s riffling through my mind for what I did.

  A minute later it’s obvious the medic’s going to make it, lost the tattoos on that arm but they’re all back together and another lump of savage gooseberries goes into the ward.

  Which Grue looks at, really looks, and then looks sad, slumped, and does the emphatic headshake at Blossom. The ward goes opaque white. I can feel the Power move, so can Pelōŕios, there’s some wild edges of eyes. Pelōŕios can’t find Blossom reassuring out of my history, that wouldn’t be a fair expectation. Pelōŕios can perfectly well see what Blossom really is. Trust needs to be a strong habit to cope with that kind of knowledge.

  “Anything important in there?” Dove says, chin lifting at the unfinished walls, in the mild voice that fools people who really ought to know better, it fools some of the Line, I think it almost got past Halt once.

  My patient tries to say something, fishes the bite pad out of their mouth, visibly gets control of themselves, wiggles to stand up, Pelōŕios sets them upright quite tactfully, and says, shaky and determined, “No. We were coming to see how the mortar had set on the back wall.”

  Dove nods, and Ed gets the fire-mirror up in time.

  Ed always does, it’s nothing like as rash as it seems, it’s not fundamentally different from someone picking something up with both hands. You never feel any of the heat but you feel the shock in your feet.

  This time, the shock’s about like jumping down from something shoulder-high. Dove was worried about me. Pelōŕios has to catch my casualty. Even with two feet, balance never bothers Pelōŕios, but the ground-shock wobbles all the medics, the only one who might have gone over finds out Blossom’s a convincing immovable object and says thanks.