Hazan stood in a vast assemblage of gantries and hoses and fragile extensions, and about that ship too he saw evident damage. She was aglow with lights, acrawl with black figures that labored on her like carrion insects; and a steady line of vehicles crawled toward her, bearing goods, no doubt, for loading and for repairs.
He passed this area, careful of being seen, and rounded the shape of Hazan. There, a tower before him, stood Ahanal once more, looming against the sky with only one light brought to bear upon her hull.
He drew near and saw that she was old, her metal pitted as with acids, her markings seared almost beyond recognition. Long scars marked where shields must have failed.
He voice-hailed them, conscious of the nearness of regul sentries; of a sled that had already started his way.
“Ahanal!” he cried. “Open your hatch!”
But either they were not prepared to hear or they had reason to be uneasy of the regul; and there was no response from Ahanal. He saw the sled veer sharply, corning to a halt near him, and a youngling regul opened the sidescreen to speak to him.
“Mri,” said the regul, “you are not permitted.”
“Is this the order of the bai?” he asked.
“Go away,” the regul insisted. “Kesrithi mri, go away.”
There was a crash of metal: the hatch had opened. He ignored the regul to glance upward at the ship; from which a ramp began to extend. He walked toward it, simply ignoring the regul.
The sled hummed behind him. He moved, narrowly missed: its fender clipped the side of his leg, and the sled circled in front of him, blocking his path.
The window was still open. The youngling regul was breathing hard, his great nostrils opening and shutting in extreme agitation.
“Go back,” it hissed.
He began to step round the sled; it lurched forward and he rolled on his shoulder across its low nose, landed on the other side and ran, shamed and frightened: mri were watching from the ramp, doubtless, outraged at his discomfiture. His legs were weak under him with terror for what he had done, a thing which no mri had ever done: he had defied the masters directly; but he was the she’pan’s messenger, and if he delayed to argue with the youngling there would be regul authority involved, with orders to obey or disobey, with a crisis for the she’pan that a mere kel’en could not resolve without direct violence.
He ran, hit the echoing solidity of the ramp and raced up it as quickly as he could to meet the mri of the ship, but they were already fading back into the ship and did not stay for him. He heard and felt the ramp taking up behind him, shortening its length as he; overtook the last of them. Lights came on, blinding; doors shut, sealing them safely inside.
Ten kel’ein: Husbands, by their age and dignity. There was cold light and, air piercing in it sterility after the air of Kesrith. The final seal of the lock closed between them and the outside, the ramp in place. There was silenced.
“Sirs,” he remembered to say and stopped looking at them with the many j’tai and their grim, stranger’s manner long enough to touch his brow and pay proper respect. He looked up again and unveiled, a courtesy which they grudgingly returned.
“I am Niun s’Intel Zain-Abrin,” he said in the high language as all mri used in formalities. “I bear service to Intel, she’pan of Edun Kesrithun.”
“I am Sune s’Hara Sune-Lir,” said the eldest of them, an old man whose mane grayed at the temples; and who looked to be of the age of Pasev or Eddan; but his fellows were younger, more powerful-looking men. “Does the she’pan Intel fare well?”
“The edun is safe.”
“Does the she’pan intend to come in person?”
“As to that, sir, not until I return with the word of your she’pan.”
He understood somewhat their attitude, that of men who loved and defended their own, who must yield to she’pan Intel, who must yield them too. It was natural that they look on Intel’s messenger with resentment.
“We will take you to her,” said Sune s’Hara, with formal grace. “Come.” And with better courtesy: “You are not injured?”
“No, sir,” he said, and remembered with a sudden flush that it was not proper for him to defer to this man, that he was a messenger, and more than that; he betrayed himself for a very young kel’en and inexperienced in his authority. “Regul and mri are not at ease in Kesrith,” he added, covering his confusion; “There have been words passed.”
“We were met with weapons,” Sune said. “But there were no casualties.”
He walked with them, through corridors of metal, in halls designed for regul. He saw kel’ein and he saw kel’e’ein, veiled and youthful as he; and his pulse quickened—he thought them glorious and beautiful, and tried not to stares though he knew that their eyes were taking close account of him, a stranger among them. Some unveiled in brotherly welcome when he met them, and a great company of them went through the corridors to the main-room, to that center of the ship that was now the hall of a she’pan.
She was middle-aged. He came and bowed his head under her hands, and looked up at her, vaguely disturbed to be greeted by a she’pan not in the familiar earthen closeness of a tower but in this metal place, and by greeting a she’pan who was not kin, whose emblem on her white, blue-edged robes was that of a star, not the hand emblem of Edun Kesrithun.
She was a stranger who must die, who must choose to die or whose champion he must defeat, if she challenged; and he prayed silently to all the gods that this one would be brave and gracious and forego challenge.
Her eyes were hard and she existed in light harsh enough to hurt; and the world that surrounded her was cold and metal. Many, many of the ship-folk surrounded them now, their she’pan, their beloved Mother, and not his: he an intruder, a threat to her life.
They saw a she’pan’s messenger, but one innocent of j’tai won in battles—a youth unscarred, untried, and vulnerable to challenge.
He felt her eyes go up and down him, reckoning this, reckoning his world and those who sent him. And beyond her, about her, he saw gold-robed sen’ein; and black-robed kel’ein; and shyly observing from the recesses of the further hall, he saw kath’ein, blue-robes; veilless and gentle and frightened.
And about them, within the other corridors, row on row of hammocks slung like the nestings of Kesrith’s spiders, threads of white and webbings that laced the room and the sides of the corridors. He was overwhelmed by the number of those that crowded close: and yet it struck him suddenly that hers was his whole species, all reduced to this little ship, and under the present command of this woman.
“Messenger,” she said, “I am Esain of Edun Elagun. How fares Intel?”
Her voice was kinder than her face, and shot through him like sun after night. His heart melted toward her, that she could speak kindly toward him and toward Intel.
“She’pan,” he said, “Intel is well enough.”
He put kindness in his voice, and yet she understood, for a shadow passed through her eyes, and fear; but she was a great lady, and did not flinch.
“What does Intel wish to tell me?” asked Esain.
“She’pan,” he said, “she gave me welcome for you; and sent me to listen to you first of all.”
She nodded slightly, and with a move of her hand bade council attend her: kel’anth and sen’anth and kath’anth came and sat by her; and the fen’ein, her Husbands of the Kel; and the body of the Sen; and while these took their places the others withdrew, and doors were closed.
He remained kneeling before her and carefully removed his zaidhe and laid that before him; and on it he laid the av-kel, the Kel-sword that was Sirain’s lending, sheathed before Mm, hilt toward her, a token of peace. His hands he folded in his lap. Her kel’ein did the same, hilts; toward him, the stranger in their midst, the visitor admitted to council.
“We send greetings to Intel,” said Esain quietly. “Of her wisdom long ago was Ahanal reserved for the People, and of her wisdom was Ahanal freed to come. She placed such a burden on the Kel,
refusing regul assistance, that there was no honorable choice. Honor outweighed honor. This was wisely done. All aboard understand and are grateful that it was done in time, for nothing else could have compelled us from the front. Is it true as we guess, that she intends to leave regul service?”
“Her words: We have almost left regul service. Your fen’ein and the kel’anth saw the result of it when I came toward the ship.”
She looked at the kel’anth. He gave agreement with a gesture.
“I have seen a thing I have never seen,” the old man said. “A regul attacked this messenger—not with hands, to be sure; but with his machine. These regul are desperate.”
“And the edun?” the she’pan asked, her brow crossed with a frown, “How fares the Edun of the People, with the regul in such a mood?”
“Presently secure,” he said, and, for he saw the real question burning in her, that she would hesitate to ask a mere kel’en: “She’pan, the Forbidden is in her keeping; and the regul are busy with the damage the weather has done them. Humans are close, and the regul fear delays that could hold them grounded. I think what happened out there was the act of a youngling without clear orders.”
“Yet,” said the she’pan, “what if we were to leave the ship in a body?”
“We are mri,” said Niun with supreme confidence, “and regul would give way before us, and they would dare do nothing.”
“Did you so judge,” asked the she’pan, “of that youngling that attempted your life?”
Heat mounted in his face. “She’pan,” he said, made aware of his youth and his inexperience. “I do not think that was a serious threat.”
She thought, and looked at the Sen and the others, and finally sighed and frowned. “I bear too great a charge here to risk it. We will wait until Intel has made her decision. We have force here at her call; I will send it or reserve it as she says. And, messenger, assure her that I will respect her claim on the People.”
He was shocked and relieved at once, and he bowed very low to her, hearing the murmur of grief run the length and breadth of the room. He could hardly bear to meet her eyes again, but found them gentle and unaccusing.
“I will tell her,” he said, recovering the courtesies trained into him, part of blood and flesh and bone, “that the she’pan of Edun Elagun is a grand and brave lady, and that she has earned great honor of all the People.”
“Tell her,” she said softly, “that I wish her well with my children.”
Many veiled themselves, hearing her, and he found his own eyes stinging.
“I will tell her,” he said.
“Will you, messenger, stay the night with us?”
He thought of it, for it was a walk of the rest of the night to come again to the edun, and likely a great deal of sleep lost thereafter, once Intel had begun to give orders; but he thought of the regul that had crossed his path, and the weather, and the uncertainties that hemmed him about.
“She’pan,” he said, “my duty is to go back now—best now, before the regul have time to take long consultations.”
“Yes,” she said, “that would be the wisest thing. Go, then.”
And she, when he had gathered up the av-kel and replaced the zaidhe, and come to touch her hand and do her heartfelt courtesy, gave into his hand a ring of true gold, at which his heart clenched in pain; for it was a gracious, brave thing to do, to give a service-gift as if he had well-pleased her: Off her own finger she drew it, and pressed it into his hand, and he bowed and kissed her fingers, before he stood and took his leave. He laced the ring into one of the thongs of his honors, to braid it in property later, and bowed her farewell.
“Safe passage, kel’en,” she said.
He should wish her long life, and he could not; he thought instead of that parting of kel’ein: “Honors and good attend,” he said, and she accepted that courtesy with grace.
The Kel veiled, and he did so likewise, grateful for that privacy as they led him back to the doors, to let him out into the dark.
He heard the mournful protest of a confined dus, attuned to the mood of the Kel it served; and with that he entered the lock, and the lights were extinguished, to make them less a target.
For a moment the darkness was complete. Then the opening ramp and the double doors let the light in, the floodlights on the field, and, the acrid wet wind touched them.
They did not speak as he left. There had not been a word passed. It was due to their Lady Mother’s courage that he and one of hers would not shed blood in the passing of power; but it was settled.
When there was only one she’pan on Kesrith, then there would be time for courtesies, for welcome among them.
He did not look back as he started down the ramp.
Chapter Sixteen
Niun had expected trouble at the bottom of the ramp: there was nothing, neither regul guard nor the assistance that guard might have summoned. He questioned nothing of his good fortune, but ducked his head and ran, soft-soled boots keeping his steps as quiet as possible across the pad.
He threaded again the maze of machinery, and there, there were the regul he had feared, a flare of headlights beyond the fence. He caught his breath and paused half a step to survey the situation, slipped to the shadows and changed course, reckoning that there was no need to use the same access twice. He burned through the wire fence and kicked the wire aside, and ran for it, his lungs hurting in the thin air. Somewhere a dus keened, over the rumble of machinery that prowled the dark.
He reached the edge of the apron and bolted for the sand, startled and shocked as a beam hit the sand across his path. He gasped for air and changed directions, darted round the bending of a dune and ran with all the strength he had remaining.
After a moment he reckoned himself relatively safe, enough to catch his breath again. Regul could not outrace him and the noisy machines could not surprise him. He smothered a cough, natural result of his rash burst of speed, and began uneasily to take account of this new state of affairs, that regul had premeditatedly sought not to catch him, but to kill him.
He lay against the side of the dune, his hand pressed to his aching side, trying to keep his breathing normal, and heard something stir—dus, he thought, for he knew that the hills were full of them this night, and did regul come out very far into the wild after him, they would meet a welcome they would not like. The dusei of the edun would do no harm to regul; but these were not tame ones, and the regul might not reckon that difference until it was too late to matter.
He gathered himself up and started to move, hearing at the same time a rapid sound of footsteps, mri-light and mri-quick, and following his track through the dunes. He reckoned it for one of Esain’s kel’ein, on some desperate second thought; and for that reason he froze, hissed at the shadow a warning as it fronted him, respectful of it, another kel’en.
But no kel’en.
Half a breath they faced each other, human and mri; and in that half-breath Niun whipped up his pistol and the human dived desperately to retreat, vain hope in that narrow, dune-constricted area.
And in the next instant another thought flashed into Niun’s mind—that a dead human could provide little answer to questions. He did not fire. He followed; and when he overtook the human he motioned with his hand, come, come. The human, casting desperate looks behind and at him, was a fair target if he fired.
And the human chose regul and whirled and ran.
A creature that had no business on Kesrith.
Niun thumbed the safety on, holstered the pistol and chose a new direction, a direction the regul could not, up over the arm of a dune; and cast himself flat, scanning the scene to know what manner of ambush he had sprung. Indeed the human had run directly into regul hands, in the person of one daring youngling who had him cornered against a ridge the human could easily climb if he had the wit to think of it; and the human did think of it and scrambled for his life, fighting to gain the top. But the regul laid hold on his ankle, and dragged him back again, inexorably.
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br /> They noticed nothing else. Niun retreated behind the ridge, raced a distance, came over and down in a plummeting slide, hit the solid mass of the regul and staggered it; and when it rounded on him clumsily, making the mistake of aiming a weapon at a kel’en, it was the youngling’s final mistake. Niun did not think about the flash of the as’ei that left his hand and buried themselves in the youngling’s throat and chest: they were sped before the thought had time to become purpose.
And the human, scrambling to reach the regul’s gun—Niun hit him body to body, and if there had been a knife in Niun’s intentions, the human would have been dead in the same instant.
No mean adversary, the human: Niun found himself countered, barehanded, in his attempt to seize hold of him; but the human was already done, bleeding from the nostrils, his bubbling breath hoarse in Niun’s ear. He broke the human’s hold: his arm found the human’s throat and snapped his head back with a crack of meeting teeth.
Not yet did the human fall, but a quick blow to the belly and a second snap to the head toppled him writhing to the sands; and Niun hit him yet another time, ending his struggles.
A strip from his belt secured the human; and he recovered his as’ei and sheathed them quickly, hearing the slow grinding of machinery advancing on this place, and both of them having made tracks even the night-blind regul could read.
The human was showing signs of consciousness; he gave him a jerk by the elbow and dragged him until the man tried to respond to the discomfort. Then he gave him slack to drag his legs under him and try to stand.
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