“We all do it,” said Mirabel. “It’s how we keep track of where we are in the deep grasses, put our heads up when we need to. You bony people can’t do it, and I’ve never figured out how you manage without.”
“You don’t have bones?” asked Grandma.
“Only a few,” said Mirabel. “Here and there, and they do wander about.”
Maniacal was returning. “It’s a Ghoss,” he called. “He’s got another Ghoss there, sleeping, but he says come ahead.”
We went on. Inside the sandy cave an elderly man stood to welcome us, bowing, introducing himself. “I’m Rei. The one sleeping over there is Mar-agern. Come in, sit down. I was just heating water for tea. I know you raiders can’t go long without your tea, and I happen to have some.” He stopped in some confusion as he got a good look at me. “Excuse me. You’re not all hayfolk. Ma’am. Ah, well. Not Ghoss, then. Not you, not the young ones. Escaped bondspeople?”
“No,” I said with some asperity. “I’m Margaret. This is my granddaughter, Gloriana, and her friend, Bamber Joy. And this is Falija.”
Rei bowed deeply to Falija, still curled around Bamber’s neck. “Gibbekotkin,” he murmured. “Welcome. Do you come from the city?”
Bamber squatted to let Falija jump down. She sat on her haunches, eyes moving around the cave as though to penetrate its stone walls before she turned her gaze back to the man who had welcomed us. “We thank the Ghoss, Rei,” she said. “These people came with me through a way-gate from the planet Tercis. We are bound for the way-gate that leads to Thairy. We were pursued, our lives threatened. A gizzardile intervened and saved us inadvertently. We are very weary and grateful for your help.”
The Ghoss bowed again. “As our ancestors promised yours, we will do whatever we can do.”
“A little rest would be most welcome,” I said, trying to swallow a yawn.
We sat around the fire. Tea was poured and another pot heated and brewed. Maniacal distributed the food we had left, but we only nibbled at it, too tired to be hungry. The Ghoss did not question us, but he stared at me with particular intensity.
Finally, intercepting this gaze, Falija said, “We are on a quest, Ghoss Rei. There are creatures about who don’t want us to make it. They were on Tercis, they are here on Fajnard, possibly they will be on Thairy. The quest is to walk the seven roads that are one road.”
“A riddle?” suggested Rei.
“You could say that, yes,” I said. Some color had returned to my face, and I felt both slightly strengthened and in need of going someplace private. I shifted uncomfortably.
“Around the corner, there,” suggested Rei. “You’ll find what you need.”
Seeing my startled look, Mirabel said, “They’re telepathic, the Ghoss. They can tell what you’re thinking or needing.”
“Ah,” I said, at a loss for any real words and not at all sure I liked people being aware of when I needed to pee. Around the corner was a wooden seat over a crevice in the rock as well as a waist-level stone hollow constantly filled by a seep from above. I washed my face and hands, feeling somewhat refreshed.
When I returned to the others, I had to pass the sleeping person very closely, and I looked down, to avoid stepping on him, her. I looked down, and stood, looking down, not moving, not moving at all.
“Grandma?” cried Gloriana. “What is it?”
“It’s me,” I answered, eyes still fixed on the sleeping form. “For the love of heaven, Gloriana, it’s me.”
Gloriana came to stand beside me, gaping, moving about to get a better look. “She’s…she’s younger than you, Grandma.”
“She’s me, the way I looked in the mirror, not all that long ago.” I turned to face Rei, demanding, “Who is she?”
“Mar-agern was a bondslave sent here to Fajnard,” said Rei, glancing back and forth between us. “You’re right. I saw the resemblance when you came in. She came from Earth when she was about twenty-two.”
“I came from Earth, when I was twenty-two.”
“And your father’s name was…?”
“Harry Bain. And her mother’s name was…”
“Louise Bain,” said Rei.
“How did this happen?” I cried, looking from face to face. “How did this happen?”
“Shhh,” said Rei. “We don’t know how. Perhaps we know why…Gibbekot?”
“Her name?” I cried. “What’s her name?”
“As I said, her name is Mar-agern,” said Rei.
“Not quite close enough to be Margy,” I laughed. “Or maybe it is? One of my play people. Margy. First Wilvia, then Margy. Is there to be a Naumi as well?”
“Sit down, Grandma,” Glory urged. “You’re very pale. This is all very weird and strange, and you’re allergic to strange.”
Bamber took one arm, Glory the other, and they sat me down near the fire, where I shook my head silently, slowly, hoping to negate the existence of everything in the neighborhood, perhaps myself included.
“Gibbekot?” asked Rei, again. “Do we know why?”
“Yes,” whispered Falija. “Yes, of course. That is, perhaps, though as yet there are only two of her, and the story would demand at least seven…”
A low, continuous moan came from the sleeping woman. She rolled restlessly to one side, then the other, exposing the back of her head.
“What is that on the back of her head?” I demanded.
“That is a mother-mind,” said Rei.
“Where did you get it?” demanded Falija harshly.
“I didn’t,” Rei replied. “The Gibbekot got it from the same place they got the ones they gave our ancestors. They grew them. With grown-up humans, the network just works its way up inside the bottom of the skull. The one on Mar-agern is almost absorbed. She’ll wake within another few hours.” He sighed deeply, tiredly. Evidently he had been under as much stress as we had.
Falija spoke to Glory and me. “It’s as I told you. Nothing to be afraid of.”
Rei said, “You said there was a story about seven?”
“There is a story about a man who spoke to a fish,” said Falija, beginning the tale.
I lay down, all at once, before I simply collapsed. My eyes flickered. “Excuse me if I don’t listen, Falija, but I’ve heard the story, and I am very tired.”
“Sleep,” said Gloriana. “It’s okay. We’ll keep an eye on things, won’t we, Bamber, Maniacal?”
They spoke together. “Oh, yes.” “We will.”
I heard Falija’s voice going on with the story, saw the light of the fire flickering on the cave wall, saw Maniacal and Mirabel curl up against the wall to sleep, later felt Gloriana and Bamber Joy lie down on either side of me, probably to keep me warm. Then I didn’t see anything or feel anything for quite some time.
I Am M’urgi/on B’yurngrad
I woke to the terror of being blind and speechless, or, as I admonished myself after a moment’s panic, blindfolded and gagged. Nothing wrong with my senses, just my surroundings. I was being carried in some kind of sling or net through grasses that rustled. I had seen tribesmen carrying butchered game this way, all the meat piled into the hide and slung on a pole between two of them. Were these tribesmen? Probably. The danger Ferni had warned me of? Probably not. If the goal had been to kill me, they could have done it at once, while I was sleeping.
So, what did they want?
I took a deep, deep breath and let it out slowly. Then another, and another yet. I was not in pain, which made it easier, though I had learned to do it even when in pain. The jostling didn’t help, but I could overcome that. Stillness. Inside, the stillness. I straightened myself in the sling and brought my head forward, onto my chest. Now, now, now let the spirit find the knowing cloud, the being, the great register, the omnipresence, the all, now, now, now lie forward upon the cloud and look down…
Five of them. Two carrying, two running alongside to spell them when they were tired, one in front to lead them along the back trail through the grasses which led, led, led there, ins
ide the forest, a temporary camp. Small huts covered in hides. A campfire circle with a spit above it. No women. One of the huts new, the scraped hides bright and clean, and a narrow bed and chair inside. They didn’t use chairs, or beds. The furnishings were for me, as were the chains attached to a stout pole that ran up the middle of the hut, buried at the bottom, tied to the framework at the top. So. If I proved unwilling, they intended to keep me by force. For someone? For something?
Back, back to the five runners, skulls painted on their faces, death-and-honor tribesmen. Each face, carefully, carefully, not that one, nor that, nor either of these others. The one in front. Yes. Very possibly. He had changed a good deal in the intervening years. He was no longer a boy. Now he was a man, scarred from battle.
Could I find the time trail that led to him? I drifted, searching, there he was, there the woman who had tried to poison his father. There the woman was, slain, as the old shaman had foretold. There was the father, slain in his turn, and others, over and over, leaving only this one and a scatter of other youngsters. He took them. He wove them. He made them a tribe. They captured women. They fathered children. Here he was, planning this raid. The ghostwoman, he said to them. The ghostwoman who saved the life of my father. She is here, nearby. All the tribes know I want her, that I will pay for her. Someone has seen her. He will lead us to her, for gold.
Where did a tribesman get gold? I flew on the word, on the image, the warm gleam, the soft shine, searching, finding it at last, an ancient place, buried under a landslide, tunneled now by avid hunters, guarded now by members of the tribe…So. They had found some ancient, wonderful city here on B’yurngrad, where no city had ever been found, and they had burrowed into it like rats. He had paid someone to find me, and he himself had come to get me, and his motive was not murder.
I looked around at the landmarks, the mountains, where the stars stood, then fled back, back to my body, which had by now been carried near to the forest camp. The bodiless search had taken hours.
They entered the camp. I was untied, unblindfolded. I stood up arrogantly. “Bring me watah,” I demanded. “I will go in mah own place.” And I strode into the hut I had seen, finding it as I had seen it.
When they brought the water I sneered. “Wahm it. I will not wash myself in cold watah.” And, when they returned with warm water, I said, “Go away. I am mos angry!”
Each time I was obeyed without question, but still there were five guards set around the perimeter of the hut, still there were half a dozen others a bit farther out, keeping watch. And he who had paid for me squatted by his campfire, watching the door of the hut as a starving man might watch the prey he needed to keep life within him. Something deep and terrible was happening, and every man here knew of it.
I stayed inside long enough to make it clear I did only what I willed to do, then came out of the hut and went to the fire. “Bring my chayah,” I commanded.
Someone brought the chair. I sat down, looking down on him. “Sssso,” I hissed. “You clevah boy, save yr dah, ya did. Then he go muck it all, fahget taboos. He get kill fah nothin. Now you here, now you lay hans on ghos-woman, make all tha ghos angry wit you. Whas in you head, runnah?”
He ducked his head, rolling it on his neck as though it hurt. “Don wan muck it all. Din take hohses. Din hahm man. Mean no hahm. Mean no blood. Need…need somebody hehp us.”
It was the face I had seen years ago, determined yet unsure, concerned not to make a mistake, meaning no harm, threatening no blood, no theft of horses. Ah, well, only a matter of time until the tribes got their hands on horses. Then things would become interesting.
“Tell me!” I demanded.
“Cahn you see?” he cried.
“I tiahd,” I exclaimed angrily. “I soah! Ya haul me lahk meat and spec me to see? Ya tell it, den I see.”
He leaned over the fire, stirring it with the stick in his hand. “I got woman,” he said. “Chil’ren, l’il ones. We all got women, chil’ren. We talk to tribes, here, there. They dyin’. Dis thing comes, kills ’em.”
“Ghyrm,” I breathed. “You speak of ghyrm!”
“Yesss…” Like the hiss of a serpent, eyes wild.
“Some tribes carry ghyrm! Your dah, he carry ghyrm!”
“All,” he whispered. “All tribes carry, like spear, like arrow, not hurt dah one dat carry. Now…now it hurt dah ones dat carry…”
“Tuhned on you,” I said. “Evil tuhns on da one who use it, no one evah tell you dat? You not lissen to dat?”
“You a huntah,” he said in accusation. “They say, you a huntah, findah. You kill the things.”
I stood, thinking furiously. Yes, I was a hunter, yes, I could kill the things, but if they were widespread among the tribes…then all of B’yurngrad was in danger. “Not alone,” I cried. “I mus bring moah my people! Moah huntahs!”
“Nah,” he said, face obdurately set. “They say ahl righ one huntah. No danja foah owr folk in one huntah.”
I sat down. “Yoah name?”
“Dey call me Dahk Runnah.”
“Dahk Runnah. Yah go to hunt meat, yah go alone?”
“Go wit men in tribe.”
“I hunt ghyrm, I hunt wit folk, mah tribe. Alone, I cahn do no good.”
“Iz lie!” he said angrily. “You go alone mahny times. Mahny times!”
“I go find alone,” I said. “Suah. Find one, mebbe can kill if I have special knife. Moah dan one, no. If many, cannot kill alone.”
“You find. We kill’m.”
“Dahk Runnah, you no can kill’m. You think you kill’m, but they still alive, on you body, tiny, so tiny you no can see’m. I need special stuffs, special folk to kill’m wit.”
“Nah,” he said, scowling. “Jus you. Nobody moah.”
“Tha mahn,” I suggested. “The mahn, he a good huntah. Wit the mahn?”
He turned from me and stalked away. Several of his men gathered around him, talking urgently, throwing angry looks in my direction.
I took up a brand from the fire, gathered wood from the pile, returned to my hut to make a tiny fire in the circle of stones. I sat beside it. They would do as they would do. I could find the ghyrm for them, but I could not kill the creatures without sanctified instruments or the machines the Siblinghood had to offer.
There was one thing I could do. If I could still do it, out of practice as I was. If Ferni…ah, if Ferni was only receptive.
I Am Gretamara/on Chottem
The Gardener had asked me to accompany Sophia to the city of Bray, as otherwise the heiress would be without friends or confidantes. It became obvious that more than mere friendship was needed as soon as we arrived at Stentor d’Lorn’s mansion. Even though workmen had been sent ahead, we knew it would take both of us to deal with the mess.
Battalions of men and women with shovels and buckets and washtubs were still laboring to erase what a few decades of leaking roofs and inattention had allowed to accumulate. The carpets, which had been thickly strewn with Cantardene charbic powder to keep them safe from vermin, were rolled against corridor walls. These had to be taken out of doors on a day the wind blew toward the sea and there well beaten before anyone could breathe in the same room with them. Many of the furnishings were simply falling apart. The walls were mapped with continents of mildew crossed by wandering tributaries of cracks. While the entire planet of Chottem was still relatively primitive so far as plumbing and sanitation went, the mansion had been built before even that low standard had been achieved.
Sophia and I took up residency in a small house at the back of the property that had been occupied by a watchman’s family, a place to which we could retreat from the stench of sewers, the reek of paint, and the chatter of hammers.
There were also interruptions. Von Goldereau d’Lornschilde dropped by frequently, usually to be told we were not home. We heard it rumored that he had challenged Sophia’s identity, on the grounds that Stentor’s granddaughter should be older than Sophia appeared to be. Hearing of this, Sophia summoned an
attorney and sent him to Von Goldereau with a message saying that friends of the Siblinghood were granted the favor of youth, as indeed, we were, and members of the Siblinghood would be glad to testify for us. She and I had aged mostly on the Gardener’s time.
A day or two after we arrived, a strange old man came with a bunch of keys, which he said Stentor d’Lorn had put in his keeping with instructions they were to be given to his granddaughter and none other.
“There’s a man been looking high and low for these,” the old man said. “Name’s Von Goldereau d’Lornschilde.”
“He didn’t know you had them?” I asked him.
“No. He looked among the mighty, never thought to look among us, the little folk.”
“Why did d’Lorn leave them with you?” I asked.
“Oh, I owed him a favor, ma’am. He took my son, Fessol, his name is, when he was only six years old. Stentor d’Lorn took a liking to him and sent him to another world to be educated and made into a fine gentleman. Told me if I’d keep these keys until his granddaughter came to reclaim them, she’d see I got to go there, see my boy, how wonderful a life he has.”
I shivered when I heard this, for no reason except that such an act of charity was out of character for the man who had brooked no opposition from anyone during his life, and who had killed his son-in-law out of hand—as was well known in Bray. Sophia, however, took the keys without comment, asking only for the oldster’s name and where he might be found, that she might properly reward him when she learned where his grandson had gone.
A goodly number of cooks and butlers and other assorted functionaries were hired and let go again before the heiress had assembled a staff that could, in her opinion, acquit itself well in opening the house to guests.
“Anytime soon?” I asked in dismay.
“Not soon, no,” said Sophia almost fretfully. “I want to be an influence for good on this world, and this house…it works against me! I’m not comfortable in it.”
The Margarets Page 41
