Fish Tails

by Sheri S. Tepper

It shouldn’t be happening! After the war at the Place of Power, the Edges had agreed with surface-­dwelling ­peoples that they, the Edges, would eradicate Ogres. Man and Ogre could not coexist when one was the preferred food of the other. ­People had come from Tingawa to meet with ­people from each Edge, “just to check,” as Precious Wind had said. They had gone back to Tingawa reporting the Ogre situation would be taken care of. Had the Edges really intended eradication? Or had they merely smiled, nodded, let others suppose they had agreed without meaning to do anything about Ogres? Why should they take the trouble? Ogres could not get into any of the Edges. If they were eating other humans, let the other humans worry!

  Sun-­wings had threatened the lives of the new sea-­­people, threatened them with death inflicted by the Griffins’ kindred of the sea. Had the Edgers made sea monsters? The Edgers made things for amusement, things they could watch. Could they have watched any such creatures? Not in those Edges on this side of the Stonies, for there was no ocean near enough. Had there been Edges near the ocean? And had anyone ever made an inventory of Edge-­made monsters? The Edges had been in competition with one another, so they had not shared their secrets. How many mythical or semimythical creatures had been created? How many of their manufactured monsters still lived, lurking hidden, unidentified, utterly unexpected?

  Nonetheless. Nonetheless. He breathed deeply and tried to empty his mind so that he could sleep. He would think about the babies . . . sea-­babies laughing in the pool, darting through glittering shallows; shimmering sunlight falling through aspen leaves, wafers of golden light glinting across gleaming little faces . . .

  That worked. Bailai and Gailai’s little faces, gurgling at the sky. Rosy mouths open, shrieking: “Mama, Dada, Illum.” “Wish-­fish,” Willum’s mother had called them. Dark little eyes peeking here and there. Quick little hands grabbing at the world. The children, happily at play. Yes. That worked.

  Sometimes.

  VERY EARLY IN THE MORNING, when the sky was just light enough to let her see what was around her, Precious Wind slipped out the window above the bed without waking Xulai, hopped to the nearest switchback, made her way among a few sizable boulders to a fairly flat, lightly forested pocket invisible from anywhere around them except the sky. There she cleared a place for the wagon. The ul xaolat had to move a volume of stone and a few trees somewhere else. There were certain strictures built into the device. It would not kill any sensate thing unless told to do so: local beetles, lizards, birds, ground squirrels, were moved before the stone was displaced harmlessly but by no means silently. Precious Wind did not doubt the ­people down on the flat could have heard the noise, but it had sounded only like the rockfall it actually was. Though the resultant dust cloud was obvious, a fortuitous breeze moved it silently southward to hang among the treetops a goodly distance away.

  She went back to peer under the wagon, making sure Kim was in what the device would recognize as a definable contiguity, then stood upon the step and moved the wagon with ancillary humans into the newly created space. Though the transition was instantaneous, the move woke Xulai. “Is it light already?” she mumbled, reaching for her clothes.

  “We’re already out of sight,” Precious Wind informed her, cheerfully, as she came in the door. “We’re off the road at the nearest switchback south to where we were last night. I’m about to hop down the road and meet the messenger. I’ll be back by the time you have the breakfast fire started. The less smoke the better, I should imagine.”

  From the outer edge of the road she focused on the farthest clear space she could see clearly along the roads below her. In those places where the trees on the downhill side of the road were tall enough to tower above the road itself, the rising sun threw black shadows upon the roadway. She would jump down into these shadows, hidden from the downhill side, and no one in the camp below would see a person materialize out of nothing. She went to the chosen place, peered through branches down to the next, and repeated the process. It took five jumps before she saw the rider a short distance ahead of her. She sat on a stone at the side of the road and waited for him.

  “Ma’am,” he said as he dismounted. “I can’t see the wagon, so I guess you moved it.”

  “I did,” she replied. “You’re Deer Runner, aren’t you? What’s happened, Runner?”

  “Well, ma’am, Arakny’s been meeting with the queen.” He shook his head at some remembered idiocy. “She has a great pree-­ten-­shus throne in her wagon, did you know that? And another little one beside it . . . for the little boy!”

  “I don’t imagine the little one enjoys sitting on it much.”

  “Well, it’s no potty chair, but still, I ’magine not. The queen, she thinks she needs to be queen of the whole area down at the foot of the mountains, and she wants the Artemisians to de-­clare them-­selves her vassals.” He kept a perfectly straight face during this announcement.

  “Vassals?” The word blurted. He licked it in and swallowed it. “­Vassals!”

  “Oh, indeed, yes, ma’am. Arakny’s some puzzled where Sybbis got the word. Says it sounds like to her somebody else, maybe, put the idea of vassals in her mouth.” Deer Runner rubbed the back of his neck in mute incomprehension. “So Arakny has told her that when their ceremonies down there are over, she’ll take up the matter with Wide Mountain Mother, but that’ll have to be when the tribes all hold their annual winter meeting. After first snowfall.”

  “Odd. I’d never heard of such a meeting.”

  “No, ma’am, none of us had. Heretofore.” He grinned at her. “Useful word, an’t it. I ‘heretofore’ ha’n’t heard the word ‘heretofore,’ I don’t think. But Arakny says it’s useful, and what Arakny says usually goes, so as far as the outside world is concerned.” He smiled sweetly and chanted, word by word: “So, though we had not heardtofore—­of such a meeting heretofore—­we must’ve had one every year—­for as long as we remember.”

  “Which is clear back to yesterday.”

  “Yes, ma’am, at least that far, though if asked, I’d be inclined to stretch it back to the time of our foremothers.”

  “How did Sybbis react to all that?”

  “Oh, very . . . royally, ma’am. Waved her what you call it . . . kind of a stick with a onion shape on the end of it, looks like gold, maybe. Wasn’t, though. Not heavy enough. She dropped it and it just sort of rattled. Like tin.”

  “I think it’s called a scepter,” said Precious Wind. “A symbol of royalty.”

  “Well, the queen she waved her royal-­ness very symbolically, and the queen she announced she would grant us poor Artemisians time to make the only possible decision. And then the queen royally announced she would leave a guard to see that we returned to Artemisia without interfering with the ‘pervision wagons’ she was expecting to come over the mountain from ‘that salt place,’ while her royal self would return to Catland to await our formal announcement of vassalage, which we must make as otherwise we will be wiped out, to the last man.” He frowned, his voice grating.

  “And last woman, presumably?”

  “She didn’t mention that. Maybe she got a good look at Arakny’s face and decided it wasn’t the time to push it.” His expression changed to one of rejection, as though he wanted to spit, and his voice had deepened into formality. “The real reason I think Arakny sent me is that she thinks you need to know what the ganger queen brought with her. From somewhere the queen has obtained . . . an advisor. Great big fellow. Strange kind of man. Smells . . . bad. Unpleasant, say. NO! Truth is, he stinks worse than anything I’ve ever smelled before.”

  “Dirt? Sweat?”

  “No, ma’am, compared to his smell, dirt and sweat are the sweet flowers of spring. He stinks something more like . . . like something rotten. Bad rotten. He seems to breathe it out. A heavy smell. Makes you want to get away and take deep breaths, as though the smell keeps you from using air.”

  “Where did he co
me from?”

  Runner shrugged. “He was walking alongside. Didn’t notice him in the dark. Not until they lit the fires and he showed up. He’s too big for any horse to carry.”

  Precious Wind started to say something but stopped herself. Better the Artemisians not start speculating. One could not fight panic after it had started. She murmured, “Big. How big?”

  “Half again as tall as me. Four—­five times as heavy. His bones are more like the bones in horses or cattle. And there’s the smell.”

  “Like something rotten?”

  Deer Runner stiffened, adopting an enunciatory pose, one hand beating out the tempo: “This HORrible CREAture the QUEEN has GOT is LIKE something ROTten that LIVES in ROT n’ ALso was PROB’ly beGOT in ROT.” Alternate emphases varied in pitch, up down, up down.

  Precious Wind smiled. The tribal lore masters were already creating chants. “Would you say he smells like a dead body? That smell?”

  “Come to think of it. Yes. You don’t forget that smell . . .”

  “Better you don’t talk about it, Runner. Tell Arakny that Sybbis may have brought it hoping we would show fear or throw up from the stench or something equally aversive. I know it’s impossible not to see the thing or smell it, but the less we seem to pay attention to it, the better off we’ll be. Runner! Be sure she lets ­people know we don’t need to display fear because we have weapons that can dispose of the creatures.”

  “We do? We being who?”

  “I do, and we’ll be back with you soon. We don’t want to use the weapons if we don’t have to, so ask Arakny to do what she can to quench any talk about the creature, any notice, any obvious sniffing or gagging or whatever, until I’ve had a chance to learn more about it and make some decisions regarding it. Will you carry that message, please?”

  “Yes’m. Hold down the talk about the . . . big man. Arakny said to tell you the queen will probably leave ganger spies behind. Or guards.”

  “I’ll manage them; don’t worry about it. Here, let’s save you some time and effort.” She urged him to remount, asked him to lean forward and cover the horse’s eyes, then took hold of the horse’s bridle and moved them the next place down the road. Two more hops and they were on the flat. Another hop, and they could see the Artemisian encampment just beginning to stir. The rider, whose mouth had opened at the first jump and had not closed during the process, said something that sounded like “Ouishuc.”

  Precious Wind removed his hands from the horse’s eye, and the mare blinked at her in some confusion. She said, “Let her rest for a few moments. Let her have a little drink from the stream over there. Animals and children have a more accurate sense of place than grown men do; they rely less on their eyes and more on that inner sense, so she’s a bit confused. Don’t let her move until she finds herself and settles, then ride slowly back and tell Arakny I will return to our site behind the camp as soon as the queen and her entourage have taken themselves out of sight. Tell her I’ll take care of any guards that Her Royal and Most Rigorous Majesty leaves behind.”

  “Just . . . take care of them?” he panted out, one quick breath, still staring around him.

  “Yes. It’s part of my weaponry, Runner, not a personal skill. Tell her I’ll do it quietly and without a fuss. I think poor Sybbis needs to get out into the air more. Do more gardening.” Sybbis definitely needed to learn where food came from. She thought a moment more. “Are there other women in the ganger group?”

  “Yes,” he said, putting his arm around the horse’s neck and patting her. “She has some men she calls commanders. They have women with them. They call them wives like the northerners do, but the women looked more like slaves to me. We know there are quite a few women in their big camp, the main one they call Catland.”

  “Why did they bring women with them, do you think?”

  “Oh, ma’am, my thought is they’re captured women that’ve come with this bunch to do the cooking. Ganger men can’t cook, they’ve never done it. For sure, Sybbis has never done it. Since everyone in Artemisia goes camping and hunting and fishing, men and women both know how to do decent camp cooking at least, and wherever there’s a clan house, there’s sure to be a baker with a big oven and ­people who dry or preserve fruit and vegetables for winter, and at least one family that makes corn and flour flats for those who don’t want to bother doing it at home. In Catland there seem to be about half as many women as there are men, but we don’t know whether they’re volunteers or captives or some of both.”

  “Spoils of battle?”

  “More likely just taken, grabbed off while picking mushrooms or fishing or what have you. Some families have lost a mother like that, and we’ve had to scramble to find somebody to nurse some new babies.”

  “Odd, she can be queen of it all, but other women can have no authority.”

  “Some of us thought it was what you might call peculiar.”

  “Well, it will keep until I return. A question, Runner.”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “How do you think the gangers would react to losing their queen. Say she just up and disappeared. Along with her child.”

  “They’ve got one or two ganger men might try to hold their camp together,” he said thoughtfully. “Don’t think they could do it, though. Only reason she can is the story. None of the others are much connected to the story.”

  “The Abasio the Cat story, you mean? Her connection with the hero of the war at the Place of Power?”

  “That’s the one,” he said thoughtfully. “The story gives her a little . . . a little reputation. Now, the big man, if he’s as big a talker as he is in body, he could maybe hold on to most of the men. If he’s not a talker, probably not. Not if they could get away without his seeing. Or maybe not if they could kill him.”

  “You mean he might hold them through fear! Yes, possibly he could. But you haven’t heard him talk?”

  “No, ma’am. Far’s I know, nobody has.”

  “In future, Runner, why don’t you call me ‘Presh.’ That’s what my friends do.”

  She placed her hand on his shoulder, and he bowed—­only very briefly—­but when he raised his head she was gone. “Ouishuc,” he said once more. The horse snorted, agreeing with him.

  Ul xaolat now contained the new wagon location, close enough for Precious Wind to reach it in one jump. She returned just as Xulai was setting the kettle above a very small and virtually smokeless fire. Before tucking the device away, Precious Wind used it to cut a narrow cylindrical hole through the forest, an aerial tunnel through treetops, invisible from any direction except directly through it to the camp below. While the three adults fed themselves and the little ones, they kept an intermittent watch. By midmorning, most of the ganger troop was moving back to the east along the road, the queen’s towering “advisor” shambling beside the queen’s wagon. A score or so of the gangers remained behind, all of them armed with various edged weapons.

  Xulai had watched the departure with a strange expression on her face. Catching Precious Wind’s glance, she flushed. “Ogre-­human crossbreeds. Assuming there are such things, that’s one of them, down there.”

  “Ah,” said Precious Wind. “Of course. It raises some interesting questions, doesn’t it? Was the creature told to offer its ser­vices to Sybbis? Or was it simply left where she could see it and acquire it? Or did she buy it from someone? And do you think Sybbis knows who or what it is? And how can she ignore the smell?”

  Xulai considered the matter. “As to the smell, it may be no worse than the stench that was common in the city of Fantis. According to Abasio, they had no systems for disposing of dead animals or human waste or any kind of filth. All of it was simply dumped in the alleys, on the streets, in piles—­including any bodies, animal or human, that had accumulated. According to Abasio, the city reeked, but after a while ­people didn’t notice it anymore. So Sybbis and her gangers may not
notice it as much as someone would who has always breathed the clean air of the desert. As we mentioned, she doesn’t think about things very much.”

  Precious Wind accepted a cup of tea and breathed in the fragrant steam. The thought of breathing stink all day, every day and night, made her feel ill. “If someone could get to her with a different set of . . . I can’t say ‘ethics.’ Gangers have no ethics. Priorities, perhaps? With different priorities, she might be quite useful, but the ganger priority is the only one she has.”

  “That being ‘Take what you want.’ And ‘Me first.’ ”

  “That sums it up very nicely, yes.” Precious Wind glanced around them at the campsite. “If we clean this place up quickly I can probably move most of those guards by afternoon.”

  They drowned the little fire and buried the ashes, carefully erasing all evidence of their presence including footprints. Precious Wind jumped them back into the woods behind the Artemisian camp. Leaving Kim and Xulai with the wagon, she “cleared the area” by strolling along the south edge of the camp until she encountered the first ganger guard. “Pardon me,” she called, “can you help me?” She approached to lay a hand on his arm, and they vanished. In a very short time she returned, quite alone. She repeated this six more times, then retired into the woods, where she joined Kim and Xulai for a cup of tea.

  “Are you going to move them all?” Xulai asked, who had been watching the process with something halfway between amusement and stirrings of what she thought might be conscience.

  “I’ve moved all of them that were on this side of the camp, but I’m running out of locations to put them. I want each of them to be alone, so they won’t threaten anyone in their new location . . .”

  “But they’re not . . . wounded or anything?”

  “Of course not,” Precious Wind replied haughtily. “Any kind of wounding would be both unnecessary and incompetent. There are a dozen more of them, and I’ll have to spend some time creating new destinations. You wouldn’t know of a landmark that’s unmistakable, would you?”