by J. D. Moyer
Trond showed him the new vent system for stoking the furnace, and a foot bellows, and an upgraded hammer rack, and many things that he’d seen before. Tem enjoyed his farbror’s long-winded, loudly spoken explanations; it was comforting to hear Trond’s voice and to know that his enthusiasm for heating and shaping metal was undiminished. If Trond’s duties as jarl weighed heavily, he gave little indication of it.
“Where is Nine-Finger Pieter?” Tem asked. “Do you no longer share a smithy?” Pieter had once been Trond’s apprentice, a role Tem had long coveted.
“He fell in love with a Skrova girl. And after old Orvar died, Skrova needed a smith. I was sad to see him go. But with Jense refusing to put down the hammer, Happdal did not need three smiths.”
“And what about Saga? Did she return to Kaldbrek?”
Trond nodded. “Her plan was to leave early this morning. Though maybe she is with Hennik.”
“Hennik?”
“I’m glad she’s taken a lover in Happdal. It can only help forge a stronger bond between our villages. Summer Trade is a start, but there is still much bitterness because of Svein. And many of the Kaldbrek elders still remember Völund fondly, though most consider Esper’s actions justified.”
“Saga is with…Hennik?”
“I doubt it will last. He is too stupid for her, or she too cunning for him. Though maybe she will give him a child, and then we’ll see. It is not too late for her to start a family.”
Tem had a lump in his throat. All at once he felt jealousy, guilt, and fear. Give him a child. Saga had wrapped her arms and legs around him when he was close to finishing, pulling him in with limbs like iron bars. He hadn’t thought to resist. His first time with Saga, he’d done what she’d told him to do, including pulling out. But with every other woman he’d been with (which was only a few), they’d had complete control of their own reproductive process via implants. On the Stanford, it took a willful act to create a child. But here, nature could take its course….
“What is it, nephew? Ah – I had forgotten – you once had eyes for Saga. And maybe she for you. But forget that. You are Messenger to the Jarls, are you not? Don’t make your life more complicated.”
The Stanford’s Repop Council had given him the title as a child, more of a pacifying honorific than anything else, but he had done his best to keep relations between the Five Valleys villages and the Ringstation Coalition honest and fruitful. And now he was a full-fledged council member. His uncle was right; he had responsibilities. And because he was in Happdal, he should take those responsibilities more seriously, not less. The thrill of the previous night was wearing off, replaced by the weight of his duties and a dark veil of shame.
“Do you want to shape metal with me, nephew? Nothing exciting today, just mudsteel jobs. But you could roughen up your hands.”
“Yes, I’d like that.”
Trond stoked the warm coals and added fuel. He listed the day’s work: hooks, nails, a shovel head, a set of chisels. Tem took his turn at the anvil, turning out clumsy work at first. But his uncle only encouraged him, and a few hour later Tem had shaped a hay hook that filled him with an unreasonable amount of pride. It was good to feel something besides shame, and Tem relished the soreness in his muscles and the satisfaction of working next to his uncle. Mette and Erica brought them cool spring water to drink, with little Gunborg tagging along, shouting at each other about how Tante Katja had bid them goodbye – she had left on a long journey and wouldn’t be back for weeks.
“She was carrying Biter,” Mette loudly proclaimed, “a soulsword containing the spirit of a wolf, forged by Stian, first smith of Happdal. Do you know all the smiths of Happdal? I do. First was Stian, from the northlands. Then Jakob the Bold, then Kai, then Baldr – my brother Baldr is named for the smith Baldr – then Farfar Jense, then Father—”
“Weeks? Where has she gone?” Tem asked.
“To an island!” Erica practically shouted. “To kill a monster, she said. And not to tell you until the sun was high.”
He ran to the Three Stones, cursing himself the entire way. As he had feared, the hovershuttle was gone. There was no trace of it, nor of his aunt.
How could he have been so stupid?
He trudged back toward Happdal, still absorbing the scale of his idiocy. Katja had not changed the subject because she’d tired of it – she’d simply realized she would not change his mind. She’d made a decision, in that moment, to take matters into her own hands. If there was another living gast – a body snatcher – then she intended to kill it before it could do more harm.
And yet Sperancia was no monster. He was sure of it. She was a true wise woman, a font of knowledge for the community of Bosa. She was their treasure.
And now he’d inadvertently sent his aunt to go cut off her head. A fine diplomat he was.
“Tem.”
A broad-shouldered man blocked his path. Tem recognized the brutish features, the thick mop of blond hair, the pale, freckled skin.
“Hennik. It’s been a long time.”
Hennik stepped toward him, with a dark look in his eyes. Tem reached for the knife at his belt.
Chapter Five
Jana had finished planting the barley with her father that morning, and was now helping Sperancia prepare a garlic extract for Pietro. The medicine would not cure him, but it slowed his wasting and made him stronger. And the boy would need his strength for his journey to Ilium; his parents had decided to accept the visitors’ offer.
On the way down the hill from Sperancia’s house, still in the shadow of the castle, Jana noticed a golden glint in the sky. Traversing the narrow cobblestone streets of the old town, she lost sight of whatever was producing the reflection. But after delivering the garlic extract and a basket of eggs from Sperancia’s chickens to Pietro’s family, she made her way to the town square and caught sight of the flickering light again. This time it was bigger and brighter: a golden orb slowly descending toward Bosa, from the south.
Whoever or whatever was approaching them had not taken a subtle approach, and Jana soon found herself in the midst of a small crowd, also tracking the golden object toward its anticipated landing place. Which, to her dismay, turned out to be right in the middle of her freshly planted field of barley.
“What could it be?” Filumena asked her. “The visitors returning, by sky this time?”
“Maybe,” said Jana. “But perhaps someone else entirely.”
The orb was vast, a glittering golden balloon. Jana could make out three figures in the basket, two men and a woman, naked from the waist up, with olive-gold skin. The men and women looked down imperiously, unsmiling, at the townsfolk gathered below, who were standing without a thought on her freshly planted barley seeds. But Jana was dumbstruck too, and could not even open her mouth to complain.
They were the most beautiful people she had ever seen, tall and muscular, with large eyes, strong noses, and high cheekbones. All of them had thick black hair, oiled slick, precisely cut and styled. And the balloon itself was a work of art, covered in shimmering layers of thin gold leaves. Actual gold, from the look of it, hammered thinner than paper, interspersed with other metallic leaves: gleaming silver and bright copper. But mostly gold. More gold than existed in all of Bosa, a thousand times over.
The basket, a delicate structure woven in intricate patterns of wicker and brass wire, touched down, and a moment later mechanically unfolded. The golden people strode toward them, unarmed and half-naked but completely unafraid, saying nothing. None of the Bosa people had weapons either, not even a staff.
The tallest of the sky visitors stopped a few paces away, and scrutinized the townsfolk, one by one, appraisingly. His eyes lingered on Filumena, which was only natural given her beauty. But another thought crept into Jana’s mind, an observation she might have considered an impossibility only minutes ago. Filumena, even with her pleasing features and glowing s
kin, looked almost plain compared to the angelic, otherworldly beauty of the three.
“I am Maro Decimus,” said the tallest of them in Italian, his voice deep and resonant. To Jana’s surprise, she realized he was addressing her directly. While the others had stepped back, she had stepped forward, blocking his view of Filumena.
“What do you want?”
He regarded her coldly, and his right hand twitched. She stared back at him, defiant, unafraid of being struck. He looked strong, but not strong enough to kill her with a single punch. And what was a little pain, a bloody lip, or even a lost tooth? Those were just parts of her body, not her. On some level she knew that when the vessel perished, so would her mind, her self, her soul. But she could not make that logic match the way she felt, that her body was just a thing, sometimes useful but not at all precious. So she felt no physical fear, and showed none.
A snakelike smile crept over Maro’s face, and out of nowhere she remembered the time she had seen Sperancia kill a sick bull with a single short blow to its skull, and the cracking sound that had resulted, stone on stone. Soon she would have Sperancia’s strength, and maybe then this handsome, arrogant man, whoever he was, would come to fear her.
“What do you want?” he mimicked. “We come not to take, but to give.”
“We want to know why you’re here. I want to know why you landed on my barley field.”
Maro knelt, took a handful of black soil, crumbled it between his fingers, and inhaled the scent from his palm. “Still rich in silicates, from the ancient eruptions.” He stood and brushed his hands together. “You will be compensated for any damage. As a start, we have brought these gifts.”
Maro nodded to the other man, who returned to the balloon basket and retrieved a wide, flat tray. He removed the lid, revealing an assortment of what appeared to be pastries. “Please, help yourselves,” he said in a velvety voice. “Try some of our chocolates. And if you like, offer us some of your own delicacies in return.”
The other visitors had taken precautions against spreading disease, but these three seemed unconcerned, and before Jana could protest the man was moving through the crowd.
“Wait!” Jana managed to say, but Filumena already had a pastry in her mouth. Jana wished Sperancia were present. She had no idea how to handle these people, no idea if they could be trusted.
“Holy Mother of God!” Filumena’s eyes widened, tasting the dessert. “Jana, you have to try this. It’s amazing.” Others made similar proclamations as they tried the confections.
“Enough!” Jana shouted. “Don’t eat any more of that. We don’t know what’s in it. We don’t know these people.”
Embarrassed, the Bosa townsfolk fell silent, and several covered their mouths. But nobody threw away any bit of pastry they had already taken.
“You are right to be cautious,” Maro said. “But I promise you we mean no harm. Will you invite us to your town, and let us see how you live?”
“Absolutely not. You may wait here until the elders come – the children have already run off to fetch them. When they arrive, you may speak to our mayor and plead your case. But first, tell us who you are.”
Maro bowed. “Of course. Things in the right order. I was presumptuous.”
Maro introduced his companions, Livia and Felix, and explained that they were from the Michelangelo, a vast worldship housing its own small sun. Their ship had resided in the outer solar system, beyond Jupiter, for nearly a hundred years, and though the Michelango was a miraculous moving world that provided everything required for life and happiness, Maro and many others believed that they had become too isolated. It was time to reach out, to form new friendships and forge new alliances.
“So we are here to invite you to visit the Michelangelo, to teach us your way of life. And also, if you wish, to learn from us.”
“Are you the leader of this worldship?” Jana asked.
Maro bristled. “We have many leaders. But I am a leader, a senator.”
“You said many others. So not everyone on the Michelangelo agrees you should be here?”
“My faction commands the majority. It is the right thing, for us to be here. Right for us, and right for you.”
“Why us? There are people living on the island to the north of us. There are people in Ilium.” She watched Maro’s face for any reaction, but he ignored her mention of the ringship settlers.
“There is an answer to your question, but perhaps I should share it with your elders, when they arrive. Everything in its proper order.”
“Well, until then, can you cover yourselves?” Jana requested. “It is our tradition to fully cover our bodies with clothing.” It was hard not to stare at their strong, lean bodies, their hairless, gold-toned skin, shining from sweat or oil. She felt slightly embarrassed, but also irritated that Filumena was openly gazing at Maro’s muscular torso.
“That’s not necessary, is it?” Filumena said. “They have their own ways. They needn’t do exactly as we do. I’m not offended, in any case.” Filumena smiled at Maro, who raised an eyebrow.
“We wish to make a good impression on your elders,” said Livia, speaking for the first time. Her voice was nearly as low as Maro’s, and just as pleasing. “Felix – bring us some robes from the gondola.” Felix, evidently the lowest ranked of the three, obliged, producing three robes of shimmering translucent material that concealed little. The effect was erotic, not modest, and Jana felt an annoying stirring in her loins. She averted her eyes, especially from Livia.
Micheli arrived, with Cristo and Antonio, all three of them with wine-reddened eyes though it was still early in the afternoon. Gregoriu and Papà came soon after, and then Sperancia, who appeared calm but alert, and listened patiently to Jana’s recounting of the situation. The three Michelangelo visitors retreated to their gondola, where they stood quietly, watching the townsfolk, occasionally exchanging a quiet word.
“They appear to have peaceful intentions,” Gregoriu said. “Though it seems unusual to encounter two new groups in such quick succession.”
“I guessed there were other people in the world,” said Micheli, “but we’ve only ever seen the Corsicans. And now we have the people in the flying boat, and these others who arrive in a balloon, and claim to live among the planets.”
“They may be telling the truth,” Sperancia said. “There is a new ringship visible in the sky – it could be the Michelangelo. I saw it with the telescope Enzo helped me build.”
“Is it safe to invite them to our council, to hear them out?” Gregoriu asked Sperancia. Micheli looked to the maghiarja as well. On other town matters, both men were happy to argue with Sperancia until they were blue in the face. But both were wise enough to defer to the much older woman when confronted with the unfamiliar and strange.
“It may be the only safe thing to do,” Sperancia said quietly. “I don’t know their true intentions, but we are at a disadvantage. I am sure they have machines that could destroy us – destroy this entire town – if they wished.”
Jana had been edging closer to the elders, to eavesdrop. “I should be there,” she blurted. “At the council, to hear what the visitors have to say.”
Gregoriu looked at her, surprised and frowning, but Micheli shrugged. “She will be the next maghiarja, so why not?” said the ex-mayor.
Sperancia gave a quick nod, and it was decided.
Gregoriu officially invited the Michelangelo visitors to tour Bosa, and to present their proposal before the town council. What followed next was a sort of parade, with Maro, Livia, and Felix at the center of it, in their shimmering gauzy robes that did little to hide their lean, muscular bodies. As the visitors strolled down the hill, surrounded by townsfolk, they answered questions and handed out small gifts to children: balls, tops, and small dolls. The toys appeared to be handmade, out of materials that the townsfolk themselves could have produced: wood, leather, string, wir
e, and cloth.
“How old are you?” a little girl asked.
“Older than I look,” Maro answered. “Much older.”
“Are you married?” a boy of about ten asked Livia.
“Why? Are you interested? What will you do to impress me?”
“Do you have more pastries?” Filumena asked Felix. “What did you call them? Chocolates?”
“On the Michelangelo, we have thousands of delicacies, from every cooking tradition that has ever existed on Earth. Coconut ice cream, lemon tarts, and of course tiramisu. Do you still have tiramisu, here in Bosa?”
“I’ve never heard of it,” Filumena said.
“I have,” said Sperancia, in a voice that sounded deeper than usual. “Though I haven’t even thought of it for many years.”
“Maybe you will both visit us and try everything for yourselves,” said Felix, but Jana noticed Maro give Sperancia an appraising look. He said something in a language Jana didn’t understand, though it sounded similar to Sardo, the old language. Sperancia kept walking, eyes straight ahead, as if she hadn’t heard.
The visitors, but Maro especially, seemed to take in every little detail of Bosa as they walked, devouring the town visually. They said little, except to answer questions, but gave each other meaningful looks.
Jana decided she didn’t trust them. Not one bit.
The town hall was a new building, only thirty years old, built from salvaged stone and oak beams atop the cleared ruins of what had once been a church. Though some still prayed to the Virgin Maria and various saints, the formal practice of religion had been lost over the years. Still, the new town hall was a handsome building, both solid and pleasing in its proportions and design, and Jana imagined that it might feel something like what the ancient church must have felt like, especially when the light streamed through the blue and green tinted glass of the high windows.
The visitors sat on one side of a long table. Seated on the other side were Bosa’s mayor and council: Gregoriu, Micheli, Sperancia, and Austino. Jana herself sat at one end, feeling out of place and awkward. But she often felt that way, and was used to it.
