by Grass(Lit)
"All gone, are they?"
"All gone. All died, everywhere, all sort of at once, like time had just up and ended for them. Except here on Grass. Here they all died from something tearing them apart."
"How do you know?"
"It's how we find 'em, Brother. An arm here, a leg there. A bone raggedy from teeth."
"What are you looking for?"
"Something to tell us why they died, mostly." Brother Mainoa looked at him curiously. "From what you say, you've seen plague, haven't you, Brother. You know it exists."
The other nodded. "They never told me so, but that's what killed my family. And the Hierarch died of it. Lots of the people at Sanctity have it. I may have it, without knowing it."
"Well, there's some of us think that's what killed the Arbai. Better tell you now, it's not Acceptable Doctrine; so don't go talking about it."
"Killed them," breathed Rillibee. "Going to kill us."
"Ah. Well, there is that. Maybe not, though. If we could find out something..."
"Do you think we can find out anything about the plague?"
The other turned, the wrinkles around his eyes made deeper by the speculative squint with which the Brother was evaluating his new family member. "What I think," he purred, "is something you and I may talk about someday after you've been out in the grass." He pointed downward. There, spread across the short turf of the north, were the uncovered walls of the Arbai city and the complex network of ditches dug by the Brothers, some of them roofed with arched bundles of tall grasses. Mainoa pointed again, in the direction of their flight. Almost on the horizon, the ramified mass of the Friary bulked darkly against the pale sky. As they drew nearer, Rillibee/Lourai sucked in an astonished breath. Above the Friary floated a city of cobwebs, netted arches, and skeletal towers that moved in the light wind as though they were living things rooted in the soil far below. From some few of the lofty pinnacles flew the banners of Sanctity, complete with golden angels. On seeing these. Rillibee Chime gave one last, dwindling snarl.
"Home," said Brother Mainoa. "Not a bad place, really. Though the sky climbers will probably make paste of you for a few weeks. Heights frighten you, boy?"
"Falling frightens me. Heights don't."
"Well then, I'd say you'll survive it."
"What are sky crawlers?" Rillibee's stomach knotted at the picture this brought to mind.
"Boys no older than you. most of 'em. Most likely they won't harm you much. You'll get by; that is, you will if you can apply a few sensible restraints to your conduct."
"Yes, Brother," said Brother Lourai, his eyes cast humbly down. "I will try to restrain myself."
8
Before Rigo had a chance to meet the Green Brothers, a morning came when the tell-me shrilled news of the lapse. The bon Damfels had assembled for the Hunt, but no hounds or mounts had appeared. Salla. one of Roald Few's informants, had sent word to Commons and Roald had messaged Opal Hill.
Long-set plans moved into action. The embassy swarmed with cleaners and cooks, readying for the evening three days distant when the awaited reception would occur.
In the little house, Eugenie bit through a thread and bid her docile pet turn a quarter turn to the left- No one else at Opal Hill had seen Pet yet. And no one anywhere would have ever seen her like this.
At the bon Damfels', Stavenger ticked off the list of those who would attend. Shevlok, yes. Sylvan, yes. No one younger than Sylvan. None of the young cousins. Shevlok would be ordered to pay putative court to the fragras girl, Stella, and that would solve that problem.
In Commons the musicians went over their music and instruments, the wine merchant checked his stores, the extra cooks rolled their knives in their aprons. Aircars began to dart toward Opal Hill.
At bon Smaerlok's estancia. and at bon Tanlig's, at all the estancias, the grown women went through their ball gowns, deciding what to wear, while their daughters sulked. None of the young women were going, it had been decided. Too dangerous. Only older women, women with good sense, women with a number of liaisons behind them. Several of them had been picked to flirt with the Yrarier son, several good-looking, experienced ones. Whatever else might occur as the result of Sanctity's embassy reception on Grass, an inappropriate liaison with a young Yrarier was not going to be allowed. So said the elder bons.
And at Opal Hill Roderigo Yrarier went over the list of those who would attend, noting the absence of young people and simmering at the insult offered to his family and his name.
Obermun bon Haunser had remembered his promise to Marjorie when he had recommended Admit Maukerden as her "secretary." When she first got around to interviewing the tall, self-important individual, he told her that he knew every bon in every family and who the parents were and what the liaisons had been and who was in sympathy with and who out of sorts with whom. He expected, so he said, a private suite and a salary which made Rigo blink in surprise.
"I don't trust him," Marjorie told Rigo.
"Nor do I," Rigo confessed. "But hire him anyhow. Assign him something to do and let's see what he comes up with."
After a little thought, Marjorie asked Admit to compile a file on those who would attend the reception, giving family connections and such personal information as might be helpful to new acquaintances in conducting conversation. He spent a great deal of time at it for one who supposedly knew them all. presenting the final work with a flourish.
Marjorie thanked him with a smile which conveyed nothing but ignorance and appreciation. She and Rigo then gave the file to Persun Pollut.
"Oh, my lame left leg." Persun muttered. "That fool doesn't know a cousin from an aunt or a bon Maukerden from a bon Bindersen."
"Not accurate?" she queried sweetly.
"Except for the Obermums and Obermuns, there's hardly a thing here that's not plain wrong. He'd of done better guessing. If you'd done any introductions on the basis of this, the bons would have had your bones for supper."
"Which would indicate either monumental stupidity or purposeful misinformation." Rigo grinned through clenched teeth.
"He's intelligent enough in his own interest," Marjorie responded. "Then he was instructed to be useless," Rigo said. "More than useless. Destructive. Which, I think, tells us all we need to know about him and a good bit more about them."
Thereafter, Marjorie pretended to consult Admit Maukerden from time to time and Rigo amused himself by giving the man false information about the purpose of the embassy, waiting to see which parts of it would come back to him, in whatever guise, via the bons. Meantime, Persun corrected the file on the guests and went over it with Rigo's trusted assistant, Andrea Chapelside. It was Persun who set down accurate details about the bons. "This one is more important than he looks," he said. "This one is malicious and will misquote you."
And it was Persun, dressed in servant's livery, who was assigned to circulate among the guests to hear what he could hear. Admit Maukerden, splendidly costumed to fit his idea of his own importance, would be relegated to a post near the first surface from which he could announce the arrivals with a fine and completely spurious air of authority, separated by a thwarting distance from anything that might transpire in the rooms above him. Though Marjorie doubted that anything of consequence would happen, Rigo had faith that something of great importance would follow his enormous investment of time and attention.
The evening arrived. Aircars dropped swiftly to the gravel court to disgorge their bejeweled and ornamented riders, rising as swiftly to make room for those that followed. Marjorie and Stella, gowned as extravagantly as any of the bons-the dresses had been stitched by a whole family of Commons' seamsters nominated by Roald Few-waited at the top of the stairs that the bons would have to ascend, Marjorie on Rigo's arm, Stella on Tony's.
Rigo had foreseen problems and had communicated them fully to the children. "They are not bringing anyone your age. They will not be so undiplomatic or ungracious as to exclude you from their attention, however. You may expect charm and flattery f
rom some of them. Stella, some man or men. Tony, some woman or women. Be charming in return. Seem flattered. But do not be fooled! Do not lose your heads."
Seeing Tony pale and Stella flush angrily, Marjorie had nodded agreement and said soothing words. She had been warned by Persun Pollut as well, who had heard it from a villager who had heard it from a cousin at bon Maukerden's. "They want no real contact, Lady. They want no involvement. They have told off some of their family members to pay court to you and yours, but they will do it merely to keep you pleased with yourselves."
"Why?" she asked. "Why do they reject honesty?"
"Some of them would reject nothing. Some might say welcome if they thought about it. Eric bon Haunser, maybe. Figor bon Damfels, maybe. Some like that. But the Obermuns, the hunters, they say no. They say they came to Grass to get away from others, foreigners. They call you fragras. That is what they say, but I think what they feel is fear. And if you look for fear, look there, among the hunters."
Asked why the bons should feel fear, he didn't know. It was only a feeling he had, he said, and he couldn't say why.
"Why do they fear us?" she had asked Rigo.
"Fear us? Nonsense," he said angrily. "It is pure pride with them, pride in their fabulous ancestries-fabulous in every sense, for their nobility is more fable than reality. Sender O'Neil told me about their origins. The fool may not have had much right about Grass, but he did know where the bons came from. Their ancestors were minor nobility at best, and not much of that. They can't go on pretending to be important unless they've got something to be important about. When they came here, they brought along plenty of common folk to lord it over, you'll notice, and they've spent the generations since they arrived feeding one another puffery about their histories."
Marjorie, who had seen among the aristocrats certain twitches of skin, wrinklings around eyes, and pursings of lips, all unconscious, believed that Persun was right. What the bons felt was fear, though the bons might not understand what it was they feared.
Still, whether it was pride or fear that moved them made no difference in their behavior. They arrived as Persun had said they would, in order of their importance, a lot of small fry first: fourth and fifth leaders with their ladies, cousins, and aunts mincing up the stairs as though the treads were hot, old singletons like aged bulls, swinging their heads from side to side to feel their horns. As Admit Maukerden bellowed their names; Andrea, hidden in an alcove, looked each one up and recited the commentary into her whisperphone. "This one is a Laupmon cousin, thirty-four Terran years. She is childless, and she still rides. The next one is an aunt of the Obermum. Fifty-two Terran years. No longer rides."
Primed by Andrea's voice, which buzzed in their ears with an insect hum, the Yrariers responded appropriately to each of their guests with charm or pure formality or even frosty coolness to those so chilly they would resent anything else. "So glad you could come," they murmured, noting each detail of dress or feature and connecting it with the name humming in their ears so they would not forget to be wary of this one or that one as the evening wore on. "Good evening. So very glad you could come." On the balcony above the largest reception room, musicians played. A dozen villagers hastily trained and tricked out in livery circulated with glasses, putting on the fine air of pomp and disdain which Stella had suggested to them. "What you must convey," she had told them, giggling, "is that it is better to be a footman at Opal Hill than to be Obermun anywhere else."
"Stella!" Rigo had expostulated.
"It's all right, sir," Asmir Tanlig had said. "We understand the young lady right enough. She wants us proud enough to shame the bons." And so they were to the last man, bowing like grandees as they offered their trays of glasses, their bits of tasty food, their sotto voce directions to the ladies' or the gentlemen's retiring room, along the balcony, near the musicians. The guests stood or sat or wandered, examining each bit of furniture, each set of drapes, some with a slightly discontented air. Little enough there for them to find fault with unless they found fault with themselves. Similar furnishings were found in every estancia. Similar images on the walls. Similar arrangements of flowers. Not so well done, perhaps, but similar. Too similar to cavil at, though one or two made the effort. "So ordinary," they said. "So everyday. One would think, coming from Sanctity..." As though they would not have belittled anything that had breathed of Sanctity.
"Good evening How very glad we are to meet you."
Now the seconds and thirds were beginning to arrive. Eric bon Haunser with Semeles bon Haunser on his arm. "A cousin," said Andrea's voice. "At one time said to have been Eric's lover. She will attempt to seduce Tony, or failing that, the ambassador."
Was there a quaver in Andrea's voice at the thought of anyone seducing the ambassador. Was it amusement, perhaps? Gray haired Andrea, who knew Rigo as though he were her own younger brother. Who knew all about Eugenie. Amused? Tony flushed as he bowed over the hand of Semeles bon Haunser. Stella snorted, and Marjorie bit back a cheerless giggle as she smiled and bowed in her turn as Figor took her hand.
"Figor bon Damfels, younger brother of the Obermun. Yie has been instructed to flirt with Lady Westriding. Shevlok bon Damfels. He will pay court to Stella, though unwillingly, for he is still grieving over Janetta bon Maukerden. Sylvan bon Damfels. As usual, no one knows what he is up to."
Marjorie's placid voice addressed the bon Damfels' sons. "Good evening. How nice to see you both again."
"Good evening, Lady Westriding," said Sylvan, bowing. "It is kind of you to have planned this amusement for us. We have talked of little else for days." Smiling at Marjorie, at Stella, manfully clapping Tony on the shoulder, bowing slightly to Rigo. All this charm. In comparison, Shevlok was a poor player, able to muster only a muttered compliment, a sidelong glance, more cowed than seductive. Unconvincing, Marjorie thought. Damned loutish, Stella seethed. Unhappy Shevlok.
"Obermun Stavenger bon Damfels. Obermum Rowena bon Damfels."
Now the firsts were beginning to appear, and Andrea's whisperphone was silent. The Yrariers already knew what was common knowledge about the Obermuns, the Obermums.
"Obermun Kahrl bon Bindersen. Obermum Lisian bon Bindersen. Obermun Dimoth bon Maukerden. Obermum Geraldria bon Maukerden."
"Good evening. We are honored to welcome you."
"Obermun Gustave bon Smaerlok. Obermum Berta bon Smaerlok. Obermun Jerril bon Haunser. Obermum Felitia bon Haunser."
"Good evening. Good evening."
"Obermun Lancel bon Laupmon."
"Alone," whispered Andrea. "Recently widowed."
Then, at last, one final man and an old. old woman in a mechanical chair. "Obermun Zoric bon Tanlig. Obermum Alideanne bon Tanlig."
"She is the Obermun's mother and the eldest among the first leaders," whispered Andrea. "She is always the last to arrive."
Now the Yrariers could follow the music and the smell of food, down a half flight from the long, chilly hall. Marjorie advanced into the ballroom, was swung into the dance by Rigo. Stella and Tony followed. They had practiced these antique steps under the watchful eye of a dancing master sent from Commons and they now swayed across the floor as though they had danced in this remarkably intimate fashion all their lives. The dance was called a valz. From here and there about the floor couples of the bons joined them on the floor, not so many as to look enthusiastic but not so few as to appear impolite.
"We are being put in our place," Marjorie said, smiling into Rigo's face.
'They can only do it if we appear to notice it." He smiled in return, flames of fury at the backs of his eyes.
They turned to other partners. Rigo allowed no opportunity for snubs. Though he was complimentary to all the bons, he asked no woman to dance who had not been ordered to approach him. Thanks to Persun, he knew who those were. As did Tony.
"Pretend it is an Olympic event," Marjorie had told her fretful son. "If you do it right, you will get a medal. Treat your partner as you would a willful horse, gently but firmly. It is onl
y athletics, after all." And so Tony danced and smiled and tried to flirt, though he had had sadly little practice at it. Stella was far better at it than he, anger only increasing her vivacity.
Marjorie drank fruit juice, provided discreetly by Asmir Tanlig, and chanted to herself as she sometimes did when duty bade her do things she did not want to do. "Bow, smile, be led into the dance. Smile, flirt, talk of nothing much. Flirt, charm, be led back to your chair. Charm, bow, begin again." The partners came and went, in relays. She began to long for a real drink, a real conversation.
"Will you dance with me, Lady Westriding?" Sylvan spoke, appearing from somewhere behind her.
She almost sighed with relief. Sylvan was not supposed to be one of those she had to be wary of. She went into his arms as to a refuge, not fleeing precisely, and yet not holding herself aloof. He led her gently, as though she were a hooded bird, accustoming her to his movements until they seemed to dance almost as one. She thought fleetingly of her advice to Tony, and was amused. Around them other couples circled, a little silence falling as bons whispered to one another. Sylvan was always interesting because he was not predictable. Look-Sylvan! Sylvan bon Damfels....
