"Couldn't we have waited?" she asked.
"For what?" Guil returned.
"A break in the traffic, I don't know," Moraghan answered.
The para'an shrugged, her face exhilarated. "That's Mill Street, up ahead."
And that, Moraghan thought, as they turned onto the raw-metalled road that was the beginning of Mill Street, is all the answer I'm likely to get. She glanced around, marveling at how much the narrow-windowed mills were like the factories of her own world, or any other world, for that matter.
Guil said, "They tell me only a couple of them—Red Sheep, and the Ingvarr Co-operative—were around when I was born. The rest just sort of sprang up, what with the off-worlders wanting our wool." She nodded toward a low-roofed building, where the double doors were padlocked and paint was peeling from the cheap siding. "That's the Auction Hall."
Moraghan nodded back, staring at the ugly building. She had seen its twin on a dozen other worlds, the first real sign outside the port area of a link between Orestes and the rest of the Conglomerate. "Where is it we're going?"
"Domas Rhawn's," Guil answered, and pointed toward a shack-like structure wedged against a building labeled in bright letters "Hope Lane Mill." "They say he was a miner, before he went into the wool trade, and lost an eye in a feud, too, before he started as a spinner with the Achias Mill. He makes good, cheap wool, though, and I need yarn for a heavy tunic. You know what that costs."
Moraghan nodded, though the para'an's words meant little to her. She knew that Guil made most of her own clothing, and had never seen the pilot's workbasket empty of a project, but she herself had never done any sort of handwork. It was not something that fit well into the military life.
Guil quickened her pace as she approached the staircase leading to the second-floor shop, and Moraghan had to hurry to keep up, the campaign bag slapping at her hip. At the top of the stairs, Guil paused to draw a deep breath, her face flushed with an excitement Moraghan didn't recognize. Then they stepped inside.
The air smelled oddly musty—the scent of sheep's wool, Moraghan thought, drawing on distant childhood memories. Beneath that was a pungent, pepper-and-lemon smell, and the sweet-sharp scent that filled Guil's flat. Moraghan frowned, then remembered: tanna bark, to keep out the local insect life. Faintly through all that came the hot-oil smell of the machines. One stood immediately to the right of the door, idling gently, a strand of crimson yarn zigzagging through the wheels and eyes and coils from one filled cone to a smaller, emptier one. On the walls beyond hung the finished yarn.
Moraghan smiled, impressed in spite of herself by the long skeins. The colors ranged from subtle, natural greys and browns to the muted shades that marked organic dyes, to clear and perfect primaries, with every shade and variation in between. One skein ranged through the spectrum in a length of yarn no longer than her arm; another, jet-black strand, was wound with a thinner silver thread that glittered icily when the light hit it. The riot of color was matched by the variety of textures, ranging from coarse yarns as thick as her little finger to a cloudy, fraying stuff no thicker than sewing thread. And there was even more in the room beyond. . . . It was no wonder, Moraghan thought, that off-world clothiers came here. I've never seen anything like this.
"Guil! Welcome!"
"Domas," Guil answered, with more warmth than Moraghan had ever heard her use. "How're things with you?"
The man who came out of the inner room moved like an old spider, Moraghan thought, shocked in spite of herself. He had never been tall, by Oresteian standards, but some accident had left him bent almost double, one shoulder higher than the other. His head would barely reach Moraghan's shoulder. One eye was obviously false—the colors were a bad match—and the hand he extended in greeting was missing a finger.
"Well enough, thank you." Domas made an odd, bobbing twist that let him look up into his customer's face, and seemed to like what he saw there. His own face split into a wide smile. "What can I sell you today, Guil-pilot? Cloud-mohair? Gold-spun? Shadow-light?"
Guil laughed. "Not likely, Domas. I need a new working pullover."
"For that," Domas said, drawing the pilot after him into the inner room, "for that, I have hoobey yarn, dyed and plain, and some fine chunky tweeds. Or there's sheep's wool, that's very nice. . . ."
Guil gave Moraghan a quick, apologetic glance, and let herself be led away. Left to herself, the captain moved slowly along the walls, idly examining the hanks of yarn. She felt distinctly out of place here, surrounded by the materials of a craft she had never bothered to understand. She stepped up to the doorway to the inner room, hoping to find Guil, but the only person in sight was a woman with a medium's badge pinned to her dress, knitting steadily behind the counter. Moraghan backed away noiselessly, and resigned herself to wait.
It wasn't long before Guil returned, a bulging bag slung carelessly over her shoulder. Domas followed, still talking, but Moraghan felt his eyes on her, recognizing and then dismissing her as off-world, and no customer.
Guil came forward with an apologetic smile. "Sorry to keep you waiting."
"It's all right," Moraghan said. "What'd you get?" She had started to ask out of mere politeness, then realized she was genuinely curious. What had Guil chosen, out of all the yarns displayed here, and what would that choice tell her about the pilot?
Guil's face changed, crinkling into laughter. "More than I'd intended, as always." She held open her bag. "The purple tweed, that's for the pullover, but the carpet wool. . . ." She glanced mockingly at Domas, who returned an indulgent smile. "God only knows what I'll make of it, but I couldn't pass it up."
Moraghan nodded, almost understanding the other woman's fascination with the yarns. The heathery purple was nice, a plain, practical color, but the other yarn was the color of flame. She touched it gently, running her fingers along the coarse strands. No, it wouldn't make for comfortable clothing, but it was too spectacular a color to pass up.
"Maybe I'll make a throw of it," Guil was saying thoughtfully. "Or I could put it out to a weaver, but then I'd have to get more—" She shook herself again, and laughed. "Come on, Leith, let's get out of here before I buy anything else."
She pushed through the shop's main door, still laughing, and Moraghan followed her down the narrow stairs. "We aren't that far from your flat, are we?"
Guil shook her head. "About a kilometer. Do you mind walking?"
"Anything's better than the trams," Moraghan answered.
It was not a bad walk, with the heavy coat to cut the wind and the distant sunlight to give an illusion of warmth. The streets were busy, the market squares crowded with makeshift carts and stalls, as the shopkeepers moved to take advantage of the relatively warm weather. Moraghan was almost sorry when they turned off the High Street. Ahead, a line of jade-green stone knobs stretched across the roadway, marking the boundary of the Gilbertine Precinct and closing it to vehicular traffic. Just beyond the stones, the street opened into the local market square. It was less noisy than the others had been, and there was an oddly wary note in the vendors' cries. Moraghan tensed, not quite certain what she heard, and saw Guil shift the bag of yarn to her left hand. She glanced once around the square, and saw nothing out of the ordinary. A few shoppers, mostly older men and women, moved from stall to stall, occasionally vanishing into one of the permanent stores that lined the square, only to reappear a few moments later with another packet tucked in their painted baskets. A knot of adolescents, their sleeves pinned with black and white ribbons, milled about outside the entrance to a sweetshop near the middle of the square, and Moraghan's eyes narrowed.
"Trouble?" she asked softly, and Guil shrugged.
"I doubt it," the pilot said, but her voice was grimmer than her words.
Moraghan grimaced, wishing her old service blaster weren't buried at the bottom of her bag, then, with a conscious effort, made herself relax. Guil was para'an, by their own rule outside the game, and she herself was obviously off-world. No one would bother them.
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br /> They were even with the sweetshop now, and it was all Moraghan could do to keep her steps even and unconcerned. Guil was scowling, her hand white-knuckled on the neck of her sack of yarn. She looked neither to the right nor the left, and Moraghan copied her, matching the taller woman's stride.
"Hey, blondie!"
The shout came from behind them, from the crowd by the shop. Guil's mouth twitched, but she didn't turn or give any other indication she had heard. Moraghan felt a tingling between her shoulder blades, the certainty that she was part of the target, but kept walking.
"Hey, blondie!"
The voice was closer now, coming up on the right—Guil's side, but there would be more behind him. Moraghan shifted her grip on the campaign bag strap, ready to sweep it off her shoulder and into an attacker's stomach. Her strength and Orestes' low gravity would make it an effective weapon.
"Blondie! Brandr bitch, what're you doing here?"
The voice was very close, and Moraghan could hear the rest of his friends behind him. She started to turn, but before she could complete the move, Guil turned on them, right hand darting out like a striking snake. She caught the nearest boy by the collar of his tunic and dragged him forward until he stumbled and almost fell. Moraghan turned then, campaign bag sweeping out in a vicious arc that caught one boy in the stomach and sent him sprawling. The rest of the boys were already backing off, eyes fixed on the tug pilot. They were none of them older than sixteen, Moraghan thought, still poised, campaign bag swinging from her hand. Easy meat.
Guil's face was a fury's mask, white-lipped and taut with anger. She shook the boy she held, then threw him bodily away from her. He staggered, but managed to stay on his feet.
"My name is Tam'ne," she said, very softly. The words carried in the sudden silence, and Moraghan saw a couple of the boys flinch. "Para'an of Tam'ne in Orillon. So I'm not part of your fucking game. So stay the hell away from me."
She waited, balanced on the balls of her feet, staring at the boys. Moraghan swore softly, and caught the pilot by the shoulder, using her off-world strength to turn the other woman bodily away. Guil had silenced them for the moment, but in another minute the challenge would have been too much for their self-esteem, and they would have had to attack. Guil resisted for a second longer, and then Moraghan felt the tension melt under her hand. Guil nodded sharply, and Moraghan let her hand fall away. No one followed them out of the square.
Moraghan said nothing until they reached the door of Guil's building, waiting until the rage eased from the other's face. The anger was replaced by something else, less identifiable. Guil's hand shook as she worked the lock.
"What was all that about?" Moraghan asked, less because she didn't know than to test the emotional waters.
Guil snorted, and started up the stairs toward her third-floor flat. "The Halex punks thought I was a Brandr," she called over her shoulder. Her voice wasn't quite steady. "The Brandrs run to blonds."
"I'm going to tell Trey about this," Moraghan said quietly.
Guil's face darkened, and she pushed open the flat door with unnecessary violence. "I told you, I fight my own battles—"
Moraghan held up a hand. "Let me finish, will you? It's for me—for all us off-worlders—not for you. Whether you report it, that's your business, I don't presume to know. But those kids attacked an off-worlder, or they would've, if you hadn't stopped them. The Family needs to know that." She paused, looking around the familiar, cosy main room, with its slit windows and heavy, padded furniture. "And, by the way, thanks."
Guil looked at the captain in honest confusion for a moment, then looked away, mouth twisting in an embarrassed grimace. "Thank you," she said, after a moment. She sighed. "I've got a bitch of a temper. I'd've done something really stupid."
Moraghan shrugged, herself embarrassed now. "So we're even, then?"
Guil nodded, and managed a real smile. "We're even, Leith." She looked away, sighing, and gestured vaguely toward the cabinet that held her comnet console. "You're welcome to use the 'net anytime."
Moraghan nodded back, and pushed aside the heavy fabric screen. Guil vanished into the flat's inner rooms, her wool in one hand and Moraghan's campaign bag slung awkwardly over her other shoulder, but the captain stood for a long moment, staring at the blank screen. She had never seen Guil so angry, not even with Oslac—had never imagined that the pilot could be so angry, or could come so close to losing control. I don't want to be there when she does lose it, Moraghan thought, and leaned forward to turn on the console. Guil's all right for now, she told herself sternly. Now you need to tell Trey what's going on. Sighing, she punched the string of numbers into the keyboard, setting herself to compose a rational report.
Chapter 8
Trey Maturin
Leith called me from Destiny at a little after nineteen hours the eighteenth day of the tenth calendar-month. She told me first about rumors her para'an friend had heard while acting as a substitute pilot in Madelgar—the same news we'd already heard from Coronis—and then that she and Guil had been harassed by a group of Halex adolescents. From what she said, they were certainly old enough to have already pledged to obey the code, and I got good descriptions from her, planning to hunt them down the next day. It was too bad that Guil chose not to press her complaint, but attacking an off-worlder was quite enough. I had no patience for that sort of street brawling, and to tell the truth, I was glad of an excuse to crack down on it. I crawled into my bed that night feeling smugly virtuous: for once, I could use the code to get what I wanted.
Four hours later, the Brandr attacked the Tower.
The first dull crump of the mortars woke me, sent me groping for the light switch before I'd fully realized what was happening. With the second salvo came shouts from the hall outside my room—offworld accents, mostly—and I shook myself completely awake. The clothes I'd worn the day before lay on the storage box, and I grabbed them blindly, pulling on shirt and trousers and knitted tunic. The Tower lights flickered and died as I pulled on socks and boots, and I fumbled in momentary panic before I found my handlight. The emergency lights came on almost as soon as I'd switched it on, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
My relief was short-lived, however. The next salvo struck very close to the Tower, and my window shattered. If I hadn't had the shades closed against the fading sun, the glass would have scythed through the room. I stood for a moment, staring stupidly at the thermal blinds, feeling the outside air cold on my face while the knowledge seeped slowly through me that this wasn't acting, that survival wasn't just a matter of staying on the special-effects man's marks. Then I heard, over the thump of the mortars, the whistle of blaster fire: the Halex were fighting back.
I shook myself hard, trying to make my frozen brain work. I couldn't take much, wherever I was going, but I would need my papers and bankcards. I scooped those up almost automatically, and reached for the medium's badge as well, clipping it to the neck of my tunic. It was cold outside, despite the warm spell, and it would be Dark in twenty-four hours. I picked up the cloak Rohin had given me, and wrapped it around my shoulders. Another salvo shook the floors and sent dust and insulation drifting across the room, but still I hesitated, wondering what else I could take. There was nothing much here, a few tapes, some jewelry, all tucked away in the storage cells along the walls. Nothing worth dying for, I thought, and pushed open the door into the hall.
The few off-worlders who hadn't left with the Patroclans were all out in the hall now. Family members pushed past without stopping, blasters slung over their shoulders. They would be heading up to the roof ports, I guessed, or down to the doors to try to set up a perimeter defense.
"Trey!" The voice wasn't familiar at first, despite the Urban speech. I turned, and saw Pausha Ran standing in the doorway of her suite of rooms. I hadn't had much contact with the Family's Hodurite doctor—she always seemed to be in the back country, running clinics, when I was in the Tower—but the sight of her standing there, fully dressed, clutching her emergency k
it in one hand and her ten-year-old daughter with the other, was oddly reassuring. "Where do we go?"
I spread my hands, but said, "Down, I assume—it should be safer there." I saw one of the Agnian technicians still in his nightshift, and resigned myself to taking charge. "All right, everybody, listen to me. Get some clothes on, quick, get your ID and bring an overcoat, something warm, and follow me."
The Agnian vanished back into his room, and the talk quieted abruptly as people began to move purposefully again. Dr. Ran bit at her upper lip, pulling her daughter close against her body. "I'll be needed, Trey," she said, so quietly that I almost didn't hear her over the noise of the fighting.
I nodded. "They'll be bringing the wounded to a safe place—you couldn't treat them, otherwise. We'll get Anila downstairs, then we'll see." She nodded back, obviously reassured, and I felt terribly helpless. I had no idea what the Halex planned to do—I had no business taking charge of anything.
"Medium!" That was a Halex voice, Rohin's voice, and I turned gladly, eager to hand over the responsibility. "This way!" He pointed to a side stair, a fixed stair that led down to the kitchens. I nodded, then put two fingers in my mouth and whistled.
"All right, everybody, we're going," I shouted. The last words were drowned out by an explosion that rocked the Tower on its foundations and nearly knocked me from my feet. The girl Anila shrieked once, and clutched her mother; someone shouted curses in a distant room.
Rohin made a face. "That was an outbuilding," he said. "Come on!"
"People, move it!" I shouted, and this time I was obeyed. "Follow Rohin!"
The Demi-heir started down the stairs without waiting for further word, and this time the off-worlders followed. I hung back, counting, trying to make sure no one was left behind. The four Agnians, the little visiting artist from Osiris, Dr. Ran and her daughter, the Methusalan teacher. . . . That was the last of them, and I darted after, suddenly aware that the air was full of dust and odd-tasting smoke, and that the emergency lights were fading fast. I switched on my handlight halfway down the stairs, and saw two more lights bobbing ahead of me. Rohin had one and Dr. Ran, not surprisingly, had the other.
The Kindly Ones Page 19
