Merwen closed her eyes. There had been incidents, especially in recent years, when Valans had deliberately shared physical injury among themselves or with Sharers, even to the point of death. And on Valedon, there were those who openly proclaimed that death pays a wage. Yet Valans never shared Unspeaking, or showed evidence of any sort of treatment for these obvious mental defects. The possibility of widespread psychosis was unimaginable, but it would have to be faced—if Valans were human.
“Wake up there, Impatient One.” Trurl’s call gave her a start. “If you insist on turning your name inside-out, we’ll be here all day! Share what you found on Valedon.”
So Merwen rose again. “Many Valans shared learning with us. Valans are quick to anger, and quick to forgive. Although incapable of whitetrance, they seemed to respect it in us, in their own world, as they do here.”
“Not anymore,” said Trurl. “While you were away, eight sisters of Lira-el climbed aboard a trawler to witness in whitetrance till the fishers stopped sweeping their raft channels. The witnessers were thrown overboard.”
The news touched her first with pain, then with a bleak fatalism. “Nonetheless,” Merwen insisted, “they may be able to learn whitetrance, if they overcome their fear.” She wished for the thousandth time that Nisi would try.
This idea stirred interest. “Then perhaps they can take selfnames too,” someone suggested, “if their minds work like ours. Did you meet any selfnamers on Valedon?”
Merwen said nothing.
“No whitetrance and no selfname—it’s a miracle they survive at all,” said Trurl. “They must have something going for them.”
Trurl nodded to a sister across the hollow, who asked, “Could it be that the persistence of malefreaks has kept the Valan race in a primitive state? Only lesser races produce males.”
“Besides Nisi,” Merwen quickly began, hoping to avoid another outburst from Usha, “the one Valan we met who might have taken a selfname happened to be male, an aged male who wore a star caught in stone. He called upon a spirit of life and power very close to the Shora we know, only this other spirit seemed to dwell far away, where few can hear her. That is why, the more important a decision is, for Valans, the fewer of them are allowed to make it.”
Trurl sighed. “Even children know better than that.”
“Without selfnames, Valans are children. They are locked into childhood.”
Someone asked, “How can you say that Valans are children and not just primitive creatures? Lesser sharers?”
Merwen whispered, “I don’t know.”
“What? Speak up, please,” said Trurl.
“I don’t know. It will take generations to know for sure. That is why I brought Spinel home, a young male, to live with us.” There, it was out now. She sat to catch her breath, while around her there were gasps at this radical notion.
Yinevra spoke again, as if she had read her mind; Yinevra, who had shared Merwen’s life so closely for a time, long ago. And still, despite the years since they had flown apart, they knew each other’s hearts so well. “My dear sister,” Yinevra began slowly, “you have indeed turned your name inside out. You expect us to wait for generations to complete your mission.”
“There is no other way. In the meantime, we must assume they are human.”
“Assume! When they threaten the very web of life of Shora? We must tear them from the web, before it’s too late.”
Merwen said nothing. Even fleshborers had their place in the web, but Valans…
“Or do you think Valans already are bound tight in the weave? Listen: we can discard their fire-motors; we can even hunt the shockwraith again. We don’t need traders—yet. We can close the Door.”
Merwen took a deep breath. “Yinevra, I share your thinking. I spun and wove seasilk, for all those weeks that I sat under dry sun on Valedon. Yet I ask you, which of us here weaves more seasilk than Nisi the Valan?” Her voice had risen too high, and she lowered it so others would have to listen to hear. “I will tell you what else I learned on Valedon. They are dangerous, more dangerous than you can imagine. If they are not human, if they have no door to the self, then they are surely the most deadly creatures Shora has ever known. But suppose they are our sisters, as Usha says, and suppose they die at our hand. Who will share their destruction?”
The two stood, stares locked. Yinevra’s back was as rigid as coral. Her chin lifted, a web’s breadth, and tendons shifted in her neck. “Let the Valan speak for herself. Let her name the Three Doors.”
The names of the Three Doors were the oldest test of a selfnamer.
Nisi rose among them at last. Her skin was not yet dark, but lavender, as her breathmicrobes had begun to bloom again. Merwen sat down beside her and watched her feet, so small they were and naked of webbing, the toeclaws neatly clipped.
Yinevra said, “Name the First Door of Shora.”
“The sun, which shares all life,” Nisi responded.
“Name the Last Door.”
“Death, which all…which each of us enters, yet none shares.”
Yinevra paused, then with an extreme effort went on. “Name the Door of your own.”
“Nisi the Deceiver.”
Deceiver…Merwen nodded slowly. It was a good name for Nisi, she understood. Around her, others sighed. They could hardly reject Nisi now—though a single voice would suffice.
Yinevra had not finished. Her lips knotted, then relaxed. “Deceiver,” she whispered. “No name is harder to disown than that.” She turned and walked straight out of the Gathering.
Merwen half rose, stifling a cry in her throat. No—Yinevra must not walk out now, though it was her right to abstain rather than block the will of the Gathering. Now, of all times, the Gathering must stand together. A victory without Yinevra was hollow indeed.
As Berenice watched the purple forms flexing their webbed limbs, she wondered how she managed to keep standing. Her mind still reeled at the impact of what she had heard. Out of the weft lines that shuttled and bound the fabric of the Gathering, one strand fell like lead to her palm: Sharers actually believed they could wipe her people off their planet, although they would not, if Valans were “people.”
Could they do it? Perhaps the Envoy Malachite knew, or suspected. Berenice herself knew that Sharer lifeshaping went far beyond anything known on Valedon, but it had never crossed her mind that its function could be twisted. Yet why else were such sciences forbidden, throughout the planets of the Patriarch?
And Merwen’s mission—there was more to it than she had dreamed at the worst. It chilled her to think how many Valan citizens might owe their lives to Merwen and to herself, Nisi the Deceiver. Yet how many Sharer lives would be doomed if she and Spinel barred their last hope for self-defense? Her ears were ringing. Two moon-planets circled feverishly before her eyes. Berenice shook her head to clear it.
A primitive, childlike people, who knew nothing of will and power. That was what Talion thought of Sharers. And how could she explain otherwise, each side to the other? Deceiver/Deceived—the same word, in Sharer tongue. Was it deception to go on explaining something she herself did not fully understand? How well Nisi had chosen her name.
5
SPINEL HAD RUN after Lystra to pay for the food. He did not understand about the seasilk, and she was too irate to explain. Before he knew it, they were out on the open sea again, the squid plowing ahead, and Spinel had missed his chance to escape. How could he have been such a trollhead? There was nothing for it, now, so he sat and kicked at the empty baskets, wishing he had the nerve to dump them overboard.
The scene with the trader had only confirmed his worst suspicions about his Sharer hosts. Before they left Valedon, Merwen and Usha had behaved something like nobles, resisting provincial authority and associating with the Hyalite lady. But here, on Shora, they lived no better than his own family, and with the trader Lystra had pulled a fit over prices that would shame any fishwife.
Back at Raia-el, Lystra stomped off to the silkhouse. Spi
nel sat by himself on a raft branch, mulling over the mess he was in. He plucked snails from the branch and tossed them down, imagining they would fall forever to the ocean floor, but they only bobbed up to the surface. For a moment the sky darkened as clouds passed the sun. A pale sickle appeared; was that ghost of a moon his Valedon? Was it only yesterday he had left his family in the harbor?
What would Beryl be doing? he wondered. Showing pearls to a customer, perhaps, or stirring the stewpot; yes, he could even smell the flavors drifting past his nose. His sister was a sly one, but she did as she was told, and she would never end up like him.
A hand tapped his shoulder, little Weia’s hand, like a frog’s leg against his skin. He slapped it hard.
The girl sucked in her breath, then shrieked and toddled off toward the silkhouse, falling over her feet now and then. Her wailing gave Spinel a vengeful satisfaction.
For a while, shadows lengthened as the sun descended. Then a figure emerged from the water. It was Merwen. Without a word, she climbed up and sat beside him on the branch. Beads of water sparkled on her shoulders and neck, and on the long scar on her scalp.
Spinel did not know what to say. His heart beat faster, until he exclaimed, “Well? What do you want of me?”
Merwen spread her hands before him. “If you are angry, I am the one to strike.”
He drew back from her, repulsed, yet a bit ashamed nonetheless. “You’re weird, you know that? Why the devil did you bring me here, anyhow? There’s nothing for me to do.”
“You’ll be busy soon enough. You have to learn your way around first. You’re too important to feed yourself to fleshborers on your first day.”
“Why am I important? Why did Lystra bother to pull me out, when she hates me so?”
“Because you are human.”
“Is that all I am, a pet human? No, thanks. I’m going home.” Already he saw the faces of his father and mother, joyful to have him home, though sorrowing at his failure…Well, it was hardly his fault.
Merwen said, “The moonferry goes again next week. In the meantime, won’t you share some supper?”
The cooking odors were not just his imagination. Could there actually be some real food cooking? Spinel went to see.
Outside the silkhouse, Sharers were gathered around steaming platters of fish, squid and shellfish of unnamable shapes but delectable aromas. It overwhelmed his senses; he had not seen so much food in one place since Beryl was married. It looked and smelled like a feast for kings.
He became aware that someone was singing. It was a low, twisting melody that never found a resting place. Soon Merwen joined, and Usha, and even Lystra and Lady Nisi, and others whose names he had forgotten. Their voices wove eerily with the roar of the sea. Spinel watched, mystified, until Lady Nisi leaned over to whisper, “We sing for the fish, for those sharers of our sea who die that we may feed.”
Berenice was relieved that Spinel had survived Lystra’s care, especially once she heard of the incident with stonesick Rilwen. What Talion would say, if Sharers did boycott all the trading posts, right in front of Malachite’s nose—the thought chilled her teeth. And the Gathering: a day later, and she might have lost her bid for a selfname. As it was, Yinevra had abstained, a bad sign for the future. And Torr only knew what steps other raft Gatherings would take.
Still, Merwen was not without supporters. As for this Chrysolite youth, if his presence could help at all to hold things together, even just to buy time, then he must be encouraged. At the moment, Spinel looked contented enough, as he gulped down whatever filled his plate and Flossa and Wellen tried to teach him the names of the “sharers” he was eating.
It had always seemed odd to Berenice that Sharers would sing as solemnly for the things they ate as for their own kind who died. A few, like Merwen, would not even eat flesh, only seaweed and seeds. The song, though, was seductive, and Berenice had at last come under its spell.
The sun ducked behind a cloud again. Berenice got up to check the solar cookers. She saw that juices still bubbled in the scallop-shell vessels, and the lenses were in focus. So there would be no need to burn hydrogen today. That was just as well, since the harvest of hydrogen-rich airblossoms was limited, while the sun itself was endless. Of course even airblossoms, like all lifestuff, also descended from the sun, the First Door of Shora. Or, as children were told, sea and sky are the twin breasts of Shora, and sun is the heart that beats behind them.
Usually Berenice ate with relish when she was here, for sheer hard work raised an appetite she never had in Iridis among her servos. Today, though, she tasted nothing. She was too tense, straining at the debate that smoldered among the Sharers as they dined.
Lystra said, “The best thing would be to shut down the trading post altogether.” She chewed thoughtfully on a slice of octopus. “Remember the slime mold at Oonli-el? Usha could start a mold that would spread over their raft and cover everything.”
“That would be terribly impolite,” observed Trurl Slowthinker.
“But that’s just what they are asking for.”
Berenice said, “Let me share speech with them again. I’m sure we can work something out.”
“Hah.” Lystra jabbed a forefinger in her direction. “Kyril said specifically that they Unspeak you. It’s a ‘new policy.’”
Something choked Berenice’s throat, and she set her plate down. The least her father could have done was to inform her of a change in policy. If the Trade Council had taken a harder line, she must find out why.
“Still,” said Trurl, “there must be a more reasonable solution.” Trurl looked over to Spinel and called, in Valan, “What do you think? How can we help your traders see our difficulty?”
Spinel looked up. “Where I come from, if the barber gives you a rough shave, you cross the street next time.”
“And what about the ‘firemerchant’?” Merwen asked him.
“Oh, well.” Spinel shrugged. “There’s only one of him in town.”
Trurl was thoroughly confused, but Lystra said, “He means, stop trading. He knows his own kind.”
“Perhaps so. But the current is hard to swim against. Merwen, do you think we can afford to stop trading?”
“Perhaps,” Merwen said, “you ask the wrong question.”
“And you’ve got the right one to swallow me up.”
Merwen smiled very slightly. “If Valans are our sisters, will our action reach into their hearts or will it glance away?”
No one spoke at first. The sun was reddening above the horizon. Flossa got up to pour water into the plantlights; a glow sprang out, casting multiple shadows. Spinel and Wellen were jabbing octopus beaks in each other’s faces.
“You think we’d be wrong to stop trading,” Lystra muttered. “Forgive me, Mother, but with your head in the clouds that’s why they call you Skycrosser.”
“I did not say what I think. But who names the sister who never looks up from her feet?”
Lystra glared back. “Why should traders care about our fish or about our Unspoken stonesick ones if we ourselves don’t care enough to suffer for their sakes? If we endure without the things that traders share, perhaps they’ll sit up and take notice. Myself, I’ll be the first to hunt a shockwraith.”
“I agree.”
Lystra slumped as if a wall had given way. “You agree?”
Usha sighed. “Don’t be so eager for the shockwraith’s embrace.”
“Merwen,” said Berenice, much alarmed, “surely you’ve not turned against our Valan sisters?”
“Not at all. But words without action are as empty as a bleached whorlshell.”
“Well said,” agreed Trurl. “But feet speak louder than words only when all swim together, from all the rafts, even from all Shora. Will you help convince other Gatherings?”
“I will,” said Merwen, sadly eyeing Berenice. You knew, Berenice thought suddenly; you must have known it would come to this. Was that what impelled you to Valedon, before it would be too late—before the Door bega
n to close?
Merwen added, “Traders, like Yinevra, respect outward strength.”
There was an uneasy pause. While it was custom for several families to share the evening meal, Yinevra and Merwen had not been seen together over food since the day Yinevra’s daughter was Unspoken.
“My dear sister,” said Trurl, “someone must start to heal this breach between you both.”
“Yinevra will never change. She knows that I never doubted Valans were human, that I never intended to find otherwise.”
Another pause. “Then why did you cross the sky? Just to appease the Gathering?”
“Many reasons. To touch the floor of the problems we face. To give Valans a chance to share judgment of us, in their own habitat. Can you imagine what they must think of us, having shared nothing but traders’ tales?”
“Ah, so most Valans are very different from traders.”
“Nisi is different, and she is a trader.”
Lystra crossed her arms. “In that case, I invite Nisi to join our witness at the traders’ door.”
Berenice started. “I’m sorry, sister, but—”
“Why not, Deceiver? Do you share fear?”
“I can’t do it. My own mother and mothersister…are the trading post.” Sharers had no word for “ownership.”
“All the more reason, for you,” said Lystra. “What respect do you share with your mother, if you can’t even witness for her own good?”
“I’ll do it the day you take a selfname.”
“I Unspeak you till then.”
It had happened so fast, Berenice regretted her words even as she spoke them. What had made her do that? She hated her mother, after all. Now there was no telling when Lystra would share speech again. Imagine what it was like when an entire Gathering Unspoke someone, or even Unspoke another Gathering…
Thoroughly miserable, she looked away to the sea, where white crests languidly lapped the waves. She had to get away tonight, to report to the High Protector. She had planned to present Talion with her triumph at the Gathering, but this threat of a trade boycott would sour it.
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