So he told her about Gina, and Celestina, and they fell silent for a while, first smiling about rowdy little girls, then waiting for another contraction to pass. "Celestina. A beautiful name," Ha’anala said when it was over. "Like music."
"The name is from the word for heaven, but it can also mean a musical instrument, which sounds like a chorus of silver bells—high and chiming," he told her. "Sipaj, Ha’anala, what shall we call this baby?"
"That is for Shetri to say. Tell me about Sofia, when she was young." When he hesitated, she opened her eyes and said, "No, then. Nothing difficult now! Only easy things, until the hard one comes. What did you love when you were a child?"
He was ashamed to have failed her, and Sofia, but found himself describing La Perla and his childhood friends, losing himself in old passions and simple beauties: the solid smack of a ball into a worn glove, the swift arc into second base, a whirling throw to first for a double play. She understood very little but knew the joy of motion, and told him so in short, breathless phrases.
He helped her take more water. "Music, then," she said when she could. "Perhaps your Nico will sing."
Nico did, sitting in shafted light: arias, Neapolitan love songs, hymns he’d learned at the orphanage. Soothed, her thirst slaked, Ha’anala said once more, "Take the children to my mother." She slept; Nico sang on. Tired himself, Emilio dozed off, and awoke to a song that was surely the most beautiful he had ever heard. German, he thought, but he knew only a few of the words. It didn’t matter, he realized, transfixed and at peace. The melody was everything: supple and serene, rising like a soul in flight, obeying some hidden law…
All around them, the VaN’Jarri listened as well, children clinging to parents, everyone aware that the time was very near. Opening his eyes, Emilio Sandoz saw the last fall of the chest, drew back the blankets and studied the abdomen; saw the faint movement and thought, Still alive, still alive. Nico, wide-eyed, handed him the knife.
As though from a great distance, Sandoz watched his own unfeeling hands cut quickly and decisively. For hours, he had feared this moment, afraid that he would cut too deeply or too hesitantly. In the event, there was a kind of wordless grace. He felt purified, stripped of all other purpose as this body opened up beneath him, layer after layer, blossoming, glistening like a red rose at dawn, its petals bathed in dew.
"There," he said softly, and slit the caul. "Nico, lift the baby out."
The big man did as he was told, swarthy face paling in the shadowy hut at the awful sound—sucking and wet—as he pulled the child free. He stood then, thick-fingered hands supporting the infant’s fragile form as though it were made of glass.
John stood just beyond the door, ready to clean the baby and take it to the father, but when he saw what Nico carried, the steam rising wispily from its fine, damp fur, he threw back his head and cried, "Stillborn!" Nico burst into tears, and there was a great howl from the others that fell away when Sandoz lurched like a madman through the doorway and whispered in direct address, in denial and defiance, "God, no. Not this time."
Abruptly he snatched the child away from Nico and dropped to the ground with it, supporting his weight on his knees and his forearms, the tiny body so close he could feel the lingering warmth of its mother’s corpse. With his mouth, he sucked the slimy membrane and fluid from the nostrils and spat, enraged and resolved. Tipping the damp head back with one ruined hand, holding the blunt little muzzle closed with the other, he put his mouth over the nose again: blew gently, and waited; blew gently and waited, over and over. Eventually he felt hands on his shoulders drawing him back, but he wrenched his body from their grip, and went back to the task until John, more roughly now, yanked him away from the little body, and ordered in a voice ragged with weeping, "Stop, Emilio! You can stop now!"
Beaten, he sat back on his heels, and let a single despairing cry into the air. Only then, as the sound torn from his throat joined the high, thin wail of a newborn, did he understand.
The infant’s squall was lost in the eruption of astonishment and joy. Fine Runa hands gathered the baby up and Emilio’s eyes followed the infant as it was cleaned and wrapped, round and round, with homespun cloth, and passed from embrace to embrace. For a long time, he stayed slumped where he was, blood-soaked and spent. Then he pushed himself to his feet and stood, swaying slightly, looking for Shetri Laaks.
He was afraid the father would mourn the wife and curse the child. But Shetri was already holding the little one to his chest, eyes downcast, oblivious to everything but the son he jounced gently in his arms to quiet its crying.
Emilio Sandoz turned away and ducked back into the stone hut, where he was greeted by the wreckage of a woman, as forgotten as he was in the rejoicing. We cremate our dead, Rukuei had said. When? Two days ago? Three? So the Pope was right, Emilio thought numbly. No grave to dig…. Drained of emotion, he sat down heavily, next to what had been Ha’anala. If anything could prove the existence of the soul, he thought, it is the utter emptiness of a corpse.
Unbidden, unlocked for, the stillness came upon him: evoked by music and by death, and by the shadowless love that can only be felt at a birth. Once more, he felt the tidal pull, but this time he swam against it, as a man being swept out to sea fights the current. Putting his head in his hands, he let the weight of his skull press down on the hardware of his braces, for once in his life seeking a physical pain that he could rule, to block out what was beyond his control.
It was a mistake. Tears that sprang from his body’s hurt now began to bleed from his soul’s wounds. For a long time, he was lost, and freshly maimed. It was not his body violated, not his blood spilt, not his love shattered, but he wept for the dead, for the irreversible wrongs, the terrible sorrows. For Ha’anala. For Shetri’s losses, and his own—for Gina and Celestina, and the life they might have had together. For Sofia, for Jimmy. For Marc, and D.W., and Anne and George. For his parents, and his brother. For himself.
When the sobbing quieted, he lay down next to Ha’anala, feeling as empty as her corpse. "God," he whispered, over and over, until exhaustion claimed him. "God."
"SANDOZ? I’M SORRY." DANNY HESITATED, THEN SHOOK HIM AGAIN. "I’M sorry," he repeated when Emilio sat up. "We waited as long as we could, but this is important."
Sandoz looked around, bemused by the sensation of his own swollen eyelids. The confusion lifted quickly. Ha’anala’s body had been removed sometime during the night; the room was packed with priests.
"You okay?" John asked, wincing at the stupidity of the question when Emilio shrugged noncommittally. "Look, there’s something you have to see," John said, and he handed over his own tablet. Frans Vanderhelst had shot a set of data files to his root directory, leaving them for John to discover. A case of divided loyalties, John had decided, looking at the images with growing fear, and working out what they meant. Frans had evidently been watching the show for some time, trying to decide what, if anything, to do about it. A good mercenary has just so much latitude and Carlo was the padrone, but ultimately the fat man had done what he could…
"Jesus," Emilio breathed, scrolling through the images. "Do you have an estimate of the size of that force?"
"I make it something over thirty thousand in the main body," Joseba told him. Any picture in Joseba’s mind of the stately, deliberative life of the Runa had been swept away by the time-date stamps on the images, as he confronted the reality of an army that had conquered the known world of Rakhat as quickly, and more thoroughly, than Alexander had conquered his.
"This looks like light infantry in the vanguard," Danny said, reaching over Sandoz’s shoulder to point at the screen, "backed by armor, maybe two day’s march behind them. And that’s an image from about four days ago. Can you see how much brighter it looks? We’re picking up the glare off the metal."
"There’s infrared showing another large group behind them," Joseba said. "Look at the next one."
Sandoz stared at the image and then looked up at worried faces.
"Artillery," Sean confirmed, "and they’re headed right for us."
"But we came in above the cloud cover, and John stayed below the sound barrier!" Emilio said. "How could they have tracked us?"
It was Danny who answered. "Can’t say for sure, ace, but I could give it a guess."
Emilio thought, and then closed his eyes for a moment. "Carlo sold us out. He gave them the coordinates."
"Looks that way."
Nico stood just outside the door. "So the signora doesn’t have to wait for us to bring Isaac to her," he said. "She’s coming to get him."
"She doesn’t need an army t’do that," Sean pointed out sourly, hunkering down next to Joseba.
"Sandoz, there’s something else you should know," said Danny Iron Horse. "When you three first went missing, Sofia Mendes swore she would ’track those djanada bastards to their lair and finish this, once and for all.’»
"Yes. You can see the appeal," said Sandoz. A lasting peace, secure borders, an unblighted future for the Runa…. He rubbed his face against his arms, and they all got to their feet. For an instant—in a small stone room, surrounded by huge bodies—he felt reality shift, but pulled himself back to the present, which was bad enough. "We have to warn the VaN’Jarri;" he said. "They should probably evacuate. Pull back to that Athaansi’s settlement, yes? Concentrate in one valley and set up a defense?"
Danny shook his head. "Fish in a barrel, once the artillery gets here."
"Small, scattered groups might have a better chance of escaping detection," said Joseba, "but they may also starve to death, or die of exposure."
"Six of one, half a dozen of the other," John said. "Either way, they’re in a real bad place."
"It’s not our decision, now, is it?" said Sean. "We give ’em the facts and let the VaN’Jarri make the move." And when the others shrugged their agreement, he moved to the doorway, jerking his head at Joseba. "Come on, lad. Let us go forth and spread the good news."
"I wonder what Carlo got for us?" John mused as Sean and Joseba stepped past Nico and strode off.
"An excuse to quit before he failed," said Emilio, working through the images Frans had sent. "Look at this one. They’re taking on cargo. Carlo’s going to load up and go home. The drone has been down to Agardi, what? Three times already." He stopped, and then said, "Oh, my God."
"What?" John asked, frightened now. "What’s in Agardi? Munitions factories? Is he—"
"No. Nothing like that. Distilleries," said Sandoz softly, looking up at Danny and John.
"Distilleries?" John echoed, confused. "Then he’s loading—"
"Yasapa brandy," said Danny. Sandoz nodded, and Danny sighed, shaking his head.
"So that’s it, then?" John cried, throwing his hands in the air. "Carlo sells us out, stocks up on Rakhati brandy and goes home richer than Gates!" Furious, he slumped down the wall opposite the door and sat, legs out straight, back against the stones.
"And yet," Emilio remarked mildly, "there does seem to be some justice in the universe after all." He was standing in the doorway, and the light behind him lit up his hair, obscuring his expression. "You see," Emilio said, "I never had a chance to tell Carlo, but yasapa brandy is—"
Danny’s eyes widened. Mouth open, he paused, barely breathing. "Awful?" he suggested hopefully.
"Say yes," John urged, scrambling to his feet and moving to Danny’s side. "Please, Emilio, say it’s awful! Lie if you have to, but tell me it’s the worst liquor you ever drank in your whole life."
Face haggard, eyes seraphic, Sandoz spoke. "It tastes," he said, "just… like… soap."
HAD ANYONE ASKED, EMILIO SANDOZ COULD HAVE EXPLAINED THE KIND of half-hysterical laughter that can overcome grief and fear and desperation, but no one was listening to the Jesuits in Ha’anala’s hut. By the time Emilio went outside, the evacuation of the N’Jarr valley was under way— parents gathering children, bundling possessions, arguing and shouting, making snap decisions, having second thoughts, trying not to panic. There was an island of calm in the midst of all this, and he pushed toward it, knowing somehow that Suukmel Chirot u Vaadai would be at its center, where Ha’anala’s pyre was still smoking.
He dropped to his knees at her side. "We have brought trouble on you," he said. "I am sorry for it."
"You meant well," she said. "And there is a life because of you."
"You’re not packing," he observed.
"As you see," she said serenely, ignoring the tumult around them.
"My lady Suukmel, hear me: you are not safe here anymore."
"Safety, I find, is a relative term." She lifted her hand, as though to draw a veil over her head, but stopped, midgesture. "I am staying," she said in a tone that invited no argument. "I have decided that if this foreigner Sofia comes to the N’Jarr, I shall have a talk with her. We have some things in common." Her lips curled slightly, and her eyes seemed to him amused. "And what are your plans?" she asked.
"Much like your own," he told her. "I’m going south, to have a talk with Sofia."
38
On the Road to Inbrokar
November 2078, Earth-Relative
HE DIDN ’T DARE USE THE LANDER, PREFERRING TO RESERVE ITS REMAINING fuel for emergencies, so he and Nico went south on foot. The priests stayed in the N’Jarr to help in whatever ways they could, but Nico would not hear of being separated from him and Emilio did not protest. It was unlikely that what they’d face in twelve days’ time would yield to a handgun and a resolute attitude, but Nico had repeatedly proved his worth and Emilio was glad of his company. Tiyat and Kajpin came along as well, to lead the way through the mountain passes and twisted ravines and foothills. The plan was to walk back to the ruins of Inbrokar, and then go on a bit farther south, where they would wait on the road for Sofia and the Runa army to come upon them.
By second sunset, Emilio and Nico were both bleeding from the knees, and Emilio was beginning to reconsider the definition of "emergency." The Gamu mountain strata were thin and fragile, tipped nearly vertical: an evil surface to hike, exhausting and treacherous underfoot. The Runa had three limbs to call upon but even for them, the climb was difficult. "Are you all right, Nico?" Emilio asked, as Tiyat and Kajpin helped the big man up a fifth time. "Perhaps we should go back for the lander after all—"
He stopped, hearing the scrabbling sound of sliding rocks behind him, and turned with Nico to watch a tall, naked human striding down the incline on dirty, storklike legs, a tattered blue parasol held high over his head.
"Isaac?" Nico suggested, brushing debris from his scraped palms as he rubbed the newest sore spots.
"Yes," Emilio guessed softly. "Who else could it be?"
He had expected a mixture of Jimmy and Sofia in their child’s face. Perhaps that was the greatest surprise: Isaac was not a child. He must be close to forty, Emilio realized. Older than Jimmy was when he died…. The father’s coiling hair had been passed on, but Isaac’s was a darker red, now shot with gray, and matted into brittle, filthy dreadlocks. There was something of Sofia’s delicacy in the long, birdlike bones, and a familiarity to the mouth, but it was difficult to find the mother in this grimy wraith with evasive blue eyes.
"Isaac has rules," Tiyat informed them quickly, when the man stood still a few paces up the incline. "Don’t interrupt him."
Isaac did not even glance at the newcomers, but appeared rather to be studying something just to Emilio’s left. "Isaac," Emilio began hesitantly, "we are going to see your mother—"
"I won’t go back," said Isaac in a loud, toneless voice. "Do you know any songs?"
Baffled, Emilio hardly knew what to reply, but Nico simply answered, "I know a lot of songs."
"Sing one."
Even Nico seemed a little taken aback, but rose to the occasion, offering Puccini’s "O mio bambino caro" with floating top notes in a soft falsetto, repeating the song when Isaac told him to. For a time, there was no sound in the world but the two of them together: twin untutored tenors, artlessly beautiful in close harmony. Nico,
beaming, would have sung "Questa o quella" next, but Isaac said, "That’s all," and turned to go.
No prosody at all, Emilio noted, recalling symptoms he’d studied long ago in a developmental linguistics course. The VaN’Jarri had mentioned Isaac’s oddities but, until now, he had not realized that there was something more than isolation that would account for the things they’d described.
"Isaac," he called before the man had stalked away, knees rising high as a waterbird’s as he walked through the splintery rocks. "Do you have a message for your mother?"
Isaac stopped, but did not face him. "I won’t go back," he repeated. "She can come here." There was a pause. "That’s all," he said, and disappeared around an outcropping.
"She’s already on her way," Kajpin muttered.
"That lander is too noisy and stinks too much," Tiyat remarked, going back to the topic abandoned when Isaac showed up. "We’ll be through the worst of this bad ground by tomorrow at third sunset," she promised.
ONCE BEYOND THE INFLUENCE OF THE GARNU RANGE, THE LAND GENTLED, rising and falling by little more than a Runao’s height. The sapphire hills darkened to indigo with distance, the near country afire with magenta blossoms flaring in sunlight, and Emilio began to be glad after all that they had remained on foot. Repetitive movement had always calmed him, narrowing the focus to the burning of his muscles, the impact of the ground against his feet. He did not try to anticipate Sofia’s arguments or his own. It will be well, he thought, hour after hour, putting one foot in front of the other like a pilgrim walking to Jerusalem. Over and over: It will be well. He did not believe this; Ha’anala’s words simply matched the rhythm of his pace.
They foraged frequently as they walked; camped in the open, heedless of detection. "If we’re arrested, they’ll take us to the army anyway," Kajpin pointed out with untroubled practicality. "What difference does it make?"
By day, Emilio could almost match that fatalism, but the nights were bad, spent wandering in charred, empty dream-cities, or pacing in the noisy darkness waiting for dawn. At last, the others would rouse, and they’d break their fast with leftovers from the previous night’s meal. Once or twice, Nico brought down some small game, but much of the meat went to waste. Emilio ate very little—his usual response to tension. Pacing restlessly until their journey resumed, he would lose himself in the silent chant: It will be well.
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