by Ann Maxwell
The ramp was long, curving, and quite high where he stood. A wailed city stretched away from him on either side of the ramp. People, curious or idle or simply cruel, lined the walls, waiting for the new crop of Fold slaves to appear.
Behind him he heard a gasp and low cries as the rest of the Act materialized out of the savage energy so casually employed by the Loo. He turned to help Rheba, then froze, riveted by a single clear sound.
The Bre’n whistle called to him again and yet again, peals of joy rising from farther down the ramp. Without thinking he spun and ran toward the sound, not even seeing the guard who had come through with the new slaves. He never heard the warning shout, nor saw the brutal flash of energy that cut him down.
XVI
Rheba watched while two guards peeled off the filaments of force net from Kirtn’s slack body. Bre’n and guards blurred in her vision. She scrubbed away tears angrily but could not control the fear that shook her body, fear such as she had not felt since the morning Deva died. She pushed past the guards and knelt next to Kirtn, checking for his pulse with a hand that trembled too much to do anything useful.
Gently, M/dere lifted Rheba’s hand and replaced it with her own. Fssa, tangled in Rheba’s hair, watched with sensors that were incandescent against the black of his body. “He’s alive,” said the J/taal.
Rheba did not know whether Fssa had translated or she had snatched the hoped-for words out of the air. She felt a rush of weakness overwhelm her. She clutched M/dere’s arm, taking strength from the J/taal’s hard flesh.
Lord Jal entered the room, shoved the women aside and went over Kirtn with a hand-sized red instrument. It chimed and clicked, giving Jal information that Fssa could not translate. With a grunt, he put the instrument into a pocket of his filmy robe and turned toward the guard who had shot Kirtn.
“Your chim is very lucky. She won’t spend the rest of her life mourning a dead male who had no more brains than a handful of shit.”
The guard went pale, but he knew better than to interrupt a Loo lord.
“Tell me very clearly,” said Jal icily, “and very quickly, why you struck down a slave that is worth more than you and your chim cast in gold!”
“It—it ran down the ramp.”
Jal waited, obviously expecting more. Much more.
“That’s all, lord. It ran down the ramp.”
Jal spoke vicious phrases in the master language of Loo. Fssa’s translation faltered, then stopped entirely. After a few moments, Jal controlled his vindictive tongue and the Fssireeme began translating the slave master’s words into softly whistled Bre’n.
“Fool. Who could have been harmed if that slave ran up and down the ramp for the next ten-day? Sometimes the transfer energies overload the nerves of inferior species. That’s why we built the ramp and the walls! Slaves can go berserk and not even endanger themselves, much less others. Fool!”
Lord Jal clenched and unclenched his fists. Then he sighed, wiped his face with a sheer, voluminous sleeve, and turned his back on the guards who had carried Kirtn into the Concatenation’s spacious slave compound. He pulled out the instrument again and moved it slowly over Kirtn’s head. The crown glowed oddly against his broad forehead, as though the transfer energies had in some way affected whatever passed for Rainbow’s metabolism.
“Odd,” muttered Jal. “That ugly thing really is alive. Hmmph.” He repeated his motion with the instrument, and the instrument repeated its chimes and clicks. “Well, the wonders of the Equality are endless. I thought Dapsl was just trying to pass off a double handful of gold as one of the First People.”
“I?” said a shaky voice. “I’d never deceive my lord.” Dapsl limped into the crowded room. The left side of his face was swollen and darkened where Lord Jal’s fist had struck him. “I told you that was one of the stone people.”
Lord Jal ignored both the little man’s words and his deep bow. With a swirl of his rich robe, the Loo turned toward Rheba. “It”—he gestured toward Kirtn—“will wake up soon. It will be sore. See that it walks around or the soreness will get worse.”
Rheba imitated the Loo gesture of agreement. Jal looked startled, as though he realized for the first time that he was speaking master Loo, not Universal—and she was understanding every word. He stared at the slender snake body barely visible beneath her hair.
“Dapsl didn’t lie about that, either,” Jal said in Universal. “How many languages does it know?”
Unhesitatingly, Rheba lied. “Loo, a bit. Universal, a bit more. Enough so that we get by. He says he knows J/taal, but I have no way to be sure. The J/taals obey well enough, so the snake must know something.” She shrugged. “He’s quite beautiful, but I’m afraid he’s not at all bright. As much a mimic as anything else.”
She whistled sweet Bre’n apologies to Fssa and hoped that Jal would not see through her lies. Until the Fssireeme performed with them on the Concatenation stage, he could be snatched away at the whim of a Loo Lord. Fssa’s linguistic genius must be kept secret for a few more weeks.
Lord Jal stared at the snake. He did not entirely accept Rheba’s glib explanation. On the other hand, the snake obviously was necessary to the smooth performance of the Act. Besides—if the beast were truly valuable, the chim who had captured it in the first place would have claimed it long since.
He turned back toward Dapsl, dismissing whatever small mysteries surrounded the snake. “The new year begins in two weeks. I’ll choose my Acts two days before. Organize your Act around the Saffar and Hmel myth. Weave right this time, or you’ll die in the Pit.”
Dapsl swayed as though Jal had struck him again. “No, lord,” he whispered. “Not the Pit. Please, lord.”
Jal was indifferent to the trembling in the smaller man’s voice. “The Pit. What else can a failed weaver expect?”
“But—but—” Dapsl stuttered hoarsely. “They d-don’t respect me, Lord. They d-don’t obey. They laugh. They ignore. How can I weave an Act with such c-creatures?”
“The most stubborn threads make the most satisfying pattern,” Jal said blandly, quoting a homily of Dapsl’s people. “And . . . I’ll give you a nerve wrangler to use on the J/taals and clepts.” He looked at Rheba, who was stroking Kirtn’s face while tears ran down her own. “I wouldn’t recommend using it on either of them, though. The Bre’n would kill you before the nerve wrangler disabled him.”
“Lord, are you saying he’s unAdjusted?”
Jal smiled. “So long as he’s with his kaza-flatch, he’s Adjusted. Walk lightly, manikin. If you goad them into breaking Adjustment and I have to have them killed, you’ll die first and very badly.”
Dapsl swallowed several times but still was not able to speak. Lord Jal measured the purple man’s distress, smiled, and swept out of the room.
Kirtn groaned. His body jerked erratically, aftermath of the nerve wrangler the guard had used on him. M/dere and Rheba worked over him, trying to loosen muscles knotted by alien energies. After a few moments he opened his eyes. They were very dark gold, glazed by pain. Remembering Jal’s words, Rheba urged the Bre’n to his feet and guided him on a slow circuit of the room.
He seemed to improve with each painful step. Finally he shook himself, as though to throw off the last of the nerve wrangler’s disruptions. Then he remembered what had happened before the world became a curtain of black agony.
“What is it?” asked Rheba, feeling his body stiffen suddenly. “Jal said the pain would get less, not more, if we walked. Do you want to stop?”
Kirtn answered in Senyas, his voice as controlled as the language itself. “There is a Bre’n woman here, in this city. She called to me while I was on the ramp.”
Rheba was torn between elation and dismay. She ignored the latter emotion, not even asking herself why the news of a Bre’n woman would bring less than joy to her. “You’re sure?” Then, immediately, “Of course you are. No one could mistake a Bre’n call. Is she well? Is she akhenet? If so, is her akhenet with her? Is he well? How old—”
She stopped the rush of questions. Kirtn would not have had time to speak to the woman before he was cut down by the guard.
“Her name is Ilfn. She used the major key, so she and her akhenet are as well as slaves can be. She didn’t use an adult tone to describe his name, so I assume that Lheket is a child. She didn’t use the harmonics of gathering to describe herself, so I have to assume that she doesn’t know of any other Bre’ns on Loo.”
Rheba thought quickly, grateful for the compressed, complex Bre’n language. Few other languages could have packed so much information into a few instants of musical sound. “It must be Lheket’s earring that Jal stole.” Her voice changed. She reached up to touch her right ear, barren of Kirtn’s gift, the Bre’n Face. Jal had taken both earrings, Lheket’s and her own, before he dumped her and Kirtn into the Fold. “May his children turn to ashes before he dies,” she said, a fire dancer’s curse. Her voice was frightening in its hatred. Her arms smoldered beneath the robes. Lines of burning gold glowed on her neck and her hair twisted restlessly.
For once, Kirtn did not attempt to calm her. The earring was the symbol of all that Bre’n and Senyas could be, the Face of the future, catalyst to Rheba’s understanding of herself, and him. He felt its loss as acutely as she did; perhaps more, for he understood more.
“We’ll have to find out where she’s kept,” said Rheba slowly, “then we’ll have to figure out a way to free her and her akhenet—and ourselves,” she added in bitter tones, “ourselves first of all.” She looked around the room. It was large, contained simple furniture and simple house machines. There was nothing that could be used as a weapon.
“At least we found the boy,” said Kirtn, understanding her scrutiny of the room. “Part of our goal is accomplished.”
“Did you . . . see him?” she asked, oddly reticent. She felt uncomfortable discussing the child who was the only possible male to father her children. On Deva such reticence would have been impossible; she and Kirtn would have thoroughly discussed the choosing of each other’s mates. But Deva was gone, choice narrowed to nothing. “Is he very young?”
Kirtn stroked her hair, enjoying the subtle crackle of stored energy clinging to his fingers. “I don’t know. I hope so,” he said absently. Then, hearing his own words, his hand stopped. “I mean—you’re young, fire dancer. There’s so much—” Abruptly, he was silent. There was no way to tell her that it would be better for him if she could accept him as a lover or at least a pleasure mate before she began bearing Lheket’s children.
“I’m frightened,” she whispered. “What little peace we’ve gained since Deva died—it’s been so hard, my Bre’n. If you mate—if I—it will all change again. Oh, I know it will be better. Won’t it? But you’re all I have—” She heard her own words and stopped, miserable and ashamed to speak such small thoughts to her beloved mentor. “I’m sorry, akhenet,” she said in cold Senyas. “I’m unworthy of your time.”
Kirtn laughed humorlessly. “Then I’m unworthy of yours. I have the same fears you do.”
She looked up, unable to believe him until she saw his face pulled into grim lines beneath the sleek gold mask. Absurdly, she felt better, knowing that he accepted and even shared her fears. She put her arms around his neck and whispered fiercely, “You’re mine, Kirtn. I’ll share you, but suns will turn to ice before I let you go!”
He returned her hug with a force that surprised her. His strength always took her unaware, reminding her of how much he held in check. She buried her fingers in the thick hair that covered his skull.
“Trading enzymes again?” asked Jal from the doorway.
Rheba felt deadly anger bloom in Kirtn at Jal’s unexpected return and cutting words. Deliberately, she put her mouth over Kirtn’s and held the kiss for a long count. She meant to insult Jal by ignoring him, but her intention was lost in a swirl of unexpected emotions. Her lines of power flared, a surge of energy that was the first signal of a mature fire dancer’s passion.
Kirtn felt fire lick along his nerves where he touched her, fire that burned without hurting, ecstasy instead of agony. She was older than be had thought, maturity forced by a life no fire dancer should have to lead. Her body was ready for him but her mind was not. That could not be forced. With an effort that made him ache, he ended the kiss and turned to face the blue lord who watched so insolently from the door.
“Trading enzymes,” agreed Kirtn, his voice as utterly controlled as his body.
Jal snickered. “Then you should be ready for Lord Puc’s furry bitch. She’ll give you an enzyme transfer that will crisp your nuga.”
“Lord Puc?” said the Bre’n. “I thought that the Imperial Loo-chim owned the Bre’n woman.”
“Lord Puc is the male polarity of the Imperial Loo-chim. When he conducts business that has nothing to do with governing the planet, he’s referred to as Lord Puc. His chim is Lady Kurs. The lady doesn’t want to wait until after the Concatenation for you to impregnate the Bre’n female. She’s afraid that her brother might change his mind. So you’ll go to the bitch every night for ten nights—or whatever part of the night is left after Lord Puc finishes with her.”
Equal parts of anger and sickness coursed through Rheba at the cold usage of the Bre’n woman as both whore and breeder. She felt ashamed of her earlier jealousy; if Kirtn could bring any comfort at all to the Bre’n woman, his Senyas woman would not begrudge it.
She squeezed Kirtn’s hand gently, trying to tell him what she felt, that she could share him with the unknown woman and not be ruined by jealousy. “Despite Loo myths,” she said coolly to Jal, “Bre’ns aren’t animals. They don’t mate indiscriminately.”
“If your furry can’t bring himself to fertilize the bitch, we’ll take the sperm from him and do it ourselves. Lady Kurs wouldn’t like that. She’s hoping to blunt the Bre’n bitch’s appetites with a male of her own species. Later, when the bitch is pregnant, Lady Kurs will enjoy her own revenge on her chim with the male furry.” Jal smiled at Kirtn. “If you can’t perform, Lady Kurs will assume that your kaza-flatch is draining you. Then you’ll be separated until you can perform.”
“Rheba and I aren’t lovers, or even pleasure mates,” snapped Kirtn.
“Lady Kurs doesn’t believe that. Neither do I. A guard will come for you later. Be ready.”
XVII
Kirtn followed the silent chim of guards through the Concatenation compound. It was very late at night, yet people stirred throughout, nocturnal races from planets he had never heard of. Some of the people worked as drudges. Others rehearsed their Acts, their bodies rippling with natural fluorescence and their eyes brilliant with reflected light.
The compound was a warren of hallways, turnings, rooms, dead ends and ramps. As he walked, he got the impression of age, great age, millennia that had worn building stones into rounded blocks. Beneath his feet stone was smoothed to a semblance of softness by the passage of countless barefoot slaves. The air was neither chill nor warm, damp nor dry, yet he was certain he had smelled brine in the instant before one of the outer doors closed.
Breathing deeply, sifting the air for scents, he walked behind the guards. The hint of sea smell remained, or it could have been simply his hope that both Fold and Concatenation were located in the same equatorial city where the Devalon had first landed. If that was so, his ship was within reach, or at least within possibility. Unless Jal had slagged the Devalon out of anger when he realized it would respond only to Rheba and Kirtn.
The guards paused before a portal. Energy shimmered across it until the chim spoke a command. Like the compound’s other safeguards, the key to the doorway was simple. There was nothing to prevent an intelligent, determined slave from escaping—nothing but the knowledge that there was no way off planet and the punishment for an unAdjusted slave was death. The Loos assumed that a slave clever enough to escape was also clever enough to know that it was committing suicide. Those who survived Pit or Fold were invariably intelligent. The Loos had to kill very few slaves in any given ye
ar, and most of those had gone mad.
Even so, Kirtn watched and learned, weighing and memorizing alternate routes through the ancient compound, remembering verbal keys to each doorway. What he did was not difficult for a Bre’n; their memories were as great as their ability to withstand pain. It could not be otherwise for a race that guided the dangerous mental energies of Senyas dancers.
Another door, another shimmer of energy, another set of commands. He walked through into a night that was fragrant with flowers and a nearby sea. Wind ruffled over him, bringing with it the sound of surf created by two of Loo’s moons. He wished for a window or a hill or even a peephole, anything to give him a view of the surrounding area. But all he had was a walled courtyard that was crossed in seventeen steps. A door gleamed, winked out. In the gold light of an open room stood a Bre’n woman. Ilfn. Her whistle was one of the most beautiful sounds he had ever heard.
Ilfn stepped forward and led him through the archway. The guards did not follow. Behind him energy leaped up again, sealing him within the room. At the moment it did not matter; he was standing close to a Bre’n woman.
A hand brushed his gold mask, smoothing the short, sleek hairs around his gold eyes in a Bre’n gesture of greeting. He returned the touch. Ilfn was smaller than he, smaller than the Bre’n women he had known, barely taller than a Senyas. Her mask was pale gold against the dark brown of her hair and fur. She trembled beneath his touch.
“I hoped, but I never really believed I would see another Bre’n,” she whistled. “I hoped. And I survived, because it isn’t for a Bre’n to die and leave behind an akhenet child. Are you akhenet, too?”
“Yes. Her name is Rheba. She’s a fire dancer from the Tirrl continent.”
“Tirrl.” The word was like a sigh. “Half a world away from Semma-doh. But we all died just the same.”
