"So you think he's female?" Rashid asked. "What's going on?"
"Are we going to the mayor's or not?" I snapped. Without waiting for an answer, I headed out the door and down the doctor's front steps. Rashid followed quickly, still looking back and forth from Steck to me for an explanation.
"It's something no one talks about," Steck said, tracking along on my heels, "although as far as I can tell, it happens to everybody. I certainly switched several times on my Commitment Day. Leeta once told me she'd had plenty of women confide that it happened to them too. But most people do their best to keep it a secret. Why, Fullin? Do you think it's indecent? Or just too private to bring out into the open?"
"Too tricky," I replied. It surprised me that I spoke the words out loud; but then, I had been thrown off balance by what Steck said. This happened to everybody?
"What's going on?" Rashid demanded.
"In the day leading up to Commitment," Steck told him, "Tobers go through short bouts when they feel as if they're the other sex. Their other sexual selves. Right now, I have the feeling Fullin's male body is occupied by the personality that usually takes charge in his female years. Isn't that right, Fullin? Isn't that why you're watching your feet a little too much while you're walking?"
That was precisely what was going on… but I immediately lifted my eyes from my feet and focused them straight ahead. I didn't fool anyone — I could feel myself blushing, which surely showed on my face. "Can we change the subject?" I mumbled.
"No," Rashid answered, and turned back to Steck. "You say this happens to every Tober?"
"That's my guess."
"In the day leading up to Commitment?"
"It would make sense," Steck said.
"How so?" Rashid asked.
"As a reminder!" I suddenly blurted out.
Steck and Rashid looked at me.
"You're right, it does make sense!" I said, thinking it through for myself. "It's been a year since I was female… distant enough to forget what it's like. The different priorities I have. The different weight of memories. So the gods are giving me a chance to recall who I was. Who I am. To make sure I have a clear idea of both my male and female selves before I choose between them."
"Good thinking by the gods," Rashid agreed. "You don't usually expect that much foresight from a deity."
"So there's nothing to be ashamed of, is there?" Steck said to me. "It's ridiculous how Tobers all think they're abnormal and bottle it up."
I didn't answer; I was too busy thinking about Cappie. She must have been switching back and forth between male and female too. Was that why she had worn male clothes this morning, even though they were no longer needed for the solstice dance? Which soul was she wearing when she sang to me in the marsh? During the fight with Steck… when she punched me and stole my spear… as we made love…
Who the hell had I been with when?
"What surprises me," Rashid said, "is that Tobers don't discuss this openly. If it happens to everybody, why treat it as a shameful secret?"
I thought of Tobers back through the years, most of them living in relationships by the time they reached Commitment Day, and most of them intimidated by the permanent repercussions of the choice they were about to make. They had enough complications already without having to confess they were occasionally not who they appeared to be.
"It might not be shameful," I said, "but it is secret. That's not such a bad thing; that's not such a bad thing at all."
The path from the doctor's office to Mayoralty House led around the mill pond, where a single mallard floated peacefully in the center of the water. The bird was lucky; our miller, Palph, was a good archer, and any other day, a duck on the pond had a good chance of becoming Palph's dinner. No Tober, however, would dare kill a bird on the morning of Commitment Day — that was an insult to Master Crow and Mistress Gull.
I said as much to Rashid. He nodded, but didn't answer; his mind was obviously elsewhere. After a moment, he spoke without looking at me. "What's going to happen today at Birds Home?"
"Rashid," Steck began, "I've told you everything…"
"You didn't tell me the doctor took tissue samples," he interrupted. "So I'd like to hear what Fullin has to say."
I looked back and forth between the two of them. Of course, Rashid would have quizzed Steck long before coming to the cove — about our way of life, how switching sexes affected us, what the gods did in Birds Home. And because he was infatuated with her, he had believed what he heard: he thought he knew everything she did. Now, however, something had stirred a freckle of doubt; now, he wanted to check her version of the facts.
Steck's face flushed with emotion. Anger? Hurt? I couldn't tell — it disappeared in an instant, replaced by a hard-edged stoniness, as if she didn't care whether he believed her or not. "Go ahead," she said grimly to me. "Tell him whatever he wants to know."
"There's not much to tell," I mumbled, embarrassed for her. Embarrassed for my mother. "At noon, Master Crow and Mistress Gull arrive from Birds Home and land on the lake. The children go with Master Crow; the people ready for Commitment go with Mistress Gull."
"Go with," Rashid repeated. "That means you get inside."
"Yes, we boat out and get inside Mistress Gull and Master Crow," I said, wondering why he had decided to be obtuse. "There are chairs inside. We sit in the chairs and the gods fly us north to Birds Home."
"What happens there?"
"The children are taken into Master Crow's nest. They climb out of Master Crow and wait in a special area until they are touched by the gods. Then everyone falls asleep."
"Gas," Steck murmured. "Knock-out gas."
I shrugged, not wanting to argue about how the gods did what they did. It felt awkward, being questioned by Rashid to see if my mother had lied to him; I just wanted to get it over with. "After a while, the children wake up and find they're the opposite sex. They get back inside Master Crow and fly home."
"That's the children," Rashid said. "What about the candidates for Commitment? You and Cappie."
"Mistress Gull takes us into a different nest, her own. I don't know what happens there because it's a holy secret — no one who's gone through it is ever supposed to reveal the details. But the gods will come to us in the Commitment Hour and ask, 'Male, female, or both?' We tell them our choice, and that's our Commitment." I looked at him sharply. "Good enough?"
Rashid hesitated, as if considering whether to grill me further: to keep pushing to see if my story matched whatever my mother had told him. He glanced at Steck, but she wasn't looking at either of us. She had picked up a stone and was staring at the duck in the mill pond. Her fingers rolled the stone back and forth across her palm.
"All right then," Rashid muttered. "I was just checking. It's always possible that something changed in the twenty years since you Committed, Steck."
She made a scoffing sound, but her face lost some of its grimness. When she threw her stone, she aimed well clear of the duck. The rock landed in the water with a light plop, scarcely rippling the pond at all.
Mayoralty House lay at the base of Patriarch Hill, in the shadow of the OldTech radio antenna that speared into the sky on the heights. Zephram claimed the big ramble-faced building must have been a hotel back in OldTech times. It had more than two dozen rooms, all the same… or at least they had been the same before years of rain, snow and termites took their toll.
By the time the Patriarch came to power a hundred and fifty years ago, much of the old hotel had collapsed. He ordered it rebuilt to his own specifications, calling it the Patriarchal Palace. After his death, there had been a fierce political struggle between the mayor and Patriarch's Man of that day, fighting over which would get the house. Somehow, the mayor had won — possibly by making generous financial concessions to the Patriarch's Man — and the old hotel had been residence for every mayor since.
To the mayors, it must have been a mixed blessing. A house that size needed constant expensive upkeep. Even worse, the summers b
oiled insufferably hot in that area, thanks to a huge expanse of OldTech asphalt that bordered the building on front and sides. ("The hotel parking lot," my father said.) Four hundred post-Tech winters had churned that aging pavement like taffy, but fractured and crumbling, there was still enough old blacktop left to drink up every drop of sun and fill the air with the fierce smell of baked tar.
On the front edge of the asphalt, an OldTech horseless cart had been crisping its way to rust for four centuries. The exterior body was completely gone, shredded partly by weather and partly by Tober children prying off souvenirs to stash in dresser drawers and other hidey-holes. Earlier generations must have had it easy; by the time I came along, the only parts left were solid and heavy, almost impossible to break off. Cappie had won himself a quick close-lipped kiss for chiseling off a piece of the underframe and giving it to me on my ninth birthday.
As soon as the cart came into sight Rashid made a beeline for it, his plastic boots making sticky sounds as he crossed the sun-soft blacktop. Leaning over the remains of the engine, he tried to wiggle various components. I could have told him he was wasting his time — anything with a hint of wiggle had been worried off by children long ago.
Steck nudged me and murmured, "All his life he's been looking for a car that's still in running order. We've found plenty that look good on the outside — preserved by eccentric collectors, that sort of thing — but the engines are always seized up. Even with a heap like this, Rashid has this insatiable optimism that he might find good spare parts."
"This one doesn't have any parts," I said. "It's rusted into a solid whole."
"I know that," Steck replied. "You think I didn't try to pull pieces off that pile of junk when I was—"
She stopped. Rashid had just reached down into the motor, a look of triumph on his face. He bent over farther and farther, straining to get at something until his feet were almost off the ground.
"What is it?" Steck called.
Rashid's voice echoed from the cart's metal belly: "Something I've never seen in all my years looking under the hood."
Steck gave me a "let's humor him" look and we both moved forward. Rashid pulled his head out of the machine long enough to take a short metal cylinder from a pouch on his thigh; when he twisted one end of the cylinder, the other end suddenly shone with light like a lantern. He turned the yellow beam toward the engine and aimed it down into the rusted guts. "See that?" he asked.
Steck and I looked. The beam of Rashid's lamp was centered on a palm-sized box of black metal, attached to a hunk of rust-slathered steel. Of course I'd noticed the black box before, back when I was young enough to care about getting a piece of the cart. I'd hammered the box with a rock, poked it with knives stolen from our kitchen, even held a candle under it to see what happened. "It doesn't come off," I told Rashid. "It's just a black lump."
"A black lump that shouldn't be there," he replied. "Ask Steck how many engines I've examined since we've been together."
"And the engines have all had their idiosyncrasies," Steck told him. "I admit I haven't studied cars like you have, but you've taught me yourself there were hundreds of different types. Dozens of companies manufacturing dozens of models each, and every year they made changes and improvements… not to mention that individuals sometimes whipped up customizations of their own. Why is it surprising there are engine thingummies you haven't seen yet?"
"Because I'm the Knowledge-Lord." He leaned into the cart again, trying to give the black box a jiggle.
"It doesn't move," I told him. There was no shade here on the asphalt, and the sun pressed down hard. The last thing I wanted was to stand around baking while a Spark Lord picked away at something that died four hundred years ago.
"Aha!" Rashid said, his voice muffled. "An antenna!"
"What?" Without thinking, I glanced up to the antenna on Patriarch Hill. This cart had nothing remotely like that. I supposed there might be different types of antennas, but our schoolteacher had never mentioned the possibility. She had been hard-pressed to tell us much about radio at all: she called it a baffling OldTech technique for sending sounds from one place to another. Almost every town on the peninsula had at least one antenna, usually rusted and toppled by wind; but all such antennas were long and thin and exposed, not hidden in the motor of a cart. "What are you talking about?" I asked Rashid.
"This box has a wire antenna running tight against the engine block. Camouflaged to match the metal. And there's another wire running to… I'll bet those are photoelectric cells. Solar collectors. This thing may still have juice." Rashid lifted his head and grinned at Steck. "Still think it's just a normal engine thingummy?"
Steck put a hand to her mouth and faked a yawn. "The OldTechs had a saying," she told me. "Something about boys and their toys."
I nodded, amused that Steck had decided to play the age-old part of the long-suffering woman when she was half man herself. Then again, how could I talk? Male outside, female inside… and sweat-drippingly bored with black boxes. "How much longer?" I asked Rashid.
He grinned impishly at me. Men get a kick out of being an aggravation to women; my brother self delighted in teasing anything female, especially by exaggerating the most juvenile tendencies of being male. A long time ago, some bastard invented the phrase "boyish charm," and since then the whole gender has believed the way to a woman's heart is behaving like an eight-year-old.
Then again, we women still believed the way to a man's heart was playing hard to get. Why did the gods have to make both sexes so calculatingly stupid?
"Just one more thing to check," Rashid said. He pushed his shine-light cylinder back into its pouch and drew out a hand-sized plastic box. "Radio receiver," he said. With his thumb he rolled a dial on the box; the little machine began to make a raspy noise, like waves washing up on a gravel beach.
"Nothing but static," Steck said.
"You think it's just static?" Rashid asked. Slowly he moved the radio receiver toward the black box on the engine… and the volume of the sound increased, as if the waves on the beach were churning up, peaking, getting blown into whitecaps.
"See?" Rashid told us, patting the black box fondly. "This little baby is transmitting something. Using the whole car as an antenna."
"Why would the OldTechs do that?" I asked.
"They didn't," Rashid answered. "If I didn't know better," he looked at me, "I'd say someone from a long way away has been planting bugs in Tober Cove."
His eyes turned thoughtfully toward the sky.
FIFTEEN
A Predictable History for the Patriarch
Mayor Teggeree had heard nothing about the murder — no one had even told him Bonnakkut was dead. That didn't surprise me; the news was still in the bubbling gossip stage, and people wanted to share it with others quickly. Mayoralty House just wasn't close enough to the rest of town for people to pop in on a moment's notice. Under normal circumstances, it would be the First Warrior who hurried across the hot pavement to pass word to Teggeree. As it was, we were the ones who got to see the mayor's jaw drop when we reported the bad tidings.
For one second Teggeree was caught by shock. Then he opened his mouth and said, "How tragic." A mayor's phrase: the position was talking, not the man. In a way, I admired Teggeree for that. "How tragic," he repeated. "But at least we're fortunate in having a Knowledge-Lord to seek out the truth. That is, if it's not an imposition on Your Lordship's time…"
"No, no," Rashid answered, "I've already started investigating. That's why I came here — I'm told that anyone with relevant evidence will report it to you."
"Just so," Teggeree nodded. "Let me ask my family if anyone has come by already." He turned to me. "Fullin, perhaps you'd show Lord Rashid to the Patriarch's Hall where he can wait in comfort?"
"Sure." I had to smile; every child in the cove was marched through the Patriarch's Hall at least once a year, and I had never imagined it could be described as comfortable. Our mayor simply wanted to impress the visiting dignitary. Don't
ask me why Teggeree hadn't dragged Rashid into the hall as soon as the Knowledge-Lord arrived last night — Rashid must have dodged the mayor's clutches somehow. A temporary reprieve only, I thought. You're stuck with the full tour now.
Then again, the Patriarch's Hall was dusty, self-important and largely irrelevant. It might be exactly Rashid's cup of tea.
"This old place!" Steck said with disgust. But her gaze traveled sharp-eyed around the room, as if reminding herself of all the things she had missed the chance to despise during her banishment.
The hall was the Patriarch's memorial, and crammed with keepsakes from his era: some mounted in formal displays, others just stacked where there was available space on shelves or the floor. This was my first visit here since I'd graduated school at fourteen, and the room seemed to have shrunk in the intervening years… not to mention the air growing more stifled and close, as dust accumulated on the so-called "treasures." It occurred to me that mayors might regard this place more as a junk heap than a shrine — somewhere to stash things they couldn't throw out but didn't want cluttering up the rest of the house.
Take, for example, the collection of glass jars filling up three long shelves — the same sort of jars all Tobers used for fruit preserves, but this batch contained ashes from the execution pit on Beacon Point. They had no labels: no way to tell whether a given jar contained the incinerated remnants of a scientist, a Southern trader, or a Neut. Knowing the Patriarch, some of the jars might just hold clinkers pulled out of his bake stove — the old tyrant had no qualms about inflating his reputation with a few false urns. Then again, if the Patriarch thought his shelves looked too empty, he might simply accuse another Tober of uttering heretical thoughts; preferably someone well off, whose goods could be confiscated for the public coffers.
The public coffers administered by the Patriarch, of course.
Looking around the room, I was struck by how he had spent that money on personal indulgences. Paintings of himself. Fine clothes and trinkets brought from the South. Still-corked wine bottles that probably contained nothing but vinegar.
Commitment Hour lop-2 Page 20
