by John Dalmas
The amirr examined the suggestion, then shook it off. "It must be someone who speaks Djezian fluently, and Eltrienn is my choice. Others can read him when we wish it."
Trello bobbed an abbreviated bow and hurried out.
"And now, gentlemen," said the amirr, "we still have everything to do that we had before this unusual visit. This is Festival, and there are final plans to look at and approve. Let's get started."
Five
Vessto Cadriio, the country sage, had felt no impulse to mix with the crowds in any of the parks. He had followed Panni Vempravvo from the headland, not because he intended to speak with him, but simply because their path was the same. Then, walking into the city, Panni had met a merchant, Mellvis Rantrelli, and his sons, who'd been watching the district semifinals at the archery field. Rantrelli, with a cry of joy, had ordered his driver to stop the carriage, and asked Panni and his followers to his home for supper. Panni had smiled broadly and nodded, then turned and beckoned to Vessto. Vessto, with his own small retinue, had accompanied him. The old sage had declined to ride while his followers walked, and they'd all trailed behind the carriage, which had gone slowly, not to lose them.
The merchant had been startled at Panni's inviting the other group of holy men, but decided it was good fortune, not bad. This unknown country sage must have more than presumption, might even be a sage indeed, if Panni Vempravvo invited his company. And who could boast having had two sages at his table for the same meal?
The sages had likely eaten nothing since breakfast, if then. So as soon as he got home, the merchant ordered fruit and loaves and juices brought for them and their followers. Afterward, the two sages shared the large hot tub with the merchant while the lesser devotees napped or meditated in the garden, in the shade of fruit trees.
Old Panni was scrawny; far too thin, the merchant thought. But then, sages seemed to live long and in health with little more than the company of Hrum to sustain them. The country sage was lean and wiry but appeared strong nonetheless. The merchant looked unself-consciously at his own ample abdomen. He was more than content to let others be holy clergy, and himself to buy and sell and transport crops to the city.
He'd have been happier though if they'd talked, there in his hot tub. It would have been nice to hear some cognition that might well have helped to light his way through life, and perhaps to oneness with Hrum.
Afterward the sages thanked him for his goodness, and joined their followers in naps, to sleep almost till supper. At supper he'd had food enough spread for a crew of wagoners, for while the sages, the older one at least, wouldn't eat much, who knew how much the disciples might consume? But to his surprise, old Panni smiled at him, took a serving of nearly everything, and ate almost heartily, his disciples following suit. The younger sage ate less than the elder, though he too did not seriously stint his appetite.
But alas, it was the quietest supper at that table for a long time, for the merchant and his family felt constrained to say no more than their guests, who said almost nothing at all.
After dark, which came late in that season, the two sages went apart from most of their followers, accompanied each by his principal men, who were masters. Leaving the rest to murmur quietly in the evening, they climbed together a little way up the slope behind the villa, to sit looking silently out across the lower part of town, at the stars and the dark and quiet water of the harbor. They could hear the sounds of celebration in the distance.
After a bit, Vessto spoke quietly. "The foreigners are here for ill."
Panni smiled. "True," he said.
"The serpents know them for what they are."
Still smiling, Panni nodded. "That too is true."
"But the rains will come regardless, and the serpents will come back. Many people will forget that they ever fled." The country sage fell silent then for half a minute before adding: "Our days of innocence are numbered."
This time Panni chuckled. "There are roles. And scenes. And acts. And the stage of life is broad and richly furnished, its scripts subtle and ever changing, full of surprises."
His eyes watched the younger man shrewdly, but Vessto Cadriio said nothing more, simply looked quietly out at the water. The thought drifted through Vessto's consciousness that what Panni said was true. And it was also true that right and wrong were no more than considerations, polarizations, to shed if one could. But pain and joy, suffering and happiness, felt very real upon that stage. And he had no doubt that, by his nature, he'd continue to equate wrong with that which caused suffering, and right with that which brought the most happiness to the stage.
He would not go home to Kammenak, as he'd considered doing. He'd stay in Theedalit and see what he could do about the foreigners.
* * *
Elver Brokols had hardly started on his second goblet of wine, but felt nonetheless mesmerized, as if he were in some magic universe. He never even wondered if he'd been drugged; the sights and sounds themselves had transported him.
The park was lit by round lanterns of colored glass, their bright flames remarkably steady. It rollicked with flute, drum, dulcimer and chant, was adrone with the voices of thousands talking, eating, drinking. The fire pits had been refilled with earth, that no one having drunk would fall in and be burned. Dance sites—ovals of hard-packed clay—were alive with movement, ranks of men and women stepping, spinning, cavorting through traditional evolutions, while singles and couples, half naked and agleam with sweat, performed virtuosic, usually graceful, and often acrobatic dances of their own. Here and there a couple would slip away into the darkness.
And somehow Elver Brokols wasn't offended, though by Almaeic mores the dances were immodest or even wanton, and fornication a crime. Nor did he think to blame it on their being droids; they seemed entirely human to him, only different. The evening seemed like some fantastic, yet very real dream which, in a sort of déjà vu, he could almost remember having dreamt before.
And the people! He'd seen no one who was homely; simply, some were more attractive than others.
"It is—marvelous," he said to Eltrienn Cadriio. "Like nothing of this world."
"You don't have festivals in Almeon?"
"Not like this."
Among the things he'd never seen before was the degree of public undress among the more gymnastic dancers—"dancers before Hrum" they were called. The men wore nothing at all above the waist, while the women, mostly well-endowed, wore pantaloons, and above that, little more than a harness to support their breasts through the leaping, twirling, and general acrobatics! But tonight, outside himself as he was, it was too aesthetic to offend him.
Just now he stood beside Eltrienn Cadriio at the rib-high balustrade of a landscaped terrace, five feet above the general level, a terrace to which the aristocracy could retire if they wished, to drink without being jostled, and talk quietly. Mostly though—and to Brokols this was as remarkable as the half-naked dancers—mostly the aristocracy mixed with the commoners; greasy-fingered, eating roast meat and hot buttered rolls elbow to elbow with tanners, laborers, fishermen, drinking with them, joining in their dances. Brokols himself, when he'd finished eating, had yielded to an astonishing impulse and tried one of the group dances, one that began simply. Soon though, he'd gotten sweaty and confused, and withdrew.
"Eltrienn," he said, "you told me this festival is in honor of the serpents returning. What did you mean by that?"
Cadriio answered without taking his eyes from the celebration below. "Each year on the summer solstice, the serpents return to our harbor, swimming down from the north. They bear their young in firths and inlets all along our shores, and nowhere else. So far as we know. Perhaps so the young can be born and develop in the warm water that's just starting to reach here from the south. And the firths and inlets being nearly enclosed, they can defend their young more easily from sarrkas and other creatures that might harm them.
"And invariably, within a few days of their return, the season of rains begins. The land freshens, the streams
swell, reservoirs fill, crops grow . . ." Cadriio turned to him, spreading his hands expressively. "It's an important event for us, so we celebrate. The Festival of the Serpents Returning is our biggest celebration—bigger even than the Harvest Festival."
"We saw serpents," Brokols said. "Yesterday, near the ship. They looked dangerous. Do they ever attack sailors or fishermen?"
"I've never heard of it, not even a rumor. Like the sullsi, the people of the waves, they are intelligent. We never molest them, and they don't trouble us. Indeed, they make the harbor safer, for when serpents are in the harbor, sarrkas are never seen there."
"Hmm. We saw no serpents when we steamed in; we saw them only in the open sea."
Cadriio nodded, sobering. "They arrived this morning, somewhat before you. Then, people on the headland, watching your arrival, saw them hurry out while you were sailing up the firth. The report of it spread widely. Allbarin—he's the amirr's privy counselor—says it's enough that the serpents arrived, and they'll be back when the ship leaves. It's his opinion that the serpents were alarmed by so large a ship in the confines of the harbor, and we've taken pains to make it publicly known that your ship will depart tomorrow.
"If the serpents don't return, we may find your presence here a serious embarrassment. We call them 'the Messengers of Hrum,' and hold them sacred. There is even a long poem telling how they once saved the daughter of Hrum."
Gazing out over the noisy crowd, Brokols blew silently through pursed lips. He was lucky not to have mentioned the marines killing two of them.
"The daughter of Hrum?" he asked.
"The daughter of Hrum, Lormalia; she's the foster mother of the people. Our ancestors arrived as spirits, in chrysalises from which humans emerged instead of fairy flies. And Hrum sent Lormalia to foster us and teach us how to live.
"One day she showed some of the people how to make a raft, and how to net fish, and in so doing, she fell into the sea. A sarrka was about to take her, but she was saved by a serpent, who drove the sarrka away, then lifted her gently with its jaws and laid her on the raft again, unharmed."
Brokols said nothing at this, simply nodded acknowledgement. The story shook him. Not that he believed the business about the serpent, but he'd read The Captain's Book, in translation of course, and the name of Hrum's daughter could hardly be coincidence. Lormalia had to be the biotech, Lori Maloi. Clearly there'd been at least one heroine in the ancient world besides the Adanik Larvest's last captain.
Cadriio eyed the silent ambassador. "I presume you worship Hrum in Almeon."
Brokols shook his head; it seemed best to be truthful when he reasonably could. "We know very little about Hrum," he answered. It occurred to the Almite that with the droid religion, Hrummlis, as central as it seemed to be in Hrumma, he'd do well to know something of it, if only for political reasons. So he added: "I'd appreciate your helping me learn."
"I will. Perhaps tomorrow I can take you to a teacher, one who instructs in Hrummlis. Or . . ." He paused as if considering something. "I have a younger brother who is regarded by many as a sage, a man who knows Hrum directly and speaks his truth. He may be in Theedalit for the Festival. If I can locate him, you might find him interesting.
"Meanwhile though, shall we go down and have more wine? Or meat?"
"No," said Brokols. "It's been a long day for me. I'd like to go to my apartment now and get some sleep."
"Another good idea," Cadriio answered, and turning from the balustrade, they left.
* * *
Tirros Hanorissio, the mirj, was intensely interested in the foreigner, wanted to meet and talk with him. Finally he'd spotted him on the terrace with Cadriio, but by the time he'd worked his way there, the man was gone. Tirros swore under his breath. He sensed opportunities there, and was eager to explore them.
For now though . . . he vaulted lightly over the balustrade and entered the crowd again. He would find some pretty girl who'd be impressed with his status, and they could go to a place he knew.
Six
The next day, in fact the next two days, Brokols and Eltrienn Cadriio did not visit a teacher of Hrummlis, for it had occurred to Eltrienn that most teachers would be engaged in the festivities. Also, Brokols needed to move from the first-floor apartment that Eltrienn had arranged, to a top-floor apartment. He supervised it personally. He had a small but heavy casket of gold and a little leather bag of diamonds to finance his activities. He'd had to sign for them of course, and he'd have to account for them when this was over, so he had no intention of letting them out of his sight when anyone besides he and Stilfos, his assistant, had access to them.
The move accomplished, he had his antenna installed on his roof, along with his wind generator, explaining them as religious instruments. It had been decided, in planning the mission, that the ambassadors would explain as religious anything whose meaning or function they wanted to conceal.
That night in his apartment, in the oil-lit privacy of an inner room, Elver Brokols used his wireless telegraph, the pride of Almaeic technology, to tap out in code a resume of his day for Kryger aboard the Dard, which had left Theedalit and was sailing northward toward the Djezian coast. Then Brokols went to bed, letting the small, breeze-powered generator recharge his storage battery.
It was important that he become competent in the Hrummean language as soon as possible. Therefore, much of the third day was spent in his roof garden, working on it with Eltrienn. They went over the basic differences in sounds—in Djezian the stress was almost always on the penultimate syllable; in Hrummean it was more variable, differing with the word and even shifting with the rhythm and stress of the sentence.[See Note] Djezian pronunciations tended to be glottal, Hrummean palatal, and Djezian vowels tended to be shortened and homogenized, even, to a degree, in stressed syllables. The alphabets were almost identical, and differences in the sounds assigned to the letters were fairly consistent.
Most of the time, Brokols' servant, Stilfos, sat out of the way listening, repeating their drills more or less to himself. He needed Hrummean too.
They drilled pronunciation of representative words that were similar in the two languages, which was most of their vocabularies; the sounds differed much more than the spellings. They also drilled some of the words and idioms that were unique to Hrummean. Already, when Eltrienn spoke slowly and simply in Hrummean, Brokols understood much of what he said. It seemed to both of them that a few more days should find him conversing rather freely, with only occasional stops for clarification.
During a morning break, looking out at the harbor, they'd seen serpents. And later, thunderheads were visible, a line of them moving coastward to the south. It seemed to Brokols that the death of the two serpents would have no ill effects after all.
* * *
Note: Hrummean writing indicates the syllable with major stress by doubling the final letter in the syllable, most often a consonant. And because in Hrummean the stress sometimes shifts in different sentences, a word may be spelled slightly differently in different contexts. This contributes to the flow of Hrummean poetry in a major way, permitting techniques that are unavailable in most languages.
Seven
The namirrna, Juliassa Hanorissia, drew lightly on the rein, and her kaabor stopped at the cliff's edge. A cloud had cut off the sun, and the ocean below had turned steel gray. A few sea lokkras soared, watching for fish. The major moon, Great Liilia, was out of sight, but she was full, and the tide would be strong. Just now, Juiiassa knew, it would be ebbing. There'd be more than ample time to ride the beach if she wished, before the high water returned.
Jonkka, her bodyguard, had stopped when she had, a couple of hundred feet behind her as she'd prescribed with her father's approval. She waved cheerily back at him, then touched the kaabor's flanks with her heels, starting it down the trail that angled precariously across the cliff face to the beach.
In brief minutes she arrived at the strip of damp sand, now thirty to a hundred feet wide below the cliff. The sharp smell of
stranded floatweed and other beach life stung her nostrils, and swinging down from the saddle, she led the kaabor along the strand, pausing at intervals to examine a shell, a figured, wave-polished stone, a stranded seine-fish dissolving in the sunlight like some poisonous illusion.
She'd gone only a little way, a quarter mile, when she saw the sellsu and cried out inadvertently, for at first she thought it was dead. Since she'd been a child, she'd loved to watch them sporting in the sea, sometimes body surfing, and had tried unsuccessfully to catch the spirit of them on canvas with her paints. But approaching it, where it lay just past a dark rock, she saw the movement of its shallow breathing, and her own eased.
With a word to the kaabor, Juliassa dropped the rein and went to the sellsu, half-knelt, half-bent, and cautiously touched a smooth-furred flank, ready to jump back. A sellsu's tail and flukes were powerful, its arms long and muscular, its teeth sharp for tearing fish. And if she startled it . . .
