by Gayle Greeno
“Smerdle!” And smerdle Doyce for wearing out the Seeker General like that. One more napkin to locate and he could remove the tray, come back and sit by her bed in silent watch. He began casting around, hunting, wondering if Doyce had tucked it up her sleeve and left with it. At last he found it, kicked under the edge of Swan’s bed, and retrieved it soundlessly, Koom barely opening an eye in his direction.
He sat, folding it between his hands, turned it into a rolapin with its long, floppy ears, silently crushed it in his fist. The more pregnant Doyce became, the more nervous Davvy grew around her. He hadn’t seen many pregnant women in his life, still wasn’t entirely sure how they got that way. The bare facts didn’t seem enough to explain it. But that mystery wasn’t the worst of it. Restless, he stood, hanging over the back of the chair, spinning the napkin between his fingers as he tried yet again to determine if what he’d done—was still doing on occasion—was wrong.
Well, they’d told him and told him not to contact any outsiders, hadn’t they? So he hadn’t. Well, Doyce wasn’t an outsider, even if she wasn’t a Resonant. It had been a game at first, a way to pass the time when they’d been nursing Swan through those first tentative days to this plateau of partial-health. He knew from Jenret that contacting Doyce by mindspeech would be at his own peril, but no one had said anything about contacting the unborn baby. Well, had they? No. A self-righteous snap to the napkin. And it stood to reason that with Jenret for a father and Doyce, with her Resonant skills dammed inside her, the mother, that the baby would possess Resonant powers. And he’d been right. So there!
It had been fun, a challenge at first to delicately insinuate himself into the unborn baby’s mind, although the conversation had been limited—more a wash of emotions than anything else. He could perk up the baby, make it kick and shift, or soothe it with the thoughts he projected. Just as he’d seen the outward evidence of the baby’s activity in Doyce’s pained expression, her hand abruptly seeking her belly right before he’d left, although he wasn’t sure whether the baby had been reacting to her upset or his own distress. Even he’d seen her tabard jerk from the power compressed within her.
But there was more than that to it now. Should he tell or not? And if he didn’t tell Doyce, did he have any right to tell anyone else—Swan, or Mahafny on one of her visits, or Jenret? Today he’d been absolutely sure that there really were two distinct personalities contained within Doyce’s swollen abdomen. Twins! Oh, smerdle, what to do? He could distinguish two unmistakably different personalities and, more than that, bits of actual conversation, words, although they still revolved around emotions, comfort, or discomfort.
Maybe he shouldn’t have done it, should never have contacted them? What if he upset them, made them come early? Could that happen? And if it did, it would be his fault, another reason for guilt. First Swan being hurt, and now this. And what if Doyce were hurt having the babies? He’d heard about that sometimes. His mouth quivered. How in the Lady’s name did they ever get out—and two of them, that big? All in all, the best he could do was resolve to see as little of Doyce as possible from now until the babies’ birth. And if he did see her, he was never, ever going to contact the babies again. “May I lie in smerdle if I do,” he promised, solemn with concern.
“Davvy,” the voice came faintly from the bed, “you’re making faces worse than a cow with gas.”
He jumped. “Smerdle! Swan, you scared me!”
“Morning, Baz.”
“Good morning, Bazelon.”
A bashful head bob artfully disguised the following look of a young beauty crossing the street, but Baz widened his smile to encompass her, warm her heart for the rest of the day. Cost him naught but a momentary muscle contraction, cheap enough price to pay. And the profit—plus interest—would accrue for him to collect later. Wherever he went Bazelon Foy registered how their eyes sought him out, and why not? He’d cultivated their regard assiduously enough, making himself noticed and noticeable, from handsome looks and an open disposition to hard work and community service. Approbation, that’s what he sought, and the accolades he’d receive for the unselfish service he secretly performed. A labor of love, not for Canderis alone, though ultimately they’d revere him as well, but mainly to convince one man, one single man, his idol, his ideal, to salute the full, unstinting measure of his worth.
Baz Foy sauntered down Wexler’s main street, making sure the sun caught him from behind, a glowing halo that highlighted his dark, curly hair, enhanced his soft olive complexion with its rosy undercast from the furnace heat at the glassworks. His smooth cheeks, his silklike forearms were always rosy from the near-constant proximity to the furnaces, his full mouth kissably puckered from the blowpipes that formed the handblown glass. Mid-thirties and already renowned as one of the best glassblowers in Canderis, despite his location in the wine province of Wexler. Wasn’t business booming now that he had Tadjeus Pomerol and three others drumming the country for orders?
Oh, true enough, most of his income resulted from the lucrative molding of bottles—no great skill there—but he created more than that both for utility and sheer beauty. Delicate decanters etched with spindrift designs that gained life and movement from the tint of the wine inside. And pieces of spun artistry, painstakingly hand-formed, molten glass stretched and crimped with tongs, looped and laced, more intricate than a snowflake under a magnifying glass. He cast dreams with his breath and hands, relentlessly on guard against impurities, polishing and polishing to remove any flaw that might distort. These days almost everyone suffered from distorted vision, but not he, he saw it all so clearly. After all, if you must set yourself a task, set the stiffest one you can find and accomplish it.
“Baz! Morning to you.”
“Morning, Baz.”
Oh, yes, they acted as if the sun rose and set with him. Ha! Mayhap he’d try that on for size next. He stopped to pat a child’s head, made sure to greet the child’s dog as well, exchange pleasantries with the child’s mother. Yes, see and be seen, concerned, caring. Oh, people knew Baz Foy exhibited a hot temper at times, almost uncontrollable, but surely he was a hot-blooded man, an artist who felt with his heart. Well, let his apprentices mutter about his flare-ups, screaming rages when glass was smashed, his own masterworks and their inferior efforts. Everyone admitted his apprentices received rigorous but superior training. Clearly they might not be overfond of him as a boss, but when they ventured out on their own, rare was the man who’d say a word against him—he’d made sure of that. Another task he’d set for himself, and not as difficult as many. Unspoken fear worked wonders, as did a word in the proper ears.
No, he’d come out today to check on something, drop by at the Chief Conciliator’s. That position had cried out to be his when Darl Allgood was called to the capital to become High Conciliator. Hadn’t his passionate caring won him that right? Hadn’t his every action outside the glassworks been aimed at earning the people’s trust and respect? Yet when the elections came, the secret ballots with their mute, blank line for each man and woman to enscribe the name of the person they most trusted to judge their lives, hold them accountable for their actions, Elgar Eustace’s name had been written in, not his own. How could they not see his worth? No warning, no inkling the elections were due, and he’d been absent on business, no time for a subtle emotional appeal.
The loss still rankled, clawed at his assessment of himself. And Darl, Darl, the man whom he’d wanted to love him like a son, take him to his heart, had apparently done nothing to take his part. Well, his time would come, and when he accomplished this task Darl would be even prouder of him, would admit how wrongly he’d been overlooked, shower him with the recognition he deserved.
He gained the Conciliator’s building, its granite lintel with the official seal like an eye mocking his longing, and halloed as he entered. No, no Seekers Veritas today. He knew their schedules as well as Elgar with his shy pansy-brown eyes, the outward example of his inner softness. It took guts and determination to judge your
fellow citizens, find them wanting, and pass judgment, just as his grandfather had once, taking the matter into his own hands. “’Lo, El?” The man came hurrying out, his white shirt with its seven parallel bands on the diagonal, the black embroidered trim at the shoulders, bringing a lusting want to Baz’s heart. His, it should have been his by all rights. Why hadn’t Darl bruited his name about, talked him up as his logical successor? Heir in spirit if not in flesh.
“Cold in here,” Baz shivered at the chill the limestone held inside. “Come out into the sun, El.”
“You’re too used to the furnace heat, Baz,” Elgar protested but followed obediently. Amusing, that—how he enjoyed having such weak, malleable souls at his heels, yet felt nothing but contempt for them. Tadj Pomerol was equally pliant to his will.
They lounged against the hitching rack, basking in the sun, watching the light glint off Leger Lake and the vineyards terraced along its slopes. “So, seems as if the capital gets crazier every day. If you read the broadsides as gospel truth.” A seeming afterthought, “Poor Darl must have his hands full.”
Elgar squinted against the sun as if it pained him. “Aye. Those Resonants cause no end of grief, not by any wrongdoing but simply by being who and what they are. Lucky we’ve had no cases pop up here, but I live in dread of it—mutilation, murder.” The words caused a delicious icing along the fine hairs of Baz’s arms. “Having to judge one of my neighbors for a crime he utterly believes to be right. But even Resonants don’t deserve to be slaughtered for living and breathing.”
“Be easier all round if Resonants would just disappear, but I doubt that’ll happen.” Baz made his face sad.
“Aye, though some are willing to make that happen. Darl wrote, said people are organizing, planning to eradicate all Resonants. Call themselves Reapers, no less, and Reaper groups are springing up all over, like mushrooms after a rain. Shouldn’t wonder if there aren’t some here in Wexler.”
“Oh, I doubt that,” Baz consoled. Well, the man wasn’t as innocent as he’d thought, but he was still blind. Of course Wexler had its Reapers, but here he’d ensured they didn’t openly sport the silver crescent pin and wheat sprig. “Good that you can call them Resonants, not Gleaners. My tongue slips more often than not. Old habits die hard.” And some habits shouldn’t have died at all; his grandfather had had the right of it.
“I know. Suppose they wouldn’t call themselves Reapers if it weren’t for the old word of Gleaners.”
“Wonder what they’d call themselves to match Resonants?”
But Elgar was clearly restive. “Who knows? Trouble enough without thinking about that. Darl says they’re well-organized, yet no one knows who heads them.”
“Funny, that,” Baz said to be agreeable, but was secretly thrilled. “Well, I confess a part of me applauds his humanitarian efforts, even if they’re misguided. We need peace, stability, our old lives back without looking over our shoulders in fear.”
“Not likely.” Gloomy, Elgar looked toward his offices. “Well, work to do. Always paperwork. Nice talking with you, Baz, drop by again sometime.” And the Chief Conciliator slapped his hands in a dismissive gesture, as if to brush Baz away, and Baz felt the familiar burning inside.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he tossed over his shoulder as he strolled off, “Miracles do happen, El. Miracles blossom by believing hard enough and working hard enough toward a goal. Positive thinking, you know—any goal is attainable.”
Back to the glassworks, stop, chat with anyone he passed. Always make time for them, make them feel wanted, and he’d gain their support, already had garnered support across the country. Cheerful as he entered the furnace room, he smiled, complimented one of the apprentices as he passed through to his offices. Door firmly locked behind him, he went to the cabinet, opened the doors, and removed the wooden plaque inside. Mounted on it was an old sickle, the one his grandfather had used to personally kill two of the Fifty. Well, not the actual sickle—he’d been fifteen before he’d realized that a convicted murderer would hardly be allowed to bring the murder weapon into exile with him. Still, a symbol, and he’d see that more than two met their death, had seen to it already. Safe in his pocket a little sack of silver crescent sickles to reward his followers. Silverwork wasn’t his talent, but you could master any craft if you applied yourself properly.
“Yes, Darl, I’ll make you proud of me. Save you so much grief and weariness. I’ve killed to honor you before, killed to sever the ties that would have kept me from meeting you. I wonder how I knew. You’ve got to understand—for once you’re not right. I promise I won’t let you be misguided again. I’ll come see you, help you understand.”
“Wycherley, hold up! I’ll ride with you.” Toe in stirrup, ready to swing into the saddle, Jenret Wycherley checked himself and cursed, back rigid until the genuine bonhomie in the request overrode his reaction to what he’d interpreted as an imperious command. Equally impatient, the midnight-hued ghatt Rawn paced on his pommel platform.
Lady bless, Wycherley was tired and out of sorts. The only thing that made his eyes brighten, his tired face break into a smile was a mention of Doyce. Not easy learning to be a Resonant, and Faertom had nineteen years of living with it, while Jenret had only a few octants. Faeralleyn Thomas, already aboard his faithful Twink, watched the interaction with unfeigned interest as the larger man ran down the Research Hospice steps, gesturing at a groom for his horse.
The contrast between Arras Muscadeine, with his luxuriant dark mustache and his full-sleeved shirt, crimson slashed with yellow on the sleeves, a lavender sash, versus Wycherley’s somber black that set off his pale complexion and his strikingly long-lashed, gentian blue eyes made Faertom feel like a pallid wallflower. Never could he match either man in confidence or in the ability to command others. Outwardly different and yet inwardly so alike, each equally stubborn and strong and uneasy at sharing the same territory. Frankly, in a contest of wills, he’d be crowded out of the picture. Just as well. Best not take sides since he liked them both, but it wasn’t restful being around two such robust, indeed, ardent personalities.
“Why?” Wycherley shouted. “You’re heading to Marchmont. The last time I noticed, it’s in the opposite direction from Gaernett. Training sessions are done for now.” And implicit in that was the fact that beyond Hospice walls, Jenret no longer acted the pupil and Arras the teacher when it came to instruction in Resonant skills. Obedience was no longer necessary. Faertom, obedient for most of his life to the higher necessity of never revealing his Resonant powers to outsiders, Normals, reveled in the vicarious thrill of friendship with someone who flouted authority, could be disobedient when it suited him. Wycherley swung onto Ophar, reining him around until the stallion faced south to make it clear.
Mounted as well, Arras Muscadeine wedged his horse between Jenret’s and Faertom’s. “I need your help, both of you,” Muscadeine appealed, intimate and confiding.
Faertom’s chest swelled with pride that a man as distinguished and commanding as Arras Muscadeine, a fully trained Resonant and the new Defense Lord of Marchmont, would enlist the aid of a nineteen-year-old Transitor, on leave from his roadwork duties to receive the training his raw Resonant skills so richly deserved. Frightening to publicly admit what he was, but he had, and so far the repercussions hadn’t been as severe as he’d expected. Except ... except ... he wished he’d hear from his family, but their caution was only to be expected—he’d make it right with them when he could. He wasn’t fool enough to believe that the cloistered world of the Research Hospice matched the world at large. He knew what Canderis was like far better than either Jenret or Muscadeine could, one just beginning to test its depths, the other a Resonant in a land that respected and esteemed them. It wasn’t like that, never had been in his lifetime and in his land. Still, a chance to make a new start, change people’s minds. And by change minds he meant show his worth, earn his place, not use his mindpowers to force people to accept him and his kind. Stop maundering about saving the world, he
ordered himself, and see what Muscadeine wants. Truth be known, Muscadeine wanted Wycherley’s aid more than his, but to be considered part of the group gave him a heady sense of belonging.
“Why not call out your troops for help?” Jenret inquired, pulling Ophar aside before he challenged Muscadeine’s stallion, too near to Twink for the black steed’s liking. “I’d best get home before Doyce thinks I’ve deserted her.”
Muscadeine cheerfully slapped him on the back. “And when are you finally wedding the fair Marbon, eh?” but refrained from twisting the knife any deeper, totally serious again. “And I would call out my troops, but that wouldn’t be politic on your side of the border—would it now? No, what’s needed is circumspect observation and, perhaps, more than that, though I hope not.”
Glancing to see that the groom had. gone, he continued. “It’s reached my ears,” and a conspiratorial wink indicated that it had reached his mind, that he’d heard through his mindpowers, “that there may be a somewhat ...” he groped for the word he wanted, “troubling, or mayhap only troubled, individual living nearby with the potential to cause us,” clearly he meant Resonants, and Faertom’s heart thudded, “a great deal of heartache, or worse.”
He’d done it again, hadn’t he? His worries projecting so loud and clear he might as well have shouted them from the highest tower. He’d exhibited better mastery, more self-control when he’d known less, because he’d lived daily with the desperate need for self-preservation, as automatic as breathing. Without it, one would be deprived of breath—and life. Now that he’d “come out,” his reckless sense of relief had rendered him heedless, indiscreet. But what danger could spring from that poor woman eking out an existence on that miserable croft an afternoon’s ride southwest of them? That had to be whom Muscadeine was referring to! When he’d stopped to ask about watering Twink she’d reacted peculiarly to his presence, but he’d assumed she reacted thusly with all strangers, despite his niggling discomfort.
