by Gayle Greeno
That was within his powers without a vote. Possibly an innocuous resolution of some sort where he could bluster and cajole, arm-twist to gain a simple majority, thirteen out of twenty-four High Conciliators’ votes, that’s all he’d need. Darl would help with that, help him think up what the resolution would resolve. He smiled, tested the phrase. “This resolution hearby resolves, this declaration declares...” He waved Jenret’s letter as if graciously acknowledging a throng of people. Bet the King of Marchmont does that all the time.
What was stuck to the back of Wycherley’s letter—another piece of paper? He pried it loose, rolled off the bit of pine pitch with his finger before he studied it. As was his custom, he quickly glanced at the signature to see if the name gave a hint of the problem. Anonymous, blast, blast. Pinching sticky finger against thumb, he scanned the printing, almost prissy neat, each letter perfectly aligned. Well, surely not a eumedico, never could read their writing. More likely some sort of very precise, fussy individual, a Transitor or an engineer of some sort, they wrote like that.
Dear Sir:
I regret to inform you that you unwittingly harbor a Resonant in your midst, one who has insinuated himself into your trust and the trust of the people. Indeed, for too long he has perverted the people’s trust and respect, serving first as a Chief Conciliator and now as a High Conciliator, putting himself and his ilk first against the needs of the majority of Canderis. Darl Allgood is a viper nestling in the bosom of Canderis. Do not let him spread his perversions, work his wiles with his tainted skills. Cut him down, cleanse your house before it is too late! Reveal him, shame him, destroy him and his kind before you are tarred by the same brush. Protect him, and you, too, may face the just punishment awaiting him.
Sincerely,
A Concerned Citizen of Canderis
A shiver ripped through his body and he ground his teeth to conquer it, tried to let the letter drop, but the pitch worked against him again. At last he shook his hand violently and the paper sailed free to land on the carpet, its white outline smugly self-righteous, its black print like loathsome, disgusting tracks of slime. Rubbing his hands together as if to cleanse them, he strove to calm himself, to quell the rising nausea flooding him.
Poppycock! Unabashed, unadulterated poppycock! But the word wasn’t powerful enough to efface the filth he’d let enter his mind. Oh, he’d read worse anonymous rantings in his time, but ... but.... His mind boggled. Not Darl, not after he’d come to know and respect the man, consider him a friend. A deep breath, and he held it, finally exhaled.
If it were true, did he like or respect Darl any less for being a Resonant? But if it were true, he was angry at Darl for not being forthright about it. After all, keeping him on as High Conciliator would show the Resonants they were trusted enough to be part of government. And that was exactly the sort of thing Wycherley was looking for, something in earnest. He worried it through again, found solace in the fact that the few Resonants he knew, Faertom and Jenret, Yulyn Biddlecomb, that man he’d briefly met—Fahlgren claiming his murdered wife’s body—had made no mention of it. Surely they would have said, given some indication. Ergo, Darl Allgood was not a Resonant.
The letter was nothing more than a foul, corrupt piece of garbage, slanderous lies. Body limp with relief, he got up and walked to the fireplace, stirred the fire higher, and used the poker to impale the treacherous letter that had temporarily shaken his faith in Darl Allgood. The sound of it crackling, the sight of its edges curling as it burned, made him feel better. Done, stirring the pieces of ash into the coals, he left the sitting room and reentered the bedroom, crawled into bed beside Marie, warmly drowsy and welcoming.
It never occurred to Kyril van Beieven that not all Resonants knew each other or even of each other, so sheltered in their own little enclaves that safety meant not knowing one soul more than one had to know. Because knowing might mean inadvertently revealing one of your own.
“I tell you, it’s unbelievable! Absolutely knocked me off my feet, my foot, when I heard!” Parse waved one crutch in extravagant celebration, nearly spearing a passerby, then stumped to catch up with Doyce. Walking through the brick-streeted maze of Gaemett’s old quarter, they breasted a sudden freshet of students pouring out of school, their scholars’ robes the iridescent shade of a mourning dove in the afternoon sun.
Preceded by her stomach, Doyce tried not to crowd Parse off the narrow walkway, let alone others coming from the opposite direction. Sometimes, especially in cramped quarters, she feared she’d sweep aside everything in her path. A shift leftward gave Parse more space to wield his crutches. Except—where had that man come from?—the one she’d nearly pinned to the wall. He glowered, then gave a mock bow, an “after you” gesture on noting her condition. The decorative pin on his high collar caught her attention as he bowed—a crescent moon shape, or perhaps a scythe, pinned over a piece of wheat. Rather like the rank insignia the Guardians wore.
“Parse, what does the pin indicate?” she whispered, grabbing his shoulder. Parse pivoted back to look and his brow furrowed, his mouth tightened.
“Don’t you know? You’ve been locked in the library too long. They call themselves Reapers.” Per‘la and Khar drew closer behind them, vigilant, Per’la’s new tail ribbon fluttering in the cross-breeze from intersecting alleyways. “Reap what was sown, and Reap thoroughly till not a gleaning or a Gleaner is left. That’s supposed to be their motto.”
She shivered. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying? How can the Monitor allow them to wear those pins as a badge of pride? Do they meet openly?”
“Better to be able to identify them than not—that’s the Monitor’s theory. And as long as they do nothing wrong, they have every right to meet.” Parse speeded up as if to outrun his thoughts. “I don’t like it either, but that’s the way it is.”
How could he act so blasé? Did everyone take the Reapers’ existence as a matter of course? Or had the world indeed changed while she did her research? As she continued on, her gaze swept over each person she passed, ceaselessly searching for more insignia, another mark of madness, ready to deny a segment of humanity its existence. After a time she managed to put it into perspective—almost—and acknowledge that there would always be those who disagreed with something. The question was whether they’d be content with simply disagreement or decide to take more decisive action. What would poor Harrap, with his Shepherd’s ways, think of all this? Tell her to love them despite their flaws? She sniffed in derision, concentrated on Parse’s forced but cheery prattle, appreciating his attempt to distract her.
She’d half allowed herself be swept along by Parse’s news but refused to let her enthusiasm get out of hand. A retired Seeker 103 years old living in the Elder Hostel and she hadn’t been aware of it. Amazing! And not claiming retired Seeker status and benefits, but living as a private citizen. Still, she’d checked the old records herself before leaving and had found Maize Bartolotti’s name and that of her ghatta An‘g. A brief four years of service before the notation of An’g’s death. “Parse, best not get too excited. At 103, we don’t know what to expect.” Possibly the woman was still alert, interacted with the present on a daily basis, but hardly likely.
Parse negotiated a broken piece of pavement, concentrating on planting his crutches. A satisfied grin flashed when he dared look up, eyes merry. “Think I’d have dragged you out of your musty, dusty library lair without checking? Though frankly, Per’la and I are convinced you need fresh air, more exercise.”
“You’re mother-henning me worse than Swan and Mahafny, and she’s a eumedico. Do this, don’t do that. It’s a perfectly natural process, and it’s not my first time, you know.” Though it had been years, another life since Briony’s birth and her subsequent death at Vesey’s childish hands. That longed-for pregnancy, that birth, had restored at least a limited confidence after her failure as a eumedico, as long as she didn’t dwell on the torment after that. A completely separate issue, a completely separate tragedy. Or w
ere there other Veseys to threaten this baby? What if hatred were like a coin: Vesey’s perverted Resonant skills on one side, and on the reverse, a Reaper capable of slaying a child who inherited Jenret’s Resonant powers?
“Firstly,” Parse chattered on, oblivious to her distant expression, the protective hand on her belly. “I checked with the Matron about Maize Bartolotti’s condition—and it’s astoundingly good. Secondly, if you’d looked at her service dates more closely, you’d have made the connection that she served as a Seeker Veritas during Magnus deWit’s final days. You know what that means, Doyce.”
She whistled. Magnus deWit and his ghatt Ru‘wah had challenged Crolius Renselinck, Seeker General at the time, and his ghatta V’row, for control of the Seekers nearly 150 years ago. Some correspondence existed from that period, material she’d given Parse to study, as well as later commentaries, written well after the fact from an historical perspective, but this, this was a chance to reach out to history, to almost touch it. Although Maize hadn’t been born when the actual incident took place, she had, perhaps, heard firsthand from deWit what had happened. Very possible, since Maize had worked in the infirmary far more often than she’d ridden circuit. Possible, if deWit hadn’t been senile by then.
“Well, at least the story’s been handed down only once,” Khar sniffed. “Not told to someone who told it to someone who told it to someone until it becomes the stuff of myth and legend, less the truth than a shadow of it.”
Per‘la chimed in, trotting into Parse’s path to attract his attention. “Remember, Ru’wah was long dead by then, not there to remind Magnus of the truth. It’s possible that after brooding on it in his own mind for years, he created his own version of the story.”
Parse halted, panting but triumphant. “True, true, but you’re forgetting my precious, that if Maize heard the story directly from Magnus deWit’s lips, likely An’g heard it as well, judged whether he lied to himself or not.” Jubilant at quelling both Doyce and the ghatti, Parse huffed on, picking up speed, reckless with anticipation.
A sunny, small courtyard, the last roses of the season climbing its low walls, beckoned them off the street. No mistaking this place: elderly residents sat on benches or lay on lounges, basking in the sun, some aware of their surroundings, others clearly not, whimpering, rocking, conversing with nonexistent visitors. Shame seethed within her as she patted the crumpled letter in her pocket. Their mother wasn’t well, Francie had written, but she couldn’t, she mustn’t be ready for a place like this. To be abandoned in these final years, infirm of body or of mind, or both. Waiting, simply waiting-for the next meal, the next activity, the next nap, or for relatives who never came. But the real visitor they were always alert for—some with happiness, some with fear-was death, the final caller.
Although not terribly common in Canderis, Elder Hostels did exist for those without close relatives or with relations unable to assume the burden of caring for an aged family member. They were, she lectured herself sternly, a necessity, not an admission of defeat. Indeed, given her sister Francie’s crippled condition, could she properly care for their mother when that day came? Given her own career as a Seeker Veritas, how could she cope, make a home for them when she so rarely was home, barely had a home of her own? The choices narrowed before her eyes, closing her in, binding her with shame. And how to make a home for the baby? Hadn’t she thought any of this through?
Throat constricted, forcing herself to focus on inanimate objects not people, she let Parse chat with the Matron as they stepped inside. The smell, faint as it was, assaulted her nostrils: disinfectants, antiseptic cleaning smells so familiar from her time as a eumedico, the heavy aroma of vased roses, pine boughs hung over doorways all lightened but couldn’t entirely dispel the other scents-urine, decaying bodies, steamed food, and most of all, the stench of hopelessness.
They traversed tiled halls, the tiles, she noticed, etched with textured waves to afford elderly, slippered feet better purchase. Not as easy to scrub and disinfect, but far safer footing. Worn but polished handrails at two different wall heights offered support and balance. There was no time for more exploration because the Matron stopped and tapped at a closed door, and Doyce wondered, hoping against hope, what awaited them inside.
A pause but no response, and the Matron tapped, louder this time but without impatience. “Miz Maize,” she spoke distinctly without raising her voice, “Don’t try hiding under the bed, it’s not the eumedico, I promise! It’s the visitors I told you about, the Seekers. Ghatti, too!”
“You’d best not be fooling me, girl! You’re a nice young thing, but you’ve stretched the truth before,” came a voice through the door. “Always promising it’s for my own good, but that’s debatable, in’it?” A scrambling noise, then the creak of a rocking chair. “Well, come in, and there’d better be ghatti. Not right to lie to an old woman, get her hopes up, her heart a-racing.”
The Matron swung the door open, and Doyce hovered on the threshold, almost loath to enter the world of the elderly, Parse peering over her shoulder. Uninhibited by her reserve, the ghatti had already glided inside, inspecting the petite figure ensconced in the rocking chair. “Oh, pretty ghatti,” Maize Bartolotti breathed. Large-knuckled hands twisted with excitement, suppressed joy as both Khar and Per‘la planted front paws on chair arms, stretching so she could reach their heads. “Sleekest tiger stripes I ever did see, such a perfect pink nose,” she crooned as she traced the markings on Khar’s head before shifting to Per’la. “And that tail ribbon, absolutely perfect. Wear it with pride, as a badge of honor, I’m thinking, am I right?” Her face gleamed with a hectic gaiety, a restrained longing. “Too much to ask, after all this time, but ... mindwalk if ye will.” And leaned back, stiff with resignation, not daring to hope.
“But of course, revered one,” Per’la purred. “Why should we hide our voices from one of our own?” Despite herself, “Do you really like the ribbon, not too gaudy, you don’t think?”
“No need for loneliness while we’re here. Your welcome was assured, why not make it known you desired companionship? You would have honored us.” Khar had jumped into the chair, straddling the frail body to avoid pressing her full weight on the woman.
“I know, I know, too prideful, mayhap. And what I once shared is long past, long done.” Bird-bright black eyes tore themselves from the ghatti to inspect her human visitors. “Well, sit, sit. Hurts my neck craning up at you like this,” and her head tilted in exaggeration. Doyce complied, sitting on the foot of the bed, hands jammed in the pockets of her overvest to wrap it around her stomach. What had possessed her to choose something pumpkin-colored? As if she needed that particular comparison! A brief moan took her mind off her lack of fashion-sense as she realized Parse was debating what to do. Lady bless, she’d forgotten his problem, hadn’t asked for days how he fared. Apparently Twylla’s salve had offered no salvation as he reluctantly hitched his hip on the cluttered nightstand beside the bed.
The black eyes regarded him, head cocked, assessing his behavior, his obvious discomfort. An embarrassed shift, a squirm, and Parse grazed a small, framed portrait. “Easy, boy, easy,” Maize rescued the tarnished silver frame. “Let me guess, let me guess. Don’t mean to be personal, like, but what is it? Boils? Bed sores? Not been up on those crutches all too long by the looks of your maneuvering. Spent too long in bed, belike?”
Parse nodded, shamefaced. “Boils, most likely allergic. I’m allergic to lots of things.”
Rummaging in the nightstand, she extracted a capped jar, squinted at the label, put it back, dug farther inside, as if excavating. The second jar pleased her. “Here, try this, this instant. Likely you’re allergic to the soap they wash the sheets in, too much disinfectant. Wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened.” Parse clutched the proffered jar. “I said now, boy, dab it on now. Hide in the comer if you’re bashful, but I doubt you’ve nothing I’ve never seen before, your friend here either, given the state she’s in.”
Struggling to
remain solemn and, worst of all, desperate not to follow Parse with her eyes as he stumped into the corner, Doyce interrupted. “I do apologize. I don’t believe we’ve offered our names, although the ghatti have introduced themselves. My red-haired friend, the pantless one,” Parse grumbled at her description, “is Parcellus Rudyard, Parse for short, and I’m Doyce Marbon.”
The rocking chair picked up speed. “Well, well, war heroes, both of ye. I read the broadside every Acht-dag when it comes out. Wait by the door to get it first, else it’s all mauled and food-stained, drool, too. Welcome, welcome, though I don’t know what brings ye here.”
Too lively, too sharp to be immured in an Elder Hostel, although she didn’t know what infirmities or ailments of old age the woman might suffer. “Haven’t you realized? She can’t walk more than a few steps at a time. Didn’t you notice the crutches by the door, the outline of braces under her dress?” Her heart thumped once in understanding, sadness. No wonder Maize empathized with Parse’s plight.
But before pity could swamp her, Maize continued indomitably. “So why visit an old lady like me? Not much use to anyone these days, I’m feared.” But her black eyes glowed, expectant, yearning, despite her disclaimers.
To Doyce’s amazement, Parse joined her on the bed, shifting his weight delicately, wondrous relief washing over his face. “Numb, blessedly cool and numb. Lady bless you! I don’t know how long the effect lasts, but it’s stupendous!”
