by Gayle Greeno
Francie clouted the table a cracking blow with her cane, deliberately swept the sugar jug and creamer to crash on the floor. Doyce and Inez stood, stunned, as Francie grabbed both canes, surged to her feet. “You are both the most stubborn people I have ever met! There’s right and wrong on both sides, but neither of you ever bother to listen to the full story. Where would you be without any wrongs to hug to you? Mayhap someday I’ll tell you, if you’d both listen and not interrupt to salve your dignity. We’re hardly poverty-stricken when we’re rich with reproaches.” She flicked a cane, sent a shattered piece of creamer skimming across the planked floor. “But our poverty or wealth of emotions isn’t what we’re supposed to be discussing right now, is it?” Her cane tapped the table leg as a reminder, Doyce involuntarily protecting her bottom as if she’d be whipped.
“Cuts right to the heart of things, doesn’t she?” Khar crept from under the table, checked to see how much the creamer had held. “No crying over spilt milk, but you can lap it up. You might consider mending things.”
Sinking into her straight-backed chair, shaking her head, Francie continued, “I believe we were discussing Davvy and why he’s here. Remember Davvy, nice little chap with brown bangs hanging in his eyes and the ability to almost look through you? Know what’s going on inside your head?”
Turning the sugar jar lid between trembling, large-knuckled fingers, Inez Marbon slumped on the bench. “Doyce, we’ve got to talk, bury some things, bring others to light. But Francie’s right, that boy ...” her lips creased in a thin, bitter line, “he’s a ... he’s one ... of them, isn’t he? A ...” the guttural sound trying to escape her lips alerted her to her mistake and she corrected herself at excruciating cost, “Resonant.”
Nodding guardedly, Doyce leaned against the wall. Not that it offered much comfort, but at least it was support, support of a kind her family seemed loath to offer.
“You haven’t given them a chance, slammed doors in their faces before you fairly opened them.”
“Why not inspect the countryside with F’een?” she hinted heavy-handedly, the ghatta’s mental converse a distraction she couldn’t afford.
“What? And leave you without a referee? Though I think Francie has the makings of a sound one.” After an ostentatiously long, deliberate—and delaying—stretch, the ghatta ambled doorward, amber eyes surveying them all, impartial. “But then who’d be present to make one of you acknowledge the truth? Actually, a formal Truth Seeking might be well advised. Of course, I’d never meddle in family matters, except that I am family ... when you remember it.”
“Oh, I remember... I remember. ” She scooped Khar up, cradled her against the ledge of her belly, and staggered to Francie, unceremoniously dumping Khar in her lap. “I believe Khar’s claiming a neutral comer with you.” Marching back to her mother she forced herself to meet her eyes, hazel eyes the twin of her own. And if her mother’s eyes now sparked with yellow-green, no doubt her own matched. “You’re right, Davvy is a Resonant. An orphan Resonant raised these past twelve years at the Research Hospice. He’s a handful, but no more so than any spoiled boy his age.”
Inez Marbon’s hands came up, not in a warding gesture, but in acquiescence. “Strange. Strange what paths our lives take. You already so burned by what... they did to you, not once but twice. But the world changes faster than I can spin with it sometimes. Bad and good in every kind of people you meet. While he’s a guest, he’s one of our own. But he’d better behave.” A smile cracked her face. “No antics! And he’d best leave the privy seat down where it belongs—haven’t worried about that since your Da died, Francie and I’ve lost the habit of checking.”
A titter of laughter, an unseemly sound, broke from Doyce, finally found voice in a full chuckle that cascaded into a helpless guffaw, mirth gone mad with memory. “Re ... remember the time you thought Da gone for the night and you came scooting out without a candle? Nearly ... fell in!”
“Should I be privy to this humor?” Khar sniffed, and Doyce began to hoot.
The three women continued laughing, holding their sides, wiping their tears, and soon other stories were shaken out of memory, dusted and polished and displayed, old and battered, frayed in spots, but still vital, still precious with love and sharing. How her days would pass here, whether she’d fall victim to the unspectacular pattern that comprised their lives, trapped in the amber of predictability, Doyce refused to judge. Wait till morning. Patterns could change. Still, she consoled herself, if I need relief, a break, I can always stay right here, yet join Matty and Kharm. A journey without boundaries within the confines of home. Home.
“Should I mention to your mother that you and Jenret haven’t married yet?”
“Doors can slam on tails as well as in faces. ” But her threat was halfhearted, best ignore the ghatta’s teasing. Yes, home: trouble, spats, arguments, hurt feelings, love, respect, humor, belonging.
Faertom tossed his head, sweat droplets flying from his hair like a dog shaking after a sudden drenching. Borrowing Towbin’s sturdy mount, he’d left Twink at camp, reluctant to subject either beast to the killing pace he planned to set. He couldn’t bear to listen to Twink’s groaning, blowing sounds, her valiant laboring to keep up as he lashed her with the reins, she who loved nothing more than a placid amble. He longed to set a breakneck pace, pounding impulses of hooves hammering away the truth that he’d been cast out. How he’d convinced Addawanna to ride he wasn’t sure, but the Erakwan woman had ruminated and—amazingly enough—selected Jenret’s black stallion Ophar as her mount, saddleless and bridleless. He’d expected her to be pitched headlong, but she stayed glued to his back, the stallion docile as a kitten. Some instinct told him she could have matched him without the horse, even beaten him to the capital if she’d so chosen.
Close enough to Gaemett—entering the outskirts but still beyond the wall, the night yawning, languishing toward dawn—that he’d risked a mindcall to Darl Allgood two kilemeters back and the lack of response gnawed at him. He’d never dared it before with Darl, especially at such distance, half-convinced the man wrapped himself under so many shields of Normality that a late-night cry for help might pass unheeded. And so far it had. Still, Darl should be most receptive at night, sleeping mind uncluttered by his problems as High Conciliator—or thrashing in nightmare terrors from them. Please, he prayed, don’t let Darl be too angry at me for this. Let him answer, not ignore me. Not someone else angry at him, abandoning him. Let him explain himself to Darl before he confronted the Monitor, told him of Jenret and the others held hostage, some willing, some less so, by the Resonants deep in the forest. Hostage to Resonant lives and the well-being of all innocent Canderisian citizens, Normal or not.
“You fool! Contacting me like that! You’d better have good reason!” As much as he’d longed for it, the belated response took him by surprise. Every muscle in his body cramped reflexively, the horse under him veering in a half-circle, pounding back the way they’d come, not because of anything the horse could see or hear, but desperately attuned to Faertom’s startlement. Addawanna kneed Ophar after him, grabbed his horse’s bridle and brought them around. The hedge rustled as Darl Allgood stepped clear, heavily muffled against the night air and to disguise himself from prying eyes. “If the Reapers find me consorting with you, I’m a marked man. Just the sort to make an example of. You’ve some safety as an avowed Resonant, but I’ve none. ”
He patted the trembling horse, sidestepping and twitchy at Allgood’s presence; its skin rippled under his hand. “Come on, there’s a woodshed back here. At least we’ll be off the road.”
“Good,” Addawanna wielded sarcasm like a knife, as if she’d actually heard their mindspeech. “Find us huddle-hidey in shed, no pretend lucky meetin on road. Much less s’picious.”
“Madam,” Darl managed with some dignity, “Reapers suspect anyone and anything, anywhere. But at least other innocent eyes won’t notice us, won’t mention our unorthodox meeting in passing as a curious incident enlivening th
eir early-morning journey. Even if Faertom and I escape notice, Erakwa in the capital are novelties.” His voice just above a whisper, he walked close to Addawanna’s knee, guiding the horse.
After a seething but brief conversation, Allgood mounted and rode like fury for the center of the capital, barely waiting to see if the others followed in his wake. Never had Faertom been passed through the gates so expeditiously, the Guardians on duty apparently taking Allgood as a safe conduct for the others, although they scrutinized Addawanna and Faertom. Shivery and breathless, he returned their stares, head held high. More than mere gatekeepers, military police dealing with human and natural disasters, the Guardians had at last become what they were truly meant to be—soldiers on active duty, transformed by their war with Marchmont and the strange, troubling times around them. Did they know what he was and scorn it, despite their duty to protect all? Or did they vaguely remember him from his other trips through as a Transitor? He could probe their minds for the answers but didn’t want confirmation either way.
Darl led them to the rear of the Monitor’s Hall and its living quarters as confidently as if it were his second home, drawn by the faint light at the windows. Elbowing a path through the crowded main kitchen, already pulsing with the day’s quota of cooks, bakers, and scullery help, he escorted them into a smaller side kitchen, intimate and inviting, that reminded Faertom all too much of his mother’s kitchen at home. His nose began to leak—the sudden heat after the cold, he told himself. The Monitor, fully dressed, and his wife, Marie, still in her robe, sat comfortably at the table, sipping cha.
Marie took one discreet but assessing look at them as they piled in silently, unannounced, poured additional mugs of cha and then left, kissing van Beieven on the top of his head.
Allgood filled in the Monitor as succinctly as possible and van Beieven’s voice rasped early-morning hoarse, untested. “Hostage? Damn Wycherley for his stupidity!”
Faertom broke in. “He didn’t mean to get taken hostage, sir!”
“A regular little stormy petrel, aren’t you, Thomas, flapping here to bring me bad news, bad luck again?” Faertom’s big knuckles cracked as he clutched the mug, stung by the unfairness. “And the rest of them, voluntarily allying themselves to give the Resonants more leverage! Pleased at least you,” he nodded in Addawanna’s direction, “had enough sense not to be a party to this.”
“Erakwa don’ make good hostages—no hold if don’ wanna. So whad you gonna do?” she asked in return. “Send Guardians play hidey-seeky in woods, steal Jenret back? Or do somet’ing stop peoples bein’ hurt?”
“I don’t see how the blazes I can offer reassurances that no one, Resonants or Normals alike, will be hurt! Across all Canderis? Can you?” Mulishly aggrieved, he half-thrust himself across the table at Addawanna. “Well? Can you?”
“Neber easy makin liddle man big man, charge of all. Try grow big fast, support od‘ers, od’ers fergit support him.”
“Support?—ha!” The Monitor pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes as if to press his brains inside, gave a barked laugh without humor. “I know one job Resonants can have, if any are foolish enough to want it! I’d go back home in a flash!”
Was the Monitor serious about resigning? Who’d govern in his place—one of the High Conciliators? And if so, why not Allgood? Darl would know what to do! Faertom eagerly watched Darl Allgood’s reaction from the corner of his eye, distrustful of attempting mindspeech given Addawanna’s uncanny ability to sense what they’d said earlier. Was she one of them as well? But her power and endurance seemed bonded to the very earth itself, not a connection mind to mind. Nothing was certain anymore, not when his own kind spurned him, not when kin became enemies. He breathed hope on his original thought, burnished it in his heart until it shone—if Allgood were to become Monitor....
Hands folded in an almost prayerful attitude on the table, Allgood addressed the Erakwan woman. “Put a minority in charge and they’re still the minority. Gives the majority an even greater reason to rise against them.”
“Phah! You bein’ mi-nor‘ty, too. Common sense always mi-nor’ty.” Done slicing bread, Addawanna began spearing rashers of bacon between the slices, each stab viciously precise to Faertom’s nervous view. “T‘inking od ways so hard, can’t t’ink new. Bedder be t‘inking.” She took a bite of the sandwich, chewing ravenously. “While you t’inking, Addawanna goin, findin way of savin Wycherley ... mostly from himself.” With that she marched out, sandwich still in hand, leaving the three remaining nonplussed, enmeshed in a dilemma of rising proportions.
Follow her—or stay? Faertom struggled like a fly caught in a spider web, unsure what to do, but trapped all the same. Darl’s sickly color told him the High Conciliator felt equally trapped, but at least he retained hidden options, unpalatable as they might be. But Darl would never act on them, he realized with a sinking sensation, would never spring the trap to free himself. Well, he had options, too. The world might feel very empty, but it was up to Faertom to carve a place for himself in it, even if it did turn out he’d dug his own grave. Now, could he catch up with Addawanna?
Gaily caparisoned horses, five carriages, and ten supply wagons, all loaded or nearly loaded, crammed the castle courtyard. Ezequiel Dunay counted under his breath, pencil tickling the air as he tallied the conveyances. Too bad it wasn’t a magic wand—no under-counts or double-counts then. If his list weren’t accurate, his grandfather, the chamberlain, would have his head. Simple enough to account for horses and wagons, the supplies being loaded, but checking off the people accompanying the king’s royal progress from Marchmont to Canderis made for a nightmare of milling confusion. No one held still! Without looking, Ezequiel reached just above his knee and gave his hose a surreptitious tug to smooth some of the wrinkles. Mayhap if he didn’t look so disheveled, he wouldn’t act it either, could make sense out of swarming activity. As impossible as counting bees in a hive!
Easy to spot the neat ranks of Muscadeine’s hundred soldiers hand-picked to accompany the royal entourage, aligned on each side of the gates, ready to fall in in advance and behind the party when they departed. Furled banners would fly free, boldly colored standards announcing the king and his courtiers as they traveled. Well, the soldiers weren’t his to worry about, other than checking off their presence en masse. But the rest, oh, the rest! Had he the eight ever-welcoming arms of the Blessed Lady, it still wouldn’t be enough! His grandfather, Ignacio Lauzon, had charged him with supplying the royal party, provisioning every man, woman, child, soldier, and beast on the trip. If anything were wrong, incomplete, missing, Ignacio would discover it, be forced to improvise alterations, compensations for his grandson’s mistakes. And Ezequiel would live in dread suspense, wouldn’t find out until later, because Ignacio would accompany King Eadwin and Arras Muscadeine and all the rest on the grand tour, not him. No, he had to stay here, tend the castle, ensure that Fabienne, the King’s mother, wanted for nothing as temporary regent, support her actions in the king’s absence and the absence of a goodly number of his most loyal supporters. Important—yes. Crucial, even. But hardly thrilling. Who else but he could court trouble at both ends—home and abroad?
He tried again, crossing off names against his master list as he spotted familiar faces. Except, once verified as present, he couldn’t guarantee the person wouldn’t disappear on some personal errand, wander off to retrieve something forgotten and judged too crucial to leave behind. What might be left behind instead was that particular person. His head whirled, ached from the strain, and he heartily wished he could tie everyone up once they’d been counted.
“Wouldn’t do, you know,” a voice sang out behind him, but he was already turning, alerted by the melodious chiming and chinking of bracelets, a multitude of narrow bangles rattling up and down each arm of ... he concentrated, hoping one hand was visible. Dwyna! Yes, Dwyna Bannerjee, emerald flashing on her right hand, while her identical twin, Wyn, wore hers on the left.
“Could you give them an in
credible urge to sit in the carriages, or mount up and stand ready once I’ve counted them off?” A forlorn hope, but he knew the answer, respected why she wouldn’t employ coercive measures unless it were a crucial necessity. Resonants never toyed with minds needlessly—or heedlessly. He hurried on without waiting, “I didn’t realize you were going.”
A rueful grin sparked the turquoise eyes, so at odds with that dark complexion and the midnight black hair in a braid down her back. “Wyn threw a tantrum. Insisted I was the silly, sociable one, so I should go instead of her. Said I should represent the Public half of our office while she remained to attend to people’s Weal.” The twins were Resonant eumedicos who jointly shared the Ministration post of Public Weal Lord, responsible for people’s health and well-being.
It didn’t seem fair that he and his grandfather, who hated the whole outlandish idea of the tour, couldn’t trade places as easily as the Bannerjees had. Dwyna peered over his shoulder, ran a finger under two more names on the list, then pointed. “Over there, on the shaded side. Now don’t think they’ve gone missing, because they plan to go talk with Valeria Condorcet and her daughters. You’ve already counted them.” So, no coercion, but a tad of forewarning from Dwyna Bannerjee.
Obedient, he touched pencil to list again, let the pencil point scribe the air as he searched for others. A party of fifty, including the King and Arras Muscadeine, plus other highly placed officials and important citizens, even a few with families, and at least half of them Resonants. Show the Canderisian citizenry firsthand that Resonants weren’t ravening two-headed monsters, the careful inclusion of families’ reassurance they were harmless, with normal family lives and relationships, just as everyone else had. He hoped it worked. Hard to believe even his own meager Resonant skills would arouse suspicion in Canderis. But then, hadn’t he and his own been taught to reflexively distrust and avoid outsiders to keep the secret of their Resonant skills secure from Canderis? Both seemed equally outmoded ideas now. Why deny, ignore, constrain anyone with superior abilities? Like insisting that musical talent should be concealed, not nurtured and trained into a great singing voice or instrumental skill.
