In High Places

by Harry Turtledove

  She did the best she could to ask in Emishtar's language. When she ran out of words, she used Arabic. They had to go back and forth several times before Emishtar caught on. "Ah!" she said. "Yes, we have. We do. But we do only with men. In your country, with women, too?"

  "Yes," Annette said. "We call them actresses." She used the Arabic word. "The men who do it are actors."

  Emishtar taught her the word for actor in that other Semitic language. It sounded nothing like the one in Arabic. The two tongues had plainly got them from different places. The languages were cousins, which helped Annette learn bits and pieces of the other one, but they weren't close cousins.

  A guard strode towards Annette and Emishtar. They both started weeding and pruning harder. The guard tramped on past them. They breathed sighs of relief.

  One of the blond women was weeding not far away. She'd been out in the sun too long. Even though it was autumn, she'd got burned. One of Annette's friends back in Ohio had what she called phosphorescent Irish skin. This woman was like that— she would burn if the sun looked at her sideways.

  She must have sensed Annette's eye on her. She looked across the onions and leeks and garlic and managed a weary smile. She brushed her filthy hair back from her face with a dirty hand. Sweat ran down her cheek. She said something in her musical language.

  However musical it was, it didn't mean anything to Annette. "I'm sorry, but I don't understand," she said in Arabic.

  The blond woman made a face. She said something else. Annette also couldn't follow that. It was probably something like, / don't know what you're talking about, either. The blond woman tried to smooth back her hair again. With a wry shrug, she gave up—it was hopeless.

  She spoke again. It must have made her feel better, even if Annette and Emishtar didn't understand. She was halfway between the two of them in age, which put her at the end of her twenties. Annette thought the master had summoned her once or twice. If he had, it didn't seem to have ruined her, the way it had some women. People were all different, and took things different ways.

  She's one of the lucky ones, Annette thought. Then she laughed at herself. Had the blond woman been lucky, she would still have been living in her own alternate. She wouldn't have been a slave—or maybe she would have. Maybe the slavers from the home timeline bought her the same way they'd bought Annette.

  Annette wondered if she would ever know. To find out, either she would have to learn some of that language that sounded like Erse or she would have to teach the blond woman some Arabic, or maybe some French. She tried not to groan. Another new language to learn without an implant? How would she keep this one and Emishtar's from bumping together in her head?

  "Work!" a guard shouted—luckily, not at her. She worked faster anyway. She had more than languages to worry about.

  "Oh, them," Jacques said. "Yes, I think they were slaves before. I'm pretty sure, in fact."

  For the first time ever, he thought he'd really impressed Khadija. "How do you know?" she demanded.

  "Well, it sounds like that's what Dumnorix is saying," Jacques answered.

  Her eyes widened. "You can understand him?"

  He held his thumb and forefinger close together. "About that much. The language he speaks, it's kind of like Breton. If I knew more Breton, I'd be in good shape, but mostly I just cuss in it a little." He said something.

  "What's that?" Khadija asked.

  "Well, in French it'd be sacrée merde" he said.

  She giggled. "Oh. All right. I understand that. But you can talk with this what's-his-name a little bit? Breton!" She shook her head in amazement. "I suppose I shouldn't be that surprised. I thought it reminded me of the Irish language, but I don't speak Erse."

  "You mean there are things you can't do?" Jacques wasn't sure whether he was being sarcastic or he really meant it. "Who would have imagined such a thing?"

  Khadija turned away from him, there in the courtyard. He thought she was joking till he saw her shoulders shake. "That's not funny," she said in a strange, muffled voice.

  Was she crying? That wasn't what he'd meant to do. He set a hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said.

  Angrily, she shook off the hand. He remembered how the raiders who'd captured them said she'd thrown men around till somebody knocked her cold. If even a quarter of that was true, he was lucky not to go flying himself. She said, "If I could do everything the way you think I can, would I be here?"

  He had no answer for that. He didn't think anyone would have. He did his best: "I said I was sorry." Now—would she believe him or would she stay angry?

  "All right," she said, but it didn't sound all right. Sure enough, she went on, "I must be in worse shape than I thought if what you say matters so much to me."

  "What you say matters to me, too," Jacques said. "We're the only two people who speak French." He paused to think. "Do they even speak French in the Kingdom of Versailles here?"

  "I wouldn't bet on it," Khadija answered. "I wouldn't bet there is a Kingdom of Versailles here."

  Jacques nodded. The idea made sense to him, however much he wished it didn't. "That makes you my oldest friend," he said seriously. "That makes you my only friend who remembers my kingdom. I really am sorry, Khadija. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. You know so much—can you wonder when I think you know everything there is to know?"

  "Well, I don't." Her voice was tart. "I didn't know this place was here, for instance. I didn't know my own people were running it. And I can't figure out how to get away, either. They watch the way to the chamber down below too well for anybody to sneak by." She stared down at the ground. "Knowing all the things I can't do is one of the reasons I got so mad at you."

  "I know. I feel bad. I shouldn't have said that." Jacques paused, listening to her words over again. "One of the reasons? There are others?"

  "There are others," Khadija agreed. "You're my oldest friend here, too, you know. It's easy for somebody like that to hurt your feelings, even if he doesn't mean to."

  "Yes, I suppose so." Jacques knew Khadija could hurt his feelings. She hadn't tried, but then, he hadn't been trying with her, either. "Here. Maybe this will make things better." He kissed her on the cheek.

  She looked so surprised, he wondered again if he was going to go flying. Then she managed a sort of a smile, even if only one corner of her mouth twisted up. "Maybe it makes things better. Maybe it makes them worse, too."

  "I—" Jacques began.

  Khadija held up a hand and cut him off. "Whatever you're going to say, you'd probably be smarter not to. Maybe the time will come when we can talk about things like that. If it does, we'll both know it, I think. It's not here yet."

  Jacques thought it was. But if Khadija didn't, who cared what he thought? Things like that, as she'd put it, took two. If only one was ready, what did you have? A disappointment, that was all. "Well, you know how I feel," he said.

  This time, she managed a real smile. "Thank you. It's always a compliment. But. . . here? It's not a good idea, Jacques. If we knew we could never get away—then, maybe, we'd have to make the best of things."

  "I never thought I'd find a reason to want to go on being a slave," Jacques said.

  Khadija turned away from him again. "Don't be stupid," she snapped. "No reason in the world is good enough to make you want to stay a slave."

  Looked at one way, she was right. Looked at another . . . But if he looked at things like that, he would make her angry at him, which was the last thing he wanted. And he did want to get away. E he stayed here too long, he was liable to try to get a guard's musket away from him. But even if he did, so what? Even if he killed all the guards and set himself up as king here, so what? He'd be King of Nowhere.

  Seeing that made him nod. "Well, when you're right, you're right."

  "Oh, good." Khadija sounded relieved. "I'm glad you can be sensible."

  "I can be tired, is what I can be," Jacques answered.

  She yawned. "So can I. They work us hard. It's how they hav
e part of their fun." She walked back toward the women's barracks, leaving Jacques scratching his head. He'd never thought much about people who had fun being cruel to other people. But if you had a good time shooting enemies who didn't have muskets of their own, why wouldn't you have fun working your slaves hard and watching them sweat?

  On that cheerful note, Jacques headed for bed himself.

  Emishtar had trouble saying Jacques' name, but not keeping her eyes open. They sparkled as she said, "He kiss you." She smacked her lips together so Annette wouldn't doubt what she meant. "Last night, he kiss you."

  "Not like that," Annette said.

  "No?" Her older friend sounded disappointed. "Too bad."

  "Just a little one." Annette held her thumb and first finger so they almost touched. "Little."

  "Too bad," Emishtar said again. She pulled up a weed by the roots. "What you got better to do?"

  Get out of here, Annette thought. But Emishtar wouldn't believe that. Emishtar thought they were stuck in this alternate forever. Given what she knew, how could she think anything else? Annette didn't think so, but none of what she knew would make sense to Emishtar. Most of it didn't make sense to Jacques, and he came from a much higher-tech alternate than Emishtar did.

  "It wouldn't be a good idea," was all Annette could come up with.

  Emishtar rolled her eyes and went back to pulling weeds. She didn't say what she thought, but every line of her body shouted, Fool! at Annette. Had Annette come from her alternate, or from Jacques', Emishtar would have been right. A little happiness mixed in with the misery of being a slave would have been the most she could hope for.

  But she was what she was, and she still had real hope. Sometimes she wondered why. This operation was slick, no two ways about it. The people who ran things here didn't slip up.

  The blond woman who'd tried to talk with Annette was working not far away. Annette had found out the woman's name was Birigida, or something like that. She'd managed to get across that her own name was Khadija, which the blond woman had a devil of a time pronouncing. They hadn't gone much past that. The languages they used were too different from each other.

  A guard yelled at Birigida. She was one of those people who did as little as they could to get by. All slaves did as little as they could, but Birigida did as little as she could even for a slave. She sped up a little when he shouted, but only a tiny bit. And she slowed down again as soon as he turned his back.

  That was too soon. The guard might have been a jackass, but he wasn't a stupid jackass. He spun around to see if he could catch her goofing off. When he did, he pulled out his billy club and whacked her across the backside.

  She yelped and jerked. The guard did some more shouting. He shook the billy club in her face. If you don't work harder, you'll get more! Annette didn't need to understand a word of the language to know what was going on.

  Did Birigida get it? Annette wouldn't have bet a dollar on it, and the little aluminum coins were as near worthless as made no difference. Some people just wouldn't make an effort, even if they got in trouble for not making one. Annette had no idea why that was so, but she'd seen it was. She'd known half a dozen smart people in high school who either weren't going to college at all or weren't going to the one they wanted because they hadn't cared about their grades.

  Some of them would find something that interested them and do all right anyway. Some . . . wouldn't. Birigida didn't have the choice. Nothing could make gardening and weeding interesting. But not getting whacked in the fanny should have been reason enough for her to keep her mind on her work.

  The women around Birigida worked harder and faster—the guard would be keeping an eye on them, too. Annette knew she did more than she would have otherwise. She scowled at the blond woman for making her speed up.

  No, Birigida didn't get it. Nothing under the sun could make her work harder than she felt like working. The guard yelled at her again. That didn't do much. Then he hit her again. She yelped louder this time—he must have hit harder. She started to cry. He shouted again, and waved his hands. What do you expect? Didn't I warn you? Again, Annette could follow along.

  "That one trouble for everybody." Emishtar nodded toward Birigida.

  "Well—yes," Annette agreed.

  "One of her people should make her work," Emishtar said.

  "Yes," Annette said again. "But they do not talk with her much." She'd noticed that before. Birigida spoke the same language as the other blondes and redheads, but she didn't seem to have a lot to do with them.

  "Different clan," Emishtar guessed.

  "Maybe," Annette said. "But how much difference does it make here?"

  Emishtar shrugged. "How much? As much as anybody wants it to make."

  She was bound to be right about that. If Birigida's clan or tribe was enemy to the one the rest of the new women came from, they might not want anything to do with her. But why—why!— couldn't she work enough to stay out of trouble?

  Nine

  Dumnorix looked at the musket in one guard's hands. "Strong magic," he said. "Strong, strong, strong." He bent his arm and made his biceps stand up to show what he meant. "It goes bang! here. Over there, a man falls dead." Like most men who'd been in battle, he could do a good impression of a dead man.

  "Not magic." Jacques fumbled for words, using the bits of Breton he knew and the even smaller bits of the language that sounded like it he'd learned from the redhead. "/Vo£ magic," he repeated. "Knowing how. Like sword. Like shovel." He hefted the one he was carrying.

  Dumnorix tapped the side of his head with a forefinger. He spun the finger by his ear. He said, "You're crazy," just in case Jacques missed the point.

  Jacques made the sign of the wheel over his own breast. "By Jesus and Henri, I swear this is true," he said. Dumnorix only shrugged. He knew nothing of Jesus and Henri. The other slaves who'd come here with Jacques knew who God's Sons were, but they didn't follow them. Jacques had heard the guards use Jesus' name, but never Henri's. I'm the only true Christian here, he thought.

  "Knowing how? Art? Skill?" As Dumnorix spoke, his pick dug into the ground. He'd wasted no time learning to do enough to keep the guards from giving him too hard a time. Did that mean his people kept slaves, so he knew from the other end how much work he needed to do and how little he could get away with? Jacques wouldn't have been surprised. Dumnorix asked, "How?"

  Before Jacques answered, he loaded a couple of shovelfuls of dirt into a basket by his feet. A guard walking along next to the trench kept on walking. Jacques had learned how much he could get away with, too. Once the guard was gone, he stooped and picked up a little clod of dirt and ground it to powder between his thumb and forefinger. He pointed to the powder with his other forefinger and said, "Word is?"

  "Powder," Dumnorix answered in his language. Jacques hoped that was what the answer meant, anyhow. He'd guessed wrong a couple of times. Sooner or later, though, you sorted things out.

  "Powder," he echoed now. Dumnorix corrected his pronunciation. He tried again. The older man nodded. "Is special powder in muskets," Jacques went on. Muskets was a word Dumnorix had had to learn, because his language had no term for firearms. "Powder burns. Burning pushes out bullet." That was another French word. "Bullet flies fast, like arrow. Hits, kills."

  "Huh," Dumnorix said. That might have meant anything. The redheaded man did some more work—another guard's eye was on him. Jacques shoveled some dirt. The slave with the basket—a man who spoke the sneezing language Jacques couldn't understand at all—heaved it up out of the trench at the end of the roadway.

  The guard nodded. As long as the slaves looked busy enough, the men in the mottled clothes didn't give them too hard a time. More often than not, they weren't mean to the slaves just for the sake of being mean. They saved a lot of that for the locals.

  Jacques remembered the horseman coming back with his necklace of ears.

  Once the guard turned away, Dumnorix and Jacques and the slave with the basket slacked off again. "Powde
r, eh?" Dumnorix said. "What kind of powder?"

  Jacques knew: sulfur and charcoal and saltpeter. He didn't know how to say any of them, except in French. He thought he might have been able to get the idea of charcoal across in Arabic, but that didn't do Dumnorix any good. "Not enough words," he answered—a phrase he used more often than he wanted to.

  Dumnorix scowled. "Maybe you don't know enough words," he said. "But maybe you're making this up, too."

  "Liar? You say liar?" Jacques let his shovel fall to the dirt. "You say liar?" He set himself and waited to see what happened next.

  The blond and redheaded men who spoke Dumnorix's language understood what was going on. The rest of the road gang needed a little longer to figure it out, but not much. They'd all been around fights and the things that led up to fights. People started to gather around Jacques and Dumnorix. The guards gathered to watch, too. The men with the muskets didn't mind if slaves fought, as long as they didn't damage each other too badly. Sometimes the guards bet on who would win. It was fun for them. Why not? They weren't getting hit.

  Dumnorix let his pick fall, too. But he didn't wade into Jacques. He was smaller, but had broad shoulders and thick arms. Scars on those arms said he'd done his share of fighting, maybe more than his share.

  He waited to see if Jacques would charge him once they'd both put down the tools that could turn a fight into a killing match in a hurry. When Jacques didn't, Dumnorix nodded to himself. "No, I do not say you are a liar," he answered. "Maybe you don't know enough words. I said that, too. All right?" His posture said they would fight if it wasn't all right.

  But Jacques also nodded. "Good enough." He held out his hand. Dumnorix didn't clasp it the way a man from the Kingdom of Versailles would have. Instead, his hand closed on Jacques' wrist. Jacques' hand took the redhead's wrist the same way. They let go of each other and stepped back.