The Awakeners - Northshore & Southshore

by Sheri S. Tepper

  "Of such small duties is the solidarity of the Noor built," he remarked to himself, remembering something similar his father had once said. "Of our concern for those who travel after us comes our unity as a people."

  He trotted down the hill, head swinging to and fro in its search for the mud grave. His tribe had not been this way in several years. He could have forgotten where it was - no. No. He had not forgotten. It stood in a slight declivity, the sculptured face looking toward him. Rain, though infrequent, did come upon the steppes from time to time. It had washed the mud face, leaving it bland, almost featureless. In a way that was a good sign, for when the mud grave fell to dust, the spirit would move on. Some were ready to go on in only a year or two. Others so longed for their lives and kin that they stayed in the mud graves for many years, even a lifetime. This grave was neither very old nor very young.

  "Father... " He bowed, pouring the sammath wine onto the thirsty clay that covered the bones. "I have brought you drink. And news. The tribe has been chosen by Queen Fibji to take part in her great plan. We go now to her tents, all of us. Your friend Mejordu is still well, though he tires sometimes after a long day, and he asks to be remembered to you." He had several anecdotes about Mejordu to share, for the man had always been clownish and amusing. After this he was still for a moment, trying to recall the last bit of news. Oh, yes. "Your grandson Taj Noteen has led a group of Melancholies south to net shore-fish for the Queen."

  He fell silent then, thinking he had heard cries from the camp. Well. Whether or not, it was time to be getting back.

  "I take my leave, Father. I will visit you when we next come by this way." He bowed again and turned back toward the camp, not trotting now but running, for he did hear cries, screams.

  Before reaching the crest of the hill, he dropped to his belly and writhed upward to peer over it.

  Glittering figures moved among the tents of the Noor. Jondarites! Shiny fish-skin helms plumed with flame-bird feathers sparkled over the huddled people of Mumros' tribe. He wriggled forward, serpent-like in the sparse grass, down the hill into a slanting gully. Over the cries of his people he heard the voice of the Jondarite captain.

  "Women and children here. Men over there. All boys over ten with the men. Boys under ten with the women, Speed it up there, move! Move!"

  Mumros risked raising his head. The men were herded together at one side of the camp. The women were all in the center, near the fires, surrounded by the Jondarite soldiers. Suddenly, without a word of command, the soldiers began slaughtering the women and children. All at once. Quickly. Like fishermen clubbing fish, they struck them down. Like stilt-lizard beaks, swords dipped in and out, emerged dripping, plunged in again.

  The men of the tribe tried to break loose, but they had been tied. Over his own howling blood, Mumros heard their voices, crying names:

  "Onji, beloved!"

  "Creedi, Bowro, children-, ah!"

  "Girir, oh, Girir!"

  Then the voice of the captain once more.

  "You men are to be taken as slaves to the mines. You will be roped together and marched there. Before we go, you are to look at the bodies, closely. Make sure all are dead. We have had men try to escape in the past to get back to their families. We want you to be very sure you have no families to come back to."

  Mumros dropped his head into the grass. He could not move. There was bile in his mouth, an agony in his head. He wanted to kill but had nothing to kill with. He was one and they were many. He could go to them, but what good would it do? They would only take him with the others.

  So he lay, not moving, while the chain of roped captives was led away into the distance. When they had gone, he went into the camp. The captain had been right. None of those who had been taken away had anyone left to return to.

  He lit three fires, spread them with damp bog-bottom, tended them while the smoke rose in pillars in the still air. By noon the first helper arrived. By nightfall there were several more. After several days there were many, and where the camp had been now stood the mud graves of the women, those of the children clustered at their knees.

  "Come," said one of the helpers to Mumros. "There is nothing more you can do here. Join us."

  "I know I can do nothing here," said Mumros. "But I will not come with you. I must go and tell of this thing to Queen Fibji." And he turned his face from the cluster of graves to begin the long march.

  19

  In Thou-ne, Haranjus Pandel had been expecting a visitor for over two years, since the day he had sent a signal to the Chancery announcing the finding of an image in the River and the elevation of that image in the Temple. As a matter of policy, the existence of the signal towers - or, rather, of their purpose, since the existence could not be concealed - was kept from the general populace. No one except Haranjus Pandel knew of the message he had sent or that it was possible to send a message at all. Thus, no one knew the eventual visitor had come in response to that message. The whole township saw the boat, of course, and the Chancery man getting off it, but it was all very casual.

  Bostle Kerf was his full name, a Section Chief in the Bureau of Towers, sent south in all haste through the pass, thence quickly west, and then south again to arrive after a year's travel in Thou-ne after a short detour to Zendigt, two towns east. His arrival from the east would evoke less concern, he had been told, than if he had appeared suddenly, coming down from the north like a migrating Noor. It was necessary to come to Thou-ne. It was not necessary to cause more talk than had already occurred. Gendra Mitiar had been clear about that. Once safely ensconced in the Tower, Kerf had a long, troubled conversation with Haranjus Pandel.

  "How did you allow this to happen, Pandel? Her Reverence is in a fury over it, I'll tell you. Bad enough to have no workers in Thou-ne, without having a miracle here as well."

  The Superior nodded, sweating a little. He had never aspired to the Payment. Indeed, he had never aspired to be Supervisor of a Tower, but then, no one with aspirations would have taken the job in Thou-ne. The mountains to the east prevented any traffic from the next township that way. This meant there was little enough need for Awakeners in Thou-ne, and little enough to do for the few there were. The Tower was small, cramped, and needed only one recruit every decade or so. Since there were no workers, there was no fieldwork, road or jetty building. All the Tower really had to see to was the transport of Thou-ne's dead to the worker pit in Alter, next town west, and since Thou-ne itself was small, there was little work in that. Haranjus had been content to be what he was, letting happen what happened, and in general the people of Thou-ne had approved his stewardship. Now he sweated more than a little, wondering if he was to be blamed for what had happened despite his innocence.

  "I wouldn't call it a miracle," he said now, not wanting to contradict the Section Chief but unwilling to be blamed for more than was just. "It's only some image from old times, floated up on the River, that's all."

  "It shines, man. I went to the Temple. I saw it for myself. It's all wet, and it shines." "Well, there's that, yes. But dead fish often do that, and mulluk shells."

  "She shines and smiles," Kerf went on, not listening. "And holds out her hand. More attractive than the moon faces, I'll tell you."

  "Oh, well, now, Your Honor, but nobody's suggested the thing's a god! No. I wouldn't have tolerated that for a minute. No. No heresy here. All they've said is the thing is an image of... well, of the Bearer of Truth."

  "And what's that? Not a goddess? You're sure?"

  "Well, nobody's said it's a goddess. I shouldn't think anyone believes so unless they've said... "

  "If they haven't so far, depend on it they will soon."

  "Well, if they do, I'll just have to pick up a few, that's all. Pass around a few Tears. Settle things down."

  "Why haven't you settled things down already?"

  Haranjus shrugged, a bit uncomfortably. Why hadn't he? "Well, because if I did, you know, they'd think there was something in it. Something important. Something the Tow
er needed to defend against. If I let it be, it's a wonder for a few years, and it brings some curious travelers to spend their money here in Thou-ne - which won't hurt, Your Honor. Potipur knows we're poor enough. And it will blow over. When it does, let enough time pass for them all to forget it, then take the thing and burn it, shine or no shine."

  Bostle Kerf was no fool. He liked having his own way but wouldn't push it to the point of causing trouble. Here, he felt, the local man had the right of it. Don't fuss it. Don't make a racket. Let it die, as it would, of its own accord, without drawing more attention to it.

  "How long since it was found?"

  "Two and a half years. Maybe closer to three. I signaled the Chancery the very night of the day it happened."

  As he had, sweating away at the handles of the signal light, clickety-clacking the coded message across all those miles to the nearest signal tower, first time he'd ever done it; first time he'd ever had anything to report. And it had taken over a year for the Chancery to decide it wanted to investigate, so why all this uproar now?

  Well, thought Kerf, Haranjus was probably right. Let it alone. For now. He snarled a little, letting the local man know he was being watched. No harm in that. Keep him on his toes. When it was dark, they went to the signal room, polished the mirror and lighted the lantern while Kerf worked the shutters. He did it a good deal faster than Haranjus had done, but then, he'd had more practice.

  "Reported image of local interest only," he signaled. "Thou-ne Tower recommends allowing interest to die of its own accord. Kerf in agreement. Returning to the Chancery."

  All that travel for nothing, Kerf thought. Not even any good food in Thou-ne. And certainly none in the lands of the steppe people, going back. Noor bread always tasted of ashes, and no one but a steppey could pretend to enjoy roasted roots. Besides, Noor hated Chancery men. Only his escort of heavily armed Jondarites guaranteed passage and food at all. Though they hadn't seen many steppeys, come to that. Fewer than he'd thought they would. Perhaps they were traveling, east or west of the route Kerf had taken.

  He shrugged, setting those thoughts aside as he bullied Haranjus a bit more before leaving. It had taken him a year and a half to get to Thou-ne. It would take that long at least going back. In his eagerness to leave, he did not ask the local man if devotion to the image had increased or decreased since shortly after it was found. Haranjus had very carefully not mentioned that subject. Bostle Kerf was able, therefore, to leave Thou-ne in good conscience.

  Three days after Bostle Kerf left Thou-ne, the Gift of Potipur arrived there with a boatload of Melancholies who intended to disembark in Thou-ne and begin the trek north to their home country. Pamra was also on the ship. She came ashore in Thou-ne. By that time, however, it was too late to summon the Chancery man back again.

  20

  The Queen of the Noor sat upon her carved throne, legs neatly aligned in their tall fish skin boots, eyes forward, feathered scepter in hand, dying a little more as each delegation from an outlying tribe made its appeals, thankful for the protocol that insisted upon an expressionless face. As a young Queen she had rebelled against the requirement; as an old one she realized its necessity. Had it not been for protocol she would have wept, screamed, howled in frustration, anger, and pity.

  Now the last of the delegations was on his knees before her. One lonely man.

  "They came on us before dawn, Highness," said the lonely man in an emotionless voice. "Most of the camp was still asleep when I left. When I heard the cries, I came back. They rounded up the women and children, even the babies, and killed them while the men were forced to watch. After the killing, they let the men see the bodies just to be sure all the women and children were dead." He went on in that same dead voice, describing the scene, the cries. "The Jondarite captain told them they had no families to return to," the man said at last, falling silent. He knelt before her, eyes on the floor, as though he expected nothing from her at all, as though he expected nothing from anyone.

  Fibji had bitten her tongue in the need not to speak. Strenge had spoken for her, as he usually did, knowing what was in her heart.

  "How did you escape?"

  "I had gone out before dawn to visit the mud grave of my father, to leave offerings to his spirit. I was returning when the Jondarites came. I hid, watching from the hill. I should have been taken with the others, but I could have changed nothing, and someone needed to tell you, Highness."

  Fibji had recently spent some time at the Chancery, going there under a banner of truce, appealing to the Protector of Man, attempting to get something from the Council of Seven, a treaty, an understanding, anything that would stop the taking of slaves and the mindless killing. She had not even seen the Protector. The council had refused to consider her request. She had failed in every effort, all the time afire to get home. Now she regretted being here. At the Chancery there might be something more she could do; there was nothing here. She could do nothing here except listen to the endless tales of slaughter and rapine, endless pleas for action against the Jondarite tax collectors and slavers and murderers, pleas that received a sympathetic hearing and no action at all.

  "Because they have me," she told herself. "That damned general has us all, like birds caught in a net." General Jondrigar would not mind if all the Noor were dead. He welcomed those times when the young men of the Noor rebelled against her to wage war against him, for then he could kill them more quickly. He welcomed uprisings, for then he could mount a major assault. Their only hope lay in not provoking him to a major effort, not until the plan could be put into effect. Then... well, then they would either live or die, but they would not go on as victims.

  If the young men would hold their peace. If they could move onward with the plan. If she could have seen the Protector.

  Oh, surely, surely Lees Obol would have listened. Surely the Protector of Man would not consider the Noor unworthy of his protection. Were Noor not men? But she had not seen the Protector. Only Maintainer of the Household Shavian Bossit, who had put her through half a dozen inconclusive and frustrating sessions.

  "Have you seen Jondarites take your people slaves?" he had asked half a hundred times. "Have you seen it?"

  No, she had not seen it. Had not seen the slavers come, had not seen the tax collectors come, had not seen the murderers come, had only heard about it afterward, from the survivors, when there were any. "Take me to your metal mines, Lord Maintainer. Let me identify the slaves there. They are my people."

  "Tsk. Your Highness is misinformed. We have no slaves in our mines. Only bondsmen from Northshore. As for those who took your people, how do you know they were Jondarites? Rebel townsmen, perhaps, in Jondarite dress? I'm sure that's who it was. Apply to the Supervisor of the Tower of whatever town they are from, Queen Fibji."

  As well apply to the moons, she thought viciously. There were no rebel townsmen, only Jondarites, Jondarites who kept the depredations remote from the Queen's tents and thus could not be directly accused by the Queen.

  "We will accept without question anything Your Highness has seen personally," said Bossit, smiling, always smiling, dripping politeness and courtesy as a rotten fruit drips juice. "In accordance with the treaty the Chancery has always had with the Moor," he said, showing his tiny teeth, a curve of threatening ivory, like a knife.

  In accordance with the treaty! A treaty, made generations before, in an untrusting age when the Noor King had feared anyone speaking in his name and would speak only for himself. Used against them now to prevent her speaking. If she camped north of Thou-ne, the Jondarites struck above Vobil-dil-go. If she went to the lands above Vobil-dil-go, the Jondarites would take captives above Shfor. Wherever the Noor moved upon the open steppes, the Jondarites could find them. There was no stone, no tree, to hide behind. There were no chasms, no caves. There was only the steppe, open to the sky, and the tethered balloons of the Jondarite spies, who would see their quarry from miles away. And she, Fibji, would see the pain of the wounded and the mud graves of
the dead - assuming there had been anyone left to bury the dead but she would not see Jondarites. She knew that someone reported on her movements. Perhaps those winged demons, seeing where she went and being sure the Jondarites knew it.

  So, now, she heard the man from the slaughtered tribe. He was alone. Without near-kin. Well, that, at least, she could pretend to remedy. She gestured, a tiny movement, at once interpreted, as she called out a few words in the secret naming language of the Noor.

  "Mumros, Her Highness takes you into her tribe, into her family. She calls you Kalja Benoor. Adopted Near-kin."

  The man who had brought the news leaned upon his hands and wept. It was not for joy. He knew as well as she the adoption was only a gesture. Near-kin could not be so easily replaced, nor grief so easily stayed. Still, when he left the tent it was with a steadier gait than that with which he had entered.

  "Your Highness?" A murmured voice at her ear.

  "Yes, Strenge, what is it?" Of all her men he was her favorite: strong, not at all servile, yet attentive to her dignity, virile, father of two of her children.

  "The delegation from the boatmen."

  "Haven't there been enough delegations for one day?" There was despair in her whispered voice. He heard it. Among all her people he was the only one she let hear it.

  "They have Glizzee spice, Your Highness." His eyes were down, his posture dignified. If they were alone, he would call her Fibby. They had been children together. And lovers later. And lovers still.

  "And we have no spice, is that it? And our people have few enough pleasures, they should not have to do without this one. And the boatmen won't deal without seeing me?"

  "Your Highness sees the invisible and hears the inaudible." He gave her a secret glance, one she knew as well as she knew the feel of her own skin.

  "My Highness is dying of the agony of my people, Strenge. Of inanition and frustration. Of the duplicity of the Chancery and an unapproachable creature that calls itself the Protector of Man. Put them off."