The Faded Sun Trilogy Omnibus

by C. J. Cherryh

  Chapter Fifteen

  Duncan turned from the screen that showed the stars and found his dus behind him—always, always the beast was with him, shadow, herald, partaker of every privacy of his life. He found no need to touch it. It sighed and settled against his back. He felt it content.

  It was strange, when a pain ceased, that it would be gone some considerable time before it was missed.

  And that when that pain was gone, it could not be accurately remembered.

  Duncan had known in this place, in kel-hall, upon a certain instant, that he was no longer in pain: he had realized it, sitting here upon the floor; and he could remember the moment, the details, the place that the dus had been lying, the fact that Niun had been sitting exactly so, across the room—sewing, that day: odd occupation for a mri warrior, but Duncan had learned well enough that a man tended all his own necessities in the Kel—save food, that was taken in common.

  Niun’s face had been intent, the needle pursuing a steady rhythm. He had worked with skill, as Niun’s slender hands knew so many skills. It would take years to learn the half of what Niun’s native reflexes and the teaching of his masters had done for him.

  Not an arrogant man, Niun: prideful, perhaps, but he never vaunted his abilities . . . save now and again when they practiced a passage of arms with the yin’ein that Duncan had made to match the beautiful old weapons that were Niun’s. Then Niun was sometimes moved, perhaps from the sheer ennui of practicing with a man with whom he could not extend himself—to make a move so fast the eye could not follow it, so tiny and deft and subtle that Duncan hardly knew what had happened to him. Niun did such things, Duncan had noticed also, when he himself had almost settled into smugness in his practice with Niun. The mri subtly informed his student that he was still restraining himself.

  Restraint.

  It governed the kel’en’s whole being.

  And Niun’s restraint made peace where there was none: extended to a human who provoked him, to dusei that at times grew restive and destructive in their confinement—extended even to Melein.

  There was none of them, Duncan reflected with sudden grim humor, that wanted to disturb Niun, neither human, nor dusei, nor child-queen who relied on him.

  It was Niun’s peace that was on them.

  The most efficient killers in all creation, Stavros had said of the mri.

  He spoke of the Kel, of Niun’s kind.

  He had spoken before humankind even suspected the waste of stars that now surrounded them.

  The record would be traced out, human ships tracking them to dead world after dead world; and there was no other conclusion that could occur to the Haveners manning those ships, but that they were tracing something monstrous to its source.

  Duncan absently caressed the shoulder of his dus, thinking, as the same fearful thoughts had circled through his brain endlessly in the passing days—staring helplessly at Niun, whose imagination surely was sufficient to know what pursued them.

  Yet there was no mention of this from Niun; and Melein, having asked her questions, asked nothing more; Niun went to her, but Duncan was not permitted, continuing in her disfavor.

  The mri chose to ignore what pursued, to ask no further, to do nothing. Niun lived with him, slept beside him at night in apparent trust—and cultivated only the ancient skills of his kind, the weapons of ritual and duel, as if they could avail him at the end.

  The yin’ein, ancient blades, against warships, against the likes of Saber.

  Niun chose, advisedly.

  An image came: night, and fire, and mri obstinacy. Duncan pushed it aside, and it came back again, recollection of mri stubbornness that would not surrender, that would not compromise, whose concept of modern was lapped in Darks and Betweens and the ways of tsi’mri who were only a moment in the experience of the People.

  Modern weapons.

  Duncan felt the taint of the word, the scorn implicit in the hal’ari, and hated the human in him that had been too blind to see.

  The last battle of the People.

  To meet it with modern weapons—if it came to that—that the People should come to a hopeless fight . . . .

  Niun would not, then, plan to survive: the last mri would choose the things that made sense to his own logic, which was precisely what he was doing.

  To seek his home.

  To recover his ancient ways.

  To be mri until the holocaust ended it.

  It was all Niun could do, if he chose to think about it, save yield to tsi’mri. Duncan reckoned the depth of the mri’s patience, that had borne with an outsider under such conditions—even Melein’s, who endured Niun’s tolerance of a tsi’mri, even that was considerable.

  And Niun only practiced at duel with him, patiently, gently practiced, as if he could forget the nature of him.

  The yin’ein. They were for Niun the only reasonable choice.

  Duncan rested his arm on his knee and gnawed at his lip, felt the disturbance of the dus at his back and reached to settle it—guilty in his humanity, that troubled Niun. And yet the thought worried at him and would not let him go—that, human that he was, he could not do as Niun did.

  That there were for him alternatives that Niun did not possess.

  Perhaps, at the end, the mri would let him go.

  Or expect him to lift arms against humankind. He tried to imagine it; and all that he could imagine in his hand was the service pistol that rested among his belongings—to deal large-scale death for his death: the inclination came on him. He could fight, cornered; he would wish to take a dozen of the lives, human or not, that would take his. But to take up the yin’ein . . . he was not mri enough.

  There were means of fighting the mri would not use.

  Human choices.

  Slowly, slowly, shattered bits of what had been a SurTac began to sort themselves into order again.

  “Niun,” he said.

  The mri was shaping a bit of metal into a thing that looked like an ornament. For several days he had been working at it, painstaking in his attention.

  “A?” Niun answered.

  “I have been thinking: we suffered one failure in instruments. If the she’pan would permit it, I would like to go back to controls, to test the instruments.”

  Niun stopped. A frown was on his face when he looked up. “I will ask the she’pan,” he said.

  “I would like,” Duncan said, “to give her the benefit of what skills I do have.”

  “She will send if there is need.”

  “Niun, ask her.”

  The frown deepened. The mri rested hands on his knees, his metalwork forgotten, then expelled a deep breath and gathered up his work again.

  “I want peace with her,” Duncan said. “Niun, I have done all that you have asked of me. I have tried to be one of you.”

  “Other things you have done,” said Niun. “That is the problem.”

  “I am sorry for those things. I want them forgotten. Ask her to see me again, and I give you my word I will not offend against her. There is no peace on this ship without peace with her—and none with you.”

  For a moment Niun said nothing. Then he gave a long sigh. “She has waited for you to ask.”

  The mri still had power to surprise him. Duncan sat back in confusion, all his reckonings of them in disorder. “She will see me, then.”

  “Whenever you would decide to ask. Go and speak to her. The doors are not locked.”

  Duncan rested yet a moment, all impetus taken from him; and then he gathered himself to his feet and started for the door, the dus behind him.

  “Duncan.”

  He turned.

  “My brother of the Kel,” said Niun softly, “in all regard for you—remember that I am the she’pan’s hand, and that should you err with her—I must not tolerate it.”

  There was, for the moment, a ward-impulse in the room: the dus backed and its ears lay down. “No,” said Duncan. It stopped. And he drew the av-tlen from his belt, and would have laid aside
all his weapons. “Hold these if you suspect any such thing of me.” It was demeaning to surrender weapons; Duncan offered, knowing this, and the mri flinched visibly.

  “No,” Niun said.

  Duncan slid the blade back into place, and left, the dus walking behind him. Niun did not follow: the sting of that last exchange perhaps forbade, and his suspicion would worry at him the while. Duncan reckoned it, that although Niun slept by him, though he let down his guard to him in weapons-practice, to teach him, Melein’s safety was another matter: the kel’en was deeply, deeply uneasy.

  To admit a tsi’mri to the she’pan’s presence, armed: it surely went against the mri’s instincts.

  But the doors had been unlocked.

  The doors had always been unlocked, Duncan supposed suddenly; he had never thought to try them. Melein herself had slept with unlocked doors, trusting him; and that shocked him deeply, that the mri could be in that regard so careless with him.

  And not careless.

  Prisons, locked doors, things sealed, depriving a man of weapons—all these things went against mri nature. He had known it from the beginning in dealing with them: no prisoners, no capture—and even in the shrine, the pan’en was only screened off, not locked away.

  Even controls, even that had always been accessible to him, any time that he had decided to walk where he had been told not to go; he might have quietly gone forward, sealed the doors, and held the ship—could, at this moment.

  He did not.

  He went to the door that was Melein’s, to that dim hall, painted with symbols, vacant of all but a chair and the mats for sitting. He entered it, his steps loud on the tiles.

  “She’pan,” he called, and stood and waited: stood, for it was the she’pan who offered or did not offer, to sit. The dus settled heavily next to him, resting on its hindquarters—finally sank down to lay its head on the tiles. A sigh gusted from it.

  And suddenly a light step sounded behind him. Duncan turned, faced the ghost-like figure in the shadow, white-robed and silent. He was not veiled. He was not sure whether this was polite or not, and glanced down to show his respect.

  “Why are you here?” she asked.

  “To beg your pardon,” he said.

  She answered nothing for a moment, only stared at him as if she waited for something further.

  “Niun said,” he added, “that you were willing to see me.”

  Her lips tautened. “You still have a tsi’mri’s manners.”

  Anger came on him; but the statement was the simple truth. He smothered it and averted his eyes a second time to the floor. “She’pan,” he said softly, “I beg your pardon.”

  “I give it,” she said. “Come, sit down.”

  The tone was suddenly gracious; it threw him off his balance, and for an instant he stared at her, who moved and took her chair, expecting him to settle at her feet.

  “By your leave,” he said, remembering Niun, “I ought to go back. I think Niun wanted to follow me. Let me go and bring him.”

  A frown creased Melein’s smooth brow. “That would reproach him, kel Duncan, if you let him know why. No. Stay. If there is peace in the House, he will know it; and if not, he will know that. And do not call him by his name to me; he is first in the Kel.”

  “I am sorry,” he said, and came and sat at her feet, while the dus came and cast itself down between them. The beast was uneasy. He soothed it with his hand.

  “Why,” asked Melein, “have you been driven to come to me?”

  The question struck him with confusion—rude and abrupt, she was, and able to read him. He shrugged, tried to think of something at the edge of the truth, and could not. “She’pan, I am a resource you have. And I wish that you would make use of what I know—while there is time.”

  The membrane flashed across her eyes, and the dus lifted its head. She leaned forward and soothed the beast, her fingers gently moving on its velvet fur. “And what do you know, kel Duncan, that so suddenly troubles you?”

  “That I can get you home alive.” He laid his hand on the dus, fearless to do so, and looked into the she’pan’s golden eyes. “He has taught me; is not managing ships a part of the skill of a kel’en? If he will learn, I will teach him; and if not—then I will take what care of the ship I can do myself. His skill is with the yin’ein, and mine never will approach his—but this I can do, this one thing. My gift to you, she’pan, and worth a great deal to you when you reach your home.”

  “Do you bargain?”

  “No. There is no if in it. A gift, that is all.”

  Her fingers did not cease to stroke the dus’s warm hide. Her eyes lifted again to his. “Are you my kel’en, kel Duncan?”

  Breath failed him an instant. The hal’ari, the kel-law had begun to flow in his mind like blood in his veins: the question stood, yes or no, and there was no going back afterward.

  “Yes,” he said, and the word almost failed of sound.

  Her slim fingers slipped to his, took his broad and human hand. “Will you not turn on us, as you turn on your own kind?”

  The dus moved at his shock: he held it, soothed it with both hands, and looked up after a moment at Melein’s clear eyes.

  “No,” she judged, answering her own question, and how, or of what source he did not know. Her sureness disturbed him.

  “I have touched a human,” she said, “and I did not, just then.”

  It chilled. He held to the dus, drawing on its warmth, and stared at her.

  “What do you seek to do?” she asked.

  “Give me access to controls. Let me maintain the machinery, do what is needful. We went wrong once. We cannot risk it again.”

  He expected refusal, expected long days, months of argument before he could win that of her.

  But controls, he thought, had never been locked. And Melein’s amber eyes lowered, by that silent gesture giving permission. She lifted her hand toward the door.

  He hesitated, then gathered himself to his feet, made an awkward gesture of courtesy to her, and went.

  She followed. He heard her soft footfalls behind the dus. And when he settled at the console in the brightly lit control room, she stood at his shoulder and watched: he could see her white-robed reflection in the screens that showed the starfields.

  He began running the checks he desired, dismissing Melein’s presence from his concerns. He had feared, since last he was dismissed from controls, that the ship was not capable of running so long and hard a voyage under total automatic; but to his relief everything checked out clean, system after system, nothing failed, no hairbreadth errors that could ruin them, losing them forever in this chartless space.

  “It is good,” he told Melein.

  “You feared something particular?”

  “Only neglect,” he said, “she’pan.”

  She stood beside him, occasionally seeming to watch the reflection of his face as he glanced sometimes to that of hers. He was content to be where he was, doing what his hands well remembered: he ran through things that he had already done, only to have the extra time, until she grew weary of standing and departed his shoulder to sit at the second man’s post across the console.

  Lonely, perhaps, interested in what he did: he recalled that she was not ignorant of such machinery, only of that human-made, and he dared not try too much in her presence. She surely knew that he was repeating operations.

  He took the chance.

  Elapsed time, he asked of the records-storage.

  It flashed back refusal. No record.

  Other details he asked. No record. No record, it answered.

  Something cold and hard swelled in his throat. Carefully he checked the status of the navigational tapes, whether retrace was available, to bring him home again.

  Classified, the screen flashed at him.

  He stopped, mindful of the auto-destruct linked into the tape mechanism. Suspicion crept horridly through his recollections.

  We want nothing coming home with you by accident.
/>   Stavros’ words.

  Sweat trickled down his side. He felt it prickling on his face, wiped the edge of his hand across his mouth and tried to disguise the gesture. Melein still sat beside him.

  The dus came nearer, moved between them, close to the delicate instruments. “Get out of there,” Duncan wished it. It only lay down.

  “Kel’en,” said Melein, “what do you see that troubles you?”

  He moistened his lips, shifted his eyes to her. “She’pan—we have found no life . . . I have lost count of the worlds, and we have found no life. What makes you think your homeworld will be different?”

  Her face became unreadable. “Do you find reason there, kel’en, to think we shall not?”

  “I have found reason here . . . to believe that this ship is locked against me. She’pan, when that tape runs to its end, it may have no navigational memory left.”

  Amber eyes flickered. She sat with her hands folded in her lap. “Did you plan to leave?”

  “We may not be able to run. We will have no other options, she’pan.”

  “We never did.”

  He drew in his breath, wiped at the moisture that had gone cold on his cheek, and let the breath go again. Her calm was unshakable, thoroughly rational: Shon’ai . . . the throw was cast, for them—by birth. It was like Niun with his weapons.

  “She’pan,” he said quietly, “you have named each world as we have passed. Do you know the number that we have yet to see?”

  She nodded in the fashion of the People, a tilt of the head to the left. “Before we reach homeworld,” she said, “Mlara and Sha, and Hlar and Sa’a-no-kli’i.”

  “Four,” he said, stunned at the sudden knowledge of an end. “Have you told—?”

  “I have told him.” She leaned forward, her arms twined on her white-robed knees. “Kel Duncan, your ships will come. They are coming.”

  “Yes.”

  “You have chosen your service.”

  “Yes,” he said. “With the People, she’pan.” And when she still stared at him, troubled by his treachery: “On their side, she’pan, there are so many kel’ein one will not be missed. But on the side of the People, there is only one—twice that, with me. Humankind will not miss one kel’en.”