The Faded Sun Trilogy Omnibus

by C. J. Cherryh

  Human laughter; it was at times irreverent of most serious things; but that Duncan retained his sense of balance, that was a knowledge cleansing as a draft of wind.

  “Gods, gods, I have missed you.”

  And that for some reason brought a touch of pain to Duncan’s face, a shadow of a sorrow.

  That question too he would have liked to ask, and for his peace and Duncan’s . . . declined.

  Duncan sat down and pulled on his boots, gave a deep breath when he had done and rose shakily, belted on his weapons and his Honors. Niun stood and resumed the visored headcloth and Duncan did likewise, until there was only the difference of the face and Duncan’s lesser stature between them.

  “You think—” Duncan said then, as if it were something which had been biding speaking a long time. “You think these stranger kel’ein would go back with us to the ship?”

  “That is not for Kel to say.”

  “The she’pan said that she would consider. What is she considering?”

  “The Sen deliberates.” Niun felt exposed in the hedging, ashamed; there were times that Duncan could meet a stare with the look of a kath’en and the steadiness of a kel-Master. “Did I not teach you patience, without questions?”

  “They have been deliberating the second day now.”

  “Sov-kela.”

  “Aye,” Duncan answered him, glancing away. Niun made a bundle of the clothing they had shed, knotted it and rose again; he set his other hand on Duncan’s shoulder, turning him back toward the main aisle of the camp, and Duncan for all his disquiet reached and took the cord of the bundle, carrying the burden with a courtesy automatic as one born to it. Niun regarded that, and felt the more uncomfortable himself.

  “Do you doubt the she’pan?” Niun asked. “Do you think she would not do the best thing?”

  “There are thoughts I cannot say in the hal’ari, that I am not good enough to say.” They walked slowly, boots crunching on the wind-scoured sand beside their outward footprints, already wind-dimmed. “If you would hear—if you would remember human language for a small moment, and let me say in human terms—”

  “Veil” Niun cut him off. “Do not breathe the wind. Manners do not apply to the sick.”

  Duncan did so, and was silent.

  “You had years on the ship to talk to us,” Niun said, “You are the speech you would make, and it is already well-made.” He took a pass of the veil across his own mouth, for courtesy between them, not to make Duncan conspicuous, and mindfully shortened his long strides. “It is all said, Duncan.”

  The morning haze fell kindly about the tents, touching them all with the tranquility of the hour. Even the black fabric of kel-tent and the patchwork tent adjoining had a little of gold on their coarse surface; and gold stained the paler hue of that of the she’pan and of the Others. The trampled center of the camp was alive with blue robes, goings and comings of the children, women working by Kath in the morning light, cookfires burning. But of gold there was none; and of black-robed figures but one, and that one vanished into the main kel-tent as they approached; others came out then, jamming the doorway, and sudden apprehension gathered at Niun’s belly, the morning dimmed . . . he opened his mouth to warn Duncan and did not. Duncan was wise on his own, and some things were too evil to suspect aloud.

  They walked as close to the doorway as they might with the Kel blocking their way. Hlil was there in the center of matters, unveiled; some were and others were not.

  “The she’pan has called half-council,” Hlil said. “Ours and theirs together.”

  It had come, then. Niun dismissed his worse suspicions with a profound shame. “Aye,” he told Hlil and started away with him at once. But a few steps away he delayed, still with that vile feeling crawling at his belly. He looked back and caught Duncan’s eye, who stared after him.

  “The dusei,” he said to Duncan. “It concerns me . . . where they are. You might call them.”

  If you need them, he meant. He thought that Duncan took his meaning; that sort of glance went between them, and there was a touch of apprehension in Duncan’s eyes, but no panic.

  He turned then and went with Hlil.

  * * *

  Kel’ein settled about the doorway, showing no disposition to enter the tent . . . ja’anom, but not all ja’anom: kel’ein of the other Kels hovered about the edges, and more and more arrived, strolling up casually. The door was blocked, inconvenient to reach, and it was dark inside, lacking witnesses. Duncan settled on the sand in their midst, his back to the tent, the black bulk of which served to shelter him and them from the slight wind. He kept his head bowed, doing as Niun had suggested, thinking on the dusei, but when time passed in the quiet and extraneous conversation of those near him, he dismissed his more vivid fears and glanced furtively at the ja’anom, wondering if he understood anything at all of what game they were playing. One was old Peras, a quiet one and civil to him; he could not think evil of him. There was Taz . . . . Taz’s unwontedly expressionless face gave him no comfort; he had never seen the boy but that he was alive and alight to every need about him, and he was withdrawn now, watching. And Ras . . . Ras and Niun did not agree: he had sensed this thoroughly, even without the dusei. She came now and settled slightly behind him, so that she could see him and not otherwise.

  Silence fell in the group. Most withdrew inside, strangers as well as ja’anom, not into their proper tent; and that was unwonted. Others stayed sitting. Duncan glanced down rather than appear to question this movement, reckoning silence the best course. Niun needed no trouble of his making; trouble there was already, and he reckoned that a portion of it had maneuvered to take him in. He knew names more than Peras and Taz and Ras, but few more; there were ja’anom whose names and reasons he ought to know, and did not, so short a time he had been among them before. If they had helped him live now, it was out of some sense of honor, or something that Niun had the power to make them do; hot for love: he had no illusions of that.

  The kel’en on his right touched his sleeve.

  “Tsi’mri,” that one said, but as if it were fact, not a calculated insult, “you say nothing.”

  He looked up perforce, met the unveiled face of that man and of others, young and old, male and female. None of them showed expression. All those left had the kel-scars, the seta’al, time-faded on the faces of some, new and bright on others. “Perhaps there are some who do not wish me well. What do you wish, kel’ein?”

  Silent glances went from one to the other, and Duncan followed these exchanges with anxiety he did not allow to his face.

  “You are wise,” said a kel’e’en, “always to keep to someone’s shadow.”

  Duncan felt the wind, felt his back naked without Niun, and bowed his head to them, which was all his recourse.

  “We see what is toward,” another said. “Best you sit here.”

  He cast a look toward the aisle, toward the she’pan’s tent, into which Niun had vanished, and all that he could see was a wall of stranger-kel’ein, listening silently on the fringes. Almost he rose to walk away from them all, to go settle at the she’pan’s door in safety, but a grip on his sleeve advised him otherwise before he could make the move. He looked back at them. An old kel’e’en touched the scars on her face, mark of a skill he lacked. “You are tsi’seta. Who would challenge you but another unscarred? And there are none such here.”

  “What is happening?” Duncan demanded of them, knowing that they meant something by this, and not knowing even who ranked highest in this complex of skill and birth and seniority of mingled tribes. He scanned from face to face, lost and betraying it . . . settled last on old Peras, whose lean, seamed face indicated at least reverence owed, and whose eyes perhaps showed something of sympathy. “What is happening? The council . . . is that it?”

  “Tsi’mri kel’en, there is division in the camp. Yonder stand other tribes; ours and others come and go. They ask us questions. And while you sit here with us in this circle—there is no one free to make a mista
ke.”

  That disparaged him; it was also the kind of insult any without rank in the Kel had to accept as a matter of course.

  “Sir,” he murmured humbly, which was always the right answer to a warrior who had won the seta’al, from one who had not.

  “Kel’en,” Peras responded, which was more courtesy than an elder needed use.

  “He speaks well,” said one of the out-tribesmen, settling near. “It is remarkable.”

  Others behind him nodded, and one laughed a breath. “This is a wonder,” that one said, “to sit and talk with a tsi’mri.”

  The word, Duncan reflected placidly, studying his hands in his lap, also applied to the dusei.

  “He is mannered,” another said.

  The old kel’en reached and touched at his sleeve. “Veil, kel’en. The air does you harm; there is courtesy and there is stupidity.”

  He inclined his head in thanks and did so, headcloth and twice-lapped veil.

  And now and again in the silence which followed, he glanced in the direction of the she’pan’s tent, for one by one the standing kel’ein settled; he was anxious, for himself and for what manner of maneuvering might have encompassed Niun as well and for what passed in Council among those who had power . . . all that he had tried to do, all that he had paid his life for, and now he could not even merit to sit at the door to hear judgment passed on his offering to them. He sat, in their long silence, and fretted, aware finally of another presence responding to his distress.

  It came padding across the sand toward them, his dus, anxious and hasty. He felt it; and it sensed hostility, and its presence loomed dark and ominous.

  He glanced about him with a gesture of appeal, to ja’anom and to the others. “Do not hate,” he wished them.

  That was like asking the wind to stop; but heads nodded after a moment. The dus came, worked quietly among them, wended its stubborn way to his back, dislodging Ras a little space. He cherished that warmth against him where Ras had been. And in the long silence that followed that shifting about, he drew from his belt the weighted cords, the ka’islai, and began to knot them in the star-mandala.

  It was the islan of Pattern, which imposed order on confusion. It was the most complex he knew, which in his learning fingers would take long to complete.

  He was, after a dogged fashion, committing an insolence. He was better in the islai than some who had the kel-scars; he had had long practice, on the ship, in idleness. He meant to defy them, for all it was unwise. He did not even look up . . . feeling their eyes on him, who aped their ways; felt a grating at his nerves, the shifting of his dus. Ras had her hand on it, which few dared.

  He kept his mind to his pattern, refusing to be distracted even by that.

  “Kel’en,” said Peras.

  “Ai?”

  “Council deliberations can be quite tedious. Do you play shon’ai?”

  His heart began to beat rapidly. The Game of the People was one thing played among friends; he thought were Niun at hand to hear that he would be on his feet in outrage. He carefully stripped out the complex knots and looped the ka’islai again to his belt “I am mri,” he said softly, “for all you protest it. Yes, I play the Game.”

  There were soft hisses, reaction to his almost-insolence. Old Peras took from his belt the as-ei, the palm-blades.

  “I will play partner to kel Duncan,” Peras said.

  In the Game, Niun had taught him, one’s life relied on seating. When strong player sat opposite weak or when grudges and alliances seated themselves out of balance in the circle, someone could die. There was only the partnering of the players at one’s elbows to counsel an enemy across the circle not to throw foul. Strong beside weak was a protection, if weak were wise where he sent his own casts.

  He had learned paired, only the Game of Two patternless save for the pattern of the throws themselves, high and low.

  They began to form a circle of six, with the others to witness. Duncan took comfort, for it was gentle Dias, Peras’s truemate, who took the place opposing turn in the circle, and those who flanked her were young, lesser in skill than some. But then kel Ras bent down and touched the sleeve of Dias. Some words passed in low voices and short dispute, and Ras, of the second rank of the Kel, replaced kel Dias of the fourth, facing him and Peras.

  And suddenly Duncan minded himself what Niun had always told him of death by stupidity.

  They would kill him if they wished. He suddenly realized that he did not know the limits of his skill. He had played only Niun, and Niun was his friend.

  Ras . . . was no one’s. At Duncan’s left there was another substitution, an old kel’en, on whom the scars were well-weathered.

  The dus drew back a little, rested head on paws, puffed slightly and followed all this insanity with darting moves of its eyes.

  The Game; it was a means of passing time, as Peras had said. An amusement.

  But the Kel amused themselves with blades, and amusements were sometimes—even unintended—to the death.

  They gave their names, those Duncan did not know well; one did not play with strangers save in challenge. Duncan dropped his veil, for it was no friendly act to play veiled. There was hazard enough without that.

  Kel Peras began, being eldest . . . threw to Ras. Hands struck thighs, the rhythm of the Game; and; on the name-beat of the unspoken rhyme, the blades spun across the circle again.

  They played about him, from man to man and woman to man and youth to youth, back and forth, weaving patterns which became established, excluding him, a Game of Five, oddly seated. Mri fingers, slim and golden and marginally quicker than human, snatched spinning steel from the air and hurled it on at the next name-beat.

  At no time did he relax, knowing that the rhythm could increase in tempo and that some impulse might send the blades spinning his way, from the youths, from Ras, any of those three.

  Suddenly he had warning, a flicker of the membrane as Ras stared at him. Next time: he nodded, almost unnerved by her warning, whether courtesy or reflex.

  The blades spun to her, shining in the sun, and she snatched them, waited the beat and hurled them at the steady time of the Game, no deception or change of pace.

  He made the catch, hurled them of our in his time, to a young kel’en. Now a new lacery began, which wove itself star-patterned like the islan, the mandala of the Game, the Game of Six, as each Game was different by every factor in it.

  The pattern varied, and beside him kel Peras laughed, catching the treachery of Ras: the blades, missed, might have killed; Ras’s eyes danced with amber merriment, and the blades came back at her, cunningly thrown, low-and-high. She cast them again to Peras, left-slant; he threw to her; again left; back to elder Da’on, right; and he threw to young Eran and he to young Sethan.

  Tempo altered, making again a safer rhythm, the moment’s sport among Masters tamed again, beating slower for lesser players.

  It came back, from Ras to himself; he caught, and threw to the youngest, Sethan, tacit recognition of his status.

  It returned, evenly paced; he cast back; it went to Da’on on his left, to Ras, to Peras—

  And stopped. Peras signaling halt. The rhythm of the hands ceased. Duncan drew a great breath, suddenly coughed from the chill air and realized that that reflex a moment ago might have killed him.

  “Veil,” Da’on advised him. He did so, holding the cloth to his mouth and nose until the chill left his lungs. The dus edged up to him, settled against his back, offering him its warmth.

  “An unscarred,” said Da’on, “should never play the Six.”

  “No, kel’en,” he agreed. “But when a scarred asks, an unscarred obeys.”

  Breaths hissed softly between teeth. Heads nodded.

  “You play the game,” Peras said, “in all senses. That is well, human kel’en.”

  He leaned against the dus, caressed its neck, for his heart was still pounding and the dus shivered in reaction.

  The tent flap stirred. Another kel’en came out an
d sat down on the sand, out of the wind. He looked up and two more followed, and four and three, not all of their own Kel. The black assembly widened, Veils dropped, so that he felt he should take his own down, and did so, trying to breathe carefully.

  He must not be afraid. The dus would catch it up and cast it to them. He must not be angry. The dus would rouse and they would sense that too. The mri of Kutath could not veil their emotions, not generally. He received a touch of resentment, and some rare things warmer, pure curiosity. It was not attack, not yet. He soothed the dus with his touch, himself master of it and not the other way about, making it feel what he wished it to feel, quiet, quite.

  Shon’ai, the mri of Kesrith said: the Game-throw is made.

  No calling it back, no mending it now.

  Shon’ai: it is cast!

  Throw your life, kel’en; and deserve to live, for joy of the Game.

  They had been there all along, and more came now, until all in the kel-tents must be there, and he was the center of it.

  “Tell us,” said Peras, “kel’en-who-has-shared-in-Kath, make us all to understand this thing of ships and enemies.”

  He cast an anguished glance toward the she’pan’s tent, hoping against hope to see Niun and the others, some indication even that the Council might be near an end, that he might delay. It was a vain hope.

  “Shall an unscarred of this kel know more,” asked Peras, “than the seniors of it, who sit in Council? Things are out of balance here, young kel’en of the ja’anom. That is one disease here. Remedy it.”

  “I am from the other side of a Dark,” he protested, “and I am forbidden to remember.”

  “So is this brother I have gained for my brother,” said Ras in a harsh voice, “who calls you brother to him. We are by that . . . kin, are we not? Answer. We kel’ein, are we not the Face that Looks Outward? Our eyes are used to the Dark. And the trouble has come here, to us, has it not, tsi’mri brother? Has the she’pan silenced you on that matter—or is it for your own sake you keep your secrets, ai? What arrangement did you and my brother-by-death have, that he knew where to find you?”