“The problem is,” Stavros began carefully, “most of her rangers have duties with the caravan en route.” He pumped meek apology into his tone. “But give me a minute. Maybe with Liphar’s help, I can make her understand your… that is, our urgency.” That is, make her understand that I must get to the wreck first, in secret, to get my hands on the omni before he does, that we must stall the repair of the Sled and comsystem as long as we possibly can…
He conferred with Liphar and Aguidran. The Ranger listened to their murmured explication impassively. Stavros knew it was unsatisfactory but he didn’t have time to supply all the details. He asked mainly for her cooperation until he could explain himself more fully. Clausen waited, sharing an occasional things-we-have-to-go-through glance with McPherson. His only sign of impatience was his free hand twitching at his side, worrying the seams of his spotless canvas slacks.
When they had finished, Aguidran shifted, rubbed her nose thoughtfully, then growled a curt order that Stavros meet her in the RangerHall at the start of the next shift. Stavros turned to Clausen, thinking, This is too easy. What if he understands every word we’ve said? But that was impossible. He spread his hands. “She says she’ll think about it.”
Clausen’s mouth tightened imperceptibly. “And how long might that take?”
Before Stavros could ask, Aguidran pushed herself away from the side of the wagon and stalked off through the maze of wheels and cart traces and stacked crates and bundles, scattering low-voiced orders right and left.
Stavros called up apology again. “I think I can let you know first thing in the morning, ship’s time. Let her get this sorted out and we’ll try her again later.” He pretended to speak to Clausen’s compassion. As if there was any. “It’s real tense for her just now, being behind schedule and all. They need this trade trip badly, so there’s a lot of pressure. You heard there’s been thunder up in the northeastern mountains?”
Clausen nodded indolently. “Heard it myself.”
“But Aguidran’ll do the best she can for you. Remember, she risked her life and those of her guildsmen, going out to search for you guys in the middle of the storm.”
The prospector looked politely unimpressed. “So McPherson has told me.” He smiled and Stavros suffered a flashing image of crocodile jaws parting to expose a row of needled teeth. It terrified him. He struggled to remain composed while Clausen continued, “Well, I’m a patient man. In the interim, McP., and I can spend some time and effort on the high-gain dish. At least they saw fit to haul that back before they got too busy.” His smile relaxed a bit, became a grin as he let it fall on McPherson. “Time we got the Lander powered up again, eh? I for one could use a hot shower.” He grasped his cane and turned, signaling the pilot to follow, then slowed to remark pleasantly over his shoulder, “You won’t mind, I’m sure, since you’ve found so little time to work on it yourself?”
“No. Be my guest,” Stavros replied, returning what he hoped was a smile. But he felt thrown on the defensive and could not help adding, “You’re going to need a welder.”
“Shouldn’t be too much of a problem,” called the prospector airily as he limped away with McPherson in tow.
No? Stavros frowned. It bothered him that the man could manage to saunter even with a cane. Be just like that sonofabitch to have a cutting torch hidden in his goddamn pocket!
At his side, Liphar stared after Clausen and muttered the first deprecatory comment Stavros had ever heard him make about his offworld visitors.
“You said a mouthful,” Stavros agreed, and then, “You think it worked? With that guy, you can’t tell.” Thunder rumbled beyond the plain, so faint it sounded like distant waves. His knees weakened as the anxiety of the moment ebbed. He caught Liphar’s shoulder, his balance wavering. “Lifa, we ought to grab a few hours’ sleep before we get much further into this.” He sighed deeply, a release of tension. “And then we go explain ourselves to Aguidran.”
32
Thunder was rumbling across the Dop Arek in earnest by the time Ghirra’s runner found Susannah in the shade of a giant FoodGuild wagon, stating her case to a somberly pensive Weng. The wagon’s freshly painted wheels, red rims with blue spokes, stood as high as their shoulders. The wagon itself was a healthy twelve feet to the top of its arching canopy. At its rear, four FoodGuilders struggled to find space for a last load of grain sacks. They grumbled their frustration at each other, distracted by the oddly discrete pockets of green-black cloud gathering in the distant northeast.
Susannah spoke with quiet reasoned intensity. Megan hovered in the background, pretending to study the intricate pinning system for the wagon’s removable wooden canopy. She limited herself to the occasional added comment or grunt of support. It would be better for the implementation of the conspiracy, as she had already come to think of it (not without irony—a conspiracy of two?), if she did not seem to have too urgent a stake in Susannah’s request.
“We’d be insane not to take advantage of this opportunity, Commander,” Susannah was pointing out as the Physicians’ Guild runner trotted into the wagon’s shadow and pulled up, panting and damp from the heat.
“Derelict.” Megan elaborated.
“The data on population dynamics and intermingling could be crucial,” said Susannah.
The courier waited, loath to interrupt but brimming both with his message and with anxiety as the thunder rumbled louder in the background. The FoodGuilders shoved the last sack into the back of the wagon and slammed the rear gate shut. One came around to the side with a thin stick. He squeezed behind Susannah and Weng to check the water level in the huge wooden kegs lashed to the belly of the wagon.
“Who knows how long it’ll take Ronnie and Emil to fix the Sled? Here’s an ideal chance to expand our zone of inquiry immediately.”
Weng dipped her silver head. “All you say makes perfect sense, Dr. James. My concern is that expeditionary personnel and resources not be spread too thinly while we are still in a state of emergency.”
“Meg and I can’t help with fixing the com or the Sled. If the population departs, Meg’s left with nothing but her notes. If I go, I can at last begin my biological survey.”
“Which was your primary mission objective,” Megan reminded her, hitting on the word ‘mission’ with what she hoped was not too heavy a hand.
“And we wouldn’t have to use expedition resources,” said Susannah.
Megan patted the red and blue striped side of the towering wagon. “Tyril says two or three more people isn’t going to overburden the FoodGuild’s resources.”
“Two or three?” Weng inquired.
Megan shrugged. “Figures approximate.”
A particularly loud boom of thunder, like a distant cannon, burst, spurred the waiting courier into action. He moved himself into Susannah’s line of sight and fidgeted impatiently. When she noticed him, he delivered his message in a rush so that only its general sense was intelligible.
“Okay?” he finished, with the word that seemed to be every Sawl’s first and favorite word of English. When Susannah nodded, frowning with concern, he waved and ran off.
“Ghirra wants me upstairs to check on Taylor,” she said to Weng. “Hope nothing’s wrong. Will you give this all some thought, Commander?”
“Indeed, Dr. James. In fact, I’ll come up with you and consider while we walk.”
Coming out of the wagon’s shadow afforded Megan a better view of the plain tops of several acres’ worth of other wagons and carts. The packing had slowed as guildsmen set down their bundles and gathered in nervous groups to observe the rumbling activity over the plain.
“Now that’s really odd,” Megan remarked. She heard the clink of stone counters among the watching guildsmen.
As Susannah and Weng slowed to look where she pointed, a single clot of darkness detached itself from the lumpy bank of cloud hanging over the sawtoothed profile of the far-off Vallegar. With surprising speed, the cloud scudded southward over the Dop Arek , growling thunder a
nd spitting tiny forks of lightning. Megan felt a breath of hot wind ruffle the back of her head. Halfway across the plain, the cloud seemed to lose substance and momentum. Within seconds, it had dissipated. The Sawl watchers cheered, invoking Lagri’s name and passing their counters back and forth. The hot wind died and sprang up again as a second cloud detached itself and a third, each seeming to reach a little farther across the plain before dissolving.
The Terrans watched open-mouthed.
“Small wonder they ascribe intent to the weather,” Megan exclaimed. “Just look at it! I’d like to hear Taylor’s explanation for that!”
“Hopefully he will live to give us one,” Susannah commented, turning back toward the Caves. She hurried off with Weng through the crowd of wagons and gathering watchers.
The Master Healer was not in Physicians’ when Susannah and Weng arrived. Ampiar stood by Danforth’s bed, her sober face touched by sunlight from the clerestory as she gazed down at him with quiet satisfaction. The planetologist looked very limp and still.
Susannah put a hand to his skin. Worriedly, she checked his pulse and put her head to his chest. Then she breathed a sigh of relief. “He was so cool, I thought…” She grinned at Weng, amazed. “It’s impossible, but the fever’s broken already.”
“Congratulations, Dr. James,” the Commander nodded.
Susannah noted Ampiar’s look of pride. She shook her head and smiled. “Just like Ghirra, to take care of the problem first, and then send for me.”
“The intemperate herbalist Ard is worth his keep,” Weng observed.
“Yes,” Susannah agreed, her voice soft with bemused wonder. “But mostly it’s Ghirra himself. I never believed much in the laying on of hands until I spent some time watching him work. Even then, I assumed it was mainly the patients’ total faith in him that helped them to heal. But Taylor has no such faith…” Disturbed, she frowned and fell silent.
Weng pursed her thin lips. “But faith is a strange thing, Dr. James. We find it where we least expect it.”
“I suppose, Commander, I suppose,” Susannah replied, but her frown remained.
33
Aguidran stood at the cold hearth of the RangerHaIl, her arms braced against the high carved mantel, her dark head thrown back to stare at the frieze that marched across the wall. She held her lean body stiffly, as if in pain. Stavros halted by the head of the long table, reluctant to break into what seemed to be a moment of private angst or doubt. He held Liphar back and waited, while at the other end of the hall, guildsmen came and went noisily, stowing equipment into canvas packs, lifting down coils of rope and masses of leather harness from name-plated pegs. Senior journeymen moved among them, checking lists of provisions and personnel assignments.
At length, the Ranger turned her head to regard them unblinkingly. Stavros thought he heard a quickly repressed sigh. She pushed away from the mantel and came toward them. “O rek,” she muttered to Liphar, shaking her head in casual disgust.
“Gisti.” he intoned, awed that her unusual candor was addressed to him but disapproving of her tone. He slid his blue-green amulet back and forth on the thong around his wrist.
“Anu?” Stavros asked, already decided that Aguidran was more worried about the thunder than she wanted the priests to know.
Liphar nodded. “Remember, you, I say too soon Valla now. Big trouble she come now. She come now, Lagri too weak. Bad for us. No food, no Ogo Dul.”
Aguidran turned aside to answer a guildsman’s question. Stavros recalled what Liphar had spoken about easily enough once, but had refused to discuss of late, perhaps out of superstition. The too rapid return of one Sister to strength after a defeat was considered a sign of the rise of that Sister’s power toward domination over the other, a domination that historically brought famine and devastation to the human population.
“Can the FoodGuild trade at Ogo Dul for supplies?” he asked.
“Yes. There they grow big…” Liphar formed quick ovals with the thumb and forefinger of both hands, drawing one end outward.
“Big fish?”
“Phish, yes.” He bladed one hand and sent it on repeating S-curves through the air. “More big, our phish.”
Stavros looked forward to the idea. The fish grown in the deep cave pools of DulElesi were no doubt nourishing, but they were tiny and bland. Ogo Dul’s being on the water might provide something considerably more interesting.
“But Ibi,” Liphar continued. “If Valla too strong here, she more strong there, you see?”
He means closer to Valla’s territory, Stavros mused. No hope then for the battle being locally contained.
Aguidran sent the guildsman on her way with a growled word of encouragement. She stalked up to the head of the table, dragged her chair back and sat, gesturing them sharply to follow suit. Stavros slid onto a bench and laid his hands palm down on the golden wood.
Here the defense enters its first plea. Better make it good, Ibiá.
But it turned out to be unnecessary to remind the Ranger that Clausen’s movements must again be restricted. The image that Stavros had used to warn the Guild Council weeks ago, that of the prospector scaling the walls of the FriezeHall to pry the jewels from the Sisters’ eyes, had remained a potent one. Besides, one direct encounter with Clausen had been enough to arouse Aguidran’s enmity. She was contemptuous of Ashimmel’s self-serving nonchalance regarding, as she said, the Visitors. (Stavros noted that the tall Master Ranger did not use the Terrans’ cave nickname “Wokind”—“heads-above-our-own”—for the obvious reason.) She assured him that Clausen would be kept under surveillance by her own guild. What little had been revealed to the other Visitors in the presumed safety of Clausen’s absence would now be covertly guarded. As well, she would bring pressure to bear on the other guild heads in the Kethed and see that a home guard was authorized, drawn from all the guilds. Those who stayed behind must seem to be a random selection of the population.
So Stavros could go after the working antenna on the Sled without fear of disaster. But again, he needed the Ranger’s help to do so: advice about the route, provisions and equipment, but most important, her compliance in his cover story. Probably she would grant him supplies long before she would fill Clausen’s request for the services of her rangers, but she must also lie for him, not only to other Terrans but to any Sawl, such as Ashimmel, who might through ignorance or for political reasons give the plan away. Liphar did not think Aguidran would lie unless she understood the reason to be a good one.
Before even touching on the possibility of lying to protect his purpose, Stavros was faced with the difficulty of explaining the significance of the object he claimed to need so desperately, as well as why he needed to obtain it without the others (except Megan) knowing. He had never felt more professionally inadequate as he searched for words dire enough, trying to express the concepts of the Sled and long-range communications in nontechnical metaphor, and getting nowhere.
Then he recalled a long rambling session with Liphar in the BathHall, when he had worked himself up to a peak of intimacy and confessed his otherworldly origins. The anticlimax had been shattering. The young Sawl had accepted Stavros’s descriptions of Earth and his flight across the light-years with unperturbed interest, as if it were one of his own tale-chants. The linguist’s disappointment had soon faded to amusement.
If the goddesses walk the world and play games with the wind, what’s so remarkable about spaceflight? Magic is magic is magic.
Liphar had added further that he was not surprised to hear that the Wokind came from the sky, for hadn’t the ranger sentinels seen the Lander descend with their own eyes? He was far from associating such skyward origins with divinity, as the ancestral Catholic in Stavros had assumed. The Sister-goddesses of Fiix did not live in the insubstantial heavens but on the good solid ground where any worthy deity belonged.
So instead, Stavros offered the Master Ranger a straightforward description of the Orbiter, explaining that the object he required from th
e wreck would allow him to talk with the people on this other “lander” in the sky without actually going there. Liphar received this information with his usual deferential acceptance, but Stavros thought that Aguidran regarded him with some skepticism. But she let it pass as he moved on to the real issue, that Clausen must be kept from communicating with this other ship even though he himself was clamoring to do so. He did not know where to begin to explain why the Orbiter could communicate with Fiix, given the aid of the antenna, but could not communicate with the strange place he called Earth. He did not know how to make the exact nature of the danger clear, when a true understanding required knowledge of the bureaucratic workings of an interstellar civilization from one who was clearly dubious that it existed in the first place. How could he explain to the Master Ranger what the word “lithium” meant?
Stopped by the limits of verbal language, Stavros shaped his hands into a lump that might resemble a rock. He was launching into an explanation that there was a rock that Clausen wanted and would do anything to get when he saw Aguidran glance up and smile. It was a small smile, rather tired, but it brought to her brown face the softness he had sworn could never be there. It dazzled him.
Who…?
He turned to find the Master Healer striding toward them through the stacked-up packs and piles of supplies and equipment.
That one, Stavros thought disgustedly. The smiling ladies’ man.
But Ghirra was not smiling. His linen smock flapped like a cloak around his tall frame. His brown hair, loosed from its usual tie, stood out from his long face in a mane of curls. Aguidran rose to meet him, an arm outstretched to grasp the hand he offered. The small bundle he carried he set with some ceremony on the table. He had bent to undo its cloth wrappings when he recognized Stavros through the screen of his Sawlish clothing. Ghirra had obviously taken the linguist for another guildsman. He straightened, let his hand casually sweep up the still-wrapped bundle as he drew his sister aside. Aguidran listened to his hurried murmur, her own smile fading. When he was done, she leveled at Stavros a long and speculative gaze.
The Wave and the Flame Page 30
