Asimov's SF, June 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Maryam saw Elios's son approach his father. He turned, a broad, powerful man dressed entirely in black, with his massive fists bunched, his face clenched in a glare. “Gone! She's gone! Vala—he took her away on that ship of his, the Wilsonian tub, back across the sea. He took her! Wilsonians! Maryam mother of Brod! Where are you? You have some explaining to do.”

  Tripp tugged Maryam back into the crowd. “It may be better to be discreet for a while . . .”

  The smoke cleared, and the pale pink-white light of the Star fell on the Eye in beams, dead vertical and shining in the smoky air. Where they struck the mirror they were reflected to a perfect focus, high above their heads.

  “It must be a parabola,” Tripp murmured. “This is my fourth Colloquy, but the first time I've been invited up here . . . What a display.” She leaned back and lifted her head, and gasped. “And—oh, look! Up in the sky!”

  Maryam, squinting up, saw a kind of shadow form on the broad face of the Star, grey and translucent, and rippling with obviously artificial patterns, like waves.

  “More Substrate!” said Tripp. “I told you Helen and the others saw orbital structures. Perhaps whatever is up there is somehow controlled by this ‘Eye.’ But what can it have been for. . . ?”

  The mirror-birds, fluttering and cawing, were drawn up along the reflected beams by their natural affinity for light. One by one, as they reached the focus, they flew into brilliance and were extinguished in a crisping of flame.

  * * * *

  IV

  Tripp found Brod outside Port Wilson, plowing a hilltop. It was nearly half a Great Year after the debacle of the last Tithe Colloquy on the Navel—and nearly as long since the allies of the Speakers had laid siege to Port Wilson, in the war spat that had flared up after Brod's abduction of Vala the Sapphire.

  “But it was no abduction,” Brod said. He straightened up, sweating hard despite what felt like a cool watch to Tripp. He was one of dozens of men and women laboring with hand-held hoes and ploughs in this roughly marked out field. Coated with mud like the others, he'd been difficult to find. “She wanted it as much as me. More, maybe. No matter what the Speaker of Speakers says, or his tractor-spawned son Khilli. Sometimes I think . . .”

  “What?” Tripp was closer in age to Brod's mother than to him. It was wickedly funny to see this big strutting soldier boy put to work in a field, and so evidently confused. “Tell me, Brod. What do you think?”

  “Sometimes I think she was in control the whole time.” His handsome face, streaked with dirt, twisted as he forced out the admission. “Sometimes I think she played me to get what she wanted.”

  “Which was what?”

  “Not to be a Sapphire, of course. Not to be a living religious token totally dominated by her father and brother. You know, not only are they supposed to stay celibate, those girls aren't even allowed to speak for whole Great Years at a time. Wouldn't you want to get away?”

  “I suppose so. So she got what she wanted?”

  “Yes. And I got this.” He waved a hand at the field.

  They were standing on a hillside high over Port Wilson, and the view, south toward the sea and north inland, was rather magnificent, Tripp thought. This part of the coast was craggy and folded, a relic of ancient tectonic events; the hills crowded close, giving way to a sheer cliff face that fell away to the sea. Here the river Wilson forced its way to the sea, and the port had been established in its estuary, where a deep natural harbor had been enhanced by a long, enclosing sea wall. To east and west the land quickly rose up to become cliff faces, but even here people lived, in houses built on terraces. To the south lay the sea, with the Navel somewhere far over the horizon. The huge Star hung over this mid-latitude location, with the faintest tinge of pink in its light.

  And Tripp could see the ships of the holy armada gathered in a loose multiple arc around the harbor, effectively blockading the trade on which Port Wilson had made its fortune—and putting a stop to the raids and petty wars indulged in by headstrong young men like Brod. Meanwhile, to the north, Tripp could see the rising smoke of the fires of Khilli's besieging army.

  It was remarkable that, though this tremendous force on land and sea was entirely under the control of Elios and Khilli, the Speakers had not had to pay a fraction of a credit toward its assembly and provisioning. This was a war being fought by the allies of the Speakers on the promise of rewards from the Sim Controllers, the reduction of tithes, and perhaps a little plunder, and in the longer term permanent commercial advantage.

  And in the middle of it all was Brod, the cause of all the trouble, leaning on a hoe.

  “The siege is evidently working, then,” Tripp essayed.

  “Well, you can see that. We always imported most of our food. The Speakers cut that off. So here we are trying to grow potatoes on this cruddy hill. We haven't even got enough tractors to do the work, and the army took all the horses—”

  “Which is why you're breaking your back up here.”

  “I spend more time chasing off the rabbits than farming. Whichever Designer came up with those little bastards needs a good kicking.” Miserably he wiped muddy sweat from his brow. “The top families have got to ‘show an example,’ my mother says.”

  Tripp glanced around theatrically. “No sign of Vala, however.”

  Brod raised an eyebrow, and looked away.

  Tripp said, “Well, maybe enough blood has been spilled. And the disruption this fight is causing is harmful, even for neutrals. All over the continent people are going short. Most of our trade comes through Wilson, you know. There are other ports, other trade routes, but—”

  “Which is why my mother asked you to come to try and broker some kind of truce.”

  “And why I just spent a fortune bribing my way through Khilli's cordon. Look, I'll go down into town and see what your mother has to say.” She gathered her cloak around her. “But, Brod—the deal might involve you giving up Vala. That's what this is all about, after all.”

  “I won't give her up,” he said sternly. But his face softened. “And besides, she probably wouldn't go.” He turned back to his work.

  * * * *

  V

  “Oh, Tripp, of course she was in control all along.”

  Maryam had a fine apartment set on a ledge cut into the cliffside, connected by a scary-looking rock staircase to galleries and other apartments. Picture windows let in the light of the Star and overlooked the harbor, but the apartment was far enough out that even when the windows were thrown open any noise was only a remote murmur. Not that the harbor was bustling now, Tripp saw as she gazed out. Ships were crowded within the sea wall, but many of them had evidently been stuck there for a long time; all were empty of crews and cargo, and some had been stripped for resources for the starving port, their sails for their cloth, their crude steam engines perhaps for some agricultural or military use, even their wooden decks and hulls for timber.

  Overlooking all this, Maryam patiently watered flowers in a window box, and spoke about Vala the Sapphire.

  “She was always in charge. I could tell from the moment I met her—which wasn't until after, as you will recall, Brod had ‘abducted’ her and we were already in this terrible mess, with Elios spitting fire and Khilli rampaging like a rogue bull. Brod was obviously besotted with her, and he still is—and I think she's attracted to him, maybe even loves him.” She smiled wistfully, and ran a hand over her short-cropped, grey-blond hair, and for a moment she looked like a mother, rather than an elder of a city under siege. “You've seen Brod. What's not to love? But Vala has been playing him for half a Great Year already. Vala is scheming, manipulative, sharp as a nail, and she was obviously ready to grasp the first opportunity that came along to escape the doom of becoming a Sapphire.”

  “She is her father's daughter,” Tripp said. “At the Pole we say that Elios is the toughest occupant of the Left Hand Seat in living memory. It would be surprising if she didn't share some of his qualities.”

  “So she escape
d, into the protection of one of the strongest states on Seba—us. She probably foresaw her father's rage, and her brother's. But I don't think she imagined she'd provoke a war, an invasion of Seba under the Shuttle Banner, a siege that's already lasted half a Great Year nearly—and hundreds dead. All because of her. But it isn't about her, of course.”

  “Isn't it?”

  Maryam set down her watering can. “Why don't you take a seat, Tripp ? Some tea?” She clapped her hands. “And won't you take your coat off?”

  “I already did,” Tripp said, somewhat chagrined, as she sat a little awkwardly on an overstuffed sofa. “We Polars wear a lot of layers.”

  “Of course.” A boy appeared, listened to Maryam's request for tea, and scooted off. “It will just be nettle tea, I'm afraid; the rationing has put an end to so many of the finer things . . .”

  “We were speaking of the causes of the war.”

  Maryam sighed. “So we were. Look—the Speakers have clearly used the ‘abduction’ of Vala as a pretext for launching this assault, on land and sea. Quite disproportionate to any offense—and quite unnecessary, incidentally. A little diplomatic and theological pressure would have been quite enough to make most of our citizens hand the girl over.” The boy returned with a jug of tea and two cups. He set his tray on a small table and poured.

  “But of course the Speakers have other goals. They have always acted against any power they believed had even the slightest chance of becoming a threat to their hegemony. We Wilsonians have worked hard the last few generations, and have gotten to the point where we control much of the trade along the south coast of Seba, and between Seba and the Navel. The Speakers benefit, but we skim off a fair share. So we're a challenge to the Speakers, and they've probably been looking for some way to slap us down for a long time. And by long, I mean perhaps centuries—you don't get to be a theocracy that's already survived a thousand Great Years without thinking in the long term. But the way they've done it is ingenious.”

  “By forging an alliance of your enemies.”

  “Enemies—trading partners—it's hard to tell the difference at times! We're a vigorous young nation, Tripp, and we can play rough with our neighbors. It's all in pursuit of trade, of course, but I suppose if you've been on the receiving end of one of our sieges or raids you'll probably bear a grudge.

  “And into this seething arena of power politics and revenge walks my Brod! What an opportunity he, aided and abetted by the fair Vala, has offered those wizened old men around the Left Hand Seat. So you have a romantic war of rescue and revenge. But the irony is, it isn't really Brod's fault. As we've said, Vala was never a helpless abductee.”

  Tripp nodded, sipping her tea. “Which is why you sent for me.”

  “Yes—and thank you for coming all this way. I suspect we have a common interest. Obviously we want some kind of settlement of this conflict, without further cost in lives and trade. And you have your own trading targets to meet—”

  “And, if we miss them,” Tripp reminded her, “the ultimate result is we starve. For we rely on food imports from the lower latitudes.”

  Maryam studied her, an uncomfortable scrutiny. “And you especially, Tripp, have a motive for seeing this sorry business settled.”

  “I do?”

  “I haven't forgotten your talk of an expedition to the Antistellar. All postponed because of the war, I imagine? Look—if you help us resolve this conflict we of Port Wilson will help you achieve your goal. Materials, supplies, tractors, crew—whatever you need.”

  Tripp rubbed her cheek. “I should tell you that most of my people, the elders, aren't interested in the Antistellar. It is half a world away even from us—”

  “But you're interested,” Maryam said bluntly. “And it's you who's sitting here. You're a good negotiator. I've seen that.” She sat back. “Offer them a deal, concerned specifically with the reason they went to war: Brod and Vala. You can offer a punishment for Brod, to return Vala—whatever. If we can resolve the immediate issue there's a good chance this whole conflict will just dissolve.”

  Tripp nodded. “It might work.”

  “It's certainly worth a try, for all our sakes—”

  There were footsteps, and Vala came bustling in. “Good mid-watch, Maryam.” She turned to Tripp, who rose.

  Maryam smiled. “Vala, this is Tripp, from the Pole station. I'm sure you met her at the Colloquy last Great Year.”

  Vala wore a short skirt, shirt and sweater, sensible-looking shoes, and she carried a racquet. She smiled prettily at Tripp. “Forgive me if I can't remember your face, madam Tripp. There was rather a lot going on at the time!”

  Tripp bowed her head, forgiving. But she hadn't forgotten Vala's face. Who could? Her delicate features—that long nose, the high cheeks—the bright red hair and startling blue eyes seemed, if anything, accentuated by the subtler, slanting light of this mid-latitude location. She was thin, as most of Wilson's citizens seemed to be after the long siege, but Vala had always been slender, Tripp seemed to remember, and she had always worn it well. Most inhabitants of Earth III were stocky, but humans who had a deeper sense of aesthetics seemed to prefer a slender build.

  Tripp found herself staring at this girl whose very understandable desire to take hold of her own destiny had caused so much trouble—and who was coming close to breaking the heart of a young man who at this moment was scraping at a hillside trying to grow potatoes. Vala smiled, evidently used to stares, and Tripp looked away, embarrassed.

  Vala turned to Maryam. “I thought I'd play some racquets with Roco.”

  “Her racquets coach,” Maryam murmured to Tripp. “Brod will be back for his supper—”

  “Oh, I'll be home long before then. Bye—and nice to meet you, Tripp from the Pole!” She skipped out, swinging her racquet.

  Maryam sighed. “Poor Brod! I don't think she has feelings for Roco. But young men seem attracted to her like mirror-birds to the light.”

  Tripp murmured, “She is beautiful—no wonder she causes so much trouble—it's not just her physical beauty but the friendliness in her face, the openness—I could barely take my eyes off her myself !”

  “I noticed,” Maryam said sternly. “Funny lot, you Polars. Well—I suppose you'd like a bed for the sleep watch? It will be another tricky journey, I imagine, back out through the line of the siege, if you're to meet Elios . . .”

  * * * *

  VI

  Despite the siege's privations, at least within the Wilson perimeter there was a semblance of civic order—and evidently, judging from Maryam, there were still citizens able to live reasonably well. Not to mention Vala and her racquets!

  But for the besieging army things were much rougher. There was little sense of order beyond the basic military command structure, and the army units were expected to fend for themselves. So the countryside for many kilometers around had been systematically plundered, and all the way up the valley of the Wilson there was only bare, trampled earth where once crops had grown and sheep had grazed.

  In their camp, some soldiers had been on station for nearly the whole siege, living beside drains they themselves had dug out to the river, and wearing uniforms that were reduced to the color of the mud. Everywhere smoke rose from the endless fires, and Tripp saw rat carcasses and other indefinable bits of meat roasting on skewers. All of this went on under the flags of the Speakerhood, listlessly fluttering banners that showed a fat bird-like shape with fixed wings, a black underbelly, and wheels.

  “It doesn't change,” the young lieutenant from New Denver said, as he and Tripp picked their way carefully through this morass. He had been assigned as Tripp's escort and guard. “Watch after watch. The Star just hangs there in the sky, and we all sit in the mud, waiting. Every so often we mount a raid against the walls, or the Wilsonians come riding out against us, and there's a bit of drama. But then it's just back to sitting and waiting.”

  Tripp squinted up at the Star; lacy clouds hung before a face mottled by spots and flares. “We
humans came from a turning world, where a sun rose and set. I wonder if we miss that, on some deep level.”

  “It feels like I've been here all my life,” said the officer miserably.

  They let their horses walk on in silence.

  Naturally the Speaker of Speakers wasn't living in the mud with his soldiers. At a small jetty near Wilson's main harbor wall, a smack was waiting to carry Tripp out through the picket-line of blockading ships and to the Speaker's yacht. This was a grand affair, painted brilliant white, standing well off the coast and out of range of any gunfire. The smack's captain seemed a gossipy sort, and he regaled Tripp with tales of the twice-daily arrival of provision ships from the Navel, and the petty graft that followed.

  Tripp, weary and travel-worn and carrying her packs of spare clothes and trade goods, felt shabby indeed as she was conducted into the august presence of the Speaker of Speakers, and told to sit on a couch to wait. In his white robe, Elios easily filled the chair on which he sat, as he received submissions from advisers and ministers who entered the cabin one after another, with an aide at his side taking notes and murmuring in his master's ear.

  The chair itself, however, was unusual—not a throne but practical-looking, a sturdy metal frame hung with canvas, and with straps, unattached now, that could be buckled around the Speaker's girth.

  Elios saw her looking. There seemed to be a gap in the flow of supplicants, and the Speaker of Speakers beckoned Tripp forward. “I noticed you studying the chair.”

  “Yes. I couldn't help wondering—we Polars like to think of ourselves as engineers, Speaker—”

  “Could this be the Left Hand Seat itself ?”

  Boldly Tripp walked around the throne, and Elios's assistants looked faintly alarmed. “Light but sturdy. Harnesses to hold in the occupant. It is a seat from a ship, a ship designed to sail in the air. Just as the legend of the Landfall says.”

  Elios slapped the metal frame. “Sadly the original is in a vault, somewhere deep beneath the ground on the Navel—precious beyond reckoning, as you can imagine. But this is said to be a fair replica, and is itself hundreds of Great Years old. But—'legend'?” His voice was sharp, faintly mocking. “Are you not a true believer, Madam Tripp?”