Southshore

by Sheri S. Tepper

  Tharius shook his head, wondering why they always thought of weapons first and talking later. ‘Do you have any seeker birds for the general?’

  The Jondarite saluted and ran off to get one from the cage. Tharius laid paper on his knee and wrote out the message. ‘To the Protector of Man. The Thraish plan some ceremony to discredit Pamra Don because she defends the Protector of Man. They seem to be gathering on the buttes at the entrance to the pass. Tharius.’ They sent the bird off, watching it winging down the river toward the Jondarite tents.

  ‘I’ve sent three messages by that bird already today,’ the Jondarite said. ‘That bird knows right where he is.’

  Tharius reached into his pocket for bread. He had been eating constantly since he left the Chancery, trying to convince himself he had strength enough to do whatever would need doing. ‘Can you get on top of that thing?’ He indicated the nearest butte. If the ceremony was to occur on that height, it might be necessary for them to get close in order to talk with Sliffisunda.

  ‘With grappling ladders, sure. Trouble is, we start to climb it, they’ll just move to another one. We don’t have enough men here to put a guard on all of them. The general’s already sent a message for all troops at Highstone Lees to join him here.’

  All the troops? Tharius stared at the man in amazement. There had never been a time when all the Jondarites had left Highstone Lees. ‘What are the fliers up to?’

  ‘I don’t know. They’ve been coming and going all day. Carrying trash. Look like a bunch of birds building a nest.’

  A nest, Tharius thought. For nestlings. Juveniles. One could be discredited in the eyes of a multitude by being reduced to the status of a juvenile. Would the mob understand that? Or would Sliffisunda explain it to them? He was too shrewd to let them misunderstand it, that was certain,

  ‘Have any of them come in carrying people?’

  The Jondarite shook his head. ‘Not that I’ve seen.’

  Tharius sighed. If Pamra Don was not yet here, then he was in time. There could still be negotiations. He gave quick instructions to the Jondarite. ‘You can see better from here than I’ll be able to from below. The minute you see any fliers carrying people – or any people approaching across the valley from the directions of the Red Talons – send me word. I’ll leave a man here with half a dozen of my birds.’

  He took another bite of the bread and started on down the pass, Martien close behind him. Martien was holding the green banner. Somewhere high above them among the encircling peaks there were signal posts and watchers, their eyes on that banner. Since Pamra Don had failed, he would have to send the signal for the strike soon. Better for everyone if he had sent it a year ago. ‘Weak,’ he castigated himself. ‘You’re weak, Tharius Don.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Martien asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Try to get to whoever’s in charge. Sliffisunda, maybe. Gendra, maybe. Or that Laugher, Ilze. The message I got said he was involved.’

  ‘How did the general get so far down the river? He couldn’t have left more than a few hours before you.’

  ‘He’s in better shape than I am, Martien. I have to face it. I’ve been a fool. Starving myself. It felt right, you know. Light. As though I were taking off weights, enabling myself to fly. I saw everything so clearly. The light was limpid. Nothing was complicated. I’d half convinced myself God was talking to me through Pamra Don. All the time it was only pride pretending to be something else. And Pamra Don the same. Familial stupidity, maybe. Well, I sent her into this. Now I have to get her out.’

  Far down the valley, Queen Fibji heard the reports of her own scouts. They had not expected this great mob of people. They had not expected to find the originator of the anti-Noor doctrine here, either, but Peasimy Flot was said to be present as well.

  Though mobs were always dangerous in the Queen’s opinion, and Strenge agreed with her, this one on this occasion was doubly, trebly dangerous. No matter what the general had said. She was not sure she believed him. If she believed him, she was not sure he could do what he promised. Too late, she told herself. His pleas for forgiveness had come too late.

  ‘I think we’d better move south, away from this, don’t you?’ she said to Strenge, breaking into his musing.

  ‘I think it would be wise,’ he agreed soberly. ‘I’ll call Noor-count and march.’ He was out of the tent before she could say anything more, and she had to summon her own people with a trembling hand on the bells. ‘Pack it up,’ she said. ‘We’re moving within the hour.’

  She did not want to think about the mob. General Jondrigar had just left her, and she did not wish to think of what they had said to one another, either. She distracted herself by helping with the packing, scandalizing her people thereby.

  From the air, the steppe looked like a carpet of ash and dun and grayed green. Pamra Don stared down at it, fascinated despite herself. If she could convince some of the fliers to carry her like this, her crusade could grow that much faster. Less time would be spent in travel. Though perhaps it was not necessary for the crusade to grow any more than it had. She had not spoken to Lees Obol yet, and when she did, perhaps he would believe her all at once as the general had done. Neff flew beside her, turning his shining face toward hers in the high, chill air. ‘Don’t you think so?’ she cried. ‘Neff?’

  He didn’t answer but merely sailed there, driven on the wind, just out of her reach.

  Tharius and his men continued their descent, the plain coming up to meet them as they twisted back and forth along the downward road. When they arrived at the bottom, a breathless runner confronted them with the general’s message. ‘Wait for him here, Lord Propagator. He follows close behind me.’

  It was an hour before the general arrived at the head of his battalions, during which time the fliers went on clustering at the butte tops and nothing changed.

  ‘Did you see Queen Fibji?’ Tharius asked, wondering at the expression on the man’s face. It was full of pain.

  ‘I saw her,’ heavy, without intonation. For a time Tharius thought he would not explain, but then he went on, ‘She heard me. She said if the God of man forgave me, ever, then so would she and her people. I do not know if the God of man has forgiven me or ever will, Tharius Don.’

  ‘I think – I think he probably has,’ Tharius said, astonished. Whether the God of man had forgiven Jondrigar or not; whether there was any such deity, they could not afford the time to worry about it now. ‘What is Queen Fibji doing here?’

  ‘It was the shortest route to Northshore from where they were, because of the good roads along Split River. The Queen said they would be leaving very soon. South. While there is time.’

  ‘Time?’

  ‘She says the crusaders plan to kill the Noor because the Noor are black. She says the crusaders have betrayed Pamra Don. A devil has come to lead them. So says Queen Fibji. She called upon me, the Protector of Man, to put an end to him.’

  Oh, clever Queen, Tharius thought half-hysterically. Turning her enemies or former enemies against one another. ‘What is this devil’s name?’

  ‘Peasimy Flot. He calls himself Peasimy Prime. He teaches no breeding, no children, no Noor. He cries, “Light comes,” and brings only darkness and death. So says Queen Fibji.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  The general gestured toward the west. ‘There. She showed me where. His people and wagons have recently arrived. If you will look with your glass, you can see him between those two buttes, high in his wagon, a crown on his head. I have looked at him. When we have talked, I will go kill him.’

  Tharius laid a hand upon his shoulder. ‘First we must take care of Pamra Don.’ He pointed out the buttes, showed the general the message he had received. ‘Two days ago, Jondrigar. Almost three. They would be here by now, wouldn’t you think?’

  ‘If they flew. Perhaps they didn’t. Perhaps they sent her back as she came to them, traveling over the steppe with Gendra Mitiar.’

  Tharius stared at the high bu
ttes. They couldn’t have picked a more visible place to do whatever they planned. Accessible only from the air, only by fliers, yet sloped enough to be unconcealed to all except those at the foot of the butte. Even as he stared, the seeker bird arrived.

  ‘Fliers carrying baskets, slow, coming this way.’

  From the air, the butte tops looked like tables above the colorful carpet of the valleys. Nearest the pass were two where many fliers clustered, and it was to one of these that Gendra and Ilze were carried and tumbled out with no ceremony. Ilze was on his feet at once, shaking his fist and screaming, but Gendra lay where she had rolled, unable to move. Some link within her was broken, she thought dully. Some vital connection. At last she gathered her remaining strength and struggled to her feet. At the very center of the space they stood upon, Sliffisunda crouched among a few weathered boulders, invisible to anyone looking from below, staring across Gendra’s shoulder. She turned. Across from her, level with her eyes, was another butte, perhaps a hundred yards away. Fliers clustered on it like flies on puncon jam, getting in each other’s way.

  They are building a nest, she thought to herself. The stupid fliers are building a nest. She looked down. Thousands of faces stared back at her, white ovals, mouths open. A ripple moved from the base of the butte outward as people turned, staring, faces and faces. A murmur came, like a murmur of waves. She had not expected this many, not this many.

  A new emotion came to her, all at once. Dismay. There should not have been this many crusaders. And there should have been only a few Jondarites, but there were Jondarites everywhere. With their bows. Why were there so many Jondarites?

  Beside her Ilze stood, still waving his fists at the crouching Talker, screaming at him. ‘You owe her to me, Sliffìsunda. You owe me!’

  A flier came screaming low over the crowd below. Gendra could not understand what it said, but the crowd seemed to understand, for the murmur deepened, became a roar.

  Tharius crumpled the message and raised his glass. The fliers had reached one of the buttes near the pass and dumped the basket on it. Someone stood up, shaking his fist. ‘Ilze,’ Tharius breathed. ‘The Laugher. They’ve brought him. There’s another one.’ This time the tumbled figure did not stand up at once; when it did, Tharius could hardly recognize it. Gendra Mitiar? It looked dead, a staggering corpse. An errant wind brought Ilze’s shouts to their ears, though they could not see whom he was shouting at.

  ‘You owe her to me, Sliffìsunda. She’s mine!’

  ‘Where are the Jondarites who were with Gendra?’ the general asked. ‘What has happened to them?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Tharius answered. ‘Gendra and Ilze seem to have come willingly. They haven’t been hurt.’

  He tried to think. He had to get a message to Sliffìsunda somehow, get him to talk. But where was Sliffìsunda? Was he even here? His frantic thought was interrupted by a harsh cawing as a flier came over them from the east, flying low, screaming its message so that all could hear: ‘Pamra Don is a heretic. Pamra Don denies Potipur. See how the Thraish deal with heretics!’ Elsewhere upon the plain other fliers soared, all screaming the same message.

  The flier turned and came over once more, still screaming. The general spoke to his aide. Before Tharius could intervene, men reached for their crossbows and quarrels flew. The flier choked, sideslipped, tumbled from the sky in a crumpled heap. Elsewhere on the plain, other cross-bowmen began to shoot and other fliers fell. From the butte came a cry of rage. The Talkers had not expected this. Fliers and Talkers rose from it in a cloud, straight up, offering no further targets.

  Oh, gods, Tharius thought. Now they won’t listen to any offer of talk.

  The roar became a howl. Gendra sank to her knees. The stupid fliers shouldn’t have done it. Shouldn’t have threatened Pamra Don. It was all going wrong, all wrong. ‘Sliffisunda,’ she croaked, trying to warn him. He ignored her, his eyes glowing. ‘Don’t,’ she croaked. ‘You’d better take the woman down to them and let her alone.’

  He turned his back on her, shat, walked closer to the edge of the butte, eyes still fixed on the other tabletop.

  When they began to descend, Pamra leaned over the basket side, seeing everything from above, a great, scattered carpet of followers, her followers. She took a deep breath and the rapture came, glowing. All her followers, waiting for her.

  ‘Pamra Don,’ said Lila again.

  She scarcely heard the child. Above her, wings tilted toward one of the flat-topped mountains. It had a huge nest built on it, a flier nest.

  Before she could think about that, they had taken her out of the basket and tied her to something in the nest. What did they think she was? A nestling? The fliers were screaming in rage. They wanted her to look like a nestling, that was it. Wings lifted in a cloud, leaving only one or two of the fliers behind her. She could not see them. She could not see the nearby followers either, only the distant ones, a wave of faces, turning toward her, thousands of faces.

  She smelled smoke. Smelling smoke always made her think of flame-birds. In her arms, Lila grew very still. Still and hard.

  Tharius had no more time to think of talking with the Thraish. A laboring pair of fliers appeared high above the butte and dropped onto it, burdened by the load they carried. ‘Tell your men not to shoot,’ Tharius cried. ‘That’s Pamra Don.’

  Too late. The bowmen were already shooting, but it had no effect. The edges of the butte effectively blocked the bolts, which rattled harmlessly on the rocks. Tharius focused his glass upon the butte top. There was a huge pile of twigs and branches there, an untidy cupped mass, as all Thraish nests were. His stomach heaved, and he vomited violently, Martien holding his shoulders. ‘Stop them,’ he croaked. ‘We’ve got to stop them!’ Suddenly he knew what they were about to do.

  There was no time. There was scarcely time to feel horror. The distant figure was tied upright in the nest and it was set alight, all in a moment. A moment. They could scarcely see her through the smoke. ‘She’s carrying the baby,’ Tharius cried, as horrified at this as at the distant puff of smoke. Flames rose up, almost invisible in the sunlight. Word spread among the crusaders, and they turned toward the butte, seeing the fliers circling above it, the flames, the struggling form there disclosed, then hidden by blowing smoke. A cry rose up, a great shout. One of the bowmen made a lucky shot, and a Talker tumbled from the sky. The fliers rose, screaming, then darted downward, claws extended, only to fall victim to the cloud of bolts. Some fell into the plain still alive and were beaten to death by crusaders as the shout rose, louder and louder.

  Ilze watched, his eyes bulging, his body twitching. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Don’t,’ Gendra begged. ‘We’ve made a mistake, Uplifted One. It won’t happen as you expected it to. Put out the fire …’

  The first flames touched Pamra Don. Neff, she thought. She tried to look over her shoulder to see his face, but she couldn’t. He was there, she felt his blazing glory. Before her on the rimrock were her mother and Delia, but Neff was behind her. He was hurting her. ‘Neff,’ she cried. The flames were all around her, and she cried his name again, the word rising up in an agonized howl to fill a silence that had fallen over all that multitude, rising and rising from a throat that could not stop it nor end it nor consider what it was doing, on and on and on into a silence that seemed to resound with it still when it had ended.

  ‘Get grappling ladders onto that butte,’ the general shouted, not seeing that Jondarites had already done so and were scaling the sheer wall, being attacked by furious fliers, thrown down, replaced by others, with the smoke still blowing. The first man reached the top, was pitched off by buffeting wings, was replaced by two more who flailed with their hatchets at the fliers guarding the fire. Other men poured up the ladders after them. The wind stilled for a moment, falling into an enormous, awful silence. Into this silence the scream insinuated itself as though dropping from the heights of the sky itself to fill all the world. It had all agony in it, all pain, all l
oneliness. Pamra’s voice. One endless scream. Then again the silence.

  And after the silence a roar of fury which moved across the multitudes like a mighty wave, from the base of the butte to the farthest edges of the encampment. Fliers had landed here and there to strut and crow before crowds of unarmed crusaders. They were clubbed to the earth, clubbed into the earth, pounded into bloody soil and scraps of feathers.

  ‘You should not have done it,’ Gendra muttered, falling to the stone. She had no more strength. Nothing mattered now. She knew what would happen next. It was inevitable. From beside her, Sliffisunda watched, amazed and wild-eyed. This was not the way it should have gone. The humans should have cowered before this. On the Stones of Disputation it had been decided, they would be frightened, they would be abased, obedient. But they were not. They screamed. They howled. Sliffisunda felt a strange, unfamiliar emotion. Terror.

  ‘Hostages,’ he screamed to three fliers near him in the sky. ‘Take these two humans. We may need hostages.’

  Obedient, as frightened as Sliffisunda himself, they dropped straight down and took off again, Ilze struggling in their claws, Gendra Mitiar hanging limp, unconscious. They tilted, spun, flew toward the Red Talons. Behind them, bolts filled the air and other, less wary fliers fell from the sky.

  Tharius Don found himself running, not remembering when he had started running, only that he was. The general pounded along beside him, both of them headed for the butte that was about a quarter mile away, close to the main river. Without the glass, they could not see its top. They panted their way to its bottom, leaned against the stone, puffing. A Jondarite came down the ladder.

  ‘The woman?’ the general asked. ‘Pamra Don?’

  ‘I think she’s dead, General.’