Analog Science Fiction and Fact - Jan-Feb 2014

by Penny Publications

  "I am aware of it, good Doctor Reevish. But she would receive what kind of care in the hands of servants, eh, in either High Hallum or her father's great house at Upper Fiankrish?"

  "Your girl seems a most devoted servant, heh."

  "She is all of that, but she is only one person, and there is all the Servants' Hall for her to combat; sloth, indifference, insolence—especially insolence. No, doctor, I can trust no one else with her care. And even here," anguish twisted his face and voice, "the care is not good enough to cure."

  "You are doing all that can be done, believe me." The doctor bowed again. "You are a good man, Darioch Famm and Trayce of High Hallum; the best husband I have ever met."

  He genuflected again, mounted to his seat, and Hoed his six-legged Staunch. It awoke, bestirred itself, and pulled his conveyance away.

  Darioch reentered Jollicot, smiled at his wife. "Dr. Reevish sends you his compliments."

  Ziana smiled back at him. "A good man, a better perhaps than we deserve."

  "My dear, to see you reduced to playing 'the game' of flirtation with the good doctor," Darioch said wretchedly, seating himself on a low stool and taking her hand—it was like a puppet's wooden hand in a thin soft glove.

  "Och, the good man—but so plain and straightforward and fearful of giving offense, ha!" Ziana laughed her faint laugh.

  "Once your lovers came from every noble family," Darioch said bitterly. "You were courted by the handsomest and most sought-after young men in all the Yellow Land. And not one of them has come to see you, ha! Few have so much as sent you a note of polite regret at your illness."

  "So I am reduced to playing 'the game' with this clumsy bumpkin," Ziana said. "Poor fellow, ha! He can never be at ease if he reduces his pleasantries to less than the most formal." Her smile faded. "He gives you no hope, I believe, eh?"

  "Och, yes, heh, you may recover at any time. Or, of course, you may be years in recovering."

  "No, heh, I shall never recover. I know. For you, I am sorry; but I have done with grief for myself."

  Darioch squeezed her hand. "I believe it is warm enough now for you to be out. In the east yard—where you may see the spires of Belzoond and their banners brave—or in the south yard, where you may see the Little River, and even a bight of the mighty Xanthides flowing by. Eh?"

  "By all means the south yard, heh," she said. "I am not yet ready for the excitement of watching the passersby on the road."

  Ginchy entered immediately, wiping her hands on her apron. Darioch picked Ziana up coverlet and all, and the girl bent to the slope chair. It had been built on an ingenious and expensive plan, with wheels and a brake.

  Darioch stepped to the front door and Ziana reached to open it. Carefully he carried her through, and out to the road, waiting while Ginchy wheeled the chair around the cot into the south yard.

  Man and wife, they surveyed their world: the narrow, tree-lined lane, the low sturdy aluminum-nut bushes in the field across it, the banks of wildflowers along the lane, the pinwheel plants inert in the still air but the bell-flowers tolling elfinly to guide the bees to them. Beyond a hill to the northeast, the modest roofs of the village of Belzoond. Along the horizon to the north, half-glimpsed behind the trees, was a range of hills amid which, unseen, reared High Hallum.

  Ziana's eyes were rather on the deep blue sky than the land. "What a wonderful old world is this Prime Mondeign of ours, ha! How many generations of man-kin have dwelt here, in all our years on this our first world. Ach, and I had thought to add one more bright face to all those who have come and gone."

  She turned a face of tragedy to Darioch, who could only hold her the tighter. But she exerted herself, wiped away tears, and was soon again mistress of her feelings. She smiled tremulously up at him.

  "And I do assure you, good Darioch, that my daughter was, w-would have been your daughter. For you know that we wicked women of the noble classes have a great pride to bear only the children of our husbands, however so charming our lovers may be."

  Darioch looked at her with surprise. "Truly, dear wife, I never doubted that. I know your honor would admit of nothing less than the most complete fidelity."

  "I am glad," she said softly. "Sometimes when the evil fit is on me, I have grieved lest you think that ill of me. But your expression answers all my fears. I do not grow too heavy for you, eh?"

  "No, heh, you are too light to please me, and your doctor."

  She laughed, but in a moment looked up solemnly.

  "O, Darioch. It would be best if you were to leave me and return to your place in society. What a mortal waste, ha!"

  "I could not do that."

  "I know how much you love Lisiani Chomney née Radann of Lucrecious Ironfields. You gave up her to attend to me, ha! She was Prime of Radann, where I was both in beauty and birth only Cadent of Lozani at Upper Fiankrish."

  "Beauty varies with the beholder, and at a certain level, it is impossible to say that this one is superior to that."

  "Still, she is as beautiful as a Jackman woman, and you know the Manjacks were Altered for beauty and sensuality by philosophonts during the Heights of Mankind. And she has some of the pride and self-centeredness of those creatures, surely. It grieves me that she has neither visited nor, as I think, written to you—eh?"

  His expression was quite devoid of feeling. "Neither, heh."

  "I had thought better of her—I would have had her do better by you."

  Darioch smiled miserably and turned her about, to face Jollicot. The dull brown stone of the walls, the silver-gray hornstone roof, seemed to have grown from the ground, covered with flowering vines. Beyond it, the green hills ran down toward the mighty river Xanthides, a muddy-yellow glimpse.

  "She is too ambitious to waste herself on a fool who throws himself away caring for a chronically ill wife," he said, with a clumsy attempt at lightness. "A true child of nobility."

  "Her husband avers that you love her more than life itself."

  "Heh. But not more than honor, which is my duty."

  "Waste piled on waste," she said disapprovingly. "I feel all the more guilty, ha."

  "As if you were purposefully indisposed, ha!"

  Both smiling, he carried her past the cottage into the south yard.

  Darioch was in the kitchen, compounding an unguent. He was no longer bemused to find himself in such a humble purlieu. Through the arched window in the thick stone wall he watched his wife, and when she dozed off, he summoned Ginchy from the wash and sent her to wheel Ziana into the shade.

  Motion near his face caught his eye, like the gauzy wings of some tiny insect. It was a glowing spot of light, doing a little dance to attract his attention. A voice spoke from the air.

  "Sophonid Zelander speaking, huh. The man-kin Purzan SonPurzan Basbesoch and Suskrish of Doon West Hall requests permission to intrude, huh."

  "Permission granted, Sonny, ha! And you are how, and things at Manming, eh?"

  To one side of the counter appeared the likeness of a man of early middle years, face prematurely lined and temples white, dressed in sober blue-gray trimmed with silver.

  "As bad as ever, and the worse for your absence, heh," grunted this apparition.

  Darioch knew vaguely that a part of the mind of Zelander shuttled between Manming and Jollicot sixteens of times each second, carrying the impalpable image of Purzan to him and his to Purzan, faithfully mocking every expression, gesture, tone of voice.

  "Old 'Mattock' Shang has completed his agricultural report, eh?"

  "Och, come, Darioch, you know I didn't request Zelander's time to engage in gossip. We want you, man, we need your cool head and steady hand." He stared at Darioch earnestly. "Relations with the Westerlands deteriorate weekly—almost daily. This dispute over the Veliana Vale—"

  "So that has not changed."

  "Man, I tell you that it has, ha! We may be at war within a month, two at the most. The attitude of Yurek Rutz—"

  "These are serious, even tragic, tidings."

&n
bsp; "Then, you will return to the Capital, eh?"

  Darioch looked down at his wooden bowl, up again. He spoke as if words were wrenched out of him.

  "I wish I could. But I can return how, eh? I can leave Ziana how, eh? Just walk out the door, eh?"

  Purzan SonPurzan stared at him, opened and closed his mouth, and frowned.

  "If I had even the smallest notion that my 'cool head and steady hand' would make any difference, you may be sure I would come, heh. But I have no connections in the Westerlands who would be of help in the crisis. Especially if both sides are as uncompromising as they were last year."

  "But surely your duty to the Yellow Land must recall you."

  Darioch hesitated. "I own that you tempt me, setting one duty against another. But as I cannot help, my duty to my wife—" pain harshened his voice "—who has no one but me, must take precedence."

  Purzan stared at him for some moments. "I see it is true, what they said, that you cannot be persuaded." He sighed. "I never thought I would have occasion to bewail the over-particularity of your sense of duty," he said bitterly. "This may be the last time we speak, so let me go only with the assurance of the regard of everyone here at the Capital for you."

  "Return to them my equal regards, and my regrets. Farewell, Purzan."

  "Farewell, Darioch."

  The apparition winked out, diminishing the light in the room.

  Darioch mechanically turned the salve once more with the wooden spoon, then backed from the counter. He seated himself on a stool with his forearms on his knees, and sat thus for some minutes without moving, staring blankly.

  Presently he was recalled to life by a weak cry from the yard, "Och, Ginchy, ha!"

  The servant girl was too noisy with the wash to hear, and he called to her, "Ginchy, ha, your mistress calls."

  He stood mechanically and reached for the wooden spoon to ladle the unguent into a stoneware jar. Motion beyond the window caught his eye. Ziana, not waiting for Ginchy, was struggling feebly out of the chair.

  Hastily wiping his hands, he made for the door, hearing Ginchy's voice: "O my mistress, ha, you must not exert yourself!"

  "Ginchy, p-please," Ziana said feebly. "I ache so...."

  The girl put her arm round her lady's shoulder.

  "Darioch, ha, I am s-sorry. My back aches, I could not sleep...."

  "I have but just finished compounding a champion new balm of a recipe we have not yet tried," Darioch said, taking her arm. "I shall carry you within doors, eh?"

  "P-please, no, heh, my back... Please let me walk, it is not far."

  Dubiously he looked at Ginchy, who thrust her lower lip out but nodded. The girl kept her arm around her lady's shoulders as Ziana shuffled carefully into the cottage.

  "I can sit, I have no sores in contact, so long as I lean forward," Ziana said, indicating a straight chair.

  Darioch knew that she would become fatigued and even dizzy if she sat upright too long. "First, allow me to apply the balm," he said. "It is fresh now, and will do you good."

  "Ginchy can apply it," Ziana said. The girl nodded.

  "And none could do it better, heh. But if I may be so bold, I wish to do it myself. With your permission, of course, mea domina."

  "Ach, I only sought to spare you pain of seeing my withered flesh. I have no longer any modesty left. And I know well enough not to come between yourself and that duty of yours," smiling to show the jest.

  They eased her onto the couch as gently as possible.

  "These are the chances of life," Ziana said, gasping with pain. "To this or something like it must we all come, soon or late."

  Her chemise was of the sickroom sort, though of silk and of a fashionable cut; it was untied and disassembled in a matter of moments, without disturbing the patient where she lay face down. Cruel rashes redly pitted her back and hips, but the true ache was in the muscles. Darioch felt a pang at the sight of her spine, ribs, pelvis all but protruding through the remaining flesh, and tears blotted Ginchy's eyelashes.

  Ziana sighed in relief as the analgesic took effect. Darioch rubbed gently until not only were all the sores medicated, but her back well massaged also.

  "So much better, ha," she said drowsily. "Darioch, do not trouble yourself about the sorry defection of all my lovers. It would puzzle and exhaust me to have them about, and to be frank, I would prefer not to have them see me thus. I can blame them how, for not wishing to see me in my decline, eh?"

  "They could have written," he said shortly. "I have no respect for them. And you, you hold Lisiani culpable as I do your feckless lovers. They are to be excused and she is not, eh?"

  "Women are different, heh," she said serenely. "Where we love, we feel more deeply than most men. With me and my lovers, it was but a game. I had thought it was more than that between you two."

  When he did not speak, she twisted about to look up at him. Darioch, silenced, managed to nod, with the face of a man attempting to contain his pain. Finished with the anointing, he gave her a light slap on her bottom below the rash.

  "You must stay off your back as much as possible," he said in a tone almost natural. "I may suggest that we put you face down in your slope chair, with the back as far back as it will go, eh?"

  Ziana looked around at him sleepily. "That might serve, heh, particularly as I am as sleepy as the girl who ate the porridge. I may continue amid the flowers, eh?"

  "Heh, until the heat of the day becomes too intense. Ginchy, eh?"

  The girl agreed, and Darioch carried his wife out again to the garden.

  3

  Darioch worked on the tansy tree while his wife slept in the shade of an arbor amid the flowers. The fine still heat of the day was broken at irregular intervals by rushes of wind that stirred the pinwheels on the edges of the yard into temporary motion, and doubled the elfin chiming of the bellflowers.

  Darioch was grafting the switches Dr. Reevish had brought, when motion in the air caught his attention. Again it seemed an insect, but was not.

  "Sophonid Yandle speaking, huh. The man-kin Tamroch Ankmo and Homniel at the Rampart requests permission to intrude, huh."

  "Permission granted, huh. Tammi, so good to hear from you, ha!"

  Tamroch's image appeared beside him, clad in the mode of forenoon fashion: knee-length blue chiton, golden sea-silk sash and hose, blue sandals with cross-gartered blue cords, and a dark cloak, of a shade that hovered fashionably between deep purple and black. On each shoulder, for contrast, was a crimson pomegranate—the efflorescence of last year's epaulets.

  "Tammi, you take my breath, ha! Quite the young buck of the walk, ha! Your tailor is whom, eh?"

  "Darry, ha, you idiot! But you could always make me smile. I hope that characterless brown smock does not represent the whole of your cottage wardrobe. When I think how well you once dressed, I despair of you."

  "No, heh, I have another like this for each day of the week. So, tell me how you managed to wangle from the Patron some of Yandle's time for this little ghostly visit, ho. Your father is still nully on your footling ways, eh?"

  Darioch finished tying off the current graft and turned to Tamroch, clapped his hands together in greeting—lightly, with a glance at Ziana sleeping nearby.

  Tamroch followed the glance and clapped greeting even more lightly. "I was more or less commanded to call upon you, heh," he answered in lower tones, shaking his head sadly at Ziana. "Old 'Sonny' Purzan ghosted the Patron just now and was closeted for a long talk. Upshot: I'm to call on you and casually urge you to return to your duties in Government. It seems Yurek Rutz in the Westerlands is swashing his buckle very loudly over the Veliana Vale—threatening war in fact—and only you can save the Yellow Land." He gave a shrug and a whimsical smile.

  "They pay you all to mention Yurek Rutz to me, eh?" Darioch asked ironically. "Sonny ghosted me this morning to 'casually urge' me himself."

  "Not what I'd call a keen man-kin. And so he sics me on you when you refuse him direct."

  Darioch sighe
d. "When your father asks, tell him what I told Sonny: if I thought I could sway the counsels of the nations, I would return to Manming forthwith. But there I can do nothing others cannot do, whereas here I can do that which no one else can. Here, then, my duty lies. Eh?"

  "Heh. I shall so inform the Patron. You do know, SonPurzan is only a few years older than we, eh? Poor fellow, he must have been born old."

  "Old and worried, yes. If it isn't one bat in his aviary, it's another. Hard to picture him enjoying such times as we had at old River Lodge, or even here at Jollicot."

  "Ah, yes, I was just reflecting on the years that have passed since those halcyon days when I visited here as a boy," Tamroch said. "I had my first affair in that very shed, in fact. Your cousin Izeea, it was—some few years before her lawful tetury."

  "Some few years before your sixteenth, too, it must have been. Look there at the Little River." Darioch pointed with the pruning knife. "Remember the time we tried to sail the canoe down to the Xanthides, eh?"

  Tamroch laughed. "Yes, heh, and I well remember the rock we caught on, which doubtless saved our scampish lives for greater deeds of doubt. Remember what your old NanNan said when we came back wet, scraped, and bleeding, eh? The old cat is where, eh?"

  "Retired, heh, in just such another cot as this, but in a village with much company and good neighbors. Krishman, I think." A shadow passed over his face. "I should visit her, I really should."

  "Well, while you're thinking of visits, don't forget younger friends, ho. You're always welcome here, and for the matter of that, a visit to Manming, the salons, the theaters, the townhouses of your friends—there you can be of material assistance in whiling away the time, even if you're of no help to the Government."

  "I hope, someday, I may be able to return. And who knows, maybe a visit would be possible. Someday."

  "Bring your Lightfoot stud, and I'll have him cover my Scortillum; their get will sweep the races."

  "Darioch," came Ziana's weak voice. "That is whom, eh?"

  "Tammi, heh," Darioch called. "As she's awake, and you're not really here and can thus be discussed, step over with me."