Watcher's Web

by Patty Jansen

  He raised his eyebrows. “Images?”

  Jessica spoke in a barely audible whisper. “When I was in that cave . . . Someone runs down the stairs with me and puts me in that water. My mother, I think . . . and then the earth rumbles . . . and I drown and . . .” She fought back tears in her eyes, hearing, again and again, those footsteps, that thudding of the door, the panting breaths. Her mother saving her while she herself had perished?

  Iztho stared at her, his eyes wide. “You . . . you remember that?”

  Jessica shrugged. “How long ago did this happen?”

  How long had she floated, hovering between life and death in some dark, watery place? Could any of her family still be alive?

  Without speaking, Iztho groped in the pocket on the inside of his cloak and produced a disk-like piece of equipment. He fiddled with it until red lights danced across the screen; he held it out to her.

  At first, the simple characters made no sense, but then she recognised a clumsy attempt at roman script. Blazing across the screen was a date: 17 April 47,513 BC.

  What?

  He had to be kidding.

  No way she could have survived for—

  Iztho inclined his head. “My Lady.”

  Jessica jumped up, blood rushing to her cheeks. “Oh stop that, stop that! I’m not a lady, I’m just Jessica. Just ordinary Jessica!” But she knew her protests were futile; it all made far too much sense, and she had left ordinary Jessica behind long ago.

  She took a deep shuddering breath.

  All Pengali around the hall stared at her with huge eyes which glinted in the dark. Ikay knelt at her feet and someone murmured, “Anmi.” Before long the murmur travelled through the hall. Anmi, the name which, years beyond understanding, someone—her parents?—had tattooed on her arm.

  Jessica just stood there, ignoring voices around her, shaking uncontrollably. Tears flooded her eyes, trickled down her cheeks. She wiped at her cheeks, but new tears fell. Her mouth trembled. She sank down on the floor, biting her lip. All alone. There would never be any relatives of any kind.

  20

  WHEN JESSICA stumbled up the steps of the guesthouse, clutching Iztho’s arm, a wave of fatigue washed over her. It must be well past midnight. Most of the windows facing the street were dark, and only a faint glow of light radiated from the archway into the entrance hall. That afternoon, when Iztho had taken her into the guesthouse after their visit to the dressmaker, the hall had bustled with activity and patrons of all races and sizes lined up to talk to a keihu woman with an enormous bird’s nest of hair. Now, the lectern-like table that held the matron’s booking system—a concertina-folded stack of paper tumbling to the floor—stood empty and deserted, lit by a small light in a sea of darkness.

  Iztho’s high boots clacked on the mosaic floor. He hadn’t said much on the way back, as if he sensed she wasn’t up to speaking. She was thankful for that.

  Now he led her up the stairs to the first floor balcony, where he had booked two adjacent rooms overlooking the courtyard. Jessica longed for the softness of the bed. Yet she didn’t want to be alone with the truth.

  He stopped in front of the door to her room. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  The ghostly light from a single pearl on the wall a few rooms down cast deep shadows over his face.

  “I can understand if you are upset.”

  Jessica turned away. “No, really, I’m fine.” Just shut up or I’ll start crying and I’ll never stop.

  “All right, sleep well.”

  The door to her room rolled open. A rectangle of moonlight slanted through the window, edging the oval, dog-basket-like bed in a golden glow.

  Jessica froze in the doorway. Alone. Her mother and her father had died millennia ago, saved her life. For . . . for what? So that she could lead her life in loneliness?

  Except for Daya who lives only in my mind. But he wasn’t replying, and maybe he, too, was only a vivid memory.

  She stifled a choking sob.

  A few footsteps and Iztho’s hands were on her shoulders. “You are not fine.”

  His moonlit-edged face blurred in a haze of tears. He led her into the room and sat her down on the couch in the corner. “Let me get you a drink.”

  Jessica bit her lip, fighting tears, staring blindly at the opposite wall, but seeing only black eyes and a gentle male face surrounded by dark curls. A memory. He was nothing but a memory. What was the point of knowing her history if none of her people were left? What was the point of anything in her life?

  The door rattled and Iztho came back, carrying a carafe, two cups and a large case, the strap slung over his shoulder. Jessica frowned through her tears. “What’s that?”

  He set the cups on the stable, unstoppered the carafe and poured. A scent of sweet flowers drifted on the air. One cup he passed to her.

  “Just sit and drink for a while.”

  He clicked the case open. Folds of blue satin-like fabric glimmered in the moonlight, cradling an instrument like a lute, the body trapezoid with rounded corners. Its metal surface shimmered with delicate engraved patterns. He picked it up by its short neck, caressing the strings with a soft musical tingle. Eyes closed, he took his cup from the table, drank deeply and put it back down. Then he set his fingers on the strings and music filled the room. A soft, lilting melody; baroque-like, but with a hint of something wild and untamed.

  Jessica sipped from the sweet drink, not daring to make the slightest noise. His eyes were still closed; a strand of hair had slid off his shoulders, part-obscuring his face. He hummed, then whispered words which formed into song, his tone deep and warm.

  The Mirani words were too archaic and formal for her to understand, but every now and then he repeated the lines:

  My heart goes where I know

  I will always be at home

  Where my love smiles at me

  Tears pricked in Jessica’s eyes. When the song ended, he reached out for his glass.

  The sudden silence unsettled her. She wasn’t sure if he expected a reaction, so she said, “You play beautifully.” It sounded clumsy.

  His eyes didn’t meet hers. “A Mirani folk song.”

  He set his fingers on the strings again. “Do you want to hear more?”

  “Yes.”

  He played a few notes, then looked up at her. “I’m a Trader. I talk about buying and selling. I’m afraid I’m not much good at talking about . . . personal things.”

  “Neither am I.” She fiddled with the hem of her tunic. “But your music speaks beautiful words.”

  He played another chord. “That’s an accident. Life would have been a lot easier for me if I hadn’t . . .” He sighed and put the instrument aside. “But that’s me. Let’s talk about you, your incredible history—”

  “There is nothing incredible about it!”

  “Yet there is.” His voice was soft.

  “But I’m . . . all alone.” She fought to keep her voice from breaking.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There are others. Men, mostly.”

  “There are?” Daya.

  “Yes. You see, it is clear that the Coldi race somehow arose from the Aghyrians, and it happens that every now and then a Coldi couple will have a child, a boy usually, who is unlike his parents. He will be thin and tall, and cope poorly with the heat. Most of these children die young, but the few who survive are men with feared abilities. The Coldi call them zhadya-born and treat them like they’re abnormalities. You see, most of them . . .” He made a helpless gesture. “Most of them suffer terribly in the mind, and they’re not quite normal, but . . .”

  He looked away. “I could take you to meet them. I think you could help them.” He drank from his glass, not meeting her eyes.

  She didn’t know what to say. What did he expect? That she would jump at the chance of meeting a group of mentally unstable men?

  What if Daya is with them?

  She shook her head. �
��I’d like you take me home.”

  He frowned. “Home?”

  “Yes. Where I came from. The family where I grew up. They may not be my real family, but no one else has ever looked after me.” Tears again threatened in the corners of her eyes. Home, where she could go on being a freak. How could she explain her absence, how could she forget this world?

  “I could take you home, but you would need to be . . . treated, so you won’t remember where you’ve been. The Union is strict with its secrecy laws.” His voice sounded hesitant.

  “You mean—if I go back home, someone will give me some kind of drug?” Anger flared in her. No, she didn’t want to forget any of this.

  “Yes, that’s true, but there is another option. I would never have thought to offer this to you, but your history simply can’t be forgotten. I’m offering to sponsor you for Union citizenship.”

  Now it was Jessica’s turn to frown. “What does that mean?”

  “Union citizenship is awarded to the most trustworthy people of the Union entities. You must be of good character, you can’t have a criminal history, and you must have enough intelligence to learn Union Law; there is an exam. When you’ve passed, there is no limit on what you can do. You can be called to judge on minor disagreements, you can teach, and you can even sit on the Union Assembly in the Union capital Damarq. They deal with inter-entity matters, most importantly the Exchange, and coordinate responses to major crises or conflicts. On the practical side, once you’re a Union citizen, you can travel.” He inserted his hand under his cloak and withdrew a black card a bit smaller than a credit card. “This gives you the right to travel wherever you want.”

  Jessica took the card. The surface was warm with the touch of his skin and completely smooth. “You mean, if I have one of these, I could see my parents . . .” He raised his eyebrows at that word. “. . . and still come back here to see what else the Pengali know?”

  “Whenever it is safe. Barresh is not very stable, I’m afraid. But I’m sure a visit to the men of your race would be appreciated.”

  She could look for Daya.

  “If I agreed, how long would it take before I get this pass?”

  “Not long, about a year. You could do most of the work in Miran. My family owns a large house in the noble quarters. You could stay there. You’d have your own servant, of course.”

  “A year?” How long was a year? “And I can’t contact my family all that time?”

  “Strictly, no, but I know how important family is. Who is your family’s heir?”

  “I don’t have any brothers or sisters. My parents—adoptive parents—never—”

  “Just as I thought—it is important that they know you are alive. If you give me the details, I will make sure that they are told.”

  Jessica opened her mouth, didn’t know what to say and closed it again. It was as if the revelation about her past had changed his opinion of her. She was no longer a nobody, but someone to be held in awe. A different awe from the way the Pengali treated her. The Pengali wanted to reconnect. He just wanted to . . . sit and watch her, with a far-off look on his face.

  It was all so strange, and she didn’t know what to think. His offer sounded good, although she still didn’t know what he wanted from her in return. Sex didn’t seem to be it. Maybe she was being paranoid in thinking that he should want something in return. Maybe he just wanted to do the right thing by her. Maybe it was what these people did.

  Sheesh, what did she know?

  “You can think about my offer, if you need. With the need to get you a permit, we won’t be going anywhere for a while, at least until tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow! That was only a few hours away. “I . . . I like it, I . . .”

  “That’s good, then.”

  He finished his drink in one gulp and slid the lute back on his lap. When his fingers hit the strings, it was with a sense of determination, and the song flowing from his lips jumped with life.

  Yes. Let’s do this.

  21

  JESSICA JOLTED AWAKE when Daya woke with a gasp. Hazy flames danced before his eyes. The back of his arms puckered in gooseflesh, but shone with sweat.

  He stood tied to a wall that was cold like a block of ice. Broad bands looped around his chest. Tight bands held his arms and legs in a spreadeagled position. A thin tube led from his left arm to a machine where a red light blinked; a thick bandage covered his right arm, the wires protruding from it and leading to a box attached to a glass-stone vessel filled with what looked like beads. Whatever they had stuck up that arm still hurt like burning acid.

  Jessica called, Daya.

  How long had he been out?

  Men spoke in soft voices somewhere in the room.

  “. . . and you got how much from the others?” Daya was sure he had seen this man before: an army commander of some kind, somewhere in a field shouting orders at soldiers. The sharp-faced man looked so familiar, even in the way he was much shorter and thinner than his subordinates, but the man’s name wouldn’t come to him.

  “With all the attempts combined so far, we’ve only charged up half this jar.”

  “Only half?” The commander’s voice came like a bark.

  “I know, there are all the other jars still to go. Priming these beads takes a lot of energy. Some of them just can’t do it.” This was a medico, pulling on gloves.

  Another soldier slipped a blindfold over Daya’s eyes. “Ready? This will be easiest if you don’t fight it. Relax, and do as we say.”

  Jessica felt Daya brace himself.

  The next moment, a large quantity of water splashed over his head. Pieces of ice slithered down his neck, between his tunic and his skin. Water dripped from the fabric onto his legs.

  Cold, cold, cold, damn it.

  Jessica shivered and caught a brief glimpse of her dark guesthouse room where she sat on the couch. She needed to get into the bed. But Daya needed her.

  Don’t give them what they want. Whatever it was.

  He straightened his back, as if he heard her, determined not to show his shivering.

  Small flares of heat leapt from within the core of his body, but barely reached the skin. His mind cast out for the warmth of the body behind him, but the water thrower had retreated behind the metal wall.

  Footsteps came closer again.

  An impossibly warm hand touched his cheek and thin fingers caressed his wet skin. “Relax. We won’t hurt you.” The commander’s voice, so familiar.

  When Daya breathed in to argue, he got a mouth full of iced water instead, as another bucket was upended over his head. He spat the water in a big a spray as he could. “I want you to let me go. This will be reported to the Hedron Mines board, and they’ll refuse to do business with you ever again. You hear me?” Patches of purple rose before his blindfolded eyes. Chest heaving, he yanked at the bonds, straining muscles Jessica was unused to having.

  I am you. Tell me what you want and I’ll do it.

  Still, her thoughts didn’t connect.

  Another load of ice water crashed over Daya’s head, so cold it hurt.

  A raw, uncontrolled howl escaped his throat. The ice burned like boiling water. Worse, he was now so cold that his bladder had contracted to the point where all he could think was the need to pee.

  “I . . . don’t . . . care . . . about . . . your . . . foul experiments. I’m . . . freezing . . . to death.”

  “Not quite. We’ll stop before you get to that point.”

  The commander asked, “Anything yet?”

  Somewhere in the room a new voice replied, “No. It usually takes a while, at least it did with the others, but I’ll say this: I think we’ll need a lot more of these guys to produce enough energy.”

  “How many more?”

  “As many as you can get, really, unless we find a less crude process.”

  “I’m sure we can find more of these poor men. It’s not as if they have anything to live for. Everyone thinks they’re crazy.” The commander gave a chuckle.
“Would it help if I brought you a girl?”

  A girl? His girl? It had to be. There were no other girls.

  Jessica chilled to the core.

  “Hold still.” The medico pulled the strap holding Daya’s right arm. “A girl? Hmmm—we could get two, no maybe four babies a year from her, if she could be made to carry twins—”

  The commander interrupted. “No, that’d be a waste of her strength. I’d want you to try harvesting her eggs. Prepare yourself for when we bring her.”

  Bring her? His girl? Where was she?

  Tell me where you are! I’ll help you.

  Another load of iced water hit Daya’s head. Ice heaped on his hair, his shoulders. He strained his arms, the bonds cutting into his skin. He arched his back. Fabric ripped. He tore one arm free, then the other. He sensed the commander’s hasty retreat.

  “Restrain him!” someone shouted.

  Daya stumbled and splashed through the puddles of iced water. Tripped when the leads attached to his arm held him back. Smelled the distinctive tang of urine in the humidity rising from the floor. Fresh and stale, mixed with the lingering scent of cleaning agents. How many of the zhadya-born men had been reduced to animals before him? Where were they now?

  Were those men imprisoned in the same place? Jessica asked. Iztho had talked about them, too.

  The medico’s voice sounded from far off. “This is a tough one. Stay right there, boss, I’ll tie him back up. We’re almost done.”

  Another load of iced water hit his skin. Cut into his mind, sent searing pain into his limbs. Anger flared. Heat rose inside him, spilled out of his skin, drew energy from the air.

  And sucked at the strands from Jessica’s web.

  He ripped the bandage and needle from his left arm. The blindfold fell from his eyes. A window flew open by itself; wind whooshed into the room, tearing at the soldiers’ uniforms. The light blew out. The fire flickered and it, too, went out. Energy crackled, charged through his body—Jessica’s body, Daya’s body. The air lit up in a net of blue lightning, which funnelled into the wires still attached to his right arm into the huge jar of glass-stone balls. The entire vessel lit up blue. Someone screamed. “Get out of here!”