As a sailor, Jorl was a fine historian, and so his boat came equipped with every technological convenience available on other, more tech-friendly worlds. Pizlo kept one eye on the boat’s modern display screen and the other on a point on the horizon where his gut told him Senjo lay two days’ journey to the south. This was the start of his imram, and though he didn’t expect to encounter giant cephalopods or other monsters of the deep, he couldn’t rule them out, either literally or metaphorically. He was on a hero’s journey. As the harbor fell behind, he squeezed the pendant at his throat.
“This is day one of my quest,” he said. “I am at sea again, for the first time since I set off up the beanstalk to help Jorl on the station. It’s a very different trip though, and not just because I’m heading in the opposition direction. And that’s okay, because I’m different too…”
He sailed without incident the rest of the day and into the night, passing several other islands and ignoring the calls of greeting and inquiry from other vessels. He snacked from the stores Jorl had provided and when he eventually tired and found himself dozing at the wheel, Pizlo dropped anchor and bid the sea and sky all around him a good night, went below deck to the cabin, and slept. The second day and night were more of the same.
He passed Gerd, feeling a frisson of satisfaction at sailing beyond the archipelago’s focal point. He continued south and west. On the third morning, he awoke to the certain knowledge that the council he sought had completed their interviews on Senjo and moved on. Returning to the wheelhouse he called up maps on the boat’s display and considered where the council might have moved to. Senjo was about as far south as one could go. But east to north to west of it were plenty of potential destinations. He could set off in one direction or another, but when awareness of where they’d arrived finally hit him, he was just as likely to have guessed correctly and so be close on their heels as to be wrong and even further from his goal. He sat and waited, considered visiting with the Archetype but stayed his hand and conserved his supply of koph. The council had a much bigger boat but his was swifter. He remained anchored and waited for them to reach a destination. Another day passed and boredom clubbed him. He waved off a handful of passing vessels that drew near with concern over his floating in place. He swam in ever increasing circles around the boat until his arms and legs began to fail him and he had to drag himself back aboard to collapse onto the desk and let the falling rain wash the fatigue from him. He fished, seeing how many different varieties he could catch and release before reeling in one he’d seen before and deciding that was justification to consume it. But mostly Pizlo mourned the missed evenings telling Rina stories.
After six days out from Keslo, the morning rain whispered that the council had made landfall on Fintz, a somewhat more isolated island a couple days further east and a bit north of his position. He could be there in three days, two if he let the boat sail on while he slept. The council would still be there, still meeting with civic leaders or, in the worst case, interviewing potential claimants. He could catch up to them, perhaps even catch them unawares, simply take some of their ink and avoid a direct encounter. He set the new course, weighed anchor, and started up the boat’s engine. Only then did he allow himself breakfast.
* * *
A faint but persistent tone woke Pizlo from a dreamless sleep. Morning light, such as it would be, was still a long way away. Despite the dark and the rain, devices on the boat insisted he’d arrived and demanded his attention. He climbed to the wheelhouse, shut off the alarm, and took stock. Fintz boasted three main harbors, two of them larger than the one Pizlo had departed from at Keslo. One lay directly ahead of him, but after only a few minutes at the controls he had the boat skirting past, choosing instead to follow the call of the second harbor and execute a northern curve that took him around a quarter of the island.
He hadn’t intended to arrive at night. A mass of gleaming lights shone through the rain as he approached the harbor, making the council’s boat impossible to miss or mistake. Pizlo guided his boat past row after row of local vessels until he reached the visitors’ dock. The council’s boat was one of only four craft moored. Pizlo maneuvered into an open adjacent slip, powered down, and took his time securing the lines.
He disembarked and crossed the pier until he reached a gangplank that connected it to the council’s ship. Glowing lanterns hung from it, hundreds of them, from spots barely above the waterline all the way up to its wheelhouse. The entire ship was lit up like a floating celebration. By now the councilors themselves would all be abed in assorted guest quarters high in Fintz’s Civilized Wood, but as he climbed aboard and his hand moved across the gunwale the ship whispered that a crew of five remained as well as where each lay sleeping. More importantly, it told him where he would find the object of his quest.
It was a very large vessel, many times bigger than Jorl’s boat, though less than a quarter the size of his senatorial space yacht. Slipping belowdecks, he left the glare of the ship’s lanterns behind. He moved as silently through the narrow corridors as he might have traveled through the Shadow Dwell back home, and soon reached a minor supply hold. Amidst a great many bottles of distilled spirits—gifts from other islands the ship had visited—he found several vials of the special tattoo ink. He took one lightly in his trunk and grinned. “In the Archetype’s stories, finishing a quest always seems harder than this,” he told the vial, then slipped it into a pocket of his bandolier. He reversed his path and retreated back through the ship, up onto the deck, and then over the side to the pier without incident. In fact, he felt a bit of disappointment that there hadn’t been any complications to overcome.
“There are supposed to be trials,” he said, tapping the disc around his neck and recording his thoughts as he stood in the rain. “It’s not a very good story without them. I mean, I want to succeed and all, but what kind of quest ends so easily?” Something was missing. No one had witnessed his actions, which meant there was no one to tell the tale. He turned back toward the councilors’ ship with half a notion of waking up one or more of the crew so they could see he’d taken the vial of ink, but a better idea came to him. He set off along the pier, aiming for the harbor buildings and routes up into the forest and the city that waited within. There was a better place that he needed to reach.
In the unlikely event that the council found someone on Fintz that they deemed worthy of an aleph, the inscribing ceremony would take place in the city’s largest public space. As he left the harbor, Pizlo consulted a visitor’s map of the island’s Civilized Wood, located an amphitheater labeled “Spoonbender’s Place,” and charted several landmarks along the way. He expected his timing would be near perfect—there were always people about in such a place at first light, groups doing morning exercises and stretching, oldsters who slept little enough by night and gathered with the dawn to greet one another and rehash old arguments, merchants crossing through the open area on their way to their shops and markets. What better spot to tattoo his moons than the center of this city as the first lights of a new day trickled through by vents and lenses and mirrors?
And so he climbed. The meta-trees here were the same as back on Keslo, as were most of the lesser trees and other plants that grew from its Shadow Dwell up through the Civilized Wood. The only real difference was the placement and quantity, and every few moments he caught himself in a blur of confusion at a feeling that something was not as it should be. A lifetime of moving through every bit of green space on Keslo, of hearing the voices of each leaf and vine proclaiming its spot in the mosaic of life there, assailed him with surprise and delight that they could exist here in new arrays and concentration and still be themselves, familiar but unique.
Pizlo emerged onto the upper edge of the amphitheater as first light began to warm the upper levels. He squinted into the fading darkness expecting to detect movement and infer people. But no one was there. Not a soul. Perhaps they were running late or sleeping in. Annoying, but not critical. They’d flee once they saw and r
ecognized him for what he was. It was only the symbolism of marking himself here that mattered. Holding the vial of ink aloft in his trunk, he skipped and danced along the rows of wooden benches, descending toward the center of Fintz’s public space that still lay entirely in shadow.
He reached the bottom—the main stage that had seen untold performances of professional orators and school children and dance troupes and choirs—just as the first bits of light gleamed across the polished floor. He wasn’t alone after all. A tiny bundle, smaller than a child’s ear, barely bigger than both his hands together, mewled once and coughed.
He rushed to it, mind racing as he looked in all directions, trying to find the parent who could possibly leave a tiny infant unattended. It made no sense. Helpless and defenseless, he knelt alongside the bundle and scooped it up, cradling the sleeping child in the crook of one arm. He shoved the ink vial into his bandolier so he could use both hands and his nubs to tuck the blankets more securely around the infant. It was horrific and irresponsible and clueless. What had they been thinking?
And then he knew.
This wasn’t a normal baby and its parents hadn’t forgotten him. The newborn child in his arms was exactly where its parents—or more likely its maternal grandparents—had left it. Where they had deliberately abandoned it here in the heart of Fintz. It was the way things happened for a child born out of a couple’s proper time. It was what society required when giving birth to an abomination.
“No no no no no.”
He rocked in place, clutching the infant to his chest, still searching the empty amphitheater for someone, anyone.
The child was broken, hideous. Albinism was the least visible defect. Its trunk ended in a featureless knob at half its proper length. Its arms bore fingerless flippers below the elbow. And a thin, translucent membrane in the center of its chest showed the movement of its tiny heart several times too large for its new body and beating much faster than it ought, racing as if in fear for its life.
“Shh. It’s okay. You’re going to be all right. I’m here. Pizlo’s here. See? You can grow up and be strong and free. This doesn’t have to end the way they want it.”
He whispered to the baby, helplessly cataloging its injuries and deformities. Most horrific of all, its body was cold as the worst storms of the season. He held it closer, feeling it warm from contact with his own heat. Its tiny eyelids fluttered open showing the barest of slits, revealing eyes of brilliant blue. Pizlo looked to the back of the amphitheater and the boardways leading to all parts of Fintz’s Civilized Wood. The population of an entire city lay near at hand. All the assistance he could wish for.
“Help. Please someone, help.”
Pizlo struggled to stand. Not because of the burden of the infant in his arms but rather his legs didn’t seem to work right at first. He staggered upward, and then firmed up his gait and began running up the stairs, crying out.
“I need a doctor. Please! Someone. Anyone. This is a medical emergency. Help!”
He crossed onto a major boardway, a mixture of prosperous homes and high-end shops. Few people were abroad yet, but those few who saw him, saw the bundle he carried, rushed to the nearest doorway and literally flung themselves within. Pizlo ran to the first of these, kicking at the door but it didn’t open. Faces peered at him from adjacent windows, and from cracked doors further along the street; doors slammed shut at his first hint of movement in their direction.
He kept on, running down another boardway for a greater distance than he’d ever gone in his life, out in the open the way normal people traveled, driven by the frantic and fragile heart he could feel beating so close to his own.
“No no no.” He muttered, half to himself and half to the infant. He felt sick. His eyes were watering and his throat had seized up like something was choking him. Words tumbled from his lips. “You’re someone’s child. You’ve done nothing wrong. You don’t deserve this. If Druz was here, if we were on Jorl’s yacht, there’d be all sorts of things that could be done to help you, heal you. Maybe you wouldn’t be normal, but I’m not normal. Normal people did this to you. They’re doing it to you. Innocent baby, you don’t deserve this.”
He arrived at a municipal building. A sign out front indicated the mayor of Fintz had offices inside but held an open meeting for any interested citizens each morning beneath the statue of the island’s founder. Several had gathered there, speaking to a well-dressed Eleph who stood with his back to Pizlo.
“Help me, please. I need medical assistance!”
The citizens of Fintz scattered, all but the one that had been facing away. That one, the mayor, turned and cried out as Pizlo closed with him.
“Please. You can’t condemn an innocent infant like this. Get us to a doctor. Now.”
The Eleph opened his mouth, whispered “two of you,” and passed out, collapsing at Pizlo’s feet.
Still it was an answer. The highest elected official in Fintz would rather flee consciousness than aid him. Bells began ringing throughout the city, the kind of public alarm that told people to stay in their homes. Bells that normally rang only in the bedtime stories parents told about the terrifying abominations that came to torment naughty children.
He marched on, setting a course back down to the harbor and his borrowed boat. He’d take the infant back to Keslo. His mother would help him. She’d find a doctor, get the newborn whatever it needed to survive. She’d done it for Pizlo, and with his help she would do it for this baby, too.
At the edge of the Civilized Wood he boarded one of a series of elevators that ran down to the Shadow Dwell and opened onto the beach of Fintz’s second harbor where he’d left the boat. No one challenged him. The bells had seen to that.
He reached the harbor and had crossed to the guest pier and nearly arrived at his boat before realizing that somewhere on the way he’d stopped feeling the pounding of the infant’s heart. Pizlo fell to his knees, midway between the traveling counsel’s vessel and his own, frantically peeling back the thin blankets that wrapped the baby. It was warmer than when he’d first picked it up, but that was all his own body heat. Its eyes had closed. Its frail body gone stiff. That breath of life that had inhabited it had fled. The infant that any right-thinking Fant would recognize as one that should never have been born, had died in his arms. He had been unable to save it.
Kneeling on the pier, Pizlo wailed. In all his fourteen years he’d never experienced pain. He’d born countless scrapes and cuts, shredded his hands, dislocated limbs, once even caught his trunk in a door—none of it had hurt. He understood what pain was, had seen those he loved afflicted with it, but his inability to personally experience physical suffering was part of his abnormality, like his weak eyes and his lack of pigmentation.
How then did he hurt so much now? He felt it in his gut, a twisting and strangling. His head pounded. His body wanted to vomit until it turned him inside out and then begin again. Tears streamed down his face, and his throat ached with a rawness.
And more, he knew, knew with useless hindsight, that his hero’s quest had never been about acquiring a vial of ink. He was supposed to have saved an innocent, a fellow abomination, because in all the world who else could be expected to do so. And he failed. Failed his quest but gained something he’d never understood before.
At fourteen, after a life apart from Fant society, Pizlo now knew what anguish was.
FOURTEEN
CONSEQUENTIAL TRAFFIC
KLARCE studied the reports on her desk a third time and for a third time the words swam before her eyes. Temmel had long since left for the day. A glance at the time stamp on her display screen hinted that his morning shift neared and he could be walking in fairly soon. Oh surely not, she thought. I haven’t worked the night away. Again. She reached for her cup of tea, a vigorous blend imported from Telba during the season of mist on those years when circumstances allowed a field agent making the trip to bring back some of the leaves. Reached for but failed to grasp as her hand and arm spasmed and she kn
ocked the cup off the desk even as she wrenched the offending limb back. Too late. It shattered as four of its mates had done over the past few seasons. She’d lost track of the hour often enough, the workload never ending, and had failed, again, to take her tablets. Even the buffer she usually enjoyed had been worn through, a gift of the added stress brought about by the need to end the Speaker on Keslo. It was hubris to think the delicate balance of medication that kept her whole wouldn’t react to a murder decree. And so she had lost another cup, a worthy vessel filled with a stimulating brew that could have allowed her to keep working at least until her assistant turned up to insist she take a break. So, too, Jorl ben Tral would lose his life, and whatever promise of future deeds and contributions he might make to the world. Such a waste. Klarce snorted at the maudlin symbolism burbling up through the fatigue of her own thoughts.
She pushed back from her desk, a modern and fully automated information station, advertised on Dawn as the premiere data processing for executives with an obsessive need to manipulate the minutia under their direction. Well, the manufacturer hadn’t phrased it quite that way. Two such units had been “acquired” through channels, delivered years ago to a mixed world’s obscure tourist trap during the off-season and then surreptitiously delivered to the Caudex, one for her office here and the other occupying her office on Ulmazh high overhead. The thing was as close to a true artificial intelligence as anyone had managed, and not for the first time she wondered how her predecessor had gotten along without it.
“Your pardon, ma’am.” Regina stood barely a trunk’s length away. For how long? Judging by the concern on her face and the droop of her ears it had been too long. Had she dozed off? What had she been doing? She glanced about, saw the spill and shards. Another cup. Damn.
The Moons of Barsk Page 14
