by Mary Gentle
‘No. Hard work,’ the young woman said, without taking her eyes off the Ortheans. ‘Hypno-tapes scramble the brains.’
There are times when I wish they’d known that ten years ago; it would have saved a lot of us time, trouble, and subsequent analysis. But I forbore to mention that. What she didn’t say was, Am I doing this right? and what I didn’t say was Jesus Christ I hope so.
The Orthean male turned back to us and said, ‘I believe you should speak with the Voice of the Emperor-in-Exile. These guards will see that you truly have no weapons. Then you may enter the lower city.’
Molly Rachel let out a breath, momentarily relaxing; then she craned her neck to look up at the pale walls. The tension returned. Half of me thought, We’ve got closer than even the xeno-archeology team, they didn’t get into the city itself. And the other half thought, This is Kel Harantish and I don’t want any part of it! But that was the half that could remember the rumours and superstitions of an alien race.
‘Do you want to go back to the ship?’ the Pacifican woman asked.
It seems to me – though no doubt it’s an illusion – that kids her age get through because they don’t know enough to fear. And because they don’t believe in luck.
‘I’ll come,’ I said. ‘The sooner this is proved a wild-goose chase, the sooner I can go home.’
‘You’ve seen the artifacts the team brought back. I don’t believe the Company is wasting its time trying to analyse this technology – there must be some profit –’ she broke off the long-standing argument, frustrated, as two of the Ortheans came to body-search for weapons.
Orthean skin is fine-textured, dry, warm; the beat of a different pulse beneath the surface. That brief touch brought back, shockingly abruptly, how it feels to dig fingers into the depths of a rooted mane …
Dislocation of reality paralysed me for a moment. Air pressure and sunlight: wrong. The air rasped drily in my lungs. Daystars were pinpricks in the arch of the sky. But more – this heatstricken moonscape is not the Orthe of my memories, not this barren rock and sterile sea, without even the sound of an insect. I felt twice-exiled from expectation.
‘This is a weapon,’ the plump brown-skinned male said, holding Molly’s belt-communicator in his delicate hands.
‘It’s not a weapon, it enables me to speak with my ship.’
The nictitating membrane slid over his dark eyes, and flicked back. He said, ‘I could imagine circumstances, shan’tai, in which that would prove as deadly as a winchbow. But keep it, if you will.’
I had walked perhaps fifty yards closer to the city before I identified that gesture and tone as amusement.
Here the ground was smoother. I looked up, dazed with heat, to see the outcrops of buildings recede away and back, like chalk headlands. At the base of the nearest sheer wall, wooden platforms were being winched down on ropes.
Molly said, ‘There isn’t any native vegetation or forestry. God, you don’t realize what that means … didn’t you say in your old reports that this place survives entirely on imported goods? What’s funny?’
‘You remind me of me,’ I said. ‘It’s the sort of thing I used to notice. Generally when about to embark on something horrifically dangerous … At the moment I’m just worrying about whether those rope and pulley contraptions are as unsafe as they look.’
The young woman sighed, a little self-consciously long-suffering.
I saw how the nearest buildings stood separate, roofs on a lower level than the main mass. Rope-bridges, just visible, were slung across the narrow crevasse between this cluster and the city proper.
With a scrape of rock, the wooden platform grounded. We stepped on. The ropes creaked, and I caught Molly’s arm to steady myself. The dark Orthean male got on with us. I reached out to touch the sheer city wall, and it was smooth under my palm, not yet fully warmed by the morning sun. Then the platform lifted and swung free.
‘Pardon?’ Molly Rachel said.
‘Don’t mind me – I can throw up quietly.’
As we inched higher, I saw how ancient bedrock cropped out on this coast, worn down to this Harantish peninsula and a crescent scatter of islands that the sea could not erode. Far out on the water were sails, lost in the molten white glare.
‘You come in trade-season,’ the dark male said. ‘Ships commonly come in Wintersun – if not commonly such ships as yours.’
‘Shan’tai …’ Molly left a demanding gap.
‘Pathrey Shanataru,’ he supplied.
‘Shan’tai Pathrey, our archeological team didn’t report any contact with the city authorities here.’
‘The Emperor-in-Exile has no love for your people,’ Pathrey Shanataru said. ‘He did not see them. He will not see you. You will meet his Voice.’
‘Who is Emperor-in-Exile now?’ That alien title comes to me with no hiatus of memory: K’Ai Kezrian-kezriakor, the supposed lineal descendant of the rulers of the Golden Witchbreed.
Pathrey Shanataru said formally, ‘The present heir of the bloodline of Santhendor’lin-sandru is Dannor bel-Kurick.’
‘I think – I’ve met him?’
Pale sea and sky blotted out: for a second I felt dizzy and half blind –
some subterranean room, a chamber lit by candles set on rough iron stands. Candlelight and … the ruins of technology? He is bending over a panel or cube of some material. And then he lifts his head …
That face that is half child and half old male: Dannor bel-Kurick. Wide-set eyes veiled by nictitating membrane, white mane rooting down his spine; and faded skin whose reptilian texture has in it a hint of dusty gold …
‘How could you meet him?’ Molly asked me in Sino-Anglic. ‘The archeological team said the local ruler doesn’t leave this settlement.’
The Emperor-in-Exile leave this paranoid fortress? No. But –
‘I … may have seen a picture, I suppose.’
She nodded, minimal curiosity satisfied.
I was suddenly uncomfortable, and pushed the thought away. That is ten years ago. Still, such a clear mental image of that face, and something almost there –
The wooden platform lurched to a halt, level with the flat roof. I stepped unsteadily on to plaster-roughened stone.
Surrounded again by guards, we were ushered across one roof and up a flight of wooden steps. Square penthouse-structures stood on each roof. As I stepped inside, under the low arch of the nearest, the sudden shadow blinded me. When I could see again, the plump male was already descending a rope-web that led down through a great open trap door. Molly Rachel followed him. I paused.
Ropes are easily cut, trap doors easily barred.
But I hesitated because of a much more mundane fear. I may have grown less agile than I once was; I have grown no greater liking for looking a fool.
Those Ortheans that carried winchbows remained on the roof. I climbed cautiously down, and found myself in a spacious room. Pale light slotted in through narrow windows. With some relief, I saw that a further trap door opened on descending stone steps. By the time our party had gone down two more floors, I realized something else: there were no interconnecting doors between individual buildings.
‘Given the level of technology here,’ Molly Rachel observed, ‘this place must be impregnable.’
Paranoia, I thought. To take Kel Harantish, you would have to take each building, individually, and from the top down. That partly solved a question long on my mind: how a settlement so hated and feared could remain undestroyed.
The male, Pathrey Shanataru, paused at the foot of the next steps. ‘Shan’tai, here you will meet the Voice of the Emperor-in-Exile.’
Molly nodded, walking in front of me as we entered. This room was windowless, a silvery light reflected in by concealed mirrors; the air was hot and still. I heard someone move.
An Orthean woman rose from where she sat cross-legged on a mat by a low stone table. She was tall for a Coast Orthean: some five foot and an inch.
‘Kethrial-shamaz shan’tai,’ she sai
d, her voice oddly accented.
I could only stare.
This world’s rumour says that the Kel Harantish Ortheans claim Golden Witchbreed blood. My memory, prompted by shiptime study, said, But that race is extinct – surely? And Kel Harantish’s claim, propaganda?
Small, thin, electric: her skin was pale as stone-dust, in the room’s dim light holding a faint glimmer of gold. Her white mane seemed so fine as to float on air, a breath of fire. I looked into her narrow-chinned face. Her eyes were yellow – buttercup-yellow, capriped-yellow, unnatural as flowers. She wore a white tunic girdled with thin gold chains, the tunic badly stained at the hem with spilt herb-arniac.
– stone arches that open upon depths, and that narrow face with coin-gold eyes, and the scent of charnel-halls –
With an effort, I shut the mental image out. Hypno-tape data thrown up by the chance firing of synapses, that’s all; fragmented and confused by hypno-erasure and the passing often years. Maybe after a while I’ll get used to it.
Molly Rachel said, ‘Thank you for consenting to see us, shan’tai.’
Orthean ages are difficult to judge: this woman seemed younger even than Molly, but that might be deceptive.
‘Pathrey told me that an offworlder ship had come. And that you would speak of what your people found in the Elansiir mountains.’ She seated herself again, and gestured for us to do the same. There was a stone table beside her that stood only a few inches above the floor, and on it were ceramic bowls containing a hot liquid. Droplets of steam coiled in the air, and there was a sharp strong scent: arniac-herb tea.
‘The Company’s archeological team brought several interesting artifacts to light in this area.’ Molly cupped one of the bowls in her pale palms. ‘Unfortunately it was at the end of their projected stay, so they couldn’t complete their work.’
‘Complete?’ queried the young Harantish woman.
‘Establish if the artifacts were from the old technological culture, the Witchbreed.’
I saw Pathrey Shanataru, who was kneeling down beside the Voice of the Emperor-in-Exile, hesitate momentarily at that word.
The woman linked claw-nailed hands. ‘Pardon, shan’tai, but that is the name that superstitious barbarians give us. We are the Golden.’
Molly Rachel passed a ceramic bowl over to me. I was vaguely aware of her covert scan, and her nod that it was not poisoned. Crimson liquid steamed: the bitter arniac-herb tea of the Desert Coast. Taste and odour were utterly familiar. That hot drink scalded my mouth, brought back names and faces – memories of what this Harantish woman would designate the ‘superstitious barbarian’ northern continent, and that long year when Kel Harantish and the Emperor-in-Exile had seemed as much Earth’s enemy as enemy of the Hundred Thousand.
‘Earth may at some time in the future be interested in Golden science –’
The Orthean woman interrupted Molly: ‘More “archeology”?’
‘A more complete investigation.’
The nictitating membrane veiled those chrome-yellow eyes. ‘Well now, shan’tai, do you know what that might mean?’
‘I’m aware that certain cultures on this world are technophobic. Earth has no intention of importing technological knowledge. This is still classified as a Restricted world.’
‘What I meant, shan’tai Rachel, is that there have always been those who, since the Golden Empire fell, desired to build it anew. If they could not find the key to the lost science of those “artifacts”, how will you do so?’
‘Artifact’ is an interesting word. It doesn’t have the implications of dysfunction that ‘relic’ does. I thought it time to interrupt, and disabuse the Voice of the Emperor-in-Exile of her ideas of ignorant offworlders.
‘I understand that not all knowledge of Witchbreed technology is lost. Doesn’t Kel Harantish maintain the canal system on the Desert Coast, keep it functioning?’
Molly Rachel said, ‘The Company is also very interested in the canals. We understand their construction dates from the time of the Golden Empire.’
The Harantish woman shrugged. The humanoid frame admits of many variations. I watched the movements of alien musculature: the sharp-hulled ribs, thin limbs, the long-fingered hands and high-arched feet. Those signals that stance and gesture send are oddly muffled, uninterpretable. She looked at me: ‘You are not new to this world, shan’tai. What is your hiyek – your name?’
‘Lynne de Lisle Christie,’ I said. ‘New to the Coast, shan’tai.’
Molly leaned forward. As she spoke, she unconsciously hunched down, and I realized that with her height – she topped the two Ortheans by a good ten inches – she must feel giant-like.
‘Naturally there would be the necessity for discussing trade privileges.’ She slightly stressed the final word.
The brown-skinned male, Pathrey, leaned over and muttered something inaudible to all but the Harantish woman; she, for the first time, smiled, and briefly touched his arm.
‘Why, yes,’ she said; and then to Molly: ‘It seems you offworlders have new ways of negotiating. You’ve quarantined us for ten years, and now this?’
Molly smiled. ‘What I say is of course subject to an Earth government’s approval.’
No kidding? They will be pleased to hear that …
And then I thought, Sarcasm would become you better, Lynne, if you weren’t Company-employed yourself.
Pathrey Shanataru said, ‘The northerners have been content with quarantine. What will you say to them, shan’tai Rachel?’
‘That depends on how it concerns them.’ Molly, without a word, implied the addition If it ever does …
Old habits die hard. With the Pacifican woman playing conciliator, it left me the perfect opportunity to ask awkward questions.
‘If the Emperor-in-Exile has no intention of negotiating with us, is there any point to this?’
Pathrey Shanataru leaned forward as if to speak, and a mere gesture of the nameless woman’s hand silenced him. Beginning to interpret Orthean expressions, I thought there was real fear on his face. For an instant it became real to me, this position of power: the Voice of the Emperor-in-Exile.
The young Orthean female rose and for a time walked back and forth, without looking at anyone.
Dropping back into Sino-Anglic I said to Molly, ‘Are you going to push this much further now?’
‘I’ll push as hard as I have to.’
Pathrey Shanataru was kneeling beside the stone table, his gaze fixed on the Orthean woman. I wished desperately that I were reaccustomed to Orthean expressions.
I said to Molly, ‘I don’t think you realize what a destabilizing factor Earth is.’
The Harantish woman stopped, and then turned with a dancer’s grace and balance. She spoke rapidly: ‘I’ll see others close to the Emperor, later today. Pathrey, convey these s’aranthi to a place where they may rest until then –’
Her bare feet scuffed the stone steps, and she was gone.
‘What –?’ Molly stood.
Pathrey Shanataru looked apologetic, almost embarrassed. He rose to his feet. ‘Pardon, shan’tai. I will show you to more comfortable quarters.’
Molly looked at me, and I shrugged.
The dim silver twilight and heat were oppressive; to climb the steps – even if only towards the scorching sun of the Coast in winter – felt like liberation.
As we stepped out on to the flat roof again, Molly said, in Sino-Anglic, ‘Do you think they know we’ve got Witch-breed artifacts that may well turn out to be functional?’
Before I could answer, Pathrey Shanataru spoke. In badly-accented Sino-Anglic he said, ‘Do you know who put them there for you to find?’
Stunned, I made to frame a question, but the Orthean male stepped aside and gestured for us to precede him down rope-webbing, into the entrance of the next building. Molly swung down, I climbed more slowly, and then I turned to Pathrey Shanataru.
We were alone.
The trap door fell shut above us. I heard the click of lockbars
sliding into place.
2
The Spoils of Kel Harantish
At midday everything stopped except the fighting.
Running footsteps sounded on the roof. The trap door vibrated, but stayed closed. I felt each sound, deep inside; a physical ache. There was a distant clash of metal.
‘What the hell was that?’
Molly Rachel, from where she clung to the rope-webbing, leaned across to the narrow window. Her arms shook with the strain.
‘No,’ she said at last, dropping lightly down. ‘I can’t see anything but the sky.’
The light of Carrick’s Star slotted down from the high windows like bars of white-hot iron. Outside, it would be unbearable for human eyes without protective gear. Inside, the heat robbed any desire for movement.
I sat with the small comlink in my lap, the case open, trying to manipulate the receiver-amplifier. Static crackled in the hot twilight. My fingers were clumsy. The ache of tension settled in my gut.
Molly squatted down on her haunches. ‘I don’t think it’s the comlink. It’s the atmospheric interference. Communications are hell on this world.’
‘After ten years, I’d’ve thought you’d’ve solved that one.’
‘Talk to the Company about my shoestring budget, why don’t you.’
The heat made me dizzy, made all movement exhaustion. I wiped sweat from my face. From outside came a cry that might have been pain or triumph or something quite other.
The comlink’s static resolved into a voice.
‘Here.’
Molly took it. Her tone was sharp. ‘David? What’s the situation there?’
‘… shuttle’s secure. A few … groups from the settlement. You want me to take any action on that?’
‘Negative. Not yet. Stay secure.’
David’s voice suddenly came through loud, Sino-Anglic accent plain. ‘Are you going to put in an official complaint to the native authorities?’
Molly looked at me, and then up at the trap door, and for the first time smiled. ‘I don’t know if the “authorities” now are the same ones that existed this morning. Why we had to arrive here just in time for a palace revolution … Can you contact the orbital ship?’
