by Mary Gentle
I said, ‘That’s a matter of opinion.’
4
Old Friends
We entered Morvren Freeport by a side gate.
‘There must be somebody I can speak to,’ Molly protested in exasperation. ‘Lynne, what would you advise?’
That hour called second twilight was on the city, when the light of Carrick’s Star fades, and the stars have not yet their full strength. I turned my collar up against the cold as we walked through muddy alleys, away from the docks.
‘It’s difficult. When I was here, the telestres named a T’An – an administrator, of sorts – for each of the seven provinces. It cut the legwork down.’
The provinces are more language-divisions than political territory.
I saw Molly blink, apprehending the sheer size of the Hundred Thousand: a hundred thousand communities, autonomous units, communes, nation-states – whatever label you care to put on them. I have known them be of as few as fifty, as many as five thousand Ortheans.
‘Someone here once said to me, “If you attack us, you have not one enemy but one hundred thousand”.’ I put out of my mind the Orthean woman who had said it, and added, ‘If that applies equally to negotiations – God knows how you’re going to speak with each individual telestre!’
‘With difficulty,’ she said: a flash of mordant humour. ‘I don’t have several centuries to spare.’
The alleyways opened out to avenues. Molly spoke in Sino-Anglic, not especially quietly, and heads turned as Ortheans recognized offworlders.
With a sensation of shock, I met the eyes of a dark male, then two young females, and then an elderly woman in a slit-backed robe, mane braided down her spine. That Orthean stare – clear as ice. Outrageously egotistic, the thought went across my mind: Do you remember me? I smiled at that.
Ortheans of the Hundred Thousand are taller and stockier than Coast Ortheans, and these wore harur-blades glittering at the belt or slung across the back. They turned away. I heard talk begin behind us, in the soft Morvrenni language.
Molly said to Clifford, ‘Is there no part of the administrative system still working?’
‘If you give me time – I’ve just come in from Thierry’s World; you’ll appreciate that I’ve hardly had a week here myself –’
‘I want to speak to someone now. Not tomorrow morning. Tonight.’
One elegant brow went up in one of Douglas Clifford’s more theatrical mannerisms. He has his own brand of self-mockery, does Doug.
‘While my government is more than willing to give the Company every assistance –’
The Pacifican woman said, ‘Tonight would be convenient; I’ve other business for tomorrow.’
He looked up at her, blandly unhelpful, and then he smiled.
‘In that case, you’d better see – hmm – the Almadhera. Now.’
David Osaka caught my eye, and I believe I had a very similar expression to his. Visions of a warm Residence and food vanished from my mind as Clifford glanced round, and then led off up a wider avenue. The mud was pale, crunching underfoot where river gravel had been thrown down to help traction. Here in the shadow of the blank-walled buildings the wind was bitter cold, and I looked through gateways into courtyards, seeing the yellow glow of lamps being lit, and smelling the cooking-fires for the evening meal. This hour left us all but alone on the streets.
I said, ‘If there’s no local authority, who or what is the Almadhera?’
Clifford’s gaze slid across to me. Diffidently, he said, ‘There is no official takshiriye – not without a T’An Suthai-Telestre to lead it – but the Freeport’s the only place now that trades outside the Hundred Thousand, so it does have a kind of unofficial takshiriye. The Almadhera is one of its members.’
He used the southern term for the Court of the T’An Suthai-Telestre, that I have so often used in Tathcaer.
Now we were coming to buildings three and four storeys high, with slot-windows lining the top floors. The land was flat. With no view of anything beyond, the city seemed tall, overwhelming.
‘Can this person speak with any authority?’ Molly sounded bewildered.
‘She’s one of – well, I call them “the Morvren triumvirate”.’ Clifford’s brown eyes twinkled. ‘She’s all the authority you’re liable to get.’
Multicorporates and national governments agree as well together as cat and dog. Without any surprise, I thought, It’s going to be a rough night …
‘Here we are,’ Clifford said. ‘If I might offer one word of advice: the Almadhera’s political status may be slightly dubious, but she is an Earthspeaker in the church of the Goddess.’
As he went up to the closed gates of a courtyard, Molly dropped back a pace.
‘I think he’s giving us the runaround. What do you make of this?’
‘He’s no more anxious to help the Company than any government envoy – but I wouldn’t underestimate this person. Not if she’s an Earthspeaker. I used to convince myself that I understood the political system here. I never did convince myself I understood the church of the Goddess.’
The gates swung open, disclosing a small lantern-lit courtyard. Dusk had fallen without my noticing. Now the stars were coming to full strength: the billion stars that make up the galaxy’s core, flowering in Orthe’s night sky. By that hard light, I saw a child at the gate. It was no more than five or six years old; unsexed, as all the young of the species are, being ashiren, genderless, until their fourteenth year.
‘Give you greeting,’ it said. ‘Enter and be welcome.’
Frost was beginning to glitter on the flagstones as the child led us across the courtyard, which was surrounded on three sides by inward-facing rooms, and up an outside staircase to an entrance on the first floor. A coin-bead curtain swung back in my face; I pushed it aside, and stepped into a wall of heat and noise.
The room was wide, low-ceilinged, with shallow curved ribs supporting the roof; and it was full to the roof with clutter. I thought, But the place is full of children –
Silence spread out from where we stood.
As they stopped what they were doing and turned to stare, I counted seven ashiren. In that ill-lit room there was something disturbing about their sharp gestures and rapid speech. They could be human, until an opaque glance or clawed hand became briefly visible. Manes clinked and glittered, woven with crystal and ceramic beads.
‘What’s all the fuss –’ An Orthean female entered, from where the room continued round the L-shape of the building. Her arms were full of scrolls, books, and papers. She walked between the braziers that were set on the stone floor, dumped the armful on one of the many couch-chairs (dust flew: a stream of papers slid to the floor), and came to meet us, smiling broadly.
‘T’an Clifford – and more of you? What are you here for? – Cethelen, put the siir-wine on to heat! All right, the rest of you, that’s enough.’
They ran. Bare feet scuffed the stone floor, there was the susurrus of flowing robes. Two ashiren brought out cushion-mats, dragging them close to one of the braziers; and I saw that the couch-chairs – as well as the tables, and most of the floor space – were piled with scrolls, papers, and maps. An older ashiren looked round the corner of the room at us, and scuttled back.
The Orthean woman whacked at her crimson robe, raising a cloud of scroll-dust. She grinned. I put her in her sixties; a short, brown-skinned female with a tumbling scarlet mane.
As Clifford introduced us, she said, ‘I take it you arrived on that ship we heard? And came straight here? What’s so urgent, t’ans?’
She used the word with the inflection that can mean either “strangers” or “guests”. Molly Rachel gave me a look that said Earn your keep. Better the special advisor should look a fool than the Company representative.
‘Goddess give you greeting and fortune, t’an Earth-speaker.’ I spoke in Morvrenni.
She responded automatically: ‘And to your mother’s daughter.’ The dark eyes clouded and cleared, this time showing humour. ‘So y
ou know how to talk to Earth-speakers, do you, t’an? That’s not as common as it might be among s’aranthi.’
We followed her example, sitting on the cushions by the brazier.
‘I used to know some of your church, t’an, and some of the takshiriye – but that was many years ago. That’s also part of the problem. We’re from the multicorporate Company PanOceania. If I didn’t know better, I’d say we needed to talk to somebody in authority. This being the Hundred Thousand, what I will say is that we need to talk to people who can get word out to other telestres. We have questions to ask.’
It was quite a bravura performance, considering the circumstances, and I saw Molly Rachel look chagrined, and Doug grin to himself.
‘When were you here before?’
‘About ten of our years ago – that would be, what, just over eight years by your reckoning.’
‘I … see. Yes. It’s true there have been changes.’ Her six-fingered hands glinted as she reached up to take a goblet, and I saw there were gold studs set in the webs of skin between those narrow fingers.
Clifford said, ‘I thought it best to see you, t’an Almadhera, since news has a way of coming to the Church before the rest of the Freeport. I thought it might work the other way about. Communication appears to be essential.’
A small ashiren handed me a goblet that spilled a hot green liquid, and I surreptitiously wiped my cuff. It was disconcerting to find a half-dozen children curling up on the mats round us, watching us intently. Molly Rachel drew more attention than anyone. It was her height.
‘What is it you want to ask the telestres?’ the Almadhera said.
I let Molly field that one.
‘We’re here for trade,’ she said, partly uncertain, partly challenging. ‘Naturally, since this is a Restricted world, regulations still apply. However, our Company has been given a licence to import a certain amount of non-technological goods.’
The Orthean woman tucked her feet up under her. Then she sat still. In that stillness I began to recall the church and its priests – who are mystics and craftsmen, warriors and philosophers, farmers and poets.
‘No,’ she said.
Molly, startled, said, ‘What?’
‘T’an s’aranthi, if you trade with us, what’s the price you’re asking? I’ve spoken with Clifford here often enough to know something of your world – and besides, I know our history. All you s’aranthi are ever interested in are the abominations of the Golden Witchbreed – am I right?’ The woman paused just long enough for Molly to fumble and stutter, and then said, ‘Yes, I am. T’an, there’s nothing of that Empire left in the Hundred Thousand. We ceased to need such things long ago.’
The oldest-looking ashiren, a black-maned child of ten or eleven, spoke. ‘That’s the first time I ever heard you say what the Wellkeepers tell us to say.’
The Almadhera protested, ‘I’m not just giving you the Wellhouse orthodoxy. I believe it’s true.’
‘Just because there are s’aranthi here, you don’t have to suddenly like everything the Wellhouses say.’ The child stared up at Molly Rachel. ‘I’m Cethelen. I think we ought to let you trade with the Freeport. Everyone else does, why not you?’
Molly opened her mouth and then shut it again. I caught Doug’s eye at just the wrong moment, and he and I and David desperately failed not to laugh. The ashiren looked at us in some bewilderment.
The Almadhera chuckled. ‘You should talk to some more of us. I’ll send these out with messages, it won’t take long. We’ll heat some more siir-wine, too. Have you eaten?’
David’s heartfelt negative prompted a scuffle of action among the younger children, who fled down inner stairs to the kitchens. I saw him and Molly put their heads together, and I didn’t have to overhear them to know what they were saying – these Ortheans are crazy …
‘You must have been one of the first s’aranthi we saw.’ The Orthean woman stopped, an almost comical surprise on her face. ‘Grief of the Goddess! You’re that Lynne Christie, Christie S’aranth? The Kerys-Andrethe’s friend?’
And it was not until then that I made the connection: the nickname S’aranth becomes the generic term s’aranthi, “offworlder” … I shivered. And then grinned at the black irony. When I first came here I was called S’aranth, “weaponless”, because I didn’t carry the harur-blades that Ortheans do. To have that become the name for hi-tech humanity –!
‘Christie S’aranth,’ I confirmed bleakly. Did I avoid the realization?
‘Dalzielle Kerys-Andrethe called you that?’
‘No, it was Ruric Orhlandis –’
She and I looked at each other. The scarlet mane fell forward, masking that narrow-chinned alien face. She stared down at her claw-nailed hands, and then back at me.
The gaze was as cold and clear as water: that mark of the Earthspeaker, their difference from other Ortheans.
‘There is no Orhlandis telestre. There was no Ruric Orhlandis, only a woman branded traitor and land-waster and exile.’
I wanted to say Yes, I know. Who knows it better than me? I forgot that I shouldn’t mention –
But my face was burning red, and I couldn’t speak for embarrassment. A fair-maned ashiren filled my cup, and the clear green liquid was hot to taste, and spicy: fermented juice of the siir-plant.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I knew her very well, and it isn’t easy to remember now what I should and shouldn’t say.’
‘No …’ The Almadhera was thoughtful. ‘T’an Christie. S’aranthi. That’s very strange. For you, too?’
‘Very strange, for me.’
I found that I liked this untidy, forthright Orthean woman, while still being aware that there were intonations and expressions in her that I was blind to.
‘There’ll be others here soon,’ she said. ‘Still, there’s someone here you ought to see. Round that way – I’ll keep your colleagues entertained.’
You want to even up the odds, I thought. Since Douggie’s half on your side – if “sides” are what we’re talking about here.
‘Sure,’ I said, and left them talking, as I made my way to the end of the room and round the “elbow” of the L-shape. An ashiren who lay asleep on a couch-chair (sharing it with a pile of maps and books) flicked one membraned eye open as I passed.
Small-paned windows shone with starlight. This part of the room was darker, the light coming from a great fireplace; and there were deep chairs there, in the shadows and embers.
A low table held a carved hexagonal board, cut by triangular divisions, on which scattered groupings of triangular counters lay.
‘He’s beating you,’ I said to the ashiren Cethelen, who was seated on one side of the ochmir board.
‘He cheats.’
‘He always did. Hello, Hal.’
Cethelen stood to move a lamp closer, and I stopped. Ortheans live longer than we do, and stay longer in their young and mature phases; old age is a swift and ravaging decay.
‘I thought I recognized your voice,’ said Haltern n’ri n’suth Beth’ru-elen.
I saw a fair-skinned male, plump, dressed in the plain robes of the church. He was all but lost in the cushioned chair. The yellow-white mane was a mere crest, the eyes in that triangular face permanently half webbed over with nictitating membrane.
‘Hal, I’d expect to find you round corners, listening to other people’s conversations.’
‘While you try and bully poor Cassirur Almadhera?’
His hand was dry and hot, the grip not strong. I kept hold of that six-fingered hand as I sat down by him in another chair. For a time, nothing was said. There was a brilliance in that half-blind gaze.
‘It is you. You look well.’ He chuckled, a fat and healthy sound. ‘And young. Though I’d wager you’re not. Are you surprised at the way I look?’
That mixture of slyness and honesty is essentially Orthean. It brought back so many memories.
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Nothing but time, t’an S’aranth, and age – all the
Beth’ru-elen age early. It’s in our family.’
To shut my eyes was to bring him back: Haltern, fair-maned, harassed, sweating; a deceptively competent man, no older – then – than Doug Clifford now.
That voice, no less strong, said, ‘You’ve proved me wrong. I always said you wouldn’t come back. And now you come in company with traders?’
‘I did intend to return. I got posted away. Maybe I didn’t try as hard as I might to prevent that. There was a lot to come to terms with, afterwards, and then – well, then there were other people.’
He nodded, slowly. The firelight shone on his skin, the faintest scale-pattern visible; on whiteless blue eyes. For all his frailty, that intelligence was undimmed.
‘I’m glad you came back,’ he said.
‘Hal …’
Deliberately picking up on other matters, he said, ‘Are you really with a Company? From what Clifford’s said of them in the past, I find that difficult to believe. And a Company that’s chasing Witchbreed technology?’
‘It’s a long story, but “yes” and “yes” are the answers to that. And if it comes to it, what are you doing here?’
‘I like the company of Earthspeakers. I was always of a contemplative frame of mind, given to meditation – ah. Now that’s Christie.’ He grinned, and deep lines shifted in his face.
Having snorted incredulously, all I could say was, ‘This place is as peaceful as a madhouse, and you’re about as “contemplative” as –’ Similes eluded me.
He took a goblet of siir-wine from Cethelen, reached over to move an ochmir-counter, and under cover of getting the child to stir the fire, switched another two counters to show a colour favourable to him.
What did Clifford call it – the ‘Morvren triumvirate’? Now I wonder … ‘You associate with this Almadhera a lot, do you, Hal?’
‘Associate?’
‘I’m told there’s no takshiriye. No official takshiriye.’
He slid gracefully over that, saying thoughtfully, ‘It was about six years ago; none of the T’Ans could name themselves T’An Suthai-Telestre after Dalzielle Kerys-Andrethe died.’
