by Mary Gentle
As if his memory paralleled mine, Haltern reached across to rest a hand on my arm. That was a bad time for us all.’
‘Are you certain Kasabaarde isn’t a lever? Don’t forget, I’ve proof of how highly the Hundred Thousand regards the Hexenmeister’s information. You believe it instantly when he told you I hadn’t killed Kama Andrethe.’
‘To begin with, I know Lynne Christie.’ His warmth metamorphosed into curiosity. ‘And I have often wished I had all the Kasabaarde traders to bring me intelligence of what passes in the world, as the Tower has. That’s not all the story, though, is it? The Hexenmeister spoke as if –’
‘As if he was there,’ I said.
‘And yet there’s no memory or past-memory of the Hexenmeister ever leaving the Tower.’
‘That’s the truth,’ I said. ‘And very wise: if I had what’s in there, I’d stay in the Tower. It must be the most securely defended structure on two continents –’
‘“What’s in there”?’
‘What?’
‘I have often wondered,’ he said.
‘I don’t understand.’
If he laughed, it was at himself. ‘Because you and I have both faced that serially-immortal Hexenmeister … and while Hexenmeisters live and die, there’s but one same Hexenmeister in the tower; my memory –’ he gave it the inflection that included memory of past lives ‘– tells me this is so. But not why. Christie, you know my curiosity!’
‘Hal, I really don’t understand what you’re talking about.’
He frowned, and his claw-nailed hand closed over mine as if he were trying to reassure or comfort me.
‘If it troubles you so much, I’ll say no more. I’d thought, since you spent time within the Tower, and left it so changed, that you might have spoken often enough with the Hexenmeister to gain some knowledge I don’t have. Don’t be distressed.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Christie –’
I stood and walked across to where Molly Rachel sat among the uncleared bowls and platters, temporarily separated from Cassirur and the Rakviri. She looked up as I approached. A comlink was open in her palm.
‘What have you been saying to the Beth’ru-elen?’ Molly asked, glancing across at the place I’d just left. ‘He’s not too happy about it.’
When I concentrated, I could stop that fine perceptible shake in my hands. I looked back at Hal. No memory of a farewell – did I really do that? I thought. Did I just stand up and go?
I would have returned, but Cassirur Almadhera slipped into that seat and began talking quietly with the Beth’ru-elen.
‘I’ve been trying to get through to Morvren Freeport,’ Molly said, replacing the comlink at her belt. ‘Communications are going to be erratic here, to say the least of it … David Osaka says the shuttles are coming down from the orbiter.’
Whatever reaction I have to being back on Orthe, whatever version of hypno-psychosis or offworld syndrome this is, it shouldn’t be allowed to affect my job. With that thought, it was as if my mind returned to a sharp focus. I thought, I’ll make an appointment to see the Psych people sometimes this week. Until then, I’ll manage.
‘What about the Witchbreed artifact here?’
Molly nodded. ‘That’s priority. Sometime over the next couple of hours, we must find a way to talk to Barris Rakviri on his own.’
7
Heirs of an Empire Long Passed Away
With that new mental clarity came an appreciation: we’re close to being out-manoeuvred here. With no T’An Suthai-Telestre or T’Ans now, it’s the Wellhouses that watch offworlders – and they don’t want Earth tech at all. And the rashaku-relay will have taken the news out …
‘How does this sound? I’ll talk to s’an Jaharien,’ I said. ‘For one thing, it might give you a chance to get to Barris.’
‘And?’ the Pacifican woman prompted.
The kitchen-halls began to smell stale with old cooking. Light fell through amber glass on to the few Ortheans left drinking siir-wine and talking. Not that they ignore offworlders, precisely; it’s a kind of self-sufficiency they possess.
‘And – I might be able to persuade Jaharien. I don’t know. Because my name carries weight here?’ I shrugged. ‘Molly, understand me. I want you to see, as soon as possible, that nothing here in the Hundred Thousand is useful to the Company.’
The black woman rose from the chair in one smooth movement. Something tireless in her, both physical and mental.
‘You’ll help because that’s your job. If that means using the S’aranth name, than do it.’ Her gaze was not on me, but searching for Barris. She said, ‘You’re as much a part of the Company as I am.’
Kites flew on the cold wind; yellow, scarlet, and viridian against the daystarred sky. Streamers fluttered. The glittering curves of the glass terrace formed a looming backdrop to all these small courtyards. I walked with the s’an Jaharien beside white walls, hearing the hiss of penned skurrai and the larger marhaz. The cold kept me alert – it was that hour in early afternoon when I needed sleep. Even in spring, Orthe has too many daylight hours for human comfort.
‘S’an Jaharien … your telestre isn’t much impressed by offworlders, is it? But then, I suppose you’ve had time to get used to us.’
‘Ask instead, how many of us are capable of seeing what it means to have offworlders here.’ He spoke sardonically, with the slurred Morvrenni river-dialect. I guessed from his broad shoulders and rope-scarred hands that he sailed either Ai River ships or coastal jath-rai.
‘Perhaps you underestimate the people here.’
‘T’an, perhaps I do.’ The wind blew his short, unbraided mane forward, and he put it back with one claw-nailed hand. ‘Barris tells me – he is my arykei, and should know – he tells me I think no other but myself capable. And that’s why I am s’an. And that’s why I see s’aranthi here, and doubt our wisdom. Your t’an Molly Rachel, she sees nothing but her desire.’
‘That I’ll admit is true.’
Sea gravel crunched underfoot as we walked down the colonnade, and the kites made bright curves in the alien sunlight. Frost still lay in the shadow of the gate-arch, where we passed through into another courtyard. I shivered. And wondered what angle of attack to try next.
‘The Beth’ru-elen speaks of you,’ Jaharien said suddenly. ‘Is it true – are you that Christie, Christie S’aranth?’
His voice was wiped momentarily clear of the cynicism that seemed his natural idiom.
‘I’m Christie,’ I said.
His head turned towards me. I saw the slow glide of nictitating membrane: a gaze darker (and somehow deeper) in those unveiled, alien eyes. The edge of his robe hissed on the gravel path as we walked.
‘When Barris told me, I called him a liar; the S’aranth –’ Jaharien stopped abruptly. One six-fingered hand sought the hilt of harur-nilgiri, as if for comfort. Now, on those alien features, I could recognize a kind of awe. Even though I’d been counting on something like it, it disturbed me.
Words came from in a spate: ‘So many Orventa tales of you! – that year, that first year; the Crown, Suthafiori; Kanta Andrethe, and Wellkeeper Arad, and Sulis SuBannasen –’
Even in that unguarded enthusiasm, he left out the name of Orhlandis.
‘– and the first meeting with offworlders; you and your kin in Tathcaer –!’ He shook his dark-maned head, laughed at his own capacity for being impressed. ‘Pardon, t’an. You must have heard this often since you came back to us.’
Enough to conceive of it as an influence, that S’aranth name. Nonetheless, I felt embarrassed. ‘There were a lot of us on that first contact team, not just me.’
‘But you were the first to come to the telestres.’
We walked on. It was too cold to stand and talk. There was a soft discordancy: the clash of bright harur-blades belted at his hip.
‘I went to telestres and Wellhouses,’ I carefully reminded him.
‘Corbek-in-Roehmonde. The tale is that the Wellkeeper there had
you imprisoned, but you escaped to Shiriya-Shenin and had him brought to trial.’
I heard no resentment in Jaharien’s voice. No indication that he would support church against offworlders, regardless.
‘And does Cassirur Almadhera talk about the S’aranth, too?’ I asked. ‘I don’t have to wonder why an Earthspeaker’s in Rakviri, do I? Jaharien, I’ll say something I shouldn’t, but it’s for my peace of mind … what will it do to the Hundred Thousand if we trade with you for Witchbreed technology?’
Jaharien Rakviri had an expression almost of delight. This dark male, a handful of years younger than I; looking at me wide-eyed as any ashiren.
‘I’d always thought Christie S’aranth would ask such a question. T’an, pardon me; you don’t need to ask that, you know already. It won’t do anything to the Hundred Thousand. No more than burning Orventa’s machines at Spring Thaw Festival, and building them again next winter.’
His voice had triumph in it. With some self-disgust at the manipulation, I thought, I’ve obviously lived up to the public image. Does the mask of Christie S’aranth still fit? What have they made my name into while I’ve been away?
Jaharien went on impetuously: ‘Earthspeakers, even Cassirur; they’re overcautious. You and t’an Rachel … I think you understand us. Barris was right. There can be no great harm in this. If I allowed it, and didn’t believe it safe – I should deserve to have the telestre name another s’an in place of me.’
I glanced across at his unguarded expression. It’s a little late to feel – what? Ashamed? Don’t make me into something I’m not. Don’t let me persuade you against your judgement. I feel as though I’m here on false pretences.
‘You know the telestres,’ Jaharien added. ‘I have some confidence in my powers of judgement, t’an. And in yours.’
We turned a corner, passing under another arch, returning towards the crystal facade of the great terrace. My fingers were white with the cold. Carrick’s Star blazed.
Against all professional instinct, knowing it might lose me what I’d just gained, I had to protest. ‘For all you’ve heard about the S’aranth, I … oh, I’d have made a better anthropologist than diplomat; I did better work in the Barrens than I ever did in the Hundred Thousand telestres. In Melkathi I failed – but if you know that story, s’an Jaharien, you know how it ended.’
‘S’aranth, Rakviri isn’t Orhlandis.’
He pronounced the name of that Melkathi telestre with a kind of arrogant condescension. What I meant for honesty, he took as self-deprecation. No way to get rid of that S’aranth name.
As we came under the bright reflections of the terrace, I thought, I’ve made you trust me. All the easier because you’re arrogant, and being impressed catches you off-guard. Christie S’aranth.
For a long, vertiginous moment, I wanted to turn him against me. If S’aranth is the key to the lock, I don’t want to go through the door.
Molly Rachel said, You’re as much apart of the Company as I am.
‘Come with me,’ Jaharien said. ‘We’ll find Barris, and your t’an Rachel. I’ll take you to where we keep the relics of the Golden Witchbreed.’
I said nothing. I followed him inside.
Somehow, although I know the Orthean mind, I expected more concealment. But Jaharien led us through the sprawling telestre-house to the unguarded entrance of a small hall, the ground floor of an octagonal tower.
‘Here?’ I said.
Jaharien pushed the bead curtain aside. Barris Rakviri’s cane tapped on the echoing stone floor as he went in. Molly Rachel followed, gazing up at the glass mosaic ceiling, in this room where the air smelled of dust and the light is always pale.
‘What about the Earthspeaker Cassirur?’ I asked, letting the curtain fall back into place behind me.
The Pacifican woman gave neither of them the chance to reply. ‘S’an, you said – functional relics.’
A look went between the two Orthean males, the opaque glance of some shared past-memory. Barris small and thin, leaning on the hanelys stick; and the burly Jaharien at his shoulder. Both dark-maned, pale-skinned; in heavy Morvrenni robes.
‘How long has Rakviri kept Witchbreed relics?’ I asked.
‘There was a lost time after the Empire fell. Out of it came the telestres. Since then, t’an S’aranth.’ Jaharien’s membraned gaze was blind with two millennia.
In this octagonal room, one wall held the entrance, another an embrasured window; and all the others deep alcoves, set back into the masonry. I could hear the voices of ashiren in the courtyard outside.
Molly, impatient, said, ‘Then can we see –’
Jaharien’s gaze cleared. Our eyes met. I saw in him the first intimations of doubt. He put one claw-nailed hand on Barris’s shoulder; spoke equally to the younger Orthean male and to Molly Rachel: ‘This isn’t to be done lightly. The telestres … offworlder, we don’t forget. In four days, at the Festival of the Wells, we’ll burn the devices created through Orventa. This is why.’
Barris moved away, rejecting the older male’s urgency. The marshflower dapples made a sneer of his expression. He leaned the hanelys stick against the wall, and went to the nearest alcove, which stood some three feet above floor level. I saw how he tugged his dark becamil over-robe about himself, as if he felt cold.
Without looking back at us, he said, ‘We’re free of the Empire. There are none of the Golden Witchbreed now but in past-memory. Nor will we ever become as they.’
For all her mask of professionalism, Molly Rachel’s long-fingered hands were trembling. I thought I felt something of the cold that touched the Rakviri.
Since the Witchbreed Empire fell …
We are not Witchbreed, said the nameless Voice in Kel Harantish. That is what superstitious northern barbarians call us. We are the Golden.
Since the Golden Empire fell, and all its cities: Simmerath, aKirrik, Archonys (that brilliant beating heart of Empire); since that great alien culture fell, and all its works …
‘I have no memory to help me in this,’ Barris said. There was something bitter in his tone. ‘The Empire didn’t allow its slave races such knowledge.’ The alcove held copper and glass, woven into a fine mesh cage; and the patchmarked Orthean reached into small ceramic pots, touching the metal with several substances.
‘Ashiren.’ Barris turned his head; that dark gaze like a blow. ‘We’re ashiren, playing in the ruins. The Witchbreed could do this merely by bending their will to it, and I … S’aranth, I play ashiren-games with herbs and metal ore.’
He stepped aside, and I saw the glass and copper mesh cage enclosed a globe of chiruzeth. Was it a trick of light, or was that blue-grey substance faintly luminous?
No illusion. A faint light, the blue-pink colour of lightning. Molly’s hand closed over my arm.
‘Bel-Kurick,’ she whispered. Remembering the haggard face of Dannor bel-Kurick, Emperor-in-Exile, in Kel Harantish. But this light was faint, fading …
cold high walls, webbed with darkness; the smell of dust, and musk, and the stale air –
‘I thought, in Kel Harantish, one responds to it with more than just visual perception.’ She spoke in Sino-Anglic, in a tone of suppressed excitement. ‘Did you feel it? Like a touch, a smell. It’s some pan-spectrum broadcast, not just visible light.’
Revulsion touched me. ‘If we can perceive, it, it might damage us.’
She was oblivious. ‘If we can perceive it, we might be able to understand it. Lynne, we might!’
The chiruzeth globe’s colour faded to an inert blue-grey. I almost wanted to touch the masonry of the alcove and feel if the light had stained it – absurd. But I feel what makes Ortheans fear Witchbreed relics. The echo of a dead power. And is this what I thought I could keep the Company away from?
‘It’s necessary!’ Barris’s voice rose, and he stepped back, glaring at the older male. Jaharien paused.
‘If you must,’ he said finally. Jaharien looked at me, then. More s’an Rakviri than admirer of the S�
��aranth. Here where Witchbreed relics were more than a name, I could see him realize how I’d used the public legend. His expression was cold.
The next alcove held a shallow bowl, wider round than human arms could span. Roughcast iron, still jagged here and there from the forge, and with a scar of orange rust on one curve. Barris Rakviri reached up to a niche in the back of the alcove, repeating his first procedure, and another sphere-light began to glow and illuminate the cold masonry.
‘Jesus!’ Molly said loudly. I echoed her, involuntarily.
What I had taken to be fragments of chiruzeth in the iron bowl were not broken pieces. The blue-grey substance flowed. A viscous movement began wherever that lilac-and-blue illumination fell on the chiruzeth, and an answering translucent depth gleamed in that substance that moved with the tropism of plants, of living matter. The mass moved. The iron in the bowl’s scarred interior flaked away, turning to brown-and-orange rust, and decaying into the very air …
‘Energy transfer,’ Molly whispered. ‘Christ, will you look at that!’ There was no fear in her voice. Wonder, greed, joy; but no terror.
The chiruzeth darkened to a dull grey; began to build itself up in complex shapes. All breathing ceased, and all sound. When the device it formed stood complete, part solid, part moving to the pulse of that strange energy, only the lace-like shell of an iron bowl remained.
In Sino-Anglic Molly said, ‘You told us they were soft-sciencers, the Witchbreed. Look at it … What would you call it? Analogue-DNA? Living crystal?’
‘Gene-sculpting?’ I suggested. Still lost, still awed.
‘Something between living and inanimate tissue.’ Her eyes shone.
‘If they patterned the structure – genes, viruses – and then …’ Then some transfer of will, that Ortheans now could only mimic by chemical or biological stimulus-triggers.
Molly leaned closer to the relic. The dimensions of it twisted the eye. I saw curves and angles and solids within that polyhedral shape, but I didn’t know what they meant. And so perhaps I didn’t truly see them.
‘How does it function?’ she asked.
