Ancient Light

by Mary Gentle

  Assaulted on all sides by the Hundred Thousand, how can I remember that cool interior of the Brown Tower? With violence on a hair trigger here, how can I think of that other, sleeping devastation?

  Ravi Singh joined us, blinking myopically. ‘Lynne, I have some interesting findings.’

  ‘Any news on Rashid or David?’

  He blinked again, taken aback, and then said, ‘Bad, I’m afraid. They need cryo-travel to Thierry’s World. The orbiter doesn’t have the medical facilities they need.’

  ‘I’ll authorize it.’ I looked at Cory. ‘Thierry’s World can contact us, when either of them can talk.’

  Oblivious to all interruption, Ravi said, ‘Those new findings I mentioned … we have established fairly conclusively that “interference” with comlink and other hi-tech systems here is inversely proportional to their distance from the areas of war damage; that is, taking into account the seasonal tilt of the planet, sunspot activity, and –’

  ‘My navigators and comlink people have been using that as a rule of thumb for the past two months,’ Corazon said dismissively. ‘Lynne, about this meeting.’

  ‘I want Envoy Clifford present as well,’ I said. ‘Come inside.’

  Making our way through the crowded inner rooms, we at last came on Doug Clifford sitting with Nelum Santhil in a small chamber. The Orthean male glanced up.

  ‘Ah.’ He inclined his head to Corazon and Ravi. ‘Christie, give you greeting.’

  I pondered tactfully getting rid of the T’An Suthai-Telestre, or else removing Doug from his company. At that moment the door-arch was blocked, and two more Ortheans entered behind us: Haltern clinging determinedly to the shoulder of Blaize Meduenin. The stocky male eased Hal down on to a couch-chair, by the round window that was choked with the foliage of ziku outside. Hal wheezed painfully, and then looked up at me with bright eyes.

  ‘You will be interested to know,’ Haltern said unhurriedly, ‘that Tethmet Fenborn has made it his business to speak with me – and I with the T’An Rimon here, and the T’An Suthai-Telestre. He gave me word from the Tower. He said, the S’aranth will speak of a past time and a present danger. He also said, the Hexenmeister is unwilling all the Hundred Thousand should go in ignorance of this …’

  A shadow darkened the entrance. The gaunt figure of the fenborn male, blocking the door-arch. I looked questioningly at him, and he blinked green-gold eyes and silently inclined his head in assent.

  Nelum Santhil, dark eyes somehow remote, said, ‘We have memories of a past time. Speak, S’aranth.’

  But how can I …? A kind of relief went through me then, simply to have them there: Hal’s sly smile, Blaize standing with half-scarred face in shadow, Nelum Santhil’s quiet, corrupt confidence. While I still hesitated, Ravi seated himself on the other couch-chair; and Corazon Mendez and Blaize Meduenin took up identical stances either side of the door.

  Yes, I thought, watching Orthean faces. Yes, you have a right to know; if only because, when that great Empire fell, you were not innocent bystanders.

  ‘Normally I wouldn’t call this meeting now,’ I said. ‘We’ve got all the crises we can handle. Invaders who may have illegal hi-tech weapons; a hostile fleet of hiyek ships in the islands. Normally, I’d say why call a meeting about something else, when we could be in for a bad enough time here?’

  It was automatic to fall into the Ymirian dialect that serves for common language in Tathcaer; to repeat in Sino-Anglic what Corazon and Ravi didn’t understand. I leaned both hands on the back of Ravi’s couch-chair.

  ‘Despite what I’m going to say, I have to tell you: I wouldn’t discuss this at all now if it weren’t for Kel Harantish.’

  ‘We heard of the t’an Rachel’s death,’ Nelum Santhil acknowledged. ‘I know the Harantish well, or better, than any person here; and they may now be yours, S’aranth, but they’re not our enemies. The hiyeks are our enemy.’

  ‘Kel Harantish …’ I paused. ‘I’d feel better saying this if there were any proof. There isn’t. It may be an unjustified fear; I hope to God it is. If it isn’t, Kel Harantish is a threat to you, and to the hiyeks, and to the Storm Coast and the Rainbow Cities, and the tribes that live over the Wall of the World. That’s no exaggeration. That woman who calls herself Empress –’

  Haltern interrupted in a thin voice. ‘We have still to rid ourselves of this war. Speak.’

  Now let me tell you, in this warm and summer land, under this clear sky, how to the north and west and south there is a living destruction, an ancient light. Let me tell you what I have seen in the Elansiir, the Barrens, and on the Glittering Plain. Now let me tell you of the legacy of the past – that is living still.

  29

  The Last Nineteenth-Century War

  Weather and truce together held: the long Orthean twenty-seven-hour day ticking away, always on the edge of violence, never quite crossing the line. Five more Coast Ortheans came out of the burned heathland under escort, these from hiyek-Aruan. And telestre-Ortheans arrived, by marhaz and by jath-rai, as word went out to Tathcaer and south Melkathi and the Ymirian hills – hundreds coming to look out over land that had been Rimnith and Keverilde and now lay occupied …

  Peace Force ’thopters harried the sky through that long day, scanning. Orbital satellites gave erratic images of the Archipelago, far to the west.

  I found Cory Mendez in one of the outhouses that Ashiel no longer used, setting up a temporary comlink-base; she and her officers swearing over the data they processed.

  ‘I’d ban all shipping from the area,’ Corazon said. ‘Any of these craft could be carrying communications for either side. If there was a way to enforce the ban –’

  She pushed a hand through her silver hair, disordering its sleekness. For the first time, she looked as though she carried her fifty years with an effort.

  ‘Don’t do what you did on the Coast,’ I warned. ‘I won’t authorize that kind of action.’

  Corazon Mendez sighed, and as she turned back to the field holo-tank, said, ‘I don’t do it for the fun of it, Lynne, whatever you may think. It’s a job. I won’t do anything, until and unless I’m forced.’

  On the fourth day after that, a thick sea mist rolled over the land: hiding heath and shallow rises topped by ziku and heat-stunted hanelys. I sat with Doug Clifford in a Wellhouse chamber that opened on to the ziku grove. Unglazed windows let in humid heat, and vapour droplets, and the smell of cooking-fires. Bethan T’An Kyre sat with us, her zilmei-hide clothes and Aarwr-blades making her look more like a mercenary than the governor of a province; Nelum Santhil leaned back against the white plaster walls, where he sat on a couch-chair beside her. And Sethri-safere faced us.

  ‘We can’t continue with this stalemate,’ I said.

  Doug pursed his lips. On cue, he said, ‘I do have one suggestion we perhaps haven’t given due consideration. In view of the PanOceania multicorporate’s resources, is there a remote chance of Aid resettlement? That is, resettlement on another world like Carrick V –’

  Bethan Ivris spluttered. I caught a very sly look from Nelum Santhil.

  ‘Shan’tat Christie.’ Sethri shook his head. For all that there was dirt ingrained in that pale skin, and his yellow mane fell matted and filthy, he still by some compulsion could take the room’s attention. He smiled ruefully. ‘We don’t live in telestres, shan’tai. All the same, take us from this world and we die … Offworld-born ashiren might live. Still, they’d have no hiyek, no family; they’d be Orthean in nothing but body.’

  ‘I know. It’s a bad solution to this – but you’re not leaving me any good ones.’ I could have left it at that and hoped, but I felt uncomfortable with the manipulation. ‘Really, I’m giving impossible suggestions in the hope it’ll force us into something feasible … You can very well say it isn’t the Company’s concern. We don’t have the right to interfere. On the other hand, I know the Company has to bear some responsibility for how this came about. And I want to see it ended without bloodshed – screw PanOceani
a,’ I said, ‘I want it!’

  Nelum Santhil snorted, black eyes gleaming with that Orthean humour that surfaces at the most serious moments. I felt Doug Clifford wince; he put in hastily: ‘Assuming we can reach a compromise here, it should be possible to have Carrick V declared a Protected world. This would mean a slower influx of technology, an assessment of what repercussions there would be from the Aid Programme –’

  Nelum Santhil leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. He glanced at Sethri. The hiyek-Orthean stood with his back to the window.

  ‘We won’t “share” land,’ the T’An Suthai-Telestre said. ‘It isn’t ours to give or yours to take. But as T’An Bethan here has told you, there’s land north and west of The Kyre that has never been telestre land.’ And then, aside to the dark-maned female: ‘Haltern Beth’ru-elen T’An Morvren reminds me, that is how Peir-Dadeni came about. And hasn’t the Andrethe of Peir-Dadeni been a friend to us?’

  Bethan looked at Sethri. Disgust showed on her blunt features. ‘We would be well rid of you. Until I saw Keverilde, I didn’t know … Your ashiren’s ashiren may shake off the taint of land-waster. But if there were an easy way to do it I would send you all to Her.’

  Nelum Santhil repeated, ‘Land north and west of The Kyre.’

  Sethri’s face showed exhaustion, but no loss of control.

  ‘Wasteland,’ he said.

  ‘Wilderness,’ Bethan Ivris corrected. ‘There are few of us in The Kyre, and we content with mountains; we never needed to move out into the Northern Wilderness.’

  Watery sunlight shone in at the window. The hiyek male’s eyes widened, membrane fully retracted; and I thought of seeing him at the siiran, under the Coast’s incandescent light. The Anzhadi and Aruan and what other hiyeks concealed themselves in that heath to the east of us wouldn’t own you as a leader – but they’ll listen to you, I thought. The others that have come here will carry their own word; but it’s Sethri-safere who’ll sway them.

  ‘Free passage,’ the hiyek male said. ‘For jath-rai, north up the river. And then passage across the mountains. Can you do that, shan’tai?’ He jerked his head at the window. ‘They won’t let us go easily. Can you make them?’

  Nelum Santhil looked down at hands that were clenched into fists; relaxed them, and thoughtfully studied the sixfold imprint of nails in his palms. ‘When I was Portmaster down at Ales-Kadareth, I found nothing readier to quarrel with a hiyek than another hiyek. How long will it take you to get word to the jath-rai in the islands? And will they listen to that word when it’s sent?’

  I was conscious of Doug beside me; caught a glimpse of his face that, for all he controlled his expression, told me how hard he was trying not to hope. In case this is one more false breakthrough.

  In case this is nothing at all …

  Sethri-safere said, ‘You had better find me an escort, T’An Suthai-Telestre, or clothes such as your people wear. I must go back and speak with Anzhadi. Your people outside these walls will kill me if they see me.’

  Doug Clifford looked up. ‘Shan’tai, I’ll go with you.’

  ‘Cory’s people can escort you,’ I said.

  And are we there? I wondered, leaving them and making my way towards the temporary comlink-base outside. We’re moving, but are we there?

  Corazon Mendez grunted assent when I found her, detailing Ottoway as an escort. She herself remained seated at the field-holotank, studying images that were bright in the gloom of the round-roofed building. She seemed oblivious of the stink of old rashaku lairs.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Corpse. One of the ‘thopters got it, over on the eastern boundary. Local, by his clothes. Being in the hostile area, I wasn’t going to authorize a recovery.’ She remained bent over the holo-image. I didn’t look; could only wonder, Was he Keverilde or Rimnith, could he not stay away from the telestre even after the burning?’

  ‘I wish I had a clearer image,’ Corazon said. ‘You can see, here, that’s a winchbow-bolt. Probable cause of death. What I’m looking for are wounds that might have been made with a hi-tech weapon.’

  Sea mist shifted as the noon hour passed, dissolved on a west wind, leaving Ashiel to swelter under the summer heat of Carrick’s Star. I stood in a ziku’s shadow, staring into blue distance. Thinking: In Tathcaer now, what are they doing, Khassiye Andrethe, Howice T’An Roehmonde, Geren T’An Ymir? In Morvren Freeport are they waiting to sight jath-rai sails on the horizon?

  Satellite-images show only quiet islands, under the sea-spanning shadow of the Rasrhe-y-Meluur.

  Below me, all the slope that fell away from Ashiel was covered with temporary shelters of marhaz-hide, set up between clumps of the brown and blue saryl-kiez. Ortheans walked among them. Some wore the thin robes of Melkathi, others the slit-backed shirts of Ymir and Rimon. The sun glittered on harur-nilgiri, harur-nazari. Only the youngest ashiren played oblivious in the dust. Older children ran from group to group, acting (I thought) as messengers.

  ‘Ms Christie …’

  Not Trismegistus, I realized as I turned, seeing a man in combat-coverall, WEBcorder slung on his back. A tall, black man, with straight hair drawn back and tied in a horse-tail; with long slanting eyes and a challenging grin.

  ‘Ariadne WEB,’ he announced. ‘My name’s Mehmet Lutaya; I wonder if you want to comment on the absence of the government envoy at this time? Does this have any bearings on PanOceania’s actions here?’

  There is a certain glaze they have in their eyes. It means they see ‘Representative’ or ‘Envoy’ or ‘Commander’; not the person. Down in that haze there, somewhere on the heath, Doug Clifford is with Ortheans who are a continent away from safety; nothing to keep him safe but words and luck – and I can’t say that to you, I thought. Although I have to say something.

  ‘I’ll be holding a conference for all WEB representatives in about an hour,’ I said. The comlink-centre would be suitably private. Or as private as possible, in the Hundred Thousand.

  ‘When do you anticipate developments?’ he persisted. ‘I know some of the other WEBs have sent people to the other port settlement – Morvren, is it? Is that where –’

  ‘I hope they know better than to land. Land’s taboo,’ I said. With an effort, I held back from tongue-lashing this Mehmet Lutaya. No point in taking tension out on him.

  ‘Representative, wouldn’t you call that irrelevant now? The invading force here is using groundcar transport, I’ve got verifiable holos of that. These people have Earth tech on their territory whether they want it or not.’

  There was no easy answer to that. ‘I’ll see you in an hour,’ I repeated.

  Having no greater desire than to be out of his way, I turned and walked back inside the Wellhouse. Picking a way through the crowds wasn’t easy. Some hiyek-Ortheans were present in the inner rooms – Jadur Anzhadi lifted a cup in a friendly salute as I passed through one chamber, and I thought, That’s not going to make the S’aranth popular …

  Tension twisted in my stomach, so acute it was painful. I felt as if one touch would make me ring like a wine glass, like a violin string tuned up to some unbearable pitch. Worst-case scenarios: Doug used as hostage, murdered out of hand. Desperately seeking consolation, I thought: He’s professional, he’s done this before, he knows the risks – ah, so do we all. And it doesn’t help.

  At the entrance to the Well-room I stopped. A male and a female stood together under that dome, by the Wellmouth; she with an untidy scarlet mane, and a green slit-backed robe falling to her high-arched feet; he thin and tall, the brown robe wrapped round his hips not concealing his seamed belly: the pouch of an oviparous species. Cassirur Almadhera and Tethmet Fenborn, talking together. Suddenly I felt very alien.

  And why? Because Commander Mendez isn’t stupid; she’s manoeuvring me towards a position where I take responsibility for PanOceania, but have no authority over it. And that puts a distance between me and Ortheans.

  ‘Give you greeting,’ I said, stepping inside the Well-room. ‘Wh
at news?’

  She smiled sympathetically. ‘We wait. S’aranth, I could almost wish we had acted as the hiyeks, and taken your devices for communication – it would be swifter.’

  Tethmet Fenborn said nothing. Silence with him seemed, not a lack, but a natural quality.

  ‘Kasabaarde has some spiritual authority on the Coast,’ Cassirur Almadhera went on, ‘if no temporal authority. Help me convince the t’an Fenborn that the Tower should make its disapproval known, influence the other hiyeks against Anzhadi.’

  I said, ‘I understand the Hexenmeister to remain neutral in these matters.’ And had a sudden image of that city to the west of us, of Tathcaer, white under the summer sun; and how eight years ago it sent into exile amari Ruric Orhlandis. For all her memories, she is Ruric still.

  ‘Did the Hexenmeister say nothing to you about this?’ I asked the Fenborn.

  Tethmet’s green-gold eyes blurred with membrane. If I didn’t know his loyalty to the Tower, I’d have taken it for disapproval. ‘The word of the Hexenmeister has gone out to the siiran, to dissuade the hiyeks from war.’

  ‘May She make that not too late.’

  Cassirur’s inflection made it ‘Goddess’, but I started; hearing it as plain ‘she’ – the Hexenmeister in the Tower. I was almost relieved when my wristlink chimed, and signalled a private communication I’d have to take on one of the larger holotanks in the comlink-centre.

  ‘I’ll speak with you later,’ I said. As I left, I glanced back. Orthean female and aboriginal male: one red-maned and middle-aged and untidy, the other sleek and dark and thin. Memory tells me the one is the child of the other – that, for all we speak with telestres and Coast hiyeks, it is Tethmet’s people who have the prior claim to Orthe. The light from the roof-slot shone whitely down on both of them.