by Mary Gentle
I gripped the side of the ‘tank, willing the ships to sail faster. ‘Cory, the time to be afraid is when we know where the fleet’s headed. It could just be that they’ll set a course back to the Desert Coast …’
The Peace Force Commander bent down to speak through comlink to a YV9 surveillance-craft, ordering it to fly south. Her hand, by her side, was clenched tight enough to drive the silver rings into her tanned flesh.
‘You’d better get rid of the locals, Lynne. I don’t want any complications.’ She glanced up, pale blue eyes brilliant with tension. ‘You know your job best; keep them happy, but keep them out of our way. Until we know what’s happening here, this could be dangerous.’
Hours crept by. My eyes began to ache with staring into the holotanks aboard the F90. Satellite-images alternated with images sent back from shuttles overflying the islands, fifty or a hundred miles south of where we were grounded. Interference made reception difficult. The satellites gave heat-sensor images – no usage of hi-tech tracked down, only the clusters of body-heat that are the crews of jath-rai and jath – many jath, those deep-sea vessels that can carry three or four hundred aboard. And the shuttles sent back night-images: leaf-shaped silhouettes of blackness on a sea made silver by the blaze of the Heart Stars …
‘Latest estimate is between seven hundred and seven-ten vessels,’ Corazon Mendez said, four hours after the movement of the ships had begun. ‘Lynne, does that seem feasible, from your local knowledge? Given the carrying power of the large and the coastal ships, that’s about thirty thousand natives on board.’
The siirans must be empty. No, more: the islanders must be joining the hiyeks … I said, ‘If you want local knowledge, I’d advise you to bring the T’An Meduenin in on this. Cory, you may as well. He still has my wristlink, and I’d be very surprised if he hasn’t been following this.’
The older woman opened her mouth as if to speak, checked, and then shook her head. She laughed shortly. ‘Yes.’
One of the officers put a call through. There was a hiatus, the shift changing in the comlink-centre; and I took advantage of that to stand and stretch, to wonder if I couldn’t find something to drink. The F90’s cabin felt changeless: green-tinted illumination, the brightness reflecting up from holotanks on to young, intent faces; the subliminal hum of communications between other Force vessels. This will be the same whether it’s night or day outside, whether the Freeport is still standing in the morning, or whether these ships turn for the north to sail and burn it to the ground.
As the new officers settled in, I looked at those young Pacifican faces and wished for some way to move them beyond these holo-images. And then I thought: But what did I really see of Morvren, myself? A few minutes on Northfast, an hour above ground in a ’thopter; the rest by image in shuttles … How can we feel what’s happening here – and if we can’t, how can we judge the right actions to take?
Blaize Meduenin came in, inclining his head to Cory. His slit-backed shirt and his britches were ash-stained; and the clash of harur-blades was loud in that quiet cabin as he slumped wearily down in the seat next to me.
‘Where are they now?’
‘Here. Most of them aren’t far from land, still. By “land” I mean the islands.’
He leaned forward. The holotank light shone on his matted and filthy mane, and membrane slid down to shield his eyes.
‘The different coloured dots represent vessels of different carrying power,’ a dark Pacifican officer said. He was hardly more than a boy; nineteen or twenty. These figures are local wind-speed and –’
‘I’m familiar with the Webster-representation,’ Blaize cut him off, Sino-Anglic accented but understandable. ‘Some years ago I was briefly on Aleph-Nine and Parmiter’s Moon. Christie, have you made any contact with the hiyeks?’
Hiding a smile, I said, ‘No. It’s been distance-contact, so far.’ And then I shrugged. ‘Cory sent ’thopters down earlier, to try loudhailer-contact. No response.’
‘No …’ The membrane blinked back from his eyes: a flash of sardonic humour. He raised his head, looking across the tank at Corazon Mendez. ‘They would probably kill anyone you sent in to talk with them in person.’
Cory attempted a passable formal Ymirian: ‘T’an Meduenin, can you predict what action this fleet will take?’
I saw him register her attempt at courtesy. He had an expression I couldn’t place, when he looked at her; and I thought, That’s from Northfast. That is the look of one who was there, to one who – quite literally – stayed above the battle.
Blaize Meduenin stared down into the holotank, at dots that moved with infinitesimal slowness. Hard to translate that into the riveted metal hulls of jath-rai, cutting the water; thin metal sails spread to catch the falling wind; jath loaded to the rails with men and women of the Desert hiyeks …
‘They might attack the Freeport again, if your work on Northfast fails to make them fear.’ His eyes veiled. ‘They may attack the Morvren and Rimon coast, the telestres there.’
‘Is there any chance they’ve been scared into abandoning this, going back to the Desert Coast?’ I suggested.
‘Chance? S’aranth, there are always chances.’ He turned that scarred profile towards me. ‘You’ll know – we’ll know, well before morning.’
The night passed. Cory Mendez grew more quiet, withdrawing into herself; and I could appreciate how she felt. All the Company’s hi-tech sensors, transport, communications; all of it waiting on the result of jath-rai and jath and a south-westerly wind. Her officers plainly suffered the same tension.
I made brief communication with the WEBcasters, still at Ashiel Wellhouse; and with the shuttles on Kumiel Island. If it amounted to a news blackout, that is only because, acting representative or not, I didn’t know yet how I wanted this handled.
The summer night passed. Before the ten hours were up, a pattern became clear. Jath and jath-rai drew out from the Archipelago into the Inner Sea, a score here, fifty there; setting courses that would eventually intersect. Plotted, they crossed two hundred miles north-west of Lone Isle. An easterly course that might, if they didn’t turn north to the Rimon coast, bring them in a few days within sight of Melkathi.
‘I don’t care if you can’t pick up transmissions,’ I said to Corazon Mendez, ‘those two groups are in contact with each other!’
Blaize sat, harur-nilgiri blade resting its point on the cabin floor, resting his chin on his hands that were clasped over the hilt. He leaned back in the padded seat when I spoke, and said wearily, ‘You told me of Harantish soldiers come to the Archipelago, and of the Empress Calil in Melkathi? Then that’s where they’re sailing, Christie. To Rimnith and to Keverilde, to break the siege.’
I looked down into the holotank, at that firefly-scatter of dots on the Inner Sea.
‘I think I should talk with Pathrey Shanataru again.’
32
The Woman Who Walks on the Sky
The YV9 shuttle, flying east at well below two thousand feet, passed over specks on the sea; some of which must (I thought) be the normal trading ships of summer, others – strung out in line, in many small convoys – Coast jath travelling towards their projected rendezvous.
Disembarking on Kumiel Island at about noon, I thought, Given they travel no faster than the slowest coastal jath-rai, given they have to raid shipping and the telestres for food – or did the Archipelago islanders provision them, willingly or unwillingly? – and then, given good weather …
The hiyek fleet will reach Melkathi no later than six days from now. Call it Merrum Secondweek Threeday or Fourday. That is a very narrow margin for us to take action in. But it’ll have to do.
Daystars glittered round the horizon, pinpricks of light; and Carrick’s Star blazed down on the island’s rock and sparse mossgrass. North, towards the mainland, sea fog rolled whitely; I couldn’t see the coastline, or the roofs of Tathcaer. Temporary Company domes now clustered round the ranked shuttles, I saw. Most stood on the lee of ridges, partly c
oncealed from the city; and I smiled, thinking, Tact and diplomacy from PanOceania? Wonders will never cease, and someone behind me put a hand on my shoulder.
‘I was about to contact you. Hello, Lynne.’
‘Douggie –’
He smiled, almost apologetically. That small, round face was pale; there were hard lines around his mouth. A grey pad covered his right eye. The left eye, bloodshot but clear, could obviously see.
‘Looks like they’ve treated you well – Jesus, Douggie, you shouldn’t be back here yet!’
‘I find it preferable to have something with which to occupy my thoughts.’
His grizzled red hair was neatly trimmed. I saw they’d given him new coveralls on the orbiter, with the PanOceania logo. That neatness somehow made him seem desperately fragile.
He kept his hand on my shoulder. ‘I won’t have much depth perception until this heals. Lynne, I’ve a reason for returning prematurely. I have Pathrey Shanataru at the moment under the aegis of the government, rather than of the Company; forgive me if I would rather it stayed that way …’
It was automatic to move with him as we walked across the island. He moved uncertainly, stumbling; as if the dry earth and clumps of mossgrass were dubious territory. Now I saw him in profile, there were white shadows of scars in the socket of his eye. In time it will be just something that happened, long ago, on another world; I sensed that he was not yet free of the shock of it.
‘You’ve been down long?’ I nodded at the low dome that housed the comlink-centre; dwarfed by the subwave transmitter bulking beside it. ‘You know what’s happening at the Freeport?’
Doug frowned. ‘There’s no guarantee Morvren Freeport won’t be subject to another attack. Certainly if I were Commander Mendez, I would expect some jath-rai to remain behind in the islands, and cause the greatest possible disruption.’
‘Yes. Blaize said that, too –’ I broke off, recognizing the pony-tailed black man outside the comlink-dome. Mehmet Lutaya of the Ariadne WEB. Doug’s palm was damp where it rested on the shoulder of my coverall, and I thought, I don’t want to leave you, I want to talk to you; oh Jesus, I want to tell you about Northfast.
‘Envoy,’ Lutaya said, striding over towards us. ‘Representative.’
Northwards the sea fog was beginning to shift, and Rimon’s white headlands gleamed, six or seven miles distant across the straits. Wind ruffled Lutaya’s hair and clothing. He had that look that WEBcasters have, a curiosity both avid and totally detached.
‘I don’t have much time right now,’ I said, not breaking stride.
He shrugged. ‘Thought I might be doing you both a favour. We’re beginning to get feedback through from the Home Worlds.’
Doug Clifford hesitated, letting his hand fall from my shoulder, and queried, ‘Feedback on what, precisely?’
‘On Carrick V. On the fighting, and how PanOceania’s handling the affair.’ Lutaya looked at me. ‘Nothing’s been released here – well, there’s no public WEB, is there? Thought I might try to be helpful. Maybe get information in exchange for information? Worth a try.’
Vibration thrummed through the earth as one of the F90s lifted, hovered, and then ripped the air apart as it flew west. Its white bulk faded against the daystarred sky. That’ll be on Cory’s orders, I thought. If I can find anything that’ll help me curb the Peace Force, I shall be a great deal happier.
‘Send records,’ I said, ‘we’ll be –?’ and I glanced at Doug.
‘In the government Residence, in the city,’ Doug supplied. ‘On the mainland.’
No, really? But I wasn’t about to ask why, not in front of a WEBcaster.
Lutaya nodded. ‘I’ll bring a full record across. Want to discuss access to information, and to certain areas on this world – that means with Company and government, yes? Thought so. About two hours?’
I agreed, and watched him walk away. Doug chuckled. When I glanced at him, he had some shadow of that prim humour in his face; that urbane mask that he loves to wear.
‘I imagine he won’t be the sole representative of the Earth WEBs to come knocking on the Residence’s door,’ Doug observed. ‘For my part, I must confess, I’m not being over-scrupulous about the rules on data-restriction …’
‘Who’s in Tathcaer?’
The question didn’t surprise him.
‘In the Residence? As you might have supposed, Pathrey Shanataru. I put him there with Haltern Beth’ruelen, on his return from Ashiel Wellhouse; and in the care of the t’an Cassirur.’ Now he had the remnants of that old, sharp gaze; head cocked bird-like and alert, for all the shock still in his system. ‘Morvren frightens me, Lynne. Now things have disintegrated this far, I begin to think that we have to take action with some speed. I intend to consult the takshiriye now.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
The summer sun reflected back from the rocks. At my feet, dusty mossgrass was turning brown; and thin stems bobbed waist-high, weighed down by crimson spore cases. Heat made me sweat; the sky was a vast arched dome; and for a second I was back on the Eastern Isles, eight years gone, my first step on to the surface of Orthe …
‘I’ll give you something to think about while we’re travelling over there,’ I said. ‘Douggie, the people we have to talk to aren’t the takshiriye. We must get in contact with the Desert Coast Ortheans, either the fleet, or the people in Rimnith and Keverilde; that’s who we have to convince.’
‘Impossible.’ He rubbed a sheen of moisture from his forehead, and looked away. ‘Impossible. Those people are led by fanatics now.’
And what are the chances of making contact with the Harantish Witchbreed?
Mid-morning bells rang a sharp carillon. The shadows of rashaku-bazur flicked across the inner courtyard of Westhill-Ahrentine, and their harsh hooting cries echoed; and I came through the gate-arch from the alley outside, and found a game of ochmir in progress. Sun shone on the thin white mane of Haltern n’ri n’suth Beth’ru-elen as he raised his head from the board and smiled. A skeletally-thin male Orthean seated at the opposite side of the table also looked up, and I recognized Tethmet Fenborn.
‘Give you greeting, t’ans,’ Haltern said mildly. His pale blue eyes moved to the upper-storey windows, an involuntary movement, soon concealed.
Doug Clifford nodded acknowledgement and didn’t break stride. As he went up the outside steps to the upper storey, a young dark-maned l’ri-an pulled the bead curtain aside, and he spoke to kir as he went inside. I moved across to stand under the ziku that shaded the table.
‘Do they play ochmir on the Coast, shan’tai Tethmet? I didn’t know.’
‘The t’an Tethmet learns swiftly,’ Haltern said. I thought he sounded a little rueful: when I glanced down at the position of the triangular counters on the hexagonal board, I could see why. The old male went on: ‘Christie, this is perhaps the right moment to say to you, you may wish to see the t’an Earthspeaker Cassirur.’
‘Why is now the right moment, Hal?’
One thin six-fingered hand reached out to place a leremoc counter on the ochmir board. ‘Because the t’an Clifford is now absent … Cassirur has one of your Company people in the Wellhouse, up at the Square.’
That Orthean obliqueness. Sometimes I’m plain human and impatient. ‘Hal, who does she have, and why?’
‘The Earthspeaker brought her back from Ashiel,’ Haltern said, not to be hurried. ‘I believe that her name is Pramila Ishida.’
Now it was my turn to glance up at the top storey of the telestre-house. Doug is there, he’ll be talking with Pathrey Shanataru, should I be there? But Pramila Ishida will know what the hiyeks in Rimnith and Keverilde are doing – if she’ll tell me. She may even have information about the Harantish Ortheans …
‘Why did she – how –’ I stopped. ‘Never mind. I’ll go up there now. Hal, is the woman injured, is that why Cassirur has her up at the Wellhouse?’
Sun through ziku spines dappled the low table, and the ochmir board. Tethmet reached down to p
ut in a thurin counter that completed a hexagon in his colour: the reverberations of that, in the overlapping hexagons, spread right out to the edges of the board.
‘She’s unharmed,’ Haltern said.
Membrane slid down over the fenborn’s dark eyes, and Tethmet said, ‘She is not whole.’
That’s what you get for asking questions of Ortheans. I nodded, and as I turned to leave the courtyard, said, ‘Tell Douggie I’ll be back before noon. Shan’tai Tethmet, please wait; I want to ask you to do something for me. Hal –’
‘You will not see the takshiriye here; they are largely to be found in Melkathi still. Go. I have said to Cassirur that you will come.’
‘Yes, I thought you might …’
My footsteps echoed under the arched tunnel-entrance, and I came out from that cool shadow into Tathcaer’s hot sun. From outside Westhill-Ahrentine I looked down at the harbour, crowded with jath-rai; the sun flickered on the water, and on Ortheans who poled small boats between the shipping, or stood arguing at the quayside booths. Voices came faintly up the hill. And this could almost be any day in the summer trading season – I wanted to walk along the quay and overhear what Ortheans were saying, but instead I hailed a skurrai-jasin that was rattling down the slope.
All the way up to the Square, I leaned back in the small wooden carriage and tried to detect some difference in the city’s atmosphere. The winding alleys were crowded, Ortheans standing in groups. As we passed telestre-houses, I began to see how many had barred and bolted their doors.
‘What’s your telestre, t’an?’
The jasin driver tugged at the thong attached to the skurrai’s nose-ring before he answered. The carriage swung a tight corner, uphill, and clattered out on to Crown Way; now we were under the shadow of lapuur that line it.
