The Complete Ivory

by Doris Egan

  this was just some huge pothole left by the recent rains in a road that was poorly placed between two hills.

  His chest exploded. I jumped. Lex, I realized. On the other hill, with our sole light-rifle. A warning shot hit the open door of the car at almost the same instant.

  The door slammed shut and the first car began to leave the scene. Grateth told me later that the drivers are responsible for what money they carry; this one was speeding off to cover his ass and protect his life at the same time. His superiors would be angry at a militia officer being killed, but they wouldn't blame the other driver for that. They'd only blame him for losing the money.

  The car in the pit had stopped moving. So this was why Stereth had arranged whatever he'd arranged to let the first car past: His opposition was now halved. So was the money, but no doubt he'd taken all that into account in his businesslike way.

  But where did this get anybody? What could we do to that elephant-hide vehicle anyway? Stand around outside it like the beseigers of an ancient city, with our pitiful knives and light-rifle, waiting for the occupants to get hungry? All the drivers had to do was stay inside and wait for help.

  "Fifteen seconds," said Stereth under his breath.

  Grateth also told me that the one overwhelming paranoid fear everyone who drives an armored vehicle has is of fire. Of being trapped in that thick metal tomb while burning to an agonized crisp. It's an understandable fear, since every armored driver who died within a car has died of extreme heat—it's about the only thing that will get through the skin. The car survives, but the people don't; the doors fuse shut.

  Des waited a full fifteen seconds in his grave. Then, hoping very strongly that the quick-set had indeed hardened, he rolled out into it. The wheels of the groundcar were firmly stuck, but there was enough room to crawl under the carriage to the two bottom sensors. Bits of quick-set clung to him as he wriggled through. He kept flicking them off. At the left and right front corners of the undercarriage were two red lights, both glowing in operational mode. Des pulled out the hotpencil I'd seen him take on back at the fort, screwed the bottom, and watched as the top turned white with heat. He took a match out in his other hand

  and activated it. Then he reached as far apart as he could with those lanky arms of his and held the pencil to one sensor and the match to the other.

  I couldn't see any of this at the time, but it must have shown up on the board as though the underside of the car were on fire. What I did see were the doors of the car slide open and two men with rifles jump out and run. They took off in opposite directions. The one on our side of the road must have had a second of enlightenment, abruptly grasping his situation; he threw his rifle as far away as he could and fell to his knees, hands behind his head, screaming something unintelligible. The other man kept running.

  They were both killed nearly simultaneously by Lex na'Valory, the best marksman in the Sector.

  Euphoria and repulsion make for a sickening mix. I was the only one suffering from it, though. Everybody else was on top of the world.

  Except Ran, and not for moral reasons—or anyway, not for morality of the kind I'd been taught. Once the attack was over he came straight down from the grove, marched up our hill, and grabbed hold of Stereth with both arms. "She's a witch," he said, meaning Cantry. She still looked shocked by what she'd done.

  "Is she?" said Stereth.

  "There was a steermod in the road. I saw it. It was an illusion, targeted to the people in the car."

  "Is that why it swerved?" asked Carabinstereth, following her problem child up the hill. She'd been in charge of Ran, as part of her group, and didn't want to see him do anything stupid now. "Go, Cantry!"

  "I don't know what a witch is," said Stereth. "Take your hands off me."

  Ran put down his hands. "A native talent. One of the old women who live in the hills and con people out of their money with a few minor tricks."

  "Well," said Stereth, "she's not old."

  "She's a barbarian! How can she have any talent?"

  "Are you accusing her of something, or not?"

  Ran was silent for a moment, having so many complaints to file he was clearly unsure where to begin. "If she has talent," he said finally, "she should apply to one of the

  Houses that handle that sort of thing. But she shouldn't be free-lancing, she shouldn't be out in the Sector causing trouble, and she shouldn't be doing things that I'll get blamed for when people figure them out! —And she shouldn't have any talent, anyway! She's a barbarian!"

  This was touching on Family and House honor, and as I've said, Ran made no compromises where they were concerned.

  Below us, on the road, three corpses sprawled messily. I wanted to leave.

  "She's doing the job you refused," pointed out Stereth. "Do you expect to retain a monopoly on sorcery when you won't even perform?"

  I said, "Do we have to debate this now?"

  They turned and looked at me, both surprised. Des' voice, behind me, said, "She's right, Stereth. We've got a whole mess of money down there. Shouldn't we get it loaded?"

  Des was filthy and bits of quick-set clung to his clothing. He was glowing with energy, though, and unable to stand still long enough for a discussion. I know the effect. If we didn't give him something to do quickly, he would probably throw one of the women down on the ground and start to get passionate.

  Stereth must have seen it, too. "All right, Des, let's start loading. Sokol can finish criticizing me later."

  The bathtub and the mired car were left behind. The wagon was stacked with boxes of gold tabals. The mounts were watered.

  When we left, Ran helped me up on my mount. I never did master the ability to climb on by myself. He must have been involved in the quick-set mixing; bits of it clung to his cloak as well. "Are you all right?" I asked him.

  He shook his head. Then he went to his own mount and climbed on. I dug in with my heels a little and caught up to Stereth, just ahead. "Why did I even have to come?" I asked, still seeing in my mind the scene we were leaving behind. "You didn't give me a job. I could have stayed at the fort."

  He seemed faintly surprised. "I thought you would want to come, Tymon. You're the one who told me Robin Hood used to steal from tax collectors."

  For a moment I was disoriented. I'd completely forgotten mentioning it to him.

  What in the gods' name had I said? "I was drunk," I protested.

  "You tell good stories when you're drunk," said Stereth, in a friendly way.

  Ran met my eyes. I put my head down and followed the rest of the band over the hills.

  Chapter Eleven

  If you want to know the truth, I believed then (and still do) that Ran's so-called moral objections to helping Stereth were less based on morality as I had learned it than on pride and status. It was not as though my quarter-husband's hands were free of blood.

  Even granting the circumstantial nature of morality—that something which is acknowledged wrong, like killing, becomes right when it takes place in war or in the defense of a child—Ran was Ivoran-born, and should have no difficulty in jettisoning his qualms when the chips were down. "Enemies" are another category here, and dealing with them is a matter of what one can get away with. And surely the members of the provincial militia were rapidly becoming our enemies. There were posters of Ran all over the market towns to prove the point.

  There were two things that held him back, and I don't know which was stronger: First, that he was a Cormallon, and these were Northwest Sector outlaws, one step below servants on the social scale; and second, when everything smashed up it would be essential to keep the Cormallon name completely uninvolved. A whiff of sorcery, and who knew what the prosecutors might pick up on?

  And here was Cantry, blowing in sorcery on a high wind. That, and Ran's posters, and I knew why he was looking as sick as he did on the ride home. It surely wasn't because he was picturing the remains of the three tax collection guards back on the Mid-Plateau Road.

  I applied so
me pressure with my lower leg and my mount obediently moved in closer to Ran's.

  "There is a positive view to all this," I said.

  He looked over toward me with the face of one who has given up on positive views.

  I said, "If Cantry's a developing sorcerer, Stereth won't need to hang on so tightly to you and me."

  "She's not a developing sorcerer. You can't be a developing sorcerer any more than a savage can be a developing engineer. A little native ability means nothing without years of training."

  "She did pretty well on the road."

  "A two-second illusion. She probably wasn't even sure herself she could do it. Theo— Tymon, can't you see the difference between that and fireballing a ship, making the blood-temperature of an army rise to 200 degrees… giving temporary hemophilia to the front line of an enemy battalion? How can you even begin to do any of those things unless you know what you're doing?"

  "Gods, Ran, war here must be horrible."

  "I wouldn't know. We haven't had one in a long time."

  That was true… centuries, wasn't it? Back when the invisible dome was first placed over Cormallon. And I didn't know when the last Pyrenese war had been.

  "What about defensive things?" I asked. "If you won't help Stereth by giving him a weapon, what about putting a force-field around the fort, like the Cormallon barrier?"

  Ran glanced back and forth, checking for the proximity of the other riders.

  I said, "I wouldn't have said it if anyone could hear."

  "I know that. There's no harm in checking. First of all, the Cormallon barrier took generations of work to get to its final strength. And what good would it do the band to put a shield over the fort?"

  "If we're attacked—"

  "They can wait till the food runs out and pick us off as we come out. It isn't a self-sufficient little nation, like Cormallon is. The end result is the same: Death for everyone. And for that you suggest I advertise a sorcery similar to my family's most well-known defense?"

  Ran doesn't need sorcery; he can use logic as a weapon. "Excuse me while I check for cuts," I said. "I was only trying to cheer you up."

  "Don't try. Let me sulk luxuriously in the blackness of the situation."

  It began raining again.

  * * *

  They had the fire started by the time I got inside the fort. I borrowed somebody's outer robe and pulled off my wet things and tried to make myself, if not comfortable, less miserable.

  Stereth was handing out shares—small shares, apparently.

  "We need a larger treasury," he was saying. "We're expanding. We need capital."

  "Expanding into what?" asked Paravit-Col bewilderedly. "We're not a business. We're outlaws."

  Stereth regarded him with friendly interest. The expression, and his glasses, made him seem like a large, intelligent rabbit. "Didn't you swear not to give me a hard time before you rode out last night? I hope we have no word-breakers here. We all know the penalty for forswearing an oath given on a road-name."

  Paravit-Col backpedaled quickly. "I was only expressing an interest," he said.

  I didn't know the penalty. I didn't ask, though. I thought it best not to be seen to inquire into the subject too closely.

  Lex na'Valory said, "I was to get a bonus."

  "You got one," said Stereth, "for good planning and excellent shooting. Then you got a cut, for not following orders. They canceled out."

  Carabinstereth grinned as she took her own bonus.

  "You can't match my shooting," said Lex.

  "I can't match your ego either," Stereth replied. "I told you to accept a surrender where it was practical. Your pay cut will help make up for the ransom we could have gotten from the guard you killed."

  Lex muttered, but took his share and went to the fire to count it. He only put up with that sort of talk from Stereth; everyone else had to tiptoe around him.

  "I didn't know the militia paid ransom for its members," said Ran coolly.

  Stereth said, "His family would have paid. Here, Sokol, take your share; I hear you mixed the quick-set perfectly. Lucky for our Des."

  Ran stepped up to the box where Stereth was counting out tabals and looked down at the pile of gold. Stereth smiled and said, "You did earn it, and not by sorcery. Why hesitate?"

  "No reason at all," said Ran, and he pulled off the mud-splattered silk scarf from around his neck, opened it, and held it out for Stereth to drop the coins into.

  I could read Ran's mind on this one, and no doubt so could the rest of the room, for Stereth said, "Besides, it'll get you farther when you decide to escape."

  "Good point," agreed Ran.

  He tied up the scarf and glanced over toward me. "Doesn't Tymon get a share?" Two bags of gold went farther than one.

  "Our Tymon was there as an observer," said Stereth, "and observers don't get paid."

  I'm glad he saw me that way. I prefer to go through life as a neutral. I hate to make decisions.

  "And now," said Stereth, "we start spending our money. Des—"

  "I'm going to sleep!… Aren't I?" said Des.

  "When you feel entirely equal to it, Des, sometime within the next day and a half, I want you to put on your best clothes and ride over to the Hock-Tyan Farm. Grateth and Komo will go with you."

  Des, who had been lying against some cushions in a half-doze, snapped up straight. "Are you crazy? We've stolen four mounts from them in the last two months alone. We'll be shot."

  "They might hang you," said Lex.

  "It's doubtful they'll do either," said Stereth. "It wouldn't be in their interests. —Oh, and I think you should take Tymon." He smiled. "It'll be educational for her."

  "You were the one who told him about Robin Hood," reminded Ran, when he kissed me good-bye. It did not escape our notice that Stereth was still sending us out separately.

  It was a first in the band's history, no doubt: Four of us wearing clean clothes at the same time. I followed along behind Des, ahead of Grateth and Komo, wearing an outer robe borrowed from Juvindeth that was swirled in red and white patterns, Shaskala-fashion. The others wore outlaw-style jackets, but not their gaudiest. "Leave the jewelry behind," Stereth had said, and Des made a face but complied.

  I'd wondered about Stereth's wisdom in giving Des such

  a major role in the tax-collection robbery, but upon hearing the details I decided that they'd probably needed to go with the tallest person with the farthest reach—to get to the undercarriage sensors. Des was clever and charming, no doubt about it; but he'd never struck me as overly responsible. Yet here we were, on the opening salvo of Stereth's grand campaign, with Des leading the way.

  I was beginning to get a vague idea of direction on the Plateau. We were going north and west, which should mean that we'd cross the Shaskala Road some time; though not near the Mid-Plateau connection, I assumed. There were likely to be patrols around that spot by now. I pictured the three bodies again, and shivered.

  "You cold, Tymon?" called Des. He'd peered around to check on me, not having any high regard for my abilities to steer my mount. "Want my jacket?"

  Really, there was no defense against Des. He was probably the only person in the band who would have pulled off his jacket and tossed it to me; Ran would have offered, but he would have felt compelled to comment on my lack of forethought in dressing, first.

  "No, thanks, I'm all right."

  "You shivered," he pointed out.

  "I was thinking back to the militia guards."

  He looked at me blankly, not getting it. I said, "If I get colder, I'll let you know."

  "All right." He turned back ahead.

  Grateth and Komo followed silently behind. We topped a hill and suddenly a vista opened: Hills, fields, and pockets of mist, going on forever. Brown patches on a distant green backdrop that must be steermods. And no people anywhere but us four.

  It was beautiful enough to hurt, but it was part of the package that came with danger and loss of freedom. I never thought I'd be
nostalgic for the burning summer of the capital, the noise and glare, the jostle in the marketplace.

  We came to some stone fences, unusual for farms in this part of the world, with rows of green stalks on the other side. Generally the farmers just sprayed a pheromone around their boundaries that steermods have been bred to recognize as "out of their territory." The pheromone has to be periodically reapplied, but then, as any farmer can

  tell you, fences have to be periodically rebuilt. And the pheremone is cheaper and easier.

  Des said, "The Hock-Tyan Farm's been in the same family for generations. Can you imagine generations of people willingly choosing to live in the Northwest Sector?"

  "It's a very beautiful place," I said.

  "It's pretty. But it's dead, Tymon, there are no people here."

  "Except outlaws," said Grateth, drawing up. "And would you want to meet us?"

  "Humans have always chosen to live in funny places," I said. "Besides, they have other farmers and ranchers for company."

  Des peered eloquently north, south, east, and west at the lonely expanse.

  I said, "All right, so they have to travel a little to visit them. Maybe they like the quiet."

  Des made a gesture of repellence at the idea of anybody liking quiet.

  "It's not all that private," said Grateth. "Look."

  Far down the rows of stalks, somebody moved.

  Grateth said, "If he gets to the house before we do, they'll kill us as we approach."

  "Go," said Des.

  Grateth's mount went flying, and Komo's followed. They were over the crumbling wall in a second, and trampling down the stalks while the farmer fled.

  I bit my lip to keep from being a pest. I hate to see anybody that scared. I don't even like to startle the birds that feed on marketplace garbage when I walk by—I make wide detours so I don't have to see their wings beat an alarmed mass take-off and their chests pound—

  Grateth and Komo brought him down in the dirt within minutes. I watched as they dismounted and hauled him to his feet, and let out my breath. It would be easier for the fellow from this point on; anything is better than terror. Maybe it's because I'm a coward myself that I can empathize so well with fear.