by Liz Williams
Even though he was nothing more than a civil servant, Anarres seemed genuinely interested in him, and her invitation to visit had appeared sincere. Now, however, he couldn’t help having doubts. What if Anarres didn’t really want me to come? Maybe she’s got bored with me. Maybe she was just being kind… In terms of caste, after all, Anarres was out of Sirru’s league. Wasn’t she an apsara, a highly regarded courtesan-interpreter, whereas he was merely a minor functionary?
But that lowly status could soon change, Sirru reminded himself. He reached into the folded pocket of his robe and took out the sliver that contained the message, reassuring himself once more that it was real.
We have an urgent matter to discuss with you. Kindly present yourself before us, Third-Day, Fifth-Hour-First-Morning. That was tomorrow. The message was signed: EsRavesh.
Clearly, the message had come from a khaith; he would have been able to determine that even without the locative and the signature. The khaithoi might have been only a couple of castes above his own, but they gave themselves enough airs and graces to suit the most elevated echelons of society. It was typical of the constant jockeying for position among the castes.
Sirru wished he could place EsRavesh. The name had a nagging familiarity, and yet he was sure that he had never met this particular khaith before. He had no idea why he had been summoned. Perhaps the family was being offered a raise in status, and in that case, his relationship with Anarres could only be strengthened. It was a comforting dream, especially after the terrible events of the past year, but Sirru couldn’t bring himself to believe in it.
He looked back at the stubbornly closed house and sighed. Doubtless he was just being naïve in entertaining these vain hopes. The walls were prickling with distaste, but he refused to be so easily defeated. Time to try more unorthodox methods. He reached beneath the wide, loose collar of his robe and touched the nanoscale implant. He felt the sudden cool flush of the nanoscale over his skin as its modulation changed to the specifications that Sirru’s friend in the emergency services had previously programmed in. He’d always thought that the specs would come in handy, ever since the friend had offered to trade him the codes. You took power where you could get it, these days.
The house sensors glowed in the growing dusk. Sirru stood on the entry platform, as nonchalantly as he could manage, and let his clothes lie for him. He tried to suppress the rush of satisfaction as a small slit appeared in the wall. The house had believed the lie: Emergency! Permit access immediately! The wall manifolded back to let him in and Sirru stepped quickly through before the house realized that it had been tricked.
Inside, the place was as beautiful as he had expected. Mesh webbing outlined ceiling and wall, and the floor was covered with soft black matting. The house was filled with its symbiotic flowers, which rustled and whispered as he passed. Sirru walked quickly through and found Anarres sitting outside on a little terrace, surrounded by night lilies. The flowers were slowly opening as the sun sank. Anarres glanced up as Sirru stepped out onto the balcony, her leaf green eyes alight.
“Sirru! I thought you weren’t coming.”
“I’m sorry I’m late,” Sirru said. “I had a few problems with your house.”
Anarres face was dismayed. “Wouldn’t it let you in? Oh, I’m sorry. It’s been like that for weeks. I keep changing the parameters, but they never seem to stick. How did you get in?”
“I lied.”
“So embarrassing…” Anarres murmured, flustered. But Sirru had already forgotten his problems with the house and was gazing at her in admiration. Either she had just been entertaining another visitor, or (a more flattering explanation) she had taken pains solely for him. Her long rustling quills were bound in a glistening web of wire, and a subtly expensive aura of pheromones surrounded her like a mantle. Thus enhanced, she seemed to glow. Every gesture she made was filled with meaning: limitlessly seductive. He swallowed.
“I’m so glad you’ve come.” Anarres said, undulating up to him. “You see, I’ve been having a few—well, not problems, exactly, but a bit of a difference of opinion with someone. It’s upset me.” She placed her hand intimately on the inside of his elbow, beneath the loose sleeve of the robe.
Sirru’s breath stopped short in his throat. Anarres was not as tall as he, and was also more sinuous than was usual among her caste, suggesting some expensive modifications. Silver wire bound her elbow spurs and the prominent vertebrae of her spine, revealed under the mesh of her garment. She was darker than Sirru, her skin dappled with the colors of storm cloud and rain. She reached up and touched the tip of a jade green tongue to the implant below his collarbone. The scale vanished; Sirru’s skin was suddenly cool beneath the robe.
“Now you’ll know what I’m thinking,” he told her, embarrassed.
She leaned her head against his shoulder.
“But I want to share things with you.”
“You’ll think I’m an infant,” he said. “An infant who can’t control its own thoughts… And compared to your khaithoi affiliates, it’s probably true.”
Anarres shivered in his arms. “But that’s exactly my problem. You see, I’ve been doing some work for a khaith—a person called EsRavesh. And he’s somehow got the idea that I’m his exclusive apsara, that I shouldn’t be sleeping with anyone else. But of course that’s simply unreasonable. After all, it’s my job as a courtesan-interpreter. Anyway, EsRavesh has no right to tell me what to do in my private life, has he?” She glanced up, and Sirru realized that without the scale, she had felt his sudden alarm.
“Sirru? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Sirru said, firmly. “I’m just worried about you, that’s all.” Gently, he released her and went to stand at the edge of the balcony.
EsRavesh: the khaith whom he had been summoned to see on the following morning. It could not be coincidence. Was that why the name was so familiar? Sirru tried to stifle his dismay. Had Anarres mentioned EsRavesh before? No, he was certain she had not. But was he being brought before the khaithoi for his involvement with Anarres? It seemed unlikely—higher castes rarely concerned themselves with the sexual entanglements of their social inferiors. But if, as Anarres had said, EsRavesh was being unreasonable…
He hoped this wasn’t going to turn into some horrible political complication. What with poor IrEthiverris and the disaster on Arakrahali, the past months had been bad enough already.
“Sirru, you don’t know what it’s like, dealing with the khaithoi” Anarres said behind him. “It’s like being surrounded by mirrors. You never have any privacy. They can feel everything you think. They won’t let me wear scale, of course; it’s as though I’m raw, all the time. When I’m interpreting for them, they just reach out and take my thoughts.”
Now that Sirru’s own scale had been deactivated, he could feel the frustration emanating from Anarres like steam. He wondered what her suppressant prescriptions might be. Her honesty was startling.
“I’m sorry,” Anarres said abruptly. “It really isn’t fair to ask you to listen to all my problems. But you’re so easy to talk to…”
“I’d been wondering what you see in me.”
Anarres looked a little startled. “You’re kind. And you listen to what I’m saying instead of looking at me as though I was some kind of ornament. Anyway, all the people I ever seem to meet are politicians, and it’s nice to spend time with someone uncomplicated for a change.”
Sirru was not sure whether to regard this as a compliment or not, but Anarres’ mood was changing. She was broadcasting attractionaffection/regard/ and a promise beyond all these that made him gasp. He felt her tongue slide across the sensitive skin of his throat, trailing excitement in its wake. His quills prickled, rising slightly from his scalp. He managed to say in a reasonably normal voice, “Actually, my own status may be undergoing a revision. I have an appointment with the khaithoi tomorrow.” He did not mention the name of EsRavesh. “I’ve been given to understand it’s important, but who can feel?”
Sirru smiled. It was a compliment for her to think that he might be representing the millions of people and subspecies who comprised his caste, but he knew she was just saying it to flatter him.
“The latter. Usually my family wheedles me into representing them, but this time the khaithoi asked for me personally.”
The leafgreen eyes blinked up into his own. “Be careful when you go to see them,” Anarres said, emanating anxiety.
“I intend to be,” Sirru replied, and kissed her.
She responded with enthusiasm, then drew back. “Sirru—do you know whether you’ll be engaging in sexual mode with the khaithoi?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” He frowned. “We’ve communicated in the usual combinations up until now: I speak with words and modes; they’re just patronizing. I suppose if they have anything very complex or lengthy to discuss, they’ll convey it sexually. Hope not, though.” Sirru sighed. It was not an enticing thought. He had secrets that could prove dangerous if he let them slip at the wrong moment.
“I only asked because, if so, you and I don’t have to sleep together tonight. If you’d like to conserve your energy, that is,” Anarres murmured.
“Thank you for being so thoughtful, but that really won’t be necessary,” Sirru said hastily, and kissed her again.
AT dawn, the wind veered round to the north, bringing the scent of snow and rock resin from the distant mountains. The singing vine, evidently reminded of winter, shivered with a disconsolate chord. At the sudden song, Sirru woke, blinked golden eyes, and yawned with a snap of teeth. Anarres lay beside him, coiled in the hollow of his arms, and Sirru watched her for a moment as she slept, moved by her fragility. In sleep, Anarres’ mouth was slightly open, and he could see the tip of her jade tongue, just touching her lower lip.
Sirru smiled, remembering the night, and shifted against her. He held her close for a moment, twisting so that his throat was pressed against her own, and the soft skin at the inside of his elbow rested against the lower part of her breast ridges. He sent her a message: a complex combination of desire, gratitude, and anticipation.
He pressed against her for a moment longer, wishing he could stay, then rose fluidly from the sleeping mat and slid into his robe. Rainwater had collected in the curled leaves of the singing vine. Sirru paused to drink, then walked through the walls of the house and out into the morning. He was irritated to see that the house had no reluctance in letting him out.
It was early, but there were already a few people about. He passed an elderly shekei on its way back to its own quarter. Sirru looked hastily away, but not before catching a rank whiff of hierarchical disapproval. Shekei weren’t so far above his own level, only about four grades, but in the hundreds of middle-ranking castes—such as the khaithoi and his own—nuances of social position were important, and people would seize on the slightest thing in order to prove themselves superior.
That was not an encouraging thought. The connection between Anarres and EsRavesh was gnawing at him. Face facts, Sirru told himself. If this khaith has become enamored of Anarres, then it’s hardly likely to bode well for you, is it?
He stepped impatiently out onto the platform above the airwell. Khaikurriyë stretched below, fading into the morning haze at the horizon’s edge. He could see the pale pylons of Fourth Quarter rising up against the mountains in the park, and this reminded him of the nightmare of the previous year. IrEthiverris had lived in Fourth Quarter, before being packed off to Arakrahali. A person at the edge of the platform gave him an angry glance; Sirru had transmitted his unease, a measure of his nervousness this morning.
Embarrassed by his impoliteness, Sirru activated the scale. Despite the risk he was running in having illegally engineered clothes, he was sure that he would be glad of the scale’s modifications before the day was out. Sirru did not trust the khaithoi in any circumstances, and since he had learned of Anarres’ connection with EsRavesh, his trust was at an all-time low. Rumors of alterators ran through his mind: pheromonal boosters, illegal manipulations. He wished he were still asleep in Anarres’ arms.
Sirru stepped off the edge of the platform and plunged into the airwell. As he slowly descended, his anticipation increased, mixed with a growing sense of unease. Soon, he reached the Marginals.
The domes towered above him, looking like a tumbled collection of gigantic, ribbed seeds, which, in a sense, they were. The Marginals extended as far as the eastern horizon; he could see their oval spires rising faint and shadowy against the growing sunlight. The air was thick with pollen, which swarmed in golden skeins through the warm morning and filled Sirru’s head with a pungent mixture of spices. Somewhere in the midst of this vast construction lay the Core: the oldest thing in the universe, a place central to the life of all írRas and, to Sirru, literally unimaginable. He could only think about it in very vague terms, as one might glimpse stars from the corner of one’s eye. The Marginals, the nearest expression of the life of the Core, were impressive enough.
Sunlight shimmered from the walls, releasing a scented waft. Taking a deep breath, Sirru placed his palm on the entry mechanism of the Marginals’ quarantine dome. Hoping that the scale’s undetectors would hold, he walked slowly through the decontamination system before reaching the far end of the dome. The khaithoi liked to see themselves as superior to Sirru’s own caste because of where they lived, but they were one of the lowest castes of the Marginals, really, confined to its farthest edges.
This was fortunate, because it meant that Sirru did not have to go very deep into the Marginals. A more extensive decontamination would have revealed the scale in moments.
After a brief pause, the wall opened and Sirru stepped through into a long narrow chamber lined with antique metal panels. A group of khaithoi awaited him. Their eyes glistened in the dim, filtered light; their quadruple arms were folded around their stout waists. Their petaled mouths fluttered in and out, tasting the air, listening for what he might inadvertently say. Sirru inclined his head and sent a carefully compiled greeting of placestatus/affirmation/. A rustle ran along the lines of the khaithoi, but when he cautiously explored the air there was nothing but a wall of blankness. They were blocking him.
Sirru fought down a sudden, unfamiliar sense of panic; it was as though the khaithoi were no longer real, merely plump shells of flesh. He knew they were doing this to unsettle him. A thin glaze of sweat filmed the inside of the scale, which minutely rearranged itself and prevented Sirru from revealing his disquiet. Sirru waited. A head turned: the khaith who was nearest to him. Sirru was granted a portion of the khaith’s locative: IrHirrin EsRavesh. So this was the person who had summoned him. This was his rival. Gritting his teeth, Sirru provided the relevant fragment of his locative in turn.
“Sirrubennin EsMoyshekhalgenestrand seventy billion nine/.”
“We already know where you come from,” EsRavesh said, with a subtextual trace of disdain. “Speak when you are invited to, and not before.” His complex mouth curled and folded in an expression that Sirru found difficult to interpret. EsRavesh was using the Present Remote Plural, laced with expressives so smooth and bland that they ran off Sirru’s skin like rain. And beneath that, a hint of something much spikier. The scale shot a warning across Sirru’s skin. Wisely, he did not reply.
“You’re desqusai, aren’t you?” the khaith said, frowning, as if the lower castes were so similar that it was beyond his ability to tell them apart. Since his status was perfectly obvious, Sirru evinced no more than a flicker of affirmation. The petals of the khaittis mouth folded abruptly inward, leaving a small pinhead hole. “Then you will no doubt be overjoyed to learn that your caste is about to be honored,” EsRavesh said. “Come with me.”
The khaith spoke slowly, using clear, precise verbals to disambiguate the complexities of his pheromonal speech. All the khaithoi spoke like this, as though the castes below them were idiot children, incapable of understanding th
e refinements of the hierarchical languages that lay above. The fact that this was largely true did not help Sirru’s mood. Honored? What was the khaith talking about? He tried to focus on what EsRavesh was saying.
“It seems that another of your caste’s seed colonies has become active. The one you call Eir Sithë Tekhei,” EsRavesh told him. “Observe.” He touched an implant in the wall. A small glowing globe emanated from it and hovered before Sirru’s face. Gradually, the glow faded and a world appeared: small, blue, marbled with cloud, beneath which continents swam in ochre and gray. Ice dappled each pole; a tiny moon orbited slowly. Sirru frowned. He’d seen a representation of this world before, among the ranks of desqusai planets that had not yet reached fruition.
“It’s activated?” he echoed.
“Indeed. A depth ship has been broadcasting for generations, but to no effect. Now, however, it seems that a Receiver, a female, has finally grown to fruition and come on-line. The Receiver, after an apparently shaky start, has entered into reliable communication with the depth ship. The ship has a raksasa, of course—an administrator. She is a caste/clade member of mine. She is requesting a suitable mediator between herself and the colony’s inhabitants. That mediator,” EsRavesh said with a buttery trace of satisfaction, “will be you.”
“Me?”
“You,” EsRavesh repeated, with a trace of sharpness. “Perhaps I do not make myself sufficiently clear. Eir Sithë Tekhei is a desqusai world, the home of a subspecies of your own caste. Your caste has therefore been selected as being responsible for this particular colony—an appointment that reflects your ancestors’ role in forming the colony itself. Your job will be to go to Tekhei and solve whatever problems have accrued in its evolution. I understand that there are a number of difficulties.”
