by John Barnes
“I’ll never be ready, but we can start.” Jak looked out at the far horizon, where the blues of the sea and the sky joined, and up at the high cliff above him, where dozens of people wandered about the catwalks, one by one or in chattering groups, and then at the sun on the great banks of nasturtiums, and said, “So what is it, exactly, that we’re doing?”
Rej nodded and said, “Well, part of our training is to know the stories of those who went before us. Our school is now a few centuries old and we think it’s good to have legends about our successful graduates in oral memory. The way we do that is that each of us who is training to become an advanced master must learn, in precise words, the stories of ten fallen warriors of our school, and at least one of those stories must be one that we collected and composed ourselves. So we are here to collect the story of Sibroillo Jinnaka, and your testimony will be one important source for us. Then at his memorial service, each of us will recite our composition of his history.”
Jak nodded. “Did Sib have to do this?”
“The requirement was imposed almost a century after his time,” Maruk explained. “We evolve, develop, and change.”
“And we make a distinction between those three,” Rej added, “which is why we try to have plenty of stories to tell and examine. Now, just talk about your uncle … we’ll ask you questions … and don’t worry about trying to get everything, as we will be talking to many others.”
For four days, one or the other of them walked with Jak along the catwalks of the farm, or through the narrow alleys between the natural stone buildings, and Jak looked out at water and talked about Sibroillo, and Maruk and Rej asked questions, gently, almost shyly. The last day, Rej joined Maruk and Jak for the last couple of hours, and mostly they asked, “Would it be fair to say that … ?”
Then they told him that the funeral service would be in four days, and that after that there would be a small ceremony for Kawib, and the day following Jak and his party would be presented to the King.
At the end of that day, when Jak returned to his room sad and drained, there was a message from Dujuv: if Jak was ready, would he have dinner with Dujuv, Pikia, Shadow, and “another friend”? Jak had his purse send an immediate affirmative. He showered and changed and went to see them, if not happy, at least feeling better.
When Jak arrived, everyone was already seated, and a lively conversation was already under way. He started to say hello to his trusted toves when he realized who else was at the table. “Myx!”
Myxenna Bonxiao was one of Jak’s oldest and closest friends, in addition to being a fast-rising star at Hive Intel. He had known she was coming to Mars, and would be catching up with his party, of course, but in the chaos and misery of the last few days, he had lost track of it; now he was delighted to see her. She jumped up to hug him, spilling the pitcher of beer on the table, and somehow it was the funniest thing that ever happened for everyone there.
When they had gotten a clean table, more beer, and an order in for food, Jak sat down and said, “Well, I’ve been going through the interviews with the warrior-trainees or whatever they’re called.”
“So have we,” Dujuv said, “but it didn’t take up as much of our time. A lot of my time has been spent being a presence at the Royal Archive. That’s where they put the Nakasen lifelog. So I sit there, or Xlini does, and we keep asserting that it’s ours. And they keep politely pointing out that that remains to be settled and that anyway, whoever’s it may be, they’ve got it. It’s a pleasant little ritual that doesn’t take ten minutes a day. Once that’s completed, we do the fun part.”
“Which is … ?”
“I read the Paxhaven histories and look at their documents. Jak, do you know what an amazing place this is? First of all, there was a major town here within a hundred years of the first landings on Mars, way back in the Middle Ages—if you can believe it, this town was founded by people from Europe, back before the glaciers buried it. It was the northern summer home for the Old Emperors before the First Rubahy War, and the ruins of the resort town are under the lagoon—apparently there’s a great scuba tour of it. When the Boreal Ocean re-formed during the Bombardment, they moved up here onto the crater rim and rebuilt—but basically this is one of the three or four oldest towns still occupied on Mars.
“And you know how people say that the King of Paxhaven would be the closest thing to an heir to the Old Emperors? Well, he’s a lot more than close. The King really is the heir to the Old Empire. DNA-authenticated and the whole whacking djeste! He’s actually a lineal descendant, always at least at the level of a prince, of the last Old Martian Emperor, and he has a separate line of descent from both dynasties of the Second Empire, too. Not to mention that also he’s probably descended from a Chicagoan Catholic Papal Concubine, a Grand Mufti of Luna City, a Japanese Emperor, and two Presidents of the United States.
“Going so far back that one of those was even elected,” Pikia put in. “I’ve been sort of watching over Dujuv’s shoulder. And King Dexorth is a distant cousin of Paj Nakasen, a fairly close one of Ralph Smith, and the great-grandson of Elora Qanaganser. I don’t think there’s room for him to have a more distinguished bloodline; everybody in his ancestry is somebody.”
Dujuv nodded. “It really looks like Paxhaven went out of its way to combine all sorts of interesting bloodlines, over and over, so they would always have that claim available. Oh, and one other detail—his mother was Scaboron of Greenworld’s older sister. Dexorth is Shyf’s first cousin.”
“Well,” Jak said, letting his stomach roll over for a moment, but enjoying it, “at least we know his bloodline isn’t perfect.”
“Seriously, though,” Dujuv said, “why have we never heard much about Paxhaven? This is also the place where they invented the Disciplines, and Maniples, and half a dozen other major things. A tiny little place where that much brains and talent make that much happen? It ought to be as famous as Athens, Florence, Weimar, Santa Clara, or Tycho City.”
Shadow bobbed his head emphatically. “We Rubahy study your people and your customs very carefully (it is a matter of survival for us), and while we do not have an exact equivalent to your universities, you could probably fairly say that I hold a scholarly distinction something like your masters degree, in a field that would translate as ‘human studies.’ And I had not realized until this week that Paxhaven was of any particular importance whatever. I shall be careful in revealing what I have learned about this, for we have a conspiratist faction that would argue, from the fact that you have hidden it so well, that this entire city must be the home of a human secret weapon—and I would be loath to have a place so beautiful become a target, even hypothetically.”
Dinner ran long; it was the sort of occasion when old friends need to visit and reminisce, and new friends need to be welcomed into the circle, and Myxenna seemed to take to Pikia as much as Shadow on the Frost and Dujuv already had. Jak noted after a while that Myx and Duj hardly spoke to each other, though they occasionally filled in a detail in an old story for each other. The had been lovers once, bitter with each other, friends again … and now, apparently, just slightly sore spots in each other’s lives.
It was late but the sun was still out; there would be no true dark tonight, here at nearly seventy-eight degrees north. At last everyone split up to walk back to their quarters. Myxenna seemed to be going the same way as Jak—or, he suspected, to have Hive Intel matters to discuss with him. If so, she was taking her time about it; they went up to his room, and she gave him a bath and a backrub (without suggesting they renew their off-again on-again affair), and finally she said, “Jak, my bosses have no idea what to do with you or about you. I am supposed to exercise my judgment and understanding, which, I suppose, is a way for them to say that I’m supposed to decide, and if it works out they’ll take credit for giving me my head, and if not, they’ll be able to pin the failure on me.”
He rolled over on his back and looked up at her; when had she undressed? She was sitting cross-legged, look
ing back down at him, so that from his viewpoint her face was upside down. He thought for a moment and said, “I don’t know what to say, Myx. I’ve failed at pretty nearly everything I’ve tried, and I’ve hurt a lot of innocent people. I had four assignments Hive Intel gave me—get the lifelog for the Hive, make sure Clarbo Waynong gets credit, preserve my cover in PASC, and keep their channel open to Shyf. A reasonable assessment of my performance is total failure at all four. Paxhaven has the lifelog. Waynong is the only person on this mission who looks like a bigger idiot than me (and as idiots go he’s a talented professional to my gifted amateur). Everybody knows I work for Hive Intel. And Shyf might have finally lost interest in me, which is a good thing but does mean I don’t even make a good passive spy.”
Myxenna nodded. Her dark, wavy hair fell around her face in curtains. Jak couldn’t read her expression. “That’s not a bad assessment at a first whack, old tove, but you’re overlooking how close you’ve come and how bad your circumstances have been. It is the opinion of Caccitepe—”
“Him.”
“Yes, him. He’s on your side, believe it or not.”
Jak made a face. “Let’s go with ‘or not.’ ” Caccitepe had nominally been the Dean of Students at the Public Service Academy when he, Myxenna, and Dujuv had been there, and had actually been the recruiter/organizer for Hive Intel, cherrypicking the talented students into deep-cover placements in other agencies. Jak owed his present position to Caccitepe, which was reason enough to hate him; but there had been a couple of peculiarly nasty, creepy meetings with Caccitepe as well—meetings in which the Dean of Students had seemed determined to rub Jak’s nose in just what sort of a human being he was, and why an agency that specialized in assassination and corruption would want Jak. During his senior year, Jak had made a ritual of showering after every meeting with the Dean; it hadn’t helped.
Myxenna rested her hand lightly on Jak’s cheek. “Jak, I can’t let you say anything more than that. It will make a mess of a lot of things if I do.”
“All right, I don’t like Caccitepe, but what does he have to say?”
Myxenna leaned down, very close, as if she were going to kiss Jak, but turned her head to barely breathe in his ear, “Well, to me, he usually says, ‘Take off your clothes,’ and I do.” She sat back and looked into Jak’s eyes. His heart crumbled inside him. He knew Myxenna was from a nobody family, ordinary middle-class people on the mid decks of the Hive, and he’d always known she’d do whatever it took to succeed. He just hadn’t thought much about what it would take. He nodded, though, to show her he understood. Anything her purse picked up might be relayed to Caccitepe, who was spiteful and a monster of ego; she could be blamed for not objecting to what Jak said.
He wanted to ask if she was all right, but even here, naked together on his bed, the two of them—old friends, toktru toves, trusted pizos, and the best kind of open lovers though they were—dared not speak of any such thing. He could guess that one reason why Caccitepe had not simply sacked him, or had him killed, was that Myxenna had promised that she could “fix” him, and that she had made the promise to save him. Now for her sake he needed to get fixed … or at least ensure that whatever went wrong next was plainly not her fault. He had to help Myx to salvage him, and thereby both their asses. “Well,” he said, “I’m blown with PASC, no question. No fixing that.”
“We’d come to the same conclusion.”
“This place is the solar system’s center for martial arts. No elderly ceremonial guards. My chances of stealing the lifelog again are pretty slim. If I do find a way, I guess I can try to make Clarbo get the credit. Though that poor gweetz could probably get stuck with the blame for a rainstorm. And as for Shyf … well, that one’s a no, Myx, I just can’t. I’ll rob my hosts, I’ll give the credit to a fool, but … you don’t know what she does to me or how nasty she is about it.”
“I have an idea,” she said. “I knew Seubla too, Jak. And Xabo. And two or three of her other victims who weren’t as close friends to me. And to judge by what she’s putting together for Kawib’s memorial, I can make too many guesses about what she does to you. But you’re in luck. Caccitepe says if you can win free of her, he won’t stand in your way. He just won’t help, and he’s expecting full reports until you do win free. You see, he does know you. He knew which thing he couldn’t ask for. That’s one of his secrets. He always knows that …” She got off the bed and began to dress. “I don’t think we should do anything until your feelings are more settled, Jak, is that all right? I want to do the right thing by my friend.”
“You are,” he said, and rolled sideways to kiss the middle of her back. Her skin was as soft and tender as ever.
Myxenna got up off the bed with swift grace, not hurrying, but not wasting a moment, dressed, and went out. The door constricted after her. Jak lay back to stare into space.
When it was time for Sib’s memorial service, Rej and Maruk came for him, and he walked between them to the funeral-launch facility. It was a beautiful day—most days in Paxhaven were beautiful—and as Jak took his seat on the bench between his Paxhavian “keepers,” he thought that 180 years ago, this place must have seemed, to the young Sibroillo, as if it had just reached out and hugged him.
Dujuv, Shadow, Pikia, and Myxenna were already there, seated on a bench together, behind Gweshira, who kept leaning back to talk to them, anxiously, about something. Clarbo Waynong and Xlini Copermisr sat on a bench in the back, probably more hoping not to be noticed than anything else.
Jak whispered to Maruk, “The dignified, older man over there, sitting by himself—”
“That’s King Dexorth. He teaches at the Paxhaven Fighting Academy and he was a student there, once, with your uncle.”
Jak glanced up to see King Witerio and Prince Cyx enter and take seats as well, and his heart leapt up to see Princess Shyf join the crowd. Sib would have been so utterly pleased to have kings and princes at his funeral. Devotion to the aristos had been the cornerstone of his life, and it seemed only fitting that they return some small measure of that devotion now.
It was almost time to begin, and the sun was just beginning to be a little too warm, when Jak almost jumped out of his skin. Bex Riveroma had walked in.
Jak could not have missed the big shoulders, shaved head, or hawklike mask of an expression anywhere at any time, and his most-feared enemy was doing nothing to conceal who he was.
Jak felt Rej’s hand on his arm. “You are here under the strongest of peace bonds. He is here to pay respects to a worthy, honored opponent, and to someone who was once his closest friend. That is a fine and honorable courtesy in Riveroma. See that yours is no less. Do you dak?”
“I dak. Toktru masen. I was just startled.”
Bex Riveroma bowed deeply to Jak Jinnaka, and Jak stood and returned the bow. Then, with what even Jak had to admit was perfect courtesy, Riveroma bowed successively to Gweshira, to Dujuv, and to Shadow, presumably his salute to worthy opponents. He saluted each of the aristos present as well; apparently if an extremely wanted criminal was going to appear at a public function, he would need to mind his manners.
The Paxhavian funeral ceremony is simple, direct, and aimed at what matters—Jak Jinnaka was later to realize that in this, it was like everything else about Paxhaven. In ascending order of closeness to the deceased, each person in the room stood and uttered a remembrance, touching either on something good and fine about Sibroillo Jinnaka that the speaker had personally witnessed, or on some lesson in life learned by having known Sibroillo, or finally about how his or her life had been shaped by knowing Sib. Jak was glad this was being recorded; he knew he would want to look at it many times.
When there were only three people left to speak, Bex Riveroma told his story of two bright, ambitious boys, always in competition and always inseparable, so warmly and well that Jak seemed to see the two of them scrambling down a cliff face together on some long-ago summer day, and thought of himself and Dujuv, and felt so warm and happy for Sib that he
completely forgot, for the moment, that the man speaking was a war criminal, a would-be tyrant, and one of the most dangerous killers in the solar system.
Then it was Gweshira’s turn, and she talked of the world of adventure and of the understanding of Nakasen’s Principles that Sib had opened up for her (carefully, for she could not safely mention that it was the Circle Four interpretation of Nakasen’s Principles that he had brought her into and encouraged her in). And now it was Jak’s turn … he had prepared carefully, but he found when he stood in front of everyone that all he could do was talk about Sib’s kindness and tenderness to him when he was very small; he meant to mention so many things on a carefully prepared list, but all the things he talked about had happened before he was seven years old, moments when his uncle had seemed to be all the love and justice and mercy that there needed to be in the universe, and he blubbered his way through the entire thing. He felt like he was making a fool of himself, but he saw that his friends were weeping with him, and took comfort in that.
At last Rej and Maruk got up to recite their new hero tales about Sib. Jak listened attentively, learning much that he had never known, and linking many things together for the first time. Truly, he thought, his uncle had followed his sword, lived at the service of the aristos, and every crowned head in the solar system was a little safer, every throne a little more stable, because of the love and the care Sib had lavished on preserving the established order. There were battles and raids, political intrigues and matters of honor, affairs and duels, times when the futures of nations had been carried in Sib’s cupped hands, times when Sib had risked life and honor itself because he had given his word to one insignificant person and he would not break it. The tales were complex and rich, and if there was much overlap, the different takes were interesting too, Rej concentrating on Sib’s technique and cleverness, Maruk on his strategy and wisdom.
