Someone else asked the question Marta wanted to ask, about system defenses, and she listened to the answer with half her mind, the other half wondering what Brun was doing. Not sitting still waiting to be rescued, that much she was sure of.
* * *
Brun picked up the paring knife, and slid it into her sleeve. The matron was supposed to count the knives each day, but she didn’t. She liked to doze in her own room, after swigging from an earthenware jar, and a good half the time left the kitchen unlocked. Brun had checked that repeatedly, making sure that her theft had a reasonable chance of going unnoticed.
The knife’s pressure against her arm, under the bands she’d tied to hold it, gave her courage again. She had waited as long as she could; she dared not wait longer for rescue. Neither she nor her babies had to live in this place . . . but when she laid the blade to the moist soft neck of the sleeping redhead (she was sure which his father was), she knew she could not do it. She didn’t love the babies, not as mothers were reputed to do, the way the other mothers here seemed to love theirs, but she didn’t hate them, either. It was not their fault; they had not engendered themselves on her unwilling body.
She could not take them with her when she escaped, though. She was going to have to disguise herself as a man, somehow . . . and men did not carry babies around the streets, even if two squirming and all-too-vocal babies would not have slowed her down too much. If she left them behind, they would be squalling for their next meal in just an hour or so . . . yet she could not face killing them, just to give herself a longer start.
Another idea occurred to her. Though the nursery had no drugs that she knew-and she knew nothing about which, if any, of the herbs in the pantry might put the babies to sleep, there was a simple soporific available to anyone with access to fruit and water and a little time.
In late afternoon she walked as usual in the orchard, carrying one baby on her back and the other in front. Her feet had toughened; the gravel paths no longer hurt her. Beneath the long skirt, her legs had developed ropes of hard muscle from the exercises she’d sweated on. Without the babies, she would be able to move fast and far; she would be able to fight, if she was not taken off-guard. She did not intend to be off-guard again. If only she knew where . . . where to find Hazel and the little girls, where to find open country in which-she was sure-she could hide.
Out of sight of the house, she slid the knife into her hand, and then laid it in the crotch of an apple tree. She checked to be sure that the blade would not glint in the light and catch someone’s eye. She stuffed some of last year’s fallen leaves around it, and strolled on, coming back to the house with a spray of wildflowers in her hand.
Two days later, she pilfered a jug from the kitchen. She carried it into the orchard, concealed in the sling she now used to carry the babies. It was the wrong season for ripe fruit, but she had dried fruit, always available to the women, honey, and water.
The mix fermented in only a few days of warm sunshine. It smelled odd, but definitely alcoholic. She tasted it cautiously. It had a kick . . . enough, she hoped, to put the babies heavily to sleep.
Sector VII HQ
As the task force planning crept onward, Marta kept a weather eye on Bunny. He had not softened his opposition to Esmay Suiza, even when it became obvious that much of the evidence against her had been lies and more lies. Why not? She had known him most of his life; he was neither stupid nor vicious. His reputation for staying calm in a crisis, and being fair to all parties, had made him the one person the Grand Council would trust after Kemtre’s abdication. So why was he, at this late date, trying to make sure Suiza didn’t go with the task force?
She was tempted to contact Miranda, conspicuously absent, but refrained. Never get between man and wife, her grandmother had taught her, and in her life she’d seen nothing but grief come of it when someone tried. So, five days before the task force was due to depart, she tackled him privately.
“Don’t start,” Bunny said, before she even opened her mouth. “You’re going to tell me Suiza isn’t that bad, that she’s earned her slot as exec on Shrike, that it’s not fair to pull her off-”
“No,” Marta said. “I’m going to ask you why you blame Suiza for Brun’s behavior.”
“She drove her into a frenzy-” Bunny began. Marta interrupted.
“Bunny-who chose Brun’s genome pattern?”
“We did, of course-”
“Including her personality profile?”
“Well . . . yes, but-”
“You told me before, you deliberately chose a risk-taking profile. You chose outgoing, quick-reacting, risk-taking, a girl who would always find the glass half-full, and think a roomful of manure meant a cute pony around the corner.”
“Yes . . .”
“And you got a charming, lovable scapegrace, full of mischief as a basket of kittens, and you enjoyed it for years, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but-”
“You spoiled her, Bunny.” He stared at her, his ears reddening. “You chose for her a personality profile, a physical type, and a level of intelligence which would predictably make her likely to get into certain kinds of trouble . . . and what did you do, in her young days, to provide the counterbalance she needed, of judgement and self-control?”
“We’d had other children, Marta. We were experienced parents-”
“Yes, for the bright conformists you designed first. And they turned out well-you had given them what they needed.” Marta calculated the pause, then went on. “Did you give Brun what she needed?”
“We gave her everything-” But his gaze wavered.
“Bunny, I know this sounds like condemnation, but it’s not. Brun is a very unusual young woman, and she would have needed a very unusual childhood to bring her to her present age able to handle her talents safely. It’s no wonder you and Miranda, enchanted just like everyone else with that explosion of joy, didn’t provide the kind of background that would do her good.” She paused again; Bunny almost nodded-she could see the softening of the muscles in his neck. “But it’s my opinion that your real objection to Esmay Suiza-perhaps unknown to you-is that she’s like Brun with a throttle, with controls. And her father, whatever he’s like, did a better job for his daughter than you did for yours.”
Bunny reddened again. “She’s not anything-”
“Oh yes, she is. Have you read the combat reports on her? I have. Intelligent, very. Charismatic-yes, especially in a crisis. Risk-taker-she came back to Xavier and saved the planet-and incidentally, Brun. Brun thought they had a lot in common; that’s why she was dogging Suiza like a little girl tagging a big sister.”
“I . . . can’t believe that.”
“I can’t believe you’re still not seeing your own part in this. That’s why you didn’t want Miranda out here, isn’t it? She’d admit it, and she’d argue with you.”
“I . . . I . . . can’t . . .”
“Bunny, it’s still not your fault. I think you made mistakes, but so does every parent-your father certainly did with you. But it’s also not Lieutenant Suiza’s fault. She didn’t drive Brun into a mindless frenzy that lasted thirty-odd days. She had a quarrel which would’ve been over with the next day if they’d had a chance to make up-and in your heart you know that. Channel your rage where it should go, to those thugs who took her, and quit trying to lay your guilt on Suiza.”
He was looking away from her; she waited until the muscle in his jaw quit twitching.
“We need everyone’s best, to get her out,” Marta said, more gently. “Lieutenant Suiza’s best is very good-and it could save Brun’s life.”
“All right.” He had not moved, but the tension had gone out of him. “As far as I’m concerned, she can go. But . . . but if she does anything to harm Brun’s chances-”
“I will personally take her hide off in strips,” Marta said. “Nice narrow ones, very slowly. With Miranda on the other side, and Vida Serrano in the middle. And you can have her kidneys
on toast, for all I care.”
That got a laugh, though a choked one. “It’s so small a chance,” Bunny said, after a pause. Marta could hear the tears close to the surface. “So small . . .”
“You just increased it,” Marta said. “Now-shall I tell the admiral, or will you?”
Chapter Nineteen
The man in the checked shirt, true to his persona as country bumpkin in the city, had wandered up and down the various streets, visiting the breeding houses once or twice, and coming again to look at the showing of the yellow-haired infidel from space. He had told several men at the bar he frequented that he was afraid she wouldn’t be released for breeding before he had to go back “up the hills.” Finally one of the men made the suggestion he’d been waiting for . . . go around to the back of the orchard, and wait for her. No harm done if she was bred a few weeks early, and likely no one would ever know. Watch a day or so, see when she went out, and who went with her.
He was watching when she went to the last-but-one apple tree and put something in its crotch. Well. That was interesting. She looked a lot more like what he’d expected out here, in the orchard, than during the showings. But would she cooperate, when the time came? If she wouldn’t, he’d have to drug her-and she would be difficult to lug over the wall, big as she was. And it looked like she might have plans of her own . . . he hoped they wouldn’t trip him up. He walked on, and made his arrangements. He needed a groundcar; he walked across the city to rent it for cash from the spaceport vendor.
* * *
Simplicity-an apt name, Brun thought-had told her about all sorts of things the other women mentioned only in passing. She realized that they could not imagine not knowing, while Simplicity was fascinated anew with every detail of her life. Unlike Brun, she kept track of time, and in her artless chatter had revealed the clues that let Brun begin tracking market days even while confined to the nursery. She had not previously paid attention to what the staff carried in their hands when they went out . . . but now noticed the size and shape of the baskets and bags, and their contents when they returned. From that, she thought she had a schedule figured out. Someone went out every day to get small amounts of fresh greens. Three times a week, several of the staff women went out and returned with a wide variety of supplies, not merely food but also needles, pins, thread, yarn, scrub brushes, hairbrushes, soap . . . whatever was needed for daily work which the women could not supply for themselves.
Starting with their holy day, they had market day, then skip two, then market day, then skip one, then market day, then holy day. The week’s rhythm revolved around the holy day, rising in tension toward it . . . so Brun decided that the first market day would be the best for her purposes. Several of the staff women would be gone, and everyone would be more relaxed after the rigors of the holy day . . . ready to do the least in daily chores, to relax with the babies in the garden enclosures in the soft spring air. None of them walked as much in the orchard as she did, unless the staff directed, which they did only around harvest time.
The hard thing would be to find the house where Hazel stayed, since she could not ask questions-and to conceal her muteness. She did not know if men were ever muted-probably not, since their beliefs required them to recite from the sacred texts daily-or whether some men might be mute from birth or accident, but she suspected that a mute man might be subject to investigation. Still, she knew it was a large household near a market.
Simplicity had described the house at length: its gardens, its weaving shed, its woolhouse, its several kitchens, the quarters for children, for wives, for the master-she had once been allowed to sweep there, but she had knocked over a little table. They had not punished her, but she had been banished to parts of the house with fewer breakables . . . which had been a relief, Simplicity had said, smiling, because she didn’t have to worry so much. What she could not describe-what it never occurred to her to describe-was its location. Brun realized the girl had hardly ever been out of it, and thus had no way to describe where it was in relation to anything else.
On the midweek market day before she planned to go, Brun decided to test her plans. She would nurse the babes to fullness, mingling a little of the home brew into her milk . . . they were greedy feeders, and she had discovered that if she dripped sugared fruit juice down her breast, they’d take it along with her milk. Then she’d see how long they slept . . . which would give her some idea how long she had to find Hazel.
She finished her chores, and noticed that all but two of the staff had left to go to market. She picked up the babies, and caught the attention of one of the remaining staff women. She nodded toward the orchard.
“Go ahead, then. A good day for a walk,” the woman said. Brun mimed eating. “Oh-you want to take your lunch out there? Fine. I’ll ring the bell for you to come back, in case you fall asleep.”
Brun took a small loaf of bread, fresh-baked that morning, and sliced off a hunk of cheese, laying the knife neatly back in its place. The woman had poured her a jug of fruit juice and water-and on this day, Brun noticed that this was an unnecessary courtesy. She smiled; she could not help it. The woman smiled back, clearly pleased.
She could not afford this . . . offer of friendship, if that’s what it was. She took the jug and her lunch, tucked them into the sling where the redhead lay content, shifted the back sling until the other baby was balanced better, and moved out onto the paved terrace between the nursery buildings and the orchard.
She strolled, in her usual way, along the right-hand path, pausing now and then to look up into the trees at the hard green fruit that would be ripe in a few months. This was not the day; this was merely practice. Why, then, was her heart beating so wildly that she felt it must be drumming loud enough to hear? Why was her breath coming short? She tried to relax, reaching out to stroke a branch heavy with fruit. But the babies caught her tension and began to squirm and whimper. The one in back flailed at her head with his arms.
That, oddly enough, steadied her. She moved on, more quickly now-though today there was no hurry-to her favorite spot near the far end of the orchard. When she’d first made it this far, up the little rise, she’d been able to see the building through bare branches, but now the orchard trees were in full leaf, and she knew they could no more see her, than she could see them.
She laid the babies down on the little quilts folded into the slings, and put her lunch down as well. The babies rolled and played, cooing, making wide-handed swipes at each other. She bit off a hunk of bread as she watched, thinking over her plan again, trying to improve it. But it was such a tissue of improbables . . . if she made it twice as good, she would still have less than one chance in a hundred of success.
The darker one found a leaf to explore, and managed, with great effort, to pick it up. The redhead noticed his brother was no longer paying attention, and put his own foot in his mouth instead. Brun finished eating, and by then they were getting fussy, looking at her. In her mind, she heard a voice somewhere between her own and Esmay’s: All right then. Let’s do it.
Nursing both at once was harder now that they were bigger, but she was used to it. She leaned back against the tree, and let her mind drift . . . one way or another, in less than seven days, she would be somewhere else. Maybe dead . . . she wasn’t going to be taken alive, not again. But maybe . . . somewhere . . . she couldn’t picture it, quite. Her mind threw up pictures from her past life-hills, valleys, forests, fields, island beaches, rocky ledges. The shuttlefield on Rotterdam, then the shuttle, rumbling down the runway, taking off, the sky darkening, darkening, the stars . . .
She shook her head abruptly. The twins had taken most of her milk; it was time to try out her brew. She added a little honey, to make it sweeter, and dribbled it into their mouths as they sucked. Redhead made a face, and snorted before going on, but the dark-haired one didn’t pause in his rhythm.
She had no idea how much to use. Not as much today; she didn’t want anyone to notice, and worry about them. Did babies go to s
leep with a spoonful or a cup? She had no idea. Their sucking slowed, finally, and their mouths fell away . . . they gained a kilo whenever they fell asleep, she thought. Carefully, she laid them on the little quilts. Asleep like this . . . she could almost . . . but no. Not now. She told herself firmly what she already knew: they would be loved, cherished, given every opportunity this world held, because they were boys. That their mother had been an outlander heathen abomination would not affect the care given them.
They would look this way-this vulnerable, this beautiful-when she left them on the market day after the holy day. She stared at them, eyes narrowed. She could leave them-she had to leave them-and she would leave them.
She levered herself up and stood, fastening her dress and then stretching. She found the knife she had hidden, and turned it in her hands. She could go now . . . no. Better stick to her plan, such as it was. But one thing she could do, with a knife in hand. She might die-it was likely. Her family might not know where she was. But she could leave a record that would not be found until fall, if they noticed it then.
With the sharp tip of the paring knife she marked the tree under which the babies lay, thin scorings that would scar into visible marks later. Maybe. Her name, every syllable of it.
She wanted to write more. She wanted to scribble with that knife blade on every tree, saying what had been smothered all this time . . . but she stopped herself. No more indulgence. She had to try the wall today, to measure her strength against its height. She tied a length of yarn around the knife and hung it around her neck, then took the cloth strips she’d made and bound them tight around her breasts. When it was time to go, really time, she would bind her breasts before she fastened her dress . . . but this was only practice.
Rules of Engagement Page 34
