Hellspark (28 page)

And with good cause.

Now the thunderheads crackled with light. Tocohl shook off the hand Buntec laid on her arm, ignored Buntec’s query—to count softly to herself.

At the low rumble of thunder, Tocohl turned to the rest and said, “There won’t be a rescue team.

That’s over the camp now, and it’s headed our direction. Rattle-brained Kejesli may be, but not rattle-brained enough to send anybody out in that.”

Buntec said, “We’re dead then, Hellspark. We might have made it in the daisy-clipper but—”

Like reflected lightning, fear brightened her eyes; her voice was flat.

“John the Smith!” said Om im suddenly. Buntec stamped her foot at his apparent irrelevancy, but he went on, “Ish shan, John the Smith said to look for a stand of lightning rods. Theoretically we’d be safe in a stand of lightning rods.”

“Theoretically,” said Buntec; she stamped her foot again.

“Unless you’ve got a better idea,” Om im told her.

A flash of warning red caught Tocohl’s eye, brought the sprookje to her notice. She saw that it had walked some twenty feet in the direction of the flashwood. Now it stopped—facing them, displaying its tongue.

Feathers puffed with fear, it retraced its steps until it stood a pace or two from Tocohl. Again it displayed its tongue. Then it held out the edge of the moss cloak to her.

“

Where do they go in thunderstorms?” Tocohl demanded suddenly. “Somewhere safe

!”

“There’s your better idea, Buntec,” Om im said.

“Yes-s,” Alfvaen agreed.

Buntec grumbled, “Better than sittin’ in the wide open waitin’ to be fried.”

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“Follow the native guide then,” Tocohl said; she took the proffered edge of the cloak. The sprookje closed its mouth, turned about, and set off across the flashfield at a trot, the rest of the party close behind.

Within a few yards, Tocohl loosed the end of the moss cloak. Sunchild cast a brief glance backward to assure itself they were still following, then plunged on. A sudden gust of wind whipped alight the flashgrass, surrounding them with patterns now made ominous. With it came the first spatter of rain. The sprookje quickened its pace.

Thunder rumbled ever closer.

Flashfield gave way to flashwood. On its outer fringes stubby chuckling and ticking curiosities competed unsuccessfully with the sound of thunder. A head-high frostwillow, tossed by ever-stronger rain-laden gusts, shattered the air with the sound of a thousand crystal glasses breaking simultaneously.

Om im shouted over it, “Heads up, Ish shan. Some of these plants are as deadly as the lightning we hope

to avoid.”

The sprookje glanced back again and, displaying a red tongue, made a wide path around a slender tree, notable only because it seemed pronged rather than branched.

Om im grasped Tocohl’s wrist. “Eilo’s-kiss,” he supplied, “that’s one of the nasty ones.

Remember what it looks like—even the little ones can stun a human. The big ones can kill.

Sprookjes too, it would seem.” Before releasing her wrist he hopped a step forward to precede her. “Blade right,” he said, then added without turning, “Buntec, you’d better guide Alfvaen.”

Buntec reached for Alfvaen’s hand. Tocohl acknowledged Om im’s blade right with a raised and curled hand. She knew he saw neither—his attention was fully on the path the sprookje broke.

They were headed away from the river, but Tocohl knew she’d be able to locate it again.

Even without Maggy’s assistance—Tocohl shivered at the harshness of the thought—Tocohl had a good sense of direction. Assuming they survived the storm, they could follow the river back to camp.

The thunder was closer now, and the sprookje quickened its step still faster. Om im, whose shorter legs needed three steps to her two, was forced into a run but did not appear wearied by the pace.

Glancing up, the small man said, “Practice,” and grinned as if he’d read her mind.

The sprookje wove through a thick wall of arabesque vine. Tocohl, following close behind Om im and the sprookje, did not look up until she had negotiated the fine but wiry barrier. “Lots of zap-mes,”

Om im warned as she freed Alfvaen and herself from the last of the tangle. They spent the next few moments avoiding a lashing from zap-mes of every conceivable size.

At last, the zap-mes seemed to subside to ankle-height new growth and Tocohl looked ahead.

She drew in her breath involuntarily. Before her was the embodiment of the “blasted forest”

of so many

Zoveelian fairy tales.

Gaunt black spikes, trees unrelieved by branch or leaf, jabbed high into the blackened sky.

Beneath them, and for a short distance beyond, nothing grew—but here and there the remains of something that looked charred. This was the stand of lightning rods. The sprookje stood before them, welcoming.

Well, she thought wryly, it’s a suitable setting for a sprookje, I suppose. I hope it’s as suitable for humans. The rain had turned earnest.

To Om im, she said aloud, “Looks like the native guide had the same idea you did. We didn’t see this from the daisy-clipper. Sunchild must know the territory very well.”

The sprookje picked its way warily into the recesses of the lightning rod stand.

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“You couldn’t have chosen a better guide,” Om im said. “Now watch where I put my feet.

Whatever energy the lightning rods don’t need, they bleed off into the ground—once in a while there’s a surface node that can give you a dangerous shock.”

In cautious silence, the party continued its way to the heart of the shelter, where the sprookje sat waiting. Tocohl and the others followed suit as a gust of wind dashed water in their faces.

“Too bad we haven’t time to build a shelter,” Tocohl said.

“Oh, well, can’t have everything,” said Om im.

“Why not?” said Tocohl, and drew a grin from him.

Buntec settled Alfvaen, then herself. Curling up on her side, she threw an arm over her head and announced, “Nothing to do but sleep.”

Lightning struck the tallest spikes of their shelter with an ear-splitting crack that brought Buntec bolt upright, staring wide-eyed and openmouthed. When the sound died away and their numbed ears could once again hear the shattering of frostwillows in the distance, Buntec said grimly,

“Sleep, my foot.”

Tocohl blinked away red Catherine wheels, turned her face into the rain to clear her eyes of the stinging tears the lightning flash had startled from them. The air seemed too full of rain to breathe, but she did not draw up the mask of her 2nd skin. It would only serve to remind her how much Maggy would have enjoyed this experience; few had ever sat amid lightning and lived to tell the tale.

She twisted her hair into a single mass to channel the water down her back, pocketed her spectacles.

Enhanced vision was the last thing she needed at the moment, she thought, squeezing her eyes tight against a bolt of lightning so intense that even through closed lids it reddened her sight.

Wind tore through the empty spaces between the lightning rods, flinging leaves and bits of branch at

them. Here and there a wet leaf struck one of the nodes Om im had warned her of—struck and struck sparks.

Thunder deafened and deadened their ears until they could no longer distinguish a silence from the thunder in their heads.

And through it all the sprookje, wrapped tightly in the moss cloak, left its own afterimage in Tocohl’s eyes: a ghostly glowing image of regal unconcern.

After an eternity, the storm passed on…

Alfvaen, exhausted, had fallen into a fitful sleep. Wordlessly, for the words might not have been heard through still-ringing ears, the others agreed to rest; the run to shelter had exhausted their bodies, but the storm had exhausted their spirits as well. Buntec jerked in violent dreams.

Without knowing she had fallen asleep, Tocohl started awake at a tickling touch—Sunchild stroking her wrist. “I’m okay,” she told it and was surprised to find that she could hear her own voice.

“That’s good to hear, Ish shan,” Om im said. He pounded the heel of his hand beside his ear, setting earpips a-jingle, and added, grinning, “In more ways than one.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Tocohl assured him. Then she looked again at the sprookje.

“From the way Sunchild’s acting, I think it’s safe to leave now. We’ll have to make some decisions.”

“Before we wake the others,” he began—but a jerk of his thumb specified Alfvaen.

“You’re worried about that scratching,” Tocohl said. “So am I. Even if it’s just a reaction to stress, I

want to get her to layli-layli calulan as soon as possible.”

“Yes,” said Om im and woke the others gently. Buntec stretched luxuriously. “I think I’m alive,”

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she said, taking obvious pleasure in the sound of each syllable. Alfvaen came to with a gasping sound, held her head.

“How do you feel?” Tocohl asked.

Alfvaen turned her head from side to side, gingerly testing the result. “Strange,” she said, “so strange.

Giddy, and”—she stood cautiously, as if unsure of the ground beneath her feet—“uncoordinated. I—”

She took a deep breath and stared at Tocohl.

There had been no trace of slur in her speech.

“I can hear it,” Tocohl said. “You should be drunker but you’re not.”

“I’m scared,” said Alfvaen—and her lapse into Siveyn told Tocohl the depth of that fear.

Buntec had been speaking with Om im in low tones, now she said, “We haven’t much choice but to walk home. Who knows where the daisy-clipper is by now, or if the locator is working. I say we head for the river and foot it,” she finished, scowling deeply. It was agreed by all, right down to the obscenity.

Placing an arm around Alfvaen, Tocohl steadied her and said, in Siveyn, “My oath: that I will return you safely to swift-Kalat.” She was rewarded by a lessening of fear in the sea-green eyes and she squeezed the Siveyn’s arm. “Shall we go?” Tocohl offered her arm formally, and just as formally, Alfvaen accepted it.

The survey camp crackled with fears and rumors. The repaired transceiver had brought no response from Buntec’s party and the storm, bringing forced inaction, heightened tension until it was as tangible as the stench of ozone.

Layli-layli calulan kept her own counsel, but Maggy noted that the doctor scarcely let Timosie Megeve out of her sight. When she did, swift-Kalat followed after the Maldeneantine.

Maggy set the arachne following layli-layli calulan

. When at last she reached the privacy of the empty infirmary, Maggy tilted the arachne, angling the camera up to observe the shaman’s expression—an important part of any reply, Tocohl had told her—and asked, “Why should you and swift-Kalat find observing Megeve of such importance? I will help if I know what to look for. What dream have you?”

Sure she had phrased her query properly in Yn, Maggy found it surprising—yes, that was the term

Tocohl would have used for a response so unexpected—when in response layli-layli calulan twisted her ring.

“Your pardon,” Maggy said instantly. At the same time, noting shifting priorities, she drew the arachne back a few steps. Without it, she could know nothing of what had happened to Tocohl. She

didn’t wish to be impolite but she did want it out of range.

“No,” said layli-layli calulan

, reinforcing the word with the sharp upward jerk of the chin that said the same in Yn. “No dream. A nightmare rather.”

Maggy waited, hoping she would explain. She wasn’t sure it was safe to ask for further information, not the way layli-layli continued to twist her ring. Maggy moved the arachne a few steps farther away.

“Your pardon, maggy-maggy

”—the shaman looked down at her hands—“I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“Does that mean a shaman’s curse would work on a mechanical device?”

“I don’t know. I never had occasion to try. But it surely wouldn’t work on you. I don’t know your name.”

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“That’s good,” said Maggy, and she stepped the arachne back to its original position. “Then would you please explain what you meant about a nightmare? I want to help, but I can’t when I don’t understand.”

Again layli-layli calulan surprised her, this time with a sudden smile, the first Maggy had ever recorded in her presence. Maggy suspected Tocohl would have termed it quite beautiful.

“How good is your Yn, maggy-maggy

, or do you only understand specific phrases?”

“I have three Yn dictionaries, two grammars, and a library of fiction from which to draw analogy. I

can puzzle out much.”

“Then I have a task, one that only you can perform.”

“Only me?”

“You are able to speak to Tocohl through an implant, just here.” A beringed finger tapped the analogous spot below layli-layli

’s ear.

“But I can’t contact her!”

“Not yet. However, the moment your contact is restored, I want you to deliver the following message verbatim to Tocohl and to no one else

. Do you understand?”

“For Tocohl only,” said the arachne, “so noted and tagged. There will be no unauthorized retrieval of this information.” Lest that be insufficient, she added, less formally, “Don’t worry, layli-layli

, I’m good at keeping secrets. Tocohl taught me how.”

Layli-layli calulan smiled a second time; this time the smile vanished as quickly as it had come.

Face stern, finger touching ring, she spoke three sentences in soft, rhythmic Yn. Then she added a fourth in

GalLing’: “Remember, maggy-maggy

, a textbook translation is not always an accurate translation.”

But Maggy had already begun an exhaustive matching, not only of individual words with her dictionary stores, but of whole phrases with their context against her stores of Yn writings, fictional and nonfictional.

The result in Hellspark, the language Maggy knew best, was one sentence long: “Megeve may be responsible for the equipment failures.”