Hellspark (4 page)

(You didn’t say not to call them. Was I wrong?)

(No, you did just fine.) Tocohl walked to the door and waved broadly to the little knot of uniformed

Sheveschkemen who filled the mouth of the alley. “In here,” she called in Sheveschkem.

She glanced at the splintered door and said, (Thanks, Maggy. If you hadn’t adjusted my spectacles, I

wouldn’t have seen that coming. You saved me quite a headache!) (You’re welcome,) said Maggy primly. (Next time, though, pull up your hood too.) The police doctor stooped to the fallen fisher. “She’ll live,” he said; and, without a further word, he crossed to examine the Siveyn.

The stumpy lieutenant in charge of the local authorities grunted sourly. A brusque wave of his hand brought two officers to guard the fisher. Then he turned to Tocohl. “Captain, may I have a word with you in private?”

“Of course,” said Tocohl, and the two of them stepped into the alleyway. Tocohl leaned against the rough stone, beneath a freshly kindled torch.

“Lieutenant t’Ashem,” he said, offering his hand.

His voice held no accent, but his stance did: Tocohl judged him a northerner still unused to southern kinesics, despite long residence. Instead of grasping the hand, she touched palms, northern-fashion, as she gave her own name. His eyes widened slightly, but more than enough to confirm her judgment, and she knew she had added one more minor embellishment to the Hellsparks’ reputation.

He went on quietly, “May I hope, Captain, that you won’t hold the wasters against us?”

“Wasters? Ah!” said Tocohl, “that explains the electric lights. I had wondered about the absence of

Veschke’s candles.” The wasters—the Inheritors of God, to give them the name they used for themselves—were a fairly recent but widespread religious sect. Arrogant and troubling to most authorities, because, put simply, whatever they did was right. A more severe case of “God is on my side”

than most of the usual religions. “—No, Lieutenant, they cause you more than enough trouble on their own. Why should I add to it?”

The lieutenant looked relieved and went on, “Then you won’t mind telling me what happened?”

“Not at all. See for yourself.” Tocohl removed her spectacles and handed them to the Sheveschkemen. (Maggy,) she said as he donned them, (run back the visual from where you warned me of trouble to the lieutenant’s arrival.)

Obviously, the lieutenant had had previous experience with a first-person replay. He placed one hand firmly against the stone wall for physical reference; and only twice did he react involuntarily, the first time as Tocohl somersaulted, the second as the fisher threw her sap.

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The younger of the two guards joined them. Tocohl thumbed her earlobe for silence, and he waited patiently beside her.

After a moment, the lieutenant removed the spectacles to frown at her. “Are you in need of medical attention, captain?”

“What?—Oh, the knife blow. No.” Tocohl turned to show him an unmarked back. “I have a fondness for first-class equipment, even in 2nd skins. This is a stripped assault version.” She didn’t bother to mention that Maggy had made a considerable improvement even on that; what she had said was quite sufficient to take him aback.

“Very expensive!” he said.

“Very good trade,” she corrected him with a grin, “—and that is, after all, my business!” It actually drew an answering smile from him. She reached out to collect her spectacles, saying,

“Now you know as much as I do. Shall I make you a copy of the tape?”

“You needn’t bother,” said the lieutenant, “I know the third one.” His smile turned grim. “I won’t have any trouble finding him.” Remembering the presence of the younger man, he suddenly said, “Well?”

The guard said, “They jumped her just outside the Shavam Inn and dragged her here.

She assumes they meant to rob her.”

The lieutenant looked swiftly at Tocohl and said, “She’s not Hellspark, then?”

“No,” said Tocohl, evenly, “she’s from Sivy. Robbery seems unlikely, even from the Inheritors of

God. Given that I found her bound and gagged, kidnapping would seem their goal. But why her? I guess we’ll have to ask the fisher what it was all about.”

The lieutenant grunted. “That’s like asking a Bluesippan for his knife. The Inheritors of God don’t explain themselves to heretics.” He scowled and shrugged.

The Sheveschkem shrug, southern or northern, took one hand only, and—even as performed by the stumpy lieutenant—it was an eloquent mime of a man who tests the weight of an object with a bounce and, having found it unsatisfactory, discards it over his shoulder in disgust.

“Still,” Tocohl prompted.

“Captain, we’ve had any number of incidents from the wasters in the past few months. Most of them unaccountable. Something stirred them up, and the usual sensible restraints don’t apply.

It’ll be a pleasure to put a few of them away. Take it from me, this is just another bunch of wasters doing what they feel like at the moment. They break the law to prove the law does not apply to them. Random violence is almost a sacred act to a waster.” He scowled more deeply.

“At any rate,” he finished, “you and your friend needn’t miss any more of the festival on their account.”

He stalked to the doorway, pausing on the threshold to pick up the copper sap. “A souvenir,”

he said, and tucked it into the loop on Tocohl’s baldric designed for just such a purpose. “Use it on the next waster you meet. God may not be on your side, but I certainly will.”

Taking it for a sour joke, Tocohl smiled, but her smile vanished as she entered the lighted room.

The second guard was giving a finishing touch—a boot to the ribs—to the unconscious fisher.

The Siveyn,

moved to the fisher’s pallet and still being probed by the Sheveschkem doctor, watched and shivered visibly.

“That’s enough,” snapped Tocohl, and the guard looked up, startled and angry. Seeing her captain’s baldric, however, he backed away from the fisher and began to make apologetic noises. They were noises only, none of his anger at Tocohl’s intervention had gone.

Tocohl turned. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but that’s taboo to the Siveyn. And I can’t say I much like it either. If you can’t control yourselves any better than the wasters can, could you at least wait until I get her out of here?” Between the insult and her baldric, that ought to put a stop to any
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further beatings.

The lieutenant took in the severity of her disapproval and gestured brusquely again. The guard muttered and retreated, but not before he had spat once on the fisher and said, bitterly,

“Hull-ripping waster.”

“I agree with his sentiments,” the lieutenant said, sighing, “but not with his expression of them.

His actions aren’t taboo here, but they do make more work for the doctor.”

He stopped abruptly. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Taboo to a Siveyn? The Siveyn fight duels over anything—they’d fight about a theft at festival!”

“They duel, yes, but a duel is rigidly codified behavior. No Siveyn would dream of striking someone without first exchanging the proper ritual insults with him or her. Anything else is la’ista

, the behavior of wild beasts; and that’s the attitude that puts your officer there socially on a par with the waster.”

He still looked puzzled. “Lieutenant,” Tocohl went on, “she can challenge people all day long on

Sheveschke, but she won’t fight a duel unless she runs into another Siveyn. A challenge is one thing—but you simply don’t attack unless you get the proper ritual responses.”

She could see he still wasn’t understanding. “If you went for Veschke’s fire, and the priest didn’t say, ‘For Veschke’s fire, one must shed blood,’ would you continue with the ritual?”

“No, of course not. It wouldn’t be properly done. It would be worthless… Ah, you mean fighting is somehow worthless to her without the proper responses!”

“That’s it. Nothing more than wild beasts. And it can’t be done on that level. Besides, this Siveyn is more cosmopolitan than most; she’s worked with a survey team and, judging from the fact that she hasn’t challenged anybody yet, that’s made her very tolerant.”

The Sheveschkem doctor looked up as they approached and addressed Tocohl. “No concussion.

She’ll have a headache, but she’ll owe it more to her celebrating than to the wasters.”

(Maggy, find me a real doctor.)

(Does Geremy Kantyka qualify?)

The name gave her a start; Geremy was one of the few who’d heard the story of the

“farm equipment” for Solomon’s Seal. (Geremy’s in town? He’ll do nicely, yes.) Aloud, she said to the

Sheveschkem doctor, “Thank you.” Then she added, including the lieutenant in the query,

“Is there anything else, or may we go?”

“Unless your friend wants a judge,” said the lieutenant, “we’d prefer to treat this as a local matter.”

Tocohl bent to the Siveyn. Extending her right hand, she laid her left palm up, fingers lightly curled, in the crook of her elbow and repeated the lieutenant’s offer in Siveyn.

The small woman’s green eyes focused with difficulty. She glanced obliquely at the guard who’d kicked the fisher and said, “I’d rather leave.” Then her eyes fell on Tocohl’s outstretched hands. “You s-stopped them?” Only the slight hesitation in speech betrayed her drunkenness.

“Yes,” said Tocohl. “I apologize for the appearance of la’ista

—my own as well as the officer’s.

Sheveschkem ritual is not Siveyn ritual, but Sheveschkem ritual was satisfied.”

The Siveyn took a deep breath. “I see,” she said and rose, bracing herself on Tocohl’s proffered arm. “As the Hellspark s-say”—like most Siveyn, she pronounced it Hell-spark

—” ‘When on s-Sheveschke, be a s-Sheveschkemen.’ Your apology is unnecessary, and you have the thanks of Tinling

Alfvaen.”

Tocohl frowned. (Maggy, Tinling Alfvaen!)

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Tocohl missed a sentence or two as Maggy responded, for her ear alone, in the crisp voice of Nevelen Darragh, (“… to answer to the charge of Tinling Alfvaen…”), then in her own voice went on, (That is the name of the only surveyor of the twelve who

contracted Cana’s disease on Inumaru who was of Siveyn origin.) (You might have told me.)

(You were busy. I didn’t want to interrupt.)

(Anything else I should know?)

(She was also the only one of the twelve to lose her job with MGE after that survey.) When Tocohl snapped her attention back, Tinling Alfvaen was saying, scornfully, “—And Multi-Galactic thinks I’ve lost my serendipity!” She gave her head an impatient shake that sent her braids flying. “If I’d lost my serendipity, I’d never have been rescued by the only other Siveyn on Sheveschke!”

“I can’t speak to other circumstances, but I’m not Siveyn.”

“Oh?” Alfvaen paused at the threshold to face Tocohl; she blinked her pale eyes in an effort to clear them and frowned slightly. “Oh!” she said, after a moment, “You’re Hellspark, then.”

“Yes. Susumo Tocohl, and pleased to meet you, Tinling Alfvaen.”

Alfvaen released her arm and made the Siveyn formal greeting. “That’s the same thing,” she said warmly.

(She didn’t recognize my name.)

(You didn’t recognize hers, at first,) said Maggy reasonably.

Alfvaen wobbled and Tocohl caught her again. (She’s getting drunker the longer she stands here,)

said Tocohl.

(That might explain her lack of recognition.)

Tinling Alfvaen raised a hand level with her throat, palm out, fingers splayed. It was one of the few gestures that GalLing’, the universal pidgin, recognized as necessary.

“No,” said Tocohl, “you haven’t caused offense. Do you have medication with you?”

The Siveyn looked startled. “Yes-s,” she said and began to pat the pockets of her kilt, her hands clumsy with haste.

She drew out a small box and gouged at it with her nail—then, exasperation in her sharp features, she handed it to Tocohl. “Would you please…?”

Tocohl opened the box, and Alfvaen took a pill and gulped it. “I’ll be fine in a minute,” she said.

“How did you know?”

“Your earpip,” said Tocohl. “Which direction are you headed?”

Alfvaen inhaled deeply. “I was on my way to Veschke Plaza, to meet Judge Darragh at the main festival fire.”

Tocohl smiled wryly. “That’s where I’m going. I’ll accompany you, if I may.”

“Certainly!—Are you a judge, too?”

The Siveyn’s innocence was mystifying. “No,” Tocohl said, “a high percentage of the byworld judges may be Hellspark, but a high percentage of Hellsparks are not judges.”

Alfvaen frowned and, for a moment, Tocoh thought that the Siveyn had at last recognized the name.

But when she said nothing about it, Tocoh concluded that she had only been reacting to the Hellspark tradition of alternating the pronunciation of their world’s name: first Hell’s-park

, then

Hell-spark

.

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Like most, Alfvaen came to the conclusion she had misheard and let the matter pass, saying instead, “I s-see. Most of the judges I’ve met have been Hellspark; I guess I do expect the reverse to be true as well.—You’re a trader, then, or is that also a s-stereotype?”

Tocohl tucked a thumb beneath the black and gold leather of her captain’s baldric and drew it slightly forward. “I’m a trader, here for the festival. My ship was blessed this morning. And you?”

“I came on an errand for a friend.” Tinling Alfvaen seemed steadier, stood straighter now. She took several more deep breaths, and gestured a readiness to be on her way. As she followed Tocohl through the alley to the square, she added, “And if it hadn’t been for you and Judge Darragh, I wouldn’t have made it this far.”

That only added to Tocohl’s mystification. She stopped to pick up her cloak in passing. From the scent of it, she knew it had been trampled. Bruised, it was always aromatic but this time it was pungent.

Probably by the guard with the demonstrably heavy feet, she thought, snorting with disgust that owed more to the guard than the condition of the cloak.