Hellspark (43 page)

The third was a puzzle: there was something familiar about her but he could place neither her face nor her name, Bayd. The familiar was her stare of wonder at her surroundings. Geremy Kantyka had to nudge her twice before she took formal notice of swift-Kalat. “Bayd,” said Kantyka once again.

“Sorry,” she said, but her gaze was abruptly caught by the flashgrass. “Is it always like this?”

“It’s more impressive during a storm,” swift-Kalat said. “This is a lull—for safety’s sake, we should be going.”

“Yes.” Again the words were abstract in her wonder. Geremy punched her this time, causing

Nevelen Darragh to laugh and say, “The woman who forgets her manners is Bayd Shandon, swift-Kalat.

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Not a byworld judge.” For some reason, this drew a laugh from Bayd Shandon.

“No,” she agreed. “Not a judge. I’m here as a glossi”—swift-Kalat frowned at the unfamiliar term—“an expert in languages.” Her forearm shot sharply down, proving the reliability of her statement.

She hefted her gear into the daisy-clipper and followed it, sliding to the far window to continue her gaping. The other two seated themselves in the back, and swift-Kalat climbed in beside Bayd Shandon with a renewed sense of relief. All three were Hellspark; all three spoke his language as if they had been born to it. That meant he could explain what had happened in Jenji. In Jenji, they could find no fault with

Tocohl’s actions or words.

The daisy-clipper rose from the flashgrass, drawing a wordless exclamation of delight from the woman beside him. As he aimed the craft back to base camp, he glanced briefly at her.

Her hand shot up to point: in the distance, lightning crackled into a stand of lightning rods—most likely, the one in which the sprookjes waited out the storm.

“Tocohl Susumo has made a start at establishing a pidgin to enable us to communicate with the sprookjes.”

“A pidgin?” Bayd Shandon sounded astonished, as if he had somehow called into question Tocohl’s reliability.

Swift-Kalat realized the implication. “The sprookjes,” he explained, “communicate by ruffling their feathers. Tocohl and Maggy, between them, have developed a way to respond in kind, but the rest of us will have to make do.”

“Ah,” said Bayd, “that’s better.”

“Ruffles her feathers,” said Geremy from behind him. His tone made it sound dire. “The talent runs in the family, Bayd.”

“Which one, Geremy?”

When Geremy only grunted in reply, Bayd laughed again. And this time swift-Kalat took his eyes from the terrain long enough to have a closer look at her: the same red hair, the same gold eyes, the same chiseled features—though in Bayd they were sharpened as if an abstraction of Tocohl’s.

“You are a relative of Tocohl Susumo?”

Bayd grinned at him, leaving no doubt. “Her mother,” she said and in response to another grunt from

Geremy, she added, “Don’t let Geremy disconcert you. He would sound the same if he were being awarded his fifteenth status bracelet.” She snapped her wrist down, and her laughter passed for the ring of authority.

Maneuvering the daisy-clipper into its hangar took his full attention for the moment, but once it was grounded and stilled, he turned to Bayd Shandon. “The presence of byworld judges may call into question your daughter’s reliability. I assure you have no such doubts.” He brought his wrist down, I

letting his bracelets speak for him. In the confinement of the daisy-clipper, the sound was shattering.

When the last of it had died away, Nevelen Darragh said, “This gets more interesting by the moment.

I look forward to hearing your account, swift-Kalat.”

For once, swift-Kalat wished she had spoken in GalLing’. Unlike his own language, GalLing’

would have made a clear distinction between an informal telling and the testimony of a trial. Not that he would have spoken differently in either case but in GalLing’ her choice of word would have given him an

indication of her intentions. To ask her to repeat herself in GalLing’ might imply that her Jenji was inadequate and he had no wish to impugn her reliability. Regretfully he let the
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matter go and led the three through the gusting rain and into base camp.

He paused for a moment at the perimeter fence, wondering where to take them. He decided against the infirmary. Then, seeing Buntec urge her party into the common room, he followed, hastening his steps as the rain quickened.

He ushered them in and found them towels.

“… That’s right,” Buntec was saying to her charges, “I’m not giving formal evidence so you’re not listening, but that’s not going to stop me from saying it anyhow.” She glared at Kejesli, set her fists at her hips, and raising her voice so that it carried to Darragh and Kantyka and Shandon as well, she went on, “If you find Tocohl guilty of impersonating a byworld judge, when she risked her ass to give the sprookjes a fightin’ chance, then you don’t deserve the title yourselves.”

“Buntec,” snapped Kejesli, half rising from the table at which he sat, his knuckles blotched from the effort of gripping its edge, “that’s enough.”

Buntec glared back. “That’s Kejesli,” she said, half introduction, half insult. Under the heat of her glare, something softened in Kejesli’s face, although his hands remained tense. “For now,”

he added.

“Then I’ll save the story of Edge-of-Dark’s boots for later,” Buntec said, her own tension gone as quickly as it had come. Turning back to the newcomers, she invited inquiry with a tap to the top of her boot and a broad grin. An answering grin from one of the newcomers told swift-Kalat she’d found a listener. He was curious himself, although he knew Buntec’s accounts were more fiction than truth, however careful she was in his presence.

“Swift-Kalat,” said Buntec—again her manner of delivery made it something more than an introduction—“who will tell you true whether you hear it or not.” It was some form of challenge she leveled at the newcomers. “He was the one who told us the sprookjes were sentient. Not his fault we were too stupid to listen and too bone-lazy to check it out.”

She swung her hand to indicate the others. “Yannick Windhoek. Harle Jad-Ing. Mirrrit.”

Yannick Windhoek was a sour-faced man. He scowled at Buntec, scowled at swift-Kalat, then greeted swift-Kalat in lightly accented Jenji. Zoveelian, like Ruurd, thought swift-Kalat, but, unlike Ruurd, this man was trained in what Tocohl called “the dance.” His movements caused no discomfort; it was only his grim demeanor that worried swift-Kalat.

The other two were more reassuring. They held hands like a couple of courting ten-year-olds.

Hellspark both, they greeted him in perfect Jenji. Mirrrit, the woman, was tall and slim and elegant, with penetrating brown eyes. Harle Jad-Ing—he was Buntec’s listener-to-be—was small, bright-faced, eager.

Still, such impressions gave swift-Kalat nothing he could speak of reliably. He laid them aside, awaiting further information, to introduce the three who had come with him. And then was forced to repeat himself as John the Smith, Hitoshi Dan, and Vielvoye—a glance at Buntec’s welcoming grin led him to believe she had been the one to notify them—entered and gathered, still dripping, to examine the newcomers.

For a moment, the crowd held a festive air, as if it were nothing more than the excitement of new faces after three years of the same. Then Kejesli pushed himself forward. “Tocohl Susumo is recuperating in our infirmary,” he said, taking Darragh for senior, possibly because of her apparent age, and addressing his edict to her. “You will see her when layli-layli calulan

, our team’s physician, so permits.”

Geremy Kantyka’s morose expression took a sudden turn for the worse. Bayd Shandon frowned, made as if to speak, but was preempted by Nevelen Darragh, who spread her hands and said, “As you wish, Captain, although it was she who called us here.”

“What’s more,” said Tocohl’s voice from somewhere at the rear of the crowd, “now that they’re here they won’t mind a few weeks waiting. It’s the trip that’s costly, not the time spent on Flashfever.”

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Hitoshi Dan and John the Smith parted, then pushed farther to each side, to allow passage to Tocohl, with Om im at her right. Tocohl’s face brightened. “Hi, Mom! What did they catch you at?”

“Curiosity.” Bayd grinned back, mirroring her daughter’s manner. “Geremy told me. I thought I’d

come along and see just what sort of trouble you’ve made this time.” She looked thoughtfully at Om im, seeing something that swift-Kalat could not. “Is that necessary, Om im?”

It was Tocohl who answered: “It was, for one cut.” And Bayd frowned sidelong at Kejesli. “I heard you were recuperating, but I assumed Captain Kejesli…”

“Captain Kejesli wasn’t entirely.” Tocohl touched her side. “Broken rib. Maggy’s holding me together with bailing wire.”

From behind her, Maggy corrected, “I tightened the 2nd skin where layli-layli calulan told me to tighten it. She should be lying down.” Nudging its way past John the Smith, the arachne stepped warily to the fore, as if to defend Tocohl, then said, “Geremy!” and darted forward to stop at the woeful man’s feet. “Tell Tocohl to sit down, at least, then introduce me to Judge Darragh before Tocohl forgets again.

Hi, Bayd! Long time no see!”

“Veschke’s sparks, Tocohl—sit down before you fall down—what have you been feeding her?”

Geremy picked up the arachne to set it on a table, drew a chair for Tocohl, looking hangdog at first one, then the other. Tocohl sat, Om im still at her right hand.

Maggy said, “I don’t eat.”

“Ha!” said Buntec. “You scarf up everything in sight, kid. You eat info the way a Jannisetti hog eats hogchow.”

“I don’t get it.”

“We feed ’em by the shovelful,” Buntec said, “they suck it up the same way.”

Bayd said to Geremy, “I think you just had your question answered: a diet of pure Jannisetti.

Long time no see to you too, Maggy—and this is Judge Darragh.” This time Bayd Shandon made the introductions all around.

When she had finished, the arachne settled in the circle of Tocohl’s arms, tilted upward, and said,

“Are they real judges, Tocohl?”

Buntec guffawed, along with two or three others, notably Bayd and Om im. The rest, swift-Kalat included, stiffened, not appreciating the implications of the question. But Tocohl laughed too, long and hard, until she had to bring up a hand to press against her side.

“Was that funny?” Maggy demanded.

“The emphasis was,” Tocohl said, wiping tears from her eyes. “And how would I know? You’re the one with a list of byworld judges.”

“Could be their fathers.”

To this Tocohl seemed to have no reply. It was Nevelen Darragh who leaned forward and said,

“Would your list have voice signatures, Maggy?”

A rude noise issued from the arachne’s vocoder and to it Maggy added, “ can match any voice I

signature, without half trying.”

Tocohl eyed Darragh with a look that was clearly sympathy. “Nice try,” she said.

“Only one way to tell, Maggy,” Buntec said. “There’s an old Jannisetti proverb—” She fixed Darragh with a gimlet eye. “If it looks like a judge and it acts like a judge, then it a judge.”

is

“Oh,” said Maggy, “but what does a judge look like?”

Buntec spread her hand. “Take a good long look at Tocohl,” she said. “Now you know as much
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as I

do.”

The arachne tilted up at Tocohl once more, as if to indicate that Maggy was doing precisely as instructed. “I rather think,” Tocohl said, “it’s not that simple.” Laying a hand on the fat body of the arachne, Tocohl raised her eyes to meet Darragh’s. “Might as well finish what you started,” she said, then tensing, “I come for judgment—”

Yannick Windhoek snorted. “Damned overeager kids,” he said, scowling fiercely, and Tocohl turned to look at him, startled. He went on, “I haven’t even had my lunch yet, and she wants a judgment. Never give a judgment on an empty stomach, child. It’s the surest way to make mistakes.”

Nevelen Darragh glanced sidelong at Windhoek—from his vantage point, swift-Kalat thought he saw the corner of an amused smile but couldn’t be sure—and then she turned to face Tocohl again. “As you so rightly pointed out,” she said, “the trip is costly. Once here, however, we are hardly pressed for time.

Give us a few weeks to acquaint ourselves with this world before you make demands of us.”

“Yes, of course,” said Tocohl, seeming chastened but no less tense for the temporary reprieve.

“Oh, good,” said Maggy, “that means you can go back to bed and heal some more. Make her go back to bed, Bayd.”

“What makes you think I have any more influence than you do, Maggy?”

“Geremy then,” Maggy said, “he can check her rib.”

“Don’t tell me the doctor here is a quack!” Geremy said.

“

Layli-layli calulan is an Yn shaman,” Maggy corrected, reverting momentarily to her previous prim tone. “Honestly, Tocohl, I don’t know where he gets these words.”

Geremy Kantyka stared at the arachne, his eyes wide with astonishment. Tocohl burst into laughter and swift-Kalat could almost see some of the tension drain from her frame.

“Oh, good,” said Maggy. “It was a joke. I thought so.”

When Tocohl had at last caught her breath, it was to say, “I’m proud of you, Maggy.”

The arachne tilted upward. “I’m proud of me, too.” Unfolding the arachne, Maggy stepped it to the edge of the table. “C’mon, Geremy, make yourself useful. If you check her rib, at least she’s gotta lie down that long.”

“Go on,” said Buntec, elbowing Geremy in amiable fashion, “make the kid happy.”

Geremy, looking ever more woebegone for the elbowing, said nothing but moved to help Tocohl to her feet. Om im rose as she did, and Bayd Shandon followed. Maggy settled the arachne once more on the table. “Maggy?” Tocohl questioned over her shoulder.

“I wanta watch here too,” Maggy said. “Somebody’s gotta make sure they don’t steal the silverware.”