Shadow's End (33 page)

“Succinct, Poracious,” said the Procurator without opening his eyes. “Very succinct. You left out that we are helpless. That we've kept this Ularian business inside our administrative skinnies about as long as we can. That we're going to have panic once it gets out, as it will.”

The ex-king stared at him curiously. “You're a Fastigat, aren't you, sir? First among Firsters?”

Poracious made shushing motions, but the younger man shook his head at her.

“I'll do what I can to help, but I want to know! Is there any chance these Ularians are actually human? Somebody out there we don't know about?”

The Procurator gave him a long, level look. “The idea has crossed my mind.”

“I should have thought so. If the universe is made for man, who else could be out there?”

“I don't know. If they are men, they are able to do things we cannot do. For purposes of action, I refer to them as Ularians, no matter what they are. I take it you are not of the Firster persuasion?”

“I am not, no.”

“May we set the matter aside? May we agree to let our differences alone for the moment?”

The ex-king shrugged. “You mentioned panic.”

“There will be panic. Many of the vanishees have friends or associates on Alliance worlds. Once ordinary person-to-person communication ceased, rumor began to spin among the citizenry. It won't be long before they learn the truth. We could make up stories until we're bright green; we could issue silence edicts until our voices fail, but not all the evacuation ships were in Hermes Sector; some of them had returned across the line. The crewmen are going to talk. The evacuees are going to talk. They already have! The newsies are already on it, if the opposition doesn't tell the universe first! In either case, we'll be up to our necks in chowbys.” He sighed heavily. “I reflect on my own coming political troubles to keep grief at bay. Some of those taken were my grandchildren.”

He got up and turned away, going to one of the windows and standing there with his back to them, his shoulders shaking.

Poracious heaved herself out of the chair and went to him, putting one huge arm around him and murmuring, “Has there been any word from Perdur Alas? From the shadows?”

“None that I've received,” the Procurator said, drawing himself erect. “Though we certainly should have had
something
by now, if only a preliminary report on their activities. I don't understand the delay.”

The former king ran his hands through his hair. “Lord of all Confusion, I pray I have not added to this woe!”

“Sorrow comes as the seasons,” the Procurator answered, wiping his eyes as he returned to his chair. “Inevitably. Being Procurator doesn't make me exempt. But it doesn't make me any better able to bear it, either. Well and well, grieving gets one no fowarder, as my grandfather used to say. There is an immediate task before us. We have to find two men, quickly! With your help, sir”—he
bowed slightly in the ex-king's direction—“and that of the local leasehold functionary, perhaps we can do so.”

“Mitigan of the Asenagi,” said the former king, with a wry twist to his mouth. “And Chur Durwen of Collis. Or is it the Haughneep brothers?”

“The former two.” The Procurator wiped his eyes once more and made himself sit tall. “We know they came to Dinadh. Now we need to know where they are.”

A discreet rap at the door drew their attention. The man who came in was robed, tassel-bearded, and gray around the temples. “At your service, Procurator,” he said, sounding neither obsequious nor interested.

“Do you know of Jerome's system?” asked the Procurator.

“It contains, among others, the ocean world of Hava,” replied the Dinadhi, raising his eyebrows almost to his hairline. “It is the inhabited system nearest to our own.”

“Your nearest neighbors have gone missing,” said the Procurator heavily. “Yesterday, more than a million persons vanished from Hava. The other worlds in Jerome's system had already been wiped clean. It is clear the Ulari-ans have returned. Last time around, every human person in Hermes Sector was disposed of except you Dinadhi. One exception does not create a pattern. You may not be immune this time around.”

The man simply stared, taking it in, his eyes gradually widening.

“Some kind of jest, sir …”

“I would not have gone to the trouble of a painful journey to jest with you, sir. The Procurator of the Alliance does not flit about playing games. The only persons who may be able to help us are now at the leasehold of Bernesohn Famber. Lutha Tallstaff, her son, a helper named Trompe. You recall!”

“I recall, of course.” Offended dignity. “I am a rememberer!”

“There were two men who arrived about the same
time, Mitigan and Chur Durwen. Assassins. Hoping to kill at least two of those earlier mentioned, Lutha and her son. We have to find them!”

“The men were sent to T'loch-ala,” said the rememberer. “Which is a hive remote from Cochim-Mahn, where Bernesohn Famber still has leasehold. We knew they were mercenaries.”

“That's all very well so far as it goes,” said the Procurator wearily. “Though I'm delighted to hear that you took precautions, you have not told me those precautions were effective. Can you find out whether the assassins are still at this T'loch-ala?”

“We have systems for communicating with the songfathers of each hive.”

“Quickly, or at leisure?”

“With some dispatch, sir.”

“Then let us stop dancing and do so. Please. And while you're about it, I want to see a man named … ah.” He tapped his wrist-link. “Name of agent on Dinadh?”

“Thosby Anent,” said the link.

“Thosby Anent,” repeated the Procurator. “Get him, too, as quickly as you can.”

A peculiar expression showed for only a moment, then the tassel-bearded man put on his lofty face once more and went striding away, his robes lashing his ankles in a frenzy of offended motion.

“He hasn't really taken it in yet,” said the former king.

“No. Habit tells him to do nothing quickly, but we tell him to act at once. Such people grow defensive when forced into motion.” The Procurator rubbed his forehead wearily. “There are disadvantages to being responsible.”

The former king considered this. “There are also disadvantages to being responsible for nothing, Procurator.”

There seemed nothing more to be said until the rememberer returned. While they waited, as though with one mind, the three turned slightly away from one another and sat, each lost in an individually lonely world.

I
t was almost dark when Trompe drove us into the entrance to Burning Springs canyon. We camped once more. Setting up the enclosure was getting to be a routine. Cutting fodder for the beasts was becoming habit, as was watering them, hobbling them, letting them graze awhile. While rummaging among the food stocks, trying to decide what to prepare for a meal (on Dinadh, we rarely have that much choice), I overheard a conversation between Lutha and Trompe.

“You want me to sit up and watch Leely half the night?” Trompe asked in a slightly offended voice. “Because he got a few bug bites? Why don't you put his harness on him?”

“Even if I put him in his harness, he might manage to escape. And supposedly, you're here to help me!” she snarled.

Long quiet moment while he stared at her. “Right,” he said. “Quite right.”

Then he went off muttering and shaking his head while Leelson stared at his back resentfully. It was an interesting muddle. Leelson and Lutha could neither accept one another nor leave one another alone. And, though Trompe had been quite willing to play Lutha's servant so long as Leelson was thought to be missing, he felt it put him at a disadvantage now that Leelson was present and accounted for. He, Trompe, was, after all, as much a Fastigat as Leelson was, and Lutha was, more or less, Leelson's responsibility. Leelson, meantime, felt he had the right to argue with, ignore, or even attack Lutha, but he denied Trompe any such right. What with long hours of either drudgery or boredom plus our restless nights, all three of them were on edge, irritable, ready to lash out at anyone, anything.

So I analyzed the situation, as though I were a song-father setting things to rights in a winter hive, where, as here, everyone is shut up together and irritation mounts.
It was an ordinary, irrational human stew, quite complicated enough, even without the sexual feelings that were churning around among them. Among us.

Myself included. I found myself watching Trompe, time on time. Liking the shape of him. Imagining him in other places, at other times. I was not in love with him, but yes, I lusted after him. Lusting after men is a particular pain for women of the veiled sisterhood, because we know it is hopeless, fruitless, foredoomed. Even if some man could overlook … overlook our appearance, we are not allowed to have children who might inherit our … tendencies. Well. Set all that aside. It was of no importance. Certainly it was of no consequence. It simply was.

Though we had set up the panels, we had not yet fastened the last ones. It was open country where we were, a wide canyon, with no Kachis about, and it was not yet dark, though the sun rested upon the canyon rim above us. Leelson and Lutha had gone away from the wain, he to cut forage and she to a pool in a nearby grove—to wash herself, she said, for she was tired of smelling like smoke. She took the bucket, to bring water when she returned. Trompe was fussing about with the harness, which he seemed to have adopted as his particular responsibility. Leely was asleep and I was restless. I slipped out between the panels and went in the direction Lutha had gone.

The grove was made up of d'kymah trees, trunks no larger than my arm, the first branches just above my head. The trees are not good for anything but smelling sweet and being delightful, for they grow always in company with a carpet of flowering grass we call golden eyes. Lovers' woods, we called places like this. Sweetsong woods. The leaves were just coming out, no larger than the nail of my little finger, a pale green, the purest of all colors.

I did not disturb the quiet but went silently, as Dinadhi sisters learn to do, touching the trees for thanks, smelling the foliage with kindness. These pleasures could not be taken from us, so my sisters said. These pleasures were to
be enjoyed. My enjoyment was ended by the sound of raised voices, and I stopped, behind a screen of leaves, peering through them at Lutha, and at Leelson.

She had stripped off her outer robe and had taken her arms out of the inner one, lowering it around her waist. She had loosened her hair so the great wealth of it hung over her wet shoulders and breasts. One hand still held the comb, the other was out, as though to ward him away. Leelson stood a pace away, his hands out, imploring her.

“I can't,” he said. “Lutha, I can't.”

She lifted her hand. Even from where I was, I could see it tremble. She was like a little tree, shivered by wind. “Oh,” she cried. “Oh, Leelson.”

They came together then, so swiftly it was like an attack, like a rape, only that wasn't what was happening. Neither was more frantic than the other, loosening, unfastening, ridding themselves of garments so their flesh could lie together. The comb fell with a tiny click onto the stone, unnoticed. The clothing sighed away.

I turned away, my eyes burning. So it had been for me. So it would never be again. I crept away, ashamed, piteous, angry, needing to stand for a long time at the edge of the grove before I could return to the wagon. In time, Leelson returned, his face empty, as though he had purposefully decided not to think of anything. Later Lutha came back. There were still tears in her eyes. So. Passion and pain. Attraction and anger. Two who would not, but must.

When we went to our beds, Trompe propped himself near the slightly open door, saying the night air (and the Kachis, no doubt) would keep him awake while he kept watch on Leely. He was there when I fell asleep. He was there when I woke the following morning, his head lolling on his chest, breathing heavily.

It was barely light. I slipped out past him and went to the panel that had been loose the day before. It was loose again. Even as I stood there I saw Leely coming from
among the stones at the canyon's mouth, skipping like a little gauf, arms extended, hands waving, a portrait of perfect contentment. I pulled the panels apart to let him in, and he looked at me as he went past. I have seen that look in the eyes of birds, or lizards. A kind of fearless wariness. A look that says, “I know you could get me—kill me, eat me—but at this moment you are not a danger.”

His arms were marked as they had been the morning before, as was his forehead, a dozen small, slightly reddened spots that were already fading. He gave me that lizard look again, then went into the wagon silently, he who was rarely silent! I stood listening, but there was no outcry from within. He had sneaked out; he had sneaked back. Considering how everyone felt at the moment, perhaps it was best that I keep Leely's excursion to myself. If I said anything about it, Lutha—whose emotions were always at the surface of her, quick to erupt, quick to cool—would blame Trompe, who would be angry at her, which would annoy Leelson, which would make Lutha angry at him. Angrier. She who could no more resist him, or he her, than the stone can resist the rootlets of the tree. Even the hardest stone will break, for the tree will grow, despite all.