Northshore (29 page)

They postponed the decision in desultory chat. ‘And
what of your researches?’ Ezasper asked. ‘What new and remarkable things have you found?’

Nepor giggled again. ‘I’ve been experimenting with blight, Jorn my boy. There are, ah … interesting applications. Applications I do not intend to reveal to General Jondrigar. Oh, by the moons, none of us would be safe if he knew them.’

Ezasper turned his wide face toward the other, held up a cautioning fist. ‘Careful, Koma. If you have found something like that, be very careful speaking of it. To anyone at all.’

The other shifted uncomfortably. He never knew exactly what Ezasper meant. Perhaps he meant not to speak of it at all; perhaps he meant to speak to no one except Ezasper himself. Sometimes Nepor felt he did not understand what was going on. Experimental situations were very different from people. In experiment, one could control what happened – or, if not what happened, the conditions under which it happened. Results could be duplicated time after time. With people, very little was controllable. They acted quite unpredictably. It seemed wisest to let the subject go, for now. Still, it was quite remarkable what a sprayer full of blight could do to a living person.

The lady Kesseret prepared to depart from Highstone Lees. On the morning she would go to the top of Split River Pass and down the other side, carried in a palanquin by Noor slaves while she meditated upon the evil of their slavery. Slavery, like Awakening, would vanish on the day. Until then, she could not appear to disapprove of it without coming under suspicion.
More
suspicion, she told herself, sure that she was already suspected of much.

‘Have you any word?’ she asked Tharius Don.

‘The man who played the role of Fatterday did his job well. Queen Fibji will send an expedition to the Southshore.’

‘When? How soon?’

‘Probably not until late summer. Still, that is only a little time. When she does so, we will see that the fliers hear of it. It will give them something to think about besides Rivermen. Also, I’ve sent an envoy to ask her to search for the missing beasts. The envoy will plant the idea that such beasts should be taken on any voyage, in case there are none beyond the River. They will steal the beasts – if they find them. And this, too, will draw the fliers’ attention.’

She was not sure this feint would have its desired purpose. The fliers were subtle, more subtle, she thought, than Tharius realized. ‘When the time comes, Tharius, do you really think the fliers will capitulate? Do you really think they will give up their wings? Become like the Treeci? Legendary Treeci, I should say. We don’t even know if they really exist.’

‘There are books in the palace library that say they do, Kessie. Old books, which have stood on those shelves for hundreds of years, talk about the Treeci islands. Books no one looks at but me. Luckily, Glamdrul Feynt cares for nothing but his files. Strictly speaking, the books should be his responsibility, yet I thank whatever gods may be that they are where I can read them. And yes, to answer your question, I think the Thraish will capitulate. Rather than see us die or themselves. Once they have experienced the other kind of life, I think they will prefer it.’

‘You’re so sure.’ She shook her head at him, smiling wanly. He had always been sure, very sure. Perhaps it had been that quality in him that she had loved. So nice to be sure, without doubts.

‘They’ve seen us, Kessie. We don’t fly. And yet we have a civilization better than the one the Thraish have. They borrow our craftsmen, they borrow our writing. They take from us constantly. They can’t be unaware of the difference. It’s only custom that keeps them to the treaty. A hard custom, and one tightly held, but when it comes right down to it, I think they’ll be relieved. By all accounts, humans and the Treeci live very well together.’

‘So you’ve said, Tharius. I wish I were as sure as you are.’ She choked, oppressed by this act of leaving him. In a moment her voice came back and she went on, ‘Sometimes I lie awake in Baris Tower at night. Everything is very quiet. Far off in the town the crier sings out, and his voice comes gently. There is wind, perhaps. I lie there, almost at peace, my mind drifting quietly.

‘Oh, Tharius, there is a peaceful place inside the head where one may wander. Like fields, new mown, green and moist and fragrant. One wanders inside oneself, at peace, unconscious of being oneself. Then, suddenly, out of nothing, a hard, hurtful thing intrudes and one cries dut.’

‘I know.’ He smoothed her hair from her forehead. ‘I forget, too, sometimes. I drift, dream. But I always remember again.’

‘There is such peace in that forgetting! But yes, one
remembers again, and the future looms up like a rocky cliff, creased with bruising edges and sharp corners, a thing which cannot be drifted over but must be climbed, hard stone by hard stone.’ She fell silent for a time, lines starring from her eyes and lips, her face for that moment incredibly ancient.

‘When I remember, I start to think of the morning of the rebellion, of the day itself. Our people will have been to the pits in the night and every worker pit will be empty. All the bodies will be in the River. Weighted down. We will have killed every patch of Tears we have been able to find. The fliers will have nothing to eat…’

Tharius Don took up the account. ‘In every town the crier will call watch against fliers who may come seeking living meat. There will be Tears in the Towers, and these must be sought out and destroyed by fire, by our friends within the Towers. By those outside the Towers, if necessary/

‘I think of Towers burning,’ she said.

‘But not Baris Tower,’ he said. ‘In Baris Tower the Superior will tell her Awakeners of a new revelation.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed sadly. ‘A new revelation, to be preached by the Awakeners to the fliers. A revelation from Potipur which demands that they give up their wings … When I look at someone like Sliffisunda, though, I’m not sure he will ever accept it. There’s a kind of hatred in him. For us. For all our kind.’

‘Tradition. Custom. That’s all. The attitude they’ve adopted. It doesn’t mean that’s the only attitude they can adopt.’

‘Does the Ambassador to the Thraish agree with you on that point?’

‘I don’t discuss anything with Jorn. He returned from his journey some time ago, but all I’ve said to him thus far is “Good evening.” Ezasper cares for nothing except that the stove be well alight and he not expected to go out on cold days. Don’t seek confirmation from those like Jorn, Kessie. Don’t doubt our cause. Have faith. When the time comes to
choose between wings or life, the Thraish will choose life and life with us as … well, if not as brothers, at least as kin/

‘And we, Tharius? When will the day come?’

‘Soon. There are only a few more pieces to be set into place. A few more patches of Tears to kill. A few more Towers to recruit. A few more groups to get organized for the night of the strike. Not many. Have patience.’

She, who had had patience for some hundred years, snorted at this, and he joined her in wry laughter.

‘Have you any word of Pamra?’

‘No signals. If Ilze had found her, we would know.’

‘Let us hope we hear nothing.’ She stretched, moved her fingers and toes to be sure they had healed. ‘Let us pray we hear nothing.’

He nodded. Time pressed, now. Secrecy had to be maintained. They needed some minor distractions to keep the Talkers busy. They needed absolute quiet from those involved in the conspiracy. They needed no more upsets such as the one provided by Pamra Don. Not too much to keep track of, really. He kissed her on the forehead, a valedictory. They might never see one another again.

‘If I am killed while you still live, Kessie, find Pamra then. Tell her I cared about her.’

She shook her head; a tear gathered that hung, unshed, like a gem upon her lashes. ‘Better I don’t see her again, love. Better for all of us. Let us pray she has gone to ground and is well hidden. Pray we do not hear of her again.’

High in the Talons above the Straits of Shfor in his aerie, Sliffisunda – the Uplifted One, by the grace of Potipur articulate, a Talker of the Sixth Degree – met with his students, newly located Talkers, still awed by their selection. The aerie, once a graceless, chilly cave, full of wind and the stench of guano, had been reshaped by the hands of human slaves. There was a privy slot in the outer wall, set in a niche covered with a heavy curtain. There was a low, broad perch, on which Sliffisunda stood to receive visitors. There were carvings on the walls, and a meat trough with an ornamental post and chains to hold the meat down until it died. Though heavily dosed with Tears, the living human bodies tended to thrash about unpleasantly while they were being eaten. Sliffisunda sometimes believed that despite the Stench of carrion, he might have preferred to eat as the ordinary fliers did, in the bone pits.

The students before him, three of them, were egglings who hardly knew the meaning of the Covenant. They did not understand humiliation. It was Sliffisunda’s job to teach them, to let them know how far the Thraish had fallen from their onetime communion with the gods, and by imparting that knowledge to cleave these youngsters to the doctrine of rage that governed the Talons.

‘Perch,’ he directed them, waiting impatiently while they settled before him, wings outspread, heads carried well back on their flexible necks, foot talons stretching beyond their knees as they crouched, knees on feet, in the posture of subordination.

‘I want you to imagine you are a flier,’ he said at last, when they were well settled. ‘Just a flier, a female. Not a Talker at all. I want you to imagine it is long ago, more than a thousand years.’ There was a snigger at this. There was always a snigger at this, but Sliffisunda waited without outward show of impatience for his own heavy regard to make their eggishness manifest. Soon they felt his disapproval and became uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot, staring at him from lowered eyes.

Sliffisunda’s voice became a monotone, a rhythmic chant. ‘It is spring. You have slept the winter away in the caves low in the mountains of the north. Now the time of warmth has come, and you emerge from your cave to the time of rejoicing. Your name is Shishus, flier of the Thraish …’

His voice was hypnotic. They would imagine, combining what they knew in their blood with what they had learned and what he would tell them in his chanting. They would fall into a trance, and in the trance they would dream that last awakening of ancient times.

In the trance it seemed that the season of warmth had come upon the northern plains. The cold rains were over. On the endless prairies the tall grass moved like water, silver blue like the River the grass moved, breaking around the herd of weehar as the River broke on the rocks of Shfor, near the Talons. The herd whuffled nervously as Shishus’s shadow fell across them, she crying, ‘Rejoice! Warmth is come!’

The weehar rejoiced in their own way, heads down, legs trembling. Each thing rejoiced in its own way. Even trees, doubtless. With warmth came the end of hibernation, the season of rejoicing, the season of Potipur’s Promise to the Thraish.

Shishus whispered the name of her people. ‘Thraish.’ The word was a rejoicing in itself. After the lonely time of cold, she longed for Thraish, for huntmates. First the rejoicing. Then the obligatory trip to the Talons for the dancing as the moons gathered. Then mating. Then
nesting, the joy of nestlings. ‘Thraish,’ she whispered, turning on her strong wings above the prairie.

Though perhaps the Talkers would suggest again that the dancing not take place. As they had at the last Conjunction. Last warm season there had been rebellious muttering against the Talkers, and Shishus had been a leader in that rebellion. In old times Talkers had been wise, settling disputes over nesting sites or huntmates. Last season – no, the season before that and before that as well – they had not been helpful. Not orthodox. Of late the Talkers seemed to doubt Potipur’s Promise, the promise of ten thousand years. ‘Do my will and ye shall have plenty.’

Thinking of it made Shishus angry. Among the free fliers there was talk of overthrowing the Talkers. Shishus had told them it was foolish talk. It was not necessary to overthrow the Talkers. They could simply be ignored!

Potipur’s Promise was holy. Long, long ago the Thraish had been hungry. All the hoovar had been eaten and were gone. Then came the Talker Shinnisush, bringing Potipur’s Promise to the people. ‘Follow me and ye shall have plenty!’ And after the promise there had been great explosions in the northlands, mountains jutting fire, and endless herds of thrassil came, driven out of the north by the fire, driven from behind the great mountains. The Thraish had rejoiced in plenty once more.

But in time the thrassil also were gone, eaten. Then the world had shaken again, and the weehar had come, down in great herds to the silver-blue plains that lay between the Riverlands and the northern mountains.

Great herds.

Shishus planed in a wide gyre, peering down. One herd only. Small. Perhaps she should wait to find a larger herd. No. Cold season had been long, and soon huntmates would arrive. She threw back her head and cried loud into the sky, ‘Invitation! Join! Rejoice! Summer beasts are here/

Below, Shishus’s shadow fell across beasts, and they began to gallop, a frenzied flight, knowing time to rejoice was near. Far on the western horizon two winged specks
moved toward Shishus, crying as they came, ‘Rejoice, rejoice.’ Her huntmates: Slililan, Shusisanda.

They met in midair, wingtips caressing, beaks touching the tender sweet places behind ears, glorying in touch, in flight. Then they cried together, fell together, talons extended, crying the great invitation to the weehar. ‘Rejoice! Rejoice!’

The weehar rejoiced, galloping, snorting, leaping in a wild dance upon the grass, evading, skipping, falling at last beneath the clutching talons, beneath the spearing beaks. Blood ran hot into Shishus’s beak.

In Sliffisunda’s aerie the young shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, beaks agape. They tasted the hot blood of the weehar, heard the cries of the huntmates. Sliffisunda chanted to them, telling them what to feel, what to experience. In the trance they heard Sliffisunda’s voice: