Cards of Grief (11 page)

From the beginning the language came easily to me, unlike some of the other anthros who had to struggle with it. All the reports of the histog people and the geols led us to believe that the Henderson’s IV civs were going to be friendly, unwarlike, and unthreatened by us, which meant we could take along only the minimum of military advisers, which we preferred. Their air was breathable, though it would take a bit of getting used to, the oxygen count was a bit thinner than we’d have liked. But given that our guilds have worked in headhunting territories and societies where torture is an art and slogged through planets on which giant carnivores were the closest things to a civilization, Henderson’s IV was not a threat. We needed no heavy artillery to survive.

The first five years, then, we studied their language, folklore, art forms. We listened to tapes of their songs. Since I’m a pretty fair hand on guitar and sitar and other strings—ethno-musicology was my minor at the Academy—I was able to reproduce some of the songs myself. I’ve never liked electronic stuff, which makes me something of a throwback anyway.

But of course what we were really all working toward was the time we could go planetside and face-to-face with the civs.

I was chosen for the first landing because of my ability with the language and my music and my knowledge of death-centered societies. I did my thesis on tomb imagery in seven First Contact civilizations. And maybe I was chosen because I was Dr. Z’s fair-haired boy—oh, I’ve overheard the whispers. But most of what I’ve learned about being an anthro, I’ve learned from her. I’m not ashamed to admit it. She’s a—a genius, sir. And we thought we had a pretty fair handle on things.

We set down the skimmer just outside the only city on the planet, L’Lal’dome. The rest of the eastern side of the island continent is a series of small rural villages surrounded by farms and the west is mostly mountains, though there is a rough ridge of hills to the north of ’Dome.

I can read maps, son.

I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to imply…Well, then we waited.

Following landing plan set by Culture Contact, sir. Sit and wait for the civs so as to appear non-threatening.

Lieutenant, I’ve been in service longer than you’ve been able to wipe your nose.

Yes, sir.

It took the better part of a day, but at last a party was sent from the ’Dome to greet us led by a priestess and a company of archers.

Women, sir. All of them.

Don’t smirk, Lieutenant. I’ve been up against matriarchal societies before. And for your information, my first captain, aboard the USS
Malthus
, was a woman.

May I continue, sir? At last the Queen herself arrived, flanked by a group of princes. One—I was later to know him quite well—was brave enough to knock upon the door. They all jumped back when it opened and the stairs dropped down.

All eight of us came out in full landing gear, of course. Not that we needed it. The air had already been tested thoroughly and we all had our inoculations. But usually blocked cultures appreciate ceremony, so we give them the works: costumes, ritual, even magic, then speak to them in their own tongue. It establishes us with the chiefs of state quite quickly.

At the bottom step, Lieutenant Hopfner took off his bubble, stroked his beard, and spoke what we thought were the correct ritual words. We had spent hours debating them.

“I am not an enemy,” he said.

The Queen gave a small smile and answered, “Why should you be?”

What he had actually said, it turns out, was, “I am not a quarreling woman.” No wonder the Queen responded that way. It was not an auspicious beginning.

No, I don’t expect it was. I also don’t remember reading about that exchange in any of the lieutenant’s notes
—and they are vast.

Is that an official reprimand to the lieutenant, sir? Should I include it in the tape?

Include everything for now, Malkin. We will decide later what—if anything—needs to be deleted.

Yes, sir.

Continue, Aaron.

My God, they were beautiful, sir. Our tapes, even our infrareds, had not prepared us for that. They were like something out of the old tales of the Celtic faerie.

Explain that, son.

The Royal women, the Queen especially, are tall, slim, golden-eyed, with masses of long dark wiry hair that refuse to lie quietly but seem almost alive with electricity. They move with a supple dancer’s grace. The men are the same, only their hair is trimmed shoulder length and bound down by metal brow bands. They all wear silken clothes whose colors seem to shift and change in every breeze. The priestess is shaven of her hair, but her acolytes are not, and they wear short skirts which show off their legs. They all—Queen, priestess, princes, and acolytes—wear metal bands encrusted with gemstones on their upper arms and at their wrists. Their feet are shod in leather sandals with thongs tied up to the knees.

The women of Arcs and Bow, their warriors—hunters, really, as they seem to fight no wars—are the only ones with short hair. Short and muddy-colored, cut off above the ears. And they are trogs.

Spell that, please. For the records.

Trogs. T-r-o-g-s. Short for troglodytes. That’s what Lieutenant Hopfner called them and the name stuck. They are short, maybe five five, squat, bandy-legged, blue-eyed as far as I could tell, well-muscled, broad-shouldered. They have small chins and largish foreheads and seem almost, well, brutish in nature. It’s a wonder that the two races—for that is what they are—can interbreed.

Do they?

Yes, Sir. That’s what the tapes indicate. The Royal men interbreed with the trog women. They call it
plukenna
, tumbling. When the Royals have intercourse with their own kind, male or female, they call it
ladanna
, touching with joy. But they also have a word which they use interchangeably for both races,
rarredenna
, which means plowing or sowing of the seed. Occasionally the Royals are able to get a tall, slim Royal-looking child on one of the trog women. It is taken away when it reaches puberty and is raised as a Royal in the city of L’Lal’dome. The crossbreeds aren’t true Royals. Often they are sterile or they don’t breed true; they die younger than their fathers, though they live longer than the trogs.

Is that kind of crossbreeding unusual, Aaron?

Not really, sir. I mean, it’s not so different from what we think happened between our early Earth races, fair-skinned and light-haired Neanderthals from the North mingling with darker-skinned Cro Mags from the South. Most of us inbetween types, some archeols say, are the result.

I wasn’t really looking for a lecture, son. Yes or no would have done as well.

No, sir. I understand, sir. May I go on?

Do.

We all followed Lieutenant Hopfner’s lead and took off our helmets. Our suits were a bit hot, but we were stuck with them for the day, and we followed the Queen and her entourage back into the city. It was quite a walk in our suits with the thin air and all, but we’d been through worse in other places.

It was there that I first met Linni. The Gray Wanderer, sir.

I remember.

She was waiting at the gates, so still and unsmiling and, I thought, infinitely more beautiful than the Queen. The Queen had—I’m not sure if I am remembering this correctly, but it seems to me I noticed it even then—a predatory quality to her beauty. But Linni seemed an armored innocent, armored in silence.

She joined the processional only a step behind the Queen and to the right of the priestess. Behind them ranged the acolytes and princes, and behind them the archers. We were relegated to last place, which was just as well, because we had trouble keeping up. Our line of marchers was fairly ragged by the time we reached the city. Only Hopfner and I didn’t fall behind, he because of his long legs and I because of my silly pride.

The city is a maze of streets complicated by market-stands. There were trogs everywhere, but they stood aside when the Queen came through, pulling back almost as if afraid her touch might sear them.

And like a great wave, we rolled along, gathering up flotsam as we went, so that by the time we had reached the palace—a strange building of shell-spackled stone and wooden beams—there were hundreds of people in our wake.

The trogs were stopped by guards at the Queen’s Apartments, but we were passed through into a dizzying series of whorled passageways. We went too quickly to map the place and ended up in a great hall that seemed littered with cushions but no other furnishings except drapes.

In the center of the hall was a raised dais and the Queen made for that at once.

Lieutenant Hopfner started after her, but I managed to hold on to his sleeve.

“Wait and let them instruct us,” I whispered.

And since I was an Anthro First, he agreed.

The archers meanwhile had ranged themselves around the walls of the room, their wooden bows slung across their backs carelessly. Hopfner had checked that out, I’m sure, before agreeing. The princes had plunked themselves down on the cushions so unobtrusively, it was clear that what had seemed scattered and casual at first glance was a precise and exact floor plan to them. I have no doubt it was made up of carefully calibrated or marked-off territories signifying status.

Two older princes, their mustaches announcing their age, lay down on the steps that led to the platform. On the highest tier the Queen sank back onto a profusion of boldly marked pillows, the so-called thirty cushions of Queenship. At her feet sat the tall, unsmiling girl in gray. Linni.

The Queen waved the priestess to her. They have a complicated kind of hand code which we do not yet fully understand. It seems as quick and supple as sign language, though it may be quite simple. Royal to Royal it appears to be conversation, but when used with servants, it gives the appearance of command and reply.

Lieutenant, note that as soon as possible I want videos made of that signing and get some anthros on it. I don’t like my people in a culture that can converse secretly.

Yes, sir.

“Come to me, strangers from the sky,” the Queen said, her hand wigwagging at us as she spoke.

All eight of us found ourselves firmly escorted to the base of the dais by the archers. They were very strong.

Dr. Zambreno and the other anthros bowed their heads, and reluctantly Hopfner and his aides followed suit. For a moment, though, I forgot my training and stared openly at the tall girl. She stared back at me for a long golden moment, then slowly looked at her queen.

“So, you are not a quarreling woman,” the Queen said at last to the lieutenant.

Her people made a strange sound, more a buzz than a laugh.

“Are you a man?”

“I am,” said Hopfner. “But not all of us are.” He made a broad gesture toward us, careful to keep it slow and wide and nonthreatening.

“Show me which is which,” demanded the Queen.

“The men will stand by me, the women will stand over there,” he said.

We followed his instructions, which meant we were four and four. We had thought that, with a strong matriarchy, it was best to keep our numbers even. We were also four anthros and four military, but that difference was not immediately apparent.

“Why does a man lead?” asked the Queen.

“It is our way to share the lead, man and woman,” said Hopfner.

“It is not
our
way.”

There was another buzz stir around us, a small undercurrent of whispers, as the princes shifted on their cushions. Then the Queen raised her hand and there was an immediate silence. The only one in the room who had not stirred noticeably during that exchange was the girl at the Queen’s feet.

Lieutenant Hopfner bowed his head again. He knew that he was in troubled waters, moving over into anthro territory.

“Come up to me. Here,” the Queen demanded, pointing to Hopfner.

He hesitated a moment and I whispered, “Move slowly, Lieutenant. And go only to the step below the top riser. No further unless she directs it.”

He grunted a response and moved up the stairs carefully. When he reached the next-to-the-top step, he stopped. He was then between the two older princes who reached up simultaneously and touched his hands, indicating that he should kneel. He did it stiffly, reluctance showing in his rigid backbone and the way his hands remained unmoving at his sides.

The Queen ran her fingers lightly across his face, almost as if she were blind, seeing him with her fingertips. Her hands lingered on his beard and the lines around his eyes the longest. Then, with a flick, she dismissed him. The princes tugged at his suit, and he backed down the stairs.

“You!” the Queen said, pointing this time at me.

Having watched Hopfner’s performance, I knew what to do. I went up the stairs slowly as if I were a dancer, and when I reached the next-to-last tier, I went down on one knee but kept my face turned up toward the Queen.

You dance, do you, son?

A little, sir. It’s part of our training, folk dancing. But ritual moves are much the same, culture to culture. We practice them in school. They are much more fluid than military movements, though equally precise. The lieutenant moved as an aggressor would, and the Queen sensed it immediately. And she found something on his face—age, perhaps—that she didn’t like. I made my body language promise fealty-of-the-moment, an invitation to exploration.

Well, her fingers fairly danced across my face. I come from a soft-skinned family anyway, and I am younger by fifteen years than the lieutenant, twenty years younger than Dr. N’Jymnbo, and a bit younger than the military attached The L’Lal’lorian culture favors young men in some things, so I naturally became the favored one of our group. The Queen signaled me to sit at her feet by the girl Linni.

Then the Queen examined each of us in turn, though she was frustrated by the seamless suits and puzzled by the metal zippers and clasps.

The lieutenant later commented that it had been like being fingered by a herd of monkeys.