Law of Survival (14 page)

She disembarked the last 'mover two blocks from home because her thigh muscles had cramped and she knew exercise would loosen them. She kept a brisk pace, and turned onto Armour Place to the loud pops of fastener guns and the hum of machinery as the construction crew within the renovation continued their labors.

She spotted Roni McGaw near the renovation entry, standing apart from the small crowd that had gathered to watch workers unload metal framework from a flatbed skimmer. As soon as Roni saw Jani, she turned in the opposite direction and walked, a slow, relaxed pace. She proceeded for half a block, then entered a small bookstore, successfully resisting any urge she may have felt to look behind to see if Jani followed.

By the time Jani entered the bookstore, Roni had already settled in front of a rack of audio wafers. Jani fingered through a bin of new releases until she found a collection of pop songs. She added a holozine so that they would be
forced to give her a large sack to carry them in, and headed for the checkout.

Roni got in line behind her. She held an audio wafer as well, supplemented with another holozine the same size as Jani's.

Jani paid for her purchases with a nontrace chit. As she walked through the store to the exit, she picked through the outer pockets of her duffel as though she searched for something. Finally, she crouched on the floor and opened her duffel, picking through the folders. She tucked the sack in amid the folders, sliding the slipcase containing the faked Nema letter deftly between the pages of the holozine. Then she pulled the sack out again, as though she'd changed her mind.

As she straightened, she felt an elbow impact her shoulder. She dropped her duffel and bag to the floor.

“Oh Christ!” Roni didn't even look her in the face as she bustled about picking up bags. Jani barely caught the switch, so deftly did Roni obscure matters with the flaps of her jacket and general dithering. Then she was gone, out the door, the bag with the faked letter clutched to her chest, leaving Jani with a holozine about birds and, she was pleased to see, a copy of the Mussorgska she'd been meaning to buy for weeks.

Jani felt the adrenaline ebb for the third time that day as she trudged back to her building. She recovered her deliveries from Hodge, and scanned everything in the hall before opening her door. Even the parcel from Roni. Even the soles of her shoes.

She yawned as she entered her flat. She set everything aside but the Mussorgska, which she inserted into her audio system. Then she stretched out on the floor beside her desk, and shoved her duffel under her head to serve as a pillow. A nap before dinner with Steve and Angevin was a necessity if she wanted to avoid pitching face-forward onto her plate. As the strings swelled around her, she closed her eyes and pondered Roni's surprising competence, and the possibilities of alarms.

Tsecha walked the embassy grounds, in the hope that exercise would soothe him. He felt disquiet when he remained in the embassy, a sense that things went on of which he did not know. So many humanish whom he had never before seen. So many meetings that he heard of
after
they had taken place.

It was one thing to refuse to go to the damned meetings. It was another to know you were not wanted.

But my Jani wishes me to wait.
For what?
Until it is safe.
And what did that mean?
She does not trust me to tell me.
No one trusted him anymore, so it seemed, and truly.

“I am Égri nìRau Tsecha. Representative of the Shèrá worldskein and Chief Propitiator of the Vynshàrau.” So he spoke to the grass and the trees, which paid him as much attention as did any in the embassy. Even his Sànalàn had not wished him a glorious day, as she had each morning since her investiture.

He strode past the main building, the annexes, the row upon row of greenhouses and food storage facilities. Gradually, his step quickened and his stride widened, as though he could outdistance his worries if he tried. The pound of his feet striking the ground jarred along his spine and shook him to the teeth. His old joints protested the abuse, but he denied their plea, and picked up his pace even more.

Across the brilliant blue-green hybrid ground cover. Past the utilities huts. Through the barrier parks that sheltered the embassy property from the view of the neighboring Interior Ministry.

Tsecha broke through the last line of trees and stopped
atop the rise to recover his breath. Below him lay the boundary area just inside the perimeter security stations that served as the dividing line between Vynshàrau and humanish. He surveyed the scattering of lowform structures that dotted the sequestration.
Our own place between the lines.
The compound where the Vynshàrau Haárin lived.

Tsecha took a step forward, then hesitated as a male emerged from one of the houses carrying a large bucket.

It is Sànalàn's tormenting tilemaster.
Dathim Naré had removed his head cover. He had also exchanged his dull work uniform for a shirt that blazed blue as clear sky and trousers as green as humanish lawns, colors of the sky and sea more common to the southland-dwelling Pathen than the desert Vynshàrau. In spite of the chill, he wore no overrobe. He had rolled up his shirtsleeves and turned down the cuffs of his black boots—perspiration darkened his clothes as though he had run through a rainstorm.

Tsecha watched him upturn the bucket into a debris barrel. Shards of white tile clattered into the bin, flashing sunlight like the teeth of demons.

Dathim banged the bucket against the rim of the barrel—the clang of metal on metal filled the air as white dust clouded about him like smoke. He did not see Tsecha until he turned to walk back to the house. When he did, he stopped in mid-stride, the empty bucket dangling at his side.

“Glor-ries of the day to you, Tsechar-rau!” he shouted in trilled English, as though his Chief Propitiator's appearance was a common thing, worthy of the informality.

“Glories of the day to you, ní Dathim.” Tsecha strolled down the rise toward him. “A cold day, and truly. How can you tolerate such?”

The male looked down at his bare forearms. His
à lérine
scars shone dark gold-brown and waled, as though parasites burrowed beneath his skin. “Today I retile a laving room, nìRau.” He reached for his belt and took an ax-tail hammer from his tool-holster. “Removing the old is hard work. Hard work warms the blood.” He swung the tool through the air—the sharply pointed hammer cut the air with a whistle, while the polished blade-end slivered white light into rainbow glisten.

Tsecha watched the back and forth of the hammer with tense fascination. As the Laumrau–Vynshà civil war had neared its bloody conclusion and weapons had grown scarce, the traditional tool had helped the forces of Morden nìRau Cèel capture the dominant city of Rauta Shèràa. They had, of course, not been used during the final battle, when the Vynshà had confirmed their ascendancy to “rau” and order had again been restored to the Shèrá worldskein. The Night of the Blade had been reserved for classical swords and knives, masterpieces of godly workmanship.

But there had been other nights….

“You are on patrol, nìRau?” Dathim cocked his head in the direction of the Interior Ministry as he returned the ax-hammer to his holster. “The Interiors patrol many times a day. Four, five, six times or more. They watch us as the Laum did. I think myself in the High Sands when they pass in their skimmers.”

High Sands.
As much as he enjoyed his English, Tsecha did not like the postureless, gestureless translation of Rauta Shèràa. It left out so much. The prayers and the blood and the pain. “You are of the Shèràa, ní Dathim?”

“Yes, nìRau.” Dathim tipped his bucket and clapped the bottom, forcing out the last puff of tile dust. “We lived in the city since my body-father's body-mother's outcast. Her Haárin name was Par Tenvin. My body-father's name was Naré Par.” He reattached the bucket handle, which had loosened at one end because of his pounding. “And you know who I am.”

Tsecha basked in the Haárin's arrogance. After the collected silence of the embassy, it felt as the warm winds of home. “Three generations? That is not so long.”

“It is for Haárin. So many have gone to the colonies that three generations is a very long time indeed.” Dathim bared his teeth. “No longer three, since I am here now. In She-ca-gho.”

Tsecha studied Dathim—something about his appearance bothered him, but he could not say what. Then it struck him. Dathim wore his brown hair in neither the tight napeknot of an unbred or the braided fringe of a breeder. Instead, he had sheared it as short as some humanish males, his golden scalp
bare above his ears and visible beneath the spiky, brush-like growth. A stunning thing, and truly. Tsecha had heard that some colonial Haárin had taken to shearing their hair, but he never expected to find such rebellion in the embassy itself. “You like Chicago, ní Dathim?”

“Like?” Dathim offered a perfect imitation of Jani's infuriatingly vague shrug. “It is a place like any other. Humanish are strange. But where humanish are is a good place for Haárin. To them, we are as born-sect. We are all we need to be.” He bared his teeth again, though not so broadly. “Unless we are not careful, and take too much of their money. Then they will find a reason to hate us. I have read of humanish, so this I know, and truly.”

As they spoke, they walked down the narrow stone path that led to Dathim's house. Like the other structures in the sequestration, the smooth-sided whitestone dwelling had been built along godly lines. All the doors and windows faced the tree barrier so that no inadvertent glimpse of humanish could be seen. The yellow polywood door had been polished to smooth glossiness, the only decoration a line of cursive carved across the top. A prayer to Shiou, the goddess of order.

As Dathim pushed the door aside, Tsecha noticed a walled-off area set along the lake-facing side of the house. “You have rebuilt your veranda, ní Dathim?” He walked around the side of the house and fingered the edge of the wall. The allowed paints transported from Rauta Shèràa had been formulated for desert climates—constant exposure to the lake-tinged air caused them to mottle. Dathim's once-white wall had already stained streaky grey, but as Tsecha recalled, it took a season or more for the discoloration to form. “You rebuilt it some time ago, from the look of it, and truly.”

“Yes, nìRau Tsecha.” Dathim's amber eyes focused above Tsecha's head, as was seemly.

“I only gave permission for the verandas to reopen for meditation last month.”

“The humanish had deeded us the Lake Michigan Strip months ago, nìRau.” Dathim gestured toward the water. “All ours, lake below and sky above, from here to the eastern
Michigan province. They have not been able to transport foodstuffs across that area since they made their pledge. The place became clean as soon as they made their promise.”

Tsecha gestured in emphasis. “Yes, but the final purifications were only completed during the last days of the blessed heat. Oligarch Cèel decreed the verandas could not be reopened until I pronounced those closing prayers.” He raised his gaze until he could see into Dathim's eyes, and savored the hard light he saw there. Different than humanish. Most easy to read.

“Oligarch Cèel is overcautious, as always,” Dathim replied. “We felt it safe to rebuild.” His speech had slowed so every word sounded crisp and sharp.

“We?”

Dathim pointed to the other houses, one by one. “We.” His gaze dropped until he looked Tsecha in the face.

The thrill of rebellion warred with the need for order in Tsecha's soul. He pressed his hand to his stomach to quell the battle. “Someone in the embassy must have known of this. So strange, and truly, that they did not tell me.”

“Shai's suborn came here. We spoke.” Dathim shrugged again. “But what can they do? What can you do? We are already outcast. We have lied and stolen, behaved in ways ungodly, seen more of humanish than you ever will, and for such have already paid with our souls.”

“There are other punishments, ní Dathim.”

“Yes, nìRau. You can send us back to the worldskein. But if you do, you will need to find more English-speakers who can mend the plumbing and tend the lawns and go out into ungodly Chicago when poison is needed to kill Earth insects or solder is needed to bind our godly but most leaky metal conduits. No matter how much you ship and how well you think you prepare, there will always be needs to go out into this city, and that is what we are for.”

Tsecha crossed his open hands, palms up, in strong affirmation. “Such has always been the contract between Vynshàrau and Haárin. As when we were of Vynshà. As it has always been.”

Dathim smiled with his mouth closed, an oversubtle expression that, combined with his haircut, made him look
eerily humanish. “Yes, as it has always been. In whatever life you choose, in war and in peace, we are your glove, your mask, your shield. By doing that which we do, we allow you to be what you are. Such is our cost. But in exchange for having us do what we do, you must allow us to be as we are. Such is yours.”

Tsecha's shoulders rounded as his enjoyment of Dathim's insubordination gave way to irritation. No Vynshàrau knew better than he of the defiant nature of Haárin, but he had done nothing to merit this outburst.
“I
have always known this, ní Dathim. Such is no surprise to
me.”

“No,” said Dathim, his shoulders rounding in response. “No surprise to you. Avrèl nìRau Nema always knew how to use his Haárin well.”

Tsecha slumped more, until he had to twist his neck to the side to look up at the taller male. He should have dropped his gaze, should have stared at the center of Dathim's chest. Such was much more seemly, but such, he sensed, would not meet Dathim's challenge. And Dathim challenged him, most assuredly.
But he has no right! He has no reason!
No, yet he did so. “That name has no place between us.” Tsecha's voice emerged as a low rumble. “I did not give you leave to use it.”

“No.” The light in Dathim's eyes brightened. “Such is for your favored humanish and those in Council and Temple who have declared themselves against you. For all else, you are called by your Sìah Haárin name. Tsecha. Fool. But you do not live as a Haárin fool.” He gestured toward the tree line. “You live a most godly life on the other side.”

“I am still Chief Propitiator of the Vynshàrau. As such, I live where I must.”

“Convenient, is it not, and truly?” Dathim straightened his shoulders and walked to his doorway. “I am unworthy to stand before you, nìRau Tsecha. Still, I beg you to enter this place and witness my labors.” He looked back. “To bless them and remove all traces of ungodliness.”

Tsecha watched the tilt of Dathim's head, his open-handed gesturing. He could detect no outward sign of disrespect—the male had learned to reserve such for his speech.
How humanish of him.
“I will bless your home, ní Dathim.”
He followed his refractory host into the house.
Whether the gods acknowledge the request is their decision.

As he passed through the short entry hall, Dathim touched his left hand first to a small, black-stained wooden box that hung at eye-level on the wall, then to his stomach.

A reliquary?
Dathim did not seem the type. Tsecha raised his hand to mimic his host's actions, but stopped just before his fingers contacted the box's surface. The front of the device held only a single decoration, but it was most distinctive. A clenched fist, gnarled and bony, the crumbled remains of some object barely visible between the fingers.

Caith.
The goddess of annihilation. The least or the most of the Vynshàrau's eight dominant deities, depending on your point of view.

“It is a most blessed relic.” Dathim stood in the center of the small main room and watched Tsecha with still regard. “It is from the crater at the Sands of Light's Weeping. At the site where the asteroid impacted so long ago, the heat melted the sand to glass. That reliquary contains a shard of the glass.”

“Sands of Light's Weeping.” Tsecha could barely force out the English words. “Knevçet Shèràa.”

“Yes, nìRau. A blessed place, and truly.”

“You worship Shiou on your doorway and Caith in your home. Such opposing views are most unusual. So unusual that it is a question whether one can trust them.”

“All the doors here are the same. It would make more sense to say the builder of these houses worships Shiou.” Dathim thumped a fist against his stomach. “The reliquary is mine.”

And this is supposed to mean
what
to me!
Tsecha pressed a hand to his own stomach, not to soothe his soul but to quell the growing ache. “You vex me, Dathim.”