Treason (10 page)

“What about me?” I asked idiotically.

“You’ll stay. Someone else will come.”

“The king?”

“The person next to the king,” he said, even more softly, and left through the gap in the curtains I had entered by.

Then I heard soft steps in another direction, and someone came in and sat beside me. Close beside me. And then chuckled softly.

“Mwabao Mawa,” I said, incredulous.

“Lady Lark,” she whispered back to me.

“But they told me—”

“That you would meet the person closest to the king.”

“And it’s you?”

She chuckled again.

“So you are the king’s mistress.”

“In a way,” she said. “If only there were a king.”

That one took awhile to sink in.

“No king?”

“No
one
king,” she answered, “but I can speak for those who rule as well as anyone. Better than most. Better than some of
them
.”

“But why did I have to go through all of this? Why did I have to—bribe my way up to you? I was with you all along!”

“Softly,” she said. “Softly. The night listens. Yes, Lark, you were with me all along. I had to know that I could trust you. That you weren’t a spy.”

“But you showed me the place yourself. Let me smell the smells.”

“I also showed you how impossible it was to stop us, or duplicate it. Near the ground, Lark, the air smells foul. And your people could never climb our trees, you know that.”

I agreed. “But why did you show me anyway? It’s so useless.”

“Not useless,” she said. “The smell has other effects. I wanted you to breathe that air.”

And then I felt her hand pull the cap off my hair. She gently pulled at a single lock of it. “You owe me a favor,” she said, and suddenly I felt my own death approaching.

Her breath was hot on my cheek and her hand was stroking my throat when I finally thought of a way out of this. At least a way to postpone it. Perhaps the perfumed air was enough to loosen the sexual tabus of the people of Nkumai. Perhaps it would have been enough of a dose to weaken a normal woman’s inhibition against making love to another woman. But I had no inhibition against making love to a woman, and my body, too long deprived, reacted to Mwabao Mawa’s offer as if it were extraordinarily opportune. Fortunately, my inhibition against dying was very strong, and the air hadn’t weakened it a bit. I knew that if I let things go on to their natural conclusion it would lead to discovery of my odd physique. It occurred to me that Mwabao Mawa would not be quite so open-minded about finding a man in her bed as she expected me to be about finding a woman in mine.

“I can’t,” I said.

“You will,” she said, and her cold hand slid inside my robe. “I can help you,” she said. “I can pretend to be a man for you, if you like,” and she began humming and singing a soft, strange song. Almost immediately that hand inside the robe became rougher, stronger, and the face that kissed my cheek felt rough and whiskered. All of this seemed to happen through her song. How did she do it, I wondered, even as another part of my mind gratefully noticed that her pretence at maleness would probably help quell my desire for her.

Except that my breasts reacted like any woman’s, and I began to be very afraid as the song became too rhythmic, pulled me more deeply into a trance.

“I mustn’t,” I said, and I pulled away. She followed. Or he? The illusion was powerful. I only wished I could do the same, and fool her into thinking I was a woman no matter what evidence her hands and lips and eyes might find. But I couldn’t. “If you do,” I said, “I’ll kill myself afterward.”

“Nonsense,” she answered.

“I haven’t been purified.” I tried to sound desperate. It wasn’t hard.

“Nonsense,” she said.

“If I didn’t kill myself, my people would,” I said. “They will, if this happens and I haven’t been purified first.”

“How would they know?”

“Do you think I would lie to my own people?” I hoped that the huskiness and trembling in my voice sounded like offended honor instead of the rank terror I actually felt.

Perhaps it did, for she stopped, or rather paused, and asked, “What is it, this purification?”

I made up a jumble of religious ritual, half stolen from the practices of the people of Ryan and half a product of my need for solitude. She listened. She believed me. And so I made another journey in the dark, and found myself alone in Mwabao Mawa’s room, the one with the chests and boxes. My purpose there, she told me, was to meditate.

I stayed there for a morning and an evening and a night.

I had no idea what to do. Mwabao was in the other room, the one we had shared for two weeks, humming softly an erotic song—one that kept me almost constantly aroused.

I toyed with the idea of cutting off my genitals, but I couldn’t be sure how long regeneration would take, and the healed wound of castration would not be taken for the anatomy of a woman.

I also thought of escape, of course, but I knew perfectly well that the only escape route lay through the room where Mwabao Mawa cheerfully waited. I cursed again and again—very softly, of course—wondering why I had the miserable fortune to end up imprisoned in a woman’s body with a lesbian for a jailer and hundreds of meters of gravity serving as the bars for my cell.

At last I realized that my only hope, thin as it was, was to escape, not as a woman, but as a man. Tomorrow night, in the darkness, if I painted myself black I might elude the guards. If I didn’t, and I was taken, all I’d need to do is fall. Drop, I thought ironically. And my identity as a Mueller would be safe.

Getting past Mwabao? Simple. Kill her.

Could I do it? Not so simple. I liked her. She had breached diplomatic protocol, but she had done me no real harm. Also, she was well-connected; she would quickly be missed.

So I wouldn’t kill her. A knock on her head, a breaking of bones, that should be enough. It should silence her for long enough, or at least immobilize her. Though truth to tell, I had no idea how hard I’d have to hit a normal person to knock her unconscious without killing her, how many bones to break without crippling her for life. With Muellers, it was never an issue. And I had never heard of a Mueller striking a foreigner without the intent to kill or maim. Still, I’d do my best to leave her whole.

All that remained was to hide who I was. The blacking of my skin could come later, after I finished with Mwabao. But the other preparations would be good for shock value.

I began searching quietly through her boxes, hoping to find a knife. With it I would cut off my breasts. They’d grow back, of course, but by tonight the scar tissue would only have turned back into normal flesh, and the breasts would still not have begun noticeably to grow. It was the closest thing to a change of sex that I could hope to accomplish, I realized bitterly.

I didn’t find a knife. Instead I found several more books, and a moment’s curiosity led me to a half-hour’s concentration.

It was a history of Treason. I had read
our
history of the planet, of course, but this was more complete in some ways. In some very important ways, and I began to realize that I had been almost completely fooled. And yet it was so obvious.

What Mueller’s history left out, and what Nkumai’s history dwelt on, was the entire group. It was an account of not just one family, but all the members of the conspiracy who were exiled to this metal-less planet as a horrible example to the rest of the Republic of what happened to people who tried to establish a government of the intellectual elite. The long-dead issues that had brought the Families here always seemed laughable to me, and still do. Who should rule whom? The answer was always, eternally, “I should.” Whoever “I” might be, “I” would seek power.

But the Nkumai history went over the roster of names. I hunted for Mueller, and found it. Han Mueller, a geneticist specializing in the hyperdevelopment of human regeneration. I found others. But of course the one most interesting to me at that moment was Nkumai. Ngago Nkumai, who had adopted a pseudo-African name as a gesture of defiance, had made his name in the development of theoretical physical constructs of the universe. Making new ways of looking at the universe that would enable men to do new things.

It all came together at once, each part so flimsy that alone it proved nothing, but all the events of the weeks I had spent in Nkumai fit so well that I couldn’t doubt my conclusion.

The smelly air above the swamp was nothing, was a decoy, was Mwabao Mawa’s device for getting the slim, pretty blond girl from Bird into bed. But other things were true. There was no king, for instance. Mwabao had told the truth: a group governed this place. But it was not a group of politicians. It was a group whose profession was the same as the founder, Ngago Nkumai. They were scientists who made up new ways of looking at the universe—scientists who invented things like True Sight and Making the Stars Dance. They used Mwabao Mawa as their liaison with what official government workers Nkumai had. Whom did they use as liaison with the army? With the guards? It hardly mattered. And why did all the common Nkumai believe there was a king? There undoubtedly had been—or perhaps there still was a figurehead. Again, it hardly mattered.

What mattered was that Nkumai wasn’t selling smells to the Ambassador at all. It was selling physics. It was selling new ways of looking at the universe. It was selling, of course, faster-than-light travel, as Mwabao Mawa had so blandly let slip and then covered so well. And other things. Things worth far more to the Watchers than arms, legs, hearts, and heads that were carved off the bodies of radical regeneratives.

Each Family would, if it had any hope of creating anything to sell to the Ambassador, try to develop what its founder had known best: Mueller, human genetic manipulation. Nkumai, physics. I looked up Bird and laughed. The original Bird had been a wealthy socialite, a woman with few marketable skills and abilities at all, except her knack for bending others to her will. The matriarchy was her only legacy. In the competition for iron that gave them no advantage. Yet, like all the others, she had passed on to her Family her knowledge of what she was best at.

I closed the book. Now it was even more urgent that I escape, because
this
particular discovery could be the key to a Mueller victory over Nkumai. And I could—I was sure of it—train a Mueller army to be able to fight in the trees. And we could—I had hope for it—win a victory and capture at least some of those minds, or at least control their Ambassador and block them from using it. After all, the basic population of Nkumai was ill-equipped for fighting, but the basic population of Mueller was raised to the knife and the spear and the bow. We could do it.

We
had
to do it. Because Nkumai was getting metal faster, and when they had enough of it, they would have the technology to build a ship and get offplanet. Not a sleepship, but a ship that traveled faster than light itself. They would get off Treason—and Mueller had no hope of that. Then, once the Nkumai had reached the Republic and settled old scores, they would come back with all the metal their ships could carry, and then no Family could hope to stand against them. They would rule.

I had to stop them.

I put away the book and searched again for a knife. I was searching when the curtains parted and five Nkumai guards came into the room.

“Our spies just got back from Bird,” one of them said.

I killed two and maimed another. They couldn’t subdue me. They had to strike a blow to my head that would have killed an ordinary man. It did so much damage that I was unconscious for hours.

I awoke lying on a platform so small that with my head on the platform my feet dangled off it. I felt rather than saw that I was still dressed. It was beyond belief that they had not discovered my body’s secret—surely they had searched me for weapons—yet I still felt some hope that a sense of generous modesty had preserved the secret of Mueller.

Two Nkumai guards were standing nearby. When they saw that I was awake, they quickly threaded their way to me along narrow branches. We were so high that leaves were thick around us, and I could see patches of sky. The branches were so slender that my platform bounced wildly as the guards walked toward me.

When they were standing on the branch that passed under my platform, they reached out hooks and snagged two ropes dangling from even higher, thinner branches. On the ends of the ropes were the most ingenious manacles I had ever seen. Instead of the clumsy and quick-to-rot wooden manacles we used in Mueller, these were made of glass bound in rope. Two half-cylinders of glass were slipped around my wrists. They did not quite meet on either side. Then the rope was tied tightly around them, held in place by a groove in the glass. When the guards were through tying the ropes, the glass half-cylinders met tightly.

As a parting gesture in our wordless interplay, the guards jerked the manacles on my arms. The guard on the right pulled the manacle down, toward my elbow. The other pulled his manacle up, toward my hand. The pain was sharp and immediate. I looked at them in surprise. They smiled grimly and left.

Around my right forearm and around my left hand the manacles had cut deep enough to draw blood. The glass had been ground or chipped to have a sharp edge. It was easy enough to get out of these manacles—as long as you were willing to lose half a hand in the process, and even if you were, it would make climbing down from the tree rather difficult.

The manacles were also tied just far enough apart that I couldn’t strike them against each other or anything else, not even my head. There was no way to shatter them. Furthermore, because they were tied to branches with a great deal of spring, when I pulled them down, they had a tendency to spring back, cutting me. As it was, there was such constant tension on them that any movement at all sliced me a little. I couldn’t lie down—couldn’t even kneel.

They didn’t want me to get away, and they didn’t want me to enjoy staying with them. I’ve visited with hosts like that before and since, but none who were so obnoxious about it.

I looked around. It was early evening—the sun was still visible, low amid the leaves to the west, shining under the clouds that were rolling in from the northwest. I must have been out for hours.

My platform rested on a single branch—but it was connected to or rested on many others, making one intertwining network. I bounced lightly on my platform. Immediately the guards felt the movement and looked around.

There were other platforms near me, none occupied. Farther away I thought I could see someone else standing in manacles, but I couldn’t be sure. Leaves kept me from seeing very far.

It began to rain. I was immediately soaked; and here, where fewer leaves and branches could dissipate the storm, the heavy drops battered me savagely. Worse, it fell with such force that every gust of wind jerked and jiggled the branches, and it felt like the first time I had walked on a rope bridge—worse than seasickness. During the rain I could see that the guards huddled under two small roofs, watching no one.

My plan formed quickly and easily, but it would only get me away from this prison area. How I would get to the ground alive—and from there, how I would get through the forest to safety (and where was that?)—those were matters too arcane to be investigated right then.

“Lady Lark,” said a distant voice I recognized. Mwabao Mawa was making her way along the network of small branches. The guards stood and nodded to her as she approached me.

“Mwabao Mawa,” I said. “I’ve changed my mind. I’d rather continue living with you after all.”

She pursed her lips, then said, “We’ve had the full report from our informants. They’re a rather treacherous pair—mercenaries from Allison—and they had the mistaken notion that we’d continue to pay more and more for every bit of information they eked out. I hope you don’t have any such mistaken notion, Lark, or whoever you are. We will do no bargaining, except for your life.”

I smiled, but I’m sure I didn’t look particularly jovial.

“Lady Lark, you are not from Bird. Not only that, but the absurd stories you told us about that Family’s culture were so far from the truth as to imply that you have never even been there. Nevertheless, it’s obvious from your accent that you
are
from the Rebel River plain. It’s also plain from the iron coin you used that you are from a Family that uses money. And since the iron could not have come from us, it must have come from some other Family that has something to sell to the Ambassador. Who is it?”

I smiled more widely.

“Oh well,” she said. “I can guess with confidence that you’re from Mueller. Precisely who you are I will know within a week, from more reliable spies than the pair of Allisons we used before. Let’s get to more practical things. What are your people selling to the Ambassador?”

“Air,” I answered, “from the swamps at the mouth of the Rebel River.”

She glared at me. “I truly did like you.”

“And I truly did like you,” I responded. “My liking for you, however, ended night before last, when I found out how widely our sexual tastes diverge.” An out-and-out lie—we both liked women.

“I still like you, Lark,” she said. “I’m not a sadist, and you aren’t here out of spite. So you’ll understand if I don’t stay to watch.”

When she was gone, the guards came and lifted me into the air. I thought at first they would simply drop me, letting the manacles do the work. But apparently not—if they accidently cut off a major portion of my hand, manacles couldn’t hold me anymore. Instead, as I was in the air, they spoke for the first time and urged me to take hold of the ropes, which were now slack enough for me to do so.

I held on to the ropes as they swung my feet forward. In that position I couldn’t let go of the ropes without slashing my wrists on the manacles, and the ropes were tied to such bouncy branches that I couldn’t get leverage to kick at the guards. They proceeded to carve up my feet, in a delightful criss-cross pattern about half an inch deep, getting to bone in several places. It was agonizing, of course, but I had gone through worse in training. Still, I knew what was expected of me and moaned and screamed. I must have given a convincing performance, because they soon stopped cutting, lifted me again, told me to let go of the ropes, and set me gently down.

On my feet, of course, and the manacles still forced me to stand. I thought of what happened to spies in the dungeons of Mueller, and decided that in that aspect of civilization, Nkumai and Mueller were about even. Mueller had a higher technology for inducing pain, but Nkumai understood how to evoke despair.

Thinking about that, I forgot to scream for a moment or two, but once I remembered that I was supposed to be suffering, I moaned a lot. They went away.

In half an hour the simple cuts on my feet were gone, and the pain and the tickle of healing quickly ended, too. However, the trouble with healing so fast was that my would-be tormentors would surely notice it, and there would be no further need for me to hide what it was that Mueller sold to the Ambassador.

I began to pray for rain. Or at least wish for it, since my pantheon didn’t include anyone in charge of weather.

It came an hour after nightfall. The clouds rolled across the sky, blotting out the stars and the light of Dissent. The wind came up, bouncing the platform around. That was my signal to begin; with the branches already bouncing, they wouldn’t notice
my
movements.

I began pulling against the manacles, to slice off part of my hand. The hardest thing was keeping the pressure on the manacles strong enough in the right direction so that the two outermost fingers on each hand were ripped off by the glass, and not the thumb. I needed the thumb for climbing.

There was a horrifying moment when both hands came free at once, right when a gust of wind jerked the platform under me. I fell flat on my face—but luck was kind to me that day, and I fell on the supporting branch rather than into empty space.

I lay there for a moment, dripping blood from my maimed hands, as the rain began to pour.

Only a few minutes left until the storm died down. Between the clouds, the rain, and the darkness of night, I could see nothing at all. Yet I had to move, had to get away from the prison before my motion became detectable again. The pain was nothing, but conquering my fear of falling and my fear of moving in the darkness was the hardest thing I ever had to do in my life until then, with the greatest personal risk. Even now as I think about it, I wonder at what kind of madness caused me even to attempt it. But I was still young then, and life didn’t have quite the high price on it that it has now.

The wood was slippery, and I crawled and climbed and staggered far faster than was safe. I tried to stay on the branches in the direction they forked from, knowing that eventually I would find a thicker branch with firm footing. I mostly kept my eyes closed, feeling ahead of me with my hands, because even in the pitch darkness, as long as my eyes were open my mind kept wanting to see, and tended to panic when it couldn’t.

Once I came to a platform, and was afraid for a moment it might be occupied. It wasn’t, and from that platform to solid wood was only a matter of moments. I still didn’t get up and run, however. I had no guide, and the wood was slick. But it was a relief not to be tossed back and forth, and I let myself descend into the darkness.

The rain stopped. The wind stopped. And just as I sighed in relief, the path I was following suddenly became very steep, and I lost my hold and fell. For a moment I thought that this was my death; but almost immediately I landed on a platform.

“What the hell!” said an angry voice as I got up from the platform. I had knocked somebody down.

“What in the world is falling from the sky these days?” asked a woman’s voice, amused.

I doubt they were amused when I took them apart. I had no time to be gentle and persuasive. But I don’t think I killed them. Their instincts and my desires coincided far enough that neither of them came close to falling off the platform and, once I had immobilized them, I took a moment to search them for anything I might be able to steal. I had some vague notion of pretending to be a thief, to throw off the chase.

The man did have a knife, and I took it, along with an iron amulet the woman wore around her neck. Even then I had a vague thought that I might need money once I got away from Nkumai—as if I had a reasonable hope of doing that. Then I found a rope ladder that began at the platform, held my breath, and let myself over the side and down into the darkness.

I descended silently, listening for any tell-tale noise that might come through the night air, telling me that my escape had been discovered, but the night was silent. A dim light began to filter down to my level as the clouds moved away and Dissent came higher into the sky.

As I passed a platform that connected with a rope bridge, I toyed with the idea of getting off the ladder. But I decided to go down at least one more level, putting as much vertical distance between me and my pursuers as possible.

It was a bad decision. I had no sooner passed the platform than the rope ladder began to swing violently, pendulum-fashion. And then it began to rise. They had found me.

My reflexes on the treeway were still slow. It took me a moment to decide to turn around on the ladder, get on the other side, the same side as the platform. By then I was a good three meters above it, and rising fast. I couldn’t wait to get the range. I jumped backward when a dead guess told me I should.

I landed on my back and slid in the direction of the grain of the wood, filling my back with splinters. I had so much momentum that I slid right off the platform and down the steep beginning of the rope bridge.

It’s one thing to run madly down a rope bridge and up the other side. Sliding down headfirst on your back offers far less control. I spread my feet to try to stop myself by hooking on to the ropes on either side. Unfortunately, my right leg caught first, jerking me in that direction. The side ropes stopped me from falling, but my impact had enough force to tip the entire bridge to the side, spilling me over.

I caught the ropes, and my grip held with a sickening jerk. The bridge was virtually upside down where I hung—and the situation became worse as the wooden treads fell out of position. One of them struck me in the shoulder, and by reflex that hand let go. I held with the other, and quickly recovered my grip. But I could see no way of righting the bridge—it was not like a boat that had capsized. There was no water to support me while I turned up the bridge; in fact, the only way to right the bridge was to let go. And that wouldn’t help a bit.

I toyed with the idea of going back, hand-over-hand, to the platform I had left because it was much closer than the other side. But I knew that it wouldn’t be long before my followers, undoubtedly guards, were on that platform—and besides, they controlled the only other escape from it, the rope ladder.

So I began to go hand over hand toward the other end of the bridge. I was grateful for my thumbs. Even though the bleeding from my amputated fingers had stopped, my hands were still sore, and not at their strongest as they tried to heal. But I had a grip. At first, at least. After a while I had to twist an arm into the ropes to help support my weight. It slowed me down more, but I still made fair time.

Toward the end of the bridge, the position of the main hawsers forced the bridge to a more normal level, despite my body weight, and I gratefully pulled myself up onto the treads.

Then I felt a bouncing that was not caused by my own motion—someone else was coming along the bridge. Now that it was upright again, they’d make good time, except in the section where the treads had fallen out. And sure enough, I heard a cry of surprise and a sudden lurching of the bridge. Did the man fall through, or catch himself in time? I had no way of knowing; even in the dim light I couldn’t see more than two meters ahead of me.