In the Lion’s Mouth

IV. Henrietta: The Second Counterargument

Olafsdottr and the scarred man landed by shuttle at Port Rietta, just ahead of a winter storm. They left Sèan Beta in orbit, to be cleaned and refitted in the Navy Yards and taken into the Service. The scars of Olafsdottr had healed well during the transit, though her smile had taken on a subtle lopsidedness that she found roguish.

Donovan was less well pleased. He had conducted his abductor to her destination; but her ends were not his own, and he had been dissuaded from turning right about to heigh for the League only by the impossibility of that prospect. The entry into Henrietta Roads had been facilitated by Olafsdottr’s particular identity signal, her “fu.” Leaving would invite fleet action.

“Don’t suppose I’ve joined you,” he muttered as the two of them stood waiting on an open platform for a rail pod at the Port Terminus. Sullen, gray clouds were piling up like dirty laundry in the western sky, and Donovan clapped his arms around himself. “Buy me a snow cloak, would you? I didn’t get a chance to pack before I left.”

“The pods will be heated and the trip into Riettiecenter will not take long.”

Donovan shivered dramatically. “What I did for you, you owe me least a cloak.”

Olafsdottr checked their queue number and the ready-board, and sighed concession. “This way.” They left the pod platform, losing their place in line, and retraced their steps to the concourse of shops immediately inside the terminal. “There’s a shuvan high-guy right over here,” she told him.

“An autovendor? Isn’t there a custom tailor? If I’m going to be kidnapped, I’ll be kidnapped in style.”

“No,” said Olafsdottr, “you won’t. The tong will give you later whatever you truly need.”

Donovan snorted. “Oh, good. I didn’t know what I truly needed; so I’m glad of some strangers to tell me. But at least you offered to give me some tongue.”

Olafsdottr scowled. “I do not understand your humors, Donovan.”

“Tongue. There’s an ancient Terran language that…”

Olafsdottr stopped dead and pulled Donovan aside from the flow of pedestrian traffic. “Listen to me, Donovan,” she whispered. “Do not present yourself as a Terran here, ever. Terrans are jidawn, ‘regulated people.’ Do you understand? It is not here like in your Periphery. Terrans have not the respect and honor they have out there.” Olafsdottr overrode Donovan’s bitter laugh. “Do you understand?”

The scarred man pulled his arm from her grip. “Sure. The good news is: I’m out of the frying pan. I take it the ‘tong’ is your little group.”

“It means ‘a Togethering.’”

“So the earwig tells me.” Donovan tapped the device nestled in his right ear. “But I imagine there are lots of Togethers for all sorts of purposes. If I had to guess—and my Confederal is rusty—I’d guess ‘Gaagjawn tong bũpun.’ Revolution-together-partner.”

Olafsdottr hissed and pressed him against the wall of the confectioner’s shop. “Fool! Some things must never speak aloud.”

“Must make for lively craic. If you think I jabber too much, maybe you should just send me back home.”

The Shadow released him. “Are swifter means to silence thoughtless lips. You are wanted here, but not wanted so much that we risk all.”

Donovan decided that he had pushed her as far as he might safely do, and followed silently while she sought out the kiosk for temporary weather clothing. He made a great show of selecting the size, color, and cut of the snowcloak.

Two boots stood in front of a nearby Approved Books kiosk. They were dressed for downside leave: loose, burgundy silks and black trousers, with their ship’s medallions pinned above their right breasts. They went uncovered, and made no effort to hide the fact that they were staring at Donovan and Olafsdottr.

The dispenser delivered the cloak and Donovan pulled it out and shook it straight. “Ravn?”

“Yes, I see them. I was told during the crawl-down that they like to shake down dyowaqs—what you call ‘touristas’—for detachables.”

“Do we call the cops?”

Olafsdottr laughed. “Those are the cops. Not those two, I mean. But Henrietta is under martial law. So … Listen, Donovan, I am not supposed to be on Henrietta; and you are not even supposed to be in the Confederation. So this must not come to the attentions of the swoswai, the military governor.”

“No cops,” the Fudir agreed. “Suits me. But I thought your boss had an understanding with the governor.”

“He does. Those two don’t. They’re probably only just down-planet.”

The scarred man scratched his hair, replaced his skull cap. “Then this is what we call a learning moment.”

Olafsdottr fastened her collar and waited while Donovan swirled his cloak about him. “We could simply pay them,” she said.

Donovan held up his right palm. “My implant is loaded up with Gladiola Bills of Exchange. You think they’ll take those?”

“Ah. I see the problem. That’s why you had me pay for your cloak. Funny the things we sometimes overlook.”

“I didn’t overlook it. Chain up. Here they come.”

The two boots strolled over with exaggerated casualness and planted themselves directly in their path. Other travelers in the concourse swerved around the little group like a stream around a rock. A few shot worried glances as they passed; most simply tucked their heads down and pretended not to see.

“Ha, dyowaq,” said the one on the left, a young, beefy man with a tonsure of blond hair. “Welcome a Henrietta. We collecting donations a the Distressed Spaceman’s Benevolent Fund, help out shipmates down a they luck.” He addressed Donovan because those who bought temporary weather clothing at the autovendors were typically off-planet touristas unprepared for the season.

“Fund balance real low,” added the second boot, an older, wiry man who reminded Donovan of a rat terrier. His medallion had chief’s bars on it.

The scarred man waited patiently, and there was something about the patience of the scarred man that induced hesitation in others. The two boots shifted foot to foot and looked to Donovan’s companion.

And if there were anything in the Spiral Arm more daunting than the patience of Donovan buigh, it was the smile of Ravn Olafsdottr.

The beefy one took a step back. “Law shí! Deadly Ones. Chief, remember what Tsali and Chim-bo told us when they coming back a leave?”

“Tsali say they go-gone.”

“Ooh, not all at once,” said Ravn. “Some may remain. Tie up loose ends. You pardon, we not introduce selves.”

The two boots grunted and made awkward attempts to hide their name tags behind folded arms. “Jin, sure, wakay.”

“Wait,” said Donovan. “You not want donation?”

“Not needful. So sorry a bother you.” They began to back away.

“We insist. My fund transfer from off-planet not yet arrive, but my companion happy pay for both.”

Olafsdottr shot him an annoyed glance, but extended her hand. The boots flinched and stared at it, as if it had transformed into a flame lance. “The Mouth much grateful for protection boots give against League,” she said. “Your pay, never enough. Allow me show gratitude.”

A moment more they hesitated, then the chief reached out slowly and shook her hand. In theory the two palm implants could have interfaced by wireless, but direct contact was both more secure and regarded by custom as more sincere. The chief’s eyes glazed for a moment as his balance updated, then he gasped. “Ladyship being most generous!”

Further expressions of politeness followed before the two boots withdrew and retreated down the concourse.

“To seek other prey, no doubt,” Donovan said.

“The strong take what they can,” Olafsdottr reminded him, “and the weak suffer what they must. First you didn’t want to pay; then you did,” she said. “Why bother? We had them sheeped.”

“Yeah, and that’s why. We backed them down with no more than a shady look. They would have taken their humiliation out on the next citizen they ran into.”

“That would be the next citizen’s problem, not ours. You have a funny way of not getting noticed.” She glanced at her ticket. “Hurry. We may still catch our pod.”

But they returned to the transit platform just in time to see the Rettiecenter pod slide down the rail.

“Aren’t those things supposed to be silent?” Donovan asked her above the squealing of metal and ceramic.

Olafsdottr ignored him and once more entered their destination on the demand-board. They received a new queue number in return. This they turned over to the pod starter, who inserted them into the line for Rettiecenter. “Sure you’re going to pod out this time?” he asked sarcastically. When they made no answer, he added, “I hadda send the first one out empty.”

“I weep,” said Olafsdottr.

Pods arrived at two-minute intervals so the wait was not long before the starter announced, “Riettiecenter pod next. Queue numbers fifty-three through sixty-two. Yah, that’s inclusive, lady. Pod sliding in. Stand back behind the stripe.”

The gleaming silver ellipsoid flashed a bright red symbol on its nose, a stylized city skyline indicating its destination in the city center. Gull wings popped open along its length to reveal two-seat compartments, enough for twelve. Olafsdottr secured one of these for herself and the scarred man.

said Inner Child.

Depends on how many are waiting in line for a destination, deduced the Sleuth. Fifteen minutes ago, there were just the two of us, so the dispatcher sent down a double. We weren’t there when it arrived. When these other people showed up, he had to order a twelver. They probably use base-twelve arithmetic here, like in the Old Planets across the Border.

Show-off, said the Brute.

The doors closed, the pod seized the magnetic field, and they shot down the rail fast enough so that Donovan was pushed back into the cushions. Olafsdottr grinned at him. “Woory not. Pods stop more slowly than they start.”

The pod settled into a steady velocity. In the compartment ahead of them, visible through the plex at head level, a young man and woman had begun to kiss as soon as the gull wings had closed. Now, she turned about and straddled her companion, unfastening the bolero jacket she wore. Donovan imagined her companion unfastening much else below the sill level. He glanced at the clock. They had time. Looking up, the woman saw Donovan grinning and, with a scowl, slapped the plex to opaque it.

“Ah, yoong loov,” Olafsdottr said with a smile.

“Don’t get ideas.”

Olafsdottr snuggled in her seat and said nothing while the scenery flickered past. Parklands gave way to manufactories. Ground argosies wound along the truck-ways below the pod rail, containers joining into strings and shuttling toward the city. Residential villas and sporting fields began to appear. The pod-string passed over a pentagonal field on which three teams struggled against one another before a modest crowd.

Olafsdottr broke the silence. “Overthrow of tyranny worthy goal.”

“Only if the outcome is net improvement. We’ve been over this already, Ravn. It’s a big Spiral Arm, and tyrants move at a discount. I’ll overthrow them, each and all, if they get in my way. Otherwise…” He shrugged. “It’s not my job.”

“Perhaps Dawshoo can persuade you.”

Donovan folded his arms. “He can try.”

Olafsdottr laid a hand on his shoulder. “Noo, noo, noo, my sweet. I did not mean he would persuade you. We want your help, not your submission. He will—”

The pod underwent a sudden, brief lateral acceleration. From the compartment ahead, they heard the sound of the lovers tumbling to the floor.

“” Inner Child asked through the scarred man’s lips.

“Switching rails, I think,” said Olafsdottr. She touched the screen set into the forward wall and called on a system map, upon which she traced the Riettiecenter Line with a finger. “We have been shunted to the Bayside Line,” she decided.

“Why? Are we in the wrong pod, after all?”

Olafsdottr cupped her hands around her eyes and stared out the side window. She could see the city-bound magrail curve away to the left, toward the towers that marked the town center. “There is a plume of smoke,” she said. “There may be a fire near the rail.”

A speaker grill in the compartment came to life and a cheerful voice announced that all pods headed into the city center had been diverted to Bayside, “due to an accident. If you disembark at Heroes’ Plaza, a swift-tram will be waiting to take you to the center. Be advised that all blocks from Jester to Commonplace and from Fourth to Sixth have been interdicted on upper and middle levels while our heroic municipal services deal handily with the problem. Bottom level is open for traffic. If your final destination is within the cordon, you will need a pass from the wardens stationed at the apexes.”

“The pod platform is in the center of the cordon,” said Olafsdottr, examining the system map. “And the Hotel Grand Khyan is at Fifth and Commonplace.”

Donovan grunted. “Meeting still on?”

Olafsdottr said nothing, but continued to stare out the side window while the pod slid along the shoreline. The scarred man turned to the right-hand window, but the scenery in that direction was less interesting: a few pleasure craft snatched the wind across Biscuit Bay, a foil-freighter skated on its hydroplane down the channel toward the open ocean. Dolphins danced ahead of the sailboats.

His kidnapper said, “Donovan, if you would not join us…” She hesitated before continuing. “Perhaps, you might not show yourself healed. If they think your mind impaired, they may not want you.”

The scarred man tore his gaze from the bay. He removed his skull cap and scratched at his scars. “More likely, they would kill me for being useless. A tiger does not change his stripes simply because he fights other tigers.”

“Doonoovan,” she said, adopting once more the playful Alabaster accent. “Troost me oon thees metter. Better for you to play mind-cripple.”

The Bayside rail passed the dockyard end of Flannelmouth Boulevard, and awarded them with a brief glimpse down the great, wide diagonal that bisected Riettiesburg. At the far end, black smoke billowed from the Riettiecenter pod station on the top level above the Hunterfield Traffic Star. Lime-yellow suppressor trucks sprayed the platform with foam and water. Then the pod was past Flannelmouth and only the blank façade of warehouses stared back at them. The grill announced, “Heroes’ Plaza” and the retards kicked in, slowing the pod’s progress.

That can’t be good, recalled the Pedant.

A coincidence? the Silky Voice wondered.

I’ve done some calculations, the Sleuth told them. If we assume that the fire broke out after we left Riettieport Terminal, but before we reached the rail point for the Bayside diversion, then it must have happened about the time our original pod reached the station empty. The conclusion is elementary.

Fudir, said the Silky Voice suddenly, why did you insist on buying a snow cloak?

“I just wanted to mess with Ravn’s head,” the Fudir murmured. “Maybe Inner Child had a premonition…”

That sounds squirrelly, kid.

There was no room in the compartment for a third person, but Pollyanna was sitting beside him. Don’t worry, she told them all. There may be an opportunity in this.

Which we won’t seize by “not worrying,” girly-girl.

He noticed Ravn smiling indulgently. “Very good, sweet,” she said. “Act distracted. Converse with selves. Not too much, but enough.” She turned back to the window and the plume rising now behind the shorefront high-risers around Heroes’ Plaza. She looked worried, and Donovan remembered that civil wars often have two sides.

The scarred man sat in the bar called Apothete, three blocks east and one block below the now quiescent flames of the Riettiecenter fire. The bar was a dark room with cleverly hidden lamps designed to flicker like torchlight and tables set in niches in masonry walls. Within the dimness, and thanks to a trick of the bowl, the uisce glowed as molten gold. At least the people of Henrietta—or at least the people of the Lower City Center—knew the proper way to serve the uisce; although here the bowls were beaten metal, not ceramic, and had little pedestals on which they perched.

The meeting had been hastily arranged, the venue chosen at random. Two magpies, apprentices to the Deadly Ones, guarded the niche within which they sat.

“Hello, my sweet darling,” the Fudir told the bowl, or rather its contents. He used a dialect that his earwig told him was spoken on Heller Connat that was kissing cousin to the Gaelactic of the Periphery. Then, using a different voice, Donovan chided himself, “A drunk loves his creature.”

Across the table from him, Dawshoo Yishohrann sampled a mug of red beer and replaced it softly on the table. His face was still as stone. He exchanged glances with Gidula, and then with Ravn Olafsdottr. The latter shrugged. “This is as I foond him.”

Gidula reached across and slapped Donovan on the cheek. It was not an attack, but neither was it gentle. “Pay attention, can you?” the Deadly One said. “Your eyes wander all over.”

“Each piece of his mind wishes to see,” Ravn volunteered, “and so, jostling for the power of sight, the eyes jostle in response.”

“I would not mind half so much,” Dawshoo muttered, “if they would but jostle in sync. Donovan! Do you understand what the situation is?”

The Fudir took a bold swallow of the uisce. “Course, I do,” he cackled, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his blouse. “You Shadows are fighting each other. Want no part of it, me.”

Dawshoo shook his head. “Did the Names take your balls as well as your mind?” Then, to Gidula, he said, “I did not expect much. The last message we had from Billy Chins said Donovan was falling apart.”

“Billy Chins was a traitor and a liar,” Gidula answered. “I thought he exaggerated, for his own reasons.”

“Look,” Donovan said, allowing some of Inner Child’s fear to show. “Tell me what you want me to do. I’ll tell you why I can’t do it and then we’re done, and I can go home.”

Dawshoo spoke to Ravn. “Discard him.” He began to rise.

“Wait,” said Gidula.

The Beak turned to him. “Would you lean on this broken reed?”

“He may serve, even in this impaired state; otherwise I would not have suggested the play. Certainly, Those fear so, or their agents would not have bombed the pod station.”

Dawshoo glowered into his beer for a moment, took a hard swallow, and set it aside half-consumed. He coupled his hands into a ball on the table and with evident reluctance sought out Donovan’s wandering eyes. “We need you to infiltrate the Secret City and assassinate the Secret Name.”

The eyes stilled momentarily as each and all of him froze at the prospect. “Heh! Which of us is the madman here?”

“This war,” said Gidula, “has gone on long enough. Past time to bring it to an end.”

“But why us?” the scarred man asked. “A task like this wants the finest lock picks, not a rusty old hammer.”

Dawshoo seemed inclined to agree, but Gidula smiled, though his teeth barely showed. “Two reasons, and they are the same.”

A magpie stuck his head in the niche. “Oschous is here,” he said and stepped aside to admit the third member of the cell. Olafsdottr made room for him on the bench.

“What news?” Dawshoo asked him.

“It was a bomb,” he confirmed. “The boots are bees from a struck hive. Citizen casualties were heavy, and the civic administrator stood up on his hind legs and demanded answers from the swoswai. MILSEC and MILPOL are everywhere, questioning everyone, stopping and searching everyone, but to no effect. My guess: a human detonator. MILSEC won’t find him because he’s a pink mist in the air above the station. The swoswai dare not pursue either us or our foes; but neither may he be seen as not acting at all. Thus, the security kabuki. But the sooner we are all off-planet, the better…”

“Aye,” said Gidula. “The attempt today shows that the loyalists are closing in. We must push the effort to the utmost. Strike quickly, or we will be struck.”

Dawshoo sighed. “I chose this world because it is out of the way, but when so many knew to come here, perhaps it was inevitable that it be so many plus one.”

Oschous hooked a thumb at Donovan. “Is this him?”

“Yes, this is Donovan,” Olafsdottr said.

The Fox turned to Donovan and tapped his forehead with the side of his fist. “It is an honor to meet you at last.”

Donovan did not need to act confused. “Honor? We’ve done nothing yet.”

“He has forgotten,” Dawshoo told the newcomer. “Those took the memory from him.”

“Ah. Then how do you expect him to…?”

“His memory may return,” said Gidula. “Or you may concoct another scheme. Or…”

“Or the horse may learn to sing?”

The Old One smiled. “Or that. But his mere name may be enough.”

Oschous pursed his lips before nodding. “Possible.” He did not sound as if the possibility were high.

The Fudir sighed. “Me-fella acetanan. Poor ignorant-man. You-fella Gidula say two reasons why rusty hammer for delicate job.”

Gidula’s lip curled again. “No need for the Terran jabber. First of all, you were an inspiration to millions when you led the earlier uprising, and you may be so again.”

“What!” Donovan nearly spilled his bowl and stood from the bench.

Olafsdottr put a hand on his arm. “You have forgotten even that? ‘The lamp that was lit has been lit again’? ‘The names that were not forgotten have been remembered’? Do these bold slogans not ring in your ears?”

“You led the last holdouts atop the Education Ministry,” Gidula insisted. “And then, when all was lost, came within a hair’s-breadth of escape, save that you were betrayed by one of your own comrades.”

Those dreams we had on Gatmander, said the Pedant. They were memories unlocked by Teddy’s drug! If I dig, I can find them again! I know it!

Oh! To remember! cried the Silky Voice.

The scarred man’s mouth worked, but no words emerged. Slowly, he resumed his seat. “But then,” he managed at last.

Gidula leaned across the table. “Yes.” The word was almost a hiss. “Yes. You were found on the riverbank, on the eastern bank, miles from the Education Ministry.”

“Which means,” said Dawshoo, “that you knew a secret way out of the Secret City.”

“Appropriate that there be one,” murmured Ravn.

“And a secret way out,” said Oschous, “may be a secret way in.”

“That is the second reason we need the rusty hammer,” Gidula said. “If you lead a team of assassins into the Secret City, we can cut the head off the snake.” He smiled a little at that. “Cut the head off the snake,” he said again. “Your name will live forever.”

The scarred man sank back in his seat, overcome by his contending emotions.

“My name would live forever?” the Fudir said. “That sounds far too posthumous. If it’s to be one or the other, I’d rather the name die and the rest of me live.” He cackled, picked up the uisce bowl, but it trembled so that he could barely sip from it.

“Indeed.” Olafsdottr smiled. “Posthumous fame is something few enjoy.”

Gidula scowled at her, but Donovan almost choked and the uisce burned his throat. He set the bowl down so hard that it nearly toppled. “What name is it,” he croaked, “that would live forever?”

“Do not speak it aloud,” Dawshoo cautioned him. “Not until the time is ripe and we rally the masses.”

“Geshler Padaborn,” said Gidula.

Donovan heard Ravn suck in her breath, and realized that it was a revelation to her, too. Otherwise, she might have used it as an argument during the slide down the Tightrope. He could feel Pedant digging and digging. But … nothing surfaced. All memories had been cauterized.

“Padaborn,” he whispered, as if the sound of the name on his own lips might resurrect some sense of identity. But it was the name of a stranger.

“An inspiration to us all,” said Gidula. “When the others learn you have returned, their morale will soar.”

“You owe it to the men you once led,” Oschous added, “to lead them once more—and their sons and daughters with them.”

“Do we?” Donovan said. “We have no recollection of being Padaborn; no desire to pick up his fallen torch.”

Dawshoo smacked the table. “I never thought this play too promising, and the promise grows less. A man is the sum total of his deeds. If this Donovan buigh does not remember that Padaborn, he will not remember how he escaped the Secret City. Olafsdottr?”

The ebony Shadow cocked her head. “Yes, First Speaker?”

Dawshoo jerked his head at Donovan and shrugged.

“Hold,” said Gidula. “Rofort once wrote that ‘A house is a pile of blocks, but not only a pile of blocks. When the house is torn down, the blocks remain, but where has the house gone?’”

“We haven’t time for your philosophy,” Dawshoo said impatiently. “We leave for Ashbanal tonight. Manlius awaits us there.”

“The house of Padaborn has been demolished,” Gidula said. “But perhaps some blocks remain. He need not remember himself in order to remember his deeds. And all we need is the remembrance of one deed particular.”

Oschous grinned. “You’re a clever one, Gidula. Or you’re a fatuous old fool. We’re as likely to hear wisdom from the one as the other. What say, Dawshoo? We’ll take him with us. Something familiar may jog a memory or two.”

Dawshoo rose. “It’s your play, Gidula. Take it as far as you can without risking us all.”

“Will you start the whisper campaign?”

“If I do, you had best deliver Padaborn. If not the Padaborn, at least a Padaborn. Train him up, if you must.” He watched Donovan drain the uisce bowl. “And if you can.”

With that, he departed. One of the magpies left with him.

Gidula too, prepared to leave. To Olafsdottr, he said, “Be sure he arrives at Port Rietta before the departure deadline. Keep the boots off his neck. Are you coming, Oschous?”

The third Triumvir shook his massive head. “I think I’ll stay with our hero.”

Gidula shrugged. “As you will.”

After Gidula had left with the other magpie, Oschous shifted to the other side of the table so he could sit facing Donovan and Olafsdottr. He leaned back against the partition and lifted his feet to the table, linking his hands behind his head. His smile heightened his foxlike appearance. “So, Gesh,” he said. “What are we to do with you?”

The scarred man shrugged. “Send me home? I doubt we can be of much use to you.”

But Oschous shook his head. “That’s not what we do with things of ‘not much use.’ You should be grateful to Gidula, you know. He saved your life—twice—this past hour.”

The Fudir grunted. “Tell me again the difference between your lot and Those.”

The Dog head smiled broadly. “‘It takes all kinds to make a world,’ an ancient prophet said. People are like those gas molecules the scientisticals jabber of. They go about in every direction and so the whole body of them goes nowhere in particular. To have enough people move in the same direction you can’t wait until they do it for the same reasons. Afterward—if there is an afterward—there will be a sorting out. And Friend Donovan?” He stopped smiling. “I think you’ll be a lot more useful than you realize.”