Shadow of the Warmaster

11

In the morning she was still sore and moving was difficult, but she was completely free of fever. Apparently the gel that Gerilli Presij used as a rubbing compound and those shots were effective against infection. She was also healing faster than she expected, her lip had deflated almost to normal and the other cuts on her face had closed over nicely. In one of the baths (hot and cold water, fresh and abundantly available, something she found rather remarkable in these conditions), she inspected her face and relaxed; though she hadn’t protested Hordar attentions, the thought of that primitive goo in her veins had made her very nervous. Apparently it’d done a great deal more good than harm. She made a note to get a sample of those preparations to a friend of hers in the bio department at University.

Another girl brought Aslan her breakfast, younger, with a tendency to giggle. She nudged the lamp aside and set the tray on the table. “You’re looking pretty good, Hanifa,” she whispered, put her hand over her mouth, startled at her own boldness.

“Thanks to the excellent nurse I had.” Aslan lifted the cover off the platter. “Looks good. Mind telling me what everything is?”

“Oh!” The girl thought that over, nodded. “I suppose they eat other things where you come from.”

“A lot of other things.” Aslan chuckled. “Very other.”

“Ah. Well, these, they’re krida, fried in batter. Crunchy, you’ll like them. These, they’re havya, fisheggs. This is jatine, it’s a sweet we make out of jata fruits, they grow on the yoss. This is fresh jata. Mmm, you’d better try a nibble first, it’s kind of powerful for someone who’s never had any. This is a fulla, a kind of bread roll, it’s got nuts and bits of cheese in it; we get the milk and cheese and flour from the landfolk. And for drinking, this is cimenchi, it’s an infusion of a kind of watergrass. It…”

“Grows on the yoss?”

The girl grinned, much more at ease. “Doesn’t everything? There’s some milk here and some water over here, for if you don’t like the cimenchi. When you’re finished, just leave the tray where it is, someone’ll fetch it.”

“I hear. Um, would it be possible to find me some clothes? Musvedd the creep just about ruined what I was wearing.”

“You sure? You should maybe stay in bed a little longer, I can fetch some books or something if you don’t want to sleep.”

“I’d rather start working if that’s all right?”

“Sure, it’s all right. If you feel up to it. Oh! My name’s Cinnal Samineh, I’m Geri’s cousin and one of her isyas.” She whisked to the door, turned. “I’ll bring the clothes soon as I can find some that’ll fit, you’re kinda tall.” She darted away.

Aslan listened to her sandals pattering lightly on the reed mats. Nice child. She touched her lip, winced from the bare flesh where the skin was split. Isya. Isya. I remember seeing something… yes, Tra Meclin’s Hordar dictionary. A kind of blood sisterhood. Or oath-sister. Closer than kinship. Five to eight per isya. Wonder how close he comes to being right? Wonder if I can spot the other isyas in the group?

She picked up one of the krida and bit into it. Yum, rather like fried shrimp. But her mouth was too sore to enjoy it and the salt on it stung the cut on her lip. Some day, some day… She nibbled cautiously at more krida. Some day I’m going to pull that shithead’s teeth and make him eat nuts or starve. She grinned at the image, winced again as the stretching widened the cut. Ram sandburs up his asshole.

Carting a faldstool on a strap, Cinnal Samineh took Aslan on a slow tour of the village. She’d unfold the stool, sit Aslan on it and bring her anyone she wanted to talk with. There was a very different feeling to the village, as if everyone on the barges and in the boats had been let out of prison; the Farmers were still wary but inclined to be as friendly as they could in the circumstances. Aslan responded. This was the atmosphere she was accustomed to; for a moment she could dream herself free again, working again, studying a culture she found intriguing though it wasn’t her usual area of concentration.

The village was compact and complex, recycling was almost an art form and certainly a passion. You will be back, don’t trash your homeplace, they told her. All things are God, give them honor, they said. They said these things lightly, amused when she sighed as she heard them for the tenth time, but under the lightness they were very serious about this, Pradix wasn’t a prophet confined beneath a roof or shut between the covers of a book. Wistfully, filled with regret because she couldn’t share it, she observed their deeply internalized belief and made her notes. Her usual objectivity was gone. She wanted these people set free. She wanted that even more passionately than she wanted the Unntoualar protected from the foul things being done to them. When she was lying on the bed in the room they gave her (Cinnal Samineh insisted she rest for an hour after lunch and Aslan was tired enough to make her argument perfunctory), she contemplated her own reactions, picking them to bits, a habit of hers that was one of the things her mother used to flay her with. Identifying, that’s what she was doing. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Maybe because they liked her. Maybe because they were intelligent and interesting people with a basic kindness to them. Maybe because the Huvved she’d met were such miserable oppressive dreeps, the kind of people she’d hated from the moment she could walk. Her foster mother was a toe-licking social climber who ignored the contempt of the people she was trying to associate with and the callous way they used her, then dropped her. The Huvved were using her with that same kind of contempt for everything she valued about herself. Using her learning and her intelligence to further enslave these Hordar. She’d hated that when it was first proposed, now she loathed herself for giving in to Parnalee’s arguments, for letting herself be seduced by the work. She wasn’t sure what she was going to do, what she could do, but she wasn’t going to log data any longer, nothing accurate anyway. Uncomfortably aware of the naivetй her mother deplored, she frowned at the ceiling, was distracted momentarily because she noticed for the first time the fine plaster-work, it was sculpted into intricate geometric patterns, then scolded herself back to the problem she was contemplating. Adelaar wouldn’t hesitate to cook the data and she’d know just how to do it indetectably. That was the problem. She had to fool Tra Yarta who knew these people a lot better than she ever would and Parnalee who no doubt could smell a fix from fifty paces. Intellectual integrity was devalued currency these days. She had a thought and started laughing; she had Efi Musvedd to thank for the time she needed. He was worth something after all; Tra Yarta got what he wanted, yes, but he lost far more than he gained. I hope, I hope, she told herself, she held up both hands with all her fingers crossed, a little trick she hadn’t practiced for a while. An omen, she thought, this is going to come out right. She laughed again and let her hands fall.

What do I need? Paper and pen, I can’t do this in my head and I can’t trust the computers here. She rubbed at her temples. It’s been what, ah… thirty years since studied sociometrics, I need references… Out of the question. Have to depend on my memory and my smarts, built up from the bases I’m familiar with. Rule of thumb. I hope my thumb’s not broke. I always thought I was cleverer than most, have to prove it now… Parnalee said he’d wring the neck of anyone who messed up his chances. His chances! She thought about what Gerilli Presij had told her. That was the end of her escape plans, she wasn’t getting aboard any ship liable to be vaporized the moment it got beyond the atmosphere. Over the hill and off, she thought, Parnalee or not, soon as I can manage it. Hmm. One of the cities of the Littoral. I need to go there next. Ayla gul Inci. Why not? I can make a good case for it; that’s the city where the Surge began. Must be some old memories there. Hmm. Maybe I can find a crack to crawl through. Yes. All right. From now on I’m working for me.