The Day of Their Return

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Boseville was typical of the small towns along the Flone between Nova Roma and the Cimmerian Mountains. A cluster of neatly laid out, blocky but gaily colored buildings upon the right bank, it looked across two kilometers’ width of brown stream to a ferry terminal, pastures, and timberlots. At its back, canals threaded westward through croplands. Unlike the gaunt but spacious country along the Ilian Shelf, this was narrow enough, and at the same time rich enough, that many of its farmers could dwell in the community. Besides agriculture, Boseville lived off service industries and minor manufacturing. Most of its trade with the outside world went through the Riverfolk. An inscribed monolith in the plaza commemorated its defenders during the Troubles. Nothing since had greatly disturbed it, including rebellion and an occupation force which it never saw.

Of was that true any longer? More and more, Ivar wondered.

He had accompanied Erannath into town while the tinerans readied their pitches. The chance of his being recognized was negligible, unless the Terrans had issued bulletins on him. He was sure they had not. To judge by what broadcasts he’d seen when King Samlo ordered the Train’s single receiver brought forth and tuned in—a fair sample, even though the nomads were not much given to passive watching—the Wildfoss affair had been soft-pedaled almost to the point of suppression. Evidently Commissioner Desai didn’t wish to inspire imitations, nor make a hero figure out of the Firstling of Ilion.

Anyhow, whoever might identify him was most unlikely to call the nearest garrison.

Erannath wanted to explore this aspect of nord culture. It would be useful having a member of it for companion, albeit one from a different area. Since he was of scant help in preparing the shows, Ivar offered to come along. The Ythrian seemed worth cultivation, an interesting and, in his taciturn fashion, likable sort. Besides, Ivar discovered with surprise that, after the frenetic caravan, he was a bit homesick for his own people.

Or so he thought. Then, when he walked on pavement between walls, he began to feel stifled. How seldom these folk really laughed aloud! How drably they dressed! And where were the male swagger, the female ardor? He wondered how these sitters had gotten any wish to beget the children he saw. Why, they needed to pour their merriment out of a tankard.

Not that the beer wasn’t good. He gulped it down. Erannath sipped.

They sat in a waterfront tavern, wood-paneled, roughraftered, dark and smoky. Windows opened on a view of the dock. A ship, which had unloaded cargo here and taken on consignments for farther downstream, was girding to depart.

“Don’t yonder crew want to stay for our carnival?” Ivar asked.

A burly, bearded man, among the several whom Erannath’s exotic presence had attracted to this table, puffed his pipe before answering slow: “No, I don’t recall as how Riverfolk ever go to those things. Seems like they, m-m-m, shun tinerans. Maybe not bad idea.”

“Why?” Ivar challenged. Are they nonhuman, not to care for Fraina’s dancin’ or Mikkal’s blade arts or—

“Always trouble. I notice, son, you said, ‘Our carnival.’ Have care. It brings grief, tryin’ to be what you’re not born to be.”

“I’ll guide my private life, if you please.”

The villager shrugged. “Sorry.”

“If the nomads are a disturbing force,” Erannath inquired, “why do you allow them in your territory?”

“They’ve always been passin’ through,” said the oldest man present. “Tradition gives rights. Includin’ right to pick up part of their livin’—by entertainments, cheap merchandise, odd jobs, and, yes, teachin’ prudence by fleecin’ the foolish.”

“Besides,” added a young fellow, “they do bring color, excitement, touch of danger now and then. We might not live this quietly if Waybreak didn’t overnight twice in year.”

The jaws of the bearded man clamped hard on his pipestem before he growled, “We’re soon apt to get oversupplied with danger, Jim.”

Ivar stiffened. A tingle went through him. “What do you mean … may I ask?”

A folk saying answered him: “Either much or little.”

But another customer, a trifle drunk, spoke forth. “Rumors only. And yet, somethin’s astir up and down river, talk of one far south who’s promised Elders will return and deliver us from Empire. Could be wishful thinkin’, of course. But damn, it feels right somehow. Aeneas is special. I never paid lot of attention to Dido before; however, lately I’ve begun givin’ more and more thought to everything our filosofs have learned there. I’ve gone out under Mornin’ Star and tried to think myself toward Oneness, and you know, it’s helped me. Should we let Impies crush us back into subjects, when we may be right at next stage of evolution?”

The bearded man frowned. “That’s heathenish talk, Bob. Me, I’ll hold my trust in God.” To Ivar: “God’s will be done. I never thought Empire was too bad, nor do I now. But it has gone morally rotten, and maybe we are God’s chosen instruments to give it cleansin’ shock.” After a pause: “If’s true, we’ll need powerful outside help. Maybe He’s preparin’ that for us too.” All their looks bent on Erannath. “I’m plain valley dweller and don’t know anything,” the speaker finished, “except that unrest is waxin’, and hope of deliverance.”

Hastily, the oldster changed the subject.

Night had toppled upon them when Firstling and Ythrian returned to camp. After they left town, stars gave winterkeen guidance to their feet. Otherwise the air was soft, moist, full of growth odors. Gravel scrunched beneath the tread of those bound the same way. Voices tended to break off when a talker noticed the nonhuman, but manners did not allow butting into a serious conversation. Ahead, lamps on poles glowed above wagons widespread among tents. The skirl of music loudened.

“What I seek to understand,” Erannath said, “is this Aenean resentment of the Imperium. My race would resist such overlordship bitterly. But in human terms, it has on the whole been light, little more than a minor addition to taxes and the surrender of sovereignty over outside, not domestic, affairs. In exchange, you get protection, trade, abundant offplanet contacts. Correct?”

“Perhaps once,” Ivar answered. The beer buzzed in his head. “But then they set that Snelund creature over us. And since, too many of us are dead in war, while Impies tell us to change ways of our forefathers.”

“Was the late governorship really that oppressive, at least where Aeneas was concerned? Besides, can you not interpret the situation as that the Imperium made a mistake, which is being corrected? True, it cost lives and treasure to force the correction. But you people showed such deathpride that the authorities are shy of pushing you very hard. Simple cooperativeness would enable you to keep virtually all your institutions, or have them restored.”

“How do you know?”

Erannath ignored the question. “I could comprehend anger at the start of the occupation,” he said, “if afterward it damped out when the Imperial viceroy proved himself mild. Instead … my impression is that at first you Aeneans accepted your defeat with a measure of resignation—but since, your rebellious emotions have swelled; and lacking hopes of independence in reality, you project them into fantasy. Why?”

“I reckon we were stunned, and’re startin’ to recover. And could be those hopes aren’t altogether wild.” Ivar stared at the being who trotted along beside him so clumsily, almost painfully. Erannath’s crest bobbed to the crutchlike swing of his wings; shadows along the ground dimmed luster of eyes and feathers. “What’re you doin’, anyway, tellin’ me I should become meek Imperial subject? You’re Ythrian—from free race of hunters, they claim—from rival power we once robbed of plenty real estate—What’re you tryin’ to preach at me?”

“Nothing. As I have explained before, I am a xenologist specializing in anthropology, here to gather data on your species. I travel unofficially, hyai, illegally, to avoid restrictions. More than this it would be unwise to say, even as you have not seen fit to detail your own circumstances. I ask questions in order to get responses which may help me map Aenean attitudes. Enough.”

When an Ythrian finished on that word, he was terminating a discussion. Ivar thought: Well, why shouldn’t he pretend he’s harmless? It’ll help his case, get him merely deported, if Impies happen to catch him … Yes, probably he is spyin’, no more. But if I can convince him, make him tell them at home, how we really would fight year after year for our freedom, if they’d give us some aid—maybe they would!

The blaze of it in him blent into the larger brilliance of being nearly back in camp, nearly back to Fraina.

And then—

They entered a crowd milling between faded rainbows of tentcloth. Lamps overhead glared out the stars. Above the center pitch, a cylinder of colored panes rotated around the brightest light: red, yellow, green, blue, purple flickered feverish across the bodies and faces below. A hawker chanted of his wares, a barker of games of chance, a cook of the spiceballs whose frying filled every nostril around him. Upon a platform three girls danced, and though their performance was free and small-town nords were supposed to be close with a libra, coins glittered in arcs toward their leaping feet. Beneath, the blind and crippled musicians sawed out a melody which had begun to make visitors jig. No alcohol or other drugs were in sight; yet sober riverside men mingled with tinerans in noisy camaraderie, marveled like children at a strolling magician or juggler, whooped, waved, and jostled. Perched here and there upon wagons, the lucks of Waybreak watched.

It surged in Ivar: My folk! My joy!

And Fraina came by, scarcely clad, nestled against a middle-aged local whose own garb bespoke wealth. He looked dazed with desire.

Ivar stopped. Beside him, abruptly, Erannath stood on hands to free his wings.

“What goes?” Ivar cried through the racket. Like a blow to the belly, he knew. More often than not, whenever they could, nomad women did this thing.

But not Fraina! We’re in love!

She rippled as she walked. Light sheened off blue-black hair, red skin, tilted wide eyes, teeth between half-parted lips. A musk of femaleness surfed outward from her.

“Let go my girl!” Ivar screamed.

He knocked a man over in his plunge. Others voiced anger as he thrust by. His knife came forth. riven by strength and skill, that heavy blade could take off a human hand at the wrist, or go through a rib to the heart.

The villager saw. A large person, used to command, he held firm. Though unarmed, he crouched in a stance remembered from his military training days.

“Get away, clinkerbrain,” Fraina ordered Ivar.

“No, you slut!” He struck her aside. She recovered too fast to fall. Whirling, he knew in bare time that he really shouldn’t kill this yokel, that she’d enticed him and—Ivar’s empty hand made a fist. He smote at the mouth. The riverdweller blocked the blow, a shock of flesh and bone, and bawled:

“Help! Peacemen!” That was the alarm word. Small towns kept no regular police; but volunteers drilled and patrolled together, and heeded each other’s summons.

Fraina’s fingernails raked blood from Ivar’s cheek. “You starting a riot?” she shrilled. A Haisun call followed.

Rivermen tried to push close. Men of the Train tried to deflect them, disperse them. Oaths and shouts lifted. Scuffles broke loose.

Mikkal of Redtop slithered through the mob, bounded toward the fight. His belt was full of daggers. “ll-krozny ya?” he barked.

Fraina pointed at Ivar, who was backing her escort against a wagon. “Vakhabo!” And in loud Anglic: “Kill me that dog! He hit me—your sister!”

Mikkal’s arm moved. A blade glittered past Ivar’s ear, to thunk into a panel and shiver. “Stop where you’re at,” the tineran said. “Drop your slash. Or you’re dead.”

Ivar turned from an enemy who no longer mattered. Grief ripped through him. “But you’re my friend,” he pleaded.

The villager struck him on the neck, kicked him when he had tumbled. Fraina warbled glee, leaped to take the fellow’s elbow, crooned of his prowess. Mikkal tossed knife after knife aloft, made a wheel of them, belled when he had the crowd’s attention: “Peace! Peace! We don’t want this stranger. We cast him out. You care to jail him? Fine, go ahead. Let’s the rest of us get on with our fun.”

Ivar sat up. He barely noticed the aches where he had been hit, Fraina, Waybreak were lost to him. He could no more understand why than he could have understood it if he had suddenly had a heart attack.

But a wanderer’s aliveness remained. He saw booted legs close in, and knew the watch was about to haul him off. It jagged across his awareness that then the Imperials might well see a report on him.

His weapon lay on the ground. He snatched it and sprang erect. A war-whoop tore his throat. “Out of my way!” he yelled after, and started into the ring of men. If need be, he’d cut a road through.

Wings cannonaded, made gusts of air, eclipsed the lamps. Erannath was aloft.

Six meters of span roofed the throng in quills and racket. What light came through shone burnished on those feathers, those talons. Unarmed though he was, humans ducked away from scything claws, lurched from buffeting wingbones. “Hither!” Erannath whistled. “To me, Rolf Mariner! Raiharo!”

Ivar sprang through the lane opened for him, out past tents and demon-covered wagons, into night. The aquiline shape glided low above, black athwart the Milky Way. “Head south,” hissed in darkness. “Keep near the riverbank.” The Ythrian swung by, returned for a second pass. “I will fly elsewhere, in their view, draw off pursuit, soon shake it and join you.” On the third swoop: “Later I will go to the ship which has left, and arrange passage for us. Fair winds follow you.” He banked and was gone.

Ivar’s body settled into a lope over the fields. The rest of him knew only: Fraina. Waybreak. Forever gone? Then what’s to live for?

Nevertheless he fled.