Ilaцrn sat in the corner of the Ykkuval’s consultation chamber, playing wallpaper music on the harp and listening to the reports coming in on the com. He kept his head down, his eyes on his fingers so he wouldn’t betray the satisfaction he felt. Six Crawlers and their moles completely destroyed. Two intact but needing a complete replacement of the control system and new moles. Four Crawlers with only minor damage because the crews were alert enough and lucky enough to get the systems shut down before the spores had a chance to destroy them-all that working on information he’d passed out of the Kushayt. Matha matha, it was a piece of luck, that, hearing the report about the spores. He freed one hand, stroked it with loving care along the wood of the harp frame. Your doing, my sweet mistress, all you.
His heart had nearly failed him the morning a ten-day ago when Hunnar’s voice sounded behind him as he finished coding some information he’d picked up about movements of the Crawlers.
“Why haven’t you played that before?”
Ilaцrn eased himself away from the harp and got to his feet, moving stiffly, his knees aching because he’d sat so long on the cold damp earth. He folded his hands, bowed his head. “Oh Ykkuval, I was mourning. The time is finished now, so I play again. I was Ard, O Ykkuval. I was a master harper. It was my life.”
“That was a strange piece you played. Jarring.”
“Oh, Ykkuval, it was a study, not a finished piece. An exercise. Something to get my hands in shape again.”
“Play something more ahh euphonious. Something more suited to Dushanne.” Hunnar strolled off, glancing back now and again, a thoughtful frown on his heavy face.
Ilaцrn leaned into the harp and considered what he should play. By way of their intimate connection through the probe sessions, he knew Hunnar better than most of his own people, knew the Chav’s pretensions and limitations. Something simple but flashy. His mouth twitched, into his first unbitter smile in months as he thought how like this mesuch was to more than one Ordumel Teseach he’d known. He started playing Ard Amorane’s Trick-and tricked himself. He forgot about Hunnar and the mesuch, even about his sioll, losing himself in the sheer joy of the sound.
Hunnar’s voice brought him back all too soon to the reality of his life.
“… to judge with that primitive instrument you play, but the touch is lyrical, the tone most pleasing to the ear. An artist. Yes. Anyone can grub in a garden, but a true artist must follow his gift. We pride ourselves on our taste, we highborn. And our generosity. A gift like that puts a man outside of caste, makes him worthy of our patronage…
Ilaцrn stopped listening; he could guess what outside of caste meant. Pampered pet dancing to the whim of the patron. I’d rather be your gardener than your “artist in residence,” but I don’t have a choice, do I. Hm. I can try telling you the garden refreshes my soul and I need to work here. Wonder if that’ll work? If I can’t get out… cha oy, it has to work.
Endless sweet soft ripples flowing from his hands, Ilaцrn watched the Ykkuval’s anger rise as his eyes moved over screen after screen of reports on the destruction the spores had caused. Reports of villages burned in retaliation. Empty villages. Reports from the fliers scouring the mountains with motion and heat detectors. No locals sighted, either species. Empty land, but out of that land, destruction rising.
Hunnar tapped a sensor. “Memur Tryben, I want you.”
Ilaцrn touched the strings, the music he made barely audible, hoping Hunnar would forget he was there. He wanted very much to listen in on this conference, but he didn’t know enough about the Chave to measure the weight of Hunnar’s decision to make his native Harp Master an ornament and a testimony to his status. The lowering of the sound level backfired, though, winning him a glare from Hunnar. Without changing expression, he gradually returned to the way he’d been playing before.
Hunnar relaxed, closed his eyes, began tapping his claws on the chair’s arm, not getting the beat quite right until Ilaцrn altered it to match the clicking of those claws.
A soft buzz.
Hunnar sighed and sat up. He tapped the sensor and when the door opened, waved the Chav who came in to the honor chair at the end of the desk.
The Security Chief glanced at Ilaцrn, his brow ridges drawn down. For a moment Ilaцrn thought he was going to protest, but the Chav’s eyes went dull as he slipped the Harper into the slot that Chave kept for such beings and forgot about him.
“We’re hemorrhaging, Tryben.” Hunnar waved a hand at the images frozen on the viewscreens. “I want it stopped.”
Tryben’s face went blank, his secondary lids glistening a moment before he caught hold of his temper and recouched them. “I hear, O Ykkuval.”
Hunnar made an impatient movement with his eating hand. “Pull your claws in, Memur. I’m not blaming you.” He flattened his hands on the desktop, his inner lids dropping till his eyes glistened as if they were greased. “Thanks to our illustrious Comptroller back home, none of us have the men or equipment we need.” He drew in a long breath, snorted it out. “Have you discovered what it was caused all the damage?” -
“Spores. From some kind of puffball thing. We had some trouble with it before. You remember? The Drudges’ dirtboards went crazy and stopped working and when we opened them up, it was like they were coated with sooty hair. Same thing. All twelve. No way this was an accident.”
“If they could do it out there, we’re vulnerable here. What are you doing about that?”
“I’ve got the tech working on intake screens and baffles with burnclean sections. Should be fitted up in a day or two. We’ve set tingler fields around the rest of the Crawlers and stepped up the sensitivity of the alarm systems. The hayv won’t get near enough to get their filth into the system.”
“So they’ll try something else. Hm. The locals in the camps know something, I can smell it on them. Haul in the headmen and probe them to their back teeth. I want to know what their grandfathers had for breakfast.” He paused, stared blankly past Tryben. “And pick up some of the vegheads. Try the probe on them, see what you come up with. I don’t expect much, but you never know when your luck might pop hot.”
“O Ykkuval, I’ll set that going immediately.” Tryben paused, straightened his shoulders.
In his corner Ilaцrn’s fingers fumbled and he almost lost the beat in his surprise at seeing that bloody-handed butcher nervous as a tadling at his apprentice trials.
“If the Comptroller would authorize the importation, I’d like to do an EYE sweep of the range.” The words were slow and heavy, the Memur’s gravelly voice devoid of inflection. “Ten fliers and two channels cleared for the pickup. It is the only way we can possibly find the saboteurs in all that forest and stone. Heat pickups, motion readers, and visuals just will not do the job. I suspect what we are looking for are small groups moving on foot, impossible to tell from grazing herds and other natural phenomena.” He lowered his eyes to his hands and waited for the answer.
“If they’d listened to me, you’d have had EYEs weeks ago. No. I won’t bother asking again. There’s no point to it. I can give you five fliers. With all these Crawlers down, we’ve got that much excess capacity. Pick your men, tell them to do the best they can, ash whatever shows up on the monitors.” A slash of his hand cut off the discussion. “Medtech Muhaseb. You’ve been watching to make sure he’s not slipping word out about the husk?”
Memur Tryben lifted his head, settled into the chair, the dangerous moment had passed. This was business as usual and he was comfortable with it_ “None of the techs working on the analysis have been given access to the com. Or to other techs. We’ve been monitoring them since you set up the project.”
“Hm. There was an interesting com call last night. Jindar ni Koroumak. Making noises like he wanted to be invited out here. Hunting, he said. What could I do? He’ll be here with his idiot followers in less than a month. Be prepared to have him nosing about the labs.”
“Ah. I see. Your interest in this is kept close, I guarantee that, and Muhaseb’s group is buffered. I’ll make sure he doesn’t get near them. News slipping out about the smoke is something else. The high that comes from burning the husks is common knowledge among techs and Drudges. You know how such things get about among the lower orders. Farkli the Drudge, the one who runs the lubbot, he’s complained more than once about the stink and the drain on his income. Seems the smoke suckers don’t drink as much as they did before.” Tryben flexed his arms in the Chav equivalent of a shrug. “Techs coming off duty will raid one of the Sleeping Grounds and bring back as much of the husk as they can conceal in their gear. They have enough sense to keep their smoke sucking for off-duty hours. So far, anyway, but it seems to be quite addictive, so that may change soon. At least half the techs working on the analysis are showing signs of smoke dependence.”
“Looks like we’ve got another Tirassci brewing. Kir and chich! As if I needed more trouble. How bad is it?”
“With our limited numbers here, it’s not surprising that nearly all of the subclasses have tasted smoke. Without rigorous tests, any numbers would be hardly more than a guess, but I’ll give them to you. Fifteen mining techs left. All have some degree of dependence. Six med techs. As I said before, four of the six are showing signs of dependency. Ten Drudges. Two of them got beaten for stealing Husk from techs. Most have no contact with the smoke. Twenty-four Guards. Six have drunk smoke on their off-hours, the others just get drunk. Six com and repair techs. All have tasted smoke. Two seem to be dependent, the others prefer Farkli’s yang. Early results of the med techs’ investigations seem to show smoke isn’t as destructive as Tirassci chaw. At least not so swift a decay of nerve cells. Hard to say. We’d need to test long term users and we don’t have any of those.”
“Hm. Set a trap at one of the Sleeping Grounds. The Harper says those that tend the place are addicts. Find an old Cousin hanging around because he can’t walk away from his habit, you’ll get your long-term study with enough crossover to be useful.”
“Ah. I’ll do that.”
They continued to talk for another hour and Ilaцrn sat in his corner, playing his wallpaper music and stewing with impatience. He had to get into the garden. What he’d heard was important, he had to get it out. He closed his eyes and began setting the news into Riddle Mode. Mesuch hunting mountain length, burning everything that moves. Repeat. Repeat. Trap at Sleeping Ground. Repeat. Repeat. Hunting and watchers. Repeat. Repeat. Leaders in the labor camps. Repeat. Repeat. Mesuch are coming to get them. Repeat. Repeat. Scrape their brains of everything they know. Repeat. Repeat. Anyone with secrets get away. Get away now.
When Memur Tryben left, Hunnar got to his feet and paced the length of the room over and over, scowling at the tiled floor though it was obvious he saw nothing of the blocky design; he was walking off the anger he’d kept locked away as long as anyone who mattered was in the room. Back and forth, back and forth until Ilaцrn was dizzy from watching him. Back and forth, back and forth-and then he stopped, stared at the wall of screen, went to his desk and reached toward the sensor board.
He drew his hand back, turned his scowl on Hewn. “Take your meal early. You’ll be playing for my dinner tonight.” He cupped his hand across his mouth, examined the worn gray tunic and trousers the Harper wore. “I’ll have the terzin run up a formal robe for you. You’ll wear that tonight. That thing you played in the Dushanne Garden. I want that. Something complementary to go with it. I’ll leave that up to you. Impress them and you won’t find me ungrateful.”
“I hear and obey, O Ykkuval.”
“Good. Be ready by ninth hour. I’ll send a Drudge to fetch you.”
Ilaцrn sat in the dark outside the gardener’s hutch, watching the stars shift overhead and soaking his left hand in an infusion of langtana leaves; he’d already soaked the right hand and was doing easy exercises with the wrist and fingers. Playing all day like this was tearing up his fingers even if it was music only by an extreme extension of the concept.
He smiled and did more finger push-ups, the thick springy grass cool and pleasant against his skin. More playing than he’d done since he and Imuл had grown old and creaky and stopped their wandering from Dumel to Dumel. He thought about Imuл and was surprised to find only a faint bittersweetness left of the pain that once tore through him when he remembered his sioll.
It was very late, past midnight. He was sleepy but not enough to hit the bed, not yet. He was happy. For two tendays he’d sent his Riddle tunes into the empty air without a hint that anyone heard them. Today, though… today was payoff. Today made all of it worth the soreness in his fingers and the boredom in his soul. Twelve Crawlers out of use, six of them permanently. Ahhh.
The loud click of a door shutting snapped him out of his reverie. He got to his feet, stood wiping his damp hand on his old tunic as he watched two shadows walk along one of the Dushanne Garden’s paths, both of them carrying bulky packs. Two?
Holding his breath, he ghosted after them.
On his belly among stinkweeds that had grown tall and thick as scrub trees, Ilaцrn watched the cloaked figure climb from a sleek small flier. The spy from Banikoлh. As he had the last time, he started talking before he reached the shelter of the wall niche. “When I took the virus the last time, you said you wouldn’t call me across any more; you said you’d work a way to get me called home. Chaos broke last night when they found out the com wouldn’t work. How many times do you think I can shake loose before that lard-head tumbles to what’s happening? What! What’s that! Who’s he?”
Good, Ilaцrn thought. I want to know, too.
“You wanted to know why you’re here. He’s it. Look at this.”
The spy took the flake Hunnar handed him, slipped it into a reader, then sucked in his breath. Hastily he covered his surprise and made to return the flake.
“Keep it. The money’s in a special account, separate from the other. You’ll need that flake for authorization to transfer the funds.”
“And… mm… what’s it buying?”
“Transportation.” Hunnar set his hand on the squat dark figure of the other Chav. “You get him past Koraka’s forward line and drop him at the edge of the swamp. That’s all.”
The spy opened his mouth to protest, shut it again. The fur on his face was ruffled, his mouth was pinched into a black pout. His fingers had closed around the small reader, his thumb was moving across them, as if he caressed both himself and the gelt enumerated on the flake.
The scent of mesuch fear and greed was bitter as the stench from the stinkweed. Hewn watched the spy weighing the dangers of doing and not doing. You laid the stones for this the moment you let spite and greed goad you into taking your first bribe, fool. You might as well agree. You’re dead if you don’t. His eyes widened as he saw the second Chav edging away from Hunnar; the spy didn’t notice. He was too preoccupied with his struggle. No, I’m wrong. You’re just dead. He caught his lip between his teeth, bit down hard as the Chav stepped swiftly behind the spy and drove his fist into the mesuch’s back, jerked it away. No, not his fist. A knife with a blade hardly wider than a needle. The spy started to turn and the Chav struck again, this time driving the knife in under the chin.
The body dropped to the gravel. The Chav wiped his knife on the mesuch’s cloak, then slipped it up his sleeve.
Hunnar touched the sprawled body with the toe of his boot. “Too bad. But I suppose we couldn’t have milked much more out of him.” He stooped, pried the flake and the reader from the spy’s hand, straightened.
“Didn’t think he’d wear it, taking me in.”
Together they loaded the mesuch’s body into the flier, then tossed the packs in on top of him.
Hunnar stepped back. “You’re on your own, Kurz. As long as the Yaraka com system stays out, keep in touch. If you need supplies, I’ll do my best to get them to you.” He tapped the reader with the claw on his forefinger. “You don’t make it back, this goes to your son. I promised it and I keep my word.”
Kurz lifted his hand in the claws-in open-hand salute, reached for the sensor board.
The whine of the flier’s lifters in his ears, Ilaцrn crept backward through the stinkweed thicket, eased himself round the corner, and ran for the hidden door, moving as quietly as he could without diminishing his speed. His belly churned with the knowledge there was no chance of passing on what he’d heard before morning. Too bad too bad too bad… the words echoed in his head to the padding of his bare feet.
8. The Ways of Bйluchad