But she was called Zãddigah now, was Terra, a name bestowed long ago by her Dao Chettian masters. It meant something like “dirt-ball renewed.” And, as if world had changed with word, she little resembled those meticulously labeled ancient maps copied and recopied in Terran Corners across the Periphery. She seemed to wear a powdered wig.
“Clouds?” Donovan guessed.
“Ice,” Gidula told him.
Oceans had receded, and freshwater lakes had appeared in unlikely places. Deserts and taiga and scrubland dominated the terrain and the cities huddled against rivers, lakefronts, estuaries. Gidula’s shuttles coasted northeastward high over the Megan desert, across the open waters of a circular, nearly enclosed sea, skirting the edge of the Fladda scrublands, before entering the substratospheric traffic corridors and turning north-northeast along the open boreal woodlands that lined the eastern edge of the north-south landmass.
The city of Ketchell formed a crescent around a large, natural harbor where the land turned east. Towering larches and spruce, interspersed with birch and ash and broken by pale-green meadows, dominated the mainland behind her. Beyond that: a glimpse of taiga and, on the far horizon, a gleaming white rime of glaciers. Then the shuttles swooped in low for their final approaches and the northlands dipped beneath the horizon. Tubeways ran off south and southwest.
None of the roads from Ketchell ran north.
Gidula’s headquarters lay some leagues west of the city, nestled in a bowl dominated on all sides by abrupt heights. A southbound river, the Tware, ran through it along its eastern marge, entering and leaving through gaps in the encircling hills. A second river, called the Lye, ran the gantlet between a pair of sheer limestone cliffs on the southern edge of the bowl before tumbling into the Tware.
“It does not seem very defensible,” Donovan told Gidula as they watched the approach on a screen in the lounge.
The magpies who surrounded the party chuckled and Gidula arched an eyebrow. “That depends on who is playing defense.”
“It’s dominated by high ground on all sides.” Inner Child, of course, had noted that right off.
“Ah, but first an enemy would have to seize that high ground. Those farmlands may not be as open as they appear. Really, Gesh, who is there to attack my compound? There has not been a war on Zãddigah since time unremembered. This is not the Periphery. We keep a tighter rein on anarchy here than they do across the Rift.”
Donovan was unruly enough himself not to relish the thoughts of leashes. But he admitted that things might look different to a man whose home has been smashed and plundered by raiders. Tyrants were often welcomed with open arms.
“Other Shadows,” he suggested. “I’ve heard there is a war on.”
The Old One smiled. “But against a Shadow attack what possible fortress might matter?”
A small, flat area on the eastern bank of the River Tware provided a landing apron for the shuttles. As each one grounded, tugs moved her into hangars excavated under the cliffs of Mount Lefn. The planetfallmen handled things smoothly, and soon Gidula, his servants, his magpies, and his opportune guest had forgathered in a broad lounge within the cliff, where the servants broke open wardrobes and pulled out a variety of festive clothing with which to drape their master and his people.
Gidula wore black, of course, accented with white trim and bearing the comet on breast and back. A round brimless cap sporting feathers of the black swan graced his head. On his hands, elbow-length leather gloves in dark gray; on his feet, matching felt shoes with black ankle stripes.
His magpies were variously accoutered. The most junior wore white, sleeveless surplices atop larch-green hose. Their comet badges were set in black squares on breast and back. Senior magpies wore black shenmats with Gidula’s mark patterned throughout in white. Donovan was surprised to note a full Shadow, who wore a blue shenmat adorned with daffodils and sporting Gidula’s comet on a brassard. Donovan guessed him the captain of Gidula’s ship. He had his own cloud of magpies—likely the bridge and engine crew—and these bore bouquets of daffodils stuck jauntily in wedge-shaped caps.
Donovan found himself outfitted in Geshler Padaborn’s colors by aggressively servile valets. A blouse of sky-blue with puffed and slit sleeves over tubular trousers of forest-green, topped with a white snap-brimmed hat called a fedora, which he was told meant “faith of gold” in the ancient Murkan tongue. A half dozen of Gidula’s magpies had been brevetted in Padaborn’s colors to provide him with an appropriate entourage. The large and dolorous Five looked especially incongruous in such gay garb, but he wore it with genuine pride.
“It is to me honor,” he told Donovan amidst the bustle. A single tear made its way through the bristles of Five’s cheek. Succumbing to an impulse whose origin he did not know, Donovan touched his forefinger to the tear and crossed his heart with it. “I think I will call you ‘Pyati,’” he said. At that, his physical therapist broke down entirely and the other five magpies clamored to touch Pyati as well.
Donovan looked to see if Gidula had noticed the interplay, and of course he had. But the Old One’s face had never revealed very much, and did not do so now.
Servants from across the river joined those from the ship and began to play on panpipes and tambourines, dancing in curious jerky steps as they did, swaying their upper bodies. The music never settled into anything Donovan thought tuneful, though it seemed always on the verge of doing so. The servants wore motley with comets on their sleeves. They hoisted banner poles with flags for Gidula, Geshler Padaborn, and Khembold Darling, the other Shadow.
Then the Shadows mounted peculiar one-man autogyros called siggies that raised them up above head level. These vehicles were controlled by motions of the knees and feet, and by body balance. Some of the senior magpies had similar, though less lofty, vehicles. Everyone else walked.
Or danced.
It was a peculiar assembly that exited the hangars under the cliffs of Mount Lefn: half procession, half parade, half dance, arranged in no particular order, save that the magpies always contrived to place Gidula foremost behind the musicians and Geshler and Khembold right behind him. Pyati pressed some metal tokens into Donovan’s hands before they exited.
Outside, a modest crowd greeted them with cheers and waves. Many wept. Some wagged little hand-flags of the three Shadows, as well as that of a fourth. Donovan heard cries of “Welcome back, Lord Gidula!” Gidula, for his part, smiled, raised his gloved hand in greeting, and tossed tokens to the crowd. These were eagerly snatched in the air, scrabbled for on the ground. None of it seemed orchestrated, all of it seemed sincere; and yet at the same time it all seemed very much routine.
“Silky,” whispered Donovan. “What was that business with Pyati’s tear?”
That was not I, said the Silky Voice.
I did it, said the young man in the chlamys. Our Pedant found some old memories of Shadow culture, and … It seemed the right thing to do. With that one sentimental gesture, we captured his loyalty. And probably that of our other magpies, as well.
“Crap,” said the Fudir.
Yah, said the Sleuth. If we are starting to remember stuff like that …
… then we probably are Geshler Padaborn.