After one such episode, Jarmi reamed muddy water out of her face and said, "I hate to complain, but does anybody have any idea how much longer until we find something to eat?"
Azevedo apologized. "We all know where we're going. With luck, we'll be warm and dry and fed before dawn."
At midnight, they broke for a rest. Jarmi and Laneff huddled under a deadfall while the gypsies and Shanlun made one of their salutes. Afterward, they seemed refreshed, but Jarmi's fatigue and hunger dragged at Laneff. They slogged across alfalfa fields, skirted a new vineyard, scrambled through another hedgerow old enough to have been there when the Ancients held the world, and eventually came out in a gully sloshing through a torrent of dirty water.
A large clay culvert pipe emerged from beneath a roadbed. Above, houses were packed as densely as ever one saw them in-Territory. One of the gypsies worked at the mesh screen that closed the culvert and it swung aside.
"Now only our feet will be wet," said someone.
"Yeah, but with what?" commented another.
Yet, gratefully, they trooped into the dark. The center of the pipe was a juncture of two sections, both tall enough for them to stand upright. Azevedo and one of the other Simes scrabbled at the seam, and then another door opened, a narrow slit leading into even deeper darkness.
With trepidation Laneff followed, towing Jarmi and reminding her, "They say gypsies go where they will, without regard of civilized rules. This must be one of those ways—and no doubt a tribe secret."
"I won't tell."
In a double column, Sime and Gen together, Sime zlinning the way by the Gen's nager, they worked their way along an Ancient sewer pipe. Where it had crumbled, modern masonry had repaired it. It still carried noxious moisture.
"At least now my appetite's gone," said Jarmi.
It was slow going. Several times, they climbed up into side pipes, then down into another pipe, a warren as complex as if this underlay a city.
And then, without fanfare, they emerged into light, warmth, dry-ness, and clean air.
It was an underground room, connected to some sort of power system. The walls were white tile, and the refugees dripped filthy water on clean white tile flooring. An open rack at one side held an assortment of clothing—both traditional gypsy buff and beige fringed garments and ordinary street wear. Couches and chairs were scattered about the room, with tables, magazines, and a trin tea service. Doors opened in every direction. Two of them were labeled toilets.
"Now," announced Azevedo, "we can clean up!" He opened the toilet doors for them. Shanlun and the other Gen man made directly for one while Desha helped Jarmi toward the other. Laneff could just make out a row of shower stalls within.
Laneff said, "What is this place? I think we must be under modern
P'ris!"
"We're on the outskirts, near the river," answered Azevedo.
"This is Thiritees?" asked Laneff.
"Just the entryway." He was zlinning her now, curious. "Come here, Laneff. I haven't zlinned you without the Gens around obscuring things. Let me make a contact ..."
"Something wrong?" she asked, worried. "I feel fine."
He took her tentacles and made a brief lip contact. Pulling back, he tilted his head to one side, zlinning. "Yes, indeed. Why didn't you tell me—"
"What?"
"You don't– Oh, Laneff. I do hope it's on purpose. A Farris woman —a pregnancy is nothing to play around with."
CHAPTER 9
THIRITEES
Shanlun stormed into Azevedo's den without pausing to announce himself nagerically. Laneff followed, feeling as if she'd touched off a volcanic eruption.
"You knew this three days ago!" accused Shanlun with none of the deference he usually showed the old man. His nager was in its neutral particolored confetti state, not forcing his emotional turmoil on the Simes about him, but his indignation was in his voice. "Azevedo, don't you see how this changes everything?"
"Shanlun!" said Laneff before the channel could reply, "I begged him not to tell you right away. Chances are that nothing will come of it; besides, I wanted to tell you!"
Fuming, Shanlun looked from Azevedo to Laneff and back. Gradually, his ire subsided. "My apologies, Azevedo. Permission to enter?"
He was already standing in the middle of the intricately patterned matting. Azevedo motioned with two tentacles, a gracious invitation to be seated. He was sitting cross-legged on a cushion set on a wicker platform surrounded by hanging plants and lit by a skylight. Tastefully upholstered wicker chairs and stools dotted the room. A fireplace filled one wall, the mantel strewn with huge fat candles and wax sculptures. Woven tapestries adorned the walls with abstract designs. There was no desk, no books, no files, yet Laneff had been told that Azevedo ruled the tribe from this room, as a Sectuib once would rule a Householding.
Shanlun took two strides toward the old man and crossed his legs at the ankles, easing himself gracefully to the floor. Laneff closed the door and hovered, unsure of the protocol. She was wearing gypsy costume—a floor-length skirt and hip-length tunic, hemp sandals, and wide hair band, all in pale beige. For disguise, in case she were seen by outsiders, they had dyed her black hair and eyebrows to a rusty blond and had given her a cream to use on face and hands that would bleach her complexion. She hardly looked Farris anymore.
Studying Shanlun's downcast eyes, Azevedo motioned her to a chair beside him, and said, "Or you may sit beside Shanlun, if you like."
She took the patch of floor matting beside Shanlun, feeling the ache of shame in his nager and wanting with unbearable intensity to soothe it away.
Azevedo closed his eyes, seeming to ignore them. At first, Laneff thought this the rudest possible rebuke to Shanlun. But the ambient settled into a calm she was loath to disturb, and presently she noticed Shanlun's nager changing. The stark contrast in color and brightness between the randomized chips at his nageric surface seemed to fade. The flecks danced less energetically, finally stilling and merging into a hazy solidity behind which the bright gold of packed selyn pulsed. His intense shame turned to chagrin and faded to a self-forgiveness.
At last, Azevedo said in the distant voice of a working channel, "Your feelings are understandable, Shanlun ambrov Zeor. You're personally involved here, a deep involvement."
"Yes. But it seems years in the Tecton have addled my perspective."
"But not your acuity. You're correct that this does change the
situation."
Eyes like burning coals, Shanlun looked up at Azevedo, his hand stealing aside to grip two of Laneff’s tentacles. "Is there anyone among the Company who has handled a Farris renSime's pregnancy?"
"I have, of course, put out the call for experienced midwives."
"I'm sorry," said Shanlun. "I should have realized you'd already be working on it." He added, "But even at best, she's going to have to be told everything. She can't survive this without hope."
Laneff quelled a leap of curiosity and listened.
Azevedo gathered Laneff’s attention. "I do believe you can survive to be delivered. But we dare not fail to consider abortion."
Laneff had not thought of that. Objections burst into her mind, but before she could speak, Shanlun said, "No!" And then, worried, "It's a channel, isn't it?"
Azevedo nodded. "A female, unless I'm mistaken. But a channel will demand so much selyn of Laneff’s system that she'll need transfers very frequently, and will likely go into disjunction crisis much sooner."