“Yeh, Meya’s right. Stuck in a yobbing rut worse’n any bourgie snek.” A soft groan, stretching sounds. “I’m getting sloppy. If I had a real hit, chances are I’d blow the Cob. Don’t like it. Don’t like losing my edge. Don’t like feeling maybe it isn’t just me.”
A short silence, then the harsh clipped voice of the Coryfe. “You challenging me, Kayr?”
Sound of snort, then the quick light voice with a hint of laughter in it. “Don’t point your fangs at me, Sarpe Coryfe. I’m just telling you.”
A longer silence.
Sarpe’s voice, quieter now, the edges smoothed over. “I’ll be meeting with the Clo-Kajhat two days on, he said he’s got something special for us. We’ll talk again when I know what it is.”
Shadith took the mouse through the ducts until it was far enough away so its reaction wouldn’t reach the Cobben, then she turned it loose and let it go squealing off, tiny claws scrabbling on the plas of the duct floor as it ran for familiar territory.
She pressed the heels of her hands against her temples, then rubbed them across her eyes. She was exhausted but too nervous to sleep. With a whispered curse, she hunted out a handful of coins and settled back to watch the war unfold. Once again the war. It had an awful fascination. After a week of watching she almost understood what brought the tourists here.
She drowsed as war scenes flowed across the screen, minor engagements and assorted overvoiced scenes meant to harrow the soul or something like that, with adverts for the bloodier action inserted at intervals.
Battles on pay per view. See Pixa phelas ambush an Impix farmer and his workers. See Impix overwhelm a Pixa ixis on its way to the Meeting Ground.
Total sensory immersion in the Sensarams. Be a Pixa warrior fighting for the purity of his faith. Feel what it’s like to live in a city shelled day and night. Rape. Slaughter. Cannibalism. Feel it all, relive the primitive thrills your culture has left behind.
Music swelled, the camera’s point of view swam among clouds, then swooped down to drift above a road paved with ancient yellow bricks worn hollow by centuries of feet passing along them.
“They can only walk,” the voice-over said, a resonant baritone oozing with sentiment. “On this roadway their faith permits only feet. They come from everywhere, from the mountains, from the plains, Pixa and Impix alike. They come in groups like this family, the tribond of fem-mal-anya and children, all they own in those packs on their backs, see the starved, weary faces of children too exhausted to be afraid any longer. Sanctuary lies ahead, just a few more hours of walking and they can rest, protected by the sanctity of the Holy City Linojin.
“Many come alone, the last survivors of slaughtered families or outcasts who have rejected faith and friendship, refusing to fight for the soul of their people.” The POV dipped lower, floating in front of a small solitary figure. “You can’t see cowardice on their faces, only dust and that bone deep weariness.”
The little Pixa trudged along, unaware she was being watched, her eyes shifting constantly, moving from the farmworkers in the fields to the other pilgrims behind and ahead of her, dark green eyes, wide and enigmatic, set aslant in a narrow face with smooth shiny skin like gray-green bark.
Shadith sat up, slapped her hand on the bed beside her. “Gotcha. Nice timing, O Fate. Hello, Yseyl.”
She crossed to the small kitchen alcove, set water to heat for cha, and hurried back. She folded the thin pillows and tucked them behind her, stretched out on the bed, ankles crossed, fingers laced behind her head, ignoring the treacly narration, her eyes fixed on the figure until the POV shifted to hover over the city.
Luck. It usually balances. I wonder what’s waiting to hit me in the face. Mp. Souvenir shops. Wonder if they’ve got anything useful on Linojin?
The POV swooped over the largest independent standing structure in the city, a white marble confection, every surface carved with interlocking, stylized forms of plants, birds and beasts, and with intricately interlaced knots, spirals, and other symbols. There were towers with pointed domes, grass growing green on the roofs, courts with ponds and streams and leaping fountains.
And a high swaying tower of angular openwork steel with wide flung steel cables bracing it against the wind from the sea.
Radio. Digby said you’d worked your way back that far.
The POV followed WhiteRobes pacing along the paths by twos and threes, hands invisible in wide sleeves, eyes on the ground. Male with male, female with female, anya with anya.
“This is the most sacred place on Impixol. The Grand Yeson. This is the center of worship for the Impix God. And these you see are the holy ones who govern in this city. The Anyas of Mercy, the Sisters of the Godbond, the Brothers of God. These are the ones who will question the Pilgrims, the exiles, these are they who decide who will remain in the city and who must be sent away to dwell in the poverty and hard labor of the nearby fishing villages.” The image of the exiled family trudging along the street briefly shared the screen with the Yeson. “Will they be allowed to huddle in the barracks of the Holy City or forced to fend for themselves?” The little ghost’s image replaced the family. “Is she hohekil, a refuser, or simply one too tired to fight any longer, seeking rest with her God? Will she be allowed to stay or will the Brothers find her unworthy?”
The screen blanked and the adverts reappeared:
Battles on pay per view. See Pixa phelas ambush an Impix farmer and his workers. See Impix overwhelm a Pixa ixis on its way to the Meeting Ground.
Total sensory immersion in the Sensarams. Be a Pixa warrior fighting for the purity of his faith. Feel what it’s like to live in a city shelled day and night Rape. Slaughter. Cannibalism. Feel it all, relive the primitive thrills…
The cha pot beeped. She went to the alcove, made her cha, brought the mug, and settled down to watch the rest of the show about the Holy City Linojin.
4
Clouds cover the sun, curtains of rain hide what is ahead. Danger or nurture?
Chapter 5
Mikil fidgeted near the door as Thann checked the straps on Isaho’s pack, made sure her bootlaces were tied and her coat was properly buttoned and belted tight to her slight body. In the anya’s room the radio blared suddenly, and a mal’s voice spoke through static; a moment later a-fern began singing. Isaho didn’t say anything, but her mouth tightened into a thin line and her eyes started looking at something only she could see.
Thann got to xe’s feet, pulled xe’s daughter against xe and held her until the small stiff body softened.
Xe wanted someone to do the same for xe. Xe was scared rigid.. Xe didn’t want to do this, didn’t want to go away from the place where xe’d lived alI xe’s life. For the past week as Isaho was healing, as xe was preparing for the trek, assembling food, tools, balls of cord, matches, a fire-striker, a folding knife, whatever xe thought of that was small enough to carry, as xe was trying to ignore Ankalan’s scowls and his angry mutters about parasites, every hour of every day xe’s mind scrambled endlessly for a way to escape this trek. Xe spent hours flattened against the earth in the rubble-filled caricature of a garden behind the battered, half-ruined apartment house, praying for guidance. The earth was silent. If God listened, there was no sign to show it.
Xe hefted xe’s own pack, let Isaho help xe into it, then tied into quick-release knots the laces that kept the strap in place across xe’s chest. Xe sucked in a breath, exploded it out, turned to Mikil. +Give us the Journey Blessing, Cousin. Please.+
Isaho made an impatient sound, but Thann pulled the child into place beside her and bowed xe’s head.
Mikil’s hand shook when she touched Thann’s shoulder with the ritual double tap. “May your feet go lightly on God’s earth and may your journey be safe and your days pleasing.” She tapped Isaho’s shoulder, repeating the blessing.