“Those aren’t real doors, Child,” Donovan chides him.
«And Zorba… Zorba will hunt us down if we abandon her!»
“If we bring her back safe, Zorba has no complaint coming.”
“And what of Bridget ban,” says the Fudir, “and her discovery? Does Zorba not want those as well?”
“His threat covered only the harper,” Donovan answers. “If he wanted a broader contract, he should have laid out the terms more clearly. Let it go, Fudir. Bridget ban is gone. Zorba knew that. Eventually, even Méarana will know it. And whatever she discovered—or thought she had discovered—is best left lost. Weapons that save the world have the power to wreck it.”
Don’t be so sure.
“Sure of what, Sleuth? That she’s dead? Or that dreadful weapons should be left alone?”
That the courier has been left behind.
“Ahh. Don’t let that message spook you. You’re reading too much between the lines.”
That’s what intelligence means. Inter legere, in the old, dead Romavasi tongue. “To read between.”
Surely, a man smart enough to send messages to every ship is intelligent enough to learn on which ship it found its mark.
“You don’t expect they’ll really pay up, do you?” says Fudir. “Two hundred thousand Bills, just to go home and drink? We used to do that for free. The likelier payment is knives between our ribs, not bills between our fingers.”
«If Those of Name know that Bridget ban was tracking down some sort of weapon against them, why would They give up the quest even if we do, even if Méarana does, even if Bridget ban failed?»
“What matter? We’d be out of it—back on Jehovah, the harper back on Dangchao. Off the bull’s-eye.”
No. If Bridget ban found the weapon before They killed her, They would already have it. But if They killed her before she found it—or if the finding of it killed her—They don’t yet know where it is, either.
Donovan says, “That the finding is what killed her is not the best argument you could have mustered for pressing the search.”
Think it through, Donovan. If the harper is the best handle for tracking Bridget ban, and hence for finding the weapon, how long before Those come for her? And who will be there to protect her?
Silence descends upon the group, into the midst of which the Fudir eventually drops the comment, “Zorba would not like that.”
“What! Are we to look after her for the rest of her life?”
That would seem the logical deduction.
And are we not duty-bound to do so?
“No proof of that. If the harper stirred a pot, that’s her look-out, not ours. She’s no child, to escape the consequences of her own decisions.”
“Oh, that we could escape the consequences of ours!”
“It’s a tough Spiral Arm. No one ever promised safety or success.”
You can’t mean that!
“Can’t I? All in favor of taking the money, raise your hand.”
Ghostly images raise hands: Donovan, Inner Child, Sleuth.
“Sleuth!” says the Fudir.
It’s the rational course.
“Damn reason! But that leaves four opposed.”
He, the Brute, and the Silky Voice raise their hands—in consequence of which all eyes turn to the Pedant.
But the ponderous body shakes the massive head. I am facts, and to take the bribe or not cannot be answered with facts. “Is” does not equal “Should.” Neither logic nor fear nor sentiment nor brute strength nor any other fragment of who we once were can provide an answer. Rather, the contrary.
Three to three with one abstention.
The Fudir raps knuckles on the table. “The point is moot. We can do nothing until Siggy O’Hara. I say we accompany her within the Circuit. Anything we learn, we can turn over to Greystroke and Hugh.”
Just a question here, but anyone else wondering about the empty seats at this table? Pedant, you set this up. Why ten chairs?
The massive face appears startled. I did not realize… I did. Like the Brute, the Sleuth had access to the sensory inputs. “Why do ten imaginary chairs matter more than seven?” says Donovan. Child, you have the imagination. Did you…? «Not me, Silky. I’m the Guardian. I imagine threats.» Yeah? Too many of’ em, you ask me… Impatient with the chattering, Donovan opens his eyes and…
… and he was back in the common room, to find that he had staggered slightly and that the harper had grabbed a hold of his arm to keep him from falling. “Are you all right?” Méarana asked, and Donovan saw his opening and ducked into it.
“How… long was I out?” he asked, with more confusion than he ought.
“A few moments. You muttered.”
Donovan imitated a chuckle. “Good old Fudir. He does run on. I… don’t feel well.” He allowed her to lead him back to the settee and lower him gently into it.
“Billy,” she said, “fetch sahb Donovan an orange juice.” While the khitmutgar rushed to do her bidding, Méarana arranged pillows around the scarred man. “Better?”
Donovan tried to speak, only to find the Fudir holding his tongue. His voice slurred like that of a man following a seizure. The Fudir realized that this only abetted Donovan’s plans, and let go. “Yes,” Donovan choked out. “Better. Thank you, boy.” He drank the proffered juice, handed back the empty glass. “Méarana… I think this journey is taking too much from me. I’m tired and confused. We should lay over for a time, recover my strength.” He wheezed for effect, trying not to overdo it.
The harper sat across from him and leaned her arms on her knees. “Do we dare? What of the Confederate courier?”
“Oh, mistress,” Billy sang from the sink, where he was cleaning the glass. “He follow long Lola Hadley to Jemson’s Moon. Sahb Donovan tell so.”
“No,” Donovan replied. “He’ll query Lola over the Circuit, and by now they know we’re not aboard… It will take a while. Lola can communicate only while passing through encircuited systems. So we have a lead on him, but he’ll untangle the skein eventually and…” He enclosed both her hands in his. “I don’t know what I can do when he catches up.”
“Maybe we should have…”
“What?”
Méarana disengaged. She looked away. “Maybe we should have accepted Greystroke’s offer and turned everything over to him.” She would not look at him and her hands worked a harp she did not hold.
Donovan spoke as if in reluctant admission. “Greystroke and Hugh have better resources… Why mind the stove, if they will cook the meal?” Donovan had never believed that the harper was chasing after Bridget ban “because a daughter knows her mother.” What daughter has ever known that? She was chasing Bridget ban because she was chasing Bridget ban; and had been chasing her all her life. “Let it go.”