Veran Stories

Oct 302013

Read me the story:
SyllaMost of the young people and savants had left the schola. Many had been drafted to help with preparations for the shallahee at the House, others were enjoying the opportunity to engage in their own projects.

Daveth was taking advantage of the quiet to potter in the garden outside the K’arett Pavilion. He’d put in some kilissi plants M’daina had started; it was the perfect exposure for them here by the Pavilion wall, a bit sheltered from the wind and with plenty of reflected warmth in the cool evenings. They’d settled in well, but the clawgrass from the side of the path was encroaching their space. He settled in for a nice meditative session of coaxing the clawgrass rootlings out without disturbing the young seedlings.

As usual, he lost track of time, fingers in the warm soil, the scent of earth soothing and refreshing at the same time. But he couldn’t have been at it that long, when he was conscious of someone behind him. A glance over his shoulder, and he sat back on his heels, dusted his hands, and turned, tucking feet and knees under him, to face the stormy-eyed 10-year-old seated on one of the benches beside the path.


“Daveth, they’re sending me away!” She was exerting great control not to weep, he could tell.

“Tell me,” he ordered calmly. “But first, breathe.”

She nodded, and took a breath, almost gulping, then let it out. He watched, motionless, while she did “five breaths to calmness.” The lines smoothed from her face, but the storm remained in her eyes.

She was a remarkably attractive child—mature for her age. She was just on the edge of puberty, but there was no awkwardness in her body, and the smooth planes of her face might have been a young woman of 15 or so. Fair hair and blue-green eyes to match—her father’s cherith ran to blondes, he knew—were offset by a clear, light-honey complexion.

“It’s your fault,” she said, with a hint of sullen anger still in her voice. “You told us we should explore nirao.”

He said nothing, tipped his head slightly, watching her steadily.

She took another breath, let it out. “No, it isn’t, and you didn’t.”

“Try again,” he prompted gently.

The corners of her lips tucked in, slightly, but she took another breath, nodded, looked away for a moment, then back at him.

“You told us we could explore nirao.”

He nodded. “You, and all of the youngsters who received the ni’alas. And why not? You know how your body works, now. You know what to expect of it. You know how to protect yourself and a partner with daraiyesh. Almost all of you have been practicing zarya for some years, now. It is expected you will explore nirao with one another.”

“Then why is it wrong? Why am I being sent away?” she challenged.

Daveth considered carefully, before he answered. “You did very well in k’arettas, Sy’nda. Perhaps it is your understanding of ev’attas that has betrayed you. What is the ethical basis for gratification?”

She frowned a little, as though she did not like where this was going. “Proportion, and context,” she said, a little unwillingly.

“Yes. Proportion— with how many partners have you shared nirao, in the ten market cycles since your ni’alas?”

Sy’nda shrugged. “Who’s counting?” she said, a little defiantly.

“And have all of them been ni’alas?” he asked.

Sy’nda looked down. “If you looked, you could still see Sanni’s. And Jirylin’s.”

“And what about Lerannan? Who is a savant under word-bond?”

“But we didn’t! There was no nirao! He told me…” her cheeks had reddened, slightly, and her eyes and voice were fierce, “…he told me he would not. Would not have me!”

“And why?”

The girl hunched a shoulder defensively. “I forgot.”

Daveth remained silent, watching her steadily.

She sighed, and looked away. “I did not forget. I just wanted him. I wanted to see what it would be like, with someone… bigger. Older. Experienced.”

“And what of Yradna, and Pe’vrin? What kind of stunt was that, for them to sneak into the challenge-ground, and engage unseconded, unsanctioned, and only be prevented from damaging each other because Wollas heard the commotion, and stopped it?” he went on, mercilessly.

She was red now, and biting her lip. “That wasn’t my idea.”

“Wasn’t it?”

“Well, I didn’t suggest it.”

“You watched. What did you plan to do, if one of them damaged the other? Were you going to share nirao with the victor? Or the vanquished?” he did not allow any scorn or chiding to temper his voice, but it was not necessary. The words themselves were a lash.

Now there were tears trembling in her eyes, but she dashed them away with a hand, and again took the five breaths. “All right, I transgressed. But enough to send me away? Sorja said…” she bit her lip again, and then went on “Sorja said she can’t Sort me. I didn’t want to be Sorted, anyway. There’s nothing wrong with me. It’s just a transgression. I’ll… I offered… I said I would accept a judgment. Make restitution.” She took another deep breath, this one with a sob in it, looking down at her hands in her lap. “There’s nothing wrong with me…!” In spite of all her attempts at control, her voice rose. “I don’t need to be Sorted.”

Daveth took a slow breath, himself, silently asking the Presence for guidance. Hard truths, sometimes, in Westmarch, where the harmony of the House was a fragile veneer over the contentious maneuverings of half-a-dozen cheriths for control of resources and influence.

There were some truths Prenya had clearly not shared with her daughter. It was always a difficult balance to strike, for a savant, between the judgment of the parent, and the well-being of the child. There was no doubt, too, that Prenya could make things difficult for a mere savant, in the House schola.

Even so.

“No, there’s nothing wrong with you, Sy’nda,” he said quietly. “Nothing that requires advanced Sorting, at the Aurora Chancel.”

“You know?” she looked up.

He nodded. “It was mooted with your usallo. I was asked to speak.”

“What did they say? Why am I being sent away?”

“Two questions. Which do you want answered?”

He could see the girl’s palpable effort, pulling herself back into discipline, thinking, setting aside the emotions that had been racking her, and the effort warmed his heart again to her.

She licked her lips, looked steadily at him. “Why am I being sent away?”

Now he knew why, too. He took some moments to arrange the things that must be said, while she continued to watch him.

“You know you are an heir-designate.”

She nodded. “With… what, seven others? Including the Lady’s own daughters?” She clearly didn’t think much of the status.

“Your cherith controls three seats on the Council of Masters, and your mother is all but an Elder of the Chancel.”

She nodded again, and he could see the wheels beginning to turn.

“You know there is contention between Westmarch and Ha’Arichet, and that the Cham’ai have been raiding heavily in alliance with them.”

A single short, sharp nod.

“And you know that the Sunset Chancel, and the Targali Chancel are not agreeing about the directions for the Balance Moot, and the Council of Elders not in unity.”

“My mother will be confirmed as an Elder of the Sunset Chancel. But… she’s spent a lot of time at Targali lately.”

“So I have heard. The net balance is that not everyone who holds influence within the Westmarch karil, or within the House, is in agreement with the decisions that are made, and how they are being made. And the alliances between cheriths, and the lines of amitria, are shifting. So it matters that an heir-designate, even one of seven, is becoming noticed.”

He waited, and she nodded, again. “It’s not just ‘noticed,’ though. My mother’s sister doesn’t like me, does she?”

He shrugged. “I do not know if liking enters into it. But I think it makes things easier for her here, if you are gone.”

He smiled. “But only here, of course.”

Aug 252013

Read me the story:
Tenli looked out over the Dawnwood with carefully detached appreciation. It was hardly possible to look at such a view without appreciation. It lay spread before him vast and perfect, a dream, a tapestry, something too big and deep and glorious for words. A wide sweep of sky, with overlapping layers of clouds painted in colors ranging from vividly savage to unbearably delicate. The endless cloak of the wood itself, draped over the undulating foothills in a thousand shades of green and blue and gray, textures playing with the light, absorbing it and flinging it back with gleaming reflections. A smoky line of foothills barely defined the most distant horizon, a hieroglyphic charcoal stroke joining sky and land.

It was a fine view, he thought. You could see a lot, from just over seventy meters up. Something splendid like this was easeful, as a last view. It had been a horrible life and it would be an honorless passage, but a last view of such immensity gave the ending some worth. He looked down, over the tower’s parapet. On this side, there was only the white stone of a little-used path, a strip of jaifryl bushes, the Cloister wall. The stones of the path beckoned him. Quick, sure, final.

To be sure, it would be better to simply leave—still the heart, empty the lungs, shut down, flow by flow, each thread of nihal and zhohar, and step forth, free of the disgusting, useless, misshapen, malformed body, into the final Light. But he was no Adept, yet—nor ever would be, it must be clear even to the Elders by now. And… he was not sure that even the most advanced Adepts could go unbidden into the Presence.

Still, it would be bad enough, going unreleased, via a quick flight and a hard landing. They would never take his name into the Song of Ra’anir.

But what did that matter? They never would have taken Tenli into the Song, anyway. Her they would Sing. The cruelest thought yet; leaving Tenli breathless with the pain of it. She— the one who had never existed at all— she would take his place in the Song, have that much of life, anyway. And he would be the one never to have existed.

Would it matter? He looked out over the Dawnwood again. If you choose oblivion, you’ll never know, and never care. You escape the pain, and everything else.

It would be worth it! The voice inside him raged, screamed. No more! He found his hands balling into tight, tight fists, his body weight leaning, pressing onto them against the rough stone of the parapet. No more shame, no more dreary contemplation of day after day, stretching out ahead of him and never, ever, never feeling right. Never feeling like himself. An endless procession of days, each a dreary ordeal of being… Not-Tenli. Stuck, crying, bleeding, lost…

It would just… be… over. Blessed, blessed, peace. Nothingness. Oblivion. Everything someone else’s problem. No more problems at all.

The stones below seemed to rush up to meet him, suddenly, and instinctively he pulled back, took a deep breath. The last breath? Filling his lungs, feeling his chest—detestable chest!—expand with air. Blood drumming in his ears. He could feel his spirit loosen within his consciousness. Poised, ready, wings spread. As though the stars were calling him. Leaning forward again, slowly, balancing.

Except… if he did this—now—with the disgusting, appalling blood in him—that would not be him, either. He heard Chenaru’s voice in his inner ear: “If you do not take charge of her nihal, it will take charge of you.” Then… this was all that Not-Tenli nihal twisting his mind, distorting him even further. That “last” breath escaped him, with a sob. Was followed by another.

The colors in the sky had shifted, muted. From far below floated up a three-beat chime from the Cloister’s ghanala, signaling the watchturn. Time seemed to pause, perfectly balanced between day and evening.

It felt like a defeat.

So did many victories, though. That, at least, Tenli had already learned. He just had to hold to that knowledge: “Feeling” alone is unreliable, incomplete. He watched the sky colors continue to shift. Motion rippled in the distance—wind coming up over the Dawnwood, sweeping down from the foothills. An almost horizontal ray of sunlight suddenly fell across the treetops, illuminating a swath of verdant brilliance, and then slowly faded. His pulse slowed.

Chenaru heard her novice’s footsteps coming down the stairs from the tower’s upper level, measured, unhurried. Her eyes closed, momentarily, with an unbreathed prayer of thanks to the Power, then she opened them.

He paused, in the doorway: Lithe, well-knit youthful frame; scraped, bleeding knuckles; eyes shuttered over with discipline. He drew in a breath in the manner of one about to speak, but then let it slowly out again, without a word.

She nodded to him: Payndi to novice. “You will do well to care for your hands before you begin assisting with meal preparation.”

There was nothing in her tone but calm observation, but Tenli suddenly felt the roiling chaos within recede further, and a light warmth, like a cloak against those internal winds, fold itself around his heart.

Feb 192013

Read me the story
vivid deathThe evening after she raised Veran Banner, the Lady drew me aside, after the daysend meal.

“Ilvren, I need you to return, now, to thinking as a Guardian.”

This I had been anticipating. Raising Veran Banner now could mean only one thing—that the Lady had determined to continue resisting the barbarian invaders, and that implied military action of some variety.

“My life is Veran’s, Lady.”

She looked at me for a long moment, then nodded. “Let us, then, summarize what is known. First: The invaders are indeed techno-barbarians, world-killers from the Hub. They issue their demands in the name of a place called Klaros.”

This was new information to me and had doubtless been included in the information brought by Captain Matyas’ bird relay. “Alas, Lady, the study of the Hub and its many powers and worlds was not part of my Guardian training. I can tell you nothing of these particular barbarians.”

She accepted disappointment philosophically. “Second: The King perished at a great battle in the foothills of Quavi north of Traaki Citadel, to the west of Gallyvaran Pass, nine- no, ten, now- days ago.” She canted her head. “Speculate upon the implications of this, please.”

I was already feeling the old thought-patterns sliding into place. It was not dissimilar to a planning exercise during Practice Wars.

“We know the blood-banners were sent forth the day we set forth from Bellflower House. That leaves a period of nine days for the levies and Militias to gather to their muster-points. The Traaki Citadel was already overcome, so the principal gathering would have been at either Nendaari House or the Charter City of Pequavil. Both are designated muster points. Nine days…” I tried to recall what I had known of the strength estimates for those karils, but most of my actual experience had been in the west.

“Perhaps eighteen thousand Militia, and another sixty thousand levies. The supply caches at Pequavil, Missar Valley, Old Syxarth, and Nendaar Gorge would have been available, and anything scavenged from Traaki.”

She frowned. “But Traaki was destroyed on the first day.”

I realized that she would, in all probability, know little of the matters concerning the Guardians and the Emergency Protocols.

“If the Captain of a Citadel judges an attack to be of clearly overwhelming force, his primary objective becomes to enable as many Guardians as possible to escape, using secret ways, and taking as much as possible of the Citadel’s materiel. It is certain that at Traaki, Captain Erillas will have made that decision.”

Her brows were drawn together, assimilating this. She nodded for me to continue.

“In any case, Lady, however many Guardians survived to fight at Quavi, they will all have perished quickly. To preserve the King’s life, and remove him from the battle zone to a planned fallback fortification would have been the task of the most skilled and best-equipped fighters that the Marshal could appoint. If this was not accomplished, it would seem to indicate that these Klarosians attacked in overwhelming force, and quickly destroyed all of the Royal forces.”

“It’s likely, however, that the Mayor of the Palace and other key Royal Officers will have not been at the battle site, and some may have survived. They will be making their way to dispersed muster points, and enquiries there may give us more information. Information is what we need the most. We cannot formulate much more than a broad strategy until we know more about what we are facing.”

Again, she nodded. “And that broad strategy…”

“Well, the basic strategy in a barbarian invasion scenario has always been the same, Lady.”

Her eyes darkened, the pupils dilating with emotion, but she did not speak, merely nodded again for me to continue.

“Increase the cost of their objective to where they will abandon the attempt to achieve it.”

“And what is that strategy likely to cost us?” She asked, her tone both dryly ironic, and curiously fearful, as though she knew the answer but hoped to be proven wrong.

“Lives, Lady. Many, many lives. Perhaps millions.”

Her eyes dropped, and there was a long silence, before she thanked and dismissed me.

We stayed another night at the Lyrin Chancel. The Lady sent one of the marsh women back with a message for Captain Matyas; she left with the Chancel’s debt-send in the form of metal slugs and powdered dryland herbs. The rest of the morning, the Lady spent with Leifara and Canon Lennari, preparing the messages that would send the banner forth throughout all Veran. No more, just now, than that the blood-banner of Veran was raised—that would suffice to let all the karils and Great Houses know that she lived, and thus Veran lived, and the world-killers had not prevailed.

After daymeal, I was summoned to Canon Lennari’s chambers. He and Elder Kevrilaasya, Leifara and the Lady, were gathered there, discussing Chancel business. The Canon and the Elder greeted me politely, and then took their leave.

“Ilvren, we must set forth the possibilities for our course,” the Lady began, without preamble. She seemed less weary and tense than at the banner-raising.

I nodded. “I am at Veran’s service.”

“I must assume that the Marshal of the Guard is dead, and the eastern and western Captains-Major, too. I have no experience in military matters, nor do I feel hopeful that military action—as I understand it, and my understanding is limited, I grant—will serve our purpose well. Nevertheless, it is a fight, and I must now lead warriors. You must teach me what you can.”

I nodded.

“You told me of Citadel Captains’ strategies—buying time for Guardians to escape, for the salvage of weapons and materials.”

“Yes. In the Protocols, that strategy goes by the name of Relnara, after the plant that scatters itself as it dies, to live again from each piece.”

She smiled. “How apt.”

“Precisely so, Lady. Like relnara nodules, surviving Guardians will be dispersing themselves as widely as possible, and seeking the resources which will enable them to raise a new generation of fighters.”

“Ahhhh…” Her eyes narrowed in comprehension, and she nodded for me to continue.

“Dispersal helps to avoid competition and make efficient use of resources, and increases the chances that some may avoid the notice of our invaders, as the relnara escape the rootling snouts of mountain talgar.”

“And how should Veran use this resource?”

“We do not yet have enough information to determine that, Lady. We must know more of the enemy.”

Her brows drew together. “But you were a Guardian, Ilvren—surely you know how barbarians fight?”

“In general I do. But as to particulars—there are thousands of worlds in the Hub. They share some technology and an economic framework, but little else. How an enemy fights is only one aspect of the intelligence we need to be effective against them. Why they fight… who they are, how they conceive of themselves… what tactics they favor, what they avoid… their strategic biases…” I shrugged. “It is all important.”

Her eyes were on mine, intent, narrowed a little. “I see. It is like striking a balance. You can’t be effective until you understand how all the elements fit together. How will we learn this?”

I had been turning an idea over in my head for some time. Not an attractive idea to me, personally, but personal considerations no longer held merit.

“We are making for the Westmarch. There is one there who might provide a starting place.”

“A Westmarcher?”

I nodded. “He is the brother of Westmarch’s mother’s mother. He served four terms in the Guardians and became Elder Preceptor of the War Academy, before he retired. The Hub and its worlds were his particular study—I believe he even took ship with an Independent Fleet trader once, and visited some Hub worlds. Back in my mother’s time.”

“If he is still alive,” I added, belatedly. “Arrestar must be over a hundred and twenty by now.”

“We will hope he is still alive.”

Nov 092012

Read me the story:
Brilliant red fungi growing in bright green mossy surrounding.It was a four-day journey from Dev’rash Cloister to the Ra’anir Chancel. A younger woman might have made it in two, but L’anriyl was over ninety, and she chose to take her time. Besides, it gave her the opportunity to observe the terrain, and think about the upcoming Moot.

The first two days were easy- a bantan brought them down the lakes to Mirdenay on the southeast shore of Rath Lake. A night’s rest at the Lakewarden’s Station restored her wonderfully. They made an early start the next day, L’anriyl disdaining the folding hoverchair they’d packed, but prudently perching the solar charger atop her kilay’s bundle. She set out with long, easy strides that matched the younger ones without apparent effort.

They crested the low rise that lipped the Bright Valley, behind the eastern shore slopes of Rath Lake, shortly after mid-day. Before them, the valley unrolled lush and vivid, copses of upland forest, punctuated with the open spaces of meadow and the unraveling skein of riparian lowlands. Here and there, just discernible at this distance, the network of roads and hamlets delineated a human presence. Conscious of the others’ assessing looks—she’d been noticeably slowing, the last hour or so, and the uphill slope had definitely taxed her—L’anriyl called a halt.

“Let’s eat here. And Ne’khat, you can go ahead and break out the chair, if you’d be so kind.” She tacitly admitted that she’d reached the point where she would slow them down more by trying to walk, than by using the air-cushion chair.

It was the down side of being an Elder in chronology as well as rank. L’anriyl perched on the slight bank that defined the road margin, and enjoyed the upside, watching serenely as the others went about the business of preparing a daymeal, unpacking and unfolding the chair, and attaching the powercell and charger.

Cenna brought her a napkin with two journeyrolls of mixed grains, seeds, and nuts bound in soft herb-flavored kounne and wrapped with flat, chewy journeybread. Sunairi brought cold pavi to drink, and a crunchy, sweet biscuit with a filling of mellot preserves, and they all seated themselves. Her kilay looked at her expectantly. Ne’khat was fedranh, born and raised in the high Vallars, and a devout believer.

The offworlder with them had already indicated he had no particular beliefs and was offended by none, and the others were at least moderately devout, so a blessing would not come amiss, she supposed.

“We offer gratitude that Veran feeds us, and we bless our company by the Power that sustains us, the Presence that inspires us, and the Light that guides our steps. May we never want for discernment of the Balance.”

Long prayer before meals was a nuisance. She nodded for the others to dig in, and set the example by taking a bite of journeyroll.

The offworlder was seated next to her. He’d been visiting the Cloister for nearly a year, but she’d had little contact with him. Then he’d asked the privilege of observing the Balance-Moot, and the Canon had seen no reason to deny it. He’d been a pleasant companion, speaking little and taking a cheerful part in the various journey-tasks. She smiled at him.

“I have never met an offworlder before you,” she told him. “Tell me, Sain El-..Ellgradis,” she stumbled slightly over the unfamiliar phonemes, “how this journey finds you?”

He smiled “It finds me well, Elder. It was my first opportunity to journey by bantan, and see so much of the Lakes. And I am looking forward to seeing a Balance-Moot. Though I have been seven yearturns among the Chancels and Cloisters, this will be my first opportunity to see a Balance taken.”

L’anriyl calculated mentally. “This will be my eleventh Balance, sixth as Scalemistress. The Presence be with us! It will not be an easy Balance to strike, I fear.”

“Why is that?”

The others had been listening, now L’anriyl nodded to her kilay to respond.

“The last Balance, more than ten years past, was a difficult one. A good many of the Holders Minor along the northern shore were disappointed of their hopes for greater investment-rights. Some blamed the Gatherers’ Guilds, some blamed each other. There was a series of ugly bloodfeuds, for several years after.” Ne’khat’s tone was curt, not quite to the border of discourtesy. Nearly twenty years in lowland Chancels and Cloisters had won from the fedranhi a reluctant concession of humanity for the rest of Veran, but the mountain insularity remained when it came to offworlders. L’anriyl suspected there was another source of tension, as well. The off-worlder was a good-looking fellow, in an exotic way.

A faint line appeared between Ellgradis’ brows. “I don’t understand. I thought that a Balance under the Great Law has no jurisdiction in Constitutional management?”

Cenna chuckled. She seemed to like the offworlder. “Well, I’m as fond of Ra’nethi shallon as the next person, but if it comes to a choice of where to expand investment shares, Lord Ra’anir can hardly be blamed for allocating the rights to Guilds and small-holders.”

Ellgradis’s brows drew together a little more as he digested this, then offered, “So… the Holders Minor were hoping for larger investment right in agricultural production for the shal crop. But the right went to gathering and smallholding? Aren’t those normally lower in the zhahir?” He referred to the measure used to calculate the value of investment shares.

L’anriyl gestured to the Dev’rytaran Herald. “Sunairi? It’s a Herald’s calculation.”

He shrugged. “It’s a Lord’s calculation, in the final analysis. But, look— the zhahir is basically an arbitrary monetary value, a legal fiction. Lord Ra’anir had the choice of righting half a dozen Holders Minor to increase shal production, or righting the Gatherers’ Guilds. Guildfolk generally cluster in small holdings or hamlets, and although they’re denser in cluster population impact, they’re strung out to have a much lower cahrrhan cost in any one niche. So they support a larger karil-right— greater population. Ra’anir Valley had two bad waves of barren-fever seventeen and eighteen years ago. Work it out.”

The offworlder nodded. “So, Lord Ra’anir opted for population. But why were the Bloodfeuds focused on the Guilds? Wasn’t the Holders’ Minor’s issue with Lord Ra’anir?”

Ne’khat’s jaw dropped. “Call challenge on their liege Lord?” The unspoken “only an outlander would think of something that stupid” hung tangibly in the air. L’anriyl judged it was time to move on. She shook her napkin, and asked Cenna for the waste-kit. The others took the hint, and started packing up.

When she rejoined the groups, Ne’khat had started the chair. It hovered at about forty centimeters, the aircushion generator humming gently. It was a costly item, and L’anriyl still felt a flare of resentment at the debt-balance, but she knew she wasn’t up to a long march, and if they were to reach the shelter of Blessingcopse Wayhouse for the night’s halt, she couldn’t slow them any more than necessary. With a little sigh, she climbed into the chair. It sank slightly, but the road from Mirdanay to Varantar was dressed, so she didn’t bother to adjust it.

She looked at the charge indicator. The reservoir was full, but the intermittent sunlight promised only a moderate offset. Debt take it. She’d use the directionals; if the charge failed she’d just have to put up with being pushed the rest of the way.

Ne’khat was already behind the chair, though, fiddling with the handle. “Leave that,” she ordered. “I’ll use the directionals.”

“Yes, Elder.” He collapsed the handle without comment, and she allowed him to help maneuver the chair up the slope and onto the road crown.

By mid-afternoon, she was fidgeting a bit. If they stopped to collapse the cursed chair, it would delay them. Or, someone would have to push the empty chair just to give her a chance to walk the fidgets out. She sighed. If she stayed put and allowed her kilay to push the chair, she could at least withdraw her attention inward.

On the other hand, she’d already observed several anomalies that would need regarding in the Moot. Cenna and Ne’khat were good, but you could never have too many angles of perception.

Marin Ellgradis was walking beside her chair, matching his steps to her pace. She glanced at him, curiously. “Sain Ellgradis?”

He nodded, gravely. “Debt-favor, Elder?”

She considered. “Speak.”

“Favor me, can you tell me more of the Balance Moot, as we travel?”

Here was a solution. “No debt, Sain, if you will push this cursed chair for a bit, and allow me to walk beside you.”

Ellgradis sent a flicker of a glance at her kilay, but nodded politely. “Mine still the debt, Elder, but thanks.”

She disengaged the directional control on the aircushion and let the chair hover. The offworlder steadied it unobtrusively as she climbed out, and then engaged the handle, turning the chair on its cushion so that he was pulling it along with his right hand. He knew better than to offer her his left arm, and did not even flicker a glance over his shoulder when he felt Ne’khan looming up behind them.

Oh, that was better! She felt her senses sharpening as the walking increased her bloodflow. “What is it you wish to know, Sain Ellgradis?”

“Marin, favor me, Elder.”

“Marin, then. You have seen the Little Balances, have you not?”

“Yes. Although “Little” seems an inexact description. At the Midwinter Estimate there were nine hundred and seventy-two Reckonings considered.”

“And that but a tithe of the kaaril-lore,” she was amused. “You found it over-comprehensive?”

He shook his head. “No! No, I realize it was only a survey—but—” he hesitated.

She glanced at his face, sideways and upwards. A person wore such an expression when trying to formulate a question without giving insult. Interesting. She could almost see him abandon the query, and her curiosity got the better of her. She prompted him. “But?”

He let out a little explosive breath. “Well— you could have done the whole thing in a few minutes with just one lociridium processor. I know you have them—I saw them in the labs at Vaathir Chancel. I know they’re used at Holla Fari, at the Observatory.” He glanced at her, to see the degree of offense he might have given, but she was smiling.

“You think machines would make our jobs easier, is that it?”

He nodded.

She returned the nod. “They would, indeed.”

He waited.

“Many of the things we do could be done more quickly with machines, it is true. But think further along.” It was a favorite saying among the Savants of Veran.

“I have thought, but I have not seen,” he said, humbly. If they used just a few computing arrays, they could do all they did and more, with fewer people, faster.

“If we did these things with machines, we would become good at using machines,” L’anriyl said. “It is true, we have some. Not many. But it forces a choice. We can cultivate the ability to make a machine, and to make that machine do a job, or we can cultivate the human abilities required for the job.” She canted her head. “I know that these machines can do things of amazing complexity, with amazing speed. That they can be taught to make choices based on millions of factors, more factors even than the conscious human brain can begin to encompass.”


“Yes, ‘ah.’ Just so. I heard you, at last Midwinter, ask the Canon if these are “paranormal” abilities. I believe you were referring to some of the Games?”

He remembered the feats of biocontrol, the virtuosic displays of memory, ability, seemingly preternatural reflex and anticipation, and nodded.

“Yes. I see. I think I see, anyway. You do have your own science.”

Her nose wrinkled. “Science is a very misleading word. You’ve looked at our Great Law, if I recall. Do you remember the opening words?”

“‘Veran is the evolution of humanity to our world.’”

“Just so. Machines can ‘adapt.’ Machines can identify the causes in a causation chain. But only humans can ask ‘why?’”

Her steps were slowing. “And that is perhaps the best short explanation I can give you of a Balance Moot. It is where we ask ‘why?’” She glanced over her shoulder, lifted an eyebrow at her kilay. “And now it is time for me to resume my chair, Marin.”

Sep 142012

Aerial view of estuarial terrain, with rivers draining into pale blue and lavender marshwater.As soon as the reflection of dawn showed, Captain Matyas lifted the anchors and allowed the ship to drift carefully eastward, although shore was no more than a hint of darker darkness against the farthest horizon. Finally he pointed to a change in the wave pattern. “I daren’t go further. Those are the Grinders… with the tide flowing, less than two meters below the surface.”

The longboat was hauled from its resting place in the waist, and lifted to fix it on an apparatus that hung it over the side of the rail. With half a dozen of the strongest rowers among the crew, we clambered into it and were lowered to the water. Leifara and I took our turns at the oars, spelling rowers as we followed the waves toward the distant shore.

About halfway there, the man in charge of the rowers handed me a signal mirror. If none of the marsh folk could see it, it would be a long and dangerous passage through the maze of twisting channels. Marsh predators are aggressive and deadly.

I took a rowing bench when we reached the Grinders, so that the crewman in charge of the longboat could lean out, over the prow, and call directions to the steersmen. The boat checked, repeatedly, and zigged and zagged amongst row after row of what looked like submerged, needle-sharp mountain tops. The further we went, the more the waves subsided, until by the time we had passed the last ridge, we rowed across a surface like a lake on a calm day. It was hot, too. The rowers were all sweating freely. The Lady called for a halt, and we passed waterskins around.

A rower who had been watching the dark smudges of marsh in the distance started. “There—a flash, I think!”

I glanced up at the degree of the sun. We would need two mirrors to return the signal, now, but with a little angling it was easily done. Anxiously, we scanned the direction the rower had indicated. Finally—more flashes. The crewman nodded. “They will send a guide.” I heaved a sigh of relief. I hadn’t relished the thought of trying to make our way through those fetid, tangled weeds harboring a dozen kinds of death at every turn.

The promised guide was two women, almost naked and smeared with a bizarre pattern of pigments. One had her head shaved and was slung with collectors’ bags, the other wore her long dark hair in marshlocks and had an elaborate neck-collar of claws and teeth. Its center point reached halfway down her breast. They both emerged from a tangle of graysedge and stood silently awaiting the boat.

The crewman standing at the front of the boat gestured for the rowers to stop, and hailed them in Southspeech. There was some rapid back-and-forthing—I don’t have any of the Marshtongue, there were few even in the College of Arms who spoke it—and finally the one with the collecting bags made a gesture.

The crewman turned to us. “We can approach, now. When we are close enough, they will examine us and determine whether they will conduct us to the dry.”

We rowed slowly in. The two women watched, warily. Their appearance was strange, even eerie, although I know that the substances they anoint their bodies with are entirely practical in function—protective coatings against certain types of water parasites, scent-deadening chemicals to make them invisible to some predators, camouflage to reduce their visibility to sight hunters, and other uses. Still, it had the effect of making them look a little inhuman, or like a cross between humans and some marsh creature.

When the prow of our boat was less than a meter from the swaying tips of the young grayreeds, the collector held up her hand, and we stopped the boat. We sat in silence as they looked us over, then the collector leaned closer to the boat and sniffed, several times, smelling us as an animal might. She looked us over, then spoke in the common tongue: “You would go to the dry?”

The Lady answered, in Southspeech. The two women’s eyes widened, and the hunter leaned over, hand cupped, and lifted some of the clear brownish water from among the reeds where they stood. She offered it to the Lady, her eyes wide.

The Lady held out both of her hands to receive the water, then lifted them with a swift, ritualistic gesture to let the water fall on her head and shoulders. She spoke again, and both of the marsh women bowed. The collector gestured, pointing to the open channel, and the two women set off. We followed with only two oars and the steersman—there was barely enough width in the channel to row.

They led us through a shifting maze of channels that sometimes doubled back on themselves, splitting and rejoining and turning this way and that—no one but a marshlander could have found that path. The sun was mostly behind us, but again we turned north, south, sometimes even back on our track into the sun for a time. Now and again we would have to ship the oars, and the collector would slip into the water and tow the boat with a rope, thrown to her by the crewman in front.

We stopped occasionally, for no reason I could discern, and twice the hunter raised an odd, animal- or bird-like cry, which was answered from a distance. We proceeded in silence. When Leifara murmured something to the Lady, the collector turned to her and made an emphatic gesture for silence. Around us, the wind kept up a constant low song in the tangles of marsh growth, underlaid with a slow lapping of water.

Once, the wind dropped, and the collector put out a hand to halt the boat, gesturing with the other for silence. She and the hunter both froze, unmoving as stone, and we tried to do likewise. The silence stretched until our ears, accustomed, began to register the small noises of the marsh—insect song, the rustling of vegetation agitated by the passage of creatures under water or on the surface, the cry of a distant bird. We held that stillness, that silence, for what seemed like a lifetime, until there was a sudden explosion of sound beyond us and to the right among the sedges: A hellish, predatory-sounding cry and a desperate splashing, unbelievably loud.

Some of us started, I know I was among them—I could not help it, the sound was so unexpected. A shadow arose where the sound had been: A nofra, spreading its huge vanes in an attempt to catch and engulf the warm-blooded noisemakers it had sensed in its hunting grounds.

How big is a nofra? I am not familiar with all the varieties; I know some are larger than others. This one was big enough—larger than the mainsail of our ship, it loomed, extended to the point of being semi-translucent, undulating slightly in the still air, seeking a breeze or air current that it could use to waft itself in our direction. It was distant enough, I thought, that it could not engulf us simply by folding over. The hunter’s fingers were working in a pouch that hung at her hip, the motion silent, small enough not to raise betraying air currents.

Even a very huge nofra could not engulf us all—their normal prey is the hyarthem, a big creature of the themfi order, larger than a human, but not by much. But the speed at which those vanes could contract, engulfing the victim and constricting with incredible force, could reduce its prey to a digestible jelly in perhaps fifty heartbeats. They wouldn’t actually eat humans, but by the time they determined that their catch was inedible it was too late for the human in question.

The reed tops rippled—the wind was returning. Now, while the creature was angling its vanes, trying to catch the moving air at an angle that would allow it to lift, the hunter moved with incredible speed, lifting something to her lips and blowing with astonishing force. A fine jet of particles burst from the end of the tube, catching the leading edge of the nofra’s vane.

With a high shrieking keen, it collapsed, shrinking, folding, contracting its vanes; disappearing among the vegetation. I was not the only one to draw a shaky sigh of relief. The Lady murmured something very quietly, and the collector glanced at her, and nodded. The air was alive with windsong again, and we continued on.

Eventually we reached a place where the marsh women instructed us to leave the boat—there were no channels remaining wide enough for its passage. We sorted ourselves into a single file, the hunter at the front, the collector at the tail, and stepped very carefully indeed, following routes as tortuous as the boat channels had been, and even more difficult to discern. Once a crewman stepped unwarily, and sank up to the knee in slimy water, drawing an angry look from the marsh women and condemning us to another long period of stonestruck silence, with the reddening glow of sunset painting the vegetation around us.

It was twilight, with night on the horizon, when we reached “the dry.” The transition was so gradual as to be almost undetectable, but finally we strode on firm ground, among more grasses than sedge and reeds, and a discernable foot trail among them. The marsh women would have left us, then, but after another short conversation with the Lady, they consented to accompany us, although they were plainly ill-at-ease when we reached a road, packed stone and sand. They kept looking about, warily. The predators in the dry were not their predators, they plainly had little trust in the crewmen and myself, although we were all armed.

Along one side of the road, rock cairns appeared at regular intervals, perhaps fifty meters apart. As full dark descended, phosphorescent lichens on these began to glow softly, guiding us until palanahr rose greenly over the flat horizon to our left. It was near the full, and bright enough to pale the lichen-glow and keep us to the road. It had risen a quarter of the sky when a figure appeared on the road before us.

“Who travels Lyrin?” came the challenge, mildly.

I answered for us: “Ilvren, Adept of the College of Arms, in the service of Veran. Who challenges the servant of Veran?”

“Narneth of Lyrin, in service to the Chancel.”

“Then we are well met, for we are bound for the Chancel, Narneth of Lyrin.”

It was only a short trek further, the road curved inland again, around a ridge of upthrust rock, and beyond we could see the lights and bulk of the Chancel against the dark eastern horizon. When we passed through the outer gate, into the light of the globes set on high posts at the entrance to the inner Chancel, we could see the porter plainly, and the porter could see us.

His eyes narrowed as they perceived the marsh women, standing close together a little apart from the rest of us, and then widened again when they rested on the Lady’s face. He bowed. “Lyrin is honored beyond words, Lady.”

She nodded. “You honor me. We are in haste, Wandan. Is Lennari awake still?”

He nodded. “I will conduct you to him.” He glanced at us, at the marsh women. “Um… all of you, Lady?”

She sensed his disapproval of the marsh women, and her own disapproval answered it. “My daughters Inri and Olani, Wandan. Without their guidance we might have perished in the marshes, yes, even me.”

“You… you came from the gulf?” The porter’s astonishment at hearing the Lady speak so of the marshfolk was compounded with amazement at our passage. He bowed to the marsh women. “My pardon, marsh sisters, for discourtesy. I stand in your debt. Lyrin Chancel stands in your debt.”

The collector nodded, gravely. “Debt is taken, pardon is given, dryman.”

The next morning, after we had (thanks be!) bathed, eaten, slept in beds, and eaten again, we assembled in the inmost courtyard of the Chancel, by the young k’blad tree that had been once a limb of the Great Tree itself, in Aurora Chancel’s courtyard. Lennari, Canon of the Chancel, held a length of loose-woven dennicloth, undyed and unmarked. Another Elder of the Chancel held a cushion before him, bearing a very sharp knife. Leifara carried her own yat-akkan in a scabbard by her side, and a sharp, short-handled shearing tool.

The Lady was very pale, and there were dark circles under her eyes. I don’t know if she had slept. She had dismissed us to the care of Adepts of the Cloister, with orders to sleep, but when we retired, she was still closeted with Lennari. She shook her head, and looked at the Canon. “Eldest, there is no tradition for this, thank the Power, and I wish none to arise. But what I purpose here is a very deep and perilous matter, and there would be no harm, I think, in a moment of prayer for those believers among us.”

We bowed our heads, all of us, I think, though I did not look. I am not, myself, a believer, but there is no hypocrisy in showing respect for the beliefs of others. I misspeak. I believe, in my fashion, that there are powers greater than humanity, unsearchable and vast, and perhaps they have something to do with the existence of this universe of matter and energy that we know. But who can say? And whether they concern themselves with the small affairs of humankind—well, there I doubt, in truth. But that is my own feeling, based on my own experience, and I would speak for—or against—no others.

After a silence, heavy with a growing tension, the Lady raised her head, and nodded to Leifara, who stepped forward, and approached the tree. She laid her hand on its bole, and whispered the invocation of the Foresters. With the edge of the shearing tool, she cut her finger, and bent, allowing the blood to drop on an exposed root. Then she stepped back.

The habit of the k’blad tree’s growth is thus: In its youth, its lower branches run long and straight and slender out from the bole in an upward-spiraling pattern. The lowest ones grow very long, eventually bending to touch the ground and root, so that an old k’blad is not one tree, but many, unless a Forester shape it otherwise. The upper branches are shorter, and stouter, but branching more profusely, in contrast to the lower branches’ straight, slender run. Wood from the k’blad tree lives for a very long time, even severed from the parent trunk. If the cut end is buried in earth, the wood will throw leaves, and even shoots, and eventually root itself.

Leifara approached one of the lower branches, and with a quick, hard stroke of the shearing tool, lopped it from the bole, leaving a short collar and a clean cut. She held the branch—now the standard of Veran Banner—in her left hand, and bowed thanks to the tree.

Then Lennari and the other Elder approached the Lady, with the length of cloth and the knife. The Elder murmured something to her, and she nodded, and held out her left arm. The Elder tied a ligature around it, above the elbow, and the Lady picked up the knife. Carefully, she made a small cut—some blood welled, but not much. She stood, holding the wrist upward, blood oozing sluggishly, while the Canon and the Elder unfolded the cloth and spread it, holding it in front of her.

Then she nodded, and with a quick gesture, released the ligature, so that the blood flowed freely, pooling on her wrist and hand, and beginning to drip to the ground. She appeared to set her teeth, and then lifted her arm in a gesture that splattered her blood upon the cloth, making the blood-banner of Veran. She did this three times, then let her arm drop, staring with eyes like stones at the bloody pattern she had made.

The Elder moved forward quickly, and lifted her hand, nodding to an Adept standing nearby. Together, they wiped her arm and hand, and applied a poultice of timik to the cut, binding it.

Leifara, meanwhile, had stripped the shoots from the standard, saving the largest. Now she took the cloth, and with a stout twist of denni, bound it in a long, spiraling stitch to the shoot, and with a thong of tanned talgar hide, bound that in turn to the standard. Then, holding the standard carefully parallel to the ground, she turned to the Lady, and went down on one knee, offering it to her.

And the Lady took the still-damp banner, and raised the standard. The bloody cloth hung unmoving; there was no wind to stir it.

We all dropped to one knee, and then the Lady spoke.

“I, Kuinyvara, fifty-ninth Lady of Veran, raise this banner of blood against the enemies of Veran. Let there be no peace until it is laid down!”

Sep 062012

Landscape-aerial view of dry, ridged land.So the three of us, the Lady of Veran, myself, and Leifara, Veran Herald, set forth. She told none where she planned to go, so that there were none among the Royal forces who could betray her whereabouts. There were ways enough to maintain communication. Every Kingsroad is lined with stations for the Royal Post, every twenty to forty kilometers. And all of those stations are linked by wired telegraphy, its conduits buried securely beneath the road verges.

Several of the major Guilds and some Great Houses also have wired telegraphy systems, some even linked to local stations of the Post, and thus capable of relaying information—at some cost—as quickly as the Post itself. There is a substantial resource debt for such service, naturally, but Guilds such as the Financers’, and Great Houses like the Westmarch or Clearwater or Kencevri can reckon such debts and still regard the worth of the service.

Even the resource-frugal communications vectors can attain considerable speed. Royal Post riders, for instance, carrying a bag marked “Quick,” can traverse the length of the Royal Road, from Chorral in the East, on the shore of the Melliviran Sea, to the Hall of the Great House of the Westmarch—sixty-seven hundred and fifty-three kilometers—in just over twenty days, in summer time. A bird relay can make that distance in as little as eight days. Line-of-sight or sound signal relays cover shorter distances but are even faster, and LOS channels can be linked by bird relays or Post telegraphy for very fast transmission, indeed. And such systems are redundant, so that no one system destroyed or put out of action imperils all communications.

We went the first day afoot, by ordinary roads until we made the trail for Blackleaf Gap Ranger Station. There was little traffic on the roads, due to the Solstice—everyone was home, or a-hunt, celebrating the Festival of Air. We could see kites and balloons in the distance as we passed over High Yris bridge, where the people of Carn Yris were having their Festival. At the Ranger Station that night, we rested, but set out before dawn, taking mounts and a Ranger guide through the Gap to the Hasvé Trail. We changed mounts at the House Post stations on the Trail for as long as we kept to it, and so made good time.

Those first two days there was no time to think. We concentrated only on making ground, as much ground as we could, grudging the minutes spent in rest and taking food, usually at a Post station.

We crossed the Mirissi River and left the last Post station just before midday on the third day, again making afoot across the hillocky margin between the Mirissi and the veld country. In front of us unfolded the Reyai plains, the summering grounds of the endris herds. We continued on more slowly, and I could see the Lady scrutinizing the terrain like a Ranger. Once or twice she paused, to inspect more closely some clump of vegetation or cluster of rocks.

Finally she held up a hand: Stop here. She cast about, looking for something, and selected some clumps of dry vegetation that had been blown by the wind into a cleft along a low ridge. With this, she kindled a fire, and sprinkled it with water from Her bottle, sending a thin twist of distinctly purplish smoke high into the air. When it burned out, we sat, waiting. The sun had visibly dropped to the horizon when I perceived movement there.

They rode the stocky, low-slung mounts of the veld, the ri’lhar, relatives of the heavy draft animals used among the eastern lowlands. Not fast, but a ri’lhar can go a great many hours in a steady, ground-eating lope without stopping for food or drink.

As they approached, the Lady stood, awaiting them calmly—when they approached closer, she spoke in the Yrvanni dialect of the Arayai. I had heard that she had spent more than one year among the Irjharai. She seemed fluent. I, on the other hand, had studied the Yrvanni, among other Low Veran tongues, at the College of Arms. But I’d achieved little more than a cursory grasp of structure and a few basic phrases of greeting and good manners.

The riders—three men and a woman—dismounted, and the one wearing a heavily embroidered drape across his shoulders bowed, and gestured for a debt-favor. The Lady walked towards them, three steps, and each of them passed her, crouched and picked a handful of the tough, low-growing vegetation on which she had trodden. They stowed their prizes carefully about their persons, and then the leader nodded to Leifara and I.

They made us free of their karil, polite disclaimers of indebtedness were exchanged, and one of the riders went off, to return with additional mounts. That night, we ate fresh-roasted gerrit, and river tikash simmered in endris milk, and milk pudding with tarella fruit.

And we learned more of the barbarian invasion. The Arayai, like all of the Irjharai, have their own system of scouts and message-transmission, and they make extensive use of message-birds. They told of smoke over Aurora City, and over the Citadels of the Guardians. The King had dispatched the blood-banners, and the vassal-levies and bladesmen and militias were already on the move to their muster-points. Little was yet known of the enemy, but it was clearly more than a smash-and-grab raid.

That was when I, at least, realized that the Veran I knew was already changed irrevocably. Perhaps we could convince these invaders that whatever they came for would cost more than it was worth to them—but even if we did, change would come. Whatever particular circumstances induced their assault, distance and poverty (by Hub standards) no longer protected us. Without those protections, our future would be very different than what we would all have imagined just days ago.

The next day we began another long, hard ride down the Reyai Plains to the Great East Road that sundered it from the Aravan Barrens. It was easy the first two days, when small streams and springs from the Mirissi still intersected our route regularly. But once we passed far enough south, the smaller watercourses were all dried up for the summer, awaiting the elgeth storms. We had to carry every drop of water, and rely on our Arayai guide to find the occasional hidden wellspring.

Unaccustomed to riding, I developed painful blisters by the end of the first day. Our guide, a taciturn young woman called S’tiri, noticed my painful movements when we dismounted for rest. She seemed moderately amused, but vanished into a stand of brush as the setting sun swept the sea of dry vegetation with color.

Leifara unrolled a small thermal sheet and set a skin bag of water on it to heat. The Lady busied herself with care of the ri’lhar, unfastening the riding harnesses, and pouring water from the larger skins into a drinking bag for each animal. I offered to help, holding the drinking bags for each beast, but I lacked the knack and the first one managed to slobber quite a bit of water onto the ground. She showed me the trick of holding one side of the bag tight under the lower jaw, forcing them to drink more slowly.

By the time Leifara had brewed shirith, flavoring it with a handful of dried berries and herbs, S’tiri had returned, and the long shadows of sunset had merged into a purple dusk.

“We must watch this night,” the guide said, her hands busy with items pulled from various pockets or pouches on her person. The unfamiliar construction and the accent confused me at first. “Watch the night?”

She shook her head, amusement briefly flickering again. “No, watch. There are signs. I think a remsi pack nearabouts. Glows we set, yes?” Her Middle Veran was fluent but unaccustomed.

A remsi pack would be a considerable hazard if we were on its chosen hunting-grounds. They hunted nocturnally, estivating on sun-heated rocks during the day. Perhaps forty centimeters high at the shoulder, they are hexapedal, cumbrous-looking and lapped with heavy skin-scales that do not prevent them from moving with a disconcerting swiftness on the hunt. Their frontmost pair of legs are armed with envenomed retractable spines along the inner surfaces. When prey is surrounded by a pack—usually ten or twelve remsi—they dart in, one at a time, to inject their venom load. By the time the last approaches, the victim is paralyzed and the pack can feed –slowly— on the warm living flesh.

Fortunately remsi are photophobic. When their innermost eyelids peel back after sunset to allow them their nightvision, they are acutely sensitive to many light-wavelengths. We carried bioglows that could be activated by damping them with some of our precious water. Likely, they would be enough to keep a pack away, but a watch was a sensible precaution, especially since other predators of the region are not so photophobic. “Glows, certainly,” I nodded. “And a watch. Will you watch first, or shall I?”

She grinned, then, and handed me what she’d been working on—a krell leaf, wrapped around something squishy. “Here.” She pointed at my legs. “If you will ride again.” I opened the leaf and sniffed, mingled odors of herbs and animal fat. “You watch first, use this. When virath rises I watch.”

The faint green disk of palanahr had already risen over the horizon. S’tiri wandered over to collect some shirith, and I unwrapped my leggings to apply the herbal ointment. Harness galls are no small impediment, when fast travel is required. By the time I finished, Leifara joined me, bringing a drinkskin of shirith and some of the dried, spiced meat that served the Irjharai as journey food.

I was a little shy of Leifara. Veran Herald is the second-highest position a herald can reach, second only to the President of the College of Arms, and it requires advanced studies among the Cloisters as well as at the College Chancellery, and a rare degree of aptitude and skill. Although some years younger than I, Leifara had doubtless been studying and practicing heraldry since before I’d been accepted to the Citadel Pageant.

“The Aravai says there is remsi sign about,” she said. I nodded.

“For an aspiring Herald, you do not use your voice much, do you, Ilvren?”

I made no effort to hide my surprise. “Is there need?”

Leifara chuckled, then sobered. “There is need… and need. A herald is not a Singer, certainly.” She looked at me, her head tilted a bit. “You are well spoken of at the College. Welan put you at the top of your cohort.”

I shrugged. “Perhaps maturity has some advantages after all. It was hard enough to keep up with younger and faster brains.”

“Keep up with, and surpass, according to Welan. Does Welan lie?”

“Welan is a herald of great experience, and well able to polish a gova kernel until it gleams brightly as the unbroken shell.”

She smiled, slowly. “If all Guardians are so well-prepared for heraldry, perhaps the College should seek more students among those released from the Citadels.”

“The Citadels teach discipline, and is discipline not at the heart of any worthwhile endeavor?”

“True enough.” She fell silent for some moments, then glanced over at the Lady, who was damping a glow. “And she will need to draw upon every mote of discipline, every droplet, every smallest molecule.”

I watched the flattened sphere in the Lady’s hands begin to show a faint, greenish-yellow light. She looked up, then, from the work, her face oddly shadowed by the light from below, and nodded. “Great discipline will be required. Not the least, to make Port Aravas in four sunsets.”

I would have thought it impossible before the last two days’ travel, and even so, it seemed unlikely.

“There are many hundreds of kilometers to cross…”

She nodded again. “But by midday after tomorrow’s sunset, we will strike the Great East Road. From there we will take Post mounts.” She smiled, the growing light banishing the shadows from her face. “I trust you can ride a Post chepal?”

I thought of my harness galls and tried not to let the wince I felt show on my face. “I will ride a forzak, if needed, Lady.”

She canted her head, as though considering those swift, vicious predators as mounts. “We will hope that will not be necessary.” I thought I saw a gleam of humor in her eyes as she turned to set the now-bright glow atop a pile of gear.

We did make Port Aravas by sunset, four days later.

The Post station there had news: The Citadels had all fallen. The Guardians of Veran were no more. The King had mustered all of the Eastern levies for a stand against the invaders—a battle certain to be lost, with Veran swords and twirl-spears and yat-akkans against the FE cannons, plasma mortars, and forcebeams of the enemy.

We took ship from Port Aravas into a dark future.

Sep 032012

A path leading through a forest with heavy undergrowth and large, straight tree-boles.It was the third night on that wild scamper across half of Veran, the race to make Port Aravas and take ship to preserve what we could. We were in the Eastveld, the home of the Irjharai—the Arayai, nomads who follow the endris herds. Irjharai are not normally friendly to strangers and rarely grant permission for outsiders to travel in their stewardship, but they regard the Lady of Veran as one of themselves. For her, as ever, the accounting is completely different.

I was there by accident—perhaps. Certainly it was unexpected. I had taken my retirement from the Guardians nearly five years past, having served my twenty and with no taste for another twenty. I spent the last five years in Aurora City, indented to the College of Arms to learn what would make me useful when I returned home to Fahalanahr—having neither taste nor talent for clothwork, the business of my House. In the last twenty-five years I’d seen my karil four times, only once for any period of time, during my tenth-year leave. But a retired Guardian, if willing to learn a skill, is always sure of honorable work, and I thought it more than likely that herald’s training would gain me a worthy place at the Great House of Nul-Atar.

I had done well at the College and was offered advanced training, but before I made that decision I thought to travel back to Fahalanahr, where one waited for me, and discuss the matter with her. So I asked and received permission to travel east with the Royal Household on summer’s progress, planning to leave them at the Lower Pass and travel on through the Joyful Hills to that green City, Queen of the Falarin River.

The Household was in the forests covering the foothills of Yimsin Mountain for the Solstice Hunt, when the news was received. The Guardians have always had layers of contingency plans in place, to deal with the attacks of planet pirates or ordinary raiders, and yes, even the unlikely threat of a barbarian invasion. The standard equipment of the Household detachment of Guardians includes a communications link, always on, always active. If that link goes down, a countdown is automatically initiated.

There are many reasons the link might go down—the most common being weather, although that far east in midsummer the weather is as calm as it ever is. Less common is satellite malfunction, or a fault somewhere in the many strands of the triply-redundant web that links all Guardian outposts. In the event of such, the standard procedure is to wait a selected time, during which some unaffected node can re-establish the link for the duration of the storm, or during which the self-repair relays can shunt the link to working nodes. Forty-nine times of fifty, that happens before the first countdown ends.

But the other reasons the link might go down are not innocent: Planet pirates. Slavers, or ordinary raiders. Even (although this was always considered a contingency so remote as to be laughable,) a barbarian invasion. Veran has little of value to the techno-barbarian colonies of the Hub, and even slavers would generally find us too far off the regular space routes to be an economically viable source of supply. Still, it has happened, as in my mother’s time, and she was a Guardian, a veteran of the Land Festival raid, fighting off three well-equipped corsair craft of Wylenthian criminals. And it began, as expected, with an ECM burst that disabled the communications network.

So, if the first countdown runs out without the network patching itself to restore communications to the Household detachment, a second countdown is started. This longer countdown entails first-level preparations for action according to the Emergency Protocols, including ensuring that the King and other key persons may be secured quickly. It took some time to get a fix on the locator with the hunting party, and by the time the jetcar reached them, the second countdown, too, had expired. Guardians all over Veran initiated contingency plans.

By the time the hunting party returned to Bellflower House, a message-bird relay had arrived from Traaki, the nearest Citadel of the Guardians, relaying the information that they were under attack, and that weapons flashes had been observed in the Eothain Valley, approximately aligned with Aurora City. We had to consider all of Veran under attack.

There was some dispute, I remember, about how our response should be made. But the Guard-Major prevailed, insisting that the Emergency Protocols be fully implemented, in spite of the ceremonial importance of the Solstice Hunt.

I knew the Protocols, of course, from my days with the Guardians. They do change, but not so quickly or drastically that a five-years’ absence would render me ignorant. And a key Protocol is to separate, as widely as possible, the Lady of Veran from the King.

There is sound strategy behind this. First: Because the King becomes the military leader of the response, and is expected to lead the Guardians, the Levies and Militias into battle if needed—the King is a target. Most barbarian weapons are foolish, indiscriminate, destructive things that cannot distinguish between a target individual and the next person to them. So it was imperative to move the Lady from harm’s way. Second: If by some chance the King was killed in battle, it would be the Lady who must ensure the succession and provide leadership against the attackers. That was simple enough.

She listened to the debate for some minutes before she silenced them with a gesture. “I will leave now,” she said. “And I will travel fast. I will take only Veran Herald, to make the greatest distance in the least time.”

The Lady’s will is not questioned. And in ordinary times, she could travel so, if she willed. But the times were not ordinary, as many pointed out. It was her brother the King who persuaded her to take one skilled in fighting, for her protection. The Lady, by long custom, is not guarded and although her ultimate authority embraces them, the Guardians are the King’s force.

She would not take even a single Guardian from the King’s forces—all might be needed, she said.

I was no longer a Guardian. But I had been twenty years in their ranks, serving as Royal Champion nearly a dozen times, and winning much honor in the biennial Practice Wars. Yet as an Adept of the College of Arms I was also indented to the service of Veran, and my service would not outrage custom. We still worried about that, then.

Aug 302012

A vast delta of tangled threads of water debouches from colorful (yellow, reddish, green) land into a deep cobalt waterway.Our first three days’ sail were slow, agonizingly so, as the craft tacked far south, out of sight of land, to pick up the Paivai Current. At midsummer, the Captain explained, the winds along that part of the coast are contrary, blowing eastward from the mouth of the Twolight Gulf. The southern swing into the Khorden Sea would save us days’ sailing, as the Paivai would carry us westward far more quickly than weary days tacking against the winds, along the coast.

Guildfolk are sometimes criticized for their unwillingness to share the intricacies of their craft with outsiders, but I found Captain Matyas pleasantly forthcoming. Perhaps, as the Lady’s escort, I received a higher degree of courtesy.  But the Captain impressed me as one justly proud of his skill and his ship, and welcoming the opportunity to display them.

His awe of the Lady tied his tongue at first, but within a few days her warmth and quiet humor restored a natural camaraderie among the crew. It was only sometimes in the fading light of day’s end, that she would walk restlessly along from quarterdeck to forecastle, face stony with inward worries, eyes traveling to the painted western sky with something like mingled hope and dread.

On the sixth day out from Port Aravas, I was standing on the quarterdeck, watching ungainly-looking greenfins cavort in the ship’s wake, bemused with their sudden leaps and rolls. Captain Matyas had explained that the ship’s passage churned the surface area in a way that took microlife from the immediate subsurface layer, and brought it to the surface. The greenfins were enjoying the bounty, passing as much mingled water and air as possible through the membranes along the insides of their lower jaws and feasting on the foamy mixture that resulted. Greenfins would follow a ship many kilometers if it crossed their path. He pointed out two whose movements seemed curiously synchronized—a newly-mated pair—and was explaining their breeding cycle to me when he glanced up.

A white flash in the sky: Small, distant. “Aahhh…” he turned, and stepped away from the rail, watching the bird’s approach. “I believe I know this one…”

Soon the sun was glinting clearly on white wings. Its approach seemed slow, for all the swiftness of its flight, for we were moving fast. Captain Matyas had tried to explain just how fast, earlier, but I still failed to grasp the conversion between sea measures and land ones. For all our speed, the bird was steadily overtaking us, flying purposefully. Finally it seemed to descend, and Matyas lifted an arm. With a final descent and a flapping flutter of broad, powerful wings, it grasped his sleeve.

The Lady was beside us, then, with Leifara, looking at the bird as Matyas gently stroked its breast with the back of a finger, murmuring something to it in the Allar dialect. After a moment, it extended one of the broad, vane-edged wings, and attached to the wing-claw was a small band. Gently, the Captain detached it, and turned his head, calling to one of the crew to bring a frame and fresh water. When the bird’s needs were attended to, he pulled the reader from his pouch, and slipped the band into it. Wordlessly, then, he handed it to the Lady.

She took the reader from him, and studied the brief message. Although the wind of our passage stirred her hair and fluttered the edge of the scarf about her throat just as ever, she seemed to grow very still, carved like stone. She read the message several times, and finally she passed the reader back to the Captain. For some moments, she watched the sea curl and heave behind us, then she turned to Matyas.

“I will be in your debt, Captain, if you will find a way for me to contact the Lyrin Chancel before we proceed up the Penryl Seas.”

Matyas frowned, thoughtfully. “Veran’s need is my compass, Lady. But the Lyrin Chancel…  The Lyoris marshes are set behind dangerous shoals—the Grinders. It will need standing off beyond those and sending the longboat in, perhaps half a day’s rowing. I can signal, possibly the marsh folk will send a punt to meet you, but it may entail a wait of up to a day or more. And the only signal that will reach them would be a firecandle—and they are easily seen from a great distance, possibly even from Gemarin Citadel, if the barbarians are there.”

Her brows drew together as she weighed this assessment.

“No signal, then. The kibri will be in seed, we may be able to flash-signal a harvesting party from further in.”

“Lady, why the Chancel? Surely it is a risk to take the time to go in person. The Captain’s bird-relays could take your message through Firemouth, and have a response by the time we pass there.” I glanced at Matyas for confirmation, and he nodded. “That is true.”

She shook her head. “It is not information I need from Lyrin.”

The color had suddenly drained from Leifara’s face. I did not understand, looking from her to the Lady.

“There is a scion of the Great Tree growing in the central courtyard at Lyrin.” All expression was leached from Leifara’s voice. She did not sound like a Herald at all. She sounded like a very old woman.

The Lady nodded. “Leirranayhafara, will you bear Veran Banner?”

I could see the Herald’s shoulders brace even as I heard the Captain’s intake of breath.

“I am Veran Banner,” Leifara responded, “until you bid me lay down, or release me upon the Starlit Road.” Expression returned to her voice, a kind of grim exultation.

Unlike the banner of the Royal House, or the banners of the Charter Cities and Great Houses and all who hold seisin of the Royal House, Veran Banner is almost never raised. Thrice in her life, a Lady of Veran will ride or walk under her banner: At her Intelument, at the Presentation of the Heirs, and at the Intelument of her own Heir. At those times, the banner is raised, designating her supreme authority to all the karils and Houses of Veran, even the Royal House itself. But they are ceremonial occasions, important but of fixed duration and significance under the Great Law.

Not in my lifetime or the lifetime of my mother has Veran Banner risen, apart from such occasions. The last time had been the opening of the Snowmarch. We’ve been dealing with the aftermath of the generations-long wars that had caught up the old Icemarch and split apart Whitewater and Bevan’s Gift in the wake of that opening for the better part of a century. But Veran Banner was not raised for any of that, wrenching as it was. There was something of the bleak ice of those far northern karils in the Lady’s face as she nodded to Leifara, and turned away to make for the ladder-steps that led to the waist deck.

Matyas looked at me, uneasily. “Does it mean what I think it means?”

I nodded. “The King is dead. The Lady will not present an Heir to the Royal House until the Banner is laid down. Until then, she speaks with the full authority of Veran, with all the Voices.”

I glanced up to the forecastle, where she had sought refuge in intermittent spray that washed the rail. Her hands were on the rail, before her chest, her shoulders bowed. She looked, not outward into the sea, but down, at her hands. I have never seen such naked terror and vulnerability in a human form. Leifara was behind her, still and silent as a statue.

Aug 262012

Profile of a trooper in armor against a violet sky.He might have been any young militiaman, or even a Guardian-apprentice. I judged him nineteen, perhaps twenty. An age when a young man begins to believe he’s an adult, and that the four or five years’ experience he’s accumulated actually amount to something. A dangerous age.

And this youngster wouldn’t get any older.

We were in a windowless chamber, stone-walled and with a single entrance, protected by a heavy door whose many cross-grained wood layers and metal covering grid would not have disgraced a Great House inner keep in time of siege. Glowglobes high in the upper corners cast a pale, even light. There was little furniture—three chairs, one of which did duty as a table, holding a tray with a pitcher of water and some cups. In the least comfortable chair, the young man was slumped, unconscious, restrained by padded fiber bonds that tightened only when he struggled. It was unfortunate, but he had already demonstrated a lack of composure that made it inadvisable to afford him greater comfort.

Next to me was the member of the Crooks’ Guild who was responsible for his presence. “How did you manage the capture?”

She shrugged. “It was hard, so—not difficult.”

The Master of the Veldmeet Crooks’ Guild, also present, grinned appreciation of the quip. I merely nodded. It was not difficult to guess from the Guildmember’s appearance that she specialized in the art of using physical attraction to ensnare unwary victims for criminal purposes.

The Master of Shadows glanced at me. “They have most peculiar sexual customs. Several cantinas and wayhouses have had to put their female staff on leave for the duration.” She shook her head. “At first, some of the city’s paicai were willing to do business with them—not least in the hope of gathering useful information. But there has been some trouble, and after they murdered one, the paicai Council placed them under embargo.

The paicai were not a Guild but they operated much as one in larger cities. They provided companionship, and often sexual engagement, under agreed-upon terms for their clients. They ranged from men and women of high training, professionalism, and refinement—and cost—to semi-amateurs with an inclination for casual, short-term liaisons who scratched out a living in the city’s travelers’ quarters. There were varying levels of cooperation between paicai and the Crooks’ Guild.

“Murdered one?” I frowned, and then made a gesture dismissing the subject. It could be pursued later.

The Klarosian in the chair was stirring. The Guild Master bent over him, checking the condition of his pulse, his skin, his eyes. She carefully avoided the swelling contusion masking the left side of the young man’s face. Finally, she lifted a cup of water to the prisoner’s mouth and tilted it so that he could drink if he would.

The Klarosian flinched from her touch, but swallowed several mouthfuls of water before half-turning his head in rejection. The Guild Master returned the cup to its tray, and glanced at me. I pulled the remaining unoccupied chair around so that its back faced the man directly, and sat down astride it, my arms folded atop the back.

The function of the College of Arms is to prepare the highest level of Royal retainers to undertake the service of keeping Veran’s human population reasonably prosperous, reasonably peaceful, and reasonably productive. No one who’s had even a first-year course at the College underestimates the complexity of that task, and no one misunderstands the primary material required to complete it. Heralds learn, above all, to gauge human motives and actions, and to communicate effectively.

Veran humans, at any rate. What of Klarosians? I studied this young man.

“I am Herald-Adept Ilvren, of the Royal College of Arms,” I named myself to him. I’d been told he spoke a garbled but passable Middle Veran, and that he’d named himself, and given his rank and some rigmarole of numbers when he’d first awakened. Before he tried to kill his guards, presumably to facilitate his own escape.

He’d been collected en route from a Klarosian patrol post in the Kutala district to the Klarosians’ main compound. He’d been with two others, but a very little effort on the Guildmember’s part had sufficed to separate him from his companions, who’d made no demur at leaving him to take advantage of his apparent good fortune. He’d been eager to seek out the company of what he called, in a clumsy verbal construction, a ‘comfort woman,’ but reasonably polite withal. Until he’d woken in the bowels of the Guild House, whereupon his veneer of manners had evaporated quickly.

He glared at me now with unconcealed hostility, but remained silent.

“I understand you are called Heavy Infantry Trooper Grade Six Urzek Borstan, of the Ninth Assault Company, Second Regiment, First Corps of the Second Legion of Klaros, is that correct? Favor my inexact pronunciation.”

He nodded, slowly. “Yes. And that is all I have to tell you, gorschesc. All, understand? You understand ‘all,’ or do I mispronouncing that?”

‘Gorschesc’ I understood to be an insult the Klarosians commonly used to refer to our people.

“Your pronunciation is impressively accurate for one who has acquired my language so recently, Heavy Infantry Trooper Grade Six Urzek Borstan.” I said nothing of his grammar, usage, and sentence structure.

His eyes narrowed, and he turned his head and spat on the floor. I considered the significance of such an uncouth gesture and decided I was safe assuming it to have a negative tone.

“Yeh, so, if you gorschesc knew anything about the HCC, you will know all I have to tell you is my name, rank, unit, and tamt qav.” He apparently did not know the Middle Veran vocabulary for at least one term, but the context suggested the string of numbers he’d spouted earlier.

“It is true that Veran is not a signatory to the Hub Conflict Conventions. But it is not our practice to compel the disclosure of information from an unwilling individual.”

In spite of his stated refusal to provide information, I had already learned much from him. His demeanor, with its apparent bravado, and the reiterated refusals to provide information (although he did not seem inclined to avail himself of the option of silence,) showed a lack of self-discipline I would have found shocking in a fifteen-year-old. The simplicity and repetition, combined with his crude (and unsuccessful) physical outburst showed either a lack of imagination, a lack of initiative, or perhaps both.

It might be dangerous to generalize from this single specimen to the larger universe of Klarosian enlisted, but in combination with other observations and information, it suggested an interesting pattern.

His eyes narrowed. “Better you must let me go. And I’d, um… give back favor by making sure that you three got a, uh quick easy death and no extra retaliations by occupation rules.”

I waited to see if he had any more to ask, then shook my head regretfully. “I would not leave you so deeply indebted to us, Heavy Infantry Trooper Grade Six Urzek Borstan, nor would I incur such debt in return. But if you are concerned about the Hub Conventions you cited, you might consider those same Occupation rules in that context.”

I had seen these “Occupation Rules”, posted in an odd, squared-off version of common script, on every news kiosk I’d passed when I arrived in Veldmeet. ‘For the injury of one Klarosian, the death of five Veran. For the death of one Klarosian, the death of ten Veran.’

“Keep civil order to protect a hostile population from violence—permitted under HCC,” he growled.

I had an inexact memory of the article he cited but I was fairly sure that this novel Klarosian interpretation of its provisions would have surprised those who formulated them.

“My people will find me soon, you will all die.”

Assuredly we would all die, not even the advanced technologies of the Inner Hub have produced practical immortality, but that was probably not what he meant.

“You refer, no doubt, to the locator strand embedded in your clothing?”

This produced an expression of wary shock, and narrowed eyes. It also confirmed my hypothesis. But he did not answer, which I suppose by his standards qualified as a refusal to disclose information.

“You must understand, Heavy Infantry Trooper Grade Six Urzek Borstan, that we have no intention of keeping you so long as to provoke such a search.”

Again, his face made speech unnecessary. Relief was superseded by a kind of cocky assurance. “Time you got smart. And you do not require to address me all rank, unit, and name every time you talk to me.”

I nodded. “Just so. How may I address you without offense?”

He snorted again, a gulping laugh. “You worrying about offense-ing me? That is tobka, really tobka.” He looked at me, and when I made no reply, he said with an air of reluctance, “You are permit address me Trooper Borstan. Not that it make you any good, so I will still not tell you anything.”

“Mine the debt. You may address me as Adept Ilvren, or just Herald-Adept.”

“I do no really want to address you.”

“You are under no obligation to do so, Trooper Borstan.” I rested my chin on my arms, and watched him in silence for some moments. He stared back at me with growing uneasiness.

“What are you do with me now?”

I shrugged, not hiding my regret. “If our conversation is over, we will return you to your people.”

His brows shot up, then lowered. “Let me go?”

“Not as you hope, I think, Trooper Borstan. Rather, I will incur a life-debt through you.” I repressed a sigh, thinking of the balance of such debt I already carried. “I will remember your name, Heavy Infantry Trooper Grade Six Urzek Borstan.”

I saw realization dawn in his eyes. “Is there any necessary ritual of comfort you wish to perform? Before you set upon the Starlit Path?”

His eyes narrowed. “You know occupation rules.”

I quoted them to him: “For the injury of one Klarosian, the death of five Veran. For the death of one Klarosian, the death of ten Veran.”

He nodded, slowly, watching me.

I was curious. “Are your people so eager, then, to incur such life-debt?”

His face showed the struggle to parse that out and frame a reply. “Not Klarosian debt. You kill a Klarosian, you kill ten Veran.”

I glanced at the Guildfolk. They showed no surprise, and did not bother to hide their contempt, so I realized he might be serious. I wondered if it would be worth the time to explore the implications of this peculiar belief with the Klarosian, and whether his grasp of Middle Veran syntax would be sufficient to make it possible.

I shook my head. “We do not have such a belief, Trooper Borstan. We believe that who wills the death, bears the debt.”

“Yes, you kill a Klarosian, you will the ten Veran death. You…” his brow furrowed, he was clearly searching for Middle Veran vocabulary that exceeded his knowledge. “You know you do something, a…a result will be. You will the thing, you will the result.” Sweat had appeared on his forehead, and his respiration rate had increased.

It was an interesting viewpoint. I wished he had better Middle Veran. I pursued the abstract, to give him a space to bring his fear under control.

“But a result that is not intrinsic to the action—an unbreakable chain of consequence—is not always a result of the action. And particularly, an action that is under the control of one person cannot be a result of another person’s action. Do you understand?” I spoke slowly, watching him to see if he had enough Middle Veran to grasp the concept.

He shook his head. His respiration rate had not decreased, and his eyes were dilated now. Nevertheless, he sought for a return of the assurance he’d spoken with before. “I understand this: You kill me, you kill ten Veran. You know if I die, ten Veran die.”

“Tell me this, Trooper Borstan. You are a Trooper, a soldier. You take orders from those above you, yes?”

He nodded, warily.

“The people above you will you to obey their orders, so they bear the debt for your action when you obey, yes?”

He nodded. “Yes,” he confirmed, on solid ground now. His hands, bound to pads on the chair frame, clenched.

“But what if the person who gives you orders gives you an order you know to be wrong? If you obey, who incurs the debt?”

All Guardians knew the Hub Conflict Conventions, even though Veran is not a signatory and we have our own codes governing conflict.

His lips tightened, and he shook his head. “You kill me, you kill ten Veran. You do it, you will it.” He had to take a breath as he spoke, and his voice was hoarse.

I sighed. He was making no effort to recover composure, or he saw no need to do so. Either way, my well-intended efforts to provide him with the opportunity to maintain decorum were futile. Perhaps the only debt-favor I could grant him was to die with his beliefs intact. “No dispute, Trooper Borstan. I will remember your name.”

I took a final look to fix his face in memory, all of it—the swelling contusion, the thin-bladed nose and short, square chin, and the eyes, widening with the shocked realization of mortality. If I were a believer, I would have commended him to his god, or gods. I think the comfort of belief must have great value to believers. Sometimes, like now, I regretted that I could not share it. I nodded to him, and we all turned to leave.

Outside, the room was a narrow, dimly-lit corridor. Leaning casually against the wall were two men, not particularly large, but both very muscular. One carried a full drinkskin.

“We cannot delay,” the Guild Master said, “already that contusion is maturing.”

“Indeed so.”

“Did you get anything useful?” the Guildmember asked. I considered the question.

“Yes, I believe so. Veran is in your debt, Guildmember.”

“Veran’s need accrues no debt, Adept,” she murmured, but her shoulders had straightened and her chin lifted a millimeter or two.

At some signal from the Guild Master, invisible to me, the two men straightened up, and entered the room we’d just left. “B’naleu, stay and guide them, please,” she asked the Guildmember. The Guildmember nodded, and the Master of Shadows led me away.

I had every confidence in the ability of the Guild to fill the Klarosian’s system with ethanol, and inflict a fatal head wound that would blend seamlessly with the existing contusion and pass easily for the result of a fall. It was also unlikely that there would be any difficulty for them in arranging the discovery of the body in the Kutala canal, not too far from the area of cheap cantinas and wayhouses that were sometimes visited illicitly by low-ranking Klarosians in search of intoxicating liquors.

I had less confidence in the willingness of the Klarosians to accept an accidental death. They’d shown themselves eager to demonstrate the supposed potency of the occupation rules. It was indeed possible that ten Veran would die when Trooper Borstan’s body was discovered. I knew how poisonous it would be to accept the debt for their deaths, which accrued only to Klarosians who decreed them, but I felt the weight of my own debt-burden grow all the same.

Aug 232012

Detail from "The Bellman"-- Moonrise behind foothills with sleeping village in foreground.Ravin slithered against the side of the stable, and became one with its shadow. The Klarosian patrol, searching, was making its way up this narrow, dusty street. Four men—at least they accorded him that respect—he smiled a little grimly at the thought.  Four might be enough, if they were the right men. Two were in the street, in front of the small shops, houses, businesses. Two moved through the narrow dirt alley behind, checking stable yards, storage sheds, forges, gardens. Even in the crowded streets of the older parts of town, every Veran tried to have some kind of garden.

The Klarosians methodically tramped over and through any vegetation that impeded their search pattern. As they reached a particularly lush yard, crackling heavily through stands of rennit-bushes, Ravin swarmed up the drystone wall of the tiny stable, in an instant, almost noiselessly. On the roof, he lay flat, his dark-grey tunic and breeks blending seamlessly with the roof slates in the dim moonlight. Continue reading »


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