Glory Season (18 page)

Maia had rested her head against her sister’s, comforted by knowing someone understood the questions troubling her soul.

On their way back up the dank elevator shaft, Leie had tried to lighten the mood by relating some gossip
picked up that morning from another town varling. It seemed several younger sisters of Saxton Clan had started a ruckus near the harbor, harassing sailors until, in desperation, the men called the Guardia and—

A covey of spiny-fringed pou birds erupted across the road, causing the sash-horses to neigh and prance while Calma Lerner pulled the reins, speaking to soothe the frightened beasts. The birds vanished into a cane brake, pursued by a clutch of pale foxes.

Maia blinked, holding her breath for several seconds. The flood of memory had briefly seemed more vivid than the dusty present. Perhaps the rocking wooden bench seat reminded her of the creaking dumbwaiter. Or some other subconscious cue, a smell, or glitter in the twilight, had triggered the unsought fit of retrospection.

Funny. Now that her train of thought was broken, Maia couldn’t recall what choice bit of hearsay Leie had shared with her that day, while the two of them hung suspended between cellar and scullery. Only that she had guffawed, covering her mouth to keep her squeals from echoing throughout the house. Her sides had hurt for hours afterward, both from laughter and the effort of suppressing it, and Leie had joined in, giggling, barely able to hold the crank still. A wine bottle tipped over, cracking and dribbling red liquid across the wooden floor. The crimson pool had spread and found its way through wooden slats to audibly splatter, after a brief delay, into the tomblike cellar far below.

Why don’t you leave me alone?
Maia thought plaintively, shaking her head and fighting tears. Memory wasn’t what she wanted or needed, right now. Poignancy was a bitter tang in her mouth and eyes.

Yet it was a mixed thing. While renewed mourning hurt, the sweetness of that recollected laughter seemed to suffuse a deeper part of her, permeating the wound with a
sad pleasure, a tryst solace. Against her will, Maia found herself wearing a faint smile.

Maybe all we get is moments
, she thought, and decided not to resist quite so hard if another happy memory came to mind.

Calma Lerner hadn’t spoken in some time, perhaps sensing her passenger’s absorption. So Maia gave a start when the woman abruptly announced, “Your stop’s comin’ up. Jopland Hold. Over past that orchard.”

While Maia’s thoughts had turned inward and the afternoon faded, a dark expanse of fruit trees had appeared just beyond a gurgling watercourse. She peered at the plantation, whose disciplined array of slender trunks made ever-changing row-and-lattice patterns. As the wagon clattered across a plank bridge, the cultivated forest seemed to explode around Maia in an ecstasy of planned geometry, a crystalline study in living wood. The rapidly dimming light only enhanced each viewing angle, trading ease of distance for an impression of infinity.

Soon Maia noticed that the trees came arrayed with an illumination all their own. Dim flickerings along the myriad branches made her blink in surprise. At first they looked like decorations, but then she realized they must be glow beetles, setting the orchard’s columns and intersections glittering with earnest, insectoid mating displays. Shimmering wavelets coursed down the serried avenues. One could trace those ripples, Maia observed, much as one might briefly track the parallel harmonies of a four-part fugue … only by letting go.

It must be a sight later on
, she thought, wishing she could stay and swim forever in this pocket galaxy, a swarm of miniature stars.

The road emerged from the forest, leaving the rippling lattice behind. Up ahead, the more-stolid light of a lesser moon fell on a cluster of handsome farm buildings, including a two-story house made of adobe or reinforced
sod. Antennas aimed toward the sparse array of satellites still functioning in high orbit.

“Jopland Home,” Calma Lerner repeated. “Since it’s late, they’ll put you up in a barn, I figure. Code of hospitality. But if you get on their wrong side, don’t worry. Just follow my wheel ruts northwest three kilos, bank right at the big willow, go two more klicks an’ follow your nose. People say they can smell Lerner Hold long before they get to it. Never noticed, myself.”

“Thanks.” Maia nodded. “Oh, is that easy to do? I mean, getting on their wrong side.”

Calma shrugged. “Everyone around here comes to Jopland for judgments, sooner or later. You learn to be careful
how
you say things. That’s all.”

The wagon pulled by a tall gate in the slotted fence without slowing. Maia swung out and walked alongside for a few meters. “Thanks for the warning, and the lift.”

“Nothin’ to it. Good luck with your
con-sult-ation!
” The big woman laughed with an airy wave. Soon the wagon was gone from sight, trailing a low cloud of dust.

Several large carriages filled the drive in front of the main house. A young woman, probably a var servant, curried more horses at a watering trough.
This must be the social hub of the county
, Maia thought, knocking at the front door. A towering lugar soon answered, dressed in a green-and-yellow-striped vest that had seen better days. The white-furred creature tilted its grizzled head, and an inquiring mew escaped its muzzle.

“A citizen seeks wisdom,” Maia pronounced clearly, slowly. “I ask guidance from the mothers of Jopland Hold.”

The lugar stared at her for several seconds, then made a low, rumbling sound at the back of its throat. It turned, vaguely motioning for Maia to follow.

While the outside walls were adobe, the interior of the mansion was richly lined with veneered hardwood, foreign to these upland plains. Wall sconces gave off pale electric illumination, highlighting a garish emblem over the main stairway—a plow encircled with sheaves of wheat.
At least there are no statues
, Maia thought.

The lugar spread two heavy, sliding doors and ushered her into a brighter room, presumably the main hall. A drifting haze stung Maia’s eyes.
Men
, she saw in surprise. There were about a dozen of them, sprawled on somewhat worn sofas and cushions puffing long-stemmed pipes while four young servants hurried from the kitchen carrying steins of brown ale. The male nearest the door was reading quietly under a lamp. Further away, two of them faced a flickering telescreen, watching some faraway sporting competition. Several in the far corner could be seen poring over a miniature Game of Life set, only a meter on a side, its gridlike surface covered with tiny black, white, or purple squares that clicked and throbbed under the players’ concentrated gaze, sweeping mysterious, ever-changing patterns across the board. The rest of the men sat quietly, immersed in their own thoughts. Few had even bothered changing out of their work clothes—red, orange, or black one-piece uniforms of the three railroad guilds. Maia guessed every male within forty miles must be in this room tonight.
The clans are starting winter wooing early, just like back home
, she thought.

Twice in that first sweep of the room, Maia had seen men yawn. No doubt most had put in a long day’s work before coming out this way. Still, they didn’t appear to be showing fatigue, but ennui.

Looks like I came at a bad time.

No adult women were visible, yet. Except in summer, men generally preferred evenings that started quietly, without pressure. So the chosen Joplands were probably in back somewhere, changing from ranch gear into garments
the mail-order catalogs promised would stoke that dormant spark of male desire. Maia glanced at the four serving girls stepping carefully around their guests, trying to be unobtrusive. Two of them, though of different ages, wore identical features—olive of complexion, small-built, but with well-toned muscles. Their proudest adornment was their silky black hair, which they kept long despite the valley’s ever-wafting dust.

Those must be winter daughters, Maia decided, estimating their ages at four and five. The other two girls, older and not as well dressed, were definitely not identical and probably var employees.

Several men glanced up when Maia entered. Most quickly lost interest and went back to what they had been doing, but one young fellow, clean-shaven and tidier than the others, took more than a moment in his perusal, and even smiled faintly when she met his eyes. He shifted in his chair, and Maia felt a fluttering panic that he was about to come over and speak to her! What could she possibly say if he did?

At that moment, a brush of air told Maia of doors opening behind her. The young man looked past her, sighed, and sank down again. With an odd mix of relief and disappointment, Maia turned to see what had caused such a reaction.

“Who are
you
, and what are you doing here?”

The imperious tone seemed not at all anomalous coming from the short, dowdy figure confronting Maia, arms crossed. Apparently Joplands went to flesh with age, although the woman’s shoulders implied considerable strength, even late in life. The lovely skin tone of the youngsters had gone to leather, but the silken black hair was unchanged. That was another thing about being a var. Unlike normal folk, you had no clear idea what you’d look like when you got older. Maia wasn’t sure she didn’t prefer it that way.

“A citizen comes beseeching aid,” she said, bowing courteously before the elder Jopland. “I’ve seen your uplink, O Mother, and must ask aid in consulting the sages of Caria.”

She hadn’t meant to speak loudly, but her words carried. Suddenly, the room’s relative quiet fell to utter hush. A glimmer of interest seemed to rise beneath the hooded eyelids of the nearby men, much to the irritation of the Jopland matriarch.

“Oh,
must
you, variant-daughter? You figure on saying something the savants might be interested in?”

“I do, Mother. And I see your system is operational.” She gestured toward the ancient tele. From the look on the old woman’s face, Maia had just given her one more reason to hate the machine, but it was a valued accessory for attracting men to soirees like this one. “By the ancient codes,” Maia concluded, “I ask help arranging my call.”

A deeply pursed frown. The elder obviously hated having codes quoted to her by a statusless stripling. “Hmph. You have lousy timing.” There was a pause. “We aren’t obliged to pay your charges. I expect you can cover them?”

When Maia reached for her purse, the crone hissed. “Not here, witling! Have you no shame?” Maia blinked in confusion. Was there some local Perkinite custom against handling money in front of men? “Forgive me, Mother.” She bowed again.

“Mm. This way, then. And you!” The old woman snapped her fingers at one of the var serving girls. “That gentleman’s glass is empty!” With a sniff, she turned and led Maia down a narrow hallway.

The corridor took them by a room where, in passing, Maia glimpsed several young women making preparations. Jopland fems were handsome creatures in their prime, Maia conceded, between ages six and twelve. Especially if you liked strong jaws and boldly outlined brows. But then,
there was no accounting for the tastes of men, who grew increasingly finicky as Wengel Star receded and the aurorae died.

The young Joplands shared mirrors with one pair and a trio of clones from other families—the first type tall, with frizzy hair, and the other broad of shoulder and hip, with breasts ample enough to feed quadruplets. Apparently, Jopland shared the expense of hosting with a couple of allied clans. By the looks of banked enthusiasm Maia had witnessed in the Main Hall, they probably had to throw several such evenings to get just a few winter pregnancies.

Given the size of the house, Maia had expected to see more fecund Joplands, till she realized.
There’s talk of a population drop in the valley, just when it’s rising elsewhere.

Of course. The boom along the coast comes mostly from “excess” summer births. But these smugs are Perkinites. Men are kept away in summer, just to avoid that kind of pregnancy!
That explained why she had seen no var-daughters, women half-resembling their Jopland mothers.

Maia wanted to linger, curious how these frontier women managed something even rich, attractive, seaside Lamatia found tricky at times. “
This
way,” the elder Jopland hissed, interrupting her perusal.

“Uh, sorry, ma’am.” Bending her head, Maia hurried after her reluctant hostess.

The communications chamber was spare, barely a cabinet. The standard console lay on a rickety table, bundles of cable exiting through a hole in the wall. Only the chairs looked comfortable, for mothers to use during long-range business calls, but those were pulled away and a bare stool set in front of the table instead. With a gnarled finger, the aged Jopland touched a switch causing the small screen to come alight with a pearly glow.

“Guest call. Accounting on completion,” she told the machine, then turned to Maia. “If you can’t cover the
charges, you’ll work it off. One month per hundred. Agreed?”

Maia felt a flare of anger. The offer was outrageous.
The rudest Port Sanger summerling has better breeding than you, “mother.”
But then, breeding and style weren’t what it took to win and hold a niche out here on the prairie. Once again, Maia recalled—a var’s place wasn’t to judge.

“Agreed,” she bit out. The Jopland smiled.

This had better not cost a lot! Working for clones like these would be patarkal hell.

Maia sat down facing the standard-model console. Somewhere she had heard that it was one of just nine photonic devices still mass-produced in ancient factories on Landing Continent. Others included the all-purpose motors used on the solar railway, and the Game of Life set she had glimpsed minutes before, in the main hall. Maia had never actually used a console in earnest. She tried recalling Savant Judeth’s cursory lessons back at Lamatia.
Let’s see … it’s on voice mode, so if I phrase my request
—

Maia suddenly realized she hadn’t heard the door close. Turning, she saw the Jopland matriarch leaning against the jamb, arms crossed.