Glory Season (53 page)

There was one more thing Maia could do to help.

Brod found her one day, as she walked the latest of a long series of circuits of the island, dropping pieces of wood into the water at different times and watching them drift. The boy caught on quickly. “I get it! They’ll have to know the local currents, especially near the cliffs, so they won’t crash up against them.”

“That’s right,” Maia answered. “The winch isn’t located in the best place for launching such a fragile craft. I guess the site was chosen more for its convenient rock
overhang. They’ll have to pick the right moment, or wind up swimming among a lot of broken bits of wood.”

It was a chilling image. Brod nodded seriously. “I should’ve figured that out first.” There was a hard edge of resignation in his voice. “Guess you can tell I’m not much of a seaman.”

“But you’re an officer.”

“Midshipman, big deal.” He shrugged. “Test scores and family influence. I’m lousy at anything practical, from knots to fishing.”

Maia imagined it must be hard for him to say. For a boy to be no good at seamanship was almost the same as being no man at all. There just weren’t that many other employment opportunities for a male, even one as well educated as Brod.

They sat together on the edge of the bluff, watching and timing the movement of wood chips far below. Between measurements, Maia toyed with her sextant, taking angles between various other islands to the southwest.

“I really liked it at Starkland Hold.” Brod confided at one point, then hurriedly assured her, “I’m no momma’s boy. It’s just that it was a happy place. The mothers and sisters were … are nice people. I miss ’em.” He laughed, a little sharply. “Famous problem for the vars of my clan.”

“I wish Lamatia had been like that.”

“Don’t.” He looked across the sea at nowhere in particular. “From what you’ve said, they kept an honorable distance. There’s advantages to that.”

Watching his sad eyes, Maia found herself able to believe it. A tendency runs strong in human nature to feel sentiment toward the children of your womb, even if they are but half yours. Maia knew of clans in Port Sanger, too, that bonded closely to their summer kids, finding it hard to let go. In those cases, parting was helped by the natural, adolescent urge to leave a backwater port. She imagined
the combination of a loving home, plus growing up in an exciting city, made it much harder to forsake and forget.

That did not ease a pang of envy.
I wouldn’t have minded a taste of his problem.

“That’s not what bothers me so much, though,” Brod went on. “I know I’ve got to get over that, and I will. At least Starkland throws reunions, now and then. Lots of clans don’t. Funny what you wind up missing, though. I wish I never had to give up that library.”

“The one at Starkland Hold? But there are libraries in sanctuaries, too.”

He nodded. “You should see some of them. Miles of shelves, stuffed with printed volumes, hand-cut leather covers, gold lettering. Incredible. And yet, you could cram the whole library at Trentinger Beacon into just five of the datastore boxes they have at the Enheduanna College. The Old Net still creaks along there, you know.”

Brod shook his head. “Starkland had a hookup. We’re a librarian family. I was good at it. Mother Cil said I must’ve been born in the wrong season. Would’ve done the clan proud, if I’d been a full clone.”

Maia sighed in sympathy, relating to the story. She, too, had talents inappropriate for any life path open to her. There passed several long minutes in which neither spoke. They moved on to another site, tossing a leafy branch into the spuming water and counting their pulses to time its departure.

“Can you keep a secret?” Brod said a little later. Maia turned, meeting his pale eyes.

“I suppose. But—”

“There’s another reason they keep me mostly ashore … the captain and mates, I mean.”

“Yes?”

He looked left and right, then leaned toward her.

“I … get seasick. Almost half the time. Never even saw any of the big fight when you were captured, ’cause I
was bent over the fantail the whole time. Not encouraging for a guy s’posed to be an officer, I guess.”

She stared at the lad, guessing what it had cost him to say this. Still, she could not help herself. Maia fought to hold it in, to keep a straight face, but finally had to cover her mouth, stifling a choking sound. Brod shook his head. He pursed his lips, tightening them hard, but could not keep them from spreading. He snorted. Maia rocked back and forth, holding her sides, then burst forth with peals of laughter. In a second, the youth replied in kind, guffawing with short brays between inhalations that sounded much better than sobs.

The next day, a vast squadron of zoor passed to the north, like gaily painted parasols, or flattish balloons that had escaped a party for festive giants. Morning sunlight refracted through their bulbous, translucent gasbags and dangling tendrils, casting multicolored shadows on the pale waters. The convoy stretched from horizon to horizon.

Maia watched from the precipice, along with Brod and several women, remembering the last time she had seen big floaters like these, though nowhere near this many. It had been from the narrow window of her prison cell, in Long Valley, when she had thought Leie dead, had yet to meet Renna, and seemed entirely alone in the world. By rights, she should be less desolate now. Leie was
alive
, and had vowed to come back for her. Maia worried over Renna constantly, but the reavers weren’t likely to harm him, and rescue was still possible. She even had friends, after a fashion, in Naroin and Brod.

So why do I feel worse than ever?

Misery is relative, she knew. And present pain is always worse than its memory. This softer captivity didn’t
ease her bitterness thinking of Leie’s actions, her angst for Renna, or her feelings of helplessness.

“Look!” Brod cried, pointing to the west, the source of the zoor migration. Women shaded their eyes and, one by one, gasped.

There, in the midst of the floating armada, emerging out of brightness, cruised three stately, cylindrical behemoths, gliding placidly like whales among jellyfish.

“Pontoos,” Maia breathed. The cigar-shaped beasts stretched hundreds of meters, more closely resembling the fanciful zep’lin on her sextant cover than the surrounding zoor, or, for that matter, the small dirigibles used nowadays to carry mail. Their flanks shimmered with facets like iridescent fish scales, and they trailed long, slender appendages which, at intervals, dipped to the waves, snatching edible bits, or siphoning water to split, with sunlight, into hydrogen and oxygen.

Despite protective laws passed by council and church, the majestic creatures were slowly vanishing from the face of Stratos. It was rare to sight one anywhere near habitable regions.
The things I’ve seen
, Maia thought, noting the one, great compensation for her adventures.
If I ever had grandchildren, the things I could have told them.

Then she recalled some of Renna’s stories of other worlds and vistas, strange beyond imagining. It brought on a pang of loss and envy. Maia had never thought, before meeting the Earthling, of
coveting
the
stars.
Now she did, and knew she would never have them.

“I just remembered …” young Brod said contemplatively. “Something I read about zoor and such. You know, they’re attracted to the smell of burning sugar? We have some we could put on the fire.”

Women turned to look at him. “So?” Naroin asked. “You want to invite ’em over for supper, maybe?”

He shrugged. “Actually, I was thinking that flying out
of here might be better than trying to sail that raft. Anyway, it’s an idea.”

There was a long stretch of silence, then women on both sides laughed aloud, or groaned, at the sheer inanity of the idea. Maia sadly agreed. Of all the boys who tried hitching rides on zoors each year, only a small number were ever seen again. Still, the notion had a vivid, fanciful charm, and she might have given it a thought if the prevailing winds blew toward safe haven … or even dry land. While terribly bright, Brod clearly did not have practical instincts.

His longing expression, followed by sheepish blushing, finished off one lingering doubt Maia had nursed—that Brod might just possibly be a spy, left here by the reavers to watch over the prisoners. She had grown suspicious after all that had happened, the last few months. But no one could fake that sudden shift from wistfulness to embarrassment! His open thoughts seemed more like her own than old Bennett’s had ever been. Or, when you got right down to it, most of the women she had known. He was much less romantically mysterious than her hearth-friend, the Earthling stranger, but that was okay, too.

You’re turning into a real man-liker
, Maia pondered, patting Brod on the back and turning to go back to work.
Perkinites, who only use ’em for sex and sparking, just don’t know what they’re missing.

The raft had been prepared in four parts, to be linked quickly by hand as each was lowered at high tide. The vars practiced all the necessary movements over and over again, on a clearing by the converted winch. While it would doubtless be many times harder on bobbing seas, they finally felt ready. The first window for a launch would come early the next morning.

There were reasons for haste. Provisions would run
out in eight to ten days. A lighter from the reaver colony was due about then. Inanna and the others wanted to leave well before that.

And if the lighter never came? All the more reason to depart soon. Either way, they’d be hungry but not starved by the time they reached the Méchant Coast.

No one tried very hard to persuade Maia and Naroin to change their minds and come along. Someone ought to stay and put up a pretense, when and if the supply ship came, thus giving the raft crew more time to get away. “We’ll send help,” Inanna assured.

Maia had no intention of waiting around for the promise to be kept. Those left behind would set to work at once on Naroin’s alternate plan. Maia had motives all her own. If a crude dinghy did get built, she would not sail with Naroin and Brod to Landing Continent, but ask to be dropped off along the way. It had to be possible to find out which neighboring island held Renna and the rads—the secret reaver base where Maia planned on snaring Leie, pinning her down, and getting a word in for a change.

The night before launching day, eighteen women and one boy sat up late around the fire, telling stories, joking, singing sea chanteys. The vars kidded young Brod about what a pity it was that glory had been so sparse, and was he sure he didn’t want to come along, after all? Though relieved in a way, by the kindness of the weather, Brod also seemed ambivalently wistful at his narrow escape. Maia guessed with a smile that something within him had been curious and willing to take up the challenge, if it came.

Don’t worry. A man as smart as you will get other chances, under better circumstances.

The mood of anticipation had everyone keyed up. Two of the younger sailors, a lithe, blonde sixer from Quinnland and an exotic-looking sevener from Hypatia,
started banging spoons against their cups to a quick, celebratory rhythm, then launched a session of round-singing.

It was a famous drinking song, and it hardly mattered that no one had anything to drink. The singers alternately leaned toward Brod, then shied off again, to his embarrassment and the amusement of everyone else. Taking turns one by one, going around the circle, each woman added another verse, more bawdy than the last. At her turn, Maia waved off with a smile. But when the round seemed about to skip past Brod, the young man leaped instead to his feet. Singing, his voice was strong, and did not crack.

Most of the sailors laughed and clapped, nodding at the fairness of his comeback. A few seemed to resent his jumping in, however. The same ones who, days back, had argued against counting the vote of a mere boy.

More songs followed. After a lighthearted beginning, Maia noticed the mood grow steadily less gay, more somber and reflective. At one point, the girl from Hypatia looked down, letting her hair fall around her face as she chanted a soft, lovely melody,
a cappella.
An old, sad song about the loss of a longtime hearth-mate who had won a niche, started a clan, and then died, leaving clone-daughters who cared nothing of their var founder’s callow loves.

The wind picked up, lifting sparks from the ebbing fire. After that song, silence reigned until two older vars, Charl and Trotula, began beating a makeshift drum, taking up a quicker beat. Their choice was a ballad Maia used to hear on Port Sanger’s avenues from time to time, chanted by Perkinite missionaries. An epic of days long ago, when heretic tyrannies called “the Kingdoms” fluxed through these tropic island chains. The period wasn’t covered much in school, nor even in the lurid romances Leie used to read. But each springtime the chant was sung on street-corners, conveying both danger and tragic mystique.