Hellspark (6 page)

When the red had reached the very tips of Darragh’s ears, Tocohl added coolly, “Madame, I expect an explanation; I do not, of course, expect it to be adequate.”

Nevelen Darragh stared hard at Tocohl for a long moment—then, with a burst of laughter, she bowed her appreciation.

Geremy said, “I told you she was good, Nevelen.”

“The incident on Solomon’s Seal told me that, Geremy. But she’s better than you know.”

Judge

Darragh laughed again. “You haven’t been on Dusty Sunday recently, I take it?”

“Not for ten years,” Geremy said mournfully.

“Then I’d better tell you that what your friend just did was the exact emotional equivalent of

‘In

Veschke’s honor’. She smiled again at Tocohl: “I’m pleased to hear there are no hard feelings.”

Glancing sidelong with mock menace, Tocohl said, “I haven’t had my shot at Geremy yet.” She took a long pull from the flagon of wine and contemplated him, measuring him until he squirmed with discomfort. “Perhaps some other time,” she said at last, “when he’s least expecting it.”

More woeful of face than ever, Geremy said, “I’m sorry, Tocohl. Maggy wasn’t letting anybody through to you. I was the one who suggested that a judgment might override her orders.”

“I’ll bet you told her it was business,” said Tocohl dryly.

Geremy looked abashed. “I didn’t talk to her; Garbo did. And you’re right, the message said business.”

“If you’d put your money into your equipment, instead of on your back”—Tocohl’s finger traced the path of the sparks briefly along his arm—“your computer wouldn’t be so damn dumb and it’d do more than deliver messages verbatim.”

She raised the flagon again, then passed it to Geremy, who hesitated before taking it.

“Oh, Geremy… In Veschke’s honor, then.” At that his eyes brightened within his sad-clown features, and he accepted the wine to drink deeply his relief. “All right,” Tocohl went on, “let’s talk business and be done with it so I can get back to celebrating.”

“Your business is with Alfvaen,” said Nevelen Darragh.

Tocohl crossed her ankles, seated herself beside Tinling Alfvaen, and said in Siveyn, “Were you aware, Alfvaen, that you’d called for a judgment against me?”

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Alfvaen, startled, splayed a hand at her throat. “I have no quarrel with you, Tocohl.”

“Nor I with you,” said Tocohl. “Someone”—two quick thrusts of an elbow indicated a choice of

Geremy Kantyka or Darragh—“owes us both an explanation.”

It was Judge Darragh who spoke. “Tinling Alfvaen came to the Festival of Ste. Veschke to find a glossi. As Geremy explained, the judgment was a way to contact you, nothing more.”

Maggy made a pinging noise. Tocohl held up a hand and said, (Yes, Maggy?) (The judgment has been cancelled. There’s a formal statement. Do you want to hear it?) (Not necessary,) said Tocohl; aloud, she said to Alfvaen, “All right. I’m here. What is it you want of me?”

“You’re a polyglot?” Alfvaen asked.

“Glossi,” Geremy corrected, “—from an old, old word meaning ‘speaker of tongues.’ There’s some evidence that an espability is involved, and if it is, Tocohl’s got it.”

“Your pardon, Tocohl,” said Alfvaen. “You are a glossi?”

“Yes, although Geremy exaggerates. As far as I know, I have a good ear and a good eye, not an espability.”

Alfvaen looked at her intently, then said, “You were tricked into coming to meet me. I apologize and

I will fulfill any ritual you think just.”

Tocohl gave a reassuring smile. “It was only a theft at festival, as the Sheveschkemen say, and

Geremy’s theft at that.” From the corner of her eye, she saw Geremy flinch quite satisfactorily. To

Alfvaen, she added, “You gave no offense, I take none.”

“Then please hear me out.” Alfvaen leaned forward.

“I’m listening,” said Tocohl, surprised by the small woman’s sudden urgency.

“When I was with Multi-Galactic Enterprises,” Alfvaen began, “I spent a good many years working with swift-Kalat twis Jalakat of Jenje—perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

“Yes—considered by some to be the best survey ethologist in the business, considered by most to be ‘crazy as a Hellspark.’ Go on.”

Tinling Alfvaen did. “Swift-Kalat is three years into the survey of a world named Lassti. He has reason to believe that the planet has a sentient life-form and should be declared off-limits to exploitation and colonization. The problem is that the survey team’s polyglot—I don’t think I’d call him a glossi, Geremy—hasn’t been able to make sense of the language.”

“After three years?” said Tocohl. “That odd. So MGE wants to hire a glossi?”

is

“No,” said Alfvaen, “swift-Kalat does. He’ll pay your fee.”

Maggy made a querying noise.

“Let me think a moment,” Tocohl said, and explained to Maggy, (It’s not illegal for him to hire outside talent, especially not with a byworld judge involved, but MGE certainly won’t like it!)

(Do we care?) Maggy asked, using tight-we

.

(No, not about MGE’s likes and dislikes. But MGE has a good deal of power on some of the worlds we trade on, and they could make our lives considerably more difficult. Suppose we do prove sentience—then MGE has wasted three or more years of a survey team’s time without any return; and that they’d like even less!)

(So the system works against proving sentience?)

(In a way, yes. You can’t prove sentience without proving a species has a language, but the MGE

polyglots are damn good, usually, and regulation is strict. For the most part, I’d say it’s
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honest—though you could probably quote me chapter and verse on honest mistakes that have destroyed cultures.)

(Should I?)

(Skip it. I can think of a couple of nasty examples myself. Maybe we should take this job.) (Maybe?) said Maggy.

Tocohl smiled. (You’re getting awfully good at holding up your end of the conversation!) (Thank you,) said Maggy, primly.

(Maybe,) Tocohl repeated. (Swift-Kalat is the survey team’s ethologist. That, and his “swift”

status, give him a lot of credence, but I’d be happier if the polyglot had asked for a glossi.) (I have forty-three files that quote swift-Kalat as the highest authority on ethology. Would you like a random sampling?)

(No, I concede his expertise. Let me find out more.) Tocohl said aloud, “Stepping into that kind of situation is asking for trouble, whatever the outcome.”

Tinling Alfvaen said, earnestly, “Tocohl, swift-Kalat is Jenji. The Jenji don’t lie.” That was conventional wisdom on many worlds, but to Alfvaen the belief seemed to go beyond convention to a personal conviction. “I’ve known Jaef for a long time—”

Tocohl raised an eyebrow and said, “That you’re entitled to use his soft-name is proof of that.”

(And proof of a strong bond between the two,) she added for Maggy’s benefit.

“—And if he says the species is sentient, I believe him,” Alfvaen finished, “but you must help him prove it.” She reached into a pocket of her kilt and drew out a folded piece of gold paper.

Without a further word, she offered it to Tocohl.

Tocohl took the paper, unfolded it. The startling boldness of Jenji script seemed to leap from the page: three lines and the signature, swift-Kalat twis Jalakat of Jenje

.

“Geremy,” Tocohl said quietly as she refolded the paper and returned it, “are you free to take a cargo of winterspice and tapes to dOrnano for me?”

Geremy turned. “What do you say, Nevelen—can you spare me for a few weeks?”

So Geremy was acting as the judge’s aide, Tocohl thought. That explained much. She would have withdrawn her request, but Darragh spoke first: “I haven’t been to dOrnano for years, Geremy. I’ll go with you.”

Geremy turned again to Tocohl. “After festival?” he said.

“Of course,” Tocohl replied, and because it was Geremy, their dickering was pro forma. In only a few moments they had snapped fingers to close the deal.

Alfvaen’s face lit as she realized the import of this exchange. “You’ll go!” she said and looked down at the paper in her hand. “He told me this would convince the kind of person he needed. I don’t understand why, but I’m glad.”

Tocohl said, “To say ‘I know’ in Jenji, you must specify how you know. You have a choice of degree—firsthand experience, inference, hearsay, to name just a few of the options—and each tells your listener how reliable you think your information and why. That, in turn, reflects on your reliability. The language is also backed up by strong cultural penalties for using the wrong degree, and a religious belief that you may, by lying, inadvertently create a truth that would do no one any good.”

Tocohl touched the edge of the paper in Alfvaen’s hand and went on, “He tells me here that he has in his hands an artifact, and from this artifact he deduces the presence of sentient life—anyone might have written that in any language. In Jenji what swift-Kalat wrote is very complex and very precise. The degree of his surety is so high that if I were MGE, I’d pack up the survey team and go home.”

“In three sentences?” Alfvaen unfolded the paper and stared at it in wonder.

“Four,” Tocohl said. “He signed his name—and that puts his status on the line. If he’s wrong
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about this, he’ll be forced to drop his ‘swift’ status. And that’s the social equivalent of your going into your hometown and admitting to la’ista

.”

Alfvaen’s eyes widened still farther. “He’s that sure?”

“He’s that sure,” Tocohl said, but before she could say anything further, a group of Sheveschkemen passed and their cheerful singing momentarily brought conversation to a halt.

The song was a lengthy and awe-inspiring detailing of Ste. Veschke’s sexual adventures.

One gorgeously drunken woman in the green leather baldric of a trading captain leaned down, her slim hand on Geremy’s shoulder. “You look too solemn,” she told him, “Veschke made a merry blaze even when she burned!” She pointed to the flagon in his lap; “Drink to Veschke!”

she commanded over the singing.

Geremy raised the flagon, clinked it against the captain’s. She said, grinning hugely, “Veschke was a

Hellspark!”

Geremy shouted his laughter. “To Veschke, then!” he said, and took a long drink. Then the

Sheveschkemen passed on, still singing as they went.

Tocohl turned back.

Alfvaen had drawn up her knee and wrapped herself disconsolately about it. Her green eyes were dark and sad.

“Alfvaen,” said Tocohl, “is something wrong?”

The Siveyn answered slowly. “I didn’t know how strongly he felt about the situation. I should have. I

should have! Tocohl, you’ve never even met him and you know more about him than I do!”

“No,” said Tocohl, “you believed him. Fancy words and fine phrasing are necessary only to convince strangers.”

“Yes, but—” Alfvaen raised her small hands and grasped air. “I have to learn the words as well.”

She fell silent, but her hands remained clenched.

After a moment, Darragh said, “There’s another matter of language, Tocohl. Before you accept this job, you should know what happened on Jannisett.”

Keeping a watchful eye on Alfvaen, Tocohl said, “She told me. She was arrested and held, until you straightened the matter out.”

“She was expertly framed,” Nevelen Darragh said, “—and the man who framed her was a crayden

.”

Tocohl stiffened in surprise. She said nothing, but Nevelen Darragh’s expression was all she needed to confirm that she’d heard correctly.

“I see,” said Tocohl, and she laid her hand on Alfvaen’s shoulder, partly to comfort, partly to draw

Alfvaen from her preoccupation. “What are your plans, now that your message is delivered?”

Alfvaen stared at her, uncomprehending. Then she blinked as if come into sudden sunlight.

“A moment ago, I had none,” she said. “MGE dropped my contract after Inumaru.—I don’t blame them much. Even I find it hard to believe that catching Cana’s disease could be serendipitous.”

She reached across and caught Tocohl’s wrist. “Take me with you,” she said. “Teach me the words I

need.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” said Tocohl. “MGE may have doubts about your serendipity, but
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I

don’t. You know how to deal with members of a survey team,” she paused, then added, “and you might be safer on Lassti than anywhere else.”

“Safer?” Alfvaen asked. “I don’t have the words to understand that, either.”

“You need just one: the Jannisetti word crayden

. It is an exact translation of the Sheveschkem dastagh

—waster. As the Jannisetti say themselves, ‘Once a thing happens twice, you must think about it three times.’” Tocohl stood. “Geremy, I’m sorry to break up your evening, but could we get that cargo transferred now? Under the circumstances, I’d prefer to leave immediately.”

Despite its value, the cargo was small and compact. Even Nevelen Darragh pitched in to help, and the transfer of tapes and winterspice went quickly. As a courtesy, Tocohl registered her new destination with Sheveschkem traffic control, giving the coordinates Alfvaen had received from swift-Kalat.

“I’ll bet traffic control loved that!” said Geremy. “I take it the captain of the survey team is

Sheveschkem?” he asked Alfvaen. The naming of a new world was often the captain’s privilege.

“Yes,” said Alfvaen. “What’s so funny?”

“

Lassti means ‘Flashfever,’” Geremy explained. “It’s a local disease—as common on Sheveschke as a cold—characterized by bizarre visual effects.”

“It’s like being slugged in the side of the head and seeing sparks,” Tocohl put in. “I know. I had it once.”

Geremy went on, “The very religious call it ‘the Fist of Veschke’ and would say Tocohl had been punished for her many sins.”

Tocohl waggled a handful of fingers at Geremy insolently, then got on with the business of rearranging the interior panels to create a cabin for Alfvaen.