Hidden Empire (37 page)
Rlinda stood at the doorway. “Secure yourselves on the bunks during takeoff. I’ll be sociable after I engage the stardrive.”
Otema brushed her fingers against one potted treeling. “We thank you for granting us passage, and the worldforest sends its
appreciation as well.”
Rlinda nodded, not understanding their mystic connection with the treelings. “Just happy to be carrying this first cargo load.
Father Idriss and Mother Alexa will see the advantages of trade in exotic foods and luxury items. This is my foot in the door.”
The merchant woman closed the door of their cabin and departed for the cockpit. Otema lay on her bunk, wrapping herself in
a meditative shroud of silence, quietly praying to the worldforest. Following the ambassador’s example, Nira touched a treeling
and tried to calm her pounding heart. She would have to remember all the details and relate them to the trees, like a diary.
So often, she had read aloud from formal texts, stories, and poems. This way, Nira would give the trees a fresh and unedited
burst of impressions, allowing them to see this exciting expedition through her novice eyes.
Rlinda’s brief announcement came over the intercom. “Hang on, everybody. We’re about to take off. I’ll try to make it a smooth
ride.”
During the next two days, Nira and Otema explored the
Voracious Curiosity
and kept the treelings company in their cabin. Through telink, with the complete access of the worldforest’s knowledge, the
two women tapped into an understanding of the Ildiran language, both written and spoken, and quickly became proficient. There
would be no barriers to the success of their mission.
Together in their cabin, they also got to know each other better.
“I recognize many of the marks on your face, Otema.” Nira looked at the ovals and curves around the ambassador’s mouth, on
her forehead, encircling her eyes. “I’ve had basic instruction as a reader, a musician, a planter, a caretaker, and botanist.”
She smiled. “I recognize the several traveler marks you carry. But your face …” Nira shook her head in wonder. “I’ve never
seen so many accomplishment marks.”
Otema touched her dark skin, as if considering the indelible tattoos for the first time in years. Her finger touched a sharp
line across her left cheek. “When I was young, I loved performing music, since the worldtrees consider symphonies and melodies
to be a kind of language, as instructive about human culture as statistics. Then I studied other subjects to broaden myself,
acquiring more and more accomplishment marks.”
“All the lines are beautiful,” Nira said, meaning it.
“But you,” Otema said, pointing to the smoother features of Nira’s face, “after this journey you will acquire a traveler’s
mark, as well as another reader tattoo and a mark for history apprenticeship. Is that what you wanted?”
“I want to serve the worldforest in whatever capacity the trees require.” She paused, realizing that Otema wanted a more honest
answer. “But if I can serve the forest by seeing remarkable things, then I am all the more pleased.”
“Your family will be proud of you,” Otema said.
Nira looked a little uncertain. “My family is already proud of me. I acquired new quarters for them in the worm hive that
just opened for habitation, but they do not understand the priesthood. I am the only one in my family who even showed an interest
in the trees.”
Otema was surprised. “Perhaps I have been in the priesthood too long. I thought all Therons were devoted to the forest, each
in their own way.”
Nira looked away. “On the
Caillié
my family’s ancestors were slated to be systems engineers, maintenance experts, and repairmen. The Khalis would have been
extremely useful if Theroc had turned out to be a rugged planet.” She shrugged. “But on Theroc, their skills are almost irrelevant.
Oh, they keep the systems running and they do their jobs, but they don’t love it.”
“Their work is still important to life or death,” Otema said. The potted treelings seemed to be listening to the conversation.
“Just in a different way than they expected. And yours … you know your own calling, Nira.”
“Yes, and I want nothing more in my life,” she said.
On their fourth day of travel, as the
Voracious Curiosity
passed through the Horizon Cluster and narrowed the distance to Ildira, Rlinda Kett invited them to join her for dinner.
“It’s about time you had some introduction to Ildiran culture. Besides, I’m one of the few people in the Hansa who can produce
decent Ildiran cuisine. It’s rather a challenge, you know, especially getting the right ingredients.”
Nira was eager for an unusual meal, though her food supplements and the faint tingle from skin photosynthesis would keep her
from growing too hungry. Wearing her normal garments, not knowing how else to prepare, Nira followed Otema to the galley adjacent
to the captain’s personal quarters. Since Nira was new to social functions and diplomatic callings, she viewed this meal as
practice for when they arrived on Ildira.
Wearing a static-filmed apron that shed stains and droplets of food, Rlinda looked up from her cooking. She used gleaming
pots over portable heaters. Nira could smell sizzling oils and pungent spices. Colored sauces filled different jars and bowls,
and the large merchant woman moved like a whirlwind, cooking five different dishes at once.
“I keep thinking about our new cargo,” Rlinda said, continuing her culinary activities. “I’m anxious to try original recipes
using Theron ingredients, but you’re probably tired of food from your home world. Still, I’d appreciate any advice you might
have?” She raised her eyebrows hopefully.
In a solemn voice, Otema said, “Green priests, alas, are not known for their gourmet skills. Cooking is not one of our studies
as we serve the worldforest.”
“I was afraid of that.” Rlinda whisked a gelatinous film before it could stick to the bottom of a saucepan.
With a clatter, she ladled a sparkling puddinglike glop in exquisitely even proportions across three plates. Then she added
some kind of stringy green vegetable doused with golden syrup, and finally tiny braised cutlets of a grayish meat cut into
precise equilateral triangles. She handed Otema the first plate. “You’ve been ambassador to the Hansa for years, ma’am, but
have your travels ever taken you to the seven suns?”
“No. I am as fresh and as new on this journey as Nira is.”
Nira gratefully accepted her own plate, inhaling the delicious aromas.
“Well, you’ll find better cuisine in Mijistra, especially since you’ll be guests of the Mage-Imperator, but this is a bona-fide
Ildiran feast.” She smeared one of the pots with her thick finger and licked off the juice. “Perfect.” Rlinda took her own
plate and sat next to them at the crowded galley table.
Nira asked, “How many times have you been to Mijistra?”
“Four, and I loved it each time. I hope that with this load of Theron goods, I’ll be even more welcome there. The Ildirans
don’t really mind our visits, you see, but they’re rather… unusual. Aliens—what can you say? It’s hard to tell whether they’re
glad to have our business, or if they just tolerate us.”
“Even human cultures seem strange to one another,” Otema pointed out. “And Ildirans are not even members of our race.”
“Let me give you a crash course,” Rlinda said, “a few things you’ll need to know about the aliens. First off, the Ildirans
are polymorphic, like dogs. They have many different breeds and body types, called kiths. A few of those kiths might look
human, but don’t let that fool you. In fact, they’re very handsome—and I’ve heard tell they have all the right equipment,
if you know what I mean, though I’ve never heard any proof of whether humans and Ildirans can actually interbreed.”
“That would be most unusual, genetically speaking,” Otema said.
“True, but I’ve seen plenty of unusual things. Different kiths have attributes and abilities that place them into appropriate
castes in Ildiran society. Thinkers love being thinkers, workers love being workers, and so on.”
“Can the kiths interbreed?” Nira asked.
“Oh, certainly.” Rlinda tasted her triangular meat, then got up to acquire another dollop of sauce from her pans, which she
scooped onto each of their plates. “Sometimes they mate out of love and attraction; other times it’s a conscious effort to
enhance certain attributes. For instance, when nobles and soldiers interbreed, their offspring become officers in the Solar
Navy. I’ve heard that the best singers and poets and artists are mongrel half-breeds, pulling together a genetic strength
that the purebred castes don’t have.”
“Will we deal with many of these different kiths?” Otema asked. “Or just the leaders?”
“Oh, you’ll get to know the most common kiths. You can tell by their names, too. Each kith has a specific phonetic sound at
the end. For instance, the names of all members of the noble kith end with
’h
. Bureaucrats end with
’s
. Workers end with
’k
. The half-breeds add a combination of sounds. Military officers from the noble and the soldier classes end with
’nh
. Rememberers come from the bureaucrat and noble kiths, and have
'sh
at the ends of their names.” She shrugged. “That’s all approximate, of course, since their alphabet is different from ours.”
For dessert, Rlinda presented a yellow taffylike substance shaped into a cone. She looked at the two women. “I don’t know
much about green priests, either. Do you marry? Are you allowed to take mates, or is that against the priesthood?”
Otema smiled. “It is certainly allowed, though many of us devote our lives to the trees. When we feel a calling, we take lovers.”
She sat back. “I’m rather old for that now, though.”
“Well, I’ve gotten married enough times myself.” The merchant scooped up a bite of the dessert and gestured for the two to
taste it. “I outlived two of my husbands, and the bitterest split was with my most recent one. He left me to marry a young
beauty—then, a year later, she murdered him in a fit of passion.”
Nira gasped. Rlinda shook her head with a knowing smile. “I always said the man was impossible to get along with, and his
new wife must have figured it out, too. So far, my best exhusband was the second one, a man named Branson Roberts. I call
him BeBob, though no one else does. We’re still good friends, and he’s my best pilot—we just couldn’t get along well enough
to stay married.” She ate her dessert in three bites and dabbed her lips with a napkin.
“I’ve given up on marriage now and decided to become a gourmand. Forget sex … well, for the most part. What could be better
than sampling all the culinary pleasures I find on other worlds?”
Rlinda studied the chronometer and then powered up a viewscreen on her cabin wall, showing brilliant clustered stars as they
approached. “Won’t be long now. Those are the seven suns of the Ildiran system.” She began to clean up the cooking implements.
T
he deepest archives in the Prism Palace were silent and empty. As with every structure in Mijistra, even far underground,
the chambers remained well-lit at all hours, with blazers at every intersection and dazzling panels in the ceiling. But though
the chemical fires simulated bright daylight, Rememberer Dio’sh could sense oppressive shadows hiding in enclosed spaces.
Mysteries and fears and tragic memories of Crenna…
The transparent walls of the archives led to myriad chambers, transforming the underground Palace levels into a honeycomb
of glass. Dio’sh would have preferred to remain in the high towers and open balconies, where he could listen to the streams
of water leaping from platform to platform, but only here in these quiet catacombs could he find the resources he required.
Down here, the rememberer had access to all the ancient records of Ildiran history.
His hands still trembled, and he’d had little appetite since being rescued from the dying colony on Crenna. He felt weak and
sick at heart. Rememberer Vao’sh had tried to convince him that his symptoms were a mental reaction to the ordeal he had endured,
not due to any echo of the plague itself. Dio’sh and the refugees had remained in difficult quarantine until they were all
deemed healthy. Even so, any muscle pain, headache, or twinge made him nervous.
However, nothing would divert him from his obsessive curiosity now. Dio’sh had too much information to find, too many stories
to read, too much history to learn. He had to discover the truth.
All rememberers spent their lives learning and rehearsing the
Saga of Seven Suns
. The members of their kith were blessed with well-organized eidetic memories so they could retain and repeat the massive
epic, word for word. Once accepted into canon, no phrase was ever changed.
Because that story was so incredibly vast, with so many plotlines and legends and adventures, no one historian could possibly
perform it all. Rememberer Vao’sh preferred to spend his days telling favorite tales to avid listeners, glorifying Ildiran
heroes and accomplishments. As the Mage-Imperator’s court rememberer, he loved to perform.
