On the Oceans of Eternity (97 page)

“I agree,” Isketerol said harshly.

They dickered through the terms of the war indemnity, access to supplies for the Republic’s forces, temporary disarmament of the Tartessian fleet.

“And hostages,” Isketerol said wearily at last. “I suppose you will want more.”

“Not too many more,” Marian said. “But hostages of weight. To begin with, your heir.” She held up a hand. “For no more than five years, and he can visit home, and you him. He’ll be treated with honor, I assure you-he can reside with the chief or with me, as you choose. And he’ll get an excellent education.”

Sarsental hid a start of alarm, then a dawning eagerness; he whispered urgently in his father’s ear until silenced with a gesture. Isketerol rose and paced, hands knotted behind his back. At last he returned to the table.

“That is a bargain with several aspects,” he said. A glance aside: “My son is wild to see the wonders of the fabled place. You hope to make him a friend ... but you bribe me with the promise that he will truly learn things I only grasp as a man grasps shadows passing in the night. You are more subtle than I thought, Commodore.”

Alston spread her pink-palmed hands and smiled slightly. “Blame the chief, and Doreen Arnstein.”

“So.” Isketerol’s fingers rasped on the blue-black stubble of his chin. “Agreed—subject to a discussion of the details—on one condition.” At Marian’s arched brow, he went on: “Among the other hostages shall be my daughter Mettri; she has nine years. And she and Sarsental shall both study in due time at your ... what is it called? OCS, yes. And the Oceanic University-they shall be free to take any course of study they will, as an Islander might ...”

Later that night Swindapa chuckled in her ear: “Sarsental, he would like to do that.”

“He would,” Marian said, sliding further down in the narrow bed. “So soft ...”

A wailing cry interrupted her. “Oh, sweet suffering Lord Jesus, is that the
change me
or the
I’m hungry?”

“Both, I think,” Swindapa said, stretching luxuriously and lying back. “Your turn.”

“How did we get from
maybe we’ll keep him to it’s your turn this feeding?”
Marian muttered, sliding out into the dank, dark chill of the HQ tent’s bedroom.

A few sounds came from the great camp outside; a challenge-and-response, the rutch of boots on gravel. the endless lapping of the sea not far away. Marian hitched on her robe, sighed and went to the cradle.

“Both,” she said.

She tossed the used diaper into the bin, secured the lid, pinned on the new, washed her hands and tested the temperature of the milk from the heater on the inside of her wrist.

The baby looked up at her through the dimness as she cradled the blanket-wrapped form against her with four infancies’ worth of experience. She smiled down, and the infant responded with an enormous toothless grin, reaching for her and gurgling. Her heart turned over.

“All right. little’un,” she crooned. He transferred his attention from her to the bottle eagerly, used to it by now. “Here you go.”

Feeding, burping, and tucking-in over, the child went to sleep again with limp finality.

“That’s a relief, after Heather,” she said, sliding back into the bed.
“She always
wanted to stay up and play. Where was I?”

“Aywo!
Cold hands!”

“The water’s cold,” Marian said reasonably. “You’d object a lot more if I hadn’t washed them.”

“Mmmmm. Did we ... how’s it go ...
suck in
Isketerol with the hostage scheme, or did he
suck in
us?”

“That’s ‘sucker,’ sugar, ‘sucker him,’ or ‘take him in.’ We’ll find out in about ten years, I suspect ...”

“W
hy in the name of God didn’t we deep-six this ridiculous so-called tradition right after the Event?” Jared Cofflin demanded.

“Because keeping it up made people feel better,” Martha Cofflin said succinctly. “We
did
condense it. Hold still.”

He did, as she stuck the white mustache to his upper lip. At least he wouldn’t be sweating as much in this damned Santa suit when they got outside; late December in Nantucket was God-damned cold, Gulf Stream or no Gulf Stream. The Coast Guard tug was warm enough, with the boiler right below this miniature bridge. Not far away her skipper pulled on a lanyard, doing a creditable imitation of “Jingle Bells” in a series of cheery toots from the steam whistle.

The little side-wheeler swung in alongside the T-sectioned pier at the head of Old North Wharf. A huge crowd was waiting, big white snowflakes falling on fur caps and knitted toques, children held up to see or sitting on their parents’ shoulders. More snow hung on rooftops, and made a white tracery of the rigging of sloop and schooner and square-rigger across the width of the harbor. Lanterns gleamed everywhere, soft flame light in the pearly fog, and hissing torches stood high; behind them the church spires and rooftops showed like outlines in a Currier & Ives print.

“Ho, ho, humbug,” Cofflin muttered.

Back before the Event, the Christmas Stroll had just meant more work for then-Chief of Police Jared Cofflin. At least
that
hadn’t changed....

The crowd cheered as he shouldered his sack and walked down the gangplank. He waved back, grinning despite himself; it was mostly kids here, jumping up and down and yelling. He reached into the sack and scattered some of the little sacks of maple-sugar candy and precious chocolate, which at least kept the melee away from
him.
And there were things to celebrate besides getting through another year; the news from Tartessos was pretty damned good.

Amateur choirs struck up “Silent Night” as he walked up the wharf and up Main Street; it was anything but, though. The big covered market to his left where the old A&P had been was roaring, food stalls mainly, handing out eggnog and sausages in buns and grilled lobster tail on a stick and baked apples. A lot of mulled cider was going around, too, and these days cider had quite a kick. Main was pretty well clear of spectators except on the packed sidewalks and at every window and side street, but a big bunch of Fiernan dancers circled ’round him as he went up it; this was an important festival time for them, too, when Moon Woman danced the reluctant Sun back to warm the earth.

At least we persuaded the chariot boys not to sacrifice their horse, bull, and hound right here,
he thought—and before the Alban War back home, they’d have given Sky Father a man, too, so the boss-god would be strong enough to chain the Wolf that would otherwise eat the sun and leave the world in eternal darkness.

At the head of Main he climbed the steps of the Pacific Bank. “Merry Christmas!” he called.

“Merry Christmas!”
the thousands roared back—or versions of “Happy Solstice Festival” in a round dozen languages. The dancers went into a whirling, cartwheeling frenzy.

“Light ’em up!”

There were half a dozen big Christmas trees down the middle of the street, strung with an amazing assortment of ornaments pre-and post-Event; he rather liked the little carved painted horses that some of the Alban immigrants made. At his wave tapers were lit and touched to dozens of candles set on branches—and each tree had its own watcher with a bucket of water, now; those weren’t electric lights....

A sleigh pulled up at the steps, and he climbed in; Martha was already there. At least this year there was enough snow to use a sleigh; you couldn’t always count on that. The team that pulled it was a pair of glossy hairy-hoofed giants, Brandt Farms’ contribution to the festivities. Jared Cofflin resigned himself to ho-hoing his way ’round town as the horses took off in a silver jingle of bells and thump of platter-sized hooves on packed snow. The driver whistled under his breath as they drove, but at least it wasn’t a carol.

Moving through the streets, the sleigh seemed to carry its own bubble of yellow light in a world of snow-streamers. Carolers and impromptu games of street hockey and people just moving about for the pleasure of it waved.

“Dispatch came in just now,” Martha murmured in his ear. “Package from Marian and ’dapa, and the details on the text of the agreement with Tartessos. And a radio from Doreen in Hattusas ... that’s got some significant material in it. She wants authorization for a plan with some really radical potential ...”

“Ho, ho,” Jared said hollowly. Chief executives, policemen, and parents had something in common—they were always on call. “Let me have it.”

When he got home at last it was a relief to sink into an armchair in his own living room, with the hideous fungus off his face, sensible clothes on, a fire crackling, and a glass of eggnog of his own at his elbow while he supervised the opening of presents and the smells from the kitchen made his nose twitch. His parents had always kept the day itself for going to church, and he and Martha had kept that up once they had a brood of their own.

Marian’s two enjoyed their own presents; especially what their mothers had sent back from the Tartessian lands, a sack of precious oranges and lemons—those were expensive luxuries these days—parkas and gloves of beautifully tanned lynx skins, and a pair of olive-wood
bokken.
What brought the real squeals was a package of letters, though.

“Uncle Jared! We’ve got a brother! A real baby
brother
!
”

“Ayup,” he said, as they bounced around making plans for things they would do to and with him-you’d have thought the lad was eight, not a nursing infant.

And we’ve got a peace with Tartessos
,
thank God,
he thought, closing his eyes for a second and thanking God indeed. There were entirely too many new names on the fresh stone slab down by the Town Building, but fewer than he’d feared.

“Did you get any letters, Uncle Jared?” they asked.

“Ayup,” he said. “From your mothers, and from Aunt Doreen. But they were business.”

 

“Like, let the revels begin!” John Martins said, and repeated it in the gloriously ungrammatical Achaean. Ian Arnstein had grown used to in the past few weeks and visits. Odikweos allowed it, as long as the guards were along.

It was chilly and rainy outside, rather than actually cold; but the interior of Rivendell’s main hall was warm and brilliantly lit. Part of that was excellent lanterns; much of it was a half dozen wrought-iron candelabra hanging by hand-forged chains from the rafters. Those were elaborately carved, in varying styles; the walls were done with murals that Barbara Martins probably thought were Tolkienesque, but actually owed a good deal more to Disney.

Tacky beyond words,
Ian Arnstein thought, taking a pull at the mulled wine.
Especially the big eyes.

The ironwork wasn’t, though. Not the candelabra, done in the shape of phoenixlike birds holding the candles in their beaks, nor the elaborate curvilinear dragons whose claws clamped the roaring pine logs of the hearths on either side. Floridly romantic, yes, but it had the integrity of a craftsman who worked with a skill that let him precisely realize in the real world the vision he saw alone with himself.

You took Martins a good deal more seriously, after you’d seen his work, or seen
him
work. That seemed to apply to his second, unauthorized occupation as well.

A roar went up from the dozen or so adults sitting down the long table as the food came in—several turkeys bred up from imports via Tartessos, and a small roast pig, with mounds of bread and vegetables on the side. The strong good smell spilled into the hall, mixing with the resin scent of the burning wood and an undertone of damp dog and wool and silt from the tumbling stream outside. A fresh warm scent of evergreen underlay it, from the big fifteen-foot fir standing amid a pile of presents in one corner.

All of the men here had the startling muscle definition that Martins showed; it went with the trade. All were younger as well, several much bulkier, but he didn’t think any of them was much stronger. An equal number of women sat among them, and a round dozen children of toddler age and above tumbled about on the flagstone floor amid the dogs. Martins had his son on his lap and a daughter beside him in the big chair at the head of the table; he and his wife seemed to have adopted a good many more-a good many even by Nantucket’s post-Event standard—and his followers were breeding enthusiastically as well.