The Faded Sun Trilogy (20 page)

Among mri, light and quick, and mobile even in extreme age, this weakness must be a curiosity. Hulagh wondered if mri made jest of regul weakness in this regard as regul did of mri intelligence. No one had ever seen a mri laugh outright, not in 2, 202 years. He feared there was laughter now on their veiled faces.

He looked on the face of Chul, seeking whether Chul understood. The youngling looked only bewildered, frightened; it panted and wheezed with the burden of its own and another’s weight. The young mri at the other side did not look directly at either of them, but kept his eyes respectfully averted, a model of decorum, and his veiled face could not be read.

They left the steel doors and entered the dizzying windings of the painted halls, down and down agonizingly painful steps. For Hulagh it was a blur of misery, of colors and cloying air and the possibility of a fatal fall, and when they finally reached level ground it was blessed relief. He lingered there a moment, panting, then began to walk again, leaning on them, step by step. They passed the doors, and the stinging, pungent air outside came welcome, like the hostile sun. His senses cleared. He stopped again, and blinked in the ruddy light, and caught his breath, leaning on them both.

“Niun,” he said, remembering the kel’en’s name.

“Lord?” responded the young mri.

“How if I should choose you to go on the ship with me?”

The golden eyes lifted to his, wide and, it seemed, frightened. He had never seen this much evidence of emotion in a mri. It startled him. “Lord,” said the young mri, “I am duty-bound to the she’pan. I am her son. I cannot leave.”

“Are you not all her sons?”

“No, lord. They are mostly her Husbands. I am her son.”

“But not of her body, all the same.”

The mri looked as if he had been struck, shocked and offended at once. “No, lord. My truemother is not here anymore.”

“Would you go on the ship
Hazan?”

“If the she’pan sent me, lord.”

This one was young, without the duplicities, the complexities of the she’pan; young, arrogant, yes, but such as Niun could be shaped and taught. Hulagh gazed at the young face, veiled to the eyes, finding it more vulnerable than was the wont of mri—rudeness to stare, but Hulagh took the liberty of the very old among regul, who were accustomed to be harsh and abrupt with younglings. “And if I should tell you now, this moment, get into the sled and come with me?”

For a moment the young mri did not seem to know how to answer; or perhaps he was gathering that reserve so important to a mri warrior. The eyes above the veil were frankly terrified, agonized.

“You might be assured,” Hulagh said, “of safety.”

“Only the she’pan could send me,” said the young kel’en. “And I know that she will not.”

“She had promised me one mri.”

“It has always been the privilege of the edun to choose which is to go and which to stay. I tell you that she will not let me go with you, lord.”

That was plainly spoken, and the obtaining of permission through argument would doubtless mean another
walk to the crest of the structure, and agony; and another debate with the she’pan, protracted and infuriating and doubtful of issue. Hulagh actually considered it and rejected it, and looked on the young face, trying to fix in mind what details made this mri different from other mri.

“What is your name, your full name, kel’en?”

“Niun s’Intel Zain-Abrin, lord.”

“Set me in my car, Niun.”

The mri looked uncertainly relieved, as if he understood that this was all Hulagh was going to ask. He applied his strength to the task with Chul’s considerable help, and slowly, carefully, with great gentleness, lowered Hulagh’s weight into the cushion. Hulagh breathed a long sigh of exhaustion and his sight went dim for a moment, the blood rushing in his head. Then he dismissed the mri with an impatient gesture and watched him walk back to the doorway, over the eroded walk. The dus by the door lifted his head to investigate, then suddenly curled in the other direction and settled, head between its forelegs. Its breath puffed at the dust. The young mri, who had paused, vanished into the interior of the edun.

“Go,” said Hulagh to Chul, who turned on the vehicle and set it moving in a lumbering turn. And again: “Youngling, contact my office and see if there are any new developments.”

He thought uneasily of the incoming ship, distant as it surely was, and of everything which had seemed so simple and settled this morning. He drew a breath of the comfortably filtered and heated air within the vehicle and tried to compose his thoughts. The situation was impossible. Humans were about to arrive; and if humans perceived mri near Kesrith and suspected treachery or ambush, humans could arrive sooner. They could arrive very much sooner.

Without a doubt there would be confrontation, mri and human, unless he could rid Kesrith and Kesrith’s environs of mri, by one method or another; and of a sudden reckoning she’pan Intel into matters, Hulagh found himself unable to decide how things were aligned with mri and regul.

Or with mri and humans.

“Bai,” came Hada Surag-gi’s voice over the radio. “Be gracious. We have contacted the incoming mri ship
directly. They are
Ahanal.”

“Tell me something I do not already know, youngling.”

There was a moment’s silence. Hulagh regretted his temper in the interval, for Hada had tried to do well, and Hada’s position was not enviable, a youngling trying to treat with mri arrogance and a bai’s impatience.

“Bai,” said Hada timidly, “this ship is not based on this world, but they are intending to land. They say—bai—”

“Out with it, youngling.”

“—that they will be here by sunfall over Kesrith’s city tomorrow. They have arrived close—dangerously close, bai. Our station was monitoring the regular approaches, the lanes—but they ignored them.”

Hulagh blew his breath out softly, and refrained from swearing.

“Be gracious,” said Hada.

“Youngling, what else?”

“They rejected outright our suggestion to dock at the station. They want to land at the port. We disputed their right to do so under the treaty, and explained that our facilities were damaged by the weather. They would not hear. They say that they have need of provisioning. We protested they could obtain this at the station. They would not hear. They demand complete re-provisioning and re-equipage of a class-one vessel with armaments as on war status. We protested that we could not do these things. But they demand these things, bai, and they claim—they claim that they number in excess of 400 mri on that ship.”

A chill flowed over Hulagh’s thick skin.

“Youngling,” said Hulagh, “in all known space there are only 533 of the species known to survive, and thirteen of these are presently on Kesrith and another is recently deceased.”

“Be gracious,” pleaded Hada. “Bai, I am very sure I heard accurately. I asked them to repeat the figure. —It is possible,” Hada added in a voice trembling and wheezing with distress, “that these are all the mri surviving anywhere in the universe.”

“Plague and perdition,” said Hulagh softly and reached forward to prod Chul in the shoulder. “The port.”

“Bai?” asked Chul, blinking.

“The port,” Hulagh repeated. “O young ignorance, the port. Make for it.”

The car veered off left, corrected, followed the causeway the necessary distance, then left along the passable margin of the city, bouncing over scrub, presenting occasionally a view of the pinkish sky and the distant mountains, Kesrith’s highlands, then of white barren sands and the slim twisting trunks of scrub luin.

To this the humans fell heir.

Good riddance to them.

He began to think again of the mri that had suicided, and with repeated chill, of the remaining mri that had by that time already tended toward Kesrith—all the mri that survived anywhere, coming to their homeworld, which was to go to the control of humans.

To die?

He wished he could trust it were so simply final. To stop the humans; to breathe life into the war again; to ruin the peace and the regul at once, and then, being few, to die themselves, and leave the regul species at the mercy of outraged humans: this was like the mri.

He began to think, his double hearts laboring with fear, what choice he had in dealing with the mercenaries; and as he had never lied before he dealt with mri, so he had never contemplated violence with his own hands, without mri hired as intermediaries.

The sled made a rough turn toward the port gate, bouncing painfully over ruts. The disrepair was even here.

He saw with utter apprehension that clouds had gathered again over the hills beyond the city.

The rain came, a gentle enemy, against the walls of the edun. The winds rushed down, but the mountain barrier and the high rocks broke their force and sent them skirling down slopes toward the regul town and port instead. No strong wind had ever touched the edun, not in 2, 000 years.

It was comfortable on such a night to take the common-meal, all castes together in the she’pan’s tower. All evening long there had been a curious sensitivity in the air, a sense of violent pleasure, of satisfaction as strong as the storm winds. The dusei, mood-sensitive, had grown so restive that they had been turned out of the edun altogether, to roam where they pleased this night. They disappeared into the dark, all but the
miuk’ko
at the gate, finding no discomfort at all in the world’s distempers.

And the spirits of the kel’ein were high. Old eyes glittered. There was no mention of the ship that was coming, but it was at the center of everything.

Niun likewise, among the kel’ein, felt the surge of hope at the arrival of
Ahanal.
Of a sudden, dizzying views opened before his feet. Others. Brothers. Rivals. Challenge and hope of living.

And himself, even unfledged, even without experience in war, hitherto no person of consequence: but this was homeworld, and he of homeworld’s Kel; and he was, above all, the she’pan’s kel’en. It was a heady, unaccustomed feeling, that of being no longer the least, but one among the first.

“We have been in contact with a mri ship,” was all the word the she’pan had given them that morning, before the arrival of the regul bai; and that, outside its name, was all that they knew. The Lady Mother had gathered them together in the dawning, and spoken to them quietly and soberly, and it was an effort for her, for she lay insensible so much of the time. But for a moment, a brief moment, there had been an Intel Niun had never seen: it awed him,
that soft-voiced, clear-headed stranger who spoke knowledgeably about lanes and routings around Kesrith that were little-monitored by regul—in riddles she spoke at times, but not now: “Soon,” she had said, “Very soon. Keep your eyes on the regul, kel’ein.”

And quickly then, more quickly than they had anticipated, the regul bai had come making them offers.

The regul were concerned. They were presented something that had never happened before, and they were concerned and confused.

“Intel,” said Eddan, her eldest Husband, when dinner was done and Niun had returned from carrying the utensils to the scullery—that and the storerooms the only part of the Kath-tower that remained open. “Intel, may the Kel ask permission to ask a question?”

Niun settled among the kel’ein quickly, anxious and at once grateful that Eddan had waited until his return; and he looked at Intel’s face, seeking some hope that she would not deny them.

She frowned. “Is the Kel going to ask about the ship?”

“Yes,” said Eddan, “or anything else worth the knowing.”

The she’pan unfolded her hands, permission given.

“When it comes,” asked Eddan, “do we go or do we stay?”

“Kel’ein, I will tell you this: that I have seen that Kesrith’s use is near its end. Go, yes; and I Will tell you something more: that I owe the regul bai one kel’en, but no more. And I do much doubt that he will come back to collect that promise of me.”

Old Liran, veilless as they all were veilless in the intimacy of the common-meal, grinned and made a move with his scarred hand. “Well, she’pan, Little Mother, if he does come back, send me. I would like to see whether Nurag is all it is claimed to be, and I would be of scant use in the building of another edun. This one, all cracks as it is, is home; and if I am not to stay with this one, why, I might as well take service again.”

“Would a service among the People not do as well, Liran?”

“Yes, Little Mother, well enough,” Liran answered, and his old eyes flickered with interest, a darted glance at Eddan—an appeal:
ask questions, eldest.
The whole Kel sat utterly still. But the she’pan had turned their question
aside. Eddan did not ask again.

“Sathell,” said Intel.

“She’pan?”

“Cite for the Kel the terms of the treaty that bind us to the service of regul.”

Sathell bowed his head and lifted it again. “The words of the treaty between doch Holn and mri are the treaty that keeps us in service to the regul. The pertinent area:
So long as regul and mri alone occupy the homeworld, whereon the edun of the People rests . . . or until regul depart the homeworld, whereon the edun of the People rests
 . . . This long we are bound to accept service with regul when called upon. And I hold, she’pan, that in spirit if not in letter, regul have already failed in the terms of that treaty.”

“Surely,” said the she’pan, “we are not far from that point. We contracted with doch Horn. Doch Holn might have known how to deal with us; but this bai Hulagh is apparently of Nurag itself, and I do not think he knows the People. He erred seriously when he did not take urgent care to see to our evacuation long before now.”

“Holn knew better,” said Sathell.

“But Holn neglected to pass on to her successor all that she might have told him. The old bai Solgah kept her silence. Neither do regul tend to consult written records. The regul-kind do not make good fighters, but they are, in their own way, very clever at revenge.”

And Intel smiled, a tired smile that held a certain satisfaction.

“May the Kel,” asked Eddan, “ask permission to ask a question?”