The Faded Sun Trilogy (56 page)

A wild laugh came to him on that second emergence, for the teaching of the Service had been
survive
, but that of the Game was something complexly alien, that careless madness that was the courage of the mri.

Kel’en.

He had shed something, something he once had valued; and as with the other possessions that he had cast into oblivion, the sense of loss was dim and distant.

Niun gazed at him, silently estimated, and he met that look directly, loss still nagging at him. One of the dusei, the lesser one, nosed his hand. He jerked it back, turned his face from Niun’s critical stare, and went to the corner
that was his—limbs steady, senses trying to deceive him and denied the power to do so.

He was not what Stavros had launched.

He sat on his pallet and stared at the scratched reckoning of days that he had begun, and that he had omitted to do. It was no longer the time that passed that mattered, but that which lay ahead, time enough that he could indeed forget.

Forget writing, forget human speech, forget Kesrith. There were gaps in his past, not alone in recent days, those fevered and terrible hours; there were others, that made strange and shifting patterns of all his memory, as if some things that he remembered were too strange to this ship, this long voyaging.

The Dark that Niun spoke of began to swallow such things up, as it lacked measure, and direction, and reason.

With the same edge of metal that had made the marks, he scratched through them, obliterating the record.

The lost days multiplied into months. Duncan passed them in careful observance of maintenance schedules, stripped down units that did not need it and reassembled the machinery, only to keep busy—played
shon’ai
what time Niun would consent; memorized the meaningless chants of names, and constantly rehearsed in his mind what words he had recently gathered of the hal’ari, the while his hands found occupation in the game of knots that Niun taught him, or in the galleys, or in whatever work he could devise for the moment.

He learned metalwork, which was a craft appropriate to the Kel; and carving—made in plastic a blockish figure of a dus, for which he found no practical use in its beginning; and then purpose did come to him. “Give it to the she’pan,” he said, when he had done it as well as possible; and pushed it into Niun’s hands.

The mri had looked greatly distressed. “I will try,” he had said, with perplexing seriousness, and arose at once and went, as if it were a matter of moment instead of a casual thing.

It was late before he returned; and he settled on the floor and set the little dus-figure between them on the mat. “She would not, kel Duncan.”

No apology for the she’pan’s hatefulness; it was impossible that Niun apologize for a decision of the she’pan. Understanding came, why Niun had hesitated even to try to take the gift to her, and after a moment heat began to rise to Duncan’s face. He did not veil, but stared sullenly at the floor, at the unshapely and rejected little figure.

“So,” he said with a shrug.

“It was bu’ina’anein—you invaded,” Niun said.

“
Presumptuous,
” Duncan translated, and the heat did not leave his face.

“It is not the time,” said Niun.

“When will be?” Duncan asked sharply, heard the mri’s soft intake of breath. Niun veiled himself in offense
and rose.

Discarded, the little figure lay there for two days before Niun, in a mild tone of voice, and after fingering it for some little time, asked if he might have it.

Duncan shrugged. “Take it,” he said, glad to have it gone.

It disappeared into the inner folds of Niun’s robes. Niun rose and withdrew from the room. The dusei went, and returned, and went again, restless.

*   *   *

There was a line drawn in main-corridor, an invisible one. Duncan knew the places within the ship that he could go, and those that were barred to him, and he did not attempt the forbidden ones. It was not from the ship’s workings that he was barred, so much as from Melein’s presence; and Niun came and went there, but he could not.

Duncan went now, impelled by humanish obstinacy, curious where Niun had gone with the figure; and his steps grew less quick, and finally ceased at the corridor that he had not seen in uncounted days: around the bending of the passage as it was, he had not even infringed so far as to come this way—and the sight of it now cooled his anger and gave him pause.

The lights were out here, and faintly there was the reek of something musky that the filters had not entirely dispersed. A vast brown shape, and a second, sat in the shadows before an open doorway: the dusei—Niun’s presence, he thought.

There was humanish stubbornness; and there was stubbornness mri-fashion, which he had also learned, which, in Niun, he respected.

There was the simple fact that, challenged, Niun would not back away.

But there were ways of pressing at the mri.

Silently, respectful of the barrier, Duncan gathered his robes between his knees and sank down crosslegged, there to wait. The dusei, shadows by the distant doorway, stood and snuffed the air nervously, pressing at him with their uncertainties. He would not be driven. He did not move. In time, the lesser dus came halfway and lay down
facing him, head between its massive paws. When he stayed still it rose up again, and halved that distance, and finally, much against his will, came and nosed at his leg.

“Yai!” he rebuked it softly. It settled, not quite touching, sighed.

And from the doorway appeared a blacker shadow, that glittered here and there with metal.

Niun.

The mri stood still, waiting. Duncan gathered himself to his feet and stood still, carefully at the demarcation.

It was not necessary to say overmuch with Niun—the mri observed him now, and after deliberation, beckoned him to come.

Duncan walked ahead into that shadow, the dus at his heels, as Niun waited for him at the doorway; and humanwise he would have questioned Niun, what manner of thing was here, what impulse suddenly admitted him to this place. But still in silence Niun swept his hand to the left, directing his attention into the room from which he had come.

Part of the crew’s living quarters had been here. The musky smell hung thick in this shadowy place, that was draped in black cloth. The only light within was living flame, and it glistened on the ovoid that rested at the far wall of the compartment, behind a shadowed steel grating. Two conduits rose at the doorway, serving as pillars, narrowing the entry so that only one at a time might pass.

“Go in,” Niun’s voice said softly at his back.

He felt the touch of Niun’s hand between his shoulders, and went forward, not wishing to, feeling; his skin contract at the shadow, the leaping flame so dangerous on the ship; the incense was thick here, cloying. He had noticed it before, adhering to the clothing of the mri, a scent he associated with them, thought even natural to them, though he had missed it in the sterile labs.

Behind them the dusei breathed, unable to enter because of the pillars.

And there was silence for some few moments.

“You have seen such a shrine before,” Niun said in a low voice, so that the prickling of his skin became intense. Duncan looked half-about at the mri, heart pounding as he recalled Sil’athen, the betrayal he had done. For
a terrible moment he thought Niun knew; and then he persuaded himself that it was the first time he had come that the mri recalled to him, when he had come with permission, in their company.

“I remember,” Duncan said thickly. “Is it for this you have kept me from this part of the ship? And why do you allow me here now?”

“Did I misunderstand? Did you not come seeking admittance?”

There was a stillness in Niun’s voice that chilled, even yet. Duncan did not try to answer—looked away, where the pan’en rested behind its screen, at the flickering warm light, gold on silver.

Mri.

It had no echo now, this compartment, of the human voices that had once possessed it, no memory of the coarse jokes and warmer thoughts and impulses that had once governed here. It contained the pan’en. It was a mri place. It held age, and the memory of something he had done that he could not admit to them.

“In every edun of the People,” Niun said, “has been a shrine, and the shrine is of the Pana. You see the screen. That is the place beyond which the Kel may not set foot. That which rests beyond is not for the Kel to question. It is a symbol, kel Duncan, of a truth. Understand, and remember.”

“Why do you allow me here?”

“You are kel’en. Even the least kel’en has freedom of the outer shrine. But a kel’en who has touched the pan’en—who has crossed into the Sen-shrine—he is marked, kel Duncan. Do you remember the guardian of the shrine?”

Bones and black cloth, pitiful huddle of mortality within the shrine: memory came with a cold clarity.

“The lives of kel’ein,” Niun said, “have been set to guard this; others that have carried it have died for that honor, holding secret its place, obeying the orders of a she’pan. But you did not know these things.”

Duncan’s heart sped. He looked warily at the mri. “No,” he said, and wished himself out the door.

But Niun set his hand at his shoulder and moved him forward to the screen, there knelt, and Duncan sank down beside him. The screen was a darkness that cut the light and the shape of the pan’en into diamond fragments. Behind them the dusei fretted, barred from their presence.

There was silence. Duncan slowly let go his breath, understanding finally that there was no imminent threat. A long time Niun rested there, hands in his lap, facing the screen. Duncan did not dare turn his head to look at his face.

“Do you understand this place?” Niun asked of him finally, without moving.

“No,” Duncan said. “And you have not taught me words enough to ask. What do you honor here?”

“First of Kel-caste was Sa’an.”

“. . . 
Giver of laws,
” Duncan took up the chant in silence that Niun left,
“which was the service that he gave to Sarin the Mother. And the law of the Kel is one: to serve the she’pan . . .”

“That is the
Kel’es-jir,
” Niun said. “The high songs each have a body, that is first learned; then from each major word comes a limb, that is another song. In the
e’atren-a
of Sa’an are twenty-One major words, that lead to other songs. That is one answer to your question: here kel’ein learn the high songs. Here the three castes meet together, though they keep to their places. Here the dead are laid before the presence of the Pana. Here we speak to the presence of Sa’an and the others who had given to the People, and we remember that we are their children.” There was a long silence. “Sa’an was not your father. But bend yourself to kel-law and you may come here and be welcome. The kel-law I can teach you. But the things of the Pana, I cannot. They are for the she’pan to teach, when she will. It is a law that each caste teaches only what it best knows. The Kel is the Hand of the People. We are the Face of the People that outsiders see, and therefore we veil. And we do not bear the high knowledge, and we do not read the writings; we are the Face that is Turned Outward, and we hold nothing by which outsiders could learn us.”

It explained much.

“Are all outsiders enemies?” Duncan asked.

“That is beyond kel-knowledge. The lives of the Kel are the living of the People. We were hired by the regul. It is sung that we have served as mercenaries, and those songs are very old, from before the regul. That is all I know.”

And Niun made a gesture of respect and rose. Duncan gathered himself up and followed him out into the outer corridor, where the dusei waited. Pleasure feelings came strongly from them. Duncan bore it, trying to keep
his senses clear, aware—fearfully aware—that his defenses were down, with the mri and with the dusei.

In kel-hall they shared a cup of soi. Niun seemed in an unusually communicative mood, and expressions played freely through his eyes, which could be dead as amber glass.

As if, Duncan thought, his seeking out the shrine had pleased Niun. It occurred to him that the long silences were lonely not only for himself, but perhaps for Niun too, who shared living space with a being more alien to him than the dusei, who could less understand him—and of whom Melein disapproved.

They talked, quietly, of what little was immediate, when they reckoned that jump might occur, and what was to be done on the morrow. There was a vast area of things they did not mention, that lay in past and future. There were things that Duncan, finding Niun inclined to talk, would have asked another human, things that he might have said—questions of the past, to know the man:
What was it—to live on Kesrith, when there were only regul and mri? Where did you come from? What women did you know? What did you want of life?
But Kesrith had to be forgotten; and so did the things that he himself remembered, human and forbidden to mention. The past was gone; the future was full of things that a kel’en must not ask, must not question, must not see, save in dim patterns—as beyond the screen.

Duncan finished his cup, set it aside, pushed at the dus that instantly sought to hose it.

“I will play you a round,” said Niun.

Day after day, the Game, each day the same. The sameness became maddening. And on this day, with the memory of the shrine fresh in his mind, Duncan bit at his lip and weighed his life and gave another answer.

“With weapons,” he said.

Niun’s eyes nictitated, startlement. He considered, then from his belt drew the
av-tlen,
the little-sword, two hands in length. He laid that before him; and his pistol, that he put to the left, and apart; and the weighted cords, the
ka’islai,
that depended from his belt and seemed more ornament than weapon. And from an inner pocket of his belt he drew the small, hafted blades of the
as-ei,
with which the Kel played at
shon’ai.
All these things he laid on the mat between them, pistol on the left, and the
yin’ein,
the ancient weapons, on the right.