The Terrorists of Irustan (20 page)

Lili clicked her tongue. “You’ll need a new coat, then. There’s only one more in your closet.”

“All right, Lili,” Zahra murmured.

Ishi repeated, “Who was it, Zahra? What was the matter?”

Zahra looked up at her. Ishi was kneeling on her cot, her reader propped on a pillow. Her hair fell in a shining brown curtain around her. Her eyes were wide and clear, her little pointed chin dimpled. Zahra’s heart ached with her beauty.

“It was Laila,” she said. “She must have eaten something, she had nasty stomach pains. The medicator took care of it. I don’t even know what it was. It took some time, though.”

Ishi frowned. Zahra rarely let the medicator make the diagnoses. She liked to make them herself, preferred to know exactly what had happened and why, and what the treatment was.

“I’m so tired, Ishi,” Zahra said by way of excuse. “Can we just get to sleep? It’s been a long day.”

Ishi turned off her reader, tied back her hair with a bit of ribbon, and lay down. Lili said good night to both of them and went out. When she was gone, Ishi said softly, “Zahra?”

“What is it, Ishi?”

“Is everything all right with you?”

Zahra could hardly bring herself to answer. In a way, nothing was all right. But in another way, in a strange way, she felt better than she had in a long time. The coldness she had been feeling, the lack of emotion, gave her a power she hadn’t known was possible. How easy it all was, really! But she couldn’t say that to Ishi.

“I’m fine, little sister,” she said softly. “Don’t worry.” She put out her hand to touch Ishi’s hair. “Sleep now.”

twenty-three

*   *   *

We have no home but with the One.

—Fifth Homily,
The Book of the Second Prophet

C
rippled Asa
could never accompany Qadir to the mines, but Diya had often visited Delta Team. Asa brought up the name of Binya Maris to Diya one night as the staff sat together around the long table in the kitchen.

Diya folded his arms, looking around at Cook and Marcus and the maids. “The chief director was a team leader, but I can’t imagine a man more different from Binya Maris.” The secretary leaned forward and spoke in a confidential tone. “The numbers for Delta Team are good—high productivity, low incident rates. But the squad leaders turn pale every time Maris comes around.” Diya sat back again. “He’s incredibly strong. Once a stope was collapsing—walls caving in, rocks flying everywhere—and a miner was trapped. Maris single-handedly lifted one wheel of a rockwagon so someone could drag the man out from under it.”

One of the kitchen maids murmured admiration.

“Oh, yes,” Diya said. “But I’ll tell you, he’s caused plenty of trouble for the chief director.”

“How’s that, Diya?” Cook asked.

Diya paused, smoothing back limp tendrils of thinning black hair, enjoying the spotlight. “Well, you know Maris has had two wives die; now there’s been this incident at the Doma, after the funeral. And so many rumors—of course, I don’t spread gossip.”

The women pressed Diya for more details, but he shook his head. “No, no, I only talk about facts. But I tell you, you can be glad you work in the IbSada household!”

The next day, Asa mentioned the name of Binya Maris once again, this time in the market square. The chubby, short man leaned out of his stall between the displays of fiber caps, looking around to make sure he would not be overheard. “That one,” he said quietly, “you don’t want to cross. Especially you, if you’ll forgive me, kir.” He nodded at Asa’s cane. “That one has no pity, not for such as you, nor for any of his miners who might make a mistake, nor for any of the unveiled ones, either.”

“The unveiled ones? You mean the one at the Doma?”

“That one, and others, the ones that come around the Medah in search of their custom.” This time the vendor jerked his head toward the alleys around the square. “There are always a few about, though of course, I’m a married man, and I have no need.”

“But . . . this man we mentioned?” Asa prodded.

The cap vendor wrinkled his meaty nose as if some odor defiled the sweet evening air. “That one comes often for that particular business. If they can afford to, the whores avoid him. He leaves broken bones, bruises, sometimes worse. Pays well, though, I hear. Probably has to, with his tastes.”

A man approached the stall and began lifting caps from their hooks, trying sizes. The vendor turned away to his customer. Asa limped off into the light traffic of a workday evening.

Just beyond the square, in the shadow of a balcony, Asa leaned against a wall to rest his foot. Sometimes the ankle swelled so that it became unbearable to walk on. Tonight the swelling had just begun. The street boots he wore didn’t allow room for his misshapen bones. He rested the bad foot on top of the good one and leaned his head against the sandrite behind him. “Kir?” came a voice behind him. “May I help you?”

Asa, insulated from experience by his deformity, nevertheless recognized the ritual invitation. The unveiled ones dared not state their business outright for fear of being hauled off promptly by Pi Team. Euphemistic phrases protected them as well as those in search of their services. May I help you, Are you lost, Do you need something, Are you looking for someone?

Asa chuckled a little. “No one can help me, I’m afraid, kira.” He turned and smiled into the semi-darkness where a woman stood, veiled, but with her rill open to show wary brown eyes. She took a step backward, and Asa held up his hand. “No, no, you have nothing to fear from me, kira. We have a lot in common.”

He took up his cane and hobbled deeper into the alley. “You see?” he said softly. “We are brother and sister.”

The woman made a gentle noise with her tongue. “I see how it is, brother,” she murmured. “I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.” Asa limped a bit closer. His foot ached fiercely, and he would need a car soon. But he had a mission to fulfill.

“Listen, kira,” he said. He glanced around, but saw no one close. Another woman had her post at the far end of the alley. Asa watched as a man approached her and they moved away together. “I have a message,” Asa said. “For one of your sisters. Eva.”

“It’s a common name,” the woman said cautiously.

“It is indeed,” Asa agreed. “This Eva had a broken arm, several years ago. She got help from a medicant.”

“Which one?”

Asa smiled gently. “It’s best not to say. Eva will know, if she gets my message. The medicant needs her help now.”

“You’re wise, kir,” the woman said. “And so 1 won’t mention my name, either.”

“But you’ll carry my message?”

“I’ll do my best,” she said. She took a step closer, so that Asa could see her sharp cheekbones, her sallow skin. “Brother,” she murmured. “Are you sure I can’t help you?”

Asa caught his breath. The woman’s hand, thin and hard, touched his arm, circled his waist.

“A gift,” she said softly, so close to him that her verge touched his cheek. Asa closed his eyes, feeling not the woman herself, but the drift of her dress and veil against his skin. No one touched him as a rule. No one held his hand or embraced him or stroked his hair. The utter loneliness of his life suddenly washed over him, and he gulped air. “No,” he croaked. “No, sister, better not.”

She stepped back. “You prefer men, perhaps, kir?”

Asa breathed out, hard, and then tried to laugh again. “Oh, no, I don’t. I just . . He shrugged. “I’d rather just be your brother.” He smiled at her. “I could use a sister.”

He saw her eyes crinkle above her verge, and he thought she might be younger than she seemed. “I know how you feel,” she said. “So it will be, my brother. And I’ll carry your message tonight.” She waved a casual hand around the alley. “After all this is done.” Her smile faded. “I have a child to feed.”

Asa pulled out the little purse he carried. “But this is for you,” he said quickly. “I almost forgot.”

She lifted it, and the drakm inside clinked. Her smile returned. “Why, kir, you could have paid for my services!”

Asa smiled back. “I don’t think a man can buy a sister.”

She touched his arm. “No. Indeed not,” she said huskily; “Thank you, my brother. You’ll hear tomorrow.”

The woman melted into the darkness, into some door Asa couldn’t see, but heard open and close. The pain in his foot was intense, and he grimaced as he moved haltingly back across the square toward one of the broader streets, where a car would be available. He could only hope to find a sympathetic driver. The humiliation of standing scorned and alone on a street corner was even worse than the pain.

This night he was lucky. A battered car rolled up to him and the driver waved him in. Asa gave him an address two streets away from the IbSada house, and the driver pulled away from the curb without speaking. In fact, he never spoke until he reached the address Asa gave him, and then only to announce the fare, double the proper rate. Asa thought of the unveiled one, his new sister, as he handed over the extra drakm.

“Thanks, kir,” he said. There was no answer.

*   *   *

Zahra was waiting when Asa arrived at last at the street door of the clinic. She met him on the steps, alarmed at his pallor, the sweat that ran down his cheeks from under his cap.

“Medicant,” he grunted, “you shouldn’t be out here. Someone could see you.”

“I know,” she said. She lifted his arm across her shoulders and took as much of his weight as she could. Together they stumbled awkwardly through the door. Zahra kicked it shut, and then supported Asa through the dispensary and into the surgery.

“Now, Asa,” Zahra said when they were inside. “Up you go.”

“But, Medicant, my clothes . . .”

“Never mind,” she said. “We’ll change the bed after. I’ll do it myself.” She removed his cap and dropped it on a chair. She put a pillow under his head and then looked at his boot. Edematous flesh bulged over the top. “I may have to cut this.”

“Oh, don’t, Medicant,” Asa said swiftly. “I’ve almost got that one broken in.”

She gave a short laugh that was interrupted by the sound of the inner door. Ishi, still buttoning her veil, hurried in. “Ishi!” Zahra exclaimed.

“Asa, are you all right?” Ishi cried. She bent over him, her hand on his forehead. “What happened to you?”

Asa managed a lopsided smile as he took her hand away. “I’m all right, Ishi, thanks. Just spent too long in the Medah.”

“We won’t need to mention this to Diya,” Zahra warned.

Ishi made a scornful noise. “I never mention anything to Diya!” she said. “Here, Zahra, let me help.”

Ishi’s smaller fingers were deft with the laces of Asa’s boot. She tugged it down from his ankle and wriggled it free of his foot, with Zahra pulling gently on the toe. When the sock was removed, the bent and twisted foot was a pitiful sight, red where the boot chafed it, white where it carried Asa’s weight. Ishi met Zahra’s glance with wide eyes, but she made no sound.

Zahra smiled a little. “You know, Asa,” she said, “I think we’ll let our young medicant take care of you.”

Asa breathed a sigh of relief at the easing of the pressure on his foot. “Fine,” he said. “I’m glad to be in her hands.”

“I’ll be right here—no, I’ll be in my office, Ishi. You can call me if you need my help.” Ishi undid her veil, her eyes sparkling with confidence. Ishi was ready. She knew what to do. Zahra almost kissed her right there in front of Asa. Instead, she left her to her work, and went down the hall to wait.

*   *   *

Asa watched Ishi bustle about, and tried to hide his fond smile. It wasn’t really true, he thought, that no one ever touched him. Ishi did. She seemed utterly unaffected by his limp, by the ungainly appearance of his foot. Her slender hands were cool on his hot flesh, propping his foot and ankle neatly on two pillows, patching the syrinx to his arm and giving a general order to the medicator. The pain receded quickly once the little pump began its comforting click. Ishi wound an ice wrap around his foot, and he began to feel deliciously sleepy.

“I think, Ishi,” he said, “that you’re a fine medicant.”

“Oh, thanks, Asa,” she said with a smile that dimpled her pointed chin. She came to stand beside him, holding his hand with both of hers. “Are you feeling better?”

“Perfect,” he said.“But I’m not a real medicant, not yet. The medicator is really doing the work. Someday I’ll know as much as Zahra, though! Of course, I’m not quite fifteen yet. Even Zahra was eighteen before her studies were . . . before her teacher ...” Ishi’s voice faltered. Asa could see she knew something had happened to Zahra’s teacher, but not what.

“Yes,” Asa said quickly. “You have plenty of time.”

“And I have the best teacher on Irustan!” Ishi said. She plumped the pillow under Asa’s head and fetched a light blanket to spread over him. “Now, Asa, you lie here and rest. And as your medicant, I have to tell you not to be on your foot so long next time. It doesn’t help a bit to get it all swollen like that, and it could get infected.”

Asa yawned. “I’m sorry. I’ll try not to do it again.”

“Maybe you’ll sleep,” Ishi said, eyeing the medicator readout. “It’s giving you a sedative. Were you upset, or frightened? Did something happen?” Asa’s thoughts were growing fuzzy, and his eyelids drooped. Carefully, he said, “No, nothing, Ishi. Just tired.”

Ishi patted him. “Sleep, then. I’ll go check with Zahra.”

Asa was asleep before Ishi left the surgery.

*   *   *

Very late the next evening a maid came to Zahra with a request from Cook to come to the kitchen. Zahra, in her dressing gown, was reading. Lili sat quietly sewing as Ishi studied.

“Can’t it wait till morning?” Lili asked the maid. “The medicant had a long day in the clinic.”

The maid shrugged. “Cook just said it was important.”

“Never mind, Lili,” Zahra said quickly. “I’ll go. I can get some fruit juice while I’m there. You go to bed.”

“No, no, I’ll sit with Ishi,” Lili said.

“I don’t need anyone to sit with me!” Ishi declared.

“Never mind,” Lili said with equal asperity. “I’ll stay.”

Ishi tossed her head and went back to her reader, and Lili stabbed a torn veil with her needle. Zahra pulled on a cap and veil and went out.

She despaired of making peace between Lili and Ishi. Ishi chafed under Lili’s primness. Lili nagged at Ishi to think of her future, her marriage, her children. Ishi cared for none of that. Zahra hadn’t either, and had Nura lived, she might have avoided it for quite some time. But the neutral presence of Nura’s husband, aged and vague Issim, had become all at once a devastating force. In a cataclysm of righteousness, Isak Issim reestablished the Prophet’s order. He had prosecuted his wife of thirty years. He had ceded Zahra to Qadir before she was out of mourning. Zahra hadn’t told Ishi yet. She dreaded doing it, hated even to speak of it. But, she thought, hurrying to the kitchen, perhaps now was the time. Better Ishi should learn of it from her than from someone else.

Cook met her at the door. The lights were out, and the kitchen lay in darkness, but the moons were up, and the clean counters and porcelain fixtures sparkled faintly with their light. Cook led Zahra to the pantry stairs and gestured up them.

“It’s Eva,” she whispered. “She’s waiting for you.”

Zahra pressed Cook’s hand and murmured her thanks, then pulled up the hem of her dressing gown and hurried up the steps to the storage loft. One dim light glowed in its ceiling. Eva stood at the top of the stairs and greeted her softly.

“Hello, Medicant. It’s me. I got your message.”

“Hello. Thank you for coming. I couldn’t come to you.”

Zahra dropped her veil, and Eva quickly unbuttoned her own. Her lips and eyes drooped like those of an old woman. “What help do you need from me, Medicant?”