Hellspark (11 page)

Tocohl grinned: in Bluesippan mythology, the battle between flot and eggri was responsible for the second destruction of the world. “How long has it been since she’s visited home?”

“A good ten years,” he answered. “Why?”

(Maggy?) Tocohl said privately, raising a finger to hold off Om im’s question. (Look through your records and pull out some stills of Madly of Ringsilver—pick only those where the background is blurred—and hold them until I ask for them.) By the time she had finished speaking to Maggy, Edge-of-Dark had joined their company, but Om im’s look told Tocohl quite clearly that his question was not forgotten, simply postponed.

With much solemnity and ceremony, Om im presented her. Tocohl took the hand
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Edge-of-Dark extended. She kissed it formally, said, “I am indebted to Om im Chadeayne for his kindness in making you known to me.”

“I too am indebted to Om im Chadeayne,” Edge-of-Dark responded. In GalLing’, she went on,

“It is a pleasure to be in discriminating company once again. Like most of your people, your dress is decidedly eccentric”—she eyed Tocohl’s moss cloak with jaundice—“but your manners are unfailingly impeccable.”

Tocohl laid a hand on her breast and inclined her head. GalLing’ suited her just fine for this minor bit of business. “I imagine this must be a great trial for you,” she said, “I see you have not been back to

Vyrnwy for, oh, five years at least.”

“Almost ten years, now.—How did you know?”

“Come now! Styles do change.” Tocohl laughed, “If you think my dress eccentric, you should see

what high-born Vyrnwy wear these days!” Tocohl gestured at Edge-of-Dark’s clothing and said,

“Not that I suppose it matters much—this is perfectly suitable for surveying.”

Edge-of-Dark flushed as deep a red as swift-Kalat. “Tell me,” she said, “describe it to me.”

“I’m not much at description. I could show you some pictures, if you’d like.”

“I would,” said Edge-of-Dark eagerly and Tocohl finished, “Tomorrow, then… if Captain Kejesli grants us the time. (Maggy, we’re going. Bring the arachne.) Today I am here on business and I must deliver my messages.”

Still flushing, Edge-of-Dark offered her hand again, this time to take hasty but formal leave of Tocohl.

Sparing only the briefest of embarrassed glances for the others, she hurried to the door and out into the thinning veil of rain.

“Little bugger’s really rude today, even by her standards,” Buntec said. “Wonder what bit her ass?”

Om im stared thoughtfully, first after Edge-of-Dark, then at Tocohl. Touching a finger to his brow, he gave Tocohl a delighted smile. “Ish shan always was an ass-biter,” he said in his own tongue. “Unless I

miss my guess, Edge-of-Dark will not be seen until she is once again in fashion—and the fashion will include shoes.”

“Boots,” corrected Tocohl and grinned impishly in response, pleased that she could accomplish that much at least.

Om im made a deep bow. “You shall have fair payment, Ish shan, that I promise you!”

Maggy’s arachne pricked its way through the crowd just as Tocohl bent to return the bow.

Mistaking her intent, the arachne leapt into the crook of her arm, to settle itself there like a Gaian cat. Tocohl laughed once as she straightened but, again face-to-face with swift-Kalat, she said soberly, “Now, swift-Kalat, you and I will have a word or two.”

Swift-Kalat found it hard to withdraw his attention from the behavior of the arachne; the ethologist in him was fascinated. No adult could have mistaken Tocohl’s bow for an invitation—its controller was evidently a child.

But Tocohl was correct, the two of them had business, and the glance the Hellspark gave van Zoveel made it clear that simply speaking in Jenji would not be sufficient privacy.

“Of course,” he said. Reluctantly, he released Alfvaen’s hand, and gestured Tocohl to follow him.

Privacy was difficult to arrange on Lassti or, perhaps, that was only his perception, after three years with the same forty people in the same small compound. He did not even think of his cabin as private in that sense, it was too familiar. Too many of those people had been within its
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door. So he drew aside the membrane and looked out. It was still raining, but the storm had passed, the danger from lightning with it.

He led her out into the rain, his boots squelching in the mud at every step, taking her only a few feet around the side of the common room building. Lightning still played above the stand of lightning rods beyond camp; his ears rang with it. He tapped the wall behind him. “If we speak quietly,” he said, “we are alone. All of the buildings were heavily soundproofed the second week of our stay.”

Tocohl twisted her head, agreeing to the place. Swift-Kalat breathed a sigh of relief; with the one gesture, she had somehow become someone he could talk easily to.

“We will discuss your fee,” he said. That was another area where he lacked expertise, never having dealt financially with a Hellspark.

She lifted a finger no. “Alfvaen and I have done so,” she said. “The fee we agreed upon is 2,000

G, contingent of course on my being permitted to stay.”

That was singularly low for an open-ended task the like of this, of that much swift-Kalat was sure.

“It was clever of you to send a Siveyn,” she went on before he could protest, “whether the cleverness was intentional or not. It’s impossible to dicker with someone who takes one’s first price as fixed. I don’t rob babes.” She snapped her wrist with such authority that he almost heard the weight of her status on this subject.

“It was not intentional,” he said.

“

Never tell a trader that!” She countered with a smile—and again snapped her wrist to give ring to the command. “In fact, the next time you call a liar”—he jerked at the unexpectedness of the obscenity—“put him to work: let him deal with the traders.”

She phrased it so adroitly that he could object to neither the words nor the suggestion. And in that moment he would have risked his status on the statement that Alfvaen had found him the one person who could tell him without fail whether or not the sprookjes had a language. He smiled. “I accept your fee and your contingency. And I shall consider your suggestion.”

“I see I pass,” she said, smiling back. “To business then: when you sent your message to Alfvaen requesting the services of a Hellspark glossi, did you tell anyone of your intention?”

That seemed an irrelevancy but, from her manner, it was not. “Yes, I told Oloitokitok. He was concerned about the sprookjes”—she exposed a bare arm to indicate her unfamiliarity with the term—“that is the name van Zoveel gave the disputed species. He was concerned about the sprookjes, as I was, so it was natural to mention what steps I had taken.”

“When you sent your message, were others sent at the same time? If so, do you know by whom they were sent?”

“Others were sent, yes; by whom, I do not know. Investing in an automated message capsule was unnecessary, for I made the decision at the time of the last supply ship. It would be little risk to assume that everyone sent messages at that time.”

She raised a finger. Thoughtfully, she said, “No confirmation, then.”

The words disappointed him. He had hoped for an explanation of the queries. But if she was not ready to speak about the subject, there was little he could do, except ask again in GalLing’. After van

Zoveel’s misspeaking, he was not about to risk that.

“Are there any Inheritors of God among the survey team?”

“I do not know.”

“How did Oloitokitok die?”

Again, he said, “I do not know. It was reported to me that layli-layli calulan believes he was electrocuted by a live-wire or a blitzen.” He used the GalLing’ terms for both; they conveyed
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some sense of the menace of the creatures.

“Do you accept this?”

He realized, to his own surprise, that he had told her the fact had been reported to him, not that it was generally accepted as indeed it was among the remainder of the survey team. She waited quietly while he reconsidered his own thoughts. At last he said, “I think it unlikely: neither of the creatures has ever ventured into that particular habitat of the flash wood, in my experience.

Their prey and their modes of behavior argue against it.”

“What then killed Oloitokitok?”

“The third possibility is lightning. It is as unlikely as the first two.”

“What special knowledge did Oloitokitok possess? What was his area of expertise? Could he have known something about the sprookjes that no one else knew? I am asking for conjecture, only: no conclusions on your part are necessary.”

“He was on record primary engineer, secondary physicist, tertiary botanist. Shortly before he disappeared, he was excited, it seemed, although I am no authority on Yn. He told me at that time that I

need not worry about the sprookjes. I inquired, but he would speak no further.”

Tocohl Susumo stared at him thoughtfully for a few long moments. At last, she said, “Nor may I, as yet.” She turned, ready to head back to the others.

“Wait,” he said. “Can you judge the sprookjes’ sentience?”

“I am only one. I will do my best, given the circumstances.”

His query was ambiguous, he realized. She had taken it to mean in her capacity as byworld judge, and she had graciously reminded him that a judgment of sentience required at least four such without calling his status to question. It left no doubt in his mind as to hers; were she Jenji she would ring as loudly as he.

She wiped streaming rain from her face. “Now, let us see what we can do in the small time allotted to us.”

Swift-Kalat raised a finger in agreement, although it meant returning to the presence of van Zoveel.

He had the sudden thought that he was perhaps ascribing sentience to the sprookjes largely because he

was more comfortable with them than he was with the survey polyglot. Tocohl Susumo could make all the difference. At least, he might learn to his own satisfaction the actual state of the matter.

OCOHL HAD GIVEN considerable thought to the matter while they rejoined the others. That a

Jenji of swift-status had made the assumption that she was a byworld judge surprised her no end.

It had taken considerable verbal maneuvering on her part to avoid calling his reliability into question without an outright lie of her own. Now the conversation could in retrospect be recalled with no disgrace to either speaker. She only hoped she could handle the sprookjes as well.

Swift-Kalat had offered his cabin for their further discussions. Typical of survey living, it was still a cut above standing out in the rain. Small, stamped from a single mold, it had been carefully personalized.

While swift-Kalat searched for an additional chair and found a pillow for van Zoveel, Tocohl set

Maggy’s arachne in the middle of the floor. Maggy promptly unfolded it and began a careful
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inspection of the surroundings. Tocohl did the same, with special attention to the holograms (they were originals, and very fine) and the tyril, a small flutelike instrument of red porcelain.

“Alfvaen,” said swift-Kalat, “I worried that something had happened to you when you were so long in coming.”

Alfvaen began, “You had cause—”

But before she could finish, Tocohl interrupted. “Your pardon, swift-Kalat, Alfvaen. We have little time, and a great deal to discuss.” Tocohl had no intention of letting Alfvaen bring up the matter of the

Inheritors of God until she knew more about the members of the survey team. It was also something she was likely to misspeak about in swift-Kalat’s estimation.

“Yes,” Swift-Kalat said. “Please sit.” The two women followed the invitation, but van Zoveel made as if to decline.

“Sit,” said Tocohl, firmly. She had not failed to note swift-Kalat’s uneasiness with van Zoveel or its cause. “It’s one of my cultural taboos,” she added with a smile.

The polyglot stared at her. “I thought the Hellsparks didn’t have any cultural taboos.”

“Anyone who says she has no taboos is a fool.—Please,” she indicated the pillow to her right and van Zoveel obliged. Swift-Kalat looked relieved.

“Now,” she went on, “tell me about your creatures; or, better still, show me one.”

“I can’t,” said swift-Kalat.

Van Zoveel said, “The sprookjes leave the camp during the thunderstorms. They won’t be back until the rain lets up, if then

.” The big man’s brow furrowed. “I am unable to speak to them,” he said. His hand slapped his thigh. “I’m not stupid: I’ve puzzled out three nonhuman languages during my career with MGE—and yet I feel stupid now! I’ve tried every tongue I know, but all the creatures do is parrot!” He thrust two fingers in swift-Kalat’s direction. “Don’t ask me about the sprookjes, ask swift-Kalat!”

Such had been Tocohl’s intention in the first place and without hesitation, she turned to him. He said

“I’ll show you.” A moment later, he handed her a large orange fruit and a knife.

“That’s a native plant,” he said, “and it’s an artifact.”

“A biological artifact?”

“You’ll see. Cut it open.”

Tocohl sliced the fruit in half, then in quarters, then in eighths—it was pulp all the way through.

No seeds. If it had no seeds, how did it propagate? “Runners?” she asked; but, as she expected, swift-Kalat said, “It has none.”

Tocohl said, “Then why doesn’t MGE accept this as initial proof that something on the planet, not necessarily the sprookjes, is capable of creating an artifact?”

“I was not hired as a botanist.”

“That makes you no less knowledgeable,” Tocoh said.

“To Kejesli, it does,” said Alfvaen. “When I worked with him before, he considered a person’s

primary specialty his only specialty.”

“Ah, and the team botanist?” asked Tocohl.

“He considers Flashfever wildlife so unusual that anything is within the realm of possibility—that we simply haven’t found this plant’s particular mechanism yet.”