Hellspark (16 page)

Om im gestured at her cup. “I know where swift-Kalat keeps his supplies. Would you like a refill, as long as I’m getting myself a cup?”

“Please,” said Tocohl. As Om im crossed the room, she said, (Maggy? Are you getting all this?) (Of course,) said Maggy. (He’s right about the ionization stress effects. It could be enough to account for your lack of sense.)

Tocohl breathed a sigh. (But probably not,) she said. (Let’s hear the short version of what you’ve found.)

It took no more than a minute from Maggy’s choice of quotes and displays for Tocohl to see that the exhilaration she felt was not merely an emotional reaction to Flashfever’s gaudy displays of lightning but a genuine physical reaction to the ionization of the air. (I think,) she said, (I can probably tone down the effect a little with the Methven rituals.) (Then do,) said Maggy, (or who knows what you claim to be next. And I’m not sure I approve of lying. You did say not to lie to Jenji…)

(I didn’t. Not precisely. I said I’d agree to judge—never said I was one.) There was something akin to a muffled snort. Tocohl squinted, as if she might see the speaker if she looked hard enough into her spectacles. (That’s not my snort of disapproval, is it?) (No, it’s Buntec’s. Does it match the rest of my voice? Did I use it correctly?) (Yes, and yes again,) Tocohl said. Deciding it was time to change the subject, she added, (What are you up to?)

(You mean what is the arachne doing?)

(Mm. Yes. Even Hellspark doesn’t have the proper words to cover all possible situations.) (Exploring the perimeter. Would you like to see?)

(Please,) said Tocohl, and was rewarded by a portion of the arachne eye view of barbed-wire fence, no doubt the most interesting area in Maggy’s opinion.

Heavy rain lashed a grove of frostwillows into frenzied display of light. Their ordinarily sweet tinkling sound had become a disturbing one of shattering glass that could be heard even above the rushing downpour. Something slithered past in the forground, and as it passed through a clump of flashgrass

Tocohl saw that it was a lizardlike creature, as brassy as penny-Jannisetts.

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(You might show that tape to swift-Kalat,) said Tocohl. (I don’t recall having seen that particuli animal in their files.)

(You’re right. They don’t have a picture of that one. Maggy had evidently checked while Tocohl was speaking. (They should,) she added primly.

Tocohl chuckled. (Perhaps they know enough to come in out of the rain; you and the lizard-thing don’t.)

(The storm is not yet overhead. The arachne is in no danger.) (No offense,) said Tocohl.

(None taken,) said the voice in her ear, and Tocohl said, (Perfectly put.—And, Maggy, you’re making good choices about what needs an immediate response and what can wait.) To this last, Maggy made no response, but the vision of the camp perimeter vanished. Om im set a second cup of winter-flame before Tocohl and reseated himself, cradling his own cup for its warmth, an unconscious response to the dankness of the weather.

“Thunderstorms,” he said, “are a time for talk. There’s not much else to do on this world during one except drink winter-flame and cavil about the weather.”

“I wish the sprookjes felt that way,” said Tocohl, “about talking during thunderstorms, I mean.

It’s been two days now and I haven’t gotten to talk to a sprookje—or gotten one to talk to me.

What do they do during thunderstorms?”

“Nobody is willing to brave that”—Om im flourished a hand in the direction of the door; a flash of lightning gave the gesture more emphasis than he had intended and he rubbed his fingertips in delighted surprise—“in order to find out.”

Before Tocohl could open her mouth to comment, he said firmly, “If you’re going to suggest arachnes and other robot probes, Ish shan, be assured we thought of that. And we promptly lost five of them to

Flashfever’s wildlife, most of which either gives electric shocks or feeds on them.

“As long as yours stays within the perimeter, you probably won’t lose it, unless it gets hit by lightning, but I wouldn’t risk it outside if I were you.” Om im paused, then went on, “And as for getting the sprookjes to talk to you when they’re around, don’t feel neglected. I’ll finish my eyewitness account and you’ll see what I mean.”

“Do,” said Tocohl, and raised her cup.

“After the episode with the high-frequency sounds, none of us saw much of the sprookjes, except an occasional glimpse in the distance that might have been one. Then, one day about six months later, a handful of the brown ones showed up in camp.”

Once again, he drew his dagger. He peered critically at the blade, then drew a whetstone from his pouch and began to hone it, comfortably matching the rhythm of his words to the motion.

“The ones that came to camp are all brown and all smaller than the crested ones. I never thought about it before, but I

suppose the camp sprookjes are younger, or a different sex?”

“There are speculations to that effect in the hard-copy,” said Tocohl, “though I did notice that no one did an anatomical study.”

Om im stopped honing, shocked. “When half the survey team thought they were sentient? No way—”

“I only meant no one had found a dead sprookje to autopsy. You give me an undeserved reputation for bloodthirst.”

“Sorry,” said Om im, “I intended no offense. The situation makes us all a little edgy one way or another.”

“And you lean toward defending the sprookjes. Why?”

This time the Bluesippan looked not so much shocked as surprised by her words, “You know,”

he said, “I do think along those lines, but I’m afraid I haven’t any idea why I do.”

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With a faintly puzzled air, he went back to his story—as if he were listening for some clue to his own attitudes. “After the handful, more and more trickled in, and three months later, we had one apiece. Now

I had better be specific…

“For the exact date, I’d have to check my records, but it was late afternoon and I was sitting on a stool I’d brought outside, ‘drying my feathers,’ as I said before; and there was a sprookje, staring at me with those great solemn eyes of theirs. So I said hello. And said hello—”

it

“Just a minute, Om im. In what language?”

“In GalLing’. It was too tall for a Bluesippan, after all. At any rate, I was stunned and it was stunned, or gave a good facsimile thereof. Finally I said, ‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ and went on to introduce myself. I got about halfway through my self-introduction before I realized that the sprookje was parroting me, word for word, inflection for inflection. I was so surprised I stopped midway through my name, and a second or two later, that’s precisely where the sprookje stopped.

“By this time, a couple of other people had come over, slowly, of course, so they wouldn’t frighten the creature. So I tried again. This time, I introduced Buntec. And the blunted sprookje kept pace again, just a little behind me.

“But when Buntec spoke, also in GalLing’, it was as if she didn’t exist at all. And that, children, is how your uncle Om im acquired his sprookje.” The Bluesippan’s puzzled look was replaced by an ironic one; his narrative had failed to give him the clue he’d been seeking.

“If it’s any consolation,” said Tocohl, “I didn’t find anything either.”

Om im lifted his gilded eyebrows and raised his cup to her. “Sharp as Tam shan’s blade! You come by your reputation honestly, Ish shan.”

“Hah! You established it in your own mind when you chose that nickname for me.” She leaned back, then said, “I believe you have payment coming. What do I owe so far?”

“I think,” he said slowly, as if in an effort to keep his voice light, “that you have more than repaid me.

You’re right: I believe the sprookjes are sentient. Strongly enough at least to know they must be given a chance. The chance is yours.”

Tocohl met his eyes with practiced misunderstanding.

He laughed, his eyes merry beneath his gilded brows. “No, Ish shan,” he said, “that won’t help.

My

Hellspark may not be the best, but I can tell a hawk from a handsaw when I hear it in your tongue.”

It took Tocohl a moment to understand… In the Bluesippan translation the words were identical but for a and a , the difference between her name and her father’s.

si su

By the time she had grasped his meaning, she knew she had no cause for alarm. His dagger was on the table; he slid it, hilt-first, across to her. “My blade is at your service, Tocohl Susumo,” he said. “That is the least I can do for Oloitokitok and for the sprookjes.”

She laid her hand across the hilt, accepting his service and his silence.

KISS ON the hand is worth all this? thought Buntec incredulously as she looked down at the table spread with Vyrnwyn delicacies. She didn’t recognize any of these foods, but the Vyrnwyn obviously considered the visual side of eating at least as important as the flavor.

Spread before her were a dozen separate plates, each a different size—here a delicate gold paste heaped high in a black bowl, topped with a sprinkling of something round and rosy; there, on a
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pale blue plate, semitransparent slices of something pure white arranged in the shape, yes, in the shape of a frostwillow.

Buntec stared at each wonder in turn… When she found her voice at last it was to say, “They’re beautiful, Edge-of-Dark, beautiful! Surely you don’t expect me to eat them!” Realizing this might be misunderstood, she added hastily, “If I

eat them, they’ll be gone

. Shouldn’t we at least take a picture or—!” Her arm flung wide, as if of its own accord, to encompass the entire display.

Edge-of-Dark smiled. To Buntec’s surprise, it was not the patronizing smile she’d seen so many times before but a genuinely warm and open smile that suited her rich features so perfectly that Buntec was overwhelmed.

“Perfection never lasts,” Edge-of-Dark said. “We eat them because they are beautiful. If they weren’t, we shouldn’t bother.” Smiling still, she added, “We differ so much, you and I, I was unsure of your tastes in food. I’m glad to know that I am already partially correct.”

Buntec hesitated, unwilling to disturb that luminous image of frostwillow.

“That one,” said Edge-of-Dark, “is eaten with this”—she indicated one of the three unfamiliar utensils that lay before Buntec—“and I won’t know if you like the way it tastes unless you taste it.

Please.”

Buntec raised the little gold-pronged implement Edge-of-Dark had indicated and, taking a deep breath, speared a piece of “frostwillow.” In that brief moment, she found the time and the honesty to admit to herself that if Edge-of-Dark’s wearing boots could mean that she felt so relieved, then perhaps a little hand-kissing could make all the difference to Edge-of-Dark.

The “frostwillow” was cold and crisp and delicately spicy. She couldn’t tell if it was animal or vegetable, but she reached for a second piece and found Edge-of-Dark smiling at her again.

Edge-of-Dark, her hand poised over a pile of flamboyant red and purple curls on a striped platter, said, “These are to be eaten with the fingers. The… uncertainty is part of the appeal.”

She demonstrated, dipping one of the curls into a bowl of gold paste.

By “uncertainty” Edge-of-Dark clearly meant that of getting curl and paste down the gullet instead of plopped into her lap. Buntec smiled back, intrigued by this new aspect of the Vyrnwyn programmer.

Fashionable clothing seemed terribly important to Edge-of-Dark; to see her risk splattering it was a double wonder.

Following Edge-of-Dark’s example, Buntec dipped one of the red curls into the gold paste. “I still don’t see,” she began, but the paste was as uncertain as Edge-of-Dark had implied. Seeing it about to drip, Buntec tilted the curl first one way, then the other. When that did no good, she hastily caught the spill with her other hand. “—Oops! I’m sorry, Edge-of-Dark. I don’t know a thing about Vyrnwyn table manners. Did I just cheat? Will you be offended if I lick my palm or—?”

“Ordinarily one doesn’t begin that until much later, after one has had a good deal to drink.

‘Cat-drunk’ we call it, because the Gaian cat has such fastidious manners even though it cleans itself with its tongue. You’re a beginner, Buntec, so that’s a different matter altogether. If you’ll have some wine, we’ll consider it to be in good taste,” Edge-of-Dark said, then added, with the caution the question deserved, “As far as I know, I don’t have any taboos having to do with dinner. But I’m not sure. I never realized that speak with an accent until the first time I stayed in—well, a very different part of my

I

country on my own world.—Do you have any table manner taboos that should know about?”

I

The two women considered each other warily, each afraid of her own provincialism. Then
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Buntec grinned and held up a chunky hand. “Do you like dOrnano wine?”

“Yes,” said Edge-of-Dark in a puzzled fashion, and Buntec went on, “Then I have a solution: the first

of us to spot one of her own culture’s food taboos gets treated to a bottle of dOrnano wine—to be shared with the other, of course.”

“Of course,” Edge-of-Dark said.

Happy with this solution, Buntec took a sip of wine, then licked the paste from her palm. “In good taste is right,” she said. “This is better than good.” She also caught some taste of the Vyrnwyn game: the paste was heavily laced with brandy, potent even without the blackwine that complemented it.

“Mm! no way this perfection will outlast my appetite!” Buntec reached for another curl, a purple one this time. “Well, I was going to say: I still don’t see how you can put so much artistry into something so perishable.”

Edge-of-Dark poured herself another glass of blackwine. Gesturing left with the decanter, she asked, “Would you find that too perishable to bother with as well?”

Buntec followed the gesture: on a low rectangular table in the far corner of the cabin sat a flattish container filled with a variety of local plants. She was momentarily surprised that she had not seen it before, until the thought occurred to her that perhaps it was intended to be seen only from this point.