Hellspark (19 page)

Layli-layli calulan prodded the body gently. If dealing with her late consort in this fashion bothered her, she was careful not to show it. Her plump hands stroked and probed with professional deftness. She said, “Blundered? Oloitokitok? Not likely. Think, Megeve: If you were a sprookje with no weaponry, but with a knowledge of the wildlife of this world, what would you turn against intruders? I admit only that there is a possibility of murder.”

She looked momentarily away from her work to fix him with a firm stare. “

Possibility”

she said, “is not probability

.”

Her hands halted suddenly at the base of the neck. Although Oloitokitok had been wearing his 2nd skin, he had closed neither hood nor gloves; it was his face and hands the golden scoffers had scavenged.

Here, however, the flesh showed only the effects of bacterial decay.

But layli-layli calulan leaned closer, pressed her fingers to the area, frowned slightly.

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Megeve followed her gaze but could see nothing to warrant such attention. “What is it?” he asked, at last.

“I don’t know,” she said, “but I missed it the first time I examined—” Her voice broke off.

She frowned a second time and turned to her comunit to address a spate of technical jargon to swift-Kalat.

Within minutes, swift-Kalat appeared at the door to the infirmary, with Alfvaen and the Hellspark’s arachne at his heels, all three streaming rivulets of rainwater.

Layli-layli gave them no greeting nor any chance to dry. Drawing swift-Kalat to the body, she indicated the base of the neck.

Wondering what had so excited the doctor, Megeve watched as swift-Kalat pressed gently at the indicated spot. Megeve turned away, unwilling to observe the ravagement done by the golden scoffers.

“What is it?” demanded Alfvaen impatiently. Trailed by the arachne, she moved forward for a closer look of her own.

“It appears that Oloitokitok was bitten by a sprookje,” said swift-Kalat, “a second time, as you were, Alfvaen.”

“So you know of nothing else that would make a similar mark?”

layli-layli inquired.

“Nothing,” said swift-Kalat, and layli-layli calulan continued, “The mark was made after his death.”

“After his death,” mused swift-Kalat. “If I theorize from the behavior of the crested sprookje I

observed in proximity to the cadaver, I might deduce that the sprookje wished to investigate the changes that had occurred in the alien’s metabolism.”

“That doesn’t account for the swelling,” interrupted layli-layli calulan

.

“Swelling?” Swift-Kalat touched the indicated spot a second time. Then he stepped back, lifting his hands. “My fingers aren’t as sensitive as yours, layli-layli

. I can’t feel what you refer to.”

“There is something beneath the skin at that point,” the doctor explained, “something living.” A flash of lightning whitened her face, solarized the scars across her cheek.

Megeve shivered in anger at the sight.

Barbarian

, he thought, then shook himself to relieve the sudden chill.

Layli-layli calulan had no such effect on swift-Kalat, for he merely said, “We have two alternatives.

The first, to dissect; the second, to remove the cadaver from stasis to observe the results.”

“Observe the results?”

Layli-layli calulan frowned at the cadaver, then at swift-Kalat.

“I have just completed the dissection of two of the golden scoffers found near the cadaver and placed in stasis two days ago. Of the two, one had no unusual marks of any sort. The second, however, which I saw bitten twice by my own sprookje, now has garbage plants growing on it.” His lips compressed. There was a soft chime from his silver bracelets as he reached out to touch layli-layli

’s arm with his fingertips. “I do not intend to cause pain,” he said, “merely to convey information I think significant.”

Layli-layli ran her palm lightly across his fingers. “I will bear the pain for the sake of the information,”

she said, then returning to the body, she added quietly, “Let us see.”

Megeve, caught between his curiosity and his nausea, realized the layli-layli intended to dissect

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Oloitokitok’s body. The sour feeling in the pit of his stomach became a hard knot. Without a word, he turned and left.

There had been a second turnover in the group that surrounded Tocohl. For the moment, only Om im and Rav Kejesli remained. The captain’s gray eyes stared past Tocohl to the message board over her right shoulder, and Tocohl twisted in her seat for a look. Someone had scrawled:

“Maybe they only talk to plants?” It was signed “Bezymianny.” Beneath that an “anonymous”

couplet, in Bluesippan, read:

“I’m sorry I woke ya, I’m only a sprookje

…”

Tocohl laughed aloud and grinned appreciatively at Om im, who feigned innocence with a complete lack of success. Kejesli scowled.

“No,” said Tocohl, “it’s nothing untoward. I’ll translate the content, but I could never match the rhyme in Sheveschkem. It just isn’t possible!”

Even as she translated, Tocohl realized that the few lines in an incomprehensible language could not have been responsible for Kejesli’s scowl. Nor did it vanish when she’d finished.

Kejesli shrugged, Sheveschkem-style, and said “You haven’t asked about Oloitokitok, Hellspark.

Shouldn’t you be investigating his death as well as the sprookjes?”

“Tell me about Oloitokitok,” Tocohl said, and Kejesli blinked as if caught completely off guard at the question. Om im raised his head slightly, about to speak, then glanced at his captain and held his tongue.

After a moment, Kejesli murmured, “I don’t know, I—never knew him, not really. He was—”

He stopped speaking abruptly, his hands worried the edge of the table. He looked away, his face darkening.

When he looked back again at Tocohl, he was angry: angry with himself. “He did his job and he never complained. I can’t tell you anything more than that; you’ll have to ask someone else.”

“Ask Timosie Megeve,” suggested Om im, “he and Oloitokitok seemed close. I’ll give my views, but you’ll have to bear in mind that”—he jerked his thumb back over his shoulder, a modified point that included Kejesli—“they’re all crazy!”

Tocohl eyed him solemnly. “You’re working in a madhouse,” she said, then added to Kejesli, whose scowl had become still more pronounced, “Sometimes the only way to deal with other cultures is to assume they’re harmless nuts—because they are, by your culture’s standards.”

“And you, Hellspark?” said Kejesli sharply.

Tocohl spread her hands grandly. “I am the maddest of all: I shift from culture to culture.” She inclined her head slightly in expectation of applause.

“Charlatan,” said Om im. “You Hellsparks are the wardens. All you do is humor the inmates and keep them from killing each other whenever possible.”

“You,” Tocohl said, “have an exaggerated esteem of Hellsparks that transcends all reason.”

“Hardly that, Ish shan. I once saw a Hellspark drive a person to complete distraction by simply talking to him. Mind you, I understood the language they were speaking, and the content of the conversation gave me not a clue as to how the trick was done. But it was deliberate and we all appreciated it.” To Kejesli, he said, “Havernan, remember?”

“I remember,” Kejesli said grimly, “that unbelievably rude Katawn customs inspector.”

Om im looked surprised. “I didn’t think rude, so much as long-winded and boring.” He turned back to Tocohl, “In any event, none of us liked him; all of us wished he would go away. It was at that point that the Hellspark breezed through. She had little patience for customs at best—none for the Katawn, apparently. She talked to him for some fifteen minutes at me and the next thing we knew he was screaming at us to get out and never come through his station again.

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“I always thought she’d insulted him or blackmailed him in some fashion,” Kejesli said.

“No,” said Om im, “I assure you the conversation was completely innocuous. So what did she do, Ish shan, or is that a Hellspark state secret?”

Tocohl considered him. It was only a matter of idle curiosity that sparked his interest, but the feel of

Kejesli’s was something much stronger. How would you drive a Katawn to distraction, she thought.

Then she had it.

“Think back, Om im,” she said, “try to visualize it. As the Hellspark talked, did she keep walking?”

He obliged by closing his eyes. When he opened them again, he said, “Yes, she did. She picked up this and examined that and walked here and there…’

“Then I can tell you how she did it: by picking up this and examining that and walking here and there… Constantly moving as she spoke, right?’’

“Yes,” said Kejesli.

“It’s simple. A Katawn can’t hold a discussion with someone unless he’s facing them, across a table or across a customs counter, for example. Or turned to face them”—she demonstrated by turning to address Om im face-to-face—“like this.”

She grinned at the deviousness of that other Hellspark. “As long as that Hellspark kept moving the

Katawn couldn’t address her properly, and he had no sense of what was wrong. What sheer frustration that must have been for him!”

“You’re right,” said Kejesli, with a small sound akin to a gasp. “He kept trying to stop her, to get in front of her.”

“Finally,” Om im said, “he burst into tears and—as I said—screamed at us all to get out and never darken his customs office again.” The small man gave her an almost proprietary look of admiration. “I

had no idea, Ish shan, how easily you can manipulate people with language!”

“You do well enough in your own,” Tocohl observed, and he arched a gilded brow in pleased acceptance of the compliment. Then he grunted and whipped his arm up sharply.

(Watch out,) Maggy snapped simultaneously.

There was little need for the warning: Om im caught Kejesli’s wrist against his own with a subdued crack that bespoke considerable force. Glaring at Kejesli, Om im reached for his dagger with his right hand.

Kejesli, totally stunned by the smaller man’s reflex action, eased back into his chair. He splayed his hand at his throat. Om im returned the partially drawn dagger to its sheath.

The two continued to eye each other warily.

(Need the arachne?) Maggy asked. It was not as unlikely a query as it seemed; Maggy had already learned to use the arachne to trip Tocohl’s opponents in a brawl.

(Thanks, no), Tocohl said, although she continued to eye the Sheveschkemen warily. Aloud she said, “Yes, Captain?”

Kejesli lowered his splayed hand to rub his bruised wrist, glaring at the two of them while he did so.

Then he leaned forward once more, this time very slowly. “What are you really like, Hellspark?”

The intensity in his manner shocked her; she met it with curiosity of equal intensity. “I don’t understand the question.”

Still glaring, Kejesli said, “You charge into my quarters like Veschke herself; you kiss that hull-ripping

Vyrnwyn’s hand and that hull-ripping Vyrnwyn puts on hull-ripping boots!—Now you’ve got
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Om im acting like a maniac!”

Om im, now content to settle back and watch Kejesli with equal interest, said to Tocohl, “I told you, Ish shan.

They’re all crazy!” This time his thumb jabbed at his own chest.

“You change,” said Kejesli. As he delivered it, the observation was an accusation.

“No,” said Tocohl, “I don’t. Not in the way I think you mean. You accuse me of changing my personality to suit the culture I’m dealing with?” Yes, from his reaction, that was what he was asking.

“Captain,” she said, “what you saw in your quarters was… the real Tocohl Susumo. I don’t change personalities when I switch languages. Think of it, well, like transposing a melody from key to key. It’s still the same melody, right?”

He had stopped scowling, but the intensity of his interest remained. “Go on,” he said.

“That’s what I do when I switch from language language: I transpose. That’s all I do. I assure you Edge-of-Dark thinks me as flamboyant when I speak Vyrnwyn as you think me when I speak

Sheveschkem. Or as Om im thinks me when I speak Bluesippan.

Kejesli looked unconvinced.

“Perhaps,” Tocohl said thoughtfully, “it might be some help to you if I spoke Hellspark?”

“Yes,” he said, as if surprised by the suggestion. “It might at that. I’ve never heard Hellspark spoken;

every Hellspark I ever met spoke Sheveschkem to me.” The scowl returned briefly. “Or spoke some other language to someone else.”

“It is considered the polite thing to do—use the language of the person you’re speaking to, if at all possible,” Tocohl pointed out.

“I know,” Kejesli said curtly. His sweeping gesture disposed of politeness for the moment.

“I’ve heard Hellspark had a manufactured language, like GalLing’. I’ve never heard it spoken and—yes—I’d like to very much.”

“Then you will. First, though, I want to correct popular misunderstanding. Yes, both GalLing’

and

Hellspark are artificial languages, but other than that, they bear no resemblance. In fact, they are diametrically opposed in intent. GalLing’ was originally composed of all the sounds all the known human languages held in common, so that a speaker of any of the languages at that time could speak GalLing’

without an accent. Oh, inflection gives you a clue, so does intonation, word choice, and so forth.” She paused to drain her cup of winter-flame and set it aside.

“Hellspark,” Tocohl went on, “took the opposite route. It was originally composed to incorporate every known possibility of human language, all the sounds of all the various tongues, not to mention such refinements as inflection, tonal changes, proxemics and kinesics, as well.”

Kejesli blinked, and Tocohl decided to leave well enough alone. She said, “Simply put, someone who speaks Hellspark can speak any of the known human languages without an accent. Nothing comes as a surprise. Where GalLing’ was designed to exclude, Hellspark is inclusive.”