Prince of Storms (20 page)

In the plaza, a godman slept at his post outside the God's Needle, his white robes grimy, his hand outstretched in a somnolent plea for alms.

Come on
, he urged the Hirrin they waited for. Nimday, by name. Once Zhiya had set her spies to watch this God's Needle, it had been only a couple of days before Nimday showed up. By the next day, Zhiya knew all about him: a Hirrin male. A recent wound over his right eye. Formerly a ship keeper to Geng De.

He had been dismissed from service. Disgraced as a ship keeper, he was a Hirrin with few skills and had fallen into drug use, often stealing offerings from God's Needles. Estranged from a large family in a minor settlement of the Sheltering Path Primacy, he lived in a hovel near the Quay of Gonds. Quinn might have had Zhiya's people bring Nimday to him, but he wanted to come himself. In the vision he and the Hirrin were together in the God's Needle.

He watched the plaza. Even at ebb, the city was lively; sentients off to meals, assignations, amusements. Across the plaza was the two-story building where he had lived when he first arrived in Rim City, when he had
undergone facial changes to hide his identity and when Anzi had left for regions unknown, ending up adrift between the worlds, then rescued by the Jinda ceb. Who now kept her again.

But who did not give her his letters.

He had written her three times, and after the first letter from her, he had not heard back. Finally Tindivir admitted that Iritaj, Anzi's Nan Da, was withholding contact for a time. Her one message soon after she had arrived at the minoral had said very little. She was doing well. Iritaj had accepted her as a student. She hoped he was well, because she thought of him daily.

He held onto that. She had drifted from him. How could that be, when they had been through so much, and wanted each other so much? He mightily wished she had not gone. But if anyone could influence the Jinda ceb, it was she. They faced war with Geng De—perhaps even with the solitaire lords. He desperately needed allies. Meanwhile a force of one hundred soldiers had arrived from Ahnenhoon, handpicked by Ci Dehai. They were billeted on the far side of the Tower of Ghinamid. There were days when Quinn eyed those tents and wondered which of the newcomers Geng De might be weaving.

“He's here.” Noheme.

Quinn saw him, too. An emaciated Hirrin, a tentative walk, a bandage on his forehead. He passed by the sleeping godman and entered the shadowed door of the Needle.

“Go,” Quinn whispered. The Ysli nodded at Quinn and left.

Noheme would bring an offering up to the top and make perfunctory prayers. When she came down, she would have assured the tower held no ambush.

He watched through the window, noting the other guards in place around the plaza, to keep anyone from entering the Needle. After a few minutes Noheme came down from the tower, dropping a coin in the godman's palm. She strolled out of the plaza to a secondary observation post.

Quinn left the hovel and crossed to the arched God's Needle entryway. This time the godman woke up at the noise of someone approaching. With surprise he noted that he had acquired a new coin. He scrambled to his feet bowing, assuming Quinn had given it to him. “Excellency,” he murmured,
although Quinn hoped he looked too rough for the title with his growth of beard and simple clothes.

Slits of windows lit his way up the winding stairs. Just in time, he reached the top, coming face to face with the Hirrin, preparing to go down.

“Step back and give me room to pass,” Quinn growled.

The Hirrin moved back onto the top platform, looking resentful at this gruff treatment.

Quinn barred the way. “What are you staring at?”

“I don't stare. Sooner kiss a Gond than stare at the likes of you.” The Hirrin's fur was patchy along his flanks, a common symptom of habitual resin use.

Quinn drew himself up. “This is no talk for a sacred place.” A stiff breeze scoured the Needle's top platform. From here, Rim City lay spread out in its thin immensity along the shore of the sea. A few miles away, his daughter's home, the crystal bridge.

A pile of offerings lay in a heap on the platform: cheap jewelry, rotting fruit and trinkets. Quinn said, “I met a merchant coming down who was proud of his piety. He claimed he left a filigree mirror to the Woeful God. Did you notice the gift?” It was gone, of course. There were also blots of fruit on the stone floor indicating that the Hirrin had been eating the food left for the god.

The Hirrin glanced sideways, tucking his head down as though he could make himself smaller, less the object of the stranger's scrutiny. “Bragging, that one was.”

“I don't think so. I think you stole it. Put it back.”

The Hirrin could not lie, so he remained silent.

Quinn stalked forward, causing Nimday to back up farther on the Needle platform. “I'll call the godder. By bond law, he can beat you, and he should for defilement. You don't fear the Miserable God? We are all under his eye, unless his priests intercede. Can you be so poor as to need fruit from the god's gifts?” Quinn put on a softer tone. “Put it back, and if you give me your story I will pay you alms from my own pocket. Thus we are both dutiful under the god.”

Nimday, eyes bleary, swayed on his four feet, no doubt considering whether he was better off with the mirror in hand or the promised coin.
Finally he opened the satchel around his neck, lipped into it, and drew out the mirror. He cast it on the offering pile.

“That was well done.” Quinn backed off. “Now tell me your tale, but leave nothing out. Give me your tale of misfortune, how you came to such a base action.”

The Hirrin worked his ample lips, hesitating. “Got no work. A sentient gets hungry. Oh, I would work, but no one'll have me, after I got beaten by him and lies told about me so I can't work my trade.”

“Your trade?”

“Ship keeper I was.” He snorted. “Got me a navitar who beat me for nothing. You see my wound?” He nodded. “Think you could work with a cane thumping you all day?”

“A navitar struck you?”

“As I stand before the Woeful God!” The irony of his pilfering presence lost on him, he grew indignant. “He was no proper navitar. Had a way of being normal that wasn't right. And then, he took children on board, like a hobby. Ever seen a navitar with a hobby?”

This part was new. “A navitar that likes children? That is curious.”

“Likes them little, oh yes. You've heard of this pilot, but I don't use names.” He brought up a knee to wipe at a constantly weeping right eye.

Quinn lounged against the parapet wall like a man with time on his hands. “This tale interests me. If you tell me more, I'll give you three coins.”

The Hirrin snaked a dubious look at him.

“Three primals.”

Greed won over fear, and the story poured out. “A strange navvy, that one. Liked his little children, oh, he did. Got them on board and then'd dangle them over the side, like he would burn their feet in the Nigh.”

He got the reaction he wanted from Quinn.

“Nasty, oh yes. And then reading his little book.” He glanced up. “One he shouldn't have. All about the dark flood time. He kept it close, but I found it when I cleaned up after him. The
Book of the Drowning Time
, and if you never knew it, well, you were never a ship keeper, were you? Nor kept with the Red Society. But
he
read it, and we that serve the pilots know the book and the flood tales. Dark Nigh sorcery.”

Quinn brought three fingers up to his eye in a warding gesture.

“Oh, yes, some of them want to live in the river, never rising from the binds. For the power. They make the river bigger, deeper, and they command us, turning us to actions that please them. The dark flood time is just a tale, but the navvy that beat me, he believes it, mad as he is. But I don't say his name.” He looked out toward the crystal bridge. “I got enough trouble.”

Quinn didn't like the sound of
flood time
and
drowning
. He forced himself to say, “It was well you quit, if this navitar is as mad as you say.”

“Oh, I didn't quit for that. It was the beatings. And then he hit me hard across the eye, and I walked from his ship, and never went back. So I lost my work and even the ship keepers turn from me. So I'm low enough to steal food from a pile from the God. That enough story for you?”

A breeze scoured across the Needle platform, snatching all warmth away. Quinn laid three primals on the wall of the turret. “I'm sorry for your misfortune, Nimday. You should have some good meals of these coins.”

“I will.”

Quinn made a show of burying his own offering deep in the pile as though he presumed the Hirrin wouldn't dig for it.

As Quinn turned to leave, the Hirrin said, “How did you know my name? I never told you my name.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No, never did. I'm low but I'm not stupid.”

Quinn rounded on him, gazing at him in a new light. “If you're not stupid, you'll forget you saw me.”

“A purse of coin would go a ways to forgetting.”

Quinn moved closer to the Hirrin. “Think of it this way. If you talk about me, my friends will dangle you over the Nigh. They might lose their grip. Forget about me, Nimday.” He left another coin, anyway.

He quickly descended, leaving a coin with the godder. A book of drownings, of flooding. Geng De bringing children on the ship. Quinn still knew little, but Nimday's tale cast a shadow on his heart. He buttoned his jacket closer, his fingers like ice.

As he made his way down a side street to the shore, Noheme joined him. The other guards followed at a distance.

“Noheme, do you know a book called
The Drowning Time
?”

“I have little time for books, Regent.

Quinn slowed, and finally stopped near a foodery. They had planned to go immediately back to the Ascendancy. But Quinn wouldn't be going back. Not yet. “Find me a priest of the Red Society. Or, if not a priest, a Red scholar. We have more to do.”

Noheme nodded.

Maybe the book meant nothing. Maybe the most important intelligence from his meeting with Nimday was the children. Was there a child who held some key to events?

“And find out what you can about children. Sen Ni's orphanage on the bridge. See about any meetings between Geng De and children.”

“It's been hard to pierce their inner circle. None of the Hirrin staff are likely to talk.”

“Just make inquiries. We weren't looking for children before.”

He wasn't surprised if Geng De had interests in the occult. But now he had an image in his mind of the navitar dangling a child over the Nigh. It was as if he had opened a small window, letting in a fetid stench from something just out of sight.

IRITAJ PRODDED AT THE MINIATURE TREE
, creating a fold on a branch.

“Um,” he said, considering his modification. “Deeper.” The fold increased as Iritaj pushed on it from a hand-span away. One never touched an Ut tree.

Standing behind him, Anzi watched, more interested in this chance to view his life art than his tree art. Iritaj's broad back made a fine canvas. He was rumored to cultivate a thick body for this very purpose, but it was vanity, if so, and not worthy of a Beautiful One. On the back of his grown shirt bloomed a square field enlivened with a dazzling complexity of tiny scenes. Seen from a distance they appeared to be representations of Jinda ceb life, but the closer one got, the more abstract they appeared. A commentary on the real and imagined, Anzi had heard. Now that she had a stripe on her back, and was working hard—so far without the slightest effect—to alter it, Anzi could only be in awe of the Beautiful One.

“How are you feeling today, Anzitaj?”

“Wonderful, Nan Da.” It was true. With the change complete, she thought it had not been so bad. However, here at her first teaching session with Iritaj, she was nervous. She had an unpleasant topic to address. How to begin?

Iritaj still puttered with the Ut tree. With tendrils for branches, the offshoots curled and looped endlessly, colors flashing as nutrients flowed. Iritaj had been training it for seven hundred thousand days.

“Good.”

It took Anzi a moment to realize he was responding to how she was feeling today. She wished he would discuss her life art, but so far Iritaj was in no hurry to teach.

“Observe, Anzitaj. There is a transparent wall cloaking it like a sheaf.” He peered closely at the tree. “When I press correspondences, it translates to the inner workings, and the tree grows accordingly.” He paused. “It cannot be hurried. The point is never to make a mistake, for the tree cannot go backward.”

“Very interesting, Nan Da. I have seen other Ut creations, but this is the best.” In vain she cast about for a way to redirect the conversation.

“You see,” he went on, “it grows, but based upon the former structure. Everything is built on what went before.” He moved around to the other side of the table where the tree occupied its tray. He regarded the tree from this new view with rapt attention.

“Nan Da,” she finally convinced herself to say, “I was able to go to Manifest a few days ago. I saw something that surprised me.” When he didn't look up or respond, she went on, “Sen Ni was in Manifest.”

A glance at her. “Um, who?”

“Sen Ni. My husband's enemy.”

Back to the Ut tree. “Daughter, I thought.”

“That too.”

“Daughter, enemy. It is hard to keep track.”

“She who is trying to destroy the Rose universe.” If he had had trouble
keeping track
, he should focus on that.

“Look! Oh, look.” He pointed to a curl of the tree that was just completing a filigree extrusion. “A sight not often observed. We are honored, Anzitaj.”

“Yes, Nan Da. So unusual.” She chewed on her lip. “But.”

She had little right to complain of Sen Ni's access to Manifest. And another dilemma arose. Should she tell Titus? Would such a disclosure make her a spy? But how could she keep this hidden? And as for
hidden
, she had not even told
Titus that she had taken on bodily computationals. She hadn't wanted to worry him until it was over. Until, to be honest, he could not object.

Iritaj was gazing at her. “But?”

Her opening. “But it's not fair that Sen Ni can speak for her side. Unless we are permitted to.”

“Your power struggles have no place among us.”

“But did
she
talk about them?”

Iritaj gave up on the Ut tree and went to a window shadow line. At his approach it stretched wide, displaying his lush gardens. Householders were busy there today, directing growth in the small ways they were allowed. “Venn has been disciplined.”

“Complete One Venn?”

“Yes, she gave access to the mistress of Rim City sway. Avva ceb took an interest, unfortunately. An accident. We do not wish to compound the embroiling of our affairs with yours. It is over now.” He turned around, noting her unsettled expression. “Do you take my instruction, Anzitaj?”

“Yes, Nan Da.” It was fearfully hard to keep from pleading further.

“So, then, what was the lesson for today?”

Lesson? Had there been a lesson? Her silence held rather longer than she could have wished.

“Perhaps your thoughts were too full to receive instruction.” He pointed to the Ut tree.

What had he said? Nattering on about this old tree…

“I said that the tree never loses anything that it was, but builds on what has gone before. There is no erasing. The same is true of life art.”

Well, Nistothom got erased. But of course that had been a special punishment. “Thank you, Nan Da. I understand.”

“What do you think of your new art?” He glanced at her, as though seeing through to her back. He hadn't actually asked her to turn around, so she wondered if he had seen the bright stripe, and if he had, what he thought of it.

“It's just a beginning,” Anzi said. “It's not really life art yet.”

“Not correct. It
is
life art. Your art will emerge from what you already have, what you already are.”

It was just a
line
. But she knew better than to argue.

“You shall give up mirrors,” he said.

“Mirrors?”

“Small ones. Large ones. Mirrors, yes.”

“How can I see my progress, then?”

“It is best for you not to be distracted by progress.”

“But everyone else will be able to see it. Won't they?”

“It's part of your education. Do you take my instruction, Anzitaj?” He was already distracted by the Ut tree, probing, examining.

“Yes, Nan Da.”

She waited, hoping for something more from him. At least if he wasn't going to let her see her back, he could comment on what was there!

After another few increments it became clear that her lesson was over. She left his hut, crossing the common garden outside his front door.

What could she accomplish without mirrors? In fact, what could she do at all, to create life art? Iritaj had told her absolutely nothing. He wasn't helping her. Despite her most urgent need to hurry, he was making his instruction complicated and pointless.

Nistothom
, came the thought. Nistothom had gotten to Iritaj and poisoned him against her. Hadn't he said,
You will never be one of us?
Was he making sure of it, now? No mirrors. How could she direct her display if she couldn't see it?

Titus
, she thought in a sudden pang of loneliness. His face would be so welcome. It seemed they had been parted a very long time. Why hadn't he written?

Anzi took a footpath through the woods to the next village up the minoral. She wore quilted pants tucked into boots and a close-fitting top plunging deeply in back. Sideree had created it for her to Iritaj's specifications.

People were kind enough not to stare at her. But then, maybe they
did
stare, from behind. She quickened her step through the mass of plainform biots, stalky plants with buds along nascent branches. They hadn't been grown into artistic shape yet, and looked truncated and sullen.

Venn lived in Tir, not far from Iritaj's village, and Anzi meant to find her. She hardly knew Venn from her previous sojourn here; there were many Complete Ones, and they tended to keep to themselves.

Venn puzzled her. One moment she gave Anzi encouragement, the next, she allowed Sen Ni to argue in Manifest. Surely Sen Ni would have argued her case; she would have appealed to their self-interest, thinking that the Jinda ceb Horat were like most sentients. Anzi hoped that was wrong. They wouldn't restart the engine; how could they justify such aggression? The Jinda ceb prized their neutrality too much to contribute to genocide. All through her stay among them, Anzi had accepted this neutrality as the product of a superior knowledge that the Jinda ceb had attained in their unimaginably long history. Now, she had doubts. The barriers Iritaj placed in front of her seemed designed to thwart her. This wasn't real neutrality.

In fact, she was beginning to see a good deal of self-satisfaction in their claims to moral superiority. Even their life art might be seen—if she was going to be harsh—as little more than self-congratulation.

On the outskirts of Tir, Anzi paused, taking in the view of the village, a wall of spindly habitations, leaning and pressing on each other, with the occasional narrow passageway between. Tall and absurdly narrow, the huts afforded much larger internal spaces.

Past this fencing of huts was the commons garden. This is where she'd heard Venn could be found today.

Around the habitations she found more people strolling and working than in the plainform woods. It seemed everyone looked up as she approached, then averted their eyes. She had always been a stranger among them, an alien being; previously, however, they had managed very well not to single her out.

As she wound her way into the garden, she noted that at first the shrubs and trees were generic, like the biots along the path between villages. Gradually, they gained particularity.

“Have you seen Complete One Venn?” she asked a Jinda ceb sitting under an old, evolved tree.

He pointed down the path. “In the center. Teaching today.”

When Anzi found her, the old woman was surrounded by juveniles.
Some were seated, but many ran freely, practicing with their hoops and dashing in and out of the group that sat for the formal lesson.

Venn sat on the grass. “Oh yes,” she said to a very small juvenile, “blood and death everywhere. It was quite a sight. In those days, we actually died, you know. That is, we left the world and never came back. It was sad, I seem to remember.”

“Blood and death!” a few juveniles chanted. “Blood and death!”

Some of the teachers standing among them smiled indulgently, but made no effort to create a more respectful class. One couldn't presume to manage a session led by a Complete One.

“Well,” Venn went on, “the fights and skirmishes were all quite exciting, but the fun didn't last long. You might have blood and wounds for a while, but then you died, you see. That is why we made rules against it.”

“Ohh,” some of the juveniles moaned.

Venn leaned forward. “You would not have liked it. You would have missed your friends that died. You would feel terrible if you killed someone. Also, that was in the time when we flew.” She flapped her arms with enthusiasm, as though missing the old days. “And that is what the hoops were for, originally, so that you could watch your parents ride the skies.”

“Hoop!” one of the students shouted.

“You cannot imagine living without your hoop, can you? Someday you will not need it anymore. You will be grown then, and speak in Manifest. I hope you like it more than I do. Too much talking, if you ask me.”

Venn followed the gaze of several juveniles who had noticed Anzi standing on the edge of the class.

She turned back to the class. “Lately I was bad, and as a consequence, Avva ceb determined I must attend Manifest. Is it a good idea? What do you think? If I go to Manifest will it make me think the same things that everyone else thinks?”

Puzzled expressions at this. Finally one juvenile threw out, “Yes! So you won't be bad anymore!”

Amused, Venn swayed from side to side. “We shall see!”

“Tell about flying!”

“Oh, flying. We had wings, of course, and very long claws. Caught our food live and swallowed it, blood and all.”