The Snow Queen (15 page)

Gundhalinu
put his book down, said softly, “Commander really knows how to try your sainted
ancestors, doesn’t he?”

She looked
back at him.

“I could
hear every word both of you said yesterday, clear out in the ward room.” He
grimaced. “You have more nerve than I have, Inspector.”

“Maybe just
a shorter fuse, after all these years.” She pulled absently at the seal of her
heavy coat. “Not that it made any difference.” They were still on their way to
Shotover
Bay
on the edge of Summer, as near to
the antipodes of LiouxSked’s universe as he could arrange on short notice. “A
quarter around the planet in a patrol craft after a ‘possible’ smuggler
report!”

“

“While the
real criminals deal openly in Carbuncle and laugh in our faces.”“ Gundhalinu
quoted the end of it, from yesterday, with a sorrowful smile. “Yes, ma’am, it
stinks.” His hands tightened over the wheel. “But if we really can knock down
somebody running embargoed goods to the locals ... We’ve gotten a lot of heat
about that lately.”

“From the
Queen.” Jerusha’s mouth twitched, remembering the royal display of hypocrisy
that she had endured during her most recent official visit.

“I can’t
understand that, Inspector.” He shook his head. “I thought she wanted all the
high technology she could get her hands on for Tiamat; she’s always talking up
technological independence. She wouldn’t care whether it was illegal. Hell, I
expect shed prefer it that way.”

“She
doesn’t care about Tiamat or technology or anything else, except in relation to
how they affect her own position. And some of the contraband goods have been
getting in her way lately.”

“Hard to
imagine how.” Gundhalinu changed position carefully behind the controls.

“Not all
the customers of the trade are harmless cranks.” She had read reports on
smuggling in the Winter outback with interest and more than a little sympathy:
The few independent smugglers’ ships that managed to penetrate the Hegemony’s
planetary surveillance net could make a small fortune on a cargo of information
tapes and tech manuals, power cells and hard-to-come-by components. There were
always wealthy Winter nobles with an obsession about what made things shine and
hidden labs on their island estates; self-styled mad scientists trying to crack
the secrets of the atom and the universe. There were others privately
stockpiling technology against the coming off worlder departure, too; planning
to set up their own little fiefdoms, and never realizing that the Hegemony had
its way of making sure they didn’t. There were even a few off worlders who had
gone native living out here in this wilderness of water, and not all of them
liked the restrictions the Hedge put on their adopted home.

“Somebody’s
been harassing Starbuck and the Hounds when they go mer hunting, and I gather
they’ve been having too much success. The mer population must be pretty well
depleted by now; it must be cutting into the Queen’s profits ... and her
measure of control over us. The interference involves some sophisticated
jamming devices and comm gear, and there’s only one place that it could be
coming from.”

“Hmm. So if
we arrest any smugglers, we might get a lead on who’s doing the harassing?” He
shifted restlessly again.

“Maybe. I’m
not holding my breath. This whole trip is a waste of energy, as far as I can
see.”
And that’s just what LiouxSked
intended it to be
. “Frankly, I hope we don’t find anything. Does it shock
you, BZ?” She grinned briefly at his expression. “You know, I hate to admit it,
but sometimes I have trouble convincing myself these tech runners are doing
anything wrong. Or that anybody who objects to cutting one species’ life short
so that another species can stretch out its own abnormally is in the wrong,
either. Sometimes I think that everything that disgusts me about Carbuncle is
tied to the water of life. That the city draws rottenness and corruption
because its survival depends on a corrupt act.”

“Would you
still feel that way if you could afford immortality, Inspector?”

She looked
up, hesitated. “I’d like to think I wouldn’t feel any different. But I don’t
know. I really don’t know.”

Gundhalinu
nodded, and shrugged. “I don’t suppose either one of us will ever get to find
out.” He changed position again, glanced down at the chronometer.

“What’s the
matter, BZ?”

“Nothing,
ma’am.” He gazed out at the sea with stoic Kharemoughi propriety. “Something I
should have done before we left the city.” He sighed, and picked up his book.

“You travel
awfully light. You sure you’re going to get all the way to Carbuncle from here,
with nothing but the clothes on your back?” Ngenet pressed a long finger into
the lock on the hovercraft’s door while Moon stood looking out over the harbor.
They had covered the distance from Neith in hours instead of days. Her knees
were weak with the unbelievable fact of her presence in this distant place.

“What? ...
Oh, I’ll be all right. I’ll crew with some trader from here—there must be a
hundred ships in this bay!”
Shotover
Bay
would have swallowed
the harbor at Neith, and the village, and half of the island, with no trouble.
The setting suns broke through clouds, scattered chips of ruby across the water
surface; ships of all sizes rode high on the tide’s flow. Some had an alien
ness of form that she couldn’t put a name to. Some were mast less she wondered
whether they had been caught in a storm.

“A lot of
Winter ships use engines, you know. A lot of them don’t even use sail at all.
Will they take you on?” Ngenet’s brusque questioning tapped her on the shoulder
again, as she suddenly understood why there were no masts. During their arrow’s
flight across the sea she had not learned much about him except that he didn’t
like to talk about himself; but his curt inquiries about her journey told her
more than he knew.

“I’m not
afraid of engines. And the work will be the same; there’s only so much you can
do on a ship.” She smiled, hoping it was true. She ran her hand along the
hovercraft’s chill metal skin, struggling against the fresh awareness that it
could have taken her to
Sparks
in less than a day ... Her smile faded.

“Well, you
just make sure you find yourself a ship run by females. Some of the Winter men
have picked up bad habits from the star port scum.”

“I don’t—Oh.”
She nodded, remembering why her grandmother had told her to stay off the
traders’ ships. “I’ll do that.” Even though she was certain that Ngenet was an
off worlder he spoke as if his people meant no more to him than Summers or
Winters seemed to. She hadn’t asked him why; she was no longer afraid of his
surliness, but she wasn’t ready to impose on it. “And I want to thank—”

He frowned
across the harbor at the sunset. “No time for that. I’m half a day late for
this meeting as it is. So you just—”

“Hey, honey
cake ditch that old man an’ let us show you a good time!” One of the two Winter
males who had been weaving toward them along the quay angled closer, grinning
appreciatively, arms out. But as she reached for a biting reply Moon saw his
expression change. He pulled his companion into a precarious veer away,
muttered something close to the other’s ear. They hurried on, looking back.

“H-how did
they know?” Moon’s hands pressed against her slicker front.

“Know
what?” The frown was still on Ngenet’s face, etching deeper, as he watched them
go.

“That I’m a
sibyl.” She reached down inside and brought the trefoil out on its chain.

“You’re a
what?” He turned back to her, actually took the trefoil into his hands as if he
had to prove its reality. He dropped it again, hastily. “Why didn’t you tell me
that?”

“Well, I
didn’t ... I mean, I—”

“That
settles it.” He wasn’t listening. “You’re not staying here alone overnight. You
can come with me; Elsie’ll understand.” His hand closed around her upper arm;
he pulled her after him across the expanse of paving toward the quay’s town
side

“Where are
we going? Wait!” Moon stumbled after him with impotent anger as he strode
toward the nearest street entrance. She saw light blossom at the top of a
slender pole, and then another and another ahead of them, immense flame less
candles. “I don’t understand.” She dropped her voice, “Do you believe in the
Lady?”

“No, but I
believe in you.” He guided them onto a sidewalk.

“You’re an
off worlder

“That’s
right, I am.”

“But, I
thought—”

“Don’t ask,
just walk. There’s nothing strange about it.” He let go of her arm; she kept up
with him.

“Aren’t you
afraid of me, then?”

He shook
his head. “Just don’t fall down and skin your knee, or I might worry some.” She
looked at him blankly.

Behind them
another hovercraft, with the markings of the Hegemonic Police, drifted down
toward a landing on the quay. But he did not look back, and so he did not see
it settle beside his own.

“Where are
we going?” Moon maneuvered around a cluster of laughing sailors.

“To meet a
friend.”

“A woman
friend? Won’t she mind—”

“It’s
business, not pleasure. Just mind your own when we get there.”

Moon
shrugged, and pushed her numbing hands into the pockets of her pants. She could
see their breath now, as the temperature followed the sun down. She peered
curiously into the assortment of one—and two-story building fronts, more
buildings than she had ever seen in one place, but stolidly familiar in form.
Mortared stone and wood planking leaned on each other for support, and among
them she saw an occasional wall made of something that was not really dried
mud. Multiple layers of exotic noise reached out to catch at her ears as they
passed by one tavern after another. “How did they know what I was, if you
didn’t, Ngenet?”

“Call me
Miroe. I don’t think they did. I think they probably just noticed that I was a
lot bigger and a hell of a lot more sober than either one of them.”

“Hm.” Moon
fingered the scaling knife at her belt thoughtfully; she felt the knots go out
of her back muscles as she realized that the eyes of everyone passing were not
staying on her too often and too long.

Ngenet
turned down a narrow side street; they stopped at last before a small, isolated
tavern. Light rainbowed out onto the cobbles through colored glass; the peeling
painted sign above the door read The Black Deeds Inn. He grunted. “Elsie always
did have a peculiar sense of humor.” Moon noticed a second sign that read
Closed, but Ngenet pulled on the latch; the door opened, and they went inside.

“Hey, we’re
closed!” An immense balloon of woman pouring beer into a mug for no one
glowered at them from the bar.

“I’m
looking for Elsevier.” Ngenet moved into the light.

“Oh, yeah?”
The woman put the mug down and squinted at him. “I guess you are at that. What took
you so long?”

“Engine
trouble. Did she wait?”

“She’s
still in town, if that’s what you mean. But she’s out looking into—other
arrangements, in case you decided not to show.” The woman’s buried eyes found
Moon; she frowned.

Ngenet
swore. “Damn her, she knows I’m dependable!”

“But she
didn’t know if maybe you’d been permanently delayed, if you take my meaning.
Who’s that?”

“A
hitchhiker.” Moon felt Ngenet’s hand on her arm again, moved forward at his
urging, reluctantly. “She won’t make any trouble,” cutting off the woman’s
indignation. “Will you?”

Moon looked
up into his expression. “Me?” She shook her head, caught a whisper of a smile.

“I’m going
out again to look for my friend. You can wait here until I get back.” He
pointed with his chin toward the room full of tables. “Then maybe we’ll talk
about Carbuncle.”

“All
right.” She chose a table near the fireplace, went to it and sat down. Ngenet
turned back toward the door.

“You know
where to look?” the fat woman called. “Ask around the Club.”

“I’ll do
that.” He went out.

Moon sat in
uncomfortable silence under the innkeeper’s dour gaze, running her fingers
along the scars in the wooden tabletop. But at last the woman shrugged, wiping
her own hands on her apron, picked up the glass of beer and brought it to the
table. Moon flinched slightly as it came down in front of her, froth spilling
out onto the ring-marked wood. The woman billowed away again without speaking,
did something to a featureless black box behind the bar. Someone began to sing
abruptly, in the middle of a song, the middle of a word, with pieces of the
same rhythmic stridency Moon had heard in the streets as accompaniment.

Moon
started, glanced back over her shoulder to find the room as empty as before.
Emptier—she watched the innkeeper disappear up the stairs, taking another mug
of beer with her. Moon’s eyes came back to the black box. She had a sudden
smiling image of it stuffed full of sound, like a keg or a sack of meal. She
took a swallow of her beer, grimaced: kelp beer, sour and badly brewed. Setting
down the mug, she pulled off her slicker. In the fireplace a solitary chunk of
metal glowed red hot like a bar of iron in a smithy’s forge. She twisted in her
seat, her fingers exploring the animal faces capping the chair back while she
absorbed the heat and the music. Her foot began to tap time as a kind of
pleasant compulsion moved her body. The harmonies were complicated, the sound
was loud and throbbing, the voice trilled meaningless noise. The effect was
nothing like the music that Sparks made with his flute ... but something in it
was compelling, distantly akin to the secret song of the choosing place.