The Snow Queen (54 page)

Jerusha turned
guiltily to look at the man on her right, the First Secretary, Temmon Ashwini
Sirus, a natural son of the Prime Minister. He was a handsome man, fair skinned
and large boned for a Kharemoughi, and just about entering middle age. The
latter surprised her, because the Prime Minister himself looked younger. But it
was hardly as surprising as finding a halfbreed among the members of the
Assembly, that ultimate repository of Kharemoughi arrogance. Apparently he had
earned considerable fame as a warrior statesman on his homeworld, and that had
moved the Prime Minister to break with tradition and “elect” him to a vacant
Assembly post. She had made banal conversation with him for the first hour or
so, and with the royally dressed Speaker on her left, whose heavy cologne had
started her sneezing. But the talk had died a self-conscious death, and she had
been grateful when they let their attention be drawn elsewhere. “No, of course
not, Secretary Sirus,” remembering her manners at last. She ran a finger along under
the braid rough edge of her high collar.

“You hardly
touch your meal. And after all the trouble your finest chefs go to to please
us. This canawba rind be excellent.” He spoke Klostan easily; an accomplished
linguist, like most Kharemoughi Techs.
But
what else has he got to do with his time?

She smiled
insipidly.
Gods, get me out of here—
”I
not eat many twelve-course dinners in my line of work.” Her own language felt
more foreign on her tongue than Tiamatan, after so many years. “I guess I not
be up to the challenge.”
Any challenge,
any more.

“Try the
melon, Commander.” He nodded as she picked up her serrated spoon obediently.
“To enjoy good food be the only way to survive the excruciating boredom of
these state affairs, I say. And to drink good liquors—”

So that’s what loosened your tongue
. She ate another spoonful of melon,
suddenly realizing that against her will she had enjoyed it.
Oh, what the hell—live in a dream world for
an hour; if II have to last you a lifetime. Pretend that it’s all turned out the
way you wanted it to, that it won’t all end with the final departure.
She
looked out across the windowed hall, into the awesome, red-gold pit of the
landing field, where the ships of the Assembly had come to rest like dim
cinders, like a thousand other battered coin ships, after the fiery splendor of
their descent. The energized grids of the field and its peripheral bays were
crusted with light, like the congealing surface of a lava flow. And for a
moment she felt a surge of pride and pleasure at the sight of humanity’s most
incredible accomplishments, at her presence among its first citizens, at the
ever more glorious future that lay ahead ... the siren promise that had lured
her away from her homeworld.
And for
what ...
?
She looked back again along the tree-form of
the banquet tables, the faces like animate leaves shifting in a wind, to
Sirus’s face, thinking suddenly, painfully,
BZ
... this moment should have belonged to you, not me.

“Tell me,
Commander, how happened you to—”

“Excuse me,
Commander.” The sergeant of the guard intruded on their space with apologetic
effrontery. “Excuse me, sir,” to the First Secretary.

“What is
it, TessraBarde?” Jerusha couldn’t recognize the peculiar urgency in his tone.

“I’m sorry
to interrupt you, ma’am, but I thought you’d want to know—we just got Inspector
Gundhalinu back.”

Jerusha’s
spoon clattered on the petals of her flower-form dish. “He’s dead.”

“No, ma’am,
I saw him myself. Some native woman brought him in. We’ve got a medic checking
him over now, down in the hospital—”

“Where is
he?” Jerusha threw the question at the nearest technician as she entered the
examining room from the hall of the hospital whig. She had left TessraBarde to
make an explanation to the First Secretary, hoping but not really caring if her
apologies had been sufficient. “Inspector Gundhalinu—”

“In there,
Commander.” The woman pointed with her chin, hands full of equipment.

Jerusha
went on through the second doorway without stopping, still only half believing
that the room would not be empty. “Gundhalinu!” It was not empty, and his name
burst out of her with more feeling than she had intended.

He turned
to look at her from where he sat, feet hanging over the edge of the examining
table, stripped to the waist while a blue-clad med tech ran a diagnosticator
down his chest. She counted each and every rib standing out like staves along
his side. She saw his face, felt disbelief as it registered: gaunt, unshaven,
gap toothed. She saw him grope for a shirt that wasn’t there as she came to a
stop before him. He waved the medic away, moved his hands in the air, and
finally folded them across his chest like an embarrassed little boy.
“Commander—”

Yes, by all
the gods; it is you, BZ ... She controlled the urge to ruin his dignity and her
own completely by embracing him like a mother. “If you aren’t a sight for sore
eyes, Gundhalinu,” grinning until she thought she couldn’t stand it.

“Gods!
Excuse me, Commander; I didn’t mean to see you looking like this ... that is, I
meant, presentably—”

“BZ, all I
give a damn about is whether that body’s the real thing. If it is, then this
celebration upstairs isn’t pointless after all.”

His face
fumbled with a smile. “As real as they come.” He slouched forward, putting up a
hand to catch an ugly cough.

“Are you
all right? What’s wrong with him, medic?” Jerusha turned to the technician,
realized for the first time that there was a fourth person in the room, sitting
quietly in the corner.

The medic
shrugged. “Exhaustion. Walking pneumo—”

“Nothing a
couple of antibiotic lozenges can’t take care of,” Gundhalinu said abruptly,
cutting him off. “And a hot meal for my friend and me.” He glanced at the
silent fourth party with a quick smile, focused official disapproval on the
medic like a gun.

“I’ll see
what I can do, Inspector.” The technician left the room, his face utterly
expressionless. Jerusha wondered whether he was hiding irritation or simply
laughter.

“If I’d
known, I would have brought you my leftovers. The first half of my state dinner
would have fed the starving masses of a planet.” Curiosity pulled her around
even as she spoke, looking past sinks and shelves filled with medical
obscurities, to study their silent observer. A fair-skinned girl draped in a
white parka, with a yellowing bruise on her face; a native? Jerusha frowned.
The girl looked back at her, not with the cowed timidity she had expected, but
with a measuring stare. And there was something familiar

Gundhalinu
followed her gaze, said almost too quickly, “Commander, this is the Summer
woman who saved my life, who got me back in time for the final departure. Moon,
come and meet Commander PalaThion; if there’s anyone on this planet who can
help you reach your cousin, she can.” He looked back. “I was taken prisoner by
bandits, ma’am, and so was she. But she—”

Jerusha let
his words roll over her unheeded.
Moon
...
Summer .
Moon Dawntreader Summer!
The
kidnapped innocent, Ngenet’s murdered guest, the Queen’s lost clone ...
the Queen’s clone
. Yes, she knew that
face now, now that she saw it clearly at last. A cold tremor fell through her:
What is she doing here? How can she be here,
how can she be the one who brought him back? Not her-
The girl came to stand
beside Gundhalinu; his hand closed over hers protectively.
Doesn’t he know she’s proscribed; doesn’t he remember her?
“Commander PalaThion?” Moon smiled with subtle anxiety.

“What are
you doing—”

“Commander,
I take responsibility for bringing her—” Gundhalinu broke off as a crowd of
voices filled the outer room. Jeusha saw his face light up, and then flash
panic, as he realized what language they spoke. “Sainted—! Commander ... Moon,”
jerking the parka off her back, “I need your coat.”

Moon let
him take it, even helped him struggle into the sleeves as though she somehow understood
his embarrassment. He slid to his feet alongside the table, sealing the jacket
up the front as the First Secretary and the Speaker entered, trailing an
exquisite wake of half a dozen banquet guests and their companions. Jerusha
saluted them, saw Gundhalinu salute in a rictus of pride.

“Commander.”
First Secretary Sirus acknowledged them with a nod. “When we learned that the
lost officer was one of our own people, we decided that we ought to come and
congratulate him ourselves on his safe return.” He looked at Gundhalinu, and at
Moon; back at Gundhalinu again, as though he couldn’t believe a Kharemoughi had
ever looked like that.

“Inspector BZ Gundhalinu,
sadhu
.”
Gundhalinu saluted again as though
he had to prove it. Jerusha was suddenly glad that she had spent the last month
of sleepless nights listlessly learning spoken Sandhi for this occasion. She
still could not sort out the convolutions of the rank forms. “Technician of the
second rank,
Sadhanu, bhai
, I—I thank
you all for coming. This is the greatest honor, the highest moment of my life.”

“Gundhalinu-
eshkrad
.”
Sirus’s expression eased at the
compliment, and at the reassurance that they were, at least, in the presence of
a highborn. “You bring your class and family prestige, at such a young age
already an inspector to be.”

“Thank you,
sadhu
.”
Gundhalinu’s freckles reddened. He
tried to hold back a fit of thick coughing, failed; they waited with polite
sympathy.

“He has my
best officer been. I’ve him sorely missed.” Jerusha took pleasure in Gundhalinu’s
swift glance filled with surprise, at the tribute, at hearing it in Sandhi.
Moon stood silent between them, with a private smile on her face. Jerusha
noticed for the first time the tunic the girl was wearing; its colors
heightened the alien ness of her pale skin and light-silvered hair. It was the
traditional costume of the Winter nomads; she had seen one once displayed as a
rarity in the window of an antique shop in the Maze.
Who are you, girl?

But she
heard only Secretary Sirus introducing himself, holding up a palm for the
Kharemoughi equivalent of a handshake. Moon went unexpectedly rigid at the
sound of his name. Gundhalinu stepped forward, raising his own hand. A second
of discomfort passed like an electric spark between them before their palms
met: She saw that Gundhalinu’s hand would not open fully; the fingers were
drawn up like claws. She saw the pink-white scars ridging his inner wrist next.
Oh, gods, BZ

Sirus went
on with the introductions. Gundhalinu kept a straight face as the perfumed Speaker
refused to touch his hand.
Does he think
it’s catching?
Jerusha frowned. She knew a slashed wrist when she saw one,
knew the Kharemoughis, being what they were, would recognize it, too.

“You—must
terrible hardships have suffered, lost in the wilderness after your patrol
craft crashed, Inspector Gundhalinu.” Sirus’s words were a springboard for an
explanation.

“I—I wasn’t
in the wilderness lost, Secretary Sirus,” Gundhalinu said woodenly. “I was by
bandits prisoner made. They treated me-badly.” He looked down under the weight
of their combined gaze, pressed his wrists together. “If not for this woman
here, I would never back have gotten. She saved my life.” He reached out,
caught Moon’s elbow and drew her forward. “This is Moon Dawntreader Summer.” His
expression as he glanced at her told her the honor she was being paid. She
smiled at him, looked back at Sums with sudden intentness.

“A
native
?” the Speaker said, loud with
drink. “An ignorant barbarian girl has a Kharemoughi inspector rescued? It
doesn’t me amuse, Gundhalinu-
eshkrad
,
not at all.”

“No humor
was intended.” Gundhalinu raised his head, his own voice suddenly soft and
cold. Jerusha looked a warning at him, but he didn’t see it. “She’s no ignorant
savage. She’s the wisest, the noblest human being in this room. She is a
sibyl.” He pulled aside the collar of her tunic carefully; she lifted her chin
with pride to expose a half-healed knife wound and a trefoil tattoo. Jerusha
grimaced.
By the Boatman, now you’ve done
it!

Caught off
guard, instinctive reaction filled their watching faces; but the Speaker was
too deeply in his cups for respect or even good manners. “What does that on
this world mean? Put her in a robe and call her
eshkrad
, but that won’t
her a
Technician
make. A sibyl on this world ...” He choked off as someone seized him from
behind, muttered sharp, unintelligible words at his ear.

But Jerusha
was watching the girl, and saw her cheeks color as if she had understood every
word. She stepped away from Gundhalinu, her arms st iffy at her sides, and said
in stilted Sandhi, “I am only a cup that knowledge holds. It does not to
knowledge matter how poor the cup is. It is the wisdom of those who drink of me
that me wise makes. Fools make a sibyl foolish, wherever she is.” Jerusha
flinched at the irony.

The
Kharemoughi expressions rippled with astonishment. “We meant you no offense,”
Sirus said swiftly, placatingly. “Since you are a holy woman to your own
people, you deserve our respect as well, sibyl.” A small, self-deprecating
smile. “But where did she Sandhi learn, Commander?”