Rift (34 page)

All she could see was mound after mound of swollen belly. Soon she would be one of these faceless, ripe females, filled with a wrinkled white pup. Beside her, Galen moaned in dismay.

A woman separated herself from her group of companions and approached them. “I am Haval,” she said, smiling but looking them over. Without waiting for their names, she signed to Bitamalar, too quick to follow. Bitamalar said to Galen, With that, he abruptly left, choosing another path from among several that radiated out from the clearing. Haval, Nerys noted with some relief, had a flat belly. In fact, a few others did as well, upon closer scrutiny of the group.

Haval beckoned them to follow her. If she wasn’t going to wait to learn their names, Nerys was not
about to offer it for nothing. “I’m hungry,” she said instead.

“Well,” Haval responded. “You would be.”

The women of this human oasis watched Nerys and Galen with frankly appraising stares, some smiling, others merely rude. It was like entering any cohesive group where you are a stranger, Nerys thought, with everyone sizing everyone else up, and wondering what might change for good or ill. In her turn, Nerys assessed those she passed, drawing her own conclusions of who was a player and who sat on the sidelines.

Haval brought them to a shallow run of stairs in front of one of the shelters—if that was what they were. They paused at the bottom, looking out at the courtyard, where the other women soon withdrew their attention from the newcomers and returned to their pursuits.

“I’m sure all this is very strange to you,” Haval said. “We all felt that way, when we first got here.” She was a large woman, with a big-boned friendly face.

“Actually, how I feel is tired,” Nerys said. “And hungry.”

Haval turned to Galen, “And you?”

“Do they hurt you?” Galen blurted.

“Do we look hurt?”

“No,” Galen said. “But when they … if they … And bearing, does it hurt?”

“Lots of questions. You’ll find that the place will become known to you little by little. There’s no point in hearing it all at once. But no, it doesn’t hurt.” She smiled indulgently at Galen, who looked abashed.

“And the food?” Nerys asked.

Haval turned to face Nerys, and her voice took on an edge. “Food is received from our orthong teachers. I have none. You will be fed.”

In the awkward silence that followed, Galen rushed in with: “I’m Galen, and her name is Nerys. We’ve
both lost our children. Nerys is from Whale Clave, and I come from Two Rivers Clave.”

“Galen,” Nerys interrupted, “You don’t speak for me. You don’t speak of my daughter. Ever. We traveled together for three weeks. I would gladly have had other company.”

“We all have hard tales,” Haval said. “Some of us share them, some of us don’t. But you
don’t
bring divisions among us. We all miss our claves and families, but we try for what happiness we can find.” She turned to climb the stairs, saying, “Sometimes it’s not much.”

“But you can leave, if you want?” Galen asked.

Haval turned back, with a smirk. “Leave now, I suggest, before you get used to the meals.”

“What do you eat?” Galen said. “And when?”

“We eat whatever we want,” Haval answered. She led the way up the stairs. “Come.”

They entered the bermed construct at the head of the stairs. It had no door, but gaped open like a cave, with half of the large room enclosed by the hillside. Farther back, a corridor led within. Light from the opening flooded this outer room, revealing a bench along the perimeter piled with pillows. The latter were stitched with flowers, stars, and patterns of the human world. A large table commanded the center of the room, surrounded by pillows for sitting.

“We gather here, sometimes, to do our work or drink tea,” Haval explained. “They let us make tea.”

“How generous,” Nerys remarked.

Ignoring this, Haval led the way into the hillside. In this underground area, a transparent ceiling admitted a dim light, augmented with lighting sconces that may have used elec-tricity, or other big tech. The corridor changed shape and direction, as though following a river path or seam of dirt. In a wider portion of the corridor they came upon an area with many side rooms.

“You may choose to have your own room,” Haval
said, “or share with another. If you have no liking for women partners, you will not be pressured, but you will not criticize. Clear?” Such things were not often tolerated in the claves, but Nerys had heard of women partners, and from the conduct of the claver men, she didn’t wonder that some women turned to each other, especially in this alien place.

“I would have my own room,” Galen said.

“As you like. Choose an empty one; get some rest. Later, your lords will come for you.” She looked with amusement at Galen’s expression. “Just to bring you a meal. Don’t worry.” She turned to go, then turned back. “Also, don’t touch an orthong unless asked. Never. They can kill you with one swipe of a hand. They’re usually patient, especially with newcomers. But not always.”

In the growing dusk Haval led Nerys down a path from the women’s compound. Edging the path were luminous, coiled ropes, lighting their way through what Haval called the outfold. It was full dark by the time they got to their destination, the dwelling of the “lord” to whom Nerys was assigned. It was grander than the women’s berm, its front face looming high into the outfold around it.

“Lord Salidifor is important,” Haval said. “You’re lucky.”

“Why?” Nerys asked.

“None of us can figure it out. You’re the newest, but the orthong do as they will.”

“No, I mean why is it lucky?”

Haval turned a wry smile on Nerys. “You’ll soon lose that attitude, my friend. Use it on me if you think you can get by with it. Use it with an orthong, and you’ll quickly learn to curb your tongue. You can tell if they’re unhappy because the claws come out. Most freewomen don’t need to be told to have some respect
—but in your case I guess we start with the basics.”

Nerys raised her eyebrow. “You call yourself
freewomen
?”

Haval laughed, shaking her head. “Good luck, Nerys of Whale Clave. You’re going to need it.” With that, she headed back into the maze.

The courtyard was deserted. Nerys walked up the broad stairs leading to the lord’s dwelling and entered as she had been told to. The whole front wall of the place was open. As in the women’s quarters, the entry room was partially surrounded by a seating bench, but here the center of the room was empty. She stood upon a white floor with dark lines tracing hexagons. From the inner rooms, brighter light beckoned her forward. Lord Salidifor would feed her, Haval said. She hoped it would be a decent meal, or at least that there would be plenty of it.

Here again were the irregular rooms and corridors with undulating walls, pushed out into rocklike extrusions or sunk into hollows in an apparently random fashion. The walls were covered with soft textures of what might have been cloth or even moss, while a narrow strip of clear ceiling still glowed dully from what remained of the daylight. Several orthong busied themselves inside the dwelling, cleaning and straightening, perhaps. They took little notice of Nerys as she proceeded farther into the dwelling, as Haval had instructed. She came to a great room with a domed, translucent ceiling where she found an orthong waiting for her in a hooded chair. He gestured her to a matching chair opposite him, across a small table.

As she sat, the back of her chair rose and bent slightly over her, mirroring the other chair.

With a shiver of revulsion, she looked at the creature’s face, what there was of it. Her days with Bitamalar helped her to adjust to the sight. A streak of silver on his large hands disappeared up the sleeves of
his coat—devoid of its armed cuffs, she noted. The white hide with its gnarled ridges made him look as though he were carved from alabaster stone. Badly. On the table was a large rock, olive in color, and glistening as though rubbed in oil.

He gestured to her, and it took her twice to read it. She had never seen her name done in sign. It was two downward slashes punctuated by an end finger—they did not look like proper thumbs—stretching out. She was pleased with the gesture, which seemed to say,
Push down so hard, and no further
.

She copied it.

Then he offered his name. he signed, a word she only recognized because Haval had prepared her. Then, slowly, the creature signed,

They were alone in the room. Stupidly—Nerys felt it was foolish—she looked for a bed. The idea of sex with this creature was alarming. But so far the only furniture she had discerned in the dim room were the wall benches and these two chairs with the table.

I will never be content. Never again
.

Salidifor looked up to watch another orthong enter the room carrying a tray. There could be no doubt what that tray bore. As the server placed it in front of Nerys, a tantalizing aroma met her nostrils. In an ample bowl, bits of meat floated in a gravy with vegetables. No watery stew, this. Sometimes in lean weeks, Nerys had stretched a soup out for days, until, at the last, only a cloudy liquid remained, or as the claves said, “water that couldn’t remember a potato.” This bowl would have fed her whole family twice.

As the server left, Salidifor said,

Nerys wondered if he meant she could take the tray and leave. But Haval had said they would “share a meal,” so Nerys picked up a spoon, hard as bone, and sipped at the broth. It was so delicious her mouth hurt. There were very complex spices, some familiar. The meat was venison. Its only flaw was that it was not piping hot, but rather barely warm. She chewed a morsel, and then, following her resolve, she did a very hard thing: She placed the spoon down again.

she said, glancing at his face and then away, careful not to be too forward.

The orthong looked at her spoon, lying there. Then at her.

She looked down at her soup, hoping it was a gesture of deferral. Damn if she would use a term like
breeders
.

The orthong became very still, watching her from glacial eyes.

Her fingers itched to pick up the spoon, but she forced herself to wait.

Finally Salidifor said,

Judging it best to defer somewhat, she took another spoonful of the stew, chewing it a long while to get the most out of it. The orthong cooks were remarkable—especially for beings who couldn’t sip from their own cooking pots. She put the spoon down again.

He looked at the undulating walls around them as though seeing them afresh. Finally he said, —here he used a word she didn’t know—

So the white chief
would
answer questions. Good. Not that he gave up much information. To reward him,
she ate half the remaining stew. Then she asked, She placed the spoon again on the tray, looking at him pointedly.

Again, an unknown word.

She attempted to copy that word.

After a pause, he repeated it. To Nerys’ dismay, a glitter in his hand revealed a quarter inch of claw on several fingers.

She bent over her stew and devoured the rest of it.

When the servant had cleared her place and departed, Salidifor stood.

He must have stood over seven feet tall. In one step he was behind her chair. The hood retracted, leaving a chill on her back. Salidifor grabbed a hank of her hair, which fell off from a quick slice of his claws. Meeting his eyes, Nerys trembled as she suppressed an angry retort. She sat rigidly until, gripping the swath of hair, he signed:

She rose as slowly as her dignity could muster. she signed.

Then, she turned and left.

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