The Tatja Grimm's World (18 page)

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Authors: Vernor Vinge

BOOK: The Tatja Grimm's World
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Svir turned and followed the yellow wires to the chest. It was an expensive Sdan piece. He felt the ghoulish hardwood faces, hunting for the tongue-catch the Sdan carpenters worked into their designs. There was a faint buzzing near the box, but he couldn’t see the bug that made the noise. His searching fingers found the catch and the lid came up with silent, counterbalanced precision.
A blue glow radiated from that opening. For an instant he was frozen by the flickering, actinic gleam. He leaned forward. His first impression was that the box was filled with treasure: glowing jewels. The colors and intensities were constantly changing, so it was hard to know the exact size and shape of the gems. Silver boxes were set along the inside walls. The shifting reflections made them seem almost transparent. After a moment, he noticed that the copper wires from the wagon door were connected to one of those little boxes. He looked deep into the pile of “jewels.” Though they were motionless, the changing colors made the pile shimmer like foam on an island shore.
The buzzing sound was louder now. An alarms! The buzz reached a crescendo and became a screeching, inhuman wail. “Master! Help me! I will be stolen!” From the tent, he heard Tatja’s surprised exclamation and the sounds of rapid movement. Svir scrambled to the other end of the wagon. From the inside it was easy to flip the crossbar up and push the door open. As he plunged into the blinding daylight, he heard Jolle enter the wagon.
By luck Svir landed on his feet. As he fell forward, he dug long legs into the ground and sprinted away. Ancho clung to his
shoulder and radiated for all he was worth. The nearest guards were more than forty feet away. They knew something strange was happening, but Ancho’s efforts kept them from taking effective action. Even so, a couple of crossbow bolts zipped by him as he fled into the forest. He could hear no pursuers. Apparently Jolle was still in the wagon, inspecting his — slave?
Soon he was deep in the grove, the looproots an arched hallway before him. Only dim and shifting pencils of light penetrated the branches and leaf needles above. The ground was covered with a deep, resilient layer of white fungus. The shouting behind him had faded. He was still in the bivouac area—that was more than two thousand feet across—and could see occasional tents and wagons. Ancho protected him from the sentries. It took him fifteen minutes to circle back to his own sleeping area.
Now he moved cautiously. If Jolle had identified him, there would be a welcoming committee here. He stayed in the forest shadows and looked out at the sun-dappled cots. Cor was lying on her cot—next to someone else! He did a double take, and examined the figure beside her. It didn’t move. In fact, its face was a brown piece of cloth.
Good girl! When she discovered that Tatja was going with Jolle to his tent, she had done the only thing possible—return to their sleeping area and construct an alibi. He moved quickly out of the shadows, pulled the netting aside, and lay down beside his wife. She jerked with surprise. Her hands were clenched white, and there were tears on her cheeks. Together they disassembles the crude dummy, and Svir told her what he had seen, what had happened.
They lay in each other’s arms, and whispered their fears. “He’ll kill us, Svir. We’ve got to talk to Tatja.”
They needed protection, but, “We can’t talk to her yet. She’s probably still with Jolle. And — she’s not herself. She’s worse than this morning. We’ll have to wait until we can get her alone.”
“I can convince her; I know I can.”
“Look, I don’t think Jolle saw me. We’ll be safe as long as we play innocent.” Ancho wormed his way between them, and Svir petted him. There was really nothing more to say.
W
e have to tell Tatja
. All through the day, that imperative had driven Coronadas Ascuasenya. And Cor had to be the one to do the talking; she’d made that clear to Svir. After all the years, there might still be a bond from those first days on the barge. Tatja might be willing to listen, and to see out of the trap into which she had fallen.
We have to tell Tatja.
The thought was easier than the deed. For what seemed hours, Cor stood near the back of Tatja’s command post, waiting for some break in Marget’s schedule. The queen was managing a war … and now that she had Jolle, she had no need for her pets.
“—and you can be sure we understand all this, Observer Reynolt. I have no desire to hold your hands under my direct control.” The Tatja that spoke was the Tatja of old: composed, persuasive, tactful. She had made no attempt to use her ostensible
position as the absolute ruler of all the Continent to overawe the Doomsdayman confronting her.
And every bit of her diplomacy would be required to mollify the angry Doomsday priest. In the starlit darkness, his triplepointed mitre made him look more a seven-foot obelisk than a human being. He spoke with the sarcastic servility of a subordinate who thinks he has the upper hand. “Your Majesty must know that we Doo’d’en would never ascribe such motives to Your Sacred Person. But in our ignorance, we beg to know why you destroyed parts of the Riverside Road, why you razed Kotta-svo-Picchiu, why you destroyed the sacred eye there, and why you now set an army on the farmlands beneath our capital.”
Tatja was a vague shadow by the low field table, but her voice was clear and distinct. “Observer, for all four incursions we tender our apologies, and for the first three we offer reparations. However, when you understand the situation, I believe you will thank us. You reprove us for acts of war, committed to protect your most holy places from the Rebel army, which even now masses below us. Do you realize what will happen if the Rebels are not defeated? They are the ones who first invaded your territories. They are the ones who desecrated the Kotta Eye before it was destroyed. Though I cannot present proof now, the Rebels’ ultimate goal is the destruction of the High Eye itself.”.
The priest had no immediate answer to this. He turned to the window-hole of the stone farmhouse that was Tatja’s command post. From outside came the creak and crunch of Doo’d’en wagons carrying bombs and men to their positions, but there was very little for Observer Reynolt to see. Somewhere above them was
O’rmouth, capital of Doomsday, and thousands of feet above that, the observatory itself. Two thousand feet below the farmhouse was the Picchiu River, and the mouth of the glacier that fed it. And somewhere down there were twenty-three thousand Loyalists and an unknown number of Rebels.
The crown’s generals stood uneasily behind their queen. Cor heard Haarm Wechsler whispering indignantly at Imar Stark, the crown’s chief of staff. The military didn’t think the Doomsdaymen should be cajoled. If these provincials refused to fight for their queen, they should be ignored until after the battle, and then dealt with as traitors. It seemed a waste of time to stand here debating while the opposing armies took their positions. And it seemed doubly strange that a militia leader should be in charge of that deployment. At this moment Jolle and midrank staff officers were down there in the darkness, deploying crossbow men, ground obstacles, FAOs, and art’ry pieces. Soon there would be nothing peaceful about the night.
Finally Observer Reynolt spoke. Some of the false servility was gone from his voice. “Yes, Marget, we realize this. We are very unhappy about the situation: you have caused us as much damage as the Rebels. But in the past you have been just and have truly protected us. What aid do you require? Your army — if our reports are accurate — is much larger than any trained force we Doo’d’en could field. And we have none of the bomb throwers which both you and the Rebels have.”
Tatja laughed softly. “My troops arc great. They can whip twice their number — at sea level. But now we’re at fourteen thousand feet. I am sure you understand — even if my own advisors do
not—what these altitudes do to unacclimated troops. My forces already hold decisive advantages: high ground, artillery superiority. But to be sure of victory I want two or three thousand Doomsday fighting men, uh, Celestial Servants.” She turned to her chief of staff. “How much time do we have, Immy?”
“The Provincial claims the Rebels won’t be in position for another six hours. Twilight begins about seven-thirty this morning, so we can expect engagement in six to eight hours.”
“Observer Reynolt, it is now thirty-nine-thirty,” she said. “Can you get a battle group of Celestial Servants into my command by four-thirty tomorrow morning?”
“Marget, permit me to signal O’rmouth. If my superiors approve, the Servants will be at your disposal in less than four hours.” The priest gave a shallow bow which was Somehow more respectful than the extravagant obeisance he had made earlier.
On Reynolt’s departure, the generals moved in to discuss the details of the deployment. Strangely, Tatja made no move to dominate or even to participate in the conversation.
Soon she left the small stone building. Cor and Svir followed her. The newly plowed field outside was steeply sloping, and several times Cor nearly wrenched her foot in the narrow furrows. Ancho held tight to her neck. She had never imagined that ground this rough could be cultivated. Even though terraced, the fields had twenty-degree slopes. Only the hardiest vegetation could survive at these altitudes and in this soil.
Tatja stopped at the edge of the terrace and sat down. Cor felt Svir clutch her elbow. He wanted to pull her back, set himself in front of her. She disengaged his hand, held it for a moment. They
had argued this over and over. If anyone could make the point that had to be made, it was she and not Svir.
Tatja’s voice was soft against the creaking of wagon wheels. “Sit down, you two.” They sat. “What do you think of the situation?”
Here was the moment they had waited fifteen hours for: Tatja was alert, no longer the soft, yielding girl she had been with Jolle; that was obvious from the way she had just handled the Doomsday priest. They would never have a better chance to try to convince her of Jolle’s real objectives. In fact, they might never have another chance. If Profirio were destroyed this night, which seemed likely, Jolle would be left unopposed, and would have no further need of Tatja. Yet now Cor’s throat seemed frozen. She remembered what Svir had seen in the tent. Tatja had finally gotten what she wanted, an equal and a friend. How could they possibly persuade her to give up Jolle?
The silence stretched on for an endless moment. Finally it was Svir who answered the queen’s question in a voice a bit too high and forced to be natural. “I thought it was really something of a masterstroke, that of convincing the priest to let us use his men.”
Tatja. laughed for the second time that night. “No,” she said softly, “just the natural thing to do. And he really had to do what we asked. They know Profirio has caused much of the damage, and I have treated them fairly in the past. Too bad they’re such a bunch of fanatics. I wonder what their reaction will be when they find out that
my
side intends to desecrate the High Eye with its presence. I can just imagine their scream of ‘Betrayal.’
“But Marget,” said Cor, puzzled. “You already say that we are poor fighters, even at fourteen thousand feet. We’ll be much
worse at O’rmouth, and the observatory is nearly ten thousand feet above that. How can you expect success there?”
“You’ll see. I assure you, there will be nothing subtle about it. Jolle and I are sure it will work. In the meantime, we have a competent adversary down there below us. I’d give a lot to know what
he
is planning.”
So the conversation was back to that. She
must
speak now, Cor realized. Jolle would soon return from the front lines, and then it would be impossible to bring the matter up. Even if the alien didn’t kill them before they could finish the story, he could certainly persuade Tatja that it was a fabrication.
She tried to remember Tatja as she had been in her first days on the barge, when she hung on Cor’s every word, and her gratitude had been an obvious thing. Over the years, there had been occasional flickers of that, times when she was a confidante, almost a big sister … and not a pet. Was there anything left of that? When Cor finally spoke, the effect was strange—like listening to someone else talking or remembering a previous conversation.
“Tatja, you remember our talk yesterday morning at the watering stop?”
“Uh-huh.”
Cor didn’t lose stride. “We said the possibility that perhaps Jolle was lying, that Profirio was the gendarme, and Jolle the criminal.”
“Yes, I remember all that.” Tatja’s tone was good humored, if a bit distracted.
“You said that we must wait and watch. Well, Svir and I …
uh … we thought that the situation was so dangerous maybe more could be done. If Jolle were the evil one, maybe he lied about what he salvaged from his fight with Profirio. In fact, if these golems are so popular and if Jolle was the one who … uh … slaughters humans, then he might even have one with him.” There could be no more evasion. If she didn’t say it now, Grimm would get ahead of her.
“Tatja, this is exactly what we discovered. Jolle is the criminal. He has a golem with …”
“You were the one in the wagon.”
“We had to, Tatja! Jolle is the slaver. His golem can even talk, and no machine—”
“You peeping bitch, I’ll teach—” In the darkness Cor had no warning. The lower right side of her face went numb and splinters of pain spread through her head. Simultaneously Tatja’s other fist buried itself in her middle. The nylon webbing of Cor’s shrap vest could not protect her from the ramming force of the blow. It bowled her over the edge of the terrace and she tumbled down the slope. Ancho went flying off into space.
There was the sound of a body block, and Svir’s voice, “Don’t hit her again! It was me,
me!
I’m the peeper.” Cor’s head struck a rock, and for a moment all she knew was tiny yellow lights floating lazily before her eyes. She was lying at the base of the terrace slope; Tatja and Svir were scrambling toward her. She coughed back blood and felt the beginnings of triumph. Tatja had used nothing but her fists—and those ineptly. If they could survive just a few more seconds, Tatja would cool off, and Cor might really have a chance to convince her.
From behind her, Cor heard men moving through the darkness. One of them was running. Running? In this dark? The footsteps stopped. Strong hands lifted Cor to her feet, and a calm voice sounded in her ear. “Say friend, what’s the problem?” It was Jolle.

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