Glory Season (3 page)

The clanging resumed. A tall lugar with white fur and a droopy snout lurched into the courtyard waving a brass bell, clearly perturbed by this break in routine. The children ignored the neckless creature, peppering Maia with questions about her braid, her planned voyage, and why she’d chosen to snub the Parting Ceremony. Maia felt a kind of thrill, being what the mothers called a “bad example.”

Then, into the courtyard flowed a figure smaller but more fearsome than the upset lugar—Savant Mother Claire, carrying a tang prod and glaring fiercely at these
worthless var brats who should be at their desks
.… The children took heel, with a few of the boldest daring to wave one last farewell to Maia before vanishing. The distressed lugar kept swinging the bell until the wincing matron put a stop to the clangor with a sharply driven elbow.

Mother Claire turned and gave Maia a calculating regard. Even in old age, she embodied the Lamai type. Furrow-browed and tight-lipped, yet severely beautiful, she
had always, as far back as Maia remembered, cast a gaze of withering disdain. But this time, instead of the expected outrage at Maia’s shorn locks, the headmistress’s appraisal ended with an astonishing smile!

“Good.” Claire nodded. “First chance, you claimed your own heritage. Well done.”

“I …” Maia shook her head. “… don’t understand.”

The old contempt was still there—an egalitarian scorn for anything and everybody non-Lamai. “You hot-time brats are a pain,” Claire said. “Sometimes I wish the founders of Stratos had been more radical, and chosen to do without your kind.”

Maia gasped. Claire’s remark was almost
Perkinite
in its heresy. If Maia herself had ever said anything remotely slighting the first mothers, it would have meant a strapping.

“But Lysos was wise,” the old teacher went on with a sigh. “You summerlings are our wild seeds. Our wind-blown heritage. If you want my blessing take it, var-child. Sink roots somewhere and flower, if you can.”

Maia felt her nostrils flare. “You kick us out, giving us nothing.…”

Claire laughed. “We give plenty. A practical education and no illusions that the world owes you favors! Would you prefer we coddled you? Set you up in a go-nowhere job, like some clans do for their vars? Or drilled you for a civil-service test one in a hundred pass? Oh, you’re bright enough to have had a chance, Maia, but then what? Move to Caria City and push papers the rest of your life? Scrimp on salary to buy an apartment and someday start a microclan of
one
?

“Pah. You may not be all Lamai, but you’re half! Find and win a real niche for yourself. If it’s a good one, write and tell us what you’ve got. Maybe the clan will buy into the action.”

Maia found the strength to voice what she had wanted to say for years. “You hypocritical cat—”

“That’s it!” Mother Claire cut her off, still grinning. “Keep listening to your sister.
Leie
knows it’s tooth and claw out there. Go on now. Go and fight the world.”

With that, the infuriating woman simply turned away, leading the placid lugar past the nodding, bleary-eyed old coot, following her charges toward the classroom where sounds of recitation rose to fill the cool, dry air.

To Maia, the courtyard, so long such a broad part of her world, suddenly felt close, claustrophobic. The statues of old-time Lamais seemed more stony-chill and stark than ever.
Thanks, Momma Claire
, she thought, pondering those parting words.
I’ll do just that.

And our first rule, if Leie and I ever start our own clan, will be—no statues!

Maia found Leie munching a stolen apple, leaning against the merchants’ gate, looking beyond the thick walls of Lamatia Hold to where cobblestone streets threaded downhill past the noble clanholds of Port Sanger. In the distance, a cloud of hovering, iridescent zoor-floaters used rising air currents to drift above the harbor masts, on the lookout for scraps from the fishing fleet. The creatures lent rare, festive colors to the morning, like the gaudy kite-balloons children would fly on Mid-Winter’s Day.

Maia stared at her twin’s ragged haircut and rough attire. “Lysos, I hope I don’t look like that!”

“Your prayer is answered,” Leie answered with a blithe shrug. “You got no hope of looking this good. Catch.”

Maia grabbed a second apple out of the air. Of course Leie had swiped two. On matters of health, her sister was devoted to her welfare. Their plan wouldn’t work without two of them.

“Look.” Leie gestured with her chin toward the slope-sided clanhold chapel, where a group of five-year summer girls had gathered on the portico. Rosin and Kirstin munched sweet cakes nervously, careful not to get crumbs on their borrowed gowns. Their braids were all primly tied with blue ribbons, ready to be clipped in ceremony by the clan archivist. In cynical conjecture, Leie bet that the pragmatic mothers traded all that glossy hair to burrower colonies to use as nest material, in exchange for a few pints of zec-honey.

Each of those young women bore a family resemblance, having effectively shared the same mother as Maia and Leie. Still, the half sisters had grown up knowing, even better than the twins did, what it meant to be unique.

They must be even more scared than I am
, Maia thought sympathetically.

Within the dim recesses of the chapel, she made out several senior Lamai and the priestess who had come up from the city temple to officiate. Maia envisioned wax candles being lit, setting aflicker the deep-incised lettering that rimmed the stone sanctum with quotations from the Founders’ Book and, along one entire wall, the enigmatic Riddle of Lysos. Closing her eyes, she could picture every carven meter, feel the rough texture of the pillars, almost smell the incense.

Maia didn’t regret her choice, following Leie’s example and spurning all the hypocrisy. And yet …

“Suck-ups,” Leie snapped, dismissing their peers with a disdaining snort. “Want to watch them graduate?”

After a pause, Maia answered with a headshake. She thought of a stanza by the poet Wayfarer …

“No. Let’s just get out of here.”

Lamai clan mothers had their hands in shipping and high finance, as well as management of the city-state. Of the seventeen major, and ninety minor, matriarchies in Port Sanger, Lamatia was among the most prominent.

You wouldn’t imagine it, walking the market districts. There were some russet-haired Lamais about, proud and uniformly buxom in their finely woven kilts, striding ahead of hulking lugars in livery, laden with packages. Still, among the bustling stalls and warehouses, members of the patrician caste seemed as scarce as summer folk, or even the occasional man.

There were plenty of stocky, pale-skinned Ortyns in sight, especially wherever goods were being loaded or unloaded. Identical except in the scars of individual happen-stance, the pug-nosed Ortyns seldom spoke. Among themselves words seemed unnecessary. Few of that clan became savants, to be sure, but their physical strength and skill as teamsters—handling the temperamental sash-horses—made them formidable in their niche. “Why keep and feed lugars,” went a local saying, “when you can hire Ortyns to move it for you.”

A gang of those stocky clones had Musician’s Way snarled, their dray obstructing traffic as six identical women wrestled with a block and tackle slung from the rafter of an upper-story workshop. Like many buildings in this part of town, this one leaned over the street, each floor jutting a little farther on corbeled supports. In some neighborhoods, edifices met above the narrow road, forming arches that blocked the sky.

A crowd had gathered, entranced by the creaking load
high above—an upright harp-spinet, constructed of fine wood inlay by the Pasarg clan of musical craftswomen for export to one of the faraway cities of the west. Perhaps it would ride the Grim Bird along with Maia and Leie … if the workers got it safely to ground first. A gaggle of the sallow-faced, long-fingered Pasargs had gathered below, trilling nervously whenever the sash-horses stamped, setting the cargo swaying overhead. If it crashed, a season’s profits might be ruined.

To other onlookers, the tense moment highlighted a drab autumn morning. Hawkers-converged, selling roasted nuts and scent-sticks to the gathering crowd. Slender money rods were swapped in bundles or broken to make change.

“Winter’s comin’, so get yerself a’ready!” shouted an ovop seller with her basket of bitter contraceptive herbs. “Men are finally coolin’ off, but can you trust
yerself
with glory frost due?”

Other tradeswomen carried reed cages containing live birds and Stratoin hiss lizards, some of them trained to warble popular tunes. One young Charnoss clone tried to steer a herd of gangly llamas past the high wheels of the jiggling wagon, and got tangled with a political worker wearing a sandwich board advertising the virtues of a candidate in the upcoming council elections.

Leie bought a candied tart and joined those gasping and cheering as the delicately carved spinet narrowly escaped clipping a nearby wall. But Maia found it more interesting to watch the Ortyn team on the back of the wagon, working together to free the jammed winch. It was a rare electrical device, operating on battery power. She had never seen Ortyns use one before, and thought it likely they had mishandled it in some way. None of the clans in Port Sanger specialized in the repair of such things, so it came as no surprise when, without a word or any other apparent sign, the Ortyns gave up trying to
make it work. One member of the team grabbed the release catch while the others, as in a choreographed dance, turned and raised callused hands to seize the rope. There were no cries or shouts of cadence; each Ortyn seemed to know her sisters’ state of readiness as the latch let go. Muscles bunched across broad backs. Smoothly, the cargo settled downward, kissing the wagon bed with deceptive gentleness. There were cheers and a few disappointed boos as money sticks changed hands, settling wagers. Maia and her twin hoisted their duffels once more, Leie finishing her tart while Maia turned pensive.

The Ortyns almost read each others’ minds. How are Leie and I supposed to fake something like that?

When they were younger, she and her sister sometimes used to finish each other’s sentences, or knew when and where the other was in pain. But at best it had been a tentative link, nothing like the bond among clones, whose mothers, aunts, and grandmothers shared both genes and common upbringing, stretching back generations. Moreover, the twins had lately seemed to diverge, rather than coalesce. Of the two, Maia felt her sister had more of the hard practicality needed to succeed in this world.

“Ortyns an’ Jorusses an’ Kroebers an’ bleedin’ Sloskies …” Leie muttered. “I’m so sick of this rutty place. I’d kiss a dragon on the mouth, not to have to look at the same faces till I julp.”

Maia, too, felt an urge to move on. Yet, she wondered, how did a stranger get to know who was whom in a foreign town? Here, one learned about each caste almost from birth. Such as the willowy, kink-haired Sheldons, dark-skinned women a full head taller than the blocky Ortyns. Their usual niche was trapping fur-beasts in the tundra marshes, but Sheldons in their mid-thirties often also wore badges of Port Sanger’s corps of Guards, overseeing the city’s defense.

Long-fingered Poeskies were likewise well-suited to
their tasks—deftly harvesting fragile stain glands from cracked stellar snails. They were so good at the dye trade, cadet branches had set up in other towns along the Parthenia Sea, wherever fisherfolk caught the funnel-shaped shells.

Near cousins to that clan, Groeskies used their clever hands as premier mechanics. They were a young matriarchy, a summer-stock offshoot that had taken root but a few generations ago. Though still numbering but two score, the pudgy, nimble “Grossies” were already a clan to be reckoned with. Every one of them was clone-descended from a single, half-Poeskie summerling who had seized a niche by luck and talent, thereby winning a posterity. It was a dream all var-kids shared—to dig in, prosper, and establish a new line. Once in a thousand times, it happened.

Passing a Groeskie workshop, the twins looked on as ball bearings were slipped into axles by robust, contented redheads, each an inheritor of that clever forbear who won a place in Port Sanger’s tough social pyramid. Maia felt Leie nudge her elbow. Her sister grinned. “Don’t forget, we’ve got an edge.”

Maia nodded. “Yeah.” Under her breath, she added, “I hope.”

Below the market district, under the sign of a rearing tricorn, stood a shop selling sweets imported from faraway Vorthos. Chocolate was one vice the twins knew they must warn their daughter-heirs about, if ever they had any. The shopkeeper, a doe-eyed Mizora, stood hopefully, though she knew they weren’t buyers. The Mizora were in decline, reduced to selling once-rich holdings in order to host sailors in the manner of their foremothers. They still coiffed their hair in a style suited to a great clan, though most were now small merchants, less good at it than up-start Usisi or Oeshi. The Mizora shopkeeper sadly watched
Maia and Leie turn away, continuing their stroll down a street of smaller clanholds.

Many establishments bore emblems and badges featuring extinct beasts such as firedrakes and tricorns—Stratoin creatures that long ago failed to adapt to the coming of Earth life. Lysos and the Founders had urged preservation of native forms, yet even now, centuries later, tele screens occasionally broadcast melancholy ceremonies from the Great Temple in faroff Caria City, enrolling another species on the list to be formally mourned each Farsun Day.

Maia wondered if guilt caused so many clans to choose as symbols native beasts that were no more. Or was it a way of saying, “
See? We continue. We wear emblems of the defeated past, and thrive.
”

In a few generations, Mizora might be as common as tricorns.

Lysos never promised an end to change, only to slow it down to a bearable pace.