The Avengers of Carrig (13 page)

Angry words died on the priestess’ lips as she came wonderingly forward to look at what Maddalena held in her hand: a damp, succulent cake of brownish color, the same consistency as doughy bread, containing—if the machine had worked properly—proteins, starches, sugars, and several vitamins.

After a long incredulous pause, Nyloo lowered her aged body to her knees and bowed her forehead to the floor.

Then, of course, there was the problem of fabricating a convincing lie to explain how she had set in operation a machine which had stood by idle for centuries. It seemed that each of the priests and priestesses had a certain specialty
in the work of the sanctuary, and so narrow had these specialities become that in many cases knowledge had died with its holder, through illness or accident, before a child could be trained in that particular field of the “mysteries.”

Fortunately Nyloo did not press that point immediately. She was so overcome with excitement that she ran off to rouse the rest of the staff to witness the miracle, and before they—and some of the refugees too, awaken by the racket—had got over their amazement, Maddalena had had time to work out a plausible fiction. She recounted how she had found some ancient documents in her grandmother’s home when she was a child, including a few which had pictures, and how her grandmother had passed on some old family traditions concerning the contents. Beyond that she did not have to elaborate—all her listeners were too busy sampling the synthesizer cake, and Nyloo was positively crowing with delight at her own sagacity in admitting Maddalena to the sanctuary.

“The omens have been fulfilled!” she cried over and over again.

Only Maddalena realized that this solution to the food problem was temporary. With altogether a hundred or more mouths to feed, the trace-element hoppers would soon be drained, and where on this world could you find, for instance, a source of the pure cobalt needed for cobal-ocyanamin, vitamin B-12? She dared not show over-detailed knowledge of the machine’s workings, but certainly she must find an opportunity to warn Nyloo against relying completely on its output. Luckily one of the flavor controls had slipped a little, and the diet cakes—normally deliciously flavored to tempt the appetites of people who might be apathetic with despair—were dull to the palate, like unsalted potatoes.

To the refugees, nonetheless, they came as manna. Some of the children here had never known what it was to eat as much as they liked, and for the first time in their lives, slept the night through without crying out for hunger. The whole atmosphere lost its famine-induced tension, and people smiled more often and forgot their pinched, moody expressions. Above all, the priestly staff displayed great respect toward their savior, giving her a cabin of her own
and many gifts of cloth and furniture from their own quarters. As for the refugees, their former hostility vanished utterly. When Maddalena came to the canteen for a meal they stood aside until she was served, and if they met her in the passageways they bowed low as they had done at home to folk of noble birth.

This, though, was far from the companionship she now desperately craved, and her one actual friend here—Saikmar—was the only person who seemed upset, rather than pleased, by the course of events. For several days he avoided her completely, even to arriving late at the canteen so he was sure of missing her in the line. Maddalena was dismayed at his behavior, and resolved that she must confront him about it.

She had come to like him more than she had expected to like anyone on this backward world. He was obviously intelligent; he had had a good education by Carrig standards, and if his thinking was shot through with superstition that was scarcely his fault; but most importantly he was a naturally civilized person, with a strong sense of responsibility and no trace of the arrogance she had imagined among barbarian nobles. She knew from their long talks together that he was far more concerned for the fate of Carrig’s people under the harsh rule of the usurper than over the loss of his chance to win power for his own clan. Had he been fairly defeated in the king-hunt he would have been disappointed but content with the will of the gods. Belfeor’s actions, however, had lighted in him a smouldering anger which one day—given the time and place—would explode.

After four days of his cold-shouldering, she could stand it no longer. Impulsively she dropped the bolt of cloth, from which she was trying to contrive a new costume for herself with clumsy, enormous scissors and a tarnished brass needle, and hurried along the corridors to Saikmar’s cabin.

Fist poised to bang on the wall beside the entrance, she hesitated. What if—against all her good resolutions—she had somehow made Saikmar dislike her as her colleagues at the base had learned to, for her conceit or her continual complaining? Though she could not think of any such way she might have offended Saikmar, she had to remember
that the minds of people from so backward a planet didn’t function in the manner she was accustomed to.

A year ago, a month ago, the idea of apologizing to a barbarian would have been inconceivable. Now she made up her mind that if necessary she was going to grovel; she needed a friend above anything else, and there was no one except Saikmar to turn to.

She knocked, and heard him rise—by the sound of his movements, reluctantly—to lift aside the metal frame blocking his doorway. The moment he saw her, his face froze.

With dignity he said, “What service may I do Melisma?”

That was in the formal third person, the type of address used for aged grandparents, very noble persons and the gods themselves. But there was no politeness in his tone; his voice cut like a whip. Maddalena flushed. Keeping her own voice steady with an effort, she said, “May I come in?”

He stepped aside and gestured that she should enter, though he made it clear that he was acting against his will. Nothing in here had changed noticeably; indeed, Maddalena suspected that since she moved to her new quarters most things had not even been touched, suggesting that Saikmar had spent his time sitting and staring at nothing.

She stood uncertainly waiting for him to close the door again. Having done so, he turned to face her—and the mask of his self-control slipped for an instant. Out of his large dark eyes naked misery looked at her.

It was only for a second, but that was long enough for her to forget everything except pity and gratitude. Barbarian he might be, but he was human first of all, and he had been kind to her at the risk of his life; now he was cast into black depression because of her.

Before she knew what she was doing, she had flung her arms around him and paid attention to his attempts to master himself. His whole body shook with sudden sobs, and his cheek against hers ran wet with tears.

Crooning silly wordless noises, she guided him to the bunk where he had been sitting, cleared enough space for them both, and urged him to sit down beside her. Stroking his hair, she kissed away his tears and waited for him to recover.

In a little while he was self-possessed enough to realize
what had happened, and to blush at this unforgivable breach of a proper Carrig noble’s facade, but before he could waste his breath on explanations and apologies Maddalena forestalled him.

“Oh, Saikmar, I was so afraid I’d made you angry with me! Why have you been avoiding me for so long?”

He didn’t reply, and she hurried on, “Is it that like those other silly refugees you think I’m supernatural, not a flesh-and-blood girl? Here, feel me—am I not human?” She caught up his hand and pressed it against her cheek.

Almost inaudibly, he said, “No, I’m the one who has been silly. I’ve been childish! Should I not be pleased that those who once reviled me for bringing a new mouth to the sanctuary have blessed me instead, patting their full bellies and bowing as I go by? My life is going to be far more peaceful this winter than it was last.”

“But empty!” Maddalena countered. “I’d rather die alone in the snows than face a life without friendship, thinking sad thoughts and hating each day as it breaks. They speak of omens, and my coming as some kind of miracle! I know nothing of miracles and care less. I only know I’m in a strange fearful land, and the one person who has shown friendship to me has taken to
hiding
from me! Why, Saikmar—why?”

Saikmar hesitated. He said at length, “I’m not the only person in the sanctuary.”

“But no one else will treat me as a real person! They’re frightened to talk to me, refugees and staff alike, as though I were—well, some kind of idol struck to life by the gods!” She linked her fingers in his and squeezed almost violently. “But I am a human being, Saikmar, I am!”

“Yes, of course you are,” he comforted. “Yet … No, I’d be foolish to speak of such a thing.”

Abruptly she caught on. Eyes wide, she gazed at him. “Oh, no …” she whispered. “How could I not have thought of that? You did hope I was superhuman, didn’t you? Because you found me in the parradile nest, and the parradile is sacred in Carrig. You wanted me to be a messenger from the gods, here to aid you back to your home!”

For a long moment Saikmar did not respond; then he gave a tiny nod.

Maddalena was appalled. The reason for his coldness had been right under her nose, and she had failed to recognize it. Naturally Saikmar would have taken anything to do with the parradile—symbol of kingship in Carrig—as being directed at himself, and when he heard his suspicion that her arrival was a divine omen confirmed by Nyloo his hopes of achieving his ambition must have run high. When the old priestess later declared that she had, instead, been sent to save the loyal adherents of this northern cult from starvation, he must have suffered a tremendous psychological blow.

At random she suggested that if she had not turned up so providentially, the hatred of the other refugees for him might have climaxed in his being attacked or driven out, and then what hope would there have been that he could save his city? But the argument rang hollow in her ears. She did not really believe he was Carrig’s sole hope, and apparently he did not either; he merely kept up the pretense in order to give himself a reason to go on living.

Perhaps in a few days, she thought when he had had a chance to think things over, he might relent and feel the need for company again. Accordingly, feeling rather downcast she left him after only a few more minutes, and instead of going back to the loneliness of her own cabin began to wander absentmindedly along the passageways, scarcely noting where she was or who she met.

She came at last to the entrance, where the half-dome of snow closed away the sanctuary from the arctic night, and where it was customary for the children who were being schooled in the mysteries to spend an hour or two daily on guard by themselves, as a test of their ability to concentrate. Before she discovered how strictly disciplined the children were, Maddalena had tried speaking to them while they were on duty, and been dismayed at the stony silence she encountered. Saikmar had explained why, though, and this time she merely paused and looked to see which of the children occupied the post.

It was Nyloo’s companion, the little girl with old-wise eyes whose name she had found to be Pettajem—“Little Jewel.” Pettajem was usually so self-possessed and mature for her age that Maddalena was astonished to realize she was crying, although she was bravely fighting the tears and
snuffling when they threatened to run too freely.

Maddalena forgot the frigid reception she had had from other children keeping watch here, and ran toward her.

“Pettajem! What’s the matter?”

The girl’s mouth worked and she turned her big dark eyes up, but she said nothing. Maddalena sighed. It would probably be better not to interfere, she decided, and was on the point of turning away when a curious scraping sound reached her ears. It seemed to be coming through the snow-wall, and suggested that something outside might be trying to burrow its way in.

Maddalena stared at Pettajem. If some wild creature were trying to break the wall in, ought not something to be done about it? She said, “Is it the noise which frightens you?”

A hesitant nod.

“Have you told Nyloo about it?”

The child’s obstinate silence gave way, and in a tear-choked voice she answered, “Y-yes! She says it is the sound of him-who-was-lately-accursed, trying to get back in!”

Maddalena made a disgusted noise. Graddo was certainly long dead, and as for ghosts, not for all the sanctuaries on Fourteen was she going even to pretend to believe in them. There was something alarmingly and indisputably physical about the scrabbling she could hear, louder than ever now, through the hard-packed snow.

“Are there big wild beasts this far north?” she asked Pettajem. The child shook her head.

“Nothing bigger than a quet can live in this region, and quets go to sleep for the winter!”

Whatever a quet might be…

A thought suddenly struck her. Could the source of the noise possibly be human? Could it, specifically, be Gus Langenschmidt having survived the crash of the landing-craft and somehow found his way here? She was so overcome by the idea that she strode forward to the snow-wall—ignoring a horrified cry from Pettajem—and rapped three times on its hard surface. It had been compacted by beating while it was built and conducted sound well.

There came three knocks in answer. She jumped to the conclusion she had been right, and snapped at Pettajem.

“Go tell Nyloo this is no ghost trying to get in!”

She did not wait to see if the child obeyed, but drew her knife, which she now kept by her always against emergencies, and began to carve hunks out of the wall with it. Wailing in dismay Pettajem took to her heels.

The unknown burrower had worked well. It was only moments before the wall was breached and the arctic wind came through the gap, stinging her eyes and blinding her for a few seconds. Gasping as the chill caught her by the throat, she leapt aside. Blocks of compressed snow weighing twenty pounds and more were smashed loose as the intruder widened the hole vigorously.

Maddalena wiped her eyes and looked again, and after a pause for incredulity, began to laugh. She was still laughing when people began to hurry down the passage toward her—Nyloo, others of the staff, several of the refugees who had been alarmed by Pettajem’s shouts for help, and even Saikmar startled out of his despondency.

It was to him that Maddalena spoke.

“Here’s
your
omen, the one that’s meant for you and no one else! Look!”