The Ship Who Won (10 page)

watching crowd, Keff backed away on his hands and knees

through the bush. Cursing the pins and needles in his legs,

Keff managed to get to his feet and started downhill

toward the gully where Carialle was concealed.

Carialle launched gracefully out of the gully and turned

into the face of planetary rotation toward another spot on

the day-side which her monitors said showed signs of life.

"May as well ring the front doorbell this time," Keff

said. "No sense letting them get distracted over something

else. If only I'd moved sooner!"

"No sense having a post mortem over it," Carialle said

firmly. "You can amaze these natives with how much you

already know about them."

Reversing to a tail-first position just at the top of atmosphere, Carialle lowered herself gently through the thin

clouds and cleaved through a clear sly onto a rocky field in

plain sight of the workers. Switching on all her exterior

cameras, she laughed, and put the results on monitor for

Keff.

T could paint a gorgeous picture," she said. "Portrait of

blinding astonishment."

"Another regional mutation," Keff said, studying the

screen. 'They're still beautiful, still the same root stock,

but their faces look a little like sheep."

"Perfectly suited for open-mouthed goggling," Carialle

said promptly. T wonder what causes such diversity amidst

the groups. Radiation? Evolution based on function and

lifestyle?"

"Why would they need to look like sheep?" Keff said,

shrugging out of the crash straps.

"Maybe they were behind the door when ape faces like

yours were handed out," CariaUe said teasingly, then

turned to business. "I'm reading signs of more

underground heat sources. One habitation, three

entrances. Ambient air temperature, fourteen degrees.

This place is cold."

"I'll wear a sweater, Mom. Here goes!"

As Keff waited impatiently in the airlock, checking his

equipment carriers and biting on the implanted mouth

contact to make sure it was functioning properly, Carialle

lowered the ramp. Slowly, she opened the airlock. A hundred yards beyond it, Keff saw a crowd of the sheep-faced

Noble Primitives gathered at the edge of the crop field,

still gaping at the tall silver cylinder.

Taking a deep breath, Keff stepped out onto the ramp,

hand raised, palm outward, weaponless. The IT was slung

on a strap around his neck so he let his other hand hang

loosely at his side.

"Hail, friends!" he called to the aliens huddled on the

edge of the dusty field. "I come in peace."

He walked toward the crowd. The Primitives stared at

him, the adults' faces expressionless underneath the fur

masks, the children openly awestruck. Cautiously, Keff

raised his other hand away from his body so they could see

it, and smiled.

'They're not afraid of you, Keff," Carialle said, monitoring the Noble Primitives' vital signs. "In fact, they're not

even surprised. Now that's odd!"

"Why does one of the mages come to us?" Alteis said,

worriedly, as the stranger approached them, showing his

teeth. "What have we done wrong? We have kept up with

the harvest. All proceeds on schedule. The roots are nearly

all harvested. They are of good quality."

Brannel snorted, a sharp breath ruffling the fur on his

upper Bp, and turned an uncaring shoulder toward the oldster. Old Alteis was so afraid of the mages that he would do

himself an injury one day if the overlords were really dis-pleased. He stared at the approaching mage. The male was

shorter man he, but possessed of a mighty build and an

assured, cocky walk. Unusual for a mage, his hands showed

that they were not unacquainted with hard work. The outthrust of the cleft chin showed that he knew his high place,

and yet his dark, peaty blue eyes were full of good humor.

Brannel searched his memory, but was certain he had

never encountered this overlord before.

"He is one we do not know," Brannel said quickly in an

undertone out of the side of his mouth. "Perhaps he is here

to tell us he is our new master."

"Klemay is our master," Alteis said, his ruff and mustache indignantly erect on his leathery face.

"But Klemay has not been seen for a month," Brannel

said. '1 saw the fire in the mountains, I told you. Since

then, no power has erupted from Klemay's peak."

"Perhaps this one serves Klemay," Mrana, mate of

Alteis, suggested placatingly. Surreptitiously, she brushed

the worst of the dust off the face of one of her children.

None of them looked their best at harvest time when little

effort could be wasted on mere appearance. The overlord

must understand that.

"Servers serve," Brannel snorted. "No overlord serves

another but those of the Five Points. Klemay was not a

high mage."

"Do not speak of things you do not understand," Alteis

said, as alarmed as that foolish male ever became. 'The

mages will hear you."

'The mages are not listening," Brannel said.

Alteis was about to discipline him further, but the

overlord was within hearing range now. The stranger came

closer and stopped a couple of paces away. All the workers

bowed their heads, shooting occasional brief glances at the

visitor. Alteis stepped forward to meet him and bowed low.

''What is your will, lord?" he asked.

Instead of answering him directly, the mage picked up

the box that hung around his neck and pushed it nearly

underneath Alteiss chin. He spoke to the leader at some

length. Though Brannel listened carefully, the words

meant nothing. Alteis waited, then repeated his words

clearly in case the overlord had not understood him. The

mage smiled, head tilted to one side, uncomprehending.

"What may I and my fellow workers do to serve you,

exalted one?" Brannel asked, coming forward to stand

beside Alteis. He, too, bowed low to show respect,

although the germ of an idea was beginning to take shape

in his mind. He tilted his chin down only the barest

respectable fraction so he could study the visitor.

The male fiddled with the small box on his breast, which

emitted sounds. He spoke over it, possibly reciting an

incantation. That was not unusual; all the overlords Brannel had ever seen talked to themselves sometimes. Many

objects of power were ranged about this ones strongly

built form. Yet he did not appear to understand the language of the people, nor did he speak it. He hadn't even

acknowledged Brannel s use of mage-talk, which had been

cleverly inserted into his query.

Puzzled, Brannel wrinkled his forehead. His fellow

servers stayed at a respectful distance, showing proper fear

and respect to one of the great overlords. They were not

puzzled: they had no thoughts of their own to puzzle them

or so Brannel opined. So he took as close a look at this puzzling overlord as possible.

The male appeared to be of the pure blood of the Magi,

showing all three signs: clear skin, whole hand, and bright

eyes. His clothing did not resemble that which overlords

wore. Then Brannel arrived at a strange conclusion: this

male was not an overlord. He could not speak either

language, he did not wear garments like an overlord, he

did not act like an overlord, and he had clearly not come

from the high places of the East. The worker males

curiosity welled up until he could no longer contain the

question.

"Who are you?" he asked.

Alteis grabbed him by the ruff and yanked him back

into the midst of the crowd of shocked workers.

"How dare you speak to an overlord like that, you young

puppy?" he said, almost growling. "Keep your eyes down

and your mouth shut!"

"He is not an overlord, Alteis," Brannel said, growing

more certain of this every passing moment.

"Nonsense," Fralim said, closing his hand painfully on

Brannels upper arm. Alteis s son was bigger and stronger

than he was, but Fralim couldn't see the fur on his own

skin. He loomed over Brannel, showing his teeth, but

Brannel knew half the ferocity was from fear. "He's got all

his fingers, hasn't he? The finger of authority has not been

amputated. He can use the objects of power. I ask forgive-ness, honored lord," Fralim said, speaking in an abject tone

to the stranger.

"He does not speak our language, Fralim," Brannel said

clearly. "Nor does he understand the speech of the Magi.

All the Magi speak the linga esoterka, which I understand.

I will prove it. Master," he said, addressing Keff in mage-talk, "what is thy will?"

The stranger smiled in a friendly fashion and spoke

again, holding the box out to him.

The experiment didn't impress Brannels fellow workers. They continued to glance up at the newcomer with

awe and mindless adoration in their eyes, like the herd

beasts they so resembled.

"Keff," the stranger said, nodding several times and

pointing to himself. He shifted his hand toward Brannel.

"An dew?"

The others ducked. When the finger of authority was

pointed at one of them, it sometimes meant that divine

discipline was forthcoming. Brannel tried to hide that he,

too, had flinched, but the gesture seemed merely a request

for information.

"Brannel," he said, hand over pounding heart. The reply

delighted the stranger, who picked up a rock.

"An dwattis zis?" he asked.

"Rock," Brannel said. He approached until he was

merely a pace from the overlord. "What is this?" he asked,

very daringly, reaching out to touch the mages tunic

sleeve.

"Brannel, no!" Alteis wailed. "You'll die for laying hands

on one of them!"

Anything was better than living out his life among

morons, Brannel thought in disgust. No bolt of punishment came. Instead, Keffsaid, "Sliv."

"Sliv," Brannel repeated, considering. It sounded almost

like the real word. Ozran was great! he thought in gratitude. Perhaps Keff was a mage, but from a distant part of

the world.

They began to exchange the words for objects. Keffled

Brannel to different parts of the holding, pointing and

making his query. Brannel, becoming more interested by

the minute, gave him the words and listened carefully to

the stranger-words with which Keff identified the same

things. Keff was freely offering Brannel a chance to

exchange information, to know his words in trade for his

own. Language was power, Brannel knew, and power held

the key to self-determination.

Behind them, the villagers followed in a huddled group,

never daring to come close, but unable to stay away as

Brannel claimed the entire, and apparently friendly,

attention of a mage. Fralim was muttering to himself. It

might have meant trouble, since Fralim saw himself as the

heir to village leadership after Alteis, but he was too much

in awe of the seeming-mage and had already forgotten

some of what had happened. If Brannel managed to

distract him long enough afterward, Fralim would forget

forever the details of his grudge. It would disappear into

the grayness of memory that troubled nearly every server

on Ozran. Brannel decided to take advantage of the

situation, and named every single worker to the mage.

Fralim whitened under his fur, but he smiled back, teeth

gritted, when Keff repeated his name.

The stranger-mage asked about every type of root,

every kind of flower and herb in the sheltered garden by

the cavern mouth. Twice, he tried to enter the

home-cavem, but stopped when he saw Brannel pause

nervously on the threshold. The worker was more

convinced than he was of anything else in his life that this

mage was not as other mages: he didn't know entiy to the

home site between dawn and dusk was forbidden under

pain of reprisal.

Toward evening, the prepared food for the villagers

appeared in the stone square, as it did several times every

day. Brannel would have to pretend to eat and just hope

that he could control his rumbling guts until he had a

chance to assuage his hunger from his secret cache. He'd

worked a long, hard day before he'd had to stimulate his

wits to meet the demands of this unexpected event.

Muttering began among the crowd at their heels. The

children were hungry, too, and had neither the manners

nor the wit to keep their voices down. Not wishing to incur

the wrath of the visiting mage, Alteis and Mrana were discussing whether or not they dared offer such poor fare to

the great one. Should they, or shouldn't they, interrupt the

great ones visit at all by letting mere workers eat? What to

do?

Brannel took care of the problem. Keeping a respectful

distance, he led Keffto the stone square and picked up the

lid of one of the huge covered dishes. With one hand, he

made as if to eat from the steaming tureen of legume stew.

Keifs eyes widened in understanding and he smiled.

Though he waved away offers of food, he encouraged the

villagers with friendly gestures to come forward and eat.