Under Strange Suns (25 page)

The silence endured for miles after.

Shin-deep water gave way to ankle-deep, and that in turn to a glutinous muck, the saturated, amber colored soil taking on the appearance of orange mud, flecked with bits of vegetation, multi-colored, though blue predominated. Aidan had plenty of time to observe it in detail, keeping his head down to watch his footing.

He realized they were climbing, and had been doing so for some time, though the ascent was gentle. Copses of trees appeared in the distance, grew as the travelers neared, then fell behind. Aidan recognized some of the trees as the same species he had observed in the mountains. Others appeared fruit bearing.

Slipping as he traversed a steeper rise, he noted a tract of stumps. Further on he saw yellow fronds, growing in ordered ranks.

“A farm?” he asked, breaking the silence that had taken them into the afternoon.

“Yes, one of the outlier freeholds,” Yuschenkov said looking up to follow Aidan’s pointing finger. “The soil is less fertile this far out from Girdled-by-Fields, so it’s likely one of the poorer families, subsistence farmers. Their house is probably off to the south, just over that rise with the stand of–well, I’ll spare you the joon name. I call them Ghark apples, more due to flavor than appearance.”

As they passed the edge of the field, a pair of joon crested the hill Yuschenkov had indicated. They approached, taking an angle to intersect the three travelers. When they reached near enough that Aidan could begin to discern individual details, they both halted. Aidan assumed they were startled by the sight of the two humans, but then he saw Checkok making a beckoning gesture and they immediately resumed their approach.

Aidan glanced at Yuschenkov. He raised an eyebrow and gestured with his chin at Checkok.

Yuschenkov chuckled. “Yes, he’s a joon of some influence around here. He’s what they call the ‘Esaul’ of Girdled-by-Fields. Chief, I suppose would be the best translation.”

“Good to have friends in high places,” Aidan said.

The joon neared. Aidan noted that the arm of one of them was distinctly thinner than those he had seen so far, and the joon appeared wider at the hips.

“Female?” he asked.

“Very good. Observant. But did you note the hand?”

Aidan looked again. It took him a moment. He counted fingers, counted again.

“She has an extra finger.”

“Not just her. It’s a secondary sexual characteristic; all the females possess the additional digit. The arm isn’t as strong as the males’, but the extra digit provides markedly greater manual dexterity. You’ll note that joon work frequently in pairs. In town you will see a great deal of male-female work partnerships. The male performs the cruder, energy intensive motions while the female handles the actions requiring fine motor skills.”

Aidan found himself wondering if the extra finger should provide female joon a bonus to the dexterity score. Then he reminded himself once again that this wasn’t a game.

Meanwhile, the three joon began conversing. Aidan could follow none of it, but he did note frequent gesturing back toward the hill.

“Sounds as if the storm damaged their roof,” Yuschenkov said.

With a suddenness that surprised Aidan, Doctor Yuschenkov shrugged off his pack and let it drop to the mud. Stooping, he rummaged inside and retrieved one of the survival blankets salvaged from the wreck of the shuttlecraft. He stepped forward, interrupting the conversation with his offering.

There was a positive side to the man’s impulsiveness, Aidan thought. The Doc had no idea at the beginning of the day if he was going to crash a spaceship or hand out blankets. He wasn’t boring, at any rate.

* * *

Vongük sat in judgment at the ninth-day Protectorate court. He applied himself conscientiously, listening to the evidence presented in each case, deliberating, soliciting advice from the Keepers of the Dictates when the Watchful God’s law appeared, to his inferior understanding, not precisely on point.

Where he wanted to be was at the Keep, reviewing reports, double-checking the lists of supplies and equipment prepared by his secretaries, and receiving updated troop counts from his scattered territorial militia commanders. His runners had delivered his call to muster. By now, the fighting strength of the nearest dozen towns and villages should be assembling. Reports should be coming in of numbers, readiness, equipment deficiencies, and estimated arrival times. But duty was as ever a burden he must shoulder, and so he gave heed to the boundary dispute between two landowners.

“Thank you both for your testimony,” Vongük said when both men had finished setting forth their respective claims. “The Watchful God provided Ghark for the Lhakovi to multiply and prosper. Your claim is amply documented, Mehlek. Your thoroughness does you credit. It is indisputable, however, that Fetilij has three sons, while you have but one. The greater portion must go to him with greater need, say the Dictates. I rule then, that the boundary, as claimed by Fetilij, represents the lawful division of the property. So let it be recorded.”

Both joon bowed in acceptance of the verdict, praising his piety and wisdom.

“No,” protested Vongük, “I deserve no praise. I merely follow the precepts revealed to us by the Watchful God. The Dictates provide all the guidance needed for a Lhakovi to lead a righteous life. No uncommon wisdom is required to apply the Dictates. Go now with that thought and the blessings of the Watchful God.

“What is next before the court, Thergal?”

The Pontifex-General’s aide bowed and approached. “Sir, an unfortunate, prurient affair.” Thergal handed Vongük the case summary.

Vongük read the colors, then nodded to the bailiff. The bailiff, the only joon in the courtroom other than Vongük bearing arms, tugged the door ring, allowing a young man to enter, stumbling as he was shoved in by the guards outside.

Vongük observed him with interest. He was disheveled, bruised. His attire, though stained and torn, suggested he was a joon of quality, a merchant’s son or a militia junior officer. Beneath the filth, contusions, and other souvenirs of the holding cells was the body of a healthy, vigorous young joon.

The prisoner glared about him with hauteur, though he dipped his head respectfully when his gaze reached Vongük.

“Ghemel. That is the name you gave the arresting officer, correct?” asked Vongük.

“Yes, Father. Ghemel, son of Khezek, lieutenant of the third company of the Three-Day-Bend militia.” The prisoner spoke clearly, pride apparent in his voice, though he kept his gaze properly averted.

Three-Day-Bend lay at the southern limit of the bounds of the Northern Protectorate, where the westward flowing Bluewash River flung out a loop that required three days on foot to trace. The area within that tongue of land stabbing southward was famously fertile and Three-Day-Bend was one of the most prosperous of the Northern Protectorate’s settlements.

“A man of position and authority, a man of good family. What business brought you to Bountiful Orchard?” Vongük asked. He spoke mildly, displaying a paternal interest in the doings and well-being of the young joon.

“A purchasing mission, Father. I was sent by Captain Maktat to purchase a thousand javelin heads and a ton of dried fruit.”

Vongük turned to Thergal, who, without additional prompting, showed him a document indicating that Ghemel had arrived with sufficient coin, borne by two servants, to make the purchases the prisoner had mentioned. Another document, an affidavit signed by a noted Bountiful Orchard merchant, stated that Ghemel had placed an order for dried fruit. A second affidavit indicated that Ghemel had engaged bearers for the following nine-day.

Vongük leaned forward, placed his elbow between his knees, and rested his chin in his palm. “And what part of your purchasing mission, Lieutenant Ghemel, required your rape of a Bountiful Orchard’s woman?”

Ghemel dropped his head, shame apparent from the splay and twist of his fingers.

“The Dictates clearly proscribe such behavior,” Vongük said. “Such an act is abominable, unworthy of a Lhakovi. Bailiff, instruct the guards to return Lieutenant Ghemel to his cell to await his sentence.”

Ghemel bowed, then exited without resistance.

“Thergal,” Vongük asked, “does Captain Akhistal still lead the Combined Company?”

The Combined Company was the innocuous name given to the Northern Protectorate’s shock troops, composed of soldiers assigned from individual militias. The Combined Company generally undertook the most dangerous and challenging tasks in any campaign.

“He is, Father,” said Thergal.

“Lieutenant Ghemel has transgressed the Dictates of the Watchful God. It is only just that his life be committed to the service of the Watchful God. Tell Captain Akhistal that Lieutenant Ghemel is now under his command. He is to be assigned the tasks most likely to require the favor of the Watchful God for successful completion.”

It pained Vongük to punish such a promising specimen of a Lhakovi soldier. The lusts of a young man bubbled unrelentingly beneath the surface. But the Dictates clearly demanded punishment. The nature of that punishment, however, allowed the judge a certain degree of discretion. Duty required he punish the young officer. Duty also required he prosecute the campaign across the Wild Wall.

Duty, and the Dictates required one additional action.

“Thergal, the young woman. She has tempted a Lhakovi and led him to violate the Dictates. And she has fornicated unlawfully. The Dictates are clear. Please send a detachment of guards to see the sentence carried out.”

It pained him to order the woman’s death, but in this the Dictates allowed him no leeway. Duty was a hard master.

He rose, terminating the session of the ninth-day Protectorate court. It was time to put aside his role of judge and take up his role as militia commander. He had a campaign to plan.

* * *

Cultivated fields appeared more frequently as Aidan, Yuschenkov, and Checkok trudged on. The way grew easier as the elevation increased. The mud became less glutinous and signs of storm damage lessened. It seemed the deluge had been less severe this far east.

Checkok and Yuschenkov conferred and Yuschenkov relayed to Aidan that the Esaul believed they could reach Girdled-by-Fields that day.

“Not,” Aidan said, “that it would be all that difficult to continue at night. How long did it take you to get used to near constant light?”

Doctor Yuschenkov laughed. “Not long. I tell you what was hard: explaining where I came from. Joon seldom see many stars. Getting across the concept that the universe is filled with suns like theirs is hard when they can see only a scattering of dim pinpoints in the night sky.

“I was lucky enough to experience a night occultation. It’s a rare occurrence here, configuring Upsilon Andromeda d, the primary, and the secondary in such a fashion that Ghark isn’t illuminated. For the joon, as you can imagine, it appears miraculous. It is so far outside their quotidian experience that it’s difficult to convince them it’s a natural phenomenon and not a supernatural manifestation.”

“I can imagine. I think I’m going to miss the stars. I spent quite a bit of time in the ass end of nowhere, far from any light pollution, waiting in the dark. Gave me a lot of time to star gaze.”

“I miss cheeseburgers,” Yuschenkov said.

Aidan laughed. “You and me both. And beer.”

“You haven’t even been here a nine-day. You haven’t even begun to miss beer. I’ve tried numerous fermentation experiments. Nothing. I don’t think the proper strains of yeast exist here.”

“Well, shit,” Aidan said and was feeling rather gloomy as they toiled to the top of the slowly mounting rise. It wasn’t so much a hill as a vast, sweeping crescent, its easy gradient reaching about three hundred feet above the plain the three travelers had hiked across. From the top it dropped more dramatically into a vale sheltered within its arc. Fields lined it, more spread within its sheltering arm. Others, like the far flung farm Aidan had first seen, tilled its rockier, less productive soil. And, scattered across the floor of the vale below waited Girdled-by-Fields, the town proper.

“Home?” Aidan asked.

Checkok seemed to catch the sense of the question and rattled off a response.

“He welcomes you to Girdled-by-Fields, and hopes you will be his guest until the villagers can help you build a habitation of your own. He says that one more two-armed freak–no offense–will be useful.”

“The two-armed freak thanks you, Esaul Checkok,” Aidan said.

They trotted downslope as the blue-white primary star dipped below the ridge line behind them.

Farmers returning from the fields stood and gazed as they passed. Aidan felt conspicuous and noted a mounting case of nerves. He didn’t like to stick out, he didn’t like to be noticed. Attention was dangerous. He knew that was simply combat training and irrelevant to his current predicament, but it made the feeling no less real.

He observed several farmhouses as the passed, noting the stone and timber construction, the thatched roofs, still dripping from the previous night’s precipitation. Gaps in the walls were chinked with mud and straw. Few windows, no glass. Doorways as often as not sealed with hide, wooden doors relatively few. He did not see any domesticated work animals.

“Do the joon plow by hand?” he asked.