Voices

was lucky. By order of the Gand of the Alds, women could go in the streets and marketplaces only if they had a man with them. A woman who went alone in the street was a whore, a demon of temptation, and any soldier was free to rape, enslave, or kill her. But the Alds apparently didn’t consider old women to be women, and children were mostly though not always ignored. So grannies and children, many of them “siege brats,” half-breeds like me, the girls dressed as boys, did most of the shopping and bargaining in the markets.

All the money we had was what an ancestor had hidden long ago when a pirate fleet threatened Ansul; the pirates were driven off, but the family left the luckhoard, as the Waylord called it, buried out in the woods behind the house; and that was what we lived on now. So I had to look for the best bargains I could, which took time. So did the worship and the housework. Ista got up very early in the morning to make the bread. The only time I could go regularly to the secret room without being missed and rousing a lot of curiosity and questions would be at night when the others had gone to bed. So I told Ista I wanted to move my bed to my mother’s room, just down the hall from the room we all shared. That was fine with her. She and Sosta were generally snoring away not long after we’d washed up from supper; they weren’t likely to notice if I wasn’t in my room. So every night I’d go softly in darkness through the corridors and passages of the great house to the secret door, and go in, and read and learn with my dear teacher.

Nights when he had visitors, he couldn’t come to teach me Aritan or help me with my reading, but I could get along on my own well enough. Often I stayed reading, lost in the story or the history till long after he would have sent me off to bed.

When I started growing a little taller and coming into my womanhood, I did get terribly sleepy sometimes, not at night but in the morning. I couldn’t make myself get out of bed, and felt heavy as lead and stupid as a sowbug all day. The Waylord spoke to Ista, though I begged him not to, and asked her to hire the street girl Bomi to do the sweeping and cleaning that I’d been doing. I said to him, “I don’t mind sweeping and cleaning! What takes all the time is doing all the altars. We could hire a girl for that, and I’d have lots more time.”

That was a mistake. He looked at me slowly: patient, judging, but not approving.

“Your mother’s shadow dwells here, with the shadows of our ancestors,” he said. “The gods of this house are her gods. She blessed them daily. I do them honor as a man,” and it was true, he never missed a day or an offering due, “and you do them honor and receive their blessing as the daughter of our grandmothers.” And that was that.

I was ashamed of myself and also cross. I’d had it in my head that I’d be able to get out of the whole hour it took sometimes to go to all the god-niches, dusting them, giving fresh leaves to Iene, and lighting incense for the Hearthkeepers, and giving and asking blessing of the souls and shadows of the former householders, and thanking Ennu and putting meal and water on her altar on her days, and stopping in the doorways to say the praise of the One Who Looks Both Ways, and remembering when to light the oil lamps for Deori, and all the rest.

We have more gods in Ansul, I think, than anybody else has anywhere. More gods, and closer to us, the gods of our earth and our days, our blood and bone. Of course I was blessed in knowing that the house was full of them, and that I was doing as my mother had done in returning their blessing, and that my own roomspirit dwelt in the little empty niche in the wall by the door and waited for me to return and watched over my sleep. When I was little, I was proud of doing worship, but I’d been doing it for a long time now. I got tired of the gods. They wanted so much looking after.

But all it took to make me do my worship cheerfully, with all my heart and soul, was to remember that the Alds called our gods evil spirits, demons, and were afraid of them.

And it was good to be reminded that my mother had done the woman’s worship in the house. The Waylord had trusted her with that, as he trusted her with the knowledge of the secret room, knowing she was of his own lineage. Thinking about this, I realised clearly for the first time that he and I were the only ones of our lineage left; the few people now in our household were Galvas by choice not by blood. I hadn’t thought much about the difference till then.

“Did my mother know how to read?” I asked him once, at night, after my lesson in Aritan.

“Of course,” he said, and then, recollecting, “It wasn’t forbidden then.” He sat back and rubbed his eyes. The torturers had stretched and broken his fingers so that they were twisted and knotted up, but I was used to how his hands looked. I could see that they had been beautiful once.

“Did she come here to read?” I asked, looking around the room, happy to be there. I had come to love it best at night, when warm shadows stretched up and out from the lamp’s yellow dome of light, and the gilt lettering on the backs of books winked like the stars you could sometimes glimpse through the small, high skylights.

“She didn’t have much time for reading,” he said. “She kept everything going here. It was a big job. A waylord had to spend a lot of money—entertaining and all the rest of it. Her books were account books, mostly.” He looked at me as if looking back, comparing me with my mother in his mind. “I showed her the door to this room when we first heard that the Alds had sent an army into the Isma Hills. My mother urged me: Decalo was of our blood, and had a right to the secret, she said. She could preserve it, if things went badly. And the room could be a refuge for her.”

“It was.”

He said a line from “The Tower,” the Aritan poem we had been translating: Hard is the mercy of the gods.

I countered with a line from later in the poem: True sacrijice is true heart’s praise. He liked it when I could quote back at him.

“Maybe when she was hiding here with me, when I was a baby, maybe she read some of the books,” I said. I had thought that before. When I read something that gave my soul joy and strength, I often wondered if my mother had read it, too, when she was in the secret room. I knew he had. He had read all the books.

“Maybe she did,” he said, but his face was sad.

He looked at me as if studying me with some question in his mind; finally, coming to a decision, he said, “Tell me, Memer. When you first came here, by yourself—before you could read them, what were the books to you?”

It took me a while to answer. “Well, I gave some of them names.” I pointed to the large, leather-bound Annals of the Fortieth Consulate of Sundraman. “I called that the Bear. And Rostan was Shining Red. I liked it because of the gold on the cover… And I built houses with some of them. But I always put them back exactly where they’d been.”

He nodded.

“And then some of them—” I had not meant to say this, but the words came out of me—“I was afraid of them.”

“Afraid. Why?”

I did not want to answer, but again I spoke: “Because they made noises.”

He made a little noise himself at that: ah. “Which books were they?” he asked.

“It was one of them. Down at… at the other end. It groaned.”

Why was I talking about that book? I never thought about it, I didn’t want to think about it, let alone talk about it.

Dearly as I loved being in the secret room, reading with the Waylord, finding my greatest happiness in the treasure of story and poetry and history that was mine there, still I never went all the way to that end of the room where the floor became a rougher, greyer stone and the ceiling was lower, without skylights, so that the light died away slowly into the dark. I knew there was a spring or fountain there because I could hear the faint sound of it, but I’d never gone far enough to see it. Sometimes I thought the room became larger there in the shadow end, sometimes I thought it must grow smaller, like a cave or a tunnel. I had never been past the shelves where the book that groaned was.

“Can you show me which book?”

I sat still at the reading table for a minute and then said, “I was just little. I made up things like that. I pretended the Annals was a bear. It was silly.”

“You have nothing to fear, Memer,” he said softly. “Some might. Not you.”

I said nothing. I felt sick and cold. I was afraid. All I knew was that I was going to keep my mouth shut so that nothing else I didn’t want to say could come out of it.

Again he sat pondering, and again came to some decision. “Time enough for that later. Now, ten more lines,