Wasteland of flint

dimness, though they seemed very lonely once they were shining from the ceiling.

Moving carefully, she forced open a maintenance door on the far side of the ground floor. A sloping tunnel led down into close-smelling darkness. Gretchen paused – a low, extending rumbling sound penetrated the heavy walls – and she turned in time to see the portholes lit by the stabbing brilliance of a lightning strike. Almost instantly, the building shook and the crack was clearly audible. Dust sifted down from the ceiling of the tunnel.

'Okay. Time to stick close to home.' Gretchen retreated to the pile of gear in the middle of the room and shoved two of the tables together to make an L-shaped work area. Putting down the Sif so she could unpack was a struggle, but her nerves settled a little after checking – and locking – all of the doors.

The intermittent rumble of thunder continued to grow, until the noise faded into the background of her consciousness as a constant rippling growl. The windows stuttered constantly with the flare of yellow-orange heat lightning. Squatting beside the little camp stove, watching a pale blue flame flicker in the heating unit, she was very glad the buildings were quickcrete rather than metal-framed.

The tea finally consented to boil, which reminded her far too much of a particular storm on Old Mars. She'd ridden that one out in an abandoned building too – a mining camp shaft-head in the barrier peaks around the Arcadia impact crater. Too many tricky memories, Gretchen thought, rather sullenly. 'Why do all these places seem haunted?'

'Because they are,' Hummingbird said, appearing out of the darkness, his step light as a cat. 'Is there tea? Ah, good.'

Gretchen lowered the Sif, though her heart was beating at trip-hammer speed. 'Where…'

The door into the tunnel was still slightly open. She glared at the old man, who was stripping off his gloves, crouched over the tiny flame. 'Well? What did you do?'

'I went here and there.' Hummingbird dug out some tea, packets of sugar and a steel cup. 'Seeing about the destruction of this place.'

Gretchen's eyes narrowed. 'You going to tell me how?'

'Doors.' He said, stirring his tea. In the pale blue light of the glowbeans, his eyes were only pits of shadow, without even a jade sparkle to lighten his mood. There was a distinct air of concern about him, hanging on his shoulders like moldy laundry. 'Opening and closing vents. In some places I moved those things which could be moved. Tidying up, as one of my teachers used to say.'

'Opening…oh.' Gretchen looked sharply at the partly-open door. Her stomach was threatening to churn again. I'll have an ulcer out of this, if nothing else. 'Including the one at the other end of the tunnel?'

Hummingbird shook his head. 'Nothing in this building. Not yet. We'll save that for last.'

'What about the hangar?'

'No. I supposed we might need the ultralights again.'

'That's very wise,' Gretchen said with a sigh of pure relief. 'Please don't destroy our means of transportation.'

'Is there anything to eat?' The nauallis looked around hopefully.

Gretchen scowled. 'Do I look like a cook to you?' She nudged one of the bags with her too-big boot. 'Vanilla, chocolate, grilled ixcuintla, ham surprise, miso, all the usual flavors. And if you want any of my hot sauce,' she said in a waspish tone, 'you will have to ask very nicely.'

Hours dragged by – measurable only by the tick of a chrono, for the storm-dimmed light in the windows did not seem to change – and Gretchen's feet began to itch terribly. Hummingbird had gone to sleep, leaving her to watch in the darkness. The afternoon dragged by and finally, when her stomach was starting to grumble about supper, Gretchen poked the nauallis with a long-handled spoon from the kitchen.

'Crow. Crow, wake up!'

One eye opened and the old Mйxica gave her an appraising look. 'Yes?'

'How many teachers did you have?' Gretchen was curled up, leaning back against the baggage, two stolen blankets draped around her shoulders. 'Is there a school for judges?'

'Not so much so.' Hummingbird clasped both hands on his chest and looked up at the ceiling. 'My father was a judge, so there were things I learned 'from the air' as he would say. When I graduated the clan-school, the calmecac, he took me aside.' His face creased with a faint smile. 'He was a strict man – much given to fairness and justice – but on that day he took the time to ask me if I wished to enter the service of the tlamatinime or not.'

Hummingbird turned his head, giving Gretchen a frank look of consideration. 'You should understand one does not become tlamatinime by intent. There are no civil exams, no waiting lists, no quotas. There is no one to 'talk to' about a promising son. The judges are always watching, listening, considering. We find you.

'So I was surprised when my father broached the subject. I think – looking back in memory – he was a little embarrassed to do so, because he was a judge, as his father, and his father's father, had been. Later, I learned the examiners found me suitable on their own and he'd learned of their decision from a friend.' Hummingbird's smile remained only a faint curve of the lips, but Gretchen had watched him long enough to feel the depth of his emotion.

This is a precious jewel. Conviction grew, as Gretchen watched the old man speaking, that the crow's father had never shown him any special consideration beyond this one moment which was so clearly etched in his memory.

'He wanted me to consider the matter before they cornered me. To make my own choice. To escape the burden of family duty. To be free, if I wished.'

Gretchen nodded, feeling a familiar weight of expectation pressing on her own shoulders. 'But even so, you said yes?'

'Eventually.' Hummingbird's smile vanished. 'They were as patient as I was impatient.'

'You?' Gretchen lifted her head in a sly smile. 'You were the black sheep? The reckless, irresponsible child? Were you in a band?'

Hummingbird made a snorting sound and looked away.

When he did not turn back, Gretchen pursed her lips in speculation. So sensitive!

'What do I need to learn?' she asked, after some endless time had passed. 'How do I learn – if there's no school -'

'There are no books,' Hummingbird said in a stiff voice. 'No tests. No sims. Only a teacher and a student, as it has been for millennia.'

'Are you my teacher, then? Can I even be a student? I mean, you said women aren't accepted into the tlamatinime.'

The nauallis sat up, jaw clenched tight. 'There are women who learn to see,' he said in a rather brusque voice. One hand made a sharp motion in the air. 'But there are two…orders, you might say. One – the men – the tlamatinime, the other – the women – named the tetonalti. By tradition – more recently by law – the two are kept separate in all matters.'

'So,' Gretchen said, watching his face, 'there are no female judges serving the Empire. They are…soul-doctors, is that what you said?'

Hummingbird's lips compressed into a tight, stiff line. 'The tetonalti are not what they once were, in the time of the old kings. Though they too serve the Mirror, I prefer not to speak of their purpose.' He made a pushing-away motion with both hands. 'You are burden enough, just by yourself, without bringing them into the situation.'

'How much trouble will you be in?' Gretchen tried to be nonchalant about the question, but Hummingbird's eyes narrowed at the light tone in her voice. 'I mean, if women aren't supposed to learn these things -'

'Not enough trouble,' he said, rather guardedly, 'to see a certain cylinder back in your hands.'

'So cynical,' Gretchen said, hiding momentary disappointment. 'I get the idea. I even understand,' she made a face, 'a little. It will hurt my children, that's all. That said – will I be in trouble if it's known I've started to gain this…sight?'