Glory Season

was probably doomed, she could almost certainly shield Maia’s person. All Maia had to do was start walking.

There are many kinds of prisons, she thought acidly.

“That’s kind of you,” she replied. “Some other time, perhaps.”

The elderly savant winced at the rejection, but Naroin looked unsurprised. “I see. You like it in Persim Hold? They’re your friends now?”

Maia first thought Naroin was expressing bitterness. Then she read something in the ex-bosun’s eyes. A feral, conspiratorial gleam. Her sarcasm had another objective.

Maia nodded. She took a deep breath. “Oh—yes. Odo—is—my—friend… as—much—as—she—was— Renna’s.”

It was the general message she had been ordered to convey, delivered so woodenly, no one with sensitivity would believe a word. Maia heard Odo hiss sharply restrained anger.

Leie, Brod, have I just murdered you? On the other hand, maybe Naroin would now add two and two, and realize how Maia was being coerced. Perhaps there were still honest layers in government, who could be called on to rescue two innocent fivers from captivity. To get that message across was worth stretching the Persim’s patience. Once.

Clevin growled. Maia watched his gnarled hands clench and unclench. In the dead of winter, she felt a kind of blazing heat from the man. His trouble wasn’t remembering how to make a fist, but controlling his wrath. Naroin took his elbow, applying urgent pressure to his arm.

“This won’t stop the strike,” he rumbled.

Strike? Maia wondered.

Odo laughed. “Your so-called strike is a mere irritant, already unraveling. In days, perhaps weeks, it will be over. All women will unite to reject the participants. They’ll get no more summer passes. No more sons. Isn’t that right, Maia?”

Maia made no further efforts to send messages, only to obey. “Yes,” she assented, completely ignorant of what she was agreeing to. Naroin and Clevin understood her predicament. All that mattered were her sister and her friend.

“Our past differences evaporated with the unfortunate Visitor,” continued Odo. “Now Maia wants to join the cause of restoring peace and order to the Founders’ Plan.”

For the first time, the fourth member of Naroin’s party spoke up. The dark-haired woman was of medium height and poised bearing, with a distinctive oval face and intense eyes. “In that case, you won’t mind if I pay a call on you, at Persim Hold?” she said to Maia.

Before Maia could answer, Odo demanded, “Which are you? Which Upsala?”

It was a decidedly strange query to Maia’s ears, as if a clone’s individuality ever mattered.

“I am Brill, of the Upsala.” The graceful brunette inclined her head. “I perform tests for the Civil Service.”

Maia sensed Odo’s tense reaction, as if she had encountered something more worrisome than any gambit by Naroin, or Clevin, or even the aristocratic Iolanthe. “I’d be honored, Brill, of Upsala,” Maia blurted impulsively, feeling sticky from anxious perspiration under her heavy gown. “Come at your convenience.”

The atrium lights dimmed to the sound of a gentle chime, signaling intermission’s end. Odo pointedly took her hand, giving it a brief, painful squeeze. “Time we took our seats,” she said to Iolanthe and the others. “Enjoy the show. Come, Maia.”

There was chill silence during the long, exposed climb back to the theater box. As they resumed their seats and the lights went down, Maia felt Odo lean near. “If you try another stunt like that, my dear young scattered seed, you’ll live to regret it. More than your own life rides on doing a better job of acting.”

Maia had even less taste for watching the second act.

The music sounded like clashing engines; the colorful costumes seemed foppish, ridiculous. Only one thing caught her eye, to distract momentarily from her misery. While listlessly scanning the sea of extravagance below, her lethargic gaze picked out a pair of faces, each of them identical to the woman, Brill, she had just met in the lobby.

The first belonged to the conductor of the orchestra. The second was the tenor, her chin covered with an artificial beard, leaping and crooning with ersatz masculine abandon, playing the archetype operatic role of Nature’s conceited challenger, the epitome of hubris, Faust.

* * *

Another week passed. Each morning, Odo arranged for Maia to be dressed in a stunning new outfit before taking her for an open carriage ride down the esplanade. It showed her off to strollers and pedestrians without risking further close personal contact.

At first, Maia was captivated by the sights of Caria—Council Hall, the University, the Great Temple—almost as much as any tourist. The fascination didn’t last, however. Each time she returned to her room in Persim Hold, Maia quickly stripped off the grotesque finery and threw herself into an orgy of exercise, to vent her frustration. The guards were gone now, yet she felt more securely imprisoned than ever in Long Valley, or on Grimké Isle.

On Fridinsday, during the morning ride, Maia witnessed a scene of commotion taking place before one of the majestic, many-pillared public buildings. Uniformed soldiers and proctors strove to keep back several groups of demonstrators. One, consisting of men in varicolored guild tunics, appeared listless, demoralized. Maia could only partly read one of their drooping banners. JELL… RMER said the portion visible between folds.

Suddenly, Maia’s heart sped. Just ahead, standing at the curb where the carriage was about to pass, she saw Clevin, her father, talking earnestly with Iolanthe. Odo spoke to the driver, who flicked her reins. The horses sped to a canter as Clevin looked up, met Maia’s eyes, and started to raise a hand.

The moment passed too quickly. Odo let out a short, satisfied grunt as Maia sank back into the plush upholstery.

The men need help, she thought, miserably. If I were free, maybe I could buck up their spirits. If only…

She shook her head. Nothing was worth spending her sister’s life or Brod’s. Certainly not in a cause that was lost from the start. No effort on her part would change destiny. They rode back to Persim Hold without another word. Maia tossed off her stiff clothes, exercised, ate, and crawled into bed.

The next day, on her breakfast tray next to the orange juice, Maia found a newspaper. A simple, four-page tabloid, printed on fine, slick paper. From the price and circulation, both written on the masthead, it was clearly meant only for subscribers at the pinnacle of Caria’s many-tiered social strata. Several portions had been razored out. The lead article was riveting, nonetheless.

Strike Outlook Positive

While seaborne traffic remains snarled in most ports along the Mediant Coast, analysts now predict a quick conclusion to the work-stoppage by seventeen shipping guilds and their affiliates. Already, defections have weakened the resolve of the ringleaders, whose objective, to pressure the Planetary Reigning Council into reopening the infamous Jellicoe Sanctuary, appears no longer to have any realistic chance of success. …

So, Maia thought. It was her first partial accounting of events since her capture. Also her first clue to her status as a pawn in big-time struggles.

The reavers were crushed. Kiel’s rads are broken. Loose alliances of liberals, like those backcountry temple vars, might lean toward change, but they lack cohesiveness. The high clans have long experience coping with such grumblings.

But there’s another group giving them a scare. The sailing guilds.

In Ursulaborg, the Pinnipeds had spoken of propaganda. The Great Former means nothing, they had been told. The Wissy-Man was not your kind…

Maia didn’t overrate her own contribution. The sailors might have rejected the official line anyway. But her