The hearers shivered. Even Poracious felt her bulk quiver. Fastigacy at its finest, she told herself, maintaining her composure with difficulty. What actors they made!
“There has been no common cause with aliens,” cried one of the other Dinadhi. “Nothing such is needed! We are under the protection of our gods! Our gods are stronger than any … aliens.”
The Procurator smiled voraciously, his teeth showing. “Then we will have vengeance against your gods, Songfathers. If your gods choose some men to favor, while sacrificing others, then those sacrificed may well cry from beyond the grave for justice.”
The third man spoke. “You threaten much. We see only one old man, much bedecked, one fat woman, and one younger man who does not look dangerous. From where will this vengeance come?”
“From the battleships of the Alliance that hang in orbit around your world,” said the Procurator, poker-faced. “From persons on those ships who even now listen to our conversation and watch your actions.”
“And from the royal navy of Kamir,” said the ex-king, “which will extort retribution for any dishonor done its king.”
“And from Buchol Sector,” said Poracious. “Where my brother is emperor.”
The Dinadhi turned their backs and went a little distance away, where they put their heads together in troubled confabulation.
“The royal navy of Kamir?” asked Poracious, without moving her lips. “Since when?”
“Since your brother was selected emperor of Buchol Sector,” said Jiacare Lostre.
Only the former speaker rejoined the outlanders as the others straggled away toward the col.
“I am Hah-Rianahm,” he said. “Subchief of the Songfathers’ Council, Second Grandfather of the Great Assembly. My word binds or looses. It is my decision that you will come with us to the omphalos! We cannot delay to parley with you, for Tahs-uppi approaches, and our presence is required in the eternal circles. When those are broken, however, we will take time to hear what you have to say. This is not a good time for you to have approached us.”
“We didn’t pick it,” said Poracious. “It was picked for us, by the Ularians.”
“What are these Ularians?” asked Hah-Rianahm.
“The beings who have destroyed humans on all the occupied worlds in this sector.”
“You have seen these beings?”
“We will show them to you,” said the Procurator. “We will let you see them, and feel them, and taste them….”
“After Tahs-uppi,” called one of the other men urgently. “Even now the circles are forming!”
“At the first possible moment,” said the Procurator. “At the very first possible moment.”
In her cave above the sea, Snark lay dreaming. She’d been doing that a lot lately, spending whole days in the cave, dozing, remembering, having imaginary conversations with people she’d never met or never really known. She carried on an animated three-way conversation among herself, her mother, and the Procurator. She discussed life with Kane the Brain. She talked to the mistress of the sanctuary, the one who had labeled Snark a liar when Snark had claimed to come from the frontier.
“Wrong,” said Snark in her reverie, holding the mistress in a grip of steel, forcing her to look upon the moors of Perdur Alas. “You were wrong about me, madam! Look upon my childhood, my rearing, the cause of all my woe….”
The daydream dissolved in a spatter of icy spray, and she opened her eyes, startled. Outside on the branch, a large seabird tossed a scaly thing in its beak, preparatory to swallowing it. The scaly thing struggled, not quite fishlike, throwing water in all directions.
“You woke me,” said Snark, wiping her face with the back of her hands.
The bird did not reply. The bird didn’t even see her. It looked past her in the same way people always had. All those at the sanctuary when she was only nine or ten. All those she’d asked for help later, when she’d been a street rat. All those who’d had business with the Procurator: bureaucrats or military, male or female, foreign or domestic, old or young. All of them had been fully present, completely in the picture, aware of one another and of the world at large, but unaware of Snark. She had always been a shadow, even before they made her one. A mere thing in the background, never quite in focus. One of the unseeables who lived in the alleys of Alliance Prime. Like the brain deads she’d known in the sanctuary, kids born with faulty circuits, not bright enough to be human but still able to be embarrassingly vocal. “I, I, I want, I want!” Like some kind of meat animal suddenly standing up and begging out loud. Too human looking to be killed; not human enough to live. Brain dead. That was the mildest of the epithets the other orphan brats had given her. Snark the brain dead, Snark the liar, Snark the thief.
She wished for them all, wished they were here, fleeing across the moor as the great creatures disported themselves. Let Diagonal Red eat this one, and Big Gray Blob eat this one, and … and, and, and …
Though eating might not be what the creatures did. Had they eaten her companions? Had they killed Kane the Brain and Willit and Susso? Had they tortured them, enslaved them? What? Would it make her feel better to know they were worse off than she? Not really. Since she’d been alone, she’d longed for them. Even slob-lipped Willit. Especially Susso.
She rolled onto her side, finding the stony hollow that fit the curve of her hip. Near the opening, the jar in the niche stood as it had when she had found the cave. Never moved. Never looked into. Why was that?
“Because you know what’s inside,” she told herself soberly. “You’ve always known what’s inside.”
Mother had made that jar. Mother had painted it, using the rib of a furze plant for a brush, her own blood for the paint. Mother had fired it, so the blood turned black on the white clay. Mother had told her daughter to put her bones inside, in the care of Mother Darkness. If
