He touched the marks gently with a fingertip, erasing them and the soreness that had accompanied them. “I’ll never understand northerners. It’s carried in a basket woven out of reeds or straw. Any latched closet would hold the crippled ones we carry, but they build a lockroom thick enough to hold the devil.”
“They’ve never seen one, Fernwold. I have seldom seen one. We take some pains not to look at them until we have to, don’t we? Fear and superstition always follow the unseen, the unknown, the whispered of.” I sighed, wiggling my fingers, now free of pain. “I would have healed me after I’d eaten, when I felt warmer, but thank you.” They taught us this healing of the ghyrm wounds. It took only concentration and a little strength. A little more than I had had when I came in.
“I know,” he said, returning to his supper. The chitterlain moved over near his plate and regarded him with beady eyes, then began preening its feathers as though it had decided he was harmless. He smiled. “They talk, did you know that? The chitterlain?”
“I did not,” I said. “You mean like a…what was it, a parrot? A mimic?”
“No, no. They talk. There’s a one-eyed old fellow, a member of the Siblinghood, I think, hangs about from time to time. He says they’re the last remaining of a race of creatures that once were starfarers, city builders.”
“This little one?”
“Yes.” He leaned down close. “You understand what I’m saying?”
“Sooor,” it trilled. “Loor ti ellld.”
“Which means?” I asked.
“Which means, ‘Yes, I speak of old times.’ They live in colonies, the chitterlain. They spend the winters in the south, getting fat and telling stories to their children. In the spring, they fly back to the northland.”
His voice was weighted with sadness, and he turned back to his meal. When the soup and cider had warmed him somewhat, he turned to the more substantial and savory stuff. “Are you here on retrieval?” he asked between bites.
“I thought you were told where I was.”
“I was. I didn’t ask why, for my errand had reason enough.”
“And what was that?”
“First to find you, then warn you, then to protect you. There’s a threat against your life.”
I shrugged. “That’s been the case since I left Earth.”
“This is specific, but I don’t think anyone’s followed you here. What’s the situation?”
“The Siblinghood tells me they have a ghyrm here.”
“Recent enough that nobody has…?”
“We’re never quick enough to prevent somebody from playing the fool!” I snapped. “Otherwise, this retrieval could have waited until the thaw.”
“When are you going to find it?”
I shook my head, looked around the room, where this chair and that had been emptied since his arrival. “Not here. This isn’t the place to discuss any such thing. Let’s talk about something else.”
“Very well. Have I told you it’s a good thing you stayed out of Mercan space. I’ve been on a few of those worlds recently. Rinwall. Bonxar. Fajnard.” He dropped his voice, almost to a whisper. “I’ve gone into the mountain fastnesses of Perepume a few times, visiting the Gibbekot, who say revolution’s brewing on Fajnard: Gibbekot, Ghoss, and umoxen on one side, Frossian overlords on the other.”
“You go spying for the Siblinghood?”
“The Siblinghood is merely keeping an eye on what’s happening. They haven’t offered the Gibbekot any help as yet. You’d have known if they had.”
“I’ve been away from the news for some while,” I said. “Are the Frossians involved in this supposed threat to me?”
“It’s possible. Their nature is to be loyal supporters of whatever demagogue has the most power, and though there are no Frossians on B’yurngrad, the threat could come through them to someone local.” He frowned. “You’re thinner, M’urgi. You look well, but thin. It’s strange, when I see you I think how well you’ve taken to the discipline of our calling. Most women don’t like the solitude.”
I considered this. “Most people don’t, male or female, but people who grow up as solitary children already know the eremitic life. We find it more comforting than onerous. The work is easy enough, except when we’re carrying, and that isn’t often.”
“True. This one you’re hunting, any idea where it came from?”
“The wild tribes have been using them as weapons for as long as I can remember.”
“None reported on Chottem,” he murmured. “None on Thairy. Fajnard is suspect, of course. Frossian society would be meat and drink for the ghyrm-things.”
“Except among the tribes, we’ve heard of few on B’yurngrad. Not here, not yet.”
“Except for the ones in our keeping, no?”
I made a face. “Let’s not talk about them. I have far more than enough of them. What’s the news?”
So we talked: of the legal maneuvers in the city of Bray, on Chottem, to have the heiress of Bray declared dead so the ancillary branches of the family could claim the fortune; how the sudden arrival of the heiress had thrown all that into a heap; of the most recent results of the Great Walling-Off, Dominion’s social experiment on Tercis; of rumors that the Queen of the Ghoss, Wilvia the Wise, who had disappeared from Fajnard long ago, had been seen on Tercis some years before; of the Reunion of Academy Alumni that was to take place at Point Zibit on Thairy and of Ferni’s friends who would be there. Inconsequential talk, as the chitterlain ate and drank its fill; casual talk as the chitterlain flew to my collar and burrowed into the warmth of the scarf about my throat. All the time, Ferni’s eyes never left my face.
When we had finished our meal, he asked, “Have you a room here?”
I slanted a sideways look at him, deciding whether to admit it or not, deciding I really had no choice.
“May I share it?” he whispered.
“Ah, Ferni,” I murmured, half to myself. “After
