From her balcony above them, Rowena heard the sound and put her hands over her ears until it faded into silence. Gradually the small sounds of insect and bird and grass peeper, which had ceased when the hounds arrived, began once more.
“Too young,” brooded Salla. “Oh, mistress.”
Rowena did not slap her maidservant but turned to her with tears in her eyes instead. “I know,” she said. She turned to see the end of the line of riders as it fled away down the garden trail toward the west. Riding out, she said to herself. Riding out. And they’ll ride back again. Back again. Saying it over and over like a litany. Back again.
“She’ll be back,” said Salla. “She’ll be back, wanting a nice hot bath.”
Then both of them stood staring into the west, not seeing anything there except the grass.
Down the wide hallway from Rowena’s suite of rooms, in the mostly unused library of Klive, certain nonhunting members of the aristocracy had assembled to consider a matter of continuing irritation to them all. Second leader at Klive was Stavenger’s younger brother, Figor. Some years ago, following one of the many hunting accidents which occurred every season, Figor had stopped riding to the hounds. This left him free during hunting seasons to take upon himself many of the responsibilities of the estancia while Stavenger was otherwise engaged. Today Figor met with Eric bon Haunser, Gerold bon Laupmon, and Gustave bon Smaerlok. Gustave was the Obermun bon Smaerlok, head of the Smaerlok family still, despite his disability; but both Eric bon Haunser and Gerold bon Laupmon were younger siblings of the family leaders, men who were also hunting today.
The quartet assembled around a large square table in one corner of the dimly lit room, passing among themselves the document which had occasioned their meeting. It was a brief document, headed with the cursive arabesques which spelled out the names and attributes of Sanctity, laden with seals and ribbons and signed by the Hierarch himself. This same group of aristocrats had responded to similar documents in both the remote and recent past, and Gustave bon Smaerlok betrayed considerable impatience at having to do so yet again.
“This office of Sanctity is becoming importunate,” the Obermun said now from the wheeled half-person he had occupied for the last twenty years. “Dimoth bon Maukerden says so. I asked him and he went into a rage over this business. And Yalph bon Bindersen. I asked him, too. Haven’t had a chance to get over to bon Tanlig’s place yet, but Dimoth and Yalph and I are agreed that whatever this Sanctity wants, it has nothing to do with us, and we won’t have their damned fragras here. Our people came to Grass to get away from Sanctity—now let Sanctity stay away from us. It’s enough we let them stay on digging up the Arbai city, enough that those Green Brothers make mud pies with their little shovels up there in the north. Let elsewhere stay elsewhere and Grass stay Grass. So we all agree. Let’s tell them so, once and for all. It’s Hunt season, for heaven’s sake. We haven’t time for all this nonsense.” Though Gustave no longer rode, he was an avid follower of the Hunt, watching the pursuit from a silent, propeller-driven balloon-car whenever the weather would allow.
“Easy, Gustave,” murmured Figor, the fingers of his right hand massaging his left arm at the point where the flesh and the prosthesis joined, feeling the pain pulse beneath his fingers, a constant accompaniment to existence, even after two years. It made him irritable, and he guarded against expressing the irritation, knowing it arose from the body rather than the mind. “We don’t need to make an open revolt out of it. No need to rub Sanctity’s fur the wrong way.”
“Revolt!” the older man bellowed. “Since when does this fragras Sanctity rule on Grass?” Though the word fragras meant simply “foreign,” he used it as it was usually used on Grass, as the ultimate insult.
“Shhh.” Figor made allowances for Gustave. Gustave was in pain also and was undoubtedly made irritable thereby. “I didn’t mean that kind of revolt, and you know it. Even though we have no religious allegiance to Sanctity, we pay it lip service for other things. Sanctity is headquartered upon Terra. We acknowledge Terra as the center of diplomatic intercourse. Maintainer of our cultural heritage. Eternal cradle of mankind. Blah and blah.” He sighed, massaging again. Gustave snorted but did not interrupt as Figor went on. “Many take our history seriously, Gustave. Even we don’t entirely ignore it. We use the old language during conferences; we teach Terran to our children. We don’t all use the same language in our estancias, but we consider speaking Terran among ourselves the mark of cultured men, no? We calculate our age in Sanctity years, still. Most of our food crops are Terran crops from our ancestors’ time.
