Vernor Vinge - Tatja Grimm's World

Hrala had a reply. She swung Death from her shoulder and thrust it skyward. The fake metal gleamed red-silver, “diamonds” glittering. Her speech was as angry and decisive as before. Tredi’s translation consisted of a single, soft-spoken, “Won’.” Janna punched his shoulder, and the little anthropologist remembered his listeners. “Whoever she is, she’s wonderful… She told the Termiter to remember his place, that he’s too low in the scheme of things to presume upon the High Gods’ vengeance… I can’t translate it any better; she packed a freight-load of hauteur into a couple sentences. She’s telling him, if her property is offensive, then that’s something between Hrala and the Gods.”

Rey Guille looked from Tatja Grimm to the clustered priests. Hope was a sudden, wonderful thing. Every state religion he’d ever seen had a core of hypocrisy. That was why he’d been against bringing “Hrala” ashore—he knew the priests would never accept their theology suddenly incarnate. But Cor and the Grimm girl had taken the risk, and now, incredibly, the plan was working.

For several minutes the priests had no reply. They stood in a tight group, speaking in low voices. Around them, the spear carriers held their weapons loosely, their eyes never leaving Tatja Grimm. From beyond the rim, an anonymous voice called, “Hrala.” After a moment, one of the spear carriers repeated: “Hrala.” The word was passed back and forth among the low-ranking Termiters. They pronounced the guttural “H” with a force and precision that made Rey wince. “Hra-la. Hra-la. Hra La. Hra La.” The chant spread around the pit, a soft drumbeat.

One of the priests shouted; the chant stumbled, guttered out. After a moment, the priest continued. His voice was placating, but without the quavering fear of before. “New guy,” said Tredi. “He’s talking humble, sweet as sugar. Says that for sure Hrala’s claim takes precedence over theirs, but…” Tredi sucked in a breath. “Bastard! He says, in dealing with beings so deadly as the High Gods, his people need at least to go through the motions … of verifying Hrala’s identity.”

Another priest spoke up, his voice high-pitched and not nearly as confident as the first. “ 'A mere formality,’ the second jerk says.” “S-so what’s the formality, Tredi!” Janna all but shook the little man.

Bekjer listened a second longer, then caught back a sob. “Nothing much. A little trial by combat.”

Rey’s eyes stayed on Tatja Grimm all through this speech. She didn’t flinch. If anything she stood taller now, her chin raised at the impudence of the “request.” No amount of coaching could have taught her to do that; the girl was as gutsy as anyone he’d ever known. When the priest finished, her reply was immediate, a sharp three syllables filled with anger and arrogance.

“ ‘Certainly,’ she says,” Bekjer translated unnecessarily.

And Rey’s hope fled as quickly as it had come. The girl looked down at Death, and for an instant he saw the gawky youngster who had come aboard Tarulle just a few days before. She wasn’t afraid, just uncertain, feeling her way in a strange situation. The puff-wood sword was a magnificent bluff, but they were beyond bluffs now. It couldn’t cut butter, and it would shatter at the first blow.

The girl gestured imperiously at the chief Sib, the one who must be Coronadas Ascuasenya. The Sib slid forward, and spoke hissingly into Hrala’s ear. The rescue party was about out of options. No doubt they were heavily armed. If they acted quickly, while the tattered bluff had some credibility, they could probably fight their way back to the landing boat—and at least save themselves.

Hrala listened to the Sib for a moment, then interrupted. The two were arguing! It was consistent with all the stories, but why now? Cor’s hissing broke into full voice for an instant, and suddenly he realized this was no sham. Hrala shook her head abruptly, and handed her sword to the Sib. Cor sank beneath the pretended weight of Death. She didn’t have much choice now. She slunk back to the other Sibs, her fear obvious but suddenly in character: She held Death in her hands. As a Sib Sinistre, she could not be perverted by it (the Sibhood was already pretty perverse), but possessing Death and being possessed by it were very close things. It was a theme Rey himself had insinuated into the series.

Hrala turned back to the Termiter priests. She was smiling, and the anger was gone from her words; mocking arrogance remained.

“Says she’s happy to fight, but it’s no … fun … wasting Death on such easy prey as the Termiters. She’ll fight with whatever weapons her opponent chooses.”

That almost started the chant again. The priests shouted it down, and after a moment one of them carried a sword-club toward Hrala/Tatja. This fellow was no fighter, just an errand boy.

He laid the club on the ground ten feet from the girl, then scuttled back to safety. Hrala let him depart, then stepped from the high ground to inspect the weapon.

“If she’s from deep Inland, she’s never seen a sword-club,” said Tredi. “Spears and pikes are all the Inlanders have. Even on the coast, it’s a ceremonial weapon.”

This one was clearly for special occasions; the wood was polished, unmarred. Without metals or composite materials, true swords were impossible. It looked deadly all the same. In overall shape it was something between a club and a pike. Elaborate hooks and blades—of bone or obsidian—were set along its length. There was a spike of glassy blackness at one end, and a hilt at the other. A second grip was set halfway down the pole; perhaps the thing could be used like a quarterstaff.

Hrala/Tatja picked it up, clearly as mystified as Rey. Somehow the puzzlement didn’t take her out of character: she smiled her curiosity, seeming to say how interesting, how clever. He couldn’t tell if she were acting or if this were the same frank wonderment he’d seen in her before. She swung it through a couple of clean arcs, then paused, glanced hesitantly at Cor and the others. Rey understood; this was her last chance to cut and run. Cor started toward her, but the girl turned away and shouted at the priests.

“She says she’s ready.”

Rey scarcely realized he was holding his breath. The girl could win. The spear-carriers were already sold on the fraud; none of them could fight effectively. The more cynical priests weren’t fooled, but they were exactly the sort that let others do their fighting. Who did that leave? Mental subnormals, too stupid to be afraid?

The crowd of priests parted and someone very broad and heavy started up the incline toward Tatja Grimm. The man’s gait was slow, almost shambling. Even from here Rey could see the dullness in his features. Thank the Light!

Then he saw the second one.

They were nearly identical: giant, stupid … and armed. They carried their sword-clubs before them, both as threat and shield. Each was dressed in heavy leather. It was primitive armor, but at least real; Tatja Grimm was virtually naked, what armor she wore a gaudy fake.

Together, they outweighed her three to one.

The two separated as they approached the girl. They stopped ten feet from her, and for a moment the combatants stared at each other. Rey thought he saw traces of anxiety in the dullards’ manner; you’d have to be a vegetable to ignore the mood of the villagers and the deadly confidence that came from the enemy.

Twenty years of fantasy collided with reality tonight—and for an instant the fantasy seemed the truer vision. The scene would have made a perfect cover painting. Hrala standing straight and fearless before a pair of subhuman attackers, a city of towers spreading on and on behind her. The last blue had disappeared from Seraph’s eastern ocean. The disk shaded from brighter reds to darker. The cloud of tarry smoke from the pet’ vats still hung in the air, roiling Seraph’s continents out of all recognition. Everything—towers, prisoners, priests, fighters—was lit with shifting reds. It was the color of blood, the background color of Hrala’s most chilling battles.