David Brin - Glory Season

“You know, I think it may be Farsun Eve?” she commented after a quick mental calculation. “Somewhere along the way, I lost track of several days. It’s midwinter and I never noticed.” She sighed. “We’re missing all the fun, in town,”

“What town?” Brod asked, as he knotted thick ribbons of cable at the edge of the bluff. “And what fun? Free booze, so we don’t notice the whispery sound of clone-mothers stuffing proxies into ballot boxes? Getting pinched on the streets by drunks who wouldn’t know frost from hail-fall?”

“Typical man,” Maia sniffed. “You grouches never get into the spirit of the holidays.”

“Sometimes we do. Throw us a party in midsummer, and we might be less grumpy half a year later.” He shrugged. “Still, it could help if the reavers are celebrating tonight, wearing paper hats and going all moony. Maybe the pirates won’t notice gate-crashers droppin’ in while they’re busy harassing male prisoners.”

There’s an idea, Maia thought, folding away her sextant. Providing the men are still alive. After the massacre aboard the Reckless, the reavers’ next logical step would be to eliminate all other witnesses, before moving on to a new hiding place. That included not only the men of the Manitou, but also the rads, and perhaps even recent recruits, such as Leie. Renna was probably still too valuable, but even his fate would be uncertain if Baltha’s gang were ever cornered.

Such dire thoughts lent urgency to their wait as Maia and Brod watched full darkness settle over the archipelago. With twilight’s fading, the many spires of Jellicoe Island merged into a single serrated outline that cut jagged bites out of a starry sky. Below, in the inky darkness of the lagoon, tiny pale pools of color encircled lamps stationed on the narrow dock where the two ships were moored. Now and then, clusters of smaller lanterns could be seen moving quickly, accompanied by stretched, bipedal silhouettes. Faint, indecipherable shouts carried up to Maia’s ears, funneled by the narrow, fluted confines of the island’s cavity. “Looks like they’re in a festive mood, after all,” Brod commented as a company of torch-bearing shadows trooped off the larger vessel, filing down the pier and into a wide stone portal, set in the base of the cliff. “Maybe we should wait. At least till they’ve turned in?”

Maia also would have preferred that, but two moons were already rising in the east, and another was due soon. Within hours, they would be high enough to illuminate the lagoon and its surrounding cliffs. “No.” She shook her head. “Now’s the time. Let’s get on with it.”

Brod helped her arrange the harness he had made by using their salvaged scissors to slice the warning placards so graciously left by the Reigning Council. Maia wrapped her buttocks and thighs in strips of threatening phrases, and stepped into a double loop of cable meant for tethering and reeling transport zep’lins. The system was old, and might even predate the banishment, going back to days when men were said to have sailed the skies, as well as the seas, below. Maia only hoped the warrior clans who now used the equipment kept it in good condition.

Next Brod handed her two patches of heavy cloth—the calf portions of his own trousers, which he had cut off for her to use as gauntlets. With these wrapped around her hands, Maia gripped the rough cable. “You’re sure you’ve got the signals down?” she asked.

He nodded. “Two yanks will mean stop. Three means reel you back. Four stands for wait. And five means I should come on down.” The boy frowned unhappily. “Listen, Maia, I still think I should be the one to go first, instead.”

“We’ve been over this, Brod. I’m smaller and a lot less banged up than you are. Once I’m down, I might pass as one of the band in the dark. Anyway, you understand the winch machine. I’m counting on you to haul me out when I come back to the cable, after scouting around.”

Ideally, that would be with Renna in tow, rescued from right under the reavers’ noses. But to count on such a miracle would be like believing in lugar savants. Still a long shot, but more conceivable, was the possibility of getting close enough to whisper to Renna through the bars of his cell, or to exchange brief taps in Morse code. Given just a few minutes of surreptitious contact, Maia felt sure she could sneak back with valuable information—the names of officials on the Council whom Renna trusted, for instance. The fivers might then use the secret comm unit with some hope they weren’t just inviting another band of more aristocratic thugs.

That is, providing the comm wasn’t bugged, or set to call just one location. There were a dozen other malign possibilities, but what else could they do? The best reason of all to seek Renna was the near certainty he’d come up with a better plan.

“Mm,” Brod grunted unhappily. “And what if you’re caught?”

She grinned, shoving his shoulder playfully. “I know, you’re worried about getting fed.” Maia was also supposed to snatch any food she came across. But Brod looked hurt by her joke, so she spoke more gently. “Seriously, dear friend, use your own judgment. If you feel strong enough to wait, I suggest holding out till tomorrow night, before dawn. Lower yourself and try to steal the dinghy that’s tethered to the Manitou’s stern. Head for Halsey. At least there—”

“Abandon you?” Brod objected. “I’ll not do anything of the—”

“Sure you will. I’ve been in jail before; I’ll manage. Besides, if they catch me sneaking around the sanctuary tonight, their guard’ll be up for more of the same. The only way you can help is by trying something different. Tell your guild how Corsh was murdered. Surrounded by witnesses, and with an unbugged comm, you can call the cops and every member of the Lyso-damned Council. It’s still risky, but any conspirators may think twice about pulling dirty stunts with the Pinnipeds around as bystanders.”

“Mm. I guess it makes sense.” He shook his head, scuffing gravel with his sandals. “I still wish… Just be careful, okay?”

Maia threw her arms around him.

“Yeah, I will.” She squeezed, feeling him tense briefly in typical winter withdrawal, then relax and return her embrace with genuine intensity. Maia looked into his face, briefly glimpsing moistness in his eyes as Brod released and turned away without another word. She watched him cross the broad terrace and then disappear beyond the stone steps. It would take several minutes, as they had rehearsed, for her partner to reach the winch house. Meanwhile, she went to the edge of the plateau and pulled the line taut, bracing her feet and backing up until most of her weight hung over the precipice.

I should be terrified, but I’m not.

Maia seemed to have progressively lost her fear of heights, until all that remained was a pulse-augmenting exhilaration. Funny, since Lamais are all acrophobes. Maybe it was growing up in that attic. Or perhaps I take after my father… whoever the vrilly bastard was. Despite Brod’s revelations, a name was still all she had of him. “Clevin.” No image formed in her mind, though someone midway in appearance between Renna and old Bennett might do.

Always alert for possible niches, Maia wondered if this calmness at the edge of a cliff might hint a useful talent. I must talk it over with Leie when I get a chance, she vowed. Maybe I’ll put her in a cage, suspended from a great height, to see if it’s genetic, or simply the result of environmental influences I’ve been through, since we parted.

Of course, Maia would do no such thing. But the fantasy discharged some tension over the possibility of encountering her twin again. At Maia’s waistband she felt the pressure of a wooden cudgel she had made from the leg of a broken placard easel. If necessary, she would use it even on her sister. The tiny scissors, bound in cloth, finished Maia’s short inventory of weapons.