David Brin - Glory Season

And good riddance, I’ll bet. Recalling what nuisances she and her sister had been, Maia returned an exaggerated bow, which the shopkeeper dismissed with laughter and a wave.

Maia turned around to find Leie over by a nearby pier, conversing with a dockworker whose high cheekbones were reminiscent of Western Continent. “Naw, naw,” the woman said as Maia approached, not pausing in her rapid knotting of the sail she was mending. “So far ain’t heard nary judgment by the Council in Caria. Nary t’all.”

“Judgment about what?” Maia asked.

“The Outsiders,” Leie explained. “Those Perkie missionaries got me wondering if there’s been news. This var works on a boat with full access.” Leie pointed toward a nearby fishing craft, sporting a steerable antenna. It wasn’t farfetched that someone spinning dials with a rig like that might pick up a tidbit or two.

“As if the owners invite me to tea an’ tele!” The sailmaker spat through a gap in her teeth toward the scummy water glistening with floating fish scales.

“But have you overheard anything? Say, on an unofficial channel? Do they still claim only one Outsider has landed?”

Maia sighed. Caria City was remote and its savants only broadcast sparse accounts. Worse, the Lamai mothers often forbade summer kids to watch tele at all, lest their volatile minds find programs “disturbing.” Naturally, this only piqued the twins’ curiosity. But Leie was taking inquisitiveness too far, grilling simple laborers. Apparently the sailmaker agreed. “Why ask me, you silly hots? Why should I listen to lies hissing outta the owners’ box?”

“But you’re from Landing Continent. …”

“My province was ninety gi from Caria! Ain’t seen it in ten year, nor will again, never. Now go way!”

When they were out of earshot, Maia chided, “Leie, you’ve got to go easy on that stuff. You can’t make a pest of yourself—”

“Like you did, when we were four? Who tried stowing away on that schooner, just to find out how the captain got a fix on a rolling horizon? I recall we both got punished for that one!”

Reluctantly, Maia smiled. She hadn’t always been the more cautious sister. One long Stratos year ago, it had been Leie who always took careful gauge before acting, and Maia who kept coming up with schemes that got them in trouble. We’re alike, all right. We just keep getting out of phase. And maybe that’s good. Someone has to take turns being the sensible one.

“This is different,” she replied, trying to keep to the point. “It’s real life now.”

Leie shrugged. “Want to talk about life ? Look at those cretins, over there.” She nodded toward a paved area on the quay, laid out in a geometric grid, where a number of seamen stood idly, pondering an array of small black or white disks. “They call their game Life, and take it damn seriously. Does that make it real, too?”

Maia refused to acknowledge the pun. Whenever ships were in port, clusters of men could be found here, playing the ancient game with a passion matched only during auroral months by their seasonal interest in sex. The men, deckhands off some freighter, wore rough, sleeveless shirts and metal ringlets on their biceps denoting rank. A few of the onlookers glanced up as the sisters passed by. Two of the younger ones smiled.

If it had still been summertime, Maia would have demurely looked away and even Leie would have shown caution. But as the aurorae faded and Wengel Star waned, so too ebbed the hot blood in males. They became calmer creatures, more companionable. Autumn was the best season for shipping out, then. Maia and Leie could spend up to twenty standard months at sea before being forced ashore by next year’s rut. By then, they had better have found a niche, something they were good at, and started their nest egg.

Leie boldly met the sailors’ amiable, lazy leers, hands on hips and eye to eye, as if daring them to back up their bluster. One towheaded youth seemed to consider it. But of course, if he had any libido to spare this time of year, he wouldn’t go wasting it on a pair of dirt-poor virgins! The young men laughed, and so did Leie.

“Come on,” she told Maia as the men turned back to regard their game pieces. Leie readjusted her duffel. “It’s nearing tide. Let’s get aboard and shake this town off our feet.”

“What do you mean, you’re not sailing? For how long?”

Maia couldn’t believe this. The old fart of a purser chewed a toothpick as he rocked back on his stool by the gangplank. Unshaven in rumpled fatigues, he nudged the nearby barreltop where their refund lay… plus a little more thrown in for “compensation.”

“Dunno, li’l liss. Prob’ly a month. Mebbe two.”

“A month!” Leie’s voice cracked. “You spew of wormy bottom muck! The weather’s fair. You’ve got cargo and paying passengers. What do you mean?”

“Got a better offer.” The purser shrugged. “One o’ the big clans bought our cargo, just t’get us to stay. Seems they likes our boys. Wants ’em sticking round awhile, I reckon.”

Maia felt a sinking realization in the pit of her stomach. “I guess some mothers want to start winter breeding early, this year,” she said, trying to make sense of this catastrophe. “It’s risky, but if they catch the men with heat still in them—”

“Which house!” Leie interrupted, in no mood for rational appraisal. She kicked the barrel, causing the money sticks to rattle. The grizzled sailor, massing twice Leie’s fifty kilos, placidly scratched his beard.

“Lesse now. Was it the Tildens? Or was it Lam—”

“Lamatia?” Leie cried, this time flinging her arms so wildly the purser scrambled to his feet. “Now, lissie. No cause t’get excited…” Maia grabbed Leie’s arm as she seemed about to throw the sailor’s stool at him. “It makes sense!” Leie screamed. “That’s why they opened the guesthouse weeks early, and had us pouring wine for those lunks all night!”

Maia sometimes envied her sister’s refuge in tantrums. Her own reaction, a numb retreat to logic, seemed less satisfying than Leie’s way of breaking everything in sight. “Leie,” she urged hoarsely. “It can’t be Lamatia. They only deal with high-class guilds, not the sort of trash we can afford passage with.” It was satisfying to catch the purser wincing at her remark. “Anyway, we’re better off dealing with honest men. There are other ships.”

Her sister whirled. “Yeah? Remember how we studied? Buying books and even net time, researching every port this tub was going to? We had a plan for every stop… people to see. Questions. Prospects. Now it’s all wasted!”

How could it be wasted? Maia wondered woodenly. All those hours studying, memorizing the Oscco Isles and Western Sea. …

Maia realized neither of them was reacting well to sudden despair.

“Let’s go,” she told her sister, scooping up the money and trying for both their sakes to keep worry out of her voice. “We’ll find another ship, Leie. A better one, you’ll see.”

That proved easier said than done. There were many sails in Port Sanger, from hand-carved, hard-edged windwings, to stormjammers, to clippers with flapping sheets of woven squid-silk. At the diplomatic docks, just below the harbor fort, there was even one rare, sleek cruiser whose banks of gleaming solar panels basked in the angled sunshine. Maia and Leie did not bother with such rich craft, whose crews would have spurned their paltry coinsticks as fishing lures. They did try their luck with well-turned freighters flying banners of the Cloud Whale League, or the Blue Heron Society, voyager guilds whose gray-bearded commodores sometimes called at Lamatia Hall to interview bright boys for lives at sea.