Eric Flint: Mother of Demons

Rottu waited in the shadows while the patrol passed. She was not especially worried. The warriors in the patrol were auxiliaries, not keen-eyed legionnaires. More concerned with ending their patrol in the warmth of an ashu-chamber than with finding suspicious persons lurking in dark alleys.

As they drew alongside the mouth of the alley, the warriors stopped and made a casual examination of its interior. But Rottu knew they would see nothing. There was only a single glowmoss pillar at the entrance of the alley. An old colony, moreover, whose light penetrated not more than a few steps into the gloom beyond.

Still, Rottu took no chances. Far back in the alley, she pressed herself more closely against the stones. Then, cursing silently, repressed a hoot of pain. She had forgotten. The walls of the tenements were crudely made, with many sharp edges and rough corners. Nothing like the polished, beautiful walls of the Divine Shell.

I'm getting old and sloppy. Too accustomed to the luxury of the Shell. I haven't been outside the clan quarters in-how many eightweeks?

One of the warriors began to make a perfunctory inspection of the alley. But she had no sooner taken a few steps forward than she suddenly recoiled.

Watching, in the darkness beyond, Rottu found it hard not to whistle derision.

She smells the stench of the corpse.

The corpse lay between Rottu and the mouth of the alley. When she had seen the warriors approach, she had deliberately hidden herself beyond the body. If the squad of warriors chose to investigate the alley closely, they would have to edge their way past the thing. Several days dead, that corpse. Crawling with scavengers. Putrid.

A nameless corpse, Rottu knew. Dead of hunger, or parasites; or the wounds inflicted by thieves, themselves desperate enough to rob a nameless one. A former helot, most likely, escaped from the lands of her clan mistresses. Seeking, like so many before her, a new life in Shakutulubac. And finding nothing but death in the slums of the great city.

There are more and more such, now. Driven by the increasing tyranny in the land to seek refuge in a city which is itself hooting louder and louder.

There will be another pogrom soon. The awosha have already given the order. Many Pilgrims will die. We are too many, now, to find safety in a few cellars.

The patrol left quickly, as Rottu had known they would. In eightyweeks gone by, in the time of Rottu's youth, the patrol would have reported the corpse at the end of their night's work. The following morning, a gang of slaves would have been sent by the Mistresses of the City to remove it. But those days were long gone. In the Shakutulubac of Rottu's old age, corpses rotted in the streets. There were so many of them now. The life of the poor and low-clanned had always been cheap. Today, it was worth nothing.

Some time later, when she judged it was safe to do so, Rottu edged past the corpse and left the alley. Allowing no sign in her mantle of the repugnance she felt. There were none to see her color, of course. But Rottu had been a mistress of shoroku for too long to relax her discipline. A lifetime too long.

Once back in the street, she hurried along. Hurried, but took no chances. If she were spotted by a patrol, she would certainly be recognized. The patrol, of course, would not accost her. They would not dare. But they would talk, and the talk would reach the Tympani of the Ansha. Then-disaster. Rottu herself ranked high in the Tympani. But not high enough to avoid the chambers in the cellars of the Shell. Not if it became known that she was seen, late in the night, in that quarter of the city which was known to be infested with Pilgrims.

Some of the Tympani are already a bit suspicious. I have been careful, but it is impossible to make no mistakes. I have made very few, or my mantle would have been stripped long ago. But it has been many eightyweeks since I entered Ushulubang's service.

She ducked into another alley-mouth and examined the street behind her. Then, satisfied, continued on.

I would not have taken this chance, except-there has perhaps never been a parcel more precious than the one I carry tonight. And I have not seen Ushulubang in so long. We must speak together, for all the risk. I must make certain that she understands the truth of the situation.

This pogrom will be-terrible.

Rottu finally reached her destination, and gave the signal. Moments later, she was following a pashoc through the labyrinth of cellars beneath the slums. Now that she was in the relative safety of the underground, she admitted to herself that there had been another reason she had taken the risk of coming here personally.

I must see Ushulubang myself. It has been so long, and my soul needs replenishing.

Ushulubang's quarters were, as always, spare and lean. A simple pallet. A sturdy reading bench. A crudely-trimmed glowmoss colony, which cast barely enough light for the sage to read by. Barely, but enough. Nothing more. Even for a former warrior like Ushulubang, the rigor of her life must sometimes be trying.

But Rottu saw, with relief, that there were no signs of that rigor upon Ushulubang. The sage was old, of course. But she still seemed as vigorous as ever.

After they entwined their arms, Ushulubang stepped back and whistled humorously.

"Why such an air of gloom, Rottu? Your mantle might as well be pure brown."

"Stop making jokes, you old fool." From the corner of her eye, Rottu saw the mantle of the pashoc glow orange and pink. The young Pilgrim was shocked to hear someone speak to the great opoloshuku in such an unseemly fashion.

Let her be shocked. Someone has to speak the truth to this-this saintly idiot.

The green in Ushulubang's own mantle never wavered, of course. Ushulubang enjoyed the rare occasions when someone flailed her. It reminded her, she would say, of the days when she had wandered the world with Goloku. Days long gone. The most precious of days. The days when Goloku had flailed her with the truth, and shown her the road of the Way.

"Always so grim. Always so grim."

Ushulubang made the gesture of rueful acceptance.

"Very well, Rottu. I see I will not be able to avoid your flail. But first-do you have the packet?"

Rottu withdrew the packet from where she had secreted it within her mantle cavity. With considerable relief. The packet was large and heavy. She extended it to the sage. Ushulubang's arms made short work of unwrapping the cloth.

The sage moved closer to the light shed by the glowmoss. Slowly, she examined the sheets.

"You have seen?"

"Yes, Ushulubang. I have made my own copies of the most important sheets."

A tinge of pink came into Ushulubang's mantle.

"Isn't that a bit-"

Rottu interrupted with a rude whistle. The pashoc in the corner of the chamber glowed azure and orange with indignation.

"Stick to philosophy, Ushulubang. Let me worry about keeping things secret."

Again, Ushulubang made the gesture of rueful acceptance.

"I am well flailed. I had forgotten how uncouth you are! But, as you say, you are the mistress of such things."

She gestured to the sheets.

"What do you think?"

"It is perfect. We will never be able to pronounce the language exactly the way they do, of course. But the Pilgrims on the mountain say that the demons themselves are changing their manner of speech to fit our needs."

Ushulubang issued a soft hoot of surprise.

"Truly?"

Rottu made the gesture of affirmation. "And in every other respect, Enagulishuc is ideal. Clear and logical. And the written form is very easy to learn, once one learns the strange method. Even the barbarians at Fagoshau are learning it. More easily, in fact, than the Anshac."

Ushulubang looked back at the sheets. "That is not so surprising, Rottu. The former barbarians do not have their minds cluttered with the arcane complexities of Anshaku writing."