Lois Bujold - The Flowers of Vashnoi

The girl took this in. “That’s a lot of places.”

“It feels like it, sometimes.”

It was hard to tell whether the blank and baffled look deepened. “Are they far away?”

“Not by lightflyer. It would be a very long way to walk. Have you ever been to Hassadar?”

A headshake.

“Have you ever heard of Hassadar?”

A nod. “Ma and Vadim talk about it, sometimes. He brings us good things to eat from there. And soap.”

“That… sounds nice.” And explained some of the less-archaic contents of the cabin’s shelves. “Has he ever offered to take you to Hassadar? Or anywhere?”

She shook her head hard. “If we ever go over the ridge, people will kill us.”

“That’s not true,” said Ekaterin, though she added in compulsive honesty, “Anymore.” She bit back a wince.

But Jadwiga seemed unaffected by the historical codicil. Her stare intensified.

Ekaterin tried, “Is Ingisi a very pale boy, with white hair?”

Nod. “I like to comb it. It’s softer than the ponies’ manes.”

Now, there was an arresting image. “Did Ingisi bring you the radbugs?”

“Huh?”

“The purple insects with the glowing gold flowers on their backs?”

A more vigorous nod, and a wide ingenuous smile. “Pretty.”

“Uh… thank you. I designed them. The man who is with me, Enrique, he made them.”

The little eyes widened as much as they could. A slight recoil. “Is he a sorcerer ?”

“No, just a scientist. Anyone could do that work.” Scrupulousness compelled her to add, “If they were as smart as he is, and studied how for years and years the way he did.”

This won only a dubious frown. But the next question took a sharp turn: “Are you married?”

“Eh? Yes—oh, not to each other. Enrique has a wife named Martya, and I have a husband named Miles.”

The round face scrunched. “Is she pretty?”

“Well, yes, she is. Very tall, with soft blond hair, though not as white as Ingisi’s.” Ekaterin hesitated. “You like pretty things?”

Nod.

“There is a great deal of natural beauty here in the zone. The plants, the trees, the little streams…”

“The ponies!”

Ekaterin considered the surly animals they’d viewed from the air, and tried to come up with a positive remark. Positive seemed to be working, here. “Ponies have fuzzy ears. And velvety noses.”

“And big yellow teeth!” Jadwiga giggled. “They bite!”

“Well, that’s true. And kick, sometimes.”

“Uh-huh.” Jadwiga rocked on her haunches. “Do you like ponies?”

“Very much.”

“Want to see mine?”

“Yes, in a bit.” Jadwiga wriggled in impatience, which Ekaterin steadfastly ignored. “But you mentioned two other people—Ma Roga, and Boris? Who are they? I don’t know them.”

“This is all Ma’s place.” Jadwiga waved a skinny arm over her head. “Boris is her real son. He’s big.”

“Has Ma Roga lived here for a very long time?”

“For ever ,” Jadwiga assured her earnestly.

Ekaterin wanted to work back to the radbug problem, but it seemed premature to alarm the girl with the news that they were both stolen and deadly poisonous. Because as far as the cumulative effects of contamination in the zone went, Jadwiga seemed way out ahead. She studied the girl’s thin arms and thick torso. The swollen belly of starvation? Another tumor? “Do you get enough to eat? Does Ma Roga feed you?”

Jadwiga waved a hand—she actually had only five fingers on the right side. “Oh, yeah. But it hurts to swallow. ‘Cause of this thing.” The hand squeezed her growth, but then flinched away. “Ingi and I tried tying a string around it once, to pinch it off, but it hurt too much, and Ma says it grows on the inside anyway so’s that wouldn’t do any good.” She made a face.

Ekaterin quashed horror. She managed, neutrally, “I’m afraid Ma Roga is right about that. You need a proper doctor.” And why hasn’t she been brought to one? What the hell, Vadim…?

Jadwiga wrinkled her short nose in confusion, but then shrugged it off.

Positive , Ekaterin reminded herself. And, real son …? “Have you lived here long?

“For always. Ma promised.”

“Do you know how old you are?”

“‘Course I do.” Faint indignation in that rough voice. “I’m fifteen.”

“But you are not Ma Roga’s daughter? And Ingi—he’s not her child either?”

“Oh, we’re all her children.” Was that wave in the direction of the skull-studded graveyard?

“How…” How to ask this? “How did you and Ingi come here? In the first place?”

“When we were little Ma told us she found us all under cabbage leaves, but that’s just silly. There’s this place in the woods, in the zone. Ingi says he’s seen it, but I don’t know. ‘Cept I know Vadim brought me specially.”

A muffled yell sounded from the distance, and rhythmic thumping; Ekaterin twisted around, one hand going out to push herself to her feet. The thumping resolved into the beat of small unshod hooves, and the yelling came from Enrique. Cantering toward them was a scruffy pony wearing a rope bridle, bearing a thin, white-haired figure, bareback, his legs wrapped around the pony’s barrel. In hot pursuit, clumsy in his protective garb and faceplate, ran Enrique. “Stop, you little thief!”

Ingi yanked back on his rope reins, bringing his mount more-or-less to a halt. “Jaddie!” he cried. “Get away, run away! It’s the white ghosts, get away!”

Jadwiga stared up, but declined to jump to her feet as Ekaterin had. “They’re not ghosts, stupid. They’re just people in white clothes.”

“That’s what Ma meant! These people! Outsiders!”

Ingi, it appeared, had a good grasp of consensual lying…

Jadwiga’s lower lip stuck out as she considered this. “Well, she told you not to ride in the sun, and you don’t listen to that, either.”

This delaying argument allowed Enrique time to overtake his quarry—he grabbed for the albino boy’s arm. Enrique did not so much pull him off as hold him while the pony jinked out from under him. The animal simulated a bolt in a desultory fashion but, as soon as it had trotted a few meters out of reach, put its head down to tear at the grass. Ingi fell on his feet and twisted out of Enrique’s grip.

Whatever he was about to try next was interrupted when Jadwiga, beginning to yell something else at him, was seized by a prolonged coughing fit that ended with her spitting out blood onto the ground. She peered at the thick red blob, appearing more peeved than surprised or alarmed. Her six-fingered left hand swept a little dirt over it, as if to cover it up. Ingi ran over and crouched by her side, making a frustrated wave. He finally offered her the hem of her own skirt by way of handkerchief to wipe her lips, which she accepted indifferently.

Ekaterin, in a moment of inspiration, sat back down, motioning Enrique to do the same.

“Hi, there,” she said, trying for some cross between maternal warmth and drawing-room politeness, in the hopes that either the former would be soothing or the latter would prove contagious, or at least quelling. “You must be Ingi, right? Jadwiga was just telling me about you. My name is Ekaterin, and my friend here”—a nod across—“is named Enrique.”

Enrique looked as though he would have preferred Dr. Borgos , but, getting a closer look at their inadvertent young hosts, quite plainly came to a prudent decision to let Ekaterin-the-Barrayaran take point on this one. Slowly, he lowered himself to the ground as well. Ingi, evidently feeling himself outvoted, sank to his knees. The grazing pony ignored them all, moving off a little farther.