Jo Clayton: Fire in the Sky

He shifted focus again and slid the viewfield of the ocular across to the bridge the mesuch had thrown across the river in a careless gesture of power that turned him sick with anger and envy. And swore again when he saw half a dozen swampies hovering in the shadow under the trees of the Sea Marish, still tied to the Marish by shyness and fear, though it wouldn’t be long before the bolder ones trotted across the bridge and joined the traders. What better measure of how accustomed people were getting to this invasion.

Its translucent flesh taking on the varied greens of the leaves, a tentacle dropped through the leaves and touched his shoulder. From where xe floated above Maorgan, the Eolt Melech sang and the simplified words came to the man through the touch. *What is it, sioll Maorgan?*

*The trade’s getting brisker. Word’s out, I suppose. Look at the swampies. How much longer before they’re caught too? I doubt we’ll ever get rid of the mesuch now.*

Melech sang. *I see them, my sioll. It is a season of change and who knows the end of it.* Sadness flowed through the flesh link. *Do you see the children?’

*Not yet, let me…,* His voice trailed off as he increased magnification and began sliding the viewfield over the enclosure.

The mesuchs were quick men covered with fur that was more like plush, shades of brown from dark amber to almost black. The fur was darker about their eyes and some of them had white markings under the masks. The four at the trade tables wore long robes, but those inside the enclosure were mostly stripped to leather aprons and a few straps. How the steamy heat down there felt to all that fur wasn’t something Maorgan liked to think about, not when they held younglings hostage to their tempers.

He counted them again. Four traders, six or seven who tended machines and supervised the work that their metal slaves did on the buildings inside the fence, two, maybe three, who looked like guards, three, four, maybe as many as seven who moved about as if they had tasks to complete, though he couldn’t imagine what they were. Most of these last ones had the white markings under their eyes, but otherwise were hard to tell apart so he was never sure whether he was counting two as one or seeing the same one in several different places.

The buildings were stone bubbles, some single, some multiple. Singles were set in a neat row near the southern side of the enclosure, with small patches of growing things by the round sliding doors. There was a line half a dozen bubbles long near the eastern side, and in the middle, two taller structures. One was a pyramid with six or so bubbles-at the angle he was viewing from he couldn’t be sure of the count-at the base, tapering to a single bubble at the top that seemed to be made of dark glass; it glittered like glass whatever it was. The second was a tower two bubbles wide, two deep and four high with round thick windows at every level.

In one of the windows on the tower’s third level, he caught a glimpse of a pale face and a shock of red hair; he steadied the ocular, fiddled with the focus again. “Ihoi!” *I see Glois. Looking out a window. Ah! Utelel just came up to him, put a hand on his shoulder. And I can see more movement behind xe. Looks like they’re all there.*

He let the ocular drop to swing at the end of the neck strap, rubbed at his eyes then squinted at the distant enclave. The buildings were toys now, the mesuchs like chetor busy about their hills, so it took him a while to locate the building where the boys and the Meloach were confined.

*Are they in health?*

*From the little I could see. Glois was angry. That’s nothing new. Utelel was dark and xe’s chesisil flowers were closed to bud, but that was probably because xe was shut away from the sun. They don’t look afraid.*

Melech sang satisfaction and the tentacle withdrew. A moment later xe was drifting free of the tree, a shimmering glass gas bell with trailing cords that glittered diamond bright where the suction disks dotted them.

Maorgan watched his sioll a moment with affection and appreciation, then lifted the ocular and began searching for a way to reach the young captives.

That fence looked absurdly flimsy, long thin rods planted at intervals slightly over a manlength with something that flickered between them. Not so insubstantial as they looked, though. He’d seen a young faolt spooked by one of the humming carts that traveled between the landing ground and the enclosure; the cub tried to run between two of those poles. It was fried in seconds.

The enclosure was a long rectangle with a tower at each of the four corners, metal chambers set on sticks that seemed as insubstantial as the fences and had as dangerous a bite. In the second week after the flying ships, had settled onto the landing ground, the Denchok budline who claimed this ground and ran the Smokehouse in season had assembled and marched out, intending to remove the intruders as they would any other nuisance interfering with their property.

Lines of light had snapped at them from the towers. They dropped and knew nothing for about two hours, some waking a few minutes later than others, while the Denchok who was closest to the Change took the longest to come awake. It was like a big stick, they said, hitting them on the head and knocking them silly.

There looked to be no way in except floating over the fence and that was not a good idea. Unless this lot of mesuchs was even more unlike the lot across the Bakuhl Sea than rumor suggested. They weren’t so tender over there. It was a killing light they used on anyone who got close. The story had come to Melech that Eolt Chelokl was caught in the backwash of a flying sled and swept toward one of the towers; the fire of his dying leaped a hundred manlengths into the air.

Maorgan shivered, lowered the ocular, and rubbed his sleeve across his face, wondering-even as he tried not to think about it-how Chelokl’s sioll was handling that sudden rupture of the sioll-bond, the cutting away of half of himself.

He blinked. Melech’s bell form was swelling and changing, getting ready to lift into the steering current layers.

He dropped the ocular, cried, “No!” Then shifted the word into a protesting whistle.

Melech sang.

not-same necessity simplicity is best

power/habit/restraint imperative/rescue

danger seen curiosity care will be taken

affection/amusement anger/frustration

light as beating stick not light as killing fire

bond not broken as joy

Even after the years of sioll-bond, translating the complex harmonies of Eolt speech was difficult without the touch and Maorgan was never entirely sure he got even half the meaning clear in his head, yet everything he read into what he heard turned him cold with fear.

In the combination whistle and scatsong Fior Ards had evolved for nontouch speech as the sioll bond developed between the Ard and the Eolt, he went through all the reasons why Melech should wait, should take time and care before acting-knowing all along how stubborn and passionate his sioll was, how little likely to listen once xe’s mind was set on a line of movement. But all he could see was a flame leaping a hundred manlengths high and a sudden amputation of all joy.

Melech sang.

Maorgan whistle/sang.

After several arias on both sides, the Eolt returned to xe’s usual configuration while Maorgan swung from limb to limb and finally dropped to the ground. He lifted the harpcase he’d left at the base of the tree, slid the strap over his shoulder, and settled the case in its most comfortable position against his back.

Melech dropped a tentacle to touch his shoulder. *May words suffice, sioll Maorgan.*

*May the few words I have of the starspeech, suffice, slot! Melech.*

Mid-morning on the next day which was Chel Dй’s day, so there was no one to come to trade. Ard Maorgan and Eolt Melech placed themselves before the Gate of the enclave. Maorgan swept a desilmerr on his harp. When he saw he had their attention, he sang to them in tradespeak. “Peace,” he sang. “Trade for children. Let us talk.”