Gene Wolfe - Exodus from the Long Sun

Grassy land, a little uneven. No more time for character or planning. Reverse thrust, legs down and feet together, hands braced for a fall that must be straight forward.

Mear was already down, having pulled up at the precise moment and landed striding; reckless though Mear was, no more skilled flier ever tuned the sun. Now he, too, would have to land without a fall or lose what authority he had. Four cubits, stall, drop into the wind. Did it!

At once a gust nearly blew him off his feet.

Grian, Surnaire and Aer came down as he was taking off his wings and PM, Aer too close, perhaps; Sumaire four-pointing; Grian dropping a full eight, wings bow-bent when he hit.

Big women were running toward them from the tent ground, pursued, overtaken, and surpassed by a lone woman on horseback.

“Peace!” He raised both hands, palms out. “We who serve the gods mean no harm.”

The rider reined up, a handweapon drawn. “There are no gods but the goddess!”

Could the database be wrong? “We are her supporters and servitors!”

A dozen towering women surrounded them, some staring, some leveling short, gap-mouthed guns, some clearly waiting for the mounted woman’s instructions.

“We come from Mainframe,” Sciathan explained. “Mainframe, the home of the goddess. At her order we come to find Auk.” Privately he wondered which goddess it was.

“We’ll help you, but first you must give your weapons to us.” There was calculation in the mounted woman’s eyes.

Aer said, “No gun, no knife.”

The mounted woman’s attention went to her at once. “You’re in charge?”

Aer shook her head. “Fliers.” She touched her chin. “Aer I am. All fly.”

Mear joined them carrying his wings and PM, and accompanied by a gaggle of big women. “Each is one. Five ones.”

“Surrender your weapons,” the woman on horseback told him.

Coming up behind Mear, Sumaire held out her hands. “Mine. With these I kill.”

Calculation again. “You’re the leader.”

“Yes. My own.”

Mear said, “I am mine. No weapon. No gun. You give?” One of the big women laughed loudly and the horse shied, neck bent and hooves dancing.

“Quiet, you!” Pulling up the reins, the mounted woman scrutinized them. “Marhaba! Betifham ’arabi?”

Aer and Mear looked to Sciathan; he could only shrug.

She holstered her weapon and dismounted; her smile could not vanquish something vindictive that had made her face its own. “We started badly,” she told Aer. “Let’s start over and be friends. I’m Major Sirka, Flier Aer. I command the advance party of the Horde of Trivigaunte. I can’t welcome you to this city, because this city’s not mine. Mine’s to the south. You have flown over it many times. You must know it.”

Aer nodded and smiled. “Beautiful!”

“This man,” Major Sirka nodded at Sciathan, “came looking for a Vironese, another man. Are you looking for a woman?”

Sumaire said, “The man. Where will we find Auk?”

Grian, who arrived still wearing his PM, said slowly, “We are not like you are, Woman.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to be, little man. Now listen to me. You’re…”

Her voice faded; she had become a painted figure, an image of gray on a featureless plain. Sciathan felt his lips drawn back and lifted in a grin by someone else.

Aer gaped at him, eyes wide as her mouth. Now, when all other color had fled, the blue of her eyes was still bright. Someone else reached out to her with Sciathan’s arms, and in a distant place she screamed.

The flash and boom of the shot so startled him that almost he woke; colors were briefly real, the scarlet-daubed thing at his feet Aer. He felt himself thrust violently down and back into a helpless dark at the edge of oblivion.

Sumaire slew with a touch and Mear fought with desperate valor until more shots threw both to the ground in their first embrace. Still carrying his wings, Grian shot straight up. He, Sciathan, should fly too; but his PM was gone, his hands bound. Turning, he saw his wings and kicked and stamped them.

“Let me think, Patera.” Maytera Marble cocked her head to one side. “The generalissimo from Trivigaunte and another one, but we don’t know her name. I’m assuming it will be a woman.”

Silk nodded. “I believe we can rely on it.”

“We don’t know how much either one eats. Probably a lot. Then there’s General Saba and Generalissimo Oosik. I’ve seen them, and they’ll want a whorl of food. Are each of them going to bring somebody, too?”

“That’s a good point.” Silk considered. “Oosik’s almost certain to, because Siyuf said she’d bring one of her staff. Let’s assume that they both do. That’s six so far.”

“All big eaters.”

“I’m sure you’re right, but His Cognizance and I won’t eat much and you’ll eat nothing.”

“Am I invited?” It was difficult to read Maytera Marble’s expression.

“Of course you are. You’re the hostess, the mistress of the house — of this palace, I should have said.”

“I thought Chenille might do it, Patera.”

“She’s a guest.” Silk settled himself more comfortably in the big wingback chair, conscious that he would have to leave it soon. “She’s here only because she may be in danger.”

“She’s a real help, that girl. She does everything I tell her to and looks for more. There are times when I have to hold her back, Patera.”

“Now I understand. You were afraid I wouldn’t invite her, that I’d ask her to wait on table or something. She’s invited — or she will be as soon as I see her. I want her, and your granddaughter and Master Xiphias; I sent Horn to tell him.”

“I teach arithmetic.” Maytera Marble sighed. “And now I want to count on my fingers. What’s worse, I can’t. Only up to five, and we had six with Generalissimo Oosik and all those foreign officers. You and His Cognizance make eight. The old fencing master nine. Chenille, ten. Mucor and me, twelve. If you’re going to invite anybody else, you’d better make it two, Patera. Thirteen at table’s not lucky. I don’t know why, but you’re supposed to bring somebody in off the street if you have to, to make fourteen.”

Silk stood up. “No, that should be all. Now come with me. I asked Hossaan to bring the floater, and I think I heard it a moment ago.”

“Where…? I can’t go away, Patera. Not with company for dinner tonight.”

Silk had anticipated that; he imagined himself arguing with Siyuf and was firm. “Of course you can. You’re going to. Go get your hand.”

“No. No.” Maytera Marble’s one functioning hand gripped the arm of her chair so tightly that the upholstery rose like dough between its metal fingers. “You don’t understand. You’re a good man. Too good, to tell the truth. Too good to me, as you always have been. But I’ve a thousand things to do between now and dinner. What time will it be? Six?”

“Eight. I do understand, Maytera, and that’s why we’re going to that shop the valet — what was his name?”

“Marl. Patera, I can’t.”

“Exactly. You can’t because you have only one hand. You have to tell Chenille, for the most part, and get her to do it. So we’re going to get your right hand reattached. As you say, there’s a lot to be done, and with two hands you’ll be able to do twice as much as Chenille, instead of half as much.”

Without waiting for her to reply, he strode to the door. “I’ll be outside; I want to ask Hossaan why their generalissimo speaks the way she does. We’ll expect you in five minutes, with your hand.” As he stepped into the reception hall, he added, “You and Chenille, and your granddaughter Bring her, too.”

Maytera Marble’s last wailing “Patera…” was cut off by the closing of the door. Grinning, Silk limped the length of the reception hall and got an overrobe of plain black fleece from the cloakroom off the foyer.