Jo Clayton - Diadem 6 - The Nowhere Hunt

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The Nowhere Hunt
Diadem, Book 6
Jo Clayton
1981
The Nowhere Hunt was a quest every Hunter refused. Only Aleytys, wearer-slave of the mysterious
and powerful Diadem would dare try to slip unseen past starship battalions and land on a world encased
in a cosmic shield which rendered all electronic equipment functionless. Avoiding poisonous flora, hostile
natives, vicious predators and murderous ransomers, her job was to rescue and transport a massive,
semi-intelligent insect queen off planet and save the queen’s besieged race from extinction.
A seemingly impossible task, but one Aleytys could not refuse, for she had been offered in payment
something she desperately needed to continue her own personal quest.
“So.” Amusement bubbling inside, Aleytys tented her fingers, touching fingertip to fingertip. “If I take
this Hunt, I should figure a way past a small armada, then set down on a world where electronic gear will
work haphazardly or not at all. I have to outwit or outfight some of the most vicious and wily predators a
hundred worlds could produce. I have to avoid local flora and fauna, which—if my luck runs as
usual—will prove to be lethal. I have to pick up and transport a Queen who seems to be encased in a
casket with life support mechanisms which together probably weigh a ton or two. Haul that out of
whatever mess it’s stuck in. Last, I have to take off somehow in a ship I probably don’t have in the face
of that armada I mentioned before, an armada probably doubled in size. Am I crazy?”
“There’s a bonus, Lee.” Head sighed. “The Haestavaada will buy you the best ship available if you
can get the Queen to Duvaks.”
“If.” Aleytys moved to the door, stood with one hand on the cool wood, looking back at Head.
“Think I can do it?”
“Yes.”
Aleytys pushed the door open. “You better be right.”
Prologue: Proposing The Hunt
WE WENT TOO NEAR THE ZANGAREE SINK. The translator’s slow mechanical monotone drained the
intensity from the agitated twitters and clicks of the dying vaad whose small form shuddered among the
wires and tubes that were keeping it alive. As the air shrilled through the spiracles on its sides, as its eyes
seemed to bulge from the immobile plating on its round head, it struggled to control the emotion that
hurried disintegration nearer. For several minutes the only sounds in the sterile room were the flute wails
of the vaad’s breathing and the tick-tick of the instruments recording the pulses of its heart nodes. The
vaad attendants watched the dying one closely, adjusting the flow of liquids to its needs, touching it,
keeping it reassured by contact with its kind. This tactile presence—the three-fingered top-hand resting
on the Y-cartilage in the center of its thorax—helped calm it until it could speak again.
TIKH’ASFOUR PACK CAME ON SHIP BY KHAKK’LAH SPUR. WAITING FOR QUEENSHIP (question). THIS
VAAD KNOWS NOT. The chitin of the vaad’s battered body was torn and cracked, flushing through pale
iridescence as its strength faded. It lifted its head slightly, let it fall back, began talking again, slowly at
first, then faster and faster, the monotonous drone of the translator conveying some of the intense emotion
through the sheer speed with which it rattled out the words.
VALAAD CAPTAIN SEN’TATI BHUT FLED, DIPPING IN AND OUT OF FTL, CHANGING DIRECTION,
LEAVING THE PLANE OF THE LENS, SPENDING FUEL WITHOUT STINT. THE PACK CAME ON, SANK TEETH IN
SHIP TAIL. PACK CAME CLOSER AND CLOSER. STARTED RANGING SHIPS WITH QUILL MISSLES. SEN’TATI
BHUT SAW ZANGAREE AHEAD. RAN, THIS VAAD THINKS, INTO SUDDEN BULGE WHEN BHUT SKIMMED
ALONG EDGE OF SINK. SHIP WENT CRAZY. HAGGAR SUB-LIGHTS KICKED ON, KNOCKING. GRAVITY WENT.
VAADA SMASHED AGAINST WALLS, STRUTS. SHIP IN GREAT TROUBLE. SUN AHEAD. ZOLDEVUUR. SEN’TATI
BHUT SEE SMALL WORLD. WORLD CALLED NOWHERE. AIR AND GREEN LIFE. CAN VAAD AND VALAAD LIVE
IN SINK (QUESTION). SEN’TATI BHUT KNEW NOT. SHIP BREAKING UP AROUND VAAD AND VALAAD. TIKH’
ASFOUR COMING AFTER. VAADA AFRAID. THIS VAAD CURLS INTO [NOISE] POSTURE TO WAIT THE DYING.
SEN’TATI BHUT FOUGHT SHIP DOWN. CRASHED—NO, NOT CRASHED. CAME IN HARD. NOT VAPORIZED,
ONLY BROKEN . VAADA DIED EVERYWHERE. BURNED. CRUSHED. THIS VAAD’S ZESH, IT CURLED BESIDE THIS
VAAD, TOUCHED THIS VAAD. ITS HEAD ... TORN OFF ... THIS VAAD UNCURLED WHEN IT KNEW IT WOULD
LIVE. COULDN’T FEEL ZESH. TOUCHED ROUND THING. ZESH’S HEAD. ROLLED AWAY. BUMPING. ROLLED
AWAY.
As the air whistled through the paired spiracles, the attendant stroked small top-hands over the Y,
trying to quiet the heaving body, while others fed more drugs into the tubes.
An elongated vaad stepped into view—a valaad, gaunt, faded to the palest of blues, four eyes set in
wrinkled yellow rings, an iron chain thick with rust about its reed-thin neck, an empty circle of the same
metal dangling over its central fissure, its chitin and cartilage stained with years of rust and rubbing. The
attendants parted hastily as the valaad moved to the injured one’s side. It placed its long, three-fingered
top-hand on the throbbing Y, then looked directly into the lens. The image went dark.
Aleytys blinked into the shadows. “What do they want?”
As Head swung about to face her, her silver-gray hair caught the window’s faint glow with a shifting
shine like spilled mercury while the dim light touched her forehead, nose and chin, drew shadows in black
paint along hollows and lines. When she spoke after her moment of silence, her words came crisply, their
restrained vigor so usual that Aleytys was momentarily reassured. “They want you,” Head said. She lifted
a hand. “Wait. The story’s not finished.”
The valaad moved away from the bed, frowned briefly at the lens, then stepped out of the scene,
leaving the injured vaad lying quiet, barely breathing. After a moment it stirred. A few harsh sounds came
from the translator, then slow words.
THE VAADA STILL LIVING CAME TOGETHER, TWO VAADA BRINGING NEWS THAT THE QUEEN LIVED
ALSO, HER LIFESUPPORT INTACT. HIVE BE BLESSED, THE QUEEN LIVED. SLEPT SAFE AND UNKNOWING. THE
QUEEN’S GUARD, ALL ALIVE, TENDING HER. THE VAADA GATHERED, HAPPY IN THIS, TO THE ROOM OF
IN-BEING. ONLY VAADA WERE LEFT. ONLY VAADA EXCEPT FOR THE QUEEN’S GUARD AND THESE WOULD
NOT LEAVE QUEENSVAULT OR CONCERN THEMSELVES WITH VAADA SORROWS. NO ZESH PAIRS LEFT
WHOLE. VAADA MOURNED THEIR ZESH. VAADA WISHED TO DIE, BUT THE QUEEN LIVED AND THEY COULD
NOT DIE, NOT YET. The injured vaad lay silent, the other vaada mourned with it, clacking their mandibles
in a slow sad rhythm. Then it spoke again.
OUTSIDE WAS TERRIBLE. HOT FOG. THINGS IN THE FOG. GRAY-WHITE BEASTS WITH MANY TEETH.
THESE SWARMED INTO SHIP, DRAGGED OUT TWO VAADA. ATE THEM. NOWHERE NOT YET IN THE SINK
SO ENERGY GUNS STILL WORKED. VAADA DROVE OFF THE BEAST PACK. NATIVES CAME. ATTACKED WITH
SPEARS AND POISON DARTS. SPEARS KILLED THREE VAADA, DARTS BOUNCED OFF. VAADA DROVE OFF
NATIVES, KILLED SOME. IN SHIP SOME THINGS STILL WORKED. VAADA PUT DEAD THROUGH FOOD
CONVERTERS, MADE MANY FOOD STICKS. THIS VAAD SECOND NAVIGATOR. WORKED SCANNER. SAW TIKH’
ASFOUR ORBITING WORLD, SEARCHING FOR QUEENSHIP. TURNED SCANNER OFF BEFORE PACK FOUND
SHIP. KSIYL THE HOOK, FIRST GUARD, CAME TO VAADA. SAID VAADA AND VALAADA WAITED ON DAVAKS
FOR QUEEN. SAID THEY STOOD ON SHOULDERS OF THESE VAADA, THAT VAADA THERE DIED WITHOUT THE
PRESENCE OF A QUEEN. SAID SEVERAL LIFEBOATS WERE WHOLE. SAID LIFESUPPORT IN BOAT NOT ENOUGH
FOR TWO, NOT FOR THE LENGTH OF JOURNEY NEEDED. SAID ONE WOULD HAVE TO GO ALONE. THIS VAAD
BEING THE SOLE NAVIGATOR AMONG THE LIVING, THIS VAAD TOOK THE LIFEBOAT AND CAME TO
KAVAAKH. DAYS AND DAYS ALONE. DAYS WONDERING IF THE TIKH’ASFOUR WOULD FIND THIS VAAD OR
FIND THE QUEENSHIP. THIS VAAD LANDED ON KAVAAKH. LANDED HARD. GOT MESSAGE THROUGH. The
vaad suddenly pushed up, leaning its meager weight onto one trembling arm. Its face was chitin-plated
and denied expression, its eyes dull, but the passion behind its words came through the lens. THE QUEEN,
HUNTERS, GET HER OUT. GET HER OUT.
The attendant touched a hand to the Y-cartilage and the injured vaad collapsed. The screen went
black.
“The vaad died a few minutes after that.” Head punched the humming viewer off, stabbed a
forefinger at the button that sent the shade flowing back from the window and let the cool white light from
outside into the room, swung around in her chair, settled back, bright blue eyes fixed on Aleytys. “You
look better.” Her quick broad smile lit her face. “Not twitching any more.”
“The Wild either soothes you or sends you crazy. You know that better than I.” Aleytys rubbed her
nose. “Gray and I—well, we came out of the snow at peace with ourselves and with each other.” A
corner of her mouth twisted up. “A change that. It’s probably a good thing he went off on a Hunt before
the euphoria wore off.” She laced her fingers together in her lap and stared down at them. “How’s he
doing?”
“No word yet. And none expected for another month-at least.” Head pursed her lips. “You’ve had
the first of the implants. Feel comfortable with it?”
“Comfortable enough.” Aleytys looked down at her hands, smiled. “Five little forcefields. Handy.”
Head winced. “That was feeble, Lee. Very feeble.”
“Mmh!” Aleytys nodded at the wall where the screen had been. “I take it I won’t be going back to
University for a while?”
“You will sooner than you think. There’s still time to finish the implants and check you out on them.”
Head leaned forward, pulled an untidy pile of fax sheets, in front of her and squared them with a few
brisk taps.
Aleytys moved her eyes from the fax sheets to the square, lined face. “You’ve got a Hunt for me.”
“Obviously.” The fax sheets rustled as the hands on them moved about. Head stared down at the
sheets in silence, long enough for Aleytys to wonder what monsters waited for her in them. Finally the
bright blue eyes lifted and fixed on her. “Background. The Haestavaada and the Tikh’asfour—rather
similar as species go, physically at least—have been sniping at each other for the past two centuries, god
knows what about, they surely don’t. Neither species can afford the cost of an all-out attack on the other
so they have to be content with pecking at each other. The Haestavaada are good at defense, but
hesitant and unimaginative when they attack. The Tikh’asfour are brilliant fighters but spend nearly as
much time squabbling with each other as they do trying to fight the Haestavaada. Not long ago, however,
one of the Packs put together a suicide squad and slipped it through the Haestavaada defenses on their
colony world Duvaks. They managed to kill the Haevstavaada Queen there and her three juvenile
Queens before they were shredded by the frantic vaada. Once the news of the Queen’s death got out,
the vaada all over the world went into shock. It was all the valaada could do to get their defenses in place
then send off an urgent message to Kavaakh. The Haestavaada on the homeworld got one of their
juveniles ready, mated her, boxed her up and sent her to Duvaks on Sen’tati Bhut’s ship. You heard
what happened to that.”
Aleytys frowned. “They can’t send another queen—with a fleet to protect her this time?”
“They don’t have another the right age.” Head tapped slowly on the pile of fax sheets. “It would take
them several years to ripen one.”
“Why is having a queen on Duvaks so ...”
“So necessary?”
“They haven’t lost the Queen on Kavaakh. If they need a symbol?” She shrugged. “I don’t see the
problem.”
“Right.” Head sighed and settled back into her chair. “Kavaakh is too far away. They need a Queen
among them. You can research this more, but this is the gist of the matter. Interesting species, the
Haestavaada. Got four separate kinds of individuals—if a hive species can be said to have individuals. I
suppose it can, looking at that poor damn vaad in the tape sequence. Anyway. They’ve got true
Neuters—the vaada. They’re the workers and the great bulk of the population. Next biggest section has
the Neutered Females—the valaada. The leaders. They run the worlds. Intelligent and more aggressive
than the vaada. Then the Males. Very few of those, maybe not more than ten at any one time on each
world, pampered pets, that’s all. Finally the Queens—true females. Egg-layers. Only semi-intelligent,
insanely aggressive before they’re mated, stone-lazy after, which is just as well since they spend most of
their time producing eggs. Very short life-spans. After a little more than twenty years they start producing
defective eggs. A Juvenile is mated and the old Queen killed. The Queen on Kavaakh is reaching her
end. The Kavaakhi Haestavaada had only two Queens of the proper age. They sent one of these to
Duvaks but they won’t send away their only other properly aged Juvenile, not even to save the lives of
their kin on Duvaks.”
Aleytys frowned. “Save the lives?”
“Without their Queen it seems that vaada just curl up and wither away. The valaada are tougher but
there aren’t a lot of them and they can’t keep a world going by themselves. If Duvaks doesn’t get a
Queen relatively soon, the Tikh’asfour will have hit the Haestavaada very hard indeed. So they want
someone to get their Queen back for them.”
“Since they don’t just go in and lift her out themselves, this looks like one of the nasty ones you seem
to save for me.”
The bright blue eyes closed. “Council thinks I should turn the Hunt down.”
“Well?”
“The Haestavaada asked for you specifically, Lee. Your reputation spreads.”
“Go on.”
“Nowhere—ridiculous name for a world, though appropriate from what I’ve heard—anyway, it’s
swung into the Zangaree Sink which effectively seals it off from the rest of us for another five or six
months—why I said we had time to finish your implants. Far as I know, there’s no way you can get to
that world until it swings free of the Sink. You or anyone else.” Head picked up the fax sheets and fanned
herself with them. “The last report of a Haestavaada spy drone says that two Tikh’asfour Packs are
hanging around on the edge of the Sink, passing the time by fighting with each other. There’ll be more
when Nowhere’s due to emerge.”
“So. I probably can’t get past the Packs and I couldn’t land on the world even if I did manage to slip
past. Anything else?”
“Scavengers.”
“You’re joking.”
“Sorry, Lee. Seems they were either hanging around behind the Pack or stumbled on them after the
attack began. Bad luck either way. Three ships landed on Nowhere just before it slipped into the Sink.
God knows what the Scavs are doing down there without workable electronics. Whatever it is, they’ve
had three months to do it in.”
“So.” Amusement bubbling inside, Aleytys said, “If I take this Hunt, I should figure a way past a
small armada, then set down on a world where electronic gear will work haphazardly or not at all, if I can
think up a way to get down on Nowhere before it emerges. I have to outwit or outfight some of the most
vicious and wily predators a hundred worlds could produce. I have to avoid local flora and fauna,
which—if my luck runs as usual—will prove to be damned lethal. I have to pick up and transport a
Queen who seems to be encased in a casket with life-support mechanisms which together probably
weigh a ton or two. Haul that out of whatever mess it’s stuck in. Last, I have to take off somehow in a
ship I probably don’t have in the face of that armada I mentioned before, an armada probably doubled in
size. Am I crazy?”
“The Haestavaada have promised to give you anything you ask for.” She met Aleytys’s skeptical
eyes and held up a hand. “There’s a bonus, Lee.”
“There damn well better be.”
Head sighed. “The Haestavaada will buy you the best ship available if you can get the Queen to
Duvaks.”
“You really want me to take this on, don’t you.”
“I’m in a bind,” Head said slowly. “The RMoahl keep hounding the Council. They want you bad and
they’re getting hostile about it. No one knows just what those spiders will do. Thing is, anyone who fools
with them tends to disappear permanently.” Her wide mouth tightened into a smile. “The reputation
you’re getting creates another problem for me. Hunters! Egos on two legs. The Watukuu seem to be
grabbing onto everyone and gabbling out how you backed a Vryhh down when you Hunted for them on
Sunguralingu. The tale’s come back to me from a dozen sources, customers who’ve asked for you—like
the Haestavaada. They grumble when I refuse but most end up taking another Hunter. Guess how the
Hunters like it. Hunh! And they have friends on the Council. Fortunately, your first Hunt was such a long
shot and the fee so big that you brought in more than enough to cover what we’ve spent on you so far.
And—egos aside— you’re a damn good advertisement for Hunters Inc. These two things have been
enough to swing Council votes in your favor.” Head moved her shoulders against the chair back, made
an effort to smile. “As long as I can slap the fees down in front of them, there’s no problem. And as long
as you take Hunts no one else wants.” She ran her fingers through her short silver hair. “If you can
survive the next few years, the tightroping should be over. I don’t say everyone will accept you, we’re
not that kind of society, but for most you’ll belong to Wolff and we’ve learned through hard times to take
care of our own.” She was silent a moment, the bright blue eyes flicking nervously about the room until
she fixed them on Aleytys. “Dammit, I want you to have that ship. I near busted my ass screwing it out of
those bugs, and getting the bonus confirmed in Council and put into the contract.”
“I go in alone this time?”
“Gray’s on Hunt. You know that.” Head rubbed at her nose. “Sybille’s free.” She grinned at Aleytys.
“Want to partner with Sybille?”
“You can’t be serious?” Aleytys chuckled. “Can you see that steel-clawed bitch sharing anything with
me, especially a Hunt?” She flexed her fingers. “Small bloody shreds. You’ve made your point. Let me
think about this. If I can come up with a reasonable attack on the difficulties, I’ll take the Hunt.” She
stood. “Let you know tomorrow.”
“Take these with you.” Head shoved the pile of fax sheets across the desk. “Summaries of what we
know about Nowhere and the Zangaree Sink. More about the Haestavaada and the Tikh’asfour.
Schematics of Haestavaada and Tikh’asfour ships. Dossiers on the better known Scavs, lists of some
other names. Anything else I could come up with to help you out.”
Aleytys grimaced at the thick pile. “I’ll let you know late tomorrow.” She rolled the sheets into a
compact cylinder. “Thanks. A ship?”
“If you get the Queen to Davaks.”
“If.” Aleytys moved to the door, looked back at Head. ‘Think I can do it?”
“Yes.”
Aleytys pushed the door open. “You better be right.”
Roha
Chapter I.
Roha straddled the limb and scraped lines of sap into a resilient lump. She didn’t like how sticky it
made her hands but ignored that and popped the ball into her mouth. Wrapping her legs tighter about the
limb, she licked her fingers clean, then wiped them across her thighs. As she chewed the juices from the
sap, her head began to buzz. She worked back along the limb until she felt the trunk hard and cold
against her skin, then let herself soften, felt her flesh begin to merge with the hardness between her thighs,
against her back, with the whispering around her from the pendulant leaves. “Matakuat,” she whispered.
“Dream tree, tell me ... tell me ... tell me the day. When is the day? When do we pull the peace sapling
from the earth? The day. The day. The day. Mambila eats the sky. When is the lucky day day day day?
The day the day the day?”
She stopped her chant and looked up through the thin branches dropping like lines around her,
knife-blade leaves, fluttering and whispering louder and louder. She strained, trying to hear what they
said, then relaxed again and looked up. To the west the sky was filmed by a webbing of light, a misty
cloud webbing, moving, creeping across the sky like a slime beast crawling over swamp water. She
blinked. The sky hazed out before her eyes into an echoing silver mirror. The hanging branches were
streaks of silver, shivering, shimmering silver, then an absence like an emptiness in the air. The leaves
were tongues dark and light, then suddenly pierced with color glowing from within, a green-gold light.
Nearby an imbo sang and the beauty of the song pierced her heart. She saw each individual note soaring
at her, gold darts coming up and over, they pierced her and she rejoiced, the joy so terrible it was a pain.
The leaves whispered to her. The soft uncertain wind that touched her skin was a wash of pale blue.
The night bent into curves of dark and light, into patterns. Patterns, everything was pattern, was flat and
stern, was dark and light, the patterns built and built, sound, touch, feel, all patterns, stern and dark; she
was compressed, folded, held within, stretched out, a pattern herself, feeling the answer growing in her,
the name of the day hovering over her tongue. About to savor it, to roll it on her tongue and know it, she
was wrenched from her gentle contemplation. The sky broke over her, a terrible terrifying fireball
shattered the dark and plunged down ... came down ... the sound tore her apart, the light burnt her to
ash, the sound shook the world. She felt the agony of the earth as the terrible thing struck. A glow
brighter than the sun burned the earth, burned her, fire crisped her skin, she screamed and when the pain
died a little she cried into the dark, “Help me, cousins. Bright Twin, Dark Twin, the Earth-womb calls
me. Mother Earth you call me, you tell me to find the thorn that has pierced you, struck you to the heart,
you call me to find and burn the poison thorn.”
Her voice seized in her throat and she could say no more; she sat with her back pressed against the
trunk, feeling waves of evil coming from the burning thorn, waves that drowned her, made her gasp for
breath. She clutched at the limb and wept, saw her tears like drops of fire falling, falling, drying against
the cold earth, the earth stretching under her, turning strange, a mirror, a dark mirror. The tree pushed at
her, rejected her, the bark pushed her away, the limb bucked under her, pushed her hands away.
“Roha!” The sound drove into her, a stone blade slicing through her. It flayed her. She looked in
terror into darkness her eyes refused to pierce. “Roha.” A sound, a tender sound. She loosed her hands
from the limb, glancing uneasily at them. The dark green skin was smooth and tight against flesh and
bone. She blinked, looked again. The haze of the sap was retreating, the darkness under the tree thinning.
A shadow balanced on the high tangled roots. She breathed in the warm flow of affection and concern
coining from the shadow. Retreating farther from her vision, she could breathe and speak and perceive
again. “Rihon, did you see it? Wait, I’m coming down.”
Shaking and weaker than she liked, the patterns breaking before her, the patterns lurking in the
corners of her eyes, she groped through dream and dark for the climbing rope, swung down it, the knots
her own fingers had made comforting to her, whispering comfort into her feet and fingers. Then she was
down, balancing on the air-roots, facing her brother. She held out her hands. Brother and sister touched,
palm to palm. More of the ache left her. “Did you see it?” For a cold moment she wondered if it was a
dream; it was hard to know, sometimes, what was real and what the dream-sap conjured out of air.
“A great light like a seed of the sun falling.” Behind the calm in his voice was a touch of awe.
Roha shivered. “I saw the mistlands take it.” She grasped his hands and held them tight. “Rihon, we
have to burn it. We have to go out there.”
“Roha, no.” He moved away from the trunk and jumped onto the hard-packed earth of the path. As
he turned, the Web-light painted slick gleams on the tilted planes of his face, underlining the worry that
wrinkled his forehead and thinned his lips. “We can’t go there.” He helped her down. “The mistlands?”
Roha hesitated, then hopped down beside him. Silent, thoughtful, she followed him as he turned away
and began walking down the path toward the village, his skin again giving back gleams of Web-light.
With the sap still bubbling in her blood, she passed from the solid smells and touches of the forest
into a heightened state where she saw/heard/smelled everything around her with a terrible clarity,
everything around her, in front of her, in the layered leaves and soil beneath her feet, behind her back.
She saw everything, and finally when all the intrusive sense impressions smoothed out, walked again
through the black and white patterns, the sound—patterns imposed on patterns, slashes of violent color
across the black and white.
Then Rihon took her hand again; the warm firmness of his skin pulled her back to reality.
She trotted beside him, circling a matachun that dripped silent acid in a mist about its trunk, avoiding
a slow, creeping herd of many-legged tambi, bloodsuckers with miniature vines growing from their
rubbery flesh, vines that jerked out and wrapped around prey, mostly small rodents; she brushed aside, a
little later, several blundering pudsi, whose short broad wings whirred noisily as they wheeled about
under the trees chasing giant buzzers and other large insects. There were thousands of insects making
soup of the night air, filling it with a vast hum; Roha’s skin twitched constantly and she tightened her nose
slits against them.
She could hear the noise from the village before she stepped from the tree shadow a little behind her
brother. She caught hold of Rihon’s arm and stopped with him at the edge of the village, hidden from the
excited people by the shadow under one of the many stilt houses. The night breeze was blowing through
the thatched roof, raising a whispery rustle a little louder than the insect hum. “Everyone’s out,” she
muttered.
Rihon nodded. “The noise.”
“I suppose so.” She scowled at the circling people. Through the continually shifting groups she could
see the Serk pacing restlessly before a hastily assembled bonfire, circling about the Niong, her long thin
arms waving passionately while the Wan watched the Lawgiver as she argued with the scarred massive
male who served the village as War-Leader. Mediator and judge, the Wan was an old neutered male
with a lined gentle face and a skin paled to a green-tinged ocher. Roha leaned against Rihon and smiled
as she watched him; he was the only father she and her brother had known. She didn’t even know which
of the women was her mother. As soon as living twins hatched from a double-yolked egg, they became
the village luck, belonging to everyone, passed from woman to woman, fed the premasticated pap all
babies got, given the best of everything the village had, given everything but a family of their own. Except
for the Wan who loved them and schooled them.
The Wan shifted the plaited kilt over his bony hips, stepped forward quickly as the Niong raised a
fist. With other Amar circling behind him, hissing their shock and disapproval, the Wan placed a quiet
hand on the Niong’s bunched muscle, met the glare of white-circled eyes with a calm resolution. The
Niong backed off, dropped his hands and stood waiting.
Roha glanced at the Mambila web. She sucked in a deep breath, smoothed her hands down over the
woven-grass kilt tied around her slim hips, looked up at Rihon. He took her hand and nodded.
Together they walked through the ring of their people. The Amar were uneasy, moving about
constantly, talking in low short bursts, mothers stroking their infants in the birth slings that kept the
unformed hatchlings tight against the skin. Other children ran about playing innumerable games of chase
and tag, disturbed by the fears they sensed without really knowing what made them so restless, small
yellow-green forms wriggling through narrow openings in their parents’ groupings, giggling and shouting,
wrestling, tumbling over and over in frenetic contests that passed rapidly from play to serious combat.
When the noise got too bad, a few adult males left their groups and cuffed the fighters apart.
A ringing in her ears, the fever back in her blood, clinging to her brother’s arm, Roha moved slowly
as if against a current in a flooding river, moved slowly through the Amar toward the fire.
Behind that fire by the Ghost House with its openwork demon coiling over the door and its
elaborately woven walls, the Haur-Amar, the village elders, stood muttering together. As Roha came up
to the fire, they started throwing confused questions at the Serk and the Niong, demanding to know what
the light was, what it meant, what they should do.
Is the sun broke? Did it seed? Or did Mambila seed? The pale one, did she break the sky? The
floating ghosts, have they spawned a demon? Tell us what to do, Serk. Is there danger, Wan? Do
we attack, Niong? What do we attack?
The questions wove together in a hash of sound and the Three didn’t attempt to answer, only waited
out the storm. When the Elders saw Roha and Rihon they turned the spate of noise on them.
Roha, what saw you in the womb-tree? What was it struck mother Earth? What does it mean?
Is it dangerous, Rihon? Dark twin, tell us what you know. Bright twin, what do we do?
The Niong dived past the Serk and grabbed Roha’s arm. “The Day, Dark twin. You went to the
womb-tree to speak with Daughter Night, Earth’s mother. What did she say? When will uprooting the
peace branch bring good fortune to our war? The nuggar are swarming, the tubers pile up in the
storehouse. The Rum-Fieyl push at us. It’s time. Time!”
Roha stared at him. His face blurred, twisted, before her tearing eyes. The Falling Fire had pulled her
away from the Tree too soon, the drug-sap still running strong in her. The words the Niong yelled in her
face carried no meaning. They slid off her like rain. His face spread and spread, his eyes glared, were hot
fires like the fire in the mistlands, the burning wound, the earth screaming to her of its pain, screaming so
loud the sound drowned the other sounds, the words and the wind and the crackle of the fire behind her.
She cried out in answer, the sound tearing her throat, screamed again and again, snatched her arm from
the Niong’s bruising grip, stumbled back from him until the heat from the fire brought her to a stop.
Extending her pale horn claws, she began to lacerate her chest, her eyes turning up until only the whites
showed, foam gathering at the corners of her mouth. Her screams deepened to howls.
Rihon bounded to her side, flung out his arms, joining his howls to hers. He began swaying, then
danced around and around in a tight circle until he tripped and fell. Then he lay twitching on his back,
repeating over and over the hoarse meaningless cries.
The Wan whispered to the Serk, then the two of them pushed the babbling Elders and the crowding
fearful people back from the Twins. The Wan murmured to the Niong, persuading him to back off,
finding this easy enough because the Niong was badly shaken by the result of his words. He was staring
slack-faced at Roha who swayed back and forth, the blood dripping down her slick green skin, over her
prominent ribs, along the narrow waist to pool against the draw-cord of her kilt.
The Wan edged close to her, caught her arms, held them, his hands strong and gentle on her. Turning
her till he was behind her, his arms crossed over her bleeding chest, he held her tight against him until the
warmth of his body drove out the hysterical chill in hers. After several minutes of immobility, she blinked,
sighed, then cried out as she felt the pain of her scored flesh for the first time. She collapsed against him.
The Wan lowered her until she was lying beside her brother. She caught hold of Rihon’s shaking
hand. He lay quietly, his eyes closed, his ragged breathing slowing to normal, recovering as she did, the
link between them stronger than ever.
The Elders shuffled about in uneasy silence. That silence spread until even the screaming, jabbering
children grew quiet, stopped their games and clung together.
Roha opened her eyes and sat up, wincing at the pain of her claw-wounds. As she looked around,
the people and the dying fire were elongated streaks of black and silver, then reality came swimming
back to her. The Wan helped her to her feet, then reached out a hand to Rihon. “Water,” she muttered,
rubbing at the streaks of drying blood on her chest. “I need water.” Her tongue rasped over dry lips.
The Wan turned from Rihon and looked around, then he jabbed a forefinger at a small boy who
edged unwillingly past his mother’s legs and stood in front of her, scuffing one foot against the dusty, dry
earth. “Tik-tik,” the Wan said, smiling with affection at the boy. “Bring me a gourd of water. For the dark
twin.”
The boy grinned and ran off. He came back quickly with the water, thrust the gourd at the Wan and
retreated hastily to his mother’s side.
Roha washed off the blood, biting hard on her lower lip as air hit the tears in her flesh. She reached
out and took Rihon’s hand, then looked past the Wan at the scowling Niong. “No,” she cried, her voice
ringing out over the silent still crowd; she turned her head, looking over cousins and friends, age-mates,
children, adults. “Forget the Fieyl.” She knotted her hands into fists, feeling the power rising in her, feeling
the exploding tension rising inside, feeling these molded into words that leaped from her mouth like stones
flung at the fearful Amar. “Forget them. The pattern is broke.” She flung out her arms. “A thorn poisons
the Mother,” she cried, stamped her foot on the ground, wheeled around twice to face them all. “I am
your pachi-siku, the dark Twin. My womb lies in the earth. From my womb was the earth created. She
calls to me, Mother Earth, Daughter Earth. She calls. She is wounded to the heart. The bright evil poison
drips into her blood and bone.” She beat her fist on her chest, not feeling the pain. Her eyes glared at
them but she didn’t see them; she saw only a great bright thorn hanging in front of her. Flecks of foam
gathered at the corners of her mouth as she spoke. Beside her, Rihon’s eyes had the same glare.
As soon as she stopped talking, Rihon raised fisted hands. Flame mirrored down his slick, sweating
sides, fire in his eyes, leaping from him to the people, to the staring Rum-Amar, to his cousins and uncles
and aunts; he gave a great bound and came down in front of Roha, his feet planted hard on the earth, a
great hoarse wordless cry tearing from his throat.
They were all breathing together, young and old, even the newest and least-formed hatchling,
breathing together until they merged into a many-mouthed, many-legged beast, Rihon’s age-mates, male
and female, slapping at their thighs and hooting in soft low pants as he roared, “I am your pachi-kilot, the
bright Twin, my seed is given to the earth, from my seed comes all that lives, from my seed in the
beginning all was made. The living on the earth-womb cry out, heal the Mother, draw the thorn from her
flesh. Take it out. Out. Out.”
“Out! Out! Out!” the younglings chanted.
“Forget the Rum-Fieyl. Forget them. Forget them.”
“Forget! Hunh! Forget! Hunh! Forget!”
“Into the mistlands!” Roha cried, linking her arm with her brother’s. “Draw the thorn. The mistlands!
The mistlands!”
The Wan stepped in front of Roha, placed a hand on her shoulder. “Hush, Twin, you don’t know
what you’re saying.” When she tried to push his hand away, he shook his head. “Quiet, little one,” he
murmured. His other hand closed about the water-worn greenstone hanging on a plaited cord about his
neck.
Roha closed her eyes. Beside her, Rihon fell silent, stood shifting his weight from one foot to the
other; she could hear the scrape-scrape of his feet, and hearing it, she shivered, the fever draining from
her bones and blood as she swayed forward until she was clinging to the Wan, her cheek pressed against
the dangling stone.
He patted her shoulder, then let her fold down until she knelt round-shouldered, her head hanging.
Rihon dropped to his knees a little behind her. She could feel him there, almost feel the wet warmth of his
breath on the back of her neck.
With the Serk grim and silent beside him, the Wan turned slowly, his eyes moving over the
half-hypnotized Amar.
Out in the shadows cast by the dying fire, the beast of nose and mouth and hand broke apart, the
chanting and the thigh clapping and chest beating died away until there was silence except for the buzzing
night insects, the rustling of the breeze through the thatched roofs, the hissing and muted crackling of the
fire. Blinking slowly, his worn gentle face turned stony, the Wan searched the dazed faces of the Amar
until he saw the one he wanted. “Gawer Hith, come here.”
The wiry old woman wriggled through the crowd and stopped in front of him, five young girls
clustering shyly behind her, her apprentices who went everywhere with her, chanting with her under their
breath, intent on memorizing her words.
The Wan touched his talisman, leaned forward; his face close to hers, he murmured, “When the Serk
is finished, sing.”
The old Gawer nodded, understanding what he did not say. When the Wan stepped back into the
shadows to stand beside the silent frowning Niong, she moved to one side, her cluster of apprentices
hurrying to settle crosslegged about her feet.
“The Sacred Twins have said things to think about.” The Serk’s voice was resonant, produced from
deep in her chest, a throaty music the Amar strained to hear. “The Haur-Amar will meet to speak about
these things and touch the ghosts there.” She flung an arm up, pointing at the structure rising on long stilts
behind her. “With Serk, Niong, and Wan. And the ancestors still in the Dark Twin’s womb. You,
Rum-Amar, you stay and listen to the Gawer.” She stepped back to join the Wan and the Niong, waving
a hand at Hith.
As the Elders and the others climbed the ladder and moved around the openwork spirit that guarded
the door, the Amar broke apart into family groupings and contested peacefully for seats around the
Gawer. Gawer Hith settled herself on a chunk of wood, took the small drum from her neck and began
tapping her fingers over the taut skin, drawing forth a muted rattle that called those sitting in a shallow arc
in front of her to silence. Roha sighed and stretched out, her head on Rihon’s knee.
Hith struck the drum more firmly, glanced up at the sky pursing her lips at the creeping glow-web
obscuring more than half the black bowl. The notes of the drum slowed, took on a more compelling
power.
In the beginning
In the beginning
There was Night,
she chanted, her voice deep and rich, dark and rich, sonorous and filled with portent,
The night she was cold
Black and cold
The night she was alone
The night she was filled
With nothing, with pain
The pain it grew
The pain it broke the night
the pain it shone, it burned
The pain it grew, grew
The clamor of the drum was a creeping of the skin, a cry of the terror that waited in the night, the
powerful voice was a shout of triumph, of joy
And it was a fire
And it was a sun
The sun he burned
Green and gold he burned
On the cool night he looked
The cool soft night he desired
The drumbeat slowed again; Hith chanted softly, so softly the Amar held their breath to hear the
words sighing like a whispering in the wind
Night lay with Sun
Night burned with desire
Sought the seed of the sun
The first seed it was weak
The seed blew Against Night
Clung to Night
The drumbeat clamored, demanded, tapped faster, faster, faster ... then slowed
Sank into Nothing
Brought forth Nothing
Lay upon the Dark
Burning on the Dark
The second seed
Grew and grew, moved
Across the dark, reaching
Touching, lines of fire
Reaching seed to seed in
A great and spreading web
Hith threw her head back, stared up at the web that obscured half the sky. She crooned the evil
name, then spat it out, hissed, growled,
Mambila
Mambila
摘要：

TheNowhereHuntDiadem,Book6JoClayton1981    TheNowhereHuntwasaquesteveryHunterrefused.OnlyAleytys,wearer-slaveofthemysteriousandpowerfulDiademwoulddaretrytoslipunseenpaststarshipbattalionsandlandonaworldencasedinacosmicshieldwhichrenderedallelectronicequipmentfunctionless.Avoidingpoisonousflora,hosti...

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