Mary Gentle - Golden Witchbreed

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Golden Witchbreed

Mary Gentle

1983

Principal Characters

Lynne de Lisle Christie, envoy

Sam Huxton, marine biologist, head of the Dominion xeno-team:

Timothy Eliot, xeno-biology

Audrey Eliot, xeno-ecology (land)

John Lalkaka, geologist

Margery Huxton, xeno-ecology (sea)

Elspeth Huxton, her daughter

John Barratt, demographer

Dr. K. Adair, medical research

Carrie Thomas, xeno-sociology

Maurie Venner, assistant sociologist

David Meredith, envoy

Dalzielle Kerys-Andrethe, T'An Suthai-Telestre, Crown of the

Southland, also called Suthafiori, Flower of the South

Evalen Kerys-Andrethe, her daughter

Katra Hellel Hanathra, First Minister of Ymir

Katra Sadri Hanathra, his sister, s'an telestre

Sadri Geren hanathra, her son, shipmaster

amari Ruric Orhlandis, T'An Commander of the Southland army

Ruric Rodion Orhlandis, her ashiren, called Halfgold

Sulis n'ri n'suth SuBannasen, T'An Melkathi

Hana Oreyn Orhlandis, First Minister of Melkathi

Nelum Santhil Rimnith, Portmaster of Ales-Kadareth

Verek Howice Talkul, his son

Verek Sethin Talkul, his daughter

Sethin Falkyr Talkul, Sethin's son

Asshe, commander of the northern garrison

Jacan Thu'ell Sethur, T'An Rimon

Zannil Emberen n'ri n'suth Telerion, Seamarshal of Morvren Freeport

Arlyn Bethan n'ri n'suth Ivris, T'An Kyre

Talmar Halten n'ri n'suth Beth'ru-elen, A Crown Messenger

Achil Marie Salathiel, l'ri-an to the envoy

Aluys Blaize n'ri n'suth Meduenin, a mercenary

Kanta Andrethe, the Andrethe of Peir-Dadeni

Eilen Brodin n'ri n'suth Charain, an intelligencer

Cethelen Khassiye Reihalyn, a minister in Shiriya-Shenin

Tirzael, an Earthspeaker

Branic, a Wellkeeper at Terison

Rhiawn, a Wellkeeper at Terison

Theluk n'ri n'suth Edris, an Earthspeaker

Arad, a Wellkeeper at Corbek

Dannor bel-Kurick, Emperor-in-Exile

Kurick bel-Olinyi, ambassador from Kel Harantish

Gur'an Alahamu-te O'he-Oramu-te, a barbarian woman

Speaker-for-the-People, a fenborn of the Lesser Fens

the Hexenmeister of Kasabaarde

Tethmet, a fenborn of the Brown Tower

Havoth-jair, a sailor

Orinc, of the Order House Su'niar

PART ONE

1 - Carrick V

A ramshackle collection of white plastic and steel buildings stood at the

edge of the concrete landing strip. Beyond the trade station grey rocks

stretched out to a startling blue sea. A fine dust sifted down.

I walked away from the ship's ramp and stood on the hot concrete, the

pale sun burning down on my head. The light off the sea was harshly

brilliant, dazzling; Carrick's Star is nearer white than Earth-standard yellow.

Behind me there was the bustle of the shuttle-ship unloading. I was the

only passenger disembarking on Carrick V. On the FTL starship, now in

orbit, I'd been busy with hypno-tapes of the languages and customs of the

world. Orthe was the native name, or so the first expedition reported.

Orthe, fifth world of Carrick's Star, a sun on the edge of the galaxy's heart.

I shouldered my packs and went across to the station. Shadows on

Earth are grey. At their darkest they have a tinge of blue. Orthe's shadows

are black and so sharp-edged that they fool the eye; while I walked I had

to stop myself avoiding shadow-holes in the concrete.

A moss-like plant clung to the rocky soil, and from its dense blue clusters

sprang small crimson flowers on waist-high stems. A hot wind blew off the

water. There were whitecaps. The arch of the sky was cloudless, the

horizon amber-hazed.

Pin-pricks of white light starred the sky.

I took a deep breath and stood still. The mark of a world on the edge of

the core of the galaxy, these were Orthe's daystars. For a second

everything—sea, wind, rock, sunlight— stood out shockingly alien.

A man walked out of the trade station, waved a careless hand, and

headed towards me. He wore shirt, britches, high boots—and a sword

belted at his hip. He was not human. An Orthean.

"Your pardon, t'an, you are the envoy?"

I recognized the speech of Ymir.

"Ah—yes." I realized I was staring. "Pleased to meet you."

For my part, I prefer aliens that look alien. Then when they ritually eat

their first-born, or turn arthropod halfway through their life-cycle, it isn't so

much of a shock. You expect it. Humanoid aliens, they're trouble.

"And so am I pleased to meet with you." He bowed slightly. The speech

inflection was formal. "I am Sadri Geren Hanathra of Ymir."

His papers authorized him as escort for the Dominion envoy: they were

made out and signed by the head of the xeno-team, and countersigned by

someone I took to be an Orthean official: one Talmar Haltern n'ri n'suth

Beth'ru-elen. Like everything else on this mission, it had the air of being a

haphazard arrangement.

"Lynne de Lisle Christie." It being customary to give country of origin, I

added "Of the British Isles, and the Dominion of Earth."

He stood well under six feet, about my height. His yellow hair was short,

the hairline somewhat higher than I expected. As he glanced back, I saw

that it was rooted down his neck, vanishing under his collar. Either the

custom was to go clean-shaven or the Ortheans had little body-hair. There

was none of that fine down that marks a human skin; his—as he held up

his hand in greeting—I saw to be smooth, slick-looking, with almost a hint

of a scale-pattern.

He was young, with a cheerfully open expression, but with the air of a

man accustomed to lead rather than follow.

"Christie. Not a Southland name—but of course not." He gestured.

"Come this way, I've a ship waiting off North Point."

Drawn up on the rocky shore was a dinghy, attended by two Orthean

natives. The older one took my packs and stored them at the prow. Geren

scrambled in and sat at the stern. I followed, less agile. No one offered

help. The two Orthean males pushed us offshore, climbed in, and began

rowing.

"There is my ship," Geren turned to me, pointing. "The Hanathra,

named for my telestre. A good vessel, but not as fartravelled as yours, I

think."

A telestre was something between estate and family and commune, I

thought. I wasn't sure of the details. Hypno-tapes always give you that

feeling at first: that what you're hearing is never exactly what the other

person is saying, and that you can never find the right words yourself. It

wears off with use.

A sailing ship lay anchored offshore, the kind of craft the Ortheans call

jath. It was no larger than a galleon, though not square-rigged: triangular

lateen sails gave it the rakish look of a clipper.

"Have we far to go?" I asked.

"A week's journey, perhaps, if the wind favours. More if not. We're

bound for Tathcaer, for the court there." Geren's smile faded. "You must

realize, t'an, you'll be the centre of some attention. You should beware

intrigue."

The word he used was not precisely intrigue, or conspiracy, or politics; it

is an untranslatable expression that includes the Orthean term for

challenges and games.

"Thank you for warning me. It's kind."

"If I mean what I say?" He laughed. "I do. I've no love for the court. I'd

sooner sail the Hanathra. But don't believe me just because I say so. Take

no one at their word."

It was a taste of that same intrigue. I was certain he did it deliberately

and I liked him for it, but it emphasized how much of an unknown quality

Carrick V was, and what a series of locked doors I would have to open.

Coming out from the shelter of the point, the dinghy began to rock. The

water was clear: the pale green of spring leaves. A fan of spray went up,

polychromatic in the white sunlight. We crawled through the troughs of

the waves toward the ship.

There was a pause while they tossed a rope-ladder down the hull, then

Geren went up it like an acrobat. I looked at the wet, dark timber, and the

rushing gap between the ship and the rocking dinghy. The rope-ladder

jounced from the rail, rungs rattling against the hull.

The boat rose on a wave crest and I grabbed at the ladder and went up

it, swinging dizzily, missing my footing and barking my knuckles. Acres of

canvas gleamed and swung overhead. Feeling sick, I got two hands to the

rail and heaved myself onto the deck.

A barefoot Orthean woman in shirt and britches leaned over the rail,

neatly caught my packs and set them on deck. She and another woman

swung out davits, the two men came up the rope-ladder as if it were a

staircase, and all four of them began hauling the ship's boat onboard.

The distant island rose and fell gently. I had a last sight of the starship's

shuttle towering over the trade station.

"This way!" Another woman shouted and beckoned.

I followed. The deck was crowded with men and women furiously

working; I kept dodging out of one person's way only to find myself in

someone else's. Masts towered. Canvas blocked the sun, shaken out to

snap on the wind.

A door below the poop deck led, by a dark, narrow passage, to small

cabins.

"Yours." The Orthhean female opened a door. She wore a corded

sleeveless jacket, and her thick black mane was done up in a single braid.

Her skin was faintly patterned, and there were webs of lines round her

eyes.

In the dim light her eyes seemed to film over as she watched me, and

then clear again. The Ortheans have a "third eyelid," a nictitating

membrane like a cat's eye. And something else. I looked at her calloused

hands.

Put them side by side with mine and they would be no wider, but she

had five slender strong fingers beside her thumb. And thick nails, kept

filed down on all but the little finger, which sported a hooked claw.

"Afraid you're sharing," she said, "but I'm mostly nightwatch so we

shouldn't get in each other's way."

"Thanks. I'll try not to cause you bother."

"You think I didn't fight for the privilege?" She had a surprisingly human

grin. "I want something to tell my children about the famous Otherworld

envoy."

"Surilyn!"

The woman's head jerked up. I recognized Geren's voice.

"I'd best get to the helm." She turned. "The shipmaster's cabin is there,

call fan Geren if anything's too unfamiliar."

I went into the cabin. It was narrow; bunk bed one side, sea-chest the

other. A square, iron-framed port with inch-thick bolts let in green-gold

light. I had to stoop. The ceiling—the underside of the poop deck—showed

beams a foot thick. There was the constant creak of timber and the lap of

waves against the hull.

I sat down suddenly. The ship shook throughout its length, quivered,

and settled into a steady pushing rhythm, driving ahead. It was an uneasy

motion.

Sitting there, with the blankets rough under my hands and the sunlight

sliding up and down the wood, I had a moment of stillness. This was not a

starship, not even a sea-going ship on an Earth ocean; the voyage would

not end at London or Liverpool or the Tyne. Sadri Geren Hanathra and the

woman Surilyn, they were not conceived, born, or brought up on Earth.

I began to accept the fact that here, on this world, I was the alien.

The Hanathra, under intermittent wind and plagued by cloud and

squalls, sailed on into the Inner Sea. At the end of the first nine-day week

Geren told me the season was famous for fogs and summer calms. I spent

time below decks, talking to whoever was off duty; and every day I stayed

a little longer in the intense sunlight, getting acclimatized.

Zu'Ritchie, the youngest of the crew, had what I took to be a birthmark

covering most of his face. He was unusually pale-skinned, and the mark

took the form of grey dapples, like fern-patterns on the skin, that extended

from his forehead down over his cheek to his shoulder.

"That?" Surilyn said. I questioned her when the boy wasn't around.

"That's marshflower. It only means his telestre borders the Fens."

I had to be content with that. Later, in warmer waters, some of the crew

stripped to the waist and I saw that the "marshflower" extended over his

torso. The pattern grew larger and darker, almost black in places. Natural

markings, I realized. Zu'Ritchie was not the only one with it, though his

was most pronounced; and he was a little teased because of it.

The second shock—and it was only a shock because it was so like and

yet unlike humanity—came when I saw the rudimentary second pair of

nipples that both sexes carried low on the ribs. Most of the women were

small-breasted compared to the Earth-norm, their bronze-brown nipples as

small as the males'. I suspected that in times past, if not now, the

Ortheans had littered a larger number of children at one birth than we

ever did.

I watched Surilyn coiling a rope, the muscles moving smoothly under

her brown skin. Her black mane was unbraided, and I saw that it rooted

down her spine to a point well below the shoulderblades.

My own hackles raised at the thought. Almost us, and yet not us.

I wondered what other, less visible, differences there might be between

our two species.

A thin line grew out of the haze and became solid. Surilyn, leaning

beside me on the rail, pointed.

"Those are the Melkathi Flats ... see those hills on the horizon? That's

the beginning of Ymir."

We were not close in to the coast, I noted. No passenger was going to

jump ship and slip away . . . Not that I would; at the moment I needed to

act through official channels.

"How long until Tathcaer?"

"We'll be in on the noon tide, if the wind holds."

Carrick V has no satellite and therefore only solar tides, low at dawn and

sunset, high at midnight and midday.

"I'm going below," Surilyn yawned. She squinted at the dawn haze,

which showed no sign of clearing. "Noon, If the wind holds."

"Christie," Zu'Ritchie called, "fan Geren wants to see you in his cabin."

"I'll be right down, tell him. Sounds like my holiday's over," I observed.

"I'm sorry," the black-maned woman said. "All you've told us, about the

Otherworlds, they were fine stories."

"But did you believe them?"

She grinned. "Can't say that I did. But I'll be sure and tell my children."

"You're going home after this voyage?"

She shrugged. "The ship's due for refitting, I'll stay aboard. Likely Suan

will bring them down from my telestre, they're old enough. She's their

milk-mother."

I had no time to press the point.

"Till I see you, Surilyn."

"Till we meet, Christie."

I went below and found Geren in his cabin. He straightened up from the

map-table as I entered.

"Drink?"

"Thanks." I smelled the spicy odour of herb-tea brewing. I crossed the

swaying cabin to look at the charts.

The first was a single-hemisphere map. There was no indication of what

the survey satellite showed in the other hemisphere: a myriad islands,

none with civilization above the stone age level. This was a map of the

oikumene, civilized Orthe.

It had the look of all old cartography, ornate and inaccurate. There were

two continents joined by a long island-archipelago. Most of the

northernmost continent was left blank, but its southern coast was filled in

with what I assumed were cities, kingdoms, ports—and was annotated

Suthai-Telestre, the Southland, and so must be our destination.

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摘要：

GoldenWitchbreedMaryGentle1983PrincipalCharactersLynnedeLisleChristie,envoySamHuxton,marinebiologist,headoftheDominionxeno-team:TimothyEliot,xeno-biologyAudreyEliot,xeno-ecology(land)JohnLalkaka,geologistMargeryHuxton,xeno-ecology(sea)ElspethHuxton,herdaughterJohnBarratt,demographerDr.K.Adair,medica...

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Mary Gentle - Golden Witchbreed

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