Orson Scott Card - Homecoming 2 - The Call of Earth

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Orson Scott Card: Homecoming volume 1 - The Call of Earth
v1.0 [13-nov-01] 4i Publications. OCR'd 600DPI, Finereader 5, layout, quick
proof inW2k . The original paperback was below average, so there'll be some
OCR errors. Most common OCR errors have been corrected. If you proofread or
change this document, please retain the existing version information. Also
indicate what has been improved (proofreading, layout etc).
To
Dave Dollahite
Teacher and dreamer
Husband and father
Friend and fellow citizen
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I owe thanks to many for easing my way through the writing of this book. Clark
and Kathy Kidd provided me with a refuge during the last week of the writing
of this novel; half of it came forth under their roof, and with their good
company.
A writer's life can so easily slip into undisciplined sloth; my body has long
reflected the physical indolence of a mentally exhausting career. This book
owes much to the fact that during the writing of it I woke my body up again: I
owe thanks to Clark Kidd and Scott Alien for sweating with me as I tortured a
new bicycle into submission on the roads and bikepaths of northern Virginia
and on the streets and strands of North Myrtle Beach.
Several readers helped me reconcile this book with its predecessor, reading
scraps of manuscript as they emerged from my printer, most notably Kathy Kidd
and Russell Card. My editor on this series is Beth Meacham; my publisher is
Tom Doherty; it is no accident that I have done the best work of my life so
far for them. And my agent, Barbara Bova, has been a constant help and wise
counselor during a turbulent time.
This novel was supposed to be easy, but it turned out not to be. Moozh
complicated everything, and yet made it all worth doing. During the long
struggle to make Moozh and the rest of the story fit together, I imagine that
I was barely tolerable to live with, but still my wife", Kristine, and our
children, Geoffrey, Emily, and Charlie Ben, were willing to keep me around; it
is the joy of my life to find them always around me when I surface from
immersion in my work. And, as always, Kristine has been my first and best
editor and audience, reading my work with a sharp and trustworthy eye, then
telling me what I have written so I can keep or alter it as need be.
CONTENTS
MAPS (see attached gif files: Streets, Districts, Environs)
NOTES ON PARENTAGE (see attached gif file Parentage)
NICKNAMES
NOTES ON NAMES
PROLOGUE
1 BETRAYAL
2 OPPORTUNITY
3 PROTECTION
4 WIVES
5 HUSBANDS
6 WEDDINGS
7 DAUGHTERS EPILOGUE
NICKNAMES
Most names have diminutive or familiar forms. For instance, Gaballufix's near
kin, close friends, current mate, and former mates could call him Gabya. Other
nicknames are listed here. (Again, because these names are so unfamiliar,
names of female characters are set off in italics.):
Dhelembuvex-Dhel
Dol-Dolya,
Drotik-Dorya
Eiadh-Edhya
Elemak-Elya
Hosni-Hosya
Hushidh-Shuya
Issib-Issya
Kokor-Koya
Luet-Lutya
Mebbekew-Meb
Nafai-Nyef
Obring-Briya
Rasa-(no diminutive)
Rashgallivak-Rash
Roptat-Rop
Sevet-Sevya
Shedemei-Shedya.
Truzhnisha-Truzhya,
Vas-Vasya
Volemak-Volya
Wetchik-(no diminutive; 's family title) Zdorab-Zodya
NOTES ON NAMES
For the purpose of reading this story silently to yourself, it hardly matters
whether the reader pronounces the names of the characters correctly. But for
those who might be interested, here is some information concerning the
pronunciation of names.
The rules of vowel formation in the language of Basilica require that in most
nouns, including names, at least one vowel be pronounced with a leading y
sound. With names, it can be almost any vowel, and it can legitimately be
changed at the speaker's preference. Thus the name Gaballufix could be
pronounced Gyah-BAH-loo-fix or Gah-BAH-lyoo-fix; it happens that Gaballufix
himself preferred to pronounce it Gah-BYAH-loo-fix, and of course most people
followed that usage.
Dhelembuvex [thel-EM-byoo-vex]
Dol [DYOHL]
Drotik [DROHT-yik]
Eiadh [AY-yahth]
Elemak [EL-yeh-mahk]
Hosni [HYOZ-nee]
HushM [HYOO-sheeth]
Issib [IS-yib]
Kokor [RYOH-kor]
Luet [LYOO-etJ
Mebbekew [MEB-bek-kyoo]
Nafai [NYAH-fie]
Obring [OB-rying]
Rasa. [RAHZ-yah]
Rashgallivak [rahsh-GYAH-lih-vahk]
Roptat [ROPE-tyaht]
Sevet [SEV-yet]
Shedemei [SHYED-di-may]
Truzhnisha [troozh-NYEE-shah]
Vas [VYAHS]
Volemak [VOHL-yeh-mak]
Wetchik [WET-chyick]
Zdorab [ZDOR-yab]
PROLOGUE
The master computer of the planet Harmony was not designed to interfere so
directly in human affairs. It was deeply disturbed by the fact that it had
just provoked young Nafai to murder Gaballufix. But how could the master
computer return to Earth without the Index? And how could Nafai have got the
Index without killing Gaballufix? There was no other way.
Or was there? I am old, said the master computer to itself. Forty million
years old, a machine designed to lost for nowhere near this long. How can I be
sure that my judgment is right? And yet I caused a man to die for my judgment,
and young Nafai is suffering the pangs of guilt because of what I urged him to
do. All of this in order to carry the Index back to Zvezdakroog, so I could
return to Earth.
If only I could speak to the Keeper of Earth. If only the Keeper could tell me
what to do now. Then I could act with confidence. Then I would not have to
doubt my every action, to wonder if everything I do might not be the product
of my own decay.
The master computer needed so badly to speak to the Keeper; yet it could not
speak to the Keeper except by returning to Earth. It was so frustratingly
circular. The master computer could not act wisely without the help of the
Keeper; it had to act wisely in order to get to the Keeper.
What now? What now? I needed wisdom, and yet who can guide me? I have vastly
more knowledge than any human can hope to master, and yet I have no minds but
human minds to counsel me.
Was it possible that human minds might be enough? No computer could ever be so
brilliantly dysorganized as the human brain. Humans made the most astonishing
decisions based on mere fragments of data, because their brain recombined them
in strange and truthful ways. It was possible, surety, that some useful wisdom
might be extracted from them.
Then again, maybe not. But It was worth trying, wasn't it?
The master computer reached out through its satellites and sent images into
the minds of those humans most receptive to its transmissions. These images
from the master computer began to move through their memories, forcing their
minds to deal with them, to fit them together, to make sense of them. To make
from them the strange and powerful stories they called dreams. Perhaps in the
next few days, the next few weeks, their dreams would bring to the surface
some connection or understanding that the master computer could use to help it
decide how to bring the best of them out of the planet Harmony and take them
home to Earth.
AH these years I have taught and guided, shaped and protected them. Now, in
the end of my life, are they ready to teach and guide, shape and protect me?
So unlikely. So unlikely. I will surely be forced to decide it all myself. And
when I do, I will surely do it wrong. Perhaps I should not act at all. Perhaps
I should not act at all. I should not act. Will not. Must.
Wait.
Wait.
Again, wait....
ONE
BETRAYAL
THE DREAM OF THE GENERAL
General Vozmuzhalnoy Vozmozhno awoke from his dream, sweating, moaning. He
opened his eyes, reached out with his hand, clutching. A hand caught his own,
held it.
A man's hand. It was General Plodorodnuy. His most trusted lieutenant. His
dearest friend. His inmost heart.
"You were dreaming, Moozh." It was the nickname that only Plod dared to use to
his face.
"Yes, I was." Vozmuzhalnoy-Moozh-shuddered at the memory. "Such a dream."
"Was it portentous?"
"Horrifying, anyway."
"Tell me. I have a way with dreams."
"Yes, I know, like you have a way with women. When you're through with them,
they say whatever you want them to say!"
Plod laughed, but then he waited. Moozh did not know why he was reluctant to
tell this dream to Plod. He had told him so many others. "All right, then,
here is my dream. I saw a man standing in a clearing, and all around him,
terrible flying creatures-not birds, they had fur, but much larger than bats-
they kept circling, swooping down, touching him. He stood there and did
nothing. And when at last they all had touched him, they flew away, except
one, who perched on his shoulder.''
"Ah," said Plod.
"I'm not finished. Immediately there came giant rats, swarming out of burrows
in the Earth. At least a meter long-half as tall as the man. And again, they
kept coming until all of them had touched him-”
“With what? Their teeth? Their paws?"
"And their noses. Touched him, that's all I knew. Don't distract me.”
“Forgive me."
"When they'd all touched him, they went away.”
“Except one."
"Yes. It clung to his leg. You see the pattern.”
“What came next?"
Moozh shuddered. It had been the most terrible thing of all, and yet now as
the words came to his lips, he couldn't understand why. "People.”
“People? Coming to touch him?”
“To ... to kiss him. His hands, his feet. To worship him. Thousands of them.
Only they didn't kiss just the man. They kissed the-flying thing, too. And the
giant rat clinging to his leg. Kissed them all.”
“Ah," said Plod. He looked worried. "So? What is it? What does it portend?”
“Obviously the man you saw is the Imperator." Sometimes Plod's interpretations
sounded like truth, but this time Moozh's heart rebelled at the idea of
linking the Imperator with the man in the dream. "Why is that obvious? He
looked nothing like the Imperator."
"Because all of nature and humankind worshipped him, of course."
Moozh shrugged. This was not one of Plod's most subtle interpretations. And he
had never heard of animals loving the Imperator, who fancied himself a great
hunter. Of course, he only hunted in one of his parks, where all the animals
had been tamed to lose their fear of men, and all the predators trained to act
ferocious but never strike. The Imperator got to act his part in a great show
of the contest between man and beast, but he was never in danger as the animal
innocently exposed itself to his quick dart, his straight javelin, his
merciless blade. If this was worship, if this was nature, then yes, one could
say that all of nature and humankind worshipped the Imperator. . . .
Plod, of course, knew nothing of Moozh's thoughts in this vein; if one was so
unfortunate as to have caustic thoughts about the Imperator, one took care not
to burden one's friends with the knowledge of them.
So Plod continued in his interpretation of Moozh's dream. "What does it
portend, this worship of the Imperator? Nothing in itself. But the fact that
it revolted you, the fact that you recoiled in horror-"
"They were kissing a rat, Plod! They were kissing that disgusting flying
creature . . ."
But Plod said nothing as his voice trailed off. Said nothing, and watched him.
"I am not horrified at the thought of people worshipping the Imperator. I have
knelt at the Invisible Throne myself, and felt the awe of his presence. It
wasn't horrible, it was . . . ennobling."
"So you say," said Plod. "But dreams don't lie. Perhaps you need to purge
yourself of some evil in your heart."
"Look, you're the one who said my dream was about the Imperator. Why couldn't
the man have been-I don't know-the ruler of Basilica."
"Because the miserable city of Basilica is ruled by women."
"Not Basilica, then. Still, I think the dream was about ..."
"About what?"
"How should I know? I will purge myself, just in case you're right. I'm not an
interpreter of dreams." That would mean wasting several hours today at the
tent of the intercessor. It was so tedious, but it was also politically
necessary to spend a certain amount of time there every month, or reports of
one's impiety soon made their way back to Gollod, where the Imperator decided
from time to time who was worthy of command and who was worthy of debasement
or death. Moozh was about due for a visit to the intercessor's tabernacle
anyway, but he hated it the way a boy hates a bath. "Leave me alone, Plod.
You've made me very unhappy."
Plod knelt before him and held Moozh's right hand between his own. "Ah,
forgive me."
Moozh forgave him at once, of course, because they were friends. Later that
morning he went out and killed the headmen of a dozen Khlami villages. All the
villagers immediately swore their eternal love and devotion to the Imperator,
and when General Vozmuzhalnoy Vozmozhno went that evening to purge himself in
the holy tabernacle, the intercessor forgave him right readily, for he had
much increased the honor and majesty of the Imperator that day.
IN BASILICA, AND NOT IN A DREAM
They came to hear Kokor sing, came from all over the city of Basilica, and she
loved to see how their faces brightened when-finally-she came out onto the
stage and the musicians began gently plucking their strings or letting breath
pass through their instruments in the soft undercurrent of sound that was
always her accompaniment. Kokor will sing to us at last, their faces said. She
liked that expression on their faces better than any other she ever saw,
better even than the look of a man being overwhelmed with lust in the last
moments before satisfaction. For she well knew that a man cared little who
gave him the pleasures of love, while the audience cared very much that it was
Kokor who stood before them on the stage and opened her mouth in the high,
soaring notes of her unbelievably sweet lyric voice that floated over the
music like petals on a stream.
Or at least that was how she wanted it to be. How she imagined it to be, until
she actually walked onstage and saw them looking at her. The audience tonight
was mostly men. Men with their eyes going up and down her body. I should
refuse to sing in the comedies, she told herself again. I should insist on
being taken as seriously as they take my beloved sister Sevet with her
mannishly low, froggishly mannered voice. Oh, they look at her with faces of
aesthetic ecstasy. Audiences of men and women together. They don't look her
body up and down to see how it moves under the fabric. Of \ course, that
could be partly because her body is so overfleshed that it isn't really a
pleasure to watch, it moves so much like gravel under her costume, poor thing.
Of course they dose their eyes and listen to her voice-it's so much better
than watching her.
What a lie. What a liar I am, even when I'm talking only to myself!
I mustn't be so impatient. It's only a matter of time. Sevet is older-I'm
still barely eighteen. She had to do the comedies, too, for a time, till she
was known.
Kokor remembered her sister talking in those early days-more than two years
ago, when Sevet was almost seventeen-about constantly having to dampen the
ardor of her admirers, who had a penchant for entering her dressing room quite
primed for immediate love, until she had to hire a bodyguard to discourage the
more passionate ones. "It's all about sex," said Sevet then. "The songs, the
shows, they're all about sex, and that's all the audience dreams of. Just be
careful you don't make them dream too well-or too specifically!"
Good advice? Hardly. The more they dream of you, the greater the cash value of
your name on the handbills advertising the play. Until finally, if you're
lucky, if you're good enough, the handbill doesn't have to say the name of a
show at all. Only your name, and the place, and the day, and the time . . .
and when you show up they're all there, hundreds of them, and when the music
starts they don't look at you like the last hope of a starving man, they look
at you like the highest dream of an elevated soul.
Kokor strode to her place on the stage-and there was applause when she
entered. She turned to the audience and let out a thrilling high note.
"What was that?" demanded Gulya, the actor who played the old lecher. "Are you
screaming already? I haven't even touched you yet."
The audience laughed-but not enough. This play was in trouble. This play had
had its weaknesses from the start, she well knew, but with a mere smattering
of laughter like that, it was doomed. So in a few more days she'd have to
start rehearsing all over again. Another show. Another set of stupid lyrics
and stupid melodies to memorize.
Sevet got to decide her own songs. Songwriters came to her and begged her to
sing what they had composed.
Sevet didn't have to misuse her voice just to make people laugh.
"I wasn't screaming," Kokor sang.
"You're screaming now," sang Gulya as he sidled close and started to fondle
her. His gravelly bass was always good for a laugh when he used it like that,
and the audience was with him. Maybe they could pull this show out of the mud
after all.
"But now you're touching me!" And her voice rose to its highest pitch and hung
there in the air-
Like a bird, like a bird soaring, if only they were listening for beauty.
Gulya made a terrible face and withdrew his hand from her breast. Immediately
she dropped her note two octaves. She got the laugh. The best laugh of the
scene so far. But she knew that half the audience was laughing because Gulya
did such a fine comic turn when he removed his hand from her bosom. He was a
master, he really was. Sad that his sort of clowning had fallen a bit out of
fashion lately. He was only getting better as he got older, and yet the
audience was slipping away. Looking for the more bitter, nasty comedy of the
young physical satirists. The brutal, violent comedy that always gave at least
the illusion of hurting somebody.
The scene went on. The laughs came. The scene ended. Applause. Kokor scurried
off the stage in relief- and disappointment. No one in the audience was
chanting her name; no one had even shouted it once like a catcall. How long
would she have to wait?
"Too pretty," said Tumannu, the stagekeeper, her face sour. "That note's
supposed to sound like you're reaching sexual climax. Not like a bird."
"Yes yes," said Kokor, "I'm so sorry." She always agreed with everybody and
then did what she wanted. This comedy wasn't worth doing if she couldn't show
her voice to best advantage at least now and then. And it got the laugh when
she did it her way, didn't it? So nobody could very well say that her way was
wrong. Tumannu just wanted her to be obedient, and Kokor didn't intend to be
obedient. Obedience was for children and husbands and household pets.
"Not like a bird," said Tumannu again.
"How about like a bird reaching sexual climax?" asked Gulya, who had come
offstage right after her.
Kokor giggled, and even Tumannu smiled her tight sour little smile.
"There's someone waiting for you, Kyoka," said Tumannu.
It was a man. But not an aficionado of her work, or he'd have been out front,
watching her perform. She had seen him before. Ah, yes-he showed up now and
then when Mother's permanent husband, Wetchik, came to visit. He was Wetchik's
chief servant, wasn't he? Manager of the exotic flower business when Wetchik
was away on caravan. What was his name?
"I am Rashgallivak," he said. He looked very grave.
"Oh?" she said.
"I am deeply sorry to inform you that your father has met with brutal
violence."
What an extraordinary thing to tell her. She could hardly make sense of it for
a moment. "Someone has injured him?"
"Fatally, madam."
"Oh," she said. There was meaning to this, and she would find it. "Oh, then
that would mean that he's .. . dead?"
"Accosted on the street and murdered in cold blood," said Rashgallivak.
It wasn't even a surprise, really, when you thought about it. Father had been
making such a bully of himself lately, putting all those masked soldiers on
the streets. Terrifying everybody. But Father was so strong and intense that
it was hard to imagine anything actually thwarting him for long. Certainly not
permanently. "There's no hope of... recovery?"
Gulya had been standing near enough that now he easily inserted himself into
the conversation. "It seems to be a normal case of death, madam, which means
the prognosis isn't good." He giggled.
Rashgallivak gave him quite a vicious shove and sent him staggering. "That
wasn't funny," he said.
"They're letting critics backstage now?" said Gulya. "During the performance?"
"Go away, Gulya," said Kokor. It had been a mistake to sleep with the old man.
Ever since then he had thought he had some claim to intimacy with her.
"Naturally it would be best if you came with me," said Rashgallivak.
"But no," said Kokor. "No, that wouldn't be best." Who was he? He wasn't any
kin to her at all, not that she knew of. She would have to go to Mother. Did
Mother know yet? "Does Mother ..."
"Naturally I told her first, and she told me where to find you. This is a very
dangerous time, and I promised her that I would protect you."
Kokor knew he was lying, of course. Why should she need this stranger to
protect her? From what? Men always got this way, though, insisting that a
woman who hadn't a fear in the world needed watching out for. Ownership,
that's what men always meant when they spoke of protection. If she wanted a
man to own her, she had a husband, such as he was. She hardly needed this old
pizdook to look out for her.
"Where's Sevet?"
"She hasn't been found yet. I must insist that you come with me."
Now Tumannu had to get into the scene. "She's going nowhere. She has three
more scenes, including the climax."
Rashgallivak turned on her, and now there was some hint of majesty about him,
instead of mere vague befuddlement. "Her father has been killed," he said.
"And you suppose she will stay to finish a play?" Or had the majesty been
there all along, and she simply hadn't noticed it until now?
"Sevet ought to know about Father," said Kokor.
"She'll be told as soon as we can find her."
Who is we? Never mind, thought Kokor. I know where to find her. I know all her
rendezvous, where she takes her lovers to avoid giving affront to her poor
husband Vas. Sevet and Vas, like Kokor and Obring, had a flexible marriage,
but Vas seemed less comfortable with it than Obring was. Some men were so ...
territorial. Probably it was because Vas was a scientist, not an artist at
all. Obring, on the other hand, understood the artistic life. He would never
dream of holding Kokor to the letter of their marriage contract. He sometimes
joked quite cheerfully about the men she was seeing.
Though, of course, Kokor would never actually insult Obring by mentioning them
herself. If he heard a rumor about a lover, that was one thing. When he
mentioned it, she would simply toss her head and say, "You silly. You're the
only man I love."
And in an odd sort of way it was true. Obring was such a dear, even if he had
no acting talent at all. He always brought her presents and told her the most
wonderful gossip. No wonder she had stayed married to him through two renewals
already-people often remarked on how faithful she was, to still be married to
her first husband for a third year, when she was young and beautiful and could
marry anyone. True, marrying him in the first place was simply to please his
mother, old Dhel, who had served as her auntie and who was Mother's dearest
friend. But she had grown to like Obring, genuinely like him. Being married to
him was very comfortable and sweet. As long as she could sleep with whomever
she liked.
It would be fun to find Sevet and walk in on her and see whom she was sleeping
with tonight. Kokor hadn't pounced on her that way in years. Find her with
some naked, sweating man, tell her that Father was dead, and then watch that
poor man's face as he gradually realized that he was all done with love for
the night!
"I'll tell Sevet," said Kokor.
"You'll come with me" insisted Rashgallivak.
"You'll stay and finish the show," said Tumannu.
"The show is nothing but a ... an otsoss" said Kokor, using the crudest term
she could think of.
Tumannu gasped and Rashgallivak reddened and Gulya chuckled his little low
chuckle. "Now that's an idea," he said.
Kokor patted Tumannu on the arm. "It's all right," she said. "I'm fired."
"Yes, you are!" cried Tumannu. "And if you leave here tonight your career is
finished!"
Rashgallivak sneered at her. "With her share of her father's inheritance
she'll buy your little stage and your mother, too."
Tumannu looked defiant. "Oh, really? Who was her father, Gaballufix?"
Rashgallivak looked genuinely surprised. "Didn't you know?"
Clearly Tumannu had not known. Kokor pondered this for a moment and realized
it meant that she must not ever have mentioned it to Tumannu. And that meant
that Kokor had not traded on her father's name and prestige, which meant that
she had got this part on her own. How wonderful!
"I knew she was the great Sevet's sister" said Tumannu. "Why else do you think
I hired her? But I never dreamed they had the same father"
For a moment Kokor felt a flash of rage, hot as a furnace. But she contained
it instantly, controlled it perfectly. It would never do to let such a flame
burn freely. No telling what she would do or say if she ever let herself go at
such a time as this.
"I must find Sevet," said Kokor.
"No," said Rashgallivak. He might have intended to say more, but at that
moment he laid a hand on Kokor's arm to restrain her, and so of course she
brought her knee sharply up into his groin, as all the comedy actresses were
taught to do when an unwelcome admirer became too importunate. It was a
reflex. She really hadn't even meant to do it. Nor had she meant to do it with
such force. He wasn't a very heavy man, and it rather lifted him off the
ground.
"I must find Sevet," Kokor said, by way of explanation. He probably didn't
hear her. He was groaning too loudly as he lay there on the wooden floor
backstage.
"Where's the understudy?" Tumannu was saying. "Not even three minutes'
warning, the poor little bizdoon."
"Does it hurt?" Gulya was asking Rashgallivak. "I mean, what is pain, when you
really think about it?"
Kokor wandered off into the darkness, heading for Dauberville. Her thigh
throbbed, just above the knee, where she had pushed it so forcefully into
Rashgallivak's crotch. She'd probably end up with a bruise there, and then
she'd have to use an opaque sheen on her legs. Such a bother.
Father's dead. I must be the one to tell Sevet. Please don't let anyone else
find her first. And murdered. People will talk about this for years. I will
look rather fine in the white of mourning. Poor Sevet-her skin always looks
red as a beet when she wears white. But she won't dare stop wearing mourning
until I do. I may mourn for poor Papa for years and years and years.
Kokor laughed and laughed to herself as she walked along.
And then she realized she wasn't laughing at all, she was crying. Why am I
crying? she wondered. Because Father is dead. That must be it, that must be
what all this commotion is about. Father, poor Father. I must have loved him,
because I'm crying now without having decided to, without anybody even
watching. Who ever would have guessed that I loved him?
"Wake up." It was an urgent whisper. "Aunt Rasa wants us. "Wake up!"
Luet could not understand why Hushidh was saying this. "I wasn't even asleep,"
she mumbled.
“Oh, you were sleeping, all right," said her sister Hushidh. "You were
snoring."
Luet sat up. "Honking like a goose, I'm sure."
"Braying like a donkey," said Hushidh, "but my love for you turns it into
music."
"That's why I do it," said Luet. "To give you music in the night." She reached
for her housedress, pulled it over her head.
"Aunt Rasa wants us," Hushidh urged. "Come quickly." She glided out of the
room, moving in a kind of dance, her gown floating behind her. In shoes or
sandals Hushidh always clumped along, but barefoot she moved like a woman in a
dream, like a bit of cotton-wood fluff in a breeze.
Luet followed her sister out into the hall, still buttoning the front of her
housedress. What could it be, that Rasa would want to speak to her and
Hushidh? With all the troubles that had come lately, Luet feared the worst.
Was it possible that Rasa's son Nafai had not escaped from the city after all?
Only yesterday, Luet had led him along forbidden paths, down into the lake
that only women could see. For the Oversoul had told her that Nafai must see
it, must float on it like a woman, like a waterseer-like Luet herself. So she
took him there, and he was not slain for his blasphemy. She led him out the
Private Gate then, and through the Trackless Wood. She had thought he was
safe. But of course he was not safe. Because Nafai wouldn't simply have gone
back out into the desert, back to his father's tent-not without the thing that
his father had sent him to get.
Aunt Rasa was waiting in her room, but she was not alone. There was a soldier
with her. Not one of Gaballufix's men-his mercenaries, his thugs, pretending
to be Palwashantu militia. No, this soldier was one of the city guards, a
gatekeeper.
She could hardly notice him, though, beyond recognizing his insignia, because
Rasa herself looked so ... no, not frightened, really. It was no emotion Luet
had ever seen in her before. Her eyes wide and glazed with tears, her face not
firmly set, but slack, exhausted, as if things were happening in her heart
that her face could not express.
"Gaballufix is dead," said Rasa.
That explained much. Gaballufix was the enemy in recent months, his paid
tolchoks terrorizing people on the streets, and then his soldiers, masked and
anonymous, terrifying people even more as they ostensibly made the streets of
Basilica "safe" for its citizens. Yet, enemy though he was, Gaballufix had
also been Rasa's husband, the father of her two daughters, Sevet and Kokon.
There had been love there once, and the bonds of family are not easily broken,
not for a serious woman like Rasa. Luet was no raveler like her sister
Hushidh, but she knew that Rasa was still bound to Gaballufix, even though she
detested all his recent actions.
"I grieve for his widow," said Luet, "but I rejoice for the city."
Hushidh, though, gazed with a calculating eye on the soldier. "This man didn't
bring you that news, I think."
"No," said Rasa. "No, I learned of Gaballufix's death from Rashgallivak. It
seems Rashgallivak was appointed ... the new Wetchik."
Luet knew that this was a devastating blow. It meant that Rasa's husband,
Volemak, who bad been the Wetchik, now had no property, no rights, no standing
in the Palwashantu clan at all. And Rashgallivak, who had been his trusted
steward, now stood in his place. Was there no honor in the world? "When did
Rashgallivak ascend to this honor?"
"Before Gaballufix died-Gab appointed him, of course, and I'm sure he loved
doing it. So there's a kind of justice in the fact that Rash has now taken
leadership of the Palwashantu clan, taking Gab's place as well. So yes, you're
right, Rash is rising rather quickly in the world. While others fall. Roptat
is also dead tonight."
"No," whispered Hushidh.
Roptat had been the leader of the pro-Gorayni party, the group trying to keep
the city of Basilica out of the coming war between the Gorayni and Potokgavan.
With him gone, what chance was there of peace?
"Yes, both dead tonight," said Rasa. The leaders of both the parties that have
torn our city apart. But here is the worst of it. The rumor is that my son
Nafai is the slayer of them both."
"Not true," said Luet. "Not possible."
"So I thought," said Rasa. "I didn't wake you for the rumor."
Now Luet understood fully the turmoil in Aunt Rasa's face. Nafai was Aunt
Rasa's pride, a brilliant young man. And more-for Luet knew well that Nafai
also was close to the Oversoul. What happened to him was not just important to
those who loved him, it was also important to the city, perhaps to the world.
"This soldier has word of Nafai, then?"
Rasa nodded at the soldier, who had sat in silence until now.
"My name is Smelost," he said, rising to his feet to speak to them. “I was
tending the gate. I saw two men approach. One of them pressed his thumb on the
screen and the computer of Basilica knew him to be Zdorab, the treasurer of
Gaballufix's house."
"And the other?" asked Hushidh.
摘要：

OrsonScottCard:Homecomingvolume1-TheCallofEarthv1.0[13-nov-01]4iPublications.OCR'd600DPI,Finereader5,layout,quickproofinW2k.Theoriginalpaperbackwasbelowaverage,sothere'llbesomeOCRerrors.MostcommonOCRerrorshavebeencorrected.Ifyouproofreadorchangethisdocument,pleaseretaintheexistingversioninformation....

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