7: Garden Morning
SPECIAL Envoy Niala Mavis of the Botharan Planetary Government, signatory of the Mavis Peace Accord and the People’s Hero, sat cross-legged on a striped blanket in the Garden, shoes set aside, her elegant green-and-gold jacket tossed carelessly over her large portfolio, her eyes unfocused and cast skyward as she chewed the last of the hayberries we’d picked.
I’d gladly given her my share—and couldn’t resist giving her Paul’s. Observing Nia’s bliss, I didn’t interrupt to tell her she’d a spot of green berry juice on the tip of her nose, though seeing the line of stinger bugs making a foray toward her bare toes, I’d have to advise her to move to the other end of the blanket sooner than later.
“Mmm. Thank you, Esen.” Nia pulled her toes out of danger. She’d long toes and long graceful fingers, and an attractive face able to assume whatever expression she wished. Right now, that was relaxed and happy. Her cap of black hair was tamed in the smooth waves that were the height of fashion on the other side of the ocean; a single lock rebelled, curling over her right eyebrow.
I found the wild little curl reassuring as I met a curious gaze every bit as intense as Paul’s, if from blue eyes. “I haven’t had fresh picked hayberries since—for a very long time,” Nia said. “Did you know they’re my favorite?”
Because she reminded me of my friend, and had been his, I shook my head. “I didn’t. They’re all that’s ripe in the Garden.”
“The first taste of spring.” Her wide mouth curved. “I’ve missed them.”
Mousels tasted better. Not an opinion to share. “Aren’t there hayberries in Grandine?”
“Not the same. They’re—” Nia scrunched her face to illustrate the taste, her eyes disappearing in a delightfully weird expression I’d a feeling she didn’t use in the capital. Her features relaxed back into her easy smile. “Besides, it wouldn’t do to be caught asking for anything so—ordinary. Ridiculous as it seems, Esen, even what I eat makes the news these days.”
Ah. Botharan society was young enough to sneer at the plain country fare that had sustained its founding population. At some point, restaurants would rediscover it as the latest cuisine. Human culture had its predictabilities.
But it wasn’t right that Nia’s new importance to her world deprived her of what gave her bliss. I thought hard, then cheered, ears up. “The crop isn’t over. I’ll send you a box of hayberries and label it as—as tea leaves. You could eat them in secret. Do you have a closet?” I’d some experience. “Would that work?”
She’d the sort of laugh that invited you to keep it company. “I won’t say no. But make it soap and please send to my home, Esen, not the office. It’ll be a welcome—” Her laugh stopped as she looked past me, her features settling into a pleasant anticipation that wasn’t.
I turned, unsurprised to see Paul, and kept my ears at cheerful with an effort. It wasn’t right, that a good person like Nia wasn’t happy to see him.
And wasn’t my problem, I told myself, for what good it did.
My friend came down the narrow, irregular stairs, surveying his surroundings with interest, this being his first time here. He protected the tray of drinks he carried from the tall Cully Grass leaning in from either side and water beaded the glasses and his forehead; today’s weather was what locals called a Touch o’Summer, hot and intensely humid despite being spring. The sort of weather that made picking the first crop of berries both challenge and reward.
And might bring thunderstorms. WET! With a shudder, I kept a wary eye on the horizon.
With a smile at me, Paul set the tray on the blanket and nodded a greeting to our guest. “Hello, Nia. You’ve got some—” He put a finger to his nose.
Nia rubbed hers with the back of her hand, chuckling at the transferred spot of green. “So I do. Thanks.”
The simple exchange somehow eased the tension between them. In romance vids, at least in some Human ones—there being sufficient variation in species’ courtship rituals to have kept Ansky entertained for millennia—this would be my cue to make an excuse to leave the potential couple together, which might be all they’d need—
Paul’s look pinned me in place before I could make the attempt. Not that I would. I twitched my ears as if to dislodge an insect. We’d serious matters to discuss.
He brushed the bugs aside and sat, pulling off his shoes, then rolling up his pant legs. “Leave me any berries?”
Nia raised the empty basket. “Sorry.”
She didn’t appear sorry. On the other hand, Paul didn’t appear perturbed to have missed his treat. I was missing something. “There’ll be more tomorrow,” I promised. Hayberry bushes grew in abundance among the rocks early settlers had removed from fields and piled into their first fences, bushes presently full of almost-but-not-ripe berries and the drone of a multitude of pollinators seeking their own harvest from the latest flowers.
My dislike for the smell—let alone the taste—made nosing out mousels trickier than usual. I suspected the wee things knew it.
The Humans took up their drinks. Having rumps like cushions, the species enjoyed sitting like this. As for my Lanivarian-self?
With Paul’s unspoken stay, Esen, I decided there was no need not to make myself equally comfortable. I walked my hands forward until I could ease to my belly, resting my chin on crossed arms to regard my companions. Having chosen my spot on the blanket with care, this put my haunches in the warm sun and the rest of me in partial shade, leading to the logical conclusion that I might close my eyes and thus not be third at the picnic, and wouldn’t a nap be wonderful—not that I was tired—
Nudge. I opened my eyes to glower at Paul, who withdrew his foot with an unrepentant snort. “No time for napping, Fangface,” he said briskly. “Esolesy Ki arrives tomorrow morning. We’ve matters to discuss.”
Which I knew, hence my offering the most private part of the Garden for what was almost a picnic instead of any of its fifteen patios. Not that I’d told Paul this space—enclosed by stone and hidden by hedges of Red-tipped Conchie, with trees arching overhead to form an airy, leafy roof—was where the Web of Esen met to share.
Not that there’d been a meeting or sharing here since Lesy arrived, though I was relieved nothing had been turned into art yet.
Paul would know I’d created it for that purpose. Detect sentiment in the six sides of the mossy stonework beneath our blanket, for the Web of Ersh had held that number, and—
Being Paul and my friend, above all he’d comprehend the gesture I made, inviting two Humans here.
Unwittingly, I’d stared at him as I’d thought all this through. Able to read me in any form, Paul leaned over to scratch under my ear, murmuring, “An honor, Es.” In response, I let my tail thump against the blanket.
Only once, hardly noticeable—unless you were an adult Lanivarian who would and get huffy about manners in public, which we hardly were—but Nia shifted, almost spilling her drink. Her cheeks were pink.
Paul’s gained color too. He snatched his hand back as if my fur burned his fingers, then looked as if he didn’t quite know what to do with it.
Humans. I stretched my neck to bring my snout in range of Nia’s bare toes, stealing a quick lick before she could move. She started, then laughed. “What was that for?”
Her skin tasted of Nia, pleasantly so, and bruised moss. Not so much. “We’re alone in my safe place,” I said smugly, trying not to obviously spit. “You’re welcome to touch me as well, Nia, if you’re curious.”
To my delight, she didn’t hesitate, going on her knees to come close, though I showed a warning fang when her first impulse was to reach for my admittedly fluffy tail.
“Under the ears,” Paul suggested quickly.
Much better.
Fortunately, I was well groomed, having thought ahead to her visit. Her fingers sank into the fur of my neck and she let out a small pleased sound. “So soft!”
Of course I was, this me’s fur like issa silk compared to the nasty wiry coat of the Botharan canid. Especially there—where—I half-closed my eyes in bliss of my own. Right there.
“Tongue.” Paul coughed. “Hanging out.”
I flipped the opposite ear at him. Bet he wished he had fur. Still, I supposed decorum must be reasserted or the afternoon would pass in a dream of excellent scritches and basking in the sun—
A shy pat marked the end of that. Just as well. I rolled my tongue back inside my mouth and gave Nia a bright-eyed look of gratitude, then lowered my ears to a conciliatory angle before turning to Paul.
His eyebrow rose.
I’d sat up, ears erect, before knowing I would. How did he do that? Maybe I’d been this me too long.
To recover, I leaped into the first topic occurring to me before remembering I’d a tendency when flustered to choose the wrong one. “How was the dress?”
Paul shoved his hand through his hair, giving me what I’m sure he thought was a quelling scowl, but, as it was a little late, I tilted my head in an apologetic shrug.
Nia gave us puzzled looks. “What dress?” she asked.
The one I wasn’t to mention, even if I’d glimpsed a filmy red something before Paul shoved it deep into a sack, refusing to show me. But now that she’d asked—“I—”
A finger rose to stop me going any further. “Our resident artist, Lesley Delacora, made one for you, Nia. Out of appreciation for your accomplishments, but it’s—ah—” Paul hesitated, his cheeks showing pink again.
Couldn’t blame him.
“Like her other creations?” she asked warily, eyebrows rising. By her tone, Nia’d heard about the roof.
“Exactly.” Paul smiled, at ease again. “I thanked Lesley on your behalf.” He took a swallow and put down the glass.
With the motion, his expression turned serious. “Now, to the Framers.”
Nia’s hand strayed to her portfolio, then returned to her lap as if whatever she’d brought could wait. Like me, had she heard something new in Paul’s tone?
I felt a tingle of anticipation. Which, come to think of it, might have been dread.
“Thanks to the Sacrissee and S’kal-ru, we’ve made progress.” Paul didn’t look at me, meaning don’t ask how my web-kin had been in touch.
That Skalet had provided the Kraal data didn’t surprise me; she’d taken larger risks, and this was crucial to Lionel’s analysis. Though a call to her Senior Assimilator would have been nice.
Or not. My web-kin’s evolving relationship with a Human appeared to satisfy them both and, Ersh knew, she’d most likely have found fault with me.
“When analyzed by date,” Paul continued, “the star fields in the images produce a path.”
Nia sat straighter, tucking a leg under her. “Not a boundary.” Her eyes darted from Paul to me. “Is that good news?”
Good or bad, it was news to me. Our Lionel had been busy.
“It’s too soon to tell,” Paul replied. “There’s a pattern.” He put a finger to the blanket. “Here’s an image of a Kraal ship received over eight years ago.” He drew his finger along a stripe toward Nia’s toes and stopped, tapping the fabric. “Then another. But the next?” Instead of continuing along the stripe, his finger went zooming across the blanket to me. “Is Sacrissee. The sequence repeats, over and over, as if there’s a faction that resists going into the Confederacy,” again along the stripe toward Nia, “by choosing the Sacrissee,” back to me, “yet is overruled each time.” His hand lifted, palm-up to Nia.
Hers gestured to me, then she planted it, fingers spread, on the sunny blanket in front of her as if seeking its warmth. “Kraal space. Do they know about this?”
“They’ve had the Sacrissee images longer than we have.”
“They don’t have Lionel,” I said bluntly. Skalet had granted him access to her equipment for a reason; none of us, including our scholarly Human, believed it charity. By his diligence and talent she’d gained a potent secret, and I could almost feel her ghoulish delight. If not appreciate it. “S’kal-ru won’t share this information until—” It gained particular value. “—we know more,” I finished lamely.
“Anyone—anyone like us,” Nia qualified, impressing me further, “would run from the Confederacy. Why continue to approach it?”
Biology rules. I wrinkled my snout at the Ersh-memory. “Living things move toward what they need.”
Despite the warmth, she shivered. “I can’t imagine needing anything from the Kraal that would be good for the rest of us.”
Paul had drawn up his knees. Now he crossed his arms on that support, resting his chin on top to gaze into the distance. “What we need,” he said after a long moment, “is more data. Framer images from different sources, if they exist. Especially from the Commonwealth. Without it . . .” his voice trailed away.
“I’ve brought these.” Nia pushed aside her jacket and slid the portfolio into the middle of the blanket, unlocking it with a press of her thumb. “I don’t know if they can help.”
Opened, the portfolio proved to be full of sheets of paper. This was Botharis. Paul and I shifted closer to examine them. Star charts, that much I could see, with annotations in code.
Paul gently lifted the edges, leafing through. “Survey hazard maps,” he said wonderingly and looked up, finding himself nose-to-nose with Nia.
Who didn’t quite scowl as she eased back. Progress.
“Copies,” she clarified. “Our department buys those pertinent to our system’s traffic. We provide a summary to ships leaving Grandine. The latest are two years old.” With a hint of defiance. “We can’t afford anything newer.”
I’d have to see about that. And encourage something more tech-flexible than dried tree pulp though given the stubbornness of the locals, I really shouldn’t bother.
“These may be exactly what we need, Nia. Thank you.” Paul’s smile was dazzling.
“And why do we need these?” I asked, poking the paper curiously.
“Hazard maps are compiled automatically from incoming reports, then released to the public through a tiny division within Survey,” my friend said, still smiling. “If anyone higher up is trying to hide information about our mysterious Framers by concealing ship losses, they might have neglected these. How far back do they go?” Without waiting for an answer, my friend carefully slipped the bottommost free, laying it atop the rest. Then stared.
I nudged his shoulder. “Paul?”
“Sorry.” He gave himself a tiny shake. “This one’s for the year Smokebat was lost.”
Nia regarded him, her face inscrutable other than the wild curl caught on an eyebrow. Abruptly, her expression softened. “I haven’t said what I should to you, Paul. About your mother. What happened to her—”
He shook his head, hair tumbling. “There’s nothing to say.”
I certainly felt there was. By Nia’s stricken look, quickly masked, so did she. Not being Human at the moment, I angled my ears in disapproval, knowing Paul would notice.
Once he finished putting the map away. Which he was taking extra time to do, most likely to avoid looking at my ears. Humans.
As befitted a career politician, Nia recovered first. “The maps are all I have. If you need more from the Commonwealth, have you considered your friend Evan Gooseberry?” She gestured upward, as if conjuring Evan from the sky. “I recall he has a rare gift for cutting through levels of bureaucracy.”
“Evan’s—” I looked at Paul, but he continued to fuss with the portfolio. “—Evan’s busy,” I finished, finding that wholly unsatisfactory. We should know what our friend was doing, how he was doing it, and where—probably intrusive and possibly unwelcome.
But not knowing at all wasn’t a good feeling. Nor was the growing feeling of mistrust. “If you believe Survey has more Framer images they aren’t sharing,” I said, copying Nia’s very proper, get back to business tone, “why don’t we give them ours?”
Both Humans stared at me as if I’d started to shed and hairs had caught in their teeth. Which wouldn’t happen again for months.
“They’ve first contact specialists,” I went on. Maybe being back on his home planet did something to Paul’s brain. “Like you and Lionel.”
“That’s not all they have,” Nia said grimly. “The Commonwealth has battle fleets—they don’t like them mentioned, but we all know it.”
And what we all knew was wrong. I sighed, lowering my ears as I wondered where best to start. While yes, among the thousand plus Human systems loosely affiliated under the “Commonwealth,” a portion invested to a varied degree in ships with weaponry but since if you had any real problems with a neighbor everyone called in Ganthor—who only needed transport and a purchase order?
There weren’t fleets.
There was Survey, and the Mistral had been more military-esque than any other such ship in my or Paul’s—and even Lionel’s—experience, but again, not a fleet. Really, if the Kraal appreciated the might of the Commonwealth was more sheer numbers and a blithe willingness to ignore you while doing business elsewhere? They’d have invaded long ago.
I took a deep breath.
Staving off what would likely be a lengthy explanation—possibly requiring charts—Paul spoke first. “Until we know why Survey has concealed information about the Sidereal Pathfinder—which we wouldn’t have except for a career criminal’s conscience—”
An interesting take on Victory Johnsson’s deathbed revelation, but I didn’t argue.
“—we don’t show our hand.”
I blinked. “You think they’ll cheat.” Duggs was proving to be a useful exemplar.
“I think,” Nia interjected, “we don’t poke the tiger without first knowing if it’s hungry.”
“Exactly.” The two shared one of those annoying Humans get it looks.
Glowering wasn’t particularly mature, but I indulged myself.
Paul reached out his hand. I huffed, pretending not to see.
“Someone gave Johnsson the image, Fangface. Someone sent her after my father and then here.”
Hearing his distress, I stretched my neck the bare amount necessary for him to lightly touch my nose.
“We’ve an enemy without a face, Esen,” Paul went on very quietly. “I refuse to take chances. Not with the Library.” The look in his eyes changed Library to you. My tail thumped the blanket.
Nia sat without a word, fingers following a stinger bug. Paul glanced at her, then frowned. “There’s something else.”
“Yes.”
Amazing how a single word could be ominous. Might have been the other topic. “A problem with the station?” I asked, my heart sinking.
“Not at all. That’s moving ahead very well, Esen,” with a faint smile. “No one’s about to turn down an offer of guaranteed funding, especially for an undertaking this immense. Tenders for the project go out this week.”
“Good to hear.” Stretching out his legs, Paul leaned back on his hands to study his fellow Human. “So what’s wrong?”
“I met with the Preservation Committee before coming here.” Nia picked up her glass, staring into it as if the contents were engrossing. Or she didn’t want to look at us while she spoke. The latter, I decided, when she did. “They’ve insisted I halt your construction project pending a surprise inspection. The request was copied to my superiors in Grandine while I was in the air. I couldn’t stop it.” Her eyes rose to Paul’s face. “I’ll have to comply.”
My ears flattened and a snarl rumbled in my chest. We were sleeping in tents in the greenhouse, Lionel was in Skalet’s hideaway, and Lambo expected an apartment.
Let alone Duggs’ reaction. Wouldn’t be me telling her—
Paul, being the relatively mature one, merely nodded. “We understand.”
I snarled louder. “You should have told us before eating Paul’s berries.” And scritching. My fur crawled.
Nia gave me a sorrowful look. “I’m sorry, Esen. If I don’t seem to support the committee, I’ve no reason for being here—and I needed to be.” A nod to the portfolio. “Consider it a temporary pause. I’ll make a pretense of an inspection. That’s all.”
It was all they’d need. I knew it. By the slump of Paul’s shoulders, so did he. “You can’t fool them, Nia,” he told her. “You’ll be required to produce a report, with vid. They won’t believe you otherwise.”
“Then I’ll keep it to the actual construction site,” she promised. “Surely innocuous enough?”
“It would be and, believe me, we appreciate the offer, but the committee will expect to see inside the Library. You’ll be asked to inspect plumbing systems and whatever else they can think of . . .” his voice trailed away as his chin lowered to his chest. “This is bad.”
I whined. “The worst thing is we don’t know what will offend them. Almost anything here could be against some old rule or other. The committee has books of them.” I should know. They’d stacked them in front of me at every opportunity.
“Then you know what to do.” Nia had long legs and she used one to dig her toes firmly into Paul’s lower ribs. “Jig Up.”
He bent to cradle his side, staring at her as if flabbergasted. By the words or ribs? “What did you say?”
The words. Intrigued, I aimed my ears at Nia.
“You’ve only been dead five decades. Don’t tell me you forgot.” Rebuke delivered, Nia curled her leg back under her skirt and gave a little sniff. “Esen, who comes up with the wildest plans at the last minute?”
I liked this Human. “Paul does. Sometimes I do, but his are better—mostly,” I qualified, unwilling to commit to a future where my friend could remind me every time of what I’d said and overrule my plans.
“He always has,” she informed me, that intense look in her eyes. “Jig Up we called it. Well, Paul? What do we do about this?”
He kept staring at Nia, his cheeks redder than ever. “I don’t—I—”
While entertaining to see my friend at a loss for words in a conversation, we did have a problem to solve. “If we can’t alter the vid record,” I mused, “what can we change?”
“What did you say? No, don’t bother repeating it, Fangface.” Paul straightened, eyes flashing. “I’ve an idea. With your help, Nia.”
“Jig Up Paul.” If she’d mobile ears, they’d have been perked up as high as mine—my possibly biased interpretation of a smile happier than any I’d seen, transforming her face. “Whatever you need.”
“First, we get these maps to Lionel. Then?” Paul looked at me, eyes gleaming. “We enlist our resident artist.”
I’d have balked at that—my web-kin taking unreliable to new depths—except Nia wasn’t the only one to recognize that look.
Jig Up Paul. My clever friend had a plan.
Content, I flopped back down on the blanket to listen.
Forgetting to worry about Evan Gooseberry.