stared at her fists resting knotted on her lap, and said dully:
“I don’t suppose the details, six hundred years of man on Dennitza,
would interest anybody else. That is how long since Yovan Matavuly led
the pioneers there. They were like other emigrant groups at the time,
hoping not alone for opportunity, room to breathe, but to save
traditions, customs, language, race–ethnos, identity, their souls if
you like–everything they saw being swallowed up. They weren’t many, nor
had the means to buy much equipment. And Dennitza … well, there are
always problems in settling a new planet, physical environment,
biochemistry, countless unknowns and surprises that can be lethal–but
Dennitza was particularly hard. It’s in an ice age. The habitable areas
are limited. And in those days it was far from any trade routes, had
nothing really to attract merchants of the League–”
Speaking of the ancestors heartened her. She raised head and voice.
“They didn’t fall back to barbarism, no, no. But they did, for
generations, have to put aside sophisticated technology. They lacked the
capital, you see. Clan systems developed; feuding, I must admit; a
spirit of local independence. The barons looked after their own. That
social structure persisted when industrialism began, and affected it.”
Quickly: “Don’t think we were ever ignorant yokels. The
Shkola–university and research centrum–is nearly as old as the colony.
The toughest backwoodsman respects learning as much as he does
marksmanship or battle bravery.”
“Do you not have a Merseian element in the population?” Chives asked.
“Yes. Merseian-descended, that is, from about four hundred years ago.
You probably know Merseia itself was starting to modernize and move into
space then, under fearful handicaps because of that supernova nearby and
because of the multi-cornered struggle for power between Vachs,
Gethfennu, and separate nations. The young Dennitzan industries needed
labor. They welcomed strong, able, well-behaved displaced persons.”
“Do such constitute a large part of your citizenry, Donna?”
“About ten percent of our thirty million. And twice as many human
Dennitzans live outsystem; since our industry and trade got well
underway, we’ve been everywhere in that part of space. So what is this
nonsense I hear about us being Merseian-infiltrated?”
Yet we might be happier in the Roidhunate, Kossara added.
Chives recalled her: “I have heard mention of the Gospodar. Does my lady
care to define his functions? Is he like a king?”
“M-m-m, what do you mean by ‘king’? The Gospodar is elected out of the
Miyatovich family by the plemichi, the clan heads and barons. He has
supreme executive authority for life or good behavior, subject to the
Grand Court ruling on the constitutionality of what he does. A Court
verdict can be reversed by the Skuptshtina–Parliament, I suppose you
would say, though it has three chambers, for plemichi, commons, and
ychani … zmayi … our nonhumans. Domestic government is mainly left
to the different okruzhi–baronies? prefectures?–which vary a lot. The
head of one of those may inherit office, or may be chosen by the
resident clans, or may be appointed by the Gospodar, depending on
ancient usage. He–such a nachalnik, I mean–he generally lets townships
and rural districts tend their own affairs through locally elected
councillors.”
“The, ah, ychani are organized otherwise, I take it.”
Kossara gave Chives a look of heightened respect. “Yes. Strictly by
clans–or better say Vachs–subject only to planetary law unless there’s
some special fealty arrangement. And while you can find them anywhere on
Dennitza, they concentrate on the eastern seaboard of Rodna, the main
continent, in the northern hemisphere. Because they can stand cold
better than humans, they do most of the fishing, pelagiculture, et
cetera.”
“Nevertheless, I presume considerable cultural blending has taken
place.”
“Certainly–”
Recollection rushed in of Trohdwyr, who died on Diomedes whither she was
bound; of her father on horseback, a-gallop against a windy autumn
forest, and the bugle call he blew which was an immemorial Merseian
war-song; of her mother cuddling her while she sang an Eriau lullaby,
“Dwynafor, dwynafor, odhal tiv,” and then laughing low, “But you, little
sleepyhead, you have no tail, do you?”; of herself and Mihail in an
ychan boat on the Black Ocean, snowfall, ice floes, a shout as a sea