“Not a soul, Burg. Forgive my trespassing on your home, but Sterf asked me to . . .”
He shook his head. “Of no matter. I told her to send you over if things got tense. Which they have. Worse than I thought.”
He turned away to supervise the family—son, son’s wife, daughter, grandchild, baby—as the boat was unloaded.
“Turn it over, wash it out, and leave it here,” he told his son. “Sterf will want to be taking Treemi home tonight or first thing in the morning. I’ll go with her.” He said this as though he did not believe it, like a courtesy phrase, said out of habit, not out of conviction.
He trudged up to his house, pausing on the porch to feel the pot Medoor Babji had left there, pouring himself a cup when he found it still warm. She held her tongue, not wanting to distress him more than he obviously already was.
“Arbsen stole the stuff,” he said at last, looking over her shoulder into the woods. “The stuff we give young Talkers to get them through mating season without dying.”
“I—I don’t understand.” And yet, she did. She remembered things Pamra had said. About Neff. Holy Neff. Her vision, the one that spoke to her all the time. Burg went on, confirming her recollection.
“Male Treeci—male Thraish, the whole species—they die after they mate. The breeding cycle triggers a kind of death hormone. Among the Thraish, the Talkers have learned to make an antidote from their own blood. They locate young Talkers before the breeding season, sequester them, give them the antidote, and it inhibits the breeding cycle.” He rubbed his forehead, rubbed tears from the corners of his eyes.
“When we first came here the technique had been lost or something. When young Talkers were born, they just died, along with all the rest of the males. A rare tragedy. Only about one in a thousand males is a Talker. Still, it was always a pity. Talkers don’t lose their intelligence, you know, not like the others. The ordinary males—they go into it in a kind of anesthetized ecstasy. Not Talkers. Whatever it is that makes them different also makes them victims. So, we created an antidote in the labs, to save the Talkers. Ones like Saleff. It doesn’t inhibit the breeding cycle as the Thraish medication did. It just inhibits the death hormone.”
“Then they can all live?” Medoor Babji said. “Taneff can live! That’s what Arbsen wanted from Saleff.”
“No. No, they can’t. We tried that, out of compassion, a long time ago. It was a horrible mistake. But Arbsen was so crazy with grief, she stole the stuff. Now I have to find out what she did with it. . . .”
“Why, she gave it to Taneff,” said Medoor Babji. “What else would she do?’’
“Oh, sweet girl, I pray you’re wrong,” he said, the tears now running down his face in a steady stream. “I know you’re right, but I pray you’re wrong.”
At the fall of evening, Treeci began to trickle back into the village, silent as shadows. Somewhere far away a bell began to ring, measured stroke after measured stroke. No one needed to say it was a mourning bell. The sound alone did that.
Saleff came to the house. “Return to us, Medoor Babji. We need the distraction of your presence.” He was carefully not looking at Burg.
Burg would not allow the evasion. “Arbsen stole the hormone, Saleff. Took it from the lab when she was over there a few weeks ago.” Burg was blunt, demanding a response. Saleff didn’t reply. “Is Treemi all right?”
“We haven’t found her,” the other said in a bleak, shattered voice. “Tomorrow we will begin to look.” “Is Arbsen around?”
“Not Arbsen, no. Nor Taneff.”
“Why wait until morning, Saleff? He has had them a full day. They could still be alive. If we look tonight, we may save Treemi’s life. Otherwise you’ll have blood guilt to pay her family, which will mean another life. You want to risk Cimmy, too? Or Mintel?”
The other looked up, an expression of despair on the strange, withdrawn face. “If there is any chance she is alive, we will look tonight.”