Awakeners by Sheri S Tepper

It was quiet in the room after Tharius left. Gendra Mitiar cast questioning glances at Shavian Bossit from time to time, which he affected not to see. Gendra Mitiar had been uncollegial latterly. No, not only latterly, but for some time. Irascible. Given to ineffectual quarrels about trifles. She would not be content until her enmity for Tharius was out in the open, where she could gnaw on it publicly, something Bossit wasn’t sure he wanted to see. At least, not yet. He sighed, and then sighed again, drifting toward the window, his inconspicuous form gliding like a shadow.

Suppose Lees Obol dies. Shavian considered this, not for the first time. Suppose Lees Obol dies of ostentatiously natural causes, and suppose, therefore, that General Jondrigar does not turn Highstone Lees into an abattoir seeking the cause of Obol’s death. Suppose this not totally unlikely state of affairs. Who would be the next Protector?

7

Gendra is in line, but she is not popular among the members of the Chancery council who will elect the next Protector. There are factions there. The Mendicants have a faction for themselves. Meaning what? Potipur knows. Shavian has his own supporters, of course. And Ezasper Jorn would be supported by the Thraish, who have their own way of bringing influence to bear. Research Chief Koma Nepor has been in Jom’s pocket since Jorn got him his first dose of elixir, so those two council members could be said to make up a faction. And there is a faction for Tharius Don among the lower ranks of the Towers. Perhaps a stronger one than is generally known. Which would explain Gendra’s antagonism toward him, if an explanation were needed.

Shavian ticked the connection into memory. He did not doubt Bormas Tyle had also a claque, ready to come forward. Bormas Tyle, however, could be managed, though he sometimes needed simple reasons to do what more complex motivations required, able to accept the former but being only confused by the latter.

So, of the six surviving council members, there would be at least four contenders. Only Jondrigar and Nepor would not seek the office of Protector for themselves. Four would, including Shavian himself. Enough, he thought, to make rampant confusion.

The door opened, closing behind Tharius Don with a final snick, like a scissors.

“Guarded?” Bormas Tyle asked, his knife sliding with creepy persistence in the sheath. “You have them well guarded?”

“Relax, Deputy. I’ve put them in the reception room at the, end of the corridor over the garden, the one with barred windows. You’ll recall there’s a grilled gate at the end of the corridor, and I’ve stationed six Jondarites mere, all growling at the insult almost offered to Lees Obd. Sufficient?”

“The damn things fly, is all,” snarled Bormas. “You have to remember they fly.”

“As we do remember,” Shavian commented. “Well, you’ve all heard everything I’ve heard. If you’d care to offer advice.” As when haven’t you? He asked himself. All of you. Endlessly.

“How did the captives end up here?” Gendra, shaking her head and running one fingertip up and down a long wrinkle on her cheek. She did this sometimes for hours at a time, engraving her fingertip into her face as though to deepen the crevasses already there. Up, down, up, down.

“The senior Awakener-Ilze, his name is-brought a couple of whips with him, wrapped around his body under his clothes. Once in the air, he snapped them around two of the fliers’ necks-evidently he has had considerable practice with the whips-and Lady Kesseret told the Talkers they had the choice of flying to the Chancery or of being strangled to death. Luckily, she knew the way up the Split River Pass, or they’d have died on the heights. Damn fliers can’t get high enough to come over the Teeth. We may regret they came through.” Bossit already regretted it, but it was not time to talk of that.

“And where is the lady Kesseret now?” asked Tharius in a carefully neutral voice. “And the Awakener?”

“I’ve got them both in the Accusers’ House. It seemed prudent.”

“Prudent!” He covered his terror with a pretended scorn. Kessie! In the Accusers’ House!

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