Awakeners by Sheri S Tepper

The creatures came out of the oily swell of the water like hillocks, lifting themselves onto the surface of the River to lie staring at the Gift of Potipur, a long row of eyes on a part of each one of them, that part lifted a little like a fish’s fin, large eyes down near the body of the strangey and smaller eyes out at the tip. They blinked, but not in unison, those eyes, so that the people gathered at the ship’s rail had the strange notion they were confronting a crowd, a committee rather than one creature. One of the oily hillocks swam close to the Gift, dwarfing it, and spat strangey bones onto the deck. “A gift,” it sang in its terrible voice, turning onto its back and sinking into the River depths with a great sucking of water and roil of ivory underside, like a bellying sail of pale silk.

“What is that?” asked Medoor Babji, seeing how quickly the crew of the Gift moved about picking up the strangey bones.

“Glizzee spice,” said Thrasne. “It grows within them. They spit it onto ships, sometimes, or into the water near where ships are floating. Old Blint said they mean it as a gift. Strangeys watch ships a lot. Sometimes if a man falls overboard, a strangey will come up under him and hold him up until the boat can get to him, or even carry him downtide to the boat if it’s gone on past.”

“They don’t look like fish.”

“Oh, they aren’t fish, Medoor Babji. Not shaped like them, not acting like them, not the size of fish. One time when old Blint was still alive, I saw one the size of an island. The whole crew could have gone onto his back and built a town there.”

“I never knew Glizzee was strangey bones.”

“Most people don’t. They think it grows somewhere on an island, and that’s why the boatmen have it rather than some land-bound peddler. And you know, there’s some ships a strangey will not come near. Strange in look, strange in habit, strangey by name. That’s what we say, we boatpeople.”

“How marvelous,” she breathed. “And probably it isn’t bones at all.”

“Likely,” he agreed. “But it is something they make in their insides or swallow from some deep place in the River.”

He knew there was more to it than that. When night came, he wrote in his book, all his wonderings about it, but he said nothing of these to Medoor Babji.

Bans Tower shone in the light of first summer sun, its stones newly washed by rain. About its roof the fliers clustered, perching on the inner parapet, keeping watch as they had been commanded to do. Something about Baris had been doubtful for a considerable time now. From faroff Chancery to the Talons, word had come. Baris was suspect. The one called Gendra Mitiar had sent the word. So much all the fliers knew. What was suspected, they did not know, except that it was something to do with the Superior of the Tower, with the human called Kesseret.

And yet it was Kesseret who had told them of the expedition over the River, to Southshore. “It’s only the Noor who are going,” she had said. “And they are of no use to you, anyway. However, it might give other people bad ideas. You had best take word to the Talkers of this. …”

This word had gone to the Talons, Black Talons and Gray, Blue and Red. In each it had led to much screaming argument on the Stones of Disputation. If a human was guilty of heresy, surely she would not have given such important information? If she had given such important information, then could she be guilty of heresy? Such nice distinctions, though they were the stuff of life to Talkers, were beyond fliers’ comprehension or interest. They had been told to watch. Unwillingly, they watched.

Kessie, well aware of their constant surveillance, paid no more attention than was occasionally necessary. The story about the expedition of the Noor had done its planned work of distraction. She saw fliers constantly at the Riverside, spying on the boats that came and went. Reports would be going back to the Talons; speculation among the Talkers would be rife. So, their attention was where Tharius Don had wanted it. Now she had only to hang on, letting time wear by, praying he would not delay much longer, trying to figure out why he had delayed so long. Did he fear death that much? Surely not; surely not the idealist, Tharius Don. She could not answer the question that came back to her, again and again. Why had he delayed so long?