Awakeners by Sheri S Tepper

“You’d better detail him to find more,” she said. “The woman may not last a week if she doesn’t eat something.”

“I can force her if you like,” the captain suggested. It was sometimes necessary to force-feed captives, particularly Noor captives, who often tried to starve themselves when their families had been killed before their eyes.

Gendra shook her head. “No. I need her cooperative with the Thraish. If she will eat Jarb root, see she gets it. At least enough of it to keep her alive.” She looked up, drawn by a distant cacophony. “What’s that?”

“The Talkers on the top of the Talons, Dame Marshal. They do that sometimes, late into the night—sometimes all night long.”

“What are they doing?”

“Arguing, so I’ve been told. Only the high-mucky-muck ones like the one who was here. Sixth Degree ones. They have the highest pillars all to themselves. The less important ones, they meet lower down. Some nights there will be three or four bunches of them, all going at it. Not always this loud, though. Sliffisunda must have a bone in his craw!” The captain laughed, unawed.

Gendra’s eyes narrowed once more. So. Sliffisunda had talked to Pamra Don, and then some great argument followed among the Thraish. Perhaps Gendra’s case was even now being argued. She smiled. Good. Very good.

As she rose from her chair and moved toward the tent, she stumbled, a sudden dizziness flooding over her.

“Jhilt,” she gasped, feeling the slave’s hands fasten around her arms and shoulders.

“The Dame Marshal has been sitting too long near the fire,” the slave soothed, hiding a smile behind her hand. “It makes one dizzy.”

“You get dizzy, sitting by the fire?” Gendra said childishly. “You do?”

“Of course. Everyone does.” Jhilt half-carried the woman into her tent and eased her onto the bed. “Everyone does.” Especially, Jhilt said to herself, when one is some hundreds of years old and is no longer getting any elixir. The woman on the bed looked like a corpse, like something in the pits, gray, furrowed skin gaped over yellow teeth, like a skull. “Everyone does,” she soothed, wondering how long it would take. Jhilt had a small supply of Tears in a vial hanging on her chains. She had toyed with the idea of using the Tears before rather than after Gendra’s death. She amused herself by thinking of this now, weighing the idea for merit.

“No,” she sighed at last. “The captain would know what I had done. If she merely dies, he will not know.”

Perhaps she could use the Tears on someone else. That Laugher, perhaps. That would be amusing, too.

The disputation on the stones went on until almost dawn, not merely acrimonious, which most disputations were, but becoming increasingly enraging as the night wore on. Blood was drawn several times before the argument broke up, and only Sliffisunda’s quickness in parrying attacks kept him from being among the injured. It was clear the Talkers would not accept the idea of a human god or any weehar god. Only the Thraish had a god, and the god of the Thraish was the god of all. The Thraish were the chosen of Potipur, who set aside all other creatures for the service of the Thraish. So the Talkers believed.

Sliffisunda, bruised and tired, was not so sure. The other Talkers of the Sixth Degree had not heard Pamra Don. He did not like to think what might have happened if they had heard Pamra Don. It might be better if none of them heard her, ever. Better if Sliffisunda had not heard her himself. He settled upon his perch, head resting upon his shoulder. In the afternoon, he would talk with the human, Ilze. In the evening, he would go to the camp of the humans again and make an agreement with Gendra Mitiar. It did not matter what agreement with her was made. The woman stank of death. She would not live long enough to worry him.

“What will you do with Pamra Don?” he asked Ilze.

Ilze’s mouth dropped open. He salivated. The stench of him rose into Sliffisunda’s nostrils, sickeningly sweet. “Teach her,” he said at last, a low, gargling sound. “Teach her she cannot do this to me.”