Thorn remembered that. But he had gotten a deiggen-baby out of its womb and laid it out on a flat rock to see it. It was not the death he remembered strongest, or the blood. It was that it had had no hair, was naked-skinned like him.
(I was born and grew wrong. They got me out too soon.)
He watched the foenin mate. (That’s how? He was appalled and interested at once in the black bodies one on the other’s back, the curious spasms they made as if one of them were sick.)
(“Shonun do it face to face, usually,” Duun said. Thorn was twice appalled. It was odd enough to do from the rear. Having someone watching back right in one’s face-)
This-woman-had a gun on her hip. She swayed when she walked. She had a bright white crest but she had shaved it far back as did all the cityfolk, not like Duun’s, which was black and long and swung freely when he walked.
Thorn thought of the foenin. Clenched his hand to drive that thought away. He had made enough difficulty for Duun. It was not spring. It was not appropriate. There was something about smell, but Duun refused to discuss this with him.
They walked out onto the flat toward the machine and foenin blurred in the waft of oil and warm metal. The copter. They would go up in the air in that. It looked too heavy. Thorn forgot about women. His heart began to beat in terror. (Fool, he told himself. Duun had warned him. The thing had gotten here, it would get away again with them inside. He would not be afraid in front of strangers. He would not stink of fear where others not scent-blind could smell it. He would not shame Duun. I will beat you, Duun had said, to get his attention; now Thorn remembered that and knew why Duun had threatened him. Not to be shamed by him. He would not flinch when they led him in.)
It was the countryfolk Duun watched, the spectators the guards had kept far off on the other road. He kept his ears aslant, shutting out what words the wind might bring him. He smelled the scent of them even at this range. His mind painted him hate; and fear. He was a fool to shut down his hearing; one of them might have brought a gun.
But they had called the magistrate and turned themselves in. In fear, he thought bitterly, of more general retribution. In responsibility, late-arrived. Sixteen years they had waited, in the hope of Sheon’s land.
(So it’s yours. Enjoy it. And be damned.)
He was ashamed of the thought. He had come here for virtue and took away-
-took away this shadow at his side. And the cold stares of those who had seen a hatani bend his vows. Who had lived for sixteen years in fear of what happened on the mountain they coveted.
Well, well. It was not a mistake, perhaps. Duun looked toward the copter, exchanged perfunctory courtesy with the guard-captain, snagged Thorn with a gentle clawtip on his inner arm. “Come on,” Duun said looking at the captain. (Be done with it. Don’t draw it out. Get us out of here.)
Thorn walked by him, lifted his head to wonder at the blades-Duun hit him in the back. “Fool, keep your head low beneath these things!” Thorn ducked and went; but the rotor was only lazily turning now. Not even enough for wind.
Up the steps then, to a metal world, to plastic seats, the smell of oil and fuel. Duun settled Thorn-“There, that’s the buckle. Push, that’s right. That lets it loose. That tightens it. Keep it on.” He looked Thorn in the eyes, which no one else would meet, and saw stark terror there. Duun frowned and worked his way past Thorn to his own seat to buckle in.
The crew took places. The guards climbed aboard aft, making the craft rock on its runners. The pilot brought the engines up-whup, whup, whup! Thorn looked toward the side window, looked ahead, looked his way. Duun reached over the shared armrest and gripped his arm, once, sharply, with the claws all the way out. (Behave!)