got in his way, Maryam suspected. And she hoped beyond hope that her son Brod had nothing to do with the strange absence of Vala.
In the meantime she awaited her visitor. For their private talks, Tripp the Polar would naturally come to Maryam’s suite, rather than the other way around. Maryam and Brod hailed from Port Wilson, one of the principal embarkation points on the south coast of Seba, the continent that dominated the northern hemisphere. From the point of view of the Speakers Wilson was essential not just for the tithes it provided itself but as a conduit through which flowed much of the wealth of the scattered communities of the continent. So Maryam had been given an apartment of several rooms in an upper level of this Seventh Palace of the Sim Designers, laden with fine furniture and with banks of photomoss lighting every dark corner. From here she had a grand view of the Navel in all its crowded complexity, and the flat light of the Star beat down on the world from its eerie position directly above her.
Whereas Tripp was just a Polar, a woman hailing from the edge of the endless shadow of Darkside. So she was stuck in some room deep inside the carcass of the Palace, a windowless, airless, lightless cell with a bathroom you had to share.
And, as the woman arrived and bustled into the room, there was something dark about Tripp herself, Maryam thought.
After a formal greeting the Polar unbuttoned her heavy coat, slumped in a chair, and accepted a glass of wine. Tripp was short, compact, muscular – it was said that it was better to be short and round if you had to withstand the insidious cold of the Pole – and she wore a heavy coat of tractor-fur lined with sheep’s wool. Aged about forty, maybe ten Great Years younger than Maryam herself, she had a round, weather-beaten face, grey-black hair pulled back from a high forehead, and a customarily stern expression. Maryam didn’t actually know much about her personally – she’d heard hints of husbands back home, of children. Tripp was too serious a person to make small talk with.
She had a leather packet which she opened, and spread documents of some kind over a small table expensively carved from solid basalt. She had to move a bowl of apples out of the way to make room. Maryam glanced at the papers, not very interested; they were clearly old – or looked old – torn, fragmented, yellowed, and stained with various fluids. Some were covered with close-printed text in an archaic language, and others bore enigmatic diagrams.
‘You look as if you’re having a bad watch,’ Maryam essayed, as they sat together.
‘Aren’t you? The negotiations over the tithe levels get worse every Great Year …’
A Great Year was twenty-four small-years, each of which lasted for forty-five watches – the time it took Earth III to circle its Star. And as Maryam grew older, the interval between these Colloquies, at which tithe levels were set and reset, seemed to get shorter every time.
Tripp was evidently distracted by Khilli’s continued bellowing. ‘ Vala! Vala! ’
‘And the aggressive attitude of the Speakerhood is increasingly dismaying,’ Tripp said. ‘The young man you hear in the streets below, calling for his sister, is himself a son of the Speaker of Speakers.’
‘I know -’
‘Khilli to me symbolises the increasing dominance the Speakers are asserting, and not too subtly - the Speakers and their craven allies, who scuttle to obey in return for the waiving of a few tithes.’
‘Wealth breeds power, which accrues more wealth.’
‘Yes. And I suspect if we knew more about humanity’s history, we’d recognise that as an old, old story.’ Tripp grinned fiercely, showing browned teeth. ‘At least you in Wilson are now finding out what it’s like to be at the mercy of the Speakers, as we at the Pole have been for generations. We rely for our very survival on the trade the Speakers control. The metals and other minerals we mine pay
In the meantime she awaited her visitor. For their private talks, Tripp the Polar would naturally come to Maryam’s suite, rather than the other way around. Maryam and Brod hailed from Port Wilson, one of the principal embarkation points on the south coast of Seba, the continent that dominated the northern hemisphere. From the point of view of the Speakers Wilson was essential not just for the tithes it provided itself but as a conduit through which flowed much of the wealth of the scattered communities of the continent. So Maryam had been given an apartment of several rooms in an upper level of this Seventh Palace of the Sim Designers, laden with fine furniture and with banks of photomoss lighting every dark corner. From here she had a grand view of the Navel in all its crowded complexity, and the flat light of the Star beat down on the world from its eerie position directly above her.
Whereas Tripp was just a Polar, a woman hailing from the edge of the endless shadow of Darkside. So she was stuck in some room deep inside the carcass of the Palace, a windowless, airless, lightless cell with a bathroom you had to share.
And, as the woman arrived and bustled into the room, there was something dark about Tripp herself, Maryam thought.
After a formal greeting the Polar unbuttoned her heavy coat, slumped in a chair, and accepted a glass of wine. Tripp was short, compact, muscular – it was said that it was better to be short and round if you had to withstand the insidious cold of the Pole – and she wore a heavy coat of tractor-fur lined with sheep’s wool. Aged about forty, maybe ten Great Years younger than Maryam herself, she had a round, weather-beaten face, grey-black hair pulled back from a high forehead, and a customarily stern expression. Maryam didn’t actually know much about her personally – she’d heard hints of husbands back home, of children. Tripp was too serious a person to make small talk with.
She had a leather packet which she opened, and spread documents of some kind over a small table expensively carved from solid basalt. She had to move a bowl of apples out of the way to make room. Maryam glanced at the papers, not very interested; they were clearly old – or looked old – torn, fragmented, yellowed, and stained with various fluids. Some were covered with close-printed text in an archaic language, and others bore enigmatic diagrams.
‘You look as if you’re having a bad watch,’ Maryam essayed, as they sat together.
‘Aren’t you? The negotiations over the tithe levels get worse every Great Year …’
A Great Year was twenty-four small-years, each of which lasted for forty-five watches – the time it took Earth III to circle its Star. And as Maryam grew older, the interval between these Colloquies, at which tithe levels were set and reset, seemed to get shorter every time.
Tripp was evidently distracted by Khilli’s continued bellowing. ‘ Vala! Vala! ’
‘And the aggressive attitude of the Speakerhood is increasingly dismaying,’ Tripp said. ‘The young man you hear in the streets below, calling for his sister, is himself a son of the Speaker of Speakers.’
‘I know -’
‘Khilli to me symbolises the increasing dominance the Speakers are asserting, and not too subtly - the Speakers and their craven allies, who scuttle to obey in return for the waiving of a few tithes.’
‘Wealth breeds power, which accrues more wealth.’
‘Yes. And I suspect if we knew more about humanity’s history, we’d recognise that as an old, old story.’ Tripp grinned fiercely, showing browned teeth. ‘At least you in Wilson are now finding out what it’s like to be at the mercy of the Speakers, as we at the Pole have been for generations. We rely for our very survival on the trade the Speakers control. The metals and other minerals we mine pay
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