Northshore by Sheri S. Tepper Page A

would she do then? Tend garden, as Delia had done? Go westward farther still?
    Or stay in one careful place, close to the River, so that in good time she could seek her own end in deep water as gentle, fearful Mother had done. Seek the long pier’s end deep in the lonely night as Mother had done. As Mother had done, so that no amount of fishing could bring her forth again. No amount of dragging bring her to answer to Potipur for her sin in not trusting to the Holy Sorters to Sort it all out.
    Wise in her weakness; better able to face the truth than Pamra herself.
    Behind her the dust settled. Hands moved feebly beneath the rocks. Through chinks in the stones, eyes stared upward at the red light of Potipur.
    Out of the night the black wings settled upon the stones. Great fliers walked here and there, thrusting the rocks aside with monstrous beaks and talons.
    ‘Rejoice,’ a croaking voice chuckled softly, almost inaudibly. ‘The Sorters are here.’

6

    Ilze had spent the day inspecting the plowing of pamet fields northwest of Baristown, a vast stretch of fertile soil that lay between two slightly raised banks, as though at some time a side channel of the World River had run there, depositing its sediment over centuries. The inspection was perfunctory, more a matter of ritual than actuality. Pamet did very well when scattered on unplowed ground. The uneven scoring of the soil by a crew of stumbling workers neither helped nor hindered the crop. Nonetheless, the workers had to be kept moving if the Tears were to permeate all the flesh, growing throughout it, reducing it in volume by at least half and making it suitable for the Servants of Abricor to eat. Worker flesh was all that they ate. Presumably Abricor had destined the fliers for the purpose of eating workers, or workers for the purpose of feeding fliers – though Ilze regarded this idea cynically. In his opinion, fliers were outrageously ugly, and they stank.
    Also, junior Awakeners had to be kept busy. All juniors – like the populace at large – were supposed to believe that the labor provided by worker crews was necessary. They were supposed to believe it until officially told otherwise during senior retreat. Most of them did believe it, or pretended to. Therefore he stalked across the field, a solemn junior trailing behind as he commented aloud on rows that were uneven or corners that were scamped, twitching his whip suggestively from time to time to enjoy her shudder.
    He lunched in Baris in a small cafe where he went from time to time and was a familiar-enough figure that the tablesdid not automatically empty as soon as he entered. Townsmen had a way of sniffing the air when Awakeners entered a shop or tavern, sniffing ostentatiously, then moving away, perhaps leaving the place. Ilze had known since childhood that Awakeners didn’t smell. Still, the rudeness rankled, and he went to the town tavern from time to time to exercise his fury. They did not dare press too far, and Ilze was readier than most to make them pay for each jot of license. The Superior of the Tower occasionally ordered a conscription of townspeople. One or two, usually, for some mysterious purpose of her own. Each time Ilze was sent on that errand, he had certain individuals in mind.
    A singer enlivened the hour at the cafe. Perched in a shadowy corner, the boy’s voice crept over the conversation, into the pauses, into the hesitations.
    ‘Devious as fire,
    Ubiquitous as care,
    Cruel as the flame-bird’s byre
    And the waiting air,
    Your love encompassed me
    And left me dying there.’
    Ilze smiled. It was a kind of love he recognized, his own particular kind. He knew the singer’s voice very well but had no intention of recognizing him. That was over. Superficially enjoyable, slightly dangerous, and over.
    ‘High as the flier soars,
    To Abricor’s breast,
    From such height I fell
    Onto my nest,
    To burn, to burn, to die,
    Like all the rest.’
    Ilze snorted. Why was it they all