problem, they began to see how much they had let themselves depend on me. They hadn’t minded letting me do so much work, of course. That was what I was there for!
But I could put up with their petty annoyance. Far worse, perhaps as dangerous as the jealousy of the various wives, was the enmity of a group of people I’d previously ignored altogether.
I’d known, in a vague way, from such hints as the image which Swallo kept in his office by the gate and took out in time of trouble to stand on the table beside his fat ledger, that there were various cults to which the lower-ranking members of he household subscribed. I’d heard the music and chanting at occasional festivals held in the townlets on the estate among different guilds of workers. The metalworkers had one strong cult; among the soldiers, another was popular, and each company maintained by subscription from their wages a sort of shaman. This kind of superstition did not seem to extend much into the higher ranks, particularly not into the family itself.
Aside from that oath—swearing by the seven gods of Casca-Olla—which I’d heard him let slip, Pwill Himself appeared to subscribe to no deities at all. Nonetheless he was obliged on occasion to conduct quite elaborate ceremonies; I’d been present at several, although I’d never been able to find any hint of an invocation to supernatural forces in what was said or sung. The ritual was structured to induce a kind of generalized awe and reverence. If anyone was worshipped in any sense, it was Pwill Himself as head of the house.
But after setting up in business as a mysterious medicine man myself—especially after the affair of Dwerri’s whip had convinced many people I knew what I was doing—I found that I had misjudged the determination with which the various shamans and cult leaders intended to hang on to their influence. Several times I found revolting charms in my room, under my pillow or nailed over the doorway in bags, and as time went by it became clear that the people responsible were willing to find something that worked more efficiently than mere charms.
Once, when I snatched down a bag that looked like just another in the long series nailed over the door, something moved inside it. Barely in time I dropped, and stamped on, a deadly poisonous quasi-reptile, a thing with four legs and a chitinous shell and inch-long hollow fangs. The day following I went the rounds of the various townlets on the estate, and as often as I could manage it unobserved I fixed a little charm of my own to the door of a shaman’s home. It consisted of the name Dwerri written in Vorrish characters on a scrap of white leather.
Simple as it was, it worked, and I had complete peace for several days.
But the peace was not to last.
It was customary, whenever something went wrong with one of the Earth-built solar-powered vehicles on the estate—and there were some hundreds of these, mostly acquired by Pwill during his tour as governor of Earth—to send to the Acre for a mechanic to fix it if the job was too complicated for one of the half-trained peasants who passed for mechanics on the estate. In the past, I’d never even taken the trouble to make the acquaintance of one of these rare visitors. Why, was another unanswerable question.
One morning I came out for a walk in the sun, and found one of the biggest trucks on the estate undergoing repairs in the open air. There were two mechanics busy on it. I saw at once that they were Earthly, and walked up to greet them. To my utter amazement, I found that one of them was Ken Lee, and the other—Marijane.
CHAPTER XIII
I STOOD THERE gaping like an idiot for a long moment before she raised her head from the works of the truck and saw me. During that moment workmen of the estate came and went, avoiding me; I noted that the two Earthly experts were being left to their own devices completely, except for the watch kept on them by a group of a half a dozen surly-faced
But I could put up with their petty annoyance. Far worse, perhaps as dangerous as the jealousy of the various wives, was the enmity of a group of people I’d previously ignored altogether.
I’d known, in a vague way, from such hints as the image which Swallo kept in his office by the gate and took out in time of trouble to stand on the table beside his fat ledger, that there were various cults to which the lower-ranking members of he household subscribed. I’d heard the music and chanting at occasional festivals held in the townlets on the estate among different guilds of workers. The metalworkers had one strong cult; among the soldiers, another was popular, and each company maintained by subscription from their wages a sort of shaman. This kind of superstition did not seem to extend much into the higher ranks, particularly not into the family itself.
Aside from that oath—swearing by the seven gods of Casca-Olla—which I’d heard him let slip, Pwill Himself appeared to subscribe to no deities at all. Nonetheless he was obliged on occasion to conduct quite elaborate ceremonies; I’d been present at several, although I’d never been able to find any hint of an invocation to supernatural forces in what was said or sung. The ritual was structured to induce a kind of generalized awe and reverence. If anyone was worshipped in any sense, it was Pwill Himself as head of the house.
But after setting up in business as a mysterious medicine man myself—especially after the affair of Dwerri’s whip had convinced many people I knew what I was doing—I found that I had misjudged the determination with which the various shamans and cult leaders intended to hang on to their influence. Several times I found revolting charms in my room, under my pillow or nailed over the doorway in bags, and as time went by it became clear that the people responsible were willing to find something that worked more efficiently than mere charms.
Once, when I snatched down a bag that looked like just another in the long series nailed over the door, something moved inside it. Barely in time I dropped, and stamped on, a deadly poisonous quasi-reptile, a thing with four legs and a chitinous shell and inch-long hollow fangs. The day following I went the rounds of the various townlets on the estate, and as often as I could manage it unobserved I fixed a little charm of my own to the door of a shaman’s home. It consisted of the name Dwerri written in Vorrish characters on a scrap of white leather.
Simple as it was, it worked, and I had complete peace for several days.
But the peace was not to last.
It was customary, whenever something went wrong with one of the Earth-built solar-powered vehicles on the estate—and there were some hundreds of these, mostly acquired by Pwill during his tour as governor of Earth—to send to the Acre for a mechanic to fix it if the job was too complicated for one of the half-trained peasants who passed for mechanics on the estate. In the past, I’d never even taken the trouble to make the acquaintance of one of these rare visitors. Why, was another unanswerable question.
One morning I came out for a walk in the sun, and found one of the biggest trucks on the estate undergoing repairs in the open air. There were two mechanics busy on it. I saw at once that they were Earthly, and walked up to greet them. To my utter amazement, I found that one of them was Ken Lee, and the other—Marijane.
CHAPTER XIII
I STOOD THERE gaping like an idiot for a long moment before she raised her head from the works of the truck and saw me. During that moment workmen of the estate came and went, avoiding me; I noted that the two Earthly experts were being left to their own devices completely, except for the watch kept on them by a group of a half a dozen surly-faced
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