“You trust me to know this?”

He laughed with amused force. “Hasn’t two-wife told me to trust the Gentle Heretic in all ways? But I do not need trust. I care not who digs the gold, as long as I am the one who buys it.”

Joesai’s camp was only a tent big enough to crowd two men. He built a fire and busied himself preparing cake and potatoes and a sauce he frequently insisted that she taste and judge. He was so oblivious of danger that she relaxed. Getasun rose, rouging the eastern hills, before the meal’s aroma was on the air from the bubbling pots. They ate with the full orb of Scowlmoon hanging over the thick-leaved brush trees to the west. When they stood up, they could see under the moon a faint horizon of purplish sea. He fed her and teased her as if she were a child.

“I’m beginning to see the source of your innocent philosophy. Now open your mouth like a good girl and have some potato.”

“Do your penetrating eyes also see my heart of gold?”

“There is no heart of gold in your bosom. I see a heart of flesh that pumps blood to your blushing cheeks.”

“Why do you take me as such an innocent?” She was curious. She had many lovers, old, young, high kalothi, and low kalothi. She thought it showed in the carelessly disheveled air she wore.

“The things you write about. Weren’t you the one who said we were a world of children who had never grown up after the poisons had claimed our parents?”

“I was only making a parable on that old myth! People understand myths!”

“It’s what you want us to believe — that you are the only adult.” He tossed a stone into the fire to make sparks. “I’m a living breathing adult, dead neither of the poisons nor of famine; for children look no farther than yourself.”

She had been opening her garment unobtrusively. She stopped, anger rising to lash at his incredible insult. She laughed instead, the great laugh. “Grandfather, I think it is your bedtime.”

They were tired and ready for rest. It took maneuvering for the tent to accept them both. She held him to her bosom, surprised that he merely took the warmth of her with his own arm without trying to take more of what she was willing to give. His presence made her feel safe, for the moment, from the Mnankrei. The panic was gone and somehow the pain in the wrists seemed less. Already she was able to plan how to hide and how to attack. Then they slept.

11

BENJIE WAS WHAT THE CLANS called a dobu, in his case, a dobu of machine design. But he was more than a creator of machines; he was a dobu, class eight, and the og’Sieth clan recognized nothing higher than the eighth level. He had the beginning of wrinkles and the easy manner of one who has already made his mistakes.

Within the workshed he held up a thumb-sized slug, fresh from his lathe. Gaet watched Benjie mask the small steel part with wax, readying it for etching.

“This is the first of five etchings,” said the dobu.

He was building a small power supply for the Great Cloister of Kaiel-hontokae. Gesturing for Gaet to follow, he walked across the shed. His apprentice was seated at a desk, working within a spot of sunlight brought in by mirrors. Her eyes and fingers concentrated on a polishing operation.

The girl wore the og’Sieth headband of the unmarried, pinned at her forehead by the brass token of the apprentice. When Benjie was sure of her competence as a machinist, duty would require him to gift her with child in a public temple ceremony and, once the baby was born, release her for marriage. Such were the clan obligations of an eighth-class og’Sieth dobu.

He took the part from his apprentice and held it in the sunbeam for Gaet. “She is almost finished, this piece needing only the furnace to diffuse hardener into its surface.”

Gaet was more interested in the girl than in steam engines. He smiled at her and she turned away.

Benjie spoke out approvingly. “My little one does excellent work; I’ll have to find a husband for her soon.”

“It’s none of your business!” she flashed. “I’m going to marry Mair and Solovan.”

Benjie laughed. “Mair is her best girlfriend. The women are growing more stubborn by the week in imposing their will upon our world’s chaos.” He paused and his look was that of a man who likes to tickle small children. “To the best of my knowledge, Mair and Solovan are not yet married.”

“But they will be. They’re friends! And Mair promised to introduce me to Solovan at the celebration tonight!”

“If you flirt as well as you polish, I suspect their fate is ordained unless poor Solovan has more wits than I’ve noticed.”

Her shyness gone, the apprentice smiled at Gaet. “You see why I don’t get any work done with this flatterer around all the time, talking nonsense in my ear and stopping me to show whatever I do to all the passing visitors because my work is prettier than his work.”

The two men passed from the shed to the hillside trail. “If you’ve been wondering at my visit, I’ve come to inspect my holdings,” explained the priest.

“Ah. You’re our new landowner?” asked the underclansman.

“From here to the sea.”

Benjie laughed. Gaet knew enough not to interrupt, and the chuckling continued until they reached the road. Benjie was a member of Gaet’s constituency and they often laughed together. “So,” said Benjie finally, “the priests fight again. This ownership of land which possesses the priests has always puzzled me. Once you own land, you are not free. You cannot walk beyond the boundary you have set yourself without inviting a fight. You must stay up past the time when any honest clansman is asleep, drawing your maps and coloring them.” He stopped Gaet and pointed out a swarm of bees who had taken up a new home in the rocks beside a cluster of carnivorous fei bushes. “The bees are free. They can go anywhere. Why should they care who owns the land? An og’Sieth is free. I can be anywhere my will chooses and know my clan will receive me.”

“Someone has to worry about the sewage,” Gaet grumbled.

“You always have a problem when you come to see me,” said Benjie. “What is it this time?”

“The sea is too far away. Haulage is the problem. Nothing to discuss while we are sober. The mind is too practical when it is sober.”

“Come to our party tonight. That will remedy your sobriety!”

“I was thinking along the lines of a mechanical Ivieth, a machine that could run day and night harnessed to a wagon, faster than any man can run.”

Benjie began to laugh again. “Wait until you are drunk! Wait!” He held out his palms in a stopping gesture while he choked on his laughter. “Not now!”

Gaet made no further mention of his wild schemes. He bought a keg of mead for the party and helped his friends set up the tables and bring in the food to the village’s small common yard. He forgot his troubles. He wasn’t a man who stayed worried when the whisky was out.

He spent his time listening to those he thought might make useful additions to his constituency, but lost interest in all political matters when he cornered an old og’Sieth woman who had worked metal as far away as the distant Sea of Tears. Like almost every Getan, he was curious about faraway places. The conversation was interrupted by a faint call.

“Gaet maran-Kaiel! Gaet maran-Kaiel…” The voice was resonant enough to echo off the hills and carry along the vales up to the mines and down into the worksheds of the og’Sieth buildings that surrounded the tunnelings. It was an Ivieth runner paging Gaet, probably with a message which had been relayed through the local rayvoice atop Redstone Hill.