But it seemed unlikely. Ali Baba’s relationship to her was simply—cold. Not that other humans could tell. Moties faces twisted up into uniform, inscrutable smiles. They did not move. Insofar as Ali Baba used body language, it was all Bury’s gestures, the three arms notwithstanding. Cool, calculating, graceful, even. Giving nothing away. But Glenda Ruth could—feel— it. In the timbre of Ali Baba’s voice. It sounded like Bury’s. It could be impassioned when angry. But when addressing her, it was missing all sub tones of emotion.

“It’s not right,” said Ali Baba. “If I am to exercise prudent judgment regarding my voting shares, I must be allowed to travel. How else will I get to know—”

“It’s just not safe,” she pleaded. “You know that. We can protect you here at the Institute. But out there, beyond the Trans-Coal Sack—”

“I will be as safe on Sinbad as anywhere.” She hated it when he did that. Switched to Bury’s Voice. It sounded—chilling—coming from one so small. Chilling, and frighteningly intelligent, which s/he was.

“I will put it to Renner.”

“But I—”

“Lady Blaine, I appreciate your concern. I will put it to Renner. It is Renner’s responsibility, as my Guardian.”

And with that, the conversation was simply—over. She used every guile she knew, human and Motie, but when Ali Baba was in this mode, nothing penetrated. Nothing at all. In desperation, she’d even asked Omar. “What’s to be done? What do you do, when an apprentice Motie loses a fyunchÂ?”

“Loses a fyunch ?,” answered Omar, with that inscrutable smile and body language indicating: your question is nonsensical. “Assigned a new one. Retained as a trainer. Apprenticed to other duties. Spaced. As the Master desires.”

“But Ali Baba refuses to be re-assigned!”

“Reassigned? As fyunch ?” Omar’s arms indicated bemusement. “Ali Baba was never assigned.”

“To Bury. You gave Ali Baba to Bury.”

“I gave? No. Lord Cornwallis gave.”

“Yes, of course. But I mean, Ali Baba was assigned to Bury as fyunch .”

Omar suppressed mirth at this, but Glenda Ruth caught it.

“Lady, I will say this: there’s a difference between assigned and gave, even in your language.”

At which point. Glenda Ruth had had enough, and barked, “Explain!” with full Master’s bearing and posture.

Omar merely smiled with arms posed in respectful deference, not obeisance. “Ah, Lady Blaine. We all know our Master’s Voice, and you do not speak with mine.”

Subtly, Omar’s hands conveyed: think, don’t demand. You are no longer a child.

She was stumped. She was raised by a Mediator, but not this one. This one was as alien as any outworlder. “Please, you were fyunch to Bury, right?”

“Yes, milady, I had that honor.”

“And you are saying that Ali Baba was not?”

“Yes, Milady.”

“Then please, as Bury, tell me: what does Ali Baba need? What is his problem?”

“Ah,” with mirth, “for a Bury fyunch , this is no problem. Ali Baba seeks his Master’s Voice.”

And Omar left her with that double—no triple—maybe quadruple—entendre.

8

The Gathering

A man has no religion who has not slowly and painfully gathered one together, adding to it, shaping it; and one's religion is never complete and final, it seems, but must always be undergoing modification. So I contend that…honest, fervent politics are religion; that whatsoever a man will labour for earnestly and in some measure unselfishly is religion.

—David Herbert Lawrence, Letters, vol. 1

Bonneville, New Utah

When Zia and Michael arrived, the house was the pandemonium of hand-waving, room-changing, orders-bellowing, and petty officiousness that accompanies any gaggle of minor officials unaccustomed to holding either real respect or real authority. Asach and The Lads had retreated to the roof: Asach to avoid being observed; The Lads to avoid being dragooned. They might have been a TCM detail, but they were locals, and it didn’t take long to grow fond of Mena’s cooking. They had no particular love for these foul-smelling, book-touting zealots from Maxroy’s Purchase, and they didn’t much like what they were hearing down below. This lot was outright bragging that they’d “tithe the last tenth” and put this “band of mammon-grubbing pilgrims out on the street.”

So, much mirth was suppressed when Michael burst into the compound, and confronted the assessors with the black-frock-clad Zia, who was the last word in officiousness. Accounts ledgers, sealed TCM security certificates, and perfect Anglic diction were laid on with a spatula. Then, in the good-cop counter to Zia’s bad-cop berating, Mena and Lena appeared with mountains of food, topped off with genuine Mormon bush tea. It was lights out in short order; then in what seemed barely five minutes rousted to another mountain of breakfast, and slightly confused by their sense of well-being, the True Church tithe team was on its way. The Lads’ joy at one pulled-over at the expense of the MPs quite overwhelmed any sense of obligation they might have felt toward their brethren-in-faith, and they cheerfully volunteered to head off as escorts to whatever hinterland Asach might next direct.

Their second shock came when they headed downstairs later that morning, after the tithe-collectors had finally departed. Michael stood, not triumphant, but stooped, crushed and crumpled, face sallow, patrician demeanor evaporated. Zia’s hand wrapped that of a small, hooded girl with purple bruises marbling her face. Both their faces were wet with tears. But the worst was Ollie, slumped at the little stone table, face in hands, shoulders wracked, sobbing like an infant, while Zia explained to Michael.

“They came on the SunRail. The overnight. They left right after we did. Right after the MPs let them go.”

“Who’s the girl?”

“My niece. Ollie’s niece. He couldn’t leave her. Her father’s a TCM pig—” she spat, then looked sharply at the Lads. “Sorry. I don’t mean you or the rest of Ollie’s contract security boys. I mean MPs, you know? A private, joined up on the Purchase. One of those MP fundies who—you know? Just look at her.”

Their eyes widened in horror, and they nodded.

The wiry one suddenly blurted: “Where’s Deela?”

Zia looked at him. Tried to remember him. There were so many. All of them sweet on little Deela, with her sweet little smile and her emerald-green eyes. The light of Ollie’s eye.

“With the boys. Ollie came ahead on the SunRail when he heard, because—”

And now Michael blurted: “Where are Deela and the boys?”

Ollie shot from the bench, sobbing and pulling something from his shirt, shoving it forward, half lurching, half falling into Michael’s face. The Lads crowded around. They couldn’t make out the image. A dark glade. Something butchered. Something hanging, butchered, but with much too much red.

And Ollie shouted: “That’s Hugo. Look what they’ve done to my Hugo!”

And Zia’s voice joined in, sounding very far away. “We don’t know. That’s why they came ahead. We don’t know. Except, of course, poor Hugo.”

Michael sagged; suddenly looked old. “That’s it, then. They know.” Then he looked up, wild-eyed.

“You can’t stay here! They’ll know! They’ll come here, and they’ll know, and we’ll all—”

But somehow, all at once, Zia and Ollie and Marul were ringed: by Nejme, and Mena, and Lena; by the house staff; by the Lads, who stepped into the circle. Suddenly, Michael stood on the outside, and everyone else was on the inside, ringed around their own.