Wings of Omen

A short time later, after dismissing all the other courtiers, Shupansea patted the comer of her divan and called Hakiem to join her. "Tell us. Wise One," she said with a smile,"what do you see in this determination of the Setmur to build another boat that we do not see?"

The storyteller sank heavily onto the cushions; formality disappeared, as it usually did when they were alone. "When one reaches my age one learns to appreciate the value of time. One of the few advantages of being an empress, or even a prince, is that you rarely have to make a decision in a hurry. In short, I was afraid that in your haste to determine if the boat were truly needed for fishing you might overlook the greater problems involved here."

"You're speaking in riddles," the Beysa scolded. "We have always been frank with each other. Is this new boat necessary?"

"I haven't any idea, though I suppose I'd trust the opinion of those who make their living catching fish. My point is that, needed or not, the boat should be built if you are to begin solving your greater problems."

"That is twice you have mentioned these greater problems. Speak plainly, Wise One; after a day with our courtiers and subjects we have no patience for riddles."

Hakiem rose and began pacing. "The greatest problem is the friction between our peoples. There is far too much killing and hating going on; every day it gets a little worse, not better. If we are going to live together in Sanctuary without destroying the town and ourselves, there must be peace, and peace must begin somewhere."

Shupansea leaned back, regarding him with hard, staring eyes that were old beyond their years. For a moment she was the Beysa again, the Avatar of the goddess Bey, and not a young woman. "We did not expect garlands and parades when we came here," she explained flatly. "The Set-mur have a saying: 'New fish are bought with blood.' We knew there would be hardship, maybe death, wherever we went; Beysib themselves are slow to change and slower to accept change they do not want. That is why we have restrained our retribution when our people have been slaughtered. We had hoped gold would be enough; but if it must be our blood, then it will be-and theirs as well."

Hakiem hawked and spat on the polished floor. The Beysa did not threaten often, nor well. "We have a saying too," he retaliated. "'Never pay the asking price -even if you can afford it.' Don't be blind to the first positive sign I've seen wander through this room. Didn't you look at that delegation? Beysib and Ilsig and Rankan, together, proposing a joint action other than slitting each others' throats! Who cares if the boat is necessary-just let them build it!"

The shapely breasts rose and fell in a great sigh. "Ah... we see your point. Yes, the boat shall be built regardless of the cost or need."

"Nonsense," Hakiem said with a grin, "never pay the asking price. Make them submit an accounting; question every board and nail on it. They'll cheat you anyway, but there's no sense in letting them think you don't care about money; they care very much about it. But you must discuss the matter with the Prince."

"Why?" She was sincere, and that pained Hakiem even more.

"Wood is scarce in Sanctuary, and the building of a new boat will require the felling of trees. For generations the Governor has been the protector of our little forests. If you have truly left Kadakithis as governor, then he must issue die edict about the trees-or you should not pretend that he is governor of anything."

The Beysa smiled as she nodded her understanding of the situation, and was about to say something else when the Prince strode into the room.

"Shupansea, I was wondering if... Oh, hello. Storyteller."

"Your Highness," Hakiem responded, bowing as low for the Prince as he did for the Beysa.

The Prince and his entourage were currently living in the Summer Palace, a half -finished rambling structure out beyond Downwind, having surrendered the Governor's palace to the Beysa two days after the fleet arrived. Hakiem tried to close his rumor-sensitive ears to the signs of ever-increasing familiarity between the Prince and the Beysa, but it was almost impossible. The Prince was never at the Summer Palace and never more than a few moments away from Shupansea; his courtesans had been spirited back to the capital, and Molin Torchholder, who should have been above such things, seemed to be encouraging the entire affair.

"Just one little matter, then we can be alone," Shupansea told Kadakithis with a radiant smile. "Tell me, you don't care if a few trees are cut down if it will get the townspeople and my people working together, do you?"

"If trees are what you want, take them all," the Prince said with a casual shrug of his shoulders and an equally radiant smile.

"I think, then, that I should withdraw now, 0 Empress. The matter seems to be settled now."

Hakiem paused outside the Presence Chamber, trying to control the irritation and, yes, the dread that had been generated by the exchange. Was the Prince so infatuated with Shupansea's overly obvious charms that he had thrown away what little judgment and free will he possessed? Was Sanctuary a Beysib property now, completely and without any recourse? The storyteller liked the Beysa and always advised her honestly, but he was Sanctuary's proudest citizen. It grieved him beyond speech to see what they were doing to his city.

He was suddenly aware that the room behind him was perfectly quiet now; the lovers had escaped. His eyebrows went up as his lips tightened. Perhaps the white bird could mate with the black one. And if they did, what became of all the other birds who were left?

WHAT WOMEN DO BEST by Chris & Janet Morris

From a hunting blind of artfully piled garbage guarded by a dozen fat, half -tamed rats, an Ilsig head, then another, and another, caught the moonlight as the death squad emerged from the tu

They called their leader "Zip," when they called him anything at all. He didn't encourage familiarity; he'd always been a loner, a creature of the streets without family or friends. Even before the Beysib had come and the waves of executions had begun, the street urchins and the Maze-dwellers had stayed clear of the knife-boy who was half Ilsig and half some race much paler, who hired out for copper to any enforcer in the Maze or disgruntled dealer in Downwind. And who, it was said, brought an eye or tongue or liver from every soul he murdered to Vashanka's half-forgotten altar on the White Foal River's edge.

Even his death squad was afraid of him. Zip knew. And that was fine with him: every now and again, a member was captured by the Rankan oppressors or the Beysib oppressors: the less these idealists of revolution knew of him, the less they could reveal under torture or blandishment. He'd had a friend once, or at least a close acquaintance-an Ilsig thief called Hanse. But Hanse, with all his shining blades and his high-toned airs, had gone the way of everything in Sanctuary since the Beysibs' ships had docked: to oblivion, to hell in a basket.

Standing up straight for a moment in the moon-licked gloom to get his bearings. Zip heard laughter rounding a comer, saw a flash of pantaloon, and ducked back with a hiss and a signal to his group, who'd been trained by Nisibisi insurgents and knew this game as well as he.

The moonlight wasn't bright enough to tell the color of the Beysib males'-Zip didn't think of them as "men"- pantaloons, but he'd be willing to bet they were of claret velvet or shiny purple silk. Killing Beysibs was about as exciting as killing ants, and as fruitless: there were just too damned many of them.