Glory Season

Maia knew she was doing poorly, failing to organize her thoughts in coherent order. Pondering Jellicoe also reminded Maia of problems more real than these stupid tests. If only Leie and Brod had noticed the gradual transition of power there, and snuck out with Naroin's friends while it was still possible! Now, apparently, it was too late.

Maia finished describing the crimson door she and Brod had found in the sea cave, and moved on to summarize her logic in the sanctuary auditorium. She started by giving full credit to Leie and the ill-fated navigator, for their parts in solving the riddle that led to discovering the Great Former. Except that also meant sharing blame for what followed — the violent invasion of those cryptic precincts, forcing Re

It's my doing. Mine alone. She had to close her eyes and inhale deeply. I can't think about that right now. Save it. Save it for later.

Maia finished that summary, putting the second piece of paper atop the first. She stared at the third blank sheet, then looked up in bafflement. "What third puzzle lock? I don't recall—"

"The earliest. When you were four. Breaking into your mothers' storeroom."

Maia stared in surprise. "How did you—"

"Never mind that. Please finish. This test measures spontaneous response under pressure, not skill or completeness of recollection."

Maia suspected the jargon hid something, some meaning hidden in the words, but it escaped her. Sighing, she bent over to write down what she could remember of that long-ago day, when the creaking dumbwaiter carried two young twins for the last time into those catacombs beneath the Lamai kitchens.

In her hand, Maia had clutched a scrawled solution, her final effort to defeat the stubborn lock. With Leie holding a lantern, she pressed stony figures — twining snakes, stars, and other symbols — which clicked into place, one by one. Neither twin breathed as the defiant, iron-bound door at long last slid aside to reveal —

Bones. Row after row of neat stacks of bones. Femurs. Tibia. Fibia. Gri

Other things had lain hidden in the chamber. Icy cabinets held dusty records. Then, toward the back, they encountered more menacing items. Weapons. Vicious death machines, outlawed to family militias, but stored in keeping with the motto of Lamatia Clan—"Better Safe Than Sorry."

Afterward, both twins had had lurid dreams, but soon they replaced qualms with jesting scorn for that great chain of individuals leading back to a mythical, lost set of genetic grandparents. The intermediary — the Lamai person  — had conquered time, but apparently would never overcome her deep insecurity. In the end, what Maia recalled best were the months spent tantalized by a puzzle. Once solved, she realized, a riddle that had seemed compelling all too often turns out to be nothing but insipid.

After Brill went home, Maia crawled between the bee-silk sheets, exhausted, but unable to stop thinking. Re

Perhaps they both were right.

Sleep came eventually. She did not dream, but her hands twitched, as if sensing a vague but powerful need to reach for tools.

The next day dawned eerie as Maia watched frost evaporate from flowers in the garden, perfuming the air with scents of roses and loneliness. When Odo collected her for their daily ride, neither woman spoke. Maia kept mulling over Brill Upsala's parting remarks the night before.

"I can't say much about the venture," the examiner had said, referring to the enterprise her clan was funding. "Except that it involves transport and communications, using improved traditional techniques." Brill's smile was thin, wry. "Our clan likes anything that lets us spread ourselves out thi

"So it doesn't have to do with the Former, or the space launcher?"

Brill's green eyes had flashed. "What gave you that idea? Oh. Because I was with Iolanthe and the Pi

Aware of the Persim clone trailing nearby, Maia had asked one final question at the door. "I still can't figure how you knew about our visit to the Lamatia bone room. The Lamai never found out, did they?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Then you must've spoken to Le—"

"Don't make assumptions," the older woman had cut in. Then, after a beat, she held out her hand. "Good luck, Maia. I hope we meet again."

It wasn't hard to interpret Brill's meaning. I hope we meet again . . . if you survive.

Those words came to mind as the carriage bore Maia and Odo by the marble portico of Council House. Fewer demonstrators held ba

The strike is failing, Maia sensed. Even if it were still active on the coast, how could loosely organized men overcome great clans and win back things lost ages before living memory? What did ancient Guardians, or the Great Former, mean to the average seaman, anyway? How long can passion be maintained over an abstract grievance, nearly a thousand years old?

Something unsettling occurred to Maia. Brill's examination had covered many of the skills needed by the pilot or navigator of a ship. Might it be part of a scheme to recruit strike breakers! There were enough women sailors to staff some freighters, after all. Without officers, those ships would soon founder, but what if women were found as replacements on the quarterdeck, as well?

I'd refuse, Maia vowed. Even if it turned out to be the one thing I was born to do, I could never help deprive men of their one niche, their one place of pride in the world. The Perkinite solution would be more merciful.

She knew she was leaping to conclusions. The situation was making her paranoid and depressed.

Watching the faltering demonstration, she saw Odo smile.

The next day, the heavens opened and there was no ride in the park. Maia tried to read, but the rain turned her thoughts to Re

Was her heart hardening? No, she still mourned her friend, and would always. But she owed duty to the living. To Leie. And she missed Brod terribly.

That night, Maia woke to words in the hallway. She heard passing footsteps, and shadows briefly occulted the line of light under her door.

"… I knew it couldn't last!"

"It's not over, yet," commented a more cautious voice.

"You saw the reports! The vrilly lugs'll accept the token offer and be happy about it. We'll be moving cargo well before spring!"

The words and footsteps receded. Maia threw off the covers and hurried to the door in her nightgown, in time to see three figures round a far corner — all Persims, ranging from early to late middle age. After a moment's temptation to follow, Maia turned and headed the way they had come, her bare feet silent on the hand-woven carpet. No guards were stationed to keep her prisoner anymore. Either they felt sure of their hold over her, or cared less what she did.