Glory Season

Naroin delved some distance during hunting forays, but the older woman gave no sign of having seen anything unusual. Either the former bosun had lousy eyesight, which seemed unlikely, or she, too, knew how to keep a good poker face.

Since last talking with Naroin, Maia had begun dwelling on dark, suspicious thoughts. Even her refuge in the chaste, ornate world of game abstractions grew unsettled. It was hard paying attention to mental patterns of shifting dots, when she kept remembering that Re

One day followed another. By snaring and shooting small game to supplement the dry-tack larder, Naroin eased some of the tension that had followed the raft-building vote. That project surged and stalled, then plunged forward again with each difficulty met and overcome. Several solidly built platforms of trimmed logs now lay drying in the sunshine, their bark-strip bindings well lashed and growing tauter by the hour. Maia had begun wondering if Ina

Charl, a stout, somewhat hirsute sailor from the far northwest, managed to use a long pole to snag the cable hanging below the locked winch mechanism. Believing the reavers' warnings of booby traps, the var delicately managed to loop the heavy cord through a crude block and tackle of her own devising. In theory, they could now lower things halfway down before having to switch to handmade vine ropes. It was a clever and impressive feat.

None of the escape team's competence at construction seemed to impress Naroin. But Maia, despite her doubts, tried to help. When asked by Ina

There was one more thing Maia could do to help.

Brod found her one day, as she walked the latest of a long series of circuits of the island, dropping pieces of wood into the water at different times and watching them drift. The boy caught on quickly. "I get it! They'll have to know the local currents, especially near the cliffs, so they won't crash up against them."

"That's right," Maia answered. "The winch isn't located in the best place for launching such a fragile craft. I guess the site was chosen more for its convenient rock overhang. They'll have to pick the right moment, or wind up swimming among a lot of broken bits of wood."

It was a chilling image. Brod nodded seriously. "I should've figured that out first." There was a hard edge of resignation in his voice. "Guess you can tell I'm not much of a seaman."

"But you're an officer."

"Midshipman, big deal." He shrugged. "Test scores and family influence. I'm lousy at anything practical, from knots to fishing."

Maia imagined it must be hard for him to say. For a boy to be no good at seamanship was almost the same as being no man at all. There just weren't that many other employment opportunities for a male, even one as well educated as Brod.

They sat together on the edge of the bluff, watching and timing the movement of wood chips far below. Between measurements, Maia toyed with her sextant, taking angles between various other islands to the southwest.

"I really liked it at Starkland Hold," Brod confided at one point, then hurriedly assured her, "I'm no momma's boy. It's just that it was a happy place. The mothers and sisters were . . . are nice people. I miss 'em." He laughed, a little sharply. "Famous problem for the vars of my clan."

"I wish Lamatia had been like that."

"Don't." He looked across the sea at nowhere in particular. "From what you've said, they kept an honorable distance. There's advantages to that."

Watching his sad eyes, Maia found herself able to believe it. A tendency runs strong in human nature to feel sentiment toward the children of your womb, even if they are but half yours. Maia knew of clans in Port Sanger, too, that bonded closely to their summer kids, finding it hard to let go. In those cases, parting was helped by the natural, adolescent urge to leave a backwater port. She imagined the combination of a loving home, plus growing up in an exciting city, made it much harder to forsake and forget. That did not ease a pang of envy. I wouldn't have minded a taste of his problem.

"That's not what bothers me so much, though," Brod went on. "I know I've got to get over that, and I will. At least Starkland throws reunions, now and then. Lots of clans don't. Fu

"The one at Starkland Hold? But there are libraries in sanctuaries, too."

He nodded. "You should see some of them. Miles of shelves, stuffed with printed volumes, hand-cut leather covers, gold lettering. Incredible. And yet, you could cram the whole library at Trentinger Beacon into just five of the datastore boxes they have at the Enhedua

Brod shook his head. "Starkland had a hookup. We're a librarian family. I was good at it. Mother Cil said I must've been born in the wrong season. Would've done the clan proud, if I'd been a full clone."

Maia sighed in sympathy, relating to the story. She, too, had talents inappropriate for any life path open to her. There passed several long minutes in which neither spoke. They moved on to another site, tossing a leafy branch into the spuming water and counting their pulses to time its departure.

"Can you keep a secret?" Brod said a little later. Maia turned, meeting his pale eyes.

"I suppose. But—"

"There's another reason they keep me mostly ashore . . . the captain and mates, I mean."

"Yes?"

He looked left and right, then leaned toward her.

"I … get seasick. Almost half the time. Never even saw any of the big fight when you were captured, 'cause I was bent over the fantail the whole time. Not encouraging for a guy s'posed to be an officer, I guess."

She stared at the lad, guessing what it had cost him to say this. Still, she could not help herself. Maia fought to hold it in, to keep a straight face, but finally had to cover her mouth, stifling a choking sound. Brod shook his head. He pursed his lips, tightening them hard, but could not keep them from spreading. He snorted. Maia rocked back and forth, holding her sides, then burst forth with peals of laughter. In a second, the youth replied in kind, guffawing with short brays between inhalations that sounded much better than sobs.

The next day, a vast squadron of zoor passed to the north, like gaily painted parasols, or flattish balloons that had escaped a party for festive giants. Morning sunlight refracted through their bulbous, translucent gasbags and dangling tendrils, casting multicolored shadows on the pale waters The convoy stretched from horizon to horizon.

Maia watched from the precipice, along with Brod and several women, remembering the last time she had seen big floaters like these, though nowhere near this many. It had been from the narrow window of her prison cell, in Long Valley, when she had thought Leie dead, had yet to meet Re