Principal Characters

Lynne de Lisle Christie, envoy

Sam Huxton, marine biologist, head of the Dominion xeno-team:

Timothy Eliot, xeno-biology

Audrey Eliot, xeno-ecology (land)

John Lalkaka, geologist

Margery Huxton, xeno-ecology (sea)

Elspeth Huxton, her daughter

John Barratt, demographer

Dr. K. Adair, medical research

Carrie Thomas, xeno-sociology

Maurie Venner, assistant sociologist

David Meredith, envoy

Dalzielle Kerys-Andrethe, T'An Suthai-Telestre, Crown of the Southland, also called Suthafiori, Flower of the South

Evalen Kerys-Andrethe, her daughter

Katra Hellel Hanathra, First Minister of Ymir

Katra Sadri Hanathra, his sister, s'an telestre

Sadri Geren hanathra, her son, shipmaster

amari Ruric Orhlandis, T'An Commander of the Southland army

Ruric Rodion Orhlandis, her ashiren, called Halfgold

Sulis n'ri n'suth SuBannasen, T'An Melkathi

Hana Oreyn Orhlandis, First Minister of Melkathi

Nelum Santhil Rimnith, Portmaster of Ales-Kadareth

Telvelis Koltyn Talkul, T'An Roehmonde

Verek Howice Talkul, his son

Verek Sethin Talkul, his daughter

Sethin Falkyr Talkul, Sethin's son

Asshe, commander of the northern garrison

Jacan Thu'ell Sethur, T'An Rimon

Zannil Emberen n'ri n'suth Telerion, Seamarshal of Morvren Freeport

Arlyn Bethan n'ri n'suth Ivris, T'An Kyre

Talmar Halten n'ri n'suth Beth'ru-elen, A Crown Messenger

Achil Maric Salathiel, l'ri-an to the envoy

Aluys Blaize n'ri n'suth Meduenin, a mercenary

Kanta Andrethe, the Andrethe of Peir-Dadeni

Eilen Brodin n'ri n'suth Charain, an intelligencer

Cethelen Khassiye Reihalyn, a minister in Shiriya-Shenin

Tirzael, an Earthspeaker

Branic, a Wellkeeper at Terison

Rhiawn, a Wellkeeper at Terison

Theluk n'ri n'suth Edris, an Earthspeaker

Arad, a Wellkeeper at Corbek

Dannor bel-Kurick, Emperor-in-Exile

Kurick bel-Olinyi, ambassador from Kel Harantish

Gur'an Alahamu-te O'he-Oramu-te, a barbarian woman

Speaker-for-the-People, a fenborn of the Lesser Fens

the Hexenmeister of Kasabaarde

Tethmet, a fenborn of the Brown Tower

Havoth-jair, a sailor

Orinc, of the Order House Su'niar

PART ONE

1

Carrick V

A ramshackle collection of white plastic and steel buildings stood at the edge of the concrete landing strip. Beyond the trade station grey rocks stretched out to a startling blue sea. A fine dust sifted down.

I walked away from the ship's ramp and stood on the hot concrete, the pale sun burning down on my head. The light off the sea was harshly brilliant, dazzling; Carrick's Star is nearer white than Earth-standard yellow.

Behind me there was the bustle of the shuttle-ship unloading. I was the only passenger disembarking on Carrick V. On the FTL starship, now in orbit, I'd been busy with hypno-tapes of the languages and customs of the world. Orthe was the native name, or so the first expedition reported. Orthe, fifth world of Carrick's Star, a sun on the edge of the galaxy's heart.

I shouldered my packs and went across to the station. Shadows on Earth are grey. At their darkest they have a tinge of blue. Orthe's shadows are black and so sharp-edged that they fool the eye; while I walked I had to stop myself avoiding shadow-holes in the concrete.

A moss-like plant clung to the rocky soil, and from its dense blue clusters sprang small crimson flowers on waist-high stems. A hot wind blew off the water. There were whitecaps. The arch of the sky was cloudless, the horizon amber-hazed.

Pin-pricks of white light starred the sky.

I took a deep breath and stood still. The mark of a world on the edge of the core of the galaxy, these were Orthe's daystars. For a second everything—sea, wind, rock, sunlight— stood out shockingly alien.

A man walked out of the trade station, waved a careless hand, and headed towards me. He wore shirt, britches, high boots—and a sword belted at his hip. He was not human. An Orthean.

"Your pardon, t'an, you are the envoy?"

I recognized the speech of Ymir.

"Ah—yes." I realized I was staring. "Pleased to meet you."

For my part, I prefer aliens that look alien. Then when they ritually eat their first-born, or turn arthropod halfway through their life-cycle, it isn't so much of a shock. You expect it. Humanoid aliens, they're trouble.

"And so am I pleased to meet with you." He bowed slightly. The speech inflection was formal. "I am Sadri Geren Hanathra of Ymir."

His papers authorized him as escort for the Dominion envoy: they were made out and signed by the head of the xeno-team, and countersigned by someone I took to be an Orthean official: one Talmar Haltern n'ri n'suth Beth'ru-elen. Like everything else on this mission, it had the air of being a haphazard arrangement.

"Lynne de Lisle Christie." It being customary to give country of origin, I added "Of the British Isles, and the Dominion of Earth."

He stood well under six feet, about my height. His yellow hair was short, the hairline somewhat higher than I expected. As he glanced back, I saw that it was rooted down his neck, vanishing under his collar. Either the custom was to go clean-shaven or the Ortheans had little body-hair. There was none of that fine down that marks a human skin; his—as he held up his hand in greeting—I saw to be smooth, slick-looking, with almost a hint of a scale-pattern.

He was young, with a cheerfully open expression, but with the air of a man accustomed to lead rather than follow.

"Christie. Not a Southland name—but of course not." He gestured.  "Come this way, I've a ship waiting off North Point."

Drawn up on the rocky shore was a dinghy, attended by two Orthean natives. The older one took my packs and stored them at the prow. Geren scrambled in and sat at the stern. I followed, less agile. No one offered help. The two Orthean males pushed us offshore, climbed in, and began rowing.

"There is my ship," Geren turned to me, pointing. "The Hanathra, named for my telestre. A good vessel, but not as fartravelled as yours, I think."

A telestre was something between estate and family and commune, I thought. I wasn't sure of the details. Hypno-tapes always give you that feeling at first: that what you're hearing is never exactly what the other person is saying, and that you can never find the right words yourself. It wears off with use.

A sailing ship lay anchored offshore, the kind of craft the Ortheans call jath. It was no larger than a galleon, though not square-rigged: triangular lateen sails gave it the rakish look of a clipper.

"Have we far to go?" I asked.

"A week's journey, perhaps, if the wind favours. More if not. We're bound for Tathcaer, for the court there." Geren's smile faded. "You must realize, t'an, you'll be the centre of some attention. You should beware intrigue."

The word he used was not precisely intrigue, or conspiracy, or politics; it is an untranslatable expression that includes the Orthean term for challenges and games.

"Thank you for warning me. It's kind."

"If I mean what I say?" He laughed. "I do. I've no love for the court. I'd sooner sail the Hanathra. But don't believe me just because I say so. Take no one at their word."

It was a taste of that same intrigue. I was certain he did it deliberately and I liked him for it, but it emphasized how much of an unknown quality Carrick V was, and what a series of locked doors I would have to open.

Coming out from the shelter of the point, the dinghy began to rock. The water was clear: the pale green of spring leaves. A fan of spray went up, polychromatic in the white sunlight. We crawled through the troughs of the waves toward the ship.

There was a pause while they tossed a rope-ladder down the hull, then Geren went up it like an acrobat. I looked at the wet, dark timber, and the rushing gap between the ship and the rocking dinghy. The rope-ladder jounced from the rail, rungs rattling against the hull.

The boat rose on a wave crest and I grabbed at the ladder and went up it, swinging dizzily, missing my footing and barking my knuckles. Acres of canvas gleamed and swung overhead. Feeling sick, I got two hands to the rail and heaved myself onto the deck.

A barefoot Orthean woman in shirt and britches leaned over the rail, neatly caught my packs and set them on deck. She and another woman swung out davits, the two men came up the rope-ladder as if it were a staircase, and all four of them began hauling the ship's boat onboard.

The distant island rose and fell gently. I had a last sight of the starship's shuttle towering over the trade station.

"This way!" Another woman shouted and beckoned.

I followed. The deck was crowded with men and women furiously working; I kept dodging out of one person's way only to find myself in someone else's. Masts towered. Can­vas blocked the sun, shaken out to snap on the wind.

A door below the poop deck led, by a dark, narrow passage, to small cabins.

"Yours." The Orthean female opened a door. She wore a corded sleeveless jacket, and her thick black mane was done up in a single braid. Her skin was faintly patterned, and there were webs of lines round her eyes.

In the dim light her eyes seemed to film over as she watched me, and then clear again. The Ortheans have a "third eyelid," a nictitating membrane like a cat's eye. And something else. I looked at her calloused hands.

Put them side by side with mine and they would be no wider, but she had five slender strong fingers beside her thumb. And thick nails, kept filed down on all but the little finger, which sported a hooked claw.

"Afraid you're sharing," she said, "but I'm mostly nightwatch so we shouldn't get in each other's way."

"Thanks. I'll try not to cause you bother."

"You think I didn't fight for the privilege?" She had a surprisingly human grin. "I want something to tell my chil­dren about the famous Otherworld envoy."

"Surilyn!"

The woman's head jerked up. I recognized Geren's voice.

"I'd best get to the helm." She turned. "The shipmaster's cabin is there, call t'an Geren if anything's too unfamiliar."

I went into the cabin. It was narrow; bunk bed one side, sea-chest the other. A square, iron-framed port with inch-thick bolts let in green-gold light. I had to stoop. The ceiling—the underside of the poop deck—showed beams a foot thick. There was the constant creak of timber and the lap of waves against the hull.

I sat down suddenly. The ship shook throughout its length, quivered, and settled into a steady pushing rhythm, driving ahead. It was an uneasy motion.

Sitting there, with the blankets rough under my hands and the sunlight sliding up and down the wood, I had a moment of stillness. This was not a starship, not even a sea-going ship on an Earth ocean; the voyage would not end at London or Liverpool or the Tyne. Sadri Geren Hanathra and the woman Surilyn, they were not conceived, born, or brought up on Earth.

I began to accept the fact that here, on this world, I was the alien.

The Hanathra, under intermittent wind and plagued by cloud and squalls, sailed on into the Inner Sea. At the end of the first nine-day week Geren told me the season was famous for fogs and summer calms. I spent time below decks, talking to whoever was off duty; and every day I stayed a little longer in the intense sunlight, getting acclimatized.

Zu'Ritchie, the youngest of the crew, had what I took to be a birthmark covering most of his face. He was unusually pale-skinned, and the mark took the form of grey dapples, like fern-patterns on the skin, that extended from his forehead down over his cheek to his shoulder.

"That?" Surilyn said. I questioned her when the boy wasn't around. "That's marshflower. It only means his telestre borders the Fens."

I had to be content with that. Later, in warmer waters, some of the crew stripped to the waist and I saw that the "marshflower" extended over his torso. The pattern grew larger and darker, almost black in places. Natural markings, I realized. Zu'Ritchie was not the only one with it, though his was most pronounced; and he was a little teased because of it.

The second shock—and it was only a shock because it was so like and yet unlike humanity—came when I saw the rudimentary second pair of nipples that both sexes carried low on the ribs. Most of the women were small-breasted com­pared to the Earth-norm, their bronze-brown nipples as small as the males'. I suspected that in times past, if not now, the Ortheans had littered a larger number of children at one birth than we ever did.

I watched Surilyn coiling a rope, the muscles moving smoothly under her brown skin. Her black mane was unbraided, and I saw that it rooted down her spine to a point well below the shoulderblades.

My own hackles raised at the thought. Almost us, and yet not us.

I wondered what other, less visible, differences there might be between our two species.

...