Khe (13 page)

I wait all day. My stomach rumbles with hunger and my throat itches with thirst. My legs cramp from crouching so long in the tight space. Finally the doumanas begin returning. At first only a few straggle in. I wait until the streets are crowded before creeping from my hiding spot and joining them.

A sudden laugh behind me makes me turn. Three doumanas are walking, their heads bent together. They see me looking and glare. I drop my gaze to the ground and keep walking, trying to look like I know where I’m going.

I turn up a path that opens onto a wider street. The curving avenue is crowded with doumanas, most carrying sacks filled with food and goods. They have taken off their collars, the stiff fabric poking from the tops of sacks or hanging from curled fingers.

My stomach grumbles. There must be a communiteria, probably several for the large population. It’s likely that the Pale Green Circle has its own communiteria, and I will find it if I follow the street. I can’t join the doumanas in line—they’d know me for an outsider at first glance—but perhaps I can break in after dark and steal something.

My neck prickles. I have fallen low. The sin of the collar is light compared to the ease with which I plan for theft. I come to another path and almost without knowing I’ve turned, come into another street. A sign says Crimson Circle—the place of happiness. I follow the street, reasoning that a communiteria in one circle is likely just as good as one in another. And likely just as easy or hard to find. And break in to.

Fewer doumanas are out on Crimson Circle. I don’t know if these tall buildings are dwellings, but if they are—it’s hard for me to think how many doumanas must live in Chimbalay. I stop and rest against the smooth glass. A doumana wearing a purple cloak slung back from her shoulders and a purple hip wrap also stops. She looks into a window as if there is something of interest there, but I don’t think she can really see anything. I start walking again. The purple-clad doumana starts too. My heart thuds. I quicken my step and the doumana quickens hers. I pass four doumanas all dressed in blue. They stare at me. No one rushes here. They move slowly, as if the day will stretch out for them if they need more time. I hazard a look over my shoulder. I don’t see a purple cloak.

Another pathway opens up and I take it. It leads to Bright Blue Circle—Excitement Street. The buildings here are seven to ten levels high and have arching white stone bridges connecting them at the fifth level. The wide spaces between the buildings are paved in blue stone. I stop and watch the doumanas coming up the same path behind me. They’re well dressed and empty-handed. Several give me curious stares, but none wears a purple cloak and hip wrap. I make myself walk slowly, and tell myself I’m worried over nothing, that no one is following me.

In front of each building on Bright Blue Circle, a tall thin obelisk of translucent stone rises two levels into the air. In the darkness, the stones glow. Their soft pink light washes the kler, making the few doumanas still on the street look flushed. My head feels heavy from hunger and fatigue. I give up the idea of finding a communiteria. I’ll settle for a sheltered corner where I can sleep unnoticed.

But not here in Bright Blue. I’ll go back to the edge of the kler, to be closer to the gate if trouble comes. I walk, turning away from the kler’s heart until I am back at Pale Green.

I find what would have been a mulch pile at Lunge, a place to turn food scraps into fertilizer for the crops. But this hill contains whole fruits, large chunks of meat, bits of cloth, and hunks of wood all thrown in together. The waste is astounding. This bounty is behind a fence and beneath a clear dome—to keep insects out and the smell in. There’s a small door in the dome.

I glance around. No one is on the street, but still, I am wary. I climb over the fence and pull on the door. It’s unlocked and pulls open at my tug. I reach inside and push aside an old, worn cloth sack and a piece of wood to grab three denishes and a slice of meat. The denish aren’t the wild cousins I’ve grown used to, but the same tame variety we grew at Lunge. The meat is unidentifiable and moldy. I put it back. I pull out the worn sack. The bottom is still good. At Lunge we would have mended the holes near the top and kept using it. I put the denishes into the bag.

“Are you ill, Sister?” a voice behind me says.

I whirl, holding tight to the sack. A doumana stands just outside the fence. Beneath her open purple cloak, she’s wearing a purple hip wrap.

“My name is Larta,” the doumana in purple says. She glances at the sack clutched to my chest and extends her hand. “If you like, I can hold that for you while you get over the fence.”

My heart pounds. My neck spots flare brownish green in shame at being caught scavenging and muddy gray in fear of who this doumana might be. Larta watches the colors play across my neck, noting them.

I look hard at the kler doumana, memorizing her. Her skin is pale-red and as smooth as still water. She’s taller than I am and better fed, but probably no faster in a sprint. She leans gently into the fence with a studied indifference.

My mind wheels, running my options. The fence pens me in more than it protects me. On the other side, at least I’ll have a chance to escape. I take the few steps needed to bring me to her and hand the sack over the fence. She takes my small horde and sets it down. We keep our eyes on each other as I climb over the fence.

As soon as my feet touch the yellow paving stones, Larta takes hold of my wrist firmly enough to let me know there’s no use trying to escape. Close to her now, I see the pin that closes her cloak at the base of her throat—a gold, lattice-worked circle. A hand and part of an arm stretches down from near the top, extending toward another hand reaching up from the bottom. It must be a kler insignia of some sort, showing rank or importance. Larta sees where my eyes are focused.

“Yes, I’m a guardian,” she says. “But you needn’t fear me if you tell the truth.”

My neck burns where my spots are lit with fear colors. It was guardians, Marnka said, who held her down while a helphand drugged her, guardians who carried her to torture at Research Center Three. I clamp my jaws shut, determined to say nothing.

Larta hitches up one shoulder in a shrug and says, “You’re hungry. Come with me and I’ll give you better than the garbage you’ve found here.”

My stomach cramps. The offer is tempting. There are no shame colors on her neck, and I think that she’s not lying. But her words could mean so many things—food at a safe haven, food in a cell. Hunger wins me over. I nod my head.

Larta keeps a hold on my wrist as we walk the dusky, emptied streets of Pale Green and tightens the hold when we turn into Crimson. There are more glowing obelisks on this street. The black buildings, yellow pavement, and Larta’s red skin seem to blaze in the pink light. There are doumanas out here too, walking in groups. The night is cold. The doumanas all wear fur-trimmed, hooded cloaks.

As we enter Bright Blue Circle, Larta leans close and whispers, “I can’t keep holding your wrist. We’re too noticeable. I’m going to let go. If you run, you’ll regret it.”

I swallow and nod.

“We know what they’ve done to you,” she whispers.

A chill shoots through me. Was Marnka right when she said the Powers tracked her location? Have they discovered me through her? Was Simanca looking for me after all?

We come onto Bright Blue Circle and turn, heading west, I think, but my sense of direction feels scrambled. Larta walks quickly, her hand cupped on my elbow to keep me next to her and moving at her speed. We come to a building that’s dark except for lights shining on the third and fourth levels. I feel Larta stiffen as we approach and relax when we’re past. There’s a small metal plaque fixed to the front wall, but I can’t read what it says.

Light-headed from hunger and fatigue, I stumble. Larta steadies me and says, “We’re nearly there.”

I almost don’t care where she takes me, so long as I can rest.

“Do you remember how you got to Chimbalay?” Larta asks.

I shake my head.

“Do you remember anything?”

I shake my head again. Better that she assumes I’ve forgotten whatever she thinks I once knew, or that I’m simple-minded.

Larta squeezes my elbow gently. “Nothing to worry about. We have ways to help your memory.”

Fear makes my spots flare. Do they use drugs here? Pain? To bring old memories to the surface. I don’t trust her friendly manner.

We stop in front of a building that looks like all the others on the circle.

“Here we are,” Larta says cheerfully, and waves her hand in front of a sensor that makes the rounded door dilate. I draw back in surprise. Doors at Lunge swung on hinges. This one opens like a mouth.

The bright light inside the building stabs my eyes. I want to squeeze my lids shut but force myself to look into the place I’ve been brought.

The entrance is wide and long. The floor is paved in white and green tiles arranged in a recurring V pattern. The walls are the same light green as contentment spots. Several closed, green doors line the walls. At the end of the entry is what looks like a large receiving room. I hear laughter from the room—high-pitched, like hatchlings make. I can’t see who might be in the room.

“Mees,” Larta calls out. “It’s Larta. I’ve brought a guest.”

I hear many feet moving. I’m sure there are hatchlings here. One pokes her yellow, down-covered face out of the doorway and peers at me. A short, round-bodied doumana with skin so dark red it is almost black sets her hand firmly on the hatchling’s shoulders and pulls her back into the room. I hear a door whoosh open and what sounds like feet thumping up wooden stairs, then a door whoosh again.

Larta sighs. “Mees is supposed to be in charge, but I think the hatchlings rule here.”

The doumana called Mees, the dark-skinned one, comes out of the end room. She tugs at her blue and gold hip wrap, straightening it as she walks. She’s smiling as though she’d been expecting me.

“You must be hungry,” Mees says to Larta and me. “There’s a big pot of mern bubbling in the cooker. Come have a bowl.”

Larta takes my arm and we follow Mees down the entryway, through an arch into a room that is like a small communiteria. Five round cookers fill cubbyholes piercing one green wall. The cookers are like the ones at Lunge, but smaller. The room is so clean, it’s as though no one had ever stepped foot into it before. Two long, clear tables are suspended from the ceiling on thin, nearly invisible wires. Thick cushions are arranged around the table, ten on each side and one at each end. I look at those cushions with longing. I could stretch out on them and sleep until the sun has risen and set a dozen times. The mern smells wonderful. My stomach rumbles, embarrassing me.

Larta motions for me to sit. I settle on one of the cushions. Its softness is a wonder to me. Larta slips off her cloak and settles herself next to me with a sigh. I notice that she wears a bracelet on either wrist with the same insignia she wore on her cloak.

Mees pulls a large pot from one of the cookers and sets it on a small, square, wood table. This table is not suspended from the ceiling, but stands on four sturdy, metal legs. Tucked between the legs is a wood chest. Mees takes two bowls and spoons from the chest and ladles mern into the bowls until they are full nearly to the rim. She’s standing sideways to us. I watch her check the pleats in the front of her hip wrap and adjust one slightly before bringing the bowls to the table. I am so far past vanity that it seems odd to see it in another.

I take a tentative spoonful of the mern. It’s been a while since I’ve eaten this kind of food and I’m not sure my stomach can take it.

From the corner of her eye, Larta watches me. Mees sits on the other side of me.

“Is Inra around?” Larta asks between bites of mern.

“She’s putting the hatchlings down for the night,” Mees answers. “She’ll join us soon.”

A doumana comes into the room, dusting off her hands as she walks.

“We were saying your name, and here you are,” Mees says in a merry voice.

Inra is taller than Mees, but shorter than Larta, about my height. She’s thinner than the rounded Mees, more like the active-looking Larta. Her skin is medium red. Her eyes are as dark as a night without stars.

Inra takes a seat across the table from me. I glance at her, expecting the same warmth Larta and Mees seem to carry with them. Inra doesn’t smile. She catches my glance and holds it. Her eyes are hypnotic. She’s not looking at me, but into me, as though my skin is glass.

“Have you been suffering long?” she asks.

Her voice is as sweet and gentle as Jit’s. A glaze of sweat breaks out on my skin. I want to answer that kindly voice.

Larta wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and says, “She hasn’t said a word since I found her.”

Inra nods slightly, still holding me in her black-eyed gaze. “She can talk. She’s frightened, but aware enough to know that silence is her best protection.”

“Pfft,” Mees says. “Larta is all dressed up in her guardian cloak. The doumana probably thinks she’s about to be sent back to the research center. But if she can think that, she isn't completely mad, is she?”

“I haven’t run across a babbler like her before,” Larta says. “She understands everything we say. She doesn’t seem diminished.”

I stare into Inra’s eyes and try to think. Marnka told me that after the procedures were performed, the weather-prophets went back to their communes or klers and work. Going insane didn’t take the same amount of time for everyone. Some prophets lived several years normally in their klers until one by one, over time, they began showing the effects and were banished. Maybe these doumanas think that I’m one who hasn’t been found out yet.

Inra looks away, releasing me from her hold. She rubs her hand lightly over her throat and gets up from the pillow. Mees gets up, too. Larta turns back to her bowl and eats as though she, like me, has been too long without food. Exhaustion washes over me. I make myself pay attention, to watch everything happening in the room, without seeming to.

Mees and Inra meet at the small wooden table. I see their heads bent together, but can’t hear what they’re whispering. I keep eating until Mees comes back and lays a hand on my shoulder.