Glory Season

Maia wondered if guilt caused so many clans to choose as symbols native beasts that were no more. Or was it a way of saying, "See? We continue. We wear emblems of the defeated past, and thrive."

In a few generations, Mizora might be as common as tricorns.

Lysos never promised an end to change, only to slow it down to a bearable pace.

Rounding a corner, the twins nearly plowed into a tall Sheldon, hurrying downhill from the upper-class neighborhood. Her guard uniform was damp, open at the collar. "Excuse me," the dark-skinned officer muttered, dodging by the two sisters. A few paces onward, however, she suddenly stopped, whirling to peer at them.

"There you are. I almost didn't recognize you!"

"Bright mornin', Cap'n Jounine." Leie greeted with a mocking half-salute. "You were looking for us?"

Jounine's keen Sheldon features were softened by years of town life. The captain wiped her brow with a satin kerchief. "I was late catching you at Lamatia clanhold. Do you know you missed your leave-taking ceremony? Of course you know. Was that on purpose?"

Maia and Leie shared brief smiles. No slipping anything by Captain Jounine.

"Never mind." The Sheldon waved a hand. "I just wanted to ask if you'd reconsidered…"

"Signing up for the Guard?" Leie interrupted. "You've got to be—"

"I'm sure we're flattered by the offer, Captain," Maia cut in. "But we have tickets—"

"You'll not find anything out there" — Jounine waved toward the sea—"that's more secure and steady—"

"And boring …" Leie muttered.

" — than a contract with the city of your birth. It's a smart move, I tell you!"

Maia knew the arguments. Steady meals and a bed, plus slow advancement in hopes of saving enough for one child. A winter child — on a soldier's salary? Mother Claire's derision about "founding a microclan of one" seemed apropos. Some smart moves were little more than nicely padded traps.

"A myriad thanks for the offer," Leie said, with wasted sarcasm. "If we're ever desperate enough to come back to this frigid—"

"Yes, thanks," Maia interrupted, taking her sister's arm. "And Lysos keep you, Captain."

"Well … at least stay away from the Pallas Isles, you two! There are reports of reavers …"

As soon as they turned a corner, Maia and Leie dropped their duffels and broke out laughing. Sheldons were an impressive clan in most ways, but they took things so seriously! Maia felt sure she would miss them.

"It's odd, though," she said after a minute, when they resumed walking. "Jounine really did look more anxious than usual."

"Hmph. Not our problem if she can't meet recruitment quotas. Let her buy lugars."

"You know lugars can't fight people."

"Then hire summer stock down at the docks. Plenty of riffraff vars always hanging around. Dumb idea expanding the Guard anyway. Bunch of parasites, just like priestesses."

"Mm," Maia commented. "I guess." But the look in the soldier's eye had been like that of the Mizora sweets-merchant. There had been disappointment. A touch of bewilderment. And more than a little fear.

A month ago wardens had stood watch at the getta gate, separating Port Sanger proper from the harbor.

Maia recalled how the care-mothers used to take Lamatia's creche kids from the high precincts down steep, cobbled streets to ceremonies at the civic temple, passing near the getta gate along the way. Early one summer, she had bolted from the tidy queue of varlings, running toward the high barrier, hoping to glimpse the great freighters in drydock. Her brief dash had ended with a sound spanking. Afterward, between sobs, she distantly heard one matron explain that the wharves weren't safe for kids that time of year. There were "rutting men" down there.

Later, when the aurorae were replaced in northern skies by autumn's placid constellations, those same gates were flung back for children to scamper through at will, running along the docks where bearded males unloaded mysterious cargoes, or played spellbinding games with clockwork disks. Maia recalled wondering at the time — were these men different from the "rutting" kind? It must be so. Always ready with a smile or story, these seemed as gentle and harmless as the furry lugars they somewhat resembled.

"Harmless as a man, when stars glitter clear." So went a nursery rhyme, which finished, But wary be you, woman, when Wengel Star is near.

Traversing the gate for the last time, Maia and Leie passed through a variegated throng. Unlike the uphill precincts, here males made up a substantial minority, contributing a rich mix of scents to the air, from the aromas of spice and exotic cargoes to their own piquant musk. It was the ideal and provocative locale for a Perkinite agitator to have set up shop, addressing the crowd from an upturned shipping crate as two clone-mates pushed handbills at passersby. Maia did not recognize the face type, so the trio of gaunt-cheeked women had to be missionaries, recently arrived.