table, ready to overturn it if she made a move.
“Oh, I’d kill you gladly, gladly! What of your promise to kill Astaroth? Or have you forgotten that already, too?”
“I’ve not forgotten,” he said sullenly.
“You’ve not acted.”
Bellamia came up to the table, saucepan in hand. She
tut-tutt
ed. “Now, stop this silliness. Love one another, damn you, if you must! But why all this quarreling? I’m getting you a nice stew of portleg tail to eat, so be quiet. Be quiet!”
“You be quiet,” Aster told her, indignantly turning on her. “You’re forgetting yourself. I am the mistress of the All-Powerful, so behave yourself.”
With lowered brow, Bellamia said, “I know well enough who you are. And what you are.”
The remark seemed to quell the younger woman. She put away her knife. Fremant sat down. They stared at each other, full of hatred and confusion. Then she stared down at the grain of the tabletop.
“This place stinks,” Aster said quietly. “Why did you bring me here?”
Slowly their mood lightened and they began to behave more like friends, despite themselves, as if, in spite of everything, there was a bond between them. When the older woman served up her food, she, too, sat down at the table and ate with them. Aster made no protest. Nor did she complain about the food, flavored as it was with salack. The herb, at once bitter and sweet, was reputed to have a sedative effect on nerves.
“What did you do in your reconstituted years on the ship?” she asked Bellamia.
“Miss, when I was reconstituted out of the LPR, I was put in command of one shift of the laundry section. A hard job it was. Of course I was a younger woman then.” Her eyes were half-closed, enfolded in flesh. “Much younger.”
“Had you no man as partner?”
“He’s long dead,” said Bellamia, in a tone that defied further inquiry. She repeated, “Long dead…”
When Aster took her leave, she and Fremant kissed briefly outside the door. He took some breaths of fresh air before reentering the stuffy room.
B ELLAMIA SAID TO F REMANT, “Mayhap I should not tell you this, but that young lady is the mistress of Astaroth, as she tells you. What she does not boast about is that she is his daughter as well.”
“It can’t be!” He was aghast.
With contempt, the old woman replied, “What you mean, ‘It can’t be’? You’re soft in the head, my man. Many things as should not be
can
be. It’s one of that kind I’m telling you about—one of that kind!”
D AWN, TWO DAYS LATER. High in the southern sky, casting pale shadows, sailed Stygia’s six little broken moons, product of the cosmic collision of which the Shawl was also a result.
Fremant was on his way to report for duty at the Center. As he passed through the echoing empty squares, he began to suspect that someone was following him.
When he turned the next corner, he stopped there, shoulders to the wall, waiting. Sure enough, in a moment, another man turned the corner, a tall, thin man with a stoop. Fremant struck him hard on the side of his skull with his right fist. The man’s jaw fell open. He sank to his knees and collapsed.
Fremant dragged the man into a side alley and sat astride him.
“Okay, you funker, whose side are you on?”
The man muttered something incomprehensible.
“Speak clearly or I’ll poke your eyes out. Who are you?”
“Name’s Webshider. Let me up, dammit!”
“Who’s paying you to tail me?” As he was asking, he was searching in Webshider’s pockets. He found some stigs and pocketed them. From an inner concealment he fished out a bone-handled knife with a curved blade. He flung it far down the alley.
“Come on, who’s paying you?”
“No one. It’s voluntary. Let me up. Please.”
“You were going to kill me, you scum! For the last time, who are you working for?” He shook the man’s throat until his skull rattled against the paving stone.
“The Clandestines. The
“Oh, I’d kill you gladly, gladly! What of your promise to kill Astaroth? Or have you forgotten that already, too?”
“I’ve not forgotten,” he said sullenly.
“You’ve not acted.”
Bellamia came up to the table, saucepan in hand. She
tut-tutt
ed. “Now, stop this silliness. Love one another, damn you, if you must! But why all this quarreling? I’m getting you a nice stew of portleg tail to eat, so be quiet. Be quiet!”
“You be quiet,” Aster told her, indignantly turning on her. “You’re forgetting yourself. I am the mistress of the All-Powerful, so behave yourself.”
With lowered brow, Bellamia said, “I know well enough who you are. And what you are.”
The remark seemed to quell the younger woman. She put away her knife. Fremant sat down. They stared at each other, full of hatred and confusion. Then she stared down at the grain of the tabletop.
“This place stinks,” Aster said quietly. “Why did you bring me here?”
Slowly their mood lightened and they began to behave more like friends, despite themselves, as if, in spite of everything, there was a bond between them. When the older woman served up her food, she, too, sat down at the table and ate with them. Aster made no protest. Nor did she complain about the food, flavored as it was with salack. The herb, at once bitter and sweet, was reputed to have a sedative effect on nerves.
“What did you do in your reconstituted years on the ship?” she asked Bellamia.
“Miss, when I was reconstituted out of the LPR, I was put in command of one shift of the laundry section. A hard job it was. Of course I was a younger woman then.” Her eyes were half-closed, enfolded in flesh. “Much younger.”
“Had you no man as partner?”
“He’s long dead,” said Bellamia, in a tone that defied further inquiry. She repeated, “Long dead…”
When Aster took her leave, she and Fremant kissed briefly outside the door. He took some breaths of fresh air before reentering the stuffy room.
B ELLAMIA SAID TO F REMANT, “Mayhap I should not tell you this, but that young lady is the mistress of Astaroth, as she tells you. What she does not boast about is that she is his daughter as well.”
“It can’t be!” He was aghast.
With contempt, the old woman replied, “What you mean, ‘It can’t be’? You’re soft in the head, my man. Many things as should not be
can
be. It’s one of that kind I’m telling you about—one of that kind!”
D AWN, TWO DAYS LATER. High in the southern sky, casting pale shadows, sailed Stygia’s six little broken moons, product of the cosmic collision of which the Shawl was also a result.
Fremant was on his way to report for duty at the Center. As he passed through the echoing empty squares, he began to suspect that someone was following him.
When he turned the next corner, he stopped there, shoulders to the wall, waiting. Sure enough, in a moment, another man turned the corner, a tall, thin man with a stoop. Fremant struck him hard on the side of his skull with his right fist. The man’s jaw fell open. He sank to his knees and collapsed.
Fremant dragged the man into a side alley and sat astride him.
“Okay, you funker, whose side are you on?”
The man muttered something incomprehensible.
“Speak clearly or I’ll poke your eyes out. Who are you?”
“Name’s Webshider. Let me up, dammit!”
“Who’s paying you to tail me?” As he was asking, he was searching in Webshider’s pockets. He found some stigs and pocketed them. From an inner concealment he fished out a bone-handled knife with a curved blade. He flung it far down the alley.
“Come on, who’s paying you?”
“No one. It’s voluntary. Let me up. Please.”
“You were going to kill me, you scum! For the last time, who are you working for?” He shook the man’s throat until his skull rattled against the paving stone.
“The Clandestines. The
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