Isles of the Forsaken by Carolyn Ives Gilman Page B

Gill said at last. “Nothing’s changed.”
    “Oh, come on. Somebody must have died, somebody must have been born.”
    “Gill and Wilne have two kids now,” Bonn volunteered, since Gill didn’t seem about to. “But nobody much has died.”
    So Yora really was the protected, idyllic place he had imagined. Trying to sound casual, Harg said, “Is Goth still here?”
    “Oh yes,” Gill said. “Though he’s been gone for a couple weeks now. Who knows, maybe he’s sick of us.”
    They were looking down, away, everywhere but at each other.
    “He’s got a girl now,” Bonn finally said.
    “A what?”
    “A sexmate, for his pleasure. He made her just after you left.”
    Harg could hardly believe what he was hearing. “He
made
her?”
    “Made her from his own flesh, they say,” Gill said noncommittally. “He snared a soul from one of the other circles, one that suited him. He can do things like that, you know.”
    “I know he
can
,” Harg said. “But I didn’t think he
would
.” They were all taking it so calmly; but then, they had had years to get used to it. To bring a soul to life for no reason other than his sexual pleasure—it seemed beyond the bounds of common decency. It would have been a scandal, if it had been anyone but Goth. Goth could get away with anything, Harg thought with a trace of the old bitterness.
    He couldn’t think about it now; it would dredge up too many unwelcome feelings. So he tried to make a joke of it. “And you say nothing ever happens in Yorabay.”
    They laughed, relieved he was so cool about it. After all, it could be argued that Goth had done much the same with him. The dhotamar was the man most responsible for Harg’s existence, more so even than the father Harg had never known. But at least Goth had done that for better reasons.
    “I want to go see the village,” Harg said. “Anyone want to come?”
    They all did, of course. “Yes! We’ll have a cracking celebration tonight!” Thole said.
    But someone near the edge of the crowd gave a whispered warning. “Not now. Emperor Crustup is coming. He won’t want us to leave.”
    Down the beach from the smeltery was coming a powerfully built Torna overseer, followed by two marine soldiers. Crustup looked like a man at the end of his patience. “All right, fellows, what is it this time?” he said in a tone of strained geniality.
    No one answered. “Well then, how about getting back to work?”
    As the others moved reluctantly to return to their stations, the overseer spied Harg and Jory. “Who the fuck are you?” he asked.
    Coolly, because of his tone, Harg said, “Captain Harg Ismol, Native Navy. And you?”
    Clearly thinking the “Captain” part was an attempt to pull his leg, Crustup said, “I’m Admiral of the Ocean Sea. Are you from here?”
    “Yes,” Harg said.
    “Want a job?”
    “Depends,” Harg said. “Who’s making money from this mine?”
    “You are, if you want to,” Crustup said.
    “No. I mean, who’s paying you?”
    The overseer recognized trouble then, and crossed his arms suspiciously. “You’d have to talk to management about that.”
    Having expected some such answer, Harg shrugged and started to leave.
    “What about you?” Crustup turned to Jory. “You want a job?”
    “Leave him alone,” Harg said.
    “What are you, his wife? Let him talk for himself.”
    “He’s wounded. He can’t work.”
    To Jory, Crustup said, “You look all right to me. What do you say? Want to earn some money?”
    Suspicious, Jory looked from Harg to Crustup and back again. “Come on, Jory,” Harg said. “I’ll take you to your family.”
    Putting an arm around Jory’s shoulders, Crustup started to lead him off toward the smeltery. “If you can lift a beam, we can use you.”
    “Stop it!” Harg yelled.
    The sound of tension in Harg’s voice was all it took. With an explosive force, Jory hurtled himself at the overseer, knocking him to the ground, and went for his throat with a cold,