Three Gnossiennes

by Mary Lou Mendum

(Not to be confused with Eric Satie's composition of the same name, which is available from the Classical Music Archives.)

III.

III lent (slowly)

Once reminded of his duties, Tallin felt obligated to discharge them. He was still First Companion, at least in name, and thus responsible for maintaining Dar's accounts in order. His efforts in that respect had been somewhat haphazard since Nilba's death, and there was much to be done.

His renewed dedication brought a relieved smile to Califf's face. People no longer avoided mentioning Nilba in his presence, for fear of upsetting all the Simes in the room. He began to feel that there was still a place for him in Dar, even without her.

It took two weeks to get the accounts in order. When he finished that task, he began another chore he had been avoiding for months: preparing the paperwork required to pass legal title to Dar's property from Nilba to Califf.

The Sectuib's office was much as she had left it. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine that she would walk through the door again. He smiled wistfully as he worked the lock on the office safe. He had made it during his third year at Dar, insisting that the old lock couldn't keep out a mouse. Nilba had indulged him, knowing that much of his vehemence stemmed from worry about her pregnancy. In the end, Califf had been born without undue incident, proving his fears for Nilba as unnecessary as a new safe lock. The boy had flourished, and become a young man who had the proper mixture of common sense and compassion to make an excellent Sectuib.

"We did a good job with him, Nilba," Tallin murmured under his breath, as the lock clicked. "But then, we always did work well together." The heavy door opened silently on well-oiled hinges, and he reached in to remove the box with the deed titles. Clearing some space on the desk, he began to sort them into neat piles.

Halfway through, he came across a faded title signed by a long-dead Penkeeper, and a Sectuib who had lived only a few short months longer. The descriptions of Tallin's nager and identifying characteristics were long out of date, the Companion noted. However, the document was still as legally binding as when it had been drawn up, a few days after a starving apprentice burglar raided Dar's corn patch and was told he had established.

He shook his head, and placed the yellowed deed in the proper pile. It seemed incredible to him that he could ever have thought that this scrap of paper was important enough to give up home and vocation. Since then, he had learned that all lives had restrictions, and that freedom and self-determination were more a matter of perspective and mindset than law. It had not been an easy lesson to learn, but he had found that by and large, those obligations he had willingly accepted had enriched his life.

The next day, he headed into the hills once more.

conseillez-vous de clairvoyance (arm yourself with perspicacity)

Zilmor was waiting for him, sitting on the boulder by the pool. She had obviously killed recently, for she looked much more relaxed, and there were no concentration lapses as her fingers flew over the worn shiltpron's strings, plucking out a lively air. She finished with a flourish, then looked up at him with a grin.

"Why, Pet, I was startin' to think them perverts'd had a bit of sense, and put you up for auction!"

Tallin had long since come to terms with the Territory laws regarding Gens, and took the jibe in its intended spirit. "I'm not so easy as that to get rid of," he replied with a wink. "How have you been, Zilmor?"

"Not bad at all, and gettin' better," she said. "Mak an' Eitan an' me's gonna open up a shiltpron parlor of our very own."

"A shiltpron parlor?" The Companion was well aware that Zilmor, at least, had worked in many such emporia as an entertainer. He expected that her friends' experience was limited to being customers--and drunken ones, at that. He didn't recall either of them having the cheerful personality or sober temperament required by a bartender, either.

"Yeah, we pooled our re-ward money and bought an old barn on the edge of town. It's not far from where the field hands camp durin' harvest. Eitan used ta live with a woman that brewed porstan, an' he says it's not hard. A little bit of fixin' up, and we'll be in business."

Tallin didn't have the heart to discourage her by pointing out that few customers would trudge outside the city limits to buy a mug of porstan, when there were plenty of parlors in town. Besides, if Zilmor and her partners could keep their expenses low enough, there was always the chance that her music would draw enough customers from among the field workers to keep the venture alive.

The musician patted her instrument and set it aside. "I brought bread an' cheese," she offered shyly, reaching for a bundle at her feet. "Would you like some?"

The rag in which she had wrapped her picnic was not clean. The loaf was coarse, dark, and no doubt gritty with badly-ground grain. The goat cheese reeked. It was, in short, about as far as it was possible to get from the appetizing dishes served three times daily in Dar's cafeteria. Tallin had not seen such poor fare since his days as an apprentice burglar and street child. However, it was food intended for human consumption, not the glutinous porridge that juncts usually considered proper fare for Gens.

"Thank you," he said gravely, accepting a smelly slab of cheese-smeared bread. Trying not to breathe, he took a generous bite, and chewed with what appetite he could manage.

Apparently, his act was good enough, because Zilmor smiled with the satisfaction of a Sime who has provided adequately for her Gen. She prepared a second, much smaller piece of bread and cheese for herself, and nibbled at it.

She waited until he had finished his portion, washing it down with cool spring water. Then she set down her own, half-eaten snack and pointed at him with an accusing tentacle.

"All right, Pet, it's time to come clean. What's this nightmare you were talkin' about, that changed your mind about leavin' the Territory? And what's it got to do with your wife?"

"It had everything to do with her," Tallin said, with a fond smile.

seul, pendant un instant (alone, for a moment)

What with one thing and another, Tallin was months later than he'd planned in making his grand escape. His additional responsibilities as Nilba's Companion had cut drastically into the time he could devote to his studies, and it was late spring before he felt confident that he could carry on a conversation in English. Then, too, after the safe refuge Dar had granted him, it seemed the work of a cad to leave while Nilba's Companion Lanyll was still bedridden from the plague. By the time Lanyll was up and about, the fields had dried, and every hand was required to get the planting done.

It was not too long after that, however, that Nilba announced her intention to attend the Tormin Midsummer Fair. As Lanyll was still not well enough to make the journey, Tallin was to accompany her as her Companion. Tormin was only a few miles from the Border itself, so the opportunity was simply too good to pass up.

Tallin planned carefully, packing his saddle bags with sturdy clothing that would not betray his origins too quickly in Gen Territory. Fortunately, it was summertime, when short sleeves were in fashion on both sides of the Border. In winter, when the Wild Gens were said to wear long sleeves on their shirts and coats instead of capes, the task would have been much more difficult.

They set out on a pleasant morning, not too hot and with a steady breeze that ruffled the horses' manes and made them dance. Tallin had given Nilba transfer the night before, and she was in a jolly mood. She sang and joked as they trotted steadily down the road at a good pace. Even her mare caught the mood, snorting a friendly challenge at Tallin's more staid gelding.

Tallin managed to return Nilba's quips, but a part of him was already missing her. He wondered if he would find someone he liked half as well across the Border. If only Nilba had been Gen, they could have started a new life together: a life free of Simes, where being Gen was no more significant than being a child had been.

Once at Tormin, Tallin discovered new excuses to delay his escape. This was his first trip outside the Dar compound since his capture the previous fall. As an orphaned waif roaming the streets he had not exactly been welcome in Sommerin. However, most people had been content to ignore him, as long as he didn't get close enough to pick their pockets. Householders were not viewed with such forbearance, even in Sommerin. Tormin had no local Householding, and its residents had not resigned themselves to the presence of perverts.

The local Pen had been ravaged by the epidemic, forcing people to buy kills they could ill afford. As a result, most had little money to spend at the Fair. There was much more looking than buying, to the distress of the merchants, who were desperate to recoup their own losses. Even the Yarlo Raiders' display of freshly captured Wild Gens was attracting little business, despite the crowd gawking at their merchandise.

Tallin's nager was also attracting attention, no matter how politely he controlled it. For people looking for an excuse to vent their frustrations, a Householder like Nilba made an all too convenient target. He had known that "perverts" were generally held in contempt, but that was not quite the same thing as experiencing it. Their Dar livery saved them from outright attacks, but Nilba turn quiet and pale under the focused hatred impinging upon her from all sides. Tallin couldn't abandon her to face that alone.

All in all, it was a frustrating day. Nilba was unable to buy more than a portion of the rare pharmaceuticals she wanted, to replace the stocks used during the epidemic. To make things worse, Tallin's gelding had developed a loose shoe, and the Tormin blacksmith flatly refused to reset it, even for twice his usual fee.

The sun was nearing the horizon when they finished their business and left Tormin. It was much too late to return to Sommerin, even if the horses had been fresh. However, no inn would waste a room on a pervert when there were a dozen respectable fairgoers willing to share each cubical. Nilba soon turned her horse off the main road and started making her way through the underbrush.

"There's a decent campsite not too far from here," she explained. "And its close enough to the Border that we can have it to ourselves, despite the Midsummer Fair."

Tallin was not about to object to having a Sime escort even closer to the Border. They had almost reached Nilba's campsite when the gelding lost its shoe entirely.

"Shen!" Nilba swore as Tallin dismounted to retrieve the shoe. "I was hoping it would last until we got home. Well, there's no hope for it. You'll have to take the beast to be reshod in Oak Creek Crossing." The last three words were in English.

A half hour later, Tallin found himself leading his limping horse over the Border, free at last.

de maniere a obtenir un creux (how to achieve absolutely nothing)

Tallin's first reaction to Gen Territory was disappointment. A town inhabited solely by Wild Gens should have looked different and exciting. Instead, the cluster of a scant two dozen buildings looked perfectly ordinary in the twilight, and the dirt street that ran between them was deserted and empty. He wondered for a moment if this was the town from which the Yarlo Raiders had harvested their Gens, but thin trails of smoke reached up from many of the chimneys, bearing with them the mouthwatering smell of food. It appeared that the inhabitants were merely eating their evening meal.

He pulled the gelding to a halt at the edge of town and inspected the buildings more closely, trying to settle on a course of action. His advance planning had not included a horse, or the small sack of Gen coins which Nilba had pressed into his hands to cover the farrier's fee. It was a bit ironic, considering that as a Gen he was a far more valuable possession than either, but he felt guilty about stealing from Dar, after the safe refuge it had given him. However, there was no practical way to return horse or money. That being the case, he ought to make the best use possible of his resources.

He had just reached this comforting conclusion, and picked up the reins to lead the horse forward again, when a voice called, "Halt! Don't make any sudden moves, and keep your hands in plain sight."

Tallin was proud of his ability to follow the Genlan. His pride turned to worry when five husky Wild Gens approached, pointing the business ends of their enormous firearms squarely at him. The hand-to-hand combat skills he had worked so hard to perfect were of no use against such distance weapons. The Wild Gens glared suspiciously at him, inspecting him as well as eyes could manage in the dim light. He did his best to appear harmless and innocent.

"Who are you, and what are you doing on the road so late?" the apparent leader demanded at last. He was an enormous Gen, built like a barrel, with a thick layer of fat protruding over his thick leather belt.

Tallin kept his explanation short so that his accent would not betray him. "My name is Tohm," he said, selecting a Gen name that was reasonably close to his own. The Genlan novels in Dar's library had suggested that Wild Gens had no more love for refugees from across the Border than Simes did. "My horse threw a shoe." He held up the iron crescent as proof. "Is there a smith in town?"

Apparently, it was an acceptable answer. The leader Gen looked at the horseshoe, and nodded grudgingly. "I'm Sheriff Devan. Our smith Big George can put that on for you in the morning. There's no proper inn, here, but Widow Hastett sometimes takes in a border for a night or two, if you've money."

A very tall, almost Sime-thin Gen voiced an objection, and the others joined in the discussion. As nearly as Tallin could follow the rapid-fire Genlan, many of the adults of Oak Creek Crossing had gone on a retaliatory raid across the Border, in response to the Yarlo Raiders' foraging expedition. The tall Gen was opposed to having any stranger spend the night in town, when its defenses were so thin.

Tallin could have told them that there was little danger of another large-scale attack by Licensed Raiders in the near future. With so few Simes in the Tormin market having the money to purchase a Wild Gen, commercial-scale raiding wasn't economically feasible. Individual Simes who couldn't afford to buy kills might slip across the Border in hopes of finding a lone Gen, but that was all. However, any such reassurance might raise questions that he was unwilling to answer. He prudently held his tongue.

At last, the guards decided that one stray, unarmed Gen was unlikely to present much of a security risk, and that he should be allowed to stay until the smith could see to his horse. A gangling young Gen not much older than Tallin was assigned the task of escorting the Companion to his lodging and introducing him to his prospective hostess. "And find out about that girl of hers, while you're at it," Sheriff Devan called after them.

Widow Hastett was a graying, careworn woman. Her dress was faded, and the joints of her hands were swollen by a lifetime of hard labor. She didn't express any curiosity about her prospective lodger, but directed him to stable the gelding in her cowshed. The only sign of animation she showed was a flicker of fear when Tallin's escort asked after her daughter, Maree.

"She's fine," the woman hastened to assure her inquisitor. "No sore arms at all. I told you it was just a child's fever. "

The young guard looked skeptical. "We have to be sure. It's better to be safe than sorry. If Maree isn't well by morning, she will have to be moved to the jail until she recovers. Or doesn't."

"My daughter's a _good_ girl," the woman protested feebly.

"It's the law, Mistress Hastett. You know that as well as I do. Simes must be destroyed."

Cowed, Widow Hastett nodded in agreement.

It was only then that Tallin fully realized what he was hearing. His guard was calmly proposing to murder the girl in cold blood if she proved to be a changeover victim, and Maree's mother was prepared to allow it. Not even Freeband Raiders would show such casual brutality toward a new Sime. He had to remind himself forcefully that he couldn't afford to bring attention to himself any more than he had already, simply by being a stranger.

When Tallin had stabled his horse, he returned to the house. In exchange for an extra coin, he was grudgingly served half a loaf of bread and a lump of cheese. As he consumed this meager repast, his landlady treated him to a long catalog of her misfortunes: a junker husband who worked an Ancient site close to the Border until one day he failed to return, an oldest son who was his mother's pride and joy until he was killed by his younger brother, and now her youngest, a suspected changeover as well.

Tallin would have been able to muster more sympathy if she hadn't punctuated her tale with long digressions on the unfairness of life and the looming threat of the nearby Border with Sime Territory. He had crossed the border to get away from the constant reminder that he had failed to go through changeover. Widow Hastett, however, was just as obsessed with the subject of Simes as any Gen awaiting sale at a Choice Auction. If the other Wild Gens shared her paranoia, what use could they--or he--make of freedom?

tres perdu (quite lost)

By morning, Tallin had convinced himself that he had merely been unfortunate in the particular Wild Gens he had met. Widow Hastett's obsession was undoubtedly caused by worry over her sick daughter, combined with the unusual series of coincidences which had led to the loss of most of her family. Sheriff Devan and the town guards had just been doing their job, and part of it was to enforce the barbarous local laws regarding changeover victims. Surely they would not waste their energy worrying about Simes when they were off duty?

Over breakfast, a generous bowl of porridge which cost him another coin, he noticed that Widow Hastett seemed even more distressed than the night before. Upon inquiry, she admitted that her daughter Maree was still ill.

"I'll have to take her over to the jail this morning," she continued, wringing her hands. "Maree's always been such a _good_ girl, why did this have to happen?"

"It's changeover, then?" Tallin asked, his training taking over. He had assisted at more than one changeover during his time at Dar. If the girl had started running a fever the previous day, she must be well along by now, her tentacle sheaths developing. He wondered if she would be able to reach Nilba in time, if he gave her the gelding he had inadvertently stolen.

"Oh, who can tell a changeover before the tentacles show?" the girl's mother moaned. "All we can do is wait and pray."

It was not long afterwards that a police wagon arrived to take Maree to the jail for quarantine. Because Widow Hastett was so obviously distressed, he offered to carry the child out for her. Still moaning, she led the way up the stairs to a shabby but neat bedroom, where an obviously feverish girl of about thirteen natal years tossed and turned under a patchwork counterpane. When her mother told her that the wagon was below, she buried her face in her hands and began to cry hysterically.

Her mother joined in, at twice the volume. It was obvious that she was not going to be of assistance, so Tallin decided to take matters into his own hands.

"Hush," he said, crossing the room and taking the girl's hands. "Let me take a look at you."

The girl gaped at him, but made no objection as Tallin conducted a quick but thorough examination. To his surprise, given the extreme measures being taken, the girl showed no obvious symptoms of changeover. Her fever was not quite high enough, and her arms were free of tentacle development. More importantly, he couldn't feel himself responding to her, the way he would to a Sime. A channel could have zlinned more decisively, but he was sure enough of his diagnosis that he bent over and whispered in her ear, "It's all right. You're not in changeover."

Maree looked up at him, eyes wide. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. You're just sick, that's all. You'll be better soon enough."

Some of the terror left the girl's eyes, but only some. Tallin saw why, when he placed her into the wagon under the watchful eye of its driver. The woman looked more than ready to shoot Maree first, and ask questions later. So did Sheriff Devan, when he met them at the jail.

"Bring her back here," he ordered, leading the way into the back room. Against one wall was the metal cage that was the jail's only cell. It held one empty bucket for slops, and a pile of dirty straw. The room was otherwise bare, except for a wood crib holding fuel for the pot-bellied stove in the front office. A trail of dirt and bark scraps led to a back door, suggesting that the main wood supply was in back of the building.

"Isn't there a blanket for her?" Tallin asked. "And some water?"

Sheriff Devan gaped in astonishment. "What's the point of coddling her, Tohm?" he asked, genuinely bewildered, as he locked the door to the cage. "The ones who die before the tentacles show seem to go easier. You don't want her to suffer, do you?"

And he would hear no more on the subject.

protez cela plus loin (pursue this further)

The whole incident with Maree left Tallin feeling glum. Such callous cruelty towards Simes, real or imagined, had not been part of his vision of life in Gen Territory. Still, he refused to judge the whole town on the basis of a few individuals.

However, when he stepped into the town's one small general store to buy a few supplies, he found the grocer holding forth at length on the evil nature of Simes, and lovingly dwelling on what ought to be done to them--preferably, by somebody else. One of his rapt audience then volunteered a graphic and admiring account of how, when he had served in the military, his lieutenant had tortured a Sime prisoner by skinning her laterals. Even the patrons of the worst killhouses would have been hard pressed to equal such torment. Tallin left in disgust without making his intended purchases, fearing to lose his breakfast.

Outside, a dozen children were chasing each other up and down the dusty street. Tallin relaxed at sight of such a normal, wholesome activity, until one of the smaller youngsters burst into tears. "You always make me play the Sime," she protested. "Am not!"

But the protest was not heeded. The other children encircled their victim and began shoving her from one side of the circle to the other, taunting, "Simelover, Simelover, you're going to be a Sime!"

Tallin noticed several adults pass by without comment. Although he itched to stop the bullying, it was clear that to do so might raise awkward questions that he had no desire to answer. Tallin had seen the vicious child-gangs of Sommerin in action. He judged that these comparative amateurs would not inflict lasting damage on their victim, at least of the physical variety. Dar's combat instructors continuously emphasized choosing one's battles wisely. Reluctantly, he walked on.

Two houses down from Widow Hastett's house was a taller building than most, with a bell tower ornamenting the roof. In front was a large sign that read, "Oak Creek Crossing Church". Under it were smaller letters that spelled out, "This week's sermon: Was the plague a sign of God's wrath towards Simelovers?"

Tallin wanted nothing more at that point than to get far away from Oak Creek Crossing, and its Sime-obsessed people. He bade farewell to the Widow Hastett, collected his horse, and made his way to Big George's smithy.

He had wondered a bit that a Gen would take up such an unlikely occupation. However, the bulging muscles rippling over Big George's looming bulk amply demonstrated how he managed to do his job without augmenting. He nodded when Tallin explained what he wanted, then picked up a large file.

"Fine beast," he commented, as he filed the hoof flat. "If you want to sell it, the Border Patrol would give you a good price. They're always looking for beasts that can outrun a Sime."

"I'm not selling, at the moment."

The smith grunted, then placed the thrown shoe against the hoof to check the fit. "They're always looking for likely lads, too, if you need work."

"I'll keep that in mind," Tallin said neutrally.

"My boy, now," the smith continued, carefully hammering the first nail in. "He's mad for the Border Patrol. Would have enlisted long since, except he's too young still. He's gone across the Border now, with the others from town, to teach the murdering snakes a lesson they won't soon forget.. If they think they're gong to cross again and hit Oak Creek Crossing, they'll soon learn differently."

The utter waste of it struck Tallin forcefully. These Gens were free to build their lives without Simes, and yet they seemed to think of nothing else. It made him long for the more diverse conversations he had enjoyed during his months at Householding Dar.

The last nail was being crimped off when an uproar in the street caught the attention of both smith and customer. With one accord they stepped outside to find its cause.

"They're back!" Big George said, almost dancing in delight despite his great bulk. "Our heroes are back, and they've brought one of the snakes with them. Now we'll find out all about their plots!"

It was indeed the party of vigilantes who had rode out in search of revenge for the Yarlo Raiders' attack. They were hooting with triumph as they waved their hats at the cheering bystanders. Even their hard-ridden horses had caught enough of the general excitement to prance and snort.

And in the middle of the group, arms bound with heavy manacles and a thick rope around her neck, stumbled Nilba.

oeuvres la tee (open your head)

Any remaining illusions Tallin might have had as to the possibility of living a Sime-free existence in Gen Territory were shattered in the next half hour. The only thing that prevented the mob from tearing Nilba to shreds then and there, was the insistence of Sheriff Devan that she be interrogated first, to provide information on the strength and armament of the Sime forces which had so recently crossed the Border. There seemed to be no doubt in anyone's mind that Nilba had been involved in the Yarlo Raiders' depredations, if only because she was available to torture.

This mob of Gens was every bit as vicious as the mob of rioting Simes who had torn his mother apart when he had been a child of ten. Nilba was no more responsible for the Yarlo Raiders' attack than Japora the locksmith had been responsible for the delays that had plagued the Gen shipments to Sommerin's Pen, but that made no difference.

The similarity was more than superficial, Tallin realized, as he watched the Gen raiders parade Nilba up and down the street. These Gens lived their lives in the cracks between Sime-caused emergencies, just as most Simes lived from kill to kill. When there were no actual emergencies, they wasted time worrying about imaginary ones, just to stay in practice.

Tallin was suddenly acutely homesick for Dar. He'd had six months worth of conversation that did not revolve around either getting kills, or escaping being killed. The Simes of Dar had treated him with respect, even if they were perverts. The Gens were legally property, but that didn't seem to limit their actions. He had never seen either Nilba or her father abuse their titular authority. What restrictions to Gen freedom existed at Dar were imposed by the larger Sime society, and for the most part were shared by Dar's Simes as well.

The parade came closer, and he gasped as Nilba was pulled off balance by a particularly vicious tug on the rope around her neck. It was all he could do to keep from rushing to her aid, but some cold, rational part of him knew that it would be suicide to do so. He did manage to get a bit closer, and was rewarded when she looked directly at him. She didn't react openly, but he thought he glimpsed a spark of hope in her eyes before she was kicked forward again.

Nilba's trust that he could and would get her away from the Wild Gen pack made him feel like a lorsh. After all, he had fully intended to run away and join the Gens who were tormenting her, leaving her to make her way back to Sommerin without a Companion's care. Dar had given him the home and family he had missed since his mother's death, and he had been willing to throw it away. Worse, in doing so, he had exposed the Sectuib to capture, for if he had returned promptly instead of dawdling in Oak Creek Crossing, she might not have been in the path of the marauding Wild Gens. Now her life depended on the actions of one half-trained and untrustworthy Companion. Tallin hadn't felt so alone and helpless since his mother's death.

It wasn't long before Nilba's captors tired of their games. They had been riding all night, and horses and Gens alike were tired. Most were eager to sit down with food and drink, and boast to their families and friends of their adventures. This naturally required that their prisoner be safely confined in the jail for future interrogation and torture.

Tallin cheered as enthusiastically as the rest of the crowd when Nilba was taken into the jail, if for somewhat different reasons. Japora's skills hadn't been enough to save her from the rioters, Tallin thought, but perhaps they could assist in saving Nilba from those who meant to murder her. He thought lovingly of the small flute case in his saddle bags, and the lockpicks carefully hidden underneath its false bottom.

It would do no good if he got Nilba out of her cell, though, unless he could also get her out of Oak Creek Crossing and across the Border. The streets were still full of people, clustering in groups of two or three as they discussed the latest events. There was nothing Tallin could do at the moment but plan and prepare.

His strategy lessons came back to him as he led his horse back to Widow Hastett's. It was far easier to pass unobserved in Sime towns during the day, when there were more nagers around to confuse perceptions. The opposite was true in Gen towns, because Gens had to actually see a person. Night's darkness would be an effective screen, and would mean fewer Gens awake to discover an escape attempt, as well.

By the time the sun had been down for two hours, Tallin was ready to make his move. He had left his own gelding saddled in a grove of trees on the outskirts of town, and with it was tethered the fastest-looking beast he could find in the adjoining pasture. He had not dared to brave the farmer's barn in search of proper tack, but a piece of rope tied to the halter made a bridle of sorts. He hoped his horsemanship was up to the challenge, for after the abuse she had taken, Nilba would require the saddle.

He waited until the town guards went past, then worked his way silently around to the rear of the jail. There had been a lantern burning in the front room of the jail, but Tallin didn't dare wait for it to be extinguished. He and Nilba would require as much darkness as possible to make their escape.

The lock on the jail's back door yielded after a careful five minutes of effort, and he eased the door open just a crack. The hinges creaked, and he froze against the side of the building, listening for any sign that the noise had been heard. When no one came to check, he returned to the door and eased it open more carefully, an inch at a time.

He peered through the gap apprehensively, tensing himself to put his Dar-learned combat skills to the test. However, although the door to the front room was open, there was no guard actually watching the prisoners.

Shaking with relief, Tallin slipped through the door. Maree was sleeping in the pile of dirty straw, wrapped in Nilba's cape. It was very like the channel to have passed her time in confinement giving what practical aide she could to a sick child, Tallin reflected. Nilba herself was standing by the cage's gate, swaying slightly on her feet as she waited patiently for him. She smiled brilliantly as he tiptoed towards her.

"They're eating supper out there," she whispered, so softly that he could barely hear. "They should be occupied for a while, yet. Shen, it's good to zlin you!"

Tallin gave her a nervous smile, then started to inspect the lock on the cell's door. It was a bit less primitive than the outer door's had been, and he sweated as he tried to coax the tumblers into place. It was a delicate task under the best of circumstances, which these definitely were not. To her credit, Nilba simply waited, without urging him to hurry. Or perhaps she was simply too worn out to muster the energy for nervousness.

After what seemed like hours, the lock yielded. Working together, they eased the door open, and Nilba slipped out. Tallin reached for the manacle on the closest arm, but the channel shook her head and breathed, "When we're safe. "

Tallin hesitated, knowing the torture that the heavy restraints must be inflicting on her delicate laterals. However, she was right. He could see at a glance that the locks were of top quality. He could open them in time, but time was exactly what they didn't have. With a curt nod of agreement, he followed Nilba towards the door, steadying her wavering gait. At the door, he turned and spared a last glance for the sleeping Maree, wondering what would become of her.

"Her fever broke an hour ago," Nilba breathed. "She won't wake until morning, poor thing."

Tallin nodded, glad that the girl had weathered her ordeal with nothing worse than a bad scare. He wondered if Maree would have the courage to teach her children about Nilba, when she had them: that being Sime didn't mean being a monster. Or would she take the easier path, and blindly accept the fears and hates of her neighbors?

However Maree chose to view her experience, it was doubtful that Tallin would ever find out. With a shrug, he followed his channel into the night. Carefully, he eased the jail's back door shut, so that no unexpected draft would call attention to their escape. He paused one moment more, listening for the town guards, then nodded and led the way towards the outskirts of town, and the horses.

By the time the sun rose, channel and Companion were back across the border, headed home.

enfouissez le son (muffle the sound)

"I never knew, then or later, whether Nilba had guessed my intention to run for the Border, and planned the whole thing," Tallin finished his story. "Not being captured by the Gen raiding party, of course, but it's easy enough to loosen a horseshoe. It would have been like her to see that I had the best possible chance, if she thought I intended to leave."

Zilmor looked at him with disbelief. "Why would even a pervert take a Prime Kill to the Border and kick it across? Particularly one that she wanted?"

The Companion smiled fondly. "Why, to see if I came back, of course. Because if I didn't, she would know that she'd never really had me at all."

"A good collar and chain'd do the trick," Zilmor pointed out with impeccable junct logic.

"But a chained Gen is rarely inclined to be helpful," Tallin said. "Nilba was never averse to taking a calculated risk, particularly when there was much to be gained. She would have dared more than that, to gain a Companion on whom she could depend absolutely."

Zilmor stared at Tallin for a long moment, studying his nager as well as his face. "Yeah, I can see how gettin' a Gen that wanted to work with you'd be worth almost any risk," she said at last. Her shoulders slumped, and she seemed suddenly older, as if she had been forced to realize the utter futility of a long-held dream.

The Companion looked at her in concern. It had not been his intention to make Zilmor dissatisfied with her junct condition. To taunt her with what she could never have from a Gen was an unnecessary cruelty.

As if in a dream, the musician bent over and picked up her shiltpron. With two tentacles, she slowly began to pluck out the notes to a children's song: the very one with which Tallin had enticed her into playing with him at their first meeting, months before. When she added minor chords to the melody, it sounded like a funeral dirge.

Tallin was suddenly ashamed at his self-pity of the past six months. However much it hurt to have lost Nilba, he'd at least had twenty good years with her. Zilmor would live and die without ever experiencing that closeness. Thanks to him, she now knew exactly what she was missing.

Zilmor's laterals extended to lightly touch the resonating tines, but the nageric amplification brought none of the ragged undertones of unfulfilled need that he had expected. Instead, there was an almost childlike sense of lost innocence, of dreams shattered, of beautiful things that ought to have been and weren't.

Perhaps it wasn't the impossibility of having a Companion that Zilmor mourned, after all. On impulse, Tallin removed his flute from its box and quickly assembled it. Hoping that its tuning would not be too far off the shiltpron's, he lifted it to his lips. As the shiltpron began the refrain, still in funereal tones, he blew a pure, long note, breaking the rhythm of the dirge. When Zilmor paused to look at him, somewhat taken aback by the interruption, he elaborated with a trill. The trill became a series of arpeggios, which allowed him to modulate into a major key. He began the chorus again, this time at its proper tempo, using his nager to tease Zilmor to join in.

Zilmor stared at him, her jaw dropping in disbelief. After a moment, the corners of her mouth began to twitch, then lift upward. She began to chuckle, then to laugh outright.

"Pet, you're shameless!" she scolded. As she adjusted the shiltpron on her shoulder and began to play along, Tallin knew he had guessed correctly. It wasn't a Companion's services that Zilmor craved from him, or even a Choice Kill. Neither was as important to her as exploring the musical possibilities he represented, and that, he could offer her without harm to either of them.

Zilmor struck the final chord, then muted the strings. "We're not in tune. Gimme a note," she ordered with absentminded dissatisfaction.

Tallin obeyed, as eager as she to see what they could do together. It didn't disturb him unduly that any association between them, however innocent, must remain clandestine. The ambrov Dar would not approve of a friendship between their First Companion and a junct, and he suspected that Zilmor's associates would be no more understanding. However, by this isolated pool in the deserted hills, it didn't matter that Zilmor had tentacles and he had none, or even that she viewed Gens like himself as her rightful prey.

Zilmor struck a chord, adjusted one last string, then strummed the chord again. She nodded with approval, then fixed him with a challenging grin. "Do you know this one, Pet?" she asked, and launched into a rapid dance tune, fingers and tentacles flying over the strings.

The Companion grinned back in an almost feral fashion, accepting the dare, and lifted his instrument. Shiltpron, flute, and nageric accompaniment blended in perfect, forbidden harmony.

For of what use was freedom, after all, if it wasn't exercised?

This concludes the story of Tallin and Zilmor--at least for now. Feedback is highly inspirational to any author, so if you want more, don't forget to post a comment on the story on the message board.

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