Bomanz asked.
“I’m engaged. To be married.”
How can this be? This is my son. My baby. I was changing his
diapers last week . . . Time, thou unspeakable
assassin, I feel thy cold breath. I hear thine iron-shod
hooves . . .
“Hmph. Young fool. Sorry. Tell us about her, since you
won’t tell us about anything else.”
“I would if I could get a word in.”
“Bomanz, be quiet. Tell us about her, Stance.”
“You probably know something already. She’s
Tokar’s sister, Glory.”
Bomanz’s stomach plunged to the level of his heels.
Tokar’s sister. Tokar, who might be a Resurrectionist.
“What’s the matter now, Pop?”
“Tokar’s sister, eh? What do you know about that
family?”
“What’s wrong with them?”
“I didn’t say anything was. I asked you what you
know about them.”
“Enough to know I want to marry Glory. Enough to know
Tokar is my best friend.”
“Enough to know if they’re
Resurrectionists?”
Silence slammed into the shop. Bomanz stared at his son. Stancil
stared back. Twice he started to respond, changed his mind. Tension
rasped the air. “Pop . . . ”
“That’s what Besand thinks. The Guard is watching
Tokar. And me, now. It’s the time of the comet, Stance. The
tenth passage. Besand smells some big Resurrectionist plot.
He’s making life hard. This thing about Tokar will make it
worse.”
Stancil sucked spittle between his teeth. He sighed.
“Maybe it was a mistake, coming home. I won’t get
anything done wasting time ducking Besand and fighting with
you.”
“No, Stance,” Jasmine said. “Your father
won’t start anything. Bo, you weren’t starting a fight.
You’re not going to start one.”
“Uhm.” My son engaged to a Resurrectionist? He
turned away, took a deep breath, quietly berated himself. Jumping
to conclusions. On word no better than Besand’s. “Son,
I’m sorry. He’s been riding me.” He glanced at
Jasmine. Besand wasn’t his only persecutor.
“Thanks, Pop. How’s the research coming?”
Jasmine grumbled and muttered. Bomanz said, “This
conversation is crazy. We’re all asking questions and nobody
is answering.”
“Give me some money, Bo,” Jasmine said.
“What for?”
“You two won’t say hello before you start your
plotting. I might as well go marketing.”
Bomanz waited. She eschewed her arsenal of pointed remarks about
Woman’s lot. He shrugged, dribbled coins into her palm.
“Let’s go upstairs, Stance.”
“She’s mellowed,” Stancil said as they entered
the attic room.
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“So have you. But the house hasn’t
changed.”
Bomanz lighted the lamp. “Cluttered as ever,” he
admitted. He grabbed his hiding spear. “Got to make a new one
of these. It’s getting worn.” He spread his chart on
the little table.
“Not much improvement, Pop.”
“Get rid of Besand.” He tapped the sixth barrow.
“Right there. The only thing standing in my way.”
“That route the only option, Pop? Could you get the top
two? Or even one. That would leave you a fifty-fifty chance of
guessing the other two.”
“I don’t guess. This isn’t a card game. You
can’t deal a new hand if you play your first one
wrong.”
Stancil took the one chair, stared at the chart. He drummed the
tabletop with his fingers. Bomanz fidgeted.
A week passed. The family settled into new rhythms, including
living with the Monitor’s intensified surveillance.
Bomanz was cleaning a weapon from the TelleKurre site. A trove,
that was. A veritable trove. A mass burial, with weapons and armor
almost perfectly preserved. Stancil entered the shop. Bomanz looked
up. “Rough night?”
“Not bad. He’s ready to give up. Only came round
once.”
“Men fu or Besand?”
“Men fu. Besand was there a half dozen times.”
They were working shifts. Men fu was the public excuse.
In reality, Bomanz hoped to wear Besand down before the
comet’s return. It was not working.
“Your mother has breakfast
“I’m engaged. To be married.”
How can this be? This is my son. My baby. I was changing his
diapers last week . . . Time, thou unspeakable
assassin, I feel thy cold breath. I hear thine iron-shod
hooves . . .
“Hmph. Young fool. Sorry. Tell us about her, since you
won’t tell us about anything else.”
“I would if I could get a word in.”
“Bomanz, be quiet. Tell us about her, Stance.”
“You probably know something already. She’s
Tokar’s sister, Glory.”
Bomanz’s stomach plunged to the level of his heels.
Tokar’s sister. Tokar, who might be a Resurrectionist.
“What’s the matter now, Pop?”
“Tokar’s sister, eh? What do you know about that
family?”
“What’s wrong with them?”
“I didn’t say anything was. I asked you what you
know about them.”
“Enough to know I want to marry Glory. Enough to know
Tokar is my best friend.”
“Enough to know if they’re
Resurrectionists?”
Silence slammed into the shop. Bomanz stared at his son. Stancil
stared back. Twice he started to respond, changed his mind. Tension
rasped the air. “Pop . . . ”
“That’s what Besand thinks. The Guard is watching
Tokar. And me, now. It’s the time of the comet, Stance. The
tenth passage. Besand smells some big Resurrectionist plot.
He’s making life hard. This thing about Tokar will make it
worse.”
Stancil sucked spittle between his teeth. He sighed.
“Maybe it was a mistake, coming home. I won’t get
anything done wasting time ducking Besand and fighting with
you.”
“No, Stance,” Jasmine said. “Your father
won’t start anything. Bo, you weren’t starting a fight.
You’re not going to start one.”
“Uhm.” My son engaged to a Resurrectionist? He
turned away, took a deep breath, quietly berated himself. Jumping
to conclusions. On word no better than Besand’s. “Son,
I’m sorry. He’s been riding me.” He glanced at
Jasmine. Besand wasn’t his only persecutor.
“Thanks, Pop. How’s the research coming?”
Jasmine grumbled and muttered. Bomanz said, “This
conversation is crazy. We’re all asking questions and nobody
is answering.”
“Give me some money, Bo,” Jasmine said.
“What for?”
“You two won’t say hello before you start your
plotting. I might as well go marketing.”
Bomanz waited. She eschewed her arsenal of pointed remarks about
Woman’s lot. He shrugged, dribbled coins into her palm.
“Let’s go upstairs, Stance.”
“She’s mellowed,” Stancil said as they entered
the attic room.
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“So have you. But the house hasn’t
changed.”
Bomanz lighted the lamp. “Cluttered as ever,” he
admitted. He grabbed his hiding spear. “Got to make a new one
of these. It’s getting worn.” He spread his chart on
the little table.
“Not much improvement, Pop.”
“Get rid of Besand.” He tapped the sixth barrow.
“Right there. The only thing standing in my way.”
“That route the only option, Pop? Could you get the top
two? Or even one. That would leave you a fifty-fifty chance of
guessing the other two.”
“I don’t guess. This isn’t a card game. You
can’t deal a new hand if you play your first one
wrong.”
Stancil took the one chair, stared at the chart. He drummed the
tabletop with his fingers. Bomanz fidgeted.
A week passed. The family settled into new rhythms, including
living with the Monitor’s intensified surveillance.
Bomanz was cleaning a weapon from the TelleKurre site. A trove,
that was. A veritable trove. A mass burial, with weapons and armor
almost perfectly preserved. Stancil entered the shop. Bomanz looked
up. “Rough night?”
“Not bad. He’s ready to give up. Only came round
once.”
“Men fu or Besand?”
“Men fu. Besand was there a half dozen times.”
They were working shifts. Men fu was the public excuse.
In reality, Bomanz hoped to wear Besand down before the
comet’s return. It was not working.
“Your mother has breakfast
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