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Authors: Joan D. Vinge
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palace courtyard at the high end of Carbuncle’s
Street.
Her
sergeant looked at her, an ironic half-smile crumpling the pale freckles on his
dark, fine-boned face. “You mean you don’t enjoy visiting royalty, Inspector?”
innocently.
“You know
what I mean, Gundhalinu.” She jerked the cape roughly around to open from one
shoulder, hiding the utilitarian dusty-blue of the duty uniform beneath it. A
brooch with the Hegemonic seal pinned its folds. “I mean, BZ—” she
gestured-”that I hate having to dress up like something out of a costume strobe
to play spaceman’s burden with the Snow Queen.”
Gundhalinu
tapped the flash-shield at the front of his flaring helmet. Her helmet had been
sprayed gold; his was still white, and he was cape less “You should be glad the
Commander doesn’t put a potted plant up there, Inspector, to make you more
impressive ... You have to look the part when you go to lay down universal law
before the Mother lovers, don’t you?”
“Manure.”
They began to walk toward the massive doors of the ceremonial entrance, across
the intricate spiral patterns of pale inlaid stone. At the far side of the
courtyard two Winter servants scrubbed the stones with long-handled brushes.
They were always out here, scrubbing, keeping it flawless. Alabaster? she
wondered, looking down, and thought about sand, and heat, and sky. There were
none of those things here, not anywhere in this cold, spun stone confection of
a city. This courtyard marked the beginning of the Street, the beginning of the
world, the beginning of everything in Carbuncle. Or the end. She saw the frigid
sky of the upper latitudes glaring at them helplessly beyond the storm walls.
“Arienrhod is no more taken in by this charade than we are. The only possible
good that could come out of this would be if she believes we’re as stupid as we
look.”
“Yes, but
what about all their primitive rituals and superstitions, Inspector? I mean,
these are people who still believe in human sacrifice. Who deck up in masks and
have orgies in the street every time the Assembly comes to visit—”
“Don’t you
celebrate, when the Prime Minister drops in on Kharemough every few decades to
let you kiss his feet?”
“It’s
hardly the same thing. He is a
Kharemoughi.” Gundhalinu drew himself up, shielding himself from contamination.
“And our celebrations are dignified.”
Jerusha
smiled. “All a matter of degree. And before you start throwing around cultural
judgments, Sergeant, go back and study the ethnographies until you really
understand this world’s traditions.” She turned her own face into a mask of
official propriety, letting him see it while she presented it to the Queen’s
guards. They stood stiffly at attention, doing their own costumed imitation of
the ofiworlder police. The immense, time-gnawed doors opened for her without
hesitation.
“Yes,
ma’am.” Their polished boots rang on the corridor leading to the Hall of the
Winds. Gundhalinu looked aggrieved. He had been on Tiamat for a little less
than a standard year, and had been her assistant for most of that time. She
liked him, and thought he liked her; she felt that he was on his way to
becoming a competent career officer. But his homevrorld was Kharemough, the
world that dominated the Hegemony, and a world dominated by the technocracy
that produced the Hegemony’s most sophisticated hardware. She suspected that
Gundhalinu was a younger son from a family of some rank, forced into this
career by rigid inheritance laws at home, and he was Tech through and through.
Jerusha thought a little sadly that a hundred replays of the orientation tapes
would never teach him any tolerance.
“Well,” she
said more kindly, “I’ll tell you one man in a mask who probably fits all your
prejudices, and mine too—and that’s Star buck. And he’s an off worlder whoever
or whatever else he is.” She looked at the frescoes of chill Winter scenes
along the entry hall, tried to
Street.
Her
sergeant looked at her, an ironic half-smile crumpling the pale freckles on his
dark, fine-boned face. “You mean you don’t enjoy visiting royalty, Inspector?”
innocently.
“You know
what I mean, Gundhalinu.” She jerked the cape roughly around to open from one
shoulder, hiding the utilitarian dusty-blue of the duty uniform beneath it. A
brooch with the Hegemonic seal pinned its folds. “I mean, BZ—” she
gestured-”that I hate having to dress up like something out of a costume strobe
to play spaceman’s burden with the Snow Queen.”
Gundhalinu
tapped the flash-shield at the front of his flaring helmet. Her helmet had been
sprayed gold; his was still white, and he was cape less “You should be glad the
Commander doesn’t put a potted plant up there, Inspector, to make you more
impressive ... You have to look the part when you go to lay down universal law
before the Mother lovers, don’t you?”
“Manure.”
They began to walk toward the massive doors of the ceremonial entrance, across
the intricate spiral patterns of pale inlaid stone. At the far side of the
courtyard two Winter servants scrubbed the stones with long-handled brushes.
They were always out here, scrubbing, keeping it flawless. Alabaster? she
wondered, looking down, and thought about sand, and heat, and sky. There were
none of those things here, not anywhere in this cold, spun stone confection of
a city. This courtyard marked the beginning of the Street, the beginning of the
world, the beginning of everything in Carbuncle. Or the end. She saw the frigid
sky of the upper latitudes glaring at them helplessly beyond the storm walls.
“Arienrhod is no more taken in by this charade than we are. The only possible
good that could come out of this would be if she believes we’re as stupid as we
look.”
“Yes, but
what about all their primitive rituals and superstitions, Inspector? I mean,
these are people who still believe in human sacrifice. Who deck up in masks and
have orgies in the street every time the Assembly comes to visit—”
“Don’t you
celebrate, when the Prime Minister drops in on Kharemough every few decades to
let you kiss his feet?”
“It’s
hardly the same thing. He is a
Kharemoughi.” Gundhalinu drew himself up, shielding himself from contamination.
“And our celebrations are dignified.”
Jerusha
smiled. “All a matter of degree. And before you start throwing around cultural
judgments, Sergeant, go back and study the ethnographies until you really
understand this world’s traditions.” She turned her own face into a mask of
official propriety, letting him see it while she presented it to the Queen’s
guards. They stood stiffly at attention, doing their own costumed imitation of
the ofiworlder police. The immense, time-gnawed doors opened for her without
hesitation.
“Yes,
ma’am.” Their polished boots rang on the corridor leading to the Hall of the
Winds. Gundhalinu looked aggrieved. He had been on Tiamat for a little less
than a standard year, and had been her assistant for most of that time. She
liked him, and thought he liked her; she felt that he was on his way to
becoming a competent career officer. But his homevrorld was Kharemough, the
world that dominated the Hegemony, and a world dominated by the technocracy
that produced the Hegemony’s most sophisticated hardware. She suspected that
Gundhalinu was a younger son from a family of some rank, forced into this
career by rigid inheritance laws at home, and he was Tech through and through.
Jerusha thought a little sadly that a hundred replays of the orientation tapes
would never teach him any tolerance.
“Well,” she
said more kindly, “I’ll tell you one man in a mask who probably fits all your
prejudices, and mine too—and that’s Star buck. And he’s an off worlder whoever
or whatever else he is.” She looked at the frescoes of chill Winter scenes
along the entry hall, tried to
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