The morning of the Hunt found all the Yrariers full of odd anxieties they were loath to show, much less share. Marjorie, sleepless through much of the night, rising early to walk through the connecting tunnel to the chapel, attending early mass, admitting her nervousness to Rigo when she found him in the dining room when she returned. He, pretending calm, inside himself as jittery as any pre-race jockey, full of mocking lizards squirming in his belly. Tony, lonely, that much evident from the eagerness with which he greeted them when he came into the room, bending over his mother with a hug that was slightly clinging. Stella, disdainful, expressing no affection at all, half dressed, full of angry invective and threats against the peace and tranquility of Grass.
“It’ll be awful.” she said. “Not riding, I mean. I have half a mind not to go. Why won’t they—”
“Shh,” said her mother. “We promised one another we wouldn’t ask. We don’t know enough yet. Eat your breakfast. We want to be ready when the thing comes.” The thing. The vehicle. The not-horse which they were expected to ride within. All the Grassian vehicles seemed to be mechanical devices trying to look like something else: drawing room ornaments or lawn statuary or bits of baroque sculpture. The one that had brought the horses had looked like nothing so much as an aerial version of an ancient wine amphora, complete with stylized representations of dancers around its middle. Tony had told her it had been all he could do not to laugh when he saw it; and Marjorie, who had watched its laborious descent with disbelief, had turned aside to hide her amusement. Now she said again, “Eat your breakfast,” wondering if she needed to warn Stella not to laugh. If she warned Stella not to, Stella would. If she didn’t, Stella might not. Sighing, Marjorie fingered the prayer book in her pocket and left it to God.
They did eat their breakfast, all of them, ravenously, leaving very little of what had looked like a large repast for twice as many people. Marjorie ran her hand around her waistband, noting that it seemed loose. With everything she was eating she still seemed to be losing weight.
The aircar, when it arrived, was overly ornamental but not actually funny, a luxurious flier, engineered for vertical ascent. Once inside it with Obermun bon Haunser as their guide, they lowered themselves into deeply padded seats and were given cups of the local hot drink — which was called, though it did not resemble, coffee — while the silent (and apparently non-bon) driver set off toward an unseen destination. They flew to the northeast as the Obermun pointed out notable landmarks. “Crimson Ridge,” he said, indicating a long rise deeply flushed with pink. “It will be blood-red in another week or two. Off to your right are the Sable Hills. I hope you feel somewhat privileged. You are among the very few non-Grassians who have ever seen anything of our planet except for Commoner Town, around the port”
“I wondered about Commoner Town,” said Rigo. “On the maps it shows as a considerable area, some fifty miles long and two or three miles wide, completely surrounded by forest. I understand it is entirely given over to commerce or farming. When we arrived, I saw roads in and around Commoner Town, though there are none on the rest of the planet”
“As I have previously explained to your wife, Ambassador, there is no grassland around Commoner Town. When we speak of the town, we mean the whole area, everything right down to the edge of the swamp. Here on Grass, where swamp is, trees are, as you can see if you look to your left. That is the port-forest coming up below. Quite a different surface from the rest of the planet, is it not? It doesn’t matter if they have roads in Commoner Town, because there is no grass to destroy, and they cannot get out through the swamp.” Obermun bon Haunser pointed down at the billowing green centered with urban clutter, his nostrils flaring only very slightly in what was unmistakably an expression of contempt. He had spoken of the roads as though they were something malevolent, something seeking subtle egress, like serpents caged against their will.
Stella started to blurt something but held it in as she received the full force of a forbidding glare from her father.
“You prefer they not get out?” Anthony asked, with precisely the right tone of disingenuous interest. “The roads or the commoners? Why is that?”
The Obermun flushed. He had obviously said something spontaneous and unplanned which he now regretted. “The commoners have no wish to leave the town. I meant the roads, my boy. I cannot expect you to understand the horror we have of marring the grasses. We have no fear of harvesting them, you understand, or making use of them, but scarring them lastingly is abhorrent to us. There are no roads on Grass except for the narrow trails linking each estancia to its own village, and even these we regret.”
“All exchanges between estancias, then, are by air?”
“All transport of persons or material, yes. The tell-me provides informational exchange. Information entered at your node at Opal Hill can be directed to specific recipients or to certain sets of recipients or used for correspondence with elsewhere. The tell-me links all the estancias and Commoner Town. All travel, however, all deliveries of imports or shipments of export material, are by air.”
“Imports and exports? Consisting of what, mostly?” This was Stella, deciding to be a good child for the moment.
The Obermun hemmed and hawed. “Well, imports are mostly manufactured goods and some luxury products such as wines and fabrics. For the most part, exports are what you might expect: various grass products. Grass exports grain and colored fiber. I am told by the commoners who attend to such matters that the larger grasses are much in demand for the construction of furniture. The merchants liken it to Terran bamboo. There is some export of seed, both as grain and for planting elsewhere. Some of the grasses thrive on other planets, I am told. Some which thrive only here yield valuable pharmaceutical products. Some are highly ornamental, as you have no doubt observed. It’s all done by license to various commoner firms. We bons haven’t the time or inclination to be directly involved with the business. I don’t suppose it’s very lucrative, but it is sufficient to support us and the town, which is to our advantage.”
Rigo, remembering the huge warehouses and the thriving shipping he had seen at the port, suppressed any comment. “And do I understand correctly that the grasses aren’t botanically related to Terran grasses? They’re indigenous? Not imports?”
“No. They are not even similar on the genetic level. Almost all the varieties were here when we arrived. The Green Brothers have hybridized a few to get certain colors or effects. You will have heard of the Green Brothers?” It was not really a question, for the man stared out the window of the flier, the line of his jaw and mouth expressing discomfort. Whatever they had been talking about was something that upset him. “They were sent here long ago to dig up the ruins of the Arbai city, and they took up gardening as a sort of hobby.”
Marjorie welcomed the change of subject. “I didn’t know there was an Arbai ruin on Grass.”
“Oh, yes. In the north. The Brothers have been digging away at it for a very long time. I am told it is like most such cities, flat and widespread, which makes it a long task to uncover. I have not seen it myself.” He was manifestly uninterested.
Marjorie changed the subject again. “Will we have the opportunity to meet any members of your family today, Obermun?”
“Mine?” he started, surprised. “No, no. The Hunt is still at the bon Damfels’. It will be at the bon Damfels’ all this period, before moving on to the bon Maukerdens’.”
“Oh,” Marjorie said, surprised into speaking without thought. “I thought you said the bon Damfels were in mourning.”
“Of course,” he said impatiently. “But that would not interrupt the Hunt.”
Rigo threw her an admonitory glance which she pretended not to see, persisting sweetly. “Will others be riding with the bon Damfels?”
“Two or three houses usually hunt together. Today the bon Damfels will be hunting with the bon Laupmons and the bon Haunsers.”
“But not your family.”
“Not my wife and children, no. The women and younger children usually ride only with the home Hunt.” He set his jaw. She had happened upon a sensitive subject once more.
Marjorie sighed to herself. What subjects were not sensitive on this place?
“We will be landing just ahead!” the Obermun cried. “Have we arrived at Klive so soon?”
“Oh, you could not come to Klive in this flier, Lady Marjorie. It is too noisy. It would upset the hounds. No, we will go from this point by balloon-car. Balloon-cars are virtually silent. And comparatively slow, so you will be able to see what is going on.”
And in the luxurious cabin of a propeller-driven balloon-car, a car with windows at the sides and below and so overly garnished as to appear unintended for its function, they went forward to land silently upon a side lawn of Klive. They were greeted by Stavenger. the Obermun bon Damfels, and by Rowena, the Obermum bon Damfels. both dressed in black with small purple capes and veils. Mourning garb, obviously.
The visitors were offered wine. Rowena sipped. Stavenger took none. The Yrariers commented upon the fine weather. Marjorie murmured a few words of sympathy for their loss. Stavenger seemed not to hear what she said. Rowena, eyes deep-sunk in shadowed circles, seemed to be elsewhere, lost in some private grief too deep and remote to let her communicate with the outside world. Or perhaps verbal expressions of grief were not customary. Seeing the behavior of others around them, Marjorie gradually came to the conclusion that this interpretation was correct. Though the bon Damfels wore mourning, no one took any notice of it.
The Yrariers were introduced to other family members — two daughters, two sons, the names merely mumbled so that Marjorie was unsure of them. One of the sons gave her a long look, as though measuring her for a suit of clothing — or a shroud, Marjorie thought with a shiver. He was very pale and intense in his dark clothing, though no less handsome for that. It was a handsome family. The other bon Damfels children seemed remote and distracted, responding only to direct questions, and not always then.
Stella frankly flirted, in a gay, self-deprecating way She had always found it useful in making friends, and it had never failed her until now. Only the one bon Damfels son returned her gambits with a few words and a half smile. All the others seemed frozen. Gradually the girl fell silent, confused, slightly angry.
A bell rang. All the bon Damfels but Rowena excused themselves and departed suddenly. One moment they were there, the next they were gone.
“They have gone to dress for the Hunt. If you will come with me,” she invited in a near whisper, “we will watch from the balconies until the Hunt departs.”
Tony and Marjorie went with her, casting one another questioning looks. Nothing here was predictable or familiar. No word, no attitude conveyed any emotion with which they could empathize. Rigo and Stella stalked along behind them, their dark, intense eyes eating up the landscape and spitting it out. There and there. So much for your gardens. So much for your hospitality. So much for your grief and your hunt which you will not share with us. Marjorie felt them simmering behind her, and her skin quivered. This was not diplomatic. This hostility was not the way things should go.
Still, they went on simmering as they were ensconced upon the balcony and provided with food and drink. Nothing was familiar, nothing resembled any such gathering at home. They looked down at the empty first surface for a time in silence, sipping, nibbling, trying not to seem ravenous, which they were, casting sidelong looks at Rowena’s distracted face.
After a time, servant women in long white skirts came out onto the first surface, bearing trays of tiny, steaming glasses. The hunters began to trickle in. At first glance the hunters seemed to be dressed in familiar fashion, then one noticed the vast and padded trousers, like inflated jodhpurs, creating bowlegged, steatopygous curves, at first laughable, and then, when one saw the hunters’ faces, not amusing at all. Each hunter took a pale, steaming glass and drank, one glass only, a swallow or two, no more. Few of them spoke and those few were among the younger ones. When the horn sounded, though it sounded softly, Marjorie almost leapt from her chair. The hunters turned toward the eastern gate, which opened slowly. The hounds entered and Marjorie could not keep from gasping. She turned toward Rowena and was surprised to see a look of hatred there, a look of baffled rage. Quickly. Marjorie looked away. It had not been an expression their hostess had meant anyone to see.
“My God,” breathed Rigo in awe, all his animosity set aside in that moment of shock.
The hounds were the size of Terran horses, muscled like lions, with broad, triangular heads and lips curled back to display jagged ridges of bone or tooth. Herbivores, Rigo thought at first. And yet there were fangs at the front of those jaws. Omnivores? They had reticulated hides, a network of lighter color surrounding shapeless patches of darker skin. Either they had no hair or very short hair. They were silent. Their tongues dripped onto the path as they paced in pairs, split to go around the waiting riders, joined again in pairs, and proceeded toward another gate at the western side of the courtyard.
“Come,” said Rowena in her expressionless voice. “We must go down the hall to see the Hunt depart.”
They followed her wordlessly down a long corridor and onto another balcony which looked out over the garden beyond the wall — where jaw-dropping shock waited, and a blaze of fear which was like sudden fire. They stood swaying, clutching the railing before them, not believing what they saw. “Hippae.” Marjorie identified them to herself, shuddering. Why had she supposed they would look like horses? How naive she had been! How stupid Sanctity had been. Hadn’t anyone at Sanctity made any effort to — No. Of course they hadn’t. Even if they had tried, there hadn’t been time. Her thoughts trailed away into shivering depths of barely controlled terror.
“Hippae,” thought Rigo, sweating, taking refuge in anger. Mark another one down against Sender O’Neil. That damned fool. And the Hierarch. Poor uncle. Poor dying old man, he simply hadn’t known. Rigo held onto the railing with both hands, pulling himself together with all his force. Beside him he was conscious of Stella leaning forward, breathing heavily, quivering. From the corner of his eye he saw Marjorie put her hand over Tony’s and squeeze it.
Below them the monsters pranced silently, twice the size of the hounds, their long necks arching in an almost horselike curve, those necks spined with arm-long scimitars of pointed, knife-edged bone, longest on the head and midway down the neck, shorter at the lower neck and shoulders. The eyes of the mounts were burning orbs of red. Their backs were armored with great calluses of hard and glistening hide.
Stavenger bon Damfels was preparing to mount, and Marjorie bit back an exclamation. The mount half crouched as it extended its left foreleg. Stavenger stepped up on the leg with his left foot, raising his left arm at the same time to throw a ring up and over the lowest of the jutting spines. With his left hand on the ring, close to the spine, he pulled and leapt simultaneously, right leg high to slide over the huge back. He settled just behind the monstrous shoulders, his hands parting widely to reveal thin straps which pulled the ring tight around the blade of bone. Stavenger turned his hands, wrapping the straps around his fingers, gripping them. “Reins,” Marjorie thought fleetingly; then, “No, not reins,” for the straps were obviously only something to hold on to, only a place to put one’s hands. There was no way they could be used to direct the enormous mount or even to signal it. One could not take hold of the razorlike barb itself without cutting off ones fingers. One could not lean forward without skewering oneself. One had to brace oneself back, leaning back in an endless, spine-straining posture which must be agonizing to hold even for a few moments. Otherwise… otherwise one would be spitted upon those spines.
Along the animal’s mighty ribs were a series of deep pockmarks, into which Stavenger thrust the long pointed toes of his boots, bracing himself away from the danger before him. His belly was only inches from the razor edges. On his back, slung across his shoulder, he wore a case like a narrow, elongated quiver. As the mount turned, rearing, Stavenger’s eyes slid across Marjorie’s gaze with the slickness of ice. His face was not merely empty but stripped bare. There was nothing there. He made no effort to speak to the mount or guide it in any way. It went where it decided to go, taking him with it. Another of the Hippae approached a rider and was mounted in its turn.
Marjorie still held Tony’s hand, turned him to face her, looked at him deeply, warningly. He was as pale as milk. Stella was sweating with a feverish excitement in her eyes. Marjorie was cold all over, and she shook herself, forcing herself to speak. She would not be silenced by these… by these whatever they were.
“Excuse me,” Marjorie said, loudly enough to break through their silence, through Rowena’s abstracted fascination, “but do your… your mounts have hooves? I cannot see from here.”
“Three,” murmured Rowena, so softly they could scarcely hear her. Then louder. “Yes. Three. Three sharp hooves on each foot. Or I should say, three toes, each with a triangular hoof. And two rudimentary thumbs, higher on the leg”
“And the hounds?”
“They, too. Except that their hooves are softer. More like pads. It makes them very sure-footed.”
Almost all of the hunters were mounted.
“Come,” Rowena said again in the same emotionless voice she had said everything else. “The transport will be waiting for you.” She glided before them as if on wheels, her wide skirts floating above the polished floors like an inconsolable balloon, swollen and ready to burst with grief. She did not look at them, did not say their names. It was as if she had not really seen them, did not see them now. Her eyes were fixed upon some interior vision of intimate horror so vividly imagined that Marjorie could almost see it in her eyes. When they approached the car, Rowena turned away and floated back the way they had come.
Waiting near the car was Eric bon Haunser. “My brother has joined the Hunt,” he explained. “Since I no longer ride, I have volunteered to go with you. Perhaps you will have questions I can answer.” He moved somewhat awkwardly on his artificial legs, stopping at the door of the balloon-car to nod for Marjorie to enter first.
They rose to float silently over the Hunt, driven by silent propellers as they watched long miles flow by under the hooves of the mounts, longer and more tortuous miles run beneath the wider-ranging feet of the hounds. From the air the animals were only short, thick blotches superimposed on the texture of the grass, blotches which pulsated, becoming longer and shorter as legs extended or gathered for the next leap, mounts and hounds distinguishable from one another only by the presence of riders, the riders themselves reduced to mere excrescences, warts upon the pulsating lines. The hunters entered a copse, hidden from the air. After a time they emerged and ran off toward another copse. After a time, the Yrariers forgot what they were watching. They could as well have been observing ants. Or fish in a stream, Or water flowing, wind blowing. There was nothing individual in the movement of the beasts. Only the spots of red spoke of human involvement. Except for those dots of red, the animals might have been alone in their quest. Though occasionally the grass moved ahead of the mounts, the observers could not see whatever quarry the Hunt was chasing.
Marjorie tried to estimate how fast the animals below them were running. She thought it was not as fast as a horse would cover the same distance, though it might not be possible for horses to thrust through tall, thick grasses as the animals below were doing. She spent some time estimating whether horses could outrun the Hippae — deciding they might be able to do so on the flat, though not uphill — then wondered why she was thinking of horses at all.
At last they came to a final copse and hovered above it. Branches quivered. High upon the roof of the copse the fox crawled onto a twiggy platform, screaming defiance at the sky. Over the soft whir of the propellers, they heard him. All they really saw was an explosion of what might have been fur or scales or fangs, talons, a great shaking and scouring among the leaves, an impression of ferocity, of something huge and indomitable.
“Fox,” Anthony muttered, his voice breaking. “Fox. That thing is the size of half a dozen tigers.” His mother’s hand silenced his words, though his mind went on nattering at him. Where it isn’t toothy, it’s bony. My God. Fox, Merciful Father, will they expect me to ride after that thing? I won’t. Whatever they expect, I just won’t!
Ride, Stella thought. I could ride the way they do. A horse is nothing to that. Nothing at all. I wonder if they’ll let me…
Ride, thought Marjorie in a fever of abhorrence. That isn’t riding. What they are doing. Something within her writhed in disgust and horror; she did not know what the people below her were doing, but it was not riding, not horsemanship. Suppose they want us to join their Hunt? She thought. At least one of us. I suppose there are teachers. Will we have to do this to be respected by them?
Ride, thought Rigo. To ride something like that! They will not think me a man unless I do, and their tribal egotism will try to keep me out. How? We are being treated as mere tourists, not as residents. I won’t have it! Damn Sanctity. Damn Uncle Carlos. Damn Sender O’Neil. Damn him and damn him.”
“The whole of Grass is horse-mad,” Sender O’Neil had said. “Horse-mad and class-conscious. The Hierarch, your uncle, suggested you for the mission. You and your family are the best candidates we have.”
“The best candidates you have for what?” Rigo had asked. “And why the devil should we care?” The invocation of old Uncle Carlos was doing nothing to make him more polite, though it had made him slightly curious.
“The best candidate to be accepted by the aristocrats on Grass. As for why…” The man had licked his lips again, this time nervously. He had been about to say words which were not said, not by anyone in Sanctity. So far as Sanctity was concerned, the words were impossible to say. “The plague,” he had whispered.
Roderigo had been silent. The acolyte had prepared him for this, at least. He was angry but not surprised.
Sender had shaken his head, waved his hands, palms out, warding away the anger he felt coming from Rigo “All right. Sanctity doesn’t admit the plague exists, but we have reason to keep silent. Even the Hierarch, your uncle, he agreed. Every society mankind has built will fall apart the minute we admit it and start talking about it.”
’’You can’t be certain of that!”
“The machines say so. Every computer model they try says so. Because there’s no hope. No cure. No hope for a cure. No means of prevention. We have the virus, but we haven’t found any way to make our immune systems manufacture antibodies. We don’t even know where it’s coming from. We have nothing. The machines advise us that if we tell people… well, it will be the end.”
“The end of Sanctity? Why should I care about that?”
“Not Sanctity, man! The end of civilization. The end of mankind. The mortality rate is one hundred percent! Your family will die. Mine. All of us. It isn’t just Sanctity. It’s the end of the human race. It’s you as much as me!”
Rigo, shocked into awareness by the man’s vehemence, asked, “What makes you think there’s an answer on Grass?”
“Something. Maybe only rumor, only fairy tales. Maybe only wishful thinking. Maybe like the fabled cities of gold or the unicorn or the philosopher’s stone…”
“But maybe?”
“Maybe something real. According to our temple on Semling, there is no plague at all on Grass.”
“There’s none here on Terra!”
“Oh, Lord, man if that were only true! There’s none here that anyone is allowed to see. But I’ve seen it.” The man wiped his face again, eyes brimming with sudden tears, and his jaw clenched as though he were holding down bile that threatened to flood his throat. “I’ve seen it. Men. Animals. It’s everywhere. I’ll show it to you, if you like.”
Roderigo had already seen plague. He hadn’t known it was on Terra or that it afflicted animals, but he, too, had seen it. He waved the offer aside, concentrating. “But there’s none on Grass? Perhaps it’s only hidden, as you do here.”
“Our people don’t think they could be hiding it. The Grassians seem to have no structure to hide it. Funny kind of place. But if there’s none there…”
“What you’re implying is that it’s the only place where there is none. Are you saying there is plague everywhere else?”
Sender, pallid and sweating, nodded and then whispered, “We have at least one temple on virtually every occupied world. In the few places where there’s no temple, there’s at least a mission. We are responsible for hiding what’s happening, so yes, we know where plague is. It is everywhere,”
Rigo flushed with sudden fury. “Well then, for the sake of heaven, why aren’t the scientists and researchers on the way there! Why come to me?”
“The aristocrats who run the place won’t give permission for scientists and researchers to visit the planet. Oh, we could send our people into the port town, yes. Place is called Commoner Town. It’s open to visitors. But there’s no such thing as immigration. They’d get a visitor’s permit, good until the next ship came through headed in the right direction. We’ve already done that a few times. Our people can’t find out anything. Not there in the port. And do you think they can get anywhere else on Grass? Not on your life. Not on anyone’s. Sanctity has no power on the planet.”
Rigo stared, frankly unbelieving. “You really have no mission there?”
’The only contact Sanctity has with Grass is through the penitential encampment working on the Arbai ruins. Not all our acolytes work out. It won’t do to send them home to teach other unwilling boys how to get out of their service. So we send them to Grass. Our encampment was already there when the Grassians arrived. The Green Brothers. So named because of the robes they wear. There must be over a thousand of them, but they have virtually no contact with the aristocrats. Over a hundred years ago the Hierarch ordered them to develop some interest they could use as common ground with the Grassians, but there really is no common ground.”
“Trying to make your penitents into more of your damn missionaries,” snarled Rigo.
O’Neil wiped his brow. “Oh, I won’t deny that’s what the man in charge of Acceptable Doctrine would like. His name’s Jhamlees Zoe, and he gets madder than a teased bull about our not converting the planet to Sanctity, by force if necessary. The Hierarch sends him word to calm down or come home, and it only makes him madder,” O’Neil wiped his forehead where the sweat glistened.
“What did the brothers do to develop ties with the aristocrats?”
“They took up gardening.” O’Neil laughed harshly. “Gardening! They’ve become specialists in that. Oh, they’ve become renowned for that. So well known even Jhamlees didn’t dare put a stop to it. But that still doesn’t give them any day-to-day contact with the rest of the planet, not enough to learn anything. And the damned aristos won’t let us in!”
“Not even when you told them…”
“The Grassians aren’t suffering. We’ve tried to describe to them what’s happening, but they don’t seem to care. They were separatists to begin with, more concerned with maintaining the privileges of their rank than with any human concerns. Lesser nobility. Or perhaps merely pretenders at nobility. European, mostly, and ridiculously proud of their noble blood, full of pretensions about it. That’s why they’ve consistently refused permission for a temple or a mission. Ten generations on Grass has only made them more isolationist, more… more strange It’s like they’ve had iron walls built in their heads! They refuse to be studied. They refuse to be proselytized. They refuse to be visited! Except, maybe, by someone like you…
“Sanctity has a navy.” Rigo said it as fact. He disapproved of that fact, but it was true. Planetary governments were isolated and parochial and content to be so, Once the initial explosive overflow of humanity had taken place, Sanctity had done everything it could to stop further exploration. The faith had not wanted men to be so widespread they couldn’t be evangelized and controlled. Discovery had stopped, along with science and art and invention. Though its military technology was centuries old, Sanctity maintained the only interstellar force.
Sender O’Neil sighed deeply. “It’s been considered. If we take troopers in there, the reason couldn’t be kept secret, not for long. All hell would break loose. We can’t even consider it until we know for sure that there’s something there. Please. Whatever you think of us, give us credit for some intelligence! We’ve computer-modeled everything. Our best people have done it over and over again. News of the plague and use of force would be equally disastrous! Have you heard of the Moldies?”
“Some kind of end-of-the-world sect, aren’t they?”
“End of the universe, more likely. But yes, they fervently desire the end of the world, the human world. They call themselves the Martyrs of the Last Days. They believe the time has come to end all human life. They believe in an afterlife which will only commence when this one has ended, for everyone. We’ve recently learned that the Moldies are ‘helping’ the plague.”
“My God!”
“Yes. Anyone’s God!”
“How?”
“Carrying infected materials from one place to another. Like the ancient anarchists, destroying so that something better can come.”
“What has this to do with—”
“It has this to do with. All Sanctity’s resources are tied up in tracking and expunging the Moldies. They seem to be everywhere, to breed out of nothing. If they heard… if they knew there was a chance that Grass—”
“They’d go there?”
“They’d wreck whatever slim chance there may be. No, whatever we do, it must be covert, quiet, without drawing any notice. According to the computers, we’ve got five to seven years in which to act. After that, the plague may have gone so far that — Well. The Grassians have said they’ll accept an ambassador.”
“I see.” And he had seen. The Grassians would consent to a delaying action. Enough to make Sanctity eschew any ideas of using force, but not enough to seriously inconvenience anyone on Grass.
“You say they ride?” Rigo had asked Sender O’Neil, trying to change the pictures of doom and destruction which had swarmed into his mind. “You say they ride? Did they take horses, hounds, and foxes with them when they settled there?”
“No. They found indigenous variants upon the theme.” O’Neil had licked his pursy lips, liking this phrase and repeating it. “Indigenous variants.”
Indigenous variants, Rigo thought now as he sat in a balloon-car poised above a copse of great trees on Grass and saw the thing called fox climb into view. He could not see it clearly. He did not glance at his family, though he felt the strain of their silence. He stared down, unconscious for the moment of the need to hide his feelings, and repeated O’Neil’s phrase. “Indigenous variants.” He said it aloud, not realizing he had spoken. When Eric bon Haunser looked at him inquiringly he blurted, without meaning to, “I’m afraid it is utterly unlike our foxes at home.”
The huge, amorphous creature was pulled struggling from the crown of the copse while bon Haunser described what was probably taking place below the trees. He spoke openly, almost offhandedly, carefully ignoring their reaction to the sight of the thing.
When they had returned partway to Klive, Rigo recovered himself sufficiently to say, “You seem very objective about all this. Forgive me, but your brother seemed… how can I describe it? Embarrassed? Defensive?”
“I don’t ride any longer.” said Eric, flushing. “My legs. A hunting accident. Those of us who don’t ride — some of us at least — we become less enthusiastic.” He said this diffidently, as though he were not quite sure of it, and he did not offer to explain what it was about the Hunt that made the current riders unwilling to talk about it. Each of the Yrariers had his or her own ideas about the matter, ideas which they incubated as they sailed silently over the prairies, in time each achieving an imperiled calm.
They arrived back at Klive before the riders did and were met, though scarcely welcomed, by Rowena. She escorted them to a large reception room overlooking the first surface, where she introduced them to the gaggle of pregnant women and children and older men who were eating, drinking, and playing games at scattered tables. She encouraged the Yrariers to tell the servants what they wanted to drink and serve themselves from the laden buffet, then she drifted away. Eric bon Haunser joined them. Very shortly thereafter a horn blew outside the western gate and the riders began to trickle in. Most went immediately to bathe and change their clothing, but a few came into the room, obviously famished.
Eric murmured, ‘They have drunk nothing for twelve hours before the Hunt except the palliative offered before the Hounds come in. Once the Hunt has begun, there is no opportunity to relieve oneself.”
“Most uncomfortable,” Marjorie mused, lost in recollection of the sharp implacable spines on the necks of the mounts. “Is it really worth it?”
He shook his head. “I am no philosopher, Lady Westriding. If you were to ask my brother, he would say yes. If you ask me, I may say yes or no. But then, he rides and I don’t.”
“I ride,” said a voice from behind them. “But I say no.”
Marjorie turned to confront the owner of the voice, tall, broad-shouldered, not greatly younger than herself, dressed in stained trousers and red coat, his hunting cap under his arm and a full glass held to his lips. She saw that those lips trembled, though so slightly she doubted anyone but herself would have noticed.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I’m excessively thirsty.” His lips tightened upon the rim of the glass, making it quiver. Something held him in the grip of emotion, slurring his words.
“I can imagine that you are thirsty,” she said. “We met this morning, didn’t we? You look quite different in your… in your hunting clothes.”
“I am Sylvan bon Damfels,” he said with a slight bow. “We did meet, yes. I am the younger son of Stavenger and Rowena bon Damfels.”
Stella was standing with Rigo across the room. She saw Sylvan talking to her mother; her expression changed, and she moved toward the two of them, her eyes fixed on Sylvan as she came. There were other bows, other murmurs of introduction. Eric bon Haunser stepped away, leaving Marjorie and the children with Sylvan,
“You say no,” Marjorie prompted him. “No, that riding isn’t worth it, even though you ride?”
“I do,” he said, coloring along his cheekbones, his eyes flicking around the room to see who might be listening, the cords of his throat standing out as though he struggled to speak at all. “To you, madam, and to you, miss and sir, I say it. With the understanding that you will not quote me to any member of my family, or to any other of the bons.” He panted.
“Certainly.” Anthony was still very pale, as he had been since he saw the fox — or foxen, as most of the Grassians called the beast, meaning one or a dozen — but he had regained his poise. “If you wish it. You have our promise.”
“I say it because you may be asked to ride. Invited, as it were. I had thought it impossible until I met your husband. Now I still consider it unlikely, but it could happen. If it does, I caution you, do not accept.” He looked them each in the eye, fully, as though seeking their inmost parts, then bowed again and left them, rubbing his throat as though it hurt him.
“Honestly!” Stella bridled, tossing her head. “Honestly, indeed,” said Marjorie. “I think it would be wise as well as kind not to repeat what he said, Stel.”
“Of all the snubs!”
“Not so intended, I think-”
“Those mounts of theirs may scare you, and they may scare him, but they don’t scare me! I could ride those things. I know I could.” Marjorie’s soul quaked within her, and it was all she could do to keep her voice calm. “I know you could, Stella I could, too. Given sufficient practice, I imagine any of us could. The question is, should we? Should any of us? I think we have one friend in this room, and I think that friend just told us no.”