brand new colony

When he signs off it's well past midnight, and even in Til Tomeil it's gotten late. Medraut goes to bed, for what sleep he can manage, and in the morning sends word to Galman that he's going to be late today. Then he takes a deep breath, and sits down with the comm. It's going to be a long day.

It takes the better part of the day to get things sorted -- the physician takes care of Aloth's body, following Anna's specifications, and Anna reads through Aloth's will and instructions. She steers clear of Marguel, though she does take part of the afternoon to sit with Clarissant (who seems as unfazed as ever). Eventually,late in the afternoon, she gets a few minutes to herself and although it's getting late in Bredigan she doesn't want to put this off any longer. She puts the call through to Medraut.

It's almost sunset when they finally find themselves on their own front porch, overnight bags over their shoulders; neither of them has a vast store of personal effects, and most of their clothing and their scant furniture was sent on ahead; less replaceable things are still in secure storage in the capital. The house itself is mud-brick and timber, like most of the town. Off to the side is the promised outbuilding, constructed of ugly corrugated sheeting.

Eluned draws a long breath, glancing up at her husband with what might be mistaken for a disapproving look. "I'd say you ought to carry me over the threshold, but I dunno as I trust the floor that far."

All their lives, Ector has made it Cai's business to look after his foster brother. Athyr is young and reckless, with the unfortunate combination of nearly overwhelming charisma but no substantial ideas of his own; it's easy to persuade him to take idiotic risks, and he often does. Ector has spent a fortune on his education -- not that it would have happened without the considerable gifts the old man brings every year for Athyr's birthday -- but still, it's a lot more money than he's ever spent on Cai in any capacity. Athyr is gently spoiled, has private tutors for reading and writing and mathematics, was taught by celebrated instructors in the fields of riding, shooting, and hand-to-hand combat. He's Ector's prize; the better he turns out, the more money the old man brings.

Then, in the midst of the war that's been going on already for a year, the old man turns up again. It's a few days before Athyr's fifteenth birthday, and the winter is as cold as winters on New Britain ever get, more of a depressing temperate rain than anything else. The whole frontier is mud. The old man takes Athyr up to his room and talks to him with the door closed for three full hours.

When they finally emerge, Athyr's face is flushed with excitement. He's holding a pistol -- an old-fashioned make, with silver filigree and a monogramme, V.L. -- and wearing a gunbelt around his slim hips, looking younger than usual because the belt was made for a bigger, heavier man. Ector tries to catch him and talk to him, but Athyr slips past, leaving him with the old man, and heads straight out to the stable where Cai usually spends his spare time.

He rounds the door eagerly, loading a clip into the pistol as he does, in direct defiance of every gun safety rule ever. "Xiongdi!"

By the fourth evening Medraut has seen to everything that particularly needed his attention, thanks to the day saved by his doubts of Saigremort's fortitude. He comes back to the room late, and with something in his manner that, if it can't be termed bravado, is at least a close relative. "Hey."

Gadriet has only been married for six months, and in those six months he has very carefully avoided telling his wife anything about his past--the other boys from Manassah are much more talkative, and if she has questions Gahareth or Geffreyn are quick to answer them, shoving their way eagerly into conversations. And as long as they avoid the subject, things are all right. The wallpaper, a desperate and expensive bid to shut the walls up by smothering them to death, is already starting to fade with the dusty winds that manage to work their way through every house and street in Bredigan. He doesn't mind that the pattern is slowly disappearing.

He works in and out of the clinic all day, mostly house calls but a decent amount of time preparing vaccines, preventatives, and treatments from his small stock of animal medicine. In the evenings he helps Eluned close up the pharmacy, then helps again while she makes dinner. If the walls start screaming at him, as they do sometimes, he turns amorous, coaxing her to bed to drown out the noise.

This afternoon he finishes his work in the clinic earlier than usual--there were a few cows calving, but all the births went smoothly, more smoothly than he expected, and now he's home already. It feels like he's been walking through high-gravity atmo all day, pulling at his feet and keeping his steps heavy; he looks down at himself and realises his labcoat is covered in dried blood and amniotics. He takes it off.

You like that blood, don't you? You wish it was her blood. You'd like to kill her--in that coat. You like to kill her and see her blood all over the ground. Remember when she was watching you? She's still watching you. She stands by your bed at night. You touch your wife with the same hands that want to kill her. You want more blood.

It's slightly different from usual, but it's still the litany. The walls are stirred up over something, more insistent. Gadriet sighs and uncaps the white plastic bottle in his pocket, and takes a long cold drink of the iso. It burns his nose and mouth, but it gets him drunk and high at the same time, and if he doesn't take too much then it won't kill him, won't kill him yet. He pulls the chair out from the prep table and sits down, takes another drink. Too much, probably. Time is passing. The blood on his labcoat is full of microscopic bacteria that could enter his system and kill him, or go to war with the whispers under his skin. Another drink. The walls are starting to slur and deaden.

He's not sure what time it is. He'll have to go help Eluned soon. He always helps her close up. If he doesn't come she'll wonder why. More time. He drinks again. He should do something to get rid of the smell--if she smells it on his breath she'll ask questions. He can't answer her questions. He can't explain about the walls (which, thank God, have dulled to a background static that doesn't form coherent words, no more disapproving mutters of filthy you're filthy filthy). But if he doesn't go in now she'll wonder what's keeping him.

Gadriet takes one last drink and pushes himself to his feet--his legs aren't working properly--and makes it as far as the connecting door between the clinic and the house before he falls, catching himself on the doorframe. He needs to open that door. Somewhere in the back of his mind he thinks: Eluned would have to be bái chī not to notice something's wrong with you, you bastard.

But she's not. She's perfect. He leans in the doorway, shaking.

At eight o'clock Eluned locks up: first the cupboards and cases at the back of the shop, then the door to the street and the connecting door between the pharmacy and the office at the back. Last she turns on the alarm that will wake her (if not her husband) in case of a break-in, and heads upstairs.

They used to close up together, but over time Gadriet's hours have grown less reliable, along with his state of mind. She's not expecting much tonight.