Hellspark by Janet Kagan Read Free Book Online Page A

cooking fires. She strode to join them.
    “Well?” she demanded of Geremy.
    “She’s fine,” he responded, “aside from a case of Cana’s disease: that leaves her—”
    “Slightly tipsy at the worst possible times; I saw. Though in this crowd nobody will notice.”
    Tocohl pointed, “Pass the flagon and we’ll all catch up.”
    The woman holding the flagon offered it with a smile.
    She was old, thought Tocohl, with admiration. She had a face worn into comfortableness, seamed and tanned; her hair was fine and white. There was a mischievous look about her brilliant blue eyes to which Tocohl took an immediate liking. She smiled back and accepted the flagon, to find the woman had exceptional taste in dOrnano wine as well.
    Alfvaen lifted her hands in the Siveyn formal gesture, fringe trickling from her arms, and said with affection, “Tocohl, this is Judge Darragh Nevelen.—Judge, this is Susumo Tocohl, the woman I was telling you about.”
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    (Geremy,) Tocohl said, for Maggy alone. Her glance swept from Geremy to Darragh and back again. (Alfvaen had nothing to do with those charges. It was Geremy
    ! I’m going to have him for breakfast—)
    Maggy interjected, (Cannibalism—)
    (Right after I’m done with the judge here,) Tocohl went on, overriding Maggy’s attempt to warn her of the illegalities of cannibalism.
    “Your pardon, Alfvaen,” said Tocohl aloud. “Do you understand the language of Dusty Sunday?”
    “No,” said Alfvaen, and Tocohl continued, “May I speak it in your presence without giving offense?”
    Puzzled, Alfvaen nevertheless granted her permission, and Tocohl shifted her stance to the language.
    So did Nevelen Darragh—the woman was good, thought Tocohl.
    Judge Darragh slid her spectacles into her hair. Tocohl did not follow suit. On Dusty Sunday, wearing one’s spectacles in conversation was a deliberate insult. It said plainly that one would rather be listening to someone else, watching someone else. Nevelen Darragh flushed a vivid scarlet.
    When the red had reached the very tips of Darragh’s ears, Tocohl added coolly, “Madame, I expect an explanation; I do not, of course, expect it to be adequate.”
    Nevelen Darragh stared hard at Tocohl for a long moment—then, with a burst of laughter, she bowed her appreciation.
    Geremy said, “I told you she was good, Nevelen.”
    “The incident on Solomon’s Seal told me that, Geremy. But she’s better than you know.”
    Judge
    Darragh laughed again. “You haven’t been on Dusty Sunday recently, I take it?”
    “Not for ten years,” Geremy said mournfully.
    “Then I’d better tell you that what your friend just did was the exact emotional equivalent of
    ‘In
    Veschke’s honor’. She smiled again at Tocohl: “I’m pleased to hear there are no hard feelings.”
    Glancing sidelong with mock menace, Tocohl said, “I haven’t had my shot at Geremy yet.” She took a long pull from the flagon of wine and contemplated him, measuring him until he squirmed with discomfort. “Perhaps some other time,” she said at last, “when he’s least expecting it.”
    More woeful of face than ever, Geremy said, “I’m sorry, Tocohl. Maggy wasn’t letting anybody through to you. I was the one who suggested that a judgment might override her orders.”
    “I’ll bet you told her it was business,” said Tocohl dryly.
    Geremy looked abashed. “I didn’t talk to her; Garbo did. And you’re right, the message said business.”
    “If you’d put your money into your equipment, instead of on your back”—Tocohl’s finger traced the path of the sparks briefly along his arm—“your computer wouldn’t be so damn dumb and it’d do more than deliver messages verbatim.”
    She raised the flagon again, then passed it to Geremy, who hesitated before taking it.
    “Oh, Geremy… In Veschke’s honor, then.” At that his eyes brightened within his sad-clown features, and he accepted the wine to drink deeply his relief. “All right,”