CHAPTER FORTY-THREE - OUT OF THE COLD
"Tea, or brandy?"
The governor's face was twitching into something resembling a firm, almost paternal smile. The house was dark, save for a flickering little fire that emanated far more heat than it did light. It cast eyes into darkness, save for the tiniest of pinpricks. It deepened every shadow, turned every painting into an anonymous swirl of muted colour, made the ceiling seem cavernous and strange. And yet, it was exactly the sort of fire that Tanner wanted. It was subterranean - it illuminated, but it concealed even more. It made the world a very small, very secluded place. She imagined that these sorts of fires burned often in the mean little houses which supported all those isolated weather balloons amidst the mudlands, where two people stood against unfathomable marches of untameable wilderness. Flames like this made the world a very small place indeed. And smallness meant control. Smallness meant it was easier to understand everything. Tanner could look around, chart the bookcases, the decanters, the chairs, the carpets... and could easily pretend that this was it, the universe born this way, and beyond those doors was nothing but a smooth brick wall, and beyond those windows nothing but black wool.
She smiled, very faintly, kneading her skirt unconsciously.
"I think tea should be a little safer."
"Quite."
The governor moved to the tea-set, laid out by Mr. Canima, of all people. The chambermaid was completely absent. For... fairly obvious reasons. Gods, she hoped the girl was alright. Who was she trying to fool, she was probably weeping somewhere. Orphaned. Gods... all because of her. The governor poured the tea carefully, speaking as he did so.
"And I take it this choice applies to you as well, Ms. Marana?"
"I'd rather the brandy."
A small smile from his craggy, scar-pitted face.
"Woman after my own heart. Mr. Canima...?"
The alarmingly thin leader of the Erlize picked his spider-like way over to the decanter, pouring it with such skill that she didn't hear a single sound. In the corner stood a silent Sersa Bayai, his moustache accompanying his frown, intensifying it to an almost clownish limit. His back was rigid. His shoulders set. His eyes dark. He looked furious, but mostly at himself. The governor didn't ask him what he wanted, simply poured an additional cup of tea for him. Mr. Canima drank nothing. She doubted Mr. Canima even needed to drink at all, assumed he just absorbed moisture and nutrients from the air, like a plant. She stared into the fire dimly, accepting the teacup and saucer with mute placidity. Still kept seeing it. Three mouths. A ragged, toothless one gouged into a stomach. A thin, leering one cut into a throat. And a jagged one, a fang-lined one, cracked into the surface of a skull. She looked a mess. Her skirt was filthy, her hair was in disarray, she was marred by sweat and grime, and her boots were practically sodden with melting snow. Refused to take them off, not until she could... not sure. Maybe when she lost all feeling in her feet. The world still didn't feel quite real. The escalation had been too sudden, the violence too intense. Gone from a lingering unease and mounting suspicions to... this. Three dead in one night. And too many questions remained unanswered.
Where had Tyer been hiding? Why had that stopped being an option? How did she square this insane violence with the conflicting accounts of his character? Why did he go for Mr. Lam specifically?
Why did he say 'please'? Just a desperate man, pleading for a second longer at any cost?
Coward, maybe?
The governor settled down nearby, in a comfortable chair, almost vanishing into the shadows. His face was barely visible. Craggy, scarred, slightly paralysed from his old injuries. It wore its years openly, and his dark eyes were solemn... and tired. So very, very tired. Tanner felt a flush of embarrassment at her indecent state, and at least tried to brush her skirt down, wincing at how many buttons she'd lost. If most of these weren't just decorative... anyway. Seemed silly, to focus on that sort of thing. But somehow, it was all her mind could focus on. When it confronted anything else, it found looming uncertainties, and shied away as quickly as possible. Felt like a gun-shy horse, the sort that would haul artillery for their whole lives, then grow so terrified of the sound that you could only keep them in the countryside, far away from loud noises. Or put them down. Get it over with.
Marana sipped her brandy.
The governor sipped his tea.
"It's ugly business. Take off your shoes, girl, before you get frostbite."
Tanner flinched.
"I-"
"I'm an old soldier, honoured judge, nothing to hide from me. Trust me, decency isn't worth losing your feet for. Get them off, warm yourself. And you look half-starved, got the lean jackal look in you."
Tanner moved automatically, authority settling like a comfortable blanket. Nice to know what was expected, nice to abrogate her own agency, at least in moments like this. Her boots were carefully removed, and she stretched out her stocking-clad feet towards the fire, suppressing a shudder as she did so. Gods, he was right. Her feet had been numb, totally numb, and soaked to the bone... steam rose from the wet wool, and she remained there for a few more moments, feeling warmth slowly enter her system once again. The governor sized her up, eyes flickering to Marana briefly before returning to Tanner.
"Sorry you had to go through that. Terribly sorry."
"...I'm still... figuring it all out. Why it happened."
"Violence can be inexplicable. A man can go his entire life as a harmless little nobody, and snap in a moment. No-one knows all the drama that happens behind someone's eyes. The right stress, the right defect... most of us just don't like to confront the fact that if we were pushed, ordered, motivated... there's very little we're not capable of. Herxiel. Heard of that place?"
Tanner mutely nodded.
"In Herxiel, apparently, they think the soul is like a machine, and a machine is like the soul. The more a machine runs, the more black matter appears in the gears. The more rust. The more stress. The more strain. Sometimes, you turn on the machine and it just won't run any more. Sometimes, the machine breaks down, metal splits, cogs fly off, things overheat... sometimes it just slows to a crawl, and it'll never be what it once was. Some machines degrade slower than others. Some faster. But they're all degrading. Sometimes you can even encourage them. Don't maintain them, sabotage them, and the process accelerates. But it can't be reversed. Sin, in Herxiel, isn't something you choose, it's something you get worn down into accepting. Humans aren't born sinful. But they'll become that way, soon enough."
A small, grim smile. Mr. Canima was staring at the crowd, hands behind his back, sharp contours of his skull thrown into sharp relief by the firelight. The governor continued.
"Grim thought. But sometimes, people just... snap. I heard you were interviewing an old lover of his."
Tanner hummed.
"That's right."
Still didn't know her name. The governor stirred some sugar into his tea, his voice starting up again.
"A relationship that broke down. Moving job, maybe to keep an eye on her. Finding himself with a job he despises, a broken relationship, constant reminders of the woman he might still love... he gets drunk, he makes a mistake, he doubles down on the mistake. Imagine a man, emotional, isolated, stuck in some miserable damp cellar in the middle of nowhere, knowing that people are out there to bring him in, and even if he gets out, it won't be the same. No-one will see him the same. Maybe something like this happened once before, in another colony. We'll check his records, hinterland colonies can always be spotty on these things... come spring, we might find out he was a dangerous, unstable man underneath it all. He leaves his hiding place. Maybe he doesn't even know what he wants, maybe he just wants things to end. Goes to his old home, sees the man who helped get him hunted in the first place, drove him off from his target... maybe he panics and kills that soldier, too much tension. Has to commit, because the other man's going to go for him with a knife too. Then he runs."
His voice was a gravelly, grinding thing. Had a low rhythm to it, the kind of stately ramble that came out of some old veterans. Too disciplined to really ramble... but older, wearier, full of thoughts and aware of how little time there was for them all to escape.
Tanner almost broke her cup, she was gripping so hard. Restrained herself... but she knew what it felt like, to let go. To run as quickly as she could, smash through obstacles with ease, soak up damage and think nothing of it, swing a truncheon hard enough to smash a sturdy lock... aware that Lyur had taken three swings to crack Tyer's skull, and it would've taken Tanner less to do more. Her skin felt itchy. Too much dried sweat. Her hair was dancing with little pinpricks, and... she focused on the tea. On being polite.
"I... think there's more to it."
The governor gestured for her to go on.
"His... ex-lover said that she had no negative impressions of him. Their relationship apparently broke down due to distance. They were always assigned to different shifts, kept apart... she was assigned to work in the cold-houses, and after that, I think they just drifted apart. Remained on good terms, though. She was genuinely distraught by him disappearing."
She glanced at Marana. Aware she could bring up what she'd found from that man she'd... had relations with. Fyeln. But... no, no. Marana said nothing, but was clearly aware of the implication. Tanner soldiered on.
"And... in general, this account clashes with what others said. I mean, others, especially in the cold-house, said that he was silent, lonesome, even ranted violently on some issues, but... well, none of that appears when interviewing her. And none of them mentioned his relationship with her, either. And... and it was... definitely convenient. I mean, not to sound callous, but... he emerged from hiding right as we were finishing up interviewing his ex-lover, finding information that cast doubt on a few things. We were told about this by a bouncer. And then he was intercepted by a bouncer and killed on sight."
The governor turned slightly to look at Mr. Canima, who spoke in his strange, cold voice, flesh turned waxy by the firelight.
"The door guards are our men. Vetted specifically."
"I know, I know... I'm not sure. They're all hunches. Unprofessional, I know. Very unprofessional."
The governor stared at her for a long few moments, and Tanner sipped her tea nervously, trying to soldier through before she... well. She was holding together because she was meant to hold together, because it wouldn't be right to break down in front of the governor. Would be shameful conduct, unbefitting of a judge. As their sole representative, she had to keep up appearances. Even if she felt sick. Even if her eyes kept locking onto random points, where they could remain unblinking for minutes at a time before she felt the urge to shift. Fake it till she made it. Only option. Couldn't break down. Focus on the snarling hunger in her stomach, the yearning for something solid and nutritious. Focus on it. Use it to sharpen her thoughts. Stop thinking about the three mouths. The crack of splintering bone. The smell of an opened stomach, a gouged throat. The pale places where the soldier had kicked at the boards during his death throes. Like he was trying to run away from his own wound.
"I'd... like to pursue this. If possible. I'd like to see if any of these hunches mean anything. If they don't, then this is... just as you say. Someone snapping. I'll write up the appropriate judgement with all my findings, hunches excluded. But..."
The governor raised a hand, silencing her.
"How peaceful do you think this colony is?"
"Until tonight, I thought it was... very peaceful. Placid."
Marana nodded in agreement.
"One of the most peaceful colonies I've ever seen. Almost too peaceful, but I think that's more of a... personal failing. Again. Until tonight."
The governor's smile was humourless.
"It wasn't always like this. Not that we were ever dealing with riots, but we've dealt with our fair share of crimes, and... intimidation. Murder is treated seriously, and is often avoided - what's more common is systematised exclusion. When I first became governor, these issues were far more substantial. Neighbourhoods were plagued by small in-groups doing their best to remove anyone who wasn't part of their particular sect, usually based on old shantytown affiliations. Quasi-gangs. People would be intimidated into asking for a ticket back home, sometimes ruining themselves in the process. People would move house without informing us, scared into leaving a street to these small groups, to fill with their own supporters. Violence, when it broke out, was sudden and intense."
He leaned forwards.
"When I arrived, the colony was a tinderbox. The shantytown in Fidelizh is a cramped, stinking, sweltering pit, and the strongest bonds are family. Their cities are gone. Their priesthoods are dead. What they have is family. And a dog-eat-dog approach to the world. Have you noticed such... family associations, since you've arrived?"
Tanner shook her head.
"Exactly. We've worked to break this down. Neighbourhood distribution. The door guards. Regulated inns. Abundant overseers. Quotas of who gets brought in, and where they're settled. We're growing slower than we're truly capable of, simply to make sure we're breaking down the poisonous divisions which make the shantytown impossible to police. The colony is safer. It is more regulated. People live, work, eat, drink in company with people who they wouldn't be seen dead with less than a few decades ago. It took crackdowns, infiltrations, and a healthy number of exiles back home, but we've brought this place back under control. I respect your right to judge. I respect your commitment to this case."
Tanner felt her stomach sink... and her temper rise, barely held back by weariness and decorum.
"I respect this. And I ask that you respect my right to investigate this myself. My colleagues and I have contacts, resources, pre-established systems. Allow us to investigate further - thank you for the insight, of course. We'll be following up on all of this, three deaths in one night is the worst scene of violence we've seen in quite some time, and I have no intention of letting it be repeated, or for those implicated to go unpunished."
Marana looked at Tanner. Tanner looked at Marana. Marana's cynicism had infected Tanner, just a little. And she lacked her golden pince-nez, lacked the physical mnemonic for delusional optimism. And after tonight... after tonight, she just couldn't bring herself to do it. To delude herself so completely. Not when... not when she could still smell blood in her nose. The stink of human meat. He'd investigate, maybe. But would anything happen? Maybe some scapegoat. Someone willing to get exiled back home with a nice pension packet waiting for them. The bouncers were his men. The overseers were his men. The cold-houses were integral to the colony. If the choice came between publicly shaming the people who'd been involved in this, and quietly moving things around while throwing a scapegoat to the mob... Tanner knew what he'd choose. Maybe she was being too cynical. But she really couldn't bring herself to oppose her own arguments.
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"...with all due respect, governor, then what am I doing here?"
Muted horror rose in her mind at the sound of her own voice. Rude. Rude. Impossibly rude. Disrespectful. Shameful. The governor hummed, showing no offence. Still. Still.
"Because you did your best. That's all I could ask for. Get back to work. Write up as much of your judgement as you like. Stay silent on this conversation."
He smiled faintly.
"You're young. And deucedly unlucky. In a good world, you'd have waited out the winter with the rest of us. As things are... I assure you, I'll tell your superiors that you did an exemplary job with the resources at hand, that I commend you for your efforts, and your dedication. But there are wheels within wheels here, honoured judge. And I'd respect it if you left the running of those wheels to those who set them in motion to begin with. Hang back. If we need you, we'll call you. Go home. Rest yourself. Have some dinner."
Tanner felt a familiar anger burning in her chest. Patronised. Told to piss off. To go and sit in her house, and wallow in her own failure. Keep her at a distance, sure. It wasn't that she uniquely disliked the governor, she didn't dislike him very much at all, but she... she felt useless. She felt weak. She felt small. His way of operating undermined how judges were meant to operate, and it... it was humiliating. As a judge, she knew what she ought to do. But then the governor had his own priorities, his own ways, and... and when the two clashed, she felt beyond embarrassed. Here was the supreme arbitrator of the colony, and he was acting in a way that judges shouldn't, and... she found herself wondering what she was meant to do. Act like a judge, and get driven aside as an obstacle to proper governance? Act like a judge, and get sent packing with her tail between her legs, even her more orthodox colleagues saying she should've been more discrete, more flexible, less... woefully dogmatic? Or defy what she'd spent eight years learning to do, defy eight years of contented habit and belief, defy everything Sister Halima taught her, and stay around as a... a patsy.
Or was she being a patsy. Was she just some snot-nosed brat, barely a practising judge for a single year, still wet behind the ears, thrust into a situation she had no understanding of, no control over, and the best she could do was wait for the grown-ups to come?
And was she just being a self-pitying wretch when she thought that? A child had lost her father tonight. That soldier had probably had a family, too, back in Fidelizh. All of that, wiped away in seconds. Tanner thought back to her own father, and... gods. Sinking in. The universe didn't revolve around her, had to place the others there instead, think about them. Stiffen her back, stiffen her upper lip, stop staring mindlessly into the fire. Her dress was a wreck. She'd acted like a brute. The governor was being reasonable, she knew nothing, and had accomplished nothing. Well, neither had he, to be fair. But it'd been her job. Her responsibility. Sister Halima would be frowning at her if she knew what was going on. Her mother would be disappointed. Her lodge would be offended. The god on her back was gone, detached, forsaking her for someone else, for someone better able to satisfy his demands, his expectations. Three people were dead. The least she could do was stop messing things up.
"I understand, sir."
The governor smiled faintly, his face turning the expression slightly clownish as parts of his mouth pulled unevenly.
"It's harsh. I understand. And I hope you never get used to the sight of violence like that. Some crimes... it's hard to take their measure, accept that these things happen, and that the people around you form part of the same species. Almost makes you prefer the Great War, in a way. Brutal as that thing was, at least... there was no feeling behind any of it. It was extermination. Us or them. Now... well."
Tanner spoke up, her voice quiet.
"How's the chambermaid? Yan-Lam?"
The governor's expression darkened.
"She's been told that her father has had a very severe accident. She knows he's dead. I'll explain the rest to her when the time comes. Bearing up with it as well as she can."
Tanner blinked in surprise, and the governor shot her a stern look.
"Lam came out to this colony, to this frozen wasteland, to make a second start for himself and his child. I've failed to deliver a second start for him. Just a final end. At the very least, his daughter can have some of the success I failed to deliver to her father. I try to keep an eye on my civilians, I try to make sure to know as many of them as I can. I compared being governor to being a headmaster - and a decent headmaster knows his students. She'll be part of my household staff, and I'll look into the possibilities of adoption, perhaps transport back home, certainly I have no intention of leaving her out in the dark. Very dependent on how she finds herself oriented in the next few months."
Tanner stared at him for a moment.
Her gaze dropped.
"I... lost my father at a young age, too. If possible, I would quite like to speak to her."
The governor's eyes narrowed.
"Don't treat this as a chance to self-flagellate, honoured judge. The last thing that girl needs is an adult using her for emotional gratification."
Tanner paled.
"No, no, I honestly... I failed, I couldn't catch him in time, it was my responsibility. I don't want her to think that I was blameless. I want her to know that if she wants someone to blame for what happened, there's Tyer, and there's me."
The governor was silent for a long moment.
"I'll ask her. At a later date. The girl's been through enough, let her sleep."
"Yes, sir."
His gaze softened.
"But I will ask. I promise that much."
"Thank you, sir."
For a time, there was only the sound of the softly crackling fire, and the occasional sip of tea or brandy. Tanner could see what the governor meant by wheels within wheels. All around her were books with unmarked spines, worn from constant use. Ledgers, perhaps. Detailed logbooks of strategy, persons of interest, accounts, contacts back home, histories and endless strings of numbers rational only to someone who could see the full pattern. How much planning had gone into this colony? How driven was the governor to not become the mirror-image of Marana's father? What had Mr. Canima been doing during this whole exercise? Idly, she wondered where the dead bodies were being kept. Wouldn't need to worry about rot, not in this cold. Bury the dead, and they'd only start to decay when the spring thaw came. She had a sudden image. A strange one, but it stuck with her. They were in a colossal wasteland. Farmlands burned to a husk by invading armies, contaminated beyond recognition. A map on which was played out the drama of intelligent, swift mutants, a cold, silent war. And here in the colony, much was the same - silent struggles for dominance, for long-term control, for stability. Only in spring would the bodies of this war rot. The slaughters of winter would only have consequences in spring. She imagined this... silent war the governor had waged against and within the colony. Imagined the bodies that must've been made. Those too dangerous or criminal for exile or imprisonment. Imagined how in the snowstorms, no-one could hear people die. How many people had heard tonight's affairs? Lam and the soldier, dead in silence. Tyer, dead with only a murmured 'please'. Their chase was in silence. The snow would eat their sound, would blind eyewitnesses.
The colony might only know three disappearances.
And when spring came, and they wandered in the outskirts of the colony, ready to fish, and farm, and tend to the natural processes of life amidst all the new growth...
Only then would they smell sweet, sweet fumes rising from the ground, like the pungent gases which emerged around volcanoes. See little maggots and larvae pushing out of the soil, newborns blinking blindly in the sun.
And by that time, it would already be over. The deed done. The victims forgotten. The criminals escaped or punished.
No wonder the Great War had started up here. This was a land which existed as a series of disconnected dreams for half a year, and for the other half, let people wake up to the consequences of their fantasies, to the collective narrative they'd formed. Bodies rotting under spring soil. Exiles vanished into the blizzard. Mutants grown in the dark months, honing themselves amidst the ice.
She shivered.
And sipped her tea.
* * *
Marana was silent on the walk back, and Tanner was much the same. Glad for the blizzard, which pushed them back a little for each step they made, and drowned all sound. Kept people from seeing her in her dishevelled state, too. Her mind wasn't quite set on the judgements she'd have to write... didn't have proofs, didn't have proper witnesses. She could form conjecture. He ran from the scene, he had the murder weapon, he had motive. That bouncer, Lyur, would probably be able to say something about his clearly threatening stance, ignoring the mutter of 'please'. Gods, she couldn't put the sight of his dark, heartless eyes out of her head. He'd just... seen a man, and bludgeoned him to death like he was battering a fresh-caught fish. Smacking it against a rock until it stopped wriggling. She could maybe, maybe frame the murder in the house as a panicked response to a sudden confrontation with a soldier at close-range, maybe. But that... that was just an execution, plain and simple. Didn't matter, really, what most of her judgement said. If she assumed guilt, which she had every reason to do, then the punishment was irrelevant. He was dead. Couldn't kill him again.
...a tiny part of her murmured something, though.
Did Lyur really feel threatened? Why had he been there? How had he known? He'd been pretty damn prepared to fight for someone who presumably stumbled onto the scene at random, unless... the bouncers were the governor's men. Maybe Mr. Canima had identified things, and moved an agent to intercept as quickly as possible. But if this was some... random civilian taking deadly force into his own hands, without being properly provoked...
There were laws against vigilante justice, and laws against disproportionate response. Principle was simple - until the Golden Law was perfected, justice was carried out by trained specialists. Vigilantes violated that. Fidelizh would dislike it because it meant violating their monopoly on force, and so on. The judges disliked it because it was unprofessional and amateurish. Like being a doctor, seeing someone offering miracle cures in the form of pickled salamanders. In an ideal world, with the Golden Law refined to its final state, everyone would be a vigilante. But the world wasn't ideal. Until it was, vigilantes were untrained, unlicensed, and embarrassing to the profession.
...she was just going over facts to keep herself calm.
Her house loomed.
Her stomach rumbled.
But she didn't feel much like eating. Not yet. She liked eating when the hard part of the day was done, but... didn't feel like things were really over, not really. She unlocked the door, stepped inside in silence... Marana stumbled behind her, rubbing her hands for warmth, heading immediately to a... cold, dead stove.
Tanner froze.
Tom-Tom wasn't here. Where... had she just gone home, then? Told that the danger was over, the man was dead, head home and sleep in her own... no. No, she was asleep in a chair. Snoring gently. Stove had gone out on its own. Tanner considered just going to bed, but... definitely couldn't sleep. With a grunt, she started filling the thing up again, setting little bundles of kindling down to get the blaze going. Marana watched in silence, eyes ambiguous. A few minutes, and a little orange glow started to fill the room. Snapping the grate shut, and the glow was sliced up into long, thin bars, like the bars of a prison cell. Glowing and warming.
"Doesn't really get easier."
Tanner didn't even turn in Marana's direction. Knew she was angling for a bottle of something.
"I've heard that before, yes."
"...who am I trying to fool. I'm lying."
Tanner glanced.
"Excuse me?"
Marana smiled sadly.
"It gets easier. It gets easier, and quickly. It's... equilibrium, if you feel like giving it a name. Homeostasis. The human mind cannot exist under conditions of chaos and unreason. Not really. And we can divide up good and evil, right and wrong, but really the only categories that exist are 'what we're used to' and 'what we're not used to'. You get used to it. The violence. It just becomes part of the background noise. When I arrived in Krodaw, I was... terrified of the slaughter, the artillery fire, all of it. Within a few months, I was sleeping like a baby even during those strikes. People would die, and they'd slip out of my mind a second later. I heard my father saying to one of his commanders that... yes, they ought to start executing Sleepless. But there were ammunition shortages. One bullet, one kill. Conserve ammunition for the actual war. Then he buttered a muffin, and finished his breakfast."
Tanner stared.
"You realise how quickly we can adjust. And once you realise that, you become very afraid of what you could get used to, in time."
"Stop talking, please."
Marana blinked.
"Oh?"
"Stop. I don't want to hear... that. I want to sit in silence and wait for the sun to come up. Nothing else."
"Don't want to hear bad, half-assembled philosophy?"
"Of course I don't. It's miserable. And I've never enjoyed it. Now, if you'd like to join me, feel free. But I'm just going to stare into this stove for a little while."
She sat. And she did. Happily. Regretted being so blunt. Really did. Marana watched her with large, sad eyes... then pulled up another chair and joined her. Poured a little wine for the two of them. It was bad. The cold hadn't treated it well. The cups were ceramic, and to Tanner's knowledge wine was best served by glass. Some of her more pretentious colleagues said that, at least, when Tanner noted that she preferred ceramic to glass with her serving vessels. Harder to break, though she hadn't noted that out loud. Odd, to think back to the inner temple. With her little room, and her little routines, and her meditative amble through the passage of time... the scriveners which smelled of ink and new paper, the pie shops she patronised because they reminded her of Eygi, the news room with the articles she skimmed day after day, the countless little comforts. The blue-lit walls with their randomly placed carvings of judges at work. The ashen hallway where all old grudges were stored, all failed cases. The pit where the dead had been deposited when the judges had the right to execute criminals. The beautiful, key-laden room where the Lord of Appeal had sat, swaddled in his robes.
She missed it.
Marana had a hand on her leg. Squeezed it.
"Tell me about eels."
Tanner blinked slowly.
"...really."
"Go on. Talk about them. Tell me everything there is to know about... cultural understandings of eels. Whichever region you like."
"I'm fine."
"You're not. Nor am I. But the two of us are going to drink a little wine together, but not too much. We're going to sit in front of the stove while that lady snores away over there. And we're going, my sweet little chickadee, to have a little talk about eels. Because for the last few days, you've been grim-faced, dark-eyed, and I get the feeling that your thoughts trend towards the bleak. I don't think you've had a spot of enjoyment for some time. Maybe not even since you arrived here."
"...not tonight. Not tonight."
"Then how about you tell me about your job as a gutter of fish?"
Made her think of her father. And she wasn't... thinking of her father tonight. She shook her head, and took a sip of her wine. Didn't make her feel anything. A little sip of the stuff did nothing to her, she needed citrinitas for a kick.
"I'm really alright. I'd like to just sit in silence. Wait for sunrise. Or until I fall asleep."
"Tanner... alright. Here's a little anecdote. From Krodaw. And it's not... especially grim. Not especially. Once upon a time, I was in Krodaw, and I was at a dinner party with my parents. And who should walk in, but a familiar young lady with a tattoo on her forehead, a young lady I'm sure you'd recognise."
Tanner's attention sharpened. Carza vo Anka? Her patron?
Gods, she should write her a letter.
"And this young lady was frightened. Nervous, in the way you rarely see so openly. Terrified of me, terrified of the artillery, terrified of Krodaw, terrified of the heat. And, indeed, what lay ahead. But she had a friend at her side, and delightful country bumpkin that she was, she had some enjoyment. She talked with him, and occasionally with me, and responded to questions in an interesting fashion. And that night, she left the party... and one of her companions died in a bar fight. One of her employees. She took it personally. The next day, I went to visit her, to offer her a little cocaine, as one does, and I found this prim and proper lady, who'd been in a tweed suit in the dreary height of summer, in pantalettes and a chemise, sitting on the floor, staring dead ahead. Like you are, now."
Tanner blinked.
"Oh."
"Quite. Oh. Dead, fish-eyes. Absolutely wrecked. No part of her was emotionally prepared for Krodaw. And I offered her cocaine, I said it would help her, because of course I did, I was a toad back then, really was... and she slapped me in the face. For a moment, there was some fire in her eyes again. Something real. And politely, she asked me to leave."
Marana shuffled closer.
"She was sane. She turned down cocaine. She felt awful at the deaths of an employee. She was unnerved by what happened around her. She was the sanest person in that room, and the most scantily clad. I was... honestly impressed. Made me realise how mad I'd become over time."
Her hand shifted, and she gripped Tanner's hand tightly.
"Do you want to know how you stay intact, in conditions like this, with cases like these? In my experience, and I've never followed my own advice well, you put your foot down, you steel yourself, stiffen your back, lace up your corset, rouge your cheeks, scrub your tongue, and say: bog off. I know I'm sane. I know you're not. And by gum, things will stay that way."
Her eyes were practically glowing with intensity.
"So. You're going to ignore the snowstorm. You're going to put that business out of your mind. And you will sit here. And you will talk to me about eels. Because Tanner Magg, a sane young lady who saw my odious surrealist friends as a bunch of insufferable prats, and treats me with the precise scepticism I deserve, and so on and so forth, likes eels. And maybe that eel-love is a product of sanity, maybe sanity is tied up with eels, maybe even human has an eel of their own, buried somewhere around the base of the spine. But you are sane, you like eels, you talk about eels, and right now, you're not. You're turning down the chance. You're being dismissive. And to me, that means this place is getting to you, like Krodaw got to me. So you sip that wine, you look into that fire, you get out of those stinking clothes, and you, honoured judge and fine figure of a woman, tell me about the cultural characteristics of eels."
Tanner blinked rapidly.
Sipped her wine deeply. Marana hummed, clicked her tongue, stood, and unbuttoned the top of her dress. Tanner immediately looked away-
"My dress is filthy and soaked. I'm not sitting around in it a moment longer. Join me if you like, I'm being warm and comfortable."
Tanner's flush rose for a moment.
Her skirt was filthy. Her blouse wasn't much better. Dried sweat everywhere, melted ice, missing buttons, mussed hair, stained face, sore eyes...
She paused.
...now was a night for madness.
And a moment later, she was sitting in her thick wool chemise, her thick woollen stockings, and her dress was bundled up in a corner where it could be burned at a later date. A little speckling of detached pearl buttons lay scattered around the floor, flashing gold in the firelight. Her hair was down, tumbling messily to the small of her back. Marana was much the same, but infinitely more graceful. Tanner took a deep breath. Steadied herself.
"...well, eels have a number of cultural connotations. In Mahar Jovan, eels are fairly common, but they were peasant food for a long time, not really... well-regarded. Mahar never developed much of a taste for them. Fidelizh doesn't get many eels, on account of us stealing them all, so Mahar's nobility never learned to like them much. But Jovan... Jovan had some fondnesses, especially after Mahar was founded. It became a point of division. Freaks from Mahar didn't like eels, which were a good honest Jovanite food. You're familiar?"
"I'm familiar with eels being peasant food. But I'm Mahar. Jovan never quite took to me."
Tanner could be banished from her lodge for talking about this stuff. But sod it. She was in her undergarments, she had truncheon-wood under her fingernails, she had wine, she was doing this. Sod it.
"Don't repeat this to others. So... some lodges have them as focuses. Eels feature in some mystery plays. Lots of stories about the bad old days of the world, when things were more untamed. It's said that in those days, eels were smarter, could speak the languages of humans. And a tribe which lived in Jovan before, well, Jovan happened swore loyalty to the Eel-Oracles. Devoured them by the hundred, until their stomachs swelled up, until the stomachs burst and the eels spilled out to fill every hollow space in their bodies, squirming all around their bones and replacing their muscles, then up to their brains. And when their mouths opened, there was nothing but row after row of lamprey teeth. And with the water-hive in their bodies, the Eel-Oracles could tell the future, read the past, understand the present and everyone in it all at once. But the eels didn't like this. It was imprisonment for them. Hateful imprisonment. So when Jovan came, one of our great heroes - and I can't tell you his or her name, I really can't, it's forbidden - cut them open from navel to throat with his or her hook, and let the bodies spill out. And the eels agreed to give us tithe, in exchange for freedom. The eels would send some of their young on sacred pilgrimage to us, to our nets and our weirs. And to eat them would enhance our knowledge, but only when done correctly, in the right rituals. And when this great hero grew old and grey, he or she dove into the river, and swam upstream, to hunt for where the eels had gone on their great journey, where all eels eventually return."
The lodge said the story meant a very narrow range of things. It meant that Jovan was special. That Jovan was mighty. That Jovan knew how to conquer, while Mahar didn't - Jovan liberated the enslaved, and allowed them to go free once they provided suitable tribute. Invest now, and obtain great dividends later. And respect eels. She'd liked the last part. But these meanings were highly secret. Some knew the contents of the plays, but the meaning... the meaning was for the lodge alone. If she revealed that, her candle would flicker out, and witchcraft would gather around to menace her.
"...but the thing is, the Eel-Oracles, might've existed, at some point. I mean, there's... well, there was an excavation, I read about it a while ago, where they found a sanctuary out in the hinterlands. And... well, they loved feasting. Huge middens of shellfish, fish bones, big racks of meat... and a little hidden grotto where there was a body. Clearly... a bit of a glutton. Ate a huge amount, and just sprawled. Seemed to be basically immobile towards the end of his life. And it seems like... at some point, there was a people who did this sort of thing. Ate a huge amount, and used it as a kind of trance. And I thought... well, I hear about ecstatic things, and your surrealist friends did all of that, but really, that's just this, but for skinny people. I mean, if you eat a huge amount, particularly of good food, and sprawl around in a grotto, you're... definitely not in a normal state of mind. Most people have intelligent thoughts after a nice, rich dinner, not when they're hungry and angry. So... why not take that to its logical conclusion?"
She clicked her mouth shut. Afraid of rambling. Marana was watching her through half-lidded eyes, one leg crossed over the other.
"Do your lodges do pilgrimages to the ocean? To emulate this hero? Find out where the eels went?"
Tanner paused.
And leaned forwards.
"Well, you see..."