66 - He's Not Making Sense

I’m tired. This whole life I’ve balanced the good of the Empire on the point of a pin. On the point of my head, I’d say. I’m tired. I’ve seen my sons go down and my daughters, all to the service of Empire. And my grandsons and little tiny baby girls born dead. Scraps of flesh. Scraps of my heart.

Ripped off and flung out and instead of whirring away to make new colonies, they’ve fallen, been eaten... burned by too much Light or swallowed by too much Dark.  I have just now won the ability to have a truly literate society.  Just now.  I must live to see it through.  The Great Hive has no heir and the bees will likely recurse to the old protocols.  Whoever has the most of my blood and my line, will likely be acknowledged Radiance.  Who knows what will be made clear to them from the archive mind?  The broken pieces of our history.

The Milari might have a better idea. How can one mind, one heart bear this? Spread it so that old men can die in peace. 

"LEAVE ME ALONE, you EnDarkened fool of a doctor. I’m old. That’s the problem. I merely can’t lie down and rest just yet. I have to find more strength in me, more life in me somehow. I’m not raving. I’m not out of my head. Aren’t old men allowed even poetry without being called mad?"

“He’s not making sense, I’m afraid, my lords. Give him some rest. Give him some time.”

Yes. Time. Time for me to call my black and gold angels, my little sisters. Time for me to pull myself out of Death’s Jaws, avoid the final dividend one more time, fingerwidth by fingerwidth. You jackals. All waiting to pounce on me and rip the Empire between you. You fools! Don’t you know that the people... the people need the water we’ve won so hard by conquest and agreement? We need the fibres and the programs.  We need information and ways to share it! We’re not a true Empire! We’re a blighted refugee camp clinging to a frigid river-bottom in a desert, eating bees and raghnall nuts and green shellfish ripped out of icy water!

You rip apart the so-called Empire and the whole lot of us starve to death. It’s not feather-spitters and glory and gold you vultures. It’s always been the water. When we first came we were drinking our bird’s blood, the children whose parents had died of thirst carried by warriors barely able to control their dying war birds. And we found the canyon. The water... and the bees who saved us all. I’m not raving. I’m remembering my great-grandfather’s memories. I need more time enlighten you. Give me more time!

**

The Emperor’s physician closed the door of the bedchamber quietly and turned to look at the assembled court. “He’s resting. He has ordered everyone out and might sleep. It is possible he will be up this evening.”

The court dispersed, slowly, their silks rustling like the wings of honeybees, murmuring one to another. Eyes slid from face to face, judging who was most powerful, should the old man die this day. Groups shifted, nomarcs stepped away from one high lord, to another, their patterns altering as they bowed and scraped courteously.

From a door inside, the opening hidden in the pattern of honeycomb, Shashi slipped into the bedroom. The bees recognized her and though they swarmed, distressed, did not sting. “He’ll be all right, sisters,” she whispered to them as they buzzed and settled on her arms and hands. “He’s too stubborn to die yet.”

A rustling whisper from the bed. “Shashi.” Diryish swallowed, a liquid gulp. “I hate this age... water pooling in my limbs and lungs... I shall drown in my desert. Any word from... your father yet?”

“Not yet, Radiance.”

“Didn’t I teach you better, girl?”

She settled down next to the bed, looking at his tired face. “I’m sorry. Uncle Diryish.” Even though their relationship was not of blood, she would not set aside her propriety to just call him by name. If he lived long enough for her to gain enough age, she might one day just call him Diryish.

“Better.” His pale, shrewd old eyes opened, then closed again. “I have enough young moa-lords telling me nonsense they think I want to hear. ‘Immutable, indeed.’ I need your father to kick me, when I’m too full of memories.”

“You’re a honeycomb packed full of life’s honey, Uncle.”

“Ready to be capped off and sealed away.”

“Uncle... we need to keep things together for a while longer. And I’d miss you. Mariush, is not yet delivered and father hasn’t sent word on your heir. You need to get your strength back.”

“I will, child. I will. I’m not quite ready to get wrapped in my words and packed away in my own white mountain.” He smiled at her from his pillows. Did she think I missed her own concern buried in the Empire worries?

She patted the bed decisively. “I’m going to write father and ask him to bring some Milari healers with him. They might be able to help you.”

“I’m going to rebuild our Dee school.  The zardukar have never been enough.  You all are right. We need every one we can muster regarless of sex or caste or status.  My father certainly was twisted enough to make a grave mistake. Several grave mistakes.  We need mandery however faint.  A hundred Ahys can overwhelm a Cee or a Dee, especially if they can work together.  A hundred of the smallest power can change the city.  Shashi... can you imagine what a hundred Dee Manders could do if we had them?”

“We have fifty-seven Ahys in the zardukar.” She said quietly.  “Twenty-two Behys.  Four Cees.  And you.”

“Only a few of the Ahys can work together.” He closed his eyes fretting.  “I have almost enough for us to have a truly literate society once more, contrary to the original contract.”  His eyes snapped open.  “The people have lived here long enough to discard the compact.  We deserve to teach our children.  Every person deserves the right to learn.  To read.”

His eyes sagged closed again from his vehemence.  He gulped and swallowed another breath.  “The toxics are getting through to me, Shashi.”

“You need to rest.  You need to stop overdoing, Uncle.”

“I’ll rest when I’m dead.”

She pursed her lips like a youngster when the oldsters mention their mortality, as if it were some kind of bad smell produced by an aging body.  “I’ll leave you to get your rest, Uncle Diryish.”

“Yes, child, go on. I’m not sick, I’m old. There’s a difference.”

“Yes, Uncle,” she said in the unknowing way of someone under a hundred. She leaned forward and kissed his forehead quickly. “I’ll be in later.” He sighed and smiled as she fussed away back through her secret door.

In the quiet afterward he raised his hands, palm up, and called. “Little sisters... I need help... Come.” The hive rose, not as many as the night they had defended him from the assassination attempt, but enough to cover his bedclothes and his hands. He hissed a little through his teeth as they set stingers into his wrists and elbows and in a precise line along his collarbone. “Thank you,” he said as the modified bee venom coursed into him. He closed his eyes, and slept.