Page 38 of Throwing Fire

“The recyclers were damaged,” Payton says. “I’m afraid the selection is limited. But I can offer you kaffe and tea.”

When Kez nods for tea, Payton pours steaming yellow liquid out into a ceramic cup. Smells familiar. Chrysanthemum tea. Guess we’re not the only ones with files.

After she’s served us, Payton takes the third chair, with her back to the pool, and sips her own cup of kaffe.

Kez puts down her cup after a few sips and gestures for her backpack, which I’ve set beside my chair. I pass it to her across the table. She takes out the little figurine and hands it to Payton. “Thank you for the tea. I thought you might like this.”

Payton cups the figurine in her long hands. Bends her head over it. She’s silent for a long moment, and I wonder if we’ve offended her. Then I see her lips move and I realize she’s praying.

Kez and I sit silent while Payton prays. While she places the figurine reverently in the middle of the table. When she looks up, she smiles brilliantly at Kez. “Thank you,” she says. “Father’s collection was in the study. It was destroyed.”

“I’m glad you like it.” Kez takes another sip of her tea. “Is there anything you need to rebuild?”

Payton shakes her head. “There’s no point. None of my brothers and sisters have survived, above or below.”

So Kimpler did keep his test-tube babies in the basement. “You got any interest in continuin’ the science project?” I ask.

“None,” Payton says succinctly.

“Fair enough.” Kimpler’s cloning activities were only tolerated by the Tyngalings, so that’s one less headache. “Let’s start with the easiest thing,” I say. “We’re here for info, pure and simple. Nothin’ else.”

Payton watches me, out of almond eyes so dark I can’t see a distinction between pupil and iris. I can see why Myhre threw her bitchfit. Payton is beautiful. And there’s obvious intelligence in those black, black eyes. But there’s no warmth, not like when Kez looks at me. I can appreciate Payton’s looks, but they don’t do anything for me.

“Nothing else,” Payton repeats slowly.

“Nope. You’ve been to Eastern Colony. No other Tyng employee’s been there in the last year. I wanna know what you know.”

Payton’s posture loosens fractionally. She crosses one long legover the other and rests her hand on top of her knee. “Do you want me to prepare a report?”

“Fuck no. I get enough of those from Myhre. Just gimme the quick-n-dirty version.”

Payton’s wide lips twitch up at the corners. I wonder if she likes Myhre as little as Myhre likes her. “Well, there is no Eastern Colony for a start. Not officially, and not in the minds of the colonists. For the Colonial Administration, no colonization of the eastern continent of Kuseros has been sanctioned. For the colonists, they call the land ‘Asdel,’ which means ‘God’s Home.’ The land belongs to Helas. They are merely stewards for the god.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Interesting.”

“We give lip-service to Helas in the west, Mister Snow. We hang our lights for Helasfast and give Founders Gifts. In the east, they’re true believers. The Horse-men reshape their bodies in their god’s image. The farmers dedicate each drop of sweat to Helas. Some of them refuse mech in order to turn the holy soil with their bare hands. Everything about them is related to their faith in some way.”

I glance at Kez who raises her eyebrows. Something’s not adding up. Why would Hex-peddlers have any interest in a religious fundamentalist colony? Doesn’t sound like a ready market.

“Why send you there, then?” I ask.

“Ah,” Payton says. “There are none so corrupt as those who once believed and fell from grace. Eastern Colony has no shortage of fallen.”

I nod, getting it. “So why ain’t we doin’ ourfiatthing?” I ask.

It’s the unofficial Tyng motto,Fiat Hex. In Uni, supply the drug to every man, woman and child on Kuseros.

“That is what Father sent me to Eastern Colony to determine,” Payton says. She uncrosses and recrosses her long legs, wraps her hands around her other knee. “Why have our distribution efforts in the Eastern Colony been unsuccessful?”

“And?”

Payton reaches to the middle of the table, where there’s a coveredtray that looks like it holds food. She taps the silver lid, and it opens like a shell. No food, just a frayed piece of rope. She picks it up and hands it to me.

I test it. Braided fiber. Rough. Not much play to it. I wouldn’t want to tie Kez up with it. “Hangin’ rope.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what it is. There is no centralized law enforcement in the Eastern Colony, but it is far from lawless. That is what happens to anyone caught using ‘fly-strike,’ as they call the product. They are hung. In a public place, with a vial of the product around their necks along with a plaque that says ‘yaul.’ I haven’t been able to translate that exactly, but I think it means something like transgressor.”

“Sinner,” Kez says, surprising me.

---