47.

Nobody's Testimony

Revkia, Year 193 AGH

Mora had put the plum cake at the back of the plate.

Thessa Wren turned the plate around.

“I'm keeping those,” Mora said.

“I can see that.”

“For the game.”

The piece Thessa wanted had a dark seam of fruit near its point and a little fallen crust beside it. Whoever cut it had left the crust there instead of eating it. She approved of that person. She moved the plate back out of reach of the people passing bread, but left her chosen piece facing her.

She had come straight from selling vegetables, with the imprint of a basket handle still across her palm. There was no meal to prepare here. The afternoon's funds had paid for the Revkia gathering room and its food, and she could sit down while somebody else put a bowl within reach. At the far end of the room two people were arguing comfortably about a pan one of them had returned with a better handle. A woman by the window had taken her shoes off beneath her chair. Nobody was trying to make everyone attend to the same thing.

Thessa sat beside Mora, smoothing her skirt over her broad hips, and tore a piece of bread.

“Did you bring something?” Mora asked.

“Yes.”

“Let me see.”

“Let me see yours.”

Mora's broad hand covered a lump on the table. She shifted one finger and showed the edge of a large brown button, then covered it again. A small clasp lay farther back beside her folded cloth.

“That's a button,” Thessa said.

“You haven't heard what it does.”

“I've had clothes.”

Mora ate her bread. Her wide, beaklike mouth made a precise bite; the satisfaction in it could have been about either bread or buttons. There was room behind the backless seat for her domed shell, whose brown plates caught a broken patch of window light. She had chosen the place with the clear stretch of table before it. Of course she had.

Thessa laid down her spoon.

Mora looked at it, then at the plate.

“We should find our listeners before the cakes go.”

“They can see we're using them.”

“They can see cakes.”

Thessa moved the plate between them.

A woman she knew from the market brought someone over: Otis Vale, a freight broker visiting her. He was a narrow-shouldered man with a rounded nose and gray beginning in the short waves at his temples. He moved a chair aside to let a person with two bowls pass, waited for the introduction to finish, and took the offered bread.

“Thessa grows things,” the woman told him. “And persuades me to buy more of them than I meant to.”

“You come back for them.”

“I come back for the onions. Somehow I leave with three other things.”

She asked Mora whether the cheese had gone around, and went to take some to the woman by the window.

Otis looked at Thessa.

“I've heard something of the atrocity here. Was your family here at the time? Could you tell me about them?”

Her people had been among those affected.

“I'm not telling family stories today,” she said. “Can you invent a convincing use for an object?”

“An object?” He looked down at the spoon.

“The use must be wrong. The explanation must persuade us it ought to be right.”

He considered the spoon without touching it.

“All right.”

Thessa liked that he had actually considered it. A new listener who also wanted to play could be useful. He did not look particularly alarming.

Mora uncovered the button.

“We can have a helper,” she said. “Will you hold something for me?”

“Certainly.”

“There. I have mine.”

“You haven't asked what he can do,” Thessa said.

“He can hold something.”

Otis held out his hand. Mora put the button into it.

Thessa had her explanation ready. She did not want someone interrupting it to ask which end of the spoon was meant to face the guests.

They found six people willing to listen. Two brought their chairs closer; the woman with no shoes stayed where she was, with a good view between the others. Otis's acquaintance sat at the end of the table. The rest of the room went on eating and talking.

“Two rounds,” Thessa said. “You each choose the account you enjoyed most, once in each round. We add the votes. First choice from that plate.”

“Do we get anything?” asked the man nearest the wall.

“You get to hear us.”

“I was afraid of that.”

He stayed. Thessa pushed the ordinary bread plate nearer him.

Mora offered her the choice of going first. Thessa took it before Mora could change her mind.

She held the spoon horizontally by the end of its handle. She had polished it, and there was a bright little reflection in the bowl.

“A household instrument,” she said, “for deciding when a guest has stayed too long.”

The man with the bread looked at his host. She gave him a shove with her shoulder, and Thessa waited through the small laugh. A good beginning.

“You hold it out while the guest talks. When your arm aches, the visit is over.”

“Whose arm?” the woman by the window asked.

“The host's. Naturally, if you put it in the guest's hand, the guest can simply put it down. Whereas the host has an interest in reaching a conclusion.”

She kept her arm out. The spoon stayed level.

“You don't have to look at it. You can keep looking at the guest, which is polite. It is also important not to rest your elbow on anything, as that would give an entirely false result.”

The woman nodded. Thessa had thought of that objection in advance and was pleased to have it disposed of.

“It needs to be the same spoon each time. A larger one can give you an early warning, but you mustn't compare a small spoon at one visit with a large one at the next.”

Otis was still holding Mora's button. He turned it over once, saw her watching him, and stopped.

Thessa went on.

“Nor should you change arms halfway through, however much you might be tempted. You would be starting the entire visit again.”

The man with the bread gave a short laugh. She could have stopped there. She had another distinction to make, though, and she wanted it understood.

“Now, if two hosts are present, you may use two spoons, but they must be of the same weight. Otherwise the first host to tire might be blamed for ending a visit which the second host would have been perfectly willing to prolong.”

The bright spot trembled in the bowl.

Someone behind the listeners called for another cup. A chair scraped. Thessa's arm had begun to ache, just above the elbow, and the room seemed to be waiting for something that she had not quite reached.

“Of course, if the hosts disagree about the guest...”

She lowered the spoon.

The thought of explaining the two-host exception with her arm down was worse than leaving it unfinished. She put the spoon on the table and rubbed the place where the handle had pressed against her fingers.

“That's how it works,” she said.

“Thank you,” said the woman by the window.

Mora got up. The side of her shell passed clear of the seat. She asked Otis to move his chair a little so he faced the far wall, then stood beside him where all six listeners could see them.

“Show them,” she said.

Otis held the button before one eye and shut the other.

“Our destination is the far wall,” he said. “A journey of some inconvenience, if you're comfortable where you are.”

He steadied the button between finger and thumb.

“But look. I have fitted the entire journey into this hole. I recommend it particularly for long freight routes. The farther the destination, the more trouble it saves.”

Mora stepped between him and the wall and bent her scaled face close to the button.

He stopped speaking.

Her mouth almost touched the rim. Mora stayed there, waiting.

“An unexpected delay,” Otis said, “has become larger than the whole country.”

The woman by the window clapped her hands once. The man beside the wall folded over the bread he was holding. Thessa laughed before she could decide whether to help them by laughing.

Mora straightened and looked at her.

“You picked him very quickly,” Thessa said.

“He was available.”

Otis lowered the button. He was smiling now, openly pleased with it. He handed it back to Mora, who put it beside the clasp.

When Thessa asked for votes, one hand went up for the spoon. The other five chose the shortened journey.

She counted them. There was no possible extra hand behind the man with the bread.

“Five to one,” Mora said.

“I heard.”

The woman who had voted for the spoon lifted her cup.

“I have someone who would need the large one.”

Thessa thanked her. She meant it. She had been right about the spoon, only not right enough to be sitting here with one vote while Mora had five.

The ache in her arm was going. She flexed her fingers beneath the table, then took the spoon and put it beside her empty bowl. There would be no need for it in the next round.

Mora picked up the clasp.

“Would you give me your cuff?”

Otis held out his arm. She pinched a corner of her folded cloth against his cuff and closed the clasp over both. Keeping the other end of the cloth in her hand, she gave his sleeve a slight tug to show the connection.

“An anchor,” she told the listeners, “for a courier who leaves before hearing where he's going.”

Otis rose with the promptness of a man pleased to be dispatched. His hand remained beside Mora. He took half a step, looked back at his sleeve, then at her.

“I should be on my way.”

“Where?” Mora asked.

He opened his mouth.

The cloth hung between them, with his cuff at one end and her broad hand at the other.

“You haven't told me.”

“The instrument is working.”

He sat down again. This time he was laughing too. Mora released the clasp and laid it open on the cloth.

Thessa had been looking at her cup.

There was cool water left in it. She drew her own clean folded cloth from her bag, shook it open and held it over her lap. The cloth she had used at the stall was still damp in a different pocket. This one was for her hands at the meal, and she had scarcely used it.

“You may need that,” Mora said.

“I do.”

Thessa dipped a corner into the cup. It darkened as the water climbed into it. She raised the wet corner over the cup and squeezed between her fingers. A short run of drops struck the water below.

The listeners had turned toward her. She liked having them back.

“A private raincloud,” she said. “Small enough to take home. You choose the weather.”

She squeezed again, then opened her fingers enough to stop the stream. One late drop fell after the others.

“Most of it.”

The man with the bread came forward on his chair.

“How much country will it cover?”

“As much as you can put in that cup.”

Mora made a sound through her nose. Thessa looked at her.

“A very short route,” Mora said.

Thessa held the cup out toward her, leaving the cloth suspended above it. Mora drew her plate back, smiling.

“I haven't ordered any weather.”

“It's only a demonstration.”

She drew it back without spilling. The cloth was cool against her fingertips. For a moment she was tempted to explain that there were larger cups and larger clouds. She looked at the six faces waiting for what she would do.

“And wind?” the woman by the window asked.

Thessa lifted the cloth a little closer to her face. She blew across its hanging corner and flicked her wrist to give it a proper gust.

The corner snapped. A drop struck the end of her nose.

She stopped with her mouth still shaped for blowing. There was a cold bead on her skin. She could feel it beginning to move.

Otis's lips parted. Mora was watching her across the table, absolutely still.

Thessa set the cup down before she could do anything else with it.

“Fountains are included.”

This laugh had somewhere to go. The woman by the window leaned back with both hands on her middle; Otis's acquaintance struck his shoulder; the man with the bread had to put it down. Mora turned her head aside, making a low, interrupted sound that Thessa knew well and wanted to hear again.

Thessa wiped her nose with the dry end of the cloth. She was laughing herself now. She had not known she was going to say it until the drop hit, and for a little while the cold place on her nose was as good as the answer.

“Shall we choose?” Mora asked when they had settled enough to hear her.

Thessa spread the damp cloth beside her cup.

Four hands went up for the raincloud.

Four. She counted them again with her eyes and sat a little straighter. The woman by the window was one of them. So was the man with the bread, whose vote she had lost in the first round. He still had a little crease of laughter beside his mouth.

The other two chose the anchor.

“Four to two,” Thessa said.

“Yes,” Mora said.

Thessa let herself look around at the people who had chosen her. Then she looked down at the plate.

Five and two. One and four.

“Seven to five,” Mora said.

“On a technicality.”

“Which one?”

“Adding.”

Mora took the plate. Thessa watched her hand pass over a pale piece with a glazed top and come to rest beside the plum cake.

“That one?” Thessa said.

“This one.”

Mora lifted it, fallen crust and all.

Thessa felt the small, sharp disappointment of it. She had been quite certain of that cake when she arrived. She could still see the darker strip of fruit as Mora broke off the point.

“Well?” she asked.

Mora chewed before answering.

“Very good.”

“I know.”

She passed the plate to Otis. He took the smallest of the remaining pieces, a square with crumbs clinging to its paper, and thanked her. Thessa chose the pale one. Under its glaze was a dense, soft middle that stuck pleasantly to the roof of her mouth. She took a drink of water and another bite.

Around them the gathering had continued. The borrowed pan had been produced for inspection. Someone had moved to the window seat while its former occupant got more cheese. Two of the listeners stayed to finish their food at the game table; the others took their chairs back. One waved the spoon at Thessa before setting it beside her bowl.

“I'll remember that,” the woman said.

Thessa asked whether she wanted the rest of the explanation.

“No, thank you. I think I can manage.”

“So do I.”

She sat for a while with Mora and Otis, eating cake. The light had moved off Mora's shell and onto the tabletop, where the button cast a small round shadow. Otis tried to loosen a crumb from the fold in his cake paper without dropping it. He looked up when he caught Thessa watching, then tipped the paper and ate the crumb.

“I didn't know what you meant when you asked me,” he said.

“About the object?”

“Yes. I thought there might be a right answer.”

“You were on the right side,” Thessa said.

Mora reached for the last little piece of her crust.

“You could ask someone to help next time.”

“I could ask him.”

“You could,” Mora said.

Otis looked from one woman to the other. He had finished his cake, but kept the paper carefully folded on his plate.

“I should like to come next time.”

“Come to my house for a meal,” Thessa said. “Both of you. We'll have another go.”

Mora agreed at once. Otis said he would be pleased to, and asked Thessa to tell him when before he left. She told him they would arrange it with his acquaintance, who knew where to find her at the market. There was time yet; he was still sitting with them.

“You bring something,” Thessa said to him. “An object you haven't got a professional explanation for.”

“I can't promise that.”

“Try.”

He considered the button, then the clasp on Mora's folded cloth.

“Would an object I couldn't explain at all be admissible?”

“Your inability to explain anything,” Thessa said, “would be the evening's first miracle.”