Free Northshore by Sheri S. Tepper Page B

sister. I wronged her with him, the one I followed away. He was hers, my sister’s man, and he turned from her to me. He told me if he couldn’t have me, he would not have her, he’d go to the west without either. And oh, I followed him, foolish as it was, and then did not care enough to follow him farther when he went on. I must ask her to forgive me.
It must be done, Pamra child. It must be done.
Otherwise … I may die unforgiven, and it may be Potipur will not take me up. I’m so old, child. There isn’t time to do anything but just go to her and ask …’
    The old woman sat there, head bowed, grieving over a wrong done forty or fifty years ago. Pamra shook her head. Even though it was dangerous for ordinary mortals to die unforgiven, it was silly for Delia to be upset like this.
    ‘If you did a little wrong when you were young, you’ve made up for it a hundred times since. If there is any person within twelve days’ travel who will be Sorted Out to receive Potipur’s kiss, it will be you, Delia, so stop this grieving. I’ll figure something out for you.’
    She felt better for having said it. It was all true. Delia was one of Potipur’s own. If reaching Delia’s sister was important to the old woman, Pamra would do what she could, and she told Delia so again, and yet again as she left after taking a last breath of the clean garden air.
    The water in the ritual cleaning trough was chilled by evening, holding little of the day’s warmth as she dipped herhands, sprinkled her face and feet. She leapt away from the trough as black wings swept by, buffeting onto the step where a great flier fixed her with a calculating eye, clacking its huge serrated beak softly together. She leaned against the wall to let her heart stop pounding. It was only one of the Servants of Abricor. They seldom landed on the Tower steps, though they clustered thickly around their aerie on the Tower top and in the bone pits, always silent, never making a sound. She dried her hands on the towel by the door, aware suddenly that the door was open.
    ‘Pamra.’ It was Ilze in the doorway. She realized he had been there, watching her. ‘Pamra? Come on, you’ll miss your meal. Where’ve you been?’
    ‘I’m sorry, Senior. I’ve been down in town. Visiting my old Delia. She’s half-stuffed me on spice cakes. I’m not really hungry.’
    ‘Spice cakes don’t build blood.’ He sounded irritated. ‘Come on. I’ve arranged something for you.’
    The hall was busy, echoing with feet and the clatter of plates. From the men’s refectory there was a bass rumble of voices, a harsh shout of laughter, quickly repressed. The women’s tables were half-empty, only a few tardy diners plying their spoons, breaking their bread. Ilze waited with her at the service hatch, then drew her away to an empty table. ‘I’ve got you on recruitment tomorrow.’
    ‘Senior! That’s kind of you. I thought my turn on the roster wouldn’t come up again for ages.’
    ‘It wouldn’t have. But I told the Superior that no one was better at recruiting than you are, that you have a sincerity which is very effective.’ There was a moment’s odd hesitation in his voice, but then he went on, ‘And I told her you’d been bled dry.’
    ‘You told the Superior!’ Pamra was momentarily aghast. While some said the lady Kesseret was only human, and a kindly human at that, Pamra could only think of her as a moving presence beneath the shining crown and floating veils, a mystery and a glory. Despite her reputed more than hundred years, her unlined face and clear eyes implied shehad already received the Payment. ‘Mentor, I heard someone say once that she’s a Holy Sorter. I’m still petrified to go near her.’
    Ilze looked at her in that coldly amused way of his, head tilted to one side. ‘One needn’t go that far,’ he said. ‘It’s enough that she’s Superior of this Tower. I told her, also, that if someone didn’t do something about Betchery, she’d end