Free Shadow's End by Sheri S. Tepper Page A

paint, as you saw, and I thought the colors would be tempting. I was wrong. They don’t please him for some reason. They have the wrong texture or smell. He does quite nice renderings in feces, as you’ve seen. Or in gravy, or mud.”
    â€œOrganic media,” mused Trompe. “Probably with organic smells.”
    â€œPerhaps he identifies by smell, categorizes by smell. I don’t know. Maybe he has another sense entirely.”
    A superhuman sense, she didn’t say, though she thought it. A more-than-human sense. She caught herself and flushed. She’d mentioned these thoughts to a few family members, a few friends, all of whom thought she was pushing the limits of reality. And sometimes—yes, sometimes she knew she would trade eventual superhu-manity for a Leely who would learn to use the potty and keep his clothes on!
    â€œNo need to get upset, Lutha. I understand.” Trompe was smiling at her, squeezing her shoulder. “Fine. I was briefed. I was just digging for some kind of overall understanding, but we’ve obviously said enough.” He seatedhimself and adopted an expression that said he was getting down to business.
    â€œIt’s going to be hard for you,” he said.
    She nodded, admitting as much.
    Trompe tapped his front teeth with a thumbnail. “The Procurator wishes you to know you may have all the help you need, both in preparing to go and to keep your business alive while you’re gone. Meantime, I made some inquiries of my own. I thought Leelson might be, you know, simply avoiding the issue, but he’s truly gone. No one I spoke to had any idea where he was.”
    â€œLimia could go,” said Lutha, referring to Leelson’s mother.
    â€œEasier than you,” he agreed. “I wonder why she won’t?”
    Both sat silently for a time.
    â€œLet’s ask her,” he said. “Let’s go ask her!”
    â€œNow?” she cried. “I can’t leave—”
    He interrupted her with a finger to her lips. “I’ll call a crèche team to take care of Leely, and why not now? If Limia won’t go, I think we both should know why. We’ll run on over to Fastiga and find out.”
    S outh of Alliance Prime the enclave of Fastiga lay beneath its own separate dome, the towers of the men jutting aggressively above the sprawling domiciles of the women. Nothing separated them but multilevel sculpture gardens and fantastically ritualized behaviors, both well observed.
    In the domiciles the languorous hours between the evening meal and the erotic observances of deep night were set aside for the reception of visitors. Fires were lit in the halls of lineage, dusty bottles were opened and decanted into elegant crystal, children were sent to their own quarters to bedevil their adolescent minders, womenfolk put on their most seductive draperies, and everyone gossiped about everyone else. Fastiga women were much interested—some said obsessed—by lineage. All Fastigats claimed common ancestors; they were all one clan; only the precise degree of kinship was subject to analysis, but of such minor quibbles nightlong conversations could be built.
    Trompe brought Lutha up from clangorous, crowded traffic levels belowground to the murmuring quiet of a house she had visited once before. And had not intended to visit again, she acknowledged to herself as he fetched her a glass of wine and ushered her to a sheltered corner of the hall of lineage. It was a secluded niche mostly hidden from the other visitors.
    â€œLeelson brought me here once,” she said, aware of a sudden bellicosity, the flaring embers of old anger.
    He nodded, as though he already knew. Well, Fastigats did know. They knew entirely too much.
    â€œIt may take me a while to get to Limia,” he murmured. “Custom demands I work my way around the room. Don’t move. I’ll be back.”
    He left her. She settled into the chair, which was