Ascending - James Alan Gardner [103]
“And of course,” the frost-green Lady Belinda added, “we have different names for interacting with different races. Human names for handling humans, Divian names for dealing with Divians…”
“By the way,” the striped Lord Ryan said to Uclod and Lajoolie, “my name is Proctor-General Rysanimar C. V. Eri-noun and my wife is Detective-Sergeant Bellurif Y. J. Klashownie.”
Uclod opened his eyes wide and mouthed the phrase Detective-Sergeant. Perhaps he was scoffingly dubious…or perhaps, as a criminal, he was disconcerted to encounter someone who claimed a connection with the constabulary. Then again, he might simply have been impressed by anyone who could pilfer the very name from a detective-sergeant.
“Which brings us to you,” the lady Cashling said, turning in my direction. “What sort of names do your people use?”
I stared back at her. “If you are Belinda to humans and Bellurif to Divians, on my planet you might be called Bell. A bell is a metal object that makes a melodious sound.”
“I know what a bell is, you idiot.” Only half her usual voices spoke the words—the rest of her mouths hissed angrily, as if I had demeaned her intelligence. “And what sort of honorifics do you use? Princess Bell? Queen Bell? Saint Bell?”
“None of those,” I said. “You would just be Bell. A bell is a metal object that makes a melodious sound…when struck.”
Festina placed her foot heavily on my toe in a Gesture Of Admonishment.
“So,” said the stripy male Cashling, “I suppose my name would have to be Rye.”
“Yes. Rye is a type of grain that can be made into a beverage.”
“A good beverage?”
“Opinions differ,” Festina said. “Now, if you’d like us to introduce ourselves—”
“No,” Lady Bell interrupted. “You’re slaves. You have no names. You may think you do, but we’ll soon wipe that out of you.”
“Before you do anything irreversible,” said Festina, “we’d like to talk to your prophet about ransom.”
“Would you really?” Lord Rye asked. “Then go ahead. I’m the prophet.”
Vexatious Bickering
Lady Bell whirled on him. “No,” she snapped. Many of her mouths made sharp under-hisses. “Today I’m the prophet.”
“You’re mistaken, darling.” The word “darling” was stressed most oddly; as with the Cashlings’ attempt at laughter, I got the impression Lord Rye was endeavoring to imitate something he did not understand. “You were the prophet yesterday. At that rally on Jalmut.”
“That was two days ago, darling. Therefore you were prophet yesterday, and it’s my turn again.”
“But I didn’t do anything prophetic yesterday—we spent the whole day just getting free of Jalmut airspace. Darling.”
“That’s not my fault, darling darling. You had plenty of time to do holy work. You could have whipped up a sacred revelation.”
“One doesn’t whip up revelations,” Lord Rye said with many supplementary hisses. “They’re supposed to come naturally. And they haven’t of late.” He made a whining noise. “I think I have prophet’s block.”
“Then I definitely should be prophet today.” The lady turned to us all, sweeping her hands outward in a gracious gesture. “My friends—by which I mean, my worthless alien chattel—I am the Exalted Prophet Bell. Just a moment.”
She reached to the neck of her spacesuit, slipped some sort of latch, and removed her helmet. Underneath she looked exactly like her suit…which is to say, frost green dappled with violet bits. The bits were not clean-edged pictures like the ones on her clothes, but they were similar in size and color. Either the woman had tattooed herself to match her suit, or the suit had been decorated with little images that were chosen to be close matches for the natural spottles on the lady’s skin.
She had no discernible eyes, nose, or mouth…or rather, she had numerous pocks and indentations all over her head which probably served as the usual facial organs, but when a creature has dozens of small