On-Grid
The Wardian
“Warden, thank you for agreeing to see me so quickly,” Majel ziaGorn said, stopping just over the threshold to bow.
The Deaf Councilor looked breathless, Bentamin thought as he rose from behind his desk to bow in return. One might even say that he looked worried.
“When you invoke the safety of Civilization,” he said, lightly, “what else could I do?”
Councilor ziaGorn did not take the joke. If anything, he looked more worried.
Bentamin allowed himself to taste the other man’s emotions. Worried, indeed. All but sick with it.
“Will you have tea?” Bentamin asked. “It’s a fresh pot. Also, I have cookies.”
“Tea and cookies would be most welcome, I thank you,” Majel said, and Bentamin felt the shiver of his relief in being offered something so commonplace.
“Excellent.” Bentamin came ’round the desk, and moved a hand to show his guest the two comfortable chairs with the table between. “Please sit and relax.” He went to the buffet.
It was only a moment to pour. He carried the cups to the table with his own hands, which was courtesy.
Majel murmured something that might have been thanks, but Bentamin had returned to the buffet, opening the drawer—and realizing his error. The cookies were Entilly’s special sort, which acted directly on one’s Gift.
On the other hand, he thought, considering the inner tumult Majel ziaGorn was attempting to contain, they surely couldn’t do any harm, and the man clearly needed some surcease. Bentamin opened the tin, and set it in the middle of the table.
“I hope you don’t mind homemade,” he said, taking his seat. “My cousin keeps me well supplied.”
“You’re fortunate in your cousins,” Majel said politely. He took a blue-iced cookie, and bit into it.
Bentamin took a cookie iced in yellow, and ate it, attentive to the pattern of the man opposite him.
His own cookie brought the accustomed flicker of energy, and an outspreading sense of peace.
The effect seemed to be the same for his guest. Bentamin did not See the flare of a Gift engaged, but he did See the burden of worry lighten somewhat, as Majel visibly relaxed in the chair across from him.
“Your cousin is a good baker,” he said, and Bentamin would almost have suspected him of irony.
He sipped his tea and put the cup on the table, Majel doing the same.
“Now,” Bentamin said, “how may I serve you?”
“By listening,” Majel said promptly. “After you have listened, if you would care to advise me, I would be grateful. There are . . . ” He hesitated, took a breath and offered a wry smile.
“There are very few people that I may talk to about this matter.”
“Then I am honored to be one of the few,” Bentamin told him, and settled deliberately back into his chair.
“I’m prepared to listen.”
“I’ll be as brief as possible,” Majel told him. “First, a question: Were you aware of the damage done at the school in Pacazahno?”
“I was not. Was anyone injured?”
“No. The library was torn apart, and an outside art installation under the care of the students was destroyed. Both events occurred in the small hours of the morning; no one was injured.”
Bentamin drew a hard breath. No children had been injured, but—mischief against a school?
“I mention this as the latest in a growing number of incidents of mischief done against Deaf-owned property and business,” Majel continued.
“The security logs—” Bentamin began, and Majel held up a hand.
“The Citizens Coalition keeps a database—several databases. From them, I learn that barely half of the mischief done in the last year has been reported by the victims.”
“Why? Security can’t find those responsible and deal with them appropriately unless the crime is reported.”
Majel sighed. “We aren’t talking about crimes. We are talking about mischief-under-the-law. Both Port and City Security consider investigating such things a waste of their time, and have a tendency to blame the victims for a lack of understanding and a failure to employ basic protective measures, because they are Deaf. In short, it is less exhausting to clean up the mess and move on, than it is to call Security.”
He paused for another sip of tea, glanced speculatively at Entilly’s cookies, but did not take another one.
“I saw this dynamic in action just recently, when the Skywise Provianto was the victim. Port Security was diligent, but it was clear their stance was that Bell—Surda erVinton—had forgotten to engage the lock, thus providing an opportunity.”
Bentamin sighed, loudly. Majel’s mouth quirked.
“Yes. I was able to prevail upon them to pull the camera records and make a fuller inspection of the damage, but even so, it was ruled mischief—regrettable, but no crime committed, and nothing to identify the . . . mischief-makers.”
“And the lesson learned from such things is that the perpetrators of the mischief will not be pursued,” Bentamin said. “Why report an event, when the only outcome will be insults and more inconvenience. I see.”
Majel sighed.
“This brings us to the incident at Pacazahno. The village administrator called upon her neighbors at Ribbon Dance Village for assistance in the aftermath of the . . . mischief. A team was sent—two Persuaders, a Psychometric, and a Back-Seer. They were able to pinpoint when the event took place, the state of minds of the perpetrators—which, as I understand it, was not that of exuberant youth, but rather mature purposefulness.”
He paused, and sent Bentamin a wry glance.
“We come now to the part of the tale where I may only repeat what I’ve been told, and hope that it makes sense to you.”
“I understand,” Bentamin assured him. “Please continue.”
“Yes, well. I am told that a signature has been isolated, which matches a signature found at my casino, when it was targeted. This signature carries an aura of specific and intense hatred.
“I am told, and the village administrator also, that there are methods by which this signature, which has been Seen by several Haosa, a Sensitive in my employ, my chief of security, and also . . . imprinted on at least two readers that were smashed in the library—it is said that there is a way for this signature to be . . . traced. To a particular individual.”
“There are methods, yes. It’s fortunate that the Psychometric was able to isolate tainted devices. The village administrator—”
“The village administrator,” Majel interrupted, “is not inclined to bring Civilized Security personnel into her village. When we last spoke, her intention was to work with Ribbon Dance Village to develop an early warning system and to upgrade the security at potential high-risk targets—her office, the medical center, the community kitchen, the school. She felt, strongly, that if Security were to find the person whose signature has been identified, and fined them for mischief, that would be . . . an invitation, let us say, for more—and more serious—mischief to be done at Pacazahno.”
Majel tipped his head and met Bentamin’s eyes.
“For what it may be worth, my own security chief agrees with her.”
Bentamin drew a careful breath.
“If a complaint is not made, then justice can’t be done.”
“If a complaint is made, justice is scarcely done in any case,” Majel said, sharply. “The fine for mischief is negligible, and in the case of an actor who hates Deaf . . . ”
He caught himself and moved a hand in apology.
“Your pardon, Warden. I’m aware that you are not the cause of this.”
“Not personally, no,” Bentamin said dryly. “May I ask why you brought this to me, if not to make a complaint?”
“I had hoped for advice,” Majel said slowly. “The mood of the Coalition is dissatisfied. There’s talk of a strike—”
“A strike?”
Majel sighed.
“The Deaf are aware of their lack of standing, in society, and under the law,” he said dryly. “The sense of the Coalition is that Civilization does not properly understand the many ways in which we contribute to the health and prosperity of all. It’s thought by some that a coordinated shutdown—every Deaf business to close and every Deaf worker to stay home—may usefully demonstrate our worth to Civilization.”
“You don’t agree?”
Majel moved his shoulders.
“We need allies, in order to effect change from within the system. We risk alienating the very people who might help us, if we strike.”
Majel ziaGorn had a good deal of solid political sense, Bentamin thought.
“If I take this to the Council, with seelyFaire ever seeking a way to return to the Patron System . . . ”
He flicked his fingers, and sat back, mouth tight.
“Have you spoken to krogerSlyte?” Bentamin asked. The portmaster was Majel’s most reliable friend on the Council.
“Not yet. I thought of you, because this is what your office was formed to do—to ward Civilization from dangers external and internal. We have a dangerous situation, where members of one group find it acceptable to prey upon members of another group—and community protections have failed.”
“That is the mandate of the Warden’s office,” Bentamin agreed. “But I must have cooperation—reports must be filed, evidence shared. If trust can’t travel that far, then there’s very little I can do. I agree that taking the matter as it’s now shaped to the Council would be an error. There may, however, be another way, that may win you more allies and friends.”
“I welcome your advice.”
“ivenAlyatta will be your best resource for this. The woman knows everything—or can find it in the archives before you draw three breaths. She also knows a great many useful people. What you will wish to bring to her is data—how many businesses in the city and port are Deaf-owned? What is their net worth? What percentage do they make up of the port and city’s worth? Who are the exceptional members of your Coalition—include artists, as well as business people. If she likes you and finds your project worthy, our archivist will put you to work drilling down for even more. The initial data that you will bring to her is to demonstrate that you understand the task you have taken in hand.”
“I understand,” Majel said. “I had also been thinking of azieEm, who has had some interesting things to say of late.”
“I would advise a private meeting with ivenAlyatta before anything—data in hand, mind! By all means ask for her impressions of your fellow councilors. You’ll be entertained for hours.”
For the first time in this meeting, Majel smiled.
“I’ll be certain to ask.”
He rose, and bowed.
“Warden, thank you, for listening and for your advice.” He paused with another odd glance at the tin. “And for sharing with me your cousin’s very interesting cookies.”
Bentamin rose and returned the bow.
“I’m pleased to have been of service,” he said, truthfully. “If you can persuade someone to give me access to one of the tainted devices, I might be of more help to you.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Ultimately, it is Administrator joiMore’s decision.”
“And I gather that she would not welcome a call from the Warden of Civilization.”
“Not at this time, I think,” Majel said, politely.
“I understand.”
Bentamin walked his guest to the door and saw him out.
When the door had closed, he stood for a moment, looking at the tea things without seeing them, and thinking about—norbears.
Civilization did not even recognize the Deaf as fully functional persons. What chance had he, really, with his norbear eyewitness to murder?