Proudly, Vanalpè led the way again, between the curtains of entangled roots. She bent as she went through an opening, holding the roots up so Vaintè could enter, then pointed at the thick trunk that formed the rear wall. She laughed and held out her hand, palm upwards. “It lay there on my hand, that small, it seemed impossible to believe the days and days of labor needed to prepare the mutated gene chains that went into it. And no one was absolutely sure until it grew that our work had been successful. I had this area cleared of brush and trees, insect life as well, then I fertilized and watered the ground myself, pushed a hole into it with my thumb—then planted the seed. I slept beside it that night, I couldn’t leave. And next day there was the tiniest green shoot. I can’t describe how I felt. And now—it is this.”

With great pride and happiness Vanalpè slapped the thick bark of the great tree that rose there. Vaintè went and stood beside her, touching the wood herself and feeling the same joy. Her tree, her city.

“This is where I will stay. Tell everyone that this is my place.”

“This is your place. Walls will be planted to ring the place of the Eistaa. I will now go and wait for Stallan, then bring her here.”

When she had gone Vaintè sat in silence until a passing fargi looked her way, then sent her for meat. But when the fargi returned she was not alone.

“I am called Hèksei,” the newcomer said in the most formal manner. “Word has spread of your arrival, great Vaintè, and I have hurried to greet you and welcome you to your city.”

“What is your work in this city, Hèksei?” Vaintè asked, just as formally.

“I attempt to be of aid, to help others, to be loyal to the city . . .”

“You were a close friend of the now-dead Eistaa, Deeste?”

It was more of a statement than a question and the barb struck home. “I don’t know what you have heard. Some people are jealous of others, carry tales—”

Her words cut off as Vanalpè returned, followed by another who wore a sling across one shoulder from which there was suspended a hèsotsan. Vaintè glanced at it, then looked away, saying nothing although its presence here was forbidden by law.

“This is Stallan of whom I spoke,” Vanalpè said, her eyes slipping over Hèksei as though she did not exist.

Stallan made the sign of formal salutation, then stepped backwards towards the door.

“I am in error,” she said hoarsely, and Vaintè noticed for the first time the long scar that puckered her throat. “Unthinkingly, I wore my weapon. Not until I was aware of you looking at it did I realize that I should have left it behind.”

“Wait,” Vaintè said. “You wear it always?”