Chapter 159

When I stepped inside, the same sharp-featured girl from last time was sitting there. Canna Tamerlane Theodore. A daughter of a ducal house, so they call her a ducal lady, I suppose — and on top of that, I had heard she was a cripple. Someone with a very high chance of becoming a Harvester.

"Hello."

"You truly never change. Come, sit."

I sat ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠across from her exactly as I had last time, just as she invited. The clothes were different, but the lower half was cut unusually long, in a cloth you could not see through. She was certainly hiding her legs.

The students one sees at the Royal Academy bare their thighs without a second thought. Even people of fairly high station do it, so either dress is quite free here, or that is simply the fashion. I did not yet have enough information to say which.

The highest in rank among the Harvesters is Aurora, but she collapsed last year and knows little of what is in fashion. There were others who had lived, after a fashion, among the upper class of Berne City, but they were either of a certain age or else nothing but children, and so they knew little of the fashions current in the capital either.

For reference, in the Royal Academy of about ten years ago they wore dresses down to the ankle even in summer — though the back was cut open all the way below the waist. The bolder ones, I am told, wore clothes that showed the cleft of the buttocks. The urge to display oneself is much the same everywhere.

It was only a possibility, but I could judge it now. Make the person in front of me a Harvester, and I would know. Thinking that, I waited for her to speak.

"Last weekend. I heard you went down to the slums and changed a great many people."

That had been only two days ago. Thinking of the people I had treated there, was she ready at last to set her mind and become a Harvester?

"Yes."

"Was that on the royal family's orders?"

The royal family? A ducal house minding the crown's mood is nothing strange, and yet if one simply considers precedence, shouldn't they have no need to watch it quite so carefully?

"No. They wanted it."

Only part of that was true. Everyone who had been there came to want it only after seeing the first person who changed. That first person had never wanted any such thing. They had only wanted to enjoy the reproductive act.

There is a saying that a careless tongue is an easy way to ruin yourself, and the words of the contract are just that powerful. It is only a spoken promise, but the moment one affirms it, there is no taking it back. Of course, even if the words are said, they will not change unless I give myself — but there is no world in which I would refuse to give myself.

Give up warmth? It was right in front of me. All I had to do was close my hand. That was impossible.

"So that blessing is yours to use as you please."

A blessing. It sounded like a word taken from the newspapers. As far as I know, the broadcasts never use the word blessing. Only the papers — saint, miracle of God — had run a photograph of me, big as a gate, across the front page. So she had read that.

"Would you like to receive what some people call a blessing?"

I do not think of it as a blessing, so I set that preface before the question. At the very least, she seemed to want me badly enough to call it one. She stared straight at me. I looked straight back.

Canna Tamerlane Theodore. Taller than I am — but that is because I am small, not because this girl is tall. Average in height. Hair closer to yellow than to gold, cut a little past the shoulders, and above it a pair of round ears stood up. In the world of a faded memory her kind would be called beastmen, but here they are treated less as a race than as a house. Blue skin, of course, does not exist, and so a great many people find a Harvester whose skin has turned blue profoundly alien. Her frame looked rather small, but that was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠only because her body was hunched. I understood now the use of the fine cane beside the chair — a thing I had once taken for a mere object. It would be for leaning on when she walked. Her balance was twisted to that degree.

What I could not see when I did not know her condition, I could see now. In a low voice, she asked me:

"What do you want?"

What did I want in exchange for doing it — that was the question. Yes. By this point there is no goodwill without a reason. She would be someone who knew that well. But that was a mistake.

"You are the one who wants the contract. If you want it, then do. If not, don't."

I make a point of standing only as the one who listens. So if she had asked what it was that I stood to lose, I would have told her the truth: warmth. Little by little, though, she looked brimming with the wish to become a Harvester, and so I asked her this.

The words of the contract. I ask this the same way every time, and so it has been carried not only in the newspapers but on the broadcasts as well. Anyone who hears it and answers becomes a Harvester. At least, anyone who has come to know me through the press knows this.

Nowhere in those words is there a line that says I will heal them. They say that after death, I take what they had. While they live, nothing is taken. It works well enough on people who live a day at a time, or people with nothing left behind them……

"Taking everything I have when I die — isn't that rather a great deal for you to receive?"

People like her, with much to leave to those who come after, falter. Should I show her, here, with a little performance of turning stone to gold, that material things mean nothing to me?

Hmm……

No.

That would look far too obedient to desire. It would look like me trying to persuade her into the contract, wouldn't it? If I am to go on making contracts with people set high above, the contract itself must not become the thing I want.

"These are the words of the contract. If you don't want it, I won't."

This person had read the newspaper. That meant she knew the words. She would know that everyone who answered them became a Harvester, and that there had not been a single exception. If she could take information from the royal family, and if she knew the moment I contracted with Aurora, then she would know this sentence is always the same.

I feigned calm, and said that if she did not wish to contract, I would not. Were it a moment I could seize ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠with my own hands, perhaps — but so long as the contract was not yet made, I could endure. For the future. So that I might go on obtaining more warmth, steadily.

If not that, then in the moment I was summoned I could pour myself out into this world and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠take the warmth whole. But if I did, from the next moment on I would not exist. Cross that line, and I will never wait like this again. The instant I rose above the world, I would smash it and eat the warmth.

Like someone addicted to a psychoactive drug, I would lose my reason and move as impulse moved me. The heat of that moment is truly rapturous…… Yes. My personhood would melt. Without a doubt. So I endure, and I wait. Not for an extreme pleasure — I move with my eyes truly on the future. My mind is not so stupid as to fail to know even that. Mm.

This has certainly gone rotten. I will be mad forever. Mad, I will think while I am mad. Even so. Because I have wisdom, I set my teeth. That infinite cold — I can never feel it a second time. That eternal cold, without one small warmth, where even dying is impossible. Never.

While I hardened my resolve, the girl before me was in anguish. She hid her expression as much as an expression can be hidden, but she is human, and hiding it completely is impossible. Breath, the draw of air, pulse, skin — all of it lay bare before me.

And though I had not intended it, a time limit was attached. I had said at lunch, earlier, that a guard would be assigned to me, so she already knew. When the guard the royal family attached arrived, they might well be able to stop this contract, might they not? I really am lucky.

As if I had not a thought in my head, I simply waited, telling myself I was nothing but a Harvester vending machine.

And in the end, she answered.

The contract was sealed. I reached out a hand of light, and filled myself into it. In the same instant, I received Canna's memories.

The ducal House Theodore. I had thought them a collateral line of the royal house, but they were, unexpectedly, of the northern grand duke's side. This country is shaped like a crescent moon — a circle left empty along its left. On a map the capital sits at the upper left, and Berne City at the lower left. That is why going by ship is fastest. Go by land, and you must swing the long way around.

Above that — to the north — lies the ducal house, though it is not a land that meets the snow. There is only a long border. Were that all, they would never have been called the northern grand duke. The house is a warlord house: a house that prizes martial skill without regard for man or woman, young or old. And so Canna had never been treated as a member of the family who did one person's share.

Canna had been born with something wrong with her legs. The mother who bore her abandoned her for it. In a warlord house, if you cannot move your body, being disregarded is only natural. But it had not been cruel. There was a mother who raised her, and perhaps because she was no threat to her brothers and sisters, they were easy with her. Canna's own effort was hidden in that, of course. She had truly driven herself.

She mediated among her siblings, worked to make them a close family, and even succeeded. But being unable to use her legs remained her inferiority. From the time she was small until now, there had been so very much she had to give up because of those legs.

And now.

"I can truly walk."

Skin split like porcelain and crumbled like dry sand, and as she brushed away the dust that shed from her, Canna took a step as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The yellow hair had turned purple, the skin a shade whiter. But the ruined legs were healed — and into something far finer than the body she would have had, had they ever been whole.

A hop. She sprang where she stood, and her hand met the ceiling. It was a height some three times my own, reached with a jump from standing still. She tried the legs that had never moved, worked them as she pleased, shifted this way and that, and soon came to a stop where she was.

She did not cry aloud, but tears kept running from Canna's eyes. A hardship that ought to have been impossible to overcome had vanished. Nothing barred the way ahead of her now. Human desire, once it has had a taste, looks to what comes next. What would this person do now?

Hehe.

I stayed quietly in my seat and waited until she wiped her tears and sat.

"Canna Tamerlane Theodore. I hope that from now on you live doing what you yourself want to do. If there is anything I want of you, that is all of it."

I set the emptied teacup down in front of me and rose before she could speak. Then something came to me, and I said to Canna:

"When you're happy, you ought to smile."

With that I went to the entrance and took hold of the door handle. It was not proper courtesy, perhaps, but at a time like this the right thing was to leave her a while alone.

"But it's all right to cry, too. If a grudge lies in it, pour it out — no one will say a word."

I opened the door and stepped out.

Shekal stared straight at me.

"Please give her time to wipe her tears."

I said it while pointing behind me, and started away, meaning to leave the place. Then Shekal spoke from behind.

"My name is Friesia Tabakian Shekal. Thank you. Bell."

Unlike her face, unlike her manner, the greeting was crisp and clear. I waved, and went back to the place where I live.