Authors: Kay Kenyon
She passed two hoda who were caressing each other's arms, perhaps applying a lotion or salve—no, hands were straying under tunics and whatnot. In broad daylight. And worse, beside them two youngsters no more than five years
old were mimicking them. Bailey turned away, appalled. She hoped that children's skin was not easily aroused. But then, why not really? They weren't human.
Toward the perimeter of the compound, Bailey found herself gazing at a piece of folk art called a
wallishen
, a “picture of one moment.” It was one of those miniature stages that sprouted like altars in the compounds. Crouching down, Bailey saw stairs in front, replicating the entrance to the king's pavilion. And there, amidst the columns of the royal river room, were the viven, all dressed in robes of finest cloth, despite their diminutive size.
On the stage, one figure was dressed in black and gray, in fine brocade. That would be Vidori, of course. This figure knelt before a doll dressed in green, with black hair. Its face was a stark, unflattering white, and even in miniature, its expression was subtle and cruel, nothing like Anton Prados. On the steps of the river room were two dolls dressed in green with their heads removed.
Bailey stood, smoothing her clothes. A nasty little drama, so out of place in this tidy and friendly compound. If it
was
tidy and friendly …
She continued her rounds, feeling less buoyant. From the shade of a small hut came a sound. Something startling, almost improper. A sung melody.
An old hoda sat on a small riser, those ubiquitous stools that hung from pegs when not in use. She was crooning to an infant in her arms, spinning out a wordless hum, primitive and artless, perhaps, but arresting. Bailey hadn't prepared herself for this, least of all from the silent hoda. She hadn't heard music for three years. On the ship, when the crew played their appalling music in her presence, she retreated to privacy
The hoda stopped her humming.
“Please continue,” Bailey said, hoping to hear more. The old woman's fingers formed a response that looked like,
My pardon
or
Many pardons.
Bailey hadn't quite got the knack of looking at hands.
Samwan was at her side. “Oh, Bailey, please pardon us.” Samwan's smile fell off her face as she glared at the hoda. The humming stopped. “This hoda is vulgar, naturally. Thankfully, you do not have to listen.”
“I was enjoying it, Samwan-rah.”
“Oh, Bailey, you're making a joke.”
“Actually I'm not.” But to forestall further trouble for the hoda, Bailey turned away from her toward the shed under construction. “Samwan-rah, how is the new engine coming along?” The Dassa called all mechanical things
engines.
They would add new words, no doubt, as their nascent technology demanded it.
“Slowly, Bailey. The palace promised me an engineer today. But perhaps he is sleeping late.”
Bailey knew the palace was the center for engineering. Dassa society parceled out the disciplines to the Three: the king oversaw engineering, astronomy, and history; the uldia chemistry, surgery, and biology; and the judipon numeration, dreamaturgy and law. These disciplines in turn fit into the larger division of the realms, where the king was the guardian of the river and borders, the uldia presided over birthing, and the judipon oversaw society and wealth. There were missing disciplines. The geosciences seemed not to occur to the Dassa. Maps of the region and the world were poor to nonexistent. The only lands that mattered were those of the Olagong—where the fulva grew, and the variums thrived. Nowhere else so easily supported life. The latitude of the world in which the weather was conducive to the fulva was a narrow one.
Alone once again, Bailey felt the sun crushing down upon her, despite the shelter of her wide-brimmed hat. Near the perimeter of the compound, she was drawn toward a frondy wall of low-growing palms, with its promise of shade.
A path led into the thick underbrush, where the sweat on her skin immediately congealed. Breath came more easily. Branches rustled above, evidence of that canopy highway
used by small mammals, some of whom never came to ground level, she'd heard.
She entered a tended field where the path was built up by layers of canes and woody stems. The byway was above the level of the plantings, the staple langva, an unusual, ruddy-hued plant with edible tubers and leaves. Hoda labor here was supplemented by the efforts of proper Dassa, both men and women, for the hoda population was not large enough to give the fields over entirely to slave labor. The hoda's primary task was directed to the most precious crop of the Dassa: their children.
Smiling and waving at field-workers, who murmured her name as she passed, she took a side path. The temperature was at least twenty degrees cooler in the deep shade. Up ahead was a fallen tree limb that would serve as a chair. It was quiet here, and shielded from the langva field by a line of trees. Bailey rested. A deep sigh came up through her body.
She hadn't realized until this moment that she was happy here, in this land of rivers and huts. Unaccustomed as she was to the outdoors, to forests, the beauty of it made her feel like singing.
Perhaps just one little song. After all, there was no one to hear. She opened her mouth. A few notes came out, and faded into the lush green foliage. Ah, Mozart. She began again. Stopped. Then she let it come out, a song she had sung many times, in an earlier age. The haunting “Vedrai, carino,” from
Don Giovanni.
Bailey held her throat. The gesture stopped her song. This was not what she should be doing. But wasn't it fine to spill notes into the air? And such notes: her beloved Mozart. She stood up, relaxing her diaphragm. She sang louder, oh, yes,
crescendo. Con bravura.
Doloroso.
The notes faded.
A green silence descended. She had forgotten her vow. The vow was important; it was penance.
She turned, hearing a noise. Several hoda were peering
at her from the bushes, their bald heads looking like the polished gourds of some strange tree. They wanted to hear. By their eyes they did want to hear. It was a group of a half-dozen hoda. An audience …
And so she sang again, for these women, these girls, remembering how far more satisfying it was to sing for someone other than yourself. She looked into the rapt faces of her audience. Some of them were so young. Like Remy having died young. Her daughter. Or was it her sister?
Oh my girl, it is with your voice that I sing. But it's because of your voice that I must not sing…
Her voice trailed off. It was all so confusing. Standing, she said to them, “I don't sing.” What a ridiculous thing to say, when she had just done that very thing. They kept gazing at her with those looks of surprise and admiration. “Please,” she murmured, brushing the dust from her slacks, “please just go away I'm terribly sorry, but I don't sing anymore.” A mistake had been made. Worse, there were witnesses.
The hoda began moving forward, out of the trees, reassembling closer to her, waiting for another song. She waved them off, charging through the barrier of women, rushing down the path, away from them.
Those hoda with the enthralled expressions. People were so quick to admire, to confer celebrity. She had had enough—more than enough—admiration. One should have to earn such a thing. And she
would
earn it. It was what her whole mission was for. To do the one good thing.
If people would just leave her alone to get on with it.
Anton and Nick wound their way through the inner compound and across the east bridge over the inlet. Soldiers were moving in the palace, deploying to the border, to meet a Voi incursion. The king was leading the troops, as he did occasionally.
At the entrance to the baths, they found the communal
room empty. Nick and Anton judged that this time of the morning was the best time to clean up, when most Dassa were attending to their morning duty of the variums. The vaulted room held a large ceramic-lined pool with steps into the bath waters. Along the sides lay risers for sitting, and wooden scrapers to cleanse the skin.
Anton ditched his clothes and walked into the pool. The pipes feeding the bath passed over fragrant slabs of wood, infusing the room with a sandalwood scent. He submerged and came up streaming.
Nick sat on the edge of the pool, feet in the water. “She could have given us advance notice.” He was still smarting over yesterday, when the king's barge left without him, and he somehow blamed Maypong for it.
Anton wiped the water from his hair. “I've said, Nick, that she didn't know.” He looked at Nick directly. ‘And neither did I.”
Nick's face flickered with reflected light from the bath. It was a face that had once been open to him, and too often now was flat or frowning. Nick's missing out on the trip to the Quadi ruins had formed a wedge between them. There'd been no time to find him as the party set out. Nick knew that, but it made no difference to him. Meanwhile, Zhen had dated the shards of rock at 10,500 years old, placing the Quadi intervention, if that's what it was, in the time frame of the Dark Cloud's passage through Earth's system.
But they had more to worry about than the ruins. The ship reported three more crew stricken with the new virus. So far, they were keeping them transfused, keeping them hydrated. And trying new serums. Which the pathogens easily mastered …
“I've been thinking about Homish,” Nick said.
“The chief judipon,” Anton said. “He's old and infirm, according to Vidori.” Anton picked up a scraper lying on the pool's edge and began scraping his arms.
“Maybe old, but still powerful. We should give him some respect.”
Anton waved the notion away. “Vidori has already said no to this, Lieutenant.”
Nick bit the side of his cheek. “Of course he has. It's how he keeps things out of balance. The whole Olagong depends on the Three being equal. Homish is old and decrepit, time to be replaced. But Vidori won't allow the judipon to choose a new chief.” He kicked at the water. “I've been investigating. It's widely known. Only the king can approve when a chief—of the other two powers—can be deposed. It adds stability Vidori wants a weak judipon. That way his only obstacle to consolidation is Oleel.”
Anton stopped scraping, trying to deal with this idea that Nick would not let go of, his theory of Vidori as a tyrant. “Keep your eye on our goals, Nick. In Vidori we have at least one powerful ally. Offend him, and we might have none.”
But Nick was relentless. “But by befriending others, we could hedge our bets. Pay a call on Homish—make it clear where we stand.”
“But it's
not
where we stand.” They eyed each other, having come to the same chasm as before when Nick had been keen on reaching out to Oleel.
Nick said, “The judipon hoard the radio technology; they may know something.”
“They don't hoard it. Radio is new to these people, that's all.” The judipon used radio like a more reliable telephone, communicating tithe delivery times up and down the rivers so that the compounds would be ready to receive them. The broadcasts that the ship had picked up from space had been heavily laced with manifests, dates, and accounting details. The ship's language programs had pieced together a working vocabulary from these scraps, but it had been time-consuming. The judipon were no wizards of technology.
Anton went on, “I don't think anyone here is hiding information.” He ignored Nick's little smile. “We have to get out and investigate, that's all. The drone has sent back
visuals of an extensive pathway system in the uplands. That's where we'll go next.”
“We could spend forever poking around, Captain. There's the whole planet. How many of us will be left in a week, in a month?”
It was the same question they were all asking themselves.
A rustle drew their attention. Both men looked up.
It was the Lady Joon. She stood framed in the morning sunshine of an open screen, accompanied by her chancellor, Gitam. “Oh,” she exclaimed. “I did wonder why the bath was so silent.”
She and Gitam approached the edge of the bath. Joon was dressed in an elaborate robe of pale blue with silver filigree.
Anton began moving toward the pool steps. “We will leave the baths for you, Lady. Pardon us.”
Joon laughed, holding Anton's gaze. “No, but Nick may leave.”
Nick exchanged glances with Anton. Joon was taking command of the baths, as was clear when Gitam came forward with Nick's clothes and a large drying cloth.
“You're on your own, Captain,” Nick said. He hurriedly dressed, and then began backing up as Joon herded him out of the room with the skill of a sheepdog.
Anton was moving to get out of the bath, but Gitam blocked his way up the stairs.
Standing at the entryway Nick said, “Will you be needing anything else, Captain? From me?” he added, with a smirk.
“No,” Anton managed to say.
As Nick left, Joon breathed a satisfied sigh. ‘Anton,” she said. “Now we have leisure to have conversation. Would you allow me to have conversation?”
He didn't think he should say no. And she was blocking the stairs. The moment stretched out, and neither of them moved. The sound of running water from the many pipes
was the only other sound besides the distant chatter of birds in the trees outside.
Joon murmured, “I hope you will pardon that I have stumbled upon your luxury of private bathing.”
Anton doubted that she had stumbled in here. “I will dress and we can talk, Lady” he said.
She stepped closer to the water's edge. “So we can be equal, as to being dressed or not? Is that the human convention?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm. Then Gitam,” she said, turning to her aide, “kindly remove this gown.”
Gitam came forward and got busy at the fasteners in back of Joon's gown. For all the elaborations of her dress, it was quickly shed, and soon lay in a pile at Joon's feet. She stepped out, quite naked.
Her body commanded his attention. So much for Zhen's theory that the Dassa women had underdeveloped secondary sexual characteristics as a result of not bearing children. Joon was full-figured, superbly conditioned. Breathtaking.