Weight of the Heart (Bruna Husky Book 2) (16 page)

22

T
he brilliantly forged documents provided by Preciado Marlagorka cleared the ele-port security without any problems. A man was waiting for them at the exit to the building brandishing an old-fashioned handwritten sign above his head that said, “Fred Town, Reyes Mallo.” The tactile and the rep walked up to him and identified themselves.

“May the Sacred Principle be your Law,” the man hastened to say as he bowed his head ritualistically. “Have sir and madam had a pleasant ascent?”

Of course, Bruna recalled, on the Kingdom of Labari they still used the polite forms of address and the old expressions of courtesy.

“Yes, everything was fine,” said the rep.

The man didn’t even give her a glance.

“It was boring but comfortable,” said Deuil.

“I’m so pleased, sir. I’m here to accompany you to your lodging. My name is Tin.”

He was one of the ugliest men Bruna had ever seen, though to be fair the habitual use of plastic surgery on Earth had radically reduced the variety of facial features and with it tolerance for the unharmonious. The man must still be young, but his features seemed old and worn, with evasive, bulging eyes and pale skin dotted with eczema and pink blotches. He was dressed in a shapeless tunic of indeterminate color somewhere between purple and brown. He had short hair and a long goatee split into halves and tied off at the bottom of each end with a thin cord.

They exited the ele-port, and both Bruna and the tactile stopped to have a look around. They knew they were inside a huge pneumatic tire that rotated on its axis to create artificial gravity, but the movement was imperceptible and the space so vast that it mimicked the landscape on Earth quite effectively. The surface where people lived ran around the inside of the tube at the farthest point from the axis; the sky and artificial sun were above them. Bruna could well remember the dawns, dusks, and nights from her previous visit. The surroundings had been designed in a semirural, archaic style, with trees, huts, pseudomedieval towns and castles. If you looked carefully, you could see that the horizon was closer than on Earth and that it curved upward rather than downward. And when you looked along the length of the wheel, the sky and the ground came together in an unusual way.

“Tremendous,” said Deuil. “It’s lovely.”

“You think so?”

It reminded Bruna of the antiquated set of an opera—she had seen three or four of them with Yiannis. But she didn’t say it out loud, because a basketball player such as Reyes would never have attended such a decadent show.

The temperature was rather fresh, a constant eighteen degrees Celsius. But given Bruna’s finely tuned sense of smell, she found that the worst thing was the odor, a light but penetrating stink of putrefaction: it was all that hermetic and infinitely recycled air. She sniffed; she would be used to it in a couple of hours.

“This way, if you please. This is our vehicle.”

It was a light wooden cart with four seats and four wheels—two big ones and two small ones. The shaft consisted of six transverse bars, to which were yoked six well-built young men wearing nothing more than loincloths. Their heads were shaved, and little metal chains linked their earlobes to their nostrils and then fell loosely over their chests.

“The ele-port is in the capital, Oscaria, so our trip will be short. We use Heriberto’s Finger to travel to the more distant cities,” Tin explained, pointing to a sort of dark-colored tube that ran through the landscape and disappeared into the distance.

Thanks to the documents provided by Yiannis, Bruna knew that a bullet train ran inside that tunnel around the entire ring. She also knew that there was no real gap between the so-called cities, that the entire Kingdom was evenly inhabited and very densely populated. Accommodating five to seven hundred million people on an artificial platform was no minor feat.

They placed their cases on the empty seat and got into the cart. Tin clapped his hands, and the slaves set off at a walk, edging onto the busy roadway and gradually working their way up to a steady trot. There were other vehicles on the road, pulled by one, two, four, or six slaves, some transporting goods and others passengers, but most people were walking. They all wore the same unattractive clothes, but there was a range of colors. The shapeless garments came down to their shins and were tied at the waist with a girdle.

“The color indicates the caste,” said Deuil. “Look, our Tin is a serf. The blue tunic belongs to artisans, the green to traders, and the black to the militia. You’ll see that the soldiers’ tunics are shorter. Then there are clothes made out of better quality material, with yellow and brown stripes, of which there aren’t many. Look, over there at the back; there’s one. Those are the bureaucrats. Secretaries of the Kingdom. At least that’s what I’ve read. I studied the archives before I came.”

“Sir has learned his lessons well,” said Tin.

Bruna had to admit, somewhat uneasily, that the tactile knew a lot more about Labari than she did thanks to his anthropological studies. She was mortified by the superiority he gained from this, but she couldn’t contain her curiosity.

“What color do doctors wear, Fred?” Bruna said. “What about intellectuals and athletes?”

“If I’m not mistaken, doctors belong to the merchant caste. Athletes are intercastes—they can come from any caste. The white tunics they wear belong to the
albos
, people who have temporarily removed themselves from their caste for one reason or another. As to intellectuals, it depends on what you understand by that term. Wisdom, knowledge, genuine art, refinement—here these are all the province of the aristocracy, which is divided into two branches: Masters and Priests, except for the King, who is also the Supreme Priest. Look, I think there’s a Master coming our way now.”

He was unmistakable. For starters he was on horseback and flanked by two huge dogs, the only animals the rep had seen so far. He was around fifty or sixty, no plastic surgery, and his wrinkled and haughty face with a fierce and primitive look reminded Bruna of the gorilla she’d seen in the virtual arcade. His long gray hair was tied at the nape of his neck into a limp ponytail that hung down to his butt. His clothing was indescribably colorful and opulent: a tight green jacket so intricately embroidered with gold thread that you could barely see the velvet, an orange silk shirt peeping out at the chest and sleeves, a deep-red vest that only displayed its pointed ends, and green breeches with orange and gold trim. He looked like an iridescent bumblebee in the midst of the plebs’ dreary tunics. People respectfully made way for him as he passed by, and the carriage in which they were traveling also moved over to the side. The Master looked at them with a curiosity not devoid of disdain and continued on his way. Then Bruna noticed that behind the horse walked not only the two huge mastiffs but also a girl. Aside from a very short leather skirt, she was almost naked. Her breasts were exposed, and she had the familiar shaved skull and the chains, this time of gold, linking her nostrils and her ears. The young girl also had a leather collar with gold rivets around her neck, and a long leash that tied her to the horse’s rump.

“Clearly the Master’s favorite slave,” said Tin with indulgent admiration. “She’s lucky.”

Deuil gave Bruna a meaningful look, and the rep managed to restrain herself, not saying a word. Most of the women covered their heads and faces completely with semitransparent veils that matched the color of their tunics. Some were hobbled at the ankles with a braided cloth that kept them from separating their feet any wider than forty centimeters, forcing them to walk with very short steps.

“What does that mean?” asked Bruna. The hobbles had already caught her attention during her previous brief and calamitous visit.

“That means they are married women,” said Deuil.

“All married women have their ankles shackled?”

“Oh no, no. It’s the husband’s prerogative. Naturally, if the woman has to undertake some work activity, her husband usually brings her along unrestrained,” said Tin, making sure to keep his head down and avoid eye contact with Bruna.

Between the two separated ends of his goatee, the tattoo he had in the hollow of his neck, a letter
S
, was clearly visible, done with lots of oppressive and contorted ink, with the edges turned inward. The Labaric power script—Bruna shivered as she recognized it. She looked at the other people. They all had their letter at the base of their neck and it was clearly visible: the men were either clean shaven or they tied back their beards, like Tin, to leave a gap, and even the women’s veils were shortened a little under their chins, leaving their necks exposed—
C
for captive slaves,
A
for artisans,
T
for traders,
M
for militia,
B
for bureaucrat.

“That tattoo you have is the
S
for serf, right?” said Bruna. “It’s a letter of power.”

The man bowed his head even lower.

“This letter is my essence. Thanks to it I know my place in the world. This letter makes me pure and protects me. Blessed be the One Principle.”

“May it be blessed,” said Deuil, giving Bruna a quick sharp glance.

The rep looked at him with some irritation. Deuil probably wanted to remind her how inappropriate it was on Labari for a woman to address a man, but she decided to continue her interrogation.
Prejudices be damned.

“Right, may it be blessed. But that tattoo was done by a priest, right?”

Tin’s forehead was almost touching his knees as he bent over even further.

“When we reach puberty, we men spend three days fasting, isolated in the Houses of Maturity. During that period we drink only water, and we read only the Sacred Books of the Founder. On the third night at midnight precisely, we’re taken before the Priest of our diocese, and he marks us with his wisdom and his power and makes us complete men.”

“And the women?”

“The same thing, except that on that same last night, after they’ve been tattooed they are deflowered by their Master,” Tin said, before lifting his head with obvious relief. “Ah, we’ve arrived!”

“Reyes Mallo, you are very foolhardy,” Deuil whispered. “Here women don’t speak to men unless the men give their permission. But our poor serf obviously felt obliged to answer you, given that you’re a guest of the Kingdom. Not only that but you made him share the details of his most revered rituals with you! I think the poor man was about to have a stroke.”

Bruna shrugged her shoulders grumpily. They unloaded their luggage, and with the cases rolling along behind them like docile dogs—which amazed the Labarians walking past—they entered a stone house with Gothic-style lead-glass windows.

“This is the Inn of Rightful Repose, one of the best in the city,” said Tin proudly.

They were in a room of average dimensions in which there was a huge stone fireplace with a fire burning in it. It had a pair of long wooden tables with long benches. Everything was clean but cheerless. A husband and wife were having lunch at one of the tables. Their blue tunics showed they were artisans. A low lintel framed the opening to what appeared to be the kitchen. A man with red hair, a paunch, and one eye half-closed emerged from the kitchen wearing a green tunic.
Another spectacularly ugly character,
Bruna thought to herself. He had a
T
tattooed on his neck.

“Burgher Chemón, I’m bringing you some guests invited by the Kingdom—Fred Town, a coach, and Reyes Mallo, an athlete.”

“Good, good. Yes, I was expecting them. Their rooms are upstairs. Luggage,” he said, gesturing to the two female serfs, wearing neither veils nor hobbles, who had also emerged.

The serfs grabbed the bags and rushed to carry them up some stone stairs at the back of the room. Tin made his farewell. They had the rest of the day off to recover from their ascent. He would come to pick them up at eight the next morning to take them to a meeting with the Bureaucrat for Sport in Oscaria. In the afternoon they would attend a gathering for the Minor Game at a place called Campo Real. The Major Game and the Minor Game were the national sports.

After Tin departed, the innkeeper offered them a snack. “If you sit down, I can provide you with something to eat. You must be feeling hungry.”

“Yes, we are. Thank you,” said Bruna.

“Many thanks, Burgher Chemón. We accept gladly,” Deuil replied, bowing his head.

They sat at the empty table, as far as possible from the artisan couple.

“Let me do the talking. I remind you that they aren’t used to having women address them directly. They’ll accept it from you because you’re a foreigner, but you place them in an uncomfortable situation,” the tactile insisted in a low voice.

“Fine. Fine! I’ll try,” grumbled the rep.

The serfs brought bread, cheese, sweet onions, boiled potatoes, a bowl of rice with small pieces of some unrecognizable meat, a jug of water and another of red wine. Bruna asked if they had white wine, but no, they didn’t. All the food looked very attractive and was served on simple china plates. It looked genuine, too, but the flavors were insipid, monotonous, and unpleasant, worse than the dishes on Earth made from jellyfish. It was clearly synthetic food, and who knew where they got it on this Floating World of limited resources?