Weight of the Heart (Bruna Husky Book 2) (17 page)

“I fear we’re going to be caught up all day tomorrow with official activities connected to our visit,” said Bruna despondently. “We should take advantage of this afternoon to try and get some information about Yárnoz. We don’t even know if he lives in Oscaria.”

“It shouldn’t be too hard. You said that Yárnoz had a ponytail. So he is a Master, and there aren’t that many of them. What’s more, they’re vain. They don’t hide themselves—quite the opposite. He’ll have left a trail; you’ll see.”

Just then the artisan couple stood up and got ready to leave. The man went into the kitchen, presumably to pay. The woman, patient and discreet, waited for him. She was very close to the corner of the table where Deuil and Bruna were sitting, so the rep could observe her carefully. She was about fifty and wasn’t wearing a veil, but her ankles were hobbled. She had a pleasant, intelligent countenance and short hair with kiss curls around her face. The eyes of the rep and the woman met, and the artisan smiled with friendly modesty.

“Excuse me. Forgive me for asking, friend. I’m a foreigner and I don’t know. But do you not feel unhappy being obliged to have your feet tied together?”

Deuil gave a start, and the woman looked at Bruna, astonished.

“It’s nothing like that, madam,” she said haughtily, holding her head up high. “Quite the opposite. The hobble indicates that my husband provides for me and I don’t have to work. Many women would like to wear one. It’s an honor.”

The husband returned, and the woman followed him out into the street, walking with little birdlike steps, very pleased with herself.

“You don’t understand a thing, Reyes.”

“I don’t think there’s much to understand, Fred.”

“That is precisely your first problem.”

23

W
hen they finished their bland meal, they went to their rooms to unpack. These were two tiny, identical adjoining rooms with wooden floors, a small, high bed, a trunk for their belongings, a shelf, and a table with a basin and matching jug. The last two proved to be as contrived and as pseudomedieval as everything else, since the bedrooms shared a comprehensive and modern bathroom with a vapor shower and an automatic recycling system. A hyperpopulated Floating World couldn’t afford to have a poor water and organic waste management system.

They left the Inn of Rightful Repose ready to take advantage of what was left of the afternoon. They didn’t know where to go, but the innkeeper advised them to head for Plaza Mayor, the main square.

“Today is the Day of Belonging and the day of the Great Market. It’s a good place to see what our kingdom is like.”

“Belonging?” Deuil said.

“Yes. In our world the days are grouped into units of ten, decenaries, not weeks,” Burgher Chemón explained solemnly. “The first day of the unit is Obedience, which is followed by Belonging, Certainty, Humility, Acceptance, Devotion, Purity, Reverence, Sacrifice, and lastly, Great Faith, which is a day of celebration. These are the markers of our One Creed. The great truths.”

The overall concept seemed somewhat horrifying, but a visit to the market appeared to be as good a plan as any, so they headed off in that direction. They no sooner had left the building than Bruna noticed they were being followed by a huge slave whose skin was so black it almost looked blue. She pointed him out to Deuil.

“How stupid,” said Deuil. “The man is doing nothing to hide the fact that he’s spying on us. He has such an imposing figure that it does nothing to help him conceal his presence.”

“He’s not trying to go unnoticed. The Labarians want us to know they’re watching us.”

It will make it harder to track down Yárnoz,
thought Bruna. Although when she’d accepted the deal, she’d already known that it was going to be a dangerous mission. The rep suppressed a shiver. Labari’s sinister society made her very uneasy, and her previous bad experience only increased her anxiety. But she didn’t convey her concerns to the tactile. She had the feeling that the Ones—as the Labarians referred to themselves—didn’t make Deuil as uncomfortable as they did her. Of course, after investing so many hours of his life in studying the topic, perhaps it was inevitable that he would end up feeling a certain affinity for them.

Plaza Mayor was an enormous square, and the market was a permanent circular structure that occupied its center. Successive rows of fake wooden columns were placed in ever-smaller concentric circles. Embroidered tapestries stretched between the columns acted as walls, dividing the market into a series of onionlike rings, which became progressively smaller in size. The roof was a sand-colored muslin awning, which filtered the light. Each ring or sector was linked to the next by a narrow open space guarded by two soldiers. The two on guard at the main entrance looked at Bruna and Deuil in bewilderment when they tried to enter.

“Which caste do you belong to?” asked the older one, confused, as he checked them out from head to toe.

Deuil put his hand on Bruna’s forearm, urging her to remain silent as he said, “We don’t belong to any caste. We’re from Earth. We’re guests of the Kingdom of Labari.”

“Why should I believe that? You’re not coming in here unless you can verify what you say,” growled the guard, grabbing the shaft of his spear with both hands and turning it to a horizontal position to create a barrier.

The other soldier hurried to do the same. Bruna sized them up with a quick professional glance: the older one was fifty, the younger one, thirtyish; shorter than her but well built; apart from spears, they also each had a short sword and a double-edged ax hanging from their belts. The older one was clearly the more dangerous of the two, covered with scars that showed good survival skills. The rep thought she could handle them, although the exotic atmosphere of the Floating World might well cause her to overlook factors relevant to combat. Moreover, if Reyes Mallo, basketball player, got into a fight with the soldiers, her disguise would go down the drain. She sighed and tried to relax. Her adrenaline always flowed at the slightest indication of physical confrontation.

“Look, we’re Fred Town and Reyes Mallo, sports coach and basketball player,” said Deuil. “We’re staying at the Inn of Rightful Repose. You can call and ask Burgher Chemón, the innkeeper.”

“Call? Call how? By shouting?” scoffed the soldier.

“Oh yes, of course. I forgot you don’t have mobiles here. You could send someone to the inn.”

As Deuil spoke, the enormous slave approached the entrance and, hands clasped in front of his titan’s chest, bowed deeply, offering the back of his exposed shaved neck to the soldier.

“May the Sacred Principle be your Law. Sir, I humbly ask permission to speak.”

“Speak.”

“I am Lobano, slave of Gumersindo. My Master has commanded me to shadow these foreigners. I know that they are who they say they are and that they are guests of the Kingdom. This is my ring of free movement,” he said, still looking down at the ground but displaying a strange braided metal band he was wearing on one of his hands.

“Fine. You can leave,” said the now-frowning soldier.

The black slave stood up and withdrew, walking backward with his head still slightly lowered. The scarred soldier looked at Bruna and Deuil with the clear resentment of someone whose authority had been undermined.

“Put these around your necks,” he said, rudely tossing them two orange felt rings he grabbed from a pile of different colors on the ground. “Give them back to me when you leave!”

Furious, he stepped aside, and the two entered the precinct. The first ring was jammed with small commercial stalls selling fruit, cheeses, pieces of something resembling meat—though the rep wasn’t convinced—bunches of herbs, sandals, ladles made out of the same fake wood seen everywhere, crude stools, tin cups, and a host of other articles, many of them unrecognizable at first glance. All the vendors were serfs, and male. A river of people was moving incessantly from one stall to the next, and the crowd seemed to include representatives of every caste, even a few slaves with large wicker baskets doing the shopping.

“Come on, let’s go to the next circle and see what’s there,” said Deuil.

The soldiers standing guard at the entrance glanced at their collars and didn’t even move. The two Earthlings entered the next ring, where the color blue dominated, both in the tapestry walls and in the vendors’ tunics. Artisans. Here there were also domestic utensils, but they were clearly of a better quality: carved forks of finely polished wood, and cups made of glazed and painted pottery. There wasn’t any food, but apart from that they seemed to sell the same items as in the previous ring, though in much more refined versions. So they offered boots and ankle boots, for example, where the other precinct sold only rustic sandals and wooden clogs.

“I don’t see any serfs here or slaves,” commented Bruna.

“Look, there’s a serf over there. But yes, he’s wearing a ring like ours around his neck, only it’s blue.”

“Are sir and madam the sports delegation from Earth?”

They were beside a small stall selling belts. The artisan who was selling them, a lanky character aged about fifty, smiled at them obsequiously, displaying his long yellow horsey teeth.

“How do you know?” asked Deuil.

“My son is an
albo
. He’s an athlete and plays the Minor Game. He spoke to me about your visit and said that you’ll be going to Campo Real tomorrow to see him play,” he said proudly.

“You’re well informed.”

The artisan’s smile increased. His incisors were enormous.
How does he get all those teeth into his mouth when it’s closed?
wondered Bruna.

“I overheard sir and madam, and it struck me that you might like to know a few things about the market.”

“Yes, please.”

“Not all the inhabitants of Labari can circulate throughout the entire market, as each individual has his place. As the Sacred Principle harmoniously orders, the first ring is the only one open to everybody. Neither serfs nor slaves can enter the second one—this one—unless they receive special authorization, in which case they are provided with a felt collar. The color of the felt collar determines which rings they can access.”

The artisan was looking only at Deuil as he spoke, and Bruna, sunk in Labari’s female invisibility, opted to browse through the items in the man’s stall. There were decorated, embossed, and patterned leather belts, girdles woven artistically with esparto strips, and embroidered linen sashes. There were also hobbles. Some were made of fine, flexible leather, while others were made from braided cloth, like the one worn by the woman at the inn. Bruna picked up one. The cuffs were lined with soft, spongy material to protect the ankles.

“I see the esteemed delegates have orange felt, which means total access. You can get right to the heart of the market, which is the ring of the Masters and the Priests. I’ve never been there. I can’t go beyond this ring, although I’ve accessed the next one a couple of times on an errand. Does madam want a hobble? The one you are holding is the best one. A very good choice, if you’ll allow me to say.”

“No, no, no,” Bruna said hastily, putting the merchandise back in its place. “Thank you.”

“That’s a pity. It’s a very good one. Elegant, comfortable, and light. I made it myself,” he said, flashing another toothy, horsey smile.

Deuil and Bruna thanked the artisan and bade him farewell. The rep noticed the black slave, with his orange safe-conduct pass around his neck, standing a few meters away, ready to follow them into the next ring, and thought with some satisfaction that thanks to them Lobano might have the opportunity to access the innermost ring, the privileged bastion of the Masters, for the first time.

The next ring featured the green color of the traders. Here the objects for sale were not displayed on blankets or linen spread out on the ground but on tables and counters. There were exquisite tapestries stretched out carefully on their frames to show off their design, jewels set in gold and silver with unusual and intricate details, velvet doublets with satin slashes, veils as delicate as a thought, landscape paintings, lutes encrusted with mother-of-pearl, and plates of such translucent porcelain that when placed in front of a candle they showed glimpses of the ghostly silhouette of Heriberto Labari. The sellers were all traders, and among the buyers were Bureaucrats, Masters, and a few Priests. The Priests were clearly recognizable in their purple tunics made of fine wool or silk, similar in design to those of the plebs but much better cut, and tied tightly at the waist with girdles of gold thread. A noblewoman with an apricot-colored muslin scarf falling over her face like a summer shadow stopped to look at some bronze bracelets that looked like cuffs. Few women were to be seen in the market, and almost all of these were serfs, and then only in the first circle.

“How strange, Fred. All these objects are undoubtedly the work of great artisans. Why are the traders selling them? Why are the few artisans I see here wearing felt collars around their necks?”

Deuil reflected for a moment before saying, “I think it has to do with the Labarians’ obsession with acceptance of one’s rightful place. They see the world in a different way to us. They see themselves as a pyramid. The few superior individuals at the top are the ones who shape the society and guarantee perpetual harmony and perpetual order. So I suppose that what’s important here: Who is going to acquire these goods? Who are the people who merely by existing allow and encourage the attainment of this refinement? The nobility. On the other hand, the traders play an essential role. They are the ones charged with bringing the exquisite raw materials with which these products are made from the ends of the world and from Earth. These works of art exist only because there are noblemen worthy of them. Then because there is a merchant who procures them. The artisans reside on a lower level.”

“Fred, at times it strikes me that you understand them too well.”

“My dear Reyes, what sort of a comment is that?” said the tactile, raising his eyebrows mockingly. He grabbed Bruna by the arm and, stretching a little, deposited a kiss on the rep’s cheek, and then put his mouth close to her ear. His whispered comment came wrapped in his warm breath. “I remind you that I’m an anthropologist. That’s what anthropologists do: make an effort to understand the community they are studying.”

He took a step back and looked at her gravely.

“But understanding does not imply justifying. Although, what were we talking about? You find the caste system repugnant? Fine. So do I. But what happens on Earth? We don’t have castes, of course. We’re much more democratic, more civilized. But there are first- and second-class citizens, subcitizens even, who live badly in territories so contaminated that the ambient toxins are killing them because they can’t afford to pay the taxes in the clean-air zones. Never mind the marginalization of the technohumans and the aliens. I imagined that you, friend Reyes, would be more empathetic with all this.”