Weight of the Heart (Bruna Husky Book 2) (18 page)

“Fine. I don’t want to argue,” Bruna said, clenching her fists. “Let’s move on to the next sector.”

The next section of the market displayed the brown and yellow colors of the Bureaucrats. After doing an entire circuit, Deuil and Bruna were amazed to confirm that only two types of products were on display: weapons and books. Along one side were spears, pikes, double-edged axes, maces with terrifying spikes, and swords so thin and so adorned with arabesques and filigree that they looked more like jewels than weapons of combat. And opposite that bristling, sharp, and menacing collection of hardware were long tables covered with books. They were printed books and no doubt recent, but they were made to look ancient, with parchment or paperboard covers and exquisitely illuminated lettering. Bruna walked over to have a look. Naturally, there were the complete works of Heriberto Labari, as well as texts that, based on their titles, appeared to be of a religious nature:
The Road to Perfection
,
The One Truth and the Truth of the One
,
Reason and Revelation
. Behind the counters, both in the armory and the library, were a handful of Bureaucrats in their striped clothes, bustling about like hardworking bumblebees.

“Curious combination of merchandise, Fred,” said the rep, thinking about what Yiannis would say at the sight of his precious books next to axes.

“No, not really. They are all instruments of power. Let me remind you that most of the citizens of the Kingdom of Labari are illiterate. Apart from the Masters and the Priests, only a few Bureaucrats know how to read and write. A book can be as dangerous as a sword, and I assume that’s why they are in the custody of these Bureaucrats in their striped clothes.”

Bruna looked at him suspiciously, unsure how to interpret the tactile’s words.

“Come on. Let’s go and see what the zone of the Masters is like,” said Deuil.

Access to the final ring was blocked by some hangings. On either side of the entrance were the now-familiar guards, looking bored. Once again they stood there deadpan as the foreigners went through the curtains. The faint sound of a lute was coming from somewhere, and the air was perfumed. The innermost circle was quite large. A straight path covered in red carpet formed the diameter of the circle. On either side, first there were two squares, also carpeted, on which some merchants with orange rings around their necks were selling their wares, and then in perfect symmetry on either side of the path were three levels of rectangular platforms, rising in such a way that the second level was higher than the first and the third was the highest of all, thus allowing the geometry of the entire ensemble to be taken in from the entrance. Standing on those platforms were slaves: men, women, children. Hundreds of them.

“It’s a slave market,” whispered Bruna.

The objects displayed for sale in the carpeted zone all had something to do with the captives. Nose and ear chains in various sizes and materials, including some gold ones with spectacular gems; tiny skirts; loincloths; a variety of harnesses. Whips, thumbscrews, branding irons. Bruna shivered.

“Of course! It’s a mandala,” exclaimed Deuil.

“A what?”

“A mandala. I’ve just realized. The whole market, this circle within the square that is the Plaza Mayor, is a mandala, a geometrical representation of the macrocosm and the microcosm common to Hinduism and Buddhism. Each part of the world, from the minute to the immense, is represented here symbolically. Everything has its exact and precise place. It’s fascinating that precisely here, in the
sancta sanctorum
, in the very heart of this market, the lords and the slaves, the highest and the lowest, come together. It’s not by chance. Because in the Kingdom of Labari it is only the Masters and the Priests who can own slaves.”

“That’s terrible, Fred.”

“True, it’s atrocious. But very interesting,” the tactile replied with a happy smile.

He started to walk down the path. After a moment’s hesitation Bruna followed him.

The first platforms were occupied by boys and girls aged no more than ten. They all wore their metal chains and were squatting silently and docilely with their heads lowered. When a buyer showed interest in one of them, the merchant would make them stand up, raise their head, and spin around. The women were on the next platform, rows and rows of them, all young and attractive, as were the male captives for sale on the highest platform. The young men and women were on their knees, seated back on their heels with their legs splayed, as if offering their genitals—barely covered by their loincloths and skimpy skirts—in what clearly was an erotic pose.

“Look at this, Reyes,” said Deuil, contemplating a thick, truncated stone pillar that seemed to mark the exact center of the market.

The rep walked over. The outside of the column was covered with inscriptions in the heavy, convoluted writing of Labaric power: “Hermógenes, Constantino, Cunderiano, Belarmino.”

“These are the nobles of the Kingdom. Masters and Priests. As I told you, there aren’t many of them, barely a couple of thousand. This is the register of them all. Look, the ones with a cross have died. In honor of Heriberto Labari, all the noblemen have the same surname. They are all Labari, so the only thing that distinguishes them is their first name, which is always long and uncommon and can never be used by another. Look who’s on here.”

Bruna crouched down to look at the place Deuil was pointing to: “Carloyarnoz,” it read. And it had a cross. She stood up.

“Well, that is something, Fred,” she snorted.

The giant slave was waiting patiently for them a few meters away.
And here I was thinking I’d be showing him the innermost circle for the first time,
said Bruna to herself. In reality, this man’s life as a captive, his wretched, bound existence, would have begun right here in this market, maybe even as a child. Poor Lobano.

24

T
he Bureaucrat for Sport in Oscaria was about forty years old and so fat that beneath his nonexistent chin a small cascade of jowls spilled down, wobbling like jelly with every movement. The last roll of flab, which ought to have fallen onto his chest, was caught up in some muslin, which, knotted on top of his head, prevented his Labaric tattoo—the thick, heavily inked
B
of his caste—from being hidden. No stretch of the imagination could possibly identify him with any sporting activity.

His office was a soulless, empty, gray-walled cube. The only pieces of furniture in the room were four ugly and uncomfortable chairs arranged in a row in front of a big, heavy wooden table, behind which the Bureaucrat was spread out. After a fairly lengthy wait in the anteroom, Tin had ushered them in and urged them to occupy two of the chairs, while the Bureaucrat shuffled papers around as if he hadn’t seen them. Finally, he lifted his head with its skirt of flesh and looked at them.

“May the Sacred Principle be your Law,” he said routinely.

He panted for a few seconds before continuing. It seemed his enormous bulk caused him to suffocate if he said more than one phrase at a time, so his speech was punctuated by arduous pauses.

“Good, good. Fred Town and Reyes Mallo, coach and basketball player,” he read from a document. “From the All Worlds Friendship Association.”

“Thank you very much,” Deuil said, “esteemed Bureaucrat for Sport in Oscaria, for—”

But it seemed the huge whale hadn’t finished; he was merely taking a breather. Ignoring Deuil, he puffed on: “May this visit serve to deepen . . . the understanding between our worlds and . . . demonstrate our good . . . faith. We hope that upon your return to Ear . . . Earth, you will be ambassadors of our friendship. The . . . serf, Tin, will take care that you . . . do not get lost in our humble and beautiful world. That is . . . all.”

The Bureaucrat buried his face in the reams of papers on his desk, and Tin, who had remained standing behind them, indicated that they should get up and then herded them somewhat nervously through the door.

“What good fortune, isn’t that so? To have been received by the Bureaucrat for Sport himself! It’s a privilege,” said the serf once they were back in the anteroom. He seemed genuinely overwhelmed with emotion, much to the rep’s consternation.

“Yes, yes, it has been an unforgettable moment,” said Deuil.

The serf had a tight program organized for them, so he hurried them out of the beehivelike headquarters of the bureaucratic secretariats of Oscaria. First they took a brief tour of the city, and then they left Bruna in a building whose interior was occupied by a huge square arena of sand similar to those of traditional riding schools. There she was received by a dozen young women, all dressed in short white tunics. The
albas
Deuil had spoken about.

“They are Rancor players, the only game for women in our world,” Tin explained. “This afternoon they’ll perform before the Minor Game. I shouldn’t be here. I’ll leave you with them so that you can enjoy some training. The esteemed Fred and I will return to pick you up in a few hours.”

He left Bruna standing there surrounded by a dozen women of intense appearance, who were not looking at her in a friendly manner.

“Let’s go to the arena,” ordered the tallest of them, a blond who, with her very pale-blue, slightly crossed eyes and almost impossibly white skin was almost an albino. She had the
A
of an artisan tattooed in the hollow of her neck.

They all walked onto the sand, and the young women placed themselves in a circle around Bruna and the blond.

“You are a basketball player. I don’t know what that is. I was born on Labari,” said the blond arrogantly.

Given the complete isolation of the Ones, anyone who had not been alive prior to the Constitution of the Floating World was totally ignorant of the outside world.

“But I assume you are a good athlete,” added the young woman, clearly their leader, as she began to circle the rep. “You are tall. And strong. You are in good shape. At least your body is in good shape. Let us see if your spirit is, too. We know you Earthlings are all very weak. You are corrupt and ignorant. You are lost because you arrogantly and stubbornly refuse to accept the Truth.”

Bruna sighed and tried to ensure that her face didn’t reveal her profound irritation.

The blond continued slowly circling the rep as she spoke, trying to bait Bruna into also circling so as not to lose sight of her. It was a very old power game, a small act of barracks bravado. Nothing compared with Bruna’s two years of obligatory military service. So she crossed her arms over her chest and stood still, looking in front of her with a bored expression.

“Rancor is a spiritual game. I represent the Master. There’ll be a real Master this afternoon, maybe a Priest. But this is just training. You have to obey everything I say. You have to manage to do whatever I order you to do, no matter what happens. Are you ready?”

Bruna shrugged her shoulders.

“Very good. Watch me.”

The blond breathed in deeply, closed her eyes, and exhaled slowly. Her arms fell by her sides, and her body seemed to tense and relax itself at the same time, a state of serene alertness that Bruna knew well and which she reached easily before times of combat. The young woman raised her eyelids, although her gaze continued to focus on some place within her. She balanced her body and then with elegant ease performed a handstand on top of the sand. Her short tunic revealed a pair of white shorts, and long, pallid thighs even whiter than the clothes she was wearing. Once she was absolutely straight, she lifted her left arm and remained balanced on the right one. Her movements were calm, smooth, natural, and seemingly effortless. Then the blond closed her right fist in the sand and supported herself on her knuckles. A slight vibration in her body, a subtle tension, and the young woman lifted herself up onto the second phalanges of her hand. A moment later, before Bruna’s astonished eyes she opened her hand and supported herself on a triangle formed by the index, third, and fourth fingers of her right hand. She held herself in this position for a few seconds and, lowering her legs gracefully to the ground, stood up. A faint blush was lighting up her ghostly cheeks, but she looked fresh, and there was no obvious sign of fatigue.

“I want you to do that,” said the young woman.

“To be honest, I don’t think I can.”

“Try it.”

Supporting herself on only one hand was very easy. Next Bruna inhaled a few times, concentrated, felt the ground under her fingers, and tried to visualize step by step the movements she had to make. Focusing all her senses, she closed her right hand on the sand, managed to support herself on her fist, swayed until she recovered her balance, repositioned her fingers, and to her amazement found herself doing a handstand on her knuckles. A thud of delight similar to a smile began to warm her chest, but at that very moment, before she could enjoy her small triumph her legs were pushed, and she fell full length onto the sand.

Furious, she turned over, jumped up, and shouted, “Why did you do that?”

“Because that’s how the exercise works. Do it again,” ordered the young woman.

The rep felt her blood boil but tried to calm herself. She inhaled a few times and did another handstand. This time she was pushed over as soon as she was balanced on one arm. The fall was spectacular, and she sat looking at the girl, too angry to speak.

“Do it again.”

Bruna was so charged with adrenaline that she did the exercise too quickly, and when she tried to close her hand and balance on her knuckles she fell of her own accord without any assistance. She stood up and walked around the arena, trying to rid herself of her anger, while the other players silently watched her.

“Do it again.”

Bruna could have pummeled her. But she contained herself. Moreover, she again made an enormous effort to concentrate and managed to repeat her earlier success and balanced on her knuckles. This time the blond cut across Bruna’s arm with the edge of her hand, and the rep fell facedown in the sand. She leaped up. The grains of sand had scraped her forehead and her cheek, and Bruna was afraid that it might have lifted the dermosilicone that was covering her tattoo. Mad with rage, the rep threw herself at the albino and grabbed her by the throat. The blond didn’t even move: she gazed at her mockingly with her icy, pale eyes. Bruna restrained herself with difficulty. She could feel waves of aggression and hypercontrol running up and down her veins, a spasm of fire and a chill. She released the woman’s neck.

“Malena,” called out the blond without taking her eyes off Bruna.

From among the young women, one of the youngest—maybe sixteen—took a step forward and easily repeated the exercise the leader had performed earlier. When she was on her knuckles, the albino placed her foot on the girl’s stomach and shoved her so hard that the girl flew a few meters. Unperturbed, she stood up and calmly, scrupulously, and with precision began the exercise again, with the same movements. She tried it four, five, six times. Each time the leader made her lose her balance, using varying degrees of violence. Finally, she allowed the girl to complete the exercise and remain balanced in that miraculous, impossible position on her three fingers.

“The game of Rancor is won when you dispense with your individualistic and ignorant rage, when you carry out what you are ordered to do with total purity, with your mind free of doubts and anger, when you accept fully that the Truth cannot be understood through reason and that your strength is in your total submission.”

As she was saying this, the blond was making her way toward Malena, who was still holding her position. Then she took a thin metal stick about thirty centimeters long from her girdle and, crouching down, aimed a quick, brutal blow at the girl’s middle finger. The dreadful crunch of bones breaking could be heard. Malena whimpered, swayed, and it briefly looked as if she was going to collapse. But she recovered and managed to stabilize herself for a second on her index and ring fingers. Then she allowed herself to land on her feet, almost as pale as the albino, but with a calm expression, holding her hand to her chest as you would a small bird. A terrifying achievement, an impossibly heroic feat.

“You see,” said the blond leader with a cruel smile of victory. “This is strength of spirit. The power of the One Truth is invincible. Now tell me what you basketball players do.”