Weight of the Heart (Bruna Husky Book 2) (21 page)

28

B
runa awoke with a start in Deuil’s bed. She was alone. She glanced at her mobile: 11:00. Tin would be picking them at 12:00 to take them to a lunch with the Minor Game players. She jumped up, had a quick vapor shower, and went to her room. Her mind was a whirlwind of activity: the previous night’s conversation with Nuyts, the taste of the tactile, the terrifying painting of the screaming specter, Daniel’s husky voice whispering in her ear, the need to find a way of concealing the picture in order to get it off Labari, Deuil entering her. Her throat tightened. Where was Deuil? She got dressed in a clean jumpsuit and changed her contact lenses; they’d been bothering her ever since she’d put them back in at the musician’s house. She lit a candle and carefully burned the lenses she’d taken out. Next she wrapped the rolled-up picture in her dirty clothes and put it in the bottom of her luggage. It wasn’t very subtle, but she was strapped for time, and she still had to find the tactile. She went down to the ground floor. There were a dozen merchants and artisans scattered around the two big tables, eating and chatting. She stuck her head into the kitchen.

“Have you seen Fred Town, the other guest from Earth, the man who’s traveling with me?” she asked the two serf girls working at the stoves.

One of them pointed outside without saying anything. The rep walked to the door and looked outside. Deuil was seated in the lotus position on a small patch of land under a stunted tree opposite the inn, his hands on his knees and his eyes closed. Bruna watched him briefly, so still and relaxed, as if he were an offering to her, and again felt the stirring of desire. But she quickly suppressed it and went over to him.

“Fred.”

The tactile didn’t move.

“Fred!”

There was still no response, so Bruna bent over next to him and whispered, “Daniel. Daniel!”

She shook him gently by the shoulder. Deuil suddenly opened his eyes, now very blue, a cold fire. A look so distant and unfathomable that Bruna suddenly felt a stab of inexplicable fear. But Daniel was already smiling, and in his gesture toward her there was even affection. The rep grunted and felt ashamed at her alarm, at her irrational fear of men.

“Hi, Reyes.”

“Hi, Fred.”

“I was meditating for a while.”

“So I see. Tin is coming to fetch us now.”

“I know. I’m ready.”

The tactile stood up and picked up his backpack.

“By the way, have a look at what I’ve got.”

He took a piece of folded felt out of his bag and unfolded it. It had a colorful geometric design embroidered on it.

“It’s a mandala. An artisan was selling it near here.”

Bruna glanced at it dispassionately and said, “Very pretty.”

“It’s well made. It even has a lining, so you can’t see the embroidery knots.”

As he was saying this, the tactile showed her the reverse side, which was covered with a thick, rough fabric, and pointed to one corner that was unstitched. Bruna’s eyes opened wide: it was perfect, absolutely perfect. They’d be able to put the cardboard with the picture Nuyts had given them in there.

“Very pretty,” she repeated much more enthusiastically.

The tactile smiled and headed for the inn, saying, “I’m going to leave it in my room. Look, here comes Tin.”

“Fred, you’re limping.”

“Yes. After all that it looks as if the foot wasn’t properly healed for our training session.”

This time they went to the facilities of the Minor Game team of Oscaria, which were similar to those used by the young women but bigger. They were in the city but quite far out, so they caught the Heriberto’s Finger, which carried suburban trains as well as long-distance expresses. The Finger was an efficient and clean mode of transportation. It didn’t have all the latest technological advances, but was modern enough to be totally at odds with the rest of the Kingdom. One more contradiction among the countless incongruities of this world.

The meeting with the players could have been interesting, but both the meal and the training they were offered were completely lacking in spontaneity. All the players repeated the same phrases; they all praised the supreme harmony of the One Principle, always just and magnanimous, even if humans in their small-mindedness were unable to comprehend its vast and enigmatic designs. Fanaticism diminished their minds. And the same thing happened afterward when they met the serfs of the Bureaucrat for Sport who were charged with recruiting novices for the Games. They all fervently claimed it was the Sacred Principle that indicated to them which child they should choose. Finally, they visited the schools for novices, and that was the most distressing experience of all: dozens of young boys in white tunics answering their questions as one and chanting dogma.

It was a long day. After the intensity of the previous night, they were exhausted, and worrying about their next meeting with Nuyts made them tense. Deuil was friendly but distant, as if nothing had happened between them, and that was Bruna’s attitude as well. They were back at the inn by 19:00, got changed, and went back out again immediately, this time through the front entrance, as it was still too early and the violet light of the fake dusk was still illuminating the world. They jogged as quickly as they could toward the Blue Hill, but Deuil’s limp became more and more pronounced. They arrived at about 21:00, almost an hour late. Night had well and truly fallen, and candlelight shone through the window slits.

“Frank will be worried. He’ll think we’re not coming,” said Bruna as they made for the front door.

As soon as the rep saw the half-open door, she imagined the worst.

“Fred, get behind me,” she hissed, taking out her small plasma Beretta.

She pushed open the door, and there was the musician lying on the floor in the middle of the room. They entered cautiously without a word. There was no need to get too close to know that he was dead. His throat was cut so deeply that his head had almost been sliced off, and he was lying in an unnatural and impossible position. He looked artificial, grotesque, the perfect example of a vanquished body. He was lying in a big pool of congealed blood. Still holding her gun, Bruna told Deuil not to move and quickly and efficiently inspected the little house. There was nobody there. She returned to the body and crouched down to touch it.

“Rigid and cold. He’s been dead for hours. Look at those candles,” Bruna said. “They’re the ones from yesterday.”

The big candles from the night before had burned right down. Poor Nuyts.
Three years, nine months, and twenty-nine days.
The rep stood up and put away her Beretta.

“They killed him after we’d gone,” said Deuil.

“They followed us, Daniel. They followed us.”

“So, why don’t they arrest us then? Why haven’t they taken the picture from us?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they need to discover something more. Or maybe they’ll arrest us when we get back to the inn. In any event, let’s leave this place as quickly as possible.”

They crept out stealthily, leaving everything as they had found it, and started their return trip, with Deuil limping more and more. They climbed in through the back window, which they had left open. The tactile collapsed on his bed with a small groan, while Bruna lit candles.

“Wait. I’m going to check if the picture’s still there,” said the rep.

She returned a minute later with the picture in one hand and a small bag in the other.

“Show me your foot, Fred.”

“No. Don’t worry. It’s nothing.”

“Show me!”

Deuil undid the laces of his sneaker and took it off. The small synthetic implant had opened up on one side and was bleeding a little.

“I guess running with a recent implant isn’t the best thing to do. But it doesn’t look bad. Apart from the tear and the swelling,” said the rep.

She took some disinfectant spray from the bag and closed the small wound with an adhesive stitch and then stuck on an anti-inflammatory patch.

“Done,” she said, raising her head and smiling at the tactile.

Deuil, silent and pensive, was staring at her, his expression impenetrable. Bruna felt uncomfortable, insecure.

“If you want, I’ll give you some morphine. If it’s hurting a lot.”

“No. I don’t want drugs. My body is my temple. Let’s go to sleep. I’m exhausted,” he said, falling back on his bed.

My body is my temple?
Sometimes the tactile talked absolute nonsense, and it put Bruna in a bad mood.

“You’re welcome, Town,” she muttered, gathering her things before marching off to her room.

29

W
hen Tin arrived the next morning, he told them that before they left for the ele-port to descend back to Earth, it was hoped they would speak briefly about their time on the Kingdom of Labari at a small public ceremony. An informal, friendly event, explained the serf. The idea didn’t appeal much to Bruna, but she understood that she had no alternative but to accept.

“Better that you do it, Town.”

Deuil felt distant to Bruna today. In the end all humans seemed to reject her. They slept with her and then they became distant.

“Yes, of course. I’ll do it. Don’t worry.”

They got into the cart pulled by the slaves and after traveling for half an hour began to hear the growing clamor of a crowd. As they turned a corner, they found themselves in a huge plaza full of people. People of every age and caste talking, playing, and laughing. It was like a big party. The slaves pulled the cart toward the end of the plaza, where a stage had been erected.

“A small public function,” hissed Deuil.

“This way, sir and madam,” said Tin when they got down from the cart, and he led them toward the stairs.

The dais was rectangular and very large, with a long row of empty seats at the back. The Bureaucrat for Sport was in one corner, settled into a sedan chair placed on the floor. The man’s enormous body spilled over both sides of the seat, and the layers of flesh blended with the velvet hangings that adorned the chair. When he saw Deuil and Bruna appear on the platform, the Bureaucrat clapped twice, and with a painful effort four herculean slaves lifted the palanquin and approached them.

“Let’s get this over with as quickly as possible,” said the Bureaucrat without deigning to look at them. “By my side.”

The Bureaucrat ordered his chair to the middle of the stage and stopped there. Bruna and Deuil stopped beside him. Just then twelve heralds,
albos
, positioned on either side of the stage raised their trumpets at once and produced a deafening, out-of-tune sound that instantly silenced the crowd. The entire plaza became so quiet and still that it might have been empty.

“People of . . . the Kingdom of . . . Labari!” the Bureaucrat tried to shout, though his effort to raise his voice choked him even more than usual. “These . . . guests . . . Earthling . . . athletes . . . wish to tha . . . thank . . . the generosity . . . of Labari!”

He paused, opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water, and as he endeavored to breathe he signaled to them that they should step forward and speak. Just in front of them were two steps that led to a small square platform. Bruna got up onto it. Suddenly, a deep sigh arose from the entire plaza, and everyone started to laugh and point at her. The rep was taken aback.

“It strikes me we shouldn’t have got up onto this platform,” whispered Deuil at her side.

The trumpets pierced their eardrums again with that metal sound, and the people fell silent.

“People of Labari, people of the Kingdom of Labari,” started Deuil. “We are athletes from Earth. We belong to the All Worlds Friendship Association, a sports delegation that has come to Labari to show that our peoples can live in peace. We have been received with all the generosity and magnanimity of the Ones. We sensed already before, but now we know it from experience, that this society is beautiful, balanced, just, and true. We will return to Earth with this learning, and we will try to propagate respect for the Sacred Word. Thank you.”

The crowd broke into cheers and applause. Bruna stared at Deuil, astonished.

“It was expected of us,” he whispered with a wink. “Let’s get out of here as quickly as we can.”

The Bureaucrat in his sedan chair was already getting down from the stage without even saying good-bye, and Tin was gesturing to them to leave quickly.

“This crowd didn’t assemble just for us, did they?” asked the rep as they were descending from the stage.

“Oh no, of course not!” said the serf. “We’ve just taken advantage of the occasion. Look, the spectacle is going to start now. We can’t leave until it’s over. We mustn’t make any noise.”

The strident trumpet noise cut through the air again, and when silence fell a solemn line of Masters and Priests appeared at the back of the platform and started sitting down on the seats. They were followed by ten soldiers. Two of them were practically dragging along a young man wearing a short, dirty gray tunic. The retinue stopped in front of the small platform. A Priest got up from his chair and approached them with slow, majestic steps.

“May the Sacred Principle be your Law,” he thundered in a baritone voice. “Brothers, this man whom you see before you forgot precisely the Sacred Principle, forgot the Law, forgot the beauty of Belonging and living in communion with his brothers, of serving the Truth, of accepting with modesty the immutable order of things. Brothers! Brothers, let’s make him hear our voice! Brothers! He was rebellious!”

“Obedience!” the whole plaza shouted with one voice.

“He was individualistic!”

“Belonging!”

“He was skeptical!”

“Certainty!”

“He was arrogant!”

“Humility!”

The young man’s legs and arms were bleeding, and his ankles were twisted so badly it was clear they were broken. He was dangling from the arms of the guards like a puppet, fainting, more dead than alive. It was obvious he’d been tortured.

“He was inquisitive!”

“Acceptance!”

“He was impious!”

“Devotion!”

“He was impure!”

“Purity!”

He was disrespectful!”

“Reverence!”

“He was selfish!”

“Sacrifice!”

When they reached the ninth invocation, they stopped, just as had happened at Campo Real.

“Brothers, for his great sins this man has been sentenced to be crucified,” continued the Priest. “But the One Truth has illuminated him in his final moments, and he has understood the gravity of his offense. He has repented, and thanks to this and to the magnanimity of the One Principle he will be decapitated before he is nailed to the cross. Speak, wretch!”

A guard grabbed the youth by his hair and raised his head. The prisoner let out a chilling, high-pitched shriek, a yelp like a dog being beaten, and then he began to jabber, “I erred! I was wrong! I was arrogant and blind! Forgive me for all my sins! Pardon please. Please pardon.”

“So be it,” said the Priest.

The condemned youth seemed to have fainted again after the effort of his confession. The guards dragged him up to the small platform and tried to get him to kneel, but it was impossible given his condition. Finally, they opted to leave him facedown on the floor. Then a skinny little man wearing the white tunic of the
albos
appeared, dragging a huge double-edged ax with difficulty. The executioner reverently greeted the row of nobles with a very deep bow and then made another smaller bow to the audience. The trumpets blared. The little man had real difficulty raising the ax. He managed to lift it above his head, but then he stumbled, almost lost his balance, and the blade landed badly, on a slant, injuring the prisoner’s shoulder. The audience exhaled a heartfelt
ayyyyyy
as one. The executioner lifted his heavy instrument of death again, but he was no longer capable of lifting it higher than his shoulders; the blade sliced off the victim’s ear. Another wail from the public. Desperate, the executioner grabbed the weapon closer to the blade and, shouting from the effort, managed to lift it one more time and drop it down on the condemned man. This time he hit his target: the sound of the vertebrae splitting could be heard in the eager silence of the plaza. Knife in hand, the executioner bent over and cut through the remaining skin and then, grabbing the head by its hair, lifted it up. An explosion of shouts and words roared through the plaza like a hot wind. Suddenly, the whole world seemed to have something to say. The nobles stood up, ready to leave, while the executioner fell to his knees and began to cry.

“We can leave now,” said Tin. “We’d better hurry. Your elevator departs shortly.”

Bruna looked at Deuil; he was ashen, grave, and his lips formed a tight line.

“What crime had that wretched man committed?” asked the rep.

“He fell in love with a slave,” said Tin. “There was no problem taking care of the slave, because as we all know they are private property. But the young man was a Labaric brother, an artisan, and it was necessary to celebrate a public act.”

“An
albo
can be an executioner?”

“Of course.
Albos
are individuals who have temporarily been removed from their caste in order to perform a social function. On Labari the Law is sacred. We are ruled by the norms dictated by the One Principle. As a result the fulfillment of the laws is deemed an honor and a test. Any of the males in the Kingdom, except for noblemen of course, can be chosen to be executioner by lottery. Doing it badly, as happened today, is a demonstration of your impurity, since the Sacred Principle hasn’t guided your hand. Your clumsiness indicates that you are not a good One.”

“So what will happen to the executioner?”

“He won’t be punished, if that’s what you’re asking. But his disgrace has been witnessed by all of Oscaria. From now on he will be an outcast. It’s even possible that his wife will repudiate him. Wives can do that if their husbands don’t show sufficient purity. That’s why he was crying.”

They didn’t say another word on their way to the ele-port, and their farewell to Tin was dry and hasty because they were late. They passed through all the controls without any problems, and nobody detected the painting hidden inside the lining of the mandala. Emotionally drained, they flopped into their seats on the second level of the elevator.

“I have to tell you something. When I was speaking up there, I saw the Black Widow among the crowd,” Deuil blurted out dourly.

“What? The Black Widow? Are you sure?”

“I don’t know. I thought so. Yes. I’m almost certain. She was near the stage. It was her.”

“It must have been the Widow who killed Nuyts. She followed us. And slit his throat.”

The tactile sighed and leaned back in his chair. His face was tense, and there were deep black rings under his eyes.

“Fred, about the execution,” Bruna said.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said in an irritated tone of barely concealed rage.

“Why not? What does not wanting to talk mean?”

“Fine. Yes,” Deuil said, looking at her. “It was terrible. But don’t feel so satisfied with what you are. Don’t feel so superior. They kill on Earth, too. And for less symbolic, less ritualistic, less spiritual reasons. For money, pure and simple. For power, pure and simple. On Earth they kill every day at the borders of the Zero zones, for example.”

Bruna felt as if she’d been hit in the stomach.

“What you say is true, but it isn’t the same. Here hell is part of the structure of this world. There’s no way to free yourself from it. That symbolism, that spirituality of which you speak, is fanaticism, pure and simple. Here not only do they chain you, imprison you, and torture you physically, but they do it psychologically. You’re not even free to think. Remember the ritualistic shouts at the execution. They condemn curiosity! If we were Ones, we wouldn’t be able to have this conversation. If we were Ones, they would torture and kill us like that poor wretch, just because we’d slept together. Do remember, Fred Town—I’m impure, I’m a monster. And as far as what you say about power goes, do you honestly believe that the Kingdom of Labari isn’t driven by power? Much, much more so than Earth—a great deal more—and in a more exclusive, humiliating, and brutal way. The nobility crushes and tyrannizes everybody. While on Earth, true, the system is unjust and ferocious for the weak. But it’s a system that allows criticism, struggle, complaint, improvement. It’s a system that accommodates the best and the worst in sentient beings. We operate within those extremes. At least we have hope.”

Me talking about hope!
Sometimes Bruna was afraid that Yiannis’s humanistic harangues had affected her more than she realized.

“Fine. Fine. I agree,” said Deuil, but rather than an admission that she was right, it sounded as if he wanted to avoid further discussion.

The elevator shuddered and, to the accompaniment of a cacophony of metal squeaks, unlatched from the ele-port. The cylinder was already free; technically, they had left the Kingdom of Labari. The rep gave a sigh of relief.

“But pay heed to one thing, Bruna Husky. You too have killed. I know. I’ve sensed it in you. Think about your dead. I hope you find enough reasons to justify them,” said the tactile brusquely.

He turned his back to the rep and lay down to sleep as the cabin plummeted to Earth with dizzying speed.