by Laurence Yep
“But we never get to keep much of what we grow,” Urmi said pointedly. “Most of it goes to pay for our rent or all of the emperor’s many taxes.”
Sulu clicked his tongue sympathetically. “It must drive you crazy to be surrounded by all that food and not be able to eat it.”
“That’s criminal,” the prince declared.
Urmi looked at Sulu but her words were meant for the prince. “Yes, I wanted you to see this for yourself. Now you know why we have to fight.”
As the track wound its way down through the shelves, they began to pick out more details in the nearest village. Its small whitewashed houses looked like so many little boxes tumbled together. They seemed to have been built on the owners’ whims so that there was no order to the streets, only twisting, winding lanes between the houses. Green and orange and purple fruits were drying on the flat thatched roofs.
Herds of gaya—long-haired, goatlike creatures, some three meters long—walked leisurely along the paths toward a nearby village, their heads nodding contentedly. The farmers, too, were finally leaving their fields, [155] their hoes or rakes over their shoulders. Some of them were washing on the banks of the river, but others were trudging wearily into the village.
“What’re these execution posts doing here?” The prince pointed to several posts dug into the slope. There were small nicks in the wood, as if from arrowheads, and there were dark, ominous stains on the poles and the ground.
Urmi refused to look at the posts. “The emperor declared that all the land not used for farming around a village was his.”
“But that’s ridiculous. You get your firewood from here and you catch small game.” The prince looked shocked. “It’s always belonged to everyone.”
“Not anymore. Now we have to pay for licenses.” Urmi smiled wryly. “Otherwise we are accused of being thieves. The first time the tax collector surprised us.”
“So we keep a watch—as much for tax collectors as for bandits,” Schami explained. “The emperor will have to pay for all of his big plans without that little extra bit of money from us.”
In a more somber mood, the militia reached the floor of the valley where they divided into groups, each heading for its village. But Sulu and the others stayed with Schami.
Sulu knelt to examine the nearest field where broad, yellow-leafed plants were growing.
“What’re these?” Sulu asked Urmi.
“That’s amma—the green gold of Angira,” Urmi declared proudly. “It’s tough enough to grow most anywhere and doesn’t need much sunlight. In fact, it grows so quick, the farmers like to tell a story about a man who used to harvest a crop in his closet.”
[156] “I suppose the broad leaves help it gather in the sunlight.” Sulu shaded his eyes as he looked up at Angira’s dwarf sun. As the prince had said, the world received less sunlight than Earth. “It might do well on other worlds with a short growing season.”
Urmi pulled at her lower lip. “Yes, I suppose so. It would certainly be worth their while to try. You can get six cuttings from one plant. And then the fibers can be used for a whole lot of things. And at the very least, you can uproot the plants and eat the tuberlike roots.”
“Really?” Sulu looked ready to step into the field to examine one of the plants. “I wish I’d had time to check it in the ship’s library.”
“You may have more than enough time to study it, offworlder,” Schami said. “Your friend doesn’t look like he’s in a good way.”
“I was hoping to get some volunteers to be bearers,” Urmi said.
“Tired of our hospitality already?” Schami asked them.
“We have urgent business in Kotah,” Sulu said quickly.
A rickety bridge of planks spanned the river and they marched across it to Urmi’s home village. Because Schami had sent a runner on ahead, there was already a crowd of several hundred people waiting excitedly by the gates of Urmi’s village. Sulu couldn’t help noticing that the villagers all had the same half-starved look as the militia, and their fur seemed just as dull and dark. Some had huge naked patches of skin, while others had eyes centered within large bloodshot circles. At the very front of the crowd, standing very self-consciously, were a dozen men and women with orange bands tied around their arms.
[157] “Who are they?” Sulu asked Urmi.
“Members of the Committee,” she answered back. “They’re drawn from all the villages of the valley.”
A squat man suddenly strode forward. In his hand was a spear with a blade of an ornate design on top of a new shaft of pale wood. As they drew closer, Sulu could see the purple ribbon around the man’s neck.
Urmi saw it at almost the same time and she turned sharply to Schami. “When did they make Mumtas the voice of the people?”
“About thirty days ago. He was doing all the talking anyway,” Schami said. “Why, what’s wrong?”
“Because he’s an egotistical fool,” Urmi snapped.
“You’re welcome to try to impeach him.” Schami shrugged. “But I warn you, he has a following through all the valley.”
Mumtas raised the spear melodramatically into the air and then thrust it point first into the dirt. “You’ve carried out a dangerous and risky mission like the brave woman you are and done far better than anyone could have hoped. And so, in the name of the Committee, I say a hearty ‘Well done, Urmi.’ ” And he raised his right palm parallel to the ground and brought his left one down lightly on top for quiet applause. The other villagers did the same.
Urmi held up her hands. “I’m not some dancing clown.”
“But you have brought us hostages of immense value.” Mumtas beamed at her, but now that they were closer, Sulu could see the cold, hard appraising eyes in Mumtas’s face.
“You can’t imprison them.” Urmi said angrily. “I made a promise to my uncle.”
“You don’t have the authority to make promises like [158] that. Only the Committee does.” Mumtas made a point of indicating the people behind him.
Urmi looked beyond him. “Listen to me. Even if I hadn’t made that promise, we have to let them go. They have much to do in Kotah.”
Mumtas rocked upward on the balls of his toes as if he were trying to give himself even more height. “And just what are their plans there?” He made a wringing motion with his hands. “Are they going to teach the nobles how to squeeze even more money out of us?”
The crowd stirred angrily. “No more of that,” someone shouted.
Sulu eyed the nervous, excited crowd. “It won’t take much to turn them into an ugly mob,” he said to Urmi.
“Not if I can help it,” she said to Sulu and then, spreading out her arms, she patted the air with her hands. “Wait. You haven’t heard the hews yet.” When the crowd was silent again, she lowered her arms solemnly. “The emperor is dead and so are all of his court.” Her further words were drowned out by the loud cheer that spread from the front of the crowd and rippled toward the back and sides. Some people tossed up their hats. Others squatted down and then leapt into the air as if they had been catapulted. Still others did an impromptu little hopping dance.
Urmi turned slowly, glancing embarrassedly at Sulu and the prince. The prince had done his best to make his face into a blank mask, but the muscles on his jaw worked as if he were clenching them. Urmi faced the crowd again. “Listen to me,” she tried to shout. But they couldn’t hear her in the midst of their celebration. She cupped her hands around her mouth like a megaphone. “Listen to me!”
[159] The Committee members turned and made silencing motions with their hands. But even so, it took a good while for the happy people to quiet down.
Urmi looked around contemptuously. “You’re a fine lot of fools to start a party before you hear all of the news. You’ve just climbed out of the mud wallow and jumped into the manure pit. Lord Rahu wants the throne now and if he has his way, he’ll make things like they were a hundred years ago when you couldn’t even leave the valley without your lord’s permission. These offworlders can stop hi
m.”
Mumtas closed his hands around the shaft of his spear. “I say let the nobles kill off one another. The fewer the better.” He looked over his shoulder toward the crowd and there were growls of approval.
Urmi glared at them. “But Rahu’s a mad animal. He’ll attack the workers and the farmers as well. You have to let these offworlders through so they can stop him.”
“All the more reason to keep them as hostages.” Mumtas yanked his spear from the dirt and brandished it triumphantly over his head. “It’s not every day that two men fall from the sky into our valley.” And the crowd began to cheer.
Urmi frantically motioned for silence again. When she had it, she looked at them disgustedly. “You people can’t see beyond your own noses. We’re not just one village or one clan or one valley anymore. We’re part of Angira.”
“Oh, yes,” Mumtas sneered, “and the whole of Angira will march to help us when Rahu visits us.” He waited for the jeers and laughter that he knew would come. “No, we can only count on our own kind and,” [160] he lowered his eyelids significantly at Urmi, “you can’t always be sure even then.” He jabbed his spear toward Sulu and Mr. Spock. “Disarm them.”
Militia suddenly grabbed Sulu’s and the prince’s arms and took away their swords.
Urmi looked desperately toward the rest of the Committee. “You know I’m not some flutterbrain that gets scared easily. I risked my life when I went to the palace and for that you need a level head and caution. So you can believe me when I tell you that we have to let them go—as much for our own sake as for Angira’s.”
There were anxious conversations among the Committee members and the crowd itself. And for a moment, it seemed as if Urmi might have her way. But, like an actor sensitive to his audience’s moods, Mumtas sensed the change in the crowd. He raised his hands above his heads. “A sharing session,” he shouted suddenly. “I call for a sharing session.”
“I’ve had a long, tiring journey,” Urmi said. “I would like a short rest.”
Mumtas swept an arm back and forth in front of them as a sign of negation. “This matter is too important to wait. How often do two treasures like these”—he nodded to Sulu and Mr. Spock—“fall ripe into our hands? Between Kotah and Rahu, we should do quite well.”
Urmi let out her breath in an indignant gasp. “You can’t be serious.”
Mumtas was all smiles now. “The palace isn’t the only place for intrigues.”
“And I say I need time to catch my breath and collect my thoughts.”
[161] “Fine, let’s have a sharing session to discuss that idea,” the squat man said.
Urmi’s lips tightened like someone who knew she had been boxed into a corner. “Very well then.”
Mumtas turned triumphantly to the guards. “In the meantime, take our visitors into protective custody and put them in the stables.”
“And have them witch the animals?” Schami pretended to object.
“You’ll do no such thing to them.” An older, more compact version of Bibil limped from the crowd. “When two creatures come from so far away to our village, you can’t put them in a stable. They’ll stay in my house.”
Mumtas scowled at Puga. “You stay out of this, Puga.”
“When the village’s reputation is at stake, it’s as much my business as it is yours.” Puga spread his legs as if getting ready for a fight. “A big spear doesn’t make a big warrior.”
Mumtas stiffened as several people laughed in the crowd, but before he could say or do anything, Urmi jerked her head at him. “I’d advise you to fight one war at a time.”
Mumtas forced his mouth into an artificial smile and pretended to give in with gruff good humor. “All right. At least until we decide what to do. And I’ll post guards outside.” He motioned the guards to follow Puga.
“Don’t worry. That’s my grandfather,” Urmi said to Sulu. “You’ll be safe enough with him while I knock some sense into the Committee.”
“I hope so,” Sulu said. “As nice as your village is, I’d like to see other parts of Angira.”
[162] The crowd parted hurriedly, forming a lane into the village itself. And, staring at the villagers’ faces, Sulu realized they were more frightened than hostile. A number of them touched head and heart as if to ward off evil. But when Sulu tried to reassure them with a smile, a child began to wail as if Sulu were going to gobble the child down. “So much for public relations,” Sulu said to the prince.
Outside Puga’s house were a series of racks about a third of a meter apart from one another. On each of the racks lay the broad leaves of the amma, drying out. And over the doorway was a bunch of some kind of tiny yellow flowers for a bit of color. Reaching a hand up, Puga snapped off a handful of the brittle stalks. “There’s nothing like some of my herbal tea to make you feel like a new person.”
The house itself was little more than a box five meters on each side that had been built around an open, central hearth, though there was a hood to catch the smoke and a flue rising through the center of the roof.
When Mr. Spock was laid down on the dirt floor of Puga’s house, Puga waved the flowers at the bearers. “Now shoo,” he said. “You’ve had enough of their faces and I’m sure they’ve had enough of yours.”
“But we’re supposed to guard them,” Schami said irritably.
“Well, you can do that from outside.” And he chased the militia away as if they were only small children.
Then, after he had bolted the door shut and lowered the shutters, he shuffled over to where they were sitting beside the warmth of the hearth. Ducking his head under a lamp hanging from the central roof beam, Puga studied the prince by its dim light. “I thought I [163] recognized that face,” he whispered. “It’s a little longer and a little leaner, but it still has some of that same impish look.” He bowed his head. “Whatever I have is yours, but it’s a poor enough welcome for you, Your Highness.”
The old man tried to kneel but the prince stopped him. “Whatever troubles I’ve had, you’ve just made up for many of them.”
“And my son, Bibil?” Puga asked in a trembling voice.
The prince looked away as if he had been dreading this moment. “He died helping us escape.”
Puga’s chin sank to his chest and his torso swayed as if someone had just added more weight to an already heavy load. “Well,” he sighed, “my son lived thirty years longer than anyone expected. And when he told me he was going offworld”—the old man shook his head—“I thought for sure that was the end of him.”
The prince swallowed. “It would have been very lonely out there without him.”
Puga struggled to lift his head so he could stare at the prince. His eyes searched the prince’s face for a long while before he finally gave a firm nod of his head. “Yes, I think he stamped you.”
The prince dropped his head guiltily. “I wasn’t able to bring his body out. I’m sorry.”
Puga squared his shoulders. “It doesn’t matter.” Setting the dried flowers down on a short, wide stone beside the hearth, he shuffled across the room to an old chest and lifted the lid.
He took out a number of carefully wrapped objects and set them to the side as well until he lifted out a flat object. Two boards on small hinges covered the front like little doors. “I paid a traveling teacher to write this [164] up for us when Bibil first enlisted.” He added with shy pride, “But I put the hinges on myself.” He opened the hinged doors so they could see Bibil’s name in crude block letters. “We always expected to be burying this instead. They don’t usually ship a soldier’s body back home.”
“No,” the prince said huskily, “they don’t.”
Puga shut the doors again anxiously. “I’ve let it get dusty.” He gave it a quick wipe before he put it back inside the chest.
The prince crossed the room. “If I reach Kotah, I swear that you won’t have to worry about money.”
“If you don’t mind, lad, I would rather take care of it myself.” The old man took out
a sack that clinked.
“What’s that?” the prince wondered.
“Bibil’s medals from his campaigns. He told us to sell them for the metal, but I’ve always kept it to buy his coffin.” He gave it a little jingle. “This should be enough for a headstone, don’t you think?”
The prince shifted his feet uncomfortably as if he already suspected what the answer to his question would be. “Surely your neighbors wouldn’t resent a burial?”
“Times are hard.” Puga returned the sack to the chest along with the other things. “You’ve seen the people here. They don’t get enough to eat, so their fur’s darkened or even fallen out in patches.”
“Then those are symptoms of malnutrition?” Sulu asked.
“Yes.” The prince’s fingertip traced the outline of an eye in the air. “As well as the redness around the eyes.”
Puga shuffled over to a meter-high jar that sat beside the hearth. “I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but [165] the emperor never seemed to have the slightest clue as to what was happening in the countryside.”
The prince sighed. “He meant to help folk and yet he’s hated so much.”
“Well, lad”—Puga started to use a dipper to fill a kettle with water—“people suffered—whether it was his doing or not.”
The prince got up quickly. “Here, let me help you like I used to.”
Puga raised the dipper in protest. “But in those days you were simply the nephew of Bibil’s ‘friend.’ Now, well.” He raised one shoulder and began to pour water into the kettle again.
“Now I am far less than I once was.” The prince took the kettle and dipper from the old man. “So let me help like I used to.”
“As you wish.” The old man surrendered the dipper with a smile. Turning slowly, he began to walk toward a shelf where a few cups and plates were stacked.
There was something likable about the open, generous old man, and Sulu rose. “Here, let me do that. Can I get the cups?”
“No, no.” The old man patted the air with his hands. “You’re one of my special guests. You shouldn’t.”
“But I insist,” Sulu said.