by Laurence Yep
The soaked, heavy ropes of the net felt almost like steel cables when they struck Sulu in the chest, and he went under before he even had a chance to take a breath. Through dazed eyes, he saw the great fishing net billow like a living thing that rose around him to entrap his limbs. Instinctively, he fought to free himself—though the more he struggled, the more the net seemed to wrap itself around him. The air seemed to be forcing its way out of his lungs, though he fought to keep it in.
Dimly, through the roaring in his ears, he heard the prince shouting desperately for the fishermen to raise the nets. And then the net was rising and Sulu with it. He gasped for air as his head broke the surface, and he tried to move his arms and legs but the net held him tightly like a fly in a spider’s web. But he could see the dozen boats strung out in a wide arc.
The fishermen, who seemed to be dressed in some odd sort of costume, were simply holding onto the net they had raised as if they didn’t know what to do now that they had caught Sulu. In the meantime, though, the prince was shoving Urmi over the stern of the nearest boat—with alarming results for the boat’s equilibrium and the owner’s own peace of mind.
Though Sulu had thought the cold water had made [203] his body lose most of its feeling, the ropes constricted around his limbs and the pain was like a goad, driving his mind into a waiting darkness.
“Hold on, Sulu,” the prince shouted to him. And then the prince had clambered in after Urmi. He rose to his knees, drawing out his sword.
The fisherman threw himself at the prince. “No, you’ll ruin our net.”
The prince shoved an elbow into the fisherman’s stomach, knocking him down. “I’ll buy you twenty nets, man.”
As Sulu’s eyes closed in both pain and exhaustion, he heard a dull whacking sound. He wondered if that was the prince even as he spun down into the cold darkness.
“As a boy”—Puga pulled his blanket tighter about himself—“I used to sneak into this stable on cold nights. It was always warmer next to the animals. My father was always threatening to make me move into here. He’d have the last laugh now.”
Normally Mr. Spock did not encourage other people’s reminiscences since it only seemed like an excuse to exercise their tongues rather than their minds. But there was something warm and comfortable about Puga—like an old familiar shirt or blanket. And the old man’s talk was a natural, soothing sound—like the rattling of tree leaves and the chuckling of a stream.
“Indeed,” Mr. Spock murmured drowsily.
The stall boards creaked as Puga settled his back against them. “At any rate, it’s not such a hardship for me to live in a stable; but what about you? What if you have to spend the rest of your life here?”
The old man seemed genuinely worried for Mr. Spock’s state of mind; and so, for his sake, Mr. Spock [204] forced himself back to wakefulness. “One place,” he said philosophically, “is much like another.”
Puga shook his head in puzzlement. “How can you say that after all the things you must have seen and done?”
Mr. Spock sat up, holding his blanket against his chest by wrapping an arm around himself. “You like it here well enough.”
Puga thumped his heel against the dirt. “But I’m an ignorant man. I don’t know any better.”
McCoy’s words came back to Mr. Spock at that moment. “Are you content though?”
Puga pressed his lips together thoughtfully and then nodded his head. “In spite of all the calamities, yes.”
“Then you don’t need to know any more than that.” Mr. Spock lay down again, trying to ease the ache in his side.
The straw crackled as Puga slid in closer. “And you, Mr. Spock? Are you content?”
Mr. Spock had been considering the question ever since McCoy had first asked it. “I have,” he said slowly, “achieved many of my goals.”
“So does a slime bug when it gets to a leaf of amma.” The old man flapped a hand in the air as if chasing a moth away. “But there has to be more.”
Mr. Spock lay quiet for a long time. Gaya breathed softly in the stalls around them and he could feel the warmth of their breath; and for a moment it seemed as if the darkness itself were breathing about him, and he was alone with only the night and himself.
Mr. Spock thought it might be exhaustion or perhaps a touch of fever that made him susceptible to such imaginings; and yet he felt almost as alone as he had when he had chosen to become a Vulcan and taken the [205] Kahs-wan ordeal. And he was speaking not to the old man but to an earlier, more primitive self that he thought he had abandoned in the harsh Vulcan desert. And that self was now demanding reasons for its fate.
“Contentment,” he stated with mild surprise, “was never my desire.”
“Nonsense,” Puga scolded him as if he were a child. “Everyone wants it.”
Mr. Spock frowned at the darkness. “Contentment is not available to everyone; and I, for one, have never desired something I could not have.”
That earlier self felt as sad and puzzled as Puga sounded. “But there’s always a way to find some sort of happiness.”
Calmly, patiently, Mr. Spock tried to explain. “There are some of us who are born on the border between two cultures. We belong neither to one nor the other; and so contentment is a meaningless question for us.”
Puga considered the matter for a moment and then patted Mr. Spock’s arm solicitously. “Then you take the best from both—like an amphibian that can enjoy the land and the sea.”
The spell had been broken by the old man’s touch. Mr. Spock shook off that moment of sentimental weakness. “That is a philosophy better suited to the prince than to myself,” Mr. Spock insisted. But before he could say anything more, a bright light suddenly filled the cracks between the wall boards of the stable.
Puga struggled to his feet. “What—?”
A man began to scream outside, but his cry was cut short; and suddenly the door burst open and several figures ran into the stable. Their cloaks had been coated in mud so that they were no longer a shining [206] white, but Mr. Spock recognized the cut of a sinha cloak
Lord Bhima pointed his bloody sword at them. “Lord Rahu regrets your hasty departure thwarted his hospitality,” he said with a grim smile. “But he now hopes to make it up to you.”
Sulu woke up in an airy little room with whitewashed walls. He rolled over onto his side and found he was lying on a pallet of fine yellow fibers. Covering him was a blanket of some wool-like material—probably woven from the long hair of a gaya.
“He’s up, Your Highness,” a middle-aged Angiran said. He was dressed in the same tunic and shorts of dark blue homespun that the fishermen had been wearing. Now that he had a chance to study the costume, Sulu was inclined to think it was some kind of uniform, just from the stiffly starched look of the Angiran’s unusual clothing. Yellow stripes on the right sleeve seemed to indicate some kind of rank. And a black leather bandolier with oilcloth pouches crossed his chest at an angle. The severe lines of his uniform seemed abstract—and modern—compared to the many curving folds of the soropa.
The man suddenly stood to the side, coming to attention with a straightness that would have gladdened any drill instructor’s heart. The prince, wearing a similar uniform, strode into the room. “Sulu, you’re finally up, I see.”
Sulu sat up groggily. “How long have I been asleep?”
“A night and a day. Since there wasn’t a princess convenient to wake our sleeping beauty, we almost left without you. Are you up to traveling again?”
Sulu yawned and stretched luxuriously. “As long as I [207] don’t have to go swimming in any more mountain streams.”
“Nonsense. Just think. You won’t have to take your monthly bath.” The prince picked up a pair of shorts and a tunic and flopped them onto Sulu’s lap. “Put these on. The uniform is going to be a bit baggy, I’m afraid; but no one was quite your size.”
Sulu held the tunic up by the sleeves. “Uniform?”
“Yes.” The prince indicated the middl
e-aged Angiran. “Meet a young subaltern in my father’s army. They’ve quite exceeded my expectations: good discipline, smart drill and all quite professional.”
“Subaltern?” Sulu glanced at the middle-aged man.
“My father created an officer staff from the cream of the world’s noncommissioned officers and such.” The prince squatted down beside Sulu. “In the old army, he never could have risen beyond regimental sergeant-major because he wasn’t of noble blood.” The prince spread his hands like a child with a new toy. “This is the first of my father’s schemes that really seems quite exciting.”
Urmi poked her head in through the doorway. “Your Highness, everyone’s waiting.” She brightened when she saw Sulu sitting up. “It’s about time you woke up. You’ll never make a farmer.”
The prince clapped Sulu on the shoulder. “He’s being saved for bigger and better things. Get dressed, Sulu. I’ll have them prepare something that you can eat while we walk.”
The subaltern was waiting for Sulu in the corridor when he was finished dressing. The walls and ceiling had been formed from rocks carefully and painstakingly fitted together. And centuries of feet had worn grooves into the stone flagging. When they emerged [208] into the weathered courtyard, Sulu saw that they were in an ancient fort. Platoons of pikemen drilled as generations probably had done before them—with pike tips nodding in the air and sandaled feet slapping against the stones.
And then he saw the bandoliered men marching with harquebuses at port arms. He remembered his first day on Angira—it seemed now more like years rather than days—when Lord Bhima had referred so contemptuously to the toys of the army of Kotah. He started excitedly toward the platoon. “Hey, those look like wheel locks.”
“Sir.” The alarmed subaltern placed himself in between Sulu and the platoon.
“But I just want to take a closer look,” Sulu tried to explain.
However, the subaltern refused to budge. “The prince is waiting.”
Unfortunately, Sulu’s own fascination with guns got the better of discretion. He flung out his arms in frustration. “I thought I was the prince’s guest.”
“Even guests have responsibilities,” the subaltern warned.
The prince and Urmi caught Sulu by the arms and swung him around hurriedly. “Sulu,” the prince hissed through clenched teeth, “this is no time to indulge in another one of your hobbies.”
“I just wanted to see the mechanism. I don’t have anything like that in my collection.” Sulu tried to look over his shoulder at the harquebusiers.
“You can do that later,” the prince promised. “I’ll even chain a gunsmith to your bed so he can answer any questions that might come to you in the middle of the night. But for now, we have more important [209] concerns.” And with a nod to Urmi, the two of them frog-marched Sulu away.
An older Angiran with a round, melon-shaped head was hurrying toward them. “Ah, I see your traveling party is complete once again.”
The prince stopped and released Sulu. “Colonel, this is Lieutenant Sulu.” The prince waved his hand toward the officer. “Sulu, this is Colonel Gelu, the man in charge of my father’s regiment of harquebusiers.”
The colonel scrutinized Sulu as carefully as politeness would allow. “All of Kotah rejoiced when they heard the news about the prince. You’ve done us a great service.”
The prince folded his arms in amusement. “We owe him at least a pair of pants that fit, don’t you think?”
“Without a doubt,” the colonel said.
“And Mr. Spock?” Sulu asked.
“The colonel cannot send out a rescue party until I am confirmed by the clan elders as the true heir.” The prince was careful to keep his tone neutral—as if he and the colonel had already quarreled about the issue and were trying to patch over their differences now.
“When we heard the news about the assassinations, the Council of Elders assumed control of the province; and my orders from the Council of Elders were very explicit,” the colonel said, embarrassed, as if he were expecting to have to defend himself to Sulu. “Under no circumstances am I to leave Kotah’s borders. And until they rescind that order or surrender authority to the prince, I can only wait.”
“Just keep those men ready,” the prince said. “They must march as soon as I send word.”
“Not until I’m back to guide them,” Urmi said. “I don’t want those fools torching the entire village.” She [210] held out a sword to him. “Here, this is to replace the one you lost.”
Sulu slid the blade from the sheath. There was a design on the blade and ornate lettering. “It’s beautiful,” he murmured.
“May it keep your enemies from you.” The prince gripped the hilt of his sword and Sulu was surprised to notice that he had kept the shadow-catcher.
“You ought to be carrying this.” Sulu tried to return the sword.
The prince shoved it back. “I’ve become rather attached to the one I have.”
Urmi laughed. “He thinks it’s a good-luck charm. He just doesn’t want to admit that he’s as superstitious as any peasant.”
“We may need all the help we can get,” the prince said as he helped Sulu thrust the sheath through his belt. Though the prince’s tone was characteristically light, there was still a slight strain to his voice.
Sulu looked up sharply. “What’s wrong?”
“I gather that there’s some doubt concerning my pedigree. The clan chamberlain has led a deputation of elders to the nearest village to pass judgment.” The prince nodded toward a squad of soldiers. “They’re as much a guard as an escort.”
“It can’t be all bad if they’ve let us have weapons,” Sulu tried to argue.
“But how long do we get to keep them?” Urmi asked.
The soldiers, led by the subaltern, marched smartly from the fort. On the ground that sloped gently from the fort to the riverbank, Sulu could see the houses that belonged to the soldiers and their families. And beyond [211] the little village, small boats bobbed up and down on the river as soldiers fished with their giant nets.
The prince pointed out the vegetable garden that sat beside each house. “My father believed in self-sufficiency.” He unslung a sack from his shoulder and held it out to Sulu.
“But how much drill time do the soldiers lose?” Sulu asked as he hungrily dipped his hand inside the sack.
“I don’t think that much.” The prince glanced at the subaltern. “You each take a turn, don’t you?”
“Yes, Your Highness,” the subaltern answered.
Sulu pulled out a round, flat loaf of bread and sniffed it. It seemed to be glazed with some outer covering of egg white and sugar and within he could smell fruits of some kind. “So how much time do you have to take from your training?”
“I’ve lost track,” the subaltern said curtly.
Urmi glanced at Sulu and raised her eyebrows significantly—as if her own suspicions were being proved correct. Sulu tried a few more questions and received similar, ambiguous answers before he finally gave up.
The subaltern and his squad were strangely reticent as they climbed up through the cloud-covered mountains. It was as if they were under orders to communicate as little as possible with the prince and his party. And more and more, Sulu had the impression that Urmi was right: The squad was more a guard detail than an escort.
Even so, the prince’s spirits seemed to lift later in the day as they climbed down out of a mist-filled pass to catch their first real view of Kotah.
They found themselves looking down over a series of [212] wooded ridgetops that diminished one after another into the jade green plain beyond. And just beneath them was a slender, green gem of a valley. No more than a half-kilometer wide at the top, its sides seemed to slant downward steeply for about two hundred meters.
“I never got to spend much time in Kotah.” The prince’s eyes seemed to drink in the view. “But I treasure those stays very much.” He smiled down at the first valley. “My old nursemaid used to live there
. And so did most of her kin.”
The path itself swung right so it could parallel a stream. The water was a cheering sound as it dropped downward, a brilliant blue, from rock to rock into the steep-sided valley. The plant life grew richer as they descended, with clusters of small orange globes hanging from vines over the path, and small trees with large roots arched like dancer’s legs bore wide green tops filled with oval purple fruit.
The water was channeled off to terraced fields of amma and they followed the path, now muddy, underneath the brambles that hung from the surrounding trees. And the path now began to take whimsical turns of its own through the densely packed trees so that they found themselves on the roof of a house of roughly carved cubes of stone broken only by narrow window slits. The door was set a meter inside an arched recess. Their escort did not even hesitate but instead treated the roof as part of the path which seemed to have been created by generations of feet walking the shortest distance from one house to the next.
And as they made their way down to the valley floor, the path seemed to wind carelessly through the houses [213] that perched on the steep valley side. Sometimes they would find themselves crossing beneath someone’s upper story, other times across someone’s patio of beaten earth where the old people sat, their voices mixing with the gurgling of the water above the deeper bass of the river below. They stared at the party, making comments to one another with a deep satisfaction, as if they had paid royally for just such a spectacle to pass by their front door.
It was only when they reached the narrow valley floor that the stream was led off in deeper stone-paved trenches to parallel rows of pools. Swarms of naked children laughed as they splashed about in the water. “Somewhere, underneath the children, are schools of a fish that is much like your trout,” the prince explained to Sulu.
“Everybody seems well fed here,” Sulu said, noticing their golden fur.
“The reforms were done more fairly in Kotah,” Urmi explained. “You’d hardly expect the emperor to jeopardize his own power base.”
“So perhaps there really is hope for the future.” The prince jumped back as a group of squealing, wet children pelted across the path in front of them. “It would be nice if all Angira could be this way.”