"You can have it, Peli! Take it. I mean that, honest. I'll likely just lose it, up in one of your sandstorms in the sky."
"Don't be silly. It's yours. And my fingers are all too big. Tell you what: scratch your name on the window with it. That'll mean it's yours for ever and ever."
"Okay. I will, too."
So therefore, in spidery style, Yaleen cut her name upon one of the crude little greenish panes. Close up, the glass distorted the view of the Kirque beyond. Each tiny motion of her head, as she worked, either compressed or stretched the building.
"Vandalizing embassies, eh!" Peli chortled. "What'll it come to next?"
"Huh. Small beer, this, compared with how they vandalized Verrino."
'That's all water down the river now. But their beer isn't water. Nor all that small! Oof, my head. What a way to wake up."
Yaleen stepped back to admire her efforts. The pane looked as if it had been signed by a shaking, arthritic grandmother.
A few hours after that, the party of ten easterners departed on their return trek towards the river, where a vessel stood at anchor waiting to convey them back to Guineamoy.
No one waylaid them en route, to try to murder them; so the mission must definitely be accounted a success.
Whilst tramping along, Yaleen started rehearsing excuses just in case the river guild asked her to return to Manhome South as part of the permanent embassy. Or in case they wished her to tarry in Guineamoy, there to receive the embassy from the west, help Andri feel at home, and gentle him. Her personal sights were set on the sky, on the desert, and on what lay beyond. Maybe she would be obliged to sign off the river entirely, instead of just taking leave?
On the other hand, the river temple still needed to give its blessing to the proposed expedition. Lacking that, the balloon venture would be taboo.
If the worst comes to the worst, thought Yaleen, maybe I can live with a taboo? Supposing that Tam and Hasso and their sponsors can.
Next, she thought to herself: Is that the real reason why they invited me along? Not because they really love me—but because I'm of the river, a member of its guild? Thus they propitiate the river temple?
No! They do love me.
And I love them. I love Tam. Hasso. Tam. One of them; I don't know which. I'm sure I do.
Trouble is, I don t know what it is to be in love! That's because I've never been in love before.
But I shall be in love. That s a promise.
What is this thing called love? Maybe I'm in love already? Without realizing?
In love with Tam.
Yes, with Tam. Him.
While the Blue Guitar sailed away from the western shore, Yaleen concentrated upon this concept of love—realizing that by so doing she would indeed truly fall in love, presently.
Was that the real purpose of this ring she wore? So that she could present her ring as a love-pledge to Tam?
Hardly! Tam's fingers were so big and knobbly (though not clumsy, not in the least). In which case, was the ring mocking her?
Absolutely not. The diamond was brightness, light, purity of purpose, truth. It sparkled, like sunlight on the wave tops where the water was chopped by the passage of the Blue Guitar.
The initiative for the balloon expedition had originally come from Hasso, one of those Observers who spied on the west bank by telescope from Verrino Spire. Much good their vigilance had done Ver- rino town when the western soldiery invaded, drugged to resist riverphobia! But at least the Spire had held out; though now that the war was over and the west bank was less of a mystery, the Observers' role might have fallen into abeyance—were there not still outstanding the even greater mystery of what lay beyond the inland desert, which had swallowed several parties of explorers in the past.
What better way to observe vast new vistas than from the newly invented balloons which Guineamoy's artisans had crafted under the stimulus of war?
But of course this mode of transport was still in its infancy. Whether it would remain just a novelty or would develop into something grander and life-changing depended largely on the say- so of the river guild and river temples. In Manhome South, Guildmistress Marti had stated, "Whenever we feel confused, we should be guided by tradition." Even Yaleen allowed that this was a sensible axiom. When it came to the possibilities raised by balloon flight, many factors were involved.
Rampant balloons might upset the traditional female monopoly over trade and communications. They might weaken, or wipe out, the taboo against men travelling more than once, a taboo which for the most part had served eastern society well. The taboo was backed by sound medical sense, since a mental and bodily crisis afflicted any man who broke the prohibition against repeated river travel, and could easily kill him. But if men were able to float high above the river, and so become mobile and taboo-free (disregarding for the moment the problem of the anti-inhibitor drug), men might conceivably try to dominate affairs, as a cockerel treads its hens—something which the Sons in the west had so signally shown might happen. The Sons had turned their own more stringent river-taboo on its head, and forbidden their women to go near the water at all, fighting liquid with fire. Such men in power had proved themselves oppressive, thrusting, warlike.
Westerners needed to mend their ways and learn the womanly, flowing touch. Their own women, emerging from the dark cloud of ignorant centuries, must learn the way to show them; and learn how to sail the river. Yet would that happen, if balloons could carry men hither and thither untrammelled?
Thus balloon travel should only be introduced cautiously, in tandem with social improvements in the west; many 'mistresses said so. Any balloon must be strictly licensed and approved. Otherwise the world might plunge into another such calamity as the Sons' discovery of the fungus "anti-inhibitor" had unleashed. (It was fortunate that the Sons had so ignorantly exploited the fungus, virtually wiping it out in its jungle haunts! Or so they claimed; a claim lent credence by the abrupt collapse of their war effort.)
On the other hand, the jungle guild were rooting for balloons. Ridiculous to conceive of ever shifting timber by balloon, needless to say! But it was the men of the jungle guild who had made the long march from Jangali to Verrino to win the war. They deserved some recompense for all their suffering and sacrifice; such as a guarantee that next time—though pray river there wasn't a next time!— they should fly to war, not walk. So when the trans-desert balloon expedition was mooted by the Observers, the 'jacks supported this. Support also came from certain important industrialists of Guineamoy, purveyors of the weapons used in the war, who saw balloons as a future source of profit.
The prevailing winds mainly blew north or south along the river. However, the weather patterns of the highfleece clouds showed that further up in the atmosphere, and in particular over the area where the desert pressed closest to the river, in the Gangee-Pecawar region, air-streams often blew due eastward. Hence the site selected for assembly and launching: namely Pecawar. To begin with the balloon would drift south as it arose, but then it would enter the east-bound sky-stream. (A hundred leagues further south, high winds often blew in from across the desert towards the west; so there was a fair chance of returning, depending upon the kind of country encountered beyond the eastern desert. Assuming that the desert eventually gave way to hospitable terrain.)
"Let them go!" argued some voices in the river guild. "Let them equip! Let them launch their balloon! They'll never come back from beyond the desert. Probably there's just desert, and nothing else beyond it. We'll lose our adventurers—bravely, tragically, and foolishly. Balloons will dip in esteem."
Work on the big balloon began, and continued, but the river temple had still not pronounced the final word of consent. Yet privately guild and temple were sure of one item. If the balloon were to fly, young Yaleen of Pecawar should be part of the crew. Her wayward wish should certainly receive the blessing of her guild.
Yaleen herself was determined to be part of the expedition—even if she was compelled to take "drench leav
e" as she said fancifully of anyone quitting a boat in mid-passage (to fall foul, no doubt, of stingers). Her friend, Observer Hasso, had promised her. So also had her other friend, Tam the Potter. Tam had used up his one-go on the river to sail to Pecawar to experiment with the unique clays found locally (as well, perhaps, as making a romantic, quixotic gesture in pursuit of Yaleen). On the boat ex Verrino he had fallen in with Hasso, and these two men were soon as close as two slices of bread, glued together by the butter of Yaleen; perhaps foolishly so, should the butter melt one way or the other.
What Yaleen did not know was that though her guild might well favour her dreams of desert flight—even to the extent of publicly nominating her—this was because she was totally dispensable. In fact, therein lay her value. Already her brief career had been marked by various embarrassing scrapes; such as the time when she made a fool of herself at the Junglejack Festival—or that other occasion at Port Firsthome when she teamed up with a party of treasure hunters who were convinced that something rich and rare lay buried under the Obelisk of the Ship, and by burrowing almost toppled the Obelisk. True, she was bold and energetic and even diligent, but such incidents practically guaranteed that at some stage—either literally or metaphorically—she would poke a hole in the balloon. If the guild's rumour-mongers reported accurately, Yaleen bid fair to set two of the expedition men at jealous loggerheads.
This was why the guild had despatched Yaleen on the brief preliminary mission to Manhome South as a jill-of-all and general bot- tlewasher. Fingers crossed, she was unlikely to provoke any serious contretemps. She went along in a strictly minor capacity—to a place where mere "gairls" were held in contempt. (And if she did get into hot water, well, she was an example of an independently minded female.) By sending her, the guild promoted her to sufficient prominence to be worth nominating, and subsequently losing. . . .
A few days after the Blue Guitar docked in grimy Guineamoy, Yaleen was summoned to the river temple. By this time the leaders of the mission had had opportunity to debate their findings in conclave.
Yaleen reported to the temple, ready to spill out her excuses. She felt somewhat cocky; somewhat apprehensive.
Her cockiness proceeded simply from the fine diamond she wore. Quite why this should be, she wasn't sure. The ring had rapidly come to seem like a personal talisman. Spirited on to her finger by a lecherous Son, that lucky find had now become her luck; and why not?
Her apprehension came from a different quarter. The very same day that the Blue Guitar arrived, Yaleen had been interviewed by a man from the local newssheet, the Guineamoy Gazette.
This interview was arranged through the quaymistress's good offices; and it took place in a back room of her office, though the quaymistress showed no desire to eavesdrop or supervise. The newsman was seeking what he called a "human interest angle" on the trip to the Sons' southerly stronghold.
"I'm hoping this story will be syndicated up and down the river," the fellow confided to Yaleen. His name was Mulge; but that was his misfortune. The name matched him, though.
He was a grey, stout young man Grey of skin, as though the sun had never shone on him. Grey of demeanour: stolid, serious, lacklustre, untouched by much imagination. Pencil-grey, smoke-grey.
"You'll be famous," he said in a flat tone of voice, as though the notion of such exposure worried him, though equally it was his stock in trade.
Duly, the very next day the following column had appeared in the Guineamoy Gazette; and perhaps this ought to be quoted, rather than a blow by blow reprise of the interview itself, since the following is what emerged for public scrutiny and is what was uppermost in Yaleen's mind when she paid her visit to the temple.
Her attempts to enthuse Mulge on the subject of the desert expedition had, it transpired, been so much water off a duck's back. Maybe he thought she was indulging in a different sort of flight— one of fancy. Maybe he wrote to the limits of his understanding— maliciously, so it seemed to Yaleen when she first scanned his column. How he had garbled and idiotized everything. His account read as though he hadn't harked at all. Mulge could as easily have stayed at home and made the whole thing up.
GANGEE “GAIRL” IN SONS’ LAIR
Crewwoman Yaleen of the Blue Guitar said yesterday how glad she is to be back in civilization after acting as “cabin girl” for the momentous peace mission to Manhome South.
“I felt scared all the time,” she confessed. “But I didn’t show it. Those Sons call all young women ‘gairls’, with a sneer in their voice, as if we’re kids. But now because of us they’ve stopped burning women. One of the Sons even fancied me! I didn’t fancy him.
“But yes, I’d go back again—into the wild dogs’ liar—to show what we’re made of over here.”
(This was the bit which worried Yaleen most of all.)
Of her ordeal, Yaleen said . . .
There was more, in similar vein; and the piece ended off thus:
Yaleen’s deputy mission commander,
Tamath, commented: “Yaleen’s too modest. She behaved as a fine representative of our way of life. She’s young but she already distinguished herself on several occasions. She’s our finest.”
True, typeface and layout were excellent—though "lair" was misspelled as "liar", which seemed appropriate—but on the whole Yaleen had felt like curling up in a dark comer. Alternatively: like coming out with fists flailing.
And why had Tamath said those things? Simply to counteract the impression of breathless naivety conveyed by the rest of the piece?
Mixed in with her cocktail of embarrassment and defiance, Yaleen also detected a third, odd flavour. This was the sense that, with her interview in print, somehow she was "emerging"—from anonymous obscurity back into the light, not unlike some death-box buried in Pecawar cemetery being disinterred by the breezes of time.
What became of death-boxes when that occurred? Why, they were soon burnt up and destroyed!
Yet Yaleen had always been obscure and anonymous; nobody special, save to friends and family and three or four lovers, and herself.
Whence came this sense of familiarity at being mentioned in print? Which was this light she was emerging into? She didn't relish the sensation. It felt wrong, even dangerous.
After mulling the matter over for a while, she decided that basically she was a proud creature. Mulge's column constituted a satire on that pride, a caricature.
So as she approached the river temple that morning along Bezma Boulevard, she felt apprehensive. But she also blew on her ring and polished it and felt proud.
The river temple was a sprawling ancient structure constructed of rusty orange ironstone. Recently the stones had been repointed with yellow mortar, but in years past the walls had bent and bellied and been corseted with metal bands and rings, which were now picked out in black paint. The whole edifice resembled a strongchest for storing treasure; a somewhat grimy and eroded one, despite its re- furbishments, due to the pollution in the air.
Indeed the temple did contain treasure. It enshrined the spirit of a way of life—along with the political and moral embodiment of that way of life, the river priestess. Additionally the temple cellar guarded the guild treasury (Guineamoy account). While on the ground floor at the rear this particular temple housed the Mint, which stamped and milled all scales and fins and fish for distribution up and down stream.
By tradition a triumvirate supervised the Mint; this trio consisting of a 'mistress of the river guild, plus a Guineamoy metalmaster, plus a "witness woman" from as far away as possible. Once every two years a new witness was elected, alternately by the towns of Tambi- matu and Umdala. For manufacturing reasons the Mint must needs be sited at Guineamoy. For historic reasons the river guild gave it a roof. The witness ensured that new coins all duly entered circulation, and did not slip "through chinks in the floorboards" down into the river guild treasury in the cellar below.
Yaleen entered by the arched doorway, gave her name to the clerk-acolyte on duty, and was led to p
riestess Kaski's parlour for her audience.
When she was shown in, the parlour was empty. Cushions lay scattered on the polished hoganny floor before a low throne. A single mullioned window gave sight of the river, where a brig was sailing by. Old tapestries showing ancient boats cloaked the walls.
These tapestries caused Yaleen a momentary sense of terrible unease. Instead of admiring them, she focused her gaze upon the genuine vessel sailing the waters.
A rustle. A swirl of fabric. And Kaski appeared—stepping directly out of one of the tapestries! The tapestry was actually in two separate parts, though they had hung as one. Behind, a door was concealed.
Supporting herself with a silver-tipped cane, Kaski hobbled slowly in the direction of her throne. Yaleen almost darted to assist; but this might have been impertinent. Besides, the shrivelled old woman had paid no heed to her yet. Yaleen shuffled uncertainly.
Then the crone did reach her throne—and swung round, sitting smoothly and swiftly, not at all like somebody suffering from crippled joints. Her eyes took in Yaleen, with piercing familiarity.
"River bless you, child of the flow!" The priestess's voice was clear, purposeful, precise.
Yaleen realized that Kaski must have been watching her for a while through a crack in the divided tapestry before emerging. And that slow walk of hers had been hoo-ha, designed to put Yaleen off stride. Maybe Kaski could fence with that cane of hers in as sprightly a style as any 'jack soldier. Perhaps she could tap-dance rings around Yaleen.
"River lave you, 'Mistress Priestess."
"Hmm. Read that story about you in the paper, I did!" said Kaski without more ado.
"Oh dear. Honestly, I've never seen such a jumble of drivel in a newssheet—not even at 'Barbra! It makes me out such a silly chit."
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