by Paula Volsky
An impeccably blond undercommander furnished directions, and the three of them walked on along crooked malodorous lanes now sinking into humid twilight. As the light waned, the gnats retired and the mosquitoes emerged in force. A high-pitched humming filled the air, and the blood feast began. Luzelle slapped, batted, and flapped her free arm in vain. Her Bizaqhi garments covered her body and limbs, and one of the long sashes draped across the lower portion of her face furnished additional protection. But her hands were bare, and within minutes they were spotted with itchy red lumps. Uncomfortable and annoying, but nothing to worry about. There were certain modern scientific cranks who actually imagined the obnoxious little insects responsible for the transmission of deadly diseases, but Luzelle’s common sense rejected such farfetched notions.
The dim avenue terminated at the verge of a paved plaza, large and imposing by local standards, edged with lanterns just now being lit for the evening. The buildings here were the largest Luzelle had seen so far in Xoxo, graceless constructions of the native drab brick perched above flood level upon massive stone supports, and incongruously adorned with whitewashed wooden columns of classical design.
They had reached Xoxo’s western enclave, site of the administrative offices employed by successive contingents of the North Ygahro Territory’s colonial overlords. Here rose the city hall, the archives, the governor’s residence, the countinghouse, the offices, and an assortment of private dwellings occupied by western-born officials, lower-level bureaucrats, their families, pets, and servants. A variety of flags had flown above these buildings. At the moment the flags were Grewzian.
Luzelle scarcely noticed the architecture. Her attention fastened on a makeshift wooden platform set up in the middle of the square and she gasped, then whispered without thought, “Oh, what is that?”
A superfluous question, really; the spectacle was self-explanatory. The platform bore an apparatus reminiscent of an old-fashioned pillory, with strong upright posts supporting a wide horizontal board furnished with apertures that confined the necks and wrists of four prisoners. The victims were Ygahri natives, male, naked save for abbreviated loincloths. All four were small, thin, bowlegged, and black haired, their elaborately coiled braids threaded with beads and rings. Their faces and bodies were either painted or tattooed with intricate swirling designs in blue and green punctuated with symmetrical raised scars, but the ornamentation did not disguise the bruises, welts, and bloody cuts marking the coppery flesh. The partially dried blood attracted a host of voracious insects. Clouds of winged forms hovered about the immobilized bodies; multilegged legions crawled freely over and into the exposed wounds. The buzzing and humming were audible throughout the square. The stooped, cramped posture imposed by the pillory must have been almost as torturous in itself as the combined miseries of a recent beating, insects, and thirst. But no sign of perturbation touched the faces of the four prisoners, whose stoicism was well illumined by the lanterns placed about the platform. Clearly the spectacle of punishment was meant to edify the public.
This is something out of another century, thought Luzelle.
A patrol of Grewzian soldiers was passing. Karsler halted the men with a word, jerked a nod at the platform, and demanded, “What is the meaning of this?”
The patrol’s leader, a pug-nosed sergeant, answered, “Discipline of refractory natives, sir.”
“Upon whose authority?”
“Standing orders of the Undergeneral Ermendtrof, sir.”
“The Undergeneral Ermendtrof sanctions this particular form of punishment?”
“Yes, sir. As indicated, sir.”
“And in this case?”
“Very much indicated, sir.”
“Explain.”
“Sir, those four natives there aren’t townsmen. You can see by the scars and tattoos that they’re jungle scum of the Nine Blessed Tribes. In fact, they’re elders of the Aocreotalexi tribe. These forest savages are always troublesome. Disobedient. Underhanded. They’re not civilized, sir, and they have no idea how to behave. They’re more like apes than men, and a good whipping is the only kind of language they understand.”
“What was their offense?” Karsler inquired expressionlessly.
“They were insolent, sir.”
“Specify.”
“They accosted the Undergeneral Ermendtrof himself in the street, blocked his way, and stood there yapping complaints. Something about the men of the Forty-seventh Squadron digging latrines into some old native burial ground near the edge of the forest. Wanted the latrines relocated, and the profaned site ritually purified. As if a good Grewzian contribution wouldn’t enrich their ancestors’ sorry bones! I say we were doing the apes a favor, but they don’t know how to be grateful. When those four troublemakers there were ordered from the undergeneral’s path, they wouldn’t budge, and that kind of disobedience can’t be tolerated. An example was made.”
“When are they scheduled for release?”
“Tomorrow afternoon.”
“Then see to it that they are given water at regular intervals until that time.”
“Sir, the Undergeneral Ermendtrof’s orders do not mention—”
“You comprehend my instructions, Sergeant?”
“Yes, Overcommander.”
“Dismissed.”
The sergeant saluted smartly, and the patrol withdrew. As soon as the soldiers were out of earshot, Luzelle turned on Karsler to demand, “Won’t you do something?”
“I have done what I could.” His somber gaze was fixed on the pilloried natives.
“But why didn’t you order those men released?”
“I have not the authority to countermand the orders of the Undergeneral Ermendtrof.”
“Hang the Undergeneral Ermendtrof! This is no way to treat human beings—it’s barbaric, it’s monstrous. You know that.”
“I am a soldier, and my duty as such prohibits insubordination. My personal convictions do not signify.”
“How can you say that? A soldier isn’t an automaton. He has a mind and a conscience. Can yours allow you to condone this?” Her condemnatory gesture encompassed the platform. “You can do something about it, if you choose.”
“What I might choose as an individual is irrelevant. As an officer of the Imperium I recognize the necessities and realities of war.”
“The torture of four Ygahri tribesmen who committed the terrible crime of complaining about their graveyard’s desecration—that is a necessity? Do you really believe—”
“Luzelle. Leave him alone.” Girays finally entered the discussion.
Her eyes widened in surprise. “But—”
“You’ve overlooked or else you don’t know the rigor of Grewzian military discipline. The sort of righteous mutiny that you recommend would probably get Stornzof shot.”
“But I never—”
“Before you next presume to judge and demand, perhaps you might take a moment to consider possible consequences,” Girays concluded.
Luzelle said nothing. Her face burned.
In comfortless silence the three of them crossed the square to the ugly city hall, with its registrar’s office manned by some petty official authorized to stamp their passports. A Grewzian sentry at the front door barred the way.
“Closed for the night,” the sentry announced. “Come back tomorrow morning, eight o’clock.”
“We require a clerk,” Karsler informed his countryman. “It is not late, there will still be a few about. Stand aside.”
The sentry straightened smartly. “You’ll find someone up on the second floor, Overcommander,” he answered with respect. “But I can’t admit these civilians, sir.”
Unfair, Luzelle thought, not for the first time.
“They are with me,” Karsler said.
Perhaps he was reading her mind again. Certainly it seemed that his reluctance to exploit yet another unearned advantage was undermining his will to win. Much as she admired such nobility, she had no intention of emulating it.
“Sorry, sir,” the sentry returned. “Orders of the Undergeneral Ermendtrof. No civilians after hours.”
“Very well.” Turning to his companions/competitors, Karsler spoke with some regret. “It seems that we must part.”
“Don’t exult too soon, Stornzof,” Girays advised with a smile. “We shall probably find ourselves passengers on the same steamboat heading downriver tomorrow morning.”
Unless I’m trapped here half the day tomorrow waiting to get my passport stamped, thought Luzelle. If so, I might not be able to get out of this town until the day after. This may be a disaster. Oh, curse those Grewzians! Aloud, she remarked with such good grace as she could muster, “Good-bye for now, Karsler. Good luck.”
“Good luck to you as well. Until next time, then.” Karsler walked into the building, and the door shut behind him.
“Well.” Luzelle turned to face Girays. She had not quite forgiven him for the recent, stinging rebuke. “This seems somehow—strange. That he’s gone, I mean.”
“Yes.” Girays looked bemused. “I discover I’ve grown accustomed to Stornzof’s company.”
“Evidently. The way you leaped to his defense when I ventured to voice an opinion—”
“When you tried to take his head off.”
“Well, your loyalty was touching. Really. Touching.”
“Oh, I experience a kind of spontaneous fraternal sympathy for all fellow victims of the Devaire verbal stiletto.”
“Thank you. Better take care, or you’ll end up best friends with a Grewzian.”
“I hardly think so. I’ll acknowledge Stornzof as less of a boor than the majority of his countrymen—in fact, he’s actually quite decent in his own peculiar way—”
“M. the Marquis waxes lyrical.”
“But we are rivals, our association was a matter of expediency, and it is finished now.”
“You and I are rivals too. What about our association?”
“Good for another few hours, at least,” Girays told her. “Long enough to dine together, if you’ll join me.”
“Gladly.” She hadn’t meant to say that. She was still angry, she should have turned him down, but the assent had slipped out easily and naturally. “Where shall we go?”
“I don’t suppose a place like Xoxo has any restaurants or cafés, but maybe there’s a cookshop somewhere. Let’s look.”
They walked away from the city hall, across the lamplit square, by tacit agreement circling wide of the platform and pillory, but Luzelle could not help glancing at the prisoners as she passed, and she caught too clear a glimpse of oozing wounds, busy insects, and bruised impassive faces. She looked away quickly, but could not banish the picture from her mind. She wondered if Girays was as revolted as she. His face told her little, but he was unusually silent.
They found neither restaurant nor cookshop, but a small western-style travelers’ inn stood at the darker and dirtier end of the plaza, and the establishment boasted an old-fashioned common room whose hand-lettered sign promised Vonahrish cuisine. They studied the bill of fare tacked up below the sign, and everything listed was purely Grewzian, with the exception of potage Ygahroisse, the Vonahrish version of a native soup incorporating local tubers seasoned with the astringent bark of the native shrink-tree, and enriched with condensed buffalo milk.
The common room contained too many Grewzian soldiers for comfort, but there was nowhere else to go. They seated themselves, and both ordered the soup. Luzelle wanted nothing more; the sight of the battered prisoners exposed to public view had killed her appetite.
The soup arrived, accompanied by a small loaf of dense Grewzian-style bread. Luzelle ate without tasting. Her eyes traveled the dingy common room, encountered nothing agreeable, and returned to her bowl.
“I suppose we can stay here tonight,” she said at last. “There must be vacancies.”
“No doubt. Xoxo is hardly teeming with travelers. The real question is, what do we do tomorrow once we’ve had our passports stamped? Have you made any plans?”
“Well, there’s not much choice, is there? Steamboat downriver, south through the Forests of Oorex. No other practical means of transportation.”
“If we don’t make it to the wharves by eight-thirty A.M., we don’t get out of town tomorrow.”
“Why not?”
“Because that’s the only scheduled southbound departure for the day. I’ve a timetable. See for yourself.” He placed a creased paper sheet on the table before her.
She scanned the schedule, saw that he was right, and lost what little was left of her appetite. “We’re ruined, Girays! The city hall doesn’t open until eight. We can’t get our passports stamped there and then reach the wharves by eight-thirty. It’s impossible. We’re dead!”
“Not necessarily. I think we might manage, provided we plan well.”
“Oh, what good will that do? Planning can’t slow the clock. Karsler’s going to pull ahead, it isn’t fair, and there’s nothing we can do about it. Oh, confound these Grewzians!”
“Luzelle. Calm yourself. Focus.”
“I am perfectly calm!” she exclaimed.
“And watch what you say about Grewzians around here,” he advised quietly.
“I don’t care if they hear me!” Thinking better of it, she lowered her voice. “Maybe they don’t understand Vonahrish, anyway.”
“Don’t bank on it. Look here.” He produced another paper sheet. “It’s a map of Xoxo.”
“Where in the world did you get that?”
“Some street vendor, somewhere or other. See”—his forefinger tapped the map—“we’re sitting here at the southeast corner of the town square. Tomorrow morning at eight we cross the square to the city hall—”
“Let’s get there earlier.”
“If you think it will do any good. But when a Grewzian tells you the place opens at eight, he doesn’t mean seven fifty-nine. In any case, we’ll have our passports stamped as quickly as possible, and then we head for the wharves. The distance between the town square and the waterfront is a little over a mile. There are no cabs available, no carriages for hire, no livery stable—we’ll have to walk. Here’s the most direct route.” Girays’s finger traced a line across the street map. “If we hurry, we might cover the distance in about fifteen minutes, reaching the wharves in time to board the”—he consulted the timetable—“the Water Sprite.”
“We’d better. Maybe we should hire someone to carry our luggage.”
“No time. If the bags slow us down, we’ll have to discard them. Are you ready to do that?”
“Certainly, if necessary. I’ve done it once already, back in Aeshno.”
“I had wondered about that new carpetbag. What happened?”
She hesitated. She did not particularly care to confess her experiment in larceny to Girays v’Alisante. She had only done what she needed to do in order to stay in the race. There had really been no choice, she reminded herself, and yet she was ashamed. She should have kept her big mouth shut about it, but now she was obliged to answer him. “I rode horseback from Aeshno to Quinnekevah, and couldn’t carry the valise.”
“No way of strapping it to the saddle?”
“No time for that.”
“Curious. All it would have taken would have been a simple—”
“I was in a hurry.”
“I see.” He considered. “How did you manage to secure a horse in Aeshno? Neither Stornzof nor I could find one. We were both informed that horses were absolutely unobtainable. Where did you—”
“Oh, really, what does it matter?” She could feel the telltale heat in her cheeks. “I found a way, that’s all.”
“I see,” Girays repeated dryly. “My compliments, Miss Devaire.”
He looked as if he could see straight through her, and her discomfort deepened. Guilty conscience, nothing more. M. the Marquis wasn’t about to throw her off balance as easily as that, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Lifting her chin, she met his eyes squarely, and murmured with ap
parent nonchalance, “The Water Sprite, eh? Let us hope she doesn’t live up to her name and disappear on us.”
FINISHING THEIR MODEST DINNER, they left the common room and went to the desk, where the concierge entered their names in his ledger, then issued them separate room numbers and keys. Together they climbed to the second story, where they paused briefly at the head of the stairs.
“Seven-forty, front door,” Girays enjoined.
“Seven-forty,” Luzelle agreed, and they parted. Proceeding alone to her assigned chamber, she let herself in and froze on the threshold, unpleasantly surprised.
The inn—even more antiquated than she had first supposed—still employed the old-fashioned system of communal sleeping quarters. A small oil lamp hanging from the ceiling illumined a sizable dormitory containing ten narrow beds, each eerily misted with mosquito netting. Four of the beds were occupied. Two of the tenants were wide awake and sitting up. Luzelle glimpsed blond heads and solid buxom forms clothed in chaste white nightgowns. The features swam behind plentiful netting.
“Close the door, if you please,” one of the blondes requested in Grewzian.
“You will let in the unwholesome night air,” the other observed in the same language.
The place could use a little unwholesome night air, Luzelle noticed. The windows were closed, the mildew-edged atmosphere heavy and humming with insect life. Nevertheless she shut the door, and the noise woke a third tenant, who stirred and inquired in sleepy Grewzian, “What is that?”
“Someone new has come in.”
“Forty-seventh?”
“Are you?” the first blonde demanded of Luzelle.
“Am I what?”
“Visiting a soldier of the Forty-seventh Squadron?”