The Grand Ellipse

by Paula Volsky

  The desk below the sign was occupied by a young clerk whom she took for a half-caste by reason of his blue-black Aveshquian hair and eyes, his western nose and lips, and his light skin faintly warmed with gold. He looked bored, and justifiably so, for he was glaringly underemployed. The floor space before his desk was clear.

  The room was filled with men who looked as if they might have been queuing there for hours, and Luzelle marched past them all to be served without an instant’s delay. She was, after all, a Vonahrish national in Aveshq. This was the sort of privileged treatment that Karsler Stornzof routinely received throughout the Imperium, but now at last her turn had come to reap the benefits of injustice, and she was enjoying it.

  The clerk’s look of boredom vanished in the presence of a Vonahrishwoman, and he sat up straight.

  “May I assist you, Esteemed Madame?” he inquired with extreme courtesy verging on servility. The singsong accent of an Aveshquian native colored his perfect diction.

  She stated her need, and he stamped her passport without question or hesitation, then looked up to inquire with an air of dedication, “Is there anything more that the Esteemed Madame requires?”

  “Why yes,” she replied, welcoming the opening. “I could do with a little information, if you would be so kind.”

  “I am honored to serve Madame.”

  “I need to catch a train north to ZuLaysa, in the state of Kahnderule. Could you tell me the fastest way to get to the railroad station?”

  “Ah, Esteemed Madame.” The clerk shook his head sadly. “I regret to inform you that most of the trains throughout Poriule are presently out of service, and likely to remain so for some days or weeks to come.”

  “Don’t tell me that the railroad workers are on strike here too!”

  “They would not so presume, Esteemed Madame. It is the rain, you see. The rains are exceptional this year. The Gold Mandijhuur has risen vastly, there is much flooding, and long stretches of track are properly submerged.”

  “I must reach ZuLaysa as quickly as possible. What’s the best means of travel?”

  “The best means of travel, Esteemed Madame, is currently the only means of travel. A yahdeen-drawn barge will carry Madame up the Gold Mandijhuur into the Ghochallate of Kahnderule, as far as the town of AfaHaal. Soon the railroad will reach AfaHaal—already construction is under way—but that happy day has not yet arrived. In the meantime Madame must make her way east across the plains from AfaHaal to ZuLaysa by hired conveyance.”

  “Hired conveyance of what sort?”

  “That is as fate may decree, Esteemed Madame.”

  “I see. Where shall I go for a yahdeen-drawn barge?”

  “The Khad-ji, Esteemed Madame.”

  “The what?”

  “Khad-ji, Madame. It is the river pier at the north end of the city. There you may strike a bargain with a yahdeeneer, whose beasts will pull your barge through the delta channels into the Gold Mandijhuur River.”

  “That sounds easy enough. And this Khad-ji place—accessible by fiacre?”

  “No fiacres here in UlFoudh, Esteemed Madame,” the clerk confessed. “Alas, we enjoy no such advanced western marvels. Here Madame must go by fhozhee. You will find the hurriers waiting beneath the awning at the south corner of the customhouse.”

  “I’ll go there at once. Allow me to thank you for your help and kindness.”

  “It is my very great pleasure and privilege to serve the Esteemed Madame.” A deferential inclination of his head accompanied the declaration.

  A little too deferential, Luzelle decided. She was not used to such subservience, which, luscious though it seemed at first bite, would very soon cloy. Nodding a farewell, she turned and made for the exit. Long before she reached it, a familiar voice halted her in her tracks.

  “Miss D’vaire! Over here—over here!”

  She turned and spotted him at once—a short, damp, but dapper figure clad in an expensive raincoat, standing near the front of one of the longest queues.

  Mesq’r Zavune. Here in UlFoudh, running neck and neck with her, when she had thought him far behind. Why couldn’t the ship bearing him east from the South Ygahro Territory just have been struck by lightning or something?

  What an unsporting, unworthy thought. She genuinely liked Zavune. And genuinely wished him out of the race; nothing fatal, a temporary incapacitation would do.

  Producing a smile of adequate warmth, she detoured to greet him. He was looking well, she noted sourly. Rested, alert, and fit. How did he do it?

  “How do you do this?” he echoed her thought. “All this long way we travel, and you are looking like Sherreen fashion.”

  “Scarcely. It’s good of you to say so, and it’s also good to see that you made it safe and sound through the Forests of Oorex. Not everyone did.”

  “This is a trueness. Once, I think I am dead in there. These jungles wilds are filled with beasts, Ygahri savages, and Grewzians. I do not know which is worst of lot.”

  “I do.”

  “Ah, yes.” Zavune smiled. “Here the Imperium rules not, here the tongue is free to move! These Grewzians it is who flame up anger of the Blessed Tribesmen. Before Grewzians, I am telled, the tribesmen are not so bad.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “I am glad you come through jungles safe, Miss D’vair. We compete, but I see you are a fine person, and I am wishing you only good fortunes.”

  “Thank you.” And she had wished him incapacitated, moments earlier. Suddenly ashamed of her mental meanness, she added with sincerity, “The best of luck to you too, Master Zavune.”

  “I am needing it.”

  “Well, I’d like to hear what happened to you in the jungles when you thought you were dead, but right now—”

  “We race, I know. You must make the fly along.”

  “Exactly. Until next time, then.”

  “Next time, Miss D’vaire.”

  She left him standing in line. Unfurling her umbrella as she exited the customhouse, she turned to the left and made for the south corner of the building. A pair of two-wheeled fhozhees waited there, their brightly colored cushions and pennants sodden in the rain. Two native hurriers huddled for shelter beneath a nearby awning, and she compared them swiftly. One was short, scrawny, grizzled, and damply decrepit. The other was young, muscular, and eagle eyed. She went straight to the prize specimen, who bowed with profound respect.

  “The Khad-ji, please,” she directed. “At your best speed.”

  “Alas, Esteemed Madame,” replied the hurrier, his singsong Aveshquian accent far more pronounced than the clerk’s. “It cannot be. This humble one is already bespoken.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Not long ago, an Esteemed—not of Vonahr, but Esteemed nonetheless—paid me well, bade me await his return, and vanished into the customhouse. He is in there yet.”

  “Perhaps he will never emerge,” Luzelle suggested creatively. “Surely he has changed his mind. I will double his offer, whatever it may be. Now, are we agreed?”

  “Here is a puzzle.” Enticed, the hurrier wavered. “Do the gods will me great good fortune? Or do They try my honesty with temptation? Either way it is clearly written that I shall tread the Khad-ji this day, for this is likewise the destination of the Esteemed within the customhouse.”

  “Really.” A horrid suspicion invaded Luzelle’s mind. “The man you speak of—is he quite short and slim? Is he wearing a beige raincoat? Does he speak Vonahrish in a way that’s difficult to understand?”

  “Before the gods, this is the very man.”

  “I know this man. He is inconstant as a feather in the breeze, he has forgotten you. Think no more of him. I will triple his offer. Now, let us be off.”

  “Triple?”

  “Yes. I’m in a hurry, a great hurry.” This was an understatement, for beating Mesq’r Zavune to the river pier at this particular juncture could prove critical, but the hurrier seemed unable to appreciate the urgency of the matter.r />
  “Triple. Aeh, but what do I hear?” He thumbed his jaw. “It is too much, there is mischief afoot. I am number-one champion hurrier of southside UlFoudh, two years in a row. Perhaps the gods suspect that it has made me proud. If such an offer is real—”

  “It is real, I assure you. May we go now?”

  “Then truly They put me to the test. I will not fail.” The hurrier straightened. “Madame, I will honor my word, I will await the raincoat Esteemed until the crack of doom, if need be. There, it is done, this one has met the test.”

  “Listen,” Luzelle began, “this is not some test, I’m telling you in all honesty—”

  “Madame? Esteemed Madame?” A reedy new voice intruded upon the dialogue. It was the other hurrier, the rickety oldster whose existence she had all but ignored. “Permit this humble one the honor of serving Madame. I will hurry you on to the Khad-ji in comfort and style, at a pace that none shall match.”

  “You?” Luzelle surveyed the speaker. He was shorter than Mesq’r Zavune, he looked as if a breeze might knock him over, and she doubted his ability to draw a loaded fhozhee half the length of a city block.

  “Truly, Esteemed Madame.” The greying native bobbed a surprisingly agile bow. “I am NaiZind, of the Order of Flow, and at Madame’s service.”

  “Thank you, no.” She smiled kindly to soften the refusal. “I will make other arrangements.” Turning back to the strong young hurrier, she persisted, “If you doubt my good faith, I’m prepared to pay you half in advance, and the balance upon—”

  “No, Madame.” The other shook his head vehemently. “I have pledged my word to the raincoat, I have accepted his coin, and I will not break faith. The Esteemed Madame must find another to hurry her. That old one NaiZind will serve her, or else there are others, over there.” He pointed.

  “Others?” Her eyes followed his finger several hundred yards along the dockside to another building, another awning. If hurriers waited there, she could not see them, but she would have to take his word for it. “Very well, if you really won’t change your mind.”

  She started for the designated awning. Before she had covered a quarter of the distance, the plash of sandaled feet scampering through puddles caught her ear, and then NaiZind was beside her, gaunt old face alive with enthusiasm.

  “Madame—Esteemed Madame—one word, if I may.”

  “I’m sorry, but I haven’t the time.” She did not slacken her pace.

  “Truly, the business of the gods and of the Vonahrish admits of no delay, and yet this humble one begs but an instant. Esteemed Madame, for your own greatest good, allow NaiZind to persuade you that he is the man for the job, the best man, the only man, devoted, dependable, fearless, resourceful, indomitable—”

  “All of that?” She could not repress a smile, despite her impatience. “Listen, NaiZind, I’m afraid you don’t understand. You see, I need to reach the Khad-ji ahead of the raincoat who hired that big young hurrier back there. I’m sure you’re very good, but I require speed, and I fear—”

  “Fear that NaiZind cannot outpace and outdo that overgrown boy, that shambling heap of fresh warm goat droppings, that mewling, milk-sucking babe with a head of lard and feet of lead—Madame does not believe that I can truly do this thing? Aeh! In my sleep, Madame. Believe it. Believe that youth and strength are no match for wisdom and daring. There are ways of ensuring the Esteemed Madame’s success. See”—his reedy voice dropped to a whisper—” I will show you.”

  Luzelle realized that she had come to a full stop. Somehow NaiZind was squarely in front of her, blocking her path, and now he was displacing a fold of his oilcloth rain cloak to reveal an implement of some sort gripped in one skinny hand. A hatchet, she perceived; short handled and sturdy.

  “A few swift strokes—” NaiZind gestured discreetly and let his cloak fall back into place. “Only pay me what you would give that boy, and Madame’s triumph is certain.”

  “You’re not suggesting—you don’t imagine I’d hire you to attack someone—”

  “The gods forbid! Rather should this one lose his last remaining tooth than shed a single drop of human blood. I contemplate but a few short strokes of steel upon wood—”

  “Wood?”

  “The axle, Esteemed Madame. The axle of the raincoat’s fhozhee. A few blows, the axle breaks, and the tale is ended.”

  “I see.” Madame’s triumph is certain. It would be an underhanded trick to play on Mesq’r Zavune, not to mention the young hurrier. Downright unscrupulous, in fact. Madame’s triumph is certain. Of course, nobody would be harmed, but it was wrong, it was contemptible. Madame’s triumph—

  “Well, you couldn’t manage it anyway,” Luzelle objected slowly. “The boy, as you call him, would certainly see what you were up to, and—”

  “Aeh, he sees nothing, if the Esteemed Madame but fill his eyes and his ears. Go back and speak to him once more, Madame. Wave money before his face, and he will look nowhere else.”

  NaiZind was probably right about that. The plan was distasteful, but not infeasible. And she couldn’t very well allow a rival Ellipsoid to enjoy the services of southside UlFoudh’s number-one champion hurrier; not if she meant to win. Luzelle hesitated no longer.

  “Do what you must,” she instructed. Turning from him, she went back to accost the number-one champion a second time.

  She was hardly aware of what she said to him. She argued loudly, she gestured broadly, she waved fistfuls of Newrekkoes under his nose. She did everything short of handsprings to keep his attention fixed on her, and all the while, out of the corner of her eye, she watched the fhozhees standing in the rain. She saw old NaiZind’s spry, drably draped figure steal near one of the vehicles and disappear beneath. After that she kept an ear cocked for the thud of hatchet strokes, but the heavy pounding of the rain together with her own extravagant vociferation covered the sound, if such there was. Through it all the southside champion stood steadfastly virtuous. Presently NaiZind emerged into view and slunk away. Whatever he had done was done.

  She could stop now. Luzelle let herself fall silent. Affecting an air of reluctant resignation, she took her leave of the undefeated champion. Feeling shabby, she walked away, and NaiZind was beside her at once.

  “Allow this humble one the honor of bearing the Esteemed Madame’s burdens,” he suggested, and she let him take her valise. The bag went into the fhozhee’s box and Luzelle boarded the vehicle, settling herself uncomfortably upon the sopping seat.

  As NaiZind placed himself between the shafts, Mesq’r Zavune exited the customhouse. Carpetbag in one hand, umbrella in the other, he hastened straight to the southside champion.

  “Go—go!” Luzelle commanded her own hurrier.

  “Madame need fear no rival,” NaiZind tossed back over his shoulder, and set off at an indifferent trot, probably his best speed.

  She could hardly share his confidence. Luzelle looked back to behold the southside champion solidly positioned between the shafts and galloping like a racehorse. Mesq’r Zavune’s fhozhee drew level with her own within a matter of seconds, and then it was past, the distance between the two vehicles lengthening by the moment. She suppressed an angry exclamation. It was happening just as she had feared. Mesq’r Zavune was taking the lead. He would beat her to the Khad-ji, he would secure the best yahdeeneer as he had already secured the best hurrier, he would be first into the city of ZuLaysa, and things would only get worse after that. She should, she realized belatedly, have investigated the alternate hurriers, but she had never even reached them, because the unspeakable NaiZind had managed to intercept, delay, and dupe her, and she had let him.

  “If that raincoat beats us to the Khad-ji”—Luzelle raised her voice to make herself heard above the pounding of the rain, the creak of wooden wheels, and the general hubbub of a crowded Aveshquian city—“you shall not have your ten Newrekkoes.”

  “Aeh, but they are surely mine,” NaiZind returned cheerfully. “This is written in the stars. Madame need not fear.” />
  “Madame wishes she’d never laid eyes on you,” Luzelle muttered under her breath. The old fraud had probably never so much as touched the rival vehicle’s axle.

  “Now, see—look there, Madame, look there!” NaiZind directed with an air of happy excitement.

  Not far ahead the narrow street took a sharp bend. As the southside champion rounded the curve at a run, the sabotaged axle gave way. The fhozhee shuddered, the two big wheels tilted at crazy angles, then one of them released itself and spun away. The vehicle overturned, and Mesq’r Zavune was thrown from his seat.

  Remarkable how slowly his body seemed to fly through the air. Luzelle had an unobstructed view, and there was more than ample opportunity to study Zavune’s arm-flailing trajectory. For one impossible moment he seemed to hang motionless in midair, his face frozen in an open-mouthed, wide-eyed gape of astonishment. Then he crashed to the ground and lay still. Pedestrians instantly converged on the spot.

  “Aeh! So much for the famous southside champion!” crowed NaiZind.

  “Stop—stop where you are!” Luzelle exclaimed.

  “But Esteemed Madame—”

  “I said stop!”

  NaiZind obeyed. The fhozhee halted a few feet from the site of the accident, and Luzelle stood up on the seat for a better look. She could see that the southside champion hurrier was quite unharmed. But Mesq’r Zavune lay motionless in the churned-up mud of the roadway, and there was blood on his face, blood that renewed itself as fast as the rain washed it away. His stillness was dreadful. If he was dead, then she was his murderess.

  She stood there watching as the crowd gathered and the rain poured down, and minutes passed, centuries passed. Eternity expired and Zavune stirred but did not open his eyes. He was still alive, at least for now. Luzelle closed her own eyes, but saw him clearly as ever. A singsong voice impinged on her remorse.

  “Esteemed Madame—if you would be pleased to seat yourself, Madame—I shall hurry you now to the Khad-ji, as promised and agreed upon. Madame’s triumph is certain.”

  “Hold your tongue.” She glared down at him, hating him for what he had caused her to do, fully aware that the responsibility was her own. “This is my fault, do you suppose I’ll leave him lying there in the street?”