by Paula Volsky
“What else is there for Madame to do?”
Good question. She thought. “I can see to it that he’s carried to the nearest doctor—”
“Aeh, but the Stick-fellows of the city watch will do that. They will be here within minutes.”
“Then I can at least remain to learn if he’ll live.”
“And if he does not?”
No satisfactory answer presented itself.
“The Esteemed Madame must know that the fate of the raincoat lies in the hands of the gods,” NaiZind observed matter-of-factly. “He lives or dies according to Their will. Should he perish this day, it is only because his appointed hour has come. There is nothing Madame or I can do to hasten or delay that hour by so much as a single second.”
She stifled a bitter contradiction. No point in arguing philosophy with a devout fatalist.
“I want you to hurry that man to the nearest doctor—” she began, but even as she spoke, a trio of uniformed natives arrived, bearing a stretcher. Their identical rain cloaks displayed the insignia of the UlFoudh city watch, and the crowd made way for them at once.
“Stick-fellows,” NaiZind explained.
Hurrying straight to the injured man’s side, the Stick-fellows knelt, performed a swift examination, then transferred Mesq’r Zavune to the stretcher. While two of them carried him off, the third remained to question the witnesses, commencing with the southside champion. Who might have guessed by now that his fhozhee had been tampered with. Who might have a pretty good idea who had done it.
“There, you see?” NaiZind’s good cheer never faltered. “Everything all right now.”
“Is it?”
“The gods have smiled upon the Esteemed Madame, her troubles are ended. The Khad-ji and victory await.”
A word from her would set the fhozhee in motion. Luzelle hesitated. Her conscience ached like a wound. She should follow Mesq’r Zavune; see to it that he received the best care, pay his medical bills or his funeral expenses as the case might be, pen a letter to his wife back in Aennorve, do what she could to help, inadequate though her efforts might be. On the other hand, she could not afford to linger in UlFoudh—not if she wanted to win the Grand Ellipse. She could not afford the luxury of rectitude, it was bound to slow her down, and she most assuredly could not afford a touchy conscience. She had known from the start that certain sacrifices would be necessary.
Luzelle sat down.
“The Khad-ji,” she commanded. “Go.”
19
“THE BEST, ESTEEMED MADAME,” promised the yahdeeneer. “The best in UlFoudh, the best in all of Aveshq. The finest barge, the most scientifically advanced luxurious accommodations. Would Madame care to inspect the cabin? It is bone dry, Madame, it is most perfectly waterproof.”
“That’s very nice, but it’s the quality of the beasts that concerns me,” Luzelle told him. “I need the fastest possible transportation, and—”
“Look upon my beautiful BuBuuj,” the yahdeeneer invited. “Feast your eyes upon my magnificent MoomYahl. Have you ever seen the like? Esteemed Madame, these are princesses among yahdeeni, they are without equal for loveliness, strength, endurance, swiftness, intelligence, and sweetness.”
“Well—” Luzelle surveyed the princesses in question. She could credit the claims for strength and endurance, as the two yahdeeni floating half submerged beside the river pier were indeed enormous, well fed, and powerfully muscled creatures, built like living fortresses. But loveliness? In the fond eye of their master, perhaps, but she herself could see little beauty in the massive ungainly forms colored yellow-brown as the river water, and even less in the broad-snouted visages. As for intelligence—that was difficult to gauge. And sweetness? She gazed down into a pair of porcine yahdeeni eyes and saw no sweetness there. The small yellow orbs seemed to reflect a certain sullen malevolence, but perhaps it was her imagination. In any case she was clearly no judge of yahdeeni-flesh. This was the third team she had inspected, and they all seemed much the same to her. But the afternoon was advancing, she needed to make a quick decision if she hoped for significant upstream progress before nightfall, and this lot seemed as good as any.
“How much?” she asked.
The yahdeeneer named a figure. It was high, but did not seem unreasonably so.
“Agreed,” she returned, and the flame of incredulous joy briefly lighting the other’s dark Aveshquian eyes told her at once that she should have haggled, that she had probably just consented to pay three or four times the appropriate fare. Well, she didn’t have time to haggle. And it wasn’t her money, anyway. Let the ministry worry about it.
Assisting her aboard, the yahdeeneer placed her valise in the tiny cabin, which was horribly daubed in magenta and gold, but well caulked and dry as promised. He then set about fastening and adjusting the huge harnesses, while Luzelle watched from the shelter of the painted awning overhanging the cabin door. For a while all went well until one of the princesses, patience overtaxed, gave a pettish shake of her huge head and turned within the traces to face her keeper. The yahdeen’s cavernous jaws gaped. Luzelle caught a glimpse of big yellow teeth and a blast of foul fishy breath. The yahdeeneer, accustomed to his charges’ idiosyncrasies, stepped back just in time to avoid a powerfully projected vomitous stream stinking of fish and decayed vegetation. The hot green tide surged across the deck, missing her new shoes by inches. Luzelle gagged and turned her face away, while the yahdeen loosed a hoarse cry of triumph blending the bray of a jackass with the scream of an eagle.
“MoomYahl—MoomYahl!” A burst of reproachful Aveshquian dialect followed.
MoomYahl subsided, grumbling passionately, and her master resumed his labors.
The stench of yahdeen vomit hung in the air. Grimacing, Luzelle applied one of the new handkerchiefs to her nose. The yahdeeneer paused to slosh a bucket of water across the deck, and the diluted green pool spread. Luzelle stepped back into her cabin and shut the door.
Some half hour later a torrent of rousing Aveshquian rhetoric lured her forth. The rain had washed the deck clean, and the smell was gone. The yahdeeneer had completed his preparations, and now he was plying his pole, his spiked goader, and his tongue to set his team in motion.
The princesses were disinclined to abandon the pier. While MoomYahl shook her great head, wheezed, and groaned, BuBuuj presented a wrinkled tan posterior briefly to the grey skies and dived for the bottom. The water roiled violently and a shuddering shock rocked the barge. Luzelle tottered and grabbed the doorjamb. Cursing in Vonahrish, remonstrating in Aveshquian, the yahdeeneer sawed the reins and worked his goader. At last his ministrations, combined with the buoyancy of the many inflated floaters attached to the harness, forced BuBuuj back to the surface. Her master greeted her with rapture. The yahdeen groaned and spat. The yahdeeneer lilted a musical call, and the princesses commenced swimming.
CONTRARY TO LUZELLE’S INITIAL IMPRESSION, the rains were not ceaseless. From time to time they paused, often for minutes at a stretch, and during these lulls she could emerge from the cabin and survey the slowly passing landscape. For the first six hours or so of the journey, while the barge navigated the narrow delta channels, she saw small flooded farms with fields entirely submerged and opaque yellow-brown water lapping at the very windows of the ruined wooden houses. She saw innumerable floating animal carcasses, household furnishings, wreckage, and debris, along with many small rowboats and rafts loaded with entire families, their belongings, and sometimes their livestock as well. She wondered where they were going. Where, indeed, could they go?
MoomYahl and BuBuuj were tireless if grudging swimmers, and in the evening, as the wet skies deepened from lead to slate, the barge attained Yeybeh Passage, one of the four great arms of the Gold Mandijhuur, and there dropped anchor for the night.
While the yahdeeni dived for aquatic weeds and fish, their master cooked dinner over a tiny charcoal grill set up on deck beneath a canvas lean-to. Despite all disadvantages he managed to produce a surprisingly palata
ble mess of rice and the native green spikkij seasoned with morsels of smoked meat—the meat of the wild dog, he cheerily announced.
After dinner Luzelle read in her cabin by the light of a single candle. When the candle was guttering and the print swimming, she extinguished the light and climbed into a narrow bed whose sheets, although clean, smelled strongly of Aveshquian spices. For a while she lay there listening to the rain beating the roof, the river slapping the hull, and the yahdeeni complaining in their sleep. From time to time the recollection of Mesq’r Zavune stretched bloodstained and senseless in the mud of the roadway flashed before her mind’s eye, and then she would thrust the picture away, deliberately substituting the image of His Honor’s granite face and recalling all that she had to look forward to should she fail to win the race. This technique was effective, and Zavune retreated.
He had been unlucky, she told herself. He must have known that the Grand Ellipse was risky business. She regretted any part that she might have played in his misfortune, but could not take full blame for it. She had only done what was necessary.
THE TINY IMPACT OF A WATER DROPLET hitting her face woke her early in the morning. Luzelle wiped the moisture away and opened her eyes. Another drop splashed her forehead, and she looked up to behold the magenta ceiling beaded with water. It seemed that the most perfectly waterproof cabin had sprung a leak. The yahdeeneer would have to fix it at once. Or more likely, the realistic portion of her mind recognized, she would have to move the bed.…
The rains poured down throughout the day. MoomYahl and BuBuuj surged resentfully upstream, drawing the barge north through the Yeybeh Passage and into the Gold Mandijhuur, which seemed less a river than an inland sea, its far bank lost in the distance, its surface chopped with foamy tumult. The near bank was lined with the great estates of the wealthy Vonahrish planters. The valuable fields of tavril, the spice famed throughout the world for its pungent flavor and blue color, now lay submerged beneath yellow-brown floodwaters. The big plantation houses, most of them built in classically western style, were veiled in mist and all but hidden from view. The private riverfront piers were under water, and the river itself almost bare of traffic.
Exotic, colorful, legendary Aveshq. Land of mystery and fable, unknowable and eternal. The reality was dismal, disappointing, and far too wet. Retreating into her leaky cabin, Luzelle shut the door and immersed herself in a new novel. Hours later the call of the yahdeeneer lured her forth.
“Madame, Esteemed Madame—”
Opening the door, she stuck her head out. “What is it?”
“See there!” He pointed in triumph.
“What?” She stepped out under the awning for a better look. Following the other’s extended finger, she peered through curtains of rain at a tall stone post or marker of some kind rising above the floodwaters. An emblem painted in purple, black, and gold surmounted the marker. “What is that?”
“The border, Madame,” declared the yahdeeneer. “We now leave the state of Poriule behind, and we enter the Ghochallate of Kahnderule.”
Progress. Encouraged, Luzelle smiled. “When do you suppose we’ll reach—”
A hoarse bellow of protest drowned her voice. The princesses, evidently loath to depart their homeland, were making their displeasure known. Turning within their double harness, the two yahdeeni simultaneously vomited onto the barge, then dived for the bottom of the river with the coordinated precision of professional acrobats.
The reeking green tide swept the deck, spattering the hem of Luzelle’s new grey dress and thoroughly fouling her shoes. She loosed a squawk of disgust. The barge rocked, the river roiled, and a rushing influx of water spread the vomit far and wide.
“MoomYahl—BuBuuj!” The yahdeeneer pleaded and plied his pole. “Ladies! Beauties! Queens! I command you, I entreat you, return to the light!”
Stepping back into the cabin, Luzelle slammed the door shut. Quickly she changed her clothes and shoes, then found a rag, moistened it, and cleaned her soiled garments as best she could. No telling when, if ever, they would dry. While she was thus engaged, the conflict between yahdeeneer and princesses continued. The barge pitched, dirty water flowed in under the cabin door, and at last a succession of protesting moans announced the resurfacing of the two great beasts. The yahdeeneer warbled a command, upstream progress resumed, and the vessel crossed the border into Kahnderule.
There was, Luzelle soon decided, no discernible difference between the states of Poriule and Kahnderule. Each seemed to comprise an endless succession of big, Vonahrish-owned tavril plantations lining the banks of the Gold Mandijhuur, each seemed equally drowned and drab. But the yahdeeneer, a citizen of UlFoudh and proud of it, insisted otherwise.
“Most truly there is a great difference,” he assured her that evening, as they ate their dinner of rice and stewed pijhallies on deck in the shelter of the lean-to. “For look you, Esteemed Madame—the men of Poriule and Kahnderule come of two different tribes, and thus we speak two different tongues. The Kahnderulese deem their own language the greater—the ‘Queen Tongue,’ they call it, and think themselves most highly prized of the gods. They are vainglorious, boastful, and full of insolence, while we of Poriule are modest and courteous. They are closemouthed and secret, while we are honest and open. They are coldhearted and grasping, while we are warm, friendly, and generous. They will not eat the meat of the wild dog, and sneer at us for doing so. And yet they do not ritually purify their own food, and thus they are themselves little better than scavengers. Esteemed Madame, we are nothing like them.”
“I see,” Luzelle murmured gravely. “I see.”
THE JOURNEY RESUMED in the rainswept dawn. The rain was still falling seven hours later, when the barge docked at AfaHaal. Luzelle paid the yahdeeneer the balance of her fare, and he assisted her to disembark, then handed her valise up onto the wharf.
“Madame travels on to ZuLaysa?” he inquired with a bow.
“As soon as I can find some sort of transportation.”
“I pray that Madame will not tarry in AfaHaal. The river has thrust its way into the town, and I have heard that crocodiles walk the main streets.”
“Crocodiles! Can that really be true?”
“So this one has heard. As for the little hyuuls, of course it is known they are everywhere.”
“The little what?”
“Hyuuls, Esteemed Madame. Small, poison-toothed water snakes that swim in tribes. A bite or two will not kill a man, but only make him long for death. But three or four bites—aeh!” He shrugged expressively. “What once was dry land now stands inches deep in water, and the little hyuuls have found their worldly paradise. Their numbers increase by the hour, and so it will be until the rains abate. Madame must take care where she treads.”
“I will.” Luzelle cast an uneasy glance around her, but spied no snakes underfoot.
“The perils of Kahnderule are great,” the yahdeeneer observed. “It is not too late for Madame to reconsider. I am willing to carry her all the way back downriver to the safety and comfort of UlFoudh, at a mere half the cost of her original passage.”
“No, I do not go back.”
“Alas. I make this offer only in respect of my very great regard for Madame, and because I sense that MoomYahl and BuBuuj have come to love her.”
“Indeed.” Luzelle eyed the yahdeeni. One of them, resenting the inspection, muttered and spat at her.
“And perhaps, if she will confess it, Madame has come to return the affections of my princesses?”
“Rest assured Madame will never forget them.”
WHAT NEXT? Beyond the docks the town spread out before her—a wide tangle of streets and buildings, several of them fairly imposing; for AfaHaal was a river port of some importance, arrival site of goods bound for markets scattered throughout western Kahnderule, including the ancient capital city of ZuLaysa. Many of the private and public edifices flaunted the polychrome wooden fretwork characteristic of the region, and everywhere rose the tall carven staffs des
igned to display rows of colored pennants whose sequence constituted a kind of local language. Today the fretwork was spattered and dulled with mud, and the carven staffs stood empty in the rain. The citizens of the town were out in force, but their brightly hued garments hid beneath dull oilcloth rain cloaks, hoods, and black umbrellas. AfaHaal, a kaleidoscopic spectacle in the sun, now crouched sodden and colorless.
The street underfoot streamed with water to the depth of an inch or more. A few enterprising souls were striding about on short stilts, some wore heavily greased boots, but the majority of native pedestrians teetered atop tall chopines. Luzelle possessed neither stilts nor specialized footwear, and her long western skirts and walking shoes were soaked within seconds. Breathing a sigh, she splashed her way past noisy beggars, importunate jukkha vendors, eerie snake-shimmies, and other such denizens of the gutter whose pleas might ordinarily have caught her attention, but not today. Mindful of the yahdeeneer’s possibly mendacious warnings, her eyes ranged in search of strolling crocodiles and small aquatic snakes. She discovered neither, but soon fixed on a far more agreeable sight—a westerner clad in the buff-and-brown uniform of a lieutenant of the Eighteenth Aveshquian Division. She hurried to him at once.
“Lieutenant?”
He turned at the sound of her voice to present a face that would have looked at home on any Sherreenian street corner. It was the most typically Vonahrish face she had encountered in weeks, and she could not help smiling at the sight of it.
“Yes, Madame?” He returned the smile.
“Could you please advise me? I need to reach ZuLaysa as quickly as possible. What’s the best way to do it?”
“You are traveling alone, Madame?”
She nodded. His accent was northern and slightly countrified, she noted. Fabeque Province, beyond doubt. A real Vonahrishman.