The Braided World (19 page)

She snuggled next to Bahn. I am human, she hummed.

Bahn rested her hand on Gilar's wrist. Whatever you are, you are sweet to me. Her fingers rippled lightly on Gilar's skin, setting it tingling.

Turning her hand over, Gilar opened her palm, that cup of tender skin, and received Bahn's finger strokes.

She held back for a while, because it was said that humans loved only one other, and if she must pick only one, it wouldn't be Bahn. But then Gilar abandoned her judgments of Bahn, because she was hungry to belong to someone, to belong to everyone. So, she had to admit, despite her hu-manness, the rivers ran true in her, in the way of the Olagong.

A storm is coming, Bahn sang.

Gilar smiled. Then take off your clothes, Bahn, and receive it.

Bahn did so, lying naked, and received Gilar's hands, taking sarif and giving it.

However, as soon as the storm of their bodies had passed through, Gilar's mind was thinking of other things. Of meeting Bailey. Of giving her the proof. So that when the star barge left, Gilar would be on it.

Bailey had paddled far beyond Samwan's compound. Lost in thought, she now found herself on the Sodesh, having navigated the choppy confluence with hardly a pang of worry Because all her worry was now focused on the
Restoration.

She had no destination, her only goal being to propel her skiff, to tire her arms. Dassa in boats waved to her, yielded to her in the river, yet she hardly saw them.

Phillip Strahan was only thirty-six years old. If it hadn't been for Bailey, he might have lived to be her age. The ship crew were weakened by radiation, were susceptible to new viruses which themselves were only strengthened by the radiation, able to mutate faster and faster. Zhen said it was more complicated than that, but Bailey was never one to let the facts cloud her judgment. She was responsible. She felt like hell.

Shaw's Folly
, they had all said. And would she be the last one left alive, the only one on board standing upright to steer the ship home? It wouldn't surprise her detractors, the ones who thought the Message was dangerous, mocking the
Restoration
with its old lady sponsor.

Her arms were tired, and she had still to manage the trip back. How far had she come? It was mid-morning. Anton would be looking for her. She wiped the sweat from her brow where it collected under her hat brim.

Yes, Anton Prados would be shaking his head about how she was always going off on her own. Anton Prados, who cavorted in the baths. Old Captain Darrow would never have compromised his dignity, would never have let that woman get his clothes off. Even Nick was starting to doubt that Anton had it in him to be captain. And just why was it that
she'd
thought so? She had trouble remembering the logic of it.

Stacked clouds floated through the sky, bringing her skiff in and out of shade, sending stabs of sunlight into her eyes
just when she'd adjusted to the shade. They said the weather was about to change. Good.

A boat was approaching, down the middle of the Sodesh, heading toward her, not relinquishing right-of-way. It was paddled by a hoda.

Just as the other skiff came almost even with her, the hoda executed a smart maneuver and turned her boat completely around. She was now heading upriver side by side with Bailey.

It was a young woman. Had she seen this girl before? Something about the eyes…

The girl began to sing.

Now here was a strange thing: Bailey thought she knew that melody. It couldn't be, but it sounded like Mozart.

Bailey lost her composure for a moment, staring at the hoda. Responding, the hoda broke into a dazzling smile. Well, Bailey had not meant to encourage the girl, but she was fairly astonished to hear Mozart sung in this place.

They paddled together for a time. People in passing skiffs noted them together, and turned to watch as the hoda attacked “Vedrai, carino” from
Don Giovanni.
She must have heard Bailey that day at Samwan's, but it was astonishing that she'd picked it up on one hearing, even if she did sing right through the rests. No, it was not well done. Still, the girl had a decent, if untrained, voice.

Now the hoda was missing the accidentals that come in the last section of the piece. Really, if one couldn't get it right, best not to sing in public. Bailey broke in, and sang it as it should be sung. She knew she shouldn't do it, but it was quite unbearable to hear Mozart done badly.

As Bailey sang, she avoided eye contact with the girl, who was watching her every movement as though stage-struck. They paddled into the shade of a vast cloud. The two skiffs sliced the water, the paddles dipping and tapping the rhythm. An easy joy rode the river, along with muted sun and glassy water. The girl at her side picked up the
corrections, and they sang together, but of course the hoda had no Italian; had no words at all.

Soon the hard brightness of the day returned, knocking the song out of the air, bringing Bailey back to her senses.
Why do songs come up
, she thought,
when I'm trying so hard to be good?

She turned to the hoda. “That's enough,” she said. “Nicely done, to be sure, but run along now, Bailey has errands to do.” She pulled a deeper stroke on the paddle, attempting to move forward of the other skiff The girl looked stricken.

And in that moment, Bailey recognized the girl from the plaza, the too-young girl in the wire cage.

Bailey stopped paddling, drifting back on the current. It was the girl who bled in the cage.
Stay away from me
, Bailey thought.
I can't help you, I can't save you.
“I can't,” she said aloud.

But the hoda had come abreast of Bailey's skiff again, singing still.

Bailey began paddling wildly, sending splashes in all directions, with the result that the boat made no progress at all. “Enough, I said. Run along now.”

The hoda put her paddle across the gunwales and signed to Bailey.

It was hard to make out what the girl was saying. But she kept repeating it, and finally Bailey comprehended. She was saying,
I am human. Take me with you.

“No. No, you aren't. Please go away. Please.”

I sing like you do,< the girl signed, her face overeager.

Bailey fixed the hoda with her best cold stare. “Not in your wildest dreams do you sing like Bailey Shaw.” Noting the girl's distress, she added, to soften her criticism, “Keep to hoda songs, my dear. That would be best.”

She managed to turn her skiff around, which she should have done an hour ago, and now her new course, with the river current, was twice as easy Glancing behind her, she
saw that the hoda was watching her like a dog that had just dropped a bone in the water.

Bailey pulled hard on the paddle, getting some distance from the girl.
Take me with you
, indeed. That they were going back to Earth was not a rumor Bailey wanted Vidori— or Oleel—to hear. She had to be stern with the child; it could all blow up, become an incident. There could be more blood. Bailey wouldn't be responsible for that.

Her arms were so very tired. She set her paddle across the gunwales and drifted for a few minutes. Just ahead was the Amalang confluence, the river of the uldia. Bailey's attention was caught by dark shapes in the trees.

Oh, dear.
Bailey was drawing closer, seeing the shapes for what they were. Bodies in the trees. Several women hung upside down from tree branches, roped by their ankles.

Eight hoda, hung up in the trees.

Near Bailey, skiffs were treading the current, watching this display. Bailey beckoned one of the Dassa, a woman, to paddle closer to her. “What has happened?”

The woman was reluctant, but Bailey urged her on. Finally the Dassa said, “Oleel hung them up. They sang the human song.”

Bailey closed her eyes.
Bad things happen when you sing.
She, of all people, should have known this. Her skiff was moving past the hanging bundles.

“Bailey,” the woman asked. “Shall I help you?”

They knew who she was. Everyone knew who she was. Just not
what
she was.

“Oh yes, please. I have come too far.”

With surprising agility, the woman managed to transfer herself to Bailey's skiff, then secured her own to trail behind. As she did so, Bailey saw that the young hoda who had followed her was staring toward shore. Surely she was no longer interested in Mozart. That was Bailey's fervent hope.

Viven clustered as usual outside Vidori's apartments, awaiting the king. This afternoon they left a wide berth around Anton and Maypong, now that there had been hoda killings, killings associated with Bailey. Anton assumed he would have to answer for Bailey, although everyone seemed to know more about the events than he did.

According to Maypong, the uldia had killed several slaves caught singing a human song that Oleel judged degenerate. It seemed they had learned the song from Bailey, who, incredibly, had been singing in the forest. But, Anton reasoned, Bailey never sang. And now she was supposed to have sung in the forest?

And then a badly shaken Bailey had come paddling home, spilling out everything: that she had seen eight hoda hung by their ankles from trees along the Sodesh. And that a hoda had approached her on the river, a person she thought was Maypong's daughter. They had sung together, “for only a few bars,” and then Bailey's common sense took over, and she'd put a stop to it. Anton and Bailey had further words, and he left her, hurrying to see Vidori.

Outside the king's apartments, Maypong looked ashamed. She whispered, so that the nearby viven wouldn't hear: “That hoda bothered Bailey with rude singing. I am sorry, Anton.”

Anton whispered back, “That hoda is your daughter, Maypong-rah.”

The day had grown darker with storm clouds, and Maypong's gown looked sallow. “You are confused, Anton.”

But he was not confused. Never clearer. “She wants to go somewhere where she can be happy.”

“Thankfully,” Maypong said, “she can be happy in the Olagong.” She held a palm up to stop his response. “The Dassa girl who cannot be happy as a servant is dead.” Her voice swam at him through the saturated air.

“Her heart isn't dead,” Anton said. “Only broken.”

Maypong glanced toward the king's apartments, perhaps
hoping he would come and rescue her from this conversation.

Anton went on, “Doesn't her father care? Doesn't anyone?”

“Certainly her father was sorry to learn she was a hoda.”
Sorry for his reputation
was the implication. Well, paternal ties were often weak here, Nick had said.

Viven watched the two of them with sidelong glances. Anton tried to summon his thoughts for the upcoming meeting with Vidori. He would say nothing of the satellite broadcasts. He needed time to sort through the implications. With tensions already high in the Olagong, mentioning the alien signals could be disruptive—perhaps dangerously so. Who knew what Oleel would make of such intelligence? Or who Maypong would tell if he confided in her. Not for the first time, he wondered how much she could be trusted.

“I need you to help me, Maypong-rah,” he murmured. “I would be happy to think I had your full loyalty.”

“Do you not?”

He paused, then plunged in. “You could counsel me about the Lady Joon, for one thing.”

“But what counsel is needed?”

He regretted that afternoon in the baths. The woman had pursued him, even to the point of breaking sexual taboos. She wanted to please him because she wanted something from him, perhaps to align him with her political agenda, one that was entirely unclear to him. Still, he had to admit that he was just as responsible for that episode. And Nick had wasted no time in telling Bailey and Zhen, naturally.

“Did you know that Joon … wishes to be cordial with me?”

Her eyes flashed in some anger. “How can I know what the princess intends, Anton, or that you do not welcome her?”

“You could pay attention, Maypong.” He left off the honorific to add weight to his words.

That got her attention. She stopped and turned to look at him, her light brown eyes steady, raised to meet his. “Now, Anton, I will tell you directly what I thought you knew. You are signaling to all the palace that you have sexual interest, yet declining to be cordial with your Dassa hosts. The princess was only responding to you as a Dassa does.”

He stared at her.
“Signaling?”

Her eyes turned hard. “I have said we catch the scent of moods.”

“I thought it was a traditional saying.”

“Oh, yes, and also factual. Would you lie to me and claim that you are not sexually interested?”

Anton looked down the corridor, summoning patience. Good Lord, was his every thought open to these people?

Maypong was relentless. “If you didn't want cordiality with Joon, why have you not lain with me, as I have suggested?”

People were taking notice of their argument. Anton tried to soften the conversation, which was growing more hostile with every moment. “Maypong-rah,” he said, “please understand, cordiality among humans means more than what it means here.”

“Means more?”

“It means affection. Love.”

“And it does not here?” She was standing her ground, looking unhappier than ever.

“Among my people, such expressions are saved for …” He thought it not entirely true, but he finished, “… special people. People whom one loves.” That wasn't what he meant to say. Indeed, he had demonstrated with Joon just how little humans
saved
such expressions.

But she was already pouncing on his words. “So you withhold affection from some people.”

He paused, sticking to his story. “Yes.”

She snorted, turning back to watch for the king. “No wonder you people get sick and die.”

Shim emerged from the king's apartment, her baby slung on her back, chattering, and led Anton to his interview, leaving Maypong behind. The clot of viven eyed him resentfully as it became clear they would have even longer to wait.

Vidori was bent over a table with a soldier, and they looked up as he entered. Romang, Vidori's chief of arms, began gathering scrolled documents, and, handing them off to an adjutant, swept past Anton with a curt nod.