The Braided World (24 page)

A skiff was pulling up to the pier, paddled by two men bearing a bundle between them. They brought it onto the dock as a wail went up nearby

Irran struggled forward, even at the same moment that a flap of cloth fell away from what the Dassa men were lugging, and Bailey saw that it was a young child, terribly bloated, dead long enough to turn the color of the river.

Irran fell to her knees on the pier, reaching for the pitiful bundle, holding out her arms, crying, insistent on having the body. The Dassa men looked to Samwan for direction. She nodded. And though Bailey could smell the rot of the body from where she stood, the men gently laid it in its mother's arms. Then Irran began to rock and moan. All the
women took up her dirge; it was quite alarming, the volume of the cries.

Finally Irran stopped wailing, and peeled back the blanket in which her son was wrapped, looking at the awful ruin as though it were the sweetest sight, as tears flowed down her face.

Bailey felt her own eyes heat up, her throat thicken. She shook it off. For heaven's sake, children died all the time, didn't they? Always running off in storms. Always …

Bailey turned away. She was going to lose control. It would be unthinkable to cry in front of all these people, and she wouldn't, certainly not. But the tears started from her eyes nonetheless. She stalked away from the crowd, along the riverbank, where a narrow beach allowed her to walk free of the welter of vegetation.

Around a bend in the islet, she sat on a tree trunk beached by the storm. Hugging herself, she felt tears moving through her body upward, to her face. Didn't she know that nothing good came from crying? It spoiled one's makeup, and puffed up one's eyes, ruined the voice …

And it accomplished nothing. She would have cried for her sister, or her daughter, or whatever you called a clone. But it wouldn't have accomplished anything; she was still dead. Dead of infection following surgery.

She wiped her eyes furiously, but still the damn tears.

Setting aside her hat, Bailey knelt by the river and washed her face. The water was cool, despite the torrid heat of the day. After a time she found herself sitting in the mud of the river, letting her face dry letting the sun fall on it. She closed her eyes.

Her parents had developed the clone as soon as it became clear that Bailey had the voice of an angel. Bailey lived with the knowledge that someday, when she began to age, the clone's larynx would be hers. Her parents had died by the time Bailey started having trouble hitting the high notes.

It was always the clone's fate; it was why Bailey and she never met. Her parents had paid well to keep Remy comfortable.
Remy, she was called by her caretakers—although until recently Bailey hadn't known her name. Her parents had explained that the girl would just lose her voice, that was all—but the infection took her. And Bailey, also undergoing surgery, for the implantation, didn't hear about the death until later. All this in strictest secrecy, to forestall adverse publicity By the time she learned of the clone's death, crying would have done no good whatsoever.

So even in her advanced years Bailey still had the voice of an angel—to the consternation of her enemies. And then, after a few more years of a remarkable career, she decided that she was tired. Tired in body, tired of the stage, tired of working nights.

By then she knew that she had committed a crime. Simple people would have figured it out right away, but Bailey was a grand dame of the stage, and she was by no means simple. So at last, when she was retired and had the leisure to have a conscience, she had had a rather large attack of it.

She would never sing again. That took care of further profits from her dead sister, daughter, clone.

And then there was reparation. The one good thing.

It was still worth doing.

She stood up, a little wobbly. By God, it
was
worth doing.

A litter carried by judipon came through the assembly room, bearing Homish. And although Anton and Maypong had been waiting all night for an interview with the head judipon, they bore the litter past the two of them and set it into a canoe, where they began paddling swiftly down the Nool River. Homish was going for his obligatory sexual swim, Maypong said, although the old man was beyond a proper contribution.

Now the sun came up over the roof of the judipon pavilion, charging the river with molten light. The already oppressive heat notched up. Even so the river room was filling with Dassa, seeking advice, asking judgments, telling dreams, and
receiving interpretations. It was a baffling subculture, one that Maypong had drilled him in for this private interview—if it ever came. The judipon said that Anton must go alone, an unwelcome restriction.

Maypong would know what to say and not say. He trusted her, since that day of the storm, when she'd stood by his side and dared oppose the king. In token of her allegiance, he had shared with her the information about the Quadi satellites, that the old race was calling more than humans to this world. She was not shocked. To her, it was natural to think the cosmos housed other beings. There were the Quadi, of course. There were humans. If other beings came, they could be no worse than the humans had been, she'd said with a straight face.

And so, with Homish gone, they waited. Anton tried to think through what he would say to this judipon, if he was allowed to see him. But his thoughts instead turned to a vision of last week's hunt. The day was seared into his memory. The dead woman—barely a woman, yet bearing a child, and dead because of it. He had tried to save her—though he'd had no hope of doing so. His borrowed knife had killed her. And he'd profited from that, achieving his goal of freedom from the palace. So he was just like his father, profiting from a world he didn't create, but must condone. It was a muddy world when it came to ethics.

He was finally saved from these thoughts by Homish's return. The judipon loaded him off the barge, and he looked better. Some color was in his face. He pointed at Anton.

“Oh, here he is at last. Nirimol,” he said to his chancellor, “look who has paddled over to see me.” The judipon motioned for Anton to follow as Homish was borne along on his litter. Nirimol was at his side, the tallest of them, as thin as the spindles on which they kept their records.

Anton glanced at Maypong, who smiled at him. “You are ready, Anton. Remember my lessons.”

Homish's high-pitched voice echoed down the corridors as his bearers hurried onward. “What do you think, Nirimol?
Anoon has finally come to give us respect. We rise, we rise!” A series of barks finally registered with Anton as laughter. So far Homish was the only Dassa besides children that he'd heard laugh out loud. He wasn't sure this was a good sign.

The pavilion was not so grand as Vidori's. In fact, as Anton passed through the woody corridors, he found them faded and in disrepair. Screens sagged in places, and little cocoons of water beetles nestled in the corners.

Nirimol led the way, his tunic ill-fitting, as if the hoda tailors could not bring themselves to craft so tall a garment. His hair was worn in a bun on top of his head, not the fine roll of the Dassa women, but a functional knot that only added to his height.
A powerful man
, Maypong had called him.

The old man was saying, “Even the big woman dreams, Nirimol, she told me so, as I swam. Oh yes, it was a good dream, too! She dreamed of fire ants swarming. Mark that down, Nirimol: fire ants!”

Nirimol flicked a wrist at a hoda who brought him one of the elaborate writing contraptions they used, a hookahlike instrument, with which Nirimol made notes on a round disk of paper, even as he walked.

They passed rooms where judipon, singly or in groups, bent over papers and stacked spindles, or spun them around, feeling the surfaces, calling out numbers to others who recorded the numerations of the Dassa. It was beyond Anton's vocabulary to know what sums they discussed.

Entering Homish's apartments, Anton reeled from the ghastly odor that filled the room. The hoda carried the old man forward, carefully arranging him on a sleeping platform amid a jumble of brocaded blankets. On the floor surrounding the bed were jars and bottles and ceramic vases that likely were Homish's medicinals. Already a chancellor was spooning a syrup into Homish's mouth, dabbing at the sides of his mouth, where as much dribbled out as went in.

Homish shoved the chancellor away, coughing. “Enough,” he croaked, slapping at the insistent hands. He
looked up at Nirimol with eyes awash in rheum. “Make them stop, Niri,” he said, like a small child begging a favor.

Nirimol glared at the attendants, who slunk away, but remained hovering.

With a sinking feeling Anton saw that he would have at least thirty witnesses for his interview, when he had hoped for privacy.

“Homish-rah,” Anton said when the attendants quieted, “thank you.”

The old man looked startled. ‘And who are you?”

Nirimol bent low as though to explain, but again the thin arm came out with a slapping action. “No, let him say”

“I am Anton Prados, a guest in your land, rahi.”

“Oh, Anoon, is it? Finally come to give respects?” The potentate smiled, showing bad teeth. Even with good teeth, the gesture would have boded ill. ‘After you've spent your respects with my family, I'm surprised you have anything left for an old man like me.”

Anton saw it was to be a bad interview. Maypong had said that Homish liked to call Vidori and Oleel
family
, and not always sincerely, either.

“Your pardon, rahi, if I am unschooled in your ways. I hope for your indulgence.”

The voice was like cracking eggs. “Begs my pardon, Nirimol. You heard.”

“Yes, rahi,” the chancellor muttered. He then put on a pair of mitts, and to Anton's amazement began to massage Homish's left hand. Restoring circulation, Anton guessed. Homish was the first Dassa individual he'd seen who looked ill. But then again, Homish did not so much look unwell as infirm from age. Maypong said that Homish had “pri of many years,” and as she said it she looked regretful, as though pri ran out eventually.

One of the slaves came forward to the side of the bed that Anton couldn't see. She pulled back the covers. There was a hose and nozzle, and much fumbling about. Homish groaned, but didn't slap the hoda away.

That procedure accomplished, the old man summoned a backrest, and settled against it. He fixed Anton with a direct stare. “So the big woman sent you, did she?”

Anton thought that likely to be Oleel. “No one sent me, by your pardon, rahi. I've come for your help, by myself.”

Homish pounced. “Oh, count again, young hoda. How many people came in the skiff today, Nirimol?”

“Two, rahi.”

“Can you count, Captain Anoon?” Homish asked. “Did you come alone?”

“As you see, I am alone before you. But I wish Maypong were here to help me.”

Homish's eyes stopped wandering and locked in on him. “Finally, the truth. Hmm. Maybe you are harmless. Coming in a skiff, not a barge—no pretensions. But leaving the king's pavilion, how do you explain that, when the king makes you his guest, and then you turn from him. Why?” Without waiting for Anton to answer, the old man plunged on: “The king is my friend, yes, we were born on the same day the day of all braids, and have a dozen children, each of us. Can you say the same?”

“I have no children, rahi, regrettably.”

Not only Homish, but all the judipon looked startled at this pronouncement.

“Well, that is a lie,” Homish said. His eyes swam in their sallow orbs, as though tainted with urine.

Anton was losing the thread of this conversation.

“King Anaar and I…” Homish faltered as though he also was loosing the topic. “But that was his father.” He pursed his lips. “It's Vidori, now, isn't it?”

Anton said, “Yes, rahi, Vidori is king, and I must ask his pardon for leaving his palace, but my mission is desperate, and I must seek help where I can.”

Homish yanked his hand away from Nirimol's ministrations. “With the big woman, even?” Homish asked. His voice wavered, but he was very much paying attention.

“No, rahi.” The old man was keeping track of who paid
respects to whom. So Anton was glad to say he'd visited
here
before
there.

From the tube that ran under the covers, a trickling sound issued, and then with a foul smell something splashed into a ceramic urn, clarifying the tube's purpose.

“Sometimes the truth, sometimes lies,” Homish muttered. “What am I to make of this hoda, Nirimol?”

“Ask him a dream, my lord,” Nirimol murmured. The chancellor turned to Anton, regarding him for the first time. His eyes were pale, giving him a hollow look. Anton did not think the man wanted this interview to occur.

“A dream!” Homish cawed. “Yes, we'll have a dream. Do you dream, Anoon?”

“I would rather suffer for what I do than for what I dream, rahi.” Anton would not step into the minefield of dream interpretation.
Maypong
, he thought,
what now?

“Suffer,”
Homish repeated. “He is afraid of me. Good.” He took a sip of a proffered broth. For a moment his eyelids fell halfway down, and Anton thought he might sleep. But Homish's voice came softly: “I used to be a Power to fear. Now I am surrounded by bottles and poisons.” He looked directly at Anton, and his voice was soft but firm. “I would die, if they would let me. I spit out the medicinals at night. Save them up in my cheeks and spit them out, but they know my tricks.” He glanced at Nirimol, not unkindly.

“Rahi,” Anton said, “I am sorry for your troubles, truly I also have troubles, and would ask your help. I have waited all night to ask your help.”

“All night? They kept you waiting?” Homish sighed. “Then ask, Anoon, since you waited all night. Ask me your questions.” Homish closed his eyes, either to sleep or to better concentrate.

“Rahi, long ago the Quadi put spheres in the sky, and used them to send messages. The Quadi had great powers, as you know. Their powers might help my people, who suffer far away. When we came here, the king told me he knew
nothing about messages, and now I come searching everywhere in the Olagong to find out more.”