Kaski, however, rapped her cane on the floor. "Yaleen, you should realize that all reports are garbled to a greater or lesser degree. Even the best newssheets are always a sort of fiction concocted out of what's real. This is simply the first time you have encountered the phenomenon from both sides: as reader and as originator of the news."
"He even got my home-town wrong."
"Gangee's nearer to here than Pecawar," said Kaski airily. "And 'Gangee girl' has a better ring to it, wouldn't you say?"
"Nor did I describe myself as a cabin girl!"
"Not to worry. It's the spirit that counts."
"I certainly didn't say I was panting to go back west."
"Aha, here we have the nub. You want to go on that mad balloon expedition instead."
The suspicion dawned on Yaleen that Mulge might have been manipulated by Tamath in what he wrote. How could she avoid going back west, should the guild ask her to—when thousands of people had been informed that Yaleen was their junior champion?
Alternatively: how could she avoid lingering in Guineamoy to be hospitable to visiting Sons? Thus to make up for her rude remarks about them (which she hadn't uttered quite so)? If that was what the guild preferred.
Which way did the rudder point?
"Oh," she said.
But again old Kaski surprised her. The priestess chuckled. "Never fear, child! We intend to give our benediction to the balloon scheme. And, what's more, to your participation in it. In fact, you will become our official representative. There, how's that?"
What a shift of the wind to an unexpected quarter!
"Eh?" said Yaleen.
"I believe you heard me well enough."
"Ah. Yes. Um. Can Peli be part of the expedition too?"
Now Kaski frowned. "What's this? Your friend Peli?"
"She's very competent."
"I'm aware of it. Is she asking to go?"
"Not quite. I could persuade her, with your blessing."
"You'll do no such thing. It would be wholly unethical to pressure such a competent crew member into quitting the river."
"Who's quitting? We'll be back."
"Mind your manners! You presume too much. The guild does not give its blessing to Peli going, especially when she has no wish to do so." As if to soften the severity of this, Kaski added, "To be sure, you'll be back. . . ."
"My apologies."
"Accepted. It's good that you've had this exposure in the newssheets."
"Is it?"
"This establishes you as a personality, expedition-wise. You're up front, as our person. I'm sure you won't let us down. Nor for that matter, the balloon." Wreathed in wrinkled smiles, Kaski arose nimbly from her throne.
Roses are blooming in Pecawar—/
Yaleen whistled this old tune to herself as she trod the dust of her home town on her way to visit the expedition headquarters.
Capiz Street stretched out eastward towards open country, accompanied by its aqueduct along which a rill of water purled.
At this distance from the riverside and the Wheelhouse, the aqueduct had descended nearly to ground level. Its piers were only three bricks high. Its gutter had narrowed to concentrate what was left of the flow. Entry to the walled gardens of houses on that side of the road was by little bridges which stepped up over the 'duct; whereas closer to the town centre the piers were high enough to walk beneath.
This whole network of 'ducts which carried water to homes and irrigated gardens still enchanted and intrigued Yaleen almost as much as it had when she was a child. Truly, the system was one of the wonders of Pecawar. (The second wonder being the many rose gardens, both public and private, which availed themselves of the moisture.) The flow commenced high and huge at the Wheelhouse by the river. There, giant archimedean screws forever quarried water; themselves powered by great wooden waterwheels which a headrace flume kept in constant motion. The prime source soon branched into a number of different, slowly descending, circuitous aqueducts, which branched and branched in turn—till out by the edge of town where she now walked, a 'duct would be diminuendo, about to peter out.
The elevated 'duct system had been in place a hundred years and more. Its designer of genius, architect Margeegold of Aladalia, had paid close attention to another, and complementary, sort of flow: to wit, the smooth passage of people and goods through the Pecawar streets. Hence the many convolutions of the network, even downtown where the 'ducts marched high. Moving further from the source, the branching 'ducts as they descended often compelled lesser streets to tunnel underneath, or bridge up and over with ramps or flights of steps. In the past this had proved a cause of complaint to the elderly who could remember a flat, no-fuss Pecawar. To Yaleen's way of thinking all these ups and downs brought some of the charm of Verrino to an otherwise level town. Maybe she had even elected to become a riverwoman in the first place thanks to Margeegold's aqueducts; for riverwater continually bubbled through her home town, along red brick veins, like lifeblood.
Without a map it was hard to say which branches led where. Whether the Pemba Avenue 'duct ultimately watered her home neighbourhood—or the Zanzyba Road one! As a child, oblivious to the likely existence of an official plan (or rather, disdaining this type of adult approach to something enchanting), she and her friends had formed a gang pledged to solve the riddle of the waterways. This, they had set out to achieve by perilously scaling downtown piers and launching paper boats with identification marks on them. Then they had raced off to try to catch these, much further down 'duct. In a papery way she was already becoming a boat woman.
One day her brother Capsi tried to spoil this fine sport by presenting his own pen and ink diagram of the network—the true layout, so he claimed, arrived at by observation and deduction.
Yaleen and friends had snatched his work. In furious petulance at Capsi's blindness to the unwritten magic rules of their boat-chasing game, they had tom the map up and floated the pieces away.
But thereafter the magic perished. The gang didn't scale any more piers. Besides, they had already been hauled down on two separate occasions and harangued by an aquaguild worker. Capsi, for his part, became alienated after that. He concentrated his attention upon the further shore, which was then still taboo. . . .
As Yaleen walked along, whistling repetitively, her mind had wandered back into past. Now the time suddenly restored her to herself.
Roses were blossoming indeed. Climbers sprawled over garden walls. Here, Zephirine Drouhin the thornless rose bloomed carmine- pink, its rich scent strongly assailing the passer-by. There, Felicity and Perpetuity rambled its red-flecked ivory rosettes.
Ahead, a grey globe loomed over walls and rooftops: the "first stage" of the balloon! It had been just the beginnings of a framework of split bamboo the last time she saw it. Yaleen quickened her step and presently she arrived at the workyard from which balloon and gondola would rise one day soon.
At once she caught sight of Tam and Hasso labouring together on the gondola. That hadn't even existed when she sailed from Pecawar. A true boat on the sky, it now rested in a supporting cradle underneath the tethered globe.
Other men were working, too—she recognized Observer Tork, and Farge from Guineamoy—but it was Hasso and Tam for whom she had eyes.
Tam most of all. Tam.
Yes, she did love him. She knew that now. She had rehearsed loving him times enough on the voyage back from Guineamoy. In so doing she had found that a person could indeed teach herself to believe in love by concentrating; by invoking the image of that love a sufficient number of times—like a piece of music much practised till playing it became second nature. Oh yes, there was an art to love, akin to complex music. This art was distinct from the skill of sexual pleasure, which was a simpler time that the body played. Just a tune. Love was (could be, should be) a symphony, a heart-chorale.
And now the actual music-drama of this love could get under way; though Hasso, her other former partner in the time of sexual amusement, must of course remain a s
weet friend.
She broke into a run across the yard. "Tam! Hasso! Tam!"
The men turned. Hasso started towards her. But Tam stepped past him, for she had called Tam's name twice; and it was into his arms that Yaleen jumped. Tam hugged her, released her. She spun; and touched Hasso's hand, but only touched it.
She laughed. "I'm back!"
"From the wild dogs' lair, eh?" Hasso gave a wicked grin.
"Oh, that! Listen you two: the river temples have given their blessing. And what's more, I'm my guild's chosen nominee—to fly! They haven't just said okay; they've made me their official representative."
"What marvellous news," said Tam.
Hasso nodded. "It's all in the latest newssheet, of course."
"Really? I haven't been home yet. Left my kit in town; rushed straight out here."
'To your future home-from-home." Tam stretched his right hand invitingly towards the light wooden gondola. This gesture tugged his sleeve up, exposing the queer thin red birthmark which ran full circle round his wrist.
"Definitely worth a fortnight in Manhome South, to prove your mettle," said Hasso. "Seriously, I mean it."
The two men were competing subtly. But did not Hasso already sound just a tad resigned? Perhaps even cynical, with a hint of bitterness? She certainly hoped not; that would be a shame.
Though if Hasso read the signs aright—of her plunge into Tam's arms—was he not obliged to withdraw somewhat?
Not really!
At this point one of the motives behind her decision to prefer Tam became crystal clear to Yaleen. Maybe it was a kindly motive; maybe it was selfish. The fact was that Hasso was sufficiently experienced in the ways of the world to play second fiddle; whereas Tam could have been deeply, heartachingly hurt.
Damn it, why should there be any need for a choice between them?
Ah but there had to be, if she was to explore the full symphony of love, all the obsessive ache of it (as opposed to convivial amorousness).
Tam seized up Yaleen's hand. He held it, stroking her fingers. "Hey, what's this?"
"Oh, my ring?"
"Noticed it right away," commented Hasso. "Ve-ry pretty. Gift from an admirer?"
"You could say so."
"How's that?" asked Tam, letting go her hand in panic; at which Hasso smiled and looked serene.
"Long story! Tell you all about it later. Look, don't I rate a drink? I'm parched."
Hasso jerked a thumb at the smaller of the two substantial storage sheds. "I've a bottle of decent vintage stowed over there."
"I think I'd prefer ale if there's any." Yaleen waited a moment before turning to Tam, so as not to seem to snub Hasso.
"I could easily run and fetch a jugful," Tam offered. "It isn't far." "Shouldn't take him more than half an hour," said Hasso.
"Oh Tam, you mustn't bother! That's ridiculous. How about coffee? Or lemonade?"
Tam brightened. "Lemonade, it is!"
So the three friends headed for the shed.
Part of the shed was stacked with dried food, preserves, blankets, empty demijills for water, and such. Yaleen spotted an unmade bed. "Is one of you sleeping out here?"
"Somebody has to, to guard the balloon and basket," said Hasso. "Gondola," Tam corrected him. "It's much bigger than a basket." "Like a little boat," agreed Yaleen.
Tam fetched a flagon of lemonade to a table spread with charts. These charts were mainly blank. A couple of Tam's pots with sprays of Pink Parfait roses glowing through the glaze weighed them down. Tam poured a couple of glassfuls, glanced at Hasso, poured a third "We've decided on a name," he said.
"A name?"
"For the balloon, of course! Boats have names. A boat of the air deserves one—we're going to call it Rose. "
"Because we hope it'll rise/' joked Hasso. "Myself, I thought we should call it Dough. But I got outvoted."
"Ho ho," said Tam. "I'm going to paint a huge pink hybrid tea rose on the globe. Gavotte or Stella; haven't made my mind up yet."
Yaleen caressed the flowers painted on one of the pots. "Rose: I like it. Good choice. Emblem of Pecawar, eh? I'd have voted that way myself."
It was more diplomatic, she thought, to describe the rose as symbol of Pecawar rather than as Tam's own adopted motif. He had begun to decorate his pots with roses back in Aladalia soon after he had got to know Yaleen and had first gone to bed with her. Before that, his pots had usually sported fleuradieus in various shades from light blue to dark purple, depending on his mood.
They drank lemonade, they talked. They visited the other shed, where she admired the waxed silken bags of the balloon's "second stage" folded up neatly in three white mounds.
The balloon needed two stages if it was to rise high enough to catch the easterlies. The globe alone could not do the job. Buoyed up by hot air rising through a chimney from a heater in the gondola, the globe would only hoist its burden eight thousand spans into the sky at most; and that was going at full blast, which would bum up too much oil too soon. To enter the highfleece region required more altitude: twice that height. Thus a cluster of three great gasbags would tower above the globe, quite dwarfing it. These would be inflated with the lightest of all gases, watergas. Supplies of bottled watergas came from Guineamoy, where it was obtained by destructively distilling coal in closed iron retorts to produce coalgas, from which the fire-damp was later removed. The globe would hoist the gondola. The gasbags in turn would hoist the globe; and the hot air rising up around the globe would magnify the natural lift of the watergas.
What's more, much of the watergas could be pumped back down through condenser valves into the bottles mounted around the crown of the globe. Thus the gasbags would flop sufficiently for the whole ensemble to descend at journey's end without any need to vent and waste the irreplaceable watergas. (Given time, and being so light, watergas could waste itself well enough by breathing out through the skin of the bags.) By this means the balloon ought to be able to ascend a second time, perhaps even a third. By this means they might return home.
It was Tam, with his knowledge of furnaces and clays, who had cooked up the strong lightweight ceramics for use in the hot-air breeder, gas-jars, pumps and such; thus solving a problem which had foxed the factories of Guineamoy with their prejudice in favour of heavy lumps of metal.
Of steering, the balloon had none. As yet, steering—by means of wooden fans turned by compressed air—was inefficient and exacted a toll in added burden. Consequently it had been sacrificed in return for extra altitude and payload. They would sail where the high winds willed, and would hope that they could pace their eventual descent so as to choose a safe, hospitable landing spot. (Still, some time in the future Tam's ceramics would likely lead to the production of powerful lightweight "engines", which could direct the course of a balloon no matter which quarter the winds blew from.)
Next, they visited the gondola and climbed inside. Tam and Hasso competed in showing her the fittings: canvas hammocks, tiny galley, privy cubicle (with a large hole venting down). Yaleen imagined herself floating through the sky, peeking out of the little window of the privy, and peeing rain—after which a wind wiped her bare bum dry.
Tam displayed the hot-air breeder.
"We can convert it to work on charcoal, which we can make out of any wood we find. That won't be as efficient as oil, but it'll still do the job. We'll be glad of the hot air when we're up on the heights of the sky."
"Why's that? We'll be nearer the sun."
"Ah, but where do you suppose hailstones drop from? Up there! So the higher you go, the colder it must get."
She corrected herself: a wind freezing her bare bum, while she peed yellow ice.
Hasso explained how partitions and lockers could be dismantled, and reassembled so as to form a big cart—or, depending on terrain, a sledge. After landing they might have to haul the Rose some way southward by hand to gain the westerly returning highfleece winds, should the low winds prove unfavourable. The gondola (with its privy stool duly plugged and
dogged) would even double as a clumsy boat, using silk for a sail. Should there be water beyond the sands, and the water not provoke a phobia.
For the first time the possibility occurred to Yaleen that they might not be coming back; might not be able to. But she shrugged this prospect off.
After a couple of hours spent at the expedition headquarters Yaleen departed homeward along Capiz Street with a shopping list in her pocket. Of spices, yet! So that they could pep up their "wooden rations" and also whatever fodder they found at journey's end, if any. Drench the cooking; kill the taste—said Hasso. She forgave him for his cavalier attitude to meals. He had endured the belt-tightening siege of Verrino Spire, and had learned to despise good food.
Caraway, oregano, chilli powder, pepper, paprika, cloves! She also forgave Hasso for his blithe—and mean—presumption that she had some intimate and cut-price relationship with spice sacks, courtesy of the fact that her dad worked for the industry. Perhaps Hasso just wanted to make her feel, now that the expedition was almost ready, that she was contributing something vital? Well, she was! She was contributing herself. She forgave him; but of course when you forgive somebody, that forgiveness comes between you. It separates you by an invisible barrier, where you are the forgiving one, and he is the forgiven; a picture frame, with you as the painter, and him as the painted, coloured a certain hue for ever more ... or at least for a while.
"Mum! Dad! Is anybody home?"
Yaleen's mother appeared at the head of the stairs. She smiled and held out her arms and descended, her sandals clopping on the waxed treads. She trod the stairs slowly, with a cautious grace.
"Don't hug hard, darling! I'm pregnant."
"What?"
Yaleen's mum laughed. "You needn't look so surprised. It's possible, you know."
"Where's Dad?"
"I didn't become pregnant this very moment, daughter dear! Your dad's at work. Where else? I imagine he's busy counting peppercorns."
"Oh. Of course." Where else would her father be?
Mother appraised her. "We read of your exploits in the news- sheet. And just yesterday we read how you're going to leave us—by balloon. Maybe it's best that we're having another child, vour father and I."
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