Down in The Bottomlands

by Harry Turtledove

  Park cautiously got to his feet. After a few seconds, he was convinced no more gun-toting fanatics were going to spring from nowhere. He stooped to help up the woman he had flattened when the shooting started.

  "Thank you," she said with some dignity, accepting his hand. "I am sorry I screamed at you. You saw the danger from those—madmen"—she shivered—"before almost anyone else."

  "I am glad you are not hurt," Park said. For the first time, he had the leisure to take a look at her. She was, he guessed, only a few years younger than he; one or two white threads ran through the midnight mane that hung almost to her waist. She was attractive, in the long-faced, high-cheekboned local fashion. Her mantle and brightly striped skirt were of soft, fine wools.

  The derby she'd been wearing was crushed beyond repair. She picked it up, made a wry face, threw it down again. Then she studied Allister Park with as much interest, or perhaps curiosity, as he showed her. "You are not one of us," she said. "Why were you at the festival of Raimii?"

  "To see what it was like," he answered honestly. "I probably will never be in Kuuskoo again; while I am here, I want to learn and see as much as I can."

  She considered that, nodded. "Did the beauty of the service incline you toward the worship of the sun and Patjakamak?"

  Despite wearing an ex-bishop's body, Park wished people would stop asking him loaded religious questions. He temporized: "The services were very beautiful, ah—"

  "My name is Kuurikwiljor," she said.

  Park gave his own or, rather, Ib Scoglund's name, then said, "Kuurikwiljor—`golden star.' That's very pretty. So, by the way, are you." He played that game almost as automatically as he breathed; his attitude toward women was decidedly pragmatic. But just as genuine a sense of duty made him look around to make sure he was not needed here before he asked, "Where are you going now? May I walk there with you, so you will feel safe?"

  Kuurikwiljor, he saw with approval, looked toward the wounded herself before she answered. With the usual Tawantiinsuujan efficiency, teams of uniformed medics were already on the scene. They slapped on bandages, set broken bones, and loaded the worst hurt onto stretchers for more extensive treatment elsewhere. They did not seem to need any unskilled help.

  Park also saw Kuurikwiljor eye him appraisingly. He did not mind that; he was sensible enough to think well of good sense in others. Whatever Kuurikwiljor saw must have satisfied her, for she said, "Thank you. I am staying at my brother's house, in the district of Puumatjupan."

  That district, Park knew, was in the southern part of the city. With Kuurikwiljor following, he started in that direction. "On to the house of your brother," he declared. He thought he sounded rather grand, but Kuurikwiljor giggled.

  He mentally reviewed what he'd just said. "Oh, hell," he muttered in English. Then he switched back to Ketjwa, more careful Ketjwa this time: "I mean the house of your waukej, not your toora." He'd tripped himself up by echoing Kuurikwiljor; waukej was the word men used for brother, while toora was reserved for women.

  "That's better," Kuurikwiljor said. "You don't speak badly. From what I've heard, most foreigners would never have noticed their mistake, Ib Scogljund."

  In his turn, he tried to get her to say the "l" in his name without pronouncing it as if it were "ly." He had no luck; the simple "l" sound did not exist in Ketjwa. After teasing her a little, he gave up. "Never mind. It sounds charming as you say it."

  "But I should be right," Kuurikwiljor said seriously. "Ib Scog—Scog—Scogljund. Oh, a pestilence!" They both laughed.

  The fumbling with languages and names helped break the ice between them. They talked all the way down to Kuurikwiljor's brother's house. Park learned she was a childless widow. That sort of thing was only too common in this world, which knew less of medicine—and a lot less about immunization—than his own. Kuurikwiljor sounded suitably impressed about Park's reasons for coming to Tawantiinsuuju.

  "We need to find some way to live at peace with the Emir," she said. "Either that, or wipe his country from the face of the earth. Sometimes I think Muslims are viler than the dog-eating Wankas. The way those terrible men took advantage of the accident to work even more harm on us—" She shook her head. "My mantle is all splashed with blood."

  Truly, Park thought, this world was more naïve than the one from which he'd come. As gently as he could, he said, "Kuurikwiljor, I don't think that was an accident. I think they made that truck blow up. I think they were waiting for it to blow up, so they would have a confused and frightened crowd to shoot at."

  She stared at him. "What a dreadful thing to say!" But after walking a few steps in silence, she went on, "That does make sense, doesn't it? They would hardly be waiting with guns just in case there was an explosion."

  "Hardly," Park agreed. He let it go at that; telling her the Tawantiinsuujans were little kinder to Muslims would have accomplished nothing.

  Her brother's house was a large, impressive stone building next to one of the streams that defined the boundaries of Puumatjupan. Servants came rushing out when they saw Kuurikwiljor. They exclaimed over her bedraggled state and, once they found Park had helped her come home safe, praised him to the skies and pressed llama meat, cornmeal mush, and aka on him.

  Before long, he found himself meeting Kuurikwiljor's brother, a stocky, solemn man of about his own age named Pauljuu. "Most kind of you, foreign sir, and most generous," Pauljuu said. "I know you sought none, but let me reward you for the service you have done my family." He drew a heavy gold signet ring from his right thumb, tried to hand it to Park.

  "Thank you, but I must say no," Park told him. As Pauljuu's face clouded over, Park went on quickly: "I am a judge. How will people say I judge fairly if I take presents from one side?"

  "Ah." Pauljuu nodded. "I have heard it said that all foreigners will do anything for gold. I am glad to see it is not so."

  "Any saying that claims all of some group will do a particular thing is not to be trusted," Park observed.

  "Spoken like a judge. If not gold, then, how may I express my thanks?" Pauljuu asked. "You should know my father Ruuminjavii is kuuraka—governor—of the province of Sausa, to the north. I need not stint."

  Park bowed. "As I say, I am a judge. I will not, I must not, take your gifts." He hesitated for a moment, then said, "Still, if you would not mind me coming to see your sister—" he carefully used the right word, not wanting to embarrass himself "—again, that would be very kind."

  Pauljuu glanced toward Kuurikwiljor, who had been sitting quietly while the two men talked. (In some ways, Park thought, Tawantiinsuuju was positively Victorian. Too bad no one here had any idea what Victorian meant.) Kuurikwiljor nodded. "As it pleases her and pleases you, I have no objection," Pauljuu said.

  Park bowed again to him, then to Kuurikwiljor. "Thank you both," he said. "Have you a wirecaller here?" In this world, the telephone had been invented in Northumbria; its Ketjwa name was a literal translation of what English speakers called it here.

  "Of course. Ask for the house of Ruuminjavii's son. The man who connects calls will make sure it goes through," Pauljuu said.

  "Good. I will call soon. May I also use the wirecaller now, to let my own people know I am all right? They will be wondering after me."

  "Of course," Pauljuu said again. "Come this way."

  He stood up to take Park to wherever he kept the phone. Park rose too. As he followed Pauljuu out, Kuurikwiljor called after him, "Thank you for looking after me so." Fortunately, Pauljuu's house had high doors and tall ceilings. Otherwise, Park thought, he was so swelled up with pride that he might have bumped his head on them.

  He let Pauljuu place the call for him. Before long, he heard Eric Dunedin's reedy voice on the other end of the line. "Hallow—uh, Judge Scoglund!" Monkey-face exclaimed. "Are you hale? Where have you been? With the burg all bestirred by the goodwain blast, I was afeared after you!"

  "I'm fine, Eric, and among friends." Park repeated himself in Ketjwa for Pauljuu's benefit, then returned
to English: "I'll be home soon. See you then. Take care of yourself. 'Bye." He put the mouthpiece back into the big square box on the wall, said his goodbyes to Pauljuu, and started back to the small house he and Dunedin were sharing.

  He whistled as he walked north through the streets of Kuuskoo. He hadn't met a woman like Kuurikwiljor since—since he came to this world, he thought, and that was a goodly while now. She was pretty, had some brains, and seemed to think well of him. He liked the combination, liked it a lot.

  Of course, he reminded himself as he walked a little farther, one reason she interested him so much was that he hadn't had much to do with women since he'd come here. Celtic Christian bishops were depressingly celibate, and he'd stayed discreet even after he left the church. Judges didn't have to avoid women, but they did need to keep away from scandal.

  Yes, Park thought, if Kuurikwiljor were just one of the girls I was seeing, I might think she was pretty ordinary. But at the moment, she was the only girl he was seeing. That automatically made her special. Park grinned a wolfly grin. He'd enjoy whatever happened, and keep his wits about him while he did so.

  Keeping his wits about him meant taking a wide detour around the plaza of Kuusipata. He hadn't had a good look at the gunmen there. For all he knew, they could have been converted Skrellings. Even so, the locals, especially those near the square, were liable to be jumpy about anyone who looked foreign. Better safe, he thought.

  He never found out whether his precautions were needed. He did get home safe and sound, which was the idea. Tawantijnsuujan doors had neither knockers nor bells. A polite person here clapped his hands outside a house and waited to be admitted. At the moment, Park didn't care whether he was polite by local standards. He pounded on the door.

  From the speed with which Dunedin opened it, he must have been waiting just inside. His welcoming smile turned into a grimace of dismay when he saw his master. "Hallow Patrick's shinbone!" he gasped. "What befell you?"

  "What are you talking about?" Park said irritably. "I'm downrightly fine—nothing wrong with me at all. I mistrust I need a bath, but that's no big dealing. Why are you looking at me as if I just grew a twoth head?"

  Dunedin's smile returned, hesitantly. "You do, ah, sound like your ain self, Judge Scoglund. Maybe you ock to peer into the spickle-glass, though—"

  Park let his servant lead him to the mirror. His jaw dropped as he stood in front of it. He looked as though he'd been through a war—on the losing side. He was dirty, his cloak was ripped, and there was blood both on it and on the side of his face.

  He'd seen how bedraggled Kuurikwiljor was after the truck blew up, yet never thought to wonder whether he was the same. As a matter of fact, he wasn't the same. He was worse. "It's not my blood," he said, feeling like a fool.

  "Praise God and the hallows for that," Dunedin said. "Now shall I get the bath you spoke of ready?"

  "Aye, put the kettle on," Park said. Kuuskoo had cold running water, but not hot, and cold water here was cold water. The judge looked at himself again. He was filthy. "I'm near lured into not waiting for it."

  "When you were bishop, you'd have been well bethock for mortifying your flesh so," Dunedin said. "Shall I draw you a cold bath, then?"

  "Hell, no! I'm not bishop any more, thank God, and my flesh came too damn close to being mortified for good this afternoon, thank you very much."

  Dunedin's eyes got big. Hearing such language from his boss could still shock him, though he knew someone new was living in that formerly saintly brain. "I'll get the kettle filled," he said.

  Park felt a prick of guilt. Turning Monkey-face's wrinkled cheeks red was a cheap thrill. "Thanks, Eric," he said. "While you're back there, why don't you see if our hosts have given us anything stronger than aka? If they have, find a couple of glasses and join me."

  Tawantiinsuujan whiskey tasted like raw corn liquor. Park had never gotten drunk in a bathtub before. It was fun. After a couple of protests for effect, Dunedin got drunk too. Park taught him "Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall." He liked it. They got louder with every bottle that fell.

  After some considerable while, Monkey-face asked: "Ish—is that forty-two bottles left, or forty-one?"

  "I—hic!—can't bethink." Park tried to find an appropriately judicial solution. "We'll jusht have to start over."

  But Dunedin was sprawled against the side of the tub, snoring softly. He was almost as wet as his master; a good deal of splashing had accompanied the singing. The water, Park noticed, was cold. He wondered how long it had been that way. He started to sing solo, discovered his teeth were chattering. It had been cold for a while, then.

  He pulled the pottery stopper from the drain, climbed out of the tub. "Eric?" he said. Dunedin kept on snoring. Park dragged him to his bed. Then he staggered into his own bedroom and collapsed.

  * * *

  The next morning, altitude turned what would have been a bad hangover into a killer. Coca tea helped a little, but not enough. Park wished for aspirins and black coffee. Wishing failed to produce them.

  Eric Dunedin was still out like a light. Envying him, Park got dressed and braved the vicious sunlight outside as he walked over to the foreign ministry.

  The handful of guards outside the building had been replaced by a platoon of troopers. A good many of them were standing in a tight circle around someone. They waved their arms and shouted at whoever it was.

  At the moment, Park disliked shouting on general principles. "What's going on here?" he said. Then he saw for himself. The man in the midst of the angry Tawantiinsuujan soldiers was Da'ud ibn Tariq.

  Heads turned his way. "Another foreigner," one of the troopers growled. He lifted his air rifle, not quite pointing it at Park.

  His headache made Park even more irascible than usual. "Go ahead," he said scornfully. "Shoot me and the emirate's ambassador both, why don't you? See if Tawantiinsuuju has a friend left in the world the moment after you do."

  The officer who had noted—and knotted—Park's previous arrival on the kiipuu recognized him now. "It is the judge of the International Court," he said. "Stand aside. Let him by."

  "Let Da'ud ibn Tariq come too," Park said. "I think the minister Tjiimpuu will be interested in seeing him."

  "Exactly what I've been trying to tell them," Da'ud said. "I was summoned here by the minister himself."

  "Maybe we don't care about that, murderer," a soldier said. "Maybe we'd sooner cut out your guts with a tuumii-knife." The Tawantiinsuujans' ceremonial knife had a half-moon blade on a long handle. They did not practice human sacrifice any more (even Aztecia had given it up), not officially, anyhow. But they remembered.

  "Stop that!" Park yelled, and flinched at the sound of his own voice. "You are not at war with the Emirate of the Dar al-Harb. Even if you were, your own embassy in Ramiah may answer for how you treat Da'ud. So let him come with me, and stop acting like dog-eating Wanka fools."

  Park's gibe struck home. All the other tribes in the Tawantiinsuujan empire mocked the Wankas for their addiction to cynophagy. The officer said grudgingly, "The judge may be right. Our overlords will treat the wretch as he deserves. Let him through."

  Sullenly, the soldiers obeyed. One of them slammed the big trapezoidal double doors behind the two foreigners, so hard that Park thought the top of his head would come off. He rather hoped it would.

  "I am in your debt, Judge Scoglund," Da'ud said in English, bowing deeply.

  "It's nothing. I was just trying to get them to shut up."

  The Moor glanced at him. One elegant eyebrow rose. "Perhaps I should backpay the debt by talking you into ontaking Islam. That I would seek to do anyhow, for the good of your ghost. Now, though, it strikes me your body would also be the better for having wine-bibbing forbidden it."

  "It wasn't wine, and it's not your dealing," Park snapped.

  "Seeking to win a good man to Islam is the dealing of any Muslim," Da'ud said. Park was about to snarl at him when he went on smoothly, "But here we are at Tjiimpuu's d
oor, so let us backturn to Ketjwa and perhaps speak of this another time."

  "You were not bidden to come here, Judge Scoglund," the foreign minister's secretary said when he saw Park.

  "Yes, I know, but here I am, and what are you going to do about it?" Park followed Da'ud ibn Tariq into Tjiimpuu's private office. Having failed once already, the secretary didn't do anything about it.

  To Park's surprise, Tjiimpuu didn't fuss about his walking in. In fact, a grim smile briefly lit the foreign minister's face. "Well met, Judge Scoglund," he said. "Now the world will have an impartial account of the latest outrage the Emirate of the Dar al-Harb has visited upon us."

  "The Emirate has done nothing against Tawantiinsuuju," Da'ud said. "I presume you are referring to yesterday's explosion here."

  "And the gunmen who set it off and took advantage of the terror it caused to kill even more," Tjiimpuu said. "Ninety-one people are dead at last count, more than three hundred wounded. Two of the murderers survived being captured. Both are Muslims; both say they and the rest wanted to strike a blow against the true holy worship of Patjakamak and the sun."

  "Heaven will receive our dead, as it receives all who fall in the jihad," Da'ud replied, "but they did not act by the will of the Emir, Allah's peace be upon him. The Emirate is blameless."

  "I do not believe you," Tjiimpuu ground out. "Nor does the Son of the Sun. This looks to be—this is—all of a piece with the murder and banditry your people engage in throughout the border provinces. We can tolerate it no more." The foreign minister breathed heavily. "I am sorry, Judge Scoglund, but your presence in Kuuskoo is no longer required. It will be war."

  "Wait!" Allister Park said immediately, then realized he had no idea what to tell Tjiimpuu to wait for. He thought frantically. "If, ah, if the Emir—without admitting guilt—expresses his sorrow for those killed at the Raimii festival, will that not show enough, ah, good feeling from him for talks to go on?"