by Jo Clayton
Head down, she told herself. I’m a poor lorn widow with an invalid son; who am I to attract the notice of a god. I wish we were out of here. Too much land to cover. What happens if she feels it when we lope off with Churrikyoo? What happens if she comes after us? We haven’t got Ahzurdan to shield us. What happened to Maksi? I wish he were here. I’d feel a lot better about this business. He must have put his foot in something. Idiot man, he’s too soft for his own good. That skinny whore he’s so fond of leads him around by the nose, well, not the nose… Slya! I’m jealous of that little… that… damn damn damn all gods, why does this happen to me on top of everything else? I thought I was over wanting him. She luxuriated a moment in her misery, squeezing tears from tight-closed eyes, then she sighed and let it go; there was no point in scraping her insides raw yearning for what she couldn’t have. She’d got over having to leave Sammang, she’d got over Chandro, it just took time.
She lay brooding for some time longer until, eventually, she drifted into a restless sweating sleep.
2
Havi Kudush the Lower was reed and mud and narrow waterway, with clouds of black biters to chasten the proud and try the tempers of the intemperate. According to their natures and the choice available, the pilgrims spent the week they were allowed to stay in longbouse dormitories constructed from the ubiquitous reeds or in individual cells, also woven from the reeds; this late in the season there were many empty cells for those who preferred privacy.
The pilgrims were ferried to and from the Temple Landing by small shallow boats that scooted about the reeds like bright colored waterbeetles, poled by small and wiry marshboys whistling like birds when they weren’t exchanging insults, nothing solemn about them however solemn and pious their passengers; they were the only way to get about and reaped coin like their elders reaped corn though the Temple taxed half of it away from them.
The barge landing was a stone platform at the edge of the marsh. The marsh elders had a tall reedhouse there, its front woven into intricate and elaborate patterns; morning light slid softly across the wall in an enigmatic calligraphy of shifting shadow and shades of yellow. In season, the elders sat at a table placed before the high, arching doorway, writing with reed pens on sheets of papyrus as they enrolled the pilgrims and passed out the clay creedeens that gave them the freedom of the city for seven days.
There was only one old man at the table when Brann’s barge tied up at the landing. He looked half-asleep, sour and dirty; his fingernails were black with dried muck, there was dirt ground into the lines of his hands, a yellow-gray patina of sweat and rancid oil over every inch of visible skin and there was a lot of skin visible since all he wore was a light brown wrap-skirt of reedcloth, bracelets of knotted reedcord, a complicated pectoral of palm-sized rounds of reedcord, knotted and woven in sacred signs. When Brann finally reached him after standing in line for over an hour, she almost gasped at the stench blowing into her face; for the first time since she’d donned it, she was grateful for the protection of the veil.
“The Baiar-chich Kisli Thok,” she murmured, answering the questions he’d dumped on her in his drawling indifferent voice. “Of Dil Jorpashil. My son Cimmih Thok ya Tarral. We come to seek healing for him.” Jaril sagged against her, looking wan and drawn, all eyes and bones, the essence of sickly, pampered youth. She set seven takks on the table before the elders, the fee for a private cell plus the fee for the creedeen. It wasn’t cheap, visiting the Temple at Havi Kudush.
Moving slow and slow and slower, the old man scratched her answers on the scroll; when he was finished he wiped the pen’s nib on a smeared bit of cloth and inspected it, unhooked a small curved blade from his belt and shaved off a few slivers, repointing the pen to his exacting standards. He set it down, pulled over the stacks of silver coins and weighed each on a small balance. Satisfied he had the full measure of what was due, he set the coins in a box and blew a shrill summons on a small pipe. Behind her Brann could hear soft whuffs of relief; the harried weary pilgrims knew better than to complain about how long he was taking, but they fidgeted and sighed and otherwise made their discomfort known. He showed no sign he heard or saw any of that, simply pulled his inkpot closer and beckoned to the next in line.
A marshboy came trotting up, loaded Brann and Jaril and their gear into his poleboat; she was afraid the shallow boat was going to founder under their weight, but by some peculiarity of its construction it merely shuddered and seemed to squat marginally lower in the water. The marshboy hopped onto the platform at the stern, dug in his pole and pushed off.
Between one breath and the next he had the bright red shell flying across the open water where the river emerged from the marsh; then he took them scooting precariously through the winding waterways of the reed islands, sliding on thick red water moving sluggishly among shaggy reed clumps with their spiky leaves and finger-sized stems. Half new green growth stiff as bone and twice as high as a standing man, half dead, broken leaves and stems slowly collapsing into the muck they’d emerged from, the reed clumps creaked and rustled in the morning wind, a wind that Brann wished she could feel. Down near the water, in spite of the speed of their passage, the air was still and lifeless and far too warm. Swarms of marshbiters rose as they moved along the ways; most of them were left behind before they had a chance to settle; the marshboy seemed to know the route so well he could follow it in his sleep and keep flying too fast for the bugs, though Brann couldn’t understand how he did it. One clump of reeds looked much like the next, the narrow channels were indistinguishable; she was lost before they’d gone through a handful of turns.
After twenty minutes the poleboat emerged into a more open area, a flat sheet of water dotted with hundreds of small islands gathered in tight clusters about a much larger one; when they got closer she saw that the islands were reed mats mixed with mud, pinned in place by pilings made of bundled nai reeds; each island had a small cell built on it. A lacework of suspension foot-bridges linked the islands within the clusters and the clusters with each other. On the big island there were several longhouses like the house at the Landing.
To build a longhouse: Take tapering bundles of towering nai reeds and wrap reed cords about them until they look like fifty foot spikes, their butts three feet across at the base. Drive them into the mud an armstretch apart in two rows of ten spikes, angled out like massive awns from some gigantic ear of wheat. Bend the spike ends over and bind them together, each to each, to make ten parallel pointed arches. Lay thin reed bundles across the arches to act as stringers. Sew on overlapping split reed mats for siding. Move in.
To build a cell: Do likewise, only in less degree.
The marshboy took them to one of the outer islands, basing his decision on some obscure calculation involving sex, age, and dress. After Brann counted out the coins he demanded, he pointed at the longhouses. “Wan’ t’ eat, t’s tha,” he said. He was a little monkey of a boy, black eyes like licorice candy, a snub nose and a cheerful grin that bared teeth like small sharp chisels and turned his eyes to black-lined slits. “Need else, t’s tha.” He hopped back on the boat, pushed off and in seconds had vanished into the reeds.
The cell was raised waist-high off the cracking mud; there was an odd sort of contrivance that led from the flat up to a narrow platform built onto the front end of the structure; it was like a cross between the foot-bridges and a staircase and was just wide enough for one person at a time. It groaned and darted sideways as Brann stepped onto the first segment; she grabbed at the handrope before the rampladder threw her and climbed cautiously to the platform.
When she opened the door, she smelled every pilgrim who’d lived there that season and maybe a dozen before. “Slya’s Armpits.” She groaned, wedged the door open and lifted the shutter mats from the windowholes, propping them up with the sticks she found thrust into loops beside the holes. “Favor, Jay?”
He was leaning in the doorway, the nose erased from his face. “What about it maybe alerting you know who?”
“Hah! You’re just lazy, luv. If she hasn’t smelled you yet, she won’t notice you crisping a few bugs and firewashing this sty. At least I hope not. How can you go looking for you-know-what if you can’t change? Think of it as a test run.”
3
Mid-afternoon. Veiled in opaque black, swathed in black robes, Brann trudged up the long ramp to the top of the Rock. Beside her Jaril was stretched out on a litter carried by two adult marshmen; wrapped in blankets, pale and beautiful with little flesh on elegant bones (a carefully crafted image since he had nothing remotely resembling bones), he lay like a fallen angel, crystal eyes closed to hide their strangeness, controlling his impatience with some difficulty. Brann felt the strain in him, took his hand. He relaxed a little, gave her a slight smile. And held her hand so tightly she knew she’d have bruises on her fingers. The link between them was tightening more and more as the days passed since Yaril was taken; it was as if he were trying to make her take Yaril’s place. She refused to think about that or what would happen to Jay and her if they failed here; it was too troubling, she couldn’t afford the distraction.
The ramp they were moving up was a broad roadway paved with the same warm yellow-ocher brick that the Sihbaraburj was made of; it was cut into the Rock, slanting up the entire length of its northern face, a slope of one in seven, steep enough to make the pilgrims sweat but not enough to exhaust them. No doubt it was an impressive sight at the height of the season when a hoard of incense waving, torch-bearing worshipers climbed that long slant with Mutri-mabs weaving through them, capering and singing, playing flutes and whirling round and round, round and round in a complex spiral dance up that holy road. In this late autumn afternoon, she was alone on the roadway with the litter bearers; she didn’t like the exposure, she’d planned to wait for morning and the rest of the pilgrims, but Jaril was drawn too taut. He said nothing, but she knew he’d go without her if she forced him to a longer idleness. He’d go in a wild, reckless mood, risking everything on a chance of finding and taking the talisman. It was better to take the lesser risk of Amortis noticing them.
They reached the top after half an hour’s climb and turned in through a towering stone gate carved to resemble the reed arches of the longhouses. They passed into a green and lovely garden with fountains playing everywhere, palms casting pointed shadows over lawns like priceless carpets and flowering plants in low broad jars glazed red and yellow and blue. The walkway curved between two wrought iron fences with razor-edged spearpoints set at close intervals along the top rail: Look and enjoy but don’t touch.
The bearers stopped just outside the Grand Entrance to the Sihbaraburj. They set the litter down and squatted beside it to wait until it was time to go back down. The widow helped her ailing son onto his feet and stripped away the blankets wrapped around him. He wore fine silks and jewels and arrogance, an exquisite, emaciated mama’s darling.
With Jaril leaning on Brann’s arm, they went inside.
Light streamed in through weep-holes, was caught and magnified in hundreds of mirrors. There were mirrors everywhere inside that brick mountain, light danced like water from surface to surface, images were caught and repeated, tossed like the light from mirror to mirror until what was real and what was not-real acquired an equal validity. Brann wandered bemused in that warren of corridors and small plazas, walked through shimmering light and cool drifts of incense-laden air and marveled that she had no sense of being enclosed in tons of earth and brick; like image and reality there was a confusion between inside and out, a sense she was in a place not quite either. They moved past shops and forges, small chapels and waiting rooms; they were stopped when they poked into the living sections, escorted back to the shops when they claimed they were lost. The place was so big that in the three hours they spent probing the interior they saw only a minute fraction of it. As the day latened, the light inside the Sihbaraburj dimmed and filled with shadow, the shopkeepers worked more frantically to woo coin from the straggling pilgrims, the Servants in the Grand Chambers were bringing their ceremonies to a close.
Brann and Jaril stopped in front of a room filled with shadow; fugitive gleams of gold, silver and gemstones come from the glass shelves that lined the walls from floor to ceiling.
A Servant was sitting at a table just inside the open archway, a scroll, several pens and an inkpot at his elbow. He lifted kohl-lined dark eyes and smiled just enough to tilt the ends of his narrow mustache as she stepped in. “Yes, khatra?”
“May I ask, Holy One, what is this?” She moved her hand in a small arc, indicating the objects on the shelves.
“They are gifts, khatra. Beauty to honor her who is beauty’s self.”
“Is it permitted to see them closer?”
“Certainly, khatra. However, it is so near to Evendown, it would be better to return on the morrow.”
As soon as he said the last word, a gong sounded, a deep booming note that shuddered in the bone. He stood. “That is Evendown, khatra, you must leave.”
She bowed her head, turned, and left.
4
Jaril moved impatiently about the cell as Brann unpacked the supper basket she’d brought from the big island longhouse that sold food to the pilgrims. “I’m going back tonight,” he said suddenly. “It has to be in one of those giftrooms, don’t you think, Bramble?”
“No has-to-be, Jay. But you’re probably right.” Brann pulled up the three-legged stool and sat down to eat. She wanted to tell him he was a fool to take the chance, but she knew he wouldn’t listen and she didn’t want to irritate him into a greater recklessness. “How you going?”
“Wings, then four-feet. I’ll be careful, Bramble. I won’t go till late and I won’t touch it if I find it. All right?”
“Thanks, Jay.”
“I been thinking…” He dropped onto the pallet, lay watching hereat. “We need something to keep it in, Bram-ble. To hide it from her.”
“I know. I can’t see any way we can do it. I’m afraid we’ll have to fight our way to Waragapur and count on Tak WakKerrcarr to hold her off his Truceground.”
“We might still have to, but I’ve thought of something. I can make a pocket inside myself and insulate the talisman from everything outside.”
“Even from the god?”
“I think so.”
“That helps. We’ve got seven days here, Jay. I think we ought to stay in character, leave with who we came with. Can you wait that long? It’s six more days if you find the thing tonight.”
“I can, once I know. I said it before and it’s true. It’s not knowing that eats at me, Bramble. But I don’t think we ought to wait to take the talisman on the last night before we leave. If she notices it’s gone, she’ll hit the outgoers hard.”
“And the stayers just as hard, be sure of that.”
“Well…” He turned onto his back, lay staring up at the cobwebs under the roof. “Damned if we do, damned if we don’t. Maybe we should just toss a coin and let old Tungjii decide. Heads, early. Tails, late.”
“Why not. Now?”
“No. Wait till I find the thing, Bramble. Till I know.”
5
Brann sat on the bed, a blanket wrapped about her, chasing biters away from her face and arms with a reed whisk; the Wounded Moon was down, but the darkness was broken by stars glittering diamond-hard diamond-bright through the thin, high-desert air. She shivered and pulled the blankets tighter; that air was chill and dank here in the marsh; a curdled mist clung to the reed clumps and the floorposts of the cell; tendrils of mist drifted through the windowholes and melted in the heat from the banked peat fire in the mud stove. Outside, the big orange grasshoppers the marshfolk called jaspars had already begun their predawn creakings and a sleepy mashimurgh was practicing its song. There was almost no wind; the stillness was eerie, frightening, as if the marsh and the Rock and even the air were waiting with her for something to happen, something terrible. What an anticlimax, she thought, if Jay comes sliding in and says he hasn’t found the thing. I do
n’t know how I could get through another night of waiting. Slya! I hate feeling so helpless. It should be me in there, not my baby, my nursling. She contemplated herself and laughed silently at what she saw. She was nervous about Jaril, but mostly she was irritated because she had no part to play in this, she was baggage. It was harder than she’d thought to reconcile herself to being baggage.
A large horned owl came through a windowhole, snapped out its wings and landed neatly on the reed mat. As soon as its talons touched, it changed to Jaril. He dropped onto the second cot and grinned at her.
“Well?” Brann scowled at him. “Did you or didn’t you?”
“Did.”
“Giftroom?”
“No, I was wrong about that. It was in a storeroom, the kind where they throw broken things and whatever they don’t think has much value.”
“A Great Talisman in a junk room?”
“What it looks like, Bramble. Dust everywhere, broken everything, cheap trinkets, the kind your sailor friends bought their whores when they hit port. Wornout mats rolled up, cushions with the stuffing leaking out. And the old frog looking right at home sitting up on a shelf smothered in gray dust. Maybe it’s been there since the Sihbaraburj was built.” He crossed his legs, rubbed his thumb over and over his ankle. “Funny, I’d ‘ve never gone in there, but a Servant came along the corridor I was in and I thought I’d better duck. There was a door handy; it was locked so I oozed in and while I was waiting I, took a look round. I was being firesphere so I wouldn’t leave footprints or other marks in case someone came in there hunting something. I about went nova when I saw the thing way up on the top shelf, pushed into a corner and like I said covered with dust. I managed to ride the blow out, I don’t know how. 1 nosed about some more, there was no sign Amortis was around and I’ve got pretty good at spotting gods. I guess we sit it out the next six days.”
