by Jean Winter
“Yeah,” Lyra laughed. “And that is an event I don't want to miss.”
Lyra found enough leftovers on the snack cart to tide her over till dinner, but seats on the city side for reclining while she ate were coming up scarce. They were all taken up by gawking faces. Lyra settled herself by a window on the opposite side instead and was treated to a surprisingly delightful panoramic view of the wide, deep Thest River, whose head began at the northern Forkors and which flowed all the way to the coast in a journey of over a thousand miles.
The river teemed with life. Marsh stalkers meandered through the shallows among the reeds, their long, hairless legs stepping carefully, feeling for plump worms burrowing in the muck beneath. A flock of divers whizzed over the caravan. In formation they flew straight into the water, their long, pointed jaws poised to spear a surprised school of fish below. On the riverbank's far side, a commercial fishing boat cast nets, while downstream, the water was frequented by a few walking trees. They stood high above the surface on stilt roots. When Lyra watched closely, she could make out the tree roots' slow movements, taking their wispy top growth upstream to a new spot of riverbed from which to glean nutrients.
The caravan eventually diverted from the river's edge. It got on a road that led straight into central Caldreen, passing the city outskirt's farm lots that were much bigger—and more ominous—than any others Lyra had ever seen. In lieu of quaint, single-family homes, large, blocky buildings, ugly in their crude construction, vilified the property grounds. Their long rows of dirty windows stared like dead eyes upon hundreds of bent, ragged bodies tending crops in acres and acres of fields.
Work camps.
Shuddering, Lyra cast her gaze ahead to the looming city main.
Tall, gleaming, glass and bluegrain ore buildings shot upward, side by side, looking like the baleen plates of some gargantuan, oceanic whale. Lyra did indeed feel swallowed up as the caravan passed between them on a slit of road. Then the inner city opened wide before her, revealing a distant end where more of the same skyscrapers loomed. Lyra finally comprehended that the bluegrain buildings actually made an irregular circle—a protective perimeter and psychologically intimidating barrier to outside potential hostiles.
Like a kid, Lyra stuck her head out the window as they went along. She gaped in awe of stunning white mansions surrounded by immaculate grounds studded with stone statues of fanciful figures and animals. Bright market malls and restaurant blocks filled the spaces between the luxurious neighborhoods, each mall cluster appearing to have its own color scheme and decorating theme. On every block corner the green and red striped flag of the republic hung proudly at the top of ribboned poles. Underneath, the people walked about, dressed even more ostentatiously than in Bansool. It was like a scene from a story book.
Every few blocks, however, large sections were encompassed by a high plank wall. Narrow gates allowed much more humbly dressed passersby in and out, and a glimpse through one revealed depressingly small apartment quarters crammed together in tight rows. The lower class neighborhoods.
The caravan finally arrived at a grand women's clothing store and a general rush for the coach doors transpired. No one got too far, though, for the small army of waiting sales clerks outside, dressed in crisp, light-pink skirt and blouse uniforms.
Standing on the step plate of the passenger barge, Lyra beheld the eager khari'na get sorted into smaller groups each headed by a clerk. She trailed behind the auctionees as they were driven up shining stone steps, past marble columns, and into the large, beautifully decorated, domed store that was entirely filled with formal wear of all kinds. Wow.
Maehan was helped onto a short ladder and, using a mechanical amplifier, reminded everyone to carefully consider the image a prospective gown ensemble would portray on the auction stage. It should amplify a khari'na's character and best traits, thereby enabling the gentlemen to determine their best match. Thus, Maehan urged the girls to carry out their selection process in a calm, methodical manner.
The amplifier was lowered and chaos ensued.
Enthusiastic khars pounced on their clerks, shouting over each other what they wanted. They mobbed the dress racks. Gowns were seized off the displays in threes and fours, girls crowing their finds in piercing, joyous voices. A short stampede to the dressing rooms had to be reigned in. Some cat skirmishes broke out over particular dresses, but only one turned serious. It required two clerks and one Hundt to subdue it. Through it all, Lyra did her best to help maintain order.
All kinds of fabrics and textures were available, as well as colored feathers, lace, even dyed leather. Many khari'na favored the strapless, short gowns or the asymmetrical styles whose neckline plunged off a shoulder. A particularly daring few emerged with reflective bikini tops in transparent tights under short frilly skirts. Evidently the general goal was to not leave much to the imagination.
They reached it. Lyra had underwear that covered better.
Three and a half hours later, an exhausted Maehan was settling the bill while Lyra continued to help clerks return leftover accessories to their original places. She had seen Cindry up and about choosing a skimpy red thing, but the girl still looked pale and tired. Hundt was loading everyone onto the barges again when, in a moment of frazzled candor, Maehan dryly admitted that the gown shopping did seem to get worse every year. (“A stampede o' angry churung is more manageable!”)
Another half hour moving slowly through busy, tracked streets, and the caravan arrived at what everyone referred to as the “khari'na spa.” Lyra soon understood why. The sleeping apartments were modest enough, but the adjacent bathing and preparation building: luxury itself. It looked sculpted out of golden marble.
While the auctionees got fed, Lyra wandered closer for a look around. Great, soft armchairs and lounges piled with tassled pillows littered the spaces. The floor was covered in huge, furry animal skin rugs of white and red bordering in-ground pools. Natural hot springs, so it seemed. She understood they were rather common here.
The spa had been readied for the complete khari'na ritual cleansing process: full body exfoliation, scented oil baths, luxurious moisturizing lotions, and so on. Several masseuse were still preparing their tables, laying out soft towels on warming plates to the side. Lyra gazed about her at the serene fantasy of pampering splendor and was suddenly reminded of the ritual fatted calf before the annual sacrifice.
Khari'na began to filter in. Lyra took that as her cue to leave and go help Maehan sort auction ensembles and work on some necessary gown alterations. She looked forward to one more night in a real bed before the auction was over and the caravan left to more rustic—and cheap—lodgings outside the city. At least they would all get several days off before starting the rounds all over again. Maybe Hundt could be persuaded to accompany her for some fun city exploration before they got busy with that target practice “date.” Another smile emerged. Living with the caravan wasn't turning out to be too bad.
Much later, to the sound of Maehan's soft snoring, Lyra slipped into bed and caught sight of her necklet—her anklet now—still hugging her lower calf. It infused her with warmth and comfort and, closing her eyes, Lyra noted that she had finally made it a whole day without shedding a single tear for her Iyalyn.
Verise.
Rorn.
… Jon.
Two hours later sleep overcame an exhausted Lyra clutching at a wet pillow.
Auction day dawned cool and wet with spring rain. They had all morning to do hair and makeup, but it was barely enough time for forty-seven nervous, eager women, all trying to share the limited number of hair rollers, dryers, finishing sprays, lipsticks, eye colors, and blushes.
Lyra was once again asked to assist the balding, bespectacled barber/caravan laborer—known as Curly—with hair setting, style malfunctions, and coloring emergencies. She rolled up her sleeves and jumped in. Lyra wasn't familiar with the cell powered curlers or straighteners, but proved quickly that she could braid hair like nobody's business and quickly be
came a favorite, working all kinds of intricate variations and ribbons into the mix—in accordance with tradition. Apparently, khari'na typically pulled their hair up only partially. Who really wanted those unsightly implant bumps to show, anyway?
It was nearly time for midmeal when Maehan approached. “Mr. Shorn wishes to see me in his office. Please come with me. I need help finishing the last gown alterations as soon as I am done there.”
With a few bobby pins, Lyra finished setting a light brown braid in place—a swirl pattern around the crown—and looked up. “Okay. I just finished this one.”
She nodded to Curly who said his goodbye with a comb wrenched between two fingers, his other hand busily grappling a mass of hair being teased to nose bleed heights, and his lips hosting several bobby pins that protruded like zethrin neck spikes. Lyra prayed that the poor man would not be overcome by a sudden urge to sneeze.
A steady drizzle met them when they stepped outside. Each cold droplet raised goosebumps on her arms, but Lyra didn't mind. She loved the rain. She loved rainy afternoons when she could curl up with a book and a blanket. She loved listening dreamily to the patter outside as she pictured the life-giving moisture trickling through soil and rock to thirsty roots below.
“He probably wants to complain about all the shampoo that was used yesterday,” Maehan muttered as she knocked on the door of Shorn's private coach.
Mr. Shorn's office was much larger than Hundt's—and much messier. Piles of papers covered every square inch of surface and filing cabinets were filled to overflowing. A large trash can in the corner was similarly doomed. Shorn sat moodily behind his black desk upon which perched untidy stacks of nondescript folders and documents, leaning precariously on each other, in danger of tipping over at any second and drowning the man in an ecru sea of serif type and writ.
Was this a typical example of Caldreen'n government efficiency?
“Oh, it is you, Keeper.” Shorn barely glanced up from his grumpy survey of the confusion before him. “I have had it with the post delivering the new khari'na applications and financial statements this early. Can they no' let me get through one auction before starting plans on the next?”
Impatiently, he transferred one mess of papers onto another, though how this action helped in any way Lyra could not fathom.
“It is a never ending cycle for sure, Mr. Shorn,” Maehan sympathized.
“Nothing but bills and profiles and expenses!” Shorn continued his agitated paper shuffling for a minute, muttering to himself and occasionally throwing a curse at a random nature god for his troubles, until it appeared he had quite forgotten his two guests.
“Did you wish to see me, sir?” Maehan finally prompted.
She got an annoyed glance, but presently, Shorn leaned back in his chair and interlocked thick fingers over a bulging belly. He cleared his throat. “'Na Maehan Gowltir, we have worked together for … fourteen years?”
“That is correct, sir.”
“You were here years before me and your record o' dependability has long remained untarnished. In fact, I have come to respect you as one o' the few people in this caravan with a sensible head on her shoulders.”
“Thank you, Mr. Shorn.”
Lyra hung behind Maehan, listening silently like a dartfly on the wall.
“Your lifetime o' service to the nation has been commendable, and I was recently reminded on your payroll account that you are coming up on your ninetieth birthday, soon to conclude your obligation to our great society.”
“Thank you again, sir. Aye, that is true.”
“And in all the time I have known you, you have never given me any reason to doubt your honesty or judgment.” Shorn twisted in his chair to reach for something behind him: a nearly empty, light brown khari'na folder. “Until now.”
“Sir?” Maehan answered, startled.
The greasy beard jutted brusquely toward Lyra. “I took the liberty o' examining your 'assistant's' file a little more closely today and the lack o' detail in her history and previous service record is disturbing.”
Moons and stars, this meeting was not about wasted shampoo! Lyra reached behind her to feel the wall's support while Maehan found her voice again. “Sir, the lord and family she came from—”
“—does no' exist,” Shorn cut her off curtly. “I looked into the Pruk'wist name you listed. There is no record o' them anywhere. Furthermore, I noticed this morning that her tracker is a brand new model.” Lyra wished she could sink into the wall to avoid the heavy, watery blue gaze that settled on her now. “This woman is no' who you say she is.”
“Mr. Shorn,” Maehan defended, “please understand that despite the … liberties I may have taken with her file, she was bought and paid for by me, with my own honest savings, in a mutual agreement with her previous steward. No laws have been broken.”
“That is probably only partially true, Khari'na Maehan.” The round man's hairy jowls jiggled in increasing impatience. “Judging by what I could understand o' her tracker, I have a sneaking suspicion that you have purchased some kind o' criminal.”
“Sir, I assure you she is no threat to anyone. If you wish, Mr. Hundt would be happy to offer his confidence in her good character, as well.”
Shorn looked on the Keeper with all the apathy of a rock. “Do you want to know something, Keeper? In the end, I really do no' care about her character or where she came from. I care …” He dropped the folder on top of a pile in front of him and the entire mass on the desk shifted dangerously. “… about making money.”
“Aye, sir.”
“I have contracts and quotas to fill. When I canno' honor those contracts, I lose money.” The smile he gave now did nothing to improve his looks. “So, I am no' going to worry about 'Na Lyra's sketchy past because I believe she can help me with a particular problem I have at present.”
Maehan eyed him warily. “What do you need o' her, sir?”
“She can fulfill her duty to the Republic by taking 'Na Cindry's place on the auction stage this afternoon.”
CHAPTER 7
“Mr. Shorn, you canno' be serious!” Maehan was beside herself. Lyra's knees threatened to buckle and the paneled wall at her back literally became her lifeline to remaining upright.
“It is already decided, Keeper.” Shorn went back to his paperwork.
“But sir! She is only just healed and is no' back to full strength yet.”
“You must no' have seen her hauling the tents around the other morning.”
Maehan's sharp look at Lyra could only be returned with an apologetic and frightened shrug. Dismayed, the Keeper turned back to the caravan manager. “Also, she is pregnant, Mr. Shorn.”
“That condition was no' listed in her file.”
“We only just found out and I have no' yet had a chance to update her health record.”
Shorn gave Lyra's petite leanness a blatant, skeptic once-over. “It must be very early in the pregnancy.”
“Well, aye, it is—”
“Then IF that is true—and right now, mind you, I am having a very hard time believing anything you say—then it is no concern o' mine. Her delivery date would be far enough away to pin the conception on her lord.”
“Then, the auction, sir! It is only two and a half hours away. She has no' gone through the cleansing process or chosen a gown, and no one here has the time to help her get ready.”
Each word was spoken slowly with deadly distinction. “Then, I suggest you wire a friend.”
“But, she is mine!” Maehan suddenly sputtered. “I paid twe … fifteen hundred reds for her!”
“You spent fifteen hundred to loan her from the Republic, and now your motherland has need o' her elsewhere!” Shorn's tone was reaching dangerous levels.
“But, fifteen hundred, sir. That was most o' my retirement. She is my retirement plan!”
The caravan manager's fists came down on his desk as he shot up from his chair, enraged. “Great Mother Moon, woman! Who ever heard o' a khari'na owning a khar
i'na in the first place? What makes you think you have any rights in this matter?”
A collection of folders slid haphazardly to the floor, landing in a mess at Maehan's feet. It was the only sound disturbing the otherwise suffocating silence that had gripped the room.
Finally Maehan mumbled, “Please forgive an old woman,” and bowed her head, but Lyra could see the arthritic fists clenched at her sides.
Stiffly, Shorn returned to his seat. “In a matter o' a couple hours, over a hundred gentleman will be collected in the arena, ready to pay handsomely for a woman, and I have forty-seven to sell. Forty-seven. I canno' keep up with the demand as it is, and I will no' bear the brunt o' breaking the contract for forty-eight when I have a perfectly eligible khari'na within arm's reach.”
Lyra felt sick. She turned hollowed eyes on her friend, but the woman only whispered, “I am so sorry, Little Tiger.”
“Now, Keeper Maehan,” Shorn said, taking a moment to reclaim a more dignified bearing, “I am no' completely without a heart. I am willing to offer you … five hundred in compensation—despite your less than truthful conduct.”
The patronizing tone, the thinly-constructed pretense of magnanimous altruism, Lyra wanted to leap at him and forever solidify her nickname from Maehan. But when Lyra noted the fierce indignation rolling off the old woman, the gritted teeth, the subtle trembling, she realized Maehan might just beat her to the attack. “Thank you, sir, for your generosity,” muttered Maehan, using every ounce of constraint her frail, nearly ninety-year-old body could summon.
They were dismissed.
The kettle blew once they were back in the lot out of earshot. “Five hundred!” the old Keeper seethed. “Very generous. Oh aye, a real saint o' a man, that one!” She began to pace—which was still a shuffle at her age. “Filling a quota, is he? We both know he has come up short before. It is no' the end o' the world!”
Lyra, meanwhile, stood quietly on the cold, wet ground, her heart fluttering erratically, her systems freezing up in immobilizing panic.
