Watson, Ian - Black Current 03 (27 page)

 
          
Yaleen herself was determined to be
part of the expedition—even if she was compelled to take "drench
leave" as she said fancifully of anyone quitting a boat in mid-passage (to
fall foul, no doubt, of stingers). Her friend, Observer Hasso, had promised
her.
So also had her other friend, Tam the Potter.
Tam
had used up his one-go on the river to sail to Pecawar to experiment with the
unique clays found locally (as well, perhaps, as making a romantic, quixotic
gesture in pursuit of Yaleen). On the boat ex Verrino he had fallen in with
Hasso, and these two men were soon as close as two slices of bread, glued
together by the butter of Yaleen; perhaps foolishly so, should the butter melt
one way or the other.

 
          
What Yaleen did not know was that
though her guild might well favour her dreams of desert flight—even to the
extent of publicly nominating her—this was because she was totally dispensable.
In fact, therein lay her value. Already her brief career had been marked by
various embarrassing scrapes; such as the time when she made a fool of herself
at the Junglejack Festival—or that other occasion at Port Firsthome when she
teamed up with a party of treasure hunters who were convinced that something
rich and rare lay buried under the Obelisk of the Ship, and by burrowing almost
toppled the Obelisk. True, she was bold and energetic and even diligent, but
such incidents practically guaranteed that at some stage—either literally or
metaphorically—she would poke a hole in the balloon. If the guild's
rumour-mongers reported accurately, Yaleen bid fair to set two of the
expedition men at jealous loggerheads.

 
          
This was why the guild had despatched
Yaleen on the brief preliminary mission to Manhome South as a jill-of-all and
general bot- tlewasher. Fingers crossed, she was unlikely to provoke any serious
contretemps. She went along in a strictly minor capacity—to a place where mere
"gairls" were held in contempt. (And if she did get into hot water,
well, she was an example of an independently minded female.) By sending her,
the guild promoted her to sufficient prominence to be worth nominating, and
subsequently losing. . . .

 
          
A few days after the
Blue Guitar
docked in grimy Guineamoy,
Yaleen was summoned to the river temple. By this time the leaders of the
mission had had opportunity to debate their findings in conclave.

 
 
          
Yaleen
reported to the temple, ready to spill out her excuses. She felt somewhat
cocky; somewhat apprehensive.

           
Her
cockiness proceeded simply from the fine diamond she wore. Quite why this
should be, she wasn't sure. The ring had rapidly come to seem like a personal
talisman. Spirited on to her finger by a lecherous Son, that lucky find had now
become her luck; and why not?

 
          
Her apprehension came from a
different quarter. The very same day that the
Blue Guitar
arrived, Yaleen had been interviewed by a man from the
local newssheet, the
Guineamoy Gazette.

 
          
This interview was arranged through
the quaymistress's good offices; and it took place in a back room of her
office, though the quaymistress showed no desire to eavesdrop or supervise. The
newsman was seeking what he called a "human interest angle" on the
trip to the Sons' southerly stronghold.

 
          
"I'm hoping this story will be
syndicated up and down the river," the fellow confided to Yaleen. His name
was Mulge; but that was his misfortune. The name matched him, though.

 
          
He was a grey, stout young man Grey
of skin, as though the sun had never shone on him. Grey of demeanour: stolid,
serious, lacklustre,
untouched
by much imagination.
Pencil-grey, smoke-grey.

 
          
"You'll be famous," he said
in a flat tone of voice, as though the notion of such exposure worried him,
though equally it was his stock in trade.

 
          
Duly, the very next day the following
column had appeared in the
Guineamoy
Gazette;
and perhaps this ought to be quoted, rather than a blow by blow
reprise of the interview itself, since the following is what emerged for
public scrutiny and is what was uppermost in Yaleen's mind when she paid her
visit to the temple.

 
          
Her attempts to enthuse Mulge on the
subject of the desert expedition had, it transpired, been so much water off a
duck's back. Maybe he thought she was indulging in a different sort of flight—
one of fancy. Maybe he wrote to the limits of his understanding— maliciously,
so it seemed to Yaleen when she first scanned his column. How he had garbled
and idiotized everything. His account read as though he hadn't harked at all.
Mulge could as easily have stayed at home and made the whole thing up.

 
          
GANGEE “GAIRL” IN SONS’ LAIR

 
          
Crewwoman Yaleen of the
Blue Guitar
said yesterday how glad she
is to be back in civilization after acting as “cabin girl” for the momentous
peace mission to Manhome South.

 
          
“I felt scared all the time,” she
confessed. “But I didn’t show it. Those Sons call all young women ‘gairls’,
with a sneer in their voice, as if we’re kids. But now because of us they’ve
stopped burning women. One of the Sons even fancied me! I didn’t fancy him.

 
          
“But yes, I’d go back again—into the
wild dogs’ liar—to show what we’re made of over here.”

 
          
(This was the bit which worried
Yaleen most of all.)

 
          
Of her ordeal, Yaleen said . . .

 
          
There was more, in similar vein; and
the piece ended off thus:

 
          
Yaleen’s deputy mission commander,

 
          
Tamath,
commented: “Yaleen’s too modest. She behaved as a fine representative of our
way of life. She’s young but she already distinguished herself on several
occasions. She’s our finest.”

 
          
True, typeface and layout were
excellent—though "lair" was misspelled as "liar",
which
seemed appropriate—but on the whole Yaleen had felt
like curling up in a dark comer. Alternatively: like coming out with fists
flailing.

 
          
And why had Tamath said those things?
Simply to counteract the impression of breathless naivety
conveyed by the rest of the piece?

 
          
Mixed in with her cocktail of embarrassment
and defiance, Yaleen also detected a third, odd flavour. This was the sense
that, with her interview in print, somehow she was "emerging"—from
anonymous obscurity back into the light, not unlike some death-box buried in
Pecawar cemetery being disinterred by the breezes of time.

 
          
What became of death-boxes when
that
occurred? Why, they were soon burnt
up and destroyed!

 
          
Yet Yaleen had always been obscure
and anonymous; nobody special, save to friends and family and three or four
lovers, and herself.

 
 
          
Whence
came
this sense of familiarity at being mentioned in
print? Which was this light she was emerging into? She didn't relish the
sensation. It felt wrong, even dangerous.

 
          
After mulling the matter over for a
while, she decided that basically she was a proud creature. Mulge's column
constituted a satire on that pride, a caricature.

 
          
So as she approached the river temple
that morning along
Bezma Boulevard
,
she felt apprehensive. But she also blew on her ring and polished it and felt
proud.

 
          
The river temple was a sprawling
ancient structure constructed of rusty orange ironstone. Recently the stones
had been repointed with yellow mortar, but in years past the walls had bent and
bellied and been corseted with metal bands and rings, which were now picked out
in black paint. The whole edifice resembled a strongchest for storing treasure;
a somewhat grimy and eroded one, despite its re- furbishments, due to the
pollution in the air.

 
          
Indeed the temple did contain
treasure. It enshrined the spirit of a way of life—along with the political and
moral embodiment of that way of life, the river priestess. Additionally the
temple cellar guarded the guild treasury (Guineamoy account). While on the
ground floor at the rear this particular temple housed the Mint, which stamped
and milled all scales and fins and fish for distribution up and down stream.

 
          
By tradition a triumvirate supervised
the Mint; this trio consisting of a 'mistress of the river guild, plus a
Guineamoy metalmaster, plus a "witness woman" from as far away as
possible. Once every two years a new witness was elected, alternately by the
towns of Tambi- matu and Umdala. For manufacturing reasons the Mint
must needs
be sited at Guineamoy. For historic reasons the
river guild gave it a roof. The witness ensured that new coins all duly entered
circulation, and did not slip "through chinks in the floorboards"
down into the river guild treasury in the cellar below.

 
          
Yaleen entered by the arched doorway,
gave her name to the clerk-acolyte on duty, and was led to priestess Kaski's
parlour for her audience.

 
          
When she was shown in, the parlour
was empty. Cushions lay scattered on the polished hoganny floor before a low
throne. A single mullioned window gave sight of the river, where a brig was
sailing by. Old tapestries showing ancient boats cloaked the walls.

 
          
These tapestries caused Yaleen a
momentary sense of terrible unease. Instead of admiring them, she focused her
gaze upon the genuine vessel sailing the waters.

           
A rustle.
A swirl of fabric.
And
Kaski appeared—stepping directly out of one of the tapestries! The tapestry was
actually in two separate parts, though they had hung as one. Behind, a door
was concealed.

 
          
Supporting herself with a
silver-tipped cane, Kaski hobbled slowly in the direction of her throne. Yaleen
almost darted to assist; but this might have been impertinent. Besides, the
shrivelled old woman had paid no heed to her yet. Yaleen shuffled uncertainly.

 
          
Then the crone did reach her
throne—and swung round, sitting smoothly and swiftly, not at all like somebody
suffering from crippled joints. Her eyes took in Yaleen, with piercing
familiarity.

 
          
"River
bless
you, child of the flow!" The priestess's voice was clear, purposeful,
precise
.

 
          
Yaleen realized that Kaski must have
been watching her for a while through a crack in the divided tapestry before
emerging. And that slow walk of hers had been hoo-ha, designed to put Yaleen
off stride. Maybe Kaski could fence with that cane of hers in as sprightly a
style as any 'jack soldier. Perhaps she could
tap-dance
rings around Yaleen.

 
          
"River
lave
you, 'Mistress Priestess."

 
          
"Hmm. Read that story about you
in the paper, I did!" said Kaski without more ado.

 
          
"Oh dear.
Honestly, I've never seen such a jumble of drivel in a newssheet—not even at
'Barbra! It makes me out such a silly chit."

 
          
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?