Fish Tails (15 page)

Abasio said wonderingly, “Volumetarianism, no. I'm not familiar with it.”

“In the past, sir, books were burned.” Bertram pinched his lips together and gave them a significant look. “Burned, sir. As a method of thought control. I presume, given your current . . . job? Task? Mission! I presume you are familiar with the history of thought control? With the ancient times of the religious or political imperatives? When only approved books could be read? Of the time of the Big Kill? Then, more recently, east of us, in Artemisia, the destroying of history by those in the Place of Power, in order to squelch ancient enmities!”

Abasio nodded. “I know what was done in Artemisia, yes. I was . . . I was there, at the end of that time. When the Place of Power was ended.”

Xulai murmured, “Are you saying your title began even before that time? And survives even now?”

The tailor nodded. “It does, ma'am. Our title is millennia old. Of course, you will not spread it about? Ordinarily, I do not mention it, not to anyone. We have records of fifty generations of Volumetarians, same family. Not everyone is sympathetic with our goals. However, what you have told me is so . . . world-­shaking in its implications that I must involve you, no? Back in the time of the Big Kill, when all books were being destroyed, our ­people hid volumes. We say they did it Volumetarily.” He snickered, a mere moth-­wing flutter of amusement. “Joke among ourselves, sir, ma'am. The Volumetarians sequestered them, protected them, and preserved them. My family has always been ­Volumetarian.”

Xulai shared a glance with Abasio, eyebrows raised, indicating this was a thing they might discuss later. He nodded assent, and she went on. “I will pay you in gold, and we'll look about among our books to see if any of them can be spared.”

Bertram busied himself with a tape measure around the children, and quite unexpectedly the girl child, who was slightly smaller than the other, reached out a baby hand and grasped his thumb. He stood, transfixed. The baby smiled. She was adorable! He smiled back. He sighed. “Ma'am . . .”

Xulai saw his confusion, this time with sympathy. “Yes, Bertram. What is it?”

“I do not wish to offend again. What name for these children of the subsequent race is considered polite?”

She looked startled. “We've always used their names, but they . . . Abasio, have we settled on anything like that?”

He nodded. “We've left it to the locals, and I haven't tried to enforce any uniformity. That place up where they played the drums, up the side of that red mountain, the ­people called them the Troutlings; Water-­babes, I think in that place they farmed the pine-­nut trees; Pollywogs, in one place, which we accepted, for the appellation was being used affectionately and we rather liked the sound of it. We usually call them sea-­children when we speak of them.”

“Sea-­children will do,” Xulai told Bertram, displaying more friendship than he had seen until that moment. “Collectively, they are sea-­children. Individually, they have names, just as all of us do.”

Gailai commented on this, her voice holding a querulous note. The tailor stepped back, jotting rapidly. There was a slight difference in measurements between the two, and he had them accurately for each. He was finished just in time, for the girl baby was obviously hungry. Xulai rose, took Bailai from Abasio, nodded pleasantly at the tailor, and headed for the wagon. Abasio took the chair she had vacated, seating himself comfortably, as though intending to stay awhile.

The tailor, from the table where he rummaged among fabric samples, looked up to say, “Sir, do you have to go to the town down there?”

“Not necessarily into the town, no, but the road through it is the road we need to follow to the places we need to go. We usually camp near a town, so we can buy provisions. Our outrider should have returned to us by now, as a matter of fact . . .”

Bertram frowned, nodded, then shook his head in troubled fashion. “Oh, gracious, sir. I think you may find, sir, that your outrider has been . . . detained. Some of the Suckians aren't very friendly. It's why I couldn't stay down among them when I came here. I set up business in town, but every time a customer wanted to visit, he had to fight his way past certain of the inhabitants.”

Abasio was sympathetic. “Bertram—­you don't mind my calling you Bertram?—­it won't be the first time we find hostility. If a place is very unfriendly, when our outrider comes back to us we would ordinarily change our route if we can. Sometimes we can't, and that includes this stretch along here. This is the only road that takes us to Findem Pass, and we want to reach Artemisia, on the far side of the mountains. What do you mean, detained?”

“I merely thought it likely they'd captured him, sir. It's not likely they'll hurt him badly or kill him, but you probably will have to . . . pay ransom . . .”

Abasio tried to shake the weariness from his head. What was the man saying? “Kill . . .  ? Who?”

“I'm afraid they've taken your . . . outrider . . . taken him prisoner, sir.”

Outside, Xulai approached the wagon, where the horses, Blue and Ragweed, slouched in the traces. Blue's partner, a large pinto mare, mostly brown with white patches around the ears, rump, and legs, was seemingly asleep beside him. Xulai sat in the shade on the wagon step and let the children suckle.

Blue opened one eye. “The tailor man have a fit of startlement and stab himself with his needle?”

Xulai responded: “Not any more than usual. He's making jackets for the children, three sizes, so we don't have to do this again for a while.”

Ragweed also opened an eye. “What fabric? Wool's best, if it's going to get wet.” She shook herself. “Someone put a blanket on me once, kinnen, or maybe it was lotton, some name like that. Not Zilk, you can keep Zilk! Embroidered, that one was. Very fancy! Hadda silly woman in charge back then. She died. And not too soon for me. I might've kicked her to death had she not! That blanket was the coldest rag it could possibly be when it was wet! Give me wool every time.”

“I didn't even think . . .” Xulai closed her eyes. The horses remained quiet, listening to her breathing. Asleep, she was. After a time the babies released her. A chill breeze struck her bared breasts. She shivered and wakened enough to take the children into their tank in the wagon. She watched as they curled into deeper sleep, the gills along their sides quivering. They would come up for air when the water became deoxygenated, as it would! The first few months of their lives she had hovered day and night, afraid they would stop breathing, unable to believe their bodies would do whatever the environment required. Even now she sometimes stood in wonder, simply watching them breathe. She adjusted her bodice and went out, intending to return to the shop, but stopped momentarily, looking at Abasio, who stood on the stoop of the shop, staring at nothing.

They had set out in good health, in good flesh, not fat but certainly in good condition, when the babies were three months old. The way was wearing on them both, no doubt, but she hated to see its effect on him. He had hollows in his cheeks that had not been there before, though that fact had done something dramatic with his cheekbones. The gray at his temples was pronounced now, not merely a sprinkle of snow but an ashen upsweep over his ears. Which was, however, remarkably attractive. When she had first seen him, his hair was full of auburn glints. Most of that was gone now. He was still strong, very strong, but he walked . . . wearily. Well, fiddle. So did she. And he wouldn't if he got some rest!

He looked up, saw her watching him, and smiled . . . the Abasio-­smile that melted her. All love. All pleasure. When she grew angry at the fates or the ­people who had ruled her life since before birth, she soothed her anger with Abasio.
If it weren't for them, she wouldn't have known him, so she had to forgive them!
He lifted a handful of something and waved it at her: fabric samples.

“Wool,” he said as he approached. “Bertram thinks it will be warmer. He says it holds moisture without getting chilly. Pick the colors out here in the daylight, and then tell him what you choose. He has enough material for six jackets in any combination of these.” They conferred for a moment over the samples, several blues, two greens, several reds and browns.

She said, “Red and green for Gailai; brown and blue for Bailai; one of each in each color in each size, six for each of them. That way we'll know which belongs to who.” She took the samples from him, went up on tiptoe to kiss his surprised lips, and moved toward the shop once more. He looked after her, touching his lips with a forefinger, smiling, and suddenly ten or twenty years younger. He ambled over to the horses and leaned upon Blue.

“No fair,” said the horse. “You're not any more tired than I am!”

“I just need the comfort of a friendly shoulder,” said Abasio. “The tailor says they're holding Kim a prisoner, down below here.”

Blue murmured, “Then we should probably see about getting Kim loose.” He shook his head thoughtfully, then whispered, “It's not that bad. We were in a worse place near Artemisia, when we were there last. D'you suppose it's all changed over the mountains, Abasio?”

Abasio had refused to consider this. He would have to consider it, and a number of other possible unpleasant things, before they approached the area. He knew there was a town named for him—­for a certain image of him—­north of the Artemisia line. Cat-­land. Named for the heroic Abasio the Cat. He had been told that his picture was painted on its walls. He had heard that his former . . . acquaintance Sybbis was queen of the place. His one intimate encounter with her had been while Abasio himself had been drugged into virtual unconsciousness—­at least his mind had been, though at least some body parts had seemingly remained alert enough to father her child. Or so she had claimed. While not being at all
responsible,
he might in fact have been
responsive
. Or so might a number of others, including his onetime friend CummyNup. Sexual morality was unknown among the gangers except as affected by ownership. Women were often owned by particular ones of them, and no other ganger should trespass on what another ganger owned. The boy would be how old now? About four or five years?

Any association with Sybbis's child could mean trouble. He would need to look as different from his former ganger self as possible when they reached Artemisia, the end of this leg of their journey. He shook his head, feeling the uncustomary fall of hair around his ears and shoulders. He had been younger then, and his hair had been cropped—­long hair was a disadvantage in a fight!—­so now he had let it grow and was letting himself age, as though there were any
let
about it! Soon he would have to cut it or braid it. He muttered, “Sybbis is there. Y'think she'd know me, Blue?”

“You're older,” said Blue. “And you're grayer. You should go with that, become a bit grayer yet. Quit shaving your face. By the time we're down the mountain, you'll have enough for a mustache and a neat little beard.”

“Xulai says kissing a man with a mustache is like trying to suck berries from a thornbush.”

“Don't grow one, then. Your hair's enough longer you can braid it and put stuff in the braids. Feathers and ribbons. That's Etershore doings, and it'd add ten years or so to the age you seem to be.”

“Sybbis knew me as one of her father's gangers. We were all known by our scars and our tattoos, and during our one encounter, she identified me by mine. They removed both scars and the remnants of the tattoos in Tingawa, so that won't help her. She's never seen the wagon, but her consort, CummyNup, was told all about it by one of the locals, so she might suspect something even though it's been repainted.”

He did not want his history in the area to complicate matters for him and Xulai. When he left Artemisia, years ago, he hadn't known the waters were rising. No one in Artemisia had known. The only places aware of it were coastal areas and river basins, and not all of them had considered it to be a worldwide thing. The three great beings in the Place of Power had had a specific task—­ self-­determined or imposed by something even more powerful. That had been to get rid of the cities and the walkers and to make sure no one brought back any of the ancient weapons stored up near the moon. Abasio shook his head. He hadn't thought about any of this in ages! Now it was all flooding back: “The place. The terrible battle. The angels . . .” He did not realize he was speaking aloud.

“Angels!” whinnied Ragweed. “That's who's going to save that Burned Hat place! Didn't they tell us, ‘
Oh, the ocean isn't coming, no, but it wouldn't matter if it did because before anything happens to us, the skies will open and all the angels will come down to carry us away. Our prophet told us so!' ”
Ragweed yawned, rotated her head upon her neck, and said in her normal voice, “Made me wish the angels had carried them away before we got there.”

Abasio shook his head: the ­people of Burned Hat would not have been talking about the angels Abasio had met! Those beings had not been malign, but they had been divinely pragmatic. Few humans could manage that kind of pragmatism.
They had done what they came to do. They had left him with one certainty: there were other intelligences in the universe besides humans and earthly animals.

He had to keep reminding himself of that.
The terrible walkers were gone; the shuttle with his beloved Olly was . . .
His mind shut down and he thrust that thought away.
All that was past. The future was with him and Xulai and the babies and, he hoped, the ­people of Artemisia, who were very good ­people whose customs and pattern of life deserved to survive!

He patted Rags's shoulder. “Xulai tells me not to fret over things. She says just to thank whatever Gods may be, there are several generations of recruitment left before total coverage, and every generation enormously increases sea-­egg production.”