The Braided World (30 page)

A branch snapped nearby. Anton caught sight of hair caught up in a disheveled bun, its red tint flashing in the tatters of the sun … His heart thrummed in his chest, his hand gripped the pistol, safety off. Beside him, Maypong didn't breathe or tremble. The Dassa passed within two meters of them, then responded to a hail from the path and crashed away.

It was then that the cloud country returned to its usual form and the fog closed all gaps, rolling up from the gorge, swirling over the world.

They went for the bridge.

Anton held Maypong firmly by the elbow, forcing her ahead of him to forestall the plan he knew was in her mind: to make him cross alone. The thought nagged that he should let her save him, that it wasn't merely his life that mattered, it was the mission, and he was all that held it together, with Nick faltering, and Zhen a lousy leader in every way, and Sergeant Webb in over his head. He could accept Maypong's allegiance. He had accepted it; had let her step into danger as his chancellor, making her daughter a pawn in Oleel's hands. He had let her suffer in every way, and never questioned that it was his due, treating her as a servant, because he needed her; the mission needed her. He
needed her to remain on this side of the span, so that the fraying bridge could hold.

But he pushed her forward onto the bridge.

The bridge consisted of two thick ropes forming the main girders and rope sections connecting them, to walk on. Despite the rope railing on both sides, the entire construct was more air than substance. He stepped forward, off the ledge of ground, onto the cloud bridge, blocking Maypong from moving past him. With little choice, she moved out farther onto the squeaking net of the bridge. To better distribute their weight, he followed some meters behind her.

The fog was so thick he could see nothing but his hand on the rope. The squeak of the rigging—the only sound except for the distant hiss of the river—scratched loudly in his ears. Maypong had disappeared ahead of him, but he sensed her by the quivering strands of ropes, the interplay of his footsteps and hers, seesawing the bridge. Then, for a moment, he thought he discerned the buttery yellow of her jacket, like a flame in front of him, and he set his eyes on that, feeling with his feet for the next rope to stand on.

A mist fell on his face. He had become an initiate, traversing the air into a country of clouds. There might be answers where they were going, or death, or nothing at all. But suspended here, over the gorge, there was only Maypong, a melting golden spot before him. He followed her, leading with his heart. How wrong he'd been if he'd thought that he was fated to love the king's daughter. All along, it was to be a woman more common than that, yet more noble. And he thought that it was not a matter of chancellor and captain for Maypong, and never had been. Vidori hadn't commanded her to die for him, just to teach him.

The rope split beneath his foot.

He plunged down, through the hole, his hand slipping from the rope railing, holding on now by his fists, grabbing
one of the great ropes. His feet dangled into the valley, kicking air.

Slowly, he raised his knees and bent his body forcing his legs over the great rope, one of the large ones. If it broke, it would bring the whole bridge down. Grappling, he hoisted himself forward, until he lay prone on the sideways ladder, his heart thudding enough to vibrate the web of the woven bridge.

“Anton?” came her voice, full of fear.

“I'm all right,” he said. His stomach was still flailing down into the chasm, but the rest of him abided. “Keep going.” He pulled himself upright.

Staggering on, one rope at a time, he could see Maypong, far ahead of him, dancing from one rope to the next.

Oh, that was bad. He could see her.

The clouds had begun to evaporate.

A shout went up from the hillside behind them. Anton rushed forward, heedless of footholds. He heard Maypong urging him on, and then the report of a gun. The attackers had abandoned the silence of arrows.

There was yet a third of the way to the end of the bridge. Maypong was almost completely across, rushing wildly, the ropes swaying …

“Anton!” cried Maypong. “They are cutting the bridge!”

He sped onward, claiming the rope rungs with feet that calculated the intervals, thinking that if the bridge gave way on one side, he'd become a wrecking ball on the end of a crashing pendulum, smashing into the hillside.

Maypong was on the hillside now, reaching out for him, to help him if he got close enough.

“Get down,” he shouted, as bullets sliced by.

And then one of the great ropes gave way, and the pathway skewed to one side. He now clung to the side railing, one foot on the remaining great rope. He turned sideways, creeping along the remaining strand, as the day brightened around him, and the hole in the clouds seemed to follow him like a spotlight.

Her hands were three meters away. She stood in the rain of bullets, reaching for him.

The bridge fell.

As he felt it give way, he leapt forward, propelling himself headlong toward the valley side. And she caught him, hands latched onto one forearm, dragging him as he scrambled against the crumbling hillside.

And then he was next to her, lying on the solid ground, the bridge dangling down the steamy gorge.

He laughed. Holding on to Maypong, he laughed. She pulled him into the cover of the undergrowth.

“There is something funny, Anton?” she asked irritably. A bullet sliced into the mud nearby.

He nodded. “Yeah, there is.” As she helped him sit up, he said, “They just shot themselves in the foot.”

“How do you know whose feet are shot?”

“Never mind. I just mean they can't follow us now.”

“That's very true.” She looked over at him. “Maybe that is funny, as you said.”

“Well, let's get out of here.” They climbed up to the path, the ever-looping path of the region. The gunfire now fell well short of them, and they rested a moment.

“One thing, though, Anton.” She was looking across the valley. “Did you see who is following us?”

Yes, a group of men, about ten of them. He stopped to squint across the gorge, just thickening again with fog. On that far hill he saw a very tall man with a bun on top of his head. Surrounded by men in tunics. Not uldia. They were judipon.

So
, he wondered,
did you come with or without Homish's knowledge?
He waved.

Nirimol was staring in his direction, but didn't acknowledge.

Anton turned back to his companion. “Here, take these,” he said. “They almost strangled me.” He handed Maypong the boots that he'd tied around his neck for the climb across the bridge.

Maypong gazed at them.

“We're going home now, Maypong. I can't get there if you're going to fall down on the job.” She frowned at the dropped honorific. “Can I just use your name? If I love you, can I call you Maypong?”

Her eyes softened. After a pause, she said, “If you want.”

“I want.”

She nodded like a queen granting a momentous favor. Then she sat on the muddy hill and strapped on her boots.

Bailey had never in her life felt less like going to a party.
She sat in the great canoe as it sped down the Puldar, rowed by the king's servants, following a golden path lit by the setting sun.

Shim had come an hour ago to request Bailey's presence at the king's festivities. Incredibly and despite all that had happened, the king had summoned her to the palace to sing.

No
, she'd told Shim.

Shim had blinked.
“No?”

It was too soon to sing. She hadn't finished studying the file. Sergeant Webb had sent it to her only two days ago, and she had to finish reading it, every word.

“I don't perform any longer,” Bailey said, trying to smile politely. “Too old, and besides, my agent arranges these things. He's terribly difficult to reach these days.”

Nick came forward, taking Bailey by the arm, whispering to her. “Don't be stupid. Go and sing, for God's sake.”

Bailey raised an eyebrow at this impertinence. “I don't feel like it,” she said. “I'm out of practice.”

Nick looked dreadful. The poisons from that devil's brew that he'd drunk made him look half dead. He hissed at her, “It's politics, Bailey. Maybe Vidori is trying to soften things for that poor hoda, trying to say singing isn't so bad. Try to think of someone besides yourself.”

Bailey looked over at Shim, who was starting to look hopeful.

Damn and damn.

Calling up a rather good smile, she strode back to the chancellor. “Well, perhaps a song will do no harm.”

Oh, but song had done a world of harm, in her world and here. Yet
not
singing wasn't the answer, and never had been. Instead, she must face things squarely So she'd sent for the file, the file she'd carried with her for twenty years but never read. It wasn't a long record—terribly brief, in fact. The short history of her mirror image, the sister— daughter—clone …
person
for whose death she was responsible.
Why bother? Why wallow?
The old lies still had life.
Because not knowing doesn't save you. It kilb you.

Now, on the river, heading to the king's party, Bailey watched the Olagong, the braided lands, pass by. She had spent decades pushing the world away, rushing from one engagement to the next. Even this mission, her one good thing, was a gig. But the Olagong had pulled on her, taking her down into itself, where young girls lay in rosy pools, and the thread of your heart could fray and then reweave.

And so she would perform, at last. It was a good day for it: high and bright, and with Anton out on that expedition, and everything going in the right direction, finally. The young pup was proving more canny than she'd thought. She had to admit he was starting to get his sea legs. He had defied the king, and here came Vidori's invitation in spite of that.

As the king's palace hove into view, she reviewed her repertoire: Mozart, perhaps Puccini, or there was that Rossini she'd always loved. But then again, such fast coloratura
… perhaps it was best to stay with the lyric repertoire.
My goodness.
How desperately she
did
want to sing!

Even from this distance she could see that the palace was brimming with Dassa. Well, then, a good crowd. It surprised her that she cared.

Bailey leaned forward. “Shim-rah, take me in the back way.”

Shim twisted around to look at Bailey. “Everyone will expect you to come to the river stairs.”

“Then we'll surprise them, won't we?”

Shim ordered the rowers to change their course slightly

“And Shim-rah, I'll need to borrow some clothes.” She added: “Something showy but tasteful. Think you can find an extra gown?”

Now Shim brightened. “Oh, Bailey, thankfully I have many showy and tasteful things.”

“My kind of girl,” Bailey said, starting to go into performance mode.

Teetering along on the high-soled sandals, Bailey walked slowly toward the river room.

“Hurry, Bailey,” Shim urged. “We are already later than the king wishes.”

Bailey held up the brocaded skirt with one hand to keep from tripping on it. “It'll be worth the wait, my dear. An audience never grows old, only more eager.” The ensemble was a gorgeous peachy-gold with rose trim and a golden insert around the neck. But the damn thing was heavy and just a little too long.

As they proceeded down the hall, hoda and Dassa alike stopped to frankly stare. Bailey hoped that she was creating the right impression, and didn't look like a horse in a petticoat. ‘Are you sure this gown is the right one?”

“Oh, Bailey, it is the most showy I have.”

“Yes, but how do I look?” Damn, all she needed was a little reassurance. She had sung so little recently—could she
command her voice now? How would she do in that middle register?

“Like …” Shim faltered. “Like …”

“Oh never mind,” Bailey snapped. She nodded to an old viven hurrying toward the great hall, and the Dassa actually smiled at her.

“Shim-rah,” Bailey said, “tell me again why Vidori wants me to sing.”

“Because the people love you, Bailey.”

“Yes, but why does he want me to sing?”

“To make the people happy, Bailey.”

Bailey snorted. It was nothing of the sort. It was a political maneuver. Nick was right—the king was making an effort for the hoda. But why, when he had never cared before?

Ahead, the crowded hall loomed. A few Dassa saw her coming, and made a clear passage for her.

She held her head high and glided into the crowd.

As she moved into the hall, she saw the king standing near the steps, amid the press of viven. People turned to her on every side, and all conversation vanished in a moment. She approached Vidori, still furiously debating whether a curtsy would suit or not, and if she would bloody well topple over.

As he nodded to her, she took a sweeping curtsy as far to the floor as her ridiculous shoes would allow. “Your Majesty,” she said, smiling. It had the desired effect: People gaped at her and made her the absolute center of attention.

“Ah, Bailey,” Vidori said, beaming. “May you never wear green again.”