Watson, Ian - Black Current 03 (28 page)

 
          
Alternatively: how could she avoid
lingering in Guineamoy to be hospitable to visiting Sons? Thus to make up for
her rude remarks about them (which she hadn't uttered quite so)? If
that
was what the guild preferred.

 
          
Which way did the rudder point?

           
"Oh,"
she said.

           
But again
old Kaski surprised her. The priestess chuckled. "Never fear, child! We
intend to give our benediction to the balloon scheme.
And,
what's more, to your participation in it. In fact, you will become
our official representative. There, how's that?"

 
          
What a shift of the wind to an
unexpected quarter!

           
"Eh?"
said Yaleen.

           
"I
believe you heard me well enough."

           
"Ah.
Yes.
Um.
Can Peli be part of the expedition too?"

           
Now Kaski
frowned. "What's this?
Your friend Peli?"

           
"She's
very competent."

           
"I'm
aware of it. Is she asking to go?"

           
"Not
quite.
I could persuade her, with your
blessing."

           
"You'll
do no such thing. It would be wholly unethical to pressure such a competent
crew member into quitting the river."

 
          
"Who's quitting? We'll be
back."

           
"Mind
your manners! You presume too much. The guild does not give its blessing to
Peli going, especially when she has no wish to do so." As if to soften the
severity of this, Kaski added, "To be sure, you'll be back. . . ."

 
          
"My
apologies."

           
"Accepted.
It's good that you've had this exposure in
the newssheets."

 
          
"Is it?"

           
"This
establishes you as a personality, expedition-wise. You're up front, as
our
person. I'm sure you won't let us
down.
Nor for that matter, the balloon."
Wreathed
in wrinkled smiles, Kaski arose nimbly from her throne.

 
          
Roses
are blooming in Pecawar—/

           
Yaleen
whistled this old tune to herself as she trod the dust of her home town on her
way to visit the expedition headquarters.

 
 
          
Capiz
Street
stretched out eastward towards open
country, accompanied by its aqueduct along which a rill of water purled.

 
          
At this distance from the riverside
and the Wheelhouse, the aqueduct had descended nearly to ground level. Its
piers were only three bricks high. Its gutter had narrowed to concentrate what
was left of the flow. Entry to the walled gardens of houses on that side of the
road was by little bridges which stepped up over the 'duct; whereas closer to
the town centre the piers were high enough to walk beneath.

 
          
This whole network
of 'ducts which carried water to homes and irrigated gardens still enchanted
and intrigued Yaleen almost as much as it had when she was a child.
Truly, the system was one of the wonders of Pecawar. (The second wonder being
the many rose gardens, both public and private,
which availed
themselves of the moisture.
) The flow commenced high and huge at the
Wheelhouse by the river. There, giant archimedean screws forever quarried
water; themselves powered by great wooden waterwheels which a headrace flume
kept in constant motion. The prime source soon branched into a number of
different, slowly descending, circuitous aqueducts, which branched and branched
in turn—till out by the edge of town where she now walked, a 'duct would be
diminuendo, about to peter out.

 
          
The elevated 'duct system had been in
place a hundred years and more. Its designer of genius, architect Margeegold of
Aladalia, had paid close attention to another, and complementary, sort of flow:
to wit, the smooth passage of people and goods through the Pecawar streets.
Hence the many convolutions of the network, even downtown where the 'ducts
marched high. Moving further from the source, the branching 'ducts as they
descended often compelled lesser streets to tunnel underneath, or bridge up and
over with ramps or flights of steps. In the past this had proved a cause of
complaint to the elderly who could remember a flat, no-fuss Pecawar. To
Yaleen's way of thinking all these ups and downs brought some of the charm of
Verrino to an otherwise level town. Maybe she had even elected to become a
riverwoman in the first place thanks to Margeegold's aqueducts; for riverwater
continually bubbled through her home town, along red brick veins, like
lifeblood.

 
          
Without a map it was hard to say
which branches led where. Whether the
Pemba Avenue
'duct ultimately watered her home neighbourhood—or the
Zanzyba
Road
one! As a child, oblivious to the likely
existence of an official plan (or rather, disdaining this type of adult
approach to something enchanting), she and her friends had formed a gang
pledged to solve the riddle of the waterways. This, they had set out to achieve
by perilously scaling downtown piers and launching paper boats with
identification marks on them. Then they had raced off to try to catch these,
much further down 'duct. In a papery way she was already becoming a boat woman.

 
          
One day her brother Capsi tried to
spoil this fine sport by presenting his own pen and ink diagram of the
network—the true layout, so he claimed, arrived at by observation and
deduction.

 
          
Yaleen and friends had snatched his
work. In furious petulance at Capsi's blindness to the unwritten magic rules of
their boat-chasing game, they had tom the map up and floated the pieces away.

 
          
But thereafter the magic perished.
The gang didn't scale any more piers. Besides, they had already been hauled
down on two separate occasions and harangued by an aquaguild worker. Capsi, for
his part, became alienated after that. He concentrated his attention upon the
further shore, which was then
still
taboo. . . .

 
          
As Yaleen walked along, whistling
repetitively, her mind had wandered back into past. Now the time suddenly
restored her to herself.

 
          
Roses were blossoming indeed.
Climbers sprawled over garden walls. Here,
Zephirine
Drouhin
the thornless rose bloomed carmine- pink, its rich scent strongly
assailing the passer-by. There,
Felicity
and Perpetuity
rambled
its red-flecked ivory
rosettes.

 
          
Ahead, a grey globe loomed over walls
and rooftops: the "first stage" of the balloon! It had been just the
beginnings of a framework of split bamboo the last time she saw it. Yaleen
quickened her step and presently she arrived at the workyard from which balloon
and gondola would rise one day soon.

 
          
At once she caught sight of Tam and
Hasso labouring together on the gondola.
That
hadn't even existed when she sailed from Pecawar. A true boat on the sky, it
now rested in a supporting cradle underneath the tethered globe.

 
          
Other men were working, too—she
recognized Observer Tork, and Farge from Guineamoy—but it was Hasso and Tam for
whom she had eyes.

 
          
Tam most of all.
Tam.

 
          
Yes, she
did
love him. She knew that now. She had rehearsed loving him times
enough on the voyage back from Guineamoy. In so doing she had found that a
person could indeed teach herself to believe in love by concentrating; by
invoking the image of that love a sufficient number of times—like a piece of
music much practised till playing it became second nature. Oh yes, there was an
art to love, akin to complex music. This art was distinct from the skill of
sexual pleasure, which was a simpler time that the body played.
Just a tune.
Love was (could be, should be) a symphony, a
heart-chorale.

 
          
And now the actual music-drama of
this love could get under way; though Hasso, her other former partner in the
time of sexual amusement, must of course remain a sweet friend.

 
          
She broke into a run across the yard.
"Tam!
Hasso!
Tam!"

 
          
The men turned. Hasso started towards
her. But Tam stepped past him, for she had called Tam's name twice; and it was
into his arms that Yaleen jumped. Tam hugged her, released her. She spun; and
touched Hasso's hand, but only touched it.

 
          
She laughed. "I'm back!"

 
          
"From the wild
dogs' lair, eh?"
Hasso gave a wicked grin.

 
          
"Oh,
that!
Listen you two: the river temples have given their blessing.
And what's more,
I'm
my guild's
chosen nominee—to fly! They haven't just said okay; they've made me their
official representative."

 
          
"What marvellous news,"
said
Tam.

 
          
Hasso nodded. "It's all in the
latest newssheet, of course."

 
          
"Really?
I haven't been home yet. Left my kit in town; rushed straight out here."

 
          
'To your future
home-from-home."
Tam stretched his right hand invitingly towards
the light wooden gondola. This gesture tugged his sleeve up, exposing the queer
thin red birthmark which ran full circle round his wrist.

 
          
"Definitely worth a fortnight in
Manhome South, to prove your mettle," said Hasso. "Seriously, I mean
it."

 
          
The two men were competing subtly. But
did not Hasso already sound just a tad resigned?
Perhaps even
cynical, with a hint of bitterness?
She certainly hoped not; that would
be a shame.

 
          
Though if Hasso read the signs
aright—of her plunge into Tam's arms—was he not obliged to withdraw somewhat?

 
          
Not really!

 
          
At this point one of the motives
behind her decision to prefer Tam became crystal clear to Yaleen. Maybe it was
a kindly motive; maybe it was selfish. The fact was that Hasso was sufficiently
experienced in the ways of the world to play second fiddle; whereas Tam could
have been deeply, heartachingly hurt.

           
Damn it,
why should there
be
any need for a
choice between them?

           
Ah but
there had to be, if she was to explore the full symphony of love, all the
obsessive ache of it (as opposed to convivial amorousness).

 
          
Tam seized up Yaleen's hand. He held
it, stroking her fingers. "Hey, what's this?"

           
"Oh, my ring?"

           
"Noticed
it right away," commented Hasso. "Ve-ry pretty.
Gift
from an admirer?"

           
"You
could say so."

           
"How's
that?" asked Tam, letting go her hand in panic; at which Hasso smiled and
looked serene.

           
"Long story!
Tell you all about it later. Look, don't I
rate a drink? I'm parched."

           
Hasso
jerked a thumb at the smaller of the two substantial storage sheds. "I've
a bottle of decent vintage stowed over there."

           
"I
think I'd prefer ale if there's any." Yaleen waited a moment before
turning to Tam, so as not to seem to snub Hasso.

           
"I
could easily run and fetch a jugful," Tam offered. "It isn't
far." "Shouldn't take him more than half an hour," said Hasso.

           
"Oh
Tam, you mustn't bother! That's ridiculous. How about coffee? Or
lemonade?"

           
Tam
brightened. "Lemonade, it is!"

           
So the
three friends headed for the shed.

           
Part of the
shed was stacked with dried food, preserves, blankets, empty demijills for
water, and such. Yaleen spotted an unmade bed. "Is one of you sleeping out
here?"

           
"Somebody
has to, to guard the balloon and basket," said Hasso. "Gondola,"
Tam corrected him. "It's much bigger than a basket." "Like a
little boat," agreed Yaleen.

 
          
Tam fetched a flagon of lemonade to a
table spread with charts. These charts were mainly blank. A couple of Tam's
pots with sprays of
Pink Parfait
roses glowing through the glaze weighed them down. Tam poured a couple of
glassfuls, glanced at Hasso, poured a third "We've decided on a
name," he said.