Fish Tails

  Ramton—­and possibly Burned Hat—­had been the worst towns they’d encountered. They’d heard all possible arguments and vilifications on this journey. As a result, they had learned not to talk about the first stage of the process. Any explanation of the first stage, which could be slightly traumatic, could be left to the ­people at Sea Duck, who could actually enact it before their eyes. Instead they simply referred to “the process.” “We are here to offer the process to those of you who are interested.” Those who were not merely uninterested but violently opposed turned their backs and muttered threats or attempted violence and were dealt with; those who didn’t care one way or the other chatted about it for a few days before forgetting it; and those who were truly interested and young enough to be accepted packed up their necessary belongings and traveled westward, to Wellsport. One had to be of childbearing age, otherwise there was no point. Abasio and Xulai had been able to avoid preemptive defense except on the Ramton occasion and in the three-­town cluster: Burned Hat, Saddlebag, and Rotch.

  Burned Hat had been impossible. “If the water comes the angels will come take us to a new world. We know this for a fact. No, we ain’t interested and better get going before the men get worked up. They don’t like folks comin’ here tellin’ us how we’re s’posed to live.” Accordingly, they got going. This irritated the already-­worked-­up men, who knew shortcuts to Saddlebag and Rotch, and they had worked up the men of those villages into a fine fury before they figured Abasio and Xulai could get there.

  Abasio and their outrider, Kim, however, had already decided on detouring via a long loop to the south that would avoid both the other towns. Men from Saddlebag and Rotch lay in ambush, intending to kill the travelers before they reached either place so that neither village could be contaminated by new ideas.

  Abasio and Xulai never saw those lying in wait. When other villagers went looking for them later, the ambushers were gone, leaving no evidence of violence or, indeed, any evidence they had ever existed. Abasio and Xulai knew of the incident only when ul xaolat reported as one item in the day’s activity log: “routine defensive maneuver completed.” There was no mention of the village names. By that time ul xaolat had learned that reports were unlikely to be closely scrutinized when they were, first, given as general information, without any interesting details, and, second, were not provided until very late in the day, by which time Xulai was too tired to be picky.

  In blessed ignorance, Xulai counted only Ramton and Burned Hat as total failures. The two villages avoided were not counted at all. She felt they had achieved an excellent acceptance rate, though she had tended to fret over some missed villages, regretting that they had not been able to take time to try to convince ­people. “If the men succeed in killing us, our mission fails,” said Abasio, who had been schooled among gangers. “Living under the sea will require adaptability and intelligence. ­People without those qualities won’t make it anyhow. Survival of the fittest is an absolute truth, and fitness implies being able to see reality. I think it’s something called bough . . .” He stopped, momentarily confused. “No, that’s in one of those dreams I keep having. I just mean some ­people don’t ever see how things really are, and reality has let them perish. Who are we to second-­guess reality?” There was something in that about bough, also, but he couldn’t think what!

  So now, in Bertram’s shop, they second-­guessed nothing but merely slept exhaustedly until Bertram returned with a tray. The jingle of china woke his visitors to be astonished by teapot, cups, saucers, even milk and white sugar—­in little loaves! Like tiny building blocks! They had not seen sugar cubes since they left Tingawa! Abasio’s eyebrows went up. Real sugar was virtually unknown on this continent.

  Bertram flushed at their obvious surprise. “My family sends it to me. It is their business. It isn’t from cane. We grew cane in the east, my family did, but the climate here is too cold for cane, so we grow sugar beets some way south of here. Cane or beet, the process is the same: crush the plant, collect the juice, boil the juice. The little sugar shapes are a conceit of ours. And all shapes of sugar are equally sweet in the tea, no?”

  They sipped together. Xulai relaxed. It was a good tea, herbal, slightly floral, a touch of mint, and bergamot, with other ingredients she could not quite identify. It was not as satisfying as the teas in Tingawa, where the tea shrubs of the ancient world were still being cultivated, but still it was flavorful and relaxing, with a pleasing scent. Tea was one of the things that she would miss, though if her friend Precious Wind had her way, the flavor would be transferred to one or several sea-­plants: cups would be carved from coral, and magnifying glasses would be used to heat the water—­if they couldn’t figure out underwater stoves or possibly ways to use subterranean hot spouts! Sea-­plants tended to be heavily mineralized, which interfered with flavor. Precious Wind was much concerned with methods for distilling seawater so the tea would not taste of salt. Xulai didn’t worry over it: by the time tea no longer existed, neither would Xulai.

  She drank deeply and focused instead on the matter at hand, saying gratefully to Bertram: “Make two jackets for each child, a little larger than the size they are now: then two each, a size larger than that; and two more a size larger yet. That’s six for each, a dozen. Light shirts, also, something very washable that will not need to be ironed. It simply can’t be done when we’re traveling like this. I suppose that should keep them clothed for at least a ­couple of years, perhaps longer, though I’ve been wrong about every supposition I’ve made about them yet.”

  “Would you say they are growing about the same rate as ordinary children?”

  Xulai nodded. “I’ve been told they are, by committees of mothers who’ve seen them.”

  “Can you weigh them, ma’am?”

  Abasio said he could.

  “Then if you will tell me their present weight, I have a chart that will give me their probable sizes for the next ­couple of years.”

  “Wonderful.” She sighed. “What payment do you accept, Bertam?”

  “What have you to offer, ma’am?”

  “Notes upon the bank of Ghastain. Letters of transfer from the Tingawan Reserve. Some barter goods, though they are small things only. Or gold coin.”

  “Gold is always acceptable, ma’am. The smaller coin the better if I am to use it.” He lowered his voice and whispered, “Or I would take books, ma’am.”

  “Books?” exclaimed Abasio.

  “Shh,” said the tailor. “I broke my vow when you came in, sir, madam. In my surprise, in my shock, I mentioned the books. I am not supposed to mention the books, ever. But . . . considering what you have told me . . . Ah. Nothing is as it should be! I am a Volumetarian, sir. Are you familiar with Volumetarianism?”

  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 i
t, 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.”