Watson, Ian - Black Current 03 (10 page)

 
          
"Yaleen!"
It was Dad's voice.

 
          
"Donnah," I whispered,
"I only did what I did for the best, without malice." Gently I
detached myself from her embrace; gently she let me do so.

 
          
"Of course you did," she
murmured back.
Sad?
Scared? I no longer knew.

 
          
"Yaleen."
Dad strode across the hall, skirting the blood-puddles and the machete. "I
just heard about Tam. It's terrible.
Awful.
The poor
lad! I promise I'll care for him. I shan't let him despair. I'll help him be
whole again—in spirit at least."

 
          
"Thanks, Dad. But I
am
sailing tomorrow. You needn't worry
on that score."

 
          
His look showed that I had wounded
him. But he merely said, "Look after your mother for me, will you? Whilst
I'm looking after Tam?"

 
          
"If I can,
Dad.
If I can.
It isn't always easy to look
after people— when they have the wind in their sails."

 
          
"Don't I know it," I heard
Donnah say softly.

 
          
We were all being very delicate and
tender with each other. We were all hurt equally, and we had enough strength to
wallow in our hurt. Unlike Tam, whose wound was the
worst.
The most unendurable.

 
          
*
* *

 
          
Tam's condition was stable by the
evening. He wasn't going to die. He wasn't going to lose the rest of his arm to
gangrene. The tourniquets had been removed.

 
          
Stamno had vanished. Nobody could find
him—and no one had seen him go out that morning. So presumably he hadn't been
lurking along
Pemba Avenue
waiting for his agent to acquire the last pitcher from the arcade. He must have
heard the commotion—and somehow decamped, over the yard wall, though I would
have thought that impossible, and him not much of an athlete to look at.
Clearly the threat to his quest had driven him to some desperate exertion.

 
          
Or had he contrived to slip out
earlier on? Had he been intending to decamp in any case—contrary to what he had
told me—just as soon as he laid hands on the last sheets? I didn't know.

 
          
I certainly didn't volunteer any
information about Stamno, to a most displeased Chanoose. I didn't breathe a
word about the type- makers of Guineamoy, or the Seekers of Truth, or the Port
Barbra cult women.

 
          
Chanoose walked off with my own
original copy of
The Book of the Stars.
Actually, I presented this to her before she could confiscate it. The book had
ruined Tam; I didn't want it any more. Not that particular manuscript. And the
copy, wherever it was, was only missing a few last pages of no great moment; in
retrospect, of very little moment indeed.

 
          
The next morning I bade an awkward
farewell to Tam. He lay in his room looking ashen—and so alone, though my father
sat by him.

 
          
He did bring himself to say, "I
always had too many bones, Yaleen. Always, didn't I?" I didn't know
whether he spoke bravely, or dementedly. Nor did I want to decide. I kissed him
on the brow and fled upstairs—whence I was conveyed ceremonially to the
quayside, perched in my seat strapped to poles.

 
          
We boarded: guards and Peli and Mum
and me.
Donnah too—my travelling major-domo now.
Donnah looked mightily relieved to be sailing forth again. Yet until we
actually cast off, she often glanced ashore as though Chanoose might decide at
this last and cruellest moment to replace her.

 
          
It was bright and breezy that Rhoday
mom, though the sun would blaze hard by
noon
.
Out on the waters the air smelled hopeful and healthy. Presently I spied the
first of Tam's dikes. At that distance from shore I could barely make it out:
just a thin line fringing the river, with a rude hut nearby for the watchman
to occupy.

 
          
I imagined water being allowed to
seep back to cover the exposed clay during the long weeks to come.

 
          
I hurried to find Donnah. I told her
to send a signal back to Chanoose insisting that both dikes should be kept
drained even if Tam looked like never crafting another pot in his life. Even if
Tam
demanded
that they flood the
beds of clay.
Even if he quit Pecawar to walk home.

 
          
But nobody else should ever use that
clay.

           
When we
arrived in Guineamoy the town seemed even dirtier and smellier than last time
I'd visited the place. The war had stimulated industry and with the coming of
peace the host of manufacturers pursued the old avenue of profit with renewed
vigour and capital, meanwhile searching out new ones too, for their rejigged
workshops to supply.

 
          
Fresh advances in forging and
metallurgy had occurred. New chemicals had been cooked up, and mixed in novel
combinations (original object: combustion, explosions). Gases were being extracted
from coals and other sorts of rock. Experiments were afoot.

 
          
More especially experiments were in
the air—that was where you could sniff them. And spy them, too. Guineamoy was
the home of the balloon which had graced our grand regatta. During our stay
another hot-air balloon was undergoing trials. This specimen had wooden
"fans" jutting from its passenger basket.
Powered
by compressed air, these fans swished round to steer the balloon—slowly, by
and large—against the breeze.
Yet this method of steering couldn't have
been too reliable. One day I saw the balloon drifting through the smoky sky
without fans turning, heading towards the river. All of a sudden the flicker of
fire and shimmer of air above the basket disappeared and the balloon was
dropping fast. Before the craft could crash into the ground, the flame leapt
briefly alive to buoy it up—and a rope with an anchor on the end was tossed
out, its hooks snagging on a roof below.

 
 
          
However,
the kind of industry I was interested in was typefounding. Whilst I was
presiding over what had come to be called "communion" with the
Worm—the solemn drinking of swigs of the black current—Peli was busy in town
doing a spot of investigating. (I suppose I was in town too. But only just.
Since men couldn't board the
Crackerjill,
a pavilion had been erected for me on the quayside; just as at Gangee and Gate
of the South.)

 
          
I'd tried without success to deter
Peli from aping a Port Barbra accent—the quiet murmur, the softly hooded
consonants—as subterfuge. If she got excited she couldn't keep this up; and
besides it was Stamno who had commissioned the new type fount, not some woman
of 'Barbra. (Or so, at least, Stamno had told us.) But Peli liked the idea of
disguising herself. She went equipped with a long scarf to wind round her head
as a 'Barbra-style hood and mouth- mask while she was prowling the streets of
Guineamoy. I'm sure this must have made her stick out like a sore thumb. It was
high summer by the time we arrived. The heat wasn't so fierce or the air as
humid as in the
deep south
, but the atmosphere was
still pretty stifling. The sun was hazed with an overcast of smoke which
pressed the hot exhalations of smelters back down to earth to add to the
season's natural warmth.

 
          
True, a few of the locals had taken
to wearing thin muslin masks to keep the smuts out of their nostrils; and coifs
or snoods, besides, to protect their hair. Yet these eccentrics were strictly a
minority. Judging by glances directed askance at such, not everybody in
Guineamoy admired this new fashion.
Proper
Guineamoy folk should obviously suck the dirty air in with relish. They should
stick a finger up their snouts and lick the grime. Undeterred, Peli sallied
forth with six spans of wool to wrap about her countenance.

 
          
Wool was also wrapped around the
whereabouts of the metal- smith with whom Stamno claimed he had struck his
secret deal. I had no special reason to think that Stamno had been lying, but
in view of our savant's disappearance it seemed as wise to check up; and for a
whole week Peli drew a blank.

 
          
She slipped into my cabin on the
evening of that day when I saw the balloon make its emergency descent. She was muffled
up to the gills.

 
          
"Peli, you
nitwit!
Do you want the whole boat to see you sneaking round like
that?"

 
          
A chuckle issued from the scarf as
she unwound it. She was grinning mischievously. "Never fear: I just
bundled up right outside the door. Figured a dramatic entry might be in order.
Because ... I found out!"

 
          
"You did?"

 
          
"Absolutely.
Today I went over to Ferramy Ward. That's out towards the lake of filth.
Town's expanding that way apace, Worm knows why, though I reckon some bright
sparks must have found a way to use the liquid spoils. I spotted big barges
with bucket chains tethered to buoys on the lake; not that I got right up to
it, seeing as Ferramy Ward's already enough of a jungle of workshops and
whatnots—

 
          
"Yes, yes, but what
happened?"

 
          
"Well, I used diligent guile. I
didn't make myself conspicuous by asking leading questions. I found the fellow
by a process of elimination. His name's Harrup, and his little factory was
thumping away like a heart in love, stamping out this and that in hot metals,
with balls of steam puffing out of the ventilators as if it was breathing. . .
.

 
          
"Anyway, I made out I was from
'Barbra, taking passage home aboard this
Crackerjill
of ours. That's just in case Harrup turns up here for his slug of darkness and
spots me on board and wonders. I pretended Stamno was acting as our agent—us
being the 'Barbra mob—and how we were concerned in case he'd run off with our
funds, seeing as we hadn't heard from him since. This was to winkle out whether
Harrup has heard from him lately; and he hasn't. So anyhow, Harrup protested
that he'd already consigned the new fount of type to 'Barbra a fortnight ago.
This was a bit of an awkward moment, since it turns out that Stamno only paid
Harrup half of the price in advance, and now Harrup wanted the rest—from
me.
But I said we'd only pay up when
delivery was confirmed. Do you know how Stamno paid?"

 
          
"Cash?"

 
          
"No, diamonds.
Lots of little sparklers from Tambimatu.
Well, they
don't really
sparkle
much, that sort, but it seems
they've a use for them here on the tips of drills. So as diamonds go, they're
poor specimens. But they aren't exactly cheap.
Nor was the
job."

 
          
"So it's all true. That's a
relief. Now we just have to hope that Stamno got the copy off safely."

 
          
"He'd have been wise to walk to
Gangee or Verrino first. The guild could have been searching all cargoes ex
Pecawar."

 
          
"I'm sure he'd have thought of
that. But listen, Peli: you say he paid in Tambimatu diamonds. How did he get
them?"

           
"From the cult women?
He said they batten on rich
patrons."

 
          
"Yes, but wealth in 'Barbra
means costly woods."

 
          
"He could hardly carry a couple
of cords of rubyvein around with him."

 
          
"Hmm, and I doubt you need
diamonds to drill holes in ivorybone. So why and whence the sparklers?
I
think there must be
cultists,
or at least Seekers for Truth, in Tambimatu too."

 
          
"That figures. I prised a name
out of Harrup, without him suspecting as I didn't know it. It's the name of
the woman he sent the fount to in 'Barbra. She's called Peera-pa."

 
          
"So?"

 
          
"So it's a Tambimatu name. When
I was hunting round Tambimatu town for that bangle of mine—the coiled one,
remember?—I noticed a name just like hers painted up over a lapidary's.
Peerasto; that was it.
Odd name; stuck in me mind."

 
          
"It could equally be a 'Barbra
name."

 
          
"So it could. But there's an
obvious connexion. Funny things fester in deep-south jungles, Yaleen, and
spread like sprintweed."

 
          
Just then we heard a cursory knock on
the door, and before either of us could react Donnah strode in She held a
letter in her hand.

 
          
"For you,
Yaleen.
Compliments of the quaymistress.
It's
from your father. There's one for your mother too."

 
          
Ah, the post had caught up with us.
Hitherto I'd had to rely on signals from Chanoose, attesting to Tam's
well-being; whether true or false.

 
          
Donnah waited. So did
I
, till she went. Then I tore the letter open.

 
          
Dad confirmed that Tam was okay in
body, and reasonably so in spirit too. He had declined Chanoose's fatuous offer
to fix a wooden spatula on his stump, so that he could shape clay. One night
Tam had wept in Dad's arms; though I wasn't ever to let Tam know that I knew
this. The tears seemed to have flushed the poison from his soul. On the very
next day he had gone to the dikes, with Dad accompanying him. As I read this
letter I realized that Tam was fast becoming the son whom Dad had lost in
Capsi. Together they brought back tubs of clay on a cart.

 
          
Tam, the one-handed potter, set to
work again. However, he was no longer working with his kick-wheel.
Instead—slowly and patiently, often cursing humorously—he was modelling
porcelain
hands.
Hands
reaching up.
Hands holding fleuradieu blooms.
Hitherto all of Tam's hands had proved to be abortions. Yet he insisted that
he was going to craft the perfect porcelain hand, one which would blush like
flesh and seem to come alive at night by lamplight.

 
          
Dad thought this was a healthy,
creative response. I wasn't so sure, though I tried to believe it.

 
          
I mustn't have succeeded. That night
I dreamed of the
noon
when Tam had
arrived in Pecawar. In the dream I was waiting to meet him fresh off the
Merry Mandolin.
But when he strode down
the gangplank towards me (minus any bags) the hand which he held out in
greeting was a porcelain one, fused to his wrist of flesh and bone. The moment
I clasped his hand, it cracked into a dozen pieces which fell tinkling to the
flagstones of the quay.

 
          
We tarried four full weeks in
Guineamoy. The reason was that in Guineamoy people seemed generally less eager
to partake of the current and gain their ticket to the .Kfl-store than had been
the case in Gangee or Gate of the South. A fair number did, to be sure. But the
majority ignored us. And that would be their folly.

 
          
The Guineamoy quaymistress ascribed
this reluctance to the prevailing ethic of practical utility, self-help, faith
in tangible things. For instance, most metal equipment used on boats—such as
anchors, rope-rings, winches, pumps—was manufactured in Guineamoy. Now in
reality Guineamoy depended upon the river for its exports, but local wisdom
held it that all river business hinged on Guineamoy skills. Thus men of
Guineamoy weren't going to drink from the "oil-pipe" of the current
(as some local wits described it) any more than they would consider lapping bilge
water.

 
          
This worried the river guild, on
account of all the skills which would be lost if most smiths had their minds
fried; which is why we lingered till visitors fell off to a mere dribble. Then
we cried quits.

 
          
We stopped over at Spanglestream a
single week; likewise at the Bayou. In both places our reception was everything
we'd hoped for.

 
          
So, not long after, we were tying up
at the massive natural stone quays of Jangali.

 
          
Of our stay in Jangali, the
outstanding feature which I must mention is the conduct of my mum; and of that
acid old acquaintance
whom
hitherto I have called
"Moustache"—but who naturally had a name of his own, to wit Petrovy.

 
          
The catalyst between Mum and Petrovy
("catalyst" being a term I had picked up in Guineamoy) was none other
than dusky Lalo. You may recall Lalo—and her fiance Kish—as the two who took
passage home to Jangali aboard the
Spry
Goose,
and who raised the alarm while I was rescuing the drugged Marcialla
from her perch. Then a year later I had found myself pitying
Kish
because Lalo's mum was so thoroughly overbearing.