minute.
Iolanthe seemed pleased. This would score in my favor.
If only she knew how difficult I find it here, at times.
The day’s procession was led by a chariot bearing the festival grand matron, whose spear and crested helm harkened to the goddess of the city gates. Behind came musicians and dancers, blowing pipes and performing fantastic, whirling leaps, as if this vast world were no heavier than a moon. Their floating gowns seemed to catch the air, and laid hooks in my heart.
Many venerable clans sent marching ensembles, to whose instrumental euphonies the crowds sang along… until an abrupt musical variation set onlookers laughing in delighted surprise. Tight formations of brightly burnished cavalry pranced among the bands, followed by lugar-borne palanquins carrying women dignitaries, bedecked with laurels and medals. Mothers and older siblings bent to tell wide-eyed clan daughters what honor or achievement each emblem represented.
At last, the excited audience surged into the avenue, merging with the final contingents, dissolving the parade into an impromptu Mardi Gras. No one noticed or cared when a summer shower swept by, dampening heads, clothes, and flowered canopies, but not the joyful spirit. Some in the crowd did double-takes on spotting me, but others only smiled in a friendly way, urging me to join in the dance. It was exhilarating and fun, but the dampness, the closeness…
I asked Iolanthe to take me away from there. Some of the younger Nitocri with us seemed disappointed, but she agreed at once. We departed the main avenue to explore the rest of the fair..
At the racetrack, horse breeders showed off their prize stock, then stripped the oiled champions of wreaths and fine bows, setting on their backs petite riders from renowned jockey clans. Eager and taut, the mounts leaped at the starting horn, accelerating to bound over the first of many obstacles, then braking to daintily skirt intricate mazes before pounding past the far straightaway in a fury of lathered desire. Winning clans welcomed their entrants with bouquets, embraces, and endearments that would have warmed any lover.
Our next stop could have been an agricultural fair on any of a dozen worlds. Many of the ribbon-bedecked plants and animals were unfamiliar to me, but not the proud looks of young girls who had spent months nurturing their charges for this day. West of Caria, Stratoin balloon-creatures of many types are fostered for their beauty, or the fragrance they exude, or the tricks some breeds can be taught to perform. All of these were on display. Nearby, women whistled to radiant-plumed birds, which dove and swooped, carrying buttons or pieces of colored cloth to contestants who chose winning numbers from a guessing board.
In the craft halls, I witnessed tournaments of pottery, woodworking, and other skills. Many coastal industrial clans had sent their brightest daughters, I was told, to participate in a close-watched competition involving the use of coal and clay and simple ores, hand-working raw materials all the way to finished tools. There were even holovid cameras to cover that event, while mere horseraces went untelevised.
By the riverside we watched water competitions, beginning with sculls and shells and rowing barges. Most were pulled by teams of bronzed, well-muscled, identical women, who needed no coxswain to guide their perfect unison. The culminating trial, however, was a regatta of trim sailing sloops, threading a hazardous course amid sandbars and shallows. To my surprise, these larger craft were crewed by teams of energetic young men. When I learned what prize they strove for, I knew why they competed with such fervor.
It was a thrilling battle of skill, raw energy, and luck. Two of the leading craft, contending violently for the wind, collided, entangling their sails, driving them together on a gravel bank. Whereupon a more cautious team swept by the judges’ buoy, to raucous cheers from watchers on shore. Amused women chuckled and pointed as the lucky dozen males, preening with eyes afire, were led away by representatives of clans who had chosen to have summer offspring this year.
It reminded me of the racecourse—those leashed stallions, prancing off to stud for their proud owners. With that thought, I had to look away.
“Come. I know you’ll want to see this,” Iolanthe said. She and her sisters led me to a pavilion at the far end of the fairgrounds, dingier than most, made of a gray, coarse fabric meant to last many seasons. On entering, I blinked for a moment, wondering what was simultaneously strange and familiar about the people gathered at various booths and exhibits. Then I realized. Almost no one looked alike! After weeks in Caria, meeting delegations of high clans, getting used to double, triple, and quadruple visions of the same facial types, it felt disorienting to see so much diversity in one place. There were even some elderly men, come from far citadels to show their crafts and wares.
“This place is for vars,” I essayed a guess.
Iolanthe nodded. “Or singleton envoys from poor, young clans. Here, anyone with something new and special to display gets her chance, hoping for that lucky break.”
What point was she trying to make? That Stratoin society allows for change? That their founders had left ways for newness to enter, from time to time? Or was she subtly suggesting something else? Moving from booth to booth, I was struck by a certain deficit. A lack of smoothness or the relaxed presumption of skill that daughters of an older clan wore as easily as clothes on their backs.
The women under this tent were eager to show the products of their labor and ingenuity. Buyers from great trading houses could be seen threading the aisles, aloofly on the lookout for something worth their time and interest. Here, in a moment, a var’s success could be made. Generations later, her innovation might become the basis for a clan’s wealth.
Clearly that is the hope. And just as clearly, few in this vast room would see it come true. How often hope comes salted with a bitter tang.
They used to say, on Earth, that we find immortality through our children. It is a solace, although most of us know that when we die, we stop.
On Stratos, though … I no longer know what to think. Under that canopy, at the far end of the festival grounds, I felt something familiar that had seemed remote at Nitocris Hold, or in the marbled chambers of the acropolis.
Beneath the Var Pavilion, I remarked a familiar scent of mortality.
18
Their opponents offered to waive the rules. It was done quite often, Maia knew. About one Life match in five that she had witnessed featured some agreed-on variation. These ranged from using odd boundaries to altering the fundamental canons of the game—including more than two colors, or changing the way pieces responded to the status of their neighbors.
In this case, nothing complicated was involved. To save time—and perhaps rub home the helplessness of their adversaries—the junior cook and cabin boy suggested that each side lay down
Maia watched tensely as the two youths positioned their game pieces. Seconds passed, and she felt a knot slowly unwind in her belly.
Maia found it bemusing, standing here reading a game board this way. Last night, during their first match, she had experienced one or two moments of inspiration, but had been too confused and worried to enjoy the process, or let go and watch the game as a whole. That had changed with this afternoon’s epiphany and during the subsequent session exploring possibilities with Renna. Now she felt strangely detached, yet eager, as if a barrier had broken, releasing something serenely beyond mere curiosity.
