self-made man, Supaari was not reticent about his early life and his present status, and since all the surviving members of the Jesuit party came from cultures on Earth that value such people and disdain hereditary privilege, they were prepared to see him in a somewhat heroic light, a plucky boy who'd made good.
Alan Pace might have been better equipped to handle the class aspects of Rakhati society, since Britain still retained some traits of a culture that takes good breeding seriously. Alan might have understood how truly marginal Supaari was, how little access he had to real sources of power and influence, and how much he might crave such access. But Alan was dead.
When, toward the end of Partan, it was time to see the Jana'ata off after those first extraordinary weeks, the entire population of Kashan, alien and native, accompanied Supaari to the dock or hung from terraces to call farewells and toss flowers on the water and float long scented ribbons in the wind.
He was touched that she should wish this. 'Without hesitation, Ha'an,' he said in the low and slightly rumbling voice she was now familiar with. Anne motioned him to bring his head closer and he stooped low, not knowing what to expect. She rose on her toes and her arms went around his neck and he felt her tighten the pressure slightly before she let him go. When she drew back, he noticed that her blue eyes, almost normal in color, were glistening.
'Someone hopes you will come back here soon and safely, Su-paari,' she said.
'Someone's heart will be glad to be with you again, Ha'an.' He was, Supaari realized with surprise, reluctant to leave her. He climbed down into the powerboat cockpit and looked up at the others of her kind, each one different, each a separate and peculiar puzzle. Suddenly, because Ha'an wished it, Supaari was moved to please the others, and so at last made a decision he'd found troublesome. He looked around and found the Elder. 'Someone will make arrangements for you to visit Gayjur,' he told D.W. 'There are many things to be considered, but someone will think on how this may be done.'
'Well, my darling children,' Anne announced gaily, shaking off the sadness of Supaari's departure as his powerboat disappeared around the north bend of the river and the Runa began moving back up to their apartments, 'it is time for you and me to have a little talk about sex.'
'Memory fails,' said Emilio, straight-faced, and Marc laughed.
'What if we had a review session?' Jimmy suggested helpfully. Sofia smiled and shook her head, and Jimmy's heart rose but then went obediently back where it belonged.
'What's this about sex?' George asked, shushing Askama and turning to look at Anne.
'Good grief, woman, is that all you ever think about?' D.W. demanded.
Anne grinned like the Cheshire cat as they started up the cliffside together. 'Wait until you guys find out what Supaari told me yesterday!' The path narrowed at that point and they strung out into a line, Askama chattering to George about some long, elaborate story they'd been making up together until she saw Kinsa and Fayer, and the children took off to play.
'It seems, my darlings, that we have been caught in a web of sexism, but so have our hosts,' Anne told them when they arrived at the apartment. It was filled with Runa, but endless cross talk was normal to them now and she hardly noticed the other conversations. 'Jimmy: the Runa think you are a lady, and the mother of us all. Sofia, you are taken to be an immature male. Emilio: an immature female. They don't know quite what to make of D.W. and Marc and me, but they're pretty sure George is a male. Isn't that nice, dear?'
'I'm not sure,' George said suspiciously, sinking onto a cushion. 'How do they decide who's what?'
'Well, there is a certain logic to it all. Emilio, you seemed to have guessed correctly that Askama is a little girl. Fifty-fifty chance, and you won the toss. The trick is that Chaypas is Askama's mother, not Manuzhai. Yes, indeed, darlings!' Anne said when they stared at her in shock. 'I'll come back to that in a minute. Anyway, Supaari says that the Runa females are the ones who do all the business for the village. Listen to this, Sofia, this is really cool. Their pregnancies are fairly short and they aren't much inconvenienced by them. When the baby is born, mom hands the little dear over to daddy and goes back about her business without missing a beat.'
'No
'Bingo,' said Anne. 'And Jimmy, they think, is our mom because he's the only one big enough to seem like a full-grown female. That's why they always ask him to make decisions for us, maybe. They only think he's asking D.W.'s opinion to be polite, I guess.' Yarbrough snorted, and Anne grinned. 'Okay, now here's the neat part. Manuzhai is Chaypas's husband, right? But he is not Askama's genetic father. Runa ladies marry gentlemen they believe will be good social fathers, as Manuzhai is. But Supaari says their mates are chosen using' — she cleared her throat—'an entirely separate set of criteria.'
'They pick out a good stud,' D.W. said.
'Don't be crude, dear,' Anne said. Chaypas and her guests decided to go to Aycha's to eat and suddenly the apartment emptied out. When they were alone, Anne leaned forward and continued conspiratorially. 'But yes, that was certainly the implication. I must say, the custom has a certain rude appeal. Theoretically, of course,' she added when George pouted.
'So why are they only 'pretty sure' I'm a male?' George asked petulantly, his manhood under oblique attack from two quarters.
'Well, aside from your virile good looks, my love, they have also noted how wonderful you are with the children,' Anne said. 'On the other hand, you don't show much interest in collecting blossoms, so they're a little confused by you, actually. Same for Marc and D.W. and me. They think I might be a male because I do most of the cooking. Maybe I'm sort of the daddy? Oh, Jimmy, maybe they think you and I are married! Obviously, they don't have a clue about relative ages.'
Emilio had become increasingly thoughtful and D.W., watching him, began to chuckle. Emilio didn't laugh at first, but he came around.
'What?' Anne asked. 'What's so funny?'
'I'm not sure funny is the word,' D.W. said, right eye on Emilio, one brow up speculatively.
Emilio shrugged. 'Nothing. Only: this notion of separating the roles of genetic father and social father would have been useful in my family.'
'Might have saved some wear and tear on your sorry young ass,' D.W. agreed.
Emilio laughed ruefully and ran his hands through his hair. Everyone was looking at him now, curiosity plain on their faces. He hesitated, probing old wounds, and found them scabbed over. 'My mother was a woman of great warmth and a lively nature,' he told them, choosing his words carefully. 'Her husband was a handsome man, tall, strong. Brunette but very light-skinned, yes? My mother was also very fair.' He paused to let them absorb this; it didn't take a geneticist to work out the implications. 'My mother's husband was out of town for a few years—'
'Doing time for possession and sale,' D.W. supplied.
'— and when he returned, he found he had a second son, almost a year old. And very dark.' Emilio sat still then, and the room was quiet. 'They did not divorce. He must have loved my mother very much.' This had never occurred to him before and he had no idea how he should feel about it. 'She was charming, yes? Easy to love, Anne might say.'
'So you took the blame for her,' Anne said astutely, hating the woman for letting it happen and silently berating God for giving this son to the wrong mother.
'Of course. Very poor taste, being born like that.' Emilio looked briefly at Anne, but his eyes slid away. A mistake, he realized, to speak of this. He had tried so hard to understand, but how could a child have known? He shrugged again and steered the talk away from Elena Sandoz. 'My mother's husband and I used to play a game called Beat the Crap out of the Bastard. I was about eleven when I worked out the name, yes?' He sat up and threw the hair out of his eyes with a jerk of his head. 'I changed the rules for this game when I was fourteen,' he told them, savoring it, even after all the years.
D.W., who knew what was coming, grinned in spite of himself. He'd deplored the random violence of La Perla and worked hard to find ways for kids like Emilio to settle things without knifing somebody. It was an uphill battle in a place where fathers told sons, 'Anybody give you shit, cut his face.' And this was advice given to eight-year-olds
