“What is that?” asked Danivon, pointing toward the building from which the vessel came, a sizable structure with several wings set on pilings above the water. The piazzas running the length of each floor spilled with flowering vines, like gardens piled in terraces above the water.
“Heron House,” the sailor said. “An’ that’ll be the Heron House gainder-yat comin’ to get you. Best get your bundles up.”
“Heron House?”
“You folk are goin’ upriver, so you’ll need someplace to bide until your river-yat comes. That’s it: Heron House, built and managed by the Heron family of Shallow, them that run the yats. You’ll stay there unless you fancy growing webs on your fingers and paddling upriver in gossle boats, the way most folk in Shallow do.” He looked about them at the empty water and amended his discourse. “Usually do, that is. I’d like to know what’s happened to ’em all, I would.”
So would we, thought Danivon. So would we!
They brought their bundles up, though their preparedness did nothing to hurry the approach of the gainder-yat, which took its own good time, making several lengthy stops on the way. Waiting was not unusual in Shallow, so said the Curward sailors. “Slow folk in Shallow,” they said. “Deep folk in Deep, and wearisome folk in Salt Maresh.” Even when the boat finally arrived, it stood a distance from the Curward vessel while those manning it looked them over and whispered to one another in fearful voices.
Danivon’s nose twitched painfully. Something badly awry here. The people from the hostelry were extremely apprehensive, no question. Fearful they were, but of what?
Eventually the Shallow folk decided the Curward vessel held no risk, and the gainder-yat came close enough to gather them into its capacious wide-bottomed self before wallowing away across the lagoon, its sculling oar plied by half a dozen web-fingered folk who started at every sound or movement their passengers made.
Except for a few cleared waterways leading toward the hostelry’s entry float and stairs, the lagoon was carpeted with the blue-flowered lilies. Long-toed birds ran across the pads, snatching at jewel-winged flies and being snatched at in turn by toothy gaver snouts that emerged explosively from among the leaves. From the edge of the lagoon something made a melodic thumping among the reeds, as though on a set of tuned drums.
“A new place,” cried Nela. “Bertran, a new place.” She clapped her hands, determined to be joyful.
Her twin stared morosely at the water, thinking of diving, of swimming, of disporting himself like a penguin, like a seal. Or even like one of those toothy gavers with their sleek hides and webbed feet. Alone, of course. Unencumbered. If this expedition turned out well, he might return here, alone, unencumbered. He did not speak of this to Nela. It seemed a bitter thought when she was trying so hard to seem happy.
“A new place,” he agreed, imagining the water flowing along his naked skin, imagining that skin sleek from hip to shoulder, not bulged and emerged as it was, not shared, but his own. As always, these thoughts brought a mingled feeling, part guilty pleasure, part hopeless pain. It would never happen. Though he dreamed and dreamed, it would come to nothing.
They docked at the Heron House float. Web-handed folk dressed in wraparound skirts came to take their bundles and precede them up the wide stairs to three adjacent rooms at the end of a corridor. They were told food would be served shortly on their shared piazza, at the end of which woven panels had been pulled across to give them privacy.
“Someone or something important to us is going on here, in this place,” remarked Danivon to nobody in particular as he leaned over the railing. “I can smell it. But there are no public rooms! How are we to find out what’s going on?”
“We’ll do what we planned to do all along,” said Fringe as she went to stand beside Nela and Bertran, who were already leaning across the railing. “We’ll do our sideshow business down there on the float and see who gathers.”
“What a beautiful place,” said Nela, taking Fringe’s hand and squeezing it affectionately. “Lucky people of Shallow, to have settled here.”
“Lucky indeed,” said Danivon moodily. “For I doubt they were given any choice in the matter.”
“Didn’t the people who fled here settle where they liked?” asked Bertran, puzzled.
Danivon shook his head. “They were met by a Frickian army and assigned where to go by Supervisors. Since the people of Shallow already had webbed hands and feet, the Supervisors did at least give them a wet province, for which I suppose they were duly grateful.”
Fringe turned toward him, her eyebrows drawn together in a thoughtful frown. “I’d always assumed Council Supervisory was selected to run the planet after all the original Brannigan people died. Who were they then?”
Danivon snorted. “I’ve already made the mistake of asking that question. Files said it had no information. My rule has been that when Files is silent, it is better not to pursue the matter.” He laughed ruefully, almost silently. “I broke my rule and asked the question a second time. Since then I’ve been smelling trouble.” He’d been smelling something a good deal worse than that, but no point in frightening the others.
Still, he could not completely disguise his apprehension, and Fringe was stabbed by sudden anxiety. Since their first meeting she had thought of him in bold bright colors without shadows, one of the hero-type Enforcers much touted at Academy, one of those Zasper called the fireworks boys, who skated always on the edge of risk, laughing at death, fearless and puissant. What she had heard in his voice was simple fear, however, which she well recognized. With a pang of conscience, she remembered the transmitter cube in her pack. Perhaps he had good reason to be fearful. Perhaps that was why Boarmus had told her to deliver the thing privately.
Certainly a puzzle! She glanced at
