“We will not be cherished by the king unless we are beautiful,” the man cried in a theatrical voice. “His messenger told us others with depraved tastes would come among us to cause doubt. Evil critics and judges would come to assail us, she said. They must be kept apart from the people of loveliness. You just do as I say, go on through town, no lookin’.”
And with that he turned and stamped away, head bent slightly forward so that he could see (in Xulai’s estimation) only a step ahead of himself as he moved. Nonetheless, there was something false in his movements, false in the glance he darted behind him, as though to see their reaction. It reminded her of the children at Woldsgard who had been so intent on their play, except that this was the reverse. They had been playing pretend; this man was pretending play. They were totally different things.
The road widened for a short stretch and the drivers pulled up and took a moment to stretch their legs and engage in conversation. Bartelmy came back to ask, “Who or what was that critter, and what was he going on about?”
“I presume he was a Becomer,” Abasio replied. “One who must be becoming lovely at some future time, for I saw no symptoms of glorification appearing yet. Did you think him especially splendid, Precious Wind?”
“His nose looks like a potato,” she replied. “And his skin is weathered enough to serve as roofing for a barn.”
“Then what . . . ?” said Bartelmy.
Xulai said thoughtfully, “Someone has told them they must become lovely in order to be cherished by the king. Possibly that person has threatened them, telling them they’ll be sent back to whatever place they were driven from. Where was that, Precious Wind?”
“One of the sea islands overrun by the Sea King’s mercenaries,” Precious Wind replied.
“That explains the rope,” said Abasio. “They’re sea folk!”
Precious Wind nodded. “They were, yes. All these people are refugees that King Gahls has allowed to settle here in return for maintaining the road, but I hadn’t heard anything about this becoming lovely business.”
Xulai said thoughtfully, “Someone has set out to convince that man—all of his people, really, for they are all dressed alike—that they must become beautiful. In order to prove that he believes this, he is pretending that he is already beautiful, potato nose or not. I suppose it’s a lot less trouble pretending to be something if no one contradicts what you’re pretending to be.”
She was thinking of the time when she had needed to be brave. In desperation she had told herself she was brave enough. She would not have wanted anyone to contradict her while she needed to believe it. She had been angry at chipmunk for disillusioning her. But this man hadn’t been angry. He’d been amused. Strange. One could play pretend with total conviction, but one could not pretend play in the same way. His every movement spoke of mockery. He didn’t believe it himself! Moreover, he didn’t intend that she should really believe it!
Bartelmy remarked, “The guard below said the Duchess of Altamont spent a lot of time fiddling with these villagers. If this is her doing, what is she up to?”
“Enough,” growled Bear. “Whatever she’s up to, this is no place to discuss it. Let us do as we are asked to do and leave here without causing difficulty.”
“I agree,” said Precious Wind. “Someone has frightened these people . . .”
“No, I don’t think that man was frightened,” murmured Abasio, who had walked around his wagon to be sure everything was still tied down. “I think he’s making sure that if we’re asked about these villagers, we say the right thing.”
“And that is?” demanded Precious Wind.
“That they wish to be cherished by the king. That they wish that more than anything else.”
Precious Wind joined Xulai on the seat of the dyer’s wagon; Abasio chose to walk alongside. The drivers returned to their teams and they went on, each of them looking down at the road, though both Xulai and Precious Wind glanced from the corners of their eyes as they proceeded. All the villagers they saw, even the children, were garbed in the same fashion. On a narrow terrace at the top of steep stairs, a group of children were talking heatedly among themselves.
“Children,” remarked Abasio in an innocent voice. “One wonders how they are conceived among such beautiful people.”
“In total darkness,” murmured Precious Wind with a giggle.
Xulai gasped as one of the children was accidently jostled off the terrace to fall sprawling to the next level down. He—Xulai thought it was a boy—staggered to his feet, holding on to the wall, his strange headdress knocked askew and blood streaming from his forehead. None of the other children had noticed he was gone.
“It’s dangerous,” Xulai whispered. “Even the children are dressed that way, and they can’t see what’s happening around them! Shall we help him?”
Abasio growled, “Interfering would be profitless and might get us killed.”
“Not if they can’t even look at us,” said Xulai.
Precious Wind said, “Since they went to the trouble to warn us off, someone of them obviously did look at us. I’m sure they’ve arranged methods for dealing with both accidents and interlopers. Perhaps someone shouts out a location and everyone converges on that location and surrounds the miscreant so he cannot escape either their help or their blows.”
“You think they kill people?” Xulai breathed, unbelieving.
“The person who set them onto this idea might expect it,” Abasio replied. “Though that person would call it purification or some such thing.”
Xulai risked another glance at the injured boy. He was being helped up the stairs by someone, presumably his mother, who was whispering intently as they moved. Xulai’s eyes were drawn to a gleam at the side
