“What will their children be, Pentadrian or Circlian?”
“I don’t know.” He was frowning now. “I prefer to leave them their privacy.”
“An admirably generous policy, if these newcomers were from Sennon or Hania. But these people are our enemy. They follow gods that would destroy us, if they could. We can’t trust them - as has been demonstrated here.” She leaned forward to stare at Gret. “I-Portak agrees with me. The Pentadrians and the people of Dram must be taken to Chon to be judged.”
Gret’s mouth dropped open, but he quickly closed it again. His face reddened.
“To Chon? Is that necessary? We could hold trials here.”
Ella shook her head. “It is impossible to hide something of this magnitude, Gret. People will find out.”
“But should the Pentadrians have the satisfaction of the world knowing of their success - no matter how brief?”
“People need to see what they have done in order to be alert for such deception in the future. And they need to see that rapid and appropriate punishment is dealt out to those who harbor Pentadrians.”
“But do
Ella grimaced. “They must all go, or innocents will be targeted in the future. Will you assist me?”
Gret’s shoulders drooped. “Of course.”
As Ella began to discuss numbers of men and a strategy for approaching and dealing with the villagers, Danjin considered the old warrior. Clearly his pride would suffer if others knew he had been deceived by the enemy. His income would suffer, too. A village emptied of workers meant crops, animals and fishing boats left untended. Danjin had to wonder how much of Gret’s dismay was due to loss of honor and profit, and how much at the journey and punishment his people were about to face.
Yet at the same time Danjin felt sympathy toward Gret’s protestations, and a nagging dismay. Was Ella so eager to make an example of the village that she would punish all with equal harshness, whether convert or not, old or young, adult or child?
As dawn crept through the jungle, Mirar wiped his brow and tried to ignore the sweat already running down his back. Soon Genza would emerge from her cabin and propel the barge up the river again, and the motion would bring the relief of a breeze.
Mirar could imagine how unpleasant a river journey through Dekkar would be without a Voice on board. Each night, when Genza stopped for a meal and sleep, the breeze died. There was little or no wind on the river, and the heat was relentless.
Mirar had found his cabin stifling, so he slipped out each night to sleep on the deck with the crew. The jungle was never quiet. The buzz of insects and calls of birds formed a constant background noise. Occasionally other calls echoed through the trees. Some of these attracted more attention than others. Once a deep rumble close to shore caused all dinner conversation to end abruptly. A crewman had told Mirar it had been the call of the legendary roro, a giant black-furred carnivore with enormous pointed teeth. Stories had been told of roro that had swum out to vessels at night and dragged away passengers or crew.
Which explained why they kept several lamps burning brightly at night, and why they moored in the middle of the river, away from overhanging branches, and looped ropes around the vessel strung with bells.
The crewman was a wiry middle-aged man named Kevain. Each night the man invited Mirar to sleep beside him on the crowded deck, under his bug net, in exchange for some of Tintel’s oil. Kevain brought out a small skin of a potent liquor and they exchanged stories until the drink made them drowsy enough to sleep.
A sound nearby drew Mirar’s attention to Kevain. The man was climbing to his feet, deftly rolling up the bug net and stowing it away. He grinned at Mirar.
“We reach Bottom today,” he said. Bottom was the name of the town they were heading for. “You fear being up high?” he asked, pointing at the escarpment that loomed over them.
Mirar shook his head.
“Good. Good.” The man clenched a fist and waggled it - a gesture that Mirar had taken to be approval of courage. “It’s hard for those who do. If you feel bad, don’t look down.”
“I’ll remember that,” Mirar replied.
Kevain’s grin widened. “After that, you ride the winds. Lucky you. Ah, the Fourth Voice is awake and I best be getting to work.”
He hurried to join the crew, leaving Mirar to greet Genza. A quick morning meal was served then Genza took her position at the bow.
Finding a place to sit out of the way, Mirar watched as the jungle slid past and the cliff drew closer. After an hour or so the barge slowed. A small pier had appeared ahead of them. Genza left the job of steering the vessel to the pole men, who deftly brought it up to the pier and bound it securely.
A short but hurried interval of organization followed as supplies were carried off by domestics. Mirar collected his bag from his cabin, nodded farewell to Kevain, then waited near Genza until she gestured for him to join her. They stepped onto the pier together and started down it, Servants and domestics following.
At the end of the pier an equally narrow street passed between wooden houses built right up against each other. Walls were colored with bright paint in various stages of deterioration. The street was covered with sand, which seemed odd. Mirar had seen no sand in the jungle so far. Signs bearing pictures illustrating the business within hung above each door. There was little variety. The locals sold food, wine and transportation and hired out beds and women.
The latter leaned out of doorways wearing unconvincing smiles and bright, revealing clothes. They looked sick and unhappy, and shrank indoors at the sight of Genza and the Servants. He felt a pang of sympathy, and resolved to return here one day and see if he could help them. Genza barely glanced at the women, striding on to the end of the street.
A large building stood there. Behind it was the escarpment wall. Genza stopped to watch as a wooden box began to rise from the roof. Mirar noted the thick ropes stretching upward. He looked up. The escarpment loomed over the village. A tiny object moved against the dark rock: another box.
“The supplies are already on the way up,” Genza said. “We’ll catch the one coming down.”
Mirar noted a small crowd gathered outside the building. He sensed annoyance already changing to begrudging respect as these men and women saw the reason their ascent had been delayed.
Genza led him inside the building. A large iron wheel filled most of the room. Ropes as thick as Mirar’s arm stretched up through a gap in the roof.
“The lifters must hold close to the same weight,” Genza said, holding her hands out and raising one while dropping the other, then reversing. “The weight of the load coming down is often less than that coming up, as Dekkar has more produce to sell than western Avven. The operators load bags of sand to balance it.”
Mirar nodded. That would explain the sandy streets of the village. There would be no use in sending it back up.
As the descending box slowly dropped through the roof, Genza led Mirar up a set of wooden stairs to a platform. A man waited there, and as he saw Genza he respectfully made the sign of the star.
The box stopped level with the platform. The top half of the box’s side was open and Mirar could see several people within. He sensed fear and relief, but also exhilaration and boredom. Mirar recognized the smell of a root Dekkans used for its calming effect. Several of the passengers were chewing.
As the passengers saw Genza, their eyes widened. All made the sign of the star. The operator unlatched the bottom half of the box and opened it like a door. Once the people had left, descending from the platform using a different staircase, the man dragged out a few bags of sand. He stepped aside, and lowered his gaze as Genza entered. Mirar caught the man’s quick, curious glance as he followed.
A bell rang. The box jerked into motion. As it emerged from the roof, Mirar looked out on a sea of trees.
