supposed to be learning Dassa.”
Zhen turned to the hoda. “Open up the mouth.”
The hoda did so, revealing a small mouth that was healthy in all respects save one. Instead of tapering, the end of her tongue was flat, where it had been sheared off. A puckered red line demarcated the fluted ridge where the incision had been made.
“That,” Zhen said bitterly, “is what the Dassa think of people like us. So how much do you think they're going to care about our problems?”
Nick had seen enough. “You can close your mouth,” he whispered to the hoda, and she did so, with a look of gratitude. It made him sick to see such a look on her face, when he'd done nothing for her, could do nothing for her.
Standing at the hatchway, and taking no notice of all this, the noblewoman was adjusting her auburn hair in her elaborate bun.
“We are
not
among friends here,” Zhen said. “Of course, they only mutilate girls, so you don't have anything to worry about, Venning.”
But Nick was plenty worried, even about Zhen. She had a wicked tongue. Sooner or later, someone in the Olagong was bound to notice.
THREE
Anton stood at the far end of the footbridge leading to the Lady Joon's pavilions. She had practically commanded him to call on her, and in fact he was eager to cultivate her as an information source. Shim had tried to talk him into a tunic and leggings in the Dassa style for his interview, and when this effort had failed, she'd looked worried about the impression he would make. She frowned now, as they crossed the covered bridge. Rain lashed down, sluicing in waterfalls off the thick roof matting.
They started across the bridge. Anton noticed Shim fidgeting as they walked. “What's the matter, rahi? You're fretting.”
“But-tons,” she said, using the human word. “Not expected.”
Shim could not get over the buttons on his jumpsuit; it was not the first time Anton was bemused by what the Dassa focused on.
“Anything else I should know, besides that I look bad?” He threw her a smile, but the irony fell flat as she hurried to say, “Oh, Anton, thankfully I haven't said so.”
Guards parted at the far end of the bridge, and Shim led the way along wood floors burnished to mirror-brightness. The odor of floral perfumes was stronger here than in the king's pavilions, and for a time the underlying smell of mildew gave way to a sweet, not unpleasant musk.
They paused at last in front of a wall of finely woven screens. Anton tried to guess which one would open.
He was wrong. The Lady Joon's chancellor, Gitam, slid open one of them and, smiling a greeting, waved him into the room, leaving Shim outside.
Joon's quarters were simple and fine, in the style of effortless beauty so typical of the Dassa. Lustrous black reeds formed lacquered screens framed in carmine wood, or what on Earth was mahogany. In the middle of the spacious room, a carved ladder led up to the ceiling, stopping at a closed door. A swag of woven cloth hung from the steps of the ladder. From behind this, the Lady Joon appeared.
“Captain Prados, thank you.”
“Please, Lady my name is Anton.”
“Oh, now I will have to practice saying my t's.” Her smile was playful.
She beckoned him behind the tapestry, where chairs and couches, all without backs, formed a seating area. The beat of rain came softer in these quarters, and he suspected there was another level above this one.
The guest sits first, Shim had told him. He did so, finding the nearest chair.
Joon wore silver cloth, finely woven and without ornament except for a belt. The clasp bore what looked like a tiny portrait. She settled herself on a facing chair, more relaxed than she had been in her father's company.
“That is a lovely painting on your belt, Lady” he said.
“Oh yes, it is a favorite. My grandmother painted it for me. A portrait of
her
grandmother.”
“In my world we have paintings, too.”
“Similar. But different,” Joon ventured.
It was a complicated
Zhen turned to the hoda. “Open up the mouth.”
The hoda did so, revealing a small mouth that was healthy in all respects save one. Instead of tapering, the end of her tongue was flat, where it had been sheared off. A puckered red line demarcated the fluted ridge where the incision had been made.
“That,” Zhen said bitterly, “is what the Dassa think of people like us. So how much do you think they're going to care about our problems?”
Nick had seen enough. “You can close your mouth,” he whispered to the hoda, and she did so, with a look of gratitude. It made him sick to see such a look on her face, when he'd done nothing for her, could do nothing for her.
Standing at the hatchway, and taking no notice of all this, the noblewoman was adjusting her auburn hair in her elaborate bun.
“We are
not
among friends here,” Zhen said. “Of course, they only mutilate girls, so you don't have anything to worry about, Venning.”
But Nick was plenty worried, even about Zhen. She had a wicked tongue. Sooner or later, someone in the Olagong was bound to notice.
THREE
Anton stood at the far end of the footbridge leading to the Lady Joon's pavilions. She had practically commanded him to call on her, and in fact he was eager to cultivate her as an information source. Shim had tried to talk him into a tunic and leggings in the Dassa style for his interview, and when this effort had failed, she'd looked worried about the impression he would make. She frowned now, as they crossed the covered bridge. Rain lashed down, sluicing in waterfalls off the thick roof matting.
They started across the bridge. Anton noticed Shim fidgeting as they walked. “What's the matter, rahi? You're fretting.”
“But-tons,” she said, using the human word. “Not expected.”
Shim could not get over the buttons on his jumpsuit; it was not the first time Anton was bemused by what the Dassa focused on.
“Anything else I should know, besides that I look bad?” He threw her a smile, but the irony fell flat as she hurried to say, “Oh, Anton, thankfully I haven't said so.”
Guards parted at the far end of the bridge, and Shim led the way along wood floors burnished to mirror-brightness. The odor of floral perfumes was stronger here than in the king's pavilions, and for a time the underlying smell of mildew gave way to a sweet, not unpleasant musk.
They paused at last in front of a wall of finely woven screens. Anton tried to guess which one would open.
He was wrong. The Lady Joon's chancellor, Gitam, slid open one of them and, smiling a greeting, waved him into the room, leaving Shim outside.
Joon's quarters were simple and fine, in the style of effortless beauty so typical of the Dassa. Lustrous black reeds formed lacquered screens framed in carmine wood, or what on Earth was mahogany. In the middle of the spacious room, a carved ladder led up to the ceiling, stopping at a closed door. A swag of woven cloth hung from the steps of the ladder. From behind this, the Lady Joon appeared.
“Captain Prados, thank you.”
“Please, Lady my name is Anton.”
“Oh, now I will have to practice saying my t's.” Her smile was playful.
She beckoned him behind the tapestry, where chairs and couches, all without backs, formed a seating area. The beat of rain came softer in these quarters, and he suspected there was another level above this one.
The guest sits first, Shim had told him. He did so, finding the nearest chair.
Joon wore silver cloth, finely woven and without ornament except for a belt. The clasp bore what looked like a tiny portrait. She settled herself on a facing chair, more relaxed than she had been in her father's company.
“That is a lovely painting on your belt, Lady” he said.
“Oh yes, it is a favorite. My grandmother painted it for me. A portrait of
her
grandmother.”
“In my world we have paintings, too.”
“Similar. But different,” Joon ventured.
It was a complicated
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