wrong.
Until that realization struck, Wallie had been fairly content. He and his companions were clean at last. Their garments had been rushed away to be laundered and temporary replacements provided. At first an abbreviated brown loincloth had made him feel as shameless as Nona, but once he was seated at the table he forgot about it and tucked into the spread with genuine appetite.
Then two minor problems appeared almost simultaneously. As he ate, he began to feel a strange lethargy. Honakura yawned. Jja followed suit—and so did Nnanji, in the middle of his animated flirting. He blinked in surprise and carried on. Wallie smothered a yawn himself. It had been a short night, but . . . jet lag! They had been moved the equivalent of several time zones by the Hand of the Goddess. Now it was not yawning but laughter that struggled for possession of Wallie’s throat. The thought of jet lag in this primitive culture was ludicrous, and the idea of trying to explain it to anyone else even more so. Nevertheless, it was worth remembering, for the resulting mental confusion could seriously warp a man’s judgment for a day or two.
His second problem concerned Jja.
The tenancy was a clutter of cottages, all small and mostly shabby, interspersed with barns and sheds, and standing among vegetable patches. Pigs and chickens roamed underfoot, while background noises told of dogs and at least one discordant donkey. The setting was pleasant, centered on a pond that served for washing, stock watering, and irrigation, but in all directions the surrounding countryside was concealed by little bare hillocks and copses of scanty trees.
It was a humble settlement, and the people who inhabited it were humble, also. But they outranked the estate owner’s slaves, who lived elsewhere, and they were uncomfortable at having to entertain Jja and Cowie and Vixini. Cowie was quite unaware of the conflict, looking content for the first time since Wallie had met her, stuffing food into herself, apparently impervious to jet lag. Jja had become very quiet. She sat close by Wallie and attended to Vixini and spoke only in reply to questions. He fumed, but there was nothing he could do. The women were trying the best they could. Doubtless Quili had warned them, and the hostility was being suppressed, but it was there. Wallie had not met this prejudice in the temple—Nnanji made no value distinction between free woman and slave—but for these people slaves were a threat to livelihood. The difference was not racial, it was purely an accident of birth, yet the free could not hide their contempt of the unfree. The World of the Goddess was an imperfect place.
So he tried to reassure Jja without at the same time offending the attending women, and he made the best of it. He also made conversation with Quili, on his right. She had discarded her bulky cloak, revealing a threadbare lemon gown that curved satisfactorily in all the right places. Feigning interest called for no effort.
He established that the manor house stood farther up the hillside, hidden by trees. There were cattle sheds there, and slave barns, and more cottages. The inhabitants of this tenancy seemed to have intermediate status, not quite farmhands and not quite free farmers themselves. They paid their rent in work for the landlord, but they also grew vegetables for sale to the manor. Wallie at once suspected a company store economy and soon confirmed his guess—to obtain imports, like nails and rope, or local products such as lumber, the tenants must deal with Honorable Garathondi’s manager, Adept Motipodi. Everything went back to Garathondi in the end.
The ham had vanished. Fresh strawberries appeared, with cream thick as butter. Not for the first time, Wallie mourned the absence of coffee in the World.
Honakura was enthusiastically attacking the dessert, while attempting to discover more about the landowner and his mother, Lady Thondi. Katanji had set out to charm everyone, not merely
Until that realization struck, Wallie had been fairly content. He and his companions were clean at last. Their garments had been rushed away to be laundered and temporary replacements provided. At first an abbreviated brown loincloth had made him feel as shameless as Nona, but once he was seated at the table he forgot about it and tucked into the spread with genuine appetite.
Then two minor problems appeared almost simultaneously. As he ate, he began to feel a strange lethargy. Honakura yawned. Jja followed suit—and so did Nnanji, in the middle of his animated flirting. He blinked in surprise and carried on. Wallie smothered a yawn himself. It had been a short night, but . . . jet lag! They had been moved the equivalent of several time zones by the Hand of the Goddess. Now it was not yawning but laughter that struggled for possession of Wallie’s throat. The thought of jet lag in this primitive culture was ludicrous, and the idea of trying to explain it to anyone else even more so. Nevertheless, it was worth remembering, for the resulting mental confusion could seriously warp a man’s judgment for a day or two.
His second problem concerned Jja.
The tenancy was a clutter of cottages, all small and mostly shabby, interspersed with barns and sheds, and standing among vegetable patches. Pigs and chickens roamed underfoot, while background noises told of dogs and at least one discordant donkey. The setting was pleasant, centered on a pond that served for washing, stock watering, and irrigation, but in all directions the surrounding countryside was concealed by little bare hillocks and copses of scanty trees.
It was a humble settlement, and the people who inhabited it were humble, also. But they outranked the estate owner’s slaves, who lived elsewhere, and they were uncomfortable at having to entertain Jja and Cowie and Vixini. Cowie was quite unaware of the conflict, looking content for the first time since Wallie had met her, stuffing food into herself, apparently impervious to jet lag. Jja had become very quiet. She sat close by Wallie and attended to Vixini and spoke only in reply to questions. He fumed, but there was nothing he could do. The women were trying the best they could. Doubtless Quili had warned them, and the hostility was being suppressed, but it was there. Wallie had not met this prejudice in the temple—Nnanji made no value distinction between free woman and slave—but for these people slaves were a threat to livelihood. The difference was not racial, it was purely an accident of birth, yet the free could not hide their contempt of the unfree. The World of the Goddess was an imperfect place.
So he tried to reassure Jja without at the same time offending the attending women, and he made the best of it. He also made conversation with Quili, on his right. She had discarded her bulky cloak, revealing a threadbare lemon gown that curved satisfactorily in all the right places. Feigning interest called for no effort.
He established that the manor house stood farther up the hillside, hidden by trees. There were cattle sheds there, and slave barns, and more cottages. The inhabitants of this tenancy seemed to have intermediate status, not quite farmhands and not quite free farmers themselves. They paid their rent in work for the landlord, but they also grew vegetables for sale to the manor. Wallie at once suspected a company store economy and soon confirmed his guess—to obtain imports, like nails and rope, or local products such as lumber, the tenants must deal with Honorable Garathondi’s manager, Adept Motipodi. Everything went back to Garathondi in the end.
The ham had vanished. Fresh strawberries appeared, with cream thick as butter. Not for the first time, Wallie mourned the absence of coffee in the World.
Honakura was enthusiastically attacking the dessert, while attempting to discover more about the landowner and his mother, Lady Thondi. Katanji had set out to charm everyone, not merely
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