Cecelia Holland - Floating Worlds

“Oh, Paula,” Illy called. “Just come to the kundra’s—”

Paula jumped down out of the chair to the street. The slaves lifted it again. She heard, above the two arguing voices of the wives, the sharp bang of Boltiko’s fist on the box. The chair swept off, swaying, its curved roof streaming ribbons in its wake.

She was in the street near the lake market. The passing crowd pressed by her on either side. Ahead, in the market, gaudy tents replaced the merchants’ stalls. She wandered through the little carnival, going from tent to tent. Some sold pala-cakes or liquor, and others offered entertainments. She stopped behind a wall of Styth backs to watch a girl in a demure long dress dance on a platform to the music of a ulugong. Inside, Paula supposed, she took it off. In the open front of the next tent, surrounded by the upturned faces of children, a red bird climbed up a rope and rang the bell at the top.

A huge paper-and-paste mask swayed toward her, held up on a long stick above the heads of the crowd, the face painted white and the leering open mouth blood-red. There were other masks up and down the street, and prizes later for the best. The false faces symbolized the Moon-people, the first colonists of Uranus, who according to the legends had been driven out or massacred by the hero Krita. The bells were part of that myth, too: Krita’s bell had brought the colonists to their deaths. She walked along among the crowd, enjoying the circus feeling. The colonists had abandoned Uranus when the Three Planets Empire broke up, not because of Krita’s bell and knife, but the Styths would never believe that. It was part of their lives, their faith. Although Saba was of another house entirely from the ancient hero, one of his titles was Kritona. She stopped at a stall to buy a pala-cake and went on, looking for David.

“Hold these.” David took the white grass garlands off over his head and stuffed them into her arms. Ducking under the rope, he trotted down the street to the starting line of the race. The people around her were eating pala-cakes and making bets. Paula stuck her frozen hands in her sleeves. David grinned at her from the starting line. He was missing three front teeth and his smile was like a tunnel through his face. Something brushed down her back.

“Paula. What are you doing here?”

It was Ketac. She looked up at him behind her. A broad braided ribbon hung around his neck.

“What’s that?”

“I won it throwing knives.”

The crowd roared and surged forward against the rope. A dozen boys raced down the street toward her. David was leading; David had won. The people around her raised their arms and shook their bells, rattle-rattle like little tin leaves, and cheered.

“Aren’t you glad he won?” Ketac said.

“It seems to me you’re all winning everything.”

“That’s because we’re the best family in Matuko.”

David jogged up to her, hardly out of breath. Another garland hung around his neck. The people around him leaned out to touch him. They thought it good luck to touch a winner. Paula held out the wreaths, and solemnly he decorated himself in his awards.

Ketac pulled on the peak of her hood. “You should stay in the chair. You’ll get lost.”

“How can I get lost? Somebody always finds me.”

They went off toward the crowd. David strutted around, collared in grass, calling to his friends in a new deep voice. Paula ran her hand over his smooth head. They went down toward the lake. A little parade of the paper masks passed them, held up on poles.

Ketac left them. David wandered off into the crowd. Paula went slowly down the hillside street. She looked up at the lake, in the roof of the bubble. They were racing boats there; most of the race involved fighting from one boat to the next to knock the oarsmen into the water. She watched one boat roll over, presenting its long white belly to the air. Heads bobbed around it.

Pedasen was part of a small crowd watching a stick-puppet show near the White Market. She went up beside him and took his hand, and he startled. She smiled at him. The puppets declaimed in falsetto voices from the cut-out stage. The eunuch stroked her palm with his fingertips. When the play ended they walked away toward the lake.

“You ought to be in the covered chair,” he said.

“Illy teases me. I don’t know how Saba bears her, she’s that nagging.”

He swung their linked hands back and forth. “You’re more like her child. Or her little sister.” Through the tail of his eye he glanced at her. “You could always give her up.”

David ran up to her, streaming his white grass garlands. Pedasen moved away from her. His fingers slid out of her grasp. Her son bounced around her.

“Mama, buy me a poppet. Buy me a pala-cake.” He towed her along by the hand through the White Market. The Martian merchants had joined with whole hearts in the spirit of Krita, raising all their prices 10 per cent.

“When is the Kritaloi?” Paula asked. The ceremony was the climax of the festival.

Pedasen came after her, his hands in his tunic sleeves. “At three bells.” David scowled at him and moved between her and him.

“What’s he doing here?”

“He lives here,” Paula said.

David shot an angry look over his shoulder at the slave. “Come on. I’ll show you the poppet I want.” He ran off down the street ahead of her.

“I knew he’d get like that about me,” Pedasen said. “He’s a black, no matter what you do.”

A parade of Krita masks bobbed toward them. They passed the shop that sold illusion helmets. The street was sprinkled with bits of paper, mushed pala-cakes, ribbons, and grass. David turned and jogged back toward her, the grass like an Elizabeth ruff over his shoulders. Ten feet from her, a mob of little boys leaped on him.

They screeched. Their arms milling, they fought in the street. David kicked and struck at them; he was smaller than the smallest of them. Paula rushed in among them. They were tearing off his prizes. Her fingers in David’s belt, she pulled him out from under three other boys, and they turned on her. David struggled in her arms. She held him tight against her while the other boys slugged her and kicked her shins. In a moment they raced off.

Ketac said, “What’s going on?”

She let David go. His cheeks were slippery with tears, and he thrust her violently away from him with both hands. Bleeding scratches striped his forehead. His flags were gone. He shouted, “I don’t need you—I can do it—” Crying with rage, he wheeled on Pedasen. “You didn’t even stop her—” He ran off into the crowd. Paula bent and rubbed her sore ankle.

“Are you hurt?” Ketac asked her. Pedasen was going away.

Paula shook her head. “He’s too little to fight.” Her throat felt tight, and her eyes burned.

“So are you,” Ketac said.

Along the shore the men stood in rows, shoulder to shoulder, clapping their hands. The beating rhythm and the bells made Paula’s head throb. She put her hand on the covered chair beside her. Below her, beyond the mass of people, Saba walked into the water. Dakkar and Ketac followed him. The water purled around them. Saba went in to his waist and turned to face the shore. He took off his belt and his shirt and gave them to Ketac. The pale medal of his order swung across his chest. Dakkar held out a sheath, and Saba drew the curved knife out of it. He slashed an X in the black water before him and carved an X deep in his forearm. Paula jerked. Blood streamed down his arm. He plunged it into the lake. The people let out a great breath of a cheer, shaking their sleeves of bells, waving their belled hats. Ketac gave his father a piece of cloth, which Saba wrapped around his arm, and he put his clothes on.

“He bled quite a lot,” Illy said, inside the chair. “A good omen.”