Book Excerpt
Dkar
was my landlord in Cylay. A Putuki man with bulging eyes that judged
everything, he owned a converted warehouse eight blocks from the
governor’s house, if you can call them blocks. I paid rent for two rooms
above the storefront where Cylahi-constructed furniture was sold to the
newly rich residents of the Putuki city section. People on the street
did not bother me much, sometimes to beg alms. My rooms were tossed and
robbed, however, whenever I left to pursue a news story.
Aging and maimed warriors lingered in Cylay; desperate women with
toddlers, free-roaming fowl and pigs. Electricity came on for two hours a
day and the faucets never worked. Rabbenu Ely and the Putuki bazaari
still held authority in Cylay, but rabbenu provided few services to the
people. Unblessed ones, as poor residents were called, understood little
of where the city funds originated and why foreign aid arrived at the
governor’s mansion.
I was in Dkar’s office to lodge a complaint about being robbed again.
Dkar sat in a squeaky chair behind a desk scrounged from an abandoned
hotel. “The thefts are friendliness, Hershel Henry,” he said. “Their way
of saying that you are useful to them.”
“Look, if you refuse to take my complaint seriously—”
“I like you, Softcheeks,” he interrupted. “You can feel safe here.
Safe as long as you allow the activity. If you should bother Putuki
police about the theft, well . . . that’s different, huh?”
“Is that a threat? Are you making a threat?”
“I want to help you, Henry. I’m helping here. Tomorrow we go to the
bazaar, and there we find your solution.” Dkar leaned forward with a
grin, showing the absence of two teeth on the left side. “Trust me.”
I had washed the insect repellent from my hair and beard, now a
silvery blond against tan skin. I wore the dungarees and shirt of the
clutch of Kenru, provided to me when I first visited Uburu land. I had a
field vest with notepad and light meter. And I constantly wore the
sheathed beltknife that was a gift, more for show against the hungry
eyes of local beggars than for soldiering.
I was forced to keep my cameras and everything but a change of
clothes at the hotel Press Club. John Milan and other journalists jeered
at me for preferring to live among the people, and I was beginning to
get the message.
“You got a woman, Henry?” Doug Endicott guessed when I was sharing
drinks with John Milan and Regan Villines at the Press Club. Endicott
was the network dog who parceled out paychecks.
I squinted at his smirk. “Just closer to events.”
“You stink of that slum,” Endicott complained. “You bring their diseases in here.”
“I’ll try not to infect the tribes with your attitude.”
“Why did you even come to Westend?” Endicott demanded. “What was it,
Henry? The lure of exotic locales, or running away from a broken heart?”
“Where I come from, everything is broken. The savannah tribes have a purpose.”
Endicott shook his head slightly. “So . . . it’s the romance thing.
Your tour will end six months early. Mark my words. You’ll shake with
malaria chills for a decade.”
“Maybe not. Australian pioneer stock.”
“An urban pioneer?” Endicott realized his drink was empty and stepped to the bar for a refill.
The comtech over the bar had the volume turned down, but the news
clip replayed Rabbenu Ely announcing a new business in Cylay for an
upstart stock exchange. The rotund rabbenu wore a dark suit and blue
silk sash to designate his office. Ely made a stately stroll down a
gilded hallway to step up to the podium and face reporters. Three suited
Putuki men and General Sector in a starched uniform, head of Consortium
peace-keeping troops in Cylay, crowded behind Ely.
“Ely has gained weight,” Regan said derisively. “And he chose blue for that sash.”
“Why blue?” I asked.
“Blue is forbidden on the savannah,” Regan said, seated
shoulder-to-shoulder with me. “In honor of the blue macaw, the god-agent
of Rularim.”
“What’s a god-agent?” I asked.
“You have much to learn about the tribes, Henry.” John Milan said.
“It’s like a witch has a black cat, but some animals can share dream
images with favorites.”
“With you?” I asked him.
John made a snorting noise and looked around for the waiter. He sighed and went to the bar to order, lingering with Endicott.
“Why does General Sector lend himself to this charade?” Regan asked
as she watched the comtech news. “That’s the real question.”
We saw Ely encourage a shorter man in a blue suit to step up to the podium, further crowding the ministers.
“Manenowski! Can you believe it?” Regan said. Her weathered face and
khaki clothes tagged her as a veteran reporter. “He was promoted to
captain under General Sector,” she added. “He resigned his commission
for this new position as a stock trader. And Sector just stands there,
like that turncoat act was nothing at all. Man, this job will make you
cynical.”
John returned with drinks for him and Regan but not for me. I took
the hint. I headed out from the Press Club, just catching Regan’s
comment as she speculated to John Milan, “How much different from
Henry’s station in Australia is that slum alleyway?”
