VI
The part of Swamp Town between Lotus Flower Canal, the great spice warehouse of Barati & Sons, the Canal of the Drowned Drunkard, and those miserable tenement rafts where Kompong Timur faded into unreclaimed watery wastes was ruled by Sumu the Fat. Which is to say, every resident with a noticeable income—artisan, rentier, joy girl, bazaar keeper, freight hauler, priest, wizard, coiner, et multifarious cetera—paid regular tribute to him. It was shrewdly calculated according to ability to pay, so no one resented it dangerously. Sumu even made some return. His bully boys kept rival gangs out of the district; sometimes they caught lone-wolf robbers and made examples of them. He was an excellent fence for goods stolen from other parts of town. With his connections, he could even help a legitimate merchant make an extra profit, or find a buyer for the daughter of some impoverished man who didn’t know where his next pill was coming from. In such cases, Sumu didn’t charge an exorbitant commission. He offered rough-and-ready justice to those who wanted to lay their quarrels before him. Every year at the Feast of Lanterns, he bore the whole expense of decorating the quarter and went about giving candy to small children.
In short, he was hated no more than any other overlord would have been.
Wherefore Sumu’s man Pradjung, making his regular rounds to collect the tribute, was distressed to hear that a new storyteller had been operating on Indramadju Square for two whole days without so much as a by-your-leave.
Pradjung, who was of ordinary size but notoriously good with a knife, went thither. It was a clear day. The sun stood high and white in a pale sky. Sheet metal walls, canal water, even thatch and wood cast back its radiance until all things swam in that fierce light, wavered with heat haze but threw hard blue shadows. Far off above the roofs, Biocontrol Pagoda reared as if molten, too dazzling to look at. Sound of squalling voices and rumbling motors seemed baked out of the air; women squatted in doorways nursing their babies and gasping. As he hurried past the booths of listless potters, Pradjung heard his own sandals go slap-slap on planks where tar bubbled.
He crossed a suspension bridge to the hummock where Indramadju Square had been constructed, so long ago that the stone dragons on the central fountain were weathered into pug dogs. The fountain was dry, its plumbing had been stolen generations back, but fruit and vegetable vendors from the outlying paddy-farms still brought their produce here to sell. Their booths surrounded the square with thatch and tiny red flags. Because it was cooler here than many other places, and the chance of stealing an occasional modjo not too bad, children and idlers could always be found by the score. Which made it a good location for storytellers.
The new one sat under the basin. He had the usual fan in one hand and the usual bowl set out for contributions. But nothing else about him was normal. Pradjung must push through a crowd six deep before he could even see the man.
Then he gaped. He had never known anyone like this. The fellow was tall, reasonably young, and very well-muscled. But his skin was pale, his face long, his nose a jutting beak, his eyes deepset and of altogether wrong shape. He had hair on his upper lip, which was uncommon but not unknown; however, this mustache was brown, like the close-cropped hair peeping from beneath his turban. He spoke with a strong, unidentifiable accent, and had none of the traditional storyteller mannerisms. Yet he was outrageously at ease.
Which well he might be, for he spoke not of the Silver Bird or Polesotechnarch Van Rijn or any ancient themes known everywhere by heart. He told new stories, most of them indecent and all impudently funny. The crowd shrieked laughter.
“—Now after this long and mighty career, warring in the air for his country, Pierre the Fortunate was granted leave to come home and rest. No honor, no reward was considered too great for this prince among pilots.” The storyteller glanced modestly downward. “But I am a poor man, O gentle and generous people. Weariness overwhelms me.”
Money tinkled into his bowl. After pouring it into a bulging purse, the storyteller leaned back, lit a cigarette, swigged from a wineskin, and resumed: “The home of Pierre the Fortunate was called Paris and was the richest, most beautiful of cities. There, and there alone, had men altogether mastered the arts of pleasure: not mere wallowing in quantity, but the most subtle refinements, the most elegant and delicious accompaniments. For example, the tale is told of a stranger from an uncouth land called Texas, who was visiting in Paris—”
“Hold!”
Pradjung muscled past the inner circle and confronted the newcomer. He heard a growl behind him, and touched his knife. The noise subsided to angry mutters. A few people on the fringes began to drift away, elaborately inconspicuous.
“What is your name, stranger, and where are you from?” snapped Pradjung.
The storyteller looked up. His eyes were an eerie gray color.
“That’s no way to begin a friendship,” he reproved.
Pradjung flushed. “Do you know where you are? This is Sumu’s territory, may his progeny people the universe. Who told an outland wretch like you to set up shop?”
“None told me not to.”
The answer was soft enough for Pradjung to concede—after all, the storyteller was earning at a rate which promised a good rakeoff—“New arrivals of good will are never unwelcome. But my master Sumu must decide. He will surely fine you for not coming to him at once. But if you are courteous to him and—ahem!—his faithful men, I do not think he will have you beaten.”
“Dear me, I hope not.” The storyteller rose to his feet. “Come, then, take me to your leader.”
“You could show his men the politeness they deserve, and gain friends,” Pradjung said, glancing at the full purse.
“Of course.” The storyteller raised his wineskin. “Your very good health, sir.” He took a long drink and hung the skin on his back.
“What of our story?” cried some rustic, too indignant to remember Pradjung’s knife.
“I fear I am interrupted,” said the stranger.
The crowd made a sullen way. Pradjung was feeling surly enough himself, now, but held his peace. Wait till they came to Sumu.
The great man dwelt in a wooden house unpretentious on the outside, except for its dimensions and the scarfaced guards at every door. But the interior was so full of furniture, drapes, rugs, incense burners, caged songbirds, aquaria, and assorted crockery that you could easily get lost. The harem wing was said to possess a hundred inmates, though not always the same hundred. What most impressed a visitor was the air conditioning system, bought at fabulous expense in the palace section of town.
Sumu lolled in a silkite campaign chair, riffling through some papers with one hand and scratching his belly with the other. A pot of sweet black herb tea and a bowl of cookies stood in easy reach. Two daggermen squatted behind him, and he personally packed a gun. It was an archaic snubnosed chemical weapon throwing lead slugs, but it would kill you as dead as any blaster.
“Well?” Sumu raised his bulldog face and blinked nearsightedly.
Pradjung shoved the storyteller forward with a rough hand. “This outland sarwin has been narrating on Indramadju for two days, tuan. See how plump his purse has grown! But when I asked him to come pay his respects to my noblest of masters, he refused with vile oaths until I compelled him at dagger point.”
Sumu peered at the stranger and inquired mildly, “What is your name, and where are you from?”
“Dominic is my name.” The tall man shifted in Pradjung’s grip, as if uneasy.
“A harsh sound. But I asked where you were from.”
“Pegunungan Gradjugang—ouch!—It lies beyond the Tindjil Ocean.”
“Ah. So.” Sumu nodded wisely. One knew little about the dwellers on other continents. Their overlords sometimes came here, but only by air and only to visit the overlords of Kompong Timur. Poor folk rarely traveled far. One heard that strange ways of life had grown up under alien conditions. Doubtless generations of poor diet and insufficient sunlight had bleached this man’s people. “Why did you not seek me out as soon as you arrived? Anyone could have told you where I live.”
“I did not know the rule,” said Dominic pettishly. “I thought I was free to earn a few honest coins.”
“More than a few, I see,” Sumu corrected. “And is it honest to deny me my right? Well, ignorance may pass for an excuse this time. Let us count what you have gotten thus far today. Then we can decide on a proper weekly sum for you to contribute, as well as the fine for not reporting immediately.”
Pradjung grinned and snatched after Dominic’s purse. The tall man stepped back and cast it himself into Sumu’s lap. “Here, tuan,” he exclaimed. “Don’t trust this ugly man. He has reptile eyes. Count the coins yourself. But this is not one day’s take. It’s two days, yes, and a good part of one night. Ask in the square. They’ll tell you how long I worked.”
“Will they tell how much else you have hidden about you, begetter of worms?” sneered Pradjung. “Off with your garments! A fortune could lie in that turban.”
Dominic backed further. Pradjung signaled to the daggermen, who closed in on the storyteller and seized his arms. As he went to his knees, lest bones break, Pradjung kicked him in the stomach. “Strip,” said Pradjung. Sumu continued sorting coins into his sarong.
Dominic groaned. There proved to be nothing in his kilt except himself, but wound into the turban was a package. Pradjung unfolded it before Sumu’s eyes. An awed silence fell on the room.
The wrapping was a blouse: some fabric hitherto unheard of, colored like the palest dawn, fine enough to fold into cubic centimeters but utterly wrinkleproof. Inside the package lay a multiple-dialed watch of incredibly beautiful workmanship, and a wallet not made from leather or any recognized plastic. The wallet held cards and money, whose papery substance was equally strange, whose engraving was lovely but whose legends were in a peculiar form of the alphabet and an altogether foreign language.