Chapter 4 - finale

The day was wet, and there was a great, grey fog hanging over nearly everything west of the Prow; on its eastern flank, as always, the airs were churned up more by the falls. The Caza folk went about wearing capes and scarves against the autumn chill, and Amos carried with her a fine umbrella of treated salsku-hide, a gift from her dear Aunt Meer.

 

Amos found herself in the streets near the topmost section of the Diamond, after a dreadful luncheon in which Opho had droned on and on about the effects of industrialization on the economy; now he was escorting her to [where?] on Bolo Boulevard. As they walked north along the broad avenue built along the high bank of the canal, Amos could just make out the jutting abutments of Jury Gate through the shifting mists. The high arch, with the sculpted figures of wily Nano and watchful Hido, was entirely hidden. Much nearer were the gates to Peak Park, and these Amos could see only a few blocks down the Boulevard.

 

It was then that she spotted a man dressed in a grand, brown balmacaan, sporting also a matching, wide-brimmed hat. She recognized him instantly, and she knew, as he was coming down the busy street toward them, that he would soon spot her as well. Amos acted without thinking, and pulled the obnoxious Count Opho into a sheltered doorway. She hoped that her suitor didn't misconstrue her intent in doing so, but she was prepared at this point to accept the lesser of two evils.

 

“Whatever's got into you?” Opho asked, rather quite alarmed.

 

“It's that man!” Amos hissed. She made a discrete gesture toward the oncoming gentleman. Opho squinted to see who she meant.

 

“The tall bloke with the brown cap?”

 

“That's the one,” Amos said with true disdain. “His name is Rinz, and he is a vile, treacherous fellow.”

 

“I don't know him,” Opho said, taking another furtive look at the man who was now quite close. “But he looks like a gentleman.”

 

“He has closer kinship to a spider,” Amos answered, dreading to be discovered. “He is always weaving webs of deceit. He is very cunning-”

 

“Oh, come now!” Opho chided her in a way Amos truly detested, treating her like a child. “Don't be silly,” he said. “I'm sure no gentleman can be as bad as all that. Come out of hiding, dear girl – I'll protect you from all villainy!”

 

Before she could protest, Opho pulled her out of the doorway where she stumbled and nearly fell flat on her face, except that someone who seemed to have the foresight to be there, caught her and held her.

 

Amos turned her head to look into the devilish, grinning face of the abominable Rinz, Baron of Salo. “Lucky I was here,” he drawled, leering into her face so that Amos could smell the putrid stink of his cigar-breath. Rinz smoked these horrible Aphloti, hand-rolled things – not because they were any better than the locally grown stuff, but simply because they were exotic, and expensive.

 

He held her one moment too long, increasing her discomfort, letting her know that he had her; but to the rest of Caza it looked as though he really was her savior. Amos thought to herself that she would rather have rolled about in the mud, but to Rinz, she said through a forced smile:

 

“By the Five Waters, how right you are! My gallant Baron, I thank you most humbly!” Amos then turned to present her companion; but because she was still in the grip of the miscreant, she stumbled once more, or pretended to, and ended up bringing her sharp heel down directly on Rinz's right's foot. “Oh dear! How clumsy I am today!”

 

Rinz gave a yelp and withdrew his smarting foot, but quickly he regained his composure, even as Amos pulled herself free of him. She went to Opho's arm, and clung to it, although she wished only to spurn him for drawing her out. Of course, the fool had thought that he must show no lack of courage before her; skulking about in dank doorways was most unbecoming of the lofty Count Opho!

 

The poor man was now extending his hand to make his introduction. Rinz, quite red in the face, showed for just a moment a wild flash of hatred in his eyes, but Amos was quite sure that Opho missed it. “I have of course heard of you, Baron Rinx,” he said, mixing up the names.

 

“Rinx is my brother,” Rinz said dryly, taking Opho's proffered hand for just a moment. “I am Rinz.”

 

“Forgive me. Pleased to make your acquaintance. I am Opho, of the House Desacrio.”

 

“Yes, I know your father, the good Count Cort.”

 

“Indeed!” Opho said with gusto, for his father was his hero. “How do you know him?”

 

“We have had some dealings in the past,”Rinz uttered brusquely. “He is most shrewd. Don't they have a name for him – the Raccoon Tycoon?”

 

Opho blinked, surprised to hear such nonsense. “I believe you must be mistaken,” he said automatically; then, he thought to enquire, “Where did you hear such drivel?”

 

“From those I suppose who felt of him robbed.”

 

“My father is no bandit!”

 

“Well, it is only a nickname. I'm sure that all of Cort's business is above-board and according to the law.”

 

“I should think so!” Opho said, quite puffed up now with family pride. “And if I were you, I would think twice about repeating any words that would mar his reputation.”

 

Rinz shrugged. “I doubt that without the nickname your father would have any reputation at all. “But don't mistake me, comrade! I quite admire your father's acuity in business and politics. When next you see him, please give him my regards. In fact, do give him this for me!”

 

The scoundrel then produced from an inner pocket a sealed letter that had no name inscribed upon it.

 

“What's this?” Opho said, eying the envelope suspiciously.

 

“It is something I have owed him for some time now. I quite forgot I had it on me! How fortuitous our meeting today!”

 

Amos smirked at that, because she saw how Rinz was now favouring his left foot.

 

Opho took the envelope, still rather incredulous. “This is intended for my father?” he asked once more.

 

“Indeed! The sooner you deliver it, the better! I've already had it in my pocket for a week, and if it sits in yours for another, your father might be quite put out by the time he gets it!”

 

Opho's face paled visibly, for although he worshiped his father for his brilliance, he also feared him for his wrath.

 

“Well, I'm off!” Rinz said, doffing his brown hat. “I'm afraid I'm running late and I don't want to keep my people at Lo Bonquio waiting any longer than they have already! Count Opho, it was a pleasure; Miss Amos – I'll catch you later!”

 

Amos' eyes narrowed. Clearly the rascal was lusting for more of the unprecedented proximity he'd enjoyed. She watched him as he sauntered away, smug and self-satisfied, lighting up one of his foul-smelling cigarillos.

 

“How mysterious!” Opho said, puzzling over the envelope in his hands. “Do you really think this is meant for my father?”

 

Amos let out a little snort, which was exceptionally unladylike, but suited her perfectly. “He's such a braggart!” she said, scoffing. “Did you hear him? He just had to drop the name of the restaurant where he's dining today!”

 

Opho blinked, and then a sudden thought struck him. He glanced at the receding back of the brown-clad Baron, wondering if here was a rival for the affections of the lovely Amos. “You know, I can get us a table at La Bannaquiso anyday.”

 

Amos rolled her eyes as she turned away from Opho. She didn't have the spirit to say how there was a big difference between the two, and that the illustrious restaurant where Rinz was heading – or at least claimed to be – was twice as exclusive as the one Opho would now assuredly bring her to, if he ever managed to wrangle another date out of her.

 

Opho stuffed the envelope into his inner breast pocket, musing as he did so, “I wonder if I should open it to check its contents...”

 

Amos knew then the foolhardy Opho would do exactly that, and in so doing would somehow find himself enmeshed in one of Rinz's dastardly plots – which no doubt was all his intention in handing over the possibly incriminating envelope. For some reason, this made her laugh, and she felt herself floating above all this petty politicking, as though she were sitting in a little skiff on a deep, dark water in which many toothy fish all fought to consume one another.

 

As if reading her thoughts – or was it she who planted the idea in his? - Opho suddenly veered toward the canal, decidedly ending their constitutional by taking her down some wide stone steps to the dock where ferry-men stood about smoking and laughing, while their long, skinny gondolas bobbed in the dull, brackish water.

As they reached the last step, Amos put in the question: “Where are we off to in such a hurry?” She was but a little out of breath by now, but she embellished the halt in her rhetoric to indicate his haste was inappropriate.

Opho frowned, glancing from one ferry-man to another. He only wanted to deal with them at present, for they could be a tricky lot, and sometimes quite bold. One particular man with tinted glasses turned his head down so he could look over the frames and let his eyes be seen as he winked at Amos in her satin gown.

“I need to retire out of this clammy cold,” Opho said over his shoulder, in quick explanation. “I feel a dreadful rheumatism coming on.” Then he added a little cough, as though to back up this claim, making Amos roll her eyes again and wonder how such an educated Count could possibly be so daft.

In another few strides, they had reached the ferry-men. There were cabs and coaches, of course, that could take them back down through the Diamond to the Sala District, where Amos stayed with her cousin the physician; but as anyone knew in Caza, the swiftest way toward the city center was undeniably by aqueous navigation.

“I need a ride to Whitcomb Plains in Ab Sala,” Opho pronounced to the ferry-men. “Who will take me?”

“That depends, Sirrah,” replied one of the men on the long dock which was their only territory – for while they worked the canals and river within the city bounds, they did not think of it as under their yoke, but quite the reverse; and also they were obliged to share the waterways with tradesmen, tugs, and looters.

“Depends?” Opho repeated, obfuscated. “On what?”

“Whether you prefer shrimp, crab, or langostino.”

Opho's eyes narrowed. “I am allergic to all shellfish.”

That produced raucous laughter from all the ferry-men. One of them, a lanky man with big arms and a striped shirt, said once his mates had quieted down. “Then it'll be me as takes you, Sirrah. My vessel is called the Nymph.”

He looked at Amos when he said that, but Opho didn't notice. He was looking where the man was pointing, with his long pole: a figure of a full-bosomed water sprite reclining on a lily pad was painted on the side of the narrow river-cab. On the others moored at the dock, the flustered Count saw other figures painted: a great, blue crab with fierce pincers, a squid that seemed to be winking even as it squirted out a cloud of ink down along the side of the boat in long, indigo curlicues.

“Right,” Opho said, patting his the breast of his jacket where the envelope was stashed. “Let's shove off, then. I'm in a bit of a hurry.”

“Let's hope that the brick-makers barges aren't on the water yet,” the ferry-man replied as he stepped off the dock into the Nymph, which barely rocked under him, so good were his sea-legs. “Once they leave the Quarry, one can get stuck in their wake, which is a misnomer for such an obstruction, as being detained by their passage usually puts me right to sleep.”

Opho jumped in the boat, following the hired gondolier, and nearly sent them both into the swirling waters. Using his great pole, arms quivering and bulging, the driver deftly settled his craft by thrusting against the bottom of the canal.

“Step lively!” said one of the ferry-men to Amos, as he gave her his hand to help her down into the boat. It was the one with the tinted glasses. Amos looked at them in admiration.

“Where did you pick up such an unusual thing?” she asked. “I've seen dark lenses to keep out the sun, but never yellow glass set into frames.”

The ferry-man smiled at her and answered with a bit of an accent, marking him as a highlander, probably from one of the three river-towns: Elbo, Salo, or Alto. “These are very special, Miss. When the sun is hiding, they make the world brighter. They are very useful on the water, especially on days like this when the mists and murk can hide from the eye a great deal. Would you like to try them out?”

He took the glasses off and handed them to Amos, who slipped them on and saw how right he was! Through the tinted glass, everything jumped out in high relief and bright contrast. “How marvelous!” she said, looking all about her.

“Come along, Amos!” Opho called after her, as he sat himself down in the gondola.

Amos made to take the glasses off, but the Highlander stopped her. “Keep them on, Miss; they'll make your voyage more interesting. Give them to Muro there once he drops you off, and he'll give them back to me.”

“How kind!” Amos said, thrilled. “Thank you so much!” She leaned in and gave the ferry-man a kiss on his rough cheek – something which Opho was loth to see.

“Oh, and they're not yellow, Miss,” the Highlander added. “They're ochre.”

Amos clambered easily into the boat; she had been raised by the sea since the age of six. Smiling, she asked both Opho and Muro, “Do they suit me?”

“You look positively angelic,” Opho murmured.

Muro grinned and said, “We'll make a Nymph out of you yet – won't we boys?”

All the ferry-men clamoured and hollered at that, rapping their long poles against the wooden beams of the dock.

Down toward the Diamond the gondola shot, speeding even though they went against the current. Muro dug his long pole deep into the canal with even strokes and kept them flowing across the surface of the water. This quite made up for missing out on Peak Park, where Amos loved to go strolling through the tended gardens of paza-lilies, even if she had to tolerate the likes of Count Opho as her escort.

As they approached the great split-water, the Apex of the Diamond, Muro called out to them:

“East or West, Pyke or Dyke? We'll see mists in the mangroves to the right, and militant midgets to the left! Which is it to be?”

Opho didn't answer, as it made no difference: both routes were equidistant to their destination. Either way, they would come back to the conjoined canals, the Nadir, and the main waterway that would take them beneath the Great Bridge, where the waters of the great Apsiam River had first been diverted by the hands of man.

Looking up at their guide, Amos smiled and said, “What do you like to see most?”

“Me?” Muro said. “I like to see the girls bathing on the Shoals by the Blue Gate! But I don't think we'll make it as far as that! I think west is the best for you, my dear river pixie. Wearing those glasses you'll be able to spot some of the mezaca fish as we pass by; and I just happen to have some crumbs to lure them to the surface for your pleasure. They're stowed in yon hideaway hatch.”

Amos delighted to see the secrets of the river, and pulled out the little bag of fish food. She turned to her companion, filled with girlish glee, but it was clear that Opho did not like being in this position; the zeal of the gondolier, who was clearly more capable of charming his date, made the Count quite grim. He waved off the fish food wordlessly, leaving it to Amos, whose mood wasn't spoiled by his choice to sulk; but she did think briefly for a moment how nice it would be to share this river-ride with someone she truly loved.

She gave Muro a sly glance over the top of the tinted glasses. She liked his big arms, and wondered what they would feel like around her, holding her down.

I wonder if he's as good with his little stick as he is with his big one, she thought, with a deliciously wicked feeling of naughtiness.

Muro aimed them to the right, and they slid down the western canal, going under the old bridges of Caza: Rake Bridge, Lost Bridge, Late Bridge. The area about the Diamond was one of the most beautiful and prestigious in all the capital.

They passed by terraces of restaurants built alongside the canals, and there were many people walking along the streets, and over the bridges. It was a common practice in those days to fling or flick little silver pieces to any ferry-man passing by on the river; if he caught the coin you flung, it was considered good luck, for both parties involved. This was in line with the old traditions of giving sacrifices to the old river gods and water sprites.

Muro waved at all the people who called to him, crying,“Gondo! Gondo!”Whenever they tossed him a coin, he always managed to snag it out of the air with a single hand, if the person throwing it had aimed it well enough. A few of the ferry-men, Amos had seen, could collect all the coins thrown clear by connecting their poles with the change that would otherwise would be lost in the canal. The coins, like balls hit with a bat, would jump up into the air, and if the ferry-man was skilled at such an act, could catch all the coins that came his way. Some of them even had competitions on the water, to see how many they could put in their pockets during a limited time, with people throwing silver coins from both sides of the canal, and along the bridges.

The ferry-men who were the best at this unusual sport practiced on the docks between hires, using bottle caps, or rocks, or wooden nickels.

Muro made the occasional tip on this journey, but folks on foggy days were generally less inclined to linger about the water, where there was always more of a chill. One coin he missed – perhaps on purpose – struck Opho on the top of his head, and he erupted in sudden curses.

Mists rolled in as they reached the nadir, and so they were covered in a blanket of white, roiling airs all the way down to the Great Bridge.

“If the mists give you a chill, Miss,” Muro said, “You'll find a shawl lined with mudra-fur in the same little cubby-hole as where you found the fish food. I'm sorry to say, that the flakes won't be of much use to us, as this is where the fishies like to feed. You can give them some nevertheless, but with this fog, I doubt you'll spot any of them.”

Amos pursed her lips. Bad luck. She'd really wanted to see the fish; but after a moment's reflection she decided that they still deserved a treat, even if she was denied hers. She threw in a handful of the fish food.

Muro began to sing as he poled – a long, bellowing, ferry-man's song. This was heard all the time during fogs or white-outs, and it was very romantic to be walking in the city near the Apsiam or along one of the canals and hear in that ghostly echosome way that fogs distort sounds these songs of the river-workers. Some were dreary and long; others were more uplifting, but usually held the same, slow cadence. It was a trick of navigation; rather than fog-horns, the ferry-men sang, whereas the barges just rang their bells and the tugs blew their whistles.

Beneath the Great Bridge were built several break-currents, so that river-craft could manage to rejoin the Apsiam, which flowed much wider and much swifter than those water which went north along the excavated ways.

Muro expertly guided the gondola past the break-currents, which were just banks of great stones, cut out of Old Quarry long ago. Had his customers requested a route that went against the currents of the Apsiam, Muro here would have been obliged to fix to the end of his pole the little motorized propellers which he would then use to push against the great might of the combined waters of both the Chapsiam and Lapsiam Rivers. No man could row or pole against its push.

As it was, Whitcomb Plains lay downriver not very far, and so Muro was able to pole into the current, and let the river carry them, using now his long stave only to direct their course. They would float as far as Foal Bridge, where another dock stood, full of jolly ferry-men making their flagrant, rude comments.

Amos found it somewhat unfortunate that she was born into a class where proper manners always had to be observed. She envied these simple gondoliers, who drank and sang all night long, then went down to the docks before dawn where they engaged one another in challenges ridiculous or rude: drunken water-jousting on the vacant canals with their poles; standing on the balustrade of the bridges where they had pissing contests; pole vaulting off the bridges and trying to catch prizes (usually sodden panties, sometimes filled as a joke with caviar) that others hung from fishing lines along the banks to tempt them.

The whole lifestyle seemed romantic and free, raunchy and right for what a human was meant to be doing with their lives. It wouldn't be so bad, perhaps, if Amos elected to become their little nymph. They were all burly brawlers, just like the gladiators that she and Veon spent so much time with – real men, with real drives that they did not try to cover up with elegance and etiquette.

With an inward sigh, Amos thought to herself, I am not born into the right time. But it was hard for her to regret anything, as she was young and completely in love with the world.

As they neared Foal Bridge, Muro pointed out with his pole a long line of barges before them: the brick-makers, bringing in their daily shipment to the Heath and the Lathe – neighbourhoods of Caza that had been booming for over a decade.

“Ah, but there is a gap!” Muro pointed out. “We can sneak right through, if we are lucky!”

He aimed the gondola with grace and ease toward the gap between the barges, then quickly put the propeller attachment at the end of his pole so they could get past the slow steamers. As they shot through the gap, Amos watched the great water wheels built aft-wise on each of the barges, turning and dripping, shining fins in rotation.

As they cleared the barges, they saw Foal Bridge, and the ferry-man's dock to the left. They would have to cut across the water to reach it, but Muro was confident. He increased the speed of his little motor, which began to whine loudly.

It was at this instant that random happenstance came into play, changing Amos' course for good, and for the rest of her life.

A wind whipped across the water, and opened Opho's jacket. The envelope that had been safely tucked in his pocket came flying out suddenly; and without thinking about what he was doing, the doltish Count leapt from his seat, lunging for the paper that went aloft.

Muro caught the envelope against his wet pole as he thrust it upward in an arc. But with Opho upsetting his boat, he lost his balance and went overboard with a little cry and a loud splash.

Amos and Opho were now adrift, with no motor and no guidance; and she could see they were cutting right across the path of the nearest barge. The helmsman of the brick-maker's steam-ship blew his horn at them, but there was nothing they could do.

The barge, now on a collision course, veered hard toward the bank of the river to avoid crashing into the hapless couple. This action caused the cargo to shift, and fall: heaps of bricks laid upon pallets went over in a slide, breaking and sending up a fine smoke of clay dust. Several bags of sand that had been tied down also came down in a cascade, some of them ripping open so that their contents spilled from the deck of the ship directly into the river water, spreading out in a growing cloud of sable sediment hanging in an inky colloid.

Amos gasped. She remembered instantly the Stanzas she has learned as a girl:

“'When the sable sands retire, turn your eye to ochre fire'.”

She looked around for anything that might be on fire, but there was nothing. It was too early for any of the gas lamps to be burning. On either side of the canal, in all the windows, there was no flicker of any flame.

It was then that the clouds above parted for just a moment, and through the rift, a few rays of sunlight came streaming out; they bounced off a sign made of stained glass and played upon the waters beside the malingering gondola, where they appeared to flicker like ochre embers.

In a state of transfixed awe, ignoring Opho and his panicked, wails for aid – from river, bridge, or barge – Amos stood up and saw through the tinted glasses she wore the sign that hung from the theatre which had caught her eye. It was a stylized lamp-lighter, a lad of twelve perhaps, made out of stained glass, and he was swinging with one arm hooked around a lamp-post. In his other hand, he held his light. The words above and below him read:

 

Illuminati Odeum

 

“Well, slap my fanny and call me daffy,” Amos muttered.

Opho grabbed her by the arm at that point, and screamed in her face. “What are you doing? Who are you talking to?”

Amos snorted loudly. “The man on the pole,” she replied tersely, then pulled her arm free.