Read Online Walk to the End of the World by Suzy McKee Charnas - Free Book Online
Authors: Suzy McKee Charnas
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weaving, and you could always hear them coming a mile off, singing their work-chants. The scattered stands and thickets were deserted now.
The footing was soggy, but Servan liked the hiss and rustle of their passage through the tall, yellow stems. Stripes of gold and shadow glided over their skins and clothing, giving a fantastic, underwater motion effect. The sunlight struck obliquely toward them between the ribbons of grass; they must have been slogging along like this for some time. He’d hardly noticed.
Soon there came the piping of the flutes of Bayo, which were said to skirl as ceaselessly as the horns blew in Lammintown. There was a song that said the flutists’ indrawn breath sucked up the spirits of dead fems and that it was these ghost-voices which sang so sadly from the instruments. An interesting conceit. Servan was eager to see fems on what must be considered their homeground.
Bayo had begun as nothing more than a crude outpost of the City, which lay forty miles inland. The flats between the City and the southern mouth of the river were perfectly suited to the growing of lavers. These freshwater weeds, both tasty and nutritious, grew best in nutrient-rich, shallow waters. So the south channel of the river had been dammed into ponds, into which the City’s sewage was fed. Then stone causeways had been built bestriding the ponds and linking Bayo with the City. Lastly, the structures of Bayo itself had gone up, to house a permanent fem labor force and whatever company of men was assigned to supervise them.
Surrounded on the seaward side by the golden grass, the thick crescent of Bayo buildings crouched, compact and unadorned, between the southern margins of the ponds and the river’s mouth where the ferry docked. Bayo’s walls were of mud-brick, fired to withstand the summer rains. All the structures had been erected on a ramp of similar brick that sloped noticeably upward from the dockside warehouses to the farther horn of the crescent, where the pyramidal men’s compound reared up overlooking everything. The quarters of the fems comprised the curved centre.
This evening, from the bright-windowed men’s compound came cheerful rills of flute notes and a drum beat reinforced by the stamp
of dancing feet. The Penneltons’ greeting-feast for the ferrymen was in full swing. Hopefully, the Chesters would maintain the secret of their complicity with the fugitives outside for some hours yet.
The three of them squatted in the high grass, weary and coated to the knees in marsh mud. An unpleasant odor hung in the air, penetrating even the dank salt-smell of the marshes. Probably the odor was connected with the cloudy emissions from the chimneys clustered on the rooftops of buildings adjoining the warehouses. Those would be the workrooms, a good place to enter, if they could get past the guards.
Three pairs of Rovers patrolled the lighted gallery which ran along the inside curve of the crescent. Servan considered Rovers to be highly overrated as fighting men. Once you figured out that they worked on the principle of the pre-emptive strike, it was easy to deal with them. Acting out of fear themselves, they interpreted others’ fear of them as a presage of aggression and responded by attacking first. Seen in this way, theirs was a reasonable sort of behavior. Servan had a theory that the famous ‘mature’ composure of Senior men was primarily protective, to prevent the unintended triggering of Rovers against the Seniors themselves. Servan had adopted the show of serenity in his own contact with Rovers quite successfully.
A man like Kelmz, however, was not to be wasted in a situation like this. Servan waited while Kelmz sized up their position independently and came, naturally, to the same conclusion. The captain made a stay-put sign and moved off silently toward the warehouses. For a big man, he could travel very neatly when he chose to.
Servan sat back to wait, turning his mind firmly from considerations of
The footing was soggy, but Servan liked the hiss and rustle of their passage through the tall, yellow stems. Stripes of gold and shadow glided over their skins and clothing, giving a fantastic, underwater motion effect. The sunlight struck obliquely toward them between the ribbons of grass; they must have been slogging along like this for some time. He’d hardly noticed.
Soon there came the piping of the flutes of Bayo, which were said to skirl as ceaselessly as the horns blew in Lammintown. There was a song that said the flutists’ indrawn breath sucked up the spirits of dead fems and that it was these ghost-voices which sang so sadly from the instruments. An interesting conceit. Servan was eager to see fems on what must be considered their homeground.
Bayo had begun as nothing more than a crude outpost of the City, which lay forty miles inland. The flats between the City and the southern mouth of the river were perfectly suited to the growing of lavers. These freshwater weeds, both tasty and nutritious, grew best in nutrient-rich, shallow waters. So the south channel of the river had been dammed into ponds, into which the City’s sewage was fed. Then stone causeways had been built bestriding the ponds and linking Bayo with the City. Lastly, the structures of Bayo itself had gone up, to house a permanent fem labor force and whatever company of men was assigned to supervise them.
Surrounded on the seaward side by the golden grass, the thick crescent of Bayo buildings crouched, compact and unadorned, between the southern margins of the ponds and the river’s mouth where the ferry docked. Bayo’s walls were of mud-brick, fired to withstand the summer rains. All the structures had been erected on a ramp of similar brick that sloped noticeably upward from the dockside warehouses to the farther horn of the crescent, where the pyramidal men’s compound reared up overlooking everything. The quarters of the fems comprised the curved centre.
This evening, from the bright-windowed men’s compound came cheerful rills of flute notes and a drum beat reinforced by the stamp
of dancing feet. The Penneltons’ greeting-feast for the ferrymen was in full swing. Hopefully, the Chesters would maintain the secret of their complicity with the fugitives outside for some hours yet.
The three of them squatted in the high grass, weary and coated to the knees in marsh mud. An unpleasant odor hung in the air, penetrating even the dank salt-smell of the marshes. Probably the odor was connected with the cloudy emissions from the chimneys clustered on the rooftops of buildings adjoining the warehouses. Those would be the workrooms, a good place to enter, if they could get past the guards.
Three pairs of Rovers patrolled the lighted gallery which ran along the inside curve of the crescent. Servan considered Rovers to be highly overrated as fighting men. Once you figured out that they worked on the principle of the pre-emptive strike, it was easy to deal with them. Acting out of fear themselves, they interpreted others’ fear of them as a presage of aggression and responded by attacking first. Seen in this way, theirs was a reasonable sort of behavior. Servan had a theory that the famous ‘mature’ composure of Senior men was primarily protective, to prevent the unintended triggering of Rovers against the Seniors themselves. Servan had adopted the show of serenity in his own contact with Rovers quite successfully.
A man like Kelmz, however, was not to be wasted in a situation like this. Servan waited while Kelmz sized up their position independently and came, naturally, to the same conclusion. The captain made a stay-put sign and moved off silently toward the warehouses. For a big man, he could travel very neatly when he chose to.
Servan sat back to wait, turning his mind firmly from considerations of
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