Yes, we can. People do it to themselves all the time. It’s a way of altering
reality. The fish that got away always gets bigger as time goes by.’
‘You know, I’ve noticed that myself. How do I go about doing it?’
Her explanation was fairly obscure, dealing as it did with the
peculiar nature of human memory. When you get down to the
bottom of it, only about half of what we remember really happened.
We tend to modify things to make ourselves look better in our own
eyes and in the eyes of others. Then, if what we did wasn’t really
very admirable, we tend to forget that it ever happened. A normal
human being’s grasp on reality is very tenuous at best. Our
imaginary lives are usually much nicer.
To practice, I tampered – marginally – with the memories of some
of the people in Annath, and it was actually quite easy.
‘Why am I learning how to do this, mother?’ I asked her after a few
weeks.
‘There are a couple of people who are mentioned – sort of around the
edges – in the Mrin. I think we’d better look in on them to make sure that
they’ll really be on our side.’
‘Everybody in the western kingdoms will be on our side, mother.’
‘That’s the whole point, Pol. These people aren’t-from the west. They’re
living over in Car og Nadrak.’
*CHAPTER38
‘I can’t wear these clothes in public, mother!’
‘You look very nice, Pol. The clothes show off your-figure.’
‘I can do that by not wearing anything at all! I’m not going out in
public wearing something that-fits me like a second skin!’
‘There does seem to be something missing, though.’
‘You noticed. How observant of YOU.’
‘Be nice. Oh, I know. We-forgot the daggers.’
, Daggers?’
‘Four of them usually – two at your belt and one tucked in the top of
each of your boots.’
‘Why do I need so many?’
‘It’s a Nadrak custom, Pol. It’s a Nadrak woman’s way of telling men
that it’s all right to look at her, but touching will get them in trouble.’
The twins were filling in for me in Annath until father arrived,
and mother had taken me a ways back into the forest to instruct
me in the peculiarities of Nadrak custom and costume. The clothes
in which she’d garbed me consisted of black leather boots,
tightfitting black leather trousers, and an even tighter-fitting black leather
vest. A simple inventory might sound masculine, but when I put
the clothes on I saw that no one who saw me was likely to be
confused about my gender. I immediately saw why Nadrak women
might need daggers – lots of daggers. ‘Do Nadrak men understand
,what the daggers mean?’ I asked.
‘ Usually – if they’re sober. Every so often they get playful and need to
be reminded to keep their hands to themselves. A few nicks and cuts usually
gets the point across.’
‘Are you trying to be funny?’
‘Would I do that?’
I willed four Ulgo knives into existence. If you want to intimidate
someone, show him an Ulgo knife. The sight of something with a
hooked point and saw-toothed edges tends to make people a bit
queasy.
‘Those are horrible, Pol!’
‘Isn’t that the idea? I want to be sure that nobody gets drunk enough
to start taking chances.’
‘You do realize that they’ll lower your price, don’t you?’
‘Price?’
‘Nadrak women are property, Pol. Everybody knows that.’
‘Oh, yes. I’d-forgotten about that. Is there anything else you’ve neglected
to tell me?’
‘You’ll have to wear a collar – tastefully ornamented with jewels ~ you
were expensive. Don’t worry about the chain. Nadrak women don’t attach
the chain to the collar except on formal occasions. We’ll stop somewhere
on our way to Yar Nadrak so that you can watch a Nadrak woman dance.
You’ll need to know how to do that.’
‘I already know how to dance, mother.’
‘Not the way they do it in Gar og Nadrak. When a Nadrak woman
dances, she challenges every man in the room. That’s the main reason she
needs the daggers.’
‘Why dance that way if it causes that kind of problem?’
‘Probably for the fun of it, Pol. It drives Nadrak men absolutely crazy.,
I realized that Nadrak women took the sport of ‘breaking hearts’
all the way out to the extreme edge. This little trip might just be
more interesting than I’d expected.
Then mother and I merged into the form of a falcon and winged
our way northeasterly to the land of the Nadraks. The two men we
were looking for were in the capital at Yar Nadrak, but mother
suggested that we stop at a nameless hamlet in the endless forests
of Car og Nadrak to witness the performance of a Nadrak dancer
named Ayalia.
The hamlet had that slap-dash, ‘Oh, that’s good enough’ quality
about it that seems to be endemic in Car og Nadrak. The buildings
were made of logs and canvas, and none of them even approached
being square or plumb. They sagged and leaned off in all directions,
but that didn’t seem to bother the fur trappers and gold hunters
who came out of the forest from time to time when they grew
hungry for civilization. Mother and I flew in over the town and
perched on the sill of an unglazed window high up in the back wall
of the local tavern.
‘Ayalla’s owner’s named Kablek, Pol,’ mother told me. ‘He owns., this
tavern, and Ayalla’s something in the nature of a business asset. She dances
here every night, and that’s what brings in all the customers. Kablek’s
getting rich here because of her. He waters down his beer to the point that
it doesn’t even foam any more, and he charges outrageous prices for it.’
‘He sounds like a Tolnedran.’
‘Yes, he does rather – but without the polish.’
The crowd in Kablek’s tavern was rowdy, but there were a number
of burly fellows with stout cudgels roaming around to keep order.
They broke up the knife-fights, but largely ignored the fist-fights
unless the participants started splintering the furniture.
Kablek and his serving-men sold beer at a furious rate until about
mid-evening, and then the patrons began to chant, ‘Ayalla, Ayalia,
Ayalla!’ stamping their feet and pounding on the rough tables with
their fists. Kablek let that go on for several minutes, still pouring
beer for all he was worth, and then he climbed up on the long
counter along the back wall of his establishment and bellowed,
‘Last call, gentlemen! Get your beer now. We don’t sell none while
Ayalla’s dancing!’
That precipitated a rush to the counter. Then, when he saw that
everybody’s tankard was full, Kablek held up his hand for silence.
‘This is the beat!’ he announced, and he began to clap his callused
hands together – three measured beats followed by four staccato
ones. ‘Don’t lose that beat, men. Ayalla don’t like that, and she’s
real quick with her knives.’
Their answering laughter was a little nervous. A performer always
wants to hold her audience – but with a knife?
Then, with a professionally dramatic flair, Ayalla appeared in a
well-lighted doorway. I was forced to admit that she was stunningly
beautiful, with blue-black hair, sparkling black eyes, and a sensual
mouth. Technically, she was a slave, a piece of property, but no
Tolnedran emperor could ever have matched her imperial bearing.
Slave or not, Ayalla literally owned everything – and everyone
she laid her eyes on. Her dress, if you could call something that
flimsy a dress, was of pale, gauzy, Mallorean silk, and it whispered
as she moved. It left her arms bare to the shoulders and stopped
just above her soft leather boots where her jeweled dagger-hilts
peeped coyly at the onlookers.
The audience cheered, but Ayalla looked slightly bored. Her
expression changed, however, when the onlookers began that
compelling beat. Her face became intent and the sheer force of her
overwhelming presence struck her audience and captured them.
her dance began slowly, almost indolently, and then her pace
quickened. Her feet seemed almost to flicker as she whirled about the
room to that compelling beat.
‘Breathe, Pol!’ mother’s voice cracked. ‘I’m starting to see spots in
front of our eyes.’
I explosively let out the breath I’d been unconsciously holding.
Ayalla’s performance had even captured me. ‘Gifted, isn’t she?’ I
suggested mildly.
Ayalla slowed her dance and concluded with an outrageously
sensual strut that challenged every man in the room. The placement
of her hands on her dagger hilts as she seemed to be offering herself
announced quite clearly what she’d do to anyone foolish enough to
accept her offer.
Dear Gods! That looked like fun!
‘Well, Pol?’ mother asked. ‘Do you think you could do ‘ that?’
‘It might take some practice,’ I admitted, ‘but not too much. I know
exactly what she’s doing. She’s very proud of being a woman, isn’t she?’