“I have no hopes,” said another. “None of the jong have been any use. All those who came at first, they did the bad thing, but when we tried to use them to fix it, they were no use. Jongau are still moving around out there, all warped. That Ashes-gau, that bad smell, he is still out there.”
“The other bad smells are there, too,” offered another. “The big ones, the wet ones, the dry ones, the thorny ones … “
“I know what happened before,” murmured the green-haired one. “I have been told by Bofusdiaga, singer of the sun. I have been told by Corojum, dancer of bright skies. Mouchidi is different. So say they.”
One who had departed moments before returned breathlessly. “We went, we met word already coming up from below,” tim said. “The below ones already know of this Questioner. When it comes, it will be of some other kind and maybe have with it some other kinds yet. Bofusdiaga thinks we should look at them, too. Perhaps we would have better luck with another kind.”
“Try, then,” said the green-haired one. “Meantime, I will go to watch Mouchidi.” She paused, as though debating whether or not to say what was in her mind, deciding at last to do so. “Again I dreamed! In the dream I danced into the fauxi-dizalonz, and Mouchidi was in it, and I was with him, and we were being changed together.”
Several of the others recoiled, putting up their hands as though to ward her away. “Tss! Do not speak of it to tim-tim. It is not for us who say tim, tim, but only for you who say I, I. Speak of it only to Bofusdiaga, who alloys, and even then, speak softly, for She might hear.”
“She still sleeps,” asserted the one called Flowing Green.”She is not listening yet.”
The other made a gesture which was the equivalent of a shrug. Flowing Green was excessive. From highest to lowest, Doshanoi, everyone, knew it. Tim-tim always said “tim-tim,” we. Tim-tim never said “I.” What could a part teach the whole? What dance could an “I” do, all by itself? Surely only the great ones could dream fully. Surely only the alloyed ones could remember what had been lost …
“But they do not,” whispered some. “Even they do not remember, even among them the dreams are tattered, filmy, without substance. How could even alloyed ones make do with such as that?” They could not. The dance was lost. Perhaps … lost forever.
“It is said,” sang someone hidden in a corner. “It is said the mankinds have done wrong, they may be exterminated for the wrong they have done. Now, almost one could welcome this Questioner if it would exterminate these jongau who had not the courtesy to die.”
“Bofusdiaga says no,” said Flowing Green. “Bofusdiaga does not want justice.”
The timmy departed by Doshanoi ways, unseen. It did not take long to find the place where Mouche and the others had been sent.
36—Pressed Men at Mantelby
Mouche let himself be loaded into the wagon and chained there with no outward sign of protest. Only when he knew the sound of the wheels on cobbles would mask his words did he lean toward the nearest man to whisper: “My name is Mouche.”
“Ornery Bastable,” the other replied. “I’m a seaman. She called me a supernume!” Ornery’s chin jerking toward the leading carriage showed who she meant. “I’ll have words with her.”
Mouche masked his mouth with a shackled hand and spoke softly. “Words won’t help. I don’t think she cares if we’re supernumes or not. She is an evil woman, Bastable, so beware.”
The other gave Mouche a level stare, then asked, too loudly, “Known or suspected of being evil?”
Mouche shook his head slightly, narrowing his eyes. He had meant only to warn, thinking it far too dangerous to get into discussion about it while Dyre and Bane were near. They were doing one of their favorite things, watching him with that long, unblinking snake-eyed stare. It made Mouche think seriously of the need for allies. No Simon or Madame here. No Fentrys or Tyle. He would have to cultivate Bastable or whomever, for any help was better than none.