Genetopia (16 page)

He slept on a thin sleep roll, in a room with twelve others. Or rather, he lay on his back, and then on his side, unable to settle, unable even to close his eyes. He stared at the dark shapes of the hostel cell’s ceiling, the occasional pulsings of its walls, the slanted moonlight penetrating the building’s open vents.

He recalled the words of the shrine-tender:
Look and ask and pray
. She might easily have added: And know when to give up, Brother Flintheart.

~

He walked with Judgement and Walkedfar, the morning sun searing, the air dry. Breaking with standard Riverwalker attire, Flint wore a wide-brimmed hat to shield himself from the sun.

Again, the streets were busy, crowding stalls forcing the people to pass through ever-narrower gaps. Flint found the press of bodies confusing, his senses muddled by the sensations of being in such a crowd.

They stopped for some time at a Beshusami stall, Walkedfar and Flint listening patiently as Judgement discussed podhut husbandry with two of the Clan Elders.

As the morning passed, Flint started to understand Judgement’s techniques, to appreciate just how good a haggler she was: negotiating with clans before they realised negotations were even taking place. Judgement manipulated what appeared to be casual conversation to gently probe, to plant ideas and possibilities: the Beshusami were second to none when it came to breeding and selecting podhut germ cells, channelling the processes of change to produce the finest seed material for new buildings and other structures. But the Riverwalkers’ understanding of engineering meant that they could take what the Beshusami did a stage further: using their skills to nurture and guide the further development of the podhuts as they grew.

When they left the Beshusami Elders, Flint knew that before Carnival was over the Riverwalkers would strike a renewed pact of cooperation with the clan, trading expertise for products, buying time with the Beshusami to spread the Lord’s message.

They ate plantain stuffed with pecans and drank from a water fountain. Flint took the opportunity–as he had throughout the morning–to approach people, asking after Amber and always getting the same response.

Later, they stopped before a long stall in Peter’s Square. The stall bore samples of smartfibre. Mostly it was unrefined fibre, bundles that had been skimmed and sorted for display; some had been woven, forming fine skins of translucent material, glimmering in the light, so thin as to appear flimsy and yet taut and rigid to the touch.

“Clan Ritt fibres,” said a young man behind the stall. He was dark-skinned, well-fleshed although not grossly so, a ceramic chain around his neck and a slightly arrogant air betraying his high standing within his clan.

Flint looked at him closely but the trader clearly didn’t recognise him. This was Henritt Elkyme, son of the Ritt Elder who had recently visited Trecosann to find out about the Trecosi gennering skills.

Flint ran his hands through a tray of combed fibres, relishing the sensuous flowing sensation as they passed between his fingers.

“Perhaps the finest you will find in all of the eastern provinces,” said Henritt.

“Most certainly the finest,” an older man added, gently correcting his master, ignoring the dark look his interruption inspired.

“A fine selection of raw materials,” Flint said carefully, addressing the younger man. “Tell me, what do you craft with these fine fibres?”

Henritt started to answer but was interrupted again. “We do not need to craft anything with our fibres for trade at Carnival,” said the man. “Their quality speaks for itself.”

He was covering for his clan’s lack of engineering expertise, Flint saw. Clan Ritt were widely known for the high quality of the fibres they grew, but not for their skills in crafting finished products from the material. There was an opportunity there for the Riverwalkers, and Flint happily stepped aside as Judgement moved in to pursue the conversation, the negotiations he had clumsily initiated.

He was becoming attuned to the Riverwalkers’ ways.

~

“Alal?” he said, approaching a broad-bodied man who stood looking up at the men and women trying to sell themselves into service in the wide, tree-lined thoroughfare known as the Pillories.

The man turned and Flint saw that it was, indeed, Alal. He was a labourer who had travelled with the group from Trecosann to Farsamy Way. Flint had shared a cell with him for one night on that journey. He remembered him as an insightful man who thought deeply and slowly. His fringe of blond hair hung over a dark face and–Flint saw now–troubled eyes.

“Alal, my friend. What troubles you?”

Alal’s features cleared when he worked out who Flint was. He gestured, smiled, said, “You look a different man. You’re still looking for your sister?”

Flint nodded.

Finally answering Flint’s question, Alal said, “I came here looking for work.” He waved a hand, taking in the ranks of men and women standing on boxes, telling onlookers of their strengths and skills, all seeking work as Alal sought work. “I am not alone in that.”

Flint took the man’s arm and led him through the crowd. He bought slices of fleshfruit from a stall and shared them with Alal, guessing that his friend had not eaten for some time.

“Are Jemmie and Lizabel in Farsamy?” Flint asked. “Are they well?”

“Probably,” said Alal. “I left them in a small settlement in Gossamer Heights. They said they would follow me to Carnival, but we did not arrange to meet. They will be here somewhere.” Brighter now, Alal asked, “Have you searched the auctions for your sister?”

Flint nodded. “I have been to every holding pen in Willow Way,” he said. “And there is no sign of Amber. I tell myself that should be reassuring: it increases the likelihood that she is still a free person.”

Silence, then Alal said, “There are many other holding pens in Farsamy. Willow Way is only the most well known.”

Flint nodded. “I know,” he said. “And I keep looking.”

Chapter 13

Over the following days, Flint searched all of Farsamy–sometimes alone, often in the company of Alal or one of the Riverwalkers. It was a futile and disheartening search.

Sitting by the river one afternoon, staring out over turbulent waters where gulls and skimmers bucked and swooped, Flint and Alal shared a bladder of beer. It was a taste Flint had only recently acquired and one of which he had an uncomfortable feeling he might one day grow too fond. For now, though, he sipped and passed the bladder across to Alal.

“I’ve looked everywhere,” he said. “Asked everyone. Half of them think I’m mad, or making up romantic adventure stories about myself.”

“There are people who do that,” said Alal. “People like a good storyteller.”

Flint thought of the old Riverwalker, Knowsbetter, and his tall moral tales. He nodded. “I keep asking myself how long I can go on. How long I
should
go on.”

Alal passed the beer back to Flint and after a long pause said, “Can you stop?”

He had cut through Flint’s confused thinking. How could he give up? If there was the slightest chance that he might find Amber and save her from whatever mess she was in, then he could not possibly abandon his search.

“I have found somewhere to stay,” said Alal.

“Good news,” said Flint. For the last few nights Alal had been sleeping rough in the streets. “But how do you pay?”

“It’s what the Farsamies call a Trust Lodge,” said Alal. “It’s owned by a group of traders. Young people looking for work can stay there, making what contributions they are able to a fund that pays for maintenance. They ask us to make further donations when we find work and move on.”

He hesitated, then continued, “It’s pretty grim. Some of the residents don’t respect the place. But it is better than the street. You shoud bear it in mind if you want to stay on after Carnival.”

~

The auction pens were a depressing place to be. Flint had never found them so before, but now that his sister may be here he saw the place in a new light.

Mutts huddled together, trying to avoid the looks and demands of their prospective purchasers, trying to find shelter from the sun, and yet they were unable to refuse when told to walk, jump, run, show off their fitness. Love and fear filled their eyes whenever they looked at one of the True. Their existence was almost too awful to contemplate.

Flint felt as low as he had felt in all of the time he had been seeking Amber. He could not give up and yet deep in his heart he knew that he already
had
, that as much as he persisted in his search he knew he would never find her.

“...the whites of her eyes appear yellow, the result of childhood illness.”

“Yes, I know the one.”

Flint stared at the man, not believing his words, thinking it must be some cruel joke.

“A young one,” the man went on. “Doesn’t speak. Looked fit–Makki reckoned she’d fetch a good price.”

“Are you sure?”

The man shrugged, suddenly defensive. “Yellow eyes, reddish-brown hair, about so high. Don’t know if it’s her, but the mutt Makki was selling fits your description.”

“She’s no mutt,” said Flint. “She’s my sister: a True daughter of Clan Treco.”

The man shrugged again, raising his eyebrows as if to say,
Believe what you like, but she’s up for auction with the rest of the mutts
.

“Where is she? Please?”

“Over in Minster Place,” said the trader. “Ask for Makkibern Elthom. Has pens with forty-plus mutts in ’em.”

Minster Place! All this time in Farsamy and she–if it really could be Amber–had been held in one of the small trading squares only a few blocks from Sentinel Gardens! Minster Place was a short walk from the hostel where Flint had been staying.

“Thank you,” he gasped, turning away from the trader and pushing his way into the throng that filled Willow Way. He desperately hoped it was her and yet, equally, he hoped it was not... If it was her, then what hell had she been through? But at least he would find her. If it was
not
her, then he still hadn’t found her, but at least it allowed him to hold onto the slim hope that she travelled freely and may still be safe.

~

Minster Place was a small square, dawn oaks in each corner, each tree’s cluster of six smooth-barked trunks an exotic–
wild
–intrusion into the heart of the city. A shaven-headed, bearded Mollahdic preacher stood on a pedestal in the centre of the square accusing the mutt traders of all kinds of wickedness and deceit, the lightheartedness of the banter he exchanged with the traders somewhat belying his message.

The Place was divided into a grid of holding pens intersected by viewing paths. The structures had a permanency about them that was absent from much of Farsamy and Flint guessed that this was a fixed market that continued even when Carnival was over. Farsamy was at the heart of the mutt trade, after all.

“I’m looking for Makkibern Elthom,” he said, tugging at the sleeve of a squat man who leaned against a post, chewing spitbark and scratching at his crotch.

The man looked at him, carefully withdrawing his sleeve from Flint’s grip. With a nod of his head he indicated that Makki’s pens were deeper into the square.

Flint pushed through the crowd, oblivious to the cursing of those around him.

“Makkibern Elthom?”

Deeper.

“Makkibern Elthom?”

All the time, Flint eyed the traders, searching the pens frantically for a copper-haired mutt who was not a mutt at all but his kid sister.

“Walkers looking to buy, are they?” Makki was a short man, with a round belly barely contained by his filthy tunic. He had a bristly beard, growing unevenly across the lower half of his face, and his head was bound in a long strip of grey fabric–a form of headgear many of the traders here wore.

“I’m looking for my sister,” said Flint, his look flitting between the man’s face and the pens behind him. Then he called, “Amber? Are you here, Amber?”

Makki waved his hands in a silencing motion, and said,”Shush, shush, good sir. What’s all the noise and commotion with, eh?”

All around, people were watching the two of them, curious onlookers sensing that something out of the normal was happening.

Flint turned to Makki again. “My sister,” he said. “I’ve been informed that you’re trying to sell my sister, Amberlinetreco Eltarn, True daughter of Clan Treco.”

The man looked confused and he was doing his best to look concerned. “Only mutts,” he said to Flint. “Take a look for yourself, good sir. Mutts out of the Beren transit camps. Take a look.”

Flint was doing so. In the nearest pen there were some short mutts, mouths and nostrils mere slits in flattened, fur-covered faces. Beyond, others similar and diverse and not one that even vaguely resembled his sister.

“About so high–” hand held in front of his chest “–chestnut hair to her shoulders. Fifteen years old. Eyes yellowed by childhood illness.”

The man’s concern suddenly looked genuine. “I...”

“What? What is it? What have you done?”

“All my stock is genuine,” said the man hurriedly. “All bought in good faith from the transit camps.”

“And...?”

“There was one,” the man said, watching Flint nervously. “They called her Taneye. She fit your description, but she was no True clan member, sir! She was one of the fallen. Couldn’t even speak Mutter.”

“‘Was’?”

“I took her in good faith, sir, I tell you! And I sold her in good faith, too. Young master of high standing.” He spread hands over his round belly and puffed his cheeks out for effect, then continued, “Lived the good life, I’d say. Eats well. Dark skin.” He gestured to his neck. “Had a chain thing around his neck. Came and took her last night.”

Flint’s mind was working rapidly. He had spoken to a man like that earlier in Carnival... Henritt Elkyme! He had spoken to him at one of the Ritt stalls on Peter’s Square.

~

They were still there, thank the Lord! The same selection of fibres was arranged over the stall–samples put there for display, rather than for sale. The real Carnival business for this group was to strike longer-term deals, much as the Riverwalkers had come to renew pacts of cooperation and exchange with the clans.

Henritt was clearly a senior representative of his clan, despite his age. Flint recalled him saying back in Trecosann that he was to lead his clan’s delegation–a claim Flint had dismissed as mere boasting. Now, Henritt sat back on a stool behind the stall, surveying his domain and his dark, fleshy face bore the look of one well satisfied with his lot.

Flint stood before him, bowing his head deferentially. There was a look of fleeting recognition on the man’s face as Flint said, “We spoke before.”

He knew Sister Judgement had been back since then, negotiating indentures for two Riverwalkers to go to work in Rittasan in the fibre-fields.

“And?”

In Trecosann hierarchy was not so central to the clan’s organisation, but Flint knew that the southern clans had a more rigid class structure. Henritt had an arrogance he recognised, the sweeping assumption of those with power that almost everyone they encounter will be a social inferior.

“I come from Minster Place,” said Flint. “I have spoken to Makkibern Elthom about... about a mutt. Young, female, with chestnut hair and yellow eyes.”

The Ritt master looked blank. “And?” he said again. “Why are you telling me this?”

Flint studied his face for signs of deceit but saw none. Only puzzlement, and irritation that his time was being wasted.

“She was bought by... someone who sounded like you.”

The young Ritt master shrugged, any curiosity on his face disappearing as the reason for Flint’s questions emerged. “Farsamy’s a big place,” he said. “There must be plenty of people who look like me.” He smiled, now. “Anyway: plenty more mutts out there, aren’t there?”

~

“...young man ... high standing in his clan ... perhaps a little, er,
portly
... dark skin ... wears a decorative chain around his neck...”

Most of the time he received the same responses he had when enquiring after Amber: sympathy, but no help.

“Could be Thombern Elpetre–has a stall over on Willow Way.”

“Could be Jessritt Elfez. Last I saw he was working the pens on Square of Saints.”

“Maybe Loutenka Ellou. Try the brewhouses on Gossamer Road.”

But no, when Flint managed to track them down not one of these candidates admitted to having bought a young yellow-eyed mutt from Makkibern Elthom on Minster Place.

Exhausted, Flint sat with Alal, watching gulls skim the garbage floating in the waters of the river Farsam. “I felt so
close
,” he said.

“Carnival is over,” said Alal. “What now?”

“I know,” said Flint. Today he had watched the stalls and lean-tos being dismantled, as he hurried about the Elderman Quarter, still trying to track down another Ritt trader who, upon being confronted, had shown Flint the mutts he had bought. Not one came close to fitting Amber’s description.

“I don’t know what I will do now. I have until morning to decide. Then the Riverwalkers return to Restitution.”