Irquit merely looked resigned. “I warned you, de-Lyra.”
“And you were right,” the xenologist replied calmly as she turned again toward the cockpit bubble. “We’ve established their real intentions, Etienne. I’ve made my recordings.” She paused as something whizzed past overhead. “Let’s not hang around. They have bows.”
“Don’t you want to observe native weaponry in action?”
She ducked as a wood-and-bone shaft splintered against the deck. “Don’t get funny, honey. If you want to linger, we can switch places first.”
“Never mind.” He grinned at her as he gunned the engine. The jet nozzle pivoted a hundred and eighty degrees until it was facing toward the bow.
“Hold tight,” Lyra warned the two morose Mai. They barely had time to reach for handholds before the hydrofoil shot backward in full reverse. Suddenly nothing kept the four fishing boats apart. The nets fell limp into the river.
The chanting subsided as the would-be pirates watched their quarry vanish astern at sixty kph. Then crews rushed to the oars as all four crews realized there was nothing to stop their momentum. Frantic yells and curses replaced the warlike chanting of a moment earlier.
Etienne slowed and reversed direction once more, watching with interest as the four fishing boats, still linked together by their nets and lines, slewed inexorably toward each other. Loud snapping sounds filled the air as hastily manned oars were splintered against colliding hulls. Curses were drowned by shouts of confusion and conflicting orders as nets became tangled with rudders and broken oars.
Keeping well beyond arrow range, he edged the hydrofoil easily around their would-be captors, toward the center of the river. A few of the unhappy fisherfolk, unable to attack with their short bows, settled for bombarding the spirit boat with ferocious insults. Homat stifled his laughter at their plight long enough to translate those couched in the local dialect or too complex for Lyra to understand. She patiently entered them all into her journal under a subheading drolly labeled MAI INVECTIVE—LOCAL VARIANTS AND DIALECTS. All grist for the xenological mill.
Etienne half-expected some of the other fisherfolk to aid their brethren in the attack, but he was pleasantly disappointed. Instead of joining in, the Mai who’d stood to the side to watch were lining the sides of their own vessels and cheering the spirit boat’s escape.
“That’s not the reaction I expected,” he shouted toward the speaker membrane. “Irquit, what’s going on? They don’t seem angry at our escape.”
“Why should they be? They chose not to participate in the attack on us. So they do not share in its failure. They admire the successful, no matter where they come from. So they applaud our escape.” Irquit leaned over the railing to peer astern. The four badly entangled fishing boats continued their steady drift Downriver.
“By the time they get themselves separated, de-Etienne, they will have a long hard row Upriver to return to their homes. That will give them time to think anew about trying to capture a spirit boat. I hope not many were hurt. There is much confusion.”
“And I hope half fall overboard and drown.” Homat spat over the side. “Let the river eat them. May they stew in their own urine! We meant them no harm and still they would have slain us!”
Lyra paused in her note-taking. “It’s difficult for poor people to turn down the chance to acquire great wealth, Homat. I’m not defending their actions, understand, but I can empathize with their feelings.” She had to use four connected nouns to make the idea of empathy comprehensible to the Mai guide. “Do you think we’ll be subject to more such attacks?”
Irquit made a gesture of uncertainty. “Who can predict? As you say, de-Lyra, your spirit boat represents power and wealth to all who set eyes upon it. Your property will be coveted from the Skatandah to the region of ice.” Another thin smile. “Clearly any who try will have much difficulty in taking it.”
“We can take care of ourselves,” Lyra assured her.
“That is proven. I will not dance with worry next time. None can threaten the spirit boat.”
“Oh, we’re not omnipotent,” Lyra corrected her, “but we’re far from defenseless. If necessary we can do more than just dodge gill nets.”
“Yes. I have seen the weapons that rest in the holders alongside the round tiller de-Etienne steers the spirit boat with.”
“Those are only for use in dire emergency,” Lyra said firmly. “We carry them to defend us against dangerous animals, not intelligent peoples. My Zanur would be very upset with us if we used them against your people.”
“My people are the people of Po Rabi,” Irquit replied, indicating with gentle bloodthirstiness that it wouldn’t bother her in the least if it became necessary to shoot a few riverfolk. Lyra sighed inwardly. Once upon a time, back in the tribal days, her ancestors had felt similarly. A few throwbacks still did.
The kilometers slid beneath the hydrofoil’s keel by the hundreds, the Skar still running wide and slow, the distant walls of the Barshajagad still rendered invisible by haze and distance. Lyra began to enjoy the bargaining for supplies that took place whenever they pulled in to shore.
“You can learn a lot by watching Homat and Irquit,” she told Etienne on more than one occasion.
He would nod politely, but the methodology of native barter didn’t intrigue him. Instead, he spent the trading time sequestered atop the observation mast with one eye glued to the telescope, studying the nearing lower slopes of the canyon with their irrigated fields and elaborate terraces.
As a precaution, they spent each night well out in the middle of the Skar. The hydrofoil’s autoalarms would alert them to the presence of any potential danger.
Occasionally, Etienne would vary the routine by climbing the mast to turn the telescope skyward, quizzing himself by trying to identify the strange constellations overhead. On this particular early morning there was no rain and few clouds. The humidity was lower than usual and the temperature had plunged into the nineties. He was very surprised to see Homat’s wide-eyed hairless face appear outside the transparent scope enclosure. The guide looked nervous, and not from the height.
Etienne unfastened the plastic to admit the edgy Mai.
“Something wrong, Homat?” he inquired solicitously.
“I—I must talk with you, de-Etienne.”
“Must be important to bring you up here from beneath a warm blanket.”
“It is, very important.”
“Just a second.” Etienne swung the telescope aside on its gimbaled mount to make more room, thoughtfully shut off the blower that was pouring refrigerated air into the enclosure.
As soon as the temperature had warmed, Homat entered and sealed the entrance behind him. In the cramped space atop the mast Etienne was more conscious than ever of his bulk compared to that of the diminutive native.
“What is it?” Beyond Homat he could see two of Tslamaina’s four moons gleaming on the river. The other two would appear within the hour, he knew.
“For a long time I have meant to do this, but I did not know how to do it and have not had a chance to do it.”
“Do what?”
“Warn you, de-Etienne. You and de-Lyra are in great danger.”
Etienne leaned back in the narrow swivel chair and smiled at the native’s concern. He swung one leg idly back and forth.
“We’re in constant danger, yes. The fisherfolk we just ran into Downriver demonstrated that.”
