4. The Fair
A/N: I think I may have gotten something
confused in the last chapter: Vanessa does not die. All I wanted to show was
how the mob injured her, and how the ending scene of Iris helping Vanessa will
develop in the later chapters. As I've already told Rys, I don't intend to kill
off a major character – yet.
I have to apologise for the delay in uploading the fourth addition. Post-exam
stress has given me an acute case of writers' block and the closure of my
school server means I can only use the internet from home now. I hope this
chapter satisfies the wait – for those who have waited. I'm trying now to go
into detail on the music and Iris' thoughts, because I think they can help the
plot and flow of the story a lot. I've tried not to create any sub-plots,
though the idea of it is still tempting. Take the fair as part of the story,
which will be a crucial item to the story later on (why do I always say
that?)
And this chapter is dedicated to both Rys and Tigrin, for all your encouragement.
I am consumed with joy! Yesterday, I received the best possible news after the doctor telling us that Vanessa was all right. There will be a trade fair in Zechaat, on the eighteenth day of the second month, and Father says he will be going to the capital to see if he can get a good deal on changing currency. And he has, with the subtlest of hints, suggested the idea of me accompanying with him.
"Why not?" he had asked Aunt Cheng, who has always been quick to disapprove whenever something out of the ordinary crops up. "She has earned it. Letting her come along will give her a chance prove how well she has mastered the trade, and it's good experience too. Besides, there'll be a music festival in Zechaat. She can show her real skills there."
"Lui, ah, you trust your daughter too much sometimes," she sighs.
"Let her go. Anyway, Michelle can take over while she's gone, and she cooks better anyway," Mother persists.
Iain and Mr. Niel are going to the fair as well. Mr. Niel says he reckons there'll be some human traders there, and he is interested in the antiques and old artifacts he can probably obtain from them. But Iain, seeing his wicked smile, is going solely for the music. If only we can persuade Mr. Perez to allow Vanessa to come along as well…
Vanessa looks better now. It's been two weeks since the mob struck, and the community's been quiet ever since. All except Keane Greening of course, who still continues his trade as if nothing has happened. Spike and Rusty, returning from hauling cargo from D'Armara in their usual animated mood, fail to see the intensity of the holiday uproar.
But they do tell us stories. Stories of the Drej, of how they were spotted near D'Armara this time; of how they routed a D'Armaran fleet when they were challenged; of how they disappeared, as quickly as they appeared, after being sighted. Spike and Rusty say they'll be avoiding leaving the safety of the Solbrecht system for now. They departed for a drifter colony later, but I don't suppose we won't see them at the fair.
And my dreams continue. What do they mean? Sometimes, I dream about Earth, the soft blue terrestrial sky and the gentle clouds in the distance. Other times, I dream about Solbrecht, crying voices in the background, the sky as red as the colour of blood. I wake sweating, dwelling only on one thing: that I'm going to the fair soon, and I can leave the nightmares behind.
On Wednesday Father tells me to run an errand after school; Mr. Perez wants some old items sold at the trade fair, and he has entrusted them to us. Even as a moneychanger, Father knows a lot about the business of trade: we make pledges to sell when business wears thin; I'll have to master everything from him. But for now my heart does a leap; this will finally give me an opportunity to talk to Mr. Perez without the knowledge of my parents.
The Perez household is opposite the lavish apartment of Keane Greening's. Their house is large too, by the street's standards, though Vanessa won't tell me why. She seems warmer to me now, since she was attacked; but with Vanessa, you never know.
As I knock on the door, Mr. Perez answers.
"Ah, yes, good afternoon, Iris," he greets me, his broad smile extends above his badly-shaven chin, "I believe your father sent you to collect the items. Would you like to step inside while I fetch them?"
"Thanks," I reply.
The interior of the apartment is large, with generous spaces where Mr. Perez has displayed his family heirlooms. Vanessa, her eyes wide and sympathetic, stares at me halfway down the stairs, as if her excitement about something had died away. I wonder if she envies me; does she think me fortunate, to be venturing beyond Zyjushem and across the plains to Zechaat?
Approaching her, my eyes catch a glimpse of a picture by the adjacent wall. I can see three people, all smiling faintly. Within these seconds, as my eyes wander again, I notice a girl in the frame that I have never seen before. Vanessa eyes me again; this time I keep my eyes to myself. But even then in my mind I cannot take the image of that girl out of my mind. Is she Vanessa's mother?
"So you're going to Zechaat?" Vanessa suddenly asks.
I nod. "Mostly to help my father with money-changing. He reckons I need to learn how to take over the trade."
Her eyes narrow slightly; there is envy in them. "Iain told me there's going to be a music festival in Zechaat," she mutters, then bends her head low. "He said he was trying to reserve a time slot for us to play."
I can see the longing in her eyes, the small tones of jealousy in her voice. There is no need to hide our topic of conversation now. Direct, I question her, "Did you ask your father whether you could come along?"
Before she can respond, Mr. Perez returns, with a case almost overflowing with an assortment of curious objects and other unusual items. He places it down between us, seemingly indicating through his movements the goods meant nothing to him, but like every human businessman, he was going to make the most out of it.
"How much do you take from sales?" he questions, almost offhandedly.
I tell him what Father tells me every time we make pledges: "Ten percent for traveling expenses. More if needed."
"Spoken like a true businessman," Mr. Perez grins. I feel slightly surprised, partly because I have never seen him often enough to find him in good spirits. But my surprise turns to astonishment when I realise the items in the case: a perfect glass model of Solbrecht, glinting in the sunshine; gold chains curled messily at the bottom, and a transmitter radio, intact and still shining with polish.
My eyes widen, but Vanessa stalks away. Mr. Perez eyes me, as if to see my reaction. These items are worth more than junk.
"I am a businessman, Iris, and I understand you're learning to be one," he says, and I know it's true: he is a partner in an engineering enterprise downtown. "But as many businessmen do, I have commitments, and I am bound to them here in Zyjushem."
"Mr. Perez," I began to protest; I feel as if I have been entrusted with a job, "but…"
"No Iris, I want you to sell these goods for me," he says firmly. "I'll leave it in your hands rather than your Father's, because I'm confident you'll help me fetch a good price. And if it necessary for all your trouble, you can take twenty percent."
I stutter, not in amazement, but in gratitude. I have barely known this man, yet he trusts me with pledges worth over more than a thousand debits! He nods, looking like my Father, then turns away. But there is something else not settled.
"Mr. Perez?" I ask, my voice sounding both thankful and pleading.
"Hmm?" he turns.
"I know my Father goes to the fair for business and so do I," I urge myself to get to the point, "but there will be a music festival in Zechaat at the same time. I aspire to perform there, and I'm sure you know I've been practising with Vanessa… I can understand if you don't want her to come. The trip to Zechaat is quite long, but I was thinking… it would be nice if I could play with her."
For a moment he swells, breathing hard and I fear an outburst. My heart skips a beat when he presents a small smile.
"Yes, I have heard of the festival, Edric's son isn't exactly the quietest person you'd meet," he eyes me again, with a glare that seems to be either a frown or a grin. "And I also know about your band."
My band! Is he flattering me?
"I know how Vanessa feels about it. She doesn't talk much, and I'm surprised it had to be you who brought it up," I become wary again, learning my fears are unfounded. "If Vanessa is really that good I will talk to her. Maybe she will consider…"
I already know Vanessa's answer. At that moment I cannot contain my joy; I reach out to Mr. Perez and grasp him by the hand.
"Thanks, thank you, Mr. Perez!" I blurt. "I assure you that I'll fetch a good price for your goods!"
"I don't doubt that. I just want you to watch over Vanessa, all right?" he actually gives a sigh while smiling. "Youths nowadays."
He accompanies me to the door and I wish him the best in his ventures. The case in hand, I try to picture Vanessa being asked whether she would like to accompany us. I try to imagine her surprise, her happiness, her excitement. The mere thought of it has never made me happier in weeks.
In the days ahead Father settles the journals, gathers debts from his debtors and writes off those unwilling to pay under interest. Once the journals are balanced, he says, all our money changing in Zyjushem will be accounted for, ready for a fresh new start in Zechaat, the capital.
At the same time, we prepare ourselves for the journey ahead. My task is simple: to gather all our pledges, and to pack them into the Niels' craft. We are unable to afford traveling by air, not after the taxes we must pay, so the Niels have agreed to share their craft with us.
It is a wretched thing, sluggish and slumbered in its movements; it resembles a truck, like the many old models I have seen in the textbooks, just that its wheels are smaller, its body ugly and scarred, in its metal bulk. But my task is not to complain. I load the items in cases borrowed from Alvin, stocking them neatly in corners. Finally I leave a niche where my guitar will be placed, like a king, rested for the adventure that awaits.
Just days before our departure, I accompany Father and Mr. Niel to the city hall to settle our taxes and carriage duties. I have been this way many times before, but now my walk is wide and confident. I am going to the fair, I wish I could say, I am going on a journey for business and music. Armed with his journals, Father leads us into the wide, heavy steel doors of the city hall.
The place is cold, devoid of mirth and merriment. Instead, burnt-out hearths, ashy doorways and the soiled shine of the stone floors leads us to the admin offices. Windows, smothered with heavy curtains, force sunlight out, lest it may contaminate the vile deeds many say are going on under all the formality. Sallow walls, with peeling paint and cracking interiors, line the single path that we have to take.
The admin offices are marked by dusty wooden doors. Adjacent to them is a spiral staircase, which runs, rickety in the darkness, to where the magistrate resides for his duties. Today, however, he seems to be promised forth and he mingles with the unattended administrators and the district landlords. As we pass, I notice the glitter of the rings on his fingers, sinister and tempting, like a snare, daring me to confront the absolute power of his wealth.
But it is not the leering air of the magistrate that makes me uneasy. It is the person he converses with: Tairpar. As we cross his line of sight he pauses to give us a stare, as he continues to chew on a snack of Timkin meat fried in Shadewilt oil, supposedly a delicacy to the Solbrecht natives. His four arms are moving as he eats, crumbs from the snack's flaky crust scattering like orange blots on his black leather gloves. He whispers to the magistrate.
He turns and glances at us. Now, I feel more wary than ever. I have rarely met our magistrate but his gaze is piercing, and cold and malevolent. In his eyes I do not see Iain's plain mischievousness, or Vanessa's silent hopeful aspirations. But I see bitter blackness, with boreholes of malicious thoughts and deep unnerving plans. He is the one whom I fear.
Father urges us along, and we enter one of administrator's offices. We are beset by a secretary, who asks for our names and our professions. Then he beckons us to enter the admin hall where all of the city's money changes hands. As usual, there are no windows, not even a picture hanging on the wall. The surroundings are painted black, with a air-conditioning device spluttering in the centre of the hall. Smoke, choking and putrid, wafts slowly from the unburnt nicotine stick being sucked by one of them. We approach the administrator who motions to us
The secretary announces us: "Michael Lui, moneychanger, with daughter Iris, and Edric Niel, historic archivist."
We stand before the alien's wry gaze, his short self made imposing by the oversized table and chair. He pretends to be interested, though in reality he cannot wait for us to pour out the money so he suck another stick of nicotine.
His voice is hoarse and cackling. "So you have come to pay your taxes?" he hacks brutally.
"We are promised to Zechaat for the trade fair," Father declares.
"And you are going for the purpose of money changing and money lending?" he asks.
"Yes, we will travel in a registered craft owned by Mr. Niel here," Father submits a license to the administrator, who snatches it away and examines it with steely, wild eyes.
"Do you intend to make profit from this trip?" he questions.
"Neighbours and friends have given us items of value that wish to be sold at the fair, and we intend to make take a percentage of the sales as a form of interest."
"Any non-human neighbours?"
"None," Father replies swiftly.
"So the if your accounts in your journals are settled," the alien says, wheezing and groaning under the effect of the addictives, "your taxes this term, plus the duties on transport to Zechaat, the interest payable on taxes and the carriage inwards on your goods adds up to… seven hundred and ninety-one debits."
Seven hundred over debits! That amount of money will keep the house clean and well fed for a year. This is worse than robbery, but plunder, blatant plunder. Reluctantly, I aid Father in the submission of money and the administrator counts it hungrily, seeking for a debit we may have missed. But he has a deeper look; amidst the frenzied gathering of our debit plates, he smothers a look of inattention – I'm sure Mr. Niel has seen it too – a look that shows the boredom of money's power.
The administrator completes the accounting, fast with his four arms, and enters our balanced accounts in his computer. He hands over to Father a receipt; he always asks for receipts, because when the computer records are erased, for reasons unknown, a receipt is sometimes the only proof of our hefty payment.
"Your payment is made. Thank you for your contribution," he says snorting heavily, trying to suck all life out of his addictive. "Have a safe journey."
We do not intend to linger. We exit the dark hall, my eyes squinting to adjust to the bright lights of the main corridor. As we leave, however, the magistrate and his entourage notice our departure and they move towards us, so we cannot avoid them.
"Going to the fair?" the magistrate queries.
"Yes, we are," Mr. Niel replies, his posture slightly bent to show submission, "we thank you for your kindness in allowing us this freedom on our travels. And Alvin, the herbalist, sends his regards."
Freedom? Whenever we don't pay our taxes they lock us up in our neighbourhoods.
"So he does," the magistrate responds idly, his hands absent-mindedly sifting through papers in his folder, "remember to pay your tax."
"We don't intend to forget," Father says, "and we have paid our dues to the council a few minutes ago."
"Indeed, we have," Mr. Niel adds, "our intentions are good, magistrate, and we wish for nothing but peace with the council and the people of the city."
"Ah, we wish for peace too," the magistrate acknowledges, "and for your safety."
A vice grips my heart, while my fists turn tense, balling into fists. Father and Mr. Niel's faces sting with the silent insult, their aggravation hidden beneath their instinct for control. The magistrate, his eyes flickering with nothing less than malevolence, turns towards me. He seems to notice me for the first time, and his eyes stay too long on my hair and the tan on my inner arms.
"I see you have a daughter," he speaks, his voice deathly soft, though I am certain Father has no problem catching his words. "Do you intend for her to follow in your footsteps?"
"Yes, my lord. She is an obedient girl, with many skills…"
"Pity, she could be put to more use elsewhere," he interrupts, and my cheeks burns at his lewd taunting. "But if not so, make sure you teach her to keep proper accounts."
Tairpar smirks and my Father has his head bowed either in humiliation or ignorance. The magistrate finishes with us, and we leave hurriedly, not wanting to be even in his gaze any longer. As we step into the bright sunlight outside, I feel energy refresh my pride – and my rage.
"The bastard!" I spit and my face reddens in anger. "What gives him the bloody right? I wish I could stuff every words he speaks back down his rotten mouth!"
Father chides me. "Do not speak ill of the people who protect us," he says, although I know he too has his dignity bruised. Mr. Niel sighs, Father nods approvingly to him. He seems to have taken heart now; is it because the intimidation is over – or that he has seen his daughter determined and rebellious? I do not know.
Written by shelter