As the day wore on and the crew went about their duties, Walker towed her prize ever closer to Baalkpan. The nearer they got, the more traders and fishing boats paced her advance. Opening the bay, the old destroyer steamed toward her customary berth near the shipyard and the fitting-out pier. They had been gone less than two weeks, most of that time laying their trap for the Grik scouts they engaged. The battle itself took only a day, and the return voyage took three. The people had known the outcome, however, since the very day after the fight. The radio in the precious PBY was working now, and there had been constant reports. Then the big seaplane had flown out with passengers to examine the prize. Some, like Bradford, stayed with the returning ships, but those who returned on the plane were strangely tight-lipped. No matter. The dismasted hulk trailing in Walker’s wake was sufficient proof to the populace that the expedition had been a success.
As always, Matt was struck by the sight of the large, strange, but exotically beautiful city of Baalkpan. The unusual architecture of the multistoried buildings was strikingly similar to the pagoda-like structures that rose within the tripod masts of the great floating Homes. Some reached quite respectable heights and were highly decorated and painted with bright colors. Some were simple, one-story affairs, but all were elevated twenty or more feet above the ground by multitudes of stout pilings. Chack once told him that was done in order to protect against high water and «bad land lizards.» It was also tradition, which Matt supposed was as good a reason as any. He’d never seen any creatures ashore that could threaten anyone twenty feet above the ground, but he was assured they did exist. He believed it. There was certainly plenty of bizarre fauna in this terrible, twisted world.
Among the pilings, under the massive structures, was what some would call the «real» Baalkpan. It was there, beneath the buildings themselves or colorful awnings stretched between them, that the city’s lifeblood pulsed. It was a giant, chaotic bazaar that rivaled anything Matt had seen in China, or heard of anywhere else. Little organization was evident, beyond an apparent effort to congregate the various products or services in strands, or vaguely defined ranks. From experience, Matt knew there was no law or edict that required this; it was just practicality. This way, shoppers always knew where they had to go to find what they wanted. Along the waterfront, fishmongers hawked the daily catch with an incomprehensible staccato chatter. Beyond were food vendors, and the savory smells of Lemurian cooking wafted toward them, competing with the normal harbor smells of salt water, dead fish, and rotting wood. Still farther inland were the textile makers — weavers, cloth merchants, and clothiers. Closer to the center of the city, near the massive Gallll milling near the red-hulled ship cheered louder as a cloud of steam and a deep, resonant shriek jetted from the whistle and the amazing iron ship raced upstream, raising a feather halfway up her number, smoke streaming from three of her four funnels.
«Let ’em have a good time for a while,» Matt said, his voice turning grim.
«Aryaalans!» snorted Nakja-Mur later that evening, standing on Walker ’s bridge where she was again tied to the Baalkpan docks. He hadn’t waited for Matt to report. As soon as Walker returned from fueling, he and the just-arrived Keje tromped up the gangway. «You ask me to risk everything for those unfriendly land-bound. heretics?» Matt and Keje had been describing the details of the battle and the capture of the enemy vessel. The account turned to the discovery of the enemy charts, or «Evil Scrolls of Death,» as Sky Priest Adar insisted they be called. That led to their theory of an impending Grik attack on the people of Surabaya: «Aryaalans,» as they called themselves. Chack was present to interpret, but so far, between Keje, Nakja-Mur’s rapid advancement in English, and Matt’s slowly growing proficiency in Lemurian, he hadn’t been needed.
Matt sighed. «With respect, my lord, it’s essential we go to their aid if they’re attacked.»
«But why? Let them fend for themselves, as do we. They were invited to the last gathering and they chose — as always — not to dampen themselves with the company of sea folk!»
Matt was tempted to point out that Nakja-Mur was, however sensible, the very definition of a landsman. But to be fair, the People of Baalkpan were every bit as sea-oriented as the people of Old Nantucket ever were. They built and repaired ships and they dealt in the products of the sea’s capricious bounty. Their livelihood was entirely centered around maritime toil and commerce. Whereas the Surabayans were.
«Just what the hell is it about them you don’t like?» Matt asked in frustration.
«They. they are heretics!» Nakja-Mur proclaimed.
«Why?»
Nakja-Mur shifted uncomfortably and paced out on the port bridgewing. Matt and Keje followed him there, and Larry Dowden joined them. There was a reduced watch on the bridge since they weren’t under way, but a torpedoman had been tinkering with the director connections. Matt motioned for him to leave them and the man quickly gathered his tools and departed.
«Why?» Matt asked again.
«Perhaps you should ask Adar.»
«I can’t. He and Bradford ran off to study together as soon as we rigged the gangway. Who knows where. Besides, I have to ask you because you’re the one whose opinion really matters, in the long run, and we have decisions to make. you have decisions to make. I know, traditionally all ‘High Chiefs’ are equals here, but surely you know that in reality you’re a little more ‘equal’ than the others? You have the largest force and Baalkpan’s the most populous city this side of Manila — and it’s on your industry we all depend.»
Nakja-Mur grunted, but his tone wasn’t unfriendly. «I have heard it said you’re the most ‘equal’ among us, because of this ship.» He patted the rail under his hand.
Matt shook his head. «Untrue. Without you and Baalkpan, this ship would most likely be a powerless, lifeless hulk on a beach so, bound together, but as great as that combined strength might be, it’s not enough and it’ll be even less if Surabaya falls. We need those people on our side — not filling Grik bellies!»
Nakja-Mur recoiled as if slapped, but then nodded. «The Aryaalans are fierce warriors,» he conceded, «but they do not revere the heavens.
They may worship feces for all I know, but the sky is not sacred. When Siska-Ta went to them to teach the wisdom of the Scrolls, she was cast out and nearly slain.» He made a very human shrug. «They are heathens, but their religion is unimportant to me. We are not intolerant of the beliefs of others. Many folk of other lands — even some upon the sea — do not believe as we do and yet we remain friends. Did we not befriend you and your people?» he asked.
Matt didn’t point out the probability that they thought then — and probably still did — that the destroyermen had very similar beliefs to their own, and he remembered the scene Adar made in Walker’s pilothouse over the charts displayed there. He’d thought they mocked him with apostasy at the time, since the Ancient Scrolls or charts of the Sky Priests are not just maps but holy relics on which are woven the tapestry of Lemurian history in the words of the Ancient Tongue — Latin. Their religion is not based on the Scrolls, but they’ve become integral supplements — along with a few twisted Christian concepts that may have been passed inadvertently by the previous «Tail-less Ones» almost two centuries before. Matt had picked up a little Lemurian theology and, although it was fundamentally a form of Sun worship, he knew the heavens — and the stars in particular — represented far more than simple navigational aids. Since that first awkward moment, religion had not been much of an issue and he’d concentrated on other things. Maybe he needed to bone up. He would talk to Bradford.