Mori introduced them to the Ganji, who was both chief and shaman.
The Ganji was about seventy, with a wispy gray beard and an appearance so ordinary that he could easily have passed as an Illyrian grocer. Later, the only characteristic that Chaka remembered was a pair of alert green eyes that seemed peculiarly mischievous in a man of his position and years.
He informed them that a celebratory dinner would be held that evening in their honor in the Hall of the World. He understood they were leaving next day, and hoped to make their visit memorable.
The Hall of the World did not rise above the treetops. It was nevertheless an impressive, rambling, log-and-brick structure that occupied the south side of the settlement. It was mostly one vast room, a meeting place designed to accommodate the entire Oriki population if necessary. The interior was lined with fireplaces and filled with tables rising in amphitheater style from the center. Weapons, animal skins, drums, and tapestries hung on every square foot of wall. Woven mats covered the floors, and a gallery looked down from the rear of the hall. There were no windows to break up the general gloom, but lamps glowed cheerfully in wall brackets, and candles were set on the tables. To Chaka, who was accustomed to a relatively elegant architectural style and the quiet and orderly pace of life in Illyria, the hall possessed a semi-barbaric flavor. She was not certain what to expect, despite Shannon’s assurances.
A substantial crowd of about two hundred had already assembled. A drumbeat picked up as Chaka and her companions filed down to the central table, matching their pace with a military rhythm. A chant began, accompanying the drumbeat, and people chortled and beat their hands on the tables. “They’re wishing us a happy journey,” Shannon assured her.
Chaka enjoyed the attention, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that her hosts were somewhat condescending.
“Well,” said Shannon, “it’s true they do feel superior. They think we’re decadent. Luxury-loving.”
Mori escorted them down through the various levels of the chamber to a large round table set at the center of the hall. It was decorated with bits of bunting and flowers and standards. “You’ll be eating with the Ganji himself,” he said. Stewards arrived immediately to fill their cups with wine.
They were scarcely seated when the sound of the drum changed. The beat became more majestic, pipes and flutes joined in, and the crowd fell silent and rose. Shannon signaled and the six companions also stood up. In the manner of their hosts, they bowed their heads.
The Ganji came in from the back of the hall. He moved down the central aisle, stopping now and then to shake a hand or whisper to someone. He seemed very much like one of the new brand of politicians that the Republic had produced.
When he reached his table, he surprised Chaka by remembering everyone’s name. He greeted each in turn, expressed his fondest hope that they would find the meal satisfactory, assured them the wine was the finest that could be obtained, and guaranteed that they would enjoy the entertainment. It seemed odd that a man of such mundane appearance could lead these people effectively. But when the hall had filled and he stood to speak, she understood. His voice was warm and compelling. The Ganji was born to command.
She never learned his name. “The position is eternal,” Shannon explained. “When a Ganji is appointed, he gives up his own name. Or she does: There have been a few women. But the intent is that there be only one Ganji, for all time. When you take the job you lose your self and merge into the line.”
The Ganji welcomed the audience, and invited them to join him in greeting their visitors. He asked each guest to stand while he explained that person’s importance. Silas was a scholar and a man of great wisdom; Shannon roamed the wide forests, keeping safe those entrusted to his care; Avila was a physician of considerable skill; Quait was a warrior; Flojian was a maker of boats; and Chaka a tamer of horses.
“Where did he get that?” Chaka whispered to Shannon, who shrugged and tried to look innocent.
The crowd cheered each member of the company in turn, rattling their wooden dishes and pounding on their tables. They chanted the name each time the Ganji finished his description. Sometimes they got it right. Quait came out as Queep Esterhonk. But no one cared.
“Our guests are going north,” the Ganji said, “into the dark land. Let us wish them good fortune. And if it happens that, during this life, they come this way again, they will know they can find refuge with the Oriki.” More applause, while Chaka wondered precisely what he was implying.
“He’s good,” Flojian whispered to her. “Some of the people back home could take lessons from this guy.”
Shannon commented to the Ganji that it was the first time in his life he’d ever sat at a head table. “I didn’t even make it at my wedding,” he said, and the Ganji roared with laughter and slapped his cup on the wooden board.
Silas rose to speak for the companions. He said that it was good to find friends waiting in a part of the world he had not visited before. And he hoped that, when any of the Oriki came to Illyria, they would look him up. (He’d had some reservations about that comment, but Shannon assured him it was okay, that everyone understood it was only ceremonial.)
When he was finished, there was more cheering, and the food arrived. Great quantities of steaming pork and beef were carried to the tables, and carrots and potatoes and yams. And wine and ale.
“We could do some trading with these people,” said Flojian, examining a carafe. “Some of these pieces are quite nice. It’d command a decent price at home.” He showed it to Avila. “Don’t vou think?”
“It might command a decent price here too,” she replied. “Don’t be too sure the Oriki don’t know the value of their work.”
The Ganji led their table in a prayer of thanksgiving to Shanta, and the diners fell to.
A group of musicians with drums and stringed instruments filed out onto a dais and began to play. The music was soft and slow, like a moonlit wind or a wide river in late summer. During the meal, people came from all over the hall to introduce themselves, embrace the travelers, and wish them good fortune.
The result was that the companions were probably the last persons in the hall to finish their meals. When they did, an entertainer appeared and led the crowd in a series of rollicking songs celebrating the twin arts of drinking and fornicating.
“Back home,” said Flojian, obviously embarrassed, “someone would call the police.”
“Stay with it,” said Shannon. “We’re in their country. Let’s not do anything to offend anyone.”
A comedian followed. He did a series of jokes, most of which Chaka didn’t quite understand. But she heard one that poked fun at the size of the Ganji’s ears. She glanced at him, shocked, and noticed that his ears were somewhat large. More important, he was laughing as hard as anyone.
The musicians, who had left off for the comedian, picked up with a raucous tempo. Dancers appeared, attractive young men and women, clothed mostly in anklets and rings and bracelets. They leaped onto the tables, which had by now been cleared of all except drinking cups, and moved sinuously and gracefully through the firelight, paying special attention to the visitors. Chaka found herself face to face, so to speak, with a male member of the troupe. But she bore up with good humor and nonchalance, surprised that it was possible to combine so effectively the exotic and the absurd.
The Ganji caught her eye, smiled benignly, and raised his cup to her. Then, as if nothing out of the way were happening, he turned to Silas. “I wish I could go with you.”