“What is that?” Lasha asked.
“I don’t know,” she said, trying to forestall any further questions. “That’s what I heard.”
The woman fanned the boy with an open hand, blew gently on the sweat, touched his warm flesh. She used her body to block the harsh sun. Someone yelled that Weta would come as soon as possible. Caitlin was considering what to do next when the crowd that had gathered parted slightly and a familiar figure returned, tugged along by the thyodularasi Lasha had chased away. Standor Qala patted the thigh-high creature on its elongated snout and it released its grip. She strode through the group and crouched beside the boy, beside Caitlin.
“It was all too much for Vilu, I see,” Qala remarked.
“This has happened before?” Caitlin asked.
“Not like this,” Qala admitted with a half-smile. “Usually he just jumps around. Ever since Femora Azha took the children aloft in a fisher’s airship, his life has been about flight.”
“There is no blood, no injury,” Qala said after reaching softly behind the boy’s head. “Do we know if he’d eaten?”
No one answered. Reaching into the sashlike pouch at her side, Qala withdrew an oval pellet that looked like a ruby and held it just below the boy’s nostrils. Qala adjusted it so the rays of the sun were striking it directly. The sunlight illuminated small, dark, opaline facets inside. Fragrance rose from the crystal, which began to decay as the scent grew stronger. Caitlin saw now that it was not mineral but vegetal, the surface made of petals crushed around slivers of what looked like dried berries. Oil dropped from the shrinking object, absorbed by the boy’s flesh, just under his nostrils.
The boy stirred but his eyes remained closed.
“Odd,” Qala remarked as the pellet finally fell to pieces. “I’ve seen the dumatta awaken those who were near death from drowning. This appears to be a different kind of sleep.”
Qala allowed the lingering thyodularasi to lick her fingers. Lasha frowned.
“Don’t feed it,” the pool guardian said with exasperation.
“Quiet, Lasha. She deserves a reward for her loyalty.”
“Loyalty! She’s loyal to those who feed her!” Lasha shook bony fists at the animal, which snorted at him. “Perhaps it was spoiled fish that felled the boy! The fishers used to feed those to these beasts—now they sell them!”
“Complain about the fish again and I will see you assigned to a fisher ship in the western freeze zone,” Qala said as she scooped up the boy, put him over her shoulder, and rose. “I’m taking him to the airship physician.”
“I’m going with you,” Caitlin said.
Qala regarded Caitlin. “I thought you had other business.”
“Not now.”
“Perhaps you know him?”
“I—I don’t know,” Caitlin said. “But everyone else on the airship will be busy. He may need a nurse.”
The word she used was xat, which literally meant “health observer.” All that mattered was she would be near him.
Qala turned to Lasha. “Inform his caretakers. I will send the boy back when he has recovered.”
“But you’re leaving, Standor,” Lasha pointed out. “Aren’t you? Imminently?”
“I am,” Qala said, holding the boy a little tighter. “Let them know that as well.”
The water guardian seemed perplexed but would rather pass the word to simple fishers than to ask for further clarification from a Standor. It wasn’t as if the official carried any authority outside the operation of her airship. But the romance of her profession, the loftiness of her title, and Qala’s personal popularity would make it difficult to muster popular support against her. Even mad Azha had been given every opportunity to atone for her murderous efforts and foreswear any similar actions in the future. A common Galderkhaani would never have been heard before the full council in the Aankhaan House of Judgment.
Turning from Lasha, Standor Qala looked at Caitlin. “Perhaps the physician should look at you as well.”
“Let’s take care of the boy first,” Caitlin said.
They made their way through the crowd, which parted eagerly and respectfully. Qala was thoughtful as they walked.
“It is rare, in Galderkhaan, for children to receive the kind of priority you’ve suggested,” the Standor finally remarked.
“Is it?” Caitlin replied.
“If riders in an airship are injured during a storm, who should be tended to first? Those who can manage the ship or suckling babes?”
“I did not realize we had such a crisis on our hands,” Caitlin said. She wondered if her sarcasm came through in the exaggerated hand gestures.
Qala was quiet for another long moment then said, “Perhaps you have mothered before? In this place you know you’re from, yet cannot seem to remember.”
“Perhaps,” Caitlin said.
They left the courtyard, Caitlin still a little wobbly under Qala’s watchful eye. But she managed to keep up. She thought of Ben, imagined what he would give to be here, studying, listening, learning. Or Flora and her… her pirates. For all the intellectual sanctuary they took in their lofty, erudite trappings and ways, she did not believe it was scholarship they sought. It didn’t take an enlightened soul to feel that way. Like too many people she had met over the years—especially autocrats—they reeked of dangerous self-interest.
Caitlin’s gaze shifted from face to face among the locals who were working outdoors on small boats, on sails, nets, and mirrorlike devices she didn’t recognize—perhaps a form of solar power, she thought. Some were walking with others, holding hands, holding children, accompanied by the seals. Ratlike creatures flitted in the shadows, long, froglike tongues whipping out at large insects that rested on the walls. She noticed mounds that ran alongside the streets. Did those humps conceal pipes that carried water? Sewage? Steam from magma? She couldn’t be sure. A few citizens were eating at stand-alone buildings that were comparable to twenty-first-century taverns. A few of the people seemed to notice Caitlin—or Bayarma—and tilted their head to the right as she passed.
“You acknowledge no one,” the Standor observed.
“I—I thought they were greeting you,” Caitlin said. “Or the boy.”
“The boy?” Qala laughed. “He’s not conscious.”
“They might have been wishing him well.”
Qala frowned. “Then they would nod forward,” she said. “They are greeting a newcomer, inviting you to return. The other way,” Qala tilted her head to the left, “would be a sign of disapproval, such as the Technologists receive in Glogharasor.”
“The Priest stronghold,” she thought aloud.
“That’s right.”
“And Belhorji is for the Technologists,” Caitlin said.
They were names she had discussed with Ben during a nighttime walk in Paley Park. For a moment—gone before she even knew it was there—Caitlin almost felt as though she were back there. It came as a very strong—“snapshot” was the only word that came to mind. A rich image accompanied by a frisson, a tickling at the base of her skull.
“So you do remember something,” Qala said. “Perhaps your memory is returning?”
“Possibly,” Caitlin replied. She sought to reconnect with the park, with Ben, with anything during that night. But it was all gone.
There was speed but no sense of urgency in Qala’s long stride. Though the boy was in need of care, Caitlin recognized the Standor’s manner as typical of command: she had seen it at disaster sites around the world, where men and women moved with purpose to instill confidence, alleviate fear, and to preserve calm. This woman was not just a leader, the lingering eyes of onlookers told Caitlin that she was widely respected.