The view of Askitosh was executed in sepia monochrome. The city was enfolded in one of the famous “silt mists,” a thin curtain of cold dry air which descended on the city from the plateaux ranged behind it. To this was added the smoke rising from thousands of chimneys, as the Uskuti endeavoured to keep themselves warm. The city faded under a shadow partly of its own making.
“On the other hand, communication with our ancestors in the pauk state does much to fortify our selves,” said one greybeard. “Particularly when in adversity. I mean, I imagine that few of us here have not derived comfort from communication with the gossies.”
In a querulous voice, a Member from the Lorajan port of Ijivibir said, “By the by, why have our scientists not discovered how it is that gossies and fessups are now friendly to our souls, whereas—as well- authenticated testaments tell—they were once always hostile? Could it be a seasonal change, do you think—friendly in winter and summer, hostile in spring?”
“The question will be rendered immaterial if we abandon the gossies and fessups to their own devices by promulgating the edict before us,” replied the Member from Juthir.
Through the narrow windows could be seen the roofs of the government printing press where, after only a day or two of further discussion, the edict of the Supreme Oligarch Torkerkanzlag II was turned into print. The posters that fell in their thousands from the flatbed presses announced in bold type that hereafter it would be an Offence to Go into Pauk, whether Secretly or in Company with Others. This was explained as another precaution against the Encroaching Plague. Penalty for contravening the law, One Hundred Sibs and, for a Second Offence, Life Imprisonment.
Within Askitosh itself was a rail transport system worked by steam cars which pulled carriages at the rate of ten or twelve miles an hour. The cars were dirty but dependable, and the system was being ex- tended outside the city. These cars took bundles of the posters to distribution points on the fringes of the city, and to the harbour, whence they were distributed by ship to all points of the compass.
Thus bundles soon arrived at Koriantura. Bill stickers ran about the town, pasting up the terms of the new law. One of those posters was stuck to the wall of the house where Eedap Mun Odim’s family had lived for two hundred years.
But that house was now empty, abandoned to the mice and rats. The front door had slammed for the last time.
Eedap Mun Odim left the family house behind him with his usual stiff little walk. He had his pride: his face betrayed nothing of the griefs he felt.
On this special morning, he took a circuitous route to Climent Quay, going by way of Rungobandryaskosh Street and South Court. His slave Gagrim followed, carrying his bag.
He was conscious with every step that this was the last time in his life that he would walk the streets of Koriantura. Throughout all the long past years, his Kuj-fuveci background had led him to think of it as a place of exile; only now did he realise how much it had been home.
His preparations for departure had been made to the best of his ability; fortunately, he still had one or two Uskuti friends, fellow merchants, who had helped him.
Rungobandryaskosh Street branched off to the left, the street steep. Odim paused at the turning just before the churchyard and looked back down the road. His old house stood there, narrow at the base, wide at the top, its boxed-in wooden balcony clinging to it like the nest of some exotic bird, the eaves of its steep roof curving outwards until they nearly touched the eaves of the house opposite. Inside, no plentiful Odim family: only light, shadow, emptiness, and the old-fashioned murals on the walls, depicting life as it had once been in a now almost imaginary Kuj-Juvec. He tucked his beard more firmly inside his coat and marched briskly on.
This was an area of small craftsmen — silversmiths, watchmakers, bookbinders, and artists of various kinds. To one side of the street stood a small theatre where extraordinary plays were produced, plays which could not fill the theatres in the centre of town: plays trafficking in magic and science, fantasies dealing with both possible and impossible things (for both sorts were much alike), tragedies dealing with broken teacups, comedies dealing with wholesale slaughter. Also satires. Irony and satire were things the authorities could neither understand nor abide. So the theatre was often closed. It was closed at present, and the street looked the drabber for it.
In South Court lived an old painter who had painted scenery for the theatre and porcelain for the factory whose wares Odim exported. Jheserabhay was old now, but he still had a sure hand with plates and tureens; equally important, he had often given work to the ample Odim family. Odim valued him, despite his sharp tongue, and had brought him a farewell present.
A phagor let Odim into the house. There were many phagors in South Court. Uskuti in general had a marked aversion to the ancipital kind, whereas artistic people seemed to delight in them, perversely enjoying the immobility and sudden movements of the creatures. Odim himself disliked their sickly milky stench, and passed as quickly as possible into the presence of Jheserabhay.
Jheserabhay sat wrapped in an old-fashioned heedrant, feet up on a sofa, close to a portable iron stove. Beside him rested a picture album. He rose slowly to welcome Odim. Odim sat on a velvet chair facing him, and Gagrim stood behind the chair, clutching the bag.
The old painter shook his head gloomily when he heard Odim’s news.
“Well, it’s a bad time for Koriantura and no mistake. I’ve never known worse. It’s a poor thing, Odim, that you should be forced to leave because things are so difficult. But then, you never really belonged here, did you — you and your family.”
Odim made no gesture. He said slowly, without thinking, “Yes, I do belong here, and your words amaze me. I was born here, within this very mile, and my father before me. This is my home as much as yours, Jhessie.”
“I thought you were from Kuj-Juvec?”
“Originally my family was from Kuj-Juvec, yes, and proud of it. But I am both a Sibornalese and a Korianturan, first and foremost.”
“Why are you leaving then? Where are you going? Don’t look so offended. Have a cup of tea. A veronikane?”
Odim soothed his beard. “The new edicts make it impossible to stay. I have a large family, and I must do the best I possibly can for them.”
“Oh, yes, yes, so you must. You have a very large family, don’t you? I’m against that sort of thing myself. Never married. No relations. Always stuck to my art. I’ve been my own master.”
Narrowing his eyes, Odim said, “It’s not only Kuj-Juveci families which get large. We’re not primitive, you know.”
“My dear old friend, you are sensitive today. I was levelling no accusations. Live and let live. Where are you going?”
“That I would rather not say. News gets about, whispers become shouts.”
The artist grunted. “I suppose you’re going back to Kuj-Juvec.”
“Since I have never in my life been there, I cannot go back there.”
“Someone was telling me that your house is full of murals of that part of the world. I hear they are rather fine.”
“Yes, yes, old but fine. By a great artist who never made a name for himself. But it is my house no more. I had to sell it, lock, stock, and barrel.”
“Well then … I hope you got a good price?”
Odim had been forced to accept a miserable price, but he rationed himself to one word: “Tolerable.”
“I suppose I shall miss you, though I’ve got out of the habit of seeing people. I hardly ever go over to the theatre now. This north wind gets into my old bones.”