I followed the servant into the keep and down a flight of stairs. Metal lamps were fastened to the walls. Most were dark, but a few shone, casting a dim light. The servant had three sturdy bodies, all covered with black hair.
Down and down. The air grew warm and moist. A faint, distinctive aroma filled it.
"There are hot springs in this part of Ibri," the servant said. "This keep was built on top of one; and there is a pool in the basement, which always steams and smells."
Now I recognized the aroma: rotten eggs.
We came to a large room, paved with stone and covered by a broad, barrel vault. Metal lanterns hung from the ceiling on chains. As was the case with the lamps on the stairway, most were dark. But a few flickered dimly. I could see the bathing pooclass="underline" round and carved from bedrock. Steps went down into it. Wisps of steam rose.
"Undress," said the servant. "I’ll bring soap and towels."
I complied eagerly. Only my scout hesitated, holding the baby.
"I’ll help you with the mite," said my scribe, standing knee-deep in hot water.
The scout handed the baby over and undressed.
Soon I was frolicking in the pool, diving and spouting. Cries of joy rang in the damp, warm room. Is anything better than a hot bath after a journey?
The scout took the baby back and moved to the far side of the pool. When the servant returned, the scout sank down, holding the baby closely, hiding it in shadow. Wise mite, it did not cry!
The rest of me got busy, scrubbing shoulders and backs. Ah, the pleasure of warm lather!
Now and then, I gave a little yip of happiness. The servant watched with satisfaction, his/her/its arms piled high with towels.
On the far side of the pool, my best scout crouched, nursing the babe on a dry bud and watching the servant with hooded eyes.
At last, I climbed out, dried off, and dressed. In the confusion–there was a lot of me–the scout managed to keep the baby concealed. Why, I did not know, but the scout was prudent and usually had a good reason for every action, though parts of me still doubted the wisdom of keeping the baby. There would be time to talk all of this over, when the servant was gone.
He/she/it led me up a new set of stairs. The climb was long. The servant entertained me with the following story.
The keep had a pulley system, which had been built by an ingenious traveling plumber. This lifted buckets of hot water from the spring to a tank on top of the keep. From there the water descended through metal pipes, carried by the downward propensity that is innate in water. The pipes heated every room.
"What powers the pulley system?" my scribe asked, notebook in hand.
"A treadmill," said the servant.
"And what powers the treadmill?"
"Criminals and other people who have offended the lord. No keep in Ibri is more comfortable," the servant continued with pride. "This is what happens when a lord is largely or entirely female. As the old proverb says, male bodies give a person forcefulness. Neuter bodies give thoughtfulness and clarity of vision. But nurture and comfort come from a person’s female selves."
Maybe, I thought. But were the people in the treadmill comfortable?
The servant continued the story. The plumber had gone east to Ib and built other heated buildings: palaces, public baths, hotels, hospitals, and crèches. In payment for this work, several of the local lords mated with the plumber; and the local crèches vied to raise the plumber’s children, who were numerous and healthy.
"A fine story, with a happy ending," I said, thinking of my fragment of a child, nursing on the scout’s dry bud. Envy, the curse of all artists and artisans, roiled in my hearts. Why had I never won the right to lay fertile eggs? Why were my purses empty? Why did I have to struggle to protect my testes and to stay off treadmills, while this plumber–surely not a better person than I–enjoyed fame, honor, and fertility?
The guest room was large and handsome, with a modern wonder next to it: a defecating closet. Inside the closet, water came from the wall in two metal pipes, which ended in faucets. "Hot and cold," said the servant, pointing. Below the faucets was a metal basin, decorated with reliefs of frolicking goxhat. Two empty buckets stood next to the basin.
The servant said, "If you need to wash something, your hands or feet or any other part, fill the basin with water. Use the buckets to empty the basin; and after you use the defecating throne, empty the buckets down it. This reduces the smell and gets rid of the dirty water. As I said, our lord is fastidious; and we have learned from her example. The plumber helped, by providing us with so much water.
"I’ll wait in the hall. When you’re ready to meet the lord, I’ll guide you to her."
‘Thank you," said my scribe, always courteous.
I changed into clean clothing, the last I had, and put bardic crowns on my heads 4 . Each crown came from a different contest, though all were minor. I had never won a really big contest. Woven of fine wool, with brightly colored tassels hanging down, the crowns gave me an appearance of dignity. My nimble-fingered scouts unpacked my instruments: a set of chimes, a pair of castanets and a bagpipe. Now I was ready to meet the lord.
All except my best scout, who climbed into the middle of a wide soft bed, child in arms.
"Why did you hide the mite?" asked my scholar.
"This keep seems full of rigid thinkers, overly satisfied with themselves and their behavior. If they saw the child they would demand an explanation. ‘Why do you keep it? Can’t you see how fragmentary it is? Can’t you see that it’s barely alive? Don’t you know how to cut your losses?’ I don’t want to argue or explain."
"What is meant by ‘I’?" my male parts asked. "What is meant by ‘my’ reasons?"
"This is no time for an argument," said the poet.
All of me except the scout went to meet the keep’s famous lord.
The Straightener sat at one end of large halclass="underline" an elderly goxhat with frosted hair. Four parts of her remained, all sturdy, though missing a few pieces here and there: a foot, a hand, an eye or finger. Along the edges of the hall sat her retainers on long benches: powerful males, females, and neuters, adorned with iron and gold.
"Great your fame,
Gold-despoiler,
Bold straightener of scrota,
Wise lord of Ibri.
"Hearing of it,
I’ve crossed high mountains,
Anxious to praise
Your princely virtues."
4
Actually, cerebral bulges. The goxhat don’t have heads as humans understand the word.
My poet stopped. Straightener leaned forward. "Well? Go on! I want to hear about my princely virtues."
"Give me a day to speak with your retainers and get exact details of your many achievements," the poet said. "Then I will be able to praise you properly."
The goxhat leaned back. "Never heard of me, have you? Drat! I was hoping for undying fame."
"I will give it to you," my poet said calmly.
"Very well," the lord said. "I’ll give you a day, and if I like what you compose, I’ll leave your male parts alone."
All of me thanked her. Then I told the hall about my stay at the ruined keep. The retainers listened intently. When I had finished, the lord said, "My long-time neighbor! Dead by murder! Well, death comes to all of us. When I was born, I had twenty parts. A truly large number! That is what I’m famous for, as well as my dislike of men, which is mere envy. My male bodies died in childhood, and my neuter parts did not survive early adulthood. By thirty, I was down to ten bodies, all female. The neuters were not much of a loss. Supercilious twits, I always thought. But I miss my male parts. They were so feisty and full of piss! When travelers come here, I set them difficult tasks. If they fail, I have my soldiers hold them, while I unfold their delicate, coiled testicles. No permanent damage is done, but the screaming makes me briefly happy."