Through Darkest Zymurgia!

As a seasoned traveler, I know that it is a pernicious, indeed a potentially deadly mistake to judge a place by the standards of one's home country. In Pelham high society it is the done thing when visiting an acquaintance to put one's calling card on the butler's silver tray, and to wait patiently whilst the acquaintance decides to be, or not to be, at home. Should the decision be in the negative, one must go about one's business without fuss or furor. It is considered extremely ill-bred to claim that the acquaintance is in, even when it is undeniably true; and of course bribing or otherwise endeavouring to suborn the butler is simply unthinkable. To be "not at home" from time to time is one of the little blessings that eases us through life. Yet in such a familiar place as Lyricum Town the simple custom has a sinister air.

Just as in Pelham, the Lyrican ritual of the calling card has its appointed steps and measures, and its own meaning. A Lyrican gentleman will always state his name and business to the major-domo of the house, unless his business is a matter touching upon his honor. Such matters are not to be discussed with servants. Thus, to silently proffer one's calling card in Lyricum Town is to request satisfaction, a challenge as unmistakeable as a slap of the hand in a public place. There are many acceptable responses. One might invite the caller in, and offer him your hospitality, and endeavour to show him that his honor is unstained. Alternatively, one might send out a card with the names and addresses of one's seconds. To be "not at home" in the Anglish sense, to fail to acknowledge the visitor in any way, is in such a case to refuse to give proper satisfaction, to decline the honor of a duel, and hence to declare oneself both in the wrong and a coward. In Lyricum Town, this is a deadly fate. Men will sneer. Ladies will turn their faces away. Small children will snigger at one's passing. Should the craven accept his responsibilities, and send his seconds to his challenger, all of course will be forgiven, at least until the duel settles the matter permanently. Otherwise, the offending individual is likely to be found adrift in the Bay of Biscotti one fine morning. One cannot refuse satisfaction forever, but one can die in dishonor.

You may think this an unlikely story, and yet it has been known to happen. I once knew an Anglish curate named Arthur Frampton, a poor fellow as obsessed with Lyrican opera as he was ravaged by hayfever. He inadvertantly sneezed during a performance of Libretto's Canneloni, in the opening moments of the opera's best-loved aria. He compounded his transgression by sneezing three more times and using his handkerchief noisily before the aria was complete. It was not his fault, poor fellow; it was the flower he had fixed in his buttonhole that was his undoing.

Alas, the opera singer's lover was in the audience that day, and took Frampton's sneezes as a sign of opprobrium and disdain. And well he might, for the singer's performance was memorable chiefly for its squeaks, gasps, and agonizing pauses. The offended gentleman, a man named Vittorio, came to Frampton's lodgings late that evening, and presented his card to the major-domo, intent on an apology or a meeting. An apology would have been accepted; Vittorio was not an unreasonable man. Had he peen permitted in, he would have seen the curate's streaming eyes and flushed complexion, and would have begged the curate's pardon immediately. The major-domo, a Lyrican himself, begged Frampton to reconsider. But Frampton, who had gone to bed with a hot water bottle and a pot of hot tea with lemon, would not be moved. He was "not at home," and so the major-domo reported. Vittorio was confirmed in his suspicions, of course, and took the steps that honor demanded. Poor Arthur Frampton never sneezed through another aria. He was free at last of his hayfever; but perhaps he would have judged the price to be too dear.

It is, of course, impossible to travel in faroff lands without the occasional misunderstanding; but I have found that stout Anglish forthrightness combined with a willingness to talk to and learn from almost anyone will carry one through. So long as one is aware of the possibility of being misunderstood, and makes the necessary allowances, such problems are seldom fatal. At least, not yet.

There is, however, a related but more pernicious error, and that is to assume that the customs and mores of a country are like those of its neighbors. It is straightforward to remember that one is not at home; every detail of one's surroundings shout it out. It is less easy to discriminate between the contents of two homes side-by-side in a strange neighborhood, when one is, figuratively speaking, standing on the pavement looking through the front doors.

Mukden lead us into the Hall of the Masters, and went to announce our arrival to some servants who were standing there. I ignored them, taking in the details of the large room: tile floor, large windows, carved and painted wooden ceiling. I had just told Bruno to go lie down when Mukden introduced the servants as the Masters of Tomar. Fortunately I was facing away from them, or I fear my face would have given me away.

It is true that women are greatly protected among the Azizim, whether of Seros or of other countries. During our entire stay in Cadbury's village, the only woman we saw was Cadbury's wife, and then only because we had been guests in his home. Though I was well aware that Zymurgia was different in culture and religion than Seros, somehow I was expecting the same pattern. I can only plead distraction caused by the onslaught of Zymurgian mongrels we had just withstood...but I was quite unprepared to discover that two of the four Masters of Tomar were women, one of them young and strikingly beautiful. I was quite speechless, for the second time in less than a week.

The Masters of Tomar were dressed much like Mukden, which no doubt contributed to my mistake. Two were men, and two were women; two were old and two were young. Their garments were embroidered here and there with yellow thread, and the women's in particular were cut close to the body, leaving no doubt as to their sex. I turned to face them fully, concerned that my error was written on my face. I need not have worried, as for the moment they were paying me no attention. All four were staring at Bruno, who had obediently trotted over and lay sprawled in the corner, head up, ears and eyes alert. He was panting, and looking around the room.

The older woman asked Mukden something in Zymurgian; he spoke for some time, and from his gestures and glances out of the window, I gathered that he was speaking about the dog fight in the square. After a few questions from the others, Mukden went out, glancing at me, and came back with another villager. As the Masters questioned the newcomer, Mukden came to my side.

"They are asking about the dog fight, and this dog," he said, jerking his head toward Bruno's corner. "They heard the dog fight, of course, but those are common, and they paid it no heed." At that point the newcomer was dismissed, and the Masters called for Mukden.

The pretty young woman was leaning forward. She spoke to Mukden; at her words, the other Masters looked somewhat shocked. The younger man caught her arm, but she shook it off, and repeated her command. Mukden said to me, "Asha says she has been told that this dog obeys your commands. She saw it lie down when you entered, apparently at your direction, but she has seen many dogs lie down where they are not wanted. She wishes you to command the dog to do something unusual." I looked at Asha and the other masters; she looked eager and challenging at one and the same time. The others looked tense, but said nothing further.

"Very well," I said. I turned to Bruno, and continued, "Bruno, come!" Bruno rose from the floor, padded over, and sat down precisely in front of me. "Good boy," I said, patting him on the head. Next I pointed at Asha. If she wanted a demonstration, I would oblige. "Now, Bruno, greet Asha!" Bruno stood up, and looked from me to the woman. "Yes, Bruno, greet Asha!"

For the next several seconds, the only sound in the room was Bruno's claws ticking on the tile floor. The Masters watched in stunned silence as Bruno padded over to the young woman, sat carefully down, barked, and extended one paw to shake hands. Asha stared at Bruno, wide-eyed. He looked up at her, and pawed at the air slightly, crinkling his ears. Slowly she went down on one knee, and took his paw. She shook it gravely, and then released it. Bruno put his paw down and wagged his tail furiously.

The others had been watching this exchange with great interest. As Asha slowly rose to her feet, the young man leaned over to examine Bruno more closely, and then recoiled. He shouted at us, eyes flashing, and then simmered while Mukden translated for us.

"Nabili demands to know how you dare put a collar on one of the Pups of Basenis." The words came grudgingly out of Mukden's mouth, and he was beginning to perspire.

I looked at him in some perplexity, and then realized that it was true: none of the dogs we had seen outside had been wearing collars.

"Tell Nabili it is the dog's own wish," I said. Mukden translated, and the consternation on the Masters' faces changed to anger. The older man barked out a few choice syllables.

"They say that that is nonsense," said Mukden.

"It isn't, of course," I replied, "and I will prove it." Bruno was still sitting obediently in front of Asha. "Bruno, come!" I said. He trotted over and sat quietly. I bent over him, and unfastened his black leather collar, as the outraged Masters looked on in satisfaction. Their smug expressions vanished when I said, "Bruno, go lie down." Bruno stood, sniffing at the pocket where I had placed the collar, and trotted back over to the corner. His head was down, and his tail was between his legs, and when he reached the corner he whined. It was a soft whine, nearly a whimper. Occasionally he glanced in my direction as though to see if I was properly moved. The Masters of Tomar looked on in amazement.

Finally I relented. I took the collar out of my pocket, and said, "Bruno, come!" In two leaps he was sitting at my feet, his tail fanning the floor and his neck outstretched to receive the collar. When he had it on again, he shook all over, yawned, and lay down at my feet. "It is the dog's own wish," I repeated, crossing my arms. I was, I am afraid, beginning to get somewhat impatient, and I heard my companions muttering between themselves.

The Masters conferred quietly for a few minutes, and then moved as a group to one end of the room. As they seated themselves on four matching wooden stools, Mukden said, "The masters wish to pass over the matter of the dog, for now. They wish to be introduced to the members of your party."

I named each of us with as much elegance and refinement as I was capable of. "I am Dr. Leon Thintwhistle of Glastonbury University," I said, and bowed, "and these are my colleagues, Thomas Carbuncle, and Dr. Thaddeus Philpott." I gestured toward each as I spoke. "And this is our friend and guide, Cadbury." Cadbury bowed when I spoke his name, touching heart, mouth, and forehead in the manner of the Azizim.

Mukden translated my speech as best he could, and then listened as the Masters spoke briefly. "Asha and Nabili you know. The others are Simuny and Firenz," he said, gesturing at the old woman and man in turn.

It is a tedious thing to accurately render a translated conversation of this kind, and as tedious to read as it is to write. From this point on, I will only mention the translation if it is relevant to my tale.

"We are an hospitable people," said Firenz, "and it would pain us to deny you our hospitality." He looked away.

"Nevertheless," said Simuny, raising a droopy eyebrow, "it may yet be necessary."

"It is a terrible thing to question a guest, but the well-being of Tomar is in our charge," said Firenz apologetically.

"Why have you come to the Land Above, and what do you want?" asked Asha. She, at least, showed no trace of regret.

"We have come to meet your people, and to travel about your country, to measure it and to learn its ways," I replied.

"Are you then spies?" asked young Nabili. He was an intense young chap, I must say. "Do you prepare the way for an army? Be warned! Great Basenis looks after his pack." Asha looked sideways at him, and rolled her eyes slightly. I am perhaps mistaken, but I believe she bit her tongue as well.

"You are protected no less by the great cliff that separates your country from the lands to the north," I pointed out. "You control the hoist, and the donkey path could be held by a handful of men. Indeed, the path could easily be destroyed. Even were my people interested in conquest, your land is too remote, too difficult of entry." I shrugged.

"If you are not spies," asked Simuny, her eyes glistening, "then what are you?"

I began to speak, but Philpott interrupted me. "We are scholars," he said. Mukden could find no Zymurgian equivalent to "scholar," and Philpott was forced to try again. "We seek knowledge for its own sake," he said at last. "When we return home, we will write our new knowledge down so that it may be shared with others. Thus, the sum of human knowledge ever increases." At that, it was my turn to roll my eyes at Carbuncle. He snorted softly.

"What would you learn?" asked Asha.

"My friends would like to travel about your land, following the roads and the river, to see what may be seen. For my part, I would like to stay here in Tomar for a time. I would like to talk to your people about their lives. I would like to talk with you," said Philpott, and he looked deeply into Asha's eyes. She easily withstood his gaze for several seconds, and one end of her mouth curled up sardonically, but she said nothing. It occurred to me then, for the first time, that "Young Thaddeus" really was rather a young fellow; and barring the tweeds and the spectacles was perhaps not unattractive to women. I wondered if he knew that, and was making use of it. My thoughts continued in this vein for several minutes, as the Masters conferred among themselves. At last, they all stood, and Firenz spoke.

"We must discuss this matter further, but there is no time now. Mukden will take you back to the hostel, where you must remain until we call for you again." It was a clear dismissal, but Philpott spoke up in his poor Zymurgian. The Masters looked at him, considering, and Firenz spoke again. "Very well. You may observe the festival tonight, but you may not participate in it. One will come for you when it is time." He clapped his hands, and the audience was over.

The dead dog was gone when we re-entered the town square. As we crossed it several of the town dogs slunk quietly past, casting sidelong glances at Bruno, but there were no further incidents. Shortly thereafter we were seated once again around the long table in the hostel's common room, there to make whatever sense we could of the morning's events.