The New Weird - Ann VanderMeer [176]
In Dardarbji's steep and solemn pristine streets it was not thus.
Tentatively the terrorist joined the flow of humanity. He was uncertain of the actual path to Number 50 Djudrum Lane in the Tsongtrik banlieue. But he assumed he would soon discover a public information cubicle where he could ask for directions.
He noted from an official enameled sign affixed to the wall of a building that he had left behind Khunds Road and now traversed Jonkul Avenue.
A block ahead, a knot of people surrounded a small raised stage, atop which a troupe of actors cavorted. Not quite approving but nonetheless intrigued, the terrorist stopped to watch.
The leader of the troupe sported a fierce mustache that trailed below his chin. Acerbic and wry, he seemed to include his listeners in on some droll secret. While beautiful women in pastel silks danced behind him and clowns juggled antique scimitars, he pitched to the crowd.
"Come see Hrangit's Accomplished Thespians and Mountebanks this evening, as we enliven your dull existences with a drama of deep tragedy and heroism. 'The Inundation of Riarnanth!' That most ancient legend of the destruction of your very own beautiful city, when the puissant sea turned traitor and smashed down upon the metropolis! Enacted before your unbelieving eyes with miraculous effects! Only those who could climb the Dallut cliffs like monkeys or swim in Bangma Bay like fish survived that day."
On cue a small monkey appeared from nowhere and clambered up the pants of the pitchman to perch atop his head. A clown attempted to help dislodge the beast by whacking it with a bladder shaped like a puffer fish. The crowd roared.
When at last the boisterous citizenry quieted down, the pitchman concluded: "I, Hrangit, guarantee your satisfaction!"
The terrorist found himself smiling and feeling beneficent. Mention of the destruction of Riarnanth constituted a good omen. He felt grateful to the troupe. If their gods favored them, Hrangit and Company would move safely on to another city before a more modern disaster befell Riarnanth.
Jonkul intersected with a broader boulevard denominated Poonma Way. The terrorist arbitrarily turned right, still seeking a public information cubicle of the kind he was familiar with from home.
A corps of musicians, all male youths in gold-braided uniforms, meandered down the street, barely avoiding collisions with vehicles such as a big dray full of pumpkins, while celebrating Chuzdt's temporary reign with sarod, flute, violin and tablas. People threw coins at them for luck and out of appreciation. The bandleader, a wiry old man whose instrument was the vina ― carried more for show than for use ― hurriedly gathered the coins. "Chuzdt thanks you, and Doumani and his Golden Songboys do likewise!"
Growing thirsty, the terrorist stopped for a cool yogurt drink from a sidewalk cart surrounded by a scrim of water from its onboard melting ice blocks. As he was finishing it, a beggar approached. Dressed in tatters, his bare feet horned and cracked, his big frame warped, the man displayed various sores and scars.
"An oobol or two, good sir, to feed poor Goza! In Chuzdt's name!"
The beggar's lack of propriety, disgusting condition, and evident disfavor in the eyes of Jaggenuth repelled the visitor from Dardarbji. His clean city would never countenance the presence of such.
"Get away! I have no oobols to spare for you! Hire yourself out as guide to the fiery cracks of Mount Meru, for all I care!"
The beggar named Goza cringed obsequiously. "Blessings from Chuzdt be yours in any case, good sir!"
Gratefully leaving the beggar behind, the terrorist continued his search for a booth where he could get the directions he needed. Could it be that Riarnanth did not possess this public amenity?
In Dardarbji there was hardly