What point was she trying to make? That Stratoin society allows for change? That their founders had left ways for newness to enter, from time to time? Or was she subtly suggesting something else? Moving from booth to booth, I was struck by a certain deficit. A lack of smoothness or the relaxed presumption of skill that daughters of an older clan wore as easily as clothes on their backs.
The women under this tent were eager to show the products of their labor and ingenuity. Buyers from great trading houses could be seen threading the aisles, aloofly on the lookout for something worth their time and interest. Here, in a moment, a var's success could be made. Generations later, her innovation might become the basis for a clan's wealth.
Clearly that is the hope. And just as clearly, few in this vast room would see it come true. How often hope comes salted with a bitter tang.
They used to say, on Earth, that we find immortality through our children. It is a solace, although most of us know that when we die, we stop.
On Stratos, though … I no longer know what to think. Under that canopy, at the far end of the festival grounds, I felt something familiar that had seemed remote at Nitocris Hold, or in the marbled chambers of the acropolis.
Beneath the Var Pavilion, I remarked a familiar scent of mortality.
Their opponents offered to waive the rules. It was done quite often, Maia knew. About one Life match in five that she had witnessed featured some agreed-on variation. These ranged from using odd boundaries to altering the fundamental canons of the game — including more than two colors, or changing the way pieces responded to the status of their neighbors.
In this case, nothing complicated was involved. To save time — and perhaps rub home the helplessness of their adversaries — the junior cook and cabin boy suggested that each side lay down four rows at a turn, instead of just one. Since their own round came first this time, it was a generous concession, like spotting a chess opponent one rook. Maia and Renna would get to see large swaths of the other side of the board, and discuss possible changes before placing each layer of their own.
Maia watched tensely as the two youths positioned their game pieces. Seconds passed, and she felt a knot slowly unwind in her belly. They aren't very imaginative, after all, she thought. Or they're being lazy. The boys' oasis zone was already apparent, protected by a spiky variety of a standard pattern called "long fence."
Maia found it bemusing, standing here reading a game board this way. Last night, during their first match, she had experienced one or two moments of inspiration, but had been too confused and worried to enjoy the process, or let go and watch the game as a whole. That had changed with this afternoon's epiphany and during the subsequent session exploring possibilities with Renna. Now she felt strangely detached, yet eager, as if a barrier had broken, releasing something serenely beyond mere curiosity.
Almost certainly, it had been triggered by that cruel conversation with Baltha, causing her to despair at last of comradeship from womankind. But that didn't go all the way toward explaining her sudden passion for this game.
Face it. I'm abnormal.
It hadn't begun with this voyage, or on meeting Renna, or even studying navigation with old Bennett. At age three, she used to love going down by the piers, watching sailors scratch their beards and mull over arrays of clicking game pieces. Many women enjoyed the dance of shapes and forms, yet there had always been something implicit in the townsfolk's indulgent appreciation. No one came right out and said it wasn't for girls. The tenor of complaisant scorn sufficed, especially when shared by Leie. Eager to fit in, young Maia had mimicked words of affectionate contempt, suppressing, she now saw in retrospect, that early fascination.
I've always loved patterns, puzzles. Maybe it's all a mistake. I should have been a boy.
That passing, sardonic thought she did not take seriously. Maia felt profoundly female. No doubt what she'd stumbled on was simply a wild talent manifesting itself. One lacking much use in real life, alas. She knew of no lucrative niche in Stratoin society for a woman navigator who was also able to play man-games.
No niche. No golden road to matriarchy. But perhaps a life. Naroin seems to do all right, spending most of each year at sea.
It was funny, contemplating a career as a woman-sailor. There were attractions to the rough camaraderie Naroin and the other var hands shared with the seamen. On the other hand, a life of hauling ropes and yanking winches . . . ? Maia shook her head.
