Samiha's Song

by Mary Victoria

  It was there. Laboured and weak. But it was there.

  ‘Quick, end the trance!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’ve got to help him!’

  The Oracle shook her head. ‘The Reading must take its course. You’ll wake up when it’s time. That’s the rule.’

  ‘Make an exception!’ Tymon begged her, jumping to his feet. ‘I know you can. Every minute I sit there in that mine hall is a minute too long! He’ll die if we don’t do something—’

  ‘The Sight is not a machine, young man, to be turned on and off at will. It’s much wiser to let things finish naturally. The sooner you understand that, the sooner you’ll become a proper Grafter.’

  With a sinking heart Tymon remembered Jedda’s bitter assessment. Their lives meant nothing to the Oracle.

  ‘Wiser?’ he repeated savagely. ‘Or more convenient? You said this was a guided trance. So guide me toward a wake-up call! Or else — I swear — I’ll leave you as soon as I can! I’ll never study with you, never!’

  She received this outburst calmly, her eyes glinting in the darkness. He wondered for an instant whether she was causing the trance to last for perverse reasons of her own and whether he would have woken up already, had she not prevented it. He was at her mercy.

  ‘Very well,’ she conceded.

  ‘Very well, what?’ he snapped. ‘Very well, you’ll help? Or very well, I can go?’

  But she had vanished, her shimmering snuffed out.

  ‘Don’t leave me!’ Tymon cried. ‘Don’t leave me here, you mad old—’

  He broke off, blinking into the gloom. Something else was there in the Oracle’s absence. Something was moving along the gallery outside the compost cloth with a sliding, shuffling gait. He glimpsed a humped form through one of the gaps in the sacking, heard the click and slither of claws. The Beast! Although this time it had no head, he heard its breath rasping in the darkness outside the sack, as if it possessed a mouth on some other portion of its anatomy. It knew that he was there. The voice that emerged from the unseen throat was a barking, yapping whine.

  ‘Mine,’ it yelped. ‘Mine, all mine. Where is she, Tymon? Gone, while you were gone. Gone, gone. Flew away. All mine.’

  As the Beast-that-was-Lace knotted its muscles and leapt through the gap, Tymon knew with a terrible certai nty that it was speaking of Samiha. He turned and blund ered toward an opening on the other side of the sack, slipping and sliding off the rubbish heap to run down the nightmare galleries with the Beast at his heels.

  8

  The Sap moves, thought Samiha. Saint Loa, chapter one, verse five. The Sap moves, and so moves the Tree.

  The World Tree fell away beneath the new air-chariot as it rose into the bright morning sky. She could not see the canopy outside the window, hidden as she was under one of the benches in the machine behind three crates of provisions, a backpack and a cylindrical map case. But she felt the pull of gravity, the pull of the world which did not wish to let her go. In the two days since the dawn meeting in the arena, messages had already arrived by bird from the other Freeholds, bringing answers to Gardan’s invitation. The Maia was on its way to pick up Speakers from four of the largest Nurian settlements. There was to be a convention in Sheb, an alliance drawn up that would ensure their mutual safety. In return, representatives from each village would receive training in how to build the air-chariots. According to some they were a boon for peace and security in Nur. Samiha’s feelings on the subject were more reserved. Flying machines on one side and blast-cannons on the other, she reflected. It was almost as explosive a mix as Caro’s revolution.

  Other questions preoccupied her at the moment, however. She was disappointed that there had been no word from Laska; she had hoped he might return from Cherk Harbour in time to take her to Marak himself. He had originally promised to return within two days to the Freehold and his continued absence was troubling. She had been obliged to go without news of Tymon and play the stowaway once again. She peered between the straps of Pallas’ backpack at the gangling figure of the young captain steering the craft. He glanced over his shoulder at her as she did so.

  ‘All clear,’ he called over the thud of the propellers. ‘You can come out now.’

  Samiha dragged herself out from under the bench with relief. ‘Pallas, you’re a real friend. I can’t thank you enough for doing this.’

  ‘Anything for you, Kion,’ grinned the youth. ‘Besides, you’re right.’

  ‘Right?’ she echoed, brushing the dust off her tunic.

  ‘We can make as many machines as we like: without the Focals, we’ll still lose.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’ Samiha installed herself on the topside of the bench. ‘I’m curious, Pallas. I share your view, of course. But most of the Freeholders and, I’d imagine, the other members of the Young Guard don’t. Why do you feel differently?’

  The youth shrugged. ‘Well, the best way I can explain it is this. If you have one of these machines you have to know how to fly it, right? Or else it’s useless. In the same way you can have powerful weapons, or fleets of air-chariots, but if you can’t use them wisely they’ll end up crashing you into the canopy. The Focals know how to fly. We should listen to them.’

  ‘From the mouths of babes,’ declared Ash, abruptly present on the bench beside Samiha. ‘Treasure this one. He’s got sense.’

  ‘And with respect, Kion, you’re wrong about the guard,’ added Pallas. ‘Most of them share my opinion. They were surprised at the quorum’s decision. Remember one of ours is a Grafter. Tymon would have agreed with you.’

  Samiha had to turn away at the mention of Tymon, toward one of the windows, blinking back a rush of regret in the cold updraught. Would he really have agreed to her going? Or would he have been distracted by his desire for her safety?

  ‘You’re a wise man. You should stand for election,’ she remarked aloud to Pallas. ‘I’d vote for you.’

  ‘No thanks. I don’t care for politics,’ laughed the young pilot.

  ‘That’s why she’d vote for you,’ put in the invisible Ash, leaning back on the bench and crossing his arms over his chest.

  ‘Is this how it’s going to be from here on?’ muttered Samiha, in an aside to him. ‘Are you always going to be beside me, jabbering in my ear? Because someone’s going to notice me talking to myself eventually.’

  ‘Beg your pardon, ma’am?’ asked Pallas.

  Samiha gave Ash a meaningful stare. ‘Sorry, Pallas, just thinking aloud.’

  ‘Alright,’ grumbled the vision. ‘I know when I’m not wanted.’

  And in a twinkling, he was gone. The breeze whipped through the open windows of the air-chariot and made havoc of Samiha’s hair.

  A little over an hour later, they had arrived at the knot near the wind-well.

  ‘You won’t get into trouble for helping me,’ Samiha told Pallas, as she loaded provisions from the crate on the floor of the Maia into her own small bag and slung it over her shoulder. She jumped lightly out of the hatchway. ‘I left a note for Gardan explaining everything. I sneaked onto the machine. You knew nothing.’

  ‘As you wish. But I don’t think Gardan will be fooled for a minute,’ smiled the youth, stepping into the hatchway to see her off.

  Samiha paused on the bark slope with the bag slung over her shoulder: she was suddenly reluctant to let a friendly face go, to trudge off alone along the depressingly dry irrigation canals. Even in the depths of winter there was not enough consistent rain to leave more than a murky trickle at the bottom of the troughs.

  ‘Pallas,’ she began, groping for something else to say. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you. How do you like your promotion?’

  ‘I’m very proud, Kion,’ he replied, straightening up, his expression slightly self-conscious. ‘I hope I live up to Solis’ recommendation.’

  ‘Solis was never wrong when it came to judging character,’ she said quietly.

  ‘I also love flying,’ he confessed, losing his solemnity. ‘I really hope being captain of the guard
won’t mean I have to stop doing that.’

  ‘Well,’ she answered, ‘there’s no reason there couldn’t be a flying wing of the Young Guard.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ he exclaimed, his expression lighting up like a candle.

  ‘I know so,’ she assured him. ‘Bless you, Pallas.’ She started down the knot.

  ‘Maybe I’ll bring a squadron to escort you home,’ he called after her.

  ‘That sounds perfect,’ she said, waving to him. ‘I’ll go back in style.’

  She continued walking. Behind her, the Maia’s propellers thundered to life again and the machine lifted off the knot, sending gusts of wind flapping through her cloak. She turned once more to see the air-chariot soaring into the sky in glorious cacophony.

  ‘I’m not going back this time, am I?’ she observed to the apparition beside her.

  Ash hesitated a moment. Then he shook his head.

  ‘Gardan isn’t going to be too happy about that.’

  He fell into step beside her as she set off down the canal. ‘Judge Gardan won’t understand your decision to begin with. But she’ll come around. And she is the most capable person to lead the Freehold at the moment.’

  ‘You do have a knack for telling me what I already know,’ she said. ‘If you were a spirit, not a delusion, you’d lay my worries to rest about a few things I don’t know. Like what’s keeping Laska.’

  ‘I can’t do that,’ he said, gravely.

  ‘No,’ she observed. ‘I didn’t think you could.’

  They walked on in silence until she spoke again. ‘So, it’s begun. The final chapter. The one I’ve been rehearsing all my life.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She glanced up at him, thoughtful. ‘That’s why you’re here.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m glad. I was afraid I’d have to do it alone.’

  ‘You’re never alone, Samiha,’ he said, gently.

  Together they followed the winding course of the canal toward Marak city.

  As evening came to the colonial outpost, a spice-train composed of five deeply laden wagons ground to a halt at the foot of the south bridge. Before them, blocking the way, stood a line of Marak soldiers. The spice wagons and their irate drivers sat end to end on the branch-path, herd-beasts stoically chewing cud. The air resounded with curses. The merchants’ long and gruelling journey was behind them, praise the Tree. And yet here, on the very threshold of their goal, they were frustrated.

  The sun was rapidly retreating behind the western twig-thickets: the hour of curfew loomed ominously close. Although it was time for evening prayer, no sound rose up from the city across the bridge. No voice cried out the words of the First Liturgy from the tent quarter. The Governor of Marak had recently banned all gatherings among the natives, effectively cancelling temple services. He had also stepped up his border patrols. The ten soldiers blocking access to the bridge did not budge despite the lateness of the hour. They waited for the head driver, a corpulent Argosian wearing the red headdress of the Spicers’ Guild, to throw his dimpled fists in the air and descend from his wagon. The man waddled forward, invoking in injured tones the green and verdant grace of God, clearly absent from these barbaric parts. At that point the captain of the guard broke ranks and strode forward to meet him.

  ‘Do you have a permit for transporting Treespice,’ droned the soldier. There was not the slightest inflection to his question.

  The head driver produced the required roll of parchment with a sarcastic flourish, remarking that he had already shown them to a border guard two miles back and had his load searched, too. This announcement made no impression whatsoever on the colonial captain. He flicked the parchment open, shut it, then opened it again, as if the writing might change on each subsequent perusal.

  ‘What is the purpose of your visit to Marak city,’ he stated.

  The driver ogled him in disbelief. ‘To transport this load of Treespice?’ he answered, his voice rising querulously at the end of the phrase as if to make up for the soldier’s stolid utterances.

  ‘Did you see the spice loaded onto the wagons yourself.’

  The driver nodded. ‘Sir, as our papers are in order and the curfew will soon—’

  ‘Did anyone give you anything else to transport to Marak city, a parcel, perhaps, which you did not see packed before you.’

  ‘No—’

  ‘Are you transporting any person, or persons, in addition to your four authorised co-workers, a lone traveller, perhaps, or a native refugee seeking a lift to Marak city.’

  The driver drew himself up before the soldier with offended dignity.

  ‘We do not deal with itinerants of any kind,’ he protested. ‘We are a card-carrying outfit with legitimate business in Marak. I do not appreciate your insinuations.’

  The captain of the guard said nothing but waited, staring insolently at the driver until the Argosian called on the deity’s green mercy once more and dug into the pocket of his robe, retrieving two taleks.

  ‘There,’ he sniffed, dropping the money into the soldier’s outstretched hand. ‘This voyage has cost me twice as much in bribes as last year’s.’

  The captain only grinned and barked a command to his men. The soldiers marched up to the wagons and shoved their hardwood pikes through the gaps in the canvas coverings, thrusting their weapons deep into the sweet-scented powder beneath. Repeatedly they poked and jabbed at the contents of the wagons until the air was fragrant with floating spice-dust and the Argosian driver’s face as crimson as his headdress.

  Then they prodded underneath the vehicles, behind the wheels and under the seats, until there was no corner of the train that was not searched and stabbed to death. Only then did the captain of the guard order his men to the sides of the branch-path and wave the furious driver on. The herd-beasts had to be whipped out of their dislike of empty space and bullied over the shaky planks of the bridge, lowing in fear. The load was finally driven to safety and the wagons rolled into town, creaking gratefully up the road toward the custom house and air-harbour.

  No one had noticed the slim shape that slipped out of the twig-thickets as the soldiers searched the train, creeping onto the struts under the bridge. The figure ran along the narrow beams, as agile as a monk ey, its grey cloak melting into the twilight. It had reache d the far side long before the wagons clattered and rumbled their way onto the planks. Soon they too had disappeared and silence descended once more over the darkened thickets.

  9

  Tymon scrambled up from the floor of the mine hall, swiftly and completely awake. The Reading was over and the Beast had gone. After the Oracle had left the trance, his nemesis had pursued him from the deepest pit of Cherk Harbour to the highest turret, thundering at his heels. The Reading vision had disintegrated into an ordinary nightmare, lacking all logic and lucidity. Though terrifying at the time, it immediately dissipated when he awoke, banished by the light that filtered through the half-open door of the mine. The flow of air through the archway was reassuringly cold on his face, the familiar chill of a winter’s morning. He was glad to feel the routine discomfort in his limbs of a night spent sleeping on the hard floor, rather than the burgeoning branches of the Tree of Being.

  He wondered if Jedda’s experience of the Reading had been as disturbing as his own. His fellow student was nowhere to be seen in the mine hall; it was presumably she who had opened the door to go outside. The fire in the upturned cart was extinguished, leaving a cold whiff of ashes in the air. The Oracle, or rather her child-host, was curled up beside the dead embers, snoring faintly.

  The nightmare may have disappeared but the Beast’s taunts still echoed in Tymon’s ears. The message in the Reading was genuine, he was sure of it. Samiha was in danger. It never occurred to him to doubt the Beast-Envoy’s word: he knew that the truth served his enemy well enough. He bent down and shook the Oracle’s shoulder, praying that it would be his teacher who awoke and not the helpless Lai.

  ‘I have to go back to Sheb! I have
to help Samiha!’ he cried as she stirred.

  She frowned up at him. His brief misgiving — that she was not herself, that she would not know what the Reading had shown him — vanished at her next words.

  ‘I thought it was your friend, Laska,’ she said, with a yawn. ‘Weren’t you about to rush off to pluck him from a compost heap?’

  He hesitated. ‘Both,’ he muttered, guilty. ‘After you went, I had another vision. I think the Ki—’ He stopped himself just before revealing Samiha’s identity and petered off in confusion.

  ‘It’s alright, lad, I know who the Kion is,’ sighed the Oracle. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Someone told me — well, I think she’s in trouble.’

  ‘You,’ she replied tersely, ‘have been listening to shadows.’

  She rose and peered through the mine door at the bright sunlight streaming into the well. Tymon realised with a twinge of shame that he had been prepared to drop everything and run off to the Freehold, despite Laska’s dire need. He cursed the dream-demon silently. He would have to return to Cherk Harbour soon if he wished to do anything for the captain.

  ‘You’re right,’ he admitted. ‘But it’s true, I’m sure of it. I won’t make the mistake of forgetting Laska. I just wanted to tell you. I’m sorry I got so angry during the trance. Honestly, when you left I couldn’t do a thing for myself: I need to study, that’s clear. But I can’t start just yet, forgive me. I have to find Laska, and I have to find out what’s happening to Samiha. I think the Freehold is in danger.’

  ‘That’s a lot of things you have to do,’ she noted.

  ‘I just want to avoid any more mistakes,’ he said. ‘I … we misjudged you, when we first came here, Jedda and I. You do want to help. We thought you didn’t. We’d almost decided to call it quits, both of us. I’ll try to convince her to come back with me, once we get Laska. Or maybe she already changed her mind. Did the Reading change her mind?’ he asked belatedly. The Oracle would know what Jedda had Seen, just as she was aware of his own vision.