Samiha's Song

by Mary Victoria

  The former prefect arrived as they finished their meal with Masha, close on the heels of the smirking Nell. Unlike his lady love, Bolas had no difficulty in recognising Tymon. He gave a whoop of joy when he laid eyes on his friend, strode forward and clapped his hands on Tymon’s shoulders, shaking him playfully.

  ‘It really is you!’ he cried. ‘I hardly dared believe it. The bound-boy’s come unbound. Good for you!’

  Bolas had grown to a hulking six feet, as broad and strong and grinning as a Tree-bear. His gaze, however, was sterner than Tymon remembered, and his smiles quickly gave way to urgent solemnity.

  ‘You return to strange times in Argos,’ he said.

  At this, Nell quickly shut the door and placed herself in front of it like a sentry, her colour high. The three young men gathered about the table. Masha watched from the bed, her lips compressed.

  ‘This whole town’s gone mad,’ muttered Bolas. ‘You’ve heard about the Saint: this is what passes now for Argosian leadership. Every citizen needs to make a decision. If we don’t oppose him, we’re helping him.’

  ‘Begging pardon, but not all here are Argosian,’ pointed out Pallas, speaking for the first time to Bolas. ‘I am from Freehold in Nur. Tymon also Nurian citizen now.’

  ‘Nurian?’ A spark leapt in Bolas’ eye and he leaned forward eagerly. Behind him Nell’s gasp was audible. ‘So that’s what you were doing with yourself in the East, Ty! That’s the best news I’ve heard in a month. You’ll help us, naturally.’

  He rapped his hand on the table, as if the decision were already made.

  ‘Help you do what?’ asked Tymon, cautious. This was an entirely different Bolas to the one he had known: the smiling, tolerant prefect had disappeared. ‘Who’s “us”?’

  ‘The Argosian Resistance,’ pronounced the other with quiet vehemence. ‘A band of true patriots, sworn to do away with the priestly regime stifling our nation.’ He nodded to Pallas. ‘We are against the imperialist appropriation of foreign resources. Under our rule, the colonies would be freed.’

  ‘Under your rule?’ breathed Tymon. ‘You mean, you’d take power by force?’

  ‘We’ll do whatever’s necessary to achieve freedom,’ declared Bolas. ‘Isn’t that what your people are doing, in the East?’

  He stared inquisitively at Pallas. Tymon and the Nurian youth exchanged worried glances. Bolas had assumed they were revolutionaries.

  ‘You may want to find out more about where Tymon has been all these months, Bolas, before drafting him into your group,’ noted Masha from the sidelines. ‘The situation is a tad more complex than you think.’

  ‘Freehold is not colony,’ Pallas explained as Bolas frowned in confusion. ‘We are independent. We sign treaty with Council. We not fight priests.’

  ‘There’s no more Council left,’ he said. The architect gave a derisive snort. ‘The Lawgiver disbanded it. He’s capable of ignoring everything you ever signed. You can be as independent as you like: he’ll still crush you when it suits him.’

  Tymon’s heart sank. There was a degree of truth in his friend’s observations, as there had been in Caro’s cynicism.

  ‘We were hoping to ask for your help, Bolas,’ he said. ‘The Nurian queen will be put on trial tomorrow. All she’s guilty of is being who she is. The verdict’s meant to be execution. We want to save her.’

  ‘I heard about the Kion,’ replied his friend at once. ‘Of course you’re here for her. I’m so concerned about Fallow, I tend to forget that other people have their own problems. Of course we’ll help you.’

  He broke off, ruminating an instant with his eye on Pallas, then noted: ‘Our mistakes in the East are coming back to haunt us, I suppose. It’s interesting how many Nurians there are in the city right now, and how central they are to everything that’s going on. You two, the Kion … some even say there’s one at the College, a defector they keep under wraps.’

  Tymon and Pallas exchanged glances at this reference to Jedda. ‘Yes, we know about the traitor,’ sighed Tymon. ‘We don’t care. We’re not out for revenge. We just want to help the Kion.’

  Bolas nodded. ‘Tell me what you want to do.’

  The yellow warehouse Tymon described was well known to the young architect. ‘It’s a supply depot on the west side of the air-harbour,’ Bolas told them. ‘Those buildings are generally used to store Treespice — it’ll be locked, but not guarded. I can check it out while you two go up to the temple tomorrow morning for the trial. It’s your best chance of reaching the Kion. Though I doubt you’ll get any messages through, even there.’

  ‘Surely we can think of a better place?’ objected Tymon. ‘The trial will be overrun with people. Maybe we could slip her a message in the jail, or somewhere on the street …’

  Bolas shook his head emphatically. ‘She isn’t in the city jail. They move her in a covered cart. She won’t appear in public anywhere except the trial.’

  ‘What? Where is she the rest of the time?’ Tymon’s pulse quickened with instinctive alarm: he had only ever Seen visions of Samiha in the tithe-ship, at the trial or on the execution quay, and did not expect her to be elsewhere.

  ‘In dungeons under the seminary.’

  ‘There are dungeons … ?’

  ‘Oh, Ty.’ Bolas sighed, fixing his friend with his troubled gaze. ‘You had your head in the clouds, didn’t you, all those years at the seminary. Well, no matter. We all did. The priests have dungeons where they keep politically sensitive prisoners, and torture heretics to extract confessions. That’s where they put out Galliano’s eyes.’

  The piece of information was miserably disturbing to Tymon and he was unable to concentrate during the rest of the conversation with Bolas, his thoughts revolving around Samiha and what might be happening to her right now.

  He and Pallas took leave of the others just before the eighth hour, arranging to meet again at Masha’s house the next evening. The old cook contented herself with admonishing Tymon to prudence before enfolding him in another tight embrace. He was surprised by her resolve in the face of danger: he had not expected her to show such courage. It appeared she had become something of a quiet supporter of Bolas and his friends, an adoptive mother to the dissidents, too. She seemed to sense his deep distress over Samiha, for she patted his cheek comfortingly before he left, sending him off with a final observation.

  ‘You’ll get her out,’ she assured him. ‘You always do everything you set your mind to, whether it’s advisable or not.’

  The four young people clattered out of the house under the oily proprietor’s morose gaze, and parted in the street, Bolas escorting Nell home while Tymon and Pallas made their way back to the gate-tunnel. The gates were open in anticipation of the festival and they met with no obstacle returning to the Jay ships. The stars were bright above the leaf-forests as they hurried along the eastern quays; the city seemed to be waiting, holding its breath before the start of the festivities. The calm did nothing to banish Tymon’s uneasiness. Within sight of the Jay vessels he stopped walking and stood lost in thought on the boardwalk.

  ‘Why you wait?’ asked Pallas, halting ahead of him.

  ‘Something’s not right,’ muttered Tymon. ‘There’s something I’m not Seeing in all this.’

  ‘We cannot know all. We do what we can.’

  ‘I didn’t realise she was being held in the seminary. That bothers me. I always Saw her in the ship, or at the execution. What are they doing to her, in there? It was bad enough — bad enough in Marak …’

  ‘What we imagine is not same as being there,’ said Pallas, quietly, as Tymon’s voice petered out. ‘Facts are now clear. We must concentrate on mission. So they teach me in guard training. Otherwise we fail before start.’

  His certainty was unshakable. Tymon gazed at his friend admiringly, ashamed of his own hesitation.

  ‘You’re right,’ he admitted. ‘I’m cutting the bark out from under our feet. I’ll keep my mouth shut, Pallas, until I have something useful to say. We’re goi
ng to do this.’

  Together they continued on to the barge bearing a large red-and-white striped pavilion anchored near the end of the line of Jay ships, and climbed up the gangplank. About them the night air was filled with muted laughter and the sounds of performers practising on the other vessels, repetitive snatches of music and short trills of notes from pipe and flute. The Doctor’s clutter had been cleared out of the pavilion in preparation for the upcoming performances and the place returned to its original function of a circus ring. Jocaste’s troupe was practising a dance number by lantern light as Tymon and Pallas passed the entrance; they caught the eye of the Doctor’s daughter as she called out cues to the accompaniment of tapping feet. She was in costume, wearing a headdress of white feathers which bobbed gracefully as she nodded to them in greeting. They made their way to one of the two smaller vessels hooked to the back of the barge and entered the canvas-and wood-frame dwelling on board.

  The troupe led a strictly communal existence. Its members slept, worked and played together, shunning all outsiders apart from other Jays. There were never less than a dozen mattresses in the tents on each of the secondary vessels, no privacy and certainly no division between male and female. The youths entered the shared sleeping quarters to find them unusually deserted that evening, as even the smallest children had left to watch the dress rehearsal. The hardwood stove at the centre of the space cast a dull red glow, radiating welcome heat. Pallas remained by the door, gazing up at the stars, while Tymon stumbled to his own pallet and threw himself down on the thin straw. He felt ready to sleep till morning. It was a moment before his eyes adjusted to the gloom and he saw the figure sitting on a mattress nearby.

  ‘Green grace! Jedda!’ exclaimed Tymon, jumping to his feet.

  The Nurian girl’s light hair was cropped short in the manner of a boy but her pale features were immediately recognisable. At the sound of her name, Pallas spun about in the door of the tent.

  ‘Yes, it’s me,’ she said, raising her hands for calm as the Freehold scout strode toward her, his face was twisted with fury. ‘Please. Hear me out. I have something important to say.’

  ‘Traitor!’ cried Pallas, standing over her and fairly quivering with rage. ‘What can you say that we wish to hear?’

  His fists were balled up as if he were about to strike her, his usually gentle face dark with emotion. Tymon stepped between the two of them, laying a reassuring hand on his friend’s arm.

  ‘She’s no threat to us,’ he said. He remembered what the Focals had said about the ‘twining'; he decided not to let Jedda know he suspected the connection and let events play out. ‘If she tries any tricks we’ll call in the Jays,’ he continued. ‘She won’t get far.’ He turned to Jedda. ‘You have two minutes,’ he told her flatly.

  ‘My masters don’t know I’m here,’ she said. ‘They’d have Seen it if I tried to contact you in the trance. This isn’t a trick. I just want to talk.’

  ‘So, talk.’

  Jedda took a deep breath. She wore leggings and a jaunty cap over her shorn locks, but Tymon wondered how the priests were able to convince themselves they had let a Nurian boy join their ranks. She seemed less cocky than she had been when he last saw her, however, despite the rakish angle of the cap.

  ‘I’m a prisoner here,’ she murmured. ‘I can’t go out in the city except under cover of darkness. I can’t associate with people outside the seminary. There’s a Seeming the priests use to make me look like a boy … I’m going mad with boredom. I didn’t know it was going to be like this.’

  ‘We’re terribly sorry,’ drawled Tymon. ‘Your two minutes is almost up.’

  ‘You have every right to be angry with me,’ she said. ‘I’ve made my bed and that’s that. But I wanted to tell you. There are other reasons I stay here. Lace is right about some things, you know.’

  Pallas snorted with disbelief. ‘Why we are listening, Syon?’ he objected. ‘This person — truly, she is putar — only wishes to confuse our minds. You speak wisely, earlier: there is reason to worry. Priests know we are here. We should throw her off ship.’

  He took a menacing step forward, Tymon gripped his arm again, cautionary.

  ‘They don’t know,’ Jedda insisted. ‘I only know because Tymon and I are twined. I’ve felt him ever since he neared Argos city. He could do the same with me if he tried.’

  ‘Lies,’ muttered Pallas. ‘You make claim that can never be proved.’

  Jedda stared at him a moment, surprised; she did not argue the point, but turned to Tymon in the red-tinted gloom. ‘I was supposed to tell them if I found you. I haven’t, I swear.’

  Tymon remained silent, torn by indecision. She had mentioned their twining, admitted it without being prompted. Despite what she said, he felt no indication of the connection himself and had no idea how she sensed his movements. He neither trusted nor wholly disbelieved her, and scrutinised her face doubtfully.

  ‘Then you cannot even be loyal to new friends,’ sneered Pallas. ‘Once traitor, always traitor.’

  ‘It’s not like that,’ she pleaded. ‘I’m in a difficult position. I know too much. And not all of it is comfortable. Be warned: this city changes you. There is a twisting in it. I’m not the same as I once was …’

  She stopped abruptly, as if she had not meant to say those words aloud. Her hand jerked up in a nervous reflex to her neck, before she collected herself and continued. ‘The truth is the priests are right about one very important thing. We’re not in charge of our own world. There are powerful forces at work here that don’t have our best interests at heart. You know what Father Lace is, right?’

  Her voice shook slightly as she mentioned the Envoy’s name and Tymon realised, with surprise, that the dauntless hoyden was afraid.

  ‘We know he’s a demon,’ he said. ‘I’d have thought you’d avoid helping him, if you realised that, too.’ His comment drew a sarcastic grunt from Pallas.

  ‘They’re called the Born,’ whispered Jedda. She drew herself into a tight ball on the mattress, hugging her lanky knees to her chest. ‘They’re natives of the Sap-world. They use and cultivate the Tree of Being just like we grow crops and mine our own World Tree. One of the things they cultivate is us. We’re just produce to them: soul-energy to harvest, when the time is right.’

  Far-off clapping from the Jay pavilion filled the pause after her words.

  ‘So, there are more of these creatures who somehow live off humans?’ replied Tymon. ‘That’s no surprise. You’re still on the wrong side, Jedda. You’re helping them.’

  ‘Of course I’m not! I wouldn’t do that!’ she protested. ‘Don’t you see? Lace is against it. He and a few others rebelled against the Born leadership. They won’t have any part in the cultivation of humans. They moved out of the Sap-world in protest against the whole thing.’

  At this, Pallas could contain himself no longer. ‘You say your Envoy is hero, helping people,’ he burst out. ‘But how do you explain pilgrims? Colonies? Envoy makes all arrangements for workers sent to Argos. Better to be slaves to visible priests than invisible Born! Syon, this is nonsense.’

  Tymon scrutinised Jedda’s face in the semi-darkness. It was tense, containing unspoken contradictions. ‘Something doesn’t make sense, alright,’ he sighed. ‘Why, Jedda? Why take the Envoy’s word for all this when you see the harm he’s done? How does he justify it to you? Tithes — pilgrims — the lot?’

  She would not look at him directly then, as if he had touched a nerve. She mumbled something they could not hear, and she had to be asked to repeat herself.

  ‘He says it’s better to let us solve our own problems,’ she brought out at last. ‘He says he longs to help us, but we have to evolve on our own. We can’t be told what to do. I think he’s right even if it’s hard.’

  The deck boards of the little vessel shivered as people stepped onto it from the pavilion barge. Tymon heard the sound of excited voices approaching the tent.

  ‘The Oracle’s on the other side,’ continue
d Jedda, low and urgent. ‘She’s one of the Born who use humans. And Tymon, I have to tell you.’

  ‘Tell me what?’ he snapped, as her voice trailed off.

  He did not care if it was true, he thought to himself angrily. The Oracle had done well by him despite all her secrets. Lanterns danced outside the tent walls; a little boy of about three burst through the door-flap and stopped in confusion as he spied the Nurian girl.

  ‘The Kion,’ whispered the Nurian girl, Jedda, backing away toward the rear wall of the tent. ‘She’s one too. I’m so sorry, Tymon.’

  With that, she ducked through a gap in the fabric and was gone.

  27

  ‘She’s lying. Or tells half-truth,’ Pallas stated, without hesitation. ‘All this nonsense about Born. Maybe she does not yet betray us to her masters, but time will come.’

  ‘You’re right. It’s probably all a lie,’ Tymon answered, though a voice in the back of his mind added: but she believes it.

  The dismay in Jedda’s last comment had been palpable, unfeigned. She was obviously struggling to come to terms with what she thought of as a terrible truth, though he knew her well enough to realise she might be acting on false information, even as she had with the Oracle. But he could not dismiss her suspicions entirely. The peculiar comment Oren had made about Samiha in the Doctor’s pavilion caused him a momentary, shameful stab of doubt. Though he could not think of his love as anything other than human, he did remember that she had a special destiny. She was one of the five End Signs of prophecy, just as he was, the so-called ‘Judge'. There was no getting away from the fact that Samiha was no ordinary deposed queen. One fact was abundantly clear amongst all these contradictions however: Jedda’s master had told her his murky story of the Born for his own purposes.

  There was no further opportunity to discuss the subject with Pallas, however, for Jocaste and her friends entered the tent almost as soon as Jedda had left it, picking up the watching child and throwing him up in the air until he whooped with delight. Jocaste was eager to extract a promise from them to attend the Jays’ opening act the following evening. It would be their best show in years, she said. She pointed out that the heresy trial would last two days; they might spend an evening at the theatre and not jeopardise their plans. Surrounded by the members of the troupe, the two youths turned in, aware that their task the next day would begin early and demand that they keep all their wits about them. They had no choice but to go on as if Jedda kept their presence a secret. The fact that they had not been arrested on their arrival in the city did seem to bear out that part of her story, at least.