He said no more after that, but turned and continued down the road, with Tymon trudging silently behind. Even the Oracle made no further commentary, as if the subject had been adequately covered. The echoes in the young man’s bad ear diminished as the cries and bustle of the docks faded behind them. The peripheral road was well constructed, smooth and edged by two low walls of bark-brick. It swept in a wide arc around the crater, then turned abruptly to the left and plunged through a thick stand of twigs, hugging the base of one of the secondary branches at the summit of the mine-limb. As they rounded a corner and emerged from the twigs, their destination became visible. A stately mansion of bark-brick stood at the foot of the secondary branch, near the mine but sufficiently aloof from it, overlooking the leaf-forests southwards. It was surrounded by a high wall topped with cruel-looking spikes, and could be accessed only by an immense hardwood gate, the bars carved to form curling vines about two letters of Lantrian script — a ‘D’ on one side and an ‘H’ on the other.
‘Even the master is a prisoner,’ said the Oracle, breaking her long silence, a curious note of satisfaction in her voice.
Tymon was about to whisper a reply, when a sound rose up from within the gates that froze the blood in his veins. A growling, snarling cacophony emerged from Lord Dayan’s house, the like of which he had not heard since he confronted the Beast-that-was-Lace. Two terrifying bundles of dark fur and sharp teeth shot across the compound and threw themselves against the gate, causing it to shudder. The growling and barking continued as the creatures jumped and snapped through the bars. Tymon stared at them in horror and began to back away. He was arrested by the clerk’s quiet laughter.
‘Relax, choirboy,’ chuckled the Lantrian, drawing out a key from a purse at his belt and inserting it into a padlock. ‘You’ve never seen a Tree-dog before, hey? Well, show some spirit. These two respond to your strength of mind. If they sense fear or threatening behaviour, they’ll tear you limb from limb.’
With these less than reassuring words he swung the gate wide. The two furious bolts of canine energy charged out and leapt upon Tymon, who fell down on the dust with a cry.
4
Jedda hardly cared where she was going in that first despairing dash out of Argos city. All directions were equal to her grief. She had climbed up the main ramp from the town without pausing for breath, turning left and northwards where the road levelled out on the sheer wall of the trunk. The North Road, as it was called from that point, cut straight across the face of the Tree like a wound, following the gradual curve of the trunk. She had vaguely imagined that in choosing that direction she might avoid any possible encounters with troops bound for the war in Lantria. In actual fact, the north and south routes were equally dangerous, the exposed ledges inhospitable to a weary traveller in winter.
Personal danger did not matter much to Jedda, however. She did not consider anything besides her desire to put distance between herself and Lace. Her Kion was gone, and she had wrecked her own choices, moreover; there was nowhere left to go but away. She stumbled blindly along the road for about ten miles in this manner in the waning afternoon light, sometimes weeping, sometimes bemoaning her fate aloud. Only when twilight fell over the canopy, the ever-green leaves hidden under a coat of frost, did she stop to consider her situation more clearly. The thought that she had quit the city with nothing but the clothes on her back, in the dead of winter and without provisions, almost caused her to laugh aloud at the bitter irony. The Envoy did not need to have her followed or killed. The Argosian winter would take care of the upstart foreign acolyte without him needing to lift a finger. Hunger and exposure would fulfil his curse.
And yet, in some ways, the weather was a blessing. It had kept her isolated from prying eyes. She had passed only two travellers on the road that day: one a dour herdsman, who had seemed as loath to speak with her as she to him when he brushed by her with his troop of shillees, making for Argos city, and the other a farmer moving in the opposite direction, in a cart pulled by two herd-beasts. This second character had been returning home from the festivities in town and rather the worse for wear, judging by the jaunty holiday hat he wore pulled down over his bloodshot eyes. He had peered in bleary astonishment at Jedda’s cloak of priestly green and the incongruously feminine figure beneath, as he overtook her on the icy road. When he had asked her whether she needed a ride, she shook her head mutely and waved him on; he would have a tale to tell his fellows later about the peculiar effects of wine. She had little hope that the stolid inhabitants of the Central Canopy would open their hearts or doors to her in cold sobriety. Her only chance now, she knew, was to creep into their holdings under cover of darkness, to find shelter in their hay-barns or steal food from their stores.
But although the drunk farmer’s homestead could not have been far off, she found no traces of it before evening fell. Or perhaps she had missed that doubtful haven in the fog that rolled through the branches at the close of day. The mist clung to the twigs, muffling sound and light. She paused on the road and listened anxiously. Not a bird sang in the dripping thickets. The heat of her furious march dissipated, and the cold began to seep into her bones.
She realised she had no choice but to make the best of a night out in the open, on an empty stomach, and found the only shelter she could in the failing light: a shallow crevice on the trunk-wall to her right. Seated with her back to the bark, she tried to light a fire on the floor of the hollow by rubbing two slivers of bark together. It was a technique that had served her well enough in the dry Eastern Canopy, but here, in the wet and cold, her efforts were fruitless. Her belly grumbled and she could not stop shaking; it had become a matter of life or death, she knew, to find that farmer’s keep and something to eat the next day. Wrapping herself in withered grasses and moss ripped out from the trunk, she curled up on the hard bark and passed a relentlessly uncomfortable night.
The following morning, she arose early and carried on, walking slower this time, kicking through the grey slush that covered the road. It was hard going on the high, exposed ledge, and slippery where pools of ice had formed on the surface. There were places where the bark had eroded because of poor maintenance and the edges had crumbled away; once, she came perilously close to falling where a fissure had formed, and a whole section of the road yawned wide. She had to inch her way across a narrow passage by the trunk-wall, before she regained a firm foothold on the other side. The sight in the spaces below and to her left filled her with foreboding, for thick clouds rolled through the West Chasm. The canopy was plunged in a green gloom and the skies above were shrouded in a glowering grey: there would be snow again before the day was out, and plenty of it. There was still no sign of the drunk farmer’s holding, which she decided that she must have missed in the fog. She pressed on, hoping for another habitation.
But before long, her steps faltered, and she came to a halt once more. She had been overcome by a tingling sensation in her belly, and it was not hunger. It was the Grafters’ twining connection; there was no mistaking it. She was gripped by the sudden conviction that Tymon was also on the road, and travelling south.
Jedda had always felt her connection to her fellow Grafter as a visceral reaction. No mere vision, it was a wave of emotion, a hook in her belly that pulled her inexorably towards Tymon. The feeling ebbed and flowed, changing its character from day to day. Sometimes it was no more than a whisper, hardly present at all. Or it could be an overwhelming rush, almost an ache of proximity. The call that summoned her now was powerful. Her twining partner was travelling in the opposite direction from her. She had already turned and begun to stumble back towards Argos city before she forced herself to stop again, torn between warring impulses.
‘Fool,’ she hissed aloud, her breath smoking the chill air.
How could she have left the town without thinking of Tymon? She knew he had been taken prisoner the night before the execution, sentenced to banishment: she was the only one who could help him. This was her duty, she told herself fie
rcely. This was what remained for her to accomplish since she had failed her queen. All was not lost, not yet. She could still be the friend she should have been. The Sap-connection tugged her eagerly on, as if in response to this desire. Conquering her reluctance to approach Lace, her dread of reentering the environs of Argos city, she walked on, doggedly retracing her steps of the day before.
As she hastened towards the twining call, she peered anxiously into the West Chasm, now on her right, at the roiling grey clouds visible through a screen of leaf-forests. Snow would be her immediate enemy, rather than her former master. Indeed, it was not long before the first flakes settled on her cheeks. The soft kiss of the snow caused her to break into a jogging run, desperate to put the miles behind her before the fall grew too thick. She guessed that the priests had sentenced Tymon to labour on one of their accursed plantations and sent him away on a prison cart, as there were no tithe-ships currently docked in Argos city. She still had a chance of catching up with the slow-moving vehicle that night, if she hurried, and some hope of coming to the prisoner’s rescue, for she possessed the orah-pendant and the ability to dominate her enemies. She hoped that talent would be enough to help both Tymon and herself.
At length, however, the increasing snowstorm forced her to slow her pace. The weather as well as her own physical weakness mocked both her powers and her plans. By late afternoon, when she again passed the intersection that led down to Argos city, there was a white blanket a foot deep on the road and she was reeling with hunger. As evening approached, the drifting flakes multiplied, and the wind became a driving wet gale that left even the good seminary cloak sodden. Jedda was numb with cold, lacking sensation in her fingers and toes, giddy from starvation. Surely the prison vehicle would stop in this weather, she thought. Surely the soldiers would seek a spot to camp for the night, hunkering down under canvas to wait out the storm. She struggled on through the deepening drifts, scanning the whirling flakes ahead for the humped shape of a cart. Gradually, the grey of the road became indistinguishable from the grey of the West Chasm beside it, the whirling eddies spinning madly over both. Jedda clung to the trunk-wall on her left for a guide.
She almost cried out with relief when she saw the gleam of lantern light ahead, thinking that this must be the cart, at last. She left the trunk-wall in her haste to reach the flickering point of yellow in the whirlwind; it was a fatal mistake. After a few paces, she felt the surface beneath her feet shift and slide treacherously, and realised in horror that she had stepped through a drift overhanging the Chasm. She lurched into thin air with a gasp, her arms flailing wildly. Down, down.
The fall through blind emptiness was both terrifying and short. An instant later, she hit something soft that gave way beneath her, and slid off the dark mass to plunge headfirst into yet more snow. At first, she thought her fall had been arrested by snow-covered leaves, and that she had tumbled into a twig-thicket miraculously close to the edge of the road. O Ever-Green, o giver of life, she thought gratefully. The Central Canopy did not lose its leaves in winter. But the substance supporting the snow was not solid, and sank with a muffled tearing noise beneath her weight. And the light was still there, dancing incomprehensibly above her and to the left. In the time it took for Jedda to imagine her bones scattered to the four winds, she heard a final rending tear of fabric, and fell through the sinking barrier in a shower of snow.
She crashed down onto the floor of a large tent, in a pool of lamplight. There were shouts, the sound of a child crying hysterically, and a few cheers and whistles: curious faces crowded around her as she rolled on the floor, winded. It took her a moment to place the colourful clothing and odd accents of the people. They were Jays. She had fallen onto a Jay dirigible. She had tumbled through the vessel’s ether sacks and torn a hole in the roof of a large pavilion.
‘What have we here?’ asked a voice in Argosian. ‘A white angel, wearing the colours of a priest? Did your wings blow off in the storm, angel?’
One of the Jays, a young man with a curved nose like a falcon’s beak, bent over her where she lay, holding his hand out to her. His eyes, too, were bright and hawk-like, fixing her inquisitively as he helped her up from the floor. She realised to her dismay that her hood was off and her identity plain to see for all those gathered in the tent.
‘You’ve made a hole in our roof,’ said a woman at the young man’s side.
She spoke in a quiet, matter-of-fact tone, but her face, Jedda noticed, was disfigured by a savage scar. The Nurian girl would not have found the sight so terrible to behold, perhaps, if she had not been so weary, and shaken by her fall. She glanced instinctively away from the ugly wound, then blushed crimson, realising her revulsion was far too obvious. She forced herself to look back at the Jay woman, but her head spun with fatigue. Even had she been strong enough to use her powers, the people in the tent were too many to take on all together.
‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled in answer to both the man and the woman. ‘I stole these clothes. I’m on the run. I fell off the road. Please help me.’
The garbled plea drew a round of laughter from the watchers and the faces in the circle relaxed. The child who had been so shocked by Jedda’s arrival stopped sobbing and stared at her, cradled in his mother’s arms.
‘You’re lucky we’re Jays,’ observed the scarred woman. ‘When Heaven sends us visitors, we show hospitality.’ She turned to her hawk-nosed companion. ‘Our angel looks half-frozen,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you find her something to eat, Anise, and a bed for the night?’
It was only outside the tent, as the Jay man led her through the swirling snow towards another, smaller, barge lashed to the side of the main dirigible, that Jedda remembered her visit to the docks in Argos city.
Belatedly, she recognised the striped pavilion in the dancing light of the storm-lanterns. She was aboard the very same convoy on which she had met Tymon and Pallas. She did not recall the Jays themselves, for she had not observed them closely on that occasion, seeking to remain unseen. But the name, Anise, rang faint alarm bells in her memory.
The realisation caused her to clutch the deck-rail between the two barges with misgiving. She did not know what, if anything, Tymon had told his travelling companions about her. It seemed that her deliverance might only lead to further trouble. When the man called Anise turned to ask her why she waited, she answered that it was nothing, that she was tired. She could barely meet his eye.
The Jays made good on their promises of food and bed that night. She was given what she could have sworn was the very same pallet in the sleeping tent occupied by Tymon, though her suspicions on the subject did not prevent her from throwing herself down on the thin mattress after ravenously consuming a meal of dried fruit, asleep almost before her head hit the pillow. In her exhaustion, she slumbered as deeply as a child, without concern for the future. But the next day her unease about the troupe returned.
She rose late, around mid-morning, and made her way to the main barge just before the three ships broke moorings. The roof of the striped pavilion had already been nimbly patched together, as Jedda could see from the outside, but Anise and the scarred woman were nowhere to be seen. She lingered a few moments on deck to watch the ship drift up above the twig-tips in the brilliant sunlight. The snowstorm was over, the canopy cloaked in glittering white. That treacherous beauty, Jedda knew, hid chasms and dangers without end. She remembered the near catastrophe of her slip the night before, and thought again of Samiha, plummeting through the snow clouds into the Western Chasm. Was there any chance of surviving such a fall? And what was to become of Tymon now? She could still feel the twining connection, a steady tug to the south, and longed to follow him.
But to her frustration, the main barge swung slowly around in the morning sunlight and turned in the wrong direction — northwards. Jedda tried to contain her impatience, hurrying into the pavilion in search of either Anise or his female companion, for she guessed those two were leaders of the troupe. She yearned to tell her hosts of her tw
ining with Tymon, to ask them to go after him. To speak of the connection directly, however, would invite troublesome questions she did not yet know how to answer. She floundered through the door-flap and was relieved to find Anise and the scarred woman in the tent. A small group of Jays was installed on the floor of the pavilion, or on the lightwood bleachers left out as furniture.
‘Why don’t you travel south?’ Jedda burst out to Anise, without preamble.
He had been busy writing in a log book, seated on one of the benches, and did not answer her at once, but glanced up at her with a curious expression. It was only when the silence stretched rather uncomfortably between them, and the woman nursing the baby Jedda had frightened the night before stood up and left the tent, that the Nurian girl realised she must have sounded unspeakably rude, as well as ridiculous to her hosts.
‘Not that it matters to me,’ she added hastily. ‘I’m happy to go wherever you go. I just thought Jays went south during the winter. I had a lovely night, by the way. I’m so grateful to you all for helping me.’
She bit her lip to stop herself from gabbling like a fool, and hid her embarrassment by snatching up a hunk of bread and shillee’s cheese from the communal breakfast tray in one corner. Her food in hand, she sat down beside Anise. The young Jay smiled faintly up at her from his notes.
‘To go south would embroil us unnecessarily in the Saint’s war,’ he explained. ‘We’re heading up north, to Jay Haven, this year.’
He turned back to his log book then, as if the matter were closed. His scarred companion briefly introduced herself as ‘Jocaste’, then spread out an ancient and tattered map of the Central Canopy on the floor and squatted over it, plotting their course with the aid of a sextant. Jedda struggled to maintain her calm. She wanted to beg and plead with them to turn around.
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