Isles of the Forsaken

by Ives Gilman, Carolyn

  “I was there when it all happened,” Argen said with defensive pride. “I’m more partial than anyone here.”

  “That’s the problem, you see,” Nathaway explained. “We need people who haven’t formed an opinion.”

  “Well, you won’t find anyone on Yora who doesn’t have an opinion about him.”

  It took several more minutes to get Argen to vacate his spot. Then Strobe the shipwright stood up. He was a stocky, powerfully built man with close-cropped grey hair. His immense chest and square shoulders belied the fact that he was gentle as a kitten.

  “Do you know the defendant?” the Inning asked.

  “Yes, and I’d like to say something. Argen is a wise man and has his opinions, but there is another side to the story. Goth bears a lot of responsibility. After all, it was his kmora-child, but he would never take the boy in, never care for him, so instead Harg grew up in half a dozen foster homes, traded from place to place whenever he became inconvenient. Just a little human kindness from Goth is all it would have taken. A lot of people thought they hated each other, but that wasn’t true. It was only because Harg and Goth loved each other so much that they were so good at hurting each other. And the most hurtful thing Harg could do, in the end, was to go away.”

  He turned then to address the Yorans. “But you know, I think it was like Goth’s conscience left when Harg did. Harg was the only one who demanded more from the Grey Man, and wouldn’t forgive him for everything. It was living up to Harg’s expectations that drove Goth’s life for a long time. Then when Harg left, Goth just gave up. You all know it; there are things that we all wish hadn’t happened, and they happened because Harg wasn’t here, not because he was. It was like Goth felt there was no point any more, so he might as well see what he could get away with.”

  Everyone was silent, shamed by the honesty of this testimony. No one ever said such things in public; but in a way, having strangers here made it possible.

  The Inning cleared his throat. “Thank you, I think you may step down.” He rustled some papers in front of him, then changed tactics. “Let me ask this. Is there anyone here who doesn’t know the defendant?”

  Harg scanned the group, hoping there was someone on Yora who was still neutral about him, but not a single hand went up. They all had formed opinions about who he was, or had been seven years ago.

  “Well,” said Justice Talley, a little perturbed by this turn of events, “there are provisions in the law for everything. In the rare case that an impartial jury cannot be found, the trial may be conducted by a judge. Would that be acceptable to the defendant?”

  It took Harg several seconds to realize he was actually being asked. “It’s your show, not mine,” he said.

  “Please answer yes or no. You have rights, you know.”

  “Yes. Go ahead. Whatever you want.”

  “Thank you.” The Inning was clearly a little rattled by now. Harg would have enjoyed his discomfort more if the situation hadn’t seemed likely to result in some actual consequences for him.

  Justice Talley called for some witnesses. When Mother Tish the herbwoman stood up, he asked her if she had seen the incident; she acknowledged that she had not. “But I can still witness,” she said stoutly. “I have something to say about Jory.”

  “Look, everyone,” Justice Talley said. “We’re trying him on the charges. We’re not trying him for being born, or for leaving Yora, or any of the other things he’s been accused of. The question is only, did he assault a marine guard?”

  Finally they began to understand. Gill stood up, and under some patient prompting from the Inning, managed to give a cogent account of what had happened. He finished, “Jory’s still having fits, and it’s because of what that soldier did to him. If anyone should be tried, it’s him.”

  Bonn then testified, giving much the same story; then Overseer Crustup gave his version, and the marine guard his. At last it came Harg’s turn to speak. He rose to begin, but the Inning interrupted, “Please identify yourself to the court first.”

  “You don’t know who I am?” Harg said.

  “Just do as you’re told.”

  “I’m Captain Harg Ismol, Native Navy.”

  “That’s a lie,” the captain of the ship spoke up suddenly. He leaned forward, as if this were the moment he had been waiting for. “There are no Adaina captains in the navy.” He fairly radiated contempt.

  “There aren’t now,” Harg said. “I’ve resigned.”

  “You realize we can add a charge of impersonating an officer.”

  “It’s no impersonation. I’ve got the commission, the discharge papers, the insignia. Or I had, until you threw me in the brig.”

  “These insignia?” the captain said, holding up the wooden box Corbin Talley had given Harg. It had been sitting on the table in front of him. “How did you get these?”

  “I earned them,” Harg said. “Fighting in the war.” And I could have been your superior officer, you racist pig, he wanted to say; but there was no point.

  The captain looked smug. “You’re too ignorant to even know that this is an Inning Navy epaulette, not a Native Navy one. Only an Inning could have owned these. How did you get them?”

  So this was the origin of the accusation of theft. Harg should have known to leave those insignia sitting on the table in Admiral Talley’s office. They were so far above his station, they would only bring him trouble. After seven years of beating the Tornas at their game, he was still no more to them than a brown boy.

  “You wouldn’t believe the truth if I told it,” Harg said.

  Nathaway Talley spoke up. “You have to tell the truth.”

  “Well then, they were given to me by Admiral Corbin Talley himself.”

  “Ha!” the Torna captain said, as if he had caught Harg in a transparent lie. He turned to Nathaway. “Is this true?”

  “How the blazes should I know?” said Nathaway.

  Watching Nathaway closely, Harg said, “He gave them to me on the night in Fluminos when there was a fireworks display in the harbour. The Chief Justice had sent a carriage to fetch him to a reception, but he made it wait till he had finished his business with me.”

  Nathaway looked arrested by this account. Seriously, he turned to the captain. “He could be telling the truth. I remember the night he means.”

  The captain looked unconvinced. Nathaway went on, “But regardless, if there is no one complaining of a theft, we can’t try him for it. There has to be a victim, or proof a crime has been committed. We can’t try him for what he might have done, or thought of doing, or anything but what we can prove. And the only objective fact in evidence is one bloody nose, for which he appears to have been amply penalized.”

  “We can’t just dismiss the charge,” the captain said, fingering the box. “He needs to forfeit these to someone in authority.”

  Nathaway appeared not to catch on, but Harg did. “Keep them, they’re yours,” he said to the captain. “All right?”

  The captain gave an imperceptible nod. After a beat Nathaway realized that a bribe had just changed hands, and seemed about to object. Harg turned to him fiercely. “Don’t cause me more grief. They’re no good to me. They’ll only bring me trouble.” Like all the rest of my navy career, he thought bitterly.

  Visibly grappling with his principles, Nathaway said, “If everyone is content, then . . .” He looked around for any objections, then stood. “The charge of theft is dismissed. As for the other charges, I sentence you to one month of probation, plus three days of community service working on the new dock, to be served within the next two weeks. This court is now adjourned.”

  Everyone started milling around, waiting for the boats to take them all back on shore. Feeling some urgency to get away before anyone changed their mind, Harg found Strobe, who always brought his own boat. “Can I go back with you
?” he said. Strobe nodded.

  When they were alone on the water, out of earshot from the rest, Harg said, “Thanks for what you said there, Strobe. It took a lot of courage to speak like you did.”

  “Well, I felt like I owed it to you,” Strobe said.

  “You don’t owe me anything.” Strobe was one who had always been fair and kind.

  “We all do. A lot of people felt bad once you’d gone, and wished things had happened differently. But there’s something you can do to repay me, if you want.”

  “What’s that?”

  Strobe brought the boat upwind so that the sail luffed and they stood still. “Go to Goth. Make it up with him, Harg. Not just for your own sake, for his sake and ours. Will you do that?”

  “Sure. I can do that,” Harg said.

  I can start over, he thought as Strobe turned the tiller and the sail caught wind again. I can wipe the slate clean, no grudges or old business.

  Strobe’s house was smaller than Harg remembered, more weather-beaten and rude. When they entered the murky interior, a vigorous voice called out Harg’s name and Tway came out of the kitchen, throwing her arms around him in an energetic bear hug. “Welcome back, Harg,” she said. “Things sure do get more interesting when you’re around. Why, we haven’t had a trial in—well, forever. I guess they must have let you go.”

  “Yeah, the whole thing was supposed to be a demonstration of godlike Inning law,” Harg said, “and in the end we still just settled it the old way.”

  The room was just as he remembered it. There squatted the ancient cast-iron stove imported from the Inner Chain. It had been the wonder and terror of his childhood, a demonic presence that belched fire and yet never burned. Now it seemed small and rusty. A wooden crate in the corner was heaped with old net; the glass floats peeped from the folds like wondering, bulbous eyes. Through the door into Strobe’s lean-to workshop he could see a litter of lumber and translucent curls of shaved wood on the floor. The living room was cluttered with every manner of thing turned into something else: a barrel had become a stool, a spoon had become a stove lid lifter, a file had become a chisel. Everything was cramped, as if the dimensions of life at sea had been translated onto land. It smelled of wood smoke and cedar.

  “Sit down,” Tway said. “It’s not a picture; you’re really home.”

  He laughed a little; she could almost read his mind. “I thought you would be married by now,” he said to her.

  She paused so long he wondered if he’d said the wrong thing. But her tone was still light when she said, “Oh, I’m just waiting for him to settle down and ask me.”

  “Why wait? Nail the bastard to the wall.”

  “If he’d stand still long enough, I would. Here, what would you like? Some nog?”

  “Sure, that’s fine.” He stood indecisively. It had been so long since he’d had nothing to do that he didn’t know how to behave.

  “Strobe,” he said suddenly, “have you heard how Jory is?”

  Strobe was quietly filling his pipe with some shag. He paused to light it, then shook his head. “Not good,” he said.

  “Damn, I’ll have to go see him.”

  “Better leave it alone for a bit,” Strobe advised. “Agath’s taking it pretty hard. It’s a bad time for Goth to be gone.”

  “She wouldn’t—” Harg stopped himself, knowing suddenly that she would. “Listen, she can’t claim dhota for him. What’s wrong with Jory is more than dhota can heal.”

  Tway set the cup of nog on the table before him. She and Strobe exchanged a look, and Harg sensed they had already been talking about this.

  “That’s something you don’t hear much around here any more,” Tway said, “the idea that there’s something dhota can’t heal.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “People have gotten used to running to the Grey Man about everything.”

  “Well, he’s just got to say no.”

  Tway looked at Strobe ironically. “When was the last time Goth said no? Do you remember?”

  Harg was just beginning to realize that this was something important when they were interrupted by a knock on the door. They all three turned to stare; no one ever knocked in Yorabay.

  It was the Inning, Nathaway Talley. He stood awkwardly on the doorstep, holding his hat. “Harg? They told me you were here. Might I have a word?”

  Tway went into a paroxysm of housewifely panic. “Come in, sir, come in. We were just having some nog. Can I offer you some? Please, sit down.”

  Nathaway entered, ducking under the low lintel, and peering around in the gloom. He took the chair Tway offered, automatically brushing off the seat before sitting. Harg forced himself to sit down as well, since it would have looked deferential not to; but he felt on edge. Tway set another cup of nog down in front of the Inning, and then disappeared; Strobe had vanished as well.

  “I didn’t get a chance to talk to you after the trial,” Nathaway said. “I just wanted to ask whether you really knew my brother.”

  “I don’t lie in court,” Harg answered defensively.

  “I didn’t mean that. It’s just . . .” He started speaking in a rush. “I remember that night you mentioned. Everyone thought Corbin was deliberately snubbing my father. Maybe he was. They got into a frightful row about it the next morning. Then I got my row just after.” He shook his head as if to free it of the unpleasant memory.

  Harg was startled by this candid glimpse into Talley family dynamics. He wondered if it had been offered up to him as a kind of exchange for having pried into his own private affairs.

  Nathaway picked up the mug of nog, but absently set it down again without tasting it. “Listen, if you were in the navy, you could be really helpful to me. You know about Innings, and what we want. I could use some inside knowledge.”

  The wise move would have been to stay monosyllabic and sullen, but Harg was at the end of his rope. He rose out of his seat, glowering. “You have really got some nerve, Inning.”

  “What do you mean?” Nathaway looked lost.

  “You’ve just let me rot in that hellish brig for two days, then tried me for half a dozen crimes, and now you want my help?”

  “Oh, that,” Nathaway said.

  “Yes, that!”

  “Captain Quintock would have kept you in prison forever, without so much as a charge, if I hadn’t insisted on a trial. That was your way out. I had to fight for that trial.” He paused. “Besides, it was perfectly obvious the Tornas were as much to blame as you.”

  “Now you tell me,” Harg said, sinking back into his chair.

  “So you really owe me some advice, you see. I’m having a hard time figuring this place out.”

  “What a surprise,” Harg said.

  “Don’t be like that. I don’t have any information. The Tornas are no use; they’re such bigots about the Adaina, and so damned deferential to me they won’t say a word if I’ve got something wrong. To my face, that is. They’re probably laughing themselves sick behind my back.”

  He had that right at least, Harg reflected. He took a long drink of nog, feeling sick to death of Innings and longing to be done with them forever. But as he looked across the table, it occurred to him that Nathaway was about the same age he had been when he had first left home to find what the world was all about. More educated, but just as ignorant. He remembered what it was like to be in a strange land. If no one had helped him out . . .

  “All you need to know about Yorabay is that we’re like a big family, and families don’t always get along,” he said.

  “I figured that out at the trial today,” Nathaway said. “It didn’t take a genius.”

  “Everyone pries, everyone thinks other people’s business is their own.”

  “If it’s any consolation, Fluminos is just the same,” Nathaway said. “Yo
u can’t sneeze there without it getting in the papers.”

  Harg reflected that he could have sneezed a thousand times in a row without it getting in the Fluminos papers. But his name wasn’t Talley.

  “The problem with your law is, it’s all about arguing and confrontation,” Harg continued. “The Tornas are fine with that, but we Adainas don’t like to disagree in public. It’s against our customs. I’m surprised you got them to speak up.”

  “I didn’t do a thing,” Nathaway said. “They just wanted to talk about you. Too much, in fact.”

  Way too much, Harg thought. As if he were some sort of public issue.

  He was no longer comfortable with this conversation, so he fell silent. The Inning didn’t notice.

  “What I can’t understand is the power structure here,” Nathaway said. “Who’s in charge?”

  Against his better judgment, Harg answered. “You Innings say that as if it were one word: powerstructure. It’s not. We’ve got power, but no structure. Innings love hierarchies and organization charts, everything defined and settled. That’s not how we do things. We have alliances and factions, and every morning when we get up it has to get renegotiated.” He was only exaggerating a little. “No one’s in charge. We don’t have permanent leaders like you do. Whatever person’s best for the job, that’s who’s in authority. When the job changes, so does the person in charge. That goes for a fishing trip, and it’s the same clear on up to the Ison of the Isles. They’re all just the best available for the job.”

  “But there isn’t an Ison any more,” Nathaway pointed out.

  “No, you Innings saw to that. Since you executed him, well, we just haven’t needed one. We don’t keep leaders around when we don’t need them. They just make trouble.”

  “What about Goth?” Nathaway asked. “He seems to be some sort of respected leader.”

  Harg laughed drily. “Respected, yes, Leader, no. He’s more like . . .” he cast about for some Inning equivalent, but could think only of a lame one. “. . . like a minister or a doctor, maybe. It’s not like anything you have.”