As Simple As Hunger

by D Des Anges

  “Delivered to the Northmost faction – I know not how, we were taken grave ill – and kept in the darkness alongside John Lancaster,” said Hajar.

  “Who is—?” began Hana, but Radigis interrupted:

  “He is our other prisoner. Hajar, please, continue.”

  “After questioning by their General, through John Lancaster, who understands but does not speak the tongue of arthropod,” Hajar said, to derisive sniggers from the Secure Guardians, “about the death of, the death of our companion, and what we had then seen … it was decided to bring us home again without further imprisonment.” Hajar made then a grim smile that had nothing in it of humour. “It seems the Northmost, at least, of the arthropods, do not believe in making war where there is none.”

  “Shame,” muttered one of the Secure Guardians.

  “We were then taken into the undersea-boat, near choked with orgone fumes, and brought within sight of land before our diligent protectors sank the boat, murdered their General who sought only to return us, and drowned Ferdinand del Cadiz and left his body to float rather than give him good burial,” Hajar finished.

  To Hana’s distress she then spat to one side, as a sailor or a criminal or a common foot soldier might.

  “And you would have the double of this last from John Lancaster,” she said.

  “He will not speak,” said Radigis, with gentleness still. “He resists food.”

  “He is in mourning,” said Hajar, with pain in her voice. “But believe me, he is not mad.”

  “He came from a madhouse,” said Radigis. Hana wondered then how he came by so very much knowledge of this all, and how much he only guessed at.

  “He is a brave and gentle man,” said Hajar with absolute conviction. “As was Ferdinand, as was Benjon. I have encountered naught but bravery and kindness in arthropod and human alike until I came back to this side of the bloody Wall where everyone is stupid and cruel and leaves bodies to float and mourning men to starve.”

  She raised her head and gave the full depth of a stare to her mother’s eye.

  “This is an ugly kingdom,” she said, without wavering, “and I want no part in it any longer.”

  She pulled up her feet onto the bench, and turned upon her side until she lay with her back to her mother, to Radigis, to the door and to the Secure Guardians.

  “Tell them to hurry their execution,” she muttered, to Hana’s great distress, “I’ll have no more of these men pawing at me.”

  “Will you speak to the man now?” asked the Secure Guardians by the door, as Hajar fell to silence.

  “Aye, we’ll speak with him next,” said Radigis, taking Hana’s arm to lead her to the door.

  “You’ll get no word from him,” advised the other Guardian, unlocking the great metal door.

  “If any of you, or your fellows,” Hana said, as they stepped from the room, “should lay one improper hand upon my daughter again, I will have him gelded and branded like a horse, do you hear?”

  They stepped them into the vestibule once more. As the door slammed shut behind them Hana thought for a moment that her threat might leave them stranded in the darkness until they suffocated, at the petty vengeance of the Secure Guardians. But there came a beating on the rear door, and a cry of “IN CHAMBER”, and soon enough the fore door opened to let them back into the granite corridor.

  “She is run mad,” Hana said to Radigis, who nodded his head for the benefit of the Secure Guardians about them.

  She knew not for herself if she meant to convince them, or if she believed herself: there was scarce a grain of logic in her tale and the whole recounting seemed as wild and weird as the stories of old travellers long since discounted.

  But there was no madness in Hajar’s aspect, only a terrible rage and grief that Hana knew herself only too well. Whatever else her daughter had seen, she had seen the death of bravery, and the cold breath of injustice.

  “She is run mad,” Hana repeated, crossing the stone corridor. Her voice gave echoes, far under the hill.

  “Ah but Emira,” said Radigis under his breath, as the Secure Guardians opened the door opposite for them to shuffle into an identical chamber, “what if she is not?”

  Chapter 30

  The great metal-clad safe door of the cell vestibule closed behind Radigis and left him once more trapped in the dark with the elder al-Fihri.

  As it did, he considered: there was every chance that this John Lancaster was not mad. Hajar al-Fihri was no more the equal of the bundles of rags who barked at shadows behind the Durham Book Warren than he. In the dark between the two doors Radigis pondered what this might imply. There was much to be drawn from her discoveries. The possibility – mad though it sounded – of a flying city or even of a flying machine that did not combust three times in five was something to be seized upon. And was the woman not an engineer?

  If he was to believe her assertions, fantastical though they were, then he should believe her recommendations. And even were John Lancaster quite mad, it was never to the profit of a man to allow a madman to believe he is thought mad.

  Radigis was oft-disgusted by the foolishness of his countrymen when they came so blunt and brass to their every talk, never but displaying their cause on their face and in their speech. There was no profit to behaving thus. Oh, they talked of honour and pride but give but the benefit of one’s doubts and so much more was to be learnt…

  There was a ringing thump and a cry of “IN CHAMBER” from behind, and before the echoes had died about them there came the click of locks unlocking.

  Radigis could see several flaws in the system of holding they had created here in York’s outskirts, but until it was his duty to proclaim them he saw no need to enlighten anyone of their nature. It was far better to abuse them.

  The door opened inward, and sat beside it was a bored-looking Secure Guardian fielding a hand of card. He had beside him upon the floor a small flock of well-formed origami gulls, and the Secure Guardian – perhaps a little older than Radigis himself – who pulled upon the door was armed with a square of newsprint in his teeth. It was clear he sat ready to begin folding anew.

  “Afternoon,” Radigis said, by way of greeting.

  These men were less serious in their task, and nodded their disinterest as he had suspected they would. Once he and Hana had the room, they leaned back on the door – unlocked – and returned to their game without remark.

  John Lancaster might have sat for the portrait of ‘typical Albionman’ had he grown his hair and beard a little longer. He might, Radigis acknowledged with a smile to himself, have almost have passed for a brother or cousin of his own. They were of similar height, though Lancaster was the taller, and similar type, though Lancaster was the broader, and they were of similar hue, though most of Albion could lay claim to that.

  He lay upon his bench unmolested, in the same grey and shapeless woollen shift as Hajar. He lay with his arms flat by his side and his eyes open, only the motion of his chest giving the lie to this facsimile of death. Radigis noted the very dark bruises that fell across him in stripes, and sighed at the crudity of method employed by the Secure Guardians in holding.

  Even the city Wardens knew that sometimes it was better to use a kind word than a rod and a strap.

  Radigis came across the cell and squatted beside the bench. He cared not where al-Fihri placed herself, as long as she kept quiet for now, and he knew she was an old hand at such things.

  He laid a hand on the breast of Lancaster’s prisoner’s shift and said, “John Lancaster, do you wake?”

  He got him no answer, but saw then that Lancaster’s eyes changed in their focus to determine who laid hand upon him.

  “I am come on behalf of Winedryhten Hermegliscus Redwaldsson,” said Radigis. It was not altogether untrue, in that his father-by-wyflock had made no note to forbid him come. “Do you know of whom I speak?”

  He got again no answer, but held there the attention of the man who lay upon the bench.

  “I have j
ust spoke with Hajar,” said Radigis, taking his hand to the more comfortable and less threatening resting place of Lancaster’s near shoulder, his voice low. “She tells of wild adventures and of your bravery, and that of Ferdinand, and of your scorpion companion most of all.”

  There was no telling how much or little the Secure Guardians had gleaned from John Lancaster: though they had reported naught, Radigis was not fool enough to think they gave the whole story.

  But he was sure they did not see what he saw. Only with his hand upon the man’s shoulder did Radigis feel the quickening of heart and the flinch of skin, that which had not come at his approach had come instead at the last of his speaking.

  He said, “The Secure Guardians say you are mad, and come from the madhouse. Hajar says you are not mad, but rather in mourning.”

  He felt again the twitch of suppressed movement beneath his palm, and wondered did this man mean to rise up and strike him: he wondered, should John Lancaster do so, would he then speak? And would he be able to keep the Secure Guardians from him for long enough to hear him? Would he have then what he desired to hear or just the ravings of a lunatic?

  Radigis said, as he gave pretence that they were all alone in the room, “Hajar says the Northmost’s General spoke through you, that you understand though do not speak the tongue of the arthropods. Is this so, Goodman Lancaster? How came you by this most prodigious talent? Were you once of the Secure Guardians yourself, perhaps?”

  Here he felt Lancaster’s disgust in the snort he did not quite make, and stooped until his head near rested beside the prisoner’s.

  “I thought not. You have too much compassion in you; Hajar would not else have called you ‘kind’. I am sorry,” he said, with all the sincerity he could make after weeks of evincing sorrow at the departure of Hrothgar, the death of Hrothgar’s mistress, and the endless grind of pretending care over this and that with every compatriot he groomed to use. “I am sorry for him that you mourn, and I promise you, Goodman Lancaster, only turn your clever ear to the advantage of them that need it, and you shall not be returned to any hospice. You have my word and that of my Winedryhten.”

  Of course Lancaster was not to know that Radigis was in no position to give the word of his father-by-wyflock on his behalf, nor to know that he was not even yet Magister of Durham. The man tensed all the same at this promise and a derisive puff of air escaped him as he lay upon the bench.

  “It is dark down here, Goodman Lancaster,” said Radigis, very quiet, to Lancaster’s ear. “A mourning man kept a-dark is apt to mourn the rest of his life from him.” He kept his voice so low that even Lancaster must strain to hear. “I know your name, Goodman Lancaster, and in speaking with the Wiltshirist Hospices, I know your fears. Only help me, and we shall together put a stop to the barbarism broadcast in the name of loyalty.”

  At this he had hit upon a seam of gold: the man jerked as if a current passed through his body, and Radigis congratulated himself within his head. This had been the wiser path indeed.

  The effort of finding the meaning of ‘John Lancaster’ had cost his message to al-Fihri a day in the departure, but here it paid good return, for he had been right. John Lancaster the oilman was John Lancaster the madman afeared of and sickened by the torments of arthropods upon the Wireless. John Lancaster the missing drill-pressure man was John Lancaster the ten years-or-more captive of Wiltshirist doctors.

  None knew for sure how long he had been kept, only that he had been a near-child when he came, and a full man when he left.

  “Will you not lend your ears to make peace?” Radigis asked, with all the tenderness of a father to his small child. He knew merciful none first hand of the hospices, but his men had called the places ‘saddening’ ‘pon their return. “Will you not speak now, to withdraw you both from this hole?”

  John Lancaster stirred, and made a great croaking cough in his throat. Radigis did not dare to look behind him at the Secure Guardians or at al-Fihri, but he knew they must have started at this sudden noise from so still a captive.

  Perhaps Lancaster was still mad, and his lunacy would serve Radigis none, but his madness would serve the Secure Guardians none, either. Better Radigis have a reputation for mercy and clemency than one for harshness. Harsh men, or men even believed harsh, ended ill. He had read of Qadi al-Fihri.

  “Tongues,” Lancaster said at last, in the dry-throated and dusty voice of one who has not spoken for many days. He had the accent of the north of Albion-of-the-Britons, north of Edinburgh, but under it lay the unusual soft vowel of the south. This stood with what Radigis had learned of the hospice. He had come north: he came not from the north.

  “Tongues?” Radigis asked.

  “The tongues of arthropod,” said John Lancaster with great weariness upon him, as if it fatigued him to speak at all. “They have more than one.”

  “One for each race,” Radigis said, for this then seemed quite obvious to him. Arthropods came in manifold form, and it might be absurd to think a wyrm spoke in the same tongue as a spider. “But they must commune in one tongue.”

  “Yes,” Lancaster agreed.

  “Is that the tongue which you have the ear for?” Radigis asked.

  “Yes,” Lancaster said, and he took up his hand to lift Radigis’s from his shoulder. “Please stop.”

  “My most humble apology,” Radigis said, taking his hand away at once. “I sought only to comfort.”

  “Why,” asked Lancaster in the groan of an old man, as he lay still against the bench as if in the clutch of some great hand, “would you need a translator?”

  “We shall discuss when you are free of this place.” Radigis said, rising again to his feet. “Please, ask for me, for Radigis of Yeavering in the name of Redwaldsson, and you shall be given all due courtesy and kindness—”

  “What of Hajar?” Lancaster asked, unmoving upon his bench. It was not possible to know if weakness or apathy or sorrow detained him. Perhaps it was the three in harmony.

  “This,” said Radigis, giving gesture to indicate al-Fihri as she stood behind him, silent, “is Hajar’s mother, Hana. We are both here to see that you are treated with kindness and removed from this place as soon as possible.

  “May I speak with her alone?” asked John Lancaster, heaving himself upright at last.

  As he did Radigis could see that his inert repose had been as much a function of his terrible beating as of his terrible mourning. The pain it took him to come up was most evident in his face and in his motion, and more dark and vicious bruises were revealed upon him as the inadequate grey tunic moved about him.

  Radigis glanced to the Secure Guardians, who shrugged their assent.

  He was quite sure they would only push him into the vestibule until al-Fihri was finished, and quite sure that they should not close the door full. He was also quite sure that his hearing was good enough to acquire what he should need of their conversation, even if Hana kept her voice as low as he had.

  But for now he had much more to consider.

  He slipped into the vestibule, and sure enough the Secure Guardians only pushed the door to with the tip of a boot.

  Assuming their honesty, assuming that Hajar, an engineer, might remember the works of her vehicles, assuming that this John Lancaster’s understanding of arthropod lingua franca might be put to immediate use, assuming, assuming… a great many untested assumptions to be made, but assuming:

  How much of this could be used to force a change in the structure of governance?

  Radigis leaned himself upon the wall of the vestibule and breathed in short, shallow bolts as he considered. The granite vestibule was surprising dry for such a cave.

  It might with ease, should it be proven, be bent to discrediting the Witegamot, and overturning the non-exploration motions. It might be instrumental winding down the aggression pact that kept trade and innovation from crossing the Wall but rather left each side sore in lack of many a necessity and the help of other minds.

  If some exchange could b
e manoeuvred, why, then the man investing in orgone experiments could become richer and more powerful than the shahs of the Empires. If the Witegamot might be overturned and the pacts with them, why then the man who brought Albion powerful new allies and trading partners would be celebrated and elevated as none before him.

  Radigis made certain then that neither his skull burst nor his nose bled, for they both felt as if they might come apart from the possibilities that blossomed with such swiftness and force within his mind.

  Should they find again the great floating city? Should they find a way to trade across the world without reliance upon slow boats or trying to far-run the ever-igniting ornithopters? Should these flying-men and women share with them their designs and Albion be blessed then with the great fleet of protectors that no other dominions boasted?

  Why then the balance of power about the whole world shifted to lie most strong with Albion…

  Radigis let himself wear then in the dark of the vestibule a smile of great triumph.

  It would be the work of a lifetime and take the ploy of a genius, but all that he need do in this first day was keep John Lancaster from suicide. The man was not given any tools for the job, and his presence was assured: as long as the Secure Guardians did not stint on feeding him, he would remain a powerful weapon at Radigis’s disposal.

  He waited in the vestibule. On the one side lay Secure Guardians, al-Fihri, Lancaster, and the beginnings of a new world at which Albion-of-the-Britons could for once be at the fore, if it chose wisely: on the other lay more Secure Guardians, and several flights of stairs between him and the cold wind of freedom. It did not occur to Radigis to worry that he might not be released.

  It was the door to the cell which opened first: al-Fihri stepped into the darkness alongside him and adjusted her scarf. The heavy door to the cell swung closed once more, and the light vanished at once, with Radigis unsure of al-Fihri’s temper beyond that she kept her head up. He imagined she would do that even if wolves tried to eat her from the feet upward, if she was minded, and yet if success depended on servile bending at the neck he thought she would buckle as swift as a stem before the gale.