The Burning City
Page 10
Whandall bent. Waterman raised the sword…
The flat of the sword made a loud whack as it hit Whandall’s buttocks, but he was still wearing the leathers and it didn’t really hurt at all. Not compared to the loss he felt. Waterman hit him five times more.
“All right. Get,” Waterman said. “Go gather somewhere else.”
“This was all given to me!”
“Good thing too,” Waterman said. “Boy, you don’t know how lucky you are. Now get out of here. Don’t come back.”
CHAPTER
11
Tras Preetror was both disappointed and intrigued. “For what that soap cost me,” he said, “I could have got a dozen stories from that wizard. From you it’s all hints at something bigger.”
Whandall had not spoken of the map. He had to keep something back. He asked, “Wizard, Tras?”
“Morth of Atlantis. You must know him.”
“Yes.” Whandall didn’t say that it was Morth of Atlantis he had seen at Lord Samorty’s dinner.
“You have to go back, you know,” Tras said.
Whandall felt his buttocks. He wasn’t hurt this time. The leathers hadn’t been interesting enough to attract attention from the Bull Pizzles, so he’d gotten home safely with the shells Lord Samorty had given him. Would woodsman’s leathers help him win a fight or only hamper his swordplay?
But he remembered the sound of that sword hitting him. It was sharp, and if it hadn’t been turned to hit him flat, he’d have lost a leg. Whandall was sure that even the flat would hurt dreadfully without the leathers. “No.”
“Think of the stories,” Tras said.
“They know me. They won’t let me in.”
“The tree—”
“They know about the tree. Tras,” Whandall said.
“There has to be a way,” Tras said. “Nobody talks about the Lordshills. Not the Lords, not the people who live there. There have to be stories.”
“Morth has been to Lordshills, and he knows things he’s never told the Lords. He brought water to Tep’s Town,” Whandall said. Maybe he could interest Tras in Morth and then he’d leave Whandall alone.
Whandall had forgotten Pelzed.
Ten days later he was summoned to the Serpent’s Walk meetinghouse.
Pelzed was all smiles. He poured from a teapot and slid hot hemp tea over to Whandall. His eyes commanded. Whandall drank.
They drank hemp tea at Serpent’s Walk meetings, but it was never as strong as this. Whandall was sweating and hungry before he drank half of it. His head—he heard things, pleasant sounds.
“The teller says you won’t go back to Lord’s Town,” Pelzed said.
“Lord? You talk to Tras Preetror?”
“That’s not your business.”
“Did he tell you I got caught?” Whandall demanded. “No. You look all right. Any broken bones?”
“No, Lord, b—”
Pelzed waved it away. “What did you see?”
“Redwoods,” Whandall said. “The inside of a Lord’s house, a big room where he calls people and gives orders.” And a map. If he told Pelzed about maps he’d have to draw them for him. “A big Lordsman with a sword beat me and told me never to come back. So I won’t, Lord.” They would beat him, but worse, they would send him away again. Whandall had tried to forget Lordshills and the Gift of the King.
“Tras says he will pay for a new roof on the meetinghouse,” Pelzed said.
“Tras is generous.”
“If you take him to Lord’s Town. Have some more tea.”
“I can’t go there!”
“Sure you can. Tell them I sent you,” Pelzed said. “Tell them you have a message from Lord Pelzed of Serpent’s Walk. They know me!” he said proudly.
A Lordkin should have guile. “They won’t believe me,” Whandall said. “You’re important, but I’m just a boy they already threw out.” Inspiration. “Why don’t you go instead, Lord?”
Pelzed grinned. “No. But they’ll believe Tras Preetror,” he said. “He’ll tell them. Have some more tea.”
They’d told him never to come back. Maybe this way would work, Whandall thought. His head buzzed pleasantly. This time he would watch, do nothing, learn the rules and customs.
The gardener’s clothing wasn’t fine enough for an emissary of Lord Pelzed. Pelzed sent gatherers to inspect the kinless shops. When they found something Tras Preetror thought might do, Serpent’s Walk built a bonfire at the street corner nearest the shop. Others began making torches. Then Pelzed offered a trade: new clothes, and there wouldn’t be a burning. The kinless were happy to accept.
Tras hired a wagon to take them to the Lord’s Town gate. The kinless driver was astonished but willing so long as he didn’t have to go further into Tep’s Town than Ominous Hill.
Whandall took the opportunity to examine the ponies that pulled the wagon. The beasts tolerated Whandall’s gaze but shied from his touch. Bony points protruded from the centers of their foreheads.
They passed the Black Pit. “You want to be a teller, you have to look for stories,” Tras said. “There must be stories about the Black Pit.”
Whandall gaped as if he’d never noticed the place before.
“Fire,” the kinless wagoneer said. “Used to be fire pits, my grandfather said.” His voice took on the disbelieving tone kinless used. “Fires and ghost monsters, until Yangin-Atep took the fires away. Now the Lords’ve put up a fence.”
The guards watched with interest as they came up the hill. A quarter of the way up, the ponies slowed. The driver let them go on a few more paces, then stopped. “Far as I go.”
“Why?” Tras Preetror asked.
“Bad on the ponies. Can’t you see? Look at their foreheads.”
Horns as long as a finger joint had shrunk to mere thorns. The beasts actually seemed to have shrunk.
Tras said, “But the hill’s not that steep.”
“Just the way it is here,” the driver said.
“I saw horses go in the gate!” Whandall said. But they hadn’t borne these bony nubs.
“Lord’s horses. Bigger than my ponies.”
The driver shrugged. “Lord’s horses can go up that hill. Mine can’t.”
“You were paid to take us to the gate!” Tras said.
The driver shrugged again.
“We’ll have to walk, then,” Tras said. “Not so dignified. Here, Whandall, stand straight. Look proud.”
They walked the rest of the way up. “Let me do the talking,” Tras said. He walked up to the guard. “We’re emissaries from Serpent’s Walk. That’s Whandall, nephew to Lord Pelzed of Serpent’s Walk. We’d like to speak to Lord Samorty.”
“Would you now?” the guard asked. “Daggett, I think you’d better go get the officer.”
Tras began another speech. “Don’t do you no good to talk to me,” the guard said. “I sent for the officer. Save it for him. But you do talk pretty.”
Whandall recognized the officer as Lord Qirinty. Peacevoice Waterman was with him.
“You, lad,” Waterman said. “Didn’t we tell you to stay away from here?” He turned to Qirinty and spoke rapidly, too low for Whandall to hear. Qirinty’s eyes narrowed.
“We are emissaries from Lord Pelzed of Serpent’s Walk, to talk about the new aqueduct,” Tras said.
“And what would Lord Pelzed of Serpent’s Walk have to do with the new aqueduct?” Qirinty asked. His voice was pleasant enough, but there was more curiosity than friendliness in it.
“He can get you some workers—”
Qirinty laughed. “Sure he can. Peacevoice, I don’t think we need any more of this.”
Waterman’s badge of office was a large stick. He smiled pleasantly as he walked over to Tras Preetror and eyed his head expertly.
“Your superiors won’t like—”
Waterman whacked Tras just over the right ear, and Tras dropped like a stone. Waterman nodded in satisfaction. “Mister Daggett, this one’s for you,” he said. “Sort of a bonus,
like.” He turned to Qirinty. “Now, about this lad—”
“Well, he doesn’t learn very well, does he?” Qirinty asked. “He’s done us no harm, and I believe you said Samorty’s daughter likes him?”
“Yes, sir, I expect Miss Shanda won’t like it a bit when we feed him to the crabs.”
“That may be a bit drastic,” Qirinty said. “But do see that he understands this time.”
“Yes, sir.”
This time Whandall wasn’t offered a choice of hard or easy. Waterman swung the stick. When Whandall put his hands up to protect his head, the stick swung in an arc to his legs, hitting him just behind the knee. Whandall yelled in pain as he fell to the ground. He doubled over to protect himself.
The other guard kicked him in the back, just above the waist. Nothing that had ever happened to him hurt that bad.
“Now, now, Wergy,” Waterman said to the guard. “He’s going to need them kidneys to pee with.”
“They didn’t give me a choice!” Most of that came out as a scream as the stick descended, this time on Whandall’s upper left arm, then swung instantly to hit his buttocks from behind. “They didn’t. I had to come!” Another blow to his left arm. After that Whandall didn’t notice who hit him or where. He just knew it went on for a long time.
CHAPTER
12
When he woke, it was dark. He felt a jolt and closed his eyes tightly, afraid he was being beaten again, but finally he opened them to see that he was in the back of the cart. They were just passing the Black Pit.
The kinless driver turned when he stirred. “You going to live?” he asked without much interest.
“Yes… thank you—”
“Had to come this way anyway,” the driver said. “Here, have some water.” He passed back a flask. Whandall’s left arm wasn’t working at all. He was surprised to find that his right would lift the flask to his lips. Every muscle of his body seemed to be throbbing in unison.
It was nearly dawn when they reached Peacegiven Square. The driver lifted him down from the wagon and left him lying by the fountain. His brothers found him just before noon.
It was late afternoon before Whandall remembered that Tras Preetror wasn’t with him. He spent some hours wondering what might have happened to him. Maimed, flayed, impaled… were there cannibals among the ships of the harbor, to whom Tras Preetror might have been sold? Such thoughts gave him some comfort.
His left arm was broken. Other agonies masked the pain, and nobody ever set it. He cradled it, held it straight as best he could, and finally Mother’s Mother used a strip of cloth to bind it rigidly against his chest. It healed a little crooked.
While Whandall lay healing in his room, his mind roamed free of probability and logic. Mad dreams, mad schemes chased each other through his head. Rescue Shanda from her unparents. Kill Pelzed, take his place, increase his power until he was the equal of a Lord. Become a teller, roam the world… which in his mind was a great foggy swirling wall of rainbow colors.
His mother had him moved to a room closer to hers, shared with her latest infant and three others. Mother’s Mother brought him soup. It was all he was able to eat. Two days passed before he could get to a window to piss. A week before he could walk around Placehold.
A cousin and her man had gathered his room while he healed in the nursery.
He couldn’t lift or gather. They set him to cleaning the kitchen and the public areas alongside much younger girls and boys.
Wess was with Vinspel, a dark man of Serpent’s Walk who had been visiting Whandall’s sister Ilyessa but found Wess more attractive. She avoided being caught talking to Whandall alone. When he ran her down, he saw a look in her eyes that made him wonder what he looked like. Crippled. Marred. He took to avoiding Wess. She didn’t need more soap.
It was bad to be a weakling in Placehold, but the street would have killed him. When he could climb to the roof, they set him to working on the rooftop garden. It was less shameful than cleaning, and he couldn’t be seen by anyone outside Placehold.
The Placehold had a large flat roof strong enough to support a foot of dirt and buckets of water. Rabbits couldn’t get up there, and most insects didn’t. Picking bugs off carrots was work for girls and young boys. Whandall resented having to do it, but there wasn’t anything else for a one-armed boy who couldn’t use a knife.
Like the plants of the forest, the crops fought back.
If they were attacked by rabbits or insects or pulled up when young, they developed poisons. You could pluck a young carrot or an ear of corn and cook it quickly and it wouldn’t be deadly, but leave it a day and it would bring tumors and painful death. Traders sometimes bought Tep’s Town root vegetables, and Whandall had once asked Tras Preetror what they did with them.
“Sell them to wizards,” Tras had told him. “Most places, they’ll kill even a wizard, but Tep’s Town doesn’t have so much magic. The plants still fight back, but not so hard. Wizards eat Tep’s Town carrots to gain strength.”
“Tras?”
“Anything that doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” Tras had said in the voice he used when quoting somebody dead. Now Whandall remembered and hoped it was true.
Mostly, garden workers protected crops from rabbits and insects until they were big and old and tough. Plants gone to seed didn’t care whether they were eaten. These they pulled up for food. Old carrots, onions, and potatoes would keep a long time.
It was work for kinless, but no kinless could be allowed up on the Placehold roof. Whandall found it a pleasant way to pass time. The work wasn’t hard, except for carrying buckets of water up the stairs, and that was done in an hour each day. The rest was only tedious. He had to crawl along the vegetable rows looking for insects to kill. The view from the roof was wonderful.
Whandall remembered the carving on Lord Samorty’s table. A “map.” From the roof Whandall could see all of Serpent’s Walk and some of the other band territories and could see where people went on Mother’s Day and afterward. He tried to draw the patterns.
A room opened up for him just when living with crying and crawling infants was about to drive him crazy. Shastern led him to a tiny room just below the roof. He’d have to do something about the unwashed smell… which suddenly struck him as familiar.
“Lenorba’s room,” he said.
“Was.”
“Where is she?”
“Nobody knows. We needed an extra woman at the last Mother’s Day. We took Lenorba. Of course we stopped at the border of Peacegiven Square and the women went on. Lenorba never came back. They got her.”
Whandall nodded. It was thirteen years ago, and most people must have forgotten what Lenorba had done… yet he could feel no surprise.
His arm stopped hurting, and eventually he took off the swaddling strip Mother’s Mother had used to bind it up. The arm was crooked, but he could use it. Hauling water up the stairs helped strengthen it. Picking insects off carrots gave him skill in small movements.
After Whandall’s arm healed, he took his knife lessons seriously, although the instruction was haphazard. Whandall thought about each lesson and practiced on the roof. He wondered why you did things a certain way. Then he discovered that if he practiced foot movements with no knife, his arms just held out defensively, he could concentrate on getting the steps exactly right. Then he thought about the cloak over his left arm, moving that as a shield, and learned precisely where his arm should be to protect against a thrust or a slash. Then he learned knife movements, standing still and concentrating on his hand and arm. Each time he thought about getting one thing right.
His uncles and cousins had nearly given up in disgust, thinking Whandall slow and simple. “Must have got hit in the head,” one of his uncles said, not bothering to lower his voice so Whandall wouldn’t hear. Whandall went on practicing, one move at a time, concentrating on getting each one just right.
When Whandall thought he had learned all the moves they would teach him, he put them all together.
Even so, he was wary on the streets. Rumor said that Pelzed was most unhappy with him. His first foray was a walk with his brothers, a seeking for conversation… and he found he was treated with respect. He was Whandall of Serpent’s Walk, and so long as he stayed in the Walk or allied territory, he was safe. He thought of asking for a face tattoo, but he put that off. He still had sores on his head, and a scar at his left eye. It was an angry red ring with a white center, painful to touch. His left arm was shorter than his right. In time the pain faded, but he grew slowly.
PART TWO
Adolescent
CHAPTER
13
Girls. Suddenly they snagged at Whandall’s eyes. The sight of a pretty girl held all of his attention. If he was talking to Lordkin or gathering from a kinless, a clout across the head might be his first return to sanity.
What had changed? Whandall’s loins worried at him like a bad tooth.
Girls weren’t eager to go with a scarred thirteen-year-old with no tattoo.
He’d avoided Wess while he was healing. He didn’t want her to see him that way. Now Wess was avoiding him, and Vinspel wouldn’t let a man near her anyway. The other boys found ribald amusement in the ring-shaped scar at his eye. Maybe it was even worse than he’d guessed.
Other boys talked about girls they’d had, and Whandall joined in, telling stories as Tras Preetror had taught him. You didn’t doubt another boy’s story. If he needed to prove himself a man, he might do it with a knife.
Whandall could do that. The first time a Bull Pizzle challenged him, Whandall had startled him and everyone else. The fight was over before it started, the Pizzle disarmed with a cut across the back of his hand. Whandall could have killed him easily, but that would start a blood feud. Instead he took his knife. The next day two more Bull Pizzles challenged him. They were both young, with knives but no face tattoos. In minutes Whandall had two more knives. Then Lord Pelzed and the Bull Pizzles met, and Whandall was told to stay out of Pizzle territory, and everyone left him alone.