Unbound

by Shawn Speakman

  “You’re wife. She walked into the Bourne with a slaver, didn’t she?” The Velle’s expression had already returned to indifference. “And you came to play the rescuer, but you couldn’t cross the Veil. Something about you . . . Lour Nail, kept you out. Not that a frail albino could have done much inside the Bourne. Still, at least you tried. And still, poetic.”

  “I think you mean ironic,” I said. “And I got her out, didn’t I?”

  The Velle pushed a wave of thought at me. It passed through my flesh, finding again those secrets I’d tried to hide. He caressed them a second time, making them ache and itch and burn. I clutched at my chest until he let go this resonant note. I felt something different that time, though. He could play this string long enough and loud enough that I’d drop for good. It was like poison already inside me. He had only to make it grow, make it the all of me.

  And he was right. I’d have argued against this new position, anyway. Fool new-thought philosophers. It didn’t seem to matter to them if their thinking was sound or not. Just putting forward challenges to existing thought was sufficient in and of itself these days. Wiseacres looking to make names for themselves. Damn fools.

  “You don’t need me,” I finally said. “Why don’t you go around to all the right sophists and clench up their hearts? I’m sure you can get them to agree with you.”

  He drew a deep breath, as one who appreciates a good question. “Your people have a different strength in masses. Or think they do. Makes them foolish. Makes them think they can win at things. They band together for a cause, even if they can’t win. Besides,” and he began to stroll away, “I told you, there’s some poetry in having you do it, given what you are, and the wife I know you adore.”

  “What if I say no?”

  He stopped at the end of the alley, his eyes cast up at the Grove towers. “Just remember that I’m not asking you to do something you wouldn’t have done anyway.” He paused. “And remember Anna. There are worse things than catatonia. She’d tell you so, herself . . . if she could.”

  * * * * *

  The College of Philosophy discourse theater hummed with excitement. And not just from Grove philosophers. Members of all the Grove colleges were there. As were members of philosophy schools as distant as Naltus Rey. The annual philosophical position that would be published from this conference would stir debate in them all.

  I sat in the first row of the circular theater, because I knew I’d be taking the floor at some point. I didn’t want to have to move too far. My wrist and leg were broken, bandaged tight, and the rest of me was sore as all hells from my little encounter with the Velle.

  Hadn’t seen the bastard again, which made me happy enough. But I didn’t get the impression he was far away, either. Come to that, the discourse theater had several dozen rows. Big place. Lit with low-burning lamps. Good for thinking. But different than most of the other college theaters, which were brightly lit for demonstration. With his blank expression, the Velle could be sitting right here in the theater and it’d be hard to pick him out.

  So, I didn’t try. Would have given me the shakes to find him here, anyway.

  All the same, I’d brought a friend. Martin. A trouper-turned-astronomy-shop-proprietor. Long story, that. But Martin liked coming to the theaters. For him, there was precious little difference between a rhea-fol play and these debates. Today, though, I’d asked his company because he had a calming, encouraging way about him. Maybe because he had a story for everything. Maybe because he had an uncanny knack for the stars.

  My job was simple today: issue a challenge. The debate to confirm, refine, or refute the Grove’s philosophical suppositions would happen later. Today, they would merely be stated. And either there’d be consensus, in which case, the panelists putting forward new thought would commit it to paper, or someone would call it to question, and a time for arguments would be set.

  In some ways, this was very much like the Succession of Arguments the Grove used to establish new laws of celestial mechanics. The difference was that with Succession, one college put forth its hypothesis and defended it in successive debates with each college—so long as they continued to win.

  But with the declaration of a new philosophical position, it was just Grove philosophers hashing it out amongst themselves.

  Savant Leon Bellerex, who led the College of Philosophy, stood up from his seat—reserved in the first row. The hum of excitement quieted almost immediately. The doors were shut.

  Two things I liked about Savant Bellerex. He wore the same robe as the rest of us. No gilding or color trim to draw attention to himself. Which isn’t to say you wouldn’t pick him out in a crowd. He had a presence about him. Gave you the feeling he’d read every book you’d ever read, and understood it twice as well.

  The other thing I liked about him was that he didn’t force the college into his own views. In fact, he let others lead the thrust of new thought, serving more to weigh and shape it. That, and he made sure any objections didn’t go unheard.

  He said, simply, “Let us begin. This year, Darius will be our lead panelist. He’s young, but no less wise for that.”

  Laughter rolled around the theater, setting a nice tone for the conference. I smiled. We all did. No doubt that had been deliberate on Bellerex’s part. Because what would follow was . . . well hell, some would call it heresy. Not philosophers. Heresy’s not a word we use. But it would upset folks. That’s for damn sure.

  “The show begins,” Martin whispered beside me.

  Darius stood. All eighteen years of him. I almost laughed again. I don’t think the young man had even a passing acquaintance with a razor, and here he was, strutting from the panel table to the center of the discourse theater. His shoes tapped a light rhythm on the boards. Other college theaters had marble floors, stones of different kinds. Ours was old oak. Felt thoughtful.

  He came halfway to where I sat. That’s when I saw it. The boy had to be this close for me to see it—in addition to all the rest, my eyes were bad. But there it was. Woven in dark thread against the black cloth of his robe—just below the College of Philosophy insignia—was the emblem of the League of Civility.

  It wasn’t unheard of for a Grove man to bear two allegiances, so long as the first belonged to his Grove college. But it was rare. And in some ways it was a louder statement.

  I’d told the Velle I didn’t “give a spit” for the League. That was true enough. But seeing their insignia woven to the robe of a man presenting new thought on the theater floor . . . troubled me. I couldn’t say why. I didn’t know much about the League. They apparently had a lot to say about reform. And if they moved beyond a probationary period in the Grove, they’d have the right to carry steel, as they did elsewhere. They’d have some policing duties, besides. Philosophers carrying blades seemed like a bad idea to me.

  “Friends,” Darius called out.

  I smiled again. He was new to this, not realizing the acoustics of the theater were engineered deliberately so that a normal speaking voice may be used.

  “It’s a year of change,” he began. “Even for men and women like us, change can be difficult. It forces us to reexamine what we believe. And what we know—maybe better than most—is that we are, in fact, little more than our collection of beliefs.”

  There was general assent to this sentiment.

  I took a long breath to brace myself. Probably the thing I hated most about my own college was the pontification. I had an idea that it grew out of insecurity, since of the five Grove colleges we performed the least of the hard sciences. So, of course, we had to sound the wisest. Stupid.

  “But that’s what we’re here to do: reexamine,” Darius went on. “And today, it’s one of the oldest stories that we will challenge. A belief that underlies faith-systems. A belief used to justify the wars of the First and Second Promise. A belief . . . without which we may well have to conceive new curse words.”

  A rumble of laughter.

  Martin’s laugh was cautious. He was a
story man.

  “My friends,” Darius pushed on, “I speak of an ages-old notion of enemies held captive in the lands we call the Bourne. I speak of a Veil that many believe holds them there. I speak of a fable that gods placed them in these remote corners of our world because they were . . . undesirable.”

  All hells, this is going to get messy.

  Muttering rose. General alarm at this new stance. Incredulousness. Some awe at the boldness of it. And underneath all that, a profound silence. Some few kept quiet, listening to a dangerous change being spoken with a civil tongue from the theater floor.

  “Let’s take a closer look at these suppositions.” Darius began to pace, walking the ring and meeting the eyes of as many as he could. “If there are peoples in these far countries—and I think we can all agree that’s true—why do we assume they’re hostile toward us? Because a creation story tells us so?”

  “Maybe because when they’ve come into the east, they’ve come in war.” It was Mical, seated not far behind the panel table. His question was clearly a plant. He’d just done a bad job of sounding like he had a convicted opinion. Damn ninny.

  “Nations of the east fight among themselves on the right side of this restraining Veil,” Darius countered. “So, if these Quiet are, in fact, hostile, it’s not divinely inspired hatred or vengeance. At least, no more so than our own petty wars.”

  A middle-aged woman seated halfway up the theater opposite me stood. She patiently waited for Darius’s attention.

  “Meghan, you’ve something to offer?” Darius kept an even tone. Meghan was well-regarded. It wouldn’t do to antagonize her.

  “Whether their hostility toward us is divinely inspired or not, I fail to see why we would challenge the idea of a Veil that keeps them from bringing war on us more often.” She waited for an answer.

  Darius raised a hand to cup his chin. A thoughtful gesture I would bet three thin plugs he’d rehearsed.

  “Our feeling,” Darius began, speaking as for the entire College of Philosophy, “is that we have no right to hold them there—”

  “But we’re not doing anything,” Meghan countered. “If it exists, it’s been placed there by someone else—”

  “The gods, you mean,” Darius jabbed back, while smiling.

  “Does it matter?” Meghan softly challenged.

  “Meghan’s got salt,” Martin commented under his breath.

  Darius began to pace again, his eyes trained on his steps as one considering before speaking. “It does,” he finally announced. “Because we lead with thought. What we espouse informs the opinions of kings and councils. It’s irresponsible of us to ignore stories that are so clearly inhumane.”

  Meghan was preparing to counter, when I caught her eye. I made it clear to her that I had things of my own to say. No need for her to get too dirty too soon. I was made for dirty. She nodded almost imperceptibly in my direction and sat.

  “And maybe there’s just one thing more,” Darius added, casting his gaze up and around the theater. “Have we ever considered that if this Veil is real, that perhaps the reason the citizens of the Bourne are angry and resentful, is precisely because they’ve been made prisoners there? I know I wouldn’t like it.”

  Darius came around and sat again at the panel table. His colleagues, in turn, each stood and offered variants of the same thinking. It was classic philosophical argument: establish your thesis in the mouths of multiple advocates—made it seem to hold more weight. Another waste of good time.

  A few more rose to voice concerns. But there were ready answers. And at the end of three hours, the room seemed to mull in general agreement.

  Darius stood, looking grateful. I’d swear that was an affectation too. “If there’s no direct challenge,” he said, “we’ll move to author these new positions and publish them as the Aubade Grove College of Philosophy’s annual position.”

  “You’re on,” Martin said, gently elbowing me.

  I was stiff from sitting so long. My bones hated it. So getting up was something of a chore. And though the Velle could chill me through, kill me with a thought, I still didn’t like being pushed to do a thing. Before standing, I had to satisfy myself that I’d have made this argument anyway. But that was a short trip. Because I knew better about the Bourne. I knew it because of Anna.

  There was still the Velle’s belief that by keeping the stories about the Bourne unchanged the Grove would eventually decide to study the Veil. Learn how it works. And if it did, the Quiet might make use of that information to cross into the East. In force. So, maybe I should just keep my seat, let the League change the old stories, so the Grove would never have interest in studying the Veil. But, I figured, if I made my argument, won, and the Grove did someday discover how the Veil works, such knowledge could be equally used to strengthen it. And we’d have the knowledge first.

  Also . . . there was Anna.

  I got to my feet and stepped onto the theater floor. There were mutters.

  “You’re wrong,” I said, because I just didn’t have time or patience for stupid preamble.

  * * * * *

  As was customary, I let the theater empty before taking my leave. The purpose was to give any who wanted to throw in with me the chance let me know. None did. I knew I could count on Meghan if it came to that. So it didn’t bother me that she walked on by. And Martin would help where needed, though he wasn’t a member of any of the Grove colleges.

  I stood alone on the theater floor for several long moments. There’s a loud silence in that place when all the bluster’s gone. I used it to think about Anna. I’d be a liar if I didn’t acknowledge that a large part of making this argument was for her.

  I let myself imagine one of our evening walks. We’d go beyond the Grove walls. Fewer whispers about a woman and an albino that way. Because even in a place of forward thought like Aubade Grove, people’s observations often felt like judgment. Anna would amble slowly, so that I didn’t have to work too hard—I had precious little endurance as it was. And we’d each take a side of some debate, often the side we least agreed with.

  That’s how I won her heart. We’d watch the stars on those evening strolls, and I’d do the one thing I did well. Argue. I didn’t weave syllogisms. I didn’t frame trick questions. I just had a knack for knowing why my opponent wanted to prove a thing, and then held that up for others to scrutinize.

  Most of my colleagues thought me an ass. I assumed a healthy portion of that to be professional jealousy.

  With Anna, though, it made her laugh. She wasn’t mean-spirited. I think she just hated the sophistry as much as I did.

  And now I had a chance to wake her from her catatonia. From eight years of her thousand-league stare.

  I took a last look around, then made my way out. The hallway encircling the theater was dark. I navigated by memory. Ten strides on, something hit my head, knocking me to the ground.

  Then boots rained down on me. My belly. My chest. My back. My ass. More than a few in my neck and face. One took me in the tender parts.

  Pray they don’t break any bones.

  It seemed to go on forever. I could feel my skin bruising beneath my robe, feel the beat of my heart in several dozen places over my body.

  Then silence returned, silence and labored breathing.

  A moment later came boot-heels on the stone floor. Not hurried. Not someone rushing to help a stranger who’s being mobbed.

  Then a lamp flared to light in the darkness, and Darius stood there, staring down at me. The shapes of my attackers faded back. I’d never be able to identify them.

  Darius shook his head. Might have been sympathy for the attack. Might have been reproof. Then he hunkered down, setting the lamp to the side so we could see each other clearly.

  “Did you fall?” he asked with mock concern.

  “I did,” I said, spitting out blood, “I fell under the boots of your hirelings. Or is it just my good fortune you happened along and that my attackers didn’t scurry away at your approach.�
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  Darius’s expression tightened. He’d missed that one. He waved at his cronies to leave.

  Up close, I got a good look at the League insignia—four hands forming a squarish circle, each hand clasping the wrist of the other. Something brotherly about that, which made the attack another irony. I was used to ironies, though.

  “You should be careful,” Darius advised. “I understand in addition to your albinism, you’re a bit frail in the bones.”

  “A nice attempt at discouragement.” I smiled, being sure he saw my bloodied teeth. “And something you’d likely planned before tonight’s performance.”

  “Performance?” His tone made clear that he knew what I meant, so I left it there.

  “Is this the way the League does its work?” I pointed at the insignia on his robe. “Intimidation?”

  “In actuality, we aren’t members of the League. Not officially. Not yet.”

  “I see. Then it was my own philosophy colleagues who beat the pine-tar out of me. Is that what you want me telling Savant Bellerex? That you plan to win your argument through physical coercion?” I smiled my bloody smile again. Damn pup needed to learn how these games were played.

  “I think witnesses will attest to the fact that you fell.” Darius looked around at the shadowy figures retreating beyond the lamplight. “You’re known for falling. Weak limbs and all.”

  “Are you really that afraid of a debate on this?” I shook my head. “Your deeper reasoning must be flawed—”

  “Let me be plain.” Darius hunched forward. “Change is coming. Change in the way we view things. It’ll take time, but it’ll come. The only real question is does the College of Philosophy adopt these views, embrace them. Own them. Or, do we serve those whose interests will set that agenda.”

  “The League,” I surmised.

  Darius kept a long silence. “I happen to agree with the League in its views on the Bourne. It’s why I wear this.” He pulled at the League emblem on his robe. “But what if . . . I’ll make you a deal, Lour. If I win our argument, I’ll kill the Grove chapter of the League.”