by Byron Preiss
“They envy our self-sufficiency, our prosperous farms and sea-fishing!” Jondalrun shouted. “From what we have learned, they are forced to do much trading with the Southland for foods.”
“It seems to me,” Lagow said, “that sorcerers would not have trouble finding something to eat.”
“Not so!” cried Tenniel of Borgen Town. “They are ignorant of the land—they know little about farming.”
“Yes!” said another. “They are hungry people. They are jealous of our full harvests and our healthy children! Everybody knows that sorcerers need victims on whom they can practice their foul craft! They would not use their children, and so they attack ours!”
When the protest subsided, Lagow returned to his seat. He was unconvinced, but he thought there was little chance of persuading the Council to agree. There seemed to be much support for the invasion of Simbala. The obstinacy was frightening, but he thought it prudent to remain quiet now. To antagonize them further would diminish his influence. He felt his time could be better spent in an effort to ensure moderation in any action the Elders proposed. In any case, he would vote against the invasion.
Tamark of Cape Bage watched Lagow, appreciating his honesty. The accusations that had been made were unproven, based on rumor and even lies. They were rushing into war without knowing what war would be. He had traveled, he knew the Simbalese by reputation, and what he had learned would be enough to scare any of them away from the thought of war. The sorcerers were geniuses at defense and experts in battle. Even women shared in their plans. Tamark regretted the death of the children, but he knew there must be another answer. He rose to challenge the Elders.
“We have come here to decide the issue of war. I say there must be no war.” Tamark’s voice echoed in the amphitheater.
“Fool!” came a cry from the back row. “Traitor!” echoed another. “Children have been murdered!”
The fisherman gripped his jacket defensively. His voice was filled with pity. “I too grieve for Jondalrun, but there is no proof that a windship was responsible for the tragic event. I have yet to hear a single fact that ties the Simbalese to the murder of Jondalrun’s son.”
“The Wing was shredded. I saw it myself,” said Agron of Tamberly Town.
“Ignore Tamark,” shouted an Elder from Delkeran. “He is a foolish fisherman. I call for a vote!”
“No!” Tamark reddened and smashed his left fist into his right hand. “You will all listen to what I say! I have traveled; I have seen more than you ever will! I know about these sorcerers. Their army would do us terrible harm! We must not go to war with them over this tragedy. Your son was killed, Jondalrun, but we do not know that he was murdered.”
“Liar! He was murdered!” Jondalrun walked angrily toward the pedestal.
“What about the shepherd’s daughter?” another Elder said. “There was no cliff for her to fall from, no hermit magician to bewitch her into the sky. It could only have been a windship!”
“You have heard how the Simbalese attacked Gordain Town,” Jondalrun shouted, pressing his advantage. “Only the rains kept half the town from dying in the fires!”
“I worry for my children’s safety,” said an Elder of Gordain Town. “We must defend ourselves.”
Many of them shouted approval of this. Amsel, tucked away in his secret spot, murmured, “This doesn’t sound good at all.” If this went on, the decision would be war—of that he was sure.
He stood up. He could not let them vote for war without having his say. He had to convince them that he had nothing to do with the Simbalese—that he alone bore the guilt for Johan’s death.
Pennel, the Mandator, had succeeded in quieting the crowd. “Is there anyone else who wishes to speak?” he asked.
Amsel took a deep breath and stepped from his balcony onto the Stairs. “I wish to speak,” he said. His voice sounded very small to him.
There were shouts of outrage as he was recognized. Jondalrun leaped to his feet. “Spy!” he shouted.
“I want to address the council,” Amsel said. “It is my right to speak—”
“You have no rights, murderer!” another Elder shouted.
“You were spying! Hiding in the rocks, eavesdropping on the High Council!”
“Wait!” Amsel cried. “I wasn’t—”
“He is a spy!” Jondalrun cried. “Take him!”
Several of the younger Elders, including Tenniel, ran up the stairs toward Amsel. The inventor, panicking, turned and ran ahead of them up the ancient natural steps. Beyond the first arch there was a section where the wall had collapsed. Amsel clambered nimbly up the steep slope and disappeared from view.
Once again Pennel slowly restored order. Once again he asked if there were any other voices to be heard. This time there was no response.
“Then,” he said in a heavy voice, “we shall vote.”
* * *
Amsel did not stop running after he reached the top of the slope. He kept going, bounding from crag to peak, until at last he crouched safely on a high eyrie.
From there he listened. He could see the townsfolk gathered outside the amphitheater, the children playing, the men and women waiting somberly. Then came the first echo as the vote of the High Council resonated through the walls and crannies of the hills. He heard the first “Aye,” and then another, and another, spoken in determined voices. Few dissented.
Soon after, the Elders left the amphitheater. The clouds were lifting now, but the air hung more heavily than it had before the Council. Amsel sighed. “No doubt about it, no doubt at all. The vote was for war, and once again I am in part to blame. If only I had not run—but what else could I have done? Their mood was ill; they would not have listened. What could I have told them? Even I do not know what brought Johan to death.”
He hung his head. “Johan, Johan,” he murmured. “If they persist in this folly, you will be but the first of many.”
He looked up at the gray clouds. “Someone must do something,” he said, “and it looks like it must be me.”
VI
The Couriers passed the word quickly. For the first time in its two-hundred-year history, Fandora would go to war.
In the main square of Tamberly Town, Jondalrun, flanked by the other Elders, addressed the people in the square. “We shall raise an army,” he told them. “The Sim forests and windships will burn and their evil shall no longer spread to our shores. They shall be punished for the death they have brought to Fandora.” There was a low muttering of approval. The boisterous support heard only hours ago had cooled considerably.
Tamark stood before the blacksmith’s shop and watched the crowd. They have what they wanted, he thought, and now they are uncertain.
After the speech, Jondalrun was approached by the Elders Tenniel, Agron, and Lagow, who found him, grim-faced, by a well off to one side of the square. Lagow was the first to speak. “I shall abide by the decision of the High Council, and I acknowledge your appointment as the director of our army.”
“You acknowledge it, but you do not approve, Lagow.”
“It is out of my hands. We are still neighbors, Jondalrun, and I am still a Fandoran. Have you given any thought to how you will raise and arm your army?”
“We will make weapons,” Jondalrun said. “A man knows how to fight. Our most important weapon will be the fact that we are right and that we know it.”
Lagow looked at his heavy brown boots, scarred by the journey and the rain. “It will take more than enthusiasm to be victorious over the Simbalese.”
“If you lack the confidence to join us, Lagow, I am sure there are others from Jelrich Town who would be eager to take your place.”
Lagow looked up. “Don’t be insolent with me, Jondalrun! You need all the help you can get for this fool’s invasion!”
Jondalrun stepped closer to Lagow. “Is it foolish for a father to seek justice after the murder of his child?” he asked in a threatening tone.
“No,” answered Lagow harshly, “but I would thin
k you’d be more cautious about sending other men’s sons off to be killed!”
Jondalrun swung his fist at Lagow. Lagow quickly ducked and leaped forward. The two grappled.
“Please!” Agron shouted. “This is no way for Elders to act! The children will see!” He made a vain attempt to separate the two. Jondalrun pushed him away and again lunged at Lagow. Lagow tripped Jondalrun; they rolled in the mud of the square.
Tenniel broke up the fight with a clumsy blow to the back of Jondalrun’s head with the bucket from the well. The Elder, stunned, rolled over onto his back.
Tenniel gasped. “I think I hit him too hard!” He lowered the bucket down the well quickly and splashed water on Jondalrun after it had returned. During the process Lagow departed, after speaking briefly to Agron.
When Jondalrun had recovered, Lagow was not to be seen. “The coward,” said Jondalrun.
“No,” replied Agron. “He is a patriot. He has gone to send a Courier to his town with news of the High Council’s decision. You must prepare yourself for opposition to the verdict, Jondalrun. No Fandoran has ever set foot in Simbala. The thought of doing battle with sorcerers is frightening to some.”
“Aye,” said Tenniel, “to many.”
“We need something to protect us against them. We need magic of our own,” said Agron. “Some sort of potent spell to protect us against any Simbalese sorcery.”
“No!” Jondalrun protested, pounding the brick lip of the well with his fist. “We shall not seek justice with their evil ways!”
“Be sensible, Jondalrun,” Agron said. “This is war, and we must be prepared for anything they bring to bear against us. It does not mean that we will have to use it—simply that we should have it if the need arises.”
“But where would we find such magic?” asked another Elder who had hurried to the scene of the fracas.
“I have heard of a place,” Tenniel said reluctantly. “Within the Alakan Fen, according to tales, there dwells a witch—”
“No!” Jondalrun shouted. “We’ll have naught to do with magic that black!”
“What is so terrible about this witch?”
“She was once an inhabitant of Tamberly Town,” Agron said. “At a time when the raving fever was at its worst, she was found guilty of aiding its spread by inculcating it in rats.”
“She claimed she was trying to find a way to stop its progress by feeding the rats certain foods. She might as well have attempted to stop a fire by throwing oil on it!” Jondalrun said. “A storm overturned the cages and released the rats, and several people died from their bites. After this she was banished. We’ll have naught to do with her!” He glared at the others.
“According to what I have heard,” Tenniel said, “she also performed many good deeds, such as producing corn with huge ears, and telling you where to sink the shaft for this very well.”
“True,” Agron said slowly. “This well has never run dry, even during the drought three years past.”
It eventually took an impromptu gathering of the Elders and a vote to sway Jondalrun. It was decided that even though most of the Elders shared Jondalrun’s objections to the woman, the risk was warranted.
* * *
Amsel inspected an old map of Simbala which he had bought years before from a Southland trader. His plan was born of desperation. It hinged on a successful journey across the strait to Simbala, where he hoped to confront the Simbalese and ask for their help. If they could build windships, he reasoned, they must be an intelligent people, and if they were an intelligent people, sorcerers or not, they would be opposed to war. It was a desperate plan, but he had little choice. He did not know what else to do.
“Sorcerer! Surrender!”
The door of his tree house exploded under the impact of a heavy shoe. A moment later, three Elders, the same who had chased him up the Stairs of Summer, appeared in the room. “We have come to take you back to Tamberly Town to stand trial as a murderer and a spy!” the youngest shouted.
“I’m sorry,” Amsel said, “but I was just leaving.” He turned and ran. The three pursued him; one of them tripped on a table leg and overturned a candle burning under an alembic. It landed in a stone dish of telharna oil, which blazed up suddenly and set fire to a stack of scrolls next to the collection of fossilized bones.
There was barely time for the three Elders to escape to the outside. In the confusion, Amsel slipped out a side window. He climbed swiftly up the old tree beside his house, until he reached the branch that was level with Greenmeadow Mesa. Then he hid behind a hillock of grass and watched the smoke rise. His house and his possessions were in flame—the results of a lifetime of experiments and research, done for no other reason than the love of knowledge, but nonetheless precious for that. Amsel watched silently, tears running down his cheeks. When the smoke began to subside, he turned away from it and set out. All he had left were the things in his pockets and his pouch—his spectacles, a notebook, the seeds he had intended to investigate a few days earlier, and a knife. He had lost the map of Simbala.
He made his way through the early-morning light toward the seaside cliffs, jumping nervously at the occasional sounds of squirrels or birds. In every shadow he thought he saw the Elders waiting to pounce. He was hungry and tired, and he wondered why he was trying to save these people who wanted to imprison him, who had burned his home. He had never harmed anyone—had, in fact, gone out of his way to avoid people—and this was how he was thanked. Let them reap the consequences of their folly, then! It would serve them right if the Simbalese were sorcerers and if they turned every Fandoran into stone!
If he had any sense at all, Amsel told himself, he would try to find a new life for himself in the Southland. But he kept walking toward the sea. Before him, in the afternoon sky, it seemed that he could see a vision of a young boy, fair-haired and laughing, shaming the birds as he soared on a device of leather and wood. And now he could see the boy falling, could see the joy on his face turn to terror. . . .
Amsel closed his eyes. He pressed the heels of his hands hard against them for a moment, until he saw luminous patterns. Then he shook his head, and kept walking toward the sea.
He did not know how or why the shepherd’s daughter had died, but he knew why Johan had died, and he knew the lad deserved a better epitaph than being a reason for war.
He reached the waters of Balomar late that afternoon. Some weeks before he had moored a small skiff, with provisions and water, in a cave on the beach. To his relief, it was still there. He promptly put out to sea, rowing past the breakers and then unfurling the single sail of yithe cloth. The wind was against him, and it was necessary to tack slowly and tediously. He was nervous. He had never sailed very far from land, but he would make it, he told himself. He would make it, for Johan’s sake.
VII
The first rays of morning sunlight streamed through the clouds that had shrouded Simbala for a week. Parrots, macaws, and other birds took to the air, joyous in the sun, their plumage iridescent. It was as though a rainbow had broken into brilliant shards over the towering tree canopy. For a moment they seemed to celebrate the passing of the rain—and then, in an explosion of harsh and melodious cries, they were gone. In an instant the sky was left to a single bird, high overhead, which dropped swiftly toward a rift in the sea of green.
It was a hawk. Huge, wings curved and rigid, it shot through the interwoven branches and vines that were still wet from the storm. Monkeys with orange hair chattered in fear and hugged close to tree trunks as the hawk fell past them. Squirrels dived into knotholes and peered out, blinking.
The hawk paid no attention to them. It burst through the forest roof and into the dim green light of Overwood. It flew between giant trees, over a forest floor thick with tangled wet undergrowth. Then it passed over a low wall of stone, and beyond that the grass was short-cropped, and the undergrowth was replaced by tended beds of flowers.
Here and there were individual bushes of topiary, trimmed in the shape of beasts and bir
ds; the hawk flew past a living sculpture of itself, with wings five feet across. There were also leafy likenesses of lions, bears, and horses, as well as the giant goats that pulled the Rayan wagons. Trees whose trunks had been tessellated with jeweled mosaics lined the paths.
The hawk flew on. The first buildings it passed were small, ivy-choked cottages and stone huts. Some of them were shabby or rundown. Occasionally one of the more massive trees had a crude door cut into it.
The hawk began to pass people now, men and women whose clothes were rough and patched. Some were miners, with the marks of digging on their hands and clothes—caked dirt on their boots and beneath their nails. They sat on benches and stools beside their homes. Others were woodwrights, tradesmen, stoneworkers. They watched the hawk wing its way past them, and some of them, miners and others, smiled and pointed as though seeing a good omen. But others scowled and turned away.
The hawk continued its flight. The dwellings became more numerous and more elegant, though they always kept an integrated feeling with the wood that surrounded them. More trees with doors, windows, and terraces were evident. Some buildings were built around the trees; others stood on their own. The architecture was rich and varied. There were mansions with peaks and gables, buildings of quarried marble, and small homes with exquisite gardens. Roofs were laid with tiles or shingles, or covered with domes of hammered brass.
The hawk passed more people on the wide flagstone paths or crossing streams by bridges made of giant tree roots. The men wore tunics of muted colors, pleated and stitched with filigree. The women wore gowns that swirled silkenly. These people also reacted in various degrees of delight or annoyance at the sight of the hawk.
The hawk did not deviate from its course, unless it was to fly around a trellis covered with sweet-smelling blossoms, or some other obstacle. It flew on until the parklike spacing of the trees grew broader still, and the dim misty green of the forest showed hints of gold and crimson from the hidden sun. Then it entered an open clearing, and there before it was what could be called the father of all trees: five hundred feet in diameter, its top lightning-riven by countless storms. In other lands, its lesser branches would have made trees to talk about. At the base of this noble giant, this oldest of living things, a flight of wide steps led to the entrance of the palace. At various levels in the trunk, terraces, balconies, and windows had been carved. The hawk flew toward a very small, narrow window high above the ground, and disappeared within.
