“A prisoner? I was not told. What did he do, Protector, other than to bump into the Southcounsel?”
“That is enough. Were you not told? Was that not clear?”
“Bival said so, yes, Protector. But she was angry. There was no legal ruling. She herself so bestially wounded the boy that—”
“Silence. You are not a judge. You are a functionary. I order the arrest of the boy. You are to carry it out. Have Wim brought to me. Now go.”
As the guardchief turned to leave, she nearly ran into the Ursana, a rather short old woman, heavy set, who wore her hair piled in two tiers, tightly bound. The Protector glared at her.
The old physician was panting. “You sent for me, Protector?” she asked mildly.
“I wish an explanation of why you exceeded your authority by sending the boy to Pelbarigan. Why did you not inquire for permission?”
“Permission, Protector?”
“Well, answer.”
The old woman sighed. “Protector, will you give me the opportunity to answer completely?”
“If I wish.”
“Then, Protector, you will get no answer at all. I am not a male to be herded. My family will stand behind me. So will the laws of Craydor. It is you who exceed your authority. I am willing to answer to the entire council, which you so seldom call.”
Udge looked around for the teacup she had smashed on the floor. She raised her arms, then dropped them. “Very well. But make it short.”
“The boy is horribly hurt. Look at it as a physician would. I am supposed to heal. I could sew the wound, try to keep it from growing angry, try to keep down the boy’s fever, perhaps even aid his healing—with a broad scar on his face. It’s a young face, Protector, still as smooth as a girl’s. Or was. Now it is swelled and destroyed. There is a chance, too, that he may die. We know the skill of this old physician, Royal, is far beyond mine. I thought—” “Paaaah,” said Udge.
The Ursana simply raised her hand. “Please take another view, Protector. A political view. What if he were to die? The males are already disaffected. The boy’s act was only slightly wrong, though it had a bad consequence for Bival. If the males and their sympathizers felt that we withheld proper aid from the boy, and he did die, it would cause us more trouble than it is worth. If he returns healed, and the scar is slight, as I expect, we will have drawn strength from the opposition, because we will have proved ourselves wise and just rulers, as Craydor advised—and as Pell herself held proper.” x
“Are you through?”
“Yes. Protector.”
“I believe it would be helpful if you retire. I will allow you to recommend a replacement for my review.”
“A replacement? At last. Yes, Protector. I will prepare a roll on the matter. I may go to Pelbarigan myself, then, to see this Royal.” The Ursana turned to go.
“Did I dismiss you?”
“Only from office, Protector, thank Aven. I am going. This is not a formal meeting. I know the protocol.” She turned away again, then paused, turned back, and added, “You of all people, Bival, should recall Craydor’s statement, ‘A shell is a design for life. Beyond that, though beautiful, it has no beautiful function. This is true in all the ways you can look at it.’ ”
Bival glared. “Stick to your bandages. I know more about design than any other five people in this city. Go and grind some of your useless medicine.”
The Ursana raised her eyebrows. “What you did this morning certainly didn’t arise from a stupendous knowledge of design.” She left, then leaned back in the door and added, “Or what you did to Warret.”
Bival screamed and started for the door, but the North-counsel jumped up and stopped her. “Easy, Bival. One casualty a day is enough. We have plenty of problems. Let her talk. It makes no difference. Your temper makes us all vulnerable.”
Udge was at the window, looking upriver. She could see nothing.
Brudoer had been shut into a prison room in the lowest part of the city, where the walls were thick, and all the rooms divided by heavy arches and broad pillars. That section of the city was given over to ice-storage rooms, general storage, mushroom culture, and the large prison rooms. These stood in a row of six, dim and tall, with high, narrow windows. They were quite plain but beautifully made. It had been Craydor’s view that people in need of imprisonment should be able to contemplate order and beauty, however abstract.
Fitted into one wall of Brudoer’s cell was a bed-bench surmounted by an arch in which one word, “Mercy,” was neatly chiseled. In several bands around the room, letters were also chiseled, but they made no sense or words. The diamond pattern of stone from the outside walls was repeated in miniature on these walls. Against the inside wall a stone bench lay.
But Brudoer saw none of these things. He was still seething with fury and worry. Sometimes his rage seemed to rise like a red rain, drenching the room. Whenever he began to calm, the image of Gamwyn’s bleeding face as Bival struck him would surge up in his memory, and the wave of anger would again rise. He would beat his fists against the wall, then suck his bleeding knuckles, hunching, watching the drops of blood and tears spatter the smooth stone. He would never rest until he had some revenge. He vowed it. Never.
It was the second quadrant after high sun before the arrowboat, with its guardcaptain and one other guardsman, came within hailing distance of the larger boat with Gamwyn. The lead boat never turned. Though tired, the men in it dipped and stroked, steadily, and the pursuing arrowboat still had a long chase before coming alongside and then ahead.
The guardsman in the bow raised a shortbow. “Halt. Protector’s orders. Halt and bring the boy back.”
The paddlers stopped, their backs slumping. They were all guardsmen, too. All males. The man in the stem called, “Come close. Look at him. He may be dying. Come and look.”
“Never mind that. It is a clear order.”
“Come anyway.”
Reluctantly, the arrowboat steered alongside. Gamwyn lay amidships, breathing fitfully, his bandaged face greatly swelled, his eyes glazed.
“Nonetheless,” the guardcaptain in the arrowboat began, as the guardsman in the stem of Gamwyn’s boat deftly flipped the narrow craft over, dumping the two in the river. They flailed and struggled.
“AH right, men, paddle,” the man in the stem called. Wearily, but with a gleeful shout, they took up the rhythm and moved upriver away from the arrowboat. “Wait,” said the guardsman in the stern. He turned and looked at the two in the water. “All right. They can swim. Now, let’s go. We can take it easier now, but we have a quarter sun to make today still. They have lost their weapons.” He laughed and dug his paddle into the water, pulling and chuckling. Then he looked again at Gamwyn and fell silent.
“Don’t worry, Gam,” he finally said. “We’ll get you there. You just hang on.” He thought the boy nodded weakly.
When the boat had not returned by sunset, the Protector became uneasy. She had already replaced the guardchief with Wim, a family member with some guard experience. She had also replaced Suth, the Ursana, as chief physician. As she waited impatiently, a minister, Newall, came with a request from the workmen of the north quadrant for a special prayer service, for the harmonization of the present situation.
“They want to sing hymns in the chapel is all,” Newali ■aid. “They are upset. May they? I think it will calm them.” Udge mused. “They may if the women sing with them.” “The women do not wish to, Protector.”
“Always the males. Bom to make trouble. My condition remains.”
“Protector ...”
“No. They may sing all night if they sing as whole families. Now that seems plain.”
Newali paused, then left. Udge turned to Bival and said, “You really did something this time, Bival. I wish you could explain it all to me. A shell? It doesn’t seem worth it—though it may be just the occasion we need to enforce order once and for all.”
“It wasn’t just a shell, Protector. It was the model for this very tower we ar
e in. It came all the way from the sea to the south. Craydor must have had one. This leads me to believe that the other towers also came from real models, not from Craydor’s own creations or modifications of familiar shells. This would accord with her theory of architecture—the use of natural forms as much as possible. Even with the short time I had the shell, I could see how she had used it. I could see its strengths, and how she modified the partitions within it to fit our needs here. This whole structure, in spite of its modifications, is essentially separate from the rest of the city, riding on it. I am sure of it. It is like a little fortress in itself. How she managed to curve and fit the stone, though, is beyond me. If we could understand that, how much we could do.”
“There is no need. The city is built. It is holding up well enough.”
“But Craydor left instructions for additions if that ever became desirable. She herself built and added enough times.”
“That was Craydor. We have to run the city our way now.”
A guardsman rang the small bell outside the door. Udge admitted her. “Protector, the arrowboat is back.”
“And the boy.”
“They would not return. The Ursana picked her own guardsmen, it would seem. They overturned the arrowboat, dumping the guardcaptain and her crewman.”
Udge struck her hand on the wide arm of her chair, then rubbed her smarting knuckles. “We will send a message bird ahead of them,” she said.
“Yes, Protector. At first light it shall be done.”
“Now.”
“They will not fly at night, Protector. If we had accepted the new message sender Pelbarigan offered us, perhaps then—”
“Silence! Everything will fall apart if we take all their innovations on. Message birds have always worked well enough.”
“Yes, Protector.”
“I will prepare the message. You may return for it in a few sunwidths.”
The guardsman bowed and left. Bival followed. Udge was alone. She went to the window, running her hands over the walls. She couldn’t understand what Bival was talking about. Designed like a particular shell? Well, perhaps she was right. But the old politician couldn’t see any importance in the fact. From below she could hear, faintly, massed voices singing, all male voices. She rang for the guardsman and said, “That singing. Was there a prayer service, then, against my order?”
“No, Protector. It’s only some workmen singing down in the ice caves. They often do that for their amusement.” Udge listened. “It’s more than a few workmen. Have the guard tell them to desist. They are a disturbance.”
The guardsman hesitated just a moment, then bowed out, saying, “Yes, Protector.”
So Brudoer, who leaned, exhausted, against the wall of his cell, listening to the rich harmonies echoing mellowly among the heavy stone archways, heard hurrying footsteps, and shouting, then angry voices. The singing stopped. Again the face of Gamwyn swam up in his thoughts, but he was too weary to respond. He lay on the stone bench, staring at a single dim star he could see through the tall slit of a window. It seemed to tremble and melt, but as he calmed, it too seemed more steady, a hard point of blue-white light.
3
It was not until nearly high sun on the third day that the message bird came back from Pelbarigan. Udge had been waiting impatiently all that time, calling her guardsmen several times each day quadrant to inquire.
Win, the new guardchief, spread the message before the Protector:
Yr. mess, received. Cannot return boy Gamwyn now. Too hurt. Think he may live with care. Will send when all well. Yr. Grdsmn. gone to Northw. on grnds of persecutn. We wil wk tht out with you & Northw. in time. Gd. wheat harv. at Northw. Our apples prime. If you take radio, we can conver. abt such matt, as ths. No delay. Do you need help? Bless of Aven. Sagan, Prot.
Udge snatched the message and read it through again. She flashed a look at the waiting guardsman and said, “Call the four quadrant counsels.” Waiting, she tapped her fingers, crumpled the small sheet, then had to smooth it out again.
When they arrived, she handed the message to Bival and asked her to read it aloud. Afterward, she said, “See? She mocks me. Your mess received. Bless of Aven. Again she advises we take that contraption, that radio from those Avenless wretches from the dome. To talk about wheat and apples.”
“Perhaps it would have helped, Protector,” said Cilia, the Westcounsel.
“No. It would effectively bring us under their control. Craydor built this city because she had a superior way, both architecturally and socially. It is our duty to maintain that.”
“What about the guardsmen, Protector?”
“They are lost. It would be of no use for us to attempt legal action, despite their disobedience!”
“Perhaps not. We should try, Protector.”
“No. It would bring further embarrassment. Look at the tone of the letter. Sagan sees only an injured child, ferociously hurt by an irresponsible official, all because of a frippery. She could have prevented the guardsmen from going to Northwall. We will never get their return, or any discipline, now, from that pack of mongrels and Shumai lovers at Pelbarigan. Our silence on the matter may act as a reproach. We will have to control our own society and seek to maintain order that way. The whole Pelbar way is threatened. Well, they promise to return the child—if he lives. Of course he will live. We will see then what will happen.”
“What of the guardsmen’s families, Protector? Will they not urge them to return?”
“No. All six are young and unmarried. All come from impeccable families. But none of those families is really for me.”
' “Well, then .. .”
“Don’t you see? Is it so difficult. They could not have planned it so fast. They had been thinking about defecting beforefiand. They weren’t only saving the boy. They were escaping Threerivers and their responsibilities.”
“We’ll have to select guardsmen with more care, especially the males.”
“I’ve looked into that, Lamber. Two are from your quadrant. All have exemplary credentials. We could not have known. They kept their traitorous thoughts to themselves.”
“Perhaps we will have to set up a system of informers, Protector.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps.”
The guardchief rang the small bell at the entrance. When she was admitted, she stood at attention and announced, “Protector, the boy Brudoer refuses to eat.”
“No matter,” said the Protector. “He’ll grow hungry. He is doing our work for us.”
“Our work, Protector?” the Eastcounsel asked. “Punishment, Suwor. Punishment. He needs discipline. His stomach will betray him sooner or later. Be sure the food is savory.”
“He throws it at the wall, Protector.”
Udge stood and clenched her hands. “Then make him clean it.”
“We have, Protector. He simply cleans it without protest, and without a word.”
“Then he must be manacled.”
“Protector. It is against the law of Craydor.”
“Ah. For punishment, yes. But he is clearly mentally unbalanced. It is for his own protection.”
Wim stood silently for a long moment. “This is very hard, Protector,” she said at last. “I believe that to be a lie.”
“Do you like your new position? I will not force you, Wim. I will give you a day to think it over.”
“There is one thing, Protector. The water-lifters know that Brudoer is not eating. They are restive.”
Udge paused, then said, “That is your concern, Wim. Control them. Now go.”
The guardchief bowed and left.
“Protector, perhaps we need to make concessions sometimes,” Cilia said.
“Concessions? Once you show weakness, it is exploited. Is this not the most ordered Pelbar city? Look at Northwall now—an anarchy. We will keep ourselves the way we are, Westcounsel. Now, leave me please. I must think this out.” Afterward, in the growing dark, Udge, sipping tea, gazed out the west windows at the thin clipping of the new moon. B
y shifting her head she saw that the curve of the window fit the curve of the moon if one sat in the exact center of the room. No doubt Craydor planned that, too. Udge was getting a little sick of Craydor, meeting her at every turn. She could scarcely afford to offend Wim much. She could not easily find a more faithful guardchief. But perhaps she would have to. Who could have known Wim would have such scruples? Clearly, it would all take time.
She saw Brudoer’s weakness—anger—and would exploit it. No one could attack a counsel, no matter what the provocation. From somewhere outside, Udge heard a Pelbar hymn being played on a flute. She heard another one take up the harmony from far away. Males again. She felt a small burst of anger. They were telling her that she could end their singing of hymns, but they would make their music anyhow. Yes. She would indeed have to build a system of informers. Again she saw devotion to Craydor standing in her way. Damn Craydor. How could she keep the city to its founder’s ideals when the founder’s own ideas blocked her?
Bival returned to her room, but without Warret she could hardly make herself stay there. She felt his reproach keenly. She could not be angry with him forever. After all, he had worked hard for those chits, and she had simply taken them. But the shell was so valuable. . . . She knew that there were more secrets to Craydor’s designs than ever were evident. She kept making new discoveries. Even the device, now not used, to employ falling water from the spring in the underbasement of Threerivers to raise water the first ten arms of its upward journey to the spiral tower was the work of a genius. Bival would work to restore the system, saving the water-lifters that much.
The Ursana had quoted Craydor in a new way for Bival. Though she felt anger at the time, she had begun to think. The old physician saw design largely in human terms, not as architecture or legal code. Bival began to forgive her treachery. Obviously the Ursana had seen Gamwyn’s face as a design, now horribly violated. Bival shuddered. Then she felt the loss of her shell again, and anger once more flashed through her. What would she do? She too looked out the window at the setting new moon, an eyelash of beauty in a quiet fall sky—two curves meeting, like the successive arcs of the terraces. Why had Craydor made them that way instead of rounding the terraces as bands— arcs of different radius from the same center? She tried to think that out, but her troubles bubbled up into her musings like swamp gas. Finally she lay down and stared at the dark curve of the ceiling. There was the moon again, in shadow. Bival closed her eyes.
Paul O Williams - [Pelbar Cycle 04] Page 2
