Jaiyan reached out his fingers and depressed the blocks selectively. Gamwyn was startled at the sudden growth of sounds from the device, sounds becoming music, intricate and varied. Jaiyan began to move his fingers faster, jerking his head in emphasis, as he created racing sounds. Then Gamwyn noticed Jaiyan’s feet sometimes moving, too, depressing a series of wooden rods, as he rested his hands. The old people pumped the bellows faster and faster, and soon others moved to take their place. All who were not working sat as a polite audience. Low tones seemed to shake the whole hall, while high ones flitted among the rafters like sparrows. Gamwyn sat fascinated. It sounded as loud as the whole Threerivers choir singing at once, but this was more varied, though it had no chords.
At last Jaiyan stopped, stood, bowed, and laughed a guttural guffaw, extending his arms and thanking the workers at the bellows. Then he frowned and said, “Somehow it isn’t full enough. Needs another row of whistles. Something much deeper. Hmm. I see our new recruit is awake.” He walked toward Gamwyn and, practically kneeling, gave him the Sentani greeting, palms against each other, foreheads touching. Then he stood straight, looked down at the boy, and laughed again. “Hungry again?”
“Yes, thank you,” Gamwyn said softly.
“Misque? Misque. Take care of this bent reed. Feed him.” Then he turned to Gamwyn again and asked, “Can you build? Got any skills?”
“A few. I have done woodworking and some work as a mason’s helper. But I have mostly just done labor—as much as a boy can.”
“Wood turning?”
“A little. How shall I address you?”
Jaiyan laughed. “Misque calls me chief. That’s amusing enough.”
“What is that device, uh, chief?”
“That? An organ. Have you heard of an organ? Probably not. It’s the only one in the whole Heart River Valley,
I imagine. I dug up an ancient building and found one. Took me years to figure it all out. It was called an organ— stamped right onto the brass. It makes music Atou himself would gladly listen to. Now, I’ll give you to Misque.”
She stood ready with a bowl of thick soup. She led Gamwyn to a side table and sat with him, prattling at him endlessly as he ate. Gamwyn felt something enigmatic about her. She wasn’t a Sentani, surely.
Finally, he asked, “What are you? Where are you from?” “Oh, I was lost, like you. I’m from far away. To the east. Jaiyan took me in, like you. I live here now. I take care of Jamin. His son. I like it here, like you will.”
“From the east? East of the Tall Grass Sentani?” “Much.”
“That’s Peshtak country.”
“Some of it is. There are other people. I am from far east of that.”
“From the eastern cities? Innanigan?”
“How do you know all that?”
“Some of us Pelbar have been there, you know.”
“Yes. The famous Jestak. But none since?”
“How did you get through the Peshtak without getting killed?”
She laughed. “I didn’t know they were there. It was mostly forest, you know. It’s an awful story, and I don’t want to tell it again. Maybe sometime. Now tell me how you came to leave Threerivers.”
“I have to go to the sea and get a shell.”
“The sea? A shell? You mean a seashell? Are you mad? That’s impossible. The Tusco would stop you. You? Such a spindle? Go to the sea?”
Gamwyn said nothing, just ate. Misque found Jaiyan and brought him over, and they got Gamwyn to tell his story. He summarized it, with traditional reticence about Pelbar affairs.
Jaiyan was silent awhile. “I can’t let you do it, little one. The Tusco would simply enslave you. You would come back here when you are as old as these people. It’s silly.” He waved his hand. “They’re all former slaves. Once they were Siveri. The Tusco took them and worked them until they were too old to be of use.”
“How did they get here?”
“The Tusco used to kill them, but I agreed to buy a number. I give them a home, and they work for me.”
"And pump the bellows?”
Jaiyan laughed. “Yes. Without them, I couldn’t play my organ. So we benefit each other. But you can’t go any farther. It’s a silly idea. You’ll have to give it up.”
“But . . . but, chief. Threerivers is my only home. All I know is there. I have to make right the wrong somehow.” “Doesn’t sound like a wrong to me. You wait. The Tusco will be here in a few days with cotton to trade north. I am trading them tanned leather and other stuff. This is the one place the Sentani trade with the Tusco. You’ll see them. A swampy lot. Just ask yourself, then, if you want to hoe cotton and maryjane for them all your life—or until they throw you out because you’re of no use.”
Gamwyn felt utterly bleak. He began to sob even though he fought against it. Jaiyan stood, put his hands on his hips, turned and walked away, turned back and stared again. “I can’t let you do it. We have plenty of work here. You can help me with the new whistles. The Siveri are too backward to help.”
Gamwyn continued to sob. Jaiyan glared at him. Then he turned away again, saying over his shoulder, “Misque, take care of the child.”
The girl put her arm over Gamwyn’s shoulder. He looked at her. Her eyes were hard as the sun on metal. “Stop it. Stop it,” she hissed at him. “You don’t have to do that. You water-lily stem.”
“I’m trying.”
“Trying! Show some control. Look at you, blubbering like a baby.”
“You can go away. You don’t have to stay here.” Misque sighed dramatically but said no more. Nor did she move her arm until Gamwyn regained his calm. Then
hc said, “Listen. Don’t think. I’m going to baby you. You’ll have to pull your own weight and stand on your own spindles.”
“I never asked anything from you.”
“Remember that.”
Gamwyn looked at her, wondering, and saw hesitation and trouble in her expression, which she tried to hide. “I’m going back to bed,” he said.
At that time, Brudoer, now able to lie on his back again, rested in the sleeping alcove in the second cell at the base of Threerivers. On the low, curved ceiling over his head was a grotesque face, and again the word anger chiseled into the rock. At the foot of the bed, facing the other direction, was the faint word peace. Again, fury at his situation boiled over in him, and he struck out at the grotesque face, skinning his knuckles. He sucked at them, still furious. Suddenly it all seemed stupid. He closed his eyes, then opened them again to the word anger.
Slowly he took his bed apart and remade it so the angry face was at the foot. As he lay staring up at peace, he noticed a gull in flight very faintly etched into the curved stone. He reached out his hand to it, but it disappeared in the new shadows. He couldn’t really feel it distinctly. He drew his hand down and the image renewed itself in the sidelong light.
Another of Craydor’s ideas, he thought. It began to dawn on him that she was talking to him. He rolled over and looked around the cell walls. Most of what he saw was obvious, but the rows of letters were simply enigmatic and meant nothing at all. He would study them the next day.
At Jaiyan’s Station, Gamwyn quickly merged into the strange community. Like all the others, he had standard duties, but because he was small, quick, and bright, Jaiyan frequently used the boy as a helper in the endless adjustments and additions to his gigantic instrument.
The others took the enormous eccentricity in stride. It had taken over the trader’s life. With great pains and skill, he had deciphered the initial instrument he dug up and had recreated his version of it with a boy’s pure joy. He played it, with the Siveri at the bellows, three times a day, and between these times would tinker with it. Because it needed leather parts, he had built a tannery, and now bought skins from the Sentani, not only for his own use but for trade. His wood shop, too, employed the old people, who worked slowly and seemed content with their lot. They looked at him as a father. Long enslaved, they took everything mildly. They were free
to leave, but since it was far to Siveri country and the Tusco slaving parties were everywhere, the old ones saw little to gain in returning after all the long years of their captivity.
Gamwyn enjoyed the quietness of the Siveri, but chafed at their bovine complacency. Really heavy work was done by Jaiyan himself, or by Jamin, his hulking, simpleminded son, the one person Misque seemed genuinely devoted to. She watched out for him, directing and harrying him the way a kingbird does a hawk, or, the way a mother does a child.
One afternoon, just as ice chunks began appearing in the river, Gamwyn heard a horn. Looking up, he saw three long, flat-bottomed boats coming up the river. “It’s the Tusco,” Misque said.
Gamwyn stared, as the laden boats, rowed by slaves, slowly drew up to the bank, where Jaiyan greeted them, holding up both hands. The sign was returned by a blackhaired man in the bow of the lead boat. This man was dressed entirely in black leather, even wearing a tight leather helmet with cheekpieces.
Gamwyn shuddered. The man’s curved sword hung longer than the typical short-sword of the Heart River peoples. A quirt dangled from his left wrist, and as the slaves unloaded large bags of cotton, he flipped it idly against their backs. A line of guards, similarly dressed, stood in bow and stern, as well as on the bank. All were armed with bows.
Very little talk was exchanged as cotton was traded for leather, Pelbar ceramics, turned wood trays and cups, salted meat, and a large quantity of cattle bones. Near the end of the exchange, Gamwyn became aware that the leader stood next to him. Suddenly he took the boy’s cheeks in his hand and turned his head. He stared at Gamwyn.
“What he?”
Gamwyn reached up and with a guardsman’s thrust stuck his thumbnail into the man’s wrist. The man yelled and let go, and at that moment, Jamin stepped between the two. The Tusco retreated several steps.
“Not in deal,” Jamin said. “Not in deal.”
Jaiyan strode over and put his arm on the man’s shoulder. “It’s all right. He’s only another waif I’ve taken in. Only a boy.” The man’s glare softened slightly. “Come into the hall and we’ll settle our account,” Jaiyan added. The matter seemed ended, but Gamwyn didn’t like the way the Tusco bowmen looked at him. Jamin stayed right with him, but Misque was nowhere in sight.
The Tusco stayed the night, but in their boats, as was agreed. The whole time, a taste of danger hung like acrid woodsmoke in the air. Gamwyn was glad to see them cast off in the morning, their Siveri slaves wearily taking up the long, scarred oars to begin the downstream voyage.
Only then did Misque reappear. What did that mean? Gamwyn wondered. “How long have you been at Jaiyan’s Station?” he asked her.
“Awhile. Why?”
“No reason. Do you plan to stay here always?”
“Why? Want to marry me?” She laughed lightly at him. “You never tell me about yourself.”
“About as much as you’ll tell me about Threerivers.” “Why do you want to know about it?”
“Why do you want to know about me?”
At Threerivers, Brudoer whiled away long periods staring at the letters mingled on the wall. He could make out the word the obviously worked into the pattern, but that was all. That was obvious. He was sure now that it was a pattern. He was so absorbed in deciphering it that when the two guardsmen came for his dishes, and to give him dinner, he scarcely noticed them. They were wary since he had been so unpredictable. One looked at the other and raised his eyebrows. Finally Brudoer glanced at them but seemed uninterested. They left, a little bewildered, deciding to report the change in the boy to the guardchief. Again Brudoer stared at the inscription, which read, thepd.
UERCPNOASHENOEFETBHEIRSOSFHEERLELHTTOE. OFIISLTEOC-
Ennah. It must mean something.
His eyes tired from looking, and all seemed to tremble and blur. He passed his hands in front of his face, and as he turned his head, the word shell seemed to jump from the tangled sequence of letters. He stared again, but couldn’t seem to find it. He carefully went over the list again. Wetting his finger in Ms water bowl, he spelled patterns on the floor, methodically going over the list again and again. The word wasn’t there. But he was sure he had seen it. Why that word? It seemed to mock him.
He looked again for the letters, then found only the first three, she, as before. No. That was not it. Then, at the third s, he found them again, each separated by a letter. shell. It was there. What else was there? He went back to the beginning, which he took to be the, an easy clue to the fact that there was a code, then took every other letter as in the pattern. What came out was “The purpose of this shell too is to enh.” What shell? What of the rest?
Then he saw the two periods, one near the beginning, one nearer the end. Skipping the letters he had not used did no good. If periods were a clue, that meant to go backward. He began, but at that point the guardsmen took away the lamp, for it was by this time high night. Brudoer yelled for them to bring it back, shouting repeatedly, his voice resounding in the high cell, but he was plunged into darkness until the morning and had to crawl to his bed. He lay awake a long time pondering what Craydor might have meant. What shell? He thought ahead. In eight days he would again be taken from the cell. He was sure that Udge would try some pretext to put him back again.
Brudoer then began to wonder what he had missed in the letters of the first cell. And he began to look forward to the third cell, though the thought of another whipping made him bead with sweat. He now had a secret—he alone with Craydor herself. Somehow that seemed momentous, and he stared and strained to see in the dark, knowing the faint gull image lay just over his head.
As she was chuckling again over the roll of “The Loves of Aliyson,” Prope heard a crash from the direction of her small pantry. She sighed, rose, took her stick, and walked down the short hall to the room. Mall, her old servant, was on his knees, cleaning up the tea from a small crock he had dropped.
“Again! The best tea, I suppose.”
“No, not the best, but again I am sorry. I regret . .
Prope brought her stick down on his bent back with a solid whack. “Again!” she shrilled. “And again and again and again.” She whacked him with each word, then grew slightly faint with the effort and grasped the' doorframe, panting.
“Are you all right, Turana?”
“Leave. Leave at once. When I am going out, you may come back and clean this. And don’t save that filthy tea.” “Oh, no. Of course.” Mall squeezed by her, being careful not to touch her, and hobbled toward the outer door. With gritted teeth she watched his back then blew out the lamp he had left lit in the pantry, and, leaning on her stick, returned to the sitting room to look at her sand watch.
6
For the first time in some months, the whole council at Threerivers met in the Judgment Room, where Bival had last talked with her husband, Warret. The issue at hand was Brudoer, whose whipping lay two days ahead, at the end of his second cycle of punishment in the cells.
Udge opened the session by stating her position unequivocally. That is, Brudoer’s public whipping was to be continued or the decision of the Protector would be compromised by opposition and the unknown terrorist, who had never been caught. However, she proposed that this time only guardsmen and family heads be present, and all access to the terraces be blocked. At the conclusion of punishment, if Brudoer expressed full contrition, he would rejoin the community.
Udge maintained a clear majority in each quadrant of this most traditional of Pelbar cities. The tight faces of the old family heads almost universally expressed support. Rigidly maintained law was a tradition at Threerivers.
Almost cursorily, the Protector asked for expressions of contrary opinions, expecting none. Unset the Ardena rose and awaited recognition. Udge stared, then sighed, and said, “The Ardena wishes to speak. I thought, after your apology, that you would no longer oppose the clear will of the council, Ardena. I suppose, though, you have the right to speak.”
“I suppose so, Protector, since you did
call the council, and that is the established rule of procedure. However, if you wish to contravene the rule, I shall not appeal to the laws of Craydor.”
“Well, proceed.”
“There are several points, Protector. First, it seems to me that the original offense has been more than punished already. The boy defended his brother, who had been cruelly hurt. Surely it was a grave thing he did, but when he saw the blood of his twin gushing he probably didn’t think. He reacted. He is only a child. I believe that standard Pelbar forbearance should lead us to forgive him—on the condition that he expresses public contrition for his act and begs forgiveness of Bival.
“Second, we have seen how the males regard him as a martyr. If we hurt him further, it will only exacerbate that feeling. I sense rumblings that I have never noticed before —rumblings that sound almost like the beginnings of revolt. I’d hope that control could be maintained by some means other than force. After all, many of us are married and wish to live in peace and harmony with our families, including the males. We don’t want to taunt the males with the fact of their inferiority. We depend on them, and those of us who are happily married wish to enjoy their company. Though it may seem surprising, some of us actually love them.
“Third, the terrorist who killed the guardcaptain has not been apprehended. Keeping the populace away from the act of punishment will not prevent his acting again at some other time, since revenge must be a part of his motivation.
“Fourth—well, I wish I could be more definite about it. I feel a nameless foreboding, jutting up into this council like the tip of Craydor’s tomb. We are becoming a divided people, we who so depend on unity. I fear for us. The true cement of this society has always been justice, mutual regard, and love. It’s now becoming force and intimidation. That will split us. No outside hostility keeps us together anymore. We’ve already lost the young guardsmen who took Gamwyn to Pelbarigan. Surely their dissatisfactions aren’t isolated. This foreboding I have, it hangs like a fall mist over the river. Surely some of you have felt it.”
Paul O Williams - [Pelbar Cycle 04] Page 6
