Paul O Williams - [Pelbar Cycle 04]

by The Fall of the Shell (v0. 9) (epub)

  “It will change nothing. As you say, it has gone too far. If they take Pion, people will die.”

  “Die? You mean that they will fight the guardsmen?” “No. Just that they will die.”

  “Will you come up with me again?”

  “What for?”

  “It’s time for reconciliation.”

  “Only when things are set right.”

  “May this not help?”

  “I doubt it, but I will come see Brudoer with you.”

  * * *

  Brudoer was so engrossed in the roll of Craydor that he did not at first hear the voices at his door, or the clang of its opening. But as Warret and Bival entered, he stood, still holding the scroll in both hands. When he saw Bival, he drew back. Arlin carried a chair for her, which he set down opposite the boy. The Southcounsel sat down and composed herself.

  “Brudoer, the whole city is in great tension. Will you not apologize to me? For the sake of Threerivers? In public? I no longer care about apologies myself. It’s for the city. I beg it of you. I am unsure of what will happen if you don’t.” “No.”

  “But why? Are you so arrogant?”

  The boy hesitated. “No. Maybe. I don’t know. It’s my mission now.”

  “Your mission? Who gave you a mission?”

  Brudoer longed to say, “Craydor. Craydor herself gave it to me.” But he said nothing. Finally, he held up the roll. “I’ve been reading the essay on government. I think that Craydor says that you cannot whip my father instead of me. Here: ‘Punishment must in every case fit the fault. If it is to be inexact, it must be merciful, not harsh. Harshness simply breeds opposition. Every care must be taken to identify the criminal and not to punish the innocent, for no society which punishes recklessly will be able to maintain the internal cohesion that it must have to survive.’ ”

  “We all know that passage, boy. It has been determined by the Protector that your father is responsible for your rebellion. He raised you. He has not helped. He also has a rebellious nature.”

  “Then if you agree with that, I have no more to say to you. Do what you want to. I can take it, any of it.”

  Bival stood, her fury rising in her again. Warret put his hand on her shoulder. “Bival is seeking reconciliation, Brudoer. You’re not helping her.”

  “You would say that? You, whom she has also wronged? You heard what the guardsman said. What of that? Don’t you see we are under a tyranny—a fist with a club calls itself a government?”

  “You are a child. I am afraid myself of what’s happening. We can’t let the whole city fall apart. If they won’t pull back, maybe we have to.”

  Brudoer sank down, feeling a sudden despair. “No one will obey any of the laws. It’s all here. I’ve been reading it. What’s happened? Nothing is the way Craydor said it should be.”

  Bival thought to say, “Craydor is an idealist, but we have to do what must be done,” then as the thought took her, she realized that was Udge’s view. Instead she went to Brudoer and took the roll from his hand, gently, seeing it was old, and sat back down to read the essay. They were the words of an idealist, but a very canny one, and it seemed to proceed so limpidly, so reasonably, that reading it calmed her. “Underlying all government must be a mutual regard by each element of society for every other element,” Craydor’s words read. She came to a familiar passage: “Just as the body staunches its own wounds through properties in the blood, so the society . . .” She stopped. The word “properties” was interlineated. Below it, crossed out, was “elements.” Bival uttered a light cry and stood up.”

  “What?”

  “This is in Craydor’s own hand. It’s Craydor’s copy. Look.” She held it out to Warret, who studied it. “Where did you get it? Did someone actually take the original copy from the library vaults for you? Steal it?”

  “No. Nobody stole it. It’s mine.” He said it so quietly that she paused. “However,” he added, “I suppose you’ll take it from me. I’ll not be seen as worthy of what has been given me. Right? It must be someone else’s. Perhaps so. I have a present for you. I owe it to you, I think. It’s not an apology—just a restitution. You may have it if you leave me my roll. Is that agreed?”

  “This is precious. It will be destroyed here. You can always have a copy of it, just by asking the guard. I’ll see that you do.”

  “Then you will not leave me my property?”

  “Such treasures belong to the city, boy. You must know that the real point of the essays is the ideas.”

  “If you thought that,” Warret said, “you would let the boy have his roll. Come. Take it from him and give him a copy. Let him keep his present. After all, he’s only a male, isn’t he. You’ve learned nothing after all, have you.”

  Bival’s anger blazed up. To leave a precious manuscript in prison with a boy was insane. Then she sagged back into the chair. What did it matter? She saw Warret’s logic and his point. “Keep it. And keep your present.”

  “You don’t mind, then, if I give the present to Warret? It is really owed him more than you.”

  “Do as you please with it. This was to no purpose. I will go, Warret, come.”

  Awaiting Brudoer’s gift, Warret didn’t move. Brudoer took it from his bedding, brought it over, and placed it in the man’s worn hands. “It is mine to give to whomsoever I wish,” the boy said. Warret looked at it and uttered a low murmur.

  In the flickering light of the lamp, the dull metal form of the Broad Tower shell and its precisely wrought frieze took Warret’s eye with its beauty. “Where—” he began, then checked himself. “Thank you. It’s beautiful. I’ve never had anything so beautiful.”

  “It’s for you because you accepted it. I believe Craydor held it in her own hands.”

  At that, Bival turned and looked, then cried out and ran to it, taking it from Warret’s hands. Again it was the shell, mocking her. “My shell,” she murmured.

  “Your shell?”

  “This is important. Don’t you see? Look. It—” She turned to see the two staring at her. “I— Will you let me study it, Warret? It will be yours. I only want . . .” Again she felt the surge of anger in her—and a sudden desire to smash the box. The other two saw this, but neither moved. Then she handed it back to Warret. She sat down. “I don’t understand. Why am I always to be thwarted?”

  “Thwarted? It was offered to you, and you refused it with anger. You’ll be able to look at it anytime you want to. You’re beginning to understand that others also preserve some inherent rights, even though you rule.”

  “Rule? All I have ever done is serve the city.”

  “And gain the credit. Many have served and gained nothing.”

  “Here,” said Brudoer, holding out the roll. “You may have Craydor’s writing. Please give me a copy.”

  “No. You— Well, I will put it in the library. I will bring a copy. Yes.”

  “You may have it if you will keep it.”

  Bival looked at him, then took it. “This changes nothing, though,” Brudoer added. “I will not apologize. However, I would like to ask you a favor.”

  “You will not apologize but you wish a favor? Boy, I am more bewildered by the moment. Everything is on its head.”

  “I am only a boy, Southcounsel, but I have had time to think. I think things ought to be on their heads. I’ll tell you my favor, and you may help grant it as you see fit.” Brudoer then hesitated, but added, “No, I won’t ask it. Things will have to work out as they will.” As he had been going to ask Bival to be sure he was put into the fourth cell, he had been unable to. He knew he had manipulated the council and Protector to get himself moved, but that depended only on their severe response, their willingness to punish a boy for words, and words that were no doubt provoked by undue severity.

  He longed to tell somebody of what he had learned so far, but he knew he should not. The city may have it within itself to heal its own spirit, and he should not interfere.

  They palmed good-bye, in a wholly different at
mosphere, and the couple left. Arlin shut the door and fastened the long bolt, saluted the door guard, and left.

  Warret and Bival found the men still sitting in a circle, awaiting Warret’s return. “Look. See what Brudoer gave me.” Warret held out the shell. Bival winced as it went around the circle, held tenderly by the workmen’s rough hands.

  “I cleaned that room,” one man said. “These things are what are on the walls. It must have been in there all the time. I saw them when I scrubbed the walls for the boy’s coming.” Bival started. She had never explored the cells, as so few ever went there. She reached for the shell and took it, turning it over and over, and wondered. Then she handed it back.

  “These patterns also are found around the walls of the Protector’s private inner room,” she said. “I’ve cleaned that room, as only counsels are privileged to do. But they are there.” The men fell silent, staring, awkward. Somehow they all saw that Craydor had connected the Protector and the prison in her mind.

  “He gave me this roll of Craydor,” she said to them. “Craydor wrote it herself in her own handwriting.” A man reached for it. She hesitated, then gave it to him. He looked at it, holding it close to his lamp, then passed it around. Each man took it gently, then passed it on. Finally it returned to her.

  “Well, Southcounsel. What’s going to happen now?” an old man asked.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know. Whatever, I fear it. Warret, wilLyou come with me?”

  “Not now. When this is all over.”

  “Take care of the shell box.”

  “I will. Ason, will^you accompany my wife back to her room?” A hulking young stoneworker stood and walked to Bival, and the group watched them ascend the winding stairway.

  “What good will it do, Warret?”

  “For the city? Little, I think. Our source tells us Udge means to replace Bival anyway. But for me? I think some good will come of it.” Warret smiled slightly, then added, “After this is all over, perhaps.”

  In her room, Bival found the Ardena waiting for her. At first they eyed each other coldly, but Bival held out the roll of Craydor to her visitor. “The boy, Brudoer, gave it to me. Look at it. It’s in Craydor’s own hand.”

  The Ardena started, then looked at it closely under the lamp. At last she put it down. “So he has been reconciled to you. He has apologized then? This is all going to end?” “No. He didn’t apologize. He said he would refuse to. I need no apology now. This has cut too deeply. Even if I lose my place, I don’t care anymore. I am afraid for the whole city.”

  “I’ve also been to see the boy, Bival.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Yes, the Protector has her spies. I think you must insist that the boy take his own lashing, and that his father not be lashed in his stead.”

  Bival whitened. “The boy? You want the boy to be lashed? I—”

  “It’s like this. As I sense it, the men are outraged by any lashing, but far more at the lashing of Pion, because, after all, he has done nothing. The boy did attack you. And he has insulted the Protector. He can be given three more lashes and the rest put off for the sake of humanity. If I know Udge, she will simply continue his incarceration. She wants to crush him utterly. Brudoer can bear a few lashes at a time, but the Protector must not be allowed to hurt him too deeply. Besides, if he is to be released, we must give the Protector time to do it through forbearance, not complete victory. The atmosphere of the city depends on her learning this, if she is to learn it.”

  “But the lashing.”

  “How much worse to lash Pion. I feel you must call a council meeting for tomorrow. Insist. Craydor was explicit on not punishing the innocent.”

  Bival thought a long time. “I know the men are planning something. If I do this, what will happen?”

  “I have no control over them. But I can talk to them. I will ask them to forgo violence. I will tell them it is Bru-doer’s wish.”

  “Then?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I will tell you this. The remaining guardsmen are generally loyal to Udge. She is anticipating trouble. She will not spare the citizens if they begin any trouble.”

  “All right. We surmised as much.” They embraced briefly and parted, both somewhat bewildered.

  Far in the north quadrant, three women were having a late tea.

  “Ossi,” said the hostess, “it seems clear that we must back the Protector, extreme as she may seem to you. She is our only hope of reestablishing the old order. All of this change!”

  “I didn’t want to see it in my lifetime. Before the peace ... well, things seldom went so distressingly awry.”

  “Quite,” Finge said. “This tea is bitter.”

  “Yes. I agree.” The hostess, Prope, rang a small bell, and an ancient, bent man slowly came from the anteroom. “The tea, Mall. It’s bitter.” The old man bowed, remaining silent, looking at them stupidly. “Well, Mall. Make new. You must have hot water.”

  “No. No hot water.”

  Prope shook her head. “You may prepare some then.” He bowed slightly and turned, saying, “I shall put more honey in it this time.” He left, rubbing his knobbed knuckles.

  “I recall,” Finge said, “the old midwinter festivals, with the choir, the rows of shining heads, the best purple tunics, the lacework, even the workmen scrubbed and agreeable. Everything has sadly faded away.”

  “But we must stand by the Protector. That has always saved us. Udge may be somewhat new, but she has had full training. I have confidence in her.”

  “Quite. Where is the tea?”

  At the first quarter of the morning, the Southcounsel called the full council meeting, as was her right. Udge objected stiffly, but knew the right was a check in the law against supreme power, and she had not yet been successful in removing or circumventing it. She convened the council with her guardsmen thumping for silence.

  “We have been called into session by the Southcounsel,” she began. “It is the opinion of Bival that the boy, Brudoer, should take his own punishment, rather than our bestowing it on the sturdier body of his father, who undoubtedly is largely responsible for the boy’s aberrations due to the child’s deficient upbringing. But first, to keep proportion and decorum, I will call for two sunwidths of silence and prayer for citizen Prope, who suddenly died in her sleep last night, without known cause. Prope is well known to you all as the retired head of ceramic manufacture and wax products. She was found as if asleep this morning by her servant, Mall. We will hold a memorial service for her this evening.”

  A general murmur arose from most of the council, who had not heard. Bival was irked because Udge was diverting attention from the matter at hand. What did she hope to gain from such tactics?

  At last the sunclock announced that the time for silence had passed, and Udge asked Bival to speak. She rose, viewing the council, who sat on three sides of the hall, with their hair in two tiers, save the quadrant counsels, who bound it up in three. She saw impassive, quizzical faces, somewhat withdrawn and disturbed by her.

  She dropped her eyes, beginning, “Members of the council, I realize that I am the unwitting cause of our present troubles, though I believe that they have had a somewhat wider and older origin.! have thought over the decision to punish Pion in place of the boy tomorrow. I have concluded that this is a mistake, even though it has had the highest origins, both in wisdom and desire for harmony. The desire has been to give the punishment to a body more able to bear the lash. The reasoning is that Pion, being the boy’s father, is certainly the cause of his attitudes. He is known himself to be a person of unwavering tendencies and not one to maintain strict proprieties.

  “However, in the present state of tension among the workers, I believe they would take this as an injustice. They know and have heard Brudoer’s vile tongue. They cannot defend it. They can hardly oppose his punishment. If the lash is too severe for him, I recommend that only three of his six remaining lashes be administered, and that, as before, he be allowed to p
roceed to the next—the fourth —cell, as Udge has decided to be proper, until his healing progresses enough to allow him to take the rest. Those could, of course, be commuted if the boy is genuinely repentant. Otherwise, I hardly see how we can release such a mad creature into the freedom of our city again.” “Are you attempting to draw out his punishment, then, out of fear for yourself, Bival?” the Protector asked.

  “No. I had not thought of that, Protector, though I can see that you might reasonably suppose it. There is another side to the issue. Craydor has expressly written, ‘While punishment must be merciful, it must also be immediate and exact. Waywardness in punishment will never produce a sound city.’ She also writes, ‘Every care must be taken to identify the criminal and not to punish the innocent, for no. society which punishes recklessly will be able to maintain the internal cohesion that it must have to survive. If the right hand stabs the left with a knife, then it does not have the use of that hand.’ While the Protector has determined that Pion is the real cause of Brudoer’s guilt, and I do not want to gainsay that, still it may easily be seen that the working population itself will not view the matter in that light. It’s a matter too subtle for them. I fear rebellion. Already the men gather in small knots, and stand aside when we approach. I feel we must not be overly soft, but we ought to be merciful as well.”

  Bival looked around at faces either reserved or wondering, occasionally hostile. Then she bowed to the Protector and sat down. Udge looked at the full council with a slow swing of her head. “Is there any commentary?”

  The Ardena rose and said, “Protector, for once I find myself in agreement with the Southcounsel. I have only one contention. Several days ago I was in the base level of the city, and seeing the door to the third cell open, I investigated. I overheard some of the guardsmen threatening Brudoer with severe harm to his father and perhaps himself if he didn’t comply. I believe the guardsmen must be kept in line and instructed to use moderation.”