by Mary Corran
‘And where were you?’ Essa demanded as Asher came to join them. ‘I knocked on your door this morning, but there was no answer.’
‘I woke up early and went to visit Mylla.’ It was the lie they had agreed on.
‘Do you want some windflower tea, both of you?’ Margit inquired, getting up. ‘And — don’t tell me — some food!’ She grinned at Mylla and disappeared in the direction of the kitchens.
‘I wanted to talk to you, Essa,’ Mylura murmured. ‘Ah, thanks, Margit.’ She accepted a mug of tea and a plate of honey-cakes with equal pleasure.
‘Selma’s between posts at the moment, and she made this for everyone; this is our share.’ Selma, a cook by profession, had lived in the hostel for two years and was a regular customer of Essa’s employment agency, although not involved in her other interests.
Mylura took a cake and began to nibble contentedly. ‘Delicious!’ She stretched out a hand for a second.
Essa withdrew the plate. ‘Not until you tell me what you came for!’
‘I told Asher the other night.’ She lowered her voice. ‘It’s something I learned while I was in Saffra. I met a woman who may have given us a clue as to where Vallis is hidden.’ She repeated the story she had told Asher in Carob’s.
‘An internment camp? That could explain why no one has found a trace of her.’ Essa frowned as she considered the point. ‘It may be so, Mylla. Well done.’
‘But how do we find out if we’re right?’ Margit asked anxiously. ‘We can hardly just pay a visit.’
‘Of course not!’ But there must be a way. Asher, that’s your part of the country. Do you know this place near Chance?’
‘A little,’ she said reluctantly.
‘Could it be done? I mean, would it be possible to go and look the camp over?’
Asher stared into her tea, feeling a band tightening about her chest. Even so small a reminder was painful. ‘I don’t know. It might be.’
‘You don’t sound very enthusiastic,’ Margit observed critically. ‘I would have thought — ’
‘Leave her alone, Margit,’ Mylla interrupted in haste as Asher flushed a dark pink. ‘This needs careful planning, if we’re to do anything at all. We can’t afford to rush heedlessly in.’
Margit looked annoyed. ‘Coming from you that’s rich!’
‘But sensible for once,’ Essa interposed peaceably. ‘The camps are heavily guarded. We’ll need a great deal of local information if we’re to do anything, even take a look. Mylla’s right.’
‘But we have to do something, surely!’ Margit demanded in agitation. ‘This news Mylla’s brought must be meant, we can’t ignore it.’
‘No, indeed, but we need not act today.’ Essa offered Margit a cake, which she took with a sharp gesture. ‘We mustn’t allow enthusiasm to carry us beyond sense. This is the Foundation Fair; let’s allow ourselves to enjoy the day. There’s time enough to consider what we should do later.’
Her thoughts diverted, Margit nodded more agreeably. ‘I thought I would visit the Treasury baby in her new home, to see all’s well.’
‘That reminds me, I have some spare cloth for her foster-mother. Mylla, your legs are younger than mine, would you run up to my room and fetch it? It’s on the chest.’ Mylura rose, neatly appropriating a cake as she did so. ‘Really, Mylla!’ The amount you eat!’
‘Do you want to come with me?’ Margit asked Asher. ‘It’s only down by the harbour.’
‘I’d like that.’ It sounded a harmless enough mission, and Asher thought it would be a relief to do something useful. Unlike Margit, she had no particular fondness for babies, but she felt a certain responsibility to the child.
‘I shall stay here,’ stated Essa decidedly. ‘Devis is coming to read our fortunes later this morning, and I don’t want to miss her.’
‘In any case, you’re not strong enough to walk so far yet,’ Margit said, standing up as Mylura returned with a bundle of material. ‘Thanks, Mylla. Do you want to come too?’
She shook her head. ‘My knee’s still a little sore, I’ll stay with Essa.’
‘We’ll see you later, then. Ready, Ash?’
‘If you are.’
*
The streets were not only crowded but extremely noisy. Almost every corner seemed to have sprouted some form of entertainment, whether dancers, singers, magicians, or puppeteers; children ran about everywhere, mostly underfoot despite the best efforts of mothers and elder sisters, and their cries added to the general tumult until the sound level was deafening.
It was a fine day, and the air was warm for the northern spring. Street-pedlars were doing an active trade, for it was considered lucky to buy small gifts on fair-day, and most of the women and older girls sported a new ribbon or other trifle in their hair.
‘Wait a minute — I want to buy the baby a present,’ Margit said loudly in Asher’s ear as she moved to inspect a tray of cheap-looking trinkets, and Asher stepped aside to let others pass. The first drunks were making an early appearance, the taverns and inns having been open since the end of curfew, but for the moment they seemed cheerful enough, beaming ale-inspired goodwill at their fellow citizens.
A crowd of medical students from the college near the slave market swaggered past, arms linked, their scarlet tunics identifying them among the crowds. One stopped and spoke a few words to Margit, who gave an angry but inaudible reply.
‘Really!’ she said, rejoining Asher. ‘You would think they’d know better. I must be nearly old enough to be his mother!’
‘I expect he imagines you’d be flattered,’ Asher suggested. In fact Margit, flushed with indignation, looked very pretty and much younger than her years.
‘I sometimes wonder if young men are actually capable of rational thought.’ She sighed. ‘And girls, too, at times. Fair-days always bring out the worst in them.’
Asher made no reply, sensing the uncomfortable direction of Margit’s thoughts. They walked on down the hill in silence towards the harbour, the sun bright on the still sea. There was hardly a breath of wind, and the air was filled with the cries of circling sea-birds, and the rich smells of roasting meat from street stalls set up to profit from visitors to the fair.
They reached the covered cloth market, crowded with expensively dressed merchants and traders bidding for the cottons and silks brought in from the east of the Dominion. Asher paused, wondering if Mallory were somewhere in the crowd, but she could not see him.
‘Buy my sweet scents!’ Come buy my sweet scents!’ Brought all the way from Baram just for your delight.’
A pedlar thrust a small bottle of coloured water from a tray into Asher’s face, rolling his eyes in feigned admiration.
‘Only a silver apiece.’ He looked at Margit and winked. ‘Farfetched and dear-bought is good for ladies, they say. I’m giving it away.’
Asher shook her head good-humouredly, wondering if the scent had travelled further than a few streets; it smelled powerfully of violets. The pedlar shrugged, turning to seek out more likely customers.
‘Did you hear that, Ash?’ Margit was tugging at her sleeve. ‘They say one of the warehouses down by the Almaine Dock was broken into last night.’
Asher felt her face grow stiff. ‘Whose?’
‘The Chief Councillor’s. The watchmen were all knocked out, and one of them’s still unconscious. I heard those people,’ and she pointed to two elderly men, ‘talking about it.’
So they were not dead? An instant upsurge of relief told her she had feared the worst. ‘Did the thieves get away?’
Margit nodded. ‘No one knows who they were. Oh, and look-over there.’ She pointed east to the end of the street, where the warehouses loomed up in front of the dock. ‘There’s the Chief Councillor himself.’
Asher looked away, feeling suddenly queasy; despite her resolve the previous night, she still had no idea what to do. ‘Come on, it’s too crowded to stop here.’
They turned right, heading in the direction of the quays. There were a
larger number of women down by the docks, their bright dresses and the bells worn on ribbons round their necks marking them as prostitutes. Asher greeted one or two by name, for the women’s group had helped several of them over the years, but they were too busy to stop and chat; fair-days were good for business.
‘Look! No, in front of you!’ Margit was pointing excitedly in the direction of a small square ahead. ‘Do you see him?’
Asher peered as directed. ‘See who?’
‘That man,’ Margit said impatiently. ‘There!’
Asher saw him then, a thin man standing stock still in the middle of a small square of shabby whitewashed buildings. He was dressed in a long white robe, and his hair, too, was white, although his expression was curiously absent. ‘What about him?’
‘It’s one of the priests of the Oracle.’
Unenlightened, Asher only nodded, her attention distracted by another, more familiar figure in the square.
Bull. It’s Bull!’ The shape was unmistakable. The big man was busy serving tankards of ale to customers taking advantage of the fine weather to sit at tables placed on the cobbles outside the tavern; Bull was presumably the tavern’s landlord, which explained his generous figure.
He mustn’t see me. Self-preservation dictated a speedy retreat, but Asher realized immediately that such a course of action would involve her in unwanted explanations. She bit her lip.
‘Is something wrong?’
With an effort, she managed to smile. ‘No. Nothing. Let’s go and look at the ships in harbour before we pay our visit.’
Margit looked surprised, but agreed. Her attention was continually drawn back to the white-robed figure in the square, although the man himself seemed indifferent to both surroundings and company, staring blankly ahead into the teeming crowds. Bull disappeared inside the tavern, and Asher breathed again.
They turned down toward the sea, pausing to watch a ship being loaded with barrels of ale. A huge tread-wheel was in operation, eight men inside it trudging at a steady pace as they held the ropes winching the cargo to deck-height; they stamped out a rhythm, singing along in time to the tread. The barrels swayed in an ominous fashion, but reached their destination safely, giving the wheel-men a well-deserved pause.
‘He’s coming here,’ Margit breathed, looking not at the wheel but inland, her eyes suddenly bright.
‘Who?’ Asher whirled round, expecting Bull, but it was only the white-robed priest. She wondered if he were blind, for his eyes were oddly out of focus, although he did not stumble on the cobbled street and carried no stick. He was making straight for them and Margit’s mouth opened, her face lighting up with joy; then, as quickly, the smile was extinguished, as she understood it was not she who was the target of the man’s attentions.
The priest paused beside them, and for a moment Asher thought he did see her after all, for his eyes came to rest briefly on her face, and he reached out a hand to her. She pulled away, but not before he had thrust something at her, something soft, and she took it, not knowing what else to do.
‘What do you want?’ she asked sharply.
‘Asher,’ Margit began, but the priest seemed to have lost interest in them. The distracted look reappeared and he wandered away inland.
‘What was that about?’ She looked at the token the priest had placed in her hand; it was shaped like a laurel leaf, oval and pointed, but silver rather than green, smooth to the touch and with scarlet-traced veins. She had never seen anything like it before.
‘Don’t you know what it is?’ Margit was staring at it hungrily, her voice holding a note akin to envy. ‘It’s a token from the Oracle.’
‘Do you want it?’ Asher held it out to her.
She swallowed, but did not take the leaf. ‘He gave it to you, not to me. I can’t take it. The Oracle wishes to speak to you, not me.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I forget, you’ve only been here six years, and you say you don’t believe in the Oracle anyway!’ She sounded unexpectedly bitter. ‘On this fair-day, the Oracle summons eight men and women of Venture, to prophesy for them. This means you’ve been chosen.’
‘But I don’t want to go,’ Asher protested. ‘You go.’
Margit’s eyes glittered angrily. ‘I can’t, she snapped. ‘It chose you. You must go.’
‘How come it chose me?’ She realized, too late, that she had touched a raw nerve, for it was obvious Margit wished that she had been the one to receive the token, and resented the fact it had been bestowed on the one person in the city who had neither desire nor use for it.
‘The priest’s entranced. He surrenders himself to the Oracle so that the Fates may see through his eyes and choose the eight they wish to summon. You have to go today, before nightfall. Show the leaf to the guards on the upper gates, and they’ll let you through.’
The explanation sounded nonsensical to Asher, but she had the tact not to say so. ‘But I won’t go, Margit. You know my feelings. Take it, and use it.’
‘Don’t you understand? I can’t!’ The Oracle has nothing to say to me, only to you!’ She was genuinely furious. ‘You have to go. You can’t refuse!’
‘Why not?’ Asher was stung. ‘You know how I feel ... ’
Margit rounded on her. ‘Don’t be selfish!’ How can you even think of refusing? Don’t you know how lucky you are to be chosen?’
‘No, I don’t,’ Asher retorted firmly.
‘Even if you don’t care about what it has to say to you, you must go!’ Margit paused to draw breath, eyes flashing angrily. ‘Why don’t you ask the Oracle something useful about Vallis? This is the only chance any of us is likely to be given for months. I said Mylla’s news was meant!’
‘Then do it yourself!’ Asher felt her resolve stiffening in the face of the demand.
‘I would have thought this was the least you could do, after all we’ve done for you!’ Margit said bitterly. There was an unpleasant silence.
‘I’m sorry.’ Asher felt as if Margit had slapped her. Was that how they all thought of her, as them not us? After six years of friendship and working together, in the Treasury and with Essa and Carob? She turned her hot face away, seeing she was being given no choice. If she did not go, Margit would never forgive her, that was painfully obvious. She remembered all Margit had done for her since she came to Venture, and found it was almost enough. ‘If that’s how you feel, I’ll go,’ she said stiffly.
‘You’ll ask about Vallis? And tell us what the Oracle says?’ Margit demanded, pouncing on the concession before it could be retracted.
‘Yes.’
‘Then go. Go now. I know you don’t really understand and I’m sorry for what I said. But go.’ A gulf had opened up between them. Asher saw it was unimportant to Margit that to do as she demanded was to compromise Asher’s own deeply held convictions; her supposed friend was too filled with self-righteous indignation and jealousy for compromise. Only Asher’s submission could mend the tie between them that was very nearly severed.
‘Take care, Margit.’ Asher turned abruptly away, more upset than she wanted to acknowledge. She wins her peace of mind at the expense of mine, like Stern and the rest. Again, she had a sense of being used, against her will, but this time it felt worse, for the exaction of friendship, not blackmail, was being turned against her.
Her reluctance stemmed from far more than lack of belief in the Oracle’s powers; to herself, Asher could acknowledge that what she feared most was the loss of that unbelief, to be forced to accept that her control over her own destiny was at best an illusion.
What a coward I am. If I were really sure, I wouldn’t be afraid to go!’ Numbly, she began to retrace her steps, away from the harbour and west, inland toward the highest point of the city. She climbed the steep main street with a heavy heart, feeling an outsider among the mass of people thronging the paved road as she moved against the trend. She was aware of her surroundings only peripherally, automatically noticing the landmarks that told her how far she had
come. Her way took her past the wealthy quarter, where the councillors and other merchant clans had their houses, where there were open spaces and walled gardens rather than the narrow streets lower down; her senses registered the decline in noise and numbers of people, but without interest.
In front of her, rising behind the high city walls, the hill of the Oracle soared up, steep and forbidding, topped by the white-walled citadel that housed the Oracle. Asher could just make out a figure about halfway up the slopes, and wondered briefly whether it belonged to another of the chosen, and whether he or she went more willingly than herself.
Why should anyone want to know a future they could not alter, even if such a thing were possible? Asher, remembering certain events in her own life, shuddered; if the Fates had dictated those for her, she had no wish to become acquainted with them.
She reached the Nevergate and presented her leaf-token to the watchful Kamiri duty-guards, only a little surprised when they allowed her to pass through unimpeded; it had been too much to hope for a reprieve. The grey men held the Oracle in a respect bordering on idolatry, which was why they permitted so little access to the common people of the city over which it cast its sway.
As the gates shut behind her, she experienced the sense that instead of letting her out, the city was rejecting her, that she was no longer welcome within its confines. She shook herself, ordering her thoughts.
She began to climb the path leading to the citadel, wide and deeply rutted from centuries of use. Until the invasion, permission to visit the Oracle had lain in the hands of the city council, and the men and women of Venture had made the journey often to consult on their marriages and children, on illness, on where they should build their houses or send their ships; now, it was a privilege the Kamiri governor rarely granted. Amrist sent messengers several times a year, and important visitors to the city were allowed to make the trek, but the old, close connection between city and Oracle had been severed, at severe financial loss to Venture. Many of the inns and shops that had served the Oracle’s suppliants no longer existed, their owners now numbered among the poor.
