The senior agent reported first to Rashel. "This is a most unusual event, Madam. Your poor sister does seem to have been at the margin of a great many unusual events recently."
"My sister will get over it," said Rashel, as she had said before, though with a tone that presaged no good for Dismé. "I am sure she will be untroubled by further events of any kind."
Dismé was listening as usual—the emptiness of her mind had done nothing to moderate her habits—and she reacted to Rashel's words as to imminent peril. On the following morning she decided to follow Arnole's longtime advice and leave, as soon as possible. That same morning, Aunt Gayla whispered to Dismé that considering Rashel's moods, she had decided to move to Newland to live with Genna, and Dismé agreed this was a very good idea. Privately, she felt it solved her problem as well, and she planned to go with Gayla.
Before any further plans could be made, however, a rider brought an official letter from Hold advising her she had a morning appointment in two days' time with Colonel Doctor Jens Ladislav, to interview for a job with the Division of Health, Bureau of Happiness and Enlightenment. It was almost the answer to a prayer, an honest reason for departing, one so official that even Rashel would be unable to subvert it! Carelessly, on purpose, Dismé left the letter where Rashel would see it.
"What have you done?" Rashel screamed at her. "How dare you apply for a job in Hold! With Gayla leaving, I need you here to help with the house!"
Dismé heard herself saying, "Rashel, I have neither applied for a job in Hold nor am I interested in housekeeping for you."
Rachel's mouth dropped open, for a long moment silent, then furious with accusation: "You're not what? Since when did you have the wits to decide what you're interested in?"
Dismé gave her a level look. "Now that Gayla is leaving and Arnole and Ayward are gone, there is nothing to keep me here. This appointment might be interesting."
Rashel laughed, mockingly. "Once the Colonel Doctor has seen you, he won't want you. I can't imagine why he wrote."
"Nor can I."
"You didn't send some kind of application?"
"I wouldn't have known who to send it to. Surely you're not suggesting I should refuse to comply with their letter? If you are, I will have to tell them that I am willing to come to Hold, as they have requested, but you won't allow me to do so."
She fell silent, wondering at herself. Where had she found the courage to say that? Rashel was actually gnawing her lip in frustration, probably trying to come up with a dear, dear friend in the Division of Health whom she might prevail upon to cancel the request. Jens Ladislav was a colonel, however. He outranked all of Rashel's dear, dear friends.
In the end, Rashel merely sneered. "No, but when you return, we'll get to the bottom of this, believe me!"
Dismé had already decided not to return, and the threat in Rashel's voice buttressed her decision. She would go, and she would stay gone, whether the interview came to anything or not. Remembering Arnole's frustration with her inaction, she told herself it was the memory of Arnole that moved her, that and the money he had given her to make it possible.
Rashel did not make it easy. She was constantly in and out of Dismé's room, giving advice on what clothes to take (the ugliest) and where to stay in Hold (the cheapest). She counted Dismé's coins to be sure the amount would not suffice for more than "a day or two." Dismé complied with every suggestion. She opened one small case on the foot of her bed and packed it with exactly what Rashel suggested. She left her purse lying open beside it. That night, however, when everyone else was asleep, she obtained several small canvas sacks from the storeroom, packed them with everything else she owned, and dropped them out her window. She then went down the trellis and carried the bags to a seldom-used toolshed near the front gates.
The next morning, as the time for departure approached, she changed into her ugliest clothes, picked up her small case, and found her door had been locked from the outside. Gritting her teeth, she went out the window and down the trellis, in through the back door, up the back stairs, unlocked the door—leaving the key in it—picked up the case, then went sedately down the front stairs when she heard the carriage drive up. The front door was open and Rashel was nowhere in evidence, though as soon as Dismé started out the door, Rashel came around the corner, calling:
"You can unhitch the horses, Michael. Dismé won't..."
Rashel saw Dismé and stopped, flushing an ugly color.
Pretending she hadn't heard, Dismé called to Michael. "My door was stuck and I had to jiggle it forever before it opened."
Michael got down from the seat to open the carriage door. Rashel, her face flaming, moved swiftly forward to take hold of the case, noting its lightness.
"Let me get that for you," she said, putting it into the carriage. "You only have money enough for a day or two, so don't delay returning." She showed a forced smile. "If they should offer you a job in Hold, we'll have a celebration when you come back to get your things."
"Oh, Rashel," cried Dismé, with spurious joy. "How very thoughtful and kind of you. May we have a cake?"
"Oh, a cake, certainly," said Rashel. "Mrs. Stemfall has a special icing she's been dying to try."
"What was all that about?" asked Michael, when they had rounded the first curve.
"She locked me in. Decided I should miss the appointment, I guess. Can you stop at the toolshed near the gate?"
He didn't ask why, but he followed her to the shed and helped her pick up and stow her remaining baggage.
"You planned this," he said, amazed. "You've packed everything, haven't you?"
"Yes," she conceded. "Something told me it was a good time to get away. You won't tell on me, will you Michael?"
"Why would I?" he asked, peering intently into her eyes.
"No reason. It's just, I've left nothing behind to come back for, but I don't want Rashel to know that until I'm safely situated somewhere else."
"You left nothing, Dismé?"
"Nothing," she said, shaking her head. She had a little box containing seeds from her garden. The sacks contained books, her own notebooks, and the rest of her underclothes and shoes, which didn't amount to much. She did not see the disappointment on Michael's face, or the hurt in his eyes even as she wondered what else could there have been.
"I took five canvas sacks from the storeroom. I'll send them back!" she remarked, puzzled.
"Don't trouble yourself," he said, rather distantly. "There's a hundred more in the shed. No one counts them."
The drive to Apocanew was completed in virtual silence. In the town, he took her to the station and helped her transfer her baggage to the county-train that went back and forth between Apocanew and Hold, up the hill to Hold on one day, down the hill to Apocanew the next. Similar little trains ran between Hold and the other two counties.
Michael said suddenly, "How can you be back day after tomorrow. The train comes from Hold every other day."
"Yes," she said. "I know. Rashel knows, too, but she wasn't thinking. Tomorrow, tell Rashel I thought of it just now, and mentioned it to you. Please tell her you lent me enough money for an extra day. No, no." She stopped his reaching for his money. "I have enough, she just doesn't know that. Also, it might help to say I asked you to fix my door before I got back."
"It'll give you an extra day before she knows, but she'll still have a fit."
Dismé only smiled, her eyes lighting up at the thought. Michael took her by the hand, kissed her chastely on the forehead before she could object, and watched her board the train. As it pulled slowly away, Dismé leaned from the window and called something to him. Was it, "I will miss you, Michael?" He wasn't absolutely sure, but his step was jauntier as he returned to the carriage.
In choosing Dismé's clothing, Rashel had specialized in ugly fabrics and excremental colors. Wearing such stuff had suited Dismé's purposes well enough at Faience, where she had played her spinster-sister role with a certain numbness. If she was to chose her own role at
the end of this journey, though, it might well be time to look like someone who mattered. Since she had never spent any of Arnole's money, her petticoat had wealth enough to clothe her fifty times over.
Accordingly, unobserved by anyone in the virtually empty women's car, she surreptitiously unstitched several golden dominions from her petticoat hem, and as soon as she had obtained lodging in Hold, she left the hostelry to find a shop selling women's clothing. The stock was small, as befit a Turnaway establishment, devoted to material simplicity. Nonetheless, the garments were well cut, the fabrics were enjoyable to feel and dyed in pleasant colors. She bought ankle-length skirts and soft jackets in shades of green and blue and violet, garments that draped around her body instead of enclosing it like a tent. Trousers were forbidden to Regimic women, but the saleswoman suggested at least one split skirt, for riding, and simple shirts of woven or knitted cotton or linen, with knitted sweaters and vests of wool for the colder seasons. After getting a good look at Dismé in her new clothes, the saleswoman also suggested a hairdresser.
Dismé frowned. She had always braided her hair into a single plait, the way her mother had done it for her as a tiny child. She had never thought of making a change.
"The way it is now, you mean, it isn't ... suitable?"
"It would be most attractive if the citizen were twelve or thirteen. It is not quite what one expects of a grown woman."
Dismé unstitched another inch of petticoat hem and went to the hairdresser, where she was shown how to do her hair in several different ways. She peered at the difference the mirror showed her and considered it money well spent, only afterward wondering how such "conceits" as attractive hairstyles fit into the Regimes system. Though, come to think of it, the hairdresser had been a Praiser, and Praisers were the only Spared who seemed to have any fun, since they were known for love of theatrics and ceremony; for music, dancing, and wit; for cookery, colorful dress, and ingenious inventions. It was said of the Praisers that any long-dead chicken was an excuse for a wake and any recently dead one an excuse for a feast.
Turnaway was different. It boasted the loudest talkers, the most vicious fighters, the heaviest drinkers and the most fanatical believers. It was said of the Turnaways that any one of them would sacrifice his wife, mother, and children if he could win a battle thereby. Comadors were known as farmers, cheese and wine makers, for the soft wool of their sheep, for calm, musical talk, for muscular, handsome men and beautiful women. Of Comador it was said that their wines and their women were foretastes of heaven, a claim which Dismé, though Comador, had no proof of whatsoever.
She spent part of the late afternoon dropping off the older garments she most hated at a recycling station where they would probably be used, the manageress said, as rags for hooking rugs.
"Only for backgrounds," she said, with her head tilted as she examined Dismé's castoffs. "Whoever wore these either hated herself or someone else hated her."
The next morning, wearing soft blue and with her hair swept into a neat roll (the achievement of which had taken some time), Dismé went to her interview. She was introduced to Dr. Ladislav by his aide, Captain Trublood, who first sniffed at her and then bowed himself out, leaving them alone. The doctor rose politely to take her hand, then sat down again, waving her to a chair, taking a moment to look her over.
She regarded him as intently as he did her, for he had an interestingly narrow face with a long and pointed chin matched by an equally long and shapely nose with high arched nostrils. Between these two features, his wide mouth curved into a thin-lipped and perpetual smile which grew more pronounced when he was amused but never sagged into anything approximating solemnity. It was, she thought, a jester's face. Decks of cards had a jester card, a fool's card, one that was frequently wild.
The doctor was not a fool, but he could possibly be wild. He had wild, clever eyes surmounted by thick eyebrows of the same steel gray as the abundant hair that curled about his large, almost lobeless ears. Though she could see only his upper body, his shoulders were broad and, since his shirt sleeves were turned back, she could see that his arms looked well muscled.
"He is attractive, clean, and respectful," she decided, filing him in her unobjectionable male category, along with Arnole and Michael. Poor Owen had not been attractive; the teacher at the Faience school had been quite objectionable; and this list included all her male acquaintances.
The doctor asked half a dozen questions about things she had no reason to know about but did, in fact, know quite a lot about, such as the habits of birds and frogs and the geology of Bastion. He also asked her what she thought of demons, and she said she had had no opportunity to think about them, which was more or less true. He asked for a brief history of the Spared Ones, both the received version and whatever other versions she knew.
The received version for the layman was that there were no other humans than the Spared. Outside the lands of the Spared there were only demons or others of that ilk. There seemed no point in denying that she knew of other peoples who not only existed but also traded with Bastion, particularly since Colonel Doctor had already said he knew she had been told a great many things not allowed by the Dicta. Possession of non-Dicta information seemed to enhance her desirability— in a strictly professional sense—for the job the Colonel Doctor had in mind.
"On occasion, I travel along the borders of Bastion, talking with other peoples who live near there, in an effort to learn everything I can about their healing materials and techniques. You know that the demons provide us with certain supplies?"
"Yes, Colonel Doctor."
"One or the other, Citizen Dismé, if you don't mind." He found her quietness charming. She sat simply, relaxed, without fiddling about, and the Colonel Doctor admired that in anyone, especially in a woman. Besides, she was wonderful to look at. That calm face spiked by those huge, watchful eyes. Like an old painting from before the Happening. "Call me either Colonel or Doctor. Hearing both titles gives me a split personality, the two philosophies differing so widely. It is medicine's philosophy that lives should be saved, of all sorts. It is our military's philosophy that as long as a few cells are kept alive, actual lives may be dispensed with. A few inches of gut in a bottle is not, to my mind, a life, no matter what theological contortions one puts oneself through. I would prefer the company of even a cantankerous, obstinate, and opinionated old geezer to any number of bottle walls."
She smiled widely, without thinking.
"You are amused?"
She flushed. "You were describing my friend, Arnole."
"Ah. The one who vanished. A geezer, was he?"
"Cantankerous, Colonel ... that is Doctor Ladislav."
"I do prefer doctor, yes. As I was saying, I travel about, but a man traveling alone is somewhat suspect. He might be a scout for a raiding party, for example. A man traveling with a wife and one or more children, however, is merely a traveler. I need a traveling companion with a certain flexibility of mind."
She could not keep the surprise from her face, or the shock.
He nodded. "Your maidenly sensibilities are stirred. Have no fear. I have no designs upon your virtue. On these journeys the essence of prudence is not to be distracted. Finoodling of the sort you momentarily suspected—I am sure you are too nice-minded to have thought of it more than momentarily—would be a distraction. Besides, if we are to act like old married persons, we should be quite bored with one another. I'm sure I can bore you, given only a little time. Just a few lectures on medical oddities or the sniping among Regimic officialdom should do it."
She smiled, quite without meaning to. "Is that all I am to do? Ride along with you and be bored?" Even she heard the disappointment in her voice, and it made her blush.
"Certainly not," he said in a shocked tone. "That is only what you are to appear to do. Really, of course, you will be collecting data, just as I do, only you will be collecting it from women and children and any others who might be reluctant to confide in a male person, often for very good
reason."
"Data on technology, about which I know nothing."
"Data on flora and fauna, local culture and habits. I do not expect you to learn about technology, for I have spent some years trying and still find it incomprehensible. Also..."
He shut his mouth abruptly. He had been about to mention that he intended to warn the people over the borders about the general's new plans. It was too early to tell her that, but he would test the waters.
"I will, Citizen Dismé, make a confession to you, one I hope you will keep completely confidential." He achieved a quasi-serious face by lowering his eyebrows and leaning his chin on a fist, the knuckle of his index finger pushing up his lower lip, thus slightly reducing his expression of cheer. "I have reason to believe there is a technological survival out there."
She frowned. "Isn't that a heresy?"
"To believe there is one?"
"To believe there can be one? Isn't that Scientism?"
"Do you worry about Scientism?" he asked, slightly concerned at this trend of the conversation.
"No," she confessed. "But my friend Arnole told me about Scientism, and if there's technological survival, that means some scientists were spared also, and believing scientists survived would deny the Dicta's words that only the Spared survived."
He relaxed, allowing his face to resume its usual expression. "We wouldn't know a survival was heretical until we found it. It might exist under the personal direction of the Rebel Angels. I do hope to find out."
"I know so little," she murmured.
"Better admit you are up to your neck in ignorance than stand upon a pinnacle of misinformation," he said firmly. "For the immediate future you are hired as my assistant. If asked what you do for me, you say research. If asked research on what, you say, whatever Colonel Doctor tells me. If pinned down, you say you are reading nakity-nakity, blah blah, whatever it is you are reading that day—which will always be a pre-Happening book as they are less suspect than post-Happening ones..."
The Vistor Page 25
