Tymon's Flight

by Mary Victoria

  ‘And we all know,’ interrupted the Dean, ‘where that would have led. You’ve had a lucky escape, boy. This dirigible and its creator were demonically inspired. Burn the abomination with the cleansing fire.’

  Father Fallow’s last instruction was directed to the crowd by the air-chariot. To Tymon’s horror, the spectators began to stick their torches into the clinker body of the craft. The bark shifted beneath his feet.

  ‘That’s mine.’ His voice grew hoarse. ‘That was supposed to be mine.’ He tried to run towards the machine, but was restrained again by the people around him.

  ‘It seems you’ve been misled,’ remarked the Dean, briskly. ‘While you’re indentured to the College, you do not have personal belongings. Be thankful: to own such a contraption would invite the attendant penalties.’

  Flames leapt up from the air-chariot, bright against the shadow of the leaf-forests. Tymon gazed at the Dean in disbelief, all his pain and disappointment focusing on one man. A surge of hatred for Father Fallow swept through him and the bile rose to his lips. He spat at the priest. The spittle landed on the Dean’s green habit, clinging to the ceremonial silk like a small grey mushroom. No one saw it but Fallow himself. At that moment the machine’s gall-tank caught fire and a sheet of blue flame ripped through the night, distracting the crowd. Sharp, unpleasant-smelling smoke filled the air.

  ‘Blast-poison!’ cried several voices. ‘Demon’s work!’

  Father Fallow reached down and flicked the spittle from his robe, never taking his eyes off the boy. There was a terrible pause. Tymon’s heart thudded uncomfortably in his chest; his head began to swim. The burning hulk of the machine collapsed, drawing shouts of consternation from the onlookers. The Dean’s glance snapped towards it and he straightened up, frowning at the noise. He strode down the slope.

  ‘Get everyone out,’ he called. ‘This place is bewitched.’

  He herded the crowd away from the air-chariot, intoning the fire-watch prayer. People hurried off, casting fearful glances at the machine. It sputtered blue sparks after them. Father Mossing shuffled up to Tymon.

  ‘Come walk with me, my boy,’ he offered, holding out his bandaged hand. ‘Nobody blames you. It’s understandable you’re feeling angry right now. It’ll all work out for the best, you’ll see.’

  Tymon made no move, his fists clenched at his sides. The fire in the carcass of the machine was falling low once more. No punishment, no beating or humiliation could have made a deeper mark on him than the ruin of his dreams. Mossing retracted the hand with a strained smile.

  ‘If you ever feel the need,’ he said, ‘remember, you can talk to me.’

  The inhabitants of Argos city considered themselves a tolerant people. For years they had endured Galliano, and even treated him well after a fashion, like an embarrassing family member whom no one expects to reform. But now, he had tested their patience to the limit. Most of the townsfolk were ready to see the old man pay for his crimes. If there were a few people, like the kindly Masha, who were not happy about the situation, they bit their tongues and remained silent for fear of the priests. The Council’s verdict was announced three days later: the heretic had made a full confession, admitting to counts of witchcraft and demonic possession. He was sentenced to banishment for the rest of his natural life. He had been spared execution due to his advanced age; no one expected him to survive for long.

  Tymon came down with a mild case of fly-fever after the trial and spent a week isolated in the College hospital. In many ways the sickness was a blessing. He did not have to watch the public denunciation of his mentor or endure the sight of him hobbling onto a prison ship, bound for an unknown destination. Long before the boy was well enough to leave his bed, all external memories of Galliano had been destroyed by the city militia. His work-leaves, tools and sketches were burnt. The workshop and mill were razed to the ground and the place marked with demonbinding runes. His name was struck from the citizens’ register in the College library and by the beginning of summer, all that remained of the old man’s indiscretions were a few odd-looking hardwood beams lying twisted and charred on the side of the knot.

  It was of little comfort to Tymon to learn that on the same night his mentor had been apprehended, a group of five tithe-pilgrims had escaped from the city jail. The breakout was said to be so embarrassing to the local militia that all details of the episode had been suppressed. The runaways were soon tracked down in the leaf-forests outside the city and returned to the custody of the seminary—all except for one. One of the foreigners, a thin youth with red hair, was still at large. A reward was posted for his capture. The Council had no doubt that he would be found in time.

  PART TWO

  BRANCHES

  We are the same branch, the same leaf, the same blood:

  one life in many, and all lives in one.

  —Nurian saying

  9

  Shafts of afternoon sunlight filtered through the open windows of the Dean’s office. Ornate wall-tapestries hung alongside shelves filled with musty tomes; the room was thick with learning, dusty with importance. No sound from the quadrangle outside disturbed the peace. Over a month had passed since Galliano’s trial. It was bean-harvest season and most of the students had left the seminary to stay with their families for the summer. The College was tranquil and bathed in dappled light, the silence broken only by the low, chuckling call of the messenger birds in their roosts under the eaves.

  Father Fallow sighed as he surveyed the pile of letters, petitions and leaf-bound edicts on his desk. The weeks passed by and yet certain annoyances continued to plague him. The Dean was not given to a contemplative life, taking a great deal of relish in his administrative role. But lately he was feeling the pressure of his duties. His position as chairman of the Colonial Board had proven particularly tiresome. Session after session that year had dragged on over the same issues: the water problem in the colonies, whether the water problem was any worse than it had always been, and what to do about it. Fallow wished to see what the winter rains were like before implementing any change in policy. But the majority of the Board was in favour of more drastic action. This time political leverage had failed to play in the Dean’s favour. To make matters worse, petitions were arriving daily from the Eastern Canopy claiming that the rain-wells were running dry, that water stocks had reached an all-time low. Rebellion stirred among natives and colonists alike. It was the mutiny among these so-called ‘white-necks’ that irritated Fallow the most. The Governor of one of the colonial outposts had even threatened to declare his flyblown garrison independent. His posturing was ridiculous, of course—the outpost could no more survive without Argosian trade than a greatship could float without ether. All the same, the situation riled Fallow. It was an embarrassment.

  As if drought and conspiracy were not enough, a further vexation awaited him that afternoon. The Dean glanced up at the youth seated opposite him with distaste. The professors at the seminary might have been forgiven for not remembering the names of all the pupils who trooped through the halls of the seminary. Few students remained to pursue their careers at the College. But this particular boy’s identity was etched permanently into the Dean’s memory, despite the fact that he had failed, rather than succeeded in his studies. The image of spittle dangling on his Festival robes flashed before Fallow’s eyes. His fingers twitched convulsively.

  The boy named Tymon was a study in silent resentment. He sat hunched on a bench opposite the Dean, glaring at the edge of the desk. It was his last day in the seminary before leaving on his mission service and every inch of his scrawny young body proclaimed aversion to the fact. He had been taken sick after the old scientist’s trial, Fallow remembered; the illness had left him hollow-eyed, scowling at the world through a shock of overlong hair. He would have been better looking if he smiled and taller if he did not slouch, thought the priest. He could have made something of himself, turned himself around, if he had only stopped sulking and concentrated on his studies. But where he
went after his indenture, and what would become of him when no one would foot the bill for his upkeep, were matters that did not seem to interest Tymon in the slightest. He simply did what he was told, no more and no less, with an air of injured virtue. It was almost as if he was the one who had been tried and found guilty, not the old heretic.

  Few pupils left the seminary under bad auspices. No fruit shall wither on the branch, the professors liked to say, quoting Saint Loa. All young people could be encouraged to have an upright character, they pontificated. It was only a question of training the sapling to grow straight. The Priests’ Council had been lenient with Tymon, for although heresy was the ultimate crime in Argos, the criminal needed certain qualifications. He had to be mature and fully in charge of his faculties. Young people and most women were not considered mentally developed enough for heresy. Their conduct was seen more as a sickness than a sin, one that could be cured by teaching them better habits. Doubt is a canker of the mind, proclaimed the header in the novices’ psalm book. Cauterise it with proper thought. But if the young person refused to take his medicine—if he remained stubbornly unrepentant—then, like a canker, he should be cut out, thought the Dean. He gazed back steadily at the mass of mute fury on the other side of the table. It took some concentration to keep his face neutral and his words kind.

  ‘In the beauty, master Tymon.’

  ‘In the beauty, Father.’ The boy did not look up.

  ‘Well. This is the end of your life as a student and the start of your two-year mission service.’

  Silence. Fallow’s expression became harder.

  ‘Since you haven’t shown any aptitude for the various options here,’ he said, ‘we have decided to send you to complete your indenture on one of the colonial outposts, where manpower is needed.’

  ‘I’m glad to be of use.’ Tymon spoke in a monotone, his voice devoid of emotion. Fallow wondered briefly if he was making fun of him.

  ‘Had you shown the slightest willingness to cooperate, to pursue your studies, we would have kept you with us,’ he snapped. ‘We might even have given you another chance to pass your Rites. But you haven’t made yourself easy to live with, Tymon. Your tutors tell me you give them the strict minimum and no more. Your classmates avoid you, and I can’t blame them. You have a marked tendency to rebellion and flirt dangerously with heresy. After endeavouring this past month, with the best of intentions, to give you the benefit of the doubt, I now find myself coming to the unavoidable conclusion that you have no interest in staying on at the seminary.’

  The youth was still fixing the edge of the desk with that idiot scowl, playing him for a fool. The Dean’s voice became harsh.

  ‘You are withdrawn, resentful—yes, resentful, despite the mercy the Council has shown towards you—and show no sign of remorse for the actions you have taken. We are forbearing but you push the limits of our patience.’

  There was an uncomfortable pause. Tymon stared wordlessly at the desk.

  ‘Considering your attitude, I suppose we needn’t waste any more time,’ resumed the Dean. ‘You’re being sent to the colonial mission in the hope that hard work will remedy your character. I see nothing else that can.’

  With a flick of his wrist, he pushed a folded leafscrap across the table. The boy picked it up slowly. It was a travel pass for a voyage by greatship. Scrawled at the bottom, beside the official College stamp, were three summary words: Service only. Marak. Where the captain had countersigned the pass, Tymon saw the name Stargazer.

  ‘You will catch tomorrow’s season departure to Marak, under Captain Safah,’ said Fallow. ‘A working ticket, of course. I’m not sure what use he’ll find for you on a greatship, but the Captain is an imaginative man. I expect you to perform to best of your capacities.’

  He paused and gazed at Tymon quizzically, as if trying to decide whether any such capacities existed at all.

  ‘Once in Marak you’ll make your way to the mission,’ he continued, after obtaining no further reaction from his charge. ‘You’ll present yourself to Father Verlain. I already sent him an introductory letter. It went by bird and will arrive before you do. I trust you will fulfil your obligations at the mission promptly and cheerfully. Your service period is two years. After that, you will receive an official clearance and are free to do as you wish, returning to Argos city if you desire.’

  He nodded in curt dismissal, indicating the doorway. But as Tymon stood up, he added casually: ‘I hope you aren’t thinking of deserting the service, young man. You know that to leave before the period of indenture is over invites severe punishment. You’ll be thrown into prison. And if you escape, you’ll be outlawed and never welcome in Argos again.’

  ‘It’s no different to a banishment then, is it?’ murmured the boy.

  ‘Don’t be absurd. If you behave yourself—and I sincerely hope you do—you’ll get a commendation from Father Verlain and find gainful employment in Argos after your service is up. The hardest heart may find eternal springtime,’ finished Fallow, floridly quoting scripture, ‘though in its depths the frost may now hold sway.’ He waved his audience away like a troublesome fly. ‘Go in beauty, my child. Go in beauty.’

  Tymon set his mouth and walked heavily out of the room. As soon as he was gone, the tapestry on the wall by Fallow’s desk stirred and a man dressed in a tightly buttoned black coat emerged from a hidden alcove. The Envoy still had his white kerchief wrapped around his throat, though the weather was close and hot. He strode to the open doorway and scrutinised the empty corridor outside. Then he shut the door, sliding the hardwood bolt noiselessly home.

  ‘Well, I thought you were remarkably patient with him,’ he said, turning to the Dean.

  ‘Are you sure he’s the one?’ asked Fallow, with a worried frown. ‘He battles me every inch of the way.’

  ‘Precisely the trait that makes him so useful to us,’ replied the Envoy, stalking back to the windows. He closed the shutters, plunging the office into waxy darkness. ‘Rebels are always the easiest to control,’ he noted, a disembodied voice in the gloom. ‘You know that, Holiness.’

  ‘His spirit is chaotic and unfocused.’

  A spark of light pierced the darkness as the Envoy held a burning fire-stick up to the candleholder on the Dean’s desk. The flame guttered feebly.

  ‘Again, qualities that make him an ideal candidate for our purposes,’ he remarked. ‘We do not want a thinking ally, we want a pawn.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ the Head of the College rubbed his temples wearily. ‘Something about him…resists. I find it exhausting, to tell you the truth.’

  The Envoy looked up sharply. ‘I am not at all sure the boy is the one doing the resisting, Holiness,’ he said.

  ‘Meaning?’ The Dean gazed at him with a pained expression.

  ‘Meaning, he is susceptible to other influences. We’d best make use of him quickly.’

  ‘I was afraid you might say that,’ sighed Fallow.

  ‘It is time, Holiness,’ observed his companion. ‘The Veil thins.’ His tone was polite but brooked no argument. He came to stand behind Fallow’s chair.

  The Dean straightened hurriedly in his seat, nodding in agreement, and rifled through a nearby drawer, from which he retrieved a bundle of black silk. This he opened on the table to reveal an ornate hardwood disc made up of several moving parts mounted by a rotating rule marked with degrees in the manner of an astrolabe. But instead of the position of the sun and stars, the carved interior of the disc depicted a Tree motif. Both the underlying design and the adjustable pointers which formed its ‘branches’ were fashioned from a bright material like highly polished Treesap. The rotating rule was made of the same gleaming substance. Fallow’s fingers caressed the object. He glanced up at the Envoy.

  ‘What divergence do you recommend today?’ he enquired respectfully.

  The Envoy’s smile was predatory. He bent over the intricate instrument, but did not touch it.

  ‘Pass forty degrees into the sign of the Hunter,�
�� he said. ‘Direct the orah through the Letter of Dominion. Keep it there and do not let it stray to Loss.’

  ‘No Loss,’ murmured Fallow, adjusting the settings on the disc. ‘Forty degrees. It hates it when we try this combination.’

  ‘Hates?’ echoed Lace in surprise. ‘We’re dealing with a mindless force, Holiness. It neither hates nor loves. It only serves.’

  The Dean was covered in confusion. ‘I only meant that avoiding Loss is difficult,’ he explained hastily. ‘The Sap seems naturally to tend towards dissipation, rather than accumulation. From what I’ve seen.’

  The Envoy contemplated him for a moment. His eyes were fathomless.

  ‘Well, that’s precisely our challenge,’ he remarked. ‘We are the fashioners of the universe. We control the Sap and focus it on a higher goal. Our task is made the more difficult because our enemies counter us at every turn. Now, Holiness, I am going to ask you to put aside this discussion and concentrate on the matter at hand. We do not have much time; the source of my power grows distant.’

  The Dean nodded once more, abashed, and cleared his throat. The flame on the candle grew bright and sharp as he began to chant over the disc, a soft invocation.

  ‘Weakness be strength,’ he intoned.

  ‘Emptiness, power,’ droned his companion.

  ‘Worlds that were severed,’ continued Fallow.

  ‘We bind to our pleasure,’ finished the Envoy solemnly.

  As they pronounced the words, the parts of the disc made of the translucent material glowed like hot embers. The pointers leapt into position on the Tree, quivering, and the rule began to rotate, moved by an unseen force. Fallow attempted to nudge it towards a specific setting. It jerked away from his fingers.

  ‘Green grace, it’s impossible,’ he burst out at last.

  Without speaking, the Envoy placed his large, slab-like hand on the Dean’s shoulder and waited, his broad features impassive in the candlelight. The rule no longer jerked away from Fallow’s grasp and its brightness dimmed. The Dean breathed a sigh of relief as the instrument slid obediently into position.