‘Kion Street, Key Street,’ he whispered, his euphoria evaporating. Half-remembered details pieced themselves together in his mind, and Caro’s arrangement with Verlain came rushing back. ‘Number six, the house with the green door.’
16
Tymon dragged his buckets down to the custom house, his mind thrown into turmoil. Did Samiha know about Caro’s deal with the seminary? If not, why had her address been given as a safe house for Verlain’s delivery? Why would someone like her accept the help of her enemies? Gnawing doubts followed him all the way to the air-harbour and he longed for simplicity. Nothing in Marak was as it first appeared to be.
He found the quays teeming with activity. A dirigible had docked in the city that morning, and the usual collection of migrants swarmed at its foot, flanked by soldiers. Tymon edged along the fringes of the crowd as unobtrusively as his clumsy shoulder-yoke allowed, contemplating the craft over the heads of the people. It was smaller and sleeker than the Stargazer, a single-masted vessel flying the green and purple standard of Argos city. Only high-level officials, Guild Masters and members of the Priests’ Council rode in dirigibles of such quality. As he passed it on the quays he caught the end of a public announcement addressed to the crowd of refugees.
‘…barrels of water to all those who sign, payable immediately.’
A man in dark green livery stood on the dirigible’s gangplank, reading from a leaf-scroll; he was a recruiting agent for the seminary, Tymon realised with revulsion.
‘I repeat: the offer has been increased to seven barrels,’ called out the agent. ‘Each pilgrim will receive no less than seven full barrels of water for their services. Sign on for a ten-year contract and take home your down payment today. God smiles on your endeavour. Sign up for pilgrimage now!’
A buzz of astonishment passed through the crowd. Seven barrels was an undreamt-of sum. That much water might keep a family for half a year, or be sold on at inflated prices on the black market. People pressed eagerly around the man on the gangplank. Tymon turned away from the spectacle in disgust, angry both with the seminary for making the offer and with the Nurians for listening. He hurried on towards the custom house. There, he found his way barred. The doors to the water dispensary were shut, the entrance closed off by two guards. He joined the group of porters gathered about the soldiers, pleading with them. Their requests for water were stolidly denied.
‘New security measures,’ one of the guards declared. ‘Nothing will be sold to the public until the Argosian dirigible has left Marak air-harbour.’
Tymon found that he was no exception. ‘It’s the mission’s weekly allowance, sir,’ he told the soldier. ‘We’re absolutely dry. I have the money.’ He counted out ten taleks, but the sum made no impression on the man.
‘Not my problem,’ he snapped. ‘No water’s being sold. That’s all.’
The throng of carriers reiterated his words in dismay.
‘No water?’
‘How can we go without for two days?’
‘Mo dia, my poor babies!’
‘Nosra morti. We cannot live.’
‘They’re keeping it all for themselves.’
Caro’s gratingly familiar tones caught Tymon’s attention. He spied the yellow-haired Nurian loitering at the fringes of the group, his voice rising stridently over the hubbub of the docks.
‘There’s more than enough water for everyone,’ he cried. ‘But they won’t sell it to us! They would rather we sign our souls away to that travesty.’
He pointed a finger, trembling with rage, at the Argosian vessel. The agent had finished his proclamation and disappeared from the gangplank, and the people on the docks were now drifting towards the dispensary, captivated by another speech.
‘They would rather keep the water for themselves and let our children go thirsty!’ shouted Caro. ‘They would rather we were forced to be slaves!’
Cries of ‘Aye!’ and ‘Well said!’ rippled through the throng. The two soldiers straightened their backs and raised their hardwood pikes. Tymon eyed the rabble-rouser with reluctant fascination. He could not help sympathising with him on this occasion. He did not think Caro would confront him in a public setting, but backed away from the custom house doors just in case, slipping into the anonymity of the crowd.
The militant hammered on. ‘They tax us till we bleed. They cheat us on the price of attar, and stockpile their water till we can no longer afford even the little we need to keep us alive. How long must we bear this injustice? How can we save our families and ourselves?’
A horn blared from the direction of the dirigible and the cordon of soldiers on the docks closed ranks, bearing down on Caro.
‘Hoi, you, Nurry, that’s enough!’ bellowed the captain of the guard. ‘You’re under arrest for inciting the populace.’
The sheer number of people between the soldiers and their quarry slowed them down, though they beat bystanders out of their path mercilessly. Tymon lost sight of Caro’s yellow head. The Nurian’s voice drifted over the confusion.
‘We will take back what is ours! Morto putar! They cannot escape the Year of Fire!’
The crowd dispersed under the militiamen’s blows. Tymon retreated back along the quays to the city gates, his empty buckets clattering on their hardwood chains; he had no desire to see further carnage. He hastened through the noise and colour of the first-tier market with the agitator’s last words echoing ominously in his ears. The Year of Fire seemed to be as much a part of Caro’s vocabulary as it was of the Grafters’. He wondered again, dejectedly, whether there was any difference between them.
His ribs protested every step back to the mission. When he arrived, he found the doors to the compound shut and locked. At last his calls brought Verlain’s shuffling steps to the gate. Bolts groaned and one of the doors creaked open.
‘Ah, it’s you! You took your sweet time! Quickly, quickly, inside!’ cried the priest.
Tymon had never seen him so flustered. The fat man peered about him anxiously, brandishing a large hardwood key like a charm. He was barely over the threshold before Verlain had pushed the doors to, sending the heavy bolts home with a grinding thump of finality. The key scraped in the lock. The priest shambled back to the couch, his face the hue of congealed bean curd. He ogled Tymon morosely.
‘I told you, my dear boy, not to go out in the city today. I fear for your safety. There’s trouble brewing in the tent-town. I heard the soldiers’ horn.’ He collapsed into his seat, fanning himself. A cloud of dust floated up from the tattered upholstery.
‘I’m sorry, sir.’ Tymon eased off the shoulder-yoke, grimacing. ‘But we won’t get water till tomorrow. There’s a new trade dirigible being unloaded and the guards aren’t allowing anyone in the custom house. That’s what the trouble was about.’
‘Saints save us!’ quivered Verlain. ‘These barbarians grow more brazen by the day! All the more reason, all the more reason.’ He put down his fan and motioned Tymon closer, his eyes popping with agitation. ‘There will be no more unauthorised gadding about the city for now. We’ve been given direct orders.’
Tymon sat himself gingerly on the edge of the couch, as far from the priest as possible. ‘I thought the curfew was only binding at night-time,’ he said.
‘Our orders,’ wheezed Verlain, withdrawing a roll of parchment from his robes, ‘come from the Council in Argos, not from the Governor of Marak, whatever you may think of both institutions. We have been told to restrict our movements to the mission for the next few days. Things are going to hot up in the city. I’ve sent Amu Bibi home for the week.’
Tymon retrieved the delicate bark-skin scroll from Verlain’s damp fingers and examined it. It bore the seal of the Council and was without doubt authentic. The Dean’s sweeping scrawl covered half the page, followed by the seal and signature of all five Council members.
‘To the Marak mission,’ he read. ‘News has reached us that the security of the colony is threatened by disaffected Nurian elements and that a military
curfew is now in place in the city. We advise extreme caution in this situation and a strict policy of containment. All contact or association with the native population is forbidden until further notice. This measure is for the protection of the mission, and shall be considered binding…Yours in the Tree, etc.’
‘I don’t understand,’ he objected as he put the scroll down. ‘How can the Council know about the curfew so quickly? It was only announced this morning. Even by bird, the news would have taken a week to get to them.’
‘He’s no fool,’ remarked a soft voice behind them.
Tymon almost jumped out of his seat. Someone had approached the couch noiselessly from the rear and now stood behind him, gazing down at him with a proprietary smile. With a shiver, he recognised the man in the black coat, the Lord Envoy whose presence had so perturbed Rede. He seemed to exert the same destabilising influence on Verlain. The fat priest emitted a nervous, hiccupping noise and sought the refuge of his pipe.
‘These are troubled times,’ murmured the Envoy, deftly circumnavigating the couch. ‘It’s a great boon to know friend from foe.’
‘Tymon.’ The anxiety in Verlain’s voice was unmistakable. ‘Greet our guest politely. He has come all the way here from Argos seminary.’
‘In the beau—’
Tymon’s attempt at greeting was interrupted by the Envoy’s smooth laughter.
‘But I believe we have already met, albeit under less than ideal circumstances! Tymon—a charming name. From the Nurian root timon, meaning navigator. Fated to travel, so they say.’ The man in black bared his teeth in more of a rictus than a smile. ‘Come now, Verlain, tell the boy who I am.’
Verlain took another hurried draw from his pipe, and coughed and choked his way through the introductions. ‘This is Father Lace, a Special Envoy of the Council. He is here to take charge of the mission during the state of emergency.’
‘I really do wish you would give up that filthy habit, Gerud,’ the Envoy sighed.
‘Apologies, Reverence.’ Verlain promptly dropped the pipe-draw.
Lace took up a stance of studied gravity in front of Tymon, his hands clasped behind his back.
‘The moment of truth has come,’ he observed. ‘The Dean knows full well what is going on in the city and at this mission. Little of import happens in Marak that does not find its way straight back to the Council. And no error on the part of its employees, however minor, escapes its notice.’
Tymon tried to guess what the Envoy was building up to. Had he been sent to replace Verlain and salvage the mission’s reputation? No wonder the priest had been so keen on posting recruitment handbills! He must have known Lace was coming, received an advance message by bird. For an instant, the boy allowed himself to imagine that the fat man’s nocturnal activities were entirely on his own initiative and that Lace would now set everything to rights. But the Envoy’s next words shattered his hopes.
‘The current situation with the Nurian rebels was long foreseen. It is inevitable. Though the members of the Council are aware of future events, it is only due to sound judgment and analysis. They see the future, as it were, because they understand the forces that control it.’
‘Events and people are connected.’ The heresy popped out of Tymon’s mouth before he could restrain himself. Too late, he regretted his gaffe.
‘What a bright fellow!’ exclaimed Lace, his cadaverous smile broader than ever. ‘Such insights! The seminary has need of sharp minds like yours!’ He nodded meaningfully to Tymon. ‘Now the events you speak of are reaching a critical point of development. There is no longer room for divided loyalties. You have a choice. Will you work for your own, or for others?’
‘I don’t understand, sir.’ Tymon hung his head. He felt absurdly guilty, as if the Envoy could see into his mind and isolate every treacherous thought, every dubious action. Had he been observed entering the shanti’s house that day?
‘Don’t give me that.’ Lace’s smile disappeared as he leaned over Tymon, blocking the light. ‘Have you been visiting the Nurry shrine, boy?’
Verlain stirred fitfully, flapping his fan. ‘Oh, you should tell him the truth,’ he muttered. ‘He knows everything we do, everything.’ The fat priest seemed to have lost his wits; sweat poured down his flabby cheeks and he trembled visibly.
‘Well? I’m waiting.’ The Envoy’s voice took on a frosty note.
‘Only once, sir, by accident,’ Tymon mumbled.
‘Then let that be the last time,’ came the cool reply. Lace turned and paced about the couch again. ‘There are factions at work in this city that you would do well to avoid. The shrine is a hub of political agitation.’
‘And their despicable woman shanti is at the centre of it all,’ burst in Verlain, almost falling off the divan in his excitement. ‘A shameless hussy, an abomination of nature, worse than all the other brazen females in this city put together…Why, she even doctors the drink she gives to her guests, in order to win them to her cause…’
‘Doctors it?’ Misgiving stabbed through Tymon.
Verlain nodded vigorously. ‘With an infusion of bellweed to cause beatific visions. When her victims are good and silly, she gets them to take part in a so-called Grafting trance. Claims the herb dreams are messages from the Sap, and what-not.’
With a rush of dismay, Tymon recalled the vision of fire in Samiha’s apartment. He had drunk her yosha, after all. He frowned at the dusty flags of the courtyard, unsure what to make of Verlain’s insinuations. Had he been taken in by rebel agents? Were Samiha and her friends now laughing behind his back, mocking the naïve Argosian boy who was so easy to dupe?
As if he sensed his advantage, the priest pressed on. ‘Why, those people who attacked you yesterday—you were caught in the riot, no? Those people were her minions, her fanatical supporters,’ he exclaimed breathlessly. ‘She is married to every single one of them. I have it on excellent authority that every Grafting session ends in an abominable orgy—’
‘Calm yourself, Gerud,’ Lace barked.
The Envoy had allowed Verlain to patter on unsupervised for several seconds. It was a fatal mistake. The priest had gone a step too far: his accusations had become lurid, stretching the point beyond belief. Lace seemed to know it, for he clapped a restraining hand on the fat man’s shoulder.
‘I’m sure we don’t need to hear your opinion of what the shanti does or does not do,’ he snapped. Verlain deflated like an empty ether balloon. ‘Tymon would never get himself into a situation like that to begin with—would you, Tymon?’
The boy shook his head silently. Relief washed over him. The priest’s accusations had the opposite effect of that intended. It was clear from Verlain’s slander and the Envoy’s irritation that Samiha had no place in their schemes.
‘Now, I return to my former question, the only real issue of import here.’ Lace exhaled with impatience. ‘It is time for you to choose your allegiances, young man. Will you prove your loyalty to the Council? Will you become a man and leave boyish things aside?’
‘What do you want from me?’ Tymon shrank under Lace’s scrutiny. The Envoy’s oratory style reminded him alarmingly of the Dean.
‘Nothing difficult or dangerous. I am offering you a promotion, actually. A position has opened up on my recruiting ship. We need help drafting candidates for the next tribute. The seminary is stepping up its presence in the colonies, and there will soon be two tithe-ships a year sent to Argos to cover expenses. The post would fulfil the obligations of your indenture as well as opening up several interesting avenues for your future. What do you say?’
‘It’s a great honour,’ squawked Verlain from the sidelines. ‘You’re very, very lucky to get this sort of chance at your age!’
Tymon recalled Samiha’s prodding comments. He would not fall short of the mark again.
‘Thank you, sir. But I’m afraid I’d be no good at recruiting,’ he said carefully. ‘I’d rather stay here, if I may.’
Lace had paced all the way round the couc
h and now stood in front of him again, his lean arms clasped behind his back. When he heard the boy’s response, he grunted dismissively.
‘I don’t think you quite understand what’s on offer. I am giving you a chance to do something special, to belong to a select group.’ He turned his predatory gaze on Tymon. ‘Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted? To belong? To be part of the inner circle? There are secrets to power, novice: secrets the seminary does not reveal to the uninitiated. Don’t you wish to know what they are?’
The words fell like small slivers of ice on Tymon’s soul. He looked into the abyss reflected in the Envoy’s eyes. There were all his hopes and fears, all his needs and desires, hung out like produce in a market stall. He had always been the one on the outside, the one no one took seriously. He did want to have people listen to him and respect him, and Lace knew it. He wavered a moment, drawn to the simplicity of the offer. Then his old resentment against the seminary returned. He would not forget Galliano so easily.
‘I’d be no good at recruiting,’ he repeated, stubborn.
As soon as he said it, he knew he had made another enemy. Lace’s expression was impassive. Only the lines around his mouth hardened slightly.
‘Well, to each his own, I’m sure,’ he said. The produce in the virtual market was cleared away with lightning speed, and the Envoy’s eyes wandered off to a corner of the courtyard. ‘Gerud’—Verlain was making a high-pitched whine—‘Stop that. We have asked, and the boy has given his answer.’
Verlain bobbed and shuffled to his feet. His face was drenched in sweat.
‘I will rest now. The journey was long and we have much to accomplish in the days ahead. I am in need of refreshment.’ Lace was brisk, businesslike.
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