Tymon's Flight

by Mary Victoria

  They had already climbed high over the topmost twigs of the canopy. Only once before, during the test flight in Argos, had Tymon experienced such dizzying heights. It was exhilarating to hurtle over the twig-tips, to race beyond the normal confines of the world. The thin air carried a sparkling lightness, fresh and sharp. He let the wind whip his cheeks until his chapped skin glowed. Up here, nothing mattered but the speed of the machine and the open horizon. Here there were no people, no prophecies, no complications to worry about. He spent a long time with his nose in the wind. When he looked for Samiha again, he saw that she had left the bench to join Laska at the controls. She was crouched next to the captain, speaking in his ear. Tymon consoled himself by adopting an attitude of indifference and spent much of the remainder of the trip glued to the Lyla’s windows.

  The hour-long flight passed quickly. The sun was angling towards mid-afternoon when he noticed a change in the canopy. A sharp protuberance broke the thickets to the southeast. There, several branches of the Tree formed a high promontory, the bare twigs draped in a net of dry, desiccated vines that obscured the area beneath. Laska steered the machine towards a lone spur jutting out from the mass and touched down on a flat section of the branch, near the tip. The machine bounced gently on the bark before coming to a halt. The maelstrom of the propellers gave way to blissful calm.

  They climbed from the air-chariot in silence, stretching their cramped joints and unwilling to break the peace with conversation. Tymon gazed about him admiringly as he helped Galliano out of the hatchway. The outlook from the spur was magnificent. To the west and north, beginning a hundred feet or so below him, the twig-forests of the lower canopy spread out in a gently undulating slope. Behind and above him rose the western face of the promontory, a tangled net of vegetation. The air was cooler than in Marak, even autumnal, and the sun shone pleasantly warm through the drapery of plants. He saw that these were dead frogapple vines woven together in a grid pattern, although he had never seen specimens so big. The long strands overhead were as sturdy as his forearm. He noticed grey bulges in the vegetation, too big to be fruit, and tried to guess what sort of birds might nest in the ancient plantation. Then, with a prickling thrill of shock, he realised that the lumps were people.

  Grey-cloaked men hung among the dead vines, their faces shadowed under deep hoods, eyes alive.

  20

  The men dropped from their perches and ranged themselves across the inner side of the spur, blocking the path into the promontory. Tymon counted twenty of them. Each was armed with a long grey staff at the ready. Neither Laska nor Samiha spoke a word. They stood patiently, as if waiting for a signal. Finally one of the figures threw back the hood of his cloak. He was a tall youth, as dark-haired and dark-skinned as an Argosian.

  ‘Beni, shanti.’ The youth bowed in Samiha’s direction. He then inclined his head politely towards Laska and Galliano. ‘Beni, syors.’

  The others did the same, removing their hoods and bowing to Samiha. They were boys of about Tymon’s age, lean and lanky with barely a beard between them. They stepped back and opened a way down the spur.

  ‘Beni, Solis,’ answered Laska.

  He gripped the dark youth’s arm in a brief salute, whispering something in his ear. When he withdrew, the guard surveyed Tymon with illconcealed dislike.

  ‘This way, please, syors,’ he grated, indicating stiffly that they should proceed. His accent was marked and each syllable of the foreign tongue seemed to be wrung out of him. ‘Welcome to Freehold of Sheb.’

  The manner in which he pronounced ‘Freehold’ was almost an accusation; the welcoming bow hardly creased his waist. He allowed Samiha and Laska to walk on unmolested. But when Tymon tried to pass the line of guards, supporting Galliano by the arm, the dark lad’s staff whistled down with a crack, barring his way.

  ‘Not you, Argosi,’ he breathed. There was a spark of satisfaction in his eye.

  ‘But I have to go with Galliano,’ protested Tymon. ‘You realise he can’t walk on his own, right?’

  ‘Scientist goes. Not you.’ Solis stood, immovable, in front of him.

  ‘It’ll be alright, Tymon,’ said Laska. He took Galliano’s hand gently in his own. ‘I’ll take care of our friend. You go with the Freehold guards. I promise no harm will come to you.’

  ‘Go on, go on,’ smiled Galliano, waving him away. ‘These young fellows have to be sure they aren’t letting enemies into the village. Just answer their questions honestly and you’ll be fine. I’ll see you later, boy.’

  Tymon was left standing, tongue-tied with surprise, as the others walked off along the spur. It did not seem to worry his friends one jot that they were abandoning him to the guards. Laska had probably known in advance of Solis’ intentions, and Galliano did not seem to appreciate his predicament at all. He felt a stirring of resentment. Samiha, at the very least, might have warned him that he would be singled out for questioning so soon. But she barely glanced back in farewell. It did not occur to him to ask when he would be meeting the judges until it was too late, and he was on his own with Solis and his band.

  ‘Maz, syors,’ remarked the dark youth as the adults disappeared over a ridge in the path. The sarcasm in his voice was obvious.

  The guards sprang into action and Tymon found himself surrounded by a thicket of grey staves. He tried to remain as still and as calm as possible. Laska had given these boys their orders, he thought. Their posturing was mere bluff and bravado. He would show them that he was not afraid.

  ‘Well, putar,’ smirked Solis, ‘it seems we have problem. Syor Laska wishes you meet judges tonight. But to meet judges, putar, you must be worthy. Las, I not believe you are.’

  His words drew a round of derogatory laughter from the rest of the youths, who chanted ‘las, putar, las’, in mock commiseration. They fixed Tymon with hateful looks and spat on the bark at his feet. The message was clear. Argosians were not only unwelcome on the Freehold, they were reviled. Tymon’s confidence wavered. Did Laska really know how much these young Freeholders hated him and his kind?

  ‘Shanti too good. She believe too good of everyone,’ continued Solis in his guttural, broken Argosian. He jabbed at Tymon with his staff, shoving him backwards. ‘So, we have job. We protect village. We see who is worthy.’

  The other boys mimicked their leader, feinting and thrusting at Tymon with their weapons then jeering as he shied away. Often the quick and expert blows found their mark and made contact with his bruised ribs. He gritted his teeth to avoid crying out with pain and fury. The guards harried him from side to side amid gales of laughter. At last he could bear it no longer.

  ‘What kind of cowards are you?’ he burst out. ‘If anyone dared stand up to me alone, I’d take him, by the bells!’

  This pleased the youths no end. They whooped with scorn, crying, ‘We give you bells! We ring your head, putar!’ But Solis held up his hands for silence.

  ‘Beni!’ he grinned. He cast aside his staff and stepped into the ring, beckoning Tymon towards him contemptuously. ‘Show me, Argosi. Can you fight or just talk?’

  Tymon clenched his fists, bracing himself. So much for non-violence, he reflected as he moved about the ring, waiting for an opportunity to attack. Occasionally one of the boys would reach out a hand to shove him between the shoulders as he passed, until Solis growled at them to stop. Then, without warning, the Nurian threw himself forward. He was lighter than Tymon, but caught him by surprise and laid him flat on his back on the bark, to howls of mirth from the youthful audience. Two well-placed cuffs sent a stabbing pain through Tymon’s side; he swung out wildly, landing a glancing blow on the side of his opponent’s head. But before he could strike again Solis was on his feet, dancing away from him.

  ‘One for Freehold,’ called the dark boy, triumphant.

  Tymon jumped up, incensed, and lunged out, catching the other in a wrestling grip. It was a manoeuvre taught by the priests at the seminary and he had always been good at it. He threw Solis down in turn, grunting wit
h satisfaction. They rolled over each other on the bark, neither holding the advantage for long, until an irate voice interrupted the spat.

  ‘Solis! Bas! You should be ashamed!’

  A man appeared, striding up the spur towards the ring of youths. ‘What’s going on here?’ he bellowed in Argosian. ‘You are to take the prisoner to the holding area. What’s all this nonsense?’

  He was a short, powerful Nurian, his grizzled hair and beard fairly bristling with indignation. He gestured peremptorily to Solis. The dark youth scrambled up shame-faced and hastily saluted the stranger.

  ‘At ease, citizen. I won’t report you,’ observed his superior with an impatient sigh. But his gaze as he surveyed Tymon was cold. ‘You. Argosi. Your chances at the trial would be better if you behaved with more dignity, like an adult, not a brawling child.’

  Tymon rose, dusting off his tunic in embarrassment and surprise. From what Samiha had told him, he had assumed his upcoming hearing would be a formality, a chance to tell the story of their escape and answer any questions the leaders of the Freehold might put to him. Now it seemed that he was a prisoner to be put on trial. He could not think of anything he might have done to offend these people, apart from simply being who he was. Again, he wondered why Samiha and Laska had said nothing to prepare him. He made no answer as the stocky man turned his back on him and gave orders to the youths in Nurian. The guards formed an orderly enclave about Tymon. Solis motioned him on with a curt nod, and they marched away down the spur, the picture of efficiency. But when they had put some distance between them and the grizzled man, the young captain leaned close to Tymon’s ear and whispered: ‘You wait, Argosi. What we not finish, judges finish. Enjoy last minutes of peace, putar.’

  He said no more, content to corral Tymon ahead of him in silence. The boy was left to ponder his words and do his best to gain his bearings as he jogged along. Their path soon diverged from the main road, winding along the steep, sloping side of the spur rather than its crest. To the left of the little-used track yawned a dizzy drop. Their precarious position did not appear to deter the Freehold guards. On the contrary, they redoubled their pace along the ledge, driving Tymon relentlessly before them towards the heart of the promontory.

  From what he could tell in the course of his breathless, skidding progress, the outcrop in the canopy was a Tree in miniature, complete with a trunk, axial limbs and a spreading crown of twigs. The largest horizontal limbs, including the western spur, all radiated out from a single vertical axis at its core. The village itself nestled in the highest and least accessible of the branches. The boy glimpsed houses made of canvas and straw among the twig-forests at the summit of the central column; there did not seem to be any heavier structures. The buildings, the delicate rope-bridges, the camouflage netting—all were built for defence, discreet and mobile. He realised with a sinking heart that the Freeholders lived in a permanent state of war. The fact that he had ever thought he would find a welcome among these people was laughable. It occurred to him that he could not rely on Samiha’s good word, or even Laska’s orders, to protect him now. Who would complain if there were a regrettable accident on the way to the holding area, and the Argosi prisoner fell to his death in the abyss?

  He hugged the slope of the spur as he ran, determined not to give his captors the satisfaction. His breath came in gasps and the sweat dripped down his forehead, but he dared not stop to wipe it away. The little track made directly for the vertical limb at the hub of the promontory. There it became a tunnel, a black wormhole bored straight into the face of the column. He had no choice but to plunge into the narrow opening ahead of the guards, passing from sunny afternoon into swift, moist night. The darkness in the passageway was almost tangible. The footsteps of the other boys echoed strangely behind him; he could no longer be sure if he was being followed. With a stab of misgiving, he slowed his pace in the gloom, reached out to touch the wall beside him—and fell.

  The hole was not deep, but it was as black as Tree-pitch. Tymon tumbled onto something soft and springy. From the dusty odour that rose about him he guessed that his fall had been broken by a heap of dried moss. He rolled off the sweetsmelling pile and scrambled to his feet. His outstretched arms touched a wall behind the heap of moss. He was in an empty chamber, a cavity within the limb. He tried reaching up the wall, but the lip of the passageway above was too high and the wall itself hopelessly smooth, offering no handhold.

  ‘Come back, you cowards!’ he cried in outrage. ‘Tell me why I’m on trial!’

  There was no answer. A draught hit his ear; the cavity had some other exit. He followed the wall to his left, tracing the smooth, curved surface with his fingers, his breathing loud in the darkness. His heart jumped as he found the edges of a door. But it was locked, without even a handle on his side as far as he could determine. A steady flow of air seeped through the hairline crack beneath. On he walked, feeling his way along the wall until he stumbled onto the pile of moss once more. The chamber was round, and he had come full circle. There was nothing else in his prison.

  ‘You can’t just leave me here!’ he shouted, helpless with fury.

  But they did leave him. Time slowed to a standstill in the impenetrable darkness of the chamber. It was a torture for Tymon. He told himself that help would come soon, that Galliano would miss him and Samiha would enquire after him. Laska would ask if his orders had been carried out. They were surely not a party to this treatment. Or were they? Had his friends all betrayed him, consented to his imprisonment for reasons of their own? Was this some elaborate initiation, some test, as Solis had suggested, of his worth? He continued to wait, waited interminably, waited until he was almost beside himself with frustration. He rose and kicked the smooth walls of his prison. He yelled until he was hoarse. At last he sat back down on the pile of moss and attempted to gather his thoughts.

  If there was a way out of his predicament, it was by cunning, not force, he reasoned. The Freeholders had all mentioned he was to be interviewed by judges, so they would not leave him there forever. The stocky man was right: it was time to grow up. He would be ready to prove his worth, to take up any challenge the leaders of the Freehold offered, even if it meant returning to Marak at the risk of life and limb to spy on the priests. If he really was going to meet the Nurian King that evening, as Samiha had said—it seemed out of character for her to lie outright, even if she had been less than forthcoming about what awaited him on the Freehold—then he would use the opportunity to throw himself on the mercy of the sovereign. He would beg for a chance to prove his loyalty. If only they would give him a chance to speak! He would be eloquent. He would be brave. No one would be able to refuse him. He rehearsed grand gestures and heartfelt pledges, murmuring to himself in the darkness.

  He did not know whether he had been sitting there for an hour, or two, or three, crouched over his knees and furiously dreaming, when suddenly the deep, rolling voice of a bass drum vibrated through the chamber. The beat reverberated from above, penetrating the woody heart of the limb. Even the floor trembled. From somewhere beyond the chamber roof came the muffled roar of many voices, as if a crowd had gathered right overhead. Before he could do more than scramble to his feet, his nerves stretched taut in the darkness, there was a scrape of a key in a lock and a luminous crack appeared on the opposite side of the chamber. It widened to an archway. A figure stood in the doorway, black against a glare of reddish light. Voices chanted in Nurian beyond. They sounded as if they were resonating inside a well.

  ‘You go meet judges now.’ Solis’ dry tones rang out. The red glow of the evening sun, dazzling to Tymon after his hours of incarceration, spilled down the spiral staircase behind him. ‘Vaz. Go. They wait for you.’

  The youth jerked his staff impatiently upwards. Tymon was hardly at the bottom of the stairwell before the Nurian had locked the door behind him and followed on his heels. Doom, doom, thrilled the drums, quickening along with Tymon’s pulse. He mounted the stairs with a beating heart, at a loss as to what
to expect next.

  He could not have been prepared for the sight that greeted him as he stepped through the arch at the top of the stairwell. He blinked, blinded by the light-filled space ahead. His first impression was of a large and unnaturally flat surface. Then he caught his breath in astonishment. He was indeed standing in something similar to a giant well. At the summit of the hub-like limb, where the many branches of the promontory met and merged, an arena had been built a gigantic amphitheatre carved straight into the living Tree. Terraced seating stretched up on three sides above Tymon. At his feet lay a wide circular platform surrounded by eight giant torches, each the height of a man. He had emerged in an alcove under the west terraces. The fourth quarter of the round, the eastern side, was empty. A gap in the twig-forests opposite showed clear through to the evening sky. His steps faltered and he came to a halt, checked by the expanse of the arena. The drums thundered on. He could see the great hide-bound tubs poking out from alcoves under the terraces to the north and south. Another guard glared balefully at him from the edge of the stage.

  Tymon had never been inside a theatre, but he had heard tales of the Nurian ‘pleasure pits’ from his tutors at the seminary. He gawked at the central platform. It seemed like an outrageous waste of horizontal space. He felt dwarfed by the steep sides of the well, oppressed by the twelve levels of seating above him. The people on the terraces were a blur of colour; the drums rolled and the torches smoked impressively into a red and purple sky. He was reminded uncomfortably of the Rites procession in Argos. Only the first three tiers of the arena were actually occupied, but that was quite enough. He felt his lips go dry. In front of him, forming a semicircle at the centre of the stage, stood nine figures robed in grey.