Tymon's Flight

by Mary Victoria

  ‘Go!’ breathed Solis at his elbow. ‘You go to judges! No wait!’

  He pushed Tymon past the second guard, who scowled in disapproval, as if he objected to an Argosi setting foot on the stage at all. As the boy stumbled gracelessly onto the platform, the drums rumbled to a halt. A hush descended on the terraces. Solis herded him into the middle of the stage then stepped back, leaving him on his own. The nine robed figures turned slowly towards him: he noticed that they all wore bone-white masks.

  ‘Tymon of Argos,’ pronounced a short, stocky figure at the centre of the arc. His voice reminded Tymon of the man who had interrupted the fight on the spur. ‘You have been brought before the Freehold to receive judgment. The charges are murder and conspiracy to murder. How do you plead?’

  Even after listening to Solis’ jibes, Tymon would never have expected a charge as grave as murder. He felt the injustice of the allegations keenly and forgot all his rehearsed eloquence.

  ‘Not guilty!’ he blurted out. ‘Of course not guilty! Why are you doing this to me?’

  His outburst provoked a buzz of anger from the terraces.

  ‘This court does what it sees fit,’ growled the stocky judge. ‘We ask the questions. You answer. Let the prosecution make its case, syors.’

  A second judge, a tall, thin man, paced forward, his finger pointed in accusation at Tymon.

  ‘Here we have a liar and an impostor,’ he declared, stalking about the boy like a Tree-cat about its prey. ‘You are a spy for the seminary, novice, and have been since you met the shanti in Argos city. Once a priest, always a priest.’

  Tymon opened his mouth to protest, only to hear another masked figure cry out: ‘As soon as you discovered Samiha’s identity, you reported to your superiors. You were assigned to follow her, to find out what was going on in the Nurian community. To that end you cultivated her friendship and her trust. To that end you helped her escape.’

  ‘You insinuated yourself into her company again in Marak,’ put in yet another, reproachfully, before he had a chance to answer. ‘You went so far as to attend a Grafting. Then, when the moment was right, you betrayed the Focals to the Governor’s men.’

  The judges paced to and fro on the stage, delivering their indictment of him as if it were undisputed fact. They formed a restlessly moving circle about Tymon. Despite what the stocky man had said, they asked no real questions, and gave him no chance to respond. There was no occasion to try out his prepared speeches. Viewed in a cynical light, his whole association with the shanti was suspect. The wheel of masked figures revolved as the charges against him mounted inexorably.

  ‘You had other plans for Samiha, of course. After the death of the Focals, you were conveniently to hand in her hour of need—’

  ‘You won her trust, only to lure her into a trap, Argosi.’

  ‘If Laska had not arrived early and foiled your plans—’

  ‘She’d be in an Argosian brig by now, on her way to stand trial for treason!’

  ‘That’s not how it was!’ pleaded Tymon, flustered at the unrelenting litany of accusations. ‘There was no trap! You’re wrong! I had nothing to do with the deaths of the Focals and I’d never do anything to hurt the shanti—’

  ‘Did you, or did you not, meet a man known as the Lord Envoy before you left Marak city?’ interrupted the short man again, ignoring his appeal.

  Tymon’s heart froze. The judges’ procession came to an abrupt stop. They made a tight circle about him, a wall of eyeless faces far more intimidating than the guards’ boisterous ring on the spur.

  ‘I did,’ he admitted reluctantly. ‘But only because I had to. He was waiting for me at the mission. I had no choice.’

  ‘Did you tell him about the Focals, novice?’ snarled the thin man. ‘Did you give him the time and place of their next Grafting, so he could send the Governor’s soldiers to slit their throats?’

  The audience rumbled with righteous indignation. This was the main charge, the question that the crowd had been waiting for.

  ‘Of course not!’ Tymon answered. ‘He asked me if I wanted a promotion. I didn’t even agree to that—’

  ‘Did he ask you to betray the shanti?’ enquired another figure, soft-voiced. With a shock, Tymon recognised the tones of an older woman, rich and mellow. He had assumed that all the judges were men. ‘Did he threaten you, perhaps?’ suggested the feminine voice. ‘Force you to give away her position?’

  ‘Give away her position?’ echoed Tymon, perplexed. ‘I don’t know what you mean. We escaped from her house together—’

  ‘The better to ensnare her in the wilds of the canopy,’ spat out the thin judge. His hands were twitching with annoyance, as if he ached to throttle the upstart foreigner.

  ‘I’d never do such a thing!’ exclaimed Tymon hotly. ‘Why don’t you ask Samiha? Why don’t you ask Laska?’ He tried to peer between the bodies of the judges, towards the terraces, searching in vain for his friends. ‘Why don’t you ask your captain?’ he cried. ‘He’s the one who invited me to the Freehold in the first place. He wouldn’t approve of all this.’

  ‘I should be up front about that,’ observed one of the judges who had not yet spoken. ‘I’m afraid that invitation has been suspended.’

  The figure took off its mask. There stood Laska, baiting him with his own words. Laughter bubbled briefly through the crowd. Despite the banter, however, no trace of the captain’s old, courteous manner remained. With a swift movement he grabbed hold of Tymon’s arm and twisted it behind his back, forcing him to his knees. The boy was too surprised to resist. He found himself thrust down on the dusty floor of the stage.

  ‘The Envoy’s ship was sighted over the canopy this morning, before we left the campsite,’ he barked in Tymon’s ear. ‘Lucky for you it was headed south and did not approach the knot. Did you signal the priests, novice? Did you send them a message about the shanti’s whereabouts?’

  ‘No!’ gasped the boy, in pain and resentment. ‘I hate them as much as you do!’

  ‘I do not hate them,’ replied Laska, grimly. ‘Hate clouds the judgment. But I will defend my people, and my sovereign, to my last breath. The shanti may believe you’re a friend but I’m harder to convince. If you’ve been signalling the enemy I’ll break both your arms myself.’

  The fact that Samiha apparently still thought well of him was a ray of hope for Tymon. ‘I swear I had no idea that ship was on our tail,’ he insisted. ‘You have to believe me!’

  ‘Why should we believe you?’ cried another, all too recognisable voice, taut with emotion. One more robed figure lifted its mask. Samiha gazed at him, her face full of sorrow. ‘You never told us the whole truth, did you, Tymon?’

  Laska released him and he rose unsteadily. Even she had turned against him, then. The glimpse of the Envoy’s ship had been enough to erase everything else. She must have suspected him ever since that morning on the knot, mistrusted every word of their conversation on the air-chariot.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked her, despairing. If she did not believe in him, no one could.

  But it was the thin man who answered. ‘Don’t you remember?’ he jeered. ‘You told her you saw her coming in a dream. You pulled her name out of a hat like a conjurer. You played on her hopes until she was convinced you were one of the five Leaves of the Divine Springtime, a Sign of the Sap. You are a false prophet, Argosi.’

  His statement drew a furious uproar from the terraces. Howls of contempt rang through the arena.

  ‘I never claimed to be any sort of prophet!’ shouted Tymon in vain, through the clamour. He turned imploringly to Samiha. ‘You know I didn’t! I don’t even believe in the Grafting!’

  This confession only seemed to make his situation worse. There were calls of ‘Shame, shame!’ from the crowd and Samiha bowed her head, as if she could do no more for him.

  Laska’s reply was cutting. ‘Oh, but you needn’t lay a claim to it. Just plant a few seeds and the idea will grow all on its own.’ He gazed at the boy, his fa
ce bleak. ‘The truth now, novice,’ he said. ‘How did you know the shanti’s name?’

  ‘The name, the name,’ muttered the judges. ‘Who told you the name?’

  ‘You know the truth,’ Tymon cried hoarsely. He could not retreat from the captain: there was nowhere left to go. ‘I dreamt it. It was a complete coincidence.’

  Some of the judges laughed scornfully at this. Others shrugged as if they had expected no better from him, and turned away, talking among themselves. Insults echoed from the terraces. Laska conferred briefly with Samiha; the shanti seemed downcast. Only one out of the nine judges made no move. One robed figure, silent and unimposing, took no part in the discussions and stood to one side, scrutinising Tymon through the black holes of the mask. He squirmed uncomfortably under that empty gaze. At last the stocky man spoke for the court.

  ‘We will give you one more chance, novice,’ he said. There were hoots and whistles from the terraces. ‘Describe your dream. Furnish details. Try to convince us. I assure you, your life depends upon it.’

  The hubbub in the arena died down. The torches about the stage flared bright with a faint whiff of Tree-spice, and Tymon found that he was sweating in the heat of the flames. The robed judges loomed taller in the uncertain light, menacing.

  ‘I dreamt of the Focal with the scar on his face!’ he replied with sudden vehemence, hating them all for putting him on the spot. ‘I dreamt of Ash. He told me the key was in the bathhouse—’

  ‘The Key?’ The older woman cut him off, her voice perilously quiet. ‘What do you know about a Key, novice?’

  ‘The key to the prison in Argos,’ answered Tymon recklessly. ‘It turned out to be true. But that doesn’t mean anything to you, I suppose.’ He rummaged in his pocket and threw down the key ring Samiha had given him. It landed with a clatter on the hardwood flags at Laska’s feet.

  The captain bent down to pick up the ring. ‘Is that all?’ he asked coldly.

  Tymon could not imagine why, but his story appeared to aggravate his listeners even further. Laska’s expression was severe. Samiha covered her face with her hands. Tymon felt that should she lose faith in him, all would be lost. He panicked.

  ‘There’s more!’ he babbled. ‘The Focal said to tell you—to tell Samiha to come home. He said she’d found what she was looking for, but I couldn’t have known what she was looking for, then, and besides, when I met him for real, the first time, he didn’t mention any name or the keys. He only asked me who I was…’

  He broke off in alarm as he realised what he was saying. He had no wish to invite disaster by mentioning his waking meeting with Ash. A dream was bad enough: claiming any further association with the Grafter might be suicide.

  ‘I thought you denied encountering penta Ash in Argos city,’ observed Laska dryly. ‘Is this not another of your extraordinary dreams?’

  Dusk had fallen. The audience could be heard shifting restlessly in the darkness beyond the ring of torchlight. Tymon hesitated, torn between two unpleasant options. He could lie and risk being found out, or he could confess to a dangerous truth. He had forgotten about his encounter with the fifth Focal in the excitement of his arrival, and remembered it now almost in spite of himself. The memory was hard to hold on to, slippery, as if the event itself did not wish to be recalled. A thousand qualms on the subject, long overdue, raced through his mind. Were the judges already aware that Ash had been in Argos? Had the Grafter been on a secret journey that no one was supposed to know about, certainly not an Argosi putar on trial for his murder? Was that why the mention of the Focal was so displeasing to Laska? Would admitting his knowledge condemn him further? He writhed with indecision, melting in the glare of the torches. Why did the arena have to be so hot on top of it all?

  ‘This is pointless,’ snapped the thin judge. ‘He’s been coached on what to say, obviously. I don’t see why we’re even discussing it. Someone signalled the ship. Who else could it be but him?’

  ‘Patience, citizen,’ the older woman admonished from the sidelines. ‘Let the Argosi continue. We’ll soon know if he’s lying.’

  ‘Tymon,’ Laska prompted him patiently. ‘Answer the court. Did you meet the Focal named Ash in Argos city?’

  The boy took a deep breath and made his choice.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, glancing apologetically at Laska. He had to raise his voice through the mounting hum of disapproval in the arena. ‘Yes, I met him there. I’m sorry I said it didn’t happen, sir. I panicked a bit when you questioned me. It was about two months ago. He spoke to me from a prison cart. He didn’t really look foreign, so I never thought…I took him for a beggar. I only remembered the whole thing when I saw him at the shanti’s apartment the other night—when I saw him dead.’

  ‘Are you absolutely certain of this?’ asked the older woman again. ‘Couldn’t it have been someone else?’

  Tymon shook his head. ‘No, syora. I met that man.’

  Samiha was watching him intently, as if she would have liked to read his thoughts. He wished there was some way he could convince her that he had never lied, that he had omitted some parts of the truth simply because they seemed unimportant at the time, or because other issues had preoccupied him. If only he had made a clean breast of everything while he had the chance, on their journey together from Marak city!

  ‘Think about what you’re claiming for a moment, Argosi,’ remarked the stocky man. Most of the judges had moved away and were conversing with each other in low voices, but he ambled towards Tymon, speaking half to the boy and half to the audience above, in the skilful manner of an orator. ‘Imagine: the only Nurians to go to Argos are pilgrims, and to my knowledge only one pilgrim has ever returned. Why would penta Ash travel to Argos city? What ship would have him for the journey? Who would take a ‘Nurry’ all the way to the Central Canopy, and bring him back again?’

  Tymon had not considered the matter from a practical point of view. The judge’s objections were entirely correct.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he answered feebly. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘He hadn’t thought of that,’ snorted the short judge, gesturing to the audience, to his colleagues, to the whole world in exasperation. The crowd was his: laughter rippled through the arena. ‘If you’re going to advance a claim of the Sight, boy, at least do so openly and honestly. What kind of fool would you have us believe you are?’

  ‘The Sight?’ gulped Tymon. ‘This wasn’t a dream—’

  ‘And we’re telling you: the Focal was not in Argos,’ shrugged the other. ‘If you persist in your story, you’re saying that you experienced a Sending, a waking vision. Anyone can have a dream, novice. Only someone with the Sight can perceive a Sending. Is that the claim you wish to make in this court? I thought you did not believe in Grafting?’

  The terraces erupted with whistles and catcalls. Tymon stared helplessly at the stocky judge. He had been caught and betrayed by his own truth.

  ‘It was him,’ he murmured wretchedly. He felt unable to lie, or even to avoid a straight answer on the subject any longer. ‘I can’t explain it. It just was.’

  At that the crowd burst into a storm of debate. Some of the spectators climbed to their feet on the terraces and shook their fists at the boy. Others argued heatedly in Nurian. The judges huddled together in a concentrated deliberation of their own. Even Laska and Samiha joined the fray. It was all too much for Tymon. He was sure now that he would be condemned by the court as a liar, for no one could believe such a ridiculous tale. He wiped his sweating palms on his tunic miserably. All his optimism, all his hopes for a new start had fallen apart at the seams. What would he tell Galliano? He could not see the old man anywhere on the terraces. Was the scientist now a prisoner too, damned by association?

  He felt the prick of eyes and glanced up to find the silent judge still watching him steadily. Again, that one masked figure took no part in the debate; again, it was singularly disengaged from the whole process of the trial. As Tymon met that compelling, empty gaze, he knew w
ith a jolt of certainty that the ninth judge had said nothing whatsoever throughout the entire hearing. Not one word of accusation or argument had passed those hidden lips. The figure’s silence was deafening, its mute presence a clanging gong. Tymon felt the overwhelming urge to lift up the mask and see the face beneath.

  As if it sensed his interest, the grey form stirred. To Tymon’s amazement it raised a finger and pointed directly at its debating colleagues. All other sounds faded away as the judges’ words reverberated in the arena, clear and strong.

  ‘…say it’s too convenient.’ The thin man’s complaint rang out. ‘It’s a ploy to distract our energies. Why does he turn up now, when we finally have some real hope, some military advantages? As Laska said this afternoon—’

  ‘I’m not so sure now of my former assessment, if you recall,’ broke in the captain. ‘We already discussed this, Davil.’

  ‘Don’t you see? This is our real hope!’ Samiha’s eager tones cut through the others. Tymon wondered vaguely why all the judges were speaking in Argosian. His head spun. ‘Now I understand what the Fifth told me, his last words—’

  ‘Which we all agreed should not be dragged through a public court of law, out of respect for the dead,’ interposed the stocky man. ‘Remember our arrangement, Highness. You have your pet project, we have ours…’

  The figure dropped its hand, and the voices of the judges were snuffed out abruptly in the general din. Warmth travelled up Tymon’s chest in waves and a sensation of dizziness engulfed him. He remembered the Grafting session in Marak, remembered the fiery vision in Samiha’s apartment. Something other than natural was taking place in the arena. He took a shaky step towards the ninth judge.

  ‘Who are you?’ he whispered, awe-struck.

  The figure held up its hand in a brief gesture of warning. Footsteps echoed behind Tymon and someone gave a gruff shout. Solis grabbed his arm.

  ‘No move!’ hissed the young guard. His companion from the alcove arrived at his side, brandishing his staff, but Solis waved him away.