Tymon's Flight

by Mary Victoria

  ‘Think we not watch you, putar?’ he sneered. ‘You stay. Judges make vote. Silence in face of betters, Argosi.’

  Tymon squinted through the haze of light that seemed to have enveloped the stage. He grasped that the judges had finished their discussion. Those who had been debating stepped back to their original places, reforming the arc. The ninth figure did not move from its post on the far right. No one spoke to it—no one appeared to have seen it. The clamour in the arena subsided as the stocky man addressed the audience again.

  ‘Syors, syoras,’ he called up to the terraces. ‘The time has come for the judges to make their decision known. Justice will be done.’ There was a brief, thunderous cheer as he continued. ‘This court has debated on two counts. Firstly: whether the Argosi, Tymon, is guilty of the charges already mentioned. Secondly: whether his claim of meeting penta Ash in his own city is to be taken seriously. The last, of course, has a direct bearing on the first.’

  Shouts, boos. To his own surprise, Tymon realised that he did not care any longer whether the court found him guilty or innocent. Another matter altogether occupied his attention. One by one, as the stocky man delivered his speech, the judges lifted up their masks. One by one, the faceless figures became human again. At last seven men and two women stood unveiled in the circle of flickering light.

  ‘…will be dropped, due to lack of direct evidence.’ The short man’s voice dipped in and out of Tymon’s hearing. ‘…security of the Freehold at risk. For that reason, the court defers judgment on the second count until a proper investigation can be made…’

  The boy passed a trembling hand over his eyes. The judges guttered like wind-blown candles, knots of weaving shadow and flame. Only one figure remained sharp, in focus, completely distinct.

  ‘…headed by a committee of enquiry, to look into the claim…’

  The ninth figure was unmasked, its identity now unmistakable. There before Tymon, his scarred face brighter than any torch, stood the fifth Focal. A dead man watched him from the flickering shadows of the stage.

  And smiled.

  21

  It might have been a hundred years that he stood there, facing the Focal: it might only have been an instant. Tymon blinked, and the dead man was gone. The thunder of drums filled a suddenly dim and ordinary arena. The proceedings were over. The judges had broken ranks, filing off the platform towards the northern terraces. Another ring of torches had been lit on the upper rim of the arena and most of the Freeholders were now climbing up the north stairs out of the hollow. Through the broken crown of the twig-forests, the night sky was bright with stars, an inverse well.

  Tymon would have liked to sit down, but there was nowhere to sit on the empty stage. He would have liked to cry out in alarm, or perhaps laugh aloud, but some lingering notion of where he was and what was going on stopped him. Someone plucked at his elbow. He turned, distracted, to find Laska waiting beside him.

  ‘Wake up, lad,’ remarked the captain. He was back to his old self, polite and genial, as if nothing untoward had occurred between them. ‘It’s all over for now. You passed the test and came out with flying colours, I must say.’

  ‘Please…’ Tymon stammered, pointing at the spot where the apparition had been. He could see Solis and his companion guard skulking in the shadows at the edge of the stage, following his every move. ‘Please tell me—there—did you see him—him…’

  His throat tightened with panic and wonderment. He could not pronounce Ash’s name.

  Laska peered into his face quizzically. ‘See who? The guards? Are you well, Tymon?’

  The boy opened his mouth and then shut it again without saying a word. He did not know if he was ‘well’. The conviction that something truly extraordinary had just happened pulsed through him like the beat of the arena drum. He knew, down to the marrow of his bones, that this was no dream, no simple hallucination born of sickness or som. He was not ‘unwell’: he was bewildered, thrilled, terrorised. He did not trust himself to do more than nod dumbly at the captain.

  ‘In that case, we should leave,’ said Laska. ‘Don’t worry, you’re under the protection of the court now. No more Freehold guards, I promise.’

  He offered his arm, smiling. Tymon allowed himself to be steered away in the wake of the judges. The knot of mingled fear and wonder remained lodged in his throat. The normal rules of existence had been turned inside out. The dead walked among the living—and he could see it. He could See it. The fact repeated itself again and again in his mind. He did have the Sight. Samiha had been right, after all. The Grafting was real. He felt a dim sense of outrage. How could he have lived his whole life among people who said they believed in such things, and remained unaware? He had indeed been robbed of his birthright, he reflected as he stumbled across the stage. He had been entirely despoiled of the truth.

  The captain’s voice broke through his thoughts.

  ‘I hope you’ll forgive me for hauling you over the coals earlier,’ he observed through the din of the drums. ‘You’ve made quite a claim, lad. We had to be sure.’

  ‘Then you do believe me?’ asked Tymon quickly.

  They had reached the north stairs on the heels of the crowd. He saw Samiha among the people ahead, deep in conversation with the stocky judge. He itched to run up to her, to tell her what he had just experienced. She would believe him. She would understand. But she did not look down. The arena drums reached a deafening climax and crashed to a longed-for halt.

  ‘I believed you as soon as you told your story properly,’ answered Laska, when conversation was again possible. ‘Once you stopped beating about like a panicked shillee and told us what really happened. You’ve no great talent for lying, young one.’

  ‘I had no idea I came across so badly,’ mumbled Tymon, abashed. ‘I just…forgot about things, mostly. Or maybe I didn’t want to admit they existed.’

  They strolled up the steps at the tail end of the throng, too slowly for his liking, too slowly to catch up with Samiha. She disappeared over the rim of the arena.

  ‘I see that you did not believe in yourself before tonight,’ the captain noted astutely. ‘That would account for much. Have you since revised your opinion?’

  ‘Yes. And I feel like a fool, sir. I didn’t think it all through beforehand. I had no idea I’d be claiming the Sight.’

  ‘So it seems.’ Laska lowered his voice in the renewed silence. ‘Though if I were you, I would not protest your innocence too strongly. Many of my colleagues are now convinced you are as subtle as the summer breeze, and have conjured up the only defence that would let you off the hook in a Nurian court of law. I suppose you weren’t aware that anyone making a good case for possessing the Sight is entitled to protection from the Freehold?’

  ‘No, I didn’t know that,’ muttered the boy.

  It was hard after the intensity of his experience in the arena to return to the mundane reality of politics and compromise. He was conscious that his vision, however overwhelming it may have been for him, carried no weight in a court of law. His proof, as Laska had said, had been intimately personal. The apparition had meant to warn him about the judges—of that he was sure. He recalled what he had overheard of their debate. There was something they had not brought up during the trial, some detail regarding the Focals the stocky man had not wanted repeated in public. Samiha had agreed to remain silent about it in exchange for support on another issue. You all have your pet projects, he reflected. And I am one of them.

  ‘Is that what the others think?’ he asked Laska as they trudged up the steps. ‘That I planned it? That I made up the business with…with the Grafter on purpose, just to get myself treated leniently?’

  He choked again on Ash’s name. The memory of the dead man was at odds with such concerns.

  ‘Yes and no,’ sighed the captain. ‘To be honest, most of the judges would rather not deal with your claim at all. But they cannot be perceived as acting foolishly or hastily. A concession was necessary. A committee is now in charge o
f examining your case.’ He gave another dry laugh. ‘I imagine the verdict on your abilities will be deferred.’

  The stalemate was disappointing to Tymon. Were the Nurians as hypocritical as the priests in Argos, then? Was the Sight just a convenient tool to them, a vehicle to advance one faction against another?

  ‘What will you do with me now?’ he asked, with some degree of weary cynicism. ‘Am I going back to prison?’

  Laska’s eyebrows shot up. ‘No, lad. You’re under our protection, as I said. You’re to be sworn in as an honorary member of the Freehold. We’re all invited to the feast-hall to celebrate the King’s arrival. You’ll be making your pledge there.’

  Tymon subsided, mortified. He had entirely forgotten Samiha’s promise that he would meet the Nurian King. All his planned gestures and speeches seemed foolish and out of place, and the last thing he wanted was to be thrust into the public eye again. He trailed reluctantly after the older man as they reached the top of the stairs and exited the arena.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Laska kindly, noting his discomfort. ‘The ceremony is short and you’ll be among friends. Don’t be misled by the trial tactics, they’re meant to shock. That’s how we Nurians get to the root of things. I don’t mind telling you that Samiha supported you throughout, no matter how hard you made it for her.’

  Tymon picked out the shanti’s bright head among the people climbing the slope of the promontory’s main northern limb. But Laska did not pursue the other villagers immediately. He pulled Tymon to one side of the branch-path, just beyond the ring of light cast by the arena torches.

  ‘There’s something I must be sure you understand, before we go on,’ he said in an undertone. ‘The King’s identity is not generally given out to foreigners. I’m sure you realise by now that many people here would object strongly to your knowing it.’

  He broke off as Solis and the second guard emerged from the arena. The trial did not appear to have softened them towards Tymon in the slightest. The youths’ eyes glinted with resentment as they walked by.

  ‘The fact that you are being told at all is a sign of great trust,’ resumed the captain, when they were alone. ‘It is your reward for being honest with us. The Kion wanted you to know that trust is repaid by trust, and truth by truth. Is that clear?’

  ‘Kion? I’m to be sworn in by a key?’ Tymon asked in puzzlement.

  ‘The Key,’ emphasised Laska. ‘The official title of the Nurian King.’ He frowned worriedly. ‘I might as well tell you right now, I’m against the idea. I think it’s unwise for you to know the true identity of the Kion, trust or no trust. You’re no threat to us but you’ve been in close contact with people who are. One day, they might find you. The information they would force out of you would be a blow to us, certainly, but the experience would be most devastating for you, I fear.’

  ‘Why?’ Tymon argued. He was beginning to recover from his encounter in the arena, to feel more like himself. ‘Why would it be worse for me, I mean? If everyone knows who the King is, wouldn’t any one of the Freeholders be just as much at risk?’

  Laska contemplated him in the shifting light of the torches.

  ‘Now that you know what you are, you ought to consider that there are others like you in the world,’ he said softly. ‘They may have greater ability and training, and they may be in the employ of the Council. Not only that: there are Beings in existence unbound by our human laws and limitations, whose power exceeds that of the mightiest Grafter. Not all are righteous. Not all are good. Someone with your untrained talent is particularly vulnerable to their attentions.’

  Tymon shivered. The night seemed to deepen about him as Laska spoke. Part of him was curious to know about such extraordinary Beings; he remembered that the scripture lessons he had been so eager to dismiss at the seminary contained references to sorcerers, as well as to the demonic powers they served. He wondered if the captain was referring to them. But Laska seemed unwilling to dwell on the subject. He suddenly smiled, and clapped the boy on the back.

  ‘In any case, the Kion’s wishes are clear,’ he declared. ‘All may yet be well. We’ll deal with any problems as they arise, and trust in the Sap—Sav vay, Argosi. Now, we’d best be getting on, or they’ll finish the feast without us!’

  He turned and strode up the path the villagers had taken. Tymon trudged after him in silence. He found that he was grateful not to talk any more, glad of a respite. It was simply too much to have his eyes opened to a whole new world and have to consider its denizens as well, both high and low. The intense emotions of the past few hours ebbed away; he felt suddenly very hungry, and very tired. He had eaten nothing since his midday meal.

  The night air was warm and dry about them. Many of the village dwellings favoured the north side of the promontory, and the twig-thickets above the path were filled with twinkling lights. Tymon could hear children talking excitedly, clattering along the high ramps and bridges between the houses. The Freehold seemed an altogether more pleasant place under cover of darkness, more attractive than it had been on his precipitous arrival. His spirits rose. Perhaps the people of Sheb were not such bad sorts. Perhaps they would welcome him, after all. Haunting strains of music carried towards him on the night breeze; over a hump in the path their source, and the destination of the crowd, became apparent. A large building was perched in the thickets directly overhead, its windows aflame with lamplight.

  At that moment he caught sight of a small, bent figure on the ramp leading up to the hall and forgot all other concerns. ‘Apu!’ he cried, hastening to Galliano’s side.

  The old man turned his ruined, beaming face on him. ‘Ah! Welcome back, boy!’ he said. ‘Not too shaken up, I hope? Sorry you had to go through all that trial business.’

  One of the Freeholders, a powerful man wearing a sooty workshop apron, was helping Galliano up the ramp. The scientist grinned blindly at the people making their way past him. Several greeted him politely in return.

  ‘After what happened to me, I was afraid they had arrested you, too!’ confided Tymon, falling into step with him.

  ‘Arrested me, eh? Why would they do that?’ scoffed his friend. ‘No, they just asked me to stay away from the trial. Unacceptable bias and all. I think they wanted to spare my fragile nerves. I told them I’d go on strike if they found you guilty, anyway. Come and tell me how it went. I presume well, otherwise you would not be here.’

  That evening, Tymon had the distinction of sharing the only table in the feast-hall with the leaders of Sheb. As was usual among the Nurians, there was little furniture in evidence in the highbeamed, airy dining hall. Most of the villagers served themselves from communal pots along one side of the room and gathered in informal groups on the floor, holding their plates on their laps. There were no chairs for the judges, either: they were installed cross-legged around the low table. Tymon sat crouched between Galliano and Laska at one corner, some distance away from Samiha. If the King was present, he was accorded no special honour or distinctive place in the company, as far as the boy could tell. He could not have decided which of the simply dressed villagers, or for that matter which of the judges was the Nurian sovereign in hiding. The leaders of the Freehold, once they removed their masks and gowns, were indistinguishable from the rest of the population.

  He spent most of the meal listening to Galliano’s often comical descriptions of the characters and ambitions of each of the judges. He learned that the stocky man, syor Kosta, was the judges’ Speaker, something analogous to the Dean in Argos. Kosta was the main backer for Galliano’s air-chariot production line, a responsibility he shared, surprisingly enough, with the thin, vociferous man, the syor Davil who had taken such exception to Tymon.

  ‘Davil’s a demagogue,’ shrugged the scientist dismissively when he heard Tymon’s account of the trial and the thin man’s accusations. ‘It pays in votes to take the hard line against Argosians—when they don’t offer you military advantages, that is. He’s an opportunist. He’ll bend any way the wind blows
.’

  Tymon’s description of the older woman, syora Gardan, elicited an admiring chuckle from his friend, however.

  ‘Now there’s a character,’ confided the old man. ‘I wish I had my eyes. You won’t find a sharper mind or a sharper beak in the roost. She’s the one you have to look out for, along with Kosta. Protect your brain-pans, gentlemen.’

  Gardan sat not far from them, on the other side of the table. As Galliano spoke, she glanced up and with uncanny accuracy caught Tymon’s gaze. Her eyes were bright and blue under a short crop of snow-white hair, and her smile did have something sharp about it, as if she were about to make a brisk reply. But she only leaned over the table and offered the boy a bowl of froggapples. He shook his head, squirming with embarrassment. He had already eaten and indeed drunk to his heart’s content, for despite the drought and general want in the Eastern Canopy—Galliano assured him that this was the first time they had tasted meat in a fortnight—the villagers had laid out a splendid feast in honour of their invisible king. No less than three roast shillees were served up on woven platters filled with gravy, and the side dishes brimmed with vegetables Tymon had not seen since he left Argos city. They were grown in special Tree cavities protected by ingenious methods from too much heat and sunlight, the scientist informed him proudly. Despite his caustic observations, the old man seemed to think a great deal of the Freeholders. He was more than willing to forgive them their exacerbated suspicion of outsiders and their flair for courtroom dramatics.

  ‘They gave me a bit of a scrubbing when I first came, too,’ he laughed. ‘Though any masks were wasted on me, I’m afraid! I must say I can’t top an accusation of murder. But they’re solid to the core, Tymon. As long as they feel you’re being entirely honest, they’ll come round and accept you, you’ll see. Frankly, I’d rather the accusations were out in the open like that. No sessions behind closed doors, like the Priests’ Council, don’t you know.’