The Boy from Ilysies

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The Boy from Ilysies Page 14

by Pearl North


  They followed their guide up a narrow alley between two buildings. She opened a door and led them into a dim, cool place that smelled of beer and wood shavings. As his eyes adjusted, Po found himself in a large room with numerous tables and a long counter along one wall. It was a tavern.

  Shuttered windows ran along the wall facing the street. Siblea and Po went to them and peered out through the cracks in their slats. The noise grew louder still, and then, rounding a corner three blocks away, came the oddest procession Po had ever seen. People dressed in dark robes much like their own carried odd, curving sheets of metal which they shook to make a noise like a thunderstorm. Their faces and hands were covered with spirals and curving lines, like songlines. Po started. They looked like the scar Haly bore on her face—the one everyone said Siblea had given her.

  After the people carrying the noisemakers came a group bearing a litter carved all over with words. On the litter sat a man upon a throne. The back of the throne was taller than he was, and worked to resemble a star burst.

  He held a book in his hand, from which he read in a voice loud enough to be heard even over the sounds of his retinue. At the sight of him, Siblea gasped. Po looked at him. He’d never seen Siblea so frightened. “Thescarion,” Siblea breathed. And then he looked back through the shutters. The others gathered around Po and Siblea. Breathless, they all watched as the procession passed.

  “What is it, Siblea?” asked Selene when the procession had disappeared and the noise had finally faded away. “What is going on?”

  “As to that, I have no idea, but I can tell you that that man”—he pointed out the window, his hand shaking—” was the most notorious criminal we ever had. He called himself the Lit King. He was caught harboring over a hundred and fifty books stashed all over the city. He had memorized them and was teaching his daughter to read—she’s the one who turned him in. Even after he was brought into custody, he kept trying to write down the books he’d memorized, using anything he could find for the task. He was without a doubt the most recalcitrant subject I ever encountered.” He turned to the young woman, who had gone behind the bar and was now pouring tankards of ale. “What is he doing out of prison?”

  She seemed to shrink in upon herself. “He led the revolt,” she replied, her voice little more than a whisper.

  “What revolt?” said Selene.

  The girl glanced up, and this time there was fire in her eyes. “Why do you dress like a priest?” She turned to Hilloa. “You, too.”

  The women shook their heads in confusion.

  “We are not priests in the sense you’re thinking of, my dear,” said Siblea in his most condescending tone. “We are members of the Chorus of the Word, come from the Libyrinth to spread the good news of the Redemption, and to do research for the benefit of all. Thank you for guiding us to safety. What is your name?”

  Po bristled at Siblea’s attitude but the young woman appeared to find comfort in it. “My name is Ayma, Censor. I…I remember you.” She risked a glance from beneath her brows at all of them. “Are you here to fight him?”

  “We are not here to fight,” said Selene. “We are here to learn and explore.”

  The girl gave Selene a stony look, then glanced at Siblea. Po got the distinct impression that she would not believe a word Selene said unless it was verified by Siblea. “We must come to an understanding of the situation before we can determine proper action,” said Siblea.

  “We have a mission,” Selene warned him.

  He gave an enigmatic nod. “Indeed. Now Ayma, what can you tell us about what has come to pass in the citadel since the exodus?”

  “I will tell you all I can, Censor.” She nodded to the mugs. “These are on the house. Please, sit, drink. My father kept the inn well-stocked with beer, but I’m afraid I have no food.”

  Baris grabbed a tankard and gulped it down, beer running from the corners of his mouth and down his chin. “Ahh. I’ve missed beer.”

  The others helped themselves and took seats at the tables. “Thank you, ma’am,” said Po. Ayma gave him a quizzical look.

  Po drank. The ale was tangy and bitter, rich with hops, refreshing and soothing and fortifying all at once. Ayma stood behind the bar, watching them as if awaiting an order for another round.

  “What happened here, Ayma?” said Siblea.

  Ayma seemed to return to herself at his words. “After everyone left for the Redemption, all the heretics, witches, and lits in the dungeon rose up. They killed their guards, and then they took over the city. The Lit King is their leader. Some of the people tried to fight them at first, but they were killed, too. Now we just try to stay out of their way.”

  “Isn’t it dangerous for you to be helping us, then?” asked Jan.

  She nodded. “But my father was one of the ones who fought.”

  Oh. Po looked about him. The tavern was large. Once it had been prosperous. Now it had a half-abandoned air about it.

  “Will they find us here?” said Selene.

  Ayma shrugged. “Maybe.”

  Selene raised her eyebrows. “Maybe? What kind of an answer is that?”

  Ayma’s nostrils flared. She looked at Selene as if the Libyrarian was something that had adhered to the sole of her shoe. “A good enough answer for one such as you. You may dress like a priest but that doesn’t make you one.”

  Selene’s eyes went wide and she opened her mouth to retort but Siblea cut her off. “Forgive me, Ayma,” he said, standing up. “I’ve quite forgotten my manners in the shock of all this. I should have introduced you to everyone properly. I am Siblea, not Censor Siblea any longer. As members of the Redeemed Community of the Libyrinth, we do not make distinctions of status among ourselves. If you feel you must use an honorific, ‘Libyrarian’ will suffice for any one of us. This is Selene. She was a Libyrarian long before I became one. She is very knowledgeable and deserving of your respect.”

  Ayma looked Selene up and down with a skeptical expression on her face.

  “The same goes for Hilloa, here. She is your own age, but brought up with the egalitarian expectations of the Libyrinth. She has no need to defer to any man here.”

  The glance Ayma gave Hilloa was less hostile and more speculative.

  “Baris was a subaltern here at one time, but he, too, has abandoned the notions of his culture of origin and regards women as equals.” The way Siblea looked at Baris as he spoke, Po got the sense that his words were as much a warning to Baris as a reassurance for Ayma. “Jan is an Ayorite, and Po here—you may find some common ground with Po. He was an Ilysian before—raised in a society where men serve women.”

  Ayma’s eyes widened at this. She seemed skeptical as she glanced Po’s way. He smiled and nodded to her, but she quickly glanced away. She looked about at them, saw them all looking at her, and blushed. “I don’t know what I can do to help you, but I’ll try.”

  “You can tell us more about the Lit King and what is happening in the citadel these days,” prompted Siblea.

  She nodded. “Well, the Lit King is in charge here now. He’s nothing more than a lit jailbird, and everyone knows it, but we’re afraid of him and his people, so we pretend to love books. His minions are everywhere. We’re not allowed to sing anymore. We’re all supposed to learn to read and write. That’s not going so well, because most of the instructors will get drunk first and forget. And if you get something wrong, that’s almost as bad as not being able to read at all.” She turned to Siblea, her eyes pleading. “I don’t understand, Censor. Books are evil, or they were. But we’re supposed to love books now. Which is it? Which is the truth?”

  “The Word has been Redeemed, and reunited with the Song, my dear. There is no longer any harm in literacy. In fact, it is to be encouraged.”

  “So he’s right. If we do not learn to read, we’ll be damned. I…I don’t know how to read.”

  “It’s not a question of damnation, Ayma. There is no damnation anymore.”

  Po saw clearly that she had a question, but did
not dare ask it. Instead, she picked up a rag and began to wipe down the bar with it.

  “What does the Lit King say about the Libyrinth?” Siblea asked her.

  “It is like paradise.”

  “And what about the Redemption?”

  “Any Redemption which he is not a part of, and which did not immolate all Singers in their own fires of purification is a false Redemption,” she recited, as if by rote.

  “What kind of control does he have over his followers?”

  Ayma shrugged. “Not much. He has most of the food, and he led them to freedom, so they obey him, or at least pretend to. They’re criminals, most of them. I don’t think all of them really believe in literacy the way he does.”

  Siblea nodded. “Not everyone we imprisoned was there for literacy or heresy. Some of them—most of them—were common miscreants.”

  “Siblea, all of this is beside the point. We need to get the bloom and go, as quickly as possible,” said Selene.

  “And leave innocents such as this at the mercy of an unruly mob of criminals? What would our Redeemer say to that?”

  “She won’t say anything if she’s dead of starvation before we get back.”

  “Besides,” said Hilloa, “what can we do? We are only six people.”

  “That is as it may be. If this young girl can defy this tyrant, then there must be others here who will also stand against him,” said Siblea.

  At these words, Ayma looked up, eyes shining.

  Selene stood up. “Siblea, we have our own community to think about. You’re getting sidetracked.”

  “Endymion’s rose is an old wive’s tale,” said Siblea. “If there is aid for the Libyrinth here, it is in the technologies of the citadel. In order to make use of those, we must deal with this usurper.” He turned to Ayma again. “Where does he make his lair?”

  Ayma, clearly frightened, said, “The T-t-temple of Yammon, sir.”

  Siblea and Baris both drew in long, rasping breaths.

  In the ensuing silence, Selene groaned. “All of that is beside the point. We have a mission to accomplish.”

  “What is your mission?” said Ayma. Unlike the lowered eyes and soft tone she employed when speaking to the men, she looked directly at Selene, and her words were blunt, almost confrontational. “We thought we were forsaken. Now you are here, but not…” Now she glanced at Siblea and hesitated. “Not to save us, just yet.”

  “We seek an object that may make life better for everyone. It is called the Lion’s Bloom,” said Selene.

  “Or Endymion’s rose,” added Jan.

  Ayma colored. She stared so hard at the surface of the bar Po half expected twin holes to appear in the polished wood. “I’m sorry. You are quite right to rebuke me. I should not question wise ones such as yourselves. It’s just that after the Lit King rose up, we thought the Redeemed had forsaken us.”

  “No,” said Siblea. “We have not forsaken you. We will help you.”

  “Siblea…,” Selene began, in warning.

  Siblea stood. “We will stay here tonight, and tomorrow we can take a look around the city, get the lay of the land.”

  “And search for the rose,” stressed Selene.

  Siblea gave a noncommittal tilt of his head. “Of course. And of course we may find other things that may aid our cause in the process.”

  Selene sighed. “We’ll talk more about this, Siblea.” She yawned. “I’m going to turn in.”

  “Me too,” said Hilloa. “Just think—a real bed!”

  Selene, Hilloa, and Siblea filed upstairs. Po, Baris, and Jan remained. Jan pulled out a book and began to read. Baris reached into his knapsack and drew out a salted roll. Po, who couldn’t seem to stop staring at Ayma, caught the look on her face when she saw the food. He remembered her apologizing for not having any food to give them. She caught herself and turned to pour them more beer.

  “Here,” he said, taking a roll and a jar of peabea from his own bag. “In return for the ale,” he said, placing them on the bar.

  She licked her lips at the sight of the food, then glanced up at him, a question in her eyes. He smiled, and bowed his head. “Please. It would be my honor.”

  After a long pause, she reached out slowly, as if anticipating some trick, and took the food. “Thank you.”

  “She’ll be eating something else later tonight,” said Baris with a laugh.

  As usual, his words made little sense, but it was clear from his tone that they were meant as disrespect to their host. Po whirled around and charged Baris, grabbing him by the front of the robe. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Baris dropped his roll on the floor but rallied with a sickly grin. “She’s a tavern slut, Po, come on. I know you’re all into venerating women, and I’m trying to be understanding about it, but a girl like that—she’s beneath you. At least, she wants to be.”

  It took him a second to get the joke. Po shoved Baris back into his seat, confusion robbing him of the thrill of righteous anger. Baris was saying that Ayma wanted him for a consort. Was that true? Baris also seemed to be saying that it was contemptible that Ayma should want him. So who was Baris insulting—Po or Ayma? Or both of them? What was the point in trying to unravel it? He settled for an all-purpose warning. “You leave her alone.”

  For some reason this made Baris laugh even harder, wheezing as he bent to retrieve his roll. Po turned his back on him and returned to the bar, where Ayma ate with urgent efficiency. She shrank back as he approached, fear in her eyes. It made him want to die. Why was she afraid of him? “Would you like another ale, sir?” she said.

  “No thank you, ma’am.” He’d had two already and he wasn’t used to drinking. There was a warm buzzing sensation in his head and chest, not altogether unpleasant, but a bit strange. “Please, keep eating. Have all you want.”

  He could not for the life of him decipher the look she gave him then, but she did reach forward, slowly, and took the food back.

  “She thinks you’re buying her, Po,” said Baris.

  “Buying her what?” he asked, and Baris and Jan laughed. They were no help.

  When Ayma finished eating, she looked up at him solemnly with her big, dark eyes, and asked, “Would you like me to show you to your room, sir?”

  Po smiled. “Yes, ma’am.”

  As he followed her up the stairs, he heard Baris and Jan laughing. They were jealous that she was paying attention to him. Po smiled.

  Ayma took him to an empty room furnished with a bed and a chest of drawers. Shutters closed off a window opposite the door. It was dark out now, only a little starlight filtered in through the slats. Ayma lit a candle on the chest of drawers, then stood looking at him, an uncertain expression on her face.

  “Thank you for letting us stay here.” Po looked at the bed. “It’s big,” he said. “Do you mean for me to sleep here by myself?”

  She shook her head. “No, of course not. I…I wasn’t sure if you…Of course.” He waited for her to tell him he’d be sharing with Jan, or Baris, or both, but instead she sat down on the bed. Her head still bowed, she gave him a sidelong look. “You are Ilysian,” she said.

  Po nodded. “I was, before I joined the community at the Libyrinth,” he explained.

  “Are you very different from other men?”

  “I don’t know. Our ideas about women and men are very different from yours.”

  “I’ve heard that in Ilysies, the women are in control of everything.”

  “I guess.”

  “So, you are like a woman, then?”

  That wasn’t how he wanted her to think of him. He shrugged. “I’m male, but…I probably have more in common with a citadel woman like you than with any of the men here.”

  She laughed and her smile reached her eyes as she gazed at him. For a moment, the sun was shining in the middle of the night. She looked down again, the smile still curling at the corners of her mouth, like a sleeping cat. She reached up and undid the tie of her blouse. “But still, you buy a woman.”


  “What?!” Shock made Po back away. Baris’s words came back to him, and with them, a chill flood of understanding. She thinks you’re buying her. There was no “what” missing from that sentence. He’d meant her. Buying her, like a slave. She did not want him. She offered herself to him in exchange for the food he’d given her. It was repulsive past anything Po had imagined possible.

  She shook her head, clearly panicking as much as he was. As she sat up, her blouse gaped open and he saw one of her breasts, heavy as cream. “I’m sorry! Sir, sir, I’m sorry!”

  “What? No! I don’t…Buy? You?”

  Her look became pleading. “Please. I like you very much. I don’t mean to offend you. I only thought…You gave me food!”

  Po felt ill. “There’s been a mistake.”

  She hurriedly tied her blouse up again. “You don’t want me.”

  “I do! But I don’t buy you. I gave you the food because you were hungry, that’s all. It wasn’t payment. I can’t pay a woman to make me her consort—that’s…that’s just wrong. I thought you wanted me.”

  She stared at him in silence for a moment. “I’m sorry. I don’t know Ilysian men. I meant no offense.”

  He nodded. “Okay. I’m not offended. Don’t be afraid, please. I would never hurt you.”

  She nodded. “You fought the blond Singer because he offered me insult. And the way you watch me. I think you still want me, si—Po.”

  “You’re beautiful.”

  She smiled and leaned back on the bed, tilting her chin and pushing her breasts up. “You can still have me. It doesn’t have to be because of the food.”

  Po swallowed. He was aflame for her, but…“But do you want me?”

  “Of course. You’re strong and kind. You’ll protect me from the others….” She paused, biting her lip. “And when you leave, you can take me with you.”

 

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