The Boy from Ilysies

by Pearl North

  The lit who had struck her was borne along also. He raised his rifle again and she thrust her mind lancet into his midsection. With an abbreviated scream, he went down beneath the pounding feet of the mob.

  When they reached the gates there was no more than a five-foot gap remaining. Ayma was terrified that the press of the mob would push them closed and crush them all against the wall. A tall man leaned past her and grasped the edge of one of the gates, then pulled it back.

  “Back up! Back up!” Ayma cried, and the people around them pushed back against the oncoming rush, providing a momentary gap in the crowd. Ayma scrambled around the edge of the door, pushing on it while the man pulled, and others around her flowed though and past her and took on the members of the Lit King’s mob who were struggling to pull the doors closed.

  Others did the same with the other gate, and soon both doors were pressed flush against the walls and the mob poured through the gate, overwhelming the Lit King’s people, who now fled before them.

  “To the dungeons!” Ayma cried, pelting across the cobblestones toward the central tower. People scattered before them.

  Ahead she saw one of the lits who had given her food. He tried to hide in the space between a pillar and a wall, and the rest of them might have run right past without seeing him, but she had spotted a ring with keys at his waist. She spun around the pillar and seized the keys. She tore them from the cord that attached them to his sash. He stared at her, pale and sweating. She knew he did not know her. Did not remember. She jabbed him in the solar plexus with the butt end of the mind lancet, and as he doubled over, she ran on.

  26

  Mab

  When the Lit King entered the room by the secret door, Po launched himself at him. He wasn’t about to wait to see what he planned to do to Hilloa or to him. He’d done plenty already. Clutching the chain that bound his wrists in both hands, Po swung it across the man’s face. It connected with a dull thud and the man’s breath left him in a soft gasp.

  Behind the Lit King, Mab stood framed in the doorway. Their eyes met and she smiled, stepped back, and shut the door on them all.

  The Lit King grabbed Po by the hair, dragged him forward, and kneed him in the groin. Po doubled over, retching. A sharp pain to the back of his head made dark spots swim before his eyes. By the time he managed to straighten up again, the Lit King was on Hilloa, pushing her back against the wall, one hand around her throat. Her eyes glittered and sweat gleamed on her face.

  Po took the rage that filled him and tamped it down into a solid ball in his midsection, glowing with purpose. He picked up the chain between his feet so that it would not clink as he crept forward.

  “She wants to know about the rose,” the Lit King said to Hilloa, his face very close to hers. “But I know that’s just an old woman’s tale.” He chuckled. “Still, it will be fun, convincing him to talk.” His hand on Hilloa’s throat flexed and she gasped for air. Po knew she’d seen him, but she didn’t glance at him, not even now, as he rose up behind the Lit King and lifted the chain that bound his wrists.

  In one smooth movement he swung the chain up and over the other man’s head, pulling back hard.

  The Lit King gurgled, then threw his head back. Po dodged the attempted head butt and used the opportunity of the man’s head being thrown back to loop another pass of the chain around his neck. He jerked the ends tight. The Lit King scrabbled at the chain, attempting to pry it loose, but it was too late. Po had him now.

  “Po!” cried Hilloa. “Stop this! You’re killing him.”

  Po shook his head and kept his grip firm on the chain, bearing the frantic kicks against his legs. The Lit King made a sound like a loose-sprung wagon on a cobblestone road.

  “Po!” shouted Hilloa. “Let him go! We’re redeemed people. We don’t kill.”

  So this was what it was like to disobey a woman. It seemed funny to him that Hilloa was upset about his defiance of an entirely different principle from the one that truly presented a challenge to him. But the look that she gave him made him go cold inside. He had to do this, though, didn’t he?

  As the Lit King’s struggles became more feeble, Hilloa took one step toward them, then halted, her hand in midair. What would he do if she tried to free the man? If she opposed him physically? How far was he willing to go with this newfound independence? He tightened his hands on the chain and pulled them even tighter, feeling the muscles in his arms and back strain and tear.

  The Lit King shuddered and went limp. Hilloa looked at him with a funny expression on her face, some mix of horror and relief. He wanted to ask her if he was really her consort, but he knew it was the wrong question.

  She went to the door. “Come on,” she said, not meeting his eyes now.

  He dropped the Lit King, who sprawled lifeless on the floor, and followed her through the hidden passageway.

  When they got to the dungeon, Ayma stuck the over sized key ring in the crack of the door and slammed it shut, breaking the ring. She pried apart the jagged ends and started handing out keys to people as they passed through the doorway. “Open all the cells,” she said. The hallway between the cells quickly filled with milling, confused people as the citizens searched the doors for the lock that matched their key, and the inmates who had already been liberated wandered out looking dazed.

  There was one key left on the ring. Ayma worked her way down the rows of cells, trying each unopened lock in turn. At last she felt the click of tumblers turning and the heavy iron padlock on the door to a cell at the far end of the dungeon sprang open. She heaved the heavy bar off its brackets and pushed the door open.

  Inside were Censor Siblea, Baris, Jan, and Selene. No Po. She unlocked their shackles. The censor struggled to get to his feet. Baris supported him by one hand. Ayma took his other hand, which was hot and crusty with scars. He hissed as her fingers grazed the wounds. She moved her grip to his upper arm, helping Baris hoist him up. He trembled. Ayma exchanged glances with Baris behind the censor’s back. He shook his head. Not good.

  For the first time since she’d grabbed a mind lancet in midswing this morning, she wondered what to do next. She hadn’t thought beyond getting the chorus out of prison. “Where’s Po?” she asked the censor.

  He didn’t answer. His head bowed, he seemed to be concentrating very hard on remaining upright.

  “They took him and Hilloa away just before all hell broke loose. To interrogate them, we think,” said Selene.

  Ayma’s stomach clenched.

  “We have to get him out of here,” said Baris, meaning the censor. “Someplace safe, where he can rest.”

  She stared at him wide-eyed. He spoke to her as if he expected her to know what to do.

  “We have to find Po and Hilloa,” said Selene. “If…what’s going on, an uprising?”

  Ayma nodded. “They’re attacking and killing the Lit King’s people. It’s a good thing you still have on the clothes I gave you. You don’t want to be caught in a robe right now.”

  Outside in the hallway, the crowd thinned out as the other cells emptied and people headed upstairs.

  “The third tower,” whispered Censor Siblea.

  Ayma and Baris leaned closer. “What?”

  “If the Lit King is questioning them, they’ll be in the third tower. I know the way.”

  “But—”

  He shook his head. “With your help, I can manage.”

  The little group surrounded Siblea and they made their way out of the cell and down the hallway. It was slow going. At the stairs, they could hear the sounds of fighting above.

  “Maybe we should stay here until things quiet down,” said Baris.

  Siblea, Selene, and Jan all shook their heads. “No,” said Siblea. “Carry me.”

  “But your wounds,” said Ayma. She’d seen enough to know he’d been cut on his back, his chest…

  “What’s more pain now? We’ll move faster and we’ll all be safer.”

  Baris, solidly built beneath his layer of fat, hoiste
d Siblea into his arms. They hurried up the steps. Jan cracked open the door at the top and peered out.

  “We want the doorway directly opposite this one,” said Siblea, his voice faint and tense.

  Jan nodded. There was a pause during which they heard a roar of voices and several screams. Jan’s face went pale. “Seven Tales, they’re slaughtering one another,” he said. “We have to stop this.”

  “After we find Po and Hilloa,” said Selene.

  A moment later, Jan said, “Now!” and pushed the door open.

  The once pristine marble floor of the rotunda was awash with blood. Several bodies lay around the place. The doors to the courtyard stood open and people were still fighting out there. The smell of smoke billowed in at them as the wind changed direction.

  “What set this off?” Baris wondered aloud.

  “The Lit King’s mob came to the marketplace. I…We fought them and things just kind of kept going from there,” said Ayma.

  Censor Siblea gave her a piercing look. She was shocked to see a small smile curve his lips.

  “They’ll destroy the whole citadel if they keep it up,” said Baris.

  “No,” said Siblea. “Just the Lit King’s mob.”

  “Hurry!” said Selene, and they ran the rest of the way to the third tower.

  But just as they were about to open it, a panel opened in the wall behind one of the pillars. She hadn’t even known there was a door there. Ayma tensed and reached out to Baris to warn him, but then Po and Hilloa stepped out of the dark opening.

  Yammon’s tonsils, what had they done to him? Though she couldn’t see a mark on him, Po had the same haunted, pain-ridden air about him as the censor did. He appeared thinner, but that could just have been the dark circles under his eyes, the haggard set of his mouth. She remembered how her father had looked, those last days of his life when the fight against the Lit King was going badly and they were closing in on him. Po had that look now, as if everything were closing in on him from all directions, but when he saw her that all went away and he smiled. “You’re okay.”

  There was a loud explosion from the courtyard and a wave of people, lits and citizens alike, came rushing into the rotunda. “In there!” said Selene, and she pointed to the secret door. They piled inside, finding themselves in a landing at the bottom of a staircase, lit softly by skylights far above them in the gloom.

  Po and Hilloa were both in chains. Ayma still had the key she’d used to free the chorus. She found that it unlocked their shackles as well. Meanwhile, the others surrounded them with greetings and questions.

  “Po! Hilloa!” said Selene, embracing them each in turn. “Are you all right?”

  “What happened to you?” asked Jan, his brow creased. “Did the Lit King—”

  “The Lit King is dead,” said Po in a flat voice. A look passed between him and Hilloa.

  “You killed him,” said Ayma, grinning, certain it was true.

  Po blinked at her, seemingly lost between her expression and the bleak look Hilloa wore. He nodded.

  A sigh went through the others. There seemed to be a variety of reactions to this news, from Selene’s thoughtful sadness to Jan’s discomfort to Siblea’s exhausted relief and Baris’s grim satisfaction.

  “How did you get out of the cell?” asked Hilloa, and then glanced at Ayma. “When did you get here?”

  “Ayma started a revolution,” Siblea said with a note of pride that warmed her through and through, though what he said was not strictly true.

  “I beg your pardon, Censor,” she said, “but it was you, not me. You got the people thinking of all we’ve lost. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

  Hilloa seemed to throw off some of her preoccupation and gave Ayma a wry smile. “Much the same can be said for many a pivotal figure of history.”

  That gave Ayma a strange feeling that only became stronger when she noticed the way Jan, Baris, and Censor Siblea were looking at her. Uncertain how to react, she looked to Po, who gave her an encouraging smile and then swayed on his feet. She and Hilloa steadied him. His arm was warm across her shoulders, and she could feel him trembling. “He tortured you, too, somehow,” she said.

  The others exchanged glances. They knew something about that and she would have it from them, but—

  “Forget about that now,” said Po. “The important thing is we’re all okay. Do you…” He hesitated, as if he wasn’t sure he could bear the answer. “Do you still have the pen?”

  “Yes!” she said. “I almost forgot, with everything that’s happened. She pulled the satchel from its hiding place in her dress and hung the strap around his neck. “I kept it safe for you.”

  They smiled at each other and for a moment she felt as if it were just the two of them, like that night in the kitchen of her father’s tavern.

  “The pen?” said Selene.

  Po nodded and fumbled in the satchel and withdrew the pen. “Endymion’s rose,” he said, handing it to Selene. “It’s not a terra-forming device. It’s a pen. A pen for rewriting reality.”

  Selene turned it over in her hands. The dim light in the stairwell gleamed off its long, graceful lines. “How does it work?”

  “You write what you want in the air, and it comes true.”

  “But you have to be careful,” said Ayma. “We tried it once and it didn’t work so well.”

  “Was that what happened, when all the vines broke through the floor and then disappeared again?” said Jan. “We thought we were going to be able to escape, but…”

  At a glance from Siblea, Jan subsided, but not before they all saw the look on Po’s face.

  “Sorry,” said Jan. “You couldn’t have known.”

  “So be careful what you wish for, huh?” said Selene. “Well…”

  “What do we do now?” said Baris.

  “We need to find the food the Lit King has been hoarding, and start redistributing it,” said Siblea.

  Selene nodded at this, and looked speculatively at the device in her hand. “What if we write, ‘The location of the food the Lit King has hoarded is written on the wall in front of us’?”

  “I can show you where the food is,” said a voice.

  Po turned to see Mab, the old woman who had attended the Lit King’s interrogations, standing a few steps above them in the gloom. His heart sank. He was so tired, and he hurt, and he’d thought, when he and Hilloa found the others just now, that he might be done with things he didn’t know how to cope with.

  “Why would you help us?” demanded Selene.

  “Our leader is dead. The people of the citadel are overrunning us. You’re right—the best way to put an end to all this fighting is to give the food back.”

  The rest of them all looked at one another, uncertain.

  “As you may recall, Selene, under circumstances such as these, pragmatists can make good allies,” said Siblea.

  Po knew he was referring to the role he played prior to the Redemption. Still, Selene looked uncertain. “It could be a trap. She knows about the ro—the pen.”

  “I’m an old woman, and I’ve been in prison a long time. When the Lit King overthrew the guards, what was I to do? I’m glad he’s been overthrown in turn.”

  The others seemed mollified but Selene still frowned. “I don’t know,” she said. “I have a funny feeling about this.”

  “Then we had best keep an eye on her,” said Siblea. “We’ll keep her with us and pursue our own course.”

  Selene held the pen between her thumb and forefinger and spoke as she traced the words “The location of the unconsumed food stolen by the Lit King will appear written on the wall in front of me, in Old Earth English, right now.”

  Those who had not seen it before gasped as the bud at the end of the pen opened and the little golden lights drifted into the air. Po looked at their faces, lit by the glow, alight with wonder.

  When the lights faded and disappeared, Ayma raised her mind lancet. In its ghostly blue light, they saw words
on the wall. “The unconsumed food the Lit King stole is in the storehouse above the main kitchen of the temple,” the words read.

  “Okay then, let’s go,” said Hilloa.

  “What about her?” said Selene. “She knows about the pen.”

  Mab held up her hands. “Please don’t hurt me. I only wanted to help you.”

  “We won’t hurt you,” said Hilloa.

  “Stay with us,” said Jan, moving to her side. “We’ll keep you safe.”

  Hilloa took the old woman’s other arm. Baris picked up Siblea again. Selene opened the door and looked out. “All clear,” she said, and took the lead.

  They made a funny-looking group, walking out across the rotunda: Siblea in Baris’s arms and Hilloa and Jan escorting Mab, each with a hand on her shoulder, not so much compelling as guiding and watching. Po looked at Ayma. She held out her hand. He took it, and they followed the others.

  The courtyard between the main temple and the out-buildings, including the kitchen and storehouse, was awash with chaos. Those of the Lit King’s people who were still alive fled in the direction of the main gate, chased by angry citizens waving weapons that ranged from mind lancets to pitchforks. More bodies lay fallen, and the wounded attempted to crawl.

  A loud crack came from the far end of the courtyard. “The stables,” said Siblea. Someone had broken the lock on the doors, opened the stalls, and let loose all the animals. Frightened by the noise and the smell of blood, elephants, horses, cows, sheep, and goats all stampeded toward the gates. A number of enterprising citizens pursued them, attempting to corral a few for themselves.

  When the wave of animal and human bodies cleared and the courtyard was passable once more, they found a crowd of people with torches surrounding the kitchen outbuilding.

  “No!” shouted Siblea. Selene ran across the courtyard and the others followed, with Baris, still carrying Siblea, lagging far behind.

  “Stop!” cried Selene. “No! The food is in there!”

  This caused them to hesitate, but the man who seemed to be in charge of the group—at least, people were coming up to him to ignite their makeshift torches—looked her up and down dismissively. “And who are you and how do you know that?”