Samiha's Song

by Mary Victoria

  ‘Opening hours are marked on the door,’ snapped the curved mouth, as the parrot eyes surveyed Nightside and Tymon. The madam could have been of any origin — Lantrian, Nurian, even Argosian for she spoke the language well enough. It was impossible to tell under the paint.

  ‘If you can’t read I suggest asking around …’ she continued, then fell abruptly silent as Tymon undid his sling, and the Oracle stepped down onto the floor. The eyes beneath the make-up widened, became human.

  ‘Greetings, Esamelda,’ said the Oracle.

  All of the painted woman’s spite drained away at the sight of the child. Slowly and with peculiar grace, like a greatship coming to harbour, she knelt on the floor of the cabin and removed the elaborate wig she had been wearing, exposing the wispy strands on her bald skull. She bowed to the little girl just as Nightside had done on the galleries, and Jan before him. The Oracle laid a tiny hand on her vast forehead.

  ‘Sav vay, old friend,’ she observed. ‘It’s time to repay your debt.’

  ‘I bring sick man here last night,’ added Nightside. ‘Chiara take him.’

  ‘Yes,’ breathed the madam, swaying upwards again and replacing her tower of hair. There was a faraway look on her face. ‘Yes, she did. She told me. It’s an honour to help the Oracle’s friends, whomever they may be.’

  As she said this, her eyes came to rest on Tymon. For an instant they glinted with the provocative spirit she had shown before. But she only observed: ‘The stranger was in a bad way. We did our best for him. Come with me.’

  She led them through a door at the back of the cabin, down some steps and into a corridor filled with the stale odour of sweat and smoke. Beyond the green and blue parlour the amenities of the brothel were basic. On either side of the corridor that ran down the length of the old ship’s hull opened thinly partitioned cubicles, each one equipped with a curtain of hanging beads and a threadbare mattress of straw. A few of the occupants lifted their tousled heads to peer through the beads as they walked by, but many did not. The rooms, Tymon noticed uneasily, were rank with som. He tried to tell himself that this was better than the slum under the garbage sacks as he followed the quivering form of Esamelda to the last cubicle on the right.

  He did not immediately recognise the man on the shabby mattress in the middle of the room. There was a long moment of shock in which he stood staring down at the mangled form under the blanket. Could this be Laska, Speaker of the Freehold? The person on the bed seemed emaciated, old and broken. His face was discoloured with bruises and drained by fever. Only when he opened his cracked lips and murmured Tymon’s name did the young man crouch down beside him, and take his hand in his own, blinking back tears.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ was all he could manage to say. ‘I’m so sorry, Laska.’

  ‘There’s no need for you to apologise,’ whispered the captain. ‘You’ve done nothing wrong.’

  Then a wheeze of laughter escaped his lips. ‘Except that you do smell awful. Where is Jedda? And where in the Tree have you been?’

  It was then, sitting in the squalid brothel and trying to explain the events of the past two days to Laska, that Tymon began to truly miss Samiha; not just the warmth and comfort of her love, but something indomitable in her very being, the part of her that rallied under pressure and never surrendered. The kingly part, he thought. The capacity she had to give strength and inspiration to others no matter how terrible the conditions. He was surrounded by people who had nothing left to give, whose strength was employed in survival. Laska took the news of Jedda’s defection hard, closing his eyes and turning his face to the stained mattress, as if this blow were worse than any beating he had received from the soldiers. Nightside brooded in a corner of the room, wrapped in his own grief. The Oracle sat as she had on the first evening in the mine, slack-faced and distant, engaged in some internal struggle Tymon could only guess at.

  She shielded Nurian Grafters from the Council’s sorcerers, he knew that much. She had told him so briefly on their way back from Cherk Harbour — told him to expect her departure from time to time, when the strain of maintaining the link with Lai and performing her own duties as guardian of Nur became too great. It was she who stood between the priests and total domination. It was she who kept young, inexperienced Grafters shielded from their interference and influence. While the Focals had been active in Marak she had had help. Now she was alone. What he had earlier taken for mindless subservience in those around her was a profound respect. She was their protector and defender. And it was his part, he was beginning to understand, to protect and defend her.

  ‘Syor,’ he said to Laska, after the long silence that succeeded his account. ‘What do we do? The Governor will find us here sooner or later.’

  It was heart-rending to watch the injured man open his eyes and struggle to speak.

  ‘Do?’ he muttered. ‘Do exactly what you’ve been doing. You’re managing admirably. Keep going. Follow the Oracle’s instructions. Go somewhere safe and finish your studies.’

  ‘What about you?’ Tymon pointed out gently. ‘You can’t stay here. We have to get you back to the Freehold.’

  ‘I don’t see how, without the Lyla.’

  ‘We could go on foot. There are branch-paths leading out of Cherk Harbour, right? We could make a bier and carry you.’

  ‘Ridiculous!’ coughed Laska. ‘It would take months to get to the Freehold that way, in the depths of winter. Without good provisions and with an invalid slowing you down you’ll all die of exposure. You can’t help me. You should concentrate on your studies.’

  ‘He could do both, syor, if the Sap wills.’ The Oracle’s fluting tones interrupted them; she fixed her bright blue gaze on the captain.

  ‘I cannot bow to you, Ama,’ responded Laska, his voice slow and painful. ‘I’m ashamed. I came far to hear your words. But I don’t see how in this case … on foot …’

  ‘We might have other means of transport. Might we not, Esamelda?’

  The Oracle turned to the formidable madam who had just re-entered the room, bearing a pot of yosha and, to Tymon’s great delight, a tray of steaming dumplings.

  ‘We might,’ conceded Esamelda as she offered the tray to her guests.

  ‘How?’ asked Tymon, scalding his tongue as well as his fingers in his haste to swallow one of the savoury bundles.

  He felt like he had not eaten a proper meal in a week. Beside him Nightside consumed searing hot dumplings at a prodigious rate as if his mouth were made of wood. Only the Oracle seemed uninterested in food, smiling up at Esamelda.

  ‘I believe we’ll need it sooner rather than later,’ she continued evenly to their host. ‘One of your girls has paid a visit to her soldier sweetheart. Our visit is about to be cut short.’

  A volley of knocks resounded on the front door before the madman could answer.

  ‘Open up! Open up in the name of the law!’ cried a voice, sending a shiver of unpleasant recall through Tymon.

  ‘Chiara,’ muttered Esamelda, rolling her eyes heavenward. ‘I should have known.’ Nightside stuffed down his last dumpling with a stricken face.

  The madam took immediate charge of the situation. ‘You two.’ She beckoned to Tymon and Nightside. ‘Carry your friend here. I’ve locked the front door: we have a few mintues. Follow me and be as quiet as you can. There’s a trapdoor in my parlour. You’ll come out on the underside of the Widow, into an escape balloon. It should be big enough for the four of you and it has enough ether to get you out of the city. I don’t know how long it’ll last after that.’

  ‘I’ll be right there,’ she sang out to the soldiers, as she swept down the corridor. ‘Just a minute.’

  The two young people ignored Laska’s whispered pleas to leave him behind and lifted him between them into the corridor. Several of the Widow‘s employees poked their heads through the beads to blink curiously at them as they walked by. They stared open-mouthed at the tiny Oracle.

  ‘Open up or we’ll break it!’ bellowed the voice from th
e deck. There was a resounding blow on the cabin door.

  ‘Give a lady a moment to make herself presentable,’ trilled Esamelda, kicking the blue and green cushions of her boudoir out of place.

  The trapdoor under the parlour opened to reveal a dizzying glimpse of the fissure floor. A balloon basket swayed on a system of cables beneath, its single ether sack hanging empty. The basket would have to be winched to the side of the Widow to give the balloon enough headroom to inflate. Tymon and Nightside breathlessly lowered Laska and the Oracle through the trap as the front door to the cabin shuddered with the guards’ blows. Tymon was the last to descend into the basket. He had just pulled his head through the hatchway when the cabin door splintered and burst open. The trap slammed shut almost on his fingers, creaking in protest as cushions and Esamelda’s bulk descended firmly upon it.

  ‘Gentlemen.’ Her muffled voice could be heard through the floorboards. ‘You didn’t have to do that.’

  ‘You’re harbouring known dissidents,’ barked an unseen soldier. ‘One of your own workers has testified against you. Your premises are to be searched.’

  ‘Goodness me! I wouldn’t believe everything you hear my girls say,’ chuckled Esamelda. ‘They have a fondness for attention.’

  Nightside was already busy winching the basket on its cable toward the side of the Widow. Tymon pulled the neck of the empty sack over the central brace and connected it to a small ether barrel, wincing as a hiss of gas escaped the nozzle. The quantity was not great however, and the sound was lost in the tramp of booted feet above as the soldiers searched the ship. Outraged female voices shrieked from the cubicles as the tramping boots travelled the length of the corridor. The pale silken envelope of the balloon billowed out sideways.

  ‘You will pay a fine,’ snapped the first soldier, who had remained behind in the parlour with Esamelda. ‘Your licence will be revoked.’

  Tymon expelled a pent-up breath as the basket reached the end of the cable and the sack swelled to its full extent, climbing up the curved hull of the Merry Widow. Cautiously, he unhooked the final tether keeping the balloon tied to the mother ship. Nightside used a short pole on the floor of the basket to push them free.

  ‘That would be a shame. Can’t we come to some arrangement?’ the madam tittered, as they drifted out of earshot.

  Silently, at the mercy of the wind, they bobbed out from beneath the ship and floated across the air-harbour. The midday sun had disappeared and clouds gathered above the open top of the branch that sheltered the city. The Governor’s mansion was obscured by flurries of mist. The balloon rose with frustrating slowness, gliding north and east over the quays.

  ‘Captain!’ cried the shrill tones of a girl. ‘Outside! They’re escaping!’

  A young woman wrapped in a black shawl ran up the Widow‘s ramp, waving to the men who peered out of the cabin door. ‘The balloon!’ she called, pointing upwards.

  ‘Ay, Chiara,’ said Nightside, shaking his head in disappointment.

  Soldiers poured from the ship, brandishing their hardwood pikes, but the balloon was already too high for them to reach. Someone shouted for crossbows. A more authoritative voice ordered everyone on board a vessel named the Hawk’s Eye.

  ‘We have to move faster,’ observed the Oracle to Tymon. ‘The wind’s against us.’

  Tymon peered at the nozzle on the ether barrel, steadily releasing its flow of gas. It was only half open. He twisted it as far as it would go and watched anxiously as the balloon picked up speed, drifting through the empty heart of the branch. The wind was indeed blowing them away from the gap on the south side of the fissure and closer to the back wall. Their only hope was to reach the top. They had left the level of the market and warehouses and were floating past the more genteel residences when a dim shout echoed from below. A sleek grey dirigible had detached itself from the docks and was gaining on them rapidly.

  ‘We need more speed,’ said the Oracle, urgent.

  Tymon struggled with the ether nozzle. He was sure it could have opened further, but it had warped and remained stubbornly stuck at the two-thirds mark. Something the size and shape of a fast-moving bird whistled past his ear. He glanced down in dismay to see crossbow archers on the deck of the grey dirigible.

  ‘One of those in the sack and we’re lost,’ gasped Laska, slumped on the floor of the basket. ‘I strongly suggest you drop me overboard. I’m slowing you down.’

  No one paid any attention to his request. Another whizzing bolt clipped a corner of the basket, burying itself in the wicker siding. The Oracle squatted down and worked it loose with her small hands.

  ‘Three,’ she murmured to herself.

  ‘Come … on … you … damned … to root … thing …’ grunted Tymon, tugging at the nozzle dial. It came off in his trembling fingers and he groaned an oath.

  ‘Two,’ breathed the Oracle.

  Tymon saw in growing panic that they were drifting too close to the back wall of the fissure. The Governor’s palace appeared ahead of them through the mist; the wind would blow them straight into it, if the soldiers did not shoot them down first. Laska struggled to his feet, gripping the sides of the basket, his face ashen.

  ‘One,’ whispered the Oracle, bowing her head.

  Tymon felt the ghastly tearing, ripping noise that went through the balloon like a mortal blow. His eyes jerked up to see the ether sack already shrinking, trailing shards of torn silk. Before he could speak, or even cry out, Nightside leapt nimbly onto the basket rim, one arm hooked about the ropes holding the ether sack in place. The Nurian youth gripped handfuls of silk and knotted the pieces of the haemorrhaging balloon together. Impossibly, the little vessel flew with renewed buoyancy, straight up in the air.

  Only when Tymon looked down again in search of the enemy ship did he realise that the Oracle was alone on the floor, and Laska was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Green God, no,’ he gasped, hurling himself to the side of the basket, to stare in anguish at the depths of the fissure. ‘I beg you, no.’

  There was no sign of the falling figure or the enemy vessel below. The balloon lifted lightly over the spines of the Governor’s palace and the top of the fissure. Soon, it was lost in the misty reaches of the open canopy.

  11

  It’s hard, looking back, not to blame ourselves when things go wrong, thought Samiha. As if we controlled everything. As if we were always in charge.

  ‘Freedom is knowing when you’re not in charge,’ remarked Ash, as if she had spoken aloud. ‘And not minding it. In fact, going on as if you were.’

  ‘I could do without your philosophising,’ sighed the Kion, sinking down on the dirty bark between the tents.

  She gazed up through the twig-forests above Marak city to an azure sky, was bespeckled with stars. The hour of curfew had long since passed, but despite her knocks, despite her calls and pleas, the canvas doors of the tent-town remained stubbornly shut. No one had answered at the first safe-house where Oren used to wait. No one responded here at the second, though she had heard someone moving about inside, hurrying off at the sound of her voice.

  ‘By the blessed Sap I ask for asylum. Your sovereign asks for shelter. The Kion seeks sanctuary. For the love of the Tree.’There is no sanctuary, thought Samiha, leaning her head back against the tent wall. No comfort in that season.

  ‘What would you have me tell you? That they are cowards? That they should be punished for turning you away like this?’ Ash’s eyes burned bright in the starlight. He sat down beside her with an indignant shrug. ‘It’s true; they should be.’

  ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘Not punished. They’re just afraid.’

  ‘Fear is the last refuge of the unimaginative,’ he answered flatly.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d be so angry. After all, wasn’t it prophesised I’d be rejected by my own people? It’s the will of the Sap.’

  ‘Let me tell you about the will of the Sap,’ snapped the apparition. ‘The Sap makes do with the tools It has. Given a range of p
ossibilities, people generally choose the path of least resistance. If their choice is predicted, is that fate or just laziness?’

  She bowed her head to her knees as the sound of tramping feet echoed in the alley nearby, shrank under her cloak in an attempt to merge with the darkness. Lantern light danced briefly between the tents accompanied by the sound of barking laughter. The beams hovered above her head then slid away as the night-patrol moved on.

  ‘We’re all lazy, at one time or another,’ she whispered. ‘Our hearts aren’t big enough. We hide.’

  ‘Woodlice hide,’ snorted Ash. ‘And then burn with the wood when it’s put on the fire.’

  He fell silent as with a surreptitious noise the laces on the nearby canvas flap were drawn apart.

  A black-haired woman stuck her head out of the gap, the lower half of her face shrouded in a thick black scarf.

  ‘Who are you? What do you want?’ she hissed.

  ‘I am your Kion. I ask for asylum,’ answered Samiha. ‘By the bless—’

  ‘The Kion left for the Freeholds.’ The woman looked her up and down. ‘I don’t believe you. You’re just a refugee and you expect me to take you in.’

  Samiha pulled back her hood, allowing the dim light to shine on her face.

  ‘Tanata. Sister of Leob. You can’t forget me,’ she said. ‘I was there when your nephew was born. I sang the Sap into him.’

  The woman hesitated, brown eyes glaring over the edge of her scarf, full of bitter resentment.

  ‘Yes,’ she muttered. ‘There are three children in this house. If you were really the Kion you’d never put them at risk the way you do, skulking about here.’

  ‘Tanata, wait.’ Samiha placed her fingers beseechingly on the canvas as the woman began to lace it up again. ‘At least tell me where Oren and Noni are. Their house is empty.’

  ‘They’ve run off, the pair of ‘em,’ retorted Tanata. ‘Just like all you other hypocrites who call on the Sap, spouting pious words to cover up your own uselessness. The rest of us had to carry on alone, of course. You have to have a valid work permit to stay in the city now, you know. If you don’t you’re arrested. Happens every day. Children left without anyone to care for them. I see no Grafters, no kings, no one here to help them. It’s about time we stopped listening to the Sap-mongers.’