Farhang was a fortified town constructed deep within the twig-thickets at the top of a secondary limb, impenetrable to flying craft or standard cannon fire. Tymon did not know how it would fare against the seminary’s new blast-weapons. As the noise of the Maia‘s propellers died down, he saw two figures hurrying toward them on the path that descended the branch. One was Gardan; the other a tall, bearded fellow dressed in flowing grey robes of a type unfamiliar to Tymon. From a distance, the pair appeared to have comically switched genders, the bearded man wearing what amounted in Tymon’s eyes to a dress. Gardan with her cropped white hair marched beside him in sensible breeches.
‘Welcome, friend,’ declared the blue-eyed Speaker, as she strode up to Tymon. She shook his hand warmly and gestured to her companion. ‘I’d like you to meet Judge Aythan of Farhang. He’s the one organising our stay here. We owe him a great debt of gratitude.’
The tall man bowed. Tymon tried to follow suit: in his exhaustion, he felt the bark teeter beneath his feet. Gardan’s smiled faded.
‘I see Judge Laska is not with you,’ she said.
‘No, syora. He gave his life helping us escape from Cherk Harbour,’ answered Tymon. Doing the will of the Sap, he thought grimly.
The Speaker for Sheb said no word for a moment, her eyes downcast. Then she took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders and offered him her arm.
‘We should talk and walk,’ she observed. ‘It’s best we hear your story in the company of the other judges.’
He was hard-put to match her pace as she led him swiftly back up the branch-path. The man named Aythan followed close behind while Pallas brought up the rear. The young guard had received no word of personal greeting from either judge, and walked slowly, his expression pensive.
‘It doesn’t come as much of a shock, I suppose,’ continued Gardan, rueful, as they climbed. ‘We suspected all was not well when Oren told us to find you on the south roads, and no one else.’
‘There is one question of a delicate nature which I must ask before we reach the meeting hall,’ rumbled Aythan. ‘Did Laska’s death have anything to do with the treacherous defector, Jedda?’
‘No,’ puffed the young man, toiling up the branch-slope. The twigs at the summit of the path seemed very far away. ‘Jedda betrayed the Oracle, it’s true, but I don’t think she wanted to hurt anyone else. Not that it really worked out that way, though.’
‘Thank you for your honesty, Tymon,’ said Gardan. ‘We realise you’re tired. We’ll try and keep our queries to a minimum tonight.’
The judges’ consultation took place in the long, unfurnished pole-house that doubled as a meeting room and meal hall in Farhang. His part done in telling his tale, Tymon half-listened as the leaders of both Freeholds discussed the ramifications of what had happened in Cherk Harbour. They spoke mostly in Argosian, as the northern dialect of Farhang was unknown to the refugees from Sheb. The news of Laska’s arrest caused a great stir: such flagrant disrespect had never openly been shown to the leader of an independent Freehold, although the judges had long since suspected a link between the Lantrian authorities and resettlement pirates. The nobles who owned the slave-worked Tree mines were evidently seeking to profit from the stream of free labour flowing out of the Eastern Canopy. They could do so with impunity, so long as they kept their activities under a level that would attract the attention of the Argosians.
That level, Gardan noted dryly, had now been exceeded. Reports from several Argosian outposts indicated colonial authorities were growing increasingly alarmed at the extent and range of the Reaper’s raids. Mission priests had complained their flocks in the South Fringes were being decimated. It seemed almost too much to hope that the two great colonial powers would soon be at each other’s throats. Such an altercation might play directly into the hands of the Freeholders, allowing them at the very least time to strengthen themselves and regroup. It would give the new alliance time to work.
The discussion of politics and power-mongering left Tymon cold. He slumped in silence on the floor of the hall, furnished only with weave-mats in the Nurian style. No one had spoken of Samiha since he arrived. He was surprised and disturbed at the omission. He felt her absence at the judges’ meeting like a ragged hole in the canopy, a hacked-off branch.
‘Of course, if the Kion had been here to spearhead the effort, we might have made more progress,’ remarked Gardan, interrupting his thoughts in an uncanny echo.
Tymon’s eyes jerked up to meet hers. The Speaker surveyed him meditatively. The other members of the combined quorum had turned toward him too, a circle of curious faces.
‘The Kion?’ he echoed dumbly.
He should have been happy to hear Samiha mentioned. Instead, his heart sank. He was reminded of his first meeting with the judges in Sheb. He felt put on the spot by them again. Gardan’s tone had been critical: she evidently disapproved of the Kion’s choices.
‘We were just wondering,’ said the Speaker, with deceptive mildness, ‘whether you knew of her intention to leave us. Seeing as she chose you for a mate.’
She fixed him with her steady gaze. The Kion’s identity no longer appeared to be a closely guarded secret outside Sheb, he thought; Gardan had openly identified her in the meeting. The judges had evidently known of their relations, too. So much for their attempt at discretion! He recalled his preoccupations before he left Sheb with distaste. If he had known Samiha was about to slip through his fingers, he would not have waited a moment, he thought. He would have declared his love for her to the world, married her in every way possible, on the spot. Maybe then she would have stayed with him, he reflected in a fit of self-torture.
‘No,’ he answered aloud. ‘I didn’t know a thing.’
‘Because if you did have prior knowledge of her plans or an insight into her intentions,’ boomed Aythan, ‘now would be the time to share it.’
Tymon glanced at the bearded man in annoyance. All the northerners wore the same flowing robes, but despite the difference in dress their attitude of challenge and suspicion was immediately recognisable. It was the trial in Sheb all over again. His anxiety at facing the quorum drained away. He was impatient with the endless machinations of the Nurian judges.
‘You’re talking like she was a traitor, or I was,’ he snapped. ‘Of course I didn’t know what she planned to do. Do you think I’d have wanted her to be thrown into prison — to be in the hands of those people — to suffer what she did …’
He broke off. His cheeks burned and he could hardly breathe for an instant. Gardan’s expression as she watched him grew pitying.
‘With respect, syors,’ he finished, addressing the whole group gruffly, ‘if you believe in my abilities at all, you would know that had I foreseen what was going to happen, I would have done everything in my power to avoid it. Unfortunately, I didn’t foresee it. Not until it was too late.’
‘The same story as the others,’ said Aythan, turning to his colleagues in incredulity. ‘These visionaries can save an entire village, but not predict the actions of one woman.’
‘Now, just a minute,’ protested Tymon. ‘If you think I’m lying—’
‘We don’t,’ put in Gardan. She was sitting close by him; she clasped him on the shoulder, reassuringly. ‘We don’t, Tymon. We realise how you felt about her.’
‘In that case,’ he blurted out, ‘what are you doing to help her? I’ve been waiting and waiting for someone to say something about it. Are you sending an expedition to Argos? If so, I’m going.’
The judges gazed at him in surprise. Gardan’s eyebrows shot up.
‘You must realise that’s impossible, Tymon,’ she said. ‘We cannot spare the manpower or the flying machines. If our involvement were found out, it would constitute a serious breach of our treaty with the Council. There would be all-out war — and believe me when I tell you, we are not ready for that.’
The truth of what she said hit him like a blow. The judges could and would do nothing. There was no help for Samiha
here.
‘Believe me, it frustrates me, too,’ sighed Gardan. ‘We all wish she hadn’t gone. But her fate is now out of our hands, Tymon. Perhaps, as the Focals say, we should learn to trust in the Sap.’
At that particular moment, Tymon wished fervently that he had never heard of the Sap, the Focals or the Grafting. He blinked back furious tears. When he was able to look up again he found Gardan watching him with concern.
‘I don’t think we need to detain you more today,’ she observed. ‘You’ve had a long trip and an upsetting time, that’s clear. I have just the remedy for you. There’s someone down at the camp who’s very eager to see you. Syor Galliano could repair anything, I think, even a tired friend.’
And then Tymon was mortified, because in all his hours of bitter reflection on board the Maia he had omitted to ask Pallas about his mentor, and find out how the old man was faring.
‘Thank you, syors,’ he said hoarsely, rising and bowing to the judges.
He allowed himself to be led away by Pallas, who had been waiting silently by the door throughout the proceedings.
‘Do not think badly of judges, friend,’ whispered the young guard as they quit the meeting hall. ‘Our leaders do not have faith in much, these days: not in love, not in loyalty, not even in Sap. They have been much disappointed.’
‘You’re very understanding toward them,’ mumbled Tymon.
‘I wish for others to understand me,’ said Pallas.
As it turned out, Tymon need not have worried about Galliano. He found his old friend in the temporary camp that had been built for the displaced villagers on the outskirts of Farhang, toward the west side of the twig-thicket. The evening air was mild and the scientist sat at a small folding table outside one of the tents. He was deep in conversation with Jamil and a hairy, thickset man Tymon guessed fulfilled a similar role of master craftsman in Farhang, judging by the soot-stained apron over his robes. Upon hearing the two young people approach, Galliano jumped up from his stool, almost knocking over the table as well as the basket lantern and engineering designs heaped upon it. Lantern light skittered about the tents as his friends slammed their hands down on the table, preventing disaster. The old man’s face was wreathed in an expectant smile.
‘Did you get the sketches?’ were his first words as he grasped Tymon’s hands. It took the young man several moments to remember what he was talking about.
‘You need to look more carefully!’ cried Galliano, in exasperation, when he learned that Tymon had not checked for signs of the World Below in Cherk Harbour, or indeed made a single, solitary atmospheric note. ‘You’ve got your nose turned up to the stars. You should be aware of what’s under your feet, my friend!’
‘There were a few other things going on,’ muttered Tymon.
‘Well, well,’ Galliano replied, patting his shoulder comfortingly, as if he were the one who had sustained disappointment, ‘I daresay there will be other opportunities. Daj,’ he continued, turning his unerring gaze on the man from Farhang, ‘I’d like you to meet Tymon, my former assistant and fellow seeker of truth. I think it’s safe to point out that we seek rather different truths.’
This drew a guffaw from the man named Daj. ‘Don’t be so sure,’ he grinned, his accent in Argosian as thick and husky as himself. ‘Grafting is also a form of exploration, if you forgive my saying, syor.’
‘I forgive you,’ said the scientist, shaking his head. ‘But the law of gravitation does not. We need more data in this enterprise, more data.’
That night, Tymon tossed and turned restlessly in the tent he shared with Jamil and Galliano. Despite his exhaustion he was unable to sleep. The weather was relatively warm in Farhang compared with the intense cold of Cherk Harbour, and the Freeholders were well equipped with blankets and other necessities. But he could not relax in his comfortable surroundings. The judges’ refusal to help Samiha stuck in his throat. His friends had barely alluded to the Kion during the course of the evening; only Galliano had expressed a brief regret that she had been taken prisoner. He tried to be as forgiving as Pallas but found the lack of sympathy the Freeholders displayed toward Samiha astounding. They did not even want to know what had become of her, he thought. Even those who said they believed in the Grafting never asked him if he had had a vision of her. They simply went on with their lives — building their machines and preparing their defences, as if nothing had changed. And all the while she was gone, achingly gone, never to return.
At last, well after midnight, he lost patience with sleeplessness and rose. He slipped past his snoring companions and stepped out of the tent into the moonlit night, wandering through the camp until he reached the edge of the thicket sheltering the village. There, he sat down at the brink of a wide gap between the last stand of twigs and the nearest branch to the west. A black void yawned before him. It matched his mood. Less than three weeks remained before Samiha would be put on trial. He remembered then that today was his birthday, or rather the birthday the priests had chosen for him, for there was no way of being sure of his own. It was the fourth day of the month of Frost, three weeks before the start of the Tree Festival. He was sixteen years old.
‘Welcome, Syon,’ said a soft voice.
Tymon jumped up so quickly that he almost lost his balance, and tumbled into the abyss. Another voice, girlish, tinkled with laughter as he scrambled to a safer position, peering into the shadows of the thicket. He made out four figures standing there.
‘Good to see you, friend,’ resumed the first speaker. Tymon belatedly recognised the quaint inflections of a Marak native.
In the excitement of his arrival he had forgotten that Oren and the new Focals would be on the Freehold too. His heart leapt with hope, for the young Grafters were allies of the Kion. Oren stepped into a patch of moonlight, smiling. He appeared older and more marked by experience than he had the first time they had met, during the escape from Marak city. But his grin was as wide as ever. He made a low bow to Tymon.
Beside him stood a girl. It was a moment before Tymon recognised Noni. Oren’s sister seemed to have blossomed in the short months since he had glimpsed her at the bridge; she was now a young woman, tall and graceful, her bright locks braided as Samiha’s used to be. Her expression was impish as she gazed at him. It was she who had laughed, although he could not fathom what she found so hilarious about his near-accident. Two dark-haired boys a year or two younger than the others hovered in the shadows behind. Their arms were linked and they looked identical.
‘Good to see you, too,’ answered Tymon, bowing in his turn. ‘Sav vay.’
Oren beamed at his use of the Nurian phrase. ‘These are Grafter friends,’ he said, indicating his companions. ‘Ara and Mata, brothers from North Fringes. Noni you see before.’ The twins bowed mutely to Tymon and Noni nodded in greeting as Oren continued. ‘We make new Focal group, Syon. We have not finished studies, but we are honoured if you join.’
‘The honour is mine,’ said Tymon eagerly. ‘And you’re being modest. The Oracle told me you’d become a full-fledged Grafter. I hear your group has done wonders: it’s thanks to you the Freeholders escaped.’ He suddenly laughed. ‘Though you wouldn’t think it, listening to the judges talk.’
‘Judges have many cares,’ replied Oren with his usual serenity.
‘As do we,’ put in Noni. ‘Brother, we have work to do. The false prophet does not wait. And we must Read the Oracle’s testament.’
Her impishness had flown, she spoke earnestly. Ara and Mata crowded behind her, their eyes round in the darkness. Now that Tymon had the opportunity to study Noni more closely, he found that she did not resemble Samiha in the least. The effect of similarity had been an illusion, just enough to dupe the colonial guards in a moment of stress. Her grasp of Argosian was more fluent than her brother’s, he thought irrelevantly. He wondered what she meant by a false prophet and a testament.
‘We welcome our Fifth,’ she pursued. She turned to him and held out her hand. ‘We welcome the last disciple.’<
br />
‘The last disciple,’ repeated the twins in a solemn chorus.
Ara and Mata may not yet have been full-fledged Grafters, but they were well on their way to finishing each other’s sentences, Tymon noted with a degree of weariness. He did not particularly wish to plunge into another Reading. But he took hold of Noni’s hand, and allowed himself to be coaxed down onto the bark beside the others, the last link in a tight human chain. He knew that together, the Focals had far more power than any individual Grafter. Here, if anywhere, he would find help for Samiha. Perhaps the Oracle had sent him to complete his studies with Oren for just such a purpose.
‘Who’s this false prophet?’ he asked Noni.
‘One who works in Argos. He diverts the Sap and uses it for his own gain. We have kept him contained up till now, but he grows strong. We need the last disciple to help us.’
‘Why is it so important that I’m the last?’ he objected. ‘It’s only temporary. The Oracle will return. She’ll have other students.’
‘Not for a while,’ answered Noni. ‘In the meantime we have one source of guidance. You were the last to see our teacher. She will have left an important message with you, or rather in you, though you are not aware of it. That is her testament.’
‘Noni is right, Syon,’ said Oren. ‘Matter most urgent. We must Read you.’
Tymon frowned. It disturbed him to think he had been used as a courier by the Oracle, without his knowledge or consent. He wondered why she had not asked him to convey her message to the young Focals by more ordinary means. Besides, there were other, more urgent matters he wished to attend to if he was to do a Reading.
‘What about Samiha?’ he asked. ‘What are we doing for her? That’s what I was trying to find out when the Oracle’s host died: I was trying to Read the Kion’s future, to find a way to help her. I wasn’t very successful on my own, but it’ll be different if we’re together.’ He did not say he had last Seen the Oracle when the Reading was already over and he had tumbled into the Veil. He felt obscurely ashamed of that episode.
Samiha's Song Page 24