When he was able to turn around, he found Pallas stretched out on his other side, inert. The Nurian’s face was deathly pale, his closed eyelids surrounded by purple shadows. The Doctor had either been harsher in his treatment of him than with Tymon, or else Pallas had weathered his session in the chair less well. His lower lip was bloody where he had bitten through it in pain. Tymon noted with outrage that the heat from the orah had blistered his forehead.
‘Damn him,’ he muttered, shifting himself over to bend worriedly over his friend. ‘Damn the lying, butchering brute.’
At the sound of his voice the Nurian’s eyes opened. ‘Maz,’ he whispered. ‘But it will not help us, nami.’
‘I’d like to throttle him.’ Tymon felt newly energetic and filled with a desire for revenge. ‘I’d like to tie him to his own chair and make him eat his cursed orah.’
‘There is better way,’ began Pallas. ‘You must remember—’
Before he could finish the phrase he was interrupted by voices approaching the props shed, speaking the Jay dialect and arguing, from their tone. The door rattled open and in stepped Anise and Jocaste.
‘Time to go,’ barked the male Jay to Tymon.
Anise had removed his paint and taloned necklace. Without them, he looked perfectly ordinary, his features oddly reminiscent of Pallas'. He squatted down to cut the bonds on Tymon’s ankles with a small knife then hauled him to his feet. Tymon swayed on the spot, his limbs still weak. Jocaste stood watching him with her arms folded across her chest. Her ruined face was grim.
‘You can’t honestly believe in this Doctor of yours,’ he said. ‘He’s conning you, don’t you see? He isn’t suffering the way you think he is—’
He stopped short as the scarred girl slapped him smartly across the mouth.
‘You don’t know him,’ she murmured. ‘You have no idea what he endures.’ But her expression was miserable as she turned away.
‘He’s lying!’ persisted Tymon, stubborn. If he could only play on her doubts, they might have a chance, he thought. ‘How many times have you trapped people for him to satisfy his so-called needs? Does he ever seem to get any better?’
‘Shut up,’ snapped Anise. ‘Shut your devil-mouth!’ He shoved Tymon toward the door so forcibly that he almost fell, stumbling onto the deck of the main barge.
They had indeed put down in a leaf-forest for the night, Tymon saw as he was marched summarily toward the red-and-white pavilion ahead of the Anise. The silhouettes of the great blades rustled above him and the smell of cooking reached his nostrils, a faint reminder of normalcy. But his stomach churned and he forgot his hunger as he stepped through the striped doorway, catching sight of the Doctor’s high-backed chair. Its halo of orah was hidden, lidded. The Doctor was tending a small hardwood stove on the far side of the tent, and waved Anise away when the Jay tried to push Tymon into the restraining seat.
‘That won’t be necessary,’ he said, sauntering toward them, his manner all cordiality. ‘Sit down anywhere, young fellow,’ he told Tymon. ‘Make yourself at home.’
The only places to sit were the Doctor’s abominable chair, the stool beside it, or the bed. Tymon, glaring at his adversary, did not move.
‘What you did to my friend and me was inexcusable,’ he growled.
‘I apologise.’ The thin man did not appear sorry at all; he rubbed his bony hands together. ‘I am burdened by an infirmity which only the use of these devices can cure. I deplore the fact that I cause pain to others, I really do.’
He nodded in curt dismissal to Anise, who stepped with evident reluctance out of the tent. The Doctor strolled closer to Tymon, continuing to languidly rub his hands together, like a long-fingered fly.
‘I have a bargain to make with you,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I don’t really expect you to stay in our little rural idyll. We are both aware that you possess … shall we say … unusual abilities.’
‘What’s it to you?’ retorted Tymon. ‘I thought you didn’t believe in the Grafting. You just “use” the Sap, right?’
The Doctor laughed. ‘But that’s just the point,’ he said. ‘I want to use it better, more efficiently. Right now there is great waste in my method. I lose half my supply in transit. I need a better conduit. You, my friend, are exactly that.’
‘I’ll never help you,’ declared Tymon.
‘What? Even if it could save your friend’s life, and get you to Argos city? Yes,’ sneered the Doctor, as he hesitated, ‘you’ve noticed how our poor little Nurry is faring. You, on the other hand, have made a full recovery. He won’t survive another session in that seat. It would be highly selfish of you to allow it.’
Tymon gazed at the vile chair and silently cursed the ancient peoples who had made it, wishing it had been left wherever it had come from to do no more mischief.
‘I could ask you why a Nurian and an Argosian were travelling together to Argos, and in a steam-driven dirigible, no less. But I honestly don’t care,’ continued the thin man. ‘Help me and I will take you where you want to go. Everyone gets what they need.’
Tymon was silent a moment, his eyes still resting on the carved halo of the chair.
‘You were one of them, weren’t you?’ he remarked to his jailer, quietly. ‘One of those Explorers the seminary sent out, ages ago, when they still believed in exploring. You found this thing somewhere and stole it. It kept you alive. You’ve been sucking the life out of people this way for the Tree knows how long. You stay away from Argos because the priests might actually know what you’re doing, and stop you.’
The Doctor’s cheery smile faded. ‘Not stolen. Saved,’ he mumbled, distant. ‘Besides, you’re talking about a person who lived long ago. I’m not that person any more. I’m someone else.’
A moment later, his eagerness returned and he leered connivingly at Tymon. ‘You could help make it all clean again, though. You can help me collect the Sap without harm or waste. What do you say?’
‘I’ll help you,’ said the young man, his shoulders sagging in defeat, ‘if you promise to leave Pallas alone.’
‘I thought you might turn out to be reasonable,’ crowed the Doctor as he hurried to his table. ‘So I took the liberty of creating a prototype while you were resting.’
He retrieved his shining headpiece from the jumble of objects on the desk. The circlets had been taken apart, Tymon saw, the base ring separated from the rest and connected to the others with a thin strip of flexible orah.
‘This is only a rough test,’ continued the Doctor, hopping toward him again. ‘Later on I’ll see how I can make it all more permanent. Please, have a seat.’
He indicated the stool. Tymon lowered himself onto it, watching the madman warily, glad he did not have to return to the high-backed chair.
The Doctor fitted the base ring about his head. ‘You can bring him in now,’ he sang to someone on the deck.
Tymon jumped to his feet in outrage as Anise and Jocaste pulled the stumbling figure of Pallas into the tent.
‘You promised!’ he cried to the Doctor. ‘You said you wouldn’t harm him!’
His adversary raised his hands placatingly. ‘And I won’t,’ he said. ‘I don’t have to, not with you as a conduit. Now, are you going to relax so we can do this?’
Tymon looked wretchedly on while the young Jays pushed Pallas into the chair. His friend was only half-conscious: his eyelids fluttered as he was strapped in. Tymon sat down again, wrung with anxiety and suspicion. He did not trust the Doctor when he said he would not harm Pallas, did not believe that he meant to go through with his end of their bargain. But he was unable to think of an alternative course of action. His jailer lost no time in attaching the two higher rings to his own skull with a system of improvised straps. He then moved to stand behind Tymon, placing his hands on the young man’s shoulders. The Jays removed the covering from the circle of orah embedded in the chair.
‘Nami,’ whispered Pallas. He opened his eyes to look straight at Tymon as Anise fitted the final ring on h
is head. ‘Do not forget the Five.’
Tymon started at the words. ‘The Five’ could mean only one thing, coming from a Nurian. His friend was telling him to launch a trance and contact the other Focals! The idea filled him with a wild hope. He had no chance to answer Pallas, for as soon as the last circlet was strapped onto the young scout’s head, his eyes rolled upwards and he passed out. Tymon felt the bands on his own forehead grow warm as the Doctor’s bony hands gripped his shoulders.
‘Just stay put,’ muttered his captor. ‘Stay quite still …’
A queasy wash of sensation passed through Tymon, a teetering excitement rather than pain for he was not the one being drained. He stared at the Doctor’s chair, dimly aware that Anise and Jocaste had not left the tent. They were standing in the doorway, transfixed as he was by the behaviour of the halo behind Pallas’ head, which had begun to spin. The Tree design at its core separated into three smaller, whirling discs. The branches broke apart and came together, disintegrated and re-formed, creating an ever-changing sequence of Leaf-Letters.
‘What does it say?’ Tymon murmured in awe.
‘Say?’ repeated the Doctor distractedly. ‘What are you talking about? It’s tuning itself to our lifeforce.’
‘No,’ insisted Tymon. ‘It’s saying something. The Letters have a meaning.’
The workings of the chair were accompanied by a faint buzz in the air, like the sound of faraway voices. Tymon leaned forward, frowning in concentration. He felt sure he could decipher the words if given a chance.
‘What letters?’ snapped the Doctor, shoving him back in place on the stool. ‘There aren’t any letters. Stop talking nonsense and concentrate on helping me.’
He changed one of the settings on Tymon’s rings, and at once the flow of the Sap increased, surging through the young man with a dim roar. It was like a torrent of water tumbling down a branch, an icecap melting in spring. It ripped him up, swept him away and deposited him brusquely outside himself.
He gazed about in shock, able to see his body, sitting on the stool beside the Doctor. Tymon now inhabited an insubstantial copy of it, a Grafter’s Sending. He had been thrust into a trance. That was what the chair and rings were meant to do originally, he grasped. They were never designed to suck the life out of anyone. The scene in the tent had become immobile, bright with the light of the Sap. The Doctor, Pallas and the Jays were frozen in their various attitudes. Tymon could See the subtle flames hanging in a cloud above Pallas’ head, curiously still, stretched like liquid ropes between the Nurian youth and the Doctor’s various contraptions. The discs on the back of the chair ceased spinning, the current combination of Leaf-Letters bright and clear: Love, Loss, Emptiness. The people outside the Trance were slow, Tymon realised, wonderingly. They inhabited a different timeframe from himself. The buzzing in his ears became insistent, resolving with a jump of clarity into a babble of ordinary voices.
‘… Maza Sav. We thought you will die!’
‘At the hands of that murderer …’
‘We have called so long, Syon. This is last chance to talk.’
‘Thank the Sap you finally answer us.’
The four young Focals were, gathered about him in the tent. This time, to Tymon’s relief, there was no forced, invasive connection in the Tree. The Grafters appeared as individual Sendings. The twins crowded up to Tymon, agog, and even Noni’s abrupt manner was softened by concern. Oren’s sunny face bore an uncharacteristically anxious expression.
‘Syon, you must leave this place,’ he exclaimed. ‘You cannot help this fool take more from others. He will not stop!’
‘I know,’ sighed Tymon. ‘I only did it because I couldn’t see any other way.’ He felt a rush of unexpected joy at seeing the other Grafters again; he realised to his own surprise that he had missed them.
‘There are several other ways, believe me,’ muttered Noni peering with disgust into the Doctor’s rigid, hideously self-satisfied face. ‘This one is rotten and about to fall off. I say we help him along.’
‘Increase the dose,’ suggested Ara. He pointed to the dials of orah on the chair.
‘Shock will kill him,’ added Mata. ‘His body is too old.’
‘It takes more away from Pallas,’ said Oren, shaking his head. ‘We must find different path. Right return, asha …’ He furrowed his brows, staring thoughtfully at the Doctor.
‘None of them are unstable,’ said Noni, as she inspected each of the frozen Jays. ‘We can’t inhabit their minds—’
‘Wait,’ Tymon interrupted, excitedly. ‘We don’t need to control them. They’ve had enough of control. They know the Doctor is evil.’
He could almost see the fact stamped on Jocaste’s face. She had glanced toward the man who was her father just before the start of the trance; the mixture of love and suspicion, concern and disappointment in her expression was telling. Tymon walked over to her and examined the angry scar on her cheek.
‘So many years of slow decline,’ he whispered in pity, reaching out to trace the ugly mark. ‘From the first notion that something was wrong, to the certainty that her father was ill, and cruel, and dangerous. It’s a terrible thing. Better to have no parent at all.’
‘Beni!’ cried Noni, hurrying to his side. ‘You’re right, Tymon. It’s all here.’
The Focals congregated about the motionless figure of Jocaste.
‘What can we do for her?’ asked Tymon.
‘This,’ answered Oren.
The Grafters lifted their hands as one to touch the girl, as if offering comfort. Tymon placed his own hand on her shoulder. As he did so, he saw felt the familiar tendrils of the Tree of Being budding swiftly up from Jocaste’s body, curling through his fingers to sway up toward the ceiling. The Jay girl’s growth was tall and abundant, but it had one major flaw. It was entangled in a monstrous, sucking vine. The stifling plant had completely taken her over. The parasite appeared to have no root of its own in the Tree but clung to Jocaste, throttling the life out of her. The Focals began to strip the livid tendrils away and Tymon joined them, ripping off as much of the choking vine as they could until Oren glanced over his shoulder at the disc above Pallas’ head.
‘Time passes,’ he observed.
The orah discs had shifted position, a fraction of an instant had passed in the waking world, and loss had become Knowledge. The Focals stepped back from Jocaste.
‘Syon,’ said Oren gravely to Tymon. ‘This is last we talk, for a while. What we do here should free you from Jays. You go to Argos city: we do not speak together there.’
‘Do you still disagree with me then?’ sighed Tymon. ‘Pallas and I found a way to help Samiha without changing the prophecies, you know. We can catch her when she—’
‘We understand choice, Syon,’ interrupted Oren, as if he did not wish to hear more. ‘I only say “not speak” because Argos city is dangerous place for Grafters.’
‘Don’t attempt a Reading until you’re far away, Tymon,’ Noni added. ‘If you open yourself up to the trance in your home town, the Dean’s sorcerers will enter your mind and drive you mad as they have so many others. Also, you’re twined with someone in Argos city, probably Jedda, as you conducted the Trance together with her when you were both with the Oracle. It makes you very vulnerable to her.’
‘Twined?’ he echoed, his heart sinking. The Oracle had used the word, he remembered, but never fully explained it. ‘What does that mean?’
‘It means you’re connected in the world of the Sap. She’ll know when you try and launch the trance: she might even sense you without it.’
‘I see,’ he replied, disappointed. How could he do without the element of surprise? ‘I’ll be careful. Though I would have liked to do one more Reading to figure out how to go from here, now that we’ve lost the air-chariot.’
‘Lose one, gain another,’ put in Ara.
Quick as lightning, he stepped forward and brushed Tymon’s forehead with his forefinger, his touch like prickling static. Before the young ma
n could do more than start in surprise, an image had invaded his mind. He Saw the Lyla, confiscated by Gowron and sitting under a piece of canvas in a warehouse in Argos city. The building was distinctive and painted a bright yellow. The image evaporated as quickly as it had appeared.
‘What did you do that for?’ exclaimed Noni, rounding on Ara. ‘We’re not supposed to interfere!’
‘He goes anyway,’ shrugged the young Focal. ‘Why not help?’
‘It’s not help,’ ground out Noni, ‘if it’s against the prophecy.’
‘I see now,’ remarked Tymon, grinning. ‘You want to help Samiha, too. You just don’t want to be the ones to do it.’
Incensed, Noni spun around on her heel, and was just about to argue when Oren placed a restraining hand on her arm.
‘Pallas gives,’ he reminded them.
Tymon glanced up remorsefully at the frozen discs above his friend’s head. They had moved again.
‘We always help Kion,’ continued Oren, in answer to him. ‘But she is not like us, Syon. Different. Does not need ordinary rescue.’
The forms of the four Grafters were growing faint, their voices dim, and Tymon felt a tingling wash of the same force that had thrust him into the trance. It was inversed, pulling him inexorably back toward his own body.
‘What do you mean, different?’ he called out, even as he slipped away from his friends. ‘She may be the twelfth Kion, but she needs us just like anyone else would.’
‘Samiha not like us, Syon,’ replied Oren, indistinctly. ‘Not—’
Frustratingly, Oren’s last words were snatched away by the buzz of the orah. It sounded as if he said not human, but Tymon knew that could not be right. The discs on the back of the chair spun. Tymon blinked, took a shuddering breath and sat up on the stool. The trance was over.
‘We’ll just see if we can’t just adjust the flow a little bit more,’ murmured the Doctor, busily tinkering with the rings.
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