Seeker

by William Nicholson

  The workers closed in on the gangmaster.

  "Take his money! Make him pay! Make the cheating dog pay what he owes!"

  They pulled at the gangmaster's clothing and half stripped him and found his money bag. Shortly the coins came flying out, and the workers all fell to scrabbling in the dirt. The gangmaster, finding himself left alone, struggled to his feet and limped away down the road.

  Soren Similin went to Blaze and wiped the blood from his face. He saw his way forward now: his way to turn Blaze's explosion of anger to his advantage.

  "You're a hero," he said.

  "A hero?"

  "You fought against injustice."

  "Did I?"

  "The gangmaster cheated us. He beat us. He was a bad man.

  Blaze remembered now.

  "That's right! He's a bad man! Should I kill him?"

  "He's gone now."

  There came a loud crash. The plantation workers had broken into the gangmaster's store shed. There they found his liquor supply.

  "We do all the work!" cried one. "The master gets all the profit!"

  "The master!" cried the others, not quite knowing why.

  "Let him share!"

  They handed round the bottles of brandy.

  "Share! Share!"

  So shouting, drinking, and singing, the workers streamed away down the track towards the plantation house. They sang the Happy Workers song as they went.

  "They're happy now," said Blaze.

  "Because of you. You're the Noble Warrior."

  "The noble warrior?"

  Blaze frowned, as if he had heard these words before but couldn't remember where.

  "You were a Noma once."

  "A Noma?"

  "But they cast you out. They rejected you. They said you were bad."

  Blaze's frown deepened.

  "I'm bad?"

  "That's what the Nomana said."

  "But I'm not bad. I'm Blaze of Justice."

  "That's right. So the Nomana must be wrong."

  "The Nomana are wrong." He spoke with emphasis. It made him angry to be called bad. Similin took note.

  "The Nomana say you're bad. But you're not bad."

  "The Nomana are bad."

  "The Nomana are strong," said Similin. "Just like the gangmaster was strong."

  "I beat him. He was bad."

  "You did. You beat that bad gangmaster. Now it's the Nomana who are bad."

  "I'll beat them, too."

  "They're very strong."

  "I don't care. I'll beat them."

  "Would you like to beat them all?"

  "Yes. I'll beat them all. I'm Blaze of Justice."

  "But what if you get hurt?"

  "I don't care."

  "What if they kill you?"

  "I don't care."

  "You're willing to give your life in a just cause."

  "Give my life?" Blaze's face cleared. He had heard this before, so it must be true. "Yes, I'd give my life."

  "You're a Noble Warrior."

  "A noble warrior..." Still it puzzled him, but he liked it. "I am. I'll give my life. Because I'm a noble warrior."

  Soren Similin showed no outward sign, but inwardly he rejoiced. He had brought this poor deluded boy to the necessary place. So much for cleansing.

  There came a sudden clatter of iron wheels behind them, and the rapid clop of hooves. It was the wagonette from the plantation house, driven by the master himself, at top speed. With him, white-faced and silent, were the two children and the governess. The master cried out as he raced by.

  "Robbers! Looters! They'll pay for this! I'll hang them all!"

  Blaze stared after the wagonette as it disappeared in a cloud of dust.

  "Not our problem," said Similin. But Blaze's gazing eyes were squinting with concern.

  "Where's the lady?"

  "What lady?"

  "The lady who was kind to me. She must still be in the house."

  "They won't hurt her."

  "But he said there were robbers."

  Blaze rose to his feet and stood hesitating for a moment, his brow furrowed. Then, without a further word, he turned and set off at a loping run down the track to the plantation house.

  The secretary cursed in silent frustration. He had come so close. All he needed now was to get Blaze to Radiance. So, with a sigh, he too set off down the track to retrieve his perfect carrier.

  As he came in sight of the house, he found the former plantation workers leaving it, in high spirits, carrying items looted from the house.

  "You're too late!" they called to him. "All the good stuff's gone!"

  Similin made his way slowly up the steps. All the doors were open. Many of the windows had been smashed. Shards of glass glittered on the gray timber floors. Chairs and tables lay overturned. The delicate white curtains had been torn and tangled and ripped from their poles. The masses of fine fabric lay where they had fallen, like heaps of windblown snow. The workers had torn them down because they were a tangible part of the elegance with which the owners had lived; they had torn them as they might tear a lady's dress, to render her as ragged as they were themselves.

  Soren Similin moved on through the house, from room to room, and so found Blaze at last, in what had once been the children's schoolroom. Here amid the sad chaos of the looting sat the mistress of the house, on an upright wooden school chair, with Blaze bending over her, speaking to her softly. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, and she was shaking her head.

  Blaze looked up as Similin entered.

  "They left her behind," he said.

  "No," said the lady. "It was my choice. They're better off without me."

  "You're good," said Blaze. "We'll look after you."

  Soren Similin's heart sank as he heard this. But he thought it best to support Blaze in his act of kindness.

  "Do you know where your husband has gone?"

  "He has a house in the city"

  "The city? Radiance?"

  "Yes."

  That was a stroke of luck. With rather more enthusiasm, Similin said to Blaze,

  "We'd better escort the lady to Radiance."

  "Yes," said Blaze. "She's good."

  Similin turned back to the lady.

  "We have no carriage, I'm afraid. But if you feel able to make the journey on foot, we would be happy to accompany you."

  "On foot? Of course. Why not? I can walk."

  She stood up, as if to demonstrate, but then remained there, motionless, looking round at the wreckage of the schoolroom. The table had been broken in half. The schoolbooks lay scattered over the floor. A child's rocking-cow had been pulled from its rockers, for no purpose other than to make it useless.

  "I'm so sorry," said Blaze.

  She turned to him, surprised.

  "Why should you be sorry? You didn't do this."

  "The workers weren't happy. I beat the bad men. But now—"

  He gestured at the destruction.

  "Do you think I blame them?" Suddenly she became animated. "Do you think I don't know? All this"—she waved one hand down the passage, towards the other rooms—"all this for one family! For me! Of course I didn't deserve it. Of course it should all be taken away from me. Of course I should be punished. And now I have been punished. I have nothing and no one. I am an unnecessary creature. The sooner my life is over the better."

  The tears were gone now. Her beautiful eyes were bright as she spoke, and her gentle voice was urgent, demanding assent. Blaze was hypnotized.

  "No," he said. "Each one of us has work to do, that only they can do."

  "Who told you that?" She shot the question at him accusingly, as if he had stolen it. "That's the way the Nomana talk."

  Blaze blinked, and looked confused.

  "He was a Noma once," said Soren Similin.

  "You were a Noma—once?"

  She laughed. It was the kind of laughter that has more hurt in it than happiness.

  "And did they cleanse you?" She looked into his puzzle
d eyes. "They did, didn't they?"

  "I don't know," said Blaze slowly. "All I know is, they cast me out."

  "Oh, you poor boy. And you call me good."

  "You are good."

  "I'm just another exile, like you."

  She set off down the passage, suddenly become active. Blaze and Similin followed.

  She walked ahead of them, making her way down the steps and onto the path between the trees. She still wore the long, elegant white dress of a lady of leisure, and soft kid-leather pumps that were not at all suitable for the baked earth and grit of the road. But none of this deterred her. She walked as if in a dream, down the track between the tall-standing corn that would now never be picked.

  Soren Similin followed, frowning with irritation. He was so close to his goal, and now this foolish, irrelevant woman was distracting Blaze from his destiny. However, she did have her uses. She had provided a timely pretext to do what he wanted, which was to go to Radiance.

  "We have to look after her," said Blaze.

  "She's a fine lady," said the secretary. "She's not used to walking. How long do you think she'll keep this up? An hour at the most. Then she'll collapse."

  "She's beautiful," said Blaze. "She's good. We have to look after her."

  Just what I need, thought Similin. Now the big booby's gone and fallen in love.

  25. Ease and Solace

  THE CANOE THAT CARRIED MORNING STAR REACHED the city of Radiance as night was falling, slipping from the river itself into one of the narrow waterways that led into the maze of city streets. Morning Star was no longer covered by the heavy blanket, but she made no sound, because her captors had tied a thick cloth gag over her mouth. She did not move, because her wrists were strapped tight to her waist belt and a second rope tethered her belt to the canoe bench on which she sat. But she was able to sit upright, and she was able to see, so she looked about her all the way and memorized everything she could. She saw the fine streets where the priests passed with their servants and their glittering gold robes. She saw the patrol officers on every street corner. She saw the plump, pampered citizens and the starved yellow cats.

  The two tribute traders who had captured her were called by the comical names of Ease and Solace. But Morning Star wasn't laughing. Clearly they knew their business and were expecting to sell her that very night. All the way to the city they were alternately congratulating themselves and bickering over how best to proceed.

  "She's a beauty! We shall break the record with her!"

  "How much money has our man got, Ease? How high will he go?"

  "They say he supplies all the oil for the temple and for the royal household, too. He's got enough."

  "Oh, we shall squeeze him, shan't we, Ease?"

  "And don't you go softening!"

  "When did I ever soften? When it comes to striking a bargain, I'm as unyielding as flint! Why else am I known as the man of flint?"

  "You're not known as the man of flint. You're known as Sol the Doll."

  "Sol the Doll! I never heard that before in my life!"

  "So don't you go softening on me. This one will make our fortune, if we play it right."

  "Sol the Doll? Who calls me Sol the Doll?"

  "I mean to make the oil seller pay five thousand shillings."

  "Five thousand shillings! Oh, Ease! How magnificent! Oh, you dreamer of mighty dreams! Five thousand shillings!"

  "You'll see. Just don't go softening on me."

  Morning Star sat still and watched and listened. She was extremely frightened, but the fear had the effect of making her concentrate. All her senses were focused on finding a means of escape. Her bonds were well tied. She was quite unable to call for help. The little backwater up which they were paddling was overlooked by the windows of lamp-lit houses, but if anyone was watching as they went by, they showed no sign that they saw anything out of the ordinary. No doubt bound and gagged prisoners were paddled past their windows every night. No, her chance would come later, she knew: when she was at last untied and sold. It was such a strange idea, that she should be sold like a loaf of bread. She understood very well the purpose for which she was to be sold, but it was hard for her to imagine what it meant to be a tribute, so she chose not to think about it. Then, just as the canoe was pulling up to a flight of dark steps and her tether was being loosed, she looked up and saw a distant towering rock. It was far off, and black against the starlit sky, and from this distance, seemed to be not so very high. But her heart went cold at the sight.

  The tribute traders pushed her up the steps and through a doorway into a building that smelled of stale beer and frying pig fat. They led her down an unlit passage into an unlit room, and there they sat her on a wooden chair and tethered her once more, this time giving her no freedom of movement. The chair, as she soon discovered, was bolted to the floor. Only when she was securely in place did they light an oil lamp and hang it from a hook in the ceiling. Then they left, and she heard a key turn in the lock of the door after them.

  At no point had they spoken to her directly or looked into her eyes. She understood that for them she had become a thing, a package, a promise of wealth. She had watched their colors, searching for any sign of compassion or humanity, a flicker of the softer tones of pink or blue, but all she could see was the crude orange glow of greed. No hope of pity there. They had carried out this same transaction too many times before.

  Her thoughts then turned to the one who was to buy her. Surely, if only her gag was removed, she could touch his heart? Surely she could make him feel that she was a living creature like himself? And once he truly felt that, he would not be able to send her to her death.

  Cheerful Giver changed his clothes as soon as he received the message. He put on his most humble dress in the hope of convincing the traders that he was not a wealthy man. He crossed the city on foot, without an accompanying servant. However, because he hoped to return with a vital purchase, he instructed one of his men to come after him with his wife's bullock carriage.

  So he made his way across the deserted marketplace and down one of the narrow, stinking streets beyond to the hostel called the Ham Bone. Here the traders were waiting to meet him. He felt his heart beating fast. His name day was only three days off, and it was now a matter of urgency that he obtain a tribute. But he tried to make himself calm and to appear indifferent.

  This plan disintegrated as soon as the traders told him the price they wanted.

  "Ten thousand shillings!"

  "For you, sir, being as you're the owner of all the oil fields between the river and the lake, and the supplier of oil to both temple and palace, why, what is ten thousand shillings to you?"

  "Ten thousand shillings! Do you take me for a madman?"

  "She's a youngster, good sir. An authentic and guaranteed virgin, healthy and plump and pleasant to the eye."

  "And quiet," said his companion. "Obedient as a puppy."

  Cheerful Giver looked from one to the other and felt nauseated. Why did he have to deal with these smirking parasites? It offended his dignity almost as much as it hurt his wallet.

  "My top price is two thousand," he said. "But I must see her first."

  "Most unfortunate, good sir. It seems our little arrangement is not to be. What time are we to see the next gentleman, Sol?"

  "I believe he said he could be here within the hour, Ease."

  Cheerful Giver knew this was almost certainly a fiction. But what could he do?

  "I must see her first," he repeated.

  "What do you think, Sol? Should we let the dog see the rabbit?"

  "How do we know the gentleman is serious?" said Solace.

  "That's the question," said Ease. And they both turned their mock-humble eyes on the oil merchant.

  "Very well. Three thousand."

  This was three times the most he had ever paid before. If the tribute really was a healthy young virgin, it was almost worth it.

  "Three thousand gets you onto the racecourse," said Ease. "Ten thous
and gets you the rabbit."

  Cheerful Giver found this vulgar racecourse metaphor almost more than he could bear. He himself was not in the habit of going to the dog races.

  "I never buy unseen." He tried to sound as if the whole affair was a matter of indifference to him.

  "And we never shows till we sees the money"

  This retort seemed to strike them as neat. They smirked at each other. Cheerful Giver remained stony-faced and silent.

  "Tell you what, good sir!" Ease spoke as if inspired. "Give us your assurance that you're open to discussion where the price is concerned, and you shall see the rabbit."

  "Open to discussion," agreed Solace. "Well put."

  Cheerful Giver hesitated for a long, long moment, in the vain hope that this would strengthen his position.

  "Very well," he said at last. "But I haven't raised my offer by a single shilling."

  "Understood, good sir. Open to discussion is all we ask."

  With a bitter sigh, Cheerful Giver followed the two traders into a back room of the hostel.

  Here, firmly strapped to a chair, was a small female figure with the red head-scarf of the hill people. She was gagged, so only the upper half of her face was visible. She sat quietly and turned her eyes towards them as she heard them enter. The tribute traders locked the door behind them. Cheerful Giver examined the girl closely without actually meeting her eyes. He took care to show no sign to the traders, but he was very pleased with what he saw. She was clearly not a spiker. Her skin had none of the sores and abrasions associated with semi-starvation. Her hair, which was just visible peeking out from beneath her head-scarf, was rich and fine. The city of Radiance, to his knowledge, would not have seen so perfect a tribute in years.

  "She's too small," he said, turning away. "Almost dwarfish."

  "Oh, no, good sir! Remember, you see her sitting down. When she stands—not small, never small. What would you say, Sol?"

  "Finely formed," said Solace. "Well-proportioned."

  "You always were the one for words," said Ease admiringly.

  "Three thousand it is, then," said Cheerful Giver. "And that's three times more than I've ever paid before."

  "And if three, why not ten?" said Ease. "Now that the strings are loosened, as you might say."