by Kate Ormand
Essa’s purpose was to reach the Congress Room, situated in the heart of Arcone. It was all quite clear on the maintenance master plan: there was a cavity wall running around three sides of the room, packed with lightweight padding to kill all sounds. The fourth wall was one of the massive supports for the floor of the Measureless Chamber. Essa wanted to get to a corner where the rigid buttress met the flimsier materials.
They would be in a dead end there, which terrified her—and first they had to get by the door to the Congress Room itself, which was set back from the corridor in a little vestibule, where a guard was stationed night and day.
As they passed him, the Pacifier at the door saw the dried blood on Kean’s head and stepped forward.
“Stop.”
“Can I help you?” Essa asked, with her heart trying to hammer its way out of her chest.
“Why is he hurt? Is there fighting below?”
“No. No … some panic, that’s all. A man ran amok.”
“Where are you going? What’s your trade?”
“Maintenance. He’s a nursing orderly—tried to break up the fight—now we’ve been called to the Garden. What a night!”
“Can’t he speak for himself?”
Kean snapped, “We have work to do,” and prayed the man wouldn’t ask for details.
“I wish I was down there,” the Pacifier growled. “I’d sort things out quick enough.”
“We all have our own responsibilities,” Essa said sententiously.
“Now if you don’t mind … ?” Kean asked, suppressing a very real impatience.
“Proceed.”
They ran onward. Now came the critical moment: the turn into the dead end. Was the Pacifier watching?
Essa looked. He was back at his post in the vestibule. She pulled Kean sideways into the short corridor.
How much time did they have before someone else came along the main corridor? Did the Pacifier patrol the walls of the Congress Room?
“This is it,” Essa whispered. “You keep watch.”
She pulled out her scalpel. Her fingers were fluttering with nerves, disobedient just when she needed all her skill. She drew the blade down the corner where the wall met the solid support. It sliced through in a perfect straight line, to her great relief. Next she cut a line at a right angle where the soft wall met the flooring, creating a flap she could bend and lift.
Carefully. There couldn’t be any tears. It was one thing to repair a clean cut; ragged edges were another matter. Meanwhile someone was going to pass and see them, and within hours she might find herself caged above the reservoir, waiting to be lowered into the water.
It would come up over her head. She would grip the bars, climbing to the roof of the cage. Her mouth would break through the surface of the water. She would take her last frantic breaths before she went under for the last time … Think of something else.
“What are you called?” she asked Kean in a low voice.
“Kean.”
“You get in here, Kean, and you hide till I can get back to you. I have to seal you in, but you can cut your way out if you have to. You’ve got a knife.”
He didn’t like the idea. You could see it in his face. She knelt on the floor, raising the neat flap she had created. “It’s the best I can do. It’s actually a really big space—you’ll be all right. But you have to hurry.”
Kean got down on his hands and knees and looked in. Loose padding, plastic that had degenerated into a fuzzy gray substance, was drooping out from the cut wall already. At least it was loose—he could get in. He did, worming his way into the narrow space. It was about two yards across before he touched the far wall. He could move the plastic stuff easily and make room for himself. But it was going to be claustrophobic.
He wriggled around forty-five degrees, and the girl’s face was right by his as she stuffed the padding back into the wall cavity. Why had she done this for him? What was in it for her? Who was she, anyway?
“What’s your name?” he said, too loudly.
“Essa.”
“When will you come back?”
“When I can.”
She stood, and all he saw were her legs. They were attractive legs. She had not seemed at all upset by his abnormal hand … and now he was going to be so trapped in here …
Essa spread the filler with practiced skill and worked it down with the scalpel. Would there be enough? It was a lot to ask of the small amount she carried in her work belt. She was going to run out too soon, wasn’t she? And how long did it actually take to drown? Would it be easier to embrace your death and let the water into your lungs immediately?
The vertical line was sealed. Now for the one at floor level. Thank you, thank you. There would be enough filler. Barely.
It got very dark in the cavity where Kean lay. It was like being buried. He took slow, calming breaths and suddenly felt an irresistible urge to push the padding farther away from his face.
Holding the woolly gray substance away from his mouth, he took some more long, deep breaths. He couldn’t stay here long. He would be screaming to be let out within an hour.
One breath at a time. Get a rhythm going …
Outside, Essa finished repairing the wall. Next she had to get out of the little dead end without the Pacifier getting sight of her crossing the corridor … He was safely inside the vestibule. She was running again, trying to keep her footsteps light. Where was Veramus now? That was the question. At times of crisis, his duties were as a messenger—in a full stand-by, the most likely place for him to be was down in the main lobby awaiting instructions. With every second that passed, danger pressed more strongly. Her place was in the Garden, and here she was, going in the opposite direction. The passageways were deserted now. Everyone was where they should be, except her. She felt terribly conspicuous. Prompted by hope more than reason, she made a detour to look in on the History workshop. If Veramus was in there, it would be so much easier …
It was empty. All she had accomplished was to waste more precious minutes.
When at last she came down to the point where the main corridor met the big lobby, the statues were looking down approvingly on the might of Arcone assembled in full, glaring electric light. She had not been thinking straight: there was no crowd gathered here in which she might disguise her presence, only the imposing ranks of Pacifiers, a small cluster of messengers, and a group standing aside, talking in animated tones.
She kept close to the wall, not wishing to be seen. It took only a quick inspection of the messengers to see that Veramus was not among them, so there was no point hanging around to become the target of questions. She had no choice: she would have to dash back up to the Garden without finding him, unless by glorious chance she came across him on the way. Even if she didn’t find him, surely he wouldn’t say anything until after they had spoken together—their friendship must mean something to him.
She turned away and heard his voice at the same time.
Veramus called in a shrill voice, “There she is! Get her! Ask her! I’m telling you the truth!”
In his act of betrayal, she didn’t hear even the merest suggestion of a stammer. Grollat stepped forward from where he stood with the boy who had been her friend, and his somber eyes met Essa’s and held them.
He said heavily, “Elessa. Stay very still.”
Panic charged into Kean as he woke. Where was he? What was this material pressing down on his face? Who was talking?
He had slept again. He felt strong. He was lying between two walls right in the middle of the Pyramid. He did not like the Pyramid. He had been crazy to ever think that this was where he belonged.
The voices again. Now someone was shouting. It was funny how much effort the man was putting into it, only to sound weak and small from where Kean lay. He could hardly hear what the words were.
“I acted in the interests of Arcone! What is the word of a Wanderer worth? Do we entrust our security entirely to Dagman, or do we take sensible measures when danger
threatens?”
The voice that answered was low, and the argument it carried was more measured. This was so frustrating: Kean wanted to hear more. Dagman? Why would Dagman have any say in the affairs of the pyramid city?
Burrowing through the insulating material, he reached the far wall. The voices were clearer here but not clear enough.
His knife. He would be taking a terrible chance. He took it from under the tunic he wore. The girl’s tunic. Essa’s. What had happened to her? Was she waiting for her moment, or was she in trouble, unable to get to him? And if he used the knife and was discovered here, what harm might he bring to her? He had to hear, though. Had to.
The knife was whetted as sharp as any scalpel. Where should he cut?
Low down. Not too low down. He wanted to be able to see as well as hear.
He cleared himself a space by the wall and lay down, resting on one elbow. The wall was about a quarter inch thick. He set the point of the knife on it and pushed, slowly increasing the pressure. After a short space of time, the wall gave up its resistance in a rush, and he had a moment’s horror that the blade would shoot through several inches.
He sliced downward a little way and then across, making a tiny version of the flap Essa had cut. He bent back the flap and inched closer to the wall.
Listen first. An old man was speaking in a voice that had a rustling, papery quality.
“With all respect, may I point out that it has always been the aim of the Council to agree on decisions. In order to do that, we must be consulted.”
The next voice that spoke was richer and younger—the man who had been shouting loud enough to wake Kean.
“My dear Nastor, an eminent historian such as yourself has a finely developed gift for wordplay. Might I point out, equally respectfully, that in times of peril, the Prime Conscience is empowered to take decisions for the good of Arcone. I am the Prime Conscience, and that is what I did.”
The old voice said, “In this case, there was no need for sudden action—that is all I am saying. The waste of energy was morally wrong. There was time to convene the Council first.”
“The Season will replenish stocks very fast. The windmills are already hard at work. That is not the issue. You call into question my judgment in declaring an emergency, and I ask you this: do you really think that when danger threatens, our first duty is to have interminable arguments like this one?”
“Danger did not threaten.”
“I disagree. Danger did threaten, it’s just that it did not happen.”
“And now it is you who are playing with words.”
Another voice came in. “What is your opinion, Commander? As a military man?”
A silence. An attentive silence. The voice that spoke next was deep, and reverberated through the chamber, although the man talked quietly.
“It does no harm to remind the people that they may have to fight for their way of life. A general alert was certainly called for. I would have kept the lights low, drawn in any attackers, and butchered the lot of them. Since you ask.”
The Prime Conscience was triumphant. “And is that what you all want? Killing? A general bloodletting in which our own citizens might die? Do you want to start a war? Is that what you want?”
The deep voice spoiled his moment for him. “Can we move onto the realities of the situation? There was no attack. Our preventative measures ensured there was no attack. There was a moment of alarm. The city went on alert, but now we know there were two intruders only.”
Nastor said quickly, “The girl must be purified, of course. Are we agreed?”
She had been caught, then. A pause. Kean imagined a show of hands taking place. But what was purification?
He heard the Prime Conscience announce dryly, “Well, we are at least agreed on that.”
“You had knowledge of her, Commander,” Nastor said. “You disciplined her previously.”
“I did.”
“You were not hard enough on her, it seems.”
“I could hardly demand her death for a minor transgression.”
“Had you done so, we might not now have an interloper in the city.”
“It amuses me,” said the Commander, unamused, “how the timid are always so anxious to kill people. The punishment must fit the crime. The girl is now going to die; be satisfied with that.”
Kean thought, Because of me, they’re going to kill her.
“And what of the intruder? Where is he?”
“She claims she doesn’t know. She says she directed him back up to the Garden. What we know of their movements seems to confirm that, and it is probably the only place in which concealment is feasible for any length of time. It’s even possible he got out.”
“Do you believe she’s being truthful when she speaks?”
“It’s hard to tell when someone is so frightened. And before you call for torture, Nastor, I’d remind you it is not the Arconian way. She will have several days now to consider her situation. Time to repent and confess.”
The Prime Conscience concurred. “The laws must be obeyed. Without wishing to congratulate myself, I can only say that her behavior appears to vindicate actions I took many years ago. Bad blood in her veins, Commander, and bad blood will out.”
Kean began to make the hole bigger. He just had to see, now.
Yet another voice came in. “Were these men sent to spy? Did they have a reason to infiltrate our city?”
“They didn’t infiltrate it; they crashed into it,” the Commander said. You could hear his patience wearing thin. “It’s windy out there. You might have noticed.”
“The Wanderer must be found.”
“If he’s still here, he will be.”
At last, Kean had a view. It was infuriatingly restricted, but he could see part of a long low table. The Prime Conscience was speaking again. Kean couldn’t see him, but he could see the old man—Nastor—and the Commander, and another man’s back on this side of the meeting table.
The Prime Conscience’s voice: “I have a proposal for the Commander.”
The Commander was a dark, big man. Nastor was much fatter than his small voice had suggested, with wisps of hair trained over his balding head. There was a bowl of bright foodstuffs on the table, colored in reds and greens: plants of some kind.
The Commander reached out for a red fruit. “What is your proposal, Prime Conscience?” he said politely, and bit into the fruit. Juice ran down his chin.
“You will visit Dagman at once, ask him what he knows of this.”
Kean waited, so still that he was part of the wall.
THIRTEEN
The Commander considered the proposition.
He said softly, “Very well. If that is what the Council wishes.”
“Can we agree on that?” The Prime Conscience asked with a trace of irony. Nastor nodded, and others must have, too. “So, is our business concluded?”
Nastor had the last word. “We will meet tomorrow, Prime Conscience?”
“We will, Nastor—we will meet as often as you like!”
The humor went down well, and the meeting seemed to break up with smiles. Chairs were pushed back, and men filed from the room, going to Kean’s left. When people stood up, he could not see their heads, only their bodies. One of the headless bodies paused.
“Prime Conscience, I would be honored if you would take water with me.”
“I thank you, Auramas, but it is late, and I wish to speak to the Commander before I retire.”
“You will remember we have a cup to share at some time?”
“I look forward to it, Auramas.”
“May your sleep be untroubled, Prime Conscience.”
“And yours.”
The Commander had not moved from where he sat. He was now casually eating another of the red fruits. When everyone had gone, the Prime Conscience came to sit beside him. He was younger than Kean had imagined, muscular, with a deep cleft of concentration running between his brows. He said good-naturedly, “Don’t eat
all the tomatoes.”
“It’s the only good reason for coming here,” the Commander said with similar easy humor.
The Prime Conscience reached out and took one of the small green fruits. They ate in silence for a moment.
“That fool Nastor wanted to use this as an excuse to withhold deliveries for the coming year,” the Prime Conscience said wearily, “until we had many proofs of Dagman’s good faith.”
“Nastor looks for conspiracies everywhere because he is dishonest himself.”
“Nevertheless, do you not think we might take advantage of this accident—if that is what it was?”
“How take advantage?”
“You could put it to Dagman that Wanderers had intruded—that he had failed us. Renegotiate to a point below the ten percent.”
“You said yourself, it was an accident. Leave it, Maxamar. Ten percent is nothing.”
“It would be a coup for me—to reduce the payment.”
“Your reputation stands high enough already. The arrangement has worked well for a long time. Leave it alone.”
“Well … all right.” His regret was plain. “And what if you find that Dagman is losing his hold—what then?”
“Immediate punitive measures will be taken. It has been many years since they felt the full power of Arcone.”
“A little bloodletting? Some executions?”
“A lot of bloodletting. A lesson that will last.”
“In history, it was a regular event,” the Prime Conscience said reasonably.
“I could guarantee you an event that would put us all on some tapestry or another.”
“You sound contemptuous, Commander.”
“Do I, Prime Conscience? I’m sorry.”
Maxamar said thoughtfully, “Tomorrow Nastor will plead for advancement for young Veramus. He wants more historians on the Council, especially those who might be easily led.”
“Refuse him.”
“It would be hard. The boy acted well. He could be given something.”