by Kate Ormand
“Give him nothing. He acted for himself alone. As does Nastor. Whatever anyone might say about you, Prime Conscience, you think first of Arcone and only then of yourself.”
“To me, they are the same thing.”
“That is, of course, your greatest strength—your undeviating self-admiration.”
It was said quite straight, but the Prime Conscience roared with laughter. “Oh, Grollat. What would I do without you? It is you who are the conscience of Arcone—not I!”
“Now that, Maxamar, is something I have no desire to be.”
The Prime Conscience got up. “You will leave at once for the Lakes?”
“I’ll go straight from here.”
“Good. May your sleep be untroubled. If you get any!”
The Prime Conscience laughed again and clapped the Commander on the shoulder as he got up from the table. He passed from Kean’s view.
The Commander ate steadily. He did not look like a man who got much sleep at all, let alone the untroubled variety. Under his hooded lids, his eyes were dark and deep.
He stood, dropped the last tomato back into the bowl unfinished, and walked to the door. The lights went dim. Something was odd; he had not left the room. Now he crossed Kean’s vantage point going the other way. Going where?
Kean heard something scraping across the floor … and then back again … and then all was quiet.
The Commander. Dagman. A deal. What should he do? The girl wasn’t coming back. They were going to kill her, but not yet. There was nothing he could do for her by himself … there were, in fact, no choices to make, and time was passing already.
Taking a firm hold on his knife, he widened the tiny hole he had been looking through. Then he sliced down right through the wall into the darkened Congress Room. The room was hung with tapestries, and the long table in the center could seat some twenty men. None of this interested Kean, who went swiftly in the direction Grollat had taken. Here a very large tapestry depicting the Pyramid itself, white under a benign blue sky, hung all the way to the floor.
He pushed the tapestry aside and was at first disappointed. There was only a blank wall behind it. And this wall had a structural purpose; it was feet thick, infinitely more solid than the one his knife had cut so easily. His hand explored the wall’s surface. A crack ran down it, and by the crack was a molded ridge: a near-invisible handle. He tugged and the concealed door slid open.
Instantly he heard footsteps going down, a long way below him. He went through the door, shut it quietly, and let the tapestry fall back into place. Coming out of an embrasure, he stood on a little landing facing a metal spiral staircase. Above him was the weight of the Measureless Chamber; below him the staircase descended through the gargantuan buttress as far as the eye could see. Grollat’s footwear was metal-shod, and from the sound of it, he had already traveled a long way down. Kean started after him.
Before his eyesight adjusted to the darkness, he went slowly, and still managed to bump into the handrail. It took time to get used to the tight spiral of the stairs. His bare feet made no sound on them, and after a while he could go faster and more surely.
At intervals of many yards, he came upon other doors that would open into other areas of the Pyramid. Finally the noise of Grollat’s footsteps stopped, and light flowed up the stairwell. He had left the stairs.
Kean went down even faster. He couldn’t lose him now. He discovered he could take two steps at a time, landing so softly on each tread that it was like flying. The light got closer. Another of the doorways. Open. He was going to go through it when he heard sounds suggesting someone on the other side had the same intention. Kean darted behind the open door and flattened himself against rock.
Fortunately Grollat was in a hurry. He came out fast, slammed the door behind him without spotting Kean in the darkness, and went on down the stairs.
He wore a dark hooded cloak.
He was the man in the shadows in Dagman’s dwelling.
Kean could not follow at once, so he filled the time by trying the handle on the door. It opened under his touch … He couldn’t resist it.
A bedchamber. Not very clean. Grollat’s uniform lying on a narrow pallet. Little else in the room but a chest and table, and a pitcher of water. No windows, but another open door revealed a chamber beyond the bedroom. Kean raised the pitcher to his mouth and drank long and deeply. It was the purest substance he had ever tasted, and he set it down again with reverence before he went into the main room of Grollat’s apartment, where there was a long narrow window with a view of the marvel of the underground reservoir.
He couldn’t stay long. He went to one side of the window and looked through. Movement at once drew his gaze downward. Men were working sluice gates to channel the rising water to where it was needed. Even this soon in the Season, the reservoir was filling appreciably. His eye followed some steps leading upward. He saw a metal cage, miniature from here, hanging from the rounded ceiling. A tiny form sat in the cage, arms on upraised knees, chin resting on arms, hair falling down around its face. Long dark hair.
The cavern swarmed with Water Workers and Pacifiers; there was nothing he could do for her, and the Commander would by now have gone some distance.
Back in the stairwell, he was relieved to hear Grollat’s footsteps still going down. Taking two steps at a time, Kean cut the space between them. When the footsteps stopped, Kean did, too.
This time when Grollat opened a door, no light poured through. Kean heard the door close with a clang, and ran down the last of the stairs. He had to locate the door handle by touch alone. It was pitch-black down here. When he found the handle, it was rusty. Even the stairs were rusty here. Water entered this place on occasion.
He waited for many seconds, counting to himself. He could not afford to let Grollat hear him coming. When he tried the door, it took a lot of strength to drag it open. He did not shut it fully, afraid of the noise it would make.
He stood on a narrow stone pathway above … above what? It was a nightmare, being so uncertain of what was around him and below him. The wall began to curve outward at head height, so he was near the top of wherever he was … and he knew where to go next. Ahead of him, a speck of light wavered far down the walkway. Grollat was a fit man, and he was hurrying. Kean began to follow the light, keeping one hand against the inner wall for balance. Once his foot dislodged a pebble, and he heard it hit stone not very far below him. After that he was able to move faster, traveling into an unknown which was at least not bottomless.
Grollat’s interrogation after her capture had been, well, odd. With two Pacifiers standing behind her as if she was savagely wild and dangerous, they had faced each other across a table in a brightly lit holding cell near the Armory.
He asked the questions with a suggestion of a sigh in his voice, as if it was all meaningless but he had to do it anyway, as a matter of routine.
“Where is the Wanderer?” That was the question he asked most.
So they hadn’t found him. The answer she gave, over and over, both to this and to other questions, was “I don’t know.” She said this when he asked why she had aided an enemy of Arcone. She said it when he asked what had gone through her head when she found the young man.
Some questions she answered truthfully, because what was the point of lying? The intruder was young, yes … Not armed, except for a knife … No, he had not threatened her … If he had a reason for being in Arcone, he had not told her what it was.
The Commander asked one more time, “Where is he?” and she answered, “I don’t know,” one more time, and then he dismissed the guards.
She suspected he wanted to talk to her more personally, and when he didn’t say anything, the silence made her start talking instead.
She found herself saying, “I’ve let you down. I’m sorry.”
He shrugged. “It’s not important. I didn’t expect anything of you, so I can’t be disappointed in you.”
“You gave me a chance, though.”
/> “And you acted according to your nature. Should I be surprised at that?”
“I still don’t know why I did it. I just couldn’t stop myself.”
“It’s hard to think of consequences sometimes. To believe in them.”
“I’m really going to be drowned, though, aren’t I?”
“Yes. There’s nothing I can do about it.”
“You’ve been kind. I don’t understand why.”
He made a wry grimace. “Looking at it now, it seems you were always going to destroy yourself, one way or another. ‘When’ was the only question. It’s fate, isn’t it? I thought I saw in you an individual who could make a difference …” He leaned forward, his eyes coming alive. “Perhaps you have made a difference. Perhaps this is what I wanted.”
She made a weak joke. “I wouldn’t have made you Commander of the Pacifiers. You don’t really seem to fit the job.”
Grollat leaned back again. “I actively pursued the post. The Commander has the freedom to leave the city, to see the greater world outside.” He examined one of his big, dirty, hairy hands. “I had a daughter—we had a daughter. She was born without the gift of speech. She had no tongue. We gave her up. She was expelled. Five years old. It was the correct thing to do.”
Essa blurted out, “I couldn’t have done that.”
He was not insulted. “I think we have already established that you never know what you are going to do. Anyway, we thought—my wife and me—that we had come to terms with what we had done. But the pain grew more, not less. I wanted to know what had happened to our child. To do that, I had to be able to talk to the Wanderers.”
“And you did?”
“After I became Commander.”
“And is she alive? Do you know?”
Grollat said, “It took me a long time to achieve this rank. When, finally, I came upon information about our daughter, it was to find that she died only months after we abandoned her.” Then he said, “Do you understand what I mean about fate, now?”
“No.”
“Wishing changes nothing. We are defined by our actions, not our hopes, and in all our actions, we have far less choice than we like to think. Some things are set, waiting to happen, and we don’t change them. Can’t change them.”
“What a depressing idea.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “Isn’t it?” He added lightly, “There is much about you that is admirable. Refreshing. I like talking to you.”
“I’m going to die,” Essa said with a pang of terrible fear.
As she said it, she saw that the thought did not disturb him, and the moment of intimacy vanished. They both knew it. He said in an official kind of way, “I will see you again, if I can.”
And they talked about how she was allowed visitors. About how she would not be lowered into the water until the Season had filled the reservoir. That was the tradition at this time of year. The end of their conversation had been rational, practical. Unreal. Men would condemn her to violent death; would work the machinery that would ensure it; would watch the waters close over the top of the cage and wait; would see the cage raised, with her dead in it; would walk away congratulating themselves on a job well done.
Now Essa could see those black waters far beneath her. She could easily see all around, because the bars of the fifteen-foot cage were widely spaced. Everything she touched was metal: it was difficult to get comfortable in any position for any length of time. Looking through the bars of the base, through which she could easily slip her legs, it seemed a whole mile down to the reservoir from up here. It was the height that was the scary thing. The water itself had a calming effect, strangely. It was still and cool and impersonal; she liked the way it made ripples of light appear on the shiny ceiling so close above. Just overhead, on the ground floor of the Pyramid, was the central cooling system. At this time of year, it was less active, although the temperature so near to it was still distinctly chilly.
When the workers released some of the water into conduits feeding various parts of Arcone, the surface of the reservoir took on lazy movement. The water was a magical substance, and Veramus’s desire to write poetry about it was quite understandable. His betrayal was quite understandable, too, if you knew him like Essa did.
No one had visited her, not even Bonix or Marran. They would be scared, already tainted by their association with her. However, she was not quite alone, for set into the walls on one side of her were the Self-Examination Cells, and at present their occupants were not so much examining themselves as examining her. No doubt they felt comparatively comfortable about their own circumstances when they thought about her plight. Elessa … Always acted on impulse, and now she’s going to die because of it.
Impulse. Or was it fate, as Grollat had suggested? At the time she had indeed felt, for a moment, that destiny had brought her together with the Wanderer. She’d felt a kind of instant connection with him.
She could see the Commander’s narrow window across the cavern from her. It reflected the light, and you couldn’t see in. On his orders, a Pacifier now patrolled along the ledge that supported the Self-Examination Cells. Her own personal warder, full of self-importance—and her food. He pulled in her cage to serve it, and he ate her leftovers when she was done. He’d get fat at this rate; she’d hardly been able to swallow a single mouthful.
They still hadn’t caught the Wanderer as far as she knew. He might still be where she had left him, stuck between the two walls, waiting for her. He would starve to death. But there was something about him, wasn’t there? Maybe he would escape. If he did, he would turn his back on Arcone and her without a second glance. Well, all along it had been like setting a wild animal free. You did not expect gratitude.
She looked down through the bars again. The water was such a beautiful substance. Perhaps it wouldn’t be too terrible when it happened.
FOURTEEN
Kean had lost all sense of time in the darkness, jogging onward after the pinprick of light. It was painful when his bare feet came down on the rocky ledge. It no longer mattered what noise he made: above him there was now a continuous pounding of sound that could be felt all the way through the rock. He guessed it was raining up on the surface, one of those near-solid deluges that flattened and destroyed so much of the valley’s plant life.
He must have traveled a whole mile already. It seemed the tunnel could go on forever. The girl who had helped him came into his mind. It was unreasonable, but he felt bad about leaving her to her fate back there. He began to think of arguments in his favor. He hadn’t asked for her help. She would have had her own reasons for doing what she had done. In a way, it was none of his business. She must surely know he couldn’t possibly do anything to help her … The more good reasons he found for not feeling guilty, the guiltier he felt. It made him angry. He hadn’t even thanked her, not really, had he? Well, he had in a way. He had thanked her for the clothes, anyway—he remembered that. Oh. And he had said, “I’ll do the same for you one day.” Well … she must have understood it was just something you say. All the same, he wished he hadn’t said it, or hadn’t remembered saying it. She couldn’t expect him to do anything for her. What could he do? It was just one of those things, and anyway, your only loyalty was to your team; you didn’t do things for strangers. His thanks to her would be to get away, because that was what she had wanted for him, after all.
Follow the speck of light down the infinite tunnel, that was all he could do. Feeling so angry.
Kean stumbled along in perpetual darkness, and Essa was trapped in perpetual light, and neither had any idea that dawn was approaching.
A visitor came to Essa.
Marran.
The guard pulled the cage to the side of the cavern and let her in before easing the hanging prison back into place. When they embraced, awkwardly, the cage swayed.
Marran said, “Your father wouldn’t come.”
“Oh well.”
“He couldn’t. It hurts him so much. Maybe not all of it for the right r
easons, but he does care, Elessa.”
“If you say so.”
Marran began to cry. “This is all my fault!”
“No—no.” Essa held her and comforted her. The cage shifted as they clung together, with Essa giving Marran little pats on her back.
This is strange. I’m the one who’s going to die.
She heard herself saying softly, “It’s all right. It’s all right.”
Marran disengaged herself and regained some control. “We should have been open with you. We only wanted to spare you pain. It doesn’t mean you weren’t loved.”
Essa said, “I’m not dead yet. Don’t talk like that.”
“I did wonder sometimes if I really loved you. Now I know.”
“I wasn’t a good daughter. I’m sorry. I’ve brought trouble to you.”
“What does that matter?” Marran smiled bravely. “I was storing up trouble for myself, anyway. After they had taken you, they searched our apartment. They found some pictures I keep hidden. Ones that are not correct.”
“You? You concealing subversive art?” Essa was incredulous.
“Oh—I’m in no great danger. Unless you count losing some status. Your father worries a lot about demotion—but I know he worries for you, too. He won’t talk about it, but he does.”
“But he isn’t my father.”
“No,” Marran said reluctantly. “The Commander told you.” She became angry. “It wasn’t his place to!”
“Did you know my parents?”
The anger dwindled. “No. I’m sorry.”
She told Essa how her true mother and father had been people of privilege at a time when Bonix and Marran were residents of low status. “When we took you in, I thought we were simply wishing to do a correct thing. And—yes—hoping to gain advancement … that, too. Later I knew I had always wanted a child. It’s only now I know that the child I wanted was you.”
There were more hugs and more tears from Marran. It was like being with another person, a person Essa did not know at all. It’s all too late. Now it doesn’t mean anything.