So she hesitated longer, not knowing what to do, decided that she must decide right now, and then realized that her hesitation was her decision.
As usual, she had let fear control her.
She felt the usual wave of self-contempt, made only worse because just yesterday—if “yesterday” meant anything anymore—she had quite bravely leapt from the high rock with Umbo. But that was different; the boy was going to die if she didn’t do something. She was responsible for him. It was so much easier to be brave when you were saving someone else. But when you were the one at risk, then courage was selfish, false, dangerous, pointless. Better to hide.
Better to be left behind? Better to be hungry, unable to find food? Better to be seen as a coward, unable to cope with the slightest stress? She would never earn the respect of these people, least of all her brother. Not that she needed their respect—she was Sissaminka, wasn’t she?
Not anymore. She was nothing now. It did her no good to regard these people as lower than her station. And yet they were—every bit of her upbringing told her so. Umbo, the boy whose hand she had held, whose life she had saved and who had saved her life in turn, he was barely educated, he was the son of an artisan. Now he thought they were friends. Impossible. Yet if she was ever to have a friend, why not him?
Param saw that the others were out of sight. She did not want to lose track of where they were. She slipped back into realtime and followed softly. Her shoes clacked on the floor of the museum, so she slipped them off. Now the floor was slippery, so she dared not run. She turned a corner. There they were.
She would have to speak, to be seen, they would look at her.
She slipped back into slow time and cursed herself again for the habitual coward she was.
In a moment, Rigg and Loaf were gone with Vadesh, and Umbo followed them down the stairs almost at once.
Olivenko was alone.
Olivenko, her father’s student. A mere guard now, yes, but still an educated man, familiar with the courtesies, softspoken, kind.
She slipped back into realtime and put her shoes back on. Only a few steps and he heard her.
He said nothing, though. He merely waited, eyes averted, as she approached. He pretended to be examining one of the large machines, but she knew he was waiting for her. So sensitive, so aware of what she needed.
“Thank you for waiting,” she said softly.
“I’m glad you returned to us,” said Olivenko. “I was worried about you.”
“I was worried about myself,” said Param. It was not a thing she expected herself to say; normally, embarrassed as she was, she would say nothing. But to Olivenko, in this moment, she felt the need to tell the truth. “I’m ashamed of myself for running away,” she said. “I didn’t mean to disappear like that. Hiding is a habit.”
“A habit that kept you alive during very difficult times.”
She felt a rush of gratitude. He did not condemn her. “But it’s inconvenient now,” she said. “If I hesitate while I’m . . . like that, then things move on without me. I’m always falling behind.”
“It keeps you young,” said Olivenko.
She did not know what he meant.
“Literally,” said Olivenko. “You’re slicing time, you’re moving forward without living through the intervening moments. So for each hour that passes, you live much less than an hour. You don’t age as quickly. The more you’ve lived in hiding like that, the less time has passed for you, and the younger you are.”
“Yes, that’s so,” said Param.
“You should be sixteen, but do you think you are? Perhaps you’re only fifteen years old. Or fourteen.”
“I feel very old,” said Param. “Are you sure it doesn’t work the other way?”
He chuckled—not a loud laugh, so it didn’t sound derisive. It sounded as though he enjoyed her remark, as though he thought it was witty.
“Where have the others gone?”
“With Vadesh, to go into a starship,” said Olivenko. “Shall we find them?”
Param strode boldly forward, though she did not know where she was going. It seemed the thing to do, the antidote to her timidity of a few moments before. Soon they saw Umbo among the machines, but he was alone.
“Where did they go?” Param asked him. She made her tone peremptory, commanding, so that she would not have to deal with any questions from him about where she had gone when she disappeared.
“I don’t know,” said Umbo.
“Why aren’t you with them?” she insisted.
Then he told them that his future self had appeared to him with a warning: Stay here. Do nothing. He did not know why the warning had come, and in her impatience, and partly because she had assumed an air of command, it quickly turned into a quarrel, each accusing the other of cowardice. Param said harsh things, but so did Umbo; Umbo’s words stung all the more because she knew that they were true. And when they found the place where the others had gone down the stairs, her fear began to rise again: What was the danger that Umbo’s future self had warned against? She felt herself starting to slow down, to vanish, and so she paced back and forth, determined not to let herself disappear again. She could not let this habit master her.
Umbo went down the stairs to look for Loaf and Rigg and Vadesh. But Olivenko stayed with her.
“Why don’t you go, too?” she asked.
“Loaf can handle anything that comes up,” said Olivenko. “I don’t like the idea of any of us being alone. So I’ll stay with you, if you don’t mind.”
“Do what you want.” She sounded surly, though she hadn’t meant to.
“I always do,” said Olivenko, sounding amused.
“You think I’m funny?” asked Param.
“No, I think I’m funny,” said Olivenko. “I gallantly stay behind to protect you—but of all the people in our group, you’re the one who least needs my protection. I’m not good for much, am I? I’m not half the soldier Loaf is, and I can’t fiddle with time the way you others can. Maybe I’m along to write the history afterward. Or perhaps I’ll be the one who dies, so that you can be warned that danger has arrived. That’s how it works in stories—there’s one who isn’t really needful to the tale, and so he’s the one who gets killed first. Usually he’s forgotten; nobody even mentions him at the end.”
“That’s bleak,” said Param. But she knew what he meant. She had heard many such tales, growing up. The one who can die and not be missed. She had never thought of that. Was it her role, after all? Mother thought so.
But no. Sissaminka would be missed. Her absence would be noted. She was not one who could die without repercussions. Mother would see. She had put too much trust in General Citizen. And when word got out that Param was gone, everyone would be sure Mother and General Citizen had killed her. There would be outrage. There would be rebellion, vengeance, justice.
“You look very fierce,” said Olivenko.
“Thinking of Mother,” said Param.
“It must have been devastating,” said Olivenko, “to have her turn on you.”
“I always knew what she was,” said Param. “I shouldn’t have been surprised.” And then, quite suddenly, she found herself crying. “I don’t know why I—please don’t touch me—it’s just that I—”
“It’s all right,” said Olivenko. “You’ve been very calm through everything. You’re entitled to unwind a little now.”
“But there’s still danger, there’s still . . .”
Olivenko said nothing.
Param felt herself swaying. She put out a hand and found his arm, leaned on him. In a moment she found that he had led her to a place where they could sit on a part of one of the machines.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“I’m not,” he said. “I’m glad.”
She faced him then, startled, prepared to be angry.
“Glad that you didn’t disappear,” said Olivenko. “Glad that you trusted me enough to stay.”
Param shook her head. “I can’t speed
up time when I’m crying. Or slow myself down, or whatever it is I do. That’s why I learned not to let myself cry or scream. Instead I vanish. Only I’m trying not to. Trying not to let it be a habit.”
“You want to do it only when you decide,” said Olivenko.
“Yes,” said Param.
“You’re not crying now,” said Olivenko. “But you’re still angry with your mother.”
“Angry at myself for letting her take me by surprise,” said Param.
“She’s your mother. Of course her plotting against you took you by surprise.”
“She’s not my mother, she’s Hagia Sessamin. She does things for royal reasons, not personal sentimentality.”
“That’s the lie she tells herself to excuse her crimes,” said Olivenko. “You can believe her if you want, but I don’t. I think she acts only for personal reasons, and never once thinks of the kingdom.”
Param felt her anger flare up, but stopped herself from speaking sharply. How could she defend her mother after what the woman had done to her?
“It’s like your father,” said Olivenko. “The best man I ever knew. He said that he was pursuing a way through the Wall for the benefit of the whole kingdom. He talked about how the opening of the border would free everyone, widen the world. But it was all very vague. What he really wanted was to find some reason to exist.”
“He was Sissamik,” said Param. “That’s a reason to exist.”
“It’s an office. A title. He told me once—just once, mind you—that he was a mere decoration on the costume of a deposed queen. An accessory, like shoes, like a hat. If his wife ruled, he would still have no power; since she did not, he was worse than useless.”
“He was wonderful,” said Param. “He was the only one who treated me like . . .”
“Like a daughter.”
“Like a little girl,” said Param. “But yes, like a daughter.”
“He found you fascinating. ‘She’ll be Sessamin someday, after her mother, and if she has power she’ll have the power to be a monster if she wants, like her great-grandmother, the boy-killer.’ ”
“He said that?”
“It wasn’t an insult—it was one of her self-chosen titles. She killed all her male relatives so that no man could rival her daughter for the Tent of Light. She chose Knosso to be your mother’s consort, and left strict instructions that he was to be killed after he fathered two daughters.”
“Two?”
“Just in case,” said Olivenko. “Your mother bore Rigg instead, and then Knosso never quite managed to sire another child on her. So he never found out whether someone would have carried out old Aptica Sessamin’s command. There had been a revolution in the meantime, but that didn’t mean some old royalist wouldn’t try to fulfill the old lady’s wish.”
“He must have talked very candidly with you.”
“More like he forgot I was there, and talked to himself. He wanted to do something great. Maybe he did—but then he died, so he didn’t get to enjoy the fruits of his labor. He passed through the Wall, and then drowned. Was there a moment there in which he said, ‘I did it!’ and savored his triumph? Or was it all just the hands of the monsters from the sea, dragging him down?”
“I thought you said he was unconscious.”
“That’s what the learned doctors declared, but I suspect it was only to console your mother. I think he was struggling. I think he was awake.”
“How awful.”
“Awful for a few moments, and then he was dead. The cruelest means of dying still ends the same. With release.”
“Release,” said Param. “It sounds pleasant.”
“And yet I don’t want to do it,” said Olivenko. “Not now, not ever. Miserable as I sometimes am in this life, I like being alive.” He held up his hands. “I’m used to having these fingers do my bidding. I don’t even have to ask them. Before I even think of what I want, before I could put my wishes into words, they’re already obeying me. My feet, too. My eyes open when I want to see, and close when I want to sleep. Such obedient servants. I’d miss them.”
“So you think some part of you will persist after death?”
“If not, I won’t know it,” said Olivenko. “And if so, then I’ll miss my hands and feet and eyes and also lunch. I’ll miss food. And sleep. And waking up.”
“Maybe death is better.”
“Not according to the advertisements.”
“What advertisements?”
“You see? If it were better, there’d be advertisements.”
“Why bother to advertise, since everyone’s going to do it anyway?”
“I didn’t think of that,” said Olivenko ruefully.
Param chuckled, and then realized she was amused. That, for a moment, she was something like happy. “Well, thank you for that,” said Param.
“The laugh was your own,” said Olivenko. “I was merely ridiculous.”
“It was kind of you to be ridiculous for me.”
They talked on, the easy conversation of new friends, each telling about experiences that illustrated some point they were making, spinning out the yarns of their lives and weaving them together haphazardly into a sort of homespun that wrapped them both and made them feel warm. Through it all, Olivenko only rarely looked at her; whether it was deference to her rank or sensitivity to her shyness or a kind of shyness of his own, she didn’t know. But it allowed her to look at him fully, frankly, deciding that as grown men went, he was not bad looking. Manly enough in the cut of his jaw and the strength of his neck, but still with the eyes of a scholar, a kind of distance, as if he could see things that ordinary people never saw.
And what did he see? He had seen Father, and liked him, and cared about him.
And he sees me. And likes me. And . . .
Param felt herself blush a little and she turned away. She felt herself coasting along the edge of slow time, but did not step over. She remained here with him.
“Thanks for not leaving,” said Olivenko.
“You knew?” Param said softly.
“I don’t know what you thought of,” said Olivenko, “or what you saw, but you turned away and froze. Like a deer, the moment before it leaps away. I was afraid you were going to leave.”
“I might have,” said Param. “But I decided not to fear you.”
“Yes, that’s what everyone decides,” said Olivenko. “I’m not much of a soldier, not much of a guard.”
“But you’re guarding me,” said Param. “I’m not supposed to fear you.”
“Well, that’s good then,” said Olivenko. And then he went off on a story about a time when he challenged a drunk who was trying to stray into the wrong part of the city, and the drunk showed his contempt by urinating on him.
“No!” cried Param.
“Oh, we arrested him, which means we knocked him down, and the sergeant didn’t understand why I didn’t kick him there on the ground. How could I explain that I agreed with the man’s assessment of me as a soldier? The sergeant was ready to believe I was a coward, and he taunted me, saying that I liked it, come on everyone and pee on Olivenko, it won’t make him mad.”
“How crude,” said Param.
“They didn’t do it,” said Olivenko. “I gave the drunk a couple of kicks. It didn’t hurt him much, there was so much wine in him, and it got the sergeant to shut up.”
“Oh,” said Param, vaguely disappointed.
“If I had principles,” said Olivenko, “I would never have helped a couple of fugitives like you and Rigg get away.”
“Then I supposed I’m glad you don’t.”
And so it went until Rigg and Loaf and Umbo came up the stairs, and Param saw the facemask on Loaf’s head and cried out in sympathy and horror, and she felt Olivenko’s arm around her, his hands on her arm and shoulder, steadying her. “Stay with us,” said Olivenko.
“Vadesh did it,” said Rigg. “He claims this is a different type of facemask, created to blend harmoniously with humans.”
; “Loaf is still alive in there,” said Umbo.
“Can’t you take it off?” asked Param.
“It would kill him,” said Rigg. “Or he’d kill us. When you reach to try to pry it off, Loaf turns into a soldier in battle. He’d break us like twigs.”
“Olivenko’s a soldier, too,” said Umbo.
“Not like him,” said Olivenko. He wasn’t going to try to pry off the facemask.
“Then what are we going to do?” asked Param.
“I think now is a good time to get out of Vadeshfold,” said Rigg. “To a wallfold that doesn’t have Vadesh in it. Or facemasks.”
“Might have something worse,” said Umbo.
“Like what?” asked Rigg. “What is worse than this?” He indicated Loaf’s face.
“Death,” said Param.
“Let’s see how Loaf votes,” said Rigg, “on whether death is worse.”
“Where will we go?” asked Param.
“I don’t know,” said Rigg. “Not back to Ramfold. And we don’t know anything about any of the others.”
“We know that sea monsters in the wallfold to the north drowned your father,” said Olivenko.
“Is that a vote to go south?” asked Rigg. “Because I’m open to any suggestions.”
“East,” said a voice that seemed to come from nowhere. A woman’s voice, and yet Param had not spoken.
“Who was that?” demanded Umbo.
“The ship,” said Rigg. He raised his voice, addressing the invisible speaker. “Any particular reason?” he asked.
“No one will harm you there,” said the ship’s voice.
“I vote for that,” said Rigg.
“Can we trust it? Her?” asked Olivenko.
“It gave me control over Vadesh,” said Rigg. “It gave me control over the Wall.”
“Vadesh said you had the power to command him, too, and look how that turned out,” said Umbo.
“If we get to the Wall and it doesn’t let us through, we’ll know that the ship was lying.”
“How can a ship talk?” asked Param.
“Ancient machines,” said Olivenko. “Your father read about them. Machines that talk, but they have no soul.”
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