“Polain shivers, unnerved by the thought, and tells himself not to be a fool. He has never been superstitious. Why start now? It is just a coincidence.
“He watches them for hours, hypnotized by their seemingly aimless motion. They are very beautiful creatures, with their angular markings of silver on blue that hint at familiarity but never reveal themselves. Every glimpse of every wing trembles on the brink of recognition, but never allows itself to be known.
“A bell rings late in the afternoon, and he stirs himself to answer the door. The police are back with more inquiries. They want to inspect the grounds, and even though they do not have a warrant, Polain lets them. To deny them access would only make them suspicious, and the chances of them uncovering anything are slim. The stench of decay is now gone. Without digging, they will find nothing but flowers and butterflies.
“Only as he shows the policemen the glasshouses does he realize what the patterns on the new breed remind him of. He was too close to them, before. From a distance he can see that each marking is a letter, drawn in the minuscule, reflective scales of the butterfly’s wing. As they fly by, they spell gibberish through the air, meaningless jumbles of consonants and vowels that distract him from what a policeman is asking him.
“The policeman repeats his question, and Polain snaps himself out of his reverie to answer. What does he care that none of his neighbors saw the elderly clerk leave that fateful evening? He had more important things to worry about--and besides, they were all jealous of his success, or were spies for his competitors. He would expect them to incriminate him whenever possible. And why would he lie? He has a reputation and a very successful business to maintain.
“Even as he says this, though, a swarm of butterflies lands in a line on a branch behind the policeman and spells out the words: ‘NEMDO. CONFESS.’
“Polain stammers to a halt. ‘Nemdo’ was the name of the dead clerk. Noticing his fixed stare over their shoulders, the policemen turn to see, but their motion startles the butterflies. They fly away to another branch, where this time they just spell ‘CONFESS’, once again out of sight of the policemen.
“Polain suppresses an angry snarl. He knows what the butterflies are trying to do. They want him to own up for the crime. But he won’t. He has no reason to. It is over, finished. The clerk was old, anyway, and near the end of his life. What had he to live for? The policemen are only tying up loose ends, and can’t seriously be concerned for a lost geriatric.
“Still, ‘CONFESS’ say the butterflies, waving their wings at him and twitching their antennae.
“He picks up a rock from the dirt floor and throws it at them. The rock scatters them, and sails through the glass behind them with a loud smash.
“If the policemen are unnerved by that, there’s worse to come. As a cloud of butterflies sail out through the hole, the policemen press Polain for an explanation of his bizarre behavior. It’s nothing, he stammers. Nothing but reasonable distress at being interrogated in such an unseemly fashion. Who are they to insinuate that he is lying, that he knows something about this absent octogenarian? It’s none of his business, or theirs, and they should leave immediately.
“But even as he speaks, the cloud of butterflies that escaped through the hole have not flown away to freedom. Instead, they settle on the roof of the glasshouse and proceed to spell out another word in shadows against the sunlight.
“’CONFESS!’ they cry.
“Polain staggers backward, shielding his eyes from the sight. Alarmed, the policemen back away as the deranged butterfly breeder trips over a protruding stem and falls into a patch of enormous flowers. Butterflies go everywhere in a panic, filling the air with dark blue and silver flashes.”
Sal was distracted by a faint disturbance on the other side of the dunes. It sounded like someone shouting, or calling, but his father didn’t allow it to interrupt.
“Polain sees them all around him, in clumps and flocks, tormenting him. ‘NEMDO’ exclaims one group; ‘CONFESS’ yet another. His guilt presses in upon him, suffocating him. Keening, he clutches at the soil for a stick to arm himself with and swings at his tormentors. Swarms of butterflies part before him, sending fragmentary ‘EMDs and ‘ONFs and other syllables in all directions. But they always regroup, no matter how he batters them. Broken wings fall out of the air and soft bodies squash against stiff branches. His hair becomes entangled with broken antennae and legs. His eyes sting with butterfly blood until he can no longer see--and the fight goes out of him like air from a punctured ball.”
The shouting was louder. Behind it, Sal could hear the slap-slap of bare feet running toward them.
“And so the police find him, clutching the trunk of a tree, bespattered with the crushed carcasses of his former wards, his face--”
Sal’s father stopped as a boy skidded around the corner of the road and onto the beach before them. Through the darkness, Sal recognized him as Tom. Breathing heavily, the boy pointed back the way he had come.
“The hostel…” he gasped.
Von was instantly on her feet. “What about it?”
“The Alders … Sal …”
The look of alarm on the boy’s face was instantly echoed on Lodo’s and Sal’s father’s. Sal felt his stomach roll.
They ran with Tom back to Fundelry, the night rushing by them in a blur. Sal couldn’t imagine what had happened to drive the boy into such a panic--but he began to get a better idea when they reached the square.
A crowd had gathered around the hostel verandah, at least thirty men and women all craning their necks to peer inside. Lodo pointed and shouted a single word. The two nearest globes flared into life, casting a bright white light over the scene. The crowd fell away before them, blinking and muttering in surprise.
“What’s going on here?” demanded Von.
“They’re inside,” said one man, pointing at the open door.
“Who’s inside?”
“Alder Sproule, of course.”
As they hurried up the stairs to the verandah, the black-skinned Alder appeared in the doorway. He was dressed in his formal robes and held both hands closed around something close to his stomach.
“Ah,” he said upon seeing them. “Here we are, like rats returning to the lair.”
“What is the meaning of this?” snapped Von. “Why are you on my property?”
“I am here in the interest of the public good,” replied the Alder. “You have nothing to fear, Von--but your guests have some explaining to do.”
“We’ve done nothing wrong,” said Sal’s father.
Von stepped aside as the Alder approached Sal and his father. His gaze swept over them like an icy wind.
“No?” he asked, showing them the contents of his hands. “We found these in your room.”
Three flashes of memory swept through Sal’s mind:
(a slim, wooden box with a dragon carving on the lid)
--but now the box was open in Alder Sproule’s hands, revealing--
(a slim, silver chain)
--and--
(a jewel as clear as a diamond and as tiny as a fish egg).
Sal felt a look of shocked recognition form on his face, even as he realized that such a look would only be taken as proof of guilt.
“These items were stolen from three different houses in this area in the last week,” Alder Sproule stated, raising his voice slightly so the crowd could hear. “I think we can call that mystery closed, now.”
“But I’ve never seen these things before,” protested Sal’s father over a growing mutter of voices. “I certainly didn’t steal them!”
“You or your son or both of you--it makes no difference to me.”
“It makes a big difference to us!” Sal had never seen his father so angry. “I demand a fair trial!”
“And you will get one,” said Alder Sproule. “When the Selector arr
ives, you will be judged.”
“But that’s over a week away! What are you going to do with us until then? Lock us up? You don’t have any evidence--just a few trinkets anyone could’ve planted.”
“Ah, but we do have witnesses.” Alder Sproule’s eyes narrowed. “Another tenant in this establishment has heard someone leaving your room on a number of nights, at a time when decent people are asleep.”
“And you believe this person? How do you know they’re not the thief?”
“We can safely rule out that possibility.” Alder Sproule straightened. “Anyway, you won’t have to wait long for a trial. We should have this all sorted out in two days at the most.”
“But you said--”
“Yes. The Selector will try you. Her visit has been put forward. We’ve just heard that she will arrive the day after tomorrow.”
A cold more piercing than Sproule’s triumphant stare stabbed into Sal’s gut. Two days! He would never learn how to hide from Sky Wardens in that time.
Judging by the expression on his father’s face, he wasn’t the only one thinking it.
“No.” Two large men moved in to bind their arms and take them, but Sal’s father shrugged them off. “This is a travesty. I will not allow it.”
“You don’t have any choice, I’m afraid,” said Alder Sproule.
“I have as much choice as I ever had,” Sal’s father said, elbowing the officer behind him in the stomach and pushing him backward, into the crowd. He ducked a swing from the second officer and pushed him off-balance into Alder Sproule. Then he grabbed Sal’s hand and dragged him through the chaos along the verandah, ducking the outstretched arms that reached for them from all sides.
They made it off the verandah and into the square before Alder Sproule bellowed: “After them! Catch them!” Footsteps clattered on the worn cobbles behind them. They sprinted away as fast as they could. Sal let go of his father’s hand and concentrated on running.
They went inland along the main street. Sal knew where they were going but doubted they could possibly make it in time. If they could split up or cause a distraction, maybe--but the feet behind them were too close, too loud, and too many.
Through the burning of his lungs and the growing ache in his muscles, Sal was reminded of the other time he had been chased along this road, by Kemp’s gang. Then it had been daylight and he had been alone, but the feeling of being hunted down was the same. The road to Josip’s workshop hadn’t looked so perilous the day they had arrived in Fundelry.
“The key is in the ignition,” Sal’s father gasped as they rounded the last turn. “I’ll hold them up while you go on ahead and start the engine.”
“But--”
“Don’t argue! There’s a spare key under the mattress in our room if something goes wrong.”
Sal was about to protest, then they rounded the corner. Ahead lay Josip’s workshop, and the shed in which the buggy had been hidden. He felt his father slow down beside him and instinctively did the same. He didn’t want to leave his father behind, even if he had been told to.
But that wasn’t why Sal’s father was slowing and why he jogged gradually to a halt, shaking his head. Only then did Sal realize what had gone wrong, why there was no point in running any more.
The doors to the workshop shed hung open. Inside were nothing but boxes. The buggy was gone.
Sal’s father hung his head as the pursuing footsteps reached and overtook them. Suddenly the night was full of shapes. Hands grabbed them and pulled them apart. Sal felt rope loop around his wrists and tighten into a knot. He bit his lip to stop himself crying out as he and his father were knocked to their knees and forced to listen to Alder Sproule’s breathless pronouncement.
“I arrest you in the name of the Shire of Fundelry on charges of theft, deceit and attempting to evade justice. You and your son will remain in custody until brought before the Selector of this region, two days from now.”
Behind the Alder, Sal could see Lodo watching sternly from the sidelines, holding Josip’s shoulder with one gnarled hand. The mechanic looked like he wanted to kill someone. Behind them it seemed the entire town had gathered to watch.
Alder Sproule concluded: “If found guilty, you will be sentenced under the laws of the Strand. Anything you say now may be used in these proceedings against you.”
“What would be the point?” spat Sal’s father, his voice thick with bitterness.
Alder Sproule snorted. “Only the guilty have no defense,” he pronounced. “Take them away.”
The hands holding Sal’s arms jerked him upright and away from his father. There was nothing he could do to resist them. He felt like he was caught up in the current of a wild, dark river, unable to understand how he had come to be so trapped, and equally unable to escape.
The last person he recognized before he was taken to the cells was Kemp, watching quietly from one side with an expression of cold satisfaction on his face.
Part Three: Changing
Chapter 12. “Three on the Horizon”
Fundelry had four small cells to call a prison. Each would have held six adults at a pinch, with bed space for just two. Sal and his father had one cell each, on opposite sides of a short corridor cutting the chamber in half, and none of the others were occupied. If they had stuck their arms through the bars and reached across, they might have just touched fingertips.
There was an officer seated outside the room’s only door--one of the big men who had tied them up at Josip’s and half-frog marched, half-carried them away. Any disturbance would bring him in to “restore order”. That was what he had called it when Sal’s father had resisted being placed in a separate cell. A large splash of blood on the stone floor testified to what had happened next.
“Are you all right, Dad?” Sal kept his voice low.
His father sat hunched on one of the benches in his cell, the mess of his nose hidden in the shadows. By the light of the single smoky candle they had been allowed, Sal couldn’t tell if he was even breathing.
He stirred just as Sal was about to repeat the question. “As well as can be, given the circumstances.” When he looked up, Sal saw blood crusted on his upper lip and spilled down the front of his tunic. His nose was crooked, and his eyes seemed to drift in and out of focus. “What about you? Did they hurt you?”
Sal tried to keep his voice light. “I’m all right. They just untied me and put me in here.”
His father nodded slowly, then rested his head back down on one hand. “I’m sorry, Sayed. It wasn’t supposed to go like this.”
The use of his heart-name made Sal’s eyes prick. “I know, Dad. It’s not your fault.”
“Some of it is. I should have told you before now, but I didn’t want you ever to have to know about it. I still don’t.”
“Will you ever tell me?”
“Do you want me to?”
“I’d like to know the truth.” Sal thought for a second. “I’d like to know about my mother.” And you, he wanted to add, thinking about the music he had heard his father play on the beach. There were a thousand questions he could ask. “I’d like to know where I come from.”
His father sighed. “I wouldn’t know where to start, let alone where it’s going to finish.”
Sal could hear the despair in his father’s voice and was momentarily torn between pushing for answers or offering reassurance. “There’s still time, Dad.”
“Two days.” His father snorted. “Not even that.”
“You never know what will happen.”
“No. That’s true.” He looked for a moment like he was about to say something else, but instead he lay back on his bench and shut his eyes. In less than a minute, his breathing was regular and slow, if a little ragged from the injury to his nose.
Sal considered calling for the officer guarding them. If his father had concussion, sleeping would be the wo
rst thing to allow. But it seemed like normal sleep. He resolved to wait up as long as he could, listening for any change and practicing the Cellaton Mandala. That was probably the only hope they had left.
When exactly he slept that night, he didn’t know, but he never forgot the dream he had.
He was standing alone at the base of a wide bowl with deceptively shallow sides, like the bottom of an empty dam. He couldn’t tell how far away the lip of the bowl was, but it seemed a long way. The sun hung distant and high above him, casting no heat, and the sky looked misty rather than cloudy.
Sal shivered. He felt terribly exposed and vulnerable under that sky. But it was the horizon that made him the most nervous. Shadowy shapes seemed to be lurking just over the edge of the bowl’s lip, sensed behind him but unseen when he turned. When he tried to run away, in any direction, the lip behind him failed to recede; if anything, it only came closer, all around him. When he stopped running, he was back in the center again, a little bit more trapped than he had been before.
So when he turned and finally did see something, it came almost as a relief.
A person had appeared on the lip of the bowl, standing silhouetted against the sky. Sal could tell the figure was female, but could discern little more than that. Not tall, but imposing all the same, she wore a hooded robe and held a staff upright with one hand. The top of the staff glinted in the sun, as though it was made of crystal. She didn’t move at all.
He was debating whether to walk toward or away from her when another movement caught his eye. He turned to find that someone else had stepped over the lip. Another woman, taller than the first but wearing an unhooded robe and holding no staff. Her hands seemed to be clasped in front of her, although whether in a gesture of nervousness or hope, Sal couldn’t tell.
The two women were spaced far apart but not quite opposite each other. Sal had to turn his head to look from one to the other. They didn’t acknowledge each other in any way Sal could tell. They simply stood immobile, like statues, facing him.
The Stone Mage & the Sea (Books of the Change Book 1) Page 19