The surveyor eyed him for a moment through dark blue eyes, then spoke in accented Bantayan. “A good day’s greeting to you, Bayan. I am Philo Sallas, Imperial Surveyor and Cartographer to His Imperial Majesty Jaap voorde Helderaard.”
Bayan nearly laughed; the man’s voice was as high and girlish as Lailani’s, Bayan’s youngest sister. Managing to keep a straight face, he replied in the Waarden tongue, which Dakila’s uncle had painstakingly taught him in school. “A good day’s greeting, Master Philo. Balanganam has been part of your empire for seven years. Why did you wait so long to offer us a bridge?”
Philo’s painted eyebrows rose, and some of his guards shot each other pleased glances. “That’s a fine Helderaard accent you have; your teacher has been diligent. But to answer your question, my offer comes now because I’ve only just arrived here,” the fancy man replied, also in Waarden. “I’ve been mapping my way through Balanganam for all of those seven years, so the empire can bring your High Ways up to imperial standard.”
Bayan was not amused; he and everyone he knew had continued living as if the empire hadn’t taken over Balanganam, ever since the Danatu had signed his nation’s heritage and governance over to Emperor Hedrick. Being reminded of it by an imperial felt like a kick to the gut.
The surveyor spoke again. “Why do you choose to speak to me in my own tongue?”
Bayan glanced at the older people surrounding him. What schooling they’d received by the time they were his age had all been in the Bantayan tongue, not Waarden. “Most of these folks never learned it. With a smaller audience, maybe you’ll be more likely to tell the truth.” Out of the corner of his eye, Bayan saw Isagani smother a grin; he knew the merchant was fluent in the imperial tongue.
“I’m heartbroken at your opinion of us.” Surveyor Philo placed a beringed hand over his heart. “I see no reason whatsoever to lie to any of you. I’m here at the emperor’s behest, so that your lives might be enriched by his bounty, in exchange for the exotic and mouthwatering foods you supply to the empire. Among other things.”
Bayan crossed his arms. “What makes you think our lives need enriching? We’re doing just fine without you.”
“I meant no offense,” Philo countered. “But can you tell me truly that every man here would turn down the chance to prosper further, simply because it was I who offered them the opportunity?” He pointed to the far riverbank, as if indicating the bridge’s benefits.
Bayan resisted the urge to look at his father, Isagani, or anyone else. Meeting Philo’s eyes, he replied, “No. We enjoy success here in Pangusay as much as anyone else. But you won’t be offering the Sand Guides prosperity, will you?”
Philo smiled. “Ah, Bayan, if I could tell you the dozens of times I have had this conversation in other Balanganese towns. It is true. The men would not earn their guiding fees. But someone has to help construct the bridge, do they not? Who could possibly be persuaded to give up their jobs and accept imperial labor rates on such a project? And, once the bridge is complete, increased trade will surely bring more jobs to Pangusay. The future is always uncertain, my son. But that uncertainty can bring good as well as bad.”
Bayan hadn’t thought about how the town would change with increased trade. He suspected that the surveyor was right about more jobs coming into the area; perhaps Philo really had seen this situation over and over during his seven years in Balanganam.
Reluctantly, he nodded. “You’ll convince them more easily if you can explain how the bridge can be built. We haven’t built one because the river is too broad and because the Mambajao floods for months at a time. Won’t that stop you, too?”
Philo turned to look at the river, dark and smooth, low against its banks. “We have a few talented individuals, rare even across the breadth of the empire, who will make an easy task of building a bridge strong enough to withstand flooding. Not a quick task, mind you, but easy enough that I can guarantee success.”
Bayan frowned, envisioning complicated masonry techniques. “What sort of talent do they have?”
Philo smiled in triumph. “Magic. They can manipulate stone, make it strong enough to hold up against high waters and floating debris. If you have smaller tributaries in the area that I haven’t discovered yet, I’m sure we can arrange…”
Bayan couldn’t hear him anymore over the terrified buzzing in his ears. The empire has magic. Everywhere I turn, magic is pulling me away from the life I want!
His skin felt tight and hot, his fear and frustration overfilling him like too much water in a weak water skin. He whirled to go, but his first step sent him plummeting through an explosion of stone chips and dirt. He landed in a confused heap at the bottom of a sheer-sided crevasse, as voices above him cried out in surprise, shock, and confusion. He scrambled to his hands and knees on the uneven soil and looked around with growing fear.
He’d done it again. Only this time, he’d blown a hole in the ground with his magic, in front of dozens of witnesses. After such a display of magic, there’d be no way to avoid being sent to the ridges with the Skycallers. His heart thudded against his ribs, and he ached with the need to see Imee one more time before he was sent away.
“Bayan?” his father called. His voice sounded hoarse with shock and dust. “Bayan, what is this? What is happening?”
Bayan sat back and hung his head while tears seeped from his eyes.
“Pull him out,” Philo urged. “He may be hurt.” The end of a fibrous rope landed on the ground next to Bayan’s foot.
Can’t I just live in this hole forever? The moment I get out of here, my life will be over. In spite of his despair, Bayan reached for the rope. Strong arms hauled him up, and when he reached the top of his hole, he saw that a pair of Philo’s guards had muscled him up. He dropped the rope and stood, head lowered.
“Thank you, Fabian, Frits,” Philo said. Of Bayan, he asked, “Son, are you hurt?”
“Bayan, answer me,” Datu demanded, eyes wide. “Did you do this? Are you a Skycaller?”
The tone of accusation in his father’s voice stabbed deep. I didn’t do this to spite you, Father! I didn’t want to do it at all! Yet he couldn’t bring himself to speak, to give legitimacy to the horrific fate that waited to clutch him away from his life.
“Bayan! What possesses you? Answer me!” Datu shook Bayan’s shoulder roughly.
“Son? Are you home in your skull?” Philo asked.
“Bhattara na,” Bayan finally muttered, lips numb with despair. “I am a Skycaller.”
Datu threw his hands into the air and chanted the first few words to a song of lamentation. The farm workers gathered in clusters and muttered to each other.
Despite his father’s distress, Bayan thought Isagani had the worst reaction. The merchant looked away and shook his head. His body language spoke of regret, and Bayan knew he’d lost Imee forever.
“No,” Philo chirped. “This young man cannot be a Skycaller.” Bayan raised his head, shocked.
Chaos swirled around him as voices called out in questioning and accusatory tones. Bayan dared to feel hope. Was there some imperial rule that had banned Skycallers seven years ago, as they were banned in Pinamuyoc? Perhaps no one had learned of it, this far south.
“Under the rules of the Empire,” the surveyor continued, his high voice shrill over the crowd, “any person found to possess the gift for elemental magic belongs to the emperor himself, immediately and for eternity. Bayan is not a Skycaller. He is a Duelist.”
The Rule of Ten
Bayan sat in the corner of the large public room in his family’s home and stared into space. Normally reserved for morning instructions to the working crews or negotiating with itinerant harvesters for per-paddy wages, the room seemed empty with just Bayan’s family, Philo, and his guards Frits and Fabian.
At first, Bayan couldn’t bring himself to pay attention to the conversation. That his father would bargain with the imperial surveyor at all made Bayan feel like a wagonful of cowfruit on its way to market: how much wou
ld Datu be able to get for his son? His mother, Liliwa, sat by his father, listening and twisting a soft blue handkerchief in her hands. His sisters, Diwata and Lailani, and little Mindo stood near Bayan’s bench, their eyes wide. The sleek old farm hound, Timbool, lay at his feet.
“Are you really leaving, Bayan?” Diwata whispered.
“If that man can pay Father enough, yes.” The thought put a cramp in his belly.
“Why does he get to take you away?” Mindo’s small brow furrowed with brotherly indignation. “He looks like a woman. If he can’t figure out what he is, he shouldn’t get to tell you what to do.”
Diwata hushed him. “Don’t be rude, Mindo. How many times must I tell you, you’re too old to tease people now?”
Mindo glared at her. “Once more, just like last time.”
Bayan grinned at his little brother and ruffled his dark hair. “You need to be good after I’m gone. Father will start teaching you to run the farm, and you’ll need to take extra classes at school, like I did.”
“Even sums?”
“Yes, especially sums.”
Mindo’s grumbled reply was lost on Bayan as Datu raised his voice. “Can you possibly mean that?” he asked the surveyor.
“Of course.” The plump man leaned forward with a nod. “It would be my honor and my pleasure.”
“But, why? Why would you take on such responsibility for a boy you don’t even know?”
“What responsibility?” Bayan asked, afraid he’d missed something important.
Datu gestured at the surveyor. “This Akrestoi eunuch is offering to sponsor you to that training academy. Take care of your supplies and travel expenses, everything you need, for as long as you’re there. I’m not sure if he’s a gift from Bhattara, or just plain crazy.”
“Need there be a difference?” Philo asked, still smiling. “Let’s say I’ve come to appreciate the Balang spirit during my seven years here. I don’t want Bayan to feel he has no one to turn to, so far from home and culture. Also, I’ve eaten my share and more of your fabulous local cuisine.” He patted his ample belly. “And I am more than at home among those who bring food to every social occasion. Considering my position, I feel I owe it to the kind men and women, who have included me everywhere I’ve gone, to take care of one of their own as best I can. The empire is vast, but Akkeraad, the capital, is only two days from the Academy by carriage and only one day by horse. We’ll be nearly neighbors.
“I know you detest the emperor’s law,” he continued. “Most families do, even in Helderaard itself, when their child suddenly exhibits magic and is taken away. It must be simply excruciating for parents to give away a child for whom they have already made plans. But please understand, there is no need to focus on your loss, when you have so much to gain. Between the prestige you will earn with a duelist in your family, the compensation due you by law, and my sponsorship of Bayan, there is very little you actually lose.”
“Except our son.” Liliwa spoke for the first time. Her reddened eyes never wavered from Philo’s face.
“Yes. I hope, my dear woman, that with time you will see the positive. But if you need someone to blame, I beg you, blame me rather than His Majesty. He has made the law, but I am choosing to enforce it. If I did not, another surely would. Suffice it to say that sponsoring Bayan is an investment in both our futures.
“Now, Datu. Do you accept my offer? Sponsorship of your son Bayan, as well as the guarantee of a suitably skilled man to replace him on your farm, plus the monetary compensation we agreed upon?”
Datu studied his hands. “The empire has made me a wealthy man over the last seven years, Bayan,” he said. “I do not wish the emperor to see me as ungrateful.”
Bayan squinted in disbelief. “Ungrateful?” Had he so misjudged his father? Bayan’s shoulders slumped. He knew his father would say yes, but he couldn’t stand to hear the word spoken aloud. He rose, stepped over the dog, and headed down the hallway to his room. “I’ll pack my things.”
He dug his warmest clothes out of the bottom of his trunk and pulled his rarely-worn pairs of stockings from their shelf. He tumbled them into the duffel he dragged off a peg by his window, then returned to the front room. He wondered if the pervasive numbness filling his head and chest resulted from suppressing his emotions for the last year, since he felt neither sadness nor shock at the sudden reversal of his fortunes. Maybe those feelings would sink in later, and his rage would make that preposterous purple carriage burst into flames.
Silence awaited him. Bayan looked at all the staring faces and wondered if he’d made the house sprout or catch fire.
“I want to give you something before you go, Bayan.” Datu rose. To Philo, he said, “Please, do not leave yet.” Then he slipped out the front door. As it closed behind him, a murmur of questioning voices blew in; the crowd from the riverbank had camped outside his home—or rather, the place he used to live. A tendril of trepidation coiled within him. He didn’t know where he was going or where he would live next. The only thing he knew was a name, the Duelist Academy, which meant nothing to him.
Imee burst in, all curves and braids and flashing eyes, and planted herself before Bayan. “Is it true?” she blurted. “You’re some sort of Skycaller now, but instead of staying here, you’re leaving me and running off with…that?” She waved a hand at the blond-haired surveyor, who merely cocked his head. Usually, Bayan found Imee’s forwardness intoxicating. But today, her words were salt on an open wound.
“I didn’t ask for this, Imee. They’re making me go.” He pointed at Frits and Fabian.
“And you’re so calm about being dragged off against your will,” she replied, arms akimbo.
That stung. Moreso because she was right. Had his own efforts to hide his condition trapped him in this new situation? If he let his emotions fill his mind, would he muster the strength to protest hard enough to convince his father to send the eunuch packing?
“I’m sorry, Imee.” Where was his passion for her? The numbness in his chest seemed to have chilled it to death. “There’s nothing I can do.”
Her gaze, which had so often blazed into his as they whispered to each other in her father’s back room, now seemed cold and distant. Judgmental. Her lovely lips thinned. “Don’t worry, Bayan. There is something I can do.”
Smack! Her hand connected with his cheek, snapping his head to the side.
Before he could process her action, Bayan raised his arm in response. A second crack of flesh on flesh sounded, and he felt the sting of it on his palm.
Imee cried out and stumbled back holding her cheek. Bayan’s mother caught her around the shoulders and steadied her. Timbool barked, and Frits and Fabian stepped forward, jaws tense. Surveyor Philo stood still, eyes wide, as if suddenly discovering he shared the room with a swamp viper.
Bayan retreated from them all, seeing wide-eyed fear on the faces of his younger siblings. Something dark had reacted to Imee’s slap and clawed its way from his innermost being without asking permission. Breathing quickly, he shoved the darkness down into the depths of his soul and prayed to Bhattara that it wouldn’t resurface, ever again.
“I’m—sorry—” he managed, tucking his offending hand between his cloth bag and his back.
Imee stood away from Liliwa, still holding her cheek. Her beautiful brown eyes slitted. “I don’t know you anymore, Bayan Lualhati,” she hissed. “If this is the monster you truly are, then I’m glad you’re leaving. I hope you never come back. And even if you do, be sure that I’ll have found someone else by then!” She whirled and left the house.
Again, the voices came through from outside. Surprise, outrage, and confusion hammered at his ears.
What have I done? Bayan’s mind fluttered like a bird trapped in a deep cave, frantically circling among the same dead ends. Immense blackness pressed in on him, and nothing felt real. His father returned with something small and green in his hands. Grateful for the distraction from Imee, Bayan focused on what his father held, a cutting from a
tiny pitcher plant: a stem embedded in a small stoneware pot filled with earth. A single, immature green pitcher, the size of Bayan’s fingertip grew from the soil.
He accepted the small pot from his father. “Why are you giving this to me?”
“You’re going to a new place, to live with new people. You should take them a gift.”
“It might not grow up north—”
“You know how to harvest the sap of the pitcher and ferment it. You can teach them how to care for the plant, and how to make their own seerwine. If they like, they can sell it and keep the profits. What you bring them is a valuable plant and the knowledge to make a much-desired product from it. Do not let it die.”
Bayan looked down at the little pitcher. “Yes, Father.”
“You remember the rule of ten?”
Bayan swallowed. He’d have to feed the plant himself for the whole journey north. “Yes. I remember.”
“Good. Take this.” Datu held out a small knife with a sharp point, then slid it into a narrow sheath. Bayan added them to his cloth bag. “Turn around,” Datu demanded.
Bayan obediently turned his back to his father. The older man’s fingers drew lines through Bayan’s shoulder-length hair, gathering the hair from his crown into a tail at the back of his head. His father paused, holding the tail in one hand, then tied the hair into place. Bayan turned and saw that his father had pulled his own tail-thong loose to put it in his son’s hair. Datu’s dark hair hung disheveled and loose around his ears.
“The empire does not ask for the help of boys, Bayan. Today, you are a man.”
~~~
The two men strolled together along a broad, covered walk. Columns of jade marble periodically marked their progress. To their right, broad swaths of green, interspersed with carefully arranged gardens sporting a color scheme of blue and white leaves, separated each multi-story stone building from its neighbors, giving the royal campus an open feel. The bright leafy swaths did nothing to cut the chill winter wind, however, and the men drew their fine wool cloaks close.
Rebel Elements (Seals of the Duelists) Page 2