Paul O Williams - [Pelbar Cycle 04]

by The Fall of the Shell (v0. 9) (epub)

  Far in the north quadrant, Prope, an elderly family head, again was scolding her servant. “Mall. Look. Again the folds are not sharp. How can I serve when the napkins are so wretchedly arranged? I shall have to put you on wood detail again and use the funds you earn to hire a replacement.”

  “Yes, of course,” Mall said, bowing. “But, if you’ll forgive, I think the wood detail will not have me anymore. My hands scarcely grip, I regret to say.”

  “Yes. Willfulness. They surely do not grip napkins, or grip them like,a maul or axe. The Protector was right. But I shall have to tolerate you since there seems little alternative. You are not, however, justifying your existence.”

  Mali’s eyes blazed momentarily. “No, certainly not, I regret to say,” he murmured.

  “Well, all the city is asleep,” said Prope, rising. “Old as I am, I suppose I shall, too. I trust you have turned the bed down properly.” She didn’t wait for an answer. Mall glared at her retreating back.

  5

  It was early morning two days later that Brudoer heard voices, then the bolts thrown back on his cell door. The massive, steel-sheathed portal swung open, and five guardsmen entered. He flattened against the far stone wall.

  The guardcaptain stepped forward and announced, “Your period of incarceration, as prescribed by Craydor, is over. The Protector has determined that you may be freed after public punishment, provided your attitudes are correct. Now, come.”

  Brudoer moved away down the wall as the guardsmen advanced and took his elbows. He struggled, silently, until a come-along grip pulled threads of pain down his arms. Still he said nothing.

  Emerging onto the lowest terrace, he saw a rack erected near the edge. Massed guardsmen lined the terrace and stood stationed above on each level, and much of the city also lined the walls arcing above him. He was jerked and wrestled to the rack, stripped of his tunic and shirt, and tied on. As he struggled, Brudoer scanned the crowd for the Protector, but she seemed to be nowhere. He did see a whip with three tails.-

  The guardchief read from a roll. “By order of the Protector and inner council, having served your thirty days, you maybe freed after suffering public punishment for attacking a council member. You are to receive one lash for each two wounds you inflicted on the council member,

  eight-in all. After that, if you humble yourself to her, and beg forgiveness, you will be reinstated in the community.”

  A mixed murmur rolled through the crowd. Many dearly approved, cheering and clicking their tongues. Brudoer, turning his head, thought he heard a different undertone, a hesitant, dark muttering of protest. Twisting his neck farther, he yelled out, “One lash for each two wounds? Look at the whip. It has three tails, you flea-ridden heap of old fish guts! You—” The guardchief thrust a gag into his mouth. On the terrace above, a great drum stood on a platform, and as a guardsman brought a heavy, padded stick down on it, Brudoer felt the first slashing cuts of the whip bum across his back. A surge of sound rose from the crowd. A second drum sound brought the lash again. Brudoer tried to scream, fought the gag, dashing his head from side to side.

  At the third drum thud, Brudoer braced himself again but felt nothing. Wim, the deposed guardchief, had been assigned the task of lashing him. She threw down the whip. “I will not beat a child any longer on anyone’s orders,” she shrieked.

  From high above, the Protector stepped to the edge of the top terrace and called down, “Then strap her to the rack over the criminal and let her take the lashes until she

  agrees.”

  Three guardsmen seized Wim, but she never struggled. Her tunic was split down the back. She held out her arms to be tied down. “I am deeply sorry, Brudoer, for what I did to you,” she said in a loud voice.

  “Gag her, gag her,” several voices called, almost all older women, but no such order was given. Udge stood high above now, her mouth down.

  “Commence,” the Protector called down. The drum thudded. The guardchief with the whip swung it hard, and Wim screamed piercingly. The crowd sound fell to a murmur at the shriek, even the most inflexible citizen subdued before the reality of revolt’s painful consequences. The thud came again, and another lash brought a new scream, long and lingering. The guardchief again drew back the whip, grim and sweating, but also willing. Suddenly, like a sun flicker from a buckle, an arrow flashed from somewhere and took her through the neck. She turned, her arms fluttering up, her silent mouth open, then she staggered back and fell soundlessly off the terrace to fall to the rocks far below.

  “Guardsmen, arm yourselves,” a guardcaptain shouted, but the crowd had already begun to scream and flee, pouring through the doors into the city and running down its corridors. Guardsmen soon sealed off all the entrances, while others stood with short-swords at the ready. From the second terrace, an old woman, with her hair up in two tiers, turned upward and yelled, “See what your tyranny has brought us, you bloody old wretch!” It was the Ar-dena, an old opponent of Udge’s.

  “Arrest her,” the Protector called down.

  A guardsman moved toward her, but she flashed at him, “On what charge? I am a. family head, a member of the full council, and I have merely expressed my opinion.”

  The guardsman hesitated.

  “Arrest her immediately,” the Protector again called.

  The guardsman turned. “What is the charge?” he called back.

  “Will no one arrest her?” Udge screamed. “She has opposed the proceedings. She is under suspicion of aiding in the murder of the guardchief.”

  The Ardena looked up at Udge and laughed derisively. A guardsman reached for her arm, but she shook him off. Another stepped to her side and murmured, “Auntie Unset, please. She will harm you. She’ll find a way. You must go. She will really harm you.” The old woman glared at him. “Please?” he said. She turned and left with dignity.

  Above, Udge did not press the point. She would bide her time. “Release Wim and remove her guardsman’s insignia. She is remanded to the first cell. Put the criminal in the second cell. All guardcaptains report to the Broad Tower immediately,” she called. She turned and left.

  In the hallways, the Ardena scolded her nephew unmercifully, but he held his ground. She turned into her quarters, attempting to shut the door, but he followed her in. “Sit down,” he said. She was amazed but complied. He shut the door. “Listen. You don’t know how far she has extended her control. She has done it by the general fear of disobeying Craydor’s wishes, which she claims to understand. You are in danger. You must send her an apology.”

  “Wljat? Never.”

  “Then I will send it in your name, Auntie. I mean it. I won’t allow you—”

  The Ardena stood and interrupted him. “You—you send in my name? You would dare?”

  He took her hands. “Are you Brudoer? Will you lie down for her lash? Aren’t there different ways of winning? Don’t we need you in this family more than ever before? Can’t there be one clear spokesman for the opposition? This is a crisis. What’s happened to your subtlety?”

  The Ardena sank back down, and he released her hands. “It seems so dishonorable.”

  “About as dishonorable as for Gamwyn to escape, Ardena.”

  She looked up at him. “I will send an apology,” she said. “It will hurt, but I will do it. You are right, after all.”

  “Make it sycophantic, Auntie.”

  The old woman suddenly wept into her hands. Then she lifted her eyes to him again, fiercely. “Yes, curse her bones. It will be so sycophantic she will choke on it.” The two laughed quietly with each other, and as the guardsman turned to go, the Ardena said, “This is not the end of it, though, you know.”

  “No. No, it certainly is not.”

  In the evening, as Brudoer lay on the stone floor of the second cell, still unwashed, throbbing with pain, he heard the door open. Turning his head, he saw his mother and two guardsmen. “I am allowed to wash you as long as I don’t talk to you. Otherwise, they will send me away,” she said.

&nb
sp; Brudoer groaned. As she worked, he lay still. He could see her knees and the boots of one guardsman. She worked slowly. The pain shot through him like sheet lightning as she moved slowly over his back with warm, slightly soapy water. He set his jaw and allowed no sound to escape. She took great, almost exaggerated care, and through his pain, Brudoer saw that she was talking to him with her hands. They meant love, forbearance, defiance. He felt them tremble slightly. On his part he decided to tell her by perfect silence that he still was strong.

  Finally she stood and said, “It is finished.” Then she looked around and remarked, “What a strange room. I suppose if Craydor designed it, it must mean something.” “Silence.”

  “Yes. That is it. Are you a father?” She put a strange accent on “it” and “father.” After they left, Brudoer lay without moving for a long time. What had that meant? “It” and “father.” What father? His own, of course. A thought darted into his mind. She had told him it was his father who had shot the arrow. Brudoer didn’t even know he had ever handled a bow. Amazing. But was it true?

  Eventually he sat up slowly. The lofty light that burned until the guardsman drew it out from above at high night showed a room very different from the first. It had the usual band of letters, apparently meaningless, around it. Below that, the word anger repeated itself in a complete band around the room. Under that series of reliefs illustrated faces and bodies obviously in states of rage. Brudoer turned his head slowly upward, and saw two large heads in relief, a man and a woman calmly looking at each other. He sighed and rolled back on his stomach, drifting off to sleep.

  Three days later, in the morning, a guardcaptain announced himself at the Broad Tower and was admitted. He saluted Udge.

  “Well?”

  “It is Wim, Protector. She is not in her cell. She is gone. We have checked. Five boats are also missing, and we cannot account for twenty-one young men.”

  “From her family?”

  “From all four quadrants, Protector.”

  “When was she last seen?”

  “All three shifts of yesterday’s prison guardsmen are missing. It would have been yesterday afternoon. What should we do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “You may go now. Thank you for your report.”

  “What does it mean, Protector?” Cilia asked as the guardcaptain exited.

  “Don’t you see? They have taken her to Pelbarigan. It is of no use for us to follow. They have made too much distance. Pelbarigan showed with the boy that they are not in sympathy with us. It begins to happen.”

  “What?”

  “The weak and unruly are leaving. This perfect city will always be self-sustaining. Perhaps it is time the scum bubbled over.”

  Bival shuddered as the Protector said this. She wondered if Warret had gone. No. It had been all young men. She knew too that this move would only strengthen Udge with most of the populace, so fearful were they of initiative and so shocked at defiance. Sympathy also extended to the family of the slain guardchief. Murder was almost wholly unknown in Threerivers. It would generally be assumed that the murderer was among those who left. Bival was less sure all the time, though, of her own position. She stared out the window. A winter eagle turned lazy circles over the river. She felt as alone as the bird. She thought again of Craydor’s statement. It had left the egg behind. So had those who fled. But it was not the same, surely.

  After he abandoned the canoe, Gamwyn struck out across the land west of the river, trending southward. He was cold in the late-fall weather. Unused to the outdoors, he hardly knew how to care for himself, but tried to live on ankleroot. At last, when he was quite sure there was no pursuit, he returned to the river, constructed a crude raft of driftwood, and set off on it. Loneliness bored into him. He felt the foolishness of his journey, but it never occurred to him to turn back.

  Finally he passed the mouth of the Oh, with its dark water running down the east bank. He stopped to fish occasionally, using rough Pelbar traps of willow twigs. But he was not able to feed himself properly and sometimes felt light-headed. Once or twice he spent most of the day in his sleepsack, with the raft drifting and slowly spinning down the river. Somehow his plan would work out. It had to. He tried to pray but seemed not able to get through a thought without his mind drifting.

  Far to the north, the Protector of Pelbarigan visited Wim in the infirmary. The younger woman was by then sitting up, though not leaning back as yet.

  “You will not send me back, Protector, I beg you.”

  “We have not been asked.”

  “Not asked? Surely they must have surmised that we came here.”

  “Your Protector is a shrewd woman. She has managed to dispose of a problem. In Threerivers you would always be a goad to her. What would she do with you? I imagine she wishes she could rid herself of Brudoer as well.”

  “I’m not sure of that. I think she has been strengthened by all this. The conservatives are shocked, and they tighten up. So there is use for the boy. She will try to make his rebellion seem so monstrous that the family heads will cluster to her.”

  “This world asks a great deal of its children, it seems. I wonder where Gamwyn is now. Far down the river, perhaps.” She sighed slightly. “I know you will not tell. Gamwyn told my grandson he would go to the sea to get another shell for Bival. He told him that. It is hard to believe. He thought it would make everything right again.”

  Wim looked at Sagan. “And you let him, Protector?” “Let him? He seems to have done it on Ms own. Would you rather that he were at Threerivers?”

  “No. But is that the only other option?”

  Sagan looked pensive. “I’m afraid it is. Pelbarigan has sent out other young men, in different circumstances, with staggering results. But never quite such a boy before. I wonder if he will survive.”

  “I hope so, Protector.”

  At that moment, Gamwyn lay on his back watching a red-tailed hawk flying in slow circles. He was cut with hunger. As he watched, it seemed to describe the shape of the shell in the air. “Shell? Shell?” he murmured. Then he heard voices. Rolling onto his elbow, he saw a long boat approaching, paddled by a gigantic young man. A small black-haired girl about his own age sat in the bow looking at him. They swung alongside the raft, and the girl jumped on.

  “Hold the boat, Jamin,” she said. Then she knelt by Gamwyn. “Hello,” she whispered, frowning. “Are you all right? My name is Misque. Are you well? Come. Get in the boat with us and we will take you to Jaiyan’s Station. That’s Jamin, Jaiyan’s son. Do you know of him? Who are you? What a strange haircut. Come on now, can you get up? Here, Jamin, I will hold the boat, and you get him and his gear. Come on. You’ll be all right. You look hungry. What’s your name? You aren’t a Sentani. Have you come far? Here. We will get your things.”

  “Gamwyn,” he murmured.

  “Gamwyn? What is a Gamwyn?” .

  “Me. My name.”

  “Oh. Yes. Well, come. You are a skinny person, all right. Here, Jamie, pick him up.”

  Jamin had said nothing yet. He picked up Gamwyn like a sack of dry leaves and laid him in the boat, scooping up the boy’s things. Then he heaved himself into the stem seat, shoving off from Gamwyn’s raft, which he left to float downstream. Gamwyn watched it, then turned to look at Misque’s penetrating eyes.

  “I know,” she said. “Your hair. You are a Pelbar. A real Pelbar. I’ve never seen one. Look, Jamie, a Pelbar. Are you from Pelbarigan, or maybe, that strange city—what is it?”

  “Threerivers. Have you anything to eat?”

  “Yes, that one. Threerivers. I’ve never seen it, but they say it is tall, silent, strange, and shadows live there. But Ravell has been there, and he knows people there.”

  “The trader.”

  “Yes. You know him? Look, Jamie, he knows Ravell. We are almost neighbors then. What are you doing here,

  anyway?”

  Gamwyn didn’t reply. She pursed her mouth. “Well, no matter. Look,
some of the old people are at the bank already.”

  Gamwyn turned. On the near shore was an assemblage of people, some dark-skinned, some light, a few with red hair were outnumbered by those with gray. All were dressed in dark Sentani tunics and rough pants, their breath steaming in the cold air. Gamwyn felt faint as the boat grounded. Jamin stepped onto a thick plank, took hold of the bow, and easily dragged the whole thing up onto the bank. Gamwyn felt himself lifted, amid chatter, then carried by many hands up a hill.

  Looking up, he saw a door frame as they passed into the darkness of a building. A piece of baked apple dipped in honey was thrust at his mouth. It nearly burnt. Another piece came. He was lifted onto a couch, where he ate, looking up at a circle of weathered old faces that laughed and speculated until he drifted off to sleep.

  Gamwyn was eventually awakened by a gentle shaking on his arm. He opened his eyes and found himself in a shedlike room of rough boards, with three bunks. An old man bent over him, and as Gamwyn blinked, he said, “Wake, young one. Time for evening song.”

  Yawning and standing, Gamwyn found himself led by the arm to join a number of others, all old, all moving through a maze of rooms to a central chamber that Gam-"wyn dimly recognized as the one he had been first brought to.

  The building was a strange structure, large and circular, with palisaded log walls about three arms high. A high, conical roof capped it. In the center of the room stood an enormous pillar, made of one whole tree trunk, against which all the rafters leaned. Almost half the room was taken up by a complex and bizarre device.

  “That’s Jaiyan,” the old man whispered and pointed to an extremely large man seated at the edge of the device with his back to the small crowd, facing rows of light brown blocks, which arced around him. He seemed surrounded by upright tubes, of a great variety of sizes. Off to the side, toward the back, stood a row of enormous bellows. A number of the old people went to them and began pumping them up and down.