The Luck of Brin's Five

by Wilder, Cherry;

  “There now!” he said, handing me the glass. I stared east and saw a line of light; it heaved and shifted, as if the sky had fallen to the earth, clouds and all.

  “But what is it?” I asked, unable to look away. The line had turned to a flat plain, unbelievably vast, stretching further than the plain of Torin itself and shot with queer pale colors.

  “Ah,” said Mamor, “that is the North Wind’s own sib, that quenches every fire. That is the Great Ocean Sea . . .”

  That day Vel Ragan and Onnar took the sailboat ahead of us through another channel into the city. We sailed on and came in Esder light to the gardens and granaries and round, low store houses on the outskirts of Rintoul. The city lies between the sea and the land on the very edge of the estuary; we sailed through the eastern gate, Curweth-Ma, where the captain tied up the keel boat. Then we crossed through the wharves to the city canal and sailed in one of the painted pay-boats through miles of quiet streets. I sat with Tomar and Narneen, and we counted ten fountains, some still, some playing, in the dawn before Esto, until we came to a landing stage near our street. We walked a short distance and were received at the wig-maker’s house, which seemed as grand as the citadel at Otolor. The lower level was a shop, full of wigs on stands, like so many grandees’ heads; we were shown by a servant up a winding basket corridor to the third level and settled into a large room, with a view of the ocean on one side and the city on the other.

  These two windows, glazed in many panes of white and colored glass, with stiffened rope between the panes, are something I remember whenever I think of those first days in Rintoul. We sat before them a great deal, watching and pointing; Old Gwin, who did not go out much, sat beside the city window for hours at a time, watching and laughing and shaking her head in a kind of bewilderment.

  “Rintoul . . .” she would say in disbelief. “We’ve come to the city!”

  The streets were never thronged with people; there was never such a crush as there had been on the fairground at Otolor, but we felt the presence of more, many more people, all around us. I could not wait to go out and explore, but at the same time I was nervous.

  The Harper took me on a first expedition, and we became lost; we looked through a marvellous street of shops containing leatherwork and bought some presents. Then we read signs for the Fish Garden and set out for it but missed our turning and came to a most beautiful street full of paper garlands and pink windows. There were carrying chairs with their curtains drawn, coming and going, and the inhabitants of the street leaned from first floor windows with their arms bare. The Harper whistled and grinned.

  “Truly,” he said, “this is no place for one so young.” I did not understand and we wandered on, taking in the exquisite little shops for eating and drinking and gaming. A pretty painted creature leaned from a window and threw a credit to the Harper.

  “Play us a folk song, dear Weaver!” it said.

  “You must excuse us, Friend!” he replied and threw the credit back again. The painted one caught it nimbly and stuck out its tongue at us.

  “But what do they do here?” I asked.

  “Let me put it this way,” said Harper Roy. “For these folk it is Springtime all the year round!” So he bustled me along to the end of the street, and there we found a member of the Town Watch, an omor in a white robe, with the insignia City Friend.

  The Harper greeted her and asked for directions. The omor was kind and cheerful; she told us the way to the Fish Garden.

  “From the North?” she asked.

  “Truly,” I said, “from Cullin.”

  “I have kin still in Nedlor,” said the omor. “When you have seen the Fish Garden go down the long steps to the Friends’ Round. It is an open place where you can hear the news and meet other visitors. You can buy a map of the city.”

  “And it’s more respectable than this place . . .” said the Harper. He pointed to the street sign waving about above our heads: it said Honey Dream Crescent, which sounded to me more like the name of a sweetmeat.

  “City ways!” shrugged the omor. “Not many folk come here by accident.”

  The omor walked with us then, as far as the Fish Garden, and left us standing on a bridge looking at the clouds of green finger-fish and the big striped Sea Bear. Another City Friend turned up in the Fish Garden with a throng of tourists; there were townees, who might have come from Otolor or Linlor, a few bush weavers from further north, and a group I did not recognize at all.

  “Who are they?” I asked Harper Roy.

  “What? The ones in flax kilts? Oh they are real outlanders . . . from the far west, I should say, beyond the Fire-Town at the edge of the world.”

  We hung about at the edge of the group as they went up to the top of the promenade at the end of the garden and the guide began to point out the sights of the city. We saw the Old Breakwater—now on dry land—and the beautiful Corr Pavilion, where the Hundred meet, both buildings from the time of the Torlogan. We saw the clustered skyhouses of the grandees, rising from the third or fourth level; in this part of the city they seemed especially tall, cliffs of stone.

  Figures could be seen moving about on the skywalks, like birds on the highest branches of a tree. On every skyhouse, clustered among the beams like strange fruit, were golden globes, painted with the gold paint the grandees use for their outdoor wickerwork. “Those are sleep-cells,” explained the guide. “Little basket rooms where the grandees are rocked to sleep. The clansfolk in this city have a strange malady . . . they find sleeping difficult.”

  This made us all laugh; yet there were times I remembered when it was difficult to sleep.

  We could look down on the Friends’ Round, a pleasant place with trees and benches and cook-shops and a large mosaic pavement reaching out into the lagoon.

  “What’s that, Friend?” called a townee, pointing.

  “That island?” asked the guide. “Why that is the glass island . . . ‘halfway to Itsik,’ if you know what I mean.”

  We could see the tall heaps of sand glistening in the suns’ light and high-domed buildings with smoke coming from their spouts. As we broke off from the group and ran down the steps to the Friends’ Round, the Harper said, “This city runs on fire-metal-magic. What more could they have in the Fire-Town?”

  “Moving staircases,” I said. “My feet are tired.”

  “Diver has been telling you Earth yarns!”

  This was our first and one of our longest expeditions into the city. We all went together to the Friends’ Round one morning and Vel Ragan met us there, with Onnar. It was a pleasant place indeed and one where we felt safe and comfortable. Old Gwin settled under a tree with Tomar, and the Harper had many requests for his folk songs. Brin took me to the message trees, which are wooden racks where skeins of news and other messages are posted; they stand at every street corner, and there are certain scribes who replenish them. Diver and Mamor stood at the balustrade looking out over the lagoon to the sea, marking the ships that sailed in and out to the wharves. Ablo took Narneen to buy a sunshade, and she came running back to Brin with another new thing . . . a carved wooden figure, dressed just like a grandee, in a long silk robe and a furry tippet.

  “It is a doll,” said Brin. “Ablo is wasting his credits on you, child.” But Narneen hugged the thing and called it her dear little clan creature, her poppet, her pouch-child.

  “What is it for?” I asked.

  “It is a toy . . . a thing to play with, like the bow Mamor made you,” said Brin. “The city children play with dolls, and I expect we might have found a stall of them at Otolor.”

  I looked at shops full of toys after that and wondered what kind of a toy I might like, but I saw none. Yet the city was full of things I did crave . . . writing sets, leather boots, pouches, wheeled carts; there was even a place on the city canal where small sailboats were made and sold.

  Vel Ragan took the Five one day to wait upon Orn Dohtroy—called Margan, the Peacemaker—in his sky house. They were gone all day, and we st
ayed indoors with Ablo at our lodgings. When they returned, they were disappointed but full of talk about the grandeur of the place. They had waited in the antechamber on the eighth level with many petitioners for the Peacemaker and had gazed into the sun room. This enormous golden room led onto a water garden, the Harper said, where there were tamed flatbills. But Orn Margan had been absent, so his servants gave out, or at least he saw no petitioners that day. Vel Ragan sent in his name, but not the nature of his business, and the skein came back with a polite addition asking him to call again in three days.

  The scribe was worried and irritable because the Five had not been seen.

  “Do not fret,” said Diver. “I am sure it is chance that the Peacemaker did not see us.”

  “He is cautious,” said the scribe. “Peacemaker is not altogether a grand title. Orn Margan is ready to compromise. I wonder if he thinks I am seeking Tsorl-U-Tsorl.”

  “You have no word?”

  “None. And I must ask most discreetly. But this is another matter. I must get you seen, Garl Brinroyan, for your safety.”

  “Should we not go to the east and find the Maker of Engines and Murno Pentroy?” asked Brin.

  “Perhaps,” said Vel Ragan. “First, bear with me once more and we will try Guno Deg.”

  The little darkness had returned, though it was always very short in Rintoul; spring shades into summer in the south without a sharp distinction. We all rose up in Esder light, dressed in our best and set out for Guno Gunroyan’s skyhouse in Rintoul. Old Gwin protested, but she was made to travel in a carrying chair with Narneen and Tomar. The scribe led the rest of us for miles, up and down, then only upwards, and we crossed our first skywalk. A wind blew from the sea, and the skywalk rippled; even Diver could not look down. The porters with the chair waited at the other side laughing, as we tottered across.

  We plunged into the shining levels of the house and came to the antechamber before the sun room. We were not the only petitioners, even at this early hour; we tried to send in a skein, but the servant in charge, the House Warden, would not accept it. Food was sent out on trays, and as we were eating it there was a sudden commotion and the curtains of the sun chamber were abruptly drawn. The room was of such magnificence that my eyes dazzled; three domes of colored glass flowered overhead, and there were three carpets, old and fine, each as large as a small field. There was a wicker throne on a dais, but it was empty. A little, stout, strutting figure in a brown robe was bustling through the spaces of the sun chamber, followed by a couple of vassals. A continuous stream of complaint and comment rang out. Guno Deg gestured with a staff and struck the floor with it. Eventually she came right on out into the antechamber.

  “Good-day! Good-day, gentles all!” she cried. “What new work are you bringing me?”

  Then she began by the door, speaking to each petitioner in turn and solving some of the problems on the spot . . . a matter of land claim, the need for a fishing licence. One or two groups of country visitors simply brought gifts of cloth or food, and she accepted these graciously and embraced an ancient who had brought her a young black wool-deer as a present. She approached our large party and looked us up and down.

  “Great wind!” she barked, “an invasion from the distant north. No, good Mother, remain seated, I pray. Why are these children not asleep? Who is the Speaker here? A scribe, forsooth, and from Tsagul . . . what have you to do with this tribe?”

  “We bring a wonder, Highness,” said Vel Ragan. “Something that has not been seen under the two suns.” He presented the skein with our names and his name.

  “Indeed!” snapped Guno Deg. “Well, I don’t believe you. I have no time for talking animals, healing stones or drawings of fantastic beings.”

  “Perhaps you mean the Stone Brook drawings, Highness?” put in the scribe.

  “I do!” she said. “Is this your wonder?”

  “Here is the artist himself,” said Vel Ragan.

  Diver stepped forward and bared his head and bowed to Guno Deg. She stared up at him in silence. “Garl Brinroyan?” she asked at last.

  “So I am called on Torin, Highness.”

  “Did you not fly in the Bird Clan at Otolor?”

  “I did, Highness!”

  Guno Deg bit her underlip and rapped testily with her staff. “Humph!” she said. “Scribe, you do not lie. This is a wonder, and one I had hardly believed to this hour. Come in, all of you . . . yes and especially you, whatever you may be, Garl Brinroyan.”

  We were escorted into the sun chamber, and the curtains were drawn again on other unlucky petitioners. Inside we were all settled and made welcome by still more vassals and house servants, but I crept as close as I dared to hear Guno Deg speaking with Brin and Diver and Vel Ragan. At first Diver told a little of his coming and how we left Hingstull; then the Elder urged him to leave nothing out and tell all that had passed. We knew what she meant: the pursuit by Tiath Avran Pentroy. So Diver and Brin and the scribe told the whole tale, not leaving out the Gulgarvor and the harrying of the twirlers and the death-pact of the bird carriers.

  The Wentroy Elder heard them out in silence, then she said, “You are wise to show yourself, Escott Garl Brinroyan. But I notice that in spite of your claims to come in peace you have fought several times with Moruians.”

  “In my own defense, Highness,” said Diver, “and the defense of Brin’s Five.”

  “What will you do now?” she demanded. “And do not tell me that you mean to seek out young Murno Pentroy, your flying sib. He is all but an exile, like his teacher Nantgeeb, and if you fly with him I cannot help you.”

  “I had thought, Highness, of seeing Brin’s Five settled in the delta on a bird farm,” said Diver.

  “We can purchase one,” Brin pointed out, “and the children can be at home there.”

  “Good enough!” said Guno Deg, “but what else?”

  “Mamor . . . the hunter yonder . . . is also a sailor,” said Diver. “We might sail to the islands—”

  “Dangerous!” Guno rapped with her staff. “Do you sail upon the oceans of your home?”

  “Indeed, Highness . . . and under them as well. But our ships move with engines.”

  “If the truth is told, so do some of ours,” said Guno Deg. “Did you not fly with Mattroyan, the Merchant of Itsik? He has ships that leave the harbor under sail, then stoke up a boiler when they are in the open sea.”

  A vassal came and brought the Elder a reminder of some appointment; she turned aside irritably. “Work does not wait, even for a wonder such as this. Garl Brinroyan, wait on me again, with Brin and the scribe here, and I will do what I can about your safety. In the meantime, inquire for your bird farm and stay out of trouble!” She pressed into Brin’s hand a Wentroy token of a bird’s head colored and glazed on gold; then she cried out to us all. “Take your time . . . eat up. Call a chair for your ancient and use that token.”

  She bustled away. We ate our fill and wandered about the sun chamber, talking with the vassals of Wentroy.

  I sat with Tomar and watched the flatbills—two common Narfee—playing in the water garden, and thought of the distant north. Tomar was walking and climbing well now; his first-fur had all lifted, his front teeth were through, and he said “Bin-bin-bin” for his pouch-mother, “Een” for Narneen and sometimes “Dar” for myself. It seemed strange to me that he might grow up and never recall Hingstull, where he was born and hidden. I made a vow that he should return one day and hear the story of our old life there and of how the Luck came.

  So we amused ourselves one day longer and were planning a trip to the delta to seek out bird farming land. I walked out with Ablo and Diver at the setting of Esto to buy fruit from a stall; we turned up a short basket way, empty save for a porter with a net lounging against the wall. As we passed, I noticed that it was an omor. I had no warning until Diver gave a shout, and they leaped upon us from three directions. The omor with the net had Diver down before he could help us; I hardly felt the blows that brought me down, but I
saw Ablo shouting and fighting. Then a blow from a cudgel made blood stream from his forehead and he lay still. I heard the voices of the Gulgarvor, panting and rough; I remember the cart being wheeled up, then as I struggled, a foot struck my chin. My head bounced on the cobblestones, and I dived suddenly into a black pit; my last thought was, Ablo is dead.

  So the Luck of Brin’s Five was taken easily in the midst of Rintoul by the three omor, Meetal, Artho and Alloo, still bound in Gulgarvor. For good measure they took me along too, as a member of Brin’s Five. But our luck had not quite run out, for Ablo was not dead. He was left bleeding in the street after the Gulgarvor wheeled off Diver and myself in their cart. He dragged himself back to the wig house and the alarm was given.

  IX

  I came to my senses slowly and painfully. For a long time I saw nothing but a blur of yellowish white; I felt a rocking motion and dreamed I was on the barge again or the keel boat bringing us to Rintoul. I heard voices and bell chimes and a long way off someone laughing and sobbing. Then I was fully awake; none of my bones were broken; I was wearing my own clothes and I could still feel my Bird-Clan token around my neck. Yet the waking made no difference; I was in a place so strange it was as if I could see for the first time. I lay on a bare shelf stuck to the wall of a small room shaped like a teardrop. The wall, which had no corners, was a smooth yellowish expanse of plaster, drawn up to the top, like the folds of a cloth bag. In front of me was a big bubbled piece of glass that distorted whatever lay beyond it. Colors and shapes moved on the other side of the bubble glass, and I saw that there was a small round door in it.

  My head ached but I oriented myself as best I could and put a foot down from my shelf to the curving floor. The whole room rocked gently. I lay back again, thinking I was dizzy, but then I saw a water bag hanging across from the shelf, and it rocked by itself. I wriggled a little on my shelf and sure enough the whole room responded. The place hung suspended in some way, like a basket. I was struck with the awful notion that it was a basket, or a honeybee’s cell: I had been enchanted and made small and stuck in some insect’s larder! I stifled a cry and lay still.