The Luck of Brin's Five

by Wilder, Cherry;

  “Never fear,” said Diver. “I made sure you would be returned to them.”

  “I cannot believe Brin’s Five would give up so easily!” I went on to tell Diver of the orange message skein, and we laughed shakily together.

  He told us a story of an imprisoned king in very ancient times in his own land, who was found by a harper who played a certain air outside various citadels until the king heard and replied. We rallied, thinking of Harper Roy strumming away at “Een Turugan,” the “Song of the Young Harper,” from the skywalks and pinnacles of Rintoul. Gordo Beethan had the exquisite idea of all the ropes and cables of Rintoul as one great harp, responding to certain tunes, until the whole city played music.

  “Alas,” sighed the Diviner’s apprentice, “I wonder what will become of me. I was given promises too, but I am too unimportant for them to be kept. Yet I know even the Pentroy would think twice about harming the Ulgan of Cullin.”

  “Never fear,” said Diver. “You will go north with Dorn, if that is how things must be. Guno Wentroy will not have the pair of you in captivity: trust her.”

  But I thought of Diver, left to his fate, disappearing into the secret hand of Tiath Avran Pentroy.

  The vassals on guard duty were bored and restless; they gave us fruit to eat and water to drink. I could see that Diver was trying to keep up our spirits and I tried too, not thinking too deeply of all that had passed and all that might come, but enjoying this last time together. There was a cold sadness behind my eyes; I winced at the thought of having no Luck again, but it was Diver himself we would miss. Was this ancient thread, the need for a lucky person, a cruel thing after all, a matter of putting some other being to use to ward off a family’s misfortune?

  I walked to the fretted stone wall of the second gallery and peered out at the wonders of the Pavilion. I saw the huge, pale whorls of stone, overlaid with silken panels, stretching up and down; a floor had been removed since the time of the Torlogan, and the interior was more than ever like a shell. Curved tiers of plain white benches curled in a helix from the mosaic pavement, which showed two sea-sunners twisting their scaly bodies in battle, with fire coming from their mouths in a flourish of flame and purple tiles.

  Already the place was filling up for the meeting; there were more grandees than I had ever hoped to see, for the Pavilion held many more than a hundred, and all clansfolk could attend and watch. Their voices echoed into our chamber; their clothes were dazzling to my eyes even yet, but I gazed on them sadly. They were remote, bright painted figures; their clothes were so many bolts of silk and fine cloth and the skins of dead animals; their jewels were heaps of little stones. Even cloth itself, which was the greatest wealth, the work one must do, the weft of life, had lost its value in my sight. There stirred in my mind for the first time the thought that there might be other threads for me to follow.

  I laid my cheek against the cool stone and wished all the grandees away and my Family together again, not as we had been, for that was impossible, but safe at least, with Diver in our midst. Then I walked back and sat by him, with Gordo; they were talking of flying machines. I had a sudden flash that this had happened before, this sort of conversation, and I remembered just as the guards ordered us to our feet. Sailing—I had talked of sailing with the children in Jebbal’s tent.

  Diver was kept back by the guards, but Gordo and I were sent out onto a small railed platform in the side of one of the tiers. We were close to benches full of grandees, but none paid us particular attention. The whole spectacle of the crowded Pavilion lay before us, and however coldly I had looked on this sight a moment before, I could not remain unmoved now, in the midst of it. There were the Hundred, invested in their white cloaks; there were the galleries of spectators, rippling with color and the flash of gems. Below to our left was a shelf of sculptured chairs, each one grand as a throne, for the Five Elders. Wentroy, Luntroy, Dohtroy, Galtroy; they came in slowly, robed in the colors of their clans. Then the Hundred rose to the sound of hoarse conch shells and fell silent as the Great Elder took his place, robed in black.

  The meeting was formal, controlled by ten Council officers stationed throughout the Pavilion and the High Herald, who strode about on the mosaic pavement and motioned to the trumpeters who stood in alcoves by the arched entry. The Pavilion was so made that the least word could be heard from any speaker; a single note from the conch brought silence and the formal opening of the Council by the Herald. Then Tiath Pentroy rose to speak.

  “I have not summoned this council, but I am glad it is called,” he said. “You are here to see wonders and you will see them.” His voice was smooth, almost conciliatory, but there was a cold edge to it. I saw Guno Wentroy sitting stiffly erect and Blind Marl with his long listening face, half-turned towards the Great Elder.

  “What you have heard is true. There are strangers on Torin and one is, by great good fortune, safely held here for you all to see.”

  A wave of sound and movement went through the Pavilion; the spectators rustled and sighed and were quelled by the voice of Tiath Pentroy.

  “This creature has been commonly called a devil, but it is no devil. We would be in less danger if it were a devil . . . for devils, according to the old threads, can be kept at bay by prayers and chants. This creature is called Man, and it comes from a distant world writhing in the grip of a fire-metal-magic that is profound and deadly. You will see that this creature is no monster—in many respects it resembles a Moruian. I have two young Moruians here, from the wild north, and the Man has lived among them. Dorn Brinroyan, answer to your name.”

  The vassal was about to prod me, but I stood to the rail, trying to forget the hundreds of eyes upon me, and answered, “I am Dorn Brinroyan.”

  The vassal did prod me this time, and I added, “Highness . . .”

  There was a little swirl of laughter. “It is a mountain child,” said Tiath Pentroy, reproving the audience for their laughter.

  “Did the Man Scott Gale descend to the Warm Lake at Hingstull Mountain in an air ship?”

  “Yes, Highness.”

  “Did it live in your tent and eat Moruian food?”

  “Yes, Highness.”

  “That is all. Stand forth now, Gordo Beethan.”

  I drew back from the rail trembling while Gordo stood forth. The last chance to speak for Diver had gone and all I felt was an empty relief. I scarcely heard the Great Elder lead Gordo through his meeting with Diver.

  “It was a tall person dressed like a Moruian but its eyes were bright blue.” Gordo was parroting his lines as I had done.

  Guno Deg rose up now and exchanged nods with the High Herald. “One question for Dorn Brinroyan.”

  I stood forth again, conscious of every rustle and titter.

  “When you had rescued this being, Escott Garl, was he made part of your family?”

  “Yes, Highness—he was made our Luck.”

  The reaction was neither more nor less, a little hum of anticipation that quickly swelled to a babble of voices. The moment Guno resumed her seat, Tiath signed to his vassals and Diver was brought in. He had been stripped of his clothes again, and he stood alone save for one vassal on a larger railed enclosure beside the Five Elders. Tiath Pentroy stilled the clamor in the hall with a blast from the conches.

  “Here is the creature from the void!” he cried, “and I will ask presently for a ruling for its control and the protection of Torin.”

  There was a tense stirring among the grandees and one not far from where we stood cried out, “Shame, Pentroy! Let it have clothes!”

  This brought other shouts, and Tiath swooped in again, with a note for silence, and addressed Diver.

  “Man . . . what is your name?”

  “My name is Scott Gale. I come in peace to the land of Torin.”

  “Does it speak Moruian then?” came a shout.

  There was a jeering answer from the same part of the chamber. “No . . . Tiath Gargan is a Voice Thrower!”

  There was a cry of “Que
stion,” and a young Wentroy Councillor rose up. “Are you called Garl Brinroyan?”

  “Yes I am.”

  “Did you fly a machine called Tomarvan to victory at the Bird Clan in Otolor?”

  “I did, Highness.”

  “Call me rather your friend,” said the Wentroy, stiffly but gallantly; “for I flew Utofarl and I am sad now that once I was discourteous to you and to your escort.”

  Then the cry went up again, “Question” and an ancient Councillor demanded, “Have you a nest of Man in the fire islands?”

  “There are three of my people working there. They are scholars. I came by accident to Hingstull Mountain in a small air ship.”

  “Where is your ship now?” interposed Tiath.

  “I do not know,” said Diver. “Last I saw, it was taken down the mountain by Pentroy vassals, Highness.”

  “Do you not know that the ship, with all it contains of fire-metal-magic, is in the hands of the exiled Diviner Nantgeeb?”

  “I believe it may be so.”

  The name of the Maker of Engines rustled about the Pavilion.

  “Do you use engines of fire-metal-magic for many purposes,” continued Tiath, “for flying, for making silk-beams, for a weapon to strike down living persons?”

  “I have small engines to do these things, but fire-metal-magic is not my thought.”

  “You think there is no harm in these engines?”

  “Not in the engines themselves,” said Diver cautiously.

  Then a great questioning broke out from all corners of the chamber with inquiries, some of them serious, some jeering and foolish, about Diver’s powers, his origins, even the shape of his body, and the conch blew for silence.

  “I will call for a ruling of Secret Hand,” announced Tiath Gargan, “so we may hold the Man in custody and answer all these things. Let the formal trumpet call for the motion to follow, according to our procedure, and keep the silence of the Council unbroken and the dignity of these proceedings intact, I pray.”

  The Hundred and the spectators settled down into a seemly hush, and I sat with Gordo, leaning arms against the rail, sleepy and defeated. I saw the vassal giving Diver his clothes again; the show was almost done, and Tiath Gargan, the puppet-handler, would have his will.

  The High Herald was out of sight under the archway, and the conches blew a phrase of six, seven notes, high and low. I saw the Great Elder throw up his head; he broke the silence himself, angrily.

  “Herald, what foolery is this?”

  “Privilege!” exclaimed Guno Deg.

  The silence in the Pavilion had become tense and deep; the Herald came to the center of the pavement and spoke. “The order is laid down!”

  “What cause can precede this ruling?” demanded Tiath, “Guno Deg, is this your treachery?” And a chorus of voices said softly, “Privilege!”

  “The cause has an absolute priority,” said the Herald. “It is a double claim of Life and Bond against the Great Elder and the Council of Five.” Then the Herald gave the sign, and again the conch shells brayed out with that call of seven notes.

  Through the arch onto the glittering pavement there came four persons; they had some marks of substance, but in that place they stood out plainly for what they were: weavers of Torin, the members of a mountain Five. The leader stood tall, supporting the ancient upon her arm; one male carried a harp slung across his back, and the other wore a hunting knife.

  “Speak your names and face the accused with your claim!” bade the Herald.

  “Brin Brinroyan!”

  “Gwin Uto-Tarroyan.”

  “Roy Turugan.”

  “Mamor.”

  The voices rang out plainly, and the silence in the Corr Pavilion rolled back again, without another whisper.

  “I am Brin Brinroyan and this is our charge of Life and Bond against those named and assembled here. The eldest child of our family, Dorn Brinroyan, is held here and must be returned to us . . .”

  “The child has been held as a Witness, together with the apprentice from Cullin,” said Tiath impatiently. “There they stand unharmed, and they may both be returned. You live upon Pentroy lands, Brinroyan Family, and may return there when you will.”

  “Highness,” said Brin, in a loud voice, “the charge is not complete. The child Dorn we take back, in right and bond, and we will gladly see the apprentice to his home. But we seek one other. Escott Garl Brinroyan, who stands there, is our Bonded Luck, and by every thread of law, we must have him back again!”

  Then the silence was shattered, the Hundred talking eagerly until the conch was sounded. Tiath would have spoken first, but the Herald made the formal reply. “There is the charge stated, but have you a Speaker, known to the Council, if any dispute the charge?”

  “We have!”

  Vel Ragan came in, wearing his scribe’s robe and a narrow hood, so that his scarred face was almost hidden.

  “I dispute this cause!” shouted Tiath. “And I do not know this speaker!”

  “Vel Ragan is my name, Highness, and I am known.”

  “He is known to me,” said Orn Margan slowly.

  “And to me,” snapped Guno Deg.

  Murmurs of assent rose from the clansfolk of Dohtroy and a few others.

  “Yet I say I dispute this cause,” said Tiath, “and I will not be told the threads by a scribe from the Fire-Town who has cozened these simple folk!”

  “We stand here of our own will, every one of us!” said Brin.

  “I doubt that,” said Tiath. “You are suborned! Stand forth the hunter—you with the scar on your cheek. That is the brand given to runaways, I think. How dare you stand before us?”

  “Anyone will dare to stand forth in a just cause, Highness,” said Mamor. “We need our child back and our Luck. And the scar on my face came from a mountain wolf.”

  A voice called, “Try again, Gargan. He doesn’t scare easily!”

  “What says the Harper?” asked Blind Marl.

  “Truly, Highness,” said Roy, “I stand here to claim Dorn, our child, and Garl, our Luck. As the song says . . .” He reached over his shoulder in the way he had and struck four notes on the harp. Blind Marl chuckled approvingly; the four notes were from an old song, and they said, “True bond is best . . .”

  “Let that ancient stand forth if it can,” snapped Tiath. “Old Mother, what brings you from the mountain to stand before my face and before this Great Council?”

  Old Gwin let go of Brin’s arm and stepped forward, peering up to left and right at the assembly. There were a few soft cries of “Shame” and “Let it alone.”

  “I see the child of our family here,” she said in a strong quavering voice, “and I see poor Diver, as we call him, our Luck, who came in answer to our prayers, and that is reason enough . . .” She looked up at Tiath Pentroy, then turned aside and made the averting sign.

  Vel Ragan said, “There is only one question to be asked, and I put it to Garl Brinroyan: Are you here of your own free will?”

  Diver stepped forward to the rail and answered strongly, “No, I am not.”

  “Then the Luck must be returned, according to bond.”

  “By no means . . .” said Tiath. “What is this bond? Have we seen it? Scott Gale, have you understood this bond? Think of all that I have said to you and answer carefully.”

  “I have understood the bond,” said Diver.

  “I have the skein here,” said Brin, “and the name Diver is on it, for Garl Brinroyan, our Luck. I guided his hand, but he knew the ceremony.”

  Leeth Galtroy broke in angrily, “Witness! Here is the Great Elder questioned in the Pavilion itself and who knows by what humble creatures! It is a strong thread in this proceeding that there must be a clan Witness or at least a person of more worth than these I see. The devil Garl has been no more than half a season on Torin—who has known him to be the Luck of this Five?”

  “There is one,” said Vel Ragan, “a clan Witness who saw Garl Brinroyan at the first.”

&nb
sp; “I have seen him!” said a voice. It was the Wentroy pilot again.

  “I have seen him,” said Guno Deg.

  “Thank you, Highnesses,” said Vel Ragan, “but there are yet two others. I will not say the names but I leave it upon their honor.”

  There was a further call for silence. I had not taken my eyes from my Family, but now I allowed myself to look at Diver and smile. We began looking at the rows of grandees, but it was hard to single out faces.

  Gordo Beethan whispered in my ear, “Who are they?”

  Then there was a movement among the Hundred.

  “I dare say I am one of the persons you mean, scribe.”

  “Yes, Highness?”

  “My partner and I were done some service by the Harper here and the child and the one called Diver,” said Rilpo Rilproyan Galtroy. “But I will say I had not the least idea it was such a valuable creature.”

  There were exclamations of shock and excitement; I heard a grandee say to a neighbor, “That will cost Rilpo dear with the Pentroy.” Tiath had a dangerous look.

  “Friend Galtroy,” he said, “are you sure of this?”

  “Quite sure, alas,” said Rilpo. “This is the Luck of Brin’s Five. In fact dear Tewl and I made an offer for this visitor, by Cullin, to be our Luck.”

  “That would have saved a bale of trouble!” shouted some wit from the spectators. And the whole Pavilion dissolved into nervous laughter, rocking and fluttering, until the call for silence came again.

  The Great Elder rose up again, his face still clouded. “The Elders are charged with holding this Man, and we do hold him and we must. This is no ordinary cause. Scott Gale is not a Moruian; he comes from a distant place; he cannot form a true bond with a family of weavers. All this has been mere foolery. He is of a different race and blood; he cannot partake of our customs. I have been strong in his pursuit because I will not have Torin divided and polluted with his new magic. He cannot be returned to this Five because there was never a true bond. A Moruian cannot enter into a bond with a foreigner.”

  The words seemed too strong for our cause. I thought, in that moment, that we had lost, when it seemed we must win after all. I heard words of approval and of dispute among the grandees. Then Gordo gripped my hand, and I saw that his eyes were bright. He leaned over the rail and beckoned eagerly to Vel Ragan, who limped across and raised his face to us.