The Promise of the Child

by Tom Toner

  The Glorious Bird produced its impression of a shrug. “If you say so.”

  The man looked at a loss for a second, then turned brightly back to Lycaste. “Well then, Lycaste, we’d better leave now if we’re going to make it to the rail in time. Can you walk all right?”

  “He can walk,” spat the bird.

  The Intermediary nodded and opened his hand. In his palm was a loop of red plastic or rubber. “Extend your wrists, please.”

  Lycaste extended his arm uncertainly, noting that if it was indeed rubber the Intermediary was twining around his arms, the Second was a far richer place than even the bragging Plenipotentiary had let on. The material was spectacularly rare; anyone lucky enough to have any in the Tenth certainly wouldn’t be binding prisoners with it.

  “There we are,” Rubus was saying. “Now, don’t get excited in these, they’ll tighten and get very uncomfortable indeed. Best to follow me and try not to wriggle.” He smiled again. “Good. All right, Glorious, we’re ready to go.”

  The bird looked Lycaste up and down once more, his eyes void and uncaring. He gave a sharp shrug and flapped off across the water, a trail of mates climbing from the shore to meet him.

  Lycaste stooped to whisper to the yellowish man once the bird had gone. “I have a very large sum of money buried where only I can find it,” he said, having spent much of the night rehearsing his speech. “Release me and it’s yours, all yours.”

  The Intermediary blinked and chuckled. “We have your possessions waiting at the tracks, Lycaste. I had that book as a child, though, and will happily take it off your hands.”

  “Yes! It’s yours! Now unbind me.”

  “You’re very kind, but I can’t do that.”

  Lycaste stumbled along in dismay, sure that bribery would have worked this time, beginning to understand the weaknesses in money’s sorcery over people. Silene had refused it out of passion, but with Rubus it was something else—perhaps fear.

  “It’s not far, then you can sit down,” Rubus continued, noticing at the same time as Lycaste the Amaranthine arranged on the banks. They were kneeling in the mud and draping their rags in the water. Lycaste didn’t think they ever did such things, but he’d never been up this early in the Utopia before.

  Garamond was among them. He waved, carefully folding his feather cape on the grass, and dashed over to a wooden boat moored at the water’s edge.

  “Goodbye, Big! Have a lovely time!”

  “Farewell, Garamond.” Lycaste sighed, taking the madman’s hand limply as he climbed onto the boat.

  They pushed off from the bank, some Amaranthine waving as they washed in the early-morning sun. A little parasol stuck up from the middle of the bowl-shaped craft but did nothing to shade them from the almost horizontal morning light. Rubus steadied the hull and raised a hand to the Immortals, placing an oar into the water to push away.

  “Now then.” He stood, watching the waters trail by. “When we get to the train, you’ll be given paper to make your written testament, all right?”

  Lycaste saw Garamond return to the group of Amaranthine on the bank. Their shawls didn’t look as if they were getting any cleaner in the muddy water. “What?”

  “You have to describe your version of events. You may deny, of course, but you’re supposed to write something. You are expected to write in First. Can you? Because I’ll have to translate it if you can’t, and I’d rather not.”

  “I can’t, I’m not very good.”

  “But you speak Third?”

  “Enough.”

  “The Glorious Bird informed me you were proficient.”

  “I’m not.”

  The Intermediary coasted the boat to the bank of silt and began to sweep back with his oar. “It’ll delay the trial. Not a good thing for you.”

  “Why not?”

  Rubus looked down. “In Drogoradz you’ll be under what we call Familial Law. The relatives of the Plenipotentiary in question are obliged to keep you as their guest until the beginning of the hearing.” He glanced at Lycaste and then back at the yellow silt until the boat came to rest with a sucking noise. “Callistemon’s family may treat you as they please until that point. It is encouraged—for their satisfaction, you see.”

  The two men climbed awkwardly out, mud oozing around and up their legs. A trio of long-billed birds watched them with interest.

  “While you’re their guest you are at their mercy, I’m afraid. I have seen some people accused of crimes never make it to trial. It is an archaic law, and I must say I don’t approve of it.”

  Lycaste concentrated on the mud, lifting first one leg free, then the other until they were crossing the grass with long yellow socks of cracking slime reaching almost to their knees. He presumed archaic meant something truly horrible. He watched the Intermediary’s back, thinking him not altogether a bad man. If Sotiris came for him, he’d make sure Rubus wasn’t punished.

  Lycaste said nothing more, following sullenly behind until only half a Quarter later the grass thinned around a line of dull metal in the ground, its edges caked with ancient guano. They both looked at it.

  Rubus pointed. “Not far now.”

  Up ahead, something gleamed in the quivering distance. It looked to Lycaste like a large open cylinder. “Is that it?”

  “Ah, you’ve got good eyes. That’ll take us all the way to Zielon.”

  “That’s in the Second?”

  “The border, yes. This line is slow but should take us well past the war. The Jalan armies have been pressing the front here for months, though, so don’t count on getting any sleep. When I came through the bombardments were relentless, all night.”

  It was a tube, partially cut away so that front-on the contraption appeared C-shaped. The shaded interior was scattered with embroidered cushions and blankets, as well as some flat sections where jugs stood on metal trays. There was enough room inside the tube for both men to stretch out, but Rubus appeared to have other ideas. He stopped and examined a set of holes drilled into the ceiling of the tube, inserting a key. A cage of slender metal bars dropped and snicked into place, one side left open for Lycaste to enter.

  “It’s more comfortable than it looks,” the Intermediary said as he climbed onto the blankets.

  Lycaste thought he’d have more time. He stood by the train, looking around for any sign of Sotiris. But the grasses here were brown, strangely neglected. Weeds grew in the tracks. The sky had warmed to a dirty faded blue; somehow he knew Sotiris wasn’t coming today.

  “Climb on,” Rubus encouraged, leaning on a plate at his end. The cylinder began to move very slowly and soundlessly, dragging Lycaste by the wrist where his ties were secured to the cage bars. He walked alongside, glancing back at the Utopia.

  “You won’t be able to do that for much longer—I suggest you get on now.”

  “Is there nothing I can do?” Lycaste asked plaintively, starting to jog as the train picked up speed.

  “No. I’m afraid not, Lycaste. Come on, it’s comfortable up here.”

  Lycaste climbed over the lip of the C and dangled his legs over the edge, through the bars. Rubus smiled at him briskly, clicking the end face of the cage closed. He shifted and sat cross-legged in the shade. “It’s two days to Zielon, depending on connections, all right?”

  Lycaste gazed out at the moving view, wondering what the man would say if he declared that no, it wasn’t all right. Thin coppices of red and yellow trees rustled past in a blur of lawns as the tube sped up, the hairs on his legs trembling in the warm slip of air. In other circumstances the ride would be pleasant, even thrilling.

  “If they …” Lycaste began, not sure how to phrase his question. “If it’s decided that I’m guilty, that I did what they said I did, what happens then?”

  Rubus rustled in some bags at his side without looking up. “I wouldn’t worry about that just yet.”

  Lycaste stared at him. “What does that mean?”

  The Intermediary pulled a sheaf of papers from one of th
e bags at last. They flapped in the wind, folding over one another until he rolled them into a tube. Lycaste remembered his telescope.

  “You have plenty to worry about before that time, Lycaste. You must keep your wits about you and write your statement. Here.” He passed Lycaste a blank piece and a small dipette pen.

  Lycaste took them, gazing back at the passing world. The carriage was beginning to climb through a ravine of trees filled with chattering blue birds. Rubus waved at one until it took the hint and flew alongside. It grabbed the piece of paper scattered with dense writing that the Intermediary handed it and vanished above the train.

  Lycaste watched the man write quickly and steadily with a series of sharp flicks of his wrist. He had no pen. A long nail on his smallest finger (another specimen with too many) did the writing, dipped after a minute into a lidded inkpot set into the side of an armrest. Rubus glanced at him and turned away slightly, like a boy nervous of someone copying his work.

  Lycaste wrote nothing, unable and unwilling to express himself to those who already knew he was guilty of his crime, and lay down instead on the soft, rumpled fabric. There was food and drink in a basket near his head, but the smells made his stomach turn. Soon they left the ravine and were passing one of the lakes. He sat up, looking for the customary island in the middle, but he couldn’t see it.

  “It’s the Black Sea, Rubus said. “Haven’t you seen it before?”

  “I didn’t think we’d gone so far already.”

  Sloping below them was a huge strand of white, untouched beach. Puffs of creamy yellow cloud dotted the late-afternoon blue. Further along the sand he saw small figures strolling. There were large sailed boats anchored at the jetty.

  “The Keeper lives across the shore. He’s the one who sent for me.”

  “Are we stopping there?”

  “No, there’s no need. We can stop in the evening, though—I expect you’ll need to stretch your legs.”

  Lycaste studied the Intermediary again while he watched the water pass by. He appeared to treat his task as what it was—work—but it was increasingly obvious there wouldn’t be any reasoning with him. Looking back out to the silver-blue lines of the sea, Lycaste began to think of what Garamond had said to him, trying, despite his hopes, to understand why the Immortal had given him the message, wondering once more if it had really been from Sotiris at all. He felt a sudden fury at the idea, that the madman had given him hope, but it was hard to remain angry for long.

  The Second

  They needed to change tracks, Rubus explained quietly without his customary descriptive flair. The usually talkative man had grown increasingly taciturn as they neared the Second, falling silent after reading a selection of letters from the bottom of his satchel. Lycaste was permitted to stay on board while the Intermediary pushed the tube across two parallel rails, its flat underside hinging out on a bright metal fulcrum and popping into place on the slimmer track alongside.

  Throughout the rushing night, Lycaste had heard distant thunder, faint pops and flashes like brief moonlight coming from the north-east. Sometimes the booms and rumbles stopped for a while; sometimes they cascaded like a dropped bag of boulders, piling on top of each other. The exchanges resembled an argument, growing in indignation and then silencing after one particularly cutting remark, each side retreating to ruminate on clever things they should have said, and to prepare new insults that might finally wither the opponent into submission.

  At dawn they passed dwellings secreted in the misted forests, first one a Quarter and then more frequently, until the generous walled gardens reached right up to the track and yellow faces waited to stare. Lycaste hoped they weren’t going to stop, but they did, slowing before a curious crowd that milled up to the edges of the train. He wanted to raise his hackles like a cornered animal, retreating as far as he could to the back of the train and covering himself partially with a blanket.

  Rubus climbed out to say hellos, thawing to his old self before the crowd. Lycaste peeped out. They were all women, small and yellowed and shrewish, with childlike faces. A few caught sight of his eyes and giggled, whispering to their friends. The blanket was tugged away, Lycaste unable to keep hold of it, and the ladies gasped, some feigning a swoon, others cackling appreciatively. Foreign smells flooded the open train compartment and animals on leashes poked their faces in, cats and bears daubed in fantastical patterns and colours, snuffling and exclaiming in accented varieties of their mistress’ tongue.

  Rubus was kissed on both cheeks by each lady, though in almost every case their painted eyes strayed to Lycaste. Some appeared to want to talk to him, but Rubus held a hand up and explained it wasn’t allowed. Third, rich and gabbling, was tossed around the crowd. The Intermediary was brought refreshments, even though they had plenty still in the basket, and politely sat on the edge of his seat to eat. Lycaste tucked his knees under his chin and stared at the floor of the carriage, blushing furiously as their eyes lingered over every surface of his body. The lunch appeared to last for ever. After finishing and thanking the ladies graciously, Rubus collected a thick sheaf of papers from his side and held them aloft. Birds swooped from window ledges and nearby trees to collect them. A vulture, its neck collared with silver rings, landed on the seat next to Lycaste and dropped more papers and a metal tablet with a clang, its matted feathers giving off the charnel reek of spoiled meat.

  Lycaste looked away, up towards the pointed white turret of a house. There at its pinnacle sat a black owl with amber eyes. It looked down over its glossy tufts and met his gaze with haughty indifference. He couldn’t be sure, but it resembled a bird from the feast in the clearing—Sotiris’s owl.

  But then they were moving again, Rubus collecting and stowing the vulture’s packages of documents and waving farewell to the women walking beside the carriage. Lycaste held the owl’s eye for as long as he could before it vanished out of sight along with the remaining ladies. Small children ran to keep up with the train, but quickly tired or grew bored as the walled gardens gave way to lush, dark green hillside.

  Rubus took one of the new letters from where it lay beside him and flashed it at Lycaste.

  “This is about you. From a certain Hamamelis and his sons—acquaintances of yours?” He studied the paper, holding it at a distance while his lips moved silently. “Intermediaries, like me. Coming to join the trial to give evidence against you. Seems you’ve upset a lot of people, Lycaste.” He held his hand out to catch a few drops of rain that had begun to fall. “Do you have your statement ready?”

  Lycaste handed over his crumpled, half-finished sheet, watching the rain himself. The Intermediary examined it briefly, appearing to notice that it was incomplete, but folded it carefully and stowed it nonetheless.

  “They were impressed with you, those ladies, but you were rude to them. If you do that where we’re going you shall find no sympathy, none at all.”

  The train climbed, leaning them back into their cushions, food in the basket rolling and almost toppling over the side. The rain thickened among the forests, fat drops running from the carriage’s metal sides and wetting his beard as they blew in through the bars of the cage. Lycaste’s skin had acclimatised so well to the rapidly cooling weather that in place of shivers all he felt was a numb weight about his body, thickened skin reacting to the cold. He would have no choice but to get used to it as they travelled along the fringes of the war and into the Second, knowing he would begin to gain weight if it became any colder. Behind them somewhere that owl was following. It had to be; why else pursue him this far? He hoped it didn’t mind the rain.

  Hope, warming in the numbness of the rain. All he needed was to see that owl again, just one more time.

  Rubus’s replacement did not introduce himself, climbing the steps at Gmina Second to confer with his predecessor as the carriage slid and clanked into place above a wide, blindingly white stone square. It was evident the two Intermediaries had hated each other dearly for some time, and after a series of shoves and pointed f
ingers Rubus dismounted, throwing some scattering papers into the fresh wind. The stout new Intermediary swore and scuttled off to fetch them while Lycaste, unacknowledged, watched Rubus descend the steps with his back to the train. Lycaste waited for him to turn and look up, to give perhaps some signal that their time together was at an end, but he disappeared without ceremony among the throng of bright yellow people setting out to meet the train.

  The replacement reappeared, flushed and angry, a bundle of crumpled letters in each hand.

  “Out,” he commanded in Second, releasing the bars. It was the only time he ever spoke to Lycaste. There did not appear to be a choice, so Lycaste uncurled and allowed himself to be hauled across the platform towards the crowd ascending to meet them. The brightness of the stone hurt his eyes, so he looked up at what he thought were bulky, jagged clouds settled in the distance above a few of the strange scaly green roofs. He stared, uncertain for a moment.

  They were mountains. Real mountains. He was suddenly aware of his mouth hanging open.

  A cheer rose and he tore his gaze away. The Intermediary held up first his own arm and then Lycaste’s, and they cheered again. Some of the people, patterned not with colour but monochrome tattoos, clapped their hands together. Lycaste had no idea what that was supposed to signify. The Intermediary didn’t look at him as he began his speech.

  “Here is the gift I promised the Second! And isn’t he a beauty?”

  Another cheer, louder than the others. Children sat on parents’ shoulders and waved their arms, infected with the excitement. Lycaste willed himself to look back at the glorious, toothy mountains, sharp against the faded blue.

  The Intermediary grabbed Lycaste and shoved him into a spin for the benefit of the crowd, the way Sonerila inspected produce before dinner. The people whooped and came closer. It was his face that they really wanted to see, he knew. He was turned back, confronting a host of small, pink-gold eyes.