The Corn

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Returning to his own less than luxurious quarters, Kallivan passed by those far more lustrous, once occupied by Lord Jak Lydiard, the man who had left the palace many months ago to rent his own quarters elsewhere, and now they remained empty, so Kallivan had twice asked his grandfather for those splendid rooms for himself. As usual, the king had replied that he would think about it, and nothing else had happened. Now those same doors opened, and a woman dressed in turquoise velvet and beribboned silks swept from the darkness within.

  She stopped when she saw Kallivan, and after a moment’s furious surprise, he gradually remembered who she was,

  “Chia,” Kallivan muttered. “You’ve changed considerably, but then it must be ten years or more since I’ve seen you.”

  “Twenty years. Indeed, I think twenty-one.” She did not look delighted. “But I recognise you, sir, since we are – what? Second cousins, I believe. Although never friends.”

  With pursed lips and a faint contempt, Kallivan bowed. “Second cousins? Are we so closely related? How strange. I had never thought about it.”

  “I never thought of you either, you were just a small child.” Chia said and walked on in the direction her husband had taken. Kallivan was left standing in the upper corridor, not so close to his own chambers. Yet the interruptions continued for as he turned, he came already face to face with Verney, the father of Jally and Reyene, and one of the richest men in the country without a title to bolster it.

  Kallivan and Verney both smiled. “I had hoped to meet you, sir,” Verney said, bowing. “I had hoped to ask one quick question – a puzzle, sir, which has been troubling my daughter.”

  Kallivan was still staring after Chia, once penniless and now dressed in one of the richest gowns he’d ever seen. But his attention snapped back. He said, “I shall be delighted to help, Master Verney. I am most decidedly fond of both your daughters.”

  “You may remember, sir,” smiled the other man, “that Reyne and the young lord Jak Lydiard were virtually affianced. Not officially, you understand, but with a private friendship, and frequent discussions of what a wedding might bring.”

  “What weddings always bring.” Kallivan sniffed.

  “But the young lord has virtually disappeared,” Verney frowned. “I believe you knew him well, sir. I was wondering if you knew what had happened to him?”

  The clouds lifted, and Kallivan smiled again. “Indeed? How monstrous!” he said with apologetic murmurings. Indeed, he wondered what Jak would be doing, having sent him himself to the island of Giardon with the small fishing trawler and into exile, hopefully to death. It was an island of uneducated natives, pale-skinned fools who ran naked, and dug endless channels for water. The population of the island, Kallivan had once heard, without means of improvements, had dwindled over the years, living on parched sand and waterless forests.

  Verney said, “But such an abrupt disappearance and without any explanation, not even a goodbye.”

  “Nor to me, my friend,” Kallivan nodded. “A man of little manners, it seems. I expect he has gone home to his cold mountain village.”

  Verney shook his head. “He was supposed to be returning to court in the last ten-day,” he frowned deeper.

  “Hardly the best man to marry into the family, I imagine,” Kallivan pointed out. “I understand he has frequent affairs and maybe off bedding some local woman. It seems, my friend, you know little of Lord Lydiard’s more unpleasant habits?”

  “I wonder,” Verney asked at once, the ticking of his brain almost audible, “if you’d consider coming to meet my poor little Reyne now, if you’re not too busy, and informing my daughter of all the facts? It is some time now since we previously discussed this somewhat intimate matter, but I remember that you were not entirely adverse at that time. May we approach the subject again, sir?” He pottered from one foot to another. “She has taken a real shine to Jak Lydiard, and now it seems I should dissuade her. I shall ask my wife to arrange a special lunch, if you have the time? You, sir, seem to be the ideal gentleman to tell poor Reyene the sad truth of her supposed fiancé, and to cheer her up just a little.”

  Now Kallivan was smiling. “I can find the time, my friend, for such a desirable young lady as your daughter. I would never be too busy for her.”

  He had an appointment with Valeria, Jak’s step-mother, including the need to inform her that Jak’s arranged disappearance had been well and truly accomplished. Yet the cosy welcome to an heiress seemed far more profitable.

  During the reign of King Ram, and even more so during the reign of King Chas, the royal dungeons had not been used. Instead of bodies, they had been filled with unwanted wooden boxes, dust and dirt.

  The occasional prisoner had appeared for temporary incarceration. A small warning, perhaps, to an idle servant, a man of power about to lose his power, even one of the nobility needing a particular threat of more to come should the hint not be taken. One day below ground perhaps, or two. The cells were tiny and long ago had been hacked into the rocks and splintered palace foundations. But instead of imprisonment, the royal anger led more often to the gallows or the block.

  They remained empty, yet particular methods of causing pain remained underground, although long unused. His Majesty King Frink found them of considerable interest.

  “The rack?” he pointed, looking up at his High-Steward.

  “Indeed, it is, your majesty,” Pentaggo said, one knee bending as he bowed his head. “This was used many decades ago but has not been used, nor even fully erected, during my government of the palace. It was said to be torture of the worst kind, your majesty. And as for forcing the truth from the victim, they say it rarely worked. Either the victim died too soon, or he shouted any confession required, whether truthful or not.”

  “Humph,” said the king. “Not even such a little encouragement, you think? I can’t help feeling that this torture, as you call it, might have a very practical use.”

  Pentaggo raised one eyebrow. “The decision in all such matters is yours and yours alone, your majesty. But King Chas prohibited its use and declared it utterly useless.”

  “Anything else – useful?” asked the king with considerably more interest than Pentaggo had expected. “Although cruelty is despised amongst the nobility, I am sure it has its uses.”

  The steward unlocked another door. “There are cells too low for any man to stand, such as this, your majesty, where a prisoner cannot do anything other than crawl or sit slumped. I believe this has not been used in a hundred years and was considered pointless.’

  “Really?” smiled the king. “And that large casket object outside?”

  “They call it The Cocoon of Doria,” Pentaggo sighed. “Made of wood and iron-bound, it opens and a man – or woman – of normal height, can be placed inside. The front can be closed then and locked. But inside the fabric of both front and back,” and Pentaggo politely opened the monstrosity to show his sovereign, “are metal thorns which will pierce his body as soon as the prisoner is forced inside. Not deep enough to kill, at least, that’s the supposition. But deep enough to cut and cause both pain and fear. The bleeding would be – extreme, your majesty.”

  “How – interesting,” exclaimed the king. “More?”

  “There’s a form of gallows,” Pentaggo nodded,” but instead of hanging by the neck to die, the prisoner would be hung upside down by the ankles. This does not cause death if I understand correctly, but blood rushes to the head and causes extreme – discomfort. And the contraption can be adjusted so that prisoners can be hung by their wrists, which I understand is more painful.”

  With a faint chuckle, King Frink pointed to something else. “And that?”

  Pentaggo was beginning to feel slightly sick. “The steam press, your majesty. A man inserted between those boards will be both slowly crushed and slowly burned alive.” He swallowed. “But your majesty, I must point out that not one of these objects has been used for so long, that they may not actually work any longer. No doubt they are rusty,
damaged, or too stiff to use. I must tell you, your majesty, the late King Ram, ordered these cells locked, never to be entered again. And the instruments of torture, he intended to have destroyed entirely. Unfortunately, he died before this could be arranged.”

  Indeed, Pentaggo was beginning to wish he had never poisoned King Ram after all. He was also wondering how he might manage to poison King Frink.

  Frink, on the other hand, did not feel in danger. “Fascinating,” he said, grinning. “I shall need another tour down here in the morning. I trust you’ll be ready to show me in more detail – and anything else you’ve been trying to forget? Or forgotten where it’s stored?”

  “I do not believe, your majesty,” the steward said, “that anything else of this nature exists here.”

  Which was not true at all.

  The forest steamed. Every tree dripped its condensation, and every step on the undergrowth squelched. The trek had been exhaustingly long and even Symon shined with sweat, his tight black curls lank with perspiration. Jak was tired. He brushed the sweat from his eyes and sighed with relief when they stopped.

  Neither bound in any manner, the two prisoners were jabbed forwards, spear points to their backs, if they stopped of their own accord, but now the group had stopped on a clifftop, looking down at a spinning drop of tumbling water. White cascades thundered and the spray created its own icy sting of mist. The chill was a glorious relief after the unmitigated heat, and both Jak and Symon breathed in the clean, fresh growth.

  “Sit,” commanded one of the natives. Jak and Symon obligingly collapsed.

  It was a gorge of similar geography to where the Cornucopia narrowed and quickened in Eden, long after passing with placid geniality through the great city, and then travelled on towards the Falls. Many miles to the east, the river tumbled into a shattering stampede of water, said to be as deep as the topple after death and into the ice of Hell for those who deserved it.

  That waterfall was also a drop into a gorge, an impossible climb, they said, although neither Jak nor Symon had ever seen it, and few even in the south had ever scaled it. This seemed to match the descriptions they had heard, but if this was deeper or shallower, they could not know.

  “They says as how that there Eden Gorge be the worst,” Symon pondered, staring downwards. “But ‘tis pretty. Mighty pretty.”

  The cliff sides were moist and thick with a thousand kinds of succulent, or moss, and of bromeliad, where slants of bare rock could be seen it was richly coloured, and at the base slithered the blue water in a winding and fast running river.

  “They say a lot of things,” murmured Jak. “But they remain unnamed. I don’t know which is more beautiful, nor the deeper, but this one is pretty indeed. The Eden Gorge, I’ve never seen. They say, I’ve heard, that Giardon Island is a dry scrub of only enough size for a few rabbits and a diminishing group of idiot natives. No rivers, no lakes, no water of any kind. Yet here live a wealth of animals including the amazing lacine and the huge white wolf, which is well-nigh as rare. They need water. Anyway, here it is, and having tramped through a sticky tangle of tropical plants, I’d say for its size this island has a lot more water supply than Eden does.”

  Having listened to their conversation, the native leader grinned, pointing to the bottom of the cliffs where the falls turned from dancing spray to sleek river. Still grinning, he said, “Soon you go down.”

  “Never done a lot o’ climbing,” said Symon. “Got a ladder long enough?”

  Having been born in the hills and mountains of Lydiard, Jak had grown as a climber. This was different. It would be, he thought, instant death. “Down? Climbing? Or pushed?”

  The native sniggered. “We all go down,” he said. “And we don’t even walk. No climbing nor jumping, no ladders nor stairs. No falls. No pushes.” He paused and his grin almost split his face as he saw the two prisoners entirely puzzled. “We fly,” he said.

  “What a nice thought,” said Jak without believing a word.

  “Ortta be fun,” said Symon, his frown as deep as the other man’s grin.

  “But worth the effort,” the leader said with an earnest expression. “I do hope you both know how to fly?”

  Jak and Symon gazed at each other and back at the leader, not at all sure whether this was a joke or a serious question. “We have a sad lack of wings,” Jak explained. “But you don’t seem to have any between you. So I assume – and let’s say I hope – you have some very clever system of flying, which I assure you, no one has invented yet in Eden.”

  With the wide-open countryside on the other side of the canyon, Symon was wondering how he could learn to fly, then fly up and across instead of down, and achieve his freedom as well as a most interesting new skill.”

  “Look,” said the native, and again he pointed downwards

  Within the ravine but floating upwards towards them were a number of objects neither Symon nor Jak had ever seen before and could not know what they were. Very large, almost completely round, these things appeared to fly on their own. But a number of straps hung below, attached to the base of the floating things. Like twenty or more little moons, the objects seemed larger as they rose closer, but none were huge.

  “Balloons,” said the leader.

  “One each,” called another native.

  And the tall man sitting nearest to them, spoke with the same accent, but also the same Eden and Shamm language. “I’m Vin,” he said. “And the balloons float up unless we tie them to rocks. They’re made of thin vine bark, and they swell with their own gasses. We catch their laces, and our weight will carry them, with us down to the bottom. We can drop off, safe-tie the straps to rocks, and off we go. We fly. The children love it.”

  Jak watched the first man float, having reached out to the grab two swinging leather ties, he shrugged his arms into the loops and kicked off from the cliff edge. He continued kicking out to stop the wind carrying him back against the rocks, and waved his legs to avoid falling in the river, so quite gently was also carried to the bottom of the deep ravine. Jak watched intently and decided, “This system would be extremely useful where I come from. Mountains, but not as high as this.”

  Them little ‘uns too?” Symon asked, fascination. “They’s heavy enuff?”

  Nodding, the leader pointed. “Just a little bitty girl is able to fly.”

  Having no doubt that his own weight would hurtle him immediately into the valley, Symon grinned but nodded at Jak. “He ain’t so heavy. Tall but skinny, I reckons.”

  “I’m Slim,” said the leader, leaning over to tap Jak’s leg. “And don’t you worry. You’re not prisoners. But we want you to help us. We’ve something very interesting in mind, and it’s nothing to do with slavery.” Still grinning, he stood, reaching out a hand to help Jak up. “Ready for the first eagle-swoop?”

  “And it’s down there you want us to start digging? What for?”

  “Oh, you’ll soon find out,” said the native, grabbing one of the trailing ties of a balloon floating past his face. “But whatever you‘ve been guessing, that’ll be wrong. Wait and see.”

  “And there’s plenty of others already at it,” called another man. “You’ll make friends.”

  Peering down, Jak shook his head. “I can’t see a single man or woman. Not even a horse.”

  “And that’s the secret,” someone laughed. “A mighty good secret too.”

  Part V

  Chapter Forty-One

  Summer’s busy bustle had clouded into dull autumn, and Symon had still not returned. I wondered if I could approach the Molly House myself, suggesting it close for rebuilding, and to become a taverna, a restaurant, or anything else that anybody might prefer, while telling them that this was all Symon’s idea. I could promise them all, since it was true, that when their boss returned, he was ready to knock the place down and rebuild himself. None of us liked the idea of the Molly House and not even the boys who made the most money out of it. Besides, they were too young. Some of the brothels took little girls,
but we didn’t. Pimping Tom made sure no whore was under the age of fourteen or fifteen, the legal age for marriage.

  I thought of Feep so often when I wasn’t working, and often when I was. In my drifting thoughts, I heard his voice and saw his small face.

  It sometimes disturbed me to be lying flat on my back with some complete stranger pumping away on top, and giving me a headache while muttering and gasping, while my thoughts were entirely on the little boy I had cared for so deeply. And his voice, never innocent but always ready to rush to my help and to make me see sense.

  The unknown man was saying, “Good girl, great, keep nice and still, but open your legs.”

  And at the same moment, Feep’s voice, while grabbing my hand, “Wot you sees in that prattling acorn, piss only knows. Fings ain’t daft enuff already, wivout you taking on one bladder faced friend after anovver?”

  And me saying, a little ashamed, “He’s just a customer, Feep, dear. I have to try and make friends.”

  Feep again, “Well, mistress, you best tell Symon when he finds that slimy pale bastard, to draw and quarter ‘im, stuff his entrails in his gob and his prick up his arse, and them feed him to the hogs.”

  He had used a colourful turn of phrase, my little boy. Feep had been a foul-mouthed darling. Looking like a seven-year-old cherub of utter innocence, he had actually been a ten-year-old brat of wide experience and no understanding of morals.

  But breaking in on my sweet memories, the man was finishing his business, smiled, rebuckled himself, and smiled again. “Mistress, you’re mighty pretty and mighty obliging. Would you be free same time in a ten-day?”

  “Well, I must admit, “I admitted, “I don’t normally make the appointments. You’ll have to talk to Tom or Edilla.”

  I opened the door for the man to leave and heard something else very different on the way down the stairs. This time it was Hawisa’s voice, and I recognised the seething anger beneath the polite words. I peered over the balustrade and saw first the top of Hawisa’s greying hair. She was staring up at a man, considerably taller.