Tymon's Flight

by Mary Victoria

  ‘I don’t know,’ he equivocated. ‘Probably. Really, I just help him build it. Don’t know what he’s going to do with it in the end.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  Wick’s voice contained a slightly mocking note, but his smile was as broad as ever. He plucked two more cakes from the bag and settled himself against one of the larger towers of books, patting the space on the floor beside him in an indication that Tymon should follow suit. The boy sank down, eyeing the dwindling bag of provisions with annoyance.

  ‘Listen, Ty. I’ve been meaning to talk to you.’ Wick wiped the crumbs from his mouth before lowering his voice. ‘That crazy scientist is going to get you into trouble. No, don’t shake your head, hear me out. His contraption works. Fine. But have you thought about what that actually means? A machine that flies without the wind, a plan to go into the Storm—that’s grievous heresy. The Council could have you arrested and put on trial.’

  Tymon only shrugged his contempt for the Council. ‘I’m not afraid,’ he declared. ‘I’ll be long gone before they come for me—’

  He bit his lip, aware that he had betrayed his plan after all. The mistake was not lost on Wick. He gazed at Tymon intently through the gloom of the stacks.

  ‘The truth at last,’ he chuckled. ‘No wonder you were so keen on building a dirigible. The bound-boy is running away!’

  Tymon did not feel that he could lie outright to a friend.

  ‘It isn’t all sorted out,’ he said hurriedly. ‘But yes. I’ve had it with this place: I’m leaving. I was going to ask Galliano to help me. I have everything prepared.’ He nudged the bag with his toe.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Lantria.’

  ‘The Fathers aren’t easy on runaways, Ty. What if they catch you?’

  ‘They won’t, not if I leave during the banquet. I’ll skip town during the Festival. No one will notice I’m gone till first prayers the day after.’

  Wick sighed. ‘Still. Are you sure it’s a good idea to break indenture? It’s only two more years—’

  ‘I’m not going to sign my life over to the priests,’ interrupted Tymon, with sudden vehemence. ‘They don’t own me.’

  Wick recoiled slightly. There was a fire in his companion’s delivery that surprised him. He opened his mouth to argue, then thought better of it.

  ‘Well, you know best, I suppose,’ he observed. ‘Just be careful.’

  ‘I mean to pay them back, of course,’ added Tymon. ‘Every wooden talek they’ve spent on me.’

  This last statement was an exaggeration obvious to both boys.

  ‘Of course,’ Wick echoed tactfully. He grabbed a last cake from the bag and rose to his feet, brushing the crumbs from his tunic. ‘I have to finish my rounds,’ he said. ‘Thanks for breakfast. Don’t run off without saying goodbye, alright?’

  He peered anxiously at Tymon, as if he expected him to abscond from the seminary as soon as his back was turned.

  ‘I won’t. It’ll be the day after the Rites. There’s plenty of time to say goodbye.’ Tymon paused before sounding a belated word of caution. ‘I can trust you to keep this quiet, can’t I, Wick?’

  The other boy laid a finger on his lips. ‘As silent as the Mouth,’ he swore. ‘I’ll leave you to your—ah—studies. Don’t pray too long!’

  He strolled out of the room. A moment later Tymon heard the sound of shutters being thrown back in the corridor, accompanied by his friend’s unmelodious whistle. He kicked the reduced bag of provisions behind the stacks, his mood of buoyancy returning. He was glad he had taken Wick into his confidence. Now that he had articulated his plans to someone else they took on a more definite cast, a veneer of reality. Wick might prove an invaluable ally the night of his escape, covering for him when he left the banquet. He was undaunted at the prospect of travelling to the South Fringes with nothing but a bag of Festival cakes. Even the possibility of arrest held no dread for him. If the Priests’ Council were going to formally accuse Galliano of heresy, he reasoned, they would have done so already. What he himself would do if all came to pass as he hoped, and how he would earn a living, he barely considered. He had a general notion that he would find work in the Lantrian shipyards. To this nebulous end he had accumulated his stock of food, a blanket and lantern smuggled from the dormitory, and some fire-sticks. His next acquisition, the ether oil, would complete the hoard.

  A whole frustrating day remained before he would have the opportunity to show the old scientist his prize, however. That morning, all outside charity duty had been suspended. His time would be devoted to completing the last and least agreeable of his Rites-duties.

  The sky was overcast as Tymon trudged down the front temple stairs in the company of Father Mossing, lugging a heavy basket of rusks. Though the Bread-Giving took place in the town at the foot of the public approach to the temple, tradition indicated that the seminary’s largess was to come, like the Tree’s green grace, from on high. Tymon was required to heave his oversized basket all the way up the back stairs from the College kitchen to the temple buttress, only to haul it down the main temple stairs into the street, an exercise in futility. The boy dragged his burden after Mossing, each step a reluctant scrape-and-bump. He loathed the seminary’s annual, official act of charity with all his heart. But it was not the physical effort of the job that weighed on his spirits like a basket-load. The object of his discomfort lay in wait for him below. Grey forms sat crouched at the bottom of the staircase. Some had their hands already outstretched in supplication.

  The tithe-pilgrims had joined the inmates of the city poorhouse to receive the seminary’s blessing. They sat apart from the Argosians in the street, as if social strata existed even among beggars. To the left of the stairs, a motley collection of paupers called for alms, holding out their hands as the priest and the boy approached. Opposite them the foreigners waited in their own separate group, talking quietly among themselves. They seemed less enthusiastic, more wary than they had on their arrival in the city. It was one of the few occasions that the pilgrims would be allowed out of their holding cells before the Festival and their departure for their plantation homes. They were under escort, of course. Two guards stood over the grey-robed figures, leaning on their hardwood pikes. The local paupers clamoured for bread. Tymon could hear their shrill petitions already, drifting up on the breeze in strident expectation of generosity. But the tithe-workers waited in pointed silence. Most of them did not even glance in his direction.

  The boy ground his teeth. He was certain his tutors had assigned him to bread-giving duty on purpose. It was a none-too-subtle reminder of his origins, of the life of degradation that might have been his but for the charity of the seminary. The presence of the pilgrims was an added vexation. The whole event encroached on his plans with dreary insistence and broke through his bubble of hope, mocking his attempts at escape. One thought kept him going. Hidden in the folds of his tunic was the hardwood flask of ether oil, Masha’s gift to him. He wondered what she would say if she knew the real use he would make of it.

  ‘God rewards Her loyal servants. Take Her grace, eat by Her grace, for this is the season of grace,’ fluted Mossing.

  The priest had reached the foot of the stairs and waded into the throng of Argosian supplicants, a jug of consecrated water in his hand. He dipped four dainty fingers in the tepid liquid and flicked drops over the heads of the people kneeling in the street. Their hands stretched impatiently towards Tymon, who followed at a slower pace. The smell of unwashed bodies gagged in his throat. As he thumped his basket down the final step the poor of the city pressed about him, pulling at the woven sides of the container, almost ripping it from his grasp. Voices rose in a confused babble of gratitude and recrimination.

  ‘Take grace, eat grace,’ breathed Mossing, in a shortened benediction, weaving through the crowd.

  Tymon strove to haul the basket past the first and most aggressive row of people. The quantity of bread was fast reducing and there were still hands reaching o
ut, questing fingers gripping the basket.

  ‘One…per…person!’ he panted, without any effect.

  He gave up trying to control the basket and allowed the mob to shove him from side to side, harrying him until the last crusts were snatched away. With a sigh like the wind, the people pulled back. Once the bread was gone the paupers scattered with astonishing rapidity. Some lingered nearby, as if expecting another basket to be produced from thin air, but very quickly Tymon found himself abandoned at the bottom of the temple steps with the empty container. He eyed the crumbs rolling in the depths of the basket with vague embarrassment. The foreigners sat a little further down the street, patiently waiting their turn. The two bored guards by the pilgrims blinked sleepily. One picked his nostril, a slow, meditative process.

  ‘Take grace, eat grace…’

  Mossing wobbled past the stairs towards the circle of grey forms, waving his wet fingers in the air. Tymon could see no way of discreetly attracting the priest’s attention to show him the plundered basket, perhaps earning the relief of an early dismissal, without joining him there. He sighed and walked over to the pilgrim group, the empty container bouncing along the bark-brick paving behind him. On this officially sanctioned occasion he had nothing to fear from the foreigners’ proximity. He allowed himself to scrutinise them more closely. Their pale, ugly faces were weary and dispirited. One young man rocked on his haunches at the edge of the circle, muttering unintelligibly. He appeared feeble-minded. Instinctively, without making a conscious decision to do so, Tymon searched out the slim figure with red hair.

  The unusual youth was there, at the edge of the gathering. Once again, he distinguished himself by his difference. He did not converse with the others, but knelt on the dusty pavings with a curious stillness. His eyes were fixed on the priest, in breach of all custom. Tithe-pilgrims were supposed to show deference and lower their gaze in the presence of their revered masters. But the thin foreigner looked directly at Mossing, his peaked face tense with concentration. Tymon suddenly understood that he was about to speak. The youth was going to say something to the priest, to accost him in the street. It was an unheard-of violation. A second look confirmed that the Nurian had more than conversation on his mind, however. An object gleamed in the folds of his grey tunic. In a daze, Tymon saw the polished blade of a hardwood knife flash briefly in the youth’s hand. The guards remained oblivious, their backs turned. The boy slowed his pace, mesmerised.

  ‘…Eat grace…’ Mossing yawned, scattering bright drops of water over the heads of the people kneeling before him. He drew level with the thin youth.

  Tymon shook the torpor from his limbs at last, opening his mouth to shout at Mossing, to warn him away. But before he could say a word—before the red-haired pilgrim could move or speak—a blurred shape leapt in front of them.

  ‘Eat me!’ A hoarse shout rang in the street. A figure jumped at Mossing, clawing on his arm, pulling his robes. ‘Eat me!’

  Tymon recognised the simpleton. The man’s blank gaze was burning now, fixed on the priest with feverish intensity. Mossing fell back in surprise, the water from the benediction jug spilling all over his cassock. The lunatic opened his mouth and clamped his jaws down on the priest’s rotund wrist. Mossing gave a strangled scream.

  Tymon reached them before the guards did. He threw himself between the priest and the madman, laying hold of the pilgrim’s sparse hair and wrenching his head loose from Mossing’s arm. He grappled with the Nurian, pushing him down onto the dusty flags of the street. The fight was over almost the same instant it started. The emaciated foreigner was no match for Tymon and soon lay twitching in his grip, eyes rolling upwards in his head.

  ‘Eat me,’ he repeated in a husky whisper.

  The guards skidded to the boy’s side, brandishing their pikes and shouting abuse at the pilgrim. They grabbed the lunatic’s collar and dragged him to his feet. He made no attempt to resist, staring stupidly ahead. When one of the guards struck him across the face, sending him sprawling in the dust, he only scrambled back to a sitting position and began rocking himself as before. His forehead was creased with perplexity. The guards cursed him, levelling kicks at his back. Tymon rose, shaken. He was more shocked by the reaction of the soldiers than by anything the crazed simpleton had done. He turned away from the dismal scene to where Mossing stood, cradling his hurt wrist.

  It was then that he noticed the ether flask was no longer lodged in his belt-strap. It had slipped loose during the fight. Muttering an oath, he scanned the street, and within seconds caught sight of the precious object lying in a nearby gutter. The stopper was broken and the liquid had drained away. He bent over his treasure, bemoaning his loss. He was dimly aware of the soldiers sending the pilgrims back to their quarters with barked orders. The whole group moved away from the temple step. The simpleton was propelled bodily down the road by the guards. The foreigners stared over their shoulders in consternation at Mossing, or at the poor fool being kicked down the street between the soldiers. But as Tymon nursed his disappointment in the gutter, the broken flask in his hand, he saw that one face was turned in his direction. One pair of eyes bored into him, observing his dismay and preoccupation with the ether oil, as if nothing mattered but his own petty losses. The red-haired youth looked back at him with cool disdain.

  5

  That night Tymon dreamed of fire. In his dream he thought he heard the temple bells ringing, ringing the dreaded fire-watch, the signal that the town was burning. He ran down the narrow roads and lightless alleyways of the city, up ladders and down stairs, always on the lookout for a spiral of smoke or a treacherous flash of flame. He found himself hurrying through the dark and echoing gate-tunnel. The way was longer than it should have been and the tunnel had a number of twists and turns he did not remember; he wondered if he was on the wrong road. At last he glimpsed the bright rectangle of the postern gate. But just as he was about to burst through to light and safety, a tall figure in a cloak loomed in front of him.

  ‘Who are you?’ he cried in surprise.

  ‘Who are you?’ The echoes of the vault were full of mocking whispers. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Tymon!’ he shouted at the figure. ‘Let me go!’

  He tried to push past the shadowy, faceless form towards the gate, but he could not find an opening. The cloaked figure seemed to take up the entire tunnel. Tymon beat aside the folds of the cloak, now as heavy and bulky as canvas, and clawed his way past endless swathes of dull green fabric in mounting frustration. Suddenly the last folds fell away in his hands and he was staring through hardwood bars. The cloaked figure had disappeared: in its place stood the familiar covered prison cart. In a corner of the cage, just as before, sat the beggar with green eyes. The man winked at Tymon from beneath his wide-brimmed hat.

  ‘I’ve been waiting a long time for you,’ he said.

  ‘You can’t wait here!’ cried Tymon. ‘There’s a fire!’ He glanced nervously over his shoulder in the direction of the city. It seemed to him that he could smell smoke.

  ‘Call the guards!’ he told the tramp. ‘You’ve got to get out of here!’

  ‘I have a message for you,’ replied the man in the cage, ignoring his warning. He leaned forward now, as eager as he had been the first time they met. He grabbed hold of Tymon’s arm through the bars.

  ‘The key is in the bathhouse,’ he whispered urgently.

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Tymon shrank back in an attempt to disengage himself, but the tramp did not let go.

  ‘You must tell Samiha,’ he insisted. He gripped Tymon so tightly that the boy lost all feeling in his arm. ‘Tell her it’s time to come home. She has found what she is looking for.’

  ‘Tell who?’ Tymon frowned in bewilderment. ‘Let me go! You’re hurting me!’

  The vagrant did not answer. His eyes were moss-deep, rainwater-deep. The tunnel wavered. Nothing was real except those two eyes, and even they disappeared at last, as the world disintegrated and renewed itself, broke apart and was
restored once more. Tymon blinked his own eyes and found himself staring at the dormitory ceiling. His arm was caught between the bedding and the weave of the hammock.

  A dream! He sat up, extracted his arm and rubbed the life back into it. It was morning. The sky was already brightening outside the open windows and the breeze carried a scent of fresh baking into the dormitory. Then he remembered. It was the day of the festival, the day his life would change forever, for good or ill. No wonder he was having nightmares. He flopped down in his blankets again and closed his eyes, trying to relax, but sleep had fled. After some fruitless minutes listening to his companions snore, he swung his legs over the side of the hammock and slid to the floor with a grunt of resignation. Just as his feet touched the boards the seminary bells tolled out. The holiday had officially begun.

  He had returned to the seminary the previous day, in the aftermath of the abortive Bread-Giving, supporting Mossing by his good arm and listening distractedly while the priest gasped out a diatribe against pilgrims, madmen and incompetent soldiers. Mossing, to his credit, did not blame the simpleton for the attack, but deplored the circumstances that allowed a lunatic into the city or onto a tithe-ship in the first place. He was touchingly grateful to Tymon for his intervention.