Tymon's Flight

by Mary Victoria

  ‘My father, poor man,’ continued Wick as they climbed, ‘was invited to the Lord Mayor’s pavilion at the last moment. Couldn’t refuse, of course, even though the family box was already built. So it’s ours. No one will bother us here.’

  They ducked through the low doorway at the top of the stairs to the sound of a rousing cheer. Bolas, Piri and two other fourth-year students whom Tymon did not know were sprawled on benches at the back of the booth. In the short time since they had arrived the novices had broken out a forbidden gourd of Treesap wine. They were now passing the heady brew to one another, their mouths smeared with dark red juice. Though a special dispensation from the seminary waived the penalty for public drunkenness on the day of the Festival, most of the students were too young to avail themselves of the licence. They relied on subterfuge to enjoy the carnival atmosphere and a private booth, far from the prying eyes of the priests, was an undreamt-of luxury. Wick straddled a bench and accepted the proffered drink, tilting his head back to take a long swallow. Tymon imitated him more slowly.

  ‘A stroke of luck,’ commented Piri, his face hot with liquor, ‘having this place of yours, Wick.’

  Wick only gave a complacent smile.

  ‘Three cheers for Wick’s father’s mayor’s lastditch invitation,’ hiccupped one of the fourth-year students, sending the gourd around.

  ‘Hear, hear. Now, let’s get to business before we all fall asleep,’ said Bolas. ‘Do you have the stuff, Stel?’

  The boy named Stel retrieved a small hardwood pot filled with a viscous fluid from the folds of his jacket.

  ‘Fresh from the College stores,’ he gloated. ‘Sticks like a whore in heat.’ He made an unpleasant smacking noise with his lips.

  ‘Lizard skin glue,’ Wick clarified, for Tymon’s benefit. ‘Piri thought of it. Has no smell, no colour, and it’s quick acting. A layer on Rede’s chair at the banquet—and watch what happens when Lord White-Neck tries to get up! Here’s to the fourth years!’

  He raised the communal gourd to Piri, whose thin face beamed with wine and happiness. Tymon also toasted the younger boy when his turn came around, but without conviction. He knew well enough from experience the feeling of pride when someone like Wick singled him out for praise. He told himself that he no longer cared for such honours, and that it was all the same to him if Piri took over his laurels as class clown. But the episode further dampened his mood. He left the other boys to hammer out the details of their plot at the back of the booth and moved his bench with a loud scrape towards the balcony railing, staring glumly over the sweep of the quays. The time before the Rites was slipping away, and still the pilgrims had not appeared on the air-harbour.

  A gust of raucous laughter reached him from below. A knot of soldiers had gathered at the entrance to the next stall. The men were leaning in drunken camaraderie against the wall of the booth, listening to one among their number.

  ‘…couldn’t move him. Opened one eye. Said, “Love you too, Anna.” Snoring again in a jiffy.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Covered him with a towel and left. He was still there when the lice went in.’

  The guards roared with merriment. Tymon recognised two of them as having been present at the disastrous Bread-Giving, the sentries who had beaten down the madman. He shrank back from the edge of the balcony so as not to be seen, engrossed by the soldiers’ talk.

  ‘…can’t say as I blame him,’ one snorted through his laughter. ‘Who’d want to watch a bunch of naked whiteys, anyway? Fleas and bones, the lot of ‘em…’

  ‘I pity the lice,’ another chuckled. ‘Just pray that the towel stayed put. It’s not decent to see that much of the captain, even for foreign tastes.’

  The soldiers all howled in agreement. The group of boys behind Tymon hooted in a burst of simultaneous mirth, their voices drowning out the conversation below.

  ‘He’ll dance,’ Piri exclaimed excitedly. ‘With the chair stuck to his bony—’

  His chatter was lost in a surge of competing voices.

  ‘—just before the Fathers come back from the procession—’

  ‘—if enough of us go, no one will ever know who—’

  ‘—just make sure it’s the right chair—’

  Tymon leaned forward on the railing, a breath of frustration escaping his lips. He wanted to hear what the soldiers were saying, to gain an insight as to why the pilgrims were late on the quays. But the soldiers appeared to have dropped the subject of the foreigners altogether. The guard who had first spoken jangled a set of hardwood keys, reeling slightly as he tried to fit one after the other into the door of the next-door booth. The rest heckled him, making references to his inability to fit anything into anything, from keys, to locks, to women.

  ‘You couldn’t find a keyhole as big as the Mouth,’ they jeered.

  ‘No, no, no.’ Bolas’ voice rose in protest from the back of the booth at the same time. ‘I’ve still got to find my way to the Mouth. You lot can drink yourselves under the benches without me.’

  A heavy arm clapped across Tymon’s shoulders, jolting him from his reverie. It was Piri’s second classmate, still nameless to Tymon, a hulking fellow with a vacant smile. He thrust the winegourd irritatingly close to the boy’s face.

  ‘What about you, Greenie number two?’ he slurred. ‘Come and join us. What’s so interesting down there?’

  Tymon tried to push the gourd away but the other student only shoved it under his nose with vapid, grinning insistence. Beneath them at the foot of the next-door booth, the guards’ banter had degenerated into a loud argument.

  ‘Won’t work. Damn things won’t work.’ The soldier with the keys gave the door a kick.

  ‘Now, now, calm down, Ned. Are you sure you’ve got the right ones?’ cried one of his fellows.

  ‘Ty’s in love,’ Wick threw out from the back bench. ‘It’s the only explanation for his mooning around.’

  ‘Course I do,’ the soldier bellowed in a fit of drunken pique.

  ‘What? Of course I’m not. Don’t be silly,’ Tymon protested.

  ‘You muddled them with the Captain’s set, you fool,’ howled the voices of the guards.

  ‘Oooo-ooh! Ty’s in love!’ sang the boys at the back of the booth.

  ‘Who’s your sweetheart, bound-boy?’ called Bolas.

  The fourth-year student continued to shove the gourd under Tymon’s nose. He tried ineffectually to elbow him aside, but the other boy bore down on him with all his weight, still smiling, and turned the gourd upside down over his head, spattering him with bright red drops.

  ‘What kind of fool are you?’ Tymon exclaimed. ‘I’ve got to go to the Rites in this robe!’

  He searched his clothes angrily for the telltale dark stains. But the droplets of wine had only sprinkled his head. He ran his fingers through his hair, glaring at the younger student. The hulking boy simply shrugged.

  ‘Leave him alone, Stumpy,’ called Wick again. ‘Can’t you see he wants to be pretty for his sweetheart?’

  ‘I am not in love!’ cried Tymon, infuriated by his classmates’ mockery. He wrested the winegourd away from the aptly named Stumpy and emptied the remaining dregs into his mouth, as if to prove his point. ‘I’m not mooning around. I’m having a great time.’

  ‘He’s right, Ned.’ A new voice joined the soldiers’ debate at the foot of the stall, patient and slow, as if explaining to a child. ‘The booth keys are on the prison ring. We have the warehouse ring. Look, see? It’s yellow.’

  ‘Is she down there on the quays?’ goaded Wick maliciously. ‘Is she waiting for you? Are you going to meet up with her later, Ty?’

  Tymon frowned at him. His friend’s teasing seemed innocent enough, but he found the accidental insight into his thoughts disturbing. He was not given a chance to reply, however. Just at that moment a strident note blared out over the air-harbour. The Rites heralds were sounding the preparatory signal for the procession. Tymon’s eyes jerked towards the city gates as a line
of grey figures emerged from the tunnel. The pilgrims had arrived at last.

  ‘That’s our cue.’ Bolas jumped up. ‘Best not to miss the drill. They take forever to warm up, but it’s just as well. I need some air!’

  Tymon wavered at his post on the balcony. He had forgotten in his excitement that he and Bolas would be expected at the seminary pavilion earlier than the rest of their companions to prepare for the Rites procession. It was during this solemn affair that the elect few actually participating in the ceremony—the Dean, high-ranking professors, Green Year students and processional guards, as well as the chosen Sacrificial pilgrim—would march the length of the air-harbour to the trunk before cheering crowds. There they would turn onto a narrow ledge that bypassed the main road, the so-called Path of Sacrifice, winding up the Tree-face towards the Mouth. It was the first and only occasion Tymon would join in that august pageant. Citizens lucky enough to have a seminary education witnessed the sacrament that took place in the rift only once in their lives. The other inhabitants of Argos, the unlettered working folk and the Impure, female half of the nation, never laid eyes on the Sacrifice at all. They waited for the Dean to reappear outside the Mouth holding aloft the pilgrim’s ceremonial cloak, a flash of scarlet in the wind. It was the signal for general celebrations to begin.

  All of Tymon’s plans had come to naught. His time was up. He yearned to follow the foreigners and speak with the red-haired girl, but saw no way of justifying the move to his friends. He would be obliged to return to the seminary pavilion with all the other Green Year novices and wait idly for the procession to start.

  ‘You’re right, by the bells,’ he heard the drunken guard concede outside, as he trailed reluctantly after Bolas. ‘The keys are in the bathhouse. The keys are in the damned-to-root bathhouse.’

  It was only then that Tymon recalled his dream. The soldiers had echoed almost word for word the bizarre message whispered by the vagrant in his nightmare: The key is in the bathhouse. And so, apparently, it was.

  7

  Tymon prided himself on not being a superstitious character. He laughed at auguries and prophecies, and had never allowed a backstreet fortune teller to paw his palm in quest of a few taleks. He did not believe that the story of his life might be traced in the stars, or in the veins of leaves that happened to fall at the time of his birth; he agreed with the priests at Argos seminary in one respect—that the arts of soothsaying and dream interpretation were either pointless nonsense or harmful charlatanry. He put his faith in real people, real places, the solid bark beneath his feet. The future was his to make. There was no such thing as fate. At best, the story of the keys was a coincidence, he decided. A bizarre but ultimately meaningless coincidence. He fidgeted in line behind the other waiting novices and stretched his neck from side to side in the tight collar of his robes. A curious sensation of heat had come over him, as if fiery sap had invaded his veins. His skin tingled under the constricting clothes. He had drunk too much of the students’ wine, he thought. The dream was a coincidence. Nothing more.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ Bolas muttered beside him.

  His friend’s impatience was directed at the head of the queue. The priests and novices participating in the Rites stood in formation outside the College pavilion, waiting for the pageant to begin. The processional column was long enough to follow the curve of the quays, and the head of the line was visible, nosing to the right. Heralds occupied the first few rows, the streamers on their instruments fluttering in the breeze. The Dean stood behind them, accompanied by a squadron of the Council Guard. The members of this elite militia unit, splendidly attired in black and green, flanked the line at regular intervals, carrying unlit torches. The proceedings would begin on Fallow’s command. The noise on the docks had already dropped to a steady hum in anticipation of his signal and there was a crackle of expectation in the air, a tangible surge of exhilaration. But the Dean was engaged in conversation with someone standing next to him, a man in a black surcoat. He had already kept the column waiting several interminable minutes. It was this delay that so incensed Bolas.

  ‘I’d swear he enjoys dragging it out every time,’ he fumed.

  Tymon speculated grimly whether the protagonist for the Sacrifice had already been selected—primed and drugged, perhaps, well before the event—or whether the choice would be made during the ceremony itself. The pilgrim’s supposed self-offering would coincide with the arrival of the procession at the eastern end of the quays and the foot of the trunk-wall. The boy could see the foreigners in their enclosure, a smear of grey amid the colourful bleachers. He could only hope that the pilgrims’ return to the prison would not immediately follow the Rites.

  ‘Five on Crazy.’

  A whispered comment in the row of novices behind drew his attention. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the students dropping five taleks into another’s outstretched hand. With a rush of distaste, he identified Fletch as the receiving party.

  ‘He’s the favourite,’ the fixer cautioned the other boy. ‘You won’t make anything. What about little Red? He’s too scrawny for mine work. Proper runt.’

  ‘Really?’ The student making the bet seemed unsure. ‘Crazy seems like the obvious choice.’

  Tymon’s disgust deepened. The fat-cheeked boy was still accepting life-wagers on the pilgrims. He could easily guess the identity of the man named ‘Crazy’; his heart skipped a beat at the mention of ‘little Red’.

  ‘Sometimes obvious is wrong,’ shrugged Fletch. ‘But it’s your call.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ the first boy whined. ‘Now you’ve thrown me off.’

  ‘They’re always together,’ remarked Fletch, his voice syrupy. ‘One’s mad and the other’s next to mad, as they say. Odds are more interesting on Red.’

  ‘How interesting?’ Tymon spun around to face the two players. He had not meant to speak, but a sudden fear gripped him, a panicky sense that he might be too late to help the pilgrim girl. Had she been chosen by the priests?

  ‘What are the odds on Red?’ he asked, gruffly.

  ‘Who’d have thought,’ Fletch smirked. ‘Want to place a bet, bound-boy?’

  ‘Leave it alone, Ty,’ advised Bolas. Tymon ignored him.

  ‘The red-haired one,’ he pressed, searching Fletch’s face. ‘Thin, funny-looking fellow. I’ve seen him. He’s the runt, right?’

  ‘Maybe,’ drawled the other. ‘What are you willing to put on it?’

  ‘Ty—’ began Bolas once more.

  ‘Tell me what the odds are, and I’ll decide,’ snapped Tymon.

  ‘Oh no.’ Fletch shook his head, grinning. ‘That’s not how it works, bound-boy. Show me the money first.’

  Tymon made a pretence of rummaging under his Festival robes. He had no hardwood counters of Argosian money, but his College pass produced a convincing click in his pocket.

  ‘I might give you five,’ he answered.

  ‘Ty!’ Bolas tugged at his wrist. ‘Don’t be stupid—’

  Tymon snatched his arm from his friend’s grip. ‘Well? What do you say?’ he challenged Fletch. His voice had risen. ‘Do you have the odds for me or not?’

  The fixer smiled his unpleasant smile but said nothing. Tymon felt another surge of heat suffusing his face. He was aware that the liquor he had gulped down in the booth was having an effect on him, but his contempt swept all prudence aside. How dare the snot-nosed bully brush him off? He was about to lash out, to tell Fletch exactly what he thought of him, when he noticed a figure in dark green robes observing him from the end of the student row.

  ‘The odds are very slight indeed of you going to the Rites, young fellow.’

  Father Rede’s bored tone sent a quiver through Tymon. How long had the professor had been standing there, listening to the discussion? He heard Bolas exhale with suppressed aggravation at his side. His friend had been trying to warn him, he realised with dismay. He hung his head under his tutor’s scornful gaze. The priest’s thin mouth twitched in a triumphant smile
.

  ‘Young man,’ he began, as Tymon wilted before him, ‘you have been given occasion to prove yourself worthy of taking the sacrament of the Rites and of joining this blessed company. I see no evidence, however, that you are aware of the high privilege you enjoy. No, you would throw it all away without a second thought. You have been warned and must reap the consequences. Therefore—’

  ‘You will be given one more chance, and only one, to get it right,’ interjected another voice.

  Father Mossing stepped up beside Rede. Father Rede stole a sidelong look at him and bit his tongue, his frown deepening in surprise.

  ‘A final warning,’ Mossing continued. He did not smile but there was a gleam of humour in his eye. ‘Because it is the Festival, and you are a Green student. But this is the last reprieve you’ll get, young sir. Use it well.’

  He turned on his heel and left, returning to the front of the column. The students exchanged glances.

  ‘You are very, very fortunate to have such understanding friends, bound-boy,’ hissed Rede. He extended his lizard-like neck towards Tymon, fairly spitting with impotent rage. ‘If I again find you talking, making a spectacle of yourself or in any other way undermining the sanctity of this hallowed event, you will be sent back to your dormitory to await further sanctions. No more chances.’

  He collected himself, gathering up his long robes like the shards of his dignity, and rolled his cynical gaze over the rest of the novices.

  ‘You have all been given a priceless opportunity, though you don’t seem to realise it,’ he snarled. ‘What you are about to embark on is an experience of deep spiritual importance. The Rites are no laughing matter, nor—’ he glanced briefly towards Fletch ‘—are they an occasion for games or bets. You will show a proper amount of respect. Do not take your good fortune for granted—’

  A shrill blast from the heralds’ trumpets cut short the professor’s diatribe once more. The Dean had given his signal. Rede glared furiously at Tymon, as if to impress upon him that there was much more to say and that he had escaped his deserts only through astounding good luck. Then he hurried off down the column. The drums rolled out a slow, solemn measure, and the procession shuffled forward.