Tymon's Flight

by Mary Victoria

  ‘At least I’ll die with my brothers.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous and you know it!’ he exclaimed impatiently. ‘What about all the rest of your brothers who are alive, shanti? Are you going to abandon them?’

  Samiha hesitated, her face half-hidden by its veil of hair. When she spoke at last her voice was low and hoarse.

  ‘Without the Focals, I’m blind, Tymon. What use am I to my people? I have no gift for Grafting. Without them, I’m lost. I can’t see the future.’

  She was rocking herself in grief. He took her in his arms again and steered her gently but firmly away from the door.

  ‘Neither can the rest of us,’ he admonished. ‘And we muddle along. That’s no reason to give up!’

  There was no longer any mistaking the intentions of the vigilantes. The roar of the crowd rolled down Kion Street, swelling to a crescendo. The flicker of torches played through the shutters on the apartment windows.

  ‘Is there any way out of here?’ pleaded Tymon. ‘Samiha, I need you.’

  She stirred at last, lifting her face from his shoulder. From below the balcony, the cries echoed out: Kill the sorceress! Burn her! Burn the witch!

  ‘There’s a trapdoor to the roof,’ she whispered. ‘In the back, over the stove.’

  ‘Let’s go, then.’

  He pulled her behind him, diving through the curtain at the rear of the main room. It opened into a tiny kitchen area dominated by a hardwood oven. There was a small hatch in the ceiling. He scrambled onto the unlit stove and strained his fingers towards the trapdoor, but it was too high. He could hear people mounting the ladder outside. Time was running out. He jumped down and grasped Samiha firmly by the waist. Ignoring her exclamation of protest, he hoisted her up towards the hole in the ceiling. Her body felt taut and warm in his hands.

  ‘Open the trapdoor and get in,’ he urged. ‘I need you to help me afterwards!’

  She threw him an indecipherable look and pushed the door ajar, manoeuvring herself into the space above. As she turned and stretched her arm down to him, a babble of voices erupted into the main room. Torchlight danced through the curtain. Tymon seized Samiha’s arm and swung himself up towards the hatch. It seemed to take forever to haul his body through the opening, an excruciating scrape on sore bone. At last he dragged himself to safety, kicking the trapdoor shut behind him.

  There was a space under the roof just wide enough to crawl through. They shuffled as quickly as they dared along the rafters until they reached the periphery of the building, where a second hatch led onto the roof. The door was wedged fast and could only be pried open by the two of them in a concerted effort. It came loose with a screech of warped wood. They waited for an agonised interval, listening for sounds of pursuit as the night breeze whistled through the gap, carrying with it the smell of smoke. No noise came from the direction of the apartment. Tymon sighed with relief and turned towards the hatch. He was arrested by the look of alarm on Samiha’s face. An orange flicker leapt in her eyes. He glanced back over his shoulder: where they had just passed, tiny tongues of flame licked through the rafters.

  ‘They’ve set fire to the apartment,’ gasped Samiha. ‘We’ll be burnt alive.’

  ‘It’s not over yet,’ Tymon rallied her. ‘The roof is still whole.’

  ‘Not for long. The fire will break through before we get halfway to the palisade. The tiles are only made of lightwood.’

  ‘We don’t know till we try! Come on, Samiha!’

  ‘It’s no use, we need to reach the—’

  ‘Will you stop arguing and go, woman?’ he snapped, exasperated. The greedy crackle of flames was now clearly audible.

  Samiha glared at him then turned to slip through the half-open door. Tymon squeezed after her with rather more difficulty. He found himself on a narrow ledge running along the front of the building. A hot wind hit him in the face and he heard the roar of flames from the lower storey windows. The sound of chanting drifted up on eddies of hot ash. Kill the sorceress. Burn the witch. He did not dare look down at the mob in the street, but clung to the eaves and crept forward, step by step. At the extremity of the ledge Samiha helped him onto the low point of the roof. Fire was now darting through the hatch behind them.

  ‘Careful,’ she warned. ‘The tiles are unstable.’

  They moved diagonally across the rooftop, heading for the ragged crest of the city palisade, a line of rough-hewn posts flanking the building on its far side. Colonial architecture stubbornly followed the Argosian model despite differences in climate, and the roof was steeply inclined. Their progress became painfully slow. The tiles felt warm under Tymon’s fingers. To his alarm he saw smoke and bright sparks escaping from several points on their trajectory.

  ‘It won’t hold much longer,’ called Samiha. ‘Watch where you step!’ The roar of the flames swallowed her words as a section of tiles on Tymon’s left fell inwards with a sickening crunch.

  ‘Why are we going up so far?’ he shouted after her. Samiha seemed to be leading him on an unnecessarily precipitous arc up the roof. They could have reached the palisade more quickly in a straight line.

  ‘There’s rope at the top,’ she answered, indicating the ridgepole. ‘We need it to get down the other side.’

  They crawled on, crouched almost flat against the hot tiles. Tymon felt the building creak and groan beneath him as another section of the roof collapsed with a crash nearby. A tile came loose under his hand and skittered away. It was several anxious seconds before he was able to find another secure hold. Samiha had reached the top of the roof ahead of him and was busy untying a roll of rope from the ridgepole.

  ‘Straight along to the end now,’ she said, when Tymon hoisted himself up beside her, panting with exertion. ‘It’s the safest part of the roof, anyway.’

  ‘I feel better already,’ he muttered. The ridgepole cut uncomfortably through his breeches.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Let’s get this over with,’ he sighed.

  ‘You were the one who wanted to come.’

  ‘Just…lead on.’

  They inched along the top of the roof, aiming for the line of the palisade. Tymon prayed silently that their precarious perch would hold. The lower tiles were now caving in to the fire, disappearing in showers of bright sparks. Heat rose up in a suffocating wave and whipped their faces raw, and smoke stung their eyes. It seemed an eternity before they reached the end of the ridgepole and dropped down onto the top of the palisade. Samiha secured a loop of rope around one of the posts; they lowered themselves into a quiet corner of the tent-town below. A sullen pall of smoke hung over the refugee camp. Eastwards, the bare thickets above the city were outlined in the faint light of dawn.

  They paused at the base of the palisade. Tymon blinked, his eyes dazzled by the memory of flame. Samiha’s voice carried softly through the shadows.

  ‘You are brave, Argosi. But never call me “woman” in that tone again, or you’ll find yourself alone on a hot roof, with no rope.’

  18

  Tymon felt the blood rush painfully to his cheeks. His face and palms were chapped by the heat of the fire and the raw skin tingled. He was unable to tell in the darkness whether Samiha was actually offended. Her approval meant more to him than he had realised.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said stiffly. ‘Please don’t hold my words against me. I spoke in haste.’

  There was a softening in her voice that reassured him.

  ‘Don’t apologise,’ she replied. ‘Whatever else I regret about this night, I’ll always remember your courage and your persistence in getting me out of that apartment. You’re a true friend. You can return to the mission now. The way should be clear.’

  ‘The mission?’ he repeated dumbly. He had not thought he would be parted from her so soon.

  ‘The mob will still be in Kion Street. Hurry and you won’t be noticed.’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m not going back to the mission. I’m deserting the service. I’ve already made up my mind.’
/>
  She did not answer immediately. A single tongue of flame ripped up from within the city palisade and subsided.

  ‘Well, I hope you don’t think you’re coming with me.’ She spoke with finality.

  ‘Why not?’ demanded Tymon, taken aback.

  ‘It’s too dangerous.’

  ‘More dangerous than a collapsing roof?’

  ‘I’ve a long road ahead of me. I have to leave the city and join my companions. They’re outlaws, Tymon.’

  ‘Then let me come with you. I’m an outlaw too, from the seminary’s point of view.’

  ‘You can’t come. You don’t understand.’

  ‘Why not? Do you still think I’m no use to you?’ His answer was tinged with pique.

  ‘Please!’ she breathed. She glanced uneasily at the walls of canvas flanking the alley. ‘Speak quietly!’

  He lowered his voice to a growl of annoyance. ‘After all we’ve been through, I thought you might trust me by now.’

  ‘You just don’t know what you’re asking.’ She exhaled in frustration. ‘It’s too complicated.’

  ‘You think your friends won’t accept me, right? Well, let me meet them. I’ll prove you wrong.’

  ‘This isn’t about proving anything—’ she began.

  ‘You’re ashamed of me, aren’t you?’ he interrupted. ‘Because I’m an Argosian.’ The accusation sounded shrill in his own ears.

  There was an awkward pause. The sky grew lighter as one by one, the stars faded above them.

  ‘I’d never be ashamed of a friend,’ she remarked after a while. ‘The Sap has brought us together and I have no doubt that we will meet again. But it’s too risky to let you accompany me out of the city right now. Farewell, nami.’ She turned abruptly and walked down the shadowy alley between the rows of tents.

  He hesitated, battling his pride. He wanted to tell her that he had no place left to go, that he was homeless and alone. But he could not bear to beg for her help. At last he thrust away his scruples and hurried to catch up with her.

  ‘I didn’t mean that, Samiha,’ he said. ‘I was out of line again. I’m sorry.’

  She did not slow her pace.

  ‘Let me come with you,’ he persisted. ‘I have information that might be useful.’

  ‘I’m sure you do.’

  ‘I learnt several things while I was at the mission. Your rebel friends would benefit from hearing about them—’

  She spun around on her heel so that he almost collided with her.

  ‘You have nowhere else to go, do you?’ she said quietly.

  Her expression was now clearly visible in the growing light; she surveyed him with pursed lips. He hung his head in mortification.

  ‘If I agree to this, you’ll remember two things,’ she continued. ‘Firstly: I do not condone rebellion and I do not have rebel friends. Secondly: you will be discreet. No shouting at me in the road. While we’re in the city, you do as I say. No discussion. Are we clear?’

  ‘Absolutely clear, shanti,’ he replied, relief welling up through his embarrassment.

  ‘Sav vay, what have I let myself in for?’ she sighed. ‘Follow me and if you want to live, be quiet.’

  She glanced at the paling sky and flipped up the hood at the back of her shift. Then she walked on down the alley, motioning him after her. They emerged into a street near the air-harbour. All was still in the tent-town. Ashes drifted across the wind and a cloud of dingy smoke hung over the area behind the custom house.

  ‘They’ve set fire to the temple,’ noted Samiha, in an undertone. ‘The fools. They might have destroyed their own food supplies.’

  She led them eastwards, away from the docks, avoiding the main thoroughfares. Dotted along their way were the casualties of the night’s violence. The colonial mob had carried out indiscriminate attacks in the tent quarter; every few yards they passed the black and smoking remnants of a shack or tent. Looming over all, a dark column of ash drifted over the city. A red dawn broke above the ruin of the Governor’s palace. Tymon peered up at the remains of the third tier, wondering if his absence from the mission had yet been discovered. He dreaded a chance meeting with Lace or Verlain in the street.

  A tense calm reigned in the refugee quarter. Only a few hurrying figures crossed their path, heads bowed and hoods drawn up. The normal business of the morning had been abandoned. Tymon’s thirst returned to torment him as he plodded after Samiha, winding between the tents and pole-houses. She came to a halt quite suddenly in a nondescript walkway at the south end of the tent-town, bending her head close to one of the canvas walls to whisper a stream of Nurian. A voice answered in muffled tones and a loose flap was raised to let them through. They stepped into an empty tent, lit only by the light seeping through the white fabric of the roof. A freckle-faced youth of about Tymon’s age knelt at the foot of the canvas, lacing it shut.

  ‘Tymon, this is Oren.’ Samiha introduced the young stranger. ‘He will help us leave the city—at least until things calm down a little.’

  Oren rose and made a deep bow to the shanti. Then he checked himself, visibly shocked at the sight of Samiha’s companion. Even in the faint light of the tent, Tymon’s skin was conspicuously darker than a Nurian’s.

  ‘Shanti…Argosi—’ began the other youth.

  ‘He is a friend, Oren.’ Samiha’s tone was unequivocal. ‘If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be here this morning. He saved my life. There are others who have not fared as well as I.’

  She laid a hand on the youth’s arm as if to comfort him, and continued to speak in Nurian. Tymon caught the mention of the Focals’ names and guessed that she was reporting the tragedy of the night before. Oren’s rather comical, round face grew grave as he listened. When Samiha was done, the Nurian youth stood silent a moment, as if lost in thought. Then he collected himself and bowed to Tymon, addressing him in the curt idiom current among the townsfolk.

  ‘Welcome, nami,’ he said. ‘You save more than one life last night. You keep all hearts beating.’

  As he straightened up, a medallion slipped into view around his neck, a piece of hardwood bearing the key signature Tymon had seen painted on the walls of the city. The carving was inlaid with a bright material that glinted in the light. It occurred to Tymon that he might be face to face with the author of the peculiar wall-poetry. His ribs prevented him from bowing properly in return, and he could only bob his head awkwardly to Oren.

  The Nurian gave a sudden, radiant grin. ‘Shanti—it is Sign!’ he said. ‘Friend in west. Sav beni! Year of Fire!’

  ‘Perhaps. But there is no time to lose, Oren. Bring another cloak for Tymon and enough food for three days’ journey. We should be out of the town by mid-morning.’

  The youth bowed once more and disappeared through a door-flap. Samiha settled herself on the bare floor with her back against one of the interior poles. To Tymon’s joy, she produced a small water gourd from the folds of her cloak.

  ‘He may be a while out there,’ she said. ‘Rest now, and have some water.’

  He sat down beside her and accepted the drink gratefully, watching her over the edge of the gourd. She seemed weary: the pale skin of her face was waxy and there were bluish shadows under her eyes. He had taken a deep draught from the gourd before he remembered that in Marak water was a luxury. He handed it hastily back to her, wiping the drops from his mouth with his hand.

  ‘Thank you. Maz,’ he ventured.

  She smiled at his use of the Nurian word. ‘You’re very welcome.’

  He wanted to ask her more about what had happened the previous evening, about how she escaped the fate of the Focals. But he was afraid of upsetting her. He steered clear of the difficult subject and concentrated on the details of their flight.

  ‘Where are we going now, Samiha?’ he enquired. ‘Where are your companions?’

  ‘At a Freehold. We should be able to meet up with a dirigible that will take us there, but we have at least a day’s journey on foot before we reach the pick-up point.’r />
  Tymon nodded. He recalled Verlain mentioning the existence of Nurian Freeholds in the Eastern Canopy, concessions to self-governance the priest had loudly deplored. Despite Samiha’s protestations to the contrary, he was sure that he was finally about to meet members of the elusive Nurian rebellion.

  ‘That medallion Oren was wearing,’ he continued, after a while. ‘I’ve seen the same sign on the walls of the city. What is it?’

  She glanced up at him keenly. ‘Oh, you noticed that, did you? It’s the mark of the Nurian king. The symbol of the royal house of Nur.’

  ‘Is Oren some kind of royalty, then?’

  ‘No. The medallion just shows where his allegiance lies.’

  ‘Did he write those verses on the walls?’

  ‘Did you like them?’

  Her response took Tymon by surprise. ‘Well…I don’t know if “like” is the word I’d use,’ he stammered. ‘Personal taste doesn’t apply to that sort of thing…I mean, they seemed more like prophecies than poetry…’

  ‘Ah.’ She looked away. ‘Yes. You’re absolutely right. They weren’t really poetry. I wrote them.’

  There was a pause. He berated himself silently for his blunder and decided to try a different angle of conversation.

  ‘There’s another thing I’ve been meaning to ask you,’ he said. ‘Who is this Sav person everyone keeps mentioning? Is he a prophet of yours?’

  She gave a grunt of ironic laughter and settled herself more comfortably against the tent-pole. ‘It’s not a person. Sav means “Sap”. When Oren says Sav beni, he means “may the Sap bless you”.’

  ‘I still don’t understand what the Sap is. How can a life-force speak to you?’

  ‘You’re full of questions this morning,’ she noted, her voice husky. She rubbed a hand across her face and he regretted blurting out his thoughts at a time like this. ‘I don’t have the energy to talk philosophy just now, Tymon. But I do promise it will all become much clearer to you when you learn the Grafting.’

  ‘When I learn the Grafting?’ he echoed doubtfully. ‘How is that possible, Samiha? I’m not like the Focals. I can’t predict the future.’