‘Oh, but you can,’ she murmured. Her eyelids drifted shut. ‘You have the raw talent to become a Grafter. That’s what I came to Argos to find. A Sign of the Sap, a westerner with the Sight. You just need training. Now, I really must rest, forgive me.’
She was asleep almost as soon as she said it, her head propped against the tent pole. Tymon was left with the mad claim jangling in his ears: unanswerable, impossible. He bit his lip with frustration. He had meant to tell her of Caro’s dealings with Verlain when the opportunity presented itself. Instead, he had asked utterly useless questions about poetry and semantics, and received more in answer than he had bargained for. He understood now, with a plummeting heart, why Samiha tolerated his presence. He was supposed to fulfil her prophecies, to be the omen that set off her precious Year of Fire. He wished that it were true, that he were a Grafter, if only for her sake. To learn that he was not—that the trip to Argos, even the death of her friend, had been in vain—would be a terrible disappointment for her.
He watched her, lingering over the line of her profile in the diffuse light of the tent. In sleep her face lost its air of fatigue and preoccupation and she looked younger, hardly more than a girl. Tear marks stained her cheeks. Long strands of fiery hair had ensnared themselves in her mouth, rising and falling with each breath. He felt the urge to reach out and free the snarled strands, to caress her lips. His fingers were already stretching towards her face before he came to his senses and drew back his hand. He found himself speculating whether she liked him at all. He wanted to show her that he was a man, not a Sign, alive and ordinary, in the ordinary Tree, and worthy of her interest. He realised then, for the first time, that he cared very much indeed for the red-haired Nurian girl. Slowly, insidiously, his curiosity about her had turned into fascination, and fascination had developed into something more profound. He was falling in love.
Love was not a virtue taught to novices at Argos seminary. To an Argosian male an unmarried woman was a plaything, and a married one little more than a prudent investment. Marriage was about social standing, not romantic affection. Tymon’s classmates had boasted of manly conquests, encounters in the back alleys of the city, but the stories seldom reflected reality. Tenderness between a man and a woman was seen more as a weakness than a blessing by the youth of Argos. All a student of the seminary could usually hope for in the way of romance was a kiss—or perhaps a pancake—stolen from a kitchen maid, on the sly.
No voice gave the call to prayer that morning in Marak. Tymon fidgeted restlessly on the tent floor, diverted from his unaccustomed musings by the rumbling in his belly. Now that his thirst was quenched a gnawing hunger had taken its place. He had eaten his last, tainted meal at the mission, what he guessed was almost two days ago. Perhaps it was only another hour before the door-flap lifted and Oren re-entered the tent, bearing a bundle of supplies, but the wait might have been eternal. The smell of fried beans emanated from the bundle like clouds of glory. Samiha roused herself with a yawn and shook the tumbled strands of hair from her face. She smiled at Oren.
‘What news, nami?’
The freckled youth answered in his abbreviated jargon. ‘Things bad. Palace burn, no one ever see demon-fire so big. Soldiers angry, look for rebels, nobody find. Governor Bignose run away to Argosi ship.’
‘The Governor’s on the Envoy’s ship?’ Tymon interrupted, astounded. ‘I thought he hated the seminary!’
Oren nodded solemnly. ‘Governor hate everybody. He go with Argosi boss-man now, while is trouble. He say: all refugees out of tent-town. All without job have to leave city, otherwise off to Argosi plantation. All must pay for rebel attack.’
‘But what about Verlain?’ insisted Tymon. The smell of food was mouth-watering, but anxiety still gnawed at him. ‘Is Father Verlain on the dirigible with them, or up at the mission?’
‘I doubt if the Argosi priest will trouble us now,’ put in Samiha. ‘What about the bridge, Oren?’
The youth shook his head. ‘I know nothing of this Varl-Ayn. But there is price for your life, shanti. Difficult to pass bridge, soldiers make checkpoint.’
Samiha sighed. ‘That’s going to be a problem.’
‘No worry, there is plan!’ Oren pronounced. ‘My sister, Noni.’
He appeared to consider this truncated explanation sufficient. He rummaged through his bundle, taking out three pockets of hot, stuffed flatbread. He handed two to his guests and squatted down on the floor, applying himself with single-minded attention to his meal. Tymon followed suit. Samiha frowned, dissatisfied, her eyes searching out Oren’s.
‘Noni?’ she prompted.
The Nurian youth swallowed his mouthful and finished his thought. ‘She make soldiers busy. You pass.’
‘I’m worried it’s too dangerous. Your sister’s so young—’
‘Old enough, shanti,’ replied Oren, mildly. ‘Her idea. She help, you pass, everything fine.’
The Nurian youth seemed able to sit and eat his flatbread with perfect equanimity, despite all the night’s reversals and bereavements. Tymon eyed the other boy impatiently, suspecting him of dimwittedness. Now that his breakfast was secured he wished that Oren would leave the tent. He still had to tell Samiha about Caro and had convinced himself that the best way of doing so was when they were alone. Besides, he wanted to reason with her, to warn her that she was mistaken about him and his so-called talents. The issue was awkward for him to bring up in front of other people.
‘Shanti, may I have a word with you—in private?’ he whispered to her.
‘Is it important?’ Samiha rummaged through the provisions in the bundle and withdrew a long cloak, which she handed to him. ‘Put this on, it’ll help you get by the guards unnoticed.’
‘Yes, it’s important. I found something out at the mission, something you should know.’
‘I trust Oren. You can say anything in front of him.’
‘It’s a delicate subject.’
‘In that case, wait until we’re outside the city. We’ll have a chance to talk privately then.’
It was hard for Tymon to swallow his irritation. He had not thought through his motives in wanting to speak with her, and the information he wished to convey seemed suddenly less significant than being alone with her. Sulking slightly, he tried on the cloak she had given him. It was a grey worsted cape with a deep hood, a style he had often seen on the streets of Marak. His chapped brown hands and raw cheeks were completely hidden under its folds. He strapped the provisions for their journey on his back and refused point blank to let Samiha carry anything. She submitted with a laugh.
‘Maz,’ she said. ‘Be careful, Argosi, you’re acquiring the native courtesies. Soon we won’t be able to tell you apart from one of our own.’
They left the shelter of the tent with the hoods of their cloaks pulled over their faces, and slipped through the back alleys of the refugee quarter, making their way steadily southwards. It must have been at least mid-morning, but the sun remained hidden behind a blanket of cloud that filled the city with a harsh, hazy light. Tymon scrutinised the overcast sky with distaste. He was not used to the mora, the breathless, stifling season before the onset of the eastern rains. Flakes of hot ash still floated on the breeze. Behind him, the charred silhouette of the Governor’s palace sat hunched on the third tier like a bird of ill omen.
As he had noticed from on board the Stargazer, the branch supporting the city changed direction at its southern extremity and plunged downwards, losing itself in a tangle of twigs. The tent-town came to a ragged halt at the edge of the chasm. On the other side of the drop another twisting branch rose up, surrounded by ranks of bare twig-thickets. A single bridge of rope and planks spanned the gap, anchored at both ends by hardwood posts driven deep into the Tree. A line of people now filed along the slender road, their possessions tied to their backs or balanced on their heads. Militia guards stood in front of the bridge, questioning each of the travellers before waving them on. Tymon’s heartbeat quickened as they mingled wi
th the throng. The mood of the refugees was grim and subdued. Their eyes were on the soldiers’ checkpoint. He wondered how Oren expected them to pass unnoticed. He caught the brusque, sarcastic tones of the soldiers: they were requiring everyone in the queue to remove their hoods.
‘Where’s your sister, Oren?’ he whispered worriedly. ‘How’s this going to work?’
‘She have plan. She make busy, you go,’ replied the Nurian youth, imperturbed.
He slipped in front of them, leaving Tymon alone beside Samiha in the line. The boy pondered all the possible meanings of ‘making busy’ but was unable to see how anyone could distract so many guards. There were four soldiers at the checkpoint. Three stood by the bridge, while a sallow-faced official lounged at a makeshift desk on one side, interrogating the passers-by. To Tymon’s discomfiture the interrogator was none other than the soldier who had scrubbed the poem off the first-tier wall. It was too late now to leave without attracting the notice of the guards, and there appeared to be no way of avoiding identification. A flutter of panic rose inside him. He would be found out, Samiha would be found out. He doubted whether he would escape the Envoy a second time. He glanced desperately about him.
Only one person remained in front of Oren in the queue. She was a young girl, and the pallid bureaucrat had taken a bullying tone towards her. She appeared to be refusing a request. As the exchange grew heated Oren stirred. He strode up to the desk and pulled the girl aside, spitting at the militiaman’s feet.
‘She say no. You leave my sister alone, Argosi putar,’ he cried.
‘This is a government checkpoint. You’re obliged to comply with militia requests,’ snarled the little bureaucrat.
Two of the soldiers left their posts at the bridge and laid hold of the young Nurian’s shoulders. The official leaned forward on his desk, his lips twitching as he eyed the girl.
‘Do as you’re told, Nurry. Take off the damn cloak,’ he snarled.
She stared at her feet, unresponsive. She wore a long worsted cape of the type Tymon had on, her face hidden by a deep hood.
‘Remove your head covering, rebel slut, or I will be obliged to do it for you.’
The girl made no move. ‘Putar!’ shouted Oren, wrestling against the men holding him. ‘She my sister! She no rebel!’
The sallow-faced officer got up from his seat and walked slowly and deliberately over to the girl, his mouth curled into a leer. With one finger he reached out and flicked the hood off her head. Her bright hair tumbled onto her shoulders, shining like orange flame in the midday sun. The colour was a shade too light and the cut a trace too short, but Tymon found his eyes darting back towards Samiha, to make sure she was still at his side. She was—tense and silent, her eyes glinting out from the depths of her own hood as she watched her young double intently.
At that point several things happened. The last guard at the checkpoint moved towards the red-haired girl with a yell, abandoning his post. Tymon felt Samiha grab hold of his arm and jerk him behind the people who had gathered to watch the altercation, dodging onto the foot of the bridge. He craned over his shoulder to see what was going on. Oren was flailing against his captors like a madman. Through a gap in the confusion he caught a glimpse of Noni. She was painfully young, barely more than a child, standing straight-backed and proud in the grip of the soldiers.
Then they were running, scurrying helter-skelter along the bridge. They kept out of sight of the guards at the checkpoint, slipping through the line of travellers filing away from the city. As if complicit in the escape, none of the refugees turned towards them or remarked upon them in any way. When they were past the midpoint of the bridge they stopped, gasping for breath.
‘What’ll happen to them?’ Tymon burst out, to Samiha.
The shanti did not reply. She leaned on the parapet, staring into the twigs below.
‘What will the soldiers do to them?’ he cried. ‘Samiha, we can’t just leave them there! It isn’t right!’
He peered under the low brim of her hood, and saw with a shock that her eyes were glistening with tears.
‘Oh yes, we can just leave them there, and we will,’ she returned fiercely. ‘Because if we don’t, we’ll throw away everything they’ve done for us. This is what it means to follow me, Tymon. This is what it means to be a Grafter. There is no glorious rebellion. You won’t do as you wish. You won’t even do what you think is right. You’ll only do what you must. It’s possible those two children will die to help us escape. Can you understand now why I told you to stay behind?’
She let go of the rope and continued on her way without waiting to see if he would keep up. Tymon stared after her, shaken to his core. The planks trembled intermittently as people passed by. Finally he roused himself from his torpor and pursued her across the bridge.
They walked on until evening, leaving the path to plunge directly into the knotted twig-thickets. It was possible to thread one’s way from branch tip to dwindling branch tip in the higher regions of the canopy, following a tortuous route through the massed twigs. Their pace soon slackened, however, for the clumps of spiky growth on the scalp of the Tree were hard to penetrate. The grey, mournful thickets opened reluctantly before them and closed behind them like the bars of a cage. The old leaf-forests were drab and dour without their cloak of green. The surroundings did little to improve Tymon’s spirits; he trudged silently after Samiha, her last words echoing in his memory. He could not rid himself of the image of Noni standing straight and slim, clutched in the militiaman’s paw, and he burned with shame when he thought of how he had misjudged Oren and mistaken bravery for stupidity. He had never thanked the young Nurian for his help, or even for his breakfast. All he had thought of was being left alone with Samiha—and now that he was alone with her for hours on end, he dared not utter a word.
By the close of day he guessed that they had put at least fifteen miles behind them. His feet ached from scrambling over the knobbed and twisted remains of old growth. Just as he was thinking he could stand the pace no longer, they arrived at a clearing between the twigs spanned by a wooden platform. Over it towered a scaffold surmounted by a decaying, skeletal wheel. Tymon recognised one of the ancient Nurian wind-wells marooned incongruously in the depths of the canopy. A long snake-like irrigation canal left the far end of the platform and disappeared into the thickets on the other side.
‘We’ll spend the night here,’ said Samiha. It was the first time she had opened her mouth since they left the city. She lowered herself onto the boards with a sigh.
He joined her, pensive. ‘Samiha.’
‘Yes.’
‘Oren and his sister…I feel terrible.’
She shook her head. ‘Don’t. Don’t take my words there on the bridge too much to heart. I was upset. None of this is your fault.’
‘If it wasn’t for me, would they have found another way of getting you across?’
‘Maybe not. It was a risky business in any case. Tymon, I have to confess something to you.’ She turned to face him, her expression anguished. ‘The reason I’ve been so hard on you is that I’ve done something terrible myself. I went to Argos—I found you—without the Focals’ blessing.’
He gazed at her, uncomprehending.
‘They were against the idea,’ she explained, miserably. ‘They said it would lead to the wrong sequence of events, that the right things would happen, but too quickly, and we’d pay a price. I was impatient. I said I was ready to pay the price. I thought it would be me—I had no idea it would be Juno, and them—and now maybe Oren and Noni…’
Her voice trailed off and she hunched over her knees, a ball of dejection. He moved to sit next to her, taking advantage of the moment to place an arm about her shoulders.
‘You can’t blame yourself for what the soldiers did,’ he said. ‘They committed murder, not you.’ He gave her a gentle shake. ‘Listen: you can’t go on thinking this way. It’ll cut the bark out from under your feet.’
She said nothing, but did not disengage h
erself.
‘When I was a little boy,’ he continued, happy simply to be close to her, ‘Masha, my adoptive mother, would tell me a story. I haven’t thought of it in ages. She’d say, “My sprout, don’t be telling the wind which way to blow. The wind will blow the way it does and if you go telling it what to do the whole time, you’ll always be thinking it did something else to spite you, or to punish you because you did wrong. But that’s not the way the world works. The wind blows and the leaves grow, and you can fuss and fret about it till you’re brown and curling at the edges: it makes no difference. Sometimes the wind blows for you, sometimes against you.”’
He cleared his throat, surprised that he had gone on talking for so long. She looked up at him in wonderment.
‘Tymon, that’s a marvellous story!’ she exclaimed. She extracted herself from under his arm, much to his disappointment, and squeezed his hand in her own.
‘Your Masha must have been a wise woman,’ she declared. ‘And you are definitely her son in every way that counts. Those are the true words of a Grafter. Beni! What’s done is done. I just have to be better at sniffing out the wind.’
She laughed. It was the first genuine spark of mirth he had seen in her since the death of the Focals, and he could not bear to ruin her mood by contradicting her on the subject of the Grafting. He resolved to speak to her about it the next day. They sat comfortably together for a few more minutes, contemplating the decrepit remains of the wind-well. Then he remembered Caro.
‘There’s something I must tell you,’ he said. ‘Caro’s been dealing with Father Verlain. I heard the two of them arranging for a delivery at your address in Kion Street. I think the seminary gave him blast-poison in return for information.’
A flicker of anger moved across Samiha’s face. ‘I know.’
He glanced at her in surprise. ‘How? How could you possibly know that?’
‘Wise Ash told me. The Focals Saw it.’
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