‘When?’
She hesitated a long moment before answering.
‘I was uneasy yesterday,’ she replied, at last. ‘You never came back when you said you would. I went out to see if I could gather some news, but all I could discover was that the priest had left the mission with the Special Envoy to return to the seminary’s dirigible. I wasn’t home when the Focals were attacked. I returned after curfew using the roof access, and found them…It couldn’t have been too long after the soldiers came, because—because Ash was still alive, badly wounded. He told me the full story of Caro’s treachery before he died. I had suspected Caro was unhappy, though I had no idea he would go so far or show such lack of judgment.’
Her lips were thin, pressed together in fury. ‘He might as well have pulled a knife on the Focals himself,’ she murmured. ‘What makes me despair is that others will support this madness. He’ll be treated like a hero instead of a criminal. He isn’t the only one who thinks the Argosians should be chased out of Nur in fire and blood. There are quite a few disaffected Nurians in Marak city and elsewhere. Their foolishness will make us all suffer in the end.’
She volunteered no more on the subject, and Tymon did not press her. That evening they dined frugally on the provisions from the bundle, taking care not to waste their limited water supply. Samiha seemed glad of his company, though they did not talk much. As soon as their meal was over she wrapped herself in her cloak and bid him goodnight, curling up on the hard planks as easily as on a feather mattress.
Tymon tossed and turned sleeplessly beside her. He was distracted by her presence, the sound of her steady breathing in the warm darkness. All the events of the past few days jostled through his mind, giving him no rest. He was particularly baffled by the man with the scar. How had Ash really known about Caro? Had someone else told him about the militant’s activities? Caro had said he worked alone. And what had the fifth Focal been doing in a prison cart in Argos city, over two months ago? How had he escaped custody? Why, above all, had he said nothing whatsoever about the incident when he met Tymon in Marak? The entire affair left the boy with a sense of aggravation, as if he were the butt of some private joke from the hereafter. He shrank in embarrassment from mentioning yet another inexplicable coincidence to Samiha. But the mystery remained, niggling at him until he promised himself that he would talk to her about that, too, the following day.
When he finally fell into a fitful doze he dreamt that he was looking desperately for something he had lost. There was a pattern to the world that just escaped him, a meaning to everything that happened. He rummaged through branches, sorted out twigs, leaves, stalks. The Tree had become a tiny replica of itself and every limb and stem was a letter in an unknown alphabet. If he could just see the message in the leaves, he would understand everything. But just as the letters were beginning to coalesce, to form some kind of meaning, he awoke from his dream with a jerk. The platform was bathed in pale moonlight. A stealthy noise emanating from the thickets nearby set his nerves tingling, and he leapt to his feet. Someone was approaching along the irrigation troughs.
‘Who goes there?’ he shouted.
The figure on the canal path stopped short and gave an answering challenge in Nurian. The words jostled in Tymon’s ears incomprehensibly. It occurred to him that bounty hunters from Marak had come to claim the price on Samiha’s head. For a wild instant he looked for her where she had been and could not find her. Then he realised that she was standing beside him, her face joyful. She laid a reassuring hand on his arm and called out to the stranger in Nurian. The man replied, an edge of relief in his voice. Other figures emerged from the thickets behind him and crept down the irrigation canal. Samiha turned to Tymon with a flash of her old mischievous smile.
‘You almost had your ribs broken again, Argosi,’ she said, leading him towards the people gathered at the edge of the platform. ‘These are my friends. They arrived earlier than expected! Laska, Sav beni.’ She halted in front of the man who had called out the challenge. ‘Laska, this is Tymon. He says he wants to join us. Tell me if you think we should convert him to our cause.’
There was a smattering of general merriment. The man named Laska was a tall, grey-haired Nurian in his middle age, his bony features washed a ghostly white in the moonlight. He did not laugh with the others but bowed low to Tymon, placing his hand on his heart.
‘Welcome, friend,’ he said. He smiled at the boy. ‘Strange to say, you are not the first Argosi we have converted.’
‘Nonsense!’ called another voice from the background. The group parted and Tymon felt his heart skip a beat. He noticed a little figure standing behind the rest. It was small and bent and crowned by an ugly cap with earflaps.
‘Nonsense!’ repeated the voice. ‘I didn’t convert. I expressed my sympathies for your cause, which is something completely different.’
‘Apu?’ muttered the boy, hardly trusting his senses.
‘Tymon! Is that you? What luck!’ came the answering cackle. Galliano stretched out his hands. ‘You’d better come closer. I’m no good at finding other people any more!’
Tymon leapt forward with a whoop of delight and caught the old man up in his arms, pulling him clean off the platform. ‘Why—where—how come you’re here?’ he exclaimed.
‘Goodness me, you’ve grown tall!’ squeaked his friend. ‘However it was that I came, I did. So here I am. Now put me down.’
Tymon deposited him back on the platform and peered into his face. The scientist seemed even tinier and more bird-like than before. His smile was entirely toothless. Then, with a shock like a slap, he saw the two scars on the old man’s eyelids, still red and puffed with healing, and the gouged, empty eye-sockets.
‘Apu, your poor eyes!’ he cried, aghast. ‘Who did this to you?’
‘Oh, a parting gift from the seminary,’ replied the scientist, his beard bristling in defiance. ‘A special souvenir to take with me on my journeys.’
‘That’s—that’s murderous! They should be hanged for doing this to an old man!’
‘That’s life.’ Galliano patted his shoulder comfortingly. ‘It really doesn’t stop me doing my work, you know.’
‘For which we are grateful,’ interjected Samiha. ‘I did not know of your friendship with syor Galliano here, Tymon, or I would have asked you to build us one of the magic dirigibles I hear he has made, to spirit us out of Marak.’
Tymon smiled wistfully. ‘I wanted to spirit you away already, back in Argos city,’ he said. ‘It seems that we never catch the easy ride.’
‘Not this time,’ noted Galliano mysteriously. ‘Guide me down the canal path, boy. I have something to show you. Bend down a little, I think you’ve doubled in height over the past few months.’
He hobbled forward, leaning on Tymon’s arm; he seemed completely sure of his direction, blind though he was. They filed along the barkwood troughs for about half a mile, winding between the moonlit thickets. The boy bombarded his friend with a torrent of questions, most of which the scientist deflected with a wry comment or deprecatory remark. Tymon gathered that he had first been banished to a small garrison city north of Marak, where he had been found and aided by Laska’s spies. They had brought him to live with them on the Freehold.
‘They are good people, you know, despite everything,’ Galliano announced, without worrying that everyone nearby could hear him. ‘A bit caught up in their beliefs and superstitions but good people, nonetheless. The very best. Without them, I would not be alive today. And I would not be able to work.’
As he spoke they reached the end of the canal. Before them rose a small, irregular knot in a subsidiary branch. Clinging to its crest was a beetle-like, hulking form, black and monstrous in the moonlight.
‘Is that what I think it is?’ whispered Tymon in awe, coming to a halt at the foot of the knot. Joy welled up inside him.
‘That’s right, boy!’ crowed Galliano. ‘It’s my new air-chariot. Two cylinders of fuel and a double set of propellers! Th
is one won’t dip and churn like the first—she soars like a bird!’
PART THREE
LEAVES
All things are in motion.
Like a leaf caught in the wind,
Creation never rests.
Do you think you are safe from change?
The sun can dim, and the stars may one day go out.
—Usala the Green
(Excerpts from the trial of Saint Usala)
19
Smoke drifted up from the carcass of the Governor’s palace in coils, floating across the dawn sky like loops of hazy calligraphy. From the vantage point of the Envoy’s dirigible, hovering over the bare twigs a mile distant from Marak, the heavens seemed to be scrawled with enigmatic warnings. Two figures stood shadowed on the deck of the vessel: the Envoy himself, easily recognisable in his somber black coat and white kerchief, and a portly gentleman dressed in rich robes. Neither man was taking in the glory of the sunrise. They conferred in hushed tones, heads bent close together.
‘You may rest easy, my Lord.’ The Envoy smiled his ashen smile. ‘Everything is going to plan. The insurgent is returning to the Freehold to play the hero and won’t think twice about security. We’ll follow at our leisure and wait for reports. We need only choose the right moment to intercept the shanti.’
His companion’s large nose was a perfect replica of the profile on the city’s worthless paper currency.
‘Your idea of using our enemies against themselves was a good one, Excellency,’ replied the Governor comfortably. ‘Popular feeling is running high since the attack and I can get people to do whatever I like. But I still don’t see why my men couldn’t just comb the canopy for that witch. It seems a pity to let her escape.’
‘Patience, my Lord. The Council advises me it’s better this way. The rebels will let down their guard and lead us straight to the source of all the trouble, their skulking native king. If I know anything, he’ll come out of the woodwork to gloat over their great victory. Besides, you need your soldiers in the city.’
The other man snorted. ‘Maybe so. But I do wish your masters in Argos had sent reinforcements as well as advice. I could dispense with all the fuss and simply take on that gaggle of beggars in a military strike.’
‘With due respect, you tried that twenty years ago,’ Lace replied, smoothly. ‘Weaken the enemy from within. When the time is right, strike hard, once and for all.’
‘Very well.’ The end of the Governor’s nose twitched in disgust. ‘We’ll do it your way. But I want the witch, you hear? She’s been a thorn in my side for years. And if we catch that snivelling, holed-up rat of a king at the same time, I’ll be a happy man. I could do without some cursed Grafting prophecy coming to life.’
‘Believe me, the seminary wants the shanti and her so-called sovereign as much as you do.’ The Envoy’s teeth flashed once more, bone-white in the sunlight. ‘You’d like them out of your hair. We’d like them put on trial for heresy. Our interests coincide.’
The Governor gazed dolefully up at the ruined carcass of his palace and gave a grunt of assent. ‘And all you want in return is a second shipment.’
‘The seminary is short on manpower.’ Father Lace shrugged, as if the matter were negligible. ‘Two tithe-ships per year should cover our losses. We’ll be taking the city’s undesirables off your hands.’
‘And the spice tax?’
‘Lifted. You have the Council’s guarantee. We pledge to back you in your fight against these fanatics. We must remember that we are one people. Whatever our past differences, we are Argosians, the chosen children of the Tree.’ The Envoy’s voice was syrupy.
The Governor nodded his bulbous beak with satisfaction. ‘We understand each other, Excellency. But the people will want a scapegoat to blame for the attack. A middleman, someone of no importance.’ He leered. ‘Justice must be served.’
Lace turned on his heel and stalked towards the captain’s cabin. ‘Give them the drunk priest,’ he threw out nonchalantly.
The Governor’s eyebrows rose as he hurried after the Envoy. ‘And his crime?’
‘Trading blast-poison to rebel gangs to feed his own filthy habits.’
The Governor rubbed his hands together with glee. ‘That will do very well, Excellency,’ he said. ‘That will do very well indeed.’
His complacence faded as a third, slighter figure emerged from the cabin to meet them. A youth in acolyte’s robes bowed to the pair on the deck.
‘If my Lord Governor would care to step inside the cabin, breakfast is served,’ announced the boy deferentially.
Wick’s face had lost its bland, childish innocence in the months following Galliano’s arrest. His expression was hard and proud, despite the show of respect. The Governor gave an involuntary shudder as he passed him in the doorway.
Nine people were gathered that night at the camp on the knot. Four of them, including Galliano and the man named Laska, had arrived from the Nurian Freehold earlier the same evening. Three others were refugees fleeing the Governor’s reprisals in Marak. The Nurians were stoical about their predicament. Though they did not speak to Tymon in Argosian, they shared their cold meal of bean patties with him and seemed welcoming enough. He settled himself to sleep again not far from Galliano and the machine, well content with the turn of events. His hopes of freedom and adventure had been given a new lease of life, tempered this time by a sense of responsibility. He did not forget the scene at the bridge. It was as if he had been accorded a second chance, an opportunity to show that he deserved both Samiha’s trust and Oren’s generosity. He boiled with outrage at what had been done to Galliano; he was determined to accompany the old man in his exile, to be his eyes and to make a new life for them both on the Freehold.
His attitude toward Samiha reflected this fresh surge of optimism. He would prove himself indispensable to her, he decided. He would convince her that she needed him more than she needed her prophecies. He fixed once more on the air-chariot as a means to an end, and imagined himself piloting the machine by Galliano’s side, hurtling across the canopy at the shanti’s command. He would earn her undying admiration by becoming a champion of the Nurian cause. He would even learn about Grafting, he thought in a fit of extravagance, to prove to her that he was open-minded and willing to make an effort to fit into her scheme of things. And if the heretics’ hopes were a fantasy—a delusion born of poverty and suffering, as he suspected—there would be no harm in showing Samiha, gently, where his real talents lay. One thing was certain: he would be a hero. Dramatic visions danced before his eyes under the winking stars. He saw himself roaring to the shanti’s aid in the air-chariot. He would save her, save her people, save the world.
He awoke from these pleasant fantasies late the next morning, to the echo of a shout. He sat up, rumpled and befuddled. He was the last to rise at the camp. Samiha was nowhere to be seen. Several of the Nurians had collected at the foot of the knot, debating urgently with each other in their own language: it was this altercation that had awoken him. The discussion escalated to a babble of argument then subsided. Some of the refugees glanced in Tymon’s direction, their expressions less than friendly. But no one said anything, or approached him. Presently the men set to work packing up the camp as if nothing had happened. It was mystifying to the boy.
He decided that he must have been mistaken in what he had seen, and applied himself hungrily to the remains of a breakfast of dried vine-fruit that had been left out for him, peering about in search of his friends. He glimpsed Galliano’s tiny figure on the crest of the slope by the hulking form of the air-chariot. Laska and Samiha were both conspicuously absent. The older Nurian, though he wore no insignia of rank, was evidently the senior member of the group, a captain or leader of the Freehold. He and Samiha had stayed huddled together over a basket lantern a long while the night before, conversing in whispers. Tymon supposed that the two of them were now continuing their discussion in private. He felt a prick of jealousy. He would have liked to be the one who was g
ranted Samiha’s confidences.
When he had finished eating he hurried to join Galliano beneath the air-chariot’s blunt nose. The old man stood beaming sightlessly at his creation, his head cocked in a listening attitude. Occasionally he reached out a gnarled hand to touch the machine’s pulsating frame. He appeared to know exactly what state the engine was in at any given moment and shouted vilification and encouragement alternately to the men tinkering under the craft. The spark in the furnace grew to a blaze and clouds of smoke and steam billowed over the surrounding thickets. The propellers started up and died down again, sending up a storm of outraged birds from the canopy. Tymon gazed at the beetled form of the machine with a warm emotion akin to family pride. It was gloriously ugly.
‘In the beauty, Apu,’ he said cheerfully.
‘You sleep like the proverbial log, my friend,’ observed the scientist. ‘I trust you are rested and ready for a journey. What do you think of my new creation? She purrs like a Tree-cat. No wheezing in this engine.’
The second air-chariot was significantly larger than the original model, with the capacity to carry five people comfortably as well as to store provisions and extra fuel. The steering cockpit and seats were enclosed and accessible by a hatch, and a row of round window-holes pierced each side of the craft. As with the first craft, the main propeller was mounted over the roof, but the whole construction was better balanced and less prone to instability. An additional steering propeller sat on the tapered tail. The furnace burned twice as efficiently as before; three barrels of fuel were enough, Galliano affirmed, to take them all the way back to Argos city.
‘We could make the journey inside six days,’ he exulted. ‘Not that we would ever want to, of course. But we could.’
‘Where do they get the Tree-sap to make the gall?’ asked Tymon. ‘There was none to be had in Marak at any price!’
‘It’s not just liquid gall that can be used for fuel, boy,’ chuckled his friend. ‘Tree-spice will do as well, and there’s enough of that in the Eastern Canopy to feed a legion of air-chariots. Nurians with their own wings and able to travel the canopy again: you can see why the Council doesn’t like it! We’re setting up a production line. By next year, there will be ten more air-chariots like this one—the year after, maybe fifty. Good riddance to the seminary, eh? Perhaps this way they’ll leave us in peace. That’s what Captain Laska’s hoping for, anyway, and I agrre with him.’
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