Tymon's Flight

by Mary Victoria

  The mention of Laska’s name distracted Tymon. He glanced restively about the knot. ‘What was all that fuss about, earlier?’ he asked the scientist, dropping his voice. ‘That discussion between the Nurians, I mean?’

  ‘What discussion?’ replied Galliano unconcernedly, patting the machine’s vibrating hull. ‘I’ve been here, working. No time for discussions. We have to get back to the Freehold. We have a production schedule to keep.’

  Notwithstanding Galliano’s schedule, it was past noon when the grey-haired captain and the shanti finally reappeared on the dry canal path. The others hurried to the foot of the knot to meet them. The Freeholders seemed uneasy, Tymon noticed, less ready to laugh than they had been the night before, and certainly less welcoming towards him. No one smiled as he joined the gathering. He wondered what had occurred to change their minds. Laska made an announcement to the group in Nurian, holding up his hands as if appealing for calm; his words caused a ripple of surprise. Some of the Marak refugees shook their heads in disbelief. But the captain’s tone was uncompromising, and after a moment of shuffling hesitation the men dispersed. Most cast black looks at Tymon. The boy had no time to reflect on this development, however, for Laska now turned to him.

  ‘Well, Argosi, it seems we have much to thank you for,’ he said calmly. There was nothing in his voice to explain the tension with the men. His Argosian was impeccable, formal. ‘The shanti has told me of your courage the night of the fire and your part in helping her escape. The death of the Focals was a terrible blow. It would have been a crippling one if she had gone with them.’

  Samiha had occupied herself with packing up the camp. She seemed to be deliberately avoiding Tymon and would not catch his eye as he spoke to Laska. He shrugged, a little annoyed at being kept in the dark by her of all people.

  ‘I did nothing special,’ he said. Then he remembered the reality of the escape. ‘Though I’m afraid it may have cost two of your people’s lives to get me out of the city, sir,’ he added. ‘I regret that.’

  ‘That was their choice and their honour,’ replied Laska. ‘And we haven’t yet heard the last word on Oren and Noni. They may still be alive.’

  ‘What’s all this, boy?’ piped Galliano from nearby. ‘There are details of your stay in Marak you haven’t acquainted me with yet, I see.’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ muttered Tymon.

  He found himself shrinking from describing the exact circumstances that had led to his flight from the mission. The memory of Verlain’s pawing duplicity was too fresh. Besides, a full account of the experiences in Marak would include a plausible motive for following the shanti. He was as yet too self-conscious to voice his feelings on the subject, even to his old friend.

  Samiha left her bags to join them, but it was only to hook an arm through Galliano’s and steer him away.

  ‘I would be grateful if you would come with me, Apu,’ she said. ‘I want to consult you on a matter of some importance.’

  ‘I’d be flattered,’ grinned the old man. ‘Lead me to the edge of the world and I’d probably walk off it for you.’

  They moved out of earshot. Laska appraised Tymon from head to toe with a slight, inscrutable smile.

  ‘The shanti tells me you wish to throw your lot in with us,’ he said. ‘Forgive me if I ask: why? Why would you want to give up your privileges as an Argosian and join a group of beleaguered heretics?’

  Tymon’s embarrassment mounted, confronted by that awkward question sooner than he would have liked.

  ‘This is where my friends are, I guess,’ he answered lamely. ‘I’d rather throw my lot in with Galliano and Samiha than the priests, any day.’

  ‘Ah, but you did not know the old scientist was with us when you decided to accompany the shanti.’

  ‘That’s true,’ sighed Tymon. ‘Well, I suppose that once I got to know Samiha, I was very impressed—I mean, I think she’s right about a lot of things. She’s right about the need for Nurian independence, and I wanted to help—’

  ‘We aren’t a rebel organisation, of course,’ interrupted Laska. ‘We’re a Freehold. We have our independence already, in theory.’

  Tymon realised that he had no adequate explanations for the older man. He nodded mutely, hot with discomfort.

  ‘I don’t wish to hurt your feelings,’ continued Laska. ‘But you must realise how strange this all sounds to us. Why would you give up everything to accompany Samiha? You see our problem.’

  ‘Is that why the men were angry, earlier?’ said Tymon suddenly. ‘Do they believe I’m lying about why I came here, or something? I’m not a spy for the seminary, if that’s what they’re saying.’

  Laska gazed at him, his expression thoughtful. ‘You must understand they have no guarantee but the shanti’s word,’ he replied. ‘That goes a long way, but in these days of suspicion, we do need more, unfortunately. The Freehold judges will want these sorts of questions answered once you arrive in the village.’

  The boy felt a glimmer of hope: he would be given a chance to explain himself properly on the Freehold, then. He had begun to wonder over the course of the conversation whether the captain intended to let him travel with them at all. If Samiha had mentioned her convictions regarding his unusual abilities, or her obsession with the Grafting prophecies, Laska did not say so. He appeared to be treating him just like any other potential recruit.

  ‘There is another thing,’ he cautioned. ‘All Freeholders are heretics and troublemakers, according to the Argosian authorities. If you come with us, you’ll also be considered a heretic and a troublemaker. You could find yourself thrown in prison if you return home. Be certain that you wish to take that chance.’

  ‘I’ve already taken it,’ answered Tymon. ‘I deserted my mission service: I’m no longer welcome in Argos. But I don’t mind that.’ He did not want Laska, too, to think of him as nothing more than a runaway, a homeless beggar. It was bad enough to have given that impression to Samiha. ‘I like travelling,’ he declared. ‘I’ve always wanted to see the Tree.’

  ‘That in itself is unusual, for an Argosi,’ noted the Nurian, with dry humour. ‘But don’t you want to go home eventually? Would the priests not forgive you?’

  Tymon remembered the Dean’s smooth severity, the Envoy’s chilly calm. ‘I doubt it,’ he replied truthfully. ‘Argos city isn’t my home any more.’

  As he said it he realised, with a pang, that it never really had been.

  ‘Well, then. We should make sure you choose a new one properly. What do you know about us Freeholders, lad?’

  ‘Not much that’s reliable,’ admitted Tymon, glad to turn the focus away from himself. ‘Verl—the priest in charge at the mission seemed to think you were all murderers and thieves. I didn’t pay much attention to what he said, obviously.’

  ‘Then hear the facts. We do want freedom for all Nur, but we will not use violence to achieve it. Neither will we use underhand means to accomplish our goal. Unfortunately, the rank and file of Nurians do not always agree with our methods, more’s the pity. What happened in Marak recently is a case in point. The Focals were clearly opposed to violence, but that didn’t stop someone who said he believed in them from using blast-poison on the Governor’s mansion.’

  Tymon relaxed. The captain seemed like a straightforward, bluff character. He had obviously respected the Focals, but he was a soldier and a man of action, and did not live his life by dreams and prophecies. The boy admired that trait. He wanted to be entirely honest with Laska.

  ‘I should be up front about the Grafting,’ he put in. ‘I don’t know whether I believe in it myself. I realise the Focals were wise people. Samiha set a lot of store by their advice. But I can’t accept they actually saw the future until I have proof. Is that going to be a problem?’

  Laska gave a bark of laughter. ‘Not for me,’ he said. ‘The proof has to be personal, you’re right.’

  He inclined his head politely to Tymon, signifying that their interview was at a close. ‘You will be que
stioned further on these subjects by the judges, so expect to do some explaining,’ he warned. ‘But for now you may stay with us, Argosi. All going well, you’ll be sworn in as an honorary member of the Freehold tonight. I’ve sent word of our arrival by bird.’

  He was about to move away when Tymon reached out on impulse to touch his sleeve. ‘Please, sir…I have a question of my own, if you’re willing.’

  Laska glanced at him enquiringly.

  ‘One of the Focals in Marak. Ash, a man with a scar on his cheek…’ He indicated the right side of his face. ‘Did he ever travel to Argos city?’

  ‘Not that I know of,’ answered Laska, slowly.

  ‘It’s just that I think I might have seen him,’ Tymon rushed on, half regretting his indiscretion. ‘Or perhaps it was someone like him…’

  Laska’s smile faded. ‘You saw Ash? In Argos?’

  His regard was so intense, his face so hard, that the boy backed down in surprise and panic.

  ‘No, I realise that would be impossible,’ he gabbled. ‘I must be wrong. Sorry to have bothered you with it, sir.’

  ‘As long as you’re certain,’ remarked the captain, after a moment of looking searchingly at Tymon. ‘I apologise, but I cannot help you more right now. There is much to do to prepare for our journey to the Freehold.’

  He bowed abruptly and strode away. Tymon released a pent-up breath, relieved that the exchange was over. His mention of the Focal had evidently displeased Laska: he regretted bringing up the subject. It was ridiculous to think that he had seen Ash in Argos city. He had almost begun to doubt the fact himself. He watched glumly as the captain ordered the other men to unload the air-chariot’s stock of food and water and divide it up between them; he did not dare approach the group himself or offer to help, for the Nurians glared at him over the boxes and bundles as if he were diseased. At least he had an ally in Samiha, he thought. Whatever their quarrel with him, the men would listen to her. He decided to count his blessings and trust that time would take care of any misunderstandings.

  By early afternoon, the company on the knot was ready to part ways. Tymon was to accompany Galliano, Laska and Samiha in the air-chariot, while the rest of the men awaited a second transport that was to meet them at the wind-well by prior arrangement. There was now no avoiding the fact that Tymon’s inclusion in the party posed a problem, especially for the refugees. The men from Marak fixed him with hostile stares, whispering angrily among themselves as he helped Galliano through the hatchway of the machine. Even the two Freehold guards seemed none too happy to send him off alone with their captain. Both Laska and Samiha had spoken on separate occasions to the Nurians before boarding the craft in an attempt to quell the rising unrest. But the affair, whatever it was, was far from closed. Tymon tried to cheer himself up by concentrating on the journey ahead. He was eager to experience Galliano’s boisterous new creation.

  The scientist appeared oblivious to the tension on the knot. ‘We’ve done it, boy,’ he proclaimed, as he manoeuvred himself into the air-chariot’s cabin. ‘We’ve finally found a name for her.’

  ‘A name for who, Apu?’

  ‘For my machine, of course. It was the shanti’s suggestion, actually. We’ve called her the Lyla, after Juno and Lyla. You know, the story of impossible love. It seemed appropriate.’

  ‘Very appropriate. Though I’m not sure what I think of your taste in women, Apu. Can a man marry a machine?’

  ‘I see your wit has not improved since we were last together,’ the old man complained.

  The Lyla’s propellers gyrated noisily on the roof of the machine, building up speed. Galliano felt his way along the curved walls to the front of the cockpit where Laska worked the steering rods. Samiha leaned out of one of the windows, shouting her farewells to the men on the knot. Tymon watched as the bright strands of hair on the nape of her neck tugged to and fro in the breeze. She appeared to be reassuring or encouraging her listeners one last time. He heard the word ‘Argosi’ repeated. As she drew her head back through the window, she allowed herself to catch his eye at last.

  ‘Times are difficult,’ she observed ruefully. ‘You’ll have to get used to everyone being suspicious of you for a while, Tymon.’

  Here was his opportunity to ask her frankly what was going on. But an obscure sense of pride stopped him. He wanted to appear unconcerned, fearless, on top of the situation. He wanted to impress her.

  ‘They’re wondering why I get to ride with the captain and the shanti while they have to wait for a mean old dirigible,’ he quipped. ‘I can’t blame them.’

  To his joy, she sat down beside him on one of the air-chariot’s narrow benches. His jest fell flat, however; she did not seem to hear him, and gazed at the floor of the cockpit. The silence between them was filled with the pounding of the propellers.

  ‘What happens when they swear me in on the Freehold?’ he asked, after a pause.

  She glanced at him uneasily then, as if that very question had been troubling her.

  ‘There will be a public hearing,’ she replied. ‘You’ll be interviewed by the judges. It’s very important that you answer them truthfully, Tymon. I’m sure…I’m sure whatever doubts they have will be laid to rest, if you do. After that you’ll be asked to pledge your allegiance to the Freehold. The King of Nur will be there in person to receive your oath.’

  ‘The King?’ Tymon sat up, almost knocking his head on the low ceiling of the cabin. ‘He’s on the Freehold? The real one, I mean, not the prophecy?’

  ‘Yes, yes, the current king, just your average monarch in hiding.’ She smiled. ‘The King’s identity has to be kept a secret, you understand. When the time comes, you’ll know who it is.’

  ‘Do you think,’ Tymon leaned eagerly towards Samiha, taken up by the engaging possibility, ‘do you think that if I swear allegiance to him, in public—if I promise to defend Nur, and all that—then people here would accept me better?’

  ‘And all that?’ The wicked gleam returned to her eyes. ‘Yes. It’s possible. Though I warn you, Nurians are very independent. They have their own ideas, king or no king. But yes, it might help.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do anything to hurt the folks back home,’ mused the boy. ‘But I do think the Council should get its claws out of Nur. And the Rites—that’s got to stop. I’d be happy to fight for those ideas.’

  He was happy to fight for her too, but he did not know how to say it.

  ‘No fighting required for now,’ Samiha laughed. ‘Though I’m having difficulty convincing anyone of that.’

  The propellers thudded with increasing ferocity as the Lyla climbed slowly into the sky. Tymon articulated his next question through the deafening noise.

  ‘There’s something I still don’t understand, shanti. Don’t be angry if I say this, but if the Focals really could see the future, why didn’t they predict what happened to them? If I was a Grafter—and mind, I haven’t said I am, and I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that—then I’d certainly want to know how I was going to die!’

  She seemed taken aback by the comment. He wondered if he had offended her again.

  ‘They did predict it,’ she shouted over the din of the propellers. ‘Though I didn’t find out until the end, of course. All was as it should be, however difficult it was for me to accept.’

  ‘What, you mean they allowed themselves to be killed?’ he cried, astounded. ‘They didn’t even try to save themselves?’

  ‘A Grafter doesn’t run around changing events to suit him, Tymon. All that business about cultivating the future, as if it were a fruit vine—that’s a misinterpretation. The Grafters align themselves with the flow of the Sap, not the other way around. Sometimes it leads to great personal hardship. The Focals’ deaths were part of a certain branch of prophecy. The right one, the one that gives joy and life and happiness to the greatest number of people. They died so that we could live.’

  Tymon gave a skeptical shrug. Samiha’s heresy seemed to repeat the same old tired themes of ma
rtyrdom and sacrifice he had heard spouted so many times at the seminary. It was hardly a creed for powerful heroes.

  ‘That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard,’ he grumbled unthinkingly. He was still smarting from the hostility of the Nurians at the camp, and his discomfort expressed itself as sarcasm. ‘Why bother seeing the future if you can’t change it?’

  ‘It may sound foolish to you, but please try and respect our beliefs, at least while you’re with us,’ she said. Her smile had become strained. ‘I promised that much to those men back there.’

  He immediately regretted having made fun of her. ‘Don’t pay attention to the ignorant foreigner,’ he joked, in an effort to lighten her mood. ‘I promise to behave better on the Freehold and say all the right things.’

  ‘Say the right things to the Freehold judges. That’s what counts.’

  ‘Do you think they’ll allow me to stay?’ he asked, with somewhat tardy anxiety.

  Her answer was almost lost in the surrounding cacophony. ‘I think that may be the least of our problems,’ she murmured.

  Tymon fell silent, vanquished by the uproar of the machine’s engine. What he wanted to say could not be bawled out over the sound of hacking propellers. He would have liked Samiha to share her troubles with him as an equal, to talk to him as she could obviously talk to Laska. It occurred to him, with a pang of frustration, that the Nurian captain fulfilled the very role he had wanted for himself: that of Samiha’s protector and confidant, hero and helper. He had even usurped Tymon’s cherished dream of flying the air-chariot. The boy tried to guess whether there was something other than friendship between Laska and the shanti, and studied her expression for a clue to her thoughts. After a few minutes she noticed him staring, and raised an eyebrow. He gave an awkward grin and took refuge by the nearest window, thrusting his head through the gap and into the wind.