‘Take an old-timer’s word,’ his friend observed at last. ‘Life is short. It’s a pity to waste it on being miserable!’
Tymon’s reply was muffled, out of earshot of the workmen. ‘Why don’t the Freeholders like me, Apu?’ he mumbled forlornly.
Galliano smiled. ‘Because you’re an Argosian, and Argosians are faithless oppressors, as far as they are concerned.’
‘But Sheb isn’t even a colony. They govern themselves, don’t they?’
‘So it would seem,’ answered the scientist.
‘I can’t help where I was born, can I? It’s not fair.’
‘Like many things.’
‘All I want,’ muttered the boy, ‘is a new start. I want to learn how to live with these people. I’m willing to work hard. But I’m wondering if it’s worth it.’
Galliano did not respond immediately. He lifted his scarred face to the sky and rocked back in his chair, making the basketwork creak dangerously. Then he said, ‘For centuries this Freehold was the site of one of the great Grafting temples. It was a centre of learning. They kept an astronomical calendar here, among other things, and calculated the paths of the stars. There used to be a spur to the east of the promontory—you must have seen the gap in the branches on that side of the arena, during the trial, no? Well, the temple stood there. Quite an extraordinary construction. It had ninety-five columns and ninety-five doors, and was built fifteen hundred years before Saint Loa set foot in Argos city.’
He paused and cleared his throat. ‘The seminary ordered it destroyed twenty years ago. I remember the occasion. The Freehold had a treaty with the Council. It was never supposed to provide tribute. But recruiters came anyway, demanding a quota of pilgrims. The judges refused. The Council didn’t take the matter up themselves: they used the Governor of Marak to do their dirty work. The Governor accused the judges of conspiring with rebels and sent what he called a “warning strike”. I’m sorry to say, the colonial troops didn’t do our people any credit on that raid. Apart from demolishing the temple and hacking down a whole section of the promontory, they tore down every house in the village and left the inhabitants starving and homeless. There were Grafters-in-training at the temple; they were all killed. All their finest minds, Tymon, imagine. Everyone who had any education. It would be like burning down the seminary and killing all the priests.
‘Anyway, to cut a long story short, the soldiers only left when they had forced a group of Freeholders to go with them. Women, mostly. The Tree knows where they took them. Certainly, none of them became pilgrims or arrived in Argos. It was just plain revenge. After that, as you can imagine, Argosians were welcomed here with less than open arms. The Council never acknowledged their part in the affair. It was a shameful episode and one of the reasons why I left the seminary. Ironic that I should end up here myself, don’t you think?’
Tymon eyed Galliano with surprise and renewed respect. The scientist had not mentioned this story when they had last spoken on the subject of the pilgrims. He had assumed that Galliano had lost his post at the seminary because of his experiments. Now he grasped that the old man had actually given up his career over the Nurians. He had made a stand.
‘I didn’t know—’ he began, then stopped, struck by an unpleasant realisation. The hatred of the Freeholders suddenly acquired new meaning. ‘Solis, the one who looks like an Argosian…’
‘His mother was one of the lucky ones,’ said Galliano quietly. ‘The soldiers abandoned her in the wild canopy south of here when she became pregnant. She found her way back—eventually.’
Tymon battled a rush of conflicting emotions. He remembered the pronouncement of the wallscrubbing militiaman in Marak: we won’t let ‘em make our women whores. He imagined Samiha with her independent spirit in the hands of such people. He, too, would have been eager to take revenge on anyone who hurt her. He was simultaneously overcome with the need to see her again, to catch the sweet fragrance of her hair. He thrust the thought away angrily.
‘They have to know I’m not like that,’ he exclaimed.
‘They don’t know. But they have faith in the Kion, and she vouches for you. So does Laska.’
‘Teach me to fly the air-chariot, Apu!’ demanded the boy, hotly. ‘I’ll go on their most dangerous missions, the ones no one else wants to do. I’ll win their respect. I’ll prove I’m not like those brutes in Marak.’
‘We’ll see about that, young daredevil,’ said Galliano. He leaned forward in the chair, and an eager note crept into his voice. ‘Be patient. In a few months’ time, I guarantee you’ll be flying a new machine on one of the most exciting missions possible.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘When we’ve built a squadron of air-chariots, one will be allowed to depart on a journey to the World Below. I made the request already: you are to pilot it.’
Tymon drew a swift breath. ‘The World Below?’
‘Yes, my friend! The Freeholders accept my theories. Apparently there are Grafting prophecies about a second world and a second heaven under the Storm. Anyway, the judges have decided it’s time to investigate.’
Tymon could not suppress a smile. After all this time, his friend’s zeal was still infectious. It lifted his gloom.
‘I’m glad your dreams are alive and well, Apu. And that other people are just as crazy as you are,’ he said gently.
‘This is no dream! Some of the Nurians have seen it.’
‘Seen what?’
‘The World Below, numbskull. There’s a place in the Southern Fringes where you can catch glimpses of it—they call it the Well of Worlds. I imagine they mean a hole in the Storm. I wish I could witness it for myself. Maybe one day you will go there for me.’
Tymon gaped at the old scientist. He had always thought the Storm clouds went on forever, endless, pointless, part of the infinite Void about the Tree. His impatience with Galliano’s ideas had stemmed from the fact that he believed nothing at all lay under the Storm, whether mystical or material. Now, for the first time, doubt assailed him on that score. It seemed that everything he had been eager to write off as myth and delusion had at least some basis in reality.
‘What do they see down there?’ he asked humbly.
‘They say there’s another canopy. Or maybe several, it’s hard to tell. The accounts are confused. Whatever it is, it’s huge.’
‘No demons?’
‘No demons,’ replied the old man. ‘And no brooms.’
Tymon contemplated the ribs of the mechanical creature before him, tugging at the scanty crop of hairs on his chin. Volunteering for a trip to the World Below was certainly a worthy way of proving his capabilities to Samiha, and compensating for the behaviour of his fellow Argosians at the same time. He returned to his work with renewed energy, and spent the rest of the morning splitting bark for the air-chariot’s hull. At noon he went so far as to offer to fetch lunch for his workmates. He returned to the dreaded dining hall with his chin held high, the lightness back in his step. A tangible goal made the villagers’ hostility far easier to bear.
On his way back to the workshop, a packet of warm bean patties in his hands, he noticed people congregating on the path ahead of him. He had been skirting the rim of the arena, threading a circle about the promontory’s central hub from north to south; the Freeholders were turning off the central axis and hurrying along the crest of the western spur towards the spot where Tymon had first disembarked from the air-chariot. The villagers called out to each other excitedly as they ran. No one paid any attention to him. He could not resist his curiosity, and followed cautiously behind, craning his neck to discover what was causing the stir. He was within sight of the Lyla, insect-like on the exposed tip of the branch, when he heard a shout resonate from the net of vines above him. He recalled with a stab of anxiety that he had entered the domain of Solis and his band. Figures dropped from the vines. But they had their backs to him, their gaze fixed on the foggy western horizon. The day was hot and overcast in a return of the mora weather th
at had so weighed on Tymon’s spirits in Marak. He squinted at the hazy sky, shading his eyes. At last he spotted a black speck over the lower canopy. A dirigible was approaching.
For a terrible instant he thought it was the Envoy’s ship. He saw the sleek line of the hull, the green banners of the Council flowing at the mast. Fear gripped him, an icy, reasonless panic. Had his old masters come all the way here to claim him? Then, belatedly, he understood that the fog had played a trick on his eyes. The craft was far too small and dilapidated to be an Argosian vessel, or for that matter any other attack force. The banners were simply dark ropes that swung on the crossbeams. The cries of the people on the spur as they caught sight of the arriving ship were joyful, and he remembered that the refugees they had left behind at the wind-well were to return to the Freehold on another vessel. This was the transport from Marak. As the old merchant ship tacked round and descended towards the waiting crowd, Tymon suddenly became conscious of his vulnerable position, alone and without friends on the spur. He had no wish to be caught between the youth of Sheb and the Marak refugees. He beat a hasty retreat to the workshop with his rapidly cooling lunch.
The false glimpse of the Envoy’s ship proved hard to dislodge, however, and hung like a shadow on his mind all afternoon. He was still mulling over his mistake that evening, sweeping chips off the floor of the hangar, when he heard a commotion outside the hollow knot. Strident voices echoed on the branch-path leading to the workshop. One by one, the men ceased their hammering and drew together in tight, whispering groups. No amount of scolding from Jamil or Galliano could persuade them to carry on with their tasks. At last the angry voices resonated directly outside the hollow. Footsteps thudded along the narrow tunnel connecting the surface of the branch with the hangar, and the doors were thrown wide. Caro burst in, followed by a gaggle of villagers. He pointed straight to Tymon.
‘You! Argosi traitor!’ he cried. ‘You will pay for your crimes! I will not sit by while my people are taken in by a spy and a scoundrel!’
Tymon laid down his hardwood axe in order to respond, then regretted doing so. Caro strode towards him as if he intended to pulverise him on the spot. Only the intervention of Jamil prevented a scuffle. The workshop supervisor stepped in front of the boy and spoke quietly to Caro in his own language. Even the militant was no match for the huge man. He drew back, glaring at Tymon. The other villagers talked among themselves excitedly. Tymon recognised Solis and several of the Freehold guards.
‘What in green grace is going on?’ Galliano protested, unheeded, through the babble of voices. ‘Be careful where you step, there’s delicate work going on here!’
‘I cannot bear it!’ Caro broke out. ‘He must be made to pay! He’s guilty—how could they not see it—’
‘Guilty of what?’ shouted Tymon defiantly. It felt unbearably unjust to be faced with yet more accusations, even after the trial. ‘All I’m guilty of is being who I am, Caro.’
‘Don’t speak to me, putar!’ Caro screamed. ‘Don’t dirty my ears with your lies—’ He tried to move around Jamil but the giant placed two gentle, immovable hands on his shoulders, stopping him in his tracks. Several of the villagers reasoned with the militant in undertones. One was the judge named Davil, Tymon noticed with alarm.
‘So be it,’ pronounced Caro, after listening to the whispered counsel. He shook himself free of Jamil and smiled disdainfully. ‘So be it, Argosi,’ he said to Tymon. ‘I will treat you with the respect you do not deserve. Come to the askar—to the old temple—tomorrow morning. Be prepared to defend yourself. You will be given no quarter.’
Tymon stared in dismay as the yellow-haired Nurian marched out of the workshop, followed by his hangers-on. He had no doubt that he had been handed a personal challenge. Caro meant to confront him, perhaps even to fight a duel with him in front of the entire village. He guessed, after what Galliano had told him, that the ‘old temple’ was the central arena and wondered what he had done to provoke the militant’s hatred to new heights. He seemed to hear the voice from his dream once more. You think you have found a home, it jeered. But no one will accept you.
‘I can’t believe that man is still angry at me,’ he sighed.
‘Caro is angry with everyone,’ observed Jamil, at his side. ‘He lives on anger, Argosi. It consumes him.’
‘Well,’ commented Galliano in disgust, creaking up from his basket-chair, ‘I for one have had quite enough anger for today. Everyone go home and calm down.’
He shuffled out of the workshop on Tymon’s arm. They avoided the dining hall and made directly for their quarters, unwilling to face Caro or his supporters again. As they climbed the ramp towards Galliano’s hut, they saw Laska and Samiha hurrying down the north branch below them. The shanti waved eagerly to Tymon, calling his name. His heart pitched in his chest. He turned and waited for the others to join them.
‘Syor Galliano, my sincerest apologies for what just occurred,’ cried Samiha as they drew level with each other on the ramp. ‘We could not stop Caro or reason with him. This is a very unfortunate affair.’ She turned to Tymon. ‘We need to have a little talk, Argosi.’
She murmured a few words to Laska in Nurian. The captain took hold of Galliano’s arm.
‘Come, friend,’ he offered. ‘I will help you to your quarters.’
‘Very well,’ grumbled the old man. ‘But I won’t have any more raving lunatics interrupting my work and holding up my schedule. I’ve several things to say to that Caro of yours tomorrow morning.’
They walked off, leaving the two young people alone. The evening twilight had faded and the lights of the village shimmered like glowworms through the twig-thickets. Tymon waited in uncomfortable silence. The episode with Caro had shaken him and now that he was alone with Samiha, his embarrassment about protocol returned in full force. He did not know how to have a ‘little talk’ with the Queen of Nur. He could no longer think of her simply as his friend, the shanti from the Marak temple. He eyed her as she leaned on the balustrade at the side of the ramp, gazing over the twig-thickets.
‘I regret that I’ve had no time to be with you during the past few days,’ she remarked. ‘I wanted to visit you at the workshop, to see how you were settling in, but there have been a hundred things to attend to. And it seems that whenever I do see you, I must be telling you things you probably don’t want to hear. Though I do have some good news for you tonight, as well as bad. Which do you want first?’
He came to stand at the balustrade beside her. ‘The bad, I suppose,’ he answered. ‘Give me something to look forward to. Besides talking to you, I mean.’
It had not been meant as a joke, but the piece of flattery elicited a dry chuckle from her. He revived a little.
‘Beni,’ she said. ‘The bad news, as you have no doubt gathered, is that Caro arrived this afternoon on the refugee ship. He is determined to re-open your trial. He was, shall we say, unimpressed by the judges’ ruling. He’s anxious to prove you responsible for the deaths of the Focals.’
‘Then it’s the same old story.’ Tymon snorted in disbelief. ‘It’s rich, coming from him. I don’t understand why the judges let him come back to the Freehold.’
‘It’s not a question of “letting”,’ replied Samiha. ‘The judges might disapprove of Caro’s actions in Marak—actually, some of them don’t—but he still has a right of asylum here. And the average Freeholder thinks he’s a hero.’
‘But the Focals! He sold them out for blast-poison!’
‘That’s not his version of events, as you’ll see. I agree with you whole-heartedly: I think it’s unconscionable to allow Caro to get away with what he did. Unfortunately, mine is not the only opinion in play. Don’t worry, the judges’ decision will not be overturned by one man’s hatred. But there is something else, unfortunately.’ She almost growled in exasperation. ‘An old Nurian law. When a private citizen is unhappy with the judges’ ruling, he can challenge the other party to a “trial by branch”. It’s like a duel. No one ordinarily use
s the law. It’s ancient. But Caro has done it: he’s asking the judges for a trial by branch on your account, tomorrow.’
‘Excellent!’ Tymon declared. ‘I’ll prove I’m innocent any way he likes! So much the better if it’s a duel—’
‘You mistake me!’ she interrupted in alarm. ‘You’re not bound by the law as a foreigner. You aren’t obliged to take up the challenge. You just have to make a public refusal tomorrow morning in the arena. Everyone will understand.’
‘They’ll understand I’m a coward,’ objected Tymon. ‘That’s the last thing I need right now!’
‘The last thing you need, or I need, is for you to be killed in some idiotic duel,’ she snapped, with a burst of impatience. ‘Don’t you see? You have a destiny. I didn’t go through what I did—I didn’t lose Juno and the Focals—just to see you throw it all away on a personal feud—before there’s a chance, a chance—’
She broke off, and took a deep breath before continuing. ‘You know you’re a Grafter now, don’t you, Tymon?’ she said carefully. ‘You told Laska you did, anyway.’
Her eyes glinted in the far-off light of the house lanterns.
‘I know I am,’ he ground out.
‘Well, that means you have responsibilities. You’re important to us. Too important to waste on a duel. You’re one of the five Signs of the Sap that set off the Year of Fire, whatever you may think about that. These events go beyond us. They’re bigger than us. The part we each have to play may be small, but it’s crucial.’
‘What are the other Signs?’ he asked, resigned to her certainties.
She shrugged. ‘You went to Treeology class. The Tree shall die. That’s no riddle. And a third of the things upon her shall die. Since the withering of the leaf-forests, and especially since the Tree-water dried up in the Eastern Canopy, we’ve lost most of our wildlife. I don’t know whether that makes a third of what lives above, but it’s close enough. I can’t speak for what lives below.’
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