The Awakeners: Northshore & Southshore Page 10

  ‘What need?’ he gurgled, barely able to speak. ‘What need has the Protector?’

  ‘The Protector has been misled by evil men,’ she said, fulfilling all his fears and hopes at once. Had he not suspected plots against the Protector? Had he not prayed to forestall them all? ‘They have told him that the fliers are more important than others. They have made his great title a trivial thing.’

  ‘No,’ he croaked. ‘They would not dare.’

  ‘They have,’ she asserted, her face radiant with truth. ‘I tell you they have! What is the Protector of Man if any man is nothing? Have you thought of that, General? If even a single man is nothing, of what value is the Protector of Man?’

  ‘Man?’ he asked, uncertain how she had meant it.

  ‘Northshoremen,’ she whispered, ‘Jondarites. Chancery-men. Noor. Yes. Even the Noor. For if the Noor are made less, then their Protector is made less. A blow at the Noor is a blow at Lees Obol …

  ‘And the workers, too, General. Were they not once men? If they are used and eaten, is not Lees Obol minimized by that?’

  ‘Who does these things?’ he asked, still a little uncertain, his slow, ponderous mind finding its way among the things she had said. Part of it had been clear the moment she said it. If a treasure was of no value, then he who guarded it was of no value, either. He could grasp that, all at once. It needed no explanation. ‘Who?’

  ‘You know who. Who here in the Chancery treats with the fliers, General? Who here in the Chancery maintains the Towers? Who goes ravaging among the Noor?’

  ‘We?’ he asked, uncertain, in growing horror. ‘I?’

  ‘You have said.’ She nodded to him. ‘You have said, General. All of you, here in the Chancery. You have betrayed Lees Obol!’

  He roared then, striking her hands away, glaring at her with red, righteous eyes. How dared she? How dared she? And yet. Yet. The roar died in his throat. She stood there still, glowing, totally unafraid, looking at him with pity.

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ she whispered. ‘You didn’t know. Not until I told you.’

  ‘I know now,’ he growled. It was a question, but it came forth as a statement of fact.’ I know now.’

  ‘Yes.’ She waited for a time while he stood there, immobile, the child on her shoulder, then turned and left him, without another word, walking out through the tent flaps where the soldiers waited. One of these men called, uncertainly, ‘Shall we take her back to her tent, General?’

  He muttered something affirmative unable to form words, standing there in silence, brooding beside his fire, slowly building the edifice his nature demanded, the structure that must properly house the Protector of Man. It could have no window or door to admit error. Monolithic, it must stand forever. Lees Obol could be better served only if man were better served.

  What had she said to him? There were only those few words. He said them over to himself; again and again, seeking more. There must have been more. And yet, had she not said everything?

  Late, past midnight, he sat there, getting up from time to time to add a stick to the fire, sitting down again. Very late in the night he rang the bell that summoned his aides. When they came, he astonished them with the messages he gave them, each signed with his own seal.

  Then only one was left, he said, ‘That woman, the prophetess. She is a warrior for Lees Obol.’

  The man, not knowing what to say or if it was wise to say anything, merely nodded, attempting to look alert.

  ‘She needs armor. A fighter needs armor. Tell my armorer. A helmet for her. Made to her measure. And a set of fishskin body armor, such as we wear. And boots. Have him plume the helmet with flame-bird plumes, like mine, and make her a spear.’

  The man presumed to comment, ‘Can she handle a spear, General?’

  ‘No matter. Someone can carry it at her side. Let it bear a pennant. Tell the armorer. He will know. And bring one of the weehar oxen over the pass for her to ride, one of the young ones.’

  The man went away, shaking his head, puzzled, wondering what the prophetess would think of all this.

  She, when the armorer then came to measure her the next morning, thought it another sign. Neff from his shining cloud approved, and the radiance and the shadow both nodded.

  13

  Tharius Don’s frantic message came to Baris at first dark. Each evening at this time, Threnot went for a walk along the parklands. From time to time on such forays she encountered wanderers who might, perhaps, have been accounted a little furtive if anyone had been inclined to care who a servant talked with during her frequent strolls. The wanderer encountered this night was less furtive and more in a hurry than most. Threnot returned swiftly to the Tower. Only an hour or so later, she might have been seen to leave once more, going down to town on some errand, her veils billowing in the light wind. The flier detailed to watch such comings and goings nodded, half-asleep. When Threnot was later seen to leave the Tower yet again that night, the flier scratched herself uncomfortably, for she had not seen the woman return from her second trip. Three trips in one night was not unheard-of, but it was rare. Perhaps she could mention it to the Talkers. Perhaps not. The ancient tension between Talker and flier had in no sense been changed by recent history.

  Actually, only the first and third veiled women had been Threnot. The second had been Kesseret herself, fleeing to the house of a Riverman pledged to the cause. Threnot joined her there some hours later, and when dawn came, both women were on a boat halfway to the next town west. In the hours between Kessie’s leaving the Tower and Threnot’s leaving it, word had been spread in the Tower that the lady Kesseret was ill of a sudden fever, that she would stay in her rooms until healed of it, keeping Threnot with her to nurse her. Kesseret’s deputy had been told to take charge of Tower affairs and asked not to bother the Superior for five or six days at least.

  ‘I have taken water and food and all things needful to her rooms, Deputy,’ Threnot had said in her usual emotionless voice. ‘The Superior is anxious the Tower should avoid infection.’ ‘Infection’ was a word generally used to mean any of several nasty River fevers that were occasionally epidemic and frequently fatal.

  ‘She asks to be left alone until she is well recovered, which I have no doubt will occur in time.’ Threnot looked appropriately grave, and the deputy – not an adherent of the cause – entertained thoughts of a possible untimely demise and his own ascension to the title.

  Therefore, on the morrow when Jondarites came bearing orders for Kessie’s arrest (emanating from Gendra, but countersigned by the general), the officious deputy told them of the Superior’s illness in such terms as did not minimize the likelihood the sickness might prove fatal. The word ‘infection’ was used several times again, at which the Jondarites had second thoughts and departed. They would return, they said, in a week or so. Nothing in their instruction had indicated sufficient urgency in the matter to risk infecting a company of troops.

  On board the Shifting Wind, the lady Kesseret, Superior of the Tower of Baris, became simply Kessie, marketwoman, one of the hundred thousand anonymous travelers on this section of River and shore. Her hair was not braided in the Awakener fashion; her clothes were ordinary ones long laid by for such a need; when she looked in the mirror, she did not see the lady Kesseret. If Gendra had looked her full in the face, she would not have seen Kesseret, either.

  And Kessie amused herself bitterly, hour on hour, wondering whether Tharius Don would recognize her if he ever saw her again.

  14

  Rumor spread through the palace like a stain of oil on water, at first thick and turgid with unbelief, becoming thinner and brighter with each retelling, until at the end it was a mere rainbow film of jest, an iridescsent shining upon the surface of the day.

  The general, accompanied by a woman. The general’s weehar ox harnessed with another. His banner companied with another banner. Laughter burst forth at the thought, jests abounded, giggling servitors lost their composure when confronted by glum-faced Jondari
tes, themselves privy to the rumor but unable, because of the exigencies of discipline, to show any interest in it.

  ‘True,’ the palace whispered, cellar to high vault, ‘it’s true. The crusade woman has converted Jondrigar. She has put flowers on his head!’

  Tharius Don shook his head, incredulous. Typical, he thought. The more outrageous the rumor, the more quickly it would spread in the Chancery, where excitements were few and urgencies infrequent. Any titillation was worth its weight in metal, and a laugh at the expense of the general was worth ten times even that. Flowers on his head, indeed. Tharius made his way to the high Tower, his powerful spy-glass in hand, wanting to judge the progress of the procession now coming toward Highstone Lees, along Split River from the pass.

  The drummers first, then the spearmen. Then the banner carriers – with two banners. And then …

  Then, Tharius Don’s eyes told him, then the general on a weehar ox with flowers on his head.

  They came marching through the ceremonial gate, drummers, spearmen, banner carriers, then the general and Pamra Don, walking side by side while the weehar oxen were led off to be fed hay and groomed for another such occasion. Tharius Don so far recovered himself as to put on hierarchical garb and come out to meet them. While nothing had prepared him for this unlikely event, he had managed to survive the political climate of the Chancery for a hundred some years by reacting quickly to events no less improbable.

  ‘General.’ He bowed, waiting some explanation and trying not to stare at the chaplet of flowers that both the general and Pamra Don wore around their helms. Pamra Don carried a child. The child stared at him, smiling.

  ‘Tharius Don,’ boomed Jondrigar, ‘Propagator of the Faith. This young person is a strong warrior for the faith, Tharius Don. She is a great soldier for Lees Obol.’ This said, he peered intently at Tharius Don to see how it was received. The general had already determined that his view in the matter was to be the only one permitted.

  From a window above them in the palace, Gendra Mitiar and Shavian Bossit stared down, Gendra’s nails raking her face in agitation. Shavian, as usual, was inscrutably calm. Behind them in the room, Bormas Tyle strained for a glimpse of the ceremonial group assembled in the square, but his line of sight was obscured by the fountain which threw a curtain of spray across the assemblage. He grimaced, his knife sliding ominously in and out of its sheath as he stared at Gendra’s back. No matter. Soon things would be arranged differently. Soon enough no one would get in the way of Bormas Tyle, or be so careless respecting his dignity. Shavian Bossit turned from the window and winked at him, only a twitch in that impassive face, but enough for Bormas Tyle to understand. He took his hand from his knife and went to find another window. Soon it would not matter. Meantime, he, too, would observe the spectacle.

  In the square below, Tharius Don blinked away the spray of the fountain and replied, ‘I know she is a soldier for Lees Obol, General. Pamra Don cares greatly for the Protector of Man.’ He stared at the child. It looked deeply into his eyes, making him uncomfortable.

  The general shifted from foot to foot a little uncertainly. His imagination had carried him no further than this formal declaration, though he now felt that something more was warranted. He had feelings inside himself for which he had no name, feelings of anxiety, perhaps even of fear, as though recent events presaged dangers that would be inevitably derived from them, yet which he could not foresee.

  ‘What is she to do here?’ the general demanded, coming to practical matters.

  ‘She is to be my guest,’ said Tharius Don. ‘She and the child. I have had a suite prepared for her … them. We will talk of her crusade. Perhaps she should meet with Lees Obol.’

  ‘Yes.’ The general nodded, his face clearing like a lowering sky after storm. ‘Oh, yes, she should meet with Lees Obol.’ Thus relieved of responsibility, he stepped back, satisfied, for the moment, though Tharius Don knew his natural and chronic paranoia would overtake him before much time had passed.

  Tharius Don offered his hand, courteously. Pamra Don took it, shining-faced. She turned to bow toward the general. ‘Thank you for my armor, General Jondrigar. We will talk again of this great war we fight together.’

  In the guest suite, high above the courtyard, Pamra Don went immediately to the windows to fling them wide. Neff had not followed her through the corridors, as her mother and Delia had, but he stood at once on the ledge outside the window, smiling through it at her, his radiance lighting the room.

  ‘Would you like to put the baby down and put on something a little more comfortable?’ Tharius Don suggested.

  ‘I didn’t bring any clothes,’ she said simply, not seeming to care.

  He opened the armoire, showing her a rack of soft robes and shoes. ‘These would fit you, Pamra. They belonged to the lady Kesseret, of Baris. She wore them when she was here.’

  ‘The Superior!’ Her eyes flashed and her lips twisted. ‘Liar!’

  Tharius sighed. He had wondered whether Pamra held some such opinion. ‘When did Kesseret ever lie to you, Pamra?’

  ‘The Awakeners lied. About the Holy Sorters. They lied.’

  ‘When did Kesseret ever lie to you?’

  ‘Full of lies and filth about the workers, none of it true. I have come to appeal to Lees Obol, the Protector of Man. It is better if man knows the truth.’

  ‘When,’ Tharius repeated patiently, ‘did Kesseret ever lie to you?’

  The glaze left her eyes and she looked at him uncertainly.

  He said it again. ‘When did Kesseret ever lie to you?’

  ‘ She was Superior.’

  ‘When did she ever lie to you?’

  ‘Not she,’ Pamra admitted, ‘but…’

  ‘Kesseret would never have lied to you,’ he concluded. ‘Ilze lied to you, I have no doubt. But it is unfair of you to blame the lady Kesseret, my dear friend, your cousin.’

  ‘Cousin?’ She had not expected this, this homely word from a long-ago childhood, before the Tower. ‘Cousin’.

  ‘Cousin, yes. Can you remember your grandmother?’

  Pamra’s lips twisted again, but she nodded, yes.

  ‘Her father was my son. And Kesseret is my cousin.’

  She did not make the connection at once. It came only gradually, almost against her will. ‘You are – you are my great-great-grandfather?’

  ‘Say merely “ancestor”, it is easier. Yes. Which is one of the reasons I have brought you here. We are family. Indeed, we are the only remnants of the family. Your half sisters are dead, so I am told. Without children. You and I, Pamra, are all the Dons.’ He did not want to talk with her about her crusade. He did not want to talk with her about the lies told in Towers or the obscene stupidity of the workers. He did not want to defend the status quo or to tell her the truth about the cause, for she might blurt it all out, unwittingly, even angrily, and then where would they be? He wanted to talk to her about the Dons, about Baris, about easy, sentimental things. It was a need in him.

  But Pamra did not help him. She turned to the window where Neff blazed in the air, hearing his voice ringing in her ears. ‘I must see Lees Obol,’ she said, putting aside everything Tharius had said as though it had been wind sound, the chirping of swig-bugs, meaningless. ‘Since you are family, you will help me see him.’

  ‘Of course.’ He sighed. ‘Tomorrow. He is a very old man; he sleeps much of the time. Tomorrow morning, very early.’ If one was to get any sense out of Lees Obol, the very early morning was the only possible time, though in recent months even that was unlikely.

  ‘Not now?’ She was disappointed, but not angry at the delay. She had come almost to welcome delay, so long as it was inevitable. Things had gone at such a pace, such a head-long plunge, that at times she felt she could not encompass all that was happening. Delay gave a space. Inevitable delay could not be questioned, not even by the voices. Sighing, she sat down.

  ‘Would you like to take off your armor?’ Tharius Don asked again. ‘Put on one of the
se robes, Pamra Don, and we will have something to eat together. It is time you and I spoke, don’t you think?’

  Yet still she looked past him to the window, not seeing him, and he gave it up, sending in one of the servants instead, a heavy-bodied woman who would peel Pamra out of the tight fìshskin armor and the high helm at Tharius Don’s command. As she did, coming grim-lipped from the room.

  ‘That’s no dress for a woman. What kind of heretic is this? What’s the matter with that child?’

  ‘Never mind, Matron. Just see that the luncheon I’ve ordered is sent up promptly.’ The thought of food made him slightly ill. He had not eaten for days, perhaps for weeks. His body refused food, even though he was light-headed sometimes from hunger. He told himself it was only the imminence of the strike, the ultimate victory of the cause, but even telling himself this could not make his tongue enjoy the taste or his throat want to swallow. He had always felt his vision was clearer while he was fasting. Perhaps he fasted instinctively now, desiring the resultant clarity. Still, Pamra had to eat. The child had to be fed. Pamra seemed to be mostly skin stretched over slender bones. He did not look into the mirror to see how his description suited himself as well. ‘Send up the luncheon,’ he repeated to the servant’s departing back.

  She was gone with a fluster of skirts and a tight-lipped grunt. To spread more rumor, no doubt, thought Tharius. Rumor, the blood of the Chancery. Which we suck together, more, and yet more.

  They sat together at a small table set by the window. The child drank water. Pamra ate almost nothing, and that little without any indication of enjoyment.