The Awakeners: Northshore & Southshore Page 4

‘Meat. Simply that, in the plural. Meat. I met one of the Fourth Degree Talkers at a convocation once. His name was Slooshasill. “Meat manager.” He was responsible for providing bodies for Fifth and Sixth Degree Talkers.’

  ‘So you don’t think they respect us?’

  Chiles Medman had shaken his head, lit his pipe, and considered Tharius through the smoke. ‘Why should they?’

  ‘They’ve borrowed our craftsmen. They’ve learned writing from us.’ Why shouldn’t they? his hope had insisted. Why shouldn’t they respect us?

  ‘Well, they don’t. If they didn’t need us for food, they would slaughter us all tomorrow. They would not even keep us for slaves, because we remind them of horgha sloos. We remind them of abasement. They had an oral tradition and adequate housing for thousands of years before we came. Why do they need our writing? Or our craftsmen?’

  Tharius had glanced around, assuring himself they were alone, then said softly, ‘And yet you support the cause? Not, seemingly, because you share my dream of sharing this world in dignity?’

  ‘You know I don’t, Tharius. I support the cause because I believe it’s the only chance for humanity. The track we are on is madness. We’re a flame-bird’s nest, waiting for the spark. Our self-delusion grows greater every generation.

  We are moving farther and farther from our own truths.’

  ‘We have twenty-four hundred townships. Every township has about forty thousand people in it. There are almost a hundred million of us and fewer than a hundred thousand of them,’ Tharius had said in a mild voice.

  ‘There are a hundred million blades of grass, and yet the weehar graze upon them all. The fliers could double their numbers in one year, Tharius. They’re keeping their numbers down by breaking their eggs. They only incubate seven or eight a year in any given township, and they could incubate fifty or more. There’s fifty percent mortality among the chicks. When the population grows too large, the Talkers kill the male chicks. If they could breed as they like, there would be a million of them in four or five years. All young. In fifteen years, when those came to breeding age, there would be hundreds of millions, all at once. The young may not be able to breed, but they can fight. They’re carnivores, for gods’ sake.’

  ‘Necrovores, rather.’

  ‘Not the Talkers. And none of the Thraish like eating dead meat.’

  ‘How do you know all this about them? Their numbers? Their habits?’

  ‘We look, Tharius. We listen. We pay kids to climb rocks and spy on their nests. We send spies into Talons and listen to what they say.’

  ‘In contravention of the Covenant?’

  ‘Oh, shit, Tharius. Come off it. Don’t go all pompous on me. Who else is going to do it? Who except the Jarb Mendicants could be trusted to do it?’

  Tharius’s face had reddened. ‘I get sick, sometimes, of your assumptions of omniscience, Medman. You see everything through the smoke, and that’s supposed to be reality. It is not necessarily my reality, which I tend to believe has an equal right to exist!’

  ‘We’ve never said it was the only reality,’ Medman had said, putting away his pipe. ‘We’ve only said we see without delusion. Without preconception. Without prejudice. The Jarb pipe does that for us. For some of us.’

  ‘But only for you madmen.’ It was unkind, and Tharius had repented of it at once.

  ‘Yes.’ Softly. ‘Yes, Tharius Don. Only for us madmen. The smoke only works for those of us who are capable of alternate visions.’ Chiles Medman had left him then, a little angry, only to return, speaking in a vehement whisper.

  ‘Tharius Don, you have not been among the people of Northshore for a hundred years. When I am not here in the Chancery – which I am not, most times – I see them every day. I see those who are told to believe in Potipur and Abricor and Viranel. Potipur the Talker. Abricor the young male Thraish. Viranel the female Thraish. Three gods, Tharius Don, made in the likeness of their creators – the Thraish. Who eat humans. And I see mankind trying to believe in that…

  ‘I see them trying valiantly to believe in the Sorters. Virtually every human knows in his heart it’s a lie. They have seen the workers. You think boys don’t sneak into the pits and look at the dead ones, just on a dare? You think people don’t follow the Awakeners out to the pits sometimes, spying on them? You think people don’t know? Aren’t aware? Even those who believe the most, you think they don’t suspect, down deep, that something is awry, that they are being fed on lies?’

  ‘The Awakeners tell us most people believe,’ Tharius had answered. It was lame, and he’d known it.

  ‘The Awakeners tell you most people believe, and they tell the people the Holy Sorters exist, and they tell their colleagues one thing and their Superiors something else. I only knew one Awakener in all my years who would tell the truth. He’s a man named Haranjus Pandel, from Thou-ne. He’s a cynic, Tharius, and an honest man.

  ‘But as for the rest of Northshore, it’s a tinder pile, as I said. People have no hope for the future. They are ready to immolate themselves if it would hatch that hope. We have more Jarb Houses now than we had a hundred years ago, and we need twice as many. People see the workers shambling around, and something – perhaps the way one of them moves or the tilt of a head – makes them think maybe Mother is under that wrapper, or Daddy, or sister or daughter or son. Or they think of themselves there, not peacefully laid away but staggering around, stinking, hated by everyone. Then madness, Tharius Don. Madness. And only the pipe gives them any hope then.’

  ‘Your hallucinogenic pipe.’ Tharius had smiled a little bitterly.

  ‘The inverse of that,’ Chiles Medman had replied. ‘An inverse hallucinogenic, Tharius Don. A pipe that lets them see the dead for what they are, and the moons for what they are, and the fliers for what they are, so that they need not struggle to believe what their eyes and noses tell them is ridiculous. It is the struggle to believe which maddens, Tharius Don. The wildest of the Jarb House Mendicants come from the most devout homes…’

  Something had happened then to interrupt their conversation, and Tharius had not talked with him since except for the odd word at ceremonial events. Still, and despite Tharius’s own rudeness on that occasion, he counted on Medman’s support. When the time came.

  ‘If the time comes,’ he said to himself bitterly. ‘If the time comes.’ The strike was as prepared at this moment as it would ever be. He was making excuses these days to delay it as he had been for months. He knew it. He didn’t know why. ‘When the time comes,’ he said again, not convincing himself.

  The council members resumed their places, now with tea steaming before them. The niche was silent. Shavian rubbed his forehead, reminding himself. ‘Ah, what were we saying? Yes. Pamra Don to be summoned to the Chancery. Any comment?’

  Chiles Medman rose, was noticed, said, ‘I would support a meeting with Pamra Don here in the Chancery. The fact that this crusade has moved the people with such fervor indicates a level of disaffection among them we should be aware of. For our own sakes, as well as theirs.’ He sat down again, having started them off like hunting birds after a swig-bug, darting here and there.

  ‘Disaffection,’ bellowed Gendra Mitiar. ‘I’ll give them disaffection!’

  ‘Hush,’ Bossit demanded. ‘The governor general of the Jarb Mendicants has not said there is an insurrection. He has said “disaffection,” and I agree we should know of any such. What do you hear of disaffection, Mendicant?’

  ‘Murmurings,’ Chiles replied, as though indifferent. ’The “disappearances” seem more noticed of late. Taken more account of.’

  ‘There have been no more than usual,’ Gendra said stiffly. ‘About two a month from each township. Mostly old people.’

  ‘They used to be mostly old people.’ Chiles nodded. ‘Of late, there have been many young ones. When old people vanish, it is a short wonder. When young ones go, people grieve longer. And talk longer.’

  ‘The Towers have strict orders…’ She fell silent, suddenly suspicious.
Indeed, the Towers had very strict orders concerning those recruited for Talker meat. And yet, if the Talkers offered… if the Talkers offered a sufficient reward directly to the Superior of a Tower, might not that Superior be bought? The idea was shocking, and terrible and inevitable. Her eyes narrowed.

  ‘Do you allege malfeasance?’ she challenged Chiles Medman. ‘If so, where? What Tower?’

  He shook his head, took his pipe from his pocket, and lit it to peer at her through the smoke. What he saw evidently reassured him, for he smiled. ‘I have no knowledge, Dame Marshal of the Towers. Only murmurings. Which is why I suggest bringing Pamra Don to the Chancery. Let us ask her.’

  Gendra subsided, her teeth grinding. Shavian looked from one to the other of them awaiting further comment. Koma Nepor assented, Ezasper Jorn nodded. The general merely pivoted, keeping his eye on his men. ‘No objection to that?’ Shavian asked. ‘Then let it be done.’

  Now, Tharius thought to himself, let us send them off yet again in some other direction. ‘Has any word come from the herdsmen? When last I spoke with you, Jorn, you said it was thought that fliers had made off with young weehar and thrassil. Is it still assumed that fliers have stolen a breeding stock? And did I hear there were herdsmen missing as well?’

  Shavian reddened with chagrin. He could not fault the question, but it reflected upon his own purview. As Maintainer of the Household, the household herds were his responsibility. ‘Yes,’ he grated. ‘There are herdsmen missing as well. Three of them, and among them the best men we had for understanding of the beasts.’

  Tharius mused over this, looked up to catch Chiles’s eye upon him through a haze of smoke. ‘What do you see, Mendicant?’ he asked.

  ‘Herds,’ the Jarbman replied. ‘Stretching over the steppes of the Noor, in their millions.’

  Koma Nepor snorted. ‘From ten beasts? Hardly likely, Governor. The Talkers may guard a small herd. They will not be able to keep the fliers from depredations upon a large one. Eh, Jorn? Am I right?’

  Ezasper Jorn nodded from his cocoon. ‘Likely. They are voracious beasts, the fliers. Not sensible of much, according to the Talkers. I have been told that before the time of Thoulia they were warned to curtail their breeding and yet ignored the warnings until all the beasts were gone. What sensible beast would outbreed its own foodstock?’

  ‘And yet,’ brooded the Mendicant, ‘I see herds.’

  ‘And Noor?’ asked the general, suddenly interested. ‘If there will be herds, where are the Noor?’

  The Mendicant put out his pipe, shaking his head. ‘I see no Noor, General Jondrigar. None move upon the steppes in my vision. But then, who is to say when my vision will come true? In a thousand years, perhaps? Or ten times that.’

  Tharius Don cleared his throat. ‘It would be wise, General, to ask your balloon scouts to keep their eyes open for weehar and thrassil. If they are found upon the steppes, they should be slaughtered, at once. And I suppose a guard has been set upon the herds here behind the Teeth?’

  Shavian gnawed his cheek, asserting to this without answering. Did the man think him a complete fool? Of course a guard had been set. Not only upon the household herds, but upon every herd in the northlands. All were being driven here, close by, where they could be watched.

  ‘Have we anything more?’ he asked, hoping fervently that what had already been discussed was enough.

  ‘Hearing none,’ he said, tapping the gavel perfunctorily once more, ‘we are adjourned.’

  ‘Somebody,’ came a plaintive voice from behind the curtain. ‘Bring me my tea.’ The Jondarite across the room picked up the pot he had placed there and brought it forward. Ceremoniously, he entered upon service to Lees Obol.

  They left the audience hall to go their various ways. Gendra Mitiar took herself off to the archives to harass old Glamdrul Feynt. The master of the files had not been diligent. When the time came, soon, she wanted proof or something that looked like proof, some reason for doing away with Tharius Don. Self-righteous prig! Staring at her as though she were less than nothing! She would show him who was nothing. Him, and his pretty cousin Kesseret, and his descendant, too, that Pamra Don…

  Shavian Bossit went to his own suite and sent a messenger to Koma Nepor. It was time to talk seriously about what could be done to keep Talkers alive, but passive, while the elixir was made from their blood – not in these piddling quantities, but by the gallon! His spies told him Koma had been experimenting with the blight. Perhaps… He grinned in anticipation, a wicked mouse grin, then sat himself down to wait…

  And Tharius Don took himself to the tower above his own quarters in the palace and brooded. He felt caught in a wrinkle in time, a place in which time was both too long and too short. Too short to do all his raging imagination told him he should have done long since; too long to wait, too long a time in which too many obstacles might be thrust up before the cause to inhibit the last great rebellion…

  ‘Rebellion,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Since you were only a child, Tharius Don, you have dreamed of rebellion.’ And yet, what else could he have been but a rebel?

  He could have been nothing else, born into the family Don with its strong tendencies toward both repression and ambition. There had been many old people in the house-hold. His mother’s parents, the Stifes. His father’s parents, the Dons. His own parents. An aunt. Seven of them, all artist caste. And against the seven of them, only Tharius and an adored, biddable younger sister who was happy to do whatever anyone said, at any time.

  And they did say. Continually; contradictorily; adamantly. The Stifes were at knife’s point with the Dons. The Stifes were clawing away at one another. The Dons elder were at the throats of the Dons junior, and the alliances among the seven swung and shifted, day to day. There was only one thing that could be depended upon, and that was that young Tharius would be both the weapon they used on one another and the battleground over which they fought. He was petted, praised, whipped, abused, slapped, ignored, only to be petted once more. He was of their nature, if not of their convictions, and at about age nine or ten – he could not remember the exact year, or even the incident that had provoked it – he had repudiated them all. He remembered that well, himself rigid against the door of the cubby in the attic which was his own, his face contorted as he stared into his own eyes in the mirror across the room, his utter acceptance of his own words as he said, ‘I renounce you all. All of you. From now on, you can fight each other, but you will not use me.’ Or perhaps those words had only come later, after he had had time to think about it. The renunciation, though, that had happened, just as he remembered it.

  And from that time he was gone. An occasional presence. A bland, uninteresting person, hearing nothing, repeating nothing, unusable as a weapon because he did or said nothing anyone could use or repeat to stir up enmity or support.

  Useless as a battleground because he did not seem to care. Not about anything at all.

  As for Tharius, he did not care about them anymore. He had discovered books.

  There had always been books, of course. There always were books, in the shops. Holy books. Accepted books. Bland histories in which there was never any violence or deviation of opinion. Devotional books in which there were never any doubts. Even storybooks, for children, in which obedient boys and girls obeyed their elders, learned their lessons, and became good, obedient citizens of their towns.

  Life wasn’t like that. Looking around him, Tharius saw hatred and violence, pain and dying. He saw workers. Awakeners. Grim, stinking fliers in the bone pits. Men and women vanishing, as though swallowed by evil spirits. None of that was in the books. Not the accepted books.

  But there were other books.

  A few days before Tharius’s repudiation of his kin, the poultry-monger’s shop across the alley was raided by the Tower. A great clatter of Awakeners and priests of Potipur came raging into the place, all blue in the face with their mirrors jagging light into corners. Tharius Don was on the roof above the alley when it happe
ned, hiding from his grandmother Stife. There was noise, doors slamming, some shouting, some screaming, people moving around in the attics opposite him, barely seen through the filthy glass. Then the Awakeners burst through the back door and began throwing books into a pile. They were screaming threats at the poultry-monger and his wife, both of whom were protesting that they had only bought the house a year ago, that they’d never looked into the attic, that they didn’t know the books were there. It was likely enough true. Tharius had never seen lights in the windows opposite his own.

  ‘It’s only that saves your life for you now, poulterer,’ snarled an Awakener. ‘That and the dust on these volumes. Don’t touch them. There’ll be a wagon here in an hour or so to haul them away for burning.’

  They left a blue-faced priest of Potipur at the head of the alley to keep watch, but he got bored with the waiting and fell asleep. Most priests were fat face-stuffers anyhow, half-asleep on their feet a good part of the time. Tharius had stared down at the pile of books, silent as a stalking stilt-lizard, judging how many of them he might take away and how long he had. His own attic room was at the top of a drainpipe, and getting them back would be a difficulty…

  Inspiration struck him all at once. He found a sack, put all his own books in it, hung it over his shoulder, and climbed down the protruding drainpipe, his favorite road to freedom. The exchange was quick – his dull books for the ones in the alley – and he was back up the drainpipe again, sweating and hauling for all he was worth, hearing the creak of the wagon wheels even as he slid over the parapet onto the roof beside his own window.

  When the wagon arrived, the books were loaded by some flunky who did not even look at them. From the roof, Tharius watched him as he took them down to the stone wharf at the Riverside and burned them. Everyone pretended not to notice, even one old man who was choked by the smoke and had to act as though it was from something else. So. There were books, and books. The forbidden books went on the shelf in the corner, just where the others had been. No one ever came up here except Grandmother Stife, once a month or so, to peek in the door and then shout at him to sweep the place out.