Authors: Angus Wells
I heard the master say, “Then we must consider your future. Do you return to your lessons, and we shall inform you.”
I nodded wearily. I had not thought to find my fate still undecided. I turned and limped from the room.
I had been engaged with Telek in the herbarium, and I returned there. The herbalist-chirurgeon greeted me with a sympathetic smile and waved me back to my classification of the dried plants. Cleton contrived to place himself at my side and inquired in a whisper how I had fared.
I told him my fate was as yet unfixed, and he scowled, and tapped the plaster still encasing his arm, and said, “In the God’s name, what more do they want? Rwyan’s gone and you choose to remain. What’s to decide?”
“Whether I’m fit to stay, I suppose,” I whispered back. “Or not.”
My friend cursed roundly and very soundly and said, “Do we visit the Horseman tonight? A few tankards of Lyam’s ale might wash that cloud from your face.”
I had not known my expression was so black. Nor did I feel much appetite for ale, or even company. Neither did I much wish to be alone: solitude would afford too much space for doubt. But I was still banned the city. I said, “I cannot. I am commanded to remain here.” At that moment, the College seemed to me a prison.
Cleton grinned and said, “Even with your leg, the walls should not be hard to climb.”
I was tempted. I was also very confused, torn between the desire to be alone and that for his stout company. I
almost agreed, but then I thought of the cost—surely expulsion, was such disobedience discovered.
I shook my head, saying, “No, I think not.”
“By the God,” he returned, “you’ve been long enough confined. A visit to the Horseman would surely ease your miseries. Better, a visit to Allya’s. Thais asks after you, you know.”
I had not thought of Thais, nor wished to now, and what appeared to me his casual dismissal of Rwyan roused me to anger. I glowered and said primly, “I’ve no wish to visit Thais. Nor would I risk my future here. Do you not think I’ve lost enough already?”
Poor Cleton’s smile melted in the heat of my response, and he raised a placatory hand. “Forgive me,” he asked. “I was not thinking.”
I grunted a reply. I knew he sought only to cheer me and so felt guilty at my anger—which served to fuel it more. We spent the remainder of the afternoon in prickly silence, both working with a fervor that surely must have impressed our tutor.
“I told them nothing,” I said, “save what they knew. Of you and Lyr I said nothing at all.”
Urt set the chimney of a lamp in place and pinched out the taper before turning to face me. His coarse gray hair was reddened by the flame; his whiteless eyes were placid. His smile was not: it was very confident.
“I did not think you would,” he said.
Cleton was rummaging through our wardrobe, seeking a suitable shirt for his planned excursion. Over his shoulder he said, “But they likely guess. By the God! Ardyon asked me enough questions.”
“The warden spoke at length with me.” Urt nodded gravely. “But you know that. And that I said no more than I must, I hope.”
“Of course.” I set a hand on his shoulder, which was sinewy and muscular, and smiled. “I could find no better friend,” I said.
Urt seemed embarrassed, his eyes flickering to Cleton. I saw my Trueman comrade frown at such open expression of friendship with one of the Changed, and removed my hand.
Thinking to mend our differences, I amended my statement: “I could hope for no better friends than the both of you.”
Cleton was visibly taken somewhat aback to find himself ranked alongside a Changed servant in my estimation, but he took it gracefully and hid his frown behind his chosen shirt.
Urt’s expression grew solemn then, and he fixed me with his dark stare. “Still, Master Cleton is right,” he said. “Save I think they know, rather than guess.”
Cleton struggled with his shirt. We take our bodies for granted, never thinking how the loss of a limb’s use hampers us until we must perforce do without. Urt went to help him, and as Cleton’s head emerged from the collar he frowned anew, but for a different cause now. “Then surely,” he said, “they’d have had me before that tribunal.”
“Perhaps not.” Urt shook his head, and in his eyes I thought I found some emotion I could not define. “You are son of the aeldor pf Madbry, Master Cleton, and that carries some weight. More, you’re a good student.”
Cleton laughed carelessly. The sound struck me like a cold wave: it failed entirely to register what I heard in Urt’s voice, saw in his eyes.
Still chuckling, he stood as Urt tied the laces of his shirt. “Daviot’s a better student than I,” he declared. “And my birth means nothing here.”
“Think you not?” asked Urt.
His husky voice was carefully modulated, but still I thought he spoke with unaccustomed openness in Cleton’s presence. I thought he seemed almost reckless, as if he felt some dice were cast, determining a future I failed to comprehend. I waited, suddenly nervous.
“Son of an aeldor, son of a fisherman.” Cleton extended his arms that Urt might fasten his cuffs; flourished the linen. “Son of a koryphon, even. All are the same in this College, all equal.”
Something flashed an instant in Urt’s eyes, gone almost before I saw it. “Some are more equal,” he said in a soft voice, “some less.”
“Nonsense,” Cleton said.
I said, “Do you explain, my friend?”
Cleton opened his mouth to elaborate, then recognized I spoke to Urt and fell silent, his frown returned. Whether
because I looked to the Changed for answer or because I again openly named him friend, I neither knew nor cared.
Urt paused an instant. I thought him unwilling to speak for Cleton’s presence and smiled encouragement, motioning him to continue. He hesitated still, and I said, “Shall we conspirators hold secrets from one another? Go on, friend.”
He smiled briefly. A flash of sharp white teeth. “Some command a greater influence than others,” he said, “no matter the society. Do you not learn that from your studies of politics?”
I saw Cleton’s frown dissolve into an expression of curiosity. He settled on his bed and allowed Urt to tug on his boots. They shone bright with fresh polish—the Changed’s work. I waited, foreboding mounting.
Urt said, “How is this College financed?”
Cleton answered him, “The Lord Protector and the koryphon fund us, of course. And merchants, nobles, donate.”
“And the Lord Protector and the koryphon are funded by taxes, no?” Urt said. “And the koryphon has his power from the Lord Protector, and both rest on the support of the aeldors, who tax those within their holdings, no?”
“How else should it be?” asked Cleton. He selected a tunic and let Urt drape the garment over his shoulders. “That’s the natural order of things.”
Very softly, so that I alone heard him, Urt said, “Perhaps.” Then louder: “But what if the aeldors held those taxes for themselves? What if the Lord Protector and the koryphon received no tithe?”
“That,” said Cleton, coldly now, “would be sedition. And rightly punished as such.”
“It would surely be punished,” Urt agreed, which was not a full agreement. “But—a supposition only, of course—what should happen did the aeldors withdraw their support?”
“Chaos!” Cleton snapped. “By the God, the Sky Lords would overwhelm us did all not work together. Dharbek would collapse.”
“I speak only of this College,” said Urt, carefully. “That the goodwill of an aeldor is worth more than a fisherman’s.”
Or, the Changed’s.
He did not have to say it. I recognized his gist; I felt surprise that he commanded such a grasp of the webwork of politics and privilege that underpinned decisions.
I said, “You think I might be punished whilst Cleton goes free.”
“I think the good opinion of Master Cleton’s father likely carries a greater weight than does yours,” he said. And coughed a small laugh that might have been apologetic, “Whilst mine carries none at all.”
“You’re Changed,” Cleton said.
He was smiling as he took up his purse, weighing the coin therein, happily oblivious of Urt’s discomfort or my reservations. “Well,” he said, “if I cannot persuade you to join me, I shall be on my way. Do I give Thais your regards?”
I said, “No,” and he shrugged, and waved, and strode from the chamber.
The door closed behind him and Urt said, “Do you require anything?”
And I answered, “Yes. I’d talk with you, if you will.”
His expression was entirely bland as he said, “I am at your command. I am your servant.”
“You are my friend,” I said. “Or at least, I hope you are.”
“Yes, I am.” His expression shifted—I grew moment by moment more adept in its translation—and I saw apology in his eyes. “Forgive me, Daviot. Sometimes …”
His lean shoulders rose and fell. I ventured to finish for him: “Sometimes the attitude of Truemen is offensive. I apologize for Cleton.”
That elicited a brief smile. “How should you apologize for another?” he murmured.
I shrugged in turn and said, “On behalf of my kind.”
“Your kind is rare,” he said. “Cleton’s the more common.”
I nodded, not knowing what to say: it was the truth. I compromised with, “He means no ill.”
“No.” Urt looked a moment out the window, then returned his gaze to me. “Few do.”
There was something hidden behind his response; something sad in his voice and in his eyes. I rose from the bed and crossed to the ale keg. I filled two mugs, passing him one and motioning for him to sit.
“You’re a strange fellow, Daviot,” he murmured. “Why do you show me such kindness?”
It had not occurred to me that I did: I treated him as felt
natural to me. I frowned and said, “How else should I deal with you?”
He said, “As do other Truemen.”
“You’re my friend,” I said.
He laughed at that, and raised his mug in toast, and said, “Yes. Perhaps someday I shall have the chance to prove it you.”
“You have already,” I told him, and what had begun as an answering smile froze on my lips. “You proved it in carrying my messages to Rwyan.” I sought to conceal my sudden misery behind my tankard.
Urt said, “I’m sorry for what happened.” And paused a moment before adding, “But I meant in a greater way than as courier.”
“No service could be greater,” I said.
“Perhaps.”
He smiled, but I thought the expression was now designed to allay further inquiry. I asked, “How, perhaps?”
He shook his head and sipped his ale. “Does the opportunity come, you shall know,” he said.
“Do you explain now?” I asked.
His lips closed, pursing. His eyes grew dark: unfathomable, and he shook his head. “No, I cannot. And I presume on our friendship to ask that you inquire no further.”
I was intrigued. I forgot my misery as I sensed some mystery here. There was such hint in what he said of things unknown, unsuspected, of areas of knowledge beyond my ken, I was mightily tempted to press him. There was also, on his face and in his voice, a warning—that he would not speak, and that did I demand explanation, our friendship should be threatened. It was valuable to me, that friendship, and so I respected his wishes. I nodded and made some gesture of acceptance. “Do you so wish,” I said.
He smiled with unfeigned pleasure and said, “Thank you, Daviot.”
And I, in my youth, heard such warmth in those three simple words, I was embarrassed. I think I blushed. I know I said, “I’d not pry, my friend,” and sought to turn our conversation onto safer ground. “What do you think will happen to me? To us? Shall I be allowed to stay?”
Urt paused again, then said, “I suspect you will. Likely there’ll be some small punishment—you’ll be confined
longer to the College grounds; something of that sort. But it’s common knowledge you’re considered too good a Mnemonikos that you’ll be let go.” “You’re very confident,” I said.
He grinned and answered, “We Changed hear much. There’s some advantage in our situation, for Truemen seem to think we’ve not ears, or memories, but we’ve both; and servants talk.”
“And you?” I asked.
He did not immediately answer but rose and took my mug for refilling with his own, which in itself was a compliment—a measure of his confidence in my sympathy. I awaited his reply. It seemed all the foreboding I had felt, the shiftings of his face, his recklessness, coalesced in his answer, and as he gave it, I felt a fresh weight added to my burden of unhappiness.
“It is rumored I shall be sent away.” He raised a hand to silence my instinctive protest. “To argue it would be pointless; I ask that you accept. Do you argue, you can only make your own situation worse.”
I felt new pain. Not so fierce as at Rwyan’s departure, but still hurtful. I asked, “Where?”
Urt shrugged. “Likely the Border Cities,” he said.
I raised my hand, half minded to dash my mug to the floor. There was such certainty in his voice, I could not doubt but that he had this information from the servants of the tutors, the warden, the master; from that network of anonymous Changed that moved unnoticed through human society. Was I the only Trueman to see their faces, to perceive them as beings in their own right, to credit them with emotions, with sentience? Resentment grew, allied with frustration and new-seeded anger.
Urt said mildly, “Do you shatter that mug I must clean the floor again.”
I snarled and lowered my hand. I said, “That’s not fair.”
“Fair?” He smiled, and the curving of his lips was cynical. “I am Changed, Daviot.”
“I’ll tell them I coerced you,” I declared. “I’ll say I gave you no choice but to carry my messages.”
“And they would say I should have gone to Ardyon,” he returned me. “That my duty to the College precedes any personal loyalty.”
I could not argue: it was the truth.
“And it should only do you harm,” he went on. “Better that you stay silent. Apologize, and accept whatever punishment is meted out; finish your studies.”
He gave me advice, and it was sound. Vague through my anger came the thought that most men would find it strange a Changed should assume to advise a Trueman. I asked him, “Why?”
“Why should you remain?” he asked in turn. “Or why do I counsel that you do?” “Both,” I said.