The Promise of the Child (46 page)

Lycaste watched the man write quickly and steadily with a series of sharp flicks of his wrist. He had no pen. A long nail on his smallest finger (another specimen with too many) did the writing, dipped after a minute into a lidded inkpot set into the side of an armrest. Rubus glanced at him and turned away slightly, like a boy nervous of someone copying his work.

Lycaste wrote nothing, unable and unwilling to express himself to those who already knew he was guilty of his crime, and lay down instead on the soft, rumpled fabric. There was food and drink in a basket near his head, but the smells made his stomach turn. Soon they left the ravine and were passing one of the lakes. He sat up, looking for the customary island in the middle, but he couldn't see it.

“It's the Black Sea, Rubus said. “Haven't you seen it before?”

“I didn't think we'd gone so far already.”

Sloping below them was a huge strand of white, untouched beach. Puffs of creamy yellow cloud dotted the late-afternoon blue. Further along the sand he saw small figures strolling. There were large sailed boats anchored at the jetty.

“The Keeper lives across the shore. He's the one who sent for me.”

“Are we stopping there?”

“No, there's no need. We can stop in the evening, though—I expect you'll need to stretch your legs.”

Lycaste studied the Intermediary again while he watched the water pass by. He appeared to treat his task as what it was—work—but it was increasingly obvious there wouldn't be any reasoning with him. Looking back out to the silver-blue lines of the sea, Lycaste began to think of what Garamond had said to him, trying, despite his hopes, to understand why the Immortal had given him the message, wondering once more if it had really been from Sotiris at all. He felt a sudden fury at the idea, that the madman had given him hope, but it was hard to remain angry for long.

The Second

They needed to change tracks, Rubus explained quietly without his customary descriptive flair. The usually talkative man had grown increasingly taciturn as they neared the Second, falling silent after reading a selection of letters from the bottom of his satchel. Lycaste was permitted to stay on board while the Intermediary pushed the tube across two parallel rails, its flat underside hinging out on a bright metal fulcrum and popping into place on the slimmer track alongside.

Throughout the rushing night, Lycaste had heard distant thunder, faint pops and flashes like brief moonlight coming from the north-east. Sometimes the booms and rumbles stopped for a while; sometimes they cascaded like a dropped bag of boulders, piling on top of each other. The exchanges resembled an argument, growing in indignation and then silencing after one particularly cutting remark, each side retreating to ruminate on clever things they should have said, and to prepare new insults that might finally wither the opponent into submission.

At dawn they passed dwellings secreted in the misted forests, first one a Quarter and then more frequently, until the generous walled gardens reached right up to the track and yellow faces waited to stare. Lycaste hoped they weren't going to stop, but they did, slowing before a curious crowd that milled up to the edges of the train. He wanted to raise his hackles like a cornered animal, retreating as far as he could to the back of the train and covering himself partially with a blanket.

Rubus climbed out to say hellos, thawing to his old self before the crowd. Lycaste peeped out. They were all women, small and yellowed and shrewish, with childlike faces. A few caught sight of his eyes and giggled, whispering to their friends. The blanket was tugged away, Lycaste unable to keep hold of it, and the ladies gasped, some feigning a swoon, others cackling appreciatively. Foreign smells flooded the open train compartment and animals on leashes poked their faces in, cats and bears daubed in fantastical patterns and colours, snuffling and exclaiming in accented varieties of their mistress' tongue.

Rubus was kissed on both cheeks by each lady, though in almost every case their painted eyes strayed to Lycaste. Some appeared to want to talk to him, but Rubus held a hand up and explained it wasn't allowed. Third, rich and gabbling, was tossed around the crowd. The Intermediary was brought refreshments, even though they had plenty still in the basket, and politely sat on the edge of his seat to eat. Lycaste tucked his knees under his chin and stared at the floor of the carriage, blushing furiously as their eyes lingered over every surface of his body. The lunch appeared to last for ever. After finishing and thanking the ladies graciously, Rubus collected a thick sheaf of papers from his side and held them aloft. Birds swooped from window ledges and nearby trees to collect them. A vulture, its neck collared with silver rings, landed on the seat next to Lycaste and dropped more papers and a metal tablet with a clang, its matted feathers giving off the charnel reek of spoiled meat.

Lycaste looked away, up towards the pointed white turret of a house. There at its pinnacle sat a black owl with amber eyes. It looked down over its glossy tufts and met his gaze with haughty indifference. He couldn't be sure, but it resembled a bird from the feast in the clearing—Sotiris's owl.

But then they were moving again, Rubus collecting and stowing the vulture's packages of documents and waving farewell to the women walking beside the carriage. Lycaste held the owl's eye for as long as he could before it vanished out of sight along with the remaining ladies. Small children ran to keep up with the train, but quickly tired or grew bored as the walled gardens gave way to lush, dark green hillside.

Rubus took one of the new letters from where it lay beside him and flashed it at Lycaste.

“This is about you. From a certain Hamamelis and his sons—acquaintances of yours?” He studied the paper, holding it at a distance while his lips moved silently. “Intermediaries, like me. Coming to join the trial to give evidence against you. Seems you've upset a lot of people, Lycaste.” He held his hand out to catch a few drops of rain that had begun to fall. “Do you have your statement ready?”

Lycaste handed over his crumpled, half-finished sheet, watching the rain himself. The Intermediary examined it briefly, appearing to notice that it was incomplete, but folded it carefully and stowed it nonetheless.

“They were impressed with you, those ladies, but you were rude to them. If you do that where we're going you shall find no sympathy, none at all.”

The train climbed, leaning them back into their cushions, food in the basket rolling and almost toppling over the side. The rain thickened among the forests, fat drops running from the carriage's metal sides and wetting his beard as they blew in through the bars of the cage. Lycaste's skin had acclimatised so well to the rapidly cooling weather that in place of shivers all he felt was a numb weight about his body, thickened skin reacting to the cold. He would have no choice but to get used to it as they travelled along the fringes of the war and into the Second, knowing he would begin to gain weight if it became any colder. Behind them somewhere that owl was following. It had to be; why else pursue him this far? He hoped it didn't mind the rain.

Hope, warming in the numbness of the rain. All he needed was to see that owl again, just one more time.

Rubus's replacement did not introduce himself, climbing the steps at Gmina Second to confer with his predecessor as the carriage slid and clanked into place above a wide, blindingly white stone square. It was evident the two Intermediaries had hated each other dearly for some time, and after a series of shoves and pointed fingers Rubus dismounted, throwing some scattering papers into the fresh wind. The stout new Intermediary swore and scuttled off to fetch them while Lycaste, unacknowledged, watched Rubus descend the steps with his back to the train. Lycaste waited for him to turn and look up, to give perhaps some signal that their time together was at an end, but he disappeared without ceremony among the throng of bright yellow people setting out to meet the train.

The replacement reappeared, flushed and angry, a bundle of crumpled letters in each hand.

“Out,” he commanded in Second, releasing the bars. It was the only time he ever spoke to Lycaste. There did not appear to be a choice, so Lycaste uncurled and allowed himself to be hauled across the platform towards the crowd ascending to meet them. The brightness of the stone hurt his eyes, so he looked up at what he thought were bulky, jagged clouds settled in the distance above a few of the strange scaly green roofs. He stared, uncertain for a moment.

They were mountains. Real mountains. He was suddenly aware of his mouth hanging open.

A cheer rose and he tore his gaze away. The Intermediary held up first his own arm and then Lycaste's, and they cheered again. Some of the people, patterned not with colour but monochrome tattoos, clapped their hands together. Lycaste had no idea what that was supposed to signify. The Intermediary didn't look at him as he began his speech.

“Here is the gift I promised the Second! And isn't he a beauty?”

Another cheer, louder than the others. Children sat on parents' shoulders and waved their arms, infected with the excitement. Lycaste willed himself to look back at the glorious, toothy mountains, sharp against the faded blue.

The Intermediary grabbed Lycaste and shoved him into a spin for the benefit of the crowd, the way Sonerila inspected produce before dinner. The people whooped and came closer. It was his face that they really wanted to see, he knew. He was turned back, confronting a host of small, pink-gold eyes.

“Look at him and remember,” the Intermediary continued, obviously relishing his task, “that sometimes the most alluring things can be the most
deadly
.”

He gripped Lycaste's mouth before he could pull away, spreading his lips in a pink snarl to dramatic gasps from the audience. A girl tried to touch Lycaste's chest and he shrank away as best he could in the Intermediary's firm grasp. His eyes searched the square for Sotiris's owl, but there were only bright figures and white stone, green-peaked towers and the far mountains of the Second—a wall of huge, bleached, encircling teeth.

Perennials

Bonneville knew by reputation all of the Perennials sitting in the rough semicircle looking at him. Only about half had ever openly supported the Devout until now; apparently the threat of further violence to the Vaulted Lands had persuaded the remainder to join the cause.

Florian Von Schiller, newly arrived from Procyon and now in possession of the still-absent Maneker's position as head of the Devout, had joined them and was questioning each of the younger Amaranthine in turn. Wearing a brocaded gown of gold that dripped with precious black stones at the sleeves, he sat forward in one of the huge Melius-carved chairs arranged in the chapel. Bonneville could feel his pulse quickening, nervous of such a senior Amaranthine in their midst. There had been no mention up until now that the next in line to the Firmamental Throne of Gliese was among their number. He wondered what else might have escaped him.

Drifting song, a choir of dozens of high-voiced Firstlings, rose from the vaults below as his eyes wandered to the bleached skull perched on the table between them. It was far too small and dainty to belong to a Melius, and too large for any Prism breed Bonneville knew of. It was almost certainly a person's skull, an Amaranthine skull.

“Stone informs me that you are not yet eleven,” Von Schiller said, sucking on a long pipe and blowing sweet blue smoke into the space between them. To abbreviate millennia was a Perennial's privilege, often used among the youngest so they knew their place.

Bonneville hesitated, about to reply, but Von Schiller continued.

“What compelled you to travel here to the Old Satrapy? Surely you can't have had
the dream
?”

He'd had his answers prepared for some time, worked and redrafted as the fear of questioning drew nearer. “I was unblessed by the dream, Sire, naturally falling far too short in age to warrant it.”

Von Schiller nodded approvingly, glancing around the semicircle.

“But I had heard of its portent,” continued Bonneville, “that there had arisen an Amaranthine who could join with the sleeping mind and summon those who would support his claim. I knew then that this man was truly the Eldest—perhaps the legendary Jatropha himself—and the rightful heir to the throne of Gliese. I felt impelled to offer my assistance to my brothers here in the First … to
your
honourable cause.”

“A noble impulse,” agreed Von Schiller with just the hint of a smile. “Tell me, Reginald, do you remember the Long-Life? Did your paths ever cross?”

Again he was prepared. “No, Sire,” he admitted—for it was the truth. Many of the Perennials, and some much younger, admitted to remembering the man they had now chosen to deify, but he was not among them. Any lie would prove dangerous, and yet the best lies, Bonneville knew, had mixed in with them a grain of truth. “It is possible that our paths have crossed, but I will not confess to knowing our new Most Venerable.” He watched the Perennial's satisfaction as he said the last, and was pleased with himself.

“Yes, it is possible,” agreed Von Schiller. “The Long-Life enjoys the pleasure of delayed recollection—he prefers to wait until we have cast about in our memories for his face without taking it upon himself to remind us.” He sucked on the pipe, appearing to think carefully before speaking again. “He was … a colleague of mine. I had presumed him dead, long dead.”

“And my tutor,” muttered Scarsbrek, an Amaranthine who had just become Perennial and was still basking in his new-found status. “I had almost completely forgotten him.”

“He was present for my knighthood,” said another, Snow. “Standing by the side of King James the Eighth.”

They fell silent, each Perennial in the chamber perhaps lost in memory. Bonneville hoped he wouldn't have to hear all of their stories before his interview could end.