Shades of Grey (42 page)

 

Once inside, I sat at the usual Red table and pondered the situation. At least I still had a way out. I could telegraph my Ishihara results to Constance on Sunday afternoon, and she’d agree to our marriage. I could get her to wire me a ticket authorization by return and be gone by Tuesday. Simple . . . except for the ticklish problem of not having enough merits to get married. Still, that was a problem I could deal with back home. It was now Friday, and all I had to do was to keep my nose clean until Sunday, the day of my Ishihara. And avoid Courtland. And Jane. And the Colorman. And Violet. I was just wondering how long I could barricade myself in the broom cupboard with a stack of cheese sandwiches and some water when the prefects walked in.

“T
he annual boys-versus-girls hockeyball match was won this year by the boys, despite the disgraceful behavior by all concerned. The two captains have been justly punished, and Miss Ochre’s ear was saved, so no more will be said.”

DeMauve was giving his prelunch speech. We were all sitting attentively at our places, feeling hungry.

“Due to another highly regrettable but wholly unavoidable accidental death at the factory,” he continued, “the average age of the village has risen above safe parameters. Because of this, we have licensed an extra conception certificate to be taken up forthwith. All eligible parties should contact Mr. Turquoise for consideration at tomorrow’s Council meeting.”

There was a murmuring among the villagers about this, mostly from the Grey end of the room, as a hastened Grey worker usually required a Grey birth to replace it. There was even an audible “Hoorah!”

“Right,” said deMauve, consulting a sheet of printed paper. “As of this morning we have a volunteer to lead the High Saffron expedition. His name is Edward Russett, and considering that he is visitor, he has shown considerable pluck and fortitude to have stepped forward, a selfless act that I think should be an example to you all.”

He paused, expecting a flurry of voices goaded into action by his words, but there were none. If worse came to worst, I would be on my own.

“Moreover, we have decided to increase the expedition payment to two hundred merits.”

Still silence.

“Then I’ll leave it up to your own conscience,” said deMauve, faintly annoyed. “Now, against my better judgment and well-argued wishes, the High Saffron expedition will take place . . .
tomorrow
!
”

He glared at both Gamboge and Yewberry as he said it, and my heart fell. Tomorrow was the day
before
my Ishihara. I should have seen it coming. Yewberry didn’t want to lose his position, and Mrs. Gamboge, no fan of Edward Russett, would fondly like to see the back of me long before I even took my seat on the Council. The sooner I was out of the picture, the better for both of them. The implication wasn’t missed on Tommo, who gave a low curse over his potential lost commission, and I saw Dad shake his head sadly. Myself, I felt a sudden sinking feeling as the full inevitability of what I had agreed to do settled in my stomach like an anvil.

“So for reasons that I won’t trouble you with,” added deMauve, “I am personally willing to add three hundred merits to the two hundred already offered—on condition that the team leader is returned safely, alive and in one piece.”

“I will add two hundred more to that!” said my father. He was breaching protocol, but no one minded.

Despite the Rules against talk, there was a lot of murmuring. DeMauve, sensing that a fair hand would be better than a firm one, let everyone chatter for a couple of minutes before waving us all to be quiet. Seven hundred merits.
For a single day’s work
. It was unprecedented stuff. But not, it seemed, unprecedented enough. The number of arms that shot upward was as close to zero as it could possibly be.

“Very well,” said deMauve, visibly angry. “If anyone changes his mind, he can contact me directly.”

He looked around before continuing.

“Russett, you are to present yourself for a briefing with Mr. Yewberry straight after lunch. You’ll leave with Mr. Fandango at first sight tomorrow morning. Now, today’s reading will be from Munsell’s . . .”

The talk was fortunately a lot shorter this time, and was mostly about working together in strict harmony, and respecting the Colortocracy that our bestowals had decreed, and how anyone might, through hard work and strict adherence to the Rules, ensure that his future progeny might move up the ladder by using his well-earned merits to ensure a better marriage for his children. And so on and so forth. I wasn’t paying much attention. I was thinking about going to High Saffron and cursing my own impetuousness. DeMauve finished his reading, tacked a bit onto the end about how we should be thankful that no one was permanently injured during the boys-versus-girls hockeyball match, and announced that we could all eat.

There was silence at our table, and everyone avoided looking at me.

“Well,” said Doug, finally breaking the silence, “you’ll come back, Eddie. It’ll be fine.”

“I agree,” said Tommo with a more confident air, “but not from a hopelessly optimistic viewpoint, more simply because you’re too valuable for the deMauves to lose.”

This was possibly true, but I didn’t see how they could guarantee my safety. Once beyond the Outer Markers, I was on my own. The others nodded their heads, but I could see they weren’t confident of my chances. But since the matter had been raised and dealt with, the conversation was ready to move on. I was just like one of those people who dropped in on their way to Reboot. There, then not.

“So,” remarked Daisy, who was in possession of one of the biggest bruises I had ever seen, “how stuffed did you get over the match?”

I told them the punishments Violet and I had been given.

“She only got a hundred for your two hundred?” said Lucy. “That hardly seems fair.”

“She’s a deMauve,” said Tommo. “I didn’t expect her to get
any
. How is your ear, by the way?”

“A bit sore,” she replied, touching it gingerly. The offending article was purple and very swollen, but had a fine row of my father’s most delicate stitches around it. “Matron told me to listen through the other for a couple of days until it got better.”

“Any idea who did it?” asked Doug, who had a split lip to match his bruise.

“It all happened so fast. But we could match the tooth marks, I suppose.”

“Hardly worth the trouble, surely?” said Tommo, a little too quickly to make me certain he’d had nothing to do with it. “After all, that’s the rough-and-tumble of hockeyball, eh?”

“By the way,” said Doug, “I must thank you for getting Violet off my back.”

There was sudden silence, and they all stared at me, waiting to see what my comment would be. Gossip travels at the speed of light in any village, and there couldn’t have been many people who didn’t know of Violet’s sudden change of allegiance. My opinion of it was as likely as not the biggest question on everyone’s lips.

“It’s not going to happen,” I said with a dramatic air of finality, “even if I do come back.”

“Violet can be very persuasive,” remarked Daisy, “and she’s used to getting her own way.”

“There
is
a downside to the whole Russett-deMauve marriage,” said Tommo, who hadn’t spoken for a while.

“You see?” I said.

“It’s thrown my entire marriage fantasy league into disarray. With Doug now available for the first time in six years, I’m going to have to completely restructure the league from the bottom up.”

It wasn’t the sort of “downside” I had in mind.

“Unless,” added Tommo, snapping his fingers, “Doug, would you do me a tremendous favor and declare yourself? It would save a huge amount of paperwork.”

“I’ll second that,” said Arnold, giving Doug a wink.

“What’s with the
LIAR
badge?” asked Daisy, who was the first to notice. I had skillfully obscured it behind my Red Spot.

“He may have inadvertently
exaggerated
his viewing of the rabbit,” declared Tommo in a voice tinged with glee.

I stared at Tommo. “How did you know about the rabbit?”

“Whoops.”

“
You
snitched on me?”

The entire table turned to stare at Tommo. Lying was bad, but snitching on one’s own hue was far worse. He seemed somewhat less than contrite.

“I should apologize, really. But your sneaky rabbit subterfuge would have come out sooner or later, so it’s far better that a friend and colleague should cop the sixty merits of bounty rather than someone less deserving.”

“Less deserving than you?” remarked Lucy. “How is that even
remotely
possible?”

“There’s no need to be unpleasant. I’ll make it up to him.”

“How?”

He didn’t answer, and instead caught the eye of the dinner monitor and asked to switch tables, which he did. To be honest, his perfidy worked in my favor, for the
LIAR
badge was not mentioned again.

“Does anyone know anything about High Saffron?” I asked. “I’m not convinced that my briefing from Yewberry will be anything but absolutely useless.”

There was silence around the table.

“The, um, lack of eyewitness data makes
facts
thin on the ground,” replied Daisy diplomatically, trying not to make me any more worried than I was already, “but there are many half-truths and suppositions.”

“Which are?”

They looked at one another, then Lucy spoke. “Legend says High Saffron is where the memories of the Previous have collected. They lament upon their lost lives and vanished histories, and lurk in the shadows, waiting to feed upon the
charisma
of those still living.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” I said hurriedly, “I don’t want to hear the half-truths. Anyone have any
facts
?”

“Mining speculators arrive in the village every now and again,” said Daisy, “lured by stories of unimaginable Chromatic riches. The prefects sell these miners a speculating license,” continued Lucy, “and they take the road to High Saffron and do not return. Or at least, not this way.”

“I heard that travelers arrived by sea,” said Doug, “who came from the same place as the man who fell from the sky. And they take people to work for them somewhere across the ocean.”

“I heard that High Saffron is populated entirely by cannibalistic Riffraff,” added Arnold in a remark that possibly helped the least, “and they eat the brains of everyone who approaches.”

“There are many who blame the Riffraff for the disappearances,” said Lucy, giving Arnold a sharp kick under the table, “but if there was a community there, we’d know about it by now. And
someone
would have escaped to tell the tale.”

There were other stories, none of them helpful, and all of them unproved.

“I’m on my own, aren’t I?” I said in a quiet voice. No one replied, which was answer enough.

“G
ood of you to drop around,” said the Red prefect as soon as I had settled on the sofa opposite him. He seemed chirpy and friendly, despite our recent enmity—it was probably because he was confident I’d not live long enough to take his job. The front room of his house was what I called “untidy chic.” Prefects weren’t subject to the same Rules on room tidiness, but since no one really enjoyed clutter, a certain style of ordered untidiness was generally considered
de couleur
for a prefect’s room.

“Comfortable?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can’t have that. I need you as sharp as a tack. Here, sit on this piece of metal. How’s that? Still comfortable?”

“Not in the least.”

“Good. Since you’ll be off at dawn tomorrow, I wanted to brief you fully over the trip to High Saffron. I’d be joining you myself, but the burden of leadership precludes one from doing one’s duty. Since no one else volunteered, you’ll be going on your own. Have a look at this.”

He laid a hand-drawn map on the coffee table.

“This is us here—and that’s your destination. So you have to go from
here
”—he pointed to East Carmine—“and travel all the way to—”

“High Saffron?”

“You’ve done it before?”

“I understand the theory about traveling—that it involves moving between two points, usually different ones.”

“But not
always,
” said Yewberry, eager not to give me the intellectual upper hand.

“True,” I conceded.

“Excellent. This map is an amalgam of every trip that was aborted in the High Saffron direction, mixed with a few guesses and some unsubstantiated rumor. As you can see, the Perpetulite only goes partway. It spalled at Bleak Point, and after that it’s about sixteen miles, all on foot, all trackless. Mr. Fandango will take you to the Bleak Point and drop you there. The track of the abandoned roadway can be clearly seen, and it was worked on up until thirty years ago—you may find some abandoned Leapback on the way and a Faraday or two. In fact, it’s all plain sailing until you get to . . .
here
.”

He pointed to a spot on the map about five miles beyond Bleak Point, where there was a picture of a flak tower. I leaned forward and studied the map carefully. Beyond this, the detail was worryingly vague. Of High Saffron itself, there was only its position on an estuary. But also marked on the map were Riffraff, man-eating megafauna, an impenetrable grove of yateveos and the Apocryphal bird with the long neck that wasn’t an ostrich. I pointed this out.

“Mapmakers can get carried away,” he admitted. “The sorry truth is that once past Bleak Point, it’s all pretty much guesswork.”

“May I take the map?”

“I’d rather you didn’t. I wouldn’t want anyone to find his way back here.”