The Gradual (21 page)

‘When I was touring, we featured a soloist from Temmil, a young pianist called Cea Weller. Do you know her work?’

‘Weller? Yes, of course.’

‘So it can’t be all bad there.’

‘I’m only repeating what I’ve heard from people here in Muriseay. Friends, people I respect.’

‘That sort of thing makes me nervous,’ I said. ‘It can’t be true of everyone on Temmil.’

‘I shouldn’t have said anything, Sandro. You’re right. I was only trying to reassure you about what this Ante person did to you. He was stealing from you. It’s exactly the sort of second-rate behaviour that people here associate with Temmil. Someone like Ante comes along, takes a shortcut. He pinches what’s yours, pretends it’s his. He thinks no one will notice, and most people don’t. You do, of course, but he thinks you won’t find out, and doesn’t care how you will react if you do. He’s younger than you, so you say you start feeling forgiving about him, but that doesn’t change what he did.’

‘I have forgiven him – but I still want to meet him.’

‘You’re probably not the only one he plagiarizes, Sandro. But he’s picked on you for a reason. Admiration, perhaps – have you considered that?’

‘When I first found out about it I tried to think of everything. Mostly I wondered why it was me. It didn’t feel like admiration to me.’

I spent much of the next day searching the microfilm archive in the cool and air-conditioned records section of the Guildhall. As Mytrie had said, there appeared to be a comprehensive record of every young soldier who had managed to get away from the armed forces and settle on Muriseay. I began with those records. The database was huge, at first forbiddingly so until I learned how to select. It was, for instance, divided into two main sections, one for the Faiandland Alliance, the other for Glaund and her allies – I saw no point in opening the Faiandland records.

I searched on names, of course, including ‘Suskind’, acknowledging the mistake people often made. Then I filtered birth dates, then dates of recruitment, then with a feeling of desperation I tried a picture search. There was a warning attached to the archive notes that many of the people who became fugitives supplied false names and dates to the authorities, even after they had been granted havenic asylum. I turned up no record for anyone who might by any stretch of hope be my brother.

After a break for lunch I started looking through more of the databases. There were similar records for other islands, but the notes gave a clear warning that these were known to be incomplete, could not be properly checked or updated, and should be used only for a coarse-grain search. I opened the archive for every island I had ever heard of, starting with Winho, the one island I was certain Jacj had been to. Next was Temmil, since I knew that was a place artists and musicians fled to. Then I ran through the database of every island I had already visited, however briefly, or knew I was likely to visit on my next travels – nothing. (I discovered that no records existed for the three islands which lay offshore from my home: Dianme, Chlam and Herrin. They were anyway so close to the mainland of Glaund that no one was likely to have sought refuge there.) Finally, I tried the databases of the islands whose names I had only vaguely heard about. There were thousands more. It was hopeless.

I abandoned the search, thanked the Guildhall staff who maintained the archive, then walked down to the harbour office to investigate what sailings might be available.

It turned out to be a day of immersion in a mass of data. After the Guildhall records I had hoped for a simple choice, but instead was presented with a dizzying array of travel options: packages, conducted tours, cultural visits, open-ended journeys, express routes, museums and sights, shipping lines, car rental options, as well as an apparently endless choice of accommodation standards, on board and in transit hotels, at an overwhelming range of prices.

The only destination I had in mind was Temmil, but before I landed there I wanted to make my way indirectly, explore more of the Archipelago. As it turned out, Temmil was one of the islands I could not find in the dozens of catalogues and brochures. The only thing I could establish about Temmil was that a couple of the people I spoke to in the harbour office thought it was in ‘another part’ of the Archipelago, or ‘on the other side’ of the world. As usual, it was impossible to find any reliable maps or charts of the islands. Even the few brochure maps I came across were vague and stylized, the alleged sea-routes shown in broad swoops of generalized lines. Few of the smaller islands were identified or located, and the drawings of the island sizes or shapes were approximate.

I went across the street to a tourist agency which had an office close to the harbour, told them what I wanted, and with remarkable efficiency I was offered a pan-Archipelago open ticket, a package tour, unrestricted as to routes, cabin and hotel accommodation that was claimed to be of higher-than-average standard while not being in the luxury bracket, no time limits on departures or arrivals, the freedom to change, cancel or extend routes as I pleased. It sounded so close to what I had been imagining that I agreed to it with feelings of relief and gratitude, passed over a substantial sum of money, and in return was handed a vast plastic wallet containing all the brochures, street maps and optional vouchers they assured me I would need.

A ship called the
Serquian
was due to depart on an easterly five-island cruise at mid-morning the next day, and I was guaranteed a single cabin, all meals and ‘entertainments’ on board included, plus the option to break my journey in any one of several tourist attractions en route.

I had travelled in the islands long enough to sense that there was something I was not being told, that there was going to be a snag of some kind, but the helpful young woman at the desk in the agency assured me this was one of their most popular packages, which combined comfort and security while travelling, as well as the freedom to explore many islands, and choose my next destinations freely and easily.

I returned to my hotel to pack.

I was awake early the next morning, ate a solid breakfast in the hotel restaurant, then hired a taxi and was driven down with all my baggage to the harbour. I was heavily laden. As well as two weighty suitcases containing all my clothes and the personal possessions I had thought to bring, I had my violin in its protective case and a holdall in which I carried everything I would need easy access to while travelling. This included my travel documents and maps, spectacles, a couple of books, pens, notebooks, a portable CD player, several discs, the stave, barrier cream for my face and arms … much more. I could hoist the violin case across my back, freeing both arms, but the two suitcases and holdall were a problem to carry around in the heat.

When the taxi pulled up on the harbour approach I could see a large ship tied up at the quay, painted cleanly in pale blue and white. Her name, the
Serquian
, was visible on the prow. A long thin stream of pale smoke was rising from her single funnel and drifting away across the harbour.

I paid off the taxi driver then approached the Shelterate building, knowing that I would not be allowed to board until I had gone through their system one more time. I paid a few coins for a wheeled metal trolley from a rack set along the dockside, and loaded it with my luggage. Other intending passengers were also there.

As I stacked my luggage I was aware I was being watched – the group of casually dressed young people lounged around under their canopy, watching me, watching the other people as we made our slow way towards the building.

One of them, I noticed with surprise, was the young woman who had approached me when I landed on Ristor, who had tried to sell me a new stave. Gone were the thick clothes – in the heat of Muriseay she was wearing a pair of denim shorts and a white T-shirt. The knife dangled on a silver chain attached to her wrist. As soon as I saw her I gave a smile of recognition, but she looked away quickly.

The young man seated on the bench next to her must have seen this, because he stood up at once, as if to approach me. He was tall and painfully thin, with lank hair, dark over his eyes. He was wearing jeans and a dirty open-fronted shirt. With one of those knives dangling from his belt on a long silver chain.

I pushed my trolley in through the entrance. There were other passengers waiting for their papers to be checked, but with three officials on duty I did not have long to wait. I was soon called forward.

‘Papers – where are you heading?’

The official this time was a woman. I pulled my plastic wallet out of my holdall, opened it and laid it on the counter in front of her. Lying on the top was the itinerary the travel agency had printed for me.

‘I’m on an open tour ticket,’ I said, trying to explain, not wanting to wait while she slowly read the whole thing. ‘The first port of call is the island of Quy.’

‘Let me have your stave, Msr Sussken.’

I handed it over. While she held it in her hand, running her fingers lightly across the wooden blade, she leaned forward to read my planned route. Then she lifted some of the pages, riffling through them.

‘Visa?’ she said. ‘Let me see your visa.’

‘I don’t have one. I thought—’

‘You can’t go anywhere without a visa.’

‘I’m travelling between islands,’ I said. ‘I’m not leaving the Archipelago.’

‘You’re departing from Muriseay. You need an exit visa.’

I felt a familiar dread in me: the almost inevitable feeling of insurmountable problems whenever I travelled. I imagined having to go back into the town somehow, walking or hiring another taxi, weighed down by my heavy luggage, finding whichever government office it was that issued visas, waiting around while someone completed the paperwork … while my ship, my single cabin, my included ‘entertainments’, sailed away to Quy without me. Why hadn’t the woman at the travel agency told me about this?

‘This has nearly expired,’ the official said, meaning the stave. ‘Want me to check it for you?’

‘I thought it was still good,’ I said.

‘Depends when it was last checked.’

She turned around, prodded the stave down into the scanner. The light glowed green, but this time when the stave popped back up she pressed it down a second time and punched something into a number pad. Another light glowed, this time a bright yellow. She came back to me.

‘You had ninety days on the chip, but you’ve used almost all of them. Only two hours left. I can top it up for you.’

‘Is there a charge?’ I said, expecting there was.

‘Not for that.’

How could I have used up ninety days? I assumed most of those were on the first tour? How many since I had left Questiur? I was trying to remember how long, trying to calculate, wondering if the lost, or gained, time counted. The woman official returned to the scanner, pressed more keys, then gave me back my stave.

‘OK – that’s fully recharged now. It’s also blank at the moment. You shouldn’t risk any more travel until the gradual has been marked.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Talk to one of the adepts. There’s a gradual increment showing and you’ll need to adjust that. And don’t forget to keep the stave topped up if you’re moving around the islands without a visa.’

‘Adepts?’ I said.

‘Outside.’

‘So, do I need an exit—?’

‘Next!’ She had already closed my large plastic wallet and pushed it back to me. Another passenger was wheeling his baggage trolley across, holding up several sheets of printed papers.

I stumbled out into the glare of hot sunshine, trying to push my trolley and return the wallet to the holdall in one move. The exit led me directly towards the canopied area. The tall young man I had noticed earlier was standing before me. He was holding out his hand. When I was close to him I realized that his youth was something of an illusion: close up he looked fairly fit, in a stringy way, but his face was wrinkled and cracked by years in the sun, and the mop of untidy dark hair only partly concealed an area of pattern baldness on the crown of his head. His eyes were glistening in the sunlight, straining against brightness.

‘Alesandro Sussken,’ he said, but his voice was deeply accented and it took me a moment or two to realize he had said my name. It sounded like
Zoozkint
. ‘Let me have your stave.’

‘Are you an … adept?’

‘Let me look at your stave. You should not travel any further without it.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Ristor, Callock, Gannten, Derril, Unner, Olldus, Leyah, Cheoner. This is Muriseay, next will be Quy. I have followed your route. You must let me have your stave, Alesandro Sussken. Quy is to the east of here. Great danger awaits.’

‘I’m booked on the
Serquian
.’ I waved a hand in the direction of the large ship still waiting at the quay. ‘What do you mean by danger?’

‘Eastward travel always a hazard. Steep gradual.’

‘I thought I was travelling to the south.’

‘East and south.’

He still had his hand extended so at last I passed the stave to him. At that moment the ship’s siren sounded a deep and extended blast, a signal I had grown used to on earlier voyages. It normally indicated that the ship would be sailing within the next quarter hour.

‘That’s my ship,’ I said. ‘I can’t afford to miss it. I have this itinerary—’

‘You can’t afford to be on it, Msr Sussken. Let me take scrutiny.’

He began examining the stave – the familiar movement of lightly balancing the object between thumb and forefinger, the gentle touch of fingertips running along the wooden blade, while he closely regarded it. He took a long time, and I soon began to grow impatient. I could see other passengers in the distance, boarding the
Serquian
.

‘You have been gambling with time, Msr Sussken. Are you aware of the steep tide between here and Ristor? I can trace you no further back than that. You have accumulated seventeen days. Detriment.’

‘The woman in the Shelterate office said there was an increment.’

‘Detriment. Seventeen days.’

‘Do you mean I have lost seventeen days?’