The Promise of the Child (60 page)

“Bred for the First's table, Lycaste.”

Lycaste pulled his hand free from Envoy's grip at the ship's steps. Tagetes looked pained but let him go. He turned only when he was at the top of the gangplank and surrounded by fascinated courtiers.

“It was an honour, Lycaste,” Envoy called up to him.

Lycaste stared at him but didn't reply. He stepped backwards into the throng of people, all asking him questions at once, until Tagetes and the dock he stood on were finally lost from view.

Tenth

None of the Melius people they'd met on the way were listed; the maps were too old, the lands towards the strange southern coast unsurveyed since Wintering 14,551, apparently—almost a hundred years before.

It shouldn't have mattered; the brothers knew where they were. But it did matter. It mattered to Melilotis—it gave the tall, distorted people they questioned every few days the opportunity to lie to them.

He left his brother and cousin next to the late-afternoon fire they were preparing by the dirt road, the air alive with cicadas, and climbed a steep hill rough with olive and fruit trees to look out over the sea. The Mediterranean Nostrum, visible at last, days after the map had promised. He'd not seen the Southern Sea since he was a boy. It looked the same shade of warm, inviting blue, even though they kept saying the weather was changing. He thought the astronomers said such things just to keep people listening. It was what he'd have done, faced with such a thankless life of study and reflection, a stack of ring books and globes instead of women to keep him company through the night.

The Southern Cherries here had put up a good fight. They had spirit, sufficient to withstand the kind of pain that could winkle out secrets from a pampered Second man. But Melilotis had been customarily adventurous in his work. It wasn't so difficult. Mental agony required less fuel, like a fire built from rotten logs; you didn't have to aerate it, nurture it so much. Tell them horrible things and usually up from nowhere sprang what you wanted in the first place. He'd found out what he needed to know.

He called Ulmus over, looking out across the sea while he waited for the boy. Melilotis was well aware that his cousin had no taste for the things he'd seen done on the way and knew that once he was home the boy would become what simpletons referred to as a
kind man
, perhaps softer still once he took up his duties as Intermediary. As far as Melilotis was concerned it was a weakness—perhaps even cowardice—that made people appear good. He didn't think that should be something to aspire to. His father thought differently. Hamamelis wanted a stable, successful heir. Someone boring, that was what he'd meant.

“Look, Ulmus.” He pointed as his cousin arrived. “The sea.”

The boy nodded, barely interested.

“We're here now. Not long till we can go home.”

“How soon?” Ulmus asked him, pulling at a green olive on a branch but not removing it.

“Soon.” Melilotis didn't like the boy's tone. “Remember, this is for Leonotis.”

The boy thought for a while, brushing the leaves away from his face. “And for that Plenipotentiary.”

“Yes, but especially for your cousin. Never forget that, you hear me?”

Ulmus bowed his head, pulling the olive free and turning away. Melilotis took his arm. “Say it, Ulmus.”

“For Leonotis.”

He nodded, looking the boy up and down coldly. “Fetch Cladrastis for me.”

He waited for his brother and studied the view, seeing how the edges of the great forest they'd travelled appeared to stop suddenly at the crest of the next rise. The lonely road they'd taken had been in good repair, indicating use of some kind every now and then, but as far as the brothers knew, they'd had it to themselves for the last four days.

Still, something whispered at the edges of the forest whenever night fell, so subtly at first that it was almost nothing, a coastal wind tickling his ear. Melilotis had remained unconvinced, even when his own name came breathing from the palms, until Ulmus's and Cladras-tis's fears together had overwhelmed him. He'd encouraged his brother and cousin not to show their terror, but to laugh back at whatever was calling their names each night, all three howling at the dark trees until the voices stopped. But whatever it was never ceased for long, watching and waiting until the brothers were coiled together on the verge of sleep around their dying fire, then beginning again. The night before, he'd jerked awake—remembering that someone had once told him it was your body thinking it was dying—to see a pair of pale eyes widen and vanish, whipping back into the undergrowth. Tonight they'd build the fire high, making camp in the middle of the road for once. Only time would tell whether he'd be able to sleep.

“I can see the sea, can you see the sea?” sang Cladrastis as he came through the olive trees towards him. He placed a hand on top of his brother's head, taking it away quickly. “You have greasy hair, Meli. Why do you have such dirty hair?”

Melilotis pushed a hand through his hair irritably and pointed at a path that wound down the hills past a sloping, wind-shaped dwelling, small in the distance. Its structure was clearly designed to reflect light down the path to a hidden garden like his father's outhouses. He had no interest in that, knowing from his map that the place they sought lay in the crescent bay about four and a half miles south of there.

“We start out tomorrow, early. Not tonight.”

Cladrastis stared at him. “Why wait?”

“It'll be dark before we're halfway there.”

“Tonight looks clear.”

“Dawn,” Melilotis said firmly.

Cladrastis shrugged. “Ulmus doesn't want to sleep here any longer, he keeps asking me when we're going.” He scratched his elbow sheepishly. “I don't either, Meli.”

Melilotis shook his head, wishing he could slap his brother without starting a fight that he'd probably lose. “Listen to yourself. I used to look up to you. When Ulmus gets to keep what he wants from those houses—
then
he'll be glad he came.”

Cladrastis feigned a punch, making Melilotis flinch. “The ladies, you mean?”

He pushed his brother's hovering fist away wearily. “Exactly.”

Chapel

“Please state your names, clearly,” the hard-faced Amaranthine called Von Schiller asked them in Unified. His voice rang through the high-ceilinged chapel like a bell.

Corphuso looked at Ghaldezuel. The Lacaille had changed into a shimmering peignoir of blue and gold, his little slippered feet poking out. His white, long-eared head was bare in the Lacaille ambassadorial custom, and Corphuso was surprised to see that Ghaldezuel had some sparse dark hair growing at the back. He was younger than the Vulgar had imagined.

“Ghaldezuel Es-Mejor, Op-Zlan-Lacaille,” his captor said confidently into the huge space, his eyes fixed on the middle distance. Corphuso could see no one but the stooped Amaranthine in the chapel. He opened his mouth to say his own name, but the Lacaille continued, “This is my captive, the builder of your gift.”

Von Schiller stared at them a little longer before beckoning them forward. Corphuso gazed in wonder at the ceiling, the insult forgotten when he spotted the intricacies of the Prism worlds depicted there. As he looked, he wondered that the detail was not lost on these people—it was well known that Vulgar eyes were better than Amaranthine, and he could barely make out the smallest brushwork himself.

“I trust you had an uneventful journey?” the Amaranthine asked as they approached.

“Reasonably,” replied Ghaldezuel. He did not look at all intimidated by the Immortal. “I was most impressed with my reward. Am I to thank your master in person?”

The Amaranthine's eyes narrowed, but he inclined his head and stepped back. “The master is here with us,” he said quietly.

Ghaldezuel folded his arms and looked around, turning at last to Corphuso. Since their journey began, it had mollified the Vulgar somewhat to see that Ghaldezuel appreciated his intelligence; more than once he had asked the architect's advice over that of the soldiers at his command.

Corphuso shrugged in response to Ghaldezuel's glance, shuddering as a chill passed through him. The air appeared to darken.

“
Two hominids
,” said a voice all around them. It filled the space up to the ceiling, its words crisp and precise. Corphuso heard the voice in Vulgar, guessing after a moment that perhaps Ghaldezuel heard his version in Lacaille.

“Yes, Long-Life,” Von Schiller whispered beside them. “They have brought what you wanted.”

“
Both
things?” the voice said loudly, critically.

The Amaranthine looked sharply at Ghaldezuel. He nodded.

“Both, Long-Life.”

The voice did not reply. Corphuso felt the tiny blond hairs on his arms and neck rise. Suddenly there came footsteps from behind them. They turned to see a man, clothed simply in Amaranthine apparel, walking slowly towards them.

“I will have them here,” he said, his face appearing to grow from nothing in the shadows. Corphuso still heard the words in Vulgar.

There was a pause as Ghaldezuel tried to work out exactly what was being asked of him. “Our cargo? You wish it brought here?”

“Yes,” the bizarre man said thoughtfully, glancing to Von Schiller. “Now.”

Ghaldezuel looked at the Amaranthine beside him. “Shall I … go and send word?”

“Go now, yes,” replied Von Schiller simply. “Leave the builder here with us.”

Corphuso gulped, staring at Ghaldezuel in the hope that he would deny the request, but the Lacaille nodded and excused himself, walking quickly across the chapel to the doors.

“This is the designer?” the master asked Von Schiller as he circled Corphuso, taking in every aspect of the Vulgar. Corphuso hated it, looking back to the man as he arrived before him again.

“What is he, precisely?” the man asked.

“He is
Paranthropus Vulgarii
, Long-Life, of the pale Harboldt breed. Common within the Firmament after the Ninth Era.”

The man appeared to think about this. “What was the other? Not the same, I think.”

“
Paranthropus Lacaille-Colensis
, a Zalnir blue. Also common to the Firmament and Investiture. They are closely related races, sharing a recent ancestor with the Pifoon, also.”

“Tell me about yourself,
Vulgarii
,” the circling man said to Corphuso. “How did you think up such a thing?”

Corphuso could feel himself sweating as he tried to choose which language to speak. He opted for Unified. “It was an accident, really, a stroke of luck.”

The man, the Long-Life, nodded. His vague, pleasant eyes flicked to Von Schiller. “I am indebted to you,
Vulgarii
. I have waited so very long for your accident to occur.”

There was a knock on the chapel doors and Von Schiller turned. Corphuso noticed that the Long-Life's eyes remained fixed on him.

“My gifts are here,” he said softly, the smile spreading on his face.

Barge

“Look at him!” the Secondling jeered, tightening his yellow fist on the cane and grinning to the ladies. “Won't you fight me, Cherry? Are you too afraid?”

The man, portly and rather tall for a Secondling, gave Lycaste a flick with his stick, standing back to watch his sport's reaction. Lycaste growled and glanced among the circle of gaily coiffed people on the deck of the river barge. Some of the ladies looked afraid of him, others laughed, but few could pull their eyes away.

The attention had made the gentlemen on board jealous, and they had begun deliberately knocking and nudging Lycaste while the first drinks of the afternoon were served aboard the sailed barge. He was no longer tied or chained and had made the mistake of lashing out at one Second man, shocking the giggling ladies into silence.

“Come on.” The chubby Secondling tapped him again with the cane. Lycaste's arm was beginning to sting. He could see the man would lose face if he carried on tormenting Lycaste without effect—some of the women had already spoken up and told the Secondling to stop being so cruel. They clearly thought Lycaste defenceless despite his size. He looked into their pinkish eyes, knowing that most simply wanted to see a drop or two of blood spilled, perhaps not even caring from which man it came.

“Fight! Fight me! Pitiful excuse for a man.” The Secondling whipped him once more, jumping back slightly in case Lycaste decided to try and grab him. Lycaste sighed, rubbing his arm and glaring at the Secondling, who sneered up at him.

“Ooh, look, he's getting angry!” He turned to the crowd. “Who wants to see me teach this Southerner a lesson? Eh?”

Some inchoate cheers came from the back, probably from the man's group of friends, but most were still staring silently at Lycaste. Women whispered to each other behind their hands and smiled.

“Fight!” the Secondling screeched, swinging his cane at Lycaste's head. Before the blow could fall, Lycaste snatched the cane and snapped it in half, taking both pieces and hurling them at the shocked man. The ladies all stood back, the deck of the barge suddenly silent but for the sighing of the golden trees that lined the riverbank and the tug of the sails in the breeze.

Lycaste roared and shoved the man to the deck. The onlookers took a few more steps back. He paused as he stood over the trembling Secondling, looking around. Men were pushing to the front of the crowd, some carrying even longer canes and staves.

Lycaste stared to the bow, where brightly coloured flags trailed like fishtails in the warm river wind. He had already reflected upon boarding that even if he did jump and make it to shore, the barge—slowly travelling upriver to the next distant outpost of the First—had now looped back into Second waters, where he would no longer be free. No matter what happened, he had decided to try and stay aboard.

“Don't let him jump,” he heard one of the Secondlings say as they approached, and Lycaste stepped back. The shivering man at his feet crawled past the wreckage of his expensive cane and into the safety of the crowd, which parted slightly for him.