Seeker (19 page)

"Of course it does. This so-called secretary is no scientist, whatever else he may or may not be. How could he have the effrontery to pretend he could create such a weapon?"

"He's a clever young man, Holiness."

"But he's not the only clever man, is he, Professor? You and I know a thing or two, I think."

"So you'll help me, Holiness?"

"For the greater glory of the Radiant Power we both serve, Professor, yes, I will help you. You say you want a volunteer. Tell me what sort of volunteer you're looking for."

"One who can enter Anacrea without arousing suspicion. And one who has a passionate hatred for the Nomana."

The High Priest looked grave.

"Not easy."

"That hideous young man says where there's power, there's hatred."

"And you say he's gone in search of just such a person himself?"

"Yes, Holiness. He could return any day."

From high above, the High Priest caught the tinkling sound of the priests on their way to collect the day's tribute. He rose from his chair.

"We will see what we can do."

Professor Ortus rose, too.

"Say nothing of this to anyone else, Professor. That way, perhaps it will be you and I who will be presenting the king with a surprise victory."

Cheerful Giver hustled his boys across the crowded temple square, afraid that on top of everything else, he might be late for his duties. The boys kept stopping to look out for the first appearance of the tribute on the rock high above.

"Will he be a screamer, Dad?"

"I've no idea. Come along. Hurry up."

"Can I have a toffee apple, Dad?"

"No, you can't."

Toffee-apple sellers cruised the square, along with sellers of shelled nuts and corn fritters and bread sticks. Under the arches of the colonnades that ran round three sides of the square clustered stalls that sold wine, and brandy from the bag at a penny a suck, and roasted chicken legs, and fish baked in salt, and all the latest songs. Anything that could be bought and sold for ready money was to be had at the evening offering.

The boys ran off to bang at the wooden hatches that walled the kennels. There were air vents in the hatch doors, and the noses of the temple dogs could be seen snuffling and dribbling, pushing through the holes. The boys kicked and poked at the dogs, daring each other to touch the wet noses. The dogs emitted low rumbling growls and, when hit, sharp yelps. They were big wolfhounds kept in a permanent state of semi-starvation and were therefore extremely dangerous. Their handlers, all men with broad chests and muscular leather-clad arms, leaned against the kennel doors and watched the boys at play, with bored expressions.

"Don't hurt the dogs, boys!" called Cheerful Giver as he headed on up the stairway. "Wait for me here."

"They hurt the dogs," said the head dog-handler, "they're dog meat."

Cheerful Giver climbed the broad stairs to the royal terrace as briskly as he could, and arrived panting to find that the king had not yet finished his hate training. The Corona was ready on its stand, with its keeper beside it, tweaking at its petals.

The High Priest, entering at almost the same time, turned his plump features towards him and raised his trimmed eyebrows.

Cheerful Giver muttered the obligatory salutation.

"Guide me with your wisdom, Holiness. Protect me with your power."

"I'm sorry to hear you've mislaid your tribute."

"Only an old spiker, Holiness. We have a much finer tribute ready for my name day."

Silently he cursed his wife and her foolish carelessness. But he had no intention of letting the High Priest know he was still in trouble.

The king himself joined them at last, just as the priests were passing by with the day's tribute. The tribute's white robe failed to disguise the fact that he was a wheezing and enfeebled old man. The king, energized by his hate session, frowned with displeasure.

"Surely we can do better," he complained to the assembled officials. "Is this how we honor the Radiant Power above? With beggars who can hardly crawl?"

The High Priest, who was ultimately responsible for the provision of the tributes, came hurrying forward.

"It shall be attended to, Radiance."

"Look at him! This is too bad! And don't think I don't know what's going on."

"Yes, Radiance."

The king was referring to the rumor that the priests sold the finer specimens from the tanks and pocketed the proceeds. The High Priest knew the best way to handle the king on such occasions. Offer no argument, and trust to the passing of time. The king had a very short memory.

However, to the High Priest's irritation, Cheerful Giver had also heard the king and returned to the topic as he placed the Corona on the king's shoulders.

"It will be my name day in four days' time, Radiance. I can promise you a fine tribute then."

"Good, good," said the king. "Sun's on its way down. Let's get on with it."

Cheerful Giver retired, his ceremonial duty done. He was now more determined than ever to spare no expense. He would buy the finest tribute of all, and his name day would set a new standard to which all others could only aspire.

The High Priest looked round the crowd of officials to locate the ugly little secretary, and then remembered that he had left the city on secret business. He frowned, then nodded to himself. He had been right not to trust the outlander. He had found out only just in time.

The sun sank below the horizon. The tribute fell in silence. The offering was made, and the sun would rise next morning.

The royal party dispersed. When Cheerful Giver rejoined his sons down in the square, he found they had not been impressed by the evening's tribute.

"That was rubbish, Dad."

"When's there going to be another screamer, Dad? The screamers are the best."

"No, they're not! The fat ones are the best! The really, really fat ones, that bounce!"

"I'm hungry, Dad."

Cheerful Giver put an arm round each of his boys, and they set off for home. They were fine boys, he reflected; tall for their age, and good-looking, too.

"You wait till my name day, boys. Your old dad may make you proud yet."

S
OREN
S
IMILIN LEFT THE HOLY ISLAND ON THE SAME
barge as Blaze. In the darkness of the crowded deck, among the huddle of pilgrims, there was nothing to mark him out, and he was able to watch Blaze without himself being watched. When the rain came, and all the others took shelter under hastily rigged tarpaulins, Blaze remained uncovered, alone. He seemed to feel nothing and see nothing. Instinctively, the other pilgrims avoided him. That suited the secretary very well. He would befriend the friendless young man. He would teach that poor cleansed mind to hate the Community he had once served, and which had now cast him out.

As he watched, he saw Blaze raise one hand to his face and cup it over his mouth. Was it to warm his hand with his breath? Then Blaze turned a little to one side, responding to the rocking of the barge, and Similin was able to see why. He was sucking his thumb.

When the night storm swept down the river, the bargees tethered the barge to the bank, and the pilgrims squeezed together beneath the tarpaulins and slept as best they could. By the time the wind had died down and the rain had ceased, light was breaking in the east, and the barge continued on its way upriver into the dawn.

The sun had just risen over the horizon when they reached the riverside store. The bargees had an arrangement with the General, the store's owner. In return for making their passengers stop at the store for an hour or so, the bargees were given a free meal. This morning, however, the old man was unimpressed.

"What's that you're bringing me? More lice-infested pilgrims! Pilgrims never have any money! Bring me travellers with money!"

"Shut your mouth, you old chiseller. Fry up some eggs."

"This whole crowd isn't worth the price of a single egg!"

The pilgrims disembarked. Blaze followed the rest into the store. The waterfront porch, where General Store spent most of his day rocking in his chair, was no wider than a small house; but the store that ran back from the porch was deep. There were three long aisles, flanked by shelves crammed with all manner of trading goods, and these aisles ran back and back into deeper and deeper shadows. Light entered the store through slanting windows in the roof, windows that had gathered layers of dust and grime and rotted leaves over the years, so that the illumination that filtered through was feeble and intermittent. This gave the interior of the long shed a stippled look, with certain items picked out by shafts of light at random—here a clump of candles glued together by the heat; there a waterproof hat, shiny and never worn—while the rest of the goods were cushioned in soft shadow. Hammers and nails, black-iron kettles, scouring powder, spices, knife sharpeners, rubber over-boots, elastic suspenders, candied fruit, river maps, pencils, scented hair cream: the old man had it all in his store.

The long central shelves were open on both sides, so that as the customers made their way down the aisles, they could glimpse, between stacks of tin plates or past the ruby twinkle of glass-bead necklaces, the customers in the neighboring aisle. In this way Soren Similin followed Blaze, keeping him in sight without himself being seen.

Blaze had been stripped of his badan, but he still wore the plain gray tunic of a Noma. Similin watched him as he stood before a rack of workman's clothing, and knew as exactly as if he had spoken what was passing through his mind. Blaze wanted to shed what was left of his past; but he had no money with which to buy new clothes. Similin decided the time had come to make a connection.

"Forgive me," he said, coming up to Blaze's side. "I was at the Congregation last night. I saw what happened."

Blaze turned his broad face and blank eyes to this stranger who addressed him.

"I don't know you."

"The Community gave no reason for their decision. I can't condemn a man for an unknown crime."

"What crime?"

Blaze spoke flatly, neither offended nor seeking a response. Soren Similin persisted, knowing that every word he spoke would be fresh to this newborn mind and would become part of the new character that was now forming.

"You have been unjustly treated," he said, speaking slowly and carefully. "I would like to help you."

"Help me?"

Similin held out a few coins.

"Here," he said. "For you."

Blaze took the coins without a word of thanks. Similin withdrew. When, a little later, Blaze came out of the store, he no longer wore the gray clothing of the Nomana. He wore the faded blue work clothes of a field laborer. With what was left of the money, he bought himself breakfast. Similin noted, with a private smile, that he ordered bacon. The Nomana never ate meat.

The pilgrims from the barge were not the only people in the store. There were also a number of young spiker men, barefoot and dressed in ragged clothing tied with string. They loitered on the riverside deck, plainly penniless, and while not openly begging, they stared with hungry eyes at the sausages and potatoes sizzling on the range.

The bargees returned at last to their barge and clanged the dangling iron pipe that served for a bell, and the pilgrims trooped back on board. Blaze stopped by the chair where old General Store sat whistling and grunting in his almost permanent state of half sleep.

"I'm looking for work," Blaze said.

"Work?" said the General. "Are you a spiker?"

"What's a spiker?"

"Spikers are idle cheating thieves!" He squinted at Blaze from beneath gummy lids. "You don't look like a spiker. What sort of work do you want?"

"Anything."

"Anything for money, eh? The money's all upriver, in the lake cities. But they're a vicious crowd. Too many priests. You could try the plantations. There's always work to be had on the plantations. Corn harvest's just begun."

"Where are the plantations?"

"Follow the road. Don't waste your time going to the plantation houses. The masters and mistresses with their fine linen and fancy manners don't have anything to do with the field workers. You want to go to the gangmasters. They see to all that."

"Where are the gangmasters?"

The old man pulled out a much-worn map of the region and showed him how the road inland met another road a few miles away and formed a crossroads. Here the gangmasters came each morning to hire labor for the plantations nearby.

Blaze thanked him, in his blank voice.

"Oh, don't thank me. It's work, sure enough, and you'll be paid, sure enough, but it's no life. Those gangmasters know to a grain of corn how much to give you so you keep working, and not a morsel more. But it's work, if that's your desire."

Blaze set off on foot up the track. Soren Similin watched him out of sight, and then beckoned to three of the spikers. They went aside with him into the trees, where they wouldn't be overheard, and there Similin showed them the money he was carrying, and made them a proposal. In doing this, he took a risk. The spikers could choose to attack him then and there in the trees and not go to the further trouble of carrying out his plan. But they were stupid, as he plainly saw, and once one idea for getting easy money was planted in their heads, there was no room for any other.

He then sent the spikers away through the trees, while he himself set off down the track after Blaze. The morning was now well advanced, and the sun was hot, but the young man strode along as fast as he could. Shortly he saw Blaze moving more slowly in front of him. And within a few minutes, he was passing him.

He nodded a greeting as he passed, and Blaze nodded back, but Similin did not attempt to get into conversation. Instead, he strode on round the bend in the track. There, as agreed, the spikers were waiting for him.

They played their part with more energy than was strictly necessary. One seized Similin from behind and got an armlock round his neck and bent him backward. Another hit him several times in the stomach. The third searched for his purse.

"Help! Thieves!" yelled Similin.