Part 14

The man made a face. “No status in the dominion—at least that is what the learners and diaconals say in their services.” He looked across his shoulder. “They’ll give you status enough, though, if you hold to their diet of greens and fish. Bah. Here we are.”

The breakfast was not fish, but an excellent casserole of chicken, served by a red-faced maid, who slapped the rower when he reached for her knee. He laughed like a waterfall and ordered black ale. Rodvard hardly heard him, eating away with appetite in a little world of himself alone (hope mingling with danger at the back of his mind), so that it was a surprise when the rower nudged him and stood.

“The reckoning’s made for you, Bogolan,” he said. “Come the meridian, you’ve only to ask for bread and cheese and beer. Go out, wander, see our city; but do not fail to return by the tenth glass; and take notice, your Dossolan coin will buy nothing in shops here, it is a crime to take such monies.”

He swaggered out. The last words recalled Rodvard to his penniless condition, and he looked along himself uncomfortably, seeing for the first time how the black servant’s costume he had from Mathurin was all streaked, dirty and odorous, with a tear at the breast where the badge had been wrenched off. There was no desire to present himself to the world in such an appearance. He shrank back behind the table into the angle made by panelling and the tall settee to think and wait out his time, watching the room around him. On the floor of the place, the press of breakfasters was relaxing; maids were deliberate over clattering dishes, calling to one another in strong, harsh voices. He could not catch the eye of any to use his Blue Star in reading her thought, which might have been a pastime; and his own affairs were in such suspense and turmoil that thinking seemed little use. After a while the shame of merely crouching there overcame that of his garb, so he got up and went outside.

The town was in full tide, and noisy. There was no clear vista in any direction, the streets lacking Netznegon city’s long boulevards, angling and winding instead. The buildings were set well apart from each other. Rodvard feared being lost among the intricacies of these avenues, therefore formed the design of keeping buildings on his right hand and so going around a square, crossing no streets, which must ultimately bring him safely to his starting-place.

The district was one of houses of commerce, mingled with tall, blank-faced tenements. A droll fact: there were no children in sight. In the shop-windows were many articles of clothing, so beautifully made they might have been worn by lords and princesses. He did not see many other goods, save in one window that displayed a quantity of clerks’ materials, rolls of parchment, quills and books, nearly all finely arabesqued or gilded—which set him to wondering about what manner of clerks worked with such tools.

The inn swung round its circle to present him its door again. It was not yet the meridian, therefore he crossed the street and made another circuit, this time reaching a street where there were many warehouses with carts unloading. Round the turn from this was a house of religion, with the two pillars surmounted by an arch, as in Dossola, but the arch was altered by being marked with the device of a pair of clasped hands, carved in wood. A man came out; like the one who had rescued Rodvard from the ship, he was dressed in grey. The look of his face and cant of his head were so like the other’s that Rodvard almost spoke to him before discovering he was heavier built. The grey clothing must be a kind of uniform or costume.

A wall bordered the grounds of this building, with a cobbled alley, which had a trickle down its middle. Rodvard followed it, pausing to look at wind-torn placards which lay one over the other, proclaiming now a festival for a byegone date, the departure of a ship for Tritulacca, a notice against the perusal of the latest book by Prince Pavinius, or a fair for the sale of goods made by certain persons called the Myonessae, a new word to Rodvard. The alley at length carried him to face the inn again. He wished for a book to beguile the time, but that being a vain desire, went in to seek his former place. Not until he sat down did he see that the nook opposite him was occupied.

It was a little man, hunched in a long cloak, so old that his nose hooked over his chin, making him look like a bird. Before him was a mug of pale beer; he was deep in thought and did not look up as Rodvard sat down, but after a moment or two sipped, smacked his lips and said; “Work, work, work, that’s all they think of.”

Said Rodvard (glad of any company); “It does not do to work too heavily.”

The gaffer still did not elevate his eyes. “I can remember, I can, how it used to be in the Grand Governor’s time, before he called himself Prophet, when on holy days we did not labor. And we going out on the streets to watch processions pass from Service with the colors and silks, but now they only sneak off to the churches as though they were ashamed of it, then work, work, work.”

He drank more of his beer. Rodvard was somewhat touched by his speech, for though he was hardly one to defend Amorosians to each other, it was just these processions in silks while so many were without bread that bore hard on Dossola. He said; “Ser, it would seem to me that no man would worry for working, if he could have his reward.”

The old man lifted his eyes from his mug (Rodvard catching behind them a feeling of indifference to any reward but calm) and said; “Silence for juniors, speech for seniors.”

One of the maids approached; Rodvard asked for his bread and cheese and beer, and drew from her a smile so generous that he looked sharp (and saw that she would welcome an advance, but the thought at the back of her mind was money). The ancient shivered down into his cloak again, not speaking till she was gone.

Then he said; “Reward, eh? What use is your reward and finding money to spend when it buys nothing but gaudy clothes and a skinfull of liquor, no credit or position at all? Answer me that. I tell you I would not be unhappy if we went back to the old Queen’s rule, and that’s the truth, even if they send me to instruction for it.”

“Ser, may I pose you a question?” asked Rodvard.

“Questions show proper respect and willingness to be taught. Ask it.”

The food came. Rodvard nibbled at his cheese and asked; “Ser, Is it not better and freer to live here where there is no status?”

“No status, no,” said the old man, gloomily. “And there’s the pain, right there. In the old days a man was reasonable secure where he stood, he could look up to those above and share their glory, and we had real musicians and dancing troupes as many as a hundred, who made it an art, so that the souls of those who watched them were advanced. Where are they now? All gone off to Dossola; and now all anyone here can do is work, work, work, grub, grub, grub. It is the same in everything. I can recall how joyous I was when I was a young man in the days of the Grand Governor before the last, and received my first commission, which was to carve a portrait bust for Count Belodon, who was secretary financial. A bust of his mistress it was, and I made it no higher than this, out of walrus ivory from Kjermanash, as fine a thing as I ever did. But now all they want is dadoes for doorways. No art in that.”

“Yet it would seem to me,” said Rodvard, “that you have some security of life here, so that no man need go hungry if he will labor.”

“No spirit in it. Will go on, men working like ants till one day they are gone and another ant falls into their place. No spirit in it; nothing done for the joy of creation, so they must have laws to make men work.”

He went silent, staring into his beer, nor could Rodvard draw more words from him. Presently a young lad with long, fair hair came peering down the line of booths until he reached this one, when he said that the old man, whom he addressed as grandfather, must follow him at once to the shop, where he was wanted for carving the face of a clock.

18 DECIDE FOR LIFE

It was like no court Rodvard had ever seen. Behind a simple table sat two of the men in grey, their features calm and strangely like each other. At the end, one with an inkpot and sheets of paper before him wrote down Rodvard’s name as it was given. The guards at either side carried no weapons but short truncheons and daggers at the belt. The burly mate was already in one chair, looking truculent, with a pair of Kjermanash sailors beside him, one of them a fat-faced lad, unhealthy of appearance. A man of negligent air, richly dressed, occupied the end of the table opposite from the writer. There were no other spectators and the proceeding began without ceremony when one of the Initiates asked simply what was charged against Ser Bergelin.

“Mutiny,” said the mate. “I gave the rat a task to do, which he flatly refused.”

The well-dressed man said; “It is Dossolan law that cases of mutiny at sea be tried by the captain of the ship, who bears judicial powers for this purpose; else mutiny would spread through a ship. I would have your writer here record that I make formal demand for the body of this criminal, in accordance with the treaty of amity and respect between your nation and the Queen, my mistress.”

One of the grey men said calmly; “Be it recorded. Record also that the treaty declares none shall be delivered before the adjudgment of guilt, for though we be all criminous, it is not love’s desire that men shall exploit each other for anything but sins determined as such by the word of human law.”

(The well-dressed man’s eyes said utter disgust.) His lips said; “How can there be an adjudgment before trial? It is to try him that we demand him.”

The second Initiate spoke. “This young man has placed himself in the protection of the domain of Mancherei. Before he is delivered for trial there is required proof of a wrong-doing that would merit sentence. Is there such proof?”

“Why, damme, yes!” said the mate. “I saw the fellow do it; I heard him refuse my order. Here are two of my crew to say as much.” He swept a hand toward the Kjermanash, who began to cackle at once, but the first Initiate merely nodded to the writer, who laid the pen down and clicked at the pair in their own tongue. When they had answered, he said; “They declare it is true that Ser—” he consulted his sheet “—Bergelin was ordered to repair a mast, and he refused.”

The Initiate looked at Rodvard (and not a thing could he read behind those cold eyes, though they seemed to pierce him through), saying, “The evidence is sufficient for a trial unless you can contradict it.”

Said Rodvard; “I could not make the repair. I did not know how.”

The Initiate; “That is a question for the trial to determine; no reason for not hearing the case.”

The mate guffawed. Cried Rodvard, in despair; “But sers, this captain—I pray you . . . it is not for this . . . he is . . .”

“You shall clearly speak your trouble; for it is the will of love that nothing is to be hidden.”

Rodvard felt the rosy flush light up his cheek. “Well, then, it is not for any failure of duty that this captain pursues me, but because I would not be the partner of his unnatural lust.”

With an exclamation, the ambassador of Dossola brought his hand down on the table, and the hard-faced mate gave a growl, but the Initiates were as unmoved as mountains. One of them said; “No lust is more natural or less so than another, since all are contrary to the law of love, and the soul in which love runs full tide may and should give to this unreal world of matter all that it desires, without imputation of sin. Yet we do find that if the wrong cause for this trial has been stated, there is a basis of appeal to our law. We would hear of this further.”

He signed; the writer spoke to the Kjermanash, while the mate glared venom at them, his glances darting from one to the other. The seamen seemed hesitant, especially the fat young one, to whom the writer chiefly addressed himself. Though Rodvard could not understand a word, the voice-lilt told clearly enough how the tale was going. Now the lad began to catch at his breath and sniffle, saying a few more words. The mate’s head turned slowly round (hardest murder staring from his eyes), while his hand slid, slid toward belt and knife—

“No!” cried Rodvard. “He’s going to kill him!” The mate leaped snarling to his feet, bringing out the knife with the same motion, but Rodvard’s shout had quickened the guards. One stepped forward, striking with his truncheon, while the other seized his man from behind, arm around neck. A roar from the mate, squeaks from the Kjermanash, and with a crash of heavy bodies, the big man was down and firmly held, cursing and trying to wring a broken hand. One of the Initiates said serenely; “This is an act of self-accusation”; then to the writer; “Do these also accuse?”

“Yes, Brother. The lesser one says that he has been this captain’s catamite and that Ser Bergelin was cabin-keeper to the captain and must have been solicited to such purpose, for this was his custom with all. They say further that an order was given to throw Ser Bergelin into the sea. Further, they say they were instructed as to what they should report on the repairing of the mast.”

“Love is illumination,” said the Initiate. His companion; “Our decision is that this mate shall pay a fine of ten Dossolan scudi for ruffling the peace of this court; but for having brought false accusations against one under the protection of the Prophet, he shall be submitted to detention of the body and instruction in doctrine until such time as the court shall release him.”

The mate gave a yell. “I protest,” said the well-dressed ambassador, “against the condemnation of one of our gracious Queen’s subjects on perjured evidence and as the result of the actions of one who is not only himself a criminal, but a provocator of others.”

“Your protest is recorded. We declare the business of this case has been dispatched.” The two Initiates rose as though their muscles were controlled by a single mind, but as the Dossolan rose also and the guards frogmarched their prisoner out, one of them looked at Rodvard. “You will remain, young man,” he said.

II

They sat down again. One of them said; “Be seated,” and the pair stared at him unmoving with those impassive eyes. The inspection lasted a good three or four minutes; Rodvard itched and hardly dared to squirm. One of them addressed him:

“You bear a Blue Star.”

(It was not a question, but a statement; Rodvard did not feel an answer called for, therefore made none.)

“Be warned,” said the second Initiate, “that it is somewhat less potent here than elsewhere, since it is the command of the God of love that all shall deal in truth, and therefore there is little hidden for it to reveal.”

“But I—” began Rodvard. The Initiate held up his hand for silence:

“Doubtless you thought that your charm permitted you to read all that is in the mind. Learn, young man, that the value of this stone being founded on witchery and evil, will teach you only the thoughts that stem from the Evil god; as hatred, licentiousness, cruelty, deception, murder.”

Now Rodvard was silent (thinking swiftly that this might be true, that although he was no veteran of this jewel, it had never told him anything good about anyone).

“Where is your witch?” said one of the Initiates.

“In Dossola.”

“It will be impossible for you to return there with the case of today’s court standing against you, and the mate of your ship in our detention, by our necessary action.”

“Perhaps, in time—” began Rodvard.

“Nor can you well bring her here,” said the other Initiate. “The practice of witchery is not forbidden among us as it is by the laws of your country. But we hold it to be a sin against the God of love, and it is required that those found in witchery undergo a period of instruction in the couvertines of the Myonessae.”

(A wild wave of longing for Lalette swept across him, drowning the formless regret of leaving behind the Sons of the New Day—a new life—an empty life—“No spirit in it,” the old man had said.) Before Rodvard could think of anything to say, one of the Initiates spoke again:

“All life in this material world is a turning from one void to another, and shall be escaped only by filling the void with love. And this is the essence of Spirit.”

(A jar like a fall from a height told him that he was facing men who could follow his thought almost as clearly as he could that of others, and Rodvard half thought of how the butler at Sedad Vix had said it was possible to conceal one’s thoughts; half wondered what these strange men wanted with him.) The strong, resonant voice went on; “It is not the thought of the mind, but the purpose of the heart for which we seek; for the mind is as material as the world on which it looks—a creature of evil—while the other is arcane.”

Said the second Initiate, as though this matter had now been settled; “What is your profession?”

“I am a clerk. I was in the Office of Pedigree at Netznegon.”

“Here we have no pedigrees. Soil-tillers are needed; but if you lack the skill or desire for such labor, you may serve in the commercial counter which places for sale the products of the Prophet’s benevolence.”

“I think I would prefer the second,” said Rodvard (not really thinking it at all; for tillage and commercial clerkship, he held to be equal miseries, yet the latter might offer a better chance of release).

The Initiates stood up. “We will inform the stylarion at the door, who will find you harborage and instruct you where you are to report for work. You must give him your money of Dossolan coinage, which he will replace with that of ours.”

“But I have no money of any coinage, none at all,” said Rodvard.

The two stopped in their progress toward the door and turned on him faces which, for the first time, were struck with frown. One of them said severely; “Young man, you have evidently been under the control of the god of Evil. Unless this financial stringency disappears, we shall be required to order that you take doctrinal instruction; and it were better if you did so in any case. The stylarion will give you a warrant for new garments and your other immediate needs, but all must be strictly repaid, and within no long time.”

They left. Rodvard thought their final remarks a very strange pendant to the generosity they had otherwise shown; and wondered unhappily whether he would ever see Lalette again.

III

The lodging assigned was in a room over the shop of a tailor named Gualdis, at a corner where three streets ran together. The man had a fat wife and three daughters, one of whom brought from a cookshop on the corner a big dish of lentils and greens with bits of sausage through it, from which they all ate together. The girls chartered profusely, curious as so many magpies about Rodvard and how life was lived in Dossola, for they were too young to remember when Prince Pavinius had turned from Grand Governor to Prophet and the Tritulaccan war began.

Rodvard liked the middle one best; called Leece. She had thick and vividly black eyebrows that gave her eyes a sparkle when she laughed, which was frequently. (The Blue Star told him that behind the sparkle crouched a kind of dumb question whether he might not be the destined man, and the thought of being sought by her was not unpleasant to him, but she turned her head so rapidly and talked so much that he could make out no more.)

After he had been shown to his bed, the usual sleeplessness of a changed condition of life came to him, and he began to examine his thoughts. He felt happy beneath all, and doubting whether he were entitled to, searched for some background of the sense of approaching peril which had held him the night Lalette came to his pensionnario door, and again when he spoke with Tuolén the butler. But it was nowhere; all seemed well in spite of the fact that he was more or less a prisoner in this land. The common report had it that this was not an unusual experience, that Amorosian agents circulated all through the homeland, recruiting for their own purposes especially those with any touch of witchery, and he thought that might be true. The Initiate on the ship had taken him very readily into protection, and if he were like those in the court, must have known that Rodvard bore a Blue Star.

Yet it seemed to him that these Amorosians were so well disposed toward each other that one might do worse to live out a life among them, in spite of a certain unearthliness among their Initiates. Now also he began to look back toward Dossola and to understand why it was that Mancherei should be so hated, most particularly by the upper orders. For it seemed that if he could but return, persuade Remigorius, Mathurin and the rest how the people of the Prophet lived among themselves, the Sons of the New Day might fulfill their mission by striking an alliance in Mancherei. No, never (he answered himself); that would be to set the son above the parent, the colony over the homeland, and politic would never permit it.

Yet was it not cardinal in the thinking of the Sons of the New Day that to hold such a thing wrong was in itself wrong? The evil in the old rule was that it set one man above another for no other reason but his birth. Was not Pyax the Zigraner, with his odd smell and slanted eye, entitled to as much consideration as Baron Brunivar? Why not then, up with the standard of Mancherei and its Prophet? For that, what had Pavinius found so wrong in this place that he had deserted the very rule he founded?

Rodvard twisted in his bed, and thought—of course; I have been slow indeed to miss the flaw. For though there were no episcopals here, the Initiates surely filled their office. If freedom from tyranny were won only by making episcopals into judges, then it was only a viler slavery. Was life, then, a question of whether spirit or body should be free? But on this question Rodvard found himself becoming so involved that he went to sleep, and did not wake till day burned behind the shutters.

Leece brought him his breakfast on a tray and wished him a merry morning, but when he would have spoken to her, said she must hurry to her employ. (Her eyes had some message he could not quite read; if the Initiates were right, it would be a gentle one, and kindly.) His mind was more on her than on his new fortune as he went forth, and he missed a turning in the streets, so that his task began badly with a tardy arrival.

The building of his toil, like so many in Charalkis, was new and of brick, with mullioned windows along the street front and a low, wide door at one side, through which carts passed empty to pick up bales at a platform within. Rodvard entered to see a row of clerks on stools sitting before a single long desk and writing away as though for dear life. A short, round man paced up and down nervously behind them, now and again speaking to one of the writers, or hearing a question from another.

This short man came over to Rodvard and looked up and down his length. “I am the protostylarion,” he announced. “Are you Bergelin, the Dossolan clerk? You are in retard by a third of a glass. The fine is two obulas. Come this way.”