Rodvard was motioned to the bow of the craft, from which floated a
banner with a device much resembling a dove, but it was in the false
heraldry of grey on white, and hard to make out. Spray was salt on his
face; as they reached a stone dock a ladder was lowered down, and he
would have waited for the grey man, but the latter motioned him
imperiously to go up first.
The pierside street hummed with an activity that to Rodvard seemed far
more purposeful than that of languid Netznegon, with horses and drays,
porters bearing packages, men on horseback or in little two-wheeled
caleches, pausing to talk to each other under the striped shadows thrown
across the wharfs by a forest of tall masts. Their clothes were
different. From a tavern came a sound of song, though it was early in
the morning. (It seemed to Rodvard that most of the people were more
cheerful than those of his homeland; and he thought it might be that the
Prophet’s rule had something to do with it.)
“This way,” said one of the barge-rowers, and touched him on the arm. He
was guided across the dock and up to a pillared door where persons
hurried in and out. “What is your name?” asked the grey man, pausing on
the step; made an annotation, then said to the rower guide; “Take him to
the Hawkhead Tavern and see that he has breakfast. Here is your warrant.
I will send archers for the complaining mate, but I do not think the
court will hear the case before the tenth glass of the afternoon.”
“I am a prisoner?” asked Rodvard.
The other’s face showed no break. “No; but you will find it hard to run
far. Be warned; if you are not condemned unheard, no more are you
released because the accuser overrode his right. The doctrine of our
Prophet gives every grace, but not until every debt is paid and the
learner finds by what it was he has been deceived.”
He made a perfunctory salutation and turned on his heel. Rodvard went
with the rower, a burly man in a shirt with no jacket over it, asking as
he strode along; “What was it he meant by saying I’d find it hard to run
far?”
The face composed in wrinkles of astonishment. “Why, he’s an Initiate!
You’d no more than think on an evasion when the guards would be at your
heels.”
Rodvard looked at him in counter-surprise (and a shiver ran through him
at the thought that these people of the Prophet might somehow have
learned to read minds without the intervention of any Blue Star, a thing
he had heard before only as a rumor). “What!” he said to change the
subject. “I see no badges of status anywhere. Is it true that you have
none in Mancherei?”
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.