The Promise of the Child (45 page)

*

“I awoke you from another dream. What was it?”

Sotiris rubs his eyes. There is coffee set out before him. It is early morning at the port. “What?”

Aaron continues to stare, taking a sip of his own. “What were you dreaming?”

“You don't see my other dreams?”

He hesitates, putting the cup down. “Not all of them. What did you see?”

Sotiris blinks and looks around to the still water. “Nothing much, it was just Iro again.”

Aaron does not appear convinced. “You were distressed.”

He folds his arms. “You find that unusual?”

“Mildly.”

The waiter appears, carrying menus. Sotiris shrinks in his chair. It is a giant Melius of the Old World, patterned with churning colour. It looks down at them, massive head sombre, and slides the menus onto the table with a huge, gnarled hand. He recognises the Melius, but the giant shows no sign that he has noticed either of the men at the table.

“Lycaste,” Sotiris says, rising slightly from his seat. The giant stares at him gloomily, then walks away.

Aaron watches the huge man as he leaves, his eyes narrowed. “You feel guilt.”

Sotiris shakes his head and touches the coffee to his lips, sitting back down. “I don't want to talk about it.” As he drinks, he looks over to the postcard shop. They are having a sale of inflatable dinosaur lilos.

Aaron sighs, leaning back in his chair. “Very well. You've had enough time now to consider my offer, Sotiris.”

“What offer? That you can somehow bring her back?” He looks at the apparition bitterly. “You
insult
me, Aaron the Long-Life.”

“You shall have your sister returned to you.”

“In exchange for my loyalty, is that it?”

He pauses. “In exchange for taking up your rightful position as Firmamental Emperor, yes.”

Sotiris coughs, setting his cup down. “Excuse me?”

Aaron looks at him contemptuously through half-lidded eyes. “I don't see it myself, but others do. The Amaranthine Firmament would support you, and only you, in any endeavour you care to suggest. I have rarely seen a more persuasive personality among men, and yet you are
wasteful
with your gifts.” He shrugs, the early light momentarily glowing on the crescent of his vague iris. “I know you now, I
see
you for what you are, but still they idolise you.”

“You want me …” Sotiris points at himself, aware of how ridiculous he must look. “You never wanted it—for yourself? The throne was never your goal?”

Aaron smiles. “I had hoped Hugo Maneker would prove equal to the task, but I was disappointed.” He inspects his coffee cup, a hint of care creasing his kindly eyes. “If I'd known how disappointing the Amaranthine as a society would turn out to be, perhaps I'd have pursued other avenues. Never mind.”

“I don't think I understand,” continues Sotiris. “You would come this far, do all this—Virginis, everything, just to …
give it all away
?”

“I would give it all to
you
, Sotiris, to rule in my stead.”

“And where will you go, once everything is mine?” Sotiris asks.

Aaron shakes his head with apparent wistfulness. “Somewhere that does not concern you, and never shall.” He leans forwards. “But you will be
happy
, Sotiris, happy once more. You may reshape the Firmament to your design, do anything you wish—become a tyrant, the greatest humankind has ever seen, or seed the Firmament with the equality it craves. Banish the Prism primates, or nurture them. All choice will be yours.” He shrugs again. “And, most importantly, you shall have
her
back.” He steeples his long white fingers beneath his chin. “I ask for nothing but your ascent to the throne of Gliese. Is that so terrible a prospect?”

“You want more than that.” Sotiris grimaces, looking away. “Of course you do. This cannot be all there is to it.”

“What I want,” interjects Aaron swiftly, his expression suddenly taking on a new intensity, “will never in your life affect you. You shall die contented and ancient, and I'll be far,
far
away.” He drums his fingers, their shadows unable to correspond with their motions. “But you need not decide now. I have given you the choice, and your choice it shall remain.”

“I cannot believe you, Aaron.”

“Think on it. I will see you soon.”

Mediary

Light burned a brilliant weave through the mesh of the nest walls just as the Intermediary arrived and opened the shutters. His visitor glanced in, wrinkling his nose.

“Good morning,” the Intermediary said in a clear, officious tone. Low Second, Lycaste guessed, rubbing his itchy eyes in the golden sunlight. He didn't bother replying.

“My name is Rubus Hochstetterorum, Gentleson of Molotaran.” The Mediary stepped away from the shutters. “Could you climb out of there now? I'd like to take a look at you.”

The Glorious Bird landed on Rubus's shoulder, its blank eyes meeting Lycaste's.

Lycaste stretched and pushed one leg free, almost kicking the Intermediary, disappointed that he hadn't. His feet touched the grass unsteadily, cramped and stiff after so long in one position.

“Good,” remarked Rubus encouragingly. He took another step back to observe Lycaste. “I suppose he is average-sized, a fair appraisal.”

“My appraisal was
accurate
,” murmured the bird.

Rubus took in Lycaste's face. “Extraordinarily handsome features, wouldn't you say? Stylised, quite the work of art. Drogoradz will be abuzz when we turn up.”

The Glorious Bird produced its impression of a shrug. “If you say so.”

The man looked at a loss for a second, then turned brightly back to Lycaste. “Well then, Lycaste, we'd better leave now if we're going to make it to the rail in time. Can you walk all right?”

“He can walk,” spat the bird.

The Intermediary nodded and opened his hand. In his palm was a loop of red plastic or rubber. “Extend your wrists, please.”

Lycaste extended his arm uncertainly, noting that if it was indeed rubber the Intermediary was twining around his arms, the Second was a far richer place than even the bragging Plenipotentiary had let on. The material was spectacularly rare; anyone lucky enough to have any in the Tenth certainly wouldn't be binding prisoners with it.

“There we are,” Rubus was saying. “Now, don't get excited in these, they'll tighten and get very uncomfortable indeed. Best to follow me and try not to wriggle.” He smiled again. “Good. All right, Glorious, we're ready to go.”

The bird looked Lycaste up and down once more, his eyes void and uncaring. He gave a sharp shrug and flapped off across the water, a trail of mates climbing from the shore to meet him.

Lycaste stooped to whisper to the yellowish man once the bird had gone. “I have a very large sum of money buried where only I can find it,” he said, having spent much of the night rehearsing his speech. “Release me and it's yours, all yours.”

The Intermediary blinked and chuckled. “We have your possessions waiting at the tracks, Lycaste. I had that book as a child, though, and will happily take it off your hands.”

“Yes! It's yours! Now unbind me.”

“You're very kind, but I can't do that.”

Lycaste stumbled along in dismay, sure that bribery would have worked this time, beginning to understand the weaknesses in money's sorcery over people. Silene had refused it out of passion, but with Rubus it was something else—perhaps fear.

“It's not far, then you can sit down,” Rubus continued, noticing at the same time as Lycaste the Amaranthine arranged on the banks. They were kneeling in the mud and draping their rags in the water. Lycaste didn't think they ever did such things, but he'd never been up this early in the Utopia before.

Garamond was among them. He waved, carefully folding his feather cape on the grass, and dashed over to a wooden boat moored at the water's edge.

“Goodbye, Big! Have a lovely time!”

“Farewell, Garamond.” Lycaste sighed, taking the madman's hand limply as he climbed onto the boat.

They pushed off from the bank, some Amaranthine waving as they washed in the early-morning sun. A little parasol stuck up from the middle of the bowl-shaped craft but did nothing to shade them from the almost horizontal morning light. Rubus steadied the hull and raised a hand to the Immortals, placing an oar into the water to push away.

“Now then.” He stood, watching the waters trail by. “When we get to the train, you'll be given paper to make your written testament, all right?”

Lycaste saw Garamond return to the group of Amaranthine on the bank. Their shawls didn't look as if they were getting any cleaner in the muddy water. “What?”

“You have to describe your version of events. You may deny, of course, but you're supposed to write something. You are expected to write in First. Can you? Because I'll have to translate it if you can't, and I'd rather not.”

“I can't, I'm not very good.”

“But you speak Third?”

“Enough.”

“The Glorious Bird informed me you were proficient.”

“I'm not.”

The Intermediary coasted the boat to the bank of silt and began to sweep back with his oar. “It'll delay the trial. Not a good thing for you.”

“Why not?”

Rubus looked down. “In Drogoradz you'll be under what we call Familial Law. The relatives of the Plenipotentiary in question are obliged to keep you as their guest until the beginning of the hearing.” He glanced at Lycaste and then back at the yellow silt until the boat came to rest with a sucking noise. “Callistemon's family may treat you as they please until that point. It is encouraged—for their satisfaction, you see.”

The two men climbed awkwardly out, mud oozing around and up their legs. A trio of long-billed birds watched them with interest.

“While you're their guest you are at their mercy, I'm afraid. I have seen some people accused of crimes never make it to trial. It is an archaic law, and I must say I don't approve of it.”

Lycaste concentrated on the mud, lifting first one leg free, then the other until they were crossing the grass with long yellow socks of cracking slime reaching almost to their knees. He presumed
archaic
meant something truly horrible. He watched the Intermediary's back, thinking him not altogether a bad man. If Sotiris came for him, he'd make sure Rubus wasn't punished.

Lycaste said nothing more, following sullenly behind until only half a Quarter later the grass thinned around a line of dull metal in the ground, its edges caked with ancient guano. They both looked at it.

Rubus pointed. “Not far now.”

Up ahead, something gleamed in the quivering distance. It looked to Lycaste like a large open cylinder. “Is that it?”

“Ah, you've got good eyes. That'll take us all the way to Zielon.”

“That's in the Second?”

“The border, yes. This line is slow but should take us well past the war. The Jalan armies have been pressing the front here for months, though, so don't count on getting any sleep. When I came through the bombardments were relentless, all night.”

It was a tube, partially cut away so that front-on the contraption appeared C-shaped. The shaded interior was scattered with embroidered cushions and blankets, as well as some flat sections where jugs stood on metal trays. There was enough room inside the tube for both men to stretch out, but Rubus appeared to have other ideas. He stopped and examined a set of holes drilled into the ceiling of the tube, inserting a key. A cage of slender metal bars dropped and snicked into place, one side left open for Lycaste to enter.

“It's more comfortable than it looks,” the Intermediary said as he climbed onto the blankets.

Lycaste thought he'd have more time. He stood by the train, looking around for any sign of Sotiris. But the grasses here were brown, strangely neglected. Weeds grew in the tracks. The sky had warmed to a dirty faded blue; somehow he knew Sotiris wasn't coming today.

“Climb on,” Rubus encouraged, leaning on a plate at his end. The cylinder began to move very slowly and soundlessly, dragging Lycaste by the wrist where his ties were secured to the cage bars. He walked alongside, glancing back at the Utopia.

“You won't be able to do that for much longer—I suggest you get on now.”

“Is there nothing I can do?” Lycaste asked plaintively, starting to jog as the train picked up speed.

“No. I'm afraid not, Lycaste. Come on, it's comfortable up here.”

Lycaste climbed over the lip of the C and dangled his legs over the edge, through the bars. Rubus smiled at him briskly, clicking the end face of the cage closed. He shifted and sat cross-legged in the shade. “It's two days to Zielon, depending on connections, all right?”

Lycaste gazed out at the moving view, wondering what the man would say if he declared that no, it wasn't all right. Thin coppices of red and yellow trees rustled past in a blur of lawns as the tube sped up, the hairs on his legs trembling in the warm slip of air. In other circumstances the ride would be pleasant, even thrilling.

“If they …” Lycaste began, not sure how to phrase his question. “If it's decided that I'm guilty, that I did what they said I did, what happens then?”

Rubus rustled in some bags at his side without looking up. “I wouldn't worry about that just yet.”

Lycaste stared at him. “What does that mean?”

The Intermediary pulled a sheaf of papers from one of the bags at last. They flapped in the wind, folding over one another until he rolled them into a tube. Lycaste remembered his telescope.

“You have plenty to worry about before that time, Lycaste. You must keep your wits about you and write your statement. Here.” He passed Lycaste a blank piece and a small dipette pen.

Lycaste took them, gazing back at the passing world. The carriage was beginning to climb through a ravine of trees filled with chattering blue birds. Rubus waved at one until it took the hint and flew alongside. It grabbed the piece of paper scattered with dense writing that the Intermediary handed it and vanished above the train.