VIII

BRUDOER lay at ease in the third cell, studying the walls, which were much more extensively covered with letters and designs than those of the first two cells. Low on the wall, a circle of oval shapes alternated with images of small river clams, which Brudoer easily recognized. Above that, a row of land snails alternated with turtles, all aiming to the right. The third band showed the four familiar shapes of a changing butterfly—egg, caterpillar, pupa, and flying insect. Above that another band depicted Threerivers itself, followed by a troubled face, followed by a miniature image of the third cell, and finally a running man.

As Brudoer studied the troubled faces, he found each one was different. They seemed to show anger, frustration, worry, pain, moody introspection; each, sixth one showed the face covered by hands. Brudoer easily recognized himself in each of them. But the meanings of the whole eluded him. He also found that the four bands of letters were not in the same cipher as the ones in the previous cell.

As he studied them, the door ground and swung open, and the Ardena entered. She ordered the guard to close the door after him as he left. Brudoer stood to meet her, bowing courteously. The Ardena raised her eyebrows at that.

“It’s dim in here,” she said. “Come and sit below the window.” Once they were seated she looked at him closely, then sighed. “Well, young one, do you know of the people who fled when you were about to be whipped?”

“Yes, Ardena.”

“Five of them are dead, and four of the guardsmen who followed.”

“Dead? Nine dead? How?”

“Peshtak. They encountered Peshtak and were saved by the Pelbarigan guardsmen. They killed sixty-three Peshtak with their new weapon. Three Peshtak wounded survive at Pelbarigan.

“This is amazing.”

“Pelbarigan will not return the fugitives; three of the guardsmen who followed have also chosen to stay.” She looked at him. “You have started something, Brudoer. It may spell the end of Threerivers. Only you can stop it now.”

“Me, Ardena? What about the Protector?”

“She will not. Her party is strengthened because all who left disagreed with her. You must see that.”

“But if the Protector herself will not stop the destruction of the city, how can you expect a boy to?”

“If the boy is wiser than the Protector, he might.” Brudoer looked at the door. “Don’t worry,” the Ardena added. “My nephew is guard.”

“Did you bring the letters from the first cell for me?” The Ardena reached into her sleeve and withdrew a paper, then sat as Brudoer unfolded the paper and frowned, studying the letters.

Finally she said, “I assume that you will have time to do that after I leave. I wish I understood you.”

“If I tell you what I see in these walls so far, what would you do?”

“Do? What would you have me to do?”

“Nothing.”

“Then I will do nothing.”

Brudoer looked at her. “The rows of pictures have a pattern,” he said. “So far this is what I have seen. At the bottom are eggs and clams. Both of them are shells. Bival was right, you know, about the importance of shells. Above them are snails and turtles. These are creatures with shells, too, but they carry their shells. They can move. Next are the changes of a butterfly, which we all learn about. The first stage is also an egg, and then the caterpillar comes. Then in the cocoon the butterfly is in another sort of egg. Finally it emerges into a butterfly. That’s the first really free creature so far. It flies.

“The row above it I’m not sure of, but I think it repeats the pattern of the one below. Threerivers is the egg. Like those on the bottom row, it cannot move. Then comes the troubled face. I see my own in it. But it could be anyone put in these cells. Then comes the cell itself, which is like the cocoon stage of the butterfly. Finally the man runs free like the butterfly.”

The Ardena stared at the wall, at first humoring the boy, then seeing ramifications in what he said that he never could have seen. She started, rose, went to the wall and reached out to it, touching some of the figures. At last she asked, “How do you know you have read the top row in the right order? Perhaps Threerivers comes last.”

“No, Ardena. See the small dot in the lower right of the butterfly? It’s also on the blocks with the running man. I think that is a period. We know that the butterfly has to be in that same order, so I think that Craydor is telling us that I have to become free of Threerivers.”

The Ardena slumped back down. “The letters, then. I suppose they say something as well.”

“They did in the last cell. I haven’t been able to work it out here. There they said, ‘The purpose of this shell too is to enhance life. Therefore, be enhanced.’ I haven’t really come to understand that yet.”

The Ardena sat as if stunned, her eyes glancing across the walls of the cell. “Brudoer, do you know what the Protector has in mind now? She means for Pion, your own father, to take the whipping for you. You’ll just have to apologize, then, to be released.”

Brudoer jumped to his feet. “Father? My whipping? No. She can’t condemn an innocent person. Let her do it to me, not him. Damn her, the pile of old fish entrails. What can be done?”

“If you apologize before your father is beaten, then she assures me that the strokes will be very light.”

Brudoer seemed to lose all his stiffness. “I must not be taken from these cells,” he said.

“Then your father will be beaten.”

“I cannot allow that.” He looked up at her. “He’s my father,” he said, simply. “Maybe she’s won after all, then.” Brudoer began to cry, covering his face with his hands. The Ardena put her hands on his shoulders.

“Think it over, then. When I came down here I was sure what you should do. Now I’m not so sure,” she said, looking around the room. “Brudoer, you’re not to tell me what these letters mean, if you learn it. I’m grateful for your confidence, but this is your own job, not mine.”

“Tell my father everything, then, and ask him what to do. Please?”

The Ardena kissed the boy’s forehead and walked to the door, rapping on the barred window with her ring. As she slipped through the doorway, she waved at the boy, who waved back.

Brudoer returned to the letter code from the first cell and solved it easily. It was simple and innocuous, merely repeating the beliefs of Craydor as learned by all first-year schoolchildren. Why had Cradyor designed it that way? He could only speculate, but it seemed, after he thought of it, to fit her pattern. If a prisoner in the first cell solved it, he would feel it had been put there only in a kindly attempt to amuse and instruct him. If he were then put into the next cell, against traditional and lawful Pelbar rule, he would be prepared to work on that code by knowing of the first. It hadn’t worked that way for Brudoer, but he’d had to calm down and begin to reason again before patterns began to open to him. He thought it odd that Bival’s instruction was paying off now in a way she had never imagined it would. It seemed a supreme irony, somehow.

 

As night settled on the west bank of the Heart, over a half-ayas downriver from Jaiyan’s Station, Gamwyn built a fire, using a trick the old Siveri, Odsem, had taught him. All he needed was his folding knife for whittling and a tunic lace to make a bowstring. The rest he had taken from the dry underside of a dead tree. He felt proud of himself. In the morning he would start south after a fish breakfast. He was confident of finding fish in his new weirs because he had tended Jaiyan’s with good success. Well after dark he heard a slight sound toward the river, and, getting up, he found Misque with a bundle.

“Misque? Will he find out? What’s he doing? How is everyone staying warm?”

“They’ve built shelters of the boards. They’ll be all right. Here. Don’t worry about him. He half expected me to come here.”

“He won’t hurt you?”

“No. He knows that you didn’t put all the rot in his house. He’s still angry, but he can see through it now. He is angry with the organ now. He knows he neglected everything for it.”

“I’m sorry. I wish he could build it at Threerivers, indoors there. It would be a great contribution.”

Misque laughed, bitterly it seemed to Gamwyn, then handed him the bundle and turned to go. He took her arm. “Can’t we kiss good-bye?”

“No, Gamwyn. Let me alone.” She turned to go. Gamwyn simply stood, watching her as she slid her feet out onto the wet ice. She stopped and turned, then came back and put her arms around him, holding him tight against her. “I wish… I wish…”

“When I come back, where will you be?”

“Come back? Will you, then? Do you think you really can? If you do, I’ll be on the far side of a lot of awfulness.” She pushed him away and left, walking out into the darkness.

“Take care,” he called out after her.

 

Brudoer wiped the sweat from his face after his exercises. He was in a quandary. He had less than two weeks to work it out now, and he hadn’t even decoded the message on the wall. Perhaps Udge would win. He looked again at the wall, again used the paper the Ardena had given him. The letters formed three groups, separated by stars:

TM. TOTIWPCMAEHFIHSHLVADELRWDOEOOEYTEIVIMOSES. EISTPNLDINI * HIUTLAHSHOSEUSTNHTLOYNFLCDOGN.SMRTDRMEHULEHAHGNMODGMLW * EHRNELIIHDSRTISEEE.MLBAOIEOPN, SAAOHNISRFSLLSRTEIYENAL *

He worked at it once again. He realized already that this was a much more difficult cipher than those he had already deciphered. No clues flashed into his vision this time. However, after many trials he noticed that the first letter of each group formed THE. Was that a start? After all, there was another THE in the last group. He tried the next three. MIH. Perhaps it was an accident. What then if Craydor was working this cipher from both ends, as she had the last one? Brudoer decided at last to assume that. This would mean that every other letter in each group would be every third letter in the message, though he would have eventually to work from both ends to get it all.

He worked much of the day, the letters blurring before his eyes again and again. At times he forgot what he was doing and had to start all over again. But at last what came out of the letters read; THE TURTLE WHICH HAS SHUT ITS SHELL MAY BE FORCED OPEN. SO MAY THE RIVER MUSSELS. A RIGHTMINDED MAN WILLINGLY OPENS THE SHELL OF HIS MIND TO REASON, GOODWILL AND LOVE. THEN HIS FREEDOM IS PLAIN TO HIM.

Brudoer’s heart sank. All that work and worry, and it seemed to mean nothing. But perhaps this too was Craydor’s challenge. He was being tested by the difficulty of the cipher; she didn’t want anyone merely good at ciphers to understand her. He had to look further. But as the days passed, nothing came to him. At last he walked slowly around the room examining the reliefs of the turtles and shells, testing each with his fingers. He felt nothing.

Several more days passed, and he sank into a desperate, almost frantic state. He knew he had to calm himself. Something ought to be plain. After his meal one late afternoon, he walked around the room again, tapping at the reliefs with his spoon. One turtle rang differently. He tapped again, carefully. Yes, he was sure of it. Carefully he worked the handle of the spoon around the stone, but it seemed tightly in place. He continued over a quarter period from sundown to high night, but it was no use. It was a typical, mortarless Pelbar joint.

He gave up, then lay back in his bed musing. After high night, when his lamp was removed, he recalled the message once more, ITS SHELL MAY BE FORCED OPEN. Perhaps it was not the whole stone, but only the shell. He had seen nothing. He groped toward the wall in the pitch blackness, but, unable to find the right stone, he gave up until morning.

When the daylight filtered down through the thin window of his cell, he again went to the stone, and with care hooked the handle of the spoon here and there into the shell of the turtle. Working around the edge of the plastron, he felt a slight grating, and at last the fitted piece worked its way loose and came out in his hand. Within the stone lay a large metal box with a hinged lid. Brudoer reached in and took it out. Beneath the box lay a small roll of the seven essays of Craydor, which he had been taught as a child. It was crisp and its edges were crumbling, but he found he could unroll it enough to read it.

But his immediate attention went to the metal box. It, too, was shell-shaped. The curved lid was plain and dull on top, but the edges were finely decorated with a motif of turtle and mussel shells. The sides of the box curved down and around to complete the strange shell shape, which Brudoer recognized as that of the Protector’s Broad Tower again—the same as Bival’s shell, which he had helped to break. Strange feelings blew through him, but in his eagerness to study the box, he stifled them. It seemed reasonable that he could open it as he had the wall box, so he put his thumbnail under one of the turtle shells and lifted. Nothing gave. He continued around. As he tested the third turtle, the lid lifted.

Inside lay a gold bracelet of incredible beauty, decorated with the motifs of the cell, turtle and mussel shells, the stages of the developing butterfly, and the running man. Brudoer lifted it from the box. A note written on thick parchment fluttered out with it. Brudoer took it oyer below the window and smoothed it out. In faint, brown ink was written:

This bracelet is for him who has been in all of the first three cells for a full term of punishment. Read the inscription inside it, put it on and do not remove it. You will know how to put it on. May it bless you in your quest for freedom. Plainly you have suffered by now. Likely you will continue to suffer. Please replace this note in the stone. Give the box as a gift, unopened. Do not tell its secret. Do not tell the secret of the stone unless forced. You are learning what I had to learn. Design is not complete unless it includes all within its scope. There is no healthy body if the eye, the hand, the liver, the stomach are denied. All the parts must be cared for. Take my love with you and remember that you will have to bear up under many things. Remember too that you have only begun to learn. Continue.

Craydor, Founder of Threerivers

Brudoer held the note a long time, trying to memorize it. Then he knew it was nearly time for the guardsmen to bring his water for washing. He put the note back into the stone, replacing the turtle and hiding the box arid bracelet in his bedding.

Almost immediately, the door bolt ground back and the massive door swung open. Three guardsmen entered with warm water, soap, and towels. As usual, they stood silently as he washed himself and poured the water down the drain. But as he handed back the bucket and basin, one said, “Haven’t you caused enough trouble? You would do well to apologize to Bival and stop this viciousness.”

Brudoer looked at him. “I still have to bear up under many things,” he said enigmatically.

“You little snot. You will apologize or it won’t go well with you. Or your father. We have the beating of him. We can manage it so he will feel it cut to his ribs. Don’t forget that.”

Brudoer blanched. “This isn’t Craydor’s way,” he said.

“Nor Craydor’s time. We’ve lost guardsmen because of you. The city is in turmoil. It’s going to stop in two days. Is that understood?”

The door, which had stood ajar all the time, moved slightly, and the Ardena and Warret entered. The guardsmen started and the one shouted, “Out. This is guardsmen’s work. You were not given permission. Out now.”

“Yes, we will leave for now,” said the Ardena. “Nevertheless, we heard.”

The guardsman smiled grimly. “You did? And where is your sword?”

The Ardena said nothing, but turned and left.

Again the guardsman turned to Brudoer. “You see? The trouble continues. Remember what I said. Remember if you have any regard for your father.” They turned and left, slamming the heavy door behind them.

Brudoer sank down and found himself sweating. The thin shaft of sun moved slowly across the stones of the room, but he barely moved. Finally he stirred himself and went to his bed, uncovering the bracelet. In the sunlight he looked at it and read the inscription inside, which said, “This bracelet is the gift of Craydor to someone who has been in all of the first three cells for a full term of punishment—proof of his misuse by authority. It is for ho one else. The rich and powerful will seek to have it, but if they gain it from him, it will be by force and injustice alone. Craydor, Founder of Threerivers.”

It was too small a bracelet to slip over the hand, but Brudoer again put his nail under one of the small turtles on the design and snapped it open, slipping it on and shutting it. It was impossible to see how it fastened. It might have been forged on his wrist. He would have to hide it, he thought, when they took him from his cell. But then he remembered the. note. Craydor had commanded that it be put on and not taken off. Well, that was fine for her, but Brudoer knew it would cause him endless trouble.

But then the bracelet had its inscription. It was his. Brudoer could see that Craydor had something in mind. He would keep it and wear it. But what about his father? The boy again sank into thought, wondering what would ever happen to them.

As he mused over this, the guardsman reported to Udge in the Broad Tower. “He seems as unrepentant as ever, Protector.”

“You did mention again what would happen to his father.”

“Yes, Protector. He recoiled at that. But then he said, ‘I still have to bear up under many things.’ The little snot.”

“He said that?” Bival interposed.

“Yes, Southcounsel.”

“It’s from Craydor’s fourth essay.”

“Enough, Bival. Yes, yes—the one about what would happen to Threerivers if we ever stop respecting one another. I’ve heard far too much about Craydor lately. I assume the boy learned that in his schooling, as all do.”

“It makes me uneasy.”

“You needn’t be. You have your responsibility in this, but the trouble was surely present before you lost your precious shell.” Udge turned to the guardsman and dismissed him. He bowed and left. Again the Protector turned to her four quadrant counsels and her crony, Dardan.

“This next few days may well be the ultimate crisis for the foreseeable future. I have sifted the guard and determined the absolutely faithful ones. There is rebellion abroad. This city will operate only when the supremacy of the Protector is unquestioned. It is like a beehive and will swarm if a new queen is bred in it. We have already had some swarming, but it has served to bleed off the drones. Perhaps a few more will go, but we cannot afford a large exodus. The boy’s father will not budge. I would welcome the chance to cow him with a good beating. The boy is as stiff, and an apology from him may serve as well.

“But we don’t want a reconciliation at this point. We need to stifle the opposition, to overwhelm them. I know I have the support of the family heads. Too many have suffered through this crisis. They can see a rebellion and know how to deal with it.”

“But Protector,” Bival said, “Craydor herself said that reconciliation is the best—”

“I don’t need to be told what Craydor said, Bival. If you should ever become Protector, you will understand that Craydor is all right in her place. When you have opposition, you find some statement of the founder that will support you. Then you honey it all over the opposition and go on with business. That is the chief use of Craydor at this point. You have to remember that she herself said that no generation can rest on the genius of the former ones. Each must rely on its own, because no generation is stronger than those who are in it. Craydor is fine, and undoubtedly she was a genius herself, but we must progress. She isn’t around to direct us. Now. The guard is doubled. All are standing double watch and will continue to until well after the punishment. I have heard of murmurings among the fuel-bearers, the mushroom-culture workers, the water-lifters, and even the beekeepers. But they are only workers and it is only talk.

“We will keep it there, and stifle even that. This city has always operated well because there was no crack in it, no chink for a mouse to get in or heat to escape. We’ll see that it continues. Prepare your quadrants. We have only two days now. You may go.”

After the counsels filed out, Udge called for more tea and sat brooding. She was less satisfied with Bival than ever. Though the Southcounsel had started the trouble, she was not working in unison with the Protector. Udge saw the woman would have to be replaced. She would ask Dardan to move into the south quadrant immediately so that she’d be an established resident in time for the next election.

For her part, Bival went to the fourth essay of Craydor again, and read the passage Brudoer had quoted and the surrounding material. The goodwill and wisdom of the founder began to flood her spirit, and she saw increasingly the abomination of the present situation. Things were intolerable. She would try to see the boy. She left her room and descended the long winding stairs to the base of the city, stopping to get the Ardena’s nephew, Arlin, to accompany her. As she entered the anteroom of the ice caves, she came upon a small meeting of men seated on the floor, playing dice, each with a small lamp. She paused. They looked at her silently. Warret was one of them.

“Warret,” she began.

“Later. I am in the middle of a game.”

“I’ll wait.”

The men looked at him. He stood and dusted himself. “Well?”

“Come with me. Only a few sunwidths. I wish to see the boy for a moment. But I wish to talk with you first.”

Hostility hung in the air like the smoke of wet leaves. Warret gestured to the men, then walked aside with her, out under the arches that led to the row of cells.

“This has gone too far, Warret. It is out of hand. I need no apology. I want to draw the city together again. I—”

“You picked a strange way to do it.”

“I was wrong. I know it. I know I have a temper. But now I see that all along Udge has seized every advantage in the hope of gaining complete control over the city. It’s only in theory, though. She doesn’t know how false she is. She believes herself right. Can you keep them from an open break? We must. We owe it to all the history of the city.”

Warret said nothing. She reached out to him. “Come with me to see the boy,” she said. “I can go. I can bring you. I have the right by law.”

“It will change nothing. As you say, it has gone too far. If they take Pion, people will die.”

“Die? You mean that they will fight the guardsmen?”

“No. Just that they will die.”

“Will you come up with me again?”

“What for?”

“It’s time for reconciliation.”

“Only when things are set right.”

“May this not help?”

“I doubt it, but I will come see Brudoer with you.”

* * *

Brudoer was so engrossed in the roll of Craydor that he did not at first hear the voices at his door, or the clang of its opening. But as Warret and Bival entered, he stood, still holding the scroll in both hands. When he saw Bival, he drew back. Arlin carried a chair for her, which he set down opposite the boy. The Southcounsel sat down and composed herself.

“Brudoer, the whole city is in great tension. Will you not apologize to me? For the sake of Threerivers? In public? I no longer care about apologies myself. It’s for the city. I beg it of you. I am unsure of what will happen if you don’t.”

“No.”

“But why? Are you so arrogant?”

The boy hesitated. “No. Maybe. I don’t know. It’s my mission now.”

“Your mission? Who gave you a mission?”

Brudoer longed to say, “Craydor. Craydor herself gave it to me.” But he said nothing. Finally, he held up the roll. “I’ve been reading the essay on government. I think that Craydor says that you cannot whip my father instead of me. Here: ‘Punishment must in every case fit the fault. If it is to be inexact, it must be merciful, not harsh. Harshness simply breeds opposition. Every care must be taken to identify the criminal and not to punish the innocent, for no society which punishes recklessly will be able to maintain the internal cohesion that it must have to survive.’”

“We all know that passage, boy. It has been determined by the Protector that your father is responsible for your rebellion. He raised you. He has not helped. He also has a rebellious nature.”

“Then if you agree with that, I have no more to say to you. Do what you want to. I can take it, any of it.”

Bival stood, her fury rising in her again. Warret put his hand on her shoulder. “Bival is seeking reconciliation, Brudoer. You’re not helping her.”

“You would say that? You, whom she has also wronged? You heard what the guardsman said. What of that? Don’t you see we are under a tyranny—a fist with a club calls itself a government?”

“You are a child. I am afraid myself of what’s happening. We can’t let the whole city fall apart. If they won’t pull back, maybe we have to.”

Brudoer sank down, feeling a sudden despair. “No one will obey any of the laws. It’s all here. I’ve been reading it. What’s happened? Nothing is the way Craydor said it should be.”

Bival thought to say, “Craydor is an idealist, but we have to do what must be done,” then as the thought took her, she realized that was Udge’s view. Instead she went to Brudoer and took the roll from his hand, gently, seeing it was old, and sat back down to read the essay. They were the words of an idealist, but a very canny one, and it seemed to proceed so limpidly, so reasonably, that reading it calmed her. “Underlying all government must be a mutual regard by each element of society for every other element,” Craydor’s words read. She came to a familiar passage: “Just as the body staunches its own wounds through properties in the blood, so the society …” She stopped. The word “properties” was interlineated. Below it, crossed out, was “elements.” Bival uttered a light cry and stood up.”

“What?”

“This is in Craydor’s own hand. It’s Craydor’s copy. Look.” She held it out to Warret, who studied it. “Where did you get it? Did someone actually take the original copy from the library vaults for you? Steal it?”

“No. Nobody stole it. It’s mine.” He said it so quietly that she paused. “However,” he added, “I suppose you’ll take it from me. I’ll not be seen as worthy of what has been given me. Right? It must be someone else’s. Perhaps so. I have a present for you. I owe it to you, I think. It’s not an apology—just a restitution. You may have it if you leave me my roll. Is that agreed?”

“This is precious. It will be destroyed here. You can always have a copy of it, just by asking the guard. I’ll sees that you do.”

“Then you will not leave me my property?”

“Such treasures belong to the city, boy. You must know that the real point of the essays is the ideas.”

“If you thought that,” Warret said, “you would let the boy have his roll. Come. Take it from him and give him a copy. Let him keep his present. After all, he’s only a male, isn’t he. You’ve learned nothing after all, have you.”

Bival’s anger blazed up. To leave a precious manuscript in prison with a boy was insane. Then she sagged back into the chair. What did it matter? She saw Warret’s logic and his point. “Keep it. And keep your present.”

“You don’t mind, then, if I give the present to Warret? It is really owed him more than you.”

“Do as you please with it. This was to no purpose. I will go. Warret, come.”

Awaiting Brudoer’s gift, Warret didn’t move. Brudoer took it from his bedding, brought it over, and placed it in the man’s worn hands. “It is mine to give to whomsoever I wish,” the boy said. Warret looked at it and uttered a low murmur.

In the flickering light of the lamp, the dull metal form of the Broad Tower shell and its precisely wrought frieze took Warret’s eye with its beauty. “Where—” he began, then checked himself. “Thank you. It’s beautiful. I’ve never had anything so beautiful.”

“It’s for you because you accepted it. I believe Craydor held it in her own hands.”

At that, Bival turned and looked, then cried out and ran to it, taking it from Warret’s hands. Again it was the shell, mocking her. “My shell,” she murmured.

“Your shell?”

“This is important. Don’t you see? Look. It—” She turned to see the two staring at her. “I—Will you let me study it, Warret? It will be yours. I only want …” Again she felt the surge of anger in her—and a sudden desire to smash the box. The other two saw this, but neither moved. Then she handed it back to Warret. She sat down. “I don’t understand. Why am I always to be thwarted?”

“Thwarted? It was offered to you, and you refused it with anger. You’ll be able to look at it anytime you want to. You’re beginning to understand that others also preserve some inherent rights, even though you rule.”

“Rule? All I have ever done is serve the city.”

“And gain the credit. Many have served and gained nothing.”

“Here,” said Brudoer, holding out the roll. “You may have Craydor’s writing. Please give me a copy.”

“No. You—Well, I will put it in the library. I will bring a copy. Yes.”

“You may have it if you will keep it.”

Bival looked at him, then took it. “This changes nothing, though,” Brudoer added. “I will not apologize. However, I would like to ask you a favor.”

“You will not apologize but you wish a favor? Boy, I am more bewildered by the moment. Everything is on its head.”

“I am only a boy, Southcounsel, but I have had time to think. I think things ought to be on their heads. I’ll tell you my favor, and you may help grant it as you see fit.” Brudoer then hesitated, but added, “No, I won’t ask it. Things will have to work out as they will.” As he had been going to ask Bival to be sure he was put into the fourth cell, he had been unable to. He knew he had manipulated the council and Protector to get himself moved, but that depended. only on their severe response, their willingness to punish a boy for words, and words that were no doubt provoked by undue severity.

He longed to tell somebody of what he had learned so far, but he knew he should not. The city may have it within itself to heal its own spirit, and he should not interfere.

They palmed good-bye, in a wholly different atmosphere, and the couple left. Arlin shut the door and fastened the long bolt, saluted the door guard, and left.

Warret and Bival found the men still sitting in a circle, awaiting Warret’s return. “Look. See what Brudoer gave me.” Warret held out the shell. Bival winced as it went around the circle, held tenderly by the workmen’s rough hands.

“I cleaned that room,” one man said. “These things are what are on the walls. It must have been in there all the time. I saw them when I scrubbed the walls for the boy’s coming.” Bival started. She had never explored the cells, as so few ever went there. She reached for the shell and took it, turning it over and over, and wondered. Then she handed it back.

“These patterns also are found around the walls of the Protector’s private inner room,” she said. “I’ve cleaned that room, as only counsels are privileged to do. But they are there.” The men fell silent, staring, awkward. Somehow they all saw that Craydor had connected the Protector and the prison in her mind.

“He gave me this roll of Craydor,” she said to them. “Craydor wrote it herself in her own handwriting.” A man reached for it. She hesitated, then gave it to him. He looked at it, holding it close to his lamp, then passed it around. Each man took it gently, then passed it on. Finally it returned to her.

“Well, Southcounsel. What’s going to happen now?” an old man asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t know. Whatever, I fear it. Warret, will you come with me?”

“Not now. When this is all over.”

“Take care of the shell box.”

“I will. Ason, will you accompany my wife back to her room?” A hulking young stoneworker stood and walked to Bival, and the group watched them ascend the winding stairway.

“What good will it do, Warret?”

“For the city? Little, I think. Our source tells us Udge means to replace Bival anyway. But for me? I think some good will come of it.” Warret smiled slightly, then added, “After this is all over, perhaps.”

 

In her room, Bival found the Ardena waiting for her. At first they eyed each other coldly, but Bival held out the roll of Craydor to her visitor. “The boy, Brudoer, gave it to me. Look at it. It’s in Craydor’s own hand.”

The Ardena started, then looked at it closely under the lamp. At last she put it down. “So he has been reconciled to you. He has apologized then? This is all going to end?”

“No. He didn’t apologize. He said he would refuse to. I need no apology now. This has cut too deeply. Even if I lose my place, I don’t care anymore. I am afraid for the whole city.”

“I’ve also been to see the boy, Bival.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Yes, the Protector has her spies. I think you must insist that the boy take his own lashing, and that his father not be lashed in his stead.”

Bival whitened. “The boy? You want the boy to be lashed? I—”

“It’s like this. As I sense it, the men are outraged by any lashing, but far more at the lashing of Pion, because, after all, he has done nothing. The boy did attack you. And he has insulted the Protector. He can be given three more lashes and the rest put off for the sake of humanity. If I know Udge, she will simply continue his incarceration. She wants to crush him utterly. Brudoer can bear a few lashes at a time, but the Protector must not be allowed to hurt him too deeply. Besides, if he is to be released, we must give the Protector time to do it through forbearance, not complete victory. The atmosphere of the city depends on her learning this, if she is to learn it.”

“But the lashing.”

“How much worse to lash Pion. I feel you must call a council meeting for tomorrow. Insist. Craydor was explicit on not punishing the innocent.”

Bival thought a long time. “I know the men are planning something. If I do this, what will happen?”

“I have no control over them. But I can talk to them. I will ask them to forgo violence. I will tell them it is Brudoer’s wish.”

“Then?”

“I don’t know.”

“I will tell you this. The remaining guardsmen are generally loyal to Udge. She is anticipating trouble. She will not spare the citizens if they begin any trouble.”

“All right. We surmised as much.” They embraced briefly and parted, both somewhat bewildered.

 

Far in the north quadrant, three women were having a late tea.

“Ossi,” said the hostess, “it seems clear that we must back the Protector, extreme as she may seem to you. She is our only hope of reestablishing the old order. All of this change!”

“I didn’t want to see it in my lifetime. Before the peace … well, things seldom went so distressingly awry.”

“Quite,” Finge said. “This tea is bitter.”

“Yes. I agree.” The hostess, Prope, rang a small bell, and an ancient, bent man slowly came from the anteroom. “The tea, Mall. It’s bitter.” The old man bowed, remaining silent, looking at them stupidly. “Well, Mall. Make new. You must have hot water.”

“No. No hot water.”

Prope shook her head. “You may prepare some then.”

He bowed slightly and turned, saying, “I shall put more honey in it this time.” He left, rubbing his knobbed knuckles.

“I recall,” Finge said, “the old midwinter festivals, with the choir, the rows of shining heads, the best purple tunics, the lacework, even the workmen scrubbed and agreeable. Everything has sadly faded away.”

“But we must stand by the Protector. That has always saved us. Udge may be somewhat new, but she has had full training. I have confidence in her.”

“Quite. Where is the tea?”

 

At the first quarter of the morning, the Southcounsel called the full council meeting, as was her right. Udge objected stiffly, but knew the right was a check in the law against supreme power, and she had not yet been successful in removing or circumventing it. She convened the council with her guardsmen thumping for silence.

“We have been called into session by the Southcounsel,” she began. “It is the opinion of Bival that the boy, Brudoer, should take his own punishment, rather than our bestowing it on the sturdier body of his father, who undoubtedly is largely responsible for the boy’s aberrations due to the child’s deficient upbringing. But first, to keep proportion and decorum, I will call for two sunwidths of silence and prayer for citizen Prope, who suddenly died in her sleep last night, without known cause. Prope is well known to you all as the retired head of ceramic manufacture and wax products. She was found as if asleep this morning by her servant, Mall. We will hold a memorial service for her this evening.”

A general murmur arose from most of the council, who had not heard. Bival was irked because Udge was diverting attention from the matter at hand. What did she hope to gain from such tactics?

At last the sunclock announced that the time for silence had passed, and Udge asked Bival to speak. She rose, viewing the council, who sat on three sides of the hall, with their hair in two tiers, save the quadrant counsels, who bound it up in three. She saw impassive, quizzical faces, somewhat withdrawn and disturbed by her.

She dropped her eyes, beginning, “Members of the council, I realize that I am the unwitting cause of our present troubles, though I believe that they have had a somewhat wider and older origin. I have thought over the decision to punish Pion in place of the boy tomorrow. I have concluded that this is a mistake, even though it has had the highest origins, both in wisdom and desire for harmony. The desire has been to give the punishment to a body more able to bear the lash. The reasoning is that Pion, being the boy’s father, is certainly the cause of his attitudes. He is known himself to be a person of unwavering tendencies and not one to maintain strict proprieties.

“However, in the present state of tension among the workers, I believe they would take this as an injustice. They know and have heard Brudoer’s vile tongue. They cannot defend it. They can hardly oppose his punishment. If the lash is too severe for him, I recommend that only three of his six remaining lashes be administered, and that, as before, he be allowed to proceed to the next—the fourth—cell, as Udge has decided to be proper, until his healing progresses enough to allow him to take the rest. Those could, of course, be commuted if the boy is genuinely repentant. Otherwise, I hardly see how we can release such a mad creature into the freedom of our city again.”

“Are you attempting to draw out his punishment, then, out of fear for yourself, Bival?” the Protector asked.

“No. I had not thought of that, Protector, though I can see that you might reasonably suppose it. There is another side to the issue. Craydor has expressly written, ‘While punishment must be merciful, it must also be immediate and exact. Waywardness in punishment will never produce a sound city.’ She also writes, ‘Every care must be taken to identify the criminal and not to punish the innocent, for no society which punishes recklessly will be able to maintain the internal cohesion that it must have to survive. If the right hand stabs the left with a knife, then it does not have the use of that hand.’ While the Protector has determined that Pion is the real cause of Brudoer’s guilt, and I do not want to gainsay that, still it may easily be seen that the working population itself will not view the matter in that light. It’s a matter too subtle for them. I fear rebellion. Already the men gather in small knots, and stand aside when we approach. I feel we must not be overly soft, but we ought to be merciful as well.”

Bival looked around at faces either reserved or wondering, occasionally hostile. Then she bowed to the Protector and sat down. Udge looked at the full council with a slow swing of her head. “Is there any commentary?”

The Ardena rose and said, “Protector, for once I find myself in agreement with the Southcounsel. I have only one contention. Several days ago I was in the base level of the city, and seeing the door to the third cell open, I investigated. I overheard some of the guardsmen threatening Brudoer with severe harm to his father and perhaps himself if he didn’t comply. I believe the guardsmen must be kept in line and instructed to use moderation.”

Udge raised her eyebrows. So the Ardena agreed to the just punishment of Brudoer. What did that mean? Was she part of an active opposition? Udge felt uneasy. What the Ardena supported probably ought to be opposed. But perhaps she had won, after all. It was not a bad plan, then, to have proposed the punishment of Pion. Perhaps all would draw together behind the proper rule of law. And if Brudoer remained recalcitrant, beyond the whippings, he could be excluded as an incorrigible. Surely that was reasonable. Or she could keep him on in the cells.

“Agreed,” said Udge. “It shall be as Bival requests unless I hear any further objections.” Udge was greeted with silence. The Protector’s guardsmen rapped to signal the end of the meeting. Udge rose and retired through the Protector’s door. Several of the council noted that Finge did not rise. One nudged her. The old woman slumped over, and was sustained by her neighbors.

“I … I …” she murmured. Guardsmen were summoned to take her to the infirmary.

 

That night, Bival sent Arlin for Warret and met him in the darkened Judgment Room. He entered on the guardsman’s arm, unwillingly, and stood opposite his wife. “So you did it. All that talk of goodwill, and what you did was to arrange to have the boy whipped. You and Udge. And you made it look like mercy.”

“Trust me, Warret.”

“Trust you? You’ve played me for a fool. You know what you are. An unkept promise. Like all women.”

Bival turned away, almost thought to leave, then said, “Perhaps you saw a promise in your own mind—one that was never really made.”

Warret laughed bitterly. “It’s the same in the end. To me. It’s a story told by an old servant maundering on. Wind howling in the towers, inarticulate except for its threat. That’s what you are to me.”

Bival put her hands to her face, then dropped them. “The Ardena … agrees with me, I think. It is the best for the boy. I don’t see any other way. You must believe me.

“The Ardena? Even she has betrayed us. She found out we meant to defend Pion.”

“You did? You agreed to that?”

“Of course. I don’t plan to be led around by the nose anymore.”

“This is sedition.”

“Sedition against injustice is perhaps just.”

“Perhaps. Warret, I see you have gone too far. Listen. Please listen. If anything comes of this punishment tomorrow, it will be bloody. The guardsmen are ready. Please. Do not resist. If you plan to do anything, just wait a few days. If you’re going to leave, do it then. Udge will think she has won. She can’t watch everyone all the time. No one will be hurt then—if you plan it right.”

“So that’s your strategy. Get us to wait, then when we prepare, you’ll be waiting for us, and you’ll have had your little party with the lash. No distractions.”

“No. No strategy. I know you’ll do nothing for me anymore. I’ve given that up. Please go to the Ardena. I’m sure Arlin will take you. there. Ask her. Tell her what I said. If you’re going to leave, just wait three days or so. Please.”

“Leave? You want me to leave? What do you have in mind?”

“Nothing. I don’t stand to gain in any way. You must see that. Isn’t it obvious? By calling the council meeting this morning I know I have alienated Udge. I expect to be replaced soon enough. I may leave myself. There’s nothing here now. Is there? Threerivers is empty—a body full of sickness, feeding on itself.”

Warret looked at her. Was she sincere? What was she up to? “I’ll talk to the Ardena,” he said and turned to leave. Bival motioned to Arlin, who accompanied him.

 

In the morning, Brudoer heard the cell door open. It was the guardsmen ready for him. He made no attempt to resist, but simply mounted the broad stairway in the middle of the body of guardsmen, watched by faces at each landing. As before he emerged onto the terrace. It was still winter, but he could see the channel clear in the river far below, though the banks were still bound with ice. As they brought the boy out onto the terrace, an eagle, cruising the bluffs, floated overhead, then veered aside and glided well out over the river. Brudoer watched it, saw it mount on a gust, teetering, mastering the air, free and alone, until he was roughly jerked around to face the Protector above.

“You will have time enough to watch birds when you have apologized and received your punishment, boy. Now, have you an apology for Bival?”

“I need no apology, Protector,” Bival blurted out. “I wish all this to end.”

Udge glared at her. “I understand your concern, South-counsel,” she said benignly. “However, we are dealing with a matter of law and justice here, and with a very difficult person. We cannot let him loose among us unreconciled to our ways. Now, boy. What do you say?”

Brudoer laughed. “I say you are the remnants of old vomit, occupied only by maggots. You mistake your ordure for ideas. Your breath is a pile of fish entrails. The vile ugliness of your entire being might make one mistake you for rich fertilizer, but you would kill any garden.” Brudoer paused. Why were the guardsmen not stopping him? He had run out of the insults he’d planned. But he added, “You are an offense to justice, to mercy for the young. Craydor would have hated you and thrown you out of here a long time ago.”

“Is that all, boy? I’m glad to see you are on speaking terms with Craydor and know what she would do. Have you no more insults to add to your offenses? Perhaps you would like to compare my speech to something.”

“Your speech? It’s the rumbling belly of an old wild cow. An odorous wind, Protector.”

“Indeed, that is good, but somewhat of a cliché. What else? Surely you have prepared further provocations.”

Brudoer looked down. “No, Protector. Will they not do? I had expected to be gagged before now.”

“That is all, then?”

“All? Isn’t it enough? We all know that you’re destroying this city. I’m only a boy, and I see it well enough. You and this ghastly crew of old women with their minds all gone to ashes.”

“Ah. Yes. And have you anything to say about them?” Brudoer looked around on rows of severe faces. “Only that you are all mindless. Nothing I ever say will make any difference to you. Your minds are made up about everything and are about as changeable as the fossil shells in the bluffs. You obviously think you’re made fit to rule simply because of your sex. That’s absurd.”

“You are articulate for a child, Brudoer, but surely you cannot evoke Craydor and still claim that men should rule.

Perhaps you would prefer the Shumai way, where the men rule.”

“Of course not. Any idea that being a man or a woman will make somebody better able to rule is silly. You have to look at the person.”

“Indeed. Well, friend of Craydor, now that you have spoken nonsensically but at least civilly, are you ready to retract your insults?”

“No. I have thought of another. You never had a child, Protector, because you are such a loathsome old bag of guts that no man would ever look at you. You couldn’t even force them into it.”

Udge’s hands tightened on the arms of her chair. “Yes. I see,” she said, “Enough of this, then. Guards, give him all six strokes. I see no need to prolong this. Then we will return him to the cells and after thirty days exclude him.”

“No,” the Ardena shouted. “No. The council has decided.”

“Do I hear any other objections, now that you have seen him again?” Her eyes swept across the rows of severe but troubled faces. No one said anything. “Proceed.”

The guardsmen stripped Brudoer’s tunic and undershift off. His gold bracelet glittered in the winter sun. A guardsman looked at it. “Protector, it’s a gold bracelet. Very fine.”

“Gold? Take it off. Let me see it.”

The guardsman struggled with the bracelet for some time as all waited. Brudoer began to shiver in the wind. “Boy,” the Protector called. “Remove it for the guardsman.”

“It’s mine. It stays where it is.”

“Then break it off with your short-sword, guardsman.”

“It’s Craydor’s work. You’ll break that like everything else you touch of hers—her city, her people,” Brudoer shouted.

“Craydor’s? And you say it is yours?” Udge laughed. “Remove it, guardsman.”

The Woman looked at it closely. “It is very beautiful, Protector. It may be Craydor’s work. It’s extremely fine. I am reluctant to destroy it.”

The Protector frowned. “Brudoer—I will give you your choice. You may remove it so we may see it. If it is really yours, we will return it. You see, you have many witnesses. If you don’t, we will destroy it.”

“I will remove it, Protector, if you agree to have Bival read the inscription to the assembled council.”

Udge frowned again. What did this mean? “Cilia will read it,” she said, shooting a look at the compliant West-counsel.

Brudoer hesitated. Turning, he looked at the Ardena. She nodded slightly. Twisting, Brudoer deftly removed the bracelet and snapped it together before anyone could see how he did it. He handed it to the guardsman, who passed it up to the Westcounsel. She held it up to the light, and, squinting, read it: “This bracelet is the gift of Craydor to someone who has been in all of the first three cells for a full term of punishment—proof of his misuse by authority. It is for no one else. The rich and powerful will seek to have it, but if they gain it from him, it will be by force and injustice alone. Craydor, Founder of Threerivers.”

Cilia turned to see hatred burn from the Protector’s eyes. Udge reached out for the bracelet, took it, and held it to the light. “This is a poor time for such a joke, Cilia. It says no such thing. You should be ashamed. It says nothing. This is some trick. How would he get it? He has confederates. It must be from the museum.”

“Let me see it, Protector,” the Ardena shouted, across the crowd. “Let us all see it.”

There was a moment of silence, then Cilia said, her voice trembling, “I was only joking. It says nothing.”

“You stinking convenience!” Brudoer shouted. “You know you read it right. You know that’s what it says.”

“Enough!” the Protector said. “We have had enough. Tie him, guards.”

Brudoer was wrestled up against the wooden rack that stretched his arms. The guardsman took up the whip and as the drum sounded, lashed it across Brudoer’s back. The boy grunted. The drum sounded again, and the lash stung again across Brudoer’s bleeding back. Brudoer said nothing, but as the third lash fell, he let out a wild yell of pain and anguish that seemed endless. The guardcaptain hesitated and turned to look at the Protector, who didn’t move. The drum thumped again, but the guardcaptain was staring over the Protector’s head.

“Guardcaptain, do your duty,” the Protector said.

“Fire,” the guardcaptain shouted. “The Broad Tower is on fire.” She was looking over the heads of the crowd. The guardsman at the drum whirled and said, “Good Aven, it is. Guardsman, sound the alarm.” All stood and turned. Udge saw thick smoke pouring from the windows of her private tower.

“Guardsmen, dismiss this body! Return the boy back to prison. Quick. The city must be saved.”

“The city?” the Ardena shouted. “The city, you old leak in the roof? You. You mean you, just the way you stole the boy’s bracelet for yourself.”

Udge turned toward her momentarily, but hurried off, anxious about her things.

The guardcaptain looked at the drum guard. “Come. Help me take the boy down. I think he’s had enough now, anyway!”

As they worked on the ropes, the drum guard asked, “Was there writing in the bracelet?”

The guardcaptain grimaced. “Yes,” she said.

 

That night, Rotag came to the fourth cell to bathe Brudoer again. “We can talk,” she said. “The guard is one of ours.”

“Ours? Ahhhhhhh. Don’t. Not there.”

“We have to clean it. Can’t you apologize? Must you drag us all through this?”

“What does Father say?”

“Father? Listen to me,” she said, shaking him slightly. Brudoer drew in his breath. “I’m sorry. Listen. You are tearing the city apart.”

“I? That old rot Udge is, Look. She even stole my bracelet. With all she owns.”

“Yours? What was that story about an inscription? Where did you get it?”

“In the third cell. You will not tell? Craydor left it there for anyone smart enough to find it.”

“The inscription?”

“It was there just the way Cilia read it.”

“I don’t understand. Hold still.”

“What about the fire? What was that?”

“A fire. Somebody piled a lot of old food sacks in the Protector’s front room and lit them. They were dampened and made a lot of smoke.”

“Who?”

“Who? Who knows? I don’t know how to get in there.”

“Yes. Of course. I will be all right here. Don’t worry about me.”

“How could you talk to her like that? Where did you pick up all that bad language. You are making it so hard.”

“I don’t care anymore. I don’t care about anything. Look. Gamwyn is gone. We are all discredited. I am learning things down here. Let me alone about it.”

Rotag sighed and gently patted her son’s back dry. “I can’t take much more of this.”

“I can.”

“I could hear you cry out from the second level. My heart almost stopped. Is that how you take it?”

“I tried not to. It was easier to.”

Eventually Brudoer’s mother left. Reasoning with the boy had been like talking to her own husband. Her hands were trembling from her inability to make him see reason.

Brudoer lay for a long time in pain. Then he lifted his eyes to the walls. They were nearly bare, with no inscriptions, just a frieze of river mussels like that in the previous cell, and some of the stone patterns, though much larger. He sank in disappointment. No. Craydor’s messages meant something. He would have to see what.