Paul O Williams - [Pelbar Cycle 04] Read online

  “You have told us nothing so far, not even your names,” Ahroe said.

  They looked at her impassively.

  “But we have something to tell you, nonetheless. Only one of you has the Peshtak plague. The other two are free of it.” The men started visibly.

  “It has not shown up as yet,” Ahroe added, “but it is present in your bloodstream. At least Royal says it is. He thinks it is curable, or preventable. You realize, of course, that you cannot mingle with the other peoples until this is under control. Then there would be no reason, other than your incredible ferocity, that you could not settle with us—or remain in your own region and trade with us.”

  The three looked at each other. “You can tell no such thing,” one said.

  “Is it you? You have felt the initial stinging in your nasal passages?”

  The man shuddered. “No.” Neither of the others would say anything.

  “Summon Royal, please,” Ahroe said. “Tell him to bring Celeste’s microscope.”

  Soon the old physician arrived with the microscope, looking slightly apprehensive despite the guardsmen.

  “Please explain to them, Royal. They still will have none of us.”

  “About the disease? Is it caused by a microorganism. That is, a living creature too tiny for the naked eye to see. I believe it was artificially developed, or else it has evolved since the ancient world fell. But it strongly resembles a spirochete artificially generated—according to our records in the dome and levels— by the U.S.S.R. for biological Weaponry in ancient times. Unlike some of their microorganisms, which would sweep through a population, killing all, this one was meant to harass survivors who for some reason were not destroyed. It was to deny them animal food. For this reason I believe there is a cure, because the possessors of the disease could promise cure if the population agreed to submit to them.”

  Ahroe’s expression mirrored her disgust. “Beastly. Please explain to them further about microorganisms, Royal. They are innocent of such knowledge, if of nothing else.”

  “Of course. They are tiny living things, as I have said. They are capable of inhabiting our bodies and are the causes of a number of our diseases, all the way from pimples to fevers. We can easily see them with a device like this microscope that magnifies. You have millions of them in your mouth right now. So, alas, do I since I have emerged into this world outside the dome and levels.”

  The Peshtak sneered.

  “If I prepare a slide and allow you to look, will you behave decently?”

  The Peshtak said nothing.

  “Well, it is of no use then. You must return them to the ice caves, guardsmen,” Ahroe said.

  “Which one?” said the tallest, a red-haired man. “Which one is it?”

  Ahroe looked down modestly as the men were led away. Then she turned to Royal and said, “I think they believe it. We need to let this knowledge soak in awhile. I have found no other hope of cooperation.”

  The old physician put his hand on her shoulder. “I believe it is absurdly easy to cure, you know. We must spread this knowledge to the others, even if they are hostile. It is only humanitarian.”

  Ahroe looked at him narrowly, but she said nothing.

  In the depths of Threerivers, Bradoer’s back was healing once more. He studied the walls without any further knowledge, patiently but a little desperately. After the removal of the lamp, he heard hushed voices outside and saw a slight light. He turned, at first idly, then in terror as he heard a whispered voice say, “At last we can blow out this nose-fouling once and for all. Give me some light.” A torch flared suddenly.

  Brudoer rose, in pain, and eased his way quickly to the door. Outside were three guardsmen. One had his short-sword drawn. Brudoer recognized one—the same man who had threatened him. He was helpless, trapped. His hands felt the inside of the door even though he knew the bolts lay on the other side.

  He screamed out, “Help. Get away. Help me. They are coming.” He ended in a long, incoherent cry, as the men rushed to open the door and silence him. Brudoer’s hands beat on the wall above it, striking the iron decor, the bottom of the lamp bracket.

  In a flash he saw its design, narrow and curled. He could draw it down twisting it around so the mussel-shell design overlapped the door and held it shut. None of the other doors had had such features. As the bolts were thrown free, the iron bracket, with its shell decoration, held it. The guardsmen outside cursed under their breaths and tried to wedge the door open with a short-sword, thrusting in through the barring with another. Brudoer continued to scream. He heard running footsteps and saw lights. The guardsmen turned from the door.

  “Stand back,” he heard one shout out.

  “Are you the duty guardsmen? Why are there four of you?” Brudoer recognized Warret’s voice.

  “None of your affair. Get away before you get an arrow through you.”

  “Through all of us? You try it and well fry you slow on an open fire—take two or three days at it.”

  “What? You dare ..

  Brudoer heard a rush and a confusion of shouts, but they soon were all subdued.

  “We’ll have to take them with us,” a voice said.

  Brudoer then heard a muffled protest and some thrashing. “Throw them in the river,” a man’s voice said.

  “Brudoer, are you all right?” It was Warret.

  “Yes. All right. Thank you for coming.”

  “Some are leaving. You come along. Have you jammed the door?”

  “Yes. I found a way. No, I must not come. I must stay.”

  “Don’t be a fool. The city will cease to function soon with all of us gone.”

  “Come close, Warret.” Brudoer held his face next to the barring. “I have to stay. It’s too important,” he whispered. “Look. The ironwork above the door was designed so I could keep them out. Craydor did that. I’m certain of it. This is all a part of Cray dor’s purpose. You have to believe that.”

  “Stuff Craydor.”

  “No. Warret, go quickly. I have to stay here.”

  “I’m not going, either. But the others should. They know the bracelet was yours. That convinced a lot of the guard.” “You aren’t going? Why?”

  “Bival is here.”

  “Oh. Yes.” Brudoer reached between the narrow bars. He felt Warret grasp his hand tightly, then let go.

  Brudoer heard Warret say, “Come on now. Hurry.”

  The lights and voices faded, leaving Brudoer alone in the dark. He groped his way to the bed alcove and sank down, suddenly struck with deep fear. He could not stop his trembling.

  10

  After finishing his third day of cutting wood, Gamwyn, fagged out, sought the far comer of the smokehouse. He found that the drugged smoke lay thinnest there. By digging his face down into the malodorous straw, he could avoid most of its effect.

  Another man was in Gamwyn’s usual place, so he lay nearby, bone tired, only to have the man slide over to him and catch his arm in a tight grip.

  “You. You’re the one they call Peshtak. What is this? You’re no more Peshtak than a squirrel.”

  “Who are you?”

  “You answer quick.” The man shook Gamwyn, who deftly caught his fingers and twisted them back in an excruciating hold. The man swung close and clamped the boy’s neck, but Gamwyn tightened and bent, and with a low moan the man let go and writhed back.

  Gamwyn eased his grip. “Who are you?”

  The man spat at him. Gamwyn wrenched his hand again and the man screamed. Several of the others sat up and gazed at them. Gamwyn and the man lay quiet.

  “Who are you?” Gamwyn repeated. “You must be the Peshtak that Nicfad ranted on about. What’s your name?” “I will say when you identify yourself.”

  Gamwyn sighed. “I’m Gamwyn, a Pelbar from Threerivers. But to them I’m a Peshtak. That’s what they assumed. They said they’d cut off my foot unless I admitted it. Naturally I did.”

  The man chuckled. “A Pelbar. Who would have thought to meet a hog
-sucking Pelbar here?”

  “Your name?”

  “My name?”

  “Even Peshtak have names. This time I’ll break your hand. You’ll have great fun working with a broken hand.” “Syle. I am Syle. Now. Let go.” Gamwyn did. “Now I can tell the fish-gut Tusco you lied. You owe me. See? You won’t get any sucker grips on me anymore.”

  “You’ll tell the Tusco? I’ll just say you want to deceive them. They absolutely know I’m a Peshtak. Look, why be enemies? We both need to get out. Right? Why not join together?”

  “Join? With a Pelbar woman-slave?”

  “Do you know Misque?”

  “Misque? Where did you meet her?”

  “Jaiyan’s Station. I figured out she was Peshtak.”

  “And you told.”

  “No. She saved my life. We hugged good-bye.” “Faaaugh.”

  “I know I can’t trust you. Too far, anyhow. But I’ll swear to you by Aven now that I won’t betray you—and if I find a way out, you’ll be the first to hear of it.”

  “There is no way. No way at all. It’s the dogs and the patrols. You could get out, but you wouldn’t get away. The Nicfad are too good. Swill faccs. They’d even find Peshtak. I’d like to see them, though, run across a good force of us. We’d skewer them all.”

  “There must be a way. Craydor would say it’s a matter of design. Their whole society is a design—a very bad one. It’s effective enough for the managers. But it has its flaws. It’s got to. We only need to find them.”

  The two talked the whole time they lay under the smoke. Gamwyn learned that Syle was only eighteen. He had come from the mountains. He was also in despair. He had the usual guile and hatreds of the Peshtak, but his youthful anguish continually seeped around the edges of his bravado. The Peshtak roamed freely in the high forests, and the plodding life of slavery grated him terribly.

  The signal for supper sounded, and as they crawled out toward the door, Gamwyn whispered, “Do you have the disease?”

  Syle shot him a hard look, his jaw rippling. But he said, “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  A few days later, a Nicfad again hooked Gamwyn’s collar with his stave and led him toward the circles. The boy looked back at Syle, who was watching. The Nicfad said nothing, but marched him up into the innermost circle where a well lay, surrounded by square stone steps.

  “Here. This the smallest one. He will go down,” the Nicfad said to the circle of brown-clad workmen who stood around with stones and tools. The Nicfad threw the boy down with his staff and stood aside.

  The workleader squatted down to him and turned his head. “This sapling?” he asked.

  “He only small one. He Peshtak.”

  The man looked up. “Peshtak? Suffering catfish.” Then he turned to Gamwyn and said, “This well fell in, boy. We need small person to go down and dig it out. Then we stone it.”

  Gamwyn was sent down a ladder into the caved-in well. He spent the day sending buckets of dirt and mud up the rope to the workmen above. They berated him for slowness, while he shivered and slipped in the semidark of the shaft. The whole structure stood in danger of caving in on him, and after much complaining he got them to brace it crosswise with sticks and rough boards, even though this slowed the work. At nightfall he came up, filthy and shivering. As he stood by the hole for a few moments, he looked up again. The pudgy girl was at her window looking down at him. He looked away carefully, but then let his eyes go back. She made a face and slammed the window again.

  Gamwyn was not allowed to wash. Wet and shivering, he was led back to the compound. That evening, as he lay under the smoke near Syle, he said, “Now I know how to get out.”

  The young Peshtak rolled near him. “Out?”

  “It’ll take a long time. Maybe a year.”

  Syle muttered, “Bull dung.”

  “But no Nicfad will follow us. We’ll be free.”

  “How?”

  “You won’t tell?”

  “Tell? Who?”

  “Them. You’re Peshtak. I know you’d as soon see us all dead.”

  “Then don’t tell me. Get away from me. Child. You’re all mud.”

  They lay apart. Gamwyn suddenly began to cry. “It’s all so miserable,” he said.

  “Curse you, tell me. I won’t tell. I’ll help. I swear it. I don’t want to be here any more than you. Stop blubbering.”

  “Swear by Aven.”

  “Who is Aven?”

  “Aven is God, as some other people call him.”

  “There is no God.” They lay quiet again. Then Syle said, “I swear. I swear by Aven. Tell me.”

  “The well. The whole circle area does not rest on bedrock. All those buildings lie on dirt.”

  “I don’t see—”

  “Listen. I know about these things. Threerivers is by the Heart. But Craydor put it on bedrock so the river can’t wash it away. The well caved in because the river really seeps through underneath—some, anyway. I noticed when I came up that the water level below is almost the same as river level. The walls are caving in because the whole thing is wet and unstable.”

  “So? How does that help us?”

  “We go to the downriver side. At night. We get out over the palisade. Or under. There aren’t any guard towers at the tip of the U because the Siveri slaves don’t swim. We get under that boat landing and begin digging. We can put the dirt in the river. Only a few arms every night. We hide the entrance. The whole space between the rivers is only about a hundred fifty arms wide. We brace the tunnel. We use driftwood if we can. We put it all just above normal water level. We take it right under the tower. But we don’t break through. The first big rise when we are done, and the river will break through. The whole center will end up in the river. It’ll be the river.”

  Syle laughed. “You’re crazy. That would take a lifetime.” Then he fell silent. “It’s too cold.”

  “It’ll warm. Why do you suppose the river slices in? It is , trying to cut off. You’ve seen bow lakes, haven’t you? They are old river bends. We’ll just help it.”

  “It seems impossible.”

  “Maybe. But I’m going to do it. Can we trust any of these Siveri?”

  “No. They’re completely enslaved by the smoke. You are, too, a little. So am I. I saw the Nicfad putting the weed in the stew.”

  “River shakes! Where do they keep it?”

  “Ours? In the guard towers.”

  “We need to turn it on them. Mix oak leaves with it. Substitute oak leaves for it. Get it into their food.”

  “You’re crazy. That is impossible. One old man brings it for the fire. You watch him hurry. He can’t wait to get it lit and smell the first smoke.”

  “Then we intimidate him. Are the Siveri superstitious?” “Yes, a little. They won’t cross water without mumbling something. They hold their fingers crossways when they are out in a full moon.”

  “The Tusco are superstitious, too. Maybe we can use that.”

  The Nicfad called them to eat, and the two separated. The next day, they had no chance to talk at the morning smoking, and Gamwyn was again led off to the well and had to work most of the day up to his shoulders in mud and water, so thoroughly chilled that he had to move continually to keep from going wholly numb. Eventually they began sending shaped stones down to him, and he set them in rings to hold the walls, even ducking under the water to do it. When they brought him up, he fell and lay shivering uncontrollably. The Nicfad reached out with the staff to jerk him upright, but the workleader touched his arm.

  “Easy,” he said. “He has to stay alive to go down tomorrow. He’s the only one small enough.” The man got a dirty old blanket and put it around Gamwyn, lifting him up. “Bring it back tomorrow,” he said.

  Gamwyn staggered and fell again, but two workmen lifted him up and supported him. Glancing up, the boy saw the girl again, in her window, her hands held over her mouth. The men led him all the way to the gate of the slave compound, supporting him, then turned back. Gamwyn fell a
gain.

  The Nicfad kicked him. “Don’t expect help from me,” he said. Gamwyn rolled over and stood up, heading for the smokehouse, trying not to fall.

  Syle was waiting for him and led him to the comer. Gamwyn shook so he could hardly talk, and the Peshtak wrapped them both in the blanket and tried to warm him despite the mud all over him. He dragged an old Siveri over to the other Side and held Gamwyn between them. Gradually the boy began to warm, but they were called to supper before he felt at all normal. Syle stayed with him and led him to his own hut, covering them with his own blanket. He said little. Gamwyn finally fell asleep, with the Pesh-tak’s arm still over him.

  In the morning he felt weak and strange, but the Nicfad again came for him, and he had to go to the well, clutching the blanket. At the lip of the well, he said, “I can’t go down again.” The Nicfad rapped him on the ear with the stave, knocking him down.

  “If you kill him now, we’ll never get well stoned,” said the workleader. Again he knelt by Gamwyn. “Come on, boy. You should finish today.”

  Gamwyn turned over and felt a flow of anger rise in him that he had never had before. “You may take the well and rot in it,” he hissed. “It would take a Tusco to put a well in the middle of this sewer you call a society. May you drink from the river downstream.”

  The man stood and stepped back, spitting. He turned to the Nicfad, who stooped and twisted Gamwyn’s arm back and around. The boy screamed. “Now? Get busy now?” “Yes. Yes, I will,” Gamwyn said, sobbing. The man stood away, and Gamwyn crawled to the ladder and began his descent, shuddering again as he reached the water. The stones began to come down in buckets, and he placed them carefully in rings working up. By midaftemoon he had reached the top. It had begun to rain. He crawled away from the well platform and lay face down on the cobbled street. He felt the Nicfad’s stave hook slip into his collar. The man began to drag him away.

  From above a shriek tore the air. Gamwyn felt the pressure ease. He heard a high voice from high up. “You. You workman. You nearly killed him. Now you take him home. You—Nicfad. Get away, vulture. Stupid. Look at him. He has years of work left in him. You kill him now? Stupid.”