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Hell's Messenger #1
TRIAL
The year 400, the third month. (The year 1895 Barley by the Old Calendar.)
The dangerous and desperate criminal is often only the hero
gone wrong.
—Thomas Mott Osborne: Society and Prisons (1916).
CHAPTER ONE
Hell's thunder reached up from the horizon to the sky, touched Mercy's
clouds, and lit them ablaze with light. The pre-dawn glow, struggling to
penetrate the thick mist covering the mountains and foothills, was overwhelmed
by the shining splendor of the golden clouds above.
Tyrrell, who had no special fondness these days for the goddess Mercy
or any of her earthly representatives, did his best to shrug his uniform
so that his collar shielded him from the rain pouring down his back. This
exercise wasn't easy, since his hands were cuffed behind his back. He glanced
over at Oslo, who was frowning at the narrow, barred gate in front of them.
"Is this a new kind of torture?" Tyrrell asked. "Making me drown in
the rain?"
"Shut your mouth, Tyrrell," said Oslo, but in an absentminded manner,
as though his thoughts were elsewhere. Perhaps they were on the rain, which
had turned his dark blue uniform as black as the thunderclouds. On the
other side of Tyrrell, Bailey shook his head to free some of the spray
from it. The spray shot onto Tyrrell.
"We should have waited in the wagon," Bailey said to Oslo. "I told you
that."
Tyrrell looked longingly at the patrol wagon, whose horses were hitched
under an overhang further down the wall. But Oslo shook his head as he
reached up with his free hand to wipe his nose. "Bailey, when they open
that gate, they'll keep it open for exactly half a minute, and if we're
not in by then, we'll have lost our chance till noontime."
"Rather exacting, aren't they?" commented Bailey, then sneezed. More
spray landed on Tyrrell, who glared at the young guard. Bailey ignored
him.
"No more than we are." Oslo glanced over to the right, where the sun
was turning the eastern horizon a pink-orange. "It shouldn't be long now."
Tyrrell gave up the struggle to close the gap between his back and his
shirt; his entire body was wet now. "At least if I die of chill-fever,
you'll be dead as well," he muttered, and was rewarded with a kick on the
shins from Oslo that left him hopping on one leg. Bailey took a stronger
grip on Tyrrell's arm, as though he expected him to try to escape.
Just where Bailey expected his prisoner to escape to, Tyrrell didn't
know. Tyrrell looked every which way, but all that he could see, besides
the glint of a pool of water through trees nearby, were mountains, bare
of humans and probably filled with wild animals that would maul him if
he ran away. Oslo had cheerfully pointed this out to him when they first
arrived.
Now Oslo was far from cheerful. He gazed up at the wall, as though hoping
somebody would look out and notice them. Since the wall held no windows,
that seemed unlikely. It was made of white concrete, and other than a drainpipe
or two, it was as sheer as the cliffs. It rose four storeys high and was
capped, incongruously, with an elegant, Vovimian-style glass dome. No light
travelled through the dome from inside.
Another lightning bolt jolted up from the ground, so close by that Bailey
jumped. Oslo, a more seasoned guard, merely looked annoyed. He took out
his annoyance by digging his nails into Tyrrell's arm. Tyrrell, a seasoned
prisoner, did not bother to protest this small maliciousness. Instead he
looked again at the enormous expanse of wall they were facing, trying to
calculate how many cells lay inside. Until the day before, he had lived
in Mercy Life Prison, which had six levels. There was room in that life
prison for roughly fifty prisoners on each of the five storeys that held
cells, not counting the punishment cells in the frigid basement. Close
to two hundred and fifty prisoners in total, as Tyrrell had long known
from his careful memorization of the names of prisoners and guards.
This white lump of a prison in front of him wasn't as high, but it was
so broad that it looked as though it could easily house a thousand prisoners,
depending on how much of the prison was taken up with cells. Tyrrell wrinkled
his nose, trying to rid himself of a raindrop that was tickling him, and
trying to think through the clashes of thunder echoing against the mountainsides.
He wondered whether he could endure another assignment in the laundering
room, if that turned out to be his work here. There were bound to be more
uniforms to wash at this place.
Not that he had any choice in the matter. He sighed and tried to loosen
his handcuffs for the hundredth time on the trip, which earned him a hard
knock on the head from the hilt of Oslo's dagger. Tyrrell went still immediately,
knowing from experience that he was pressing Oslo's temper too far. It
wasn't as though he would get more than a few yards if he managed to wriggle
away, hands free or not. Oslo was carrying a whip, and Bailey a revolver.
Tyrrell feared the whip more than the revolver, having been the recipient
of its bite on too many occasions.
Thunder clapped in his ear, followed by bells. At first he thought the
ringing came from inside his throbbing head; then he realized that it was
emerging from the darkness behind the gate. "Here we go," muttered Oslo.
"Get ready to move quickly."
The gate in front of them, narrow though it was, stood a full storey
high. Tyrrell watched with fascination as the gate began to slide to the
side, seemingly without assistance from human hands. He had heard that
this prison had the most sophisticated machinery of any prison in the entire
nation of Mip, since it was situated not far from their nation's border
with the queendom of Yclau, whose engineers were famed throughout the world.
Glancing at Bailey, he saw that the young guard was watching the gate's
progress, his mouth open. He came from a provincial village and had probably
never seen a piece of large machinery in his life. Tyrrell had grown up
on the streets of the Mippite capital . . . but that was twenty years ago,
and even the electric trolley bus they had passed on their journey here
had given him a thrill of excitement. So much had changed since he entered
Mercy Prison.
And now he was leaving the world again, most likely for the last time.
He looked around again at the wet, mountainous landscape.
"Now!" said Oslo, and he began pulling Tyrrell forward, heedless as
to whether his prisoner could keep up. Bailey was trotting on his other
side, trying to reach the gate that had opened barely the width of two
men. As they came near, the gate began to close. Cursing, Oslo shoved Tyrrell
through the gate. Tyrrell stumbled and fell flat on his face.
Since his hands were cuffed behind him, this hurt as much as though
Hell's torturers had decided to smash in his face. He lay on the cold concrete
in the darkness, cursing in an indiscriminate manner that embraced every
guard he had possessed the misfortune to be serviced by. The chill of the
ground, combined with his wetness, had set him shivering, and he could
taste blood in his mouth where his teeth had caught his cheek as he fell.
In an automatic manner, he checked his teeth. They were all there, except
for the four he had lost over the years, courtesy of past guards.
The ringing stopped, except for its echo. He received a boot-thump against
his thigh, which told him that Oslo had made it inside and had heard the
nature of his cursing. He switched the cursing over to a more specific
target and received a harder kick against his ribs. He had enough sense
then to bite his lip shut.
"I keep the Boundaries," he whispered to himself, and instantly felt
better. He allowed Bailey to pull him onto his feet, and as he did so,
he realized that laughter echoed in the dark room. The laughter did not
come from either of his guards.
He raised his head. He was in a large, high-ceilinged room. That much
he could tell from the echoes and from the fact that he could not see the
ceiling. Most of the room was lightless. But in the left-hand corner ahead
of him, on a balcony about where he would expect a ceiling to be, sat two
men lit by wall-lamps. Both wore dark blue uniforms, and both had their
boots resting in a leisurely manner on the low, barred railing of the balcony.
Both had rifles in their laps, and both rifles were pointed straight at
Tyrrell.
Tyrrell felt his empty stomach lurch. One of the men who had been laughing
called across the room, "Mercy's man! What gift do you bring us today?"
"Compassion's man!" Oslo called back in a casual manner that suggested
he was acquainted with the other guard. "I have a prisoner transfer for
you. Fresh meat for the banquet."
The rifle-bearing guards seemed to appreciate this small witticism more
than Tyrrell thought it merited; they hooted with laughter. "Tenderizing
the meat, are you?" asked the second guard, who held a cigarette between
his lips.
"Oh, believe me," said Oslo, grinning, "I've poked the meat quite thoroughly
to make sure it's well done."
Tyrrell rolled his eyes. Even Bailey winced at Oslo's poor wit.
The first guard lifted his rifle and set it aside. "Ah, what a pity
we will not be able to feast at length on him at our banquet. But we are
somewhat gentler on our prisoners than you are at Mercy Prison. How many
fuckings a year do you service each of your prisoners with? One hundred?
Two hundred?"
"We're working on raising the number." Oslo's voice held nothing but
amusement.
"Whereas we are unlikely to see your prisoner more than once or twice
this year . . . if that much." The first guard pulled his boots off the
railing and leaned over the railing, remaining in his chair as he scrutinized
the scene before him. The wavering light of the gas-lamps on the balcony
wall moved shadows across his face, which was thoughtful. "Hard to say
from this distance," concluded the guard finally. "Why the transfer?"
"Your Keeper knows. You can probably guess. His name's Tyrrell."
The second guard, who had removed his cigarette from his lips in order
to tap it over a spittoon nearby, went suddenly still. The first guard
raised an appreciative eyebrow. "Oh-ho!" he said softly. "So that's the
way of it. I was wondering how long it would be before Mercy's Keeper lost
patience with those riot-rousers he's been housing. What happened to the
others?"
Oslo shrugged. "We'll know when we get back. The first decision our
Keeper made was to arrange this transfer. Your Keeper seemed willing to
take him in."
The first guard shrugged as he leaned back in his chair. "Our Keeper,"
he said, "has all sorts of grandiose plans for this prison, though whether
any of them will come to fruit is another matter. I suppose that servicing
riot-rousers is part of his plan. Will you break your fast with us? Starke
likes to arrive early for his gunner duty . . ." He gestured toward the
second guard. "But I prefer to extend my dawn break as long as possible.
You're welcome to join me in the guards' dining hall. The night watch will
be coming off-duty soon, and I can introduce you."
"Yes," muttered Bailey through gritted teeth. "Warmth. Yes."
Oslo ignored him. "Good food wouldn't go amiss," he said, smiling. "And
I hear that Compassion Life Prison is famed for that."
More hoots of appreciative laughter erupted from the first guard, though
the second was busy drawing a long lungful of smoke from his cigarette
and scrutinizing Tyrrell with an expression he could not read.
"We promise to feed you only the best," replied the first guard, getting
to his feet and reaching toward a hand-sized lever set within a small,
red hatch on the wall. "Come to the dining hall when you've delivered your
charge. You remember the way, I'm sure."
"I hope I do," said Oslo, beginning to tug Tyrrell forward into the
darkness, "but everything may be changed here, from what I hear. Your Keeper
seems to want to turn things upside down."
"We'll see," said the second guard as his eyes followed Tyrrell's progress.
His voice was barely audible, and his expression was hidden behind a puff
of smoke. "We'll see. . . ."
They made their way through the blackness; Oslo was heading toward an
invisible goal with unhesitating steps, while Bailey was muttering something
about the difficulty of locating targets in the dark. Then the younger
guard whispered, "Do you think you should have said what you did about
the fuckings, Oslo? If people outside Mercy Prison know . . ."
"Bailey, everyone in the life prisons knows what we do to our prisoners."
Oslo, who didn't bother to lower his voice, sounded as though he were about
to laugh. "In fact, everyone in the Magisterial Republic of Mip knows.
It's been reported in the newspapers for years. Do you think anyone cares?
The magistrates showed how little they cared last month. Watch your ears."
Following this mysterious remark, there came behind them the unmistakable
sound of a lever clicking upward into place. Then the air screamed.
Tyrrell stopped dead; he would have covered his ears with his hands
if he could have figured out how to escape from his handcuffs. The loud
bell before had been a soft whisper compared to the grating, high-pitched
wail of this siren. Tyrrell had never heard anything like it. He supposed
it was what would result if a twenty-foot giant blew a mighty whistle.
Oslo shouted to Bailey over the alarm, "A hard target to miss!"
At first Tyrrell thought he was referring to the noise that was about
to deafen him. Then he realized that the wall in front of them was parting.
The wall had doors, but such doors as Tyrrell had never seen. They were
fully a foot thick, made of a dark material that Tyrrell could not identify
in the dim light of the passage beyond. Some sort of metal, he thought
as he saw the light glide across the moving gates. The gates were sliding
back into the walls next to them, as though they were flat keys entering
slots. They moved smoothly, but with a rumble which suggested that only
the machinery which was moving them could have parted them.
The passage beyond was grey with dawn-light. A few dim gas-lamps sparkled
against the walls, giving evidence that the prison had not been entirely
unlit during the night. The ceiling above glittered grey – metal again,
it seemed. At the end of the passage there seemed to be an open space.
What lay on either side of the open space, Tyrrell could not see.
Tyrrell caught a flicker of movement and saw that the second guard they
had been speaking with – the man named Starke – had just brushed past Oslo,
carrying his rifle slung across his back. He said nothing, but passed through
the passage between the metal doors, and then turned right and disappeared
through a doorway in the passage.
The air stopped screaming, as though it had tired of giving its warning.
The heavy metal doors remained open. Oslo said, his voice thick with amusement,
"Bailey, you're drooling all over the floor."
Tyrrell turned his head in time to see Bailey snap his mouth shut. The
young guard continued to stare with wonder at the mighty entrance. "How
could they build anything this big?" he murmured.
"They're riot doors," said Oslo in a matter-of-fact manner. "If the
prisoners try to escape, Compassion's Keeper levers the doors shut, using
a special riot key. He has the only keys to the inside lever, and once
the doors are shut during a riot, they can only be opened from the outside.
As the last lot of prisoners learned who tried to escape here," he added
lightly, and then he blinked rapidly.
Tyrrell was blinking too. The passage in front of them, as well as the
area beyond, had suddenly turned bright, as though a fire had sprung forth.
Looking up, Tyrrell saw that the light came from glass globes hanging from
the ceiling. Not gas-lamps, he thought in some confusion, trying to focus
his eyes on the odd loop of sun-bright wire inside one of the globes.
"Landry!" Oslo called out. "You've been electrified!"
"Only the best in this prison, I told you," called back the first guard.
"Do enter, Oslo. These doors aren't supposed to stay open after dawn –
Keeper's orders."
"My apologies, Landry," said Oslo, in the polite manner he always used
toward his fellow guards – as opposed to subhuman creatures, such as his
prisoners. He pulled Tyrrell forward in the direction of the doorway that
the second guard had passed through. Bailey was gaping at the electric
lights now.
So was Tyrrell. He had heard of such things from recent prisoners at
Mercy, but Mercy Prison was very out of date, still lighting itself through
fire pits and oil lamps. Despite the tales he'd heard of fantastic machinery
at Compassion Prison, Tyrrell had unconsciously assumed, from all that
he had heard about conditions at Compassion, that this prison would be
similarly backwards, embodying the barbarisms of the past. Mechanical doors
and electric lights did not fit his vision of an old-fashioned prison.
Behind them, the doors began to rumble closed, without the siren that
had heralded their opening. He and his escorts had followed Starke's path,
entering a stairwell; Oslo was leading them at a rapid pace up the solid
metalwork steps. They emerged finally onto a balcony that was also made
of metal. Tyrrell glimpsed above the area to the left of him the great
glass dome he had seen from the outside. The dome was high up, and Tyrrell
had a dizzying moment of revelation when he realized that the room in which
this balcony was located was four storeys high.
Then Oslo turned him around and shoved him through a doorway, saying
to someone beyond him, "A new prisoner for you, Medinger."
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
"Open your mouth, please."
Tyrrell opened his mouth wide, expecting the healer to slide in a jaw-breaking
mouth-holder to keep him from clamping down with his teeth. Instead, in
a fearless fashion, the healer merely inserted two fingers, probed around
inside his mouth for a minute, and then withdrew the fingers, saying, "Drink
this, please."
He swallowed the thimbleful of medicine the healer gave him, wondering
what foul substances he was being poisoned with, but not having enough
curiosity to ask. He was more interested in the view against the opposite
wall, showing a row of all the work-plaques that the healer had acquired
over the past forty or so years. A black-bordered plaque near the beginning
of the row caught his eye; it held the Yclau royal seal.
"You worked in the Eternal Dungeon?" he said, intrigued.
"Yes," replied the healer, in so flat a voice that Tyrrell shut his
mouth quickly. He glanced at the other plaques. Drug sanitarium work, mainly,
judging from the plants pictured in the seals. Apparently the role of dungeon
healer hadn't suited his healer. He wondered what had snagged the healer
to this prison.
The healer – FitzGerald was the name, he'd been tersely told upon arrival
– pulled his left eyelids open, shone a light in his eye for reasons known
only to the Guild of Healers, and then set the electrical lantern aside.
"Stomach down on the table, please. Legs hanging over. Pull your drawers
down."
Tyrrell, who was already dressed in nothing but his lower drawers, felt
a blush cover him. He glanced to the side, where a window and a windowed
door overlooked the balcony. Beyond the balcony he could see nothing except
a black wall that he had barely glimpsed on the way here, but standing
just outside the door was Medinger, a guard apparently half of Tyrrell's
age, who had brought him here. The guard was offering Tyrrell and the healer
a certain amount of privacy by facing the black wall, but now and then
he would glance inside the surgery to see that all was well.
Tyrrell waited for the moment when FitzGerald had turned away toward
the sink; then he hopped off the table, pulled down his drawers a few inches,
and leaned over. He had first endured a body search on the day he entered
Mercy Prison, when a cache of wrapped sweetweed was removed from a place
in his body that he had been sure nobody would search. Those had been his
days of naiveté. Since then, he had been searched there many times,
but never before by a woman. The thought made him faintly excited.
FitzGerald – she hadn't told him what title she preferred – returned
to him. Without hesitation, she pushed her finger in. Part of Tyrrell,
the part presently mashed against the table, decided that it liked this
new method of body search very much. He winced against the pain of the
confinement of his growing flesh, and then let himself enjoy the probing
finger. It wasn't often he received such enjoyment. In fact, it had been
over twenty years since he had last enjoyed himself like this.
In the old days, he had laid and been laid by anything that moved, save
the alley cats. Twenty years of rapes at Mercy had diminished his interest
in men, but not his fantasies about women. Alas, Mip had not gone as far
as neighboring Yclau in employing female prison workers. This was the first
woman he had spoken to since he entered Mercy.
The examination ended, to the regret of Tyrrell and the part of himself
that was worming itself up his belly. "You may dress yourself again," FitzGerald
said, and a moment later he heard the sound of water. Not water pouring
from a pitcher; this prison actually had running water. Tyrrell wondered
whether he could hope that his level of the prison would possess a flushing
toilet.
Tyrrell straightened up, pulled up his drawers, sat back down on the
table, and did his best to cover his lap with his hands. If FitzGerald
noticed any change upon her return, she was too professional to mention
the fact. "Now, then," she said, "any family illnesses?"
"Not that I know of," he replied. This was the literal truth. He hoped
that the healer wouldn't quiz him on what the likelihood was that he knew
anything about his family's medical history.
"Any long-term illnesses yourself? Heart problems? Anything of that
sort?" The healer leaned over and placed her hand against his heart. Her
hand was tickling his nipple now, which caused the part of him he was trying
to keep hidden to leap with eagerness.
"Nothing to moan about," he replied. He was trying not to stare down
at her breasts, which appeared ample from what he could tell through the
stiff layers of calico. Her hair was in a severe bun, but silver wisps
floated down to her neck. Which was wrinkled, he reminded himself. True,
she had good face-bones, which gave her a neat profile, but in his street
days he would have passed by this old woman with no other thought than
whether she was likely to be carrying a purse.
He saw FitzGerald watching him, and he wondered whether he had missed
a question. He added hastily, "I have toothaches sometimes."
"Mm." She fished in his mouth a moment; this time he was aware of her
fingers brushing his lips. He resisted the urge to suck on her fingers.
"Well, there's nothing I can do about that, I'm afraid," she said, exploring
the gaps between his teeth. "That's outside my specialization. I'd hoped
to get a tooth-healer in to help me once a month, but our Keeper says he
can't extend the prison budget that far."
From what Tyrrell had heard about her Keeper, he was surprised the man
even bothered to employ a healer, much less a competent one. He made what
he hoped was a sympathetic noise as FitzGerald's fingers withdrew. She
went over to the sink again, leaning over. Tyrrell decided that he really
ought not to be taking such an interest in her tailside, and he turned
his gaze toward the window. Medinger was staring in, his eyes narrowed.
Wondering how much the guard had seen, Tyrrell quickly shifted his gaze
toward the glass cupboards hanging from the walls, all filled with colored
bottles and bandages and nasty-looking instruments like saws and syringes.
The syringes made him pause. He glanced back at the bottles.
FitzGerald said as she turned around, wiping her hands on a cloth, "Try
eating more meat. Soft meat, well-done. That should be easier for you to
chew."
"I'll try," he agreed. He hadn't seen meat since the day he was arrested,
but he supposed that it was just possible that a guard, as a matter of
whim, might share his meal with his prisoner. "You certainly have a lot
of bottles," Tyrrell said, his gaze distracted to the cupboards once more.
"The medicinal sweetweed is in my locked dispensary," said the healer.
"At home, miles from here."
He was glad, for once, for the color of his skin; he felt the blush
cover him from forehead to big toes. He looked back to see that FitzGerald's
mouth was twitching.
He allowed himself to smile at her. "Am I that obvious?"
"To a trained eye." She had succeeded in suppressing her own smile.
Stepping forward, she pulled back his left eyelids again. "How long did
you ingest it?"
He hesitated, not wishing to relive old days, but his prison record
lay open on the table, next to him. She could find out from that the general
story, if not the details. "Fifteen years," he said. "From the time I was
seven."
She raised her eyebrows at that. "You started young."
"My street tribe sold it to raise money for food," he explained. "Sweetweed
was legal in those days, in small doses. I only chewed on it as a child.
The older boys warned me not to do more. But then I came of age and . .
. Well, I decided to ignore their advice."
"Drink or syringe?" she asked in a matter-of-fact manner as she leaned
over to write something in his record.
"Drink at first. Syringe toward the end. I was only on it full-dose
for a year."
The year in which he had committed the crimes for which he was imprisoned,
but he did not have to tell her that. He could see that she had calculated
dates in her head and was writing the appropriate one down. "And the remaining
three years?"
"I was in holding, awaiting trial and then appealing conviction. I wasn't
supposed to be allowed drugs then, but . . . Well, it's not hard to smuggle
things into a holding prison." Particularly not with the help of guards
who didn't want the bother of dealing with a crashing sweetweed addict.
"Hmm." FitzGerald scribbled something more. "Voluntary withdrawal or
forcible?"
"Forcible. I was sent to Mercy Prison after that, when I was twenty-two."
Where prisoners never received goods from the outside. Never. Whatever
you brought with you were the last belongings you would have for your life.
Tyrrell had not thought to bring anything with him except enough sweetweed
to last him a couple of weeks. That had been taken from him upon his arrival.
He hoped FitzGerald would not ask him the details of what had followed;
it made him sweat still to think of it. All she said, though, was, "Any
flashbacks?"
There wasn't anything he could keep from her, it seemed. "Occasionally,"
he admitted. "When I'm under special stress. It's nothing I can't deal
with."
She straightened up, nodding. "Well, you were lucky. Only one year,
when you were young; enough time to catch you, but not enough time to permanently
damage you. You would have been permitted entrance to a drug sanitarium
if you had applied."
They had offered him that option at the time he was appealing his conviction.
Sometimes he banged his head against the wall to think that he had not
taken the offer. "I would still have been locked up," he pointed out.
"With greater freedom inside," she replied. "As I'm sure I don't have
to tell you." She glanced at his record again – the portion of it describing
his crimes – and then frowned and carefully closed the ledger book. He
sighed. He hadn't held any great hope of a transfer to a sanitarium, not
with his record. He might have had some luck, at his trial, of convincing
his magistrate that he wasn't the sort to commit violent crimes except
under the influence of sweetweed. It was true, after all. But he had opted
for a lie at his trial, and that had doomed him to where he was.
That was twenty years ago. No point in dwelling on it now, he reminded
himself, and he resolutely returned his mind to a more pleasant subject.
Namely, the manner in which FitzGerald's ankles showed from under her skirt
whenever she bent over.
"Well, that's all, I think," she said as she carefully wiped her hands
clean after yet another washing. "Except for your anal tract." She saw
his blank look and added, "Your fucking hole."
This time he was sure his blush must be noticeable. He had gradually
weaned himself from the gutter talk of his childhood, mainly in order to
be a good influence on Merrick, who hadn't talked that way before he arrived
at Mercy, but who had picked up the language with frightening fluency.
Never before had Tyrrell heard a woman speak such words. It was the first
time in his life that he had ever felt sheltered.
He made a rumbling noise in his throat to indicate that he understood
and pressed his hands harder against the part of him that greatly enjoyed
this turn of conversation.
"Your last healer," remarked FitzGerald, opening the prison record again,
"was a bit spotty in providing details about your medical examinations
with him. Do you mind if I ask a few questions?"
His last healer had examined him exactly once, on the day he arrived
at Mercy. Mercy's healer was drunk at the time. From what Tyrrell had been
told later by other prisoners, Mercy's healer was always drunk. Since Mercy's
Keeper saw little need to call on the healer's services, this arrangement
worked out nicely for both of them. The prisoners learned to heal their
own wounds or to beg the services of sympathetic guards. There had been
a few of those at Mercy when Tyrrell left. Perhaps fewer now.
He made another sound of agreement in his throat, and she asked, "How
long have you had the dose?"
This time he did not need to wait for the translation; he knew what
she meant. "About eight years."
"You learned this in a medical examination?"
He nodded. The examination had been done by Merrick, who possessed an
alarmingly long catalogue of his own sexual diseases and was therefore
the expert among the prisoners of Mercy's second level on how to cure or
endure such illnesses. In Tyrrell's case, alas, "endure" was the prognosis,
but at least the disease had become no worse.
"And do you inform your bed partners of this?" she asked.
He caught himself in time from laughing. He imagined himself saying
to Oslo, "Excuse me, but are you aware that you're about to rape a man
with a sexual disease?"
"My partners know of the dangers," he assured her. "Most of them wear
sheaths."
She nodded. "And do you?"
This set him to silence for a minute. There had never been any moments
of temptation during his years in prison, except with Merrick. Merrick,
though, had less interest in sex than any man that Tyrrell had ever known.
Given the guards that Merrick had been assigned, Tyrrell could understand
why. In any case, Tyrrell had been less interested in Merrick's body than
in his company, and once he had achieved the company, it had seemed no
great matter that Merrick possessed no desire for bed-sports. And from
that point forward, Tyrrell and Merrick had both been so busy that Tyrrell
had rarely thought of what it might be like to lie in bed with someone
whose company he actually sought.
"I'm always on bottom," he said, this being the easiest way to summarize
the matter.
She nodded. "Well, if you should ever do direct anal or direct oral
– if you're ever on top," she translated as he blinked, "you needn't worry
about a sheath for your partner's sake, for the dose has stopped spreading.
But it would be wise for you to take the precaution for your own sake.
Prison diseases are rife, I'm afraid."
"Ah." He tried to envision asking a guard to give him a sheath, and
failed.
She seemed to be good at reading minds, for she added, "You'll find
a medical supply kit in your cell. It's kept well stocked with anything
you will need for lesser medical problems: sheaths, bandages, splints,
and so on. For more serious problems – chest pains, for example – please
don't hesitate to come to me. That's where my service lies."
She said the word without any accompanying look of irony, which he found
reassuring. He hesitated, though. "How will I let you know of my injuries?"
"Just alert a guard."
He managed to keep from rolling his eyes. Cursed females and their innocence
of the world. Or perhaps all healers were that way; he wouldn't know. He
tried his best to explain. "If I'm injured," he said carefully, "my guard
may be reluctant to see me healed, if he feels I deserve the injury."
She was standing now with her tailside against the drawers next to the
sink, her arms folded against the calico cloth and brightly colored buttons,
and her boot toes poking out from beneath the skirt. With her gaze steady
on him, she said, "I don't think you need worry much about injuries from
your guards. If you receive any injuries from other people here, they're
more likely to come from your fellow prisoners."
This was news he did not want to hear. Not about his lack of injuries
from guards, which was information he didn't believe for a minute. Rather,
she had just confirmed his worst fears about Compassion Prison.
Merrick had warned him. A guard, he said, had told him that Compassion's
prisoners had more to fear from their fellow prisoners than from their
guards. Given the level of viciousness shown by the average life-prison
guard, this was hard to believe. Yet Merrick could only have learned this
from one source, and that source, Tyrrell thought gloomily, would know
very well indeed what conditions were like in Compassion Prison.
"Any questions?" she asked him.
He shook his head, too miserable to think of any health matters he might
want to ask about, though this was the last time he expected to see a healer
for the rest of his life.
"Fine," she said, walking over to him. She unwrapped the bandage she
had placed around his arm earlier when she syringed him several times for
unspecified illnesses he either had or could expect to have in the future.
He thought about that medical supply kit and suppressed a bitter laugh.
If any such kit existed, it had no doubt been stolen long ago by his guard.
He would just have to hope that he was assigned a cell-mate who was skilled
at tending injuries.
Or should he be hoping for a cell-mate after all, given the news he
had just been burdened with?
His gaze wandered past FitzGerald to the chest of drawers. He wondered
suddenly what was inside those drawers. Glancing over at the healer, he
saw that she had retreated to the end of the room to write up some notes
about him. Medinger was looking the other way.
A minute later, Tyrrell began to scramble into his clothes, looking
around the surgery for anything else that might be helpful. He could see
nothing that appeared interesting, other than a black metal box on the
wall. This was open, however, and he saw that it held nothing but lines
of metal coil that travelled up against the wall. His eyes narrowed, remembering
old days of cutting thief alarms before he entered the houses. He had been
rather good at that, and it had been a much more enjoyable activity than
cutting the throats of the victims he robbed.
This thread of thought was snapped by the entrance of Medinger, who
asked, "Are you finished with the prisoner, ma'am?"
She gave a wave over her shoulder with a hand, apparently indicating
that she was much too busy to bother herself with such trivialities as
saying farewell to a patient.
Medinger nodded, turned to look at Tyrrell, and in the next moment,
Tyrrell found himself stomach-down on the examination table.
Medinger located the object in his pocket within seconds. The guard
extracted it, checked to see that nothing else remained elsewhere in his
prisoner's trousers or shirt, and then hauled Tyrrell up. After checking
Tyrrell's chest and his groin – which had grown soft during the second
body search – Medinger twirled him around in one swift movement, jerking
his wrists back into a single-handled hold. "Ma'am," said the guard, "I
think this belongs to you."
FitzGerald turned around and started as she caught sight of the scalpel
in Medinger's hand. "Oh, dear," she said. "I'm most deeply sorry."
"Not your fault, ma'am," said the guard, with no recrimination in his
voice. "It's my job, not yours, to take care of such matters. Are you finished
with him, then?"
"Yes, I am." Her eyes grew cooler as she looked at Tyrrell, and he had
the terrible feeling that the next patient who walked through her door
would receive a less kindly welcome than he had received.
He felt a familiar sickness of guilt in his stomach. With Merrick around,
he wouldn't have made this mistake – not because Merrick was better than
himself, but because Merrick was so much worse than himself that Tyrrell
had spent much of his time trying to be a model prisoner, so as not to
drag Merrick down further. Now he no longer had Merrick as his anchor,
the man whose presence had kept him within the Boundaries of Behavior for
fifteen years.
He was horribly afraid that he had just witnessed a foreshadow of what
he would become at Compassion.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
His thoughts on the way to the healer's surgery had been so absorbed
with what the gunners said that he had scarcely paid any mind to his surroundings.
Now, retracing the same path as Medinger led him along the balcony, he
tried to see what lay in front of the black wall to the left, but the young
guard would not allow him to get close enough to the balcony railing to
look down. The wall itself, Tyrrell saw as he tilted his neck back, was
a storey short of the prison's ceiling. The dome hovered over the area
behind the black wall, spilling light down into whatever lay there. Almost
immediately adjacent to the wall hung what Tyrrell took at first to be
banner chains, but they were far too thick for that; they looked as though
they could have lifted a small building. He traced them down the side of
the wall, but what they led to was hidden behind the intricate metalwork
that covered the side of the balcony.
Medinger was hustling him along so quickly that Tyrrell was able to
catch no more than glimpses of the rooms on the right side that they were
passing. Those appeared to be the work-rooms of the prison, though no prisoners
were there now. He saw stacked barrels and crates stencilled with words;
most likely these rooms were storage places adjacent to the prison kitchen.
There seemed to be an overwhelming number of barrels, and Tyrrell wondered
again how many cells this prison held. However many there were, it appeared
likely they were behind the black wall.
He and Medinger passed another door, closed. Tyrrell heard faint beeping
and guessed that this must be the coding room. It was odd to have it so
close to where prisoners worked; Tyrrell was sure he was not the only prisoner
who had desperately desired communication with the outside world. The location
of a telegraph room was something to remember. . . . He shook his head.
Already his mind was plotting, though he hadn't yet been here for an hour.
Compassion doubtless had its own leaders among the prisoners, and they
would not take kindly to him arriving with a list of rules he thought the
prisoners should follow.
"You're the new man," he muttered to himself. "You're untried."
He forced himself not to let his thoughts dwell on what form that trial
might take.
He and Medinger were now approaching the final stretch of the balcony,
which ended at an eastern wall. In his old days, Tyrrell had sized up many
a house; now he made quick calculations in his mind, based on what he had
seen from the outside, and concluded that Compassion Prison must have a
second wing next to this one, perhaps where other prisoners were housed.
Or maybe the guards? It was a fair distance from here to the nearest town,
so perhaps all of the guards lived at Compassion. Tyrrell had vague memories
of Merrick telling him that the family of Compassion's Keeper lived within
the prison.
He managed to bow his head enough to see that, on the ground floor,
no doors cut through the eastern wall that they were approaching. Ahead
of them on the balcony stood a single door; if any exit existed from this
part of the prison to the adjoining part, other than through the riot doors,
it must lie through this door. He felt himself give a wry smile. Already
he was planning his escape. Well, that was the favorite pastime of Mercy
prisoners, and it would do him no harm to maintain such illusions here,
even though he knew, from prison gossip, that no prisoner had ever succeeded
in escaping Compassion.
But if he did, and if the town nearby sold sweetweed . . .
This temptation was so unpleasant that he felt relief when they passed
the stairwell from which Oslo had originally brought him. Tyrrell reached
the door against the wall. Medinger opened it with his free hand and then
pushed his prisoner lightly through, his hand still firmly grasping Tyrrell's
wrists. Tyrrell caught a quick glimpse of the place where Oslo had handed
him over to Medinger: a small anteroom containing a cot, a washstand, a
chair, and a desk, with appropriate writing implements. Two doors lay on
the far wall; Medinger opened the right one and pushed Tyrrell through,
finally releasing his wrists.
The room was bright with those ever-fascinating electrified lights.
Tyrrell blinked a moment, looking around as he took several steps forward.
It seemed too much to hope that this was his new cell. That was a real
bed over there, neatly covered with a brightly woven wool blanket. It had
an actual pillow, an implement that Tyrrell hadn't ever used himself, except
on one occasion when he was so sweetweed-bleary after a theft-murder that
he had fallen asleep on his victim's bed and had awoken five hours later
to find patrol soldiers surrounding him. He had resented being taken from
that pillow, he remembered.
There was a sink too, with enamel spigots, and a door to the south side,
which Tyrrell fervently hoped led to a toilet, as he had spent too many
years of his life squatting over gutters or trash-holes. There was even
fruit in a wicker basket; Tyrrell's mouth watered at the sight. He had
tasted fruit four times a year at Mercy and more rarely than that in his
earlier days. Since winter had only just finished in Mip, Tyrrell supposed
that this fuzzy-skinned fruit must have been imported, at great expense,
from one of the small nations located south of Yclau.
A bookcase lay opposite the sink, which Tyrrell dismissed with initial
disinterest until it occurred to him that the books might contain pictures.
His mother, perhaps because of her heritage, had been fond of drawings
and had torn pictures out of penny magazines in order to tack them onto
her walls.
The room even had a rug. No winter-cold floors, ever again.
He heard a tell-tale clink of metal and looked behind him in time to
see Medinger lock the door behind them.
He felt his pulse race hard and had to make an effort to remain still.
The last thing he wanted was to spend this morning the way he had spent
the previous night; Oslo, who been his personal guard for fifteen years,
had taken a few last dips into Tyrrell during their trip here. Tyrrell
was only surprised that FitzGerald had missed the signs of that departing
gift when she did her body search.
He wanted to fight off what was coming, but he could not afford to anger
his new guard, not when there remained any hope that he would receive the
privilege of being housed in such a luxurious cell. Besides, he told himself
sternly, he had the Boundaries to consider.
Medinger, though, took no notice of him. Pocketing the keys, he turned
to a doorway to the left of the one they had come through, which Tyrrell
had missed seeing as they walked in. The guard passed through this doorway
and closed the door behind him.
Tyrrell immediately went over and tested all the doors, which turned
out to be locked. Then he eyed the fruit. He was tempted to gobble it down
before Medinger returned. But this place might be Medinger's own room,
and touching a guard's belongings was a very bad idea, as Tyrrell had learned
shortly before he received his first beating at Mercy. Theft was not a
career worth continuing at Mercy Prison; the rewards were not high enough
to compensate for the penalties of being discovered.
Instead he sat down on the rug, next to the bookcase, and began to inspect
the spines of the books. The spines told him nothing, alas, so he took
one of the books out of the case and began flipping through it. Toward
the beginning of the book, opposite the title page, he found a plate showing
an etching. The etching was of an enormous, black, cubicle building on
a hill overlooking a large pool of water. Tyrrell recognized the hill and
the pool of water without any difficulty; he frowned as he tried to make
sense of the black building that had apparently existed here before Compassion
Prison was built. A previous prison, perhaps? The walls did not appear
to possess any windows.
His mind wandered away from the picture, like an unwatched prisoner.
He remembered the Vovimian-style dome and the machinery that had surely
been supplied by Yclau engineers. He was close to both borders here: the
Kingdom of Vovim was to the southwest, while the queendom of Yclau lay
to the south. He could have guessed that, from the fact so many people
at this prison had patronymics.
Like most Mippites, Tyrrell had grown up without a patronym; like most
Mippites, he had adopted a second name upon manhood, based on his profession.
Tyrrell Cutter, he was dubbed by the boys in his street tribe, a reference
to the fact that he was a cutpurse rather than a reference to how he would
later end his victims' lives.
Patronymics were uncommon among Mippites; folk with patronymics usually
had foreign blood or had social pretensions linked to the richer nations
neighboring them. FitzGerald was clearly an Yclau immigrant; her pale skin
and accent revealed that. Medinger . . . Tyrrell was less sure about him.
He was probably of mixed ancestry, like most Mippites whose families had
lived here for more than one generation but who came from a family that
did not try to disguise its foreign origins. Tyrrell frowned, remembering
a guard he had once known who possessed a patronymic but never used it.
A sign of foreign blood that he was ashamed of? Tyrrell could not remember.
It had been long ago, and the man in question had seemed likely to leave
the guards. . . .
A cough startled Tyrrell into dropping the book onto the rug. He looked
up and saw Medinger at the doorway, looming over him. For a moment, Tyrrell
sat frozen, visions of a leaded whip slinking painfully through his mind.
But Medinger simply jerked his head toward the doorway he had come through.
Tyrrell quickly reshelved the volume he had been looking at, rose, and
followed the guard's order to walk through the doorway.
The room he entered was an office, the same depth as the room he had
just left. It had a cot and chair and desk, as well as a wooden filing
cabinet that reached toward the ceiling, and a very uncomfortable-looking
high stool opposite the desk. The walls were painted the same dull grey
as Tyrrell had seen in the surgery, and there was no rug on this floor.
There was no door on the far wall either, Tyrrell noticed.
The items on the desk were arranged in so painfully exact a manner as
to suggest that the man who had placed them there was an extremely methodical
thinker. He was busy now, writing in a ledger-book in a neat, crisp, almost
cramped handwriting. He wore a midnight blue cap with the emblem of the
magisterial seats etched upon its metal brim. The brim shadowed his face,
though Tyrrell recognized the thin, flat line of the mouth from the two
occasions during his life on which he had seen Compassion's Keeper from
a distance. It did not appear, from the shape of that mouth, as though
this prison's Keeper had acquired any more generosity or humor than he
had possessed in those days.
He did not look up immediately as Tyrrell entered. Tyrrell stood in
front of the desk, trying to decide what to do with his hands. His Mercy
uniform possessed no pockets. Crossing his arms might be regarded as a
sign of insolence; placing his hands behind him might be regarded as a
sign of weakness. He settled for standing stiffly with his hands by his
side, as a pupil might before his schoolmaster. The door he had come through
clicked shut behind him, and then he heard the step of Medinger.
The guard coughed softly from immediately behind Tyrrell. "Sir, here
is the prisoner," he said in a quiet voice, as though fearing he would
cause an eruption if he spoke loudly.
Compassion's Keeper put down his pen then and looked up. His eyebrows
matched his mouth in straightness, and his eyes had a touch of coolness
to them. Those eyes were dark grey, suggesting that he might have a drop
or two of Vovimian blood in him. But the tightness of his movements as
he folded one hand over the other on the desk seemed more Yclau in its
efficiency than Vovimian, and the directness of his gaze was Mippite through
and through.
Tyrrell somehow managed to find his voice. "Tom!" he cried. "When did
you become—?"
From behind him, a boot jerked his legs apart and then found its home,
with unexpected suddenness, inside Tyrrell's crotch. Tyrrell fell like
a sack of grain, clutching his baubles. Above him, Medinger's voice said,
"You will address the Keeper as sir."
If he said anything more, Tyrrell didn't hear; he was gasping, moaning,
struggling not to sob. He had been booted in the crotch more than once
by his guards, but never with so little warning. Biting his lip, he concentrated
his effort on relaxing, absorbing the pain, accepting it into his body,
feeling it melt into his bones.
A conversation was taking place above him; it ended, and a moment later
Tyrrell heard Medinger's footsteps recede. A door clicked open and shut.
He didn't open his eyes. Now that the pain was diminishing, he was trying
to guess what the man above him would do. If it were the man Tyrrell thought
it was, the man would help Tyrrell to his feet.
The man did not move from behind his desk. Tyrrell had a vision of him
calmly scribbling more notes while his prisoner writhed on the floor. Keeping
his eyes squeezed shut, Tyrrell tried to think. A twin brother? That seemed
the most likely explanation. Or perhaps Tyrrell had simply mistaken the
father for his son. Merrick's former guard, Tom, had looked very much like
his father, Tyrrell knew.
He heard the screech of a chair drawing back, and then footsteps coming
around the desk. Kicks might be next. He drew his legs closer in to protect
his privates, though he felt that this was a belated operation.
The footsteps stopped. A voice said quietly, "Stand up, please."
The "please" was reassuring; the command was not. At the very least,
Tom would have enquired after his health. Yet, curse it, the man sounded
like Tom. A twin brother was beginning to seem more and more likely. A
twin brother spawned by the High Master of hell.
He managed to scramble onto his knees and then onto his feet before
raising his eyes. The man standing a body's length from him was definitely
not the father. This was a much younger man, perhaps five years younger
than Tyrrell. His right hand was resting on the dagger that hung sheathed
at his belt, and his left hand on a coiled whip hung on the opposite side
of his belt. Under his cap, he had dark brown hair, almost black. Probably
of Vovimian ancestry, then. Tyrrell would just have to hope that Compassion's
Keeper wasn't descended from southern Vovimians. Despite the emancipation
laws, it was said that quite a few men in that province still owned slaves.
The Keeper looked at him, gaze straight, for a minute more. Tyrrell
dared not look away. Then the Keeper said in a soft voice, "Are you all
right, Tyrrell?"
Tyrrell's breath came out in a gasp. He hadn't realized he was holding
it. "I was somewhat better before I entered this room," he said as he attempted
a wobbly smile.
The Keeper did not smile back. "Medinger was trying to help you."
"How, by smashing in my baubles?" The words slipped out of him. Tom
was the sort of guard who had always encouraged honesty.
Compassion's Keeper did not speak for a minute. Tom did look very like
his father, especially at moments like this, when he was so solemn. But
there was no cruelty in his eyes, and he had always been a guard to think
carefully before he spoke.
Finally he said, "That too. I am addressed as sir, or by my title, and
Medinger considered it important for you to understand that. But in the
main, he helped you by disarming you before you entered here. If you had
come into my office with a hidden weapon, I would have had to use the leaded
whip."
Tyrrell's smile disappeared. His capacity to stand nearly did as well.
He had seen Tom use the leaded whip. It was the only time in his life that
he had ever witnessed Merrick go pale – and Merrick had not been the one
being beaten. Tyrrell himself had been sick afterwards, and it was not
as though he was unused to witnessing floggings. The flogging that Tom
had given, however . . . It had been the most ruthless, efficient punishment
that Tyrrell had ever been unfortunate enough to watch during his years
as a prisoner.
Perhaps not an evil twin then. Perhaps Tom had simply come fully into
what he was beginning to be fifteen years before, when he had served for
seven weeks at Mercy Prison.
"I'm sorry . . . sir," Tyrrell said in a faint voice.
The word felt strange on his tongue; he had never called anyone sir
before. Not his guards over the years, who fortunately had never demanded
it. Nor Mercy's Keeper, who seemed vaguely surprised that prisoners were
capable of doing anything other than assaulting guards, much less addressing
him politely. Tyrrell had certainly not addressed as sir the magistrates
who determined his sentence.
But he had seen Tom use the leaded whip. That seemed reason enough to
call him whatever he wished.
Tom looked at him a while longer. His silences were beginning to seem
ominous. Suddenly he smiled. "I didn't have you brought here for a flogging,
Tyrrell. Please, have a seat."
He gestured toward the stool. Tyrrell hesitated, but the smile seemed
genuine; it was the easy, friendly smile that Tyrrell remembered from fifteen
years ago. Slowly, Tyrrell pulled himself up onto the stool, yelped slightly,
and then scooted forward so that his abused baubles would hang free. The
stool was tall enough that he had to rest his feet on the rungs. Perched
on the edge of its seat, he felt like a small bird roosting. Within sight
of a carnivorous cat, he added mentally, still trying to reconcile the
smile with the threat.
Compassion's Keeper was standing where he had been before, immediately
in front of the desk, which placed him two bodies' length from Tyrrell.
From this distance he said, "Thomas Keeper. I'm not sure whether we were
ever formally introduced."
"Tyrrell, sir, as you know." Tyrrell eyed the other man with curiosity
as Compassion's Keeper reached to the side to pick up a ledger with a midnight
blue cover, which Tyrrell knew must be his prison record, since Medinger
had taken it back from FitzGerald. As far as Tyrrell knew, he had never
been formally introduced to Merrick's guard; there weren't many guards
who would take the trouble even to informally introduce themselves. It
made no difference, though, for if Tom Keeper had introduced himself fifteen
years before, it would have been under a different name. It appeared that,
upon taking his present post, Merrick's old guard had not only adopted
a new title but had adopted a new family name as well. Apparently he was
no more fond now than he had been in past years of his patronymic. Which
was a good sign, considering that his father had been the previous, brutal
Keeper of Compassion Prison.
Tyrrell heard himself say, "May I ask how long you've been Keeper, sir?"
"Six months," Tom Keeper replied, not looking up from Tyrrell's records,
which he was slowly leafing through. "Unofficially, that is. The magisterial
seats have not yet confirmed my title. My father was officially Keeper
until a month ago, but he grew weary of waiting for the magistrates to
confirm me, so he retired in an effort to encourage them to make up their
minds. He no longer lives in Mip," he added, as though this information
was of importance. "He and the rest of my family have moved to Vovim, where
my mother has distant relatives. She has wanted to move there for many
years, since she is a lover of the arts."
Keeper fell silent, pausing to read a page, and Tyrrell took the opportunity
to scrutinize his appearance further. Vovimian on his mother's side . .
. The Yclau blood must come from his father's side, then. The gold chain
that was riding on his neck, just above his stiff collar, told clearly
that he was well-born. Tyrrell guessed that Keeper must belong to one of
the high-born families who had ruled Mip until the nation gained its freedom
from Yclau forty-five years before. Most of those families acted as though
they still ruled Mip; one could invariably identify members of them by
the manner in which they projected a sense of power.
Keeper fairly reeked of that quality. Tyrrell's memories were of a shy
young guard who only occasionally provided glimpses of the slicing blade
beneath his gentleness. Merrick's guard seemed to have shed his shyness
as though it were a cocoon; now the blade was all too apparent, in the
manner in which he spoke and in each carefully controlled gesture.
Tyrrell shifted uneasily on his stool, eyeing the whip coiled on the
left side of Keeper's belt. It was sleek and black. The infamous black
whip of Compassion Prison was said to have a destructive potential that
was second only to the leaded whip, which was nothing other than a black
whip with bits of lead tied to it. None of the other guards here that Tyrrell
had seen bore a whip. He vaguely remembered hearing that the black whip
was so hard to control that it was used only for punishment by guards at
Compassion, not as a means of defense.
Which meant, of course, that any guard wearing the black whip must be
skilled to a high degree at using it.
Tyrrell passed his hand behind his neck, where sweat was beginning to
form. He wasn't thinking anything he didn't already know, he reminded himself.
For the moment, at least, Keeper was showing no inclination to make use
of his flogging skill. He was carefully perusing a page of the ledger,
the right sleeve of his dark blue uniform making a soft sigh as it brushed
over the paper. His right hand paused, and then travelled down to tap a
code upon the hilt of his belt-dagger. Tyrrell waited, resisting the urge
to wipe off newly formed sweat.
Keeper looked up finally. He had been slender in the old days, and still
was, but his face had filled out and taken on the lines of middle age.
Only his eyes still held a certain youthfulness. "Well," he said in the
same quiet voice as before, "your records are good, as far as life prisoners'
records usually go. Some episodes of violence against guards during the
first year, when you were recovering from your addiction to sweetweed.
After that, nothing more than a few fist-fights with other prisoners. You
were flogged on a handful of occasions for theft, and on several other
occasions for lying – all minor offenses, dealt with by your personal guards.
Your record for the past fifteen years is spotless." He looked down and
turned a page. "Until the past month."
Tyrrell waited, feeling something hard grow in his throat. He tried
swallowing, which made the ball in his throat throb painfully.
Keeper's hand was still tapping an unknown code on his dagger hilt;
his eyes had returned to the ledger. "'Prisoner's record for the third
month of the year 400,'" he read aloud. "'Conspiracy to disrupt the peace.
Smuggling to persons outside the prison. False witness on a court document.
Communication with prisoners on other levels of the prison' – that's a
high charge." Keeper took his hand off the dagger hilt only long enough
to turn a page. '''Persuasion of guards to disobey orders. Persuasion of
fellow prisoners to disrupt the peace. Sentenced to sixty lashes of the
leaded whip. Sentence commuted to a transfer to Compassion Life Prison.'"
Keeper raised his eyebrows. "That's the first time I've ever heard a transfer
to this prison described as a commutation. We'll assume that particular
phrasing was meant as a joke." He clapped the ledger shut with one hand
and looked up at Tyrrell, who was thinking that it made no difference that
he'd been drenched by rain earlier. His uniform was now soaked as thoroughly
from sweat as from the rain.
Keeper placed the ledger back onto the desk and began to walk slowly
forward, his hand on his hilt. Without needing the order, Tyrrell rose
from the stool and stood stiffly beside it, resisting the impulse to retreat
backwards to the wall behind him. He tried to read Keeper's expression
but failed, even though the electric lamp above them threw bright light
upon the scene.
When Keeper reached Tyrrell, he put his hand out. Tyrrell kept himself
utterly still as Keeper ran his hand through his prisoner's rain-soaked
hair. Tyrrell wondered whether he was checking for lice. FitzGerald had
already done that and had been surprised that he had none, which had told
Tyrrell more than he wanted to know about conditions in the prison cells
here.
Keeper's hand continued down the back of Tyrrell's head and over his
neck hairs. Tyrrell felt his skin prickle. With any other guard, he would
know what this was leading to, but this guard—
Keeper grabbed the back of his collar, jerked him around, and shoved
him face-first against the wall.
Tyrrell's hands, which were still free, went automatically forward to
save the rest of his body from being smashed against the cold stones; then
he froze. Keeper kicked apart his legs with practiced ease. With his left
hand still holding Tyrrell's collar, he reached around the front of Tyrrell.
Tyrrell's head was already lowered; he saw the dagger in Keeper's hand.
He had to close his eyes then. It wasn't merely fear that made him do
so; it was the automatic surge of fight-power into his muscles. If he let
that take charge of him, the next thing he knew, he would be trying to
punch Keeper. Which would be a disastrous decision, for more than one reason.
Keeper's dagger pricked the front of his shins in a light warning. Tyrrell
dragged his feet backwards so that the weight of his body was now against
the wall. His arms were cradling his head, but Keeper made no move to change
this. Instead, having placed his prisoner in the position he wanted, Keeper
sheathed his dagger in a whisper of metal against leather that Tyrrell
could have identified in his sleep.
Then he reached for Tyrrell's trouser buttons.
Tyrrell's hands balled into fists; his muscles had taken on a life of
their own and were flexed for battle. He forced himself to breathe slowly.
Usually he was better prepared, but this was the one thing he had not anticipated
would happen in this office. He had been quite sure that Tom Keeper didn't
molest his prisoners; Merrick had implied that, more than once. But that
had been fifteen years ago, he reminded himself. . . .
Keeper had pushed back the flap of Tyrrell's trousers; his hand was
now exploring the flap of Tyrrell's drawers. Heat was surging through Tyrrell's
body, and the heat had nothing to do with embarrassment or lust. He took
another deep breath.
I keep the Boundaries, he reminded himself. I attack no one,
even in self-defense. I take no one unwilling—
He realized suddenly that he was whispering the words, and he bit his
lip shut. The hand exploring his groin had paused. Opening his eyes, he
saw Keeper standing beside him, scrutinizing his face.
There was a breathless moment in which Tyrrell's fists refused to unclench
themselves, despite his awareness of the whip at Keeper's belt. Then Keeper
took several steps back. He said, in a manner almost conversational, "You'll
find your new uniform next to the door."
Tyrrell turned his head to look. There, on a chair next to the door
through which he had entered, was a neat stack of clothes – grey clothes,
he realized with a start. He wondered whether this meant he had risen in
rank, in the eyes of his new Keeper.
He pushed himself away from the wall and took a step toward the chair,
eager to retreat from the scene that had just occurred, but was halted
by the voice of Keeper saying quietly, "You may leave your other clothes
on my desk."
His gaze flew to Keeper. The man was giving a very good impression of
being interested only in a bright red box with a gold lock, which hung
upon the back wall of his office. Tyrrell was not fooled. No guard worth
his pay ever let a prisoner out of his sight when that prisoner was in
the same room.
Tyrrell was grateful to him for the pretense, though there was no need.
Tyrrell had stripped himself many times under a guard's eye, under far
worse circumstances than the one he appeared to be in at the moment. He
crouched down and unhooked the buttons on his boots – not an easy task,
without a button-hook, but Mercy's prisoners weren't permitted boot-laces,
lest they try to end their own lives with them.
They were at least permitted belts. Tyrrell undid his belt and gave
the usual sigh of relief at the loosening of the pressure around his waist.
His flap buttons were still undone; his trousers slid off easily.
Next came the buttons on his shirt. Like his trousers, his shirt was
striped bright red, a humiliating sign of his status as a second-level
prisoner at Mercy. Third-level prisoners wore all-white, while the prisoners
on the top three levels were permitted to wear sober grey. Tyrrell had
started on the fourth level of Mercy, but he had plunged downwards on the
week that his crash began from the sweetweed. Once you were sent down to
the second level at Mercy, you remained down, almost always. That had ceased
to bother Tyrrell once he had gained Merrick's friendship.
Nothing was left after that except for his half-stockings and drawers.
Mercy's prisoners did not wear undervests, and Tyrrell had lost his jacket
and vest to a vengeful guard about five years past. It had not been replaced,
naturally.
Now, having deposited his clothes on the desk, he went over to his new
uniform and fingered it. The cloth of the trousers and shirt and jacket
and vest was thick and soft, the cloth of the pure white drawers and undervest
and half-stockings even more so. The leather belt shone as though it were
new. When he donned the uniform, he found that it fit him. His measurements
would be in his prison record, he supposed. He noticed, with some concern,
that he had not been given boots. He hoped that did not mean he would be
barefoot from this point forth. Mercy was heated, after a certain fashion,
but even so, its floors could be frigid in cold weather, as he had learned
on the first occasion that a guard had decided to punish him by making
him lie naked on the winter floor.
He looked over at Keeper again. The guard was sitting behind his desk
now, carefully inspecting Tyrrell's old uniform: pockets, linings, every
inch of the cloth. He seemed wholly absorbed in his task.
Tyrrell cleared his throat. Without looking up, Keeper said, "You have
a question?"
"Yes, sir. I was wondering . . . What you did before . . ." He faltered.
"You were wondering at the purpose of my inspection?" Keeper looked
up finally, though his fingers continued to work their way along the trouser
cuff.
Tyrrell nodded.
"Two reasons," said Keeper. "I needed to be sure that you weren't carrying
any more weapons; Mr. Medinger is not always as thorough as he could be
in his inspections of groins. My second reason . . . I wished to see how
much control you had over yourself. You were still engaging in fights with
other prisoners during my time as a guard at Mercy."
Tyrrell felt his hands form into fists; he quickly loosened them. He
said, in what he hoped was a steady voice, "Did I pass your inspection,
sir?"
Keeper suddenly flashed him a smile. "You did better than I would have
done under such circumstances. Your self-control is admirable. I hope you
managed to teach Merrick—"
Compassion's Keeper stopped suddenly. His fingers, which had been travelling
along the cuff of the trouser, stopped also. As Tyrrell held his breath,
Keeper's hand disappeared below the line of the desk; when it re-emerged,
Keeper's dagger lay in his hand, unsheathed.
He used it to snap the threads binding the cuff closed. There weren't
many threads to cut. Tyrrell knew that, because he had been the one to
sew them, borrowing thread and needle from a Boundaries-bound guard, one
who trusted him enough not to require to know why he needed such implements.
Now Keeper extracted from the cuff the small piece of paper hidden there
and unfolded it on his desk. For half a minute he did not speak, as Tyrrell's
heart raced pell-mell. Then he said, "Merrick wrote this."
"Sir?" Oh, this was worse than he had anticipated; it hadn't occurred
to him that anyone besides himself would be forced to answer for the presence
of this paper. But then, Keeper must know he couldn't have written it himself.
He should have thought . . .
"I recognize his handwriting. I loaned him some books when I was his
guard, as well as paper and pencil, and he scribbled all sorts of notes
in the page margins – obscenities, mainly. I still have the books." Keeper
folded the paper carefully closed, and then looked up. "Do you mind if
I borrow this for a day or two? I'll see that it's returned to you after
that time."
Of all the things he had imagined might happen to him at Compassion,
this was not one of them. The only thing he could think to say was the
truth. "You can keep it, sir. It's for you."
"Me?" For the first time, Keeper looked startled.
Despite himself, Tyrrell felt his face stretch into a grin. "We placed
it there for you, sir. We didn't know that you were Compassion's Keeper
now, but Merrick said that, if he or I or both of us were transferred here,
you'd do your best to see that you were made our guard. And he said you
were too skilled a guard not to inspect the clothes of any new prisoner.
So we put the paper there, where you would find it."
After a moment, a puff of laughter escaped Keeper; he quickly leaned
forward to rest his chin on his hand, so that he could hide his smile.
Tyrrell continued to grin.
They had planned this, he and Merrick, back when they had begun to imagine
what would happen if their revolution failed. The worst that could be done
to them, they had both agreed, was that they would be sent to Compassion
Prison. No worse punishment could be given to Mercy's prisoners; the Magisterial
Republic of Mip had outlawed the death penalty at the time it gained its
independence from Yclau.
Exile to Compassion had been a real possibility, and it had been Merrick
who had pointed out that such exile could have its benefits. Tyrrell had
been skeptical; Tom had only been Merrick's guard for a short time, so
how could Merrick be so sure that he would treat their revolutionary activities
with sympathy? Yet Merrick had insisted that the gamble was worth taking.
"Easy enough for you to say," Tyrrell had grumbled at the time. "You've
tasted the leaded whip before. This will be my first time, if you're wrong."
Now he felt his muscles relax as he said, "You must have seen these
before, sir."
"Oh, yes. Mercy's Keeper sent a copy of them to all the life prisons
fifteen years ago, as a warning to the rest of us of the sort of seditious
activities that might arise amongst our prisoners. He obviously knew little
about Compassion, or he wouldn't have bothered to send a copy here. So
I've seen the words before . . . but it's a very different thing to receive
them from the men who actually constructed the Boundaries of Behavior."
Feeling bold now, Tyrrell said, "Merrick told me that you were the one
who created them."
"Did he?" Keeper unfolded the paper again and glanced at what lay there.
"Some of what he and I discussed may have served as inspiration, perhaps.
But the concreteness of the rules, the high-spirited manner in which they
are worded . . . No, the world owes that to you and Merrick. Thank you
for honoring me with this."
Tyrrell could not think of what to reply. He silently pulled his jacket
closed, fumbling with the buttons; after twenty years, he still was not
comfortable with using buttons, rather than the ribbons that had bound
closed the shirts and trousers of his childhood and youth. The life prisons,
though, preferred buttons to ribbons that might be torn off, tied together,
and used to allow a prisoner to escape. Tyrrell had never bothered to point
out to the guards that a prisoner who swallowed a handful of buttons was
just as likely to die as a prisoner who hanged himself.
He winced as he thought of the early days, soon after he emerged from
the shock of his crashing, when he had considered killing himself. The
nightly rapes, the arbitrary punishments . . . Sometimes he wondered how
he had made it through those years with his sanity intact.
Not that much had changed after he and Merrick had allied themselves
to spread word of the Boundaries of Behavior. Life had improved for the
prisoners of any guards who chose to adhere to the Boundaries, but Mercy's
Keeper, in an act of petty revenge, had permanently assigned Oslo to guard
Tyrrell. Tyrrell had spent many a night on his hands and knees, wondering
why his mother had been so insistent that self-slaying went against the
gods' will. As far as he could tell from his memory of the sacred dramas,
the gods had never had anything to say on this topic.
Perhaps his mother had simply been trying to prevent him from following
in his father's footsteps.
It had been the thought of his father – of how that mood-driven man
had allowed poverty to conquer his will to live and had left his wife and
son and infant daughter bereft of money and hope – that had prevented Tyrrell
from taking the same path. With gritted teeth, he had endured Oslo's nightly
plowings – sometimes thrice-nightly plowings – and had vowed to continue
to help the other prisoners, having failed to find a way, as a young boy,
to help his mother and sister.
And now it would all begin again. Clenching his teeth as he pulled on
the last of his clothes, Tyrrell felt his jaw ache. Whether or not he could
find a way to help Compassion's prisoners, he would not allow himself to
undergo what he had undergone with Oslo. He would kill his guard first
. . . and any prisoner who tried to take him.
At this thought – not at all in keeping with the image of peace that
he tried to project as a Boundaries-bound prisoner – he jerked with guilt.
Looking over at Compassion's Keeper, he found that Keeper's eye was on
him. He jerked again, this time in fear. Tom Keeper was much too gifted
at reading prisoners' thoughts.
Whatever Keeper might have read in Tyrrell's expression, all that he
said was, "You may retain your current boots. We're short of supplies at
the moment."
"Budget cuts, sir?" replied Tyrrell automatically as he retrieved that
article of clothing, sat on the floor, and slipped on his old boots. He
had trained himself to respond sympathetically to the endless whinings
of Mercy's Keeper.
"Our budget was never high to begin with. Most of it goes to food, and
the cost of feeding the prisoners has risen in recent years . . . though
not as much as it should." Keeper frowned.
Tyrrell paused while buttoning his boots. "What do you mean, sir?"
Keeper scrutinized him, his expression shaded. Not liking to meet that
gaze in a way that might be interpreted as defiance, Tyrrell took the opportunity
to glance around the room again. No door here through the eastern wall,
no door through that wall in the adjoining room. . . . Even if the guards'
sleeping quarters lay east, in an adjoining wing, the mighty doors he had
entered through appeared to be the only exit from this part of the prison.
He had heard long ago of Compassion's infamous riot doors, built after
the Riot of 385 had resulted in the deaths of nearly every guard at Compassion.
The prisoners had paid the price for that riot, but Tyrrell had heard that
Keeper's father, unwilling to trust that the lesson would stick, had proposed
the creation of riot doors, stationed beyond the regular prison gate. They
certainly seemed a formidable barrier.
For every door, though, there is a key. Tyrrell glanced again at the
red box on the wall, with its gold lock and hinged panel. The box could
simply be a wire-hatch, of course – a hatch holding electricity wires that
could be spliced by repairmen. On the other hand, it bore a strong resemblance
to the hatch that had held the lever that opened the riot doors from the
outside. It would make sense that the lever's interior counterpart would
be placed in the office of Compassion's Keeper.
Tyrrell imagined himself trying to get past Keeper's whip to pull down
the lever, and he shook his head ruefully. He returned his attention to
Tom Keeper.
If the man in primary charge of prison security was concerned by Tyrrell's
wandering gaze, he said nothing. Instead, he rose from behind his desk
and gestured. Tyrrell hastily finished hooking the boot-buttons and came
over to join him, halting an arm's length from Keeper.
Keeper gestured again. He had half-turned to pull over the ledger-book
that he had been writing upon when Tyrrell arrived. Tyrrell, coming reluctantly
within arm's reach of the guard, looked down and saw a list of numbers.
"You can read numbers?" Keeper asked, glancing at him.
"Yes, sir." His mother had been able to teach him that much before she
died.
Keeper pointed to the top of the list of numbers. "What happened before
my appointment as Keeper I'm uncertain of; the records from my father's
period as Keeper are missing." He was successful in exiling any note of
irony from his voice. "However, when I became Keeper, I made an estimate
of the number of prisoners, based on how many barrels of waste product
were produced daily by the prisoners."
Tyrrell felt a moment of pity for whichever guard had been assigned
the task of collecting the evidence. It seemed an odd way to conduct a
census. If Compassion's records were in such disarray that its new Keeper
didn't know off the top of his head how many men the prison housed, why
had he not simply counted the prisoners? At Mercy, each prisoner was counted
when he arrived at his workplace within the prison and when he emerged
at the end of the shift; the numbers had to match, or the guards would
be immediately sent on a search for the missing prisoner.
"This is the number I estimated," Keeper reported, his finger still
on the figure at the top of the list. "I may be off by a few dozens . .
." Tyrrell blinked as Keeper concluded, ". . . but the number is accurate
within a hundred prisoners, I believe. This" – his finger moved down to
the next number – "is the number of prisoners who have been admitted into
Compassion since my arrival."
Tyrrell blinked again. "You must have a large amount of space for housing
prisoners, sir."
"Not as large as the other Keepers like to think." This time Tom Keeper
did not succeed in keeping irony out of his voice. "We receive the leavings
from the other life prisons; whenever another prison can't manage a prisoner,
they send him to us. Mind you, their estimates of a prisoner's recalcitrance
are often in error," he added with a glance at Tyrrell.
Tyrrell grinned. "No need to be tactful, sir. My mother often said I
was so stubborn that I could give lessons to mules."
Keeper gave a soft laugh. "My father has made similar remarks about
me over the years. Stubbornness is not, in itself, a bad quality; it is
simply a matter of using that stubbornness in the proper manner. But I
digress." He turned his attention back to the ledger-book as his finger
drifted down to the third row of numerals. "This is the number of prisoners
whose bodies have ended up in our crematorium since I became Keeper."
Tyrrell scrutinized this number carefully but could see nothing wrong
with it. It was high, by the standards of mid-class life and elite life,
but not high by the standards Tyrrell had grown up with. Disease and wounds
took their toll in the life prisons, as they did on the streets of Mip's
capital. At least the life prisoners, unlike Mip's poor, could depend on
being provided with adequate amounts of food, clothing, and shelter.
Tyrrell straightened up from staring at the book. "And the number below
it, sir?"
"A second census, conducted by me a fortnight ago; again, I used waste
products to make my estimate, so even if my exact figures are wrong, the
proportion between this number and the first one should be correct."
Tyrrell frowned as he bent forward again. Even without Keeper's total
number carefully noted on the bottom, Tyrrell could tell that the three
numbers did not match up. If the figures were right, far fewer prisoners
lived in Compassion than could be accounted for by the number of deaths
that had occurred in the past six months. Tyrrell pointed at the page.
"Sir, if your estimates for the number of living prisoners are wrong .
. ."
"Then that could account for the missing prisoners. Yes. I hope that
is the explanation."
Keeper's expression had grown bleak. He stared down at the ledger-book,
lightly brushing with his finger the figure for the number of deaths.
Tyrrell looked at that figure again, then at Keeper. "You think the
number of deaths is higher than that?"
"I fear so." Keeper's voice was quiet. "Tyrrell, you know, I am sure,
that Compassion has a reputation for prisoner-to-prisoner violence."
There seemed no adequate response Tyrrell could make to this observation.
"Yes, sir."
"That reputation is well earned. When I briefly took charge of the prisoners
fifteen years ago, at the time that this prison was being renovated following
the riots, the prisoners were little more than savages. They preyed on
each other, the strong assaulting the weak. Some of the higher-minded prisoners,
I will admit, protected their favorite prisoners – but those favorites
paid the price of protection by becoming slaves to the men who protected
them."
Tyrrell decided that he would not make a very good impression on Compassion's
Keeper if he retched the contents of his stomach onto Keeper's desk. "And
now, sir?"
"That is the question I want an answer to. How many prisoners are dying
at the hands of other prisoners? Have the surviving prisoners been destroying
the dead prisoners' corpses in an effort to cover up how many murders take
place in Compassion Prison? The night guards have reported seeing smoke
rise from within Compassion, and they say that the smoke sometimes smells
like burnt meat. Although the prisoners are not permitted matches or old-fashioned
flint-boxes, they may be finding another way to burn the corpses. Healer
FitzGerald is dubious of this idea; she has charge over our crematorium
here, and she says that burning bodies to cinders is not as easy as one
might think. Yet the possibility continues to prey at my mind."
Keeper's voice was soft and strained now. For a brief moment, Tyrrell
thought he glimpsed the shy youth that the guard had once been. Then Keeper
turned toward Tyrrell his eyes – steady and hard as the riot doors – and
the illusion was mangled.
Tyrrell found his tongue finally. "Sir," he said, "there is much here
that I don't understand. If you're not sure of how many prisoners there
are, why don't you simply count each one in his cell?"
"We have only one day-cell here, Tyrrell."
Tyrrell winced. He had hoped that this particular rumor about Compassion
would prove to be wrong. "I don't suppose that it's easy to count prisoners
from outside the day-cell, if they're all crammed together. Even so, you
could count them when they emerge from their night-cells to go to their
workplaces—"
"They are not assigned work tasks. It has always been the tradition
at Compassion to hire laborers to do what work is needed to keep this prison
running. Indeed, food preparation is considered so important a task that
it is handled by the guards."
Tyrrell tried to decide whether this was good news or bad. He had countless
burn marks on his hands from his years spent sweating away at hard tasks
in Mercy's laundering room . . . but if he had spent those hours idle in
his cell, he might have gone mad long ago. And he did not like to think
what amusements Compassion's prisoners might choose to fill their idle
hours.
He set aside the question as less vital than the ones that were tickling
his mind. "But sir, whenever your guards enter the day-cell or the night-cells,
they could count the prisoners. And the night guards could investigate
the source of the fire, whenever it occurs."
"That is forbidden. Prison regulations, as set down by my father after
the renovation of Compassion, do not permit guards to enter Compassion
Prison, except under carefully defined circumstances, for brief periods.
Because my appointment has not yet been confirmed, I do not yet have the
power to change those regulations."
Tyrrell stared at Keeper. "You mean that the guards are never allowed
to enter the prisoners' cells?"
"I mean that they are not allowed to enter Compassion Prison."
In the long silence that followed, Tyrrell could hear the muffled sound
of someone moving around the anteroom between Keeper's office and the balcony.
Medinger, he supposed; that must be where that guard did his own work.
Finally Tyrrell said, "I thought that this was Compassion Prison, sir."
Keeper shook his head as he closed the ledger-book and pushed it back
to its previous location. "These are only the outbuildings of the prison.
Originally, they were used as places for storage of prison goods, while
the guards and laborers of the prison lived on the second and third floors
of the prison. The guards' work quarters were next to the prisoners' cells,
on the first storey of Compassion. At the time of this prison's renovation,
though, the courtyard of the outbuildings was roofed over, and the guards'
work quarters were moved here, to prevent the guards from having intimate
contact with the prisoners. A new wing, just to the east of this one, provides
living quarters for the guards and the laborers, as well as the mechanics
who are now needed to keep Compassion's machinery running. The motive that
my father put forth to the magisterial seats for removing the guards from
within the prison was that it would keep the guards from misusing their
power over the prisoners. But of course the main motive was to prevent
the prisoners from having access to the guards, lest a repeat occur of
the Riot of 385."
"Then where—?" He halted abruptly, seeing in his mind's eye the black
stone building in the etching, next to the pool of water.
Keeper said nothing; he simply took Tyrrell by the elbow, steering him
through the main office door – past Medinger at his desk in the anteroom
– and then through the door to the balcony. When they reached the balcony
railing, he released Tyrrell and pointed.
Tyrrell already had his eyes turned that way. The three-storey black
wall he had seen before could now be recognized clearly as a cube-shaped
building, scarcely smaller than the outbuildings that surrounded it. It
looked as though it could house a small army.
"There," said Tom Keeper. "That is Compassion Life Prison."
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Tyrrell leaned his forearms against the balcony railing. From this vantage
point, at the short, eastern end of the rectangle of outbuildings, he could
not see whether the prison lay flush with the west wall of the outbuildings.
Probably not, if the outbuildings had been built to surround the prison.
So two barriers now lay between the prisoners and freedom: the prison walls
and the walls of the outbuildings. And the walls of the outbuildings could
only be penetrated, it appeared, through a lever in the office of Compassion's
Keeper.
Tom Keeper's father had been fiendishly clever in directing the reconstruction
of the prison, Tyrrell had to admit. Still, so had many of the men who
had created the thief alarms that Tyrrell had disabled during his years
of work. Tyrrell put his professional mind to the problem. The lever was
too far away from the riot doors to directly activate a system of gears;
most likely it was activating an electrical line that ran to the gears.
Tyrrell had encountered a few of those during his year as a thief; electric
alarms had recently become fashionable in the richer houses of Mip's capital.
They were childishly simple to disable. All that you had to do was find
the electrical hatch – which was always placed outside the houses, for
reasons known only to the gods – and then identify which switch turned
the alarm line on and off. That had taken Tyrrell some work at the beginning.
You couldn't just flip any switch, because you might end up turning off
the house's lights at the very moment that the householder had risen from
bed to use his water-closet. But alarms usually had a line of their own,
and the city's alarm manufacturer – blessed be his name – used the same
color coding each time for this line. Once Tyrrell had figured this out,
it had taken him only seconds to disable any alarm he encountered.
So he needed to find the electrical hatch. If the hatch was in the entryway
or in the adjoining wing, then his luck was out. But it would make more
sense to place such a hatch in the outbuildings, in case any problems arose
with the lever that needed to be corrected by the guards.
He thought of the hatch in the healer's office.
His mind had skittered away from the subject at hand; he only returned
to the present when Keeper said, "We guards can see into the prison through
its barred gate, but not far. Essentially, the prisoners have been in charge
of Compassion Prison since the time of the renovation. We feed them, and
we remove waste products; we give them other vital supplies, such as medicine.
We keep them clothed and warm, and we supply them with water. Other than
that, what happens in the prison is determined by the prisoners."
Tyrrell turned his gaze toward Keeper. The guard had his vision focussed
upon the prison; he was making no effort to watch Tyrrell to see whether
he would escape. Even without the riot doors in place, Tyrrell guessed
he would not get far if he tried to run – not with Keeper's hand lightly
stroking the curled whip at his belt. "That was part of your father's plan,
sir?"
Keeper nodded without moving his gaze from the prison. "When I was young,
I and my sisters used to act out the sacred dramas of Vovim that our mother
read to us. My father came across us one day when I was play-acting that
I was hell's High Master. I was telling my sisters – who were playing quailing
prisoners – how the most terrible punishments of hell occurred in hell's
holding cell, where prisoners were permitted to prey upon fellow prisoners.
"I don't think my father ever forgot that speech. To a certain extent,
he was merely following long-standing tradition at Compassion. Prisoners
were granted separate sleeping cells before the renovation, and the renovation
did not change that. But in the daytime, for many centuries, prisoners
were placed in a single living cell, so that they could be easily watched
by a skeleton crew of guards. The guards made little effort to interfere
with the prisoners' activities. Now we have no way to interfere if we want
to – we are not permitted to set foot in Compassion."
Tyrrell fingered the smooth metal railing for a minute, saying nothing.
The cool of the early morning had disappeared; now the air was growing
warmer – warm enough to make Tyrrell sweat. If this was what it was like
in springtime, he hated to think what summer would be like in this windowless
place, when he was stuffed into a single cell with many other prisoners.
The heat must be unbearable.
And yet Tom Keeper spoke as though he were a prisoner, because he was
unable to enter Compassion whenever he wished. Tyrrell felt a momentary
stab of annoyance, followed by pity. Even the best guards, he had found,
were unable to truly understand what life was like for a prisoner. They
did their best; the ones with empathy could understand a great deal. But
none of them could fully understand what it was like to have your each
and every action determined by forces beyond your control. They thought
they understood, which was why Tyrrell felt pity for them. The well-meaning
fools of the world should always be pitied, his mother had taught him.
Keeper, though, was a keener-minded fool than most guards, so Tyrrell
ventured to say, "That must make life difficult for many of the prisoners,
sir – not having access to the guards when they need them."
"Life is harsh for many of the lads there, yes."
Tyrrell frowned, glancing back at the black walls of the prison. "Are
juveniles permitted in the prison, then?" It seemed unlikely; Mip had long
ago established separate juvenile prisons to protect its weakest prisoners.
And Tyrrell had never heard of a juvenile being sentenced to life imprisonment.
"Not for many centuries," Keeper replied. He had left off fingering
his whip and was now drumming his fingers on the railing, the only indication
he offered that this conversation was causing tension in him. "Many of
Compassion's customs developed during that early period, though, when this
prison was under Vovimian control. Tyrrell, do you know of the Vovimian
custom of men and lads?"
"I may have heard of it," he replied cautiously. His reply was an automatic
one that he had developed toward any probing to see how knowledgeable he
was in Vovimian ways. His bister-brown skin told too clearly where his
ancestry lay; though nearly every Mippite citizen had a blend of Vovimian
and Yclau blood, scorn still abounded by Mippites toward the descendants
of southern Vovim, the most backwards of Vovim's provinces. After having
explained countless times in his boyhood that the southern Vovimians held
a position of high power in their native kingdom, Tyrrell had finally surrendered
to necessity and had fallen back on faking ignorance in response to any
question posed to him about Vovimian ways.
In actuality, there was no question as to whether he had heard of the
custom of men and lads; his mother had talked of it almost nightly after
her husband's death, urging Tyrrell to find a good man to care for him
when he was old enough. She had died long before Tyrrell was old enough
to be of interest to any but the most unscrupulous Vovimian-born men, and
by the time he entered into his youth, he was cared for by his street tribe
and had no need to offer his body to any man in exchange for that man's
protection.
He could see, though, why such a custom would find a place in a life
prison. "Is that what you meant, sir, when you said earlier that some of
the prisoners here are enslaved by other prisoners?"
Keeper was slow in responding. He had not turned his eyes toward Tyrrell
since they reached the balcony. "I simplified matters when I said that.
It is hard to explain the custom of men and lads to people who are unfamiliar
with it, especially since that custom has come close to dying out in Vovim.
My mother's brother was a man's lad when he was young; that's the only
reason I knew of the custom before my father became a guard here at Compassion.
To be a man's lad is . . ." He hesitated.
Tyrrell decided to save him from further quandary over how to explain
matters. "It's different for each man and lad, I've heard. It can be anything
from outright rape to a willing offer of service."
"Yes." Keeper drummed his fingers on the railing for another minute
before adding, "The same variety occurs in Compassion, except that, here,
being a lad has nothing to do with age. We no longer take juvenile prisoners,
and some of the so-called lads here are older than the men they serve.
Yet the basic custom – one prisoner offering his service to another in
exchange for the other prisoner's protection – has survived. Some of Compassion's
men take their responsibilities seriously, seeking to nurture and strengthen
their lads. Others simply use their lads' labor, heedless to the lads'
welfare."
"And some simply rape their lads?" Tyrrell said. He did not like the
direction this conversation was taking; images of Oslo were beginning to
crowd into his mind. Oslo sometimes talked in that manner, as though his
rapes were a way to protect Tyrrell.
Again Keeper was slow in responding. "Yes and no. The structure of life
in Compassion is so complex that I'm not sure I've ever fully grasped it.
I tried to have one of the prisoners explain it to me in the past, but
I felt like a rustic farmer trying to figure out, from descriptions by
a city resident, what these new-fangled objects called sky-scrapers are.
But the problem here is that the customs at Compassion are very old, and
I grew up in the modern world. To a certain degree, I understand the customs,
since I lived in Compassion Prison when I was a boy; my father was privileged
with family quarters there after he became Keeper, and I later served within
the prison as a guard, until the Riot of 385. But after all these years,
much about Compassion is still a mystery to me."
Tyrrell thought to himself that he had never heard a guard give such
a brave speech. Every guard he had met was ignorant of prisoners' conditions,
but few would admit this to themselves, and none that he knew of would
admit their ignorance in so frank a manner to a prisoner. "Perhaps, sir,
you could enlighten yourself further by talking more to that prisoner.
Even rustic farmers can grasp the nature of sky-scrapers if the speaker
is skilled enough."
Again, Keeper was slow in responding, and his expression was difficult
to read. His fingers had stopped drumming, though. Finally he said, "That
prisoner proved not to be a reliable source of information, in many respects.
In any case, he is no longer willing to supply me with the information
I need."
"Well," said Tyrrell, "with the prison as large as it is, I suppose
that you need only choose another prisoner to help you."
Keeper said nothing, but now, for the first time, he turned his eyes
toward Tyrrell. He waited.
This time it was Tyrrell's turn to be silent. Avoiding Keeper's eye,
he looked down at the floor below. It was made of wood, a striking contrast
to the stone floors of Mercy Prison. New-come prisoners to Mercy sometimes
thought that they need only pry up flagstones to burrow their way out of
their cells, but they soon found that nothing lay below the flagstones
but steel bars holding up the prison, and a thin plaster. More than one
newcomer had fallen through that plaster, only to discover himself in the
cell on the level below him. He had acquired nothing for his pains except
bruises and perhaps a set of broken legs. None of the cells at Mercy were
placed at ground level; even the first-level punishment cells were in the
basement, with locked storage rooms above them.
But here at Compassion, where prisoners could evidently wander where
they wished within the prison . . .
"Why me?" Tyrrell asked to cover his actual thoughts.
"Merrick trusts you."
It was an answer of sorts, though Tyrrell wondered how Keeper knew of
Merrick's skill at identifying which prisoners and guards could be trusted.
Certainly Merrick had shown no signs of that skill at the time that Tom
Keeper had served as his guard; in those days, Merrick had been an acid-mouthed
loner, inclined to make poisonous remarks that tested everyone's patience
with him.
Then Tom Keeper had practiced with him the Boundaries of Behavior, and
Merrick had become a very different man. Tyrrell supposed that news about
Merrick's change in character must have been travelling around the life
prisons for these past fifteen years.
He looked down at the ground again. From where he stood, a storey up,
he could see that the wooden floor was riddled with holes, as though a
very large termite had been at work with it. Staring at the pattern of
the holes – which formed lines criss-crossing each other – Tyrrell wondered
whether armed guards who were visiting from the holding prisons had been
using the floor for target practice.
He felt very much as though he had just been selected as the object
for such practice. There was a word for what Keeper wanted him to do, and
it was not a pleasant one.
This time, Keeper appeared to sense Tyrrell's thoughts, for he said
softly, "I'm not asking you to be a stool pigeon. If any prisoners are
making plans to escape or otherwise to subvert matters within the prison,
you needn't tell me that. All I need to know is how badly matters are going
for the more vulnerable prisoners within Compassion. I was under the impression,"
he added slowly, "that you were in the habit of supplying such information."
Tyrrell turned this thought over in his mind. It was true that, for
the past fifteen years, much of the work that he and Merrick had undertaken
was to alert Mercy's Keeper to abuses taking place within his prison. It
was never a matter of trying to convince that man that such abuses took
place; rather, their struggle had been to convince Mercy's Keeper to get
out of his lounging chair and stop the abuses. Mercy's Keeper was not so
much a cruel man as an exceedingly lazy one; it took a great deal of work
on the part of Merrick and Tyrrell to persuade him to pick up his pen to
sign an order.
Tom Keeper, on the other hand . . . There was no doubt in Tyrrell's
mind that Keeper would act to stop abuse if he knew of it. This time, though,
Tyrrell would not be reporting on abusive guards but on abusive prisoners.
And whatever Keeper might wish to call this, Tyrrell's fellow prisoners
were likely to put an ugly name to such an act.
"I realize that I am asking a great deal of you." Keeper's voice was
still soft. "I've reached the point of desperation, though. Every few days,
smoke rises from within the prison. There may be murders within there weekly,
twice weekly, thrice weekly. . . . Merrick warned me long ago that I could
do no good for the prisoners if I broke prison regulations; that would
simply result in my dismissal as a guard. So I cannot break the regulation
forbidding me from entering Compassion Prison – not while there remains
a chance that I will be confirmed as Keeper and be given the power to put
an end to that regulation. Yet in the meantime, the murders continue. I
must
find a way to put a stop to the killings and to any other needless suffering
that the lads are undergoing."
Keeper's fingers had not returned to drumming; instead his hands were
in fists. His tendons stood out on his neck; his jaw was set. There was
an icy quality to his eyes that made Tyrrell's stomach clench, even though
he knew that he was not the object of Keeper's anger.
He had seen brief shards of that anger a few times in the past, when
Tom Keeper witnessed cruelty by his fellow guards. It was not a matter
of prisoner versus guard, Tyrrell realized suddenly; Keeper did not care
whether a man who committed abuse wore the uniform of a prisoner or of
a guard. He would be just as inclined to give the leaded whip to any guard
who practiced cruelty as he would to any prisoner who did so.
"Sir," Tyrrell heard himself say, "I don't know whether the customs
among Compassion's prisoners will permit this, but if I can be of service
to you, I will try to help."
The anger died in Keeper's eyes, replaced by something else that Tyrrell
could not identify. Keeper searched Tyrrell's face, and then said, in a
voice as emotionless as a corpse, "You will have time to consider this
matter at length. I wouldn't ask you to provide service to me immediately."
Tyrrell nodded. He was already regretting his impetuous offer. If guards
never entered Compassion Prison, and if prisoners never left the prison,
then how was he to provide Tom Keeper with the information he wanted, without
this offering of information being witnessed by a dozen prisoners who would
probably beat him bloody for consorting with the enemy? For in any prison,
guards were considered the enemy of prisoners. It had taken Tyrrell and
Merrick more work than he liked to think of to convince Mercy's prisoners
that guards could sometimes be their allies.
Well, if Keeper wanted service from Tyrrell, he needed to learn that
Tyrrell did not offer service without requiring due payment. What Tyrrell
wanted right now was information, and Keeper might be able to supply such
information.
"Sir," he said carefully, "do the prisoners enter into tribes? And if
so, how do I qualify to become a member of a tribe?"
He did not ask how he would qualify to become a "man." In any tribe
that divided its members into first-class citizens and second-class citizens,
Tyrrell was certain to be named a second-class citizen. Whichever god or
goddess had decided that he would be born of small stature had determined
that. Tyrrell had picked his own street tribe with care; it was one of
the few tribes in Mip's capital that did not rank its members. Once he
had qualified for the tribe, he was potentially the equal of any other
boy there, though in his early years he had been one of the "young 'uns"
who had to be taught the ropes.
Keeper frowned, and for a moment, Tyrrell feared that he had gone too
far in questioning the guard. But it appeared that Keeper's frown was merely
at his own ignorance, for he replied, "I'm not sure. The prisoner who provided
me with information spoke of his 'tribe' within Compassion, but he may
merely have been using terminology with which he was familiar. What I do
know – for this happens at the prison gate, where guards can witness it
– is that you will be offered a trial when you first arrive."
"A trial?" Tyrrell's heart pulsed; the word was too close to the one
he knew to prevent hope.
"You will be asked, in some manner or another, whether you are a man
or a lad. If you state that you are a man, you will be given the opportunity
to prove that you have the ability to protect a lad. I fear," he added
somewhat apologetically, "that the trial is a physical one."
Tyrrell smiled. He might or might not be able to pass a physical test
– some tribes required weight-lifting or other trials that Tyrrell was
bound to fail at – but at least it was a chance. He would not be automatically
ranked; he would be given a chance to prove himself.
Correctly reading his smile, Keeper said, "You prefer, then, to take
on the responsibilities of a man?"
There was a note to his voice that Tyrrell could not quite read, so
Tyrrell picked his way carefully to an answer. "I imagine I'd be happy
enough to be lad to the right man. But you know, sir, what little choice
lads usually have in such matters. I'd rather be a man than be forced to
serve a man who misused me."
After a moment, Keeper nodded. "You will have time to make your decision
about this as well. Rank is not immutable in Compassion, I am told, and
it holds complexities beyond which I've described . . . but it would be
better to have you see for yourself, for I'm sure I would give a muddled
description of such matters, knowing them only second-hand. Shall we go?"
His light invitation caused Tyrrell's throat walls to collapse, like
a cave-in. Trying to swallow, Tyrrell swung his eyes toward a passageway
on the ground floor, to the left of him, which he knew led back to the
riot doors. This might be his last chance . . .
But Keeper was standing next to him, and Tom Keeper's "requests" were
not to be trifled with. Tyrrell tried again to swallow and found that his
mouth had grown dry. He could not seem to push himself away from the railing.
Quite low, Keeper said, "The last Boundary of Behavior states, 'I am
willing to suffer for the sake of the prisoners.'"
Yes, it did. Merrick had added that Boundary; he had said that he had
read the line somewhere. It was the Boundary that Boundaries-bound prisoners
and guards were most inclined to ignore, but it was – Merrick had insisted
one day when he was in so much pain from a beating that his tongue seemed
to have taken on a life of its own – the foundation for all the other Boundaries.
Tyrrell said nothing, and Keeper added, as though coaxing a nervous
horse into its stall, "Tyrrell, I'm not merely sending you in there to
gain information for me. If you decide that you don't wish to serve me,
that will be your privilege. But I know that Merrick would not have paired
himself with anyone less gifted than himself, and I've heard the reports
emerging from Mercy Prison – both the official ones and the unofficial
ones. If any prisoner has the ability to bring an end to the abuse at Compassion,
it's you."
Tyrrell ran his hand over the stubble on his cheek, wondering when –
if ever – he would have another opportunity to be shaved. "I've just spent
fifteen years trying to do that at Mercy, and now you want me to start
over from the beginning?"
Keeper raised his right eyebrow. "Whether or not I did, you would, wouldn't
you?"
He thought about this, and thought too about all the plans that had
been running through his mind for escape – mind games, he now recognized,
to keep himself from acknowledging what he was most likely to do in Compassion
Prison. Finally he said, "It depends. If I do, will Compassion's Keeper
throw me into a punishment cell?"
Tom Keeper laughed then – an outright laugh unlike his previous soft
smotherings. "Come," he said, steering Tyrrell away from the balcony. "Let's
get you settled in your new home."
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The prison was still night-quiet as they approached it from the balcony.
Tyrrell, who usually began each day by awakening to the sound of prisoners
moaning in pain – or awakening from his own guard eliciting such pain –
wondered whether the abusive prisoners here were more merciful or whether
they simply gagged their victims. Or perhaps, he thought, eyeing again
the black wall of the prison, no sounds emerged from Compassion.
They passed the same doorways that he and Medinger had passed before:
the coding-room, the store-rooms, the healer's surgery with its plate-glass
window. Medinger stood in the latter room, having somehow made his way
past Tyrrell and Keeper during their discussion; he was in the midst of
conversation with FitzGerald, and paused only to tip his cap at Tom Keeper.
Keeper tipped his cap back. He had not touched Tyrrell during the lengthy
trip along the balcony, nor had he spoken, a fact for which Tyrrell was
grateful. His stomach was roiling, anticipating both the trial and what
lay beyond his success or failure.
He wished now that he had quizzed Keeper on what sort of physical test
he would undergo, but there was no time left; they were approaching the
west wall of the outbuildings. Dimly, Tyrrell could hear conversation and
laughter coming from somewhere on the ground level, but the source of the
light chatter was hidden to him.
They approached a waist-high gate barring their way from the end of
the balcony. Beyond it, the balcony curved in a semi-circle, jutting out
from the westernmost end of the south wall. Just beyond the gate, to the
right, was a staircase leading down to the ground floor. From where he
stood, Tyrrell could see that a second staircase lay on the far end of
the balcony, where the balcony met the west wall. Altogether, the semi-circular
balcony and its flanking staircases looked like a rock crab, with its foremost
claws curled around the front of its body.
In between, in the area that jutted out, was a gunners' post, similar
to the one he had seen in the entry hall. Here, though, the guns stood
fixed upon tripods, untouched by human hands. The tripods were attached
to a thick, curving, waist-high wall which replaced the open balcony railing
that had hitherto been the only barrier between the balcony and what lay
beyond. In front of the wall, absorbed in a book, sat the second rifleman
whom Tyrrell had seen upon his arrival.
He was still smoking his cigarette, letting the ashes fall in an absentminded
manner to the floor. He was leaning back in his chair, and his feet were
resting upon a box that lay next to the wall holding the guns. The rifle
he had carried before was propped against the wall, pointing upwards.
Keeper, having escorted Tyrrell silently through the gate, gestured
to him to pause. Tyrrell did so, watching with interest as Keeper walked
up behind the other guard. The guard showed no sign that he was aware of
Keeper's presence.
"Feet off the ammunition boxes, Mr. Starke."
The guard jerked around at the sound of Keeper's voice. "What?"
"Feet off the boxes. Put away the book. Extinguish your cigarette. Place
your rifle in the proper position. Put on your cap. Sit up straight. Have
you carried out your morning check of your gun yet?"
"Not yet." Starke was moving almost as quickly as he was given orders.
Tyrrell caught a passing glimpse of the black volume as the guard shoved
it on top of the box that his feet had just vacated. "I thought, since
the day watch hasn't begun yet—"
"Your watch begins the minute you walk into the outbuildings' entry
hall. A quarter day's pay for neglecting your morning check. Another quarter
day's pay for smoking on duty. And yet another quarter day's pay for not
staying on the alert. If I'd been a prisoner, you'd be dead now."
"The prisoners are locked in for the night," Starke responded, gesturing
with his chin as he laid his loose rifle onto a set of boxes next to his
chair.
As he gestured, Tyrrell noticed for the first time what the gunners'
post looked down upon. The mighty chains he had seen earlier in the day
extended upwards from a great shield-wall, one that hid the portion of
the prison wall that was closest to the gunners' post. The shield, which
was the same height as the balcony, looked as thick and massive as the
riot doors.
"A prisoner is standing a short distance from you," Keeper replied,
"one who was committed to prison for cutting throats. Never assume that
all the prisoners are locked within Compassion, Mr. Starke. On the day
you make such an assumption, it's likely you'll die."
Starke said nothing. He picked up the loose rifle, pulled down the stock,
and peered into the chamber. Curious, Tyrrell took a few steps over to
get a better look at the second of the two rifles that were resting on
the wall. He had never seen guns on tripods before, though they reminded
him vaguely of the pictures he had seen of the great wheeled cannons that
had been commonly used in the Vovimian civil war during his childhood.
He supposed the principle was the same: it was easier to control the gun
if it was settled in place rather than being held by a man.
He stared down. He could not see any sign that the rifles on the tripods
were different from the rifle in Starke's hand, but he was no expert in
such matters. The boys in his tribe had never carried guns – indeed, they
had been contemptuous of the Gutterway tribe, who dealt a black market
in firearms, and who were not averse to using such weapons against rival
tribes. Even as a child, Tyrrell had been able to guess that his tribe's
contempt was largely a cover for fear of their deadly rivals. Knives were
no match for a gun.
He had seen a few more guns since that time, in the holding prison he
was kept at between his trials. Firearms were rare in Mip, however. The
Yclau, having come to understand the error of selling weapons to their
enemy Vovim, now refused to sell weapons to their ally Mip. The Mippites,
members of a relatively new nation, did not have the technology to produce
their own guns, so what few firearms trickled into the republic were channelled
into the army. Prison guards, unless they were assigned special duties,
were expected to make do with their whips, their daggers, and their wits.
Tyrrell wondered why Compassion was so very different in this regard.
He ran his eye over an opening at the bottom of the rifle, trying to make
sense of the gun's presence.
Nearby, Keeper was saying, "Where is Mr. Landry?"
There was a pause before Starke said, "On his dawn break. He was providing
orientation to the Mercy guards who arrived this morning—"
"His dawn break was over long ago; he's due for duty now."
"Shall I fetch him?" Starke reached for the black volume, as though
eager to depart his post.
"You are on duty as well." Keeper's voice was so sharp that Starke immediately
sank down in his seat. Keeper leaned forward and said something in a low
voice, evidently not intended to carry. Tyrrell, who was close enough to
the wall now that he could hear Keeper's cool threat, concentrated his
attention on the gun. It was beautiful, in an odd sort of way: the long,
two-cylindered barrel; the sight-pieces poking up their heads at front
and back; the shiny, dark wood of the stock. He reached his hand out to
see whether the wood was smooth to the touch.
A whiplash, cracking down, barely missed his hand. He stumbled back,
his heart pounding, and then turned as he heard footsteps thundering forward.
It was Medinger. The guard leapt over the barrier of the gate as though
it were a turnstile and took hold of Tyrrell, grasping him hard. "Has the
prisoner caused trouble, sir?" he asked Keeper.
Keeper was busy coiling up the whip in his hand. He glanced briefly
at Tyrrell, who was staring at the whip, feeling sweat trickle down his
face. "No," said Keeper quietly. "The error was mine. I failed to make
clear to the prisoner that he was not to step within the gunners' post.
Tyrrell, I trust you are well?"
He managed to nod. Starke gave Keeper a sharp look, as though he had
said something significant.
Medinger showed no sign of wishing to slacken his tight grip. "Shall
I take him downstairs, sir? It's almost time for the day watch to begin."
"Yes. —No, wait." Frowning, Keeper leaned forward to look over the wall,
holding onto the brim of his cap as he did so. Tyrrell could hear the chatter
and laughter continuing, as though nobody below had noticed the whip-crack
from the gunners' post.
Keeper's eyes met Medinger's. "Yes," he said. "Take him down the stairs.
Slowly."
"Sir." Medinger promptly steered Tyrrell toward the stairs to the right
of the gunners' post. Keeper had already moved swiftly to the stairs to
the left.
The metal stairway that Medinger guided Tyrrell to was gently curved
like the semi-circle above; it reminded Tyrrell of the beginning stage
of an elegant spiral staircase he had once seen at a department store he
had thefted from. As Tyrrell made his way down the steps, he began to see
that the gunners' post was positioned over a hollow area beneath the semi-circular
balcony. Guards were standing or sitting in that area, which was lit by
electric lights in the ceiling that also formed the floor of the gunners'
post. None of the guards appeared to be armed, except with daggers. The
back of this lower guard-post held seats, and even a table. Sitting at
the table, a couple of guards were playing cards.
None of them noticed Tyrrell and Medinger. Neither did they notice Keeper,
who was descending quietly on their other side. Tyrrell tensed as he noticed
that Keeper still had his whip in hand, but in the next moment, as Keeper
reached the ground, Tyrrell realized that the whip was not aimed toward
him.
The lash landed full upon the card-table, sending cards and money spraying
in the air. One of the men who had been at the table tumbled from his chair,
shouting with surprise; the other man leapt to his feet and turned to face
Keeper, who was standing within easy reach of the men. At that moment,
Medinger, evidently understanding the message that his Keeper wished to
convey, sent his dagger flying to nick the arm of the guard who had just
risen from the floor and was stumbling backwards. The guard turned around,
fury in his face, but before he could step forward, Keeper said quietly,
"Surrounded on both sides by your captors, gentlemen. At least two of you,
possibly more, would be dead by now if Mr. Medinger and I were escaped
prisoners. Mr. Pugh, what is the meaning of this?"
"We're off-duty, Keeper." The man who had leapt to his feet from the
card-table gestured, and the man who had been nicked with the whip, still
looking furious, came forward to gather up the scattered proceeds of the
game.
"Mr. Pugh, I should not need to remind the supervisor of the day watch
that you are never fully off-duty when you enter the outbuildings. Nor
should I need to remind you that gambling by guards is strictly forbidden
throughout the life prisons. I'll see you in my office later. —Mr. Niesely."
"Eh? I mean, Yes, sir?" The nicked guard paused from where he was pocketing
the game money.
"Your ill-gotten gains are confiscated. Consider yourself lucky if I
don't dock your pay as well. The rest of you . . ." Keeper turned his gaze
upon the other guards. He was still holding his whip, and it became clear
that the other guards were acutely conscious of this fact. Several of them
shifted from foot to foot, like small boys caught playing marbles by their
schoolteacher.
"Mr. Itzol," said Keeper, "I am gratified to see that you and Mr. Goff
are still standing to duty, but I would remind you that the custom which
permits on-duty night guards to socialize with off-duty day guards is a
privilege, not a right. Mr. Pugh outranks you, so you are not responsible
for the behavior of him or his men, but you are in charge of the night
watch, and I do not expect to see a scene like this go unreported to me."
"I'm very sorry, sir." Unlike the other guards, Itzol sounded genuinely
regretful, rather than defensive.
Keeper nodded, evidently in acknowledgment of the tone of the apology.
"As for those of you on the day watch, there is work to be done. Mr. Pugh,
was this week's food supply delivered this morning?"
"Starke is in charge of the initial check," Pugh replied. He was watching
with a frown as Niesely handed Keeper the money from the game.
"The delivery hasn't arrived yet," Starke called down from the post
above as he rested his forearms on the wall there, leaning over. He was
smiling, clearly amused by what had taken place. "The merchants have been
late recently. We still have plenty of food in storage, though."
"Mr. Pugh, see that you make clear to the merchants' delivery lads that
timeliness is of the utmost importance to this prison. If a winter snowstorm
should cut travel between ourselves and the nearest town, we would not
have enough food on hand to feed the prisoners for more than a week or
two unless delivery times are met with regularity. Mr. Itzol, you and Mr.
Goff are relieved from your watch-duty; I'll let you out of the riot doors
shortly. Mr. Black, I'd like to know what progress the mechanics made on
the repair of the waste disposal unit yesterday . . ."
The instructions streamed forward, as effortlessly as a tumbling brook.
Day guards snapped to attention as they were addressed, and hurried off
to carry out their assigned duties. The night guards wandered away, heading
in a leisurely manner toward the riot doors. Niesely, taking a deep breath
after he had dragged the table to the side, broke into Keeper's flow to
say, "Almost time, sir."
Even as he spoke, light suddenly sprang up. Tyrrell lifted his head:
from here he could see the dome, which arched over the prison in front
of them, but the sky beyond the dome was still dark grey with dawn-smudged
clouds. Instead, the light was coming from the ceiling holding the dome,
from beams of electric lights that were as powerful as the searchlights
recently installed in the yard of Mercy Prison. These lights, however,
were fixed in place. The lights turned the area between the prison and
the guards' posts as bright as a stage. As he turned his eyes away from
the brilliant lights, Tyrrell noticed metal glittering at the top of the
prison walls: a barbed-wire fence made up of so many intertwined strands
that it reached the full storey between the prison and the ceiling above
it.
"Mr. Starke."
Starke raised a hand in acknowledgment of whatever order Keeper had
given and rose from his post. As he walked back from the edge of the balcony,
he was gradually hidden by the wall, but in the next moment there was an
audible click, and then a rumble began, such as a giant might make if it
decided to dance.
Tyrrell turned his head just in time to see the mighty shield in front
of the prison lift from the ground, as though it were no more than a piece
of paper that the giant's child had chosen to raise. The great iron chains
creaked as they were drawn upwards by some mechanical device hidden high
above, in the ceiling area holding the lights. As the barrier slowly rose,
what lay behind it came into view.
It was merely a door with open bars, such as Tyrrell had known in the
cells of Mercy, but the bars criss-crossed each other, and the door was
so long as to be a gate. It spanned the full area that the shield had taken
up – the length of many men. And many men indeed were behind the bars.
They were crammed together next to the gate: some sleeping on the ground,
others standing and stretching and yawning. A few men were walking around,
while others were chatting together. None of them took any particular notice
of the rise of the shield-wall; it was as though they hadn't yet realized
they had an audience.
Most of them were stripped. Some wore nothing but trousers and undervests
and boots; others had no more than drawers to cover their lower bodies.
Incongruously, other men were dressed in prison uniforms, with or without
jackets and vests. A quick glance told Tyrrell that this was not by accident,
for the clothed men were almost invariably talking to men wearing fewer
clothes, and in some cases the lesser-clothed men were on their knees as
they listened.
"At least figuring out rank here won't be hard," Tyrrell muttered under
his breath, and then paused in his thoughts as he noticed a man in his
twenties, who was standing next to the bars. The man's auburn hair was
longer than shoulder-length, cut roughly and pulled back into a knot behind
his neck. His skin was light brown, but it seemed to shine with a golden
pattern under the light: pictures of whorling vines twisted their way around
the muscles of his arms and his thighs, across his hairless chest and abdomen,
into the area of his groin.
He was naked. In fact, he was being serviced by the mouth of a younger
man who knelt at his feet. It appeared that neither of them would take
any more notice of the other prisoners than the other prisoners were taking
of them.
Then the golden man, turning his head slightly, saw Keeper. His back
went rigid. Pulling himself away from the prisoner at his feet, he turned
and faced Keeper full on, his hands now formed in fists at his side. His
whammer pointed outwards, like an Ammippian's cocked arrow.
At that moment, others in the prison noticed Keeper. There was a general
rush for the barred gate, so swift that Tyrrell nearly stepped backwards.
But the bars held true.
"Murderer!" one man shouted at Keeper. And, "How many of us must die
before you take notice?" screamed another. Within seconds, the voices were
too loud and shrill to be heard individually.
Keeper took a step toward the prison. The guard named Niesely grabbed
his arm and said something rapidly. Keeper's response could be heard through
the hubbub: "Thank you for your warning, Mr. Niesely, but I'm well aware
of where the line lies, since I painted it there myself." He took three
more steps forward, and then halted.
Tyrrell's gaze fell to the floor. There on the wooden floor was a thin
red line, like a border between two nations. In the next moment, he realized
the purpose of the line when something came flying through the air in the
direction of Keeper. It fell just short of the line, landed with a thump,
and rolled forward another yard before halting. It was a fragment of a
blackened bone.
More objects flew through the air, but not many; apparently most of
the prisoners knew well enough the futility of trying to attack Keeper
this way. Keeper stood solid, his body turned in the direction of the golden
man, who had not moved in all this time, though his whammer's potency had
flagged. Finally, in a lull between the shouts, Keeper raised his voice.
"Gentlemen," he said, "and gentlelads. I cannot respond to your complaints
if I cannot hear what you are saying. Kindly allow your true men to speak
on your behalf. Mr. Farnam?"
A short, middle-aged, balding man, somewhat stout and with round spectacles,
stood at the front of the crowd. He wore a dark green necklet of cloth
that lay against the buttoned jacket of his uniform, and he was holding
in hand a dark green ledger book. He gestured with his hand, and the prisoners
nearest to him stopped shouting. The other prisoners gradually grew quiet.
Farnam said, "We're in need of medical supplies."
"The medical kit is replenished at the beginning of each month," Keeper
responded.
"We ran out of supplies days ago; there are many more of us here now
than there were ten years ago, when the current quota for medical supplies
was determined. There are men and lads in here who will die before the
beginning of next month if they must wait that long."
"There is no need to engage in hyperbole, Mr. Farnam; I take your point.
Mr. Medinger, I want you to check with Healer FitzGerald concerning the
proper amount of medical supplies for the prison's current population."
"It's going to cost," Pugh warned. "The prison budget is already stretched
to its limit."
"I'm aware of that fact, Mr. Pugh, but one of our duties as guards is
to care for the life prisoners' health. We'll have to make monetary cuts
in other areas."
"No pay elevations this year, I'm guessing," muttered Niesely, which
earned him a sharp look from Keeper.
"Bandages will do us no good if we're without heat again next winter."
The speaker was in his fifties and was a southern Vovimian, judging from
his accent and his appearance; he wore a gaudy orange necklet against his
vest, which contrasted well with his dark brown skin. He was casually kneading
the hair of a prisoner who was sitting at his feet. "When are you going
to keep your promise to fix the heaters, Keeper?"
"I've had an application in for repairs for the past six months, Mr.
Valdis. I'm confident the magisterial seats will arrange for repairs before
next winter—"
Shouts rose again, mainly cries of "Liar!" An elderly, light-skinned
man wearing a black necklet turned his back on the proceedings, evidently
scorning to talk with Keeper. Keeper began to speak, and then hesitated.
His gaze travelled over to the naked golden man.
"Ahiga." Keeper's voice was quieter than it had been before, and Tyrrell
noticed that, for the first time, Merrick's former guard did not use a
title when addressing another person. "What have you to say?"
"Nothing that I haven't said to you a thousand times over a thousand
times." The fury in the golden man's voice was barely contained. He had
an odd accent, neither Yclau nor Vovimian, nor of any other tongue that
Tyrrell recognized. "We suffer and we die while you make promises – always
promises, always requests for our patience. When will you come in here
and see for yourself what matters are like among those you claim to care
for? Or have you not enough manhood for that?"
The prisoner still kneeling next to Ahiga flinched, as though he had
sensed a hard blow. Keeper himself was silent for a long moment as prisoners
and guards alike exchanged looks. Finally he said, in a voice so quiet
that it barely reached Tyrrell, "Regulations do not permit me to enter
Compassion except during a claiming, as you well know, Ahiga. And these
days there is no one for me to claim."
Ahiga gave a derisive snort. "And did you enter to claim when the opportunity
was given you? Oh, Keeper, I could almost sorrow for you if it were not
that others pay for your willful blindness." He gestured toward the bone
that had been thrown earlier. With a jump in the heart, Tyrrell realized
that the bone was the facial fragment of a human skull.
Keeper did not appear to notice this. He opened his mouth, but what
he might have said in response was swallowed up by the roar of agreement
that arose from the prisoners. This time, Keeper did not try to stop the
cacophony. Instead, he hand-gestured to Medinger, and then turned to say
something to Pugh. Pugh shook his head and pointed upwards toward the unmanned
gun on the wall above.
Keeper nodded. Then he leapt lightly for the stairs, taking them two
at a time as he returned to the balcony. He disappeared from view briefly
behind the wall above; when he came into view again, he was busy shrugging
off his jacket, which he neatly arranged on the back of the chair behind
the unmanned gun. Then he sat down, so that most of his chest was hidden
behind the wall. He pulled down the stock, peered into the chamber, pushed
the stock back into place, and reached down, disappearing briefly behind
the wall. When he emerged again, he was holding a black magazine box in
his hand. He shoved this into the opening at the bottom of the gun, inspected
the chamber again, closed the stock, flicked a switch, and pivoted the
gun on its tripod, so that it pointed toward the floor to the north of
the guards' post. A gun-shot followed, faint under the shouting. Keeper
pulled the gun back into its earlier position, inspected the chamber yet
a third time, flicked the switch, and then smoothly turned the gun so that
it was pointed toward the end of the prison gate that was closest to Medinger
and Tyrrell.
He gave a slight nod toward Starke, who rose from his seat and disappeared
from view. A moment later, the giant's whistle began – the same cruelly
loud siren that had heralded the opening of the riot doors.
This time, Tyrrell did not have to endure their full force. "Put your
hands over your ears!" Medinger shouted to him, and then shifted his grip
on Tyrrell in order to permit his prisoner to do so. It occurred to Tyrrell
to wonder, as he clamped his palms over his ears, what Medinger would think
of the Boundaries of Behavior.
The prison gate, moving westward, slid slowly to the side a couple of
feet, and then stopped. None of the prisoners appeared eager to approach
the narrow gap except for one monkey-faced prisoner, who seemed for a moment
as though he were about to slide his way out.
Over the siren, with sudden ferocity, came the sound of gunfire. Not
one gun, not two – a couple dozen guns firing at once. Tyrrell, jumping
back so hard against Medinger that he nearly toppled the guard, saw with
disbelief that a neat row of bullet-holes had just appeared in the floor-boards
directly in front of the open portion of the gate. The wood there was so
riddled with such holes that there barely seemed to be any floor left.
At the same moment, as the siren ended, there came a cry from within
the prison. The monkey-faced prisoner scrambled backwards, seemingly frightened
rather than hurt; then there was a short silence.
Tyrrell turned his head. Starke was still missing from the gunners'
post; only one man sat there, and he was leaning forward in an expectant
manner. "Gentlemen?" said Keeper, his voice cautiously curious.
Half a minute passed before Farnam appeared at the bars, close to the
gap. "One of the bullets ricocheted off a bar," he reported. "It hit an
unclaimed lad. Shallow wound on the leg; he's still standing."
"I'll see that your medical kit is replenished today, then," Keeper
responded. From where he stood in the prison, unmoved, Ahiga gave a loud
snort, as though Keeper had made a dark jest. Keeper paid no attention
to that; instead, he flicked a brief glance at Medinger and Tyrrell before
returning his attention to the gap he was guarding. Starke had just slipped
back into his seat and taken hold of his own gun.
As though it were needed. "What in Hell's name was that?" muttered Tyrrell.
He expected no reply, but Medinger said, "Machine rifle. It's an experimental
model made by the Yclau. The Vovimians got their mitts on a shipment of
the rifles – don't ask how – and resold a handful of them to us last year,
for a pretty penny. The rifles deliver bullets in rapid sequence." He released
Tyrrell's arms and gave him a nudge between the shoulder-blades. "Go on.
He had the gate opened for you."
Aghast, Tyrrell looked back at Keeper. Keeper's hand was still steady
upon the gun; it was still pointed toward the opening. Keeper didn't look
his way.
Medinger gave a humorless chuckle. "He's not accustomed to killing prisoners
before they've entered Compassion. Just stay out of the path of his fire
until the last moment, and get inside as quickly as possible once you reach
there."
"And pray that I'll be granted rest in heaven," Tyrrell muttered, but
Medinger gave him another nudge, harder this time, and Tyrrell stumbled
forward.
He was conscious of many eyes upon him. The guards had fallen still
at the sound of the gun's cry at the same moment that the prisoners had;
both groups were waiting in as deadly a silence as an execution party.
Tyrrell just managed to keep himself from looking up again at the gunners
above. After far too long a time, he crossed the yards between the lower
guards' post and the gap in the prison gate. Without looking back, he slid
his way through the narrow opening.
The gate began to rumble closed almost immediately; Starke must have
retreated from his seat again and had his hand on whatever switch controlled
the gate. Tyrrell, moving carefully aside from where the bullets were most
likely to land, did not think about the closing gate. He was too busy staring
at the prison ceiling.
Or rather, the lack of a prison ceiling. The prison, three storeys in
height, had only one floor, the ground floor. The walls rose high, naked
of any barrier along the way, though certain stones jutting out suggested
that – as Keeper had hinted – the prison had once been designed in an ordinary
manner, to accommodate three levels. Above them all was nothing but open
air; the roof was missing. The dome, still grey with thunderclouds, hung
over the prison like a canopy.
The gate crashed closed, and it occurred to Tyrrell to look downwards.
He could see no sign of whatever inner walls hid the sleeping cells that
Keeper had spoken of; the prison appeared from this perspective to be one
giant room, packed to capacity by prisoners of varying ages and states
of undress.
All the prisoners that he could see were looking at him.
Standing out, slightly apart from the others, were the four men with
necklets – the "true men," Keeper had called them. Ahiga, seeing Tyrrell's
eye light upon him, gave a smile. It was not a friendly smile.
"Well, well," he said softly. "So a new lad has come among us."
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
His back to the gate, Tyrrell looked slowly around the semi-circle of
prisoners crowding in upon him. He felt as though he were surrounded by
all the provinces within Mip, Vovim, and Yclau combined. Prisoners of every
possible shape and color stood before him; Tyrrell and Valdis were hardly
the only men there of southern Vovimian ancestry. There were scrawny men,
muscled men, men with the hawk noses of one of Vovim's northeastern provinces,
men with the pale skin of Yclau, men with the red hair common among Mippites
whose ancestors had raped Ammippian tribeswomen, men whose tightly curled
hair suggested that they came from places further south than even Vovim's
southern province.
None of them looked at all pleased to see Tyrrell. They were waiting
expectantly, to see how he reacted to Ahiga's remark.
Tyrrell was grateful then for the warning that Keeper had given him.
Without that warning, he would likely have ignored the word "lad" in Ahiga's
greeting. He was used to being jibed for being the height of a youth; he
had learned to ignore such idle insults.
But this greeting was meant, not to insult, but to assess.
"I'm not a lad," he responded in as forceful a manner as he could. "I'm
a man."
Ahiga's cold smile remained frozen in place. "Prove it."
Tyrrell did not wait to see whether Ahiga would follow this up with
an invitation for the new prisoner to lift weights. Quickly, Tyrrell said,
"Send out your best man against me."
The prisoners burst into laughter.
They laughed a hundred different ways: in the hee-haw imitation mule-noise
of Yclau's commoners, in the belly-shaking laughter of Mip's elite, in
the giggles of Vovim's mid-class, and in dozens of other varieties. One
prisoner was so overcome with hilarity that he lay down on his stomach
and wept.
The true man Farnam smiled along with the rest, but he said, in a voice
that sounded kindly, "That's not how custom works here, stranger. You are
the challenger; you must choose the man you wish to overcome."
Tyrrell took another quick look around as the laughter trailed to a
halt. It was tempting to choose Ahiga or Valdis or one of the other tall
men there, in order to settle the question of his rank once and for all,
but he knew his limitations. Farnam was a more likely target, but Tyrrell
knew of street tribes that would tear apart any boy who made the mistake
of challenging one of their leaders. Besides, Farnam, with his clerk's
glasses, did not look as though he had ever fought a man in his life. Tyrrell
needed to demonstrate his prowess in fighting, not his ability to swat
a fly.
His eye fell upon a prisoner standing beside Farnam. He was a youth,
close to twenty years of age, with hard muscles and a sassy smile. He was
about the same height as Tyrrell. "You," Tyrrell said, pointing.
The laughter this time would have taken off the roof, if the prison
had possessed a roof. With a wide grin, the youth waited until the noise
had died down enough for him to say, "I am not a man; I am a lad." He held
up his left wrist, which was encircled with the same dark green cloth as
encircled Farnam's neck. "But I will fight you anyway, for I think you
are no man, but a lad. With your permission, sir?" He looked over at Farnam.
Farnam, who continued to smile, gave a brief nod. Someone with a Vovimian
accent called out, "Smash in his baubles, Davidson!"
"Does he have any?" the youth shouted back as he pulled off his shirt,
leaving on his undervest. More hoots of laughter rose toward the dome.
Tyrrell, taking off his own jacket, vest, and shirt, reflected that he
had been wrong about clothing signifying rank here, for the youth possessed
trousers and a shirt, while Ahiga was at that moment re-clothing himself
with nothing more than an old-fashioned groin-cloth.
Then his mind was focussed on the fight to come. He took another look
at Davidson, surreptitiously this time, as he dropped his jacket and vest
and shirt to the ground. The youth had scars on his arms – more scars on
his right arm than his left, so that was the side he favored. His feet
were bare, allowing him to grip the ground easily. He spoke good Mippite,
but his accent and reddish-brown skin was that of Vovim's north-central
province.
The youth would know Mippite fist-fighting, then, and most likely would
also know Vovimian wrestling. Tyrrell prayed to the gods that the youth
had not been trained in Yclau scuttling.
Tyrrell took a moment to send a more careful prayer below, to the god
who might or might not wish to take custody of his body if he lost this
fight; then he sent a second prayer above to Mercy and added a third, hasty
prayer to his patron god, Tyrone, lord over the poor and friendless.
Then he had no thoughts but to keep his gaze on Davidson's eyes as the
youth approached.
They circled each other first, crouching, as the other prisoners backed
up to give them room for their battle. Tyrrell was dimly aware, as his
body turned to face the bars, that he had audiences in both directions;
though he did not take his eyes off Davidson, he could hear the guards
making wagers on the outcome of this fight. The wagers were mainly in favor
of Davidson, though he heard Medinger add one in favor of him.
He was so heartened by this sign of confidence in him that he nearly
missed Davidson's attack when it came. It was a leap into the air and a
kick – a movement favored, not by Mippite fist-fighters or Vovimian wrestlers,
but by the kick artists of one of the western nations. Tyrrell ducked to
the ground and rolled just in time to avoid being kicked in the head.
That told him what sort of rules he was working under. No above-the-belt
maneuvers would work in this case; he was fighting for his life. He recovered
again before Davidson had a chance to leap for a second kick, but he did
not bother to rise. As prisoners and guards alike hooted derisively, he
lay motionless, his legs sprawled, as though he were stunned. Smiling,
Davidson walked toward him. . . .
Several of the prisoners, more alert to danger than Davidson was, shouted
warnings, but it was too late. As Davidson came within range, Tyrrell suddenly
brought his legs together in the scissors movement favored by Yclau scuttlers,
who liked to have their opponents on the ground before stabbing them.
Startled, Davidson tripped and fell. Tyrrell leapt onto the youth's
chest, wishing that he had a scuttler's knife with which to end this quickly,
and without further harm. A knife at the throat was sufficient incentive
to make an opponent surrender; as it was, Tyrrell would have to end this
in a more nasty manner.
He closed his hands around the youth's neck.
Davidson tried to buck him off, of course, but it was no use. His arms
were trapped by Tyrrell's legs, and Tyrrell had seated himself high enough
on the youth's chest that Davidson's knees could not reach him. He pressed
hard on the youth's windpipe, watching Davidson's face turn white, and
then red.
There was shouting all around him, though no one interfered. He thought
he heard Ahiga's voice say coldly, "Let him speak," though Tyrrell was
not sure whether the directive was aimed at himself, another prisoner,
or the young man beginning to turn purple under his hands.
But at that moment, without warning, he heard Merrick's voice in his
head. The memory of Merrick said, "I attack no one, even in self-defense."
Tyrrell stumbled to his feet, his skin turning cold as the blood drained
from it. On the ground, Davidson rolled to his side, his breath rasping
as he drew in great gulps of air. The crowd had grown silent.
Finally, Davidson gasped out, "I surrender!"
"Do you accept his surrender?" Ahiga's voice was as cold as before.
Tyrrell nodded, unable to speak. He was afraid he would vomit. It had
been fifteen years since he had last fought another man – fifteen years
since he had adopted the Boundaries of Behavior. How could he have forgotten
the rules he abided by? Was he so weak a man that a single threat to his
life would make him forget the tenets of his life's work?
"Good," said Valdis flatly. "Because, if you had killed him, we would
have killed you."
It took him a moment to connect what Valdis had said with Ahiga's previous
question. He stared blankly at the true man, and then turned his eye toward
Farnam, who had come forward to help Davidson to his feet. Farnam, meeting
his gaze, said quietly, "We have no need here for ruthless killers – no
need for men who will create harm beyond that which is needed to defend
themselves and their lads. If you were such a man, you would be a danger
to us, and we would kill you at once."
Tyrrell reached behind himself to wipe sweat off the back of his neck.
"You must kill a lot of new prisoners."
There was more laughter, but it did not appear to be directed against
Tyrrell this time. Valdis shrugged. "Not so many as you might think. Most
murderers murder for a reason. And not all of us here are murderers." He
gave a feral grin as he kneaded the hair of the prisoner beside him.
"What say you, then?" asked Farnam, who now had Davidson within the
cradle of his arm. "Has he proved himself, Walker?" He looked over at the
true man with the black necklet, who had not yet spoken. Walker shook his
head.
"He took Davidson by surprise," Valdis declared. "Let's see whether
he can defend himself again, now that we know his methods."
Ahiga said quietly, "We know that he will not kill without need. We
must know more than that."
"I agree," Farnam said briskly. "Stranger, this time you must meet a
contender of our choosing."
Tyrrell took a deep breath, feeling the warm morning air fill him. "No."
The prisoners murmured amongst themselves. Walker's eyes narrowed. Valdis's
voice was light as he said, "No? You are only man enough to fight in one
battle?"
Tyrrell's fists tightened as the laughter returned. He forced himself
to respond, "I can't fight anyone, even in self-defense. I've taken a vow
not to."
Valdis raised his eyebrows. Ahiga said in his cold voice, "You have
already broken that vow, I think."
Before Tyrrell could figure out how to respond to this accurate assessment,
Farnam said, "Stranger, many of us arrived here with no intention of fighting.
We did not wish to add to the lawlessness of this place. But in Compassion,
to fight is not a matter of lawlessness but of law. Our tribe's customs
require that any prisoner who claims manhood have the ability and willingness
to fight for his lads. You are being tested, not for your ability to defend
yourself, but for your ability to defend your lads. Surely whatever seat
or nation you come from permits you to fight to defend others who are being
harmed."
Tyrrell did not respond for a moment. The answer to Farnam's query was
a complex one. It was true that the Boundaries of Behavior made exceptions
to the rule against fighting. Guards were allowed to fight prisoners in
self-defense or to defend others, because part of their duty as guards
was to keep the prisoners in order. A prisoner who witnessed another prisoner
trapped in a life-threatening situation could and should defend that prisoner's
life.
But that was as far as the Boundaries went. He and Merrick had held
long conversations about this late at night, after their respective guards
had left them, battered and penetrated. There was nothing that Merrick
would have liked better than to break the jaw of any guard who touched
him, and there was nothing that Tyrrell would have liked better than to
defend any prisoner who was being cruelly beaten by his guard, simply for
the guard's pleasure.
But he and Merrick had known the consequences if they extended the Boundaries
that far. The Boundaries had been established, not out of any idealistic
belief in the shamefulness of fighting, but because fighting in their situation
did no good. The guards were already convinced that the prisoners were
violent men who deserved unremitting punishment; fighting, even to defend
themselves or other prisoners, only confirmed that impression.
It was by refusing to fight in situations where any man might be forgiven
for fighting that Tyrrell and Merrick and the other Boundaries-bound prisoners
had been able to convince some of the guards that, whatever their crimes
might have been in the past, they were now law-abiding men who deserved
decent treatment.
That was the situation at Mercy. But the situation at Compassion appeared
to be very different. If Keeper was right, little contact took place here
between the guards and prisoners; what mattered here was not how the guards
regarded Tyrrell, but how his fellow prisoners did. And if Farnam spoke
truthfully, the tribal customs here made fighting lawful. To not raise
his fists to defend another tribal member would be as shameful an act as
not defending a member of his old street tribe.
He said hesitantly, "There are rules here which govern fighting?"
"Yes." Ahiga's voice was flat. "We do not permit battles to take place
that would threaten the tribal unity. If a man's lad is threatened, the
man must defend him, but a lad or man who fights to have a greater share
of the food than he has been granted, or who seeks to break our customs
in some other way, is under my belt, at my word."
Since Ahiga had no belt, it took Tyrrell a moment to translate what
he had said. He looked back at Farnam. "And all of you agree to this?"
Farnam nodded. "Ahiga has charge over discipline in this prison, but
the rules for discipline are decided by the true men together. Nor are
our rules arbitrary; we do not seek to interfere with the relation between
any man and his claimed lad or an unclaimed lad. We merely seek to keep
this prison from degenerating into anarchy."
Valdis yawned loudly. "I was pulled out of my warm bed to listen to
all this chatter? Enough; make up your mind, runt. Are you a man or a lad?"
Heat covered Tyrrell's face, but he answered evenly, after due consideration.
"A man. And if the laws of this place require me to prove that, I will.
Send me your challenger."
"Done." Valdis turned to speak to someone over his shoulder. "Hernandez,
do your duty to me by wiping this runt's face on the floor. I want to get
back to my bed for a quick taking before mealtime. —Eh, lad?" He turned
his attention to the prisoner sitting at his feet, twisting the prisoner's
hair so that the lad was compelled to look up at him. The lad gave him
a smile that seemed forced.
Tyrrell scarcely noticed. His eye was on a prisoner who had just elbowed
his way past several other prisoners. He was wearing trousers, a shirt,
and a vest, and while he had an orange-colored band on his left wrist,
he was also wearing a white necklet. He was about a foot and a half higher
than Tyrrell, and his shoulders seemed twice as broad; he had a chest to
match. He was cracking his knuckles, one against the other.
He stared down at Tyrrell, contempt on his face. "Frightened, runt?"
he said in a deep voice.
"Frightened?" responded Tyrrell. "No, not frightened; terrified. You're
three times my weight."
The laughter this time had no mockery to it. Glancing around the crowd
quickly, Tyrrell guessed that he had reached the stage in the trial where
the tribe would just as soon take him as a member as throw him out. Even
Davidson appeared to bear Tyrrell no ill will; he was watching the proceedings
with a frown of concern.
Hernandez gave a broad smile. "Don't worry," he said. "This won't take
long."
He was right; it took only ten seconds for him to flatten Tyrrell on
the ground, stomach-down. As Tyrrell struggled to breathe under the weight
of his opponent's body, Hernandez twisted his arm behind him. "Surrender,"
said Hernandez.
"No." His voice was muffled; he could still barely breathe. Then he
gasped as a sharp pain racked his body.
"Surrender," repeated Hernandez in a voice that almost seemed good-humored.
"If you don't, I'll break your arm."
Sweat sprang onto Tyrrell's forehead. Broken limbs could lead to death
at Mercy, where the healer was too drunk to know how to splint a limb.
Here at Compassion, the chances of dying from an untreated bone-breaking
must be even greater, with the healer far away in her office.
"Surrender and name yourself a lad," suggested Hernandez, twisting Tyrrell's
arm as though it were a corkscrew. "There's still time."
Death, or rape for the next thirty or so years – what a splendid choice.
"No," Tyrrell said, his voice choking on the word. "I'm a man."
"Enough." Valdis sounded bored. "My bed is growing cold. Let him up,
Hernandez; I say he's a man."
Tyrrell's arm was released; the weight was lifted from him. He remained
panting on the ground, dimly grasping the nature of the final test that
had been offered to him.
"Walker?" Farnam's voice had the briskness of a clerk taking a tally.
Tyrrell turned his head in time to see Walker nod slowly.
"He can defend his lad, and he will defend his manhood to the point
of breaking." Farnam summed up the situation tersely. "I say he's a man.
Ahiga?"
Tyrrell managed to pull himself into a sitting position. He had time
enough to do so before the next response; Ahiga made no quick reply. Finally
the golden man said, "He is a man. Whether he will stay a man . . . that
I am not sure of." He looked down at Tyrrell. "Welcome to the Tribe of
Compassion Prison, little man."
Tyrrell rose to his feet. His arm still throbbed with pain, but his
greater concern at the moment was keeping himself from punching Ahiga in
the stomach. He said, "Call me little again, and you'll face a challenge
from me."
He half expected laughter; instead, several prisoners gasped. The young
prisoner kneeling at Ahiga's feet glanced swiftly up at him.
Ahiga looked over Tyrrell as though he were a beetle that might need
to be stomped upon. After a long moment, he replied, "A suggestion for
you, new man: Learn our ways before you offer challenges. You will save
yourself sorrow if you do." He turned his head and murmured something to
the prisoner standing beside him. The prisoner, who had the pale yellow
complexion found in Vovim's northwestern province, nodded in response to
whatever was said.
Then Ahiga and the other prisoner were hidden by the crowd. The remaining
prisoners had begun to turn away, now that the trial had ended. Farnam
and Valdis and Walker all disappeared, along with their lads; none of the
other prisoners approached Tyrrell or even looked his way. They brushed
past him as though he were a motionless pillar.
Tyrrell looked down to see whether his jacket and vest and shirt were
being trampled by the passersby. Then he cursed, glancing quickly around
at the crowd. There was no sign of which prisoner had stolen his clothes,
and he doubted that he would be able to guess, even if he encountered the
prisoner face to face. One prison uniform looks much like another.
"A lovely start to the day," Tyrrell muttered to himself. So far on
this day, he had been hit and kicked by Oslo, poked by FitzGerald, dragged
to and fro by Medinger, scared nearly out of his wits by Tom Keeper, mocked
by guards and prisoners alike, battered by a fellow prisoner, and ignored
thereafter by everyone.
And now half his clothes had been stolen. It did not appear that he
was going to enjoy his time at Compassion Prison any more than he had enjoyed
the past twenty years at Mercy. He turned away.
At that moment, facing the bars, he saw that he was wrong. Though most
of the guards had their backs to him as they paid Medinger for their failed
gamble, one guard continued to look down at Tyrrell, from where he stood
on the balcony. As Tyrrell watched, the guard lifted his cap.
Having no cap with which to return the salute, Tyrrell smiled and offered
a discreet little wave of his hand to Tom Keeper. He felt his spirits lift
as he returned his attention to the other prisoners. He was in the worst
prison in all of Mip, and would remain here until his death. But he had
won his manhood, and one man, at least, understood how great an achievement
that was.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Hell's Messenger #2
TOUR
The year 400, the third month. (The year 1895 Barley by the Old Calendar.)
"I can conceive no more terribly disintegrating moral experiencethan that of being a keeper over convicts. However much I pity the prisoners,I think that spiritually their position is far preferable to that of theirguards."
—Thomas Mott Osborne: Within Prison Walls (1914).
CHAPTER ONE
Seven years of living in poverty-stricken anonymity with his family.
Eleven years as the member of a street tribe for boys in Mip's capital
– being a dirty little rat that nobody except other tribe members took
notice of. One year as a drug-hazed thief, cutting victims' throats. That
brought him unwelcome notice from the authorities, who – after three years
of court wrangles – tossed him into Mercy Life Prison, where he again faded
into anonymity, surviving, as best he could, harsh treatment by his guards
for the next five years. Then fifteen years spent with the spotlight of
fame upon him, as he and his fellow prisoner Merrick sought to change conditions
at Mercy.
And now he was back to being unnoticed.
On reflection – thought Tyrrell, as he looked around at the prisoners
walking back and forth in the single, enormous cell of Compassion Life
Prison – he was glad for the change. He had never liked being the center
of attention at Mercy; being noticed at a life prison always brought the
wrong sort of attention. With any luck, here at Compassion he could fade
back into anonymity and live a quiet life.
And damnation to hell to Tom Keeper, who wanted him to help change conditions
at Compassion Prison.
He looked back over his shoulder, but Compassion's Keeper – Tom Keeper,
whom Tyrrell had first met fifteen years before, when Keeper was a young
guard visiting Mercy – had disappeared from the balcony of the outbuildings
overlooking Compassion Prison. Keeper had already witnessed the important
part of the proceedings: Tyrrell's claiming of his manhood, and the trial
he underwent to prove his manhood to the other prisoners.
So now Tyrrell was a man, rather than a so-called "lad" – that is, a
prisoner who must serve another prisoner. Tyrrell had had enough of serving
guards in bed for twenty years; it was a relief to know that he would not
have to serve any prisoners here. The only question, he thought as he looked
again at the prisoners ignoring him, was what he should do with his newfound
manhood.
Though thunderclouds continued to loom above, with occasional lightning
brightening the sky, the prison was now filled with dim light falling through
the glass dome four storeys above, part of the roof that sheltered the
outbuildings surrounding Compassion Prison. Light shone through where the
prison's roof and ceilings had once been, the light unimpeded by anything
except an iron beam spanning the base of the dome. Tyrrell still could
not understand why this prison was roofless, and he ran a professional
eye over the wall nearest him. Climbing three storeys was a trick he did
not relish, but he thought he could do it here: stonework jutted out or
was broken in, providing hand-holds. Three storeys up, and then three storeys
down, and it would be easy enough to sneak past the guards, since they
appeared to stay clustered in front of the prison entrance, under the gunners'
post that stood between the prison and the closest of the outbuildings.
Then all he need do was sneak into Keeper's office and pull down the lever
that opened the riot doors between the outbuildings and the outside world—
No, smash that thought; he had no desire to come within range of Keeper's
skilled whip. A better plan would be to investigate the electrical hatch
in the healer's surgery and see whether he could manipulate the wires there
that he suspected would open the riot doors.
Unfortunately, the surgery was far too close to the gunners' post. He
frowned, trying to figure out the best way to get onto the balcony outside
the surgery.
"Sir. . . . Sir."
It took him a moment to notice the voice; then he slowly turned around.
Near him, standing still amidst the hustle and bustle of prisoners going
to and fro, was a prisoner who was perhaps a decade older than Tyrrell,
about fifty. He had the olive-brown skin and accent of an eastern Vovimian,
which could mean that he was a recent immigrant, or could mean that his
family had lived in the Magisterial Republic of Mip for centuries. Mip,
now an independent nation, still bore the mark of its past, when it had
been tugged back and forth by the Kingdom of Vovim and the Queendom of
Yclau, like a bone being fought over.
The prisoner wore a shirt and trousers, which made him better dressed
than Tyrrell, who remained shirtless, but around the prisoner's left wrist
was the band of cloth that Tyrrell had learned to associate with this prison's
lads. Tyrrell tried to see what color it was – he had a growing theory
that the color of a lad's band showed which man he served – but at that
moment, the prisoner moved his left arm, placing it behind his back as
he locked his left hand behind his right elbow, as servants do before their
betters. He looked Tyrrell straight in the eye.
Tyrrell resisted an impulse to glance over his shoulder to see who was
standing behind him. "Were you talking to me?" he asked cautiously.
"Yes, sir. My man, Hosobuchi, wishes to speak with you. Will you be
coming?"
He spoke excellent Mippite, that tongue which had served as a trade
language for many centuries between Yclau and Vovim. Tyrrell, who was bilingual,
thought he could detect the faint shadow of another tongue behind the Mippite.
This fact was less important than the lad's gesture with his free hand,
which was toward a pale-skinned, black-haired man sitting on an upended
pail by the nearby wall to the east of the prison gate – that is, to the
left of Tyrrell, who was still standing with his back to the prison's great
gate, the only break in the southern wall. The man was facing the gate,
in Tyrrell's direction; Tyrrell recognized him as the prisoner who had
conversed shortly before with Ahiga, one of the four "true men" who served
as leaders among the prisoners. From where he stood, Tyrrell could see,
white against the grey vest of his prison uniform, Hosobuchi's necklet,
which Tyrrell had come to associate with prisoners who claimed to be "men."
Or was it? One of the challengers whom Tyrrell had faced upon his arrival
had worn both a necklet and a wristlet. Confused, Tyrrell simply nodded
in response to the lad's question and followed the lad back to where Hosobuchi
sat on his pail. In a prison that appeared to hold no furniture, he looked
like a king on his throne.
As Tyrrell came closer, he saw that Hosobuchi was not alone. Sitting
cross-legged on the floor at his right hand was a young prisoner whom Tyrrell
had last seen servicing Ahiga with his mouth. Hosobuchi had his arm around
the lad's shoulders, though he removed it as Tyrrell and his escort came
forward.
"Sir, I bring you the new man." The older lad's voice was deferential.
"Thank you, Pickens." Hosobuchi gestured with his hand, and the lad,
Pickens, seated himself to the left hand of his man, not so close to Hosobuchi
as the other lad was.
This left Tyrrell standing awkwardly in front of Hosobuchi, wondering
what he should say and do. Hosobuchi rescued him by saying, "Welcome, stranger.
We are glad to make your acquaintance."
Tyrrell hoped that the "we" was not intended to be a royal "we." He
took another look at the necklet. All the true men had worn solidly colored
necklets; was Hosobuchi's white necklet intended to indicate lesser or
greater rank? Tyrrell took a chance and said, "Glad to meet you as well.
I feel a bit lost at the moment."
Hosobuchi smiled. He was about half the age of Pickens, in his mid-twenties,
and except for his lighter skin, he looked much like Tyrrell's second challenger:
broad-chested, with muscles that showed up, even under his shirt-sleeves.
Tyrrell had yet to see any prisoner wearing his jacket, other than the
true men.
"I can well imagine," Hosobuchi replied. His grammar was cultured, and
his accent matched his appearance, being that of Vovim's northwestern province.
The lad to his left appeared, from the shape of his eyes, to be from the
same province, an impression that was confirmed in the same moment as Hosobuchi
turned to him and spoke briefly in a Vovimian provincial dialect, too rapidly
for Tyrrell to follow. The lad rose quickly to his feet and scampered off;
a minute later, he was back, holding a small crate, which he upended and
placed carefully behind Tyrrell. Taking the hint, Tyrrell sat down, and
then wondered whether he should have awaited Hosobuchi's permission to
do so.
The man did not seem offended, though. "If you have any questions about
life here," he said, "I would be glad to try to answer them."
Tyrrell chewed on his lip, trying to think where to start. As he did
so, he glanced round the parts of the prison he could see from where he
sat: the area behind Hosobuchi, leading to the back of the prison, and
the area to the left of Hosobuchi, leading to the east wall. Both those
walls were far away in this enormous building.
There was more room for prisoners here than he had initially thought;
the crowd around him at the gate had evidently been just that – a crowd
gathered to see the newcomer. Now the prisoners had spread out, and plenty
of room lay between them and Hosobuchi's small gathering. The empty floor
between was made of bullet-riddled wooden planks, Tyrrell noticed. He wondered
what he would see if he lifted one of those planks. A concrete foundation?
A locked cellar? Or dirt that could be burrowed through?
Above, the lightning continued to roar and crack, like an angry guard
with his whip. As far as Tyrrell could tell, the light from the sky supplied
the only illumination in this place. Although the guards had furniture
and electric lamplight, here in the prison there were no light fixtures,
no fire-pits, no places to sit other than the odd bucket or crate, and
certainly none of the sleeping cells that Keeper had promised. Perhaps
they were further on in the prison, beyond view?
Frowning, Tyrrell returned his mind to Hosobuchi's offer. Finally he
said, "When the golden man – Ahiga – called me a little man, what did he
mean?"
Hosobuchi smiled, as a schoolmaster smiles when his pupil asks the right
question. "He was addressing you by the title of your rank. You are a little
man, a man who has not yet claimed a lad. When you claim a lad or two"
– his hands went out to rest on the shoulders of the lads at his sides
– "you will become a greater man."
Tyrrell frowned again. Despite the nature of his trial, the idea of
caring for a lad had not occurred to him. Seeking to avoid that subject,
he said, "Claim . . . I've heard that word several times. It means . .
. to take a lad?" He used the polite euphemism, though he knew the gutter
terms – the Yclau term and the Vovimian term and many, many Mippite terms
– if Hosobuchi should need a translation. Where gutter language was concerned,
Tyrrell was trilingual.
Hosobuchi seemed to understand him, though. He said, "That will be a
matter for you to decide. A claiming is not the same thing as a taking
– it is merely an exchanged promise between man and lad of protection and
service. If you wish to have the lad serve you in your bed, he will. If
you do not, he will not."
The younger lad said something softly in his native dialect that made
Hosobuchi smile again. The greater man added, "Shuji reminds me that the
lad may make his preference known at the time that you claim him . . .
but the decision will be yours." His left hand – perhaps by accident, perhaps
not – began to stroke the side of Shuji's neck.
Tyrrell felt a momentary wave of sickness, and then sternly reminded
himself not to make assumptions. He knew nothing of what lay between Hosobuchi
and his lads; for all he knew, the lads might have been panting to serve
the greater man in his bed. Certainly Hosobuchi had the sort of looks which
could attract that kind of yearning.
"And unclaimed lads?" Tyrrell said. "Are there many of them here?"
Shuji fell into a peal of laughter, which he quickly controlled as Hosobuchi
sent him a warning look. Pickens, who was sitting passively under his man's
hand, covered his mouth with his palm.
More polite, Hosobuchi simply said as he lifted his hands from his lads'
shoulders, "Unclaimed lads are the greatest group among us; there are far
more lads than men here."
"And men only take one or two lads?"
"If they are wise. A greater man is greater in rank than a lesser man
because it takes more strength to care for a lad. One lad is hard, two
lads are harder. I've known some men to try to take three or four lads,
but they didn't last long. Only a true man has the strength to care for
many lads."
"And a true man is . . . ?" Tyrrell eyed Hosobuchi, feeling uneasy.
Apparently, this prison was as stratified as Vovimian society was said
to be. Unclaimed lads, and then claimed lads, and then lesser men, and
then greater men, and the greater men themselves were divided into those
who took one lad or two lads. Which meant, Tyrrell realized, that this
man with the schoolmaster's voice was very high in rank indeed. Tyrrell
wondered at what point he would be expected to offer the proper grovelling.
"Hosobuchi."
The voice came out of nowhere. Before Tyrrell had time to look to his
left and identify the speaker, Hosobuchi – with a swiftness that would
have done credit to an Ammippian hound on the hunt – slid off the pail
and fell to his knees.
The man he knelt before – Ahiga of the golden tattoos – simply looked
down at him. Close up, it could be seen that Ahiga was roughly the same
age as Hosobuchi; he was easily the youngest of the true men. He was dressed
as he had been before, in a groin-cloth and yellow necklet, but hanging
round his neck now was a leather strap holding a sheathed dagger. In an
automatic manner, Tyrrell glanced back toward the gate to see whether the
guards had noticed this flagrant violation of life-prison rules, but the
other prisoners screened his view of the guards.
He returned his attention to the scene before him. Hosobuchi had not
stirred so much as a finger since kneeling; his head was bowed. His left
arm was behind his back, allowing his left hand to grip his right arm.
His left sleeve, creeping up, revealed a hidden wristlet, yellow in color
. . . and in that moment, Tyrrell finally understood the meaning of the
necklet-wristlet combination.
Ahiga said, "Introduce."
Hosobuchi raised his head then and half-turned his torso to gesture
toward Tyrrell. "Sir, this is the new man. I am sorry, I do not yet know
his name or previous home."
"I gave you little time in which to question him," Ahiga replied judiciously.
"Sit."
"Thank you, sir." Hosobuchi retreated. Tyrrell would not have been surprised
to see him sit at Ahiga's feet, but the greater man simply returned to
the pail where he had been sitting before.
Pickens, Tyrrell noticed, had not moved throughout this exchange, but
Shuji had subtly nudged himself over so that he was exactly halfway between
Ahiga and his man.
Ahiga paid attention to none of them. He had turned his scrutiny to
Tyrrell and was looking him up and down, like a butcher measuring the quality
of a slab of beef. Without moving his gaze from Tyrrell, he asked, "What
talk have you had, Hosobuchi?"
"We've been discussing rank," the greater man replied. "I was just about
to explain to him what a true man is, sir."
Ahiga gave a soft snort, a response that early Mippite settlers had
adopted from the Ammippian tribal folk – it meant something between "Ah"
and "Well, well." After another moment, he said, "A true man is as you
see, new man. He is a man to whom another man has pledged his service.
Hosobuchi is my claimed man – he is lad to me and man to everyone else.
And must be treated as such."
His voice was stern. Tyrrell, who was used to dealing with paranoid
guards who assumed that he would knife them at any given opportunity, simply
said, "And to other men you are . . . ? I mean, am I required to call you
sir?"
Ahiga gave him a look then like a butcher about to cut into his beef.
"No," he said, "it is not required. It is considered of courtesy, though,
to show appropriate respect." His gaze travelled slowly down the length
of Tyrrell, ending at the crate on which he sat.
After a moment, Tyrrell heard the hint and rose to his feet, moving
away from the crate. Without a word, Ahiga took his place, stretching out
his legs. He gave another snort, and without looking Tyrrell's way, he
said, "That is good. I have been on my feet most of the night."
"Did this week's night watch-hounds have trouble they couldn't handle,
sir?" asked Hosobuchi.
"Trouble, yes, and it was a matter for me alone to deal with. —Casey
was raped last night." With the final sentence, he switched suddenly, effortlessly,
to the King's tongue – the common speech of Vovim's provinces.
"I'm sorry to hear that, sir," Hosobuchi replied in the same language,
frowning. "There was no punishment or announcement of a challenge this
morning – did you kill the offender last night?" His voice was casual,
as though discussing the contents of a newspaper's social column.
Ahiga's voice turned soft. "It was not possible for me to do so."
There was a long pause while Shuji and Pickens exchanged looks. Then
Hosobuchi said, equally softly, "Ah."
Ahiga shrugged. "We talked to him, the three of us – we reminded him
of what could happen to the tribe if he forced one of us to challenge him.
He could see the danger as well as we could; I think he will not trouble
any of our lads from this day forth. For if one true man kills another—"
"Sir!" Pickens's voice was sharp as he spoke in the King's tongue. "The
new man is knowing Vovimian!"
Swift as an Ammippian arrow, Ahiga's gaze moved over to Tyrrell, who
had been doing his best, throughout this conversation, to keep his expression
bland. "You know that tongue?"
Tyrrell hesitated before nodding.
"Brown-skinned men often do, sir," Hosobuchi murmured.
"Do they?" said Ahiga. "I had not realized."
Tyrrell glanced over at Hosobuchi to see how he would take this clearly
sarcastic reply; if there was one thing every Mippite knew, it was that
dark brown skin meant southern Vovimian ancestry. But the greater man seemed
not to be disturbed by Ahiga's response. Ahiga said sharply, "Look at me,
new man. You are not to tell anyone of what I said. This is not a gossip."
Tyrrell had found, over the years, that his stubbornness tended to surface
at the wrong moments. Perhaps it surfaced at this moment because he was
tiring of Ahiga's harshness. He stared back at the true man and asked,
"Do you have the right to give orders to unclaimed men?"
"Yes." It was Hosobuchi who replied. "Not in any matter between you
and a lad you claim – no other man will interfere with you there. But in
matters that affect the tribe as a whole, Ahiga may give orders."
Tyrrell was also tired of being made to look foolish. "Fine," he said
to Ahiga. "I follow your orders not to gossip, I give up my seat to you,
and I spare your tender ego, acknowledging your highly exalted position
here by calling you sir. Is there any other custom I should know about,
O Mighty One?"
He waited, with pounding heart, to see whether Ahiga would draw his
dagger.
Ahiga fell off the crate, screaming with laughter.
It was an unearthly noise, like an Ammippian's war whooping; all of
the prisoners nearby, who had showed no interest in the conversation till
now, stopped to stare. Smiling broadly, Hosobuchi helped his man back onto
the crate as Ahiga continued to scream with laughter.
When he had finally managed to wipe away his laughter and had dimmed
his expression to a small smile, Ahiga said to Tyrrell, "You will be entertainment.
You will be drama. You will not be dull."
"So I've been told in the past," Tyrrell said dryly, but he could not
keep from smiling. The watching prisoners were also smiling.
"Spirits be kind to me, you must have been a handful to your past masters
– no wonder you were sent to life prison," Ahiga continued, wiping away
the tears that laughter had brought. "What name have you, and where do
you come from?"
"The streets of our capital, originally," Tyrrell replied, "but I've
spent the past two decades in Mercy Life Prison. My name is Tyrrell."
Ahiga's smile disappeared.
Tyrrell glanced again at the others present. Hosobuchi and his lads
were exchanging looks. The other prisoners who were listening exchanged
looks too. Tyrrell cleared his throat before saying, "Word has reached
here of me, then?"
"Oh, yes, indeed," murmured Hosobuchi.
"The guards have talked of little else for the past fifteen years,"
inserted Pickens. "They've been taking wagers on how long it would be before
you were transferred here."
"So you guessed that I would be coming." Tyrrell looked back at Ahiga.
"It has been discussed." Ahiga had wiped his face clean of all expression.
After another minute, he said, "I told in error some time back. It is not
simply the claiming of another man that makes one a true man. The other
true men must agree that he is a man who is worthy to be raised to that
rank. If he is not considered such . . . Well, he is a threat. And it is
not good to be considered a threat to true men."
"Oh?" Tyrrell tried to sound suitably impressed, though he wondered
why Ahiga felt the need to go to such lengths to establish that he had
been judged worthy of his rank. He suspected that Ahiga must be one of
those men who had received high rank so early in life that they forever
after felt the need to defend their qualifications.
"Yes." Ahiga stared at him, apparently waiting for a more appropriate
response. After half a minute of silence had passed, Hosobuchi coughed
and said, "Perhaps, sir, the new man – Tyrrell is the name you wish to
use here? – would like to know more about the appropriate ways in which
to rise in rank."
"Or perhaps he simply wishes to know more about true men." There was
a challenge in Ahiga's voice that Tyrrell could not interpret.
Tyrrell hesitated, trying to figure out which path Hosobuchi was seeking
to guide him onto, and then gave in to curiosity. "Well, I'm still a bit
confused about what it means to be a true man. You've claimed Hosobuchi
– does that mean that his lads are your lads as well?"
Ahiga immediately turned his gaze toward Pickens. "Lad, bring me water,"
he said.
Pickens made no response; he simply looked at Hosobuchi. Hosobuchi told
him, "No." Then he said to Ahiga, "Sir, if you're thirsty, I'll be glad
to fetch you water."
"You see?" With both hands, Ahiga gestured toward the greater man and
his lad. "Unless it is a matter that affects the whole tribe, I cannot
give orders to Pickens."
"Nor to Shuji?" Tyrrell had his eye on the younger lad, whose gaze had
scarcely wavered from Ahiga from the moment that the true man first arrived.
"Shuji." Ahiga looked down at the lad. At his word, Shuji scooted over
and rested his forearm on the true man's lap. Ahiga ran his hand down the
lad's back, saying, "Shuji is . . ."
"A complication," Hosobuchi suggested with a smile.
"Yes. That is the word I hunted. Shuji is a complication." Ahiga withdrew
his hand and gestured the lad back to his previous place. "It is best to
leave him aside. He is a special case. In most cases, neither I nor the
other true men can give orders to our claimed men's lads. Nor can we give
orders to our claimed men on how to treat their lads."
"I often seek your guidance, though, sir," Hosobuchi reminded him.
Ahiga's small smile returned. "And I yours. I need your advice on matters
relating to this conversation. It is a private talk."
At this pointed remark, the prisoners who had been eavesdropping began
to withdraw. Shuji did not move from his place. Pickens, however, rose
to his feet, saying to Hosobuchi, "Sir, shall I be showing the new man
the rest of the prison?"
"A good thought." Hosobuchi nodded in approval. "Tyrrell, is there any
place you would especially like to see?"
Tyrrell thought a moment, and then asked, "Where do I take a piss?"
Shuji spluttered into his hand. Ahiga merely looked puzzled, as though
he did not understand what Tyrrell had said. Smiling again, Hosobuchi said
something in a tongue that Tyrrell did not recognize. Ahiga snorted.
"So," the true man said to Tyrrell, "this is your – what do they call
it – your big business?"
"I've been on the road half the night," Tyrrell said, regretting the
defensiveness of his words even as he spoke. "None of the guards here thought
to give me a chance to relieve myself – not even Keeper."
Ahiga's brows arched. "He would not. His mind's thoughts are too high
for sordid matters of the flesh. Well, go." He waved Tyrrell away, like
a man waving away a pestering fly.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Dismissed from the true man's presence, Tyrrell turned uncertainly toward
Pickens, who said, "If you will come this way, sir . . ." He gestured with
his right hand. His words were polite, and his left arm was once more behind
his back in servant fashion, but his tone somehow lacked the degree of
deference that he had shown toward Hosobuchi.
Tyrrell stepped forward in the direction that Pickens had indicated.
They had been conversing against the western wall, near the gate at the
southwestern end of the prison; Compassion was so filled with prisoners
that Tyrrell could only see the northern and eastern walls by tilting his
head. The view was unbroken between himself and those walls. If any sleeping
cells existed in this place, he concluded, they must be far away.
With a keener eye for rank than he had possessed before his conversation
with Hosobuchi and Ahiga, he saw that most of the prisoners passing him
were lads, with no wristlets to indicate that a man had claimed them. These
lads were bare-footed and were stripped down to their lower drawers; Ahiga's
costume, it seemed, was a matter of eccentric preference rather than rank.
The claimed lads were dressed in trousers and shirts, and all had wristlets
of green or orange or yellow or black or white. When Tyrrell asked Pickens
about this, the lad said, "If they have a white wristlet, it shows that
they have been claimed by a greater man, sir. A lad wears the same color
wristlet as his man's necklet. The men and lads with colored wristlets
have been claimed by true men."
Tyrrell had been forced to twist round to ask Pickens this question;
the lad was trailing behind Tyrrell. Now Tyrrell turned to look again at
the men passing him. Most of them, he noticed, were wearing wristlets.
"There aren't many unclaimed men here?" He looked back over his shoulder
at Pickens.
Pickens was silent a moment, as though assessing the meaning of Tyrrell's
question, and then said, "The difference between claimed and unclaimed
is not great for a man, sir. Unless a man serves as First Lad to a true
man – as my man does to Ahiga – the true man will not normally require
him to serve in matters where a lad would do. Usually, to be a claimed
man means simply that you serve the tribe within the division of tribal
work that your true man supervises. If you are an unclaimed man, you make
your choice where to serve from day to day, but most men find that they
prefer to fix their service— Sir, watch out!"
The warning came too late; Tyrrell tripped and fell sprawling over a
man and lad who were lying on the ground, under one blanket.
Tyrrell barely managed to take in their rank before the man leapt to
his feet, bawling curses and swinging his fist. Scrambling to his feet,
Tyrrell ducked the swing, but in the next moment found himself trapped
within the grip of the man's lad. The man pulled back his fist again.
"Wirsing!" shouted Pickens at the top of his lungs.
Tyrrell's assailant hesitated. Before Tyrrell had time to decipher the
meaning of Pickens's call, a small prisoner – smaller even than Tyrrell
– appeared at Pickens's side.
"I'm not on duty this morning," he said, frowning up at Pickens.
"I'm sorry, sir; I couldn't remember which men and lads had watch-hound
duty this morning. Shall I fetch Ahiga?"
The small man – he wore a white necklet and yellow wristlet – shook
his head. "And risk getting my ears torn off for bothering him with trivial
matters? Thank you, but no. —What's the problem here?" He turned his attention
to Tyrrell's assailant.
The assailant explained rapidly, his lad supporting his word at appropriate
intervals. Wirsing listened patiently, and then turned his attention to
Tyrrell. "Well?"
Tyrrell hesitated, but the assailant's account had been essentially
correct, if a bit exaggerated about the amount of harm he had undergone.
"He's right. I wasn't looking where I was going, and I fell on top of them."
"It's my fault, sir," added Pickens. "I distracted him from looking
where he was going."
Wirsing sighed. "You do like to complicate things, Pickens. Hell's balls."
He put his fingers to his forehead, as though his head hurt.
The assailant's lad whispered something into his man's ear. The man
nodded slowly before saying to Wirsing, "Nobody's at fault. I withdraw
my complaint."
"Thank the goddess that she granted a small amount of wisdom to mankind."
Wirsing addressed this remark toward the dome. "Very well, I rule that
nobody is at fault. But you" – he pointed at the assailant – "call
for a watch-hound's judgment next time. Your lad wasn't in danger, so it
was a matter for the hounds. You" – he pointed at Tyrrell – "keep
your eye on where you're going. Stepping on top of someone can earn you
a lashing from the watch-hounds . . . and you won't endear yourself to
Ahiga if you let his First Lad's lad take a lashing on your behalf."
Tyrrell looked over at Pickens. Pickens avoided his eye. Tyrrell said
to Wirsing, "I didn't mean to let him—"
"Save your speeches," said the small man. "Just follow our customs,
and you won't encounter any of Ahiga's watch-hounds again. —Lad, let's
go find this morning's hounds and learn why they're slacking. They should
have heard Pickens yelling and been here by now."
"Yes, sir." A prisoner who looked as though he could have been a strongman
in a circus stepped aside to let Wirsing pass, pausing only to give Tyrrell
and his assailant warning glares. Tyrrell looked hesitantly over at his
assailant, but the other man had already turned away and was giving orders
to his lad to pick up the blanket on the ground. The lad, Tyrrell noticed
with curiosity, had no wristlet.
"Unclaimed," Pickens said when Tyrrell asked in an undertone. "Judging
from his behavior there, I'd guess that he's trying to convince Delgado
to claim him. He has a good chance; Delgado has been searching for a Second
Lad. —Watch your step, sir; quite a few folks here sleep in till breakfast,
if they don't have early-morning duties."
Tyrrell had to twist once more to look at him. Pickens was speaking
in a matter-of-fact manner, as though he had not just risked a beating
in order to defend a stranger. Tyrrell tried to think of a way to thank
him, but every speech of thanks he thought of was that of a man thanking
someone's servant for service well rendered. And he suddenly knew that
this was not a speech he wished to give – not to Pickens, at any rate.
He stopped at mid-pace. The paths of the other prisoners flowed fluidly
about him, as though he were a rock in a stream. The conversations around
him were taking place in a dozen different languages: Mippite, as well
as Yclau, various dialects of Vovimian, and other foreign tongues. The
voices were casual, like clerks getting a bank ready in the morning before
it opened to the public.
Tyrrell tried to sound equally casual as he spoke. "Ahiga told me that
I don't need to call him sir."
"Yes, sir?" Upon pausing, Pickens had placed his arm servant-wise behind
his back.
"And what about you? Does Hosobuchi require you to call other men sir?"
A pause, and then, "No, sir."
"Then why, for all of Hell's fingers and toes and tongues, are you calling
me sir?"
Another pause, long enough to make Tyrrell regret having cursed. He
well remembered what it was like to have a guard ask him a question that
he was not sure whether to answer honestly. Pickens must be choosing his
words carefully now.
Finally the lad said, "Out of respect for your manhood, sir. Some men
appreciate being addressed so . . . especially if they are new to their
manhood."
Tyrrell sighed heavily. "Look," he said, "I've just come from a prison
where there are no ranks. Do you understand? The guards at Mercy Prison
rank us according to the danger they think we pose to them, but otherwise
we're all fellow men – no lads, no claimed or unclaimed, nothing to make
us different from each other. Even our ranks in the outside world don't
count. Now, I don't doubt," he added rapidly as Pickens began to speak,
"that I'll grow used to your customs in time. But just now, I don't need
anyone sirring me. I'm in need of— Well, I don't have any mates in this
place."
He had a moment of uncertainty, wondering whether he had gone too far.
How in Hell's name did one make a proposal of friendship to a servant,
anyway? He'd never had a servant. But that moment passed as a smile slowly
entered Pickens's face. The lad offered his arm.
Sighing audibly with relief, Tyrrell shook his new mate's arm. "I'm
Tyrrell," he reintroduced himself.
"Dick Pickens," the lad replied as he released Tyrrell's arm, "but you
can just call me Pickens. Everyone here uses last names, except for folks
like Shuji, whose last names are unpronounceable to anyone who doesn't
speak their tongue. And of course Ahiga – he doesn't have a last name,
only a lineage. Would you rather be addressed by your first name or your
last?"
"My first," Tyrrell said quickly. Then, as Pickens raised his eyebrows,
he added in an undertone, "My career name is Cutter."
"Ah." Pickens smiled again. "Well, we have a few prisoners here with
names like Bandit and Scuttler – but yes, I can see why you'd prefer to
leave your name in the past. My own dear, departed parents were gracious
enough to leave me with a harmless east Vovimian name. —But you'll be knowing
that, I have mind?"
He switched, in the final sentence, to the Riverbend dialect of the
Vovimian tongue – a dialect that had its origins in the area south of the
Vovimian capital. In the past decade, that area, which had traditionally
been farmland, had become the site of manufactories and had been incorporated
into the capital. Increasingly, commoners flocked there in search of work
at the new manufactories, since the old farms were being driven out of
business by Yclau's superior farming technology. At the same time, aristocrats
who had lived in Riverbend for generations had moved away, so that the
Riverbend dialect was increasingly regarded as a commoner dialect.
Tyrrell had heard as much from new prisoners arriving at Mercy, and
once or twice had met an olive-skinned east Vovimian who was familiar with
the dialect, having lived in Vovim's capital. Tyrrell had always pretended
to be ignorant of any dialect of Vovim, though. He did not want to call
people's attention to the fact that his parents were from that land.
But here, where he was surrounded by men speaking a dozen tongues and
wearing a hundred shades of skin color, it seemed safe enough to confess
to his linguistic origins . . . which, as it happened, were that of Riverbend.
His parents, who were commoners, had moved from Riverbend when it was still
a rural district and had no stigma attached to it, and so they had not
bothered to alter their mode of speech when they started their lives anew
in Mip. Tyrrell had grown up fluent in the Riverbend dialect.
"Aye," he replied, feeling self-conscious as he spoke the dialect for
the first time in many years. "My barbaric birth is written all over my
skin, I fear."
Pickens gave an easy laugh. "Best not to be saying that around Valdis;
he'll yield you a long speech about how Vovim wouldn't exist if his people
from the south hadn't been bringing the glories of civilization as a giving
to the neighboring tribes and tamed them into something worth saving. .
. . Emigrant, aye?"
"My parents were," Tyrrell replied. "I grew up in Mip's capital, as
I gave tale to Ahiga."
Pickens nodded. "I too. Butchers' District. And you?"
"Sewer District. My parents were aiming to move out to the countryside
as soon as they could find a farm to work on, but . . . Well, my dad died
when I was four, and my mam when I was seven."
"Any older bros or sisses to be caring for you?" Pickens's expression
was sober now.
"Nay; I was the first-birthed. I had a younger sis, of age three. I
tried to care for her myself, but . . ." He took a deep breath, feeling
the warm air fill his throat, which was now tight with memory. "After,
I came to know I'd die too if I didn't go and find some folk to care for
me. So I went and joined a street tribe."
Pickens, who had been swinging his arms slightly during this recital,
suddenly went very still. "Sewer District. You were of the Rat-tail Tribe?"
"Aye," replied Tyrrell slowly. Then, taking in what Pickens had said
before: "Where did you say you come from?"
Pickens raised his chin, pride written across his face. "The Butchers'
District. I was initiated into the Gutterway Tribe thirty-five years past."
Tyrrell felt the blood beat across his skin. He stifled a wild impulse
to yelp for help from Ahiga's watch-hounds. No doubt they would laugh in
his face; tribal rivalries were a matter of youth against youth, and any
man who chose to retain loyalty to his tribe in later years could expect
to fight bitter battles.
But not with the Gutterway Tribe – not if they hoped to live to the
end of their natural lives. Gods help him. Tyrrell automatically flicked
his eye over Pickens's body, trying to tell whether the lad was carrying
a hidden revolver.
Suddenly Pickens laughed and placed his right hand upon Tyrrell's shoulder.
"If we'd met each other on the streets of the capital, for sure we'd be
trying to stab each other's hearts – but here, thank the gods, we're all
one tribe, and Ahiga would have our flesh for feasting if we tried to have
battle for old times' sake. —Come, we still have some ways to go."
Fairly gasping with relief, Tyrrell allowed himself to be steered through
the crowd, which was thicker than before. More prisoners, it appeared,
had risen from their beds in the intervening time. "No tribal scuttling
here, then?"
"Nay, none." Pickens's voice was flat. "We can't afford to have battle
at each other; we've a worse rival to battle." He pointed with his thumb
toward the gate.
Tyrrell nodded, but could not forebear saying, "I've met guards who
were on our side."
"Oh, aye?" Pickens's tone was politely disbelieving. "Well, there are
guards who are better than others, for sure. If I was to go and plead for
supplies to keep from dying, I'd hope that Medinger was around. But even
he would likely pay no mind to my pleas."
It would be safest, Tyrrell decided, to move on to another subject.
It had taken him and Merrick a long, hard struggle to persuade Mercy's
prisoners to trust the guards who were their allies – and Tyrrell was not
sure whether the prisoners here had any allies. Even Tom Keeper remained
an uncertainty.
So instead Tyrrell said, keeping to the safe subject of origins, "You're
from east Vovim originally?"
"My great-grandparents were, aye. I spent, oh, about five years of my
childhood living with kin in Vovim's capital, which is why I speak as I
do. My parents went and made sure I had knowing of every detail of my heritage;
I think they were waiting the day that Vovim would gain again power over
Mip." He grinned at Tyrrell. "After a fifteen-year of catching tale of
what a glorious heritage I was upholding, I got sick of it all and went
and joined my local street tribe, so as I could be among the underdogs."
He shrugged. "Learned sacks of good lessons there about sticking with your
mates, being loyal no matter what . . . but got arrested for gunrunning
when I was seventeen, and for armed robbery when I was twenty-eight. Served
at holding prisons twice; third time I got arrested, the magistrate stuck
me in here, to learn me a higher lesson."
"Sounds fair," Tyrrell said cautiously.
"Oh, aye, 'twas fair enough; I was a career criminal. Trouble is, the
third offense wasn't intended by me. . . . But that's not worth being on
about." He shook his body, like a dog shaking off unpleasant water. "Some
fellows here, they don't deserve to be in prison. Shuji, for one."
"He's a northwesterner?" Tyrrell curved his path round a group of claimed
lads who were sitting on the floor, playing with what appeared to be home-made
dice, carved out of bone.
"Aye, him and Hosobuchi. When Shuji first went and came here, he knew
not a word of Mippite, and his provincial accent was so thick that not
even the Vovimians here could understand him. Hosobuchi was the only one
who could give speech with him."
Tyrrell looked curiously over at Pickens, who was striding beside him.
"How did he give tale at his trial, then? Through counsel?"
Pickens's mouth thinned. "Give tale? What makes you think the magistrates
cared about his side of the tale?"
Tyrrell felt a familiar weight in his chest. "Grand magistracy? No presence
of the defender?"
"Aye. He was convicted without ever having knowing of what his crime
was or who his accusers were – or maybe the guards gave tale of that to
him; he wouldn't be knowing. First thing he had knowing about all this
was when he was dragged out of his bed by the local patrol soldiers. He
lived with his parents; they urged him to go with the soldiers, quiet-like.
His parents were great folks for following the law. So he did as the soldiers
ordered, and spent a month in a holding prison, and then was sent here.
He near-like burst into tears when he learned that Hosobuchi had knowing
of his tongue. First thing he went and asked was when he would get a chance
to be seeing his family. Hosobuchi, he was the one who had to break the
news to Shuji that he'd never be seeing his family again – that he was
in prison here for life."
"That was the moment for tears, I'd figure," Tyrrell said quietly. The
familiar ache continued. Even taking into account the natural tendency
of criminals to deny their guilt, Tyrrell had known far too many prisoners
at Mercy who had been jailed for crimes they had committed through no fault
of their own, or who were innocent of their accused crime. This tale, though,
was the worst he had heard yet.
Pickens shook his head. "Not Shuji. Not him. He grew all pale at first,
like as though he would faint. I was wondering what he would say – I had
enough knowing of Hosobuchi's tongue by then to follow the tale. Then he
was saying, in a voice very breathless, 'I thank you, sir, for the great
kindness you have shown in explaining this to me. If I may be of service
to you in any way, I hope that you will let me know.'"
Tyrrell gave a swift look at Pickens. "Did he understand what he was
offering?"
"Nay. He's a northwesterner; politeness was bred into him when he was
in his cradle. Beyond that, he is gentle by nature; he craves ever to help
others. . . . Hosobuchi claimed him on the spot. He gave tale to me in
private that he wasn't going to let a sweet lad like that abide a single
night unclaimed. He felt great love for the lad, from the very start."
Tyrrell tried to read Pickens's face; the lad was staring straight ahead
in his path, not watching Tyrrell. "You're fond of Shuji too, I have mind."
"A bit too fond, it may be." Before Tyrrell could ask him what he meant,
Pickens pointed to an upcoming step. "Mark this. Here lies the boundary
'tween the space for the unclaimed lads and the space for the little men."
Tyrrell paused to look, scanning with his eye all the ground that he
could see. The wooden floor stopped shortly before the boundary; the boundary-step
was made of stone, and it appeared to run the full length of the prison,
from one wall to the other. Oddly enough, the step went down into the flagstoned
little men's territory, rather than up. "What did this signify, originally?"
he asked.
"The divider 'tween the space for the unclaimed lads and the space for
the little men," Pickens repeated patiently. Then, seeing Tyrrell stare,
he added with a laugh, "Our customs here are centuries old, man. Those
customs, they've long since been accepted by the guards. When this prison
was designed over, in the year '85, it was designed to divide the ranks.
The guards," he added dryly, "had their own reasons for craving that."
Tyrrell's mind was preoccupied with other matters. "You mean I shouldn't
be walking in this area near the gate at all?"
"Oh, it's safe for you to go into a lower-ranked space. And during the
day, most times, no watch-hound will harm you if you enter a higher-ranked
space. But come nightfall, you'd best stay out of higher-ranked spaces
till morn, if you don't want trouble to fall. Even the gate area can be
a danger at dusk."
Tyrrell frowned. "What about claimed lads? Where is their place?"
"Why, over there." Pickens pointed toward the back of the prison. "In
the area 'tween the little men's space and the true men's space. We share
the same area as the greater men."
Tyrrell stared at Pickens. "You're in a higher-ranked area than
the little men?"
Pickens smiled at him. "A claimed lad has been claimed," he said softly.
"He has shown that some folk craves him here. A little man has no lad –
he has not yet shown that he is craved here by any folk."
Tyrrell was silent a moment before saying, "It may be that I should
have been the one asking if it was all right not to call you sir."
Pickens laughed and clapped an arm round Tyrrell's back, steering him
toward the eastern wall as they followed the line of the step. "Nay, I
have enough Mippite blood in me that I some days find all this ranking
business to be wearisome. I'm glad to be meeting a man who cares not what
my rank is. As for the other claimed lads . . . Well, you're still a man
and deserving of respect for that reason. If any claimed lad be ever insolent
to you, just ask him if he craves his words said again to his man. That
will sober him quick-like. —There's our goal."
Tyrrell, who had been about to ask what deeds a man did to deserve such
respect, looked where Pickens pointed.
o—o—o
A few minutes later, they reached their goal: a roofed structure. It
was not much higher than Pickens, who was of average height, which was
why Tyrrell had not sighted it behind the crowd. It was rough-boarded,
with cylindrical wooden rods sticking off the edges of the roof. As Tyrrell
approached the structure, he saw that the boards were actually divided
from one another in rectangles and that letters were stencilled onto each
rectangle.
He stared at Pickens. "Food crates? Like the ones wholesalers use?"
Pickens nodded. "We stacked them, one on top the other, to shape the
walls. The beams, they're just there to hold up the roofing material."
"Where did you get the beams?"
"Cell bars."
"What?"
Pickens laughed at his expression. "The cell bars of the old prison,
before the designing over – they were so old that they were made of wood.
That's one reason the prison was designed over; the guards, they tired
of prisoners boring and sawing their way out of the cells."
Shaking his head at the thought of wooden cell bars, Tyrrell squinted
as he looked at the material atop the bars, which was hanging off the eaves.
"Straw?"
"Came with the crates, as packing material. We don't often get straw,
and some of the fellows, they wanted to use it to make straw mattresses.
But Farnam said, Nay, we couldn't afford the loss of that many blankets
to make the mattresses. 'Sides, the stench at this end of the prison was
something awful back then."
Tyrrell could well imagine. Even with walls and a roof, the area around
the privy smelled like his cell at Mercy had on one week when a vengeful
guard had taken away the lid to the pit he used to relieve himself. "You've
got no separate sleeping cells here, then? No places where the prisoners
could be relieving themselves in private?"
"Used to," replied Pickens laconically. Then, as Tyrrell looked his
way, he added, "We tore down the sleeping cells, winter last. Their walls
were shaped of wood."
It took Tyrrell a minute to understand; then he said, in as light a
voice as he could manage, "Gets a bit cold here during the winter, aye?"
"It does when we've no working furnace." For the first time, there was
a darker note to Pickens's voice. "Under these flagstones are the wonders
of modern technology: tubes that are figured on working like an old-fashioned
hypocaust, making heat come up through the floor to the prisoners. They
worked, most times, till winter last. Then they broke down, round the time
of the Commoners' Autumn Festival."
Tyrrell had a moment to wonder how the prisoners celebrated an Yclau
festival that required the use of frost; then he understood and shivered.
"Gods above and below," he murmured.
Pickens shrugged. "Winter, it's always a bad season; this year just
made more plain who the survivors would be. We're lucky to be in the foothills;
that stayed the temperatures milder than they would be if we were in the
high mountains. As it was, around a third of the tribe died 'fore spring."
Tyrrell was silent, thinking of the ledger book in Tom Keeper's office,
with its numbers that did not add up. Finally he said, "Did you tell the
guards? Tom Keeper might have been willing to listen to you."
"Keeper?" Pickens's voice grew darker still. "You've seen how much mind
Keeper pays to what we give tale. Farnam's lad Davidson slung a bit of
human skull at Keeper this morn – he'll draw punishment from Farnam for
that, but 'twas his desperate try to make Keeper see what is happening.
And did Keeper or the other guards care? The skull is still out there;
they pay it no mind. —See now, this is a nasty subject. Let's get you past
the others here."
He pointed, and Tyrrell noticed for the first time that a queue of prisoners
was waiting to use the privy – two queues to two doors, one at the end
of the privy in the area of the unclaimed lads and one at the end of the
privy in the area of the little men. The queue for the little men was considerably
shorter than that of the unclaimed lads – only a couple of dozen men –
but Pickens, stepping down into that area, ignored all these men. He went
straight to the front of the queue, where a big, brawny prisoner was standing
in front of a door, his arms folded. He wore a yellow wristlet.
He looked at Tyrrell without moving. Pickens said in Mippite, "New man,
just arrived; hasn't had a chance to use a pot for a while. Hosobuchi told
me to bring him here."
The brawny man stepped aside, saying only, "Number eleven."
Pickens took hold of the door – it was leaning against the crates, unhinged
– and pulled it wide enough open to allow Tyrrell and himself entrance.
The smell inside nearly made Tyrrell wretch, and it was not as though
he was unfamiliar with nasty smells. His family had lived next to a garbage
dump when he was young. This room smelt like the inside of a dump, though.
He glanced round as his eyes adjusted to the dim interior, lit only by
cracks of light falling through the straw. He thought there were shapes
in the darkness, but they were too faint for him to see clearly. The sounds
around him, though, told him that this was a communal privy.
Taking firm hold of Tyrrell's arm, Pickens began walking alongside the
wall of the privy, muttering numbers under his breath as the two of them
passed each indistinct shape. Tyrrell ran his hand along the right side
as they went, discovering that the crates' tops had been removed before
the crates were used as building material, so that what had once been crate-sides
now stuck out like shelves against the wall.
Finally Pickens paused and fumbled his way toward the east wall.
"Ow!" came a voice from directly in front of them. "I'm not through!"
"Is this number eleven?" Pickens asked.
"I don't know," the voice replied, sulky. "I took the first one that
was free."
Pickens sighed. "How have you managed to live this long without being
batted over the head by one of Ahiga's watch-hounds? You're a lad, aren't
you? Who's your man?"
A silence, and then, in a considerably subdued manner: "I don't have
one."
"Name?" Pickens's voice was brisk.
A much longer pause, and then, in a very small voice: "Boyle, sir. Pete
Boyle."
"I'm not a man; I'm Hosobuchi's lad, and if I find you taking someone
else's spot again, I'll tell my man. You've made a man wait his proper
turn."
"I'm sorry." The voice had turned from subdued to fearful. "It won't
happen again, I promise. It's all yours now—"
A figure started to stumble past Tyrrell; Pickens reached out and grabbed
him. The lad stood still at once. Tyrrell could hear his breath clearly;
it was half-sobbing.
"Be sure to clean yourself before you leave." Pickens's voice was no
longer stern. "You don't want to take any chances."
"Yes. Thank you. Yes." The lad, released, sped away.
"Regrets for the delay," Pickens said to Tyrrell, switching back to
the Riverbend dialect. "I'm a watch-hound; I have to pay mind to these
things. Now, then, if you'll slide your foot forward-like, you'll be finding
a crate. . . ."
Following Pickens's instructions, Tyrrell located the crate, stood on
it, found the barrel in front of it with his hand, and relieved himself
into the barrel. It was odd, doing this blind, but he could tell from the
nearby tinkle that he had hit his target. Judging from the sound, the barrel
was close to being full.
"You need to squat?" Pickens enquired. "There's another barrel next
to this one for that sort of thing. A couple of boards are on top of the
barrel – smooth-planed, so there's no worry about splinters. Just sit with
the gap in the middle."
Upon reflection, Tyrrell decided that he did indeed need to sit. He
spent the time looking round him. His eyes had adjusted enough to see that
there was a long line of barrels and prisoners in this privy. A few prisoners
glanced his way, but most kept their attention centered on their own business.
He could guess, from what he knew of Mercy's prisoners, that many of the
prisoners here found this communal experience to be highly humiliating.
Tyrrell had spent most of his childhood with no privy but the gutter;
he had found the covered pit in his cells at Mercy to be luxurious by comparison.
Having boards to sit on was like being handed the keys to the water closet
used by the magisterial seats.
He said as much to Pickens, who chuckled. "You're well suited to survive
here. Commoners are, most times. It's the prisoners who used to be living
a mid-class life, like Farnam, that find it hardest to make the change.
—Hoi, Nava'i, we crave paper here." This was spoken in the Riverbend dialect
to a prisoner walking down the privy slowly. A crack of light falling on
his hand revealed his wristlet to be dark green, the same color that the
true man Farnam wore.
"See now, we're short," the lad replied in the same tongue.
"We're ever short. You drawing miser learning from Farnam?"
Nava'i snorted, handed something to Pickens, and continued on.
"Here you go," Pickens said, holding out the objects he had been handed.
"Genuine, Compassion toilet-paper. I'll wager you don't get anything this
fancy at Mercy."
Tyrrell took the strips of paper from him and fingered them. "Strips
of newsie?" he guessed.
"Aye. No newsprint on them, though – the guards don't want to go and
chance us having knowing of what happens in the world. The paper, it's
used as packing material for the crates."
"I have mind you'd want to use them for writing," Tyrrell said as he
stood up and wiped himself.
"Oh, for sure, it's like a blow of the belt to Farnam to have to give
them up for such low uses. But he gives tale he'd rather see writing paper
go to waste than chance another epidemic."
Tyrrell, who was in the midst of tossing the dirtied paper into the
barrel, went still. "Have many of those?"
"Used to have one or two a year, till Farnam took over. His wife, she
had studied nursing books in preparation for having kiddies; he had all
sorts of notions for keeping sickness from spreading here. In the old days,
we used corn cobs over and over to wipe ourselves, sharing the cobs; Farnam
took one look at that custom and near-like screeched. Gave tale it was
a sure way to spread sickness from one fellow to the next. So now we follow
his rules, and we most times never have sickness spread. I'm figuring it's
different at Mercy. Do you have many sicknesses there?"
As he spoke, Pickens adjusted the boards of the barrel. Tyrrell, having
wiped his hands clean on one of the newspapers, paused from buckling his
belt. He could not see Pickens's face in the dark; the lad's tone had been
casual. After a minute, Tyrrell said, "'Tis not bad there. Any folk with
consumption or some other sickness that could be caught is placed alone.
Isolated," he said, using the Mippite word, so as to be clear. "Worst problem
we've had is with sex sicknesses. I have the dose . . . but the healer
here, she gives tale I'm past where I could be passing it to any other
folk."
"Ah." The relief in Pickens's voice was clear as he took hold of Tyrrell
and steered him toward the second entrance.
Tyrrell waited until they had reached that entrance – where the door
was wide open, allowing light to shine in – before he turned to look at
Pickens. "You're Ahiga's watch-hound."
Pickens's face twisted into a grim sort of smile. "Regrets for that,"
he said softly. "My first loyalties, they're to Hosobuchi and Shuji and
the tribe. You've got to understand that."
"Right. I do. What would have happened to me if you'd gone and learned
I had a bad sickness that could be caught?"
Pickens did not say a word; he simply drew his finger across his throat.
Tyrrell swallowed hard. "I had mind Mercy Prison was a tough place,
but we don't kill invalids there."
Pickens shrugged. "'Tis a matter of kill, or die ourselves. Sickness
runs quick-like in a prison with one cell. I'll give tale to Farnam about
you having the dose, but he won't do more than make a kind question about
how much pain you're in. A sickness that won't spread isn't a threat to
the tribe."
As he spoke, he gestured Tyrrell toward Farnam's lad Nava'i, who was
standing by the doorway. The lad told Tyrrell in Mippite, "Please hold
your hands here, sir."
Tyrrell obediently placed his hands face-up over a pail, filled with
dirty water, which was sitting on an upended crate. Taking a pitcher, Nava'i
poured a brown, foul-smelling liquid into Tyrrell's cupped palms. Then,
with a second pitcher, Nava'i carefully poured a bit of lukewarm water
onto Tyrrell's hands. "Lather up, sir."
Tyrrell did so vigorously, though the soap bit into his hands, being
grainy. "The guards give us soap?" he said to Pickens.
The serving lad bowed over in laughter, nearly dropping his pitcher.
Grinning, Pickens said, "It's home-made. All it takes to make soap is wood
ashes and fat. We're yet using up the ashes from last winter."
Tyrrell thought about this as the lad poured another bit of water over
his hands to wash away the lather. Fat implied meat; so did the bone dice
that the claimed lads had been playing with earlier. If the prisoners here
were allowed meat, could that explain the meat-scented smoke that the guards
had noticed? Perhaps the prisoners cooked the meat further in order to
extract drippings of fat from it.
"More luxuries," Tyrrell commented, as he wiped his hands dry on his
trousers and followed Pickens outside to where the unclaimed lads were
waiting their turn, some shifting impatiently from foot to foot.
"More necessities," Pickens corrected him. "It's part of Farnam's plan
to cut back on sickness. There was sacks of fighting over his notion for
hand-washing, back when he first had mind to it; the other true men gave
tale we couldn't spare the water."
Tyrrell's head jerked round to look at Pickens. "You're short of water
here, some days?"
He could hear the strain in his voice as he asked his question. One
of the few good things that could be said about Mercy Life Prison was that
its prisoners never went short of water. The Yclau engineers who had built
the prison had diverted water from a local creek, pumped it up to the highest
level of the prison, and then allowed the water to stream down, in a small
trickle, along the back wall of every cell. The water system was so well
fashioned that it had never broken down.
But it did not extend as far as the punishment cells. Prisoners in the
punishment cells were only allowed one gill of water every twenty-four
hours. By the end of the single month that Tyrrell had spent there, in
his final days at Mercy, he had thought that he would go mad from thirst.
"Not to worry," Pickens said, placing his hand on Tyrrell's back as
he changed their path to go north. "We draw rainfall every few days. —But
giving tale of sicknesses, we should have that scratch seen to." He pointed
to Tyrrell's left arm.
Tyrrell forgot the question he had been about to ask – what the rainfall
had to do with drinking water inside the prison – and looked down at his
arm. A long scratch, black with dried blood, went halfway up his forearm.
He had not noticed it before; the dull throbbing of pain was something
he was used to.
"Medical kit," Pickens said succinctly. "Iodine, and then a clean bandage.
If that cut gets infected, it could turn into something ugly that could
kill you."
Tyrrell knew that, of course, and could name three prisoners who had
died that way at Mercy. The only wonder here was that Pickens thought there
might be a remedy.
"Must have happened in the challenge," Tyrrell said as he turned to
follow Pickens through the crowd, toward the back of the prison. "I'm glad
that's all over with, anyhow."
Pickens laughed. "Well, 'tis over 'less another man has mind to challenge
you for your lad . . . but that kind of event doesn't fall very much. The
men have more than enough lads to claim."
Tyrrell thought about this as they wound their way round an unclaimed
man who was kneeling to carefully fold a blanket. "Shuji . . . he was claimed
by Hosobuchi. But Ahiga seems to— Well, he treats Shuji like as though
he owns the lad."
"Oh, Shuji is a complication," Pickens said cheerfully. "Hosobuchi claimed
him, but Ahiga, he craved Shuji too. So Hosobuchi shares him with Ahiga."
Tyrrell felt an unpleasant lurching in his stomach. "Is that usual?"
"For two men to go and share a lad? It falls now and then, when two
men crave the same lad but they don't want to give battle to each other.
What complicated matters here was that Hosobuchi is Ahiga's claimed man.
That means that Hosobuchi and Shuji are fellow lads to Ahiga, as well as
being man and lad to each other. 'Tisn't supposed to work that way. There
were sacks of words 'tween Ahiga and Hosobuchi, and sacks of arguments
'tween the true men, 'fore Ahiga claimed Shuji and took him to his bed."
"And coming among all these arguments," Tyrrell said, "did anyone have
mind to ask Shuji what he craved?"
He was not surprised that Pickens halted and turned to stare. Tyrrell
could hear the anger in his own voice. Twenty years he had been imprisoned
at Mercy, and still he had never been able to make himself accept certain
aspects of life prison that other prisoners had grown to consider normal.
Merrick was one of the few prisoners who understood why Tyrrell considered
it so terribly important to remain angry over the rapes. If Tyrrell ever
let himself become dulled to what was happening, as Merrick had at one
point . . . If he ever accepted that other men had the right to take someone
unwilling . . .
"'Tisn't a small matter to me," he said to Pickens, seeking to wipe
away the look of puzzlement on the lad's face. "I was sent here to Compassion
because I have mind that it's wrong to take any folk unwilling. I gave
battle against the rapists at Mercy for fifteen years. If lads like Shuji
are taken unwilling here, I'll give battle against their rapists as well."
Pickens did not reply for a moment. Under the shadow of the thunder-clouds,
his olive-brown skin was almost grey, his brown hair almost black. Finally
he said, "Ahiga is right. You should learn our customs 'fore you issue
challenges."
Tyrrell felt the rebuke like a blow of the hand on the cheek. Before
he could think of what to say, Pickens had taken his arm again and was
guiding him toward the back of the prison.
"I can't promise that you'll be liking everything you find here," the
lad said. "There's sacks I dislike here. But I can promise you that matters
at
Compassion are more complicated than they are seeming at the surface. You
need to dive deep into our world, Tyrrell of Mercy. Then you'll be knowing
enough that you can give tale to us what we're doing wrong."
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The back of the prison was much like the front, except for the lack
of a gate. Where the gate would have been was instead what Tyrrell had
been seeking: sleeping cells.
It was Pickens who explained what they were. He had passed beyond the
awkwardness of their earlier confrontation by simply pretending that it
had not occurred, instead pointing out the sights as though he were a guide
for a Mippite doing the Grand Tour of Vovim and Yclau.
"Over there," he said, switching to the Mippite tongue and taking on
the tones of a haughty guide, "is the second latrine area. Note the beautiful
pattern of the packing-crate woodwork. This privy is for the exclusive
use of the greater men and their lads; naturally, it has inside it chandeliers
and valuable rugs and all such amenities as one might expect for the elite
members of this prison."
"More barrels?" enquired Tyrrell, looking at the privy, which appeared
no different from the one that straddled the areas for the little men and
the unclaimed lads.
"More barrels," confirmed Pickens. Then, returning to his tour: "Mind
the step up, dear gentleman; we are now entering the greater men's area.
See the fine Vovimian carvings, the exquisite Yclau architecture, the comfortable
sleeping cells."
Tyrrell glanced around and saw only the sleeping cells. The row, perhaps
containing half a dozen cells, was in the northwest corner of the prison.
Tyrrell decided that the entrance to them must be from the northern side,
for only a featureless wall faced south, toward the far-off prison gate.
The wall was made of wood.
"I had mind you gave tale these were all torn down," Tyrrell said.
Pickens shrugged. "All but the true men's cells. They would have been
burned too if we hadn't gone and found another fuel supply. As it is" –
he swept his arm around, switching back to Mippite – "see what enchanting
cottages we have built to replace our old cells."
Tyrrell scanned the sight ahead of him wordlessly. The greater men's
area, unlike the rest of the prison, was scattered with little shelters:
tiny huts made of packing crates, with roofs no higher than a man's waist;
tents built with more of the wooden bars, covered by leather; other tents
fashioned out of rags so thin that they could be seen through.
"Good thing it never rains here," said Tyrrell, looking dubiously at
one tent they were passing, which was stitched together roughly with what
looked like string.
Pickens grinned as though Tyrrell had made a joke. "The skin tents are
waterproof, most times – but nay, I wouldn't be wanting to shelter in any
of them when rain was falling. Lying on moist ground, that's bad enough.
—Here we are," he added, before Tyrrell could ask him what he meant. "We
have now come, gentleman, to the surgery of Compassion's healer. Please
wipe your boots on the mat and take your place in the healer's elegant
waiting room."
In fact, there was nobody waiting to use the medical kit, unless one
counted the watch-hound. Tyrrell had no doubts as to what the lad was;
he was holding upright a spear fashioned out of one of the old cell-door
bars; the top of the bar had been whittled to a wicked-looking point. The
hound scrutinized Tyrrell, but did not try to stop either him or Pickens
as they approached the kit.
A neckletted man was sitting on a three-legged stool beside the kit,
darning a sock with a bone-needle. He was leaning his back against the
west wall, but as he caught sight of them approaching, he put down the
sock and rose to his feet.
"Good morning," he said to both of them.
"Good morning," Pickens replied in Mippite. "Ngugi, this new man has
gotten cut in a challenge. Can he tend himself with your supplies?"
Ngugi – who appeared from his mild-brown skin to have ancestors from
one of the small northeastern provinces of Vovim – gave a derisive sniff
as Tyrrell showed him his arm. "I've had to turn away three greater men
this morning who wanted medicine for their ill lads, and you expect first
aid for a little scratch like that?"
His remark was aimed at Tyrrell, but Pickens was the one who said, "No
supplies left?"
"See for yourself." Ngugi waved his hand at the coffin-sized crate beside
him. Leaning over, Tyrrell could see nothing more than a few scattered
tins, empty, as well as a dirty sock that seemed to have wandered into
the kit.
"Ah, well," said Pickens. "It will be filled soon, perhaps. Keeper promised
Farnam a new kit this morning."
Ngugi – who wore a green wristlet showing that he was Farnam's claimed
man – sniffed again. "I'll believe that when it appears."
"Thank you anyway," Pickens replied.
"I'm sorry I couldn't help you, sir." Ngugi did not look Tyrrell's way
as he spoke; his attention remained focussed on Pickens.
Pickens nodded. "I hope all is well with you and your lad?"
"Quite well, sir; thank you for asking." Ngugi waited until Pickens
had stepped away, and then he sat down again, picking up the needle and
sock from where he had laid them.
They had walked several yards away, in the direction of the back of
the prison, before Tyrrell found his voice again. "He's a man, and you're
a lad. So why does he call you 'sir'?"
Pickens flicked a glance at him briefly before turning his gaze toward
their path. "Out of courtesy. He was once my Second Lad."
Tyrrell did not realize he had stopped until Pickens turned to look
at him. The lad remained silent, waiting.
Tyrrell could think of nothing to say but the obvious. "You were once
a man?"
Pickens nodded.
"How . . . ?" The word escaped Tyrrell before he could call it back,
and he could have cursed himself. It was one of the strictest customs among
life prisoners: you never asked anyone what he had done that had caused
him to be punished. A prisoner might volunteer such information, as Pickens
had done earlier when he spoke of his crimes, but you never quizzed him
about why he had been imprisoned, beaten, thrown into a punishment cell,
had had his prison status lowered, or had undergone any other type of penalty.
The tendons in Pickens's neck stood out, but he answered in a level
voice, "I murdered my First Lad."
Tyrrell was still a moment before saying, "I'm figuring 'twas manslaughter,
not murder."
Pickens gave one of his grim little smiles. "It may be. Comes to the
same thing in the end."
"Not in the eyes of the gods," Tyrrell replied firmly. And then, as
Pickens tried to speak, Tyrrell added quickly, "None of my business. I
shouldn't have asked."
Pickens sighed. The tendons in his neck relaxed. He put his arm round
Tyrrell's back and began to guide him forward slowly. "It doesn't matter,"
he said. "Any folk here could tell you, and they will, in time. I'd sooner
tell you myself."
o—o—o
Dick Pickens had been accepted into the Tribe of Compassion Prison without
any trouble – had in fact been the prisoner who had first suggested that
the loose alliance which was forming between Compassion's prisoners be
named a tribe. The name helped to shape and coalesce the alliance, which
until that time had been shaped only by the personality of Valdis.
Valdis was the first true man – the first man to gain the loyal service
of other prisoners who claimed to be men. He had gained this status by
the simple act of being the only man in Compassion Prison to survive the
Riot of 385. He, and a couple dozen lads who now served him, were the only
prisoners who remembered the time-honored customs of Compassion Prison
and could therefore pass those customs on to newcomers who were seeking
some sort of solidity to brace them against their change of fortune. The
custom of man and lad provided them with that solidity, and Valdis was
successful in persuading the new prisoners that his status as a "true man,"
as he coined the term, was simply an extension of the older ways.
For three years, Valdis was the only true man. Though he discovered,
from hard experience, that he could not claim every man and lad who entered
the prison, he did at least gain the cooperation of the unclaimed men and
their lads, since it was clear that Valdis was the only prisoner there
who possessed the knowledge they needed to survive Compassion's harsh conditions.
In 388, however, Valdis tired of being the man in charge of a certain
prison custom and therefore sought someone to replace him. Unfortunately,
the only man willing to take on these duties was Walker, a taciturn, pious
prisoner who had no intention of allowing Valdis to claim him.
Strenuous negotiations followed; at the end of them, Valdis declared
Walker his fellow true man, with separate duties from his own. The two
true men would make decisions together on any matter that affected both
their duties.
This was the situation as it stood in 389, when Pickens entered Compassion
Prison.
His life, until that time, had been one of little merit. At age fifteen,
he had discovered that he had "battle madness," a condition which early
Vovimian settlers had noted in Ammippians: the native tribesmen would use
ritual and sweetweed to whip themselves into such a state of frenzy that
they were deadly to their enemies. Afterwards, the tribesmen would have
no memory of the deeds they had committed while in their madness; it would
come as a pleasant surprise to them to learn how many of their enemy they
had slaughtered.
In Pickens's case, no ritual or drugs were needed; on the occasions
on which he fought, battle madness almost invariably overcame him. His
street tribe was pleased to see how well he fought . . . until the day
at age seventeen when he and a fellow tribesboy quarrelled.
His fellow tribesboy – a sixteen-year-old – ended up crippled. Pickens
was unceremoniously thrown out of the tribe. Bitter at his tribe for turning
on him so abruptly, he took revenge by stealing the rifles in their latest
shipment and selling the rifles himself.
Unfortunately, this brought him under the notice of the local patrol
soldiers, who were prepared to wink an eye at gunrunning by the street
tribe that paid them bribes, but were not prepared to allow an individual
boy to commit such a crime. Pickens was sent to the magistrates and sentenced
to holding prison for five years.
In those days, the Silent System still held sway in some of the holding
prisons; Pickens was locked away in a separate cell at night and forbidden
from conversing with the prisoners that he worked with during the daytime.
The system prevented Pickens from entering into fights with the other prisoners;
it did not prevent him receiving valuable information from them. Through
whispers and sign-language and coded messages tapped on walls, he was instructed
by hardened convicts on how to be successful on the next occasion on which
he committed a crime.
The advice was good. Upon being released, Pickens launched into his
new profession, that of a burglar, and was so successful for the next six
years that he gained a name for himself in the crime world of Mip City,
the capital of the republic.
Then came a second arrest. This time Pickens's sentence was for ten
years. By then, the Silent System had been lifted in most holding prisons.
Pickens took full advantage of that fact and quizzed every prisoner he
could on their successes and failures as criminals. Unlike the other prisoners,
he had no interest in wasting his time by bemoaning the harsh prison conditions,
much less getting into fights with guards and prisoners. He considered
his time in holding prison to be an educational opportunity. He was determined
that, when he was released from prison, he would be the best burglar in
the world, one who went entirely undetected. When he was finally released,
in 388, he entered the world with a heart singing with joy.
So skilled had he become at his chosen profession that he might indeed
have accomplished his high goals, if he had not met one day the former
leader of his old tribe, who mocked him for his arrests.
By the time the battle madness lifted from Pickens, the other man was
dead and Pickens was under arrest once more. The magistrate who judged
him took one look at his record and declared that he had committed premeditated
murder. The sentence for premeditated murder, as every Mippite child knew,
was life imprisonment.
There was a delay of two months before Pickens was sent to Compassion
Prison – a delay arranged by the gods, Pickens decided later, for the chaplain
at his holding prison, unlike the previous chaplains Pickens had known,
was a man of sincere devotion to the Yclau doctrine of transformation and
rebirth. He had also educated himself, in a sympathetic manner, concerning
the religious beliefs of the prisoners he tended who were of Vovimian extract.
Every day he visited Pickens, seeking to prepare the prisoner's soul for
his new life. Pickens, who had spurned the Vovimian faith on the same day
that he spurned his Vovimian parents, simply tolerated the chaplain's visits
at first, reading the sacred plays that the chaplain left in his cell,
only because he had nothing else to do.
He had long-ago memories of the plays as lessons from his parents to
do good and live up to his Vovimian heritage. He found that his memories
were wrong; Vovim's sacred plays were not centered on well-behaved gods,
but on Hell, a god who stole and kidnapped and murdered and even entered
into what Pickens immediately recognized as battle madness. Hell justified
his deeds through the same bitter words of revenge with which Pickens had
justified his misdeeds; he boasted of the harm he had caused to others.
The sacred playwrights, with subtle ingenuity, made clear the falseness
of Hell's claim to greatness, portraying him as a mean, lowly creature
who only occasionally rose above his misdeeds to become a mighty deity.
One day – while reading the play in which Hell tried to kill his sister
Mercy and found himself unable, through pity, to complete the act – Pickens
dissolved into tears. By the time the chaplain arrived, six hours later,
Pickens was ready to listen to what the man had to say about how his life
might be renewed.
The chaplain girded him with spiritual armor that was heavier than Pickens
actually needed. Compassion Prison, by 389, was a very different place
than it had been before the riot, or even during the weeks immediately
following the riot. Partly this was due to the influence of the guard who
had taken temporary charge of the prison while Compassion's Keeper was
supervising the renovation; partly also it was due to Valdis's determination
not to let a second riot occur. He and Walker kept as tight a control over
the other prisoners as Compassion's customs allowed them. The true men
did not interfere with the relations between man and lad, but they made
sure that each new prisoner understood that the prisoners' unified survival
was what mattered most.
Fresh with determination to make a better life for himself, Pickens
fit well into this regime. Within a week, he had lads clamoring to serve
him. He waited three months before picking his First Lad, and then waited
another two months before picking his Second Lad. In the meantime, he made
himself useful by offering suggestions for improvements to the prison:
that a careful count should be kept on supplies, so that prisoners would
not be caught short; that valuable items, such as the medical kit, should
be placed under the care of trusted prisoners; and that a formal trial
of strength should be instituted for new prisoners claiming to be men,
similar to the trial of strength that his street tribe had required of
anyone wishing to join the tribe. This would prevent lads from pledging
themselves to prisoners who did not have the strength to defend them.
Pickens himself did not undergo a trial upon his arrival, and he was
so well liked that he faced no challenges from other men. In retrospect,
he would recognize the fatal significance of this.
Years passed. Valdis, growing bored with counting and divvying the supplies,
assigned the task to one of his claimed men, Farnam, and raised Farnam's
rank accordingly. An unclaimed greater man, Ahiga, began to attract attention
for his talent in settling quarrels between other prisoners without bloodshed;
in due time, Valdis would take advantage of this talent in order to hand
over to Ahiga all matters related to discipline. Valdis himself would jealously
guard the remaining task, the one he considered most vital: giving the
prisoners enough opportunity to fight each other that they would never
again be tempted to fight the guards in a useless riot.
Seven years before Ahiga rose in rank, though, Pickens's own life took
a turn for the worse.
It started in such a simple manner one day in 992: a quarrel between
himself and his First Lad over where they should sleep at night. Pickens's
First Lad, Rios, favored a position that was over a flagstone that was
particularly warm on winter nights; Pickens preferred a more isolated location.
He ordered Rios to move the blankets; Rios refused. Pickens, in a decision
that would forever after give him anguish, decided not to punish Rios for
his insubordination. Instead, Pickens tried to reason with his lad.
Their voices were soon raised high enough to draw attention from onlookers.
Nobody interfered with the verbal battle, though. There were no watch-hounds
in those days, and even if there had been, they could not have intervened.
There had been questions, at the time that Compassion Prison had been renovated,
over how much power men should have over the lads – questions raised by
the guard who had charge over the prison. Valdis himself had no doubts
on the matter. A man's job was to give orders; a lad's job was to obey.
Valdis had declared, and the other true men had confirmed, that a man might
treat his own lad, or unclaimed lads, in any fashion he wished, short of
abuse that would leave the lad crippled or dead.
The last, offhand caveat had been inserted with reason. Valdis still
remembered the old days, when murders had been common among prisoners,
and he had no intention of allowing valuable lads to be arbitrarily disposed
of. Pickens had no such memories. To him, the caveat was simply common
sense, not worth thinking about. Perhaps it was his lack of awareness of
such a possibility that explained what happened next. Pickens himself only
knew that his final memory was of Ngugi crying, "Sir, no!" as Pickens flicked
open his pocketknife.
In those days, greater men and little men were allowed to carry any
weapons they had smuggled into the prison, without seeking formal permission
from the true men. The custom was changed as the result of what happened
that day.
The true men's judgment was swift. Stunned by what he had done, Pickens
offered no defense, but Ngugi, who knew of his past, explained about the
battle madness and swore, amidst his tears, that Pickens had never treated
either of his lads harshly until that day. The true men accordingly ruled
that the killing had been unintentional . . . but this made no difference
to their sentence. Pickens had crippled a fellow tribesboy in his youth,
had shot dead a former member of his tribe, and had now stabbed to death
his own lad. With his uncontrollable battle madness, Pickens was a danger
to the tribe. He must be eliminated.
It was at this moment, as Valdis was drawing from his back the weapon
of execution, that Hosobuchi stepped forward.
Pickens knew him only distantly. Having offered a few words of advice
to Hosobuchi upon the little man's arrival at the prison, Pickens had found
the little man to be properly deferential when speaking to a man of greater
rank. Pickens had given him no further thought, except to note that Hosobuchi
seemed to be exceedingly picky when it came to choosing lads; after a full
year at the prison, he was still ranked as a little man.
Now Hosobuchi offered a proposal. If the problem lay in Pickens being
a man who lacked control, then there was a simple solution: give him over
to someone who would control him. Hosobuchi would strip Pickens of his
manhood, take him as his lad, and ensure that Pickens never again endangered
another tribeslad or tribesman. If Hosobuchi failed to exert proper control,
so that Pickens crippled or killed any tribesfellow, Hosobuchi himself
was willing to pay the penalty of death.
The three true men, Valdis and Walker and Farnam, did not take long
to make their decision. None of them actually wanted Pickens dead; he was
too valuable for that. They gave permission for the arrangement, provided
that Hosobuchi was indeed willing to pay the penalty if Pickens misbehaved
again.
It was left to Pickens himself to decide whether he preferred death
or the stripping of his manhood.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
"A necklet," said Pickens to the lad sitting cross-legged on the platform.
"And cloth for a bandage, if you can spare it."
The lad – a middle-aged prisoner with the cream-white complexion of
an Yclau – did not look up from his work of carefully undoing the seam
of a tattered pair of trousers. "What color wristlet?"
"No wristlet. He's just arrived."
"So? He'll probably be claimed by the end of the day. I'm tired of having
to issue clothing twice over." As he spoke, the lad wound the thread he
had unseamed onto a long, thin bone.
Pickens hesitated and glanced at Tyrrell. Tyrrell said firmly, "No."
At the sound of his voice, the lad looked up. He did not look at Tyrrell,
though; he stared into the space between Pickens and Tyrrell. "No offense,
sir. It's just that we get several new prisoners arriving each week. It
makes for a lot of work."
Tyrrell hesitated, uncertain to whom the remark was addressed, but Pickens
was looking at him, so he replied, "Sorry about the extra burden on you."
The lad flashed him a smile then, turning his face toward Tyrrell –
yet still his eyes did not seem to quite focus on Tyrrell. "A man who apologizes
to lads – now that's a creature I rarely meet. You'll be able to
take your pick of unclaimed lads, I'm guessing. Just wait a minute, sir,
and I'll get you your supplies." He laid aside the trousers and placed
the awl delicately atop it, then rose to his feet with the aid of what
looked like a barrel hoop. Skidding it lightly across the ground, he turned
and made his way toward the back of the platform, where stacks of cloth
lay, guarded by several watch-hounds.
"Blind?" murmured Tyrrell to Pickens as soon as the lad was out of earshot.
Pickens nodded. "One of the guards yielded him the Damnation – a slow
case, so Walker wasn't craving to claim him. Farnam claimed him instead;
he doesn't take any of his lads in bedplay, 'cause he still feels bound
by his marriage vow. He was quite stubborn about refusing to be taken at
the time he was a claimed man – I have mind that's the reason Valdis was
liking him enough to raise him to the rank of true man. Valdis, he's a
man who respects anyone who stays to his oaths, even under suffering."
Tyrrell did not like to think of what suffering Farnam had been forced
to undergo at Valdis's hands to protect his marriage vow. Instead he said,
"So there wasn't any question of this lad being executed, though he has
a sex sickness that could be passed on?"
"Nay, not if one of the men was willing to claim him. A lad, see, is
under the rule of his man. If he goes and brings danger to the tribe, and
it is shown that the danger could have been avoided if his man had acted
proper-like, then it is the man who is punished, not the lad."
Tyrrell was silent a minute, eyeing the large, semi-circular platform
that was filled with various objects and workers. Most of the workers were
sitting, which was why he had not noticed the platform from afar. Ringing
the platform, though, was a veritable army of spear-laden watch-hounds,
keeping most prisoners at a healthy distance from the platform.
Pickens had sailed them past this barrier with no more than a word,
just as he had easily bypassed the queue at the privy. "There are advantages
to being the First Lad of Ahiga's First Lad," he had said when Tyrrell
asked.
Now Tyrrell said, "No wonder you went and defended Hosobuchi when I
spoke bad against him 'fore."
Pickens nodded as he watched two prisoners carefully cut cloth with
what looked like a home-made knife, made out of a battered tin. "He has
risked his life for me every day for the past eight years – and he has
done more than that. I thought, when he claimed me, that he would simply
stay me from having battle, but he said that the day might come when I
needed to have battle, so he would ready me for that."
"Is that why you're a watch-hound?" Tyrrell asked as he stepped back
to let pass a group of prisoners who were carrying a rolled-up piece of
leather, about half a dozen feet long.
Pickens nodded again. "Ahiga started the watch-hounds three years past;
he was still a greater man then, but the battles 'tween prisoners over
food, they were drawing out of control, and so the true men gave him permission
to start a patrol that would have the power to halt any activities that
threatened the tribe. Hosobuchi, he applied right away for the three of
us – him and me and Shuji – to be watch-hounds together. Every now and
then, that means we must use our fists to stop a fight . . . but I'm only
allowed to do that when Hosobuchi is there, keeping eye on me."
"That's why you didn't interfere when that other prisoner attacked me
'fore," Tyrrell suggested.
"Aye. Hosobuchi would have my tailside raw if I battled without him
at my side. The moment he sees me start the first act of entering my battle
madness, he draws me out of the battle – and that's danger in itself for
him, as you'd be knowing if you'd seen me in my madness. But ever I've
managed to obey his orders, and little by little, I've grown stronger.
My battle madness most times never falls these days." Pickens's voice grew
lower, so that Tyrrell had to lean toward him to hear. "Hosobuchi says
that, when I am ready, he will yield back to me my manhood. The true men
have already agreed to let that, if my man judges I am cured."
Tyrrell looked over at him, frowning. "Eight years you've been his lad,
you were giving tale?"
"Aye." Pickens seemed hesitant suddenly. "If I was the judge, I'd have
mind I was ready – but it is for Hosobuchi to judge, and he says it should
be more time. It will be soon, he promises."
Tyrrell had a moment to wonder how long Hosobuchi had been promising
that Pickens would be released "soon"; then the blind lad was back, holding
over his left arm a pile of cloth that Pickens hastily took from him.
"Here you are," the blind lad said. "One necklet, a cloth for bandaging
– we'll want that back when you're through with it – and a blanket, but
we'll keep the blanket for you till evening. What are your initials and
birth year, so I can sew them on your blanket?"
Tyrrell told him, running his eye over the blanket as he did so. It
was not as fine as the thick blankets he had been issued at Mercy Prison;
in fact, it looked as though it was made of rags sewn together.
"No real blankets here?" he said to Pickens, speaking in Mippite out
of courtesy to the blind lad standing nearby.
Pickens shrugged. "At the time that the prison renovation was finished,
we were given eight hundred blankets – two for each prisoner, with plenty
of spares left over. Most of the original blankets have worn out or been
made into cloaks for the winter. The ones that remain go to the true men
or the greater men."
Or their lads, Tyrrell thought, but had sense enough not to say so aloud.
The blind lad asked Pickens, "What is he wearing?"
"What he should be," Pickens replied. "Shuji delivered his extra clothing
to one of the other tailors earlier."
Tyrrell turned toward Pickens, breathless with astonishment. "Shuji
was the one who stole my shirt and vest and jacket after the trial?"
"Requisitioned them," the blind lad corrected. "All clothing belongs
to the tribe; Farnam issues it out in accordance with rank. You're a little
man, so you're entitled to underclothing, boots, and trousers. When you
rise to the rank of greater man, you'll get a shirt and vest as well."
Eyeing the lad's shirt, Tyrrell thought that nothing could have made
clearer his lesser status in relation to the claimed lads. "And what about
in winter?"
"Aye, well, that's the question, ain't it?" A note of dryness entered
into the lad's voice. "Farnam is determined that every man and his lads
should have cloaks next winter – but how he's going to manage this, with
new prisoners arriving practically every day, I don't know."
"The guards should supply us with clothing we need," Tyrrell said.
"Of course they should. They should also supply us with a working heater.
But prison regulations say that prisoners don't need overcoats because
the prisoners here never go outside, and everyone knows that the prison
is well-heated, see? So the prisoners don't need overcoats."
"Of course," said Tyrrell solemnly. "The logic can't be argued against.
This place being so well-heated, they'll probably take our clothes from
us before long. Why should they waste their budget on items for the prisoners?
The money could be put to far better use elsewhere."
The lad burst into laughter. Pickens grinned, saying, "You're a quick
learner; not many new prisoners figure out so swiftly the contorted logic
of the guards."
"They would if they'd ever dealt with Mercy's Keeper." Tyrrell sighed.
"Well, having no shirt isn't going to be a problem for me on a day like
this."
"It'll be a bit chillier at night, but yes, you'll be comfortable enough
during the spring days," Pickens replied. "Fact is, come summer, some of
the greater men will strip down till they're nearly as naked as Ahiga;
it can be stifling in here, round about the time of Mercy's Feast. —Thank
you, Les, and here's the blanket for you to initial. Here's the bandage,
Tyrrell – but no, don't put it on yet. We should sterilize it first. Come
over this way."
He beckoned, so Tyrrell followed him along the platform, weaving his
way amidst prisoners. All wore the green wristlet that marked them as Farnam's
men and lads, and they were all sitting or kneeling as they cut and sewed
cloth. The platform stood against the northern wall of the prison, but
Tyrrell and Pickens were still quite close to the true men's sleeping cells
in the northwest corner. As Tyrrell glanced back toward the cells, he saw
Ahiga and Hosobuchi disappear behind the cells, into the area between the
cells and the northern wall.
"Ahiga . . ." Tyrrell said reflectively to Pickens, switching back to
the Riverbend dialect. "Pickens, you're from east Vovim; Hosobuchi and
Shuji are from northwestern Vovim. Is Ahiga from one of the countries to
the far west of us? I can't figure his accent."
Pickens paused and stared at Tyrrell. "You mean you're not knowing?"
"How should I be knowing? He didn't give tale as to where he was from."
"And you couldn't figure from his clothing? His tattoos? His naming
of the patrol as watch-hounds? The fact that he didn't come to know from
your appearance that you were Vovimian?" Then, as Tyrrell stared blankly
at him, Pickens added gently, "He is Ammippian."
Tyrrell's heart dropped into his guts.
He spun round on his heel, staring at where Ahiga had been a moment
before. Ammippian. Tyrrell had met an Ammippian, and he had not known it.
Gods help him, he had even insulted the man.
He swallowed the hardness in his throat. "Do you think," he said in
a small voice, "that if I crawled on my belly to him, he might forgive
me?"
Pickens laughed in an easy manner as he placed his hand on Tyrrell's
shoulder. "Don't worry. That was the moment, I have mind, when he began
to be liking you in truth. You saw how he laughed."
"He's proud," Tyrrell said, still in his smallest voice. "He must be.
Ammippians always are."
"Oh, aye, he's proud. So would you be if half the people you lived with
called you a dirty, barbaric— Well, the prisoners here drop the rest of
the usual insult, but you see how it is for him."
"'Dirty, barbaric cannibal,' murmured Tyrrell. "Would anyone here call
him that?"
"Oh, aye. You and I and the other past street-tribe lads – we revere
the Ammippians, 'cause we patterned our tribes after the Ammippian tribe.
But to the average Mippite, the Ammippians are just uncouth natives who
tried to slaughter the early settlers and remain yet half-civilized."
"We drew from them their land," said Tyrrell, frowning. "All of Mip,
'twas theirs 'fore we came."
Pickens shrugged. "You can argue till your breath is gone with some
folk whose notion of the Ammippians comes from dime-novel tales of heartless
warriors slaughtering innocent kiddies in their beds. Ahiga, he's had a
hard time of it from the start of the first act. Valdis stood by him, nearly
from the time he arrived – Valdis, he's used to being called a barbarian
too – but few others would. Even Hosobuchi confesses that it took him time
to see Ahiga's better side. Now Ahiga is respected well . . . but ever
there is some idiot whispering 'hind his back that he doesn't deserve his
rank. It makes him touchy when he has mind that some folk doesn't respect
what he's done."
Tyrrell managed to tear his gaze away from the true men's sleeping cells.
"So why did he laugh when I made mock at him?"
Pickens smiled. "'Cause you were more amusing than you had knowing.
That 'Mighty One,' who protects his 'highly exalted position' for the sake
of his 'tender ego' . . . he was an unclaimed lad for nine years."
Tyrrell was still a moment, and then let out his breath slowly. "Nine
years."
"Aye. He survived longer as an unclaimed lad than any folk else I know
of. Most times the lads who survive long are claimed, and the gods are
knowing that Ahiga had offers enough after the first four or six years,
when it became plain how strong of will and body he was. But he . . . Well,
have you ever met a life prisoner who has mind he deserves more punishment
than he has drawn from the magistrates?"
Tyrrell nodded slowly. Merrick was that way, he suspected; Merrick had
always skidded away from the topic of his own painful life at Mercy, even
as he worked ceaselessly to improve the lives of other prisoners. "Ahiga's
crime was a bad one, then?" he said to Pickens.
Pickens shrugged again. "Hosobuchi and Shuji may have knowing. I don't.
Oh, there are prisoners here who give tale they know – who say they read
about his trial in the newsies. But I won't know they give tale for sure
'less I hear the words from Ahiga himself." He turned away abruptly. "A
sterile bandage first. I crave to introduce you to the water-steward anyhow."
o—o—o
The water-steward turned out to be another of Farnam's claimed men,
sitting on a crate next to a dozen barrels. He screwed up his face as he
saw Pickens and Tyrrell approaching. "Nothing," he said.
"Are you sure?" Pickens said as he tapped one of the barrels lightly.
"It's been five days. What do you expect?"
"Oh, well," said Pickens, giving up on the barrel. "We'll have more
this morning, no doubt." He glanced up at the dome, where the lightning
and thunder had given way to the soft pitter-patter of rain, as though
a cluster of kittens were playing on the roof.
The water-steward sniffed derisively. "The guards won't remember."
"Keeper will remind them. He always does. He's probably planning meal
delivery first."
"There won't be any water left by then," insisted the water-steward,
who seemed determined to predict the worst.
Pickens ignored him. He had reached over to pick up from the ground
something that looked at first like a balloon. When it was raised, though,
Tyrrell saw that it was in fact a filled bladder – a pig's bladder, he
supposed. He was no country dweller, but as a boy, he had watched the city
butchers at their work whenever they didn't chase him away.
"That for you or for him?" the water-steward asked suspiciously.
"Him," Pickens responded.
The water-steward gave a high whistle, and a moment later, swift as
a swallow, a watch-hound was on the spot. "Trouble?" he said, looking down
at the water-steward.
"Probably not," the water-steward replied. He reached out his hand.
"Give it back. If it was for you, I'd let it pass, but I'm not letting
a little man have the true men's supply."
Pickens did not respond; he was holding the bladder up toward the dome,
examining it closely. The watch-hound's hand shifted on his spear as he
scrutinized Pickens. Tyrrell said, "Er . . . Pickens, maybe you should
give back the water."
"Just a minute." Pickens finished his inspection and looked down at
the water-steward. "Who filled these bladders? You? They're at least two
gills short of the top. Where has the extra water been going?"
The water-steward blanched. The hound's hand shifted on the spear again;
now he was scrutinizing the water-steward.
"Evaporation," suggested the water-steward.
"In a bladder tied shut? I think not." Pickens said to the hound, "Hold
him. Farnam needs to hear of this. —Tyrrell, will you come with me?"
"Of course," said Tyrrell. He had no desire to stay around the water-steward,
who now had an anguished look on his face. Trotting beside Pickens as the
lad made his way swiftly across the platform, Tyrrell said in an undertone,
"Would he be drinking the water himself? Or yielding it to other folk,
for a bribe?"
Pickens shook his head. "Probably just being careless-like when he fills
the bladders – but Farnam is an exacting man, and he hates carelessness.
Hold here."
Tyrrell waited as instructed, watching Pickens approach Farnam, who
was standing in front of what appeared to be a large, clay oven, built
in a semi-circle like one of the mid-century train stations. A prisoner
was on his hands and knees, carefully sweeping a copious amount of ashes
out of the oven onto a pan made of a white material that Tyrrell supposed
must be another of this prison's ubiquitous bones. Whatever else might
be said of the prison guards, Tyrrell thought to himself, it could not
be said that they were stinting in their supply of meat.
From all appearances, Farnam seemed to be taking Pickens's report with
calmness. He said a few words and then returned his attention to the prisoner
who was cleaning the oven. Pickens strode back to Tyrrell.
"No serious result," he reported. "Farnam, he agreed 'twas probably
carelessness. We'll let go the water-steward from his misery."
By the time they returned to the water-barrels, the water-steward was
standing stiffly beside them, his face drained of blood. Pickens said briefly,
"Ten lashes, and you'll have a chance to defend yourself first. But Farnam
can't be bothered with that now. He says he very much hopes that nobody
will be bothering him for the rest of the day with reports of water mismeasurements."
The water-steward licked his lips. "They won't," he said briefly. And
then, unexpectedly, "Thank you for taking this to Farnam rather than to
Ahiga."
Pickens nodded and walked past him as the hound wandered away. Tyrrell,
trying hard to keep up with him, asked, "What was he meaning?"
"Reporting him to Ahiga would have meant I was accusing him of stealing
the water," Pickens explained, slowing his pace to match Tyrrell's. "The
penalty for stealing water is a high one."
"And that was a light penalty?" Tyrrell said, raising his eyebrows.
"Oh, aye. As light as a man could expect. If he was one of the lads,
mind, he'd get a swat or three on the backside, 'less it was for a very
serious thing, like attacking a man." Pickens gave him a smile. "We lads
have it better than you men, when it comes to punishments. . . . Well,
that's over with anyhow. Let's go and get your bandage washed. Farnam gave
tale I could stay this, as a reward." He held up the bladder.
Tyrrell eyed him for a moment before saying, "Do you do that sort of
thing sacks?"
"Turn stoolie so that I can be rewarded with supplies?" Pickens responded
cheerfully. "Nay, almost never – you get a name for being a stool pigeon
here, and folks are like to tear you into such tiny pieces that even a
rat wouldn't crave to munch you. But carelessness by a water-steward is
a serious thing that must be reported anyhow. So, two targets with one
arrow. Here we are."
Tyrrell was left musing on two thoughts as they approached a couple
of lads scrubbing the inside of an iron pot. One was that it was odd to
be in a place where a stool pigeon was a prisoner who gave information
to a higher-ranked prisoner. The other was that, if anyone here learned
that Compassion's Keeper had assigned Tyrrell the task of being a stool
pigeon in the traditional sense – reporting the prisoners' secrets to the
Keeper – his life was not likely to last long.
And really, he thought, there was nothing to report. He had seen no
signs so far that, as Keeper thought, the prisoners were gleefully killing
each other in such quantities that their absence would be noticeable. Quite
the opposite; this was the most orderly prison he had ever seen, and the
prisoners here were the most fair-minded folk he had ever met. Leaving
aside the matter of the missing overcoats – which might very well be resolved
if the heater was fixed before the next winter – it appeared to him that
he had a much better chance of surviving here than he had possessed in
some of the holding prisons he had been unfortunate enough to dwell in.
None of this fit with Compassion's reputation as the worst prison in
Mip. It was all very puzzling.
A few minutes later, Pickens used a pair of home-made tongs – constructed,
for once, out of metal rather than bone – to carefully lift the linen bandaging
material out of the water in which he had boiled it. "Germs all scared
away, I hope," he said. "Now, let it just cool a minute in this relatively
germ-free air – at least we aren't near the privies – and the bandage will
be up for use."
The air was in fact far less stifling than any air that Tyrrell had
breathed at Mercy; he supposed that must be due to the rooflessness of
the prison, as well as the size of the courtyard surrounding it. "Pickens,"
he said, "how did this prison lose its roof? Was it made of wood also?"
"Oh, we've had no roof since the renovation," Pickens replied. "The
renovators, they tore off the roof, and they tore out the second and third
storeys where the guards used to live. But they left us a nice, handy staircase
to the top of the prison, just in case we were wanting to explore it."
"Fried meat, that's the best kind." One of the youthful lads tending
the iron pot spoke in the Riverbend dialect. His unexpected remark caused
both him and his friend to burst into laughter.
Pickens screwed up his face in disgust. "If you have mind such things
are for making mock, you can go and serve Walker."
This sobered the lads quickly. Tyrrell, glancing up again at the walls
of the prison, said, "You can't get past the barbed wire there?"
"Oh, the barbed wire is no problem. Just clip it, and you're through."
Pickens waved the cloth in the air for a moment. "First prisoner who tried
that – it was one of Valdis's lads, following his man's orders – died screaming.
'Tis electric wire, hot enough to fry anyone who touches it. Some of the
other prisoners craved to figure a way to cut the wire and scramble down
the three-storey wall, but Valdis gave tale the guards had no doubt laid
more electric traps at the bottom of the prison walls. He had the staircase
drawn down so that no folk would try to escape that way."
"What about digging under the floor?" Tyrrell asked. His interest was
more than idle; he and Merrick had spent long hours trying to figure out
a way to escape from Mercy, though their own motive had not been to escape
recapture but somehow to alert the world to the atrocities taking place
within the prison.
"Hold back." Pickens carefully wrapped the bandage around Tyrrell's
forearm, tying the ends neatly, as though he had been trained as a Boy
Seeker. "There you go; that should yield your gash a chance to heal. Come
over to the edge of the platform now."
Tyrrell followed Pickens to the curved edge of the semi-circular platform,
jumped down when his companion did, and watched as Pickens carefully looked
over the floor. The lad finally found a flagstone that suited him, knelt
down, and began prying it up.
A few of the passing prisoners glanced his way, but nobody seemed to
take any special notice of an activity that, if it had occurred in Mercy,
would have had every guard in the place rushing forward to capture the
escaping prisoner. The guards here were nowhere in sight. The gate to the
courtyard where they stood watch was far away, at the southwestern end
of the prison, well out of sight of the platform. At best, the guards might
have been able to see the true men's cells at this end of the prison, but
the gate was really too far away to allow for that. All that the guards
could see were the prisoners who stood closest to the gate, in the unclaimed
lads' area.
Tyrrell, who had spent twenty years doing everything from defecation
to whacking his whammer in the full view of Mercy's guards, was feeling
extreme pleasure at being out of sight of Compassion's guards. True, everything
he did here would be witnessed by other prisoners – including Ahiga's watch-hounds
– but that was a very different thing from being watched by a guard who
might decide that Tyrrell needed "help" in his whacking session.
Pickens pulled the flagstone back with a grunt. Tyrrell reached forward
to help him lay the heavy stone back on the floor. Then they both peered
into the hole.
The light from the dome had brightened; glancing up, Tyrrell could see
a rainbow forming from the sunlight shining through the soft rain. What
lay in the hole was clear in the light, for the hole went down no more
than half a foot before it hit a barrier. Crammed into that space was a
maze of metal tubes. Tyrrell began to reach out to touch one, and then
hesitated, remembering Pickens's earlier tale of the electric wire.
"They're safe to touch," Pickens assured him, reaching out to stroke
the metal. "They're part of the heating system – red hot when the heating
is working, but cold now. As for the floor beneath it—" He reached down
and rapped his knuckles on it. "Solid rock. That's the foundation on which
Compassion is built. With the proper tools we might be able to cut our
way past the heating tubes and blast through the rock, but even Valdis,
clever as he is, hasn't yet found a way to do that. The gods know that
enough prisoners have tried to figure a way, over the years." He carefully
laid the flagstone back in its place. "Just one more task now – getting
you assigned your meal rations – and then we'll be through here."
The meal rations, it turned out, were assigned by Farnam's Second Lad,
Magnus, who called over two of his own lads to inspect and memorize Tyrrell's
face. Feeling uncomfortable under the scrutiny, Tyrrell asked, "Do you
have the faces of every prisoner memorized?"
"Every greater man and little man and claimed lad," responded the meal-rationer,
waving his lads away as he carefully noted Tyrrell's name on a piece of
blank newspaper with a bit of charcoal. "Anyone we don't recognize must
be an unclaimed lad. You should put on your necklet," he added. "My lads
don't take note of such things – it would be easy enough for a claimed
lad to loan his wristlet to an unclaimed lad so that the unclaimed lad
could steal rations that didn't belong to him – but sometimes the water-steward
will stop prisoners from collecting water if they're not properly marked."
Tyrrell looked down at the white necklet he was still holding in his
hand. It appeared to be made of old undergarments that had been cut into
a long strip, and then twisted to form a thick string. The string was not
yet knotted to form a circle.
"Is there a special way to do this?" he asked Pickens, remembering his
days of initiation with his street tribe.
"You, you're an unclaimed man, so it's for you to decide," Pickens responded,
switching back to the Riverbend dialect and pulling him aside from the
meal-rationer, who had returned to his work of counting a group of sacks.
"You can put it on yourself, if you crave. Some unclaimed men ask a true
man to don them; others ask a mate or their sponsor."
"Sponsor?" said Tyrrell.
"For your initiation ceremony. You've been accepted as a man, but you
have to be initiated yet into the tribe. That will fall . . . Oh, the next
time we have a banquet. Franklin," he said turning to a lad of about sixty
who was carefully scrubbing a metal skillet, "when do we hold our next
banquet?"
"You making me an offer?" the lad replied as Tyrrell winced; he had
caught the sexual pun at the same moment the lad did.
"Don't be coarse. When will the tribe be holding its next banquet?"
"Walker delivered Wendell's clothes to the tailors today." The lad did
not look up as he replied. "Maybe tomorrow or the next day? You'd have
to ask Walker."
There was a long silence, during which Tyrrell glanced to the space
beyond the east end of the platform. Milling around in that space were
a number of prisoners, mostly older prisoners, who wore the black necklet
marking them as Walker's claimed men and lads. Every now and then Tyrrell
caught a glimpse of Walker himself – an old man with a grim expression
and a stiff carriage – but the true man never seemed to emerge from the
midst of his tight band of followers.
"Tyrrell, I need to give tale to Walker," murmured Pickens. "Nay, abide
here," he added, motioning Tyrrell back with his hand. "Walker, he isn't
liking any folk to enter his territory without necessity."
Tyrrell watched as Pickens walked the remaining yards to Walker's "territory."
The lad was challenged at the edge of that area, not by a watch-hound,
but by one of Walker's men. The challenge took far longer than it had when
Pickens had approached the heavily guarded platform where the tribe's supplies
were kept, but in the end he was allowed through. He disappeared into the
midst of Walker's men and lads.
Tyrrell turned his attention back to the rest of the prison. Nearly
everyone on the platform seemed to be wearing a green wristlet. So Farnam's
men and lads were here, Walker's men and lads were in the northeast corner
of the prison, and Ahiga's men and lads were scattered about, keeping patrol
over the prisoners. That left the fourth true man, Valdis, whom Tyrrell
hadn't seen since his own challenge at the prison gates. He supposed the
true man must be in his sleeping cell, continuing to drill the lad who
had seemed so unhappy to share his bed. Tyrrell grimaced.
Pickens returned several minutes later. "Regrets," he said. "I craved
to have a chance to say goodbye to Wendell. He's close on dying now."
"A mate of yours?" Tyrrell said quietly.
Pickens shook his head. "One of Walker's lads – just arrived a fortnight
ago. He tried to claim manhood, made the mistake of challenging Valdis,
and ended up as an unclaimed lad with a broken leg. Ngugi splinted the
leg as best he could – despite all his chatter of ranks, he mends unclaimed
lads when the injury is serious – but there was damage inside he couldn't
repair. Gangrene set in."
Tyrrell winced. "No chance of getting Healer FitzGerald to look at him?
That's what she's hired for, supposed-like."
Pickens shook his head as he guided Tyrrell away from the platform.
"There've been— Oh, it may be a dozen cases where the guards let an ill
prisoner be yielded over to FitzGerald. They were all lads of the true
men; the true men have a certain influence with the guards. It may be a
greater man would have a chance in persuading the guards to open the gates.
But an unclaimed lad . . . Nay, unclaimed lads are released temporary-like
from this prison for just one reason, and a deadly wound isn't that reason."
"But he's Walker's lad now, you gave tale. Couldn't Walker intervene
for him?"
Pickens glanced over at Tyrrell, and then away. "Walker is knowing only
one way to help a dying lad. You'll understand better when you are getting
to know him. —Come now, let's go and find Hosobuchi. He'll be wondering
why I've been gone for so long, and you'll crave to be in the little men's
area when meal delivery starts."
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Meal delivery, as it happened, did not occur until noon.
Long before then, the thunderclouds had scattered, the rain had left,
and the prisoners were gazing uneasily up at the dome, which showed only
blue sky. Pickens said nothing about this, but when he handed Tyrrell the
bladder with its remaining water, he advised, "Guard this well, and drink
from it sparsely. Days may pass before water delivery comes again."
Tyrrell took the water from him. "What about at meal-time? Do we get
water then?"
Pickens shook his head. "The food will offset our thirst a bit – but
the other side of it is that the food is often packed in salty liquids.
So don't let anyone touch your water container. . . . I must go; Hosobuchi
is beckoning me."
He slipped away then, before Tyrrell could ask him whether it would
be safest to put on his necklet now. He looked at the white band in his
hands, shrugged, and looped it round his belt for safe-keeping.
As it happened, he did not have to fight to protect his water. No prisoners
came near him, and when he attempted to start conversations with a few,
they were so vague in their responses, barely looking at him, that he removed
himself from their presence. He could guess why most of the other prisoners
were keeping their distance from him. He had passed his trial but had not
yet undergone his initiation; that apparently gave him a half-in, half-out
status in the tribe. He would be fed and watered, but nothing more, until
he was initiated – whatever form that initiation might take.
He would have liked to have remained in the company of Pickens, who
had been given permission by his man to show the newcomer the tribal ways,
but Pickens had apparently returned to the greater men's area, and Tyrrell
was reluctant to pass into that area on his own. Instead, he wandered around
the little men's area, which was bare of the tents and huts that littered
the greater men's area. Placed between the high steps leading to the two
areas that bordered it, the little men's area looked like the bed of a
river that had dried up.
It had considerably fewer features than a dry bed. He passed occasional
clusters of little men talking to one another, and every now and then a
little man who was deep in conversation with an unclaimed lad, but otherwise,
most of the daytime activities at this prison appeared to take place on
or around the platform at the far end of the prison.
The unclaimed lads' area was still swarming with prisoners, though,
and when he stepped over the border into that area, he discovered that
he was considerably less invisible there.
The first time he brushed against an unclaimed lad, whom he vaguely
remembered seeing watch his trial, the lad turned, took note of him, and
jumped back about a yard. The lads he had been talking to laughed at his
reaction, but somewhat nervously, eyeing Tyrrell, and when Tyrrell had
passed, he looked back and saw that they were watching him and whispering
to each other.
Word spread fast after that, for every lad he met seemed to know who
he was, even though he was not yet wearing his necklet. All of them withdrew
from
his path as he came near them, some turning thin-lipped at the sight of
him.
He tried smiling at a few of them, and for a while this only seemed
to make matters worse; one lad actually fled when Tyrrell turned his smile
on the lad. Gradually, though, as he continued to walk through the area
without trying to approach any of the lads, a few of them began to smile
back, somewhat tentatively. Others scrutinized him carefully, as though
assessing him.
He could guess why. "When you claim a lad," Hosobuchi had said. Not
"if" – when. All of these lads must assume that he, a little man, was here
to check out the stock – to see whether there was a lad here worth claiming.
Actually, his goal was not the lads but the gate. He finally reached
there; ignoring the lads who were still peering at him curiously, he leaned
against the bars.
In addition to the vertical bars, there were horizontal ones, running
the full length of the gate. He rested his chin upon one of these, examining
the scene before him. It had not changed much since he had entered the
prison earlier that morning. Tom Keeper and his assistant guard, Medinger,
were nowhere in sight, but the two riflemen, Starke and Landry, had made
their way down from the gunners' posts and were chatting casually with
the other guards in the area sheltered by the balcony. The guards were
all sitting, and they seemed to have nothing to do except talk, now that
Keeper had put an end to their illicit card game. Indeed, none of the guards
bothered to look in the direction of the prisoners they were supposed to
be guarding.
Which was a shame, in a way, because the object of their conversation
was standing there, listening to them.
"They should have killed him," said Landry, who was sharpening his dagger-blade
with a whetstone. "The magisterial seats have just this month made the
death penalty legal again. They should have shot him and had done with
him."
"Why bother?" rejoined Pugh, the head of the day watch. "He's as good
as dead here."
"Symbolically or literally?" asked another guard.
"Oh, symbolically, of course. He passed his trial; he has as much a
chance as any man there of living to the end of his natural life."
"How good a chance is that, do you suppose?" Niesely asked as he flipped
a coin up and down in his hand, as though he were a gambler at a hound-race.
"Keeper keeps hinting that the prisoners are dying like mayflies in there."
Landry snorted. "Tom Keeper is soft where prisoners are concerned. He
always was."
"He might be right, though." Niesely kicked something with his foot,
which Tyrrell recognized after a moment as the fragment of the human skull
that young Davidson had thrown at Keeper. "Do you think we ought to show
him this?"
"He was right there when the prisoners tossed it out. He must have seen
it. I suppose we should give it over to FitzGerald so that she can put
it in the crematorium." Pugh did not move as he spoke.
"If the prisoners are killing each other daily, all the better," said
Landry, yawning. "That's why Keeper's father put them together in one cell
and withdrew the guards, remember? It's a just punishment. The prisoners
murdered innocent folks, so they're put in a place where they can murder
each other."
"There are rapists in there as well," Starke pointed out, fingering
an unlit cigarette.
"So? They can rape each other before they murder. Not that we have to
give them any instructions in that."
"No, I don't imagine that you do." Starke reached over and struck a
match against the sole of his boot.
There was a small silence before Landry asked, "And what do you call
what you do with your lads?"
Starke lit his cigarette and blew out a long stream of smoke before
saying, "Purchase of services, I suppose. I pay them well for their services,
and I treat them well."
"And they have as much choice about serving you as a Vovimian whore
does." Landry snorted. "I don't see any difference between what you do
and what we do."
"Perhaps the difference," said Medinger, coming down the left-hand stairs
from the balcony, "is not between prostitution and rape, but between willingness
and unwillingness. Starke is right – there's no moral difference between
what you do to your lads and what the rapists in there did to their crime
victims."
This remark was greeted by hoots of laughter. "Medinger," said Niesely,
wiping away tears, "you're like one of those celibate prophets, predicting
doom and gloom upon any human being that would dare to feel lust for another
human being."
"You're not exactly in a position to give lectures on this topic," Pugh
agreed. "Besides, we're talking about convicts, not innocent victims. Their
right to freedom was stripped from them at the time they were judged guilty
of their crimes. We at least grant them the right to decide who in their
midst deserves further punishment."
Medinger frowned as he reached the bottom of the steps. "Is that how
you see yourself, Pugh? As a torturer carrying out judicial punishment?"
"You're talking nonsense, Medinger." Niesely shook his head. "A little
tickle-and-poke isn't torture. Now, what those prisoners have done to us
. . ."
"Yes," said Starke abruptly. "Let's keep matters straight in our heads.
If we're soft on the prisoners, the way Tom Keeper wants us to be, all
we'll get is another riot. Believe you me, we do not want another riot."
And with that, he put down his cigarette, removed the clasp on his collar,
and pulled his shirt down far enough that everyone present could see the
ugly scar that ran between his neck and shoulder.
There was another silence before Niesely said, "It's a bloody miracle
you survived that blow with only a broken collarbone."
"It's a bloody miracle I survived the riot at all." Starke re-clasped
his collar and reached over to pick up his cigarette. "So let's have respect
for the six dozen guards who didn't survive, please. We can at least learn
from the hard lesson they were taught."
"The riot couldn't have been that bad," one of the guards protested.
"A dozen guards survived."
"All of them were away from the prison at the time," Starke replied.
"Except for you," Medinger corrected him. "Out of curiosity, where was
Mr. Keeper and his father when the riot happened?"
"At Mercy Prison." Starke shrugged. "Tom was transferred to guard duty
there for a couple of months; his father went with him to ensure that the
transfer was smooth. By the time his father got back to Compassion, the
guards were dead and the remaining prisoners were locked down."
"And stayed locked down, till Tom's father was sure it was safe to send
in his remaining guards," Pugh added. "You newer men have no idea what
it was like to go in there after the prison doors were unlocked. The murdered
guards' corpses were stinking to high heaven by then."
"What about the prisoners' corpses?" Medinger asked quietly.
"The survivors burned them; we found the bones afterwards. The prisoners
could have done the same for the guards' bodies, but when did prisoners
ever show respect for a guard?" Pugh stood up abruptly. "I suppose we'd
better feed this lot, or Keeper will be putting demerits on all our records.
Starke, you write up the records of what we bring out; then you and Landry
can take your positions at the guns. The rest of you, help me to fetch
the barrels and crates."
"We sweat, while the prisoners who killed our predecessors lounge at
their leisure," grumbled Niesely as he stood up. "That's justice for you."
"Nearly all of those prisoners died during or after the riot," Medinger
protested, but nobody paid attention to his words as they stood up.
Only Landry, stretching his arms wide, said, "And gods help us, now
we're burdened with a prisoner who is likely to start another riot. What
was Mercy's Keeper thinking, sending him to us?"
"More's the question, what was Compassion's Keeper thinking, accepting
him into this prison?" Starke shrugged as he stubbed out his cigarette.
"Well, Tom has always had a mind of his own. I suppose he considers this
transfer to be one of his many experiments in transformation and rebirth."
"When he'll have no contact with Tyrrell hereafter? Don't talk nonsense."
"He couldn't know that till Tyrrell had passed his trial. . . ."
The rest of the argument could not be heard, for all of the guards had
moved away from their post, other than one guard who was sitting on the
ground with his legs stretched out and his head bowed with sleep.
o—o—o
A dozen of Farnam's men stood poised, like runners at the starting blocks
of the Tri-National Race. Their backs were guarded by Ahiga's watch-hounds,
who had pushed the unclaimed lads away from the area nearest the gate.
The runners were facing the gate; all the remaining day watch-hounds were
guarding the west wall, where a cluster of Farnam's men and lads were setting
up crude tables: broad pieces of leather stitched together were stretched
taut between chest-high barrels. Farnam walked amidst them, quietly issuing
orders as he went.
Standing on the northern border of the little men's area, Tyrrell looked
behind himself. Everyone he could see in the little men's area was a little
man, except for the prisoner standing next to him. "Shouldn't you be in
the greater men's area, with Hosobuchi?" he asked Pickens.
Pickens shook his head; he had his eye on the runners. "My man told
me to abide with you, in case there are any problems with you being yielded
your rations on the first day. Shuji will draw the rations for Hosobuchi
and me and himself."
"One representative per household?" Tyrrell joked.
"Something like that. The queues get too crowded if every folk who's
entitled to a meal comes up to draw his own."
Tyrrell frowned. "And who's entitled to a meal?"
"At the moment, all of the prisoners. We've only had one prisoner ousted
recently, and he—"
Pickens's voice was cut off by the scream of the gate alarm. Resisting
the impulse to cover his ears, Tyrrell turned just in time to see the runners
take off, moving as swiftly as though they were pursued by prey. Their
goal, quite clearly, was the barrels and crates that had been placed immediately
in front of the gate by the guards.
"They only have two minutes to draw them inside," Pickens shouted in
his ear. "After that, the gate closes, and any folk left outside is shot."
"Two minutes?" cried Tyrrell, aghast. "There are two dozen crates and
barrels out there!"
Two minutes later, the gate slid soundlessly closed. In the gunners'
post, Starke and Landry, who had kept their machine rifles trained on the
runners while the gate was open, relaxed in their seats. The runners, who
had wrestled and rolled and tossed and heaved every one of the barrels
and crates inside the prison during the allotted time, collapsed against
the gate bars or on the floor. Ahiga, who was standing with the watch-hounds,
barked something to his hounds, who parted to let through a couple of lads,
each bearing a water bladder. The lads went from prisoner to prisoner,
giving each runner a mouthful of water. The runners, pulling themselves
together, disappeared into the crowd.
The rest of Farnam's food deliverers had already started to come forward
from the west wall; the barrels and crates were being opened, with not
a little difficulty, since Farnam's men and lads possessed no hammers or
pliers with which to remove the nails. But with the aid of some of the
home-made knives and a few pocketknives that must have been smuggled in
by canny prisoners, the men and lads managed to pry open the lids. They
carried the contents over to the waiting tables and began spreading them
out.
Tyrrell had expected to see bags of potatoes and beans and flour and
maize. The diet in Mip's prisons was monotonously the same, as far as he
could tell from his time at Mercy and various holding prisons. Instead,
what emerged from the crates were tins. Hundreds of quart-sized food tins,
as though Compassion Life Prison had been transformed into a grocer's.
Pickens shrugged when Tyrrell asked. "Costs less for the magisterial
seats," he said. "The food is packed closer together like, so the shipping
costs are lower. Everything comes from the city, so it's got to be drawn
out by train or canal-boat."
"That's quite a ways to ship food," Tyrrell said. "I'm figuring that
the tins also stay back spoilage."
The little man standing nearest to Tyrrell burst suddenly into laughter.
As Tyrrell looked uneasily his way, Pickens grinned. In the King's tongue,
the shared dialect spoken by nearly all Vovimians, he said to the little
man, "Don't laugh – you were once new and naive too."
"Not that naive," said the little man, wiping away tears of laughter
as he looked at Tyrrell. "Haven't you heard of the fine services provided
by the Sweet-tooth Company?"
Tyrrell swore under his breath briefly. "Surely the magisterial seats
wouldn't use that company for their food source. They're in the midst of
trying to get the company shut down – even within the confines of Mercy,
we heard about that."
"Compassion's Keeper decides which food company to use," Pickens replied.
"And he doesn't buy it directly from those vultures, of course; he buys
it from the wholesalers, whose names aren't likely to catch the interest
of the magisterial seats when he sends in his reports."
Tyrrell felt a growing sickness in his stomach that had nothing to do
with his anticipation of the upcoming meal. "Tom Keeper chose that company?"
"His father did. Keeper hasn't been in any rush to change wholesalers,
though."
"Let's be fair to the man," inserted the little man. "He's so new to
his job that he may not even have thought to check the food situation yet."
"Oh, for love of the gods, Quigley," Pickens said mildly as Farnam's
men began to carefully open the tins with their knives, now that the tables
were stacked to the brim with tins bearing no label. "Who hasn't heard
of the Sweet-tooth Scandal? Commoner children dropping dead from food poisoning
– it was in all the newsies."
Quigley shrugged. "Maybe he doesn't read the newspapers. He's led a
fairly insulated life, you know – has lived in this prison since age twelve,
when his father became Keeper. Back when he had temporary control of the
prisoners – in 385 and 386, while his father was busy supervising our prison's
renovation – Tom Keeper sometimes said things that made me think he was
as naive to evil practices in a prison as a new man. —No offense." He flashed
a smile at Tyrrell.
"None taken," replied Tyrrell. "But that's just a mask he wears, you
know. My cell-mate back at Mercy, who had him as a guard – he said he thought
that Thomas was an innocent, right up till the moment that he realized
how Thomas had subtly guided him into transformation and rebirth."
"'Thomas'?" Quigley raised his eyebrows. "You call our Keeper by his
first name? His full first name, not just his use-nick?"
Tyrrell felt a stab of fear that was not allayed by the way that Pickens
furrowed his brow. He said quickly, "My cell-mate did. Merrick has always
been insubordinate."
"Merrick?" said Quigley. And then, looking at Pickens, "He's Tyrrell?"
"The new man, as I said," Pickens replied softly.
"Ah." Quigley's eyes suddenly went vague. "Got to go – I see a mate
of mine over there." He moved into the crowd.
Tyrrell looked over at Pickens. Switching back to the Riverbend dialect,
he said, "I'm figuring that, after my initiation, I will halt at being
a leper?"
Pickens laughed as he clapped Tyrrell on the back. "Aye, you'll be a
full member then. Till then, you can expect a bit of shyness from the tribe's
members. Your repute has come 'fore you, you know."
Tyrrell frowned, wondering what dark tales had been circulating about
him; then he returned his attention to the tables. The opening of the tins
seemed to be an enormous job, and the lads who were doing the opening appeared
to be in no great hurry about it. They examined the tins in a leisurely
manner, inspected the contents for a minute or so, chatted amongst themselves
. . .
"They'd get the sack from any manufactory," Tyrrell muttered.
"What?" said Pickens. "Oh, you mean the time they're drawing out. Nay,
that's part of the process – they're inspecting the food. Would you be
craving to go near and see?"
Tyrrell nodded, and Pickens began worming their way past a queue that
was forming of the little men. Several of the little men growled complaints,
but they gave way when they saw who Tyrrell was accompanied by.
The watch-hounds holding the queue back, though, were not as easily
swayed, and for the first time, Pickens's status as Hosobuchi's lad got
him nowhere. "Not without a true man's permission," said one of the hounds.
"Sorry, Pickens, but that's standing orders from Ahiga."
Pickens nodded, apparently compliant, and then shouted, "Farnam! May
I speak with you, sir?"
Farnam was in the midst of talking to his lad Davidson, who was sitting
cross-legged on an upended crate, fussing with something in his lap. The
true man's head went up at once; he glanced at Pickens, said something
to Davidson, and then walked over to where Pickens and Tyrrell stood.
"Ah," he said to Tyrrell, when Pickens had explained. "You have an interest
in food inspections, do you? Did you work in the industry, before?"
Tyrrell shook his head. "I was – er – alternatively employed."
"Indeed." Farnam looked him up and down. "Hired?"
"No." Tyrrell was beginning to feel uncomfortable; he was not used to
having a fellow prisoner quiz him about his past. "On my own. House thefts
– before that, purse-snatching for my tribe."
Farnam tilted his head. "Have a mind for figures, do you?"
"Just enough to count the cash. I never learned beyond simple arithmetic."
Farnam nodded. "Well, I imagine that your time at Mercy allowed you
to acquire organizational skills. We might be able to make use of that.
—Yes, Samuels, what is it?"
"The lads are reporting that half the tins they open contain fish, sir."
"Blood—" Farnam cut off the oath before it was through. "All right,
let's go see how bad the situation is. —You can let them through," he added
to the watch-hounds.
Tyrrell waited until they were beyond the hounds before he asked, in
an undertone, "What in Hell's name was that all about?"
"He was checking your skills to see whether you'd be of any use to him,"
Pickens replied. He was turning them north, walking in the direction of
the greater men's area. "See now, you'll have to work for one of the true
men here – if you don't work, you don't eat. Since you're unclaimed, you
can go and choose who you crave to work for, and you can change your choice
whenever you crave. Farnam is a good man to work for; I chose him sacks
of times when I was an unclaimed man."
"But you prefer Ahiga," Tyrrell suggested.
Pickens shrugged. "Hosobuchi is claimed by Ahiga, so that's who we work
for. But if I had a choice . . . Aye, I think I'd work for Ahiga anyhow.
He has a repute for being fierce with discipline – that's why he's in charge
of prison discipline – but he's good at challenging men and lads up to
the limits of their skills."
"What about Valdis?" Tyrrell asked as they walked slowly toward the
tables.
Pickens shrugged again. "Depends on what work you're looking for. If
you crave to be a wood-worker, or if you're liking to craft weapons, he's
the one to turn to. Don't get any notions that you'll be able to use the
weapons for always, though; he guards them jealous-like. Ahiga's hounds
spend sacks more time with their spears than Valdis's men and lads do with
his weapons."
Tyrrell grunted. Blades reminded him of his past murders, so the idea
of working to create more deadly instruments did not appeal to him. "What
about Walker? Is he a good man to work for?"
"Walker. . . ." Pickens's gaze wandered away. "Again, it depends on
what work you crave to do. See now, let's be going over to this table;
the debates there seem to be jumping."
Two lads, hunched over a pile of tins that lay on a leather-covered
barrel, were heatedly engaged in a discussion over a particular tin.
"It's concave, I tell you," said one.
"Bloody idiot," returned the other one scornfully. "Of course it's concave
if you hold it up to the light at an angle like that. It's perfectly shaped."
"It's concave. It should go in the P pile."
His opponent picked up the open tin, sniffed it, and screwed up his
nose in disgust. "Copper. It goes in the A pile."
"P. The peas may have been colored through copper, but they're
spoiled as well—"
"Sweet blood, lad, do you want every unclaimed lad here to die of starvation?"
"Better that, than to have them die of cramps in their bellies," said
the first speaker doggedly.
"Well, we'll ask Farnam."
"Farnam doesn't like to be bothered with such things."
"We'll ask our man, then. In the name of the High Master of hell, why
do you squabble over every little—?" He stopped abruptly as he saw the
prisoner standing next to him. "Yes, sir?"
"Pickens," Hosobuchi's lad corrected softly.
The sorter gave him half a smile. "Pickens. Yes. Give me another eight
years, and I'll remember your current rank. —Look, take this tin over to
our man and ask him whether he wants the taster to check it," he said to
the other sorter.
"He'll say yes; he always says yes," the lad grumbled, but he did as
he was told.
His work partner heaved a sigh. "Sometimes I wish I was a Second Lad
rather than First. How do you wrestle Shuji into doing what you want, Pickens?"
Pickens shrugged as he rested his leg on a crate, draping his arm over
his thigh. "The case has never come up. I don't give orders to Shuji, and
even if I did, there wouldn't be any arguments from him."
"First Lad?" said Tyrrell to Pickens. "You've used that term several
times."
"It means I'm the first lad Hosobuchi claimed," Pickens explained. "Shuji
is Second Lad, the second he claimed. Some men – such as the true men,
who claim lots of prisoners – rank their first two lads, so that the First
and Second Lads have more power than the others."
"It just makes for more quarrelling, that's all I say," said the sorter,
shaking his head as he picked up another tin. "Look at the way Farnam picked
an unclaimed lad to be his new First Lad, after his previous First Lad
died. So now Davidson is the highest-ranked lad in Farnam's division, while
Magnus – who has served Farnam for five years – is stuck as Second Lad."
"Not to disparage your man's talents, but Magnus doesn't have a head
for numbers, the way Davidson does." As he spoke, Pickens reached forward
to neaten a stack of tins. "Anyway, Magnus doesn't seem upset."
"No, my man has a soft heart – otherwise he wouldn't have claimed four
lads. He certainly wouldn't have claimed me." The sorter grinned. "What
does Hosobuchi need, Pickens? Or are you here for yourself?"
"This man is interested in your testing." Pickens waved his hand toward
Tyrrell.
The sorter glanced at his belt, where the necklet was hanging, and then
up at his undervest, before settling his gaze on Tyrrell's face. "My apologies,
sir; I didn't notice what you were, or I wouldn't have kept you waiting.
How can I help you?"
"How do you test the tins?" Tyrrell asked, experiencing the same uneasiness
he had undergone when Pickens addressed him as sir. He felt as though he
were impersonating an army officer.
"Oh, it's easy, sir." The sorter lifted a tin toward the light. "First
thing I do, before I open the tin, is see whether it's shaped concave or
has any pinprick-sized holes in it. If it does, chances are good that it
has gas in it from spoiled food. If the tin looks undamaged, I open it
and listen for hissing gas escaping." He did this, leaning down so that
his ear was close to the tin when he cut into it. "No gas here. So then
I examine the contents. . . ." With his razor-sharp knife, he swiftly cut
the tin open, bent back the lid, and peered into the tin. "Salmon, nice
and pink. Looks like it's just been fetched from the ocean."
"So the contents are safe?"
"No, they're tainted. Fish this pink must have been colored, and the
packers use color to disguise when something's wrong with the food. Now
comes the tricky bit: I have to figure out whether the food is spoiled,
or merely adulterated with some unappetizing substance, like borax." He
sniffed the tin and screwed up his nose. "Spoiled. Fish nearly always is.
See?" He held the tin up.
Tyrrell tentatively sniffed the contents. "It just smells like fish
to me."
"Farnam won't put you to work as a sorter, then," inserted Pickens.
"You have a nose like a dog," he told the sorter.
The sorter grinned. "We all do. They should call us Farnam's watch-hounds."
He took the tin back from Tyrrell, closed the lid, and carefully incised
the letter P onto its lid with his knife. "P means poisoned," he
explained to Tyrrell. "Those get thrown out with the waste, because otherwise
we'd chance having a dozen people die from bellyaches each day, like we
did in the old days. A means Adulterated – those are given to the
unclaimed lads. It's poor fare, not much nutrition in it, but it won't
kill them . . . not right away, at any rate. G means Good – the
men and their lads get those tins."
Tyrrell turned his head toward the unclaimed lads' area, where the majority
of prisoners were standing. "Not much good food comes into this prison,
then."
"Precious little," said the sorter. "And the difference between good
food and bad can be hard to detect. We do our best to catch the deadly
ones, but if we declare too many tins as poisoned, the unclaimed lads will
die of starvation, because they won't have enough to eat."
"Couldn't the men give the unclaimed lads part of their share?" Tyrrell
asked.
Looking puzzled, the lad turned his attention to Pickens. "He's new?"
"Just arrived," Pickens replied.
"Ah." The lad's eyes took on that by-now-familiar expression of vagueness.
"Well, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do. . . ."
"Of course," said Pickens, and he pulled Tyrrell away from the table.
They walked south, back into the little men's area, where Magnus's other
two lads were frowning over their pile of tins. More lads darted to and
fro, delivering piles of tins between the various tables, while Farnam's
claimed men walked among them, scrutinizing the proceedings. Magnus, seeing
Pickens, gave him a friendly wave of the hand.
Pickens waved back, and then slipped something into Tyrrell's hand.
"Here. A souvenir from this part of the tour."
Tyrrell glanced down at the gift. It was a tin, its lid returned to
the closed position and carefully marked with the letter G. He looked over
at Pickens, who was blithely whistling off-tune as they passed a group
of lads who were on their knees, pulling sacks out of a crate.
"Gods above and below," said Tyrrell. "I would have snagged you with
joy as my work partner in the old days."
Pickens laughed, and then grabbed the tin from Tyrrell and swiftly tossed
it into the hand of Magnus's Second Lad, who was passing them. "Here you
go," he said to the Second Lad, who stared at the tin with consternation.
"This dropped off your table."
"Dropped." The lad frowned at Pickens. "Dropped, you say. Pickens, I
thought you were a reformed lad."
Pickens merely laughed again. "Farnam shouldn't let anyone past the
watch-hounds during meal-time; I've told him that before. Maybe he'll listen
to me this time."
The lad shook his head. "I'll deliver him the message – but don't be
surprised if he asks Hosobuchi to batter your backside red."
"Better a battering, than that half the surplus should go missing. I'm
not the only trained burglar here, you know." Pickens pulled Tyrrell past
the lad, who continued to shake his head, as though contemplating the evils
of the world.
Tyrrell asked in an undertone, "Could you in truth steal half the surplus?"
"Oh, enough to have me well filled, for sure." Pickens continued to
sound cheerful. "Mind, I'd break the heart of the chaplain who transformed
me. And Hosobuchi, he'd have the pleasant task of deciding whether to let
me be killed or to have himself executed in my place when I was sentenced
to death for stealing food from the tribe. But . . . well, neither of them
would ever have knowing of it, 'cause I'd be the one doing the stealing."
"And you're never caught," Tyrrell said.
Pickens smiled at him. "I'm figuring I sound arrogant."
"Nay, no more so than any other skilled professional. Then what stays
you back? Loyalty to Hosobuchi?"
"And to the tribe. And knowing of the fact that, if I stole another
prisoner's meal, he'd go hungry, and if I did this enough, some folk would
die. I've no stomach for murder, Tyrrell."
Pickens's smile had disappeared. Tyrrell was silent a while, thinking
of Pickens's dead lad. Finally he said, "If you're feeling that way, why
don't you share your food with an unclaimed lad who might starve otherwise?"
"Numbers."
"Numbers?" Tyrrell turned his head to try to see Pickens's face better,
but they were passing, in that moment, under the shadow of the beam that
crossed the base of the dome – for decorative reason, Tyrrell guessed.
Perhaps the beam was part of the original prison construction.
"Cold, firm numbers. See now, I'll let our numbers lad explain."
Pickens waved his hand toward Davidson, who was still sitting on a crate.
As they came closer, Tyrrell saw that the object he was holding in his
lap was the little green ledger book that Tyrrell had noticed Farnam carrying
upon their first meeting. Davidson was frowning down at the book, his mouth
puckered as he sucked on the tip of a bone, slender as an eyebrow, which
ended in a dark tuft of stiff hair – a paint-brush, Tyrrell realized as
he saw the small glass bottle at Davidson's side, filled with black liquid.
Pickens came to a halt suddenly and held Tyrrell still. For a long moment,
neither of them moved; neither did the youthful lad, staring intently at
the book. Then, moving slowly as though in a reverie, the lad dipped his
brush into the ink without moving his eye from the paper. Running the brush
over the lip of the bottle to free the brush of extra ink, he mouthed a
word soundlessly. Quickly, he brought the brush over to the paper and wrote
something down.
Then he sighed and stretched, as though he were an athlete who had just
run a long-distance race.
He caught sight of Pickens almost immediately and smiled; his smile
faded as he noticed Tyrrell. Tyrrell would just as soon have turned round
then, but Pickens still had hold of him.
The older lad asked, "How's the numbers?"
Davidson gave a quirk of a smile. "There I was, wasting time trying
to figure out a way to smuggle a pocketknife into this prison to protect
myself, when I should have spent the time figuring out how to smuggle in
a slide rule instead."
"You could have declared yourself a man. You have the fighting skills
that would have allowed you to pass your trial."
Davidson shrugged as he laid aside the brush. "My father owned the biggest
accounting house in north-central Vovim, before we moved to Mip. I never
knew a day, growing up, when he was not pained from ulcers. Me, I prefer
following orders to holding other people's lives in my hands."
"So now you're Farnam's First Lad."
Davidson grimaced. "Not my choice of rank, you may be sure. But I am
the only one, besides my man, who has any of the logarithmic tables memorized.
He is having me write them down after lock-down time each evening, in case
anything happens to both of us."
Pickens snorted. "As though the rest of us would know what to do with
a loga-whatever. The magisterial seats should send us more upper-school
graduates."
Davidson shrugged again. He was sucking absentmindedly on his ink-stained
thumb, casting occasional, cautious glances at Tyrrell.
Pickens turned his attention to Tyrrell. "You're lucky you decided not
to kill him during your trial. Walker would undoubtedly have given you
a long and painful death if you'd strangled such a valuable lad."
"Not Farnam?" said Tyrrell.
"Not Farnam. He'd have died of excessive guilt."
Davidson nodded. "He is angry at himself now for letting me risk myself.
I told him: If he keeps me like one of Valdis's lads, as though I were
a caged pet, then I will whither away and die. Even a lad needs to prove
himself, now and then." His gaze flicked over to Tyrrell again, settling
on his right arm. "I hope you are feeling well, sir."
Tyrrell held up his bandaged arm. "This probably came from the second
challenge, not from when I challenged you. I was a bloody idiot to do that.
I don't suppose you'd be willing to teach me that kick you nearly took
my head off with?"
Davidson smiled suddenly, the thumb emerging from his mouth. "It was
just a feint, sir – I would not kick the head of a fellow prisoner, whether
man or lad. But if you would like to meet me on the challenge ground some
day, I will teach you how to do that – as a fake challenge, sir, you understand.
Valdis has asked Farnam to have me give lessons in attack and defense whenever
my man has no need for me."
"The challenge ground?" Tyrrell looked at Pickens.
"That's Valdis's territory. I'll show you later. —So how go the numbers?"
Davidson shrugged. "Well enough for now. Disastrous if the guards keep
sending in as many new prisoners as they have since Tom Keeper took charge.
By the end of next month, we should be close to the amount of prisoners
we had before last winter started."
"Sweet blood," Pickens said softly. "How soon?"
"Summer, maybe – not long after Mercy's Feast. Autumn, if we cut back
on everyone's food allowances now. Farnam has not yet made the decision."
"What do you mean, 'How soon'?" asked Tyrrell.
"How soon we run out of food," Pickens replied. "Davidson, Tyrrell wanted
to know why I don't simply share my food with an unclaimed lad who is hungry.
Explain to him how you figure your numbers."
Davidson gave a mirthless laugh as he turned his eyes toward Tyrrell.
"One unclaimed lad? Sir, all the unclaimed lads in this prison will
be on the edge of starvation by Mercy's Feast, and none of the rest of
us will be feasting, except to mark their deaths. See here—" He pointed
to his ledger book, and Tyrrell came closer to look. As he leaned forward,
he caught a greasy whiff of the ink from the bottle nearby and felt memory
touch him. His parents had also written in the old-fashioned manner of
Vovim, with a brush rather than a pen. Tyrrell had learned his numbers
from his mother that way, as well as the Vovimian alphabet. The alphabet
had been of no use to him in Mip, and he had soon forgotten it, but Mippites
used the same numerals as the Vovimian settlers had originally established.
Without being able to read numbers on coins and bills, Tyrrell never would
have survived as a cut-purse, a skill his street tribe badly needed, since
not every member of his tribe of homeless boys could find a job selling
newspapers or guarding food carts or other such positions suitable for
underage boys.
He brushed his right index finger lightly across the lip of the bottle,
and his finger immediately turned black. He began to raise it to suck the
ink off, but Pickens caught hold of his arm. "Don't," he said.
"It's only grease and soot," Tyrrell protested. "That is, if it's made
the traditional Vovimian way. It won't kill me."
But he was distracted from the argument by Davidson, who pointed to
the ledger book. "See, sir, this is the number of tins we receive each
day. It goes gradually up each year, but not enough. At the moment, we
are being given enough food to provide a full three meals for about fifteen
hundred prisoners – if we had only fifteen hundred prisoners."
"Which we don't," Pickens added.
"Which we do not. Here is the number of prisoners we actually have –
it fluctuates each week, going up and down, depending on how many prisoners
come in and how many die. Mostly, it goes up. This number" – Davidson turned
several pages and pointed to the end of a long line of numbers – "is how
much edible food we have on any given day. That number goes up and
down wildly; Farnam cannot easily predict it, though he tries. All he can
easily keep track of is this: the amount of food we have in storage. Any
time we are given a surplus of food – which is mainly in spring, when the
number of prisoners is low – he puts food aside in storage—"
"Storage?" said Tyrrell, looking at Pickens.
"The armory," said Pickens. "It's in one of the true men's cells. I
doubt even I could steal anything from there. You come near the true men's
cells without permission, and one of Ahiga's watch-hounds will spear your
guts. At night, Valdis and his most trusted lads sleep in the armory."
"Truly, I can testify with blood before my god's claws, there is never
much food in there," said Davidson. "If there was any sizeable amount,
how could it fit into a single cell? We use the surplus on the days when
there is not enough food to feed us all, so we are always using it up.
So there is barely any surplus, and as the year goes on, the number of
prisoners goes up, and we have to cut back on how much food each person
gets—"
"So we all get hungrier and hungrier," concluded Pickens. "And at a
certain point, we get so hungry that lads start dying."
"Lads." Tyrrell looked sharply at him. "Only lads? Not men?"
"Unclaimed lads," Davidson inserted. "When the first death from starvation
is close to occurring – it could be to anyone, but chances are good that
it will happen to an unclaimed lad – then we have to stop accepting members
into the tribe. We cannot afford to feed any more prisoners, so the newest
prisoners are automatically named unclaimed lads without tribal rights.
And if we run short of surplus before then . . ."
"Oustings?" Tyrrell guessed.
Pickens nodded. "By lottery. The lads who pick the black straw are ousted
from the tribe, so that the rest of us can survive."
"Lads again," Tyrrell said. "Unclaimed lads? Why are they the only ones
ousted? And why do they get the worst food?"
Davidson's face suddenly took on a bleak expression. He ducked his head,
and Tyrrell remembered then that he had only recently ceased to be an unclaimed
lad.
Pickens reached over and placed his hand lightly on Davidson's head.
"Suppose that this lad died – this lad whose head for numbers is one of
the things that keeps the rest of us alive. What would happen to the rest
of us?"
"So Farnam claimed him," Tyrrell said slowly.
"Farnam claimed him. That is how a man shares his food: he claims a
lad and gives part of his share of the food to his lad. Any food I receive
is not mine – it is Hosobuchi's, which I am free to share with Shuji if
my fellow lad should have need of it, but with no one else. Every claimed
lad has been judged by his man to have some quality worth saving – some
quality that helps keep the rest of us alive."
"And every man?" Tyrrell felt his throat tighten. "Nobody chose me –
I declared myself a man."
"And proved that you had the ability to fight to keep a claimed lad
safe. Back in the earlier days of Compassion, before the true men put order
to these matters, the guards threw the food into this cell, and a man would
have to fight the other men to get food for himself and for his lad or
lads. The lads who had strong men would survive. The lads who didn't would
die. . . . These days, Farnam's men and lads distribute the food and other
supplies in a fair manner, and Ahiga's hounds keep order – but you will
still need to protect your lad if you are to retain your manhood." Pickens
shrugged. "I'll be frank: there are some men and claimed lads that I would
gladly see ousted from the tribe. Our system isn't perfect. But for the
most part, the prisoners who have the greatest value to us – the ones who
have the ability to keep the tribe alive and peaceful – are the ones who
get the best share of the food. The ones who don't . . . Ask our Keeper
why they should have to die. He's the one who knows the answer."
Pickens's voice had turned suddenly dark, as though he saw, in that
moment, thousands upon thousands of dying lads sprawled upon the ground.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Tyrrell was silent a while as they continued to stroll toward the prison
gate, passing more tables as they went. Some of the sorters had finished
their work and had given way to other lads, who were beginning to pour
out the liquid from the tins into jars.
Seeing where Tyrrell looked, Pickens said, "We store the liquid separate-like;
it's part of the surplus, and it helps too in cooking, when we hold a banquet."
"Pickens, how has any folk here managed to survive so long? These are
killing conditions!"
Pickens shrugged. "Things have turned worse since Keeper drew power
last autumn. Under his father, we got sacks of adulterated tins, which
is why Farnam set up this system of testing and tasting. But it wasn't
till Keeper stepped up in rank that most of the food 'came not fit to eat.
That's one reason why there were so many deaths last winter."
"He may not be knowing. Some folk should give tale to him."
"Ahiga gave tale to him." Pickens's reply was terse. "If he won't catch
tale to Ahiga, he won't catch tale to any folk. —Ah, what do we have here?"
His voice softened suddenly.
Tyrrell stopped just in time from making another disastrous tumble over
someone on the floor. Several prisoners were kneeling as they unpacked
a crate filled with dry goods. Farnam, coming up alongside them, gave a
curt nod to Pickens and Tyrrell before asking the kneeling prisoners, "Anything
useful?"
"Sir, it's salt!" The lad who spoke held up a bag and smiled broadly.
"Salt and flour and
coffee."
"Riches indeed." Farnam offered a brief smile to the lad and then raised
his voice. "What's the occasion, Pugh? Has Mercy's messenger made an appearance
in this prison at last?"
Most of the guards, whom Tyrrell could just see through the gate several
yards away, laughed heartily. Pugh said in an indifferent voice, "A gift
from your Keeper, in honor of the Lords' Spring Festival. He thought you
might want to have it a couple of days early, in order to make preparations."
"Our thanks to the Keeper!" Farnam cried back. "Qualified," he added
in an undertone, "until we see what we've actually been given. Samuels?"
The claimed man who had approached Farnam earlier had now opened the
bag of coffee. Fingering the contents, he shrugged. "No worse than what
we received for the Commoners' Autumn Festival. Coffee mixed in with dried
peas, it looks like."
"Sort a sample, and then give it the water test," Farnam ordered. "What
about the flour?"
A lad who had been inspecting a knee-high flour bag sat back on his
heels, his face filled with disgust. "Not much there, sir. Adulterated
with lye, it looks like, and so old that it's filled with maggots."
"Check the other bags; they may be better. Garcia, let's look at the
final riches."
The initial speaker eagerly tore open the salt bag, using his teeth.
Everyone leaned forward, Tyrrell included.
Pickens was the one who broke the silence. "Well, well, it looks as
though the Sweet-tooth Company owns a cat."
"And it looks as though the company keeps its salt in open barrels."
Farnam carefully closed the bag, shutting out the yellowed salt, with the
brown objects atop it. "Never mind, there may be something salvageable
here." He paused to briefly place his hand on the head of the lad, who
was staring at the floor, struggling to hold back tears. "Even without
our Keeper's 'gifts,' we'll have a good banquet, I'm sure. Garcia, are
those potatoes I see?"
The lad, reviving, dove his hands into the packing crate and was soon
excitedly reporting that no more than half the potatoes were spoiled –
maybe even two-thirds were edible. . . .
Pickens and Tyrrell passed on. Tyrrell, watching Farnam's lads carefully
pick out dead maggots from the flour, was increasingly sure that he would
not have the stomach to eat his late breakfast. When he stated this to
Pickens, though, the lad simply said cheerfully, "Ungrateful idiot. You've
no notion what luck in your path you've had. Here, let me introduce you
to our taster."
o—o—o
It took them a while to reach the taster; Pickens kept pausing, fingering
the tins on every table, and earning himself glares from any lad or man
who remembered what his profession was. When Magnus finally shooed him
off, Pickens grinned and said to Tyrrell, "Point fully made, I have mind.
Let's finish up here."
The taster, it turned out, was a lad in his thirties, lounging on a
chair, with his feet propped up on a crate. It was the first chair Tyrrell
had seen in the place; it had a seat, not of the ubiquitous leather, but
of cloth stretched between a cross-frame of wooden rods. The taster had
his hands crossed over his belly; he was contemplating the sky. As Pickens
and Tyrrell came forward, he glanced at them out of the corner of his eye,
and then moved his foot enough to shove the crate in Tyrrell's direction.
Then he returned to watching the sky.
At Pickens's gesture, Tyrrell seated himself. Glancing at the ground
next to the taster, Pickens said, "No work for you today?"
"Say, tell me, what does a lad need to do to get fed around this place?"
asked the taster, staring upwards. "I'm about to wither away from starvation."
Tyrrell doubted it; the taster had the biggest belly of anyone he had
seen there. Pickens frowned, saying, "Are you all right, Czupak? You look
as though you're swelled up with gas."
The taster patted his belly with apparent satisfaction. "It's all this
rich food they give me. —When are you going to feed me next? I'm famished!"
he shouted to the sorters nearest him.
The sorters emitted laughter that sounded forced, but made no reply.
Czupak, looking over at Pickens for the first time, shook his head. "I'll
be dead before they feed me. I tell you, it's enough to make me take up
thieving."
Before Pickens could reply, Farnam's claimed man Samuels appeared. He
held a tin in his hand, from which the smell of coffee drifted up.
"For you," he told the taster. "We've sorted a sample by eye, we've
done the water test on it – all the contents floated – and we've brewed
the beans. Farnam says it's your turn now."
Without bothering to stand or even to sit upright, the taster took the
coffee from the man. Without hesitation, he plunged his hand into the tin.
After a second, he said, "There's debris on the bottom. Sort it some more."
"It's just a few dried peas. We can't catch all of them."
"Dried peas don't feel like this. Sort it."
Samuels looked annoyed. "Have you forgotten your rank, Czupak? It's
Farnam's orders. Do as you're told."
The lad sat upright finally. Looking at Pickens, he sighed in a melodramatic
manner, saying, "Uncle Ivan gives them his educated opinion, but do they
listen? Of course not. Well, cheers." He raised the glass in a toast to
the sky and then swallowed the contents of the tin in one gulp.
And began to choke. Pickens, whose brows had remained furrowed throughout
this exchange, promptly stepped forward and whapped him several times on
the back. This seemed to do its work; after a moment, Czupak waved him
back and said to Samuels in a breathless manner, "Pebbles. Pointy pebbles,
judging from the ones I swallowed. Sort the coffee beans again."
Looking considerably more subdued than before, Samuels took the tin
back and departed without a word. The taster, whose face had turned pale,
returned to his previous position, with his hands folded over his belly.
Tyrrell saw that his fingers were white-knuckled now.
"Best job in the prison," he said to the sky. "Unlimited food, served
right to me. I don't know why I'm so lucky."
"Had much of that unlimited food today?" Pickens asked quietly.
"Oh, bites from about three dozen tins. Two-thirds of the tins were
fine; I said they could be used. The other third . . . Well, they'll settle
in my stomach eventually." He patted his belly, smiling. Suddenly, without
warning, he looked at Tyrrell. "You're the new man, aren't you? The one
who's been leading the fight against the guards at Mercy?"
"Er . . . yes." Tyrrell was so disconcerted by this sudden acknowledgment
of his existence that he forgot to give his usual defense of the Boundaries-bound
guards. He was even more disconcerted when the lad rose from his seat and
bowed.
"If I may, I'd like to shake arms with you, sir," he said, "in case
I don't get a chance to later. I'm very pleased to have had the opportunity
to meet you."
Tyrrell drew himself slowly to his feet and shook arms with the taster.
Czupak's eyes bothered him; they looked bloodshot, as though he did not
receive much sleep. But Czupak smiled as though his days were spent in
blithe laziness.
"We'll let you get back to your work," Pickens said, rescuing Tyrrell
from his awkward silence.
"Ah, yes, my work." The taster lay down again, wincing as he did so.
"Just think of it, Pickens – while you and the other lads are slaving away
till eventide, I'll be idly playing dice all afternoon. Don't you wish
you were me?"
"No," said Pickens bluntly.
The taster smiled at him, showing no sign of offense. "Do you know,
everyone says that? They just don't appreciate the advantages of honor
and glory over— Well, well, is that wonderful banquet for me? Give it to
me quickly, lad, before I grow faint with hunger." He gestured to the lad
standing hesitantly nearby, holding a tin.
Pickens steered Tyrrell away, past a table where the lads were beginning
to dish the food out of the quart-sized tins into smaller, palm-sized tins.
Tyrrell glanced back at the taster, who was carefully sampling the tin
he had been given, which was clearly marked with the letter
P.
"Honor and glory over life?" he murmured to Pickens.
Pickens nodded.
"How long . . . ?" Tyrrell found he could not finish the sentence.
Pickens shrugged. "His predecessor lasted eight months . . . but that
was 'fore the situation with the food got worse. Farnam has been having
mind whether to make the job a three-month assignment for each taster.
The trouble is, tasting is a job that a lad grows more skilled at, the
longer he works at it. Ivan Czupak is the best taster we've had; he can
tell the difference 'tween adulterated food and spoiled food nine times
out of ten. For the sake of the tribe, it may be that Farnam will have
to keep Czupak at his job."
Tyrrell swallowed around the aching lump in his throat. "Did Farnam
order him to become a taster?"
"Oh, no, he won the job by a straw-draw. The other lads competing were
hot in heart at losing." Pickens gave a quirk of a smile at Tyrrell's dumbfounded
expression. "It's a thing of high honor to be named taster – Czupak has
the most dangerous job in this prison. Tasters are ten times more like
to die than Ahiga's watch-hounds. To be frank," he said, putting his arm
around Tyrrell's back as they reached the protective barrier of the hounds
guarding the food, "I wouldn't have the courage."
o—o—o
"Bring the tin back when you're through eating," said Magnus, handing
Tyrrell his share of the rations. "If you don't, Ahiga's watch-hounds will
break your neck."
Tyrrell decided not to ask whether Magnus meant that literally. "Thank
you," he replied, taking the tin and casting a worried glance at the jagged
edges where the tin had been cut open. He had seen the claimed lads being
handed bone spoons as they were given the rations for their men, but evidently
his own rank did not allow for such luxuries. He would somehow have to
figure out a way to eat the food without slicing his fingers open.
Not, he thought gloomily, that he had any desire for his meal. Staring
down at the peas, which looked suspiciously green to him, he thought longingly
of Mercy's grainy gruel, tasteless beans, and undrinkable coffee. He had
never thought to be thankful at Mercy that his food was merely unappetizing,
not deadly.
Stepping out of the queue, he looked around for Pickens, but the lad
was nowhere in sight. Pickens had waited only long enough to see that Magnus,
who knew Tyrrell, was handing out the little men's rations; then he had
disappeared into the greater men's area. Now Tyrrell slowly made his way
through the little men's area, searching for a place to sit. Various crates
were scattered throughout the area, but they all seemed to be taken by
little men who avoided his eye. Finally he sat down cross-legged on the
ground, first checking to see that he was not sitting on anything as nasty
as his food. The floor was surprisingly clean and felt pleasantly warm
under the early afternoon sun. Ignoring the legs striding back and forth
beside him, Tyrrell closed his eyes for a moment and savored the feel of
sunlight on his skin.
He had never known sunlight at Mercy; he received no prison-yard privileges
there, and the prison building had no windows, only ventilation slits that
worked barely well enough to bring in stale air. The air here was fresh,
and the prisoners here smelled no worse than at Mercy. Tyrrell wondered
why that was the case; if water was rationed here, then surely they would
not be able to bathe?
He shrugged this thought aside and focussed his attention on the smells.
Amidst the pungent odor of prisoners, he could smell something more unpleasant.
Not the privy smell; that he would have recognized. This odor reminded
him of the awful time in his childhood when he had sucked upon a penny
and vomited from the taste. . . .
He opened his eyes and looked down at the suspiciously green peas. Oh.
Of course.
Pickens appeared suddenly, crouching down at his side. "What's wrong?
Is your food spoiled?"
"Adulterated with copper, I have mind," Tyrrell said gloomily.
"Oh, well, that will fall at times when you're a little man – if Farnam's
men and lads don't have enough G food to yield, you'll draw some
of the A food. One or three tins like that won't hurt you."
Tyrrell carefully placed the tin on the ground. "I'll hold for my supper,
thanks."
Pickens said nothing, merely raised his eyebrows.
Tyrrell felt a by-now-familiar clenching in his chest. "No supper?"
Pickens ran his index finger lightly round the outside of the tin. "How
many meals a day did they yield you at Mercy?"
"Three. Gruel and coffee at breakfast, potatoes and beans and maizebread
at lunch . . ." His voice trailed off as he watched Pickens finger the
tin. "Yield me back my food, you thief. I'm hungry after all."
Pickens laughed, shoving the tin in his direction. "Don't worry, I've
never stolen from mates. Some fellows here would, though. Best to munch
your food now."
Tyrrell did so, dealing with the problem of the jagged edges by simply
pouring the contents of the tin into his mouth. As he searched the tin
with his eye to see whether he had missed any peas, he said, "You've eaten
already?"
"Nay, Shuji is holding my food for now."
"I had mind that was what you went to fetch."
Pickens shook his head. He was still crouched beside Tyrrell rather
than sitting, the position of a street-lad who is ever alert to attack.
"I went to see Farnam. Something is wrong with Czupak, for sure; no folk
in this prison ever gain pounds. Even Farnam has lost weight here, and
he's the sort that gains weight if he so much as sniffs a grain of maizemeal."
"What did Farnam give tale to you?"
"That he'd check on Czupak when he had a chance. —You missed a bit there."
He pointed at the tin.
"Thanks." Tyrrell managed to scoop out a tiny fragment of a pea without
cutting himself. "I can't believe that every folk survive here on these
types of rations."
"Oh, you'll get a bigger share of the rations once you're a greater
man," Pickens responded. "But aye, it's a miracle any of us are alive."
"Starke gave tale of that too, about him surviving the riot here."
Pickens let his breath escape between his teeth. "He would. Bloody,
self-centered bastard." He spoke without any particular heat in his voice.
"Better yield your tin back now, or Magnus will send his lads looking for
you. He has a perfect memory for who has turned in their tin. —No, hold,
let me look at it first." He forestalled Tyrrell from rising, taking the
tin into his hand. Holding up the tin to the light, he scrutinized its
interior carefully, like a jeweller examining a setting. "You missed a
bit again. 'Tis hidden just under the shadow of that jagged edge there."
Tyrrell swore under his breath before saying, "You've got eyes like
a cat."
"After a thousand nights spent burgling dark houses? I've got eyes like
an Ammippian. If you crave practice in night-prowling, try robbing the
houses near the residences of the magisterial seats. Best-watched part
of the city, with patrol soldiers that could see a pinprick of light at
a window, and oh gods above and below, you won't crave to fall into the
hands of the captain of the patrol. A terror out of Hell's dominion, he
is, as like to hang you on the spot as he is to arrest you, and he doesn't
waste time checking to see if you're innocent 'fore he orders his men to
pin you to the ground while he kicks his big boots into your stomach .
. ."
Tyrrell let his mind wander away from this pleasant recital, which matched
his own memories of Mip City's patrol soldiers. His thoughts were on other
matters.
The food had by now been distributed to all except some of the unclaimed
lads – their queues were much longer than the queues of the men and claimed
lads – yet all of the different ranks, he saw, were remaining within their
own spaces. Nothing seemed to keep the little men separate from the greater
men other than their own will-power, but the cause of the unclaimed lads'
lack of mobility was clear enough: Ahiga's watch-hounds were stationed
at the southern edge of the little men's territory, spaced at regular intervals,
turning their heads to and fro as they scrutinized the unclaimed lads.
The lads ignored their guards. Except for the ones still queued, they
were all sitting on the floor; there were no crates for seats in the unclaimed
lads' territory. The lads were clustered in small groups of three, four
– no more than ten at a time. They all seemed absorbed in their food and
their low chatter, but every now and then, one of the lads would abruptly
rise and move over to join another group. There seemed to be no set pattern
to this rising and joining, yet somehow, within the space of a very short
time, the groups had shifted, so that each group had a new member whom
it had not possessed before.
Tyrrell cast another glance at the watch-hounds, wondering whether they
recognized what he recognized. Possibly not; even he would have been ignorant
of what was happening if it were not that he had undertaken the same sleight
of hand, back at Mercy.
Large gatherings to discuss matters of conspiracy were dangerous; he
and Merrick had known that from the start. So they never permitted large
gatherings. The prisoners would talk with their cell-mates, and then, while
at their work, one of the cell-mates would find an opportunity to talk
to a prisoner who was housed in another cell, who would convey what he
learned to his own cell-mates. . . . Messages could be passed on surprisingly
quickly in this manner, without the guards ever suspecting.
Of course, once some of the guards had pledged themselves to keep the
Boundaries of Behavior, communication had travelled far more quickly; those
guards could easily pass on messages without anyone having the power to
stop them. But in the early years, all suggestions concerning enforcement
and changes to the Boundaries had been made at the level of two or three
men: the number of men in each cell. Their suggestions would be passed
on to other prisoners, who would either express their approval or else
reject the ideas, until, by the time that the suggestions reached Tyrrell
and Merrick, the two of them would have a good idea of what the consensus
was of the Boundaries-bound prisoners, and could use that information to
help them make the final decision.
Now almost entirely oblivious to Pickens's chatter about the best way
to burgle a house that has an armed guard, Tyrrell laid his chin upon his
knee, trying to still his look of growing interest into an expression more
idle. Where were the lads taking their information? That was the question.
If they timed their communications well enough, nobody should be able to
guess their final destination, for some of those message-carriers were
false trails – prisoners heading back and forth between groups that had
long since made their decision. Yet one of the groups here must hold the
leader or leaders, who were waiting to learn the thoughts of the lads they
led.
After a while, Tyrrell focussed his attention on a group of three lads
who were neither sending nor receiving information. They were close enough
that he could hear their conversation, which was about korfball champions.
All three lads seemed to be blithely unaware of the lower-voiced conversations
taking place around them.
One of the lads Tyrrell recognized immediately: he was the monkey-faced
prisoner who had tried to escape Compassion Prison upon Tyrrell's arrival.
The lad had big, deep-set eyes, a button nose that nearly collided with
his mouth, and what would have been a beard if it had not been so patchy
and if it had not extended into unexpected regions of his face: one tuft
of hair extended over the bridge of his nose. His disagreeable looks were
matched by the sobriety of his expression. He was sprawled on his stomach,
listening silently to the other lads; he looked to be about Tyrrell's age.
The other two lads were younger, in their twenties. They seemed as mismatched
as a music-hall routine. One, with not a hair out of place, and with what
remained of a pair of eyeglasses – the right lens was missing – looked
as though he would have been at home in a university library, though korfball
was more often played by commoners. The resemblance to Farnam was striking,
but this lad was thinner – much, much thinner, with bones that stared out
from his body. He rarely smiled, and his voice was always level, even when
his thoughts on korfball champions were expressed forcefully. He had red
hair, but there was no fire to his words, simply the type of deliberate,
measured speech that a professor might use in a classroom.
The other lad was quite different. His hair was scruffy, his drawers
sagged in odd places, and he had a very dirty cloth round one of his legs.
Though the red-headed lad sat still, never moving his hands as he talked,
the dark-haired lad next to him was continually moving: shifting, pounding
his fists on the floor, exploding into gesticulations to make his points,
his voice rising and lowering to mark the progress of the conversation,
and all the while his bare feet drummed the floor, as though he were a
soldier on the march.
All three lads were so absorbed in the conversation that they seemed
to have forgotten about their food, though they cradled the tins with instinctive
protection. The red-headed lad had just said something that raised a smile
from the monkey-faced lad, when suddenly the red-headed lad's head whipped
around. He stared into the little men's section.
For a moment, Tyrrell thought the lad had noticed his interest. Then
Tyrrell saw what the lad had seen: watch-hounds were approaching the unclaimed
lads' territory. They were carrying more of the wooden spears that were
fashioned out of the old cell-door bars – two to each man. These hounds
were new, making their way through the little men's territory first, as
the little men gradually fell silent, watching them pass. As the new hounds
passed the hounds already on guard at the border of the unclaimed lads'
territory, they handed each territory guard their extra spear, which each
territory guard, with the smoothness of long practice, twirled down till
it was facing the lads. More guards took up positions at the edge of the
territory, until the boundary between the unclaimed lads and the little
men looked like a row of porcupine quills.
"Uh-oh." Pickens, who had fallen silent a moment before, spoke quietly.
"Trouble?" said Tyrrell, his voice hushed.
"Aye. Regrets; I must go." Pickens rose to his feet. Hosobuchi had paused
nearby and was gesturing to him; the claimed lad hurried over to his man's
side. Shuji was there as well, and so was Ahiga. The true man's hand was
bare of any spear; instead, he had taken his dagger from the sheath around
his neck and was holding it lightly in his palm, in a casual manner that
spoke of long experience with blades.
Tyrrell slowly rose to his feet to see better. All around the unclaimed
lads' territory, prisoners were standing up, some looking bewildered, some
frightened, some angry, some merely grim. The red-headed lad was on his
feet now; Tyrrell could not read the expression in his face, but he caught
the urgency of his tone as the lad turned to speak to his companions.
The monkey-faced lad, who had scrambled to his feet also, nodded and
swiftly drew away to stand with a nearby group. The dark-haired lad, though
he had risen, was furiously arguing against whatever the red-headed lad
was telling him.
Their argument was cut short by a high-pitched moan; it came from deep
within the unclaimed lads' territory. The dark-haired lad pivoted on his
heel to look, as did many of the unclaimed lads.
The red-headed lad did not even glance in the direction of the moan.
His eye was on Ahiga, who had turned to say something to Hosobuchi. Hosobuchi
nodded and then spoke briefly to his two lads. Pickens and Shuji immediately
departed in opposite directions, disappearing into the crowd of little
men who were gathering with curiosity at the southern edge of their territory.
A minute later, Hosobuchi's lads reappeared, stepping into the unclaimed
lads' territory at several yards apart from each other. They had spears
in their hands now. Ignoring the unclaimed lads who shrank away at their
approach, Pickens and Shuji began to circle round, heading toward a middle
point in a semi-circle—
—and at that moment, Tyrrell realized whose escape they had been sent
behind to block.
From the right-left flicker of the red-headed lad's eyes, Tyrrell guessed
that the lad knew too, but he never moved. His gaze returned to Ahiga,
who was carefully surveying all that was taking place within the territory.
Another moan broke out; this one sounded like the cry of a mourning dove.
Nearby, several of the hounds were beginning to scuffle with a lad who
was shouting obscenities at them, but Ahiga, after glancing their way,
seemed satisfied that they had the matter at hand. With his dagger-hilt
still pressed in his palm, he stepped into the unclaimed lads' territory.
Hosobuchi followed, one step behind him, on his right.
The red-headed lad remained motionless as they came forward. The dark-haired
lad fell silent; he had his arm round the red-headed lad's waist, and his
mouth was moving silently, though whether with prayers or with curses,
Tyrrell could not tell.
Ahiga came to a halt in front of the two lads. He was the same age as
them, but was half a head taller than the red-headed lad, who had to tilt
his head to look up at the true man. Tyrrell still could not tell from
his expression what the lad was thinking.
"Jahnsen," said Ahiga, "you know why I am here."
His voice was soft, but could be clearly heard, for all of the lads
in the surrounding groups, who had been muttering amidst themselves, had
fallen silent when the true man stepped into their territory.
The red-headed lad lifted his eyebrows. "To return to your home?"
A couple of the lads nearby gave nervous laughs, quickly stifled. Ahiga
ignored them. He said, "You have been accused of granting to Price food,
in the days after he was ousted from the tribe."
"Was he ousted from our tribe?" Jahnsen's voice was both courteous and
cold. "I had not heard that."
His speech seemed to have some inner meaning, for several of the listening
lads clapped hands over their mouths, and the dark-haired lad stirred next
to him, looking uneasy.
Unperturbed, Ahiga said, "He was ousted from the Tribe of Compassion
Prison on week's end, for conspiracy against the true men – he planned
to kill us and distribute the surplus food in the armory to the unclaimed
lads. Do you deny that you know this?"
Jahnsen's gaze did not waver from Ahiga's face. "I deny that I conspired
to use force against anyone. I have no wish to see any man or lad harmed.
Who accuses me?"
Ahiga turned slightly, beckoning with his hand. Tyrrell felt something
brush by him, and turned in time to see two watch-hounds step forward,
escorting a prisoner. Tyrrell caught a glimpse of the man's face as he
passed; it looked as empty as the face of a ghost.
For the first time, an expression appeared on Jahnsen's face; his lips
thinned, and his eyes grew hard. He looked back at Ahiga, who said, "Price
asked Walker to claim him last night. The true men granted him pardon,
on condition that he reveal who helped him in his plans to overturn the
rule of the true men. You deny that you helped him?"
"I deny it." Jahnsen's voice had turned brittle. "I was asked to help,
and I refused. He wanted to be a true man to the unclaimed lads. I didn't
think he was the sort of which true men are made." His gaze travelled over
to the prisoner. The contempt was clear in his voice as he said, "It seems
I was right."
The prisoner did not stir. Ahiga waved with his hand; the escorts turned
and half-dragged Price back the way he had come. As they did so, Tyrrell
saw the prisoner's empty face again, and he frowned. The vacant eyes, the
slack muscles in his face, the drool at the edges of his mouth . . . Not
sweetweed, no; sweetweed heightened the senses and the body's responses.
But someone, Tyrrell was willing to swear, had been feeding this lad drugs
of some sort.
Ahiga said, with all the formality of a patient magistrate, "You deny
helping him in his plans to kill us. Do you deny feeding him once he was
ousted from the tribe?"
Jahnsen's steady gaze had returned to the true man. "I wouldn't let
a dog die of starvation."
"You know the penalty for feeding an ousted prisoner," Ahiga said.
"No!" It was the dark-haired lad, stepping forward, his face twisted
in agony. "No, it's my fault! It's my food he gave to Price—"
"Be quiet!" Jahnsen reached forward and grabbed the dark-haired lad's
arm.
"Yes, it is quiet you need be," Ahiga agreed. "Or is it that you want
Jahnsen to be charged with two offenses – one for giving the food, and
one for giving the food of another lad?"
The dark-haired lad let himself be pulled back by the other, his face
now filled with uncertainty. Jahnsen waited only long enough to ascertain
that his companion would not speak again; then he said to Ahiga, "It was
my own tins that I gave."
"And you knew the penalty?" Again, Ahiga sounded like a patient magistrate,
exploring all possible avenues of innocence.
For a minute, Jahnsen was silent; all that could be heard, other than
the moans and shouts and sobs elsewhere in the unclaimed lads' territory,
was the muffled sound that the dark-haired lad made as he turned and pressed
his mouth against Jahnsen's shoulder.
Then Jahnsen gave a quirk of a smile. He held out the tin, with its
contents still untouched.
Ahiga took it from him with his left hand. "You accept the punishment,"
he said, like a magistrate finishing a case.
"I don't want to fight you, Ahiga." The lad's voice was quiet, and his
smile remained, but it did not touch his eyes.
"And the fact that you do not wish to fight the true men makes a difference
here, among the other lads. I have not forgotten that." He swiftly sheathed
his blade with his right hand. "Three days' ousting."
Jahnsen's smile disappeared; he looked as astonished as though he had
just been plunged into ice-cold water.
The dark-haired lad, raising his face from the other lad's shoulder,
looked equally dumbfounded. "Three days? Only three days? Not a permanent
ousting?"
"Three days," Ahiga confirmed. "We are likely to be watered by the guards
before the end of those days, so your thirst till then will be no greater
than the other lads'. No food, though. No food, no medicine, no blanket,
no clothes – no tribal comfort."
"Soap?" The dark-haired lad had recovered quickly; Tyrrell could imagine
him as a grocer in a store, driving a hard bargain with a customer.
For the first time, the suggestion of a smile appeared on Ahiga's face.
"Soap he shall have, or I must face the wrath of Farnam for allowing ousted
prisoners to spread sickness. But no food." He began to turn away.
"Ahiga." Jahnsen's voice had grown very quiet; his face was unrevealing
once more. As the true man turned back, Jahnsen said, "I would do the same
again, if the chance was offered to me."
"Would you, now?" Ahiga cocked his head to one side. "And what say you
if I told you that, the next time you did this, I would oust, not you,
but your mate?" He flicked his fingers toward the dark-haired lad, as though
scattering seeds.
Jahnsen did not speak. Ahiga glanced at the dark-haired lad and said,
"The same for you. Do not feed Jahnsen or the permanently ousted lads"
– he spread his hands in the direction of the parts of the territory from
which the other sounds were coming – "if you do not want Jahnsen ousted,
and ousted for the final time. —Yes, what is it?" He turned to look at
a claimed lad who had just skidded to a halt next to him.
"My man's pardon, sir." The lad gulped in air, his chest heaving. "We've
had some trouble with Edwards. He didn't take the news of his ousting well."
Ahiga frowned. "How did he take it?"
"He had a pocketknife hidden in the waistband of his drawers, sir. He
tried to put it through my man's heart."
Ahiga closed his eyes. "That was . . . not wise of him." Opening his
eyes, he said to the lad, "Go to Walker. Tell him that, as he had predicted,
his services to the tribe are needed. —Hosobuchi," he said as the panting
lad scurried off in the direction of the back of the prison. "See that
all is settled here, and then have my hounds gather the unclaimed lads
and take them to the platform. —Who are you?"
His abrupt question was addressed to the monkey-faced lad, who had been
sliding unobtrusively forward, in the direction of his two companions.
The monkey-faced lad froze in his tracks, like a rat sighted while taking
meal from a sack.
"He's Babaqi," Jahnsen replied. "He was committed to this prison two
months ago. You've spoken to him before."
"You make no sense." Ahiga's voice was brusque. "I would remember such
a face as that. He is known to you? Both of you?" He turned his gaze to
and fro between the two lads.
The dark-haired lad said nothing. Jahnsen said quietly, "He has become
our friend."
"Good. Then I must question him to see what he knows of this. —Come
with me." He gestured toward the monkey-faced lad – an impatient gesture.
The monkey-faced lad looked hesitantly at Jahnsen, who gave a barely perceptible
nod; then Babaqi allowed himself to be pulled away by Ahiga.
At the last moment, Ahiga – in a careless manner, as though he did not
notice what he was doing – tossed the tin Jahnsen had given him into the
hands of the dark-haired lad.
The dark-haired lad stared at the tin with astonishment. Jahnsen smiled
for the first time since Ahiga's arrival; then his smile faded as Hosobuchi
said something to him. With his face once more expressionless, Jahnsen
pulled off his drawers and handed them to the greater man. As he did so,
his eye wandered beyond Hosobuchi, beyond the watch-hounds guarding the
perimeter, and lit upon Tyrrell, who was still standing silently, watching
the scene.
For a brief moment, the lad's eye lingered on Tyrrell; then he looked
away, the crowd moved, and Tyrrell lost sight of him.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Within a short time, the crowd had shifted considerably. Unclaimed lads
were shepherded by the watch-hounds out of their territory, in the direction
of the back of the prison. A handful of the lads, like Jahnsen, were now
naked; their expressions ranged from stoicism to despair. None of the unclaimed
lads, Tyrrell gathered, were being given any choice as to their destination;
they were prodded along by the hounds.
Many of the little men had begun to drift toward the back of the prison
as well. Tyrrell hesitated, uncertain whether he wanted to see whatever
spectacle was being prepared there. Then, with relief, he caught sight
of Pickens coming toward him.
Pickens had shed his spear somewhere along the way, and with it his
gravity; he was smiling again. When he reached Tyrrell, he gestured toward
Ahiga, who had taken the monkey-faced lad aside and was quietly quizzing
him. "Well?" Pickens said.
It took Tyrrell a moment to formulate his reply. "The prisoner is drawn
to the courtroom. He is given knowing of the charges against him and is
allowed the chance to meet the person who accused him of his crimes. He
is yielded the chance to defend himself. He denies one of the charges,
and his denial is trusted. He is asked whether the second charge is true.
He is asked whether he had knowing that he was breaking the law. When he
confesses his guilt, his yielding to the magistrate and his good name in
the tribe are taken into account, and he is yielded a light sentence."
Tyrrell shook his head slowly. "Pickens, I wasn't knowing that any magistrates
that fair yet existed."
Pickens grinned. "Ahiga is a wonder, isn't he? Now you have knowing
why I'm liking to work for him." His grin faded, and he cocked his head.
"You don't look happy."
"I'm not," said Tyrrell bluntly. "Where I come from, feeding a starving
person isn't a crime. 'Tis for sure not a death-sentence crime."
Pickens started to reply; then he fell silent. The area where they stood
was now much emptier than before. Only a few little men lingered, along
with Farnam's men and lads, who were carefully cleaning up from the day's
rationing, watched over by a handful of the watch-hounds. One of Farnam's
men appeared at Tyrrell's elbow and, without a word, plucked the empty
tin from his hand.
The prison had grown very quiet; the only sound nearby was of Ahiga,
continuing to interrogate the unclaimed lad in an undertone. Finally Pickens
said, "I'll tell the tale this way. Figure that you were a member of a
street tribe. You had pledged to place the best interests of the tribe
above all else – above your own life and the lives of any single one of
your brothers in the tribe. And then figure that you were all starving
for lack of food. Figure that one of your fellow lads plotted to kill the
tribe leaders and yield the food to his mates. His plot was discovered,
and he was ousted from the tribe. Then you discovered that some of the
remaining lads in the tribe were feeding this lad, yielding him the chance
to plot new conspiracies against the tribe. What would your leaders do
to the lads who had helped the conspirator?"
Tyrrell was silent a long time before saying, "They would kill the lads."
Pickens nodded. "And not even that was done to the lads here. They were
simply ousted."
"But if they're permanently ousted, they'll starve—"
"Only if they're stiff-necked with pride," Pickens said flatly. "Edwards
was a fool. If he'd gone to the true men, knelt down, admitted his guilt,
promised never to break tribal customs again, and pleaded with them to
let him back into the tribe, chances are that they would have turned the
turtle over on their sentence. They did that last night, with Price. That's
why the true men almost never pass a sentence of execution. Only if a tribal
member is a right-away danger, as I was, will they call for right-away
death."
"But Edwards only panicked when he was ousted. If the true men didn't
punish him further—"
"He was a lad. He attacked a man. Any lad who attacks a man is sent
to death. Edwards had knowing of that as well as the rest of us lads do."
Tyrrell fell silent; he could not bring his mind beyond the past tense
in the words that Pickens had spoken. Finally he said, "He'll draw death,
then."
"Aye. The execution is now. You won't crave to watch," he added, though
Tyrrell had not moved. "Walker's executions are . . . not pleasant."
Tyrrell felt the walls of his throat touch each other. "I had mind you
gave tale 'fore that Valdis was the tribe's executioner."
Pickens shrugged. His gaze had wandered away to Ahiga, who seemed in
no hurry to release the lad from the bondage of their conversation. "I'd
have drawn a quick death from Valdis, 'cause I hadn't meant to kill my
lad. In a case where a lad deliberately tries to kill a man, though . .
."
"How?" Tyrrell said finally. He didn't really want to know, but he felt
he must know.
"Strangling. Walker takes his time about it."
"Mercy save us." Tyrrell looked away, trying to regain control of his
stomach. It was the bad food he had eaten, he told himself, and knew himself
to be a liar. Looking back at Pickens, he said, in a tone that tried to
be light, "What was Walker in his old life, a butcher?"
Pickens shook his head, returning his gaze to Tyrrell. "Pathologist."
"Pathologist!" Tyrrell stared at Pickens. "What in Hell's name is a
pathologist doing in prison? What did he do, kill the men whose corpses
he looked at for signs of murder?"
Pickens's mouth twisted into something that was not quite a smile. "I
wouldn't be surprised. But the only crime he was charged with was assassination."
"Assassination." Tyrrell continued to stare at Pickens. "Who did he
assassinate?"
"The Mippite ambassador to Yclau. . . . Ah, you've caught tale of him,
then," he added, seeing Tyrrell's expression change.
"I have mind I've done so," said Tyrrell slowly. "It fell after I was
put down in prison, so I only caught tale of snippets. It was a deport
case, wasn't it? The crime, it took place in Yclau territory, but their
Queen let our magisterial seats try the prisoner in Mip's high court. I
caught tale that the assassin was an Yclau religious fanatic."
"That's Walker – as fanatical as they come. He has mind that, when some
folk is straying from the truth, that person must be 'helped' into transformation
and rebirth. The Mippite ambassador didn't trust in rebirth after death,
so Walker 'helped' him into rebirth with the aid of a Thunderer pistol."
"Damnation to all mankind." The situation seemed to demand no less a
powerful oath than this. "How did a man of that kind grow to be a leader
among Compassion's prisoners?"
"In truth?" Pickens's voice went soft. "I have mind Valdis is afraid
of him. There's a tale going round that, early on, Valdis ordered one of
his claimed men to challenge Walker. The man had orders to kill Walker
during the challenge. Before the man yet had the chance to issue his challenge,
he died of cramps in the belly. No folk has tried to challenge Walker since
then."
"Cramps in the belly." He was beginning to feel very dull-headed, repeating
every sentence that Pickens spoke, but he was having a hard time grasping
the enormity of the situation.
Pickens' gaze wandered into space. "Pathologists," he said, "must have
a good knowing of poisons."
After a minute more, Tyrrell said, "Pickens, this is terrible. The tribe
can't have a man of that kind leading them."
Pickens came out of his reverie and shrugged. "It's not as bad a picture
as I've sketched it. Valdis was clever when he placed Walker in charge
of the dying and the dead. Walker is as happy as a puppy in a mud puddle
these days. He gets the chance to lecture the dying about how they'll be
reborn after death – and for some of the dying prisoners here, 'tis a comfort
to them to catch tale of such words. Walker, he has grown to be like a
chaplain to us."
"So he doesn't murder any more," said Tyrrell with relief.
Pickens licked his lips with a quick flick of the tongue. "Well, every
now and then, some lad who has been yielding the true men problems dies
during the night. Doesn't fall very often, and 'tis only ever an unclaimed
lad—"
Pickens halted. He could not have spoken further, for over the silence
in the prison had risen a long, ragged, wordless scream.
It ended abruptly, mangled into silence by some greater force. Tyrrell,
who had whirled round in the direction of the scream, tore his gaze away
from the sight of the prison's back wall, long enough to look round him.
The few men and lads who had not crowded up to the true men's platform
had gone still; all of them were looking toward the back of the prison.
Even Ahiga had fallen silent; his fingers bit into the flesh of the monkey-faced
lad's arm. The monkey-faced lad was breathing quickly and shallowly, as
though the fingers had cut him like a knife, but his face was turned away
from Ahiga, toward the sound of the scream.
The silence lengthened. One minute passed, and then two; Tyrrell counted
the seconds under his breath. The only sound now came from the front of
the prison, where an occasional laugh from a guard could be heard.
When three minutes had passed, Tyrrell whispered to Pickens, "It must
be over by now."
Pickens shook his head without looking Tyrrell's way.
Twelve full minutes passed before a collective sigh came from the onlookers
at the back of the prison, like the sound of a long-awaited wave hitting
a cliff. Using his undervest sleeve to wipe the sweat off his face, Tyrrell
tried to think of something to say. Pickens seemed no more inclined to
talk than Tyrrell did; he was toeing the ground with his dusty boot, avoiding
Tyrrell's eye.
Men began to drift back into the little men's area. Some of them were
smiling and laughing. Tyrrell was not surprised. He had seen the same thing
happen during public whippings at Mercy. In any prison filled with violent
men, some prisoners would enjoy watching another prisoner suffer. Yet more
men would try to cover their discomfort with dark jokes. Tyrrell had told
more than a few of those jokes in his own time.
He could not do so now. His mind was still filled with what he had not
seen: Edwards, struggling to breathe, his throat contracting under Walker's
hands; then a little easing of the hangman's noose, a little air let in,
a sliver of life to extend the suffering before the noose tightened once
more. . . .
There was a rustle of movement, and then the crowd parted, making way
for Walker, who held the dead lad in his arms.
Walker's face was as bleak as though his own son had died. Behind him,
their left wrists encircled with the black cloth of their service, came
Walker's men and lads, chanting softly – so softly that their death prayers
were nearly swallowed by the chatter of the prisoners nearby.
Frowning, Pickens caught hold of an unclaimed lad who was passing by.
Tyrrell did not hear the question he asked, but the lad replied tersely,
"He wouldn't give permission. Selfish bastard."
"Perhaps his faith forbade it," Pickens suggested.
"He was an atheist." The lad jerked his arm away from Pickens and walked
toward the unclaimed lads' area.
Tyrrell asked, "Is he blaming Edwards for something?"
Pickens shrugged. "He's hot in heart at the true men, I'd be figuring,
but he can't give tale to that anger, so he's throwing it out on Edwards."
"But what in the names of the gods above and below is he hot in heart
at? How was Edwards selfish?"
Pickens merely shook his head. His eye was on Walker and his band of
men and lads, who had reached the gate. The unclaimed lads' territory was
still relatively empty; Tyrrell could just see the figures of the guards
rising to their feet.
Pugh called, "Bring out the used barrels and crates too. We're not going
to open this gate twice this afternoon. —Niesely, tell FitzGerald we've
a body for her crematorium. Cause of death?" he asked Walker in a perfunctory
manner.
"He stopped breathing." The respondent was Valdis, who had made his
way up to the gate; his voice was colorless. Nearby, Farnam was issuing
orders to the men who had served as runners earlier in the day. Ahiga,
who had released the monkey-faced lad from his scrutiny, gave a high-pitched
whistle, and within seconds, he was surrounded by watch-hounds.
In due time, the corpse was placed outside the gate. As Niesely disappeared
from view with the corpse in his arms, Pugh came forward to inspect the
barrels and crates. "You're one barrel short," he announced after a bit.
"We need it to piss our tinklings." Valdis was leaning sideways against
the metal bars of the gate, his arms folded, as though he were a street-lad
idling on a corner.
"So? Once the barrel is filled with urine, you're supposed to deliver
it to us for disposal. The numbers don't add up, Valdis."
Valdis shrugged and looked at Ahiga, as though handing the argument
over to him. Farnam and Walker had both retreated to the back of the prison,
talking in low voices as they went.
Ahiga said, "If you feed us more food, then it may happen we'll give
you more urine."
The prisoners around him chortled. Pugh merely said in a bored voice,
"Spare the poor-suffering-me speeches for your victims, Ahiga. Send out
the barrel."
"Or you'll do what? Come in here and get it? I think you have not the
manhood for that, Pugh." The contempt in Ahiga's voice was plain.
Pugh looked up from where he was inspecting the empty tins in one of
the barrels. There was no anger in his eyes, merely the sort of bored irritation
that a man might have if he found himself pestered by a fly. "Is that your
lad beside you, Ahiga? He's a nice-looking lad – wouldn't you say so, men?"
Ahiga stiffened. The guards all murmured agreement with Pugh's words.
Starke, sitting at the gunners' post with a cigarette drooping from one
corner of his mouth, said, "Very nice." As he spoke, he turned the machine
rifle so that it was pointed straight at Shuji.
From where he stood, several yards behind them both, Tyrrell could not
see Shuji's expression, but he saw how Ahiga's arm immediately went round
the lad, as though the lad needed support. A small smile played across
Pugh's face, and then disappeared, as though it had never been there.
His voice raw, Ahiga said, "Some day you will die when playing such
games, Pugh. I swear it by my ancestors' spirits."
Pugh turned his attention back to the barrels. "Spare me your empty
Ammippian boasts, cannibal. Just give me the barrel."
For a moment more, Ahiga stood motionless. Pickens, who was still standing
beside Tyrrell, muttered something under his breath that sounded like a
vow of death to Hell. Then Ahiga turned his head and barked an order. A
couple of the runners immediately raced toward the privy.
"What is all that about?" Tyrrell muttered to Pickens. "Do we crave
extra barrels for their wood? Or for their metal hoops?"
"That too," said Pickens in an equally low voice. "But in the main we
crave barrels to store tinklings. We stay part of the tinklings back and
use it to tan leather."
"Couldn't Ahiga just give tale to that? There's no danger to prisoners
tanning leather, is there?"
Pickens gave him a long look.
Tyrrell grimaced. "I'm being naive, aye?"
"Not naive; you just don't have knowing enough yet. You're but yet new
here." Pickens gently turned Tyrrell so that he was facing the back of
the prison. "See now, I must check whether Hosobuchi has any tasks for
me this afternoon. If not, I'll show you the rest of Farnam's workplaces,
in case you crave to work for him."
"What sort of work do you do most times?" Tyrrell asked as they walked
back.
"Night patrol, half the month. I have day duties the other two weeks
of the month – this week, as it chances. Otherwise, I'd be asleep at this
time of the day."
Tyrrell looked dubiously round at the crowded prison. "I'm surprised
the other prisoners don't trample on you."
Pickens smiled. "They'd end up trampling on Hosobuchi as well, and then
they'd be challenged by Ahiga. Nobody craves to be challenged by Ahiga."
"Pickens," Tyrrell said slowly, "about that knife Ahiga carries . .
."
But his words were cut off as the prison gate screamed its alarm. Pickens
twisted around. As Tyrrell turned his head, he saw that the gate was opening
for the fourth time that day.
"What is it?" he shouted in Pickens's ear.
"New prisoner," Pickens shouted back. "Must be – they'd never open the
gate otherwise. Crave to come and see the trial?"
"Er . . ." Tyrrell did not speak for a moment. His eye was on a figure
that he could just glimpse on the balcony overlooking the prison gate.
The figure had a midnight blue cap with a metal brim that shimmered under
the electric lights. Upon the brim was etched the emblem of the magisterial
seats. But even as Tyrrell caught sight of this, the figure turned and
walked away, in the direction of the east end of the prison.
"Nay," said Tyrrell, watching Tom Keeper's departure. "Nay, I don't
have mind I'll watch."
o—o—o
Evening lay across Compassion Prison like a blanket. The sun had shifted
out of view long ago; now the prison was lit only by the darkening sky
– as deep a blue as the guards' uniforms – and by the harsh electric light
that poured in through the gate.
Standing at the gate, Tyrrell cast a quick look at the three lads near
him. None of them were taking any notice of his presence. They seemed as
absorbed in conversation as they had been earlier in the day, and from
the lightness of their manner, one would think that nothing had occurred
to disrupt the day. The only sign of discomfort was the goose-pimples on
Jahnsen's naked skin as the evening cool seeped into the prison.
Jahnsen's thoughts, though, seemed to be on a different matter entirely.
"You shouldn't have put a dirty cloth on your leg, Olumbo," he said.
"It will only make it worse."
The dark-haired lad glanced down at the rag. "It doesn't matter. The
bullet only grazed me."
"Let me see." The monkey-faced lad, Babaqi, fell down on his knees and
began carefully unwrapping the rag.
As he did so, Olumbo asked him, "What did Ahiga want to question you
about, Babaqi? That's the fourth time he's pulled you aside since you arrived."
Babaqi shrugged. "Nothing, really. He keeps forgetting that he's already
interrogated me."
Jahnsen frowned. "Ahiga isn't the sort to forget people."
"Why should he remember me? I'm not important to him."
The fierceness of Babaqi's reply caused the other two lads to exchange
looks. Scrutinizing Olumbo's wound, Babaqi added, "Your leg looks
all right."
"As I said." Olumbo waved his hand in a careless manner, turning the
conversation back to the place where it had been before. "Anyway, where
could I get a clean bandage from?"
"From Ngugi," Jahnsen replied. "He'll give one to an unclaimed lad,
if you ask nicely. A new medicine kit was brought in with today's rations
– I saw it."
Olumbo shrugged, turning his attention to the guards as he tapped his
fingers on the bars. "Maybe in three days, when our ousting is done."
There was a small silence. Babaqi started to say something, and then
ducked his head, tying the bandage back on.
Jahnsen said, "It could be a matter of life or death—"
"So's our vow. Let's not argue. You know you'd do the same if it was
me who'd been ousted." Olumbo gripped the bars of the gate, frowning as
he stared out at the guards. "Gods, I hope I'm not picked again. I've drawn
a black straw three times this week; the odds are against me."
"Maybe one of us will get Starke," suggested Babaqi, rising to his feet.
"I've heard that he gives his lads supper beforehand. And he gives you
silver pot-herb to chew so that it doesn't hurt as much when he enters,
and he never hits you or yells at you, and he lets you sleep in the bed
afterwards—"
"I had Starke once." Jahnsen leaned his forehead against his forearm,
which was resting on one of the crossbars of the gate; his face was hidden
from view. "The first man I ever had, two days after my arrival here. When
I told him I was a virgin and begged him not to rape me, he gave me a long
speech about how beautiful lovemaking is, and how I shouldn't be ashamed
of my desires. . . . I'd much rather have Landry. I prefer brutality that
doesn't disguise itself as something else."
"Well, you won't have Starke again." Olumbo slammed his hands against
the bars as he turned away from the gate. "He never picks the same lad
twice."
"I'd still rather have him," Babaqi argued. "At least he tells you what
he wants you to do. Some of the guards try to make you guess, I've heard.
That's much too confusing."
Olumbo flashed him a smile. "You won't have any of the guards, the way
you're going. Two months here, and you haven't drawn the black straw once."
Babaqi ducked his head again, biting his lip. Without moving his gaze,
Jahnsen said, "Don't prick him, Olumbo. He hasn't been claimed by a guard
yet, but he's eating the same food we are, wearing the same clothes we
are. His chances of surviving in this prison are no better than ours."
"I ate better than you did today," Babaqi said in a small voice. "I
shouldn't have eaten from that extra tin. Ahiga gave it to Olumbo, not
me."
"And Olumbo gave it to you. It's only a three-day ousting, Babaqi. Olumbo
and I won't starve." Jahnsen finally pushed himself back from the gate.
"Hark, here comes Hell's messenger."
Tyrrell turned to look. Walker, trailed by a number of his men and lads,
was making his way slowly through the unclaimed lads' territory, pausing
in front of each lad and offering him something. Afterwards, he would either
pass immediately on to a new lad, or else he would push the lad, not gently,
in the direction of the gate. The lads would go in the direction they were
pushed, either grumbling or silent.
Looking around, Tyrrell saw that an exodus had taken place by the area
of the gate; the only lads there now, other than the three next to him,
were the ones that were being pushed there by Walker.
Neither Jahnsen nor Olumbo moved from their spot. Babaqi looked as though
he wanted to, but at that moment Walker sighted him and came forward. He
silently offered Babaqi his fist.
Babaqi carefully drew one of the straws from the proffered fist. The
hidden part of the straw was the same color as the rest. Babaqi breathed
out a long sigh.
"Your luck holds," commented Olumbo and reached out to take his own
straw. It emerged from the fist; its hidden part was dusty black.
"Fuck!" shouted Olumbo, stomping his right foot. "Drill! Hell-damn!"
Frowning, Walker gave him an unnecessary shove that forced him up against
the bars. Then the true man turned to Jahnsen.
Jahnsen looked at Walker's fist without moving. "I'm ousted," he said.
"I'm not a member of the Tribe of Compassion Prison at the moment, according
to Ahiga. Why should I follow tribal customs while I'm ousted?"
Walker said nothing; his fist did not waver. His men and lads stood
silently behind him, wristlets as black as dried blood.
After a while, Jahnsen gave a quirk of a smile. "Oh, well. Better that
I draw the black straw than that a new lad should. At least I already know
what all the guards like." He pulled a straw. It emerged black. Jahnsen
turned back toward the gate without speaking.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck." Olumbo did not appear to be the sort to take misfortune
well; he was slapping his hands over and over against the crossbar. "I've
already been claimed twice this month. I'm hell-damned if I'm going to
let myself be claimed again."
"It's your good looks," suggested Babaqi with an uneasy laugh. "It makes
you irresistible."
"Well, then, you'll never—"
Olumbo broke off abruptly. Jahnsen said "Comrade" softly to him, but
it was too late. Babaqi's skin – of an indeterminate light brown shade
that suggested he was of mixed blood – had flooded red. The monkey-faced
lad turned his face away; his chin was quivering.
"That was really, really, really stupid of me," said Olumbo slowly.
"Babaqi, I'm sorry."
"It's all right." Babaqi's voice shook. "I know I'll never be claimed.
I mean, who would want me anyway? I don't have any gifts, not like Davidson."
Jahnsen placed his arm across the shoulders of his fellow lad. "You
have a warm heart," he said quietly. "You'll find a man who values that."
Babaqi wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "The odds are against
me, anyway. How many of us are there? One thousand? Two? And there are
so few men to claim us. You've been here for years, and you're still unclaimed—"
"By my own choice. I've had offers." Jahnsen released Babaqi and gave
him a gentle push. "You'd better get out of view. It's almost time for
the claiming, and you know that the guards don't care whether you have
a black straw or not. They'd even claim a man, if he was standing in front
of the gate at claiming time." For the briefest of seconds, his glance
flicked toward Tyrrell; then Jahnsen turned back toward the gate.
Taking the hint, Tyrrell turned away. He did not follow Babaqi, though,
who was making his way toward the back of the unclaimed lads' area, beyond
where Ahiga's watch-hounds were beginning to gather a few yards away. Instead,
Tyrrell stepped into the small area just to the right of the gate, where
a final bit of the south wall met the west wall. The south wall protected
him from the guards' sight, but he could still see the lads gathering at
the gate, some continuing to clutch their black straws.
The cluster of hounds was beginning to settle into a line now – a line
that curved in a semi-circle around the area nearest the gate, with each
end of the line meeting a wall. The hounds had spears in hand, but they
appeared relaxed, as though they were not expecting any trouble. Several
of them were chatting with the unclaimed lads who had drawn unmarked straws
and who were now watching the proceedings from a safe distance, behind
the hounds.
A head poked through the crowd there: Pickens, who had left Tyrrell
earlier in order to make one of his periodic checks as to whether Hosobuchi
required his service. He glanced briefly toward the gate but evidently
did not see Tyrrell in the shadowed corner next to the gate, for he turned
away.
Tyrrell was beginning to feel as though he had entered a magazine chamber
in the moment before someone dropped a match on the gunpowder. He took
a step away from the corner and then froze as Olumbo said, "Here they go.
Pray to the gods that they don't want us."
The lads standing at the gate, who had been exchanging words, fell silent.
There were about two dozen of them – just enough to make a tight line across
the length of the wide gate. Tyrrell moved closer into his corner, until
all the lads merged in his sight, and then he peered cautiously around
the corner toward the guards.
The guards were in the midst of standing up, stretching themselves.
Tossing a cigarette onto the floor and grinding it under his heel, Starke
said, "I'm off."
"After the claiming," Pugh replied tersely.
"Keeper's expecting me."
"Not this evening; he's leaving for town in a while. He gave me the
key." Pugh took something out of his vest pocket; it glittered in the light
before Pugh placed it back in his vest.
Starke pulled a silver case out from the inside of his jacket, opened
it, pulled out a wrapped object no bigger than a knuckle, and tapped the
object on the case before saying, "So let me through the riot doors now.
It's not my turn for a claiming."
"I need you at the guns. —Don't waste my time arguing, Starke," Pugh
added as the other guard opened his mouth. "You're off-duty early only
on the days when Keeper says you are."
Starke shrugged and returned the object to its silver case. He slipped
the case back into his jacket.
"Keeper's lad," said Niesely with something approaching a whine. "How
do you enjoy serving your man?"
Starke glanced at Niesely, then away. "Pugh, how in Hell's name do some
of these guards get hired? They wouldn't have lasted five seconds doing
prison duty here in the years before the riot."
"Conceited and spoiled," agreed Landry. He had already made his way
up to the gunners' post and was leaning over the parapet. "They spend all
day chatting about polo championships, and they think they've done a day's
work."
Niesely's face had turned white. "Look at me when you insult me, Starke,"
he said in a rough voice.
"Why bother?" Starke replied, walking toward the stairway to the right
of the guards' post. "Pugh, keep him out of my path, will you? I have enough
problems without having ninnies nagging at me."
"You—!" Niesely took a step toward Starke, but was hauled up short by
Pugh, who grabbed his collar.
"No fighting," Pugh said.
"You heard what he called me!" Twisting free, Niesely turned toward
Pugh, his hands clenched by his sides.
"I heard. And he's right; you're being a ninny. 'Keeper's lad' indeed."
Pugh's voice lost its usual tone of indifference. "I wish that just once
you'd think twice before speaking – or at least learn to count."
"Learn to count?" Niesely was appearing uneasy now.
"Count years," inserted one of the other guards. "Tom Keeper was twelve
when he first came to Compassion. Starke is five years older than him.
Who do you think it was that taught Keeper to shoot, when he was a boy?
Or to use a whip and a dagger? —Starke's right, Pugh. These newer guards
have mush for minds."
There was a grumbling among most of the guards – the newer guards, at
a guess. Pugh shrugged. "I don't have charge over hirings. I make do with
what I'm given." He looked over at Niesely.
After a moment, Niesely opted to give a rueful smile. "All right, I
can't count. But what's with all those visits to Keeper's office? Tell
me that."
"Starke?" Pugh raised his head to look at the other guard, who had just
reached his post. "Niesely wants to trade with you. He wants to spend time
with Keeper."
"He's welcome to take my place," said Starke, who was busy loading bullets
into a spare magazine. "Fifty lines. Make sure you have them memorized
by tomorrow evening."
"Fifty lines?" Niesely squinted up at Starke, suspicion written across
his face.
"From the Eternal Dungeon's ethical code." Starke paused to pick up
and wave a black volume. "He's having me memorize the whole bloody book
– eighty pages in all. So, do you want to be Keeper's favored lad, Niesely?
That's how he treats guards with 'potential,' as he puts it." Starke swung
into his seat. "I'm sick of this. Let's get the claiming over with."
"I agree." Pugh spoke briskly. "Medinger?" He looked up at the balcony,
where Medinger had just walked into view.
"Pass," replied the guard, leaning onto the balcony railing.
There was light laughter from the other guards. One of them said, "And
you'll keep passing till the magisterial seats send us female prisoners."
"I know that you're not interested in claiming a lad," Pugh said in
an annoyed voice. "You're not eligible, anyway. I'm asking about Keeper.
It's his turn."
Medinger shook his head. "Our Keeper is passing as well. He's already
left for town – didn't you hear the riot doors ring the alarm half an hour
ago? He left when I came in from the auxiliary wing."
"What in Hell's name is wrong with Tom Keeper?" asked one of the guards,
to nobody in particular. "Is he planning to act like a lovelorn man for
the rest of his life?"
"He'll recover," said Pugh. "Whose turn is it next?"
"Yours, as you very well know," said Landry. "I don't think you've forgotten
that you're second in rank here."
"Maybe we should wait until the rest of the night watch arrives," suggested
another guard.
"They're not eligible to claim," said someone else. "They're on duty
during claiming hours."
"Yes, but they always seem to arrive for duty at the same moment that
the lad is brought out for his claiming. If we waited till they entered
the outbuildings, then we wouldn't have the riot doors screeching just
when the taking starts. The first few minutes are always the best."
"If you think I'm going to take a lad in front of you lot, you're mad,"
rejoined Pugh. "I don't put on performances. Medinger, is the claiming
room clean? It was a pigsty the last time I used it."
"Bed-sheets were changed today," said Medinger, his voice clipped short.
"New toiletries as well. And Keeper told me to remind everyone that this
prison's regulations require the use of a sheath whenever there is penetration—"
The rest of what he said was lost in loud laughter that came from the
other guards. His voice rising above the others, Landry said, "Fifteen
drilling years he's been going on about that. It's like living with a schoolmarm."
"Oh?" said Medinger. "Well, you're welcome to drill naked if you like,
Landry. What's the name of that lad whom Chambers gave the Damnation to,
a few weeks before Chambers died?"
The laughter cut off abruptly. Starke, who had lit another cigarette,
smiled as he said, "Medinger, you're wasted as Keeper's orderly. You should
be in the army. They need soldiers who can shoot straight into the belly."
"The issue is moot." Pugh's voice had returned to his usual tone of
boredom. "I always use a sheath. I wouldn't trust myself inside one of
those filthy lads otherwise. Landry, are you and Starke ready?"
"Ready and willing," replied Landry, pulling himself back from the parapet
in order to take hold of his machine rifle.
"Medinger, take charge of the switch."
Medinger remained motionless. "I'm on the night watch. I don't take
orders from you, Pugh."
Pugh muttered something under his breath, and then said, "Niesely."
"On my way." Niesely mounted the right-hand stairway, taking two steps
at a time. Pugh turned his head toward the gate.
Tyrrell ducked back in the brief second before Pugh's gaze swung in
his direction. He looked over at the unclaimed lads. He could only see
the one closest to him, an older lad with lines of experience on his face.
The lad's expression was set, but his hands were white-knuckled on the
bars.
"You." It was Pugh's voice, flat. "The one with the rag on your leg."
"No!"
Olumbo's shout of rage was overwhelmed by the scream of the gate alarm.
The other lads scurried back, leaving an open space next to the gate that
was filled now only with two prisoners: Olumbo, who was shaking his head
over and over, and Jahnsen, who had his hands on Olumbo's arms as he spoke
to the other lad.
Whatever he was saying, it was not reaching his mate. "No!" shouted
Olumbo, so loudly that he could be heard over the alarm. "I won't do it
again! Not with Pugh!" He pulled himself away from Jahnsen at the same
moment that the alarm ended, taking a dozen rapid steps away from the gate.
"Wild lad!" The shout came from Ahiga, somewhere beyond Tyrrell's view.
"All back! All ba—!"
The rest of his words were broken off by the sound of machine-rifle
fire as bullets blazed thick into the prison.
Tyrrell, who had just been craning his neck round the corner to see
how Pugh was taking the rejection, flung himself back against the west
wall of the prison, his heart pounding against his chest like a bully.
There were shouts and screams from the lads who had not moved quickly enough
at the sound of Ahiga's warning. Jahnsen, who was closest to the gate,
hurled himself rolling to the side, narrowly avoiding the spate of bullets.
A second round of firing began, which Tyrrell suspected would have sliced
Jahnsen open, but in the short space before the bullets thundered forth,
Ahiga ran forward, pulled the lad off the ground, and flung him into the
arms of Hosobuchi, who was waiting nearby. Hosobuchi dragged Jahnsen back
to the line of watch-hounds just as Ahiga dived for safety.
The bullets churned up sawdust where Ahiga had been a moment before.
There was another scream, and a lad who was in the mob that was struggling
to reach safety suddenly tripped. Or so Tyrrell thought, but once down,
the lad remained down, motionless.
The other lads had reached safety now – all but Olumbo. While the watch-hounds
had allowed the other unclaimed lads to surge past them, they were holding
Olumbo back at spear-point. Ahiga shouted something, and the hounds stepped
back in unison for a yard or two, taking Olumbo past the point where old
bullet-holes riddled the floor. Beyond that point, though, Olumbo was not
permitted to go.
"Enough, lad." The voice was Valdis's, and it was cold. "You've caused
enough fuss. Let Pugh have you."
"No!" There were sobs in Olumbo's voice now. Over at the east end of
the gate, Jahnsen was struggling in Hosobuchi's arms, evidently trying
to reach his mate, but the greater man held him fast.
"They're coming," someone said. "Mercy save him."
"Tyrrell!" said Ahiga sharply. "Come over here, man. You are not in
the right place to be."
"I'd figured that out on my own," muttered Tyrrell, but he did not move.
Poking his head around the corner again to check whether the gunfire was
over, he had seen a sight he liked not at all: Starke and Landry coming
down the stairs with rifles in hand – not the machine rifles, for these
rifles had fixed bayonets. There was no way that Tyrrell was going to run
across that empty stretch of ground now and chance being seen by the trigger-loving
gunners.
Olumbo looked over his shoulder. Seeing what was coming, he made another,
futile effort to race past the hounds. They continued to block his path
with their spears.
"Olumbo, you are placing in danger the tribe." The calmness in Ahiga's
voice contrasted starkly with the restlessness of the prisoners. A number
of them evidently shared Ahiga's assessment of the situation, for most
of the onlookers had moved further back, leaving only the watch-hounds,
the true men, Jahnsen, and a handful of men and lads who were apparently
too interested in the outcome of this contest to fear the firepower of
the oncoming guns.
"Fight them!" screamed Olumbo at the top of his lungs at the hounds.
"Don't fight me, fight the guards!"
"They have guns, we do not." Ahiga's voice turned as cold as Valdis's
had been. "One lad has already been shot because of your cowardice. Would
you have other tribe members suffer too?"
With a loud sob, Olumbo flung himself away from the hounds. He started
toward the gate, and then, like Ahiga, he dived, just missing the bullets
that buried themselves in the prison floor.
"By all that is sacred, Starke." Pugh sounded mildly annoyed. "Watch
your aim. I don't want to spend the night with a lad who's been plugged
full of holes."
"Warning shots aren't as easy to aim as you might think, Pugh." Starke's
reply was matter-of-fact.
"So I gather. Who's responsible for that lad who's bleeding over there?"
"Me." Landry sounded miffed. "You can put the demerits on my report
afterwards. We've got a wide-open gate here. Pull in your lad so that we
can get the gate closed."
His words were spoken low enough that Tyrrell suspected that the only
witness to them was himself . . . and Olumbo, whose shoulder was now pressed
hard against Tyrrell's, sharing his corner. Tyrrell dared not look his
way; his eye was on the open gate. From the sound of the voices, the guards
were coming closer.
"The lad is just inside the gate, Pugh." It was Starke; his voice had
gone quieter. "He's going to try to slip out the minute we enter."
"Medinger!" Pugh called.
"I'm not on your watch." Medinger's tone of disgust was clear, even
though his voice came faint from the balcony.
"You are now; I have control over the prison when Keeper is away. Take
Starke's post. Shoot any prisoner who tries to escape."
Silence followed. Tyrrell risked a look at Olumbo; the lad's eyes were
closed, and his face was tilted toward heaven. He was whispering prayers
under his breath.
"All right, I'm ready." Medinger's voice held the scorn of a man required
to undertake a distasteful duty.
"Is the change lever off the safe position?" asked Pugh.
"Pugh, I'm certified as a gunner. You aren't. Don't try to teach me
my job." The disgust in Medinger's voice deepened.
"Olumbo!" From across the prison, Jahnsen's voice came soft. "They're
still several yards away. Just put your hands behind your head and step
forward. They won't hurt you if you surrender."
Olumbo shook his head. Tears were streaming down his sweat-covered face
now, like water over the dark earth of a stream-bed, and every breath he
took shuddered. Looking at him, Tyrrell said in a low tone, "Er . . . Is
there anything I can do to help?"
At that moment, the electric lights, following whatever timer had turned
them on at dawn, suddenly went out, leaving the prison lit only by dusk-light
and by the faint lights from under the guards' post. Olumbo's pupils, widening
enormously within his eyes, seemed to take Tyrrell in for the first time.
After a moment, he said in a shaking voice, "Stay out of the way, sir.
This is between me and Pugh."
"And two bloody great guns," Tyrrell pointed out, but Olumbo was no
longer listening. He was breathing heavily now, like a stag brought to
bay by hounds, and his eyes were darting back and forth.
Suddenly he seemed to make up his mind. Ignoring the open gate, he turned
and ran straight back, following the line of the wall, in the direction
of the not-quite-closed semi-circle of watch-hounds.
"Turn him!" shouted Ahiga. The nearest hounds, who had seemed too startled
to move a moment before, immediately flung themselves sideways to block
the lad's path. Nearly impaling himself on one of the spears, Olumbo turned
his path toward the right, ran a few yards, and tried again, but once more
the spears barred his way.
The rest of Tyrrell's vision of the hunt was blocked, for at that moment,
a bayoneted rifle, turning round the corner, found its resting place on
his breastbone.
He ceased to breathe. Making his way round the corner in the wake of
his gun, Starke gave Tyrrell a pleasant smile. "Well, well," he said softly.
"So your reputation is correct. You do seem to have a talent for
getting involved in trouble-making."
"Starke!" Pugh's voice was sharp as he stepped through the gate, followed
closely by Landry. "Leave that prisoner alone. The lad's over on this side."
"And Tyrrell Cutter will be behind your back the moment you walk toward
the lad," Starke said. "Permission to put my bayonet through his guts,
so he won't bother you?"
Tyrrell's body turned so chilled that it was as though he had just been
buried in a stone-cold tomb. Glancing over his shoulder, Pugh said, "Starke,
you pick the strangest moments to engage in light-hearted play. We're inside
Compassion Prison. Remember what that means. And remember that I've given
you an order."
"Yes, sir." Starke withdrew his bayonet . . . slowly, drawing it up
the line of Tyrrell's chest. Tyrrell heard the cloth of his undervest tear
under the blade; the blade burnt his skin as though it were a torch. "You
needn't worry, Pugh. This prisoner won't bother us. Will you?" he said
softly, his bayonet now touching Tyrrell's throat.
Tyrrell could not breathe, much less speak. Starke gave a nod, apparently
of satisfaction, and withdrew his rifle, turning to join Pugh. Tyrrell
began to take a step forward – not to attack Starke, but to get the hell
out of this situation. Just in time, he remembered Medinger at the machine
rifle, ready to press his finger to the trigger the moment he saw any prisoner
next to the gate. Tyrrell carefully flattened himself back into the corner
and waited.
Olumbo had by now run halfway round the semi-circle, seeking fruitlessly
an opening in the spear-pointed barrier. Jahnsen, who was standing near
the south wall, continued to struggle to free himself from Hosobuchi's
grip. Farnam stood in the northern portion of the semi-circle, in urgent
consultation with Ngugi, who tried to take a step toward the lad lying
motionless on the empty ground. He halted abruptly when Starke, catching
up with the other two guards, turned his rifle toward the claimed man in
a warning manner. His face grim, Farnam pulled Ngugi back to safety.
The gunners had fallen back somewhat from Pugh, their rifles moving
slowly to point around the semi-circle, though none of the prisoners watching
appeared inclined to interfere. Pugh had now stepped within a couple of
yards of Olumbo, who had his back to the guards; Pugh's hand fell to his
belt. Tyrrell wondered fleetingly whether the day-watch supervisor was
planning to use his dagger against Olumbo, but it was Pugh's left hand
that had moved, and it was Pugh's left hand that flung a lash in a crack
that echoed through the prison.
Olumbo screamed as the whip met his bare flesh. The watch-hound in front
of him took a hasty step back as the unclaimed lad toppled to the ground.
Olumbo struggled to rise onto his hands and knees. The lash, blurring
through air, landed on his back again; this time Olumbo managed to swallow
his scream into a grunt. His body, turned by the force of the lash, toppled
over, leaving him on his back, his front vulnerable. Pugh raised his whip.
"No," whispered Tyrrell, his heart pounding hard. "Mercy above, no."
Without thinking, he took a step toward the guards. Starke, who seemed
to have the eyes of a raptor, swung round immediately to aim his rifle
at Tyrrell.
At that moment, a scream, beyond which Tyrrell had heard for fifteen
years, split the air. The last time he had heard that scream was on the
only occasion on which a Mercy guard had landed his lash on the front torso
of a prisoner.
The scream ended in sobs – dull sobs, as though Olumbo were barely conscious.
In his horribly indifferent tone, Pugh said, "Stand up."
For a moment, the lad remained motionless on the ground, and Pugh's
hand tightened on his whip. Then the hound nearest Olumbo, who had been
watching Ahiga all this while, handed his spear to the hound next to him
and knelt down to help Olumbo to his feet. Even from where Tyrrell stood,
he could see the blood dripping from the whip-line, which travelled full
across Olumbo's chest, slicing the right nipple.
Olumbo stumbled as the hound released him, almost falling to his knees.
The cloth around his leg had slipped off, and the wound-line of Keeper's
ricocheted bullet could be seen clearly. Pugh asked, "Are you going to
give me any more trouble?"
Olumbo did not immediately reply. Sobs were still travelling out of
his throat, yet his hands tightened into fists, as though he were planning
to throw himself against Pugh in a final battle. Pugh, who had been about
to coil up the whip, simply let the length of the lash fall to the ground.
He began to pull back his arm.
"I surrender, sir." Olumbo's voice, barely audible, trembled upon the
words.
Pugh said nothing; he merely beckoned the gunners forward. His eyes
narrowed, Starke was still turning his rifle this way and that, as though
he expected an attack at any moment. Landry, though, came forward and grasped
Olumbo's arm, so tightly that the lad gasped. Landry pulled the lad forward,
following in Pugh's wake as Olumbo stumbled his way across the floor.
Tyrrell had flattened himself against the west wall again, but neither
the guards nor their victim took any notice of him. The moment they were
through the gate, the gate began to rumble closed; Medinger had evidently
had his hand on the switch.
Even before the gate had fully closed, Ngugi began to run fearlessly
forward. Farnam was at his heels; the two of them dropped to their knees
beside the lad lying face-down on the ground. After a short inspection,
Ngugi shook his head and sat back on his heels.
Farnam slowly rose to his feet. Pushing his glasses back up the bridge
of his nose, he sighed and said to the onlookers, "Does anyone know what
his preference was?"
"Conrad was uninitiated." Now released by Hosobuchi, Jahnsen remained
motionless. "He only arrived here five days ago."
Farnam sighed again. "Very well; we'll give his body over to the guards
in the morning. Walker, you can care for the lad in the meantime. . . ."
Tyrrell glanced round the corner, peering through the bars. Pugh and
his lad-for-the-night were nowhere in sight; Landry was shouting something
after them about how Pugh should be sure to let the day watch out of the
outbuildings before taking his pleasure. A small bell chimed in the distance,
like a grandfather clock. A guard said, "Here's the night watch come, right
at claiming time. I swear, they time their arrival each evening to interrupt
our fun."
"There's nothing to look at anyway," Landry responded grumpily.
Starke said nothing; he had taken both his rifle and Landry's, and now
he moved eastward toward the riot doors, though the other guards remained
at their post, evidently awaiting the night guards' arrival.
"Lock-down, Medinger!" Pugh shouted distantly.
There was no response from Medinger, but a familiar groaning clank began.
After a minute, the great shield-wall that Tyrrell had seen that morning
lowered itself down until it landed in front of the gate with a thud that
vibrated under Tyrrell's feet.
Faintly, Tyrrell heard the sound of the riot doors' alarm, but it was
a whisper in the distance, travelling down from the top of the prison,
and the guards' voices had disappeared altogether. With the shield lowered,
the light from the guards' post was lost; the prison turned dusk-dark,
grey as a corpse's binding cloth.
Tyrrell turned back and saw that most of the watch-hounds had moved
away. Unclaimed lads were beginning to drift back into the space they had
occupied before, some of them silently watching, at a suitable distance,
as one of Walker's men placed the dead lad in the true man's arms. The
watch-hound who had first blocked Olumbo's flight to safety, and then had
helped Olumbo to his feet when he fell, was watching the proceedings; he
glanced up as Tyrrell came over to stand beside him.
All that Tyrrell could think to say was, "Why?"
"Why didn't we have battle at the guards?" As he spoke, Pickens returned
his gaze to Walker, who was now carrying the lad's corpse toward the back
of the prison in the stately rhythm of a funeral march.
"Nay, I know the answer to that. I've seen one member of your old tribe
hold back my entire tribe – and he had only a revolver, not a machine rifle.
But why didn't you help the lad escape to the back of the prison? The guards
were nervous about just entering this far into the prison; if you'd hidden
the lad further back . . ."
"Do you crave in truth to be knowing the answer to that?" The claimed
lad turned away finally from Walker's procession, which had been swallowed
out of sight by the crowd.
"Aye."
"Two dozen prisoners drawn from here. They were lined up outside and
ordered to be shot in the heads at point-blank range, each killing with
a minute's notice, so that we would have time to surrender the lad. . .
. We surrendered the lad after the eighth prisoner died; the ninth victim
would have been Valdis's Second Lad. After that, none of us were yielded
any food for a week; another dozen prisoners, who had already been close
on starvation, died during that time. Since then, Ahiga hasn't let any
wild lad escape to the back of the prison."
Tyrrell was silent a long while before he said, "Mercy's guards, they
never let any prisoner die, not if he can be stayed alive by any means.
I'm figuring 'tis different here."
"Aye, 'tis different here." Pickens's voice sounded dull; he kneaded
the back of his neck, as though it ached. "Mind, this was during Keeper's
father's time; Tom Keeper himself seems to be liking to have his prisoners
alive for as long as it may be. But yet, if we stayed a lad back, Keeper
would punish us, for sure; he used to punish his own lad, whenever the
lad refused to be claimed."
Tyrrell could not speak in the next moment; his stomach had suddenly
roiled up as though a storm had set sea waves stirring within it. Finally
he said, "Near this time?"
"Nay, this was a ways back. He hasn't claimed a lad since . . . Oh,
with one exception, it was well before my time."
"The folly of youth, it may be?" Tyrrell knew that his voice sounded
strained, even before Pickens turned to give him a puzzled look.
"You've been having battle in defense of Keeper since you arrived,"
the lad said. "You were knowing him well at Mercy, I have mind?"
"Nay, only by repute," Tyrrell was able to say truthfully. "He had a
good repute in those days. Never raped a prisoner, rarely beat a prisoner
. . ."
Pickens shrugged, evidently losing interest. "It doesn't matter whether
you kill a man yourself, if you let others under your hire do it."
"Aye," said Tyrrell, slowly and heavily. "Aye."
He let Pickens guide him toward the step dividing the unclaimed lads'
territory from the little men's territory. As he did so, though, he turned
his head to look at a lad they were approaching.
Jahnsen showed no sign that anything had passed during the final minutes
of the day; he was sitting on the floor cross-legged, fingering something
in his lap in a nonchalant manner. As Tyrrell stepped past him, though,
the lad looked up, and his gaze met Tyrrell's as though he expected the
little man to speak.
Then Pickens's hand on Tyrrell's back took them past the unclaimed lad.
Jahnsen looked down at his lap again, fingering the bloody cloth that Olumbo
had worn.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Hell's Messenger #3
INITIATION
The year 400, the third month. (The year 1895 Barley by the Old Calendar.)
"Do you know what the League [a system of self-government byprisoners] has done? Let me tell you. It has started the [prisoners] discussingthe right and wrongs of things, every day, from one end of the yard tothe other."
—A prisoner at Sing Sing Prison, as quoted by Thomas Mott Osborne:
Society and Prisons (1916).
CHAPTER ONE
On the night after his fellow prisoner Olumbo was forced to submit to
one of the rapist-guards, Tyrrell had trouble sleeping. This was undoubtedly
what saved him.
He lay awake for a long time, staring up at the beam that crossed the
base of the dome over the prison, his thoughts wandering. It was not the
hard, cold floor he slept on that kept him awake. Nor was he kept awake
by the many sounds surrounding him in the single cell of Compassion Life
Prison: snores, soft sobs, breathy laughs, and the occasional, muffled
sound of a prisoner being drilled. All this he was familiar with from his
twenty years in Mercy Life Prison.
What kept him awake instead was an attempt to make sense of what he
had seen during his first day at Compassion.
He was no longer worried that his role at Compassion would be to play
stool-pigeon. It seemed unlikely now that he would ever be able to give
a report to Tom Keeper. Compassion's Keeper must have gambled on Tyrrell
losing his bid to become a "man" in the tribe of Compassion's prisoners.
If Tyrrell had been declared a "lad," a prisoner who served the "men" and
guards of Compassion, Keeper could have pretended to claim him in order
to exchange words with him. But as a man, Tyrrell would never leave the
walls of the prison where no guard came except to claim a lad, and he could
think of no way to converse with Keeper from where he was. Keeper dared
not come within more than shouting distance of the prison, given the prisoners'
anger against him.
And was the prisoners' anger justified? Tyrrell frowned, moving to his
side in an attempt to find a more comfortable sleeping position. With only
one blanket and no shirt, he had not had many options for bedding. He had
finally taken off his trousers and leather boots, rolled his trousers round
the boots, and used the soft portion of the resulting cushion as a head-pillow.
Then he rolled himself up in the blanket. His precious water bladder he
kept within the blanket.
Lack of water, lack of food, lack of medicine, lack of heat, lack of
clothing, lack of sleeping cells . . . Decent order and sanitary conditions
only because of the efforts of the "true men" who led their fellow prisoners.
Most importantly, an appalling mortality rate directly caused by the conditions
that the prisoners were placed under.
Did Keeper know all this? If he did, why bother to tell Tyrrell that
he wanted to help the prisoners, when Tyrrell would learn the truth the
moment he entered the prison?
No, the more he thought about it, the more he was sure that Keeper was
ignorant of what was taking place here. Tyrrell thought again of the human
skull fragment, flung at Keeper by one of the prisoners, and ignored by
Keeper. Tyrrell felt the uneasiness grow within him.
He sighed as he curled up his blanketed legs against his body in an
attempt to stay warm against the early spring chill. The gods knew that
he had more than Keeper to worry about. There was the matter of the conspiracy
among the unclaimed lads, the lads who had not been claimed by a "man,"
though they might be claimed by any guard who lusted after them. Tyrrell
had lost all doubts he might have had about the existence of a conspiracy
at the moment he had heard Jahnsen address his mate Olumbo as "comrade."
Comrade. Probably the word was harmless enough to use in public here.
A companion, a mate, a friend . . . that was all the word meant to most
people.
But Tyrrell's father had been a member of the Commoners' Guild, back
in the days when the guild was still illegal in the Magisterial Republic
of Mip. It was from his father that Tyrrell had received his first lessons
in how to conduct an underground movement – lessons that he would eventually
put to use at Mercy Prison. And so Tyrrell knew that, in the old days,
"comrade" had been the word that members of the Commoners' Guild used to
identify each other. "Fellow soldier," the word meant to guild members
– soldiers in the fight against the elite.
Therefore, Jahnsen conceived of himself and of at least one other unclaimed
lad – Olumbo – as being in a fight against the elite. Against the guards
who raped the unclaimed lads? If so, why were the unclaimed lads hiding
their battle from the men and their claimed lads?
Tyrrell moved restlessly onto his back, not bothering to extract his
arms from the blankets. He stroked the water bladder with the fingers of
his right hand as he tried to think. He remembered the conversation between
Jahnsen and Ahiga, and he recalled Ahiga's careful questioning afterwards
of Babaqi, friend to Jahnsen and Olumbo. Ahiga was the true man in charge
of prison discipline – had he guessed at the existence of a conspiracy?
It was hard to believe that an Ammippian, a member of a race that was trained
at hunting from early childhood, should have missed something that was
obvious enough to catch Tyrrell's eye. But if Ahiga knew of the conspiracy,
what sort of subtle game was he playing with Jahnsen? For if he knew of
the conspiracy and disapproved of it, he could easily arrest the leaders
and oust them from the prisoners' tribe. Since the tribe divvied up all
the food that the prisoners were given, the leaders of the unclaimed lads
would die of starvation. Ahiga could even order the conspirators' immediate
executions if he considered them dangerous enough. Instead, he seemed to
be waiting. Waiting for what?
Tyrrell bit his lip, trying to ignore the sounds of some prisoner nearby
beginning to gasp as he neared the zenith of his desire. Tyrrell knew that
he was avoiding the real question: the question of what sort of game Tom
Keeper was playing. For whether or not Keeper knew about conditions inside
the prison he supervised, he certainly knew about conditions outside the
prison. He knew of the brutal fashion in which his guards treated the prisoners.
If rumor was correct, he had brutalized prisoners himself, in the past.
How could a man who had inspired the Boundaries of Behavior that Tyrrell
had helped to promote at Mercy Prison, and who still appeared to revere
them, countenance such acts? In the old days, perhaps, being young and
knowing little of civilized customs in the outside world, he had allowed
himself to be tempted into following the older guards' lead; once he had
realized his mistake, perhaps he had been unable to persuade the other
guards to abandon Compassion's time-honored customs. But now that he held
the power of a Keeper, he could easily arrest the abusive guards and turn
them over to the magistrates for punishment. Instead, he seemed to be waiting.
Waiting for what?
At that moment, with only a whisper of a sound to provide warning, another
prisoner pounced on Tyrrell.
o—o—o
Cursing, Tyrrell struggled to escape his bonds – the bonds not merely
of his attacker, who was sprawled across Tyrrell's torso, but of the blanket
Tyrrell had carelessly wrapped around himself. Fortunately, it seemed that
the attacker could not do whatever he planned to do while Tyrrell was on
his back. The attacker rose momentarily to try to push Tyrrell onto his
stomach, and Tyrrell used that moment to push down the blankets and strike
out with his fists.
His legs were still tangled in the blankets, but it made no difference;
his fists lashed hard against the attacker's chest. The attacker, whimpering
in pain, scurried away.
Tyrrell spent precious moments pulling himself out of the remaining
cocoon of his blankets, and then stood up, looking around. He could see
no movement in the little men's area where he himself slept, and the only
movement in the greater men's area came from a couple of Ahiga's watch-hounds,
patrolling with spears in hand. In the unclaimed lads' area, though, he
caught sight of a flicker of movement, too far away to identify.
He sat down slowly. As he did so, he felt wetness touch his tailside.
Reaching out, he discovered that the attacker, when he brought his weight
down on Tyrrell, had evidently ripped open the water bladder in the process.
All the water was spilled now.
Tyrrell cursed briefly, and then he picked up his blanket to inspect
it. Much of it was wet now. Sighing, Tyrrell slipped his trousers back
on, along with his boots, and sat waiting. Some instinct, honed by years
of attacks by guards at Mercy Prison, told him that it would be better
not to fall asleep yet.
The next attack came a quarter hour later. He had time enough to see
that the second attacker also came from the unclaimed lads' territory;
then he was rolling over the wet ground with his attacker, trying to get
a grip on the lad.
This attacker had greater stamina and courage than the first, but he
too retreated in due time. Panting, Tyrrell looked around. He could see
no sign of any movement in the prison, except from Ahiga's watch-hounds.
It was time, he decided, to let his pride rest and seek help.
It was not hard to attract the attention of the nearest watch-hound;
the moment Tyrrell stepped over the border into the greater men's area,
the spear-bearing hound came forward to intercept him. "Stay in your own
area, please, sir," said the hound in a voice that made clear he was passing
on an order rather than issuing a request.
"I'm having some problems with lads attacking me," Tyrrell admitted,
massaging the back of his neck, which still had a bad crick in it from
the latest attack.
The hound looked him up and down before saying, "Yes, I imagine that
you are. Do you need a fellow lad to help you, then?"
Snickers broke out. Looking about, Tyrrell saw that the nearby men and
claimed lads – whom he had assumed had slept through the attacks – were
watching him, many of them grinning. Tyrrell felt his entire body grow
hot.
"No," he replied tersely to the hound. "I can handle it myself."
The hound nodded, adding, in a voice that sounded not unsympathetic,
"Good luck, sir."
"I could use more than luck," Tyrrell muttered under his breath as he
turned away. "I could use that bloody big spear you're holding."
A dozen more attacks came before dawn. By then, his body was a mass
of bruises, his throat was as dry as a wasteland, and he had stopped trying
to suppress his sobs. The only image his mind retained of the final attack
was of the attacker's stinking whammer entering his mouth as his attacker
said – with a sob that might have come from Tyrrell himself – "Surrender!
Surrender! Surrender!"
o—o—o
He slept until late morning. When he finally awoke, he felt as though
he had fallen four stories, from the top of the dome.
Someone had taken his blanket away while he slept – presumably the claimed
lads who kept watch over the prisons' blankets during the daytime. Tyrrell
managed to drag himself up and stumble to the privy. He had to wait twenty
minutes in the queue before he could enter the privy; he spent that time
examining his body. Every inch of his legs and arms and torso seemed to
be covered with blue and black bruises; he supposed he was lucky that he
had received no internal injuries during the night. But if he had to undergo
this every night . . .
Nava'i was on duty; when Tyrrell begged a bit of water from him to drink,
he gave Tyrrell a long look and then handed him the pitcher of water used
for washing hands. "Don't tell Farnam," he said.
Tyrrell took no more than a mouthful; the water was so foul that he
spit it out, but it served to wash out the taste of his final attacker.
Feeling somewhat better, he went in search of Pickens.
He found his new mate Pickens with Hosobuchi, and with Hosobuchi's younger
lad, Shuji. The man and his two claimed lads were sitting at the west end
of the greater men's territory, sharing a single water bladder between
the three of them. Tyrrell tried not to look too hard at the bladder as
he sat down beside them. Or rather, he semi-collapsed; his legs were beginning
to feel wobbly under the strain of his pain.
"Had a good night's rest?" enquired Hosobuchi.
Tyrrell narrowed his eyes with suspicion. The greater man could not
have possibly missed the signs of attack on his body. "I've had better.
Thirteen lads – no, fourteen – tried to rape me last night."
"Did any of them succeed?" Hosobuchi turned his head as he took the
bladder from Shuji.
Shuji seemed to be focussing his attention on the bladder; Pickens was
staring at the dome. Tyrrell ran his eyes for a long time over all three
of them before he said, "One. The last."
"And did you surrender to him?" Hosobuchi's mouth was hidden behind
the bladder now, but his eyes were watchful as he awaited Tyrrell's answer.
"No." Tyrrell tried to make his answer firm; it only sounded grating.
"I didn't surrender to him. I didn't surrender to any of them."
Hosobuchi's gaze flicked over to Pickens as he handed the bladder to
the lad. Pickens, turning his attention away from the dome, gave a slight
nod.
The significance of the exchange was not missed by Tyrrell. "You watched?"
he said to Pickens, his voice filled with horror. "You watched and did
nothing?"
"He watched on my orders," responded Hosobuchi before Pickens could
speak. "There needed to be an official witness. And as for the fact that
he did nothing . . . If you had needed someone to help defend you, then
you would have been no man. Is that what you wanted?"
Tyrrell narrowed his eyes again as he looked at Hosobuchi. "I lost the
last fight. Does that mean I lost my manhood?"
"You won the last fight," Hosobuchi corrected gently. "You refused to
surrender. A man who surrenders is no man. A man who is overcome in body
by the end of a hard night's fighting . . ." He shrugged. "That can happen
to the best of us. Who was the lad who succeeded in raping you?"
Tyrrell frowned, allowing his mind to drift back to unpleasant memories.
"The monkey-faced lad."
"Babaqi," Pickens inserted. "It wasn't much of a rape. He was still
soft when he entered Tyrrell."
"Ah, Babaqi." Hosobuchi, who was sitting on his usual metal pail, stretched
his legs out in a leisurely manner. "He has become increasingly desperate
as he has realized how small his chances are of being claimed. I would
claim him myself, if I could afford to."
"You and your stray puppies." Pickens smiled. "Sir, if you claimed every
lad who needed you, you'd be dividing our rations into a thousand parts."
"Which would not be fair to my present lads. So I must content myself
with feeding the two of you." Hosobuchi smiled, but his smile was directed
at Shuji. Pickens's smile faded.
Tyrrell turned his head back and forth, following the conversation.
"I must be missing something here. What does me being raped have to do
with a lad being claimed?"
"It is simple," said Hosobuchi, and once again Tyrrell could sense the
schoolmaster in him. "A prisoner, once he has been declared a lad, has
a limited number of ways to rise in rank. He may be claimed, and thus become
a man's claimed lad. If he is claimed, his man may eventually decide that
the lad has risen to his own manhood. Or the lad may fight a man and win
that man's manhood from him."
"I thought you said that it was death for a lad to attack a man," Tyrrell
said to Pickens.
"Normally it is," said Hosobuchi, as though Tyrrell had addressed him.
"But you are not yet initiated as a member of the tribe. It is not death
for a lad to attack someone from outside the tribe. By tradition, on his
first night's arrival, a new man must prove the worthiness of his manhood
by refusing to surrender it to any claimants of it. If you had surrendered
to Babaqi, you would have lost your manhood, and he would have received
your manhood through your surrender." Hosobuchi shrugged again. "Babaqi
does not have the courage to be a man. He showed that at his trial of strength,
when he first arrived at this prison. It was foolish of him to try again."
"But understandable, sir," inserted Pickens.
"But understandable. So . . ." Hosobuchi rose to his feet; as he did
so, Pickens and Shuji quickly followed suit. "You remain a man, and I doubt
you will have any unwelcome visitors tonight, having declined to surrender
to the one lad who succeeded in raping you after you had grown too tired
to hold off your attackers. And within the next day or so, you will be
initiated. After that, you will be safe – except from a challenge from
another man, of course, but none of us is safe from that. So it is just
a matter now of the punishment."
"Punishment?" Tyrrell was caught so off-guard that for a moment he thought
he was about to be punished for allowing himself to be raped.
"Of Babaqi," Hosobuchi explained. "The other lads you may punish as
well, if you wish, but . . ."
"Must I punish him?"
There was a long silence as Shuji and Pickens exchanged looks. Hosobuchi's
expression had turned impenetrable.
Picking his way carefully, Tyrrell added, "I don't believe in unnecessary
punishment. It seems to me that Babaqi has been punished already, by trying
and failing to rise in rank."
"Ah." Hosobuchi's muscles relaxed. "Your generous spirit is a credit
to you. But I fear that your rape was witnessed by more than one prisoner
here, and if you do not punish the lad who came so close to taking your
manhood from you . . ."
". . . then I am no man." Tyrrell rose slowly to his feet. His body
was still aching, and now the aching came from more than the punches and
kicks he had received on the previous night. "All right. If I must. But
he's not likely to stand still for the punishment."
"We shall see. Come." Hosobuchi turned and began leading the way toward
the front of the prison. Leaning down, Shuji snatched the handle of the
upturned pail that Hosobuchi had been sitting on. Pickens silently handed
Tyrrell the water bladder he had been sharing with the others.
Tyrrell looked down at it. "Are you allowed to yield this to me?" he
asked, switching mid-sentence to the Riverbend dialect they shared. He
kept his voice low in hopes that other prisoners from the Riverbend district
would not overhear.
"Aye; Hosobuchi already yielded me permission. 'Tis thirsty work, having
battle for your manhood, and I gave tale to him how you lost your own water
last night." Pickens waited until Tyrrell had swallowed a mouthful and
handed the bladder back before he put his arm round Tyrrell's shoulders
and began gently pushing him in the direction that Hosobuchi had taken.
In a voice as soft as Tyrrell's had been, he asked, "Will this conflict
with your vow?"
Tyrrell turned his head to look at Pickens. "How were you knowing what
I had in mind?"
Pickens shrugged; his gaze was on Hosobuchi's back as the greater man
paused to talk to an unclaimed lad who had been making his way toward the
back of the prison. The lad listened to what Hosobuchi said and then pointed
toward the prison gate. "'Twasn't hard to figure. You'd refused to have
battle at your trial because of a vow. I'd wondered if that would halt
you last night from having battle against your attackers."
Tyrrell grimaced. "I'm 'coming too used to the customs here, I have
mind. It didn't even occur to me till after the second attacker. When it
did . . . That's why I went to the watch-hound. It's what we're supposed
to do in Mercy when we're attacked, those of us who keep the Boundaries:
we're supposed to alert others that we're in trouble rather than have battle
ourselves."
"Boundaries?" Pickens picked up on the word. "The Boundaries of Behavior?
Is that what this is about?"
"You have knowing of the Boundaries?" Tyrrell asked, curious.
"Oh, aye, a mote. The guards, they chat of the Boundaries sometimes.
I'm knowing that the Boundaries have something to do with the war you've
been running against the guards at Mercy. Do these Boundaries halt you
from having battle against your allies, your fellow prisoners? Is that
why you don't want to punish Babaqi?"
Tyrrell remained silent as they passed over the boundary step into the
little men's territory. Farnam's men and lads were beginning to carry out
the barrel-tables, in preparation for the meal delivery, and Ahiga's watch-hounds
were beginning to drift into place. The sun beat down on the prison floor,
with the dome's beam casting its shadow across some of the prisoners.
Finally Tyrrell said, "It has never come up before; no prisoner at Mercy
ever has the chance to punish another prisoner – not without drawing the
wrath of the guards down on us. But the Boundaries-bound guards—"
"The what?" Pickens's voice held disbelief.
"The Boundaries-bound guards," Tyrrell repeated. "The ones who keep
the Boundaries, who don't harm the prisoners past the bounds that are necessary
in truth to keep the prison functioning—"
"Mercy save us." Pickens laughed. "You turn the turtle over at Mercy
Prison. Here our guards are the enemy."
"Some of the guards there are too." Tyrrell felt his stomach twist as
he thought of the guard who had betrayed him and Merrick – the guard who
was the reason he had been transferred to Compassion. "And some of the
prisoners are our enemy. You can't tell which side some folk is on, based
on the uniform he wears."
Pickens shook his head, his face framing a smile of polite disbelief.
"You were giving tale about these guards, the ones who claim they're helping
you . . ."
"We had to revise the Boundaries when guards started the first act at
vowing to keep the Boundaries," Tyrrell explained. "We couldn't be asking
them to do deeds that would go against the duties that guards at any prison
would have, no matter how well ordered the prison. So we had mind that
it wasn't a violation of the Boundaries for a guard to discipline a prisoner
who had broken the rules of the prison."
"And you figure that applies here."
"I'm not knowing," said Tyrrell slowly. "It sounds to me as if Babaqi
was following your rules too by attacking me."
Pickens squeezed Tyrrell's arm with his hand resting on Tyrrell's shoulder.
"Mate, you're plainly a man for having mind, and I like that about you,
but you've put from your mind one thing: You're in Compassion now. Whatever
rules you may have had in Mercy, those don't apply here. We got our own
customs, our own ways of surviving the guards' treatment. So just learn
yourself our ways and put from mind the rest, aye?"
Tyrrell said nothing. They had reached the unclaimed lads' territory
by now, the largest of the three territories within Compassion Prison.
Shuji had scurried ahead to talk to Hosobuchi, who was ignoring the curious
glances of the unclaimed lads that they passed. Tyrrell, hidden in the
wake of Hosobuchi and Shuji, went largely unnoticed, though several of
the unclaimed lads glanced at Pickens and then quickly away again.
Correctly interpreting Tyrrell's silence, Pickens said, "I'm not meaning
to give tale that we're not interested in the Boundaries. It may be there's
something in them we can use against the guards. Why don't you pick a good
moment and then give tale to the true men about your Boundaries? They're
ever looking for suggestions of how they can run the prison best."
"I'm not sure that you understand," said Tyrrell slowly. "The
Boundaries aren't mainly rules for having battle at guards or for running
a prison smooth-like."
"What are they, then?" Pickens raised his eyebrows.
"At start," said Tyrrell, "they were a vow 'tween my cell-mate Merrick
and me to stay us from throttling each other."
Pickens stared at Tyrrell, and then he hooted and thumped Tyrrell between
the shoulder-blades. "Man, Ahiga is right. You will be entertainment. See
now, we're lagging 'hind." He took hold of the back of Tyrrell's collar
and propelled him forward.
Ahead, Hosobuchi had paused to lean over a couple of unclaimed lads
who were sitting with their backs to the west wall. Coming closer, Tyrrell
paused in his tracks; the lads sitting on the ground were Jahnsen and Olumbo,
who had evidently been returned from his night of being raped. He remained
stripped of his clothes; Johnsen was also naked from Ahiga's discipline
of him the previous day. Jahnsen had his arm around his mate, whose head
was resting on Jahnsen's shoulder. The weal of the guard's lash on Olumbo's
chest was purple-red, and there were dark bruises on his face that had
not been there the evening before.
Olumbo said, without looking up, "Ahiga already gave us our punishment."
"I know." Hosobuchi's voice was quiet. "This is on another matter. Walker
has decided that, since Conrad had planned to join the tribe, he should
be memorialized at the next banquet. The true man asked me to enquire of
you as to whether you wish to chant the prayers."
Conrad, Tyrrell recalled, was the unclaimed lad who had died from the
guards' gunfire when Olumbo had tried to flee their claiming of him. Olumbo
pressed his lips hard against each other, but not hard enough to hold back
the quiver of his chin. He nodded.
Hosobuchi straightened up. "So. Have you seen Ngugi this morning?"
"First thing we did, when Pugh returned Olumbo," replied Jahnsen. "Ngugi
says that Farnam doesn't permit him to treat wild lads, unless they will
die from their wounds."
"I see." Hosobuchi's voice was too level to permit Tyrrell to guess
whether he approved of this policy. "Well, lash-marks generally heal without
special care. Where is Babaqi?"
Olumbo stirred within Jahnsen's arms, looking up finally. Jahnsen said,
"Around and about. Why do you ask?"
"He disturbed a new man last night."
This caused a sudden revival in Olumbo, who thumped his fists against
the floor, though whether in frustration or triumph was not clear.
Jahnsen glanced at Olumbo and then carefully helped him to his feet,
saying, "He's by the gate. We'll come with you."
"'We'll come with you if we may, sir,'" Pickens corrected.
Jahnsen looked at him but said nothing.
"Come if you wish," responded Hosobuchi, and he turned his path toward
the gate again.
Pickens tried to jostle in front of the two unclaimed lads, to prevent
them from going ahead of him, but Tyrrell lagged behind, and Pickens stepped
back to accompany him. In an undertone, Tyrrell asked, "What was he meaning
when he gave tale, 'Ahiga gave us our punishment'?"
Wordlessly, Pickens pointed to the two lads walking ahead. Whatever
punishment Olumbo had received from Ahiga was hidden underneath the weals
and bruises he had received at the hands of the guard Pugh, but the faint
red marks of a strap could be seen on Jahnsen's tailside.
"Couldn't have been much of a beating if they're sitting after," Pickens
commented. "Ahiga, he tends to be gentle with wild lads, if he has mind
they won't repeat their misdeed."
Tyrrell bit back any commentary on Ahiga's policy of punishing prisoners
who had tried to prevent themselves from being raped by the guards. Instead
he asked, "But why Jahnsen? He tried to halt Olumbo from fleeing yesterday."
"Jahnsen?" Pickens looked blankly at him for a moment. "Oh, the other
lad. You're smarter at minding names than I am. Well, I'm sure Ahiga had
a reason. . . . Oh, aye, I mind now. Those two are mate-pledged."
Tyrrell turned his head to stare at Pickens. "You're making mock."
"I mock not. Our customs here are so old that, I vow, the gods must
have founded some of them when they created the world."
"But mate-pledged . . . There hasn't been a mate-pledge for centuries."
Pickens shrugged. "Vovimians were still mate-pledging when they built
this prison. A few of the little men mate-pledge each other, but in the
main, 'tis a custom among unclaimed lads. Hosobuchi doesn't approve of
it; he gives tale it stays back lads from turning their affections to the
proper place – that is, to men."
"'Tis just a pledge of mateship," protested Tyrrell, feeling, as he
spoke, that he was not doing justice to an oath that required two friends
to share each other's fortunes and misfortunes. "Anyhow, Ahiga must be
willing to let them be mate-pledged, if he beat them both for what Olumbo
did."
Pickens shrugged. "It may be he just thought that Johnson . . . Hell's
balls, what's the lad's name again?"
"Jahnsen."
"I can never keep track of all these unclaimed lads. Jahnsen is the
one who yielded food to Price when Price was ousted from the tribe, aye?
Well, Jahnsen is smarter behaved than Olumbo, I seem to mind, but none
of the unclaimed lads are as well behaved as claimed lads – they can't
be, since they're not in service to any folk. So it may be that Ahiga had
mind Jahnsen should get a lesson in obedience too."
They made their way gradually through the crowd of unclaimed lads. The
spring air was cooler today; Tyrrell rubbed his arms. Clad only with his
undervest, he wondered how Jahnsen had been able to bear a night without
any clothing at all. The talk around Tyrrell was soft, perhaps a concession
to the fact that many unclaimed lads were still sleeping. Or perhaps for
other reasons; eyes followed him silently until he looked their way, and
then they would drop aside swiftly.
Hosobuchi was receiving less scrutiny; the unclaimed lads merely parted
their path to make way for the greater man. The soft talk grew yet softer,
though, as Hosobuchi's goal became clear.
Babaqi was standing at the gate, with his back to the rest of the prison.
Beyond him, the day guards had settled down to a light meal, eating their
food off silver plates that glinted under the morning sun, and drinking
from silver mugs that they raised in cheery toasts to each other from time
to time. Starke was sitting with a book in his lap, occasionally pausing
to sip from his mug. Landry was poring forth ribald tales about his exploits
with his lads, egged on by Niesely and a few of the other guards. Pugh,
the guards' day-watch supervisor, simply looked bored.
Their own small party reached Babaqi without being noticed. Hosobuchi
tapped him on the shoulder. Babaqi turned, looking blankly at the greater
man.
Any doubts Tyrrell might have held, though, as to whether he had identified
the right assailant were demolished in the next moment, as the monkey-faced
lad caught sight of him. Babaqi flung himself back against the bars, as
though he had just rounded the corner and seen a tiger escaped from the
zoological garden.
"Babaqi," said Hosobuchi, "this man accuses you of assaulting him last
night. Does he speak the truth?"
Babaqi did not so much as turn his head to look at the greater man;
his gaze was fixed upon Tyrrell, his eyes were wide, and his breath was
short. After a moment, he gave a jerk of a nod.
Hosobuchi turned away and gestured toward the lad with his chin. Without
need for further orders, Shuji and Pickens came forward and pulled Babaqi
round so that he faced the bars again. Then they forced him to his knees.
They knelt on either side of him, pulling out his arms so that he was
stretched taut, his arms as straight as a telegraph wire against the bars.
This position forced his face hard against the crisscrossed bars. His tailside
jutted out, leaving his back on a slanted plane.
The guards had noticed now. They stood up, nudging each other, and one
of the guards rubbed his hands together in apparent pleasure. Landry smiled
broadly.
Drawing his belt from his trousers, Tyrrell felt sick. Bad enough that
he had to do this; the last thing he wanted was a gleeful audience. At
least – he thought as he glanced backwards – none of the unclaimed lads
here seemed in any way pleased by this turn of events.
"How many?" he asked Hosobuchi.
"That is for you to decide," the greater man replied. "Not more than
thirty, I would advise—"
"Ten," Tyrrell said quickly. Then, as Hosobuchi raised his eyebrows,
Tyrrell added, "He was honest about what he did. I believe that honesty
should be rewarded."
Hosobuchi simply nodded, and so Tyrrell turned his attention back to
the problem. He knew how to perform a beating, of course. In the street
tribe he had belonged to in his childhood, all of the older lads had been
charged with disciplining the younger lads for misdeeds. Although Tyrrell
had never paid much attention to the judging and sentencing portions of
this procedure, he had been willing enough to swing his belt when requested.
That had been a quarter of a century ago, before he had undergone a
series of harsh beatings at Mercy Prison that had left him barely alive.
He swallowed, trying to cure his dry mouth.
"I've never beaten a back from above before," he said, seeking delay
through his words.
Still holding the prisoner in place, Pickens was unable to hide his
smile. Ever polite, Hosobuchi merely replied, "He is a lad; therefore,
he receives his beatings on the bottom."
"Ah." Tyrrell felt a measure of relief. Tailsides were better padded
than backs, and Babaqi was wearing drawers. Tyrrell thought he could make
this a light beating, without eliciting any doubts from onlookers as to
his so-called manhood.
The gate area of the prison had grown very quiet now, other than the
jeers from guards who were casting doubts on his ability to perform a simple
beating. He could see Jahnsen and Olumbo standing further down along the
bars; Olumbo was watching Babaqi with a frown, but Jahnsen had his steady
eye on Tyrrell. The electric lamps outside the prison cast harsh light
upon Babaqi's back, which showed no sign of ever having been beaten. Perhaps
the signs of previous beatings were hidden under his drawers, Tyrrell told
himself.
A sound was emerging from Babaqi's mouth now – not quite a sob, but
the throb of a sob trapped in his throat. Pickens shot Tyrrell a frown
that said clearly, "Get on with it."
Tyrrell took in a deep breath, cast a final glance to be sure that he
knew where Babaqi's clothed baubles were jutting out, and whistled the
strap down to land above the baubles.
He had intended it to be a light beating, but Babaqi cried out in pain
from the first stroke. The guards jeered further, now at Babaqi's cowardice.
On the second stroke, the lad managed to keep his lips shut, but Tyrrell
could hear the sob struggling to emerge from his throat. Jahnsen's eye
never wavered from Tyrrell.
Tyrrell was soaked in sweat by the time he finished. Babaqi was openly
crying now; the moment that Pickens and Shuji released him, he leaned his
right forearm onto the gate and buried his face in the crook of his arm,
clearly trying to smother his weeping. Jahnsen and Olumbo moved forward,
Jahnsen's gaze finally having turned toward his friend.
Tyrrell rubbed the sweat off his face with his arm, unconsciously mirroring
Babaqi's gesture; then he stepped toward the lad, wondering whether there
was anything he could say that would improve matters. Babaqi's rape, which
had filled Tyrrell's heart with horror this morning, had turned his heart
now to horrible pity. Faced with the alternative of the slow starvation
that unclaimed lads faced, might he not have done the same as this lad
had?
He was arrested by Pickens's hand on his arm, which held him fast. "Let's
be going," said the claimed lad. Hosobuchi and Shuji had already stepped
away; Shuji was busy picking up the pail he had set down when he went forward
to hold Babaqi, while Hosobuchi was taking the opportunity to exchange
a word with an unclaimed lad who was standing stiffly at attention.
"But—"
Tyrrell had no time to say more than that; Pickens wrenched him round
and pulled him forcibly away from the gate. "Best not," the lad said. "Leave
him to his mates. They'll be knowing how to care for him. —Halt a tick."
Responding to some gesture or expression from Hosobuchi, Pickens released
Tyrrell and headed toward his man. Tyrrell looked back at the gate. Olumbo
now had his arms around Babaqi as the punished lad sobbed onto his shoulder.
Jahnsen crouched nearby, talking softly. Tyrrell caught the word "comrade."
Biting his lower lip with uncertainty, Tyrrell looked back at Pickens
just as the claimed lad reached his man. Hosobuchi spoke not a word; he
simply took hold of Pickens's left arm with his left hand, swung the lad
around to face in the same direction that he did, and whipped his right
palm down onto Pickens's tailside. The palm landed with a crack so loud
that several of the nearby unclaimed lads jumped in their places.
In the silence that followed, Hosobuchi released his lad. Tyrrell caught
a quick glimpse of Pickens's face, screwed up in pain; then the lad turned
and fell to his knees in front of his man. His left arm was placed servantwise
behind his back before his knees even reached the floor.
He remained motionless for the next few minutes, his back straight,
his head bowed, as Hosobuchi poured down hard words upon him like hail.
The unclaimed lads had returned to their conversations, evidently feeling
that this punishment, unlike Babaqi's, was none of their business, but
amidst their light chatter, Tyrrell caught an occasional phrase emerging
sharply from the greater man's mouth.
". . . even if he has granted you the honor of his . . ." ". . . are
to treat him accordingly . . ." ". . . not the sort of behavior I expect
from my . . ." ". . . come even close to doing this again, I'll use my
belt . . ." ". . . endangered both our lives . . ."
Finally it was over. Without looking up, Pickens offered a response,
much shorter than his man's reprimand had been. Tyrrell could not hear
what words he spoke, but they were evidently the right ones, for Hosobuchi
pulled him up from the ground, lifted his chin, said something softly,
and then sent the lad on his way with a light tap of the hand on his tailside.
The tap, though it appeared not to be meant as punishment, caused Pickens's
face to screw up again, but he made no word or gesture of protest, simply
walking back to where Tyrrell awaited him.
"You all right?" This was the most innocuous enquiry Tyrrell could think
to make.
"Oh, aye." Pickens kneaded the back of his neck, avoiding Tyrrell's
eyes. "See now, sir, I've just drawn a well-earned rebuke for using force
on a man."
Tyrrell was so disconcerted by Pickens's use of his title that it took
him a moment to understand what the lad had said; then he felt his face
grow warm. He said quickly, "I didn't mind."
Pickens's kneading hand paused; he looked over at Tyrrell and raised
an eyebrow.
"I mean you were right," Tyrrell clarified. "I should have left Babaqi
to his mates. No harm done."
"But, sir—"
"I gave tale, 'No harm done.'" Tyrrell strove desperately to return
matters to normal. "Put it from your mind, mate."
Pickens's hand slowly fell to his side. After a moment, he nodded, apparently
in agreement.
With relief, Tyrrell said, "Hosobuchi, he's rather strict with you,
aye? I caught tale of a mote of what he gave tale to you. What did he mean,
'You endangered both our lives'?"
Pickens shrugged. He joined Tyrrell in walking toward the back of the
prison but was careful this time, Tyrrell noticed, not to touch the man
walking beside him. "Just what he gave tale. If you'd chosen to report
me to the true men, and they'd judged that what I did was an attack against
you, they could have ordered my execution, or Hosobuchi's."
Tyrrell stared at Pickens. "Mate, I'd never do that to you."
Pickens gave a half smile, glancing over at Tyrrell. He finally placed
his hand lightly on Tyrrell's back. "Nay, I have knowing you wouldn't.
But what I did to you, I might do to another man, in a moment when I was
careless-like. The problem with Hosobuchi," he added, his smile twisting
into wryness, "is that, when he tells me I'm wrong, I ever am."
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
A hide – perhaps from a deer, for it was that large – was being dipped
into a barrel filled with urine. Nearby, lads finished scraping another
hide with a honed bone, then handed the hide to a group of little men,
who promptly plopped it into a vat that was filled with water and prisoners'
dung. Without any ceremony about it, several unclaimed lads, with their
drawers pulled up high on their thighs, stepped into the filthy mess and
began walking in circles in the vat, kneading the hides.
Tyrrell stood watching, tears streaming continuously from his eyes.
He had taken off his undervest and was using it to shield his nose and
mouth, but it made no difference; the bitter odors were too powerful. It
was like standing in a heap of raw onions.
"How can you abide this?" he asked Pickens.
Pickens shrugged; apparently immune to the odors, he was looking round
at the workers with an unconcerned expression on his face. "It's not as
bad at the other end of the prison, if you crave to go be with the unclaimed
lads."
"It's bad there too. I vow, even the guards could smell this, far away
though they are."
"Aye, they do," replied Pickens cheerfully, stepping aside to let through
a lad carrying a basket of wood shavings. The lad deposted the basket next
to a man who was using shavings to weave a new basket. Next to him, the
blind prisoner Lester had tacked down strips of cloth on a board with a
few of the prison's ubiquitous bones, these ones in the shape of nails;
he was weaving the strips crosswise with more strips.
"And what do they have mind makes the smell?" asked Tyrrell, curious.
"Our stink."
"Eh?"
"The stink of our bodies. The stink of our sleeping places. We're all
pigs, you are knowing, so we crave to live in pig-styes." He laughed at
Tyrrell's expression. "There is good to come from the guards having so
low a notion of us. They don't trust we have the brains to do this sort
of thing."
Shaking his head, Tyrrell looked again at the scene. A bevy of prisoners
were huddled around a new shelter that was going up. Its base was a broad
board; its roof was an umbrella, presumably one of the articles left behind
by the guards who no longer lived within the prison. As Tyrrell watched,
one of the prisoners bound the handle of the umbrella to a stake that had
already been pounded into the wood; he appeared to be using sinews as his
binding material. More sinews had been attached to the end-tips of the
umbrella ribs; the far ends of the sinews were tied to additional stakes.
Already another prisoner was beginning to drape fabric over the sinew-lines.
The total effect was like that of a circus tent.
"There must be sacks of farm lads here," he murmured.
"Eh?" Pickens, who had been leaning forward to watch the tanning, turned
his attention back to Tyrrell.
Tyrrell waved his hand at the work taking place round him. "My dad and
mam came from the countryside, but they never learned me a mote about things
like this. The prisoners here who came from the countryside learned everyone
else all this, aye?"
"Oh, nay, nay. Well, once in a day they will – Ahiga, he knew something
about tanning and bone-carving and the like, his dad's dad having been
a hunter before all the Ammippians were shut up in their reservations.
But even Ahiga didn't have much knowing. And the few country folk among
us give tale we don't have the things they used to use as material and
tools. No willow to make baskets, no birch twigs to make besoms, no potter's
wheel or blacksmith's forge, and precious few carpenter's tools. . . .
So the country folk can offer no help. The rest of us, we come from the
city. I am knowing how to skin a rat, that's all."
Tyrrell's forehead puckered with puzzlement as he struggled back into
his undervest. "Then where did the prisoners get their knowing of how to
do all this?"
"From our sacred book," Pickens replied promptly. He laughed again at
Tyrrell's expression. "Best be showing you. Hoi, DuBois!" Switching to
the Mippite tongue, he waved his hand at a lad passing by – the one whose
hair Valdis had kneaded during Tyrrell's trial. "The new man here wants
to see our sacred book."
The lad – who was barely over his majority, judging from his appearance
– looked Pickens up and down. "You must be making mock. Nobody goes into
the armory except the true men and their First and Second Lads."
"You could bring it out."
"I could place my hand in a cobra's mouth. Do you know what Valdis would
do to me if I—?"
"Then ask him," Pickens said impatiently. "Come now, DuBois, this is
the new man. The one from Mercy." He gestured toward Tyrrell.
DuBois's lips thinned, but after a moment he nodded and walked away,
in the direction of the true men's cells. Tyrrell said, "I don't want to
make trouble."
Pickens grinned at him. "How many times did you give tale of that at
Mercy?"
Tyrrell was caught off-guard; after a moment he laughed. "Too many times."
"DuBois, he's just being snobby, craving us to give mind again that
he's Valdis's Second Lad. Farnam's workers check the book sacks of times
– in truth, Farnam is having Davidson shape a second copy, so as the original
doesn't get worn out. . . . We'd best go over to the true men's cells.
Valdis won't crave the book being taken far from there."
As they walked forward, they passed some prisoners who were putting
the finishing touches on what, to Tyrrell's uneducated eye, looked like
an Ammippian wigwam. Tyrrell watched a lad step onto an upturned pail,
holding a second pail full of dry cornstalks, which he began to use as
roofing material.
They came near to the true men's cells – too near, as Tyrrell discovered
when the deadly prick of a watch-hound's spear suddenly touched his throat.
He stood very still. Pickens, ooking back over his shoulder, said, "Hoi!
He's with me!"
The spear didn't lift. Staring into the level gaze of the hound, Tyrrell
felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.
Pickens muttered something under his breath about overly officious hounds.
Then he dropped back, beckoning Tyrrell away from the true men's cells.
Tyrrell took a step back, his eye on the hound; the spear did not follow.
When Tyrrell had backed away three yards, the hound lowered his spear,
but he kept his narrowed eyes on Tyrrell.
Tyrrell cleared his throat. "I had mind you said that lads couldn't
attack men."
Pickens followed his gaze to the hound. "Aye, well, we watch-hounds
are an exception, when we're on duty. Regrets about that; Ahiga must have
widened the boundary area near the door."
Facing the southern wall of the small set of sleeping cells where the
true men slept, Tyrrell could see the door from where he stood; it was
flanked on both sides by hounds, and more hounds were spaced at intervals
round the cells. "But you can go in yourself?"
"Oh, aye, 'cause on the nights that Hosobuchi lies with Ahiga, he'll
take Shuji and me in with him, 'less he can find another greater man to
watch over us."
Tyrrell raised his eyebrows. "You're there when Ahiga beds Hosobuchi?
That must be . . . interesting."
Pickens laughed. "Ahiga only lies with him; he doesn't drill him. I
don't have mind he drills any folk 'cept Shuji, in truth. Some men are
like that; even if they claim more than one lad, they only take a single
lad."
"But Hosobuchi takes more than one?" Tyrrell picked his way carefully
around the topic.
"Oh, aye, he drills both Shuji and me. —See now, here comes our sacred
book."
DuBois had just emerged from the true men's cells, closing the door
too quickly for Tyrrell to see what lay beyond. The walls of the cells
were indeed made of wood, as Pickens had indicated previously, and they
seemed not to have any ventilation slits along the long side facing east.
Tyrrell wondered whether the cells were bereft of a ceiling, like the rest
of the prison, but that did not explain how they had received their air
before the roof was removed during the renovation of the prison. Maybe
the cells had only barred doors? At Mercy, prisoners' cells had a second,
solid door that could be closed if the guard wished to "interrogate" the
prisoner in private, but perhaps most of the guards here hadn't been so
shy about letting other guards watch them when they raped prisoners.
DuBois had stopped short of the encircling cradle of hounds. "You can
look," he told Tyrrell. "Valdis says you can't touch." He held up the book
so that its cover was facing Tyrrell.
Tyrrell stared at the brightly colored images on the cover. They showed
young lads engaged in a variety of activities: creating houses, sewing
leather, spreading a bedroll, bandaging a wound, starting a fire with a
bow and drill, cooking with an iron pot over a fireplace . . .
Suddenly Tyrrell realized what he was looking at and bent over double,
laughing so loudly that he caught the attention of nearby men and lads,
who stared at him. When he finally managed to straighten up, Tyrrell saw
that DuBois had departed with the book. Pickens was grinning.
"Read it, have you?" Pickens said.
"I've seen it," replied Tyrrell, managing to swallow his laughter into
hiccups. "One of the other lads in my street tribe, he had a copy. He used
to be reading passages in it to us. We used it as a guide when shaping
our shelters."
Pickens continued to grin. "I'm sure the writer of The Mippite Boys'
Handy Book has no idea how handy his tips for kiddie-play have been
to street tribes over the years. Here in Compassion, we worship him as
Mercy's messenger. If it hadn't been for him, we wouldn't have knowing
of how to make soap or how to do a thousand other tasks that need doing."
"But do you have the materials to do the sorts of things he describes?"
Tyrrell asked, trying to swallow his hiccups.
"Oh, aye, some days. He aimed his book at city lads, after all, and
we're in a sort of city. No trees, but we have packing-crate wood; no flint-stones,
but we have old bits of china, left 'hind after the renovation. Works as
well as flint does in creating a spark for fire, or so Mercy's messenger
gives tale to us, and turns out he's right. If ever I escape here," Pickens
said meditatively, "first thing I'll do is go and throw myself at the feet
of the man who wrote this and yield to be his servant for life."
Tyrrell, filled with a vision of thousands of prisoners crowding into
the house of a bewildered children's author, had to sit down on the floor
this time; his laughter had grown that uncontrollable.
The sound of a sharp cry nearby caused him to leap to his feet in an
automatic manner. He and Pickens turned swiftly to look toward the cry.
Nearby a lad, with a white wristlet indicating he was claimed by a greater
man, wrestled in the arms of a neckletted burly man whose orange wristlet
showed that he served under Valdis. The burly man was groping under the
lad's clothing, a satisfied smile on his face.
Other men and lads were watching now, some with uneasy expressions on
their face, but nobody interfered. Tyrrell took a step forward, but Pickens
restrained him. "No. Look, his man is coming."
In the next moment, a wiry young man, half the age of his lad, stormed
forward, his fists clenched, and shouted, "Let him go, Garrettson!"
Garrettson grinned, baring his teeth in a feral manner. "Make me."
The young man hesitated. It was just a bare hesitation, but in the next
moment, he found a spearhead against his chest.
A second spear, held by the diminutive watch-hound Wirsing, whom Tyrrell
had met on his first day, was pressed against Garrettson's chest. Wirsing
said crisply, "Enough. Herchweiler, Garrettson has offered his challenge.
Either accept or decline it. If there's any more shouting and fist-forming,
I'll hand both of you over to Ahiga for breaking the peace."
Again the young man hesitated. Garrettson, who had not removed his hands
from Herchweiler's lad, grinned ever more widely. Herchweiler's gaze fell
upon his lad, who was staring bleakly at him.
"All right," Garrettson replied in a voice that sounded strangled. "I
accept the challenge."
There was scattered applause from the onlookers. "Come on!" said Pickens,
elbowing Tyrrell in the ribs. "Let's go!"
"Go where?" Tyrrell asked, unable to tear his eyes away from the hesitant
young man and his bleak-eyed lad, who had finally been released by the
aggressor.
"To the challenge ground, of course." Pickens pointed to the northwest
corner of the prison. "This ought to be worth watching."
o—o—o
The sound of cheers and jeers rose faintly like haze on a hot day. As
Tyrrell and Pickens neared the northwest corner of the prison – an area
hidden beyond the true men's cells – the spectators' shouts grew louder.
Tyrrell could see now that a queue stretched out from the hidden corner,
carefully supervised by a couple of watch-hounds. Near the end of that
queue – sitting at a crate, like a ticket-master at his desk – was Valdis.
He was checking Farnam's green ledger-book, which was proffered to him
by Farnam's math-wizard lad, Davidson. Davidson raised his head to smile
at Tyrrell and Pickens as they approached, but Valdis did not so much as
jiggle his gaze from the ledger-book. "No," he said.
Tyrrell assumed that he was addressing Davidson, but Pickens sighed.
"Sir, Hosobuchi said—"
"Am I taking orders now from a greater man? I said no. I have limited
space, and you've already attended two challenges this week. New prisoners
aren't permitted to attend challenges at all, until they're initiated."
He switched his attention to Davidson. "This includes yesterday's figures?"
Davidson nodded.
"Sir," Pickens persisted, "Ahiga says—"
"This is my province. If Ahiga has problems with the way I conduct my
business, he'll speak to me directly. Now get out of the way; you're holding
up traffic like a broken-down buggy on a tram line. —Tokens for you and
your lads?" He addressed the greater man standing behind Pickens. The man,
who was accompanied by his lads, nodded. Valdis reached out his hand; in
it were three square tokens, neatly whittled from wood. "These are the
last for this morning's challenges. Enjoy yourself."
"Thank you, sir." The greater man gestured to one of his lads to collect
the tokens; then the three departed in the direction of the queue.
"Valdis—" Pickens pled, but the true man turned curtly away from him,
addressing Davidson.
"Tell Farnam I agree with him: we can't spare the Keeper's gift, this
early in the year. Maybe we can use the potatoes at the next banquet, since
Farnam says they're sprouting. The rest we'll store with the surplus till
greater need arises."
"Sir, with respect, my man fears that the flour will acquire more maggots
during the spring heat." Davidson's voice was low.
Valdis sighed loudly. "Hell and Mercy. Very well – I'm finished here,
so I'll come discuss it with him. Has he started setting up for the noontime
meal yet?" He stood up and strode in the direction of the platform, where
a couple of Farnam's men were opening the oven to check inside. Walker,
whom Tyrrell had rarely seen outside of the northeast corner where the
laconic true man tended the dying, was standing nearby.
"Blast," said Pickens mildly. "Valdis must be in a foul mood for some
reason. He's usually more rational than that."
"It's all right," Tyrrell assured him. "I can wait until I'm initiated."
"But I'll be back on regular duty with the watch-hounds then, so I won't
be there to explain what you see." Pickens looked around, and his eyes
lit up. "Ah. You see that man?"
"All too well," Tyrrell replied grimly. The man to whom Pickens was
pointing was Hernandez, the claimed man who served as Valdis's First Lad,
and who had nearly broken Tyrrell's arm during his trial for manhood.
"Give tale to him," Pickens instructed.
"What about?" Tyrrell could hear the perplexity in his own voice.
"Anything. You're a man – have a nice man-to-man chatter with him. Near
three minutes long."
Still mystified, Tyrrell approached Hernandez, while Pickens lingered
behind. The great, bulky figure of Hernandez was currently shoving back
a lad who had been pushing against the lad in front of him in the queue,
in his eagerness to enter the challenge ground. "One at a time," Hernandez
growled in his deep, bear-like voice.
Reaching him, Tyrrell cleared his throat. Hernandez swung around immediately,
looming over Tyrrell. Then, as Tyrrell waited for the great beast above
to swipe him away with a careless, deadly hand, Hernandez gave a broad
smile. "Good afternoon," he said.
"Good afternoon," Tyrrell replied, reflecting to himself, yet again,
that he did not have Merrick's gift for judging character. "I just wanted
to thank you."
"Thank me? For what?" Hernandez lifted his craggy eyebrows as he simultaneously
kicked an unclaimed man who was trying to force his way to the front of
the queue. The man fell to the ground, howling. Hernandez took no notice.
"Er . . ." Tyrrell stared down at the howling man. "For not squashing
me like a fly during my trial."
Hernandez roared with laughter as a couple of onlookers helped the injured
man – who was now whimpering – to his feet. The injured man limped back
into his place in the queue. "You're hardly a fly. You're a scrappy little
fighter. Learned to fight on the streets, did you?"
"Rat-tail Tribe," Tyrrell said, unable to hide the note of pride as
he spoke his old street-tribe's name. "I was just one of many lads in my
tribe, of course. Did you lead a tribe?"
Hernandez gave another laugh. "Hardly. I learned to fight in the wrestling
ring of the Young Men's Rebirth Association. It provided a pleasant contrast
to university lectures."
"University lectures?" He stared at Hernandez.
The First Lad grinned as he slapped back a man who was trying to cut
into the queue. The claimed man fell hard to the floor and stayed still,
apparently unconscious. "Mip City University. Graduate assistant; I was
studying for my doctoral degree when I went a bit too far in a fight with
a fellow student over whether I cheated on tests. I really didn't mean
to knock his head in," he added, a clear note of regret in his voice.
Tyrrell continued to gawp at Hernandez as a small crowd gathered around
the unconscious man.
Hernandez chuckled. "I adore living in a republic whose language has
no indicator of class divisions. You'd never guess, would you, that I'd
been at university? Or that my man Valdis used to earn his living by collecting
rubbish? I sometimes think the only usefulness of this prison is that it
allows us all to find our natural levels."
"Yes, well . . ." As the unconscious man was carried away, Tyrrell was
distracted by the sight of Pickens waving at him from near the platform.
"I enjoyed our discussion. Not many folks are willing to talk with me,
at this point."
"Ah. Well." Hernandez scratched the side of his nose, looking embarrassed.
"First-century initiation rites. I was studying for a certificate in anthropology,
did I mention? This place is like a treasure trove to me – so many ancient
customs to watch." He turned his head in response to a rise in the shouting
in the northwest corner. "Sorry, I must go. The previous challenge is ending,
and I'm due to referee the next challenge."
A minute later, Tyrrell said incredulously to Pickens, "Anthropology?
Doctoral student? Does he figure on me trusting that?"
Pickens grinned. "All true, I'm fearing. Ask him to give tale to you
some time of his research paper on Landsteader master/servant etiquette.
Mind, Hernandez is going to be a very bruised doctoral student soon." He
held up his hand. In it was a set of keys. They looked like cell keys.
"What is that?" asked Tyrrell blankly.
"Our token into the challenge ground. Come on!" With a hop, Pickens
leaped onto the platform.
Tyrrell followed. As they came closer to the center of the platform,
Tyrrell could see that it had been emptied of its usual hive of busy workers.
Only a few of Farnam's lads continued to clean out the oven, under the
careful eye of Walker. Farnam had withdrawn to the side to hold a low-voiced
discussion with Valdis. The fourth true man, Ahiga, had made his way into
that area as well, but he seemed to be in a contemplative mood, for his
eyes were closed and he was humming.
Tyrrell came close enough to see and hear this, before a watch-hound
pushed him and Pickens back.
"It's for your own sake," the watch-hound replied when Pickens protested.
"You know that Walker would bite your throat out if you came nearby on
anything other than vital business, when he's supervising the cleaning."
Pickens sighed. "Well, could you deliver a message to Valdis for me?
Tell him that I found something of his."
"Oh, sweet blood." The watch-hound rolled his eyes, but retreated to
deliver the message while a nearby watch-hound kept a careful eye on Pickens
and Tyrrell.
A minute later, Valdis strode forward to where they were standing. His
hands were in fists. "Do I have to spank you myself to keep you from pestering
me?" he demanded to Pickens.
Pickens said nothing; he merely held up the keys. He was not quite successful
in hiding his grin.
After a frozen moment, Valdis snatched the keys, proceeded to count
them, and then bellowed into the sky, "Hernandez!"
Heads turned. Farnam, who had moved over to speak to Davidson, started
in his place. Ahiga slitted his eyes open for a brief second before closing
them again. Walker glowered, but apparently he was not in the habit of
tearing out the throats of his fellow true men, for he soon returned his
attention to the oven-cleaning.
Hernandez broke the four-minute mile as he crossed the area between
the challenge ground and the platform. "You wish my service, sir?" he asked,
panting.
Grim-faced, Valdis held up the keys.
Hernandez stared; then he gave Pickens a deadly glare. Pickens merely
grinned openly. Fortunately, Hernandez did not look in the direction of
Tyrrell. He was too busy turning his gaze back toward Valdis, who was drumming
his fingers on the keys.
"Sir, I don't know how he—"
Valdis cut him off, like a blade slicing into a neck. "How many times
have I told you that this prison is filled to the brim with thieves? How
many times have I instructed you that you must carry the keys to the cells
and armory well concealed, or we'll come back to the armory one day and
discover that half the surplus has gone missing? Yes, and the weapons too."
"Don't blame him, Valdis," Pickens said cheerfully. "I could pick the
pockets of the Queen of Yclau, if I chose."
Valdis gave him a look that said, "I will deal with you presently,"
and then turned his attention back to Hernandez, who was looking increasingly
wilted.
"I very much regret my negligence, sir." Hernandez's voice was low this
time. "I will endeavor to serve you more faithfully in the future."
"Flowery language." Valdis addressed the sky. "He always gives me flowery
language when he has mucked up." He tossed the keys back into Hernandez's
hands. "My cell, at claiming time. You can spend the afternoon carving
a switch for yourself."
"Yes, sir." Too subdued now to even spare a venomous glance at Pickens,
Hernandez retreated, clutching the keys. Valdis turned his eyes toward
Pickens and his broad smile.
"Three," Valdis said in a pleasant voice.
"Three?" Pickens's smile didn't waver.
"Three thefts in the past day. First, you blamed the water-steward for
loss as a scheme to get extra water for your new mate. Second, you stole
a can of food after you'd bluffed your way past the watch-hounds. And now
this. . . . What, did you think we true men don't keep track of such things?"
he added as Pickens's smile dropped off. "Ahiga has been trying to decide
whether to mention this matter to your man, or simply to treat it as a
matter of tribal discipline and beat you himself."
There was no reply. Looking over at Pickens, Tyrrell saw that his mate
stood now in service position, left hand locked behind right elbow. His
head was bowed. Tyrrell looked quickly back at Valdis and said, "It's my
fault. He did it for my sake, and I was his confederate in the pickpocketing."
Valdis didn't bother to look in Tyrrell's direction. He said to Pickens,
"Apparently I can add to your crimes that you've corrupted a new prisoner."
Pickens said nothing, but the ball in his throat bobbed as he swallowed.
His professional pride touched, Tyrrell said, "I'm a thief myself. I
don't need anyone teaching me how to distract a theft victim." Then, as
Valdis finally turned dark, vengeful eyes toward him, Tyrrell added hastily,
"See here, everything that Pickens did has benefitted the tribe. Farnam
knows now to keep a closer eye on his water-steward. Ahiga knows to order
his watch-hounds not to let anyone except Farnam's men and lads past the
barrier when food preparations are taking place. And you know that your
First Lad wasn't keeping as careful a watch as he should have on your keys.
Can't you be grateful for the benefits which the tribe has received, and
ignore any ill motives that Pickens might have had for his deeds?"
Valdis looked at him reflectively, through half-closed lids. Finally
he said, "I was told that you had a silver tongue, Tyrrell of Mercy. I
see that it's true."
Tyrrell was confused for a moment before he realized that Ahiga would
naturally have mentioned his arrival at the prison to the other true men.
At a loss for an adequate response, he said, "My family was from southern
Vovim, originally. Children are taught to speak properly there."
Valdis snorted. "That you're my countryman is supposed to endear you
to me? Tell me this, riot-rouser: What benefit to the tribe is supposed
to come from Pickens using devious methods to get you inside the challenge
ground?"
Tyrrell hesitated, looking at Pickens, but received no help there; the
lad was still contemplating the ground at his feet. Finally Tyrrell said,
with the utmost of hesitation, "That's for you to decide, sir."
He had said the right thing. Valdis the rubbish-collector clearly liked
being addressed as "sir"; the true man straightened his back. He snapped
at Pickens, "What did Ahiga say? No lies now."
"To show Tyrrell every part of the prison, and to answer all questions
he has, so that he can find his proper place in the order of things here."
Pickens's voice was toneless.
Valdis grunted. "Next time you steal anyone's property, Pickens, I'll
pull you up before the true men's council and discuss whether your continued
existence is more trouble than it's worth. —Here." He took a couple of
tokens out of his vest pocket and tossed them into Tyrrell's hands. "Learn
your proper place here – the sooner the better, as far as all of us are
concerned. —Yes, yes, I'm coming." He waved at Farnam, who evidently wished
to continue their interrupted conversation.
Pickens waited until he and Tyrrell had both jumped off the platform
before he released himself from service position and grinned. "That wasn't
near on as bad as it might have been," he said cheerfully. "Thank Mercy
that Valdis didn't have mind to give tale to Hosobuchi of what I'd done.
Were you taking note of the moment when I picked Hernandez's pocket, Tyrrell?
Past confederates have given tale to me that I'm so skilled that not even
they see—"
"Pickens." The word ground out of Tyrrell's throat like milled grain.
"Don't you ever use me again to break the rules of this prison. I mean
it."
He had swung himself around to face Pickens. The lad's eyes widened,
then narrowed. After a moment, Pickens said in a dead-level voice, "I was
wondering when you would assert your manhood against me."
Astonished, Tyrrell stammered, "I didn't— I mean, I didn't crave to—"
"Nay, nay." Pickens waved a hand to cut him off; he looked suddenly
weary. "You're right. Tisn't a matter of man versus lad. 'Tis is a matter
of how mates treat each other." He looked down at the ground, and for a
while the only nearby sound came from the men and lads chatting in the
rapidly diminishing queue for the challenge ground. Finally Pickens raised
his head; his eyes looked like two wounds in his face. "I'll have to give
tale to Hosobuchi of what I did."
Tyrrell responded hesitantly, "Will he punish you?"
"No more than I deserve to be punished. With luck, the punishment will
give mind to me not to do this again." Pickens grimaced. "I try and I try,
and yet, eight years into service under Hosobuchi, I still let my demon
take me over."
"Nay, mate, 'tisn't a matter of your battle madness." Tyrrell was thoroughly
alarmed now by Pickens's expression. "You weren't going and harming any
folk. You gave back the stolen goods straight away. And your motives were
good; you just didn't have mind what you were doing. We all make mistakes."
Pickens cocked his head, giving a crooked, sober smile. "Forgive?"
"Forgive," Tyrrell replied firmly, and offered his hand. They touched
palms, in the Mippite style of taking an oath, thereby renewing their bond
of friendship.
After all, Tyrrell reflected to himself as they turned again toward
the challenge ground, he had been as forgetful as Pickens. It had not occurred
to him until Valdis spoke the word "riot-rouser" that the true men might
be less than enthusiastic to welcome a prisoner whose activities had caused
a goodly portion of the best-behaved prisoners in Mercy to end up in the
punishment cells, charged with sedition.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The challenge ground was not at all as Tyrrell expected it to be.
"Pickens," Tyrrell said slowly as he turned in watch the activities
taking place at the back of the challenge ground, "this is a manufactory."
"Aye." Pickens grinned as he reached over to toss to its owner a spindle
that had fallen to the ground. Nearby, an old-fashioned spinning jenny
– made, it appeared, with a buggy wheel – flashed and blurred as it was
used by one of Valdis's men. The yarn it produced was being woven almost
as fast on a nearby loom.
Nor was the source of these instruments of creation hard to locate.
Nearby, Valdis's lads were hard at work with hammers, nails, pliers, saws,
and other tools. The lads were mending crate-wood furniture, pounding tins
into the shapes of knives, and creating tents out of leather and sinewy
thread and old cell-bar poles.
"This is fantastic," Tyrrell said. "I'd not trust it to exist if I didn't
see it. Is there anything Valdis's men and lads can't make?"
He turned his head to look around further back, beyond the crowd that
had gathered in the empty center of the challenge ground. The air was hazy
with sawdust, for nearby, a couple of prisoners were sawing a plank laid
atop two wooden horses. Their saw sliced through the name of a famous Mippite
grocer, showing that the plank had originally come from a packing crate.
More crates were stacked in the back of the challenge ground, all of
them filled with homemade tools, such as tin-can knives. A little man climbed
to the top of the crates, using two thick poles that had been notched to
provide footage. Nearby, another little man was using a bone knife to whittle
a piece of wood into the shape of a nail. The lad whom Tyrrell had noticed
before, the one with the basket of shavings, returned with the newly made
basket and began scooping up the shavings settling at the feet of the whittler,
missing not a single shaving. Next to him, a lad straightened the teeth
of a saw with wooden pliers before handing the saw to a man who was waiting
patiently for it.
In front of all this woodworking were the metalworkers. As Tyrrell watched,
a greater man used a slender metal bar and a wooden mallet to poke holes
into a large tin can, while one of his lads held the tin firmly by a wire
handle that had already been attached to two of the holes. The purpose
of the can was clear enough from the activities of the man's second lad:
he was pounding metal nails into a circular wooden board, checking occasionally
that the nails were far enough apart to hold a candle. As the man completed
the task of punching light-holes into the can, the second lad silently
handed him the candle-holder. There was a breathless moment as all three
prisoners watched to ascertain that the candle and its holder would fit
into the metal lantern; then all three smiled, and the man gave nods of
approval to his lads.
Pickens laughed as he waved a greeting at a lad who was making a coiled
bowl out of what appeared to be – of all things – flour and water. "If
you crave to catch a long tale of woe, ask Valdis of his trying to create
a forge. Or ask him of the hot-air balloon."
"Balloon?" Tyrrell eyed Pickens skeptically. "What for? To send prisoners
on a journey to spy on their guards?"
Pickens punched Tyrrell – or began to, but he carefully pulled his punch
at the last moment. "Nay, for messages. Valdis thought if he could take
these" – he pointed to the water-bladder looped to his belt – "and fill
them with hot air, he could send them sailing out of the prison with messages
tied to them, telling the outside world of conditions here. The pressmen
would catch tale of of it, they'd go and write stories of this oddity,
and hurrah! Better food, better privies, and it may be even a cot or two."
"I'm figuring this was all before The Commoners' Chronicle published
its scandal story on the evil prisoners of Mercy," Tyrrell said dryly.
"Anyhow, there's no way to get balloons out of this prison, 'less Valdis
has figured a way to smash a hole through that." He pointed to the dome
that hovered the height of four storeys above the prison floor.
"Farnam vetoed the plan because he gave tale that the tribe couldn't
afford the loss of the bladders," Pickens responded. "As for the dome—
Hoi, Nava'i! What's the odds for the next challenge?"
"Forty-six to one." Nava'i, the lad from the Riverside district who
worked in one of the prison privies, came over to stand by them; he was
holding what appeared to be an old-fashioned wax tablet. "You're not going
to win much off this challenge, I'm fearing."
"Nonsense. I'm betting two duties on Herchweiler." Pickens leaned over
to write his initials and the number two on the wax tablet.
Nava'i looked him up and down. "It's forty-six to one against
Herchweiler. Are you mad?"
"Probably." Pickens gave a smile that fell short of his eyes. "Either
that, or I always bet in favor of men who have that much to lose."
There was a small silence, pregnant with some mysterious significance,
and then Nava'i coughed and said, "Right. Two duties it is. No other bets?"
His gaze flickered briefly toward Tyrrell, then away.
"I've not got any money," Tyrrell said.
"The betting isn't done through money," Pickens explained. "'Tis duty
time. Ahiga and Walker and Valdis let their men and lads bet their duty
time at the challenge ground. The losers have to draw the duty time of
the winners, on what would otherwise be their days off. Farnam still forbids
duty-time betting, doesn't he?" he asked Nava'i.
"Aye." Nava'i kept a careful eye on the tablet as he spoke. "Is he planning
to ask Farnam to claim him, then?"
He had addressed the question to Pickens, but Tyrrell quickly shook
his head. "I'm not interested in being a claimed man. Pickens gave tale
I could work for anyone I wanted, if I'm unclaimed. I was going to ask
Farnam whether he was needing more help in the privies."
Nava'i's head jerked up. After a moment, he said, "We ever need help
in the privies. Nobody volunteers for that work."
Tyrrell shrugged. "'Tis work I've done in the past, at Mercy Prison
– cleaning the guards' toilets, as well as my own. I had mind I might as
well do work where the tribe needs it most."
Nava'i did not speak for a moment. All around them, lathes whirred,
hammers pounded, spindles spun. Finally Nava'i said, "Figure you'll gather
loyalty that way, do you?"
"Nava'i." Pickens's voice was soft in warning.
"Regrets." Nava'i turned his attention back to the wax tablet.
Clearly this topic – whatever it might be – was one that Pickens wished
to change. Tyrrell strove to think of a new subject and finally said, "What
about the oven? Was that built by Valdis's men and lads, or by Farnam's?"
"Neither." Nava'i looked up from the wax tablet. "The guards built it."
"For us?" He should not sound so surprised, he supposed; it was
the duty of the guards to look after the prisoners' basic needs. Cooking
raw food was as basic a need as he could imagine.
Pickens laughed. "Nay, for themselves. That platform, it used to be
the guards' platform, back in the days when the guards lived inside Compassion
Prison."
Nava'i nodded. "'Fore our time, for sure.
'Fore every folk's time, 'cept Valdis and a few of his lads – most
of them are dead by now. But till last winter, when we had to tear down
the wooden cells for fuel, we still had the same layout on this level as
in the old days. The sleeping cells stood up against the walls of the prison;
the only ones left now are the true men's cells." He pointed to the small
set of cells in the northwest corner, a little further down the west wall
from the challenge ground. "And the middle of the prison, that was a giant
day cell, sunk down 'neath the floor of the rest of the prison. The platform
is all that's left of the original prison floor. The guards used to stand
watch there."
"Eating banquets." Pickens's mouth smeared a snarl.
"Aye, eating whatever they hunted on their days off . . . mainly deer,
which is why the oven and the grill inside it are so big." Nava'i added,
with a slight note of pride, "We could build our own oven. We have knowing
how, by now. But we like this one, 'cause we don't have much fuel, and
this oven is made for slow cooking. Light some barrel-wood in there and
wait twenty-four hours for the meat to roast. Tastier that way too," he
added reflectively.
"Oh, Nava'i." Pickens frowned at him.
Farnam's lad shrugged. "Taste matters, Pickens. You don't want prisoners
with weak stomachs to go and throw up their banquet meal, do you?" He glanced
around. "Challenge is near to start. I'd best collect the remaining bets."
o—o—o
Without need for any signal, the prisoners who had been milling about
idly in the challenge ground began to draw back, leaving a circular area
clear in their midst. Into this area strode Hernandez, announcing, "Last
bets! Last bets before I announce the contenders." He turned his head,
and into the ring, stripped to his waist, trotted Garrettson, grinning
and shaking his forearms in the air, like a prizefighter. The crowd roared.
He was followed – with a considerably more subdued response from the
crowd – by Herchweiler, who was accompanied by his middle-aged lad, both
of them looking unhappy. Hernandez shouted, "Final bets! Place your final
bets now!"
The bets came fast and thick from the crowd as Nava'i stood nearby,
jotting them down. "Three duties on Garrettson!" "Five duties on Garrettson!"
"Half a duty on Garrettson!" "One week off from work for the winner."
Everyone turned their head to look at the last speaker. Entering the
ring was Valdis, followed by Farnam.
Hernandez said hesitantly, "Sir, do you wish to referee this match?"
Valdis shook his head. "No point. It'll be over in an eye's wink." He
turned his attention to Garrettson, who was still wearing the orange necklet
that proclaimed him to be Valdis's claimed man. In a dry voice, Valdis
said, "Try not to kill him. I can't afford to lose you."
The crowd laughed uneasily. Garrettson smiled. "Yes, sir. Any other
instructions?"
"Didn't you just hear me say 'no point'?" Valdis turned toward the true
man beside him. "Farnam? Are Walker and Ahiga coming?"
"Walker is busy with the oven," Farnam responded in his quiet voice.
"Ahiga says the same as you do: No point. —Herchweiler," he added, "are
you sure you want to go through with this challenge? You could negotiate
to give your lad over to Garrettson, and I'd let you serve me as my little
man."
Herchweiler hesitated, looking over at his lad. The lad shook his head
briefly, mutely. Herchweiler said to Farnam, "He's my lad. Nobody is going
to take him from me."
There was a general outcry of hooting and jeering. Even Tyrrell could
hear the wavering in Herchweiler's voice. Farnam said nothing; he merely
stepped back to the edge of the ring, accompanied by Valdis.
Hernandez waited until the true men were settled in their places before
he shouted, "Bets are completed! Gentlemen and gentlelads, I bring you
Herchweiler, a greater man claimed by Farnman, who has been challenged
by Garrettson, a little man claimed by Valdis. Herchweiler fights for his
honor, his lad, and, I think it's fair to say, his manhood. Gentlemen."
He turned his attention to the contenders. "You both know the rules. Herchweiler,
you have been challenged, so you have the choice. With weapons or without?"
Herchweiler appeared to consider the question. Under the cover of the
crowd's chatter, Tyrrell asked Pickens, "What weapons are permitted?"
"Nothing lethal," Pickens replied. "Knucklebusters, poles, quirts, lassos
. . . It makes for a better show, but there's always a risk of accidentally
breaking the rules, if you use weapons."
Herchweiler appeared to have reached the same conclusion, for he said,
"Without. I don't want to hurt him too much." It was an attempt
at levity, but the crowd responded with jeers.
"Without weapons!" cried Hernandez. "Lad, stand back," he told Hernandez's
lad, who was continuing to hover uncertainly beside his man. "Well back,
if you please."
"Over here," encouraged Pickens, beckoning. "We'll watch the challenge
together." As Herchweiler's lad came over to stand beside him, Pickens
put his arm over the lad's shoulder and murmured a question in his ear.
The lad shook his head and responded softly, "My man might win." But
his voice was strained.
As Valdis had predicted, the challenge was over in an eye's wink. In
an eerie recreation of Tyrrell's trial when he first arrived at Compassion
Prison, Herchweiler was soon on his stomach, with Garrettson kneeling atop
him. But instead of twisting Herchweiler's arm, Garrettson chose to wrap
his arm around Herchweiler's neck and pull it back, in a manner that seemed
calculated to snap the neck.
What he said to Herchweiler could not be heard over the crowd's shouting,
but the response by Herchweiler was clear and high-pitched: "I surrender!
I surrender! Sweet blood, please don't kill me!"
Garrettson let Herchweiler go so fast that the greater man's head thunked
on the floor. Leaping to his feet, Garrettson pranced about the ring, thrusting
his fists toward the sky as the crowd thumped its feet in applause. Hernandez
went down on one knee briefly to check on Herchweiler, who remained lying
motionless on the ground. Then, evidently reassured by what he saw, he
went over to Garrettson and managed to catch hold of him. The referee raised
his own hands and clasped Garrettson's in the universal sign of victory,
crying out, "The winner, in his honor, is Garrettson!"
The crowd shouted its approval. Tyrrell cast a look at Herchweiler's
lad. He was covered with sweat, though the day was cool; his mouth moved
in unspoken words; and his gaze was fastened on Herchweiler, who remained
motionless on the ground.
Hernandez released Garrettson and waved the crowd to relative silence,
simultaneously beckoning to Herchweiler's lad. Pickens nudged the lad forward;
his own expression was grim.
Hernandez took hold of the lad's hand. "By the customs within our prison,"
he said to the crowd, "no lad can be claimed against his will—"
"Except by guards!" someone shouted. The crowd hissed in response. Glaring
at the interruption, Hernandez underlined, "By the customs within
our prison, no lad can be claimed against his will. Therefore, you face
a choice, lad." He addressed himself to the prisoner whose hand he was
holding. "Do you wish to remain with Herchweiler, trusting in his protection?"
The lad looked over at Herchweiler, who had finally raised himself into
a sitting position, his arm resting wearily across his upraised knee. Their
eyes met. For a moment, the lad remained still as the crowd hushed.
Then, without a word spoken, the lad shook himself free of Hernandez.
He walked over to Garrettson.
The crowd went wild with excitement, jumping up and down. As a result,
Tyrrell was unable to hear what the lad said as he knelt down before Garrettson,
his left arm already in service position. Nor did he hear the brief exchange
that took place between the two in the next minute. But Tyrrell saw quite
clearly how it ended: the lad bent forward and kissed both of Garrettson's
knees, and then his groin.
The crowd appeared ready to tear down the walls of the prison; Tyrrell
hadn't witnessed such excitement since the Tri-National Match of '76, when
the Queendom of Yclau had lost out to the Magisterial Republic of Mip.
With a triumphant cry, Garrettson tore off the green wristlet from the
lad's wrist, throwing it toward Herchweiler. Then, with great ceremony,
he took his own necklet off, untied it, carefully ripped it lengthwise,
and wrapped one-half of the orange necklet around the lad's wrist, turning
it into the wristlet of his claiming.
Tyrrell looked to see how Herchweiler was taking all this. The greater
man was staring down at the green wristlet at his feet, almost blindly.
Slowly he reached out to touch it.
A foot descended onto it.
The crowd stopped shouting at once, but even so, Tyrrell could not hear
the words that Farnam spoke to his claimed man. The tone of them was clear,
though, from Farnam's icy expression. Herchweiler's head drooped; he nodded
once. Farnam released the wristlet – the half-necklet of Herchweiler's
claiming – from under his boot.
Herchweiler picked it up. He took off his necklet – the green necklet
that the lad's green wristlet must have come from – and wrapped the two
long cloths together. Then, without looking up, he handed both to Farnam.
Farnam departed without a word. Valdis was busy thumping Garrettson
on the back as the former little man embraced his new lad.
The lad did not look back. Nobody except Tyrrell was looking now at
Herchweiler, who remained sitting on the ground, staring down, stripped
of the necklet which marked him as a man.
o—o—o
Tyrrell remained wordless a long while after the challenge ended. The
crowd had dispersed, chatting lightly about what they had seen – all but
a group of prisoners who had gone up to Garrettson to congratulate him
on his victory. Nobody approached Herchweiler, who stayed sitting on the
challenge ground, wiping off blood with a handkerchief as his eye strayed
to his former lad, clinging to Garrettson's side.
Finally, as Tyrrell and Pickens left the challenge ground, Tyrrell said,
"So might is all-important in Compassion Prison. A man who has no brawn
loses his lad."
Pickens clapped him on the shoulder. "Nay, man, you've missed the point.
Were you not seeing what was taking place there? You've gone and done it
yourself."
Tyrrell slowly looked over at Pickens. "A trial?"
"The real thing, rather than a ritual." Pickens raised his hand briefly
to greet a passing claimed lad who was a watch-hound. "Your trial of endurance
when you were first arriving here – that was just a preliminary round,
to show whether you had the strength to endure a challenge. Mind," he added
as they stepped down the boundary step into the little men's territory,
"you made a good enough showing that it may be that no one will challenge
you, once you've claimed a lad or two. But if any folk were figuring on
weaknesses in you, they'd be bound to go after your lad."
"And then my lad would abandon me?" Tyrrell said incredulously. "Pickens,
Herchweiler risked having his neck snapped for his lad's sake! He's not
deserving to be treated in a faithless manner by his lad."
Pickens sighed, nudging aside an abandoned crate in the little men's
territory. "You're still not seeing it. Not your fault; you weren't present
for Herchweiler's first four challenges."
Tyrrell stopped in his tracks. "He has been challenged 'fore?"
"Aye, this is the fifth challenge. And each time the result has been
the same: he has panicked. Tyrrell, Herchweiler wouldn't have had his neck
snapped; Garrettson would have forfeited his own life if that had fallen.
Killing or maiming or broken bones aren't permitted on the challenge ground;
every folk knows that. It's not physical strength that's being challenged."
He looked over at Tyrrell, waiting.
"Endurance," Tyrrell replied slowly. "You had tale of it a moment ago."
Pickens nodded as he started walking again. "Endurance and courage,
as in the trial you went through to draw your manhood. You didn't win that
trial 'cause you were the victor in strength. You won 'cause you refused
to surrender. Lads surrender; men refuse to surrender themselves, even
when their challenger has the upper hand."
Tyrrell considered this as they made their way through the crowd of
little men who were beginning to relax on the ground or on crates or buckets,
resting briefly before they began work again. "Five times, you give tale?"
"Five times challenged, and each time Herchweiler surrendered to the
other man. You can't say Schultz wasn't patient with his man. Give mind
again: a challenge, it happens when a lad is being taken from his man.
That poor lad has suffered groin-gropings and bruises for six weeks now,
while Herchweiler has gone and done nothing but panic on the challenge
ground." The contempt in Pickens's voice was clear.
Tyrrell looked at him sharply. "So you think Schultz shaped the right
choice in choosing Garrettson as his man?"
"Nay, I didn't have meaning of that. There are ways to lay claim on
another man's lad that don't result in his lad crying from fear and pain.
A little whisper of 'I'd be a better man for you' would have won the same
goal. But Garrettson wasn't merely craving Herchweiler's lad; he craved
to see Helmet stripped of his manhood on the challenge ground. So Garrettson
let Schultz suffer, and I doubt he'll treat Schultz any better, now that
Schultz is his lad."
Tyrrell had stopped again; his heart was beating in his throat. "So
Herchweiler is no longer a man? You can lose your manhood if your lad leaves
you?"
Pickens shrugged. "Depends how it happens. No folk is going to fault
a man whose lad asks to be released from his vow of service 'cause he has
found a man he favors better. But if a lad leaves a man 'cause he questions
his man's manhood, and if the man has let himself surrender, with others
watching, and if he acts so much without honor during the challenge fight
that his own man lets go his claim . . . Aye, there's not much hope for
Herchweiler now. 'Less he can be finding another lad who's willing to confirm
Herchweiler's manhood by pledging his service, Helmet will be an unclaimed
lad by week's end. No need for a declaration by the true men; every folk
saw, or will catch tale, what happened on the challenge ground, and Herchweiler
will be treated accordingly by every folk who meets him."
Tyrrell looked slowly around at the little men's territory, where men
without lads chatted and laughed and rubbed weary eyes. "Little wonder
some men never choose lads," he said quietly. "It sounds as if a man would
be better off without a lad to be challenged for."
"Nay, nay." Pickens's voice was soft now. "Never give tale of that,
mate. To hold a lad in your arms at night, and to know that, thanks to
you, he has a full stomach and is safe from the filthy hands of rapists
. . . There's nothing like it, Tyrrell. You don't want to deny yourself
that honor."
Tyrrell was silent, thinking of the "honor" that had been stripped from
Pickens when he killed his First Lad in fury of temper and was forced to
become lad to Hosobuchi in order to save himself from execution by the
true men. Perhaps Pickens thought of this tragic episode as well and was
discomforted by the thought, for he slapped Tyrrell on the back, saying
cheerfully, "Go looking for a lad, mate! I'm willing to wager you'll have
one within the week."
"Six months."
They both jumped in place, then turned to look at the speaker. Ahiga
was standing within inches of them, honing his blade with a bit of stone
that looked as though it had once belonged to the prison walls.
"Sir?" Pickens's left hand had gone behind his right elbow, and he stood
at attention.
Ahiga did not look up from his task. "Six months. No less. It will take
time and temperament and testing for you to know this place, man. Do not
rush to take others under your protection until you know what protection
against, they need." He sheathed his honed blade, turned his back, and
walked away without a word.
Tyrrell looked at Pickens. "He likes to spout pithy little bits of advice,
aye?"
Pickens laughed as he released his hand from service position. "Aye,
he does. You'll get used to him." He raised his head, watching the progress
of Davidson, who was walking to the back of the prison's great cell. "Claiming
time."
"You can read the shadows?" Tyrrell looked around, taking in the fact
that the light in the prison had grown dimmer.
"Aye, that and the fact that Davidson is gone." Pickens pointed his
thumb at the departing lad. "He's one of the few claimed lads who stays
ties with his old mates among the unclaimed lads. Farnam lets Davidson
visit his mates when Farnam has no work for him, but Davidson is under
strict orders to come back to the true men's cells at claiming time. Farnam,
he isn't going to risk having that lad near the gates when the guards claim
their prize for the night."
Tyrrell raised his eyebrows as he watched unclaimed lads drifting away
from the gate area. He knew what must be taking place now: Walker going
amongst the unclaimed lads, forcing them to draw straws to determine which
lads would be standing near the gate when the guards' claiming took place.
"Claimed lads – lads who have men protecting them in this prison – can
be claimed by the guards?"
"Any folk can be claimed by the guards." Pickens's voice took on a tone
of disgust. "Mind, I doubt the guards would hold a claim on a true man's
lad; they respect the authority of the true men, to a certain extent. But
'twould mean Farnam having to beg Davidson back, which would be a humiliation
for him and a terror for Davidson. So any man worth his necklet will stay
his lads away from the gate at claiming time." He turned, and with an easy
hand he caught his watch-hound spear as Shuji tossed it to him.
"Work again?" Tyrrell guessed.
Pickens nodded. "That's right," he said, switching to the Mippite tongue,
no doubt for the sake of Shuji, who spoke a different dialect of Vovimian
than Pickens and Tyrrell did. "Hosobuchi has been letting me off watch-hound
duty since you came, so that you'd have someone to show you our ways, but
I can't escape from claiming-time duty when my turn comes. Want to go and
watch? It's considered the evening entertainment by some men."
Tyrrell looked over to the area near the gate, where watch-hounds were
beginning to encircle the allotted lads, and curious men were beginning
to gather to watch. He said carefully in Mippite, "I would sooner cut my
own throat and offer my guts for the gods' feeding than treat the rape
of lads as entertainment."
Several of the nearby prisoners stared. A little man who had been about
to step into the unclaimed lads' territory – it was Quigley, the little
man who had spoken to Tyrrell about the Sweet-tooth Company on his first
day – stopped abruptly, looking over at Tyrrell. His olive skin flushed.
After a moment of indecision, Quigley turned and walked in the opposite
direction.
Pickens whapped Tyrrell on the back so hard that he staggered. "Man,"
the lad said, "I knew there was a reason I named you as my mate."
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Night-time remained a period of snores, of groans, of muffled cries.
Made sleepless by the events of the day, Tyrrell spent several hours staring
up at the glass dome, watching the stars move across the spring sky – a
novel experience for him, after so many years confined in Mercy Prison's
windowless cells. Finally, as the moon rose and began to cast its cold
light into the prison, he got up, stretched the stiffness out of his body,
and left his blanket behind as he wandered aimlessly through the great
cell of Compassion Prison.
He was careful not to enter the territory of the greater men and their
lads. Instead, he trod his way quietly along the recessed portion of the
floor that was reserved for the little men, following the path of dim moonlight,
looking down upon prisoners who slept relaxed or tense, smiling or frowning,
murmuring or moaning. Finally, on impulse, he stepped into the area for
the unclaimed lads.
He felt the difference, the moment he arrived. Everywhere he went, no
matter how soundlessly he stepped, lads would jerk awake and stare up at
him silently, their eyes wide and bright in the moon's spotlight. Their
muscles would be tensed, as though for flight, but they would not move;
they simply waited, mute. It was just the same as the last time that Tyrrell
had visited this place: the unclaimed lads were terrified of him. Dimly,
remembering his own first night at the prison, he began to realize why
they feared him.
He turned away, intending to return to his own sleeping place; but at
that moment, something flicked forward, in the edge of his vision.
Ahiga, with his hand hard on the arm of Shuji, who was stumbling along
beside him. Even in the grey light, Tyrrell could see that Shuji was crying.
Tyrrell froze where he was, standing beside the south wall, not far
from the gate. Ahiga, taking no notice of him or any of the unclaimed lads
who were silently watching his progress, reached the gate and threw Shuji
face-first against it. Shuji cried out, his voice reverberating with the
agony of his pain.
Tyrrell felt all the blood in his body surge. His fists closed. He opened
his mouth—
—and then closed it, realizing with horror that he could neither speak
nor act.
A man must not interfere with another man's claimed lad. That had been
made clear to him, over and over. Only Hosobuchi could have saved Shuji
from Ahiga's brutal treatment. But it was Hosobuchi who had handed Shuji
over to Ahiga, as a present to his own man. Shuji was trapped, bound to
serve his man's man in whatever way Ahiga deemed pleasurable.
And Tyrrell could do nothing. A new man, who had arrived only two mornings
before . . . He was not even initiated into the tribe yet, so he could
not challenge Ahiga. He was as helpless to fight against brutality in Compassion
Prison as he had been to fight against cruelty in Mercy Prison when he
first arrived there.
All he could do was turn away, not watch like a ghoulish spectator.
He willed himself to do so.
Ahiga pressed his groin against Shuji's tailside as he bound the lad's
hands to one of the crossbars of the gate, using the ragged remains of
a handkerchief. The moon had dipped far enough west now that its light
was slanting against the gate bars. Tyrrell could see Ahiga's smile, cold
and cruel. The true man whispered something into Shuji's ear that caused
the lad to cry out in fear and try to wriggle free. But he was bound fast;
his struggles merely caused the handkerchief to tighten harder on his wrists.
He was already shirtless, trouserless, and barefoot, no doubt because
he had been sleeping; now Ahiga stripped him of his drawers with ruthless
efficiency, leaving him bare and shaking. His sobs could be heard now,
carrying soft across the prison, but nobody came to his rescue. Indeed,
most of the unclaimed lads had closed their eyes and returned to sleep.
Dropping his own groin-cloth to the floor, Ahiga growled something,
dark and deep, and then stepped forward again so that his upright whammer
was hard against the crack of Shuji's tailside. The lad cried out again,
struggling to free himself, but Ahiga had already taken hold of him. Tucking
Shuji's whammer into his hand, Ahiga began to stroke the lad.
Shuji moaned, wriggled, cried for aid, pled for his goddesses to help
him, and Tyrrell was horrified to realize that his own whammer had gone
stiff.
This was appalling. He had been a life prisoner for twenty years and
had witnessed countless rapes and tortures, yet never once had he received
pleasure from the sight. Was he turning into someone like Ahiga?
The lad gave a great gasp, and sugarmilk shot out from his whammer,
sparkling like a moonbeam. Ahiga gave a grunt of satisfaction and released
Shuji, who had gone limp against the bars. The true man untied the wrists
of the lad, who promptly fell to his knees, gasping. Ahiga gave another
satisfied grunt. He nudged Shuji with his foot; the lad shifted over in
an automatic manner. His mouth was now inches from Ahiga's whammer.
But Ahiga was an Ammippian. Tyrrell had momentarily forgotten that.
Paying no attention to his proud-stiff whammer, Ahiga barked an order.
The weary lad knelt upright and began licking the gold whorls upon Ahiga's
chest. The tattoo-whorls were everywhere upon Ahiga's front: on his well-muscled
arms and legs, around his nipples, surrounding his whammer. But none of
these were the focus of Ahiga's attention. He barked another order, and
the lad slowly licked his way to his destination.
Tyrrell forgot the shame of his continued presence, the shame of his
hard whammer. He was too fascinated now by what he was witnessing.
Schoolbooks, he had been told, educated well-born Mippite children as
to the nature of Mip's native tribe: their hunting heritage, their apprenticeships
as youths, their bloody battles. But schoolboys being boys, they were more
interested in other topics. Even on the streets, far from these schoolyard
debates, Mippite boys asked the same question, over and over: Was it really
true that the center of an Ammippian man's pleasure was not his whammer,
but his belly button?
It seemed this was the case. Shuji was now lapping, in an apparently
practiced manner, at Ahiga's navel. His hand lightly touched the fuzz upon
Ahiga's baubles, swinging ponderously between the true man's legs as Ahiga
rocked on his heels. But when Shuji tried to reach a little higher, in
an evident attempt to pacify his rapist, Ahiga spoke briefly, and Shuji
dropped his hand from the true man's whammer. Thereafter, he concentrated
all his attention on Ahiga's navel.
To Ammippians, Tyrrell knew, the navel was the center of the body, in
the same manner that Ammippians regarded the Bay east of Mip as the navel
of the universe. That Bay, they had long since been driven from, exiled
into the Magisterial Republic of Mip, the only Midcoast nation willing
to tolerate their presence.
Ahiga drew in his breath sharply. He did not – as boyish rumor had long
held – expel his fluid through his belly button. The clear fluid emerged
in the normal manner, through his whammer. Shuji, without requiring orders,
carefully licked up the fluid that had spattered against Ahiga's abdomen.
The remainder of the fluid had landed upon Ahiga's waiting hand; Shuji
licked this clean as well. Then he looked up.
There was a smile on Shuji's face.
Looking down at him, Ahiga smiled back – a pure, clean smile, with no
cruelty within it. He reached down, and the lad, not awaiting the pull,
leaped up with a whoop and flung his arms around the true man.
Ahiga pushed him back after a moment and touched Shuji's upright whammer,
laughing. Shuji returned the laugh. Tenderly now, Ahiga turned the lad
so that he was enfolded within the true man's arms. Ahiga's hand went down
to stroke Shuji for a second time. Still smiling, Shuji leaned his head
back against Ahiga's shoulder and closed his eyes.
Then, finally, Tyrrell managed to pull himself away from the scene.
Shaking his head at his stupidity, he walked back toward the little men's
area. He should have known, he realized belatedly. He should have known
his body well enough to realize that, if he was aroused by a scene of abduction
and force, it was because the scene was not what it appeared to be.
And Ahiga, it had now become clear, was very far from what he appeared
to be.
The unclaimed lads who were farther from the gate seemed to be uniformly
asleep: they lay alone, or in pairs, or in groups of three or four – Tyrrell
nearly stumbled over Jahnsen and Olumbo and Babaqi, all huddled together
like a litter of puppies. Jahnsen was still stripped of his drawers. Oddly
enough, Olumbo remained stripped as well; Tyrrell remembered what Pickens
had said about their mateship. Babaqi, drawer-clad, had his arms over both
his fellow lads, as though trying to keep them warm.
Jahnsen's eyes opened suddenly. The lad – the prisoner whom Tyrrell
suspected was the secret leader of the unclaimed lads – looked up at Tyrrell,
not with fear, as the other unclaimed lads had done, but appraisingly.
For a moment, Tyrrell thought Jahnsen would speak.
Then something caught Tyrrell's attention which caused him to step away
and forget Jahnsen.
Rolling on the ground, pinned under a fully clothed man, was an unclaimed
lad, his drawers at his ankles. Tyrrell could not see the man's face, but
he could hear the chuckles deep in the man's throat as he bit at the lad's
shoulder, causing the lad to cry out and struggle harder.
Nobody nearby was moving, though a few of the unclaimed lads were watching,
in their usual silence. Tyrrell stepped quickly away. His whammer – his
wise, wise whammer – had gone limp with disgust and dismay. This scene,
he knew, was no play-acting. And now a thought occurred to him which had
not occurred to him before, concerning Compassion's customs: If a man protected
his lad against rape, who protected the lads who had no man?
Without much hope, Tyrrell made his way across the little men's territory
and hailed the watch-hound who was patrolling the border to the greater
men's territory. It was the same watch-hound as the previous night.
Tyrrell told briefly what he had seen. No surprise appeared on the hound's
face, perhaps because the rapist's harshly triumphant laughter could now
be heard across half the prison. "That would be Valdis," the hound replied.
"You recognize his voice?" Tyrrell twisted to look. The moon was going
down; the unclaimed lads' territory was becoming hidden in darkness
again.
The hound shook his head. "He's the loudest."
Tyrrell felt his stomach sicken. "There are others, then?"
The hound made no reply.
"How in Hell's name can you just stand by and—?" Tyrrell cut off his
rant abruptly. The hound wasn't looking at him. He was looking past Tyrrell,
toward the unclaimed lads' territory, his hand white-knuckled on his spear,
his wrist bound with the yellow wristlet showing his service to Ahiga.
A lad, Tyrrell reminded himself. A claimed lad . . . but perhaps he
had once been unclaimed, lying every night in rigid silence, waiting for
the men to come. Waiting for another rape.
In a quieter voice, Tyrrell asked, "Do many of the men do this?"
"No, sir." The hound's eyes remained on the darkness. "Not these days.
In the old days, I've heard, no lad was safe – even claimed lads would
be traded from man to man and tossed aside when the men tired of them.
The true men don't permit that any more, and they encourage every man to
claim a lad or two, so that the lads can serve the men at night in exchange
for protection against other men. It's usually only the little men who
seek out unclaimed lads at night . . . or men who crave the pain of lads."
"Valdis."
"He's generous to his claimed lads, I've heard." The hound's voice was
definitely strained now. "But unclaimed lads are free game, for anyone
to hunt. I heard a story that there was even a greater man once who used
to send his Second Lad to hunt them, for the sport of it. The greater man
liked to watch."
Tyrrell cursed pithily under his breath. "And the other true men permit
this? Or do they take part in this 'sport' themselves?"
The hound's gaze flicked in the direction of Tyrrell, and then away.
"I wouldn't know, sir. Nobody dares come near Walker when he's on the prowl
at night. Ahiga . . . he slides in and out of the unclaimed lads' area
like a ghost, at any time of day or night. I can say," he added in a brighter
voice, "that Farnam keeps out of the unclaimed lads' territory at night.
He's still pledged in faithfulness to his wife."
"How restrained of him." Tyrrell's voice was dry to the point of brittleness.
The hound looked at him with curiosity. "Did you not have such things
in Mercy Prison, sir?"
So this lad, too, knew who he was. How odd that so many of the prisoners
he met recognized him. "We were in danger from the guards, yes. Not from
our fellow prisoners. At least, not in recent years. There were some incidents
years ago – not rapes, there wasn't time for prisoners to do that before
the guards arrived. But other types of assaults took place, when guards
weren't watching."
The hound looked puzzled. "What has prevented the prisoners from attacking
their fellow prisoners in recent years?"
He hesitated, wondering how to explain the Boundaries of Behavior in
a few words – wondering whether it would even be wise to do so. In a prison
like this, where the true men handed down orders to the greater men, and
the greater men and their lads conveyed orders to the little men, and the
unclaimed lads took orders from everyone . . .
. . . in such a world, was there even room for a code of ethics which
assumed that every man was his own conscience, making his own decisions?
Tyrrell opened his mouth again—
—and closed it, whirling to stare at the northeast corner of the prison.
It was beyond sight here, hidden by the platform of the greater men,
but the platform could not hide the wailing that came from that corner
– the wailing of many prisoners, young and old, all joined as though in
harmony. In the next moment, Tyrrell realized that this was indeed a harmony:
a bleak song, in the old Yclau style, which mourned the newly dead.
The watch-hound had turned too. All around the prison, men and lads
who had been sleeping were rising onto their elbows to stare at the corner
from which the mourning tune emerged. The corner was dark as an unswept
cobweb . . . but as Tyrrell watched, a tiny light flared forth, like a
star in a night-black sky. It shook and shivered and began to grow larger
. . . . larger . . . until it was an oil-lit lamp in the hand of a prisoner.
Ignoring the watch-hound, Tyrrell stepped over the boundary step and
walked forward to join Pickens.
o—o—o
"Did Wendell die?" Tyrrell asked as he reached Pickens, who was journeying
through the darkness of the prison with aid of the lamp. Tyrrell noticed
for the first time that, as the moonlight disappeared from the prison,
other lamps were bobbing their way across the prison. Held by the patrolling
watch-hounds, at a guess. Tyrrell reflected that Ahiga must value order
and peace a good deal if he was willing to use some of the tribe's precious
supply of oil to ensure that no nefarious deeds took place in the dark.
But none of the hounds – Tyrrell noticed as he looked over his shoulder
at the dark area adjoining the south wall – ventured into the unclaimed
lads' territory to stop the peace-breaking that was occurring there.
Pickens looked weary, and his shoulders drooped. "'Twas— It's all right,
Iwobi." Pickens abruptly switched from the Riverside dialect of the Vovimian
language, which he shared with Tyrrell, to the Mippite tongue. The watch-hound
to whom Tyrrell had been speaking moved into eyesight. "I have need to
speak to Tyrrell of tribal matters."
In the wavering lamplight, Pickens's fellow watch-hound frowned. "You'd
better take him back into the little men's territory, then. If my man sees
that I've let a little man into the greater men's territory, he'll split
my bottom open like a ripe pumpkin."
"You're making me hungry," Pickens said with forced jocularity. But
he added, "Come, Tyrrell. We can talk in the challenge ground with no one
watching and listening."
"Was Wendell's death a hard one?" Tyrrell asked as he and Pickens walked
forward. "I've wondered whether Walker has the compassion to—"
Someone on the ground groaned. "Pickens, keep your guest quiet. Some
of us sleep at night."
"Sorry, sir." Pickens covered his mouth in a wordless gesture to Tyrrell,
and the two of them made their way to the challenge ground behind the true
men's cells.
They were halted three times: once by a roving watch-hound who let them
go quickly when he saw who was escorting Tyrrell, once by the hounds guarding
the area surrounding the true men's cells, and once by a hound who was
guarding the challenge ground itself, though at a distance.
Pickens spoke in a low voice to the hounds, and soon Tyrrell found himself
in the sawdust-strewn area of the challenge ground.
Pickens placed his lamp on one of the barrels. "Stay your voice low,"
he advised. "Valdis and his lads, they're sleeping on the other side of
that wall." He pointed at the north side of the true men's cells.
"Valdis's lads may be," Tyrrell responded grimly. "Valdis isn't."
"Ah." Pickens looked over at a lathe, avoiding Tyrrell's eye.
"Is that all you have to give tale?" Tyrrell demanded. "Is this the
well-ordered tribe you crave me to be initiated into? A tribe where one
of its leaders rapes at will?"
"Tyrrell," Pickens said as he ran his fingers along the lathe's bed,
"you're not understanding yet. The only reason the true men have been able
to achieve all this is that they and the other men have agreed to leave
each other's lads alone. That's why Valdis started the challenge ground.
'Fore it existed, men were using all their energy to try to kill each other,
to win each other's lads. Now challenging another man for his lad is a
thing of ritual, and many men, they draw satisfaction from simply watching
the fights, rather than having battle as well—"
"I saw no ritual 'tween Valdis and his victim," Tyrrell said flatly.
"I saw a man raping a helpless prisoner, while every folk refused to assist
his victim."
Pickens sighed. "Catch tale to me, please. The main rule of this prison
is: A man can use his lad in whatever manner he craves. The guards, they
still run their claiming of lads in that fashion, with no changes. What
they do is what the men in this prison used to do, back in the old days.
But the rest of us have evolved forward, step by step. Now men no longer
have battle at each other for food, they take vows to protect their lads
from harm, they cooperate to shape this prison a better place. . . . It
may be, some day, that we'll add rules that will stay back the unclaimed
lads from being taken unwilling. It may be that you'll be the one to suggest
such a rule. But in the meantime, the cornerstone of our lives remains
like as it always has: A man can use his own claimed lad, or any unclaimed
lad, in whatever manner he wishes."
Bracing his hands upon the bars of the loom, Tyrrell stared at Pickens.
"I am not believing I catch tale of you saying that. You're willing to
stand by and do nothing while Valdis and other men of his kind rape the
lads who have had the poor fortune to be unable to find protectors? You're
willing to stand by as Hosobuchi does whatever he craves to Shuji?"
"Shuji?" For a moment, Pickens simply gaped; then he rested his arms
upon a wooden horse and laughed till he wept.
"Oh, man," he said, wiping away his tears as Tyrrell frowned. "You've
got no idea what you're giving tale. If you'd seen Shuji serving Hosobuchi
. . . or even Shuji serving Ahiga . . . Aha!" he added as Tyrrell stirred
restlessly. "So you've been seeing them together already. Ahiga came to
fetch Shuji tonight?"
Tyrrell looked down, stroking a spindle. "I didn't want to watch."
"If you went and made it to the end of their performance, you're one
of the elite." Pickens's voice turned dry as he pushed himself away from
the horse. "I've forced myself to watch for Shuji's sake, but not even
Hosobuchi has the stomach to watch, most times. It's too close to what
could have fallen to Shuji, if he hadn't been claimed by an honorable man.
But Shuji . . . Oh, Shuji loves it."
"Whose idea was it to . . . ?" Tyrrell waved his hand in an uneasy manner.
"Shuji's. For sure Shuji's. 'Course, the subject matter of the play
was inspired by certain bits of Ahiga that he stays deeply tamped down
. . . mostly. There are times when that part of him glimmers through. But
most times he keeps that part of himself well shuttered, for the sake of
the tribe, and for the sake of his lads and men, and, I'm having no doubt,
for the sake of his own soul."
"And Shuji?" Tyrrell cocked his head, intrigued now. "The way you'd
given tale of him, he is a sweet lad – a virgin when he came to this prison,
fresh from his parents' home. How could anyone that young and naive offer
himself for such . . . play?"
Pickens gave a smile that, for once, seemed to hint at his own fifty
years of experience. "Tyrrell," he said softly, "Shuji is only two years
younger than Ahiga. He's in truth a year older than Hosobuchi. He gives
the seeming of extreme youth and purity, simply 'cause he has never been
treated harshly by any fellow in this prison. Hosobuchi and Ahiga have
seen to that. But Shuji has eyes to see, and ears to catch tale. He knew
what evil was, even 'fore he was convicted for a crime he never committed.
He can act out that evil – oh, he is a finer player than anyone else in
this prison. You should see him play the part of a hardened criminal. He
loves the theater; he wanted to be a player, 'fore his arrest. And now
he has the chance to play-act, night after night, as an act of service
to Ahiga."
Tyrrell remained mute for a time. Finally, he said, "I misjudged them
both."
"'Tisn't your fault," Pickens said briskly as he tossed away a chip
of wood he had been holding. "This place is a surprise, all around. 'Tis
filled with evil men who have found ways to turn their evil to good. There's
Walker, who would for sure love to murder every prisoner who fails to accept
the doctrine of rebirth, but who stays himself to executing prisoners that
the true men have agreed are a danger to the tribe. There's Valdis, treating
his claimed lads with respect, and staying his wilder impulses to the unclaimed
lads. There's Farnam, using his calculating mind to bring good to all of
us, rather than for the selfish ends he pursued 'fore his arrest. And there's
Ahiga . . . Mercy and Hell, I can just imagine what this prison would be
like if Ahiga was to let the reins loose on his natural ways."
"And there's you." Tyrrell shook his head slowly. "Pickens, this makes
no sense. I know that you repented of your crimes 'fore your arrival here,
and I know that your love of Hosobuchi stays you in order from day to day.
But this prison is filled with murderers and rapists. Back in Mercy Prison,
we had the Boundaries of Behavior to bind us into good behavior, but what
binds the prisoners here? I don't understand!"
"Nay, you can't." Pickens's voice was soft. "You won't, till you've
been initiated." He hooked the lamp with his finger. "I need to get back.
'Tisn't long to dawn, and I haven't slept yet. Tomorrow evening will be
a long one."
He stepped out of the challenge ground before Tyrrell could ask him
what he meant. Biting his lip to keep back further questions, Tyrrell accompanied
him through the greater men's territory. The moon had set now; the only
light came from the bobbing lanterns of the watch-hounds, still patrolling
the prison. Compassion Prison lay deep in sleep.
Almost. As they came closer to the west wall, just south of the true
men's cells, Tyrrell began to hear a sound: a muffled sound of squeals
and giggles. Within the light of Pickens's lantern, men and lads were beginning
to raise themselves onto their elbows again, looking in the direction of
the sounds.
Pickens stopped dead. A smile crept onto his face. "No sleep for me
yet, it seems," he murmured. "Now, let's see how far they have come. .
. ." He moved himself and his lantern forward a yard or two. Then, and
only then, did Tyrrell recognize the nature of the sounds.
Hosobuchi and Shuji were making love.
o—o—o
It was impossible to describe the scene in the flickering lantern-light
by words such as "servicing his body." Hosobuchi lay sprawled naked on
his back, loose-limbed, as his Second Lad, Shuji, lay naked atop him. In
a gentle manner, Hosobuchi stroked the lad's skin: arms, back, tailside.
In return, Shuji was licking Hosobuchi in the impassioned manner of a young
man playing his favorite sport. Every part of Hosobuchi that Shuji could
reach underwent a lapping: stiff nipples, dark armpits, the hollow of the
neck, flushed lips, closed eyelids, the lobes of ears, even hair . . .
At that point, Hosobuchi, whose face had held a quiet smile throughout
the proceedings, laughed outright and tugged Shuji high enough that his
baubles were within Hosobuchi's reach. Shuji yelped as Hosobuchi slid his
hand across the lad's tailside to stroke the baubles; delight was written
across Shuji's face.
So absorbed was Tyrrell in the scene that he failed to notice the moment
when Pickens set down the lantern on Hosobuchi's upturned pail. Tyrrell
remembered his mate only when Hosobuchi's First Lad, now stripped of his
clothes and with his arm already fixed in service position, knelt down
next to the greater man, saying something softly. Hosobuchi nodded without
opening his eyes; his hands were concentrating now on drawing a line up
the soft skin between Shuji's buttocks. Shuji was squealing and giggling
as though he were riding a favorite pony, but when Hosobuchi nodded, Shuji
opened his eyes, caught sight of Pickens, and smiled at his fellow lad.
Quickly Shuji shifted half off their man, leaving Pickens the lower half
of Hosobuchi's body.
Hosobuchi opened his legs, as though drawing open the gate of a great
mansion. Pickens knelt in the gap between the legs and looked down at Hosobuchi's
groin. Not surprisingly, the greater man's whammer was taking an interest
in these proceedings. With all the care of a trusted servant laying a table,
Pickens bent over and took Hosobuchi into his mouth.
Hosobuchi gave a great sigh. His smile had disappeared. Seeing this,
Shuji renewed his attack, this time tugging at his man's earlobes with
his teeth, while simultaneously wriggling in delight. As he did so, his
groin came into view. Clearly, he was enjoying the play as much as his
man did.
Tyrrell cast a worried look at Pickens. His mate showed no sign of bodily
enjoyment of the proceedings, but Pickens was continuing to service Hosobuchi
with well-practiced care, taking the whammer all the way into his throat
until his lips brushed the light hair at Hosobuchi's crotch. Shuji, with
another squeal of delight, began lapping at Hosobuchi's navel, which surprised
another laugh out of the greater man. He said something, and Shuji lifted
his head, at the same moment that Pickens, feeling Shuji's head brush his,
pulled himself off Hosobuchi's whammer. Pickens's eyes met Shuji's, and
there was a moment of suspension as the two lads contemplated each other.
Then Pickens smiled, kissed Shuji lightly on the nose, and returned
to his work. Shuji returned to his play.
Tyrrell lost track of how much time passed before Hosobuchi, who had
continued to pet Shuji lightly, suddenly grabbed the back of Shuji's neck
and pressed him down for a hard kiss. At the same moment, his groin began
pumping upwards to meet Pickens's mouth. Pickens coped with this assault
with all the aplomb of an experienced servant, while Shuji twisted and
rolled and made excited noises.
Hosobuchi collapsed back, clearly drained by the combined skill of his
two lads. There was a rustling in the area surrounding them – Tyrrell thought
to himself that it must be a miracle if anyone nearby could sleep through
Shuji's noise – but Pickens, as though to hold back the listeners' complaints,
raised his arm like a traffic soldier.
There was a pause. Hosobuchi had opened his eyes to look at Shuji, who
was kneeling near his chest. The greater man said something, smiling. Shuji,
practically leaping in his eagerness to comply, took hold of his own stiff
whammer and began to stroke it.
It was at this moment that Tyrrell became aware that his own whammer
was on the point of bursting.
He was standing outside the lantern-light; surreptitiously, hoping nobody
noticed him, he released his whammer from the confines of his trousers
and began rubbing himself as he watched Shuji. The lad had his eyes closed
and was leaning back so far now that he had to support himself with his
free hand. Back and back he leaned until his torso curved toward the sky,
like the glass dome above, his legs and left arm bending to support the
torso while his right hand whirred upon his whammer.
Hosobuchi had turned his head to watch; Tyrrell could not see Hosobuchi's
face, but he could see Pickens's face. It held an odd expression, not so
much happy or unhappy as longing.
In the next moment, Tyrrell lost sight of them all, for the tip of his
own whammer burst open, and for a few seconds, all he could feel was the
white heat coursing out.
He came to himself just in time to see Shuji, who was now pumping his
groin triumphantly toward the sky, give a shout of ecstasy as he fountained
forth his sugarmilk. Then, with the delicate talent of an acrobat, he leaned
back onto his heels again.
There was a breathless pause as the three of them contemplated the scene:
Shuji's sugarmilk had fallen onto Hosobuchi's chest. Then, with coordination
that would have done credit to the servants of a royal household, Shuji
and Pickens bent to work, Pickens licking up the sugarmilk, while Shuji
brought out a handkerchief – where from, Tyrrell could not imagine, for
the lad was still stark naked – and began to wipe the glistening path that
Pickens left, drying the skin of their man.
They finished in the same moment, leaning back, like two servants who
have finished clearing a table after a banquet.
Of course, that was exactly what they had done. "My body for your banquet"
was the well-known Mippite euphemism for saying, "I'm going to drill your
mouth." Never before, though, had Tyrrell ever seen the euphemism played
out with such voluptuous authenticity.
Freeing his left hand from service position, Pickens used his left forearm
to wipe the sweat from his brow. Hosobuchi touched Shuji's wristlet lightly
in evident acknowledgment of the lad's service. And Shuji, grinning widely,
jumped to his feet and bowed.
Thunder broke out.
The thunder consisted of foot-stomping applause, cheers, and calls of
"Again, again!" Nearly startled out of his skin, Tyrrell turned his head
and saw that the area behind him was now lit with the lanterns carried
by nearby watch-hounds. Everyone within sight was applauding the performance:
hounds, greater men, little men, claimed lads, and even Ahiga, who was
clapping his hands, in the Ammippian manner of applauding. He paused only
when Walker appeared at his side and murmured something in his ear, gesturing
with his head toward his territory within the prison. Valdis, Tyrrell saw,
was already making his way in the direction of the northeast corner of
the prison.
Tyrrell turned his attention back to the three prisoners who were the
center of everyone else's enjoyment. Shuji continued to bow, over and over,
though his face had become pink. Hosobuchi, sober-faced now, seemed to
be trying to pretend that the three of them were alone, but Pickens, with
a wry smile, acknowledged his admirers by saluting them. He said with raised
voice, "That's the last performance for tonight, gentlemen and gentlelads."
There was a uniform groan. Tyrrell noticed that he was hardly the only
prisoner to have unbuttoned his trousers during the proceedings; some of
the greater men were beckoning to their claimed lads to finish them off.
The lads obeyed, in a considerably quieter manner than Shuji had. Tyrrell
hastily fastened his own trousers.
Darkness was descending again as the hounds dispersed, continuing their
patrols. One hound, seeing Tyrrell standing in the greater men's territory,
came forward to escort him back to the little men's territory. Tyrrell
cast a final look at the triad. Hosobuchi had turned on his side to take
Shuji into his arms, while Pickens, after carefully covering them both
with three blankets, slid under the blankets himself to take up his position
of keeping Hosobuchi's back warm. As he did so, Pickens's whammer was still
limp, but the lad was smiling.
Tyrrell followed the hound's silent instruction to walk forward, thinking
to himself, in a bemused manner, that life at Compassion Prison was going
to be far from dull.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
By the third day of his arrival at Compassion Life Prison, Tyrrell was
weak-limbed, faint, and felt as though a rat was gnawing at his stomach.
"And this is only the start of the first act?" he cried aloud, appalled,
as Pickens handed out spears to the day's watch-hounds.
Pickens grinned. "Get used to being hungry all the time, man. Mind,"
he added as he tossed Shuji his spear and went down on his knees to offer
Hosobuchi his spear, "the next banquet will stay your mind off your hunger.
—Can I be of any further service to you, sir?" he asked Hosobuchi, switching
to the Mippite tongue.
"Only in the manner you are already serving me." Taking his spear from
Pickens's upraised palms, Hosobuchi turned his attention to Tyrrell. "How
goes it with you, Tyrrell? Is Pickens showing you everything you need to
know?"
"He's an excellent guide," Tyrrell said quickly, acutely conscious of
the consequences for Pickens if he said otherwise.
"Good. Pickens, the banquet will be tonight, as you know. Ahiga wishes
to speak to you before the initiation. How is your water?"
Silently, from his knees, Pickens held up the bladder of water he had
been sharing with Tyrrell for the past day. It was empty.
"I'm sorry," said Tyrrell, horrified. "It's my fault. I shouldn't have
borrowed water."
"Ahiga wants you kept alive," Hosobuchi replied. "I will check with
him concerning the surplus water. In the meantime . . ." He opened his
own bladder of water, which had been hooked to his belt, took in a mouthful,
and beckoned Pickens to his feet.
He poured the water into Pickens's mouth via a kiss, in a brisk fashion
suggesting that this was no more than a common prison rite. In an equally
matter-of-fact manner, he handed the bladder to Tyrrell. Tyrrell took only
enough water to wet his mouth; then, at Hosobuchi's urging, he took one
swallow.
"Good," said Hosobuchi, glancing at Shuji's bladder, which was a quarter
filled. "We may survive to our next watering. Matters are worse among the
unclaimed lads, alas. One lad is already near the point of death from thirst."
Tyrrell's throat tightened. "One of the ousted lads?"
"No, a lad who has been vomiting his food all this week. He had the
ill fortune to receive a poisoned can last week, and though he survived
the poisoning, his stomach has remained unsteady. He is close to dying
from hunger, and when that happens, it can be hard to tell when one should
drink water. He was trying to reserve the last of his water, but he went
without water too long." Hosobuchi's eye wandered in the direction of the
south end of the prison, where the unclaimed lads milled. "Poor lads. They
take the brunt of the tribe's suffering at times like this, and they receive
so little reward for their sacrifice. I wish there was some way we could
offer them a gift in gratitude."
"There will be the banquet, sir," Pickens suggested. He was standing
erect now, with his left hand behind his right elbow, in service position.
"There will be that," Hosobuchi agreed, then swung his head around as
shouting began nearby. From the words being spoken, it sounded as though
two prisoners had begun to battle over some of the remaining water.
"Watch-hounds! To me!" It was Ahiga's voice, and immediately Hosobuchi
and Shuji were gone, slipping into the crowd that had begun to gather around
the fight.
Pickens sighed as he tossed the last spear to a watch-hound who was
responding to Ahiga's call. "There will be more of that, till we're watered.
There ever is. It used to be chaos, in the old days, I'm catching tale:
men cutting each other's throats – aye, and even the throats of their own
lads – to get what little water and food they were given."
"But not now, 'cause of Ahiga?" Tyrrell suggested.
"'Cause of Ahiga and the other true men. They're all determined to stay
us at peace with one another." As he spoke, Pickens turned toward a claimed
lad who had approached him, and who had been waiting for him to finish
talking. The claimed lad, who wore a black wristlet, murmured something
in Pickens's ear.
"Thank the gods!" Pickens responded. "I'll spread the word to the watch-hounds."
The claimed lad nodded and withdrew. Tyrrell said, "What is it? Has
Walker figured out a way to persuade the guards to water us?"
Pickens nodded. "The best way he has knowing of. He's holding a prayer
meeting."
o—o—o
The prayer meeting was not held at the platform, which for some reason
was out of bounds on this morning. Instead, it was held in the northeast
corner of the prison.
Walker's territory was appropriately stark. It seemed to consist mainly
of cobwebs; Tyrrell carefully edged himself out of the way of a spider
spinning thread around a captured fly. He had wondered why the prison seemed
surprisingly free of insects; back at Mercy Prison, he had been accustomed
to sharing his blankets with bedbugs. Walker, though, seemed to have his
own way of dealing with what he considered vermin.
Tyrrell and Pickens were among the first to arrive there, but even so,
they had to use Pickens's status as First Lad to Ahiga's First Lad in order
to worm their way toward the front. The prayer meeting seemed to attract
nearly every prisoner in Compassion, from the true men – they were all
there except Farnam, who was busy on the platform – to the unclaimed lads,
standing on tiptoe in an attempt to peer over the shoulders of higher-ranked
prisoners.
A few of the unclaimed lads had managed to make their way to the front
of the crowd, Tyrrell saw when he reached there. Olumbo was in the second
row, as well as Babaqi, but the third member of their triad was missing.
"Where is Jahnsen?" Tyrrell asked Pickens, unable to hide the concern
in his voice. This was, he knew, the third day of Jahnsen's temporary ousting
from the tribe as punishment for having given food to an ousted lad. No
food during that time for Jahnsen.
"Eh?" The name obviously meant nothing at this moment to Pickens; he
was craning his neck to look at Hosobuchi and Shuji, who had gone over
to talk to Ahiga.
"Jahnsen," Tyrrell repeated impatiently, pointing at Olumbo and Babaqi.
"Where is he?"
He was still speaking in the Riverside dialect of Vovimian, but the
combination of his enquiring tone and Jahnsen's name must have told its
own story, for a chestnut-haired unclaimed lad near him said in Mippite,
"He doesn't attend these prayer meetings, sir. He's an unbeliever. He says
that no one can know what happens after death, and that if any gods or
goddesses have visited this prison, he has neither seen nor heard nor felt
them. But he doesn't mind if the rest of us attend." The lad gave a tentative
smile, half-hopeful.
Tyrrell had come to recognize the nature of that half-hopefulness, and
he struggled to think of a suitable reply that would not leave the unclaimed
lad with a misapprehension as to his chances of being claimed. But at that
moment, a blond-haired unclaimed lad, standing at the side of the first,
leaned over and whispered in the first lad's ear. Tyrrell caught the sound
of his own name.
The chestnut-haired lad's expression turned to alarm. The blond-haired
lad carefully drew both of them back until they were well hidden within
the crowd.
Tyrrell turned to look at Pickens, who had been watching all this silently.
In Riverside dialect, Tyrrell said, "I'm at the center of admirers – had
you been noticing?"
Pickens laughed loudly. Somebody said, "Shush. He's coming."
Out of the midst of the black-neckletted men, and through the line of
black-wristed lads in front of them, stepped Walker. He was wearing an
ordinary grey prison uniform, but he might as well have been dressed from
head to toe in black, in the manner of the old-time torturers in Yclau's
Eternal Dungeon. His face, its skin folded like a lizard's, held only stiff
sobriety. He looked long and hard at everyone standing there. As he did
so, gazes shied away from him, as though his eyes were too terrible to
bear.
Walker turned away to accept a drink of water from a bladder held by
one of his claimed men – whether it was his First Lad, it was impossible
to determine, for all of his men and lads had a sameness to their appearance,
a sameness to the deadness in their eyes. Not drugs, Tyrrell supposed;
by this time, he was aware of how few medicinal drugs entered into this
prison. Perhaps Walker possessed some hypnotic power that kept his men
and lads – it was hard not to think of them as slaves – under his firm
control.
"Hark at Hell's messenger," Tyrrell muttered in Riverside dialect.
"Eh?" Pickens glanced at him.
Tyrrell pointed his thumb at Walker's back. "Hell's messenger. Death."
"Oh." Pickens returned his attention to Walker. "I thought you were
giving tale about Compassion's Keeper."
Walker turned back again, before Tyrrell could ask Pickens what he meant.
Walker's gaze did not wander this time: it was focussed entirely on one
man in the crowd.
Tyrrell felt his spine quiver with the anticipation of a blow. How much
had Walker heard and understood?
After a moment, though, Walker released Tyrrell from his gaze. With
great ceremony, he circled the sign of rebirth upon his forehead. Others
in the gathered crowd used their thumbs to do so as well, though Tyrrell
was relieved to see that he wasn't the only prisoner there who adhered
to the unreformed Vovimian belief; others besides himself were raising
their hands to the goddess Mercy and her messenger, Compassion. Although
he respected members of the Yclau faith, who preached that transformation
and rebirth awaited the dead, Tyrrell had never been able to convince himself
that reformed Vovimians – who claimed that the gods and goddesses of the
Vovimian faith had invented rebirth – were anything but a bastard sect,
trying to reconcile the irreconcilable faiths of Vovim and Yclau.
Walker spoke then, for the first time in Tyrrell's hearing since he
had entered Compassion Prison.
Tyrrell could not have stated afterwards what Walker said. It was not
exactly a prayer, a petition, a hope. Nor was it a sermon. It was more
a seduction. It was as though Walker had spent years gathering together
the best bits of the Yclau faith and discarding the worst bits, and had
poured honey over the resulting treat. Now he was offering the treat to
his audience: a sweet promise of everlasting immortality. Even as Tyrrell's
soul salivated, something within him gagged.
This was wrong. This was not the Yclau faith that he had always respected.
The Yclau faith had not been founded upon a promise of immortality. On
the contrary, the faith grew out of a myth that one man, offered the pleasures
of everlasting afterdeath, had chosen to return to the world of mortality
– had chosen to risk suffering, had chosen to die a second time, with no
guarantee that he would be reborn. The Yclau faith – the true faith – never
guaranteed rebirth. It only guaranteed that the men and women who repented
of the evil they had committed would be permitted to enter into the scourging
pains of transformation. Rebirth after transformation was mentioned almost
as an afterthought in the Yclau liturgy.
But Walker had stripped the Yclau liturgy ruthlessly of all doubt, all
pain, all renunciation of evil. He offered only the power and certainty
of immortality. And Tyrrell, even as he rejected reflexively this adulterated
version of religion, felt part of himself long for that sort of power and
certainty.
A pause came in the meeting. Walker had stepped back to take more water
from one of his men, and to have his forehead wiped by one of his lads.
There could be no doubting the sincerity in his presentation; he was wet
with sweat from his exertions – from his attempts to bring water to the
prisoners by sheer force of will. He was also worn out, Tyrrell suspected,
by his efforts at conversion.
Not caring whether Walker overheard him now, Tyrrell muttered to Pickens
in Riverside dialect, "Does he manage to persuade any folk to trust that
claptrap?"
Evidently Walker had, for several of the nearby listeners turned their
heads to glare at Tyrrell, alerted to his dissatisfaction by the tone of
his muttering. Missing the underlying attack in Tyrrell's words, Pickens
said cheerfully, "He gives tale a bit rich, aye? I prefer a plainer tone,
myself. But a lot of the prisoners here, dying with nothing to cling to
but hope – aye, he draws comfort to them, promising them better days to
come."
Put that way, Walker's seductive speech took on a different meaning.
Tyrrell felt ashamed of himself. He said to Pickens, "You should be a priest."
Pickens nudged him with his elbow, chuckling quietly. "Get on with you.
I'm not even having knowledge how to give tale to old Vovimian or the Yclau
tongue – none of the temple languages. Just Riverside dialect and Mippite
and Ammippian."
"Ammippian?" Tyrrell glanced over at Ahiga, only to find that the true
man's gaze was upon him. He had forgotten that Ahiga was likely to know
Pickens's dialect. Tyrrell wondered how long Ahiga had been listening to
the conversation.
"Aye, Ahiga learned Hosobuchi and Shuji to give tale in his tongue,
and Shuji learned me. It can be handy, when the four of us got to give
tale private-like about hound duties."
"But has he learned you any of the Ammippian prayers?" Tyrrell asked.
Pickens frowned. "It may be. I hadn't really had mind of it that way.
To me, it was just language lessons. . . ." He appeared to ponder this
for a moment, and then rattled something off in what Tyrrell supposed must
be Ammippian.
"What does that mean?" Tyrrell asked.
"It means . . . Oh, blast, it's easier to say it in Mippite." Pickens
smoothly switched to the republic's language. "Mippite has adopted a few
of the Ammippian words. The passage means, 'He is dead. He is alive. We
have . . . taken him into ourselves. He is become . . .' Oh, there's no
word for it in Mippite. 'Honor'? 'Hope'? No, 'victory' is the closest word."
Some of the prisoners around them were beginning to look uneasy. Tyrrell
was hardly surprised, given the unpleasant interpretation that could be
placed upon that passage. He opened his mouth to change the subject, but
at that moment, Walker returned. He raised his arms, flinging them open
as though to accept bounty from the sky, and spoke one word: "Water!"
At that moment, the air split open with a crash.
o—o—o
Looking up, Tyrrell saw what Walker must have seen in the second before
he made his "prayer": thunderclouds rolling over Compassion Prison, punctuated
by lightning. The storm had come on so suddenly that none of the prisoners
had even heard the approaching thunder. Now the wind was so strong that
it rattled the dome.
Tyrrell looked back down at the prisoners. Everyone had their faces
upturned, as though Mercy had sailed in with her clouds.
Then the crowd stampeded.
Tyrrell was toward the back of the mob headed toward the gate, or he
felt sure that he would have been swept off his feet and trampled in the
next moment. However, Walker gave a sharp order, and his claimed men and
lads – clearly straining at the leash – remained in place. The last thing
Tyrrell heard from that corner was Walker, calmly reciting a prayer of
thanksgiving.
By the time the crowd reached the gate – and by the time that Pickens
managed to nudge and order and threaten their way to the front of the crowd
– it was manifestly clear that more than prayers of thanksgiving would
be needed at this point.
Without looking up from the dominoes game he was playing with three
of the other guards, Pugh said, "Stop shouting. I can't hear myself think."
Tyrrell barely could either; the prisoners were baying like a pack of
hounds trapped dying in a gully. Then there was a very loud whistle – it
came from Ahiga, Tyrrell saw upon turning his head – and the prisoners
gradually subsided to mutters.
In his matter-of-fact manner, Farnam said with raised voice, "It's raining,
Pugh."
"I don't require a weather report from prisoners," Pugh replied, scrutinizing
the dominoes.
"We need to be watered," Valdis said gruffly.
"And I don't take orders from prisoners. —Niesely, are you playing
or not? Make up your mind."
Niesely, who had been hovering on the edge of the game, clearly uncertain
whether to participate in this illicit activity, slid into a chair and
reached for the dominoes. In the gunners' balcony above, Landry and Starke
were absorbed in conversation.
Ahiga had remained silent until now, evidently feeling it was a waste
of breath to approach Pugh, but his head suddenly rose, like a bloodhound
who scents a path. "Medinger!" he called to the guard who had just walked
toward the balcony. "You are telling Compassion's Keeper: We have no water.
We have had no watering for many days. It rains. Tell him."
Keeper's orderly did not waste words; he left in the direction he had
come. Also not wasting words, Pugh scooped up the dominos and his share
of the gambling bounty. By the time Medinger returned, with Tom Keeper
by his side, there was no evidence that the game had ever existed.
"Make sure those prisoners are watered," Pugh said in a loud voice.
"Niesely, to the lever. Prisoners, do you have sufficient implements with
which to gather the water?"
Valdis sniffed disdainfully. "No thanks to you."
Keeper did not speak to Pugh. He came forward and said something quietly
to Niesely as that guard reached the lever which controlled the mechanisms
of the prison. Niesely nodded. Then, still without speaking a word to Pugh,
Keeper departed, with Medinger in step behind him.
"What did he say?" Pickens demanded to an unclaimed lad beside him.
The lad appeared not to hear him. But the lad beside him made some gestures,
and the first lad responded in turn with gestures. Finally the second lad
interpreted, "He didn't catch all of it; Compassion's Keeper had his face
turned away for part of the time. But in the portions where he could read
our Keeper's lips, it appeared that Keeper was telling Niesely to continue
the watering until the rain is gone."
"Thank the gods," Pickens breathed. Then he shouted to Ahiga, "Sir!
The watering will continue through the entire storm!"
Ahiga raised his hand in acknowledgment. As the prisoners rapidly departed
from the area around the gate, Ahiga stood in consultation with all the
other true men, for even Walker had finally departed from his lair. From
what Tyrrell could hear, they were debating how long the storm would last.
"Two hours," Ahiga said with decisiveness. "The wind is flat now; she
remains here, holding us in her bosom."
Nobody seemed to be willing to argue with this forecast. Farnam turned
and began barking out orders; Valdis did the same. Walker simply swept
out his arms, and his men and lads scattered.
Pickens tapped Tyrrell on the shoulder. "Come!" he urged. "Let's help
with the barrels!"
Tyrrell did not respond for a moment. Niesely had pulled one of the
levers on the wall. Tilting his head to look up at the storm, Tyrrell had
seen a remarkable sight: the glass dome was splitting open, allowing the
rain into the prison.
o—o—o
"There!" said Pickens, his voice more a grunt than a word as he settled
a barrel into place. "That enough, Hesse?"
The water-steward nodded without looking up from the list he was checking
off on one of the prisoner-crafted wax tablets. Lined up beside him were
all the empty barrels that the prison possessed, gathering rainwater.
Tyrrell looked beyond the barrels to where the water thundered like
a fall into the prison. The dome had not split open entirely; the gap was
only long enough to create a narrow fall of water. The water landed almost
entirely in the little men's area – in that great gully which ran down
the length of the middle of the prison. The little men's area was lower
than the other two areas of the prison – not by accident, Tyrrell now realized.
The water was gathering like a pool in that area.
"Won't we be needing more barrels under the water?" he asked anxiously.
"We've not enough barrels for that," Pickens replied in Riverside dialect.
"'Tis not mattering. See now!"
He pointed with his chin toward the west end of the prison. There, with
great energy, Farnam's men and their lads were kneeling and laying down
empty tin cans: hundreds upon hundreds of the cans that had once held food
for the tribe. The rain sang as it fell into the cans.
"Two inches of rain we'll get, it may be?" Pickens squinted up at the
open dome. "Two inches of rain times thousands of cans . . . Well, Davison
could shape the calculations for you. 'Twill be enough to water the tribe
for a few days, till the next rainfall. We hope."
"And this is all the water that the prisoners draw?" Concerned, Tyrrell
looked over to the westernmost end of the prison. The prisoners there were
standing with their water-bladders open, catching drinking water for themselves.
Pickens shrugged. "The rain, 'twas supposed to be for bathing water
only, the way they crafted this prison. But we didn't trust the guards
to water us proper-like, so we started the first act at catching the rain
and . . . Either we were right not to trust the guards, or they took advantage
of us. They halted their daily water yieldings to us."
"They halted last fall." It was Nava'i, standing nearby as he held his
water container up; he had to shout over the sound of the rain. "After
Tom Keeper drew the Keepership of this prison. 'Fore that, he always yielded
the water at the end of his night shift. —Yes, sir, I'm coming." Switching
to the Mippite tongue, the lad moved off toward Farnam, who was gesturing
to him.
Tyrrell looked at Pickens. "Another villainy that Keeper doesn't have
knowing about?"
Pickens shrugged. It was clear that his mind was on other matters. "Let's
help Farnam's folk," he suggested. "They're having trouble drawing all
the tins into place, and this rain won't last forever."
o—o—o
Many minutes later, Tyrrell sat back on his heels, breathing heavily.
The tins now dotted the portion of the gully between the west wall and
the barrels, like a field of metallic flowers, their shiny petals receiving
in the rain. Already the first tins put down were close to being filled;
unclaimed lads who had volunteered to help with the work were scurrying
back and forth, pouring the filled tins into the barrels, then replacing
the tins within the gully to catch more rain.
In the narrow spaces between the tins, water was travelling swiftly,
compelled by a slight incline in the floor to journey toward the barrels.
The water gushed past the barrels, as though spurting through sluices in
a dam. Tyrrell pointed. "What do you do with the water you can't go and
catch for drinking?"
Pickens turned away from where he was discussing with the water-steward
the various ingenious methods that Hesse used in order to keep the stored
water fresh between rainfalls. "Come see," he suggested, gesturing. Tyrrell
followed him up to the row of barrels, and then stepped with him out of
the gully of the little men's area, in order to pass the barrels.
There he stopped abruptly. Hidden by the barrels lay an entirely new
scene: hundreds upon hundreds of lads kneeling next to the water or waiting
their turn to kneel. The lads – Tyrrell saw with uneasiness – were all
naked. Then he saw the clothes the lads were holding, and he understood.
Following an unerring path, Pickens wound his way through the lines
of lads. Nearby, some of Valdis's carpenters were setting up sawhorses
and stringing ropes between the sawhorses. The "ropes" appeared to be made
of thick bundles of hair, braided and tied together. Already, a few of
the makeshift clotheslines were festooned with wet clothes, drying in the
unclaimed lads' territory.
A flicker of motion caught Tyrrell's attention. Turning, he saw that
a number of Valdis's men and lads had gathered in the greater men's area,
which remained dry. Other than the small cluster of prisoners tending the
oven on the platform, they were the only prisoners left in the greater
men's territory. In an area between the small tents, lit bright by the
occasional bolt of lightning streaking stark across the sky, a number of
lads were walking back and forth, scattering something as they went. For
a moment, Tyrrell thought of the seed-sowing that still took place by hand
in southern Vovim, even as it was being abandoned by more technologically
advanced provinces of the Kingdom of Vovim.
Then he realized that, in actual fact, the lads were sowing.
Not seed, but they were scattering some of the coarse flour that the prisoners
had been given recently by Compassion's Keeper for this day's celebration
of the Lords' Spring Festival. Other lads placed small, hard biscuits on
the ground that were covered – Tyrrell realized, his eyes blinking in disbelief
– with peanut paste.
Under the backdrop of laughter and shouts and jests in the little men's
area, the silence of Valdis's men seemed menacing. Tyrrell's back turned
taut as the lads finished their work. Valdis was kneeling down, seemingly
to examine the resulting field of food. Then he reached over his shoulder.
When his hand emerged, it was holding a thin, hollow pipe. Tyrrell – probably
one of the few prisoners who had knowledge of the traditions of southern
Vovim – grew so stiff that his bones ached.
He resisted the impulse to grab Pickens's arm. If Valdis planned to
use the pipe, there was nothing that either he or Pickens could do.
But Valdis did not aim the pipe at any man or lad around him. Placing
the pipe to his lips, he pointed it toward the field of grain. Then he
waited, his eyes narrowed.
It took Tyrrell a moment to realize that everyone else near that field
was looking, not at Valdis, but at the sky.
Tyrrell tilted back his head. The sound of thunder and of the prisoners'
voices had obscured the noise he would otherwise have noticed, of birds
calling to one another. There were dozens of them in the prison now, flying
in the air or sitting on the crossbeam at the foot of the dome – all sheltering
from the raging storm above. Some of them had their heads cocked to one
side, watching the proceedings below. There was much chatter between the
birds as one bird, bolder than the rest, dived down.
He reached the field of grain safely. After a wary look at the humans
standing several yards away, he began to peck at the food. No one stopped
him. The men, the lads, the greater man kneeling with his pipe in hand,
all remained motionless, watching the bird take its fill of the grain.
It was close enough that the shine of its bronze feathers could easily
be seen.
The bird flew off. Other birds in the flock, having witnessed that no
apparent danger lay below, began to alight on the ground. They too were
allowed to take their fill, pecking at the flour and the biscuits with
peanut paste. More birds flew away, but yet more landed, until the "field"
began to resemble a great nesting ground for birds.
One of the passenger pigeons fell.
This happened so quickly that Tyrrell did not realize at first what
had happened. Then, as a second passenger pigeon fell, piercing the air
with its warning cry, the entire flock began to rise, beating its wings
in haste to escape whatever menaced them.
They were not fast enough. A third pigeon fell, and then a fourth, speared
by little darts. A fifth dart entered the body of a pigeon, but that pigeon
managed to flutter its way out of the dome, presumably dying a short time
afterwards. All of the passenger pigeons were gone now. The dark clouds
above continued to send down rain into the little men's area.
Tyrrell lowered his eyes in time to see Valdis rise to his feet. The
greater man still had half a dozen darts in his left hand; his right hand
was lowering the dart-pipe he had blown. He looked disgusted.
"Four hits, sir!" announced Valdis's Second Lad cheerfully.
"There should have been more," replied Valdis sourly. "Will those be
enough?" His question was addressed to Farnam, who had come forward with
several of his lads.
Farnam gave one of his usual abrupt nods. "They'll provide enough flavor
to the broth to feed the tribe. Later this year, though . . ." He let his
voice trail off.
"I'll make sure we have a large amount of bird-meat for the next feast."
The commitment in Valdis's voice was strong. "All right, lads, clear up
this mess." He gestured to his claimed men and lads, who came forward to
carefully gather up the remainder of the strewn food. One of Valdis's lads
plucked a biscuit from the hand of an unclaimed lad who had crept over
the border to steal it.
An elbow dug into Tyrrell's ribs. "Over here," said Pickens.
He and Pickens returned to the edge of the gully. Kneeling there, unashamedly
naked, was Shuji, rubbing clothes on a piece of metal that had apparently
been ridged at intervals by Valdis's men, in order to serve as a washboard.
Shuji looked up briefly to greet the new arrivals with a smile, and then
he returned to his work. All around him, lads – both claimed lads and unclaimed
lads – were engaging in the same work, a few wading into the gully to accomplish
their washday. There were little men there too, cleaning their own clothes
since they had no lads to do the task for them. None of them seemed to
have any soap at hand – Tyrrell remembered the extreme care with which
the homemade soap was doled out in Compassion – but they made up for this
with energetic scrubbing.
Tyrrell turned his head to remark upon this to Pickens, only to discover,
to his consternation, that Pickens was in the process of stripping off
all his clothes.
Pickens caught Tyrrell's eye on him and smiled. "Come on, man," he urged.
"'Less you crave to live in filthy clothes. Shuji will clean your clothes
for you." He switched to the Mippite tongue to make the last remark.
Overhearing him, Shuji looked up and gave Tyrrell a cheerful smile and
a nod. Tyrrell smiled back. It was impossible not to do so; the lad was
like an overgrown puppy, shy but playful. Tyrrell hesitated a moment more
and then mentally shrugged. After all, it would hardly be the first time
he stripped down among strangers. He'd done so every week for twenty years
at Mercy Prison, on shower day.
His hands slowed, though, as he pulled off the belt and the white necklet
still hanging from it. After a questioning murmur, Pickens took it from
him and carefully handed it to Shuji. Shuji wiped his hands on a nearby
set of unwashed clothes, and then he accepted the cloth into his hands
tenderly, as though he were a chapel attendant holding a precious vessel.
He carefully folded the cloth, which had grown wrinkled, and placed it
atop a pile of folded wet clothes.
"That's the ironing pile," Pickens informed Tyrrell. "Valdis's metalworkers
crafted some irons for the lads; they're heated over fires and then used
on some of the old metal tables that are left over from the time when the
guards lived in this prison." He added something in the northwestern provincial
tongue to Shuji. The lad nodded, placing his hand protectively atop the
cloth.
"He'll take care of it for you," Pickens concluded. "It's time we were
moving on."
"Moving on?" said Tyrrell and took a few steps forward, past a full
clothesline that hung over the gully, hiding the remaining third of the
little men's territory. Then he stopped again, his heart pounding.
For a moment, filled with memories of Mercy Prison and of the unclaimed
lads' territory during the nighttime, he thought he had stumbled across
the greatest mass-rape in the history of Mip. Then his vision cleared.
Some of the men and lads in front of him were merely bathing themselves,
standing under the rain and diligently scrubbing their skin with no tools
other than their hands. The gully was deep enough at this end of the prison
that a few of the prisoners had reclined, enjoying the gully as a bath
or a shallow pool.
But some of the men and lads had taken advantage of the water for a
different purpose. They were everywhere in the gully: lying down to drill
mouths, kneeling to suckle, or simply engaging in mock water fights that
ended with the victors taking their spoils.
Tyrrell was suddenly, acutely conscious that he was a naked man, standing
next to a naked lad. He hardly dared turn his eyes. But when he did so,
he saw that Pickens was laughing at him.
"Nay, man," said Pickens with a thump between the shoulder-blades that
had the reassuring flavor of a best mate offering comradely advice. "'Tis
not required of us. Anyhow," he said, his voice turning practical, "my
body is reserved for Hosobuchi. Should he ever crave it."
There was a change in his tone, a sound of wistfulness, that caused
Tyrrell to realize he had entirely mistaken the nature of Pickens's service
to Hosobuchi. "He's not often asking for your bed-service, then?"
"Nay, not much. Only some nights, when Shuji is serving him too." Pickens
shrugged, and his voice turned brisk. "'Tis not mattering. For some folk
like me, bed-service is a matter of yielding a gift to my man, not drawing
pleasure from the act itself. Me, I'm too much a man to draw the sort of
pleasure that Shuji does from suckling a man. But it would be nice some
days if I could be sure . . ."
His voice trailed off again. Tyrrell put his arm around Pickens' shoulders,
as best he could, Pickens being several inches taller than him. "I'm sure
Hosobuchi appreciates your service," he told Pickens in a low voice. "He
wouldn't have gone and claimed you as his lad if he wasn't craving you.
Let's bathe."
The water was achingly cold at first, but it grew warmer as time went
on, not so much because the temperature changed – if anything, the prison
grew more chilly from the storm-winds howling down from the sky. Rather,
there was something about the atmosphere in the prison which made it impossible
for Tyrrell to remember that he was bathing in unheated rainwater. The
prisoners splashed each other, and jumped into the water like schoolboys
jumping in puddles, or simply stood motionless under the rain, staring
up at it smiling, as though thanking the goddess Mercy for her bounty.
Indeed, a few of the men and lads there had their arms raised in prayer,
or were tracing circles of rebirth onto their foreheads. Nearby, other
men and lads continued to enjoy each other's bodies; even some of the little
men were joining in, turning to each other as watery bed-companions. The
prayer and the play and the pleasure all blended together into a sacred
celebration such as the Midcoast nations had surely never seen outside
the stages of the Vovimian theater-players who acted out the feasts and
love-making of the gods and goddesses.
Pausing from rubbing his face clean of water, Tyrrell took a closer
look at the scene. Ngugi was there, and Les, and many of the other men
and lads whom Tyrrell had come to know during his short time in the prison.
Not Czupak, though; perhaps the tribe's perennially cheerful food-taster
was still sick from his latest bout of food poisoning. Some of the bathers
were wandering away in order to make room for a new wave of bathers: the
men and lads who had been working to catch the rain-water and clean the
clothes. Tyrrell saw Shuji enter the water cautiously, wincing at the cold,
and then the lad was caught up in a blur of motion and flung onto his back
in the water. Something swooped over him, like a vulture.
Tyrrell heard a growl in the throat of a man nearby. "Bloody cannibal,"
the man commented.
The man next to him shrugged. "What can you expect? Ammippians are only
half-civilized."
Watching Ahiga carry out his play-rape with Shuji's clearly joyful help,
Tyrrell felt his lips tighten. He dared not say anything – the men who
were speaking were greater men, above his rank – but it was shameful that
they would cast judgment upon a man who had gone to such trouble to train
watch-hounds that would keep peace within the prison.
And even greater shame that he himself had once cast such judgment upon
Ahiga.
"Are you done with bathing?" Pickens, who had wandered away to help
in a water battle that was playing itself out elsewhere, appeared by his
side. "Let's be going, then. The rain is slackening, and we got to get
dry 'fore this whole horde draws down upon Farnam's limited supply of towels."
The "towels" turned out to be small scraps of cloth, evidently old clothes
that had worn down so much that they could no longer be mended. Tyrrell
did his best to dry himself, although the tiny cloth was of little help.
He had just abandoned the effort when Shuji arrived and knelt at his feet,
placing there a pile of clothes that looked half-wet.
"Not enough clothesline space today?" said Pickens with sympathy to
his fellow lad. "Ah, well, the sun is coming out; we'll soon be dry. Thank
you, Shuji." He put his hand on Shuji's shoulder, in what Tyrrell supposed
was meant as a light pat, but the hand lingered there. Still kneeling,
Shuji looked up at Pickens, a touch of uncertainty on his face. For a moment,
they both remained motionless: the lad, and the lad who had once been a
man.
Then Pickens stepped back hastily. Turning his head, Tyrrell saw what
Pickens had seen: Hosobuchi walking forward, accompanied by Farnam. Both
men were rubbing their wet hair with towels.
Shuji quickly handed Tyrrell his white necklet and scurried away. His
breath running fast, Pickens went down on his knees to greet his man. "Is
all well, sir?" he asked.
"Yes, indeed," Farnam replied in place of Hosobuchi, as the latter beckoned
Pickens to his feet. "We have enough water saved till the next rainfall.
Though when that will be is another matter," he added with a frown. "We're
getting longer and longer pauses between rainfalls; Ahiga thinks we're
entering into a drought."
"Ahiga has good weather-sense, sir," Pickens observed.
Farnam gave a brief nod. "Ammippians often do; they're farmers as well
as hunters, though you wouldn't guess that from the tales spread about
them."
Relieved to find a true man who held no bigotry against Mip's native
tribe, Tyrrell ventured to ask, "What about the unclaimed lads? Will there
be enough water for them?"
"Certainly." Farnam jerked his head toward the gully, and Tyrrell saw,
with relief unknotting his heart, that Jahnsen stood next to the gully,
sipping from a water-bladder that the water-steward had just handed him.
Farnam continued, "We're not murderers, Tyrrell. Unclaimed lads always
get as much water as the rest of us. And as much food . . . but those bloody
murderers won't let all of us have food we can safely eat."
There was a rawness in Farnam's voice that caused Pickens to reach out
and touch him on the sleeve, briefly and lightly. "Well, sir," the lad
said softly, "there's always a better life beyond this one."
Hosobuchi nodded soberly in agreement. "And memories to pass on to new
generations. He will not be forgotten."
Farnam gave out a deep sigh. "Yes, I know that. He has been reborn,
and after all that he underwent, he is sure to have been granted a life
of splendor. But none of us here are eager to travel through that painful
process of transformation."
"No, sir," Hosobuchi agreed, his voice still somber. "Perhaps we'll
find some way to avoid mass deaths this winter."
"Perhaps. —Yes, what is it?" Farnam turned to his First Lad, Davidson,
who was waiting patiently by his side.
"With your permission, sir, the water-steward would like you to confirm
the number of barrels he has counted," Davidson said.
Farnam's mouth quirked. "After the beating I asked Ahiga to give him
for being careless with his records? I can well imagine that he would.
Ah, you have the numbers already on your tablet? Good lad. Do you calculate
his numbers as correct?"
The true man and the claimed lad walked away, both still naked. Hosobuchi
took the clothes that Pickens offered him and turned his attention to the
sky. "The guards are closing the dome early," he observed. "Well, we have
enough water to serve. Pickens, when you are through here, Valdis's men
could use help in returning the sawhorses to the challenge ground."
"I'll help too," Tyrrell volunteered.
Hosobuchi gave a smile. "I'm sure you will. Do you know that, despite
everything, Farnam and Valdis are already debating which of them should
offer to claim you? They've seen what a hard worker you are."
"'Despite everything'?" Tyrrell said softly as Hosobuchi departed.
Pickens shrugged, handing Tyrrell his clothes. "You come with a repute
for trouble-making, man. And you're not yielding any signs that you intend
to reform yourself. Need help with those boots?"
"Nay, I can do it." He struggled back into his damp clothes. At least
the stockings had dried already, so he had dry feet. Then he stood looking
at the necklet in his hand.
"Just a few hours left before you join the tribe," Pickens said softly.
"Can you smell the feast-food?"
Sniffing, Tyrrell realized that he did; it was a very faint smell of
roasting meat drifting across the prison. "Is that why no folk is let on
the work platform this day?" he asked. "'Cause the oven is in use?"
"Aye," replied Pickens. "Walker, he isn't liking to have any folk around
when he's shaping the feast."
The vision of Walker as a cook was mind-bending. His thoughts drifting
back to Farnam's words before, Tyrrell said, "The prisoner who died the
night last . . . 'Twasn't Wendell, then? The dead lad belonged to Farnam
instead?"
"Aye." Pickens, who had been staring toward the oven, turned away abruptly.
"Let's help Valdis. The work, it will warm us up and stay us from getting
chilled in these damp clothes."
Turning his thoughts from the dead lad, Tyrrell took a step toward the
gully and then paused, taking in the scene once more: the prisoners working
diligently to gather water, the prisoners cheerfully scrubbing clothes,
the prisoners finishing their sacred celebrations in the water. He said
slowly, "I caught tale, 'fore I came here, that Compassion Prison was the
worst prison in all of Mip. Some gave tale 'twas the worst in the world."
Pickens sighed as he ran his hand along the back of his neck, trying
to remove some water there. "Aye," he said, "'tis that."
Tyrrell's gaze moved over the scene. "This place is suffering. This
place is death. And yet . . . Pickens, this is the very best tribe in the
world."
"Aye," said Pickens softly as he laid his arm over Tyrrell's shoulders.
"'Tis that. 'Tis that."
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
By early evening, even more enticing smells were emerging from the oven
at the back of the prison.
"I didn't see the meat delivered and placed in the oven," Tyrrell commented
as he and Pickens walked back from the greater men's area. The platform
was still stripped of all inhabitants except for a group of Farnam's men
and Walker's men, milling about in mysterious preparations.
"They started the first act overnight," Pickens replied. "As Nava'i
said, it takes a time for the meat to roast."
He was more somber than usual. Tyrrell thought of mentioning the prisoner
who had died, and then decided it would be safer to change the topic. "How
is Shuji today?"
Pickens flashed him a sudden smile. "Like a well-licked kitten. You
watched us last night, I figure?" As Tyrrell hesitated, Pickens clapped
him on the back. "No necessity to be ashamed, man. Shuji and Hosobuchi
and me – we're stars of the stage. There are other men and lads in this
prison who are worth watching, but we're the ones who have admirers lining
up for our autographs."
"And you, er, crave having an audience?"
"Me? Not so much. But Shuji loves it well, and he's a joy to see, giving
play for his audience."
"What of Hosobuchi?" Tyrrell turned his path to avoid stumbling over
Les, who had moved his tailoring off the platform.
"Oh, he permits the audience for Shuji's sake." Pickens smile faded.
In a low voice, he added, "And for mine, it may be. I caught him once,
trying to persuade another man to draw me as his lad. Hosobuchi, he was
presenting my care at body-service as proof of my good qualities."
Tyrrell was still struggling to think of what to say when the scream
of a gate-opening began. Pickens lifted his head. "Claiming time. We'll
be getting our banquet soon."
"With the surplus food?" Tyrrell suggested.
Pickens gave him a quirk of a smile. "With our surplus, for sure."
"How often do these banquets come?"
"Oh, it depends." Pickens paused to nudge aside an unclaimed lad who
was in his path. "Once every week or so, at this time of year. Every day
in the winter. 'Tis less formal then, for sure. Tonight will be formal:
you'll get to catch tale of the long version of Valdis's speech, which
I've caught tale a hundred upon a hundred times."
"You'll be bored?" Tyrrell suggested.
"By that speech? Never. No more than I'd be bored by Walker's prayers."
He paused in his tracks, close to a group of unclaimed lads who were standing
on tiptoe, trying to see through the crowd that was watching the claiming.
"You're not wearing your necklet yet."
Tyrrell took the white necklet from his belt. "I'd been wondering .
. . Well, I'd been wondering whether you would put this on me. And whether
you'd be my sponsor at my initiation."
Pickens's smile was softer this time. "Gladly, mate," he said quietly,
taking the necklet from him. "Should I don you now?"
Tyrrell considered this, then shook his head. "I'd like it to be at
a special moment, if that's possible."
"Oh, it's more than possible." Pickens slipped the necklet into his
pocket. "I am knowing just the occasion. You'll be knowing it too, when
it comes." He looked at the back of the prison, frowning slightly. "I wonder
whether the banquet preparations will be done in time."
"The meat, you mean? It won't make any difference to me; I never eat
meat."
Pickens's gaze snapped over to him. "In truth?"
"In truth. 'No meat shall ye eat, nor blood shall ye drink, for all
such food belongs to the gods.'"
"The bean-eating sect." Pickens was staring at Tyrrell now. "There are
so few of you. And you've stayed to this, through all your years on the
street?"
Tyrrell shrugged, feeling uncomfortable at having his unorthodox faith
discussed. "'Twas how I was raised by my parents. My fellow street-lads,
they were happy enough to let me have the veggies and fruits, while they
ate whatever meat we'd bought or stolen. 'Twas never a matter for worrying
at the holding prisons, or at Mercy. We only got meat on holidays, when
I fast." He tipped his head in the direction of the platform. "Do you have
mind the true men will be hot in heart if I pass up that part of the banquet?"
"Man . . ." Pickens said slowly, then turned to grab a watch-hound who
had skidded up beside them. "Watch your spear, Iwobi – you nearly killed
Tyrrell."
"Pickens!" The watch-hound who had spoken to Tyrrell the previous night
gulped in great swaths of air. "You must come!"
"What's the trouble? A wild lad?" Pickens remained calm in the face
of a seeming emergency.
The lad shook his head, struggling for breath. "It's Shuji – he's been
claimed!"
"Gods." The word was a strangled prayer in Pickens's throat. Then he
was running like a madman, shoving unclaimed lads aside, with Iwobi and
Tyrrell at his heels.
Inevitably, Tyrrell fell behind his longer-legged companions. When he
caught up, Pickens was struggling wildly, trying to get past two watch-hounds
who were holding him back. "It's Shuji!" he shouted at them.
"Pickens, calm down," replied one of the watch-hounds on guard. "Look."
With his free hand, he pointed.
Only three prisoners stood in the empty area near the gate. One was
Shuji, his usually pale yellow complexion turned the color of ivory. He
stood motionless, leaning against Hosobuchi, who had his arm around Shuji's
waist.
Standing several paces ahead of them, with his blade naked in his hand,
was Ahiga. He was saying, with a fury that ate like fire, "He is mine!
You cannot claim a true man's lad!"
"He's not yours." As usual, Pugh sounded bored. "He belongs to Hosobuchi.
We checked."
Pickens asked Iwobi in an undertone, "How did this happen? Was Shuji
too near the gate during claiming?"
Iwobi shook his head. "He was claimed by name. Remember, Pugh pointed
him out a couple of days ago."
"He is my lad," Ahiga insisted. "Hosobuchi and I own his heart both.
His heart and soul and body. You will not take him from us. It is against
all the traditions of this prison."
"Pugh didn't point him out by name last time. Who was claimed last night?"
Pickens asked Iwobi.
"What? I can't remember . . . Oh, it was Tonye."
Pickens hissed. "Tonye. He's an old-woman gossip reborn into a lad's
body. He'll have given Shuji's name, and told everything about him."
"Including how good Shuji is at his nightly performances," Tyrrell added
gloomily and saw the dismay grow on Pickens's face.
Pugh looked mildly amused now. "You claim your lad's lad, and then you
speak the word 'tradition'? . . . It makes no difference. We're usually
contented to pick from whatever lot you present us with, but we have the
right to claim any prisoner we want. Even a true man. As you know." As
Ahiga's hand tightened on the hilt of his blade, Pugh turned and looked
up toward the balcony above him. "This is the lad you want, Starke?"
Starke nodded without replying. His gaze was fixed upon the open area
where the prison gate had been pulled back, and his machine rifle – Tyrrell
noticed with growing horror – was aimed directly at Ahiga.
"Send him out, Ahiga." Pugh returned his attention to the true man.
"Send him out, or we'll come in and get him. Do you really want us to do
that?"
There was a moment, a century of moments, while everyone in the prison
collectively held their breaths. Tyrrell thought to himself, Ahiga has
only to say the word, and the prisoners will riot against the guards.
Then, remembering how carefully Ahiga had sought to put down violence in
the prison, he realized how unlikely this was. But one solution still remained
for the true man, and Tyrrell ached at the thought of what must happen
now.
Ahiga's hand twitched on his hilt. Pugh added, "And throw that blade
out of the prison. I don't care who you knife inside the prison, Ammippian;
you may eat as many corpses as you like. But you should know better than
to come near the gate with a weapon in hand. Starke, shoot him if he doesn't
disarm within ten seconds." He tossed the instruction up to Starke, whose
eyes narrowed as he took a tighter grip on the machine rifle.
"No."
Everyone – guards, men, lads – turned their heads to look at the man
who had spoken. Tyrrell held his breath, waiting for the speaker to speak
further.
Tom Keeper, standing on the balcony with Medinger at his side, said,
"You exceed your authority, Mr. Pugh – as you too often do. I've spoken
to you before about the meaning of sacred blades to an Ammippian. His blade
is the symbol of his authority, but he will not use it against you or any
other living person." He pushed himself away from the railing. "Finish
this up, Mr. Pugh. I need to discuss with you some matters of finance.
—Mr. Starke, are you very sure that is the lad you want?"
There was a warning note in his voice, which Starke chose to ignore.
"He's not Ahiga's lad, whatever Ahiga may like to think," Starke replied,
his gaze and gun still pointed at the true man. "Hosobuchi claimed him
years ago. Hosobuchi beds him several times a week."
Keeper emitted a little sigh and then addressed the true man directly.
"I'm sorry, Ahiga. A lad can only be claimed by one prisoner at a time
– that has always been the custom at Compassion, even during the dark years
when men fought daily over lads. If Shuji had been yours on this day .
. . But he is not, so I cannot interfere."
"You would not, though your life dangled in danger." Ahiga spoke through
tightened teeth. His blade, Tyrrell noticed, was now sheathed.
"Send him out, Ahiga. You'll endanger him otherwise." Keeper's voice
was quiet, and he turned away almost immediately, walking toward his office,
with Medinger close behind him.
Ahiga closed his eyes. Again Tyrrell thought of what must lie ahead,
and his throat grew tight. There was an expectant pause, like that of a
theater audience watching the first act of a tragedy.
Then Ahiga turned and walked back to where Hosobuchi and Shuji were
standing. He said something briefly to them. Hosobuchi slowly nodded and
looked over at Shuji.
Shuji spoke, a longer speech than Ahiga had made. Whatever he said caused
Hosobuchi to turn him and kiss him hard.
Then his grip on the lad relaxed slowly, reluctantly. The lad took a
step forward, pausing as Ahiga spoke to him, softly and swiftly. Shuji
nodded in response. His face was now as white as noon-lit snow.
Ahiga turned and guided the lad toward the open gate.
Tyrrell stared in consternation at Pickens. "He's letting Shuji go?"
He forgot to speak in Riverside dialect and lower his voice; several
of the unclaimed lads nearby turned to stare at him, including Jahnsen
and Olumbo and Babaqi, who were near the front of the crowd. Pickens, who
had turned pale too – with anger, Tyrrell could guess – said in a voice
filled with sorrow, "He has no choice."
"Of course he has a choice." Again, Tyrrell forgot to lower his voice,
and again the nearby unclaimed lads stared. "He could offer himself in
Shuji's place. Starke would never be able to resist the lure of claiming
a true man."
Pickens broke away his gaze from Shuji, who was just beginning to walk
alone out of the prison, his chin held high, as Ahiga watched from behind
the bars. Pickens stared at Tyrrell, and then said, "Man, you have no idea
what you're saying."
"Don't I?" Tyrrell's voice was challenging. The unclaimed lads nearby
were beginning to whisper amongst themselves.
Pickens sighed heavily. "No," he said in a weary voice. "You don't.
You're too new. —And if any of you report those words to Ahiga," he said
sharply to the nearby watch-hounds, "don't forget to add that reminder.
Tyrrell is a new man. He doesn't know our ways yet."
"We know that, Pickens," replied Iwobi, "and so does Ahiga. Tyrrell
hasn't even been initiated. There's no need for us to report him." There
were nods from the other watch-hounds, though several of them were eyeing
Tyrrell warily, as though wondering what trouble he would prove to be.
The unclaimed lads were continuing to whisper among themselves. Jahnsen
had a contemplative look upon his face.
Tyrrell bit his lip shut. This was not the time to argue with his mate,
he reminded himself. He turned to apologize, but Pickens had already slipped
away; he was headed in the direction of Hosobuchi, who was standing alone
in the empty area, watching as the gate closed with a scream. Starke came
down the steps to claim his prize.
Ahiga was dismissing the watch-hounds from duty, as though nothing had
happened. But his mouth was tight, and his eyes were as deep as an endless
pit.
o—o—o
The platform at the back of the prison was alive with activity by the
true men's claimed men and lads. Most of Farnam's lads were hunched over
small fires, jiggling pans of sizzling hotcakes made of flour and water
and oil. The fires were fueled by handfuls of straw that were being laboriously
compacted into fuel rods by Valdis's men and lads. Ahiga's watch-hounds
guarded the perimeter of the platform, or else they wandered amidst the
watching prisoners, who had begun to congregate at this end of the prison
from the moment that the moon rose. Now moonlight was full upon the platform,
and excitement wafted amidst the prisoners, like the smell of the pigeon
broth that Valdis was personally attending to nearby.
Even a few of Walker's men were here, watching as Farnam's lads made
last-minute preparations that appeared to involve a fire, as well as a
sheet that was spread from two spears held by watch-hounds in order to
shield the fire.
"Very mysterious," murmured Tyrrell. "I hope you're not going to give
tale to me that my initiation consists of plunging my hand into boiling
hot water."
Pickens laughed. He was as brightly merry as Tyrrell had ever seen him,
festooned with a festival headband of bones that Ahiga's watch-hounds were
wearing on this night. He had been excused, yet again, from his regular
duties, as presumably had the other sponsors nearby.
There were four of them. Three belonged to unclaimed lads who were whispering
amongst themselves, casting occasional, cautious glances at Tyrrell. The
fourth belonged to a little man with whom Tyrrell had exchanged names and
greetings, but the sound of Tyrrell's name had caused the little man's
eyes to widen, and that was the end of the conversation.
By now, it was becoming all too clear to Tyrrell that his partial ostracization
from the tribe was not simply due to his status as an upcoming initiate.
The true men, the greater men, the little men, the unclaimed lads – they
all feared him for one reason: he had led the prisoners of Mercy Life Prison
in an uprising against their oppressors.
Tyrrell felt like shouting to all of them that the uprising had been
a bloodless one, and that it had been brutally put down by Mercy's Keeper.
But they must know that – hence their willingness to let him abide with
them. They had not immediately killed him, in the manner that they immediately
killed all prisoners who were determined to cause harm to their fellow
prisoners, against tribal custom. Ahiga, perhaps, had ordered Hosobuchi
to interview Tyrrell on his first day from mere curiosity toward a new
man. But once that Tyrrell had given his name, Ahiga and the other true
men had begun to watch Tyrrell's behavior like hawks. Hosobuchi had not
even needed Ahiga's instruction before he set Pickens to spy on Tyrrell.
Tyrrell shook his head, angry with himself. Pickens, he was sure, bore
him no ill well and was manifestly determined to be Tyrrell's mate, despite
any worries Pickens might have that Tyrrell had come to the prison with
the intention of starting a riot. Hosobuchi likewise seemed to be kind
enough in his intentions, and no one could doubt the honey-sweet friendliness
of Shuji.
That simply left Ahiga – Ahiga and the other true men, who had the most
to lose if Tyrrell rallied the prisoners in a self-destructive riot.
Tyrrell thought gloomily to himself that he might as well have stayed
in Mercy Prison and awaited the death squad there; his life here seemed
just as destined to be short. Then he looked over at Pickens, who was watching
him with some concern, and Tyrrell's mood lightened. He had allies: Pickens
and Hosobuchi and Shuji and Tom Keeper, who had shown such courtesy to
Tyrrell upon his arrival at Compassion. And there were others, too, who
did not disdain to speak to Tyrrell: Pickens's former lad, Ngugi, who now
kept watch over the medicine chest; Farnam's lads – Davidson and Nava'i
and others – who had answered his questions; and above all, Czupak, that
generous, ever-cheerful lad who had greeted Tyrrell with a smile and an
armshake.
"Don't worry," said Tyrrell, encompassing them all with his words to
Pickens. "I'll make it through the initiation. I won't let you down."
Pickens hammered him on his back. "'Course you won't. I've never doubted
you. My, doesn't that smell good?" He sniffed the air, which was filled
with the scent of hotcakes and pigeon broth, as well as the meat roasting
in the oven.
"Almost enough to shape me into a meat-eater," Tyrrell agreed. "But
Pickens – there won't be enough food to feed every folk, will there?" He
lowered his voice, gesturing to the unclaimed lads beside him.
"Oh, you needn't worry about them," Pickens responded. "The hotcakes
and broth won't go far, for sure; there's like only to be enough for the
men and claimed lads. But the roast" – he gestured toward the oven, which
Farnam's lads had opened a crack, to check on the meat's progress
– "is for us all." He shrugged. "It's just symbolic at this time of year.
Most of us will only get a sliver of meat tonight, not much larger than
a pinhead. But in the wintertime, when there are fewer prisoners and more
meat to share, the meat can shape the difference 'tween life and death
for every folk."
Tyrrell nodded slowly. He knew what Pickens meant, of course. Except
for Vovim, all of the Midcoast nations were descended in some fashion from
the Dozen Landsteads, the nation to the east of Mip; and so they all celebrated
the Commoners' Autumn Festival, in which beasts were slaughtered and salted,
their meat stored to help assuage the winter hunger.
It was a ludicrously anachronistic festival, in these years since the
invention of refrigeration and canned goods and trains that brought fresh
food from the nations in the deep south and far southwest, at all times
of the year. No Mippite elsewhere in the republic would starve during wintertime
if the Autumn Commoners' Festival were discontinued.
But here in Compassion Prison, Tyrrell thought as he watched the prisoners
licking their lips, matters were different. Just as in ancient times, the
prisoners would die one by one during the harshness of the winter conditions,
and the remaining prisoners would need the strength offered to them by
the winter meat.
Tyrrell, whose stomach had begun growling, said to Pickens anxiously,
"Will the prisoners still be yielded meat during the winter? Or do we salt
away what we're yielded by the guards in the autumn, for winter need?"
Pickens shook his head without turning his eyes away from a scuffle
that was taking place nearby, as a hunger-maddened unclaimed lad who had
made his way to the front of the crowd was being held back by the watch-hounds.
Ahiga intervened, hopping off the platform to speak to the lad. After a
minute, the lad recovered his senses and allowed himself to be escorted
back to his place by one of the hounds.
"What salt we get goes to our tanners," Pickens said, finally tearing
his eyes away from the scene. "And there's a greater amount of meat in
the winter, as I gave tale. —Don't worry," he added as Tyrrell opened
his mouth. "Every member of the tribe will get at least a small amount
of food today, enough to push back the pangs."
"What about the ousted lads?" Tyrrell turned his head in the direction
of the southeast corner of the prison. Earlier that day, he had ventured
far enough into the unclaimed lads' territory to see that Ahiga's hounds
had turned that corner into an isolation area for the unclaimed lads who
had recently been arrested for aspiring to murder the true men, and who
had been ousted from the tribe and its benefits . . . including food.
Pickens grinned. "After what happened with Edwards, Ahiga made sure
that all the other rebels were understanding that they could come to the
true men for pardons. The ousted lads, they consulted together – the unclaimed
lads seem ever liking to shape decisions in groups – and then they offered
their petition. The true men went and accepted the lads back into the tribe,"
Pickens ended joyfully. "Every member of the tribe will feast tonight!"
"What of Shuji?"
Tyrrell regretted his words – deeply regretted them – the moment he
spoke them. The bright merriment dropped off Pickens's face like the mask
that it was; Pickens turned his head away, his hands forming into fists.
"Mate, regrets to you." Aghast, Tyrrell put his hand on Pickens's shoulder.
"You shouldn't be needing to be here, at a time like this. I'll go and
find another sponsor. Leave by your lonesome, and I'll arrange to draw
your food for you."
"Nay, nay." Pickens's voice was weary as he turned back; grief etched
itself in the lines of his face. "Ahiga and Hosobuchi got to be here."
He pointed to where the true man and his First Lad stood on the platform,
consulting together in low voices. "And they got to be standing on the
platform in front of every folk, pretending that nothing is wrong. If they
can be doing that, then I can stick it out to be your sponsor."
So he said, yet he continued to stand motionless, like a monument to
grief, as Tyrrell inwardly cursed his own callousness, over and over.
Finally Pickens said in a voice barely above a whisper, "He has never
been taken unwilling. Never, in his entire life. Hosobuchi and Ahiga, they
have seen to that. Hosobuchi wasn't even taking Shuji for a month after
the lad pledged his service, until our man was sure that Shuji was ready.
It's part of what makes Shuji so eager to serve and so joyful to do so:
he has only gone and served men who love him and show him kindness. What
will it do to him, to be forced to serve the selfish desires of a rapist?"
Part of Tyrrell, the irritating part which was forever on the lookout
for hypocrisy, felt like responding, "There are a hundred upon a hundred
of lads like Shuji in this prison – sweet lads, eager to serve – and nearly
all of them will get their hearts crushed when they are raped by the guards
or by the men in this prison who you consider your allies. Why should the
fate of the unclaimed lads matter any less to you than Shuji's fate?"
But he knew that he could not speak those words; Pickens would only
stare at him with bewildered anger. It was impossible for most folk to
see beyond the best interests of themselves and their loved ones. Tyrrell
and Merrick had been forced to take that into account when they created
the Boundaries of Behavior. They had deliberately framed the Boundaries
as a solemn oath, to be taken by prisoners and guards who were bonded together
by the Boundaries, creating a wider circle of loved ones to care about.
The true men had done the same at Compassion Prison, binding together
the prisoners through tribal rituals and customs. If those customs required
that the unclaimed lads take a second-class status and bear the greater
share of the prisoners' suffering . . . Tyrrell was not yet ready to think
about what duties that placed upon himself.
Instead, seeking to pull Pickens from his anguish, he said, "I'm not
understanding something that Tom Keeper gave tale to at claiming time.
He gave tale that only one prisoner could claim a lad at any one time.
But weren't you giving tale to me, two days past, that two men will on
occasion share the same lad?"
"Aye." Pickens's expression had turned hard. "The trouble with Keeper
is, he has mind of himself as our benefactor – our elder, our teacher.
So that means we must be knowing less than him, aye? Any time that Ahiga
gave tale to Keeper of something he didn't have knowing of, Keeper figured
that Ahiga got to be the one who was wrong, not himself. And if Ahiga stayed
in his 'error' . . ." Pickens's shirt shifted as muscles formed in his
arms; his hands were clenched again. "Some day," he said in a dark voice,
"some folk is going to make Tom Keeper see how very wrong he has been.
And on the day that happens, if Keeper's got any conscience whatever, all
the evil he has done is going to tumble onto his head, like life-killing
blocks. I crave to be there to watch that. I crave to see his soul die
from suffering."
Tyrrell shifted uneasily. This was a side to Pickens that he had not
glimpsed before: the lad who thirsted for vengeance, who received pleasure
from the thought of his enemy's sufferings. The lad who had thrice committed
murder.
Unable to think of an adequate reply, Tyrrell said instead, "I have
mind the banquet is at its first act."
Pickens shook his head, as though emerging from deep waters. "What?
What did you give tale?"
"The banquet is begun. They're opening the oven."
"Ah!" Pickens swung round to look. As he did so, some of Walker's men
and lads, who had begun to gather on the stage, started humming a dark,
mournful tune. The chatter amongst the onlookers died away.
Farnam's lads finished opening the oven door and stepped back hastily
to allow steam to escape. The steam momentarily concealed the view; all
that Tyrrell could see, from the moonlight slipping into the oven, was
that the meat had been placed upon a great, iron-black grill – deer-sized,
he remembered Nava'i saying.
Then the view was hidden as several of Valdis's men, with cloths over
their hands, stepped forward to extract the grill from the oven.
For a minute or two, the central portion of the platform consisted of
a shifting of bodies, accompanied by soft grunts from Valdis's men. Their
grunts, and the screech of the grate as it was pulled out of the oven,
were almost entirely obscured by Walker's men and lads, whose song had
grown louder, though no less mournful. Tyrrell thought impatiently that
the true men should have assigned livelier balladeers to this celebration.
Farnam's lads had stepped back, evidently willing to let Valdis's men
take charge of this portion of the preparations, though they hovered on
the edges of the mass of men, as though worried that Valdis's men would
harm the food in some manner. Valdis's men, red-faced from the strain of
carrying the heavy grate, shuffled toward the front of the platform, finally
letting their burden down just inches from the edge of the platform. The
grate landed with a soft thump, and Valdis's men stepped back, to make
room for Farnam's lads.
As they did so, the meat came into view. It had evidently been skinned
before cooking, for the grey meat glistened in the lantern-light, except
where it glittered with blood or fat.
Someone screamed.
Tyrrell could not move his eyes to see who had cried out. His gaze was
fixed upon the meat that filled the entire grate. It had been roasted sideways,
so that now, evidently, its front was facing the back of the platform.
There had been no attempts, though, to dismember the carcass before placing
it in the oven. It still had its limbs, and it still had its head. Oh,
dear Mercy, it still had its head.
He felt Pickens's hand on his back, but he could not turn to look. He
could not tear his eyes away from the central food of the banquet: a human
corpse.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The screaming had continued. Nearby, someone cried, "Let me go! Let
me out of this prison!" There was a shuffling of feet next to Tyrrell.
He continued to stare at the corpse, trying to gather his thoughts.
Who could it be? Not Conrad, who had been murdered by the guards, nor Edwards,
who had been executed by Walker – Tyrrell had seen their corpses given
over to the guards. Perhaps it was a prisoner who had already been close
to death, so his killing had not been seen as so terrible. Was it Wendell,
the claimed lad who had been dying for several days? Or the unclaimed lad
who had been close to death from thirst?
But Pickens had visited Wendell two days before, to comfort him in his
dying, and Hosobuchi had spoken with sorrow of the thirsty lad's upcoming
death. Surely anyone who had been in this prison for any length of time
would have acquired friends, admirers, men and lads who would not stand
by while the prisoner was murdered and his body desecrated.
That meant . . .
Tyrrell turned his head slowly to look. The initiate lad who had screamed,
and who continued to scream as tears ran down his face, was struggling
in the arms of his sponsor. The other initiate lad, the one who wanted
to leave the prison, was likewise being held in place by his sponsor. The
third initiate lad seemed too dazed to move, but his sponsor, nonetheless,
had his hand on the lad's arm. As for the other little man who was to be
initiated, the sponsor was taking no chances; he had borrowed a spear from
a fellow watch-hound and was holding it against the little man's back.
A fellow watch-hound. Tyrrell looked again at the sponsors. They were
all hounds – every man and lad who had volunteered to be a new prisoner's
sponsor at the initiation ceremony was trained by Ahiga to restrain captives.
And his own sponsor . . .
"My first loyalties, they're to Hosobuchi and Shuji and the tribe,"
Pickens had said to Tyrrell when he arrived at Compassion Prison.
Tyrrell closed his eyes. Then he forced himself to open his eyes and
turn to look at the watch-hound who still had his hand firmly on Tyrrell's
back.
Pickens met his gaze steadily. He made no attempt to deny the knowledge
in Tyrrell's eyes. Instead, he said softly, "Be still, man. Catch tale
to what Valdis has to say."
o—o—o
Valdis had come forward to the edge of the platform, close to where
two of the initiates continued to struggle against their captors, while
the other three waited in stunned silence. All of the initiates, Tyrrell
thought dully, had grasped the reason for their presence, from the moment
that the corpse was unveiled.
One corpse alone would not fill the bellies of a crowd like this.
Tyrrell was not surprised to see that Valdis was holding his dart-pipe.
Tyrrell wondered, with closed throat, what it would feel like when the
sharp dart entered his heart. From the high-pitched screams nearby, he
gathered that he wasn't the only initiate wondering that.
Valdis surveyed the five of them. He looked pleased at what he saw.
Placing his fists on his hip, he grinned at them. Then he leaned over and
said, "We didn't bring you here to eat you."
The crowd roared with laughter. From the quickness of their response,
it was clear that this was a standard line, spoken by Valdis on previous
occasions. Still grinning, Valdis handed his pipe and darts to his Second
Lad, who was standing nearby. Then he pointed at the initiates. "All of
you, listen to me. I said, Listen to me." The last, booming words
were addressed at the screaming lad; both he and the lad who had been struggling
went still at the thunder of Valdis's voice. Valdis nodded, satisfied.
He pointed to the corpse and said, "Nobody has been murdered here. This
prisoner died in his man's arms, surrounded by his friends. Dozens of witnesses
can tell you that our medic, Ngugi, did everything in his power to keep
the lad alive."
Walker, standing amidst the black-marked men who continued to sing softly
their tune of sorrow, nodded solemnly. Others around the prison were nodding
too, agreeing with Valdis's assessment of what had happened.
Tyrrell felt his taut muscles relax somewhat, but only somewhat. Dimly,
he was beginning to recognize what had taken place. He could even understand
why the prisoners, fed scant food of poor quality, might feel that a corpse
had better use than simply to be burnt in a crematorium.
Even so . . .
"You are asking yourself," said Valdis, raising his arms, "how we could
do such a thing. You are wondering how men and lads who consider themselves
even half civilized could cook and dismember the body of a member of their
own tribe – could do worse than that, and feed on his flesh. Surely, you
are thinking, it would be better to die of hunger than to fall to such
depths of depravity."
All of the initiates were utterly still now, watching Valdis; the other
prisoners were likewise silent. The true man let his arms fall. "Listen
to me, then," he said to the initiates. "Listen to me, men and lads who
have desired to be part of our tribe. This is the most important speech
you will ever hear, and this night" – Valdis turned his head to encompass
all five of them – "is the most important night of your life."
o—o—o
The moonlight was beginning to slant away, toward the center of the
prison. Farnam's men stepped forward to light more lanterns. Walker's men
and lads were like a dark sea at the center of the platform. On the edges
of the sea, Farnam's lads began to quietly move about, moving sacks of
flour, jars of oil, and armloads of cooking implements. Some of the lads
had ducked their heads into the now cooling oven to extract further objects
that lay within: potatoes and squashes. Ahiga's hounds watched over them
all.
"After many years of struggle, after many years of hard work, we of
the Tribe of Compassion Life Prison have built a new society – a tribal
nation more peaceful than any which the world has ever seen." Valdis's
voice, rich and rolling, reached forth to the back of the great crowd surrounding
the true men's platform. "No fights occur here, except on the challenge
ground. Violence is a stranger never seen. We are united in one cause –
to stay alive – and we have created immutable laws to ensure that we stay
in peaceful harmony with one another."
Standing at the front of the crowd, Tyrrell wondered what Valdis's rape
victims thought of this "peace" they supposedly lived in. He twisted his
head to look. Most of the unclaimed lads were hidden far away, in the back
of the crowd, but the three uninitiated lads stood nearby. Their expressions
ranged from puzzled to downright skeptical. Whether or not they knew of
Valdis's night-time forays into the unclaimed lads' territory, they had
all witnessed the guards' nightly claiming.
Valdis acknowledged this in the next moment, saying, "Like all creatures
of peace, we have our enemies: ravening predators who come into our midst
to tear at our bodies. They deny us full peace, they deny us the food and
supplies we need to stay alive. They think through these means to deny
us unity. They hope to lure us into attacking them, so that they can entirely
destroy us."
There was a stirring in the crowd, a sort of mild dissent from many
of the listeners. But nobody interrupted Valdis. There was never a Vovimian
born, reflected Tyrrell, who could not hold an audience in thrall once
he stood on a stage. Despite the horror of the past few minutes, Tyrrell
smiled inwardly; he had played the role of an actor in his own time, among
the street-lads of his youth. Then he concentrated his attention on what
Valdis was saying.
"What fools they are!" the true man cried. "What utter fools! For it
is danger and dying that unite us, in ways they can never know! Through
peaceful unity, not rioting, we oppose their prey-taking." He looked a
long moment around the crowd, before settling his gaze on a single prisoner.
"Despite all that the guards seek to do to us, we have a good life here
– for many of us, better than we had before we came here. We have no need
of riot-rousers to encourage us to destroy our peace."
All around the great cell of Compassion Prison, heads turned and whispers
were exchanged, as the prisoners focussed their attention on the man whom
Valdis thus condemned.
Valdis made Tyrrell wait a moment – an endless moment in which sweat
trickled down Tyrrell's spine as he contemplated the fate of prisoners
who were not permitted to join the tribe. Then Valdis said, in the manner
of an actor switching from the role of Hell to the role of Mercy, "But
all those who accept our ways, who accept that we cannot fight against
the guards in physical battle and win, are welcome within this tribe. They
will find that we have a far greater battle before us: a battle in which
victory brings honor, and in which defeat can bring even greater honor.
I speak" – he added, as the uninitiated prisoners exchanged blank looks
of confusion – "of the battle against death."
No one was looking at Tyrrell now; even Valdis had switched his gaze
away. Tyrrell let out his breath. Pickens, standing behind Tyrrell, put
his hand on Tyrrell's shoulder and gave a squeeze of support.
"Let me tell you a tale," said Valdis, still in that powerfully pitched
voice found in men who have attended Vovimian theater performances since
childhood. "It is a tale which many of you have heard in the past. It is
a tale which must be heard by anyone who would undergo initiation into
our tribe. It is the tale of our terrible defeat – and our rise into triumph
– during the Riot of 385."
Tyrrell's ears pricked up. Judging from the intent expressions of his
fellow initiates, so did the ears of the man and lads next to him. Even
the prisoners who had heard this tale before seemed to lean forward.
"In the late winter of 385, just over fifteen years ago, a man escaped
from Compassion Prison," Valdis began. "We will never know how; he died
before he could pass on his secret. He was captured, of course. There has
never been a successful escape from this prison – not for centuries. But
his captors, made careless by their victory, failed to search him sufficiently.
He brought back to this prison a prize: a revolver."
Tyrrell had forgotten to breathe now. Like all life prisoners, he had
heard of the Riot of 385; its repercussions had been felt in Mercy Life
Prison, in the form of stricter monitoring of the prisoners there. But
the exact details had always been a little vague in his mind, and he had
not gone searching for those details, for the news of the riot – which
the magisterial seats had sought to suppress – had broken in the press
at around the time that Merrick first expressed interest in sharing a cell
with Tyrrell. Shortly thereafter, Merrick and Tyrrell had take the first
steps to formulate the Boundaries of Behavior, the pledge of good behavior
that would transform life among many of the prisoners and guards of Mercy
Prison. That had seemed a far more important event than some far-off riot,
especially since the consequences of the riot had already taken place.
"We made our plans, those of us to whom the escaped prisoner revealed
the secret of his revolver. I will not say his name; there are still those
alive who would blame him for what happened next. But the only blame lay
with those of us who were fools enough to believe that we could succeed
in our goal." Valdis's voice was thick with self-scorn. "Hubris! We had
prayed to the gods for release from our imprisonment, and the gods had
denied us that release, for reasons they alone know. But we, in our pitiful
grandiosity, thought we knew better than the gods. And so, at half toward
midnight on the twelfth night of the third month of the year 385, we prisoners
of Compassion Life Prison arose and began to slaughter our guards."
Valdis paused. Some of the prisoners had started to cry softly – not
at the guards' deaths, Tyrrell guessed, but at what would be told next.
He felt his throat tighten.
Valdis lifted his arms toward the sky. "As we rose, we invoked the name
of Compassion, daughter of Mercy. We thought we had everything we needed
to succeed: a revolver, homemade knives, and above all, the strength of
numbers. We had the power to crush the guards . . . but we did not have
their wit."
Valdis lowered his arms and looked down. In a voice that sounded low,
yet reverberated through the prison, he said, "Mercy, seeing our presumptuous
pride, denied us our suit. She did not send us Compassion. She spoke to
her brother, the High Master of that underground domain named hell, and
he sent us the foremost of his torturers. He sent us Death."
The crowd stirred, like a fertile field being swayed by a frigid wind.
Whispers of "Death" passed among the prisoners.
Valdis gave a small, bitter smile. "Death did not hold the name then
that he holds now. Thomas Keeper had not yet taken charge of this prison.
But his father was Compassion's Keeper, and he willingly took on the role
of Hell's messenger.
"I am drawing ahead of my tale. We made one mistake – one fatal mistake.
We did not attempt to gain control of the prison gate at the start." He
pointed toward the front of the building. "It was the only gate then; the
outbuildings were open to the outside. If we had taken control of the gate,
we could have swept forth into the countryside. We believed – fools that
we were – that the gate did not matter. Every guard held a key to the gate;
once we had killed the guards, we would have the keys to our freedom."
Valdis looked upon his audience, turning his head to and fro. "If it
were not for what followed, I would speak of the honor of the supervisor
of the night watch. He was the Assistant Keeper, the man who held that
post before Tom Keeper was appointed to that position by his father. The
earlier Assistant Keeper was a brave man, a man willing to sacrifice himself
for the sake of what he considered his duty. . . . The moment that the
riot began, seeing that the guards were outnumbered, he took his own key
and the keys from the other guards and gave them to the youngest guard,
whom he instructed to leave the prison. And that guard – young Starke –
followed his supervisor's order to lock the prison gate behind him."
Pickens's hand was tight on Tyrrell's shoulder now, biting into the
flesh there. The listening prisoners swayed back and forth, like mourners
at a wake. Valdis's voice remained steady as he said, "In so doing, the
Assistant Keeper condemned himself and every other guard there to death.
They could not win against us, and they could not escape. We killed them
all.
"But the fruits of our victory were bitter. We could not leave. The
gate was locked from the outside, and we had no means to open it. And so
we awaited Hell's messenger."
Remembering the cold eyes of Tom Keeper's late father, Tyrrell bit his
lip. Some of the prisoners were visibly sobbing now. Valdis looked at them
all dispassionately.
"We were fools twice over," he said, "for we had not taken hostages.
We had nothing to offer those outside the prison in exchange for mercy.
And so, when Death came – when Compassion's Keeper returned from our republic's
capital to find what we had done – he gave a very simple order: 'Do not
open the gate. Do not let the prisoners out, and do not let anyone or anything
in. Let the rioters starve to death.'"
o—o—o
The prison was completely silent now. Upon the word "starve," Tyrrell
had felt his throat close in. His gaze drifted over to the corpse, tended
by two of Farnam's lads, who were pouring the corpse's own drippings upon
it, keeping it tender.
"Seven weeks," Valdis said slowly. "Seven weeks they kept us without
food. When it rained after dark, we could reach out from the barred gate
and gather water with our cups, but this only served to prolong our agony.
"The wounded were the first to die – the men and lads who had been injured
while trying to win our freedom. Then the prisoners who were weaker in
body than the rest of us began to die. The lads."
Valdis paused a minute. Behind him on the platform, activities were
still taking place. Farnam's lads were cooking the rest of the food and
slicing the potatoes and squashes that had roasted alongside the corpse.
Ahiga's men patrolled the edges of the platform or moved into the crowd,
keeping order. Valdis's men were checking the cooking implements, ensuring
that they remained trustworthy. And Walker's men and lads watched over
the corpse, singing a mourning tune below their breaths.
The mourning tune swirled in the air, like fog low on the ground, below
Valdis's ringing voice. "I had only one lad at that time – a sweet lad,
a few years older than myself. As he lay dying, he told me, 'Don't let
my death be useless.'
"'It will not be,' I told him, trying to hold back my tears. 'We will
have vengeance against the guards for your death, and for the other deaths.
We will kill the remaining guards.'
"'No,' he replied, his voice faint. 'We cannot win against them – not
that way. But we can be the victors here.'
"It took me some time to understand what he meant. He had seen, more
clearly than I had, that the battle which the guards were waging over us
was not for our freedom; the gods had determined that we should have no
freedom. The guards' battle was for our lives. They wished to kill us all.
And my lad – my sweet, sweet lad – was determined that, even in his death,
he should continue to be a soldier in the war we waged."
"'You have given me your body as my banquet many times,' he said. 'Now
let my own body be your banquet. Feast on me. Draw strength from me. Do
not let the guards win. Be one of those who are left alive after the guards
tire of their present game.'
"I argued with him, raging in my grief. He said nothing. He merely died.
And as I held his body, weeping, I knew that I could not deny him his final
wish – his final, sacred act of sacrifice."
Valdis paused, so that all that could be heard was the sizzling sound
of drippings landing on the meat, the clank of cooking implements, and
the soft thuds of watch-hounds' feet. Valdis's men and lads had all paused
in their work to listen to their true man.
"I made one change to his request – one change that seemed right to
me." Valdis's voice was choked now, filled with sorrow and horror. "I did
not want to be left alone when the others had died. I wanted company. And
so I took my lad's heart and ate it, and then I distributed the rest of
his body to all the prisoners who remained alive. We all feasted that day,
thanks to my poor lad—"
Valdis stopped. Tears were pouring down his face now. Tears were pouring
down the faces of nearly everyone present. Probably, Tyrrell thought, they
were not crying for Valdis's lad, of whom they had heard so often, but
for whichever beloved lads or men they had lost themselves.
Tyrrell felt tears on his own face. The tears were not for his lost
parents, nor even for the death of his fragile sister, long ago. He cried
for all the signs of upcoming death he had seen since entering the prison.
He felt a nudge, and Pickens's hand appeared, holding a handkerchief.
Tyrrell gratefully blew his nose into the handkerchief before handing the
handkerchief back.
Regaining control of himself, Valdis said, "That was how it began. After
that day, many more lads pledged their bodies for our banquets – yes, and
men too, seeking through this final act to protect their lads. Every time
one of us died, the rest would hold a banquet. And the more of us who died,
the stronger the remainder of us became, for our shares of the banquet
grew greater.
"When finally, in the spring of 385, the guards entered the prison,
they found something that amazed them: not gaunt, dying prisoners, but
prisoners made strong through the sacrifices of their fellow prisoners.
We told the guards, 'You will never, ever succeed in killing us
all!'"
A great roar arose from the prisoners. Ahiga's hounds pounded the butts
of their spears against the ground. Walker's men and lads raised their
hands toward the sky. And Tyrrell, looking toward the corpse, saw for the
first time, not death, but victory.
o—o—o
Valdis had withdrawn to the back of the stage; he was flanked by his
First and Second Lads, who were speaking quietly to him as he covered his
face. Moved by this evidence that Valdis was more than simply an unrepentant
rapist, Tyrrell looked again at the corpse.
Davidson, he thought, could have told Valdis the folly of his mathematics.
It was true that more corpses meant more food for the survivors. But at
a certain point, no corpses would have been left to eat, and the final
survivor – Valdis, without a doubt – would have had to offer up his own
sacrifice, with no one left to accept the sacrifice.
But that bleak ending hadn't happened – hadn't happened because the
guards, for some mysterious reason, chose to feed the final remnants of
the rioters. And in any case, accurate arithmetic was not the point of
Valdis's tale. The point was that the prisoners had taken the ultimate
sign of their defeat – death – and had turned it into victory.
Continuing to gaze at the corpse, Tyrrell saw, as though they were growing
in his mind, all of the deeds that had stemmed from that first sacrifice
of Valdis's lad: the prisoners' determination to defeat the odds against
them, their unity in the face of oppression, their clever schemes to make
life as bearable as possible for themselves and all new prisoners. It was
thanks to Valdis's lad – and all who had made their sacrifice since then
– that this prison had sanitation, lighting, furniture, bedding, peace.
Without the hope that the dead bought through their sacrifices, all the
prisoners would have died long ago.
Tyrrell felt a sudden fierce longing that their sacrifices should not
have been in vain. Somehow, in some manner, he must make clear his longing.
Now Ahiga was stepping forward. He unsheathed his blade and held it
glimmering in the moonlight as the mourning song of Walker's men swelled.
Then, kneeling down, the Ammippian began to saw off the corpse's head.
Tyrrell felt suddenly sick, even though the meat had been so well roasted
that he doubted he could have recognized the corpse's features, had they
been facing in his direction. If Ahiga likewise felt sickened at his task,
he showed no sign of it. He steadily sawed with his well-honed blade –
the blade which Tom Keeper had declared would not be used against any "living
person" – until, after many minutes, the head dropped free.
Walker's men were there to catch it. They carefully transferred it into
a metal bowl which they carried over to the fire, still leaping behind
the blanket. Only their silhouettes could be seen as they placed the bowl
in the fire. As they did so, Hosobuchi stepped forward.
He said in a clear, ringing voice, "He who offers us his sacrifice today
was raised in the traditional Vovimian faith, but after attending many
services by our true man Walker, he converted to the Yclau faith. We therefore
offer up part of him as ashes to the sky, in the Yclau manner of releasing
the dead, so that he may be reborn into a new body. As we do this, my man
Ahiga will chant, as he always does on these occasions, the Ammippian rite
for those fallen in battle. The rite blesses and mourns the newly dead,
and it curses those who caused their death."
Hosobuchi stepped back. There was a pause as he knelt down on the platform
and took between his thighs a drum made of bones and leather.
Bones and leather! Suddenly Tyrrell was aware again of the bones and
leather and sinewy threads and bladders and oil that permeated life in
Compassion Prison. It was not merely their meat that the dead left behind;
the living were still alive because of all parts of the corpses.
Hosobuchi seemed to be fumbling to position the drum correctly. Pickens
whispered into Tyrrell's ear, "'Tis most times Shuji who does the drumming.
This will be our man's first time."
Tyrrell nodded, but he did not turn his head, for his eyes were now
on Ahiga. The Ammippian had let loose the knot of his hair and was standing
over the corpse, his arms outstretched above it, as though he were taking
into his own body the scent of the roasted meat. Then, as the first, hesitant
drumbeat came, Ahiga flung up his head, yowled to the sky, and screamed
his anguish and anger.
It was a chant unlike any Tyrrell had ever heard – a chant that almost
nobody except the Ammippians had ever heard, Tyrrell guessed. It was like
the howl of a wolf, the snarl of a mountain lion, the hissing of a snake,
and the quiet sob of a river. And it was accompanied by dance: in stately
fashion, Ahiga stomped his way around the corpse, his head flung up or
down, according to the rhythm of the song. Finally, at the end, he flung
himself down on his knees, and began to chant with words that bit like
sharp rocks thrown at a target. He was speaking Ammippian, as he had been
doing all along, but it took no translation to tell that he was cursing
the guards who had brought about the prisoner's death.
When it was over, no one spoke for a long while. Ahiga himself seemed
too weary to move, but he allowed Hosobuchi to help him to his feet. They
both retreated to the back of the platform, Ahiga's face hidden behind
his loose hair.
Farnam's Second Lad was now supervising something taking place behind
the corpse. Various whispers were being exchanged by the lads there, as
they undertook some tricky task. Tyrrell caught a bit of one whisper –
"No, pull the rib back" – and he realized, with another wave of
sickness, that they were carving the meat.
But for a special purpose, it soon became clear. Carefully, with slow
movements, they transferred something into a bowl, which they handed to
Davidson. Davidson, with ritual fealty, went down on his knees in front
of Farnam, who was standing nearby, his face like stone.
"Sir," said Davidson, his voice quiet enough that Tyrrell doubted anyone
far from the platform could hear him, "your servant, Ivan Czupak, offers
himself to you. His final words of life were, 'Feast on me.' Will you accept
his sacrifice?"
The rock crumbled; tears sprang from Farnam's eyes. He took the meat
from the bowl – the corpse's heart, Tyrrell could guess from the tale that
Valdis had recounted. "Lad—" Farnam said, addressing the heart, and then
he could not speak through his sobs.
Everyone waited. Farnam's lads were busy carving up the remainder of
the meat; Ahiga's hounds continued to patrol; Walker's men and lads swayed
as they sang; Valdis had revived and was helping one of his claimed men
to fix a pot that was leaking. Nobody else moved.
Finally Farnam recovered enough to say, with choked voice, "Lad, you
were the most generous person I ever knew, in a prison filled with generous
folk. You offered up your sacrifice to us every day for eleven weeks, tasting
the food that our tribe suspected might ail us. You were unfailingly cheerful,
unfailingly willing to put yourself in danger for our sakes. The veil of
death obscures what comes next for all of us, but I have no doubt – no
doubt at all – that you have been reborn to a better life." He raised
the bowl to his lips.
And it was at that moment – that terrible, wonderful moment – that Tyrrell
finally, belatedly realized the nature of the new prisoners' initiation.
o—o—o
The players on the stage had shifted once more. Farnam, escorted by
a clearly concerned Davidson, had withdrawn to the back of the platform.
Farnam's claimed men had come forward to supervise the carving of the meat.
Walker's men and lads surrounded the corpse, singing their soft song and
obscuring view of the procedure. Ahiga and Hosobuchi had disappeared from
the platform altogether.
Valdis, evidently recovered from his earlier story-telling, came forward
to describe the manner of Czupak's death. It was not due to poisoning,
as everyone had feared would happen to him, but due to the accumulated
swallowing of pebbles and grit from the adulterated food he had tasted
in order to protect the tribe. The foreign objects had blocked the passage
of food through his body, causing his belly to swell.
"It happened slowly," said Valdis, again in those rich, rolling tones,
"and so he knew he was dying, many days before the rest of us did. He could
have asked his man to abase himself in an effort to gain Czupak's release
to the prison's healer. He did not do this. He would not degrade his man
in such a manner, and he would not risk dying on the operating table, far
from the tribe. He wished to die with us. He wished his death to have meaning,
beyond the meaning he had already given it by risking his life for our
sake. He wanted us to feed on him." Valdis spread his arms to embrace,
in the air, the presence of Tyrrell and the other initiates. "And now you
come among us – new men and lads, wishing to belong to the tribe. You have
seen what unifies our tribe. The question you must ask yourself is: 'Do
I have the courage to feed on him? Do I have the courage to be a member
of the Tribe of Compassion Prison?'"
He stepped back. Tyrrell, still frozen in dismay at the death of a lad
he had briefly known and admired, now found himself frozen by the prospect
of what lay ahead for him on that platform.
He felt Pickens's hand on his shoulder again. His mate murmured in his
ear, "Tyrrell, 'tis well. I gave tale to Valdis today. He won't go and
force you to break the tenets of your faith; he has respect for the bean-eating
sect. He'll understand if you're choosing to pass up the meat. All he is
asking is some sign from you that you accept that this is needful for the
rest of us."
As Pickens spoke, Farnam's lads neatly set in place a number of items
at the front of the platform: a crate with a small bowl on it, filled with
newly carved meat; a trough near the bowl, for unknown purposes; a pile
of cloths next to the trough; a lantern next to the cloths; and, amidst
them all, a basin and pitcher. The pitcher was made of that rarest of materials
within the prison: glass. Within it, clean water sparkled in the lantern-light.
The true men came forward now, all but Farnam, who stood by, watching.
With the aid of Farnam's lads, the three remaining true men ritually cleansed
their hands with the water, then took the meat that was offered to them,
into their bare palms. At some signal which Tyrrell missed, they all ate
the meat, each in his own manner. Valdis did so with a grieved expression
on his face, as though drawn back into his memories. Walker – to Tyrrell's
paranoid eye – seemed to relish the meat. But Ahiga was the true man whose
reaction most interested Tyrrell. Tyrrell knew – everyone there knew –
that modern Ammippians were plagued with the slanderous charge of being
cannibals. How could a man who had no doubt spent his life spurning such
charges eat the meat off a human corpse?
With full ritual, it appeared. Taking the meat in hand, Ahiga bowed
his body over it, spoke in a sing-song voice some words of Ammippian, and
slowly licked the meat before taking it into his mouth, chewing it with
great ceremony, and swallowing it. Then, like the other true men, he accepted
the offer of a cloth with which to clean his hands and mouth.
That left the true men awaiting the next group of prisoners who were
expected to eat.
The other little man who was an initiate – clearly a braver man than
Tyrrell – trotted his way up the steps the moment that Valdis beckoned
all of them forward, with his sponsor close at his heels. The little man
listened to some quiet words spoken to him by Farnam, he accepted the water
and meat, and then, with evident bravado, he swallowed down the meat with
one gulp.
In the next moment, the purpose of the trough became clear, as the little
men vomited into it.
The prison was quiet. Nobody showed anger, much less amusement. They
simply waited. The little man stared in horror at what he had done, but
Walker's men, clearly practiced in such matters, simply picked up the trough
and pitcher, took them both over to the fire where Czupak's head had been
cremated, and poured the contents of the trough into the fire. Then they
used the water to clean the trough, again pouring the resulting liquid
into the fire.
They returned and placed the trough back in its original position. Everyone
waited.
The little man's hands trembled this time as he accepted the second
helping of meat, and it took several bites for him to chew down the offering.
There was an expectant pause, but the meat stayed down. In a break from
formality, Valdis grinned and slapped the little man on his back as Farnam's
lads offered him a clean cloth.
Then the little man and his sponsor left the platform by way of its
side stairs as cheers rose on all sides, while Valdis cried out the little
man's name as a new member of the tribe.
Tyrrell looked around to see which of the other initiates would go next.
He found that they were all staring at him. He remembered then that he
outranked them. No doubt that meant he was supposed to go first. Or at
least, the lads were hoping that was the meaning of his higher rank.
He sighed and then made his way up the steps, less briskly than the
previous initiate. At the top of the steps, he paused and looked back,
but Pickens, he found to his dismay, had melted into the crowd, leaving
him with no sponsor.
A lad splashed water over Tyrrell's hands, startling him. Valdis tapped
him on the shoulder, forcing him to look back in that direction. "Are you
intending to show some sign that you accept our ways?" the true man asked
abruptly, in a low voice. "Because if you aren't, it's not worth our time
for you to be standing up here."
Unable to understand the continued hostility in Valdis's voice, and
still puzzled at Pickens's disappearance, Tyrrell looked over at the bowl
being proffered to him. It held a small amount of meat, no more than a
mouthful. His vision shifted, and he saw standing before him again the
tribe's taster, smiling as he bowed toward Tyrrell, saying, "I'd like to
shake arms with you, sir . . . I'm very pleased to have had the opportunity
to meet you."
And then Czupak's final words of life: "Feed on me."
On impulse, Tyrrell took the meat in hand. On second impulse, he turned
to face the front of the platform. From this elevated position, he could
see over the entire prison, the moonlight showing him faces that were white
and cream and olive and brown and black. All waiting for him.
He raised the meat up toward the sky, the realm of Mercy. "I accept
this gift," he said in his stage voice and stage manner, "in the name of
Mercy, who has sent her daughter among us. May Mercy and Compassion never
be absent from our lives."
Even as he spoke, he felt foolish. The words he spoke were the words
spoken by the priestesses of his sect, accepting and eating the offerings
of meat that lay folk were forbidden to eat. He was no priest; why had
he usurped the priestesses' role with his words?
But much of the audience thought otherwise. No sooner had Tyrrell finished
speaking than they roared their approval: prisoners with faces cream and
olive and brown and black, cheering his words and shouting his name.
But not the white prisoners. With a few exceptions, they all remained
silent. It was not hard to figure out why.
Tyrrell took greater care in formulating his next words. Finally, he
said, "I was not raised in the Yclau faith of transformation and rebirth.
But you have shown me today how death can be transformed into victory.
And so I accept this gift on behalf of the man who was first reborn into
a new body, and the man he loved, who released him into new life."
Now the shouts were double-strong, rising high in the air; not only
those of Yclau faith but those of Vovimian faith were cheering him, acknowledging
the unity he brought with his words. Feeling confused at the audience's
strong reception, Tyrrell tried to think of anything he had forgotten to
say.
And then he remembered. He remembered, not because anyone in front of
him reminded him, nor because he turned to see that one man on the platform
was still silent.
He remembered because Shuji remained in the hands of the guards, and
Shuji would have remembered.
Tyrrell raised his hands again – he could only hope that his body was
in the right position for this prayer – and waited till the prisoners were
silent once more. Then he said, "Long before any of our ancestors came
to the New World, long before the boats sailed from every part of the Old
World – from the Northwest, the Southwest, the East . . . Long before then,
this land was inhabited by men. The natives who lived near the Bay, our
forefathers called Ammippians. Most of the Ammippians lived close to the
Bay itself, but they could be found in every place where the water gathered
to pour into the Bay: next to rivers, streams, tributaries. They lived
in the area we now call the Midcoast nations: the Dozen Landsteads, Yclau,
Vovim, and our own tiny nation of Mip. Our forefathers claimed that these
bloody barbarians ate their fellow humans."
He paused, wondering whether, in the next moment, he would feel Ahiga's
blade between his shoulders. The prisoners were exchanging looks with each
other, clearly puzzled by the progress of his speech.
"I heard such tales as a boy," Tyrrell told the audience. "I heard more
than that, for my street-tribe revered the Ammippians. I was told that
the ancient Ammippians did indeed eat the dead, but not the dead of their
enemies. They ate those they loved: the men and lads fallen in battle.
They ate their dead as a final act of love."
He swallowed convulsively and then forced himself to continue. "If I
had not heard that tale so many times in my youth, I doubt that I would
have the courage to do this – to break the great taboo of our world, to
go against the tenets of my own faith. But the Ammippians paved the path
we now follow, and you have shown me why modern men and lads would want
to follow such a path. So I accept this gift in the name of the Ammippians'
ancestors who were eaten by their loved ones, and who still dwell among
us, helping us to follow this path."
He raised the meat to his lips.
There were no cheers this time as he forced himself to eat the meat
– which, as it turned out, was pleasant to the taste, though his throat's
instinct remained to shut the meat out. No cheers, for clearly the prisoners
were puzzled over how to respond to a prayer to the Ammippian ghosts that
were ridiculed or hated or feared, but never honored by any Mippite.
Nor was the reaction of the true men any better. As Tyrrell turned to
take a cloth from one of Farnam's lads, he saw that Valdis was glowering
at him, as though his earlier prayer to Mercy had been tainted by its association
with barbarians. Or perhaps, Tyrrell thought wearily, he had simply called
too much attention to himself, driving the spotlight away from the true
men.
If so, Valdis's opinion of his extravaganza seemed shared. Walker's
eyes glittered like fire, while Farnam's face had returned to stone. None
of them spoke as Tyrrell made his way across the platform, toward the side
stairs.
That left only one man who might have welcomed his final prayer. Ahiga
appeared before Tyrrell suddenly as Tyrrell reached the steps – appearing
out of nowhere, like one of his ghost ancestors.
For a long while, and a long while yet, Ahiga said nothing, as behind
them on the platform, another initiate was welcomed and announced and cheered.
Finally the true man said, so softly that Tyrrell could barely hear him,
"The Ammippians are not one tribe. We banquet as one, but the next day
we do battle with one another as many. Remember that, Tyrrell of Mercy
Prison, and take care to whom you share your hand and your heart and your
plans."
Then he was gone, and Tyrrell was left staring blankly at the place
where he had been.
The other initiates had passed their initiation now – evidently, none
of them had paused to give long speeches – and the mourning song of Walker's
men and lads had taken on a somewhat brighter note as Farnam's lads went
down into the crowd, offering tiny slivers of meat to each prisoner. The
meat was distributed in an orderly fashion; the prisoners remained quiet
during these final moments of Czupak's gift-giving. Tyrrell made his way
down the steps, trying to remain unobtrusive—
—and then he saw Pickens, waiting for him. And he suddenly knew why
Pickens had chosen to await him there.
Tyrrell came forward to his mate, whose expression was somber. Without
having to be told what to do, Tyrrell bowed his head. He felt Pickens slip
the white necklet over his head.
It felt heavy upon his shoulders. As heavy as Ahiga's heart, awaiting
the return of Shuji. As heavy as Valdis's memories of his long-dead lad.
As heavy as Farnam's undoubted feelings of guilt, having waited too long
to check on the health of Czupak.
As heavy as manhood. Now Tyrrell knew that what he had been granted
at the time of his trial was not a privilege but a burden.
He looked up. Pickens's expression was still somber, but a small smile
edged his lips. The lad said, "Welcome to the Tribe of Compassion Prison,
man."
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The dawn was still grey when Tyrrell, woken by some inner compulsion,
returned his blanket to the supplies platform and walked down to the prison
gate.
Various unclaimed lads were beginning to wake, but they were all being
quite careful not to look at the one man in their midst: Ahiga, standing
in front of the gate, staring at the solid barrier of the shield-wall between
himself and what lay outside.
Tyrrell came up to him, and then was silent a moment, wondering what
to say – wondering what one could say. Finally he asked, "Where
is Hosobuchi?"
Ahiga glanced at him, and then away. He was dressed, as always, in nothing
but his groin-cloth; Tyrrell was beginning to suspect that this was an
affectation on Ahiga's part, for surely the Ammippians had only ever stripped
themselves down for wrestling or battle. Though perhaps, Tyrrell reflected
gloomily, Ahiga had good reason to believe that he was in constant battle
with an enemy.
Finally Ahiga said, "Asleep. He was arisen till two hours past. He could
not sleep, before – nor could his First Lad."
Tyrrell could think of no reply to make to this. Behind, the soft stir
of lads rising increased as the dawn brightened in the sky.
Ahiga said, "You have been asking questions many."
Tyrrell turned his head to look again at him. "Pickens told you that?"
"Everyone told me. Every man and lad you met has a tale to shout of
how you have been questioning the honored ways of the Tribe of Compassion
Prison. What thoughts speak in your heart? What plans form in your hands?"
Tyrrell shook his head, trying to clear his mind of overnight fuzziness.
"Fitting in," he said. "I just want to understand the Tribe of Compassion
Prison, so that I can follow your ways."
He wondered, even as he spoke, whether he was being entirely truthful.
Ahiga did not reply for a long moment. Then he said, very softly, "You
are a danger. A danger, seeking either the right hand or the left. You
may be a danger to the tribe. I am not sure yet." He turned his head to
look Tyrrell straight in the eyes. "Take care, man. Take care what alliances
you make here."
Tyrrell had not yet thought of an appropriate response when the gate
began to scream as it slid open. A loud rumble filled the air as the shield
arose. The unclaimed lads nearby who had remained sleeping scrambled to
their feet.
Ahiga pushed Tyrrell aside with one arm. "Back, man. They open the gate,
first moment each morn."
"They didn't when I first arrived." He seemed to be cursed to forever
question things, even with an implied threat to his health still hovering
in the air.
"You whisked into our midst on the day after week's end. The guards
do not claim on week's end."
Even as Ahiga spoke, a figure appeared at the small gap where the gate
had pulled back. The figure seemed to hesitate, as though unsure of his
welcome. Someone – a guard, out of view – spoke harshly, and the figure
stumbled forward, nearly falling in his flight into the prison.
Ahiga was there to catch Shuji. Ignoring the rattle of a machine rifle
as he came too near the entrance, Ahiga held Shuji by the lad's shoulders
and spoke in an undertone to him. Shuji replied without raising his bowed
head.
The gate closed, the screaming warning ended, the rifle-fire ceased,
and Ahiga gathered Shuji into his arms. The lad had begun to weep: hard,
endless sobs that were so very different from the play-sobbing he had emitted
two nights before. There was a flash of movement behind Shuji, a skidding
to a halt, and Ahiga, without needing to see who had raced up behind him,
turned and handed Shuji over to the warm embrace of Hosobuchi. Then Ahiga
walked off without a word, his face as unyielding as the blade he carried
about his neck.
The nearby unclaimed lads, Tyrrell noticed, were making a valiant effort
not to watch as Shuji, shaken and crying, was guided away by Hosobuchi,
who spoke quietly to the lad. Tyrrell turned his attention toward what
lay outside the prison. His own world had changed overnight, in ways he
was only beginning to define, but outside, everything was much as it had
been on his first morning at Compassion Prison.
The gunner who had sent the spate of bullets toward Ahiga was Landry;
he was just beginning to relax back into his seat, tossing a cheerful remark
at Starke, who was staring dreamy-eyed at the ceiling, smiling. Nearby,
standing next to the railing of the balcony, Compassion's Keeper was checking
documents on a clipboard in his hand, while down below, in the lower guards'
post, the guards of the day watch exchanged greetings with the night watch,
which was making ready to leave. Healer FitzGerald remained sequestered
in her surgery.
It was all so ordinary, so very ordinary, Tyrrell reflected. Nobody
would have thought, witnessing this scene, that the guards repeatedly raped
their prisoners, who had committed cannibalism overnight in a desperate
effort to keep from starving to death.
Medinger appeared on the balcony. He was carrying a tray, which he set
on the balcony railing. He said something to Keeper, which drifted like
smoke into Tyrrell's hearing: words like "ham" and "eggs" and "jam on toast."
Keeper did not even bother to glance at the bounty beside him. He merely
took his fork and began munching upon his banquet, never lifting his eyes
from the documents to look at the other guards, who were now exchanging
jokes about the previous night's claiming.
"What goes with you, mate?" Pickens's voice was unnaturally quiet on
this morning.
Without turning his eyes, Tyrrell said, "Shuji?"
"Hosobuchi drew him into the true men's cells, so that they could be
on their lonesome for a while. Ahiga, he seemed to have mind you had necessity
of giving tale."
Not for the first time, Tyrrell reflected that Ahiga was a perceptive
man. "Pickens," he said, his gaze still on Compassion's Keeper, "you were
right. You were so very right. Whether or not Tom Keeper is knowing all
that the other guards do to us – and he certainly is knowing some of it
– he is still responsible for what falls here. He means well, for sure,
but by failing to investigate and stay back the other guards, he has shaped
himself our enemy. He is Hell's messenger."
Tyrrell turned his gaze finally toward Pickens. Nobody else was watching
them – nobody except Jahnsen, who was silently listening to their conversation.
"Aye," said Pickens as he reached out and placed his hand over Tyrrell's,
which had formed into a fist. "Aye, you have the right of it." And then,
with passion and anger and longing: "So tell us, riot-rouser: How do we
conquer our enemy?"
o—o—oo—o—oo—o—o
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
In all of the interconnected series of the Turn-of-the-Century Toughs
cycle, I have imagined a world where the period between 1880 and 1912 lasted
a century, from the mid-fourth century – as this alternate world calculates
time – to the mid-fifth century. Hell's Messenger, which is set
in the year 400 (i.e. 1895), is in the middle of this time period and represents
our own world's turn-of-the-century eagerness for new technology, as well
as its nostalgia for its primitive past.
Technology
All of the technology described in this novel either existed or could
have existed by the end of the nineteenth century. Electric alarm bells
and automatic timers for lights had already been invented by the end of
the nineteenth century, as the public clamored for ways to protect themselves
against criminals. Various mechanical hoists also existed.
A March 1893 article in Manufacturer and Builder described mechanical
gates and doors that were being sold for elevators. Mechanical gates and
doors would not become common until the mid-twentieth century, but nineteenth-century
inventors were innovative in their solutions to moving large, heavy gates
and doors, such as freight gates and fire doors. I have taken the liberty
in Hell's Messenger of assuming that Compassion Prison's engineers
were ahead of their time in finding a solution to the vexed problem of
where to put such gates and doors once they were pulled back.
Firearms
As gun aficionados will have already figured out, the rifles and light
machine guns at Compassion Prison are my own invention, based on gun components
that existed during this period. Their general appearance is based loosely
on the Browning Automatic Rifle, first put into use during World War One.
Fully automatic firearms – that is, guns that can shoot a series of
bullets through one trigger squeeze – were invented in the nineteenth century
but did not come into non-military use until after World War One. At the
turn of the century, they were still the province of the military, and
thus would have been especially frightening to anyone encountering them
outside military life.
Daily life and social structure
At the same time that turn-of-the-century folks were looking forward
to the future, they were also looking back to their "purer" past. Baden-Powell's
founding of the Boy Scouts in 1907 was part of this trend, as was Daniel
Carter Beard's The American Boys Handy Book (1882) and many similar
books that were written around this time. The prisoners' beliefs in Hell's
Messenger about the best way to do first aid, build a fire, live in
primitive circumstances, and so on, are taken from turn-of-the-century
boys' books, which means that some of the techniques are undoubtedly wrong.
(For the prisoners' opinions on how best to dispose of cadavers, on the
other hand, I have had to turn, not only to writings about the Plains Indians'
ever-fascinating usage of buffalo parts, but also to literature reflecting
the truth that prisoners' corpses have often ended up being put to unorthodox
uses, such as providing leather for book-binding.)
In the United States' boys movement, America's pioneer past was revered,
and Native Americans were idolized. In addition, a central aspect of the
movement was the concept of chivalry – of males protecting the weak persons
of the world. The number of times that the word "manly" is used in a praising
manner in books for boys – and the number of times the words "effeminate"
and "girlish" are used in a disparaging manner – is rather frightening.
Teenage gangs are by no means an invention of the twentieth century;
knife-wielding youth gang members existed, among other places, in nineteenth-century
Manchester, England, where they were called scuttlers. There too the concept
of proving one's manhood was central, though a few gang members were female.
The source of my inspiration for the social structure of Compassion
Prison should be obvious to anyone who has ever watched a prison movie
or show. The custom of strong prisoners – "men," in the modern prison slang
– taking control of weaker prisoners is recorded all the way back to the
nineteenth century, where it sometimes took the form of pederasty. To this
day, younger prisoners are especially vulnerable to being forced to serve
a strong prisoner, but the weaker prisoner has not always been the younger
prisoner, nor have such arrangements always resulted in victimization.
While offering a more upbeat version of this social structure than is usually
found in today's prisons, I have still tried to convey some of the ethical
ambiguity that inevitably occurs in such social structures.
Race and ethnicity
Readers will keep in mind, I hope, that this is a prison story. Virtually
every character in this novel has committed a crime; none of the various
races and ethnicities in the novel are immune from this.
In the same manner that the Tough's worlds attitudes toward homosexuality
differ from our own, so too do its attitudes toward race and ethnicity.
While the Old World origins of various groups are the same in both the
Toughs world and ours, none of the racial and ethnic groups in this novel
are intended to correspond directly to those in America in 1895. In particular,
the Ammippians are not meant to correspond to the members of any particular
indigenous nation.
The building
As for the architectural plan and general appearance of Compassion Prison,
that was originally dreamed up in my head, but when I went looking for
a location in which to place the prison, I discovered that Compassion Prison
bears an eerie resemblance to Fort Frederick, an eighteenth-century fort
located on a foothill of mountains in western Maryland, near a body of
water called Big Pool. Fort Frederick was in fact used as a prison camp
during the American Revolution, though in the Toughs world, its military
origins lie much further back.
As readers learn in a later Toughs story set in the surrounding countryside
– Spy Hill,
in the Commando series – the original military fort prison was converted
into a civilian prison at the time that Mip gained its freedom from Yclau,
in 355 (i.e. 1880). Fort Frederick, as it stands today in our world, retains
defensive bastions at its corners. The architects of Compassion Prison
who transformed the previous military fort prison into a civilian prison
must have removed the fort's bastions, probably because such hideaway corners
would be a security concern when the only people you are trying to protect
yourself from are inside the building. The building's entrance has
also been moved westward along the front wall. Nor does Fort Frederick
possess the sort of outbuilding courtyard that the architects gave to Compassion
Prison (though reconstructed barracks inside the fort do bear a certain
passing resemblance to the outbuildings in Compassion Prison).
However, in both the Toughs world and our world, the building's stone
walls have been stained black by centuries of weathering. The compass directions
are about the same in both worlds, and I've adopted Compassion Prison's
dimensions from Fort Frederick's dimensions, as well as my rough estimate
of the number of prisoners that the building could house under the worst
of circumstances.