Wild thyme and violets a.., p.15
Wild Thyme and Violets and Other Unpublished Works, page 15
“Indeed.” Phyral Berwick drummed his fingers on the rail of the rostrum. “Are these the only occasions that you summon King Kragen?”
“Why do you question me?” demanded Semon Voidenvo. “I am Intercessor; the criminal is Sklar Hast.”
“Easy, then; the questions illuminate the extent of the alleged crime. For instance, let me ask this: do you ever summon King Kragen to feed from your lagoon in order to visit a punishment upon the folk of your float?”
Semon Voidenvo blinked. “The wisdom of King Kragen is inordinate. He can detect delinquencies, he makes his presence known —”
“Specifically then, you summoned King Kragen to Tranque Float when Sklar Hast sought to kill the lesser kragen?”
“My acts are not in the balance. I see no reason to answer the question.”
Phyral Berwick spoke to the crowd in a troubled voice. “There seems no way to determine exactly when Semon Voidenvo called King Kragen. If he did so after Sklar Hast had begun his attack upon the rogue, then in my opinion, Semon Voidenvo the Intercessor is more immediately responsible for the Tranque disaster than Sklar Hast. Thereupon it becomes a travesty to visit any sort of penalty upon Sklar Hast. Unfortunately there seems no way of settling this question.”
The Apprise Intercessor, Barquan Blasdel, rose slowly to his feet. “Arbiter Berwick, I fear that you are seriously confused. Sklar Hast and his gang committed an act knowingly proscribed both by the Tranque Monitor Ixon Myrex and by the Tranque Intercessor Semon Voidenvo. The consequences stemmed from this act; hence Sklar Hast is guilty.”
“Barquan Blasdel,” said Phyral Berwick, “you are Apprise Intercessor. Have you ever summoned King Kragen to Apprise Float?”
“As Semon Voidenvo pointed out, Sklar Hast is the criminal at the bar, not the conscientious intercessors of the various floats. By no means may Sklar Hast be allowed to evade his punishment. King Kragen is not lightly to be defied. Even though the convocation will not raise their collective fist to smite Sklar Hast, I say that he must die.”
Phyral Berwick fixed his pale blue eyes upon Barquan Blasdel. “If the convocation gives Sklar Hast his life, he will not die unless I die before him.”
Meth Cagno came forward. “And I likewise.”
The men of Tranque Float who had joined Sklar Hast in the killing of the rogue kragen came toward the rostrum, shouting their intention of joining Sklar Hast either in life or death, and with them came others, from various floats.
Barquan Blasdel climbed onto the rostrum, held his hands wide. “Before others declare themselves — look out to sea. King Kragen watches, attentive to learn who is loyal and who is faithless.”
The crowd swung about as if one individual. A hundred yards off the float the water swirled lazily around King Kragen’s great turret. The crystal eyes pointed like telescopes toward Apprise Float. Presently the turret sank beneath the surface. The blue water roiled, then flowed smooth and featureless.
Sklar Hast went to the ladder, started to mount to the rostrum. Barquan Blasdel the Intercessor halted him. “The rostrum must not become a shouting-place. Stay till you are summoned!” But Sklar Hast pushed him aside, went to face the crowd. He pointed toward the smooth ocean. “There you have seen the vile beast, our enemy! Why should we deceive ourselves? Intercessors, Arbiters, all of us — let us forget our differences, let us join our crafts and our resources! If we do so, we can evolve a method to kill King Kragen! So now — decide!”
Barquan Blasdel threw back his head aghast. He took a step toward Sklar Hast, as if to seize him, then turned to the audience. “You have heard this madman — twice you have heard him. You have also observed the vigilance of King Kragen whose force is known to all. You can choose therefore either to obey the exhortations of a twitching lunatic, or be guided by your ancient trust in the benevolence of mighty King Kragen. In one manner only does Sklar Hast speak truth: there must be a definite resolution to this matter. We can have no half-measures! Sklar Hast must die! So now hold high your fists — each and all! Silence the frantic screamings of Sklar Hast! King Kragen is near at hand! Death to Sklar Hast!” He thrust his fist high into the air.
The Intercessors followed suit. “Death to Sklar Hast!”
Hesitantly, indecisively, other fists raised, then others and others. Some changed their minds and drew down their fists; others submitted to arguments and either drew down their fists or thrust them high; some raised their fists only to have others pull them down. Altercations sprang up across the float; the hoarse sound of contention began to make itself heard. Barquan Blasdel leaned forward in sudden concern, calling for calm. Sklar Hast likewise started to speak, but he desisted — because suddenly words were of no avail. In a bewildering, almost magical, shift the placid convocation had become a mêlée. Men and women tore savagely at each other, screaming, cursing, raging, squealing. Emotion accumulated from childhood, stored and constrained, had suddenly exploded; and the identical fear and hate had prompted opposite reactions. Across the float the tide of battle surged, out into the water where staid Bezzlers and responsible Larceners sought to drown each other. Few weapons were available: clubs of stalk, a bone axe or two, a half-dozen stakes, as many knives. While the struggle was at its most intense King Kragen once more surfaced, this time a quarter-mile to the north from whence he turned his vast incurious gaze upon the float.
The fighting slowed and dwindled, from sheer exhaustion. The combatants drew apart into panting bleeding groups. In the lagoon floated half-a-dozen corpses; on the float lay as many more. Now for the first time it could be seen that those who stood by Sklar Hast were considerably outnumbered, by almost two to one, and also that this group included for the most part the most vigorous and able of the craftsmen, though few of the Masters: about half of the Hoodwinks, two-thirds of the Scriveners, relatively few from the Jacklegs, Advertisermen, Nigglers and other low castes, fewer still of the Arbiters and no Intercessors whatever.
Barquan Blasdel, still on the rostrum, cried out, “This is a sorry day indeed; a sorry day! Sklar Hast, see the anguish you have brought to the floats! There can be no mercy for you now!”
Sklar Hast came forward, pale and flaming-eyed. Blood coursed down his face from the slash of a knife. Ignoring Blasdel he mounted the rostrum, and addressed the two groups:
“As Blasdel the Intercessor has said, there is no turning back now. So be it. Let those who want to serve King Kragen remain. Let those who want free lives go forth across the sea. There are floats to north and south, to east and west, floats as kind and hospitable as these, where we will soon have homes as rich and modern — perhaps more so.”
Barquan Blasdel strode forward. “Go then! All you faithless, you irreverent ones — get hence and good riddance! Go where you will, and never seek to return when the teeming kragen, unchided by the great King, devour your sponges, tear your nets, crush your coracles!”
“The many cannot be as rapacious as the one,” said Sklar Hast. “You who will go then, return to your floats, load tools and cordage, all your utile goods into your coracles. In two days we depart. Our destination and other details must remain secret. I need not explain why.” He cast an ironic look toward Barquan Blasdel.
“You need not fear our interference,” said Blasdel. “You may depart at will; indeed we will facilitate your going.”
“On the morning of the third day hence, then, when the wind blows fair, we depart.”
Chapter III
Barquan Blasdel the Apprise Intercessor, his spouse and six daughters, occupied a pad to the north of the main float, somewhat isolated and apart. It was perhaps the choicest and most pleasant pad of the Apprise complex, situated where Blasdel could read the hoodwink towers of Apprise, of Quatrefoil and the Bandings to the east, of Granolt to the west. The pad was delightfully overgrown with a hundred different plants and vines: some yielding resinous pods, others capsules of fragrant sap, others crisp tendrils and shoots. Certain shrubs produced stains and pigment; a purple-leaved epiphyte yielded a rich-flavored pith. Other growths were entirely ornamental — a situation not too usual along the floats, where space was at a premium and every growing object weighed for its utility. Along the entire line of floats few pads could compare to that of Barquan Blasdel for beauty, variety of plantings, isolation and calm.
In late afternoon of the second day after the turbulent convocation, Barquan Blasdel returned to his pad. He dropped the painter of his coracle over a stake of carved bone, gazed appreciatively into the west. The sun had only just departed the sky, which now glowed with effulgent greens, blues, and, at the zenith, a purple of exquisite purity. The ocean, shuddering to the first whispers of the evening breeze, reflected the sky. Blasdel felt surrounded, immersed in color … He turned away, marched to his house, whistling a complacent tune between his teeth. On the morrow the most troublesome elements of all the floats would depart on the morning breeze, and no more would be heard from them ever. And Blasdel’s whistling became slow and thoughtful. Although life flowed smoothly and without contention, over the years a certain uneasiness and dissatisfaction had begun to make itself felt. Dissident elements had begun to question the established order. The sudden outbreak of violence at the convocation perhaps had been inevitable: an explosion of suppressed or even unconscious tensions. But all was working out for the best. The affair could not have resolved itself more smoothly if he had personally arranged the entire sequence of events. At one stroke all the skeptics, grumblers, ne’er-do-wells, the covertly insolent, the obstinate hard-heads — at one stroke, all would disappear, never again to trouble the easy and orthodox way of life.
Almost jauntily Barquan Blasdel ambled up the path to his residence: a group of five semi-detached huts, screened by the garden from the main float, and so providing a maximum of privacy for Blasdel, his spouse and his six daughters. Blasdel halted. On a bench beside the door sat a man. Twilight murk concealed his face. Blasdel frowned, peered. Intruders upon his private pad were not welcome. Blasdel marched forward. The man rose from the bench and bowed: it was Phyral Berwick, the Apprise Arbiter. “Good evening,” said Berwick. “I trust I did not startle you.”
“By no means,” said Blasdel shortly. With rank equal to his own Berwick could not be ignored, although after his unconventional actions at the convocation Blasdel could not bring himself to display more than a minimum of formal courtesy. He said, “Unfortunately I was not expecting callers and can offer you no refreshment.”
“A circumstance of no moment,” declared Berwick. “I desire neither food nor drink.” He waved his hand around the pad. “You live on a pad of surpassing beauty, Barquan Blasdel. There are many who might envy you.”
Blasdel shrugged. “Since my conduct is orthodox, I am armored against adverse opinion. But what urgency brings you here? I fear that I must be less than ceremonious; I am shortly due at the hoodwink tower to participate in a coded all-float conference.”
Berwick made a gesture of polite acquiescence. “My business is of small moment. But I would not keep you standing out here in the dusk. Shall we enter?”
Blasdel grunted, opened the door, allowed Berwick to enter. From a cupboard he brought luminant fiber, which he set aglow and arranged in a holder. Turning a quick side-glance toward Berwick he said, “In all candor I am somewhat surprised to see you. Apparently you were among the most vehement of those dissidents who planned to depart.”
“I may well have given that impression,” Berwick agreed. “But you must realize that declarations uttered in the heat of emotion are occasionally amended in the light of sober reason.”
Blasdel nodded curtly. “True enough. I suspect that many of the ingrates will think twice before joining this hare-brained expedition.”
“This is partly the reason for my presence here,” said Berwick. He looked around the room. “An interesting chamber. You own dozens of valuable artifacts. But where are the others of your family?”
“In the domestic area. This is my sanctum, my workroom, my place of meditation.”
“Indeed.” Berwick inspected the walls. “Indeed, indeed! I believe I notice certain relicts of the forefathers!”
“True,” said Blasdel. “This small flat object is of the substance called ‘metal’, and is extremely hard. The best bone knife will not scratch it. The purpose of this particular object I cannot conjecture. It is an heirloom. These books are exact copies of the Dicta in the Hall of Archives, and present the memoirs of the Forefathers. Alas! I find them beyond my comprehension. There is nothing more of any great interest. On the shelf — my ceremonial head-dresses; you have seen them before. Here is my telescope. It is old; the case is warped, the gum of the lenses has bulged and cracked. It was poor gum, to begin with. But I have little need for a better instrument. My possessions are few. Unlike many Intercessors and certain Arbiters,” here he cast a meaningful eye at Phyral Berwick, “I do not choose to surround myself with sybaritical cushions and baskets of sweetmeats.”
Berwick laughed ruefully. “You have touched upon my weaknesses. Perhaps the fear of deprivation has occasioned second-thoughts in me.”
“Ha hah!” Blasdel became jovial. “I begin to understand. The scalawags who set off to wild new floats can expect nothing but hardship: wild fish, horny sponges, new varnish with little more body than water; in short they will be returning to the life of savages. They must expect to suffer the depredations of lesser kragen, who will swiftly gather. Perhaps in time …” His voice dwindled, his face took on a thoughtful look.
“What was it you were about to say?” prompted Phyral Berwick.
Blasdel gave a non-committal laugh. “An amusing, if far-fetched, conceit crossed my mind. Perhaps in time one of these lesser kragen will vanquish the others, and drive them away. When this occurs, those who flee King Kragen will have a king of their own, who may eventually …” Again his voice paused.
“Who may eventually rival King Kragen in size and force?” Berwick supplied. “The concept is not unreasonable — although King Kragen is already enormous from long feasting, and shows no signs of halting his growth.” An almost imperceptible tremor moved the floor of the hut. Blasdel went to look out the door. “I thought I felt the arrival of a coracle.”
“Conceivably a gust of wind,” said Berwick. “Well, to my errand. As you have guessed I did not come to examine your relicts or comment upon the comfort of your cottage. My business is this. I feel a certain sympathy for those who are leaving, and I feel that no one, not even the most violently fanatic Intercessor, would wish this group to meet King Kragen upon the ocean. King Kragen, as you are aware, disapproves of exploration, and becomes petulant, even wrathful, when he finds men venturing out upon the ocean. Perhaps he fears the possibility of the second King Kragen concerning which we speculated. Hence I came to inquire the whereabouts of King Kragen. In the morning the wind blows east, and the optimum location for King Kragen would be to the far east at Tranque or Thrasneck.”
Blasdel nodded sagely. “The emigrants are putting their luck to the test. Should King Kragen chance to be waiting in the east tomorrow morning, and should he spy the flotilla, his wrath might well be excited, to the detriment of the expedition.”
“And where,” inquired Berwick, “was King Kragen at last notification?”
Barquan Blasdel knit his brows. “I believe I noted a hoodwink message to the effect that he was seen cruising in a westerly direction to the south of Bickle Float, toward Maudelinda. I might well have misread the flicker, I only noted the configuration from the corner of my eye — but such was my understanding.”
“Excellent,” declared Berwick. “This is good news. The emigrants should make their departure safely and without interference.”
“So we hope,” said Blasdel. “King Kragen of course is subject to unpredictable whims and quirks.”
Berwick made a confidential sign. “Sometimes — so it is rumored — he responds to signals transmitted in some mysterious manner by the Intercessors. Tell me, Barquan Blasdel, is this the case? We are both notables and together share responsibility for the welfare of Apprise Float. Is it true then that the Intercessors communicate with King Kragen, as has been alleged?”
“Now then, Arbiter Berwick,” said Blasdel, “this is hardly a pertinent question. Should I answer yes, then I would be divulging a craft secret. Should I answer no, then it would seem that we Intercessors boast of nonexistent capabilities. So you must satisfy yourself with those hypotheses which seem the most profitable.”
“Fairly answered,” said Phyral Berwick. “However — and in the strictest confidence — I will report to you an amusing circumstance. As you know, at the convocation I declared myself for the party of Sklar Hast. Subsequently I was accepted into their most intimate counsels. I can inform you with authority — but first, you will assure me of your silence? As under no circumstances would I betray Sklar Hast or compromise the expedition.”
“Certainly, indeed; my lips are sealed as with fourteen-year old varnish.”
“Well then, I accept you at your word. This is Sklar Hast’s amusing tactic: he has arranged that a group of influential Intercessors shall accompany the group. If all goes well, the Intercessors live. If not, like all the rest, they are crushed in the mandibles of King Kragen.” And Phyral Berwick, standing back, watched Barquan Blasdel with an attentive gaze. “What do you make of that?”
Blasdel stood rigid, fingering his fringe of black beard. He darted a quick glance toward Berwick. “Which Intercessors are to be kidnaped?”
“Aha,” said Berwick. “That, like the response of the question I put to you, is in the nature of a craft secret. I doubt if lesser men will be troubled, but if I were Intercessor for Aumerge, or Sumber, or Quatrefoil, or even Apprise, I believe that I might have cause for caution.”
Blasdel stared at Berwick with mingled suspicion and uneasiness. “Do you take this means to warn me? If so, I would thank you to speak less ambiguously. Personally I fear no such attack. Within a hundred feet are three stalwarts, testing my daughters for marriage. A loud call would bring instant help from the float, which is scarcely a stone’s throw beyond the garden.”
