“What is it, Mavin? Why are you so upset? Do you know her? Is she truly your sister?”
“She is truly my sister, girl. Truly as ever was. I was fifteen when she left, when I told her to leave, but she is my sister, my Shifter sister, mad as any madman I have ever seen, and pregnant as any mother has ever been. And if I understand your religion, my dear, and the respect that would be due to a messenger of the Boundless, the fact that my sister will bear now—though she did not bear in years past, to her sorrow—bodes ill for the Birders. And, sausage girl, from what I have seen traveling the width of the world for fifteen years, when a thing bodes ill for the religion of a place, trouble follows, and anarchy and rebellion and terror.” Her voice rang like a warning bell, insistent and troubling.
Beedie trembled at her tone. “Oh ... surely, surely it is not such a great thing ...”
“Perhaps not. We will hope so. But I think best to consider it, nonetheless. There is time to be tricksy, child, and best to have plans made before needs must.” She smiled and laid a hand gently on the girl’s shoulder. Strange, to have come so far and made such an odd alliance at the end of it all. “Tush. Don’t frown. We will think on it together.” And she squeezed Beedie’s shoulder in a gesture which, had she known it, was one Beedie’s father had once used and thus won the girl to her as no words could have done.
Chapter Three
Trouble came more quickly than Mavin had foreseen, more quickly than Beedie would have thought possible. It was the following morning that they left Beedie’s house on their way to take a breakfast cup of tea at one of the ubiquitous stalls, when they saw a Birder—not a person they would have recognized except for her robes—fleeing with loud cries of alarm from a group of youngsters intent upon doing her some immediate harm. The expressions on their snarling faces left no doubt, and when Mavin and Beedie came among them like vengeful furies, pushing and tossing them about like so many woodchips, they responded with self-righteous howls. “They’re blasphemers, the Birders ... They’ve blasphemed the Boundless … else she’s no messenger ... need to be taught a lesson... . My dad says they should be whipped.” Indeed, one of the leaders of the child pack had a whip with him.
“And who are you to be judge of the Birders? And what have they done that is blasphemous?” Mavin demanded in a voice of thunder, drawing a good deal of attention from passers-by, including the parents of some of those cowering before her who shifted uneasily from foot to foot wondering how far they might go in interfering with this angry stranger. Beedie, throwing quick looks around, was horrified to note that a good part of the child pack was made up of Bridgers—Bander whelps—as good a guarantee as any that they might go about their evil business without being called to account for it.
“My dad says ... no fit judges for us anymore ... did a bad thing ... Either that or she’s no messenger ...”
Mavin seized the speaker and shook him. “Before you decide to run a mob behind you, boy, better wonder what vengeance the Birders might take if you are wrong! Have you thought what may come from the Boundless as messenger ... to you ... in the dark n ight—with no mob about to protect you?” Her voice shivered like a maddened thing; wild-eyed, her hands shook as though in terror. The boy began to tremble in her grasp, eyes widening, until he broke from her to fall on his knees, bellowing his fear. Beedie was amazed. Anyone within reach of Mavin’s voice could feel the terror, the awfulness of that messenger who might come. The boy took his fear from her pretended feeling, cowering away as though she had threatened him with immediate destruction. The adults gathered about were no less affected, and several of the young ones were hauled away by parents abruptly concerned for their own welfare though they had been egging the children on until that moment.
The other whelps ran off down an alley, yelping as they went. Mavin spun the boy with the whip around, kicking him off after them, and wiped her hands in disgust. The Birder, who had paused at the turn of the street, returned to thank them.
“This riot and attack is all up and down the chasm,” she said, still breathless. “I came to warn the Birders House here on Topbridge, for our house on Nextdown is virtually under seige, and no sooner set foot upon the street than that gang attacked me. They were set on me! I saw their fathers or older brothers urging them on from a teahouse door.”
“You’d best let us take you to the Birders House,” ventured Beedie.
“You’d best stay there when you arrive,” Mavin instructed her. “There is a kind of animal frenzy can be whipped up sometimes among fools and children, often using religion as an excuse for it. When it happens, it is wise to be elsewhere.”
They escorted the Birder to the House, much aware of gossiping groups falling silent as they passed, much aware of eyes at windows, of chunks of root thrown at them and easily fended off by either Mavin or Beedie, who walked virtually back to back in protection of the robed woman. Once at the Birders House, Mavin asked for Mercald and learned that he had been sent to the far end of Topbridge to gather the shed plumes of gongbirds, used by the Birders in their rituals.
“He will return momentarily,” dithered Brightfeather. “I told him to set his robes aside and go. With all this confusion and the violence outside, I wanted some time alone, to think. I don’t understand what is happening.”
“Violence outside?” The newly arrived Birder was peering from the window. They could see no sign of trouble, but the Birder assured them there were small groups of ill doers lurking just out of sight.
This was confirmed as they came from the house after the visit. They encountered a group of Topbridgers skulking just inside an alleyway, keeping watch upon the Birders House.
“There’s some. Ask’m” muttered one of the loiterers, thrusting another out of the alley at them. “Ask’m whether it’s true. She’s puff-belly, right? Ask’m.”
“ ‘Ja see the birdgirl?” panted the thrustee. “There’s some saying she’s swole. Been havin’ at her, those Birders, some say. Mercald’s had atter. ‘Ja see her?”
Beedie started to say something indignant, but the pressure from Mavin’s hand stayed her. “Oh, I have indeed,” said Mavin. “There are three schools of thought, good people, among those from Harvesters. One school teaches that the birdwoman was pregnant when she came to us, but a long pregnancy of a strange, messengerial kind, and that it is the desire of the Boundless that we foster her child. Then another opinion teaches that she became pregnant sometime after she came, and that it will be her child who carries the message from the Boundless. And a third opinion teaches that it was the intention of the Boundless she become pregnant, but only to illustrate that the holy and the human are of like kind. Be wary, people, for we do not yet know the truth of this, and it would not be wise to anger the Boundless.” And Mavin fixed them with eyes which seemed to glow with a mysterious fire even as she, herself, seemed to grow taller and more marvelous. It was less overt than the technique she had used upon the youths, but it worked no less well. The men stopped muttering and merely gazed at her, their mouths gaped wide like that of the puffed fish lantern above them, working over the phrases they had rehearsed, now impotent to arouse themselves with their litany of hate. When they had thus gazed for a little time, Mavin brought them back to the present. “You might ask,” she said in a voice of portentous meaning, “among your acquaintances, which of these theories they subscribe to. Which, for example, do you yourselves believe? You may be held accountable for your belief.”
There was a muttering, a scuttling, and the two of them were quite suddenly alone.
“I’d love to know where you learned to do that with your voice,” Beedie said. “Where you learned to do that trick you did earlier, w ith the boys, and this one, with these fellows. It’s in your eyes and your face. Suddenly they forget what they were about to do. They get real worried about themselves. You’d been planning that, hadn’t you? You were ready for those brats, for these folk. You knew they’d been put up to that talk.” Then, in a voice of sudden revulsion, “Someone’s be
en stirring a vat of chasm air about the Birders.”
“Oh, assuredly they’d been put up to it. But I’ve given them other matter to chatter on. The interesting part of it is, who did it? Who blamed the Birders right off? Who blamed Mercald? And why?”
“To prevent the Birder caste being raised,” she answered, sure of it. “Though why it should matter to them, I cannot tell.”
“Ah. Tell me, Beedie, what is this lantern we stand under, and why have I not seen them before?”
“Because there aren’t many of them, Mavin,” she replied, confused at this change of subject. “Most of them are very old and rare. They come from the Bottomlands. Fishers catch them sometimes. They glow, you see. The Fishers take out the insides and blow up the skin, then when it’s dark, the skin glows. The fishers say there are many glowing things deep in the chasm. These are about the only one they can catch, however.”
“Interesting. It glows. You know, root dangler, the bottom of your chasm is a wonderful and mysterious place, wonderfully attractive to such an adventurer as I.”
“I told you before, it’s dangerous down there, Mavin.”
“I think it’s going to get dangerous up here, girl. Now use your head to help me think. Why would anyone not want another caste raised up? You told me that the Bridgers were top caste. What does that mean in simple language?”
“Simple language is all I have,” she said with some dignity. “It means the eldest Bridger is the head of the chasm council.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s enough. Head of the chasm council can do almost anything. The head can decide to build a new bridgetown. Or send off an expedition. Or assess new taxes. Or get up an army, not that we’ve ever needed one since we came down from Firstbridge. Or assign duties to a caste, or take duties away.”
“All by himself, he can do this?”
“Or herself, yes. Not that they do go off all on their own like that. Mostly they’re quiet kinds who do a lot of talk before they d ecide anything, You’ve met Rootweaver. Likely, she’ll be next head of council. Her cousin, old Quickaxe, is head now, but he’s getting very feeble. Either he’ll resign or he’ll die or become so ill the council will declare him honorably dis-casted.”
“And how old is Rootweaver?”
“How old? I haven’t any idea.”
“How old is—oh, the Bander from Nextdown, Byle’s daddy, Slysaw?”
“Almost as old as Rootweaver, I suppose.”
“So, if Rootweaver died, and maybe a few others younger than she but older than Slysaw, who would be the eldest Bridger in the whole chasm? Hmrnm, girl?” Mavin paused, smiling dangerously while Beedie considered this. “And you think the bottom would be dangerous, do you? I’ll tell you, nothing is so dangerous as ambition in a man who cares not who stands in his way.”
“Slysaw Bander? Oh, the day he became eldest Bridger is the day we would all change caste. It’s disgusting! No one would have him.”
“Oh, girl, girl. So speaks the naivete of youth. Why, I have seen such tyrants as you would not believe cheered and carried on the shoulders of their countrymen in that same frenzy the boys were whipped up to this morning. I’ll wager you, girl, you’ll find some in the teashops today who are talking of Slysaw, telling of his generosity, and what good ideas he has, and how much things would be improved if he were eldest Bridger. I’ll wager there are tasteless ones and bitty members of this caste and that one, including more than a few Bridgers, probably, all with sudden coin in their pockets and free time to talk endlessly, all talking of Slysaw Bridger and what a fine fellow he is.”
Beedie, who had learned something about Mavin in the last day or so, said, “You’ll wager what they’re saying in the teashops because you’ve heard them.”
“Right first time, sausage girl. There seem to be many visitors from Nextdown in your bridgetown, more than I can figure why they’ve come. They seem to have no business but talk. But they are talking, endlessly.”
“But why—I still can’t figure why, Mavin. If old Slysaw lit the fire that killed my daddy and mother, well, I’ll believe anything of him including he’s a devil. But I can’t figure why.”
“Because there’s power to be had, girl. I’ll tell you a tale, now. Suppose these talkers go to the teashop and go on with their talking, fuming and blowing, saying how terrible it is what the Birders have done, maybe how terrible it is what the birdgirl has done ...”
“Maybe saying she’s no messenger from the Boundless at all?”
“Words like that. The sense of it doesn’t matter much, so long as the sound is full of indignation and fire. So, they talk and talk, getting fierier and fierier, until at last some of them go to set matters right. How will they do that?”
“Bring Mercald and the Birders up before the judges.”
“Ah. But it’s Birders are your judges, girl, and Birders they claim are doing evil. So, what is it they’ll cry then?”
“They’ll cry the judges are corrupt; they’ll say they’ll have to do justice on their own ...”
“Right again. And their justice will mean killing someone, maybe Mercald, maybe half a dozen other Birders or all of them, maybe the birdwoman ...”
“Which you won’t ... you can’t let happen,” whispered Beedie, beginning to understand for the first time what a tricksy person sat beside her.
“Which I won’t let happen. Meantime, there’s confusion and t hreats and maybe a few little riots. You’ve got no kind of strong a rms in this chasm except the Bridgers themselves, perhaps, and—you’ll have to forgive my saying it, girl, but they seem half asleep t o what’s going on.”
“They’ve never—had to ...”
“That’s obvious. Well then, with all the confusion, this one and that one could get killed. And wouldn’t it be strange if among those killed were a number of elderly Bridgers? And at the end of it strange that Slysaw Bridger would happen to be eldest Bridger in the chasm and thus head of council. And in the meantime, of course, everyone too upset and confused to wonder who fired the mainroot you almost died on.”
“How could any Bridger do such a thing?” she demanded, white around her eyes, mouth drawn up into an expression of horror and distaste. “Even a Bander shouldn’t be able to think of such things. I wouldn’t have thought that, ever.”
“Which is what he counts upon, sausage girl. He counts on no one believing ill of a fellow caste member. He counts on being able to sow distrust without being suspected of it or blamed for it. He c ares nothing for the religion, so does not fear to meddle with it. He’s no believer, that one. Else he wouldn’t have trifled with a messenger of the Boundless.”
“I thought she wasn’t—that she was just your sister, Mavin. I’m all confused ...”
“She’s my sister right enough. But who’s to say what messengers the Boundless sends? Why not my sister?”
“Why not you?” asked Beedie, whispering.
“Ah. Why not me, indeed. Well, then, this messenger needs a word with your lady Footweaver, and it’s up to you to arrange, it, Beedie. Arrange it quietly, and in a way no one will wonder at, for I’ve things to tell her and her fellows, things to ask of her as well, and I want no prying ears while I’m doing it.”
“You’re not going to tell them that you ...”
“I’m not going to tell them anything except what any Harvester might have overheard, in a teashop, say. Or at a procession. And if you’re asked, girl, you know nothing about anything at all except that I saved your skin on the mainroot one day as I came climbing up from Nextdown. That way, whatever I say, you know nothing about it.”
“I could help you,” Beedie pleaded.
“Not yet. Come necessary time, then yes, but not now. Just go along to Rootweaver, child, and give me the space of a few minutes to think what I’m going to say to her.” She turned to lean on the railing of the bridge, leaning out a little to let the updraft bathe her face in its damp, cool movement, full of the scent of strange growths and pungent her
bs. Behind her, Beedie dithered from foot to foot for a moment before moving off purposefully toward the Bridgers House.
Mavin put her face in her hands, letting herself feel doubt and dismay she would not show before the girl. She felt disaster stirring in every breath of air and was not completely sure she could save Handbright, either her life or the life she carried. Far out on a Fishing bridge, which jutted from the mainbridge like a broken branch, she saw a Fisher blowing into his flopper call, making a low honking that echoed back from some distant protrusion of the wall. He put the call away to stand quiet, flicking his line above his head in long, curled figures as a chorus of honks came from inside the root wall. Too quickly for the eyes to follow, a flopper dropped from the root wall, planing across the chasm on the skin stretched from forelegs to backlegs, folding up from time to t ime to drop like a plummet in the intermittent flops which gave the creatures their name, then opening the stretched skin to glide over the chasm depths once more. The fisher’s line snapped out, the weighted hooks at the end of it gleaming in the evening light, missing the flopper by only an arm’s breadth. Another flopper fell from the root wall, and this time the hook caught it firmly through the skin of its glider planes. The flopper honked, a long, dismal hoot into the dusk, and the Fisher began hauling in against the struggling weight.
“Caught,” breathed Mavin. “Handbright, you dropped out of Danderbat Keep on wings, on wings, girl, and you’ve been hooked here in this chasm, the hook set so deep I may never get you loose.” She fell silent, thinking about the technique she had used in diverting the mob of boys, the one she had used on the men. When had she learned to do that? And how? It seemed a long time past, a great distance gone.
There had been a town, she remembered, along the coast north of Schlaizy Noithn, separated from the world of the True Game by high cliffs and from the sea by a curving wall of stone around a placid harbor, such a wall as might have resulted from the inundation of some ancient fire mountain. The people of that town had called it Landizot. She came there seeking Handbright and the company of humankind but found a people hesitant and wary, uneasy with strangers and as uneasy among themselves. Yes, they said, there had been a white bird high upon the cliffs—those they called the dawn wall— earlier in the year. The young people had pursued it there, setting nets for it, mimicking its call in an effort to entice it down, but the bird had avoided them easily, circling high above the cliffs in the light of early morning or at dusk, when it gleamed like silver against the mute purple of the sky.