Chapter
Eleven
The
Phytomonger
Jon
Esierk’s voice was weary and worn out with telling old tales, all the long
nights in the desert, so he did not gasp with delight and wonder at the first
sight of Tasen as the other slaves did.
The walls of the city, many gated; before them was an immense blossoming
garden; the garden bounded by oak groves; the city itself rose, a vast ziggurat
of levels of individual cities, step upon step of them until a last, above the
King’s Palace, a phylactery with a frieze of The Five Roses shining more
brightly than the sun rising over the Southern Ocean. The slaves were driven forward and none,
except Esierk knew what might befall them in Tasen.
Wingsong,
the baker’s wife from Delgdreth looked ahead of her in amazement.
“I
never thought I would see such a place, so much beauty.” She stopped stock still for a moment,
ignoring the guard’s commands but it was not his fist that brought tears to her
eyes.
“Such
wonder! That I could but just die now
after seeing this, I would be happy,” a man said. A whip across his face pulled him forwards
with the others, but his heart, without volition, soared toward the city gates.
Jon, despite the
utter weariness of his body and mind, was desperately glad at the sight of
Tasen. Yet, in the pit of his stomach
he knew that their ordeal was not over.
Soon, he knew Marik, the slave dealer, would have them all on the
auction block. At least their terrible
journey would be over. He sighed. If most of them were lucky they would find
themselves sold to people who would deal with them more kindly than Marik and
his men. The rest, those too sorely
injured, he knew would be sold to The Phytomongers.
The last mile
through the gardens of apple trees and blossoming frectil flowers, dark purple
as high as Jon, was the most blessed of all their lives. A strong fragrant breeze of orange blossom
whispered through the oak groves and the slaves from Delgdreth walked as if in
a dream, on half wakening to Paradise . Then they were inside the city.
Marik’s carriage
led them through dim alleyways, above them the houses impossibly tall,
seemingly leaning over them and dusky green with moss. The city was eerily silent and they saw no
one until they got to the market. They
entered in, an unhealthy hush of the vast empty square where only two men waiting for them stood in dark, stern uniforms. Jon’s heart seemed to die within him. There would be no ladies looking for
cleaners, or merchantmen needing bodies to work in their factory. The two Phytomongers walked towards Marik’s
carriage.
He jumped from his
carriage, a disconcerted look on his face.
Jon watched them talking together but couldn’t hear what they were
saying. That though did not matter, as
he knew his and the other slaves’ fate.
They would all be sent to Psybot Production. Marik cursed loudly. The
paltry fee the Phytomongers offered for the slaves would hardly cover the cost
of his men’s wages.
Instinctively
he tried to haggle.
“If
the Psybots have all turned from their service surely you can pay more for my
merchandise. They will help in getting
the city functioning again.”
One
of the Phytomongers laughed.
“All
of them for what we offer or you and your guards will also be taken to
PsyProd.”
Marik could no
nothing but agree. He sat forlornly on
the carriage steps while the guards led Jon and the others away. He turned angrily and entered the dim
interior of the carriage where Shaneal slept.
Marik knew a
Tasenian who was skilled in the art of Phytomongery who would pay a much better
price for Shaneal, more, much more then he had got for the others. The unlicensed Phytomonger’s workshop was on
the third level of the city.
Begrudgingly he paid the tolls.
The weasily Diddikkon, with a brain like a poet and a heart of an
accountant, came to the door of his workshop after Marik had banged three times
on the door.
Graheal embraced
his old friend at the entrance yet his leery eyes ran the length of Shaneal’s
body. She recognised the look from
serving the sex starved fishermen by Lake
Leme
Marik took her arm
and led her into the chemical stench of the workshop. They pushed their way through endless tubes of
grey green fluid that looped and cascaded claustrophobically all around
them. Graheal took them into the
sterile brightness of his office. It
was an untidy mess of books and chairs, with an obsidian floor, and at the far
end was what seemed like a long white desk, yet it had silver loops of chains
at each corner. She felt a wedge of
vomit at the back of her throat.
Graheal had once
worked at Psybot Production. His
expertise had been in the production of Psybots for the Lower City seraglio’s
that were programmed to please, spread their legs on cue and wear a smile if
required. He had, one day, while he was
stuck in the tedious production line, an inspirational idea of creating more
graceful and refined Psybots for the elite of the Seventh Level. Psybots, who could sing and dance, enthral
and titillate their suitors.
Before Shaneal knew
it, without struggling, she was chained to the marble table. She heard a chink of chains. Marik, as if sorrowful at their parting,
raked his jagged fingernails across her soft face.
“Graheal will look
after you,” he laughed, left the office and she never saw him again.
Graheal cooed
sympathetically as his face loomed above hers.
“How he has ill
treated you but don’t be afraid I will look after you.’ From above her white bed, sharp piercing
lights shone down upon her and caressed her face, the scars and bruises on her
face and the bite marks upon her neck, with a healing thrill. The light pierced through the rags of her clothes
and seemed to massage away all the hurt and sickness Marik had enforced upon
her.
The Psybotization
of Jon Esierk was no less life changing, but much, much more painful.
He was in a
stinking cage of rock. As mere minutes
passed in the gleaming green of PsyProd, with a jagged stone, he scratched the
marks of a lifetime of days and nights upon the barely visible walls of his
rock cage. Soon as mere moments passed,
as the dark uniformed, Phytomongers adjusted tubules into the bodies of the
slaves from Delgdreth and aligned diamond sharp head pieces into their scalps,
Jon Esierk had covered all the walls of his cage with the marks of so many days
and years and centuries. Finally the old
storyteller erupted into a thousand lifetimes of repressed screams. He punched and yelled uselessly in his
cage.
Then suddenly he
awoke to the light of the PsyProd and was no longer Jon Esierk, his body a husk
filled with demented rage. But he could
not vent his anger, he was in another trap.
He could not move nor speak.
There was a voice in his mind grating instructions him. At first it calmed his rage yet the voice ordered
him to enthral it within himself. He
was a soldier, the voice told him, the voice sweet hued, issuing honeyed words
into his mind. ‘You are a soldier. One of the Elite. There is a war and you are a mighty
warrior. You must lead the New Psybots
into a League of Terror to protect the citizens from all that would hurt the
city and the King.’ Over and over again
the words repeated themselves until he submitted to his mesh of immobility and
fettered rage.
Then he was
released and a three dimensional map of Tasen and the countryside about the
city was in his mind. He knew of all
the recent events. The Psybot Rebellion.
Of Nen-Resul’s ride to certain doom. The army of Aflarien and the gathering of the
Shouels. He knew also of the King’s
cunning at getting rid of his adversary, Nen-Resul, so that he could create the
New Psybots from the citizens within Tasen without protest from the
Chamberlain. ‘You are the Elite,’ the
voice told him again.
All tenderness had
gone from the hissing sibilance of Jon Esierk’s speech as he gave orders to the
slaves. They were unleashed from the
tubules and the sharp head pieces removed.
He was commanded to lead them to a great warehouse at the bottom of
PsyProd and bid them join the hundred thousand other Psybots gathered
there. They stood stock still to
attention as he entered.
The voice in Jon
Esierk’s mind told him to speak. He
hissed the orders to the silent warriors.
“Listen. Your King commands that the rebellious
Psybots are the enemies of Tasen and must be killed. Half of you are to secure the city and the
King’s peace. The rest must prepare to
defend the walls of the city and go to attack the Shouel army if it comes
within twenty taiga of Tasen. We are
the Elite. Yeric save The King. Now go do your duty.”
As one, the Elite turned to the opening gates
of PsyProd, the one hundred thousand machines of murder went to do their duty.
Jon Esierk watched
them all go, and then two surgeons appeared at his side.
Leader, the voice
in his head said now they no long need you.
You have reached into all of them with the rage and anger of your
bitterness and your useless life has fuelled the fire in their hearts. You have no anger now, you are just a
brittle pathetic old man, you are not a soldier, and you are not a man.
‘Yet, there is hope for you if
you do as the King bids. One task is to
prove your worth to him. He has a very
special task. There is a woman in the
city, a Princess, a Shouel. Bring her
head to the King before morning.
The Phytomonger unchained Shaneal and she danced gracefully into his
aura and held him close in her arms and whispered sweet secrets of her desires
into his ears.
“Sing me a song,”
he demanded.
“There is no time,”
she sighed. “You are in great
danger. The King’s Security are
psybotizating all the people in the lower levels.”
“Sing me a
song.” The Phytomonger pulled her face
towards him.
“Whatever you wish.”
“A long time ago
I
saw my lover go
looking back,
hunched with happiness.
I
turned and ran to him
and
kissed away
the
ice upon his frown.”
“Now we must leave. The only safe place is Croe Square on the
Sixth level,” she said
They turned and
fled swiftly from the workshop. They
climbed up the Anthat Hill, passed the Authors’ Library and up, up to the Fifth
level. Then more slowly through the Garden of Yeric
Shaneal led him to Croe Square
Shaneal saw Jon Esierk with her psybotized
eyes, Marriamme’s assassin, and a silver knife in his hand. She ran towards him heedlessly, pulled him
to the ground, the blade clattering away.
She grasped for it and swiftly thrust it beneath his emaciated rib cage,
piercing his heart.
As if in some blue
sea of sapphire with overlaying wisps of melting mist, Jon Esierk rose so slow
in crow form, turned from the crowds in the Square, leaving Tasen behind flew
into the cauterised edges of the tidalverse and swift as a dream came to The
Demense of The Red Rose and espied Dalrosse in chains in a dry patch of road
within the demesne.
When she looked and
saw Jon Esierk’s corpse, Marriamme screamed out from the silent crowd.
“My husband.” The Psybots cried over the smoke that veiled
Tasen. In a taut formation they turned
toward Shaneal, their eyes brandishing swords of unencumbered fire at the woman. Shaneal and the unlicensed Phytomonger looked
at each other, Graheal said:
“I suppose we should
leave soon.”
In a nanosecond
Shaneal considered the possibility.
Graheal helped his
creation to her feet.
“So what do we do?”
“We run.”
Marriamme turned toward The Psybots.
“Move forward with
love and heal this city so our hearts too will be healed and our lands will be
free. Let Ashenmoire bloom as The Gardener returns.”
Chapter
Twelve
The
Esplomeoir
Shaneal guided the
King quickly through the passage to the concealed harbour. They would have been quicker if the King had
not brought so many of his books, papers and scrolls of sea charts. Graheal, the unlicensed Phytomonger, aided
the King, carrying some of his belongings.
He’d done an excellent job on Shaneal, better than Loor could have
imagined. She instinctively knew the
fastest route to the Harbour that had been a well kept secret for many
years. Before he knew it he was looking
upon the dark waters of the Sunbourne
Sea
The King’s vessel
took him from the burning, the stench of noise. Word was that Aflarien’s army was in retreat. Loor stared back at his city, his Tasen,
until the ship passed over the horizon.
He went then to his quarters where Graheal had brought his meagre
belongings.
Once aboard ‘Fine
Misgivings’ King Loor instructed the Captain to set a course for Esplomeoir
then turned and watched as the battle on the land raged on. The Psybot was in his quarters. Graheal had done a fabulous job on this one,
indeed.
‘Always make a plan
from A to Z,’ Astor had once said. This
Psybot was his escape route. She was
perfect, yet her perfection slightly daunted him. She knew fully the situation within the city
and in the Plains of Tasen where Nen-Resul had routed the invading army from
R’thera. Graheal had made her into his
perfect protector. The Psybot herself
didn’t know that the death of Jon Esierk was planned so many months in advance. No, Loor had to be sure that she carried out
the deed for his own purpose. In the
end, it would service his friend, his ally Aflarien.
“Psybot,” King Loor
said. “Sit,” he added. “Let me look at you. Not only are you the perfect escape artist Graheal
says you can sing too, and dance.”
Bluntly Shaneal
said,
“We go to
Esplomeoir. What shall we do about the
Never Ghosts there?”
“Do you know everything?”
“Of course.”
“Do you have a
name?”
“I was Shaneal
before I became your Psybot.”
“Shaneal,” he said
ponderously. “I have heard that name
before. Where are you from?”
“I don’t know. I know only my King’s and Psybots’ knowledge
and sublimated needs.”
“You have made my
quarters bearable. We won’t get to
Esplomeoir for another three days. Do
you have your own quarters?”
“I will sleep on
the deck. You can find me there, your
Majesty. Lord, you must sleep. These days have been wearisome for you.”
“I have too much to
do. I can’t sleep.”
“Lie down, my Lord,
and I will sing you a sweet song into slumber.”
Despite the
beautiful simplicity of her song King Loor only felt the jagged pain in his
heart. He had failed. So Plan B.
Esplomeoir will only be my exile.
I may never return to Tasen.
Yet, if I could parley with the Never Ghosts, they may allow me an audience
with the Author. Or better still the
UnAuthor. The dark splinters of his
defeat stabbed into him, his last sight of Tasen, blurring his eyes with unshed
tears. His hope of an audience with
the Author was slim, especially if the Never Ghosts killed him as soon as he
arrived. He had some contact with them,
yet, he may be able to parley with them for safe haven. He moved to sit up.
Shaneal pushed him
back down upon the bed and sang to him with such enchantment, a song for her
poor King. Each note was overlade with
an exquisite call to sleep. He fell
asleep pondering her name. He
remembered reading that there was a waterfall called Shaneal. That though had been in a country long ago,
invaded by the Tasenians, its true name shrouded by history and lies. No, he was sure; there were original
references to the Falls
of Shaneal Temple
Soon the Psybot
stopped singing and went up to the deck, lying unsleeping looking up at the
stars.
The Unauthor, lean
and unkempt with shaggy salt and pepper coloured eyebrows spurted the Gollasia
that the Seven Scribes, at his bedside, scribbled down. Suddenly he screamed as if hell itself was
surprised into redemption and ascended with screams of glee.
“Her ravens have
attacked the High Wasp, the Bede has fallen.
Let it be so.”
In a corner, the
Author, in his easy chair, laughed. He
whispered an incantation.
“Dalrosse is on the
right path.” His own Scribe, Lebin,
kneeling by his side, wrote down all that he said. He thought scornfully, the Unauthor needs
seven scribes to write down his gibberish, he needed only Lebin to scribe The
Story. Despite his nonchalance the Author
was also surprised. Without the aid of
the High Wasp, Dalrosse would be unable to escape the demense once he had taken
the cutting from the Red Rose. He
diminished his conflicting thoughts and drifted into a reverie, seeing the
threads of The Story, with their knots that the Unauthor had created to destroy
the Omelyns. Just before one of the UnAuthor’s
Never Ghosts banged into their chamber the Author spoke to Lebin.
“The Crow must tell
Dalrosse the story of Demorel.” Lebin
left the room unnoticed.
The Never Ghost
told the Unauthor of the arrival of the ship from Tasen.
“My kindred have
slain the crew and the slaves and they keep King Loor guarded upon the beach.”
“They know not to
come here.” The Unauthor was almost
demented with rage. “Esplomeoir is
forbidden.”
“Calm yourself,”
the Author said. “Three have come. Your coward the King. Yet, you will be pleased to hear that he has
with him, one of the Omelyn offspring.”
“With these words the UnAuthor’s eyes sparkled
with glee and a glamour of power covered him.
He turned to the Never Ghost.
“Kill the King and bring the Omelyn to me.”
“And the other?”
“Do what you like with it. Just bring me the Omelyn.”
Shaneal,
more than the rest of the crew, fought the Never Ghosts most bravely, yet she
was not slain as the others were.
Graheal, the King and the Psybot had been held under guard for
sometime. With her psybotic instinct
the thought penetrated her mind and she knew that soon they would kill the
King. She knew what to do.
“We must flee,” she
said to the Phytomonger.
“Again?”
“If we remain here
the King will be killed,” she whispered.
“For some reason
they won’t kill you. You will be able
to keep him safe. Anyway, there’s food
here and I’m starving,” and added, “I’m sick of running. You can’t kill them and they can’t kill you
and they won’t be able to harm the King with you about, that’s what I made you
for.”
“Still whatever you
say, there is much danger, especially to you.
I can’t protect you. You did not
create me for that reason and the Never Ghosts will assuredly kill you, or
worse.”
Graheal quickly
choked down a mouthful of food.
“So how do we get
out of here?”
“We run,” she said
and grabbed the King and threw him on to her shoulders, and, with Graheal, for
once, outpacing them, together they rushed along the wave dappled sand.
“We’ll be safe in
the waters. We must swim to one of the
smaller islands along the coast.”
“I can’t swim,”
Graheal informed her.
With King Loor upon her back she took the Phytomongers
hand and together they rushed in the waters of the Sunbourne Sea. With unbelievable strength the Psybot held
Graheal’s head above water whilst supporting the King high upon her shoulders
as she also swam into the deeper waters.
Behind them the Never Ghosts wailed with anger upon the edge of the sea.
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