Peter Dickinson - The Ropemaker

Tilja shook her head. She’d been expecting the question and had decided that was the best she could do—not quite lying because she might have meant only that she couldn’t answer, which was true.

Tahl looked at her with his bright-eyed stare, making her very uncomfortable. He started to say something, changed his mind and began again.

“It sounded as if he’d forgotten about it, but he’d thought of everything else. Tiny things. That purse . . . and he must have asked you why we’d all come to his island in the first place. Didn’t he?”

“Well, yes, but . . . I told him we’d come from the Valley, because he wanted to know about Axtrig, but then I said he’d better wait for Meena and Alnor to wake up, because they were the ones who wanted to talk to him.”

“You mean he knew what Meena wanted before she told him, but he’d just forgotten about it? He didn’t forget anything else, though. He remembered about the way-leaves, for instance.”

“He was very tired by the end.”

Again the look of doubt.

“I suppose so,” Tahl said discontentedly. Tilja walked on with shame in her heart and a chill in the pit of her stomach—shame for her half-truths told to someone who trusted her, and the chill of dread about what else Tahl’s bright and restless intelligence might tease out. Oh, she thought, let the Ropemaker come and claim the ring soon, soon, so that this can be over!

15

The Road North

It was curious how slowly the news seeped through of what had happened at Talagh. The Emperor was dead and the power of the Watchers broken, but the body of that strange great beast, the Empire, still twitched with a kind of life, like a headless chicken running round the yard at Woodbourne. In the evenings at the way stations Tilja heard people talking in anxious voices about the amount of loose magic gusting around, and complaining in guarded tones about the Watchers falling down on their job. It was clear that something had gone wrong with the system that had always ruled their lives, but no one knew what. It was nine days before any other signs came through.

Then there was a flurry of grander travelers on the road, horsemen at a rapid canter carrying the message staff of their Landholder with a bell at its top clanging to clear a path; and once or twice the Landholder himself with only half a dozen outriders for retinue because he too was in a hurry. All this could only mean that something important was happening high in the upper reaches of the Empire.

The news, when it seeped down to the lowest levels, where those who made the journey to Goloroth and back had their existence, was still only rumors. Some said the Watchers had killed the Emperor and were fighting among themselves, others that he had dismissed them and they were revolting against him, others yet that one of his regiments had mutinied and killed him—a regiment of women, according to one version.

“Women soldiers!” Tilja heard a man saying. “It’ll be a long time before anyone tries that again!”

“Let’s hope he’s right,” said Tahl later. “There’s going to be a new Emperor one day. We don’t want him getting the same idea.”

Despite these upheavals, for a while nothing much seemed to change for the ordinary travelers. The same laws ruled their lives that had always ruled them. The same bribes had to be paid. And so far Tilja and the others had had no trouble. They had no fees to pay, they were just children going north from Goloroth, like tens of thousands of children before them. Meena was the first to notice the oddity.

The Grand Trunk Road was as busy as ever, with travelers of all kinds moving at different speeds. With their strong young legs and their longing to be home the four of them went faster than most, and kept going later, so they often passed others who had already settled down by the road to rest out the worst of the heat. Tahl, typically, insisted on greeting these as they went by, though the conversation seldom got further than an agreement that it was hot.

They were walking along, four abreast for once, when another such group came in sight, two women and a man. One of the women had peeled an orange and was passing the segments to the other two, who were gazing blankly at the road.

“Just keep an eye on their faces when Tahl says hello to them,” Meena whispered. “Don’t stare. You don’t want them to notice.”

“Hello,” said Tahl as they came up. “Hot, isn’t it?”

The man started slightly. The woman with the orange looked up. The other one’s eyes widened and her mouth half opened. The expressions lasted only a moment, then the women smiled emptily and the man said, “You can say that again,” and reached for another segment of orange.

“See,” said Meena, as soon as they were out of earshot. “It’s like they’d never seen us coming. There we were, out in the middle of the road, no one else in sight, and they hadn’t so much as noticed us till Tahl said something to them. You remember the story, how Dirna and Reyel never had any trouble after they’d talked to Asarta and she’d sent them off to look for Faheel, because she’d worked it so that people didn’t seem to notice they were there? Old Faheel’s done the same for us now.”

“He can’t have done it for Til,” said Tahl. “Magic just runs off her.”

“Her being with us does it, maybe,” said Meena. “It mightn’t work supposing you were alone, though, Til. . . . You may as well be a bit careful about that.”

She was right, as they found out a few days later. By now they had seen definite signs of the system’s breaking down. At one way station the women who were doling out the free meals for those going the Common Way insisted on being paid. They said they needed the money, because their official allowance hadn’t come through. At another somebody caught one of the guards stealing from his baggage, and when he complained to the warden he was laughed at. And next day, where the road crossed a tributary of the Great River, there had been armed men on the bridge demanding a toll from all travelers, but by the time Tilja and the others reached the place enough furious people had gathered to overpower them and throw them into the river.

It was almost dark by the time they reached their way station that evening. As usual Tilja went and bought fodder for Calico while the other three fetched supper from the food stalls. She was on her way back when she sensed that someone was following her and looked round.

“Hold it right there,” said a man’s voice.

She dropped the bag of fodder and started to run but he grabbed her by the shoulder. Her shout was stifled by a gritty hand.

“You got some money,” he growled. “Don’t try and pretend not. Just seen you buying stuff. Get it out and drop it on the ground and you’ll not get hurt.”

She tried to jerk herself free. His other hand grabbed her wrist and wrenched it up behind her back, twisting to cause more pain, and again as she bit at his palm.

“Let go,” said Alnor’s voice.

“You keep out of this, sonny.”

“Let go.”

“If that’s how you want it . . .”

She was flung violently aside, and fell. As she picked herself up she saw the man, with Alnor facing him and Tahl and Meena a little behind, all silhouetted against the line of lights on the far side of the courtyard. The man was squat, with a bulging belly. He didn’t look like a fighter, but he had a knife in his hand. Alnor walked toward him, slightly up on his toes, like a dancer.

The man gestured with the knife to stop him. Alnor moved as if meaning to dodge the thrust but instantly twisted the other way, swinging his body to the left while his right leg slashed up and caught the man cleanly on the wrist.