Unbound (6 page)

“Meghan’s got salt,” Martin commented under his breath.

Darius began to pace again, his eyes trained on his steps as one considering before speaking. “It does,” he finally announced. “Because we lead with thought. What we espouse informs the opinions of kings and councils. It’s irresponsible of us to ignore stories that are so clearly inhumane.”

Meghan was preparing to counter, when I caught her eye. I made it clear to her that I had things of my own to say. No need for her to get too dirty too soon. I was made for dirty. She nodded almost imperceptibly in my direction and sat.

“And maybe there’s just one thing more,” Darius added, casting his gaze up and around the theater. “Have we ever considered that if this Veil is real, that perhaps the reason the citizens of the Bourne are angry and resentful, is precisely because they’ve been made prisoners there? I know I wouldn’t like it.”

Darius came around and sat again at the panel table. His colleagues, in turn, each stood and offered variants of the same thinking. It was classic philosophical argument: establish your thesis in the mouths of multiple advocates—made it seem to hold more weight. Another waste of good time.

A few more rose to voice concerns. But there were ready answers. And at the end of three hours, the room seemed to mull in general agreement.

Darius stood, looking grateful. I’d swear that was an affectation too. “If there’s no direct challenge,” he said, “we’ll move to author these new positions and publish them as the Aubade Grove College of Philosophy’s annual position.”

“You’re on,” Martin said, gently elbowing me.

I was stiff from sitting so long. My bones hated it. So getting up was something of a chore. And though the Velle could chill me through, kill me with a thought, I still didn’t like being pushed to do a thing. Before standing, I had to satisfy myself that I’d have made this argument anyway. But that was a short trip. Because I knew better about the Bourne. I knew it because of Anna.

There
was
still the Velle’s belief that by keeping the stories about the Bourne unchanged the Grove would eventually decide to study the Veil. Learn how it works. And if it did, the Quiet might make use of that information to cross into the East. In force. So, maybe I should just keep my seat, let the League change the old stories, so the Grove would never have interest in studying the Veil. But, I figured, if I made my argument, won, and the Grove did someday discover how the Veil works, such knowledge could be equally used to strengthen it. And we’d have the knowledge first.

Also . . . there was Anna.

I got to my feet and stepped onto the theater floor. There were mutters.

“You’re wrong,” I said, because I just didn’t have time or patience for stupid preamble.

* * * * *

As was customary, I let the theater empty before taking my leave. The purpose was to give any who wanted to throw in with me the chance let me know. None did. I knew I could count on Meghan if it came to that. So it didn’t bother me that she walked on by. And Martin would help where needed, though he wasn’t a member of any of the Grove colleges.

I stood alone on the theater floor for several long moments. There’s a loud silence in that place when all the bluster’s gone. I used it to think about Anna. I’d be a liar if I didn’t acknowledge that a large part of making this argument was for her.

I let myself imagine one of our evening walks. We’d go beyond the Grove walls. Fewer whispers about a woman and an albino that way. Because even in a place of forward thought like Aubade Grove, people’s observations often felt like judgment. Anna would amble slowly, so that I didn’t have to work too hard—I had precious little endurance as it was. And we’d each take a side of some debate, often the side we least agreed with.

That’s how I won her heart. We’d watch the stars on those evening strolls, and I’d do the one thing I did well. Argue. I didn’t weave syllogisms. I didn’t frame trick questions. I just had a knack for knowing why my opponent wanted to prove a thing, and then held that up for others to scrutinize.

Most of my colleagues thought me an ass. I assumed a healthy portion of that to be professional jealousy.

With Anna, though, it made her laugh. She wasn’t mean-spirited. I think she just hated the sophistry as much as I did.

And now I had a chance to wake her from her catatonia. From eight years of her thousand-league stare.

I took a last look around, then made my way out. The hallway encircling the theater was dark. I navigated by memory. Ten strides on, something hit my head, knocking me to the ground.

Then boots rained down on me. My belly. My chest. My back. My ass. More than a few in my neck and face. One took me in the tender parts.

Pray they don’t break any bones.

It seemed to go on forever. I could feel my skin bruising beneath my robe, feel the beat of my heart in several dozen places over my body.

Then silence returned, silence and labored breathing.

A moment later came boot-heels on the stone floor. Not hurried. Not someone rushing to help a stranger who’s being mobbed.

Then a lamp flared to light in the darkness, and Darius stood there, staring down at me. The shapes of my attackers faded back. I’d never be able to identify them.

Darius shook his head. Might have been sympathy for the attack. Might have been reproof. Then he hunkered down, setting the lamp to the side so we could see each other clearly.

“Did you fall?” he asked with mock concern.

“I did,” I said, spitting out blood, “I fell under the boots of your hirelings. Or is it just my good fortune you happened along and that my attackers didn’t scurry away at your approach.”

Darius’s expression tightened. He’d missed that one. He waved at his cronies to leave.

Up close, I got a good look at the League insignia—four hands forming a squarish circle, each hand clasping the wrist of the other. Something brotherly about that, which made the attack another irony. I was used to ironies, though.

“You should be careful,” Darius advised. “I understand in addition to your albinism, you’re a bit frail in the bones.”

“A nice attempt at discouragement.” I smiled, being sure he saw my bloodied teeth. “And something you’d likely planned before tonight’s performance.”

“Performance?” His tone made clear that he knew what I meant, so I left it there.

“Is this the way the League does its work?” I pointed at the insignia on his robe. “Intimidation?”

“In actuality, we aren’t members of the League. Not officially. Not yet.”

“I see. Then it was my own philosophy colleagues who beat the pine-tar out of me. Is that what you want me telling Savant Bellerex? That you plan to win your argument through physical coercion?” I smiled my bloody smile again. Damn pup needed to learn how these games were played.

“I think witnesses will attest to the fact that you fell.” Darius looked around at the shadowy figures retreating beyond the lamplight. “You’re known for falling. Weak limbs and all.”

“Are you really that afraid of a debate on this?” I shook my head. “Your deeper reasoning must be flawed—”

“Let me be plain.” Darius hunched forward. “Change is coming. Change in the way we view things. It’ll take time, but it’ll come. The only real question is does the College of Philosophy adopt these views, embrace them.
Own
them. Or, do we serve those whose interests will set that agenda.”

“The League,” I surmised.

Darius kept a long silence. “I happen to agree with the League in its views on the Bourne. It’s why I wear this.” He pulled at the League emblem on his robe. “But what if . . . I’ll make you a deal, Lour. If I win our argument, I’ll kill the Grove chapter of the League.”

“Why would you do that?” I didn’t bother to hide my skepticism.

“Because if the College of Philosophy publishes this new thinking, it’ll show the League that we’re aligned with their credo.” He nodded. “They won’t feel any need to exercise oversight, to
influence
our opinions on topics that matter to them.”

“If you win, huh?” I chuffed a laugh, spattering blood on his face. “You mean if I deliberately lose.”

Darius said nothing, staring.

“You really are afraid of the albino philosopher with bad bones, aren’t you,” I mocked.

“You know what I think?” Darius spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “I think you should leave the Grove.”

“I make you that uncomfortable, do I?” I smiled. “Is it my skill at debate or my white skin that does it?”

He finally took his lamp in hand, and stood. “You’re in an interesting position, aren’t you, Lour? A philosophical position. You get to decide how to act based what you feel is the greater good. I’ll be honest, I envy you.”

He laughed and walked away. Other boots scuffed across the stone floors, retreating in the dark.

I shook my head and immediately regretted it. My body screamed with every movement.

When did philosophy get so dangerous? Damn me.

* * * * *

I could have taken the pulley lift to the cosmology tower observation dome. I was the only Grove resident I knew that had been granted the privilege. Savant Scalinou—sixty-year-old leader of the College of Cosmology—didn’t even take the lift. But I climbed the 998 steps anyway. Made my way with the cane I was now using. Took me an hour. Seemed right, especially since Scalinou had asked to see me. Though I
always
took the stairs, on account of our friendship. On account of respect.

Still, every step was a moment of hell. My whole body seemed a bruise. And I’d wrapped several parts of my arms and legs where Darius and his mob had put some hurt into my bones. I had at least two more breaks, sure enough.

I paused at the top of the stairs, winded. “We couldn’t have met in your chambers? It had to be in the middle of the night in the middle of the sky?”

Scalinou stood beside his great skyglass, peering through the eyepiece. He laughed, his voice resonating through the long brass tube. Truth was, I loved this place. The slow, patient, thoughtful way of it. Anna and I had come here often to visit with Scalinou. Up here among the stars.

When I had my wind back, I limped with my cane over to the desk he kept beside his sky tools. “You heard, then?”

“You think you can win?” Scalinou said, still staring into his skyglass.

It was the wrong question. And that’s why I’d been eager to keep this appointment. “Tell me what you know about the League?”

Scalinou finally sat back from his perch, wearing a pinched brow. “You look like the last hell. What happened to you?”

“I was born albino. And smart.” I hunched my shoulders, which hurt not a little. “Bad combination.”

Scalinou made a noise of agreement in this throat. Then, he motioned me closer, and nodded toward the eyepiece of his great skyglass. An invitation. I leaned in and looked through the lens. I might hail from the College of Philosophy, but like any member of any Grove college, I had fundamental astronomy training. I was looking at an open stretch of sky where Pliny Soray—one of our planets—made her orbit.

And it looked a bit odd.

As I stood back, Scalinou was making a notation in his ledger. When he’d finished, he didn’t comment on Soray, instead he answered my question.

“The League wants change. They want us to be more self-reliant. They want us spending less time looking to others for answers.” He arched his back, stretching from his endless hunch over his instruments.

“When you say ‘others,’ you mean the gods, don’t you?” This little argument was getting big fast.

“Maybe,” he said. “It’s a practical credo. Not bad for that. But the League does more than preach its unique philosophy. It’s organized into what they call jurshahs, comprised of four factions: history, commerce, politics, and justice and defense.”

“Sounds like government,” I observed, already hating the League more.

Scalinou had a faraway look in his eyes. “When they formed political and militant branches . . . that’s when things really changed. They’ve established garrisons in many cities. They sit on ruling councils. In many places they enforce the law—oftentimes, the very laws they’ve lobbied to establish.”

“Sounds lovely.” I sat in an open chair across from Scalinou—my legs were aching.

Scalinou gave a sour smile in the starlight. “It’s hard to argue against ideas of self-reliance, of education, of ending slums and porridge lines. Trouble is,” he took a deep breath, “once they gain a foothold somewhere on the basis of these ideas, they go further.”

Recent news ran through my head. “They’ve passed laws in Recityv legalizing the killing of Sheason who employ their use of the Will . . . even when it’s to help others.”

He nodded. “I was the only Savant that voted against a League chapter in Aubade Grove. I don’t blame the others. As I say, the League’s core ideas are good ones. But,” he looked down at his star ledger, “if we move past the trial period. If we install them as a part of what we do, as a means for keeping law . . . they’ll go further.”

“Like beating up albino philosophers?”

“I mean you and me,” Scalinou replied, eyeing my several bruises. “Think about the Grove’s five sciences. Astronomy, physics, and mathematics—those have practical value. But philosophy? Cosmology? We’ll be seen as
im
practical.”

I listened to the silence that fell between us for several moments before answering. “Because we don’t add demonstrable value.”

“Because we’re predicated on opinion, judgment, ideology, belief,” he added. “Funny that.”

I laughed, seeing the immediate connection. “We’re too much like the League itself, needing others to take stock in our ideas.”

Scalinou looked up toward an open pane of glass in the observation dome. “It’s not even about us, though. Think what will happen if they succeed in publishing this new philosophical position. If it comes from Aubade Grove of all places.”

I sat, considering for the first time the repercussions. Our stories. The ones that had given us strength each time the Quiet had come into the east. They’d be challenged. Abandoned maybe. Our stories. The ones that led to ethics like giving kindness for kindness, mercy to balance justice. They’d be replaced with the League’s brand of ethics.