The Last Plutarch Page 3

  “We must give back more than we are given,” Meric said, though he put the statue back on its shelf.

  “Thus spake Numanor. Our old ethics teacher would be proud,” Dominus said, raising an eyebrow. His tone turned the comment into a mockery.

  Meric scowled. He turned to the five atomblades hanging in a row on the wall. Unlike the tourney blades, these ones were real. They were his most prized possessions. Almost his only possessions. Most Plebians saved up for the fashionable trappings signifying higher social ranks–silver bangles, snake-like armbands, vaunted silver canes. The Fog produced few of each, ensuring high demand. Meric preferred his atomblades.

  Carefully, he removed the one on the end. The red-ivory hilt was wrought in the shape of a dragon’s head. The blade’s atomic edge was so thin it was translucent, like frozen smoke. If Meric ran his finger along it, the edge would sheer through bone before he’d felt the pressure. A good gift required a good offering. Nodding, he sheathed the weapon.

  “You’re joking. That’s worth more than a month’s rations. That’s as bad as the statue,” Dominus said.

  Holding Dominus’s gaze, Meric picked up the statue of Ovus in his other hand. Dominus’s jaw dropped.

  “No. No, Meric. Not both?”

  Meric moved toward the door. Dominus shook his head with an exasperated laugh.

  Climbing down to the livinghall, they passed Meric’s mother. The laserpainter was drawing scenes in the air. The Matron Adams had taken to a new show on the women’s channel about a Priest who investigated odd problems in his temple. The Priest was clever, but the problems were only resolved after the intervention of a benevolent Plutarch.

  “Matron Adams, your son is trying to be poorer than he already is. Please tell him his offerings are overzealous,” Dominus said. Meric’s mother sighed.

  “American has always been a stubborn boy. He’ll do what he thinks is best,” she said, turning back to her show.

  “That’s the problem,” Dominus muttered.

  He harangued Meric most of the way to the Temple. It was night, but a soft glow emanated from the Fog. The streets were empty.

  “Do you know what my last offering was?” Dominus asked.

  “The guess would stain my tongue,” Meric said.

  “A bronze cup. I told the Priest it was special to me because an old teacher had drunk from it the week before he’d died. The cup had sentimental value, you see.”

  “Did it?”

  “Of course not! It was an extra one from the cupboard. The point is the Plutarchs don’t care what you offer. It’s the Priest you have to impress, so he’ll recite the proper incantation.”

  “Bah! One day you’re going to see, Dominus. All your blasphemy will lead to trouble.”

  “Think about it, Meric. The Plutarchs are up in their floating palaces, doing fog-knows-what. There are a hundred of us for every one of them. Do you know how many offerings they’d have to verify? They’d have no time for anything else. That’s why they rely on the Priests, and the Priests just love anything with sentimental value. Get them to say the right prayer, and the Fog does the rest. The things I’ve told them, Meric. I bring tears to those fellows’ eyes.”

  “Oh, I’m sure. Tears of sadness, because they know where all your lies will lead. They’re giving you just enough rope to hang yourself, Dominus. You remember that girl from Monument Ave,” Meric said.

  “Dancing Daria? Oh, please,” Dominus said, though his tone was more subdued.

  “Daria danced everywhere she went. I used to see her on the way to Market, dancing up the street ahead of her father. And what happened? One day the street turned to liquid beneath her feet. She sunk to her ankles, rooted right in front of the South Temple. How long was she trapped, Dominus? How long?”

  “A few days,” Dominus said, shrugging, looking away.

  “A month. A whole fogging month.”

  “It was a week at most.”

  “A month, Dominus. They had to bring her food and water, remember? Her father had to give up his cane. He made offerings of half his possessions, first to God, then to the Plutarchs, then to the Greater Spirits, and even to lesser spirits, until finally the ground opened and set her free. And what did everyone find out? Daria had been dancing in the South Temple each Sev’nday during worship, and whenever she was asked to stop, she’d uttered blasphemies, and she’d even danced on Gratitude Day, during the Silent Hour. That’s what they found out. But she doesn’t dance anymore, does she? Oh, no. Not a single step in all the days since. Because Daria knows, Dominus. She knows, as I know, that the Plutarchs see and hear all that we do.”

  “A blind man could’ve seen Daria dancing on Sev’nday,” Dominus said, but he’d given up on the argument. Meric resented his friend’s doubts. He couldn’t afford to doubt at this late stage. He’d nurtured an intense devotion to the Plutarchs all his life. They had to see all that he did–how else could they know he was worthy of becoming their Champion?

  Worthy of becoming a Plutarch, whispered a secret voice, but his mind submerged the heresy. No Plebian could ever be a Plutarch.

  *

  Kneeling before the alter on the Temple’s marble-smooth floor, Meric presented the statue of Ovus and Khosivus. A white glow surrounded the altar. Dolph, a black-robed Priest, stood on the other side. Meric had seen him in spirithouses outside the Temple, drinking more than was proper, but Dolph gave no hint of familiarity or impropriety now.

  The Temple was enormous. Thick black pillars rose into the Fog, inlaid with depictions of various legends: the Smiting, the Siege of Ozymandias, the flight of Marthuk. The pillars rose–yet there was no ceiling to support. The higher the pillars went, the more Fog-like they became, transforming into thick veins of dense gray smoke at the edge of visibility. It gave the impression that the Temple ascended to the floating palaces themselves. The South Temple and the smaller temples scattered throughout the city were of a similar design, though none quite so grand.

  “This offering I make for the good of Panchaea, for the good of the Plutarchs,” Meric said, placing the statue on the altar. “For a Healing I received.”

  “Tell me about this Healing, Plebian,” the Priest intoned.

  Meric explained about his broken collarbone, and when he was done, the Priest said:

  “Tell me about this offering, Plebian.”

  Meric explained the statue’s personal significance, trying to block out Dominus’s words.

  “Let us pray this offering is acceptable to those who do God’s Will; to those whom God has Chosen to speak to His Instrument, the Divine Fog, in the holy city of Panchaea,” the Priest said. He recited the Rite of Offering, whispered an incantation, and made the Sign of Fealty.

  Nothing happened.

  Meric’s heart fluttered–had the Plutarchs sensed his doubts? Then came a sound like steam escaping, and the statue began to swirl into a gray cloud that expanded outward and merged with the Fog. When it was done, the altar was empty. The Priest thanked the Plutarchs for accepting the offering.

  Meric placed the atomblade on the altar.

  “This offering I make for the good of Panchaea and the Plutarchs. For a gift I wish to give to a girl whose heart is pure,” Meric said.

  “Tell me about this gift and this girl, Plebian,” the Priest said.

  “The girl is Swan Pelius, who gives worship on Sev’nday, who labors in the fields, who serves the Plutarchs,” Meric said. “The gift–a Promissory. Something worthy of her. Something she’ll find pleasing. Something to match her beauty, or to hold and admire. She likes necklaces and silver and … trees.”

  The last part was awkward to admit. How queer to be fond of wild plants that only grew outside Panchaea. Swan had never even seen a tree up close. She liked to stand on high ground and peer over the perimeter-wall, speculating about their nature. Such talk made Meric nervous.

  “Tell me about this offering, Plebian,” the Priest said again.

  Meric talked about the dragon-hilted a
tomblade. Dolph’s face was a mask of non-judgment. He knew Swan personally, but he affected indifference. Again he prayed and performed the Rite of Offering. Meric swallowed a trace of regret as the atomblade was eaten away by invisible forces. The blade’s smoky remains swirled into a vortex of dark hues above the altar. The smoke thickened until it was almost liquid, almost clay. Then, by the grace of the Plutarchs, a new object took shape. The smoke-liquid poured into place, congealing, until there lay on the altar a necklace of exquisite beauty.

  Meric gaped, regrets forgotten. He could already picture it on Swan: a silver tree with innumerable tiny branches, the upper branches merging into a threaded copper chain, the roots gripping a silver sphere. On the sphere was an elaborately inlaid ‘S.’ There wasn’t another like it in all of Panchaea. Meric’s hand trembled as he reached for it. The Plutarchs had indeed shown him favor.

  *

  Meric waited for Swan in their spot at noon the following day. A small ridge-like hill ran between the easternmost strawberry field and the adjacent beefpod plants. Near the perimeter-wall, the hill joined a perpendicular segment which spread in both directions for four or five meters. The nearest farms were gray silhouettes. An automated turret sat on the wall nearby, silent and ominous, pointing into the Wildlands.

  At first, Meric held Swan’s gift behind his back. Then he decided it would be better to hide it entirely, so he placed it in the foliage at the base of a beefpod. The pod was nearly ripe. Harvesting beefpod was a bloody business. Dominus’s clothes were always stained red at season’s end. Meric peered into the Fog toward Swan’s farm. She was certainly taking her time. High above, he glimpsed the base of a floating palace. An hour passed. Longer.

  Meric sighed. Swan must’ve been unable to get away. He could go to her farm after work, but her parents would be there, and he wanted to give her the gift in private. Retrieving the necklace, he returned to his family’s farm.

  *

  Swan often stopped by to talk to Meric’s mother, but in three days she didn’t come once. Then it was Market Day. She would definitely come on Market Day. But time dragged by and still Swan did not appear. Dominus hadn’t talked to her either. Finally Meric decided to visit her farm, propriety be damned.

  At the door, Swan’s mother rebuffed him.

  “Swan’s not seeing anyone right now,” the Matron Pelius said.

  “But–”

  “She’s fine. Go back home now, Meric. Please.”

  There was a tremor in her voice. Swan’s mother was a lot like Swan–kind, graceful, reserved. It was unlike her to turn Meric away.

  Instead of going home, Meric knelt in the nearest prayer-circle and prayed for transportation. When the floating platform congealed from the Fog, he road it to Market Ave. The platform dissolved with a soft hiss as he left it behind. He found Dominus in the spirithouse as expected, already well infested. The partial possession was obvious in his glassy eyes, his fixed smile. Spirits who dwelt in fermented liquids were the children of Goshu Dius, a demon whose wild nature none could contain. Goshu Dius wasn’t evil, only mischievous–though now and then a malicious spirit slipped through in disguise. To help prevent intrusions, each spirithouse had a Priest offer blessings once a month. Dolph was already there, though his method of blessing the wine involved drinking a good deal of it. Twice Meric had seen Rasmus the Merry there, descending from a floating palace to laugh and dance among the Plebians, as he was famously wont to do. Tonight it was a crowd of regulars, however.

  Meric’s friends engaged him in a torrent of noise and conversation, but after being turned away at Swan’s, Meric had trouble reciprocating. He attracted the darker spirits haunting the infested liquids, and they reinforced his mood.

  “Have you seen her in the fields at all?” he asked Dominus.

  “Yes, just yesterday–at a distance. No! Wait. That was the widow Nia’s daughter. Oh, Meric. Have you seen that girl? I pray she takes up at a pillowhouse. I pray for it nightly. When she–”

  “Swan. Have you seen Swan, Dominus.”

  “Meric, relax! I’m sure she’s fine.”

  “But why would–”

  “Who knows, Meric. Safer to poke a sleeping bear than question a woman’s motives.”

  Still, the question needled him, and he passed out that night full of dark and wild spirits, Swan’s necklace in his hand.

  *

  Two days later, Meric left the blackberry fields before noon-break and went to find Swan among the strawberries. Workers glanced at him curiously. It was rare to wander during working hours. He found Swan spraying the bushes near the perimeter-wall. Her back was to him.

  “Swan–”

  She jumped, gasping, and spun around with a hand to her heart.

  “Oh, Meric. You scared me,” she said.

  “Swan, where have you been? We were supposed to meet. I came to your house. Your mother–”

  “I know. I’m sorry, Meric. I … I’ve been busy.”

  Her face went blank. She returned to spraying the strawberries. Her hands shook slightly.

  “Busy? With what? I don’t understand.”

  “Nothing, Meric. I couldn’t come, is all. I’m sorry.”

  Meric stared at her stupidly.

  “I got something for you,” he said at last. Swan paused but didn’t turn.

  “Got something?” she asked in a delicate tone.

  “A gift. I–I don’t have it with me. I just wanted to find out what…”

  Suddenly she was crying. Something had come bubbling up, breaking through the façade. He touched her shoulder. She turned and threw her arms around him. Sobs wracked her body. When she’d calmed, she pulled away, composing herself. There was a bleakness in her eyes he’d never seen before. She kissed his cheek, licked her lips, and took a shaky breath.

  “Thank you for the gift,” she said.

  “You haven’t gotten it yet.”

  “I’ve had a difficult few days, Meric. Please. Please don’t ask me about it. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me. You should go now.”

  “But–”

  “Please, Meric. Go. We’ll talk later.”

  Dumbfounded, Meric walked away.

  *

  He was mulling things over two days later when Dominus arrived with a practice blade after work. Meric was in their training space behind the farm, already loosened up and going through movements. He paused and frowned at the wide smile on Dominus’s face.

  “Have you heard?” Dominus asked.

  “Heard what?” Meric asked.

  “I can’t believe you haven’t heard. Everyone knows.”

  “Clearly not everyone.”

  “Meric, there’s to be a Calling,” Dominus said. “We’re going into the Wildlands.”

  .

  CHAPTER 4

  The Plutarchs had asked God to create a four-story tower outside the Arena. The building had risen in the night, and now a great bell tolled from its pinnacle, ringing three times each hour to announce the Calling.

  Meric and Dominus were among the thousand-plus young men streaming in from all directions after work. Two Priests and two Champions stood on a platform at the base of the tower. Hadric was among them, chewing an apple and gazing almost belligerently at the crowd. His fogplate armor was silver, unlike the matte gray of a typical legionnaire. His Champion’s cloak flowed like liquid silver each time he moved.

  “Thrace is here,” Dominus said, nodding toward the second Champion. The First Marksman was graying and stern-browed. He’d led the campaign after the last Calling. Next to Thrace, the South Temple’s Grand Priest stepped forward. His high-pitched voice penetrated the Fog.

  “The Divinely Favored, our Plutarch benefactors, have interpreted God’s Will and determined that it would please Him to test the best among you against the hardships of the Wildlands. Only the faithful need apply–for only the faithful shall survive.”

  Thrace stepped forward. There wasn’t an ounce of joy or leisure in his grizzled visage. His v
oice had the ring of command.

  “We will raise two full centuries. Two hundred men–no more. There are over a thousand here. The Wildlands are harsh. The Fog will not help you, nor will the Plutarchs whisper a word on your behalf. If you’re not fully committed, leave now.”

  Meric’s fear of the open sky beyond the perimeter-wall rose in silent protest. All his life he’d heard of the dangers–the beasts, the demons, the savages, the too-bright sun–yet fear wouldn’t cheat him out of his destiny.

  There were four basic routes an adult Plebian’s life could take. There were the farmers–for although the Fog provided much, it would never yield a crop. There was the priesthood. There were the service-workers, like the fluffers in the pillowhouses, the fermenters in the spirithouses, the teachers in the children-gardens…

  And then there were the legionnaires.

  Meric had known which path was meant for him ever since Gallatius had singled him out on Giving Day. Anyone could compete in a tourney for the title of First Bladesman, but the skill displayed was no better than a peacock’s feathers unless it was put to use in the Wildlands. The First Bladesman, if not already in the legion, inevitably volunteered for the next campaign. Meric had been too young to answer the last Calling. He was not too young now. Since childhood, he and Dominus had shared a fantasy of fighting in the Wildlands. Back to back with atomblades, who could beat them? They were on the verge of a great adventure.

  Later, however, when Meric was alone in his room, thoughts of Swan clouded his mood. She hadn’t been in the strawberry fields at noon-break. Again he slept holding her necklace.

  *

  “Oh sure, I’ve seen demons out there. The dregs of Ozymandias’s army. Never up close though. Most won’t bother men in groups. Really, it’s the Gotchas you’ve got to watch out for,” the legionnaire said, affecting a casual air.

  Meric, Dominus, and ninety-eight other recruits were waiting at the perimeter-wall. Two veterans stood beneath a turret. A prayer-circle was outlined on the ground nearby. The recruits were dressed in gray.