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Hell's Messenger 2

TOUR

Dusk Peterson

CHAPTER FIVE

Meal delivery, as it happened, did not occur until noon.

Long before then, the thunderclouds had scattered, the rain had left, and the prisoners were gazing uneasily up at the dome, which showed only blue sky. Pickens said nothing about this, but when he handed Tyrrell the bladder with its remaining water, he advised, "Guard this well, and drink from it sparsely. Days may pass before water delivery comes again."

Tyrrell took the water from him. "What about at meal-time? Do we get water then?"

Pickens shook his head. "The food will offset our thirst a bit – but the other side of it is that the food is often packed in salty syrups. So don't let anyone touch your water container. . . . I must go; Hosobuchi is beckoning me."

He slipped away then, before Tyrrell could ask him whether it would be safest to put on his necklet now. He looked at the white band in his hands, shrugged, and looped it round his belt for safe-keeping.

As it happened, he did not have to fight to protect his water. No prisoners came near him, and when he attempted to start conversations with a few, they were so vague in their responses, barely looking at him, that he removed himself from their presence. He could guess why most of the other prisoners were keeping their distance from him. He had passed his trial but had not yet undergone his initiation; that apparently gave him a half-in, half-out status in the tribe. He would be fed and watered, but nothing more, until he was initiated – whatever form that initiation might take.

He would have liked to have remained in the company of Pickens, who had been given permission by his man to show the newcomer the tribal ways, but Pickens had apparently returned to the greater men's area, and Tyrrell was reluctant to pass into that area on his own. Instead, he wandered around the little men's area, which was bare of the tents that littered the greater men's area. Placed between the high steps leading to the two areas that bordered it, the little men's area looked like the bed of a river that had dried up.

It had considerably fewer features than a dry bed. He passed occasional clusters of little men talking to one another, and every now and then a little man who was deep in conversation with an unclaimed lad, but otherwise, most of the daytime activities at this prison appeared to take place on or around the platform at the far end of the prison.

The unclaimed lads' area was still swarming with prisoners, though, and when he stepped over the border into that area, he discovered that he was considerably less invisible there.

The first time he brushed against an unclaimed lad, whom he vaguely remembered seeing watching his trial, the lad turned, saw him, and jumped back about a yard. The lads he had been talking to laughed at his reaction, but somewhat nervously, eyeing Tyrrell, and when Tyrrell had passed, he looked back and saw that they were watching him and whispering to each other.

Word spread fast after that, for every lad he met seemed to know who he was, even though he was not yet wearing his necklet. All of them withdrew from his path as he came near them, some turning thin-lipped at the sight of him.

He tried smiling at a few of them, and for a while this only seemed to make matters worse; one lad actually fled when Tyrrell turned his smile on the lad. Gradually, though, as he continued to walk through the area without trying to approach any of the lads, a few of them began to smile back, somewhat tentatively. Others scrutinized him carefully, as though assessing him.

He could guess why. "When you claim a lad," Hosobuchi had said. Not "if" – when. All of these lads must assume that he, a little man, was here in order to check out the stock – to see whether there was a lad here worth claiming.

Actually, his goal was not the lads but the gate. He finally reached there; ignoring the lads who were still peering at him curiously, he leaned against the bars.

In addition to the vertical bars, there were horizontal ones, running the full length of the gate; he rested his chin against one of these, examining the scene before him. It had not changed much since he had entered the prison earlier that morning. Tom Keeper and his assistant, Medinger, were nowhere in sight, but the two riflemen, Starke and Landry, had made their way down from the gunners' posts and were chatting casually with the other guards in the area sheltered by the balcony. The guards were all sitting, and they seemed to have nothing to do except talk, now that Keeper had put an end to their illicit card game. Indeed, none of the guards bothered to look in the direction of the prisoners they were supposed to be guarding.

Which was a shame, in a way, because the object of their conversation was standing there, listening to them.

"They should have killed him," said Landry, who was whetting his dagger-blade with a hand-stone. "The magisterial seats have just this month made the death penalty legal again. They should have shot him and had done with him."

"Why bother?" rejoined Pugh, the head of the day watch. "He's as good as dead here."

"Symbolically or literally?" asked another guard.

"Oh, symbolically, of course. He passed his trial; he has as much a chance as any man there of living to the end of his natural life."

"How good a chance is that, do you suppose?" Niesely asked as he flipped a coin up and down in his hand, as though he were a gambler at a hound-race. "Keeper keeps hinting that the prisoners are dying like mayflies in there."

Landry snorted. "Tom Keeper is soft where prisoners are concerned. He always was."

"He might be right, though." Niesely kicked something with his foot, which Tyrrell recognized after a moment as the human skull that Davidson had thrown at Keeper. "Do you think we ought to show him this?"

"He was right there when the prisoners tossed it out. He must have seen it. I suppose we should give it over to FitzGerald so that she can put it in the crematorium." Pugh did not move as he spoke.

"If the prisoners are killing each other daily, all the better," said Landry, yawning. "That's why Keeper's father put them together in one cell and withdrew the guards, remember? It's a just punishment. The prisoners murdered innocent folks, so they're put in a place where they can murder each other."

"There are rapists in there as well," Starke pointed out, fingering an unlit cigarette.

"So? They can rape each other before they murder. Not that we have to give them any instructions in that."

"No, I don't imagine that you do." Starke reached over and lit a match from the metal sole of his boot.

There was a small silence before Landry asked, "And what do you call what you do with your lads?"

Starke blew out a long stream of smoke before saying, "Purchase of services, I suppose. I pay them well for their services, and I treat them well."

"And they have as much choice about serving you as a Vovimian whore does." Landry snorted. "I don't see any difference between what you do and what we do."

"Perhaps the difference," said Medinger, coming down the left-hand stairs from the balcony, "is not between prostitution and rape, but between willingness and unwillingness. Starke is right – there's no moral difference between what you do to your lads and what the rapists in there did to their crime victims."

This remark was greeted by hoots of laughter. "Medinger," said Niesely, wiping away tears, "you're like one of those celibate prophets, predicting doom and gloom upon any human being that would dare to feel lust for another human being."

"You're not exactly in a position to give lectures on this topic," Pugh agreed. "Besides, we're talking about convicts, not innocent victims. Their right to freedom was stripped from them at the time they were judged guilty of their crimes. We at least grant them the right to decide who in their midst deserves further punishment."

Medinger frowned as he reached the bottom of the steps. "Is that how you see yourself, Pugh? As a torturer carrying out judicial punishment?"

"You're talking nonsense, Medinger." Niesely shook his head. "A little tickle-and-poke isn't torture. Now, what those prisoners have done to us . . ."

"Yes," said Starke abruptly. "Let's keep matters straight in our heads. If we're soft on the prisoners, the way Tom Keeper wants us to be, all we'll get is another riot. Believe you me, we do not want another riot." And with that, he put down his cigarette, removed the clasp on his collar, and pulled his shirt down far enough that everyone present could see the ugly scar that ran between his neck and shoulder.

There was another silence before Niesely said, "It's a bloody miracle you survived that blow with only a broken collarbone."

"It's a bloody miracle I survived the riot at all." Starke re-clasped his collar and reached over to pick up his cigarette. "So let's have respect for the six dozen guards who didn't survive, please. We can at least learn from the hard lesson they were taught."

"The riot couldn't have been that bad," one of the guards protested. "Two dozen guards survived."

"All of them were away from the prison at the time," Starke replied.

"Except for you," Medinger corrected him. "Out of curiosity, where was Mr. Keeper and his father when the riot happened?"

"At Mercy Prison." Starke shrugged. "Tom was transferred to guard duty there for a couple of months; his father went with him to ensure that the transfer was smooth. By the time his father got back to Compassion, the guards were dead and the remaining prisoners were locked down."

"And stayed locked down, till Tom's father was sure it was safe to send in his remaining guards," Pugh added. "You newer men have no idea what it was like to go in there after the prison doors were unlocked. The murdered guards' corpses were stinking to high heaven by then."

"What about the prisoners' corpses?" Medinger asked quietly.

"The survivors burned them; we found the bones afterwards. The prisoners could have done the same for the guards' bodies, but when did prisoners ever show respect for a guard?" Pugh stood up abruptly. "I suppose we'd better feed this lot, or Keeper will be putting demerits on all our records. Starke, you write up the records of what we bring out; then you and Landry can take your positions at the guns. The rest of you, help me to fetch the barrels and crates."

"We sweat, while the prisoners who killed our predecessors lounge at their leisure," grumbled Niesely as he stood up. "That's justice for you."

"Nearly all of those prisoners died during or after the riot," Medinger protested, but nobody paid attention to his words as they stood up.

Only Landry, stretching his arms wide, said, "And gods help us, now we're burdened with a prisoner who is likely to start another riot. What was Mercy's Keeper thinking, sending him to us?"

"More's the question, what was Compassion's Keeper thinking, accepting him into this prison?" Starke shrugged as he stubbed out his cigarette. "Well, Tom has always had a mind of his own. I suppose he considers this transfer to be one of his many experiments in transformation and rebirth."

"When he'll have no contact with Tyrrell hereafter? Don't talk nonsense."

"He couldn't know that till Tyrrell had passed his trial. . . ."

The rest of the argument could not be heard, for all of the guards had moved away from their post, other than one guard who was sitting on the ground with his legs stretched out and his head bowed with sleep.

A dozen of Farnam's men stood poised, like runners at the starting blocks of the Tri-National Race. Their backs were guarded by Ahiga's watch-hounds, who had pushed the unclaimed lads away from the area nearest the gate. The runners were facing the gate; all the remaining day watch-hounds were guarding the east wall, where a cluster of Farnam's men and lads were setting up crude tables made of barrels covered with leather pieces stitched together. Farnam walked amidst them, quietly issuing orders as he went.

Tyrrell, standing on the northern border of the little men's area, looked behind him. Everyone he could see in the little men's area was a little man, except for the prisoner standing next to him. "Shouldn't you be in the greater men's area, with Hosobuchi?" he asked Pickens.

Pickens shook his head; he had his eye on the runners. "My man told me to abide with you, in case there are any problems with you being yielded your rations on the first day. Shuji will draw the rations for Hosobuchi and me and himself."

"One representative per household?" Tyrrell joked.

"Something like that. The queues get too crowded if every folk who's entitled to a meal comes up to draw his own."

Tyrrell frowned. "And who's entitled to a meal?"

"At the moment, all of the prisoners. We've only had one prisoner ousted recently, and he—"

Pickens's voice was cut off by the scream of the gate alarm. Tyrrell, resisting the impulse to cover his ears, turned just in time to see the runners take off, moving as swiftly as though they were pursued by prey. Their goal, quite clearly, was the barrels and crates that had been placed immediately in front of the gate by the guards.

"They only have two minutes to draw them inside," Pickens shouted in his ear. "After that, the gate closes, and any folk left outside is shot."

"Two minutes?" cried Tyrrell, aghast. "There are two dozen crates and barrels out there!"

Two minutes later, the gate slid soundlessly closed. In the gunners' post, Starke and Landry, who had kept their machine rifles trained on the runners while the gate was open, relaxed in their seats. The runners, who had wrestled and rolled and tossed and heaved every one of the barrels and crates inside the prison during the allotted time, collapsed against the gate bars or on the floor. Ahiga, who was standing with the watch-hounds, barked something to his hounds, who parted to let through a couple of lads, each bearing a water bladder. The lads went from prisoner to prisoner, giving each runner a mouthful of water. The runners, pulling themselves together, disappeared into the crowd.

The rest of Farnam's food deliverers had already started to come forward from the east wall; the barrels and crates were being opened, with not a little difficulty, since Farnam's men and lads possessed no hammers or plyers with which to remove the nails. But with the aid of some of the home-made knives and a few pocket knives that must have been smuggled in by canny prisoners, they managed to pry open the lids. They carried the contents over to the waiting tables and began spreading them out.

Tyrrell had expected to see bags of potatoes and beans and flour and maize. The diet in Mip's prisons was monotonously the same, as far as he could tell from his time at Mercy and various holding prisons. Instead, what emerged from the crates were tins. Hundreds of quart-sized food tins, as though Compassion Life Prison had been transformed into a grocer's.

Pickens shrugged when Tyrrell asked. "Costs less for the magisterial seats," he said. "The food is packed closer together like, so the shipping costs are lower. Everything comes from the city, so it's got to be drawn out by train."

"That's quite a ways to ship food," Tyrrell said. "I'm figuring that the tins also stay back spoilage."

The little man standing nearest to Tyrrell burst suddenly into laughter. As Tyrrell looked uneasily his way, Pickens grinned. In the King's tongue, the shared dialect spoken by nearly all Vovimians, he said to the little man, "Don't laugh – you were once new and naive too."

"Not that naive," said the little man, wiping away tears of laughter as he looked at Tyrrell. "Haven't you heard of the fine services provided by the Sweet-tooth Company?"

Tyrrell swore under his breath briefly. "Surely the magisterial seats wouldn't use that company for their food source. They're in the midst of trying to get the company shut down – even within the confines of Mercy, we heard about that."

"Compassion's Keeper decides which food company to use," Pickens replied. "And he doesn't buy it directly from those vultures, of course; he buys it from the wholesalers, whose names aren't likely to catch the interest of the magisterial seats when he sends in his reports."

Tyrrell felt a growing sickness in his stomach that had nothing to do with his anticipation of the upcoming meal. "Tom Keeper chose that company?"

"His father did. Keeper hasn't been in any rush to change wholesalers, though."

"Let's be fair to the man," inserted the little man. "He's so new to his job that he may not even have thought to check the food situation yet."

"Oh, for love of the gods," Pickens said mildly as Farnam's men began to carefully open the tins with their knives, now that the tables were stacked to the brim with tins bearing no label. "Who hasn't heard of the Sweet-tooth Scandal? Commoner children dropping dead from food poisoning – it was in all the newsies."

The little man shrugged. "Maybe he doesn't read the newspapers. He's led a fairly insulated life, you know – has lived in this prison since age twelve, when his father became Keeper. Back when he had temporary control of the prisoners – in 385 and 386, while his father was busy supervising our prison's renovation – Tom Keeper sometimes said things that made me think he was as naive to evil practices in a prison as a new man. —No offence." He flashed a smile at Tyrrell.

"None taken," replied Tyrrell. "But that's just a mask he wears, you know. My cell-mate back at Mercy, who had him as a guard – he said he thought that Thomas was an innocent, right up till the moment that he realized how Thomas had subtly guided him into transformation and rebirth."

"'Thomas'?" The little man raised his eyebrows. "You call our Keeper by his first name? His full first name, not just his use-nick?"

Tyrrell felt a stab of fear that was not allayed by the way that Perkins furrowed his brow. He said quickly, "My cell-mate did. Merrick has always been insubordinate."

"Merrick?" the little man said. And then, looking at Pickens, "He's Tyrrell?"

"The new man, as I said," Pickens replied softly.

"Ah." The little man's eyes suddenly went vague. "Got to go – I see a mate of mine over there." He moved into the crowd.

Tyrrell looked over at Pickens. Switching back to the Riverbend dialect, he said, "I'm figuring that, after my initiation, I will halt at being a leper?"

Pickens laughed as he clapped Tyrrell on the back. "Aye, you'll be a full member then. Till then, you can expect a bit of shyness from the tribe's members. Your repute has come 'fore you, you know."

Tyrrell frowned, wondering what dark tales had been circulating about him; then he returned his attention to the tables. The opening of the tins seemed to be an enormous job, and the lads who were doing the opening appeared to be in no great hurry about it. They examined the tins in a leisurely manner, inspected the contents for a minute or so, chatted amongst themselves . . .

"They'd get the sack from any manufactory," Tyrrell muttered.

"What?" said Perkins. "Oh, you mean the time they're drawing out. Nay, that's part of the process – they're inspecting the food. Would you be craving to go near and see?"

Tyrrell nodded, and Perkins began worming their way past a queue that was forming of the little men. Several of the little men growled complaints, but they gave way when they saw who Tyrrell was accompanied by.

The watch-hounds holding the queue back, though, were not as easily swayed, and for the first time, Pickens's status as Hosobuchi's lad got him nowhere. "Not without a true man's permission," said one of the hounds. "Sorry, Pickens, but that's standing orders from Ahiga."

Pickens nodded, apparently compliant, and then shouted, "Farnam! May I speak with you, sir?"

Farnam was in the midst of talking to his lad Davidson, who was sitting cross-legged on an upended crate, fussing with something in his lap. The true man's head went up at once; he glanced at Pickens, said something to Davidson, and then walked over to where Pickens and Tyrrell stood.

"Ah," he said to Tyrrell, when Pickens had explained. "You have an interest in food inspections, do you? Did you work in the industry, before?"

Tyrrell shook his head. "I was – er – alternatively employed."

"Indeed." Farnam looked him up and down. "Hired?"

"No." Tyrrell was beginning to feel uncomfortable; he was not used to having a fellow prisoner quiz him about his past. "On my own. House thefts – before that, purse-snatching for my tribe."

Farnam tilted his head. "Have a mind for figures, do you?"

"Just enough to count the cash. I never learned beyond simple arithmetic."

Farnam nodded. "Well, I imagine that your time at Mercy allowed you to acquire organizational skills. We might be able to make use of that. —Yes, Samuels, what is it?"

"The lads are reporting that half the tins they open contain fish, sir."

"Blood—" Farnam cut off the oath before it was through. "All right, let's go see how bad the situation is. —You can let them through," he added to the watch-hounds.

Tyrrell waited until they were beyond the hounds before he asked, in an undertone, "What in Hell's name was that all about?"

"He was checking your skills to see whether you'd be of any use to him," Pickens replied. He was turning them south, walking in the direction of the greater men's area. "See now, you'll have to work for one of the true men here – if you don't work, you don't eat. Since you're unclaimed, you can go and choose who you crave to work for, and you can change your choice whenever you crave. Farnam is a good man to work for; I chose him sacks of times when I was an unclaimed man."

"But you prefer Ahiga," Tyrrell suggested.

Pickens shrugged. "Hosobuchi is claimed by Ahiga, so that's who we work for. But if I had a choice . . . Aye, I think I'd work for Ahiga anyhow. He has a repute for being fierce with discipline – that's why he's in charge of prison discipline – but he's good at challenging men and lads up to the limits of their skills."

"What about Valdis?" Tyrrell asked as they walked slowly toward the tables.

Pickens shrugged again. "Depends on what work you're looking for. If you crave to be a wood-worker, or if you're liking to craft weapons, he's the one to turn to. Don't get any notions that you'll be able to use the weapons for always, though; he guards them jealous-like. Ahiga's hounds spend sacks more time with their spears than Valdis's men and lads do with his weapons."

Tyrrell grunted. Blades reminded him of his past murders, so the idea of working to create more deadly instruments did not appeal to him. "What about Walker? Is he a good man to work for?"

"Walker. . . ." Pickens's gaze wandered away. "Again, it depends on what work you crave to do. See now, let's be going over to this table; the debates there seem to be jumping."

Two lads hunched over a pile of tins that lay on a leather-covered barrel were heatedly engaged in a discussion over a particular tin.

"It's concave, I tell you," said one.

"Bloody idiot," returned the other one scornfully. "Of course it's concave if you hold it up to the light at an angle like that. It's perfectly shaped."

"It's concave. It should go in the P pile."

His opponent picked up the open tin, sniffed it, and screwed up his nose in disgust. "Copper. It goes in the A pile."

"P. The peas may have been colored through copper, but they're spoiled as well—"

"Sweet blood, lad, do you want every unclaimed lad here to die of starvation?"

"Better that, than to have them die of cramps in their bellies," said the first speaker doggedly.

"Well, we'll ask Farnam."

"Farnam doesn't like to be bothered with such things."

"We'll ask our man, then. In the name of the High Master of hell, why do you squabble over every little—?" He stopped abruptly as he saw the prisoner standing next to him. "Yes, sir?"

"Pickens," the lad corrected softly.

The tester gave half a smile. "Pickens. Yes. Give me another eight years, and I'll remember your current rank. —Look, take this tin over to our man and ask him whether he wants the taster to check it," he said to the other tester.

"He'll say yes; he always says yes," the lad grumbled but did as he was told.

His work partner heaved a sigh. "Sometimes I wish I was a Second Lad rather than First. How do you wrestle Shuji into doing what you want, Pickens?"

Pickens shrugged as he rested his leg on a crate, draping his arm over his thigh. "The case has never come up. I don't give orders to Shuji, and even if I did, there wouldn't be any arguments from him."

"First Lad?" said Tyrrell to Pickens. "You've used that term several times."

"It means I'm the first lad Hosobuchi claimed," Pickens explained. "Shuji is Second Land, the second he claimed. Some men – such as the true men, who claim lots of prisoners – rank their first two lads, so that the First and Second Lads have more power than the others."

"It just makes for more quarrelling, that's all I say," said the tester, shaking his head as he picked up another tin. "Look at the way Farnam picked an unclaimed lad to be his new First Lad, after his previous First Lad died. So now Davidson is the highest-ranked lad in Farnam's division, while Magnus – who has served Farnam for five years – is stuck as Second Lad."

"Not to disparage your man's talents, but Magnus doesn't have a head for numbers, the way Davidson does." As he spoke, Pickens reached forward to neaten a stack of tins. "Anyway, Magnus doesn't seem upset."

"No, my man has a soft heart – otherwise he wouldn't have claimed four lads. He certainly wouldn't have claimed me." The tester grinned. "What does Hosobuchi need, Pickens? Or are you here for yourself?"

"This man is interested in your testing." Pickens waved toward Tyrrell.

The tester glanced at his belt, where the necklet was hanging, and then up at his undervest, before settling his gaze on Tyrrell's face. "My apologies, sir; I didn't notice what you were, or I wouldn't have kept you waiting. How can I help you?"

"How do you test the tins?" Tyrrell asked, experiencing the same uneasiness he had undergone when Pickens addressed him as sir. He felt as though he were impersonating an army officer.

"Oh, it's easy, sir." The tester lifted the tin in hand toward the light. "First thing I do, before I open the tin, is see whether it's shaped concave or has any pinprick-sized holes in it. If it does, chances are good that it has gas in it from spoiled food. If the tin looks undamaged, I open it and listen for hissing gas escaping." He did this, leaning down so that his ear was close to the tin when he cut into it. "No gas here. So then I examine the contents. . . ." With his razor-sharp knife, he swiftly cut the tin open, bent back the lid, and peered into the tin. "Salmon, nice and pink. Looks like it's just been fetched from the ocean."

"So the contents are safe?"

"No, they're tainted. Fish this pink must have been colored, and the packers use color to disguise when something's wrong with the food. Now comes the tricky bit: I have to figure out whether the food is spoiled, or merely adulterated with some unappetizing substance, like borax." He sniffed the tin and screwed up his nose. "Spoiled. Fish nearly always is. See?" He held the tin up.

Tyrrell tentatively sniffed the contents. "It just smells like fish to me."

"Farnam won't put you to work as a tester, then," inserted Pickens. "You have a nose like a dog," he told the tester.

The tester grinned. "We all do. They should call us Farnam's watch-hounds." He took the tin back from Tyrrell, closed the lid, and carefully incised the letter P onto its lid with his knife. "P means poisoned," he explained to Tyrrell. "Those get thrown out, because otherwise we'd chance having a dozen people die from bellyaches each day, like we did in the old days. A means Adulterated – those are given to the unclaimed lads. It's poor fare, not much nutrition in it, but it won't kill them . . . not right away, at any rate. G means Good – the men and their lads get those tins."

Tyrrell turned his head toward the unclaimed lads' area, where the majority of prisoners were standing. "Not much good food comes into this prison, then."

"Precious little," said the tester. "And the difference between good food and bad can be hard to detect. We do our best to catch the deadly ones, but if we declare too many tins as poisoned, the unclaimed lads will die of starvation, because they won't have enough to eat."

"Couldn't the men give the unclaimed lads part of their share?" Tyrrell asked.

The lad, looking puzzled, turned his attention to Pickens. "He's new?"

"Just arrived," Pickens replied.

"Ah." The lad's eyes took on that by-now-familiar expression of vagueness. "Well, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do. . . ."

"Of course," said Pickens, and he pulled Tyrrell away from the table.

They walked north, back into the little men's area, where Magnus's other two lads were frowning over their pile of tins. More lads darted to and fro, delivering piles of tins between the various tables, while Farnam's claimed men walked among them, scrutinizing the proceedings. Magnus, seeing Pickens, gave him a friendly wave of the hand.

Pickens waved back, and then slipped something into Tyrrell's hand. "Here. A souvenir from this part of tour."

Tyrrell glanced down at the gift. It was a tin, its lid returned to the closed position and carefully marked with the letter G. He looked over at Pickens, who was blithely whistling off-tune as they passed a group of lads who were on their knees, pulling sacks out of a crate.

"Gods above and below," said Tyrrell. "I would have snagged you with joy as my work partner in the old days."

Pickens laughed, and then grabbed the tin from Tyrrell and swiftly tossed it into the hand of Magnus's Second Lad, who was passing them. "Here you go," he said to the Second Lad, who stared at the tin with consternation. "This dropped off your table."

"Dropped." The lad frowned at Pickens. "Dropped, you say. Pickens, I thought you were a reformed lad."

Pickens merely laughed again. "Farnam shouldn't let anyone past the watch-hounds during meal-time; I've told him that before. Maybe he'll listen to me this time."

The lad shook his head. "I'll deliver him the message – but don't be surprised if he asks Hosobuchi to batter your backside red."

"Better that, than that half the surplus should go missing. I'm not the only trained burglar here, you know." Pickens pulled Tyrrell past the lad, who continued to shake his head, as though contemplating the evils of the world.

Tyrrell asked in an undertone, "Could you in truth steal half the surplus?"

"Oh, enough to have me well filled, for sure." Pickens continued to sound cheerful. "Mind, I'd break the heart of the chaplain who transformed me. And Hosobuchi, he'd have the pleasant task of deciding whether to let me be killed or to have himself executed in my place when I was sentenced to death for stealing food from the tribe. But . . . well, neither of them would ever have knowing of it, 'cause I'd be the one doing the stealing."

"And you're never caught," Tyrrell said.

Pickens smiled at him. "I'm figuring I sound arrogant."

"Nay, no more so than any other skilled professional. Then what stays you back? Loyalty to Hosobuchi?"

"And to the tribe. And knowing of the fact that, if I stole another prisoner's meal, he'd go hungry, and if I did this enough, some folk would die. I've no stomach for murder, Tyrrell."

His smile had disappeared. Tyrrell was silent a while, thinking of Pickens's dead lad. Finally he said, "If you're feeling that way, why don't you share your food with an unclaimed lad who might starve otherwise?"

"Numbers."

"Numbers?" Tyrrell turned his head to try to see his face better, but they were passing, in that moment, under the shadow of one of the bars that braced the sides of the dome.

"Cold, firm numbers. See now, I'll let our numbers lad explain."

Pickens waved his hand toward Davidson, who was still sitting on a crate. As they came closer, Tyrrell saw that the object he was holding in his lap was the little green ledger book that Tyrrell had noticed Farnam carrying upon their first meeting. Davidson was frowning down at the book, his mouth puckered as he sucked on the tip of a bone, slender as an eyebrow, which ended in a dark tuft of stiff hair – a paint-brush, Tyrrell realized as he saw the small glass bottle at Davidson's side, filled with black liquid.

Pickens came to a halt suddenly and held Tyrrell still. For a long moment, neither of them moved; neither did the youthful lad, staring intently at the book. Then, moving slowly as though in a reverie, the lad dipped his brush into the ink without moving his eye from the paper. Shaking the brush over the bottle to free it of extra ink, he mouthed a word soundlessly. Quickly, he brought the brush over to the paper and wrote something down.

Then he sighed and stretched, as though he were an athlete who had just run a long-distance race.

He caught sight of Pickens almost immediately and smiled; his smile faded as he noticed Tyrrell. Tyrrell would just as soon have turned round then, but Pickens still had hold of him.

The older lad asked, "How's the numbers?"

Davidson gave a quirk of a smile. "There I was, wasting time trying to figure out a way to smuggle a pocket knife into this prison, in order to protect myself, when I should have spent the time figuring out how to smuggle in a slide rule instead."

"You could have declared yourself a man. You have the fighting skills that would have allowed you to pass your trial."

Davidson shrugged as he laid aside the brush. "My father owned the biggest accounting house in western Vovim, before we moved to Mip. I never knew a day, growing up, when he was not pained from ulcers. Me, I prefer following orders to holding other people's lives in my hands."

"So now you're Farnam's First Lad."

Davidson grimaced. "Not my choice of rank, you may be sure. But I am the only one, besides my man, who has any of the logarithmic tables memorized. He is having me write them down after lock-down time each evening, in case anything happens to both of us."

Pickens snorted. "As though the rest of us would know what to do with a loga-whatever. The magisterial seats should send us more upper-school graduates."

Davidson shrugged again. He was sucking absentmindedly on his ink-stained thumb, casting occasional, cautious glances at Tyrrell.

Pickens turned his attention to Tyrrell. "You're lucky you decided not to kill him during your trial. Walker would undoubtedly have given you a long and painful death if you'd strangled such a valuable lad."

"Not Farnam?" said Tyrrell.

"Not Farnam. He'd have died of excessive guilt."

Davidson nodded. "He is angry at himself now for letting me risk myself. I told him, if he keeps me like one of Valdis's lads, as though I were a caged pet, then I will whither away and die. Even a lad needs to prove himself, now and then." His gaze flicked over to Tyrrell again, settling on his right arm. "I hope you are feeling well, sir."

Tyrrell held up his bandaged arm. "This probably came from the second challenge, not from when I challenged you. I was a bloody idiot to do that. I don't suppose you'd be willing to teach me that kick you nearly took my head off with?"

Davidson smiled suddenly, the thumb emerging from his mouth. "It was just a feint, sir – I would not kick the head of a fellow prisoner, whether man or lad. But if you would like to meet me on the challenge ground some day, I will teach you how to do that – as a fake challenge, sir, you understand. Valdis has asked Farnam to have me give lessons in attack and defense whenever my man has no need for me."

"The challenge ground?" Tyrrell looked at Pickens.

"That's Valdis's territory. I'll show you later. —So how go the numbers?"

Davidson shrugged. "Well enough for now. Disastrous if the guards keep sending in as many new prisoners as they have since Tom Keeper took charge. By the end of next month, we should be close to the amount of prisoners we had before last winter started."

"Sweet blood," Pickens said softly. "How soon?"

"Summer, maybe – not long after Mercy's Feast. Autumn, if we cut back on everyone's food allowances now. Farnam has not yet made the decision."

"What do you mean, 'How soon'?" asked Tyrrell.

"How soon we run out of food," Pickens replied. "Davidson, Tyrrell wanted to know why I don't simply share my food with an unclaimed lad who is hungry. Explain to him how you figure your numbers."

Davidson gave a mirthless laugh as he turned his eyes toward Tyrrell. "One unclaimed lad? Sir, all the unclaimed lads in this prison will be on the edge of starvation by Mercy's Feast, and none of the rest of us will be feasting, except to mark their deaths. See here—" He pointed to his ledger book, and Tyrrell came closer to look. As he leaned forward, he caught a greasy whiff of the ink from the bottle nearby and felt memory touch him. His parents had also written in the old-fashioned manner of Vovim, with a brush rather than a pen. Tyrrell had learned his numbers from his mother that way, as well as the Vovimian alphabet. The alphabet had been of no use to him in Mip, and he had soon forgotten it, but Mippites used the same numbering system as the Vovimian settlers had originally established. Without being able to read numbers on coins and bills, Tyrrell never would have survived as a cut-purse, a skill his street tribe badly needed, since not every member of his tribe could find a job selling newspapers or guarding food carts or other such positions suitable for underaged boys.

He brushed his right index finger lightly across the lip of the bottle, and his finger immediately turned black. He began to raise it to suck the ink off, but Pickens caught hold of his arm. "Don't," he said.

"It's only grease and soot," Tyrrell protested. "That is, if it's made the traditional Vovimian way. It won't kill me."

But he was distracted from the argument by Davidson, who pointed to the ledger book. "See, sir, this is the number of tins we receive each day. It goes gradually up each year, but not enough. At the moment, we are being given enough food to provide a full three meals for about fifteen hundred prisoners – if we had only fifteen hundred prisoners."

"Which we don't," Pickens added.

"Which we do not. Here is the number of prisoners we actually have – it fluctuates each week, going up and down, depending on how many prisoners come in and how many die. Mostly, it goes up. This number" – Davidson turned several pages and pointed to the end of a long line of numbers – "is how much edible food we have on any given day. That number goes up and down wildly; Farnam cannot easily predict it, though he tries. All he can easily keep track of is this: the amount of food we have in storage. Any time we are given a surplus of food – which is mainly in spring, when the number of prisoners is low – he puts food aside in storage—"

"Storage?" said Tyrrell, looking at Pickens.

"The armory," said Pickens. "It's in one of the true men's cells. I doubt even I could steal anything from there. You come near the true men's cells without permission, and one of Ahiga's watch-hounds will spear your guts. At night, Valdis and his most trusted lads sleep in the armory."

"Truly, I can testify with blood before my god's claws, there is never much food in there," said Davidson. "If there was any sizeable amount, how could it fit into a single cell? We use the surplus on the days when there is not enough food to feed us all, so we are always using it up. So there is barely any surplus, and as the year goes on, the number of prisoners goes up, and we have to cut back on how much food each person gets—"

"So we all get hungrier and hungrier," concluded Pickens. "And at a certain point, we get so hungry that lads start dying."

"Lads." Tyrrell looked sharply at him. "Only lads? Not men?"

"Unclaimed lads," Davidson inserted. "When the first death from starvation is close to occurring – it could be to anyone, but chances are good that it will happen to an unclaimed lad – then we have to stop accepting members into the tribe. We cannot afford to feed any more prisoners, so the newest prisoners are automatically named unclaimed lads without tribal rights. And if we run short of surplus before then . . ."

"Oustings?" Tyrrell guessed.

Pickens nodded. "By lottery. The lads who pick the black straw are ousted from the tribe, so that the rest of us can survive."

"Lads again," Tyrrell said. "Unclaimed lads? Why are they the only ones ousted? And why do they get the worst food?"

Davidson's face suddenly took on a bleak expression. He ducked his head, and Tyrrell remembered then that he had only recently ceased to be an unclaimed lad.

Pickens reached over and placed his hand lightly on Davidson's head. "Suppose that this lad died – this lad whose head for numbers is one of the things that keeps the rest of us alive. What would happen to the rest of us?"

"So Farnam claimed him," Tyrrell said slowly.

"Farnam claimed him. That is how a man shares his food: he claims a lad and gives part of his share of the food to his lad. Any food I receive is not mine – it is Hosobuchi's, which I am free to share with Shuji if my fellow lad should have need of it, but with no one else. Every claimed lad has been judged by his man to have some quality worth saving – some quality that helps keep the rest of us alive."

"And every man?" Tyrrell felt his throat tighten. "Nobody chose me – I declared myself a man."

"And proved that you had the ability to fight to keep a claimed lad safe. Back in the earlier days of Compassion, before the true men put order to these matters, the guards threw the food into this cell, and a man would have to fight the other men to get food for himself and for his lad or lads. The lads who had strong men would survive. The lads who didn't would die. . . . These days, Farnam's men and lads distribute the food and other supplies in a fair manner, and Ahiga's hounds keep order – but you will still need to protect your lad if you are to retain your manhood." Pickens shrugged. "I'll be frank: there are some men and claimed lads that I would gladly see ousted from the tribe. Our system isn't perfect. But for the most part, the prisoners who have the greatest value to us – the ones who have the ability to keep the tribe alive and peaceful – are the ones who get the best share of the food. The ones who don't . . . Ask our Keeper why they should have to die. He's the one who knows the answer."

Pickens's voice had turned suddenly dark, as though he saw, in that moment, thousands upon thousands of dying lads sprawled upon the ground.
 

CHAPTER SIX

Tyrrell was silent a while as they continued to stroll toward the prison gate, passing more tables as they went. Some of the testers had finished their work and had given way to other lads, who were beginning to pour out the liquid from the tins into jars.

Pickens, seeing where Tyrrell looked, said, "We store the liquid separate-like; it's part of the surplus, and it helps too in cooking, when we hold a banquet."

"Pickens, how has any folk here managed to survive so long? These are killing conditions."

Pickens shrugged. "Things have turned worse since Keeper drew power last autumn. Under his father, we got sacks of adulterated tins, which is why Farnam set up this system of testing and tasting. But it wasn't till Keeper stepped up in rank that most of the food 'came not fit to eat. That's one reason why there were so many deaths last winter."

"He may not be knowing. Some folk should give tale to him."

"Ahiga gave tale to him." Pickens's reply was terse. "If he won't catch tale to Ahiga, he won't catch tale to any folk. —Ah, what do we have here?" His voice softened suddenly.

Tyrrell stopped just in time from making another disastrous tumble over someone on the floor. Several prisoners were kneeling as they unpacked a crate filled with dry goods. Farnam, coming up alongside them, gave a curt nod to Pickens and Tyrrell before asking the kneeling prisoners, "Anything useful?"

"Sir, it's salt!" The lad who spoke held up a bag and smiled broadly. "Salt and flour and coffee."

"Riches indeed." Farnam offered a brief smile to the lad and then raised his voice. "What's the occasion, Pugh? Has Mercy's messenger made an appearance in this prison at last?"

The guards, whom Tyrrell could just see through the gate several yards away, laughed heartily. Pugh said in an indifferent voice, "A gift from your Keeper, in honor of the Lords' Spring Festival. He thought you might want to have it a couple of days early, in order to make preparations."

"Our thanks to the Keeper!" Farnam cried back. "Qualified," he added in an undertone, "until we see what we've actually been given. Samuels?"

The claimed man who had approached Farnam earlier had now opened the bag of coffee. Fingering the contents, he shrugged. "No worse than what we received for the Commoners' Autumn Festival. Coffee mixed in with dried peas, it looks like."

"Sort a sample, and then give it the water test," Farnam ordered. "What about the flour?"

A lad who had been inspecting a knee-high flour bag sat back on his heels, his face filled with disgust. "Not much there. Adulterated with lye, it looks like, and so old that it's filled with maggots."

"Check the other bags; they may be better. Garcia, let's look at the final riches."

The initial speaker eagerly tore open the salt bag, using his teeth. Everyone leaned forward, Tyrrell included.

Pickens was the one who broke the silence. "Well, well, it looks as though the Sweet-tooth Company owns a cat."

"And it looks as though the company keep its salt in open barrels." Farnam carefully closed the bag, shutting out the yellowed salt, with the brown objects atop it. "Never mind, there may be something salvageable here." He paused to briefly place his hand on the head of the lad, who was staring at the floor, struggling to hold back tears. "Even without our Keeper's 'gifts,' we'll have a good banquet, I'm sure. Garcia, are those potatoes I see?"

The lad, reviving, dove his hands into the packing crate and was soon excitedly reporting that no more than half the potatoes were spoiled – maybe even two-thirds were edible. . . .

Pickens and Tyrrell passed on. Tyrrell, watching Farnam's lads carefully pick out dead maggots from the flour, was increasingly sure that he would not have the stomach to eat his late breakfast. When he stated this to Pickens, though, the lad simply said cheerfully, "Ungrateful idiot. You've no notion what luck in your path you've had. Here, let me introduce you to our taster."

It took them a while to reach the taster; Pickens kept pausing, fingering the tins on every table, and earning himself glares from any lad or man who remembered what his profession was. When Magnus finally shooed him off, Pickens grinned and said to Tyrrell, "Point fully made, I have mind. Let's finish up here."

The taster, it turned out, was a lad in his thirties, lounging on a chair, with his feet propped up on a crate. It was the first chair Tyrrell had seen in the place; it had a seat, not of the ubiquitous leather, but of cloth stretched between crossed rods. The taster had his hand crossed over his belly; he was contemplating the sky. As Pickens and Tyrrell came forward, he glanced at them out of the corner of his eye, and then moved his foot enough to shove the crate in Tyrrell's direction. Then he returned to watching the sky.

At Picken's gesture, Tyrrell seated himself. Pickens, glancing at the ground next to the taster, said, "No work for you today?"

"Say, tell me, what does a lad need to do to get fed around this place?" asked the taster, staring upwards. "I'm about to wither away from starvation."

Tyrrell doubted it; the taster had the biggest belly of anyone he had seen there. Pickens frowned, saying, "Are you okay, Czupak? You look as though you're swelled up with gas."

The taster patted his belly with apparent satisfaction. "It's all this rich food they give me. —When are you going to feed me next? I'm famished!" he shouted to the testers nearest him.

The testers emitted laughter that sounded forced, but made no reply. Czupak, looking over at Pickens for the first time, shook his head. "I'll be dead before they feed me. I tell you, it's enough to make me take up thieving."

Before Pickens could reply, Farnham's claimed man Samuels appeared. He held a tin in his hand, from which the smell of coffee drifted up.

"For you," he told the taster. "We've sorted a sample by eye, we've done the water test on it – all the contents floated – and we've brewed the beans. Farnam says it's your turn now."

The taster, without bothering to stand or even to sit upright, took the coffee from the man. Without hesitation, he plunged his hand into the tin. After a second, he said, "There's debris on the bottom. Sort it some more."

"It's just a few dried peas. We can't catch all of them."

"Dried peas don't feel like this. Sort it."

Samuels looked annoyed. "Have you forgotten your rank, Czupak? It's Farnam's orders. Do as you're told."

The lad sat upright finally. Looking at Perkins, he sighed in an melodramatic manner, saying, "Uncle Ivan gives them his educated opinion, but do they listen? Of course not. Well, cheers." He raised the glass in a toast to the sky and then swallowed the contents of the tin in one gulp.

And began to choke. Perkins, whose brows had remained furrowed throughout this exchange, promptly stepped forward and whapped him several times on the back. This seemed to do its work; after a moment, Czupak waved him back and said to Samuels in a breathless manner, "Pebbles. Pointy pebbles, judging from the ones I swallowed. Sort the coffee beans again."

Samuels, looking considerably more subdued than before, took the tin back and departed without a word. The taster, whose face had turned pale, returned to his previous position, with his hands folded over his belly. Tyrrell saw that his fingers were white-knuckled now.

"Best job in the prison," he said to the sky. "Unlimited food, served right to me. I don't know why I'm so lucky."

"Had much of that unlimited food today?" Perkins asked quietly.

"Oh, bites from about three dozen tins. Two-thirds of the tins were fine; I said they could be used. The other third . . . Well, they'll settle in my stomach eventually." He patted his belly, smiling. Suddenly, without warning, he looked at Tyrrell. "You're the new man, aren't you? The one who's been leading the fight against the guards at Mercy?"

"Er . . . yes." Tyrrell was so disconcerted by this sudden acknowledgment of his existence that he forgot to give his usual defense of the Boundaries-bound guards. He was even more disconcerted when the lad rose from his seat and bowed.

"If I may, I'd like to shake arms with you, sir," he said, "in case I don't get a chance to later. I'm very pleased to have had the opportunity to meet you."

Tyrrell drew himself slowly to his feet and shook arms with the taster. Czupak's eyes bothered him; they looked bloodshot, as though he did not receive much sleep. But Czupak smiled as though his days were spent in blithe laziness.

"We'll let you get back to your work," Pickens said, rescuing Tyrrell from his awkward silence.

"Ah, yes, my work." The taster lay down again, wincing as he did so. "Just think of it, Pickens – while you and the other lads are slaving away till dusktide, I'll be idly playing dice all afternoon. Don't you wish you were me?"

"No," said Pickens bluntly.

The taster smiled at him, showing no sign of offence. "Do you know, nearly everyone says that? They just don't appreciate the advantages of honor and glory over— Well, well, is that wonderful banquet for me? Give it to me quickly, lad, before I grow faint with hunger." He gestured to the lad standing hesitantly nearby, holding a tin.

Pickens steered Tyrrell away, past a table where the lads were beginning to dish the food out of the quart-sized tins into smaller, palm-sized tins. Tyrrell glanced back at the taster, who was carefully sampling the tin he had been given, which was clearly marked with the letter P.

"Honor and glory over life?" he murmured to Pickens.

Pickens nodded.

"How long . . . ?" Tyrrell found he could not finish the sentence.

Pickens shrugged. "His predecessor lasted eight months . . . but that was 'fore the situation with the food got worse. Farnam has been having mind whether to make the job a three-month assignment for each taster. The trouble is, tasting is a job that a lad grows more skilled at, the longer he works at it. Ivan Czupak is the best taster we've had; he can tell the difference 'tween adulterated food and spoiled food nine times out of ten. For the sake of the tribe, it may be that Farnam will have to keep Czupak at his job."

Tyrrell swallowed around the aching lump in his throat. "Did Farnam order him to become a taster?"

"Oh, no, he won the job by a straw-draw. The other lads competing were hot in heart at losing." Pickens gave a quirk of a smile at Tyrrell's dumbfounded expression. "It's a thing of high honor to be named taster – Czupak has the most dangerous job in this prison. Tasters are ten times more like to die than Ahiga's watch-hounds. To be frank," he said, putting his arm around Tyrrell's back as they reached the protective barrier of the hounds guarding the food, "I wouldn't have the courage."

"Bring the tin back when you're through eating," said Magnus, handing Tyrrell his share of the rations. "If you don't, Ahiga's watch-hounds will break your neck."

Tyrrell decided not to ask whether Magnus meant that literally. "Thank you," he replied, taking the tin and casting a worried glance at the jagged edges where the tin had been cut open. He had seen the claimed lads being handed bone spoons as they were given the rations for their men, but evidently his own rank did not allow for such luxuries. He would somehow have to figure out a way to eat the food without slicing his fingers open.

Not, he thought gloomily, that he had any desire for his meal. Staring down at the peas, which looked suspiciously green to him, he thought longingly of Mercy's grainy gruel, tasteless beans, and undrinkable coffee. He had never thought to be thankful at Mercy that his food was merely unappetizing, not deadly.

Stepping out of the queue, he looked round for Pickens, but the lad was nowhere in sight. Pickens had waited only long enough to see that Magnus, who knew Tyrrell, was handing out the little men's rations; then he had disappeared into the greater men's area. Now Tyrrell slowly made his way through the little men's area, searching for a place to sit. Various crates were scattered throughout the area, but they all seemed to be taken by little men who avoided his eye. Finally he sat down cross-legged on the ground, first checking to see that he was not sitting on anything as nasty as his food. The floor was surprisingly clean and felt pleasantly warm under the early afternoon sun. Ignoring the legs striding back and forth beside him, Tyrrell closed his eyes for a moment and savored the feel of sunlight on his skin.

He had never known sunlight at Mercy; the prison had no windows, only ventilation slits that worked barely well enough to bring in stale air. The air here was fresh, and the prisoners here smelled no worse than at Mercy. Tyrrell wondered why that was the case; if water was rationed here, then surely they would not be able to bathe?

He shrugged this thought aside and focussed his attention on the smells. Amidst the pungent odor of prisoners, he could smell something more unpleasant. Not the privy smell; that he would have recognized. This odor reminded him of the awful time in his childhood when he had sucked upon a penny and vomited from the taste. . . .

He opened his eyes and looked down at the suspiciously green peas. Oh. Of course.

Pickens appeared suddenly, crouching down at his side. "What's wrong? Is your food spoiled?"

"Adulterated with copper, I have mind," Tyrrell said gloomily.

"Oh, well, that will fall at times when you're a little man – if Farnam's men and lads don't have enough G food to yield, you'll draw some of the A food. One or three tins like that won't hurt you."

Tyrrell carefully placed the tin on the ground. "I'll hold for my supper, thanks."

Pickens said nothing, merely raised his eyebrows.

Tyrrell felt a by-now-familiar clenching in his chest. "No supper?"

Pickens ran his fingers lightly round the sides of the tin. "How many meals a day did they yield you at Mercy?"

"Three. Gruel and coffee at breakfast, potatoes and beans and maizebread at lunch . . ." His voice trailed off as he watched Pickens finger the tin. "Yield me back my food, you thief. I'm hungry after all."

Pickens laughed, shoving the tin in his direction. "Don't worry, I've never stolen from mates. Some fellows here would, though. Best to munch your food now."

Tyrrell did so, dealing with the problem of the jagged edges by simply pouring the contents of the tin into his mouth. As he searched the tin with his eye to see whether he had missed any peas, he said, "You've eaten already?"

"Nay, Shuji is holding my food for now."

"I had mind that was what you went to fetch."

Pickens shook his head. He was still crouched beside Tyrrell rather than sitting, the position of a street-lad who is ever alert to attack. "I went to see Farnam. Something is wrong with Czupak, for sure; no folk in this prison ever gain pounds. Even Farnam has lost weight here, and he's the sort that gains weight if he so much as sniffs a grain of maizemeal."

"What did Farnam give tale to you?"

"That he'd check on Czupak when he had a chance. —You missed a bit there." He pointed at the tin.

"Thanks." Tyrrell managed to scoop out a tiny fragment of a pea without cutting himself. "I can't believe that every folk survive here on these types of rations."

"Oh, you'll get a bigger share of the rations once you're a greater man," Pickens responded. "But aye, it's a miracle any of us are alive."

"Starke gave tale of that too, about him surviving the riot here."

Pickens let his breath escape between his teeth. "He would. Bloody, self-centered bastard." He spoke without any particular heat in his voice. "Better yield your tin back now, or Magnus will send his lads looking for you. He has a perfect memory for who has turned in their tin. —No, hold, let me look at it first." He forestalled Tyrrell from rising, taking the tin into his hand. Holding up the tin to the light, he scrutinized its interior carefully, like a jeweller examining a setting. "You missed a bit again. 'Tis hidden just under the shadow of that jagged edge there."

Tyrrell swore under his breath before saying, "You've got eyes like a cat."

"After a thousand nights spent burgling dark houses? I've got eyes like an Ammippian. If you crave practice in night-prowling, try robbing the houses near the residences of the magisterial seats. Best-watched part of the city, with patrol soldiers that could see a pinprick of light at a window, and oh gods above and below, you won't crave to fall into the hands of the captain of the patrol. A terror out of Hell's dominion, he is, as like to hang you on the spot as he is to arrest you, and he doesn't waste time checking to see if you're innocent 'fore he orders his men to pin you to the ground while he kicks his big boots into your stomach . . ."

Tyrrell let his mind wander away from this pleasant recital, which matched his own memories of Mip City's patrol soldiers. His thoughts were on other matters.

The food had by now been distributed to all but some of the unclaimed lads – their queues were much longer than the queues of the men and claimed lads – yet all of the different ranks, he saw, were remaining within their own spaces. Nothing seemed to keep the little men separate from the greater men other than their own will-power, but the cause of the unclaimed lads' lack of mobility was clear enough: Ahiga's watch-hounds were stationed at the northern edge of the little men's territory, spaced at regular intervals, turning their heads to and fro as they scrutinized the unclaimed lads.

The lads ignored their guards. They were all sitting on the floor; there were no crates for seats in the unclaimed lads' territory. The lads were clustered in small groups of three, four – no more than ten at a time. They all seemed absorbed in their food and their low chatter, but every now and then, one of the lads would suddenly rise and move over to join another group. There seemed to be no set pattern to this rising and joining, yet somehow, within the space of a very short time, the groups had shifted, so that each group had a new member whom it had not had before.

Tyrrell cast another glance at the watch-hounds, wondering whether they recognized what he recognized. Possibly not; even he wouldn't have known what was happening if it were not that he had undertaken the same sleight of hand back at Mercy.

Large gatherings to discuss matters of conspiracy were dangerous; he and Merrick had known that from the start. So they never permitted large gatherings. The prisoners would talk with their cell-mates, and then, while at their work, one of the cell-mates would find an opportunity to talk to a prisoner who was housed in another cell, who would convey what he learned to his own cell-mates. . . . Messages could be passed on surprisingly quickly in this manner, without the guards ever suspecting.

Of course, once some of the guards had pledged themselves to keep the Boundaries of Behavior, communication had travelled far more quickly; those guards could easily pass on messages without anyone having the power to stop them. But in the early years, all suggestions concerning enforcement and changes to the Boundaries had been made at the level of two or three men: the number of men in each cell. Their suggestions would be passed on to other prisoners, who would either express their approval or else reject the ideas, until, by the time that the suggestions reached Tyrrell and Merrick, the two of them would have a good idea of what the consensus was of the Boundaries-bound prisoners, and could use that information to help them make the final decision.

Tyrrell, now almost entirely oblivious to Pickens's chatter about the best way to burgle a house that has an armed guard, laid his chin upon his knee, trying to still his look of growing interest into an expression more idle. Where were the lads taking their information? That was the question. If they timed their communications well enough, nobody should be able to guess their final destination, for some of those message-carriers were false trails – prisoners heading back and forth between groups that had long since made their decision. Yet one of the groups here must hold the leader or leaders, who were waiting to learn the thoughts of the lads they led.

After a while, Tyrrell focussed his attention on a group of three lads who were neither sending nor receiving information. They were close enough that he could hear their conversation, which was about korfball champions. All three lads seemed to be blithely unaware of the lower-voiced conversations taking place around them.

One of the lads Tyrrell recognized immediately: he was the monkey-faced prisoner who had tried to escape Compassion Prison upon Tyrrell's arrival. The lad had big, deep-set eyes, a button nose that nearly collided with his mouth, and what would have been a beard if it had not been so patchy and if it had not extended into unexpected regions of his face: one tuft of hair extended over the bridge of his nose. His disagreeable looks were matched by the sobriety of his expression. He was sprawled on his stomach, listening silently to the other lads; he looked to be about Tyrrell's age.

The other two lads were younger, in their twenties. They seemed as mismatched as a music-hall routine. One, with not a hair out of place, and with what remained of a pair of eyeglasses – the right lense was missing – looked as though he would have been at home in a university library, though his accent was that of a commoner. The resemblance to Farnam was striking, but this lad was thinner – much, much thinner, with bones that stared out from his body. He rarely smiled, and his voice was always level, even when his thoughts on korfball champions were expressed forcefully. He had red hair, but there was no fire to his words, simply the type of deliberate, measured speech that a professor might use in a classroom.

The other lad was quite different. His hair was scruffy, his drawers sagged in odd places, and he had a very dirty cloth round one of his legs. Though the red-headed lad sat still, never moving his hands as he talked, the dark-haired lad next to him was continually moving: shifting, pounding his fists on the floor, exploding into gesticulations to make his points, his voice rising and lowering to mark the progress of the conversation, and all the while his bare feet drummed the floor, as though he were a soldier on the march.

All three lads were so absorbed in the conversation that they seemed to have forgotten about their food, though they cradled the tins with instinctive protection. The red-headed lad had just said something that raised a smile from the monkey-faced lad, when suddenly the red-headed lad's head whipped round. He stared into the little men's section.

For a moment, Tyrrell thought the lad had noticed his interest. Then Tyrrell saw what the lad had seen: watch-hounds were beginning to step into the unclaimed lads' territory. They were carrying more of the wooden spears that were fashioned out of the old cell-door bars – two to each man. These hounds were new, making their way through the little men's territory first, as the little men gradually fell silent, watching them pass. As the new hounds passed the ones on guard at the border of the unclaimed lads' territory, they handed each territory guard their extra spear, which the territory guards, with the smoothness of long practice, twirled down till it was facing the lads. More guards took up positions at the edge of the territory, until the boundary between the unclaimed lads and the little men looked like a row of porcupine quills.

"Uh-oh." Pickens, who had fallen silent a moment before, spoke quietly.

"Trouble?" said Tyrrell, his voice hushed.

"Aye. Regrets; I must go." Pickens rose to his feet. Hosobuchi had paused nearby and was gesturing to him; the claimed lad hurried over to his man's side. Shuji was there as well, and so was Ahiga. The true man's hand was bare of any spear; instead, he had taken his dagger from the sheath around his neck and was holding it lightly in his palm, in a casual manner that spoke of long experience with blades.

Tyrrell slowly rose to his feet to see better. All around the unclaimed lads' territory, prisoners were standing up, some looking bewildered, some frightened, some angry, some merely grim. The red-headed lad was on his feet now; Tyrrell could not read the expression in his face, but he caught the urgency of his tone as the lad turned to speak to his companions.

The monkey-faced lad, who had scrambled to his feet also, nodded and quickly drew away to stand with a nearby group. The dark-haired lad, though he had risen, was furiously arguing against whatever the red-headed lad was telling him.

Their argument was cut short by a high-pitched moan; it came from deep within the unclaimed lads' territory. The dark-haired lad pivoted on his heel to look, as did many of the unclaimed lads.

The red-headed lad did not even glance in the direction of the moan. His eye was on Ahiga, who had turned to say something to Hosobuchi. Hosobuchi nodded and then spoke briefly to his two lads. Pickens and Shuji immediately departed in opposite directions, disappearing into the crowd of little men who were gathering with curiosity at the northern edge of their territory. A minute later, Hosobuchi's lads reappeared, stepping into the unclaimed lads' territory at several yards apart from each other. They had spears in their hands now. Ignoring the unclaimed lads who shrank away at their approach, Pickens and Shuji began to circle round, heading toward a middle point in a semi-circle—

—and at that moment, Tyrrell realized whose escape they had been sent behind to block.

From the right-left flicker of the red-headed lad's eyes, Tyrrell guessed that the lad knew too, but he never moved. His gaze returned to Ahiga, who was carefully surveying all that was taking place within the territory. Another moan broke out; this one sounded like the cry of a mourning dove. Nearby, several of the hounds were beginning to scuffle with a lad who was shouting obscenities at them, but Ahiga, after glancing their way, seemed satisfied that they had the matter at hand. With his dagger-hilt still pressed in his palm, he stepped into the unclaimed lad's territory. Hosobuchi followed, one step behind him, on his right.

The red-headed lad remained motionless as they came forward. The dark-haired lad fell silent; he had his arm round the red-headed lad's waist, and his mouth was moving silently, though whether with prayers or with curses, Tyrrell could not tell.

Ahiga came to a halt in front of the two lads. He was the same age as them, but was half a head taller than the red-headed lad, who had to tilt his head to look up at the true man. Tyrrell still could not tell from his expression what he was thinking.

"Jensen," said Ahiga, "you know why I am here."

His voice was soft, but could be clearly heard, for all of the lads in the surrounding groups, who had been muttering amidst themselves, had fallen silent when the true man stepped into their territory.

The red-headed lad lifted his eyebrows. "To return to your home?"

A couple of the lads nearby gave nervous laughs, quickly stifled. Ahiga ignored them. He said, "You have been accused of granting to Price food, in the days after he was ousted from the tribe."

"Was he ousted from our tribe?" Jensen's voice was chillily polite. "I had not heard that."

His speech seemed to have some inner meaning, for several of the listening lads clapped hands over their mouths, and the dark-haired lad stirred next to him, looking uneasy.

Unperturbed, Ahiga said, "He was ousted from the Tribe of Compassion Prison on week's end, for conspiracy against the true men – he planned to kill us and distribute the surplus food in the armory to the unclaimed lads. Do you deny that you know this?"

Jensen's gaze did not waver from Ahiga's face. "I deny that I conspired to use force against anyone. I have no wish to see any man or lad harmed. Who accuses me?"

Ahiga turned slightly, beckoning with his hand. Tyrrell felt something brush by him, and turned in time to see two watch-hounds step forward, escorting a prisoner. Tyrrell caught a glimpse of the man's face as he passed; it looked as empty as the face of a ghost.

For the first time, an expression appeared on Jensen's face; his lips thinned, and his eyes grew hard. He looked back at Ahiga, who said, "Price asked Walker to claim him last night. The true men granted him pardon, on condition that he reveal who helped him in his plans to overturn the rule of the true men. You deny that you helped him?"

"I deny it." Jensen's voice had turned brittle. "I was asked to help, and I refused. He wanted to be a true man to the unclaimed lads. I didn't think he was the sort of which true men are made." His gaze travelled over to the prisoner. The contempt was clear in his voice as he said, "It seems I was right."

The prisoner did not stir. Ahiga waved with his hand; the escorts turned and half-dragged Price back the way he had come. As they did so, Tyrrell saw the prisoner's empty face again, and he frowned. The vacant eyes, the slack muscles in his face, the drool at the edges of his mouth . . . Not sweetweed, no; sweetweed heightened the senses and the body's responses. But someone, Tyrrell was willing to swear, had been feeding this lad drugs of some sort.

Ahiga said, with all the formality of a patient magistrate, "You deny helping him in his plans to kill us. Do you deny feeding him once he was ousted from the tribe?"

Jensen's steady gaze had returned to the true man. "I wouldn't let a dog die of starvation."

"You know the penalty for feeding an ousted prisoner," Ahiga said.

"No!" It was the dark-haired lad, stepping forward, his face twisted in agony. "No, it's my fault! It's my food he gave to Price—"

"Be quiet!" Jensen reached forward and grabbed the dark-haired lad's arm.

"Yes, it is quiet you need be," Ahiga agreed. "Or is it that you want Jensen to be charged with two offenses – one for giving the food, and one for giving the food of another lad?"

The dark-haired lad let himself be pulled back by the other, his face now filled with uncertainty. Jensen waited only long enough to ascertain that his companion would not speak again; then he said to Ahiga, "It was my own tins that I gave."

"And you knew the penalty?" Again, Ahiga sounded like a patient magistrate, exploring all possible avenues of innocence.

For a minute, Jensen was silent; all that could be heard, other than the moans and shouts and sobs elsewhere in the unclaimed lads' territory, was the muffled sound that the dark-haired lad made as he turned and pressed his mouth against Jensen's shoulder.

Then Jensen gave a quirk of a smile. He held out the tin, with its contents still untouched.

Ahiga took it from him with his left hand. "You accept the punishment," he said, like a magistrate finishing a case.

"I don't want to fight you, Ahiga." The lad's voice was quiet, and his smile remained, but it did not touch his eyes.

"And the fact that you do not wish to fight the true men makes a difference here, among the other lads. I have not forgotten that." He swiftly sheathed his blade with his right hand. "Three days' ousting."

Jensen's smile disappeared; he looked as astonished as though he had just been plunged into ice-cold water.

The dark-haired lad, raising his face from the other lad's shoulders, looked equally dumbfounded. "Three days? Only three days? Not a permanent ousting?"

"Three days," Ahiga confirmed. "We are likely to be watered by the guards before the end of those days, so your thirst till then will be no greater than the other lads'. No food, though. No food, no medicine, no blanket, no clothes – no tribal comfort."

"Soap?" The dark-haired lad had recovered quickly; Tyrrell could imagine him as a grocer in a store, driving a hard bargain with a customer.

For the first time, the suggestion of a smile appeared on Ahiga's face. "Soap he shall have, or I must face the wrath of Farnam for allowing ousted prisoners to spread sickness. But no food." He began to turn away.

"Ahiga." Jensen's voice had grown very quiet; his face was unrevealing once more. As the true man turned back, Jensen said, "I would do the same again, if the chance was offered to me."

"Would you, now?" Ahiga cocked his head to one side. "And what say you if I told you that, the next time you did this, I would oust, not you, but your mate?" He flicked his fingers toward the dark-haired lad, as though scattering seeds.

Jensen did not speak. Ahiga glanced at the dark-haired lad and said, "The same for you. Do not feed Jensen or the permanently ousted lads" – he spread his hands in the direction of the parts of the territory from which the other sounds were coming – "if you do not want Jensen ousted, and ousted for the final time. —Yes, what is it?" He turned to look at a claimed lad who had just skidded to a halt next to him.

"My man's pardon, sir." The lad gulped in air, his chest heaving. "We've had some trouble with Edwards. He didn't take the news of his ousting well."

Ahiga frowned. "How did he take it?"

"He had a pocket knife hidden in the waistband of his drawers, sir. He tried to put it through my man's heart."

Ahiga closed his eyes. "That was . . . not wise of him." Opening his eyes, he said to the lad, "Go to Walker. Tell him that, as he had predicted, his services to the tribe are needed. —Hosobuchi," he said as the panting lad scurried off in the direction of the back of the prison. "See that all is settled here, and then have my hounds gather the unclaimed lads and take them to the platform. —Who are you?"

His abrupt question was addressed to the monkey-faced lad, who had been sliding unobtrusively forward, in the direction of his two companions. The monkey-faced lad froze in his tracks, like a rat sighted while taking meal from a sack.

"Babaqi," Jensen replied. "He was committed to this prison two months ago. You've spoken to him before."

"You make no sense." Ahiga's voice was brusque. "I would remember such a face as that. He is known to you? Both of you?" He turned his gaze to and fro between the two lads.

The dark-haired lad said nothing. Jensen said quietly, "He has become our friend."

"Good. Then I must question him to see what he knows of this. —Come with me." He gestured toward the monkey-faced lad – an impatient gesture. The monkey-faced lad looked hesitantly at Jensen, who gave a barely perceptible nod; then Babaqi allowed himself to be pulled away by Ahiga.

At the last moment, Ahiga – in a careless manner, as though he did not notice what he was doing – tossed the tin Jensen had given him into the hands of the dark-haired lad.

The dark-haired lad stared at the tin with astonishment. Jensen smiled for the first time since Ahiga's arrival; then his smile faded as Hosobuchi said something to him. With his face once more expressionless, Jensen pulled off his drawers and handed them to the greater man. As he did so, his eye wandered beyond Hosobuchi, beyond the watch-hounds guarding the perimeter, and lit upon Tyrrell, who was still standing silently, watching the scene.

For a brief moment, the lad's eye lingered on Tyrrell; then he looked away, the crowd moved, and Tyrrell lost sight of him.
 

CHAPTER SEVEN

Within a short time, the crowd had shifted considerably. Unclaimed lads were shepherded by the watch-hounds out of their territory, in the direction of the back of the prison. A handful of the lads, like Jensen, were now naked; their expressions ranged from stoicism to despair. None of the unclaimed lads, Tyrrell gathered, were being given any choice as to their destination; they were prodded along by the hounds.

Many of the little men had begun to drift toward the back of the prison as well. Tyrrell hesitated, uncertain whether he wanted to see whatever spectacle was being prepared there. Then, with relief, he caught sight of Pickens coming toward him.

Pickens had shed his spear somewhere along the way, and with it his gravity; he was smiling again. When he reached Tyrrell, he gestured toward Ahiga, who had taken the monkey-faced lad aside and was quietly quizzing him. "Well?" he said.

It took Tyrrell a moment to formulate his reply. "The prisoner is drawn to the courtroom. He is given knowing of the charges against him and is allowed the chance to meet the person who accused him of his crimes. He is yielded the chance to defend himself. He denies one of the charges, and his denial is trusted. He is asked whether the second charge is true. He is asked whether he had knowing that he was breaking the law. When he confesses his guilt, his yielding to the magistrate and his good name in the tribe are taken into account, and he is yielded a light sentence." Tyrrell shook his head slowly. "Pickens, I wasn't knowing that any magistrates that fair yet existed."

Pickens grinned. "Ahiga is a wonder, isn't he? Now you have knowing why I'm liking to work for him." His grin faded, and he cocked his head. "You don't look happy."

"I'm not," said Tyrrell bluntly. "Where I come from, feeding a starving person isn't a crime. 'Tis for sure not a death-sentence crime."

Pickens started to reply, and then fell silent. The area where they stood was now much emptier than before; only a few little men lingered, along with Farnam's men and lads, who were carefully cleaning up from the day's rationing, watched over by a handful of the watch-hounds. One of Farnam's men appeared at Tyrrell's elbow and, without a word, plucked the empty tin from his hand.

The prison had grown very quiet; the only sound nearby was of Ahiga, continuing to interrogate the unclaimed lad in an undertone. Finally Pickens said, "I'll tell the tale this way. Figure that you were a member of a tribe. You had pledged to place the best interests of the tribe above all else – above your own life and the lives of any single one of your brothers in the tribe. And then figure that you were all starving for lack of food. Figure that one of your fellow lads plotted to kill the tribe leaders and yield the food to his friends. His plot was discovered, and he was ousted from the tribe. Then you discovered that some of the remaining lads in the tribe were feeding this lad, yielding him the chance to plot new conspiracies against the tribe. What would your leaders do to the lads who had helped the conspirator?"

Tyrrell was silent a long time before saying, "They would kill the lads."

Pickens nodded. "And not even that was done to the lads here. They were simply ousted."

"But if they're permanently ousted, they'll starve—"

"Only if they're stiff-necked with pride," Pickens said flatly. "Edwards was a fool. If he'd gone to the true men, knelt down, admitted his guilt, promised never to break tribal customs again, and pleaded with them to let him back into the tribe, chances are that they would have turned the turtle over on their sentence. They did that last night, with Price. That's why the true men almost never pass a sentence of execution. Only if a tribal member is a right-away danger, as I was, will they call for right-away death."

"But Edwards only panicked when he was ousted. If the true men didn't punish him further—"

"He was a lad. He attacked a man. Any lad who attacks a man is sent to death. Edwards had knowing of that as well as the rest of us lads do."

Tyrrell fell silent; he could not bring his mind beyond the past tense in the words that Pickens had spoken. Finally he said, "He'll draw death, then."

"Aye. The execution is now. You won't crave to watch," he added, though Tyrrell had not moved. "Walker's executions are . . . not pleasant."

Tyrrell felt the walls of his throat touch each other. "I had mind you gave tale 'fore that Valdis was the tribe's executioner."

Pickens shrugged. His gaze had wandered away to Ahiga, who seemed in no hurry to release the lad from the bondage of their conversation. "I'd have drawn a quick death from Valdis, 'cause I hadn't meant to kill Rios. In a case where a lad tries to kill a man, though . . ."

"How?" Tyrrell said finally. He didn't really want to know, but he felt he must know.

"Strangling. Walker takes his time about it."

"Mercy save us." Tyrrell looked away, trying to regain control of his stomach. It was the bad food he had eaten, he told himself, and knew himself to be a liar. Looking back at Pickens, he said, in a tone that tried to be light, "What was Walker in his old life, a butcher?"

Pickens shook his head, returning his gaze to Tyrrell. "Pathologist."

"Pathologist!" Tyrrell stared at Pickens. "What in Hell's name is a pathologist doing in prison? What did he do, kill the men whose corpses he looked at for signs of murder?"

Pickens's mouth twisted into something that was not quite a smile. "I wouldn't be surprised. But the only crime he was charged with was assassination."

"Assassination." Tyrrell continued to stare at him. "Who did he assassinate?"

"The Mippite ambassador to Yclau. . . . Ah, you've caught tale of him, then," he added, seeing Tyrrell's expression change.

"I have mind I've done so," said Tyrrell slowly. "It fell after I was put down in prison, so I only caught tale of snippets. It was a deport case, wasn't it? The crime, it took in Yclau territory, but their Queen let our magisterial seats try the prisoner in Mip's high court. I caught tale that the assassin was an Yclau religious fanatic."

"That's Walker – as fanatical as they come. He has mind that, when some folk is straying from the truth, that person must be 'helped' into transformation and rebirth. The Mippite ambassador didn't trust in rebirth after death, so Walker 'helped' him into rebirth with the aid of a Thunderer pistol."

"Damnation to all mankind." The situation seemed to demand no less a powerful oath than this. "How did a man of that kind grow to be a leader among Compassion's prisoners?"

"In truth?" Pickens's voice went soft. "I have mind Valdis is afraid of him. There's a tale going round that, early on, Valdis ordered one of his claimed men to challenge Walker. The man had orders to kill Walker during the challenge. Before the man yet had the chance to issue his challenge, he died of cramps in the belly. No folk has tried to challenge Walker since then."

"Cramps in the belly." He was beginning to feel very dull-headed, repeating every sentence that Pickens spoke, but he was having a hard time grasping the enormity of the situation.

Pickens' gaze wandered into space. "Pathologists," he said, "must have a good knowing of poisons."

After a minute more, Tyrrell said, "Pickens, this is terrible. The tribe can't have a man of that kind leading them."

Pickens came out of his reverie and shrugged. "It's not as bad a picture as I've sketched it. Valdis was clever when he placed Walker in charge of the dying and the dead. Walker is as happy as a puppy in a mud puddle these days. He gets the chance to lecture the dying about how they'll be reborn after death – and for some of the dying prisoners here, 'tis a comfort to them to catch tale of such words. Walker, he has grown to be like a chaplain to us."

"So he doesn't murder any more," said Tyrrell with relief.

Pickens licked his lips with a quick flick of the tongue. "Well, every now and then, some lad who has been yielding the true men problems dies during the night. Doesn't fall very often, and 'tis only ever an unclaimed lad—"

Pickens halted. He could not have spoken further, for over the silence in the prison had risen a long, ragged, wordless scream.

It ended abruptly, mangled into silence by some greater force. Tyrrell, who had whirled round in the direction of the scream, tore his gaze away from the sight of the prison's back wall, long enough to look round him. The few men and lads who had not crowded up to the true men's platform had gone still; all of them were looking toward the back of the prison. Even Ahiga had fallen silent; his fingers bit into the flesh of the monkey-faced lad's arm. The monkey-faced lad was breathing quickly and shallowly, as though the fingers had cut him like a knife, but his face was turned away from Ahiga, toward the sound of the scream.

The silence lengthened. One minute passed, and then two; Tyrrell counted the seconds under his breath. The only sound now came from the front of the prison, where an occasional laugh from a guard could be heard.

When three minutes had passed, Tyrrell whispered to Pickens, "It must be over by now."

Pickens shook his head without looking Tyrrell's way.

Six full minutes passed before a collective sigh came from the onlookers at the back of the prison, like the sound of a long-awaited wave hitting a cliff. Tyrrell used his undervest sleeve to wipe the sweat off his face, and tried to think of something to say. Pickens seemed no more inclined to talk than Tyrrell did; he was toeing the ground with his dusty boot, avoiding Tyrrell's eye.

Men began to drift back into the little men's area. Some of them were smiling and laughing. Tyrrell was not surprised. He had seen the same thing happen during public whippings at Mercy. In any prison filled with violent men, some prisoners would enjoy watching another prisoner suffer. Yet more men would try to cover their discomfort with dark jokes. Tyrrell had told more than a few of those jokes in his own time.

He could not do so now. His mind was still filled with what he had not seen: Edwards, struggling to breathe, his throat contracting under Walker's hands; then a little easing of the hangman's noose, a little air let in, a sliver of life to extend the suffering before the noose tightened once more. . . .

There was a rustle of movement, and then the crowd parted, making way for Walker, who held the dead lad in his arms.

Walker's face was as bleak as though his own son had died. Behind him, their left wrists encircled with the black cloth of their service, came Walker's men and lads, chanting softly – so softly that their death prayers were nearly swallowed by the chatter of the prisoners nearby.

Pickens, frowning, caught hold of an unclaimed lad who was passing by. Tyrrell did not hear the question he asked, but the lad replied tersely, "He wouldn't give permission. Selfish bastard."

"Perhaps his faith forbade it," Pickens suggested.

"He was an atheist." The lad jerked his arm away from Pickens and walked toward the unclaimed lads' area.

Tyrrell asked, "Is he blaming Edwards for something?"

Pickens shrugged. "He's hot in heart at the true men, I'd be figuring, but he can't give tale to that anger, so he's throwing it out on Edwards."

"But what in the names of the gods above and below is he hot in heart at? How was Edwards selfish?"

Pickens merely shook his head. His eye was on Walker and his band of men and lads, who had reached the gate. The unclaimed lads' territory was still relatively empty; Tyrrell could just see the figures of the guards rising to their feet.

Pugh called, "Bring out the used barrels and crates too. We're not going to open this gate twice this afternoon. —Niesely, tell FitzGerald we've a body for her crematorium. Cause of death?" he asked Walker in a perfunctory manner.

"He stopped breathing." The respondent was Valdis, who had made his way up to the gate; his voice was colorless. Nearby, Farnam was issuing orders to the men who had served as runners earlier in the day. Ahiga, who had released the monkey-faced lad from his scrutiny, gave a high-pitched whistle, and within seconds, he was surrounded by watch-hounds.

In due time, the corpse was placed outside the gate. As Niesely disappeared from view with the corpse in his arms, Pugh came forward to inspect the barrels and crates. "You're one barrel short," he announced after a short while.

"We need it to piss our tinklings." Valdis was leaning sideways against the metal bars of the gate, his arms folded, as though he were a street-lad idling on a corner.

"So? Once the barrel is filled with urine, you're supposed to deliver it to us for disposal. The numbers don't add up, Valdis."

Valdis shrugged and looked at Ahiga, as though handing the argument over to him. Farnam and Walker had both retreated to the back of the prison, talking in low voices as they went.

Ahiga said, "If you feed us more food, then it may happen we'll give you more urine."

The prisoners around him chortled. Pugh merely said in a bored voice, "Spare the poor-suffering-me speeches for your victims, Ahiga. Send out the barrel."

"Or you'll do what? Come in here and get it? I think you have not the manhood for that, Pugh." The contempt in Ahiga's voice was plain.

Pugh looked up from where was inspecting the empty tins in one of the barrels. There was no anger in his eyes, merely the sort of bored irritation that a man might have if he found himself pestered by a fly. "Is that your lad beside you, Ahiga? He's a nice-looking lad – wouldn't you say so, men?"

Ahiga stiffened. The guards all murmured agreement with Pugh's words. Starke, sitting at the gunners' post with a cigarette drooping from one corner of his mouth, said, "Very nice." As he spoke, he turned the machine rifle so that it was pointed straight at Shuji.

From where he stood, several yards behind them both, Tyrrell could not see Shuji's expression, but he saw how Ahiga's arm immediately went round the lad, as though the lad needed support. A small smile played across Pugh's face, then disappeared, as though it had never been there.

Ahiga said, his voice raw, "Some day you will die when playing such games, Pugh. I swear it by my ancestors' spirits."

Pugh turned his attention back to the barrels. "Spare me your empty Ammippian boasts, cannibal. Just give me the barrel."

For a moment more, Ahiga stood motionless. Pickens, who was still standing beside Tyrrell, muttered something under his breath that sounded like a vow of death to Hell. Then Ahiga turned his head and barked an order. A couple of the runners immediately raced toward the privy.

"What is all that about?" Tyrrell muttered to Pickens. "Do we crave extra barrels for their wood? Or for their metal hoops?"

"That too," said Pickens in an equally low voice. "But in the main we crave barrels to store tinklings. We stay part of the tinklings back and use it to tan leather."

"Couldn't Ahiga just give tale to that? There's no danger to prisoners tanning leather, is there?"

Pickens gave him a long look.

Tyrrell grimaced. "I'm being naive, aye?"

"Not naive; you just don't have knowing enough yet. You're but yet new here." Pickens gently turned Tyrrell so that he was facing the back of the prison. "See now, I must check whether Hosobuchi has any tasks for me this afternoon. If not, I'll show you the rest of Farnam's workplaces, in case you crave to work for him."

"What sort of work do you do most times?" Tyrrell asked as they walked back.

"Night patrol, half the month. I have day duties the other two weeks of the month – this week, as it chances. Otherwise, I'd be asleep at this time of the day."

Tyrrell looked dubiously round at the crowded prison. "I'm surprised the other prisoners don't trample on you."

Pickens smiled. "They'd end up trampling on Hosobuchi as well, and then they'd be challenged by Ahiga. Nobody craves to be challenged by Ahiga."

"Pickens," Tyrrell said slowly, "about that knife Ahiga carries . . ."

But his words were cut off as the prison gate screamed its alarm. Pickens twisted round, and as Tyrrell turned his head, he saw that the gate was opening for the fourth time that day.

"What is it?" he shouted in Pickens's ear.

"New prisoner," Pickens shouted back. "Must be – they'd never open the gate otherwise. Crave to come and see the trial?"

"Er . . ." Tyrrell did not speak for a moment. His eye was on a figure that he could just glimpse on the balcony overlooking the prison gate. The figure had a cap with a metal brim that shimmered under the electric lights. But even as Tyrrell caught sight of it, the figure turned and walked away, in the direction of the west end of the prison.

"Nay," said Tyrrell, watching Tom Keeper's departure. "Nay, I don't have mind I'll watch."

Evening lay across Compassion Prison like a blanket. The sun had shifted out of view long ago; now the prison was lit only by the darkening sky, as deep a blue as the sea outside, and by the harsh electric light that poured in through the gate.

Tyrrell, standing at the gate, cast a quick look at the three lads near him. None of them were taking any notice of his presence. They seemed as absorbed in conversation as they had been earlier in the day, and from the lightness of their manner, one would think that nothing had occurred to disrupt the day. The only sign of discomfort was the goose-pimples on Jensen's naked skin as the evening cool seeped into the prison.

Jensen's thoughts, though, were on a different matter entirely.

"You shouldn't have put a dirty cloth on your leg, Olumbo," he said. "It will only make it worse."

The dark-haired lad shrugged, glancing down at the rag. "It doesn't matter. The bullet only grazed me."

"Let me see." The monkey-faced lad, Babaqi, fell down on his knees and began carefully unwrapping the rag.

As he did so, Olumbo asked him, "What did Ahiga want to question you about, Babaqi? That's the fourth time he's pulled you aside since you arrived."

Babaqi shrugged. "Nothing, really. He keeps forgetting that he's already interrogated me."

Jensen frowned. "Ahiga isn't the sort to forget people."

"Why should he remember me? I'm not important to him."

The fierceness of Babaqi's reply caused the other two lads to exchange looks. Babaqi, scrutinizing Olumbo's wound, added, "Your leg looks all right."

"As I said." Olumbo shrugged, turning the conversation back to the place where it had been before. "Anyway, where could I get a clean bandage from?"

"Ngugi," Jensen replied. "He'll give one to an unclaimed lad, if you ask nicely. A new medicine kit was brought in with today's rations – I saw it."

Olumbo shrugged again, turning his attention to the guards as he tapped his fingers on the bars. "Maybe in three days, when our ousting is done."

There was a small silence. Babaqi started to say something, and then ducked his head, tying the bandage back on.

Jensen said, "It could be a matter of life and death—"

"So's our vow. Let's not argue. You know you'd do the same if it was me who'd been ousted." He gripped the bars of the gate, frowning as he stared out at the guards. "Gods, I hope I'm not picked again. I've drawn a black straw three times this week; the odds are against me."

"Maybe one of us will get Starke," suggested Babaqi, rising to his feet. "I've heard that he gives his lads supper beforehand. And he gives you silver pot-herb to chew so that it doesn't hurt as much when he enters, and he never hits you or yells at you, and he lets you sleep in the bed all night afterwards—"

"I had Starke once." Jensen leaned his forehead against his forearm, which was resting on one of the crossbars of the gate; his face was hidden from view. "The first man I ever had, two days after my arrival here. When I told him I was a virgin and begged him not to rape me, he gave me a long speech about how beautiful lovemaking is, and how I shouldn't be ashamed of my desires. . . . I'd much rather have Landry. I prefer brutality that doesn't disguise itself as something else."

"Well, you won't have Starke again," Olumbo said, slamming his hands against the bars as he turned away from the gate. "He never picks the same lad twice."

"I'd still rather have him," Babaqi argued. "At least he tells you what he wants you to do. Some of the guards try to make you guess, I've heard. That's much too confusing."

Olumbo flashed him a smile. "You won't have any of the guards, the way you're going. Two months here, and you haven't drawn the black straw once."

Babaqi ducked his head again, biting his lip. Jensen said, without moving his gaze, "Don't prick him, Olumbo. He hasn't been claimed by a guard yet, but he's eating the same food we are, wearing the same clothes we are. His chances of surviving in this prison are no better than ours."

"I ate better than you did today," Babaqi said in a small voice. "I shouldn't have eaten from that extra tin. Ahiga gave it to Olumbo, not me."

"And Olumbo gave it to you. It's only a three-day ousting, Babaqi. Olumbo and I won't starve." Jensen finally pushed himself back from the gate. "Hark, here comes Hell's messenger."

Tyrrell turned to look. Walker, trailed by a number of his men and lads, was making his way slowly through the unclaimed lads' territory, pausing in front of each lad and offering him something. Afterwards, he would either pass immediately on to a new lad, or else he would push the lad, not gently, in the direction of the gate. The lads would go in the direction they were pushed, either grumbling or silent.

Looking round, Tyrrell saw that an exodus had taken place around the area of the gate; the only lads there now, other than the three next to him, were the ones that were being pushed there by Walker.

Neither Jensen nor Olumbo moved from their spot. Babaqi looked as though he wanted to, but at that moment Walker sighted him and came forward. He silently offered Babaqi his fist.

Babaqi carefully drew one of the straws from the proffered fist. The hidden part of the straw was the same color as the rest. Babaqi breathed out a long sigh.

"Your luck holds," commented Olumbo and reached out to take his own straw. It emerged from the fist; its hidden part was dusty black.

"Fuck!" shouted Olumbo, stomping his right foot. "Drill! Hell-damn!"

Walker, frowning, gave him an unnecessary shove that forced him up against the bars. Then the true man turned to Jensen.

Jensen looked at Walker's fist without moving. "I'm ousted," he said. "I'm not a member of the Tribe of Compassion Prison at the moment, according to Ahiga. Why should I follow tribal customs while I'm ousted?"

Walker said nothing; his fist did not waver. His men and lads stood silently behind him, wristlets as black as dried blood.

After a while, Jensen gave a quirk of a smile . "Oh, well. Better that I draw the black straw than that a new lad should. At least I already know what all the guards like." He pulled a straw. It emerged black. Jensen turned back toward the gate without speaking.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." Olumbo did not appear to be the sort to take misfortune well; he was slapping his hands over and over against the crossbar. "I've already been claimed twice this month. I'm hell-damned if I'm going to let myself be claimed again."

"It's your good looks," suggested Babaqi with an uneasy laugh. "It makes you irresistible."

"Well, then, you'll never—"

Olumbo broke off abruptly. Jensen said "Comrade" softly to him, but it was too late. Babaqi's skin – of an indeterminate light brown shade that suggested he was of mixed blood – had flooded red. The monkey-faced lad turned his face away; his chin was quivering.

"That was really, really, really stupid of me," said Olumbo slowly. "Babaqi, I'm sorry."

"It's okay." Babaqi's voice shook. "I know I'll never be claimed. I mean, who would want me anyway? I don't have any gifts, not like Davidson."

Jensen had placed his arm around his fellow lad. "You have a warm heart," he said quietly. "You'll find a man who values that."

Babaqi wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "The odds are against me, anyway. How many of us are there? One thousand? Two? And there are so few men to claim us. You've been here seven years, and you're still unclaimed—"

"By my own choice. I've had offers." Jensen released Babaqi and gave him a gentle push. "You'd better get out of view. It's almost time for the claiming, and you know that the guards don't care whether you have a black straw or not. They'd even claim a man, if he was standing in front of the gate at claiming time." For the briefest of seconds, his glance flicked toward Tyrrell; then Jensen turned back toward the gate.

Tyrrell, taking the hint, turned away. He did not follow Babaqi, though, who was making his way toward the back of the unclaimed lads' area, beyond where Ahiga's watch-hounds were beginning to gather a few yards away. Instead, Tyrrell stepped into the small area just to the right of the gate, where the north wall met the east wall. The north wall protected him from the guards' sight, but he could still see the lads gathering at the gate, some continuing to clutch their black straws.

The cluster of hounds was beginning to settle into a line now – a line that curved in a semi-circle round the area nearest the gate, with each end of the line meeting a wall. The hounds had spears in hand, but they appeared relaxed, as though they were not expecting any trouble. Several of them were chatting with the unclaimed lads who had drawn unmarked straws and who were now watching the proceedings from a safe distance, behind the hounds.

A head poked through the crowd there: Pickens, who had left Tyrrell earlier in order to make one of his periodic checks as to whether Hosobuchi required his service. He glanced briefly toward the gate but evidently did not see Tyrrell in the shadowed corner next to the gate, for he turned away.

Tyrrell was beginning to feel as though he had entered a magazine chamber in the moment before someone dropped a match on the gunpowder. He took a step away from the corner and then froze as Olumbo said, "Here they go. Pray to the gods that they don't want us."

The lads standing at the gate, who had been exchanging words, fell silent. There were about four dozen of them – just enough to make a tight line across the length of the gate. Tyrrell moved closer into his corner, until all the lads merged in his sight, and then he peered cautiously round the corner toward the guards.

The guards were in the midst of standing up, stretching themselves. Starke, tossing a cigarette onto the floor and grinding it under his heel, said, "I'm off."

"After the claiming," Pugh replied tersely.

"Keeper's expecting me."

"Not this evening; he's leaving for town in a while. He gave me the key." Pugh took something out of his vest pocket; it glittered in the light before Pugh placed it back in his vest.

Starke pulled a silver case out from the inside of his jacket, opened it, pulled out a wrapped object no bigger than a knuckle, and tapped the object on the case before saying, "So let me through the riot doors now. It's not my turn for a claiming."

"I need you at the guns. —Don't waste my time arguing, Starke," Pugh added as the other guard opened his mouth. "You're off-duty early only on the days when Keeper says you are."

Starke shrugged and returned the object to its silver case. He slipped the case back into his jacket.

"Keeper's lad," said Niesely with something approaching a whine. "How do you enjoy serving your man?"

Starke glanced at Niesely, then away. "Pugh, how in Hell's name do some of these guards get hired? They wouldn't have lasted five seconds doing prison duty here in the years before the riot."

"Conceited and spoiled," agreed Landry; he had already made his way up to the gunners' post and was leaning over the parapet. "They spend all day chatting about polo championships, and they think they've done a day's work."

Niesely's face had turned white. "Turn and look at me when you insult me, Starke," he said in a rough voice.

"Why bother?" Starke replied, walking toward the stairway to the right of the guards' post. "Pugh, keep him out of my path, will you? I have enough problems without having nitwits natter at me."

"You—!" Niesely took a step toward Starke, but was hauled up short by Pugh, who grabbed his collar.

"No fighting," Pugh said.

"You heard what he called me!" Niesely, twisting free, turned toward Pugh, his hands clenched by his sides.

"I heard. And he's right; you're being a nitwit. 'Keeper's lad' indeed." Pugh's voice lost its usual tone of indifference. "I wish that just once you'd think twice before speaking – or at least learn to count."

"Learn to count?" Niesely was looking uneasy now.

"Count years," inserted one of the other guards. "Tom Keeper was twelve when he first came to Compassion. Starke is five years older than him. Who do you think it was that taught Keeper to shoot, when he was a boy? Or to use a whip and a dagger? —Starke's right, Pugh. These newer guards have mush for minds."

There was a grumbling among most of the guards – the newer guards, at a guess. Pugh shrugged. "I don't have charge over hirings. I make do with what I'm given." He looked over at Niesely.

Niesely, after a moment, opted to give a rueful smile. "All right, I can't count. But what's with all those visits to Keeper's office? Tell me that."

"Starke?" Pugh raised his head to look at the other guard, who had just reached his post. "Niesely wants to trade with you. He wants to spend time with Keeper."

"He's welcome to take my place," said Starke, who was busy loading bullets into a spare magazine. "Fifty lines. Make sure you have them memorized by tomorrow evening."

"Fifty lines?" Niesely squinted up at Starke, suspicion written across his face.

"From the Eternal Dungeon's Code of Seeking." Starke paused to pick up and wave a black volume in the air. "He's having me memorize the whole bloody book – eighty pages in all. So, do you want to be Keeper's favored lad, Niesely? That's how he treats guards with 'potential,' as he puts it." Starke swung into his seat. "I'm sick of this. Let's get the claiming over with."

"I agree." Pugh spoke briskly. "Medinger?" He looked up at the balcony, where Medinger had just walked into view.

"Pass," replied the guard, leaning onto the balcony railing.

There was light laughter from the other guards. One of them said, "And you'll keep passing till the magisterial seats send us female prisoners."

"I know that you're not interested in claiming a lad," Pugh said in an annoyed voice. "You're not eligible, anyway. I'm asking about Keeper. It's his turn."

Medinger shook his head. "Our Keeper is passing as well. He's already left for town – didn't you hear the riot doors ring the alarm half an hour ago? He left when I came in from the auxiliary wing."

"What in Hell's name is wrong with Tom Keeper?" asked one of the guards, to nobody in particular. "Is he planning to act like a lovelorn man for the rest of his life?"

"He'll recover," said Pugh. "Whose turn is it next?"

"Yours, as you very well know," said Landry. "I don't think you've forgotten that you're second in rank here."

"Maybe we should wait until the night watch arrives," suggested another guard.

"They're not eligible to claim," said someone else. "They're on duty during claiming hours."

"Yes, but they always seem to arrive for duty at the same moment that the lad is brought out for his claiming. If we waited till they entered the outbuildings, then we wouldn't have the riot doors screeching just when the taking starts. The first few minutes are always the best."

"If you think I'm going to take a lad in front of you lot, you're mad," rejoined Pugh. "I don't put on performances. Medinger, is the claiming room clean? It was a pigsty the last time I used it."

"Bed-sheets were changed today," said Medinger, his voice clipped short. "New toiletries as well. And Keeper told me to remind everyone that this prison's regulations require the use of a sheath whenever there is penetration—"

The rest of what he said was lost in loud laughter that came from the other guards. Landry, his voice rising above the others, said, "Fifteen drilling years he's been going on about that. It's like living with a schoolmarm."

"Oh?" said Medinger. "Well, you're welcome to drill naked if you like, Landry. What's the name of that lad whom Chambers gave the Damnation to, a few weeks before his death?"

The laughter cut off abruptly. Starke, who had lit another cigarette, smiled as he said, "Medinger, you're wasted as Keeper's batman. You should be in the army. They need soldiers who can shoot straight into the belly."

"The issue is moot." Pugh's voice had returned to his usual tone of boredom. "I always use a sheath. I wouldn't trust myself inside one of those filthy lads otherwise. Landry, are you and Starke ready?"

"Ready and able," replied Landry, pulling himself back from the parapet in order to take hold of his machine rifle.

"Medinger, take charge of the switch."

Medinger remained motionless. "I'm on the night watch. I don't take orders from you, Pugh."

Pugh muttered something under his breath, and then said, "Niesely."

"On my way." Niesely mounted the right-hand stairway, taking two steps at a time. Pugh turned his head toward the gate.

Tyrrell ducked back in the brief second before Pugh's gaze swung in his direction. He looked over at the lads. He could only see the one closest to him, an older lad with lines of experience on his face. The lad's expression was set, but his hands were white-knuckled on the bars.

"You." It was Pugh's voice, flat. "The one with the rag on your leg."

"No!"

Olumbo's shout of rage was overwhelmed by the scream of the gate alarm. The other lads scurried back, leaving an open space next to the gate that was filled now only with two prisoners: Olumbo, who was shaking his head over and over, and Jensen, who had his hands on Olumbo's arms as he spoke to the other lad.

Whatever he was saying, it was not reaching his mate. "No!" shouted Olumbo, so loudly that he could be heard over the alarm. "I won't do it again! Not with Pugh!" He pulled himself away from Jensen at the same moment that the alarm ended, taking a dozen rapid steps away from the gate.

"Wild lad!" The shout came from Ahiga, somewhere beyond Tyrrell's view. "All back! All ba—!"

The rest of his words were broken off by the sound of machine-rifle fire as bullets blazed thick into the prison.

Tyrrell, who had just been craning his neck round the corner to see how Pugh was taking the rejection, flung himself back against the east wall of the prison, his heart pounding against his chest like a bully. There were shouts and screams from the lads who had not moved quickly enough at the sound of Ahiga's warning. Jensen, who was closest to the gate, hurled himself rolling to the side, narrowly avoiding the spate of bullets. A second round of firing began, which Tyrrell suspected would have sliced Jensen open, but in the short space before the bullets thundered forth, Ahiga ran forward, pulled the lad off the ground, and flung him into the arms of Hosobuchi, who was waiting nearby. Hosobuchi dragged Jensen back to the line of watch-hounds just as Ahiga dived for safety.

The bullets churned up sawdust where Ahiga had been a moment before. There was another scream, and a lad who was in the mob that was struggling to reach safety suddenly tripped. Or so Tyrrell thought, but once down, the lad remained down, motionless.

The other lads had reached safety now – all but Olumbo. While the watch-hounds had allowed the other unclaimed lads to surge past them, they were holding Olumbo back at spear-point. Ahiga shouted something, and the hounds stepped back in unison for a yard or two, taking Olumbo past the point where old bullet-holes riddled the floor. Beyond that point, though, Olumbo was not permitted to go.

"Enough, lad." The voice was Valdis's, and it was cold. "You've caused enough fuss. Let Pugh have you."

"No!" There were sobs in Olumbo's voice now. Over at the west end of the gate, Jensen was struggling in Hosobuchi's arms, evidently trying to reach his mate, but the greater man held him fast.

"They're coming," someone said. "Mercy save him."

"Tyrrell!" said Ahiga sharply. "Come over here, man. You are not in the right place to be."

"I'd figured that out on my own," muttered Tyrrell, but he did not move. Poking his head round the corner again to check whether the gunfire was over, he had seen a sight he liked not at all: Starke and Landry coming down the stairs with rifles in hand – not the machine rifles, for these rifles had fixed bayonets. There was no way that Tyrrell was going to run across that empty stretch of ground now and chance being seen by the trigger-loving gunners.

Olumbo looked over his shoulder; seeing what was coming, he made another, futile effort to race past the hounds. They continued to block his path with their spears.

"Olumbo, you are placing in danger the tribe." The calmness in Ahiga's voice contrasted starkly with the restlessness of the prisoners. A number of them evidently shared Ahiga's assessment of the situation, for most of the onlookers had moved further back, leaving only the watch-hounds, the true men, Jensen, and a handful of men and lads who were evidently too interested in the outcome of this contest to fear the firepower of the oncoming guns.

"Fight them!" screamed Olumbo at the top of his lungs at the hounds. "Don't fight me, fight the guards!"

"They have guns, we do not." Ahiga's voice turned as cold as Valdis's had been. "One lad has already been shot because of your cowardice. Would you have other tribe members suffer too?"

With a loud sob, Olumbo flung himself away from the hounds. He started toward the gate, and then, like Ahiga, he dived, just missing the bullets that buried themselves in the prison floor.

"By all that is sacred, Starke." Pugh sounded mildly annoyed. "Watch your aim. I don't want to spend the night with a lad who's been plugged full of holes."

"Warning shots aren't as easy to aim as you might think, Pugh." Starke's reply was matter-of-fact.

"So I gather. Who's responsible for that lad who's bleeding over there?"

"Me." Landry sounded miffed. "You can put the demerits on my report afterwards. We've got a wide-open gate here. Pull in your lad so that we can get the gate closed."

His voice was low enough that Tyrrell suspected that the only prisoners to hear them was himself . . . and Olumbo, whose shoulder was now pressed hard against Tyrrell's, sharing his corner. Tyrrell dared not look his way; his eye was on the open gate. From the sound of the voices, the guards were coming closer.

"The lad is just inside the gate, Pugh." It was Starke; his voice had gone quieter. "He's going to try to slip out the minute we enter."

"Medinger!" Pugh called.

"I'm not on your watch." Medinger's tone of disgust was clear, even though his voice came faint from the balcony.

"You are now; I have control over the prison when Keeper is away. Take Starke's post. Shoot any prisoner who tries to escape."

Silence followed. Tyrrell risked a look at Olumbo; the lad's eyes were closed, and his face was tilted toward heaven. He was whispering prayers under his breath.

"All right, I'm ready." Medinger's voice held the scorn of a man required to undertake a distasteful duty.

"Is the change lever off the safe position?" asked Pugh.

"Pugh, I'm certified as a gunner. You aren't. Don't try to teach me my job." The disgust in Medinger's voice deepened.

"Olumbo!" From across the prison, Jensen's voice came soft. "They're still several yards away. Just put your hands behind your head and step forward. They won't hurt you if you surrender."

Olumbo shook his head. Tears were streaming down his sweat-covered face now, like water over the dark earth of a stream-bed, and every breath he took shuddered. Tyrrell, looking at him, said in a low tone, "Er . . . Is there anything I can do to help?"

At that moment, the electric lights, following whatever timer had turned them on at dawn, suddenly went out, leaving the prison lit only by dusk-light and by the faint lights from under the guards' post. Olumbo's pupils, widening enormous within his eyes, seemed to take Tyrrell in for the first time. After a moment, he said in a shaking voice, "Stay out of the way, sir. This is between me and Pugh."

"And two bloody great guns," Tyrrell pointed out, but Olumbo was no longer listening. He was breathing heavily now, like a stag brought to bay by hounds, and his eyes were darting back and forth.

Suddenly he seemed to make up his mind. Ignoring the open gate, he turned and ran straight back, following the line of the wall, in the direction of the not-quite-closed semi-circle of watch-hounds.

"Turn him!" shouted Ahiga. The nearest hounds, who had seemed too startled to move a moment before, immediately flung themselves sideways to block the lad's path. Olumbo, nearly impaling himself on one of the spears, turned his path toward the right, ran a few yards, and tried again, but again the spears blocked him.

The rest of Tyrrell's vision of the hunt was blocked, for at that moment, a bayoneted rifle, curling round the corner, found its resting place on his breastbone.

He ceased to breathe. Starke, making his way round the corner in the wake of his gun, gave Tyrrell a pleasant smile. "Well, well," he said softly. "So your reputation is correct. You do seem to have a talent for getting involved in trouble-making."

"Starke!" Pugh's voice was sharp as he stepped through the gate, followed closely by Landry. "Leave that prisoner alone. The lad's over on this side."

"And Tyrrell Cutter will be behind your back the moment you walk toward the lad," Starke said. "Permission to put my bayonet through his guts, so he won't bother you?"

Tyrrell's body turned so chilled that it was as though he had just been buried in a stone-cold tomb. Pugh, glancing over his shoulder, said, "Starke, you pick the strangest moments to engage in light-hearted play. We're inside Compassion Prison. Remember what that means. And remember that I've given you an order."

"Yes, sir." Starke withdrew his bayonet . . . slowly, drawing it up the line of Tyrrell's chest. Tyrrell heard the cloth of his undervest tear under the blade; the blade burnt his skin as though it were a torch. "You needn't worry, Pugh. This prisoner won't bother us. Will you?" he said softly, his bayonet now touching Tyrrell's throat.

Tyrrell could not breathe, much less speak. Starke gave a nod, apparently of satisfaction, and withdrew his rifle, turning round to join Pugh. Tyrrell began to take a step forward – not to attack Starke, but to get the hell out of this situation. Just in time, he remembered Medinger at the machine rifle, ready to press his finger to the trigger the moment he saw any prisoner next to the gate. Tyrrell carefully flattened himself back into the corner and waited.

Olumbo had by now run halfway round the semi-circle, seeking fruitlessly an opening in the spear-pointed barrier. Jensen, who was standing near the north wall, continued to struggle to free himself from Hosobuchi's grip. Farnam stood toward the south portion of the semi-circle, in urgent consultation with Ngugi, who tried to take a step toward the lad lying motionless on the empty ground. He halted abruptly when Starke, catching up with the other two guards, turned his rifle toward the claimed man in a warning manner. Farnam, his face grim, pulled Ngugi back to safety.

The gunners had fallen back somewhat from Pugh, their rifles moving slowly to point round the semi-circle, though none of the prisoners watching appeared inclined to interfere. Pugh had now stepped within a couple of yards of Olumbo, who had his back to the guards; Pugh's hand fell to his belt. Tyrrell wondered fleetingly whether the day-watch supervisor was planning to use his dagger against Olumbo, but it was Pugh's left hand that had moved, and it was Pugh's left hand that flung a lash in a crack that echoed through the prison.

Olumbo screamed as the whip met his flesh; the watch-hound in front of him moved hastily back as the unclaimed lad toppled to the ground.

Olumbo struggled to rise onto his hand and knees. The lash, blurring through air, landed on his back again; this time Olumbo managed to swallow his scream into a grunt. His body, turned by the force of the lash, toppled over, leaving him on his back, his front vulnerable. Pugh raised his whip.

"No," whispered Tyrrell, his heart pounding hard. "Mercy above, no." Without thinking, he took a step toward the guards. Starke, who seemed to have the eyes of a raptor, swung round immediately to aim his rifle at Tyrrell.

At that moment, a scream, beyond which Tyrrell had heard for five years, split the air. The last time he had heard that scream was on the only occasion on which a Mercy guard had landed his lash on the front torso of a prisoner.

The scream ended in sobs – dull sobs, as though Olumbo were barely conscious of the pain. Pugh, in his horribly indifferent tone, said, "Stand up."

For a moment, the lad remained motionless on the ground, and Pugh's hand tightened on his whip. Then the hound nearest Olumbo, who had been watching Ahiga all this while, handed his spear to the hound next to him and knelt down to help Olumbo to his feet. Even from where Tyrrell stood, he could see the blood dripping from the whip-line, which travelled full across Olumbo's chest, slicing across the right nipple.

Olumbo stumbled as the hound released him, almost falling to his knees. The cloth around his leg had slipped off, and the wound-line of Keeper's ricocheted bullet could be seen clearly. Pugh asked, "Are you going to give me any more trouble?"

For a moment, Olumbo was silent; sobs were still travelling out of his throat, yet his hands tightened into fists, as though he were planning to throw himself against Pugh in a final battle. Pugh, who had been about to coil up the whip, simply let the length of the lash fall to the ground. He began to pull back his arm.

"I surrender, sir." Olumbo's voice, barely audible, trembled upon the words.

Pugh said nothing; he merely beckoned the gunners forward. Starke, his eyes narrowed, was still turning his rifle this way and that, as though he expected an attack at any moment. Landry, though, came forward and grasped Olumbo's arm, so tightly that the lad gasped. Landry pulled the lad forward, following in Pugh's wake as Olumbo stumbled his way across the floor.

Tyrrell had flattened himself against the east wall again, but neither the guards nor their victim took any notice of him. The moment they were through the gate, the gate began to rumble closed; Medinger had evidently had his hand on the switch.

Even before the gate had fully closed, Ngugi began to run fearlessly forward. Farnam was at his heels; the two of them dropped to their knees beside the lad lying face-down on the ground. After a short inspection, Ngugi shook his head and sat back on his heels.

Farnam slowly rose to his feet. Pushing his glasses back up his nose, he sighed and said to the onlookers, "Does anyone know what his preference was?"

"Conrad was uninitiated." Jensen, now released by Hosobuchi, remained motionless. "He only arrived here five days ago."

Farnam sighed again. "Very well; we'll give his body over to the guards in the morning. Walker, you can care for the lad in the meantime. . . ."

Tyrrell glanced round the corner, peering through the bars. Pugh and his lad-for-the-night were nowhere in sight; Landry was shouting something after them about how Pugh should be sure to let the day watch out of the outbuildings before taking his pleasure. A small bell chimed in the distance, like a grandfather clock; a guard said, "Here's the night watch come, right at claiming time. I swear, they time their arrival each evening to interrupt our fun."

"There's nothing to look at anyway," Landry responded grumpily.

Starke said nothing; he had taken both his rifle and Landry's, and now he moved westward toward the riot doors, though the other guards remained at their post, evidently awaiting the night guards' arrival.

"Lock-down, Medinger!" Pugh shouted distantly.

There was no response from Medinger, but a familiar groaning clank began; after a moment, the great shield-wall that Tyrrell had seen that morning lowered itself down until it landed in front of the gate with a thud that vibrated under Tyrrell's feet.

Faintly, Tyrrell heard the sound of the riot doors' alarm, but it was a whisper in the distance, travelling down from the top of the prison, and the guards' voices had disappeared altogether. With the shield lowered, the light from the guards' post was lost; the prison turned dusk-dark, grey as a corpse's binding cloth.

Tyrrell turned back and saw that most of the watch-hounds had moved away. Unclaimed lads were beginning to drift back into the space they had occupied before, some of them silently watching, at a suitable distance, as one of Walker's men placed the dead lad in the true man's arms. The guard who had first blocked Olumbo's flight to safety, and then had helped Olumbo to his feet when he fell, was watching the proceedings; he glanced up as Tyrrell came over to stand beside him.

All that Tyrrell could think to say was, "Why?"

"Why didn't we have battle at the guards?" As he spoke, Pickens returned his gaze to Walker, who was now carrying the lad's corpse toward the back of the prison in the stately rhythm of a funeral march.

"Nay, I know the answer to that. I've seen one member of your old tribe hold back my entire tribe – and he had only a revolver, not a machine rifle. But why didn't you help the lad escape to the back of the prison? The guards were nervous about just entering this far into the prison; if you'd hidden the lad further back . . ."

"Do you crave in truth to be knowing the answer to that?" The claimed lad turned away finally from Walker's procession, which had been swallowed out of sight by the crowd.

"Aye."

"Two dozen prisoners drawn from here. They were lined up outside and ordered to be shot in the heads at point-blank range, each killing with a minute's notice, so that we would have time to surrender the lad. . . . We surrendered the lad after the eighth prisoner died; the ninth one would have been Valdis's Second Lad. After that, none of us were yielded any food for a week; another dozen prisoners, who had already been close on starvation, died during that time. Since then, Ahiga hasn't let any wild lad escape to the back of the prison."

Tyrrell was silent a long while before he said, "Mercy's guards, they never let any prisoner die, not if he can be stayed alive by any means. I'm figuring 'tis different here."

"Aye, 'tis different here." Pickens's voice sounded dull; he kneaded the back of his neck, as though it ached. "Mind, this was during Keeper's father's time; Tom Keeper himself seems to be liking to have his prisoners alive for as long as it may be. But yet, if we stayed a lad back, Keeper would punish us, for sure; he used to punish his own lad, whenever the lad refused to be claimed."

Tyrrell could not speak in the next moment; his stomach had suddenly roiled up as though a storm had set sea waves stirring within it. Finally he said, "Near this time?"

"Nay, this was a ways back. He hasn't claimed a lad since . . . Oh, with one exception, it was well before my time."

"The folly of youth, it may be?" Tyrrell knew that his voice sounded strained, even before Pickens turned to give him a puzzled look.

"You've been having battle in defense of Keeper since you arrived," the lad said. "You were knowing him well at Mercy, I have mind?"

"Nay, only by repute," Tyrrell was able to truthfully say. "He had a good repute in those days. Never raped a prisoner, rarely beat a prisoner . . ."

Pickens shrugged, evidently losing interest. "It doesn't matter whether you kill a man yourself, if you let others under your hire do it."

"Aye," said Tyrrell, slowly and heavily. "Aye."

He let Pickens guide him toward the step dividing the unclaimed lads' territory from the little men's territory. As he did so, though, he turned his head to look at a lad they were approaching.

Jensen showed no sign that anything had passed during the last minutes of the day; he was sitting on the floor cross-legged, fingering something in his lap in a nonchalant manner. As Tyrrell stepped past him, though, the lad looked up, and his gaze met Tyrrell's as though he expected the little man to speak.

Then Pickens's hand on Tyrrell's back took them past the unclaimed lad. Jensen looked down at his lap again, fingering the bloody cloth that Olumbo had worn.
 

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