CHAPTER III


FIGHTING AGAINST DESPAIR


	As bruised, mangled and hopeless as the grimy pots, dented pans, the piles of charcoal 
dust and soot-blackened walls of the prison kitchen, Martin Balwin sat on the bench in a 
dejected heap.  A block away the public was dispersing from the execution ground.  By normal 
standards it was a thin crowd; even the soul-wrecking performance of publicly putting men to 
death would taper into tedium if it was carried out too often.  And today, there was nothing 
new, hirelings, deserters, spies, lawbreakers of all sorts.  And it was poor entertainment, half of 
them were already reduced to a bag of bones.  They all too willingly put their swollen necks in 
the noose.

	His thoughts wandered to the prisoner to whom he had served breakfast and his heart 
twisted agonizingly.  What a fine specimen of manhood!  What splendidness, if they had not 
dismembered him in the meantime, would he offer to the gawking public, even after his vivid 
eyes had turned opaque.  He would remain hanging there a very long time at the pleasure of the 
executioners. 

	The smoke of the dying fire under the cauldron stung his eyes to tears.  The tears rolled 
down his sunken cheeks, streaking the dirt on his face.  The man was no criminal, no spy, but 
kind, gentle and innocent.  He sobbed long and hard in his despair and helplessness; so much 
cruelty, injustice, hatred.  Is that worth living for?  What was there for an old, broken man like 
him to do?  He did not even have the will anymore to make his own choices, to put an end to his 
own misery.

	A stealthy movement near the door opening shook him out of his grief.  Wiping his eyes 
with an old rag, he urgently enquired, "Who is there?"

	The features of a girl took shape beneath the oil lamp, a young thin girl of around twelve 
years old.  "Excuse me," she spoke shyly, although her dark eyes looked at him in blatant 
scrutiny.  "Pardon my intrusion, sir, but would you care to trade some of your firewood with my 
mushrooms.  They are very good, sir, fresh from the fields."

	"What is a child like you doing here!" Martin cried out appalled.  "How did you get in?"

	"I slipped through the front yard.  Nobody was paying any attention when the hangman 
was doing his stuff."

	Martin shuddered.  "Girls like you shouldn't be here, least of all watching executions!  
Go home, before someone else finds you.  I have nothing here for you."  

	"Don't worry about me," the girl assured in a suddenly masterful tone of a seasoned 
adult.  "I know my way around places.  They tell me you are the helper who usually feed the 
prisoners.  One was brought here last night from the front, one they caught as a spy."

	Martin grimaced in anguish, and Maykin grabbed his hand resolutely.  "Have you seen 
him?  Do you know who he is, do you know his name?"  

	Nervously Martin pulled his hand free. "Yes, yes, I know his name because he so kindly 
told me himself.  What was it again, very foreign it was too, with a curious lilt, Leo--Leoynar 
Trevarthen.  There you have it, someone you know?"  

	It was Martin's turn to look at the girl anxiously but Maykin, after first tentatively rolling 
the name with her tongue as if learning a new word, shook her head.  An expression of relief 
brightened her tense, serious face.  

	"No, this name is totally different.  This is not the one, I am sure of it.  Well, anyway old 
man, thank you, you've been a great help!"

	She was all about to vanish to the outside yard when Martin stayed her with a trembling 
hand.  "Why are you asking about this particular prisoner?  Is there someone in the city who is 
interested, is there someone who can help him?"

	"Help him?"

	"He is innocent, he has done nothing wrong!"

	"Old man, I am only a girl," Maykin chided with a primly astonished face.  "What do you 
expect of me?  I can't even lift a sword!"

	She disappeared into the daylight as nimbly, and mysteriously, as she had penetrated so 
deep within the walls of the dudgeons to pay him this visit.  A bit dizzy in the head Martin 
shuffled to the bench and the crooked table.  In the dark gloom which had resettled in the 
kitchen he could hear the agitated thumping of his heart. 

	He had not experienced such tremors of emotion for a long time, not since the day when 
he and Shagg were surprised by a swarm of alpiners upon their return from Yellowdust.  Shagg's 
glib tongue had prevented their throats from being cut on the spot, and he had a bag of precious 
Nukes in his satchel which temporarily bought them their lives.  

	Apart from prisoners of war, it was the norm of the times that dubious captives could be 
bartered in for a reward.  They were finally brought to Ostracis, the ogreish receptacle for the 
damned, to be processed and disposed of at the behest of the City Syndic.  By a fluke, when the 
carts of captives were rounding the skirts of hilly woodland, Shagg escaped by jumping down a 
hollow.  A horde of raging guards had immediately gone in pursuit and Martin had prayed that 
Shagg had better be dead before they got to him.  

	What they did to himself afterwards would remain forever as a miasmal tumour in his 
memory.  By another fluke, however, the former cook and general factotum had finally 
succumbed to the festering spores of the kitchen and given up the ghost.  Inch by inch they had 
battered the last vestiges of free will and free thinking out of him so that he was ready and 
house-trained to fill the vacancy in the kitchen.  Martin sighed, gazing around him with misty 
eyes, sinking again into apathy.  Everything was as before, everything would remain as before.  
Only a massive earthquake would wipe out the hell of Ostracis. 

* * *

	Coming home Maykin was treated to a shock and surprise:  Eirini had gone and not 
returned for several hours, and Old Moose had gotten off his cot and was sitting at the table 
sipping soup.  

	"Old Moose, how could you do it, letting her out alone!" she lamented.  

	Old Moose lifted up his tired, watery eyes.  "When I woke up she was gone already.  The 
soup has gone cold, so I figure that it has been quite a while since she's left."

	Without putting down her basket, Maykin made a frantic move towards the door.  "I 
must go and look for her.  Going out in the streets when there are so many marshalls crawling out 
there.  What has got into her!"

	"Hold it!" Old Moose said, waving a hand. "Calm down, Maykin.  I have a feeling Eirini 
is able to take good care of herself.  Shrewd and brave, that girl is.  Sit down, put your basket on 
the floor, and take some of this tasty soup.  If she has not returned after half an hour, we'll both 
go out and look for her."

	Reluctantly, Maykin hung up her coat and took a plate.  "How are you feeling, Old 
Moose?" she asked tentatively. 

	"A little better, not entirely, but a little better. How's the situation out there?"  

	"Frantic.  The visit of the Paramount has thrown the city into turmoil." 

	"Ah, the mystifying Carlomon finally deems it desirable to inspect Ostracis.  Truly 
something ominous must be brewing."

	"You know," Maykin put in flutteringly, "his Lady Consort has come too.  People say she 
is a real beauty, only so proud, too proud even to show her face openly to the great unwashed of 
the Paramountcy."  

	"H'm, yes, the wife he has brought from Vespar. Vesparans are renowned for their 
artificial sublimity.  For them the expression 'beauty is only skin deep' fits the hand like a grafted 
skin."

	"What happened in Vespar, Old Moose?" Maykin eagerly enquired.  "What made 
Carlomon leave his former Paramountcy and come to Xandia?"

	"He was ousted, my dear, ousted by the loyalists of the old monarchy.  They truly struck 
when the iron was hot, when the Governor General was busy, and absent elsewhere, to pursue his 
delirium of conquest, and the former Paramountcy of Vespar was too weak and corrupt to hold 
on to its powers, as was the case with the old Paramountcy of Xandia, and Carlomon took care 
of that."

	Old Moose mused darkly: "I've heard through the grapevine that the business of his so-
called New Expedition of Discovery was indeed baffling, not to say mystical.  WHERE did he 
go?  He mobilized a large amount of soldiers from his Tar Army, and press-ganged hundreds of 
midgets as slave labourers, but where did he go?  Did he have the nerve to breach the 
contamination of the Great Barrier Smaze in the Far East?" 

	"Old Moose," Maykin interrupted, stamping her foot on the floor.  "Why can't the people 
do the same here, oust Carlomon the Terrible from Xandia?"  

	"Because, my child," Old Moose said ruefully, "they lack a leader.  They lack a leader 
who can rally them as one army to one battle cry.  Folk in Vespar were able to shatter the yokes 
of oppression by the leadership and indomitable personality of one man, the new Governor 
General of the Sovereignty of Vespar, Governor General of the Double Sun.  What a man of 
force he must be, if only we have more of such men!"  

	The door crashing open startled both of them to their feet and both heaved a sigh of relief 
as they saw Eirini storming in.  She was surprised too to see Old Moose walking up and about, 
but her first apprehensive question was directed at Maykin:  "Did you manage to find out 
something?  WHAT did you find out?" 

	"I only got a name, Eirini, but don't worry it's not the name that I remember."  

	"What is the name?"  

	Maykin frowned.  "How does it sound again?  M'mm, yes, I've got it, I have to 
pronounce it slowly though: Leo-y-naar Tre-varr-ten.  There!"

	To Maykin's consternation Eirini blanched at this news. "Leoynar," she whispered, 
"here?"

	"I, "Maykin faltered, I thought the name sounded different somehow.  He is your friend, 
Trajan?  What are we going to do?"

	"No, not Trajan, thank the stars, not him but bad enough.  Leoynar is Trajan's uncle!"  
Eirini stared at Old Moose and he countered the question in her eyes with a moody shake of the 
head. 

	"You know what they do to prisoners in the dudgeons."

	Folding her arms Eirini started pacing round the cluttered spaces of the room and her 
companions followed her with their eyes, observing in astonishment the glow of passion on her 
cheeks, and the fire of emotion in her green on pale gold eyes.  

	"If Leoynar has come, then so has Trajan.  Trajan here, somewhere!  To find him, to see 
him again, O Lifegiver of Mine!  By the stars, I am not able to contain myself anymore, I have to 
do something.  Something has to be done, soon, no matter what, it has to be done.  We must get 
Leoynar out of the dungeons!"

	Her mouth gaping open Maykin stumbled backwards against the table and Old Moose 
cried out in dismay: "Eirini, you have gone mad!  There is no way we can get a prisoner out of 
the dudgeons, let alone Ostracis." 

	Eirini bit her lips, frowning threateningly:  "There is always a way but no doubt we need 
help.  From the Pagans, and maybe Shagg, with whom I spoke to this morning."  

	Maykin mouthed uncertainly, 'You went to Shagg!'

	The fierceness was ebbing from Eirini's expression but her eyes were still shining with 
steely determination as she gazed upon the two of them and said: "Friends, you came upon me in 
my moment of need, and taught me how to continue living.  No words, or noble deeds, can 
express my gratitude for such generosity and courage in the face of unspeakable dangers when 
you gave shelter to strangers from beyond!

	"And since I have survived, I have to go on, I have to find my kind.  They are here, they 
have arrived!  This continued existence under the terrors of the city is obscene, intolerable, 
repugnant.  What remains there to live for?  Freedom of will and spirit, freedom to go anywhere 
we please, to live in decency is something we could fight for, die for.  I am going to break the 
shackles of intolerance, prejudice and tyranny.  I am going to tear down the dudgeons stone by 
stone and scatter them throughout the galaxy.  Woe to those who feels the wrath of Iucari-Tres 
upon them!"

	"Old Moose!" Maykin cried, shaking him frantically.  "We wanted a leader, didn't we?  
We have one, Eirini will show us the way to revolt!" 

	"By golly, yes, by golly," Old Moose muttered tremblingly wiping the sweat off his 
stubbled face, "that was a rousing speech, no doubt.  But how," he looked round their little circle 
helplessly, "how are we, a sick old man and two girls, going to accomplish the storming of the 
dudgeons, although I am ready and willing to lay down my life to see that symbol of depravation 
go up in flames."  

	"We cannot."  A sober smile softened Eirini's anger.  "We need a plan, and the assistance 
of others.  I need, first of all, to speak to Eugene and his clique of Pagans.  And," she continued 
steadily, "I have to speak to Leoynar."

	Maykin stared at Eirini in perplexity, then she quickly said, "I know how to arrange that." 

	Old Moose's face went blank with wonder.  "You can?"  

	"I think so.  The old dodderer I spoke to in the kitchen may be able to lend us a hand.  
Come to think of it, he was kind of concerned, hoping that we could help the prisoner. 'He is 
innocent,' he said with such fervour I wouldn't have expected in a wreck like him. 'Done 
nothing wrong.'  Eirini, don't go to the dudgeons and let me do the talking.  What is our first 
step?"  

	Eirini looked at them both intensely.  "We must have the courage to brave the curfew.  
The blackout will give us cover.  Is it possible to slip into the dudgeons before the curfew, and 
slip out again in the darkness?"

	"It is possible," Old Moose said, "but very, very risky.  We don't even know where the 
prisoner is kept.  Maybe it is wiser at first to get a message through and find out the exact 
location of his cell."

	"You are right, Old Moose, forgive my hastiness.  Maykin will deliver my message to 
Leoynar through the cook.  And someone has to trace Eugene."

	"All right, that will be my job," Old Moose stated in a determined voice. "I want to hear 
no objections now.  I am better, although a bit wheezy.  I'll be fine, don't fuss, I'll behave 
myself.  And what you'll do in the meantime, Eirini?"  

	"I'll stay home and do some planning."  She thought of checking the rephar and the stylet 
she kept hidden.  And Eugene's metaphraser that she still kept. 

	"And what is the message, Eirini?"

	Eirini crossed her arms, licking her lips, seemingly struggling with a lump in her throat, 
then articulated clearly, "My Lar Leoynar, fate has thrown us together in a world gone mad but 
as long as there is a throb of life, there is a ray of hope.  We will free you.  May the shine of 
Iucari-Tres go with you.  Eirini Vrillenar. Can you memorize it, Maykin?"

	Maykin stumbled over the foreign names but after repeating the words twice, she could 
speak it out proudly and fluently.  "And while you are alone, don't go out on your own again," 
she urged.

	"Enough talk," Old Moose broke in, "the sun is already sinking low.  We have to 
undertake our various tasks, a good way, I would say, of getting out of a sickness."  

	Maykin had already disappeared into the crooked alleys of Swill Yard as Old Moose 
stood on the flag-stoned path before his hut and inhaled the outside air deeply.  More vile and 
reeking of open sewers than the stale air of his sick room, it nevertheless invigorated him with a 
newfound sense of purpose and he shook his fist at the tottering hill of squats and sombrely 
staring sky.  "Take heed, Ostracis: the power of love is so strong that it is changing worlds, and 
your bloodied world will collapse around you like a mountain of bleached bones!"

* * *

	Leoynar found out soon enough that Lisaloran remained true to her word.  In the 
afternoon he was manhandled from the comparative comfort of his spartan room, hauled through 
a diversity of stairs and corridors, to deeper, underground cells of the dudgeons where the muck 
and filth bedecked the stones like a second coating.  After throwing him into a damp cell where 
the stench of rot and decay was so overwhelming that he could not help retching for long 
moments the warders momentarily left him to ponder why the people of this Sphere revelled in 
the art of humiliating and tormenting one another.  

	The murkiness of his cell was feebly lit by a gibbous of daylight peering through a grating 
in the corner of the ceiling but as evening eclipsed the afternoon, it was also closing down that 
only source of light.  As he sat down on the moulded straw of his wooden bunk, utter 
hopelessness swept over him.  He was lost and alone in an alien and hateful world; the 
Commanders of the Spacio Command too far away on a small speck in the galaxy, his 
companions who had come with him a continent nearer but still too far off and too preoccupied 
with a matter of greater urgency.  He was sure that they would come looking for him once that 
matter had been settled but he feared they would be coming too late.  

	"Sir!"

	The sudden whisper seared through his dark contemplations, jolted him out of his 
melancholy.  He held himself absolutely still, not certain whether it had not been a hallucination.  

	"Sir!" There it was again, impatient, afraid.  "Sir, are you there?"

	"Who is there?" he hissed back.  

	A short pause followed then the quavering little voice spoke once more:  "Do you see the 
grilled opening above your head.  I am here, I can't see you but I can speak to you and I have 
something to say to you."

	"I do," Leoynar said, "Wait, I am going to stand on the bunk.  That will make our 
conversation easier."

	"Don't speak so loud!" the voice squealed in trepidation which sounded like that of a 
young girl, "they have posted a guard before your door.  I have a message for you and the old 
cook told me I can give it you through this ventilator, but I have to be quick.  Listen now: 
'Mylaar Leoynar, fate has thrown us together in a world gone mad but as long as 
there is a throb of life, there is a ray of hope.  We will free you.  May the shine of 
You Karritress go with you.  Eirini Vrillenar.'

	Eirini!  The news staggered Leoynar like a blow to the head.  Eirini!  Then, Eugene?

	"Sir, have you heard me, is there a message back?  Please sir, hurry, I am so scared!"

	"Yes, I've heard you," Leoynar whispered pressingly. "Tell her I am well and she has my 
undying gratitude."

	"Okay," the girl hissed, "it's getting too spooky around here.  Tomorrow morning I'll be 
back with another message.  We'll get you out, I promise you."

	In the ensuing silence Leoynar dropped down on the bunk, clutching his head in dizzy 
excitement.  For a time he was not able to straighten out his jumble of thoughts and emotions, 
confusion, fear, elation, dread, jubilance, he did not know what to feel.  In the end he dozed off 
in weariness.  

	He awoke when the cell door was pushed ajar with a grinding sound and after moments 
of nothing happening, it gaped further open allowing a strip of light to slant into the cell.  
Presently a young man entered and stuck a torch in a crevasse of the wall. 

	He kicked the door shut and bowed slightly.  His shoulder-long flaxen hair, tanned skin 
and brown eyes almost gave him the good looks of a Calidan but none of the good humour as he 
stated his business in the mannerly, polished tones of the cultured.  

	"My name is Terzan.  We can trust the guard outside the door, because he is one of us but 
this is an enemy stronghold and I have to make haste before one of the other warders comes 
back.  You are in grave danger, citizen Trevarthen."  

	Leoynar did not comment as the young man edged nearer and his voice dropped down to 
an almost passionate and urgent sibilance:  "Citizen, the Paramount has ordered your death and 
the day after tomorrow you will meet the executioners.  But we, Zeroborn Pagans, reject the 
corrupt practices and injustice of his government.  Some of the warders have converted to the 
Paganist Faith and they can find no guilt in you.  In their mind you are but a blameless traveller 
caught in the webs of war and they won't be having innocent blood on their hands."  

	"What do you propose to do?" Leoynar asked hesitantly, rising from the bunk.

	"We have decided to spring you out of this trap.  Everything is arranged for tomorrow 
evening."

	"Tomorrow evening?"

	"Yes, citizen, in the hour before supper, on the pretext of protesting against the curfew 
Pagans will take to the streets and create a scam demonstration before the dudgeons.  The 
marshalls will be having their hands full in quelling this so-called unrest that they won't have 
enough manpower to guard all escape routes.  By that time our warder friends will take you out 
of here and up to the street level of the dungeons.  I will be waiting outside behind the backyard 
with a covered wagon and from there I will ride you straight to the coast, where a ship is waiting 
for us to take you to Vespar."

	"Vespar!" Leoynar was astonished. 

	Terzan was momentarily taken aback.  "Are you not a Vesparan?"  

	Leoynar rubbed his head bewilderingly.  "Of course I am, of course."  

	Terzan spread his lips into a smile and grabbed Leoynar's shoulder comfortingly.  "You 
are tired, citizen.  The rigours of prison life have proven too much.  Lie down, have a rest, my 
warder friends will try to furnish you with a mattress for the night.  Try not to worry, the Pagans 
will do everything they can to save you."

	"How can I trust you?" Leoynar suddenly demanded.  

	His saviour-to-be moved a step backwards with a reproving frown. "I don't think you 
have a choice but to trust us.  Do you know what they plan to do to you on the night before the 
execution?  You won't be looking pretty when you take your first step towards the gallows.  I 
reckon you don't want to hear about it."

	"You are right," Leoynar said.  "I don't want to hear about it, and I don't have any 
choices.  I trust you, and I thank you and your friends for this tremendous show of goodwill.  
Thank you!"  

	The young man smiled pleasantly.  "Good!  Then we go as planned.  Not a word about 
this to anyone because our very lives hang in the balance."

	"One more thing," Leoynar said before Terzan made his departure.  "The Paramount 
wants me dead but what about his Lady Consort?  Does she know about this?" 

	"The Lady Consort has left Ostracis, citizen," said Terzan and left the cell.  

	Leoynar groped with his hand across the wall and sank down on the hard bunk.  He was 
trying to see some divine scheme in the recent whirlpool of events.  He was desperate enough to 
appreciate the assistance and succour of anyone but also sensible to recognize that two offers of 
escape in a row could hardly be regarded as a stroke of good luck but a miracle, and miracles 
were as non-existent in Ostracis as the phenomenon of a Evening Star in the night sky of this 
Sphere.  

	Was here the hand of treachery at work again?  He recalled the rather smug face of the 
young Terzan and somehow felt the Pagan was sincere in his intentions, but likewise was that 
high-pitched, frightened voice at the ventilation grille.  He became entirely absorbed in his 
dilemma and the arrival of the old factotum with his supper failed to rouse him from his dark 
mood.  

	After supper the helper took away his tray and left the cell.  He returned after a short 
while carrying, rolled under his arm, a thin straw mattress.  His eyes flickered nervously to the 
open door as he laid it out across the bunk and sliding very close up to Leoynar he whispered:  
"The guard has gone to relieve himself.  We only have a few seconds.  Make haste, sir, and speak 
if you have a message for the little girl who will be returning tomorrow."

	"Yes," Leoynar said quickly, "tell her a Pagan called Terzan will help me escape 
tomorrow night and take me to Vespar.  Is he reliable?  Can you remember that?" 

	The old man nodded, darting a panicky look at the door.  "I want to thank you too," 
Leoynar whispered hurriedly, "you've been so kind, citizen."

	"Martin Balwin is my name, sir."

	"Martin Balwin?  Ralph Balwin's father?"

	"Ralph!  You've seen Ralph!"

	"Yes, he was travelling with us.  He is well, very well!"

	"Ralph is alive!  Heavens be praised.  Oh sir, you have filled an old man's heart with joy."

	"Quiet, I hear the guard coming back."

	Martin pressed Leoynar's shoulder with a shaking hand, then instead of his habitual 
shambling he rambled out of the cell like a somnambulist.  Leoynar was left on his own once 
more.  The torch was left burning in the wall.  As the outside night quietened into deeper 
slumber, the walls of the cell seemed to be coming alive with the noise and buzz of phantom 
vehicles that had once weaved through underground thoroughfares but what soon turned out to 
be the grinding and crunching of the instruments of punishment and the howling and whimpering 
of their victims.