Chapter Three
“They are all celebrating the harvest,” Magister Zarah said.
The party of Creche-Leavers rode down a long crackling slope of autumnal grass towards a stockaded settlement that must be Ratsnay Station. It squatted, bristling with the sharpened tips of pine logs, on the dam-end of a reservoir that shimmered silver in the late afternoon sun. All around the water, smoke began to trickle upward from large piles of wood.
Dyan hadn’t said a word to Shad the night before, and only such words as were necessary during the day’s ride that had brought them here. She felt saddlesore from the ride, cheated by Shad’s sudden willingness to care so much about Cheela, and terrified by a mounting sense that to be an adult was to be very, very lonely. The other settlements they’d passed, all tiny, distant from the road and huddling behind protective walls, had only added to the sensation. The ruins dotting the wilderness made her feel even worse.
“Many of them are also celebrating the Selection.”
“What is that, like picking the best of the crop?” Deek wanted to know. So did Dyan. They’d all known they were to participate in the Selection after the Hanging, but no one had ever explained what the Selection was.
“Yes,” the Magister said, “if you mean the crop of new adults.”
“It must be like the Creche-Leaving, then,” Dyan intuited, happy for anything to clutch at that wasn’t her own feelings.
“Much like it,” Zarah agreed.
“Is there a Hanging?” Cheela asked.
“You’ll see.” The Magister spurred her horse forward, moving ahead of the Creche-Leavers for the first time. “You’ll do more than see.”
Two men rose from the grass. They were quick; one moment they hadn’t been there, and the next, they were, springing up off their bellies. Dyan shrank back, startled at the suddenness of their approach and at their appearance. They wore leather shirts, stitched with row upon row of short animal bones, to make a sort of breastplate. Similar thick pads of leather covered the front of their legs and their arms, and their faces were painted with streaks of brown and ochre. Even without the paint and the leather, the men were deeply browned by the sun, much deeper than the people Dyan was used to seeing in the System.
They pointed long spears at the Magister, who brought her horse to a halt.
“Name yourself!” the taller man hissed through yellowed teeth.
“That armor wouldn’t even slow down a bola,” Cheela sneered.
“True,” Shad said, “but it might help against a rock or a knife.”
“What kind of idiot would attack them with a rock?”
“Or an animal’s claws,” Shad continued. “I don’t think they’re trying to protect themselves against us. I think they’re armored against robbers and runaways. Remember, they aren’t allowed bows, and they don’t have whips or bolas. They make do with what they can get.”
Dyan tried to imagine that Shad was sticking up for her against Cheela, but failed, and felt worse for having tried.
Magister Zarah held up her medallion with casual, deliberate speed. “We are here for the Selection,” she said.
The men looked the Creche-Leavers up and down, grunted, and then stepped aside. “Magister,” one of them said, tucking his chin to his chest in a little bow.
Zarah led them towards the water, and the people milling about the bonfires. As they drew closer, Dyan saw food and drink in abundance, makeshift tables created by laying boards on trestles, and musicians sitting on sawn logs and putting instruments in their laps. She saw dogs in abundance, playing among the celebrating people, and cats holding themselves aloof on rooftops and in the centers of tables.
A young man stood near the stockade gate wearing a black Magister’s cloak.
“Children,” Magister Zarah said. “Join the festivities. Stay close to the fires, and be careful what you drink—the Landsmen favor intoxicating beverages.”
“Ew.” Deek made a sour face.
“They work hard,” Zarah said, “and live lives to be pitied. Beer is a small mercy.”
“Yes, Magister,” Dyan said along with the others, bobbing her head and turning to go.
“Dyan,” Zarah said, and trapped her eyes with her own steely gaze. “Come with me.”
Dyan followed Zarah and the other Magister inside the walls of Ratsnay Station. She kept a respectful silence, but the new Magister noticed her and introduced himself.
“Magister Stanton,” he said. He was taller than Shad and thinner than Deek and he walked stooped over, as if he was inspecting the ground at every step over the five-armed medallion bouncing off his narrow chest. His face was very, very serious.
“Crecheling Dyan,” she returned.
“Magister-designate Dyan,” he contradicted her.
Her heart skipped a beat. “How do you know?” she asked. “Do you … does everyone know?”
He laughed, the serious lines exploding into a tangle of mirth. “Nothing so terrifying as all that, Magister-designate. But my colleague has invited you into the conversation with us, which she would not do unless you were Magister-designate.” He squinted at her fiercely, like an owl examining a mouse in its burrow. “Or perhaps a Cogitant-designate, though that would be a rare thing indeed.”
“Magister,” she squeaked, and then Magister Stanton brushed aside a hanging leather flap and led Zarah and Dyan inside a long one-story building.
It must be the schoolhouse. Crude benches and simple writing tables dominated the space in rows, and a great writing slate hung from the front wall, chalked with columns of numbers and model sentences. At the back of the room stood a carved wooden statue of a robed woman, her hands clasped together in front of her.
“Pay attention,” Zarah told her. “You may be wiping snot from Crechelings’ noses next week, it’s true. On the other hand, you may be in a settlement like this one, wiping snot from the noses of Landsmen children.”
From a table at the front of the room, Stanton picked up a small stack of cards and handed them to Zarah.
She leafed through them, scrutinizing each closely but not showing them to Dyan. “It is impressive,” she murmured, “that their gene pool continues to throw up such intelligent specimens, even continuously thinned as it is.”
“What?” Magister Stanton looked slightly offended, or maybe shocked.
Zarah smiled thinly at him and tucked the cards away somewhere under her cloak. “I do not express doubt, Magister Stanton,” she said. “Only wonder. Is there anything I should worry about?”
Stanton frowned and recovered. “The boy Jak,” he said.
“Troublemaker?”
Stanton shook his head. “Smart. That family regularly produces smart children. His older sister was Selected.”
“You think he knows?”
“I think he suspects.”
Dyan did not follow the conversation at all, other than to understand that someone named Jak must be watched carefully.
“Very well. Come out, and show me the parents. Dyan, stay close to me.” Zarah inclined her head slightly to her fellow-Magister and left.
Evening’s shadow fell over the settlement and the festivities began in earnest. When Dyan reached the reservoir shore again, in Zarah’s wake, the air rang with the music of stringed instruments and thumped to the sound of sticks banged together or against hide drums. She passed Wayland and Deek at a table and saw the Healer-designate pressing a wooden cup into Deek’s hand.
“Try this one,” he said, grinning broadly.
Shad stood in a circle of Landsmen youth. The contrast between his fine coat and hat and their woolen cloaks and tunics was as stark as the difference between his lightly tanned skin and their nut-brown hides, but he grinned and cracked jokes. A pair of Landsmen girls edged closer to him in the group, smiling eagerly, until Cheela pounced on them, scattering them with bared teeth and, no doubt, some cutting comment that Dyan couldn’t hear.
Dyan tried to ignore her Crechemates and focus on the Magister. Stanton introduced Zarah to three couples, one old woman, and a single burly man, each the parent or parents of one of the Landsmen youth who had been “Selected.” Dyan didn’t understand, but she knew that this was part of her own Calling, whether she was to follow in Zarah’s footsteps or in Stanton’s, so she tried to pay close attention. Each time, Zarah introduced herself as a Magister from Buza System. Their child, she said again and again, had been Selected. It was an honor, they should be proud. Also, since they wouldn’t see their child again after tomorrow, they should be certain to say appropriate farewells tonight.
As Magister Zarah turned away from the old woman, a stray wash of firelight showed Dyan tears sliding down her cheek.
The tears shocked her, but then the entire process was astonishing to Dyan. She knew as a matter of science that she had parents, two adult human who contributed separate haploid gametes to create her in her initial zygotic state, whether or not the two adults ever met. She had no idea if they had, or who they were. How could she? Dyan’s entire life to this moment had been the Creche and the Magisters, lessons about everything, and preparation for a Calling in the System.
A clapperless bell rung with a hard stick, insistent in its ding-ding-ding-ding-ding! silenced the musicians and made the revelers rotate and face in the same direction. Dyan realized that the bell had been rung almost in her ear, and when the Landsmen turned to look they were looking at her.
Along with the two Magisters and three old Landsmen, two women and a man.
“Children,” Magister Zarah called, and Dyan’s four Crechemates joined them, arraying themselves to stand in a line with Dyan behind their Magister. Deek wobbled a bit when he walked, and he smelled sour, like vinegar.
“This is Magister Zarah!” bellowed one of the Landsmen elders, a paunchy, bearded man. “She’s come from the System!”
An electric murmur ran through the crowd, mingling with the crackling sound of the bonfires.
“She has come for the Selection!” added the woman elder.
“Hear her!” chimed in their third colleague, a carrot-nosed man.
Zarah stepped forward, raising both hands over her head. In one, Dyan saw she held her glittering medallion of authority. In the other, she held the sheaf of cards Magister Stanton had given her.
“People of Ratsnay Station!” she called. Her voice rang against the wooden walls of the stockade and snapped back at them, creating a faint echo. “Every year you harvest your crops. You lay away what is good of your grain to bake your bread through the winter, spring and summer to come.”
“Aye,” the crowd murmured together. Dyan realized that it was an expected answer, part of the script. She tried to listen closer to the words, to memorize them. She might be reciting them herself, someday soon.
“And every year, you take the best of your crop and bake it into cakes and brew it into ale and celebrate. You celebrate what is good in your lives and the blessings of the System. You also celebrate against what is hard. You celebrate to help you bear up under your yoke.”
“Aye!”
Many of the men followed each cry of aye! with a swig from a cup, pot, or bottle in their hands.
“Also, every year you raise another crop of young women and men.”
An expectant hush fell over the crowd.
“And every year, the System harvests that crop. What is good among the crop is laid away at Ratsnay Station, to work, love, bear children, and live through winter, spring, and summer. What is best among the crop, the System harvests.”
“Five!” wailed the bearded elder. “Five fingers on the System’s hand!”
“Five is the number of death!” shrieked the old woman.
“Five is the number of life!” added carrot-nose.
“Aye!” the crowd shouted.
Dyan trembled, thinking of the Gallows Tree.
“I hold in my hand judgment!” Magister Zarah called. “Your youth have been winnowed and tried, and I hold in my hand the names of the five who are consecrated to the System. These names are not secret, they are known to you. Their fate is not secret, but it is sacred. The System needs new blood. The best among your children go to join the System.”
“Aye!”
Dyan wondered if this was the source of Buza System’s gardeners and other menials. Pieces seemed to be fitting together, and the thought that she was a Magister-designate made her heart beat faster. It was a little like being a Cogitant, whether you brought up Crechelings to know and love their roles, or brought in the new blood of the best and brightest Landsmen. She felt proud. A Magister was a leader, had an important part.
“I have come with five, and we will take five with us!” Zarah recited. “Mechanical-designate Deek, step forward!” Deek did, stumbling a bit, but staying upright. A few deep voices in the crowd chuckled. “Hamish, son of Goodman Soren and Goody Barrab, step forward!”
A grinning boy who could have been one of the Creche-Leavers himself but for his rough wool clothing kissed his mother good-bye and pushed forward. Dyan felt a twinge of something in her heart at the sight of the kiss, and ignored it.
“Deek,” Zarah said, her voice softer now but still loud enough to be heard by everyone. “Look closely at this boy. Your task is to deliver him to Buza System, as the System requires. Will you undertake this task?”
Deek’s eyes wandered and he blinked, but he managed to force out the one syllable required of him, “Yes.”
“Healer-designate Wayland!” Magister Zarah called.
Wayland stepped forward, was matched with a young woman with missing teeth. Then Zarah matched Shad with a girl whose head had frizzy white hair like the spores of a dandelion, and Cheela with a boy with jug-handle ears and an expression on his face that might have been sullen.
“Magister-designate Dyan!” Zarah finally announced, and Dyan stepped forward.
“Jak, son of Rosyn, step forward!”
Jak, the boy about whom Magister Stanton had been worried, slunk slowly out of the crowd. He had big hands and a big head, Dyan thought, and he walked with his knees and feet forward and his chest sunken in, like he was shrinking from something. He came forward until he and Dyan stood face to face. The rest of the Landsmen youth, all standing in a row, stood at attention. Jak seemed to hang back a hair, and kept his hands in his pockets.
“Dyan,” Zarah said. Dyan thought her voice sounded tender. “Look closely at this boy. Your task is to deliver him to Buza System, as the System requires. Will you undertake this task?”
“With all my heart,” Dyan said.
Jak flinched.
Magister Zarah rested on a hand on her shoulder. “Not with all your heart, child. You do not need your heart to carry you through your obligations. The System does not need you to love it, and it does not need you to love your duties. It only needs you to carry them out.”
“Yes, Magister.” Dyan’s face burned with shame, though Zarah’s eyes looked, if anything, kindly.
“Will you do as the System requires?” the Magister asked again.
“Yes, Magister,” Dyan said.
Zarah nodded. She turned back to the crowd and spoke, raising her voice again. “The Selection is complete!” she announced. “Tomorrow is the Harvest, when these five sheaves will be gathered in to the System! Tonight, now, is the time to celebrate!”
“Aye!”
More beer was swallowed, and the musicians began again, in earnest.
***