At the end, after Yama had agreed that he had been responsible for the failure of the Great River, Mr. Naryan finally stiffened. He pushed to the surface of the tank and spouted water. A decad of machines dipped down to catch the soft croak of his voice.
“The boy must die,” Mr. Naryan said. “He is an anachronism. The purpose of his bloodline was to make this world, and he threatens to use the powers of his kind to unmake it.”
Several members of the panel made lengthy speeches, although all they had to say was that they agreed with Mr. Naryan. Only Enobarbus spoke up for Yama. Of all the panel, he wore no finery. He was bare-chested and his red officer’s sash was tied at the waist of his white trousers. His mane of bronze hair floated around his ruined face as he prowled up and down in front of the panel.
“He has been crucial in driving the war against those who still serve the Preservers,” he told them. “He subverted their machines and in only a few days helped win vast new territories for our cause. Used in the right way, I assure you that he can deliver total victory before the end of the year.”
The old archivist surfaced again; water spilled down the glass wall of his tank. “The boy fought for us under coercion,” he croaked. “Enobarbus was allied with an apothecary by the name of Dismas. And this Dismas, who was working for one of the feral machines, infected the boy with a machine which subdued his will and assumed his powers. We almost lost him because of that, and many were killed in retrieving him.”
Enobarbus folded his arms across his broad chest. “The feral machines are our allies still. It is necessary that they are, for otherwise we would have to fight them as well as the loyalist troops, and I do not believe we could win on two fronts. Besides, Dismas’s master was not one of those, but a rogue. I believe that it is now dead. We have the boy, and yes, retrieving him cost many lives. Do not let those sacrifices be in vain. Let us use him to bring this war to a swift end. Kill him then, if you wish, but kill him now and you sentence millions to death who otherwise might have been spared.”
Mr. Naryan listed chest-high in the bubbling water of his tank. He said, “It is possible that the boy might save millions of lives if he is used against the loyalist troops, but it is certain that many thousands have already died because of him, first when Dismas tried to take him from you, and then when you recaptured him. Neither Dismas nor you, Enobarbus, could fully control the boy, yet everyone wants to own him. He is too powerful. I fear that if we use him to win the war we will then tear ourselves apart quarreling over him.”
The woman in the white wig said, “He defied and mocked the shrine. I understand that it may never be restored. Mr. Naryan is right. He is too dangerous.”
“She will return,” Enobarbus said. “She cannot be destroyed.”
There was a great deal of argument, and at last Mr. Naryan said, “It is clear that his powers proceed from the Preservers. How can we count ourselves superior to them if we must rely upon him for victory? No, he must die. We will vote on it.”
One by one, the panel dropped a pebble into a plain plastic basket. At the end a clerk tipped them out. There was no need to count. Only one was white; the rest were black.
Yama laughed when the clerk announced the result, and Pandaras feared that his master had lost his mind.
The sentence was not carried out straightaway. It was to be staged publicly, and many heretics wanted to journey to Sensch to witness it for themselves. And there was much dispute about the method of execution. By a tradition which had survived the Change War, the citizens of Sensch cast their criminals into the swift currents at the fall of the Great River, and because the trial had been held in Sensch they insisted that this was how Yama should be executed. Others wanted a more certain death, arguing that Yama might save himself by calling upon machines which would carry him to safety. The heretics had no central authority and the debate dragged on for days after the end of the trial. Usabio, the warden of the prison house, said that Yama might die of old age before it was done.
“Then all your plans for becoming rich would fall to nothing,” Pandaras said. He did not like Usabio, but the man was useful. He courted Pandaras because he wanted to get close to Yama, and Pandaras could sometimes get favors from him.
“I could sell tickets,” Usabio said. “People would come to see him, and the guards could be bribed to keep quiet.”
Usabio was of the bloodline of the citizens of Sensch, his pebbly black skin mottled with patches of muddy yellow. He bent over Pandaras like a lizard stooping on a bug and grinned hugely, showing rows of sharp triangular teeth. His breath stank of fish. He said, “It would be like having an animal no one else had ever seen, the only one of its kind in all the world. We could dress him in robes and let him babble. Or perhaps I could bring him household machines to mend. Think of my offer, Pandaras. When your master is dead you will have no employment. You are crippled. You will become a beggar, and we do not tolerate beggars, for they are parasites on those who strive to better themselves. Only the strong survive, and you are weak! But with my help you could at least be rich.”
“Perhaps we will escape. Perhaps my master will destroy your miserable city.”
“He is defeated, Pandaras. You must think of yourself.” Usabio meant this kindly. He was a selfish and greedy man, but not without pity.
Yama took no notice of the arguments which raged around him. He merely shrugged when Pandaras told him about Usabio’s latest scheme. As usual, he was sitting in the courtyard, in the shade of an ancient jacaranda tree. Soldiers stood at intervals by the wooden railing of the balcony that ran around the upper story of the house, looking down at them through leaves and branches.
“They will make up their minds eventually,” Yama said. “Mr. Naryan will make sure of it. He does not want the feral machines or some rogue element of the heretics to try and take me. He is right. There are many who want to use me.”
Pandaras lowered his voice, although he knew that machines caught and recorded every word. He said, “You could leave at any time, master. In fact, you could leave now. Do it. Confound their machines and walk away with me.”
“Where would I go, Pandaras? Now that I have traveled the length of the Great River, it seems to me that the world is a small place.”
“There are many places remote from men, master. And many places in Ys where you could hide amongst the ordinary people.”
Yama looked off into the distance. At last he said, “Beatrice and Osric knew about hiding. They hid an entire department in the City of the Dead. But I am not yet dead, and I fear that my enemies will always be able to find me.”
“Forgive me, master, but you will certainly soon be dead if you stay here.”
“Everyone wants either to use me or to kill me. When I was a boy, Pandaras, I dreamed that I was the child of special people. Of pirates or war heroes, or of dynasts wealthy beyond all measure. It was a foolish dream, not because it was wrong, for it seems that I am the child of special people after all, but because it is dangerous to be special. That is why Mr. Naryan wants to kill me.” Yama laughed. “When I left for Ys I thought that I would become the greatest of all the soldiers in the service of the Preservers.”