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“Except that if you are Rigg Sessamekesh, he is not your father.”
“Someday you must tell me that story.”
Again the general studied Rigg’s face, searching for a hint of sarcasm. Umbo could have told him that it would do no good. Rigg never showed what he didn’t want to show. Even on the cliff, that terrible day when Kyokay hung there and Rigg was trying to rescue him, nothing at all showed on Rigg’s face—not concern, not even interest. Not that Rigg couldn’t show emotion—but why would he bother when he didn’t know anyone was watching? Displays of emotion were just one of the many things that separated the rest of the world from Rigg. It had been different when Umbo and Rigg were both little. Rigg had been perfectly normal then, just a kid, as likely to get angry or cry or laugh or screech as any other kid. But with each journey he took with his father, Rigg had grown more reticent, more self-controlled. Colder, except when he decided not to be. That’s why Umbo had been so willing to believe that Rigg had murdered his brother, there on the cliff. It was the face of a stranger. Lately that was the only face Rigg had worn.
They reached a place that Umbo had found in his wanderings through the city during the past few weeks. He had brought Loaf there, and when Loaf said it was good enough, they had brought Rigg. It made Umbo feel a rush of pride that this is where Rigg would choose to buy their last meal in O. Or, for all Umbo knew, their last meal as mortal humans.
Rigg signed for the meal as he always did, including a lavish tip. He wrote the name of the bank and the place they had been lodging until this morning. The shopkeeper knew them, bowed, thanked them. He gave no sign that word of Rigg’s arrest by the People’s Army had spread this far.
What does this general want? thought Umbo. He’s so nice to us. A little boring when he gets off on the subject of history, but far better than any treatment I ever heard about a prisoner getting from the authorities.
They ordered their food—which consisted of cheese, boiled eggs, and vegetables between the two halves of a boule of bread. Umbo immediately started to eat his—he was famished—and the general seemed to watch him to see how it was done. Perhaps he’s never eaten good street food, thought Umbo. Maybe the capital doesn’t have anything this good—or, perhaps, anything this crude and low-class. Well, even if he thinks it’s a privick thing, it’s very nice food, and I’m not going to bother being ashamed of it.
And within moments, the general was eating his with as much gusto—and the same slobbering juices from the tomatoes running down his chin—as either Umbo or Rigg.
The general’s hands were busy, but Umbo realized by now that nothing would be accomplished by his running away. They would only find him again, and no doubt would treat him differently after an escape. Umbo had heard of whippings and he had heard of leg irons. He didn’t want either.
They were just finishing their food when they reached the docks, and then picked their way among the passengers and rivermen and stevedores and onlookers. Not that it was hard. The general’s uniform did what it was supposed to do—it made everyone alert enough to get out of their way. No one actually looked the general in the eye—they just sidled this way or that so that they were never actually blocking the general’s path. Though they were happy enough to jostle Rigg and Umbo. After all, they were mere boys richly dressed, and deserving of a bit of a knock from those who resented their obvious privileged status.
Umbo wanted to shout at them, Until a few weeks ago I was poorer than any of you! But what good would that do? He didn’t want or need the love of passersby on the do
cks.
There were six soldiers guarding the ship. Or rather, two guarding the gangplank, two more standing near shops much farther away, but still within calling distance, and the last two on the boat itself, calmly observing the crowds.
“As you can see, your things are all loaded onto the boat,” said the general.
“Actually,” said Rigg, “I can see only that our things are not where we left them.”
The general sighed—exasperation or amusement?—and said, “I suppose when you get aboard you’ll see that your things were loaded.”
“And now it’s our turn to get loaded on.”
The general answered by speaking to the young sergeant who was in charge of the contingent of soldiers. Umbo noticed that the sergeant had an insignia—it was only the general and the other officer back at the tower who had no markings on their clothing. It made Umbo smile: The People’s Army has no insignia for its high officers—but has markings to identify the lower-ranking ones. Therefore the absence of insignia was the highest insignia of all. It was what Umbo’s dad always said: The People’s Revolution was just a change of uniforms—it was still the same kind of people running everything.
“These boys have the run of the boat, but are not to be let off it. This one”—he indicated Rigg—“is the terrifying hooligan that a man of my rank had to be sent to arrest. Please ignore the tomato drippings all over his very expensive tunic. He’s from upriver—they haven’t discovered napkins yet.”
The sergeant laughed, but Umbo wanted to say something very cutting. But just as he was drawing in breath before speaking, Rigg brushed the back of his hand and somehow the message was clear: Patience. Wait.
It had been fun running up and down the gangplank when they put in at various river towns. But that was when Umbo was free; now he was forbidden to leave, so walking up the plank to the ship seemed to have a hint of the gallows about it.
Almost as soon as they had seen that their bags and trunks were suitably placed, the general reappeared and said, “Master Rigg, the ship’s captain has been kind enough to allow me the use of his quarters. Would you mind terribly if we started your inquisition now?”
The word “inquisition” had a bit of a smile in it, no doubt meant to dispel fear, hinting that it wasn’t a real inquisition. Yet that was the word the general had chosen to use, and hardly by accident. No matter how nice the general might wish to seem to be, he still had the power to put them to torture or anything else he pleased, and Umbo wasn’t all that reassured to recall that the general had affirmed that they couldn’t be treated as guilty until there was some kind of court verdict about Rigg’s supposed conspiracy.
When Rigg joined the general and started toward the captain’s quarters, Umbo came along because it never crossed his mind to do otherwise. But the general noticed him at once, and gestured with his trailing hand for Umbo not to stay with them. This would be a solo inquisition, apparently. Though Umbo had no doubt that his time would come.
There was no way to linger around the door and hope to overhear some of their conversation, so Umbo went to the galley, where the cook ordered him to go away.
“I just wanted to help,” said Umbo.
“What do you know about cooking?”
“Everyone in Fall Ford knows how to cook something,” said Umbo. “‘It’s a useless man starves without a wife to cook for him.’”
“Is that some kind of proverb?” asked the cook.
“Yes, sir,” said Umbo.
