Jepaul Page 6

CHAPTER SIX

  Quon wasn't in either an amiable or talkative mood when they reached the surface of Shalah. His heightened senses looked for threatening objects all about them, but once they began to travel again he seemed to become more relaxed and his usual affable self. Knellen was clearly in pain, the man's comments or responses irascible in the extreme - nor could the boy's empathy charm him from his solitary musings. Saracen was also silent in the way of his people, not a race to prattle idly or for no cause. So Jepaul was left to his own devices. Sometimes the questions he put to Quon were often unexpected.

  “Why do the winds howl or sigh? Are they sad?

  Who makes the trees grow so big and old and beautiful and why are they all so different? Have they all got individual spirits?

  Do you think flowers have souls, Quon?

  Are the clouds spirits that drift across Shalah?

  When leaves rustle, Quon, they speak to us. Can you hear them?

  The ground is alive, Quon. The earth talks all the time and it's so very, very old.

  Is the sun a god that it comes and goes? It kisses Shalah in the morning and again at night. The night steals the sunbeams and hides them but has to let them go at dawn. It's at dawn when you often hear Shalah speak as the world opens its eyes and stretches. Can you hear it too, Quon?

  The ferns are like children, unfurling with growth and spreading upwards.

  The air lets Shalah breath.

  The waters lets Shalah drink and feed itself. Don't they?”

  Quon let the child speak. He was fascinated by this child's mind and he always answered with unabated good humour, understanding and kindness. Under his benevolence Jepaul thrived.

  Quon pursed his lips when he thought of Jepaul's colouring. But it was the eyes that constantly drew him because there was something about them the Maquat believed he should recognise but couldn't place at that moment. He knew the answer would come and probably at the least expected moment. He wasn't troubled, just curious. The eyes were bewitching the way the colour changed and fluctuated.

  The dreamy, faraway look would be softly mellow but with a lightness to the amber eyes that was breathtaking, then, suddenly, the big eyes were limpid, haunted pools of deepest, secret amber that veiled the soul of this child. The colour changed again to lakes of molten gold charged with sparks and jets of fire. Or they were unexpectedly washed with coppery tints like morning dew on a yellow flower when the boy was hurt and tried so hard not to cry. The eyes were never the same. They could be glowing yet shadowed, with a luminosity of inscrutability at unexpected moments, sometimes subdued but never dull. They stayed lustrous and impenetrably deep - they weren't the eyes of a child.

  Jepaul's eyes spoke for him and were, Quon decided, the very door to the little fellow's innermost being. He opened to one person - Quon. It was Quon who touched this lost, enchanted soul and it was to Quon Jepaul gave his love and trust without question or reservation. Quon knew it. It twisted his heart. And he watched the child like a hawk.

 

  Jepaul learned to ride and didn't have a bad seat, though Knellen growled at him every so often about the way he sat or handled the reins. The boy was completely restored to health. The only different thing about him was the very short massed cluster of auburn curls about a young head that turned here and there to absorb all they passed. He'd also had another growth spurt so he already, still a child, towered over Saracen.

  He wore his new necklace with pride and had anklets to match that he never took off. Not that he could. He found that when they were gently placed about each ankle, the join disappeared, something that made him cry out with fear about caste until pacified by the Grohols. When they assured him they were for his protection and would one day simply fall off when they were no longer needed his fears were calmed. He made no demur when bracelets about each slender wrist also moulded to him as if he'd been born with them. When Jepaul questioned Quon about them he just got a shrug and a smile. The boy promptly forgot about them and never mentioned them again.

  Saracen often rode ahead while Knellen insisted on bringing up the rear. The Varen eyed the Grohol with misgiving while Saracen eyed Knellen with blatant mistrust. The only comment forthcoming from the Varen about Jepaul was,

  “The boy's subtly changed, Quon. I feel it. I also feel we don't just travel with a frightened child anymore.”

  “What do we travel with?” asked Quon softly.

  “I don't know,” was the stolid response. Knellen turned his head so he could look down at the shorter older man. “I think the Grohol expects me to betray you and the boy.”

  “Yes, he does.”

  “And you, Quon?”

  “You saved Jepaul and me, Knellen, more than once. I consider one like you a friend until it's proved otherwise.”

  “The writhling speaks more with each day and the Varen you met submerges more and more each day. Understand that, Maquat Dom. Soon I may not be Knellen.”

  “You'll be Knellen for a while longer yet, my friend,” reassured Quon quietly. “We seek one who can help you. Let's just hope she will.”

  “Who is she?”

  “You'll find out sooner or later,” laughed Quon, though he hid his misgivings.

 

  Their travel continued uninterrupted and unhindered until they came upon two groups, one after another. For this they were unlucky to meet the second group. The first they met were professional travelling puppeteers. It was a skilled and quite large troupe of at least fifty members, their ages ranging from the very young offspring to the very old who still worked for the troupe. To meet them was beneficial because it meant the travellers were less conspicuous among so many.

  When Quon asked if they might join the troupe he was eyed askance until the group met Jepaul who was a natural mimic. Not only that, the boy could sing. That was a talent not to be resisted since boy singers were considered valuable. He was also tall so could be useful as a puppeteer once he was taught. The only snag was the insistence that Jepaul be apprenticed to the art or their request to travel with the troupe would be denied. Questioned, Jepaul shrugged and said he'd do what Quon wanted.

  Since the troupe headed northeast, Quon temporised, aware he could spirit the boy away when the time came. Though he nodded acquiescence, he also insisted that Jepaul be unquestioningly allowed his freedom when he needed to leave. The troupe demurred. It was only when they learned the boy was recently freed from caste slavery that the troupe agreed. They abhorred the concept of caste. Jepaul was then arbitrarily taken away to reside with his new puppeteer master while Quon, Saracen and Knellen were assumed to be useful. They were given lessons in puppetry making that provided them with enormous entertainment.

  It was a fascinating and extraordinarily complex craft the four became involved in. Jepaul was enchanted. His new life was no trial. The gypsy lifestyle suited his temperament exactly. He rose at dawn and fell asleep at night contented, the boy fulfilled in a way new for him. He blossomed. He happily performed in villages and sleepy hamlets and was considered a blessing by the troupe because money always followed Jepaul's efforts. He became a solo artist and was soon performing with his own puppets, something that made the Varen and the Grohol eye Quon questioningly.

 

  Quon was about to dampen this fledgling solo career when fate intervened. Outside a small town the troupe found themselves surrounded by a large contingent of slavers from the far east who weren't disposed to be friendly. They rounded up the puppeteers, lined them up and began to sort them for commercial value.

  Some of the troupe fought. Their ends were swift. By the time the slavers subdued the entire remaining troupe, a few lay dead and at least four or more were hurt, some quite badly. Jepaul stared wide-eyed at the bodies thrown to one side of the road where they'd be left to rot, aware his master was among those who lay there so still and broken.

  “Why?” he screamed at the slavers before Quon could silence him. The odd eyes blazed, their topaz depths hauntingly deep. “Why?�
�� Jepaul repeated. Watching him, Knellen felt he didn't so much look at a boy as at some entity. “We're entertainers, not fighters. We hurt no one. We're puppeteers. You've killed my master. He was the best you'd ever see.”

  The slavers turned their attention to the tall, thin, trembling boy. One advanced, his hand up to strike, but something about the child made him stay his hand and he stood in front of Jepaul, contemplating him thoughtfully.

  “You're a brave boy to question us so, child,” he observed, eyes narrowed to slits. There might have been a laugh in the voice but it didn't touch the eyes. They were mirthless. The slaver turned his head and called. “Javen! Javen! We've a foolhardy child challenges us. Come see for yourself.”

  An older man strode across to the peremptory beckon and stood in front of the boy, his gaze cold and measuring.

  “So you defy us, do you?”

  “No,” answered Jepaul, his voice quavering but no sign of inward quaking as was seen not so long ago. The boy stood firmly.

  “So what Gabrel says is a lie then?”

  “No.” Jepaul shook his head. “I just asked why you killed when we could've offered you so much more as puppeteers than as slaves.”

  “We don't want you, silly child!” mocked Javen contemptuously. “You're nothing to us other than money.”

  “But we are,” insisted Jepaul, with what Saracen felt was foolhardy confidence.

  Javen's eyes narrowed. He leaned forward to pluck at the necklace Jepaul wore. Then he reared back cursing, fingers to his mouth then nursed in his other hand.

  “What are you then?” he snarled, still fluently cursing.

  He grasped Jepaul's arm, tilted the young head with a firm hand to the chin, then he just stared mesmerised.

  “Such unusual eyes,” he murmured. With an effort he glanced across at Quon. “And who are you that you dare to glare so insolently at your captor?” he demanded, the coldness returning to the deep voice.

  “He's my father,” said Jepaul sadly, wistfulness to the light voice. “All those you killed are my kin. I call them so because they adopted me, offered me all they knew and let us travel freely with them. You've robbed me now.”

  Jepaul began to sob quietly, the tears that flooded his face falling onto the hand still grasping his chin. Discomfited by the boy's transformation from blazing anger to grief, Javen released Jepaul. Growling softly in his throat, he walked away. Quon went to Jepaul. He was shoved rudely back by Gabrel who took Jepaul in a firm grasp and dragged the weeping boy to the far side of the road. There he made the child gaze down at the dead bodies.

  “That'll be you if you don't learn to keep a civil and quiet tongue in your head, my lad,” he said roughly. “To teach you a first lesson I'll dust you as well.” He went to one knee, leaned Jepaul across it and proceeded to spank him very hard indeed. It was all over in seconds. Jepaul was swung to his feet, to feel a strong finger under his chin again. “You speak so out of turn, my lad, and I'll take to you again. Now join the others and button your lips, yes?”

  “Are you the Aeger?”

  “No, I'm not,” answered Gabrel, completely taken-aback by the boy's use of a slave term known only to intimate slavers.

  “Is Javen?”

  “Yes, so unless you want to be made to walk like a beaten dog you'd better learn your place.”

  “Let me speak to him,” begged Jepaul.

  This time the hand that descended caught him a hard blow across the left cheek and he staggered. Jepaul wrenched free. He turned wildly. As four slavers converged on him, he slipped sideways and ran as fast as he could to where Javen was arranging for chains to be brought across to the lined up puppeteers. There he fell to his knees and grasped Javen's ankle where he clung, despite the slaver's best efforts to shake him off. Quon took a step forward but again was driven back. Knellen snarled under his breath. Javen glared down exasperated. He grasped Jepaul's hair, hauled the boy to his feet and shook him.

  “How old are you, my bold pup?” he enquired, a faint smile at the back of his eyes.

  “Just nine syns.”

  “What?” ejaculated Javen, the smile banished. “We don't enslave boys under eleven syns. You're lying, boy.”

  “No.” Jepaul shook his head and pointed to Quon. “He knows my birth time. My father told him.”

  “You lying brat!” gasped Gabrel, reaching Javen. “You said the old man was your father. You deserve I should give you another dose!”

  He saw Javen raise a restraining hand and fell back, his look at Jepaul unfriendly and brooding.

  “A mighty old father too,” murmured Javen, amusement back in his voice. His attention was now on the agitated white-haired man who swore fluently at the slaver who kept him back. “Come over here, old man,” he invited. Quon came. His eyes snapped with barely repressed anger. “Should we bend you across a slaver knee for insolence too?” enquired Javen affably as Quon reached him.

  The old man's imprecations about slavers in general made Javen's eyes briefly flash. Quon's eyes also glinted but in a way that was thoroughly disconcerting.

  “You could try,” he replied more cordially.

  “Not wise to so anger a Maquat,” called out Saracen. He got Javen's attention but a thoroughly incensed look from Quon.

  “A Maquat?” Javen asked, genuinely astonished. “There aren't any left on Shalah, so it's said.” He glanced interestedly at Quon then at the boy.

  “He answers to Maquat Dom,” said the Varen, in a deep carrying voice that brooked no argument. “I'm a Varen and we're accompanied by my youngest brother Saracen.” Knellen ignored the Grohol's indignant gasp of outrage and continued to stand impassively.

  “Are you a Maquat?” demanded Javen curiously, his concentration back on Quon. He saw he wasn't going to get a direct answer and a light touched his eyes. “If you are, old man, you know we can't touch you, nor the boy probably. Why did you say nothing?”

  “You caught us unawares and acted before I could save the puppeteers you so foolishly killed. The demons, man! They had no weapons and were peaceable. Is money so important to you?” He got a menacing growl in reply, then resumed, his voice world-weary Javen noticed. “The boy's right when he says you've made him lose so much.” Quon spoke in a detached way. He saw the puzzled expression. “It may help if I explain who we are and what we try to do.” Quon sighed. “You see, Aeger, the child was born emtori. As such he was rejected by his father very young, so, since I then took over the boy's care he sees me as his father as you'd expect. We travel north with the troupe to seek an ancient wise one who may help cure the Varen of an illness. It may well consume him before he's much older. The boy and I owe the Varen and his brother our lives. I know how to reach the ancient one who may be willing to cure the Varen. It's for that reason we decided to travel with the troupe.

  The boy's had so little to rejoice about in life. Then he was lucky to find a puppet master who taught him and treated him like a son and though we've not been with the troupe more than half a season, still the boy learned much. You've robbed him of being able to study more from a uniquely talented puppeteer. The child's loss is inexplicable to you, but his grief is genuine.” Quon saw how vexed Javen looked and added softly, “You want to know his age, don't you?” There was no answer. “He's staggeringly tall for his syns, Javen, but indeed he has just come to his ninth.”

  “And the necklace he wears. Why did it burn me when I touched it?”

  “It was a gift given him by a sighted one,” lied Quon plausibly, aware that he could feel comfortable about it because the Grohol were sighted, more than perhaps they realised or appreciated.

  Javen turned his attention back to Jepaul who stood still with a hanging head. He snapped his fingers to gain the boy's attention. The lifted head showed big amber eyes red-rimmed and swollen, but they still held the oddest expression Javen had ever seen.

  “What is it you ask of me, lad?” he asked finally.

  “Let us play for you,” beseeched Jepaul. He turned hi
s head to where the master puppeteer lay. “For him and the others,” he added dully. “Then take us as slaves.”

  Javen shrugged.

  “Let them go!” he ordered his men curtly. “You!” he gestured at the troupe. “Play for me, troupers you claim to be. If you're as good as the boy says, I may reconsider enslaving you, but if he's deceived me he'll be the first to moan with the weight of chains and the lash across his back!”

  The troupe convened. Though badly shaken they were aware Jepaul's ploy might well save their lives and they were willing to try for the sake of those who lay not far from them. When they explained they couldn't perform over dead bodies they were allowed to decently bury their dead before they began to reconstruct, as best they could, the sets for the performance.

  All worked at fever pitch. Quon hustled about exhorting and encouraging, a gentle hand to a shoulder or head and words of praise coming readily to his lips. His calm confidence and belief in them instilled even more willingness among a troupe shattered by an experience they could hardly believe. Quon also comforted and administered to the hurt, aware Javen's eyes followed his every move.

  In a remarkably short space of time the puppeteers were ready. The injured lay back more easily and the slavers sat about quaffing from rough tankards while they waited to be entertained. Jepaul approached Javen.

  “Yes, little lad?”

  “We're ready,” explained Jepaul. His bow was formal but nervous and it brought a more tolerant smile.

  “Go to it, my lad,” invited Javen, filling his tankard before lounging back on an elbow. He waved dismissal.

 

  Javen was fascinated. So were the other slavers. The show transported them from a mundane existence to another dimension of make-believe that seemed inexplicably real. The puppets were superb, their movements so clever and so in harmony with the words and music they seemed alive every minute they danced about on the stage. Their design and costuming was remarkably sophisticated.

  Jepaul's voice wobbled precariously until Quon hissed at him that he did this for Delf. Then the voice steadied, stayed boyishly light and true, and Jepaul sang for the puppet master. At the end of the show, Javen blinked, then rose, stretched and went round to where the puppeteers still stood. He saw dolls held high on sticks, some on puppeteers' hands with their handlers kneeling on boxes, while the musicians rested their instruments beside them or cradled them.

  Javen could smell the fear. He couldn't believe, with the spectacular and intricate finale he'd just witnessed, that so many people could be jammed into one small space, their puppets working so closely there was scarcely room to manoeuvre. He saw Jepaul in the middle, the boy's face anxious and white, his puppet resting in his lap.

  “You may go free,” said Javen quietly. “No troupe as excellent as this deserves to be enslaved.” The silence was fraught with unrelieved tension.

  “Thank you!” whispered Jepaul. He flung down his puppet and again crossed to Javen.

  “I'm sorry, little lad, that your puppet master is dead, but I think you learned far more from him than you realise. And there's something else you should know too.” Javen's lips twisted at the face uplifted to his. “No one's irreplaceable, lad, no one. Where you learned from one, now you'll learn from another, and with each new teacher you'll learn something unique and precious. I wish you well. What's your name?”

  “Jepaul,” answered Quon, coming in behind them. “The child answers to Jepaul.”

  “Then, little lad, may whatever gods you believe in guide and cherish you. You'll make a fine young man with vision and courage. Go now.” Briefly Jepaul grasped Javen's hand before he turned slowly away, unconscious of the slaver's gaze. Javen then half-turned his head to survey Quon. “Are you a Maquat?” he asked directly.

  “Yes,” sighed Quon.

  “Are there others like you?”

  Quon's expression was a trifle wary.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “There used to be The Five, though one was allegedly lost, old man. They were said to govern from the Island of Salaphon, their teachings such that men left that place enlightened, tolerant and humane. Am I right?”

  “You speak of long, long ago, Aeger.”

  “That age, so long ago, must come again, Maquat.”

  “Why?” demanded Quon with sudden interest.

  “Because, Maquat, Shalah cries for justice, equality and real care.” Javen rubbed his eyes. “You see me as a common slave trader, don't you?” Quon nodded questioningly. “Once, old man, I was a scholar. I was a senior acolyte of the Order in the city of Arrain-Toh where I taught those who wanted to listen. I enjoyed philosophy, questioned, argued and was challenged by minds greater than my own. But even those minds couldn't touch what it was said could be taught to those gifted or lucky enough to be chosen to go to the Island. That's when I learned about the Island and what one could learn there. Others joined my fascination to know.

  Our ruler set out to destroy us, all the members of the Order of the Island, because we began to question what we saw around us. We believed that the bad times of the Progenitor and the Nedru, from aeons ago, could come again and we wanted to ensure they didn't. When we needed support and help we discovered that the Island and all its adherents were no more. Our cries for help were in vain. I'm the only survivor from the Order at Arrain-Toh, Maquat.”

  Quon's eyes were misty.

  “I didn't know, Aeger. I heard no cries because I wasn't on the Island and those who were have withdrawn other than for moments of critical need on Shalah. I'm the Wanderer, the Seeker. We've not worked as you describe for aeons.”

  “We need you, Maquat,” whispered Javen, his low tone slightly distraught. “For the love of the gods, man, look about you! What do you see? Desolation, destruction, cruel oppression! What more do those of the Island need to make them see how urgent is Shalah's need?”

  Quon eyed Javen thoughtfully, aware the man's words struck an uncomfortable, jarring chord. Shalah's need was much greater and her peril more serious than ever the Aeger could guess. He temporised.

  “And you, Javen? A slaver?”

  A bitter note came to Javen's voice.

  “A cruel oppressor, Maquat, that's what you see.” The slaver gave a jeering laugh before he tilted his head. “Look at my throat, Maquat, and then at the lobe of my ear.”

  Quon obliged. The long scar down the throat showed Javen was once a slave, and the clipped off lobe of the left ear meant he was, like Jepaul, the lowest menial of the low. He sighed.

  “That's what your ruler did?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Who was he?”

  “Harnath, Patron of Ciquan and Patriarch of the state of Arrain-Toh.” Javen scratched at his chin. “He made sure I'd not rise to eminence again, didn't he? His methods are usually brutally effective, Maquat. I'm surprised I'm still alive.”

  “So how did you become the Aeger of slavers?”

  “A long story.” The jeering note was back in the voice. “I took over when there was a mutiny. We executed the Aeger before me.”

  “And your future, Javen?”

  “Precarious,” laughed Javen, a rich chortle that shook him. He eyed Quon mirthfully. “You see an irony, do you? Here's a scholar, an acolyte of the Order, brought low, imploring intervention from an old man too far gone in senility to be able to help a world another holds dear.” He saw the spark of anger in Quon's eyes and went on more moderately. “Old man, I'm tired. This life suits me until I come across someone like that child who, for just a moment, made me remember who and what I was and what I aspired to be. That transient moment was so full of pathos and emotion I was struck by ludicrous hope.”

  “No hope is ludicrous,” reproved Quon gently. “Jepaul's an unusual boy.”

  Javen stared down at Quon, his attention fairly caught.

  “What are you doing with that child?” he hissed.

  “I'm trying, Aeger, to get the child to the Island.”

  “What?” gas
ped Javen. “It's still there?” He saw the slow nod of the white head. “The others?”

  “Like me, Aeger, old, tired and rather dispirited, but we're definitely alive.”

  “The Guardians of Shalah!” murmured Javen, with sheer delight. “Maquat, why does the boy go there? Is he in danger? What is he?”

  “The boy shows slight telepathic ability, or so they say. Because he's emtori slave caste, that's unspeakable. He faced execution. I rescued him.” Quon paused and gestured at the Varen. “Or more accurately, the Varen did. I got the child away and we travel as fast and inconspicuously as we can because there's a price on our heads, especially mine since I was so rude to the ruler.” A reprehensible twinkle lit the old man's eyes. “I still get irritable on occasion,” he explained ingenuously. He saw an answering smile come to Javen's eyes.

  “Why does the boy somehow touch me?”

  “I've no idea,” lied Quon blandly and plausibly.

  “He's unlike the usual child born on Shalah. His looks alone make him stand out.”

  “True,” agreed Quon contemplatively.

  Javen surveyed him, then when he spoke, Javen's voice was brisk and business-like. “Bring the boy, Maquat. You can travel with us. We head north. Where do you go?”

  “The puppeteers veer east which isn't the way I want to go at all,” mused Quon, his look at the Aeger such that Javen felt he'd been read inside and out and couldn't hide anything even if he wanted to. Respectfully, he shuffled a booted foot. “The Varen needs help.”

  “So you said, Maquat.”

  “I seek Lesul, Aeger. That could bring danger to you.”

  “You can't!” exploded Javen incredulously. “I've read myths about her. She can't be real. Nothing like her could be!”

  “I hesitate to contradict you, of course,” began Quon courteously, “but indeed she exists and it's to her I must go since she's the only one with the knowledge to -.” He broke off.

  “What?” asked Javen gently. “What, old man?”

  Quon blinked tiredly.

  “You ask too many questions!” he said querulously. “Do you still say we can travel with you?”

  “Why not?” countered Javen affably, but with a dangerous glint in his eyes.

  Quon touched his sleeve.

  “Don't ask questions of me, Aeger. I can't answer many of them and won't answer others.”

  Javen's expression immediately softened from mockery to comprehension.

  “Tell me one thing, Maquat. Does the Varen know exactly what you're up to?” Quon shook his head. “Or the little man who masquerades as his younger brother?” Javen saw an appreciative twinkle in the old man's eyes at that but again saw a shake of the head. “And has the boy the remotest idea why a Maquat, who risks life and limb to wander a disaffected and violent Shalah, takes an interest in him?”

  “No, damn you!” laughed Quon. “And that's more than one question, you rogue!”

  “Then I'm satisfied,” chuckled Javen. He swung round. “I'll tell the men you're with us, old man, and you can tell the puppeteers.”

  Quon nodded dismissively. He watched the Aeger stride away, a curious expression on the older man's face that could have been depths of compassionate understanding, before he too began to walk as briskly as old age allowed. He spoke first to Knellen. The Varen's face darkened perceptibly before he uttered vehement protest. It was later echoed by Saracen. It took all the old man's ingenuity and persuasive powers to make the twosome realise a slave train was the last place anyone would think of to look for an old man and a boy. Grudgingly, the pair came round.

  Jepaul was astonished and saddened, his big darkly lashed amber eyes showing real regret. He shook his head.

  “I like being with the puppeteers,” he murmured disconsolately. Quon looked at the slight figure with the now thick mop of unruly, long auburn curls.

  “Yes, lad, I know, but it wasn't meant to be for ever and eventually your solo acts may well have drawn unwanted attention to us. Had you thought of that, Jepaul?”

  “No,” admitted Jepaul, rubbing an eye tiredly.

  “You've learned a great deal, child,” urged Quon softly, “so think of that and be comforted by it. Javen's offer is genuine, nor will he hurt you. Go now - farewell your friends and don't forget to thank them.”

 

  When told a small group would accompany the slavers northwards for a while, Gabrel barely restrained his indignation until he encountered a fiery look from Javen. Mutterings took a long time to subside. Other slavers were as unamused as Gabrel. The first days were tense because Gabrel tended to look for fault in the boy and was only prevented from repeating the beating when the Varen's protective bulk stood between him and Jepaul. No one on Shalah defied or provoked a Varen. Gabrel fell back.

  “Only Quon chastises the child,” said Knellen, in a deep menacing voice. His pointed teeth gleamed. “He acts as the boy's father. If you tell us when the lad does wrong, be sure he'll be dealt with.” Gabrel swung away with a growl.

  After that the journey proceeded without mishap. Quon and Knellen eyed and watched the boy closely as one day succeeded another. Again, both were acutely conscious, especially Quon, that with each experience Jepaul increased in assurance, confidence and maturity. It was as if adversity, in any form, gave him inner strength. The boyish scuffing walk turned into a more assertive stride, the head was held high and the intelligence in the odd eyes glowed with a light that was fascinating and new.

  Quon was used to a quaking boy. Now he came to terms with a young one who appeared, for some reason, to be coming into his own as the extraordinary and unexpected consequence of cruel purification. Quon was more than ever convinced that his befriending Jepaul wasn't chance at all. This strange boy, so unlike any on Shalah, was precious, unique, terrifyingly gifted, and totally dependent on him for guidance, love, and most of all, teaching in the use of undeniable and growing power.

  That made Quon increasingly pensive as he rode, his eyes often turning to the confiding, laughing child who rode beside him and looked at him with such respect and adoration. It was imperative this trusting boy be got to safety as quickly as possible. Quon didn't like the odds. Neither did Saracen though the little man spoke seldom.