Rillibee saw all this as he nodded an acknowledgment, just to let them know he had heard. No point in saying anything. Least said, the easiest denied, as the master of acolytes at Sanctity had been fond of telling them.
“As for you, having observed you carefully for several days, we can say without fear of contradiction that you’re a root peeper.” That snigger again, as though the insult meant something.
Rillibee nodded again.
“You’re required to acknowledge, peeper. Say you’re a peeper.” The voice was like a chant, empty of any feeling. Like the mosquito voices at Sanctity.
“I’m a peeper,” said Rillibee, without embarrassment or emotion.
“The point of all this is,” Highbones went on, striking another pose, “that we climbers consider peepers to be the lowest possible form of life. Brother Shoethai, he’s a peeper. Isn’t that true, boys?”
There was a chorus of agreement. Yes. Grass peepers were beneath contempt.
Rillibee had seen Brother Shoethai, a misshapen creature of uncertain age, the butt of everyone’s jokes—though covertly, for Brother Shoethai worked for the Office of Acceptable Doctrine. Highbones gave Rillibee little time to reflect on this.
“Of course, we realize that some are like old Shoethai, constitutionally incapable of climbing, and all of those will end up as peepers anyhow. Still, we’ll give you a chance. Everyone gets a chance. That’s only fair, wouldn’t you agree?”
Unwisely, Rillibee risked a comment. “I’m willing to be a peeper.”
There were yelps and halloos from those assembled, men who could have been Highbones’ brothers or cousins, all as shiny-skinned and slender as he, all with that long-armed look, like ancient apes.
Highbones shook his head. “Oh, no, no you’re not willing, peeper. No, you speak from ignorance. Perhaps even from congenital stupidity. Peepers get hung from the towers by their feet. Peepers get knocked about by this one and that one. Their lives are sheer misery, nothing but misery, nothing anyone would choose for himself. Far better to take the test and see how it all comes out, don’t you think? And if you simply can’t climb, well, then we’ll consider mercy. But you have to try. Those are the rules.” Highbones smiled. It was a kindly smile, a practiced smile; only the eyes betrayed the cruelty of it.
Rillibee, seeing those eyes, felt his stomach clench. They were like Wurn’s eyes, long ago, big, angry Wurn, when he used to borrow Rillibee’s school supplies, hoping Rillibee would say no so Wurn would have an excuse to hit. It had been only a matter of time until Wurn would kill someone. Only a matter of time until Highbones did, or had. Considering his age, he probably already had. He probably would again. He might tonight. Highbones wouldn’t much care. He might not desire his victims dead, but he did not care so long as the process offered some amusement. Or perhaps not amusement. Perhaps something else.
Even now he was saying, “Peepers have such a horrible life, little man. Such a horror as you’ve never thought of. Ask old Shoethai, if you don’t believe us!”
“Have you ever seen anyone dying of plague?” Rillibee asked, the words coming out without thought. He wished them back in the instant, but the group did not react as though they knew what he meant.
“Plague?” Highbones laughed. “No good trying to detour us, peeper. Tell your stories to somebody else but not to us. Time for you to climb.”
“Climb where?” Rillibee asked. With difficulty he kept his voice reasonable and calm. This dozen and whatever others there were waiting elsewhere were a pack. Rillibee had seen packs when he was a child. Packs of coyotes. Packs of wild dogs. Joshua had explained about packs. Let one start baying, and all would follow. It had happened that way in Sanctity, too. Let one start panting and screeching and others would join in. They had done so when Rillibee started yelling. By the time they’d knocked him off the table and carried him away, twenty or thirty others were shouting as well. A pack. If one didn’t want to deal with a pack, it was important to keep the leader from baying.
“Are you the only one with a name?” he asked of Highbones, attempting a diversion.
It worked, for a moment. Hardflight was introduced, and Topclinger. Mastmaster and Steeplehands. Roperunner and Long Bridge and Little Bridge. Rillibee distracted himself by memorizing their names, their faces. Lean faces, all atop slender forms, and most with those long arms and big hands. Light weight was obviously an advantage. Rillibee’s hands were inside the sleeves of his robe, and he put his fingers around his arms, feeling the ropy muscle there. All those years of exercise at Sanctity. All those years climbing up and down the towers.
Topclinger was staring at Highbones, his face carefully blank, his eyes unreadable. Here was one who did not follow blindly, exclaiming and shouting. Here was one to whom appeals could be made, perhaps?
But there was no time to appeal to anyone.
“Time’s passing,” cried Highbones. “Light’s going. Time to climb!”
Rillibee was surrounded by a whispering mob of them, hustled down one corridor and into a storage building, then up a flight of stairs and out a hatch onto the thatched roof of the hall. Beside him was the leg of a tower, a slender ladder running beside it to the first crossbrace. Above that were other legs, other ladders. The mists hung about the top of the towers, hiding them. Between the clouds and the earth speared the last rays of the setting sun, beginning the long dusk of Grass.
Topclinger whispered, “This one’ll climb, this one will,” gripping Rillibee’s shoulder in his hard hand, squeezing it.
“Oh, I’ll wager on that, Tops, I will,” snarled Highbones.
Rillibee heard them through the muttering. All those years listening to the mosquito whines at Sanctity, picking
