The Birth of People's Republic of Antartica, стр. 15
The security guards closed from above and below. Charity Bentham clung as fast to Peregrine as he to her. The guards pried them apart. Peregrine did not react until they had taken her a step back. Then he exploded, flailing angrily, lunging toward her. Two guards jumped him from behind, pulled him from the ramp, and rolled him to the floor. Musicians scattered from the pileup. Peregrine held his own—he seemed superhumanly strong—until two more guards joined the fray. This was clearly unfair. I forgot myself.
“Father, it’s me,” I said, springing to his defense, grabbing one guard by his coat and flinging him backward, checking another with a sweeping hook of my leg.
“Don’t hurt him,” cried Charity Bentham from above us.
“Get out,” Peregrine shouted to me from the floor. He twisted against an armlock. I prepared, watching my back, to kick them away. I might have carried the day. I was half a foot taller than my largest foe, as skilled in close combat as any. Often afterward I daydreamed about what I might have done to save Peregrine from his fate. I do believe I felt then, for the very first time, the darkness inside me—the beginnings of shape-changing. It was not to be. I had forgotten my puppies. Goldberg and Iceberg evacuated my waistcoat, one rocketing high, the other low, both yelping. I stood stunned, calling them back.
The guards took advantage of my surprise to take me down. My dogs, to their undying fame, stood by their man. Had they been even half-grown, those two, having been close to me for a quarter of an hour, would have killed to defend me. As it was, at only eight weeks and dopey on sugar, they harassed my enemies ferociously, sending up a howl worthy of a pack. For one glorious moment, it was four on four; me, Peregrine, Goldberg, and Iceberg versus them. Then they reinforced, and we surrendered.
My Father’s Crime
I WAS dragged through the crowd, down corridors and staircases, into the bowels of the castle. I was vaguely aware of the angry faces staring down at me. There was a cursing and crying out in the ballroom, followed by a pervasive stillness, the sort of shock that follows a public furor.
I realize that I seem to fear the facts. Even after more than four decades, in another century, another millennium, it is not possible to recall that night without regrets so deep that I bow my head and pray forgiveness for the damaged, which all of us were, and for the culpable, if any were. Ignorance of one’s contribution to a crime does not excuse one, or the crime, or anything. I should have seen. I should have guessed. I was there, at the center, and I could have tried. What? Something quick, something apt. It is I who should apologize to Peregrine. He needed help, he begged for help, and not my boyish sort, Robert Louis Stevenson and a leap from the rigging. He needed respect, steadfast sympathy, patience, calm love. I provided only the sham of indomitable camaraderie. It was a cheat. I cannot dismiss the thought that my interference in Peregrine’s affairs somehow prolonged his ordeal and led him to compound his wrong with far worse.
They took us down three levels. As I have mentioned, the King’s castle was still under construction. There was not yet a security complex. Workmen had finished the formal parts of the castle first, had left the auxiliary aspects incomplete. There were stacks of lumber, piles of brick and stone. We finally passed into a long, narrow, well-lit lesser hall that I took as a promenade. Three of the walls were up, the fourth only blocked out.
As we came in, a group already there turned to watch. I spotted Rinse, and behind him Israel, Thord, Earle, and several guards. Rinse did not see me; I did not see Guy, Molly, Orri, or Gizur, who I supposed correctly had avoided detention. Israel saw me, did not wave. I could not acknowledge him, my arms trussed behind me. The guards were furious with me and Peregrine, yanking us across the room and into an antechamber at the right. The guards arranged a straight-backed bench and slammed us down, passing the short chain of the handcuffs through a slat of the bench. We were pressed together, bent over and twisted sideways. We were surrounded by security guards in garish, leather-upholstered uniforms. Their chief, a beefy man who more whispered than talked, introduced himself as Skaldur, told us were were in a lot of trouble. Skaldur left in a contained fury. Peregrine and I sat silently for a time; a laugh from outside (Thord’s as he cajoled for understanding) startled Peregrine.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he said to me.
“I shouldn’t have taken the penalty, huh?” I said as jovially as possible, referring inanely to an ice hockey concept.
“This can’t ruin your life, too. Why did this have to happen? What’s wrong with me? Now what am I going to do?”
Skaldur returned, leading Charity Bentham and Cesare Furore into the room. Peregrine flinched at this, tried to stand, was pushed down roughly by a guard.
“That will be enough of that,” said Cesare Furore in English. He held himself so commandingly that the guards snapped to attention. I could see that his powerful build and angular features made him a center in a crisis. He was overbearing, overmuch, unless one was sympathetic to him. Skaldur must have been, for he repeated Cesare Furore’s order in Swedish, then dismissed all but two of his men. The others filed out and shut the door, but because the wall was not completed, I could see them through the superstructure.
“Did they hurt you, Peregrine?” asked Charity Bentham.
“Let the boy go, please?” said Peregrine.
“We must answer questions,” said Skaldur.
“We’re not going to bring charges, Peregrine,” said Cesare Furore in a warm, paternal voice.
“Then let