Sunset warrior, p.6
Sunset Warrior, page 6
Colour crept into his face again. ‘I am in your debt.’ He was silent for a moment, staring into the depths of his wine. He had not touched it, and now he picked up the goblet and sipped at it. It meant more to him than taking a drink.
‘I will tell you something,’ he said slowly, ‘although it is very difficult for me. I have envied you for a long time, wanting to be a Bladesman and not—not having the chance.’ He laughed nervously. ‘I suppose I am too small in any event.’ He brought the goblet to his lips again, a swift convulsive movement, as if activity were a necessity now. ‘I yearn to know how we came to be as a people—and what took place before us. They were a great people, centuries ago, and they built many Machines—huge and awesome.’ He put the wine down, gripped himself at the elbows as if he were cold. ‘That is all beyond us now. We have lost everything. But I have reached a—I have read all that remains, that meagre pile of knowledge.’
His voice lowered. ‘They do not know it, but I have partially deciphered the glyphs of the very ancient writing that comes from the time when all people were surface-dwellers. But it is not nearly enough, just odd fragments—it is nothing, really. I have been able to read just enough to know what an unforgivable thing they did.’
He broke off and wrung his hands. He had not yet said what he had come to say. ‘So I thought after all I have chosen to be something that is worthless. Oh, I have grown used to the taunts—I had work to keep me busy. But now I have read everything, so they tell me.’
He took out the dagger, watched light play along its stubby blade. ‘So some time ago I went to Combat practice’—he lifted his head, half afraid that Ronin would laugh—‘just like that. The Students joked about it at first and made fun of me, and finally, when I kept coming, wanted to throw me out. But in the end the Instructor came over and gave me this and a short sword and said that since I was trying so hard at least I should have some weapons. And now I work with the Novices, but’—his head sunk again—‘I know I will never be a Blades man.’
‘There are other things to be,’ said Ronin.
‘Nirren says nothing is as important.’
‘Nirren enjoys teasing you, but you must not believe everything he says.’
‘He is a Chondrin and he does not see!’ G’fand blurted suddenly.
‘See what?’
‘That we are dying! You cannot see it? You heard Tomand. He does not know the workings of the Machines, no Neer does. Yet the Great Machines are all that keep us alive. The Instructor talks to us of Traditions, the Code of Combat. But what good are Traditions if the air fails or the food goes or no more water comes to us?’
He stood abruptly. ‘I cannot stand it! I do not want to remain here. There is nothing for me, nothing for anyone. And soon—soon the banner of Tradition shall wave over our rotting bones!’
They went to Sehna together and that seemed to settle everything. There was an awkward moment until Tomand stood and said, ‘You are forgiven, this is Sehna after all.’ Nirren looked at them and smiled to himself, and K’reen squeezed G’fand’s hand.
There was much laughter and spirited talk amongst the group, but a lot of it had a hard brittle edge; the topics of conversation were of little consequence. And as the courses came and went and the wine flagon was emptied and refilled, they were gripped by a kind of desperation that caused their laughter to ring louder, as if noise and tumult would keep them safe from their inner thoughts.
Ronin understood this early on, and, while he ate and drank and laughed with the rest because any other course would have been suspect, this knowledge only deepened the gloom that had settled upon him. The Neer’s story had started it, he supposed, and he cursed her and then himself. What does it matter to me? he thought angrily. Not my concern.
A Bladesman wearing orange and brown wove his way towards them. He bowed to his Chondrin, whispered briefly in his ear. Nirren nodded and leaned over to Ronin. ‘Estrille’ he mouthed silently, rose, and made his excuses to the table.
In some way, although it might have been coincidental, his departure was the signal for even greater revelry. Tomand called to the adjacent tables and soon they were exchanging wine flagons and goblets, talking of inconsequential matters.
The seventh Spell expended itself and the eighth commenced. With it the Great Hall began to empty. Slowly, the tables became less crowded, the heat diminished, and the haze became less dense.
Ronin sat with legs outstretched, swirling the dark dregs of wine in the earthenware goblet, watching the twisting reflections on its opaque surface. The general din of conversation had slackened and the clatter of the Servers clearing the tables could be heard. They hurried along the narrow aisles, huge trays filled now with the remnants of Sehna held high above their heads, out of the way of passing Bladesmen. Ronin was asked if he wished more wine and he shook his head.
He itched to leave but felt the necessity of anonymity: he did not want to depart too soon. It was possible that no one was watching, but in any event he did not want to give the impression that he had somewhere specific to be off to.
Then he saw Nirren approaching and was suddenly glad that he had stayed this long. The Chondrin sat down close to him, pouring himself a drink from the last of the wine still on the table. He smiled and looked about them. There was no one near and plenty of background noise. Still smiling, he said softly, ‘I think you will be interested in this. That Teck of the Magic Man’s. Maastad? You remember? He works for Freidal.’
Ronin put down his goblet. ‘A daggam?’
Nirren sipped his wine slowly, did not look directly at Ronin. ‘No. A Teck, all right. But affiliated with Security. They do it all the time. When they are interested in something or someone, it is sometimes the only way in.’ He paused while a Server picked up the empty flagon. ‘They tried to affiliate Borros a while ago but he refused. So they sent the Rodent in to learn what he could.’
‘Apparently it was not enough.’
‘Uhm hmm. Listen, I have been given a special assignment. I have to find a Rodent of my own. I cannot tell you more now, but’—he looked at Ronin, a momentary flicker, and then his eyes were again roaming the Great Hall—‘I may need your help soon, even though you may be reluctant to give it. As for the other matter—’ He smiled and said in a louder voice, ‘Later.’
Ronin watched his back as he departed and was lost finally in the vast sea of moving bodies.
A soft snore passed from his open mouth. He lay sprawled on the couch, his legs crossed at the ankles, his arms embracing a pile of tablets. His seamed face was drawn, and pouches of grey skin hung under his eyes. Even in sleep he looks tired, thought Ronin.
He crossed the room, gently shook Stahlig’s shoulder. Immediately the eyes flew open, bloodshot but alert. He pulled himself up, heedless of the tumbling tablets, and cleared his throat. ‘Uhm, just resting for a moment.’
Ronin turned, hunted for the wine. ‘You look like you have lost a lot of sleep.’
‘Just’—Stahlig pointed—‘over there behind those tablets.’ Ronin poured the wine and he drank gratefully. ‘Mm, it’s that overload from Downshaft, Frost take it!’ His eyes shifted about the room. ‘A fine state when there are not enough Medicine Men in the Freehold. We may have to start using promising Students like K’reen.’ He finally saw the tablets on the floor. ‘Well.’ He cleared his throat again.
Flicker.
Down the Corridor and around a turning, very still and silent and watchful, they were caught in the periphery of his vision like rodents in a web.
Flicker: dark shadows against the light.
And he did not stop: he moved neither faster nor slower because they had not seen him and he did not want to do anything to attract their attention. Stillness within the organism, not without. Into the darkened surgery as fluid rolls within a jar. Now pause, let eyes adjust, and move again only when all the shadows are in their proper place. Because two daggam stand guard just down the Corridor.
‘I shall take you to Borros.’ Stahlig drained his cup and stood.
He has not mentioned them, Ronin thought, as they went across the room and into the surgery, aware that Stahlig did not light a light or make a sound.
They stopped at the far wall and the Medicine Man reached out and touched something in the gloom. An opening appeared in the wall, automatic and perfectly silent, and they stepped into the small cubicle and beyond.
It was dimly lit by two lamps, flames flickering in the draught created by the opening. Cabinets lined one side wall, a door cut into the centre of the other. And Ronin had it, the pieces fitting all at once: the daggam, Stahlig’s silence, the hidden door. And he looked to the far wall, at the two narrow beds, knew one was filled even before his eyes registered it, knew too that it contained a man with yellow skin, the nexus of an obscure power struggle within the Freehold.
Stahlig’s arm waved like a flag. ‘Behold,’ he whispered. ‘Borros.’
‘How did you manage it?’
The Medicine Man’s eyes lowered. ‘It was not—uhm—all that difficult. Borros had not regained consciousness when I returned the last Cycle, and I told Friedal that if he was not brought here immediately he would never again be conscious. Freidal had no choice, really.’
‘Would Borros have died?’
Stahlig rubbed his eyes. ‘Perhaps. But the important thing is that he has since awakened and talked to me.’ He sank on to the empty bed. ‘I have not yet told Freidal because I do not understand any of this. What can his value be to Freidal now? He is quite mad. Perhaps at one time—’ He shook his head, and Ronin crossed the room, stood over Borros. ‘Such a terrible waste,’ Stahlig said wearily. ‘Human life means nothing to them. They had him for much too long—his mind is not the same.’
But he did not tell them what they wanted to know, thought Ronin, or Freidal would not care whether he lives or dies now. He must have been a strong man. ‘Still, I would talk with him,’ Ronin said.
Stahlig shrugged. ‘You can learn nothing from him. He is so full of drugs—’
Ronin turned. ‘Then how can you tell that he is mad?’
‘It is not—’
The sound was tiny but distinct, coming from the anteroom. Stahlig jumped up, his face pale, his eyes wide. ‘Oh, Frost,’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘this was a mistake. I never should have agreed to it. Do not move.’ He passed through the doorway to the surgery, and it closed silently behind him.
Ronin stared down at Borros, at the high gleaming pate the colour of old bones, at the long closed eyelids. His breathing was deeper.
The stillness was palpable. Outside he heard the low murmuring of voices. He bent over Borros, gripped the sides of his jaw in his hand. The skin felt smooth and dry. The eyelids fluttered, opened slowly, gazed blankly up at him with unfocused pupils. Still, the eyes were so extraordinary that Ronin almost failed to react to the sound behind him.
He straightened and whirled in time to see Stahlig stepping through the doorway. ‘Freidal wants to see me immediately,’ he whispered. ‘Probably concerned about Borros,’ he added needlessly. ‘Remain here until I have left with the messenger. I have reminded the daggam outside that their presence in here would be harmful to the patient’s health. But even so, you must leave as quickly as possible. Borros has not awakened?’
‘No.’
‘Good. Better for him to rest. And there is nothing he can tell you. You would be wasting your time.’ He turned to go. ‘Remember, as soon as you hear us leave—’ He went through the doorway and disappeared into the shadows of the surgery.
Grey they were. But light grey, with golden flecks swimming in their depths like chips of bright metal. The muffled tramp of boots against concrete, diminishing. And then only the soft silence enshrouded them, with its fine susurration of breathing. The world reversed: the figures immobile, the pale flames of the lamps licking at the moving shadows they created. Still the eyes held him.
And then as if through a force of will Ronin moved silently to the closed door to the surgery, put his ear to the cool metal. He could hear nothing moving out there. He returned to the Magic Man, sat on the adjacent bed, elbows on knees. He was aware of the other door, across from him, beyond which the daggam stood guard.
‘Borros,’ he said quietly. ‘Borros, can you hear me?’
There was only the sound of his breathing, lips slightly parted. His eyes stared at the ceiling, seeing nothing.
Ronin repeated the question.
Silence. No movement of the pupils.
Repeat the question: closer, louder, more insistent.
Silent but: eye movement. Blink.
Lips trembling.
‘What? What did you say?’
He had to repeat it.
‘So blue—’
He had to strain to hear, and thought: No sense, but contact. Repeat.
‘Impossible blue. I—know it is there, I—’
Eyes focused now, golden flecks glinting. Breathing rapid. Ronin felt himself sweating, glanced quickly at the door to the Corridor. Had he heard a movement? He wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist, turned back quickly. Too late to get out now. ‘Borros, what are you saying?’
‘An arch—yes, it—it must look like an arch, so vast, so—’ He jerked as Ronin touched him, head whipping around, eyes bulging. His lips drew back in a laugh that was more an animal snarl, bared teeth gleaming. ‘Ahahaha! But there is nothing there, you have nothing no notes and now no more head brain squeezed until it’s dry and that’s what it is dry so it’s no use why don’t you st—’ His eyes drooped momentarily, then the lids flew up and he started as if just coming awake. ‘No—no more I’—shake of the head—‘do what you want, all usel—ugh!’—he shivered down the length of his body—‘the land brown and rich and plants growing green and free with no tanks and the heat of the bare sun hang—hanging in all that space!’
He stopped there like a mechanism run down and incapable of beginning again. And Ronin thought: It’s no good this way, no good at all. He does sound like a madman. His words are clear but they have no meaning. He wiped away more sweat, knowing that there was very little time.
Missed something, he thought. But what? Think.
He leaned forward, said urgently: ‘The land, Borros, tell me more about the land.’ The Magic Man had thought Ronin was one of the Security interrogators. So his approach had been wrong. Get into his mind: what if he was not mad? Only thing to try.
And he saw Borros’s mouth working. ‘Yes, the land.’ The faintest whisper like a dry wind, and Ronin felt a surge of adrenalin. ‘The fields, food to eat, great flowing waters, new life for the people but—’ He gasped as if struck by a blow, and Ronin reached out to hold him.
The long eyes were deep pools where golden fish swam frenziedly. ‘Oh, Frost, no! Not again!’ Eyes popping, face very pale, white lines netting the sides of the mouth, a living skull. As if staring into the face of Death—or a being more terrible.
He strained to sit up but Ronin held him down as gently as he could, feeling the flight of forces within the thin frame. ‘Must, must!’ Beads of sweat clung to the tight yellow skin of his head. It gathered on his upper lip, ran into his mouth, and the tongue came out, licked at the moisture. Sweat dripped along the sides of Ronin’s face as he stared at the twisting, tortured countenance. It rolled along his wrists and on to the backs of his hands, seeping between his fingers, and he tightened his grip. Borros’s hands were like claws, the tendons corded and raised just beneath the skin, held out in front of him as if warding off his agony and terror. Then he seized Ronin’s arms.
They were locked, immobile, and Ronin, caught in the pull of the grey-and-gold eyes, felt that he had lost volition of independent movement.
‘It is coming!’
Bound within the moment, he felt the writhings of Borros’s mind—
‘I have seen—It—’
—knew with an awful certainty suddenly flooding his being that Something was there—
‘—draws closer—the people cannot st—’
—not a presence but merely the threat of a presence, and that was enough to—
‘Must go to them—help—hel—’
‘Who, Borros, who? We are the only—’
The jaws snapped closed, the eyes saw him, perhaps for the first time, and the terrible ivory grin came again and now Ronin felt as if he faced—what?
‘Fool!’ hissed Borros. ‘They want no one to know. A secret!’ And he laughed without humour. ‘Their secret!’ The eyes took on a glossy depth, the pupils huge. Veins stood out along his temples where the Dehn spots pulsed as if alive. ‘Fool! We are not alone on this world!’ Eyes bulging alarmingly, teeth grinding in effort. ‘But it—will mean nothing. It comes—comes to destroy everything. Unless—’ His head whipped from side to side, with a spray of sweat. His throat convulsed and it appeared that he cried out, although the sound was low and strangled and seemed barely human. ‘Death—death is coming!’
Borros jerked again and went limp, his eyes fluttering closed. Ronin let go of him then, his hands and arms numb. He put his ear to Borros’s chest, then quickly pushed rhythmically with his palms. He listened again. Pounded his fist once, twice, over the heart. Listened again.
He wiped his dripping face and stood up. Moving to the doorway to the surgery, he pressed a part of the wall and darkness bloomed before him. He stepped through, out of the light. The door closed. He listened for a moment. His eyes adjusted. All shadows in their place. Then, like Stahlig before him, he disappeared into the shadows.
‘What do you know of the Magic Men?’
‘What brought that to mind?’
‘You are always answering a question with another question—Oh yes! There.’ The hand moved, flesh on flesh, orange and light brown in the low guttering lamplight. Black pooled in the hollows.
‘Just a peculiar topic to bring up now,’ Ronin said softly.
K’reen moved slowly, gently against him. Cascading dark hair, soft and cool, accentuating the heat of their bodies. ‘Not at all. They are purported to be—oh!—the saviours of the Freehold, divining ways for us to live in case the Great Machines cease to function. Is that not true?’
