The Keeping Place

  I shivered and pulled his body closer. I could not imagine life without him. I lay listening to the slow soft buzz of his breath until I drifted into unconsciousness.

  That night, I did not dream at all, but the evening before my departure for Sawlney, I sank through the layers of my mind until I was just above the mindstream, and a memory bubble rose from it to engulf me.

  I was hovering beside Cassy, who was painting a flamebird in a very white room with plain, shining surfaces. There were no windows and only a single closed door. The lighting in the room was the same radiant kind as the immense globe that lit the main cavern in the Teknoguild network but on a much smaller scale. The only color in the room was Cassy’s orange shirt, glowing brightly against her brown skin, and the brilliant scarlet plumage of the bird in its cage on the table before her.

  I studied the bird in wonder, for though much smaller, it was otherwise astoundingly similar to the Agyllians.

  Cassy was absorbed in her painting, but suddenly she looked up, a stunned expression on her face. For a second, I thought she had sensed my presence. Then I realized she was looking at the bird.

  “What?” she whispered, leaning closer to the circular air holes in the glass cage.

  It said nothing, of course, but I opened my mind and heard its thoughts reaching out to hers. To my astonishment, I recognized Atthis’s voice.

  “…can/do you hear?”

  Cassy looked around the room in suspicion.

  “Do not fear,” the bird sent calmly. “It is I/we who reach you. I/we need your help.”

  Cassy licked her lips and spoke aloud, though very softly. “I…I did hear you the other day, didn’t I?”

  “Did,” the bird sent with obvious satisfaction. “Felt you could/would. Not all funaga do/can hear.” Now I realized that though the voice was Atthis’s in a sense, it was like one strand of it, and that reminded me that the Elder of the eldar retained the memory of its ancestors.

  “How is it that you can…can do this?” Cassy stammered.

  “Many things they did to us/me. Many weary-painful things.” The bird’s tone held a residue of anguish that was almost palpable. “Funaga do not think birds feel/fear/think.”

  “You…you’re using telepathy, aren’t you?”

  “Something like. Something very like. But word too little. Too limited.”

  “You made me want to paint you, didn’t you?” Cassy asked with a touch of fear. “You put the idea of it into my head.”

  “Not put. Found thought. Amplified and nourished. Cannot/will not make.”

  Cassy licked her lips doubtfully. “You…you said you wanted my help. Do you want me to set you free?”

  The bird gave the avian equivalent of a sigh. “O freedom. Yes. But there is a more important doing needed. In this place there are others.”

  “I might manage to get you out, but I doubt I could get to your friends and free them without being arrested. All of the experimental animals are locked up in the labs.”

  “Friends yes. Not beast. Not avian. Human/funaga.”

  “You have human friends here?”

  “Telepaths, you would say/call them. Like you.”

  “I’m not telepathic,” Cassy laughed self-deprecatingly. “Believe me, I’d love it if I was. I even went to one of those centers. They tested me and found zilch.”

  “Do not know tests. Not know zilch. Know only could not reach your wakingmind if not receptive.”

  “But I’m telling you I tested as dull normal!”

  The bird made no response.

  “All right. Let’s just say I am telepathic, or at least I’m receptive to telepaths. You say there are people here who are telepathic? Volunteers?”

  “Prisoners. Like me/mine. Stolen.”

  She looked shocked. “You can’t steal people. There’d be inquiries.”

  “Stolen, yes, but cleverly so no searching. Most dark of skin/hue like you. But no money. No family. No position/place to make for wondering.”

  “Trashers,” Cassy said. “That’s what people call poor folk who live in the rim slums….” She spluttered to an indignant halt.

  “Your anger burns me,” the bird complained.

  Cassy looked discomforted. “I…I’m sorry. It’s just that the whole thing makes me so mad. It’s just dumb luck my mother was able to get herself educated, or I’d just as likely be in those rim slums right now. All the progress we’ve made, and still no one does anything about the disadvantaged…uh, sorry,” she said, seeing the bird ruffle its feathers in reaction to her anger. “Look, these people. Why are they being held here?”

  “Experiments. Like on I/we.”

  “Oh hell. What can I do? I mean, I’ll help, but I’m nobody here. I’m only here because I was dumped on my father at the last minute. He’s the director of this place,” she added. “I barely move without Masterton treading on my shadow, the bastard.”

  “No one knows they/human telepaths here,” the bird sent.

  “No one…” Understanding dawned in her eyes. “You want me to let people know? The electronic bulletins would jump at the story, but I’d have to have proof….”

  “There is a woman who must be told they are here. If more know, they would be moved or killed.”

  “A woman? Who?”

  For the first time, I sensed uncertainty in the bird’s response. “Not know name. I/we dreamed of her. Find her. Tell her.”

  “I can’t find her without knowing more than that.”

  “Woman searches for telepaths,” the bird sent with a touch of desperation.

  “Hell, lots of people are interested in telepaths. Or they were a couple of years ago. There were all those mobile clinics roving around testing people, though it all came pretty much to nothing. At least, that’s what the bulletins said….”

  The Agyllian sent a swift warning, and Cassy barely had time to snatch up her sketch pad before the door burst open and the gray-suited Petr Masterton appeared.

  “Time’s up,” he said.

  I was only slightly less shocked than Petr Masterton appeared to be when Cassy smiled at him. “Damn. I haven’t worked nearly as fast as I’d hoped.” He blinked, as well he might, for her tone was several degrees warmer than usual. As if realizing that this might require some explaining, she said blithely, “It’s just been the first good subject I’ve had in ages. I’ve been in such a bad mood. I really enjoyed today, so I guess I owe you one for hustling me into it.”

  Petr Masterton gave her a stiff smile, as if it was not an expression that often crossed his face. “I’m glad you are having a pleasant time,” he said.

  “I know I shouldn’t ask when I’ve been such a bad-tempered brat to you, but do you think I could have some more time in here tomorrow?” Cassy directed a pleading look under her lashes, and I all but felt the man melt under its impact.

  “Not tomorrow. There are World Council representatives to be shown through the compound. They will want to see the birds.”

  “You said they were useless.” Her response was a fraction too swift and sharp, but her face was so guilelessly open and friendly that he didn’t seem to hear it.

  “The birds are the remnants of an older phase of a long-term experiment that continues to this day. Flamebirds are actually the result of cloning in the last century. They possess certain natural properties that make them ideal for the genetic manipulation of the frontal lobe. That is the seat of paranormal abilities. Unfortunately, cloning is costly and the bird is unable to reproduce efficiently, so it is on the verge of extinction.” His voice had taken on a lecturing tone, and Cassy adopted an expression befitting a favored student receiving the wisdom of her acknowledged master. “The birds were subjected to various treatments, but it was discovered that you can only develop a bird mind so far. Ultimately, they lack certain qualities that exist in, say, the human mind. This bird and the others you saw were not subjected to the more drastic phases of experimentation, because they were the control group.”

&
nbsp; “What happened to the experimental group?”

  “They were vivisected and subjected to autopsy. The few birds left are a pretty but bitter reminder that even the most promising experiments can come to nothing. That’s how science is. A lot of dead ends before you find a fruitful lead.”

  Even I felt Cassy’s rage, and the bird shuddered slightly in response, but she only said lightly, “I guess it’s lucky I’m an artist, then, since there are no dead ends and certainly no dead birds.”

  Petr Masterton’s eyes flickered, and I wondered if she was underestimating him. She must have felt the same, for she began packing up her notepad and pencils, chattering about the sort of colors she would like to see as part of the design. After she had gone, he stood staring at the bird, frowning.

  “Wake.” Maruman’s mindvoice lifted me from the dream. “Angina wearies. Mornirdragon restless. Wake lest she comes….”

  It was still early enough to be chilly when I left Obernewtyn later that day, but by the time I reached the outskirts of Guanette, it was very bright and sunny, and I was hot enough to want to peel off a few layers of clothing. Stopping by the road, I slid from Gahltha and stripped off a thick shirt and jumper before replacing my jacket. I stuffed the extra clothes into my pack and rummaged for a couple of apples.

  As Gahltha munched contentedly on his, I ate mine, then fed the core to him. At the same time, I sent out a wide-ranging, fine-grained probe attuned to Rushton’s mind. I was not surprised when it failed to locate. The coercers had covered the highlands very thoroughly by now.

  “Let us ride,” Gahltha sent, and I mounted him, watched by a wide-eyed clutch of children making mud pies by the public well. They were too young to have learned to throw stones at halfbreeds, and there was not another soul in sight.

  I rode down past Berryn Mor, clear for a rare change, and between the dun Brown Haw Rises and soaring Emeralfel at the end of the Gelfort Range, without ever seeing another rider. In the late afternoon, the road curved toward the forest, beyond which lay Arandelft. I was half tempted to ride to the little village to see what gossip the magi had generated. But I would hear the whole story from Gevan soon enough.

  Some hours of uninterrupted riding later, the way grew abruptly busier as we neared the turnoff for Sawlney. Well-loaded carts trundled along slowly, and men and women on horseback or mule and groups of people afoot threaded around them.

  Slowing to an amble, I used a trickle of coercivity to cloak us lightly and joined the crowd. I sensed Gahltha greeting other beasts on the road and exchanging information, and this prompted me to let my mind rove among the human travelers. Predictably, most were bound for Sawlney, either to sell or trade goods at the bonding fair or simply to join the festivities. Two were thieves hoping to filch a few fat purses.

  I focused the probe more tightly using Rushton’s face, but there was no corresponding memory in any of the minds I skimmed. Beginning to feel my energy drain, I withdrew and prayed to whatever forces of good there were to let me discover some clue to his whereabouts at the rebel meeting.

  The traffic slowed to a crawl at the Sawlney turnoff. The congestion was increased by the customers surrounding a couple of stalls whose enterprising owners were offering food and drink to ravenous travelers at exorbitant prices. Most did not seem to mind the pace, but here and there someone grumbled.

  I had not gone far down the Sawlney road when an argument broke out, and we came to a standstill. I sent a probe to find out what was happening and discovered with a touch of excitement that the mind I had accessed was one of Malik’s men. He was not high in his master’s hierarchy, but I dug about thoroughly in his mind just the same. Unfortunately, I found no memory connected to Rushton, though I did find a hatred inherited from Malik of Misfits, Brydda Llewellyn, Tardis of Murmroth, and, interestingly, Sadorians in general and Jakoby in particular.

  Even after I had withdrawn the probe, the hatred into which I had dipped clung like a film of grease, and I resolved to stop farsending for the time being. I also decided to walk; after all, it was sheer laziness to ride when we were virtually standing still. Gahltha suggested we leave the road altogether and try threading our way through the thick trees alongside it. Given the look of the road ahead, clogged with wagons for as far as I could see, I decided he was right.

  Pushing our way through the undergrowth and ducking low-slung branches was tiresome, but it was faster than staying on the road. Still, it took another hour to reach Sawlney—or the temporary outskirts of Sawlney created by the number of visitors who had set up tents and wagons around the perimeter of the town. I threaded through the makeshift streets, leading Gahltha by the rein for the sake of appearances, my mind seeking Gevan’s. It took some time to locate him, for the magi were on the far side of town, in an area so empty of people that I guessed it must be set aside specifically for gypsies.

  Once we reached the town proper, we took a path that ran between the outermost dwellings and a dense forest. By the time we reached the far side of the town, the forest was almost an impenetrable wall of green. A wide path had been cut through it, fortunately, and I entered, sensing that this path would bring me to the magi encampment. Before long, the noise of the town faded and I was struck by the silence of the forest. I could hear neither bird nor insect. The trees grew so close that even the wind seemed unable to penetrate to stir their foliage. Enormous twisted trunks were covered in a greenish moss that gave them a dusty appearance. I had the feeling that the trees were immeasurably ancient and found myself remembering the empath song of the prince who had discovered a forest that was a living extension of his slumbering princess. As a child, I had been sure that trees communicated in some way unknown to humans. It was not hard to imagine that this was a forest that lived and breathed and watched.

  The path curved slightly and I came suddenly to the end of the forest. I caught my breath, for before me lay a broad green veldt and beyond it the glimmering indigo of the endless ocean. A wave-scented wind whipped the hair back from my face and tugged at Gahltha’s mane and tail, and I took several deep breaths of its exotic fragrance. Sharp and briny, it reminded me vividly of the memorable sea journey to Sador on Powyrs’s fatbellied Cutter. Inevitably, Rushton’s face came into my mind, for it was on this journey that we had first spoken of love to each other.

  Gahltha shifted impatiently beside me, and I pulled myself together and sent out another probe. The grassy plain ran clear to the edge of the land with nothing more than a few clumps of scrubby brush to break the relentless sea winds. I spotted a bluish smudge of smoke above a straggling cluster of bushes, and as I approached, Gevan pushed through them and lifted his hand in greeting, sending that he had felt my probe. As usual, his rough-hewn coercer contact made my head ache.

  “I gather this windy corner is kept especially for important performers,” I farsent dryly.

  “Halfbreed performers,” he responded sardonically. “The townsfolk appreciate our tricks and pitch coins willingly enough, but they don’t see us as more than clever beasts.” He flicked his fingers expertly to welcome Gahltha and advise him where oats and bran mash could be found. I rubbed at my buttocks as the black horse trotted away, asking Gevan aloud if someone had had the foresight to include some of Kella’s soothing salve in their medicine box. It had been some time since I had ridden so far.

  “I’m afraid not,” he said sympathetically. “But come and sit down and have some food. We’re about to eat.”

  The others of the magi troupe were involved in various small tasks or seated on upended logs or low stools about a fire pit lined with stones. They hailed me and called lazy greetings with the same informal air that always seemed to reign on expeditions but never at Obernewtyn. Perhaps that was one reason I enjoyed them so. Vegetables and fruit and bread were skewered in pieces over the flames, and one of the coercers was brushing a honey sauce over them, while another turned the sticks constantly.

  “How was your trip anyway?” Gevan asked. “You don’t look any the
worse for it.”

  “The parts that are the worse for it are not necessarily visible,” I said tartly. “But the trip was uneventful. I trust the same can be said for your time here? How was the Councilman?”

  “A tight-mouthed old bastard with a hard eye is the best that can be said of him. But he was pleased enough with us because his guests were pleased. Fortunately, they were as enthusiastic as Alum was dour. And they thanked us with coin, which was a good bit more welcome than sweet words, since everything here is double the usual price.” He snorted in disgust. “We’ll spend every cent we’ve made on supplies, though we do recoup a fair bit by performing in the main square each day.”

  I frowned, accepting a hot mug of spiced milk from Merret. “Is it wise to be making yourself so visible with the rebels coming into town?”

  His dark eyes glinted. “It might not be, if they were able to recognize us. Instead they even throw the odd coin. Brocade strode by yesterday without our having to deflect so much as a glance of curiosity.”

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” I said, shaking my head. “Did you see anything of Alum’s son, Jude?”

  Merret’s face darkened. “Jude the monstrous, his servants call him behind his back, and I’m surprised they dare, because he’d have the skin off their backs if he heard it. I don’t much believe in simple evil, but that man comes close. His wife had a black eye and bruises she claimed came from a fall. His children cringe every time their father looks their way, and one of them had a broken arm I’d bet was his doing. His horses are better kept because they’re worth coin, and they’re watched constantly because of a band of brilliant beast thieves operating throughout the Land.” She grinned mischievously. “Of course, they can’t imagine that the animals are escaping by themselves, so there has to be a gang behind the disappearances.”

  “How did Jude react to you?”

  She shrugged. “He felt we lowered the tone of the occasion. And he seemed concerned that the Herders officiating saw our performance as a mortal insult. They looked like they’d bitten into something rotten when we were performing, but I think they hate us just as a matter of form. It’s the purebreeds they really loathe.”