"That's just it. Stephen's still going to school—I've been checking with the office—and Eddie's mother, this friend's mother, says he's okay. I don't know how much I trust her, though, that's part of the problem." She stood up, trailing smoke, and walked to the far wall, just needing to move. "Now I'm going on and on about it again. But I don't like it. Two stupid men, one big, one little, and neither one of them is going to say he's wrong."
"But you said your younger brother was not wrong," !Xabbu pointed out "If he were to apologize, it is true that he would be showing respect for his father—but if he accepts blame that is not his, then he would also be submitting to injustice to maintain the peace. I think you are worried that would not be a good lesson."
"Exactly. His people—our people—had to fight against that for decades." Renie shrugged angrily and stubbed the cigarette out "But it's more than politics. I don't want him to think that might makes right, that if you are pushed down yourself, it's acceptable then to turn around and find someone weaker you can push down. I don't want him to end up like . . . like his. . . ."
!Xabbu held her gaze. He seemed capable of finishing the sentence for her, but didn't.
After a long pause, Renie cleared her throat "This is a waste of your tutorial time. I apologize. Shall we try that flowchart again? I know it's boring, but it's the kind of thing you're going to have to know for exams, however well you're doing with everything else."
!Xabbu raised an inquiring eyebrow, but she ignored it.
!Xabbu was standing at the edge of a sharp spur of rock. The mountainside stretched away beneath him, a curving, glass-smooth free fall of shiny black. In his outstretched palm lay an old-fashioned pocket watch. As Renie stared, !Xabbu began to take it apart.
"Move away from the edge," she called. Couldn't he see the danger? "Don't stand so close!"
!Xabbu looked up at her, his eyes crinkled into slits, and smiled. "I must find out how it works. There is a ghost inside it."
Before she could warn him again, he jerked, then held up his hand wonderingly, like a child; a drop of blood, round as a gem, became liquid and flowed down his palm.
"It bit me," he said. He took a step backward, then toppled over the precipice.
Renie found herself staring down from the edge. !Xabbu had vanished. She searched the depths, but could see nothing but mists and long-winged white birds, who circled slowly and made mournful sounds, te-wheep, te-wheep, te-wheep. . . .
She surfaced from the dream, her heart still pounding. Her pad was beeping at her, quiet but insistent. She fumbled for it on the night table. The digital numbers read 2:27 a.m.
"Answer." She flicked the screen upright.
It took her a moment to recognize Stephen's friend Eddie. He was crying, his tears a silver track on his blue-lit face. Her heart went cold inside her chest,
"Renie. . . ?"
"Where's Stephen?"
"He's . . . he's sick, Renie. I don't know. . . ."
"What do you mean, 'sick'? Where's your mama? Let me talk to her."
"She's not here."
"For God's sake. . . ! How is he sick, Eddie? Answer me!"
"He won't wake up. I don't know, Renie. He's sick."
Her hands were shaking. "Are you sure? He's not just sleeping very deeply?"
Eddie shook his head, confused and frightened. "I got up. He's . . . he's just lying there on the floor."
"Cover him with something. A blanket. I'll be right there. Tell your mother when she . . . shit, never mind. I'll be right there."
She phoned for an ambulance, gave them Eddie's address, then called a cab. While she waited, fever-chilled with worry, she scrabbled in her desk drawers for coins to make sure she had enough cash. Long Joseph had burned out their credit with the cab company months ago.
Except for a few dimly lit windows, there was no sign of life outside Eddie's flatblock—no ambulance, no police. A sliver of anger pierced Renie's fear. Thirty-five minutes already and no response. That would teach them all to live in Pinetown. Things crunched under her feet as she hurried across the entranceway.
A handwritten sign said the electronic lock on the main door was out of service; someone had since removed the whole latching mechanism with a crowbar. The stairwell stank of all the usual things, but there was also a scorched smell, faint but sharp, as of some long-ago fire. Renie took the stairs two at a time, running; she was gasping for breath when she reached the door. Eddie opened it. Two of his younger sisters sheltered behind him, eyes wide. The apartment was dark except for the jittery light of the wallscreen's static. Eddie stood, mouth working, frightened and prepared for some kind of punishment. Renie didn't wait for him to think of something to say.
Stephen lay on his side on the living-room carpet, curled slightly, his arms drawn against his chest. She pulled the threadbare blanket away and shook him, gently at first, but then with increasing force as she called his name. She turned him onto his back, terrified by the slackness of his limbs. Her hands moved from his narrow chest to the artery beneath his jaw. He was breathing, but slowly, and his heartbeat also seemed strong but measured. She had been forced to take a first-aid course as part of her teaching certificate, but could remember little beyond keeping the victim warm and administering mouth-to-mouth. Stephen didn't need that, at least not as far as she could tell. She lifted him and held him tight, trying to give him something, anything, that might bring him back. He seemed small but heavy. It had been some time since he had let her clutch him this uninhibitedly. The strangeness of his weight in her arms made her suddenly feel cold all over.
"What happened, Eddie?" Her heart felt as though it had been beating too fast for hours now. "Did you take some kind of drugs? Do some kind of charge?"
Stephen's friend shook his head violently. "We didn't do anything! Nothing!"
She took a deep breath, trying to clear her head. The apartment looked a surreal shambles in the silver-blue light, toys and clothes and unwashed dishes on every surface: there were no flat planes anywhere. "What did you eat? Did Stephen eat anything you didn't?"
Eddie shook his head again. "We just waved some stuff." He pointed to the packaged dinner boxes, not surprisingly still out on the counter.
Renie held her cheek close to Stephen's mouth just to feel his breath. As it touched her, warm and faintly sweet her eyes filled with tears. "Tell me what happened. Everything. God damn it, where is that ambulance?"
According to Eddie, they truly had done nothing much. His mother had gone out to her sister's, promising to be home by midnight They had downloaded some movies—the kind Renie wouldn't let Stephen watch at home, but nothing so horrible she could imagine it having a physical effect on him—and made dinner. After sending Eddie's sisters to bed, they had sat up for a while talking before putting themselves to bed as well.
". . . But I woke up. I don't know why. Stephen wasn't there. I just thought he went to the bathroom or something, but he didn't come back. And I kind of smelled something funny, so I was afraid maybe we'd left the wave on or something. So I went out. . . ." His voice hitched. He swallowed. "He was just lying there. . . ."
There was a knock at the unlatched door, which swung open. Two jumpsuited paramedics entered like storm troopers and brusquely took Stephen from her. She felt reluctant to let him go to these strangers, even though she herself had summoned them; she released some of her tension and fear by letting them know what she thought of their response time. They ignored her with professional elan as they quickly checked Stephen's vital signs. The clockwork performance of their routine ran down a bit as they discovered what Renie already knew: Stephen was alive but unconscious, and there was no sign of what had happened to him.
"We will take him to the hospital," one of them said. Renie thought he made it sound like a favor.
"I'll go with you." She didn't want to leave Eddie and his sisters alone—only God knew when their useless mother might turn up—so she called another cab, then wrote a hasty note explaining where they we
re all going. Since the local cab company was unfamiliar with her father, she was able to use a card.
As the paramedics loaded Stephen's gurney into the white van, she squeezed her brother's small, unmoving hand and leaned to kiss his cheek. It was still warm, which was reassuring, but his eyes were rolled up beneath his lids like those of a hanged man she had once seen in a history lesson. All she could see of them by the dim streetlights were two slivers of gray, screens showing an empty signal.
CHAPTER 4
The Shining Place
NETFEED/ARTS: TT Jensen Retrospective Begins
(visual: "Two-Door Metal Flake Sticky," by Jensen)
VO: . . . Based on car-chase images from 20th Century Films, the staged "sudden sculpture actions" of fugitive San Francisco-based artist Tillamook Taillard Jensen require the presence of unwitting participants, including this legendary three-vehicle, multiple fatality for which the reclusive Jensen is still being sought by authorities. . . .
Thargor sat and nursed his mead. A few of the inn's other patrons inspected him when they thought he wasn't looking, but quickly glanced away when he returned their stares. Dressed from throat to toes in black leather, with a necklace of razor-sharp murgh teeth rattling on his chest, he didn't look like the sort of person they wanted to offend, even inadvertently.
They were wiser than they knew. Not only was Thargor a mercenary swordsman renowned throughout the Middle Country for his quick temper and quicker blade, but he was in an even fouler mood than usual. It had taken him a long time to find The Wyvern's Tail, and the person he had come to the inn to meet should have arrived when the last watch was called—quite some time ago. He had been forced to sit and wait, both his temper and his rune-scribed broadsword Lifereaper too large for this low-ceilinged public house. On top of everything else, the mead was thin and sour.
He was inspecting the serpent's nest of white scars on the back of his broad fist when someone made a just-standing-here noise behind him. The fingers of his other hand tightened around Lifereaper's leather-wrapped hilt as he turned his head and fixed the nervous innkeeper with sharp, ice-blue eyes.
"Pardon me, sir," the man stuttered. He was large but fat. Thargor decided he would not need his runesword even if the man intended violence—not that his bulging eyes and pale cheeks suggested he did—and lifted his eyebrow in inquiry: he did not believe in wasting words. "Is the mead to your liking?" the innkeeper asked. "It's local. Made right here in Silnor Valley."
"It's horse piss. And I wouldn't want to meet the horse."
The man laughed, loudly and nervously. "No, of course not, of course not." The laugh ended up rather like a hysterical giggle as he eyed Lifereaper in her long black scabbard. "The thing is, sir, the thing is . . . there's someone outside. Said he wants to speak to you."
"To me? He gave you my name, did he?"
"No, sir! No! Why, I don't even know your name. Don't have the slightest idea what your name is, and no interest in finding out" He paused for breath. "Although I'm sure it's a very respectable and euphonious name, sir."
Thargor grimaced. "So how do you know he wants to speak to me? And what does he look like?"
"Simple enough, sir. He said 'the big fellow'—begging your pardon, sir—'the one dressed in black.' Well, as you can see, sir, you're the biggest fellow here, and that's black you're dressed in, right enough. So you can understand. . . ."
A raised hand stilled him. "And. . . ?"
"And, sir? Ah, what he looks like. Well, that I couldn't rightly tell you, sir. It was shadowy, it was, and he was wearing a hooded cloak. Probably a very respectable gentleman, I'm sure, but what he looks like I couldn't tell you. Hooded cloak. Thank you, sir. Sorry to bother you."
Thargor frowned as the innkeeper hurried away, scuttling rather impressively for a man of his bulk. Who could be outside? The wizard Dreyra Jarh? He was said to travel anonymously in this part of the Middle Country, and certainly had a bone or two to pick with Thargor—the affair of the Onyx Ship alone would have made them eternal enemies, and that had merely been their latest encounter. Or could it be the haunted rider Ceithlynn, the banished elf prince? Although not a sworn enemy of Thargor's, the pale elf certainly would be looking to settle some scores after what had happened during their journey through Mithandor Valley. Who else might come looking for the swordsman in this unlikely place? Some local bravos he had offended? He had given those cutthroats a terrible thrashing back at the crossroads, but he doubted they would be ready for another go-round with him quite yet, even from ambush.
There was nothing to do but go and see. As he rose, leather trews creaking, the patrons of The Wyvern's Tail studiously examined their cups, although two of the braver tavern wenches watched him pass with more than a little admiration. He tugged at Lifereaper's pommel to make sure she sat loosely in her scabbard, then walked to the door.
The moon hung full and fat over the stableyard, painting the low roofs with buttery light. Thargor let the door fall shut behind him and stood, swaying a little, pretending to be drunk, but his hawklike eyes were moving with the precision he had learned during a thousand nights like this, nights of moonlight and magic and blood.
A figure detached itself from the shadow of a tree and stepped forward. Thargor's fingers tightened on his sword hilt as he listened for any faint sound that might betray the position of other attackers.
"Thargor?" The hooded figure stopped a few paces away. "Hell, man, are you drunk?"
The mercenary's eyes narrowed. "Pithlit? What are you up to? You were supposed to meet me an hour ago, and inside at that."
"Something . . . something happened. I was delayed. And when I arrived here, I . . . I could not go inside without drawing too much attention. . . ." Pithlit swayed, and not in feigned drunkenness. Thargor crossed the distance between them in two swift strides and caught the smaller man just before he collapsed. Hidden by the loose fabric, a dark stain had spread across the front of Pithlit's robe.
"Gods, what happened to you?"
Pithlit smiled weakly. "Some bandits at the crossroads—local bravos, I think. I killed two of them, but that was four too few."
Thargor cursed. "I met them yesterday. There were a dozen to begin with. I am surprised that they are back to work soon."
"A man has to earn his imperials, one way or the other." Pithlit winced. "It was a last stroke just as I broke away. I do not think it is mortal, but by the Gods, it hurts!"
"Come, then. We will get that tended to. We have other business this full moon night, and I need you beside me—but afterward we will do a magic trick, you and I."
Pithlit grimaced again as Thargor set him on his feet once more. "A magic trick?"
"Yes. We will go back to that crossroads and turn four into none."
As it turned out, Pithlit's wound was long and bloody but shallow. When it was bandaged, and the little man had downed several cups of fortified wine to make up for the lost blood, he pronounced himself ready to ride. Since the hard physical work of the night's planned business was to be Thargor's, the mercenary took the thief at his word. While the moon was still risin in the sky, they left The Wyvern's Tail and its rustic patron behind.
The Silnor Valley was a long narrow crevice that wound through the Catspine Mountains. As he and Pithlit coaxed the horses up the slender mountain track out of the valley, Thargor reflected that a cat would have to be malnourished indeed have a spine so bony and sharp-knobbed.
What little life and noise there had been down in the valley seemed a lifetime away here in the heights. The woods were oppressively thick and silent: were it not for the bright moonlight, the swordsman thought, it would have been like sitting at the bottom of a well. He had been in more frightening places, but few as broodingly unpleasant as this part of the Catspine.
The atmosphere seemed to be weighing on Pithlit, too. "This is no place for a thief," he said. "We relish darkness, but only to hide us as we make our way toward glittering things. And it is nice to have somewhere to spend th
e ill-gotten gains afterward, and something to buy with them besides moss and stones."
Thargor grinned. "If we succeed, you may buy yourself a small city to play in, with all the toys and bright lights you wish."
"And if we do not succeed, I shall doubtless wish I were back facing the crossroads bandits again, wounded ribs and all."
"Doubtless."
They rode on for a while in near-silence, companioned only by the clip-clopping of their horses' hooves. The track wound up and around, through twisted trees and standing stones of odd shape upon whose surfaces the full moon picked out faint carvings, most of them incomprehensible, none pleasant to observe.
"They say that the Old Ones lived here once." Pithlit's voice was determinedly casual. "They do say that."
"Long ago, of course. Ages ago. Not any longer." Thargor nodded, hiding a thin smile at Pithlit's nervous tone. Of all men, only Dreyra Jarh and a few other sorcerers knew more of the Old Ones than Thargor, and no one was more feared by those atavistic deeps-dwellers. If the ancient race still maintained some outpost here, let them show themselves. They bled like any other creature—albeit more slowly—and Thargor had sent swarms of their kind to hell already. Let them come! They were the least of his worries tonight.
"Do you hear something?" asked Pithlit. Thargor reined up, quieting his mount Blackwind with a strong hand. There was indeed a faint sound, a distant piping swirl that sounded a little like. . . .
"Music,:" he grunted. "Perhaps you shall have the entertainment you were bemoaning earlier."
Pithlit's eyes were wide. "I do not wish to meet those musicians."
"You may not have a choice." Thargor stared at the sky, then back at the narrow track. The otherworldly music faded again. "The trail to Massanek Coomb crosses here and leads in that direction."