The Last Guardian (21 page)

“I dread to think of people who look up to men like Jon Shannow,” he had told her one morning as they had waited for the first customers of the day. “Loathsome man! A killer and a warmaker of the worst kind. People like him wreck communities, destroy any sense of civilized behavior. He is a cancer in our midst and should be ordered to leave.”

“When has he stolen anything?” she had countered, holding the anger from her voice. “When has he been disrespectful? When? When has he killed a man without first being threatened with death himself?”

“How can you ask such a thing? Did you not see him on the night poor Fenner died? When he stood before the crowd and that man asked him if he thought he could take on all of them? Shannow shot him down without warning; the man did not even have a gun in his hand.”

“You’ll never understand, Meneer Broome. I am
surprised you have lived this long. If Shannow had let the moment pass, they would all have turned on him and he would have been shot to pieces. As it was, he held them, he took the initiative … unlike poor Fenner. I spoke to Shannow about him. Did you know Fenner went to Shannow for advice? The Jerusalem Man told him to give Webber an order and not engage in any conversation; he said that as soon as Webber was allowed to debate Fenner would lose the moment. Fenner understood this, Meneer Broome, but he was betrayed by you and all those with you. Now he is dead.”

“How dare you accuse me of betrayal? I went there with Fenner; I did my part.”

“Your part?” she had hissed. “You got him killed and crawled away like a gutless snake.”

“There was nothing we could do, nothing anyone could do.”

“Shannow did it—alone. So don’t criticize him to my face. The man’s worth ten of you.”

“Get out! You don’t work here anymore. Out, I say!”

With her job lost, Beth saw Scayse, who agreed to let her move onto the land immediately. He even offered men to help her build her home, but she refused.

Now she was almost there. The oxen were tired as they labored up the last rise before the land she had leased, and she was ready to give them a breather at the top of the hill. But when they reached it, Beth looked down into the vale and saw five men shaping felled trees into logs. Close by was a roped-off area that had been stamped out to form the dirt floor of a cabin. Beth’s fury rose, and she drew her pistol and stepped down from the wagon, walking back to where her horse was tethered at the rear. Telling the children to stay where they were, she rode down where the men were working. As she approached, one of them put down his hatchet and strolled across to her, doffing his leather hat and grinning.

“Mornin’, Frey. Nice day for it, what with the sun and the breeze.”

The pistol came up, and the man’s smile vanished. “What the hell are you doing on my land?” she asked him, cocking the pistol.

“Hold up, lady,” he said, lifting his hands. “Meneer Scayse asked us to give you a hand with the footings—felling the trees and suchlike. We’ve also taken water bearings to see how the land lies.”

“I asked for no help,” she told him, the pistol steady in her hands.

“I don’t know nothin’ about that. We ride for Meneer Scayse. He says jump, we don’t say why—we just jump.”

Beth uncocked the pistol and returned it to her scabbard. “Why did you choose this spot for the cabin?”

“Well,” he said, the smile returning, “it’s got a good range of open ground to the front and rear, there’s water close by, and the front windows will catch the evening sun.”

“You chose well. What is your name?”

“They call me Bull, though my name is rightly Ishmael Kovac.”

“Bull it is,” she told him. “You carry on. I’ll fetch the wagon.”

19

T
HE
FIRST
TREMOR
hit the city just after dawn. It was no more than an insistent vibration that rattled plates on shelves, and many slept through it; others awakened and rose, rubbing sleep from their eyes and wondering if a storm was due. The second tremor came at noon, and Chreena was working in the laboratory when it struck. The vibration was stronger now. Books fell from shelves, and she ran to the balcony to see people milling in the streets. A twelve-foot statue toppled near the main square, but no one was hurt. The tremor passed.

Oshere limped into the laboratory. “A little excitement,” he said, his words more slurred than usual.

“Yes,” said Chreena. “Have there been quakes before?”

“Once, twelve years ago,” he told her. “It was not serious, though some farmers lost cattle and there were many stillborn calves. How is your work progressing?”

“I’ll get there,” she replied, looking away.

He squatted on the mosaic floor and looked up at her. “I wonder if we are tackling the problem in the right way,” he said.

“What other way is there? If I can find out what causes the genetic structure to regress, I might be able to stop it.”

“That’s what I mean, Chreena. You are staring into the heart of the problem, and you cannot see the whole. I have been looking at the records of the others who have
gone through the Change before me. All were male and under twenty-five years of age.”

“I know that. It is not a great help,” she snapped.

“Bear with me. Almost all the changelings were about to be married. You did not know that, did you?”

“No,” she admitted. “But how is that important?”

He smiled, but she did not recognize the expression in his swollen leonine face. “Our custom is for the groom to take his lady to the southern mountains, there to pledge his love beneath the Sword of the One. Everyone does it.”

“But the women go, too, and they are not affected.”

“Yes,” he said. “I have given great thought to this. I do not understand your science, Chreena, but I understand how to solve a problem. First look for the deviation and then ask not where is the problem but where is
not
the problem. If all the changelings journey to the sword but the women are unaffected, then what do the men do that is different? What did Shir-ran do while you were there?”

“Nothing that I did not,” she replied. “We ate, we drank, we slept, we made love. We came home.”

“Did he not climb to the Chaos Peak and dive to the waters two hundred feet below?”

“Yes. The custom, as I understand it, is for the men to purify themselves in the water of the Golden Pool before they pledge themselves. But all men do this, and not all are affected.”

“This is true,” he agreed, “but some men merely bathe in an easily accessible part of the pool. Others dive from low rocks. But only the most foolhardy climb to the Chaos Peak and dive.”

“I still do not understand what you are trying to say.”

“Five of the last six changelings climbed that peak. Eleven others who were unaffected only bathed in the pool. That is the deviation: The greatest percentage of changelings comes from those who climb the peak.”

“But what of you? You are not in love. You took no one to the sword.”

“No, Chreena. I went alone. I climbed the peak, and I dived. Oshere flew and pledged himself.”

“To what?”

“To love. I was going to ask … a woman to accompany me, but I did not know if I would have the courage to dive. So I went alone. Two weeks later the Change began.”

Chreena sat down and stared at the man-beast. “I have been a fool,” she whispered. “Can you come with me, back to the sword?”

“I may not survive the journey as a man,” he said. “Do you still have the thundermaker you brought with you?”

“Yes,” she answered, opening the drawer of her desk and removing the Hellborn pistol.

“Best to bring it with you, Chreena.”

“I could never kill you, Oshere.
Never
.”

“And I believe I could never harm you. But neither of us knows, do we?”

Shannow pulled on his boots and settled his gun scabbards in place at his hips. He was still weaker than he liked, but his strength had almost returned. Beth McAdam had filled his thoughts ever since the afternoon when she had shared his bed; she had not returned to him since then. Shannow sat by the window and recalled the joy of the day. He did not blame her for avoiding him. What did he have to offer? How many women would want to be tied to a man of his reputation? The days of his convalescence had given him a great deal of time for thought. Had his life been a waste? What had he done that would live after him? Yes, he had killed evil men, and it could be argued that in so doing he had saved innocent lives. Yet he had no sons or daughters to continue his line, and nowhere in this untamed world was he welcome for long.

The Jerusalem Man. The killer. The destroyer.

“Where is love, Shannow?” he asked himself aloud.

He wandered down the stairs, acknowledged Mason’s wave, and stepped out into the daylight. The sun was shining in a clear sky, and the breeze was lifting dust from the dried mud of the roadway.

Shannow crossed the street and made his way to the gunsmith’s shop. Groves was not behind his counter, and he walked through the shop and found the man crouching over a workbench.

Groves looked up and smiled. “You set me a fair task, Meneer Jerusalem Man. These aren’t rim-fire cartridges.”

“No. Center-fire.”

“They have heavy loads. A man needs to shoot straight with such ammunition. A stray bullet would pass through a house wall and kill an occupant sitting quietly in his chair.”

“I tend to shoot straight,” said Shannow. “Have you completed my order?”

“Is the sky blue? Of course I have. I also made some five hundred shells for Meneer Scayse to the same requirements. It seems his Hellborn pistols arrived—without ammunition.”

Shannow paid the man and left his store. A sharp pebble under his foot made him remember how thin his boots were. The town store was across the street, and he bought a new pair of soft leather boots, two white woolen shirts, and a quantity of black powder.

As the man was preparing his order, an earth tremor struck the town and from outside came the sound of screaming. Shannow gripped the counter to stop from falling, while all around him the store’s wares—pots, pans, knives, sacks of flour—began to tumble from the shelves.

As quickly as it had come the tremor passed. Shannow moved back into the bright sunlight.

“Will you look at that!” yelled a man, pointing to the sky. The sun was directly overhead, but way to the south
a second sun shone brightly for several seconds before suddenly disappearing.

“You ever seen the like, Shannow?” asked Clem Steiner, approaching him.

“Never.”

“What does it mean, do you think?”

Shannow shrugged. “Maybe it was a mirage. I’ve heard of such things.”

“It fair makes your skin crawl. I never heard of a mirage that could cast a shadow.”

The storekeeper came out carrying Shannow’s order. The Jerusalem Man thanked him and tucked it under his arm, along with the package he had taken from Groves.

“Fixing to leave us?” Steiner asked.

“Yes. Tomorrow.”

“Then maybe we should complete our business,” said the young pistoleer.

“Steiner, you are a foolish boy. And yet I like you—I have no wish to bury you. You understand what I am saying? Stay clear of me, boy. Build your reputation another way.”

Before the young man could answer, Shannow had walked away, climbing the steps of the Traveler’s Rest. A young woman stood in the doorway with her eyes fixed on something across the street. Easing past her, Shannow glanced back to see that she was staring at a black-bearded man sitting on the sidewalk outside the Jolly Pilgrim. He looked up and saw her; his face lost all color, and he stood and ran back toward the tent town. Puzzled, Shannow studied the woman. She was tall and beautifully dressed in a shimmering skirt of golden yellow. A green shirt was loosely tucked into a wide leather belt, and she wore riding boots of the softest doeskin. Her hair was blond streaked with gold, and her eyes were sea green.

She turned and saw him looking at her, and for a moment he felt like recoiling under the icy glare she gave
him. Instead he smiled and bowed. Ignoring him, she swept past and approached Mason.

“Is Scayse here?” she asked, her voice low, almost husky.