Palaces of Light (9 page)

But that was the older ones. The younger ones—those who had been taken—moved in a very different way. Sure, they had a touch of the jerkiness that came from the ingestion—deliberate or otherwise—of the berries. But there was something else: they had a sluggish torpor to the way they moved, as though they were sleepwalkers, or their limbs were weighted down with rocks. No—sleepwalkers, that was more like it. They walked like they were asleep, or in trance, under the influence of hypnosis. It was a rare art in these post skydark days, but it wasn’t unknown. He had seen it happen, and learned of how it worked from Mildred and Doc. They wouldn’t, perhaps, see it as he would. They knew how it worked, but didn’t have the closeness of observation.

So the young would be sluggish, but by the same token, they would do whatever was asked of them unquestioningly. Which made them, perhaps, the greater danger of the two groups.

He was still pondering this as the sun crept across the center of the sky, and Krysty came from the coolness of the cave to relieve him. He said nothing as he left his place to go back to the darkened interior, deciding to keep his thoughts to himself. There would be time enough to talk of these things later, when they compared their findings before deciding on a course of action.

As he neared the resting group, he was glad that he had opted not to speak, as the low sound of Mildred’s voice grew distinct enough to make out words.

“And I knew that it meant something to me. It’s just that it was so buried under all the shit that’s happened that I’d forgotten about it, as though it happened to someone else. I wouldn’t have recognized the land around here from all those years ago, but I doubt if anyone would. The mysterious palaces of Mancos Canyon, though—”

“That is where we are?” Doc interjected.

“Hey, you tell me where else I could find buildings like those right in the middle of a canyon,” she answered wryly. “The Mesa Verde Park… Jeez, I remember that there were a lot of stories about those buildings. Some said that they were from the Native Americans, and others that they came from a time before that, when there were other races that roamed across the continent. Some said they were like the Mayans and Aztecs of the South Americas, and they had the same kinds of ideas about the sun and their other gods. There was only one way to make them happy, and that involved a lot of bloodshed and killing.

“Now some of that may be true, or all of it, or none of it. But it felt like the bit about the killing was right. This place looked amazing from a distance, but as soon as we went into Mancos Canyon, we could feel something. The air changed.”

* * *

I
F
K
RYSTY
COULD
HAVE
HEARD
what Mildred was saying at that moment—if it had been something more than a distant drone—then she would have agreed. For on her watch, she was witnessing something that made her blood run cold. Not just the act, but the manner in which it was performed, caused her sentient hair to curl closer to her scalp and crawl in tendrils around her neck.

It happened so gradually—perhaps even before she had come to the watch—that she didn’t at first notice any change. The people on the ledge opposite ceased the tasks that had been occupying them for most of the morning. Now that the sun had crawled over the halfway point in the sky, it was as though they had been called to some kind of order. Gradually, they finished the tasks that they had been performing and began to move toward the area where the platform on the lip of the ledge had been constructed. They gathered around in a silent, milling throng, so that it seemed that everyone poured out from the palaces and onto the narrow strip of rock, jostling for a better position.

Just as it seemed that the platform was to be obscured by those around it, a pathway opened up, and an immensely fat man in a dusty coat and a stovepipe hat moved through the crowd, leading a tall, thin and blond young man by the hand. Even from where she stood, Krysty could see that the young man was almost stumbling over his own feet such was the trancelike torpor in which he seemed to exist. He wandered to the platform, watched intently by the crowd. There was something almost overwhelming about the silence, reaching out to her across the divide.

Guided by the hand of the fat man, the youth climbed onto the platform and lay on his back, almost falling over the edge as he stumbled on his way up. His complicity in being led into such a position was perhaps what Krysty found the most disturbing. She could see what was going to happen, so why couldn’t he? And if he could, then what possessed him to be so compliant?

The fat man turned and began to talk to the crowd. Perhaps talk wasn’t really the right word. He began a strange singsong chant, the syllables drifting across the gap between the two sides of the canyon making no sense. Maybe it was a foreign language, or maybe it was just the way in which he intoned the words that made the high, keening sound so incomprehensible on one level and yet so bone-chillingly understandable on another.

After finishing the chant, the fat man turned to loom over the platform, pulling a knife from somewhere within his dusty coat. There was an almost audible intake of breath from the gathered crowd—or was it, Krysty wondered, from herself?—as he lifted the knife above his head before plunging it down and into the breastbone of the blond youth. Eerily, the young man made no sound as the knife carved easily through his flesh, pausing only to stick on bone or cartilage before the fat man forced it onward with a grunt.

Although Krysty couldn’t really have seen it in as much detail as her mind told her—not at such a distance—she could have sworn she saw the fat man reach into the chest cavity, pulling it open before plunging his fist in to grasp the beating heart, which he held above him, blood dripping down his arm and glistening in the sun, before thrusting the organ into his mouth while the crowd yelled a brief and yet oddly intense approval, which died away with an echo across the canyon.

“Fireblast! What kind of crazed bastards are these people?”

Krysty was so wrapped up in what was happening in front of her that she caught her breath in shock as she heard Ryan whispering at her shoulder.

“It’s okay, lover,” he said softly, “we’re over here. Stay frosty.”

“But what kind of coldheart weirdos are they that they can do that?” she said equally softly, shaking her head. “And what was that language the fat bastard was speaking?”

Ryan shook his head. “I don’t know. Mebbe it’s some kind of ancient tongue that goes back to when those buildings were made.” He outlined for her briefly the memories that Mildred had shared with them while Krysty had been on watch.

When he had finished, she was nodding. “Yeah, some of that figures, I guess. Thing is, I can’t work out why it’s so important for them to gather together so many kids. It looks like they’ve been all over the Deathlands taking them. Why would they want to do that?”

Ryan snorted. “I have no bastard idea. Mebbe they sacrifice them every day like that poor kid.”

Krysty pondered that. “Could be. They don’t seem to look at it as anything other than a usual thing. Look at them now,” she added, pointing across the divide. Ryan followed her gaze, and could see that even in the short time they had been talking the crowd had dispersed. The corpse had been taken away to be disposed of, and the platform had been perfunctorily washed down. Now, as everyone appeared to be going about their everyday business as before, lost in their routines, it was as though the dramatic gesture of a few minutes before had never happened.

“Can’t be, though,” she said on reflection. “They’d be slaughtering a shitload of kids, sure, but they wouldn’t need as many as they’ve got there. There’s something else, and we need to work out what it is.”

‘Why?” Ryan asked.

Krysty looked at him. There was something in the earnestness of her gaze that chilled him to the bone as she said, “Because if we don’t, then we won’t know exactly what those bastards could do. And we need to know exactly what we’re going up against if we’re going to get Baron K’s kids back. Mebbe free the others before they buy the farm.”

Ryan nodded. “Yeah, guess you’re right. Get back there and get some rest. We’ll talk about it together when the sun goes down. Meantime, me and J.B. can sit out here the rest of the day.”

When she had gone, Ryan sat and thought about what Krysty had said while he watched the people on the ledge opposite go about the rest of the day as though nothing untoward had occurred—mebbe for them it hadn’t, he thought—in their ritualistic, almost hypnotic manner. The more he thought about it, the more he wished he could get inside their heads in some way, find what made them tick… That had always been one of the things that had given him an edge. And yet here he felt like he was blundering in the dark.

When J.B. joined him, the two men sat in silence for some time, watching the remains of the day ebb away. It was J.B. who finally broke the silence.

“Look at that,” he said simply. But Ryan was ahead of him. Where the platform had been constructed, there was now an empty space. They had watched it being torn down and the pieces taken away without thinking much about it. But now, as the area became clear of debris, it was apparent that the space wasn’t as empty as it had at first seemed. For in the area that had lain beneath the platform there was a circle constructed in the ground. It had been ringed around in rock, with a pattern running across it that—unless Ryan was mistaken—formed what he recognized as either a pentacle or pentagram. He knew of these from old predark books he had seen as a youth at Front Royal, and although he was unsure of which of the two it may be, he knew that either of them spelled trouble.

Now, as the final task of the day, the people of the mysterious palaces laid kindling and brush on the circle, laying it over with layers of wood that they then covered with a tarp to protect from the elements.

Ryan realized that the ritual slaughter earlier had been less of a regular event than a kind of dedication ceremony. They were building some kind of ritual beacon—for what end he couldn’t comprehend—and the seeming ease with which the slaughter had been received had more to do with its purpose than its frequency.

That could only mean that whatever the circle and beacon were for, it was an event fast approaching.

They had to move soon, or risk losing all.

Chapter Eight

When K looked back, there was no way that he could understand how it had happened. More than that, he had no notion of how it could have gone on for so long.

Or did it? The whole thing could have taken days, months, years, perhaps. It had the unreal sense of time that happened with dreams. How long had those coldhearts actually been in the ville? If he thought about it in one way, it seemed as though they had always been there. It was hard to remember a time before they had arrived, even though their arrival was etched into his memory. And yet the whole thing, while seeming to go on forever, had been over in the blink of an eye. It had to have been the way in which those bastards were able to mess with their minds.

That was his only consolation when he thought about his daughter. Amy was gone now, maybe never to return. Her mother was nothing to him. Chilled, long since, because she was nothing more than a pain in his ass. But Amy…

If it could be said that anyone had a redeeming feature, no matter how black and cold their heart, then the way that K felt about Amy was ample proof of this. He would do anything to get her back. And he would have, too. Despite the fear he felt about the way in which he had been so easily bested, and the men who had been able to achieve this, he would still have gladly charged into battle to win her back.

It was Morgan who had caused him to think better of that. The outlanders had gifts; the old man was able to see that. They would be a vanguard, who would either return with the children or blaze a path that would define the task ahead of a second wave.

Or something like that. But while he was waiting, all K had was the idea that he was letting Amy down. He should be the one going after his daughter, and not leaving it to strangers. He was pretty sure that there was an undercurrent of feeling within the ville that felt that way, too. He was their leader, and he should be leading the charge to get the children back. Sure, no one had actually said anything. If nothing else, they were too smart—or scared or both. But the feeling was there. It would rumble deep beneath the surface, maybe to build in pressure until it broke the surface like a steam geyser, scalding the shit out of anyone who got in the way. So he had to make sure that it didn’t burst. Lance the boil and get the pus of discontent out. The best way to do that would be to get the kids back. And the best way to do that would be to find out where they had been taken, and then follow up on the mercies that he had sent to do the job. If they came back with the kids, then that was fine. If they didn’t, then he had the backup plan—his own men, traveling a good distance at the rear of the six-strong assault party. They were to watch, wait, observe. If they had the chance, get the kids back and take the credit. If not, then act as an advance warning of the return. Grab the glory for the baron. He had the balls to do it, but the sense—for his people, of course—not to risk his own when there were others who could do the dirty work.

A wise ruler, who acted in the best interests of his people, or a coward who let others take the risks? He could present it the first way to the people he ruled and be pretty sure that they would believe him. Why not?

But it was in himself that he held the canker of doubt. No matter how much he rationalized it, or no matter even how much truth was contained within that rationalization, there was still that part of him, deep within himself, that believed the real reason was that he was scared. Scared like a little girl…like his little girl. Probably more than she was, if truth be known. He could face down any bastard with a blade or a blaster. Take him hand-to-hand and he would fight anyone who was stupe enough to take him on, and know that he could best them.

But this shit? This was beyond his understanding and his control, and that was what really frightened him. He had been hiding away since the strange outlanders had taken the kids, planning vengeance and their return, as he tried to present it. Yeah, right. The simple fact of it was that he was running scared of himself. Those coldhearts had hit him down to the core. How could he deal with something that was so unknown and so alien to him? And if he couldn’t deal with that, then what the fuck else was there out there that could have the same effect?

K had ruled on his absolute belief in his own abilities. These were now shaken. And he was no fool. He understood that his ability to maintain command came from the power that he presented to those below him. His belief in that was central to discouraging any challenge. If that went, then any half-assed bastard could have a crack at taking down the baron. The truth was that these coldhearts who had come to the ville were way beyond anything that his own people could throw at him. But would he want to spend the rest of his days fending off challenge after challenge?

Screw that. He had to stop that before it could bloom. Get the kids back, make it look like his doing rather than the mercies, and assert his authority by slapping down any dissent as it happened.

But how to do that when he still felt this fear?

If time had seemed pliable like clay, then what else had been when the coldhearts held sway? If he could think back and work that out, then maybe he could understand. And if he could do that…

What had happened during that time? He sat in brooding silence, replaying the events and trying to sort out the jumble they made in his head.

After they had entered the ville, and he had led them to the center, they had soon been allocated quarters. The fat man had wheezed and grunted his way through an introduction that had seemed at the time to flow like honey from his tongue, despite the harshness of his voice as he tried to recover from the exertions of the long march. His words were like a serpent that snaked its way into their consciousness. The exact phrasing was something that eluded the baron as he tried to recall it. Why that should be was a mystery to him, especially as the import of those words was imprinted on his consciousness. Was it that the man had actually spoken very little, and that his meaning had somehow gone straight into their heads?

Maybe. He could recall that the fat man had told them that they were blessed, and that the sun was shining on them to have such delights in store. If they allowed the traveling players to rest awhile, and offered them food and shelter, then they would be rewarded with a show that wouldn’t only entertain them, it would also explain the whole reason that they were on this forsaken dustbowl that was called Earth. The mystery of why life was such a long, hard slog with seemingly little joy or respite would be unravelled, and their place in the great scheme of things would become finally clear. It would be a reason to go on, a reason to give themselves up to what had to be.

For fuck’s sake! K was disgusted with himself as, for the first time that he had dared to even consider what had happened, he realized what had been said. How the hell had he allowed himself to fall for such crap? Come to that, how come his people had likewise been duped? K only cared about what comfort and power
he
could get from the world around him, and he was pretty damned sure that the rest of his people felt that way. Life was too short to worry about other shit, and was soon gone.

Anyway, he would have to get past these feelings of disgust and disbelief if he was going to work out what had happened.

The strange party had been split up. There had been no shortage of the populace who had been willing to put them up and feed them, and this alone should have set all his instincts screaming. Normally, they would have moaned and bitched about having to share food, and not wanting strangers snoring, farting and shitting under their roofs. But on this occasion, the opposite had been true. It had been like some kind of bizarre slave auction. He had seen one of these once, over on the west coast, when he was running with a band of coldhearts who earned their jack by taking travelers and beating the crap out of them until they were scared of their own shadows. Then, when they would do anything that was barked at them, they were taken to a site where the rich barons of the coast bid big jack to buy these willing victims. They could do what they wanted with them—probably did, for all he knew or cared—and the pretty ones or the ones who looked like they could be blood sport fetched the biggest prices. When they came to the stands and were put on display there was a feeding frenzy as the rich barons surged forward, throwing wild bids to gain their favorites at all costs.

This had been more than a little like that, which was weird as there was no jack involved, and no obvious benefit to be derived from having the strangers in your shack, eating your food and sleeping in your bed.

But still, there had been places in the crowd where the people had almost come to blows as they vied for the favor of having the strangers stay with them. While this happened, and the baron’s sec men had broken up the fights and tried to restore order, the strangers had stayed aloof. Was it just with hindsight that it seemed as though they had stood there with smug grins on their faces? K was inclined to think so, yet couldn’t shake the feeling that they had been laughing at his people—and by extension, at him.

So eventually, the strangers had been allotted billets and had gone off for the night. The crowds had dispersed, and there had been dark mutterings from those who had been unlucky, and were left without a stranger in their house. Odd, but K couldn’t recall discussing any of this with his sec men after the crowds had cleared. He should have. Normally, he would have. But this wasn’t a normal chain of events, and although up to this point things were relatively clear in his mind, it was from here that it got really hazy.

He couldn’t work out exactly how long they had been staying before the dark day’s entertainment that was the precursor to abduction. It had to have been some time, as it seemed to him as though seasons came and went. And yet this couldn’t be, as the passing of the seasons was marked by convoys that came and went, if not by the changeable weather, and there had been no convoys passing that way, nor any that he and his men had gone out to hunt down. This, along with an inventory of the supplies held in the ville, had shown him that it was unlikely that the strangers had stayed more than a few weeks at most. Weeks that seemed to stretch out into a pattern of repeated behavior that was nothing more than a continuous cycle, one that could, feasibly, have extended until the sun finally bought the farm and faded in the sky.

That was how it seemed as they went about their daily tasks, watched by the seemingly benign eye of their visitors.

Wherever there was something to be done in the ville, it seemed that one or the other of the newcomers was there to keep a close eye on the activity. Farming, maintenance, the manufacturing of clothing and bricks for the buildings—all of these were observed by the tall men, who walked from place to place seemingly appearing from nowhere to stand and watch silently before moving away in an equally wraithlike manner, suddenly not there where just a moment before they had occupied space. And yet they had elicited no dissent from those they watched. If anything, it seemed that the people welcomed them, as though it gave them some kind of comfort that they were under the protective eye of their new overlords.

Was that what they were? It had seemed that way to K at the time, and he had no reason to change that opinion now, even though the way he felt about that was completely different. At the time it had seemed perfectly reasonable to him, while now he marveled at the fact that he hadn’t simply taken a blaster and blown them all to hell.

That had to say something about the way in which they had gained control over his people and himself. The fat man had seemed to make it his purpose to stick close to the baron. His wheezing breath and grunts as he sat were so imprinted on K’s consciousness that he could feel and hear it as though the fat man were at his elbow, which was pretty much where he had seemed to be for the whole time. K ran the ville with a tight grip, and there wasn’t much that escaped his notice. Infractions of the laws he made were treated with no mercy. His sec men would bring the perpetrators to him, and under his questioning they would soon confess to their transgressions. If they tried to hold out, then he would use torture to extract the truth.

While the fat man watched, both the innocent and the guilty had passed through the baron’s hands. The fat man had watched impassively, the only indication of any feeling at all being an expressive nod and grunt of approval at some of K’s more inventive methods. That should have been an indicator of some kind, but K passed over it quickly, preferring not to dwell on the possibilities of this considering that his daughter was now in the fat man’s clutches.

The fat man had been irritating, looking back—though not at the time—but nowhere near as sinister as the pockmarked man who was laden with the dolls that formed a part of the marionette show that had presaged the blackout and abduction.

When K thought about it, he hadn’t really noticed the man that much when he had ridden out to meet the strangers on their approach to the ville. Standing among the immensely tall and the immensely fat, his coat seeming to make him invisible beneath all that he carried, he had been a man whose face had been nothing more than a blank space. It was only when K noticed him hanging around the young that he began to take note.

Despite the fact that the coat and the marionettes attached to them had to have been heavy and stifling in the heat of the day, the pockmarked man always carried them with him. He loitered where the children worked and played, a faint smile always hovering at the corner of his lips, his eyes darting from one to the other as though sizing them up in some way. Now—hellfire, now everything seemed to scream at him for his lack of action—he could see that the man had been assessing how they would transport so many young people, and whatever means of persuasion they would need. And at any other time he would have called the man a sicko freak and cut his nuts off before ramming them down his throat. Now he could see that what the man had on his mind was something far worse than any sexual abuse—if there was anything that could repulse the baron more. K was a coldheart bastard, sure, but one who had lines over which he would never go. That was where the chilling started for him.