Roadmarks (11 page)

In the room with walls bound like books in large grained, crushed morocco, Chadwick and Count Donatien Alphonse François, marquis de Sade, sat in high-backed chairs playing chess at a C Fifteen moneychanger's table. Standing, Chadwick was six feet in height. Standing or sitting, he weighed about twentyfive stone. His hair was a helmet of pale curls above a low brow over gray eyes with dark smudges beneath them, blue eyeshadow above; broken veins crossed his wide nose and underlay his cheeks like bright webs. His neck was thick, his shoulders broad; his sausage-like fingers were steady and deft as he removed the other's pawn from the board and dropped his bishop onto its square.

He turned to his right, where a pale-blue lazy Susan containing a circular rack of apéritif glasses drifted. Turning it, he sipped in quick succession of an orange a green, a yellow and a smoky gold, almost in time to the music of horns and strings. The glasses were instantly refilled as he replaced them.

He stretched and regarded his companion, who was reaching for his own beverage carousel.

"Your game is improving," he said, "or mine is degenerating. I'm not certain which."

His guest sipped from the clear, the bright red, the amber and again the clear liqueurs.

"In light of your activities on my behalf," he replied, "I could never acknowledge the latter."

Chadwick smiled and flipped his left hand palm upward for a moment.

"I try to bring interesting people to teach at my writing workshops," he said. "It is extremely rewarding when one of them also proves such fine company."

The marquis returned his smile.

"I do find it a considerable improvement over the circumstances from which you removed me last month, and I must confess I would like to extend my absence from my own
milieu
for as long as possible
—
preferably indefinitely."

Chadwick nodded.

"I find your views so interesting that it would be hard to part with you."

" . . . And I am enthralled by the development of letters since my own time. Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Mallarmé, Verlaine
—
and that wonderful man Artaud! I saw it all coming, of course."

"I am certain."

"Particularly Artaud, as a matter of fact."

"I would have guessed as much."

"His call for a theater of cruelty
—
what a fine and noble thing!"

"Yes. There is much merit to it."

"The cries, the sudden terror! I
—
”

The marquis produced a silk handkerchief from his sleeve and blotted his brow. He smiled weakly.

"I have my sudden enthusiasms," he stated.

Chadwick chuckled.

" . . . Such as the game in which you are engaged
—
this, this black decade. It makes me think of the wonderful Jan Luyken plates you showed me the other evening. From your descriptions, I almost feel party to it . . . "

"It is about time for a progress report," Chadwick remarked. "Let us see how things are going."

He rose and crossed the pelt-strewn floor, approaching a black marble sphinx to the left of the smoldering fireplace. Halting before it, he muttered a few words and it extruded a long paper tongue. He tore this off and returned with it to his seat, where he held it before him like a scroll, his brows furrowed, and slowly unrolled it.

He reached for a glass containing an ounce of straight Kentucky bourbon, drained it and replaced it in the rack.

"Old Red made it past the first one," he said. "Killed the man we'd sent. This was not unexpected. It was a rather crude effort. Just to serve him notice, so to speak."

"A question . . . "

"Yes?"

"You definitely wanted the quarry to be aware that this game had commenced?"

"Sure. Makes him sweat a lot more that way."

"I see. Then what happened?"

"Things began in earnest. A tracking device was placed on his vehicle and traps were set for him in a number of places to which he might flee. But the record becomes confused at this point. He did proceed into one of the ambush areas where one of the better assassins
—
a man for whom I had great hopes
—
had what sounded like an excellent arrangement for concluding things. It is not clear what occurred there. But the assassin disappeared. Our follow-up men learned that there had been some sort of altercation
—
but the innkeeper on whose grounds it took place did not even know its exact nature
—
and Red departed, after removing the tracking device and leaving it behind."

The marquis smiled.

"And so the second stroke fails. It makes the game more interesting, does it not?"

"Perhaps. Though I wouldn't have minded seeing it end there. I am disturbed by the third one, however. It must count against me as an attempt, as I'd registered the assassin with the Games Board
—
but it doesn't seem as though the attempt was actually made."

"Which one was that?"

"The woman with the deadly hands and the custom you found so delightful. She simply vanished. Went off with a new boyfriend and never came back. My man waited several days for her. Nothing. I am going to call him away from that phase of the operation and write her off."

"Pity. Sad to lose a creature of such character. But tell me, when you say 'several days,' how do you measure them if you are not certain where
—
or should I say when?
—
she has gone?"

Chadwick shook his head.

"They are 'drift' days," he explained. "My man is at a fixed point on the Road. A day there corresponds to the passage of a day at most of the exits. If he were to remain there for ten years and then wish to return to the exit point of ten years previous, he would have to head down the Road and take a different exit."

"Then there is a drift to the exits themselves?"

"Yes, that's one way of regarding it. But there appear to be an infinite number of them advancing. We change the signs periodically, but most of the travelers who go in for long runs rather than local hops carry small computers
—
those thinking machines I told you about
—
to keep track of these matters."

"So you could restore me to my own age at an earlier time, a later time, or the same time as you recovered me?"

"Yes, any of those could be arranged. Have you a preference?"

"Actually, I would like to learn to operate one of your vehicles
—
and one of those computers. Could I travel it alone then? Could I find my way back here again from another age?"

"Once you have traveled the Road, there does seem to be some sort of physical alteration permitting you to find it and do it again," Chadwick acknowledged. "But I'll have to think about it. I am not ready to sacrifice your company to your sightseeing whims or to your desire to murder your grandfather."

The marquis chuckled.

"Nor am I an ungracious guest, I assure you. But once I learn to deal with the drift, I
could
see all the sights I want and return to just about now
—
could I not?"

"I'd rather discuss this later. Shall we leave it at that?"

The marquis smiled and sipped absinthe.

"For now," he said. Then, "So your quarry is temporarily invisible?"

"He was, until he foolishly betrayed his position around C Twelve by placing a bet on himself. Perhaps he does not realize that betting records in these matters have recently been centralized. And, of course, it could also be some sort of a trap."

"What are you going to do?"

"Respond, naturally. If it means sacrificing another assassin, so be it. I can afford it at this point, and I have to discover whether he is being careless or has something special in mind."

"Which agent will you employ this time?"

"I feel it should be a strong one. Perhaps Max, that C Twenty-four brain in the armored vehicle. Or even Timyin Tin
—
though I would like to hold him in reserve, should everyone else fail. It would be best to hit hard now. Perhaps Archie. Yes . . . "

"I wish  . . . "

"What?"

"I wish it were possible for us to go back and witness the event. Have you no desire to be present when your old enemy is brought low?"

"I will, of course, receive a full report, with photos."

"Still  . . . "

"Yes I see your point. Naturally, it has occurred to me. But I have no way of knowing which one will be
the
hit. My intention is simply to wait until the event has occurred and
then
go back and witness it. I'll locate some sideroad. I will get there to see it, eventually. I just want to be certain that it has taken place first. In fact I intend to witness it many, many times."

"It sounds rather complicated. I would be happy to go back and serve as your personal witness the first time around."

"Perhaps something might be arranged
—
later."

"But later may be too late."

"It is never too late. Right now we have a chess game to complete, and then there are some manuscripts I want you to take a look at."

The marquis sighed.

"You really know how to hurt a man."

Chadwick grinned and lit an orange tube. A tortoise, its shell inlaid with gold and precious gems, wandered by. He reached down and patted its head.

"A time for everything, and everything in its time," he said.

Red had sent for trays of food
—
great racks of beef, whole chickens and hogs
—
and he sat gorging himself and swaying, rising occasionally to pace, to pause, panting, beside the barred window. The night was cool. An unrisen moon paled the east. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and strange noises rose in his throat.

He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes for half a minute. Then he stared at his hands for a long while. The light seemed to be growing brighter, but he knew this was not the case. He tore off the rest of his clothing and returned to eating, pausing only to wipe the perspiration from his eyes.

The lights began to dance. Reality seemed to phase in and out in colored flashes. The heat was oppressive  . . .

He felt the change begin.

He threw himself back upon the bed and lay unmoving, waiting.

There came a sound like wind through a wheatfield and everything seemed to be spinning.

He moved to the base of the tower, dark, darker than the moonlit night itself, silent.

For long seconds he stared upward. Then he reached out and touched the wall. He drew back his hands, clenched them, pumped them. The claws came forth.

With but the slightest of scratching sounds, he began to climb, shadow over shadow, sliding up the face of the building. His breathing was not strained. Beneath the darkness, he wore no expression. This was the place. The car that had brought him was parked in the lot below. There was absolutely no hurry. The night was young. The driver would wait.

He avoided windows, though most of them were already dark. He paused below the balcony of the first high landing, listening.

Nothing.

He raised his head and scanned the area.

Vacant.

He climbed past on the left, a gentle wind caressing him as he went. A frightened bird emitted a single cry and departed a nesting place far in the rear, vanishing into the night behind him.

Continuing on, he slowed as he neared the second landing, where he repeated the performance. He had studied a map of the tower; he knew the room's location, he also knew that the windows were grilled. It would be simpler and faster to spring the door with a single kick, entering with as much surprise as possible . . .

He paused to listen below the third landing, moved to regard it, then raised himself and mounted the rail. As he did, a figure moved out of the stairwell to his right, took a single puff on a freshly lit cigarette, dropped it and stepped on it. Crouched, owl-like, on the rail, he saw that the small, now motionless figure was also watching him. A single spring, a single movement of his hands and it would not matter . . .

"Archie," said a soft voice, "good evening."

He restrained himself. He placed his right hand upon the rail to his side.

"I don't believe I've had the pleasure," his hoarse voice responded.

"True, we've never met. I have seen your picture, however, along with those of a number of our fellow employees. I thought that perhaps you might have seen mine under somewhat similar circumstances."

A match flared. Archie regarded the face.

"Familiar, yes," he stated. "The name, however, escapes me."

"I am called Timyin Tin."

"Well, I take it we are here for the same purpose, You can go home now, I don't need any help."

"We are not here for the same purpose."

"I don't understand."

"I look upon this job as my own. Your presence, through no fault of your own, offends me. Therefore, I must bid you depart and leave this matter in my hands."

Archie chuckled.

"It's silly to argue over who kills him."

"I am glad you think so. I will bid you good night, then, and be about the thing."

"That is not what I meant."

"What, then?"

"I have my orders. I have even been conditioned to hate the man. No, the job is mine. You go your way. It will be done."

"Alas I cannot. With me, it is a matter of honor."

"Do you think you are the only one who might feel that way?"

"Not any longer."

Archie shifted slightly on the railing. Timyin Tin turned toward his right.

"You do not wish to give up on this?"

"No. And you will not?"

"True."

Archie flexed his fingers, twitching his claws.

"Then it is too late for you," he said, and sprang forward.

Timyin Tin moved backward and turned, dropping into a bent-kneed position, hands open, fingers spread, palms faring forward at shoulder level. Archie spun, his right hand crossing his chest, fingers hooked outward, left hand extended, fingers forward, thumb cocked, his weight shifted to his left leg, right leg flexed. Timyin Tin turned sideways, his right hand retreating to the vicinity of his left shoulder, his left crossing his body to the front, fingers moving into a new position.

Archie feinted with his foot, slashed twice with his right hand, dropped immediately into a cross-armed defensive posture. Timyin Tin had moved back, arms parallel and extended forward, hands rotating. Archie's blows had fallen short as he assessed his opponent. Now he assumed a new position
—
head back, arms cocked, right leg extended. Timyin Tin made a basket of his arms before him and leaned slightly forward, turning.

''Almost had me there," Archie said.

The small man smiled as his left fingers assumed a new configuration and his shoulder dropped two and a quarter inches. Archie hastily changed the position of his left arm and moved his rear foot to produce a new stance.

Timyin Tin fanned his face slowly with his right hand while lowering his left, fingers curving upward. Archie did a backward somersault and moved forward, kicking. Timyin Tin parried the kick with a scooping movement of his left arm that threw Archie into a cartwheeling motion, which the larger man continued until he was out of range, coming up into a defensive crouch from which he rose with his hands moving rapidly. He circled to the left now, shuffling, jerking through dozens of positions with blinding speed. Timyin Tin's body flowed to follow him, his hands seeming to move more slowly but always falling into the proper attitudes.

Finally, Archie halted and stood facing him. Timyin Tin stopped also, facing Archie, who made a single movement with his right hand. Timyin Tin mirrored it as he did it. They remained absolutely still for half a minute. Then Archie moved his right hand again. Timyin Tin moved his left. They watched one another for half a minute more, then Archie turned his head. Timyin Tin touched his nose. A puzzled look crossed Archie's face. Then he bent slowly and placed the palm of his left hand upon the floor. Timyin Tin turned his left hand palm upward and moved it three inches forward. Archie flexed his ears, then asked, "What is the sound of one hand clapping?"

"A butterfly."

Archie straightened and took a step forward. Timyin Tin shaded his eyes. They remained in this position for a full minute.

Timyin Tin took two rapid steps to the left and kicked into the air. Twisting his body and throwing himself backward, Archie restrained himself within a fraction of a second from moving into a position which would have placed his jaw in line with the kick. Both arms extended, claws at full flex, he spun twice as he recovered his footing and balance. By then, Timyin Tin had taken two additional steps to his left.

There was perspiration on Archie's brow as he bent forward and began moving in a wide circle about the smaller man, fingers hooked and clawing lightly at the air. Timyin Tin turned slowly to follow him, his right hand seeming to hang limply at shoulder level. He bowed very low just as Archie was about to spring. Archie restrained himself and halted.

"It has indeed been a pleasure," he remarked.

"For this one also," Timyin Tin replied.

"It looks as if white flowers fall upon my shroud. Your hands are so pale."

"To leave the world in spring, with flower guards to honor: it must be peace."

Timyin Tin straightened slowly. Archie began moving his left hand in a slow figure-eight, extending it gradually. His right hand twitched.

Timyin Tin took two sudden steps to his left. Archie moved as if to circle in a clockwise direction, then followed quickly as the other began to turn. A cool breeze touched them both as Archie began a kick with his left foot, thought better of it, shifted his weight, feinted with his right. Timyin Tin extended both hands, palms down, then slowly began lowering the right. Archie moved his head in a slow circle. Then his shoulders began a counter-movement. His hands traced patterns about one another, advancing, retreating, feinting . . .

Timyin Tin leaned to his right, then to his left, his right hand still descending with extreme slowness. He leaned to the left again . . .

"What," Archie asked him, "is the color of thunder?"

. . . Then to the right, hand still dropping.

Archie feinted with another kick, then lunged forward, claws extended, hands describing wide semicircles about one another.

Timyin Tin's head turned back over his shoulder as his left leg moved behind him. His body turned sideways as his left hand became a V, catching Archie beneath the left armpit. His right hand moved upward toward the other's crotch. He felt but an instant's touch of weight as he twisted to the left. Then Archie was gone, into the night, out over the railing.

"Behold," Timyin Tin replied.

He stood for several heartbeats, regarding the night. Then he bowed again.

He withdrew a pencil-thin tube from a narrow pocket at the outer seam of his right pantleg. He weighed it in his hand for a moment, then pointed it toward the sky. He thumbed a stud on its side and a fine red beam emerged from its tip.

With a movement of his wrist, he directed the beam toward the railing. It sliced a thin line through eight inches of stone. He flicked it off and moved to the spot where it had cut. Running his thumb along the groove, he looked down over the railing for the first time. He nodded and turned away, replacing the tube in his pocket.

Soundlessly, he crossed to the stairs. He looked upward and for a moment his vision wavered as the dim interior of the stairwell reminded him of a cold stone corridor in an ancient building he had once known.

He mounted the stairs slowly, keeping close to the left-hand wall. He passed a door, moved toward the next.

When he reached the proper door, he paused. A pale light still shone beneath it. He took the tube into his hand but still he stood, listening. There was a soft stirring within, a creak of furniture, stillness.

He raised the weapon and pointed it at a place near the jamb, where the bar should lie. Then he paused again and lowered it. He moved forward. Gently, very gently, slowly, he tried the door. It was unfastened.

He stepped to the side, raised his weapon again and pushed it open.

He dropped to his knees. The tube fell from his fingers.

"I did not know," he said.

He lowered his forehead to the floor.