Seeker (18 page)

"Yes," said Seeker slowly. "Only there's something I have to do first."

Morning Star read his mind. It wasn't hard. She could see from his colors that he was filled with longing, and she knew from his own mouth that he wanted more than anything to be accepted into the Community.

"You know another way to become a Noma."

He looked up, startled.

"How do you know that?"

"I just do."

"Another way to be a hoodie?" cried the Wildman. "What other way?"

"I can't tell you."

"You tell me, brava, or I slit your neck."

"Do you always cut the throats of people who don't do what you want?" said Morning Star.

"Not always. Sometimes."

"And after you've cut their throats, do they do what you want?"

"She always talk like this?"

"I don't know," said Seeker, "I only just met her."

"Tell us this other way," Morning Star persisted. "Maybe I can help you."

"You?" sneered the Wildman. "What use is a fool girly to anyone?"

"More use than a fool spiker," retorted Morning Star.

"Maybe you're right," said Seeker.

He'd had a moment to think and had reached the conclusion that his plan might have a better chance of success if he had help. Also, he found he wanted company. So he decided to tell them.

"Not all the Nomana enter the Community the way we tried, by applying and being selected. Some get invited."

"Invited!"

"Some of the most famous Nomana were invited. Because they'd done something praiseworthy or of great value to the Community. Something the Nomana themselves couldn't do."

"Something the Nomana couldn't do?" Morning Star was dismayed. "We don't have the powers they have. How can there be anything we can do that they can't?"

Seeker had thought about this, and he believed he knew how it could be done; but for the moment, he wanted to keep his idea to himself. It was enough for now to tell them the objective.

"There's a secret weapon," he said. "It's going to destroy the whole island of Anacrea."

"Whoa!" exclaimed the Wildman, impressed.

"It's somewhere in the city of Radiance. Only no one knows exactly what it is or exactly where it is."

"Radiance!" Morning Star spoke the name with a shudder. "That's a bad place."

For once the Wildman agreed with her.

"Don't mess with Radiance," he said. "They're crazy there. They throw people off high rocks."

Seeker paid no attention to this.

"If we could find this weapon," he said, "and destroy it before it destroys Anacrea, then I think the Nomana would give us everything we want."

"The powers of the hoodies? The peace they've got in the garden?"

"Everything."

"Heya!" The Wildman's eyes shone at the prospect.

"How can we?" said Morning Star. "We're nobodies."

"Maybe," said Seeker, "that's why we can do what the Nomana can't do. We're just ordinary people. We won't attract any attention. We could go to Radiance, and no one would ask any questions. And once we're there, we can start looking around."

"Heya!" exclaimed the Wildman again. "We find this weapon, and heya! ha!" He stabbed the air with his spike. "That's when you'll be glad to have the Wildman by your side!"

"I think I will," said Seeker.

"But we don't need the girly. She's no use."

"You're wrong," said Seeker. "She knows things."

"She don't know anything worth the knowing."

"I know what you're thinking," said Morning Star.

"So what am I thinking?"

She studied his colors carefully. Mostly the shimmer round him was the bright yellow of self-absorption, as she would expect. People who glowed yellow like that simply couldn't see anything or anyone else. But there were traces of other colors, too: flickers of red, waiting to flame up as rage, and flickers of violet, which came from heartache; and round it all, an unexpected fringe of that soft lavender blue she had seen in Seeker, the color of longing and hope. She interpreted instinctively, not waiting to attempt an analysis.

"You're thinking that everyone in the world is against you. You're so tired of that. You're thinking you've got yourself into more trouble over the hoodies than they're worth. But you can't let go of a kind of longing when you think of them."

The Wildman jumped as if she had attacked him.

"Whoa!" he cried. "How do you know all that?"

"I just do."

"You get out of my head. Nobody messes with the Wildman!"

"See?" said Seeker. "She knows things."

"And I'll tell you something else I know," said Morning Star. "The hoodies don't use their powers for themselves. They use them in the service of others."

"What do they do that for?"

"That's their vow. That's why people want to join them. So they can help people and not let there be so much suffering in the world and change things and make things better."

"Then they've not done too well so far, have they?" retorted the Wildman. "I don't see things getting any better."

"Maybe they don't do much, but at least they do something."

Seeker quoted the words from the Legend.

"The little we can do, that we must do, so that others know good men too can be strong."

"And until you understand that," said Morning Star, "you'll never be one of them."

"Well, I don't care about that."

He spoke defiantly, but Morning Star was watching his colors, and she saw a growing tinge of green. Green was the color of uncertainty. If he was beginning to know that he didn't know, then there was hope for him.

The Wildman turned to Seeker.

"You and me," he said. "Outside."

The rain was passing. Seeker followed the Wildman out onto the glistening deck.

"There's things you can't say in front of girls," he said.

"She has a sharp tongue."

"I don't care about sharp. But girls are never the same thing. One day sweet, next day sour. One minute laughing, next minute crying. I like people to be the same thing all the time. When a man stands his ground, he's there and nowhere else. Do you follow me?"

"Yes. I think so."

"So here's what I need to know. If we do this thing we're talking about—find the weapon—save the hoodies—what if they take you and not me?"

His voice suddenly sounded smaller. Seeker understood then what it was the Wildman feared. The bandit knew very well that he didn't understand the Nomana. He was afraid of being rejected a second time.

"I can't promise what they'll do," Seeker said. "But I can promise what I'll do."

"What will you do?"

"If you come with us, and if together we do what we plan to do, then I'll say to them that they must take us all three, or none at all."

"You'd say that?"

His eyes searched Seeker's face, hunting for any sign that this was a trick.

"Yes. I would. I will."

"You wouldn't rat me?"

"Why should I?"

"Because that's what people do."

"Well, it's not what I do."

Still the Wildman gazed at him with a look that was torn between doubt and longing.

"I've never trusted anyone in all my life. That's why I'm alive today. So if I come with you, and we do this thing, and you rat me, I'll kill you."

Seeker saw it clearly now: the Wildman was proposing a compact of faith. Young though he was, Seeker knew that this was a grave commitment. And yet, for all the Wildman's hard life and bold words, Seeker felt how much, how achingly, he longed to trust in someone other than himself Out of his lifelong loneliness, he had picked Seeker and was reaching out to him. Literally so: his hand was extended towards him.

Seeker knew almost nothing about him, but he responded instinctively and without hesitation. He took the Wildman's hand and felt the fierce power of his grip.

The Wildman spoke to him, his dark eyes burning.

"Say: I stand with you."

"I stand with you."

"From today to the end of the world."

"From today to the end of the world."

The Wildman released his hand.

"No need to tell the girly," he said.

My brothers:
We have placed all our trust in one young heart.
Watch over him. He faces dangers beyond his years.
He may be called upon to make the final sacrifice.
May the All and Only give him courage
and light his way with the Clear Light.

C
HEERFUL
G
IVER HAD BEEN IN A RAGE ALL DAY
. W
HAT
made him doubly furious was that he had warned his wife, he had begged her, he had threatened her, but she had paid no attention whatsoever. He might as well have been talking to a puddle of water. He had told her repeatedly to leave the tribute alone, not to sit with him or talk to him, but she had done both, she had spent hours with him, she was always finding time to slip into his room for a few more encouraging words. The inevitable had happened. She had forgotten to lock the door after her. And now the tribute was gone.

"I'm sure I locked the door," said his wife plaintively. "I do lock the door every time. But if I didn't, and he got out, then I call it most ungrateful. After all I've done for him."

It was this sort of remark that drove Cheerful Giver wild.

"Ungrateful! He was a spiker! A homeless ignorant beggar! How can street sweepings like that be grateful?"

"If he was so worthless, why did you pay a thousand shillings for him?"

"Because I must offer a tribute on my name day! Great Sun! Have you lost your wits? Do you want our family to be disgraced?"

His wife began to cry, as usual. Her name was Blessing. At times like these, he found himself wishing she would give her blessing to someone—anyone—else.

"I don't know why you have to be so unkind to me," she whimpered. "I was only doing my best. You know how everyone admires a willing tribute. And I thought I was doing so well with him. He'd really begun to appreciate the great honor of being a tribute. And now all you can do is shout at me."

What could Cheerful Giver do? He had no choice. That very afternoon he had let it be known, discreetly, that he was in the market for another high-quality tribute. The money would have to be found. Meanwhile, the day was ending, and he had his duties to perform.

It had been a hot, hot summer's day. At last, as the sun sank towards the still waters of the lake, the air was cooling to a bearable temperature. All across the city, the people were making their way towards the temple square for the evening offering. Blessing, who possessed a fine contralto voice, would already be at the temple, taking her place in the choir.

Cheerful Giver, herding his two young sons before him, took a route that ran between the city proper and the floating gardens. The boys liked to race up and down the walkways of the floating gardens, bouncing on the roped timbers to make them rock. By this time of day, the migrant workers had retreated to their camps along the lakeshore, where they could be glimpsed huddled together in weary clusters, watched over by officers of the street patrol.

The lake looked tranquil in the evening light. The range of mountains to the east glowed in the golden rays of the setting sun. What a beautiful city I live in, thought Cheerful Giver, feeling the frustrations of the day slip away. He liked to take this road to the temple for just this reason. A busy and successful man of affairs like himself had much on his mind. But at the end of the day, he could afford to relax a little.

Then he saw Small Dream waiting for him at the turn in the road ahead. Small Dream was a fellow merchant and, in Cheerful Giver's secret opinion, a two-faced crawler who would do anything to gain royal favor. On his name day he had offered as tribute a beautiful young virgin, who was said to be neither beautiful, nor young, nor a virgin. The rumor was that he had paid two thousand shillings for her.

"I hear you lost your tribute," said Small Dream with an odious smile of pretended sympathy. "That's too bad."

"One of them," said Cheerful Giver, concealing a yawn. "I really do believe this has been the hottest day of the year so far."

"You have more than one tribute?"

"Oh, yes. Don't you?"

"How many more?"

"We have two. Mercifully, it was the old man that got out. We still have the virgin."

This was a lie, and Small Dream knew it was a lie, but Cheerful Giver carried it off with such assurance that all Small Dream could do was shake his head.

"I wish you good fortune in your business, then."

This was his way of making it quite clear he knew Cheerful Giver would be having to put his hand deep into his pocket.

"With prices like these it's not easy for any of us."

"Boys!" called Cheerful Giver sharply. "Stop that!"

The boys were running up and down the walkways between the floating gardens, chasing scavenger cats. Cheerful Giver watched them run, as the light of the setting sun threw long shadows over the rows of ripening squashes and tomatoes. He reflected bitterly on how rich Small Dream must be to be comfortable pretending he was poor.

"Boys! Do as I say!"

"Aw, Dad! We got one in a corner."

"Well, just the one, then. We'll be late."

Up on the highest level of the temple, the king was in the middle of his hate-training session. The beating of the drum and the rhythmic howls of rage could be heard through the closed doors as the court officials gathered for the evening offering. The High Priest himself had not yet arrived. He was detained on one of the lower levels by a visitor who brought him information of considerable interest.

"You say the king knows nothing of this?"

"He knows in general terms, Holiness. But the details, no."

Sitting in a low chair in the High Priest's private office, writhing with nervousness and resentment, was the small but eminent scientist Professor Evor Ortus.

"So our ill-favored young secretary hopes to present the king with a surprise victory?"

"For which he will take all the credit, Holiness. The credit that rightfully belongs to the Radiant Power above, and to me."