The Archivist (11 page)

A dark-haired, plump young woman—perhaps in her late teens, and wearing rather plain garb—sits on a stool facing a workbench, intent on mixing some sort of ointment. She glances at us when we enter. An old, ragged knife scar runs across her face from her nose to the left side of her jaw.

I hang back, examining herbs as Danae approaches the counter. The girl does not look up from her work when she asks with a detached tone what she can do for us.

“I’m looking for Unc—umm—Franz Kaufstetter,” Danae says.

“He’s not here right now,” the girl responds, then pauses as she looks up from her work. “But I can probably help you. I’m his apprentice. Did you need me to mix something up for you?”

“Not really,” Danae replies. “I need to see him about some personal business. Do you know when he’ll be back?”

The apprentice narrows her eyes and scowls while she examines Danae from head to toe, as if trying to assess the nature of the personal business. “What, did he knock you up, too? No wonder he can’t pay me a decent wage, what with paying off all of you tramps. You know,” she says, pointing her wooden spoon at Danae, “you’re the second one this month.”

Danae takes a sharp breath, then responds, “No, it’s not that at all. It’s family business.”

“I’ll bet it’s family business, alright,” the apprentice replies doubtfully, then crosses her arms and shakes her head. “He went south to trade for some compounds we’re running low on. Probably won’t be back for another week.”

“Is there anyone else I could talk to? A family member, perhaps?”

“Sorry, I’m afraid not,” the woman answers. “I can take a message for him if you like.”

Danae declines the offer, and we head back out to the square. The gusts have died down, replaced by a light drizzle, so it seems Brannock was right about the front moving through. The way things are going, it also looks like he was correct that he would be ready to leave before me.

“What do we do now?” I ask Danae.

She takes a deep breath and then sighs, as she combs her hand through her hair, thinking. “I don’t know. Maybe I can find a place that needs a barmaid.”

I recall how she handled The Broken Mast back in Port Sadelow, and that gives me an idea. Telling her to follow me, we head back to The Smugglers’ Cove, where we had breakfast. When we enter, a middle-aged waiter seems to have taken over the shift, so I ask to speak with the owner. The elderly woman who served us—Marjoram—comes over, and we all sit in a booth in the back.

“Nothing personal,” I start out. “But I noticed that your place could use some fixing up.”

“It could use some work,” Marjoram frowns. “Since my husband passed away last year, I just haven’t had the energy to keep up with everything. It just feels so overwhelming to manage by myself, but this is all I know how to do.”

“Have you considered selling?” I ask, and Danae gasps quietly as she realizes what I am up to. She begins to protest, but I stomp on her foot firmly. “I imagine you could buy a small cottage on the edge of town, maybe one with a small vegetable garden, and have enough left over to never go hungry.” Not that I am an expert on the value of local real estate, but I am an expert on the value of the rare items I have.

Marjoram gives a weary smile. “I’ll admit I’ve thought about that a lot, lately. What would you have in mind?” Her answer does not surprise me, because in my experience, the older one gets the more one thinks about retiring. I was counting on her weariness.

“I have something worth enough to pay for this tavern, and then some. You could probably trade it for almost any property you want in this town.”

I open my pack to pull out the iPod. Judging by the widening of her eyes, I can tell that the old woman remembers what it is. She is probably as old as I am, but did not have the life extension treatments I did. The value of an item like this is nearly priceless. Sure, I will miss it, but sooner or later I will retrieve another one.

Marjoram reaches a few inches toward it with a wrinkled, liver-spotted hand.

“Yes, it does work,” I say. The tavern owner looks at the device, and I hand it over so she can try it out. She slips the earbuds over her ears and after listening for a few moments with closed eyes and a growing smile, she caresses it with her trembling hand. Her eyes fill with tears as she whispers, “I may not have to sell it right away.”

I throw in the solar charger, and we have a deal.

Marjoram gives us a quick tour of the property. It is lunchtime when the old woman sends for a Public Witness to record the transaction. The Witness will require a couple of hours to prepare the documents, so Danae and I retire upstairs to the living quarters that will soon become hers.

One reason I believe that Entiak will eventually become a regional capital is that it is becoming sophisticated enough to actually resurrect bureaucracy.

“I told you before,” Danae says as soon as the door closes, “you don’t have to do this. I know what that thing means to you. I just need enough to cover room and board for a couple weeks, until my uncle gets back.”

“Don’t worry, we have a bunch of these back at the Archives,” I tell her, which strictly speaking is true. There are half a dozen, but none of them work. “We agreed that I would make sure you are securely established before I go. Just consider it part of our divorce settlement.”

For some reason, she looks at me in shock, as though I just slapped her. Then she sighs, and takes my hand as we walk through her new home. We enter a small bedroom with a queen-sized bed in one corner, and we both stand looking at it for a few awkward moments.

Danae releases my hand and takes my pack over to the dresser, where she removes her few belongings to place them in a drawer. A couple of shirts, the skirt Captain Hanford gave her, a bra and some underwear.

After she slides the drawer shut, she just stands there, lost in thought in front of her dresser. I walk over to her side to retrieve my pack.

When I zip the top closed, I brush against her warm arm, and with a snap I am acutely aware of how close she is to me—her subtle but rich scent, the faint sound of her quickening breath. Her hand twitches on the dresser where it rests next to mine, but as she touches me and starts to turn toward me, I walk back out to the living area.

I take a seat at the small table in one corner of the living room, and pull out my pack of playing cards. That feels safe. While we wait for the Witness to return, Danae and I play some wordless rounds of Casino to pass the time.

When the Witness finally shows up with Marjoram, it only takes a few minutes to sign the primitive documents. After we close the deal and I hand over the iPod, it seems almost anticlimactic.

Then they leave, and Danae now owns her own tavern.

We look at each other in the empty living room for a few moments. When I put on my duster and pick up my pack, she crosses her arms and walks me to the apartment door at the top of the steps. I turn to bid her farewell, probably for good.

Sure, it is possible that whenever I pass through Entiak I might drop by for a visit. But I know I will not see her again. So does she.

“Take care of yourself,” I say, with a voice so husky it surprises me, and I hold out my hand toward her.

Danae touches my palm for a moment, and then she grips my hand with surprising strength and pulls me into a close, tight embrace. “Thank you for everything,” she whispers in my ear. “You’ve given me more than you can possibly realize.”

She kisses me on the cheek as I put my arms around her, to hold her close. When I feel her hair on my face, her body pressed hard against me and her soft lips lightly dancing across my neck, the last thing I want to do is leave her.

Brannock was right: I need to make the break clean and not look back. I push her away from me gently. “You are a very special woman, Danae,” I whisper. “I want you to have a good man. A real husband.”

“I had one,” she murmurs, before she gives me another soft kiss on the cheek. As I look at her mouth, all I can think about is pressing my lips against hers. Then she pushes me away firmly, and says with a choked voice, “I need you to go now. Please. Just go.”

She points down the stairs and turns away, closing the door slowly. I am not certain, but I think I hear sobs on the other side.

I walk down the steps, so dizzy for the first few that I nearly stumble. But each step gets easier, and by the time I reach the ground floor I have regained my breath. I will be okay. Brannock was right, I remind myself.

It is getting dusky outside, and I have to hurry back to the boat.

As I walk through the poorly-lit streets, I think about that moment at the top of the stairs. Danae was a detonator that nearly blew open the lockbox of all my emotions. In that sense, she was more dangerous to me than any Disciple. I am relieved that she is part of my past now.

The marina is only a few blocks away, but nightfall sets in fast, this time of year. By the time I get to the dock, it is too dark to make out many details, so I have a hard time finding Brannock’s vessel. There are only three docks on this marina, and I am certain that he was on the middle one. But his boat is not secured where I remember it.

I cannot imagine why he would move it, but I go to the dock where he was moored, hoping to find some sort of message or sign that he might have left behind. I find nothing but dark water, and swells in the slip. Then I see a small, pale shape under the water.

Reaching down, I grab something cold and hard, and pull. What starts as a stiff hand leads to an arm, and then I see Brannock’s lifeless eyes staring up at me.

I have seen way too many bodies in my lifetime to be shocked by one more. So really, more than anything else I feel a deep flood of sorrow wash over me while I haul Brannock’s cold, slender body out of the water and up onto the boards.

He looks peaceful lying on his side at the edge of the dock, as long as I do not look at his slit throat or his face. A quick exam confirms that his body has no other apparent bruises or wounds to indicate that a fight took place, so I am guessing he was taken by surprise and then executed. As far as I can tell he was not tortured, so I am thankful at least for that. There has not been a forensic scientist on this planet for decades, but I do not need one to know who killed him.

The symbol carved into one of his cheeks—a vertical cut with two horizontal slashes that form the crude shape of a tree—is the holy symbol of the Disciples. They believe that cutting this sign on the bodies of the unbelievers they kill will consecrate the offerings to Mother Earth, though I am sure the ironic similarity to the Christian symbol is lost on their victims. The initials EV are carved into Brannock’s other cheek.

I swear to Brannock’s spirit that if I find this EV, I am doing some carving of my own.

There is nothing more I can learn from examining him. Without his boat I cannot bring his body back to the Archives, even if I had the skill to sail it, which I do not. While Brannock had lots of friends, he did not have someone significant in his life to bring the body home to anyway.

Damn it, I will miss him. He was one of the good ones.

It is dark and windy, so at least this weather has discouraged anyone else from coming on the dock. I scrounge around on a nearby fishing boat until I come across a length of chain, which I tie around his waist.

“When I get home, Bran, I’ll lift up a Scotch for you,” I say, then roll him over the side and into the water. Within moments, he drifts down into darkness and is gone. It is an ignoble burial, and he deserves better, but I will not leave him to the hands of strangers.

The wind is cold and the salt spray stings my cheeks. I feel as cold inside as the air does outside. I hunker inside my oilskin duster as I sit on the dock for a few minutes, and fight down my rage while I ponder what to do now.

Since I never studied forensics, Brannock may have been in the water for five minutes or five hours for all I know, so there is no telling how far his boat has gone or where, along with the generator and my only means of communication with the Archives.

This is just about the lowest point that I have ever experienced on any retrieval. It is not that I am on my own now—I am used to that. But now I do not even have the thing Wally and Brannock died for. I take a deep breath and decide this is as much self-pity as I have time for.

So what do I know?

The boat and its contents are in the hands of the Disciples. I am not sure how I will recover the generator, but from this point on I have to improvise, which is what I do best.

It is just as well that I am out of touch with the Archives, because one way or another, it seems the Disciples have been one step ahead of or behind me the whole way. They must have been watching either the boat or Brannock already, when Danae and I…

I jump to my feet, my heart pounding. They had to be watching Brannock’s boat, so they must have seen Danae and I leave. Disciples always travel in bands; more likely than not, some of them followed us throughout the town. Which means they know where Danae is.

Cold sweat breaks out as I race down the dock and weave my way through the streets. There are only a few pedestrians out in this weather, and they move aside casually as if crazed, running men are normal, at least on Dock Street.

The Smugglers’ Cove is only a few blocks away, but it seems like forever before I dash up the stairs leading to Danae’s apartment. I have only been gone about half an hour, but the door to the apartment stands slightly ajar, and I get a sick feeling in my stomach. When I reach the top of the stairs, I find the door frame splintered and I push the door open.

“Danae!” I cry out as I enter, but of course she does not answer. She is already gone.

Her scent lingers in the back bedroom, where less than an hour earlier our bodies brushed against each other. On the floor near a wide open window is a small pool of blood, and at least two pairs of bloody boot prints leading to the opening. I poke my head out the window. A ladder leans against the outside wall, just below the frame.

Someone did not want to leave the same way they entered—probably because they took someone with them. I have no idea whose blood is on the floor, but I hope it is Disciple blood. Danae must still be alive, because there would be no reason even for Disciples to take a corpse.

First they took Brannock and the generator, and now they have taken Danae. Before, I looked at Disciples as just another obstacle to deal with, as part of the challenge that comes with every retrieval. Like with the Disciple outside of Port Sadelow, it was always business. But not now. They killed one of my best friends, and kidnapped another. This is personal.

My fists are clenched so hard my tendons stand out. I want to tear these bastards limb from damn limb, but they are not here, and I feel just a hair trigger away from tearing the room apart. But going berserk will not help Danae. That emotion has to get stuffed deep into the lockbox, along with the rest.

I close my eyes, take several deep breaths, and know exactly what I need to do. Time is not my ally.

After cleaning up the blood, I close the window and straighten the room up quickly. Then I check Danae’s dresser drawer and find exactly what I am looking for: her dirty shirt, which I fold carefully into a tight packet before placing it by itself within a side pouch of my pack.

Then I check the small desk and find a stack of rough, handmade notepaper. Taking out a sheet, I scribble a brief message, tear off the corner of the paper and fold it up to put in my pocket. Finally, I fix the door as best I can, and head downstairs to look for Marjoram. She is in the small kitchen with the cook, so I pull her aside discreetly.

“Danae had to leave suddenly due to a family emergency,” I tell her. “So if you don’t mind running the tavern until we get back, you can keep the profits you make during that time.”

“How long will she be gone?” the old woman asks, her forehead creased with concern.

“I have no idea, this was all quite unexpected.” I pat the old woman on the shoulder, then head out the door and into the night. The first thing I do is circle behind the building to the small alley and pull down the ladder. Leaving it there would only raise questions in the morning that Marjoram would have no answer to.

Unlike items manufactured in the Old Days, this ladder is made from local raw materials which, from the weight of the damn thing, I would guess to be oak. I haul it a block away and lean it against another building. Whoever the Disciples ‘borrowed’ the ladder from will eventually find his property.

Every retrieval mission we plan at the Archives has contingencies for the contingencies, so there is a pre-arranged drop spot in town, where I can leave a message. I return to the Green Mermaid tavern—where I met up with Brannock—and work my way through a crowd of sailors to get to the back.

After waiting a few minutes, I slip into the restroom and jam the door shut, then pull out the message I wrote. Before I roll the rough paper into a thin tube, I glance at it one last time.

‘W and B dead. Prize taken. Gone to recover. K.’

Really, there is not much more to say at this point—and I would not be inclined to, even if there were. Until I figure out where the information leak is, I must assume that anything I say to the Archives will somehow get back to the Disciples. So I am not writing home about anything that the opposition does not already know, or would guess.

Kneeling down, I feel around under the water basin until I find a loose board in the wall. When I slide it sideways, I find a tiny metal cylinder in the wall cavity and pull it out. It is empty, just as I expect. Once I slip my message into the cylinder, I put everything back, just as someone starts pounding on the door.

“Hang on, mate,” I call out. “I got the shits like you wouldnae believe.”

I have been in the restroom for no more than three or four minutes when I come out. A large, burly man glares at me as he sniffs cautiously before entering. I shrug at him as I pass, and quickly exit the tavern.

Then I have to make a decision.

The generator and Danae were both taken by the Disciples, so which do I try to recover first? The generator has great strategic importance to the Archives, and based on the effort the Disciples have made to get their hands on it, the damn thing must be important to them. But why would they so desperately desire something which goes against their whole belief system?

Danae on the other hand, has no strategic importance, at least not to the Archives. Thirty years ago I left Sarah, to carry out what someone told me was a strategically critical mission. I put duty ahead of my wife and I have not seen her since. Even if this marriage with Danae is merely a cover, I just will not do that again.

So I will rescue Danae. Besides, I already know where the generator is going.

Since the boat was gone—probably long before I got there—it is a sure bet that whoever took Danae went in a different direction, most likely by land. While I specialize in recovering artifacts, I am no tracker, and would not have a snowball’s chance in hell of tracking her on my own.

But if anyone on this continent can, I know who it is. I just have to get him out of jail.

* * *

The last time I was in this region of the world, I was investigating a remote military research facility, where I hoped to find some previously-unknown technology. Regrettably, I was late to that party. What had not already been melted down to make crude hand weapons was worthless after being left exposed to the elements.

Aside from a handful of data chips which provided some new information about Intellinet, I retrieved nothing particularly valuable. But to reach the base, I had to cross through an area controlled by Native Americans.

That was when I met Little Crow.

In exchange for his leading me to the military site and back, I helped him locate the means to save his daughter, who was near death due to a congenital heart defect. A minor nearby kingdom called the Tucker Realm had preserved some medical resources from the Old Days, but ‘sharing’ was not part of Tucker’s vocabulary.

I had to help Little Crow raid their medical clinic, and of course as a finder’s fee, I acquired an extra dose of the nanobot treatment for the Archives. The only snag in our plan was that Little Crow got caught, and I became wanted for questioning.

I brought the treatment back to his tribe in time to save Little Crow’s child, but John Tucker threw Little Crow into the deepest hole he had, and as far as I know Little Crow is still there.

After delivering the generator to the Archives sub, my unfinished business was to come back and free Little Crow. Now I am skipping straight to Little Crow’s release. Fortunately, the Tucker capital is only a five-hour horse ride away.

Trying to buy a horse after nightfall is next to impossible, especially now that I am down to only three gold coins. All I can think about is that Danae is getting further away every minute I waste.

Desperation is starting to gain the upper hand over me, and I am seriously contemplating robbery when I find a stable that will ‘rent’ me a decent nag named Saffron for one of those coins, provided that I leave my electric light as collateral. I do not expect the light to be here when I return, but I do not think they expect to ever see their steed again, either.

Since I left my staff on Brannock’s boat, I press the stable to throw in an old sword for free. They give me something that would be rejected for students, but if nothing else, my opponents will die of tetanus.

By the time I guide my mount out of town, my butt is reminding me why I hate horse travel, but Saffron maintains a decent pace and the road between Entiak and Tucker is well-worn, so we are soon eating up the miles. The terrain is mostly farmland which lies between low hills.

Just as Brannock predicted, the weather is mild now that the front has pushed through; the breeze becomes downright balmy for the climate and time of year. Gradually my night vision kicks in, and the scattered, low, puffy clouds I discern racing overhead reflect the thoughts running through my mind. Eventually the desperation in me yields to boredom.

Not every mission goes as planned, that is expected. In fact, the one certain thing is that it will somehow go sideways. But never has a retrieval turned into such an utter catastrophe—although admittedly, Wally was dead before I even left the South Pacific.

What did I miss that could have prevented one friend’s death and another’s abduction, not to mention losing the whole purpose for my mission?

I find no answers and little solace as Saffron maintains her walking gait. The road is smooth and well-established, but as much as I want to urge Saffron to a faster pace, I dare not in the dark. We wind our way along a gently rising, long valley with hills on either side that fall short of being mountains, but not by much.

Eventually, farms fill most of the wide valley floor, bordered by shrub vegetation that gives way to pine forest on the hillsides. Tucker rules this area with an iron grip, but he also provides a degree of order and safety that is only starting to emerge in scattered places throughout many parts of the world.

The surrounding farmland seems remarkably quiet. As I ride up to the town gate of the Tucker capital, I guess from the positions of the stars that it is perhaps an hour after midnight. I do not even have to knock on the gate. By the time I have dismounted and stepped up to it, a small portal is open.

“Who are you, and what business brings you here after nightfall?”

“My business is with John Tucker, and I would have you tell him that K’Marr the Archivist needs to speak with him.”

“You are a brave man indeed, Archivist, to come here during the witching hour. That, or you have a truly great need.”