The Keeper's Shadow (39 page)

T
HE THREE CREATURES LOOK AT EACH OTHER GRIMLY
. T
HE JACKAL'S SHARP TEETH CLICK TOGETHER,
“T
HEN WE ARE AT WAR
.” A
S SHE SNAPS AT
R
OAN'S HAND, THE MOUNTAIN LION LEAPS, BUT
R
OAN EVADES THEM AND, STILL RAGING, HE DISAPPEARS INTO THE FOAMING SEA
.

Lumpy's waiting at his side, looking at him expectantly. His face falls at the sight of Roan's expression. “I guess it didn't go so well.”

“They've declared war on us.”

An Apsara appears at their door. “Ende requests your presence. Kira is in the Quarry.”

As she reports to Roan, Ende mops the sweat from Mabatan's brow. “The Gunther has taken Kira to the main storage area. She's fully described all the entryways and security bypasses. They've just gone down a long elevator shaft and opened some kind of steel wall.”

“There's glass,” Mabatan mumbles. “Behind it…Dirt. Mountains of Dirt. Eleven is looking into his glasses. Cleric! Not supposed to be here.”

“Get out, Kira, get out!” Ende pleads under her breath.

“We must hurry.” Number Eleven leads Kira through a narrow hallway. But before he can push the button that will close the steel doors, the elevator opens and the Cleric steps out, weapon aimed.

“What are you doing here?”

“Checking the integrity of the fila-armor.”

“I didn't see a work order on file.”

“I am sure it is attributable to an oversight.”

“We'll see about that. Let's go.”

With lightning speed, Kira smashes the Cleric's jaw. He reels backward into the wall, his weapon firing accidentally. A siren wails. Before he can fire again, Kira finishes him with a blow to the neck. As his enabler implodes, she strips off her clothes before the startled Gunther, and exchanges her overalls for the Cleric's blue robes.

She puts her glasses on the Cleric, then, draping his shirt to conceal his enabler, she lifts him up and hauls him into the elevator. “Let's go.”

Seeing the Gunther's panicked expression, Kira rests a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Follow my lead. When you see an opportunity to leave, go.”

“What about you?”

“Don't worry about me.”

When the elevator doors open, a crowd of Clerics awaits them, weapons ready. Kira makes a gesture of appeasement. “My fault. This Gunther
insulted Our Stowe and I lost my temper. I fired and triggered the alarm. I think he's hurt.” She drops the dead man on the floor. “Am I under arrest?”

The other Clerics smile. Then one of them turns to Eleven. “Did you see this terrible accident?”

Number Eleven shakes his head warily.

“Good. Take your friend and get lost.”

Eleven hesitates for a moment. Kira walks over and gives him a motivating kick. Turning back to the Clerics, she makes a face mocking the trembling Gunther. “A little slow, aren't they?”

Eleven drags the body face-down and with some difficulty manages to lift it into his cart. The Clerics chuckle as he wheels it away.

But their laughter quickly dies at the sight of a ranking member of their order, clearly their supervisor. “Who's she?” he asks, stepping into the room.

“I just arrived this morning from—”

“Papers,” he says tonelessly.

“Right here.” Aiming the dead Cleric's stun stick, she fires again and again, felling a half dozen Clerics. But as the last standing Blue Robe charges, the trigger on her weapon jams. Using the butt of the stun stick, she takes him down and runs.

Sirens wail. Sprinting to the main gate, the whine of stun shots from the guard towers surrounds Kira. She plows into a half-dozen gate guards, her fists and feet ablaze, each blow making its mark. Just down the road is a stand of trees, and in that stand is a large rock, and beneath that rock—

Her leg goes numb and she topples over. Another stun blast hits her in the back. She can barely breathe. Three Clerics put their swords to her throat. Kira spits at them. They kick. And kick. And kick.

Ende stares at the wall. Her face is gray, the grim reality of what is happening to her granddaughter all too clear as Mabatan jerks and twists in attempts to avoid blow after blow after blow. No one speaks. Emotion caught in his throat, Roan is silent. But even if he could speak, what could he possibly say?

Suddenly, Mabatan is very still. All color drains out of Ende's face as she reaches out and places two fingers on Mabatan's neck. After a moment, she whispers, “Alive. She's alive. The sleep is very deep but she's alive.” Without looking up, she asks, “Roan, will you sit with her a bit? I won't be long.” And before Roan can reply, she rises and with quiet dignity, slips silently from the room.

Settling himself beside Mabatan, Roan sees dark bruises forming on her arms and her chest and the sides of her face. She shivers, then her whole body begins to tremble. Roan anxiously pulls a blanket over her, but she cries out and he quickly draws away. She's so hurt, so fragile, his slightest touch has brought her pain.

Her hand, stone white, slips out from the covers. As Roan reaches ever so carefully to tuck it back in, Mabatan's fingers wrap around his. Startled, heartsick, his eyes glaze over with tears—and through them he sees a brown, speckled rat hovering above her.

“I feared the worst,” Rat sighs, his sharp features inclined toward his injured daughter.

“Kira's been captured,” Roan says quietly. “We don't know what will happen if she's killed. We want to sever Mabatan's connection to her but Mabatan refuses, so I don't feel we can. But with your permission—”

“Her will is strong. She follows the path. If she says she wishes to pursue this thing, we would be wrong to stop her. Worse still would be to allow Mabatan's choice to distract you from the goals you must pursue.”

“Two of my people died today, victims of Dirt Eater sabotage.”

“You are sure of this?”

“The Dirt Eaters have declared war on us.”

“Then it is time to act, Roan of Longlight.”

“What can I do? Even if I knew how to defeat them, to take the fight to the Dreamfield now would reveal my hand to Darius.”

Rat's tail twitches dangerously. “No need for that yet. You know where they live.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why take the fight to the Dreamfield, Roan of Longlight, when you know where the Dirt Eaters live?”

Licking his paw, the rat slowly disappears.

If you are able, tell Mabatan she is in my thoughts. Always.

There is a soft knock at the door. Kamyar. His eyes are red, his face weary and somber. “Sorry if this is a bad time. But we're going to bury our friends now.”

THE MAD MASTERS

WE WILL KNOW THAT ROAN OF THE PARTING'S PLAN IS REACHING ITS CULMINATION THE DAY WE ARE OFFERED OUR CHANCE FOR REDEMPTION.

—VALERIA,
VISION #543, YEAR 32 A.C.
DREAMFIELD JOURNALS OF THE
FIRST INNER CIRCLE

T
HE ADMINISTRATIVE LEVELS OF THE
P
YRAMID
have meandering hallways that never seem to end. Stowe slips around one corner, only to see the ominous shadow appear again. After pausing a moment, she picks up her pace. Dashing down a utility stairwell, she turns into a cluttered corridor and ducks behind some crates.

Still there. Kordan's anticipated her move. No time to waste. Up the main staircase two flights. Which way? Assimilation or Records? Kordan's approach is silent, it's his robes swishing over the concrete that she hears as she crosses the landing into Records. A receptionist. Stowe smiles warmly but the young woman at the desk fumbles and dozens of sheets go flying.

Placing a hand on the receptionist's wrist, Stowe whispers, “I have come to thank you for your work.” The girl can't be much older than her and Stowe quite easily guides her down behind the desk. The stunned receptionist is about to protest when Stowe places a silencing finger to her lips. In the grip of religious ecstasy, the girl doesn't notice the door open or hear Kordan's rasping breath or the door sliding shut again. Sweeping the fallen papers back into the young woman's arms, Stowe smiles her most beatific smile and makes a quick exit.

A door's opening on the next level. Kordan's continued up. So back down it is. Three levels below, she waits for the sound of a door opening, then closing. A few steps and she lets her door close with a thump. That should attract his attention. How long has this been going on? More than an hour? She hates to admit it, but she's having…fun. Kordan's following her every move, completely oblivious to the fact that it's she playing cat to his mouse. She just hopes it's buying Willum the time he needs.

On the lowest level of the Pyramid, tier upon tier of file shelves extend in every direction, each heavily coated with dust. The room is a vast labyrinth of bureaucratic records dating back to the earliest days of the Conurbation. “Is this the only entrance?”

“There are seven others equidistantly spaced around the perimeter.” Willum's Gunther guide, Number Eighty-Two, stops stock-still, raises a hand, and then shakes his head. “Mice. Not to worry, though. We've copied everything.”

“The dust would indicate the books have not been touched in years.”

“Oh, we put it there. We like to cover our tracks.”

Willum smiles to himself. The Gunthers' fastidiousness is legendary, if a little compulsive. “But if no one comes here…?”

“Master Querin still comes.”

The journals Willum saw in Querin's secret room instantly come to mind. “Is this where he got the journals of the first Nine?”

“He got the copies. We have the originals.”

To think the Gunthers have had the journals all this time without Willum knowing it! Curse them and their parsimonious approach to communication. “Might I read them?”

“I will inform Number Six of your request.”

Turning a corner into another row of stacks brings the Pyramid's central pylon into view. Number Eighty-Two signals Willum to stop. “Number Six has asked that I apprise you once again of the risks of establishing contact with the Mad Masters. I believe he explained that when Darius entombed them here at the bottom of this pylon, a series of earthquakes localized at the Masters' would-be tomb quickly followed—an indication of the level of power at their command.”

“Yes. He was quite clear on that point.”

“Do you also know that when Darius ordered us to transform the catacomb into a prison—no doubt hoping to appease the Mad Masters—twelve Gunthers were lost.”

“The Masters attacked you?”

“No. They reach out to no one but we learned too late the extent of their…disability. To touch them is lethal. They never speak, yet in their presence one hears screams so terrifying and penetrating that it can take weeks to recover from the experience, if you recover at all. We had to develop a series of pipelines to supply nourishment, eliminate waste, and respond to the Masters' basic needs. But no shield we have devised can dull the cries. Willum, it defies all logic. The continued use of the pipelines proves that, without any medical enhancement whatsoever, the Mad Masters are still alive. Perhaps they have grown even stronger. Every year we are required to provide Darius with a report and it is obvious even he feels helpless before them.”

“Thank you, Number Eighty-Two. I'll keep all that in mind.”

The Gunther pauses before tapping the code into the last of three massive lead-lined portals. “The slightest deviation in these codes will make it difficult for these doors to be opened again.”

“I understand.”

“Your decision remains unchanged?”

Willum nods.

“Number Six has a great deal of faith in your abilities.”

“And you do not?”

“You are unique. I do not understand why such a risk is necessary.”

“I cannot say that I do either. I only know it must be so.”

Willum directs his vital energy into creating a barrier to protect him from the Mad Masters' psychic onslaught, then signals the Gunther.

Tapping in the code, Eighty-Two swiftly steps aside. Scrunching up his face, he mutters an uncharacteristic “Good luck,” and before the whisper of air that accompanies the unlocking of the gateway is ended, the Gunther has disappeared.

Seventy years entombed in the base of the Pyramid has taken a significant toll on the Mad Masters. What hair remains on their heads is transparent, and in the amber light of their prison it makes a fiery halo over faces and bodies so wrinkled and dry they appear to be nothing but crumpled masses of stained paper ready to burst into flame. Except for the eyes. Their eyes are pale blue and focus straight ahead. They are blind. But there is no mistaking that they have vision of a different nature as they steer their sightless eyes unerringly in his direction.

One by one the Mad Masters reach out their fingers, their nails bony spirals the length of Willum's forearm. They speak as one: a wavering soprano weaves around a tenor while the third's voice, no doubt once deep and sonorous, punctuates the duo's eerie harmony with an ostinato of sighs and gasps. “We know you, Willum. You are one of Roan's. One of Roan's many powerful branches. Yes. We knew he'd find the rat. He was so clever. Always…considering the long term. Yes. Not like Darius. No. Not like Darius at all.”

They have walked in the River of Time, and they have seen...what? Willum wishes he had known of the journals before. Then he would have a better idea where he stood.

“Oh, yes. We knew you would come to us. Yes. And we know what you have in store. Trapped. You will be trapped. It is so unfair.”

Do they sense what he is thinking? Or is it just that they have “seen” this meeting? Know what he is about to ask?