The Parafaith War (46 page)

He broke open one of the still-steaming muffins and spread a touch of butter on it-at least he thought it was butter. After eating the entire sweet muffin, filled with dark berries, in three bites, he took another sip of the limeade. The slight headache he hadn’t realized he had began to fade.

“… handsome … not wearing a ring …” “… with one like that … take being number two …” “… eats like a returned … like he’ll never taste another good meal …”

“… make sure he got good meals …” Trystin cut back his hearing to normal. He was beginning to discover that hearing too much was sometimes worse than hearing too little.

The hostess escorted in another party, settling the two women and the man with salt-and-pepper hair at the larger table next to Trystin. “Enjoy your meal. Brother and Sisters.”

The man nodded curtly at the hostess, and Sister Baninis, dismissed, turned and paused at the edge of Trystin’s table. “The berry muffins are usually very good.”

“Very good,” Trystin agreed. “Is there anything else you’d recommend? I ordered the pine chicken.”

“I saw that in the kitchen. It smelled wonderful. If you like desserts, you might try the Saints’ chocolate silk pie.” “We’ll have to see.”

“I imagine you’ll find room.” The hostess’s tone was dry. Trystin grinned. “Probably.”

“Tell me how you like it.” This time her hand brushed his shoulder as she left. “I will.”

With another radiant smile, she headed back to the front entrance.

Trystin didn’t need stepped-up hearing to catch the displeasure from the two women at the adjoining table. He could feel the glare.

“Here’s your chicken.” Sister Khoures slipped the plate in front of Trystin with a low half-bow that brought her cheek practically beside his.

“Smells good.” Trystin caught the pleasant mixed scents of the spiced chicken, flower perfume, and clean woman. “It should. I told Sister Jerriyn to give you a good one.” “I appreciate the kindness.”

Sister Khoures waited for a moment, then flashed a smile and left.

Trystin wanted to wipe his forehead. Instead, he picked up the knife, absently noting that Sister Barunis had escorted a party of four-a man with three women, presumably his wives-to another large table. Although the man was white-haired, with a heavily lined face, none of the women seemed much older than Trystin, and two were noticeably pregnant.

Trystin slowly sliced a bit of the tender chicken and ate it. The pine taste was faint, and overshadowed by rich brown sauce and complemented by the semicrunchy nut morsels. The Idaho potatoes were just round white peeled potatoes, and the sauce helped them considerably. The greenery was bitter, but he chewed it thoroughly as well.

One of the pregnant women kept studying him, as did the thin-faced blonde at the nearby table.

When he had finished the plate, somewhat surprised that there was nothing left, he sat back-but not for long. “Would you like some dessert?” “I’ve heard about the Saints’ chocolate silk pie… what else is that good?”

“If you like really tart and sweet things”-Sister Khoures glanced toward the entrance where Sister Barunis presumably was waiting for other customers-“there’s the lime crumble pie. We also have fruit tarts, ice cream, and a lemon custard.” “I’ll have the chocolate silk pie.” “It is good.”

As the waitress left, Trystin reconsidered the benefits of being a patriarch. Up to six wives chosen from among young women like Sister Khoures or Sister Barunis? Or the two who watched his every bite from the nearby table?

“Your pie. Brother. ” The slice she presented was almost a quarter of a good-sized pie. “Thank you.”

Her hair, and her hand, brushed his shoulder as she left to attend to the party of four.

Trystin finished the silky chocolate of the pie, and the golden pastry crust, in measured bites, half marveling that he had eaten it all without feeling totally gorged. He sat back and sipped his water. “Will there be anything more?” “No, thank you.” She set the antique lunch check on the glass of the table.

“Thank you, Brother.” Her steps away from the table were precise and professional.

He studied the bill, and the careful script that said, “Thank you, Sister Ali Khoures.”

After using some of the paper bills for a gratuity-Brother Khalid had been firm about that-Trystin took the check to the hostess’s station, and Sister Barunis. “Was everything all right?”

“Excellent, Sister. Excellent. Especially the pie. ” Trystin handed her the credit strip, which she ran through the reader and handed back to him.

“You could call me Sister Megan, at least.” Again, the warm smile followed, with a hint of something else, almost a sadness, that bothered Trystin, though he couldn’t identify it, even with stepped-up hearing.

“I’m Brother Wyllum Hyriss. I appreciate your hospitality and kindness.” “What are you doing on Orum?” “Sightseeing. I took a job as a pilot for a Hyndji trading company, and I’ve never been to Orum and to the Temple. Friends told me that I should see the Gorge on the way.” “Your friends were right.” “Is there anything else I should see?” “You ought to stop at some of the overlooks. Don’t just look at the Gorge from the road. You can’t see the way the sun hits the crystals if you don’t leave the car.” “Thank you.”

“It was good to meet you. Brother Hyriss. I hope we’ll see you here again.” She extended a card bearing the restaurant’s logo. “Just call me if you need reservations… or anything I can help with.”

Trystin took it, avoiding a smile at the scripted “Megan Barunis, hostess,” and slipping it into his jacket pocket.

“You never know,” he said softly, trying not to invite or discourage her. “I’m on my way to see the Temple. After that, my plans aren’t settled.” He smiled again and turned, feeling her eyes on his back all the way down the steps and out into the parking area, now half full.

The car started easily, and Trystin pulled it up to the edge of the highway. He wanted to wipe his forehead, but didn’t, recalling his sessions with Brother Khalid.

Whhsttt! Whhsttt! The Revenant-driven cars whipped by the restaurant’s parking lot like so many highspeed torps. Trystin wasn’t sure that most torps didn’t have more guidance.

Another car pulled up behind him. Then another. Finally, he pressed the accelerator to the floor. Screeeechhh!

The combination of the heavy foot and the internal-combustion engine succeeded in getting him back on the road south, even if one of the other southbound cars whistled by him as he was still accelerating. Was guiding vehicles on Revenant planets akin to suicidal military missions? Or suicidal Intelligence missions?

The road, clearly cut by laser, began a continuous climb almost as soon as Trystin had left the restaurant. Scrub cedars and cacti dotted the pink and rocky hillside soil. While the cacti, and there were at least three different varieties, seemed to grow randomly, the older cedars seemed to be approximately the same size and placed in what seemed to be a grid pattern. The original planoforming plantings?

Taking Sister Barunis’s advice to heart, he dutifully stopped at the first overlook. There were no signs, and all he could see was the valley he had just left, with trees and towns, and trees and towns.

He moistened his dry lips and tried to count the squares in the trees that seemed to be towns. There were more than thirty. How many more he didn’t know, because even with enhanced vision, the angle got so flat for the northern end of the valley that the cleared spaces seemed to blur together near the base of the shuttleport’s plateau.

Still … thirty towns of a thousand people … in just one valley. The valley could have had almost as many people as half of Cambria. Still … there was a certain … openness … a stark beauty . . : to the mountain-framed expanse of trees that was moving.

He walked back to the car.

Another five kays uphill where the road leveled out, he passed a sign-Dhellicor Gorge-but the road just continued to wind through hillsides of pink soil, cacti, and scrub cedars.

After another five kays of driving, the hillside on the left side of the road dropped away into a narrow gorge-less than half a kay across, and deep enough that Trystin could see from the road that the lower walls were in shadow.

Trystin pulled off the highway at the first overlook, marked by a sign staling, appropriately. Overlook #l. There he stopped the petroleum-powered car a good twenty meters short of the edge of the lockout. After setting the brake, he walked across a strip of grass and weeds to the blued-steel railing that separated the hard red-clay parking area from the cliff edge. He caught his breath.

Below the railing, the ground dropped into a canyon of fluted red-crystal walls that fell a good two kays to a ribbon of silver water winding westward through the canyon. The Gorge walls widened somewhat under the overlook, as if the rock about two hundred meters below the railing were softer, leaving a shadowed patch on the south side of the Gorge, across from Trystin. The early afternoon sun played on the crystals jutting from the rock beneath the overlook, and rainbows and shafts of red light speared into the thin canyon shadows on the other side, as well as down to the narrow river. The facets of light did not blind, but almost interwove into a pattern that changed minute to minute, but so gradually as to defy a description of the changes.

For a long time, Trystin watched the lights playing on the rocks, and the shifts in the reflected silver of the river far below.

The rocks seemed sharper even than those below the Cliffs of the Palien Sea, and starker, without the greenery that enfolded the cliff tops on Perdya. On Orum, the pink-red soil appeared more barren, despite the scattered scrub cedars.

Finally, he turned and started toward his car. Beauty or not, he had a mission he continued to dread. As he walked from the overlook, another car, white, turned into the lockout, but instead of parking well short of the railing, stopped and parked no more than a half-meter from the blued steel.

A man and three women got out. All three women wore skirts to mid-knee and high-necked blouses with sleeves below their elbows. All three were blondes of varying shades, and each had her uncovered hair braided in some intricate fashion, although none of the hairstyles were exactly alike. The tallest woman was pregnant.

The driver was a trim but white-haired man with a slight tan, also wearing a long-sleeved, if light, collared shirt. “See, girls! Best view on Orum! Look at the way those crystals sparkle when the light hits ‘em.” Trystin nodded politely as he stepped toward his car. “… bet he’s recently returned … eyes look like deep space…”

“He’ll be looking for some of the sisters.” The man laughed. “Unless they find him first.” “… poor girls …”

“Poor fellow. Now … look at the light there! Ever see anything like that?”

Trystin stopped at five other overlooks. Long before his last stop, he understood and felt the appeal of the Gorge. Although each overlook framed a scene similar to the first, showing light, stone walls, and a river far below, each was subtly different, with different shades of the crystalline light that varied from moment to moment, never quite the same. Like the Cliffs of home, the Gorge was unique. Also like the Cliffs, the beauty of the Gorge seemed relatively unappreciated. Still … some, like Sister Megan Barunis, appreciated that beauty.

With the stops, it took him nearly three hours before he passed the blue-trimmed and -lettered white sign that marked the end of the Gorge.

As he drove down the laser-melted and textured road, winding along the hillside, his eyes kept straying out to the valley. New Harmony Valley according to the map within his brain. The wide checkerboards of green and brown fields, occasionally interspersed with stands of trees, stretched to the distant line of mountains to the south, nearly as far as Trystin could see, even with boosted vision.

A heavy truck growled up the road on the other side, a thin line of smoke streaming from the exhausts above the wide red cab. The trucker smiled and waved at Trystin.

Trystin returned the friendly gesture, wondering at the possible hypocrisy of an assassin being friendly. Then, soldiers were allowed to kill and be friendly. Maybe arbitrarily deciding that some places should be free from war and that other places were slaughtering grounds was just as hypocritical. Would the people in Cambria be so eager to kill if the war raged across Perdya itself? He shivered. Or would they be even more thirsty for the blood of the Revenants? How could what he did matter? Could he make it matter? Should he try? Could he not try?

Soon, the road flattened as he drove through the middle of the valley, passing irrigated fields on each side of the road, driving and thinking about Wystuh and Admiral Jynckia.

He sniffed. The acrid odor of animal manure inundated the car, getting stronger with each meter traveled. The fields gave way to fences, and within the fenced areas were hundreds, thousands of animals—brown-coated, shaggy, four-legged animals-beefaloes.

Ahead, in the distance, were smokestacks, tall gray stacks rising into the pale sky. While only a thin grayish haze came from the stacks, the distortion told Trystin that the almost colorless air emissions were hot indeed to be visible kays away.

The stock-or feedyards stretched more than four kays. Then, abruptly, the fences were followed by a high wall beside the road, painted or coated with a white so bright that it sparkled in the sun.

Kashmir Meroni Township read the sun-faded sign. Through the gaps in the wall, Trystin glimpsed the town itself. The houses were neat, if smaller than those he had seen earlier, and the yards displayed trimmed lawns and gardens. But the windows seemed smaller, and the walls thicker, and certainly the location, between the vast stockyards to the east and the industrial facilities ahead, would not have been where Trystin would have chosen to live.

A woman and two children walked along the other side of the road, facing toward Trystin. As he passed the three, he realized that their skins were dark, far darker than even the darkest of the Coalition populations.

One hand fingered his chin, as he thought about the small-windowed small houses between the stockyards and what seemed like kay upon kay of industrial facilities filling the west end of New Harmony Valley. He also had not seen the spire of a stosque.