The Sunset Warrior - 01 (3 page)

Freidal too was looking at the spots, and for the first time Ronin felt a heavy tension fill the room. The Saardin continued to stare at the recumbent body. ‘You are the Medicine Man, sir,’ he said carefully. ‘You tell me.’

Stahlig seemed about to answer, then apparently thought better of it. In the silence, Freidal, looking satisfied, lifted his hand again.

The scribe’s voice once more took over: ‘“—let me let him more fully. He refused, becoming abusive. I withdrew. The next Cycle his agitation had increased. His hands trembled, his voice cracked, and on more than one occasion he found cause to insult me. Second Spell this Cycle, when I arrived, he screamed at me to leave. He said he no longer required a Teck. He began to rant incoherently. I feared for his health. I tried to calm him. He flew into a rage and assaulted me, throwing me into the Corridor. I came directly here to—”’

The Saardin made a brief sign and the scribe was silent. Stahlig stood up and turned to Freidal. ‘Why has this man been restrained?’

The Saardin’s good eye blazed. ‘Sir, I wish to know if Borros will live and, if so, whether his faculties have been impaired. When I have the answers to these questions I shall entertain your queries.’

Stahlig wiped the back of a hand across his perspiring brow. ‘He will live, Saardin. That is, I believe he will. As to his faculties, I cannot tell you until he has regained consciousness and I have had a chance to test his reflexes.’

The Saardin thought about this for a moment. ‘Sir, this man was quite violent when my daggam arrived. He fought them although they wished him no harm. They were forced to subdue him and to make certain he would stay that way. It was as much for his protection as for others’.’ For the first time Freidal smiled, giving his face the look of a predatory animal. It flashed and was gone, leaving no trace that it had ever been there at all.

Stahlig said: ‘It is an inhuman way to treat anyone.’

Freidal shrugged. ‘It is necessary.’

He left them abruptly, posting two daggam at the threshold to the room and admonishing them to leave as soon as the Medicine Man had satisfied himself as to Borros’s condition. ‘If he dies, I hold you personally accountable,’ he told Stahlig, and this served as his farewell.

Stahlig hissed softly when they were alone in the room with Borros, the nervous sound of released tension. He sank into the cubicle’s lone chair and his shoulders slumped. He clasped his hands in front of him. They trembled slightly. Ronin thought that he looked very frail and very old and he felt pity stir inside him.

‘I am a fool.’ Fatigue. ‘I should never have asked you to come here. I thought for a moment as I thought many years ago, when I was young and foolhardy. I am an old man and I should know better.’

Ronin put a hand on his shoulder. He wanted to say something but no words came to him. Stahlig looked up into his face. ‘He has marked you now, do not forget that.’ Ronin tried to smile, found he could not. Stahlig rose then, and returned to his ministration of the Magic Man, turning his back on Ronin, who stood, immobile and silent, regarding the dark countenance of the singular man with yellow skin, strapped to the bed, smoky orange light flickering now and again along the considerable lengths of his translucent fingernails, like the traces of some unimaginably mysterious animal.

So it was that when Borros opened his eyes Ronin saw it first, and he called softly to Stahlig, who was at that moment searching his bag.

The eyes were long, that was all he could tell, for they were in deep shadow and Stahlig was bent over him. ‘Ah,’ the mouth said. ‘Ah.’ He blinked slowly several times. His eyelids drooped. His lips were dry.

Stahlig lifted a lid, peered at the eye. ‘Drugged,’ he said very softly.

‘Ah,’ the Magic Man said.

Ronin leaned over so that they could talk without fear of being overheard. ‘Why drug him like that?’

‘The Saardin would tell us it was to calm him. But I do not believe that was the reason.’

‘Why not?’

‘Wrong drug, first of all. Borros is semiconscious, but he is still affected by whatever it was they gave him. Had he been sedated, he would either be out completely or awake and wondering what had happened to him.’

‘Ah. Ah.’

Stahlig said quite clearly: ‘Borros, can you hear me?’

The lips ceased their noises and a tension came over the figure. ‘No,’ the lips said weakly. ‘No, no, no no—’ A bubble of spittle had collected at one corner of the mouth, and now it inflated and deflated with the piteous cry. ‘No, no.’

‘By the Frost,’ breathed Ronin.

The head moved from side to side as the mouth worked. Tendons stood out along his neck and he strained against his bonds. Stahlig reached into his bag and administered something to Borros. Almost at once he quieted. His eyes closed and his breathing became less laboured. Stahlig wiped his sweating brow. Ronin began to say something but the old man stopped him with a hand on his arm.

‘Well, I have done all I can now,’ he said in a normal tone. He picked up his bag and they left the room. At the door, he left a message for Freidal with one of the daggam. ‘Tell your Saardin that I shall return during the seventh Spell to check the condition of the patient.’

‘What did you find out?’

The homey clutter was somehow comforting. The dim Overheads threw a dismal light. The clay lamps were in a corner, resting precariously on a pile of tablets, waiting to be used. The crumpled paper lay where it had been tossed. Across the room, the darkness of the surgery filled the open doorway.

Stahlig shook his head. ‘I do not wish to involve you further. It is enough that you have encountered the Saardin of Security.’

‘But I was the one—’

‘I gave the assent.’ He was angry at himself. ‘Believe me when I tell you that I am going to forget what I have seen. Borros is just another patient in need of treatment.’

‘But he is not just another patient,’ said Ronin. ‘Why will you not tell me what you have learned about him?’

‘It is far too dangerous—’

‘Chill take that!’ Ronin exclaimed. ‘I am not a child who needs protection.’

‘I did not mean—’

‘Did you not, then?’

In the small silence that built itself around the two, Ronin recognized a potential danger. If one of them did not speak soon, they would be irrevocably separated. He did not understand why this was and it bothered him.

Stahlig lowered his eyes and said softly: ‘I—have always thought of you in a certain way. As Medicine Man, many things in life—things that at one time I perhaps wanted for myself—were not allowed me. Both you and—your sister—were very close to me when you were young. And then—there was only you.’ He said it in a halting, protracted manner, and it was obvious that it was difficult for him. Yet Ronin could not find it in himself to make it any easier. Or perhaps this was not possible. ‘But I understand that you are a Bladesman now. I know what that means. But every once in a while I remember—that child.’ He turned and poured himself a drink, swallowed it at once, poured another and one for Ronin, handing him the cup. ‘And now,’ he said, as if nothing had happened, ‘if you insist, I shall tell you what I have learned.’

Stahlig told him that from what he had observed he was sure that Security had had Borros for more than a Cycle. ‘Possibly as long as seven Cycles, it is hard to say with that particular drug.’ Further, it seemed fairly clear that in defining the drugs used and Borros’s reaction to Stahlig’s voice, Security had been interrogating him.

‘“Interviewing” they call it,’ he said. ‘One of the effects of this drug is to submerge the will. In other words—’

‘They were picking his brain.’

‘Attempting to, yes.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, these things are very tricky and they are certainly not foolproof.’

‘But why not just confiscate his notes? Surely that would have been easier.’

The Medicine Man shrugged. ‘Perhaps they could not decipher them, who knows? In any event, most of what Freidal told us and allowed us to hear was false.’

‘But why go to all that trouble? And if what you say is true, that means Security has deliberately interfered in the work of a Magic Man.’

‘Quite so.’ Stahlig nodded. ‘And then there is the matter of the Dehn spots—’ He stopped abruptly. They both heard soft footfalls in the darkness outside. He said in a louder voice: ‘Time is passing. It is near to Sehna.’ In an undertone, he added: ‘You must be at board. You understand?’

Ronin nodded.

‘And tomorrow and tomorrow.’ Then louder: ‘Good, I shall see you later. I will need to take another look at that bruise.’ He flicked his eyes and, with the briefest movement of his head, Ronin again nodded. He rose and left. In the surgery he passed two daggam groping through the dark on their way to see Stahlig.

He passed up the only working Lift in this Sector because the queue was far too long and he lacked the patience to wait. He was hailed several times and he smiled distractedly and raised a hand perfunctorily but he did not stop to greet anyone formally or to talk.

His body went on automatic, as it often did, so that he was only just aware of his surroundings. He was deep in thought but his body knew where to walk to get to the proper Stairwell leading Upshaft to his own Level.

Consequently, he went right by Nirren without seeing him. He was a talk, dark-complexioned man with an aquiline nose and deep-set eyes. He turned, not in the least surprised and, grabbing an arm impulsively, spun Ronin around. Ronin felt the shadow of the approach before the Chondrin had touched him, and there was no resistance in him. He spun with the momentum, and as he did so, he drew his sword with such lightning swiftness that his arm was no more than a blur. The blade was up and ready, light spilling along its width, before he had even seen who had grasped him. Nirren’s blade was barely out of its scabbard.

Nirren laughed, showing white, even teeth. ‘One day I swear I shall best you.’

Ronin smiled bleakly and sheathed his sword. ‘Not a day for one of your tricks.’ The smile faded and died.

But the Chondrin was in good humour. His eyes widened and he said in a parody of a whisper: ‘Ah, secrets to share with your wise and witty friend.’ He put his arm around Ronin. ‘Tell all and unending happiness shall be yours.’

Ronin thought fleetingly of Stahlig’s admonition and was instantly annoyed with himself. There were questions that puzzled him and Nirren might have the answers to some of them. In any case, he was a friend. My only friend, he thought with a start.

He smiled. ‘All right. My quarters?’

They entered the Stairwell and Nirren lit a torch. ‘Double practice again today, eh?’ He shook his head as they made their way Upshaft. ‘When are you going to be sensible and turn your mind to useful activity?’

Ronin grunted. ‘Such as?’

The Chondrin grinned. ‘Well, it just so happens there is a fine position under Jargiss—’

‘I knew it—’

‘Now wait, he is really all right, for a Saardin—quick, and a brilliant strategist. I know you would get along. And he knows the meaning of defence, too.’ This was a favourite topic of his. He never tired of sketching hypothetical battle plans, outlining tactics for attacker and defender. Given the choice of ground, he would say, the defender will triumph nine out of ten times, even with less men.

‘I have never met a Saardin I liked,’ Ronin said.

‘Tell me, have you ever met Jargiss?’

Ronin shook his head. ‘This is like a game with you. No, not to talk to. How many times do you have to hear it?’

Nirren shrugged and grinned. ‘I keep believing that one of these times you will ask to meet him.’

Ronin reached out and touched the orange and brown chest bands strapped over the Chondrin’s brown shirt. ‘I think not,’ he said very softly.

‘Listen, if it’s about the Salamander, you have to expect—’

‘That is not it at all.’

‘If you do not mind my saying so, I believe it is.’

They were both very still then, regarding each other unwaveringly in the uncertain, sparking light. The reeds of the torch crackled softly and the minute clash of tiny paws on concrete sounded intermittently. The noises were remote, from another world. Somewhere, very far off, boots sounded and then faded. Darkness lapped at their feet.

At last Ronin heard himself say: ‘Perhaps you are right.’ And the surprise stayed with him long after they emerged on to his Level.

His quarters were actually two cubicles, considerably more space than that of any other Bladesmen. Chondrin were allotted this much room; Saardin had of course quite a bit more.

K’reen was there when they arrived. Her thick, dark hair was up and coiffed for Sehna but she still wore her work clothes: close-fitting leggings, and shirt loose through the torso to de-emphasize the body underneath, with light sleeves. She was tall, fully Ronin’s height, with a long, graceful neck, generous mouth, and wide-set, dark eyes. When they came in, she smiled and touched Ronin’s hand.

He was momentarily surprised because she should have been either finishing up her work on the Med Training Level or in her own quarters dressing for Sehna.

She breezed past them, on her way out. ‘I spent too much time searching for these in my quarters’—she waved silver bracelets at them—‘until I realized I had left them here.’ She stuck her tongue out at Nirren and he grinned. ‘Unless I run I will never make Sehna on time.’ She closed the door behind her.

Ronin crossed to a cabinet, reached out a flagon of wine and goblets, poured them both drink. Already K’reen was gone from his mind.

They sat facing each other on low stools covered with fur. The harsh, white light of the Overheads washed over them, draining the colour from their faces. Nirren sipped at his wine. Ronin’s lay untouched at his feet. He told the Chondrin about his meeting with Freidal. The other’s eyes flashed briefly.

‘What do you think?’

Nirren stood and paced the small room. ‘I think I must find out why Freidal is so interested in that Magic Man.’

‘They claim he is mad.’

‘If that is so, perhaps they made him mad.’

‘But the spots.’

Nirren turned. ‘What?’