The Visitor (33 page)

By afternoon, they came to a split in the road, the right leg of which wound on upward to the Westward Pass and Ogre's Gap, a way often taken by the army and still used by raiding bands. It was a way no one else used much, and the road's sapling grown appearance indicated a lack of traffic.

“Which way?” asked Michael, who was driving.

“We should get over the pass as soon as possible,” said the doctor, “as there are people we have to warn. However, if we take no more than an hour, we can go look at the old Lessy Storage Yard, and there's a reason we should see it.”

Accordingly, they drove to the left on an almost level road that wound generally southward along the edge of the hills. They were at the western side of a box canyon dotted with copses and centered on a burbling stream which grew more silent and deeper as they went. The canyon was not long, and they soon came to the end of it, an area of gravelly ground set about with rotted rails and faded signs that said,
“Property of the Regime. No entry.” The place was almost barren except for rampant growths of briar over the fallen fence and an unhinged gate.

The doctor leapt to the ground, handed Dismé and the little ones down, and stalked toward the fallen rails, stopping almost at once to look around. South of them the forest rose abruptly among sheer precipices cleft by fringed waterfalls, froth that plummeted milkily down bulwarks of black stone. From the nearer and much lower clifftop ahead of them, a single glassy cylinder of clear water plunged silently into a rock-bound pool, only a few yards away. East of them were lower hills, hiding any view northeast toward Hold or southeast toward Newland. Mountains stood north and west, stone teeth gnawing at the sky.

“It's too quiet,” said Dismé.

It was true they heard no bird, no beast, no wind sound, no water sound. The doctor prowled across the fallen fence into the yard beyond, and the others followed. The area was littered with tanks and wheels, bent axles and toothless cogs, many now fallen into piles of rust, their shapes barely recognizable. Every artifact still extant wore manacles of briar that tangled all the yard. To one side a short grass area was dotted by patches of bare earth with abrupt outlines. Something had once stood upon these bare places; something had been moved away from them. Nothing had grown back where they had stood.

The doctor knelt to examine a bare patch, then another before picking up a handful of stones and dropping a stone on each bare spot as he counted: “…eighteen, nineteen.” He muttered. He checked to see if his count was correct, that every bare spot had a stone on it. When he returned to the others, he had deep lines of concentration between his eyes.

“What was it that sat in those spots?” asked Michael.

“My guess is they were devices like the one in the cellar of Hold. The archives say that when the fortress was built, there were a number of curved pillars on Hal P'Jardas's mound that were carted away to the Lessy Storage Yard. Archives has a map showing the yard. It's a good distance
from Hold or any other habitation, which means there wouldn't likely be trash pickers out here.”

“Were the pillars like the one I saw?” asked Dismé.

“The description sounded like. It all hangs together: Tamlar, the fumarole, her talk about Elnith and the pillars, all in one place.”

“Where did they go, then?” asked Michael.

“I don't know,” the doctor answered. “Three of those bare patches have edges so clean that whatever was there was moved recently. I've heard that one of the pillars was brought to Everday at least a generation or so past.”

Dismé said, “If people were transformed by them, maybe they vanished.”

“Possibly,” the doctor agreed. “We know Tamlar existed before the pillars were found. We know one was still buried under the Fortress. Add those two to nineteen, get twenty-one, and there are twenty-one Guardians in the book.”

“Why was the pillar left buried in the mound?” asked Bab.

Dismé said, haltingly. “Tamlar was here from the beginning, and it was she who created the Calling Stones, to summon the Guardians when the time came. Tamlar never sleeps. She needs no mortal body. She keeps time on time; she measures the age of the sun, the earth, the stars; she moves the stones to meet their chosen ones; she is Guardian of the Guardians…”

Around them the hush deepened, became expectant.

“How do you know that?” asked the doctor.

Dismé shivered, whispering, “Something Dezmai left behind in my head. Let's leave here, Doctor. Now.”

“What do you feel?” he breathed.

“Something evil, wrong, horrid coming here, yet a bit distant in time or space or knowing, but coming, nonetheless. We don't want to be here when it arrives.”

“No, we don't,” he replied. “Also, today is threeday, and the army of Bastion moves tomorrow morning. On sixday, it's supposed to be declaring war on the world from the border of Bastion. They're taking this same route, so we need to keep well ahead of them.”

“You didn't tell me it was so soon!” cried Dismé.

“New information,” he said, shaking his head. “Decided late last night. It's dismaying, but it doesn't change our plans.”

The sensation of menace deepened as they turned the wagon back the way they had come. When they had gone a little way, the doctor cleared his throat and asked, “They were known as the Calling Stones, by whom?”

Dismé looked vacantly into the distance. “Tamlar named them. They call in two directions; earthward to us, the embodiments; outward to…to something else. Something that's not in the stone, but comes through the stone into us. We give it or them a foothold in humanity. They don't live in us, but they can work through us.”

Michael broke the spell by putting his arm around her gently and murmuring, “It must make you terribly curious…”

“Someday we may find out more about them,” said the doctor, glancing at the sky. “Now we must make up for lost time.”

They drove back to the fork in the road, this time turning up the slope toward the mountains, stopping at intervals to clear fallen stones or chop a few saplings. By the time dusk began to settle, they had reached a clearing beside the stream where a fire circle of blackened stones identified the place as a usual wayhalt. Michael parked the wagon on high ground before unhitching and hobbling the horses, while Dismé, Bobly, and Bab gathered firewood and the doctor laid a fire.

Dismé watched him as he took a demon stick from a small container in his pocket and struck it across the seat of his trousers. “What did you just do?” she asked in an alert, interested voice. “That's a…”

“That's a match,” he said. “What did you think it was? Oh, oh, of course. You've never seen one…”

She cocked her head, regarding the flame in his fingers. “I've seen them, but not used that way. According to the sorcery teachers at Faience, you're supposed to give it a contagion first, and say a magical invocation…”

“And a lot of other nonsense,” said Michael, grinning at
her. “I lived long enough on the border to know that matches light fires. All you have to do is get the head hot enough to explode into flame, and you do that by friction, by striking it on something. Though I hadn't seen anyone light it on his butt end, like the doctor just did.”

“So I was right. It's not magical at all,” Dismé said.

The doctor shook his head. “My butt end, magical? While some have admired it, even extravagantly, I would not be inclined to call it magical. Miraculous, perhaps. Or exceptionally fine…” The match burned his fingers, and he dropped it.

“She meant the match,” said Bobly, with a glance at Dismé's flaming cheeks.

The doctor laughed. “The match isn't magic either. That's part of the nonsense the Selectivists and their predecessors have promulgated on a credulous populace.”

Dismé said, “I've never thought matches were magical, I was just surprised at the way you lit it. But…if a child stood up, pointed at his desk and said
Hail Tamlar, let there be fire
, and the desk went up in flame, that would be magic, wouldn't it?”

“That would be magic,” the doctor admitted. “Have you seen that happen?”

She held out her hand and murmured, “Hail Tamlar, let there be fire.”

Fire bloomed on her palm, steady as an oak. She looked around her at the circle of staring faces. The doctor cleared his throat. Bobly made a little whimpering giggle. Dismé blew into her palm and the flame ascended into the sky, rising like a floating feather, higher and higher until it vanished.

After a long silence, the doctor murmured, “Could you do that before yesterday?”

Dismé nodded, rose, went to the wood laid in the circle of blackened stones and put her hand to it, igniting the wood. The fire was hot; the smoke smelled like smoke. It was definitely fire, not some kind of illusion. The others stared. She shrugged. She knew no more than they what it meant.

The doctor burrowed into his pack and came up with a device which he put to his eyes, looking through it at the stony wall across from the road they had traveled on.

“What is that?” Dismé asked Bobly.

“Oh, those are distance glasses the doctor found somewhere outside,” whispered Bobly. “They bring far away things very close, like a magnifying glass, only more so.”

The doctor pocketed his device, excused himself and went away into the woods. After a time, they saw him halfway up a rock wall opposite their camp site, one that culminated in a flat, protruding chunk of stone. Dismé, Bab, and Bobly began the preparation of a meal, and when they glanced up from their work they saw smoke rising from atop the rock, a single skein of white, pink-tipped by sunset, that rose straight in the calm of evening.

“What's he doing?” Dismé murmured, fascinated.

“Signaling someone,” said Michael, who was also quite interested in this exercise. “Now I wonder who?”

The doctor returned before their supper was quite ready, breathing heavily and rather red in the face from the climb. After they had eaten, Michael spread a waterproof canvas between the wheels of the wagon, attached a canvas skirt around its edges, and moved a mattress from inside the wagon to beneath it, where it would be well sheltered in event of rain. Michael and the doctor took the under-wagon bed, Dismé, Bab, and Bobly the in-wagon one, with the little people at opposite ends on one side and Dismé on the other.

“You really hadn't lit a fire with a match before?” asked Bab from the darkness. “Even some people in Hold use them.”

“Where do they get them?” Dismé asked.

“Peddlers sell them for splits, when nobody Regimic is around.”

“Where do the peddlers get them?” Dismé asked.

Bab murmured sleepily. “They get them from peddlers over the edge, who get them from New Chicago.”

Bobly yawned. “Using matches can get you chaired, if
anyone catches you at it. It's supposed to be magic, and fiddling with magic is forbidden, unless you have a permit. You know that.”

She did indeed know that. As well as a great many other things she hadn't really thought about. She lay there, intending to think about some of them, but though she had drowsed in the wagon a good part of the day, sleep came upon her almost at once.

I
n the Fortress at Hold, Rashel began threeday by causing consternation among the staff of the Office of Acquisition, Department of Inexplicable Arts.

A youngish clerk said for the third or fourth time: “Madam Deshôll, we have no other information on the device. It was simply there when the men started digging.”

“What about the area itself. Is there information on that?”

“P'Jardas,” said an older man from the back of the office. “His accounts. Let her look at that.”

Staff member know-not knew nothing, so staff member knows-a-lot, a sandy man with a short reddish beard, retrieved from the Archives a faded but remarkably dust free folder.

“There've been a lot of people looking at
that
recently,” he remarked before resuming his seat. “BHE. Division of Medicine.”

Rashel seethed. No one had mentioned any such file to
her
. She found a quiet corner and sat over the folder, leafing through it, scanning here and there, stopping to read all of a letter, all of another account. She caught knows-a-lot's attention with a snapped finger and said, “Where is the Lessy Storage Yard?”

Knows-a-lot rose and wandered toward the file room. “There's some old maps in the file back there.”

Rashel examined the maps he furnished with increasing excitement. So, the pillar excavated under the Fortress was indeed not the only one. There were many others! And she was likely the first one to think of them! She would take the few necessary minutes to find Dismé's body, then go on to this storage yard!

Accordingly, she went up to the fourth floor and obtained a key from the keeper—not Livia Squin, who had gone to Amen City that morning to see her sick mother (mythical) with no intention of returning. As Rashel approached Dismé's door she rehearsed the panicky cries she would make when she found Dismé seemingly dead, opening the door onto an un-embodied room where she stood stupidly staring at nothing. It was just as it had been the day before. Except…the bottle was gone. Which meant what?

Furiously, she went back to the keeper's stall and demanded to know who had been on duty the previous night, and when that woman was said to have gone to visit her sick mother, the day person was fetched so Rashel could insist on knowing when Dismé had last been seen.

“What does she look like?” asked the woman, one Hermione Bittleby, in a voice as glacial as Rashel's own.

“Plain,” said Rashel. “Braided hair. Dressed like a farmwife.”

“Haven't seen her,” said Bittleby. “There's no one like that on this corridor.”

“Her name is on your list. The room at the end of the hall.”

“I wouldn't call her plain! She works for Dr. Ladislav.”

“And where will I find him?”

“Division of Health is up corridor twenty-seven a way, third floor, I think, off the main corridor.”

Rashel, growing ever more enraged, stalked to the main corridor, found offshoot stairs that led to corridors twenty-two through twenty-seven, went up several flights, and went to the doctor's office, where she encountered James Trublood.

“I am Rashel Deshôll,” she said haughtily. “I'm looking for my sister, Dismé Latimer?”

“Gone,” said the captain, seeing her hauteur and raising her an arrogance. “The Colonel Doctor sent her to Comador to dig out some kind of statistics.” He had seen the assignment sheet himself, in the pile of materials he was just now sorting out.

Rashel noted his arrogance and raised it a contemptuous. “Then you will announce me to the doctor?”

“He's gone, too,” said the captain, matching her contempt with a Turnaway's disdain. “He left early this morning, gone off to the borders of Praise.” The doctor's itinerary had been on top of the stuff to be filed. The most recent document in the folder was a copy of a letter telling citizen Befum that the doctor would be visiting, leaving on summerspan five, threeday.

Summerspan five, threeday was today, and Trublood had been at the Praise gate on the northeast side of the city, where indeed, the doctor had ridden out toward the Praise hills and Trublood had eaten a good deal of dust just to verify where the doctor was going! He had then gone posthaste to the Colonel Bishop, who had said yes, yes, the guards at the gate had already reported the doctor's movements. Trublood, who until that moment had thought he was the bishop's only or at least primary spy, had been offended by this intelligence, and he had added the irk to the revulsion he had stored away over the Bishop's daughters.

“Do you know when Dismé left?” Rashel asked.

The captain thought about it. When had she come into the office last? Not twoday, yesterday, when all the ruckus had taken place down in the cellars. Not the day before. And not during the span-end of span four, either. But the preceding day, he had seen her briefly, dropping off something for the doctor. “It could have been anytime within the last five days, Ma'am. She hasn't been into the office here since summerspan four, eightday.” He did not like this woman's manner. She obviously did not know she was speaking to a member of the Turnaway clan.

Rashel put the captain's name on the mental lists entitled “To-be-disposed-of-when-Rashel-is-running-things,” and flung herself off in a fury. The poison in the bottle hadn't reached Dismé because Dismé had already gone! And now the bottle was gone also. Making the stuff took seven days after all the ingredients were obtained, which itself had taken more than a span! Was someone walking about with it in a pocket now? By the iron-barbed prick of Fell, she could hardly ask anyone!

This was too much. Hetman Gone would expect her to follow Dismé to Newland, of course, but first she had to take a look at the Lessy Yard. She hired a guide-driver with a carriage and a pair of fast horses and reached the Lessy Yard with its tumbled fences by late afternoon, only a few hours after the doctor and his crew had left it. Rashel wandered among the trash and discards, at first looking for wavy pillars, then focusing on the places where such pillars had no doubt stood. She counted them, just as the doctor had done, noting the stone dropped on each vacant place and wondering at it.

“Wagon was here,” said her driver. “Not long ago.”

“Maybe the wagon took what I'm looking for,” she said.

“Not likely, no, Ma'am. Most likely just a family, come to fish in the pool yonder. Wagon tracks are no deeper going than coming, so whatever they were after, it didn't weigh much.”

“Why do you say a family?” she asked, suddenly alert.

“Children's feet. Woman, couple of children, couple of men. Not many tracks so they didn't stay long.”

Rashel subsided. There for a moment she'd thought it might have been…But no. Children would explain the stones on the bare spots, too. Children did things like that, making up games. Rashel herself had never played games. She disliked rules, and she could not bear losing.

“Besides,” said the driver, “if you're looking for whatever was standing there, the holes are deep in turf. The grass has grown green many a year where those things stood.”

The pillars certainly had to be somewhere, and it
shouldn't be impossible to trace them, which she would do, right after she had seen to Dismé. She returned to Hold by late afternoon, which meant she had missed the train to Newland, and it was too late to start the journey in a carriage. She would hire a carriage for the morning, and spend another night at the lodging-house in Hold. It was as she was on her way there that she was rudely accosted by a stranger.

“The Hetman wants to see you, Rashel,” said this person, an anonymous, ashen-skinned, dun-haired, nothing-looking man.

She drew herself up. “The Hetman? From Apocanew?”

“The Hetman, from anywhere he chooses to be,” said the messenger. “Follow me.”

She did so reluctantly, her stomach clenching, her jaw tight, wishing she had the courage to refuse, believing at one moment that it was a joke, a trick, and in the next that it was unacceptably real, that the Hetman was, in fact, in Hold. As, in fact, turned out to be true when her guide led her to a blind-ended street she had never seen before, between shuttered houses she found totally unfamiliar, to a grille gate she knew all too well. Inside it was an equally familiar, wizened and hairy figure who answered her knock.

“Summoned?” he sneered at her, as the guide melted away into the darkness of the streets.

“By the Hetman,” she murmured, and was admitted. The corridors were not as long as in Apocanew, but the room to which she was admitted might as well have been the one in Apocanew for any difference she could detect. Gohdan Gone sat as he always did, facing the fireplace.

“The bird has flown,” he said.

“Only so far as Newland,” she replied. “And I will ride to Newland in the morning. She is there doing some work for Doctor Ladislav, or so his assistant says.”

“Ah,” said the Hetman. “Come and sit by the fire.”

She went to the chair with her head down, her lips pinched together to keep them from trembling, surprised
that he showed no anger. When he spoke his voice was soft, almost sweet.

“Very recently, Rashel, you asked me to involve you in my magic. Remember that?”

“I…I was impudent, Master. As you said at the time.”

“Perhaps you were, then. Now, however, I have decided to grant your request.”

She was still for a long moment, trying to guess at his motives. “To aid me in getting Dismé back to Faience?”

“Oh, yes. Your participation will help get Dismé back, to Faience or some other place.”

She swallowed deeply. “I am gratified that you believe I can assist you.”

He curved his mouth at her, showing the huge teeth at the corners of his lips. “I am, as you know, a follower of the Fell, and therefore the Fell grants me a measure of power to hold and use as I see fit. Still, the use of this power requires certain rites and observances.”

“I understand…”

“I can save you the time you would have spent in journeying, to Newland, for Dismé is not there, nor anywhere in Bastion.”

Rashel looked up, totally alert. Not in Bastion?

“So much was easy to determine. Where she is, we do not know. I must send…a personal envoy to find her.”

“Master, I am your willing envoy. I'm sure I can…”

He interrupted her with a raised hand. “If you had followed my orders at once, perhaps you could have, but you put other tasks first. Your research under the Fortress. Your dalliance with your lovers…”

She searched desperately for something to divert him from this line. “I am late only because I thought you would want to know about the devices that summon the Guardian Council!”

He turned his huge head toward her, the long yellow fangs sliding outside his lower lip, momentarily exposed as he curled his long upper lip in a sneer. “Devices?”

“The one in the cellar of the Fortress. I was there, in the
cellar, and some woman came, laid her hands upon it, and it dissolved in a shower of fire. A great voice said something or other about the council, and the woman went away too quickly to be followed. We were all blinded by the fire and deafened by the voice…”

“This made you forget Dismé?”

“Oh, no, Master. I was not concerned about Dismé for I had already put in her room the potion you told me to make. While I was allowing time for her to drink the stuff, I inquired about the pillar. There had been many of these pillars before the Fortress was built. They were taken to the Lessy Yard…”

A long, thoughtful silence.

“Which is where?”

She babbled the location, concluding, “When I found Dismé had gone to Newland, I went to the Lessy Yard, first thing this morning. The pillars aren't there now, but several of them were taken away only recently. I intended to go in search of them once I had Dismé back in hand…but you say she is not in Bastion…”

He stared at her, eyes glowing from the fire. “I will send my envoy to this Lessy Yard. I will send after this woman you speak of, the one in the cellar. I will find Dismé Latimer. I will involve you in my magic, as you have suggested. And because you have brought me this information, I will reward you by assuring you will live through the experience.”

Before she could speak, he rose, turning to look down upon her from a great height, while she in turn gazed up, far up, at the blazing glow of his eyes, the terror overwhelming her as she realized that the Hetman was not, as she had always assumed, a misshapen and ugly human fellow whose eyes merely reflected the red firelight. Whatever fire was about this creature burned from within.

He reached out one finger and laid it upon the skin of her breast. She screamed as she felt the blister form. He had never touched her before. His minions had manipulated an iron image of the Fell during her dedication, her “mating” as they called it, and something out of the book had occupied
that image once it was coupled with her, but the Hetman had not touched her until tonight.

“To summon the envoy I need certain things,” he whispered, his breath crisping her hair and brows so that the ash fell into her face. “I need the eyes of a living woman, the hands of a living woman, the womb of a living woman. The eyes will be taken first, then the hands, and finally the womb will be eaten from inside by the Fell himself.”

“Dismé,” she stuttered, trying not to moan at the pain of the burning. “That's why you need Dismé.”

“I need the envoy to
find
Dismé,” He smiled horribly. “I need your
involvement
to evoke the envoy.”

 

A little before midnight, two guards from the Fortress found a woman lying on the street. She still breathed, so they took her to the clinic where Dr. Ladislav often worked at night, as the doctor had asked them to do in any such case. The doctor wasn't there, but Old Ben was, and he had been studying with Dr. Ladislav. He gestured that the guards should wait in an outer room, which they did, while he undressed and examined the unconscious body, taking the blood pressure, measuring the temperature. As he counted the pulse in her throat, his eyes moved from severed wrist to severed wrist, from empty eyesockets to the area between her legs, which had been mutilated. Whoever had done this had intended her to live, for they had bound the wrists, and while the injury to her lower body had no doubt been excruciatingly painful, it had somehow been done without causing enough internal bleeding to lower her blood pressure. Though her eyesockets still oozed blood, that loss was not enough to endanger her life.