Context (59 page)

For
a time, he moved at an easy pace. Then, after passing through a series of quiet
residential tunnels, he slowed to a walk. Tomorrow’s devotion would require
energy.

The footpath led into a long
cavern, bisected by a dark stream running arrow-straight along its centre. At a
curved footbridge, Tom stopped.

The bridge flows.

He stood there, contemplating.

The water does
—

Something.

No. That’s not right.

It floated past: a small pale
corpse, tiny hand’s cupped palm upwards as though in supplication.

‘Sorry,
brother.’ An uncouth voice echoed from upstream. ‘Missed the bugger.’

A big-bellied youth with dull
eyes was hurrying along the bank, bearing a long-handled scoop. Moving
marginally faster than the small, furry, drifting body.

The nightwatchman had two burly
sons: Baze and Taze. This was one of them.

Making a tiny mudra of blessing,
Tom watched as the youth—whether Baze or Taze, he was not sure—fished the dead
marmie from the black waters.

But then another voice called out—the
other brother, leaning against a stone bollard to catch his breath—and on the
cobblestones, by this one’s feet, a heavy burlap sack lay still.

No...

Lay
moving.

Tom’s skin prickled. Then
something snapped behind Tom’s eyes, a red rage filled his vision, and when his
senses cleared he was standing above the second youth—now prone, stunned,
beneath him—pressing his foot into a fragile throat.

‘What are you doing?’

Without waiting for an answer, he
reached down, opened the sack just a little—enough to see the wide amber eyes
inside: six or seven trapped, fearful marmies—then sealed it shut.

‘Taze! Taze!’ Gasping, the
brother was running up. ‘Let him go, brother ... He ain’t done nuthin’.’

Tom stepped back, releasing him. ‘You’re
Baze.’

‘Yeah, I—’ He stopped, puffing,
bent over in agony. Then: ‘We’s doin’ the Abbot’s bidding, brother. No messing.’

On the cobblestones, a tortured
gurgle was the only sound which came from Taze’s throat.

‘Don’t try to talk,’ Tom told
him. ‘In an hour, drink a little cold water.’

Inside the sack, the marmies
struggled without hope.

‘You said’—his own voice came
from far away—‘this is the Abbot’s bidding?’

Sack
in hand, he headed towards the public cavern where he had first seen marmies.
At this late hour, only a few pink glow-globes moved through the shadows,
casting weird ripples across the green translucent turing-block at the far end.

‘They squeals, see,’
Baze had told him.
‘Disturbs
the Abbot’s meditations.’

And the other elder monks’,
apparently.

Taze had nodded emphatically when
his brother added:
‘Our Pa says, it must be right an’ proper, or they wouldn‘t
—’

But Tom had cut him off.

Now, at the cavern’s edge, he
gently knelt down, and pulled open the sack. At the same time, the resident
troop of marmies, ranged high up on the cavern wall, grew still. Then one of
them called out, high and chattering.

And, at Tom’s feet, the freed
captives swirled into motion—bounding towards their fellows—save for one. A
single marmie looked up at Tom, gave a small grimace, a headshake, then loped
away, using foreknuckles sparingly on the flagstones, and then sprang up the
wall with admirable agility.

You‘re welcome.

Tom thought back to what he had
told the two brothers, the nightwatchman’s sons.

‘The rules have changed.’
And his thoughtful addendum:
‘But
don’t tell your Pa just yet.’

He walked out of the cavern
without looking back.

The
novitiates’ personal belongings were kept in a dank storage vault, until they
became full monks, expected to remain for life. Would his things be here, or
had too much time elapsed since his de facto ordination?

Tom looked along the shelves,
until he saw a small folded pack which looked familiar: a dark-green travelling
cloak folded in a neat bundle. Still uncertain—it was a generic cloak, nothing
special—he poked around with his fingertips, brushed something formed of metal.

Tom lifted it forth. It dangled
from the neck cord: hooves upraised, mane wild, in an endless striving for
freedom.

Father...

He had not even realized his
talisman was gone.

How can I follow the Way without
my father’s gift?

Sliding the cord over his head,
Tom secreted the metal stallion within his orange jumpsuit robe. Then he pulled
out a small disk—the travel-tag given to him by Trevalkin: he remembered his
dislike of the man—and tucked it inside his clothes, beside his talisman.

He slipped out of the vault
without a sound.

For
the sake of the Way, I do this...

Repeating the sentence in his
mind, over and over like a mantra, Tom made his way along the darkened
cloister. By the time he reached the kitchen-lab, the monastery appeared
deserted: it was four hours before dawnshift; no-one save the guardian-monks
would be awake.

The travel-tag was a
high-privilege access-request, tagged specifically to Realm Boltrivar. But the
lab’s semisentient scanfield, as Tom had hoped, recognized the implied
authority.

Membrane dissolved, and he slipped
inside.

He
ran. It was incredible, wonderful—coming into the last few tunnels, knowing the
monastery was in reach, then pouring into the Outer Court, standing there
swaying, scarcely believing he had completed the Intermediate Devotion.

Forty-nine klicks: the
forty-ninth successive day.

The courtyard was not crowded,
but a few elder monks watched approvingly as aides took him to a recovery
chapel, and laid him on a pallet. Soft waves of warmth rose through him, and a
physiologist-monk came in to take readings, nodded, and left.

But when they brought in his meal
on a tray, Tom passed his hand across the bowls in an unobtrusive motion,
sprinkling fine grains like dust across his food.

For the sake of the Way.