Dark Foundations (13 page)

He returned his gaze to where the band and the strip of carpet were being disentangled from each other. “Hmm. A bad idea that.” He turned to Merral. “We wanted a long red carpet, but there was only this orange one around.”

“It doesn't matter, Warden,” Merral said, trying not to laugh at the combination of the chaotic sight and the sheer pleasure of being home. “It's just good to be back.”

Amid cheers and clapping, shouts of greeting, and the sounds of the band starting up again, Merral was led through an increasingly disorganized crowd to where his mother and father stood.
It's unreal
. . .
as if I won the Inter-System Team-Ball Cup for Farholme
.

As his parents were pushed forward, and kissed and hugged him, he wished that the casing on his healing ribs was a bit thicker.

“Oh, Merral,” said his mother, tears filling her eyes. “Oh, I
wish
I had known. I'd have sent you off with some
more
clothes.”

His father, his neatly trimmed beard contrasting with the wildness of his windswept hair, clapped him on the shoulders. “Well, Son, I always said you would do something special, but this beats what I had in mind.”

And suddenly there was Isabella, with her dark eyes glistening. As she threw her arms around him, there was a new round of applause and whistles.

“Oh, Merral,” she said in his ear. “I wish you had told me. But well done.”

“Isabella,” he answered, not daring to say more. One part of him wanted to weep for joy at being back and another wanted to run back to the flier.

Then he was off shaking hands and clutching arms. In the midst of it all he saw his Uncle Barrand and Aunt Zennia and with them his cousins Elana, Lenia, Debora, and Thomas, all waving madly.

He fought his way over to them. They in turn kissed and hugged him.

In the end, helped by Lloyd, who seemed to have a flair for parting crowds, they made it to an open-backed transporter and drove slowly away off the strip between two tangled lines of cheering people. They came to the causeway where the gusting wind buffeted the white spray off the lake around them. As they did the dirty clouds parted and a shaft of dusty golden sunlight came down on the town, and Merral thought he had never seen it look so lovely.

Yet as they drove between more applauding crowds he suddenly decided that beneath the exuberance there was something else, something that he had never known before in a crowd.
They need something to celebrate.
I'm all they have
. Like a cold blast of wind, it came to him that, underneath it all, they were scared.

Merral's parents welcomed Lloyd to their house and gave him one of the empty attic bedrooms at the very top of the house that had once belonged to one of Merral's sisters. Yet despite their welcome, Merral was certain that they felt his aide was an intrusion.

As Lloyd was shown upstairs, Merral looked around the general room sensing an unusual neatness. The ornaments on the shelves seemed precisely placed, the pictures aligned perfectly, the curtains were drawn with a careful symmetry, and there was not the slightest trace of dust anywhere.

Merral felt disappointed. He had arrived hoping that he would feel that he had returned home. But now he felt like a stranger.
This may be my home
,
but it doesn't feel like home
.

His mother hugged him again, then stepped back. “Let's look at you. . . . Merral dear, that jacket . . . those trousers. Where
did
you get them?”

“The hospital. In Isterrane.”

She shook her head. “They are a
terrible
fit. They might have given you a proper uniform of some sort. And what's
this
under your jacket?”

“It's the cast. I broke some ribs,” Merral said, realizing that he sounded apologetic. “But they're almost fine now.”

He had expected his mother to commiserate. Instead, she shook her head again as if reproving him. “Oh,
typical
of the men of this house! Both of you are in
constant
trouble.
Always.
Your sisters have never
ever
given me anything like the same problems.”

On the edge of his vision, Merral saw his father, who had been standing rather awkwardly in a corner of the general room, beginning to slide toward the kitchen.

His mother followed Merral's gaze. “Stefan,” she said, in an almost triumphant tone, “where are
you
off to?”

His father turned toward them, a hunted expression on his face.

“Sorry, Lena,” he said, looking up at her with troubled eyes. “I was just going to check on something in my workroom. The model I'm— ”

“In your best
clothes
? I think not. Take them
off
and hang them up neatly.
Now
. I don't want you getting one of your messes on it. Glue,
varnish
, paint. And when you've changed, I don't want you
sneaking
off to ‘be with your mates.' There's work to be done here
now
. We have an
extra
guest.” She put her hands on her hips. “And Stefan,” she said in a tone of great weariness, “do
trim
your hair. I noticed it was
all
over the place at airport. Remember, your
son
is now a commander.”

“It was the wind,” his father offered in a pathetic tone. With his head slumped over his chest, he walked slowly upstairs.

Before his mother could speak again, there was a knock on the door. She left to answer it.

Troubled by his parents' conversation, Merral slipped away to his room.

As he entered his bedroom, he stopped and looked around, aware that there was something unfamiliar about it. There was a curious odor, a faint tang of engineering oil and machinery—a smell he always associated with his father. Merral glanced around, sensing other oddities: the bed slightly askew, books out of place, a mirror at an odd angle.

Mystified, Merral went to the wardrobe for some of his clothes, only to find one of his father's work overalls hanging up. As he changed, he puzzled over the matter. Could it really be that his father had been sleeping here and not sharing a bed with his mother? It was a disturbing thought and as Merral sat on the bed to try and think it through, his foot struck the edge of something. He reached down and picked up a dusty, thick blue book:
Prifysgol Geiriadur Cymraeg.
Underneath that title—far more comprehensibly—were the words
Welsh Language Dictionary, Finalized Grammar Version, AD 12450
. Merral wiped it clean with the care that one gave bound books.

The book gave him the excuse he needed. He went to his parents' room, feeling sure his father would be there, knocked, and entered.

His father sat at the bedside table in front of the mirror with a pair of scissors in his hands, examining his hair with a sullen expression.

“Father, I found this under my bed,” Merral said, holding out the heavy book. “Had you lost it?”

His father made a noise that might have been a sniff. “Oh,
that
. I did wonder where it was.” His voice held no interest or enthusiasm over the book's discovery. “I must have left it there when I was studying.”

“How's the Historic going?”

His father's mouth creased as if he had eaten something bitter. “It's not. And before you blame me, it's not just me. The other Welsh speakers are the same and I've heard it's the same for the other Historics. No one can get enthusiastic about the old languages anymore. Not now.” He glanced at the book. “Look what it says on the front.
Finalized Grammar Version
. The grammar is now fixed. Oh, we can add the odd word, but we can't change how we use them. Let's be honest, Son—it's a dead language. It was only ever a little living language and now it's a little dead one fit for the scrap heap. Why speak it now?”

Pushing to one side the uneasy thought that, apart from the deciphering the debased English of the military manuals, he had done nothing with his own Historics, Merral dug deep for forgotten classroom arguments.

“Well, Father, the principle behind the Historics is that these languages are worth keeping alive because they represent once-living cultures and contain things of beauty and nobility. And the Historics prevent a uniformity that an Assembly based only on the Communal language could have.” He paused and then remembered something else. “Oh, and a great principle of the Assembly has always been that, as we have the forward vision to press onward to make worlds, so we must look back to preserve the past.”

His father shook his head. “Oh, it's all changed here, Son. Or maybe you have been too busy to notice. All the great principles of the Assembly are in trouble here. The forward vision
and
looking back? We don't have forward vision. Not anymore. Herrandown, Wilamall's Farm, and a dozen other settlements are closed.”

There was an unusual clarity and brevity to his father's arguments. “Who has been saying this, Father? It's not just you, is it?”

“There's a group of us meet together—my mates from work and a few others. We play a few games, have a drink or two, and chat. . . . No, Son, survival is all we can hope for now. In the meantime, the ‘great principles' are put back in the cupboard.” He took the book from Merral.

“Father, can I ask you another question?”

“Yes, but we better watch it. I need to help your mother with supper. If I'm not down soon, she'll be furious. She gets like that now. ‘Tidy this, Stefan, tidy that.'”

“You've been sleeping in my room, haven't you?”

His father stared blankly at Merral. “Yes, well . . .” He gave a tragic little shrug. “It's not easy here, Son,” he muttered in a low whisper. “Not at all.” He turned to the mirror again, scissors in hand.

Merral, saddened beyond words, slipped out of the room.

Outside, he hesitated and then walked up the stairs to the bedroom Lloyd had been allocated. He knocked on the door and walked in.

Lloyd, his blond head nearly touching the sloping roof, turned to face Merral with an uncomfortable look on his face. He stood in front of a mirror with his right hand deep inside the left side of his jacket.

“Sergeant, what
are
you doing?”

“Uh, practicing, sir,” came the answer as, keeping his left hand hidden, Lloyd nodded at his diary, which lay on a table. “As suggested by the handbook.”

“So, what's in your hand?”

With reluctance Lloyd pulled out his hand to reveal a bush knife with an unextended blade.

Merral suddenly felt he had endured almost more than he could handle. “Can you explain?” he said.

Lloyd extended the blade. “Sir, it's like this. You can't have an unarmed bodyguard. And so far all we have in small weapons are these things. I mean you wouldn't want me to carry a cutter gun around under my jacket, would you? Not here. And the handbook says you need to practice to make sure you can use your weapon rapidly when needed. For defense, you see. So, I've been practicing to see how fast I can pull out the knife and extend the blade. Do you want to see how fast—?”

“No! Categorically, utterly, no!”
I sound like my mother,
Merral realized with alarm. “So, you intend to wander around my town with a lethal weapon?”

“Well, Mr. V. said to guard you. It's my job.” A note of fixed resolve rang out in the voice.

Merral gestured to the windows with their view over the ranks of rooftops down to the lake. “But, Lloyd, this is the quietest town in the world—perhaps in all the worlds.”

“Sir, I shouldn't argue, but I have to say that . . . well . . . it may have been that once, but this is getting to be a very strange world.”

“Nonsen—”

“Stefan! Where
are
you?” The harsh cry echoed up the stairwell. “There's people at the door and I need help in the kitchen. Now!”

Lloyd raised a pale eyebrow.

“Point taken,” Merral said. “Let's go and offer to help.”