Dark Foundations (35 page)

Merral found that the tensions in relationships that Anya had remarked on were heartbreakingly displayed in his family. He tried to keep in touch with his three sisters, all of whom lived some distance from either Ynysmant or Isterrane, but they now seemed increasingly preoccupied with their own worlds of children and friends. It was as if faced with a crisis of this magnitude, all they could do was turn their back on it and retreat into a familiar world.

He kept more closely in touch with his mother and father, although he found the widening gulf between them all too evident. They took to calling him separately and informing him about their spouse's shortcomings (and in his mother's case, those of her daughters as well). After these conversations Merral often found himself close to tears, but whether with grief or frustration, he could not tell.

His relationship—or lack of it—with Isabella also proved a continuing trial. He had little direct contact with her, but they did meet at a conference for wardens held in Isterrane. She had come with Enatus and sat next to him at the table. Merral noticed how often during the discussions the warden would tilt his head to her with a worried look and mutter something that was obviously a question. Isabella would lean toward him, whisper in his ear, and he would nod agreement.

For some time, she and Enatus were preoccupied by a speaker and Merral was able to watch her unobserved. As he did he felt a faint pang of his old affection. It came to him as an intriguing thought that, if this crisis could be resolved, perhaps things might be put right between them. However, when they met at the reception later that evening, he realized that she had still not forgiven him.

Isabella, wearing a blue suit of intimidating elegance, curved her lips into a facsimile of a smile, put stiff arms around Merral's shoulders, and gave him an icy kiss on the cheek.

“How lovely to see you again,” she whispered through clenched teeth. “We do miss our hero in his hometown.”

“Nice to see you, Isabella,” he replied and unable to stop himself, added, “I hear it's in good hands.”

She stepped back and looked at him with fixed smile that seemed a mere hairbreadth away from a snarl.

“Ynysmant needs all the help it can get,” she said. “I have to contend with Vero's brown-clad buffoons running everywhere and this extraordinary Urban Defense Planning Team scaring everyone. The whole thing is becoming like a circus. And
you
, of course, give me no help at all.” Then with a toss of the head she walked away.

However worrying the internal changes in Farholme were, Merral tried not to let them distract him from his one great concern—the looming arrival of the intruders and war.

His concern was deepened by a visit to Jorgio late one hot afternoon with towering thunderheads building up far off in the bay.

The old man had settled in at Brenito's house. The garden was well maintained and, despite uncommonly dry summer weather, still looked green. Merral and Jorgio took tea together under a large wooden sunshade at the end of the garden while Lloyd fed fresh grass to Mottle, a dappled mare in a newly fenced-off paddock.

“It is good to see you, Mr. Merral,” Jorgio said, wiping his heavy mouth.

“I should come more often. The house looks as if it's being well looked after.”

Vero had designated two men to manage the place and to catalog Brenito's vast accumulation of artifacts and manuscripts. They had also been instructed to watch over Jorgio and keep him safe.

Jorgio twisted his thick neck to look at the house. “Yes. The men help me keep it clean. So many papers though. I gather Mr. Vero is looking for something?”

“Yes,” Merral said, reluctant to hide anything from a man who knew so much. “There is a small possibility that somewhere in there lies more information on the ending of the Rebellion. And we think that could cast some light on who the intruders are.”

“The Rebellion and General William Jannafy . . . Jannafy.” Jorgio pronounced the name slowly as if chewing over it. “An old name and a bad one.” He moved his tongue around his rough teeth. “
Tut.
The past coming back. But evil is like weeds, Mr. Merral. You reckon as you've got rid of them, but they come back. Roots, they have.” He tapped his cup with a grubby finger. “Either that or seeds. One day, the Lord will get rid of all the weeds. The Book says that. But till then we can always expect them.”

“A helpful thought. Have you had any more dreams?”

“Yes.” The old man looked away, but not before Merral saw a fleeting expression of fear. “Those footsteps are clearer now. I can hear their feet.” He stared at Merral, his tawny eyes full of distress. “I hope as your defenses are ready. They'll be here soon.”

“You'd better pray, my old friend,” Merral said, feeling the tiniest flutter of panic. “We will need all the help we can get. Can you tell me anything else?”

Jorgio wiped a bead of sweat off his forehead.

“Only as I've started seeing numbers.”

“Numbers?”

“A whole wall of numbers. As high as that tree. No, higher—stretching into the sky. Not just ordinary numbers, but well . . . numbers with letters and squiggles. What's the word?”

“Algebra? Equations? Formulas?”

“Formulas
.
That's it.”

“Do you understand what they mean?”

“Bless you, Mr. Merral, that's something I have never understood. Numbers, yes. Letters, yes. But letters
and
numbers? Doesn't make no sense. And there's thousands of them.”

“And do you—how shall I say it?—
sense
what they are about?”

“I really don't know as I do.” His frown was one of deep puzzlement. “Oh, Mr. Merral, ignore it. It may be nothing.” He picked up the teapot. “Let's talk of something else. I can't believe how terribly dry the soil here is. It's too sandy.”

But the frown did not leave his face.

So the summer passed. As the days began to perceptibly shorten, the weather became extraordinarily hot and humid and every few days frantic thunderstorms would sweep in from the sea and lash the town. For Merral, who found even the ordinary summer weather of Isterrane uncomfortably warm and humid, the heat-wave conditions were most unpleasant. The office was climate-conditioned, but not the suite. At night he would frequently awake to find himself covered in sweat.

To take his mind off the heat and his concerns about what lay ahead, Merral returned on several evenings to the simulated world of the castle tree. It was not a total success, but he tried to force himself to find relief in his world. Deciding that it was time to make the tree breed, he worked with the code and soon had red male flowers blossoming on the trunk and yellow female ones on the upper and outer leaves. He was impressed with the effect: from a distance, the tree looked like a flaming volcano and when the simulated wind blew, the effect was magical. Soon insects pollinated the flowers and great knobby seed pods the size of a small child developed on the upper branches. He paused the simulation, adjusted the code, and restarted growth. The pods split open and around scores of fist-sized seeds, wings extended and hardened. When autumnal winds blew a day later, the seeds broke free of the pod and glided away, traveling downwind for hours. Merral pursued them, noting with approval that a number had fallen into fertile soil.

Despite satisfaction that his creation was developing so well, Merral felt uncomfortable about it. It came to him that he found his simulation's untarnished simplicity preferable to the dirtied complexities of the real world.
And it is not just that.
This abstract sterility is free not just of sound and smell, but also of all ultimate consequence. Unlike the real world, where every decision counts, nothing here really matters
.

When he probed his feelings on why he wished to linger in his creation, he felt a defiance within him that surprised him.
Why shouldn't I spend time there?
My chosen career has ended, many of my relationships are in bad shape, my days are an endless succession of appallingly hard decisions, and my future is overshadowed by the threat of war.
But the very energy of his protest unnerved him and, as a result, Merral decided to restrict the time he spent in the simulation to no more than five hours a week.

Toward the middle of summer, inside the door of an unfinished apartment block, Vero waited for Perena to turn up.
I wish I wasn't feeling so on edge. We made our decision. Why can't I keep to it? Why does she crop up in my thoughts so much?

Suddenly she was there. On impulse he glanced at his diary adjunct. She was, of course, exactly on time.

There was an awkward moment as they faced each other. In the end Perena kissed him briefly on the cheek.

“How are you?” she asked, stepping back to look at him.

Vero took off his glasses and put them in a breast pocket. “You want the honest answer, P.? Tired.”

And she looks tired too
.
But none the worse for that.

Perena's nod was brief. “I understand.”

She looked around with the quiet, wry grin that he loved. “An unfinished housing block? I am intrigued. I thought your office was elsewhere.”

“It is, formally. But this is where it really is. Now, what I'm about to show you, you mustn't speak of.” As he said it, he realized with dismay that it sounded like he didn't trust her. “I m-mean I can rely on you. It's just that . . .”

“We have to be careful,” she said, finishing his thought and ending with a sigh, one that seemed to come from deep within. “Vero, I do not dislike secrecy. I love the strategy of chess: the bluff and the counterbluff. But I never realized until recently how, as a way of life, it could wear you down. But lead on.”

Vero led her to a lift. “Oh,” he said gesturing to the ceiling, “a warning. We're being watched. Surveillance.”

“Another sad necessity.”

Once inside he called out, “The foundations.”

There was a chime of acknowledgment and the lift started down.

“A deep basement,” Perena said twenty seconds later. “We're still descending.” As she spoke, the lift slowed to stop.

“Welcome to the underworld. Based on an original idea by Perena Lewitz.”

“Is that credit or blame?”

The door opened to reveal a low, featureless tiled tunnel that ran off either side of them.

“It is something of a labyrinth. Follow me. Do you get claustrophobic, P.?” he asked as they walked.

“Thankfully not. I spend much of my life in a metal can.”

“Like a sardine.”

“The fish?” He heard the puzzlement in her voice.

“It's an old saying. I think they must have kept them as pets in metal tanks. Oh, never mind.”

Vero tugged open a heavy door in the left-hand wall. Beyond were more branching corridors, but with more light and more noise: the purposeful chatter of people, the buzz of electrics, the thuds and hammering of fabrication.