The Keeper's Shadow (19 page)

“I'm not surprised,” Lumpy says, scarfing down a heaping spoonful of hot cereal. Smacking his lips, he pauses before delivering his judgment. “Good mush,” he says heartily, and then brings his foot heavily down on Roan's.

“What was that for?” Roan whispers sharply.

“I don't want you to let all this sun-raising business go to your head.” Lumpy winks, then nods to Stinger and Wolf, who are pushing back their plates. “Better eat up! They're coming to get you!”

But Roan's lost his appetite and watches, envious, as Lumpy devours his breakfast.

Arriving at his side, Wolf asks, “If you're ready, Roan of Longlight?”

“My Lieutenant's joining us,” Roan tells him, “presuming he's finished with his porridge, of course.”

He smiles as Lumpy reluctantly puts down his spoon and stands, mumbling, “I'm ready,” through a mouthful of gruel.

With heavy brows furrowed over restless greedy eyes, the smuggler, at the best of times, would not be a man to inspire trust. But Lumpy's presence has made him downright twitchy. “There are rumors in the towns—”

“I have no interest in rumors,” Roan says firmly. He can see the man's trying to assess him—a mere boy, sitting in what was once Saint's place—wondering how much he can draw Roan out and get information to fatten his purse.

Cocking his head, the smuggler throws up his arms. “Straight to business then, if that's the way you like it.”

Roan stares at the man impassively. “You have skills I would like to purchase.”

“What exactly is it that you want?”

“I need someone smuggled into the City.”

“That's all well and fine,” the smuggler blusters, his shaggy mustache twitching, “but since Master Querin's decided it's best to hang smugglers, the price will be high.”

The question is not resources—the Brothers have adequate stockpiles accumulated from their years of marauding—but whether he really wants to trust this man with any information at all. Kira had said this would be their best hope of getting into the city, but sitting on Saint's rug, Roan can almost hear the Prophet's advice and it doesn't involve letting this man walk out of the tent alive. Maybe it shows in Roan's face because the smuggler begins to sweat.

Unable to endure the silence any longer, the man blurts, “Look, kid—” But seeing both Wolf and Stinger step forward, he stops, his gaze flitting from one to the other apprehensively. Wiping his brow, he assumes a harmless jocular air and shrugs. “Look, you won't say who you are, so what am I supposed to call you?”

At a signal from Roan, the Brothers step back. Breathing easily again, the smuggler continues: “All I'm saying is, smuggling anything into the City, I'm taking my life in my hands. They're killing my friends and my business and I've got three families to feed.”

“You'll be adequately compensated for your services.”

“If that means well paid, then we have a deal.”

As they stand, a high-pitched bell rings out in a single staccato burst.

“We have guests,” hisses Wolf.

Stinger points at the smuggler. “You. Come with me.” Then quickly guides him away.

Hook-sword in hand, Roan follows Wolf out of the tent. “Clerics?” he asks as they sprint to the edge of camp.

“You forget the signal, Roan of Longlight. Single burst. Less than five riders. Clerics travel in larger packs these days.”

Strategically poised at the only access point to the camp, a dozen Brothers tensely aim their crossbows at the trail below as Roan and Wolf reach the cliff overlooking the valley.

They scramble up the lookout tower to see what they're facing. Four cloaked figures. Roan sighs with relief when the lead rider lowers her hood. Kira.

As Wolf orders the men to stand down, Roan strides out to greet her and her fellow Apsara. “You're two days early—gave us a bit of a surprise.” But Kira's gaze travels behind him so he turns.

Wolf's at the top of the trail, scowling. “You're lucky to be alive,” he snaps.

“Apologies, Brother Wolf,” Kira says, respectfully addressing the irascible Brother. “But I've information that couldn't wait.”

As the Brothers gather closer around the visiting Apsara, Roan extends an arm to Kira, “We can talk in my tent.”

Kira's sitting by the fire. She's been quiet since they've entered the huge room, no doubt sensing Saint's presence here, just as Roan had. He waits as she sweeps her hand back and forth across Saint's rug. When she finally looks up at him, her voice is barely above a whisper. “It's just as he described it. This is where you read to him, isn't it?”

“Yes.” Though sorrow clouds her voice, it is easy to see the unasked question behind Kira's eyes. “I'm alright. It's hard to get used to being here, that's all. I feel like I'm walking in the shadow of Saint's ghost and it's not a sensation I like.”

“Maybe a live threat will give you the jolt you need. Willum and I had an encounter with some Clerics and made a couple of unwelcome discoveries. One of the Clerics recognized Willum. Told him Darius had a new weapon—the Apogee—that this particular group was denied. Lucky for us, because he hinted we'd not be alive otherwise. Then after the man died, there was this whirring sound, a pop, and his enabler…melted. I checked the rest of the Clerics—each of them had a putrid green pit at the base of their skulls. Willum thinks Darius is up to something. I thought I should come early, let you know to keep a lookout for it. The sooner we move, the better. Have you met with the smuggler?”

“Yes. Kira...I don't trust him.”

“You sound worried. About me?” Kira laughs. “Well, you needn't be. I'm not foolish enough to trust a smuggler either. The question is, can he get me into the City?”

“He says yes, but he could smell a profit. I think we should wait, at least until after the Council, to make our final arrangements.”

“Don't you think the sooner I move the better? If I leave now, I—”

“You wouldn't get very far.”

Both Kira and Roan turn, shocked to have been taken unawares by the Storyteller.

“Don't look so surprised! I've other skills beside my bluster. Although it was my golden tongue that convinced an armed escort of Brothers to accompany me into camp. A little less dramatic than that entrance of yours, Kira, or so I hear.”

Walking up to her, Kamyar offers his hand. Taking it, she pulls him toward her in a rollicking hug that the Storyteller returns with equal vigor.

Roan stares nonplussed and, as Kamyar winks mischievously at him over Kira's shoulder, he wonders if he's ever going to be able to have an uninterrupted meeting in this place.

“Word is the City's locked down. Hundreds of arrests a day. No one's safe. Seems Darius has been in a fury since Stowe's disappearance. Mejan's on the way with more specific information. Surely the possibility of some accurate reconnaissance is worth the wait.” Kamyar smiles engagingly despite Kira's frown.

“And what do we do with the smuggler while we wait?” she asks indignantly. “I don't think we want the lout here when the guests arrive.”

“Roan? If I may make a suggestion?”

Why not? Roan thinks and at his nod, Kamyar informs Kira about the library and Roan's plans to use it as a base of operations. Summing up, he says, “So you see, some Apsara warriors are exactly what's required to secure the place. With a few modifications, a guest room in the Academy should suitably contain our smuggler.”

“But,” Roan interjects, “the smuggler can't be taken there! He'd sell us out in a second!”

Kira gives him a wry grin. “Roan of Longlight, with a bit of scorpion brew in his belly, and a thickly woven cowl over his head—well cinched at the neck—he'll not know which way is up, I guarantee it.”

Since the notion seems to have cooled Kira's heels, Roan reluctantly agrees.

The Storyteller rubs his hands together thoughtfully. “Now how do we get the Brothers to part with some of their precious brew?”

Roan laughs. Clearly this plan involves Kamyar's active participation. “Lumpy's at the main tent talking to Feeder, who, I'm sure, will be able to direct you to a source.”

As he watches his friends wander toward the center of camp, a few brethren stop and bow, making Roan more than a little uncomfortable. Anxious to get as far away from his “followers” as he possibly can, he veers off in the opposite direction, heading toward the stream that leads up the mountain.

It is almost midday and, awash in memories, he ambles lazily up the slope. Eyes half-closed, he recalls how he carried a boulder along this trickling stream and then all the way up the distant mountain where he finally dropped it, exhausted and bleeding, beside a statue of the Friend. The Friend arose from stone, Saint had cried. Born from stone. Born from the stone, chanted the brothers. That had been his second trial. Stopping to let the noonday sun warm his face, he tries to clear his mind of the memory.

Roan hears the footsteps too late. A handful of stinging dust hits his face. His eyes are on fire. He wants to scratch the infernal toxin out, but through the burning haze he sees the shadow of a long knife held high. Jerking backward to avoid the blow, Roan falls twisting into the stream, splashing water into his eyes. It eases the pain a little and clears his vision enough to make out the shape charging toward him, blade poised to kill. Roan lurches away, back onto the bank, holding his arm out to block the knife. That gives him enough time to bare his sword as the assailant strikes again. Blindly waving it in front of him, he feels the percussive jolt of the knife careening off his blade. Sweeping his hook-sword around him in quick circles, Roan hopes for connection, but hits only air. He can't keep this dance up forever; between the fire in his eyes and the spinning, he's getting dizzy. He feels a stick between his feet, and trips.

Wherever he looks it's like a thick fog, so he shuts his eyes and listens. The assassin isn't moving, is waiting him out. Roan can hear his breath. He's standing just on the other side of the stream. Roan grimaces, lowers his sword and groans, buckling over as if in pain. He hears the footfalls, the quickened breaths of his attacker. Roan waits until he can smell the sweat of the man charging toward him, then shifts his weight and puts all his power into a kick. It connects, smashing his assailant in the chest, sending him flying. The assassin tumbles on the bank, hitting a rock with a sickening crack.

Roan dunks his face in the water, rinsing out more of the dust. When his eyes stop throbbing and his vision begins to clear, he steps over to his assailant.

Feeder, eyes glassy, murmurs, “Roan wins again.”

“Why did you attack me, Feeder?”

The cook lets out a little laugh, his teeth red with blood. “You stole my immortality. You, the special one. Never me.” His body convulses, but Feeder's hate-filled gaze stays riveted on Roan until the light fades from his eyes forever.

Roan studies the young man's face, recalling his awful life. Sold by his parents into slavery when he was ten, his greatest joy was becoming a novitiate with the Brothers. But he failed the trials and was delegated to cook. Feeder's hope for redemption was to be made a ritual sacrifice; a glory denied him by Roan and made unbearable by his return.

Roan's white cricket scrambles out of his pocket, then leaps onto the growth at Feeder's neck. Following the insect's lead, Roan touches the lump, reaching his mind into the tumor and the enabler beneath. He senses that the device is inert and has probably not functioned for a long time.

Shouts and footfalls splashing through the creek interrupt Roan's examination.

Brother Wolf, quickly assessing the situation, asks, “Any wounds?”

“No.”

Wolf nods to the guards, who quickly take the body away. Then he holds out a hand to Roan. “You are not supposed to leave the perimeter without an escort.”

“The sentries did their job. It didn't take you long to find me.”

“Too long. Forgive me, Roan of Longlight. Ende warned me to look out for Dirt Eater spies, but this one—”

“Feeder wasn't a spy. He was acting on his own.”

“But why? He couldn't ever hope to defeat you in battle.”

“My escape from here deprived him of his only hope for redemption. He knew the tumor was killing him. He had nothing to lose.”

“Raven and his stinking enablers!” Wolf curses. “Impure, vile, inhuman! There's no honor in that tainted City technology. Only Darius would want an army of puppets. Disgusting.”

Roan is surprised by the intensity of Wolf's revulsion, but he understands it. He felt it too, in the City, the strange listlessness, the lack of feeling. An army of puppets…Darius's control over his army depends on enablers. If there was a way to—

“How should we dispose of the body, Roan of Longlight?”

“Like any other Brother who has fallen.”

Wolf's jaw tightens. “He's not one of us. He was never made a Brother.”

“He served the Brothers, and was destroyed by the act of a Brother. His only dream was acceptance. We will give him that in death at least.”

At the summit of the mountain, where the statue of the Friend overlooks the camp, logs and sticks have been piled high, the final resting place of Feeder.

The Brothers stand in a circle around the pyre and Roan holds the torch over his head. “The Friend arose from the stone!” he calls out.

“Born from the stone!” chant the Brethren.

“And to the Friend we return!”

Roan sets the torch upon the wood and as the flames spread, they are reflected on the polished surface of the statue. The Friend's skin glows red, lifelike, his hand reaching out, as if to say: “Come to me. Come.”

Roan watches the Brothers disperse and waits until all that remains of Feeder is ash. This was what he'd wanted. To be given over, placed in the hands of the Friend.