The Sunset Warrior - 01 (7 page)

If anything the clutter had increased. Stahlig was on the couch, sorting tablets of all sizes. ‘Mind those,’ he said as Ronin removed a pile from a chair.

‘How long have you been treating Neers?’

The Medicine Man waved a hand. ‘Ah, they are overworked Downshaft. We—’ He fought to keep the tablets from sliding off his lap, finally gave it up and dropped them to the floor. ‘We are expected to handle everything Up here without a word of complaint, otherwise they think we are getting ideas.’ He used his hands to brush off his leggings. ‘I heard about the mess at Sehna. That is just the kind of notice you do not need now. What happened? Take off your shirt.’

As Ronin told him, Stahlig took apart the bandage and inspected the wound. ‘That idiot Scholar!’ he said with annoyance. ‘Of course he is frustrated. They burned all his books centuries ago.’ With great care he worked a cream on to the area. ‘Mine too, for that matter, only—Who worked on this for you?’ He looked up quickly, then went back to the shoulder. ‘Not much for me to do here, just put on a new dressing and in several Cycles you will not even know it is there.’

‘K’reen did it.’ Why did he have to ask? ‘We came by after Sehna but you were not here.’

‘Uhm, no. As I have said, they are giving me the overflow, and—’ He shrugged. ‘Were the daggam called? At Sehna, I mean.’

‘Yes, but it was nothing. They took down a statement.’

He seemed relieved. ‘Good. At least Freidal did not summon you.’

Ronin thought: He seems changed. ‘But he did summon me—very early, during first Spell.’

Sweat had come out on the Medicine Man’s broad forehead. ‘I told you! By the Frost you were warned!’

‘Calm yourself.’ Stahlig was finished with the dressing and Ronin stood up. ‘He only wanted me to corroborate the daggam’s report. What is the matter with you?’

Stahlig turned and went behind his desk. There was no colour in his face. ‘I want you to forget you ever went with me yesterday.’ He stared at Ronin, his rheumy eyes sunken and worn. A tablet slipped off the desk and fell to the floor with a muffled crash. He did not appear to notice. ‘It never happened.’

There was silence in the room, but still he was pleading.

‘I cannot.’

‘Oh, Frost!’ Ronin might just as well have hit him. His face crumpled and he collapsed on to the couch. His lips trembled. Ronin went and got some wine, knelt in front of him, made him drink it.

After a while he whispered. ‘I know you. I can do no more.’ But it was as if he were talking to himself.

‘Stahlig,’ Ronin said softly. ‘You must help me. I want to talk to Borros.’

‘How can you ask me to help you to die?’ His voice was feeble and there was no resolve behind it.

‘I will not die,’ Ronin said carefully, because he had to make Stahlig understand. ‘And this may be very important for the Freehold. Remember the talk we had?’

He sat up at last and looked into Ronin’s eyes. ‘Why do you wish to do this?’ But it had worked and the answer did not matter now.

Ronin shrugged.

‘But you must have a reason!’

‘How can I tell you when I do not know what it is myself?’

The old man sighed and shook his head. ‘I knew,’ he said sadly. ‘I knew all along.’ He stood and turned away. ‘Come back after Sehna. I need to look at that shoulder again.’

At that moment he experienced an acute and inexplicable sense of loss. ‘Stahlig, I—’

The Medicine Man raised his hand. ‘Mind the tablets on the way out.’

‘Enter.’

The door remained closed, and the soft knocking came again. He set down his wine, went across the room, and opened it. G’fand stood there, head down. Ronin could see the bandage across his chest under the shirt.

‘I—’ He cleared his throat. ‘I am not disturbing you?’

‘Not at all, I was just thinking of—’

‘Because if I am, I can—’

He touched the Scholar. ‘Come in.’ G’fand seemed rooted to the spot and Ronin had to draw him inside. ‘Sit. Please.’ He crossed the room and picked up something from the top of a low table. ‘I was about to return this to you.’ He held it out.

G’fand shrank from it as if it were alive. ‘I never want to see that thing again!’ he cried.

Ronin set the dagger down next to him. ‘Ah, but someday it may save your life.’

G’fand broke down then and sobbed into his hands. Ronin poured him some wine and this too he set beside him. At length G’fand stopped and his hands came away. ‘I am so ashamed,’ he said.

Ronin sat across from him. ‘And I too,’ he said quietly.

G’fand’s head came up. A light came back to his eyes. ‘You? What have you to be ashamed of?’

He held out his hands. ‘I am a Bladesman. But, as you pointed out at Sehna, I have studied with the Salamander.’ Spots of colour stood out on G’fand’s cheeks. ‘I learned many skills from him, many techniques few other Bladesmen know. You see, I almost killed you—with these.’

G’fand stared at his hands. ‘But I thought Combat is with the sword and the dagger.’

‘Combat is very ancient and has many layers.’

‘Yes, I see.’ G’fand knelt. ‘Oh, Ronin, I am so sorry. Please forgive me.’

‘Pick up your dagger and put it away.’

The Scholar wiped his face. ‘I want you to know what happened.’

‘G’fand, I know that you were not attacking me.’

Surprise, relief, puzzlement, all flickered across his face. ‘But how? I was not sure myself what I was doing.’

Ronin smiled. ‘Yet it was quite apparent to me that you were extremely upset, and not by any of the things you were saying.’

Colour crept into his face again. ‘I am in your debt.’ He was silent for a moment, staring into the depths of his wine. He had not touched it, and now he picked up the goblet and sipped at it. It meant more to him than taking a drink.

‘I will tell you something,’ he said slowly, ‘although it is very difficult for me. I have envied you for a long time, wanting to be a Bladesman and not—not having the chance.’ He laughed nervously. ‘I suppose I am too small in any event.’ He brought the goblet to his lips again, a swift convulsive movement, as if activity were a necessity now. ‘I yearn to know how we came to be as a people—and what took place before us. They were a great people, centuries ago, and they built many Machines—huge and awesome.’ He put the wine down, gripped himself at the elbows as if he were cold. ‘That is all beyond us now. We have lost everything. But I have reached a—I have read all that remains, that meagre pile of knowledge.’

His voice lowered. ‘They do not know it, but I have partially deciphered the glyphs of the very ancient writing that comes from the time when all people were surface-dwellers. But it is not nearly enough, just odd fragments—it is nothing, really. I have been able to read just enough to know what an unforgivable thing they did.’

He broke off and wrung his hands. He had not yet said what he had come to say. ‘So I thought after all I have chosen to be something that is worthless. Oh, I have grown used to the taunts—I had work to keep me busy. But now I have read everything, so they tell me.’

He took out the dagger, watched light play along its stubby blade. ‘So some time ago I went to Combat practice’—he lifted his head, half afraid that Ronin would laugh—‘just like that. The Students joked about it at first and made fun of me, and finally, when I kept coming, wanted to throw me out. But in the end the Instructor came over and gave me this and a short sword and said that since I was trying so hard at least I should have some weapons. And now I work with the Novices, but’—his head sunk again—‘I know I will never be a Blades man.’

‘There are other things to be,’ said Ronin.

‘Nirren says nothing is as important.’

‘Nirren enjoys teasing you, but you must not believe everything he says.’

‘He is a Chondrin and he does not see!’ G’fand blurted suddenly.

‘See what?’

‘That we are dying!
You
cannot see it? You heard Tomand. He does not know the workings of the Machines, no Neer does. Yet the Great Machines are all that keep us alive. The Instructor talks to us of Traditions, the Code of Combat. But what good are Traditions if the air fails or the food goes or no more water comes to us?’

He stood abruptly. ‘I cannot stand it! I do not want to remain here. There is nothing for me, nothing for anyone. And soon—soon the banner of Tradition shall wave over our rotting bones!’

They went to Sehna together and that seemed to settle everything. There was an awkward moment until Tomand stood and said, ‘You are forgiven, this is Sehna after all.’ Nirren looked at them and smiled to himself, and K’reen squeezed G’fand’s hand.

There was much laughter and spirited talk amongst the group, but a lot of it had a hard brittle edge; the topics of conversation were of little consequence. And as the courses came and went and the wine flagon was emptied and refilled, they were gripped by a kind of desperation that caused their laughter to ring louder, as if noise and tumult would keep them safe from their inner thoughts.

Ronin understood this early on, and, while he ate and drank and laughed with the rest because any other course would have been suspect, this knowledge only deepened the gloom that had settled upon him. The Neer’s story had started it, he supposed, and he cursed her and then himself. What does it matter to me? he thought angrily. Not my concern.

A Bladesman wearing orange and brown wove his way towards them. He bowed to his Chondrin, whispered briefly in his ear. Nirren nodded and leaned over to Ronin. ‘Estrille’ he mouthed silently, rose, and made his excuses to the table.

In some way, although it might have been coincidental, his departure was the signal for even greater revelry. Tomand called to the adjacent tables and soon they were exchanging wine flagons and goblets, talking of inconsequential matters.

The seventh Spell expended itself and the eighth commenced. With it the Great Hall began to empty. Slowly, the tables became less crowded, the heat diminished, and the haze became less dense.

Ronin sat with legs outstretched, swirling the dark dregs of wine in the earthenware goblet, watching the twisting reflections on its opaque surface. The general din of conversation had slackened and the clatter of the Servers clearing the tables could be heard. They hurried along the narrow aisles, huge trays filled now with the remnants of Sehna held high above their heads, out of the way of passing Bladesmen. Ronin was asked if he wished more wine and he shook his head.

He itched to leave but felt the necessity of anonymity: he did not want to depart too soon. It was possible that no one was watching, but in any event he did not want to give the impression that he had somewhere specific to be off to.

Then he saw Nirren approaching and was suddenly glad that he had stayed this long. The Chondrin sat down close to him, pouring himself a drink from the last of the wine still on the table. He smiled and looked about them. There was no one near and plenty of background noise. Still smiling, he said softly, ‘I think you will be interested in this. That Teck of the Magic Man’s. Maastad? You remember? He works for Freidal.’

Ronin put down his goblet. ‘A daggam?’

Nirren sipped his wine slowly, did not look directly at Ronin. ‘No. A Teck, all right. But affiliated with Security. They do it all the time. When they are interested in something or someone, it is sometimes the only way in.’ He paused while a Server picked up the empty flagon. ‘They tried to affiliate Borros a while ago but he refused. So they sent the Rodent in to learn what he could.’

‘Apparently it was not enough.’

‘Uhm hmm. Listen, I have been given a special assignment. I have to find a Rodent of my own. I cannot tell you more now, but’—he looked at Ronin, a momentary flicker, and then his eyes were again roaming the Great Hall—‘I may need your help soon, even though you may be reluctant to give it. As for the other matter—’ He smiled and said in a louder voice, ‘Later.’

Ronin watched his back as he departed and was lost finally in the vast sea of moving bodies.

A soft snore passed from his open mouth. He lay sprawled on the couch, his legs crossed at the ankles, his arms embracing a pile of tablets. His seamed face was drawn, and pouches of grey skin hung under his eyes. Even in sleep he looks tired, thought Ronin.

He crossed the room, gently shook Stahlig’s shoulder. Immediately the eyes flew open, bloodshot but alert. He pulled himself up, heedless of the tumbling tablets, and cleared his throat. ‘Uhm, just resting for a moment.’

Ronin turned, hunted for the wine. ‘You look like you have lost a lot of sleep.’

‘Just’—Stahlig pointed—‘over there behind those tablets.’ Ronin poured the wine and he drank gratefully. ‘Mm, it’s that overload from Downshaft, Frost take it!’ His eyes shifted about the room. ‘A fine state when there are not enough Medicine Men in the Freehold. We may have to start using promising Students like K’reen.’ He finally saw the tablets on the floor. ‘Well.’ He cleared his throat again.

Flicker.

Down the Corridor and around a turning, very still and silent and watchful, they were caught in the periphery of his vision like rodents in a web.

Flicker: dark shadows against the light.

And he did not stop: he moved neither faster nor slower because they had not seen him and he did not want to do anything to attract their attention. Stillness within the organism, not without. Into the darkened surgery as fluid rolls within a jar. Now pause, let eyes adjust, and move again only when all the shadows are in their proper place. Because two daggam stand guard just down the Corridor.

‘I shall take you to Borros.’ Stahlig drained his cup and stood.

He has not mentioned them, Ronin thought, as they went across the room and into the surgery, aware that Stahlig did not light a light or make a sound.

They stopped at the far wall and the Medicine Man reached out and touched something in the gloom. An opening appeared in the wall, automatic and perfectly silent, and they stepped into the small cubicle and beyond.

It was dimly lit by two lamps, flames flickering in the draught created by the opening. Cabinets lined one side wall, a door cut into the centre of the other. And Ronin had it, the pieces fitting all at once: the daggam, Stahlig’s silence, the hidden door. And he looked to the far wall, at the two narrow beds, knew one was filled even before his eyes registered it, knew too that it contained a man with yellow skin, the nexus of an obscure power struggle within the Freehold.