The Water Road (14 page)

“No, sir,” she said, stalling while
she came up with a plausible reason why she hadn’t. “I thought this story was
so important that working through Tevis would delay its publication too much.”
Olrey nodded his head and said nothing about it, so Strefer assumed he accepted
that reason. “What makes the story so important, sir, is not just the murder
itself, but the reason why it was committed.”

“Oh?” Olrey said, with an arched
eyebrow. “And what would that be?”

Strefer dug into her pouch and
pulled out the latest draft of her story. She handed it to him across the
massive wooden desk. “It might be easier just to let you read this draft, sir.
It would be quicker.”

“Yes, fine,” he said, leaning
forward in his seat and snatching the papers from her. They sat in silence for
a few minutes while he flipped through the pages, quickly scanning the words.
When he was finished, he placed it on the desk in front of him. “You certainly
were not overselling this story, Strefer. That counts for something,” he said,
his face turning deadly serious. “What, or who, is your source for this?”

Strefer decided this was not a time
to indulge in false modesty. “I was able to talk my way into the crime scene,
sir,” she said. “I was in the office itself, albeit after Alban’s body had been
removed.” He sat motionless, giving no indication of what he thought about
this. “Sir, I’ve spent three years on the streets of Tolenor with the Sentinels
who keep the peace there. I know them. They know me. I cultivated those
relationships precisely so if something like this happened, something that was
being hushed up behind closed doors, I could get inside.”

Ho nodded. “And where did you get
the information on the suspect? This Antrey woman?”

“From the Sentinel who was guarding
the crime scene. We have a long history together.”

“He told you, explicitly, that
Antrey was a suspect?” His tone was shifting from one of generous curiosity to
one of confrontation, like he was interrogating a suspect.

“No, sir,” Strefer answered. For
the first time since she sat down, she began to feel nervous. “He told me that
the Sentinels were looking for the halfbr—,” she stopped and caught herself.
“Looking for Antrey because she had disappeared and most likely had some
information about the incident. But I could tell from the way he talked that
she was a suspect.”

“And this red notebook,” he said,
“the one with the summary of the Grand Council session, you saw it with your
own eyes?”

“Yes, sir, of course,” she said.
She had planned to turn over the notebook, or at least let Olrey read it for
himself, but she did not like the turn the conversation had taken. The notebook
remained in the bottom of her pouch beside her.

“But you did not have a chance to
read the whole thing, did you?”

“Not in the detail I would have
preferred, sir, but…” she tried to explain.

Olrey cut her off with a wave of
his hand. He stood and walked towards the other side of the room. “Quants. A
Guild name, is it not?” he asked, marking an abrupt change of subject.

“Yes, sir,” Strefer said. She
followed him with her eyes and then stood up when he walked out of her view.

“What kind of license do you need
to publish a newspaper in the Guildlands, Quants?”

“License, sir?” she asked. The
question did not immediately make sense to her.

“How does a newspaper in your
homeland operate? How can one publish?”

Strefer shrugged. It wasn’t the
kind of question she had ever given much thought. “Aside from being part of the
Guild of Writers, sir, I don’t think there are any requirements. The Guild
exercises some quality control. Enforces journalistic standards. Other than
that, I’m not certain. I came to work for the
Daily Register
directly
out of my apprenticeship, so I’ve never really worked for a Guild paper. Why do
you ask?”

“Come look at this,” Olrey said,
waving her over towards the fireplace where he was standing. She joined him
there. “You see this?” he asked, pointing to a framed document hanging over the
fireplace.

“Yes, sir,” she said, straining to
read the words. The elaborate nature of the script, not to mention the height
at which it was hung, made it difficult.

“Do you know what it is?”

“No, sir.”

“That is the royal charter under
which the
Daily Register
operates. Without that charter, it would be
illegal to publish this newspaper. I would not be able to hire any employees.
The kingdom would seize my presses. Everything would vanish.”

Strefer nodded, but didn’t see what
this had to do with her.

“The
Daily Record
was
chartered over one hundred years ago by his grace, King Conlan III,” Olrey
explained. “It is renewed with every new king, with the understanding that it
can be revoked at any time and for any reason. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Strefer said, nodding.
She now had a good idea of where this was going, but she did not like it.

“Since you say you understand what
I am saying, let me see if I understand you. You want this newspaper to publish
a story, using information obtained by less than reputable means, that would
undermine the entire foundation upon which the Triumvirate rests, to the
potential embarrassment of the king by whose leave we publish this newspaper.
All based on some theory you have summoned out of almost thin air, based on a
quick look at a notebook of dubious provenance that may have nothing to do with
the murder in the first place. Is that correct?”

Strefer took the accusation personally.
“Sir, I did nothing wrong in reporting this story. I was not summoned…”

“I have no problem with your
methods,” he said, cutting her off. “For a minor story about the petty
atrocities of daily life, they serve very well. But a story like this, like the
one you have written here, it needs to be locked down tight, gone over time and
time again, before it is published. It must be completely true and easily
defended. Both from our competitors, who will swoop down on any hint of
falsity, and from our king.”

“I understand, sir,” Strefer said,
the energy of self-righteousness draining from her.

“I am glad you do,” Olrey said.
With swift purposeful movements, he walked back to the desk, picked up the
pages Strefer had spent so much time working on, and walked back to the
fireplace. “Then you will understand why I cannot publish this story,” he said,
dropping the pages into the crackling fire, one at a time.

Strefer stood by in silence,
stunned by the swiftness of his actions. Her insides quaked between rage and
heartbreak.

“I think the best thing for you to
do is to return to Tolenor,” he said, without looking at her. “Discuss the
story with Tevis and nail down the facts about the killing. But leave out these
wild theories about motives.” With that he looked up at her with a patronizing
look. “Wild theories are not what good journalism is about. Motives will come
out eventually, you will see.”

Strefer ignored the platitude,
instead focusing on the fruits of her labor as they curled away into black
flecks in the fireplace. The only thing that kept her from screaming was
knowing that at least she still had the red notebook. She thanked Olrey for his
time and apologized, past a protesting conscience, for wasting it. She promised
to submit a leaner story, more focused on known facts, when she returned to
Tolenor.

It had been three days since
Antrey’s world had changed forever. Three days since she learned a terrible
secret and acted out on that knowledge in a brutal way. Three days of long
walks, alone, with only her thoughts for company.

To her relief and surprise, it was
much easier getting out of the city than she thought it would be. After the
fear of being trapped in the Triumvirate compound, even in the walls of the
place she once called home, she expected the worst on the streets of Tolenor.
But aside from the customary hard stares and unfriendly glances, she managed to
make it through the streets of the city without incident. She was able to slip
away down a side street and change clothes into something warmer and better for
travel without attracting attention.

She sold her more formal clothes to
a shop for forty-two Telebrian crowns. Antrey was sure the shopkeeper was
shortchanging her, but she had neither the time nor desire to haggle endlessly.
Time was of the essence, and she was in desperate need of money. Some of it was
better than none, particularly if it was solid Telebrian currency. That would
be a key element for survival so long as she stayed north of the Water Road.

Coins in hand, Antrey decided not
to use them to leave the city itself. A ferry from the island north up the
Telebrian coast would have been quick, but would have moved her hundreds of
miles north into hostile territory. And it would cost money. A better, and
cheaper, route was to simply make the long walk across the Grand Causeway that
connected Tolenor to the mainland. From there, she headed west into the Endless
Hills. With her cloak on and hood pulled tight around her face, she blended in,
as much as possible, with the crowd milling across the bay. She left the main
road and went far enough from it so that she was reasonably sure not to draw
attention from other travelers. Then she turned west again, maintaining a
parallel course with the road as it headed upriver.

The Endless Hills were, at least, a
day’s walk from the Bay of Sins, in which Tolenor sat. They would provide a
place to hide out, at least for a short time, while Antrey plotted her next
move. She had nowhere to go, true, but she knew she could not remain nearby.
Sooner or later someone would notice that she was missing. At the very least,
Onwen would tell the Sentinels and whoever else was dealing with Alban’s murder
that she was gone, that some things were missing from the house, and that she
must surely be the killer. Antrey knew that Onwen would have made her a suspect
even if she wasn’t one. That bothered her more than the fact that Onwen, in
this case, would be right.

Staying in Telebria was out of the
question. Not only was it the closest of the Triumvirate members to Tolenor,
but it was also the most conservative and stratified, bound up in traditions in
which she could play no part. Many Telebrians were outsiders in their own
country in every way that mattered. A mixed Altrerian/Neldathi woman even more
so.

Finding shelter in the Guildlands
was not a realistic option, either. Compared to the Telebrians, the Guilders
were much more open-minded and less tied to the past. But even they had their limits.
A woman of talent, skill, and drive could rise to the heights of Guild
leadership, whereas in Telebria she could hope to wield power behind the scenes
at most. Still, a ranbren would not fare nearly as well, particularly one that
took the life of a Guild member as revered as Alban.

For a few moments she thought of
going to the Arbor. The mere fact that the Confederation was a loosely aligned
group of individual city-states, rather than a truly singular nation, meant
many areas of the dense forest were free from any real control. But she was not
familiar enough with those areas, those nooks and crannies, much less the
cultures that prevailed there, to know where to find a safe place. She did know
that trying to find one’s way through the Arbor without a map or a skilled
guide was a fool’s errand.

When it came to distance from
Tolenor, it was hard to get more distant than the Badlands. Antrey did not know
much of those dry wastelands and the Azkiri who lived there, other than that
they largely operated outside of the Triumvirate’s control. But she wondered
what their attitudes would be like towards ranbren, and a woman in particular.
She could wind up spending all of her money to get north, only to find herself
trapped, a captive subject to the basest desires. Gintie and Myral writ large.
If she was going to spend all her money on a ship, she might as well go all the
way to the Slaisal Islands and be done with the mainland altogether. But she
knew less of the Islanders than she did of the others.

As darkness fell on the third day
of her trek, Antrey crossed a small, fast-moving stream for which the main road
required a slight bridge. She decided to stop there and rest a while, for the
first time since she paused in the shade of the tree outside the Triumvirate
compound. The night was clear and the moon sufficiently bright that she did not
need to build a fire. She set down her bag and pulled out the smushed bread and
water that she brought with her. She also took out the dagger and laid it in
front of her, close at hand if needed.

Sitting against the trunk of a
small but sturdy tree along the stream bank, Antrey ate and let her mind clear
long enough to reflect on what she had done. Every time she closed her eyes she
saw Alban lying on the floor, only his head was gone, replaced by a mass of
pulverized bone and tissue. She knew it would happen, but the vision caught her
off guard every time. This was not something she could just shrug off and get
over.

For the first time, however, she
was beginning to understand it. All through her flight from the compound and
out of the city there was no time to pause long enough, to think about why she
had taken the pikti in her hands in the first place. She remembered now,
recalling the anger she felt reading that red notebook, the summary of what the
Grand Council had done. Remembering how confused she had been, when Alban
caught her reading and then tried to justify it to her. She understood how the
real but unfocused rage she felt became centered on Alban once it became clear
he did not share her feelings.

His reaction did not fit with the
Alban that Antrey had known all those years. That Alban went out of his way to
reach out to one of society’s outcasts, one who was living on the streets and
barely surviving day to day. He could have just thrown her a few crowns. He
could have just taken her home and had her do some menial tasks, to become the
lowest of servants. Instead, he taught her to read and write. Made her a key
part of his very important occupation. Perhaps most telling, he treated her
like a member of the family, much to his wife’s displeasure.

Why would that man try and justify
the Triumvirate’s Neldathi policy? He must have known about it. She read it
from a book kept in his office under lock and key, after all. And surely the
Grand Council members knew it. Or did they? Could the program have been set up
a century ago and run smoothly in the shadows ever since? Antrey did not know
and was uncertain whether that would make things better or worse.

Regardless of all that, Antrey knew
that Alban did not deserve the fate she gave him. Whatever sins the Triumvirate
had committed in the past years, they did not rest on his shoulders. He did
bear some responsibility, to the extent that he knew of the program and did
nothing to stop it or bring it to light. But weighed against the good Alban had
done in the rest of his life, the scales were at least even, if not tipped in
his favor.

What was important now, Antrey
thought, was that Alban’s death not have been in vain. All that she should have
done when she found the red notebook and Alban confronted her she could still
do. The fury that had coursed through her and found such bloody expression with
that pikti could still motivate her to do something. But what?

She could go public with what she
had learned, but she was unsure how to do that or how successful it might be.
Who would listen to a ranbren in the first place, much less one who was a
killer? Even if she could get past that barrier, why should anyone believe her
story? She had been so panicked in the wake of Alban’s death that it never
occurred to her to take the red notebook with her. It would almost certainly be
locked away again, or perhaps destroyed. It was merely her word about what she
had read.

She also wondered if the average
Altrerian would care about such a monstrous project. In her experience, most
Altrerians thought of Neldathi with scorn and fear. Whatever bad things might
have been done to them were surely justified, in one way or another. Those few
who had a more compassionate view of the Neldathi did so through a lens that
rendered them some sort of lesser, damaged race, not fully competent to deal
with the world.

Ultimately, she concluded that the
only place to take this knowledge where people would care to hear it, if they
believed her, was to the Neldathi themselves. She would have to cross the Water
Road and head south into the mountains, find the first clan she could, and tell
them everything she knew. They should listen to her, at least. She had no idea
what they might do after that, but it was a start. She hoped, deep inside her,
that if the Neldathi saw how the Triumvirate had been manipulating them for all
these years they might stop fighting each other. Even better, perhaps they might
begin to work together. A few unified Neldathi clans would quickly grab the
attention of the Triumvirate. Organization would be the only way for them to
check the power that the alliance held over them.

As the moon lit the stream bank in
pale blue light, Antrey pulled the blank journal out of her satchel, along with
the fountain pen. She opened the journal and began to write down all she
remembered before any of it was forgotten.

~~~~~

Antrey awoke the next morning to
the splash of a light rain falling on her face. She had fallen asleep slumped
against the tree on the bank of the stream where she had been writing. A moment
of panic flushed over her before she found the journal, which had somehow
fallen underneath her cloak and was not very wet. She grabbed it and snapped it
shut, thrusting it back in the satchel before it was soaked. She quickly
gathered up the few things she had left lying around and sought shelter under
the bridge that the main road used to cross the stream. There she caught her breath
and rearranged her belongings so they all fit in the satchel. She put on her
cloak, pulled up the hood, and began to walk downstream, away from the bridge
towards the Water Road.

Once she made the decision to take
the news of the Triumvirate program directly to the Neldathi, Antrey concluded
that she needed to cross the Water Road as soon as possible. It would be
difficult wherever she tried to do so and there was no point in putting it off.
She would have to do, in reverse, and on purpose, what she had done all those
years ago by chance: find a spot equally distant between two of the garrison
forts and swim across. As long as she could not see them, Antrey figured, they
would not be able to see her. The crossing itself would be long and exhausting,
but she was in much better shape than she was when she did it the first time.
Her belongings would be wet from the rain, anyway, so there was no need to
worry about the river ruining them. And the gray slate sky and persistent chill
might make anyone watching the river less enthusiastic about their task.

It had been so long since Antrey
had crossed the Water Road that she couldn’t remember how far from the river
the road was. It could not be more than a mile, and probably much less than
that, she thought. If all went well, she would be across the river by
nightfall. The rain showed no sign of abating as she followed the small stream,
the lumpy ground turning to mud under her feet. It would be a cold night on the
other side of the river.

While she walked she thought, as
she had done for the past several days, turning over the decision she made the
night before and examining it from every possible angle. Every review convinced
her that going south was not only her best option, but was the right thing to
do. The Neldathi deserved to know about the Triumvirate interference in their
lives for all these years.

She also wondered more about what
unification of the Neldathi clans, or at least some of them, might look like.
At the least, it should mean that the endless wars, feuds, and other conflicts
between them would stop. No small feat, she knew, but it was possible. It might
also mean that the clans could have a powerful voice with which to deal with
the Triumvirate. And, though she hated to admit it, make them stronger as a
military force, as well. Unification would change the entire dynamic of this
land.

The more she thought about it,
Antrey realized that the initial problem with some kind of unification was
finding the right person to bring the clans together. Could one of the existing
theks, the clan leaders, do it? Armed with the knowledge that their intramural
fighting all these years had more to do with Triumvirate meddling than real
differences between clans, could one of them rally others to the cause? Antrey
didn’t think so, although she had to admit she was just speculating. Even if
she could convince the Neldathi of the truth of their situation, that would not
change the history of the past century. It would not change the fact that one
clan had spilled the other’s blood, which then retaliated, in a brutal cycle
all these years. How could the thek of one clan that had been bloodied by
another fall under their leadership?