The Water Road (32 page)

“And?” Strefer asked. She knew what
was coming.

“And this woman, your ancestor in
spirit if not in line, made a startling discovery,” the old man continued. “For
one thing, Thorne was not the name of the man who left the city, but the name
of his slave. For another, the man did not leave voluntarily, in order to
maintain his dignity. He was cast out, exiled, after plotting to murder one of
the city’s highest figures.”

“That’s embarrassing for the city,”
Strefer said.

“More than embarrassing,” Marek
said. “Thorne was a city that took great pride in its history and heritage. The
ruling family was seen as legitimate because of its role in the founding.” He
paused for a moment to return to the story itself after responding to Strefer’s
commentary. “Once this woman had this information, she returned to Thorne and
began to write her book. She let her uncle, who was regarded as one of the
wisest men in the city, see the first draft. After he read it, he went to her
and begged her to take the portion about Thorne’s true identity and what really
happened in Maladondala and remove them. She said she would not. After all, it
was the truth, it was the real history of Thorne, and wasn’t that what this
book she was writing supposed to be about?”

Strefer nodded in agreement.

“Her uncle asked her to think about
what good would come of the story becoming widely known,” Marek continued.
“None of the people involved in the incident had been alive for scores of
years, nor were any of the town’s original settlers still living. The entire
conception of the town, what bound it together, was this myth of its founding.
If that myth was taken away, he told her, it might bring chaos and dissention
to the city. She told him that she wrote in service to the truth and would not
avoid unpleasant topics simply because they might inflame passions. Besides,
she told him, since no one involved was still alive, why would the townspeople
care so much as to ruin their fair city?”

“Did the uncle stop her from
writing the book?” Rurek asked, taking a bit more interest in the conversation.

“No,” Marek said. “He was wise, but
he was also kind and gentle, perhaps too much so. He thought that, given enough
time to think about it, she would come around and see things his way. She
agreed to wait a month before making a decision. But when she did, she decided
to publish the book in its entirety.”

“And?” Strefer asked.

“And nothing, at first,” Marek
said. “The book was published and the people read it. Those who could not read
had the story told to them. Before long, the entire shared history of Thorne
had been wiped away. There were no outbursts, no riots, nor anything else so
dramatic. But there was a slow undoing of the fabric of the city. Some skilled
artisans and thinkers, who would otherwise have moved to Maladondala for its
greater resources and markets, had remained in Thorne because of what they
thought the town stood for. Now that it no longer held that meaning, some left.
Not all, mind you, but enough. And now that the Thorne family were no longer
seen as an unbroken chain back to a glorious founding, some grew suspicious of
them.”

“So what happened to Thorne?” Rurek
asked. “I grew up in the Arbor and, I admit, I have never heard of it before
this night.”

“Precisely,” Marek said. “What had
been a growing, thriving town, slowly shriveled. It could no longer hold its
best and brightest young citizens. The government broke down into the kind of
petty political maneuvering that marks so many other places. It ceased to be
special, unique, and, perhaps, blessed. Then it simply ceased to be.” With
that, the old man stood up slowly and walked over to the stream to take a
drink.

“And what does that mean, after all
that?” Strefer asked.

“It means nothing in particular,
young lady,” he said between slurps from the stream. “It is just a story about
a time when someone thought that the truth of history was more important than
the truth of the present. Take it for what it is and no more.” He returned to
his seat beside the fire.

They sat for a long time, not
saying anything, looking at the fire, listening to its cracks and pops before
sleep fell upon them.

~~~~~

When they woke Marek was gone.
Neither Strefer nor Rurek heard him depart. Strefer was certain he was there
just before dawn when she rolled over, but had to admit that in the near
darkness she could have been mistaken. It was not that she wanted the old
peddler to continue with them to Oberton. He had business elsewhere, or so he
said. She just thought it odd for him to be off so early and without so much as
a thank you to them for the hospitality. Rurek just shrugged it off as the
habit of the elderly to rise in the early hours.

The morning had dawned clear and
beautiful, the bright sun bouncing off a few white clouds that dotted the sky
above the canopy of trees. None of that mattered to Strefer, who felt like she
was carrying a hunk of lead in her belly. What they had eaten for dinner last
night did not agree with her. She blamed Rurek, though, for no good reason
aside from the fact that he seemed not to be affected by it. For Strefer, it
slowed her down and made her feel every footfall along the trail they were
navigating.

After what seemed like dozens of miles,
but had likely been much less, Strefer had to stop. “Can we rest here for a few
minutes?” she asked, breathing heavily, when they reached a small clearing.

Rurek looked around. “Right now?
Right here? This is a little exposed for my taste.”

“I know, I know,” Strefer said,
doubling over, hands on knees. “But I feel awful. I can’t walk any more right
now. Just give me a few minutes.”

“All right,” he said, hovering over
her.

Strefer walked off to the side of
the trail, to a small patch of green grass, and sat down. Rurek followed. “You
don’t have to do that, you know,” she said. “You’re blocking the light.”

“Sorry,” Rurek said.

He turned and started to walk away
when Strefer heard a barely audible “thwip” and heard him cry out in pain. She
looked up to see Rurek slumped on the ground, an arrow buried deep into his
left thigh. Before she could move, four men were deployed around the clearing,
blocking all visible lines of escape. Two held swords. Old, dull, tarnished
swords, well past usefulness for the military, but still deadly in their own
way. One held a spear. The other, at least so far as Strefer could tell,
carried a simple club.

“You will notice that your light is
no longer blocked, good lady,” came a voice from behind her.

Strefer turned and found herself
face to face with a tall, lean man, dressed in various shades of green, such
that it blended with his complexion as well as it did with the surroundings. It
looked as if he had materialized out of the trees themselves. In his hand was a
fine longbow, possibly of Neldathi origin. A quiver was strapped to his left
leg. She suppressed her first instinct, which was to lash out at him in some
fashion. Instead, she stood her ground. “Who are you and why did you just shoot
my friend?”

The man in green walked slowly
around her, surveying her. “In these woods, I am known by many names, my dear,”
he said in a singsong voice. “But today, you may call me,” he paused for a
moment in a parody of deep thought. “Spider. Yes. Spider, I think, is my name
today. Isn’t it, lads?” he asked the others.

“Spider!” they all answered in
ragged fashion.

Spider slung the bow across his
back and knelt over Rurek, who could do no more than grumble in pain. “As for
your friend here, I put an arrow in him because he was a threat, nothing more.
He would have stood in the way of my goal, based on what I’ve seen over the
past few days.” Rurek’s pikti had fallen on the ground beside him. Spider
kicked it out of easy reach.

“A few days?” Strefer asked.

“Of course, my lady. One should
never spring into action without knowing one’s adversaries. Do not worry
yourself, however. I bear you no ill will, nor do I towards your companion
here. His wound will be treated. It will heal. Whether he can rejoin his
brotherhood afterwards is not my concern.” Spider stood back up and faced
Strefer.

“What do you want with us?” she
asked.

“Us?” Spider said, feigning
confusion. “I want nothing of him, dear lady,” he said, poking Rurek in the
shoulder with the toe of one green boot. “You are my only real concern.”

“Why in the world…do I know you?
Have I done something…” Strefer said, stammering and trying her best to seem
shocked.

Spider cut her off with a great
booming voice. “Oh, my boys, she does not seem that bright!”

The others roared in laughter at
her expense.

“I’m confused,” Strefer said,
feeling a need to defend herself, “not stupid.”

Spider walked over to one of his
two minions with swords. “Give me that paper,” he said. The minion reached
around his back and pulled out a yellowed piece of paper that had been, at
various points, mercilessly folded and rolled up. Strefer recognized it as the
kind printers used for cheap handbills. Spider unfurled it, cleared his throat
in a mock official gesture, and began to read. “Wanted! Reward! Capture, not kill!”
he shouted, striding around the clearing as if he owned it. “Strefer Quants of
the Guild of Writers! Female! Aged twenty-seven years! Of slight build,” he
paused and glanced at her, “and pleasant features!” Another pause. “Well, at
least the gender is right,” he said, drawing more laughs from his underlings.
“Believed to be traveling in the company of a rogue Sentinel! Return to
Tolenor! Large cash reward!”

“Shit,” Strefer said under her
breath.

“Do you now understand, young
lady?” Spider asked, closing in on her. “Or, should I say, Strefer Quants? You
are the one we have been looking for, aren’t you? I certainly hope so. It makes
my wounding of your Sentinel friend a bit of a mistake on my part if not,
doesn’t it? So tell me, are you Strefer?”

Her first instinct was to deny it,
but just as quickly she wondered if it would make any difference. Were Spider
and his goons just going to take her word for it? How many women from the
Guildlands were traveling the Arbor in the company of a Sentinel, anyway? She
asked herself if she would trust a source if he tried to sell her the same
denial. Of course she wouldn’t. She also worried that any stonewalling on her
part would keep Rurek from getting his leg taken care of. The only thing she
had going in her favor was that Spider had not yet mentioned the red notebook,
which told her he did not know it even existed.

“Is the question difficult?” Spider
asked, stepping to her and pulling a small dagger from his belt. Unlike the
blades wielded by his underlings, this one was sharp and well cared for,
sunlight glinting off the polished steel. He pressed it to Strefer’s throat so
that she could just feel the edge of the blade against her skin. “It should not
be a difficult question. I know who I am. My companions know who they are.
Surely you must know who you are.” He pressed the blade a bit harder against
her neck. “I’ll ask again, then. Are you Strefer Quants?”

“Don’t say anything,” said Rurek,
sitting on the ground, his legs splayed out before him.

Spider turned, walked to Rurek, and
brought his boot heel down on his left leg, in which the arrow was still
buried. Rurek howled in pain. “Wrong answer, hero!” Spider yelled, spurring his
companions to nervous laughter. In a flash he was back in front of Strefer,
dagger to her neck. “You know, the bulletin there isn’t very clear on what may
or may not happen to your friend there. If dealing with him more roughly might
loosen your tongue, well…”

“No,” Strefer said, almost
involuntarily. Whatever might happen to Rurek, she would not have any more of
it on her head. “Please, don’t.”

“Ah, so there is something that
might make you talk,” Spider said, a gleam in his eye. “I will ask one last
time. Are you Strefer Quants?” With this question, the goon with the spear
moved to Rurek’s side in a menacing fashion.

Before Strefer could answer,
something rang out from the woods, a sharp burst of noise. She saw the effect
of it before she had time to process just what the noise was, as the back of
Spider’s head exploded in a mess of blood and brain. He slumped to the ground,
dagger falling out of his limp hand along the way. Strefer looked down, saw the
smirk he still wore on his now lifeless face, and screamed.

“Get down!” Rurek said, his voice
strained with pain.

Without thinking, Strefer did as
she was told and dropped to the ground, face covered in the dust kicked up by
the activity. Spider lay beside her, completely motionless. She looked up to
see his four minions staring at each other, dumb expressions of confusion on
their faces. A second shot rang out, slamming the one with the spear near Rurek
in the shoulder. He fell, but pulled himself back up on his spear and ran off
into the woods. The others followed suit.

Strefer jumped up and ran to Rurek,
covering him with her body.

“What’s happening?” he asked. “I
can’t see anything with you smothering me like this.”