Freewalker (28 page)

K
ORDAN CRIES OUT.

“S
TOWE,
W
ILLUM, RETURN TO THE
C
ITY,
” D
ARIUS ORDERS.

“M
ASTER...
” W
ILLUM BEGINS.

“N
OW
!”
HE SNARLS, THEN RETURNS HIS ATTENTION TO
K
ORDAN.
“I
HAVE BEEN BETRAYED,
”
HE WHISPERS.

“K
EEPER,
I
LIVE ONLY TO SERVE YOU
!”

“Y
OU HAVE FAILED
.”

Before Stowe opens her eyes, she hears their voices.

“I don't understand why the connection was broken.” Darius's voice is unnervingly calm.

“It was strong enough to get us into the Wall, Keeper.”

“But not enough to sustain you.”

“No.”

“Something must have been blocking the flow. Or perhaps, as you said, it was too soon and she was not at peak strength. Although she did capture one, didn't she? Tell me, Willum, what was it?”

“A weasel.”

Sadness. Overpowering grief and sadness. Why? She doesn't understand these feelings.

Darius gulps out a laugh. “Lania! I should have guessed! She would have done anything to avoid my grasp.”

She chose death!

The very thought sends a convulsion through Stowe.

“There is a lovely symmetry to this death, Willum. Her husband was the lizard dispatched by Our Stowe, not so long ago. Ferrell and Lania were inseparable, together for decades. They alone rivaled my talent for construction. As you know, having experienced their Wall.”

“Yes, Archbishop. An extraordinary accomplishment. It must be investigated further. Kordan and I were completely overwhelmed. But for Our Stowe, we both would surely have perished.”

“Would that Kordan had, then I might have had my prize. Fool. But my disappointment is somewhat mitigated by the fact that I need suffer rivals no more. Ferrell. Dead. Lania. Dead. I wish I could have seen it.”

A flood of rage fills Stowe's head. So sudden, so intense, she cries out.

“Stowe? Stowe!” Willum's face is blurry. His eyes seem to be probing inside her brain. He scowls, staring so deep something shudders, something not herself. He looks up at Darius. “You were right, Eldest, she should not have gone. It was too soon.”

“Yes,” whispers Darius. “Too soon. And yet, in so many ways, Willum, not soon enough.”

THE GUNTHERS

VOLUME IV, ARTICLE 7.8, SECTION 3, APPENDIX C, SPECIAL REQUIREMENTS: AMEND TO INCLUDE THE SPECIES GRYLLUS NIVEUS, COMMONLY KNOWN AS SNOW CRICKET.

—GUNTHER LOG

R
OAN GASPS AND FALTERS
.

Lumpy's immediately by his side. “What is it, what's wrong?”

“Stowe. Something happened. She was excited, then afraid, then grief—this terrible grief—and now nothing. I feel nothing. I can't feel her at all.”

“Can you walk?”

Roan nods. They have to move quickly to keep up with the bespectacled man. The streets he leads them down do not resemble the sleek and glossy boulevards they saw when first entering the City. Refuse, stray cats, and toppled garbage cans obstruct their passage. Here, the buildings are made of brick. Most have boarded-up windows and some even appear to predate the Consolidation. Shabbily dressed people haunt shattered doorways, staring at them with vacant eyes.

Mejan slips her arm in Roan's and shudders. “The other face of the City. Many of them come here when their villages are destroyed, hoping to peddle a kidney to survive. But they're too old, the Masters don't want used parts. That leaves them with nowhere to go, no skills to sell. By the time they realize the mistake they've made in coming here, it's too late. When their hunger becomes unbearable, if they have children, they sell them, whole or in parts, whatever they think they can make peace with. They have no choice but to take the money. They wander these buildings like lost souls, living on whatever scraps they can find.”

Against one derelict building, a woman is bent before a shrine that's been constructed inside two stacked wooden boxes. It's decorated with red ribbons, shiny paper, and burning candles. Roan looks closer to see what she's praying to and turns in shame at the sight. A picture of Our Stowe.

“She's their god. They believe she's going to save them from their misery one day. That's the bill of goods they've been sold by the Master of Inculcation, Querin the Insidious, and the sorry sots fall for it.”

“The City does nothing for them?”

“They're not killed as long as they don't stray from this quarter. The City in its magnanimity has termed them ‘absent' and tolerates their use of these buildings for shelter. Just one more example of the ‘interceding benevolence' of Our Stowe.”

These people, the Absent, had homes once, families. Dignity. They lost it all and now they worship the image of his sister. Was this what Saint saw himself fighting against? Saint and Kira had been the children of people like these, turned from their homes and killed—whether by the sword or by the slow rot of despair, did it matter? Roan is on a mission to save children, special children, but don't the children of these people also deserve to be freed?

The bespectacled man opens a ramshackle gate tucked in the recess of a crumbling stucco wall. He pushes his cart through and the group follows. Dobbs leads the pony and Mejan takes up the rear. With a quick look behind, she swings the gate closed. In the center of an asphalt courtyard stands a featureless white concrete cube. Roan and Lumpy stop, puzzled.

“Don't just stand and stare. Tie up the horse and come inside,” the little man says, motioning at a hitching post. He touches a corner of the cube a half dozen times in an intricate pattern. There's a click and a panel flips open, providing just enough space for them to enter.

The room within is as nondescript as the exterior. Two other rumpled, bespectacled workers in green fatigues stand by the opposite wall, gawking at them. One is tall and hunched over, the other's face is covered in freckles and she's wiggling a finger in her ear.

Kamyar grins. “It's good to see you Gunthers again. Gunther Number Six, we are grateful for your timely—”

“Take off your masks,” orders the bespectacled man, with no trace of hospitality.

“Even me?” asks Lumpy.

“Even you.”

They all obey, though Roan can see Lumpy's more than a little uncomfortable.

“There are only supposed to be four of you,” the small man says.

“That's true, but the guests I've brought are somewhat illustrious,” says Kamyar. “Allow me to introduce Mabatan.”

The Gunthers all peer over their glasses for a better look. “Well. Well, well. So you do exist.”

“For now,” Mabatan replies. “As you do, Gunther Number Six. And you are?” she inquires of the tall, ungainly Gunther.

“Gunther Number Fourteen, at your service,” he says as he shambles forward.

The Gunther with the freckles removes her finger from her ear and nods. “Gunther Number Seventy-Nine.”

“There are more of you than I thought,” says Mabatan.

“Ninety-six in total,” states Gunther Number Fourteen. “Who are the other two that were not invited?”

“You can call me Lumpy. And by the way, I'm not contagious.”

“We know,” says Gunther Number Six. After conferring excitedly with Numbers Fourteen and Seventy-Nine, Number Six squints at Roan suspiciously. “And him?”

A little smile plays across Kamyar's lips. “Roan of Longlight.”

The Gunthers step closer to Roan, their faces tilting all around him. He realizes that rather than looking directly at him, their eyes are flitting between him and the surface of their eyeglasses. “Are the glasses some kind of scanner?” Roan inquires, fascinated.

“Yes, they are,” confirms Gunther Number Six. “And they verify that you are Roan of the Parting's great-grandson. We were under the impression you had left the known world. You are not safe here in the City.”

“I've come seeking my sister. I need to see her in person. To speak with her.”

The three Gunthers look at each other, seemingly absorbed in silent communication. The troupe also remains uncharacteristically mute as Roan awaits an answer. It is Gunther Number Seventy-Nine who finally speaks. “What you ask may be impossible.”

“Because of security?” asks Roan.

“Because she may be dead,” replies the Gunther. “Our last observation of her indicated that she's had a neurological crisis, consistent with stroke.”

“She was in some kind of pain,” Roan says in affirmation.

“You sensed her thoughts?”

“No,” Roan admits. “Not thoughts, feelings. Confusion. Distress. Fear.”

The Gunthers look grimly at each other. “Your sister's body would not be allowed to be wasted. She could have died a physical death, but parts of her would be kept alive.”

Roan's eyes dart from one to the other, panic rising. “What parts?”

“Most certainly her brain. We could try to locate it.”

Roan leans against the wall, his hands pressed against his face, fighting despair.

“The Gunthers do not truly know. They like to make guesses. Dark, troubling guesses. They do not know for sure.” Mabatan's words would be more comforting if Roan hadn't felt Stowe's suffering, then lost her presence after that last sharp, terrible pain. What if these people are right?

Kamyar scowls at the Gunthers. “Perhaps it would be possible to acquire some accurate information. Hunches and guesswork do not further anyone's objectives.”

“Guesses are the building blocks to theory. Theory leads to the discovery of fact.”

“Might we move right on to the discovery phase, then? Please.”

The Gunthers share a sour look, then agree grudgingly. “Very well. We will not share our hypotheses, only the facts. If we find any.”

Standing in the courtyard with the rest of the troupe, Roan scans the sky above the wall, searching. He hasn't seen a bird, or a bug for that matter, since his arrival in the City. Could it be that no life other than human exists here?

Talia hands him a brush. “Here. You're even making me nervous.”

“Sorry. Do you have a name for her?” Slipping his hand over the brush, Roan begins to groom the shaggy, dappled pony.

Talia laughs. “Many. When she's acting high and mighty and won't condescend to pull the cart, she's Marie Antoinette. If she's feisty and refuses all reason, we call her Joan of Arc. Elegant and beautiful like she is right now: Queen Nefertiti. Mejan once owned a dog and when she misses it, Nefertiti becomes Fido.”

“My name for her's Black Beauty,” says Dobbs.

“But she's brown and covered in spots,” protests Lumpy.

“Yeah, I can see that, but I've read the book some twenty-two times.”

“You must really like it.”

“It was the only book in my village. I found it buried in the floor of my grandpa's house. I used it to teach myself to read, best I could.”

“You can imagine his reaction when he saw Orin's hoard,” says Kamyar. “Couldn't drag him out of the Oasis library for weeks. Truth be told, it's still a little difficult trying to pry him out of those comfy chairs.”

Dobbs flashes a toothy grin. Mabatan, who's been gently stroking the pony's muzzle, looks up at them. “Her true name is Shanah.”

Talia and Mejan gasp, “You mean it?”

Mabatan shrugs. “Next time the pony acts like Marie Antoinette, call her Shanah. You'll see.”

“Shanah,” Dobbs murmurs. The pony snorts and nuzzles him. Dumbfounded, Dobbs scratches her behind the ear.

Gunther Number Seventy-Nine appears in the doorway. “The adjustment for the additional three has been completed. Dinner is served. Fact.”

“And blessed be the theory that led to it. I'm starving,” Kamyar replies.

“Judging from the surroundings, I'm afraid to feel too hopeful,” Lumpy grumbles under his breath as they enter the uninviting cube. There are no tables or chairs, and there is certainly no food, not even the smell of it.

“Sit,” says the Gunther. Talia shrugs and plops down on the cement floor. The others follow suit. Gunther Number Seventy-Nine stands by the wall, a genial look on her face, but does nothing.

Lumpy nudges Roan. “Think they're bringing the food in from outside?”

“Guess again,” says Kamyar, as a low rumble vibrates through the foundation of the small room.

Roan attunes his senses, trying to determine if they're in danger. But there is no immediate threat, as far as he can tell. He watches as the ceiling recedes further and further. “This must be an elevator!” Roan exclaims, delighted.

“Of a fashion,” confirms Gunther Number Seventy-Nine. “This structure was called a ‘pay parking facility.' Every family would receive a small coupon to store their gasoline vehicle on one of these floors.”

“Why go to the trouble?” asks Lumpy.

“Vehicles without coupons were towed away at the driver's expense and taken to vehicle cemeteries,” replies the Gunther.

“Graveyards for machines?” Lumpy sounds skeptical.

“It's logical,” replies the Gunther. “People were very emotionally attached to their automobiles.”

Suddenly, the troupe's eyes widen with a hunger that has nothing to do with food. The object of their wistful sighs is obvious as Roan takes in the entirely new level revealed below them: a vast library of what must be thousands of books.

“Do you think we might make a brief stop?” Kamyar implores. “It's our favorite room.”

“Food is waiting.” The Gunther's tone suggests that no amount of begging will dissuade her.

This is by far the greatest collection of books Roan's ever seen, much larger even than the one at Oasis. “How did you acquire a library like this?”