“We do what we must. We need to read,” states the Gunther. “Reading feeds our compulsion to make things.”
A collective groan of disappointment accompanies the library's rapid disappearance. Roan guesses Gunther Number Seventy-Nine is in for an afternoon of haranguing from the frustrated bookworms.
On the next floor down, Gunthers oversee massive spinning cylinders, shuttle metal boxes to and fro, hover over squares of thick glass that shimmer with symbols and opaque images, and pour clear, steaming fluid from vats into molds.
“What is that material?” Roan asks.
“Something we've developed. Almost weightless, pliable, heat resistant, and if we want it to be, impenetrable.”
“Do the Masters know about it?”
“Oh, yes. They use it for security windows.” Gunther Number Seventy-Nine points to a chest plate being woven and pressed from transparent filaments. “And armor. But it has many other possible applications.”
“And what are those?” Roan points to the illuminated glass squares.
“We're great collectors of antique garbage. You'd be surprised how many of those we find in ancient landfills. Thousands. And they're so very, very useful.”
At this, Gunther Number Seventy-Nine becomes preoccupied with her glasses, leaving Roan to contemplate these fascinating and bizarre people. He wonders about the nature of the Gunthers' allegiance to the Masters, and to what extent they share their technological expertise with them.
With a shudder, they arrive at the third level. The group steps off and is greeted by Gunther Number Six, who ushers them through a huge crop of fruits and vegetables that grow under bright lamps.
“Fact: dinner awaits your consumption on table number three.”
Kamyar pats his stomach as he greedily assesses the green salad, steamed broccoli and cauliflower, tomatoes, and large bowls of noodles. “What wondrous synchronicity to find the table so full and my belly so empty!”
It's a greater variety of fresh food than Roan's had the privilege to enjoy in a long time. “Number Six, how do you manage to keep this place hidden right here in the heart of the City?”
“We have designed many safeguards that give us warnings, but we rarely use them. Invisibility is our best defense.”
“How do you become invisible?”
“We are Gunthers, idiot savants of the City. We stumble through their streets, live in their worst slums, speak only in grunts. They believe our brains are genetically damaged and our eyes weak, so they do not covet our children. We are harmless and feeble-minded. They trust us with the task of maintaining the energy grid because most other workers have the misfortune of dying when they come into contact with it, but we seem to have a thick-headedness that makes us impervious to the dangers. We are reviled, the butt of jokes, taken for granted. This blinds them to us. Thus, we become invisible.”
Lumpy looks around at the huge room. “How long have you been doing this?”
“We're the fifth generation. Our ancestors came to the City after the Parting.”
“Gunthers were one of the Four?” asks Roan.
“We were,” says the Gunther.
Roan's breath catches in his throat. There were four groups at the Parting, each agreeing to leave and start a new society. His great-grandfather Roan led one to found Longlight. The second group created the cavern city of Oasis, where many of the Dirt Eaters live. Haron, an elder of Oasis, told him there were two other groups who had gone into deep cover. How much deeper could you go than directly under the nose of your enemy?
“Are there Dirt Eaters among you?” asks Roan.
“No. But we have agreed to smuggle out Dirt to Oasis.”
“And provide them with information about what's going on here,” suggests Lumpy.
“We speak with the Storytellers, but it's doubtful they require what we offer. They have their own means of obtaining information.”
“And the fourth group. Do you know where they went?” asks Roan.
The Gunther's usually placid expression grows sad. “We never discovered their location. Darius, however, did. Forty years ago, he released a plague upon them, causing their annihilation. We later confirmed that an epidemic killed thousands in the Farlands.”
They share a grim look. Without question, the two surviving groups, Oasis and the Gunthers, would face the same fate if Darius found them.
Gunther Number Fourteen enters from a stairway on the other side of the tomato crop and comes to them. “Information. Our Stowe is alive.”
Roan's stomach churns. “Is she alright?”
“According to our sources, she is in perfect physical condition.”
“How can I reach her?” Roan asks urgently.
“She is scheduled to attend your performance at the Consolidation Festival.”
Kamyar's face is taut. “Sharpen minds and needles, my friends. Where Our Stowe goes, so go the clerics.”
“And so go I,” whispers Roan.
RE: INCURSION ON FORESIGHT ACADEMY.
DATE: YEAR 31 OF THE CONSOLIDATION.
SUBJECT: ARCHITECT AUGUST FERRELL.
ALL 74 BLUEPRINTS, DRAWINGS, AND PLANS RECOVERED FAIL TO REVEAL THE LOCATION OF THE HIDDEN COMMUNITY OF THE RENEGADE HARON.
âECCLESIASTICAL ARCHIVES
D
OCTORS HOVER AROUND
S
TOWE.
They evaluate information, then consult anxiously over the wires and tubes that link her limbic, circulatory, and endocrine systems to hardware.
She tries to quiet the weeping in her head. It's hard to believe that they cannot hear it. Even if the machines were to find something, she's sure they'd never identify it as a persistent wail echoing in her skull. Only she can hear that. Only she can feel its torment. Perhaps it is not real at all. What if she's imagining it? What if she's going mad? Darius must not, under any circumstances, find out.
“Is this really necessary, Father?”
The Great Seer, standing by the window with Willum, shakes his head. “It's possible, dearest Stowe, that you have suffered a stroke. I'm afraid this is a matter for doctors to decide.”
“Was it something that happened on the journey?” probes Stowe.
“The monitors detected nothing, but it appears there may have been a malfunction.”
Dr. Arcanthas bows his head to the Eldest. “All her vital signs are better than perfect. If anything, she's stronger than before. There are, of course, fluctuations in her endocrine system, but...”
“But?” snaps Darius with thinly veiled impatience.
“In a girl of her age, fluctuations of this nature are typical. Our Stowe's are perhaps of a more extreme, uh, that is, I should say... extravagant nature. No surprise, as all her graces are thus multiplied.”
Darius's eyes sparkle. Maliciously? “You are becoming a woman, Stowe.”
An ocean of unspent grief for the loss of her mother overcomes Stowe. One small tear escapes before she manages to forge a dam behind her eyes. With a Herculean effort, Stowe manages to give Darius a small smile.
“There, there, daughter. It will serve only to increase your power. It is good news, good news indeed.”
Dr. Arcanthas interjects with a predictable suggestion. “A few more days of tests may reveal more. Perhaps a probeâ”
“Enough tests!” growls Stowe, with an edge that forces the doctor a few rabbit hops backwards.
Willum, taking his most conciliatory tone, addresses the Eldest. “If I may be so bold, Keeper. Rest, fresh air, and a temporary withdrawal of Dirt may be the best treatment.”
Stowe casts her most evil eye at the doctor and delights to watch him sputter nervously. “I... I definitely can see the wisdom in that.”
“Yes,” condescends Darius. “I'm sure you can.”
“Perhaps... she could attend some of the festivities celebrating the Consolidation. The many pageants and masques might serve to amuse her,” suggests Willum.
“Oh, Father, might I go? I've always wanted to see those things.” Maybe she could get away from this. All of it. Escape for a while.
The only way to escape Darius is to kill him.
The Eldest ponders Stowe's request. “She'll be swarmed. She's in no condition to make public appearances.”
“I'll go in disguise.”
“I cannot allow you into the streets of the City without security.”
“Willum will accompany me... won't you, Willum?” Stowe begs.
“He alone would be poor defense should you come under attack.”
“Let the clerics come. They just have to give us a wide berth so I'm not identified.”
Before Willum can give his assent, Master Querin appears at the threshold. The very presence of the Master of Inculcation causes a shudder to sweep through the room. Responsible for every image and word dispensed by the Masters of the City, Querin is second in power only to the Great Seer and feared by all. With a voice like a whip and eyes that could pierce stone, he addresses Darius just above a whisper. “Archbishop, you're required.”
The Eldest motions him over. Querin leans in, but they are far too close to her for Stowe not to hear what's being said.
“A shipment has been waylaid.”
Darius glowers. “How?”
“Intercepted by the Brothers.”
Suddenly distracted by matters of state, Darius rises.
“Father?”
Preoccupied, Darius pauses momentarily to consider his problem child. “Very well. See to the arrangements, Willum, will you?”
The Eldest sweeps out of the room and for one brief moment Stowe is caught in the harsh glare of Querin's eye. This master single-handedly took a hapless little girl rescued from the Farlands and turned her into Our Stoweâdoes he think her unworthy of the title? She smiles fearlessly, and with the merest hint of a bow, he slithers out the door.
Willum turns to the doctor. “With your permission, I'll escort Our Stowe back to her quarters and make preparations for our outing. Any special instructions, Dr. Arcanthas?”
“Not necessary. I'll be coming too. In the event of a relapse.”
Stowe bristles, but Willum seems unconcerned. “Good. I'll send word before we set out. The farce being performed this evening promises to be excellent.”
Stowe considers her reflection. In these amber robes, she's every inch an undercleric. Though most start their training at a later age than hers, no one will suspect that Our Stowe lurks beneath this hooded garb.
Willum slides into view behind her, an approving look on his face. “The robes suit you.”
Her head quakes, pain slashes across her eyes. Struggling to hold back the screeching wail, she stumbles against Willum, exhausted.
In one graceful sweep, Willum lifts Stowe in his arms, then sets her down on the bed. Eyes riveted on hers, he presses his palm against her forehead. Stowe feels him connect with the insane wailing that possesses her. The tingling in her abdomen becomes a heat so intense she believes she will explode... and then the agony ceases, all quiets and is still.
“You'll be alright for a while,” consoles Willum. “I've silenced the cry within you. It sleeps, but only briefly.”
“What's happening to me?” Stowe stammers.
He says the word with an oppressive gravity. “Ferrell.”
Ferrell? The lizard!
Finally she understands. She thought Ferrell had died. But she never really killed the lizard, he'd just wanted her to think she had. “How?”
“He is the creator of the Wall,” says Willum. “No one knows better than he how to use its power. What happened to you inside the Wall, Stowe? Can you remember anything that might help answer your question?”
Stowe hesitates, not wanting to reveal her secret. But perhaps, her secret was never what she thought it was at all. “The lights within the Wall found a way inside me. I thought it was energy making me stronger. More powerful.”
“He was distracting you while he found the way in.”
And once in, she became his eyes and ears. He took advantage of her dependence on Dirt, used her to spy on Darius, the machinations of the City, the Quarry. He pushed her to check all the rooms... “He tried to make me kill those recruits.”
“The Eaters fear that if more advanced travelers are found, the Masters will attack fiercely and finally overtake the Dreamfield.”
“It'll be with my blessing.”
“You say that because you do not understand the stakes.”
“What do I care about stakes? He's been trying to take me over completely, make me into a weapon against the City. It's vile. Get him out. Now!”
“I cannot, not here, not now. But it must be done. Darius has his suspicions, and if he discovers the truth, he will extract Ferrell even if it means leaving nothing of you behind.”
Stowe needs no further convincing, and immediately begins calming herself, composing her mind. She does not doubt the chilling accuracy of Willum's prediction. She already knows she's becoming expendable.
“What do I do?”
“It will be difficult to achieve, but I have friends who can smuggle you out of the City.”
“Who?”
“We're going to meet them now.”
She rises quickly and moves purposefully toward the door, but Willum stops her.
“Blank this conversation out of your mind, Stowe. Ferrell has a mission, here, in the City. He will not accept a change in plan. He will wake, and when he does, he must not hear your thoughts. You know how to do this. Keep your mind clear. Even if you did not have Ferrell to contend with, your survival would depend on it. When you are discovered missing, the Masters will draw on every skill they possess to locate you. Though they fear you, they intend to use you until they've accomplished their goals. Only then will you be destroyed. Stowe, you know your abilities exceed theirs in scope and magnitude. Shield yourself when the need arises, and you will have no trouble evading their reach.”
Stowe gazes at the man, who until recently she had dismissed as a lowly tutor. “Who are you, Willum?”