The abbot took a sip of tea. Had Lee been the red hat pretender, and been confronted with an image of his rival, the monk would have expected to see some sign of consternation on his face. Resentment perhaps, or even anger, but such was not the case. In fact, judging from appearances, the boy appeared to be anything but jealous. A good sign indeed. “Here,” Marth said, as he passed three incense sticks to the boy. “Please convey these to your parents. They have been blessed and will help all of you battle the hindrance known as doubt.”
Lee knew a dismissal when he heard one, felt a tremendous sense of relief, and was careful to bow once he got to his feet. “Thank you, sasa (wise one). I will tell them.”
Marth rang the tiny bell even as the youngster withdrew. The aspirant, who had been waiting only steps away, appeared immediately. “Yes, Excellency?”
The abbot gestured toward the door. “Follow the boy. Don't let him see you. Once you know where he is staying report to me. It's my opinion that he is what he claims to be, but clouds can appear in an otherwise blue sky, and it is wise to remain vigilant.”
The aspirant had no idea what Marth was talking about, but didn't need to know, and slipped out into the night. It
was just past one in the morning, the lights remained on, and the boy was easy to spot. The rest was easy.
When Kane came to he was flat on his back looking up at a
blurry sky. It wobbled, along with the makeshift stretcher that supported him, and someone snapped an order. “Watch where you're going, damn you!”
The operative brought a hand up to the side of his head, winced as his fingertips made contact with a large lump, and remembered the way the shuttle had attacked both him and his metal men. Such an action was unprecedented in so far as he knew, and would have been worthy of analysis, except that his head hurt so badly he couldn't think straight. A wave of dizziness rolled in from somewhere unknown, took control of Kane's consciousness, and carried it away.
A good deal of time was spent in the land of darkness, and when the light finally returned, Kane found that he was reluctant to acknowledge it. But there were voices that called his name, and beyond that a vague sense of urgency, as if something important had been left undone.
Like a bubble floating to the top of a primeval pond, Kane rose, popped open, and found himself looking up at a ceiling. Water had leaked down onto it at some point in the past and created what looked a world map after it dried. Yellow lakes, brown-rimmed continents, and white oceans all waited to be explored. But, before the operative could do so, a face interspersed itself between the ceiling and him. It belonged to Ron Olvos, the moon-faced council member who owned the impressive sounding title of “Operations Coordinator,” but was actually little more than Chairman Tepho's all-purpose gofer. “Kane? Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” the operative croaked. “And what's worse is that I can
see
you.”
Olvos shook his head reprovingly. “Well, I can see that the blow to the head did nothing to improve your native charm.”
The face disappeared as Kane pushed himself up off the bed, groaned as a dull, throbbing headache kicked in, and swung his feet out over the side of the bed. “Where the hell am I? On Anafa?”
“No,” Olvos replied primly. “You're still on Ning. They were afraid to move you. The chairman sent me to check on you.”
Kane cradled his head with his hands. “Don't bullshit me, Olvos. Tepho sent you to retrieve the gate seed . . . He couldn't care less about me.”
“Well, that isn't entirely true,” the council member said, as he pulled a chair up next to the bed. “Although I'd be lying if I said that the chairman was pleased to discover that, having recovered a gate seed, you chose to keep it on your person, rather than send it back to Anafa where the tech types could go to work on it.”
“That was a mistake,” Kane admitted, “and one I plan to rectify.”
“The chairman will be gratified to hear that,” Olvos observed mildly. “And in the meantime I have some good news for you. While you were on vacation in dreamland I put all of the local staff to work looking for Norr and the group of weirdos that she hangs out with. That included reviewing footage from every metal man in Zand. And, while we didn't get any hits where the sensitive was concerned, I'm happy to announce that the little boy walked through a shot in a neighborhood called Levels. The little shit's image wasn't clear enough to trigger the robot's spot and report
programming, but we found it during the review. Once we applied some magnification, presto, there he was!”
Kane felt a surge of hope and looked up. “You located them?”
The functionary shook his head. “No, we were lucky, but not
that
lucky. The metal men are out canvassing the area where the boy was spotted, so it should be just a matter of time before we find their hidey-hole.”
Kane threw his weight forward and managed to stand. The pain was intense. “Are you out of your mind? Norr and her companions will spot the robots and run! Then where will we be?”
“No worse off than we were after you allowed them to take the gate seed,” Olvos replied pointedly. “Please, feel free to go out and set things right.”
“That I will,” Kane replied grimly. “Hand me my pants.”
The hotel's kitchen was small, hot, and steamy. And, because
the restaurant it served was an important source of revenue, various members of the proprietress's family were bustling about preparing for lunch. The power wouldn't come on for many hours yet, so charcoal had been used to fuel the ancient cast-iron stove that dominated one greasy wall. Rebo, still furious with Lee for sneaking out the night before, was halfway down the center aisle when the hostelry's owner turned to block the way. She was a large woman, and given the bloodstained meat cleaver clutched in her right hand, would make a formidable opponent. Her hair hung down around her face in greasy ringlets, tiny beads of perspiration dotted her broad forehead, and her enormous bosom strained against the front of the filthy apron that hung down to her ankles. “Citizen Horko . . . Assuming that's your actual name. You're just the man I wanted to see.”
Rebo, who had hoped to exit out the back unobserved, forced a smile. “Yes, Mrs. Pella . . . What can I do for you?”
“People are looking for you,” she said accusingly. “A man came by early this morning, and another left just a few minutes ago.”
“Yes, I'm aware of that,” the runner replied. “Please tell your staff how much I appreciate their discretion.”
“He offered us money,” Pella replied artlessly. “A crono for information related to your whereabouts. And he knows what all four of you look like.”
Rebo sighed. A counteroffer was clearly in order and would clearly have to be more than a crono, even though the actual reward was probably less. Another reason why he and his companions needed to escape the city. Negotiations ensued, and by the time they were over, Rebo's purse was two cronos lighter. But, if that was what it would take to keep the Techno Society operatives at bay for another planetary rotation, then the runner had no choice but to pay it.
Mrs. Pella made the coins disappear and stepped out of the way. Her smile revealed two rows of green teeth. “Have a nice day, Citizen Horko . . . I will see you later.”
Rebo slipped out the back door and took the time required to survey his surroundings. Then, satisfied that it was safe to do so, the runner made his way down the alley, turned into a busy street, and set off for the eastern border of the city. Because it was there, along both banks of the Xee River, that the great caravans paused to rest before setting off again. One of them was bound to be headed south, or so Rebo assumed as he made his way through a succession of neighborhoods and paused half a block short of the city's eastern gate. The wall, which had been raised to defend the city from some forgotten threat, stood a good twenty feet tall and was every bit of six feet thick. The off-worlder was
tired by then and felt as though he had been walking for days rather than hours.
Brightly uniformed guards stood to either side of the street, but the runner assumed that their role was largely ceremonial, since none of the soldiers attempted to interact with the hundreds of people who flowed back and forth through the ancient portal. That meant the only impediment to further progress was the trio of black-hatted clerics who stood with begging bowls extended and dispensed blessings to those who made donations.
Rebo knew that the monks might be there for no other reason than to collect alms, but he couldn't afford to take the risk, especially after Lee's clandestine activities the night before. With that in mind the runner took a quick look around and spotted an angen-drawn wagon that had approached from behind. The boxy conveyance had an enclosed cargo compartment, a raised driver's seat, and rode on four metal-rimmed wheels. The mouthwatering aroma of freshly baked bread traveled with the conveyance, and the runner figured that the contents were intended for the men, women, and children who were camped along the Xee River.
It was a simple matter to slip through the crowd, jump up onto the wagon, and claim a seat right next to the surprised driver. The old man held the reins with work-thickened fingers and looked as if a thousand storms had been etched into his skin. “Here, father,” Rebo said, before the driver could object, and offered him a handful of coppers. “My sore feet would like to pay for the privilege of riding next to you, my stomach would like to purchase a bite of bread, and my ears would like to buy a portion of your wisdom.”
Passengers weren't allowed, but the combination of
humor, flattery, and the bribe were sufficient to overcome any doubts the oldster might have otherwise had. He produced a mostly toothless grin. “I can take care of your feet, and your stomach, but I fear for your ears.”
Rebo laughed, and the two of them continued to chat as the wagon neared the gate. Then, just as the black hats started to turn their heads toward the movement, Rebo stuck his head into the cargo compartment as if checking on the load of crusty bread. The odor was overwhelming. The runner waited long enough for the conveyance to roll through the gate and had a loaf of bread clutched in his hand when he turned forward again. The runner tore off a chunk and bit into it. The monks were nowhere to be seen.
The wagon lurched as two of the big wooden wheels were forced to roll over a dead dog, and the angen pulled the wagon down the right-hand side of the thoroughfare everyone referred to as “the street of thieves.” The name stuck because the bars, saloons, and whorehouses that lined both sides of the filthy boulevard were natural habitats for outlaws of every stripe, and because the shopkeepers who made their livings selling food, equipment, and weapons to the nomads were said to have the highest profit margins on the planet. A promising neighborhood for anyone who was interested in certain forms of entertainment, but Rebo's attention was focused on other things, such as the caravans and the routes they followed.
As Rebo questioned the old man, it soon became apparent that while Omar had very little formal education, he was a keen observer of everything that took place around him. And that included the nomads to whom he had been selling bread for more than forty years.
One of the first things the runner learned was that most of the caravans operated on a seasonal basis. During the
winter they typically headed south, but it was summer at present, which meant most were traveling north. That meant travelers who wanted to go south, but lacked the knowledge required to make their own way, would be forced to sign on with one of the few caravans headed in that direction. Such pack trains were made up of hardy types who were willing to brave the southern heat to reap the high prices that luxury goods would fetch in cities that hadn't been visited by outsiders in months. So, secure in the knowledge that the bread wagon was slated to visit both southbound caravans, the runner was content to sit back and soak up the atmosphere while the old man made his rounds.
For obvious reasons the most popular camping spots were those located along both banks of the Xee River. But there were only a limited number of slots, which meant that some of the nomads were forced to pitch tents in the areas off to either side of the river and bring their thirsty angens down to drink in the evening, an activity that not only involved a lot of work, but put a serious dent in the amount of time available for equipment maintenance and the nightly carousing of which the nomads were fond.
However, regardless of location, all the encampments had certain features in common. Chief among them were the domed tents that sat clustered together, the moody beasts of burden that were penned up inside their makeshift corrals, and the stench of angen feces, human waste, and rotting garbage that hovered over each encampment.
The bread wagon made half a dozen brief stops before arriving at the first of the two southbound caravans Omar had mentioned earlier. The conveyance was greeted by the usual pack of yapping mongrels, a flood of grubby children, and a squad of burly women. While Omar sold his bread, Rebo went off in search of the headman, and soon found himself
talking to a woman instead. She had short-cropped black hair, a heavily lined face, and solid-looking body. A hardy sort who radiated self-confidence and appeared to be exactly what the runner had been hoping for.