Runner (5 page)

“We need to leave,” one of the operatives said urgently. “The guard will arrive shortly.”

Kane followed his men down into the street, heard the distant sound of a police bugle, and the entire group melted into the night. There was a clatter of hooves and loose equipment as the guard arrived, but the street was empty, and the shadows were mute.

The sun had been up for three hours, and the streets of
Seros were already bustling with activity as the old angen plodded along its daily route. The flatbed wagon creaked and groaned as its steel-shod wooden wheels bumped through a seemingly endless series of potholes, the casks that contained the morning's milk rattled accordingly, and Tra Lee took his first unescorted ride through the city. Now, having looked down on Seros for so long, he was finally amongst its buildings.

The prospect filled the youngster with both excitement and fear. Because even though everyone assured Tra Lee that he was actually an adult named Nom Maa, he
felt
like a little boy, and a lonely one at that. Saying good-bye to Master Babukas, Master Qwa, and all the others had been extremely painful because they were the equivalent of family. Even so the chance to escape the endless drudgery of his lessons and explore what he thought of as the real world held a great deal of allure.

Lee's thoughts were interrupted as the wagon jolted to a stop, and the driver looked back over his shoulder. Though unaware of the youngster's identity, he believed in the Saa (Way), and had agreed to deliver the boy as a favor to a monk named Suu Qwa. “This is where you get off, son . . . That's the runner's guild on the far side of the street. Watch out for traffic as you cross the street.”

Lee said, “Thank you,” and jumped off the tailgate. A member of the Dib Wa, disguised to look like a street sweeper, watched the boy cross the street and start up the broad marble stairs. Once the Divine Wind entered the building the warrior's mission would be complete, and he would leave.

As Lee made his way upward he took note of the fluted columns, and above them, an entablature into which the words
DEPARTMENT OF COMMUNICATIONS
had been chiseled more than a thousand years before. Had the runner's guild been born there? Created by displaced civil servants? Or was the fact that the guild was headquartered in that particular building a matter of coincidence? Such were the questions that Master Qwa might well have asked him. Not with an eye to actually solving the mystery, but to encourage his student to question everything around him and try to make sense of the universe.

Lee switched his attention to the teenage guards who stood to either side of the large double doors. Beggars were a continual problem, and one of the apprentices was already moving to intercept the lad, when Lee spoke. “My name is Dor, and I'm here to see my father, Jak Rebo.”

The apprentice had been warned to expect such a visitor and ran a critical eye over the boy. He had black hair that didn't look quite right somehow, the kind of clothes that the offspring of a rich merchant might wear, and didn't bear much of a resemblance to his father. But who knew? Perhaps the lad took after his mother. “All right,” the guard said gruffly. “Follow me.”

Lee followed the older boy into a huge lobby. The center area was filled with an eclectic collection of worn chairs, couches, and tables. About half were occupied by journeymen and masters. Most were awake, sipping their morning
caf and chatting with each other, but some were asleep. Or unconscious. The entire area was strewn with empty bottles, dirty plates, and stray pieces of clothing. Youngsters no older than himself had been put to work collecting trash and mopping the floor.

The guard led Lee over to a desk and mumbled something to a man seated behind the tall marble-faced counter. The clerk peered down over the edge. He had narrow-set eyes, a nose that looked as if it had been permanently flattened by someone's fist, and cheeks that bore a two-day supply of black stubble. “Stay right there, boy . . . I'll send for your father.”

Lee nodded mutely, eyed the faded mural on the wall opposite him, and wondered if the scenes depicted there were historically accurate or the product of some artist's imagination. There was what appeared to be a star map, hundreds of fine silver lines that ran back and forth between solar systems, and the motto: “We bind the empire together.”

Rebo rounded a corner, saw Lee standing in front of the reception counter, and was struck by how small he was. He forced a smile. “Dor! It's good to see you, boy! How's your mother?”

It took Lee a fraction of a second to react to the new name. He turned, scampered toward Rebo the way he'd seen other boys do, and was swept off his feet. “Good job,” the runner said in a voice too low for anyone else to hear. “Just stay by my side. We have some errands to run.”

Lee felt his feet hit the floor and hurried to keep up as the runner escorted him back outside. It was a five-block walk to the public market, and all of the youngster's senses were engaged as he absorbed the many sights, sounds, and smells that the city had to offer. Rebo led Lee past countless tables loaded with all manner of fascinating objects, and stopped
in front of a booth that specialized in children's clothing. The runner spoke to the proprietress, and it wasn't long before Lee found himself outfitted with three sets of used but extremely serviceable clothing. Rebo used
his
garments, those that Qwa had chosen for him, as trade-ins. That annoyed Lee and the moment he left the curtained off changing area he hurried to make his displeasure known. “Citizen Rebo . . .”

“Father, Dad, or sir, is acceptable,” Rebo put in. “Citizen Rebo is not. Start over.”

“Father,”
Lee said imperiously, “these clothes are
used
.”

“Yes, they are,” Rebo agreed mildly. “Which will help you blend in. Follow me. You'll need some personal items plus a pack to carry them in.”

An hour later Lee found himself in possession of a nearly full pack. In addition to some new underwear, he was now the proud owner of a comb he didn't really need as yet, a new toothbrush, a washcloth, a towel, two bars of soap, a metal mirror, four candles, six boxes of waterproofed matches, a knife, fork, and spoon plus a metal mug, and two brand-new blankets. They were double-thick and gray in color.

“Why did you buy
new
blankets?” Lee inquired, as Rebo helped him strap them to the bottom of the pack frame. “There were plenty of used ones.”

“True,” the runner agreed, “but they were thin, not to mention filthy, and blankets are extremely important. Later, when we have time, we'll sew them together to make a sleeping bag.” So saying, Rebo turned away, leaving a surprised Lee to heft his own pack and carry it down the aisle. It weighed a good twenty-five pounds, and while the youngster wanted to complain, he was determined not to.

The next stop was the booth located directly below a
large papier-mâché globe that had been painted to look like a free-floating eyeball complete with a black pupil and lots of squiggly red veins. The oculist was a friendly sort who helped Rebo sort through three baskets of handmade spectacles until the runner found some glasses that met his needs. The last pair had been broken in a fistfight, and while Rebo could read without them, objects more than a hundred feet away were blurry.

With that out of the way the runner sought out a booth hung with all manner of charms, amulets, and magical paraphernalia. All of which were useless pieces of junk insofar as Brother Qwa and the rest of the brethren were concerned, but which Tra Lee found to be fascinating, even though the boy knew that
true
strength came from within.

Rebo might have agreed with that, but liked to cover his bets, and always felt better when he had an edge. Having completed a lengthy discussion with the proprietor, the runner purchased an all-purpose amulet—which if properly cared for—was guaranteed to protect its owner from the skin pox, wild eye, stab wounds, night sweats, bad dreams, poor digestion, and a host of other maladies. Money changed hands, the runner secured the object around his neck, and the errands continued.

The next stop on their morning rounds was an armorer's shop. It occupied a long narrow storefront. Racks of weapons lined both walls and led to a counter in the back. There were three other customers, all examining firearms under the watchful gaze of a salesman, who was heavily armed himself. A wise precaution in Seros.

Rebo nodded to the grizzled old man who emerged from a back room to greet him and laid both of his weapons on the counter. “I need ammo for these . . . Say five hundred rounds for the Crosser, and fifty for the Hogger.”

The armorer took the ten millimeter, released the fifteen-round magazine, and thumbed a cartridge onto the palm of his hand. Then, bringing a small lens to bear, he eyed the hand-loaded round. “Nice work, but mine is better. When do you need them?”

“By tonight,” Rebo replied.

“Are you sure?” the shopkeeper inquired skeptically. “I'd have to charge you an extra 10 percent for such a short turnaround.”

Rebo nodded. “I'm sure. How 'bout the Hogger?”

The armorer traded weapons, broke the single-shot weapon open, and withdrew a long cartridge that had a blunt nose. “A .30-30,” the old man mused. “I don't see a whole lot of these. Sure, I can handle them. Come back about six o'clock.”

Rebo was about to reply when he heard a
swish,
followed by a solid
thunk,
as steel struck wood. Both men turned in time to see Lee remove a second knife from the countertop and throw it at the circular target that hung against the opposite wall. It penetrated the bull's-eye one inch from the first blade and continued to vibrate. The old man raised an eyebrow. “Your son is pretty good with a knife.”

“Yes,” Rebo said mildly, “he is. The little devil has been practicing. I'll take both of those knives. Let's have a belt sheath for one—and a forearm sheath for the other.”

Fifteen minutes later Rebo and the newly armed boy stepped out into the sunlight. Lee knew that other boys his age carried weapons, but had never been allowed to do so himself, and was very conscious of the blades that the runner had purchased for him. He hooked his thumbs under the pack's straps and looked up at Rebo. “Thank you for the knives, Father.”

The runner nodded. “You're welcome. Use the belt knife
for eating, cutting rope, and other chores. Keep the other blade hidden. Where did you learn to throw a knife like that anyway?”

“I took martial arts classes one hour a day, three days a week,” Lee replied. “It was fun.”

Odds were that the boy had never suffered so much as a bloody nose and had no idea what it was like to participate in a
real
fight, but Rebo kept such thoughts to himself. “Good. It's nice to know that you can handle yourself. Come on, let's take that pack back to the guild and go find some lunch. I don't know about you—but I'm hungry.”

As the two of them set off, a customer emerged from the store behind them and squinted into the sun. Though dressed in everyday attire, there was something about the precision of his movements that suggested a military background. He waited for his quarry to establish a sufficient lead, stepped off the curb, and followed the pair west. The word on the street was that the black hat sect would pay five gunars for information leading to the apprehension of a boy similar to the one up ahead. But was this the correct child? Only time would tell.

Jevan Kane paused in front of a store, pretended to peer in
through the window, and took the opportunity to make sure that no one had followed him. Because, while the Techno Society maintained a run-down office near the public market, the location of the organization's actual headquarters was a well-maintained secret, a secret intended not only to conceal the extent of the society's resources, but to keep the government in the dark and prevent thievery. Thanks to Milos Lysander and his followers, the group had recovered thousands of high-tech artifacts over the years, and they were valuable.

Satisfied that no one had followed him, Kane turned into a narrow passageway and paused in front of a nine-foot-tall barrier. It was made out of ornamental iron and could withstand the impact of a battering ram if necessary. There was a distinct
click
as the operative pressed his thumb against a print-sensitive pad, and the gate swung open. Kane stepped through, heard a
clanging
sound as it closed behind him, and continued on his way.

A security camera mounted over Kane's head whirred gently as it followed the operative down the passageway to the point where a heavy metal door barred further progress. There was a pause as a guard eyed the operative through a peephole, followed by a momentary spill of artificial light as the door opened and Kane was admitted. A small man with nervous hands waited to greet him. He was dressed in a nondescript gray tunic and matching trousers. “You're late,” Ron Olvos said accusingly. “The rest of the council is waiting.”

“It couldn't be helped,” Kane replied, as the two men made their way through a brightly lit corridor. “We tossed the second inn, but the sensitive wasn't there. Either she's very good at what she does, or very lucky, not that it makes much difference.”

“Why
her
of all people?” Olvos wondered out loud. “There are thousands of spooks, many of whom are quite amenable. Why couldn't the founder channel himself through one of them?”