Coyote Horizon (35 page)

That was the way by which the teacher came to Carlos’s Pizza. No one noticed him at first, aside from a handful of farmers whose fields lay on the northern outskirts of town, and even they barely paid attention to the shag wagon that moved down the Midland Highway past their lands. They looked up from their work only long enough to recognize this particular wagon as belonging to Yuri Scklovskii, a Russian immigrant who made his living by hauling casks of weirdling oil north to Forest Camp and New Boston before coming home with whatever he could resell to the shops in town.

Yuri sometimes carried passengers. Most travelers preferred to buy passage on one of the riverboats that moved up and down the East Channel, but a four-day ride from New Boston to Carlos’s Pizza was cheaper, if a bit more dangerous. The Midland Highway went through boid country, and although the creatures had learned to stay clear of human settlements, every so often they’d attack someone unwary enough to be caught alone on the road. But Yuri was a crack shot with the rifle he carried on the wagon’s buckboard, and if you didn’t mind having him talk your ear off—he always had something to complain about, in excruciating detail—there were worse ways to travel.

Yet this time, Yuri was oddly quiet as he drove his wagon the last few miles to town. If his friends had seen him, they might have noticed the preoccupied expression on his face, as if there was something on his mind that, for once, he didn’t want to discuss. But before that, they probably would have first noticed the three people riding in the back of his wagon. Seated on duffel bags, backs propped against crates and barrels, were two men and a woman. Despite the warmth of the Hamaliel afternoon, each of them wore a long brown robe, and although their hoods were pulled up above their faces, their eyes restlessly moved back and forth, as if taking in their surroundings.

The wagon entered Carlos’s Pizza, and Yuri clucked his tongue and pulled the reins slightly to the right, coaxing his shag to leave the Midland Highway for one of the side streets that would take them into the village. The stench from the processing plant became more powerful as the wagon drew closer to the town center, until the woman and the older of the two men raised their hands to cover their noses and mouths. Only the younger man seemed unperturbed; from his seat directly behind the buckboard, he continued to survey the town with calm curiosity.

The wagon rolled past the processing plant and the houses and shops surrounding it until it finally reached the waterfront, where Yuri yanked back on the reins to bring his wagon to a halt in front of the Laughing Sailor. “Here you are,” he said. “The only inn in town, I’m afraid . . . but comfortable enough, if you’re not too particular.”

His three passengers gazed warily at the two-story clapboard building, but none of them complained. “This will be fine,” the older man said, standing up in the back of the wagon. “We appreciate the courtesy.”

“Yes. Thank you very much.” The other man, who was several years younger than his companion, turned to help the woman to her feet. “And it’s been a pleasure to meet you.”

If anyone who knew Yuri had been seated in one of the bamboo chairs on the front porch, he might have been amused to hear this. Yuri Scklovskii was not known for either courtesy or charm. But the observer would have been utterly shocked by what he did next: climbing down from the buckboard, he helped his passengers off the wagon, and even went so far as to gallantly pick up the woman’s bag and carry it up the front steps.

“Thank you,” the young man said. “How much do we owe you?”

Yuri seemed to think about this for a moment. Then he shook his head. “Nothing,” he said, his voice uncommonly quiet. “You’ve . . . given me a great deal to think about. The least I can do is offer you a ride.”

“Again, many thanks.” The young man lowered his head and shoulders as a bow to the drover. “Remember what we’ve talked about. Tell others, if you will.
Sa’Tong qo
.”

“Sa’Tong qo,”
Yuri repeated. “And thank you.”

Without another word, Yuri returned to his wagon. It was the first time he’d ever refused payment from passengers. But if that hadn’t surprised any townspeople who knew him, even his wife—whom Yuri had abandoned three Earth-years ago, leaving her behind in St. Petersburg after secretly using their life savings to buy a ticket to 47 Ursae Majoris—would have been stunned by the uncharacteristic smile on his face and the tears in the corners of his eyes.

The young man watched him go, then picked up his bag. His companions were waiting for him by the front door. The three of them looked at one another; no one said anything, but after a few seconds the older man silently nodded, then turned to open the door.

Their arrival hadn’t gone unobserved. From behind his desk inside the foyer, Owen McKay watched the newcomers as they disembarked from the wagon. As soon as he saw Yuri pull down their bags—and he thought it strange that he’d do this, but only for a moment—the innkeeper reached up to the wooden sign that hung above the desk and turned it around. As required by law, the sign posted the daily rates for the Laughing Sailor’s upstairs rooms. What most people didn’t know, though, was that those rooms had two different rates: one for itinerant fishermen and locals who needed a place to flop after they’d been drinking in his tavern all night, and another for folks who happened to pass through town. Since it was obvious that these three people weren’t from around there, McKay decided to make them pay the higher rate. He also made a mental note to tell the barmaid to give them the tourist menu when they came downstairs to eat; it, too, was adjusted for inflation.

That done, McKay fixed a pleasant smile upon his bearded face. “Hello, there,” he said as the trio approached the desk. “Welcome to the Laughing Sailor. Will you be wanting rooms for the night?”

“Yes, please.” The young man was the one who spoke; his companions remained quiet. “Two next to each other, if possible.”

McKay activated the registration pad and pretended to study its screen, even though he already knew that only one of the eight guest rooms upstairs was presently occupied, and that by a late-sleeping drunk he intended to evict soon. “Yes,” he said slowly. “I think that can be done. We have a room with two beds and another next it to it with just one . . . Will those be suitable?”

When he didn’t get a response, he looked up from the pad. The young man had lowered his robe’s hood, and it was only then that McKay could clearly see his face. His head was completely shaved, save for a long, braided scalp lock that hung down the back of his neck. At the center of his forehead, between his eyebrows, was a small tattoo, a glyph that somewhat resembled the Greek symbol
pi
except that it was turned upside down and one leg was slightly longer than the other.

Yet what struck McKay the most were his eyes. Never before had he ever seen a gaze that was as direct, or as serene, as the one that was fastened upon him. It seemed as if the newcomer was peering directly into his soul and had found something there that he liked, even if it was a bit amusing. Instead of a stranger who’d just walked into his establishment, McKay immediately felt as if this person was a friend he never knew he had.

“That will be fine,” the young man said. “How much do we owe you?”

Apparently he hadn’t noticed the sign above his head. Either that, or he’d chosen to ignore it. “Fifty colonials a night for the double, forty for the single,” the innkeeper said. “We also require a ninety-colonial deposit in advance . . .”

“No.” The look in the young man’s eyes changed to that of weary disappointment as he shook his head. “I’m sorry, but that’s not your usual rate. It’s thirty colonials a night for the double, twenty for the single.” He paused. “And you never intend to repay that deposit, do you? You’ll find something wrong with the rooms just before we leave, and will claim the deposit to cover the imagined expense of repairing it.”

McKay’s face became warm. Not meaning to do so, he found himself glancing up at his sign, making sure that he’d flipped it around. “No, no, that’s what . . .”

“The other side of your sign has the true rates. No, you didn’t forget to switch it just before we came in.” A gentle smile appeared. “Owen, you shouldn’t cheat people like that. It isn’t good for you, and it only makes them want to cheat you as well.”

McKay stared at him. His first impulse was to angrily deny that he’d ever do such a thing, that the visible rates really were the correct ones, yet there was no accusation in the young man’s voice, and his eyes remained as placid as before. It never occurred to the innkeeper to ask how the young man knew his name; somehow, it just seemed natural that he would, as if they’d known each other for a long time.

“Yeah . . . yeah, you’re right,” he murmured, suddenly embarrassed. “Sorry. I just . . .”

“Fifty colonials for both rooms. That’s fine, thank you.” The young man spoke as if the disagreement had never occurred, and his companions nodded as well. “And, yes, I think we’ll be staying a few nights,” he added, as if anticipating McKay’s next question. “One of us will pay you in advance every morning, at the same time we settle our tavern bill. Is this satisfactory?”

McKay was still stumbling for a response when the older man stepped forward. As he pulled back his hood and reached within his robe to produce a thick roll of colonials, the innkeeper noticed for the first time that he was a Native American. Not only that, but the woman standing behind them was pregnant; judging from the way her belly pushed against the front of her robe, she’d probably been expecting for at least the last two LeMarean months.

“That . . . Yeah, sure, that’s fine.” McKay was having trouble speaking. At a loss for words, he turned the pad around, then picked up a stylus and held it out to the young man. “If you’ll just sign here . . .”

“Of course.” He took the stylus and traced three names upon the screen. When he was done, he turned to the others. Without another word, they picked up their bags. The young man looked at McKay again. “You may show us to our rooms now, if you please . . . ?”

“Oh . . . right, sure.” McKay fumbled for the keys hanging beneath his desk; without really thinking about it, he selected those for the two best rooms in the inn, which he normally reserved for fishing-boat captains and the higher-priced prostitutes who worked his tavern. “If you’ll come this way, please.”

The newcomers moved to follow him upstairs, but just before they left the foyer, McKay stole a glance at the registration pad. Upon the screen, he saw three names:

When he looked back at his guests, he saw that they’d paused at the foot of the stairs and were watching him. McKay hesitated. “Excuse me, but this”—he motioned to the bottom signature—“isn’t a proper name.”

“No, it wasn’t.” There was a whisper of a smile on the young man’s face. “But it is now.”

 

 

 

The rooms the innkeeper leased to his guests might have been the best available, but nonetheless they were still rough: bare plaster walls, unfinished wooden floors, bamboo furniture that looked as if it had been repaired many times. The newcomers didn’t say anything as McKay nervously puttered about, showing them the closets where the spare linen was stored and how to get to the bathroom down the hall, and when he was finally gone, the woman sat down on one of the beds in the room she was sharing with the young man and slowly let out her breath.

“Not exactly the lap of luxury, is it?” Melissa murmured.

“It’ll do.” Cassidy strolled over to the window and pushed aside its curtain. The glass hadn’t been cleaned in a while, but he still had a good view of the street in front of the building. A few pedestrians were on the raised wooden sidewalks; he waited, expecting to see something that he’d found in McKay’s mind even as the innkeeper had been telling them when dinner would be served. “Not that we have much choice . . . do we,
chaaz’maha
?”

The
chaaz’maha
stood near the door, arms folded together within the sleeves of his robe, head bowed slightly. “Still think we should have gone to Liberty?” he asked. Receiving no answer from either of them, he shook his head. “No. I disagree. Liberty is too big. Too many people. We need to start small, in a place where we won’t be ignored.”

“I don’t think we’ll have to worry about that.” From the window, Walking Star watched as the front door opened and McKay appeared directly below. The innkeeper glanced first one way, then the other; he seemed to hesitate for a moment, then he bustled across the street, heading away from the waterfront. “There he goes,” he murmured. “Off to find the chief proctor . . .”

“And tell him about the people who just checked in.” The
chaaz’maha
smiled. “Yes, I caught that, too. I’m afraid I really spooked the poor man.”

“Are you really?” Melissa sighed as she lay back on the bed, resting her hands lightly upon her swollen belly. “Or did you do that deliberately?”

The
chaaz’maha
frowned. “He would’ve gouged us if I’d let him. Would you have preferred that I let him overcharge us?” He stopped, then added, “I think we’ll be getting the regular menu as well, but we’d better search the barmaid, too. He might forget to give her the message.”

“That’s not what I mean . . .”

“I know what you mean. I don’t have to search you to figure that out.” The
chaaz’maha
walked over to a bamboo armchair; one of its legs was slightly shorter than the others, and it wobbled as he sat down. “If we’re going to be successful, we’re going to have to do this one person at a time, with whoever we happen to meet. Small steps, little lessons . . .”

“At least at the beginning, yes.” Now that the innkeeper was gone, Cassidy moved away from the window. “But remember, a good teacher intrigues his students, not baffles them. Sooner or later, you’re going to have to reveal all that you know.”