Freewalker (24 page)

“You must be a quick study,” says Roan, looking admiringly at Mabatan.

“No, same as everyone, but my father started my practice when I was three.”

Lumpy goggles at her. “You're eighteen?”

“I am.”

“You don't... look that old,” Lumpy stammers.

Mabatan smiles. “I do not feel that young.”

Banging his spoon on his empty bowl, Kamyar announces, “Well, now that we've had a good night's sleep, a satisfying meal, have registered our surprise at Mabatan's remarkable appearance, and decided that we all hate Dirt, let's run that new scene before heading off.”

“Always the taskmaster,” sighs Dobbs.

Lumpy gulps. “You mean... my scene?”

“None other. Did you have a chance to look at your lines?”

“Well, I looked but I'm just learning to read, you know, and your handwriting was impossible to make out.”

Kamyar laughs. “Then you'll just have to improvise.”

“But there's no stage, where are we supposed to rehearse?” asks Lumpy, hoping for a reprieve.

“The world's our stage, young Lump. That stump will do just fine. Ready, Talia?”

“Always,” says Talia.

Head bowed, Lumpy steps up on the stump. He does not move.

“Come now, give it some oomph.” Kamyar gestures inquiringly at Talia. “What is his action, Talia dear?”

“He's begging for his life!”

“Come on then, young Lump, beg!” orders Kamyar.

“Please, please, no...” Lumpy mumbles.

With one hand over his face, Kamyar groans, then with an appraising eye on Lumpy, he sighs. Deeply. “You can do much, much better than that. On your knees. That's right. Lift up your head. Good. Now, look that cleric in the eye.”

Lumpy does everything as instructed, but Talia crosses her eyes just enough to make him explode with laughter.

“Could you manage not to be so terribly funny, Talia dearest?”

“It's not Talia's fault,” Lumpy manages between guffaws.

“It isn't, is it? Then if you wouldn't mind, can we resume the begging, Master Lump? Come now, a bit of zeal, if you please: BEG FOR YOUR LIFE!”

Somewhat humbled by Kamyar's booming command, Lumpy attempts to take the whole thing more seriously and actually manages to speak the line with conviction. “Please, please, no, don't send me to the City.”

“Yes. Yes. That's it. With gusto!”

When Lumpy and Talia have completed their scene, Kamyar circles them, muttering. “Not bad, not bad. Needs business, though. Talia, teach Lumpy some business!” Then he lifts an eyebrow at Roan. “Now that you've come to a firm decision about Dirt, how do you feel about those who eat it?”

“Can't be trusted, can they?”

Kamyar shouts out, “Faster!” as Talia chases Lumpy around the stump.

“You know, Roan, not all the Dirt Eaters believe the same things. When the time comes, they won't all end up on the same side.”

“Do you know Alandra?”

Kamyar laughs. “She was such a sad, sweet little waif when I first met her. My god, the sacrifices they had her make. Committing her to that demented Fairview, where she had to help with the exportation of their children. It's a wonder she didn't go stark-raving mad.”

“She claims it was a struggle,” Roan agrees. “But she's Dirt Eater through and through.”

“The Forgotten saved her, you know. Raised her as one of their own. They saw her potential, and that was that.”

“Yow!” shouts Talia.

Lumpy, sitting on top of her, quickly gets up. “Sorry, sorry, did I hurt you?”

“No,” she replies. “That's called acting. That ‘yow' was my line.”

“Sorry,” Lumpy peeps.

“Well, I'm so happy that you've worked that out,” Kamyar bellows. “Now could we run the whole thing again—staying in character, if you wouldn't mind, young Lump.”

Suitably chastized, Lumpy resumes his place on top of Talia.

“Yow!” she screams, grimacing broadly.

Then, without any warning, Roan throws Kamyar to the ground. An arrow bolts into a tree.

“Clerics!” whispers Mejan.

Mabatan holds up five, then four fingers. Nine clerics. Another arrow blasts by, nearly piercing her hand. As two more arrows fly past, Kamyar motions for everyone to stay low and scatter.

Diving for his pack, Roan can feel the star-scab on his chest split open. Still, he reaches for his hook-sword. He knows he's the only one here with the skill to protect them.

The handle secure in his palm, he listens as heavy footfalls move closer. Peeking from behind his rock, Roan sees a burly cleric, crossbow raised, rapidly bearing down on him. Roan leaps up, knocking the bow away. The trigger releases and the string snaps the arrow into the ground at Roan's feet. Unsheathing his sword, the cleric slashes at Roan. Roan avoids the blow, then parries with a strike at the man's blade. He spins and kicks the cleric hard in the chest, knocking him backward against a tree. The cleric yanks a short, translucent rod from his belt and points it at Roan. As it emits a gentle thrumming sound, Roan feels a slight twinge in his chest. The twinge becomes a numbness that overtakes Roan's whole body: his hand goes limp, he loses his grip on his hook-sword, his knees give way. Falling to the ground paralyzed, Roan hears dying groans all around him. Watching helplessly as the cleric raises his sword, Roan's final thoughts are of how his quest has led his companions to their deaths.

But before the cleric can thrust his weapon into Roan's chest, his eyes widen and his mouth opens in a fish-like gasp. He falls, a knitting needle lodged firmly in his back.

Kamyar pulls out his needle and grins at Roan while he cleans it. “We Storytellers are all compulsive knitters. A wonderful way to abate stress, don't you think?”

One sound rises in the sudden stillness, a perfectly pitched middle C. “Talia,” says Kamyar. An A joins it. “Dobbs.” Then an E, to make a flawless three-part harmony. “Mejan,” Kamyar smiles. “Everyone's accounted for.”

Trotting up, Mejan has a close look at the rod, while Lumpy rushes over to Roan. “Are you hurt?”

“Can't... seem... to... move,” Roan manages to say with his uncooperative jaw.

“Don't worry, Roan, the effect of the stunner will wear off within the hour,” Mejan declares, brandishing the weapon.

Kamyar takes the rod and pockets it. “We consider ourselves lucky that this is the most advanced weapon they're using. The City, quite justifiably, fears any arms they manufacture being turned against them. So for the moment, a modicum of skill and an intrepid nature are an adequate defense. But who knows what will happen once the heat gets turned up.”

“Nine clerics pierced clean through,” says Lumpy, scanning the scene. “Those the same ones you use to knit?”

“Effective, aren't they?” says Mejan. “They're longer and much heavier than a true knitting needle, but the weight builds up hand strength. A bit sharper on the ends, too, so you can do this with them.”

She raises the needle and flings it at a skinny tree twenty feet away. The spike thuds into the trunk with lethal force. “Worth a few nicks in the fingers now and again, wouldn't you say?”

“I'll never turn my back on a knitter again,” vows Lumpy solemnly, hand over his heart.

“Praise heaven!” announces Kamyar. “I've created an actor!”

As promised, within the hour Roan's skin begins to tingle, and soon, with a little help, he's able to stand up and start walking.

“Sorry if I upstaged you with my needle,” Kamyar apologizes. “I'm sure you could have still killed him using your teeth.”

“Maybe. I'd have to really want to, though, wouldn't I?”

“And you didn't? Perhaps that's why he got the upper hand.”

“Perhaps.”

“One more tale to add to our Saga of the Promised One,” mocks Kamyar. “He'd rather die than fight, a true son of Longlight.”

“That's not exactly true.”

“Ah! What is truth, Roan? You were raised to honor all life—that's a tale well worn. Then you were forced to become a warrior.”

“I wasn't exactly forced.”

“You loved it, of course you did. You've a talent. A gift, some would say. You enjoy using it.”

“That's what Saint said.”

“Perhaps he wasn't wrong about everything.”

Roan, unsure, casts his eyes down at his feet. “I thought that once.”

“And now?”

Carefully lifting his shirt, Roan flinches as it separates from his newly opened wound.

Kamyar whistles. “It may not be pretty, but it's big.”

“A gift from the families of some of those I killed, using my ‘talent,'” says Roan.

“Speaking of your talent—forgive me, but I need to know: if we meet the clerics again in any numbers, can I be sure you will fight by our side?”

“If it comes to that, of course I will. It's not as if I heave at the sight of blood.”

“Well, if you do spew, aim on the enemy.”

Laughing, Roan extends his hand to Kamyar. “You have a deal.”

It's almost evening when they emerge out of the brush, and step onto a wide, overgrown road that goes as far as the cloud-streaked horizon. Lumpy, who's been walking ahead, calls back, “Look at this!”

It's an ancient sign that's toppled in the dirt, covered in rust and grime. “Highway One,” reads Roan. “This was the way into the City.”

“Yes,” says Kamyar. “Still is.”

“Are we safe?” asks Roan. “Seems awfully exposed.”

“Under normal conditions, we might avoid it.”

“But normally those Blue Robes aren't sniffing around in the woods,” says Talia.

“What I'm wondering about, if you please, is why those clerics attacked us at all,” Dobbs chimes in. “The Blue Robes usually question you before they kill you.”

“They are changed these last weeks,” says Mabatan. “Anyone off the roads is considered an enemy.”

“There you have it. We go openly into the City,” Kamyar pronounces as he takes his first steps on the old expressway. “Ah, the high road. Don't you just love what it feels like?”

Talia steps over to the wagon and, with a pat to the pony, pulls out two long gowns. “Apprentices!” she commands.

Roan and Lumpy reach for the ocher robes.

“You'll notice the hoods, you will need to make use of them.”

Roan throws on the robe, concealing his pack and sword. The seven march down the highway, eyes alert. When Mabatan stops to put her ear to the ground, all halt at the ready and wait for her sign before moving on.

“Talia tells me we're only three days from the City.”

“Have you a plan, Roan of Longlight?”

“No plan at all.”

“A plan is always useful,” advises Kamyar. “Especially if you expect to get out of there alive.”

Mabatan shoots a side glance at Kamyar. “Roan seeks his sister.”

The Storyteller stops in his tracks. “Really? Your sister?”

“Our Stowe,” says Lumpy.

“Did you hear that? He wants an audience with Our Stowe!”

The other members of the troupe fidget uncomfortably.

Kamyar levels his gaze at Roan. “You're committed to this?”

“Completely.”

“And there's nothing I could say to dissuade you?”

“Nothing.”

Taking a long, deep breath, Kamyar shakes his whole body like a dog sloughing off water. Then he stops and looks at his associates. “Well, friends, he appears to be standing firm.” He turns back to Roan. “What do you know of the City?”

“I saw it once in the Dreamfield.”

“And what kind of perspective did you get from there?”

“Not a very clear one. But I do know it's dangerous.”

“Ah, that's a start, he knows the City is dangerous.”

“Belly of the beast,” confirms Dobbs.

“Your sister being the beast itself,” mutters Mejan, rounding on Roan.

“She can't be more than a symbol, she's only ten years old.”

“Believe what you want,” she tosses off. “But our ears hear a lot of what goes on. And rest assured that sister of yours hasn't become the icon of the City because she has a sweet disposition. She's overseen the dismemberment of kidnapped children, some say she's even participated in it.”

Roan shudders from a memory he has of Stowe in the Dreamfield, blood dripping from her hands.

“One witness even saw her blast open the heads of her own servants on a public road.”

“How could she blast open somebody's head?”

Roan winces at Lumpy's question, but he doesn't doubt any of it. Nevertheless, the child he knew, the sister he loved, must still be present in the so-called monster of today. He will call that child out. And hope like hell she answers. “I have to see her. Face to face.”

“She's closely guarded. Never emerges from the Pyramid without a small army around her,” Talia warns.

“If she doesn't kill it first,” Mejan adds wryly.

“Well,” says Kamyar, “we aren't without our contacts in the City. I'm sure they'll be loath to get involved, they always are, but there's no harm in hoping for a miracle.”

Mabatan raises a hand to silence them, then lowering her head to the ground, states grimly, “Two riders.”

“Clerics?” asks Kamyar.

She shakes her head, rising. “No. The horses are big.”

“This is the time, my friends, that we prove our talents as actors. If you would be so kind, Roan, to earn your keep by playing a little tune.”

Roan reaches into his pack, pulls out the recorder.

“Hoods up, apprentices. A jig, if you please.”

Within moments, two riders appear. Brothers. One of them, Brother Wolf.

Roan and Lumpy bow their heads, faces disappearing deep inside their hoods. Out of sight, like all good apprentices.

“Stop the ruckus, apprentice! Can't you see we have company?” Kamyar smiles at Wolf's impassive face.