Resenting the Hero (29 page)

It was a big building, five stories high with the circumference of a small arena. A sturdy-looking thing that wouldn't fall apart in an earthquake. It had survived the last one fairly well, apparently. It had been painted in places, but much of the paint had worn off. I counted three unbroken windows in the dozens that faced me.

I approached the building as stealthily as I could, feeling like a fool the whole time. I listened, I looked, I felt. No faces appeared in any of the windows, no lethal projectiles came flying out at me. So far so good.

The doors of the principal entrance were two big solid slabs of wood. Fortunately, they hung open. I pulled one just a little wider, grimacing in anticipation of a loud, rusty creak. But the door moved easily and silently. I stepped over the threshold.

The sun had risen high enough to send light oozing through the eastern windows, enough to see that the civic center was a wreck. There had once been at least three upper stories, but all the walls and much of the flooring had been ripped away. By fire, I thought. I could see straight up to the bare rafters. There were a couple of stairways that began or ended in midair.

It hadn't been deserted, though. There was a kind of new-looking multilevel wooden structure, I would have called it a stage of some kind, off to one side. And some of the flooring had been ripped up, revealing the earth beneath. The dirt had deep holes driven into it. In one corner was a pile of steel rods. I had no idea what its significance was. The only thing I could think of was that someone was using the place to practice theatricals. It was being used for something, though, because it was clean. Which made it unlikely that Karish was being held there.

The place felt empty of life. Of the human kind, at least. Still, I spent the next two hours crawling over the ground floor and as many staircases as I could climb. There was nothing in the place big enough to hide a person. I even knocked on walls and tapped the floor in search of hidden rooms and passages. Nothing.

So Karish wasn't there.

Disappointment was a waste of emotional strength, especially when it weighed one down so. And I'd known he wouldn't be there. I'd told myself over and over and over again.

I dragged myself back to town.

It hadn't been a waste of time, though. I'd had to get that place out of the way. If I hadn't searched, just because it was too obvious, its presence would have nagged at me, distracted me. I would have been forced to search it at some point. Having gotten that necessary though fruitless task out of the way, I was free to concentrate on the town. A tiny little town. Surely he would be easy enough to find.

Somehow I couldn't see anyone keeping Karish under wraps for long. He was too dashing, too full of flair, too Karish. I had a bizarre image of his sly cheer and exuberance and sheer beauty oozing out from under doors and through window sashes, leaving a glowing little path for me to follow.

I rolled my eyes.
Get something to eat, girl. You're thinking like an idiot.

Aye, I'd get something to eat, and then I'd start banging on doors. Well, I paused, happening to glance down at myself, I'd go back to the residence first and take a bath. The main floor of the center had been clean. Many of the staircases had not. I looked like I'd been trying to climb through a chimney. Anyone who opened their door to me would be quickly slamming it in my face.

I headed for the well in the town square to wash off some of the more obvious grime. I didn't want to nauseate any of the patrons of whatever unfortunate restaurant I decided to inflict myself on. No soap, but painful determination returned my skin to its natural pallor. I was wiping my face on my sleeve—so elegant—when
he
walked up.

I'd only met him the once. After I'd been Chosen I'd somehow never expected to see him again. I supposed that somewhere in the back of my mind I'd pictured him haunting the Source academy, rejected at every Match, dwindling into a useless old man. Or perhaps not managing even that, cut down in middle age by the avenging relative of one of his victims.

He smiled a little, bent in a slight bow, and I tried to swallow past the heart that was frantically beating in my throat.
Scared? Me?
“Dunleavy,” he said.

He didn't sound crazy. I didn't like the use of my personal name, though. “Creol.”

“You're looking well.”

I looked like a drowned rat, but I supposed if one looked beyond that they could see I was healthy enough. I was surprised to find the man almost handsome. His eyes were still rather disturbing, that piecing yellow brown that I imagined would suit some bird of prey, but he had strong, regular features and nice thick, dark hair. I wondered why I hadn't noticed it at the Match. Too terrified of being Chosen by him, I supposed.

But I wasn't going to exchange useless pleasantries with the man. I doubted he really expected it, and if he did have Karish, it would be in my best interests not to tip him off with any odd behavior. “Is there something I can do for you?”

He made a sound of disapproval at my lack of manners. “There's something I might be able to do for you.”

He sounded like a salesman. “Oh?”

“I hear our Taro has gotten himself lost, and you're currently engaged in seeking him out.” How the hell had he learned that? Who had told him? He chuckled at my expression, which was apparently as transparent as glass. “It's a small town, dear.” Hackles rose then. I was no one's dear. “Everyone's noticed your appearance. And the news that the future Lord Westsea is missing has reached us even here. It was easy enough to figure out the reason for your coming here. The only thing left for me to decipher,” he said, putting a finger to his lips in a staged gesture, “is why you've chosen Middle Reach as a place to look.”

I wasn't answering that. “I congratulate you on your excellent logic,” I said coolly.

He tsked with annoying good humor. “I'm sorry. Am I spoiling your fun?” He leaned in much closer than I liked. “Were you looking forward to playing spy? Cloak and dagger can be so diverting.”

Oh, shut up.
“I appreciate your offer of assistance, but right now all I'm interested in is getting something to eat. So if you'll—”

“Accompany you to a good tavern?” he finished smoothly. He easily lifted my hand to the crook of his arm, and I just as easily slipped it away. He smirked but didn't persist. “I would be happy to.”

“Please don't trouble yourself,” I said.
Please.

“It's my pleasure. On the way I can answer your questions.”

“I have no questions.”

“Of course you do. This way.” He ambled down the street, so certain I would follow him that he didn't once glance back.

Taking off in another direction offered some entertainment, but I followed him instead. I was curious. I wanted to know if it was possible those rumors were all fabrications, if he were really some kind of revolutionary victimized by the system. Of course, proving one didn't necessarily prove the other, but it would be an interesting study. Aside from that, it was an opportunity to learn about that association of his. If it were shady, I would have to inform the Triple S as soon as possible. If it were legitimate, well, then I'd have to see.

“So why did you decide to come here?” he asked.

I wasn't sure how to handle this. I'd already told all the Shields I thought Creol's association might have something to do with Karish's disappearance. Possibly that had been really stupid, because if they talked to him, he might already know all about my theories. In which case telling some version of the truth might be the best way to go.

Or it could be the worst. All I could do was trust my instincts, which had not proven to be all that accurate so far. “I read his mail,” I said, my tone much more polite than it had been before. He was being decent. I'd better be, too. “I found some letters from you.”

He frowned, looking a little puzzled, then his expression cleared. “Ah, yes, I invited him to join me here.”

“To join your association.”

“Is that the expression I used? How melodramatic.”

Tread carefully, now. “I've heard rumors that you might be starting some kind of anti-Triple S movement.”

He seemed to think about that. “I don't know that I like that choice of words,” he said. “I don't want to destroy the Triple S or anything like that. I just want to change it.”

“Seeking independence and power for the talented?”

His eyes widened. “Good gods, is that what the letter really said? Ah,” he pointed at a low door. “This is a fair place, as long as you don't order anything too complicated.” He ducked into the tiny dark hovel of a place that I wasn't too sure I wanted to trust my innards to.

What the hell. I followed him. “Don't you remember what you wrote? Or did you write so many letters?” Maybe he'd been trying to recruit everyone.

We settled at a small table in the corner. “To be honest,” he admitted with a grimace of embarrassment, “I don't write very well. I can read easily enough, but when I try to write, the letters seem to jump off the pen and land on the paper in a mess. I had an acquaintance write the letters. It appears her style was a little . . . excessive.”

“I see.” The waiter, I noticed, was in no hurry to serve us. “Maybe if the tone had been a little different, he would have been willing to come here.”
But probably not.

Creol shrugged. “It's just as well things turned out as they did,” he said. “I've come to think he may not be an asset to our cause after all.”

“What's made him undesirable?”
Too smart, too normal, too disinterested?

“The title,” he said with an expression of distaste. “The useless younger brother of a duke is a good figurehead to fight the oppression imposed by the powers that be. But as a duke, he
is
one of the powers that be, and the struggles within the Triple S no longer concern him. Please!” he called out to one of the servers. “Two breakfast specials and coffee.” The waiter nodded and disappeared to the back. If I'd known it was that easy I would have done it myself. “I apologize for ordering for you,” said Creol. “But that really is the best food to be had at this time.”

Whatever. As long as it was edible. “I've been told it's the Shields who are oppressed. Why would Sources be interested in fighting for them?” I expected to hear the sob story about his father. I was surprised.

“I'll admit I'm not doing this from the goodness of my heart,” he said. “I expect to benefit from the changes I hope to make. In this case it just happens that helping the Shields is the first step to helping me. And the other Sources. Everyone, really.”

As an answer that kind of meant nothing. It certainly didn't tell me what his final goal was. “What kind of changes do you hope to make?”

He studied me for a moment, as if trying to figure out whether he could trust me. Rich. Apparently I passed the test. “First thing I want to do is eliminate the bonding.”

That caught my attention. “You want to what?”

“The bond between one Source and one Shield. I'm going to get rid of it.”

He might as well have said he was going to learn to fly. It couldn't have shocked me any more. “That's impossible.”

“How do you know?”

Because Shields and Sources have always bonded, which was no answer at all. “Bonding is involuntary. We don't choose to do it, it just happens.”

“Aye, but we've all been prepared for it. The Triple S has complete control over our minds from the time we're very young. For most of our lives we're told we will bond, we must bond if we want to go on to the greater glory of active service. Wouldn't that message, pounded into our heads from the time we're very young, make us highly susceptible to this bonding?”

Reminiscent of something Aiden had said, which I didn't like at all.

“And then comes that special occasion, when we're Chosen,” said Creol. “It is at night, when the light of torches can offer the most dramatic contrast. We're all given special clothing, and taken to a place we're never allowed to visit on our own. Most of the participants have never met their opposites, unbonded Shields or Sources, before. Most of the participants are still very young. They're all desperate to be Chosen, they're all eager and scared and nervous. A highly emotional state.” He smiled, then, and it was only slightly condescending. “Even the Shields.” That was true. “If you take any group of people, even regulars, and put them through all that, you're going to find at least a handful who will end up bonding. And so some do.”

“The first Pairs bonded with no prompting from anyone,” I reminded him. “And there are spontaneous bonds between people who don't even know they're Sources and Shields.”

He nodded as though he'd been expecting me to say that. I hated being predictable. “Let's address your second point first,” he said, sounding like one of my professors. “When was the last spontaneous bond?”

I thought about that and realized I had no idea. I'd heard no stories about it when I was at the academy. “I don't know.”

“There have been no spontaneous bonds in the last quarter century,” said Creol. “I've checked.”

I didn't think that was so very odd. Once the Triple S was up and running, the number of spontaneous bonds had dropped dramatically. The more efficient the Triple S became, and the better informed the regulars became, the fewer spontaneous bonds there would be. “What do you think that means?”

Creol accepted a cup of coffee from the waiter. “That perhaps bonding isn't necessary anymore,” he said. “Maybe it was essential in the beginning, when there was no Triple S and no knowledge of Sources and Shields. Maybe back then people needed help finding each other and figuring out what their roles were, what they could do. It's impossible to really know. But maybe we've outgrown all that by now.” He sipped at his coffee, winced, added some sweetener. “And I believe we're changing all the time, in our abilities and our needs, but the Triple S won't let us grow. It's more convenient to put us in a certain category, wrap us in rules, and leave us there.”