robert Charrette - Arthur 02 - A King Beneath the Mountain (16 page)

Chardonneville made a small world. By her third day of village arrest, she was contemplating mayhem.

The perscomp buzzed as she was pouring her second cup of morning coffee. She was going to ignore it, but she noticed the incoming ID: Essenbach. Curious, Spae tapped the code to accept, but left the transmission on audio only. Essenbach's face appeared on the monitor. She stared expectantly at the screen for a moment until she realized that Spae wasn't transmitting video.

"Dr. Spae?"

"I'm here."

Essenbach looked a little confused. "Is there something wrong?"

"That's a stupid question."

"Yes, 1 suppose it is, considering the circumstances. I meant something more immediate."

"What is it you want, Doctor?"

"It's been several days since we heard from you. I was concerned about you."

"How kind."

"I know we haven't been close, but 1 like to think we have a good professional relationship. We have a lot in common."

"Such as a certain interrogation room?"

Essenbach pursed her lips, clearly upset, but Spae didn't know whether the woman was concerned about what had happened or merely because Spae had upset her conciliation speech.

"I'm not happy about that, Dr. Spae. It was not an approach that I thought warranted."

"So you didn't participate."

Essenbach had the decency to look guilty. "1 am sorry about what happened. I know you've been under a lot of stress lately. I just wanted to let you know that I understand. I also wanted to let you know that I think the Department's being a little off base in their treatment of you."

"Just a little."

"More than a little, really. You are one of the best hermetic scholars I know. Your expertise is invaluable, and we need you in the program, now more than ever. I was hoping to convince you to reconsider your resignation."

Not likely. "Magnus put you up to this?"

The question seemed to catch Essenbach off-balance. "He doesn't know I'm contacting you."

"Don't bet on it."

"What do you mean?"

"How long have you been with the Department, Dr. Essenbach? A little less than five years, I think. Have you ever done any field work for the Department?"

"What has that—"

"Have you?" Spae sounded strident, even to herself.

"I worked with Dr. Dagastino on the Cornwall Project."

"That fiasco doesn't count. Have you ever been on a real sleeper hunt? I mean out in the streets or the boonies or the nuthouses. Have you ever even seen a sleeper before he's gone through orientation?"

"No, of course not. I'm a psychometric realization specialist. The sleepers, per se, are not my field. Why, other than Magnus, I don't think I've ever met one."

"The sleepers aren't the issue. It's what's going on around them. It's the people around them, the ones that want to use them."

"I don't understand."

"Exactly my point. You've spent your time buried in your workshop and in the library. As you said, we have a lot in common. I did a lot of head-hiding myself, but I have had the real world brought rather forcibly to my attention. In the last couple of years, I have seen a lot of the people you're dealing with and how they operate. In the last few weeks, I've gotten a pretty clear view of their care and concern. If they don't have a tap on this line, the weather forecast is for snow in hell."

"Magnus wouldn't permit it."

"Think he's too noble for it? If he hasn't fallen under their sway it's only because he was playing these sorts of games before any of them were born. The settings, costumes, and props change, but the play remains the same."

"Well, I can see that you are still overwrought. Perhaps we can have a more rational discussion when you've had more time to think things through. I'm sure you will—"

Spae cut the connection.

"I'm sure I will, too."

She called up the perscomp's atlas program and requested a detailed local map. She studied it until her stomach reminded her that there were more immediate things.

Wanting some fresh air, she decided to take her lunch at the cafe. She sat alone, as befitted a Departmental pariah, an island in a tiny sea of a half-dozen occupied tables. With a full stomach, a cup of cappuccino on the table before her, and a reader in her lap, she was as content as she had been for days.

She should have looked as though she was reading, idling, wasting time, but she was in fact contemplating the layout of the road net and memorizing the salient points. Someday, she'd be leaving.

Although she was not yet ready to depart, her walking stick, the one she'd taken to the otherworld, leaned against her knee. She felt better for its touch against her skin. Her ankle maintained contact with her heavy canvas shoulder bag. The satchel was stuffed with irreplaceable equipment and materials, things she hadn't felt safe enough to leave at the cottage. She didn't completely trust this truce between herself and the Department.

A man stepped up to the table. Expecting to have to shoo away the waiter again, Spae was surprised to see a stranger. The dark-haired man wore a flannel shirt, light-colored twill slacks tucked into crumpled socks, and scuffed ankle boots. He had a rucksack slung over one shoulder and carried a walking staff. Everything was covered with a light layer of dust, as though he'd been tramping through the countryside. It was a look she'd seen before, typical of the sort of vagabond students that wandered the countryside on their
wanderjar
hikes, but this one seemed a little older than the ordinary student.

"Excusez-moi, mademoiselle
he said.
"Quesque c'est s'asseoir place?"

Spae shook her head at his abominable French. He took it for an answer to his question, smiling a thank-you and swinging his rucksack down as he pulled out a chair to seat himself.

"Je ne sais tout pas I'habitude,
ah,
accepter sa part de la table,"
he said.

"Not much used to French, either."

"You speak English!" His face lit up. Fie really did have a nice smile. "How delightful!"

"I'm sure."

Her abrupt comment shut him up and she went back to her pretended reading. When she reached for her cup, she noticed he was staring at her. He had deep brown eyes. She took a sip of her cappuccino. Before she put the cup down, he spoke again.

"Have we met before?"

"No."

"You look awfully familiar."

"Your lines are more lame than your French."

He laughed, shaking his head. "I'm sorry. It wasn't intended as a line. I really do think you look familiar. But you arc quite right about my French not being what it ought to be. I don't seem to be able to communicate at all with the locals. Is my pronunciation that bad?"

"Not so bad. They'll understand what they need to."

"So you say they're having a joke at my expense?"

"Most definitely."

He frowned in semiserious disapproval. "Not very friendly of them."

"They're not the most friendly lot."

"You talk as though you're not one of them."

"Not exactly."

He regarded her speculatively. "Your walking stick suggests a hiker, but despite your somewhat overstuffed shoulder bag, you're not dressed for hiking. And there's no car or bicycle parked by the curb in front of this, the only cafe in the village. The obvious conclusion is that you live here, or are at least visiting here for a prolonged stay."

"You're very inquisitive."

"Sorry. I don't mean to offend. As I tried to say before, I'm not quite used to this European custom of sharing tables with strangers. Where I come from, one shares tables with friends, and with friends a lively interest in their doings is usually considered positive. So if I've offended, please excuse me. I will consider myself rebuked. Perhaps we can find other things to talk about so that I can enjoy the good fortune brought to me by following the local custom of forced companionship."

His high-energy babble bemused her. It was a pleasant change from the clipped comments she had been getting from her neighbors. She decided that she'd let him divert her for a while. "What good fortune is that?"

"Why, yourself, of course. What better dining companion than a charming lady who has gifted me with the secret of the locals?"

"Hardly that."

"I must disagree. I find you most charming."

"I meant that I've hardly given you their secrets."

"Shh. Here comes one now."

He meant the waiter. He gave his order in his abysmal French, punctuating each request with a wink to Spae. "It should be entertaining to see what I get," he told her as soon as the waiter was out of earshot.

They talked about ordinary things like the weather and the pleasure of walking through the countryside. He seemed to take a delight in the outdoors that matched his deep tan. Despite her usual lack of interest in such matters, she found herself listening to him. He even got her talking about her college days, of all things; he laughed almost all the way through her story about Professor Wyngarde and the temporary librarian. He listened when she talked and he really seemed interested in her. Not what she could do, not what she knew—
her.
So interested that shortly after the waiter brought him Ms meal, he inadvertently poured half his bottle of mineral water into the flower vase. They both laughed over that. In the sparkle of his presence she forgot her problems, until her watch beeped and reminded her of other things.

Pushing away her cold coffee cup, she gathered up her things. He watched with an air of disappointment. She felt guilty leaving him so abruptly, but she really didn't have much choice. Then again, guilt was a little out of place; she didn't even know his name.

"It's been a pleasure, Mister ... ?"

"David," he said, holding out his hand.

She took it, meeting a firm but not overpowering grip. She Siked the way he demonstrated his strength without making a point of it. She hadn't felt so comfortable with anyone since ... well, for a long time.

"It's been a pleasure, David, but I'm afraid I have to be going."

"Another date?"

For a second she thought he was asking for one, then she realized he was inquiring after her business again. With a personal interest this time? She didn't want to give him the wrong idea. "No, I have to see a doctor at St. Catherine's."

"Nothing wrong, I hope."

"It's not about me. It's just that it's taken me several days to get Kun's doctor to meet with me, and I don't want to miss n chance to convince him to let me in."

"To see Kun?" He seemed a little crestfallen. "Your husband?"

"Holger Kun? Hardly. He's a friend." David raised an eyebrow, prompting her to try another explanation. "A business acquaintance, actually. He's been ill."

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said, though he actually looked a little relieved. "I hope you won't be too disappointed."

That was an odd thing to say. "What do you mean?"

"Oh nothing. Just a hunch. This doesn't seem like a day for hospital visits."

"Well, it certainly won't be if I don't get there."

"Perhaps we can meet again."

"Perhaps."

Actually, when she thought about it, seeing David again sounded like a good idea. She wasn't ready to leave Chardonneville yet and she could use the diversion. He was a hiker, he wouldn't be around long. She could think of far less pleasant diversions. Assuming he was really interested; she hadn't had a lot of attention from men over the years. Then again, she hadn't really sought such attention, having been too busy with her work. Well, she didn't have any work at the moment; maybe it was time to give some thought to other matters. David had seemed really interested in her.

Was that so strange? She knew that she wasn't a
Fashion Forward™
feature girl, but she wasn't a wrinkled old prune either. She'd heard that some men preferred their women more mature. David could be one of those men. She found herself hoping that he was.

But right now, she had business to attend to.

St. Catherine's Hospital was little more than a hospice, barely more than a small clinic—on the surface. Most of St.

Catherine's facilities were underground. Like everything else in Chardonneville, there was more going on beneath the facade.

The staff at St. Catherine's were no less surly than the general run of folks in the village, but it didn't bother her as much. Maybe it was just that surliness didn't seem so out of place in the hospital. The doctor was late, naturally. An emergency, naturally. She sat in the tiny waiting room and waited.

Eventually the doctor came through a door marked "office" that Spae guessed opened on the elevator to the lower levels. He was shorter than David but shared the dark, tanned look. He also didn't look old enough to be practicing medicine. God, what was she thinking? She was too busy noticing what men's ages were today. Spae was the only one in the waiting room, and the doctor came directly to her.