Authors: Steven Brust

Agyar (22 page)

BOOK: Agyar

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I don’t like shotguns.

Spotlights blasted their way to me as I stood by the door, and to Kellem, stretched out on the melting snow and mud of the lawn.

I slammed the door and shot the bolt, where I stood for just a moment, then I heard, distorted by distance, wood, and some sort of amplifier,
“You in there. This is the police. The house is surrounded. Come out slowly with your hands empty.”

Crap.

I yelled back. “The first cop through this door gets his head blown off,” then I tried not to laugh.
You’ll never take me alive, coppers.
Just call me Jimmy Cagney.

Jim said, “Why did you say that?”

“They think I’m armed and dangerous,” I said. “Let them assume I have a gun.”

“Why?”

“So they’ll keep their distance while I figure out what to do.”

I remembered then that I did, in fact, have a gun. Where was it? In the attic, next to the signboard with the red “R” on it. I could use the sign, too.

They called a few more ultimatums at me, but I was no longer listening. I turned to Susan, and yes, she was still breathing, and she was looking at me. Blood flowed from a wound in her throat, as if it had been ripped open by some sort of claw. Her left arm lay across her body at an unusual angle, and there seemed to be something wrong with the left side of her face. As I watched, she held out her right hand.

I took it, kissed her palm, and saw that she was dying. I think she knew it, too. She tried to speak, failed. I said, “It’s all right, my love; I won’t let them win. We will laugh at them all.”

She tried to say something else, but didn’t manage. She was going fast. I knew what I was going to have to do, and there was no point in waiting. I kissed her forehead, then her lips, then her eyes; and then I held her close and did what was necessary.

As I laid her down on the floor, Jim was standing there. “What now?” he said.

“Now? I don’t know.”

“You’d better get out of here,” he said. “The police—”

“If they find Susan, they’ll have her embalmed.”

“So? Oh. I understand. Do you think she’d want—” He broke off, seeing my face, then he looked away.

I studied her still form. “I do not want her to die,” I said.

“What will you do?”

“Hide her, the same place I’ve been hiding.”

“If they search—”

“Why should they? They don’t know she’s here.”

“But they know you’re in here.”

“I won’t be,” I said.

“You’re leaving?”

“Yes.”

He nodded. “It might work,” he said slowly. “You’ll have to let them see you leave.”

“I know.”

“You should hurry. The sun—”

“I know.”

He frowned. “What bothers me,” he said, “is that, if they haven’t caught you, if they know you’re at large, they’re likely to search the house anyway.”

“I know,” I said. “I have a plan.”

“What—?”

“Just let me think, all right?”

I dashed up to the attic and found the sign with the “R,” and the pistol. I set the sign in front of the one nonboarded-up window. That, I hoped, would discourage tear gas; tear gas would annoy me.

The loudspeaker was still going outside, and it still is, as I put these words on paper. They want me to surrender. It is annoying, but that is all.

I took Susan to the vault, and laid her down comfortably, to rest until the time comes for her to rise. A day, two days, a week, a month; it doesn’t matter. They won’t find her, because they won’t search, because there will be nothing to search for—nothing they know about, at any rate.

It has taken me longer to set this all down on paper than most of it took to happen; it is late now, and I am beginning to feel tired. As I look back on these words, it appears that I wrote this in one continuous stream; actually I have gotten up several times and walked around. The last time was when Jim came in. He said, “What are you going to do, Jack?”

I said, “Insure Susan’s safety.”

“How?”

I shrugged and went downstairs to look at Susan again. I cleaned up the wound in her throat; she looks pale and very beautiful. While I was down there I found my good coat; there is no longer any reason not to wear it, so I can go back to looking like my old natty self.

I can sense the false dawn in the east. The police are, no doubt, waiting for sunrise before they come in after me. I will save them the trouble.

No doubt the “Tac Group” is waiting for me, maybe expecting me to charge out at them, gun blazing. Who am I to disappoint them? They’ll probably perform an autopsy. I wish I could stick around to find out what that will reveal. I wonder how they’ll explain it, or if they’ll bother trying. I wonder if they will even care.

I will leave this pile of papers, and my pendant, next to Susan, where she lies, even now, awaiting her birth into a new life.

I will step out into the dawn, and let them do as they will. I can think of nothing more to say, and I am feeling too weary to type in any case. The sun has risen. I feel the breeze through the boarded-up window; it is warm and fine, and I think there are no more clouds. Spring has come at last.

EPILOGUE

mor

al
adj.
1. Of or concerned with the judgment of the goodness or badness of human action and character: pertaining to the discernment of good and evil …
n
. 1. The lesson or principle contained in or taught by a fable, story, or event. 2. A concisely expressed precept or general truth; maxim.

AMERICAN HERITAGE DICTIONARY

ttttttttttttttttttttt
hghghghghghghghghghghg
asdfghjkl

I am not used to manual typewriters. If typing becomes a chore, I shall simply stop. In fact, I don’t know why I am doing it at all, except, now that I think of it, perhaps as a tribute to dear Jonathan. He must have spent hours up here, judging by the size of the stack of paper he left me. Perhaps I ought to read it.

It is odd that I don’t miss him more than I do. I remember how he made me feel, but it seems so far away. Everything seems so far away. I remember how frightened I was while he held me, and I remember thinking that something must be wrong because there was no pain.

There is no pain now, but nothing is wrong.

Nothing is wrong at all.

I asked Jim what it all meant, but he wouldn’t or
couldn’t tell me. Jim is a dear man. I’d love to embrace him, but there is nothing to embrace. Perhaps I shall go out and enjoy the spring evening, and see if perhaps I can find someone I
can
embrace. Let me go back and underline that word. There. How splendid. There is something wonderfully engaging about letting one’s thoughts flow out onto the page. I used to keep a diary. I wonder why I stopped.

It seems strange that I do not feel that I will miss anyone, or, for that matter, any thing. Anything? Any thing. What a pesky language. I should learn a few others, just for contrast.

I retain fond memories of Mother, and of Dad, and my brother, and Rick and Jenny, and a few others, but the notion that I’ll not see them again doesn’t bother me; and there is nothing that I own that is worth a thought. Isn’t that odd? After all the hours I spent picking out—ah, but there’s an idea. I shall sneak back into the house, and write a note saying that I am going on a long vacation, and I’ll give all of my prints to Gillian, who was complaining about how bare her room was, now that she’s taken down those hideous things she called paintings. I’ll bet she’d like my prints. And I can ask her to send my records to Rick, and the rest they can give away as far as I’m concerned.

Jim says I should leave this town, at least for a while, because it could be a problem if I were to meet someone I know. I suppose Jim is right; he seems like a very wise man. I wish there were someone who could go with me, but maybe it is better this way. I’ve been alone before.

Where shall I go? There is a whole world, and all the time in it. I am tired of the Midwest. Perhaps I shall go to London. Or San Francisco. I’ve always wanted to see San Francisco.

But there is so much that I don’t know how to do. [ know that I must bring my resting place with me, but
how to arrange for it? Maybe by train? It might be that, if I read through those papers of Jonathan’s, I’ll learn something useful. If not, it will be pleasant to hear his voice again; I still have that stack of poetry he gave me. And a piece of petrified wood. At least I think I do. Where did I put those things?

My fingers are getting tired from striking these keys, so I believe I shall stop now.

Books by Steven Brust, P.J.F.

THE DRAGAERAN NOVELS

Brokedown Palace

THE KHAAVREN ROMANCES
The Phoenix Guards
Five Hundred Years After
The Viscount of Adrilankha,
which comprises
The Paths of the Dead,
The Lord of Castle Black,
and
Sethra Lavode

THE VLAD TALTOS NOVELS
Jhereg
Yendi
Teckla
Taltos
Phoenix
Athyra
Orca
Dragon
Issola

OTHER NOVELS

To Reign in Hell
The Sun, the Moon, and the Stars
Cowboy Feng’s Space Bar and Grille
The Gypsy
(with Megan Lindholm)
Agyar
Freedom and Necessity
(with Emma Bull)

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

AGYAR

Edited by Terri Windling

An Orb Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010

www.tor-forge.com

eISBN 9781429997348

First eBook Edition : April 2011

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Brust, Steven.

Agyar: Steven Brust.

p. cm.

“A Tom Doherty Associates book.”