Eternity Road (23 page)

They had no ale or wine left with which to toast the good fortune of the day, but Quait produced his walloon. His fingers danced across the strings, and he invited requests.

“A good camp song,” suggested Chaka.

“Indeed, you shall have it, my lady,” he said. “Avila, do you know ‘The Golden Company’?”

Avila held up her pipe and essayed a few bars. And Quait sang:

Quait had a tendency to sing off-key, but nobody cared. They all joined in:

They sang as many verses as they knew and then switched to “Barrel Up,” and changed pace with “Tari.” Fueled by their sense of loss, mingled with the exhilaration of the day’s escape, the evening became an emotional event. They observed moments of silence for Silas and for Jon Shannon; raised cups of tea to Chaka, “our glorious rescuer”; and laughed over how people back home would react to hearing how they had outwitted a table.

“When she announced that she was Doctor Milana and that
thing
took her seriously,” said Flojian, “I was barely able to keep a straight face.” He went on to draw the lesson: “The intelligences that haunt the Roadmaker ruins aren’t really very bright. If there are any more incidents, we need to keep our heads.”

Chaka noticed that Quait grew increasingly quiet during the latter part of the evening, and seemed almost distracted when Avila announced that she was going to call it a night.

“Before you do,” said Quait, “I have something to say.” His voice was off-tone. Jittery.

The firelight created an aura around him. He looked at Chaka for a long moment, and tugged at the drawstrings of his shirt. “I wouldn’t want to be like the trooper in the song and miss my chance. I wouldn’t want to ride away one day and leave you—” he was still watching her, his gray eyes very round and very intense, “—leave you waving good-bye.”

A stillness came over the moment. Light and shadow drifted around the crumbling walls. Chaka discovered she was barely breathing.

“I would be very happy if, when we return to Illyria, you would marry me.”

The stiffness melted out of his expression and she read a new message:
There, I’ve said it and nothing can make me take it back
.

Rain was falling steadily, beating on the roof, pouring through here and there into the old building. “This is a surprise, Quait,” she said, stalling for time to collect her thoughts. She flicked back to Illyria and brought up an image of Raney, but he wouldn’t come clear.

She took his hand and squeezed it. “I think so. Yes. I would like very much to marry you, Quait.”

Five days after Ann Arbor, they arrived at another city, vast
and empty, and stood on the west bank of a major river. Shay’s track turned north into the ruins. They followed it along the waterfront, past gray quays and ancient pilings and collapsed warehouses and moldering wharves and stranded ships. The ships were all on the bottom, decks and spars usually above water. Some were behemoths, corroded vessels of such incredible dimensions that they explained the giant anchor on River Road. By midafternoon they were passing the remnants of a collapsed bridge. A second bridge, farther north, had once connected the west bank with an island. It was also down.

Flojian watched seabirds drift across the surface. “Current’s not bad,” he said.

As if Karik had reacted to the sight of the second damaged bridge, the trail turned away from the river, back into the city. They made camp on the shore that night and, fortified by a trout breakfast, worked their way in the morning past mountains of concrete and iron rubble. As had happened in Chicago, some of the larger buildings had collapsed. To the northwest, a bowl-shaped structure stood serenely intact amid an ocean of debris. The forest was coming back, and patches of black walnut and cottonwood now grew on the bones of these ancient monsters.

They came out on the shore of a long, narrow lake that had formed among the artificial hills. Trees crowded down to the bank. The water was quiet, and they stopped to enjoy the sylvan atmosphere, isolated among so much wreckage. Ducks drifted on the placid surface, and turtles paddled through the depths. A gray stone slab rose out of the water at the eastern end. Carved letters announced
DETROIT-WINDSOR TUNNEL
. It was odd, because no tunnel was in evidence.

The trail led back out to the river, where it stopped. Two pairs of Shay’s markers turned vertical. “They crossed here,” said Quait.

The other side looked far away. Flojian gazed around at the trees. Some had been cut. “I think I prefer this to dangling in the air anyhow.”

“I’ve never built a raft,” said Chaka. “Do we know how to do this?”

Flojian feigned shock. “Do we know how to do this? Do
you
know how to make a bracelet? This is the way I earn my living.” He smiled in a lopsided, owlish way. “Well, it was the way I started.”

By nightfall they’d taken down eight trees. That wasn’t bad for half a day’s work by a businessman, a militiaman, and a former priest. (Chaka, who was deemed the least physical of the four, was sent fishing for dinner. She returned with more trout.)

Her relationship with Quait had changed in several subtle ways since the marriage proposal. Curiously, the distance between them seemed to have
in
creased. If their attitude toward each other had not become more formal, it had at least become more circumspect. There was less furtive handholding, and almost no stolen kisses. This might have resulted from a combination of Quait’s awareness of the chemical relations among the four companions and a reluctance to disturb them, as a formal pairing off would have done; and from Chaka’s reflexive tendency to assert her independence.

Chaka also discovered that the sexual tension had eased. Quait had engaged her interest during the first days of the quest. That interest had evolved gradually, or maybe not so gradually, into friendship and then passion. Consequently, she knew she had begun to put on a show for him, softening her voice when she spoke to him, lingering a little too long against a setting sun, letting her eyes speak for her. It would not have been correct to say she no longer felt a need to do any of that, but the pressure was gone, and she was now enjoying him more.

She’d been curious why he had proposed to her in front of the others. “Were you so certain?” she asked.

“Public commitment,” he said. “These are peculiar circumstances, and I didn’t want you to think I was trying to take advantage of them. I wanted you to know I was serious.”

Quait had the first watch. She lay half asleep, listening to the crackling logs and the murmur of the river. He was walking around back by the horses.

He was fairly tall, although he’d always seemed short, standing beside Jon Shannon. Even Avila was an inch taller, but Avila was a six-footer. He had wide shoulders and he moved with easy grace. He was handsome, although not in the classic mode of the long, lean jaw and the straight nose and what-not. Quait had features that would have drawn no second look from most women except that they were illuminated by the force of his personality. His good humor, the pleasure he took in being with her, his intelligence, all combined to animate his smile in the most extraordinary way. She had known better-looking men. But none more attractive.

They needed two days to complete the raft. Flojian directed the operation, carved and installed a rudder, and set up rigging. He converted blankets into sails and showed Avila how to make paddles. They were delayed an additional day when, as they were about to start across, the wind turned around and blew out of the east.

On the morning of April 19, the river was calm and they prepared again to set off. Baggage and saddles were loaded onto the raft. The horses, of course, would swim. Long individual lines were looped around their necks in loose bowlines, so that if one was swept away or went down, it would not drag the others with it.

“I still don’t know,” Avila said, looking across at the opposite shore. “It’s a long way.”

“Horses are good swimmers,” said Quait. “They can keep going for an hour or so. That should be plenty of time.”

Their lead horse was an animal named Bali, a large roan stallion. They coaxed him into the water. He was less than anxious, but once in he seemed okay. The others followed (there were now thirteen altogether), and they launched the raft, which someone had christened
Reluctant
.

The wind filled the sails and the raft slipped out into the current. Almost immediately they saw they were clearing shore too quickly and would drag the horses. Quait and Avila jammed paddles into the water to try to break forward momentum while Flojian trimmed the sails. The
Reluctant
gave way and the animals began to draw closer.

The horses were low in the water. Only their heads and the upper parts of their necks cleared the surface, but they seemed okay. Quait had spread them out on either side of and behind the raft, far enough apart so they didn’t get in one another’s way. Flojian assumed navigation duties while the others tended to the lines and the animals.

As they drew out into the river, Chaka acquired a better sense of the breadth of the waterway, and consequently of the level of engineering skill required to throw a bridge across it. The bridges, like so much else, had given way to the centuries. The towers still stood, trailing cables. But the spans had fallen into the water, where they lay half submerged.

The scale of Roadmaker civilization was much greater than anyone in Illyria dreamed. The accepted wisdom was that the wilderness contained numerous sites like Memphis and the city in the swamp and Little Rock, near Farroad, and Vicksburg at Masandik and the nameless ruins at Argon and Makar. But knowing it was not the same as walking through it: The wreckage just went on and on, buried in hillsides, sinking into forest floors, scattered along riverbanks, occasionally exploding into impossible dimensions as here in this second giant city.

Nobody back home really understands. They think in terms of a handful of relatively small cities. But look at this. There’s a whole world out here that died. Where does it end? How big is the corpse?

The scale of the disaster left them awed. What kind of plague could have taken down
this
civilization?
On Monday, April 10, 2079, the trains came in empty
.

“Mista’s having trouble.” Avila indicated a black mare. It was beginning to struggle to keep its head up.

They were approaching midstream.

A mild current was pushing them downriver. Avila was kneeling at the stern and Quait joined her. He looked at the animal’s frightened eyes and shook his head. “Take some sail off, Flojian,” he said, hunkering down beside her. “You okay?”

She nodded.

The raft slowed. “The problem,” said Flojian, “is that we’re going to drift farther downstream. We might have some trouble picking up the trail.”

“Why don’t we worry about that after we’re across?” said Chaka. They were now directly south of the island. It was heavily wooded. She could make out a coastal road and a stone house. Roadmaker style, still standing watch.

“We’re going to lose her,” said Avila.

Chaka had deliberately avoided looking back at the struggling animal. Now she saw that it was having trouble keeping its head up.

“Take more sail off,” Avila said. “We need to slow down.”

Flojian shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. We can’t go slow enough for her. Turn her loose.”

Avila’s eyes went wide. “She’ll drown.”

“She’ll drown no matter what we do. Turn her loose, and maybe she’ll be the only one that does.”

Avila looked at Quait and tears stood out in her eyes.

“It’s only a horse,” said Flojian. “We couldn’t really expect to get them all across.”

“Turning it loose makes no difference,” Chaka told her. “If it can make shore on its own, it will. If it can’t, there’s nothing you can do.”

Mista’s line had tightened. They were beginning to drag her. Avila let it slip out of her hand, watched it trail into the water.

Quait meantime had turned his attention upstream. “Ship,” he said.

It had been hidden by the island and the downed bridge. Now it was coming fast.

Flojian swore. “It’s got guns,” he said.

It was low in the water, with a prow that looked like a wolf’s head and six cannons jutting through ports. It had two masts and a lot of sail and it looked flat-bottomed. A pennant with a white rifle emblazoned on a field of green fluttered in her rigging.

Quait could see sailors on deck. They were a ragged bunch, but they moved with disciplined precision. Some were manning one of the forward weapons. Flojian was trying to rig a blanket to get more speed. “Release the horses,” he said. “We’ll try to make shore.”

Quait watched it come. “No chance,” he said. But they let the horses go. Chaka slid her rifle out of the baggage.

Quait caught her arm and shook his head. Put it down.

The
Reluctant
was picking up speed. The ship’s gun fired and water erupted in front of them. A man in a blue coat and hat put a megaphone to his mouth and told them to heave to. He was about eighty yards away and closing fast.

“I think we better do it,” said Flojian.

But Chaka was looking at the master and his crew and her expression told Quait she’d already decided she didn’t want to fall into their hands. “We won’t have much of a chance with those sons of bitches,” she said. “I’d rather fight.”

“With
what
?” grumbled Flojian. “Holy One, preserve us.”

Avila’s dark eyes pinned him. “Don’t look for help,” she snapped. “We’re alone, and we better realize it.”

“It was just an expression,” he stammered. Quait was surprised at the outburst.

But Chaka was right. He could see that nobody was going to walk away unmarked from this crew.

“Who are they?” asked Chaka.

“Pirates. Or maybe there’re naval powers along here somewhere. Who knows?”

The men on the ship were laughing and making obscene gestures. Quait sighed. “Your call, ladies. We can make a stand. Or we can turn ourselves over to them.”

“Won’t be much of a stand,” said Avila.

“I don’t care,” said Chaka. “They’re not going to take
me
.”

The ship was turning slightly to port, moving alongside. The master lifted his megaphone again. “Guns down,” he ordered.

Chaka’s hand was still on the rifle stock.

“Don’t,” said Avila, removing her holster and laying it on the deck. “Flojian, let them get closer.”

Quait frowned at her. She patted her pocket, the one where she kept the wedge. “It’s a chance,” she said.

Chaka nodded. “Try it. It’s all we have.”

Flojian struck the sails. The marauder’s prow slipped past and ran down two of the horses.

Avila eased the wedge into her palm, held out both hands as if she were welcoming the ship, and frowned. “Nothing,” she whispered.

“It has no range,” said Quait. “We’ve got to be up close.”

“How close do we need?” growled Chaka. “I can smell them now.”

A rope ladder came over the side. The master was giving instructions in a peremptory half-screech. His eyes were dark and cruel and he was appraising the two women with relish.

“Why don’t you folks get your hands up?” he said laconically. “And prepare to come aboard.”

The crew roared.

Avila raised her hands.

Quait, who had edged close to his rifle, said, “Do it.”

“No,” she said. “Too many guns up there. Wait for a better chance.”

Avila was right: It would have to take everyone out, bow to stern, at one shot. Because the people on the raft would be easy targets afterward for anyone left standing.

The pirates used gun barrels to wave them toward the ladder. One leaped over the rail and landed beside them, rocking the
Reluctant
. He was one of the dirtiest creatures Quait had ever seen, grinning, with missing teeth and stringy black hair and whiskers that looked like strands of wire. He poked Chaka in the ribs and sent her sprawling. “Juicy, this one,” he grinned.

A portion of the ship’s rail swung open to accommodate them. Quait started up the ladder. Hands reached down, gripped his shoulders and hauled him roughly on deck. He was knocked down, kicked, and searched for concealed weapons. While this was happening, he heard cheers and obscene roars.

They dragged him back to his feet and threw him into line with his companions. Flojian had also been roughed up; and Chaka’s face was red with fury and humiliation. Avila surprised him: She managed to retain a calm demeanor and stood coolly among her captors.

The ship’s master confronted them. He was a short, ugly thug, five and a half feet of belly, jowls, and beard. He had a limp and a missing ear and a scar across his throat where somebody’d opened him up. A pistol was jammed into his belt. “Welcome to the
Peacemaker
,” he said. “Ship of the line of the Ki of Hauberg.” He tipped his hat at the name. “I’m Captain Trevor. And who might you be?”