Freewalker (21 page)

Stowe stares at him, appalled. “That's
all?
” she whispers. That's how much she's been eating for the last six months.

No wonder Willum was able to expose Kordan so easily. An even greater wonder Kordan took the risk at all.

“When production was higher, the wisdom of past Masters demanded the Dirt be stockpiled. There are well over a thousand pounds in safe storage.”

A thousand pounds!

“Though the amount appears generous, at our current rate of consumption, it will be depleted in the next five years.”

“But surely what the workers draw from the stone will continue to serve, used more prudently.”

“I regret to inform Our Stowe, the trickle we're mining now will be exhausted in the next decade.”

The stockpile, you must see it!

She permits herself a questioning glance in Willum's direction. But he has forgotten her. As is his normal practice, he is scanning the room, recording everything. Later he will call the information up in perfect detail, perhaps for a report. Is that what these demands are she hears in her head? Have his lessons become so much a part of her they command her from within?

As they pass door after door, Stowe feels compelled to ask that every one be opened, every room looked at. No, this can't be Willum and his teachings. She's searching, but what is she looking for? There's no Dirt in these rooms. Why is she wasting the time?

The stockpile. Locate it.

“I couldn't have seen everything, could I?”

Felith smiles. “All that's left is the safe storage facility. But it is a bit of a journey.”

Stowe fights hard to keep her voice steady. “I should like to see it.”

Another elevator shaft, even more cramped and festooned with security devices, plunges them deeper into the earth. Upon arrival, they are greeted by two guards who, after confirming their identities, escort the visitors to a small foyer with walls of thick steel.

“One moment,” says Felith, pressing a black square on one of the walls. A flat stick, the size of a thumbnail, emerges. Taking a pin from a second packet, Felith pricks his finger, squeezes it, and places a drop of blood on the stick. After a moment, with a clicking sound, the wall slides apart. Moving through a long corridor, they find themselves in an open area surrounded by a transparent material, somewhat like glass but not nearly as fragile, Stowe is certain. For behind it, on all sides, is the violet glow of Dirt. More Dirt than she could ever imagine. Enough to bury herself standing, a hundred times over. She touches the wall, trying to feel for the Dirt's resonance. Even through this barrier, perhaps it can impart its magic. But the wall is so thick, the Dirt might as well be a million miles away. Stowe's head starts to throb; her legs shake and sway.

Who's laughing? She looks at the people surrounding her. All masked. She can hear them breathe, the trickle of their sweat, their heartbeats. But she cannot tell who's laughing. The laughter's so loud she cannot concentrate, she cannot focus, she cannot fly.

Stowe buckles, but before she falls, a firm hand grips her arm, propping her up.

“Very impressive, Overseer Felith,” says Willum. “Now I think a bit of fresh air would do us all some good.”

The ascent in the elevator gives Stowe time to clear her head, but her heart is sinking. So close, so very close.

There are other places to look. We will investigate them
all.

To look. To look for what?

Dirt, of course. You must have Dirt.

Yes. Dirt.

To return to the Wall.

Yes.

Three sets of steel doors open and close and Stowe is outside, blinking in the sunlight, dazed by thunderous applause. All the workers have assembled there to see her. They cheer and shout “Our Stowe!” Every single one of them beaming.

Willum, still squeezing her arm, hisses, “Smile and wave!”

Master Felith hands her the ampliphone.

“Focus yourself,” whispers Willum. “Do it. Now.”

Trembling, Stowe struggles to twist her lips into something resembling a smile and raises a hand. A hush descends over her audience.

“You dig and scrape and sift. Labor unceasingly. What you pull from the rock is beauty. It is the life's blood of our City. Without it, our Masters are nothing. Without you, all would be nothing.”

Stowe's voice quavers. “Our thanks to each and every one of you. We are forever in your debt.”

“Our Stowe! Our Stowe!” the workers chant.

Willum supports her as she is paraded through the crowd.

They shake her hand, touch her, praise her. Can they see the desperate pleading in her eyes? The unspeakable need for Dirt? Any Dirt. Just a little Dirt.

But they're all enabled, and the eyes she looks into are blank, the smiles hollow. They move in close to her, sniff her scent. But they are deaf and blind to her torment.

The drive back to the City is an ordeal. The car is stifling, the fabric of her dress unbearably itchy, and the landscape a wasteland. Willum remains silent, removed. It's just as well, as she cannot meet his eyes.

He uses you. He abuses you. Fills your head with lies. It
isn't Dirt that harms you.

She needs some Dirt, just a little. Not a whole bowl, just a spoonful. Willum does not mean to hurt her. Of course not. Ridiculous. Willum is her teacher. He's teaching her right now, with his silence, leaving her to stew in her boundless inadequacy.
The best lessons learned are those we discover ourselves.
How often has she heard him say that? And he is right. She must gain more control. Her lack of poise at the mine was appalling.

The power of the Wall can give you the strength you need.

I discovered the power of the Wall, yes, but I need Dirt to get back there.

Dirt is where the Walkers are.

Yes... Yes.

“Willum.”

“My lady?”

“I'd like you to arrange a visit to the Department of Importation.”

“It is a great honor, Our Stowe, to have you here at our facility,” says Master Watuba. Her head is disproportionately large, seated uncertainly between her narrow shoulders, making her unnervingly frog-like. Watuba oversees the importing of the Masters' most cherished product from the Outlands: children whose young bodies will be harvested in order to prolong the lives of the Masters.

Open every door. Look in every room.

“I am a simple servant of the City,” Stowe says. “Ready to meet the new recruits and give them my blessing.”

“What lucky few to have such favor bestowed on them.” Watuba, exquisitely mannered, bows. “This way.”

Like most, this surgical facility is spotless and reeks of antiseptic. Stowe senses she's being observed, by eyes peeking through spyholes, faces pressed against one-way glass, as she is paraded along the endless array of doors. Doors, doors, and more doors. She knows she tries Master Watuba's patience as she asks to view what lies behind each and every one. Then she sees a door she remembers. Kordan brought her here soon after her arrival in the City, to meet one of the Nine. This door is black, its handle embossed with the Egyptian hieroglyph for sky. She'd loved running her fingers along its sharp grooves. Within, there is sure to be some ancient one floating in the Dreamfield, waiting for the candidate who will provide his new liver or kidneys or eyes. His rotting, corpse-like hand dipping into the precious treasure she seeks.

“Oh!” she shouts and suddenly stops. Willum and Watuba turn. “I'm sorry, but I must have snapped a button.” She blushes. “Please, excuse me for a moment.”

Before Watuba can stop her, Stowe steps up to the black door, slides it open, slips through, and snaps it shut. Inside, however, there is not one person, but eight. Sitting in soft leather chairs are children, several years younger than Stowe, younger even than she was when she first ate Dirt. They all look up at her and smile. But Stowe does not smile back, she is too busy stifling a scream.

“What a surprise,” whines Kordan, stepping out of the shadows. “Children, look, it's Our Stowe. How nice of you to come, my Lady. The children are about to partake for the first time and your words would be an inspiration.”

Stowe does not move. She is rigid. Face pallid, she stares at the children.

They are cultivating your replacements!

“Stowe?” inquires Kordan, eyes flashing behind a ruinous smile.

Kill them. Kill them all.

A thin, high sound emerges from her mouth, a sound that makes the children recoil and slashes Kordan like a surgical blade. The children scream until they collapse. Kordan buckles, falling to the floor.

She hears the door open. Shut.

Willum lifts her, slams her against the wall. “Stowe, get hold of yourself!”

She looks intently at Willum, sees herself reflected in his eyes. Herself calm. Powerful. Silent. Resourceful.

“You can put me down.”

Gently lowering her to the floor, Willum rushes to the bodies, touching every one. Their eyes flutter for a moment. “You could have killed these children. And Kordan. Go. Go now! Tell Watuba I have business with Kordan and will follow.”

Kill them now. You must kill...

Stowe can feel her mouth opening, another scream welling up. Willum looks up, startled. “NO!” he shouts, but it's not just his voice that touches her; it's his mind. He's pushing her with his mind. How could he do that to her? Not Willum. He moves closer to her, gazing deep in her eyes. A wave of tranquility washes over her. Somehow she feels lighter.

“I am trying to help, Stowe. You must leave this instant! They must not remember what happened. I will take care of it.”

Swift, the movement of her feet. Cool, the smile on her face. One last glance. Willum's fingers press on Kordan's temples. His memory is being adjusted. She had no idea Willum had such power.

She slips out the door. The frog-woman stands before her.

“Ah, Master Watuba. My apologies. Shall we continue?”

The clerics warily watch the road while Stowe and Willum stand on a viaduct overlooking a sea of broken concrete, the last vestiges of the City before the Wars. Though her behavior on the rest of the tour was impeccable, it in no way expunged her lack of judgment from Willum's mind. No doubt he's stopped here to express his disappointment in her, yet he says nothing. Between the sound of rain pelting on the umbrella and his silence, Stowe thinks she will go mad.

“How old were those children?” she ventures.

“Five, maybe six years old.”

“I assumed Kordan was ruined. I was wrong.”

“He was removed from responsibility for your care but was given alternative duties. It's as if they're still looking for...” Lost in thought, his voice trails off.

“Children with my powers? You didn't know?”

Deeply worried, he shakes his head. It must have taken quite an effort to keep that scheme from Willum's sharp eyes.

“Do you think they are like me?”

“No one is like you, Stowe, apart from your brother.”

“But they must have special gifts, or why else would the Masters bother?”

Willum, however, is in no mood to answer any further questions. “You must remain silent about what you have seen today. And go nowhere near those children again.”

“They made me so angry, Willum. I...” She wants to tell him that it wasn't like when she attacked the clerics. That was deliberate, she was in control, she was testing her power. This was different. This time she had no control at all, as if... something exploded inside, driving her, pushing her to attack. But... when Willum looked into her eyes, that something was silenced. Willum made the voice stop.

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

Not that her promises mean any more than the million promises that have been made to her. All broken, shards of glass at her feet.

“Remember your strength, Stowe. That is what will get you through this.”

Stowe takes his hand as they stride back to the car. She keeps step with him and does not tremble. Her look into Willum's face as he helps her into the vehicle is as penetrating as she dares. Who is he? She realizes she has no idea. But he is certainly much, much more than he seems.

THE STORYTELLERS

HAVE A LETTER THAT NEEDS WRITING
OR A PARCEL TO CONVEY?
A MUG OF BEER OR GLASS OF WINE,
WE'LL DO WHATE'ER WE MAY
AND FOR A SLICE OF BREAD WITH CHEESE
WE'LL TELL A TALE THAT'S SURE TO PLEASE

—LORE OF THE STORYTELLERS

F
OLLOWING A RUSH OF FRESH AIR
and a shaft of sunlight, Roan pulls himself out of the ground only to land in a thick patch of briar.

Mabatan motions him out of the way and slides the bracken-laden cover back over the hole. With a shudder, it locks in place and the entry point vanishes, doubly camouflaged by its inhospitable location.

Roan can barely see through the tangle of twisting vines but, just as he starts to push through to get a clearer view, the trill of bugles and thundering drums sends him diving to the ground, Lumpy in tow. They soon realize, however, that there is no threat as Mabatan has remained stock-still, a look of fond anticipation gracing her elfin features.

“They are here,” she murmurs reverently.

Motioning Roan and Lumpy to stay on the ground, she crawls ahead, leading the way. The maze-like route winds beneath the prickly brush, and out into a small glade of hemlock trees. From here, Roan can see the walls of what must be a large town, its stone and mortar bedecked with brightly colored banners. A crowd of gaily dressed people are laughing and clapping as they enter through the formidable gates.

“Come,” says Mabatan, getting to her feet.

But Lumpy shakes his head. “I'm staying here.”

Roan knows his friend has good reason to avoid this place. One look at his face and the festive villagers would turn into a rabid mob. Lumpy learned that lesson the hard way when he first tried to get help after surviving the Mor-Ticks. He'd been beaten and stoned everywhere he went and he has no desire to repeat the experience.