Freewalker (26 page)

She launches a pebble at him, hitting him squarely on the nose. Nursing his bruised snout, Kamyar ambles up to Roan.

“Take pity on us, would you, and sweeten the bitter tea so we may all swallow it.”

Roan can't help but laugh and launches into a snappy reel. Mejan quicksteps to the beat, shouting happily, “That's more like it!”

Midday finds much of the good humor roused by Roan's music evaporated in the sun's unrelenting heat. Initially grateful that Kamyar halts the caravan, the troupe heaves a collective sigh when he announces, “Time to costume up.”

But when Dobbs opens his trunk, the performer in all of them rises to meet the challenge. Circled around a gaudy array of masks, fingers twitch until they reverentially make their selections. A glittery human half-mask is chosen for the pony after an intricately constructed horse mask is donned by Dobbs himself. “Neigh!” he whinnies, then trots after Mejan, who kicks him away. Roan absently takes the first mask he touches. A glowing spectrum of red, orange, and yellow, it sets his face alight with flames.

“These are all half-masks,” Lumpy complains. “They'll show too much of my face.”

“But these are not for you,” says Kamyar. “For you we have a new creation.” Opening another box, he pulls out a gorilla head.

Lumpy groans.

“Tsk, tsk, be more appreciative, Lump. You are to have the privilege of resurrecting the spirit of this regrettably extinct species.”

“An inspired choice,” says Talia, wickedly.

“I was about to say the same, only humility hindered me,” Kamyar demures.

Mabatan shudders. “So many animals gone,” she says softly.

Ever practical, Lumpy asks, “How do I breathe in this thing?”

“There's plenty of ventilation built in,” says Dobbs. “Try it on.”

Lumpy does, and immediately starts prancing around. Talia chuckles and hands him a tambourine. “Since you'll be getting all the attention!”

Kamyar, sporting a devil mask complete with horns, inspects the company. “Good. We look every inch the revelers.”

“Thrilled to be celebrating year one hundred and ten of the Consolidation,” mutters Mejan.

“Come, come, everyone loves the jollification of the Archbishop's Triumph!” shouts Kamyar.

“Exalted for crushing the rebel traitors!” adds Dobbs.

“Adored for his beneficence!” Talia pitches in.

“He raises the City up!” chants Mejan. “He saves the people!”

“For their parts!” Kamyar counters.

“Delivers them from evil!” she continues.

“And into the hands of the devil!” Kamyar shouts, waving his pitchfork.

“All hail the Archbishop!” the Storytellers shout, and with great gusto, they make the sound of a huge, resounding fart.

The old highway slopes down. Walls rise on either side, but huge slabs have broken away to create a perimeter of concrete debris.

“This was a tunnel, once,” says Mabatan. “But the waters dried long ago—” She freezes, listening. Her eyes catch Roan's. “Clerics coming,” they assert in unison.

“Our cue!” Kamyar hands Mabatan a drum and Mejan some cymbals. Talia pulls out a ukulele and Dobbs a trombone. After Kamyar plays an introduction with his penny whistle, the unlikely combination of instruments meld to form a peculiarly harmonious band.

But even the clatter of Mejan's cymbals is soon topped by the roar of a pair of three-wheeled trucks. Each has a few clerics on board, all heavily armed. They screech to a stop before the revelers. Dobbs welcomes their arrival with a booming run of ear-splitting notes.

“What is your business?” the foremost cleric demands.

“We are the Promethean Players,” Kamyar modestly replies. “I'm sure you've heard of our ensemble. We are the Archbishop's favorites.”

The head cleric gives the others a questioning look. They all shake their heads. He strokes the lump on his neck, thinking. “We have no such information.”

“Well, for the last five years running we've been the mainstay of Consolidation Weekend. You must come and see us this year, all of you. It's an experience not to be missed.”

“We've been assigned to the Farlands,” a young cleric sighs from the back.

But he's quickly brought to attention by the head cleric's scowl. Turning to the troupe, the older cleric warns, “Do not veer from the main road or you'll not live to give your performance.”

“Thank you for the wise advice. A fine day to you all.”

The clerics roll off. When they are well out of earshot, Talia bursts out laughing. “The Archbishop loves us!”

“Why aim low, my love?” grins Kamyar, and turns to the group. “But they were an easy test. The true gatekeepers await.”

The ruined tunnel opens onto a huge steel and concrete bridge that spans the fetid waters surrounding the City. There the Promethean Players stop to gaze awestruck at the metropolis in all its glory. Though Roan has glimpsed it through the lens of the Dreamfield, in reality this island-city of steel and glass is much more impressive, more massive than he ever could have anticipated. Wandering the Farlands with its wasted forests and tiny settlements, he's rarely seen a structure with more than one floor. Here, towers rise forty stories tall and gargantuan domes and pyramids of glass rival them.

“You're sure you want to do this?” mutters Lumpy, the apprehension in his voice apparent even through his mask.

“Yeh,” says Roan.

At the end of the bridge, a group of glowering clerics, looking very official and very well-armed, stand before a barricade of reinforced concrete. “State your business.”

Kamyar steps forward. “We're here for the...”

“Your papers.”

Through the holes of their masks, Roan and Lumpy's eyes meet. Papers?

With a flourish, Kamyar pulls a scroll out of his coat. “I believe this is what you seek.”

The cleric unrolls the document and studies it while Kamyar looks steadily at him and elucidates. “As you can see, there are seven in my company. And our visa has been signed by
Master Kordan.
”

“Signed by Master Kordan,” the cleric repeats, awestruck. Kamyar plucks the document from his hand.

“We must not be late.” Kamyar smiles broadly at the cleric, who waves them on.

“Where did you get that document?” asks Roan.

“Ah, now, Roan. A magician never reveals his secrets.”

“It's real?”

“When your subject has that little bulge in his neck, real is relative.” Kamyar's eyes shift to Lumpy, who is craning his neck to take in the height of the tower before him. “Be advised, young Lump, if you lean back much further, the mask'll fall off your head.”

“Then you'll hear screaming like you've never heard before,” adds Dobbs.

Lumpy straightens out. “From far away, it looks so clean, like a crystal. But close-up... it's more like lead.”

“I'm glad you're impressed, but we have things to do, people to see,” says Kamyar.

Roan stares at a gigantic billboard of Our Stowe, illuminated by a hundred spotlights. Dressed in exquisite clothing, she looks as if she's been constructed, like some weird artificial flower. As he juxtaposes his memory of Stowe, enthusiastic, intelligent, vulnerable, against this image of her as Our Stowe, deity of the City, he shudders. His emotions have been fluctuating wildly, their intensity and unpredictability demanding a significant portion of his energy to control. If he is experiencing the echo of Stowe's mental state, then he fears he must prepare himself for the possibility that she has gone insane.

“... And with a benevolent smile, she watches over all...” intones Kamyar, bowing with a flourish.

“That's not the Stowe I knew,” says Roan.

“Well, she's on every block, so you'll have a chance to become better reacquainted. You and Lumpy keep close together. Talia, Mejan, take the rear with Dobbs. Mabatan, you're with me.”

Kamyar leads the band of players down a meticulously clean thoroughfare teeming with street cleaners and merchants. Medical personnel roam the boulevard, all identified by large badges sewn into their brightly colored uniforms. Official-looking men and women, dressed in dark suits topped with robes in an array of beiges and browns, clutch their cases as they scurry about their business. What their jobs might be is impossible to discern; perhaps they are bureaucrats. But all passersby lift their eyes and nod respectfully to the blue-robed clerics, guardians of order, and Roan's peculiarly masked companions are no exception.

Despite the rush of bodies in these crowded avenues, there is an eerie order and strange listlessness to it all. There are more people here than Roan has ever seen before, and the notion that anyone would seek such a life is difficult for him to comprehend.

No trace of a tree or bush or blade of grass is in evidence. Roan's careful not to let himself be jostled and pressed by the crowd, and his discomfort is easily read by Kamyar, who veers off the large street and into an alleyway.

“One more minute and I was about to start screaming,” groans Dobbs.

“Oh, you thespians are so hard to please,” says Kamyar. Then he stops and looks around. Colorful facades have given way to nondescript concrete walls, iron bars and grates, large rectangular recesses, and indecipherable signage. Kamyar frowns. “Our contact's not here.”

Talia slips in quietly beside him. “I don't like being out on the streets this long.”

Dobbs nods. “I hope nothing's wrong.”

“Do you want to split up, search in two directions?” asks Mejan.

“No,” Kamyar says firmly. “We stay together. Keep moving.” And at that very moment, three clerics round the corner, walking pointedly toward them.

“Our lucky day,” mutters Talia.

“Do we fight?” asks Roan.

“Far from it,” replies Kamyar, who strides toward the largest of the Blue Robes, waving. “Thank goodness you've found us. We seem to have lost our way.”

“You certainly have.”

“We're such bumpkins and the streets are so many, perhaps you could direct us to Conurbation Park.”

The cleric points due east.

“Many thanks,” says Kamyar, and hastily directs the troupe away from the cleric. But it is to no avail, as one of the guards extends an arm to stop them.

“You there with the monkey head.” He moves in close to Lumpy, who stands rigid and silent. “That looks real.”

Dobbs steps over, a proud smile adorning his face. “It's a gorilla actually, mountain gorilla to be precise. I put in every hair individually.”

Lumpy remains stock-still while the curious clerics touch the mask.

“Gorillas haven't been seen on the face of the earth for over a hundred years. This mask is my tribute to their memory. I have more masks if you'd like to see them,” says Dobbs, trying to draw the clerics over to the wagon. But they don't follow. “I want to try on this one,” says the guard, slipping his fingers under the edge of Lumpy's mask.

The self-assured look that usually graces Kamyar's face is wilting as he tries to insert himself between Lumpy and impending disaster. “We really must be getting back to work. We have papers.”

“Oh, I'm sure you do. You will get back to work, don't worry.” Nose to nose with Kamyar, the largest cleric shoves him gently but firmly away. “When we tell you to.” He motions to his cohorts. “Take off the mask.”

Lumpy doesn't move, though Roan can almost hear the sweat trickle down his back. It's looking more and more as if Roan's willingness to battle will be tested sooner than he or Kamyar suspected.

“Wait. Wait, please,” begs Dobbs. “It's custom-fitted, very difficult to take on and off. He needs expert assistance, and there's my tools...”

While Dobbs rummages in his tool kit, making a great show of the special devices he uses to create the masks, a balding worker wearing thick glasses shuffles down the alley, pushing a small cart in front of him. The disheveled little man stops and gawps at the rising confrontation he's blundered into.

“Do it. Now!” the cleric orders Lumpy.

Roan, dreading what's about to happen, reaches under his cloak, hand curling around the grip of his hook-sword.

Dobbs bumbles back, but the eager cleric puts both his hands on the gorilla head and pulls. Everything slows as Lumpy's cratered face is revealed.

“Mor-Ticks!” come the clerics' drawn-out cries. They fall back and raise their stun sticks.

Roan leaps in front of Lumpy, his sword raised. The clerics stiffen. Eyes rolling up, all three crumple to the ground.

The rumpled little man ambles closer. He hovers over the clerics, all the while tapping at his thick glasses and clucking his tongue. “Pity about these stun sticks. Very unreliable. Always shorting out. And at such a high setting. There's certain to be significant memory loss.”

He wanders back to his cart and starts to push it again. He slides his glasses up his nose and squints at the players. “Are you coming or not?”

THE SNARE

THE EYES OF THE SCRUTINEERS SEE ALL AND THEIR JUDGMENTS ARE FINAL.

—THE WAR CHRONICLES

S
TOWE EATS HER BREAKFAST CHEERILY.
The smile she has for Gwyneth is so bright the poor woman drops the tea service. Still, nothing could spoil Stowe's mood today. Dirt! The Wall! She dresses in her most comfortable smock, and eagerly awaits her escort to the Travel Room. But to Stowe's surprise, it is Willum who comes knocking at her door. One look from him sends Gwyneth scurrying away, and he is eye to eye with Stowe before she can even blink.

“Our journey into the Field is to be monitored.”

“Why?”

“For your safety, of course,” he mumbles, barely concealing his sarcasm. “Darius is bringing Scrutineers.”

The dreaded Scrutineers. The original nine Masters who stand next to Darius. Their power nearly matches his. They are ruthless and brutal, and their distrust of each other is what Darius uses to control them. Though one of them, Querin, masterminded Stowe's deification, he and the others have always been suspicious of Darius's intentions concerning her. They've survived by second-guessing the Seer's every move and it is obvious they fear that Darius will use her against them. The question is, has Darius called in the Nine to interrogate the Eater he hopes Stowe will capture—or to observe and pass judgment on
her?