Pandora's Genes (11 page)

The Principal had allowed his mind to rest only briefly on the possibility that Zach had come to harm. In the first place he had utmost faith in Zach’s abilities to protect himself from bandits, poison-bats, or other common dangers; in the second he simply could not face such a catastrophe. Perhaps, he finally decided, something had happened to Zach’s mount. She was not young, and possibly the journey was too much for her. Very likely Zach was on foot now, with the girl, which would necessitate moving very slowly.

A week ago an armed party had been sent out to meet Zach and the girl. Perhaps even today they would return, and the Capital would once again begin running smoothly. As it was, the Principal was almost dizzied by details. Deenas take Berton! Of course, he would have to be punished, as an example, but the Principal hesitated to act too harshly. A public flogging and a fine, to be taken from his monthly pay until the mounts were at least symbolically paid for, seemed the best solution.

The Principal sighed. He strove always to be, above all, fair, obeying the law to the letter and with the spirit of justice. And nobody followed the laws more closely than he, who made them.

In the ancient books there were stories about men in the Principal’s position. The greatest leaders, those who had done the most for the cause of civilization, had been as he was: controlled and controlling, and consequently lonely. If only Zach were here now, he thought, to play his feathered lyre and sing the poems that he made himself. The Principal was the ruler, the head of the District, but Zach was its heart. The Principal realized that he missed Zach with almost a physical longing, and for a moment he wished that he were like other men, that he could be satisfied with a simple living and a shared wife and children. Of course there were not enough women to go around, and though the Principal could choose any woman in the District, he had not found one he could care about, and he had never known a man he could trust but Zach.

It was getting late, and he had a scheduled meeting with his generals about the long-planned campaign to improve communications throughout the District.

For a moment he considered canceling the meeting, then shook his head. He must move, constantly, no matter his personal feelings. This was his destiny, and he had known it since he was a small boy growing up in the Garden.

He sat behind his wooden desk, which, like all remaining manufactured objects, was a link with the past, and ran his hand over its polished surface, On the curved wall across from him hung a painted likeness of Zach, showing the broad head, the fair, almost white hair so different from his own, the full, bushy beard now grizzled at the cheeks. Once again he felt his mind wandering to the route Zach had taken, the steep mountain trails and thick trees which he had not seen since the year when he had taken control of the District from the President. The late afternoon sunlight fell across his face with an almost physical weight, and the Principal let his head fall onto his arms as he began to doze.

He was startled awake by an urgent knock at the door. Robin, his elderly secretary, stuck his head in and announced, “Sir, I’m sorry to disturb you. An advance scout from the party you sent out last week has returned. It is General Ralf.”

“Send him in,” said the Principal, instantly awake. “And bring refreshment.”

He straightened consciously in his seat, aware of the fading sunlight over his shoulder. Soon it would be time to light the fish-oil lamps, and for the generals. Why Ralf and not Zach? As he waited for Ralf to come in, the Principal lit a pipe of new-smoke to calm himself.

Within a few seconds there was another knock and Ralf entered. Ralf was nearing fifty, which for these times was quite old, although the Principal knew that before the Change fifty was considered midlife. Ralf’s clothing was worn and dirty, and he looked exhausted, but not injured or starved or abused, and the Principal relaxed. Behind Ralf stood Robin with a tray of steaming mugs and scones.

“Thank you, Robin,” said the Principal. “That is all. Welcome home, General Ralf.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Ralf, ducking his head and approaching the desk. There was something strange in his manner as he held out his hand. On his shoulder was a large leather bag which he did not remove.

“You must be tired. Have some refreshment.”

Ralf sat, then reached forward and cupped both hands around a red pottery mug. The Principal, taking the other cup, saw that the old man’s hands were shaking.

Hating the formalities, the Principal leaned back and took a deep drink of the warm liquid. As it flowed into his stomach, he became aware of how tired he was, and how on edge. Ralf too seemed to relish his drink, and drank deeply twice before he set the mug on the edge of the desk and began self-consciously to speak.

“I’m afraid I have b-bad news to report,” he began.

“Zach—” said the Principal, but Ralf was already continuing.

“We had not gone far before we discovered some refugees: a family of six who had been driven from their home in the southwest. They had crossed the Northern Ford, trying to get to the Capital.”

“Refugees? From the west?” The Principal leaned forward.

“They had been burned out. But apparently not by outlaws. They were attacked by followers of a new religion.”

The Principal frowned. “I’ve heard nothing of a religion.”

“It started in the far west, beyond our borders,” said Ralf. “Or so we pieced together.”

The Principal rubbed his nose and thought a moment. A new religion was not unexpected and was not necessarily even an important threat. But that it appeared to be taking hold in the southwest could be very bad news and would have to be investigated immediately.

“Where are these refugees now?” he asked.

“With the rest of our party,” said Ralf. “But let me go on, sir. Shortly after we met up with the refugees, we were set on by a pack of outlaws—”

“So close to the Capital?”

“Again, near the Northern Ford. But these were not ordinary outlaws – they were followers of the new religion I told you about. They call themselves the Traders. They were fanatical, sir, like nothing we have ever dealt with. We sustained heavy losses.”

“How heavy?” asked the Principal. This was beginning to sound like a bad dream. Surely Ralf was exaggerating.

“One dead, two more wounded.”

“How many in the attacking party?”

“Five,” said Ralf.

The Principal took three deep breaths. When he spoke, his voice shook. “Are you trying to tell me that fewer than a half-dozen ignorant outlaws disabled a party of as many of my trained men?”

Ralf looked directly at the Principal. “I told you, sir, these were more than ordinary outlaws. They used poisoned weapons, and they fought without a care for their own safety. We were lucky to get away at all.”

“Did you take prisoners?”

“One . . . but he hanged himself in the night.”

“Deenas take it!” shouted the Principal. He struck the desk with his fist, then turned to look out the window. In a moment he turned back, now calm. “I’m sorry, Ralf,” he said. “Of course you’re only reporting what happened. When may I speak to the other men?”

“Within two days,” said Ralf. “With the invalids and refugees our way was slowed. I rode ahead because we all agreed you should know as soon as possible what had happened.”

“Yes, of course. And thank you for doing this. How long have you been without sleep?”

“I’m fine, sir.”

“You are exhausted, and you will be rewarded for your service, after you’ve had a meal and a good night’s sleep.” The Principal paused, then spoke the words he knew he had to say next. “As for your primary mission, I gather you were not able to continue on the route that Zach followed?”

For a very long moment the old man just looked at him, eyes big and frightened in the exhausted face. “It was on the same day we met the refugees,” he said slowly. “We came upon what had once been a campsite, but obviously ruined. There were broken branches, weapon marks, signs of struggle everywhere. We found . . . indications that a man had camped there, and a woman. A bit of torn cloak, a pipe with the new-smoke still tamped into it, and after a little searching we found . . . these.”

Looking as if he expected to be struck, Ralf reached into his pouch and pulled out a comb, carved of bone. He put it on the Principal’s desk.

“A woman’s comb,” said the Principal. He picked it up. “Nice workmanship, but nothing unusual. Have you—”

He stopped. Ralf had reached into his pouch again and was holding another object. It was made of two long, curved pieces of polished dark wood, separated by a half-dozen taut strings. At one end, the strings branched into hundreds of brightly colored feather fronds. Ralf laid the object silently on the desk, then stepped back and remained standing.

The Principal sat motionless, looking at the objects, his mind rejecting what his senses told him was the truth. This was a feathered lyre, one of the rarest objects in the District. At one end of one of the pieces of wood was burned in the initial Z. This was Zach’s feathered lyre.

Finally he spoke. “You found nothing else.”

“Nothing.”

“You did not follow the trail.”

“There was no trail. Only the signs of struggle – and a ruined camp.”

The Principal put the comb on the desk beside the lyre, where it gleamed orange in the fading light. He stared at the objects, not trusting himself to speak. A rage was building in him, a rage he had never known, and he did not want to take it out on the faithful Ralf. He took one deep breath, two, then three, and after letting out the last looked up at the old man, who was terrified to be bringing such dreadful news.

“That will be all, Ralf,” he said, not recognizing his own voice as he spoke. “Robin!” he called, “Robin!” Belatedly he remembered the bell at his side and rang it. At last Robin appeared.

“Give Ralf a meal and a good place to sleep. If he wants one, give him a woman for hire. Bring me more food and a pitcher of brew, then do not disturb me again this evening. Tell the generals I will see them in the morning.”

Robin looked startled and opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. “Yes, sir,” he murmured.

The Principal was aware that Ralf was waiting for a formal dismissal, but he knew he could not speak again. Finally, following the secretary, Ralf muttered, “I’m sorry, sir. Thank you,” and followed the older man out the door.

The Principal raised his eyes from his desk now and turned to look out at the layers of sunset which were beginning to build in the sky. The colors spread and began to run together. He blinked, then stood and walked to the fireplace, where, using a flint and steel, he lighted the fire that had been laid for him. It started with difficulty, and he spent a long time at it. When the fire was glowing, he walked back to the desk and poured himself another full cup of brew, then looked down again at the two objects on his desk: the comb and the feathered lyre. At last he picked up the lyre and, his hand trembling, plucked a string. The eerie, melancholy tone reverberated in the room, and he put the instrument down, damping the sound. Then he walked to the window and looked out at the darkening night as stars began to appear.

W
HEN THE
P
RINCIPAL AWOKE
,
HE
was twisted among the cushions on the wooden couch in his office. His head ached badly and there was a foul taste in his mouth. Immediately the thought came to him:
Zach has disappeared
.

The faint light just filtering through the east window showed that it was still very early, before sunrise, and he closed his eyes, thinking to sleep more, but after a moment knew that he could not. The thought of Zach had filled his head, leaving room for no other thought or any rest, and he knew that everything was now changed. For his own life, for his greater plans, this was as profound a change as had occurred two generations before he was born.

He rose to one elbow and shook his head. “He is not dead,” he said aloud, as if by his will he could make it true. In any case, whether Zach was dead or not, whether captured by outlaws or by followers of this mysterious new religion, it was clear to the Principal that he must investigate the situation in the southwest as soon as possible, to protect his holdings there. This must be his primary mission. The second, which he knew would become an obsession, was to find Zach alive if possible, and if not, to discover who had been responsible for his death and then to kill the man himself, in the slowest, most painful way he could devise.

He stood, upsetting the pottery pitcher which sat empty beside the couch. Irritably, he kicked it away, then went to his rooms and washed quickly, not bothering to ring for hot water. The icy liquid began to sting his body awake, banishing the headache left by too much drink. Then, while almost everyone in his House still slept, he made his way downstairs to the great kitchen, where he surprised two young cooks who, not expecting anyone so early, were trading stories and passing a pipe of new-smoke while a large kettle of water boiled over on top of the stone oven.

The sweet scent of the new-smoke mingled unpleasantly with ancient cooking odors, and he stepped out into the herb garden off the kitchen to clear his head. When he returned and sat himself at the massive pre-Change table in the center of the room, he found that the cooks, terrified of his famous temper, had made a hasty botch of his breakfast, overcooking the pigeon eggs and failing to crisp the cured pork the way he liked it. After two bites he shoved the food away and shouted for tea, which arrived too weak and so hot that he burned his tongue. He hurled the cup into the fireplace and finally, after a cup of tea was prepared properly, settled down to make notes for his meeting with the generals.

The intended subject of the meeting had been the improvement of long-distance communication throughout the District, preparatory to expansion of the areas firmly under his control. His plan was to establish line-of-sight signaling towers where possible, and more communications stations with mounts and human runners in other areas. Although the homing birds which had sometimes been used to send messages in the past had not survived the Change, he intended to begin working with some species of new-birds to see if they could be trained to home reliably. He reflected that communication might be more important than ever now, especially to the southwest; but his resources were limited and he would have to be very careful how he committed them. Clearly, if this new religion was a genuine threat, he would have to train as many new troops as possible.