Ruins (Pathfinder Trilogy) (16 page)

“I really liked your father,” said Umbo. “And Vadesh looks and sounds exactly like him, but he’s vile. He
feels
different. He did right from the start.”

“Identical machines,” said Rigg. “But I feel the same way. Maybe being without human company for ten thousand years changed Vadesh.”

“Or maybe he was already different, and that’s why all the humans in his wallfold died, leaving him without any.”

“I think you’re right,” said Rigg. “Where are Param and Olivenko?”

“Upstairs. Are we going to wait for him?”

“Vadesh? No. He probably knows another way and when we go up the stairs he’ll already be waiting.” Rigg turned to Loaf, who was just standing there, the facemask inert on his head, its tendrils wrapped around his neck, going into his nose, down under his clothing, one of them penetrating the spot just above the collarbone so that it was reaching into his flesh. “Will you come upstairs with us, Loaf?”

No response. Nothing.

Rigg turned his back on Loaf and started for the stairs. Umbo started with him, but he had to stop and see if his friend was going to follow.

Loaf took a staggering step forward, then balanced himself and walked slowly after Rigg. He showed no sign that he knew Umbo was there. That was hard to bear, but also maybe a good thing—at least Loaf wasn’t trying to attack him. There would be no broken arm or torn ear.

On impulse, Umbo fell in beside Loaf and walked along with him. Loaf showed no aversion to this. So as they climbed the stairs, Umbo slipped his fingers into Loaf’s large, man-sized hand and gripped him.

Ever so faintly, ever so gently, he felt Loaf’s grip tighten in response. A hint of a sign that Loaf was still in there. Loaf knew him. That was enough for Umbo. Enough for now, anyway.

Because if he ever became sure that Loaf was utterly gone, that his body was now completely the property of the monster implanted on his head, Umbo would find a way to kill him. If Loaf couldn’t have his own life, this creature wasn’t going to have it, either.

But Loaf was there. For now. So far.

Param had not intended to separate from the others, back outside the city. She simply got anxious, and by long habit, anxiety made her withdraw, becoming invisible to them and, best of all, ceasing to hear anything they said. They could look toward her, but she knew they didn’t see her. It was her perfect instantaneous escape.

Had she meant to escape? She hadn’t thought so; what would she be escaping from? It was inconvenient. This was not Flacommo’s house, where food would be waiting for her in
Mother’s room whenever she chose to arrive there. She needed to stay with the others.

But look—they were already moving away. Leaving her behind. They didn’t care.

She knew this was unfair. To them, it would seem they had waited a long time for her to reappear. Nor did they look angry; merely surprised for a moment. She could imagine that Rigg had assumed she
wanted
to disappear, and he was leaving her to do so freely.

Yet it still felt to her as if they had decided she didn’t matter enough to wait for.

Of course, if she had disappeared deliberately, she might have remained invisible for a long time. She was prone to doing that, as both Rigg and Olivenko would know. So waiting would make no sense. They were behaving perfectly rationally. All she had to do was come back to the normal timeflow and call out, “Wait for me.”

But then they would ask for an explanation, and she didn’t have one, except for the embarrassing admission that the slightest anxiety could make her vanish. Such weakness!

Or they
wouldn’t
ask for an explanation, which might be worse, for that would mean they were being
understanding
, choosing not to mention her little indiscretion, like a drunk’s crude remark or an old lady’s fart.

So she hesitated longer, not knowing what to do, decided that she must decide right now, and then realized that her hesitation
was
her decision.

As usual, she had let fear control her.

She felt the usual wave of self-contempt, made only worse because just yesterday—if “yesterday” meant anything anymore—she had quite bravely leapt from the high rock with Umbo. But that was different; the boy was going to die if she didn’t do something. She was responsible for him. It was so much easier to be brave when you were saving someone else. But when you were the one at risk, then courage was selfish, false, dangerous, pointless. Better to hide.

Better to be left behind? Better to be hungry, unable to find food? Better to be seen as a coward, unable to cope with the slightest stress? She would never earn the respect of these people, least of all her brother. Not that she
needed
their respect—she was Sissaminka, wasn’t she?

Not anymore. She was nothing now. It did her no good to regard these people as lower than her station. And yet they were—every bit of her upbringing told her so. Umbo, the boy whose hand she had held, whose life she had saved and who had saved her life in turn, he was barely educated, he was the son of an artisan. Now he thought they were friends. Impossible. Yet if she was ever to have a friend, why not him?

Param saw that the others were out of sight. She did not want to lose track of where they were. She slipped back into realtime and followed softly. Her shoes clacked on the floor of the museum, so she slipped them off. Now the floor was slippery, so she dared not run. She turned a corner. There they were.

She would have to speak, to be seen, they would look at her.

She slipped back into slow time and cursed herself again for the habitual coward she was.

In a moment, Rigg and Loaf were gone with Vadesh, and Umbo followed them down the stairs almost at once.

Olivenko was alone.

Olivenko, her father’s student. A mere guard now, yes, but still an educated man, familiar with the courtesies, softspoken, kind.

She slipped back into realtime and put her shoes back on. Only a few steps and he heard her.

He said nothing, though. He merely waited, eyes averted, as she approached. He pretended to be examining one of the large machines, but she knew he was waiting for her. So sensitive, so aware of what she needed.

“Thank you for waiting,” she said softly.

“I’m glad you returned to us,” said Olivenko. “I was worried about you.”

“I was worried about myself,” said Param. It was not a thing she expected herself to say; normally, embarrassed as she was, she would say nothing. But to Olivenko, in this moment, she felt the need to tell the truth. “I’m ashamed of myself for running away,” she said. “I didn’t mean to disappear like that. Hiding is a habit.”

“A habit that kept you alive during very difficult times.”

She felt a rush of gratitude. He did not condemn her. “But it’s inconvenient now,” she said. “If I hesitate while I’m . . . like that, then things move on without me. I’m always falling behind.”

“It keeps you young,” said Olivenko.

She did not know what he meant.

“Literally,” said Olivenko. “You’re slicing time, you’re moving
forward without living through the intervening moments. So for each hour that passes, you live much less than an hour. You don’t age as quickly. The more you’ve lived in hiding like that, the less time has passed for you, and the younger you are.”

“Yes, that’s so,” said Param.

“You should be sixteen, but do you think you are? Perhaps you’re only fifteen years old. Or fourteen.”

“I feel very old,” said Param. “Are you sure it doesn’t work the other way?”

He chuckled—not a loud laugh, so it didn’t sound derisive. It sounded as though he enjoyed her remark, as though he thought it was witty.

“Where have the others gone?”

“With Vadesh, to go into a starship,” said Olivenko. “Shall we find them?”

Param strode boldly forward, though she did not know where she was going. It seemed the thing to do, the antidote to her timidity of a few moments before. Soon they saw Umbo among the machines, but he was alone.

“Where did they go?” Param asked him. She made her tone peremptory, commanding, so that she would not have to deal with any questions from him about where she had gone when she disappeared.

“I don’t know,” said Umbo.

“Why aren’t you with them?” she insisted.

Then he told them that his future self had appeared to him with a warning: Stay here. Do nothing. He did not know why the warning had come, and in her impatience, and partly because she
had assumed an air of command, it quickly turned into a quarrel, each accusing the other of cowardice. Param said harsh things, but so did Umbo; Umbo’s words stung all the more because she knew that they were true. And when they found the place where the others had gone down the stairs, her fear began to rise again: What was the danger that Umbo’s future self had warned against? She felt herself starting to slow down, to vanish, and so she paced back and forth, determined not to let herself disappear again. She could not let this habit master her.

Umbo went down the stairs to look for Loaf and Rigg and Vadesh. But Olivenko stayed with her.

“Why don’t you go, too?” she asked.

“Loaf can handle anything that comes up,” said Olivenko. “I don’t like the idea of any of us being alone. So I’ll stay with you, if you don’t mind.”

“Do what you want.” She sounded surly, though she hadn’t meant to.

“I always do,” said Olivenko, sounding amused.

“You think I’m funny?” asked Param.

“No, I think
I’m
funny,” said Olivenko. “I gallantly stay behind to protect you—but of all the people in our group, you’re the one who least needs my protection. I’m not good for much, am I? I’m not half the soldier Loaf is, and I can’t fiddle with time the way you others can. Maybe I’m along to write the history afterward. Or perhaps I’ll be the one who dies, so that you can be warned that danger has arrived. That’s how it works in stories—there’s one who isn’t really needful to the tale, and so he’s the one who gets killed first. Usually he’s forgotten; nobody even mentions him at the end.”

“That’s bleak,” said Param. But she knew what he meant. She had heard many such tales, growing up. The one who can die and not be missed. She had never thought of that. Was it her role, after all? Mother thought so.

But no. Sissaminka would be missed. Her absence would be noted. She was not one who could die without repercussions. Mother would see. She had put too much trust in General Citizen. And when word got out that Param was gone, everyone would be sure Mother and General Citizen had killed her. There would be outrage. There would be rebellion, vengeance, justice.

“You look very fierce,” said Olivenko.

“Thinking of Mother,” said Param.

“It must have been devastating,” said Olivenko, “to have her turn on you.”

“I always knew what she was,” said Param. “I shouldn’t have been surprised.” And then, quite suddenly, she found herself crying. “I don’t know why I—please don’t touch me—it’s just that I—”

“It’s all right,” said Olivenko. “You’ve been very calm through everything. You’re entitled to unwind a little now.”

“But there’s still danger, there’s still . . .”

Olivenko said nothing.

Param felt herself swaying. She put out a hand and found his arm, leaned on him. In a moment she found that he had led her to a place where they could sit on a part of one of the machines.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“I’m not,” he said. “I’m glad.”

She faced him then, startled, prepared to be angry.

“Glad that you didn’t disappear,” said Olivenko. “Glad that you trusted me enough to stay.”

Param shook her head. “I can’t speed up time when I’m crying. Or slow myself down, or whatever it is I do. That’s why I learned not to let myself cry or scream. Instead I vanish. Only I’m trying not to. Trying not to let it be a habit.”

“You want to do it only when you decide,” said Olivenko.

“Yes,” said Param.

“You’re not crying now,” said Olivenko. “But you’re still angry with your mother.”

“Angry at myself for letting her take me by surprise,” said Param.

“She’s your mother. Of course her plotting against you took you by surprise.”

“She’s not my mother, she’s Hagia Sessamin. She does things for royal reasons, not personal sentimentality.”

“That’s the lie she tells herself to excuse her crimes,” said Olivenko. “You can believe her if you want, but I don’t. I think she acts
only
for personal reasons, and never once thinks of the kingdom.”

Param felt her anger flare up, but stopped herself from speaking sharply. How could she defend her mother after what the woman had done to her?

“It’s like your father,” said Olivenko. “The best man I ever knew. He said that he was pursuing a way through the Wall for the benefit of the whole kingdom. He talked about how the opening of the border would free everyone, widen the world. But it was all very vague. What he really wanted was to find some reason to exist.”

“He was Sissamik,” said Param. “
That
’s a reason to exist.”

“It’s an office. A title. He told me once—just once, mind you—that he was a mere decoration on the costume of a deposed queen. An accessory, like shoes, like a hat. If his wife ruled, he would still have no power; since she did not, he was worse than useless.”

“He was wonderful,” said Param. “He was the only one who treated me like . . .”

“Like a daughter.”

“Like a little girl,” said Param. “But yes, like a daughter.”

“He found you fascinating. ‘She’ll be Sessamin someday, after her mother, and if she has power she’ll have the power to be a monster if she wants, like her great-grandmother, the boy-killer.’”

“He said that?”

“It wasn’t an insult—it was one of her self-chosen titles. She killed all her male relatives so that no man could rival her daughter for the Tent of Light. She chose Knosso to be your mother’s consort, and left strict instructions that he was to be killed after he fathered two daughters.”

“Two?”

“Just in case,” said Olivenko. “Your mother bore Rigg instead, and then Knosso never quite managed to sire another child on her. So he never found out whether someone would have carried out old Aptica Sessamin’s command. There had been a revolution in the meantime, but that didn’t mean some old royalist wouldn’t try to fulfill the old lady’s wish.”