Runner (27 page)

But, having listened to Rebo's business proposal, it soon became apparent that the nomad had no interest in escorting four off-worlders south through the badlands to the city beyond. Even the runner's offer of additional money fell on deaf ears. The chieftain had a perishable cargo to transport, which meant she intended to travel at night and cover at least twenty miles per day. A pace nonnomads would never be able to maintain.

That left Rebo with no choice but to seek out the second southbound caravan in hopes that the person in charge of that pack train would prove to be more accommodating. It was early afternoon by the time the nearly empty bread wagon pulled up in front of one of the most distant and undesirable camping spots. A single scroungy-looking mutt came out to meet them, and it was lame. And, rather than the rush of children the runner had come to expect, only six of them actually materialized. They stood in a small somber-looking group that remained right where it was until Omar offered the youngsters some free hard rolls. That brought them forward, but hesitantly, as if fearful that doing so might land them in trouble.

In the meantime, half a dozen heavily armed men had emerged from the scattering of dingy, ragged-looking tents. In spite of the fact that the bread wagon couldn't possibly be interpreted as a threat, the nomads continued to watch in baleful silence as a handful of scrawny women ventured out to make their purchases. In all truth the encampment was so lackluster that Rebo would have skipped the group entirely had there been another choice. So, feet dragging, the runner
approached a sun-darkened warrior and asked if he could speak with the chief. The nomad had dark eyes, a single eyebrow, and a scar that ran diagonally across his face. He extended a hand palm up. “Pay me.”

The runner looked the villain in the eye. “Take me to the chief, or I'll find him on my own, and tell him that you identified yourself as the headman.”

Most of the blood drained out of the warrior's face. A sure sign that whatever his other attributes, the chief was jealous of his authority and completely unforgiving where would-be usurpers were concerned. “But that would be a lie!” the nomad objected.

Rebo produced what he hoped was a predatory grin. “Yes, but that won't make much difference will it? Not if you're dead . . . Now, take me to your chief, or get the hell out of the way.”

Scarface started to bring his long-barreled rifle up, saw the newcomer's hand go to the enormous pistol that he wore crosswise across his belly, and knew he would lose the ensuing race. Well aware of the fact that his peers were watching, and mindful of his reputation, the warrior turned away. Rebo followed Scarface over to the largest tent, where the villainous nomad shouted something in a dialect the runner hadn't heard before, and pretended to examine one of his filthy fingernails.

A full minute passed before the leather curtain that protected the entrance was pushed aside and a man emerged. He squinted into the sun, belched loudly, and scratched a small but prominent belly. With the exception of a dirty loincloth and the black pelt that covered his bony chest, the headman was naked. “Yes?” the apparition said. “Who calls on Valpoon? And what the hell do you want?”

“My name is Taka,” Rebo lied, “and my companions and
I wish to travel to Cresus. I heard that you and your caravan plan to go there. Perhaps we could come to some sort of agreement.”

There was a momentary paused as the chieftain processed the runner's words, followed by a generous display of yellowed teeth. “Of course!” the nomad said enthusiastically. “Nothing would give my family and I more pleasure than the opportunity to speed you and your companions to Cresus. Where are these noble beings? Please summon them forth that I might greet each of them personally.”

“They're in the city,” the runner answered vaguely, “so the introductions will have to wait. In the meantime, perhaps you would be so good as to tell me when you plan to depart, what sort of supplies we would be expected to bring along, and how much such a journey would cost?”

Valpoon, who was fully aware of the fact that only two caravans were slated to head south during the next month, set his price accordingly. “We plan to leave in two days' time, my men would be happy to purchase your supplies for you, and the price is five cronos each.”

Rebo frowned. If allowed to purchase the supplies, Valpoon and his men would no doubt charge a healthy commission, thereby fattening their purses even further. “The departure date is fine, but we will buy our supplies, and four cronos per person is considerably higher than the going rate. However, I will pay you a bonus of one crono per person,
if
you get us to Cresus within sixty days.”

Valpoon was impressed by both the stranger's forceful manner and his knowledge of seasonal pricing. Not only that, but by ultimately agreeing to a total price of five cronos per person, his reputation as a tough negotiator remained intact. He gave a bow. It should have been ludicrous, especially given his lack of clothing, but such dignity
had been invested in the gesture that it came off rather well. “How can an uneducated wretch such as myself even begin to bargain with a man such as yourself? It shall be as you say . . . Be careful when buying your angens, however. Thieves abound, and your lives will depend on which animals you chose.”

That, at least, was good advice, and Rebo accepted it as such. The runner bowed in return. “Thank you. We will be very careful indeed.”

Omar had sold his last loaf of bread by then and was waiting when Rebo climbed up onto the wagon. The old man's expression was grim. “You didn't give that scoundrel any money did you?”

“No,” the runner answered. “Not yet.”

“Good,” Omar replied, as he made use of the reins to slap the angen's glistening back. “Because I don't like the look of this bunch. Not one little bit.”

Rebo felt the same way—but there was no point in saying so. The wagon lurched over a loose rock as the sun continued its march across the sky, and night waited to reclaim the land.

It was dusk, and while the sun was about to drop over the
edge of the western horizon, it was only a little past seven, which meant the power wouldn't come on for a while yet. But the citizens of Zand were used to that, which was why thousands of candles, lamps, and lanterns had already been lit and people had started to filter out onto the streets as they did every evening. And Jevan Kane was one of them. Not because he
wanted
to go out, but because he had to, headache be damned. After questioning hundreds of people, one of the local operatives had come up with a lead, the only one generated so far. It seemed that a street vendor had
noticed a youth who matched the description of the boy Kane had seen on both Pooz, and on Ning, riding atop the ragged-looking heavy.

For some reason the youngster had been out running around the streets alone. The vendor had seen him pause in front of the black hat temple, look all around as if to make sure that no one was watching him, then enter alone. Later, after an hour or so, the boy had departed. That was intriguing enough—but there was more. The vendor was well acquainted with the black hats, having given all of the monks food at one time or another, so when the boy left and one of the aspirants followed, the woman couldn't help but notice.

Now, as Kane stood next to her flat-cake stand, the off-worlder sought to put the pieces of the puzzle together. Norr had been accompanied by four red hat warriors at the spaceport, the boy had been seen visiting a black hat temple, and a monk had been dispatched to follow him home. But
why?
There was only one way to find out.

Kane turned to Olvos. “Okay, I'm going in. If I haven't returned by eight-thirty, or sent word, then come in after me.”

The council member nodded, but the gesture lacked conviction, and Kane knew he might renege. Especially if the black hats put up some resistance. Still, he had no other choice, not if he wanted to find Norr.

Head pounding, Kane made his way across the open area in front of the monastery and entered through one of eight possible doors. As luck would have it the operative passed through portal six, the entry that stood for skillful effort, the very thing the operative would have chosen had he been aware of the symbology involved. Once inside, the off-worlder looked around, spotted a likely-looking monk, and
approached him. “Excuse me . . . I'm a stranger here—and would like to speak with the abbot.”

The monk bowed, promised to return, and disappeared down a hallway. A full ten minutes passed, and Kane had started to wonder if he was being systematically ignored, when the black hat reappeared. He bowed respectfully. “My apologies regarding the delay. The abbot was in a meeting. He will see you now.”

Kane followed the monk through a series of passageways and into a large office. Outside of a single overhead light fixture there was no sign of technology, and the whole notion of sitting on the floor struck Kane as primitive. The man who rose to greet him wore a black hat, matching robe, and a polite expression. “I am Hico Marth. Please have a seat. How can I help you?”

Kane waited for the black hat to take his seat, lowered himself onto a cushion, and dreaded the effort that would be required to stand up again. Then came the difficult part. Broaching a subject that might, or might not, have meaning for the monk, plus doing so in a way that wouldn't reveal too much. “Thank you for agreeing to see me. My name is Jevan Kane. I know you're busy so I'll try to be brief . . . I represent a group called the Techno Society.”

Marth allowed his eyebrows to rise. “The organization that the metal men preach on behalf of?”

Kane nodded. “We don't think of our efforts to remind people of the benefits of technology as preaching, but yes, the metal men belong to us.”

“I hope you'll forgive me for saying so,” the abbot responded mildly, “but the metal men are more than a little annoying. But that aside, what brings you to our humble temple?”

“A little boy,” Kane replied truthfully. “A little boy who arrived on Ning along with four red hat warriors, survived a battle at the spaceport, and was subsequently seen entering your monastery.”

Marth, who still had the boy's hotel under surveillance, knew who Kane was referring to. Rather than reveal that knowledge, however, the black hat thought it best to maintain a neutral expression and draw the stranger out. “I see. But many boys enter our temple . . . What makes this one so special?”

The monk was already aware of the boy, Kane could sense it, and felt his heart beat just a little bit faster. That made his head throb, and he struggled to maintain focus. “The boy
isn't
special, not so far as we're concerned, but the woman he is traveling with is. She has something that doesn't belong to her, something she stole from me, and I want it back.”

“Ah,” Marth replied, “now I understand. If you find the boy—you find the thief.”

“Exactly,” the technologist answered. “Can you help me?”

“Yes,” the abbot replied judiciously, as his fingertips came together to form a steeple. “I think I can . . . But first I would appreciate it if you would tell me everything you can about the boy. I'm not entirely sure as yet, but based on information I received a few days ago, there is a strong possibility that the boy is an imposter.”

A ten-year-old imposter? It didn't make sense, but Kane didn't care, not so long as he got what he wanted. So, starting with the disastrous firefight at the riverfront restaurant in Gos and ending with the brawl at Zand's spaceport, the operative told the black hat what he wanted to know.

Marth listened intently. The fact that the boy named Lee had clearly been on the same ship that Brother Fiva had
monitored and was pursuing an itinerary that could take him to Thara and the city of CaCanth certainly seemed to confirm his identity. Not with 100 percent certainty perhaps, but to an extent that justified a momentary deviation from the way, even if that meant negative Ka, and some additional incarnations prior to full enlightenment. Because, onerous though the results of his actions might be, the needs of the church must necessarily take precedence over his life and the boy's as well. Marth looked into the other man's ice-blue eyes. “Based on your description of what took place, I think there is a high degree of likelihood that the boy is the one we're looking for.”

“I am gratified to hear it,” Kane replied eagerly. “If you would be so kind as to tell me where the woman and the boy are staying, my personnel will take both of them into custody. Once that has been accomplished, the boy will be handed over to you.”

The abbot smiled thinly. “Thank you, but no. I mean no offense, but the attempt to capture the group at the spaceport lacked finesse and could only be described as a miserable failure. No, I think a different approach is in order, one that won't attract any further attention. Assuming the boy is the person I believe he is, then I know exactly where he and his escorts will go next, which means we can intercept them. Not here, in the city, but well beyond the walls.”

The suggestion went against all of Kane's instincts, but so long as the black hat withheld the boy's location, he had the advantage. All the technologist could do was smile, nod, and hope for the best.

The abbot ordered tea, which in spite of the fact that it didn't contain any sugar, still tasted sweet.