Synaptic Manhunt (20 page)

‘Quickly, crouch down. They don’t seem to have seen us.’

They all flattened themselves on the grass. Not even A.A. Catto made a protest. They lay perfectly still. The horsemen carried on in the same direction. Billy whispered to Reave.

‘I think they’re going to go past without seeing us.’

Reave’s face was grim.

‘I sure hope so. They don’t look over-friendly.’

Suddenly the leading rider pulled his horse to a stop. The others halted beside him. For a few moments they milled about. Then they began to fan out. They came down the hillside at a steady trot, directly towards where the four were lying. Billy pushed himself up into a crouch.

‘They’ve seen us! Run! Spread out!’

They all broke from cover. The riders kicked their horses and came on at a gallop. Billy began running for all he was worth. He forgot about the gun under his coat. The thunder of hooves was close behind him. The riders let out high, bloodcurdling shrieks. Billy’s heart began to pound and his breath came in short, laboured gasps. The time in Litz had destroyed his physical condition. His body cringed at the thought of one of the long thin lances stabbing into it.

He glanced over his shoulder, and saw one of the horsemen close behind him. He swung round and changed direction. He caught a glimpse of a dark-skinned face beneath a strange winged helmet. Then the rider thundered past. Billy began panting back up the hill. Another rider crossed to intercept him. They were dressed in cloaks of some kind of fur, and black armour made from small interlocking plates. They looked sinister and deadly. Billy tried dodging again, but the second rider was too quick for him. He wheeled his horse and came after him. Billy saw that he was swinging two weights on the end of a long thong. Billy turned again and went on running desperately. He caught sight of another rider about to run down Nancy. The one who was chasing Billy suddenly let go of the device of weights and thongs. At that moment Billy remembered the gun, but it was too late. The thing caught him just above the knees. The thongs coiled tightly around his legs. Billy fell heavily. His head hit a rock and black oblivion rushed in and grabbed him.

The light that Jeb Stuart Ho had seen at the end of the road turned out, as they came closer, not to be one but several. They shone from the windows of a large building that stood on a small island of bare ground, beside the road, with the nothings all round it. It had the same ramshackle, disorganized style of architecture as the house at Wainscote where Ho had first found the Minstrel Boy, but instead of looking grim and menacing, this place seemed friendly and inviting.

In front of the building was a wide forecourt. It was crowded with a very mixed assortment of vehicles. A line of saddled lizards were tied to a rail. Sleek ground cars were parked next to broken-down horse-drawn wagons. A huge, ornately painted truck towered over a collection of weird, custom-built motorcycles. The access to this parking lot was through a high, curving arch of neon lights. Above the arch a huge sign turned slowly. It carried the legend THE INN. This garish entrance contrasted strangely with the funky, uneven style of the building.

As they came up to the Inn, Jeb Stuart Ho wondered if the Minstrel Boy was going to stop or drive straight by. Ho looked at him questioningly, but the Minstrel Boy continued to stare fixedly straight ahead. Jeb Stuart Ho assumed that there was going to be no stop, and settled back in his seat. Then, at the last minute, the Minstrel Boy spun the wheel and the car swung off the road with a shriek of tyres.

They passed under the glowing arch, and crossed the forecourt. The Minstrel Boy parked the car beside a land yacht. The strange vehicle had huge, spun-gold photon sails, and a wooden body covered in elaborate and somewhat obscene carvings. The Minstrel Boy cut the car’s engine, and slumped forward across the wheel. Jeb Stuart Ho wondered if he should help the Minstrel Boy out of the car, or leave him and go into the Inn on his own. He tapped the Minstrel Boy on the shoulder.

‘Do you want to come inside with me?’

The Minstrel Boy didn’t answer. He responded like a zombie, sitting up and slowly moving his hand to the door handle. Jeb Stuart Ho quickly climbed out of the car and hurried round to the Minstrel Boy’s side. He helped him through the door, and steadied him while he tried to stand.

In his trancelike state, the Minstrel Boy had a good deal of difficulty walking. Jeb Stuart Ho supported him as they made their way to the entrance of the Inn. As they passed the line of tethered lizards, the beasts snorted and stamped their feet in agitation. The Minstrel Boy seemed to have a strange, unsettling effect on them.

The interior of the Inn, and the people who crowded the noisy, smoky, low-ceilinged room, were as mixed as the outside architecture. A long bar of dark, stained oak ran down one side of the main room. A gang of bartenders scurried backwards and forwards behind it serving drinks to the demanding throng. In a corner a string band occupied a small stage and tried to make themselves heard above the general din. In a cleared space among the tables a hunchbacked juggler with a small black and white dog performed for tips and drinks. Across on the other side of the room, in a section of floor that was lower than the rest, two men sat on small stools, hunched over a huge black and white marble board, a full two metres across, playing checkers with counters the size of plates. A small crowd sat silently watching them, occasionally exchanging low-voiced side bets as the game progressed.

At one end of the room was a granite fireplace where two great logs blazed with a comforting glow. The corner of the fireplace and the wall of the room created a patch of shadow. In it were two tables. One was empty and the other occupied only by a solitary old man who nodded over a beer mug. It seemed a place where one could sit without attracting attention. Jeb Stuart Ho steered the Minstrel Boy towards the spot. He didn’t want anyone paying too close attention to his condition.

Once they were seated, Jeb Stuart Ho had a chance to look at the other people in the main room of the Inn. There were representatives of almost every culture that was crowded on to the remains of the shattered world. There were nomad bike-riders and wheelfreaks with their loud laughter, leather suits and long, greased hair. There were puritan merchants jealous of the glances that the other travellers gave their veiled and hooded wives. Hard-eyed brigands with gaudy clothes, huge brass rings through their ears, and wicked knives stuck in their belts crouched in conspiratorial groups. Away from the rest of the crowd five nuns ate in silence. They had the shaved heads and purple robes of the grim sisterhood who ruled the city of Sade. Sophisticated women in the scanty synthetics that were high fashion in the tech-cities rubbed shoulders with ragged bums, travelling hookers, medicine men and gamblers in the traditional frock coats and fancy vests. There were even a few of the strange, almost alien creatures from the outer fringes, with their tinted skin, abnormal bodies and outlandish clothes. Of A.A. Catto and her companions, however, there was no sign.

Servants of both sexes moved in and out of the throng, serving meals and drinks, laughing with the customers and generally making themselves available. They seemed to combine the roles of waiter, host and prostitute. One of them, a girl with large breasts and long slim legs, moved towards Jeb Stuart Ho’s table.

‘What can I get you, friend?’

‘I’d like a meal of fresh vegetables and a bottle of pure water.’

The waitress looked at him strangely. She seemed about to say something, but changed her mind. She nodded towards the Minstrel Boy.

‘How about him? Does he want anything?’

‘You could bring him some brandy.’

The waitress nodded, and then smiled sideways at Jeb Stuart Ho.

‘You wouldn’t maybe like a little, uh, companionship, perhaps?’

Jeb Stuart Ho hesitated. He had had no sexual contact with either man or woman since he had left the temple. The prospect seemed wholly inviting. Both the men and the women were extremely pleasing. There was his task, though. He was sure the brotherhood and his teachers would expect him to remain celibate until it was complete. He sighed and shook his head.

‘Regretfully, I think not.’

The girl shrugged.

‘Suit yourself.’

She went away, and after a short while came back with the order. As she leaned over to place it on the table, Jeb Stuart Ho was treated to an uninterrupted view of her breasts. He felt a stab of remorse at his decision to remain temporarily celibate. After she’d moved on, he pushed the brandy glass in front of the Minstrel Boy.

‘Here, I ordered a drink for you.’

The Minstrel Boy’s eyes were glazed. He appeared to hear and see nothing. It was as though he was in some other place. Jeb Stuart Ho started as a wheezing chuckle came from behind him.

‘He’ll not drink anything.’

Jeb Stuart Ho turned round carefully, and found the old man was grinning at him crookedly. He was a strange figure. The top of his head was bald, but long white hair cascaded down his back. His beard was of equal length. His face was lined and weatherbeaten, and the long shapeless robe that he wore had been washed, bleached, patched and darned until it was a uniform off-white. The most compelling thing about him, however, was his eyes. They were small and black and peered out from behind bushy eyebrows like those of a lizard, a lizard whose sense of humour was the only thing that saved it from being a venomous cynic. He picked up a stout polished staff, almost as tall as himself, from where it was leaning against the wall, and moved to Jeb Stuart Ho’s table.

‘He’ll not touch the brandy, or anything else, until he pulls out of what you’ve done to him.’

Jeb Stuart Ho tensed. He arranged himself in his chair so he could instantly move in any direction. He looked evenly at the old man.

‘You know what’s been done to him?’

The old man’s mouth twisted into a sneer.

‘I’ve a pretty fair idea. You’ve filled him up with cyclatrol or some such gunk, and there’s no point in you sitting there like a cat ready to jump. I’ll not harm you. Much as I might like to. The only thing I’m wondering is why you did it. I’m wondering what you’re after.’

Jeb Stuart Ho was taken aback at the amount of information the old man seemed to have. He did his best to maintain his composure.

‘You seem to know a lot about my affairs.’

‘I just watch and figure. Right now I’m figuring what you’re up to.’

Jeb Stuart Ho smiled a deceptively sweet smile. He was aware that he might have to kill the prattling old man if he began to endanger his mission.

‘And what do you figure I’m up to, old man?’

‘I figure you’re hunting someone. That’s about the only thing that’ll bring you black murdering vultures out of your damn temple. I figure you’re out for a hit, and you’ve filled the poor boy here with cyclatrol to get a fix on your victim.’

‘Your talk could be dangerous, old man.’

The old man nodded towards the Minstrel Boy.

‘When I was his age, I might have been afraid of you, but now I’m too old. Even he seeks a temporary death in oblivion every opportunity he gets. Maybe life’s the only thing to be afraid of these days.’

Jeb Stuart Ho was definitely ill at ease. He glanced at the Minstrel Boy, and then back at the old man.

‘You know him?’

The old man laughed.

‘The Minstrel Boy. Aye, you could say our paths have crossed.’

‘Who are you?’

‘They call me the Wanderer.’

‘And what do you do, Wanderer?’

‘I wander round from place to place. I watch and figure.’

‘And you know where you are?’

‘Don’t get any ideas.’

‘But you do know where you are?’

The Wanderer sighed.

‘Aye, I do, but not as good as a lizard, and not as good as him.’

He nodded towards the Minstrel Boy.

‘I was never as good as him. Perhaps that’s why I lived so long.’

Jeb Stuart Ho was about to ask another question, when the Minstrel Boy twitched. His eyes focused, and his mouth opened.

‘Quahal.’

His voice was a hoarse croak.

‘Quahal.’

Jeb Stuart Ho grasped his arm.

‘Quahal.’

‘What?’

The Minstrel Boy didn’t answer. His eyes glazed over again. He became rigid. Jeb Stuart Ho looked at the Wanderer.

‘What did he say?’

The Wanderer’s eye twinkled.

‘He said Quahal.’

‘What is Quahal?’

‘Don’t they teach you anything inside your precious temple?’

Jeb Stuart Ho’s face darkened.

‘What is Quahal?’

‘It’s a place. I figure your quarry must have fetched up there. Is it a man or a woman?’

‘What difference does it make?’

The Wanderer laughed.

‘In Quahal it makes a difference.’

‘Why? What is this place?’

‘You want to know about Quahal, do you?’

‘I’d be grateful for any information you could give me.’

‘Grateful, even? Well, I suppose I can’t do no harm, except of course to help you kill this poor soul.’

‘She only has to die to save many more lives.’

‘Says you.’

‘The brotherhood’s projections have a very low factor of error.’

The Wanderer grunted.

‘That’s as maybe. It’s too much like men playing god for me.’

Jeb Stuart Ho grew impatient.

‘Will you tell me about Quahal?’

The Wanderer nodded.

‘Aye, I’ll tell. If you promise to keep quiet, and not interrupt.’

Jeb Stuart Ho smiled.

‘You have my word.’

‘Your word, even. Right, then. I’ll tell you the story of Quahal. Like most things, it started back in the days when things broke up. That was just after Stuff Central got going, and we were supposed to have reached Utopia, although not many people like to connect those two facts any more. Anyhow, the nothings came, and the disruptors began to break up the land, and you couldn’t trust gravity or nothing any more. People began grabbing anything they could hang on to, stabilize and live on. Everyone had a different idea about why things had gone so wrong. There was this particular brother and sister called Alamada and Joachim Hesse. They decided all the trouble was due to technology and the only way to live was in a primitive, natural world. As their home started to melt away, they got Stuff Central to set one up for them. They had a huge great stasis generator installed, stabilized a stretch of place, had it landscaped, a nice misty, wild mountain and a fertile river valley, and moved in. You’ll notice, incidentally, that they weren’t averse to a bit of technology creating and maintaining this Garden of Eden. At my age, I really ought to stop expecting people to be consistent. Anyway, they had some plants and animals beamed in, and then people. The people were specially DNA tailored to suit Alamada’s and Joachim’s fantasies, and programmed to do exactly what was expected of them. Everything was set up. They called the place Quahal and settled down to the simple life.’