The Archivist (12 page)

“My need is great,” I admit. “So I would take it as a kindness if you let General Tucker know I’m here.”

“Come back when the morning bell tolls. The gate will be open then, and you can petition his court for an audience.” The man snaps the window closed.

At this point I have neither time nor tolerance for games. I shout at the closed portal, “The Tucker Realm has prospered in no small measure because of knowledge gained from the Archives. If you turn me away from this gate, I will issue an edict with your name mentioned in it, ensuring that no Archivist enters this city for at least a generation. When your enemies bring down these walls using Archives technology, it is your name that everyone will curse.”

I hear no response from the other side. “So be it. Give John Tucker my regards, because he’ll never get another thing from us. And I have my own ways to find out your name.”

Not that I do, but he does not know that. As I turn toward Saffron, the portal swings open, and I turn back with a wave of relief. That was a thinner bluff than I normally care for.

“Wait,” the man pleads. “I’ll send word. But I can’t promise that he’ll see you.”

“Just tell him K’Marr the Archivist is here to see him and that I trust he is enjoying his potatoes. Those exact words, mind you!” The face on the other side of the opening turns to murmur some instructions, and I hear someone dash away on the other side.

I glance at the surrounding hillsides, then ask the gateman, “Tell me, friend, why would coming here at this hour test a man’s courage?”

“Are you joking? You must have heard about the Shadow Ghost that haunts our valley. For the past year, there hasn’t been a farmer who hasn’t lost at least a couple head of cattle, and most of the sheep flocks are halved. Those foolish enough to send their dogs after the Ghost are lucky to get any back. A fortnight ago our best hunter set out to claim the bounty. Last week they found his body torn into four pieces. Except for his head. They never found that.”

Over the years I have heard more than my share of monster tales, but this man sounds genuinely frightened. I scan the hills again; they seem peaceful, though almost anything could hide up there. Then I hear it.

An eerie, mournful wail echoes across the valley, causing Saffron to prance nervously. It is the sound a set of bagpipes might make if someone sat on them, except these pipes include a deep-throated warble. It raises the hair on the back of my neck. The man behind the gate looks back and forth through his portal wildly, as if determining whether I am about to get eaten.

“Now do you believe me?” he continues earnestly. “They say it walks through walls, that’s how it gets into the barns. My sister’s husband saw it and said it has three heads!”

Another wail rolls across the farmland, and it takes all of my self-control to restrain my laughter when I turn back to face the gateman. If it is what I suspect it is, now that I have heard it again, I can assure him it only has one head. But he does have good reason to fear it.

The sounds of running footsteps approaches on the other side, followed by a series of thumps when the gate bars are removed. The fifteen-foot-high gate cracks open with a loud creak, and several men in sewn-leather and rough-spun clothing eye me warily. When another wail reverberates across the valley, they rush me through the entrance.

One man, barely old enough to shave, reaches to take Saffron’s reins. “I have orders to see that she has water and feed.”

“Not too much,” I caution, as I hand the reins over. “I don’t expect to be here long.”

The gateman, whose name I have not yet learned, remains at his post while the runner leads me through the small town toward the Great Hall.

Tucker, as the town is simply called, is not much larger than Port Sadelow, but very efficiently organized. All the essential trades are present, including blacksmithing, tanning and textiles. There are even two doctors, and the last time I was here, Tucker mentioned his goal to start a school that would eventually become a small university.

One thing I have to grant Tucker is that he is working hard to be self-sufficient. The man can be ruthless and would laugh at the idea of a free election, but I suspect that he would win it easily if he had one.

We walk through clean, smooth streets paved with flat stone, and lit with widely-spaced oil lamps. There is not an official curfew, but few people are out this late, mostly because the residents of Tucker work damned hard.

When we reach the hall that serves as audience chamber as well as quarters, my escort ushers me through the door and waits outside. That is a good call.

At the far end of the torch-lit room stands a bear of a man, broad and powerful, but lean as a greyhound. Closer to seven feet tall than six, he stands before a wide table with his back facing me. As the door closes behind me, he spins around, and hurls a large dagger across the room, which lodges into the door frame three feet from my head.

Expecting something like this, I do not flinch.

The seventy-three-year-old former Ranger general strides toward me, his growling words reinforcing the ursine impression. “Anyone else and I wouldn’t aim for the door frame. What is so damn important that you have to drag an old man from an eager woman and a warm bed in the middle of the night?”

I walk forward and meet him in the middle of the room. From experience, I know the general has little patience for beating around the bush. He does not intimidate me, but I respect the man and know I need to watch my step. Five feet before we meet, I plant my feet and cross my arms in a strong but neutral stance as I reply.

“I’m here because I have urgent need for a tracker to complete my mission, and it just so happens that you have the best tracker within a thousand miles in your dungeon.”

“What, are you talking about that sorry-assed injun we caught spying on us last year? I have dogs that are smarter than that long-haired fleabag. What makes you think he’s going to help you, even if he is half as good as you seem to think he is?”

As we talk I stroll toward one side of the room, where I see a table stacked with recently-forged swords. Unlike the U.S. Midwest—where they ran out of food during the Demon Days far sooner than they ran out of bullets—high quality ammunition became a precious commodity around here decades ago.

“General, you know from experience that an Archivist trades not only in knowledge and technology, but debts and favors. I assure you, the man will have reason to help me, and it will not be to the detriment of the Tucker Realm.”

The old man laughs. “I would tell you that I’ll see you in Hell, but I have no doubt that even the Devil is in your debt. Okay, let’s say I’m willing to hand over this derelict. Give me a good reason. And don’t mention that time you saved us from starvation. Getting me out of bed used that favor up.”

I pick up one of the swords, take a couple of practice swings and turn toward Tucker, pointing the tip at him. “I’ve got a reason you can’t turn down, right here.” Setting the point of the sword on the floor, I plant my foot on the middle of the blade and step. The brittle metal snaps in half, and I toss the broken blade aside.

“Sure, your steel is sharp, but it’ll break in battle like a milk-fed boy. You have some of the most disciplined troops I’ve seen on any continent, but you need steel that is equal in quality to the soldiers using those swords.” I figure a touch of flattery never hurts.

John Tucker frowns. I can tell that I have hit a bulls-eye. The pile of broken swords under the table was a big clue. The man steps up close to me and examines me with hard eyes, but his voice is as quiet as it is intense.

“The kind of steel you talk about was made in factories run by robots and supplied by robots and machined by robots. We both know those factories were destroyed by robots. Are you telling me you have one that’s still running?”

I cross my arms. He is hooked well now, so I move this into the endgame. “General, in all my years of traveling across every continent, I have not come across one original factory that is still running. The few I’ve seen are small, human-operated and using steam power, at best. No, I’m talking about a long-forgotten forging technique, one that uses the resources you have here and now, to produce steel you could use for samurai swords if you wanted.”

Tucker shakes his head as he stares at me with narrowed eyes, then turns and walks away while he ponders my offer. After a couple of minutes, he turns and points at me.

“You have this technique with you? Now?”

“I don’t have it right now, but you have my word that I will bring it to you before the start of next summer. Besides, what do you have to lose, other than what you yourself admit is just a worthless mouth to feed?”

“How do I know you’ll bring it? I’m already short some irreplaceable medical supplies he stole, which by the way I suspect you had a part in. You were one of the only people that even knew about that stockpile. So you’ll have your tracker, and I’ll have nothing but shit for steel.”

“John Tucker,” I say as I look him in the eye. “Have you ever known an Archivist who did not keep his word?” I take his silence to mean that he acknowledges my point. “If I do not return with what I promised by next spring, it means I’m dead. Nothing less will prevent me from coming back.”

General Tucker considers my offer, then holds out his hand. “It’s a deal. I’ll send someone right now to get your wild savage.”

“Just one more thing,” I say when I take his hand. “As I mentioned, my mission is urgent and I rode through the night to get here. My tracker will need a horse as well.”

“That’s more than a worthless mouth to feed!” the general exclaims.

I squeeze his hand. “It will be very… good… steel.”

“By God, it had better be!” He laughs as he clasps my hand, and then stalks to the hall entrance. Throwing the door open, he bellows, “Go get that redskin we caught in the pharmacy last year, and take him to the front gate. And you, get a horse saddled up and over there before Lars gets there, or you’ll take that injun’s place.”

General Tucker seems to be ebullient about the prospect of going into the steel-making business, and actually whistles as he personally walks me back to the town gate.

Sure, I may alter the balance of power in this region, but that is not my problem. Manipulating world events has never been an Archives objective, but we are not too worried about the effect of occasional interference. Life has a way of leveling all things out in the long run. That’s the power of chaos.

By the time we reach the gate, Saffron is waiting for me, along with a young black stallion they call Thorn. I am seriously tempted to take the younger horse, when the man who originally escorted me to the hall hurries down the street, half-dragging a thin, shambling figure.

Little Crow is stoic, aside from a momentary flash of recognition when he sees me. My former guide has lost some weight, and his thick, black hair hangs below his shoulder blades, but otherwise he seems little worse for wear.

As Little Crow’s shackles are removed, Tucker says, “I still think you’re wasting your efforts on him, but he’s all yours now.”

Rubbing his wrists, Little Crow faces Tucker. “Nashoni mayona nee kawna, whey toena! This place bad. Great Spirit no like. I no like. I no come back.” Then he spits on the ground next to Tucker and jumps up onto the black horse.

Oh well, better the horse I am familiar with. I glance at the general, shrug and then step into the stirrups of my own horse.

I note that both horses have saddlebags with water skins. When I reach into my saddlebag, I feel a package of wrapped jerky and a bag of nuts. It probably would not even occur to the Tucker militia to outfit a horse without them. We both have new swords as well. I hope they are better than the ones in the Great Hall.

As the gates swing open, we hear another banshee-like wail. Little Crow ignores it. If he is not worried, that is good enough for me, but I am going to make damned sure I stay close to him. We guide our horses forward through the gate while the guards mutter about what fools we are. Our mounts silently set off on a trot down the valley, away from the town.

Little Crow waits until we round a bend well out of sight of the town, and we slow the horses to a walk. I am reaching for some jerky, since I have not eaten since lunch, when Little Crow rides up next to me and punches me hard in the shoulder. I barely manage to stay on my horse.

“It’s about fucking time you came and got me! What the hell took you so long?” He takes another swing at me, but this time I am ready, and spur my horse forward a couple of steps.

“I’m glad to see you too, Little Crow. What exactly did you say to Tucker back there, anyway? It sounded like some kind of native curse.”

“I have no idea,” Little Crow laughs. “I was just making shit up. You’d be surprised what people will say around you when they think you can’t understand them. It’s just like you’re invisible.”

“Anything I should know about?” I ask.

“How about if I throw you in a well for six months? Then I’ll come back and tell you.”

“Sorry it took so long,” I say. “By the time I got the treatment back to your tribe, snows were setting in, and let’s just say that for a while I wasn’t exactly welcome in Tucker Town. I wouldn’t do you much good sitting in the cell next to yours.”

Little Crow grunts, which I have come to know is his way of saying ‘yes, you’re right.’ As another unearthly call echoes from the hills, I ask Little Crow what it is.

“That’s nothing to worry about. It’s just my little friend, who you’ll meet soon enough. So why did you come back for me now? You must need something.”

“You are really hurting my feelings, Little Crow. Just stick a knife in me and twist it. Don’t you think I’d come back to get you simply because it’s the right thing to do?”

Little Crow pretends to punch me again, but this time it is for show. “Does it have something to do with a woman?”

I sigh, and then respond, “Okay, you’re right, it does. Someone kidnapped her. And since you could track a snowflake through a blizzard, if anyone can find her, it’s you.”

“I knew it,” he says, grinning. “It’s always about a woman.”