The Archivist (22 page)

My musing gets shoved aside as Deep Throat says something about strangers, and the groomsman responds, “Yes, a couple of travelers did come in last night, but they were just traders.”

Another man says he wants to see the horses the unbelievers rode in on. I realize what that dust column was that I saw on the way into town: a contingent of Disciples has taken over Georges.

I congratulate myself on keeping my backpack with me, then almost smack my forehead as I recall that I left my field glasses in one of the saddlebags. They were a nice, compact titanium pair that I will really miss, too. Sure enough, a minute later I hear footsteps returning, and the deep-throated man growls as he addresses Angie’s associate.

“You are not the innocent groomsman you would have us believe. The friend of an Archivist is a prime enemy to all Disciples.”

“Please, I’m just a simple man. I have no reason to deal with an Archivist. Grooming horses doesn’t require tech, you know that.”

Gesturing to the women to turn back, we retreat as quickly as we can. Once we are on the street heading back to the shop, I fill them in on what I heard.

“You son of a bitch,” Angie hisses. For a moment I fear she will knife me on the spot. “You led those bastards right to me!”

“I came from a different direction, over the western mountains. I didn’t bring them here. You can blame me for a lot of things Angie, and rightly so, but you can’t pin this one on me.”

“Then why are they here, looking for you?” Angie asks, as she grabs my duster.

I have the same question, but no answer for either of us. “I honestly have no idea, but we need to get the hell out of here.”

“Don’t worry, Michael will never give us up,” Angie assures me as we enter the shop and she bars the door.

“You used to be a Disciple, Angie!” I retort. “You should know better. He’ll hold out as long as he can, but he’ll break. Grab what you can’t live without and let’s go.”

Angie curses, then runs upstairs, while Danae looks at me with frightened eyes. It occurs to me that the only other time I have seen her show fear was when her father died.

Personally, I cannot imagine how the Disciples could stumble on us again so quickly, but if it were me, I would not even come back here. We should already be heading through the gates dressed as shepherds or farmers.

Angie rushes back and forth upstairs, while I pace downstairs. Every minute she takes is two minutes too long.

Just to do something, I pass through the curtains behind the counter to see where the back leads to. I swear to myself. This town obviously does not enforce any fire codes; there is no back exit. There are no windows, either, and the only door in the rear of the shop leads down into a basement.

Angie finally scrambles down the stairs, and we’re starting toward the exit when the front door rattles, followed by a furious banging.

“Open up, we seek Disciple’s Justice.” Apparently Michael did not hold out very long at all. I am prepared to stand and fight, and pull my knife out, but Angie has other ideas.

She stands in the middle of the shop and gestures for us to retreat into the back. “Hide downstairs,” she hisses. “I can convince them they’ve got the wrong place.” The pounding on the door resumes and we have no time to debate our course of action.

Danae and I move as quickly as we can without making noise, and ease ourselves down the stairs. The basement is dimly lit through a small slit of a window, just large enough to tantalize us without offering any hope of escape unless we somehow turn into cats.

I scan the room for anything useful, and hear Angie stride across the floor upstairs and open the door. There is little more than boxes and bags of herbs down here, so I set my pack on a box and dig out my crossbow.

“I’m not open for business yet. Come back after the bells ring nine.” Her muffled voice carries through the ceiling planks.

Then I hear a smashing noise when the door slams open, followed by a thud that sounds like someone falling. The deliberate, heavy footfall of several men who force their way into the shop echoes throughout the basement as I load my crossbow and set several bolts on the box next to my pack. At least I should be able to even the odds a bit.

“We aren’t here for drugs or medicine, woman. You harbor an Archivist.”

“If you really think so, then you’ve already got better drugs than anything I have to offer,” Angie boldly laughs. “I have no use for those charlatans, and whoever told you otherwise stole your gold.”

At the far end of the basement sits a large trunk. It is somewhat dusty, with a padlock on it, but the lock is broken and good for little more than show. I swing the top up and find that the chest is only half full of clothes. A noticeable layer of dust on the clothing tells me the trunk is not airtight, so it will not be comfortable, but there is room for one person inside.

“Hurry up and get inside,” I whisper to Danae, as I hold the trunk open.

“Well, well, what do you know?” The voice is muffled through the floor but it is the deep-throated Disciple. “Boys, it looks like we’ve found the long lost daughter of our high priestess. The blessed Earth Mother led us here for more than one reason.”

Angie cries out in pain. I’m starting to move to go back upstairs when I hear a hiss and feel a burning sensation on my neck. I turn just in time to see Danae holding the hypo spray, then I sway as my body becomes limp as a wet rag.

“Don’t be mad at me,” Danae whispers, as she eases my slumping body into the trunk.

“I never explained the shaman’s vision to you. The last time I saw my husband, we had a fight and Sheldon left on his boat, just as a storm came in. It was partly my fault for driving him out into weather no person should have been in. I see now that what Raven Eye saw was this moment. It’s my turn to go out into the storm.”

She arranges my legs to fit inside, and drops my pack in between them.

“Understand something: this is my choice. You’ve saved my life more than once, so now it’s my turn to save yours. All I ask is that after the Disciples are gone, you do whatever you must to get that generator thing back and go home to your wife. That is what I want.” Danae’s voice begins to break. “When you see Sarah, just… tell her she is a very, very lucky woman.”

Warm tears splash down on my face as Danae leans over to give me a gentle, drawn out kiss on the lips. Her own lips tremble as her mouth delicately and almost reluctantly separates from mine. Then she whispers, “I know, an Archivist won’t last long in Disciple hands. I’ll be dead soon, so I figured I deserve a last kiss. Goodbye, my friend.”

Then I am in complete darkness as the lid closes and I hear Danae slip the broken lock back in place. Moments later, muffled footsteps come charging down the stairs.

“Declare yourself,” a Disciple states loudly.

“There is no need to use force, I will not resist,” Danae says boldly as her voice moves away from the trunk. “I am Danae, the Archivist.”

I hear them escort her up the stairs as I float in pitch blackness. Then I sink into a whirlpool of unconsciousness.

I drift between believing I am dreaming and suspecting I am awake. I hear no sound but my breathing. There is no light to see. It is the swelling pain in my joints and muscles that defines the shore of my consciousness.

My pain ripens into agony until I know I am awake, and I recall where I am. The air is stuffy, and even though I am not normally claustrophobic, being tucked into the coffin-like box makes me feel like I have been buried alive. A whirling fusion of anger, dread and protectiveness nearly overwhelms me as I recall the events that put me in this box. I have to get out and find out what the hell happened after I passed out.

When I push upward against the lid, it does not yield at all; the lock must be hanging on the clasp. Nobody would hide in a locked trunk, which is probably why the Disciples did not bother checking it.

My only hope is that time has taken its toll on this chest. Twisting around so I can leverage my upper body against one end of the enclosure, I press my feet against the other end and feel a slight give, but it is still pretty solid. When I push again, a vicious leg cramp seizes my thigh, but after a dozen desperate kicks, the end begins to yield. With a few more thrusts, my feet burst through. I almost cry with relief as I extend my legs.

I am coughing from all the dust by the time I worm my way out of the end of the trunk and onto the floor. My left arm has fallen asleep, and I am still groggy from the sedative. It requires all of my focus and energy to push myself into a standing position. Then I walk around the room carefully so I can stretch the cramp out.

As the pain ebbs, it is replaced with an inflow of dread over what happened to Danae.

Weak light pours into the basement through the slit of a window at an almost horizontal angle, so I guess it is late afternoon. After a few more minutes, I have recovered enough to stand and walk normally. I grab my crossbow before I head up the stairs leading to the shop.

The back storage area appears undisturbed, so it seems that they did not waste any time searching or trashing the joint. That impression changes when I walk through the curtain into the front of the shop. The contents of the shelves have all been swept to the floor, and one of the shelves hangs off the wall.

Angie’s body lies amidst a pool of blood on the floor in front of the counter. Her hands and feet are bound.

A wave of grief even deeper than what I felt for Brannock erupts within me as I sink to the floor in shock.

Then her legs move.

Her back is toward me and she has a gag tied around her head, and she moans as I scramble across the floor to help her. When I lift Angie up to a sitting position, I feel a tornado of rage inside as I see what those unholy bastards did to her.

“God damn,” I gasp in horror.

Both of her eyes have been sliced, and her face is covered with blood that seeps through eyelids that are almost swollen shut.

I touch the side of her face, and she flinches.

“Angie, it’s me. You’re going to be okay,” I tell her, even though I know she will not. My hands tremble as I slice through the gag. She begins to sob, slowly at first, then rising to an uncontrollable flood. When I cut through the rags that bind her, she throws her arms around my neck and buries her heaving sobs into my shoulder.

I have never seen this Angie before. I embrace her, holding her as tight as I can.

“I am so sorry, baby,” I whisper as I stroke her back gently.

I would do anything at this moment to take her pain on myself. We may never have been lovers, but at one time we were as close emotionally. I do not know whether these Disciples would have eventually found her anyway, but my being here led them straight to her, like bees to pollen. Guilt wraps around me tighter than a cocoon.

Eventually she is calm enough to talk, and we both sit on the floor, leaning against her counter.

“Damn it, I’m sorry K’Marr. I actually had them convinced that they had the wrong shop, until the squad leader recognized my voice. He used to be a Temple guard, running my scrawny ass out of the sanctuary every time I snuck in while someone wasn’t looking. Eventually I got him demoted, when I barged into an enclave meeting during his shift. So I guess he had a grudge against me.”

“Who did this?” I ask, touching her cheek. “The one with the deep voice?”

“Yeah. He said, since I was so blind to the truth that I ran away, I ought to be blind to the world as well. The only reason I’m alive is that even though I’m an unbeliever now, it would still be sacrilege for him to kill the daughter of a high priestess.”

“Did you see Danae? I mean, do you know what…” I trail off awkwardly.

“Yeah! Before they blinded me, they dragged her up here, claiming she was an Archivist. What the hell was that about?”

When I explain how Danae sedated me and hid me in the trunk, Angie laughs and shakes her head. “Really? I would never guess she had it in her. That woman has more balls than most men.” Danae might see it differently, but from Angie that is a real compliment.

“We need to get you to a doctor,” I say. “Who can you trust here in town?”

“There’s a doctor who does business with me regularly for supplies. Occasionally he spends the night, too, which is something you would never do. Anyway, his place is on the other side of town, but the streets aren’t safe.”

“I have an idea, I’ll be right back.”

After securing the entrance, I head down to the basement and rummage through the clothing in the now-busted trunk. A shapeless dress fits over me, even if my shins are half-exposed, and a long cloak provides additional cover to the ground. Then I cram my duster, hat and pack in a large sack so it just looks like a lumpy bag of potatoes.

I should now look like an old babushka; this is not the first time I have dressed in drag on a retrieval. Finally I grab a hat with a veil for Angie, to cover her face.

Upstairs, I find washrags that I soak in a bucket of water, and I gently clean Angie’s face enough to be passable—as long as no one looks too closely through the veil.

At one point she grasps my hand and pulls it to her lips for a light kiss. I return her wordless gesture of thanks with a kiss to her forehead. When we are done, I stand behind her as I help Angie change out of her bloodstained clothes and into a clean shirt and pants. Then we put on her coat, and we are ready to venture out into the growing dusk.

We stroll down the cobblestone street. She holds onto my arm as she guides me verbally through several turns, following the landmarks she describes.

The town streets are fairly empty, and the few people we pass avoid eye contact with us. At least there are no Disciples. After a couple of false turns and some backtracking, we reach the door of her doctor friend.

I knock. When there is no response, I knock a couple more times. Finally we hear a muffled ‘go away’ and Angie calls out, “It’s me, Carl. I need your help.”

The door opens, and a short, middle-aged man with long black hair tied back in a ponytail glances at us, then checks the street and gestures for us to step inside quickly. He bars the door with several locks before he turns to face us.

“What are you doing here, Angie? You know you shouldn’t be out on the streets right now!”

When Angie silently removes her hat, she looks worse than before. The eye sockets have continued to leak and her whole face is puffy.

“Mother of God! What happened?” he says, touching her cheeks carefully and examining her wounds. I step back and out of the way.

“That bad, huh?” she replies. “It was those Disciple sons of bitches. Wish I could say they got worse than I did, but not this time.”

“Whatever you did to piss them off, it couldn’t have justified this,” Carl says, then leads her into an exam room that is much more luxurious than Doc’s was. He does not bar me from following, so I take a seat nearby while he examines her.

“I’m Doctor Carl Faukner,” he says over his shoulder while using a magnifying glass and candle to examine his patient.

After a few minutes he sets them down, sits back and says to her, “It looks like you have penetrating globe injuries, with hyphema and vitreous hemorrhage. Why did the Disciples do this?”

“The moon was in the wrong phase to cut out my heart. I have no idea what you just said but I’m guessing it’s not good.”

“Not good would be one way of putting it,” Carl says. “They pretty much shredded your corneas. If I had the medical resources I had when I was an internist, I could grow you some new corneas and probably give you 20/20 vision within four months. With the sticks and stones I have to work with now—the best you can ever hope for is to tell whether it’s day or night.”

“So what now?” Angie asks, as though inquiring what is for dinner. She is not the self-pity type.

The doctor folds his arms and sighs. “To be honest, there’s nothing I can do to repair the damage. The only treatment is to bandage your eyes and apply some antibacterial ointment to prevent infection. Just let the wounds heal, and see what you see.”

“I know it’s asking a lot, but could you put us up for the night?” I ask. “It’s clearly too dangerous for us to stay at her place.”

“Are you kidding?” Carl exclaims. “I wouldn’t consider letting you two walk out that door. Of course you’re staying.”

He turns back to Angie, and spends the next half hour cleaning her ruined eyes as best he can, then covers her eye sockets with an ointment and bandages. She grits her teeth and hisses a few times, but otherwise is silent. I always knew she was a tough woman, but never appreciated just how tough until now.

When he is done, Carl guides Angie upstairs while I follow. Then he pauses for a moment, as if considering the sleeping arrangements. I get the sense that while he and Angie have shared a physical closeness that she never had with me, their emotional connection is far more casual.

He shows us into a small room outfitted with several beds, which he uses to shelter recovering patients. After Carl brings a couple sandwiches for our dinner and we eat, I help Angie stretch out on her bed and make sure she is comfortable.

“You know, those Disciples are taking Danae back to Wolfengarde,” Angie says, stretched out on her bed and talking in my direction.

“That’s what I figured,” I sigh. “Well, at least now I can get them both at the same time.”

Angie turns her head toward me, her voice heating up. “Forget your artifact, K’Marr, that girl loves you more than you deserve. Why do you think she took your place, you idiot? You’re blinder than me if you don’t see that you love her too, the way I can only wish you had loved me.”

I pause for a moment, somewhat taken aback. “I do love her, Angie. But as a sister.”

“Whatever.” Angie shakes her head. “You can’t waste any time if you want to get your sister back alive, because there are few things those bastards love more than sacrificing an Archivist. We need to leave in the morning.”

“The hell you’re leaving with me!” I reply. “You’re in no condition to travel now. Not to mention that this was never your fight, and what happened to you is my fault. I’m not about to make it worse by dragging you back to that hellhole.”

“You’re right, this wasn’t my fight before,” she spits the words out as she sits up and faces my direction. “Now it is. I may be blind but I’m not helpless. If you want to make this up to me, find the bastard who took my eyes, hold him down and guide my knife to his throat.”

“That won’t bring your sight back,” I protest. “You need to think about the future now, about how you are going to manage your life here.”

“My life! What life? Even before you came, I was dying inside. Spending my days inside that little shop, consumed with fear every time I ventured outside, that I might run into a Disciple or former believer who would recognize me and turn me in. The truth is, it was only a matter of time until they found me. And just bad luck that it was now.”

“And what will you do after you get your vengeance?” I ask. “What then?”

“Remember where you found me. If there’s one thing I’ve learned since you last saw me, it’s that four walls are a prison. I need to be in the open, the wind in my hair and the ground under my feet. I don’t know where I’ll end up, but I do know it can’t be here.” Then she turns onto her side and pulls a blanket over herself.

As much as I would prefer that Angie not accompany me into danger, Disciple-occupied Georges certainly is not safe for her now, and in the end it is her choice. Conversation over.

With her eyes bandaged there is no need to douse the oil lamp, so I lie on my bed and stare up at the ceiling, envisioning the trail of dead and broken bodies in my wake so far.

Every retrieval is different, and some are messier than others, but I have never experienced one like this. So far Wally, Doc Kaufstetter, Brannock and the old woman Marjoram are direct casualties, plus who knows how many died in Port Sadelow and elsewhere on the sword tip of the Disciples’ justice?

I do not count the Disciples we killed while rescuing Danae; they had that coming to them. Angie may not be dead, but the life she had here in Georges is.

Regardless of what Angie may believe about my friendship with Danae, I cannot let Danae be added to that list. I shudder as I contemplate what the death toll will be before this is over.

I have learned over decades of retrieving artifacts for the Archives that nothing is written in stone for good or bad, and no amount of staring at either ceilings or stars will change what will happen in the morning.

I douse the lamp and meditate my way into sleep.

While we eat an oatmeal breakfast the next morning, I tell Carl that we must leave as soon as we have finished. He starts to protest vigorously, but Angie kills that conversation without a single word by turning her bowl upside down and slamming it onto the table viciously.

Carl surrenders with a deep sigh, then rises to put together a package of bandages and ointment for her eyes. When he brings the treatment kit to me, he includes a pouch with a couple of handfuls of gold and silver coins for Angie.

“What about your shop?” he asks her. “You spent years building it up, and now you’re just walking away from it?”