The Keeper's Shadow (29 page)

High above the activity in the main room, his ether self spots Querin watching a trainer instruct a score of Clerics on their sword technique. They're clumsy, obviously new recruits. The look on Querin's face is inscrutable, though Willum can sense he is not pleased. Abruptly leaving the scene, the Master pushes through a set of ornate doors into a small chapel where several dozen Clerics kneel, offering reverential prayers to a glowing portrait of Our Stowe. Querin bows to the image, then slips behind the dais. Entering another corridor, he stops at a bare wall, and taps it in six different places. The wall separates, and as he sweeps through, the panels realign, making the entrance again imperceptible.

Passing through the wall, Willum pulls up short, startled by the sight before him. Images of Stowe, hundreds of them, large and small, cover every inch of the tiny room into which the Master steps. Photographs of her giving speeches, standing on the steps of the Pyramid, smiling and waving to the crowds. As the man responsible for shaping her public image, Querin would have a large collection of photos—but why here? Spread all over the walls like this? Over in one corner, at standing height, are six sketches. Composite drawings, as if an artist was trying to identify a person based on a verbal description, no doubt Raven's. Although inaccurate in many small ways, they are unquestionably of Roan. The most complete of the drawings shows his intense eyes. His palm is extended and on it sits a white cricket. Below this picture, on a small table, is a series of books. Querin kneels before the table and opens one. Handwriting. Journals, then? On the cover of one of the books Willum can see a name. Steppe.

Could it be? One by one, he examines the spines. Haron. Roan. Darius. Yana. The fabled lost journals of the First Inner Circle. How did they come into Querin's possession? And more: Barthold, Valeria, and Krispin—the three known as the Mad Masters. Willum searches his memory. What had he heard of them? Killed or imprisoned by Darius. Imprisoned. Could they still be alive? Where would Darius be keeping them?

Before Willum can shift closer to see what Querin's reading, he's abruptly snapped back. His ether self jets through walls and doorways to fall battle-ready into his body. Gunther Number Six is peering questioningly at him through the crack of the open door. Relieved, Willum puts a finger to his lips. The Gunther nods and points to a metal box at Willum's right. Willum slides the box over and Number Six tips its contents onto the floor. He winks at Willum and wailing, “Oh, oh, oh!” chases the ball bearings as they skitter across the tile floors and under the feet of suddenly careening Clerics.

Surreptitiously sliding out of the closet and down the stairs, Willum puzzles over what he's observed. One thing is certain: Querin is not at all what he seems.

Stifling in fila-armor again! True, it succeeds in keeping assassins' sharp objects out, but unfortunately, it also keeps perspiration in, and right now Stowe's swimming in it. She chose this miserable dress to please Darius; still, it offers no consolation whatsoever when he turns to smile approvingly at her.

“It is good to have you back,” Darius purrs, patting her hand, positioned ever so delicately on the leather armrest between them. It is a little like being licked by a poisonous snake.

“I missed you terribly, Father.” Turning her palm up to join his, Stowe squeezes his ice-cold hand. His circulation is failing again. Must be time for another vein replacement.

“No more than the people have missed you, my pet. The thought of Our Stowe presiding over an execution has proven impossible for the citizenry to resist. I'm told they began to gather in Conurbation Park at dawn.”

Willum's in the front seat, next to the driver. He stares ahead, never turning, never letting a stray thought reach her. They've made a plan, of course, but still, she is on her own with this task.

The limousine turns down a vile, untended street that is all too familiar. “What is this place, Father?” she asks ingenuously.

“I have avoided showing you this before, my dear,” he says, scanning the slum with self-satisfaction. “But I think you're ready to see it now.”

He's brought her to the underbelly of the City, the same decaying ghetto she hid in when she ran away. She remembers the stench of stale urine and rotting garbage, the people wandering like zombies under her image or praying at shrines they'd created for Our Stowe. As hollow eyes shift lazily over their passing vehicle, she realizes that here things only ever get worse.

“This is the home of the Absent,” says Darius. “Master Querin came up with that appellation.” Turning his ravenous eyes on Stowe, he continues, “A very dangerous man. But you know that, don't you? Lucky for us he prefers to serve rather than rule. Still…”

Darius looks vaguely out the window.

Adopting her most worried tone, Stowe whispers, “Father?” She's astonished at how quickly his head snaps back. She would not have been surprised if he had bared his teeth.

But the effect is dissipated the instant he flashes his most fatherly smile. “Ah, yes, what was I saying? The Absent. They abandoned their productive labors in the Farlands and migrated to the City hoping to find an easier life. We cannot reward their choice. If we did, who would tend our fields and work our mines?”

Stowe knows that most of these vacant-eyed women and defeated men came as refugees when their villages were destroyed by marauders. They believed they'd find succor here, salvation. They never would have imagined this.

“We have no plans for reconstruction in this part of the City, so it costs us nothing to let them squat here. They pay their way by contributing their offspring to our recycling laboratories.”

“Cattle,” Stowe says in dawning awareness. “Do you breed them, Father?”

A deep, dry chuckle rises from Darius's sunken chest. “Good question!” The sound, like a death rattle, sends chills up her spine. “For all their self-inflicted deprivation, we still have compassion for them, which we mete out through you, Our Stowe. It is you who brings meaning and value to their lamentable lives.”

Stowe does not fail to notice that he has studiously avoided answering her question. Unable to repress a shudder, she covers by saying, “I don't like it. It feels dirty, having those vermin worship me.”

“Adulation has its uses.”

“How shall I use it?” she asks, allowing a tiny amount of genuine excitement to creep into her voice.

“Consider the park a learning opportunity. Feel the crowd, play with them, allow them to bask in your divine presence again. We should very much like to put the problem of the Gunthers to bed. Whatever else they are, my dear, the Gunthers are efficient. We like our City to run smoothly. A repulsive appearance is a small price to pay for that. So, when you address your devotees, be sure they know that Our Stowe is satisfied with the sentence we have passed on these four chosen ones.”

“And if the crowd is not happy?” she asks with a mischievous grin.

“You have my permission to improvise.”

“I won't disappoint you, Father.” There. She's accomplished her objective. Since Darius has so kindly granted her secret wish, Stowe offers him her most gracious smile. “Oh, Father, it's so good to be back.”

Conurbation Park. The last time she was here it was strewn with banners, alive with music. Of course, that was before the riot she had precipitated with her scream. The mood today is somber but there is also a current of anticipation.

Stowe waits behind a veiled grandstand at the south end of the square. On the gleaming platform sit four ebony gallows surrounded by a phalanx of well-armed Clerics—Querin flexing his muscles.

“How many are in attendance?” Darius asks, with only a hint of boredom.

The Master of Inculcation radiates satisfaction. “Approximately fifty thousand. Speakers positioned throughout the City will reach every citizen. All shall be blessed with the sound of Our Stowe's voice.”

Angry shouts from the throng announce the arrival of the four prisoners. Protected by Clerics on all sides, the Gunthers are assaulted by jeers and taunts that quickly escalate to a fevered pitch. They're all wearing glasses, just as Willum said. One of them is a young girl, not much older than Stowe. Though she's trying to appear unaffected, Stowe can see her flinch again and again. It is not difficult to imagine the insults thrown at her as knives; the scars they leave will be as permanent.

Wrists bound behind their backs, the Gunthers are roughly pushed onto the platform. The veil parts enough to reveal the prisoners as they are positioned over the trap doors. When the nooses are fitted around their necks, they do not quake with fear or beg for mercy; instead they stare at the inside of their lenses, oblivious to their surroundings.

Master Querin steps out to announce her. “Our Stowe,” is all he says, raising an arm toward her.

Willum signals Querin to wait as he adjusts Stowe's fila-armor collar. “Listen,” he whispers.

“Yes, my Primary,” she says. And the veil opens wide to reveal Stowe gliding regally down the stairs. As she sweeps onto the grandstand's amplification platform, the crowd's chant rises to greet her, “Our Stowe! Our Stowe!”

But Stowe stands silently before them. She does as Willum ordered, and listens to their cries of “Monsters!” “Scum!” “Eviscerate them!” “Make them bleed!” And worse. Much, much worse. These people are so cruel, so rabid in their hatred, she can't help doubting Willum's crazy plan. But with a sweep of her hand all are silenced.

“Before you stand criminals.” Stowe extends an arm, indicating the four Gunther prisoners behind her. “But what is the nature of their crime? They did not spirit me away as the Conurbation suspected. No one could do that. I go where I will and always where I can be of service to my people. To you.

“No. They did not commit this offense against my person, but they deserve to be treated as criminals. And I will tell you why.

“Look at them. Are they like us? Can one of you call a Gunther
friend
? Or even
neighbor
? Do they walk in your streets? Shop where you shop? Work where you work? No. They hold themselves apart. They think they are above participating in our Conurbation. But are they?”

“No! No! No!” The crowd shouts.

“No!” Stowe cries. Allowing the amplified hum of her breath to work its magic, she waits until the mob breathes with her. “No.” This time her voice barely rises above a whisper. “Death is an end. It is quick. It will not open their eyes to our compassion, to our love.” Stowe raises her voice, letting the crowd know she will tolerate no protest. “Yes. I love them. As I love all my citizens. As I love all of you.”

“Our Stowe! Our Stowe! Our Stowe!”

Stowe allows the crowd to bask for a moment in her love; then, turning toward the Clerics, Stowe issues her command. “Remove their glasses! Blind them!” She rather enjoys the stunned silence of her audience.

“No! Please!” the Gunthers beg, in a state of panic. They fight against their ropes and snap their heads away from the guards, bobbing frantically—all to no avail.

Stowe points dramatically to the floor before her, and the four pairs of glasses are laid at her feet. “Perhaps the Gunthers have become too fond of their difference. If they wish to live apart from the Conurbation—so be it.” Stowe places her foot on the pile of spectacles and bears down again and again, pulverizing them. “They shall know what it is like to live without our compassion and love. They shall be exiled and abandoned to wander blind in the Devastation.”

The gasp is instantaneous, almost creating a vacuum in the plaza. She has sentenced them to the one thing worse than death. The crowd is in an uproar but Stowe shouts over them: “Let this be a warning to all Gunthers! Those who wish to remain shall report to the offices of the Master of Inculcation. We will see that they contribute to our Conurbation and thus be returned to our good graces. Those who do not will be banished forever.”

As the Gunthers are marched away, Stowe watches the crowd taunt, spit, and throw garbage at the innocent offenders. She sees Willum slip into the crowd behind them. The shouting continues, but as if deterred by an unbearable stench, a wider berth is given to the prisoners. She hopes the four make it out of the City unharmed.

Querin takes her arm and draws her back to the Eldest, who places his hands on her shoulders. “You surprised even me, my daughter,” he says, his newly implanted teeth sparkling. “Yes. It might work.”

“With a few encouraging proclamations,” Querin agrees. “And, I think, new uniforms. By the end of the week, every Gunther in the City will be visibly taking part in our Conurbation.”

Darius laughs and so Stowe laughs too, relieved to have saved the Gunthers' lives but even more at the Masters' apparent lack of suspicion. It is clear they're happy that the Gunthers have become one less thing to worry about. They've other pressing concerns, that much is obvious. With any luck, it will be enough to keep them distracted while she and Willum get on with a little snooping.

A FRIEND IN NEED

THERE WILL BE GREAT RIPS IN THE FABRIC OF THE DREAMFIELD AND I WILL BE THE ONE TO CLOSE THEM. BUT ONE DAY, I WILL RECOGNIZE THEIR SOURCE AND ITS POWER WILL BECOME MY DESTINY.

—DARIUS,
VISION #831, YEAR 21 A.C.
DREAMFIELD JOURNALS OF THE
FIRST INNER CIRCLE

W
INTER HAS MOST DEFINITELY ARRIVED,
and ice coats the flat barrens. For the first few days of his trek Roan felt exposed, a solitary traveler over their vast emptiness. In keeping with his disguise, he's had to move more slowly than he would have liked, and sleeping on open ground, he's had to maintain a level of alertness that's kept him from getting proper rest. That combined with the cold nights and his growing hunger is compromising his ability to think clearly.

Roan stops for a moment, looking in every direction for some clue as to where he should proceed. He laughs, painfully aware of the irony of his journey—the last trip he took by himself he was running from the god of the Brothers, now here he is trying to find him, and he is most definitely lost.