The Keeper's Shadow (32 page)

Lumpy holds his ground before the infuriated warrior. “I grieve for your men, Brother Wolf.”

“I don't want your grief, Lieutenant!”

“We are working on a solution.”

Wolf's hook-sword is twisting menacingly in his hand. “How many more will die before you find one?”

“You will not fight again until we do, Brother Wolf.” Every face in the atrium lifts at the sound of the voice. Roan is standing at the library entrance. Half his face is burned a deep red, as if he had walked, one side masked, in the summer's sun.

Pushing everyone in his way aside, Wolf stumbles to the foot of the stairs. He gapes up at Roan as if he were seeing an apparition. Then, trembling, he cries out, “Prophet! You have met the Friend!”

THE VAPOR

WE KNEW WE WOULD BE BURIED ALIVE. BUT WE WOULDN'T STAY BURIED FOREVER.

—KRISPIN,
VISION #787, YEAR 38 A.C.
DREAMFIELD JOURNALS OF THE
FIRST INNER CIRCLE

S
TOWE HAD MERELY TO EXPRESS CURIOSITY IN
C
OOPERATION
U
NLIMITED
to excite Master Querin's interest. Certain that the physical presence of Our Stowe among the workers of the City would accelerate its restabilization, he had quickly arranged a grueling tour of all the Conurbation's factories and communication centers. So for the past two weeks, her beatific presence has graced a better part of the City's industrial complexes and now, at last, Stowe and Willum have arrived at their goal.

The prospect of spying at Cooperation Unlimited is quite exhilarating and Stowe grins widely back at Master Fortin as he flashes his small white teeth in greeting.

“Our Stowe,” the manager warbles, trying to maintain a stately pose beneath the entranceway. “We are truly blessed. Two visits to our lowly facility in less than a year. The workers are ecstatic.”

“It is my pleasure, Master Fortin, to return here to honor your tremendous achievement,” replies Stowe with perfect grace. “Your factory is the apple of the Eldest's eye.”

Speaking of eyes, Stowe notices that the manager's acquired a new pair—scintillating green, they are far too lovely for his toadlike countenance. They might have been Lem's eyes. But she mustn't allow these thoughts to affect her, not now.

“You flatter me,” he smiles. “We work hard, it is true, production increasing daily, but it is a calling, Our Stowe, a sacred duty we perform. It inspires us, imbues us with a religious fervor that feeds and enhances our labor.”

Oh! How the man goes on! “Of course it does. Well. I suppose we shouldn't keep our workers waiting.”

“Forgive me, I'm prattling!” Fortin exclaims. Extending an arm, he leads her and Willum into the main hall.

How many speeches has she given in the past two weeks—thirty? forty? She used to find them such a chore, but now they have acquired the patina of a challenge. By subtly altering a phrase here, or intonation there, she and Willum seek to place a suggestion in the minds of the workers that the prophecies might deliver on their promises, not in some vaguely prescribed future but soon, very soon. With a bit of luck, maybe she can make Darius sweat enough to do something stupid—well, better not be too optimistic. That road leads to overconfidence and carelessness.

She watches Willum quickly change into the sterile overalls, mittens, and overshoes required to enter the factory. Due to her elevated status, Our Stowe is exempt, but she'd gladly trade. The outfit looks much more comfortable than the one she's decked out in. Being in the Farlands hadn't been pleasant, but she has fond memories of never having to be trussed in and weighted down by her clothes.

Fortin, now conscientiously germ-free, escorts her up a metal stairway that leads to a balcony. Below, hundreds of workers are busy at their conveyor belts, but the moment Fortin steps onto the amplification platform, every worker stops to look up. No one so much as breathes.

Raising his hand, Fortin declares, “Our Stowe has returned!” And as he welcomes her onto the platform, the murmuring chant begins. “Our Stowe, Our Stowe, Our Stowe!”

She regards the workers' adoring faces, the longing in their eyes. Willum is right. There is more there than an enabled obsession with an inaccessible icon. They believe she will play an integral part in fulfilling the prophecies. She must ensure that her presence here, today, bolsters that faith.

“When I left you, I sought the vision of the prophecy,” Stowe says softly.

Every voice rises together. “The Daughter shall have the Sight.”

“Yes. I have seen, and what I have seen has brought me home. To you. Because you are the future. The prophecy has declared that when my father passes on his scepter, our love will blossom with unity and purpose. Do not be impatient. Labor in the knowledge that a light, suppressed for so long, shall soon be released into the world. That light will benefit you all. I swear this to you!”

“Our Stowe…Our Stowe…” they whisper, every hand raised, palms facing her, fingers wide, in surrender to their goddess.

As she backs off the platform, Stowe does not miss the troubled look that darkens Master Fortin's face. If he has a problem, Willum will have to sort it out. Right now, she has to stick to the script they've devised.

“That was magnificent, Our Stowe. Inspiring.” How quickly the manager masks his misgivings.

Her voice piteously weak, Stowe sighs. “You are too generous, Master Fortin.” She wobbles precariously and grips Willum's arm.

“Our Stowe?” Willum whispers, reaching out to hold her.

“Is there a problem? Is she not well?” Fortin's voice is shaking.

“Her schedule has been very demanding,” Willum explains. “She insists on making two or three appearances every day, but it is a terrible strain.”

Stowe stumbles, collapsing into Willum's arms.

“I see, I see,” says Fortin, wringing his hands. The possibility of the Archbishop's daughter becoming ill under his roof is making him squirm. “There's a couch in my office, Our Stowe. If you would overlook its inadequacies, perhaps you could rest there.”

“You are too kind,” murmurs Stowe. Then with a sigh, she promptly pretends to faint.

Her head leans into Willum's shoulder, and through the curtain of her hair she is able to catch a covert look at her surroundings. The corridor Fortin leads them down is clearly the administrative wing of the factory. In office after office bookkeepers and data processors punch figures into machines. Coming to a parquet door, Fortin pauses to look back at Stowe. A piteous groan seems to be just the right key to open it.

Stowe has to exert a lot of control not to smirk at the elegant interior. The room is far more opulent than the Archbishop's: the floors are marble, the carved desk ancient oak, and the walls hand-painted tiles. It's a flagrant exhibition of a status far above a manager's position.

Fortin hastily dismisses the decor, distinctly embarrassed to be so exposed. “The previous manager is responsible for this extravagant interior,” he sputters. “Rather than waste more precious resources having it removed, I bear with it.”

Shaking her head, Stowe makes a show of opening her eyes a fraction to vaguely scan her surroundings. “A prudent choice,” she says with a generous smile. Spotting a velvet chaise, she signals to Willum to lay her down. “If you don't mind,” she says to Fortin, as she splays herself across its entire frame.

Clearly embarrassed, the manager coughs nervously. “We'll leave you alone then.”

But he remains there, waiting. Stowe knows he'd like her to stop him—doesn't much care for the thought of her in his room unsupervised. Resting her head on a feather pillow, she studiously ignores him. And as soon as he realizes a reprieve is not coming, he leads Willum out.

As much as she'd like to snoop around and see what he's hiding, time is limited and she must constrain herself to the task at hand. Her etherself rises and floats past Fortin and Willum. For a moment she hovers invisibly before them.
On my way, then.

Willum brushes his hair back in surreptitious greeting.
Go carefully, Stowe.

Sinking through the floor, she notes the very different quality of this corridor. The floors are polished concrete, the walls burnished steel. Heavily armed guards closely examine every worker entering or exiting. Drifting through the fortified portal, she's drawn to three technicians hunched over a translucent globe no larger than an eyeball, with two finger-length appendages dangling from it. A faint luminescence is darting through veins in the globe, shifting in color from blood red to turquoise to marigold. An enabler. The technicians place it on a tray, and as one of them walks with it, Stowe follows.

At another set of steel doors, the technician's retina is scanned and he's waved through. This laboratory is larger, bustling with workers in sterile garb. The technician takes the enabler to a huge bell jar, at least twenty feet tall. Plum-colored gases swirl inside it under the watchful gaze of a group of scientists. Behind them lies a comatose man, head shaved, the stitches still bleeding behind his ear. As she approaches the jar, Stowe can see what they're observing. A humanoid shape, perhaps the size of her thumbnail, is skimming the swirling mist, rising until it arrives at what looks like an outstretched hand…Darius's Throne, just as Roan described it.

On the other side of the jar, another patient's neck has been incised; the enabler she followed here is about to be connected. As the second appendage wraps around his spinal cord, the patient's body spasms. Then a vapor rolls off him, like a second skin being pulled away and toward the enabler. Without hesitation, she slides alongside.

T
HE VAPOR SOARS THROUGH BILLOWING CLOUDS, THEN SUDDENLY PLUMMETS INTO OPEN SKY, ACCELERATING TO TREMENDOUS SPEEDS
. S
EPARATING HERSELF FROM THE FORM,
S
TOWE BANKS HARD TO HER LEFT
. A
N OLD ACQUAINTANCE OF HERS IS LANGUIDLY GLIDING BELOW HER, A VULTURE WITH A HUGE SCAR DISFIGURING ITS HEAD
. K
ORDAN
. O
NE LOOK AT HER WITH HIS GOOD EYE, AND HE'LL GO STRAIGHT TO
D
ARIUS
.

B
UT THE VULTURE DOES NOT SEE HER
. H
IS EYES ARE ON THE VAPOR
.

C
ATAPULTING INTO THE GIGANTIC OUTSTRETCHED HAND, THE FORM LANDS ON THE OPEN PALM, TWITCHING HORRIBLY
. K
ORDAN SOARS OVER IT AS IF PREVENTING ANY POSSIBILITY OF ESCAPE
. T
HE LIVING SHAPE ABRUPTLY DIMS AND THEN IS SUCKED, WRITHING, INTO
D
ARIUS'S
T
HRONE
.

T
HE
T
HRONE IS CLEARLY COLLECTING THE LIFE ESSENCE DRAWN OUT BY THESE NEW ENABLERS
. W
ILL IT BE ENOUGH—WITHOUT
R
OAN OR
S
TOWE OR THE
N
OVAKIN—TO JOIN
D
ARIUS TO THE
O
VERSHADOWER
? T
O MAKE HIM OMNIPOTENT, IMMORTAL, A GOD BEYOND THE GODS
?

A
S SHE INCHES CLOSER, A SURGE OF ENERGY REACHES UP TO MEET HER, DRAWING HER TOWARD THE
T
HRONE—BETTER BACK UP
.

N
OTHING HAPPENS
. T
HIS CAN'T BE RIGHT
…

S
HE'S IN HER ETHERFORM
!
S
HE STOLE INTO THE
D
REAMFIELD ON SOMEONE ELSE'S STEAM AND NOW SHE DOESN'T HAVE ENOUGH SUBSTANCE TO DRAW HERSELF AWAY
. S
HE EXPENDS EVERY BIT OF WILL SHE HAS, BUT IT ONLY SEEMS TO PROPEL HER EVEN MORE SPEEDILY TOWARD THE RAVENOUS PALM
.

Stowe did not deviate much from Querin's proclamation, but still…it made Fortin anxious and he is sure to report it to Darius. The situation must be handled with perfect delicacy; the Keeper will seek to interrogate either him or Stowe and one misstep could mean their destruction.

“Our Stowe's speech,” proclaims Fortin, as they walk down the corridor, “was most provocative.”

“Provocative—how so?”

“That business about the prophecy.”

“You find Master Querin's proclamation provocative?” asks Willum, carefully choosing each word.

“No. No. Of course not,” Fortin twitters nervously. “It's just…is Darius planning to retire? To hand over the Conurbation to that
girl
?”

Striking a pose of surprise, Willum gasps, incredulous, “You were not aware of the prophecy?”

“Well, of course I am,” Fortin's irritation is palpable. “We are all aware of the prophecies. Master Querin makes sure of that! But…well…” Fortin glances up and down the hallway, then whispers in Willum's ear, “I mean they're prophecies. Nobody really expects them to come true. She's a child. How could the Archbishop cede his power to her? It's impossible!”

“Our Stowe is his daughter,” says Willum, stating the obvious.

“She's only been here two years. She's…unproven. Some of us have served the Conurbation for three-quarters of a century.”

“Yes, but we are, none of us, indispensable.” Willum goes over these words again and again to himself, indelibly embedding them in his memory.

“No, none are indispensable,” mutters Fortin, his bitterness rising. “And you—who are nothing more than a nursemaid—you will end up with everything, won't you?”

“I serve as Our Stowe's Primary. Her well-being is ample enough reward.”

Something dangerous flutters behind Fortin's new eyes. But before he can shape it into words he is stopped short by the loud thrumming of an alarm. The manager's face suddenly drains of color. “If you'll excuse me,” he says curtly, an unmistakable note of panic in his voice. And with a bow, the manager makes a hasty retreat.

N
OTHING SEEMS TO BE HELPING HER OUT OF THIS MESS
! A
S SHE DESPERATELY TRIES EVERY TRICK SHE KNOWS TO SLOW DOWN,
S
TOWE FEELS THE HALF-RING TIGHTEN ROUND HER FINGER
. M
AYBE IT COULD HELP—IF ONLY SHE KNEW HOW
. T
HE INSTANT SHE THINKS THIS, A PHOSPHORESCENCE ENVELOPS HER WHOLE BODY AND LIFTS HER WITH GREAT SPEED FURTHER AND FURTHER FROM
D
ARIUS'S VORACIOUS HAND
.