The Last Aerie (30 page)

In any case, what he had said was news to Tzonov. “Ah!” the Russian sighed—before his tone hardened. “But couldn’t you have mentioned this before? It’s hardly a classic example of cooperation!”

“True,” Trask answered, “but then, over the course of the last few hours the pebbles in our ‘wall of trust’ have suffered no small amount of subsidence. Indeed, you could even say that the wall is teetering!”

Tzonov ignored the jibe, began to pace to and fro behind Trask where he continued to stare at the visitor in his cage. “So,” the Russian mused, “this ability of his—this talent?—to deflect my telepathy, is a natural thing. In which case, he will have to learn our language.”

And Goodly added, “Or we can learn his. That shouldn’t be too hard: Romanian with a smattering of Slavonic, Germanic, and true Romany. A good linguist, preferably an empath, could pick it up in a week. We have just such a man in London.”

“Oh?” Tzonov paused in his pacing and met Goodly face to face. “And are we gullible as well as incompetent? Perhaps we should simply give our visitor to you, to take back to London with you! And perhaps with your help he could also develop his father’s powers, eh? No, Mr. Goodly, I think I can choose just such an empath from the members of my own branch.”

Goodly smiled wryly. “So much for first name terms,” he said.

It was exactly the sort of diversion Trask had been looking for. He wasn’t a telepath, but
someone
had spoken to him in his dreams. Now, concentrating his mind, he thought at the visitor:
Who are you? What’s your name? Do you know that you’re in danger, that the people in this place—especially this man—will either find a way to use you, or keep you imprisoned, or even kill you?

He wasn’t hoping for any kind of answer, but:

The man in the cage didn’t move his body an inch, but his head lifted a fraction and his deep blue eyes looked straight into Trask’s. And:

Don’t
. the answer came back, causing Trask to start in his chair.
I understand
all of this, but say nothing, do nothing! Tzonov’s talent is huge!

“What?” The Russian esper spun on his heel, away from Goodly, grasped Trask’s shoulder and stared at the visitor, whose head was back on his chest. And again he hissed: “What was
that
?” In his effort of concentration, his forehead had creased into a hundred wrinkles.

“Eh?” Trask looked up at him, his hypnotic shield firmly back in place. “What was what?”

Tzonov released his shoulder, took two paces to the bars and grasped them. “You!” he spat the word at the visitor. “Did you speak?” He shook the bars until the man in the cage looked up. “On your feet!” Tzonov shouted. “Speak to me!”

The visitor sat there, looked sad, puzzled.

Trask stood up and went to Tzonov. “If he can’t understand you, where’s the sense in shouting at him?”

Tzonov looked at him, frustration etched in every line of his face. “You didn’t hear him speak?”

Trask shook his head. “Not a word.”

“In your mind?”

Trask took a pace to the rear and frowned, he hoped convincingly. “Are you mad? You’re the telepath, Turkur, not me!”

The Russian breathed deeply, regained control of himself. “Then why do I feel that you’re getting more out of this than I am? Perhaps it was a mistake to bring you here. I think I’ll have to talk to a higher authority.”

“As you wish.” Trask shrugged. “But before that, why don’t you let me try to get through to him? I mean here and now—in front of you—all above board and out in the open, as they say?” The last thing he wanted right now was to be ordered out of the laboratory, even out of Perchorsk, leaving the visitor to Tzonov’s tender mercies and methods.

Tzonov considered it, calmed down more yet, finally said: “It can do no harm. He is after all my prisoner, and whatever he tells you he tells me.”

Trask sighed, “My, how the wall crumbles!” and turned back to the visitor. Except this time he didn’t dare play with telepathy; he must simply hope that the man in the cage was tuned in to all of this. “Can you hear me?” he inquired in the warmest, calmest voice he could muster. “Listen, we’re your friends. We only want to find out about you. But how can we if you won’t respond?”

Nothing. The visitor sat there as before.

“Perhaps I was mistaken,” Tzonov quietly commented, after a moment’s silence. “But when you were sitting there looking … at… him …!”

Stiffening his back and neck, the visitor had straightened up a little. He was looking at Trask, and there was something of interest in his eyes and expression in general. “People are like animals,” Trask said in that same reassuring tone, without taking his eyes from the other’s face. “They know when they’re up against a friend, an enemy, someone kind or someone … not so kind. Sunside’s Travellers are probably highly sensitive in this respect. It’s in the expression, the voice and eyes.
Your
eyes can be especially frightening, Turkur. They look under a man’s skin, into his mind, his soul.”

He smiled and signaled that the caged man should stand up, and the other slowly got to his feet. “There now,” Trask said, “and maybe we can take it a step further, play Jane and Tarzan with him.” Placing his right palm flat on his chest, he said, “Trask. Ben Trask.” Then, pointing at the other, he let his expression frame a question mark. And:

“Nathan,” said the other, hand on chest. “Nathan Kiklu.”

“More than I got out of him in an hour!” Tzonov rasped.

“Then be quiet,” Trask told him, but in the same reasoned tone of voice,” and give me a chance to do a little better.”

He stuck a hand through the bars, and heard the Russian’s sharp
hiss
of apprehension and warning. The visitor also heard it, and his eyes narrowed as his expression became suspicious. Trask turned his hand palm up, thrust it hard between the bars, offered it more forcefully. And the other relaxed, reached out and grasped Trask’s wrist as he in turn grasped the visitor’s. It was the Szgany handshake, as Trask remembered it from Harry Keogh’s description of Sunside’s nomads.

The contact did a lot for both men. It told Nathan Kiklu that Trask was his friend, also that he might indeed have been his father’s. Where else could he have learned this greeting, if not from a Traveller or someone who knew the customs of Sunside? And to Trask it confirmed what he would quite happily—what he might already—have bet his life on: that the visitor was human. Entirely human. It was in the warmth of his touch, the conviction of his friendship, the irrefutable evidence of Trask’s talent: that this was the real thing.

Finally they released each other, stepped back a little. And Trask softly said, “Nathan, can you understand me? Do you understand anything of what I’m saying?” It was nothing short of a subterfuge, a red herring, a ploy to gain a little time. Trask already knew that the other understood a great deal, not only of his situation but also of the political intrigue going on around him. Or if not that, at least he recognized the principal players and had determined which side to come down on.

The other played up to it: he shrugged, tapped himself on the chest again, and said: “Nathan?” His face was a picture of innocence.

Trask pointed into the palm of his left hand, and said: “Hand.”

Nathan nodded. “Hanta!”

“German!” Goodly said. “Or as good as.”

Trask crouched down a little and touched his own foot. “
Fusse
?”

Nathan looked blank. “Bindera?”

Goodly said, “In German, legs are
die Beine
.”

Trask reached inside his pocket, brought out something like the kernel of a large nut. He held it out to the man in the cage, but Tzonov stepped forward to grab his arm. “What’s this?”

“The best proof of his humanity that you’re ever likely to see,” Trask told him. “It’s a clove of garlic!”

Nathan was interested. He reached through the bars and took the clove, held it to his nose and sniffed as if it were some exotic flower. And indeed it might seem to hold some rare fragrance for him, such was his expression. Then … it was as if memories of old times had misted up his eyes as the previous soulful look returned.

Goodly said, “Garlic:
Knoblauch
.”

And Nathan said, “Kneblasch.”

Trask turned to Tzonov. “So much for your concern about his humanity, Turkur. This one’s no vampire. I’m wearing a silver ring, but he clasped forearms with me. And he treats garlic as if it were his national flower or emblem. That’s a measure of his respect, which I for one understand readily enough.”

“Maybe you understand more than you’re saying,” the other answered darkly. “But … I’m grateful to you. You have made a start, at least. One which I can, what—capitalize?—upon. And now I must ask you to leave.”

“Leave?” Trask stared at him. Perhaps he stared too long and hard, until his suspicious, anxious thoughts were visible. But in any case, the Russian shook his smooth dome of a head.

“No, not Perchorsk, not just yet, anyway. You have shown a measure of goodwill in this thing, despite that you consider my methods draconian and unfair. And so I’m willing to forget our differences, for the present at least. I meant only that you should leave this laboratory, go back to your rooms, and get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow you may continue what you were doing, these language lessons. Meanwhile, I’ll arrange to have someone flown in who knows Romanian and the romance languages in general, probably an empath.”

Goodly spoke up. “What about Nathan’s rights, Turkur? Or being an ’alien’, doesn’t he have any? Think how you’re treating him. Why, he can’t even lie down in this birdcage, not in any comfort! Are you going to keep him here all night? Do you think it will impress him to take you into his confidence?”

Tzonov merely glanced at him, then offered an exasperated, irritated shrug. “Do you two know how aggressive you are? Whenever I try to be flexible, you replywith criticism! But as I’ve tried to explain, these measures—this cage and cleansing area—are only temporary precautions until we can be sure of him. Even now we can’t relax, not with one hundred per cent confidence, until the results of our tests are known. But acting on your reassurances … yes, I am willing to ease up a little. Which is why I require you to leave. You see, I intend to move him—right now, tonight—to more suitable but nevertheless secure accommodation.”

Trask grunted a barely perceptible, “
Huh!
” Following it with: “And you don’t want us to see where you’re putting him, right?”

“That is part of it,” the Russian answered truthfully. “But as for the rest: nothing has changed. It’s for your own safety! You are my guests here. Think how it would look, how I would feel, if some harm should befall you.”

They might have argued the point but Tzonov was through with talking. He called for the soldier on the door, and the British espers were escorted back to their rooms. Left alone, they talked for a little while, but both men were weary now.

As Trask readied himself for bed, Goodly stuck his head into the room. “What about him?” he said.

“What about who?”

“About the visitor, Nathan Kiklu … or Nathan Keogh? One thing’s certain: this isn’t the Harry Junior who we knew. He’s much too young, and we know that the Dweller was a vampire when last Harry saw him. But according to David Chung, something of the Necroscope has come back. So what do you think?”

“You saw him, didn’t you?” Trask got into bed. “Chung’s right: Kiklu may be his name, but Keogh was his father. He’s not the Dweller, no, but he is a son of Harry Keogh. I mean, he has Harry written all over him! Then there’s that earring of his. Didn’t you notice it?”

“I noticed it,” Goodly nodded. “Harry’s Mobius sigil, yes! Interesting times ahead, Ben. Interesting times.”

Trask was tempted to mention something else: that Nathan had spoken to him in his waking and dreaming hours alike. But spoken to him
in his mind
, when Trask wasn’t even a telepath. He was tempted, but kept it to himself. A case of what Goodly didn’t know, Goodly wouldn’t think about. And in a place like this, what he wouldn’t think about couldn’t hurt him …

IV

Nathan and Siggi

While Trask and Goodly prepared for sleep, Turkur Tzonov spoke to Siggi Dam in her room. Pacing the floor before her where she lay sprawled on her bed, his attitude was far from romantic; in any case, what had passed before was mainly for show; they had been lovers some years ago, an affair which terminated when he discovered his rivals—or rather, how many rivals. Currently when they were brought together by their work, they were still “lovers”, but it was no longer the state of being, just the act.

“Some progress has been made, but not enough,” he told her. “Tomorrow the British will want to see him again, and it would not be prudent to stop them. When we have some more of our own people here, that will be time enough. Meanwhile, it can’t hurt to go through these tediously slow processes. After that we’ll only let Trask talk to our visitor for an hour or so at a time, and always under supervision. Proving Nathan’s humanity—and so far the results of our tests do appear positive in his favour—was only the first step. Discovering why he’s here, and especially at this time … that is now our top priority.”