The Last Guardian (11 page)

S
HANNOW
LEFT
THE
stallion at the stock paddocks, paid the hostler to grain feed and groom the beast, then hitched his saddlebags over his left shoulder and made his way to the Traveler’s Rest, a three-story building to the west of the town. They had one room vacant, but the owner—a thin, sallow-faced individual called Mason—asked Shannow if he could wait for an hour while they “cleaned it up.”

Shannow agreed and paid for a three-day stay. He left his saddlebags behind the counter and walked into the next room, where a long bar stretched some fifty feet. The barman smiled as he entered.

“Name it, son,” he said.

“Beer,” ordered Shannow. He paid for the drink and took the brimming jug to a corner table, where he sat with his back to the wall. He was tired and curiously on edge; his thoughts kept drifting to the woman with the wagon. Slowly the bar began to fill with workingmen, some straight from the mine, their clothes black and their faces streaked with grime and sweat. Shannow cast his eyes swiftly over each newcomer. Few wore pistols, but many carried knives or hatchets. He was ready to move to his room when a young man entered. He was wearing a white cotton shirt, dark trousers, and a fitted jacket of tanned leather, and he bore a pistol with a smooth white grip. Watching him move, Shannow felt his anger rise. He pulled his eyes from the newcomer and finished his
beer. They always looked the same, bright-eyed and smooth as cats: the mark of the hunter, the killer, the warrior.

Shannow left the bar, collected his belongings, and climbed the two flights to his room. It was larger than he had expected, with a brass-fitted double bed, two easy chairs, and a table on which sat an oil light. He dumped his bags behind the door and checked the window. Below it was a drop of around forty feet. Stripping off his clothes, he lay back on the bed and slept for twelve hours. He awoke ravenous, dressed swiftly, strapped on his guns, and returned to the ground floor. The owner, Mason, nodded to him as Shannow approached.

“I could do with a hot bath,” he said.

“Outside and turn to your left. About thirty paces. You can’t miss it.”

The bathhouse was a dingy shed in which five metal tubs were separated by curtains hung on brass rings. Shannow moved to the end and waited while two men filled the bath with steaming water; then he stripped and climbed in. There was a bar of used soap and a hard brush. He lathered himself clean and stepped from the tub; the towel was coarse and gritty, but it served its purpose. He dressed, paid the attendants, and wandered across the main street, following the aroma of frying bacon.

The eating house was situated in a long cabin under the sign of the Jolly Pilgrim. Shannow entered and found a table against the wall, where he sat facing the door.

“What will you have?” asked Beth McAdam.

Shannow glanced up and reddened. Then he stood and swept his hat from his head. “Good morning, Frey McAdam.”

“The name’s Beth. And I asked what you wanted.”

“Eggs, bacon … whatever there is.”

“They’ve got a hot drink here made from nuts and tree bark; it’s good with sugar.”

“Fine. I’ll try some. It did not take you long to find work.”

“Needs must,” she said, and walked away.

Shannow’s hunger had evaporated, but he waited for his meal and forced his way through it. The drink was bitter, even with the sugar, and black as the pit, but the aftertaste was good. He paid from his dwindling store of Barta coins and walked out into the sunshine. A crowd had gathered, and he saw the young man from the night before standing in the center of the street.

“Hell, man, it’s easy,” he said. “You just stand there and drop the jug any time you’re ready.”

“I don’t want to do this, Clem,” said the man he was addressing, a portly miner. “You might kill me, goddammit!”

“Never killed no one yet with this trick,” said the pistoleer. “Still, there’s always a first time.” The crowd hooted with laughter. Shannow stood against the wall of the eating house and watched the crowd melt away before the two men, forming a line on either side of them. The fat miner was standing some ten feet from the pistoleer, holding a clay jug out from his body at arm’s length.

“Come on, Gary. Drop it!” someone shouted.

The miner did so as Shannow’s eyes flicked to the pistoleer. His hand swept down and up, and the crack of the shot echoed in the street. The jug exploded into shards, and the crowd cheered wildly. Shannow eased himself from the wall and walked around them toward the hotel.

“You don’t seem too impressed,” said the young man as Shannow passed.

“Oh, I was impressed,” Shannow assured him, walking on, but the man caught up with him.

“The name’s Clem Steiner,” he said, falling into step.

“That was exceptionally skillful,” commented Shannow. “You have fast hands and a good eye.”

“Could you have done it?”

“Never in a million years,” Shannow replied, mounting the steps to the hotel. Returning to his room, he took the Bible from his saddlebag and flicked through the pages until he came to the words that echoed in his heart.

“And he carried me away in the spirit to a mountain great and high and showed me the Holy City, Jerusalem, coming down out of Heaven from God. It shone with the glory of God, and its brilliance was like that of a very precious jewel, like a jasper, clear as crystal. It had a great high wall with twelve gates and with twelve angels at the gates … The city does not need the sun or the moon to shine on it, for the glory of God gives it light, and the Lamb is its lamp … Nothing impure will ever enter it, nor will anyone who does what is shameful or deceitful
 …”

Shannow closed the book.
A great high wall
. Just like the one at the end of the valley.

He hoped so. By God, he hoped so …

Awakened by the sound of gunshots, Shannow rolled from the bed and moved to the side of the window, glancing down into the moonlit street below. Two men lay sprawled in the dust; still standing was Clem Steiner, a pistol in his hand. Men were running from the drinking houses and the sidewalks. Shannow shook his head and returned to his bed.

In the morning he took his breakfast in the long bar, a simple bowl of hot oats and a large jug of the black drink called Baker’s after the man who had introduced it to the area some eight years before.

Boris Haimut approached his table. “Do you mind if I join you, sir?” he asked diffidently. Shannow shrugged, and the small, balding arcanist pulled up a chair and sat. The barman brought him a Baker’s, and Haimut sat in silence for a while, sipping it.

“An interesting mixture, Meneer Shannow. Do you know it also cures headaches and rheumatic pain? It is
also mildly addictive.” Shannow put down his jug. “No, no,” said Haimut, smiling. “I mean that one acquires a taste for it. There are no harmful effects. Are you staying long in Pilgrim’s Valley?”

“Two more days. Maybe three.”

“It could be a beautiful place, but I fear they will have more trouble here.”

“You have finished work on the ship?” Shannow asked.

“We … Klaus and I … were ordered to leave the site. Meneer Scayse has taken over.”

“I am sorry.”

Haimut spread his hands. “There was not much more to see. We dug further and found that the ship was only a piece—it must have broken up as it sank. But any theory of it being a building was destroyed.”

“What will you do now?”

“I will wait here for a wagon convoy and then journey back to the east. There is always an expedition to somewhere. It is my life. Did you hear the shootings last night?”

“Yes,” said Shannow.

“Fourteen people have died violently here in the last month. It is worse than the Big Wide.”

“There is wealth here,” said Shannow. “It draws men of violence, weak men, evil men. I have seen it in other areas. Once the wealth is gone, the boil bursts.”

“But there are some men, Meneer Shannow, who have a talent for lancing such boils, are there not?”

Shannow looked into the man’s pale blue eyes. “Indeed there are, Meneer Haimut. But it seems there are none such in Pilgrim’s Valley.”

“Oh, I think there is one, sir. But he is disinterested. Do you still seek Jerusalem, Jon Shannow?”

“I do. And I no longer lance boils.”

Haimut looked away and changed the subject. “I met a traveling man two years ago who said he had been south
of the Great Wall. He talked of astonishing wonders in the sky—a great sword that hung below the clouds, a crown of crosses above its silver hilt. Less than a hundred miles from it there was a ruined city of incredible size. I would sell my soul to see such a city.”

Shannow’s eyes narrowed. “Do not say that—even lightly. You might be taken up on it.”

Haimut smiled. “My apologies, sir. I forgot momentarily that you are a man of religion. Do you intend to venture past the wall?”

“I do.”

“It is a land of strange beasts and great danger.”

“There is danger everywhere, Meneer. Two men died on the street last night. There is no safe place in all the world.”

“That is increasingly true. Since the last full moon there have been—in Pilgrim’s Valley alone—six rapes, eight murders, six fatal shootings, and innumerable injuries from knife fights and other brawls.”

“Why do you retain such figures?” asked Shannow, finishing his Baker’s.

“Habit, sir.” He produced a wad of paper and a pencil from the bulging pocket of his coat. “Would you do me the kindness, sir, of telling me the whereabouts of the giant ship you saw in your travels?”

For almost half an hour Haimut questioned the Jerusalem Man about the ghost ship and the ruined cities of Atlantis. Finally Shannow rose, paid for his breakfast, and strolled onto the street. For most of the morning he toured the town. It was quiet at the western end, where most of the houses betrayed the wealth of the inhabitants, but toward the east, where the buildings were more mediocre and flimsy, he saw several scuffles outside taverns and drinking houses. At the end of the town was a vast meadow filled by tents of various sizes. Even here there were drinking areas, and he saw drunkards sitting or lying on the grass in various stages of stupor.

The town had sprung up around a silver mine, and that had attracted vagrants like ants to a picnic. And with the vagrants had come the brigands and the thieves, the dice rollers and the Carnat players. He left the tent town and moved back along the main thoroughfare. The sound of children singing came from a long timber-built hall. He stopped for a while and listened to the tune, trying to place it. It was a pleasant sound, full of youth and hope and innocent joy; at first it lifted him, but that was followed by a sense of melancholy and loss, and he walked on.

Outside the Traveler’s Rest a large crowd had gathered, and a man’s voice could be heard, deep and stirring. Shannow joined the crowd and looked up at the speaker, who was standing on a barrel. The man was tall and broad-shouldered with tightly curled thick red hair. He wore a black robe belted at the waist with gray rope, and a wooden cross hung from a cord around his neck.

“And I say to you, Brothers, that the Lord is waiting for you. All he wants is a sign from you. To see your eyes lifted from the mud at your feet, lifted toward the glories of heaven. To hear your voices say, ‘Lord, I believe.’ And then, my friends, the joys of the spirit will flow in your souls.”

A man stepped forward. “And then he’ll make us wear pretty black dresses like that one? Tell me, Parson, do you have to squat to piss?”

“Such is the voice of ignorance, my brothers,” began the Parson, but the man shouted him down.

“Ignorance? You puking son of a bitch! You can take your puking Jesus and tell him go—”

The Parson’s booted foot flashed out, catching the man under the chin and catapulting him from his feet. “As I was saying, dear friends,” he continued, “the Lord waits with love in His heart for any sinner who repents. But those who persist in evil ways will fall to the Sword of God, to burn in lakes of hellfire. Put aside evil and lust and greed. Love your neighbor as yourself. Only then
will the Lord smile on you and yours, and your rewards will be all the greater.”

“Do you love
him
, Parson?” shouted another man in the crowd, pointing down at the unconscious heckler.

“Like my own son,” replied the Parson, grinning. “But children must first learn discipline. I will stand bad language, for that is the way of sinful men. But I will not stand for blasphemy or any insult to the Lord. Faced with such, I will smite the offender hip and thigh as Samson among the Philistines.”

“How do you feel about drinking, Parson?” called a man at the back.

“Nice of you to ask, my son. I’ll have a strong beer.” As the laughter began, the Parson raised his arms for silence.

“Tomorrow is the Sabbath, and I will be holding a service beyond the town of tents. There will be singing and praise, followed by food and drink. Come with your wives, your sweethearts, and your children. We’ll make a day of it in the meadow. Now where’s that beer I was promised?” He stepped down from the barrel and moved to the fallen man. Hoisting him to his feet, the Parson lifted the man to his shoulder and marched up the steps into the Traveler’s Rest.

Shannow remained in the sunlight.

“Impressive, is he not?” asked Clem Steiner. When Shannow turned, the young man’s eyes were bright and challenging.

“Yes,” Shannow agreed.

“I hope the little fracas didn’t trouble you in the night.”

“No, it did not. Excuse me,” replied Shannow, moving away.

Steiner’s voice floated after him. “You bother me, friend. I hope we will not fall out.”

Shannow ignored him. He returned to his room and checked his remaining Barta coin, finding he had seven full silvers, three halves, and five quarters. He searched
his pockets and came up with the gold coin he had found in Shir-ran’s food store. It was just over an inch in diameter, and on the surface was stamped the image of a sword surrounded by stars; the reverse of the coin was blank. Shannow took it to the window to examine it more closely. The sword was of an unusual design, long and tapering, and the stars were more like crosses in the sky.