Walk to the End of the World (21 page)

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Authors: Suzy McKee Charnas

BOOK: Walk to the End of the World
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It was said that two suns lit the high country skies: one that rose in the east, another flaming low against the dark western hills and shining through the nights. The second sun was ‘Troi itself, whose concrete buildings were sheathed in the flattened, polished bodies of Ancient machines extracted whole from the mines – the single boast of wealth that the ’Troimen allowed themselves. After dark ‘Troi shone with its own lights; the skills of ’Troi took light from the river, men said. Looking at the brilliance of the lamps burning all along the roads that ran north to the coal pits and south to the mines, Servan believed it. Those were no coal-fueled flames. One could say it was witchery, except that it was the work of men.
The supply roads were empty now, though the purpose of the lights was reputed to be to enable a constant flow of fems to bring coal and metal to the furnaces of ‘Troi, night as well as day. A dull, heavy pulse beat out from the glittering town: the mutter of machines, ’Troi’s music against the silence at the edge of the Holdfast.
High above the steep westward summit of ‘Troi hills the sun rode low and dusky in the sky. Smoke obscured the mountains, which were only discernible as long, looming shapes. The late light struck points of brilliance from their tops, as if the ’Troimen had sheathed those heights with metal too. The town itself was built with its back to the Wild, as if in disdain of a conquered enemy.
The river, which fell steeply from the hills behind the town, ran through the center of it and on away east to Oldtown and the City.
The lower slopes on either side of ‘Troi valley were terraced with stone walls and footed with heaps of black slag from ’Troi furnaces. Across the lower valley, a palisade of metal plates had been newly erected, shielding the town from the rest of the Holdfast. Heavy metal grills set into this barrier blocked the river to traffic. The north and south river-roads were shut by similar gates set into the palisade just outside the eastern margin of the town.
The carry-fems set the camper down in a riverside loading-yard in front of one of these steel grills. A concrete tower had been reared behind the palisade. From the upper tier of the tower men could be seen looking down.
Standing well back from the palisade, the Hemaways offhandedly pointed out this and that about the new fortification to each other, as if they were all Rover officers and veterans of every skirmish ever fought. Senior Bajerman held himself aloof from the discussion. He regarded the sunset rather than the town, while Servan helped him adjust his wilted and travel-worn mantle to maximum effect. Even without starch, the folds could be arranged to frame the Senior’s face and head, giving an impression of extra height and bulk.
The taller you stand, Servan thought, the more pleasure to bring you down. He hummed to himself.
Eykar got out of the camper (he wouldn’t be caught like that again, all tangled up with the fem) and braced himself firmly upright, one hand on the roof-frame and the other on Alldera’s shoulder. And how he stared when a gray-haired ‘Troiman let himself out through a narrow doorway in the tower’s base and strode to meet them: unmantled, tough-looking, the man wore the wheel insignia of the ’Troi Trukkers.
Not Maggomas, Servan decided; there was no resemblance, no spark of recognition. Eykar relaxed visibly almost at once. What interested Servan was something the Trukker carried in one hand: a dull metal tool, pointed like a finger toward the ground. A weapon, Servan thought, if he had ever seen one.
A dozen paces from the camper the ‘Troiman stopped and looked them over. ‘Which of you – ’ he began; but Senior Bajerman stepped forward and effortlessly overrode his question with a sonorous announcement:
‘Tell Raff Maggomas that his son has been brought to him by Gor Bajerman and certain other, lesser, Senior Hemaways. We offer him
Eykar Bek in exchange for power and privilege here in ’Troi.’
Haughtily high-mantled, Bajerman stood with one hand spread on his chest, the picture of a man awaiting a salute from another of inferior standing. A breeze stirred his wispy white hair.
The Trukker did not salute. He shook his head. ‘My orders are to let in Eykar Bek, his friend d Layo and any fems they have with them. That’s all. We don’t need any Citymen here. Plenty of them will be knocking at our gates soon enough.’
He raised the metal thing he carried and pointed it at the Hemaway nearest to him. There came a crash, stunningly loud and close; and there lay the Hemaway on his broad back, arms and legs outflung, blood running from under him.
Two other Hemaways bolted for the palisade. The watchtower issued thunder, and they fell. It was too much for the carry-fems; they raced for the high grass growing at the edge of the loading yard. The rest of the Hemaways scattered. The air was full of boomings, crackings and strange wild whinings. Other ’Troimen along the palisade whooped and pounded one another’s backs in their excitement as the darting figures were felled by invisible thunders.
The noise stopped; the voice of the Trukker could suddenly be heard, roaring abuse at the men in the tower. Ribbons of smoke dissolved in the air overhead. None of the Hemaways had even reached the palisade. One carry-fem still tried to drag herself into the sheltering grass, leaving a smear of blood on the flagstones behind her.
Bajerman stood stupefied; beyond him Servan could see Alldera crouching under Eykar’s white-knuckled hand.
‘ … have your asses for this!’ the Trukker was bawling at the men in the tower. Red-faced, he turned back to the newcomers who were still standing: ‘Stupid sonsofbitches, they think a weapon is a toy! Give them a moving target and they can’t resist. Even then they don’t finish the job!’
He jerked up his own thunderer and clicked it at Senior Bajerman. Swearing, the Trukker peered down the tube of the weapon.
Servan thought, am I a fem or a cub to stand shaking in front of this old-wolf because he wields powers he can’t even control? He said, ‘Not that I mean to be critical; but since when do ’Troi Seniors kill their own peers for being from out of town?’
‘It’s necessary,’ the ‘Troiman said, truculently. ‘We’ve abolished those divisions anyhow. This matter has nothing to do with age. We’ll be under siege by the Citymen sometime tomorrow. We’re pared down to the bone now, so nobody comes in that we can’t use; and we can’t use him.’
‘Then,’ Servan said, with a joyful laugh. ‘I’ll attend to the Senior for you. Have you got a knife?’
The Trukker handed him a blade from his belt, muttering, ‘Sometimes I think we would be better off with knives than with these fancy distance weapons.’ And he shook the recalcitrant pointing-killer in his hand.
‘We’re of an age, you and I!’ Bajerman cried.
The Trukker considered him again. ‘Do you know any technics?’
Senior Bajerman composed himself and said, ‘I am an expert in Deportment, a Master of the field of Hierarchies—’
‘That’s no good to us,’ the Trukker said.
Servan stepped between them, turned on Bajerman and did swiftly with the knife things he had been dreaming of doing. The Senior shrieked and staggered backward. Belly slit, red hands knotted into his groin, he fell twitching on the flagstones. Servan knelt to wipe the thin film of pinkish blood from the Trukker’s blade, using Bajerman’s mantle. The knife was a good one, with a full new blade and a handle of some hard substance ribbed to give a grip. He pivoted, still crouching, and offered it back with some reluctance to the Trukker.
‘Aren’t you going to finish him off?’ the Trukker said.
‘He is finished.’
Eykar held out his hand. ‘Give me the knife.’
‘Oh, no, Eykar,’ Servan flipped the knife for the ‘Troiman to catch. ‘You’re forgetting which of us has had to put up with Bajerman all this time.’
Seizing hold of the Senior’s mantle, Servan heaved him to where the edge of the paving sloped down to the river. Bajerman twisted to blink up at him. Servan shoved him down the incline. Sloshing noisily up onto the flagging, the water took the Senior and tugged him away. The weight of his stained, soaked mantle dragged him down. Servan dipped his bloody hands into the water.
Two ’Troimen from the tower were searching the dead Hemaways for weapons and private caches of food. Servan considered
demanding that his own knife – or some other, in its place — be returned to him. It would look better, though, to enter Maggomas’ stronghold empty-handed. Besides, maybe he could get one of those crashing killers instead. Anything was possible now.
In the broad streets of ’Troi not many people were about at twilight, and none of them were either very young men or mantled Seniors. There were no Rovers and no fems, only men of middle years clad in sober clothing. Some wore wide belts from which hung metal tools, and one man passed by with something resembling a polished skull in the crook of his arm – a helmet of some kind.
The streets were surfaced from wall to wall with a smooth, dark substance; down the centers ran parallel flanges of metal, shiny as ice. No refuse littered any of the alleys or doorways, but a layer of grime outlined the mosaics of metal that covered the facades of the buildings. Overhead, thin black cables of some kind loosely laced the sky between rooftops and upper-story ledges. The central buildings towered all along the river’s course, straddling the water. Lamps projected on metal arms from the walls, blindingly bright now that darkness was descending. Everywhere, streets and structures seemed to vibrate with the ceaseless growling of the engines of ’Troi.
No wonder men used the streets briefly and with purpose. It would be difficult to loiter and chat in these stark passages, that were plainly for the transport of materials first and only secondarily for the movement of men.
Servan was impressed. He took in everything – the massive architecture, the combination of efficiency and grime. An ugly place, he thought, but effective; pity it was wasted on Eykar, who looked for only one thing here. Watching him limping ahead, leaning on the fem, Servan felt a wave of warmth for his friend.
At a massive complex of buildings, the Trukker turned aside. ’Troimen standing sentry in a broad doorway slid back the metal leaves of the door into the walls. Two of the sentries fell in behind the strangers. The silver bars on the collars of this escort marked them as men of the Armicor Company, ruthless by reputation. Each of them carried one of the thunder weapons in a special pocket slung from his belt.
Glass globes set into the ceiling shed a harsh, cold light. The Armicors’ metal-tipped boot heels snapped against the floor.
Stairs led up onto a railed gallery that ran high along the wall of a huge, roaring room. The room was lit by the familiar warmth of firelight — but what fires! The entire wall opposite the walkway was a tangle of metal tubing, struts and plates in which a row of revolving kettles was mounted. The giant kettles glowed red with heat and thundered as they turned. Men in helmets and heavy clothing moved around the machines, carrying long, fire-blackened rods with hooked ends. Others bent or climbed to examine glass-faced dials, making notations on tablets fixed to their sleeves. They spoke with their heads close together amid the tremendous noise.
In front of a lighted doorway at the far end of the gallery, a man leaned out over the railing, pointing and shouting at someone down on the work-floor. There was imperious vitality in his stabbing gestures, though he was the first really old man they had seen in ’Troi. His close, curling hair was like a design tightly engraved on silver. From beneath his long apron of shiny material there emerged limbs as lean as ropes. His voice, keen and reedy, was audible even over the rumbling of the machines.
A whistle shrilled. On the work-floor men tipped one of the kettles with the bent ends of the long poles they carried. Liquid fire spewed out, with darting sparks and a sharp crackling sound. A man poked black scum from where it gathered in the spout and obstructed the outpouring. The hot, glowing stream turned dull red as it congealed in channels in the floor beneath. In the air a fresh pungency tingled.
The Trukker strode out ahead and spoke to the old man, who turned, glancing first at Servan. With an abrupt gesture, the old man waved them forward.
For a moment, Eykar hesitated, his expression a study. Whatever he had been expecting, Servan thought, it had not been this skinny, axe-faced old fellow! And he would not have missed the sobering of the old man’s eager look when the Trukker pointed out that it was Eykar, not Servan, who was the Endtendant. Father and son would have to revise some preconceptions.
‘I see,’ shouted the old man over the noise of the turning kettles, ‘you’re injured – not too badly to keep you off your feet, at least.’
‘It’s healing,’ Eykar shouted back.
Maggomas rounded on the Trukker, barking, ‘Go turn over your gun and your squad to Anjon, and let’s hope he shows better control
over the tower post than you have.’ The Trukker flushed red and stalked away.
Turning as if he’d forgotten the man already, Maggomas led the others through the door behind him into another corridor. The Armicors, when he waved them irritably back, fell in at a discreet distance, still an escort.
Eykar said, ‘You knew I was coming.’
‘I sent men to find you as soon as I heard you’d left Endpath. I see you didn’t need my help. That’s good. Self-reliance and capability are respected here in ’Troi.’

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