by Kate Ormand
“Have you seen Veramus?” she asked.
Marran said vehemently, “Not once—and if he’s avoiding me, he knows what’s good for him. I’d like to kill him.”
“It’s not his fault, Marran—there are hundreds just like him. You’d have a lot of killing to do once you started.”
Marran said bitterly, “There’s one of them now.”
Essa looked down and saw that Maxamar had swept into the cavern with an entourage of prominent citizens. He had come to praise the Water Workers and encourage them in their work as it grew ever more arduous.
“The Prime Conscience?” Essa said.
“He was the one who reported your mother and father to the Council. So Veramus had a fine example to follow.”
“Maxamar did that?”
“When he was younger, he and your parents were friends.”
Essa could not get angry about it. She was a prisoner awaiting execution. Those with lives to live could get worked up about the unfairness of life in Arcone; it was no longer her concern.
Marran wanted to know, “Do you forgive me?”
“What for?”
The older woman was nonplussed. “I’m not sure.”
“It was all my own doing. I wish I could find someone to blame, but I can’t. You’ve never done me any harm.” She wished Marran would go, leaving her to contemplate the water again.
Her adoptive mother talked rapidly before their time together concluded. She was petitioning the Council on Essa’s behalf. “Believe me, Elessa—there is still hope.”
No. I won’t hope. I won’t dream of a future. There isn’t one.
They hugged a last time before the cage was swung back to let Marran out. “There is always a chance,” Marran said fervently. “Always. I won’t allow you to die like this.”
They wouldn’t listen to a mother’s emotional pleading. The laws of Arcone were implacable to those who strayed.
Essa said with a crooked smile, “It’s only water. It won’t hurt.”
The dot of light wavered and vanished.
Clinging to the wall, Kean kept going. It was becoming easier. He had been traveling by touch alone for so long that at first it seemed an illusion when the blackness relaxed its hold. Nearing the place where the torch had disappeared, he became surer that natural light was filtering into the subterranean shaft from somewhere ahead.
When he could make out his surroundings, the unfathomable tunnel shrank to its true size. Not big at all. Thirty yards or so in diameter, it was a natural fault running through the substrata, one that had been artificially enhanced where necessary. At its lowest level, below the ledge he moved along, was a sheen of algae.
It was a water conduit. A giant water pipe. All but dry at present.
He hurried on much faster.
The tunnel was opening out into a large underground basin half full of water. There was one big shaft that opened out right over the basin, and while most of the light filtered down through this, the general obscurity was lifted in other areas of the basin, too, for above the water were the mouths of other smaller tunnels. The general pattern indicated that there were more shafts lower down: it was like being in a stony heart served by pipes and arteries. Instead of blood, the upper orifices dripped down rainwater.
When Kean refocused on the task at hand, he found he had lost all sense of where the Commander had gone. He put out a hand to steady himself, and it touched something metal. A ladder. Leading up at an angle into a hole that was definitely manmade, although no illumination came down it … Well, the path had ended: while the basin extended well beyond the ladder, this seemed to be the only exit, so Grollat had gone this way, and this was the way he would go, too.
He climbed the ladder. Soon rock enclosed him in a narrow funnel. He went upward, hand over hand, until his head bumped into something wooden.
A trapdoor. Now what? No telling what was up there … or who.
There was no sound. Of that he was sure. He pushed at the wood, and it moved. He listened again. Nothing. He pushed harder, and it lifted clear a few inches. Weighed down by something, though …
Still no sound. He forced the trapdoor up and to one side, and an animal slid across his view. An empty animal, it was—just its skin. There was light up there, and you could tell it was artificial light, because the color was so deep and rich.
No one shouted, nothing moved up there. He inched upward and looked. He was staring at an interior that seemed familiar. There were more skins—there were animal skins everywhere—and a lamp burned in one corner.
It was Dagman’s inner room. He wasn’t here, but you could smell him. Not the place to be. Kean would never get out of the building. It was the very center of Cruiser power.
He went down the ladder again, replacing the trapdoor over his head as best he could. Back in the big basin, it was a question of finding another exit to take, once his eyes had again adjusted to the dimness. There were none that he could see. However, if he could somehow reach the nearest tunnel that showed light above the basin … It wasn’t very far away from where he stood at the end of the path.
No one in the valley could swim: there was nothing to swim in. He reached a foot down into the water. Pushed it down farther till he nearly lost his balance. Ah—there … a kind of fold in the rock formation … one that could provide a foothold. He lowered himself slowly into the water. It was cold, and the novelty of it was terrifying. There were lumps and bumps to hold onto with his hands … that little fold supported his feet …
The slipperiness of the rock was like a layer of grease. As soon as he let go of one handhold to seek another, his foot shot downward, and he lost his grip and went under. In a complete panic, he threshed his arms and legs, and took mouthfuls of water. Fortunately the Bleacher clothes were light, and at last, spluttering and wanting to cry out in his terror, he broke the surface again. He had traveled in his struggles. His thrashing hands met the opening of a tunnel mouth, and he grabbed at it. Wet and shaking as he was, it took all his strength to drag himself out of the water. His feet continued to slip; it was only by frantic scrabbling that he was able to get an elbow into the tunnel and then throw his shoulder after it.
Pitch-blackness again. In the state of mind he was in, Kean did not read the message this might have given him. He hauled himself into the tunnel face first and squirmed onto his back in order to get his legs in. One last effort, and he had gotten all of his body into the tunnel. Unfortunately he continued to move even after his muscles stopped working, for the tunnel did the exact opposite of what Kean had hoped—it traveled down. He was sliding on his back, not fast, yet powerless to stop himself in the clammy smoothness of the shaft. He writhed onto his front again; he was sliding down face forward into water—more water—shooting under … coming to a halt, wholly submerged. Panic set in all over again until he realized that this time he was touching the bottom. He came up onto his knees, and in attempting to stand, banged his head on rock. He was crouched in water which was less than waist height.
The shaft of the little well rose straight up above him, narrow, with a small gray circle marking daylight at the top. How far up? Hard to tell. There was no question of going back, anyway, so what difference did it make? The walls were damp and dangerous, but if he stood and forced himself just a little way up the shaft, he could climb the rest of the way by using his feet against one side and his back against the other.
After what he had been through in the last few minutes, this was relatively straightforward once he had drawn himself up out of the water. Then it was a matter of obstinate, uncomfortable labor. He had ascended only halfway before his shoulders and legs were hurting badly, and there was an insistent pain in his lower back.
Thoughts jostled for his attention. What time of day was it? How far away from Dagman’s house would he be when he got out? Was he going to emerge in the sight of Cruisers? If this well was still working, wouldn’t it be guarded? Oh—it must have stopped raining suddenly. No droplets
were falling down the well. And there was no sound of wind, either. So, a lull up top. That was bad news. His best chance of getting out of Cruiser territory was if everyone had taken cover.
Somehow he had to get to Hawkerman. If he could find him. There was much to report.
And then, when he was almost at the top of the well, he heard a voice coming from above, and although it was so faint that it was almost inaudible, Kean half believed it was Hawkerman’s voice.
“Waiting … nothing better to do.”
The flat tone was just like Hawkerman’s.
“Back off.” The man repeated himself more loudly. “I said back off. You want him dead? That suits me fine, because I do, too.”
It was Hawkerman.
His voice came again. “Now—you go back in and get Dagman out. I don’t talk to you, Frumitch—only Dagman.”
The well was harder to climb near the top. Wider. Kean hauled himself up above ground level, took a cursory glance at his surroundings, bent his knees one last time, wrenched his shoulders around, and levered himself out of the well. Even as he rolled behind the stones that surrounded it, he was camouflaged. The rain had turned the ground to liquid mud.
No one saw him. It was daytime, but there was little light; it was smothered beneath the churning clouds of the Season, which coiled and writhed in the sky, plotting some new onslaught. What illumination there was had a smoky yellow quality.
Crouching, Kean clung to the well he had emerged from. It was a small one, set off to one side of the building he had recently vacated. He had a view along the length of the veranda. Standing shin-deep in the mud were scores of men and women who had gathered at the bottom of the old lake outside Dagman’s rotting residence.
The largest of the wells was the focal point for the crowd; this was where Hawkerman and Ax stood with Snakebite. The Cruiser was tightly bound from the waist up, and Ax’s big hands were on his shoulders, feeling for the smallest twitch of resistance—and ready, also, to shove Snakebite straight into the well at a signal from the team leader. They faced Dagman’s two-story mansion, with Cara and Wil and Wailing Joe positioned to watch their backs. Cara and Wil carried gutguns, the favored projectile weapon of the Cruisers—stubby metal crossbows. Kean guessed that they had been taken in a battle with Snakebite’s men. Barb and the other twin, Gil, were not in sight, and Hawkerman did not have his own gun with him.
Dagman’s Cruiser guard lined the veranda, weapons at the ready, and Cruisers comprised at least half the crowd that had followed Hawkerman here. A team member again, Kean assessed the situation, calculating how he could work to best effect. Not by showing himself, that was for sure.
Hawkerman called to the house, “I’m not waiting much longer. He’s going to die.”
Kean had a good enough angle on the scene to see Frumitch come out from under the veranda, smiling peaceably. “Hold on there,” he called back in his light voice. “The big man’s on his way.”
There was movement on the veranda again. Dagman’s heavy form lumbered out of the house. Behind him came Frumitch, and the cloaked man: Grollat, the Bleacher commander.
FIFTEEN
Dagman’s rumbling voice carried easily through the heavy air.
“Why are you causing trouble, Hawkerman? There’s only one way it can end.”
Hawkerman called back, “Your man killed my brother. I want to know why.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.” Hawkerman held up a small object. “One of his people took this from Fireface. He wore it on his cloak. We took it back when Snakebite tried to kill me, too, up where the big cats live. I told you your men don’t know how to handle themselves in the outlands.”
Snakebite shouted, “Let him kill me and then cut them down!”
Dagman smiled, showing his up-reaching tooth. “See what I mean, Hawkerman? You got nothing to trade with. Let my man go, and I’ll let your team live—when I’ve finished with you.”
Hawkerman ignored the threat. “I want to know why Snakebite went after my brother.”
“What does he say?”
“He says Fireface attacked him. I don’t believe him.”
“And you want me to agree with you and not him? Trader, get ready to die.”
Those in the crowd who were onlookers started to retreat. The Cruisers among them stood their ground.
Hawkerman spread his arms wide. “Dagman. You know the gun I carry?”
“I see you didn’t bring it with you. Very wise.”
“It’s pointing at you now. Along with a bow in the hands of someone who doesn’t miss much. You’re fat and you’re slow, and I reckon between them, my people could get off four shots before you could make it back to your door.”
Everyone looked around. On the outskirts of the lake, Barb showed herself at the side of one of the acacias, bow aimed. Only Kean saw Gil, because he knew the kind of place he’d pick in order to make the shot. He was lying on top of one of the Cruiser wagons, much closer in.
“I don’t see your gun,” Dagman blustered.
“No? Suits me fine. Now you tell me the truth of why my brother had to die.”
Dagman hesitated and glanced back at the hooded man. Kean thought he saw the man shake his head without hardly moving it all.
Dagman shouted, “You think I won’t take a chance? You think I’m afraid of you?”
It was all about to happen. Kean stood up. He made his voice loud and clear.
“Dagman ordered the killing. Because he works for the Bleachers.”
A dozen gutguns were trained on him immediately. “Kean?” Wailing Joe said incredulously. “Kean?”
Kean walked in slowly through the mud, coming between the two groups. Don’t get too near Hawkerman; split the enemy fire.
“The Cruisers do what the Bleachers tell them to, and in return, the Bleachers fill these wells for them.” Kean waved his arm at the wells. “It’s a deal. Keep the Wanderers in line and get water.”
Hawkerman was working out how best to use the situation to his advantage. The crowd began to advance again in curiosity. Someone shouted, “How do you know that?”
Another voice called, “We’d know about it if there was water brought in.”
“How?” Kean answered. “How would you know? It comes through an underground water pipe that runs all the way from the Pyramid. I’m telling you, the Cruisers get ten percent of all Bleacher water.” Create division within the enemy ranks: “And Dagman gets secret gifts on top.”
Dagman found his voice, furious. “That’s a lie! You’re dead, too, boy! This is lies, people! Ask him again—how could he know these things?”
“I’ve been there,” Kean said. “Just now returned. Look at the clothes.”
Dagman called to his men, “On my signal, take them all out. I’d rather die than listen to this craziness.”
“You don’t need to take my word for it,” Kean called out to the Wanderers. “The man by Dagman—the one you can’t see because of the cloak? He’s a Bleacher. He’ll take his hood off, and he’ll tell you all about it. Ask him to!”
His hood still low over his face, Grollat walked forward to the edge of the veranda. He appeared to glance once at Dagman, and Dagman screamed, “Kill them!” and it all happened.
Grollat drew a short-barreled pacifor from under his cloak and brought it up to point at Kean.
Dagman collapsed on the veranda, shot by Gil.
Cruisers opened fire, and the first to be hit was Snakebite, now a human shield for Hawkerman and Ax. His life was done; he went down the well with hands tied and a gutgun bolt through his chest.
Kean was down and rolling as a ball of blue electricity hissed into the mud beside him.
Hawkerman and those with him were diving for cover behind the rocks around the well while Gil and Barb fired into the densely packed veranda.
Some of the Cruisers were assaulted by men in the crowd and fired back at them instead of Hawkerman’s team.
Grollat fired ag
ain as a wounded Cruiser blundered into him. The shot went wide, and they both went down. Kean ran at Grollat, butting into the Bleacher hard as he was rising to his knees. Wrestling for the pacifor, Kean found himself aided by Frumitch of all people. Two against one wasn’t enough with the Commander; Frumitch took a heavy blow in the mouth, and Kean was hurled back, too. But he had the pacifor. Lying on his back, he set the thing off, his finger finding the trigger and squeezing it before he had aimed the weapon. A Cruiser was blown backward, thudding into the wall. Grollat flung himself through the door of the house and disappeared—and Frumitch was shouting through bleeding lips, “Get the hooded man! Forget the Wanderers—don’t let him go!”
He dragged two Cruisers with him and pushed them through the door. They went after Grollat, and Frumitch lay on the boards of the veranda to avoid being shot and screamed, “Stop firing! It’s finished! Stop firing!”
He kept on repeating the command. It took a while for the message to reach all parties concerned. Hawkerman had taken Cara’s gutgun and used it to good effect. Cruisers were firing back, and Ax and Wailing Joe had been hit. When he sensed the conflict was dying down, Hawkerman shouted to stop firing, too. The violence came to a stop bit by bit, with some shots still being fired into the crowd by the Cruisers farthest from Frumitch. Two of them were overwhelmed by Wanderers as they reloaded. There were a couple last sporadic shots, and then all was quiet.
Frumitch got to his feet. “No more firing!” he shouted unnecessarily.
There was a last burst of action. The Cruisers who had gone after Grollat reappeared. “Get away—get clear! He’s set it on fire!”
Kean staggered away from the veranda, still clutching the pacifor.
Smoke drifted out of the house, and then flames were seen. Grollat had overturned the lamp to cover his flight. The wooden building would have burned better if it had not been for the sudden and cataclysmic return of the rain: a solid flood that broke upon the Lakes with such power that men and women were knocked to the ground.
Human disputes were put aside for a while in the struggle against the elements. Kean forced his way to Hawkerman, who was with Cara and Wil by the big well, satisfying himself that the wounds Ax and Wailing Joe had were not life-threatening. Ax had a shallow gash in his side, and Wailing Joe had a bolt embedded in his hip. Otherwise Hawkerman’s team was unscathed.