“MacDuff was still a human,” I said.
“Right. As is this guy. Apparently. I can tell you a lot about his peculiarities, but unfortunately, I can’t tell you much about why he’s so peculiar.”
“He was a shapeshifter,” I said.
“We haven’t got a lot of data about shapeshifters, and we don’t understand them very well. Keene dissected a few back in ’03, ’05 or so. Didn’t find out much. We still can’t tell you why they are able to shift their molecular structure.”
“It’s magick. It won’t show up under your microscope.”
“No such thing, Railwalker. Oh, I know, the phenomena are real. But it’s not magic in the sense you mean it. The ‘unnatural’ is by definition impossible. It’s all natural. We just don’t understand it yet.”
I was looking at the Beast’s body. On his forehead was what the guard had come to call the “beast mark.” It was drawn on the skin in some sort of paint or makeup, which had partially rubbed off, and yet...
I looked closer. I reached out and rubbed at it with my thumb. The doctor held out a rubber glove and said, “Umm...” I ignored him.
There was something underneath that painted mark, something hard-edged just under the skin. I rubbed some more.
“Doc, take a look at this,” I said. He looked, then took a scalpel and ran it around the edge of the area. It didn’t bleed much. He drew something out of the wound with a pair of forceps.
It was a piece of metal, the size of a large coin, but wafer thin. A cutout of the Crichton Industrial Development logo. It was inverted, and so still looked to me like the prototype of the “beast mark.”
“Now I suppose we have to wonder if this guy really was born,” said Barnet, “or if he was hatched in a lab. I didn’t see any tattooed bar code.”
“No,” I said, “he was born. This was inserted later in life. It was part of an initiation, like a tattoo. The metal was so thin it didn’t really show, so he reinforced it with war paint.” I wasn’t sure how I knew that, but I was certain of it.
Roth was right. Hartshall had been cleaned up thoroughly, and the only obvious suggestions of the violence that had gone on here two nights ago were a window paneled over with plywood and the faint scent of blood beneath the sharp odor of cleaning fluid. I hadn’t really appreciated the upstairs private dining room when I’d been here before, and it had been untouched by the fight that went on downstairs. Paneled in light wood, the room had a stone fireplace at one end and a gathering of mission style couch and chairs. The dining table was in the same style, and seated six.
And there were just five of us... Roth, Sarah Weldt, Morgan, myself, and Weldt’s daughter, Rochelle, with one empty place at the table. Roth was also right about the food: The venison chili was amazing.
The meal finished with coffee and tobacco. We performed a brief, heartfelt Ritual of the Given and Received, and then shared a cup and bowl with the dead. Formalities concluded, the atmosphere relaxed and we took our cups and bowls to the fireside.
The girl, Rochelle, had not gotten to act the Javamama, but she did refill my coffee cup for me now with formal ritual intent. It was obvious Roth and Weldt had worked out their differences after their divorce, and it had been the girl’s choice to keep the Roth name. She was very serious at twelve, with long, dark hair and large, luminous eyes.
“Rochelle is training with Hannah Caine,” Roth said, as his daughter refilled my cup.
“It’s not as if I want to be a harlot when I grow up,” she said, and I saw Roth and Weldt exchange a glance. “But they do have the best social graces. And I’m sure those will be useful, whatever I become.”
Roth laughed and hugged the girl. “Gets that calculating mind from her mother,” he said.
“I thought you didn’t get along with the Guild-madam,” said Morgan. There was something in her voice when she said that. She’d actually varied the flat monotone she’d spoken in since Rok’s death. I knew that tone. It said she knew this wasn’t good news, but she wasn’t willing to say so yet.
“There’s lots of things we don’t see eye to eye on, politically,” said Roth. “But certainly we respect each other. And she is an old mistress of her craft. Who better to teach Rochelle her social skills?”
Roth broke out his expensive scotch. Weldt and Morgan both chose to stick with their wine, and Rochelle had a small glass of lightly spiked punch. When the drinks had been distributed, Roth asked Morgan if she’d tell a tale. Any Railwalker can spin a story, of course, and we all know the traditional Brick tales. But the Profs are usually the ones who have a passion for it, who carry the lore and know all the old and obscure stories, the history tales and such that aren’t part of the central canon. Roth would know this, and I wondered if it was a guess or just a good bet on his part Morgan would be one of those with a real passion for it. At Morgan’s expression, I thought perhaps Roth had been too clever for his own good; it was early days to be trying to draw a grieving widow back to herself, especially one who was sharp enough to know exactly what the city boss was doing. She started to shake her head, then stopped herself. If Roth made the request formal, she’d be honor obligated to agree to it, and there was no way Morgan was going to allow herself to be forced into something she didn’t want to do.
So she hauled out her frame drum, settled herself by the fire, and began to play. She set a rhythm, played with it for a few moments. Then she began to speak, first nearly singing the words, and then settling down into the prose of the tale of Huck and Heather, and the troubles of Farr City:
Two cities in mountainous countryside,
They come to a place where they both decide
They’d be better off if they was allied,
Sister cities, as you might say, side by side.
Farr City’s Blues tells the tale of two rival cities who forge an alliance over a marriage, but like in Romeo and Juliet, along come Tybalt and Mercutio—in this case a young buck named Rant and some unnamed guy from the other city. They start a fight, and next thing you know it’s war again, blood running in the streets.
They nearly recover from this, both sides wanting and needing peace. But the heroine, Jess, is put in a position where no matter what she does she betrays someone. Many of the protagonists die, victims of someone’s idea of honor. It’s a sad tale, traditionally told in alternating sections of prose recitation and almost-song like punctuated rhyme.
They stand that way for a good long time,
While the tension continues to slowly climb.
You could hear the sound of a pin or a dime if you dropped it.
Jess looks at Rant, and the rest look at Jess,
And Rant got his eyes closed in major distress.
He’s lookin’ in the eye of death, I guess,
and prayin’ to some old god to bless his dyin’ soul.
Morgan spoke and sang the tale in the traditional way, accompanying herself on the frame drum. It was amazing, the variety of sound she could get out of that little drum. She’d make you hear whatever was in the story: rain, waves on the beach, gunfire, the cries of birds, a train, an ornithopter, or the grass growing. By the time she reached the passage where Huck gets killed Sarah Weldt was mesmerized, a blank expression on her face. Rochelle had gotten moist eyes back when Jess lost Nate, and was wiping at the tears now. Roth shifted uncomfortably in his chair—Huck and Nate were city bosses, both murdered.
Jess ain’t proud of what she’s wrought,
And she knows what kind of trouble she’s bought,
But the truth is all her choices were fraught
With confusion, betrayal and fear.
So vengeance and blood and pain were sown,
And the cities both figure the gauntlet’s thrown,
And it’s back to a hatred that cuts to the bone,
Each city now alone, against the other.
And that’s the story, or so I’ve heard,
So you tell me, was Jess true to her word?
She betrayed o
ne man to avenge the other,
Killing Huck for Heather’s brother.
Nate, her city boss and lover,
Wanted cities allied one to another.
Hatred and vengeance ended that plan,
And the life of many a woman and many a man.
Two cities in mountainous countryside,
Failed to keep themselves allied,
And many good folks died,
In sister cities, as you might say,
Side by side.
Morgan finished, and the last beats of the drum faded away as those assembled applauded.
“Helluva tale,” said Roth.
Weldt nodded. “It is a classic,” she said. “And beautifully performed.” Morgan nodded her thanks.
“But Jess was stupid,” said Rochelle. “Huck didn’t kill Nate. And he was mad at the guy who did, and offered to kill him. She shouldn’t have killed Huck.”
“In the old days,” said Roth, “they set a great store by the honor and fealty you owed to your city boss. Not to mention she was married to Nate. Huck may not have wanted Nate killed, but it happened in his city, and ultimately he was responsible. The folks of Danz River would have seen it as a betrayal if Jess hadn’t sought vengeance.”
“I still think it was stupid.”
Roth shrugged, with an expression that said, “Kids! What are you gonna do?”
“You’re right,” Morgan said to the girl, “it was stupid. I’ve always thought that tale was a warning about the dangers of being too rigid about obligations and protocol.”
“I could use some air,” said Roth. He turned to me and added, “Walk with me.”
He led me out of the room, down the stairs, and out onto the deck overlooking the bay. I’d been expecting something like this, some kind of private talk Roth wanted to have with me, but I’d halfway thought he’d manage it by wanting to show me some new kitchen tool he’d acquired or something. I should have known he’d make no pretense. He’d been a city boss for over twenty years. He was secure in his power base and getting ready to retire. What did he need with pretense?
Roth looked out over the view of the darkened bay and set his glass on the deck railing. Without preamble he said, “You know that Traveler is going to die soon. Not now, maybe not for a couple of years—but three years at most.”
I was surprised, but mainly because the news had come to me from a city boss, and not through the Railwalker network. Traveler was the Elder Raven of the Railwalker Order. He was a hundred years old or so. His health hadn’t been great last I heard, but there was no talk of impending death.
“When Traveler goes, there must be a Raven to take his place.” Roth stared me in the eye. “A reasonable, balanced Raven.”
I could see where he was going with this. If Groute took control, he would withdraw the order from the world, make the Nests into closed monasteries. If Kane became Elder Raven, he’d be politicking and maneuvering to acquire more civil power and authority for the Railwalkers. I could see Roth didn’t like either alternative, and frankly, neither did I, though probably for different reasons. Roth was thinking of the stability of the status quo, the usefulness of the Railwalker Order to the city bosses. I was thinking of the order itself, of its integrity—although I admit, I shared Roth’s concerns about the bigger picture.
The Cities Alliance was a loose federation, not a central government. It could only advise—and sometimes pressure—local governments, but it couldn’t compel. The Railwalkers were independent, and the sort of authority the cities granted them was traditional—as well as limited and voluntary.
Still, there were some laws on most of the cities’ books. Railwalkers could be asked to act as mediators and judges, if both parties in a conflict agreed to it. Agreeing to it was voluntary, but once the agreement was made, the Railwalker had final say in the case, in most cities. We could be consulted as healers, but, again, once a physician handed a case over to a Railwalker, according to most areas’ laws, the Railwalker was then in total control until he handed the patient back to the physician.
Then there were cases like Roth’s: crimes where the city guard were without any leads. Or crimes where mutant or otherworldly forces were thought to be involved. Here again, we couldn’t march in and take over, but once we were asked in we were in until we chose otherwise, in as far as we chose to go.
The whole thing was in precarious balance right now. Looking ahead, I could see serious trouble for all of us—Railwalkers and everyone else—if the authority the cities and regions granted our order was given too easily, in too many civil contexts. If that happened, all it would take was a little luck for one unscrupulous type—or one well intentioned but misguided sort—to rise eventually to Elder Raven, and there’d be hell to pay. Even today, if we’d chosen to, our order could probably “disappear” people we deemed a threat, manipulated and pressured certain governments into certain actions. Not that I thought Groute was capable of such a thing. But I wondered suddenly if that had ever happened. If members of the order had ever actually turned so far from the order’s precepts. I didn’t know of any, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t happened. It was a sobering thought.
Roth broke in on my thoughts. “You’re one of the few Railwalkers qualified to stand for the job.”
I’d known that was coming. I shook my head. “I’m too young to be a Senior Raven, let alone Elder.”
“What are you, thirty-six, thirty-seven? Put in a couple of years as a Raven, maybe the Western Warden, you’d be forty by the time you’re confirmed,” said Roth. “That’s all that’s actually required by your rules.”
He’d obviously been doing his homework, thinking about the situation. I should have known he’d know what the rule said. By custom, Elder Ravens were generally in their fifties or sixties, but there had been a few decades there when life expectancy had been down all over the country, and the rule reflected those times. The unspoken message here was that if I chose to eventually make a bid for the position of Elder Raven, he would support me. City bosses had no official say in the election of the Elder, but it was no secret that the Corvine Council and the Raven Parliament would take the opinions and preferences of the various city bosses into account when making their decision. Like I say, diplomacy was part of the job for the average Railwalker, and it was even more so for the Elder Raven. It behooved the order to select an Elder with whom the city bosses could get along.
“I walk the rails, Mr. Roth,” I said. “I never aspired to a position of authority in the order. I’m not a politician.”
“But I think you’re also not a man who will walk away from his order, or the peoples of the cities and the zones, when they’re in need and you can help them.”
I had to admit he had me there. But was he right? Did the order really need me, or was my ego listening to strokes from a retiring politico who wanted an advantageous alliance he could pass on to his successor? It wasn’t something I could sort out here and now. And Roth recognized that.
“Think about it,” he said.
I nodded. We stood looking out over the sea.
“You haven’t mentioned a closing ceremony,” he said.
“Not sure we’re ready for that,” I told him.
“Why not? The Beast’s dead, isn’t he? Might be interesting to know who he was and where he came from, maybe, but is it really important?”
“I’m surprised you have to ask. He was after you. His forehead had a damn metal Crichton Industrial logo embedded in it. Doc Barnet says he was in his late twenties at the most. His grudge against you can’t be from personal experience, and it can’t date to the Takeover. He was indoctrinated and trained by someone whose grudge against you does go back that far. The Beast was a puppet. The puppet master is still out there somewhere, and might have other puppets.”
Roth looked away, turned toward the sea. He took a drink. He was too intelligent not to see it. “Damnit. Gods damn it, wasn’t this enough already? You’re right, Railwalker, we do have to f
ind this nemesis of mine. Do what you have to. We’ll do closure on it when you’re ready.”
45. WOLF
On the way back to City Plaza in the back of a chauffeured runabout, I asked Morgan about why she’d sounded odd at the mention of Hannah Caine.
“I’m not a hundred percent certain yet,” she said, and sighed. “But I think she’s Helena Crichton.”
“And therefore, probably the mother of the Beast.”
“Yeah,” she said, with an odd look I couldn’t identify. “I think so.”
There was clearly more to it. Something was bothering her. I was about to press her further when her head snapped up and she said, “What happened?” She had caught the energy before I did. She’d had less to drink.
I picked it up a second later, the buzz of energy, as we turned the corner into City Plaza, which was ablaze with lights; guard runabouts, autos, ambulances. I looked at all the flashing lights through a light-haze-of-Scotch distance, took a deep breath, and felt the hooch receding fast. Something serious had gone down here.
A patrol guardsman named Howard came to the side of our runabout.
“The Railwalkers?” he asked. “Got orders from Chief Gage. You’re to go right up.”
“Up” turned out to be the fourteenth floor, where the V.I.P. suites were.
As the elevator doors opened, my breath caught in my throat at the smell. The place was awash in blood and littered with corpses. Guard techs in white coats and face masks whisked back and forth with brittle efficiency, trying not to think too much about what they were documenting.
Gage stood not far from the elevators, some kind of white cream on his upper lip. I assumed it was something to kill the smell. He held out a small jar.
“I haven’t let them move anything,” he said, “until you got here. But the techs are done with the bodies in the hall.”
I was right, the jar was some sort of mentholated cream. I passed it back to him unused. The smell was unpleasant, but if I was going to pick up anything from the energy here, I didn’t dare confuse my system with Gage’s menthol.
Darkwalker: A Tale of the Urban Shaman Page 30