by Allen Steele
Yet this time, Yuri was oddly quiet as he drove his wagon the last few miles to town. If his friends had seen him, they might have noticed the preoccupied expression on his face, as if there was something on his mind that, for once, he didn’t want to discuss. But before that, they probably would have first noticed the three people riding in the back of his wagon. Seated on duffel bags, backs propped against crates and barrels, were two men and a woman. Despite the warmth of the Hamaliel afternoon, each of them wore a long brown robe, and although their hoods were pulled up above their faces, their eyes restlessly moved back and forth, as if taking in their surroundings.
The wagon entered Carlos’s Pizza, and Yuri clucked his tongue and pulled the reins slightly to the right, coaxing his shag to leave the Midland Highway for one of the side streets that would take them into the village. The stench from the processing plant became more powerful as the wagon drew closer to the town center, until the woman and the older of the two men raised their hands to cover their noses and mouths. Only the younger man seemed unperturbed; from his seat directly behind the buckboard, he continued to survey the town with calm curiosity.
The wagon rolled past the processing plant and the houses and shops surrounding it until it finally reached the waterfront, where Yuri yanked back on the reins to bring his wagon to a halt in front of the Laughing Sailor. “Here you are,” he said. “The only inn in town, I’m afraid…but comfortable enough, if you’re not too particular.”
His three passengers gazed warily at the two-story clapboard building, but none of them complained. “This will be fine,” the older man said, standing up in the back of the wagon. “We appreciate the courtesy.”
“Yes. Thank you very much.” The other man, who was several years younger than his companion, turned to help the woman to her feet. “And it’s been a pleasure to meet you.”
If anyone who knew Yuri had been seated in one of the bamboo chairs on the front porch, he might have been amused to hear this. Yuri Scklovskii was not known for either courtesy or charm. But the observer would have been utterly shocked by what he did next: climbing down from the buckboard, he helped his passengers off the wagon, and even went so far as to gallantly pick up the woman’s bag and carry it up the front steps.
“Thank you,” the young man said. “How much do we owe you?”
Yuri seemed to think about this for a moment. Then he shook his head. “Nothing,” he said, his voice uncommonly quiet. “You’ve…given me a great deal to think about. The least I can do is offer you a ride.”
“Again, many thanks.” The young man lowered his head and shoulders as a bow to the drover. “Remember what we’ve talked about. Tell others, if you will. Sa’Tong qo.”
“Sa’Tong qo,” Yuri repeated. “And thank you.”
Without another word, Yuri returned to his wagon. It was the first time he’d ever refused payment from passengers. But if that hadn’t surprised any townspeople who knew him, even his wife—whom Yuri had abandoned three Earth-years ago, leaving her behind in St. Petersburg after secretly using their life savings to buy a ticket to 47 Ursae Majoris—would have been stunned by the uncharacteristic smile on his face and the tears in the corners of his eyes.
The young man watched him go, then picked up his bag. His companions were waiting for him by the front door. The three of them looked at one another; no one said anything, but after a few seconds the older man silently nodded, then turned to open the door.
Their arrival hadn’t gone unobserved. From behind his desk inside the foyer, Owen McKay watched the newcomers as they disembarked from the wagon. As soon as he saw Yuri pull down their bags—and he thought it strange that he’d do this, but only for a moment—the innkeeper reached up to the wooden sign that hung above the desk and turned it around. As required by law, the sign posted the daily rates for the Laughing Sailor’s upstairs rooms. What most people didn’t know, though, was that those rooms had two different rates: one for itinerant fishermen and locals who needed a place to flop after they’d been drinking in his tavern all night, and another for folks who happened to pass through town. Since it was obvious that these three people weren’t from around there, McKay decided to make them pay the higher rate. He also made a mental note to tell the barmaid to give them the tourist menu when they came downstairs to eat; it, too, was adjusted for inflation.
That done, McKay fixed a pleasant smile upon his bearded face. “Hello, there,” he said as the trio approached the desk. “Welcome to the Laughing Sailor. Will you be wanting rooms for the night?”
“Yes, please.” The young man was the one who spoke; his companions remained quiet. “Two next to each other, if possible.”
McKay activated the registration pad and pretended to study its screen, even though he already knew that only one of the eight guest rooms upstairs was presently occupied, and that by a late-sleeping drunk he intended to evict soon. “Yes,” he said slowly. “I think that can be done. We have a room with two beds and another next it to it with just one…Will those be suitable?”
When he didn’t get a response, he looked up from the pad. The young man had lowered his robe’s hood, and it was only then that McKay could clearly see his face. His head was completely shaved, save for a long, braided scalp lock that hung down the back of his neck. At the center of his forehead, between his eyebrows, was a small tattoo, a glyph that somewhat resembled the Greek symbol pi except that it was turned upside down and one leg was slightly longer than the other.
Yet what struck McKay the most were his eyes. Never before had he ever seen a gaze that was as direct, or as serene, as the one that was fastened upon him. It seemed as if the newcomer was peering directly into his soul and had found something there that he liked, even if it was a bit amusing. Instead of a stranger who’d just walked into his establishment, McKay immediately felt as if this person was a friend he never knew he had.
“That will be fine,” the young man said. “How much do we owe you?”
Apparently he hadn’t noticed the sign above his head. Either that, or he’d chosen to ignore it. “Fifty colonials a night for the double, forty for the single,” the innkeeper said. “We also require a ninety-colonial deposit in advance…”
“No.” The look in the young man’s eyes changed to that of weary disappointment as he shook his head. “I’m sorry, but that’s not your usual rate. It’s thirty colonials a night for the double, twenty for the single.” He paused. “And you never intend to repay that deposit, do you? You’ll find something wrong with the rooms just before we leave, and will claim the deposit to cover the imagined expense of repairing it.”
McKay’s face became warm. Not meaning to do so, he found himself glancing up at his sign, making sure that he’d flipped it around. “No, no, that’s what…”
“The other side of your sign has the true rates. No, you didn’t forget to switch it just before we came in.” A gentle smile appeared. “Owen, you shouldn’t cheat people like that. It isn’t good for you, and it only makes them want to cheat you as well.”
McKay stared at him. His first impulse was to angrily deny that he’d ever do such a thing, that the visible rates really were the correct ones, yet there was no accusation in the young man’s voice, and his eyes remained as placid as before. It never occurred to the innkeeper to ask how the young man knew his name; somehow, it just seemed natural that he would, as if they’d known each other for a long time.
“Yeah…yeah, you’re right,” he murmured, suddenly embarrassed. “Sorry. I just…”
“Fifty colonials for both rooms. That’s fine, thank you.” The young man spoke as if the disagreement had never occurred, and his companions nodded as well. “And, yes, I think we’ll be staying a few nights,” he added, as if anticipating McKay’s next question. “One of us will pay you in advance every morning, at the same time we settle our tavern bill. Is this satisfactory?”
McKay was still stumbling for a response when the older man stepped forward. As he pulled back his hood an
d reached within his robe to produce a thick roll of colonials, the innkeeper noticed for the first time that he was a Native American. Not only that, but the woman standing behind them was pregnant; judging from the way her belly pushed against the front of her robe, she’d probably been expecting for at least the last two LeMarean months.
“That…Yeah, sure, that’s fine.” McKay was having trouble speaking. At a loss for words, he turned the pad around, then picked up a stylus and held it out to the young man. “If you’ll just sign here…”
“Of course.” He took the stylus and traced three names upon the screen. When he was done, he turned to the others. Without another word, they picked up their bags. The young man looked at McKay again. “You may show us to our rooms now, if you please…?”
“Oh…right, sure.” McKay fumbled for the keys hanging beneath his desk; without really thinking about it, he selected those for the two best rooms in the inn, which he normally reserved for fishing-boat captains and the higher-priced prostitutes who worked his tavern. “If you’ll come this way, please.”
The newcomers moved to follow him upstairs, but just before they left the foyer, McKay stole a glance at the registration pad. Upon the screen, he saw three names:
Joseph Cassidy.
Melissa Sanchez.
Chaaz’maha.
When he looked back at his guests, he saw that they’d paused at the foot of the stairs and were watching him. McKay hesitated. “Excuse me, but this”—he motioned to the bottom signature—“isn’t a proper name.”
“No, it wasn’t.” There was a whisper of a smile on the young man’s face. “But it is now.”
The rooms the innkeeper leased to his guests might have been the best available, but nonetheless they were still rough: bare plaster walls, unfinished wooden floors, bamboo furniture that looked as if it had been repaired many times. The newcomers didn’t say anything as McKay nervously puttered about, showing them the closets where the spare linen was stored and how to get to the bathroom down the hall, and when he was finally gone, the woman sat down on one of the beds in the room she was sharing with the young man and slowly let out her breath.
“Not exactly the lap of luxury, is it?” Melissa murmured.
“It’ll do.” Cassidy strolled over to the window and pushed aside its curtain. The glass hadn’t been cleaned in a while, but he still had a good view of the street in front of the building. A few pedestrians were on the raised wooden sidewalks; he waited, expecting to see something that he’d found in McKay’s mind even as the innkeeper had been telling them when dinner would be served. “Not that we have much choice…do we, chaaz’maha?”
The chaaz’maha stood near the door, arms folded together within the sleeves of his robe, head bowed slightly. “Still think we should have gone to Liberty?” he asked. Receiving no answer from either of them, he shook his head. “No. I disagree. Liberty is too big. Too many people. We need to start small, in a place where we won’t be ignored.”
“I don’t think we’ll have to worry about that.” From the window, Walking Star watched as the front door opened and McKay appeared directly below. The innkeeper glanced first one way, then the other; he seemed to hesitate for a moment, then he bustled across the street, heading away from the waterfront. “There he goes,” he murmured. “Off to find the chief proctor…”
“And tell him about the people who just checked in.” The chaaz’maha smiled. “Yes, I caught that, too. I’m afraid I really spooked the poor man.”
“Are you really?” Melissa sighed as she lay back on the bed, resting her hands lightly upon her swollen belly. “Or did you do that deliberately?”
The chaaz’maha frowned. “He would’ve gouged us if I’d let him. Would you have preferred that I let him overcharge us?” He stopped, then added, “I think we’ll be getting the regular menu as well, but we’d better search the barmaid, too. He might forget to give her the message.”
“That’s not what I mean…”
“I know what you mean. I don’t have to search you to figure that out.” The chaaz’maha walked over to a bamboo armchair; one of its legs was slightly shorter than the others, and it wobbled as he sat down. “If we’re going to be successful, we’re going to have to do this one person at a time, with whoever we happen to meet. Small steps, little lessons…”
“At least at the beginning, yes.” Now that the innkeeper was gone, Cassidy moved away from the window. “But remember, a good teacher intrigues his students, not baffles them. Sooner or later, you’re going to have to reveal all that you know.”
“But surely not everything?” The chaaz’maha raised an eyebrow. “The Order, for instance. Or my name…”
“No doubt people have heard about the Order. Everyone who built The Sanctuary has gone home, and they’ve probably told their families and friends about where they were and what they were doing. That couldn’t be helped.” Walking Star absently ran a fingertip across the top of a bureau, scowled at the dust it collected. “As for you…well, that may or may not happen. Your appearance has changed a bit, and you’re no longer using the name your mother gave you…”
“Hawk is too aggressive for what I mean to do. You said that yourself.”
“Not to mention the fact that you’re wanted by the law. But if you’re successful, someone will eventually recognize you. That, too, is inevitable. However, your actions will determine just how long it’ll be before your identity…your former identity, that is…becomes known.”
Hawk Thompson was quiet for a few moments as he contemplated what his own teacher had said. “If I’m to be the chaaz’maha,” he said at last, “I can’t keep a low profile. Perhaps a good teacher doesn’t baffle his students, but neither does he hide in a corner of his classroom and wait for them to come to him. Sooner or later, he has to stand and deliver…”
“And let ’em throw spitballs at him,” Melissa added.
The two men stared at her for a second, then they broke down laughing, with Walking Star clutching the side of the bureau for support and the chaaz’maha doubled over in his chair. Melissa started to laugh at her own remark, then she abruptly gasped. “Aggh…I think the baby just kicked at that one!”
“Are you okay?” The chaaz’maha was on his feet in an instant, rushing to kneel by her side. “Was he too rough?”
“Not really…and I’m telling you, he’s a she. A mother knows.” Melissa took deep breaths, finally relaxed. “I’ll be fine, just as long as I get something to eat soon.” She grinned at the chaaz’maha. “I know we’ll get plenty of fish here…but what I want with it is some chocolate ice cream.”
Holding her hand, the chaaz’maha looked up at Walking Star. Neither of them said anything, but they didn’t have to search each other’s mind to know what the other person was thinking. By the LeMarean calendar, Melissa was due in less than a month; where the three of them would be by then, they didn’t know, but it would have to be some place where there was a doctor, or at least a competent midwife. Not only that, but none of them had any idea what effect her initiation into the Order would have upon her pregnancy, which had occurred at nearly the same time she’d insisted upon crawling into the sweat lodge where the captive ball plant lay.
“Chocolate ice cream.” The chaaz’maha regarded Melissa with loving eyes. “I’m sure someone here knows how to make it.”
Melissa smiled and nodded, but Cassidy remained silent as he returned to the window. No sign of the innkeeper. He was probably talking to the law.
“We’ll find out,” he murmured. “Sooner or later.”
As Walking Star expected, it wasn’t long before they were paid a visit by the chief proctor.
Around twilight, the three of them went downstairs to the tavern, which opened for business as shadows began to lengthen upon the street outside. It was a large, wood-paneled room with beer-stained tables and a fireplace near the bar; like the guest rooms, it was comfortable, but hardly luxurious. A voluptuous woman who’d been stuffed into a low-cut dr
ess had just finished opening the windows; she eyed them with suspicion as they came in, but nonetheless offered them a table near a window before going to the bar to fetch a pitcher of water and some crudely printed menus. The chaaz’maha searched her, and was satisfied to find that McKay had instructed her to give them the regular menu. He learned that her name was Bess, and it was rather sad to also discover that she’d gotten her job by sleeping with the innkeeper, whom she’d once loved but had since come secretly to despise.
The tavern fare was plain—sandwiches, soup, and stew, most of it made from one sort of fish or another—but they were too hungry to complain even had they been of a mind to do so. No chocolate ice cream, though; Melissa’s craving for it would have to go unsatisfied. Bess’s attitude softened a bit when she heard the request; she understood pregnancy, having once been knocked up in her younger days—the child, alas, had been lost in a miscarriage—and so she promised to bring Melissa a slice of rhubarb pie from the kitchen. Yet she was puzzled, even faintly annoyed, that none of her customers ordered ale; one of the few things she liked about her job was the Laughing Sailor’s home brew, which she imbibed herself at every opportunity.
—There goes an unhappy woman, the chaaz’maha sent, once Bess had disappeared into the kitchen. As customary when there was a chance of being overheard, he spoke to the others with his mind, not his tongue.—Such a miserable life…and she doesn’t even realize it herself.
—She could learn much from you, I agree. Melissa didn’t look directly at him, but instead idly gazed out the window, relishing the cool evening breeze against her face.
—So how do you intend to reach out to her? Walking Star traced a finger across the tabletop, allowing the chaaz’maha and Melissa to feel the coarse texture of the wood grain.—I don’t think this is someone who’s going to respond to a sermon about the wisdom of Sa’Tong.