Thomas stood in cold silence, unaware of Lady still with him until she said, "There's no proof and I'm not at all certain I trust Shankar."
"Perhaps not," he got out, finally. "He's shrewd enough to play on my suspicions. I would trust him more if he'd been Denethan's original choice for the post—but when Micah fell ill, Shankar was sent instead. The Mo-javan treaty is no more popular with some of them than it is with some of us. If I knew Shankar's game, I would know whether I could trust him."
Lady drew him away. "I'd say we've made our appearance. And while I'm talking to you about fulfilling social obligations, I'd like to ask you if you've ever heard of 'small talk.' Or if you ever indulge in it?"
He gave a soft laugh. "Sorry."
"Sorry nothing. I thought you were going to immerse us in World War V—or however many we're up to now." She smiled at someone who waved at them. "I presume this all has to do with what you found when you took the body back."
"Not all of it," he began, but she interrupted to tell another woman, "Molly, we're late now for our candidates, but I'll see you later," as the woman accosted them. The woman gave way gracefully as Lady steered him out the French doors. He snagged up what looked to be a tumbler of lemonade as they passed the refreshment table. Shankar had found an empty patio chair in the sun and lay curled up on it despite his diplomatic suit and ruffled shirt, his eyes closed in oblivion.
"Don't you believe it," Lady muttered. She found a tumbler of iced tea before guiding Thomas to the barracks where the wards lived.
It was called a barracks, but it was actually another full-sized two-story house which had been gutted to make it all bedrooms. The number of children living there varied, as did the fortunes of all the counties. When Thomas had been young, the blistering plague had filled the house, parents dropping like flies. Today the barracks held seventeen youngsters, as he recalled, or it had before he'd embarked last spring on his judicial circuit for Orange County. Two lower bedrooms were for the fostered youths, and they would be empty now.
As they walked the well-worn pathway to the barracks, he told her about his decision to take Kurt's body back and what he'd met on the trail. She listened silently, then made him repeat what his ghostly visitor had said.
Her eyes mirrored concern as she looked up at him. "He's right. You've got a Talent, an effect, that you can't control and yet one that can be very beneficial."
"It's deadly, Lady. It leeches on me, you, anyone who uses it."
"But to circumvent time ... to be able to travel in two or three days what would take two or three weeks. Think of the communication possibilities. No more rumors—we'd have facts. Think of the healing possibilities, to be able to have someone right there when an outbreak of diphtheria or cholera occurs. Of all the things I've seen of the old world, that's what I miss most. The ability to take action."
"It's not teleportation."
"I know that. But it's something you can do and it's something you owe it to the rest of us to learn about."
He stopped in his tracks. "I don't know what the ghost road is, but I do know it can kill you almost as quickly as bad water. I don't owe that to you or anybody else."
"But, Thomas, it's got other possibilities, I know it-"
"Then you map out this psychic wonder."
Her eyes flashed and pink colored her rounded cheekbones. "You're the only one who can call it up."
"You did—once."
"That was different. I couldn't do it again, and it only worked because you'd already begun the process. I just . . . substituted for you."
He remembered a mountain fortress, its only entrance a stainless steel doorway into an elevator shaft, the bodies of Mojavans and humans alike beginning to bury the doorway as they fought to break the Vaults open to save their own, even as the mountain rumbled its explosive ending and smoke and dirt rose to obliterate his vision. Thomas took a deep breath.
His heart had been thumping in his chest. He projected calmness for both of them. His beat began to slow. He reached out and smoothed a stray bit of hair from her forehead. "I never want to lose you to the road again. I didn't think you were coming back, let alone with Alma."
"That's where you were wrong," Lady said. "And once the precedent has been set. ..." her voice trailed off.
Pounding footsteps on the path interrupted what he would have said next, and it was just as well, he thought ruefully as he drew away. A slim and pretty young woman ran toward them, her brunette hair on the fly. She wore a rose and brown print dress that accented her youth and freshness. He stopped what he was saying to appreciate what he saw.
Lady put an elbow in his rib cage. "That's Alma,
Thomas."
"My God," he murmured. "I've only been gone five months."
"She's at that age," the woman said, "when we all change tremendously."
"Sir Thomas! Lady!" the girl cried breathlessly. "You're late."
Lady caught Alma up as she careened heedlessly into them. A ribbon was supposed to be holding the fall of her hair back—it had come loose and only an accidental tangle kept her from losing it altogether. Lady gave Thomas an amused look over Alma's head. "How can we be late," she said, "when you can't start without us?"
The girl gave a little giggle in response and answered by tugging on both their hands. "You know what I mean. Come on, come on!"
They let her pull them down the pathway.
"Greta is soooo nervous and Stanhope is very cool, just like ice, and the others—I don't know why they don't all have hiccups—" Halfway to the barracks, Thomas interrupted her chatter.
"Where's Stefan?"
She came to a halt. The prettiness and color fled her face abruptly. The gleam in her almond brown eyes went out. "He's out somewhere." She turned then, but he'd already seen what he'd already seen.
He traded glances with Lady. She shook her head slightly, so he said nothing further. It was just as well, because the barracks doors split open then and a wave of children rushed out.
The gaiety he'd come to expect did not greet him. Instead, their voices were shrill and worried. Lady pushed forward and grasped two boys by their shoulders. Thomas knew Stanhope, his dusky skin and dark eyes marking him.
"What is it?" asked Lady sharply, trying to make sense out of the chaos.
"It's Roanne," Stanhope got out. "She's started the trial without you."
"That's impossible," the healer snapped. "Where's Franklin?"
"Gone to the well for water. She went into a convulsion—"
Lady pushed Stanhope into Thomas' arms. "Only one Protector to watch them, and he's gone?"
Thomas caught up with her as she passed into the house. "Lady, come on, the well's maybe fifty yards away, if that. They're hardly abandoned—" but the woman ignored him as she vaulted the stairway. He pressed Stanhope into a standstill position.
"Stay here with the others. When Franklin gets back, send him up. All right?" He sent out confidence. Stanhope would know a projection when he received it, but that would not dull its effect, not at this age.
Stanhope was sixteen, nearly a man. He nodded solemnly, "All right."
Thomas mounted the stairs at a dead run. He and Lady reached the bedroom at nearly the same time.
Lady knelt beside the twisting body on the modest navy blanketed cot. The girl was not pretty—older than Alma by a year or two, her face blotchy with acne, perspiration pouring out of her like water out of a rain cloud. Her good dress was stained and soaked already. Someone had removed her ankle boots, tucked her stockings inside of them, and left them waiting beside the cot. A washbasin sat next to them.
"Breakout fever?" The stress of crossing the thresholds of both puberty and psychic powers sometimes put a terrible strain on the body's immune system. Promising Talents had died in breakout fever.
"Hardly," Lady said, wringing out a rag and placing it on the girl's pasty forehead. She knelt beside the cot "Roanne's talent is barely existent. We're testing her today only out of kindness and
necessity." Lady took the rag off and rinsed it again. "No wonder Franklin went for water."
Alma gained the doorway behind them. "Lady?"
"Yes?"
"Is she—"
"I don't know," the healer said tersely. "Now go join the others."
"Yes, ma'am." Alma turned away.
Lady twisted on one knee. "Wait! Alma, was there any problem when you came out to get us?"
"Nothing. I didn't even know Roanne was lying down—"
Thomas looked at Lady. "Awfully quick," he said.
"Yes." Lady chewed on a lower lip. "All right, honey," she said. "Go see if you can hurry Franklin up. We're almost out of water here."
The girl's body seemed to swell up even as they watched helplessly. Lady dredged every drop of fresh water she could out of the laving basin, but there wasn't enough to wash Roanne down properly for cooling. She unbuttoned the dress front as the girl heaved for breath.
Suddenly, Roanne went stiff as a board. Her breath rattled out of her chest.
"My God, Thomas," and Lady threw him a stricken look. "I think she's dead!"
Chapter 6
The girl suddenly went limp, sinking back into the cot. Thomas searched with his Intuition but met a dark, chaotic pool of thought. Lady placed her palms on the girl's rib cage and began to pump in rhythm. "Can you breathe for me, Thomas?"
He hesitated. Who knew what disease the girl carried? He shook off his hesitation, moved to the side of the cot and leaned down, arranging her head and cupping her jaw loosely. But as he took a deep breath, Roanne fought for one of her own. Her eyes flew open.
Lady stopped pumping. The girl's eyes rolled up and then down until she stared out at them, unseeing.
"Path of the dead," she said. The tone of her voice brought up the hair at the back of Blade's neck. "Riding, riding, too close. No warning. Massacre."
"She's seeing Charlie's death," Thomas said. He felt sick to his stomach and took a step away from the cot.
Lady frowned. "Maybe. It could be Precog."
"Foresight? Thought she had little Talent," he answered.
"I could be wrong! That's why we bring in other testers for the candidates." Lady sponged up the last of the tepid water and mopped the girl's forehead. "We're listening, Roanne," she said soothingly.
With a gut-wrenching noise, the girl turned away and retched, spewing all over the flooring to the side of the cot. Thomas jumped back to avoid the spray. Lady wiped her mouth clean and brought Roanne's face back toward hers. The girl never blinked, her eyes wide open now as if she were dead. The healer repeated, "We're listening."
Thomas was spooked. He backed up, saying, "Not me. I'll get Franklin." He turned away.
"Blade! She's Projecting her own fear, can't you feel it?"
Sweat had beaded up on his forehead. He could feel the nerves quaking in his hands. Abruptly, he blocked himself and the near panic that had threatened to overtake him like an unstoppable tide washed away. "I didn't even feel her," he said in wonderment.
"No."
There was the sound of boots in the stairwell and a rich, young voice called up, "I'm here. How is she?" as Franklin Brown stepped into the room. He handed a pail of cold water to Lady and answered himself, "Oh, my God. What's happening?"
"We don't know."
The round-faced, rotund young man went for a mop and came back, applying himself to cleaning up as Lady wet the rag thoroughly, washing Roanne's face, neck, and wrists. Thomas washed her feet and ankles. The girl took another deep, shuddering breath.
"Warning! No warning."
Franklin turned, mop in hand, his dark hair falling into his eyes. "Is that her?" he asked.
"Yes. Spectral voice?"
The young Protector shrugged. "I don't know—I've never heard one. That's not Roanne's normal voice."
Lady bathed the girl's thick neck where her cords stood out in tense agony. Thomas stood impatiently, but he could not blame Franklin for not knowing the answers to their questions. Franklin had been an apprentice of Alderman Brown, one of the Protectors slain at the massacre, and though well-trained, he was not experienced in his position. Strain drained away his normally calm attitude. Thomas would not add to that strain.
Roanne bolted upright on the cot. She grabbed for Lady's hand. "They're coming, oh, they're coming and this time I'll die!" She blinked several times and then began to sob.
Blade looked at Lady as she took the girl in a heartfelt embrace and held her tight. The wards were raised here, schooled, and graduated, but Roanne hadn't left yet because she had shown some potential for Protector Talents—and she was one of the wards who had survived the College Vault attack.
"That's not regressive memory," he said suddenly. And he knew what it was Roanne was seeing. Knowledge galvanized him into action. "That's Foresight—and if she's right, we're all in trouble. Franklin, take care of her, get the kids together and keep them here! Use whatever Talents you can to protect yourself.''
He grabbed Lady's wrist, hauling her to her feet, dragging her out of the room and downstairs.
"That's one of the nastiest bouts of breakout fever I've ever seen," he said to her as he tugged her along.
"What's wrong?"
"We're about to be raided—and Roanne didn't see much hope for our chances this time, either." He paused at the doorway. He pointed at Stanhope. "Shutter the windows and barricade the back door.''
"Yessir."
Lady balked at the doorway. "I'm staying here."
"We need a link of Protectors up at the house. Franklin's got a handful of raw Talent here. He doesn't need your help."
She looked back, torn. Her fear showed in her expression. "Roanne saw herself die."
"Lady, I need you up at the house."
She gave then, so quickly he almost went over backward. He caught himself. He could see nothing between the barracks and the house. But his senses roiled ... a raiding party was thundering down on them. Lady sensed it, too. Her skirts boiled about her ankles as she began to run. They bolted for it.
"Shit! The one time I don't hassle the sentries."
"It's not your fault."
"And my rifle's in the stable with my packs. Shit, shit." He reached out and steadied her as she stumbled. They flew over the last ten yards of lawn. He vaulted the refreshment table, yelling, "Raiders!" Lemonade foun-tained across the patio as tumblers went flying. Celebrants scattered into a drill too well known.
Governor Irlene met him on the patio. Lips tight, she said, "I'll get the troops." She brushed past him en route to the stables where the peninsula troops were quartered because of the size of the gathering.
Shankar had left his sunny spot, but his nemesis loomed in the French doors. Thomas looked about. He pointed at Bartholomew. "Get everybody in that you can, and keep away from the glass."
The knobby man's warts bristled as he said, "What is it?"
"Raiders. We might have enough time to meet the attack."
He paused belligerently in the door frame. "I don't see or hear anything. There's been no alarm sounded."
There was a shoop and thunk as an arrow parted his hair and buried itself deep in the doorjamb. The shaft quivered from the impact.
Bartholomew ducked sharply indoors, commanding, "Everybody down and into the hallways—get away from the windows!"
Thomas pulled Lady into a crouch with him. The bricks were already very warm from the morning sun. He could feel the heat reach his face. He edged backward. The patio's low rock wall gave them some cover, but it was barely knee-high. Lady brushed her lips across his temple in farewell. "I'll go inside. I'll do what I can."
What Lady could do was a hell of a lot. "I'm for the stables and weapons rack."
"All right." She crawled into the house quickly, even her careful movements drawing another two quarrels, one into the wood and the second bouncing off the glass doors above her as she reached up for the latch.
He stood up and made for the stables. He could feel her cloaking, a w
arding against objects, not a shield he would care to stand up and dare the enemy with, but helpful now. He could smell smoke, pungent and thick, and he heard the scream of panicked horses and mules. The stable was on fire, flames licking its crest. Fire arrows had led the attack here. Their only luck lay in the fact that it was the roof which had caught first. The tremendous heat of combustion was bleeding into the sky, not building up inside the bam. It would give them some time—but only a few minutes. A barn was extremely inflammable and every second counted.
There was already a bucket line forming from the horse troughs in back. Irlene led the troopers. She looked up as he ran past, aiming for the weapons rack in the tack shed. Her voice yelled after him, "Get the animals calm, and we can try to get them out!''
Thomas rounded the corner of the barn. Its side faced a v/ide expanse, all open, all now unguarded, and he saw the raiders.
He crouched down on one knee as they swept in over the broken roadway and across the lawns. They weren't Mojavans, though his Intuition had told him that—when Denethan attacked, he did so with Projections of dark, abject fear so thick it could almost be sliced with a knife. Talents like Denethan's were why Protectors like him existed. He felt a kind of relief that an alliance he'd staked his integrity on was still intact. Now he had a different enemy to face.
With screams of hatred, the raiders charged at the stables, boot heels pounding the ribs of their ponies. Dirt and grass clods flew through the air. They were nesters, but they might have been comancheros from a laser disk movie. Blade hit the dirt, Projecting peace and coolness to the panicked beasts within the barn. His only hope to Protect the water line would be to get them out of the line of tire—but he knew Irlene wouldn't leave until the animals were gotten out of the barn. He felt Lady's shielding leave him abruptly and knew the main house was under attack as well.
He gathered himself and stood. He built his own cloak, not of invisibility, but of inviolability and repugnance. The eye glancing at him would slide away, repulsed, unseeing. Nesters pounded past, whooping and hollering, their crossbows in hand, fetishes swinging from the chestbands and the bits of their horses. Their matted hair swung wildly. Clay streaked their faces, not in ritual painting, but just for the additional bonification of their already bestial features. He saw fresh scalps hanging from the saddlebag straps. He thought he knew why the sentries had not triggered their alarms.
Charles Ingrid - marked man 02 The Last Recall Page 7