Jack McDevitt - Eternity Road (v1) [rtf]

by Emily

  Silas felt a rush of despair. "And you burned it?" Showron was the Baranji scholar who, according to tradition, had been the last known person to visit Haven. He had spoken with its guardians, had examined some of the manuscripts, had even left sketches. "How do you know it was a fake?" he demanded.

  "Because my father tried to use it to find the place. And he never got there, did he?" He looked at Silas, challenging him to deny the truth of the statement. "Look, don't you think I know what my father's reputation is? People think he was a coward because he was the only person to come back. He had to live with that. I had to live with it." He got up, walked to the win­dow, and stared out at the dock. "It's no secret I didn't like him very much. He was tyrannical, self-centered, secretive. He had a short temper, and he didn't worry unduly about other people's feelings. You know that."

  Silas nodded.

  Flojian's gaze turned inward. "When he came back, he withdrew from me as well as from the world. He sat in his wing of the house and almost never came out. That was his territory. Okay. I learned to live with it. But I'd be less than honest, Silas, if I didn't admit that his death has lifted a lot of weight from my shoulders." He took a deep breath. "I'm glad he's gone. But I don't care what anybody says: He wouldn't have abandoned anyone."

  A long silence drew itself around them. "I agree," said Silas at last. "But that doesn't explain where the Connecticut Yankee came from. Have you noticed anything unusual around the house?"

  "Unusual in what way?"

  Damn the man. Was he, after all, naturally obtuse? Or was he hiding something? "Anything that might tell us where he got it. For all we know, there might even be other stuff hidden somewhere."

  Flojian's mouth hardened. "There are no other unaccounted-for books."

  Silas wanted to point out that the Mark Twain was a major find, that there was a serious enigma here, and that a hundred years from now people would still be trying to understand what happened. We're close to it, so we ought to get some answers. But he knew it would sound ridiculous in Flojian's ears.

  "I tell you what," Flojian said. "I'm leaving this afternoon for Masandik. I'll be back in a couple of days. When I return, I'll look through my father's things. If there's anything there, I'll let you know."

  Quait Esterhok was a senator's son. Years ago, he had been one of Silas's prime students. He'd been blessed with a good intellect and an enthusiasm for scholarship that suggested great potential as a researcher. Silas had hoped he would stay with the Imperium, and had even persuaded the board to offer a position. But Quait, pressured by his father, had declined and instead accepted a military commission.

  That was six years ago. Quait had returned from time to time, had sat in on a few seminars, and had even treated his old master to dinner occasionally. It was consequently no sur­prise when Silas found a note from him in his mail, and the man himself waiting in a nearby pub favored by the faculty.

  The boyish features had hardened somewhat, and Silas saw at once that he'd acquired a new level of self-assurance. Quait rose from a corner stall as he entered, smiled broadly, and embraced him. "Master Silas," he said, "it's good to see you again."

  They wandered over to the cookery and collected slices of roast chicken and corn, called for a bottle of wine, and fell to reminiscing. Quait talked about the changes in the military

  that had come with the foundation of the League. "Everyone does not profit from peace," he laughed. The wine flowed freely, and Silas was feeling quite ebullient when his companion surprised him by putting down the chicken leg he'd been chewing and asking what he knew about the Mark Twain.

  "You know about that?" asked Silas.

  "I think the whole world knows by now. Is it true?"

  "Yes," he said. "As far as I can judge."

  Quait bent over the table so they could not be overheard, although the loud conversation around them all but precluded that possibility. "Where did he find it? Do you know?"

  "No. No one seems to know."

  "Isn't that strange? Where could he possibly have got it?"

  Silas shrugged. "Don't know."

  "I had a thought."

  "Go ahead."

  "It occurred to me that Karik might have found what he was looking for."

  The possibility had occurred to Silas. But it raised even big­ger questions. If Karik Endine had found Haven, he could have deflected much of the disgrace that had settled about his name. "I don't see how it could be," he said.

  "You mean, why he didn't say anything? He lost everybody. Maybe his mind went."

  "I don't think so."

  "Can you conceive of any sequence of events that would lead him to keep such a discovery secret?"

  "No," said Silas. "Which is why I think the Mark Twain has nothing to do with Haven." Quait's gray eyes had grown relentless. There was a quality in this man that the boy had not possessed. "Look, Quait, if they found Haven, don't you think he'd have brought back more than one book?"

  "But why did he keep it quiet? If you found something like that, Silas, would you not mention it to someone?"

  "I'd tell the world," Silas said.

  "As would I. As would any rational person." He speared a piece of white meat and examined it absentmindedly. "Are we sure there are no more of these things lying around?"

  The wine was good. Silas drank deep, let its taste linger on his tongue. "I've invited Flojian to look for more."

  "Who's Flojian?"

  "His son."

  "Silas—" Quait shook his head. "If I were his son, and I found, say, a Shakespearean collection, I'd burn it."

  "Why?"

  "Because I was his son. If there's anything there, Karik was hiding it for a reason. I'd honor that reason."

  "Flojian didn't like him very much."

  "It doesn't matter. He'll protect his father's name. It's too late to come forward with new finds. Look at the way we're reacting to the Mark Twain. It smells too much of conspiracy."

  Silas thought it over. "I think you're wrong. If he felt that protective, he wouldn't have turned the Mark Twain over to Chaka."

  "Maybe he hadn't put things together," said Quait. "He might have needed you to do that for him. Now he knows his father's reputation, such as it is, is at stake. Has it occurred to you he might have murdered the others?"

  Silas laughed. "No, it hasn't. That's out of the question."

  "You're sure."

  "I'm sure. I knew the man."

  "Maybe something happened out there. Maybe he thought he could keep everything for himself."

  "Quait, you've been chasing too many bandits."

  "Maybe. But I'll guarantee you, Flojian's search won't turn up anything."

  Silas finished off the last of his roast chicken. 'Well," he said, "Flojian's going to be out of town for a couple of days. We could consider burglary."

  The culture that had developed in the valley of the Mississippi was male-dominated. Women were treated with courtly respect, but were traditionally relegated to domestic chores. The major professions, save the clergy, were dosed to them. They could own, but not transmit, property. The villa granted to Chaka Milana by her younger brother, Sauk, would revert to him in the event of either her marriage or her death.

  That Chaka remained unattached in her twenty-fifth year led many of her acquaintances to suspect she was more inter­ested in retaining her home than in establishing a family. Chaka herself wondered about the truth of the charge.

  Her father, Tarbul, had been a farmer and (like everyone in the tumultuous times before the League) a soldier. He'd returned from one campaign with a beautiful young captive who was repatriated after the war, and whom he later courted and won. This was Lia of Masandik, a merchant's daughter, and a born revolutionary. "High-spirited," Tarbul had said of her.

  Lia had been appalled by the arbitrary chaos of constant warfare, mostly brought on, she thought, by male idiocy. She had consequently invested heavily in the education of all her children, determined to give them the best possi
ble chance at independence. This was not a strategy with which her husband had concurred, but he was interested enough in keeping the peace to avoid opposing his determined wife. Ironically, his firstborn, Ann, showed little aptitude for the farm or for the hunting expeditions that were the lifeblood of the father's exis­tence. The boy was given to art and debate and draughts. Not the sort of qualities to make a father proud.

  In the end it had been Chaka who'd joined her father in the hunt, and who managed the farm in his absence. On one memorable occasion, during a raid by a Makar force, she had led the defense. "Your mother would have been proud of you," he'd told her. It was the ultimate compliment.

  Lia had died after contracting a virulent illness as Chaka approached adolescence. Her father was killed seven years later in a gunfight with poachers. The farm went to Sauk, while she moved eventually to the villa and established a living as a sil­versmith and jewelry designer.

  Chaka wanted a family. She wanted a good spouse, a man who could engage her emotions, whose spirit she would be pleased to pass on to her children. But she simply hadn't found anyone like that yet. And, living in a society in which most

  girls were married by seventeen, she was beginning to feel a sense of urgency. And of fear. Although she would not admit it to herself, this was why Raney was now prominent in her life. She was, at long last, prepared to settle.

  The sundial at the foot of Calagua Hill registered the third afternoon hour. Chaka took time to wander through the bazaar.

  She had no competitors among the city jewelry shops, who appealed to those customers who were primarily interested in economy and glitter. Chaka had established her reputation as an artist, from whom one could either buy fine pieces off the shelf. or have them custom made. Nevertheless, she knew the people who ran the other businesses and enjoyed spending time with them. So she whiled away an afternoon that seemed

  strangely restless. Toward the end of the day she stopped by the library and basked in the admiration and gratitude that Connecticut Yankee generated. She was delighted to discover she'd acquired a considerable degree of celebrity.

  Silas came in while she was there. He was in a jovial mood and joked about how he and a former student had considered burglarizing Flojian's place. 'He's out of town, and the militia could go through the house without waking up Toko," he said. Still, at sundown, she returned to Piper, her mount, feeling out of sorts. This should have been a good time for her, a time to celebrate her fortune. Yet she had never felt more alone. Raney was waiting at the west gate. He looked good on a horse, far more graceful than one

  would normally expect from a shopkeeper. He was handsome, and she did not want to let him get away. He was reasonably intelligent, he treated her well, and he would be a good provider. Furthermore, Chaka lived in a society which tended to dismiss romantic notions as so much petty nonsense. Mar-stage was for procreation and mutual support and economic stability. Her father had summed up this philosophy when he realized she was imbibing some of her mother's ill-advised emotions. Marry a friend, and preferably a friend with means, he had said. You cannot do better than that. He would have approved heartily of Raney.

  "I think you're right about the book," she said, as they rode out of the city. "Eventually, I'll sell it. For now, I've turned it over to the Senatorial Library for safekeeping."

  "Good." His congenial features showed that he heartily approved of this common-sense decision. Take your time with it, find out what it'll bring, and get the best price you can. Having the library put it on display's a smart idea. That can't hurt." He grinned. It was a good smile, warm and genuine, the smile of a man at peace with the world. His soft blue eyes were almost feminine. They lingered on her, and expressed more clearly than words ever could his devotion to her. He'd proposed mar­riage several weeks ago, and she had put him off, told him she was not ready. She'd expected he would sulk or withdraw, but to her surprise he'd laughed and told her she was worth waiting for and he would be patient. "I'll try again," he'd assured her.

  His rich brown hair hung to his shoulders. Like most of the young men of the period, he was clean-shaven. He rode silently at her side and there was no tension between them.

  Maybe it was time.

  She straightened herself in the saddle. "I'd like very much to know where it came from," she said.

  "I can't see that it matters, Chaka." He commented idly on the weather, noting how extremely pleasant it was. He looked around, surveying the sunlight and the river, and his glance took in the Iron Pyramid, rising in the south. "He probably found it in a ruin somewhere."

  "Maybe." The road wound into thick, lush forest. It began its long climb up the series of ridges that formed the eastern bank. A military patrol cantered past, resplendent in blue uni­forms and white plumes. Their officer saluted Chaka.

  "What else?" asked Raney, swinging around in his saddle to watch the horsemen ride away.

  "I don't know. I think there's more to this than Flojian's telling."

  Raney's eyes came to rest on her. "I can't imagine what it could be," he said patiently.

  "Nor can I. But I just don't understand what happened."

  "Look, the truth is probably very simple. He felt guilty about

  being the only survivor of the expedition. Anybody would. So he gave you his most valuable possession. It's an offering, an act of penance. He was trying to soothe his conscience. I don't think there's anything very mysterious about it."

  "Why did he wait until he died?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "If he was trying to soothe his conscience, why didn't he soothe it while he was alive?"

  "That's easy, Chaka. Because he didn't want to let go of the book. So you become an heir. That way, he wins all the way around. He can be generous with you, and it doesn't cost him anything. We know he didn't like his son, so he makes a statement there too."

  The conversation drifted to other, more mundane, topics. One of the senators had been caught in a tax scandal. Business at Raney's establishment was picking up. One of Chaka's friends had begun studying for the priesthood.

  "What I can't understand," she said, as they rode through Baffle's Pass, where the trees intertwine and form a green tunnel almost a hundred yards long, "is that Karik didn't tell anybody about this. Not anybody."

  When he saw it was hopeless to try to save the animal, Ann let it go aid swam for shore. We thought he'd make it, but every time he got close, the current pushed him out again.

  She could not get the image clear in her mind: Ann's clumsy stroke fighting the rushing waters.

  Afterward, Chaka was never certain precisely when she made up her mind to break into Flojian's villa. She went to bed that night with a picture of the north wing in her mind, and her stomach churning. Sleep did not come. She progressed from contemplating the ferry operator's secret to considering the con-

  sequences of getting caught. She thought about spending the rest of her life wondering why Karik Endine had concealed his

  Recovery. The mechanics of actually doing a break-in did not seem daunting. Presumably the doors and windows on the ground floor would be locked. She remembered seeing a tree

  whose limbs overhung the house on the north. It should be pos­sible to climb the tree and drop down onto the roof. Once that far, she could get in through the courtyard or from one of the balconies. She'd almost brought the subject up with Raney on the ride home, to give him the opportunity to volunteer. But she knew he would not. He would instead try to dissuade her, and would eventually become annoyed if she persisted, and conde­scending if she didn't.

  Flojian was away. There was only Toko, who would cer­tainly be asleep in the servant's quarters.

  Not really intending to do it, she went over the details in her mind, where she would leave Piper, how to approach the property, what might go wrong, how she would gain entrance, whether there were any dogs about. (She couldn't remember any.) As she lay safe and warm in the big bed, she realized gradually there was no real obstacle.
And she owed it to her brother to proceed.

  She considered how easy it would be, and her heart began to beat faster.

  When Silas had joked with Chaka about burglarizing Karik's home, he was, of course, expressing the wish that it would happen but that he wouldn't have to do it. This is not to imply that Silas was a coward. His shoulder still ached from a bullet taken during service with the militia. He had stayed behind during the six-month plague to help the priests with the vic­tims. And on one particularly memorable occasion, he had used a stick to face down a cougar.

  Nor was he above bending a law or two to get his way. As he often reminded his students, laws are not ethics. But the risk entailed in a break-in daunted him. How would it look if an ethics instructor were caught burglarizing the home of a friend?

  He was still smiling at the thought when he assumed his place in front of an evening seminar in the Imperium.

  The Imperium was not an academic institution in the traditional sense. Its students, privileged and generally talented, might more properly be thought of as participants in an ongoing effort to extend human knowledge. Or to recover it, for it was obvious that much had been lost.

  The questions naturally arising from the single unrelenting fact of the ruins dominated Illyrian thought. Who were these people? What systems of law and government sustained them? What purposes had they set out for themselves? What was the extent of the ruins?

  The young men came when their own schedules permitted, and they discussed philosophy or geometry with whichever masters happened to be available. They were driven by pride and curiosity, they were highly motivated, and they wanted to understand the Roadmakers. It was an important goal, because something more elemental than mere technology had been lost. The Plague had killed indiscriminately, had carried off whole populations, and with them had gone whatever driving force had produced the great roadways and the structures that touched the clouds. Beyond the walls of the Imperium, the Illyrians had built a society whose sole purpose was to main­tain political stability and an economic status quo. There was little discernible drive for progress.