by Joan Lennon
‘Bryn.’
‘Of course. Bryn. Should have remembered the name. Certainly remembered the face! But, as I was saying,’ the old man continued, ‘time travel, distortion of the Continuum – not strong on that sort of thing, our Nick.’
‘Know a lot about time travel yourself, do you?’ Madlen muttered, not very quietly. She was learning fast how much she disliked the Steward.
‘Enough to know a fostering who should be ten years older than him when I see one. You have to get up pretty early in the morning to fool me, boy.’ The old man turned to her, a smug expression all over his face.
‘Oh yeah?!’ sneered Madlen. ‘That just shows what you know. I’m not –’
‘– from round here,’ interrupted Bryn, coming quickly into gear. ‘My… friend is not from round here.’
‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ the Steward snorted. ‘Those two aren’t from round here and you’re not from round now. And what does that mean? I’ll tell you what that means. It means you’re different. And to most people, that means you’re spies.’ He leaned closer to the three. ‘And you do not want to know what we do to spies.’
The Questors looked at each other.
‘But… but we’re not spies,’ stammered Cam.
‘Aren’t you? Maybe not. But if you’re not… then what are you?’
The Steward looked at them. Cam and Madlen looked at Bryn.
It was his World. It was his call.
For a moment he just sat there, looking unhappy Then he nodded to himself.
‘Right,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Madlen – you might as well take off your hat before your head cooks. This could take some time…’
The fire had died down and the food was all eaten. Madlen and Cam had finally succumbed to warmth and weariness, and nodded off in their chairs. Nick, who had returned to listen open-mouthed, was staring into the embers. Bryn had answered the old man’s questions as best he could and was now just sitting, glazed and talked out.
‘No, there’s no two ways about it,’ said the Steward at last, after a long silence. ‘You’ll have to go to the City of Ice.’
‘What?!’ Bryn straightened up, shocked awake.
‘Look, lad,’ said the old man gruffly, ticking off his points on gnarly fingers. ‘You can’t stay here or they’ll get you as spies. You can’t go to any other Castle for exactly the same reason. The farms are empty this time of year, or if they’re not, that’s even worse, because deserters aren’t very welcoming, if you follow my drift. But all of that’s neither here nor there, because you can’t go back to London without your mythic object – and there’s nothing like that round here. Most mythic object I know’s my arse, and you can’t have that ‘cause I need it for –’
‘But you’re talking about the dragons ‘City!’ interrupted Bryn hastily. ‘You’re expecting me to deal with dragons?!’
Cam jerked upright in its chair. ‘I must be falling asleep,’ it squeaked. ‘I thought you said “dragons”.’
The old man nodded.
‘No question. If there’s anything of the sort you’re after anywhere on Kir, they’ll be having it.’
Cam poked Madlen. ‘Did you hear that?! We’re going to see dragons!’
Madlen yawned hugely.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ she mumbled. ‘There’s no such thing.’
Nick, Bryn and the Steward stared at her.
‘Definitely not from round here,’ the old man said.
Madlen looked at Bryn. ‘Enough crazy stuff, OK?’ she appealed to him.
He nodded wearily.
‘Sorry, Madlen. There really are dragons on Kir,’ he said. ‘We just don’t overlap much. Well, at all, really. They don’t find people interesting.’
The Steward agreed. ‘Keep themselves to themselves. Bryn’ll know all about the Separation Treaty, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they missed out teaching you anything about it – you not being from round here, sort of thing.’ He snorted and rubbed his chin. ‘It isn’t as if we could live where they do anyway – they’re right up north – too barren and cold. Very few of us have even seen one.’
‘But you’re sure they do exist.’ Madlen was obviously reluctant to give up hope on this.
‘Oh yes. They exist all right.’
She sighed. ‘OΚ, OK. So, how do we find these dragons?’
‘We’ll need to go to the glacier at the Lake of Perpetual Ice. That’s the best place.’
‘And?’
The Steward shrugged.
‘Don’t ask me. You’re on your own. Oh, except for…’ He got up and rummaged in a cupboard, then thrust something into Bryn’s hand. It was a small black device, with a dial and pointer on the front and a couple of switches. ‘You can take that if you like. Got invented by mistake – they were trying to find a new device for detecting radiation when miners went into a new bit of mountain, but they ended up with this. It was only by chance they discovered what it really detects. Good story, that – I must tell you it some time. Anyway, it appears dragons give off some kind of radiation and the box here picks it up. Basically, it’s a dragon detector. It won’t do anything about them, but at least you’ll know when you’re getting close.’
Bryn hefted it thoughtfully
‘Thanks,’ he said, and flicked one of the switches.
Immediately, the pointer began to jerk. As he moved the device randomly about the room, the jerking increased until the pointer was practically invisible. Bryn frowned.
‘You sure this thing works?’ he said.
He tried the other switch, still pointing it at different things – and people. Now the box was humming. The hum increased dramatically when he aimed it at the Steward and Nick, for example, but subsided completely when he pointed it at Madlen or Cam.
Or himself.
He looked at the Steward enquiringly.
The old man grunted, took back the device, gave it a swift bang with his hand. It stopped altogether.
‘Supposed to work – could be there’s interference somewhere in the Castle, though.’
But Madlen wasn’t interested in dragon-centric technology. She had gone back to something the Steward had said earlier.
‘Excuse me, but did I hear you right?’ she said, frowning. ‘Did you say where dragons live is too barren and cold for people?’
The Steward nodded.
‘And that’s where we’re going?’
He nodded again.
‘And you don’t see a flaw in this plan?’
‘The sooner we get you out of here, the safer,’ said the Steward, standing up briskly.
‘But how…?’ began Bryn.
‘Caterpillar-truck. Nick and I’ll drive you up. Shouldn’t take more than a day and a half, maybe two. But we have to leave now. Not even time to get that boy a haircut.’ And he winked at Madlen. It was a wicked wink, and it left her completely unsure of what in the Worlds it meant.
Next morning, back at the London House, Mrs Mac’s blender began to whir just at the height of the breakfast rush. It was several moments before she even noticed it. When she did…
‘Oh NO!’ she shrieked, dropping an entire tray of egg, sausage, bacon and tomato. ‘Not now?’
Sidestepping the mess on the floor, she lunged for the Puree/Divert button, but just as the tip of her finger reached it, the whirring stopped.
Another of the Council’s guiding messages for the Questors had been sent.
‘Damn,’ she whispered.
‘Damn!’ said the Secretarial Assistant.
At the Dalrodian palace, there was yet another power cut. The Assistant had just caught a glimpse of something marked ‘Urgent’ before the system crashed. He was new at his job, and very earnest, and when the computers came back online he searched diligently for whatever the message might have been. But no luck. It was well and truly lost.
Still, he comforted himself, if it’s important, they’re sure to call again…
And on Kir…
‘Damn… St
eward!’ bellowed the Castellan. ‘Stew – ard!! Where are you, man?’
No answer. The Castellan stumped angrily back to the table, daring the Incoming Message button to still be flashing when he got there.
It was.
Blast the man! Where was he hiding? He knew the Castellan hadn’t a clue how to get the computer to spit anything out. That’s what Stewards were for. What they weren’t for was not being there.
The button continued to flash. ‘Incoming Message. Urgent. The London House. Incoming Message. Urgent…’ scrolled across the screen.
Even more than computers, the Castellan hated Urgent Messages from the London House.
‘Argghhh!’ he yelled, slamming a thick fist down on the desk so hard the monitor leapt. Then he stormed out of the room in search of the Steward, or breakfast, or a drink, whichever came to hand first.
Unheeded, the Message button flashed on in the empty room.
31
Disjointed Conversations
The truck had four sets of paired wheels joined by caterpillar tracks that spread the weight, keeping them moving instead of sinking in. Their route seemed to be determined by finding the thinnest coverings of snow, along windswept ridges or flat plateaus that discouraged drifts. Roads didn’t come into it much, particularly as they got ever further north.
The trip through the mountains, through some of the most spectacularly wild and beautiful scenery the Worlds have to offer, was pretty much a blank for the Questors. The truck was a slightly more comfortable version of the transport vehicle they’d arrived in, but still completely windowless and noisy. At least it was warm, with a small oil-burning stove at one end, and there were mattresses and bedding that could be spread on the floor, so they weren’t having to sit up all the time. There was also a screened-off corner with a trapdoor-type toilet. But for the tag end of that night, and all the next day, and the next night as well, there was nothing but the black, swaying walls of the truck and each other to look at.
Nick and the Steward shared the driving, the one off-duty nipping back into the body of the truck to sleep and eat.
All that enforced togetherness should have produced many long, meaningful conversations, but the level of noise made it seem too much of an effort to talk a lot of the time. It’s hard to share anything very personal when you’re having to shout it. Some exchanges of information did occur, but there was always something piecemeal about them.
Over a series of disjointed conversations, Madlen and Cam learned more about the Battle Calendar, the system by which Kir’s appetite for waging war was satisfied and controlled. The Steward seemed to enjoy educating them. He explained how fighting was allowed on certain days, in certain seasons and between specific groups only. Night fighting was banned, because darkness made it too difficult to identify acceptable adversaries. Forms of combat which caused damage to property or livestock or crops were also not allowed.
‘Properly managed, fighting can go on indefinitely. Most wars grind to a halt because of neglected or destroyed resources, but we’ve solved all that.’
He beamed at them. Madlen and Cam could only stare.
‘But… what about when one side loses?’
‘Yeah – isn’t a war over when it’s won?’
The Steward held up his hand.
‘Of course! Of course you’re right – in feral wars. But we’ve learned our lessons from agricultural domestication. For example, we’ve learned from the principles of crop rotation to move our battlefields about. We’ve learned to husband our resources, not squander them. And with the Point System, neither success nor failure needs mark the end of a conflict.’
Below a certain point, he went on, a Side wasn’t viable and dropped out of combat until it was able to remedy the situation either through recruitment from outside or as its fosterings came of age.
Cam found it all weirdly fascinating. Madlen found herself falling asleep a lot.
Bryn kept very quiet, but they could tell he was listening to every word.
Later:
‘Bryn,’ said Cam.
‘What?’
‘I don’t understand… if you have the technology for stuff like this –’ and it indicated the truck – ‘how come that guy back at the farm came at us with a crossbow? And all the other weapons we saw – they’re all so old-fashioned. I mean, why didn’t he just, I don’t know, bomb the place?’
Bryn looked shocked.
‘Don’t you think that would be a bit barbaric?’ he asked sarcastically. ‘Killing somebody without even seeing them?’
Cam shrugged. ‘Don’t see the difference. They’d still be dead.’
‘You don’t see the difference?!’ Bryn’s voice cracked. He couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. ‘Honour’s the difference! Isn’t it obvious? I don’t care how far into the Future we are – that hasn’t changed!’
‘OΚ, OK, I was just asking.’ Cam made a placating gesture, but then realized Bryn wasn’t looking in its direction any more. He was staring at the Steward.
‘Don’t look at me like that, boy’ the old man said gruffly. ‘It’s only talk at this stage – and you can be sure I’ll knock heads together if I catch wind of it in my Castle. But my Castle’s just the one, and you can’t trust the Caithners. Never could. Or that lot over Tay way…’
The old man’s voice trailed off.
Bryn refused to talk to anyone for a long time after that.
Another Exchange:
Nick: Bryn, why does your friend Madlen have such long hair?
Bryn: Because he’s not my friend. She’s my sister.
Nick: (pause) Oh. Well, that explains it.
Some Time Later:
The Steward had just come into the back after a long stint in the cab. He was ready to sleep. Cam wasn’t.
For it, the subject of dragons was the stuff of dreams – it couldn’t get enough stories, which was basically all the Steward had to offer.
‘So, dragons,’ it said. ‘Quite private, then, are they?’
‘That’s so,’ said the Steward, pulling his hat down over his eyes.
‘So they won’t necessarily be all that keen to help us? Or even see us?’
‘Very true.’
There was a pause. The old man was not taking any hints.
‘What do they eat?’ demanded Cam.
The Steward looked at it from under his hat.
‘They eat children,’ he said. ‘That’s what I was told when I was young. Particularly children who ask too many questions.’
With that, he turned his back on them pointedly and settled down. Cam stuck out its tongue, less than satisfied.
‘He’s having you on,’ said Bryn. ‘If they only ate humans they’d have starved to death long ago – the Separation Treaty’s as old as the hills. And as to helping us – we’ll just have to convince them. It’s their World too – and anyway, they’re supposed to be quite smart. They’ll have noticed something’s wrong.’
Later Still:
‘Whatcha doing?’ said Madlen.
Bryn froze and then shoved the book into his coat, not quite quickly enough.
‘Drawing a map,’ he said abruptly.
‘Oh,’ said Madlen. ‘Right.’
She made no comment on what she had seen. Not a map. In that brief glimpse, she’d seen a sketch of a dead soldier, lying awkwardly in the snow at the side of the road.
At the London House, someone else was drawing too. It was Kate. She was tracing a pattern of spilt tea with her finger on the table. She was deep in thought.
‘Well?’ said Mrs Mac, as she dropped into a chair opposite with a tired hwumph.
Kate looked at her, but didn’t smile.
‘I’m to report to the Basement.’ She stared down at her tea picture for a moment and then ran a disgusted finger through it. ‘I’m one of the best field operatives they’ve got and they’ve assigned me to Research!’
Mrs Mac clicked her tongue.
‘Somebody doesn’t want y
ou loose, that much’s clear,’ she said. ‘How did Bullvador look – did he seem behind the idea?’
Kate shook her head. ‘Didn’t see him. Didn’t see any of them. Cordell brought the message to me here.’
‘Cordell?’ Mrs Mac looked surprised. ‘But that’s a Runner’s job! I don’t remember ever seeing him doing running…’ Her voice died away and came back in a murmur. ‘Or do I mean, I don’t remember ever seeing him doing running.’
She was staring at the table now too, but not at Kate’s tea spill. Further along, where one night a message had been left…
Kate was hard to convince.
‘He’s always seemed such a nothing,’ she protested. ‘Bit slimy, yes. But an Evil Master Mind?! Get a grip!’
‘You agree he’s a really good secretary?’ Mrs Mac asked innocently.
‘Oh, that. Absolutely.’
Mrs Mac looked at her fingernails. ‘Only stupid people underestimate the sheer raw power of a really good secretary,’ she murmured smugly.
Kate stuck out her tongue.
‘Yeah, yeah, fine. So tack a tracking device on him, why don’t you, and we’ll monitor the progress of Mr Alpine Deviousness. Oh no. Can’t do that. If he is who you think he is, he’s far too clever not to notice a tracking device, right after you stick one on him,’ said Kate.
‘Right after… right after…’ Mrs Mac murmured oddly. Then a positively sly expression slid across her face. ‘You’re correct, of course,’ she said. ‘He’d be far too clever. But would he be clever enough to notice a tracking device before I stick one on him? Eh?’
Kate could only stare. Mrs Macmahonney went to a cupboard and brought out a bottle of Extra Finest Malagasy Vanilla Essence. She caught sight of Kate’s expression.
‘Now don’t look like that!’ she said. ‘I have to use this one – only the best vanilla is retroactive.’
‘Er,’ said Kate.
‘I’ll be right back,’ promised Mrs Mac.