A staccato chug grew louder, seeming to rattle the very walls to either side of him. Luc turned the corner and cursed. The narrow passage along the breezeway had been transformed into an ankle-high stream.
The pump! The Fates-damned pump had malfunctioned again. This time it’d set the well to overflowing. He muttered a string of curses under his breath in a mix of Common and Regimental, although under less stressful circumstances he might question why a simple pump system might have a prostitute for a mother.
He flung open the shed door hard enough for it to come free on the top hinge. Blue-white smoke billowed out of the space.
The pump sat at the center of a fountain of water, chugging with idiot glee: “Thank you for choosing Hydrolux! Thank you for choosing quality!”
With the end of his crutch, he jabbed the power off. The interface cracked under the force of it. The flow of water quieted.
“Your days are over, my friend!” he railed at the machine.
Luc slammed the door closed. From within came the muffled manic response: “Request unavailable. Please consult your local Hydrolux retailer for assistance.”
Mahir guided the rickety solar-cart with glacial care down the hillside, following a switchback carved in antiquity. Luc and Balish swayed in their seats. On the floor of the cart’s cargo bed lay the gutted Hydrolux like the corpse of a fallen enemy.
Luc tried not to gloat. Glory all. He smirked.
The boy was a sullen, huddled shape under his cloak in the pre-dawn light. Mahir had tried everything short of blackmail to get Balish to accompany them on the trip to procure a replacement pump, but the boy had been reluctant to the point of paranoia, choosing to hide in his solitary bedroom. When he did finally agree to join them, he reappeared with the heavy garment to hide his shrunken arm, the hood pulled over his head. “Don’t like people looking at me. They stare at my arm.”
“What’re you going to do when the suns come up?” Luc asked across the rocking bed of the cart. “And it gets too hot for that thing?”
Balish responded with a surly mutter. “Sweat, I guess.”
Luc snorted but did not antagonize the boy further. In fact, he understood the desire to remain invisible. He doubted Haro or his minions would be looking for him; they likely assumed him dead. But still, doubt lurked. If word got back to Haro that he’d survived, would they try to finish the job?
One complication at a time. Don’t get ahead of yourself.
Luc’s plan was tenuous, at best. The pump dealer’s shop was near his former rented room. His odds of survival improved if he were free of infected wounds and better able to avoid Haro and his crew. That meant reclaiming his med kit from its hiding spot.
From there, he needed to find a Regime officer that could contact Gia—a tricky prospect. Officers assigned to such openly hostile places like Macula would be difficult to approach. They were highly valued targets for rebel retaliation and seldom traveled without security details. Even if he spotted one, would he get close enough to ask for help, looking as he did?
By the time they reached their destination and Mahir navigated the cart to the curb, Luc was grateful for a chance to stretch his aching leg. He scanned the crowd, the buildings. A familiar edginess inserted itself like an unwelcome acquaintance. It was the notion of feeling watched. As a soldier, that sharpness kept you in one piece. But in his current state, he felt anxious and vulnerable. His closest allies were an old man and boy. What good could any of them do if trouble appeared?
“Here.” Mahir’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “The shopkeeper’s father donated the pump to us. Perhaps his son can be persuaded to do the same.”
Luc looked where the old man gestured. It was one of the better-maintained shops along the street. A standard above the entrance showed a sun-faded image of a water nymph. Water Guild.
“Great,” he said, with no real enthusiasm. He made to follow but stopped short of entering. “You go ahead. My rented room is near here. I need to see if my things are still there.”
“Oh?” The shaggy gray eyebrows drew up on Mahir’s forehead. He clapped Balish on the shoulder. “Then we will send Balish. He must practice his use of Tasmarin.”
Balish’s eyes widened. “Father Mahir, please. I can’t—”
“I can do this. I’ll be right back,” Luc said, waving off Mahir’s offer. The relief on the boy’s face was almost tragic.
Worried that Mahir would argue further, he quickly set off down the crooked street.
As Luc had imagined, all his clothes and gear were gone from the room, but that did not lessen the surge of anger he felt at the violation. Even Gia and her brothers had left his personal effects alone.
He shut the door, thankful to the god of hangovers that kept the denizens of this shabby district in bed at this early hour. Not even his former landlady had been awake to spot him entering the building.
The floorboard over his hiding spot was still in place. He reached into the dark space below. A momentary sense of panic skittered over him before his fingers encountered the slick plastic sides of the med kit. It was still sealed. He released a pent breath.
Carefully, he seated himself on the floor and opened the med kit. The bone knitter was a rubbery beige appliance with six spider-like appendages that molded to his malformed knee. He blundered through the command prompts until he found the setting for musculoskeletal correctives. Warmth spread from the knitter and into his knee, growing in intensity until his skin felt as though it was boiling. This was nothing compared to the maddening itch that grew from within the joint. Then, abruptly, the knitter beeped once and fell from his skin, folding in upon itself like a dead insect.
With an effusive sigh of relief, he pulled himself up, then tested his weight. He grinned at the dingy walls as he walked in a circle in the tiny room.
In his head, Luc practiced what he would say to sway an officer to believing his story.
His stride faltered. The intersection that lead back to Mahir and his water pump merchant lay ahead. Something was wrong. A knot of shopping patrons milled at the corner, gawking up the hill and whispering.
Just keep walking. You have a plan.
Yet he stopped and looked in the direction of what captivated the crowd.
Two SSD troopers, their faces obscured by the dark scrims of their helmets, towered over Mahir. One of the men held Balish by the collar. Even from half a block away, Luc could see that the boy was rigid with fear.
You don’t owe the old man or the boy anything. In fact, you’re doing them a favor. No telling what Haro would do to them, if he knew you were still alive.
The priest stepped between the two soldiers, his hands stroking the air in a calming gesture. He must have said something particularly uncalming, for one of the troopers placed a flattened palm on the old man’s chest and shoved. Mahir’s feet tangled with the curb and he fell. Balish tried to wrestle free.
Luc fell into a sprint, his limp forgotten.
At his approach Mr. Shove, a sergeant by the insignia at his throat, drew his rifle up. “This is official business. Move on.”
“This is my business,” Luc replied. “These two are with me.”
The trooper’s eyes widened slightly. He was likely more accustomed to meeker reactions. “Really? Hardly a family resemblance, but you skew all look the same to me.”
Balish’s captor laughed as if it was the greatest joke ever told. He shook his grip on Balish. “You got your med-screen passes for your skew one-armed boy and your deaf old man then?”
“We’re from the temple. Exempt from the genetics screening.”
We. The word slipped out, unbidden.
“Oh!” The sergeant rocked back on his heels. “We have an expert in our midst, Trav.”
“Expert,” Trav parroted. He released his grip on Balish, who immediately went to Mahir’s aid. “You don’t look like a priest.”
Luc ignored him and went to Mahir’s other side. The old man’s trousers were torn at the knee, blo
od seeping through the fabric. Otherwise, he seemed unharmed.
“My friends,” Mahir panted. “We have committed no crime. Just let us be.”
Trav leaned down into Mahir’s face. “I’m not your friend, skew-lover.”
“Leave Father Mahir alone.” Balish’s voice was reedy with fear. His chin tucked low as he glared at the troopers. In one white-knuckled hand he held Mahir’s walking stick. Luc could tell that he meant to do something that would likely get them all killed.
The boy lifted the cane. Luc stepped in his way, blocking it. Trav made the first move, but his heavy armor slowed him. It was easy to sidestep the swing of his rifle as he brought the butt around. Luc ducked, hooking him behind the knee in the weak spot in the armor. Using the falling Trav as a screen, he snaked behind the sergeant, his forearm digging in under the vulnerable spot on his neck between the helmet and chest armor.
Luc leaned close and hissed in Regimental: “I am a Seeker on a mission. Do not keep me from it. Or your commander will hear of it.”
Just as quickly, Luc released his hold. The trooper stumbled back. He caught Trav’s arm as he drew the rifle up. His wide-eyed stare remained on Luc. “They can go.”
Trav began to protest. “Sergeant—”
“You heard me.” The sergeant pointed back at their rust-scaled cart with the muzzle of his rifle. “I’m sure they know better than to come back.”
Balish and Mahir were already climbing onto the cart as Luc backed away, hands out by his sides. The sergeant gave a shallow nod before turning to address the small crowd that had assembled. “Go about your business. Now.”
It was early afternoon by the time their cart reached the perimeter of the temple compound. To Luc it felt as if it should be far later than it was. He was aware of Mahir’s weary stillness and felt Balish’s glare at the back of his head. The boy had been a bundle of seething silence under the shadow of his cloak.
Luc guided the cart to merge into the progress of foot traffic winding into the courtyard. Now they were going no faster than the pedestrians winding their way to and from the Temple of Miseries.
“What did you tell the soldier?” Balish’s question was like sudden ice water in the thick heat.
“I didn’t say anything,” Luc did not turn from his view through the chipped and dusty windscreen. His hands tightened on the control yoke.
“I saw you. You told him something.” The boy’s voice surged with anger. “You’re a liar.”
“Do not speak to our friend so,” Mahir chided. “Be calm. We have all had a trying day.”
“What happened to your crutch? Why aren’t you limping anymore?” Balish persisted. “Or was that a lie too?”
“Balish!” The old priest snapped.
Luc swerved the cart to the shoulder of the trail and stopped. The sudden move made them all jostle forward. He turned in his seat. But the look of betrayal on Balish’s face made him rethink his angry retort.
He made his voice low, even. “You were going to get all of us killed if you’d raised a single finger to those troopers. Is that what you want? To die? To hang? Because I don’t.”
“You don’t care.” Balish swiped at his eyes hastily with his sleeve. “At least I would fight back. You said that’s how you get them to stop—by fighting back. The Regime can’t just go around killing anyone that’s not like them. We have to stop them. Maybe my mother and the other settlers would still be alive—”
“My son, please.” Mahir reached across the partition of the cab. Balish recoiled. He fixed Luc with one final glare and slid out the back of the cart. He was soon a darting figure in the sea of bodies moving up the trail to the temple.
Luc opened the door, ready to give pursuit when Mahir stayed him. “Let him be. Today’s events have evoked strong memories for him, I fear. He has done this before. Balish will likely return to his room. He hides there from the other children, from everyone.”
He regarded Mahir. The old man seemed to have shrunken under the stress of the day.
“We should probably talk about today…” Luc ventured.
“In time, friend.” The old man’s smile seemed tired. He gestured at the cart’s control yoke. “Let us return. I have need of your help tonight in the kitchen.”
“The kitchen?” Luc frowned.
“A simple thing, really.”
Normally a bustle of activity, the kitchen was dark and cold. Only the lingering smell of baking loaves gave a ghost of warmth. Luc followed Mahir past the soft gleam of pots and pans and into the larder. A table piled high with sacks of grain had been moved back from the wall, revealing the dark mouth of a tunnel beyond.
The matron from the schoolyard was waiting there. A glowsphere hovered near her shoulder like a loyal pet.
Something like anticipation suspended between the three of them, an invisible web. The matron’s eyes flitted between him and Mahir in silent question. The priest waved a hand, dismissing her. She nodded, a surgical motion that seemed to cut off her curiosity, and left without a backward glance.
“What is this?” Luc asked. He felt trouble like a warm spot in the center of his chest. As if it intended to rush up at him from the darkness of the tunnel.
“As I said, a simple thing. We go to help others in need, those whom Miri and her sister Fates have placed in our Path.” Mahir allowed the glowsphere to drift ahead, revealing more of the tunnel and leaving them shrouded in shadow.
“In a tunnel?”
“If you seek only to do the Fates’ work, no harm shall befall you.” With surprising agility, Mahir stooped low to enter the tunnel. The glowsphere lofted ahead to light the way.
“Come.” Mahir’s voice echoed from within. “All is as it should be.”
Finally, Luc followed.
For what felt like an eternity, they picked their way down the sloping dirt floor. Luc spotted buttresses of timber, some newer than others, that indicated this was a well-maintained passage. He imagined the great steep hill over their heads, a mountain of sleeping bodies and houses, all ignorant to what lay far below.
“Tell me. Did you know your parents?” Mahir asked. Even hidden in the dimness, the question felt odd.
Luc did not answer. He nervously prodded his tongue against the empty socket in his jaw.
Mahir pressed ahead. “I ask because I cannot recall mine. Both died when I was too young. The Regime came and in its wisdom impressed its order on Tasemar. Our village was burned as an example of its might.” The sardonic tone was plain in his voice. Maybe he felt more willing to share his true allegiances in the dark.
Luc felt the skin tighten along the back of his neck. “No. I don’t remember my parents or much of home.”
But that was not the complete truth, was it? He remembered the seemingly perpetual cold, the constant hunger. Those things were big enough to have their own permanent shapes in his memory. He recalled sleeping curled against a woman with dirty blonde hair and dark eyes. Perhaps his mother. One morning, he could not wake her, no matter how hard he tried. Sometime later, either a day or an eternity, the soldiers came and brought him to the kennel with the other conscripted children.
“A pity,” Mahir said. “I imagine they would be quite proud to see their son.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
They journeyed on in silence. The air changed, grew heavy with moisture. He could smell the river before he heard the rushing sigh of water. Soon he was aware of voices layered atop that sound.
They emerged onto a familiar muddy shore clotted with dead leaves. Out here, the river rang louder. It was swollen and angry from recent rains in the mountains. It was difficult for him to think of it as anything but a watery monster that had once tried to consume him.
A woman unfolded from the shadows to their right. Her lower body seemed too thick, misshapen. Mahir signaled the glowsphere to brighten and two young boys materialized as they clung to her legs under her heavy cloak. A toddler was propped against the woman’s hip.
“They�
��re the last from the camp the Regime raided,” she said, her voice thick with sorrow. “More fled into the wilderness. I fear they’re lost.”
The children watched Mahir and Luc with wide-eyed intensity. The toddler began to whimper. In response, the woman swayed wearily, making a hushing sound.
Mahir placed a palm tenderly atop of the toddler’s sparse curls. “All is well,” he crooned, taking the child into his arms. He turned to Luc. “Here. This is my friend. We will keep you safe now. No one will find you here.”
Before Luc could protest, the toddler—a girl, if the mud-caked clothes were any indicator—was handed to him. He took her, hoisting her warm weight, hoping she wouldn’t cry.
Mahir beckoned the woman toward the tunnel. “Come. You must be weary. Aeryn is too far to make before dawn. Take your rest with us.”
“I cannot.” She shook her head under the hood of her cloak. “There’s a chance I was followed. My contacts say there are Seekers on Tasemar. Some may very well be in Macula. I will lead them away if I can.”
With that, she leaned to whisper something in another language to the boy clutching her leg. Then, hesitantly, both little boys, clinging to each other, walked past Mahir to wait inside the mouth of the tunnel.
Mahir took her hand into his. He leaned down and kissed her knuckles, a move that communicated blessing, absolution. “May the Fates keep you. Miri watches over you as you have for her children.”
Later, Luc found Mahir in the round prayer room. This was the inner sanctuary, resplendent with the altar to the Fates, an ancient fresco done by a long-dead hand, some famous artist whose name meant nothing to Luc. Of all the places on the temple mount, this room held an air of permanence, as if the Known Worlds could crumble to dust and chaos. This spot would remain, protected and unchanging.
The old man’s eyes were shut tightly, his hands folded in his lap. At first, Luc assumed him asleep, but then he glimpsed the subtle movement of prayer on his lips. He settled beside him on the curved bench that faced the center altar, its surface dotted with clay lamps. Each one represented a specific type of prayer to be sung that day, each prayer meant to be a remedy.
A Simple Thing Page 4
