Larson sighed. “I’ve got this odd, moral thing about limiting myself to one felony a day. I’m not stealing, and the four dollars in my pocket would barely buy a decent T-shirt.”
“I have money.”
“You don’t understand. The gold and silver you’re carrying would probably bring decent money from a coin collector. Here in Sears, they’re worse than useless. They’d draw attention.”
“Will this?” Taziar displayed a fat roll of bills that stopped Larson in his tracks.
“Where did you get that?”
“I—” Taziar started.
Larson pocketed the money and waved Taziar quiet. “Don’t tell me. I’m sure I don’t want to know.” He led the smaller man around the end of the row and down a short corridor to the men’s room. They pushed inside.
Six porcelain urinals lined the walls, and three stalls filled the area beyond them. Sinks and a paper towel dispenser jutted from the opposite wall. A man used the farthest urinal.
Taziar watched with unabashed wonder.
The stranger looked over casually, then glared at the little Climber.
Larson smacked Taziar’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “Don’t stare. It’s impolite.” He motioned to a corner.
Taziar wandered to the indicated location. “I’m sorry. I just never saw a man piss in a fountain before.”
Larson shook his head in frustration. “I’ll explain later. For right now, you stay in one of those with the door closed.” He inclined his head toward a stall. “I’ll be back. Please don’t start any trouble.”
The New Yorker zipped his pants, throwing Larson and Taziar a hostile glance before leaving.
Probably thinks we’re gay. Too harried to see the humor in the situation, Larson headed back into the store without bothering to see if Taziar had obeyed.
* * *
CHAPTER 12
Chaos Hunted
Behold! human beings living in an underground den....
Like ourselves ... they see only their own shadows, or
the shadows of one another, which the fire throws on the
opposite wall of the cave.
—Plato The Republic
The taxicab crawled through rush hour traffic, cutting through cracks and openings so tiny that Al Larson felt like a thread poked repeatedly and recklessly through the eye of a needle. Timmy sat at Larson’s right. To his left, Taziar Medakan plucked at his own blue jeans, toying with the first zipper he had ever seen. He also wore a black and gray shirt and a Dodger’s cap pulled low over his eyes. Wisps of sable hair poked from beneath the brim, making him look as much like a child as Timmy.
Taziar’s disguise, in addition to timing and luck, had gotten them past the police, but Larson knew they had not seen the last of New York’s finest. They’ll forgive Shadow. Climbing a building, though stupid, seems harmless. But I laid out two cops, and cops protect their own. Larson accepted the thought philosophically, without need for judgment. In Vietnam, if someone, even another American, had assaulted his companions, he also would have sought revenge. And the police had the law on their side as well. After I tried to convince Taziar that cops are friends, unlike Cullinsberg’s cruel, thrill-seeking murderers on the take, he may get a stunning example of police brutality.
Timmy leaned across Larson, studying Taziar with shameless forthrightness. “This is Robin Hood?” He sounded skeptical.
Larson pushed his thoughts aside. “His name’s Taz, Timmy.”
Taziar looked up, leaving the zipper in its closed position. At the least, he seemed to have guessed its use and the proper location for social dignity. “How do you say ‘Shadow’ in your language?”
Larson pronounced the word for Taziar. It sounded vaguely similar to its ancient German equivalent.
Taziar nodded. “Just wanted to make sure it didn’t come out like ‘cow dung’ or ‘idiot’ or some swear word. Tell your brother he can call me ...” He used his best English. “... Shadow.”
Larson relayed the message.
“This is the Grand Concourse,” the cabby said.
Larson located the subway sign and its corresponding concrete steps dragging downward into darkness. “Pull over if you can.”
The driver complied, double parking against a row of cars. Behind him, a horn blared, followed by a linear symphony of honks that stretched down the roadway.
Ignoring the noise, Larson ushered his companions onto the sidewalk. Once out of the taxi, he leaned against the driver’s window, drew a twenty from his pocket and handed it to the cabby.
The cabby accepted it, his brow furrowed. The previous ten more than covered the fare.
“You keep that. Forget where you took us, and I’ll give you another.” Larson dangled a twenty between his thumb and first finger.
The man smiled, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. “Make it two, and I never saw any of you in my life.”
Larson passed a pair of twenties to the grinning cabby, then joined his companions. “Come on.”
Taziar and Timmy spoke simultaneously, their languages markedly different, but their words nearly identical. “Where are we going?”
The taxicab pulled back out into traffic. A single horn wailed, then the noise level died to the normal rush hour hubbub.
Taziar relaxed visibly.
“Subway,” Larson said to Timmy. He switched to the barony tongue. “We need a safe place to talk, someplace Silme and Bolverkr won’t be able to recognize in a location spell. Down those steps we’ll find row after row of connected cars that all look essentially the same. They’re moving, too, so by the time the sorcerers could locate us and transport, we’d be elsewhere.” He continued toward the steps as he talked. “It’s just a temporary solution. We can hardly live on the subway, but it should give us a safe place to exchange information and plan strategy.”
Taziar nodded, his gaze flicking among automobiles, buildings, and the hordes of people.
Timmy tugged at his brother’s shirt. “It took all those funny words just to say ‘subway’ to him?”
“Huh?” Larson turned to Timmy, realizing his explanation to Taziar had taken far longer than his answer to Timmy. “They don’t have subways where Shadow comes from.” Or three quarters of the things you use every day. Larson trotted down the steps. “I had to explain it to him.”
At the bottom of the flight, Larson pulled out two singles.
Timmy continued to watch Taziar. “When’s he going to do something like Robin Hood?”
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
Apparently recognizing annoyance in Larson’s tone, if not his words, Taziar questioned. “What’s the matter now?”
“I made the mistake of telling Timmy you’re quick and agile. He keeps watching for you to do something ...” He tried to put the swashbuckler image into words.
“... quick and agile?” Taziar supplied.
“Right.” Larson waved Taziar and Timmy aside. “Wait here and don’t move. I need to get us through the turnstile.” He added swiftly, “Legally.”
Larson walked to the back of the fast moving line. Purchasing three tokens, he returned to find Taziar juggling eight gold barony ducats to Timmy’s evident amusement. A small crowd had gathered.
Larson sprang to Taziar’s side, snatching a coin out of the air. “What the hell are you doing?”
Taziar caught the other ducats easily, amidst a spattering of applause. “Being quick and agile. For Timmy.”
“Well, cut it out.” Larson separated bills in his pocket. “The last thing we need now is attention. And don’t be flashing money around.” Unobtrusively, he handed Taziar a generous third of the currency. “Speaking of which, in case we get separated, you should have some of this.”
The cash disappeared in Taziar’s grip.
Larson pressed bills into Timmy’s hand. “Here. Put this in your pocket and keep it there. It should get you anywhere in case of emergency. Hopefully, you won’t need it, but it’s not worth taking chances.” Without aw
aiting a reply, he headed for the turnstile. Placing a token in the slot, he passed through, turned and dropped in tokens for Timmy and Taziar. They joined the milling crowd on the platform.
In the pit, subway rails gleamed like stiff, silver snakes. A wall separated the southbound tracks from the northbound side. Businesspeople slouched near where they knew the cars would stop. Others sat on benches evenly spaced against the outer wall that separated the platform from the token booth and stairs. A concession stand interrupted the array of seats.
Larson addressed his brother. “We may be riding all night or longer. I’m going to get some survival gear. If the train comes, don’t get on until I’m back. Then, help Shadow. Remember, he’s never seen a subway before.”
“Okay.” Timmy’s face twisted in concentration as he prepared for his job with appropriate seriousness.
Trotting to the booth, Larson purchased several comic books, two dozen packages of crackers and candy and three cups of soda. As he turned, a line of subway cars pulled to the platform, brakes squealing. The familiar, metallic oil odor blasted through the air.
People tunneled onto already packed cars, grabbing handholds on the poles edging each rattan seat, Larson grabbed his change and raced on board. Taziar followed hesitantly, Timmy urging him onward.
The doors hissed closed.
“Hang on tight,” Larson warned. Hands full, he braced himself by looping a foot around a chair leg.
The car accelerated with a halting spasm. Caught by surprise, Taziar jolted into a businessman in front of him, saved from a fall only by his natural grace.
The stranger turned to glare. Then, apparently mistaking Taziar for a child, he smiled indulgently instead.
“Excuse me, sir,” Taziar managed in passable English.
The car clacked and rattled over the tracks. As its movement stabilized, Larson passed the sodas to Timmy and Taziar.
Taziar released the pole, staring into his drink doubtfully.
“Sweet beer,” Larson explained. “With a lot more fizz and none of the kick. Drink slowly until you get used to it. And, for God’s sake, don’t spill it on anyone.” The subway slowed gradually. “Hang on. There’s going to be another hard shock. In fact, we’ll be starting and stopping over and over again.”
Taziar curled the fingers of his free hand around the pole, this time taking the jerky movements in stride.
The doors wrenched open, and people filed off or on.
“What are you guys talking about?” Timmy asked.
The car started again with another lurch, sloshing cola down the front of Taziar’s shirt.
“Timmy,” Larson shouted over the rumble of conversations and the squeal of metal wheels against track. “Shadow and I need to talk for a while. Here.” He handed over the comic books. “Whenever a seat frees up, take it and read.” He turned back to Taziar. “Now, tell me how you got here.” He sipped at his drink.
Over the next half hour, Taziar described the sequence of events from the time he had awakened until Silme’s decision to slay the baby.
Larson listened with rapt attention and empathy. The deaths of Astryd and the baby tore at his heart, a single, paired grief he did not try to separate. “I’m sorry, Taz. I’m so sorry.” The words seemed inadequate. The tears that sprang to his eyes added the sincerity his words could not. He crushed the paper cup in frustration, the only gesture he dared in the crowded car.
Taziar said nothing. He looked away.
Dozens of stops came and went while both men regained their composure. The silence that hung between them seemed so much more meaningful that it overpowered the continuous, surflike roar of half-heard conversations. People loaded and unloaded, the ratio of standing to sitting passengers becoming more equal by tedious increments.
Gradually, Larson shoved aside grief, aware it could wait. For now, plotting had to take precedence. “Did you get any feel for Bolverkr’s and Silme’s plans?”
“Just that they wanted to slaughter us.” Taziar glanced up, eyes bloodshot and shadowed by the brim of his cap. The harsh, German accent sounded ridiculous issuing from this boyish figure.
Larson snickered, barely catching himself before hysterical laughter overtook him.
“Oh, and the usual posturing men do when they want to impress a woman. Bolverkr promised Silme the world.”
Larson frowned, staring at the scratched, green walls of the car. “Unfortunately, Bolverkr’s powerful enough that he might be able to give it to her.”
“I’m not so sure.”
The subway ground to another halt. Larson watched people file through the single sliding door to the platform. This time, only three people replaced the exiting crowd. “What do you mean? Vidarr said Bolverkr’s even more powerful than the gods.”
“In our world, true.” Taziar apparently meant “our” to refer to Bolverkr, Silme, and himself. “But when Bolverkr threw that spell, he said something about the Chaos he used never coming back.”
The doors closed, and the train continued. Larson stared at Taziar. “What does that mean?”
“I’m not sure.” Taziar no longer needed to hold the pole. He finished the last sip of soda and clung to the paper cup as if it was the finest mug. “From what I saw, I’d guess the rules are different here. The Chaos they threw into their spells dispersed, though not without consequence. I felt its evil wash through me. Then it passed over a group of passersby, sending them into a wild argument.”
Larson made a vague noise of consideration.
“It seems to me as if every spell drains Chaos permanently, releasing it into the surroundings.”
“Chaos is life energy,” Larson recalled aloud.
“Right.”
“So every spell Bolverkr throws not only makes him weaker magically but physically. Each loss of Chaos takes him one step closer to death.”
“Presumably.”
A horrible idea followed naturally. “And Silme, too.”
“Presumably,” Taziar repeated with less vigor. He went quiet a moment, then raised a loophole. “Assuming Chaos and life force are linked in your world the same as in mine.” He threw the question back to Larson. “Are they?”
Larson snorted. “How would I know? Sorcerers don’t exist here as far as I know. At least, they didn’t before Bolverkr and Silme.”
At the next stop, Timmy managed to find a seat on the far side of a row, near a window that overlooked the central wall between tracks.
Taziar worked with the available information. “We can’t fight Bolverkr at his current power. That’s clear enough. The best strategy seems obvious to me. The more spells he casts and the stronger those spells are, the more equal the fight becomes. If we can survive his magic long enough, he’ll eventually weaken enough for us to best him.”
Larson said nothing, his thoughts still on Silme.
“At least we know he won’t waste his spells. As for Silme, Bolverkr must have found a way to channel Chaos to her. Immediately after she cast that spell and lost some Chaos, there was a moment before pain set in when her loyalties seemed to shift back to me, as if the Chaos lost some of its influence over her.”
Hope thrilled through Larson. “You mean if we can drain enough Chaos from Silme ...” He trailed off, letting Taziar finish the sentence.
Taziar obliged. “... we may get her back. Yes. I think it’s possible. That is, so long as Bolverkr doesn’t keep replacing the Chaos she loses.”
For the first time in weeks, Larson’s spirits lifted. The odds had gone from hopeless to vaguely possible, and, for now, that seemed more than enough.
Afternoon passed to evening on New York’s Independent Line. As rush hour dispersed to quieter times, Larson, Taziar, and Timmy found seats together. Timmy slept, his sandy head propped against the window. Beside him, Taziar munched at a peanut butter cracker, occasionally adding inspiration to the clouded phantom plans taking shape in Larson’s mind. The general strategy seemed obvious, guerrilla attacks that drained Bolverkr’s Chaos
followed by sudden retreats. However, the practical mechanics of such a scheme eluded Larson. And Taziar’s ignorance of the city made his input little more than useless.
Larson glanced around the subway car, at the double row of parallel seats and the aisle between them. A stout, dark-haired man sat in the last seat of the opposite row beside a curvaceous, but moon-faced, bleached blonde in a fur coat. She wore a large diamond on her left hand. In front of the couple, three teenagers discussed rock and roll, dressed in tie-dyed T-shirts and bell-bottom jeans with fringe. Six businessmen in suits reposed in various locations around the car. Two women in gray skirts and suit coats sat, chatting softly together.
The subway ground to another stop, the halt and start up having grown so familiar in the last few hours that Larson no longer noticed it. But, this time, the three men who boarded drew his attention. They wore matching black T-shirts displaying rearing cobras and tucked into grimy jeans. One, tanned and blond, wore a leather jacket that fell to his knees, and Larson could tell the youth carried something beneath its folds. The jacketed stranger walked to the door between their car and the one ahead of it, steadying himself against the door frame. The largest of the three braced himself between the seat directly in front of Larson and its neighbor. He was a dark-haired, scar-faced man a few years older than Larson and obviously the leader of the trio. The last, a redhead, took a position at the back of the car.
The door slid shut. The subway lurched.
As if it were a signal, the blond at the front whipped a sawed-off shotgun from beneath his coat. Scarface raised a .45 Colt army sidearm, and the redhead drew a .38 special. “Don’t scream,” the leader said. “Do what I say, and no one gets hurt.” All three moved as lightly as cats, covering every person in the car. They had the routine down well.
Larson stiffened.
The leader grabbed one of the teenagers by a tie-dyed sleeve and shoved a plastic drawstring bag into the youth’s quivering hand. “Go around the car. I want wallets and jewelry. I don’t want trouble.”
Mickey Zucker Reichert - By Chaos Cursed Page 24
