Varian studied the old man’s face. The features were cracked, seamed with age and fear and sadness. He was telling the truth, this Kartaphilos.
“I believe you,” said Varian. “But why are you telling me this?”
“Time has passed and still I remember no more. I have decided that I would never find my way back to Guardian alone. The World is too large. Instead, I have set out across the face of nations, searching out men who are bright enough, curious enough, and strong enough to take up the search.”
“You mean I am not the only one you’ve told?”
“Do not be offended, but no. Hundreds, I’d figure. There were other ways. I could have propped myself up as a prophet or some other type out of Odo, then spent years gathering a crowd of disciples, instilling some religious rigamarole around the facts—a little magic, some fables—and just like that I’d have had a . . . crusade going. Thousands of pilgrims and believers scouring the lands for the Lost God, or some such rot. But then, I don’t think that’s what Guardian had in mind when he sent me out for reinforcements. . . .” Kartaphilos smiled weakly.
“But that must have been a long time ago! You can’t be who you say you are? You can’t be that old!”
“But I am.”
“The war is over. Everyone’s dead. Long dead! The Guardian’s got to be gone—”
“No!” Kartaphilos screamed the word with such power that Varian was humbled into silence, as if he had spoken a blasphemy. “No, it lives! I know it! I feel it!”
Varian smiled. It had been a very convincing tale. The old man was quite an actor, full of detail and nuance, of gesture and just enough information to spring the curious appetite, to allow the imaginative mind to fill in the missing parts. It had almost worked.
“No, old man. You talk foolishness. What you say cannot possibly be.”
A look came into the eyes of Kartaphilos which could be read as anger, or hatred, or perhaps madness. Whatever it was, Varian did not like it. Slowly his hand drifted toward the hilt of his sword.
But the old man did not move toward him. His face twisted into a hideous mask and the voice which now spoke was low and not very human. “It is true. And I shall prove it to you.”
“What’re you talking about?”
Varian stepped back involuntarily as Kartaphilos reached for the clasp at the neck of his robe. His wrinkled, blue-veined hands grasped at the folds of his cloak and jerkin, ripping them away.
“No . . .” said Varian, hearing his voice trail off, a weak whisper. “It’s not real. It can’t be. . . .”
Reaching out, he forced himself to touch the exposed chest of Kartaphilos. The rest of the world went away—the sounds and colors of the Mentor docks—as he focused on the smoked-amber glass of the old man’s chest. It was clear and deep as a natural spring, and it danced with the lights of LEDs and microprocessors. Myriad circuits and pathways laced the chest cavity like thousands of roadways in a miniature city. It was a hypnotic display of light, power, magic.
“It’s a trick,” said Varian, hoping that he was correct.
Kartaphilos shook his head as he let the folds of his clothing drop, covering the body which shone like a precious gem. “No trick,” he said, reaching for his neck, pulling up an edge of flesh which had been covered by the robes and hood. It came away easily from the smooth surface of the neck. Kartaphilos began peeling it up, past the neck, stretching it away from the chin and jaw. More amber glass, circuits. . . .
“No!” Varian pulled the hand away. “All right! Not here, please. I believe you.” He drew a breath to keep away the dizziness. He felt weak.
With a studied casualness, Kartaphilos tucked the synthetic flesh beneath his robes. “It is not the first time I have resorted to such a demonstration.”
“How old are you? How could you still be . . . be working?”
“You have no conception of the skills of the men of the First Age. I am nothing to their science.”
“It’s so incredible. . . . I don’t know what to say.”
“You sound more the fool than you are, Varian Hamer. I have shocked you, but you will collect yourself. Say nothing. Only know that you are special. It will take a special man to find the Guardian. Perhaps, it is you.”
“Stay with me! Help me find your Guardian!” Varian’s mind raced ahead. Half-imagined thoughts told him of the power and the wealth which would come to a man who found the Guardian. The secrets of the First Age would lie at the man’s feet. The World would be again renewed to its prior greatness . . . under the direction of that special man.
Kartaphilos shook his head. “No, I cannot stay with you. Just as I can feel it within my body, my pathways, that Guardian still functions—for I would cease to function should Guardian fail—so also can I feel the need for me to continue my mission.”
“Why?”
“Because there is no warrant that you will succeed, Varian Hamer. Your bones may lie bleaching in the Manteg while I repeat my story to another young sailor like yourself. It might be said that I am . . . doomed, or cursed perhaps, to wander the World, telling my tale.”
Varian understood what the machine was telling him. “But how will you know if, or when, you ever succeed?”
Kartaphilos shrugged. He was a perfect mimic. “I will know.” He straightened himself, eyes glancing to the docks below.
“What’s the matter?”
“I will leave you now. There’s nothing more to tell. It is up to you now. Either you will search for Guardian or you will not. Either you will find it or you will not.”
“Where will you go?”
“I don’t know. There are many places I have yet to see. It is still a big enough World. Good-bye, Varian Hamer.”
Varian wanted to say more, but his mind seemed to seize up. He was shocked with the knowledge that he would never see the terrifying messenger from the First Age again. “Wait. Please, is there nothing else you can tell me? Where should I begin my search? Any clues? Can’t you remember anything else?”
Kartaphilos smiled. “There is one last thing. I was saving it for last. . . .”
“What? What is it?”
“Sand.”
“What’s that? ‘Sand’?”
“There was lots of sand. I remember that. But nothing more definite.”
“That narrows it down a bit,” said Varian seriously.
“Does it really? I don’t think so. You can be relatively certain that the Citadel resides nowhere within the civilized World, else it would have been discovered, by now. Which leaves the more desolate parts—all of which have sand.”
Something jumped in Varian’s heart. Kartaphilos was correct. “Still, it is something.”
“Make of it what you can. Good fortune, Varian Hamer. I envy you.”
“Me? Why?”
Kartaphilos smiled again. A very human smile. “I envy all of you. You humans. It must be a different thing, a marvelous thing to be alive, to be an organic entity. I wish that I could know it.”
Varian nodded, understanding. “It is a good thing . . . sometimes.”
“Yes, I’m sure it is.” Kartaphilos turned and adjusted the cowl of his cloak. “And I leave you, and I wish you success.”
Varian could say nothing. He watched as the . . . thing called Kartaphilos walked slowly to the gangway and shuffled down its incline. His drab clothing was soon lost in the eddying swirls of color in the marketplace. Varian strained to follow his path until it became totally lost in the constantly changing network of the crowd.
Turning his attention back to the ship, he was relieved to see that no one had taken great notice of his conversation. It was not unusual to have visitors upon a ship so grand as The Courtesan. If anyone asked, he would tell them that Kartaphilos was an eccentric old uncle, bearing a personal family message. It would suffice. No one who knew Varian Hamer ever questioned his word.
The ship would be weighing anchor soon, and Varian now viewed the voyage in a different light. So much to think abou
t. So much to do. He would now be forced to plan his life as he had never planned it before.
Eleusynnia. Their first port of call—would it be a good place to jump ship? To begin the search? Maps. He would need maps and charts. He must study everything. There could be no snap decisions in something like this. He would go to Eleusynnia at least. From there, perhaps into Voluspa to consult the ancient texts at the Great Library. There might have been a germ of truth in Kartaphilos’ suggestion. A careful eye, a careful mind, might find something of use in the old writings.
Something burst into life deep in his being. He could feel it, but he did not yet recognize it. It was something more than the mere joy of being alive. It was the first spark of purpose in his life that had ever truly meant something to him.
The sun was burning brightly in the sky now. It was a brassy disk eating through the haze. Somewhere its light burned down on a place of sand . . . and other things.
And I shall find it, he thought.
Chapter Two
Despite her present situation, Tessa was a woman of character and determination, of intellect and ingenuity. It was both her blessing and her misfortune to be an attractive woman, and there were few men who had not appreciatively eyed her reddish-auburn hair, her green cat’s-eyes, her fair complexion. Her legs were long, muscled like a dancer’s, but by no means masculine. She was lean but well-proportioned in a way which men desired.
Men. Desire.
Although Tessa was not yet twenty-five, she knew enough of both. As she lay in her cramped bunk of the tradeship, she thought back over the times which had cursed her.
It had been her father who first initiated her, falling prey to the feelings which had stabbed most of the village men, even when Tessa was no more than thirteen years. She could not help her early maturity, or the way her clothes refused to conceal the ripeness, the fullness of her young body. The innocence of childhood had been a merciful veil, but she still felt ashamed when she recalled those early years.
She had been fifteen when the mother had died, and it was raining the day the family buried her on the high hillside, where her father’s sheep grazed. The rain washed away everyone’s tears, but never the memories. It was late that evening, after all the other children had been sent to sleep. It was understood that Tessa, being the oldest child, would assume the duties of the mother, although Tessa did not realize how completely her father had decided the change of roles would be.
As she stood tending the cooking fires in the iron stove, banking them and adding an extra log for warmth during the night, her father came and stood close behind her. Even as he touched her shoulder and bent to kiss her slender neck, she knew what he wanted.
His hands were rough, calloused, clumsy. His breath smelled of stale bac and garlic, his body greasy and heavy with the odor of his sheep. Turning, she saw the burning in his eyes, the slight trembling in his hands and his voice as he told her how beautiful she looked, how much she resembled her mother. He mumbled something about how a man’s need did not die with his wife as he pressed his large sweating belly against her. Edging away from the hot iron of the stove, she moved to the wall where her father’s hands fell upon her, touching her, exploring her with an urgency that was terrifying. It was as though he had been waiting only for his wife to die so that this moment would be at hand.
He would not look her in the eye as he forced her down to the divan, pausing only to turn down a kerosene lamp. Then he was upon her, sweating and heaving, taking her in the darkness. She was so sickened that she could not scream; she could not even cry.
For ten years he abused her until he became stricken with a disease which slowly sapped him of his strength and his ability to walk. The slow paralysis heralded an end to her abuse, but not the degradation. Deprived of his profession, unable to herd his flocks, the father became a businessman. A wealthy trader from the city of Prend offered her father a small fortune enough to support him for the rest of his wretched life—in exchange for Tessa. Although the merchant dealt primarily in spices and herbs, there was a thriving, though underground, trade in servants and concubines.
The bargain was struck and Tessa was taken aboard The Silver Girl, which would follow the Kirchou into the G’Rdellian Sea, with stops in Eleusynnia and Voluspa before putting in at Taithek, where the demand for Scorpinnian concubines brought the World’s highest prices—sums which made the amount paid to Tessa’s father meaningless. It was a civilized World . . . only when it chose to be.
And so she sailed now, with a cabin of other unfortunate young women, to the southern end of the G’Rdellian Sea. She knew the government of Eleusynnia would take issue with slave trading, and that she would be safe if she could jump ship once The Silver Girl put in at that magnificent city. Tessa had reached the point in her life—which up until now had been a long and featureless repetition of events—where she must begin to live for herself, or finally die. Life as it had been previously mapped out for her was simply not worth the living. She would take chances, she told herself, as she lay in the darkness listening to the sails flap in the night breezes, the groan of the wooden decks, and the occasional grunted commands of the ship’s crew.
She spoke to no one of her plans, not even her fellow prisoners, of whom she found none worthy of trust. Most of them were worse than she, a shepherd’s daughter. Street whores, orphans, and beggars to the last. Tessa listened to them carp and laugh among themselves, picking up their uneducated accents, trying to place their origins. One was obviously from a settlement north along the Cairn River. Another from the gutters of Hok in Pindar. Still others from the backward provinces near Baadghizi. They all eyed her with, at first, suspicion and, later, hostility because she did not join in their coarse amusements.
There was also the problem of the crew. Hardened men with few pleasures available during the long cruises, they were more than agreeable at the prospect of cargoing a cabinful of future concubines. As each watch changed there were wholesale invasions and impromptu parties, and endless indignities.
By the time The Silver Girl reached Eleusynnia, Tessa did not care whether she lived or died. The only thing she knew was that she would not be sailing any farther. She hated her father and she hated the other women and she wanted to kill the men, all of the men. They were animals—panting, sweating, stinking animals—who did not speak to her, hardly looked at her, when they hung over her on their elbows and knees. She hated them.
But that evening, as the watch changed, there were fewer crew coming to invade them because the ship had made port, and those on liberty would be slinking into the night streets of the city looking for new conquests. This would be one of her best chances, and she moved quickly, selecting one of the smaller men who came loudly into the cabin. He was an older man with small bones and pinched features, a bald head and eyes that seemed to have a trace of kindness remaining.
She drank with the man and let his bony fingers probe and caress her. She forced herself to hold him, to nuzzle into his neck, to laugh at his attempts at bawdy humor. When he was sufficiently full of wine, she begged him to take her up on deck where she might look upon the majestic lights of Eleusynnia under a quartering moon. The man looked at her oddly, but perhaps he was a bit of a romantic himself, for he nodded his head and laughed as he guided her not too roughly from the stuffy cabin.
Tessa had never killed a man before. It was especially difficult because this one had been as close to kind as anyone she had ever accompanied. As he held her against the gunwale, pressing his thin lips against her, she let her hands drift sensually down the small of his back, touching his belt, feeling the hilt of his knife in her long fingers. The weapon felt hard and smooth; she knew she must move quickly, efficiently.
Twisting her body into his, she gasped loudly as she pulled the knife free from its scabbard, immediately plunging it between the lower ribs of his back. The man tensed, then screamed as she tore the blade through him. Something dark bubbled from his lips and his eyes became glassy, unseei
ng. There was noise and the clatter of boots on the deck, growing louder. Tessa looked from the crumpled shape at her feet to the approaching figures on the deck, then finally to the shimmering oily surface of the water as it slapped lazily against the hull.
Over the side without thinking, she felt a rush of air and a bracing sting of something far colder than she imagined. Her clothes gathered in the water and weighed her down, causing her to struggle as if in a quagmire. Paddling in half panic away from the ship, she heard the rough voices of the men as they searched for her in the darkness, and suddenly a flare arced gracefully out over the harbor, guiding her way to the nearest wharf and exposing her position to the night-watch of The Silver Girl.
Their firearms started popping and cracking, snitting into the water around her. Once she tried sinking, holding her breath and feigning a hit, but when she was forced finally to the surface, the volley of shots began again. Davits creaked in the distance and she heard a boat being lowered. If she did not reach the wharf, they would overtake her and death would be graciously hers. It seemed unfair, now that she had come so close to freedom, to fail.
The wooden pilings seemed to grow closer, but she could not be sure of this. The flare had died out and another was arcing high above her, casting a horrid orange glow on everything. The longboat had smacked into the water and she could hear the angry shouts of the men as they leaned into the oars.
Then there was a hand grabbing her arm. It was a strong hand which held her like a gentle vise. With a fluid movement, she was being pulled from the water, gliding like a ballet dancer, up and over the edge of the wharf. A tall man with sandy hair and bright blue eyes—they were obviously so, despite the odd illumination of the flares—and dressed in the uniform of a merchant seaman. As he lifted her to her feet with his left hand, he raised a long-barreled pistol in the other.
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