Aware

by Andy Havens

  “Indeed, Mr. Monday,” she replied. “I’ve been working for Wallace on his special project.”

  Working for me? Wallace thought. That’s… an interesting turn of phrase.

  “Quite,” Monday replied. “Which is why I came down to see him. And you. When I found you absent your office, I thought maybe you might be working together.”

  “We were,” she agreed. “I was just about to tell Wallace what I learned from the Blood artist, Avar’eket. Would you like to hear my report, too, sir?”

  He nodded, and she was about to speak but he held up one hand to halt her.

  “I do want to hear what you’ve learned about that odd deck of cards,” he said. “But you can tell me when you address the whole group that’s convening in the Eastern Conference Room.”

  Wallace looked a question at McKey and then Mr. Monday, clearly wondering if he should come along, too. Monday nodded, and the clerk unclipped his laptop from the docking station, tucking it under his arm.

  “What group is this, Mr. Monday?” McKey asked. “The rest of Wallace’s research pod?”

  Monday shook his head.

  “No. I’ve dismissed them. I don’t think we’ll need to be doing any more secondary research on his topic for some time.”

  “Why is that, sir? If you don’t mind me asking,” Wallace said. I’ve only been a manager for a few weeks, and already the project is being disbanded? He was a little disappointed. But what Monday said next surprised him back to the present.

  “Because the group in question consists of Kendra White, her little Chaos assassin, and Gareth Ezer.”

  McKey and Wallace were both shocked into silence for a moment.

  After a moment, Mrs. McKey said simply, “Increase is here. The Warden. Himself. In the Library.”

  Monday nodded, a slight smirk on his face. “Yes.”

  Here he paused, and Wallace knew he was consulting a minor Way to gather up a bit of information.

  “And I believe,” Monday continued, looking off into space, “that means … Sarah Heffner wins the pool.”

  McKey nodded and Monday looked at his watch.

  “I told them we’d be up in a few minutes. Grab some coffee and visit the washroom if you need to, then join us in the East as soon as possible. Thank you.”

  Monday strolled off and Wallace asked, “What pool?”

  She chuckled and grabbed him by the arm, guiding him toward the staff lounge where cold, stale coffee was waiting. “Senior staff. The last time Ezer visited the library there was a bit of a… kerfuffle between him and one of our researchers. The pool was a bet on how long it would be until the Warden returned in person.”

  “Oh,” Wallace said. “Wait. How long ago was this?”

  “Around nine hundred years.”

  “And what was the wager?”

  “At the time it would have amounted to about… a hundred dollars each in terms of today’s buying power. But the bets went into some kind of account and…” McKey paused, checking the Way that held the information.

  “Today,” she continued, “it’s worth about thirteen million dollars.”

  “Uh… Wow.”

  “Yes, Wallace. ‘Wow’ indeed. One of the oldest, standing staff bets. Sarah will be pleased.”

  Wallace knew that money itself wasn’t really an issue for Reckoners of Sight. Had he wanted thirteen million dollars for House business, it wouldn’t have been a problem. But money was also useful for keeping score.

  Thirteen million bucks on a millennium bet? That’s a nice feather in Sarah’s cap, he thought, following McKey into the staff lounge.

  There was no coffee, so they each grabbed a Coke from the mini fridge and headed upstairs.

  Chapter 8. Consummation

  Mirkir had no trouble following the Blood Chief as she made her way down the city street, her prisoner docile at her side. The man walked alongside her with only a slight touch on the elbow or shoulder to get him to turn at various intersections.

  They walked nearly eight blocks to an empty lot behind a bowling alley.

  Mirkir liked bowling alleys. They were loud, like thunder but without rain. The balls were like very round rocks. Which made him giggle. That rocks should be that round and smooth. That something so perfectly crafted should be used by Mundanes to cast down bundles of standing sticks. He’d conferred with others of his kind and they all agreed that bowling was ridiculous and entertaining and interesting in an almost taboo kind of way. All that energy and precision and machinery dedicated to knocking down sticks. Delightfully, decadently wasteful.

  He almost gave up the hunt right then and there. He hadn’t been in a bowling alley in years. He could hear the rattle of the balls and the crash of the pins from outside.

  But he saw the Blood Chief helping the Chaos man into the passenger side of a pickup truck and it made him remember why he was doing what he was doing.

  Trucks are fun, too, he remembered.

  He trotted over to a spot behind the big, black truck and waited for the Blood to gun the engine to life. At that moment, he hopped up and into the wide bed, making almost no noise as he landed. Though quite hefty and made of stone, his kind had all been crafted to watch and guard. This made them naturally good at avoiding attention in most cases. Though his weight caused the truck bed to sink a bit lower, the Blood was already gunning the engine and didn’t seem to notice.

  Mirkir didn’t really think about it. He just knew he wanted to go for a ride and not alert the driver. It probably wouldn’t have worked on someone from Sight. They were very hard to fool. But Blood? This Chief had a purpose and it distracted her a bit.

  So the gargoyle hunkered down in the blind spot behind the cab and enjoyed the feel of wind, scents, bugs and lights as they drove out of the city and onto the highway. He could tell, too, when the truck picked up one of the Narrow Roads and began to move much faster than a Mundane vehicle could have done.

  Why a truck on the Narrows? Mirkir wondered. It wasn’t that it was difficult or forbidden to bring vehicles on the Way-enhanced roads. It was just unnecessary. Like riding a bike from the kitchen to the living room or taking a train from one end of a station to the other.

  He didn’t much care. Even Reckoners of Earth often confused him. Blood? While easier to comprehend than Flux or, say, Release—and much, much less trouble than Chaos—Blood was still much younger than Mirkir’s House.

  They muck about, Mirkir thought to himself. They are never still.

  Which, coming from a gargoyle, was something of an insult.

  The truck continued on the Narrow Road for a time and Mirkir half-dozed. Then they were on another Mundane road, then a dirt path through a woods that smelled very nice.

  When the truck finally stopped, Mirkir peeked up over the side and saw they were waiting at a security gate set into a fence topped with razor wire. There were lights on poles at intervals of about fifty yards along the fence. But back a few yards into the woods? The shadows would be deep enough to conceal him.

  With a barely discernable whuff! he leaped into the air and landed among the foliage at the edge of the tree line.

  The Blood was talking with some Mundane who was obviously guarding the property. As a guard himself, Mirkir respected the position. But he could see dozens of holes in the security of the place. Not just ones that a Reckoner of Earth could exploit. Blind spots from which the guard wouldn’t be able to see the fence. Regular shadows cast because the static lights were all at the same height.

  Moon is best, he thought. The movement of the moon made it harder for intruders to hide from Mirkir’s kind. Shadows spoke to them as they shifted.

  There was some kind of disagreement. The Blood Chief was gesturing at the truck and making rude gestures. The guard seemed concerned and maybe even a little afraid. The Mundane gestured behind him at the dark buildings Mirkir could just barely see beyond the range of the lights.

  The Blood poked the man in his chest, causing him to stagger back a step. Th
e man gestured at his watch and back toward the buildings. Seeming to calm a bit, the Blood nodded and jumped up to sit on the hood of the truck. The guard returned to his little shack and made a phone call.

  They waited. Not for long in the way Mirkir judged time, but the Blood Chief seemed increasingly irritated.

  Never still, the stone dog-thing thought, shaking his big gray head.

  After a time a Mundane in jeans and a sports coat walked out from the buildings and stood on the far side of the fence. The Blood stood up and addressed him. Maybe a bit more respectfully than she had with the guard. But not much more so, from what Mirkir could see.

  He couldn’t hear what they were saying. He didn’t really care. He didn’t understand a lot of people’s complicated mouth-talk at a level other than being able to interpret emotions, which he could do pretty well from posture and gestures anyway.

  The two were clearly having a heated discussion. Mirkir could tell from the set of the Blood’s shoulders that she was agitated and angry but holding back. He could also tell from the way the Mundane leaned forward, gesturing widely as he spoke, that the man had no fear of the Clan Chief.

  Odd.

  The Blood went back to the truck and opened the passenger side door, dragging out Tenniel, the Chaos Reckoner, by the elbow. He was still in his Way-induced daze as she propelled him toward the gate.

  The man on the other side said something and the Blood answered. Now the Mundane wasn’t just unafraid of her, but angry! He gestured at her in a clearly insulting manner and thumped his head with the palm of his hand.

  That did not sit well with the Blood. Mirkir could see her draw up some kind of Way, readying herself for confrontation. But she held it in check and simply pointed at her prisoner and then back at the man on the other side of the gate.

  At that point, Mirkir felt a hand on his shoulder. He was so startled that he pooped a small pile of gravel. Only his innate sense of purpose kept him from barking out loud in shock.

  He swiveled his entire body around—rotating like a chubby, stone propeller—and found himself staring at a Reckoner of medium height and unremarkable features. The man was wearing a somewhat tattered, pale-blue bathrobe, slippers and had some kind of glass disk on his face.

  “Hush, friend dragon,” the man said softly. “I mean no harm. I am only watching, as are you.”

  How did he sneak up so? Mirkir wondered. How did I not notice? That is alarming.

  But he called me ‘dragon.’

  Mirkir preferred to be thought of as a small, portly dragon rather than a large, weird dog. There was a hierarchy to these things, even among the roles of gargoyles. Though made of stone, a creature can still have its pride.

  He nodded at the man and said, “What is this?” gesturing over his shoulder at the fence and area beyond.

  “It is the Farm,” the man said. “Or, maybe… A Farm. There are probably more than one. I used to live in a different one. Then I moved here.”

  Mirkir didn’t know about that. Farms were OK. He’d guarded farms once or twice. Like gardens, but larger and more about making person-food, usually.

  “Are you farmer?” he asked the man.

  The Reckoner shook his head. “No. I’m not. I think the farmer is a man named Dr. Daniels. That’s him, there, on the other side of the fence. Talking to the woman in the leather jacket.”

  “The Blood,” Mirkir added.

  “I don’t see any blood,” the man said.

  She was so plain and the man was clearly looking right at her. Mirkir was confused.

  “The Clan Chief. With the jacket.”

  “Yes, her. She’s speaking to Dr. Daniels.”

  He seems dim, thought Mirkir.

  “Why are you here, friend dragon?” the man asked.

  Mirkir wasn’t sure how to explain. Or that he wanted to.

  “Tracking,” he said simply. “The Chaos.”

  “Ohhhh,” the man replied in an impressed hum. “That’s important. Hard work, that.”

  Mirkir puffed up a bit with pride. “Yes.”

  As they watched, the Blood Chief finally lost her patience and made an angry, two-handed gesture at the man behind the fence as if to say, It’s out of my hands! She left the Chaos Reckoner standing alone by the gate and got back into her truck.

  The man next to Mirkir tensed up, leaning a hand on the gargoyle’s back again.

  “The alarm is about to go off,” he said quietly.

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. We should… We should leave. I know you are tracking the chaos, but do you think you could help me find a way out of here? I’d like to be far away when the siren goes off. It is a very angry sound.”

  Mirkir didn’t like sirens either. “We can go, yes.” He saw that the Blood was driving off in her truck and the guard was opening the gate to let the man in the jacket escort the Chaos Reckoner into the Farm.

  “I can find Farm again,” Mirkir said. “No need to track.”

  “Great, thanks,” the stranger said.

  “Where to?” Mirkir asked. “We can use Narrows.”

  “I don’t know what that means,” said the man, standing up and putting the glass circle in the pocket of his bathrobe.

  “Narrow Roads.”

  “Are they nearby? Is it a far walk?”

  He is very confused, thought the gargoyle.

  “I will take you on the Roads,” he said and that seemed to make the man happy.

  “OK then, my friend.”

  Mirkir nodded and started heading off into the woods. It wasn’t a thick, forested sort of place. Just trees set wide apart and some ground cover. The man had no trouble keeping up.

  “Excuse me, uh…” the man said, trotting to keep up with the gargoyle’s decent pace.

  “Mirkir.”

  “Uh, yes? Right. Yes. Excuse me, Mirkir. But where are we going.”

  Really confused.

  “To the Narrow Roads, Mister, as said,” he told the man, then asking, “What are you called?”

  “My name is….” And the fellow paused for a moment, as if he had to think about it, before saying, “Bastiaan. Bastiaan Huber.” As if he wasn’t quite sure, but saying it helped.

  “Bastiaan. Good name.” It has a bit of a growl, which is nice.

  “Thank you, Mirkir. But I was wondering… where are we going?”

  Again?

  “To the Narrow Roads, Bastiaan.”

  “No. I mean. Yes. I get that. But these roads. Where do they go to? Where will we take them to?”

  That’s a better question, Mirkir realized.

  He stopped and looked up at the man and asked, “Where do you want?”

  Behind them, an alarm siren blared to life, cutting through the quiet of the wood. They both turned back toward the Farm and saw a number of bright lights come on, their beams piercing the dark outlines of the trees behind them at the edge of the wood.

  “I don’t know,” the man said quietly.

  Mirkir began trotting toward the nearest path that he could feel overlapping the Narrow Roads. It wasn’t far ahead, but even more noisy things were happening behind them. Shouts, horns. Barking.

  Bastiaan ran to keep up. They jogged around a low hillock and through a small field of tall grass. The dogs were getting closer, Mirkir could tell. Dogs and people with guns and Ways.

  The man was panting now and Mirkir was glad they wouldn’t have to go much further. He stopped at the edge of what would look to a Mundane like a hiking trail in the woods, but which was clearly stamped with the Way of the Narrow Roads.

  “Which way?” Bastiaan asked, breathing hard and looking back, scared, over his shoulder. The barking had cleared the hillock and the noise of the dogs was clearer now. They were in the field. Only a minute or so away.

  Mirkir wasn’t used to making decisions like this. He didn’t know if it made sense to go back to the Garden or not. He didn’t know a lot of other places by heart, either. Not without a master to guide him.

&nbs
p; “Choose,” he said simply to Bastiaan who looked like he was about to vomit with fear.

  “I don’t know!” the man said, agitated and confused. He searched the woods as if looking for a clue. Then, as if struck by a random thought, he reached into his robe pocket and pulled out the little circle of glass. Fitting it into his eye, he scanned the path up one direction and down the other.

  “There,” he said, pointing away and to their right. “We go that way.”

  The Narrows needed a destination. Not just a direction. They didn’t work without a goal.

  “To where!” Mirkir asked, just as the first of the dogs burst into sight through a clump of bushes about a hundred yards off.

  “To the library,” Bastiaan said, putting the glass back into his pocket and stepping onto the road.

  Mirkir followed and felt the familiar Way grip his paws and shoulders and through his insides, too. He took a step forward and was instantly many yards away from Bastiaan who was simply trotting down the path behind him.

  ”Use the Way! Fool!” the gargoyle growled. He could smell the dogs now, too. Which meant they could smell him. If they didn’t get enough of a lead the men with their Ways could probably follow them even on the Narrow Roads, though that wasn’t easy.

  “What way?” the man asked, running to catch up to where Mirkir was waiting.

  No time for this, the stone creature thought. Something is wrong with this one.

  “Get on my back,” he said in a low, angry growl. “Now.”

  Bastiaan looked behind them in the direction of the dogs and the lights and, now, the raised voices of men. Taking a deep breath, he put one leg on either side of the gargoyle and rested his weight on the stony shoulders, just behind the curled up, ornamental wings.

  “Ugh,” Mirkir said, but the Road had its destination and Mirkir knew the Way, so it caught at him again as he took a few steps. Then it really began to accelerate them and he felt the pursuers fall well behind, possibly not even sensing the Narrow Road they were on.

  No such luck. Within moments he could feel that they were, themselves, the destination of another traveler. That someone—many someones—were leaning into the pursuit, gathering energy and closing the distance between them every moment.