Eternity Road

by Jack McDevitt

  Rows of houses, separated by winding unpaved streets, sprawled out from the foot of Calagua Hill. The houses were, for the most part, wooden or brick. They lacked indoor plumbing, as did most residences in Illyria, but they were comfortable and well kept. After the formation of the League, when security ceased to be a major concern, the more prosperous inhabitants had moved outside the city walls. The area had then been given over to a teeming marketplace, full of haggling and bargaining, which sold corn, grains, and meat from local farms; pottery and handicrafts from Argon; wines from downriver; soaps and scents from Masandik; leather goods from Farroad; furniture, firearms, and jewelry from local artisans.

  For all its dark associations, the palace embodied the pride of the nation and remained a monument to the magnificence of the imperial imagination. Glittering spires and granite turrets, broad galleries and elevated courtyards, cupolas and vaulted staircases collaborated to infuse in visitors a sense of past greatness and future promise.

  From his study, Silas could see the entire southern face of the structure, its arches and mezzanines and guard posts. “Forget the politics,” he told his students. “Concentrate on the architecture. If we can create such beauty from stone, what can we not do?”

  And yet….

  Anyone digging more than a few feet into the soil could expect to collide with ancient walls and foundations. They were everywhere. The Roadmakers had far exceeded his own people in their architectural skills, yet they had gone to dust. It was a grim reminder against hubris. The palace, which had once been alive, was now only a vast mausoleum with a school at one end and a museum at the other. Every year, students wondered whether the Illyrians had already taken the first step downhill. Among the masters there were several, not least of all Silas, who were convinced that the democratic system now in place was little better than mob rule. Ordinary people, they suspected, inevitably vote their own interests. To survive, a nation needs authority and wisdom at the top. The strategy, he believed, should be to find a mechanism to maintain a balance of power among a small number of families. These families would be educated to the throne, and would select the best among them to act for all. As to a practical design for such a mechanism, Silas confessed he had none.

  After Karik’s body had been consigned to the flames, he had fallen into a contemplative, and indeed almost bleak, mood. If a people could achieve the capability to erect the monumental structures that existed in all the forests of the known world, and yet could not save themselves from extinction, what was one to conclude? It was difficult for Silas to discard his conviction that history should reflect moral and technological progress. It was a battle he’d fought many times with Karik, who argued that history was chaotic and wondered how anybody living among the ruins could think otherwise.

  That Silas thought of himself as a history teacher should not suggest that the instructors at the Imperium were specialized. In fact, the body of knowledge was so limited that specialization beyond certain very broad categories would have been absurd. The categories, other than history, were ethics, philosophy, theology, medicine, rhetoric, law, and mathematics.

  Several of his students had attended the ceremonies for Karik. Next day, in a seminar, they wondered how so erudite a man could have been so foolish, and they engaged in a long discussion about the ability of even the best minds to delude themselves.

  At the end of the class, one of his students lingered. His name was Brandel Tess, and he had been among those who’d attended the funeral rites. He looked troubled. “Master Glote,” he said, “one of my friends is Toko’s grandson.”

  “Who?”

  “Toko. Master Endine’s servant.”

  “Oh, yes. And—?”

  “He says that his grandfather claims there was a copy of A Connecticut Yankee in Master Endine’s quarters.”

  “He must be mistaken.”

  “He says no. Toko swears it was there. He says Karik had it open on a reading table for years, and made him promise not to tell anybody. But now it’s missing.”

  “Did he ask Flojian about it?”

  “Flojian told him it was given away.”

  “To whom?”

  “I don’t think he thought it proper to ask.”

  Silas shook his head. “This can’t be right,” he said, with smooth self-assurance. “There is no extant copy of Connecticut Yankee.” Only six books from the age of the Roadmakers were known to exist: The Odyssey; Brave New World; The Brothers Karamazov; The Collected Short Stories of Washington Irving; Eliot Klein’s book of puzzles and logic, Beats Me; and Goethe’s Faust. They also had substantial sections of The Oxford Companion to World Literature and several plays by Bernard Shaw. There were bits and pieces of other material. Of Mark Twain, two fragments remained, the first half of “The Facts in the Case of the Great Beef Contract,” and chapter sixteen from Life on the Mississippi, which describes piloting and racing steamboats, although the precise nature of the steamboat tantalizingly eluded Illyria’s best scholars.

  Brandel shrugged. “Okay,” he said. “I just thought you’d be interested.”

  The tables and benches that had been set out for the funeral rite were still in place. Silas tied his horse to the hitching rail. The ground where the pyre had stood was charred. The ashes of his old friend, in accordance with tradition, had been given to the river by Flojian at sunrise.

  He knocked on the front door. Toko answered. He was tall and thin, white-haired, ancient, the soul of dignity. “I expect my master shortly, sir,” he said. “If you care to wait.” He showed Silas into a side parlor, and placed a glass of wine before him.

  Brandel was wrong, of course. There was simply no question about that. Karik would have judged his life spectacularly successful had he been able to find a copy of Connecticut Yankee. If he’d owned one, he would have given it to the world. Still, Silas needed to pin down the reason for the misunderstanding.

  Dusk had set in. From the window he could watch the first lamps being lit across the river. It was a curiously restful sight and he was enjoying it when he heard the sound of an approaching horse. Flojian rode into the front yard on a dusky mare. Several minutes later Toko opened a door and Flojian strode into the sitting room carrying a glass of wine and a candle.

  “Good to see you again, Silas,” he said, falling into a chair. “I thought the ceremony went well yesterday. Thank you for your help.”

  “I thought so, too. We’ll miss him.” Actually, no one would miss him, and they both knew it. “I wanted to be sure you were all right.”

  “I’m okay,” said Flojian. He tried to smile, but there was an element of pain in the expression. “My father and I weren’t really that close. I don’t find myself regretting what I’ve lost so much as what I never had.” He used the candle to light the lamps in the room, and then set it in a holder. “But I don’t guess there’s much help for that now.”

  “I heard an odd story today,” said Silas, rearranging himself in his chair. “One of my students thought your father owned a Mark Twain.”

  Flojian sipped his wine. “I’m surprised you know about that,” he said. “But yes, it’s true.”

  The room chilled. Silas stared at the younger man. It was a moment before he found his voice again. “How long did he have it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know.” Whatever his drawbacks, Flojian was not stupid. “How could you not know?”

  “It’s easy. He didn’t tell me. Refused to talk about it. You know how he was.”

  “May I ask where he got it?”

  “I don’t know that either. I asked my father that question and he said it was of no moment, and that’s all he would say. Listen, Silas, I only found out about this a couple of days before he died. I didn’t know there was anything like that around the house.”

  “It’s Connecticut Yankee, I understand.”

  “That’s right.”

  Silas was essentially a patient man and had never been given to violence. But
on that occasion he wanted to seize his host and shake the answers from him. “Where is it now?” he demanded.

  Flojian stiffened. “Your tone almost suggests that you have a proprietary interest.”

  “Damn it, Flojian. Everybody has a proprietary interest in something like that. You can’t keep it to yourself.”

  “As a matter of fact, I didn’t.” The comment hammered down on the still evening air. “Father bequeathed it to Chaka Milana. The young woman you were talking with yesterday.”

  “Why on earth would he do that?”

  “I’m sure I do not know. She was Arin’s sister. You remember, Arin was the artist who was lost on the expedition.”

  “I remember.”

  Flojian’s features clouded. “So he gave her the book. I don’t know why. Guilt, probably, or something like that.”

  “Did he know her well?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. In fact, he hardly knew her at all.”

  “What did she do with it?”

  “Took it home, I guess.”

  “I don’t believe this. I hope she knows enough to take care of it.” Silas glared at Flojian. “At least, he should have given it to us. Did she know about it in advance?”

  “No. In fact, she couldn’t have been more surprised.”

  Silas wanted to flee the room, to begin tracking the book down before the poor woman used it to light her fire. But the story didn’t make sense. “Karik had a Mark Twain novel and he didn’t tell anybody? Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did he expect that Chaka was just going to take it home and throw it into her hope chest?”

  “He really didn’t tell me what he thought, Silas.”

  Morinda lifted the amulet and examined it in the candlelight. Chaka watched the amethyst crescent glitter against its silver setting. It was exquisite. “Yes,” she said.

  A bow was engraved on the reverse, Lyka’s device, the sign of the moon goddess. “It does look very nice on you,” said Chaka.

  Morinda put the chain around her neck, and unclasped the top of her knit blouse so that the amulet hung between her breasts. “Thank you.” She shook her hair out and smiled alluringly. “Yes,” she said again.

  Hoofbeats outside. “I’m glad you like it.”

  They were in her workroom, in the rear of the villa. Morinda produced two gold pieces from a black purse. “My husband told me he saw you yesterday at Endine’s service.”

  Chaka nodded. “It was a painful afternoon.”

  “I’m not surprised. I intend no disrespect to the dead, but a man like that—” She shook her head.

  “It was a long time ago.” Chaka closed the box that she had fashioned to house the amulet and handed it to Morinda. “There was no one you knew on that expedition, was there?”

  “No,” Morinda said. “But that’s not the point, is it?”

  Probably not.

  Morinda smiled again, wished the silversmith a pleasant evening, and opened the door to reveal an older man just preparing to knock. “Good evening, ladies,” he said.

  The man from the funeral service.

  “Silas Glote,” he said quickly.

  Morinda took her farewell while Chaka gestured Silas into the shop. “I didn’t forget you, Master Glote,” she said. “How good to see you again.”

  He smiled and gazed at the items on the display shelves. There was an array of bracelets, rings, anklets, urns, goblets, and pins. He seemed particularly drawn to a set of silver clasps designed to secure a man’s shirt. “These are quite nice,” he observed.

  She offered one for his inspection. “They’d look pretty good down at the Imperium,” she said.

  He held it under a lamp. “Philosophically, we’re opposed to such baubles. We seek the inner realities.” He smiled. “The inner realities are more within the reach of my pocketbook.”

  “For you,” she said, “I can offer a special price.”

  She named an amount which really was quite reasonable. The clasps would contrast very nicely with the dark vest he was wearing. “Done,” he said, and then laughed when he saw he’d surprised her. “One should not be a slave to any code.”

  “A wise choice, Master Glote.”

  He folded his arms and the smile faded. “Chaka, I wanted to talk with you.”

  “Please,” she said. She offered him a chair and sat down beside him. “What can I do for you?”

  “I understand you received a legacy from Karik Endine.”

  “Yes,” she said. He was direct, this one. “I was surprised. I’d seen him only once to talk with, and that was years ago. It’s really very odd.”

  “Is it true it’s a book?”

  “I suspect you know very well what it is, Master Glote.”

  “Please call me Silas. May I see it?”

  She was annoyed at Flojian’s lack of discretion. Still, she wanted to show it to someone who would appreciate it. “Of course.” She locked the workshop and led the way through a connecting door into the house.

  A fire burned low in the living room. She walked past a fabric sofa and a long table whose top was littered with pieces of jewelry. Twin cabinets framed a window that looked out onto a row of moonlit hills.

  Silas’s gaze fell on the rifles that were mounted over the fireplace. “Family of hunters,” she said.

  She took him to the left-hand cabinet and lit a taper. In the flickering light, Silas’s features seemed rigid. The cabinet was cunningly made, designed so that the top unfolded, revealing a series of narrow compartments and a drawer. She opened the drawer, and the light from the taper fell on the book.

  Mark Twain. Silas’s breathing became audible.

  “May I?” he asked at last.

  “Of course.”

  He touched the cover cautiously, reverently. The title was written in gold script across soft leather. He pulled the taper closer, but was careful not to get it too near to the volume. He opened it and turned over the title page. The text was in black ink, the letters skillfully executed. He studied the one-page preface. Two paragraphs, followed by the writer’s name. Written at Hartford, July 21, 1889.

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Nobody knows.”

  “Where was Hartford?”

  “We think it’s where he was born. But nobody’s sure where it was.”

  He leafed through it cautiously. Was this what it purported to be? That would be the next question, and it might be hard to answer definitively without knowing the source of the book. He turned more pages, lingered over chapter headings, nodded at the precise lines. She watched his lips move, saw a smile appear, saw his eyes glow. “Yes,” he said. “It sounds right.”

  Good. “Silas. Are you satisfied this is really Mark Twain?”

  He gazed very hard at her. “I know what I want it to be. It seems very much like his style, the little I’ve seen of it.” He took a deep breath. “Do you have reason to doubt its authenticity?”

  “Why did Endine keep it secret? Why didn’t he tell anyone he had this?”

  Silas carried the book over to the table, set it down in the light of the lamp, and lowered himself into a chair. The burning oil smelled sweet. “I don’t know, Chaka.”

  “It makes no sense.”

  “I agree. Still, I think this is exactly what it looks like.” He turned more leaves, nodding and smiling until he was barely able to contain himself. “Oh, yes,” he said. He began reading lines to her, stopping occasionally to chuckle.

  “I’ve been advised to sell it,” she said, breaking the mood.

  He looked up, suddenly worried. “I’d recommend you not do that. This is priceless.”

  “But what else can I do with it? It won’t be safe here. I have no servants. I’d have to hire a guard.”

  Silas grew thoughtful. She understood he would prefer she sell it to the Imperium. In no case did he want it auctioned off, because the scholars could not compete with wealthy collectors, and the book would ultimately go into a rich man�
�s drawing room and become generally inaccessible. “Lend it to the Senatorial Library,” he suggested. “It will be locked away, kept secure, but made available to scholars. Meantime, we can set people to making copies.”

  “What do I get out of it?”

  “You’ll get payment for the sale of copies. It won’t be a lot of money, but it will be reasonable. Moreover, I’ll arrange suitable recognition.” He smiled. “We’ll have you out regularly for lunch, the finest people in the Republic will feel indebted to you, and you can stop worrying about thieves. If at some future date you wish to sell it, you’ll be free to do so.”

  A long silence settled between them. “Silas,” she said at last, “why did he give it to me?”

  “I thought you would know the answer to that.”

  “I barely knew him.”

  Silas was trying to keep eye contact with her, but his attention kept drifting back to the book. “There must be a reason he settled on you.”

  One of Arin’s sketches, a waterfall, hung on the wall. It was one of the group Karik had given her in that long-ago meeting. “I recognize this,” he said.

  That couldn’t be. Silas had not been in her home before. He saw her confusion. “The style.” He went over to it. “Not the picture itself. Karik had one very much like this.”

  “I know. There were twelve altogether. Arin made them during the expedition. That’s why he was invited, because Karik wanted a visual record.” She shook her head. “I wish he’d been more like me.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “I can’t draw a stick.” The old sense of helplessness and anger seeped through her. “When I went to see Karik, after he came back, he gave me the sketches. And then he asked whether he might keep one. It was a river scene. Very quiet, very peaceful. That’s the one you saw, I’m sure.”

  The waterfall was very wide. The sketch was titled Nyagra. Arin had included a tiny human to suggest the enormous scale. “May I see the others?”

  She brought them from another room. They were separately wrapped in soft cloth. She uncovered them one by one and placed them on the table. They pictured the expedition variously fording rivers, looking down from bridges, moving along ancient highways in the setting sun. All were dated, so it was possible to set them in sequence. Three particularly drew Silas’s attention.