by Emily
"My father devoted his entire life first to trying to establish that Haven existed, and then to trying to find the place. He dreamed about it, fought for it, and lost his reputation over it. Do you seriously believe that he could have found it but neglected in the face of all that repudiation to mention it to anyone? Does that make any sense to you at all?"
She stood her ground. "No," she said. "But neither does his failing to mention the Mark Twain to anyone. There's a pattern here."
"What pattern? Look, he could have found the book anywhere."
She stared at him for a long moment. "When he told me about my brother's death, he said they got careless, that they were preoccupied because they thought they were almost there. In fact, if this is what it appears to be, Arin was alive at the end of the journey."
"Chaka, it's all guesswork." He opened the packet, removed the sketch, and studied it. July 25.
"It's the last in the series," she said.
He sighed. "I'm sorry there're still all these questions. But this is why I didn't say anything. It's why I should have destroyed it. I knew it would just start the old trouble up again." He put the sketch back inside its wrapper and held it out for her. "Keep it if you like."
She stared at him. "And that's the end of it?"
Flojian's anger had drained. He was just tired of it all and wanted it to go away. "Chaka, what do you want from me? You know as much as I do. Tell me what I can do that will satisfy you, and I'll try to comply."
Her eyes were wet. "Help me find out what really happened," she said.
"And how do you propose we do that?" Flojian leaned
against the edge of a table. "Chaka, you're aware that if we make this public, my father's reputation is going to take another beating. I don't know, maybe he deserves it. But I can't see what good will come out of it."
"I'm interested in the truth," she said, "and I'm not much worried about anyone's reputation." She put the oilskin into her pocket and started for the door.
"I'm sure you are," he growled. "Incidentally, if you think about any more late night visits, please be careful. I wouldn't hesitate to shoot a prowler."
"I wish we could be sure." Silas hunched down on his elbows, studying the thirteenth sketch by candlelight. "But he's right: It could just be something Arin made up. Or a misunderstanding. They thought they were there, but they weren't. It could be that simple."
She shook her head. "Why would he do that? He was along for the specific purpose of recording the expedition."
One sketch, River Valley, still hung on a wall in Flojian's villa. The others were arranged sequentially on Silas's worktable.
DATE TITLE DESCRIPTION
March 11 Frontier The expedition moves along a broken highway above forest
and river
April 4 Memorial Sign on rusted post: Dixie Gun Works & Old Car Museum
April 6 The Dragon Glowing eyes in a dark woodland
April 7 The City Towers in a misty sea
May 13 The Ship The hulk of an iron ship lies on its side in a dry channel
May 16 Nyagra Shola Kobai gazes at a spectacular waterfall
May 22 Pathfinder Karik on horseback consults a scroll
May 29 Ruins Random and Mira seated on concrete slab examining moonlit ruins
that extend to the horizon
June 13 River Crossing Fording a river
June 30 Vista Landon Shay and Tori Niss survey a mountainscape
July 2 Sundown A Roadmaker bridge framed against a setting sun
July 25 Haven Granite cliffs overlook a sea
Silas looked at Frontier. "1 know this place," he said.
"I do too. That's upriver, just south of Argon. It's the fork. Where the Ohio breaks off."
They were in Silas's modest house in the tiny government quarter near the Imperium. A light rain fell against the windows. Chaka glanced out at the winding gravel street, which had been full of people when she'd arrived, but was now deserted. It had grown dark, from both the storm and the sunset.
Silas moved the lamp closer to the sketch titled The City. "Have you ever read Showron?" he asked.
"I never heard of him."
"Showron Voyager was a Baranji scholar. He's supposed to have visited Haven near the end of his life. He writes about the scholar-caretakers, still living there generations after the October Patrol era. More to the point, he describes his journey." Silas dipped a pen into his inkwell and began to write, stopping periodically to gaze at the wall. When he'd finished, he looked critically at the result, changed a word, and handed it to her.
We fled the demon towers.
And came at last to Mamara,
With its restless spirits.
"Demon towers and restless spirits," she said, smiling. "Sounds ominous."
He rapped his fingers against the table. "Demons are all in the imagination," said Silas dismissively. He looked down at the sketch. "But those towers could be what he was talking about."
"It's all just too vague," said Chaka.
"Maybe not." Silas produced a sketch of his own. "This is from a Baranian edition of The Travels" The Baranians had
occupied the Mississippi Valley for a brief period before the rise of the modern cities. "The original's in Makar."
The sketch depicted a metal cradle and platform, mounted against the face of a cliff. A curious bullet-shaped object lay in the cradle. Two human figures stood beside it, engaged in conversation. There was a sense of deep sky.
"What is it?" asked Chaka.
"This one's a vehicle. I don't draw very well, so it's hard to tell. In the original, the vehicle is drawn in a way that incorporates motion. But look here."
She didn't see what he was driving at until he put the thirteenth sketch, Haven, under her eyes. Slight bulge here. Narrow shelf there. Vertical lines in the rock face. It looked like the same cliff. "They did find it," she said.
"Maybe. Or maybe Arin had seen this and was reproducing it. Possibly without realizing it. Or maybe it's a coincidence. But whatever it is, how could we possibly figure out where they went?" He blurted it out, without immediately realizing what he was suggesting, and they stared uncomfortably across the table at each other.
She had not intended to tell anyone else what she'd done, least of all Raney. But somehow, after they'd shared a meal that evening at her villa, she couldn't resist. He responded predictably by adopting a severe mien and asking whether she'd lost her mind. "What would have happened if you'd been caught?"
"I think he would have booted me out and told me not to come back."
"It could have been a lot worse," he said. Raney had a tendency to talk to her sometimes as if they were married. Illyria was a society in transition. It had been puritanical under its emperors, who guarded the sanctity of the family and the honor of the nation's women with enthusiasm, while maintaining their own harems. But the overthrow of the autocracy and the rise of republican principles had fueled a new sense of liberty. The old institutions and centers of authority were being swept away. And with
them, some were saying, the decency and common courtesy that made civilization worthwhile. There seemed to be more roughnecks in the streets, more pushing and shoving in the bazaars, more open sexuality, more abandoned children, more violations of good taste. Many were calling for a return to imperial rule. And almost everyone agreed that the nation was in decline.
Chaka's age, and the lack of a controlling male hand in her household, rendered her automatically suspect among the older families, who held the balance of political and economic power in the state. Therefore, Raney saw himself as a man on a white horse as well as a suitor. He was not sufficiently sophisticated to disguise this view, which Chaka found increasingly annoying with the passage of time, although she might not have been able to say why. Yet she liked him all the same, and enjoyed spending time with him.
"Raney," she said, "do you understand what I'm telling you? It looks as if they found what they were looking for."
>
"Who cares? Chaka, who cares? It's over." He was angry that she had put herself in danger, relieved that she had escaped without harm, frustrated that she clung to this lunatic business. "It was nine years ago. Unless Endine left a map. Did he leave a map?" "No."
"Instructions how to get there?" "Not that we know of."
"Then I think you should take the Mark Twain, be grateful, and let go."
They'd moved into the living room. He was standing by the fireplace, his thumbs shoved into his belt, his expression in shadow. She was seated placidly in the wingback chair near the window. "Don't you even want to see the thirteenth sketch?"
"Sure I do." His tone softened. "I just don't want you breaking into people's houses. I would never have believed you'd do something like that. And you didn't even tell me." He closed his eyes and shook his head in dismay. Then his tone softened. "Next time you want to break into someone's house in the middle of the night, try mine."
The wind moved against the shutters. Out in the barn, one
of the horses snorted. Chaka smiled politely, took out the sketch and showed it to him. He shrugged.
"It's only a cliff. I suspect we could find a half-dozen like this if we went looking."
She gazed, with resignation, out the window.
He came and sat beside her. "I'm sorry. I know this thing with Endine bothers you. I wish there were something I could do to put it to rest."
"Maybe there is," she said.
He looked at her, and the silence drew out between them. "You need help with another burglary?" he asked.
"I've been thinking about trying to retrace the route of the original expedition. I think it might be possible. If it is, would you come?"
"Are you serious? It can't be done. We both know that."
"I'm not so sure."
"How, Chaka? Either we know where it is or we don't."
" Would you come?"
He managed an uncomfortable grin. "You find a way to get to Haven," he said, "and you can count on me."
5
The citizens of the League were not. by and large, adventurous. They loved their river valley home, they were surrounded by endless forests which sheltered occasional bands of Tuks (whose good behavior could not be counted on), and they lived in a world whose epic ruins acted as a kind of warning. If there was a unifying philosophy, it took the form of caution, safety first, don't rock the boat. Better to keep a respectful distance. Moor with two anchors. Look before you leap.
Few had penetrated more than a hundred miles beyond the populated areas of the Mississippi. These were primarily hunters, searchers after Roadmaker artifacts (which, in decent condition, commanded a good price), and those who traded with the Tuks.
Jon Shannon engaged sporadically in all three occupations as the mood hit him. The profit was no more than fair, and certainly did not approach the income of his brothers, who had joined their father in running an overland trading company. But Shannon had freedom of movement, he had solitude, and he enjoyed his work.
Although maybe the solitude was disappearing. The world was changing with the coming of the League and its attendant peace and prosperity. The great web of forest that had once surrounded his cabin was giving way to homes and farms. He'd moved twice in the last seven years, retreating northeast, only to be overtaken each time by the wash of settlements exploding out of Illyria. Shannon had always been something of a maverick. He had no taste for the petty entertainments and ambitions of urban life. His first wife had died in childbirth, taking the infant with her; the second had tried to change him
into someone else, and had eventually given up, grown bored, and moved away.
He'd loved both, in his methodical way. But he was drained now, and if he was not as happy in the vast green solitude as he had once been, he was nevertheless content. It was a calmer, safer existence, and a man could ask no more than that.
It was almost time to move on again, and that fact forced him to reflect on the course of his life, which seemed every bit as wandering and aimless as the Mississippi.
But aimless is not necessarily a bad thing.
He would retreat again, but he didn't need do it immediately. Maybe spend another year here. That would give him time to scout the new location. There was a place twenty-five miles out that he liked. Hilltop site, of course, a couple of nearby streams, plenty of game. But the way the frontier was advancing, he wasn't sure that was far enough. On the other hand, even that short distance would be stretching the line of communication with his clients. And therein lay the problem. If he wanted to move out and draw the wilderness around him, and not have to be bothered doing it again in a few years, he would have to make some changes in his own life. And maybe that was what he should do; he did not, after all, need money. Why tie himself to all these various expeditions and tours with people he'd just as soon not spend time with anyhow? His shoulder still ached from a bullet one of his idiot clients had put into it, mistaking him for a deer.
A horse was approaching.
Shannon watched it come out of the woods, and recognized its redheaded rider at once, although he needed a few moments to come up with the name. Chaka Milana. Tarbul's daughter. All grown up.
"It's been a long time," he said, meeting her outside.
She was a good-looking woman, even after a hard ride. (He was two days out from Illyria.) The red hair she'd disliked so much as a child stood her in good stead now. She had a hunter's eyes and a wistful expression that could get a man in deep real quick. She'd come a long way from the girl he'd last seen at her father's side shooting geese.
"Hello Jon," She reined up and dismounted in one fluid motion. "Do you remember me?"
"Of course, Chaka," he said. She wore a dark gray linen blouse and a buckskin jacket and leggings. "It's good to see you."
She nodded. "And you."
He helped her take care of her horse and then they returned to the cabin. He'd been adding some shelves, and the interior smelled of fresh-cut wood and resin. "I'll put some tea on," he said. "You want to wash up meanwhile?"
She did. He pumped a basin of water for her and heated it. She retreated to an inner room. He listened to her splashing around in there, thinking what a good sound it was. She came out in fresh clothes, and they sat down at a wicker table to tea, warm bread, and dried beef.
"You weren't easy to find, Jon," she said.
"How'd you manage?"
"You remember what you used to say? 'Over the horizon plus two miles and look for a hill.'"
He laughed.
"You look good," she said, lifting the mug to her lips and peering at him over its rim. "Jon, have you ever heard of Haven?"
"Sure. It's a fairyland, isn't it?"
There had always been an impish quality about Chaka Milana, a sly smile and a vaguely mischievous cast to her features, augmented by her startlingly bright red hair. Keep a cap over it, he used to tell her, or you'II scare the deer. It was all still there, he realized, complemented now by the self-confidence that maturity brings. He was surprised she wore no ring.
"There might be more to it than that," she said. Jon knew about Karik Endine's expedition, of course. But he listened with interest to her account of the aftermath. She opened a cloth bag and showed him the sketches. "There's a decent chance," she concluded, "that it's really out there."
Shannon wore a knit shirt and baggy, grass-stained trousers. A pair of boots stood on the floor near the door. He was just over forty, with black hair, a clipped beard, and dark
skin. His features were coarsened by too much sun and wind, and were too blunt to have been considered handsome. But he knew they were amiable enough to put most people at their ease. "Seems like your evidence is kind of thin," he said when she'd finished.
She nodded and glanced up at the battered campaign hat and militia colors on the wall. The weather had turned cool and damp, and a fire burned cheerfully in a corner of the room. "Do you recognize any of these places?"
He
pointed at the first one. "Frontier. And I know where the Dixie Gun Works sign is. But that's about it."
"Never seen this?" She looked down at the city in the sea.
"No. I've heard the Tuks talk about the dragon, though."
"You're serious?"
"Yes," he said. "But you know how Tuks are." He focused on the thirteenth sketch. "Just looks like a cliff to me."
"It was supposed to be a hidden fortress. A retreat. A place that no one could find."
"Where's it supposed to be?"
"We have no idea."
He shrugged. "You're going out looking for it, right?"
"I'm thinking about it."
"How do you expect to find it?" He jabbed a finger at the sketch titled Frontier. "This one's on the Ohio, where it branches off from the Mississippi. A few miles east of Argon. The Gun Works is a little farther on. After that—?" He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "My advice is to forget it."
"If you were going to guide an expedition like this, Jon—"
"—I wouldn't do it. What's to guide? Where's it going?"
"But if you were, and you expected to succeed, how would you get home afterward?"
Shannon looked at her as if he hadn't heard correctly. "That's easy. We come home the same way we went."
"With you showing the way? Because nobody else is likely to be able to find the way back."
"Sure. Why not?"
"But it's dangerous, right? What if something happens to you? How do we get back then?"
Shannon looked out and saw lightning in the west. "Yes," he said, "I guess that would be a consideration, wouldn't it?" He folded his arms. "We'd have to mark the trail." And he realized where the conversation was going. "Oh," he said.
Chaka looked delighted. She put both thumbs up. "What kind of marks? Would they survive nine, ten years?"
He thought about it. "Who was with them? Do you know?"
"You mean the guide? Landon Shay. Did you know him?"
"I knew him to talk to. Never worked with him." He remembered hearing that Shay had died on a long-range trip.
