by Terry Brooks
His attention was diverted to the city again as they passed over the perimeter walls and angled toward the landing pad designated for their craft. Below, the roofs of the city passed beneath like a parade of soldiers, all looking much the same—salmon-colored tiles with black chimneys stacked on top of whitewashed walls. The streets below were crowded with people on foot or riding in passenger coaches, carts filled with dry goods and foodstuffs, and a smattering of the newly developed ground speeders that only the rich could afford.
Shea had never seen these machines before, and he hadn’t really been all that sure they were not simply another wild rumor. Each carried only one or two passengers and was built for speed. They were fueled by the converted energy of diapson crystals connected to thin light sheaths mounted on hoods or roofs contoured to match the shape of the vehicle so that the fit was seamless. They were slow moving and out of their element on the heavily trafficked city streets, but the boy had heard that once outside on the flats and grasslands they could fly as swiftly as airborne Sprints.
He had a sudden urge to drive one, just to see what it would feel like. But his chances for doing that seemed slim, at best.
When they landed, Rocan got to his feet at once, snatched up his backpack and travel case, and went out the door without looking back. Seelah had already disappeared. Shea hesitated, then heard Rocan calling for him to get moving and quickly followed, his own backpack slung over his narrow shoulders. He went down the airship’s central corridor into the cheaper public seating section, already crowded with departing passengers unloading through the main doors. Ahead of him, he caught sight of Rocan’s long dark hair as he bobbed and weaved his way forward. The boy was quick to imitate him, although careful not to bump anyone on the way even while he was being jostled himself.
Outside, he caught up to his companion and they walked across the elevated landing pad to a stairwell and started down.
“Our luggage and a coach should be waiting,” Rocan advised. “Otherwise, it’s a rather long walk.”
Shea could imagine. Nothing could be very close to anything else in a city of this size.
The promised coach was waiting—an arrangement Shea did not pretend to understand, given the distance they had traveled already with no evident mode of communication. Their luggage was already gathered and stowed in the coach, and they climbed aboard and settled into the plush, comfortable seats.
Seelah appeared beside Rocan just before they started to move.
“All right, I give up!” the boy exclaimed in disgust. “How does she do that?”
Rocan looked puzzled. Then he gave a quick nod in recognition. “You want to know how she appears and disappears like she does? Well, it must seem very strange; it did to me the first few times. And the explanation is even stranger. I’ve told you she is one of the Fae. Her exact species is not clear to me. It appears she has something of sylphs or sprites in her—river, air, land, one of those breeds. Supposedly, they could shift out of themselves and become a part of the element that was at the core of their identity. So, since she just disappears into thin air when she vanishes, I have to assume that’s the element that defines her. Or some part of it, anyway.”
Shea stared. “So she’s an air sprite?”
Rocan shrugged. “In part, at least.”
The boy crossed his arms, a perplexed frown on his face. “Then what am I doing here when you already have Seelah? Can’t she do whatever you need done? She’s ten times more capable than I could ever be.”
Seelah gave him a dazzling smile, perhaps acknowledging the truth of this claim. Slithering down off the bench on Rocan’s side of the coach, she nestled against Shea—or more accurately, into him, stroking his hair and cheeks. Shea squirmed with discomfort, but at the same time found the touching undeniably pleasant.
Rocan chuckled. “Seems she’s taken with you, lad—more so than with anyone else I’ve encountered. Maybe she’ll answer your questions sooner or later. She’s never answered them for me, though I’ve asked often enough. For now, though, I think it might be better to accept her company and let the rest of it be.”
Which is where things remained for the rest of the ride to their destination, Rocan burying himself in logbooks and sheets of paper filled with numbers and figures as Seelah continued to rub up against Shea until he found himself wondering which would be worse—if she continued or if she stopped. She seemed intent on sticking with the former, and all he could do in response was sit there and endure it. Any resistance on his part might send the wrong message—or maybe the right one—and he was wary enough of her not to want to make a mistake.
Trying his best to forget the beautiful creature nuzzling him, the boy looked out the window at the city they were passing through, trying his best to get a sense of things. One discovery took almost no effort at all. Whatever else Arishaig was, it was militarized on every level. There were soldiers everywhere he looked—some at designated stations along the roadways they traveled, some patrolling in squads along the walkways and streets, some marching in formation, some standing at attention, some on horseback, and some in flits passing overhead. The boy could not tell what any of them were doing besides keeping watch for trouble. All of them carried weapons and looked ready enough to act if the need should arise. Now and then, they would stop someone on the streets and ask for what appeared to be some form of identification. Once in a while, they would seize someone, lock their wrists in iron bracelets, and lead them away.
Although they were passing through distinctly different parts of the city, some grander and cleaner, some less so, he saw almost no evidence of begging or homelessness. When he asked Rocan about this, the other told him such unfortunates were consigned to those portions of the city that lay outside the walls and were not allowed inside for any reason. He did not look up when he said this, and Shea did not ask about it further.
They traveled in the coach for almost an hour, their pace dictated by other traffic and the driver’s unwillingness to try to force his way through. Rocan barely spoke to him, his mind on his books and papers, but Shea imagined the driver had his orders. The boy shifted his position over and over, but Seelah simply shifted with him and stayed close, nuzzling contentedly.
A couple of times, in spite of his reticence, Shea found himself nuzzling her back.
When the coach finally began to slow further and the traffic grew sparse and the way forward clear, Shea sat up in anticipation.
Rocan put away his logbooks and papers and said quietly, “Did you know there is a tendency for people to ignore anything that makes them uncomfortable? They will look briefly, perhaps—a glance, no more—but then look away. For instance, when they see a young couple pressed up against each other in a coach, involved in matters of the heart. They appear to all those who see them to be in love. And love is, for the most part, a private matter. That being so and not wishing to intrude, they look away without thinking further about what they have seen. What further reason is there to stare when the evidence is clear?”
Shea flushed, realizing what the other was telling him. He had been used as a decoy and hadn’t realized it. He hadn’t given a thought about how anyone outside the coach might respond to what was happening inside. But he had been schooled before, and he was pretty sure this wouldn’t be the last time.
The coach rolled to a stop. “Come, Shea,” Rocan said. “We’re here. The lesson’s over.”
Forcing a smile, the boy gave a slow shrug in response and was the first to climb out of the coach.
When the baggage was unloaded, the driver accepted payment and drove off, leaving Rocan and Shea standing at the door of an unobtrusive storefront with what appeared to be lodgings above. Seelah had vanished before they even left the coach. Shea glanced around on the chance he might notice something that would give her away, but the Fae was not to be so easily found.
“Is this where you live?�
� the boy asked.
“Sometimes.” Rocan started for the front door that adjoined the entry to the storefront. “Come inside. This is where you will be living, too, for a while.”
Maybe yes, maybe no, Shea thought, but followed him through the doorway without comment. A set of stairs leading up to the second floor greeted them, and with baggage in hand, they began the climb.
“We won’t be here long,” Rocan said. “Just long enough to let you have a look around. Then we’ll need to gather up Tindall and discuss what lies ahead. I’ll tell you what it is he and I are about and let him explain why it’s so important.”
At the top of the stairs, there were doors to the left and right. Rocan chose the first, released the locks that secured it, and stepped inside, with Shea on his heels. He had barely finished closing the door when armed soldiers stepped out of hiding from a closet and behind curtains, flash rips pointed at the pair.
“We’ve been waiting for you, Rocan,” one said. “Welcome home.”
TWENTY-TWO
To his credit, Rocan Arneas did not appear in the least bit surprised or flustered. He turned to face the speaker, who was standing off to one side—a short, stocky man with a series of small white stars sewn onto the breast of his black tunic. “Nice of you to come greet me, Commander Zakonis,” he said, smiling.
Shea, standing just behind Rocan, did not have the faintest idea what was going on save for the obvious fact that the Federation had apparently been hunting and had now found his companion. The why of it was impossible to guess, but he found himself wishing once again that he had paid better attention to his instincts.
“You have misbehaved, Rocan, and this time you are going straight to the prisons where you will remain until we can sort out what it is you and Tindall are up to.”
“So you have made him your prisoner, as well?”
“It wasn’t all that difficult. He doesn’t move around as quickly as you do. We found him, scooped him up, and took him to Assidian Deep. Once he was down in the dark and the quiet where he could scream as much as he wanted, we asked him a few questions about you. He didn’t want to say anything, of course, but it turns out his tolerance for pain is rather low. So here we are, the two of us, come together to reach an accord on the nature of your immediate future.”
“I think maybe you assume a bit too much about any accord between us.”
“Oh, I think we will reach one quickly enough once you hear what might happen to your friend if we don’t.”
“You’ve hurt him already, haven’t you? Is he dead?”
“He’s a bit banged up, nothing more.” Zakonis glanced over at Shea. “Who is this piece of street trash? Are you recruiting boys for your little rebellion these days or is he here for something less palatable?”
Rocan did not spare even a glance for Shea. “I picked him up on my way here to carry my luggage and perform a few other minor duties I don’t care to bother myself with. He doesn’t know the first thing about any of this.”
“So you say. But is it the truth? With you, Rocan, it’s always so hard to tell. Where’s your pretty friend? Lose interest in you, did she? I expect you like to try out new women like new clothes. I’m sorry to have missed her. I would like to have questioned her a bit, too, maybe seen how well she stood up to the sort of pain I intend…”
His voice caught in his throat as Seelah materialized right in front of him. Zakonis made a choking sound and tried to say something more, but the Fae was already lifting him off the floor by his neck and throwing him across the room into two of his soldiers. She went through the rest like a whirlwind—so quickly Shea had trouble following her movements. A dazzle of golden eyes turned crimson here; a flash of long hair whipping about her face there. One soldier got off a single shot before he went down; another took a swing with his weapon in a blocking effort that failed. Seelah swept them aside as if they were made of paper, leaving them slumped on the floor of the apartment, their weapons broken and the pieces scattered.
Rocan grabbed Shea by the arm and propelled him out the door. “Seelah hates Federation weapons,” he offered, practically dragging the boy down the stairs. “Knives and swords, bows and arrow, are all fine. But diapson-powered stun guns and flash rips and all the rest? That bunch back there is lucky she didn’t tear them apart along with their weapons.”
“Are they dead?” Shea blurted out.
“Probably not. Although you never know. She has a temper.”
They were down the stairs and out the door in seconds, heading back the way they had come, toward the city. Or at least two of them were; Seelah was gone again. Rocan began to run, and Shea had no choice but to run with him. His arm had been freed, but he didn’t think much of his chances alone in this monster city with no knowledge of where anything was. No, he had thrown in his lot with Rocan Arneas by coming here in the first place, and now he was going to have to see things through.
When they had run the equivalent of perhaps a mile, Rocan slowed and turned off the larger road they had been following into a narrow passage that was little more than an alleyway. They followed this route for a while as it twisted and turned through one cluster of buildings after another, crossing broader streets in the process without ever turning onto them. Shea glanced around trying to get a fix on where the sun was, but he couldn’t manage it. Not that it mattered. It made no difference where the sun was since he didn’t know where anything else was, either. What he really wanted to find were the gates that would take him out of Arishaig to the open grasslands beyond.
“What about all your personal stuff?” the boy asked, for Rocan had left his luggage behind in the apartment.
Rocan had slowed almost to an amble, although he kept them moving steadily onward. “Stuff, like you say. Nothing I can’t afford to lose. What matters most is either on me or in storage where no one will ever find it.”
“You’ve probably lost your apartment, too. You can’t go back there now, can you?”
“Probably not.”
“That Federation commander? You seem to have some history between you.”
Rocan shrugged. “He hunts me; I avoid him. He thinks I am a danger to the Federation, a rebel intent on bringing down the entire government through nefarious means. He has no idea.”
They broke through the scramble of taller, more densely situated buildings into a forested park that ran on as far as Shea could see. There were people sitting on benches and eating lunch on blankets and enjoying a day filled with sunshine and warmth. Here, unlike the rest of the city, there were no soldiers and weapons. The buildings closest to the park were residences of varying sizes and shapes, and the sound of birds was audible through the muted din of the distant, larger center of the city.
“So you are not a rebel?”
“There are no rebels. They’ve all been stamped out. I wish it weren’t so, but it is.”
“Is Tindall a rebel?”
“No, he’s a scientist. Quiet, now. Save your strength for walking. We’ve got a way to go. We can talk more later.”
So the boy lapsed into silence, still as confused now as he was before about what was happening and why. But he recognized a distinct hardening in Rocan’s voice, and he knew it wasn’t smart to ask anything more just now. The other would tell him when he was ready. Or not tell him at all, perhaps. It didn’t matter to Shea in the larger scheme of things, because he was already looking for a way to get out of this mess.
They walked for a very long way—long enough that, by the time they reached their destination, the skies were darkening. They were well beyond the park and the houses and into an industrial part of the city that was decidedly less pleasant, old and run-down, the streets littered with trash. Huge warehouses hunkered in deepening shadows, a handful with lights shining bravely through barred windows and everything beyond cloaked in darkness. Only a few people were out and about, shadowy f
orms that were ragged and tattered and slipped through the twilight like ghosts.
Shea felt a shiver creep up his spine at the haunted look of the area and its denizens. Everything felt dangerous.
He forced the feeling down, although he couldn’t quite banish it entirely. Oddly, he was reminded of Varfleet, and an unexpected nostalgia crept over him. He couldn’t find a reason for it beyond a sense of familiarity, but he understood districts like this one—places of fire and iron, of forges and giant presses where the melting and re-forming, fabrication and finishing of goods were carried out in cavernous spaces. Where workers suffered burns and slashes and sometimes loss of limbs, and their hands and faces were always black with ash. But these were places, too, where vagrants and homeless found shelter and desperate men and women took advantage of those weaker than themselves. They were there, in the shadows, waiting; Shea could sense their presence. The smell of iron and coolant, of forge fires and their ash residue, wafted thick and pungent on the air. Odd clangs and bangs from hammers and presses echoed down the streets, punctuated by sudden yells and sharp-edged warnings.
Shea walked with his eyes lowered but watchful, aware that dark figures were moving off to either side, not yet threatening, but near enough nevertheless that it might be only moments before they were.
“This doesn’t feel very safe,” he said quietly.
Rocan grunted. “Because it isn’t. Stay close.”
They moved deeper into the warehouse district, a threatening silence closing about; all the buildings ahead were unlighted hulks, and the inhabitants of this part of the district prowled in the shadows soundlessly. One or two approached, hands outstretched for credits, low voices pleading. Rocan shook his head and gestured them away. One was so bold as to clutch at Shea’s arm, but the boy quickly pulled free. Laughter, low and mean, trailed after him as they passed on. The sky was growing thick with clouds and mist, and the vague light from the moon and stars was disappearing.
