Deliverer

by C. J. Cherryh

His foot skidded into a brushy hole and his reach after balance snagged his sleeve on a branch.

  He went down, hard, hit the rocks and thought that was all the damage. Then he began to skid, slipping helplessly over an edge, impact onto a slope, and a rock-studded slide all the way to the bottom, leg wrenched, head banged, stars exploding in his eyes, and a keen pain in ribs and elbows—thank God for good boots, which let him get his feet again, and for heavy tread, which let him stay there and negotiate his way to level ground.

  Not, however, up again.

  Banichi and Jago were up above, stopped for him, facing the need to leave the trail, all to go down and recover a fool.

  Go on, he waved them furiously. Go on!

  Banichi did that. Jago hesitated half a step. He waved her off, and then started moving himself, reprised his jog along the lower, flatter shelf he’d reached, and with a glance up, he saw Jago departing at a run, on Banichi’s track.

  They had to. Right set of priorities. The boy was in danger. The fool paidhi had a sore ankle, nothing broken, and the fool paidhi could run, by what might amount to a shorter route. The old caldera reached a point of ancient blowout at the north end, a place where the rim was virtually level with the lake, and the ground grew flatter, and, dammit, he had a map, if he was lucky and the station’s web of satellites included this end of the continent…damned right there should be a map of the place, and the road.

  He leaned for breath against a rock, hauled out the locator from his zipped pocket, turned it on, and waited while it went through a small search. Satellite, damned right. Several satellites up there. And a map, a magical, detailed map. The lake. His position, with the haunted island out there mid-lake and invisible in the snowfall. He clicked out on the zoom.

  And saw the road from the remote hamlet of Cadienein-ori to the Haidamar, the same road that, skirting Cadienein-ori, crossed the hills to Cie. The road made a slow sweep close to the lake, right up ahead, and topography showed a low spot. If Murini and his lot were going to intersect the immediate pursuit, it was going to be there. If Murini, who might be on that bus, was going to get personally involved, it would be there.

  He left the unit on, not knowing all its functions, but knowing Banichi and Jago had the same item in their possession, and that they had that map and were going to draw the same conclusion as he did. There was a small depot or some sort of building up there in that low spot. The map gave no indication what it was, just a square. Possibly it was a fueling station, maybe belonging to the Haidamar.

  But it was a place, and people who were meeting a search party indicated a place to rendezvous, and worse, far worse, a boy who was running for his life might mistake a place for a refuge.

  The land got steeper, directly after that small square: the topology showed a sheer rise, right where the ancient eruption had blasted through a wall of sheer rock and all sorts of geologic mayhem had gone on—sheer cliffs, and rough land, after that. He and the dowager had ridden the uplands, from Malguri, once years ago, and the dowager had said, had she not, that there was only one approach to the lake from Malguri, and that was her boat dock?

  Did the boy know, did he possibly know, that there was no way out from where he had gone except the north road? That there was no beach to let him around to safety, only sheer cliffs? Could the boy even have any idea that it was Malguri land, just beyond that sheer wall?

  He hurt. But he ran, all the same. He dared not trust the immediate-area function on the pocket com. What he had just reasoned out, he was well sure Banichi and Jago damned well knew, and everybody else in the world knew. They were coming to the bag-end of the course, the place where everything stopped.

  16

  The shore itself, a flat, treacherous strand, lumpy with rocks, offered no sure ground under the snow. Water lapped up against the icy edge, ice in the shallows along shore, in some places under a film of newly-fallen snow, that gave warning it was water only where the slight surge lapped up through the ice like lacework. Bren stayed away from that, skirted it at the fastest pace he could make—had to stop now and again to double over and catch his breath, and then reprised the effort, run and run and run, with no idea how far ahead of him Banichi and Jago might be, or whether the dowager and Cenedi had made contact with Malguri, or asked for help, or what.

  He passed signs of habitation—the regular geometries of an orchard situated in the blowout gap, and that might be the reason for the box on the map, the indication of structure. That might be all it was. And hope so. Hope that the boy had not gone to any definite Place that would give his pursuers any help finding him.

  Hope that surprise would give them a marginal advantage over Murini’s lot, at least until help could get to them—and they had taken the mecheiti Malguri had in stable, mecheiti which might have carried help to the dowager by now, and help might be coming overland toward them, maybe down the north road itself, to try to catch Murini’s lot before they laid hands on a young hostage.

  It was impossible to run fast, shod in oversized boots. Impossible to make any speed. Cajeiri kept walking, just trying to get far enough through the orchard that the branches might screen him off from anyone following him, and hoping they might mistake the boots for one of their own. He walked wide-striding, trying to keep a man’s gait through the snow.

  Then something different hove up through the veil of snow and branches, something solid, like a building, a rustic kind of building.

  No lights showed. Nothing gave any sign of life. He walked on, and as he walked, saw a snow-covered roof, a native stone foundation, stone walls…

  It was a house, was what. A house out here. Maybe there was an orchard-keeper, but it was winter, and maybe nobody lived here in the winter.

  At the edge of the orchard stood a second thing, a great big hulk of a thing that he thought might be a wrecked storage shed, but it was a very odd-looking shed, if that was what it had been…it was all smooth-sided, and nested among folded-up girders, and it looked as if it had stood taller and then just collapsed down on one side.

  Maybe it was a bin for the fruit or something, just toppled by age or weather, if nobody used this orchard…the orchard looked like a working orchard—there was no overgrowth sticking up through the snow—but who knew what it looked like without the snow? Maybe the trees were all dead. The house looked completely deserted. And in winter, the orchard-keeper could have gone to live in town.

  Maybe—maybe there was stuff left in the house, stuff he could use.

  Maybe there was even a door open—mani said country people rarely locked doors, in her district, and if people locked doors it was odd, because sometimes a neighbor just wanted to borrow something, and did, and would hike over and pay it back when the owner came back. That was a country tradition. Only the fortresses and the lordly houses kept their gates locked, mani had said, and whoever came there could not just walk in, and that was just the way things had always been, because there were historic things and firearms and, besides, always staff—but any country person who had business with the lord could still turn up at the gates and ask for help, and know he had a right to go in and talk to the lord. That was the way a proper lord’s house had to be…always ready to open, the same as any farmer’s or herder’s.

  Mani had said—mani had said that, after her, he had to know these things, because he would be lord of Malguri.

  And he would be neighbor to these people who had locked him in the basement.

  He had a score to settle with them now. He knew mani would do it. But he had his own, once he came into his own. His staff, the same as mani-ma’s, his heritage, and if the neighbors had gotten together to treat him the way they had, they were the ones who had to be worried when he got to Malguri.

  This orchard might even be a Malguri orchard. He had no idea how far toward Malguri land he had come—not because he had not paid attention, but because he had no idea of distances in this place. That pale grayness between the trees to the left might even be the lake itself—b
ut he was not sure. The whole scale was more than he had ever thought.

  But if the lake was coming closer and on his left on this trek, that meant it was Caiti’s summer house where he had just been, and that meant he had turned the way he ought and was skirting the shore, at a distance.

  And that meant, in turn, that he was sooner going to come up around to the other cliffs, those on which Malguri sat and still have to skirt around a long, long way before he could get to Malguri’s boat dock—because those cliffs were as good as a defensive wall. The slot in which the boat dock set was the only way up to Malguri from the lake shore. Malguri had held out in the wars because there was no real way for a lot of people to come at it except from the south, or way up over the mountains, or fighting their way through that gap in the cliffs.

  And he was going to be forever getting there, a very cold forever. He had food in his pockets, and he had eaten a little of it, just to try to stay warm. But he was so tired, and his feet were still so cold, and he had nothing but the oversized coat and the stupid boots—

  And this place might have stuff in it. It might have coats, and blankets, and dry socks, for that matter, if whoever was the gardener had not packed everything, and set everything ready to come back in the spring.

  But it was a scary-looking and neglected place, with that broken thing out in the yard, sitting in the middle of broken trees, and others all tilted. It looked as if something had blown it up, because there had been a stone wall, and part of that was down. It looked as if there had been a battle here—

  So maybe it was Malguri land. And Caiti had attacked it.

  No light, no light at all, and one of the windows was broken. All of them were dead and dark.

  The window beside the door was broken, too. And he got up on the porch, which was mostly clear of snow, and looked in, and there was furniture—he could make that out. There were things lying all over the floor, maybe because of the wind, or maybe because of people searching here.

  He tried the door latch. It gave, and he pushed the door inward, very quietly. There might be a kitchen. There might be a knife or something. A weapon.

  There was much better than that. There was a phone on the wall.

  He went straight to it and lifted the receiver. It was dirty, old, it had no buttons inside the handle—he was scared it might be an intercom with somewhere he might not want to talk to, but in a moment more he heard a man’s voice ask:

  “What number, nadi?”

  He hung up, he was so startled. He had no authorizations.

  But it had not challenged him. He decided—maybe it was authority, some sort of security station. He picked it up again and listened.

  “What number, if you please, nadi? Is there a problem?”

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “This is the Malguri switchboard, nadi. Whom do you wish to call?”

  He hardly knew what to say, he was so startled. But he knew where to start—where mani had gone. “One wishes to speak to Lord Tatiseigi in Atageini Province, nadi, if you please.”

  “In Atageini Province.” That seemed to startle and perplex the person. Maybe it was impossible from here. Or he had given something away. “One moment, nadi.”

  They could be tracing the call. He knew about that from nand’ Bren’s movies. He knew every second he spent on the line was dangerous. But he heard clicks and some discussion, perhaps among the operators, and then, just as he was about to hang up, came a ring at the other end.

  And someone picked up. “This is Tirnamardi night staff.”

  “Nadi!” he exclaimed. “Is my great-grandmother there?”

  “No.” There was a pause. “Is this nand’ Cajeiri? Is this our lord’s grand-nephew?”

  “Find my great-grandmother immediately, nadi. Or Great-uncle. Either. One is in utmost need, nadi! It is extremely urgent.”

  “They went together to Shejidan, at the report of your kidnapping. Please stay on the line…”

  “Impossible! There are people shooting here, nadi. I need my great-grandmother, I need someone to come to Malguri District!”

  “Just stay on the line, young sir! Just one moment. Just one moment. I am calling Lord Tatiseigi, as fast as I can.”

  Authorities did that when they were tracing a call. That was as old as the movies with no color. He hung up. Fast.

  Maybe, he thought, he should try to get the operator to call Malguri itself, the fortress. Maybe the staff there could help—could just drive down the road and pick him up, easy as that.

  But that was right in the district. If he started giving particulars about where he was, then the operator might know, and if the operator was not to be trusted, the operator might call somebody, and it could be the wrong side. It was just too dangerous to give out his location, supposing someone was tapping the lines.

  Banichi and Cenedi would not sit here just waiting, either, after making a phone call on an unsecure land line. He had to go. He had to. He made one detour back to the kitchen, threw open drawers and took three knives, then looked in the pantry, but it was too dark to see anything useful and he was getting scared. He went out the back door.

  And right from the back porch, he saw shadows in the trees, shadows moving across the white ground out in the orchard.

  He dropped right off the small square of the back porch, right down into what might have been a flowerbed, and pasted himself to the side of the house, down low.

  Men afoot, those were. At least there were no mecheiti on the hunt—mecheiti could have smelled him out, but they might not have made it down the climb he had done. There was no hue and cry at least, no indication they had seen him step out the back door. He had a little time, while they were stalking the house, and maybe spending their own time wondering what had blown up the tower or shed or whatever it was.

  He could not help leaving a few tracks: he knew there were some on the back porch above his head, but he could stay out of the open. He edged along the foundation, turned the corner, and kept against the foundation about halfway back up the outside wall of the house.

  Then he turned around and walked backward—another thing he had learned from the human Archive—to the low stone wall that divided the orchard-keeper’s yard off from the high rocks and the wilderness beyond. He vaulted it, and ducked down low.

  Best he could do. He might climb the brushy rocks that rose beyond the wall, but that would bring him into the view of whoever was advancing on the house, and besides, he had no idea whether that massive rock went on for a long distance and became flat above, or whether it stopped there and went down sharply on the other side. If he climbed it for safety, there he might be, sitting on a stupid crag, while they climbed up after him and surrounded the place on all sides.

  The same rocks ran right down to the lake, and more even jutted out into it—he could see spires that rose right out of the water. There was no shore beyond, at least not here, just the rock and a narrow strip of land, and if you meant to get beyond it, you had to wade, or worse, swim to do it, in freezing water.

  And if he ran down to the lake shore to get a better look, they would see him for sure.

  There was one virtue to an oversized coat, and far too big boots. They could keep him warm if he just stopped moving and tucked down. He found a nook in the rocks, deep in a drift, behind some brush, and burrowed into it, and put the coat entirely over his head as he sat tucked up into a ball, with just a slit to look through. He could stay there. He had food. He could stay there past breakfast, or until the people chasing him decided they had lost the trail.

  The dicey part would be when they traced those footprints to the wall backward, and tried to make sense of it all. They would be all over the wall, up and down the little drainage channel, up and around the rocks.

  But the snow was still coming down. And the more the better. He had become a rock, and the snow sifted down on him. All he had to be for the next number of hours, was a rock deep in the leafless brush. He would stay there, not movin
g for as long as he could, and they could take the house apart and not find him.

  If only, if only, baji-naji, they believed those lying footprints.

  Breathe. Breathe, as much wind as he could get, and try not to cough, try not to make noise. Bren had no idea where Banichi and Jago were, except he’d bet, ahead of him, considerably, though his was the shorter route, along the lake shore.

  Run and run. If help was coming, there was no sign of it, and when, in a moment he had to stop to ease the pain in his side, he snatched a shielded look at the locator, he saw he was closer to that box on the map, the structure, the fueling depot, whatever it was.

  And thus far no shot fired, no sign of parties stalking one another, and he hoped to heaven Banichi and Jago were in fact ahead of him, not veering off to try to make immediate contact. He left it to Banichi’s sense whether to try to use the unit-to-unit function on the pocket com: if Banichi or Jago called him, he’d use it, but not trust it otherwise. He only kept moving, watching the woods and the orchard edge carefully for any sign of life, and not, as yet, seeing anything. He would be unwelcomely silhouetted against the lake if he grew careless and took the fastest, smoothest course. As it was, he climbed over snowy driftwood and skirted around brushy outcrops, terrified as he did so that he could himself fall into ambush—whoever was tracking Cajeiri would be almost as happy to lay hands on the paidhi-aiji, for revenge, if nothing else, and he was determined to make a fight of it if he had to, but to avoid all chance of it if he possibly could.

  Bare spot in the woods, something, for God’s sake, akin to a private yard, and a set of steps and a boat dock, such as it was, a mere plank on pilings, and a rowboat turned over and beached on the shore, up on blocks for the winter, as might be. He got down by it, said, quietly, foolishly, “Cajeiri?” in remotest hope that the boy might have taken cover in that shell, and the snow have covered his tracks.

  No answer. Nothing. And there was no way Cajeiri could mistake his presence. He edged away, keeping low, and filed the location of that boat in memory.