Eternity Road (12 page)

Quait poured wine for Chaka and Avila and refilled the other cups. They toasted the quest, and then rose, one by one, collected metal plates, and went over to the spit. The cook sliced off a large piece of meat for each, scooped some peas out of a pot, and added two ears of corn dipped in melted butter. Chaka picked up some bread and an apple.

When they’d got back to their table, Jewel entered the dining room, carrying a glass of wine. At his appearance, the musician stopped and the house fell quiet. When he had everyone’s attention. Jewel held the glass high. “This is our finest,” he said. “And tonight I want you to join me in toasting some special guests of the Crooked Man.” He directed everyone’s attention to Chaka and her companions. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have the honor to host a group of very special people this evening. Silas Glote and Flojian Endine are leading a party of explorers who are going to try to find some lost books.” He glanced back at Silas. “Do I have that right, Silas?”

The diners applauded and Silas nodded. Chaka wondered who promoted Flojian.

“The Crooked Man wishes you well.” He drained the glass.

The audience followed in kind, and applauded.

“By the way,” continued Jewel, “the wine is produced especially for us, and we are selling it tonight at a very good rate. Thank you very much.”

People came over to shake their hands. One young man, congenial and slim and interested in the Haven legend, asked Chaka how she’d become involved in the quest, how she rated their chances for success, and whether she’d actually read the Mark Twain. His eyes were hazel and he had a good smile. She couldn’t help noticing that Quait was watching them with a disapproving frown.

His name was Shom and, at his invitation, she took her wine and they strolled out onto the veranda. She was doing the sort of thing he would have liked to do, he explained. Leaving civilization behind, getting out into the unknown to see what was there. He wished he were going along.

They talked for a while, looked out over the river, and eventually returned to the table. “I hope you find what you’re looking for,” he said to them. And to Chaka: “How long do you expect to be gone?”

“Maybe years,” offered Quait.

“Not past autumn, we hope,” she said.

“I’ll look forward to your successful return.” Their eyes connected. Chaka smiled, and then Shom was gone.

A crowd had gathered around one of the other tables, where a lean man with vulpine features sat with his eyes closed. “No,” he was saying to someone in the group, “there is a shadow across your star. Be cautious on the river for the next two weeks. This is not a propitious time for you.”

The man to whom he was speaking, nondescript and straw-haired, placed a coin on the table.

Chaka joined the crowd.

“That is Wagram,” said a middle-aged prosperous-looking woman behind her.

“Who’s Wagram?”

“Who indeed?” said the vulpine man.

“He’s a seer,” said the woman.

“And you, young lady, are Chaka Milana.” He clicked on a smile. “Currently bound for Haven. Or so you hope.”

One of the patrons nudged her. “He’s never wrong,” he said. The patron was an elderly man, probably in his seventies.

“And what do you foresee for us, seer?” asked Chaka.

His eyes closed. Quait got up and came over. He was looking at her curiously.

“You will be successful,” he said at last. “You will find your lost treasure, and you will return to Illyria with fame and wealth.”

Chaka waited, expecting to hear a catch. When none came, she bowed slightly. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She fished a silver coin out of her pocket. That news, after all, was worth something.

The crowd expressed its approval, a few shook her hand happily, and a drunk tried to kiss her.

When they returned to their table, Flojian asked what the seer had said. Chaka told him and he seemed pleased.

“I wouldn’t take it too seriously,” said Quait. “They always give good news. That’s how they earn their tips.”

“Not necessarily,” said Flojian. “Some of these people are legitimate.”

“I wonder,” said Silas, “if he was here when Karik went through.”

Unexpectedly, a holiday atmosphere developed. Inns were
strategically placed along River Road, so it was possible with good planning to sleep every night in a warm bed. They ate well, drank a little too much, and sometimes partied too late. They frequently paused and occasionally even wandered off onto side tracks to examine archeological sites. On one occasion they stopped for lunch at the home of one of Quait’s former military comrades.

They looked at the massive anchor near Piri’s Dam, sinking into a forest of sugar maples, trailing a chain that no man could lift. They viewed a restored cannon near Wicker Point, wondering what forgotten war it had seen; and visited the Roadmaker Museum in Kleska.

They passed ancient walls and foundations. Hojjies lined the sides of the road, where they’d been dragged when Argon cleared its highways more than a century before. They came in countless shapes and sizes, some small, some immense. Many were partially buried by accumulating earth.

They spent as much time walking as in the saddle, and they rested frequently. Quait, who’d had some experience with long-distance campaigning, understood how easy it would be to exhaust both horses and people, particularly in this case, where Silas and Flojian were accustomed to a sedentary existence. Silas had begun limping after the first day. But he’d fashioned a walking stick, refused to take extra time in the saddle, and by the end of the week seemed to be doing fine.

Quait enjoyed being the only young male in a company with two attractive women. Avila’s charms were by no means inconsiderable, and his appreciation for them did not replace, but found a comfortable niche alongside his passion for Chaka. She stood about an inch taller than he, dark-eyed and mysterious. That she had been a priest added to her exotic aura.

Meantime, Chaka demonstrated an impressive range of abilities. She was an accomplished forester and marksman. She was at home around horses, and seemed capable of walking everybody else, even Quait, into the ground. Although she had been distracted during the first couple of days, a more amiable spirit had emerged once they were well under way.

Cold rain settled in as, on the ninth day, they approached Argon. Had he been with his detachment, Quait knew what the mood would have been. But only Flojian showed any inclination to grumble, and he usually caught himself quickly and stopped. They reined up at Windygate, the last accommodation below the city, and consequently their final evening in beds. They checked in, retired to their rooms, and scrubbed down, luxuriating in the hot water. At dinner that evening, Quait detected a sense of expectancy and possibly of nervousness. Tomorrow they would connect with Wilderness Road, which would take them east, away from civilization. Into the eternal forest.

This was also the evening during which they got into an altercation with an oversized cattle trader who’d had too much to drink. His throat was scarred and he needed dental work. His face looked as if he’d been hit by a plank. But he visibly drooled over Avila. Quait, watching from his chair, felt his muscles bunch and remembered a remark a comrade had once made:
Never pick a fight with a three-hundred-pounder who has broken teeth
.

The cattle trader was sitting at the next table. He grinned at Avila and raised his stein in an elaborate toast. “How about you and me, gorgeous?” he asked. “Shake off these creeps and you can have a
man
.”

Before Quait could respond, Flojian leaped to his feet with both fists clenched. “Back off,” he snarled.

Avila tried to intervene. “I can handle this myself,” she said.

The trader casually set his beer down. “Stay out of it, dwarf,” he told Flojian. He grinned at a friend as if he’d just said something amusing, and signaled for somebody to refill his stein. The friend was only moderately smaller, but every bit as ugly. A boy hurried over and poured cold beer until it overflowed and ran down onto the table.

The trader turned his snag-toothed stare on Flojian, daring him to say more.

“You owe the lady an apology,” sputtered Flojian.

“The lady needs a
man
,” he sneered. “If you want to show what you can do, porkchop, I’m right here.”

Damn
, Quait thought. He got up.

But Flojian, to his surprise, knocked the beer into the trader’s lap. That was a mistake, of course. Quait knew that if you have to initiate hostilities against a dangerous opponent, do it with a view to taking him out with the opening salvo.

The trader roared to his feet, wiping his soaked trousers, and came around the table after Flojian. Flojian went into what he thought was a fighter’s crouch. But Quait had to give him credit: He didn’t back away.

Everything happened at once. The trader cocked his right fist, which looked like a mallet for driving tent pegs; Quait borrowed the pitcher from the young man (who had hovered within range to watch the action) and brought it down over the trader’s head; and Avila broke a chair across the shouders of his companion, who had got up a little too quickly. The battle was effectively over from that point. The waiters, who also served as peacekeepers, arrived armed with short clubs. Quait got knocked in the head for his trouble, and the trader (who no longer knew where he was) absorbed a solid blow to the shin. He was taken to the back for repairs and later returned to his table, still glassy-eyed.

As was common practice in that relatively civilized time, the peacekeepers announced to both sides there would be an additional charge for their trouble, apologized if they had seemed to use undue force, and implied that further hostilities would be treated severely. The evening proceeded as if nothing untoward had occurred.

Later, Avila found her opportunity to take Flojian aside. “I appreciated your defending me in there,” she said.

Flojian stared back at her. “I’d have done the same for any woman.”

Wilderness Road was a Roadmaker highway, twin tracks through the forest, rising into eastern hills and fading finally toward the horizon. It was built on a foundation of concrete and asphalt, which was usually buried by as much as a foot of loam. Often, however, the loam had worn away and the concrete gleamed in the sun. That the highway was still usable, after all these centuries, was a tribute to the engineering capabilities of its makers. Chaka tried to imagine what it had looked like when it was new, when hojjies rolled (by whatever means) along its manicured surface. Behind them to the northwest, the towers of Argon loomed in the midafternoon haze.

They camped on the roadway that night, enjoyed rabbit stew provided by Chaka and Quait, and listened to the sounds of the forest. Avila produced a set of pipes, and Quait a
walloon
(a stringed instrument), and they serenaded the wildlife with ballads and drinking songs. Silas made the first field entry in his journal, and Avila dispensed with her nightly prayer to Shanta.

That was a difficult decision, because she knew hazards lay ahead, and all her instincts demanded that she place her life in the hands of the Goddess. But she rebelled.
My hands
, she thought. It is in my hands, and if I’m going to get through this, I’d better remember it.

Flojian was feeling extraordinarily good about himself. He had twice stood up to loudmouths now. Not bad for a man who reflexively avoided conflict. He had been replaying the incident while they traveled, watching himself challenge the giant, discovering the special kind of joy that an act of courage can bestow.
When things go well
.

His father would have been proud. As Avila had been proud.

Flojian had always ascribed his problems with his father to the fact that Karik had simply not thought much of his son. Flojian had taken no interest in the Roadmaker mysteries, no interest in their cities, no interest in the past. He had never walked through the ancient corridors in which his father had spent most of his intellectual life.

His mother had died when he was two, and Karik had never found time for the child. He’d grown up moving around among aunts and cousins.
Your father’s excavating a Roadmaker church in Farroad
, they would tell him. Or,
they found some odd hojjies south of Masandik, and he’s trying to figure out what they are
. So he’d resisted the Roadmakers and the Imperium and the library and everything else his father believed in. Just as well. It was all nonsense anyhow. Ironic that he would wind up on this idiot expedition. But the suspicions that had for years engulfed his father’s reputation also cast a shadow over Flojian, and consequently over the business. He saw no real choice. Nevertheless, Karik would have approved of his presence. And that fact annoyed him.

There was a sense of excitement that evening, of finally being on the quest. Tomorrow they would reach the League frontier, and shortly thereafter encounter the first markings left by Landon Shay. The adventure was beginning, and there was an almost mystical sense of crossing out of the known world.

This was also their first night under the stars. Flojian drew the watch while the others drifted off to sleep. Armed with a revolver, he slipped into the darkness, checked the animals, and circled the camp. The threats posed by highwaymen or by renegade Tuks had receded in recent years, but he was not one to take security for granted. He noted off-road avenues of approach, but did not believe anyone could get close without alerting the horses.

When he returned to the fireside, only Avila was still awake.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked. He still felt uncomfortable in her presence, but he was determined to tolerate her.

“No, thank you.” Her face was ruddy in the firelight. “Big day tomorrow.”

Flojian nodded.

“May I ask you a question?” she said.

“Sure.”

“Are you a believer?”

“In the gods?”

“Yes.”

He glanced at the sky. The moon was a misty glow in the treetops, and the stars looked far away. “Yes,” he said. “Without them, there’s no point to existence.”

She was silent for a time. “I’d like to think they’re out there somewhere,” she said at last. “But if they are, they’re too remote. They shouldn’t complain if we neglect them.”

“Even the Roadmakers believed,” said Flojian. “They left chapels everywhere.”

“What good did it do them? They’re gone. Everything they accomplished is gone.”

The fire was getting low, and Flojian threw a fresh log onto it.

“Despite their power,” she said, “and despite their piety, they were only hostages to fortune. Just like us.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “All the striving it must have taken to build their world.” She sat up, drew the blanket around her shoulders. In the trees, something moved. “There’s nothing left except concrete and an assortment of junk that won’t decay.” Her eyes fastened on him.

“You have to believe in
something
,” said Flojian. “If not the gods, what?”

“Nights like this,” said Avila. “Good food. Good friends. And wine to dull the edge of things.”

It would have been imprecise to say that the company crossed a border next day when they passed the last outpost. Theoretically, there was no eastern limit to League dominions. No other political entities were believed to exist. Nevertheless, they were entering
terra incognita
, and that fact was underlined for them when, a few miles farther, they found the site of the first sketch.

It was a place where the highway rode the hilltops. The winds had blown its surface clear, exposing asphalt like bleached bone. Chaka broke out the drawing, and they said, yes, there’s that hill to the east, and the line of river over there. And here’s where Arin must have stood. Silas made a notation in his journal, and they moved on.

The river was the Ohio, which wandered down from the northeast to join the Mississippi at Argon. It was a majestic, wide stream with forest pushing into the water along both banks. She could see downed bridges in both directions.

Most of the roads in League territories had been generally cleared of hojjies. But now the ancient vehicles began to grow numerous. One hojjy contained a pile of apparently indestructible toys buried under the dust in the back seat. Flojian found another with a case that was made from a leather-like material, but which could not have been leather because it was still pliable and in good condition. When they opened it, they found writing instruments and metallic devices and disks like the ones on display in the museums. They also found a notebook cover with the imprint EXECUTRAK. But there was only dust inside. “Pity,” said Silas. “They were able to make everything permanent except paper.”

At about midday, another road came out of the woods and looped up to connect with them. Chaka unfolded the map Shannon had drawn for her. “This should be it,” she said. “There’s a marked tree here somewhere.” As they spread out to look, she heard a familiar voice, and saw Jon Shannon sitting on a fallen log. “It’s over here,” he said.

Quait drew his gun.

“Don’t shoot.” Chaka slid out of her saddle and hurried forward. “It’s Jon.” She embraced him. “You’re a long way from home,” she said.

He nodded and she introduced him around. Shannon shook everybody’s hand.

“This is where it starts,” he said. He pointed at a tall cottonwood. Three lines were carved into the trunk at eye level, parallel to Wilderness Road.

“What does it mean?” asked Flojian.

“It means you’re on the right road. Keep straight. Whichever way you’re traveling.” He untied three horses and led them out of the woods. A broad-brimmed hat kept the sun out of his face, which seemed devoid of expression.

“Have you changed your mind?” asked Chaka. “Are you coming with us?”

“Yes,” he said. “I think I’d like to come along, if the offer’s still open.”

“Why?” asked Quait.

He shrugged. “Not sure. It just seemed like the right thing to do.”

Silas glanced around at the company. “Anybody object?”

“I’ve known Jon a long time,” said Chaka. “He’s just what we need.”

Quait wondered whether the competition had just arrived. But Shannon looked as if he knew his way around the woods. “Okay by me,” he said.