Eternity Road (14 page)

He’d reportedly died twenty years before, in Masandik. It had been put about that a committee of citizens had charged him and a young woman with impiety, and burned both at the stake.

Talley waved everyone to sit down, and leaned back against the desktop. “It’s nice to know I haven’t been forgotten. And that there are still people who think well of me.”

“You were accused of defiling the gods,” said Silas.

“So they said I was dead, did they?” He chuckled. “A more incompetent pack of fools I’ve never known.”

“What happened?” asked Quait.

“Yolanda,” he said.

“Pardon?”

“I hired Yolanda to copy manuscripts. She was pretty, so my students were naturally drawn to her. They found excuses to come to my office. They asked questions. And Yolanda forgot that she was not their teacher. She also believed that teachers were bound to the truth.” He fixed Silas with a long gloomy stare. “You look like a teacher.” It was not a question.

“I am.”

“Then you understand her naïveté. I tried to explain the political realities to her, the need to avoid offending the community’s sensibilities.” He shrugged. “She wouldn’t listen, and it got around after a while that she did not believe in the gods. That she was a profane influence on young people.”

Quait frowned. “But the upper classes are mostly skeptics. Were these not
their
children at the school?”

“Of course,” said Talley. “But what these people believed, and what they were prepared to admit publicly, were not at all the same thing.”

“They said you were both killed,” said Silas.

“We were gone before they arrived. I don’t know who they killed, if anyone, but it most certainly was not
me
. It
was
cold, however. Dead of winter. Yolanda died on the road, so I suppose they achieved one of their goals.” His eyes clouded. “I’ve been here since, for the most part. No place else to go. Nobody would have given me sanctuary.”

“Twenty years is a long time,” said Silas. “Things have changed. You’re a hero now in Masandik. They would welcome you back.”

“Twenty years. Is it really that long?” He laughed. “Quite a few of the scoundrels must have died.”

Silas glanced over the volumes, lined up neatly in a cabinet. “May I ask what you’ve been writing about?” Quait would have liked to examine the volumes themselves, but one did not simply take it upon himself to pick up another person’s book.

“I’ve completed the definitive history of the Baranji Empire,” Talley said. “There are also ruminations on the nature of the Roadmakers’ world.” He came away from the desktop, opened a book, and laid it where they could see its table of contents. “This is a collection of philosophical speculations. The nature of evil. Whether man has a purpose. Whether there is such a thing as absolute morality. And so on.”

“No wonder they were after you,” laughed Chaka.

They all joined in, and the doleful mood dissipated. “You must forgive my caution. Visitors here are seldom civil.” Talley returned his attention to his books. “I also have a study of the types of trees, their characteristics, their growing seasons, the best time to plant. And an analysis of the customs and ethical systems of the local Tuks. And a political history of Masandik.” He took down several more for his visitors to look at, and it struck Quait that the man had been writing here alone for years and had probably never before been able to show his work to anyone. Or at least to anyone who gave a damn.

“I’m forgetting my manners,” said Talley. “Would you like some tea?”

He set up cups, left the room, and returned moments later with a steaming pot. “It’s just as well things happened the way they did,” he said, pouring. “I’ve spent my time here far more productively than I could have in Masandik. Tell me, does the Legate still rule?”

“He was overthrown more than a decade ago,” said Silas. “Masandik is a republic. They’re all republics now, all the cities.”

“Well,” said Talley gloomily, “I’m not sure that’s such good news. Mob rule, it sounds like.”

Quait had gone over to investigate the lamp, which continued to put out a steady glow. “You have heat without fire,” he said, “and light without a flame.” The light source was inside a glass tube.

“How does it work?” asked Chaka.

Talley smiled enigmatically. “Roadmaker technology. I’m not sure myself of the principles behind it. But I’ll learn in time.” He touched a knob and the light died. Touched it again and it came back on.

“Marvelous,” said Silas.

The lamp was unpretentious, apparently metal, rounded at its base, lacking the ornate style of the better class of Roadmaker art objects that were popular in League cities. On closer examination, Quait saw that it was not metal at all. It was made of one of the time-defying artificial substances.

“I had several of them originally, but they’ve been giving out one by one.” He shook his head in silent wonder. “They’re really quite remarkable. They grow dim on occasion, but I have only to connect them to a device in the basement to replenish the light.”

Quait returned to the source of the room’s warmth, the pipes. There were six of them, in parallel loops, protruding from one wall. “And this?” he asked.

“Ah,” said Talley. “This is
my
invention.” He waited until everyone had had time to inspect it. “It’s really quite simple,” he said, smiling broadly. “Please follow me.” He swept up the lamp and led the way into the next room.

It was spacious, with a partially collapsed ceiling supported by a pair of wooden beams and a boarded-up fireplace. A long battered worktable stood in a corner. Pots and ladles hung from hooks, and a heavy, dust-laden purple curtain covered the windows. A stock of firewood had been laid by, and a furnace crouched in the center of the room.

The furnace was mounted on four bear-claw legs. It was divided into upper and lower compartments. Quait could hear water boiling in the upper. A wide black duct connected the back of the furnace with the ceiling. A gray pipe, much narrower and wrapped with gauze, plunged into the wall. “This one,” the one joined to the ceiling, “carries off the smoke,” he explained. “
This
carries steam into radiant devices in the office and the far wing.” He smiled broadly, vastly pleased with himself. “The entire suite stays quite comfortable.”

“Brilliant,” observed Silas. He produced his notebook and began drawing a picture of the apparatus.

Talley’s shrug said that it was nothing.

Quait was, of course, familiar with furnaces, which had begun to replace fireplaces in some Illyrian homes. They were a more efficient means of heating a room. But it had never occurred to him that it might be possible to transport excess heat to remote places in a dwelling. Silas was ecstatic. He fired a barrage of questions and wrote down the answers. “If you have no objection,” he said, “we’ll take this idea home with us.”

“Whatever you wish. It’s really only a minor thing.” He sipped his tea. “And where are
you
headed? What brings you to the far country?”

“We’re hoping to find Haven,” said Silas.

Talley’s expression changed. He had possibly been alone too long to hide his feelings, but it now became apparent that he’d decided he was in the presence of cranks. “I see. Well, I wish you all good fortune.”

“Actually,” said Silas defensively, “it’s not as farfetched as it sounds.”

“I’m sure it isn’t.”

They were moving again, Talley walking them back toward his workroom. “What’s the ridge all about?” Chaka asked.

Talley looked puzzled.

“The one that surrounds this place,” she prompted.

“Oh. The
ring
. It’s a tunnel. The people who built the facility hoped to use it to learn how the Earth was created.”

Silas showed no reaction, but Quait felt uneasy.

“Avila was right,” said Chaka.

“Avila is one of our friends,” Quait explained. “She said much the same thing.”

“How did they intend to do that?” asked Silas.

“Don’t know. I can’t read the results.”

“You mean they were destroyed?”

“I mean I can’t read them.”

Silas looked around, as if he expected to see them lying somewhere on a table. “Maybe we could help?”

Talley chuckled deep in his throat. “Of course,” he said. “Please come with me.”

He took them out into the lobby and down two flights of stairs. They turned left into another corridor, lined with doorways. The walls were gray and crumbly.

“In here.” They passed into another workroom. Rows of dull white metal cases occupied a central table and most of the wall space. Black cables snaked across the floor. The room looked surprisingly clean.

Another door, made of heavy metal, stood ajar. “This is the entry to the ring,” he said. He pulled it open, hit a wall switch, and interior lights blossomed. They looked into a tunnel. Walls and ceiling were lined with cables and ridges, and a grate had been placed over the concrete floor. The passageway gradually curved away in both directions. “It’s still whole,” said Talley. “All the way around. Seventy miles.”

“Are you sure?” asked Chaka.

“I walked it once. It took a week.”

She glanced at Quait.

“It’s not as unsettling as it might seem, young lady,” Talley said. “There are hatches every few miles. They didn’t all open, but some of them still work.”

They went back and looked at the lines of cases. Quait had seen artifacts that resembled this kind of equipment, but never in such good condition, and never so many. He saw his first legible keyboard. He saw dark glass surfaces in pseudo-metal frames. The boxes were of varying sizes and shapes, all linked by a maze of cables.

“Now,” said Talley. “What is the true nature of the world? The Baranji believed these machines were used to perform experiments, and to store data. If that’s so, it’s reasonable to assume that everything that was learned here was put into them.”

Quait thought that sounded good, but he didn’t know exactly what it meant.

Silas was also showing mixed reactions. “Then,” he said, “let’s break them open and take a look.”

“That seems simple enough,” added Chaka.

“No. It’s not simple at all. The data are not in written form.”

Silas’s eyes narrowed. “What other form is there?”

“I’m not sure how to explain it. I don’t understand it myself. But they may have had a technique for encoding information in invisible fields.”

“I see,” said Silas, who obviously didn’t.

“It’s true,” said Talley. “Baranji technicians worked on the problem for almost a century. I have their notes.”

Silas glanced at Chaka. “Invisible fields,” he said. “It doesn’t sound possible.”

Talley was unfazed. “You’ve seen the lamp. Don’t underestimate ancient technology.”

“How,” asked Chaka gently, “do you get the machines to give up their information?”

“Let me show you.” He led them to the back of the room, where one of the framed glass sheets was connected by cable to a glass globe. A rock was suspended in the center of the globe, and six coils were positioned around it. The globe was connected to a wheel, over which a saddle had been mounted. Talley climbed onto the saddle, inserted his feet into a set of pedals, and began to turn the wheel. As the wheel turned, the coils moved around the rock. “This is a force bottle. The rock’s a lodestone. When the copper coils rotate around the lodestone, they divert a force from it and pass that force through the cable. I don’t quite understand the effect myself, but it works.”

Talley built up speed and the coils whirled. Suddenly the glass sheet, which had been dark and inert,
lit up
.

Silas backed away. He heard Chaka catch her breath.

“Incredible,” said Silas. “What’s happening?”

“The generated force makes the machines work. I believe that if I can create enough of it, the machines will
talk
.”

Silas touched the globe cautiously as Talley left off pedaling. The light faded. “Talley,” he asked, “How fast can you pedal?”

Talley laughed. “That task would be beyond any man, Silas. But we’re close to the Wabash. I’m going to build a much larger version of the force bottle, and I plan to let the river god, so to speak, sit in the saddle. When you come back,
if
you come back, I expect to know whatever the Roadmakers knew about creation.” He took a deep breath. “Stop in and say hello. By then we should have much to talk about.”

They needed the better part of a day to put the ring-shaped
ridge behind them. The woods gave way to an open plain and they were eventually able to look back on perhaps twenty miles of the enigmatic construction. Chaka sat in her saddle and imagined the elderly mystic walking all the way around in the dark. No wonder he was half mad.

Yet he had produced the light in the glass. They talked of little else for two days, and were so engrossed in speculation that even Jon Shannon was slow to see two Tuks ride out of a wall of forest directly into their path. Both cradled rifles in their arms. They wore stitched animal hides and fur-lined boots. The taller of the two, who was almost Shannon’s size, drifted to a stop.

His companion rode on ahead a few paces, far enough to ensure they couldn’t both be taken down by a single burst of gunfire, and turned to watch. He was also big. An oversized fur hat perched casually on the back of his head.

“It’s okay,” Shannon said. “They’re friendly.”

He raised his hand. To Chaka’s considerable relief, the two men raised theirs. Shannon rode forward; words were exchanged, and smiles appeared.

“Old friends,” commented Flojian.

“This is Mori,” Shannon said, introducing the taller, “of the Oriki clan.” Mori was in his thirties, blue eyes, thick brown hair, beard, and quite handsome, in a rough-cut sort of way. He had the whitest teeth Chaka had ever seen. He bowed slightly to the women and pronounced everyone welcome.

“And Valian, his spiritual brother.” Valian removed his hat. His hair was also brown, but cut short. He had dark, intelligent eyes, and was maybe two years younger and twenty pounds leaner than Mori.

They exchanged greetings.

“Our home is nearby,” said Mori. “We’d be honored if you would stay with us tonight.”

Silas looked at Shannon, and Chaka read his expression. Was it safe?

“Strangers are sacred with the Oriki,” said Mori.

Shannon nodded.

An hour later, in deep woodland, they rode into a hamlet. It was so effectively a part of the forest that Chaka did not immediately pick out the log dwellings, which were scattered among trees and shrubbery. There was no clearing of the land, and consequently no obvious external sign betraying the presence of the people of the forest.

A small group, composed mostly of children, gathered to greet them. Like the Illyrians, the Oriki displayed no distinctive racial type. Some were dark, some pale, but the vast majority favored a middle tone; some had flat noses, others had epicanthic folds. They looked healthy and happy, and they obviously enjoyed visitors.

Clan members descended on the companions with offers of bread and fruit. Chaka’s red hair provoked laughter. (For no readily apparent reason, red hair was the one physical characteristic that seemed to be missing.) Some wanted to inspect the newcomers’ clothing and weapons. Others wanted only to
touch
the visitors. “They think we’re strong,” Shannon explained, “because travelers are always protected by spirits. Touching us gives them a share of that strength.”

They were taken to a warm hut and given fresh water, more food, and a pitcher of wine. They washed, changed clothes, and went out to explore the hamlet.

The Oriki were anxious to talk. They were happy to see Shannon again. Had his friends been to Oriki country before? What were their homes like? Were they aware that the land ahead was haunted?

Chaka explained they’d been on the road for almost a month, and that they’d never been this far north before. She was happy, she said, to be among friends and in comfortable quarters.

Where were they going?

Haven was a concept that did not lend itself easily to explanation. The Oriki had no notion of the collapse of civilization. And they did not read. So Avila eventually settled by telling her hosts simply that she intended to look at the world. And to visit her neighbors.

Mori introduced them to the Ganji, who was both chief and shaman.

The Ganji was about seventy, with a wispy gray beard and an appearance so ordinary that he could easily have passed as an Illyrian grocer. Later, the only characteristic that Chaka remembered was a pair of alert green eyes that seemed peculiarly mischievous in a man of his position and years.

He informed them that a celebratory dinner would be held that evening in their honor in the Hall of the World. He understood they were leaving the next day, and hoped to make their visit memorable.

The Hall of the World did not rise above the treetops. It was nevertheless an impressive, rambling, log-and-brick structure that occupied the south side of the settlement. It was mostly one vast room, a meeting place designed to accommodate the entire Oriki population if necessary. The interior was lined with fireplaces and filled with tables rising in amphitheater style from the center. Weapons, animal skins, drums, and tapestries hung on every square foot of wall. Woven mats covered the floors, and a gallery looked down from the rear of the hall. There were no windows to break up the general gloom, but lamps glowed cheerfully in wall brackets, and candles were set on the tables. To Chaka, who was accustomed to a relatively elegant architectural style and the quiet and orderly pace of life in Illyria, the hall possessed a semi-barbaric flavor. She was not certain what to expect, despite Shannon’s assurances.

A substantial crowd of about two hundred had already assembled. A drumbeat picked up as Chaka and her companions filed down to the central area, matching their pace with a military rhythm. A chant began, accompanying the drumbeat, and people chortled and beat their hands on the tables. “They’re wishing us a happy journey,” Shannon assured her.

Chaka enjoyed the attention, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that her hosts were somewhat condescending.

“Well,” said Shannon, “it’s true they
do
feel superior. They think we’re decadent. Luxury-loving.”

Mori escorted them down through the various levels of the chamber to a large round table set at the center of the hall. It was decorated with bits of bunting and flowers and standards. “You’ll be eating with the Ganji himself,” he said. Stewards arrived immediately to fill their cups with wine.

They were scarcely seated when the sound of the drum changed. The beat became more majestic, pipes and flutes joined in, and the crowd fell silent and rose. Shannon signaled and the six companions also stood up. In the manner of their hosts, they bowed their heads.

The Ganji came in from the back of the hall. He moved down the central aisle, stopping now and then to shake a hand or whisper to someone. He seemed very much like one of the new brand of politicians that the Republic had produced.

When he reached his table, he surprised Chaka by remembering everyone’s name. He greeted each in turn, expressed his fondest hope that they would find the meal satisfactory, assured them the wine was the finest that could be obtained, and guaranteed that they would enjoy the entertainment. It seemed odd that a man of such mundane appearance could lead these people effectively. But when the hall had filled and he stood to speak, she understood. His voice was warm and compelling. The Ganji was born to command.

She never learned his name. “The position is eternal,” Shannon explained. “When a Ganji is appointed, he gives up his own name. Or
she
does: There have been a few women. But the intent is that there be only
one
Ganji, for all time. When you take the job you lose your self and merge into the line.”

The Ganji welcomed the audience, and invited them to join him in greeting their visitors. He asked each guest to stand while he explained that person’s importance. Silas was a scholar and a man of great wisdom; Shannon roamed the wide forests, keeping safe those entrusted to his care; Avila was a physician of considerable skill; Quait was a warrior; Flojian was a maker of boats; and Chaka a tamer of horses.

“Where did he get
that
?” Chaka whispered to Shannon, who shrugged and tried to look innocent.

The crowd cheered each member of the company in turn, rattling their wooden dishes and pounding on their tables. They chanted the name each time the Ganji finished his description. Sometimes they got it right. Quait came out as
Queep Esterhonk
. But no one cared.

“Our guests are going north,” the Ganji said, “into the dark land. Let us wish them good fortune. And if it happens that, during this life, they come this way again, they will know they can find refuge with the Oriki.” More applause, while Chaka wondered precisely what he was implying.

“He’s good,” Flojian whispered to her. “Some of the people back home could take lessons from this guy.”

Shannon commented to the Ganji that it was the first time in his life he’d ever sat at a head table. “I didn’t even make it at my wedding,” he said, and the Ganji roared with laughter and slapped his cup on the wooden board.

Silas rose to speak for the companions. He said that it was good to find friends waiting in a part of the world he had not visited before. And he hoped that, when any of the Oriki came to Illyria, they would look him up. (He’d had some reservations about that comment, but Shannon assured him it was okay, that everyone understood it was only ceremonial.)

When he was finished, there was more cheering, and the food arrived. Great quantities of steaming pork and beef were carried to the tables, and carrots and potatoes and yams. And wine and ale.

“We could do some trading with these people,” said Flojian, examining a carafe. “Some of these pieces are quite nice. It’d command a decent price at home.” He showed it to Avila. “Don’t you think?”

“It might command a decent price here, too,” she replied. “Don’t be too sure the Oriki don’t know the value of their work.”

The Ganji led their table in a prayer of thanksgiving to Shanta, and the diners fell to.

A group of musicians with drums and stringed instruments filed out onto a dais and began to play. The music was soft and slow, like a moonlit wind or a wide river in late summer. During the meal, people came from all over the hall to introduce themselves, embrace the travelers, and wish them good fortune.

The result was that the companions were probably the last persons in the hall to finish their meals. When they did, an entertainer appeared and led the crowd in a series of rollicking songs celebrating the twin arts of drinking and fornicating.

“Back home,” said Flojian, obviously embarrassed, “someone would call the police.”

“Stay with it,” said Shannon. “We’re in their country. Let’s not do anything to offend anyone.”

A comedian followed. He did a series of jokes, most of which Chaka didn’t quite understand. But she heard one that poked fun at the size of the Ganji’s ears. She glanced at him, shocked, and noticed that his ears
were
somewhat large. More important, he was laughing as hard as anyone.

The musicians, who had left off for the comedian, picked up with a raucous tempo. Dancers appeared, attractive young men and women, clothed mostly in anklets and rings and bracelets. They leaped onto the tables, which had by now been cleared of all except drinking cups, and moved sinuously and gracefully through the firelight, paying special attention to the visitors. Chaka found herself face to face, so to speak, with a male member of the troupe. But she bore up with good humor and nonchalance, surprised that it was possible to combine so effectively the exotic and the absurd.

The Ganji caught her eye, smiled benignly, and raised his cup to her. Then, as if nothing out of the way were happening, he turned to Silas. “I wish I could go with you.”

A gorgeous female dancer with long chestnut hair, a neckband, and a pair of anklets, had caught the old man’s attention. He tried to answer without losing his concentration. “Why is that, Ganji?”

The Ganji looked puzzled. “For the same reason you go. There is much mystery in the land. I would like some answers.”

“I’m not certain we’ll get any.” Silas smiled pleasantly at the Ganji, but his eyes never left the chestnut-haired dancer. “If we do, we will certainly make it a point to come here again.”

“I suspect,” said Shannon, grinning, “we’ll make it a point to come back in any case, Ganji. The Oriki offer many delights to weary travelers.”

“Thank you,” said the Ganji. “You are always welcome among us, Jon. As are your friends.” His expression hardened. “Be careful. The country north of the Wabash is very strange.”

He was about to elaborate, but he apparently thought better of it. Instead he glanced toward Chaka, smiled, and spoke to Shannon. Shannon listened, looked her way, and said
no
. He said a great deal more, but the
no
was the only thing she could hear. When the dinner had ended, she asked him what it was about.

“He noticed you were interested in the dancers,” he said. “He wondered whether you might have wished to join them.”

She must have reddened, because he laughed. “Chaka, the dance has spiritual significance as well as entertainment value. I’m sure he was only concerned for your soul. Visitors have been known to participate, but they are rarely asked. Consider it an honor.”