Seeker (20 page)

Blaze came round the corner, which was a good fifty paces from the fracas, and saw that the man who had
helped him was being robbed. He stared in surprise. He looked as if he had never seen one man attack another before.

"What are you doing?" he said.

The spikers, following their instructions, backed away, taking Similin's purse with them. Blaze started towards them.

"What are you doing?" he said again.

He made no threatening gestures. But the spikers had done what had been asked of them and had gained their reward, and so now they vanished back into the trees. Soren Similin struggled to his feet.

"Are you hurt?" said Blaze.

"I'm all right. I can never thank you enough."

"Thank me? What for?"

"You saved my life!"

"Did I?"

"Had you not come to my rescue, they would have cut my throat and left me for dead. You're a brave man, sir. Let me shake your hand."

Blaze let him shake his hand, still clearly puzzled about what it was he had done.

"May I walk with you, since we take the same road?"

"Yes. Of course."

They walked on down the track together, talking as they went. Soren Similin was skillful and patient, like a fisherman playing a fish on a line. There would be time enough to reach his true goal. For now what he needed was to make Blaze accept him as his one true friend and travelling companion.

"May I know the name of the brave man who saved my life?"

"Who's that?"

"You."

"Me?"

"I would like to know your name."

"My name? Yes." Blaze's smooth brow furrowed as he puzzled over this question. After some searching, he found the required information. "Blaze," he said. "Blaze of Justice."

"Blaze of Justice! You certainly live up to your name."

"Do I?"

"Your bravery was an act of justice. I can see that you're a man who means to put right the wrongs of the world."

"Do you think so?"

"I most certainly do. Why, I wouldn't be surprised to discover you're the kind of man who'd even give his life in a just cause."

"Give my life..." Blaze seemed to find that interesting. He said it again, as if feeling the shape of the idea. "Give my life..."

"But for now, you're looking for work."

"Yes, I am. You see, I have nothing."

"I too am looking for work."

Blaze's expressionless face slowly lit up in a pleased smile.

"Well, then," he said. "Why don't we look for work together?"

"Now there's an excellent idea," said Soren Similin, smiling in return.

J
UST TO THE SOUTH OF THE EMPIRE OF
R
ADIANCE
, along the banks of the Great River, lay the sprawl of shanties and makeshift shelters known as Spikertown. Twilight was gathering as the
Lazy Lady
tacked slowly upriver to the mooring in the reeds that the Wildman called home. A crowd of ragged children formed to watch them tie up, and from a nearby bar came the lilting groan of a squeeze-box and the sound of drunken male voices singing. Lamps glowed up and down the narrow winding alleys, and smoke rising from hundreds of cook-fires trailed in the wind across the darkening sky.

Seeker and Morning Star had never heard of Spikertown and were astonished by its size.

"I didn't know there were so many spikers."

"There's more than you'll find in Spikertown," said the Wildman. "There's spikers all over. Wherever people have to leave their homes, you get more spikers on the move."

"Is that all spikers are? People with no homes?"

"No homes. No land. No laws. No nothing."

"I thought spikers were thieves and robbers."

"You'd be a thief and a robber if you were hungry enough."

The Wildman proposed that his new companions remain on the boat while he went ashore to get provisions for an evening meal. He said this was for their safety, but the truth was he was ashamed to be seen with them. He was well-known in Spikertown and knew he would find it hard to explain what had become of his crew, and why he was travelling instead with these much younger companions.

The market stalls were mostly closed, but he found one where the slabs of moist corn pudding had not yet been put away. He bought three sizeable squares and a ham sausage. Then he stopped at the fat man's bar for a glass of his fiery ginger wine. The wind was rattling the awnings and jiggering the candle flames in their jars, and three burly miners from the hills were singing a mournful song.

"
Down down down she goes
Bubble bubble bubble
Love gets you nothing but
Trouble trouble trouble...
"

The Wildman downed his drink in three gulps, took up his bundle, and turned to leave. Immediately outside the bar, in the narrow alleyway between the shanties, stood a strikingly handsome young woman. Her hands were on her hips, and she was waiting for him.

"Look who just blew in!" she said.

"Heya, Caressa," said the Wildman.

"Coming to call on me, were you?"

"Not today, Princess."

The young woman tossed back her tumble of dark hair and smiled an angry smile with her full red lips. She was eighteen years old, the daughter of one of the bandit lords of Spikertown, and accustomed to getting what she wanted.

"Don't leave it too long, boy. Shab came for me the other day Asking to marry me."

"Nice for you."

"No, it's not nice for me. He got a smack in the face."

"See here, Princess—"

"No, you see here. You know you'll have me in the end, so you'll have me now, or you'll be sorry."

"How will I be sorry?"

"I'll have my father's boys nail you to a door."

"Whoa! Not nice, Princess."

"Who said I was nice?"

"So I marry you or I get nailed to a door?"

"That's the way it is."

The Wildman seemed to ponder this choice. Then, "Which door, exactly?"

"You louse!" She hit him across one cheek. "You dung-rat!" She hit him again.

"Don't hit me, girl!"

She hit him again.

"I do as I please, boy!"

So he hit her back, a whack across her face with his open palm. At that she flew on him, pulling at his hair, pummelling his body, kneeing his groin, sending his bundle of provisions flying. He fought her off, pushing her to the ground, but she sprang up again and locked her arms round him, pinning his arms against his body.

"You squirt of pus!" she said, panting. "You'll have me whether you want to or not!"

"I won't!"

"You can't do better. They all want me. You know they do."

"I don't want anybody," he said. "Not yet a while."

He pushed the girl off him at last. She stood there glowering at him with her handsome eyes.

"You're mine or you're nobody's," she said. "If you go with any other girl, I'll kill you both."

"You won't have to do that, Princess. I'm going away."

"You'll come back."

"Maybe not for years."

"I'll come looking for you."

"No you won't. You'll forget all about me. I'll come back one day and you won't even know who I am."

"How's that?" she said. "You planning on turning into somebody else?"

"Maybe I am," he said.

"You're just fine the way you are."

"Used to be I thought so, too. Not any more."

There was something in his voice when he said this that quieted her down.

"What is it you want, Wildman?"

"That's what I have to go find out."

"Some other girl?"

"No. Not a girl."

"If it was a girl, would it be me?"

"Yes," he said. "If it was a girl, it would be you."

She could ask no more, and she knew it.

"That's all right, then," she said. "I'll wait for you."

"Might be forever."

"Oh, no." She sounded scornful. "Boys always want girls in the end. It just takes them longer to find it out."

She left him there, and he picked up his bundle and continued on his way back to the boat.

There he laid out the ham sausage and the corn pudding, and he and Seeker and Morning Star ate their supper and made plans.

"How far is it to Radiance?"

"Two days' walk."

"You ever been there, Wildman?"

"Not me, no."

Their plan was to enter the city as migrant workers, and then start their search for the secret weapon.

"That should be easy," said Morning Star, "considering we know nothing at all."

"We could ask the River Prophet," said the Wildman.

"Who's that?"

"She's like a fortune-teller. But she's got real knowledge. All the knowledge there is to be had."

"Is she a spiker, too?"

"Oh, yes, she's a spiker. We've all sorts in Spikertown."

When they had eaten, they settled down in blankets on the cabin floor to sleep. Morning Star found herself wondering about the Wildman's past.

"So where did you come from, Wildman? Before you were a spiker."

"Been a spiker all my life," he replied.

"You must have had parents."

"Not that I ever knew."

"So who looked after you when you were little?"

"There was a whole crowd of us looked after each other. There was a kid called Snakey. He was good to me. He watched out for me. That's as far back as I can remember, lying down to sleep where I could see Snakey and thinking, I'll be safe tonight."

"How old were you then?"

"Four. Five."

"And how old was Snakey?"

"Eight or nine."

Morning Star fell silent, thinking of how her own father had always been there, within close reach, every night of her life. It was not something she'd ever thought of as a kindness on his part; but now, listening to the Wildman, she found a new cause to love her father. She wondered what it was like for him now, alone in their little house, and knew it must be hard. So she felt in her pocket for her little braid of lamb's wool and pressed it to her cheek, and said silently:
I love you, Papa.

Seeker asked, "What do you think happened to your parents, Wildman?"

"Never did know," said the Wildman. "Never did care.

"Maybe they died."

"Or maybe they just went off."

He spoke lightly, as if it were a matter of indifference to him; but Morning Star could see the faint violet glow that hovered round his head, and she knew he was hurt more than he chose to say.

Those who sought information in Spikertown, and those who sought guidance, and all the rest who just wanted their fortune told, walked the river path to consult the old lady who called herself the River Prophet. For the sake of convenience, her home and her place of work were combined, the one on top of the other, and both stood on a flat-bottomed barge that was moored by a bend in the river on the edge of town. The lower part of the structure was a miniature temple, built of wood and painted white. The temple had a handsome four-pillared portico on its front, the pillars necessarily close together, with a triangular pediment above. Inside the portico was a pair of white-painted wooden doors, and beyond the doors, the temple itself, just big enough to hold the River Prophet's throne and a space before it for her petitioners to kneel at her feet.

On top of the temple, like a shaggy low-brimmed hat, sat a thatched cottage. This comical arrangement made the craft taller than it was long, and entirely unsailable. But the River Prophet had no plans to sail away. This was where she conducted her business, and it suited her very well.

A bell hung from one of the white pillars, and by it there was a sign that read
FOR PROPHET RING BELL
. Here, early the next morning, came the Wildman and Seeker and Morning Star. There was a second sign by the bell that read
THE PROPHET IS OUT.

"She never goes out," said the Wildman, frowning.

He rang the bell, long and loud.

"Go away!" shouted a shrill voice from the upper room. "It's my day off."

"We got fresh knowledge," the Wildman called out. "About the hoodies."

This was met with silence.

"You wait," said the Wildman. "She can't resist fresh knowledge."

He was right. The shutters on the upper window now opened, and the Prophet herself looked out: a round wrinkly face framed by a mass of frizzy white hair.

"Oh, it's you," she said. "Well? What have you got?"

"If we give you fresh knowledge, you got to answer our questions," said the Wildman.

"Answers cost money," said the old woman. "I can't eat knowledge, can I? And the chances are I know it already."

"This knowledge happened the day before yesterday. At the gathering of the hoodies."

"The hoodies?" The Prophet stopped sounding irritable. "Go on."

"You'll answer our questions?"

"If you pay."

So the Wildman told about the casting out of Blaze. The Prophet listened, then nodded to show she was satisfied.

"I'll come down."

A few moments later, the temple doors opened, to reveal a little girl. She was about nine years old and had curly orange hair and a face that was a mass of freckles.

"Kneel to the River Prophet," she said in a high singsong. Then, spoiling the effect, "Usually the faithful bring me sweeties."

The Prophet was already shuffling towards her gold-painted throne.

"Kneel, kneel," she said. "If you don't show respect, I'm nobody special. If I'm nobody special, I can't help you. Work it out for yourself."

They knelt.

"Why haven't they got any sweeties?" asked the orange-haired child.

"Shut up about sweeties," said the Prophet. "So why was this Noma cast out?"

"We don't know."

"Had they cleansed him?"

"Yes." This was Seeker, blinking sudden tears from his eyes. "He was my brother."

"You're from Anacrea?"

"Yes."

"Is your brother dead?"

"No."

"Then I take it he still is your brother."

Seeker bit his lip. He was already speaking of Blaze as if he was in the past.

"Tell me about your brother."

The River Prophet was a kind of drain for information. Every little detail that trickled down the gutters of the days ended up in this vast tank of memory. While the freckled child twisted and whined for attention, Seeker told all he could think to tell about Blaze: how he had always been the favorite of their father; how he had been good and decent and strong; how he had wanted nothing in life but to become a Noma and serve the All and Only.