The Shadow and Night (26 page)

As they returned to Anya's apartment, Vero broke off a conversation with the others and came over to Merral. “There is a freight flight tomorrow at 6:20 a.m. with space for two. You can manage it?”

“Yes, but there goes my relaxing morning. But certainly. I'll call my parents to make sure that they'll be expecting us tomorrow night.”

“Do tell them that it will be for a single night. And give them my love.”

The news of their early flight seemed to precipitate the end of the evening. Amid thanks to Perena and Anya, the five split up.

As Merral made to leave, Anya grabbed his hand lightly. “And take care up north. Cockroach men or not, it's tough country. We can't afford to lose you.”

He squeezed her hand. “I'll be back. God willing. Whatever's out there.”

Then they parted.

On the way back to his room, Merral thought about Anya in a mood that oscillated between pleasure and concerned perplexity. It was one more thing, he said to himself, which had to be sorted out soon.

The flight next morning was uneventful. Mist shrouded much of Isterrane on takeoff and low cloud hid Ynysmant on landing. Merral went with Vero straight to the Planning Institute, and after dropping their bags in his office, they both went over to see Henri, who was engaged in drawing a sequence of graphs on his desk. He turned off the monitor as they came in and gave both of them a warm welcome, his deep-set eyes asking unspoken questions about Vero. After introductions and pleasantries, Merral carefully explained what he wanted.

Henri sat back in his chair and looked from one to the other in a thoughtful manner.

“A week's trip, fine. But a rotorcraft tomorrow? There's not much time to arrange it. . . .” He ran his hands through his thinning hair. “
Ach,
we will have to reschedule other things. But . . . if you really think this is needed?” There was a questioning note in his voice.

“I do.” Merral found himself surprised at both the abruptness of his answer and the certainty it carried.

There was silence for a moment and then Henri shrugged and smiled. “Fine, man. I'll arrange it.” He stared at a wall map a moment and then looked back at Merral. “In fact, in some ways, I'll be glad of it. The Quarry Logistics Team is up there now and I've already had one comment about Barrand.”

A stab of concern pierced Merral. “Is he—are they—all right?”

“Well, yes. But he's put a bolt on the house door.”

There was a sharp intake of breath from Vero and Merral turned to him. “A what?”

The dark face was clouded, and Vero spoke in a low, expressionless voice. “A
bolt.
A catch openable from one side only. Like you'd use—I assume you do here—to stop children from getting into machinery. You put it high against a door.”

“I see,” Merral said, trying to imagine the mental state that would need something like that. He turned back to his director. “You mean, Henri, that he bolts himself—his family—in?”

“At night, I gather. And he walks around with a big stick, too. That's about it.”

There was a long silence that eventually Henri broke with hesitant words. “I'm sorry . . . I'm on the point of sending the psychologist up. I was waiting to hear from you. Your uncle is, I suppose, scared.” He looked inquiringly at Vero. “Sentinel, do you know why?”

Vero pursed his lips and shook his head slowly. “Everybody thinks I do, but I'm afraid it's not the case. I'm as much in the dark as anybody else. But I
am
determined to find out.”

“Good, good.” Henri's face expressed a continuing unease. “I don't like it at all. I'll let you get everything ready. Help yourself to gear. I'll arrange the craft for dawn.”

After leaving Henri, Vero returned with Merral to his office where they called up maps, photographs, and computer reconstructions of the Lannar River system.

Vero gazed intently at the detailed imagery. “How accurate is this?”

“The resolution is two meters. It's accurate but misleading. I find that it's the fine grain on a landscape that takes time. These images never show things like brambles, thorns, and mud. But you get the overall trends.”

“Your surveying and monitoring machines—do they ever get this far north?”

“Infrequently. It's a long way. Sometimes it may get looked at as part of some special project; for instance, we had a region-wide beaver survey last year and the Lannar was covered then. But not much else is done. A drone probably cruises over once a month looking for oddities. As Herrandown develops we will survey it more.”

“So, it's little known.” Vero looked at the map. “How far would we get in four days?”

“Day one would be around thirty kilometers in the narrow, densely wooded meanders from Herrandown. Day two would be, say, another thirty kilometers in the more open section where the river braids itself. All being well, that would bring you to the foot of Carson's Sill. Now, that bit's tricky.”

Vero gestured at the image. “I can see that.”

“Yes, that leads up to the Daggart Plateau, which lies in front of the Rim Ranges. That's a climb of at least eight hundred meters—probably nearer a thousand—up and over a lot of steep ledges. Tiring. But then you are on the plateau at the top. With that long lake, the Daggart Lake.” He paused. “So that's an easier walk along that. Say we do twenty kilometers that day. Day four, what? Another thirty kilometers along the plateau to the edge of the Lannar Rim Ranges proper. Would I be right in thinking that you would not wish to go farther?”

“Yes,” Vero answered as he peered at the image again. “It gets very steep then. Four days will be enough.” He flexed his fingers. “Yes, my guess is that we will be ready for pickup by then. One way or another.”

They looked at each other.
Funny,
Merral thought
, I can't easily visualize what sort of answer we might find to this set of problems. I wonder whether he can.

Vero tapped his diary. “I'm puzzled that we've not heard from Anya. It's nearly lunchtime.”

“Let me call her.”

When she came on screen, Anya looked harassed. “Oh, sorry, you guys. You did well to get out of town and not to wait. The results are a bit of a mess. I can't decide what's going on. I'm going to get a second opinion. And our bug scholar has only just come in from out of town.”

“Any hints?”

Anya flashed Merral a smile, but he felt it was the forced expression of someone under pressure.

“Insufficient data, Tree Man. I'll call you as soon as I have anything.”

Merral and Vero ate lunch outside, sitting under a large apple tree and looking across the lake to where Ynysmant rose up out of the water, its roofs gleaming in the sun. They were both silent, as if the burden of the expedition north had crushed the desire for conversation.

They were crossing back through the compound after lunch when a rough cry rang out. “If you please! Mister Merral.”

Merral turned to see a familiar, bent-backed figure lurching across the compound toward him.

“Jorgio!”

Merral hugged him. As he did, he caught again the smell of earth and animal and he felt sorry that, since their last meeting just before Nativity, he had not made the time to go up to Wilamall's Farm. “Let me introduce you,” he said. “Jorgio Aneld Serter—gardener, stable hand, and old friend—this is—”

“Verofaza Laertes Enand, sentinel. But—more commonly—Vero. Delighted to meet you.”

The two of them shook hands and looked at each other. As they did, Merral saw a strange expression passing across Jorgio's face: a look that was almost one of recognition.

“If you please, Mr. Vero; you are from Ancient Earth?” Jorgio asked.

“News about me must have been spreading,” Vero replied with a quiet laugh. “Or is it my accent?”

A smile appeared on the leathery face. “I was told to expect you.”

It was Vero's turn to look puzzled now.

Jorgio turned to Merral. “I was looking for you. I have a message for you and Mister Sentinel here. I assume he's come to sort out what's wrong.”

Vero looked startled. “Excuse me, Jorgio—before you give us this message—what
is
wrong? I gather the weather hasn't been good.”

Jorgio stared at him, his thick lips protruding. “Tut tut! No. Not
just
the weather. Much more than that. There've been all sorts of things wrong. Here and there. As you know.”

“
I
do?” Vero stared back at him with an air of intense interest. “Would you like to tell me what you think is wrong? But please, let us sit down.”

“What's wrong?” Jorgio said with a pout as they walked over to the seats at the edge of the compound and sat down. “Why, if you please, all manner of things are wrong. Birds, insects, animals. Even the woods are wrong, now. You see, I dream, Mister Vero. I dream in odd ways.”

“I see,” Vero said gently. “And in your dreams, what do you see?” He leaned forward as if straining to catch every nuance in Jorgio's words.

Jorgio rubbed a hand over his smooth bald head before speaking. “Since Nativity, in my dreams, I have seen shadows under the woods.
Cold
shadows. Things you don't want to see. Eyes, claws, teeth. Things that creep and slide.” He seemed to shudder and fell silent.

Vero threw a glance at Merral, and in it Merral recognized a mixture of fascination, fear, and wonder.

“Jorgio, do you know what—
who—
is behind it?” Vero asked delicately.

Jorgio stared ahead. “Evil is back,” he said bluntly.

“Can we be sure?” Vero whispered.

But instead of answering, Jorgio turned his head toward Merral. “You know how the Lord speaks to me? Special ways. Mostly, how I can help people. Anyway, last night he came to me as I was sleeping. ‘Jorgio Aneld Serter,' he says, ‘I want to show you something.' ”

Jorgio cleared his throat. “ ‘Amen, Your Majesty,' I says, ‘lead on.' Next thing is that I am in this great big room—enormous, it is—with these dark wood walls. And standing on the floor are all these candles. Set on stands. Must have been over a thousand of them and they are all lit.”