Seeklight

“You have a life to live yet,” said the Regent. “I’ll arrange for you to be taken back aboard the caravan. To be a mertzer was pleasant, wasn’t it? Great circles around the world—motion, at least. Perhaps it’s best to settle for the illusion of progress.”

Daenek said nothing, but got to his feet, pushing himself up from the couch.

“Perhaps you could be the next governor,” continued the Regent, “with whom I replace some old and incompetent subthane. Though your father’s blood might find that sad.”

Holding out his hand, Daenek walked towards the desk.

“Keep it, then.” He tossed the chain at Daenek’s palm. “There really is nothing I can give you.”

Daenek caught the metal and squeezed it tight within his fist.

He stood in front of the desk and looked across at the Regent, his features no longer hidden by the glare from the lamp. A face like other men’s, with a broad forehead and a grey-flecked, pointed beard. Eyes sad, surrounded by a webbing of fine lines in the skin.

“I’ll have someone take you outside,” said the Regent. He rose and pushed a button set into the desk top.

A door opened, spilling a shaft of light into the room. A black-uniformed man stood in the opening and gestured to Daenek.

He turned and walked away from the desk. After he stepped out of the room, there were corridors and stairs that he barely noticed as he followed the man in black, emerging at last onto a wide, gravel-lined path. Outside the Regent’s palace, the world was filled with the cold grey light of dawn. In the distance at the end of the path, another of the men in black held open a gate set into a high iron fence. Daenek pulled his jacket tighter around hims’elf against the morning chill. The noise of his boots on the gravel was like something breaking.

The gate clicked shut behind him. Several meters away the city appeared a seamless mass. As he pulled the chain over his head and dropped the little metal square against his chest, he froze, hearing something behind him.

“Well, what now?” It was Lessup’s voice.

Daenek whirled around and saw the ex-sociologist walking towards him, grinning. Rennie still leaned against the iron fence, the corner of her mouth curled in disgust.

The three of them walked back through the city to the deserted building where Daenek and Rennie had left their packs.

No words were spoken on the way—even if Daenek hadn’t been lost in thought, Rennie’s silent anger made the air impenetrable between them. The city dwellers, rising for their day’s work in the warehouses and processing factories at the city’s edge, glanced at the trip with mild curiosity.

When they reached the empty building, Rennie went to one corner and lifted her pack onto her shoulder. “You two,” she announced, “can decide what fool thing you want to try next. I’m cutting out.” She started towards the door.

Daenek caught her by the arm. “Come on,” he pleaded. “We’ve been together a long time, looking for—”

“Crap.” The lines of her mouth hardened. “You’re so hot on knowing things, knowing why this happened and why that happened—crap. Man, all I want to know is where’s the money.”

She jerked her arm free from his grasp. “You’re not even asking that question. That stupid jaunt with the sociologist tears it.”

After she was gone from the building, Daenek stood staring at the doorway for a long time. It was slowly filling with light as the morning wore on. “Right,” he muttered. “That was a good question. What now?”

Lessup walked to the doorway, looked out, then sauntered back towards Daenek with his hands thrust into his pockets.

“Well,” he said. “It’s never too early for a drink.”

Chapter XIX

The tavern they wound up in had warm, thick ale and a window that gave a view of the Regent’s palace. Daenek forced another swallow of the brew down his throat, then set his glass heavily upon the table-top. He had never been this drunk before—in fact, had never taken advantage of the occasional opportunities to drink aboard the caravan with the mertzers—but now it seemed like more and more of a good idea.

There was something odd floating in the ale, though—both lumpy and hairlike at the same time. Daenek squinted at the half-empty pitcher in the center of the table, trying to spot again whatever it was. Lessup, sitting on the other side, didn’t seem to notice, but just kept tossing down glass after glass of the dark-brown liquid. The wages Daenek had accumulated aboard the caravan grew lighter coin by coin with each fresh pitcher.

He pushed his glass away in a momentary fit of disgust.

Turning in his seat, he could look out of the window and see the palace. Its high walls were bright with the overhead sun. Daenek guessed that it was noon already, which meant they had been drinking for several hours.

“My father lived there,” he announced somberly, facing Lessup again. “And—now—he—doesn’t” jabbing with his finger for emphasis. “And neither do I.”

Lessup stared at him, his eyelids drooping. “Your father never lived there,” he said simply.