Jack looked carefully at the documents Hanslip gave him, the qualifications, the educational profile, the psychometric test results, all showing that he was a very impressive character.
‘These look genuine.’
‘That’s because they are. Like most organisations, we keep a few ghosts on the payroll.’
Jack stood up. ‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘Chang made me concerned, just before he was transmitted.’
‘Well?’
‘He wasn’t worried. He was about to be put in an untested machine and potentially vaporised and he wasn’t worried.’
‘He was drugged, presumably.’
‘Not that much. I think he knew it worked. Has it been used before?’
‘Not with people.’
‘Are you sure?’
Hanslip considered this remark for some time. ‘I will investigate while you are away. Now, there is one other thing you should know. I have broken off negotiations with Oldmanter, as it was not possible to reach a suitable agreement at the moment. It is quite possible that he will attempt to obtain the technology by other means.’
‘Does he know what has happened here?’
‘No. I do not wish him to find out, either. It could easily be made to look bad.’
‘Yes. It could.’
‘No one must know what you are doing when you leave. Should things become unpleasant, then possession of this technology will be our main defence. Be careful who you talk to and what you say, and do not fail. Is that understood?’
17
In the dark years that followed his meeting with Callan Perelson and the young student on the streets of Ossenfud, Pamarchon often thought back to that day, almost the last time when he had felt carefree and safe. Within three months he had become a fugitive, hunted for the murder of his own uncle.
From being a source of pride, his name became a death sentence, and he had to become a wanderer, a person of no name. He had travelled in search of safety, and had found it, but never any peace. His fall weighed heavily on him. Bit by bit others, all outcasts, men and women with grievances, or those who could not settle, came to join him. All societies produce their injustices, and those who will not accept those injustices. So around Pamarchon there gathered the men forced into crime, the young and wild, the bold and adventurous, the women who yearned for something different, though they rarely knew what.
They could not live among other men, so they travelled in bands, living out in the forests, occupying part of the vast emptiness which covered the landscape. Few ever noticed them and those who did could not find them. Many no longer wanted to hide and be fearful, or to have to move at regular intervals. Others wished to keep on moving for ever.
Pamarchon became their leader because he understood both, and sympathised with both, although he pondered how long that uneasy state could continue. He could settle their disputes, persuade them to stay together and learn how to help each other. They relied on him, and he came to rely on them as well. With such people he found a comradeship he had never discovered in his days of wealth and ease. Eventually their wanderings brought them back almost to where he had started his long journey, to the place of his fall. They settled in the forests to the south of Willdon, pitching camp, clearing spaces, setting up the areas for cooking, sending out scouts to guard and hunters to find food. Then, as was their custom, they blended into the trees and waited, to see if their arrival had been noticed. No one came. It was as if they were not there. They began to relax and to live their lives once more.
Pamarchon was busy in those first days, supervising the setting of the camps, making sure everyone was provided for, discussing the best places for guards, making rotas of duties. Then, one fine morning, he realised he had nothing left to do. He could leave the camp to Antros, his closest friend, and wander off by himself to think and consider.
It was always his delight and his greatest pleasure to walk through the great trees, listening to the never-ending song of the birds. He knew he was hiding his intentions even from himself, though. He was going back to Willdon. He would go to the Shrine of Esilio and leave a prayer. He would go to the circle and hope that a dream would come to him which would clarify everything and that he would know, finally, what to do.
It took several hours, as he went by a circuitous route, but eventually he came to the clearing, surrounded by stones overgrown with plants all in flower. It was deserted. So he stood up and stepped over the stone surrounds and went up to the monument. He knew that you had to trace your fingers over the scratching on the side as you made your wish. ‘Grant us all peace and safety, and do not let ill come from my desires,’ he said quietly as he bent over and performed the simple ritual. ‘You know what I am, and what I have done, and not done. Grant me what I deserve, whatever that might be. Come and help me in my hour of need.’
He closed his eyes to concentrate, so his words would have more force, then stopped suddenly. A noise behind him. He had let his guard down and had paid the price. There was nothing to be done; he had a knife but no other means of defending himself. He took a deep breath, straightened and turned to meet his foe.
Before him was a young girl, mouth open in surprise, looking at him with an intensity which was instantly unsettling. She was strangely dressed, a creature such as he had never seen before. But her face was lovely. Magical-looking. He felt that his heart would burst, just from looking at her.
He did not know what to do. Her costume was exotic and disturbing, as was the perplexed look on her face as she studied him equally intently. Then she moved, but only because a fly was buzzing round her head; she made an instinctive movement to swat it away.
That broke the spell; a fairy or other supernatural being was not going to be disturbed by a fly in her ear, after all. The fly changed an apparition into something real in a split second, and Pamarchon felt himself relaxing, just a little. He stepped away from the stone block and approached. The girl was still frozen to the spot, although why she did not know. She was not terrified, just confused.
For a long time each examined the other. The girl bit her lip nervously. He brushed the hair from his forehead, she entwined her fingers, then let her arms fall to her side. He put down his staff, dropping it on the ground without even looking where it fell.
He came closer and she looked up at his face.
‘Hello.’ It was not much of a start, but at least she began.
He felt frightened for a brief moment, but then he replied: ‘Hello.’
Both relapsed into silence, as though their powers of conversation were quite exhausted by the effort.
‘Who are you?’ Difficult though it was for her to talk to a strange, half-clad man much older than herself, it was easier than he found the task of addressing her.
‘My name is Pamarchon,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’ He spoke slowly, as though he was unsure of what he was saying.
‘Rosie. That’s my name. Rosie — Rosalind — Wilson.’
‘You don’t look like the son of anyone,’ he said gravely.
‘What?’
He reached forward and touched her cheek. Rosie recoiled in alarm.
‘Forgive me.’
She reached up and touched his also. His cheek tingled as her finger stroked down it. ‘We’re both real, then,’ she whispered, half to herself. ‘That’s a bit of a relief.’ She was unclear whether she was reassuring herself or him.
‘At least, you seem to be,’ she added. ‘It might still be a very complicated dream. I think I fell asleep. It was a long day. We had lots of lessons, you see. And hockey. In the rain. I hate hockey. Have you ever played it?’