A horse was approaching.
Shannon watched it come out of the woods, and recognized its redheaded rider at once, although he needed a few moments to come up with the name. Chaka Milana. Tarbul’s daughter. All grown up.
“It’s been a long time,” he said, meeting her outside.
She was a good-looking woman, even after a hard ride. (He was two days out from Illyria.) The red hair she’d disliked so much as a child stood her in good stead now. She had a hunter’s eyes and a wistful expression that could get a man in deep real quick. She’d come a long way from the girl he’d last seen at her father’s side shooting geese.
“Hello Jon,” She reined up and dismounted in one fluid motion. “Do you remember me?”
“Of course, Chaka,” he said. She wore a dark gray linen blouse and a buckskin jacket and leggings. “It’s good to see you.”
She nodded. “And you.”
He helped her take care of her horse and then they returned to the cabin. He’d been adding some shelves, and the interior smelled of fresh-cut wood and resin. “I’ll put some tea on,” he said. “You want to wash up meanwhile?”
She did. He pumped a basin of water for her and heated it. She retreated to an inner room. He listened to her splashing around in there, thinking what a good sound it was. She came out in fresh clothes, and they sat down at a wicker table to tea, warm bread, and dried beef.
“You weren’t easy to find, Jon,” she said.
“How’d you manage?”
“You remember what you used to say? ‘Over the horizon plus two miles and look for a hill.’”
He laughed.
“You look good,” she said, lifting the mug to her lips and peering at him over its rim. “Jon, have you ever heard of Haven?”
“Sure. It’s a fairyland, isn’t it?”
There had always been an impish quality about Chaka Milana, a sly smile and a vaguely mischievous cast to her features, augmented by her startlingly bright red hair. Keep a cap over it, he used to tell her, or you’ll scare the deer. It was all still there, he realized, complemented now by the self-confidence that maturity brings. He was surprised she wore no ring.
“There might be more to it than that,” she said. Jon knew about Karik Endine’s expedition, of course. But he listened with interest to her account of the aftermath. She opened a cloth bag and showed him the sketches. “There’s a decent chance,” she concluded, “that it’s really out there.”
Shannon wore a knit shirt and baggy, grass-stained trousers. A pair of boots stood on the floor near the door. He was just over forty, with black hair, a clipped beard, and dark
skin. His features were coarsened by too much sun and wind, and were too blunt to have been considered handsome. But he knew they were amiable enough to put most people at their ease. “Seems like your evidence is kind of thin,” he said when she’d finished.
She nodded and glanced up at the battered campaign hat and militia colors on the wall. The weather had turned cool and damp, and a fire burned cheerfully in a corner of the room. “Do you recognize any of these places?”
He pointed at the first one. “Frontier. And I know where the Dixie Gun Works sign is. But that’s about it.”
“Never seen this?” She looked down at the city in the sea.
“No. I’ve heard the Tuks talk about the dragon, though.”
“You’re serious?”
“Yes,” he said. “But you know how Tuks are.” He focused on the thirteenth sketch. “Just looks like a cliff to me.”
“It was supposed to be a hidden fortress. A retreat. A place that no one could find.”
“Where’s it supposed to be?”
“We have no idea.”
He shrugged. “You’re going out looking for it, right?”
“I’m thinking about it.”
“How do you expect to find it?” He jabbed a finger at the sketch titled Frontier. “This one’s on the Ohio, where it branches off from the Mississippi. A few miles east of Argon. The Gun Works is a little farther on. After that—?” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “My advice is to forget it.”
“If you were going to guide an expedition like this, Jon—”
“—I wouldn’t do it. What’s to guide? Where’s it going?”
“But if you were, and you expected to succeed, how would you get home afterward?”
Shannon looked at her as if he hadn’t heard correctly. “That’s easy. We come home the same way we went.”
“With you showing the way? Because nobody else is likely to be able to find the way back.”
“Sure. Why not?”
“But it’s dangerous, right? What if something happens to you? How do we get back then?”
Shannon looked out and saw lightning in the west. “Yes,” he said, “I guess that would be a consideration, wouldn’t it?” He folded his arms. “We’d have to mark the trail.” And he realized where the conversation was going. “Oh,” he said.
Chaka looked delighted. She put both thumbs up. “What kind of marks? Would they survive nine, ten years?”
He thought about it. “Who was with them? Do you know?”
“You mean the guide? Landon Shay. Did you know him?”
“I knew him to talk to. Never worked with him.” He remembered hearing that Shay had died on a long-range trip.
“So what kind of marks?”
“Trees, maybe,” he said.
“In what way?”
“Just carve a couple of notches. They’d try to travel on the old highways. In fact, if you look at the sketches, that’s what they’re doing.” The highways, of course, even the giant ones, were overgrown, the asphalt often buried beneath the centuries, covered with vegetation. To Shannon’s forebears, when they were establishing the settlement that would eventually become Illyria, the great green lanes, gliding across hilltops and rivers and forests, were a mystery, associated with supernatural forces. The modern Illyrians knew better.
They were constructed with a layer of asphalt laid over concrete. Hard as rock. The technique made for stable roadways, but even after a foot or more of soil was added to make a surface, they were uncomfortable for horses and other beasts. Especially in those places where the cover wore thin and the asphalt became exposed.
The highways were convenient to modern travelers. They provided crow’s-flight passage through the wilderness. There were no steep climbs or dead ends, save perhaps for an occasional missing bridge or collapsed foundation.
“So they’d do what?” asked Chaka. “Where do we look for notches? We couldn’t inspect every tree along the side of the trail.”
“I’ll tell you how I’d do it. Whenever we changed direction. Or whenever the road forked, or whenever I thought someone would be tempted to wander off the wrong way, I’d leave a mark. And every now and then I’d do something to confirm it was still the right trail.”
“You think Shay would have done that?”
“I think he’d have an obligation to do it. And to make sure everyone knew he was doing it.”
Chaka’s eyes shut, opened again, and her expression changed. “What about the Tliks? How big a threat would they be?”
He shrugged. “The local ones should be okay. Take some stuff with you to give them. They like guns but I don’t think I’d offer any. Maybe some trinkets. Cups. Cups are good. Especially with pictures. Mottos. Things like that. And bracelets. They’ll probably keep their distance as long as you keep moving and don’t approach a village. If you do see them, try to look as if you’re passing through and you do it all the time. Right? Show no fear, and say hello.” He got up, went into the kitchen, and came back with more tea.
Chaka nodded. “This city is in the sea. Or on the edge of a sea. You know anything at all about it? Or about anything remotely like it?”