“There’s a city in the north. Chicago. And a sea up there. But the city’s supposed to be spooked.” He wasn’t eating much, had in fact eaten shortly before Chaka’s arrival. But he nibbled on a piece of beef to be sociable. Chaka, on the other hand, was hungry. “I’ve never been there.” He glanced at the drawing. “But if that’s what it really looks like, people would expect it to be haunted. Wouldn’t they?” A log fell into the fire and sparks flew. “But you never really know. Roadmaker ruins are restless.”
She smiled. It was a warm smile, a little tentative, and it told him he’d succeeded at what he’d hoped to do: frighten her. “Jon,” she said, “I’d like to try to find this place. My brother died out there somewhere, and I think I was lied to about the way of it. I know this is asking a lot, but I’d be grateful if you’d reconsider.”
She was hard to say no to, but he did. “It’s just a way to waste a lot of time and effort,” he said. “And maybe get yourself killed. Take my advice, Chaka: Don’t do it.”
She looked steadily at him, and he suspected she was trying to decide whether he was adamant. “In that case,” she said, “I wonder if I can hire you for a few days.”
Flojian had been uneasy since his conversation with Chaka. The Mark Twain had been given away to injure him, to send a message to the wayward son. I am leaving this extraordinarily valuable find to a person I hardly know, in preference to you. Furthermore, I know its existence will create trouble, and you are welcome to that. And I have even arranged that you be the instrument of the transaction.
Damn him.
And damn Milana too. If she could have simply accepted her gift with grace and gone away, it would have been over.
Flojian tried to bury himself in his work, but he was too restless to think about new shipping schedules and maintenance problems. He gave up late in the morning, told his assistant he was going to take the rest of the day off, and rode into town. He wandered listlessly through the markets for two hours, stopping occasionally for something to drink. When fatigue and appetite began to overtake him he rode back out through the gates and stopped at the Crossroads Tavern (which was not really located on a crossroad) for some lunch.
He was a regular and favored customer at the Crossroads. The host sat him at a corner table, back in the shadows, where a candle flickered fitfully in a smoked red globe. A waiter brought cold brew while Flojian considered the menu board and settled on beef stew. You can’t go wrong with the basics, he told himself. It was midafternoon, and there were only a handful of customers. But sound travels well in a nearly empty room, and Flojian found himself listening to a group of two men and a woman several tables away.
“—Second expedition.” That was the phrase that caught his attention. It was part of a sneer delivered by the younger of the men. He was mostly belly, blond, shaggy, overflowing his chair. “It’s crazy.” He stabbed a fat index finger in the air. “They’ll kill themselves.”
The second man wore a purple shirt with a white string tie. He was young, probably in his mid-twenties, but his otherwise good features were spoiled by a hangdog look, a combination of cruelty and cringing. “How will they know where they’re going?” he said.
“I guess they’ve figured out the route the other one took,” said the woman. She was middle-aged, well dressed, and had had a little too much to drink.
Flojian examined his stein. It was ornate, inlaid with midnight glass tears. Nice, actually.
The hangdog shook his head and addressed the belly. ‘Gammer, the other one didn’t come back. You’d think they’d learn.”
Gammer looked bored. “I figured you’d be first in line to go, Hok.”
“Not me. There aren’t any idiots in my family.”
Gammer grinned. It was a lopsided grin, rendered cruel by vacuous eyes. “I didn’t think you knew your family.”
Flojian took a long pull from his brew.
“What really happened on the first expedition?” The woman’s question.
“What’s-his-name, the guy who came back, he left them.” Gammer tore off an end of bread, dipped it into his stew, and pushed it into his mouth. While he chewed, he jabbed his fork toward the back of the room. “They got in trouble and he left them. That’s why he never said anything.”
“I think there’s more to it,” said Hok. He finished his drink and offered to pour another round for everybody. The woman passed. “Look, that thing they brought back, the book, they say it’s worth a couple of sacks of gold. Big sacks. I tell ya, it doesn’t take much imagination to see a fight breaking out among them, winner take all. This what’s-his-name—”
“Endine,” said the woman.
“Yeah, Endine, he was the winner. The guy who came home. Maybe he murdered the rest of them.”
Flojian banged his stein down. He got up and faced them. The tavern fell silent. “You’re a liar.” He threw a silver coin onto the table. It rolled about a foot. “Endine wouldn’t abandon anybody.”
Hok tilted his head and grinned a silent challenge. Flojian started in his direction, but the host hurried over to make peace.
Word came in the middle of the night. It was brought by one of the attendants, who was kneeling by her bed with a taper. “Avila. The boy is dying. They need you.”
Her heart sank.
“The father waits downstairs.”
She threw the spread aside. “Wake Sarim.”
“We’ve already attended to that. He’ll meet you in the sanctuary.”
She rinsed quickly at the basin, slid into her robe, fastened her sash, and drew on a black cloak, for the night was cool. She had no stomach for what lay ahead.
She gathered a supply of agora, which would ease the child’s passage into the next world, for she knew the case offered no hope of recovery unless the Goddess intervened. But the Goddess had not acted in many years. Avila wondered what had happened that she had been so completely abandoned.
She knew what the Kiri would say: Your faith is being tested. Believe and do your duty, and all will be well. But all was not well.
The father waited in the reception room. He sat, head sagging, eyes devoid of every quality except pain. When Avila entered, he rose but could not speak. Tears rolled down his cheeks. She helped him to his feet, and held him. “Mentor,” he said, “we are going to lose him.”
“He is in Shanta’s hands now,” she responded. “Whatever happens, she will be with him.”
He wiped his eyes. When he seemed to have steadied, she took his arm. “Come with me,” she said softly.
They left the sitting room, went down a stairway, and passed into a long marble corridor illuminated by lanterns. Murals depicted Shanta in her various aspects, creating life, sending the rain, protecting the child Tira against the serpent, appearing in blood-covered clothes to inform the Illyrians that she had fought beside their sons at the battle of Darami.
They passed between twin columns, suggesting the Goddess’s support for the world, and ascended into the sanctuary.
The sanctuary was oval-shaped, dominated by a small unadorned altar. The only light in the room came from a brazier, which contained the Living Fire, brought to the Illyrians by Havram, who had it from the Holy One herself. So long as these flames brighten my chapel will they give strength to your spirit and to your body. Nourish them and live forever in me. Sarim, broad, gruff, devout Sarim, was waiting. He held an unlit torch, which she took from him.
“Blessed be the eternal light,” she said, and pressed the torch into the father’s hand. He took it, and she helped him hold it over the brazier until it caught.
Moments later, they passed out of the Temple into the streets. It was a windy night. The torch, in Sarim’s grip, flickered and blazed and Avila’s cloak tugged at her shoulders. Sarim and the father walked side by side. Avila, a few steps behind, bowed her head and prayed fervently.