“You owe the lady an apology,” sputtered Flojian.
“The lady needs a man,” he sneered. “If you want to show what you can do, porkchop, I’m right here.”
Damn, Quait thought. He got up.
But Flojian, to his surprise, knocked the beer into the trader’s lap. That was a mistake, of course. Quait knew that if you have to initiate hostilities against a dangerous opponent, do it with a view to taking him out with the opening salvo.
The trader roared to his feet, wiping his soaked trousers, and came around the table after Flojian. Flojian went into what he thought was a fighter’s crouch. But Quait had to give him credit: He didn’t back away.
Everything happened at once. The trader cocked his right fist, which looked like a mallet for driving tent pegs; Quait borrowed the pitcher from the young man (who had hovered within range to watch the action) and brought it down over the trader’s head; and Avila broke a chair across the shouders of his companion, who had got up a little too quickly. The battle was effectively over from that point. The waiters, who also served as peacekeepers, arrived armed with short clubs. Quait got knocked in the head for his trouble, and the trader (who no longer knew where he was) absorbed a solid blow to the shin. He was taken to the back for repairs and later returned to his table, still glassy-eyed.
As was common practice in that relatively civilized time, the peacekeepers announced to both sides there would be an additional charge for their trouble, apologized if they had seemed to use undue force, and implied that further hostilities would be treated severely. The evening proceeded as if nothing untoward had occurred.
Later, Avila found her opportunity to take Flojian aside. “I appreciated your defending me in there,” she said.
Flojian stared back at her. ‘I’d have done the same for any woman.” .
Wilderness Road was a Roadmaker highway, twin tracks through the forest, rising into eastern hills and fading finally the horizon. It was built on a foundation of concrete and asphalt, which was usually buried by as much as a foot of loam. Often, however, the loam had worn away and the concrete gleamed in the sun. That the highway was still usable, after all these centuries, was a tribute to the engineering capabilities of its makers. Chaka tried to imagine what it had looked like when it was new, when hojjies rolled (by whatever means) along its manicured surface. Behind them to the northwest, the towers of Argon loomed in the midafternoon haze.
They camped on the roadway that night, enjoyed rabbit stew provided by Chaka and Quait, and listened to the sounds of the forest. Avila produced a set of pipes, and Quait a Walloon (a stringed instrument), and they serenaded the wildlife with ballads and drinking songs. Silas made the first field entry in his journal, and Avila dispensed with her nightly prayer to Shanta.
That was a difficult decision, because she knew hazards lay ahead, and all her instincts demanded that she place her life in the hands of the Goddess. But she rebelled. My hands, she thought. It is in my hands, and if I’m going to get through this, I’d better remember it.
Flojian was feeling extraordinarily good about himself. He had twice stood up to loudmouths now. Not bad for a man who reflexively avoided conflict. He had been replaying the incident while they traveled, watching himself challenge the giant, discovering the special kind of joy that an act of courage can bestow. When things go well.
His father would have been proud. As Avila had been proud.
Flojian had always ascribed his problems with his father to the fact that Karik had simply not thought much of his son. Flojian had taken no interest in the Roadmaker mysteries, no interest in their cities, no interest in the past. He had never walked through the ancient corridors in which his father had spent most of his intellectual life.
His mother had died when he was two, and Karik had never found time for the child. He’d grown up moving around among aunts and cousins. Your father’s excavating a Roadmaker church in Farroad, they would tell him. Or, they found some odd hojjies south ofMasandik, and he’s trying to figure out what they are. So he’d resisted the Roadmakers and the Imperium and the library and everything else his father believed in. Just as well. It was all nonsense anyhow. Ironic that he would wind up on this idiot expedition. But the suspicions that had for years engulfed his father’s reputation also cast a shadow over Flojian, and consequently over the business. He saw no real choice. Nevertheless, Karik would have approved of his presence. And that fact annoyed him.
There was a sense of excitement that evening, of finally being on the quest. Tomorrow they would reach the League frontier, and shortly thereafter encounter the first markings left by Landon Shay. The adventure was beginning, and there was an almost mystical sense of crossing out of the known world.
This was also their first night under the stars. Flojian drew the watch while the others drifted off to sleep. Armed with a revolver, he slipped into the darkness, checked the animals, and circled the camp. The threats posed by highwaymen or by renegade Tuks had receded in recent years, but he was not one to take security for granted. He noted off-road avenues of approach, but did not believe anyone could get close without alerting the horses.
When he returned to the fireside, only Avila was still awake.
“Can I get you anything?” he asked. He still felt uncomfortable in her presence, but he was determined to tolerate her.
“No, thank you.” Her face was ruddy in the firelight. “Big day tomorrow.”
Flojian nodded.
“May I ask you a question?” she said.
“Sure.”
“Are you a believer?”
“In the gods?”
“Yes.”
He glanced at the sky. The moon was a misty glow in the treetops, and the stars looked far away. “Yes,” he said. “Without them, there’s no point to existence.”
She was silent for a time. “I’d like to think they’re out there somewhere,” she said at last. “But if they are, they’re too remote. They shouldn’t complain if we neglect them.”
“Even the Roadmakers believed,” said Flojian. “They left chapels everywhere.”
“What good did it do them? They’re gone. Everything they accomplished is gone.”
The fire was getting low, and Flojian threw a fresh log onto it.
“Despite their power,” she said, “and despite their piety, they were only hostages to fortune. Just like us.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “All the striving it must have taken to build their world.” She sat up, drew the blanket around her shoulders. In the trees, something moved. “There’s nothing left except concrete and an assortment of junk that won’t decay.” Her eyes fastened on him.
“You have to believe in something,” said Flojian. “If not the gods, what?”
“Nights like this,” said Avila. “Good food. Good friends. And wine to dull the edge of things.”
Yes, there’s that hill to the cast, and the line of river over there. And here’s where Arin must have stood. Silas made a notation in his journal, and they moved on.
The river was the Ohio, which wandered down from the northeast to join the Mississippi at Argon. It was a majestic, wide stream with forest pushing into the water along both banks. She could see downed bridges in both directions.
Most of the roads in League territories had been generally cleared of hojjies. But now the ancient vehicles began to grow numerous. One hojjy contained a pile of apparently indestructible toys buried under the dust in the back seat. Flojian found another with a case that was made from a leather-like material, but which could not have been leather because it was still pliable and in good condition. When they opened it, they found writing instruments and metallic devices and disks like the ones on display in the museums. They also found a notebook cover with the imprint EXECU-TRAK. But there was only dust inside. “Pity,” said Silas. “They were able to make everything permanent except paper.”