“I am.”
“Then you understand her naivete. I tried to explain the political realities to her, the need to avoid offending the com-nunity’s sensibilities.” He shrugged. “She wouldn’t listen, and t got around after a while that she did not believe in the gods, that she was a profane influence on young people.”
Quait frowned. “But the upper classes are mostly skeptics. Were these not their children at the school?”
“Of course,” said Talley. “But what these people believed, and what they were prepared to admit publicly, were not at all :he same thing.”
“They said you were both killed,” said Silas.
“We were gone before they arrived. I don’t know who they killed, if anyone, but it most certainly was not me. It was cold, however. Dead of winter. Yolanda died on the road, so I suppose they achieved one of their goals.” His eyes clouded. “I’ve been here since, for the most part. No place else to go. Nobody would have given me sanctuary.”
“Twenty years is a long time,” said Silas. “Things have changed. You’re a hero now in Masandik. They would welcome you back.”
“Twenty years. Is it really that long?” He laughed. “Quite a few of the scoundrels must have died.”
Silas glanced over the volumes, lined up neatly in a cabinet. “May I ask what you’ve been writing about?” Quait would have liked to examine the volumes themselves, but one did not simply take it upon himself to pick up another person’s book.
“I’ve completed the definitive history of the Baranji Empire,” Talley said. “There are also ruminations on the nature of the Roadmakers’ world.” He came away from the desktop, opened a book, and laid it where they could see its table of contents. “This is a collection of philosophical speculations. The nature of evil. Whether man has a purpose. Whether there is such a thing as absolute morality. And so on.”
“No wonder they were after you,” laughed Chaka.
They all joined in, and the doleful mood dissipated. “You must forgive my caution. Visitors here are seldom civil.” Talley returned his attention to his books. “I also have a study of the types of trees, their characteristics, their growing seasons, the best time to plant. And an analysis of the customs and ethical systems of the local Tuks. And a political history of Masandik.” He took down several more for his visitors to look at, and it struck Quait that the man had been writing here alone for years and had probably never before been able to show his work to anyone. Or at least to anyone who gave a damn.
“I’m forgetting my manners,” said Talley. “Would you like some tea?”
He set up cups, left the room, and returned moments later with a steaming pot. “It’s just as well things happened the way they did,” he said, pouring. “I’ve spent my time here far more productively than I could have in Masandik. Tell me, does the Legate still rule?”
“He was overthrown more than a decade ago,” said Silas. “Masandik is a republic. They’re all republics now, all the cities.”
“Well,” said Talley gloomily, “I’m not sure that’s such good news. Mob rule, it sounds like.”
Quait had gone over to investigate the lamp, which continued to put out a steady glow. “You have heat without fire,” he said, “and light without a flame.” The light source was inside a glass tube.
“How does it work?” asked Chaka.
Talley smiled enigmatically. “Roadmaker technology. I’m not sure myself of the principles behind it. But I’ll learn in time.” He touched a knob and the light died. Touched it again and it came back on.
“Marvelous,” said Silas.
The lamp was unpretentious, apparently metal, rounded at its base, lacking the ornate style of the better class of Roadmaker art objects that were popular in League cities. On closer examination, Quait saw that it was not metal at all. It was made of one of the time-defying artificial substances.
“I had several of them originally, but they’ve been giving out one by one.” He shook his head in silent wonder. “They’re really quite remarkable. They grow dim on occasion, but I have only to connect them to a device in the basement to replenish the light.”
Quait returned to the source of the room’s warmth, the pipes. There were six of them, in parallel loops, protruding from one wall. “And this?” he asked.
“Ah,” said Talley. “This is my invention.” He waited until everyone had had time to inspect it. “It’s really quite simple,” he said, smiling broadly. “Please follow me.” He swept up the lamp and led the way into the next room.
It was spacious, with a partially collapsed ceiling supported by a pair of wooden beams and a boarded-up fireplace. A long battered worktable stood in a corner. Pots and ladles hung from hooks, and a heavy, dust-laden purple curtain covered the windows. A stock of firewood had been laid by, and a furnace crouched in the center of the room.
The furnace was mounted on four bear-claw legs. It was divided into upper and lower compartments. Quait could hear water boiling in the upper. A wide black duct connected the back of the furnace with the ceiling. A gray pipe, much narrower and wrapped with gauze, plunged into the wall. “This one,” the one joined to the ceiling, “carries off the smoke,” he explained. “This carries steam into radiant devices in the office and the far wing.” He smiled broadly, vastly pleased with himself. “The entire suite stays quite comfortable.”
“Brilliant,” observed Silas. He produced his notebook and began drawing a picture of the apparatus.
Talley’s shrug said that it was nothing.
Quait was, of course, familiar with furnaces, which had begun to replace fireplaces in some Illyrian homes. They were a more efficient means of heating a room. But it had never occurred to him that it might be possible to transport excess heat to remote places in a dwelling. Silas was ecstatic. He fired a barrage of questions and wrote down the answers. “If you have no objection,” he said, “we’ll take this idea home with us.”
“Whatever you wish. It’s really only a minor thing.” He sipped his tea. “And where are you headed? What brings you to the far country?”
“We’re hoping to find Haven,” said Silas.
Talley’s expression changed. He had possibly been alone too long to hide his feelings, but it now became apparent that he’d decided he was in the presence of cranks. “I see. Well, I wish you all good fortune.”
“Actually,” said Silas defensively, “it’s not as far-fetched as it sounds.”
“I’m sure it isn’t.”
They were moving again, Talley walking them back toward his workroom. “What’s the ridge all about?” Chaka asked.
Talley looked puzzled.
“The one that surrounds this place,” she prompted.
“Oh. The ring. It’s a tunnel. The people who built the facility hoped to use it to learn how the Earth was created.”
Silas showed no reaction, but Quait felt uneasy.
“Avila was right,” said Chaka.
“Avila is one of our friends,” Quait explained. “She said much the same thing.”
“How did they intend to do that?” asked Silas.
“Don’t know. I can’t read the results.”
“You mean they were destroyed?”
“I mean I can’t read them.”
Silas looked around, as if he expected to see them lying somewhere on a table. “Maybe we could help?”
Talley chuckled deep in his throat. “Of course,” he said. “Please come with me.”
He took them out into the lobby and down two flights of stairs. They turned left into another corridor, lined with doorways. The walls were gray and crumbly.