That sounds squirrelly, kid.
There was no room in the compartment for a third person, but Pollyanna was sitting beside him. Don’t worry, she told them all. There may be an opportunity in this.
Which we won’t seize by “not worrying,” girly-girl.
He noticed Ravn smiling indulgently. “Very good, sweet,” she said. “Act distracted. Converse with selves. Not too much, but enough.” She turned back to the window and the plume rising now behind the shorefront high-risers around Heroes’ Plaza. She looked worried, and Donovan remembered that civil wars often have two sides.
The scarred man sat in the bar called Apothete, three blocks east and one block below the now quiescent flames of the Riettiecenter fire. The bar was a dark room with cleverly hidden lamps designed to flicker like torchlight and tables set in niches in masonry walls. Within the dimness, and thanks to a trick of the bowl, the uisce glowed as molten gold. At least the people of Henrietta—or at least the people of the Lower City Center—knew the proper way to serve the uisce; although here the bowls were beaten metal, not ceramic, and had little pedestals on which they perched.
The meeting had been hastily arranged, the venue chosen at random. Two magpies, apprentices to the Deadly Ones, guarded the niche within which they sat.
“Hello, my sweet darling,” the Fudir told the bowl, or rather its contents. He used a dialect that his earwig told him was spoken on Heller Connat that was kissing cousin to the Gaelactic of the Periphery. Then, using a different voice, Donovan chided himself, “A drunk loves his creature.”
Across the table from him, Dawshoo Yishohrann sampled a mug of red beer and replaced it softly on the table. His face was still as stone. He exchanged glances with Gidula, and then with Ravn Olafsdottr. The latter shrugged. “This is as I foond him.”
Gidula reached across and slapped Donovan on the cheek. It was not an attack, but neither was it gentle. “Pay attention, can you?” the Deadly One said. “Your eyes wander all over.”
“Each piece of his mind wishes to see,” Ravn volunteered, “and so, jostling for the power of sight, the eyes jostle in response.”
“I would not mind half so much,” Dawshoo muttered, “if they would but jostle in sync. Donovan! Do you understand what the situation is?”
The Fudir took a bold swallow of the uisce. “Course, I do,” he cackled, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his blouse. “You Shadows are fighting each other. Want no part of it, me.”
Dawshoo shook his head. “Did the Names take your balls as well as your mind?” Then, to Gidula, he said, “I did not expect much. The last message we had from Billy Chins said Donovan was falling apart.”
“Billy Chins was a traitor and a liar,” Gidula answered. “I thought he exaggerated, for his own reasons.”
“Look,” Donovan said, allowing some of Inner Child’s fear to show. “Tell me what you want me to do. I’ll tell you why I can’t do it and then we’re done, and I can go home.”
Dawshoo spoke to Ravn. “Discard him.” He began to rise.
“Wait,” said Gidula.
The Beak turned to him. “Would you lean on this broken reed?”
“He may serve, even in this impaired state; otherwise I would not have suggested the play. Certainly, Those fear so, or their agents would not have bombed the pod station.”
Dawshoo glowered into his beer for a moment, took a hard swallow, and set it aside half-consumed. He coupled his hands into a ball on the table and with evident reluctance sought out Donovan’s wandering eyes. “We need you to infiltrate the Secret City and assassinate the Secret Name.”
The eyes stilled momentarily as each and all of him froze at the prospect. “Heh! Which of us is the madman here?”
“This war,” said Gidula, “has gone on long enough. Past time to bring it to an end.”
“But why us?” the scarred man asked. “A task like this wants the finest lock picks, not a rusty old hammer.”
Dawshoo seemed inclined to agree, but Gidula smiled, though his teeth barely showed. “Two reasons, and they are the same.”
A magpie stuck his head in the niche. “Oschous is here,” he said and stepped aside to admit the third member of the cell. Olafsdottr made room for him on the bench.
“What news?” Dawshoo asked him.
“It was a bomb,” he confirmed. “The boots are bees from a struck hive. Citizen casualties were heavy, and the civic administrator stood up on his hind legs and demanded answers from the swoswai. MILSEC and MILPOL are everywhere, questioning everyone, stopping and searching everyone, but to no effect. My guess: a human detonator. MILSEC won’t find him because he’s a pink mist in the air above the station. The swoswai dare not pursue either us or our foes; but neither may he be seen as not acting at all. Thus, the security kabuki. But the sooner we are all off-planet, the better…”
“Aye,” said Gidula. “The attempt today shows that the loyalists are closing in. We must push the effort to the utmost. Strike quickly, or we will be struck.”
Dawshoo sighed. “I chose this world because it is out of the way, but when so many knew to come here, perhaps it was inevitable that it be so many plus one.”
Oschous hooked a thumb at Donovan. “Is this him?”
“Yes, this is Donovan,” Olafsdottr said.
The Fox turned to Donovan and tapped his forehead with the side of his fist. “It is an honor to meet you at last.”
Donovan did not need to act confused. “Honor? We’ve done nothing yet.”
“He has forgotten,” Dawshoo told the newcomer. “Those took the memory from him.”
“Ah. Then how do you expect him to…?”
“His memory may return,” said Gidula. “Or you may concoct another scheme. Or…”
“Or the horse may learn to sing?”
The Old One smiled. “Or that. But his mere name may be enough.”
Oschous pursed his lips before nodding. “Possible.” He did not sound as if the possibility were high.
The Fudir sighed. “Me-fella acetanan. Poor ignorant-man. You-fella Gidula say two reasons why rusty hammer for delicate job.”
Gidula’s lip curled again. “No need for the Terran jabber. First of all, you were an inspiration to millions when you led the earlier uprising, and you may be so again.”
“What!” Donovan nearly spilled his bowl and stood from the bench.
Olafsdottr put a hand on his arm. “You have forgotten even that? ‘The lamp that was lit has been lit again’? ‘The names that were not forgotten have been remembered’? Do these bold slogans not ring in your ears?”
“You led the last holdouts atop the Education Ministry,” Gidula insisted. “And then, when all was lost, came within a hair’s-breadth of escape, save that you were betrayed by one of your own comrades.”
Those dreams we had on Gatmander, said the Pedant. They were memories unlocked by Teddy’s drug! If I dig, I can find them again! I know it!
Oh! To remember! cried the Silky Voice.
The scarred man’s mouth worked, but no words emerged. Slowly, he resumed his seat. “But then,” he managed at last.
Gidula leaned across the table. “Yes.” The word was almost a hiss. “Yes. You were found on the riverbank, on the eastern bank, miles from the Education Ministry.”
“Which means,” said Dawshoo, “that you knew a secret way out of the Secret City.”
“Appropriate that there be one,” murmured Ravn.
“And a secret way out,” said Oschous, “may be a secret way in.”