Within the three rectangles Bomanz had drawn a dragon with its tail in its mouth. Legend said a great dragon lay curled round the crypt, more alive than the Lady or Dominator, catnapping the centuries away while awaiting an attempt to recall the trapped evil.
Bomanz had no way of coping with the dragon, but he had no need, either. He meant to communicate with the crypt, not to open it.
Damn! If he could only lay hands on an old Guardsman’s amulet... The early Guards had worn amulets which had allowed them to go into the Barrowland to keep it up. The amulets still existed, though they were no longer used. Besand wore one. The others he kept squirreled away.
Besand. That madman. That sadist.
Bomanz considered the Monitor his closest acquaintance- but a friend, never. No, never a friend. Sad commentary on his life, that the man nearest him would be one who would jump at a chance to torture or hang him.
What was that about retirement? Someone outside this forsaken forest had recalled the Barrowland?
“Bomanz! Are you going to eat?”
Bomanz muttered imprecations and rolled his chart.
The Dream came that night. Something sirenic called him. He was young again, single, strolling the lane that passed his house. A woman waved. Who was she? He didn’t know. He didn’t care. He loved her. Laughing, he ran toward her... Floating steps. Effort took him no nearer. Her face saddened. She faded... “Don’t go!” he called. “Please!” But she disappeared, and took with her his sun.
A vast starless night devoured his dream. He floated in a clearing within a forest unseen. Slowly, slowly, a diffuse silver something limned the trees. A big star with a long silver mane. He watched it grow till its tail spanned the sky.
Twinge of uncertainty. Shadow of fear. “It’s coming right at me!” He cringed, threw his arm across his face. The silver ball filled the sky. It had a face. The woman’s face...
“Bo! Stop it!” Jasmine punched him again.
He sat up. “Uhn? What?”
“You were yelling. That nightmare again?”
He listened to his heart hammer, sighed. Could it take much more? He was an old man. “The same one.” It recurred at unpredictable intervals. “It was stronger this time.”
“Maybe you ought to see a dream doctor.”
“Out here?” He snorted disgustedly. “I don’t need a dream doctor anyway.”
“No. Probably just your conscience. Nagging you for luring Stancil back from Oar.”
“I didn’t lure... Go to sleep.” To his amazement, she rolled over, for once unwilling to pursue their squabble.
He stared into the darkness. It had been so much clearer. Almost too crisp and obvious. Was there a meaning hidden behind the dream’s warning against tampering?
Slowly, slowly, the mood of the beginning of the dream returned. That sense of being summoned, of being but one intuitive step from heart’s desire. It felt good. His tension drained away. He fell asleep smiling.
Besand and Bomanz stood watching Guardsmen clear the brush from Bomanz’s site. Bomanz suddenly spat, “Don’t bum it, you idiot! Stop him, Besand.”
Besand shook his head. A Guard with a torch backed away from the brush pile. “Son, you don’t burn poison ivy. The smoke spreads the poison.”
Bomanz was scratching. And wondering why his companion was being so reasonable. Besand smirked. “Get itchy just thinking about it, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“There’s your other itch.” He pointed. Bomanz saw his competitor Men fu observing from a safe distance. He growled, “I never hated anybody, but he tempts me. He has no ethics, no scruples, and no conscience. He’s a thief and a liar.”
“I know him, Bo. And lucky for you I do.”
“Let me ask you something, Besand. Monitor Besand. How come you don’t aggravate him the way you do me? What do you mean, lucky?”
“He accused you of Resurrectionist tendencies. I don’t shadow him because his many virtues include cowardice. He doesn’t have the hair to recover proscribed artifacts.”
“And I do? That little wart libeled me? With capital crimes? If I weren’t an old man...”
“He’ll get his, Bo. And you do have the guts. I’ve just never caught you with the inclination.”
Bomanz rolled his eyes. “Here we go. The veiled accusations...”
“Not so veiled, my friend. There’s a moral laxness in you, an unwillingness to accept the existence of evil, that stinks like an old corpse. Give it its head and I’ll catch you, Bo. The wicked are cunning, but they always betray themselves.”
For an instant Bomanz thought his world was falling apart. Then he realized Besand was fishing. A dedicated fisherman, the Monitor. Shaken, he countered, “I’m sick of your sadism. If you really suspected anything, you’d be on me like a snake on shit. Legalities never meant anything to you Guards. You’re probably lying about Men fu. You’d haul your own mother in on the word of a sorrier villain than him. You’re sick, Besand. You know that? Diseased. Right here.” He tapped his temple. “You can’t relate without cruelty.”
“You’re pushing your luck again. Bo.”
Bomanz backed down. Fright and temper had been talking. In his own odd way Besand had shown him special tolerance.
It was as though he were necessary to the Monitor’s emotional health. Besand needed one person, outside the Guard, whom he did not victimize. Someone whose immunity repaid him in a sort of validation... I’m symbolic of the people he defends? Bomanz snorted. That was rich.
That business about being retired. Did he say more than I heard? Is he calling off all bets because he’s leaving? Maybe he does have a sense for scofflaws. Maybe he wants to go out with a flash.
What about the new man? Another monster, unblinkered by the gossamer I’ve spun across Besand’s eyes? Maybe someone who will come in like the bull into the corrida? And Tokar, the possible Resurrectionist... How does he fit?
“What’s the matter?” Besand asked. Concern colored his words.
“Ulcer’s bothering me.” Bomanz massaged his temples, hoping the headache would not come too.
“Plant your markers. Men fu might jump you right here.”
“Yeah.” Bomanz took a half dozen stakes from his pack. Each trailed a strip of yellow cloth. He planted them. Custom dictated that the ground so circumscribed was his to exploit.
Men fu could make night raids, or whatever, and Bomanz would have no legal recourse. Claims had no standing in law, only in private treaty. The antique miners exercised their own sanctions.
Men fu was under every sanction but violence. Nothing altered his thieving ways.
“Wish Stancil was here,” Bomanz said. “He could watch at night.”
“I’ll growl at him. That’s always good for a few days. I heard Stance was coming home.”
“Yeah. For the summer. We’re excited. We haven’t seen him in four years.”
“Friend of Tokar, isn’t he?”
Bomanz whirled. “Damn you! You never let up, do you?” He spoke softly, in genuine rage, without the shouts and curses and dramatic gestures of his habitual semi-rage.
“All right, Bo. I’ll drop it.”
“You’d better. You’d damned well better. I won’t have you crawling all over him all summer. Won’t have it, you hear?”
“I said I’d drop it.”
Eight
The Barrowland
Corbie came and went at will around the Guard compound. The walls inside the headquarters building boasted several dozen old paintings of the Barrowland. He studied those often while he cleaned, shivering. His reaction was not unique. The Dominator’s attempt to escape through Juniper had rocked the Lady’s empire. Stories of his cruelties had fed upon themselves and grown fat in the centuries since the White Rose laid him down.
The Barrowland remained quiet. Those who watched saw nothing untoward. Morale rose. The old evil had shot its bolt.