Haze and the Hammer of Darkness (57 page)

The neurotechs tell me that they aren't dreams. I either saw it or I believe I saw it. It doesn't make any difference which. For whatever reason, you saved Gates twice, in effect.

I also wonder why I gave up cernadine. Your influence?

As always, the questions are unanswered, and I don't expect a reply.

You are what you are, and for that I am grateful now. I hope you stay that way. Your road is long, I know, and Gates and I, despite your gifts, will be dust long before you scale your heights.

Hollie

P.S. You're also the best faxer left on Aurore, whatever else you may be.

Martel leans back in the chair, places the letter on the table, and picks up the beaker to take another sip of Springfire.

A single chirp from the dorle in the back quince breaks the morning quiet.

So your road is long, Martel. How long?

He pushes his own question away and puts down the beaker without taking another sip.

As he stands the breeze from his abruptness swirls the paper letter to the floor, half under the table. Martel leaves it there and paces to the window to look up the hill at the farthest pair of quince trees.

“Even when you erase the footprints and change the memories … just like the song.” The words slip out before he thinks.

He does not sing, but, instead, the words hang in the air next to him, glowing.

I saw your footprints on the sand, Yesterday;

I saw your smile so close at hand, Yesterday.

Yet twenty years have come and gone, Since then;

My hair has silvered from our dawn, Since then.

And all my days have passed away,

All my nights are yesterday.

Martel does not look at the golden words he has wrought. Slowly they dim, and after a time the last
yesterday
fades. Only a single black glittermote circles his left shoulder.

He remembers the letter and retrieves it from under the table, looks at it as if it represents a puzzle he cannot solve. Finally, he places it on the shelf next to the book of poems by Ferlinol. The thin white sheets of paper, with their message from Eridian and the past, fold in upon each other, glow briefly, darken, and stretch into a single black rose.

Martel wipes his forehead and looks away from the flower that will outlast the cottage, and, perhaps, Martel himself.

Always harder, isn't it, when you start to care again?

He picks up the beaker from the table and downs the rest of the Springfire with a single gulp, ignoring the line of fire that sears his palate and flames down his throat.

The dorle chirps once again from the quince.

 

xxix

Some stores are open at all hours, and when Martel leaves the CastCenter, his steps bear him toward the southern edge of the merchants' district, toward Ibrahim's.

He needs Springfire, perhaps some scampig, if Ibrahim has any today, and a few other, more common, items.

Good thing you've got an autochef, Martel.

Without it, the culinary monotony would have been unrelieved.

The air is quiet on this morning of eternal day and becomes even more motionless as he enters the white-gray paved lanes that indicate the area where the natives, and Martel, shop.

Aldus the bootmaker, oblivious to anyone, is letting down his awning as Martel approaches, scowling and wrestling with the heavy black iron crank.

Martel waves.

Aldus wipes the scowl from his face and, smiling a faint smile, waves back.

Across the land and three shops down from the bootmaker's is the next open doorway. As he nears it Martel can already smell the aroma of liftea and freshly baked ceron rolls.

The bakery must be new, since he does not recall it. Outside the fresh white walls and polished door he pauses, then decides to go inside.

Entering, from the corner of his eye he sees an older woman, her brown hair shot with gray, disappear through a side door into another room, leaving only her son, a boy of perhaps eleven standard years, behind the counter where the just-baked ceron rolls are laid out.

The liftea has been brewed in an enormous samovar that stands alone on the counter next to the baked goods. Neatly racked beside the tea machine is a tray of blue porcelain mugs, each facedown on a white linen napkin.

“Good day, young man,” offers Martel.

“Good day, sir. What would you like, sir?”

The youngster smiles easily, and Martel smiles back.

“Are the rolls as good as they smell?”

“I like them, but we also have the plain ones on the other tray.”

“If you like them,” says Martel with a laugh, “I'll have to try one, and a mug of the liftea.”

He hands the boy his credit disc.

“Oh, sir. I couldn't.” The boy looks away.

“Why not?”

“I … I … just … well … ah…” His eyes are still fixed on the floor tiles.

Flame! Flame! Flame!

“My credit's good, young man, and I would rather be charged for it.”

The boy finally recovers. “It would be our pleasure, sir.”

“I'm afraid I'll have to insist. If people like me eat and don't pay, how would you and your family stay in business?”

The boy's mouth drops open, only for an instant, but he takes the proffered disc and sets it in the reader, which transfers the small credit balance to the bakery.

“Thank you, sir. I hope you like the ceron. It really is my favorite, except maybe for the spice sticks, and we don't have any of those this morning.”

“Ceron it is.”

He picks up one of the sticky rolls and takes a bite. The orange-and-spice taste is as good as the smell, and he finishes the roll in three quick bites. He wipes his fingers on one of the small square napkins laid out on the counter next to the mugs.

The pungent liftea clears the slightly cloying aftertaste of the ceron from his mouth.

Martel looks up from the mug to see a man half enter the bakery, then abruptly back out into the lane.

Martel downs the last of the liftea and places the mug on the empty tray where, he presumes, it should go.

“As good as you said,” he tells the boy, who is still alone in the room with him.

“Thank you, sir. Have a good day.”

“I suppose I will. You too.”

Martel leaves the shop with a smile on his face.

Ought to do that more often, Martel. You stay too much to yourself these days.

He glances toward the bootmaker's shop, but the awning is fully down and extended, and Aldus has gone back inside.

Should get another pair of boots one of these days, I suppose.

The lane is deserted, except for two girls playing in the emerald grass next to the linen shop across from the bakery.

The proprietor of the linen shop half steps out of her door, then darts back inside, as if she has forgotten something.

Martel shrugs and resumes his walk toward Ibrahim's.

A muted clanging becomes increasingly more insistent, and by the time he reaches the middle of the next row of small businesses, each with a low-fenced and trimmed side yard, the sound resembles an off-tune gong.

Behind the grassy lawn that circles a single cormapple, a double door to a metalworking shed stands open, and through the open doors Martel can see two men wrestling with what seems to be a metal tank.

For several units he stands and watches the two as they struggle to straighten the crumpled end of the tank. After the bent metal is smoothed, however, they apply the patch plate quickly, and the two lift the tank onto a small delivery wagon.

Martel looks away from the shed to discover he is being studied by a small, wide-eyed girl who hangs over the half-story railed balcony.

He looks back at her, directly.

She continues her study.

He smiles.

Her dark brown eyes widen farther, if possible.

“… oh…”

The sound comes from behind him, from the metalworking shed, and he glances toward it.

Standing frozen in the double doorway is one of the two men who had been working on the tank. The sleeveless tunic emphasizes his burliness and the bronzed nature of his skin. The man is black-haired, clean-shaven, and his mouth hangs open as he stares at Martel.

For a long instant, the three of them stand locked in that triangle, unmoving.

Martel breaks the pattern by grinning at the girl, who could not possibly stand taller than his waist.

“Have a good day, young lady.”

He waves and turns to continue his steps toward the food shop.

“Bye-bye.” The girl's response drifts back.

There is also the sound of air being exhaled, a deep breath, as if the metalworker had forgotten to breathe.

Martel sees no one else in the two blocks before he reaches the food store.

Ibrahim's shop is empty, except for the proprietor, who is seated, as he always is, in his dark brown tunic and trousers, on the high stool behind the counter.

“Who's there?”

“Martel. I need two bottles of Springfire, a few other things.”

“Heard your beach story again the other day. I wish I could have seen it.”

“Thank you.”

Martel picks the Springfire out of the racks and sets both bottles on the counter, then checks the meat cooler for the scampig. He is in luck; several small fillets are available. He wraps them in the transparency and places the package next to the bottles. Taking a pear from the fruit section, he adds a scoop of rice which he bags, a box of noodles, and a scattering of vegetables, all of which he has wrapped into a single package.

At last, he stands before the counter.

“What's this?” asks the shopkeeper as his fingers flicker over the package of combined and mixed fresh vegetables.

“Mixed-up vegetables. Just charge me for whatever's the most expensive. That would be the garnet beans.”

“The whole thing is thirty-five credits, sir.”

“That's fine, Ibrahim. Run it through.”

“Yes, sir.”

The entire order will fit in the collapsible pack Martel unrolls from his belt pouch. He packs the items as Ibrahim feeds his credit disc into the reader and transfer system.

As Martel lifts the pack to his back he sees a young woman, blond, green-eyed, heavyset, and wearing a burgundy overtunic, peer in the doorway and immediately back away.

“Have a good day,” Martel says as he leaves the counter, placing the credit disc back in his pouch.

“You, too. I'll be listening tonight.”

Not that the poor bastard could do otherwise, Martel, not both blinded and blessed for his sins.

“You're probably one of the few natives who do listen, Ibrahim, one of the very few. Take care.”

Not that he has much choice there, either.

“Thank you, sir.”

Martel pauses in the entranceway and looks back up the lane. As far as he can see, no one has set foot on the stones of the pavement, no one at all.

Should you remove Ibrahim's blindness? You could, you know.

Martel looks down at the white-gray stones underfoot, then back up the deserted lane. Finally he shakes his head.

Apollo would just reblind him, and, besides, where would you shop then, without everyone running away?

He sets his steps toward the south, toward the isolated house and cottage beyond Sybernal. His paces are not light, but they are quick, and eat away the distance.

 

xxx

The man—who wonders whether he is—sits under the covered porch.

He glances up at the wooden planks over his head, lets his eyes trace out the old, old wood from the newer old wood. To the eye, the difference is not great, though he can sense the lack of harmony that the best carpentry cannot fully disguise.

Smoothing the sundered patterns would be easy enough. Like melding into the flowing day-to-day existence of Aurore. Like forgetting dark-haired girls with golden eyes, or fire-haired women with green eyes, or demigods cast back into the sea.

“Except—” The words break as he stands, stretches.

“Except what, Martel?” he snaps at himself.

Except you're a lousy forgetter.

Shaking his head, he picks up the cup from the low table and gulps down the last of the yasmin tea.

He wears only a pair of black shorts, and is barefoot and clean-shaven. His heavy steps thud as he crosses the porch.

The cup floats from his hands and stacks itself in the cleaner.

He continues on into his sleeping quarters.

In the wardrobe are three dusty pale yellow tunics, with matching trousers, kept to remind him, and three sets of matching black tunics and their trousers.

Martel pulls on the nearest set of black pants, then the black tunic and the black belt. He sits in midair and pulls on the heavy black boots.

At one end of the closet is the black cloak. He has not worn it since it was given to him, but it repels the dust and is as fine as the day Emily left it in her villa for him.

He looks at the belt, with the triangular silver buckle that is his only ornamentation.

You wear the belt but not the cloak. Rathe, not Emily. What does that mean?

He frowns, gathers a hint of darkness around him, and, his dressing done, strides from the sleeping room back into the main room of the cottage.

The darkness, and the power it represents, both are things apart from the golden energy field of Aurore.

Just as you're a thing apart? Come off it, Martel.

He shakes his head again. Harder.

On Aurore, how can you tell what you believe from what is real? Or from what some god would have you believe is real?

He stretches out his left arm, palm open and upward, and inhales, leaving his senses to take in the faint tang of the ocean beyond the hillcrest, to take in the subdued chitter of the dorles in the quince trees.