Binary Part 6

"And this time there's a reason for that."

"What? You're telling me that Markis has something to do with it. Come on, Jarid. You can do better than that." He moved back to join his son at the window. "What could he possibly have to gain from doing something like that? You really expect me to believe such stupidity this time."

Jarid nodded. "You will when I tell you what's been happening."

"So tell me. Let's see how much I believe of your little story then."

Jarid nodded slowly. "Markis has been spending a lot of time at the Kallathik burrows. It hasn't been to pacify them. I believe it's been to incite them, to take advantage of the current confusion. He's told me all about what he plans. He wants you to retire, to lose control, one way or another, so he can take over fully. He's sick of waiting for you to announce your retirement. He's asked me to work with him in return for a greater share of the power and his inheritance. With the Return here, with a Kallathik revolt, you'd be forced to travel to the burrows yourself to sort things out. No communication. Poor transport. Accidents happen in Storm Season, don't they?"

Aron looked at his younger son aghast. "How can you even suggest such a thing?"

"Because it's true." Jarid spoke in a flat tone.

For once in his life, Aron felt lost for words. He clamped his jaw shut and crossed back to the table. He pulled out a chair and sat heavily. He didn't know which was worse: to believe that Markis should become involved in a plot to unseat him by whatever means, even to the extent of his life, or that Jarid should concoct such a tale just as a way of bettering his position. Why now?

"Jarid, come here and sit down."

"No, Father. Before I do, there's something I have to show you. Wait here."

Aron frowned. What was the boy playing at now?

Jarid crossed the room rapidly and disappeared from the chamber. He returned a moment later with another person in tow. It was an Atavist! Jarid had brought a scruffy, dirty Atavist here, into the heart of the Guild, into the Guild Chamber itself. Jarid stopped with the Atavist a pace behind, looking around nervously.

Aron made to lift himself from the chair, his knuckles whitening on its arms, but Jarid lifted a hand, waving him down.

"No, wait. Listen to what he has to say. You don't believe me. Then listen to what he has to say. Go on."

The Atavist bowed his head. "It is true. I have been present at meetings where Markis Ka Vail has spoken to Kallathik elders, talking of action against the Guilds."

"What meetings? What are you talking about?"

"Over the past few months, Guildmaster, there have been a number of meetings in the Kallathik settlements."

"And how do you come to know about this?"

"You must know that there are links between our communities and the Kallathik people. We trade. On occasion, we work together to mutual benefit. From time to time, we have reason to be in the same location."

Aron shook his head. No, this was too unbelievable. "And why should I believe you?"

The Atavist lifted his head and looked him straight in the eye. Aron held the gaze and then finally looked back down at his hands. This was an Atavist. He didn't need to ask.

"Get this creature out of here," he said quietly. "Now!"

Jarid rapidly ushered the Atavist from the Chamber and promptly came back to stand in the same position, a self-satisfied look on his face. Aron waved vaguely at a chair opposite. Jarid hesitated, then nodded and pulled the chair back to sit.

"So why, Jarid? Why?"

Jarid worked his jaw before answering. "I told you. Markis is impatient. He's said more than once that he is sick of doing all the work without having any of the status. He says that he can't believe you're going to retire any time soon. To be honest, I can't see you stepping down tomorrow, either."

Aron rubbed one palm over the smooth wood. "No, you're right. Markis isn't ready yet. I'm not ready yet." He looked up and narrowed his eyes. "And neither are you." Jarid was keeping his face expressionless. Aron had a sudden thought. "So what part have you had in all of this?"

The boy looked suddenly aggrieved. "I've told you about it, haven't I? I didn't have to say a thing, did I? I didn't need to tell you anything. What do I have to gain anyway?"

Aron considered. "No, of course." Aron nodded. He closed his eyes with a deep sigh, then slowly opened them again. "At least I can rely on you."

Jarid's expression softened. "Of course you can, Father," he said. "You can always rely on me. Always."

Aron nodded, looking away. "Now, leave me. Go and attend to things. I need to think."

Jarid pushed his chair back and stood. "You let me know if you need anything," he said. "I will do whatever you require."

Aron nodded again and watched Jarid thoughtfully as he strode purposefully from the chamber. Let him know if he needed anything. Certainly. It was hard to know what he needed right now. He shook his head. What could he possibly need?

"Jarid, wait," he said.

Jarid stopped and turned slowly. "Father?"

"There is something. Find out everything you can about Markis's plans. But do it subtly. I want to be in a position of strength when I finally decide what I'm going to do. Find out how he means to do it, and when. That way I can be prepared."

Jarid nodded, turned, and left the chamber, leaving Aron to chew over the things that he could barely now believe. There was a deep hollow sitting in the depths of his stomach as he stared blankly across the table.

Just outside the room, Jarid leaned back against the corridor wall and closed his eyes. He bit his lower lip, trying to suppress the grin that kept threatening to overtake his face. Step one accomplished. The Atavist had been a stroke of sheer brilliance. Who would dare to question the word of an Atavist? Hopefully the man would be gone, far from the Guild Halls, his payment enough to keep him quiet for the time being. A position of strength. That was what he'd said. If Jarid knew his father well enough, the old man wouldn't bother with verifying the man's story, and even if he did, he wouldn't find him. He'd be looking for a real Atavist. And if he questioned Markis, so what? It was his word against the word of Jarid, and now that the seed had been sown....

He pushed himself from the wall and headed down the corridor, letting the grin finally take shape.

Nine.

Sandon and his three companions wound their way into the Atavist camp proper. The padder's motion beneath him was not exactly uncomfortable, but the animal smell was all around him, making his head feel thicker than it already was. The Atavists walked on in silence; during most of the journey, the only thing to disturb the quiet progress had been the occasional grunt and snort from the padder. Sandon watched the three men as he rocked gently along, trying to pick up any clues, but their gazes remained fixed ahead, the hoods partially concealing their faces, leaving him nothing to play with, though he was barely in the mood for it the way he was feeling. They seemed intent only on reaching their destination, wherever that might be in the midst of the approaching cl.u.s.ter of tents, wagons and cookfires.

Although there seemed to be many Atavists gathered here, the greetings between members of the camp were few. A brief nod, a slight lifting of the hand, that was it. If Sandon's head would just stop throbbing for two minutes, he might be able to pick up some relevant details, but it was all a confused jumble of impressions, of strangeness. He'd never been even close to an Atavist camp, let alone right slap bang in the middle of one.

"Here we are," said Badrae, drawing the padder to a halt.

His two companions reached up to help Sandon down off the animal's back. He regained his feet unsteadily, swaying slightly, feeling as if his knees were about to give way. Badrae motioned Melchor and Arnod to lend support. They stepped forward, one on either side, placed hands on his arm and beneath his armpits, steadying him. Feeling a little more comfortable with the support, Sandon looked around, trying to determine exactly were he was.

They stood in front of a low wagon, hard wooden wheels high and round at its sides. The wagon body and the wheels were painted a deep blue. A cloth roof covered the back, stretched taut above wide curving wooden ribs beneath. At least Sandon presumed they were wood. At this moment, the front spars of the wagon lay at rest, its animals tethered elsewhere. The owners clearly weren't planning on going anywhere in a hurry. Beneath the wagon bed an arrangement of shelves was affixed, packed full of cloth-wrapped bundles. He briefly wondered what might be in those bundles, goods, provisions; it could just as well have been laundry, for all he knew. The cloth was rough, woven, slightly yellow-cream or pale brown.

He only managed brief glimpses of the ordered encampment that surrounded the central firepits; it was hard with Arnod and Melchor on either side. A line of padders stood tethered off to one side in a line. Children ran in and out between the animals. They might have been anybody's children, anywhere on Aldaban, if it were not for the simple homespun clothing they wore, all in plain, drab colors. Apart from the wagons, each picked out in a different simple blocked hue, with wheels to match, there seemed to be a singular lack of color in the camp.

"Alise," said Badrae. "You are needed."

There was a stirring inside the wagon, followed by the appearance of a head at the rear -- a round, pleasant face, clear blue eyes and dark hair tied in a tight knot behind her head. She quickly took in the scene and gestured them forward.

"Bring him here. What happened?"

"His groundcar fell over," said Badrae.

Strange way to put it, thought Sandon.

The woman called Alise simply nodded and waved them closer. "Well, help him up, you two," she said, reaching down to take Sandon's hand and help him up the steps at the wagon's rear. She led him inside the cluttered interior, and once he was seated on a simple wooden bench that ran along one side of the interior, she poked her head out the back again. "That's it, brothers. I will look after him from here. I'll call you if I need you. You too, Badrae. Go on now."

Sandon took in the wagon's interior. There were shelves and bundles everywhere. A simple sleeping pallet lay at one end toward the front. At the wagon's rear stood what was obviously a stove, fixed tight into one corner. He frowned at that -- surely, it must present a risk -- and winced at the sudden pain across his face. He could feel the heat emanating from the stove, even where he sat. How could you have a stove inside a wagon? A simple curtain was drawn across the front, blocking his view of the outside. Alise pulled down the rear curtains, closing them tightly to the interior. It was darker, but enough light filtered through the canvas roof for everything to be plain enough.

She leaned forward, casting a critical gaze over him. "Well, you don't seem to badly hurt, but it pays to be sure," she said. She reached up to shift the hair away from his forehead and inspected it closely. She felt the skull, gently probing with her fingers, and withdrew when she encountered the lump and he gave a sharp intake of breath, wincing.

"Nowhere else?" she said, standing back, her hands on her hips.

"My arm and my shoulder," he said.

She came and sat beside him, gently probing at the arm and the shoulder where he indicated. Sandon sat there through it impa.s.sively, trying to ignore the ministrations and concentrate on the jumble of materials on the wagon's shelves. This close, he could catch the smell of her -- clean, fresh, unscented soap. Not what he'd imagined at all. And there was something else: the smell of plants, or herbs, or perhaps earth. It wasn't an unpleasant smell, but it was clean and different. Finally, she seemed satisfied and she stood, smoothed her dress and moved across to crouch in front of one of the many shelves.

"It's mainly bruising," she said. "But I'm more concerned about your head. You could have a concussion and we need to be careful. I'm going to mix you something, which I want you to drink. It will take away some of the pain, though not all and help steady you. I want to keep an eye on you for a few hours. There'll be no sleep."

"I -- "

"No, don't try and talk. Just try and relax."

He watched as she placed a pot on the stove, filled it with water from a jug sitting nearby and then proceeded to pour a mixture of things from various packets into the pot. She stirred it slowly, mixing the ingredients. All the while she concentrated, barely taking her eyes from the task at hand. Sandon watched her, trying to guess how old she might be. It was hard to tell with the simple homespun dress, the lack of personal decoration. She could be late twenties, perhaps early thirties, but no older than that. Finally, she seemed satisfied, and she dipped a plain pottery mug into the brew, and returned to him, cupping it between her hands.

"Careful. It's hot. Sip, don't swallow," she said offering the mug. "What are you called?"

"Sandon Yl Aris."

"Well, Sandon Yl Aris, drink this slowly."

Sandon took the proffered mug. "And what about you? I know you are Alise. But what else? Alise what?" She hesitated, looking slightly confused. "Oh, I forgot," he said. "Badrae told me. You don't have family names."

"No, we are all one family here."

"Well, you can call me Sandon," he said. "Just Sandon is fine."

He took a tentative sip at the mug, expecting the worst. It didn't taste too bad, after all, slightly earthy, but not too bad. He took another sip.

She fussed around the shelves, looking for something, then returned with a pot and a small wooden spatula.

"Sit still," she said. "I am going to apply an ointment to those cuts on your face. It will stain the skin, but you must keep it there. It will make sure there's no infection."

He hadn't even been aware of the smaller cuts, but as she first patted his skin clean with a moist cloth, and then dabbed the preparation over his forehead, he very quickly knew they were there. Everywhere she smeared the ointment, there was a sharp hot stinging, tracing the lines of damage. The cut that ran across his cheek and over his nose burned like fire and he sucked air in through his teeth. Finally she sat back, inspecting her handiwork and nodded.

"When you have finished that, we will find you somewhere where you can stay undisturbed and I can look in on you, but take your time. There's no hurry. Give it time to work." She moved to sit cross-legged on the sleep pallet, watching him.

"So what are you doing here?" Sandon asked, after another sip. He reached up with one hand to probe his injured face, but quickly withdrew it in response to a stern look.

"We are where we are, where the Prophet takes us."

Sandon slowly lowered the mug. "But I thought you believed the cities and all they represent were evil. Why so many of you so close to Yarik?"

"We are where we are."

"But -- "

Alise shook her head. "Drink."

Sandon bit off his next question and took another sip at the medicinal brew. He was itching to find out more, but she was right, he was in no real state for logical thought. Despite his curiosity, the pounding still thumped inside his head. Better to drink whatever it was she had prepared for him and let it do its work if it was going to do anything. Then he remembered. On the journey to the camp, Badrae had mentioned a healer, but he had the distinct impression that whoever it was had been a man.

"So," he said. "Are you the healer?"

"I help in that regard. I am not alone in this task. We share the work amongst those with the knowledge."

Sandon nodded and immediately regretted the action. He grimaced and returned to the brew, feeling slightly uncomfortable under Alise's gaze.

By the time he was nearing the bottom of the mug, he was already starting to feel something. The dull throbbing in his head was beginning to subside, the ache in his shoulder had diminished, and suddenly he was overcome with a strange feeling of unreality. What had she done to him? He knew he should be concerned, but he just couldn't be bothered. Still she sat watching him. He took a last swallow and placed the mug down gently on the bench beside him. Alise gave a satisfied nod, stood and disappeared out the back of the wagon, motioning him to stay where he was. Moments later she returned, this time with Badrae's head following her through the canvas flaps.

"Good," he said. "Help me get him to his feet."

Badrae stepped into the wagon and with Alise's a.s.sistance, helped Sandon to stand. He felt numb, but despite the strangeness, alert. The stinging on his face had faded too. Now the skin felt merely warm. It throbbed faintly, in time to his pulse.

"Come, Sandon," said Badrae. He led him down the steps and out across a patch of open ground to a small group of tents. Sandon wobbled as he ducked to enter, Badrae guiding him down. Inside, the tent was bare, except for another simple sleeping pallet. They weren't high on comfort here. Badrae disappeared, and then reappeared moments later, bearing a large book beneath his arm. He stopped and handed to Sandon.

"Here. This will help you pa.s.s the time: The Words of the Prophet."

Sandon took the tome, wincing slightly with the weight of it. "Um, thank you," he said. Badrae watched him as he nestled the book in his lap, then, with another brief satisfied nod, ducked out of sight.

The Words of the Prophet. Just what he needed.

The book was old. Ancient yellowing leaves and a worn leather binding creaked as he turned the pages. He scanned the painfully lettered text, all hand worked, barely taking anything in. He'd been sitting for hours. From time to time, Alise had appeared, ducking beneath the tent flap, then crouching beside him to look at his face, his eyes, and poke and prod. He put up with the ministrations, instinctively knowing that she had his best interests at heart. Last time she'd visited, he had even attempted a smile, but found his face hard to move. That had been over two hours ago. Bored, and with the aches starting to return to various parts of his body, he closed his eyes. Within moments, he was starting to drift.

Bilious orange swept behind his lids. A crack and rumble. The noise of padders straining against their tethers, skittish movement, filtering through canvas walls. He opened his eyes quickly, groaned and shifted, regretting the move immediately as he put sudden pressure on his hip. Canvas walls? Flat sleeping pallet. Ancient text. What was he doing here? He lifted an arm, the wrong arm and groaned as sharp pain shot up from his elbow. His hip was sore too now, along with everything else, from where he'd been sitting on the hard ground. How could people live like this? He lifted his other arm and gingerly explored his head. The bruise was still there. He didn't know what he'd been expecting. At least the strange sense of unreality seemed to have faded a little.

More noises came from beyond the tent walls. Voices issuing commands, the sound of padders again. He felt it too, a tension in the air, an expectancy, waiting for -- what? Then suddenly, all was still. He levered himself into a more upright position as another boom and crash lanced light across the narrow s.p.a.ce, sharp yellowish light, harsh against the deep orange. Silhouetted figures stretched against canvas walls, distorted in their length. d.a.m.n it. He wasn't supposed to be here. He had to...he had to...

He felt the first stirrings of the ground as he struggled with the thought, chasing the idea away with realization. A gentle trembling flickered through the ground beneath him. Then another. Throwing his arms back, he braced himself, waiting. One moment. Two. An eternity. Then there it was; the ground slammed up against him, throwing him flat. He sprawled, his arms offering no support at all. He knew as he bucked and rode the heaving ground that he'd have been better off staying flat. Now there was fresh pain in his shoulder, and his wrist on the other arm had been wrenched as well. He screwed his eyes tight shut, ground his teeth together and waited for the endless shaking to stop. Then it was gone.