Then she thought she must be dreaming. The branches parted, the glowing tips formed an arch—and through them stepped a Tall One, wearing nothing but a kind of curtus—smudged, torn, mended with what might have been lengths of twig.
The Tall One approached close enough in the dim light that they could see him clearly. All of them stared in astonishment.
“What is this?” Tiadba whispered, but again the suit had no answer. He looked a great deal like their trainer, Pahtun, but then, to breeds, Tall Ones tended to resemble one another. He approached and knelt, his dirty face impassive, eyes examining but incurious, as if he was not surprised to find them in this place but felt no immediate concern over their intentions.
“What is this?” Tiadba asked, louder. “Where are we?”
The Tall One shook his head. Then he spoke.
Their helmets suddenly split and fell around their shoulders, making Denbord cry out and cover his eyes and mouth, until he realized he was not dying.
The breeds gasped—the air was thin but sweet enough.
The Tall One said, “They recognize me and they follow my orders. Poor things.” He stroked Tiadba’s shoulder—not her, but the armor she wore. “Out of date. Obsolete, actually. Breaking down under the stress.”
Khren said, “One of us has already died.”
They stood and their heads were of a height with the Tall One’s shoulders.
“I am Pahtun,” he said.
“Pahtun is dead,” Macht said.
“There will always be Pahtuns,” the Tall One said. “Where did he die?”
“In the zone of lies,” Nico said. They all nodded agreement.
The Tall One nodded. “A grand object lesson—don’t you think? I made many copies and broke many rules to help the marchers. If breeds reach my cache, they deserve rest, instruction, better forecasts of Chaos weather…knowledge not available in the Kalpa. And we should refresh and upgrade your armor, don’t you think?”
“That would be good,” Macht said. “But I don’t believe you—not one bit. Pahtun told us not to trust things like you.” He spoke reasonably, without anger, but his face was tense. The Tall One reached up, touched his own nose, and made the sound Pahtun had made when amused—a rumbling, crackling exhalation, somewhat upsetting to a breed. “Good instincts,” he said.
“But if I were a monster, even your poor old damaged armor would have warned you. How are things back in the city? We can’t see it from here, of course.”
“Bad,” Tiadba said. “Very bad.”
“Well, it had to be. The Typhon grows restless, ever stronger, and wants to have done with us. Any more breeds coming after you?”
“We don’t know,” she said. “Maybe not.”
“Then all the more reason to get this thing done,” Pahtun said. “These shrubs will only last a short while. I trained them myself—grew them from old ground. They’re primordial matter, just like you—and me. Good thing you broke through…if you had gone around, you would have crossed a trod, and the Silent Ones have been busy of late. Follow me.”
He got to his feet, towering over them, and held out his arms. “Congratulations, one and all! You’ve made it this far.”
CHAPTER 75
The Green Warehouse
Throughout the warehouse the book group women were arranging their own cots in preparation for the night that was not even remotely a night. For though dark had fallen, and Ginny could see two stars gleaming through the skylight, they were the same two stars. The Earth was not moving. Sun and moon had not changed their positions in the sky.
Ginny reluctantly arranged the blankets on her cot and sat, surrounded by her pitiful cubicle of stacked boxes, exhausted, ready for sleep—but she knew what would happen if she laid down and closed her eyes. She dreaded this part of the dream: the separation (though Jack was asleep just a few yards away—she could hear him faintly snoring); the journey through the…she couldn’t remember what it was. Great gray walls and dusty floors.
If only I could put it all in sequence!
Minimus crept through a crack between the boxes and leaped onto the cot. Ginny let the cat lie across her lap, purring contentment and watching her with the royal concern only a cat can show—aloof, alert, curious only out of politeness.
With Minimus she felt safer, but the cat could not go with her into the dark behind her eyelids—the unwanted world that opened just a crack and rustle beyond.
Finally, she could stay awake no longer. She heard the cat jump down but did not care. She was so tired of trying to understand and take control of her life.
And so, for a few unclocked moments—a brief interlude in a slice of world bereft of real time—she gave up, gave in. She let the out-of-sequence existence she so dreaded wash over her, fill her up. Every time she closed her eyes—anytime she had to rest, to sleep—until her two lives were combined and reconciled—this would be her sacrifice, her misery.
Yes, yes—I’ve dreamed those things before. Move on!
Take me out into the Chaos—send me to the False City—abandon me—get it over with!
The women gathered around the stove. None could sleep. “How long do we have?” Agazutta asked Bidewell. She had recovered her dignity, but there were dark circles under her eyes, and her red hair was in complete disarray.
Bidewell handed them all cups of chamomile tea.
Miriam came last into the darkened, stove-lit room, having checked on Jack and Ginny, and—she murmured to Ellen—having made sure that Daniel and Glaucous were in their closet. Bidewell held his answer until all the women had gathered. Most sat on the old wooden chairs—Agazutta remained standing. Farrah lay back on the overstuffed chair, languid as always, but her eyes flicked at every noise, and her hands clutched the padded chair arms.
“Not long,” Bidewell said. “I haven’t told the children. From this point, things will decay rapidly. I have deeply valued your company.”
“But not our judgment,” Farrah said with a sniff. “Letting those bastards in. Why?”
Bidewell stared up at the high rafters and shook his head. “The stones choose.”
“How do you know Glaucous?” Agazutta asked.
Bidewell made a disgusted grimace. “Him I could have predicted.”
“If he’s a hunter, why let him in?”
“No answer I give will ever suffice…but the sum-runners pick their companions.”
“More like createthem, right?” Ellen asked, her hands making small lost movements to her cheek, her chin. They all jumped at another sharp crack and grind from outside the walls.
“Not to be known,” Agazutta said wearily.
Bidewell looked down and there were tears on his cracked, rugged cheeks, which shocked them all. “I know this much. The shepherds as confirmed by Mnemosyne are by text, out of text—text is central. The sum-runners have mazed their courses throughout all the world-lines, traveling all possible avenues, even the most unlikely, and now they have arrived, summed—come to our attention…and out of themselves, vaster than anything we can imagine, they have made guardians. Even Daniel, though that is not certain.”
“A false one, perhaps,” Miriam said.
“We do not know that,” Bidewell said. “Though his proximity to Glaucous—worrying, certainly. For centuries, there have been rumors of a bad shepherd…But I have never met him, or her.”
“What’s a bad shepherd?” Agazutta asked, combing her fingers through her hair.
“A traveler working his way forward, through other shepherds. Using them. Bringing more than just a stone—bringing something else, for his own motives.”
“Sounds charming,” Farrah said.
Bidewell held his hands over the iron stove, then examined his fingers. “As always, I apologize for my ignorance, ladies,” he murmured. “But as you say, our time is limited. I sense restlessness. I can assure you the opportunities outside are very limited.”