There was a nest under him. He had landed right on it. The eggs, their speckled shells shattered, spread their fluids over his boot heels and into the twigs and moss.
He moved his foot, already sick in his heart. Something black wriggled underneath. It moved into the sunlight; a black head and neck; a black eye staring up at him, bright and hard as a jet pebble at the bottom of a brook. The bird struggled, making him jump back a little, as though he had landed with naked feet on something that stung; the bird flapped hopelessly out onto the moor grass, hopping on one foot, dragging one limp wing after it. It stopped, a little way off, sideways to him, and tipped its head, seeming to regard him.
He wiped his boots on the moss. All the eggs were smashed. The bird made a small keening noise. He turned away and began to walk off, then stopped, cursed, retraced his steps and stamped after the bird, catching it easily in a storm of squawks and feathers.
He twisted its neck and dropped the limp remains into the grass.
That evening he stopped writing his journal and never returned to it. The weather grew humid and oppressive and no rains fell. The man with the kite waved and called out to him one day, from the top of a hill; he hurried away, sweating.
It was ten or so days after the incident with the bird that he admitted to himself he would never be a poet.
He left a couple of days later and was never heard of again, even though the lord's marshal sent word to every town in the land, because the stranger was suspected of being involved in what happened the night he left, when the overseer at the lord's farm was found trussed in his bed, his face fixed in an expression of darkest horror, and his mouth and throat stuffed with dried human tongues and pieces of blank paper, on which he had choked to death.
Nine
He slept until after dawn, then went for a walk to think. He left via the service tunnel from the main hotel to the annexe, and left the dark glasses in his pocket. The hotel had cleaned the old raincoat; he put it on and some thick gloves and wound a scarf round his neck.
He walked carefully along warmed streets and dripping pavements, and held his head up to gaze at the sky. His breath went before him. Little snow-falls slumped off buildings and wires as the weak sunlight and a mild breeze raised the temperature. The gutters ran with clear water and soggy bergs of bumping slush; pipes from buildings ran or dripped with the melt and, when a vehicle passed, it did so with a wet hiss. He crossed the road to the other side, where the sun was.
He climbed steps and crossed bridges; he walked gingerly over icy parts where there was no heating, or it had failed. He wished he'd put on better boots; these looked fine but they didn't have enough grip. To avoid falling you had to walk like an old man, hands splayed as though trying to grasp a stick, bending at the waist when you wanted to walk straight-backed. This annoyed him, but walking on without acknowledging the changed conditions, and slipping on his backside, appealed to him even less.
When he did slip, it was in front of some young people. He was walking carefully down some icy steps leading onto a broad suspension bridge over a railway junction. The youngsters were walking towards him, laughing and joking with each other. He divided his attention between the treacherous steps and the group. They looked very young, and their actions, gestures and pealing voices all seemed to bubble with energy, suddenly making him feel his age. There were four of them; the two young men trying to impress the girls, talking loudly. One of the girls in particular was tall and dark, and elegant in that unselfconscious manner of the recently matured. He kept
his eyes on her, straightening his back, and just before his feet went out from under him, felt a slight swagger return to his walk.
He crashed down on the last step, and sat for a moment, then smiled thinly and got up just before the four young people drew level with him. (One of the young men was guffawing, making a show of covering his mufflered mouth with a gloved hand.)
He brushed some snow from the tails of the raincoat, and flicked some of it at the young man. They went by and on up the steps, laughing. He walked halfway across the bridge — grimacing at the pain seeping up from his backside — and heard a voice call; he turned around and took a snowball full in the face.
He caught a glimpse of them laughing as they sprinted away from the top of the steps, but he was too busy clearing the snow from his nostrils and stinging eyes to see properly. His nose throbbed fiercely, but hadn't re-broken. He walked on, passing an older couple walking arm in arm, who shook their heads and tutted and said something about damned students. He just nodded to them and wiped his face with a handkerchief.
He smiled as he left the bridge, up more steps to an esplanade cut under old office buildings. Once, he knew, he would have been embarrassed at what had happened, embarrassed at slipping, at being seen to slip, at being hit by the snowball after so gullibly turning round on cue, and at the elderly couple witnessing his embarrassment. Once he might have chased after the youngsters, to give them a fright at least, but not now.
He stopped at a small hot drinks stall set up on the esplanade and ordered a mug of soup. He leant against the stall and pulled off one glove with his teeth; he held the steaming mug in his hand, feeling the warmth. He went to the railings, sat down on a bench and drank the soup slowly, in careful sips. The man in the soup stall wiped the counter and listened to the radio, smoking a ceramic cigarette on a chain round his neck.
His backside still ached dully from the slip. He smiled at the city through the steam rising from the mug. Served him right, he told himself.
When he got back to the hotel they'd left a message. Mr Beychae would like to meet him. They would send a car after lunch, unless he objected.
"This is wonderful news, Cheradenine."
"Well, I suppose."
"You're not still being pessimistic, are you?"
"All I'm saying is, don't get your hopes up." He lay back on the bed looking at the ceiling paintings, talking to Sma via the earring transceiver. "I might just get to meet him, but I doubt I'll have any chance to get him out. Probably find he's gone senile and says, "Hey, Zakalwe; still working for the Culture against these gas-heads?" In which case I want my ass hauled out, all right?"
"We'll get you out, don't worry about that."
"If and when I do get the guy, you still want me to head for the Impren Habitats?"
"Yes. You'll have to use the module; we can't risk bringing the Xenophobe in. If you do spring Beychae they'll be on maximum alert; we'd never get in and out without being noticed, and that could swing the whole Cluster against us for interfering."
"So how far's Impren by module?"
"Two days."
He sighed. "I suppose we can handle that."
"You all ready, in case you can do anything today?"
"Yeah. Capsule's buried in the desert and primed; module's hiding in the nearest gas-giant, waiting for the same signal. If they take the transceiver from me, how do I get in touch?"
"Well," Sma said. "Much as I'd like to say "I told you so", and displace you a scout or knife missile, we can't; their surveillance might just be good enough to spot it. Best we can do is put a microsat in orbit and just passive-scan; watch, in other words. If it sees you in trouble, we'll signal the capsule and the module for you. The alternative is to use the phone, would you believe. There's the unlisted Vanguard numbers you already have… Zakalwe?" "Hmm?"
"You do have those numbers?"
"Oh, yeah."
"Or, we've a downlink tap on Solotol's emergency services; just dial three ones and scream "Zakalwe!" at the operator; we'll hear."