Redoubt (19 page)

Mags laughed weakly. “Y’know, now I kinda know how that mad feller felt, the one that
died? I mean, he was here t’do us harm, but feelin’ like somethin’ is watchin’ ye
ain’t a good feelin’. ’Twas bad enough fer just that little bit. I’m just glad I could
get away from it.”

Caelen glanced at him sharply. “Well . . . you were around him. We still don’t exactly
know what was plaguing him. Maybe whatever it was has somehow attached itself to you,
now?”

He shivered. “Hope not.” Occasionally the poor man’s ravings came back to him in nightmares.

“Well, I hope so too—but that’s a possibility we should consider, so if it becomes
worse, or it follows you here, I want to know about it immediately.” Caelen’s expression
said without words that he was going to take no argument on the subject.

“Oh, no worries! I’ll wake ye up in middle of night if I have to!” Mags promised fervently.
“But didn’t we figger out that the things was somethin’ that was supposed to protect
Valdemar? So why would it be pickin’ on me now?”

Caelen could only shrug. “I’m sorry, Mags, I am just as much in the dark here as you
are.

:It might be . . . not one of ours, but something similar,:
Dallen said, thoughtfully.
:They aren’t the sharpest swords in the rack.:

:Who aren’t?:
he asked.

But Dallen didn’t answer, and he knew there was no point in trying to tease an answer
out of him. The little information that he, Lena, and Bear had uncovered in the archives
had suggested that the “things with eyes” were something set up by Herald Vanyel . . .
so perhaps they were a species of invisible creature, and something
like
them had spotted Mags?

So now I have invisible things chasin’ after me?
Why couldn’t he just have a life like—Gennie—where his worst worries would be how
long it would take to get into Whites and whether or not they’d win the next Kirball
game?

But there was no point in quizzing Dean Caelen any further, since it was clear he
was at the end of his knowledge as well.

“Reckon we’ve got as far as we can, sir,” Mags said instead, getting to his feet.
“Thenkee.”

“Thank
you
for coming to me immediately, Mags,” Caelen replied, with a wan smile. “You’ve got
good sense, sense I sometimes wish other people would demonstrate before we end up
with problems on our doorstep.”

As Mags shut the door to the Dean’s office, he wondered about that last remark. Could
Caelen have been referring to Lena and Bear?

:He said other
people,
:
Dallen said, tartly.
:And if you recall, I was the one that advised silence on their part, and I took full
responsibility for that. Furthermore, neither Lena nor Bear are
his
charges.:

:Fair enough. So that means you ain’t people?:
Mags chuckled.
:Good. Means I don’ need to share m’pocket pies no more. Them’s people-food.:

Dallen’s wordless snort of indignation did not need any translation.

* * *

The next time Mags climbed out on the roof, he felt the
eyes
on him even before he was fully out of the hatch.

:Ideers?:
he asked Dallen, crouching in the shadows, every nerve on fire.

:I . . . can tell where it’s coming from, anyway,:
Dallen said, hesitantly.
:Even if it makes no sense at all. It’s coming from
above
you.:

Above? Reflexively, he glanced up and, predictably, saw nothing at all except the
night sky, obscured tonight by clouds, with only a few stars shining.

Of course, it was darker than anyplace other than the inside of the mine. He wouldn’t
be able to see anything smaller than a horse even if it was practically on top of
him.

:Ideers?:
he repeated, sharply.

:What you did the last time.:

So he ran, ran in another direction entirely than Dallen’s. Sprinted from rooftop
to rooftop as fast as he could, just to get rid of that horrible, flesh-creeping feeling
of
being watched.

:It’s following you, still above you. But it’s slower than you are.:

Well, there went his hope that it was some strange phenomenon, maybe some sort of
weather thing, that had nothing to do with anything living. He hadn’t thought he could
go faster, but he did, and for good measure, he changed direction, time and time again.
He was in a better neighborhood, but the houses were even closer together, which made
his progress swifter.

:It’s stopping. I think you lost—huh.:

:What?:
He paused with his hand on a rooftree, panting.

:It’s gone.:
Dallen sounded baffled.
:Not as in, ‘it went away,’ but as in ‘it just vanished.’ It didn’t fade, it was as
though someone blew out a candle. There one moment, gone the next.:

Mags swore. He didn’t know a lot of oaths, and he didn’t use them often, but all of
them were screamingly obscene, and at the moment, every one of them felt absolutely
appropriate.

* * *

This time Nikolas was at the shop, and so was one of the most sensitive Empaths at
Healer’s Collegium. At the usual time, Mags went up through the roof. And just as
before, he felt eyes on him.

This time, despite the crawling of his skin, he stayed where he was, waiting for Nikolas
and Healer Charis to make their own assessments. After what seemed like forever, Dallen
said,
:Right. Come back in.:

He did, but only as far as the attic. The sense of being watched remained for a moment,
then abruptly vanished. Just as Dallen had said the other night; it wasn’t as if it
faded away, it was as if it had completely vanished. As if a door had opened on it,
then closed again.

:Now go back out.:

He did, and waited, and to his intense relief, this time, nothing happened. But right
after the relief came puzzlement. Why hadn’t it come back a second time? Shouldn’t
it have reappeared when he did?

He dropped back through the roof and went back down into the shop, where Nikolas and
Charis were waiting in the box for him. Nikolas had blown out the lamp at the doorway,
closed and locked the front door, and blown out the lamp in the front of the shop.
The shop was officially closed for business. Charis was not wearing his Greens; he
was dressed in a scruffy, nondescript sleeveless tunic and trews from among Nikolas’
disguises. His blond hair had been left alone; it wasn’t likely anyone down here would
recognize him.

“I got no feelings from it at all,” Charis said, before Mags could ask any questions.
His normally stoic expression had been replaced by one of extreme puzzlement. “Nothing.
No anger, not even interest.” He shook his head. “I can’t even properly describe it.
It was detached, intelligent, yet incurious. Almost as if someone had set a watchdog,
yet it was a watchdog trained only to
watch,
and not do anything about what it saw.”

Nikolas nodded and ran his fingers through his hair. The shop was very quiet tonight,
and Mags could hear the ticking of wood beetles chewing away at the beams, the skittering
of a mouse over in the corner. He wondered if they ought to get a shop cat. “That
was the same impression I got,” Nikolas agreed. “I . . . I don’t know what it is.
Dallen and Rolan think it might be some sort of . . . not a ghost, but a sort of spirit
they either can’t, or won’t describe. But they don’t think it’s harmful; they just
think that for some reason it got curious about Mags, but not curious enough to follow
him for very long. If they’re wrong, and it
is
a ghost, Caelen has a new theory based on his own research. He thinks it’s someone
who hasn’t yet realized that he or she is dead, maybe a very young child, who is just
watching things to see what happens.”

Mags looked at his mentor dubiously. “Y’know, that ain’t makin’ me feel any better.
If anythin’, that’s creepier.”

“Well, Caelen says if that
is
the case, then this sort of ghost fades fairly quickly, and no, we don’t know why
they do, he just says that they do. So this won’t last more than a moon or two more.”

“A moon or two.” Mags sighed. “Well, I reckon I can put up with it for that long,
I guess.” The thought of a
dead child
watching him rather made him want to crawl right out of his skin, but he couldn’t
tell Nikolas that.

Why was it so difficult to figure out what this thing was, anyway? He would have thought,
with one of the most skilled Mindspeakers around and one of the best Healers, they’d
at least have a guess.

“If ye don’ mind, I druther not go over roofs tonight,” he said, finally. “One go-around
of bein’ stared at is enough fer one night.”

The Healer smiled. “I fully understand that, Mags,” he said. “I really do. I felt
what you felt . . . and that made me very curious. If you don’t mind my asking, what
is it that makes this so difficult for you?”

Nikolas let them all out of the office, blew out the lantern after lighting a candle
stub at it, locked the office door, and led them out the front door. Mags tried to
puzzle out what the Healer had meant.

Finally he gave up. “Don’t reckon I understand the question, sir,” he said respectfully.

Nikolas coughed a little. “I told you that you need to be more direct with Mags, Charis,”
the King’s Own said as he locked up the shop. “He is a very direct sort of fellow.”

“An’ there’s a powerful lot that’s difficult fer me, sir,” Mags added ruefully. The
three of them trudged down the street together, heads down, shoulders hunched, three
men going home after a long and tiring day. The street was quite empty tonight; the
only activity seemed to be in a few upper-story rooms and in the drink shops—and there
was not much of that.

“I mean, why does the prospect of a spirit frighten you,” Charis asked after a long
moment.

Mags couldn’t help himself. He shuddered.

It took him a long time to answer. These were not things he cared to think about.

“I was pretty much a mine-slavey from about the time Cole Pieters reckoned I could
pile rocks into a cart an’ pull the cart outa the mine,” he said. “Now, reckon the
kind
of mine that’d be, an’ the kind of man that’d put a bare toddler down there t’work.”
He paused to let the Healer contemplate that. “Even if he weren’t a cruel man, only
a greedy one, it weren’t like he paid any attention t’makin’ things safe. Pretty much
all’a kiddies doin’ the daytime diggin’ were just that. Kiddies. Kiddies gen’rally
aren’t thinkin’ about bein’ safe. They don’t shore up behind ’em, or if they do, they
don’t make sure of it. They ain’t got the knowing an’ the learning that tells ’em
when a seam’s full’a cracks. They get real hungry, and they’re thinkin’ of their bellies
an’ how many sparklies it’ll take t’ get a extra slice of bread, an’ they ain’t careful
when they’re chippin’ stuff out, specially if it’s big.” He paused and let the Healer
take all that in. “Reckon ye can see where that’s goin’, sir. Lots of cave-ins. Lots
of people die. Would have been a lot more, ’cept the rock was pretty sound an’ didn’t
need a lot of shorin’ up. But this’s what generally happened. If the whole roof comes
down, it generally kills you on the spot, an’ yer lucky.”

“Lucky!” Charis exclaimed, shocked.

“Aye. Supervisor hears it, or else he don’t, but when he comes down yer way, he don’t
hear you tappin’ no more, an’ he checks. Now, if where you was workin’ was a good
vein, he’ll send somebody in there t’clear out.”

Mags took a long, deep breath. “Now, if the rockfall didn’ kill ye dead, you’ve been
a-lyin’ there for however long it took him to check. An’ if the shaft you been workin
is blocked up now, well.
Maybe
they’ll get to you, an’
maybe
they won’t, cause if it’s blocked up too bad, it’ll have t’ be a right good seam
or vein t’ spend the time t’clear out. So yer lyin’ there, an’ maybe you don’t live.
An’ if ye don’t, you’re lucky.”

This time the Healer didn’t utter an exclamation, but Mags could tell he was about
to explode with indignation. Of course he was. The very idea that someone young and
presumably healthy was
lucky
to die was anathema to a Healer.

“So say it’s too blocked up t’ get to ye fast. Now, remember, they
ain’t
tryin’ t’clear it t’ get to
you.
They’re clearin’ it to get to the stones. And say ye weren’t dead in the rockfall,
an’ ye don’t die soon. Ye’re lyin’ there, in the dark. It’s getting harder an’ harder
t’breathe. Ye mebbe got a lotta rock layin’ on ye. Yer bones is prolly broke.” He
felt the Healer shrinking at the picture he was painting, as well he should. It was
horrific, and one that Mags had pictured as his own fate in countless nightmares.
Still did, actually, now and again. But he went on, though he was drenched in a cold
sweat of fear, because he realized that he wanted, desperately, to have someone
understand,
at long last, understand gut- and bone-deep, the horrible, terror-filled life he
and the others had endured, day after day, in that place. He had never spoken much
about it, not even to Nikolas and Amily. He wasn’t sure why. But here at last was
someone who would not only understand it but would feel it. He was a Healer, he was
an Empath. He knew what broken bones and suffocation felt like; he’d endured them
with his patients. He knew the agony of lacerated flesh and nerve. And he knew fear,
the fear you felt when you finally accepted that you were going to die, be snuffed
out, and be gone. As hideous as life might be, it was something they all clung to.
And not one of them had a hope for anything afterward. Why should they? Such things
were promised by men in fine clothing who came, looked past their protruding bones
and frightened eyes, and told Cole Pieters what a good thing he was doing, caring
for so many orphans. If they could be so mistaken about what was in front of their
own eyes, how could anyone believe what they said about gods and heavens and things
after death that
no one
had ever seen?