ZERVAKAN

by Rob Steiner

 

Chapter 8

Taran willed the trolley to go faster, but it ignored him, plodding and sputtering along at the same speed despite his growing impatience.  His train for Sydear would leave in fifteen minutes, and he guessed the steam trolley was maybe five minutes away.  He figured another five minutes to run through Revela Street Station, and then another five to store his luggage on the train.  Five minutes to spare was too close for him; he liked being so early that he was the one waiting.

It couldn’t be helped, though.  His goodbyes with Mara and Adhera had been hard.  Mara because his heart broke every time he had to be away from her, and Adhera because their final words were more bitter than civil.  He assured her that he’d return alive and with a miracle cure from the Mystics.  She ignored his assurances, instead wanting the exact day he would return so he could give his consent for the Mercy.  This prompted him to attack her lack of faith in him, to which she replied that the faith he chose six years ago didn’t inspire her confidence in his judgment.  It was an old argument, and Taran chose to leave before they both fired new shots in an already painful exchange.

The trolley finally pulled up to Revela Street Station, a looming monolith of a building, with six marble columns three stories high and a line of sculpted friezes near the flat roof depicting the march of science and reason throughout the Compact’s two hundred year history.

Taran leaped off the trolley, despite being weighed down with several shoulder bags of books, artifacts, and a few changes of clothes.  He had also packed his father’s old Compact army revolver, a gift when Taran was fifteen and when Tobias Abraeu still hoped his son would join the military.  Taran had always enjoyed the lessons his father gave him with the revolver—how to shoot, how to clean it, proper care—but he never once considered the military life to be for him.  It took a few heated arguments for Tobias to accept it.

Taran only hoped Tobias was still proud of a son who chose a life of ostracism over a prestigious career at the university.  Tobias never criticized Taran’s decision to pursue the Mystics, but Taran knew it had to be tiring for his father to deflect the barbs he received from friends and colleagues, not to mention the public scrutiny in the newspapers.

Taran sprinted up the steps to the massive open doors leading into the cavernous train station.  He charged past dark, quiet vendor stalls, a few passengers and beggars sleeping on benches, and two workmen painting white the door trim of exits to the platforms outside.  He looked for platform seven, saw the locomotive puffing coal smoke and steam into the night sky, and headed in that direction.

As he approached, he saw a dozen porters storing a large pile of gear into one of the train’s box cars—suitcases, shoulder bags, and sealed crates.  What surprised him was that there was also a contingent of Shadarlak Armsmen milling about outside one of the passenger cars.  Their dark green uniforms were crisp, their gold tri-corner hats without blemish.  Though they talked quietly among themselves, their demeanors were alert and professional.

The Speaker himself is going to the Beldamark? Taran thought.  He had assumed perhaps the Foreign Minister, but the Speaker?  He wondered what the Pathist hierarchy thought of that.

The Shadarlak eyed Taran as he ran toward the train, several putting hands on their revolvers.  A captain with two gold laurels on his collar strode up to Taran with an upheld hand.

“Excuse me, sir,” the young captain said.  “What’s your business here?”

Breathless, Taran said, “I’m Dr. Taran Abraeu.  I’m the Mystic interpreter.”

“Do you have papers?”

Taran dropped his shoulder bags, then rifled through the one in which he stored the letter Arie gave him.  For a brief moment, terror seized him when he thought he forgot it at his office.  But he found it, pulled it out, and handed it to the waiting captain.  The captain inspected the letter, and seemed to read it several times.  He looked Taran over again, and then called over his shoulder, “Elon!”

An even younger Shadarlak jogged up, saluted, and said, “Sir.”

“Take this to Mr. Cursh with my compliments and ask him to please identify Dr. Abraeu.”

“Yes, sir,” the man said, then ran to the second passenger car from the locomotive, and leaped up the steps.

The captain continued staring at Taran, and Taran began to feel as if he were a rabbit being sized up by a wolf.  The Shadarlak behind the captain stood at ease, but all looked like coiled springs ready to draw their revolvers should Taran so much as sigh.  He knew the Shadarlak were fanatical about protecting the Speaker—not one Speaker had been assassinated in the one hundred years they had been charged with the Speaker’s safety—but Taran never realized how intimidating they might be when their attention was focused on him.

After several tense minutes of sweating under the glare of the Shadarlak, the young man jumped out of the passenger car and jogged to the captain.

“Mr. Cursh identified Dr. Abraeu through the window.  He’s cleared, sir.”

The captain nodded, then handed the letter back to Taran.  “Sir, please leave your gear with the other bags over there.  It will be inspected, and then returned to you in your assigned bunk on the train.”

Taran hesitated.  “Just so you know, Captain…?”

“Latish, sir.”

“Captain Latish, I have a revolver in this bag that I brought—”

“No firearms will be allowed in the presence of the Speaker,” Latish said without letting Taran finish.  “Your weapon will be secured and kept safe.  Now please leave all of your gear in that pile.  Sergeant Macliesh, please search Dr. Abraeu for any other weapons.”

One of the large men behind Latish approached Taran.  Taran said, “I can assure you that I don’t have—”

“It’s standard procedure, sir.  Carry on, sergeant.”

“Lift your arms please, Doctor,” Sergeant Macliesh said in a tone that was not gruff, but meant to be obeyed.  Not wanting to cause the train to wait any longer, Taran submitted to the patdown, having his coat turned inside out, his suspenders checked for knives, and his boots inspected for hidden compartments.  All the while, the other Shadarlak stood watching him.

After the search, and feeling like a criminal, Taran boarded the train and was told by the conductor to proceed to cabin three in the fourth car.  Taran opened the sliding doors to find two other men laying on the bunk beds in a cabin that looked too small for one man.  There were three bunks in the walls of the cabin—two on one side and one on the other.  A small gas lamp on the wall next to the window illuminated the cabin in a flickering light.

The two men stopped chatting when he opened the door.  Both were dressed in black suits with white shirts, marking them as aids to either the Speaker or the Ministers accompanying him.  Taran was surprised to recognize Kumar Ladak on the left bottom bunk, an unlit pipe in his mouth.

“Our Mystic expert has arrived,” Ladak said with a smile.

Taran put the one bag the Shadarlak allowed him to take on board on the free bunk above Ladak, then extended his hand in greeting.

“Nice to see you again, Mr. Ladak.”

“Likewise, Doctor,” Ladak said, shaking Taran’s hand.

“Is Minister Demiati on board?”

Ladak chuckled.  “No.  Unfortunately the Minister is afraid of train travel so I’m to be his eyes and ears on this little expedition.  But between you and me…I think he’d rather not be associated with the Speaker’s Mystic quest once the papers find out about this journey.”

“Not a wise move for a Science Minister, I’d imagine,” Taran said.

Taran looked at the other man.  He sat on the bunk opposite Ladak, had dark hair pulled back in a pony tail, and a thick mustache favored by most male Pathists.  He extended his hand, which Taran shook.  “Chen Flynt, Mr. Cursh’s aid.”

Taran nodded a greeting, then climbed into the top bunk and situated himself so that his feet faced the window, allowing him to see outside.  He saw several more train platforms in the lamp-lit darkness, but all were deserted.  Of course they would be; the Shadarlak would not allow common people anywhere near the Speaker.

Ladak and Flynt were engaged in a debate over the message from the Mystics—or “Tuatha,” as they had called themselves in the letter.  Ladak argued that the Tuathan message was genuine, though like a good Pathist he doubted the Tuathans were really Mystics.  Flynt, however, thought the Mazumdahri had sleeper agents in Calaman who witnessed the storm, drafted the “Tuathan” message, and then tapped the wiretype lines to send the message, making it seem like it had been sent immediately after the storm.  Flynt thought they were simply riding into a Mazumdahri ambush.  Taran did not engage in the debate, nor did the two men ask his opinion, which was fine with him.  He just wanted to sleep, physically exhausted from his run through the station and his emotional good-byes to Adhera and Mara.

After another fifteen minutes, the train’s horn bellowed, and the car lurched forward with a hiss of steam and the screech of steel wheels on rails.  Once underway, the debate between Ladak and Flynt cooled until they were both silent.

Taran stared out the window, watching the city float by, turning from densely crowded townhouses to sparse stone homes, and then fields, forests, and hills, all illuminated by the full moon and the rings of Ahura and Angra.  Over the next hour, they passed occasional towns, but never slowed even when passing a station.  Most stations were dark and silent at this time of night, anyway, but Taran did see some people sitting on the platforms waiting for early morning trains.

Taran dozed for a while, but was awakened when a Shadarlak private opened the door without knocking and announced that their bags could be picked up in the baggage car at their convenience.  He shut the door without another word.  Ladak and Flynt seemed amused.

“So much for bringing our bags to our cabins like we were promised,” Flynt said, rolling out of his bunk.

“They’re Shadarlak,” Ladak said.  “Not porters.”

After retrieving some of their baggage—not all of it, since there was hardly room in the cabin for their bodies, let alone bags—Taran’s bunkmates settled in for the night time voyage.  The motion of the train was soothing, and it soon produced snores from the other men.

But Taran could not return to sleep after his initial dozing.  Excitement over finally meeting Mystics warred with memories of his lies to Adhera and his assurances to Mara before he left—as he sat in her bed stroking her long black hair, wet with pink sweat—that he would make her well again.  He tried not to let the thought of failure enter his mind.  Though he did wonder how far into the Wild Kingdoms he could get with a sick daughter.

Sleep finally took Taran, but gave him up too soon when the rays from the rising sun shined in his face through the window.

He spent most of the day watching the farms, plains, and forests speed by, and studying his Mystic language books.  He was excited to find a reference to “Tuatha,” but it referred to an ancient city on the coast of the Gulf of Pagilah in what is now Edellia.  Perhaps the Mystics who fled to the Beldamark were originally from this city, and took its name as the name of their tribe.  It was a puzzle he would have spent days or weeks working through his texts to figure out, but he knew he needn’t bother—in a few days he’d have a chance to ask the “Tuatha” himself.

When Taran’s eyes grew tired from all his reading, he took a few strolls around the train, but could not go much farther beyond two cars up because the Shadarlak blocked his way to the Speaker’s car next to the locomotive.  So he decided to go to the back of the train, three cars down from his.  The last car was a coach car filled with Shadarlak, some sleeping, some playing cards, and others standing watch, their eyes scanning the countryside for hidden threats.  Taran thought the biggest threat out there would be a herd of cattle roaming across the train tracks, but the Compact was still technically at war with Mazumdahr and enemy saboteurs had been known to attack passenger trains when the fighting still raged.

Taran made his way to the door in the back of the car and stepped outside.  The fresh air of the plains was exhilarating compared to the stifling, coal-haze atmosphere in Calaman.  There was a bench to the right of the door, and Taran sat down to watch the tracks, the trees, the hills, and the occasional farmhouse disappear over the horizon behind him.

After passing the time with his thoughts about Mara and the Mystics for almost an hour, Kumar Ladak stepped outside and sat on the bench next to Taran.

“You never realize how big this country is,” Ladak said, “until you have to travel across it.”  Ladak filled a pipe with tobacco, lit it, and puffed on it thoughtfully.

“Is this your first trip to the north?” Taran asked.

“Mercy, no,” Ladak said.  “In fact, I was just in Sydear last week setting up the logistics for this trip.  Long voyage, but a beautiful one.  You?”

“I’ve been to the Beldamark twice,” Taran said.  “Or at least attempted to go there twice.  The first time I made it to Markwatch, but could not enter the Beldamark.  The second time, we tried to enter at Markwatch again, but were denied entry at the last minute by the Turicians.”

“Bloody Turicians,” Ladak said.  “They weren’t even going to let us into their country for this mission.  Lucky for us, though, they had a miraculous ‘revelation’ from Ahura that that was what the ring wanted.”

“What kind of revelation?”

“They didn’t say.  But one day they were against us coming, then the next day they were falling over themselves to invite us in.”

“Interesting.”

Ladak and Taran silently watched the landscape slip by for a few minutes, then Ladak said, “I understand your daughter has the Blood plague.”

Taran said, “Yes…”

“And you haven’t given her the Mercy.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Ladak, I’d rather not talk about it.”

“I just wanted to say that I admire your resistance.”

Taran stared at Ladak.  It was unheard of for a committed Pathist, much less a member of the Ministry of Science, to oppose the Mercy.

Ladak smiled.  “I’ve never been a big fan of it, nor am I an Ahura cultist.  I’m a committed Pathist, but the Mercy just never sat right with me.  I can understand when it comes to the Blood, but too many people these days want it for conditions that are potentially curable.  You’d be surprised how many people in my position agree.”

“I would have thought it was zero.”

“It’s very dangerous to one’s career and reputation to oppose certain tenets of Pathism,” Ladak said.  “Not all of us are as brave as you.”

“You have no idea what you can do when your child’s life is at stake.”

“Having no children myself, I can only imagine.  Do you have a picture of her?”

Taran smiled.  “Always.”

He pulled out a frayed sequoia photograph from the pocket in his jacket and handed it to Ladak.  It showed him, Adhera, and Mara, all dressed in their best clothes, posing in front of a white background, proud expressions and hints of smiles on their faces.

Taran remembered every detail of that day six years ago.  The photograph was taken in a studio two blocks from their old house in Calaman’s wealthy Hegron district.  After the photo they had gone to one of the new iced cream parlors that were opening all over the city, a place called Hegron Confections.  As they sat in the parlor, Mara gobbling up the iced cream, Taran noticed a drop of pink sweat at her brow.  He had ignored it, knew what it might be, but could not accept it.  Later that night, Mara woke up screaming and coughing up gouts of blood.  She was diagnosed with the Blood the next day.

The photograph was the last one they ever took together.

Ladak looked at it for several moments, and then handed it back to Taran.  “You have a beautiful family.”

Taran nodded, took the photograph and placed it back in the left pocket inside his coat.  “I appreciate you telling me all of that.  It helps to know I’m not alone.”

Ladak stood.  “I thought it might.”  He put a hand on Taran’s shoulder and said, “I hope the Mystics are what you want them to be.  You deserve it, my friend.”  Then Ladak opened the door and entered the car.

Taran sat on the bench a while longer, hoping that Ladak was right.