Six

Sandon stood gazing across the parking area outside the Principate buildings. There was something wrong here — something very wrong. Despite his protestations, Principal Men Darnak hadn't even been prepared to discuss the matter further. The realization hit him yet again and the bottom went out of his stomach. He'd just been removed from office. Men Darnak had just dismissed him. It wasn’t possible. Everything he had worked for, all of his careful moves, gone in an instant. It just didn’t make sense.

He'd spent his life devoted to supporting the old man, supporting his plans and his actions. Leannis Men Darnak was the only man that held their world together, gave them the stability that they needed. Everything that Sandon was, everything he did, was because of Men Darnak. The old man was the only person capable of holding the complex structure of the Guilds together. What was he going to do now? He needed the Principate. He needed the Principal. Men Darnak needed him. The old man had invested in him, made him what he was. Years of work, of support, of faithful duty. Years of careful counseling, of patient teaching. This simply couldn’t be happening. He slapped his hand down on the roof of the groundcar and uttered a curse through gritted teeth.

Shaking his head, he slipped into the groundcar, not even sure which direction he should take. He had a few options: his country estate; one of the many hunting lodges scattered across the rich landscape surrounding Yarik's rocky plateau. He sat, not doing anything for some time, just staring out of the front window. Large stone blocks filled his view, solid, thick, meant to last. A blank stone wall. If they had a large enough quake though, even that expanse of solidity, that smooth surface, might end up as little more than a tumbled mass of broken stones. He'd seen it happen before. So much for permanence. Nothing in life was truly permanent, but there had been things in his world that Sandon Yl Aris had thought he could rely on.

He reached forward to punch in a destination, but then paused, his hand hovering over the controls. He drew back the hand slowly, reconsidering. Concern about his personal circumstance had clouded his perspective. He could see that now. There was something at work here that was clearly wrong.

Leannis Men Darnak had always been a reasonable man — stern, unforgiving, but all his decisions had been informed with good sense, even wisdom. Sometimes they seemed crazy at the time, but the long view invariably told otherwise. Sandon frowned. He should have noticed it sooner and he could not understand why he hadn't. He spent his entire life watching, observing people, but to miss something as basic as this was wrong. Over the past few weeks, the Principal had been preoccupied, moody. Things that would have previously been trivial angered him. True, the approach of Storm Season was always a time of tension, but Men Darnak had lived through more Storm Seasons than Sandon himself. It could hardly be that. He had also been spending far more time with Witness Kovaar, listening to him more readily, actually seeking his advice on important Principate decisions, something he would not have even considered in the past. Men Darnak had always been careful to show appropriate respect for the Church of the Prophet, at least in public — it was expected of a man in his position. The traditions handed down from the First Families, their religious foundations, were an essential part of Guild life. That was a given, but now, for some unknown reason, Men Darnak seemed to have taken that legacy and seemingly adopted it as his own set of beliefs.

Sandon tugged at his lower lip thoughtfully. There were things to discover here, things that remained unanswered. Whatever was happening in Principal Men Darnak’s mind might just be something that was beyond the man's control. But for Sandon to discover what that something was, he had to be in a position to observe. He could do no such thing in his current circumstance. To go back, try and reason with the old man, would be courting disaster right now. He had to find some other way. Besides, he had a duty. Years, he had worked with the man. Years he had spent watching as Men Darnak grew older, as his children matured, as the Principal tried to fill the gap left by his wife's loss. Witness Kovaar was a mere newcomer.

This time, Sandon reached for the controls with set jaw. He knew what he had to do. He just had to work out how he was going to do it. The approaching Storm Season just wasn't going to make it any easier. He called up the menu and tapped on the symbol for his country residence. As the groundcar slid back out of the parking space, Sandon leaned back in his seat, resolved.

The groundcar made a slow turn and headed out of the Principate's grounds. As it drew out of the complex, he scanned the streets and buildings out of cautious habit. When the quakes started, it was normal practice to keep an eye out for unreported damage. The long flat lines of virtually featureless stone structures were resilient, but from time to time, the unreported crack, a shifting of the stone walls could present unwelcome hazards to the populace. Being alert to these was important. Better to deal with a problem early than let it get out of hand. He grimaced wryly at the irony of the thought.

Gradually, the groundcar skimmed out of the city center, shifting its ratio to cope with the gently increasing slope. As they grew further from the Principate, the buildings grew more squat, the construction less solid. Out on the fringes was where they'd sustain most damage as Storm Season heightened, and Sandon's scanning became less perfunctory.

The city felt strange. Hardly a soul traveled the long straight streets. Most would have already made their way out to country holdings, closer to the farms, closer to the source of their supplies. With transport an issue, it became easier to live nearer to the sources of primary production. A number of Yarik's residents even held down seasonal jobs, a pattern of work that grew increasingly common as the generations became more attuned to the seasonal variations. During Clear Season, they'd move into Yarik to work, returning to the countryside as Storm Season burgeoned, starting to work land that had lain fallow while they were gone. Not so Sandon. The workings of the Principate continued throughout all, Clear, Storm and the transitional half seasons between. He had his country estates, but generally, he paid them little mind, being more focused on Principate business; he had others employed to work the holdings for him.

A cluster of individuals caught his eye and he turned his head to watch them as the groundcar cruised past. Atavists. It was odd to see more than a pair together. One stood by his animal, holding the reins. The baskets strung over its back looked empty. The two others were engaged in an uncharacteristically animated conversation, the third standing by, simply observing. They stood at a street corner, seemingly oblivious to everything else around them. Poor deluded fools. Let them be masters of their own unremarkable futures. He had much more important things to think about. The groundcar slid past and Sandon shifted his attention back to the road.

He was nearing Yarik's true outskirts now. Very soon, the few scattered buildings would give way to open ground, and then, following the main route out of the city, his groundcar would sweep a wide arc around the plateau's edge and commence the gentle descent to the valley floor below. Without the groundcars, the descent would have been far longer, riding down the broad roadway that snaked back and forth from Yarik's peak to the closer smallholdings clustering around its base. In a few weeks, he'd have that to look forward to too, just like everyone else. Back to animals and walking.

A sudden lurch rocked the car. Sandon grabbed for his seat as the vehicle slewed crazily to one side.

“Dammit, not now,” he hissed. He stabbed at the controls while trying to steady himself with his other hand. It was too early for this. He cursed again as the vehicle continued its angled drift, tilting further to one side. A wall was approaching rapidly, and he stabbed at the controls again. No! It was far too early in the Season for this. Quickly he slapped at the kill pad, but he knew he was too late. The wall was rushing in on him fast. He closed his eyes and screwed up his face, waiting for the inevitable, his hands in a white-knuckled grip on the edges of the seat to either side. It seemed to take forever. He was wishing it would just happen, when a jarring blow and then...

There was dust in his mouth. He moved his jaw and ran his tongue over his teeth, tasting the grittiness. He seemed to be lying at an angle and it felt too dark. Cautiously he opened his eyes. Blank stone faced him. He swallowed, trying to get the taste of earth out of his mouth, trying to work the saliva to sweep away the dryness. He lifted one hand to rub at his face and as he did so, something creaked around him. It was not a good sound. He stopped the movement immediately. Trying not to shift too much further, he tentatively explored his situation.

He could feel his arms and his legs; that was good. His neck and head felt sore. It must have been the impact. He tried shifting his head to get a better view but all he saw was dented wall and crumpled roofing. The groundcar must have slammed into the wall sideways, tilting as it did so with enough force to crumple the roof and leave a deep gouge in the stone where it hit.

A voice was saying something. Sandon coughed, trying to clear some of the dust from his throat, and the groundcar creaked again. Slowly, slowly he put his arm down.

“I'm all right,” he said. “I'm in here. Is there someone out there?”

“Are you injured?” The voice was reasonably close.

“No, I don't think so, but I don't like the way the groundcar's moving. I'm afraid it might shift.”

“Do not move,” said another voice. “We will try and help you.”

“Well, be careful, dammit. I don’t know how far the damage goes.”

“Rest assured. We will take all care necessary.” The first voice again.

Sandon felt the groundcar move beneath him. There was a loud creaking groan and pop as something shifted in the crumpled structure. “Careful!” he yelled.

The groundcar shifted again then slowly righted itself, dropping the last short distance with a shuddering crash. A hammer of pain beat through his head and he winced. Trying to ignore it, he pushed his shoulder against the door, trying to force it open.

“Can you help me here? The door seems to be stuck.”

Something wrenched at the groundcar and the frame rocked but the door remained closed. Again, the groundcar rocked.

“It is against the wall. You will have to climb out the other side.”

Stupid. Of course, he should have realized.

“Are you hurt? Can you manage, or do you require assistance?”

“Yes,” he said, ignoring the throbbing in his head as he tried to clamber across the seat beside him. “I’m fine.”

He tried opening the door, but something in the locking mechanism seemed to have seized as a result of the impact. Clamping his jaw tightly, and attempting to get leverage with his legs, Sandon forced his shoulder against the door and heaved, ignoring the throbbing that welled up anew inside his head. It was extending to his face now. His cheeks felt hot. They were aching too. A sharp pain was growing across his nose and one cheek.

Then suddenly the door sprang open and he was deposited half in and half out of the crumpled groundcar to the road. Right in front of his face stood a pair of dusty feet wearing hand-made sandals. Hands appeared and reached for his shoulders, another set from behind, and half lifted, half pushing, he extricated his legs and clambered to his feet. Gently, he ran his hand over the top of his head, gingerly prodding to feel for damage. There was a bruise there, but nothing major, or at least there didn't seem to be. He glanced at the groundcar, but it was clear it wasn't going anywhere soon. Then he looked up. Arrayed in a semi-circle stood three Atavists.

“Um, thank you,” he said hesitantly. What did you say to Atavists?

“Are you hurt?” The one who spoke was peering at him with a concerned expression.

“Yes, I think so, but not badly. I think I've hit my head, but apart from that a few bruises and...” He looked again at the crumpled groundcar, uncomfortable meeting the gaze of his rescuers. “Word of the Prophet!” he spat. “Damn it. What am I going to do with this?”

His oath brought a hiss from one of the Atavists, and Sandon cursed himself for stupidity.

“I apologize, I didn't mean to...”

“We understand. You are confused. The Prophet has blessed you with good fortune. It could have been much worse.” This one was older, his voice deep and full of authority. He stepped closer, reaching out with one hand. Sandon took a step backward, but the Atavist held up a reassuring hand. “We cannot leave you like this. You must come with us.”

The third member of their group nodded solemnly. “Yes,” he said. “The way is clear. My animal can carry you to where you need to go. We will accompany you.”

“But I...no. Thank you all the same, but it's too far.”

“Then you will come with us.”

Sandon rubbed at his face, trying to get rid of some more of the dust as he thought, but his thoughts were a little confused. “Really. I'll find my way back to the Principate.” That seemed like the best solution.

One of the two Atavists glanced at the older one. The look did not go unnoticed, despite the situation, and the fuzziness in his head. Then the older one spoke.

“No. We don't know if you are able to travel. Taking a blow to the head is unpredictable.” He peered in closer. “The bruising and the cuts do not look good. It would be far better if you came with us. Far better. We have a healer among our group who can see to your injuries. Our healer will make sure you are well, and then we can be assured that you can continue your journey safely. This is our duty as written by the Prophet, and it would be wrong for us to let you go on your own.” The other two solemnly nodded their agreement.

Sandon peered back at the Atavist, but the concern seemed genuine, as much as he could read on the man's face. He looked down at his hand. Yes, he was bleeding. He dabbed at his face. In truth, he did feel a little unsteady. Besides, what could he do back at the Principate? He no longer had the authority to requisition a new groundcar, or the authority to demand assistance to clear the current one. Better to do as they said, for now. He sighed and nodded slowly.

“You're right. Again, I thank you.”

“There is nothing to thank us for. It is our duty. To be able to fulfill that is thanks enough.”

As they walked toward the waiting padder, Sandon looked at his companions. Each wore an identical drab homespun robe. The leather sandals were all similar as well. The older man, clearly the authority in the group, wore his hood over his head, concealing most of his features. A full beard trailed from beneath his face, shot with gray and white. Virtually nothing distinguished the other two. They had their hoods thrown back and they wore their dark hair long. They walked with strong, straight backs. One of them turned, caught Sandon looking and nodded. His face remained impassive. It was as if the nod recognized Sandon's scrutiny and accepted it, nothing more. He handed Sandon a piece of cloth, and Sandon used it to dab at his face, and then hold it to his cheek.

What was it that motivated these people? What sort of life was it that they led? He'd never really paid them much mind before, except as the object of jokes, or something to scorn. The Atavists were simply always there, on the periphery. Their lifestyle was something that people generally would rather forget, particularly in Clear Season where the general population tried to keep the necessary deterioration to simplicity well away from their minds. The enforced Return brought about by the inconstancy of Storm Season was bad enough without dwelling on it. Why somebody would willingly wish to eschew the comforts that modern society brought escaped him. Technology could not be such of an anathema, surely? Perhaps he would have an opportunity to discover more wherever they were about to take him.

The Atavists helped him up on the back of the padder, and he sat there, washed in the animal smell, feeling slightly ridiculous as one of the younger two proceeded to lead the animal forward along a side street. They walked at a leisurely pace, as if simply out for a stroll. When crossing the next intersection, a pair of passers-by glanced over at the unusual procession and stopped dead in their tracks, staring open-mouthed. He knew their natural reaction would have been to simply look right through such a group, ignore them completely, but the sight of one of their own in the Atavist's midst must have caught them by surprise. Sandon smiled and nodded at them, suppressing with difficulty his urge to call to them for assistance. The germ of an idea was starting to take shape in the back of his head, and he wanted it to be fully formed before he did anything else. He faced front again, attempting to appear as if it were the most natural thing in the world, but inside he squirmed with embarrassment. After another two intersections, the feeling had faded, but the Atavists’ silence was starting to get to him.

“Um, where are you taking me?”

The older Atavist didn't even look up, speaking as he walked beside the padder. “There is a group of our people, our family, on the outskirts of Yarik. We are taking you there. The healer is also there and can tend to you then.”

“A group? How many of you are there?”

“We have a traveling party there. I do not know the number. We are joining them after being away for some time. It is our intention to travel to Gorana.”

Gorana? That was weeks away by foot. It could be reached in a day or two by groundcar, but walking? But the Atavists did that, didn’t they?

The Atavist population slipped in and out of society, nearly unseen. They were just there, in ones and twos, never many more. Up until now, for Sandon, they had been little more than an ever-present nuisance, something to be scorned, not considered seriously. Nobody really paid them any attention. The thought caught him. The Atavists were almost invisible. And with that thought, Sandon’s growing idea started to solidify.

They turned up another street, and another citizen passed them, barely glancing in their direction. Her gaze simply slid right over the group as if they didn't exist. She must not have noticed Sandon in their midst. He nodded quickly to himself. He would have done exactly the same thing, the same way he had in the groundcar, the same way he did every time he saw an Atavist.

“I really appreciate what you're doing,” he said. “What do I call you?”

The older Atavist glanced up at him this time, a vague look of assessment on his face. “My name is Badrae.”

“Badrae. Badrae what?”

“Simply Badrae. We do not seek titles and other ways to set us apart. We do not have family names as you do. We are one family. I am Badrae. This,” he said, gesturing at the younger Atavist leading the padder, “is Melchor. And over there is Arnod.”

“One family? You mean you are related?”

“We are all tied together by the Words of the Prophet.”

Sandon thought about this for a moment. “But then how do you tell each other apart? How do you know who is related to whom?”

“We are all related. We all of us came from the First Families. We are a small group bound together on this world, tied together by the sins of our predecessors. Is that not knowledge enough?”

Again, Badrae glanced up at him, but he didn't hold the look. His statements were full of matter-of-factness, expressions of a truth he clearly thought everyone should understand, but despite that, there seemed to be no expectation that Sandon should accept them. It must be strange for them living on the periphery of an entire world, removed from society's normal day to day interactions. Sandon doubted he could ever truly live like that.

They traveled in silence from that point, Sandon lost in his own thoughts. He barely registered the streets, the houses, the buildings they passed on the way to their destination. He found it hard to believe that he could have been aware of the Atavists for so long — they had been a constant presence ever since he could remember — and yet know so little about them. Of course there was the perpetual stream of messages that they tried to deliver: technology was bad; the state of their existence on Aldaban was a punishment for reliance upon technology for their existence; the only true way to enlightenment was to return to a rudimentary lifestyle, following the original teachings of the Prophet as handed down from the First Families. According to what they preached, Storm Season was nothing more than a revealing message sent by the Prophet to show them all the true way. The disastrous first landing of the colony ships was simply another. Sandon, of course, dismissed these beliefs as superstitious nonsense. He wondered how they could possibly justify that the reason for their very existence was the exact same colony ships that they condemned as part of technology's panoply of evil.

Badrae spoke again, drawing him back from his speculations. “We are almost there.”

Sandon looked around, wondering exactly where 'there' was. They were in a section of the city outskirts that he was not very familiar with. This was a poorer neighborhood, the houses and buildings showing the signs of disrepair. Here and there lay the tumbled ruins of squat buildings demolished by previous quake activity. A group of children clambered over the debris of one such, digging through the stones and probing and prodding with sticks. Sandon wondered briefly how long it had been since the building had fallen. Could it have been a casualty of the latest quake? Were the children playing, or foraging? He had no way of knowing, and the pounding in his head was forestalling any true speculation.

These, the fringes of Yarik city, stretched up and back to the rock strewn heights of the plateau upon which the capital rested. The scant vegetation struggled for its existence here, away from the fertile plains below. There was no proper cause for any from the city to really venture out this way. Dry ground, desolation, and the occasional herder held no real attraction for Yarik's population, the true inhabitants of the nexus of Aldaban's political and commercial life.

They passed the last small house on the outskirts and headed along a narrow, poorly maintained road. Stunted trees and spiny bushes sprouted from the rocky ground at either side. The dull throbbing worked inside his head, the cut across his face pulsed hotly, and his thoughts were more sluggish, clouded. The blow he'd taken in the crash was having its effects. Still the Atavists walked on in silence.

They climbed a slight rise, and as the ground dropped away again, a cluster of tents and wagons appeared. In and amongst them, moved groups of people dressed in Atavist garb, more than Sandon had ever seen gathered in one place before. Despite the pounding in his head, despite the queasy feeling sitting in the depths of his stomach, his mouth hung stupidly open. So many of them. He wondered how long they'd been here, and how many more such groups existed alongside major cities across the land, virtually unnoticed by the rest of the population.

“Here we are. Welcome to our family,” said Badrae. “Please feel easy amongst us and be welcome.”

“Be welcome,” said the other two in unison.

“Um, thank you,” said Sandon, not knowing quite what else to say. It was somehow awkward. Badrae had said that they were joining this group of theirs for the first time, and yet they bade him welcome to it. He decided there was little else to do but wait and see. More speculation would only serve to confuse things further.

Chapter Seven