GHOSTS IN THE GLASS Read online

  Senqua then shook her head. “No, you have it. You used to be a good shot before you turned into a drunk. Maybe, if you stay sober, you’ll still be a good shot. It’s too heavy anyway. Give me the revolver instead. How many bullets do you have left?”

  “Three, maybe.” He pulled the gun from his belt and offered it. Senqua hid it under her yalei, next to the sheathed knife.

  Gairy swung the Pumer onto his shoulder. “It’s a long walk. Not as far as the Foundry, but far enough. We best get out of this dry bed. Yellow Gully is a bad spot for threk, and they can come down the bank faster than we can climb up.” He moved aside. “Here. This might be a good spot, near those rocks. Just get on that big sandstone and pull yourself up. I’ll push you, if you can’t—”

  Before he could finish the sentence, Senqua hoisted herself to the largest boulder and caught the edge of the high bank. In the space of ten seconds, the Shyiine woman stood on level ground, looking down at him.

  “I’m not as helpless as you think, Gairy Reidur.”

  He touched his cut ear, wincing at the sting. He’d deserved it—deserved far worse than having half his ear sliced off and thrown in his face, or his head thumped with a chunk of rock, for that matter. A reluctant smirk tugged the corner of his lips. “No. Guess you ain’t. Gonna have to clean this ear off, though, or might get infected.”

  “There were two stalks of Harper’s Hand I found this afternoon. They’re small, they must have sprouted after the Bloom, but there’s enough to boil down and wash your ear with.”

  “Heh. How’d you learn how to do that? Your old man?”

  A shadow of pain touched Senqua’s bright eyes. “No. I read it in that stupid field guide you gave me back at the Old Tree Well.”

  “I’ll be damned.”

  “You probably are, but we’ll worry about you being damned later. Climb up here and let’s go.”

  Spider at the Well

  Zres did not want to sleep any more. Not ever. Whenever he dozed, his mind evoked the memory of Phineas Moad’s body rolling down the Yellow Gully, opaque eyes wide. Zres would wake with a scream on his lips, drenched in sweat. Other times, he dreamed of his mother singing some hymn while she stirred a pot of s’rat stew. The nightmares all ended with her smile twisting into a silent shriek as her face burst into flames. Ashes left her open mouth and tongue to dance above the halo of her burning hair.

  No, he never wanted to sleep again.

  Red-eyed and numb, he fought the need, watching the landscape smear into one, long swath of red and brown. Zres did not care about the subtle changes in the foliage, nor the increasing heat as they traveled south. A day before, they’d passed a strange valley lined with dead acacia, some of which had been missing their branches. He forgot the valley as soon as it lay behind them. It didn’t matter anyway; nothing would get him out of the Draggin and away from the Soulmaker. Even if he’d been able to run north again, he would die. He didn’t know how to find water or food without a scout to lead him. There were no weapons to defend himself, either. Everyone had been right the entire time—he was a stupid, spoiled boy.

  “Do you know where we’re at?” Reeth asked, casually steering the rover around a dip in the land.

  Zres rubbed his watery eyes. “No.”

  “We’re near the Harper’s Well. It’s the last open well until we reach the Citadel. We’ll have to refill both barrels and all our canteens there. The Harper who tends it is named Simons. He’ll give us a place for the night.”

  Zres shrugged, not caring.

  “I understand you’re upset about everything. Confused. No doubt, that’s a normal reaction.”

  What would you know about normal anything?

  Before he could speak that thought, Zres pressed his lips together. He didn’t want to give any of his musings to Opert Reeth. The Soulmaker would lock them away for later use, as much a weapon as the revolver he wore.

  “I think that will change once we near the coast. In less than a week, Zerestus, you will notice substantial changes in the land. The trees will be much taller than the acacia you’re used to. Some will have fruit on them. It will be warm, but you’ll begin to notice a difference in the heat, and it may even rain.” Reeth eased the rover up an incline, never taking his eyes from the horizon as he spoke. “You will see green, growing things all around. I think you will like it.”

  “I think you’re wrong.”

  Reeth smiled. “You hate me. Why? For what I am, or for what I’m doing now?”

  Zres pressed against the roll cage, wanting to get away from the mild-looking Soulmaker, but there was no place to go. He thought about pulling the rover door open and tumbling out of the vehicle, his eyes filled with sand as the back tire crushed his skull, bringing a quiet blackness. Most satisfying of all, he imagined Opert Reeth’s serene patience being smashed into impotent rage.

  But his hands stayed locked onto his knees. “Yeah. I hate you. But not because you’re a Harper.” The words sounded timid and scared. “I don’t think you’re human.”

  The rover rolled to a stop at the crest of the dune. Reeth turned in the seat and regarded him silently. Zres stared at his lap. He could still see the piss stain there; there’d been no opportunity to wash since leaving Dogton.

  “How is it you’ve come to that conclusion?”

  Forcing himself to lift his eyes, he studied the Soulmaker’s plain face, trying to detect some subtle difference. Reeth looked like any Estarian—pale-skinned and medium height with no disfiguring scars or boils. About forty years old, Zres guessed. Trim, but not especially athletic. He looked more fit to be a dust farmer than a Soulmaker, except something about his eyes seemed wrong.

  “Zerestus, I’d like to hear your answer.”

  “Your eyes. They’re empty.”

  Reeth’s brows shot up. “Is that so?”

  Goose pimples broke along his skin. “You. . . you’re not from here, either.” The wild grin tugged at his lips. “Your accent. I know you came from Avaeliis. I’ve been thinkin’ about it ever since we dumped Moad.”

  Reeth’s laughter echoed down into the valley, making the chill in Zres’s heart turn to a full-on ice storm. The sound reminded him of the way his mother screamed in his nightmares.

  Reeth’s mirth vanished as quickly as it had come. “You do have a certain cleverness to you, despite your backward upbringing. It reminds me a bit of the Enetic cunning. That will be useful later on, once you’ve learned some self-control and focus.”

  “I ain’t Enetic. I’m Estarian, same as my old man was, and my mama.”

  “Do you know what that term means, Zerestus? What it really means?”

  Zres hesitated before stammering an answer. “Sure. It means they’re a part of that Toros thing. That there’s a taint in their blood stream, in the genes. Shyiine, Drahgur, Druen, and Shurin all got it. Like a disease that can’t be fixed.”

  “No. It’s much more complex than that, and much more simple. Toros forced an evolution in many of the organic organisms of the world. It’s not a disease. . . not the way Cynopsia is.”

  “What’s Cynapisa?”

  “Cynopsia, Zerestus, is a blood disorder all Cynops suffer from. It can spread to other races as well, and is usually fatal to humans. However, some Enetics recover and become immune to it. The Syndicate in Avaeliis has long been conducting research on behalf of the Cynops for a possible cure. . . as well as strains that will kill Enetics.” He cleared his throat. “But we’re speaking of what the term Enetic means. The phrase is used to convey synthetic evolution in an organic life. That evolution is fundamentally flawed because of the shards of Toros crashing rather than implanting in designated positions, as was planned. Toros and everything it touches is corrupt, and must be purged.”

  Zres shook his head, trying to wrap his head around the image of Kaitar Besh or Gairy Reidur as lurking, devious monsters rather than Dogton scouts.

  “I know you don’t really grasp that. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is the
role of a Soulmaker in these dark times. You see, Zerestus, we are not the Light of Mary; that duty is reserved for deacons. We’re the shadow. We carry the sins of the deacons and advocates, keeping them pure while we use our unique willpower to harness that negativity into a weapon. A weapon we use against Toros, and those creatures tainted by it.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything we’re doing here? Or the Citadel? Or me?”

  “More than we have time to discuss right now. When we arrive at the Citadel, I’ll explain more. You’re going to be a very special young man.”

  I don’t wanna be special, I just wanna go home!

  But that was a lie. He did want to be special. Had always wanted it, since he’d been a boy, trying to escape the reality of being the son of the town whore. Forever attempting to erode the hurt of being swept under a rug of disregard—Zres had wanted to be someone, to do something.

  For a moment, he sat there with the hot sun beating upon his head and shoulders. Not far away, water and rest waited at the well, if he wanted it. Or, he could attack Opert Reeth and probably be killed in the attempt. It would be over then, all the nightmares and guilt blown out in a single shot and soaked into the desert. Zres’s gaze flicked to the Veraleid bolted to the dashboard. The receiver remained mute, as it had for the entire trip. No one had even bothered to call and find out what happened to him. Maybe Dogton had never really been his home at all.

  A dark speck moved near the well in the valley below—the Harper Reeth had mentioned, Zres decided, probably looking at the rover parked on top of the dune, awaiting their arrival.

  “I want a wash when we get there. I’m sick of stinkin’ like a latrine.”

  Reeth inclined his head. “There will be water and time enough to do that.” The rover sent a spray of sand as it moved forward. “You fear me now, Zerestus, but I believe that will change once you know me better.”

  Zres didn’t reply. His thoughts whirled more quickly than the tires, picking up speed at the same velocity as the Draggin. He rubbed his face, sick of thinking and wishing he could turn his mind off for good.

  “Harper Simons should have news, too. He has a Veraleid, and he gets word from any caravans that come to the well,” Reeth said. “Though, I assume not many have come this way lately. Most are waiting for spring in the nearest border town this late in the year.”

  “I don’t care what’s going on in Dogton.”

  “Regardless of your personal preferences, we need to know. The Citadel tries to keep tabs on all the border towns, but communication that far south is often scanty. They’ll be expecting me to bring details of what’s happened there, and how things are progressing. Niles was doing a poor job running the town when we left, and I don’t suspect he’ll hold power long.”

  As they neared the well, Zres caught sight of Harper Simons again. This time, he could pick out the man’s features—short and thin, with sandy colored hair and large, protruding eyes that watched their approach unblinkingly. His clothes hung from his frame, and the Harper’s cross at his neck winked in the sun. Zres didn’t like the way the man kept licking his lips.

  After parking the rover, Reeth lifted a hand in greeting. “Hello, good Harper. Please, come and bless us as we take water from the well for the rest of our journey. We are but humble travelers on our way to the Citadel. This is Zerestus Corrin, from Dogton.”

  Simons nodded and smiled without opening his mouth. “Hello. You’re welcome to. . . uh, take water at this well, travelers.” He made the hasty sign of Mary’s Lantern. “I bless thee in the name of Mary Soulmaker, may you ever walk in Her Light.”

  Zres frowned.

  He did that backward. I remember Mama always did it left to right, then up and down. . . not right to left.

  Simons hopped off the porch and meandered close, scratching at his ragged beard. “You said you came from Dogton?” A foul stench followed him, so thick Zres nearly gagged. The Harper’s stench made him aware of his own odor, and he pushed himself out of the vehicle to strip off his filthy clothing. Simons could stink if he wanted to, but the novelty of sitting in piss-stained britches had worn thin a week ago.

  “Yes, we’re from Dogton” Reeth replied smoothly. “Though it’s been more than a week since we’ve left there. Do you have recent news to share?” He turned to consider the barrels strapped to the rover. “It will take all of us to manage this. Zerestus, when you’re done washing, please assist me.”

  Pretending not to hear, Zres dumped a bucket of water over his head and stood there, feeling it wash away the grime and sweat. Warm though the water was, it soothed his sunburned skin. He closed his eyes.

  Simons said, “I do have news. Just a few days ago. . . almost a week ago, I guess. . . I was attacked by two Enetics there’s a bounty out on. Kaitar Besh and Meat—”

  Zres’s eyes snapped open. “Kaitar and Mi’et were here? He wiped at a stream of water dripping from his hair. “They’re alive?”

  “No, I killed Kaitar. Meat got away, though.” Harper Simons licked his lips, eyes wide as if he expected an ambush at any second. “They nigh ‘bout killed me, in fact, but I managed to slip a knife into Kaitar first, and that scared Meat off. I’m gonna go to Dogton come spring and collect on the bounty.”

  Reeth’s pale brow creased. “It’s unusual for a Harper to collect on a bounty.”

  “It was self-defense.”

  “Where’d Mi’et go?” Zres asked, ringing his shirt out. The notion of scrawny Harper Simons chasing off the muscular half-breed made him want to laugh, but it got stuck in his throat, too afraid to work its way out in Reeth’s presence.

  “Meat uh. . . he headed west. I dunno where he might be now. And good riddance to those damned—” Simons cleared his throat. “Excuse my language. Good riddance to those Light forsaken beasts.” He smiled broadly, displaying a gate of rotten teeth.

  The Soulmaker sighed. “That’s disconcerting news. In any case, Harper. . . may I ask your name? I feel odd just referring to you as ‘Harper’. It seems rude.”

  “Felix. Harper Felix.”

  Zres blinked. That had not been the name Reeth had given, though it did sound familiar. He peered intently at the man, but did not recognize him.

  “Harper Felix, then. It’s very fortunate you managed to fend off Kaitar Besh and Meat. They were said to be very dangerous men.” Reeth slid a gloved hand along the barrel and motioned for the smaller man to help. “If you could assist us with filling and re-loading these, we’d be glad to donate a little food.”

  “I’d be happy to help.”

  “He’s lyin’.” Zres dumped water over his dirty britches and knelt, scrubbing the piss stain clean with a handful of sand while staring pointedly at the little Harper. “You couldn’t have killed Kaitar. Him and Mi’et would have wiped their asses with your skin before you could even feel the sting.”

  “Harpers don’t lie.” Harper Felix’s bulging eyes narrowed and his rotten teeth showed in a brief grimace. “That filthy bandit attacked me. I got the bruises to prove it, too. I hope someone collects the bounty on Meat soon before he murders someone. I’ve heard that Enetics are cannibals; might be they wanted to eat me.”

  “Zerestus, please come and help us with these barrels.” Reeth waited, hands resting atop the empty water barrel marked in bold, painted letters spelling the word Dogton. One finger drummed just above the D.

  Zres stood, gave his trousers a hard flap, and then stepped into them. “I know them both. Personally. They’re assholes, but they ain’t bandits. Hell, Kaitar’s been a Dogton scout for longer than I been alive. Mi’et, too. He’s a brute, but he ain’t a thief.” He grinned and flicked a finger at Felix. “You, though? You’re a lying son of a bitch.”

  Harper Felix reached underneath the too-long shirt, grasping something at the belt line. “Come again?”

  A fly buzzed above Zres’s head, but he barely noticed the insect as it landed on a damp strand of hair. His pulse went sluggish, drumming in his ears until it bec
ame a low drone. “Go on. Do it. Pull a gun or a knife and go for me. I’m standin’ on the edge of the Yellow Gully and I’m ready to be kicked in. I won’t even fight you.”

  Felix hesitated, blinking as he dropped his hand, fingers clutching nothing but his own palm. He licked his lips and shook his head at Reeth. “Your friend’s a little touched. Too much sun, maybe.”

  “Perhaps,” Reeth agreed mildly. “The barrels, good Harper?”

  Zres felt numb; there’d be no quick release from the long shadow of Opert Reeth at the hand of the lying little deacon after all. He plucked his shirt from the ground and wrung it out. As he pulled it over his head, Reeth and Felix hoisted the empty barrel to the ground.

  “Mary, that’s heavy,” the Harper complained. “How are we going to get it back up there? There’s no way we can lift—”

  “There should be a lift in the shack,” Reeth cut in. “Harper Simons always kept it under the cot. He and I are very old friends, and I’ve stopped here often.”

  Zres froze, hands lingering on the top button of his faded shirt, staring fixedly at his bare toes.

  “Harper. . .” The deacon’s trembling voice took on an edge. “Who are you?”

  “At the Citadel, I’m known as Soulmaker Reeth. Do tell me, though, where is Harper Simons?”

  A hush descended across the outpost, deeper than the quiet of the desert. Water dripped onto his toes, pooling against his freckled skin. A man-shaped shadow slid across his wet feet and streaked past the well. Every one of Felix’s footsteps brought a grunt from the scrawny man as he scrambled toward the shack. Then, from the corner of his eye, Zres saw Reeth slip the revolver from its holster, raise it, and pull the trigger—all in one graceful motion. The cylinder rolled, clicking, followed by a deafening roar and brief flash. And, strangest of all, was how slow it happened; Zres could pick out the exact split in time the revolver birthed a shining bullet.