The Dragon Never Sleeps

— 8 —

Turtle looked at the soldiers, shuddered, sighed. Fear dragged the cold fingers of old ghosts across his flesh. He derided himself quietly. He had nothing to fear. His documentation was genuine. Fear was for when you had to risk the other kind.

But it had been so long since he had faced the disdain and suspicion of Canon troops, so long since he had put his nerve to the test. "Getting flabby," he muttered, and stirred himself before the indecision attracted attention.

Warned he would be coming, the sentries barely glanced at his passes at the UpTown escalator. They were more troublesome at the High City lift. The garrison did not much care if terrorists reached UpTown. But the holies of the High City must be shielded by every strength at hand.

The sentries in the lift could find no excuse to deny him. After all, he had orders from Lord Askenasry.

The soldiers took no chances. One rode up with him. Two more were waiting. They bustled him into an armored carrier more jail for those inside than protection from the world outside. He saw nothing of the High City's fairy spires, half energy construction skittered by rainbows. He saw nothing of the so-perfect people on their heavenly wind-washed streets. He saw nothing but metal bulkheads and the indifferent face of a Canon trooper whose conversation ranged from sniffs to grunts.

The machine whined to a stop. Turtle's companion did not move. Turtle remained seated till the back panel dropped and a vaguely familiar old woman beckoned him. He stepped out into a sun-washed courtyard. Surrounding walls masked the rest of the High City.

"Lona, is it?" It had been many years since he had been to the High City.

"I'm Carla. Lona was my mother."

It had been a long time. And he had forgotten that the Canon lords—those who stayed ahead of their enemies—rejuvenated themselves alone, not those who served them.

This woman might not have been born when last he had visited Merod Schene High City.

Lord Askenasry was a frail old stick figure, wrinkled, so black his skin had indigo highlights. A phalanx of machines kept him breathing. He had been past his prime when last Turtle had visited, but then had been healthy and virile and in command of himself and his environment.

One other man shared the sickroom. He stood out of the way, motionless, features concealed inside a cowled black robe, arms folded, hands hidden inside his sleeves. One of the physicians of House Troqwai, the unknowns, as much priests as healers, as much a harbinger of the inevitable as a hope. Turtle was uncomfortable under the creature's impassive gaze.

He thought of it as man, but it could as well have been woman or nonhuman. There was no evidence obvious to the eye.

The stench of decay permeated the room. Time, the great assassin, rested heavily there, its presence patient and implacable. The myriad sorceries of House Troqwai could hold the killer at bay for a time that seemed unimaginable to the harried children of DownTown, but still the murmurer gnawed and clawed and insinuated its dark tentacles through cracks in the walls. There was no escape for even the rich and the powerful.

Turtle recalled Askenasry as a merry youth, rambling the sinks of DownTown with rowdy contemporaries, accumulating the debt he would have an opportunity to discharge now. All those friends had fallen already. Now he was alone of his kind, like Turtle.

His eyes were open in slits. They tracked Turtle without emotion or apparent interest.

"I have come."

Askenasry's response came from a machine, a laryngal whisper amplified. "You have taken your time." His words came in little rattle-tat bursts interspersed with soft coughing.

"I have come before."

"At my insistence. Refusing payment for a service."

The argument was ancient. Turtle refused the bait. Let the man fade into the darkness not understanding that he would have helped anyone that faraway night. The ancient did not need the strain of a clash of philosophical sabers. "I have come now."

"To collect? At last?"

"Yes."

"What is it? Passage? Credit? Documentation?"

"No. I want you to save some hotheaded young fools from the consequences of their foolishness. As I once saved other youngsters from their foolishness."

Askenasry stared the grey steel stare that had made him so intimidating in his prime.

"A krekelen came to Merod Schene. It carried the old whisper of rebellion. There were ears to hear it. And now there are hands to dabble at revolution."

"The krekelen were exterminated when I was a pup."

"A krekelen came. I saw it."

Askenasry did not argue. "Where is this fabulous monster now?"

"Aboard the Cholot Traveler Glorious Spent bound for P. Jaksonica 3. Cholot Varagona."

Disbelief faded to doubt in old grey eyes. "What do you want?"

"This time they call themselves the Concord. They have the usual plan for taking down the High City and making a punitive landing impossible by seizing the garrison arsenal. They are immune to reason. They do not believe in Guardships. I want you to whisper in the right ears. I want them forestalled till the Guardship comes."

"What Guardship?"

"The Guardship that will come after the krekelen tries landing on P. Jaksonica. Cholot Varagona lies under the Ban."

"This is all you require?"

"It is enough. Lives for lives."

"I have no power these days."

"People still listen when you speak, Lord."

"You would be surprised at their deafness."

"I doubt it. Your species' indifference to reason ceased to amaze me long before you were born. Let the garrison make a show of force. Let them round up known instigators. Let the boot rest heavily. Let it cause a howl. But stop the nonsense. So there will be a Merod Schene when the Guardship goes its way."

The old man did not respond. His eyes had closed. For a moment Turtle feared he had wasted his passion. He looked at the Troqwai, appealing....

The physician did not move. Turtle relaxed. The killer had not come. Otherwise the magician would have been plying his artifices. House Troqwai gave no quarter when it wrestled Death.

Lord Askenasry's eyes opened. He struggled after a smile. "I'll do what I can. To repay you, not because I give a damn what happens DownTown."

"I understood that before I came. Your motive is not important so long as you do the deed." Turtle offered a slight bow, added that little propitiating gesture of crossed fingers expected by the Troqwai, backed from the room.

The physician moved toward his charge as though floating. He bent to look into the old man's eyes.

Carla took Turtle to the carrier. Soldiers hustled him aboard. He saw nothing of the High City going home, either.