Джек Макдевитт - Cryptic - The Best Short Fiction of Jack McDevitt

“Damn you.” Cam’s mount moved first one way and then another. “Farewell, then.” He laughed through his anger. “We’ll see you in the morning. I hope you’ll still be here.” They wheeled their horses and fled, one swiftly, the other with reluctance.

Falon listened to the gathering silence.

Be at my side, divine one.

The fire in the plaza seemed to have gone out.

Just as well. He would leave it alone. He rode deliberately into the city, down the center of the avenue, past rows of shattered walls and open squares. Past broken buildings. Carik’s hoofbeats were soft, as if he too sensed the need for stealth.

He entered a wide intersection. To his left, at the end of a long street, the temple came into view. The city lay silent and vast about him. He dismounted and spoke to Carik, rubbing his muzzle. Leaves swirled behind him, and Falon glanced fretfully over his shoulder.

Moonlight touched the temple.

He decided against sleeping in the plaza. Better to camp out of the way. He found a running spring and a stout wall on the east side of the avenue. Anything coming from the direction of the tomb or the temple would have to cross a broad space.

Falon removed the saddle, loosened the bit, and hobbled the animal. He set out some grain and sat down himself to a meal of nuts and dried beef. Afterward he rubbed Carik down and took a final look around. Satisfied that he was alone, he used animal skins and his saddle to make a bed, placed his weapons at hand, and tried to sleep.

It did not come. Proud that he alone had stayed within the city, he was nonetheless fearful of what might be creeping up on him in the dark. He listened for sounds and sometimes stationed himself where he could watch the approaches.

But in all that rubble, nothing moved. The smell of grass was strong, insects buzzed, the wind stirred. A few paces away, Carik shook himself.

Then, as he was finally drifting off, he heard a sound: a footstep perhaps, or a falling rock. He glanced at the horse, which stood unconcerned. Good: Carik could see over the wall, and if something were coming, he would sound a warning.

Beneath the skins, he pressed his hand against the goat’s horn to assure himself it was still there. And then drew his sword closer.

Somewhere he heard the clink of metal. Barely discernible, a whisper in the wind.

The horse heard it too. Carik turned his head toward the temple.

Falon got to his feet and looked out across the ruins. A deeper darkness had fallen over the thoroughfares and courtyards. The temple, no longer backlit by the moon, stood cold and silent.

The sound came again.

A few gray streaks had appeared in the east. Morning was coming. He could honorably retreat, leave the city and its secrets, and still claim credit for having stayed the night.

A light flickered on again in the plaza.

He couldn’t see it directly, but shadows moved across the face of the temple.

He shivered.

“Wait,” he told Carik, at last, and slipped over the wall.

Rubble and starlight.

He crept down a dark street, crossed an intersection, passed silently through a courtyard and moved in behind a screen of trees.

The tomb glowed in the light of a lantern. A robed figure crouched on hands and knees at its base. The face was hidden within the folds of a hood.

The figure was scratching in the dirt. It stopped, grunted, looked at something in its hand, and flipped the object away. Falon heard it bounce.

The entire area around the tomb was dug up. Piles of earth were heaped everywhere, and a spade leaned against a tree.

Falon surveyed the plaza, noted sparks from a banked campfire behind a wall to the north. Saw no one else.

The hooded figure picked up a second object and seemed to examine it. He turned so that the light from the lantern penetrated the folds of the hood. He was human.

Falon breathed easier.

He was collecting what appeared to be broken statuary. One piece looked like an arm. And suddenly, with a swirl of robes, the figure raised his lantern, picked up a stick, and looked directly toward Falon. Falon stepped out of the trees.

The man watched him warily. “Who are you?” he asked.

The voice suggested that he was accustomed to deference. “I am Falon the Kortagenian.” He showed the stranger his right hand in the universal sign that he was not hostile.

“Greeting, Falon,” said the robed man. “I am Edward the Chronicler.” The light played across his features. They were cheerful but wary. He wore an unkempt beard, and he looked well fed.

“And what sort of chronicle do you compose, Edward, that you dare the spirits of this place?”

Edward seemed to relax. “If you are really interested, it is indeed the spirits I pursue. For if they live anywhere on the earth, it is surely here.” He held the lamp higher so he could see Falon’s face. “A boy,” he said. “Are you alone, young man?”

Edward was short. His head was immense, too large even for the corpulent body that supported it. He had a tiny nose, and his eyes were sunk deep in his flesh.

“I am not a boy,” said Falon. “As you will discover to your sorrow should you fail to show due respect.”

“Ah.” Edward bowed. “Indeed I shall. Yes, you may rely on it.”

“Edward-that-pursues-spirits: what is your clan?”

The dark eyes fastened on him from within the mounds of flesh. “I am late of Lausanne. More recently of Brighton.” He eased himself onto a bench and drew back his hood. The man would have been the same age as his father, but this one was a different sort: he had never ridden hard. “What brings you to this poor ruin in the dead of night?”

“I was passing and saw lights.” Yes. That sounded fearless. Let the stranger know he was dealing with a man who took no stock in demons and devils.

“Well,” offered Edward, in the manner of one who was taking charge, “I am grateful for the company.”

Falon nodded. “No doubt.” He glanced surreptitiously at the tomb, at the open vault. At the passageway into the interior. “Your accent is strange, Edward.”

“I am Briton by birth.”

Falon had met others from the misty land. He found them gloomy, pretentious, overbearing. It seemed to him they rarely spoke their minds. “Why are you here?”

Edward sighed. “I would put a name to one of the spirits and answer a question.” He picked up a leather bag. “May I offer you something to eat?”

“No. Thank you, but I have no need.” He looked at the Briton. “What is the question?”

Edward’s eyes were unsettling. “Falon, do you know who built this place?”

“No. Some of our elders think it has always been here.”

“Not very enlightening. It was constructed ages ago by a race we barely remember.”

“And who were they, this forgotten race?”

He seemed to think about it. “Romans,” he said.

Falon ran the name across his lips. “I have never heard of them.”

Edward nodded. Branches creaked. The flame in the lantern wobbled. “The world is full of their temples. You undoubtedly rode in on their highway. The hand that built this city created others like it from Britain to the valley of the Tigris. They devised a system of laws, and gave peace to the world. But today the Romans and their name are dust.”

Too many words for Falon. “What happened to them?”

“ That is the issue of the moment. To discover what force can initiate the decline and cause the fall of such power.”

“Only the gods.”

“The gods are dead.” That bald statement, impious and blasphemous, shocked him. But Edward seemed not to notice. “They were lost with their worshippers.”