Jack McDevitt - Eternity Road

“There might be more to it than that,” she said. Jon knew about Karik Endine’s expedition, of course. But he listened with interest to her account of the aftermath. She opened a cloth bag and showed him the sketches. “There’s a decent chance,” she concluded, “that it’s really out there.”

Shannon wore a knit shirt and baggy, grass-stained trousers. A pair of boots stood on the floor near the door. He was just over forty, with black hair, a clipped beard, and dark

skin. His features were coarsened by too much sun and wind, and were too blunt to have been considered handsome. But he knew they were amiable enough to put most people at their ease. “Seems like your evidence is kind of thin,” he said when she’d finished.

She nodded and glanced up at the battered campaign hat and militia colors on the wall. The weather had turned cool and damp, and a fire burned cheerfully in a corner of the room. “Do you recognize any of these places?”

He pointed at the first one. “Frontier. And I know where the Dixie Gun Works sign is. But that’s about it.”

“Never seen this?” She looked down at the city in the sea.

“No. I’ve heard the Tuks talk about the dragon, though.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yes,” he said. “But you know how Tuks are.” He focused on the thirteenth sketch. “Just looks like a cliff to me.”

“It was supposed to be a hidden fortress. A retreat. A place that no one could find.”

“Where’s it supposed to be?”

“We have no idea.”

He shrugged. “You’re going out looking for it, right?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“How do you expect to find it?” He jabbed a finger at the sketch titled Frontier. “This one’s on the Ohio, where it branches off from the Mississippi. A few miles east of Argon. The Gun Works is a little farther on. After that—?” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “My advice is to forget it.”

“If you were going to guide an expedition like this, Jon—”

“—I wouldn’t do it. What’s to guide? Where’s it going?”

“But if you were, and you expected to succeed, how would you get home afterward?”

Shannon looked at her as if he hadn’t heard correctly. “That’s easy. We come home the same way we went.”

“With you showing the way? Because nobody else is likely to be able to find the way back.”

“Sure. Why not?”

“But it’s dangerous, right? What if something happens to you? How do we get back then?”

Shannon looked out and saw lightning in the west. “Yes,” he said, “I guess that would be a consideration, wouldn’t it?” He folded his arms. “We’d have to mark the trail.” And he realized where the conversation was going. “Oh,” he said.

Chaka looked delighted. She put both thumbs up. “What kind of marks? Would they survive nine, ten years?”

He thought about it. “Who was with them? Do you know?”

“You mean the guide? Landon Shay. Did you know him?”

“I knew him to talk to. Never worked with him.” He remembered hearing that Shay had died on a long-range trip.

“So what kind of marks?”

“Trees, maybe,” he said.

“In what way?”

“Just carve a couple of notches. They’d try to travel on the old highways. In fact, if you look at the sketches, that’s what they’re doing.” The highways, of course, even the giant ones, were overgrown, the asphalt often buried beneath the centuries, covered with vegetation. To Shannon’s forebears, when they were establishing the settlement that would eventually become Illyria, the great green lanes, gliding across hilltops and rivers and forests, were a mystery, associated with supernatural forces. The modern Illyrians knew better.

They were constructed with a layer of asphalt laid over concrete. Hard as rock. The technique made for stable roadways, but even after a foot or more of soil was added to make a surface, they were uncomfortable for horses and other beasts. Especially in those places where the cover wore thin and the asphalt became exposed.

The highways were convenient to modern travelers. They provided crow’s-flight passage through the wilderness. There were no steep climbs or dead ends, save perhaps for an occasional missing bridge or collapsed foundation.

“So they’d do what?” asked Chaka. “Where do we look for notches? We couldn’t inspect every tree along the side of the trail.”

“I’ll tell you how I’d do it. Whenever we changed direction. Or whenever the road forked, or whenever I thought someone would be tempted to wander off the wrong way, I’d leave a mark. And every now and then I’d do something to confirm it was still the right trail.”

“You think Shay would have done that?”

“I think he’d have an obligation to do it. And to make sure everyone knew he was doing it.”

Chaka’s eyes shut, opened again, and her expression changed. “What about the Tliks? How big a threat would they be?”

He shrugged. “The local ones should be okay. Take some stuff with you to give them. They like guns but I don’t think I’d offer any. Maybe some trinkets. Cups. Cups are good. Especially with pictures. Mottos. Things like that. And bracelets. They’ll probably keep their distance as long as you keep moving and don’t approach a village. If you do see them, try to look as if you’re passing through and you do it all the time. Right? Show no fear, and say hello.” He got up, went into the kitchen, and came back with more tea.

Chaka nodded. “This city is in the sea. Or on the edge of a sea. You know anything at all about it? Or about anything remotely like it?”

“There’s a city in the north. Chicago. And a sea up there. But the city’s supposed to be spooked.” He wasn’t eating much, had in fact eaten shortly before Chaka’s arrival. But he nibbled on a piece of beef to be sociable. Chaka, on the other hand, was hungry. “I’ve never been there.” He glanced at the drawing. “But if that’s what it really looks like, people would expect it to be haunted. Wouldn’t they?” A log fell into the fire and sparks flew. “But you never really know. Roadmaker ruins are restless.”

She smiled. It was a warm smile, a little tentative, and it told him he’d succeeded at what he’d hoped to do: frighten her. “Jon,” she said, “I’d like to try to find this place. My brother died out there somewhere, and I think I was lied to about the way of it. I know this is asking a lot, but I’d be grateful if you’d reconsider.”

She was hard to say no to, but he did. “It’s just a way to waste a lot of time and effort,” he said. “And maybe get yourself killed. Take my advice, Chaka: Don’t do it.”

She looked steadily at him, and he suspected she was trying to decide whether he was adamant. “In that case,” she said, “I wonder if I can hire you for a few days.”

Flojian had been uneasy since his conversation with Chaka. The Mark Twain had been given away to injure him, to send a message to the wayward son. I am leaving this extraordinarily valuable find to a person I hardly know, in preference to you. Furthermore, I know its existence will create trouble, and you are welcome to that. And I have even arranged that you be the instrument of the transaction.

Damn him.

And damn Milana too. If she could have simply accepted her gift with grace and gone away, it would have been over.

Flojian tried to bury himself in his work, but he was too restless to think about new shipping schedules and maintenance problems. He gave up late in the morning, told his assistant he was going to take the rest of the day off, and rode into town. He wandered listlessly through the markets for two hours, stopping occasionally for something to drink. When fatigue and appetite began to overtake him he rode back out through the gates and stopped at the Crossroads Tavern (which was not really located on a crossroad) for some lunch.