The Fourth Guardian Read online

  The little village was composed of rough wood cabins with corrugated iron rooftops, and around the better built lodgings were the general rundown hovels of unfortunates who could afford only thatched housing.

  Through the center of this hillside establishment ran a large grooved latrine spill, and it was easy to see, as well as smell, that the natives made use of it openly.

  They were a pathetic lot with a past and future so intertwined only a cunning fate could make heads or tails of it. In no sense were they the same folk as Bardu and his people.

  Lacking the pride it took to climb from the lowest rung of the social ladder, they had succumbed to their environment, accepting its harshness and its misery as their own. Appearance meant nothing.

  The first person to see the duo make their way down happened to be a woodcarver preparing a handle to fit a dented shovel. He heard the donkey's braying, looked up with his twisted face and one eye, stopped what he was doing, and then shrugging at the sight coming towards him, he went back to work.

  Children froze, then scattered. Poverty, fear and suspicion embraced them all. They belonged to their culture, and it was such that it melded them to the wastes they spewed down the hillside and into the lower valley streams and estuaries.

  He made his way without explaining his presence, and after twisting and turning, he found himself on the edge of the dingy hamlet that only seemed like an airstrip from above.

  Next to a hangar and a browbeaten office a single two-engine plane was parked, and the sign on the office declared in Newari, English, and French that the facilities and the plane were ready to lease to anyone with money—no questions asked.

  A cowbell attached to a spring on the inside of the door clanged as he pushed through. A shout from the back told him to go away. The beaded curtain separating the front from the rear shivered as a wind skirted within. He waited, but nothing happened.

  He rang the bell again. This time something other than an irritated shout came of it. An unshaven face poked out, and bloodshot eyes blinked with irritation in the dim light.

  "What the hell!” the man exclaimed. “You're white!"

  Reg-I-Nald smiled with amusement. “I suppose you could say that, but, forgive me, aren't you white yourself?"

  A hand reached through the curtain and combed through a ruffled head of hair, the face registering surprise at the question. “Why, yes,” he said, a note of wonder slipping into his voice. “I guess I am.” A smile graced his coarse features as he gestured to a chair across from a table, functioning as desk and counter. “I own this lot, so what can I do for you?"

  Reg-I-Nald looked around, lips pursing slightly. The place was a wreck. Broken furnishings attempting to resemble furniture waited to be tested, but as an office, it was a failure. Cracked windows with shoddy seals made of masking tape failed to prevent drafts, and the corners of the rooftops showed where rain entered. Considering the shape of the floor beneath, it rained often, and the man himself was as weathered and bare as the property he claimed was his.

  It had all the aspects of a spacecraft barely surviving a pounding in a belt of asteroidal drift. However, it marked a man who did not give up easily, even though he'd clearly fallen over the edge.

  Reg-I-Nald extended his hand, and the other hesitated. It had been a long time since anyone wanted to shake his hand.

  Once their hands clasped, the proprietor jerked as an electric shock ran up his arm. His heart quickened, and his hand tightened in the grip. Suddenly, with eyes widening at the sense of his own strength, he grinned.

  "You'll have to excuse my appearance. I've been tied up lately.” He knew his clothes should have been washed, his shoes—he grimaced—were in the locker. He was wearing native sandals. In fact, picturing himself, he knew he was in bloody awful shape.

  "Well,” he asked, swallowing as he tried to clear his throat. “Uh, what can I do for you?"

  "My name is Taggart. Regis Taggart. British. I was hoping, Mr. Tate, if you would let me charter your plane."

  Roger Tate of his majesty's service for the last eleven years blinked. He wasn't sure he heard properly. Charter? Did that mean ... money? Feeling doubly soiled now, he brushed back his hair and tried doing something presentable to his clothing, which was hopeless.

  "Where, uh, where do you want to go, Mr. Taggart?"

  "I was hoping for the nearest city with transport facilities out of the country."

  There was a hurried lick of lips. “That would be Lucknow."

  "No, Mr. Tate. I was thinking more in the line of Bhutan."

  Roger Tate coughed in the silence, and an itching developed in his throat. It had been quite some time since he'd conversed intelligibly with anyone, let alone in English.

  He resumed, a tinge of perspiration marking a crease along his neck. “Mr. Taggart that means crossing the frontier. When we land you'd have to show your papers...” He left off with a strained nervous twitch.

  "And I have them, Mr. Tate. There's no problem there."

  "Bhutan, now, now that would mean an extended flight, of course, and we'd have to stop for refueling ... you'd be looking at a couple hundred, easy. Forgive me for asking, but can you afford that?” If he could have cursed the damnable tremor in his throat, he would have. He sounded so damn nervous. He knew, as his probable passenger did too, that he was in no position to bargain. If the other desired he could be toyed with and humiliated.

  Regis Taggart saw something deep and hidden in the man's soul. A soul that spilled itself out, waiting for someone with the ability to look deep and understand the torment that lay close to the surface.

  * * * *

  He was a younger man then, much younger, and he was not prepared for the court martial that was to change the direction of his life. He was certainly not prepared for the seven years hard labor he'd been sentenced to. It broke him, especially since he was innocent. The theft of the payroll funds was as much a surprise to him as anyone else.

  But when approached by investigators, he found he could not account for his time. He could not account for his drunkenness. Most of all, he could not account for the stolen money found in his kip, or the revolver with the one spent shell, the bullet of which had crashed through the arm of an inoffensive clerk.

  Reg-I-Nald knew the truth that lay behind fogged memory cells. He knew why the man, then the boy, couldn't account for the time loss, having been drugged by a fellow officer in need of funds to cover gambling debts. So great were they, that if word of it had reached home, it would have scotched an inheritance from a morally starched great aunt.

  All this was in the other's mind, but had never been considered, never given fruit to grow.

  The schedule of the payroll delivery was known only to a few, the guilty party among them, so it was necessary that attention be drawn elsewhere. Who better than a young, inexperienced, Lieutenant Roger Tate, who the criminal barely knew.

  An innocent dupe, who ended up spending the five best years of his life growing old before his time, broken as a man, and once spent, had two more years tacked on his sentence for an attempted escape. Finally, when he was set free, disgraced, he found his own family could not bear to have him close.

  Regis Taggart smiled. “I think, Mr. Tate that I can more than afford it. If you'd be so kind as to take care of the donkey I left outside, I'll pay you in advance.” With that said, he laid four flattened one-ounce ovals on the counter and waited for a response.

  With trembling fingers Tate reached for them, picked the four up, one by one, and with a hoarse and ragged wheeze begged a moment to weigh them. A sigh was overheard. Even crudely formed, the gold couldn't have been purer.

  Tate returned, self-consciously slicking down the back of his hair, licking his lips. There was a pale and worried look to him as if he weren't sure what he was dealing with. The ovals bore no seal. Still, gold was gold. He straightened, the worry wrinkles on his face smoothed out.

  "I'll be ready to go in three hours if you want. I have to put th
e old girl through a pre-flight check, a little thing, really."

  "Why don't you take more time than that, Mr. Tate. Take a day, take two, or even three. I'm not going anywhere immediately. Isn't there a place I can stay for a while? In the village?"

  The other hesitated. “Yes, there is ... but the accommodations are primitive. Why don't you let me make the arrangements for you. They'll enjoy the extra company. There's plenty of water, bathing facilities if you're not too keen on privacy, and as far as the food goes, it's edible.” The offer was almost a plea.

  "That sounds fine. I'll wait outside for you. Take your time. I have to say goodbye to my donkey."

  "But wouldn't it—"

  "Again, I'm not in any hurry, Mr. Tate. Really. I have a long way to go, and I intend to get there at my pleasure."

  Grumbling about the rarity of finding such a client, Tate reluctantly accepted the offer to get himself together. When he was through, he found Mr. Taggart sitting on the steps next to his donkey. The animal had been unsaddled and wiped down, and Taggart was talking to him. He was thanking him for all he had done and promised that his future would be one of pampering, soothing voices and plenty of oats.

  * * * *

  Doral of the House of Nald received his guest with a curt nod and gestured to the floating couch. The representative glanced longingly at the decanter of Denisian brandy, waiting for someone to take notice of it ... but the master of Nald was cold to such suggestions and ignored the hint.

  "Well, representative, what further restrictions have you to impart this time?"

  "None."

  Doral blinked. “None? Just several doms ago it was you, personally, who was all for closing us down, no matter what it would have meant to the trading community, and now you say none? What games are you people playing?"

  Doral's sarcasm was lost on the representative who was more than a little embarrassed about his earlier attacks on his host's trading concerns, but there was something else eating at the good representative. He wasn't sure how to explain it, although he was sure it wouldn't go well no matter which route he tried.

  Doral was no fool. This man would not take the time to come here personally unless it had something to do with his son.

  "What is it, representative?"

  The representative interpreted the other's concern and shook his head. “Have no fear, Doral-I-Nald. Alarm is unnecessary. Nothing has happened to him, of that, I promise you. You must understand that what took place in your son's trial was unusual, and we had to act in everyone's best interest."

  "Go on."

  "Your licensure has been returned to you, Doral-I-Nald. You are free to go about the business of your house."

  Doral-I-Nald grew warm, but down his back was an icy tension. “It has been restored fully?"

  "With no restrictions whatsoever."

  "That seems rather foolish, representative, considering just a while ago we were short of being charged ourselves."

  He waved his hands, as if brushing away an inconsequence. “Believe me when I say it was a misunderstanding. Something extraordinary occurred with your son. It had been assured us that the gene augmentation series was, if anything, a minor boost to the boy's own intuitive capabilities—"

  Doral's eyes widened, and his face turned white. “Are you telling me, representative, that you experimented with my son in a gene lab?"

  The other made calming motions and advanced. “Listen, Doral. It is not as you think. The boy needed tools to stay alive, but the only ones we could offer were those he already possessed. Everything for his safety had been specifically planned, and his safety was paramount in this effort. Had we not been assured of that we would not have insisted on it, but at the time it appeared the best means of sustaining him in a harsh and unpredictable environment."

  "Go on,” said Doral hoarsely. “I'm listening."

  "Well, there was a miscalculation in assuming that we were working on a normal person, Doral. We weren't. What little was done opened a door to further evolvement."

  Doral's eyes bugged out, and he felt like screaming. “Are you saying you can't reverse what you've done?"

  "The technicians have found that in your son's case they're dealing with x-factors they knew nothing about."

  Doral blinked, understanding now. “What you're here to find out, is whether my wife and I have had any other children."

  There was a sound of a released sigh, as if in-built pressures had been holding the other back. “We were wondering, yes."

  "Then this genetic alteration you people did to him, doesn't seem replicable, does it?"

  A reluctant nod. “It would have to be in conjunction with a Block of Truth examination. Without that, the genetic makeup cannot accelerate."

  Doral laughed. The laughter turned into roars, and the roars ended in hysterical tears. The irony, the supreme cosmic irony ... him, his mate, his child, and the fact they couldn't have more children. The horrible fates commanded his son's destiny—and now this!

  However, the irony was two-fold. It also told him his son would never be allowed to return home. What if the boy were to father children? What would he say to Synthis? His wife was no one's fool.

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  Chapter Four

  The owner of the Shao Seng, colloquially known among the locals as the Crater's Pit, shivered before attempting to enter the dreaded room, and then had to give it up. She was too frightened. She wanted to search the place for something—she didn't know what—but her instincts were against it.

  Tate told her he was all right, but something else told her otherwise. There was something about that man that was not right, and even her regulars felt uneasy when he was around.

  The moment he stepped into the place every gaze was drawn to him, and when he looked at another, that man, no matter his reputation, uttered something incoherent and like a whipped dog scurried away.

  It was frightening that such men should be cowed with no more than a glance.

  She had showed him the room, uncomfortable with the thought he might not approve, but he neither liked nor disliked. The room, the establishment, even the people meant nothing to him, and she found herself wishing they had.

  That was the first characteristic change she noticed about herself, and it bothered her. What was this stranger's views worth to her? They were nothing, less than nothing. So why was she bothered? What did she fear?

  All her life she'd struggled against the inequalities of life. She built this tavern upon the edge of her ethnic world and said to hell with it. Her life was a triumph.

  Any member of the upper class, whether military officer, politician, landowner, or religious nut, was set aside with scorn.

  She knew them for what they were. But this one was different. This one was ... beyond anything she had ever experienced.

  Why had Tate invited him here? She couldn't understand it. Tate hated such people as well as she did, but nonetheless, he seemed different now, as if his entire image of the world had changed.

  All she had ever known was avarice, greed, and ambition. While he was here ... that, too, was put aside. The inner core of her granite resolve was shaken.

  Tate came in, grimy and bone weary. Without being asked, she poured a glass of gin, but he stopped her.

  "Not today, kid. Give me some tea."

  She poured the tea, always kept hot beneath the counter, next to the sawed-off shotgun. A few customers looked up with interest. Tea? Tate was drinking tea? The tea went down smoothly, and a satisfied smile graced his lips, and then, wonder of wonders, he asked for another.

  "Ah.” He sighed. “Now that's the ticket."

  "Are you all right?"

  He combed his fingers through his hair and nodded. “Yes, Chakeerah, just tired. How's Mr. Taggart doing?"

  She shrugged irritably. “I've had no complaints. Although once or twice I tried going into his room to change the sheets or ask him if he needed anything ... but something keeps me out. The few times
I see him go anywhere, it's always into the passes. A couple of men who saw him told me he just sits up there staring at the mountains. Karuu said he saw him conversing with hawks. They land in his hands as if he were their master."

  "That's nonsense,” snorted Tate.

  "Is it?” she retorted. “What about that donkey he came on? Did you know that old Bashra who took that creature from you, not only allows it into the pasture with his llamas, but at night he brings it into the house?"

  Tate smiled. “Maybe he's found someone who understands him. In any event, that's not unusual around this place."

  "Unusual enough when you consider that old man used to swear there was no more stupid beast on the face of the earth. In his youth a donkey almost got him killed."

  A shrug of shoulders. “Well, maybe he's mellowed."

  The look she gave him said otherwise. “There's something strange about that man of yours, Tate.” She wanted him to agree, but saw that he was not about to swallow it.

  She looked at him uneasily. He seemed calmer, less agitated, and more sure of himself.

  "Listen, kid,” he said, voice lowering as he leaned over the bar counter. “I have to tell you something now.” He palmed one of the oval ounces of gold around the mug of tea, asked her to fill it again, and dropped it unseen into her hand. While she was filling the mug, she took a good look and stifled a hiss.

  "For you,” he said. “Along with the equipment, the airport, and the hangar. The whole bloody lot is yours, lock, stock and barrel. You know that paper I keep in your safe?"

  Benumbed, she nodded.

  "It's a transfer of ownership. It gives you the right to keep, use, or sell what's left."

  "Why are you doing this, Tate?"

  He grinned softly, their eyes meeting. “Because, kiddo, I'm leaving with him, that's why. And tonight's the night."

  "Again I say why, Tate?"

  He smiled softly. “Because it's time, kiddo."

  She swallowed a bitter taste. “I will miss you, Tate.” They'd never been lovers, although she would have been more than willing had he wanted. There was always that barrier, a sense that it was wrong somehow.