Binary, Jay Caselberg [top business books of all time txt] 📗

By the time the last customer had wandered unsteadily from the bar, Sandon was tired. He'd spent the entire night on his feet running back and forth, and had found out little more than he'd started with. He wiped his hands on the cloth from his back pocket and stood staring at the now-empty bar. Benjo came up beside him and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Not a bad night's work, Tchardo," he said. "Help me clear away the last of these and put them away, and then you can bed down in the kitchen."

Sandon nodded without saying anything. He would be grateful for the stove back there, radiating heat throughout the small back room. During the busiest part of the evening, it had left him sweating, but during the still of the early morning, it would get cold. Any remaining warmth would help stave off the chill, safe and secure and out of the weather. No, he'd done well. For now, at least, fortune was in his favor.

It took nearly a week for Sandon to find what he wanted. During all that time, he worked for Benjo and Milana, growing to like the couple more and more, for couple they were. They were simple, good-natured folk with a direct, open attitude to life, no intrigues, no complicated schemes. Sandon had almost forgotten during his years in the Principate that such people existed, but the past couple of weeks, first the Atavists, and then this pair, had reminded him that not everyone had a hidden agenda. It was a refreshing change to not be constantly on his guard about what was said. He'd finally been forced to stable his padder on the outskirts of town, and Benjo had readily supplied him the credits to do so. He had offered more, but Sandon had refused. Benjo likely did fairly well out of his bar, but he'd been good to Sandon, and whether the bar owner could afford it or not, Sandon had no desire to take advantage. Besides, Benjo was serving him in other ways that he could hardly be aware of.

The first indication of what he was seeking came as a burst of activity over at the official offices. A solitary man arrived on a padder, bounded up the stairs and disappeared inside. Moments later, he had reappeared and ridden quickly out of town. The mere existence of the office building here in this sleepy outpost was probably more lip-service to the Guild hierarchy than anything else, and having any sort of visitor, messenger or otherwise, had to be an event in itself. Sandon had just caught the arrival out of the corner of his eye, but as soon as he saw the man, he knew his patience had been worthwhile. The messenger had been wearing the Men Darnak colors. He strained at the window, watching to see what happened. Moments after the messenger had left, two functionaries burst from the front doors and headed rapidly down the front steps. Sandon was out the bar door in a moment, moving to intercept one of them. As he approached, he recognized the man as one of the bar's regular evening visitors.

As casually as he could, he called out. "Hello there. What's going on?"

The man looked over and clearly recognized Sandon. "Can't stop," he said. "Men Darnak's in the area. Asking all sorts of questions."

"Which Men Darnak?" asked Sandon.

Barely pausing in his rapid stride across the square, the man answered quickly. "The Principal. The Old Principal."

Sandon watched the man disappear up a side street. So, Leannis Men Darnak was nearby, and close enough to send these lower-station officials into a flurry of action. Sandon stood where he was, thinking, running his fingers through the beard at his chin. It was time to take his leave. Tchardo the bar help was about to disappear, to be replaced once more by Tchardo the Atavist.

Sixteen

He wasted no time retrieving the padder, donning the old Atavist homespun and taking his leave of Benjo and Milana. They appeared genuinely sorry to see him go, and in a way, Sandon himself was sorry to go, but he had more important things to spend his time worrying about than how these folk whom he'd known for a mere couple of weeks felt about his departure. Funny�the last few weeks had been nothing more than a series of leave-takings, one after the other. Milana had fussed about, giving him a blanket and provisions for the journey, as well as a light wet-weather overcoat for him to take. He'd never seen an Atavist wearing anything else than their simple homespun robes, regardless of the weather, but he took it all the same. He had no idea how many days he'd end up on the road again, and there was no guarantee that he'd be able to find any decent shelter. Even if they had already moved on, the Men Darnak part would have a proper camp, and they'd be on one of the main routes leading into the town. He knew very well from his own experience how the Men Darnak entourage operated and he had seen the direction in which the messenger had departed. He quickly headed the padder out of town, dug his heels into its flanks, and winced as the animal broke into a bouncing trot. Such a short time and he'd forgotten about the jouncing, bony back and uncomfortable seat. It didn't take very long to be reminded.

He headed out of town, across the network of connecting canal bridges and on toward the main road. The padder was sluggish. It seemed that in having it stabled, it had received more of the good life than it was used to. Every now and again, the jouncing step brought bursts of gaseous odor in a rhythm that kept time with the animal's pace. Sandon pulled up his hood in a vain attempt to ward off some of what the padder was sharing. The day itself was still, and though clouds whipped across the sky far above, the air at ground level was calm. For once, he would have been grateful for at least a hint of a seasonal breeze. He passed a few travelers on the road, but most hurried past without even a glance. Once again, he had apparently slipped further into his guise as a wandering Atavist.

After about a mile, he neared the bloated, muddy flow of the Bodrum River. A wide masonry bridge crossed from shore to shore, broad, flat stones forming its bulk, smaller cobbling stretching across the top. He wondered briefly how long it was since it had been rebuilt. It was one of the passing tasks of the Guild officials stationed in Bortruz. When the bridge shook loose, they had to organize the repair crews that would painstakingly lift stone after stone back in place. Meanwhile, Bortruz's trade would continue unhampered, serviced by the canals and the river itself. As he crossed the bridge, he peered warily down into the churning waters. Even plying these ways in the long oar boats must be hazardous. He was glad he was in no position to find out, but for those who relied upon it for their living...

Signs of true civilization quickly faded as he left the bridge behind. The long roadway stretched before him, flat land peppered with Storm Season vegetation stretching out in either direction. Off in the distance to the left, ahead of him, the ground slowly rose, leading up and away to the hills where another collection of mines and the major Kallathik settlement lay. Far across to the right, well out of sight from his current position, lay broad farmland and further on, the slopes bearing the thick, ancient ajura forest, the source of most of their timber. The ancient forests had grown for hundred, perhaps thousands of Seasons, but they were starting to thin at the edges as the Guild of Primary Production plundered the ready produce, used to such good effect in their furniture and their houses and in so many other things, not to mention the trade with the Kallathik.

Sandon turned his attention to the road ahead, noting that in places it was in sore need of repair. No doubt the Principal would have it recorded and passed back to those responsible with the appropriate words of disapproval. Very little escaped the old man's attention. If Sandon was ever again in a position to ... no, there was no point even thinking about it. The way things were developing, he might as well reconcile himself to the role of a wandering Atavist as regaining any status within the Principate let alone anything resembling his old life. Everything else, for now, was just wishful thinking. He gave a heavy sigh and scanned the landscape ahead for any sign of the Men Darnak camp.

After a couple more miles, set off the roadside in an open field, he saw what could be nothing than what he sought. There was a cluster of large tents and wagons. Padders lay tethered off to one side. At this distance, he could barely make out the detail, but the flashes of color spoke Men Darnak in a clear and unmistakable voice. More than once he had been in a camp such as that. He squinted, trying to make more detail. There should have been more tents than there were, more animals. Either the Principal was traveling with a vastly reduced retinue, for which he could hazard no reason, or this was a lesser encampment, and the main body was stationed somewhere else. He pulled the beast to a halt and sat where he was, observing. There seemed to be nothing unusual about the camp activities. Men went about their business, moving between the tents, or wagons, shifting things from one place to another. Sandon turned to scan the surrounding countryside, but there were no other signs of life. Nor was there anywhere to find cover. He chewed at one side of his moustache, considering. He couldn't really ride straight into the camp, so that still left him with a problem. He couldn't even tie up the padder if he was to wait around and observe, looking for his opportunity. Why, he hadn't even worked through a plausible story as to why he might want to join up with the party in the first place.

Sandon sat there watching for over an hour, the padder becoming restless and complaining more and more with every passing minute. Once or twice, he had to jerk sharply on the reins to stop it wandering off looking for somewhere to graze, not that it would find anything in the immediate area. The seasonal vegetation provided nothing fit for a padder to eat, and that suddenly gave him an idea. Thankful for the light raincoat Milana had given him, he dismounted, dug around in the bundle strapped to the padder's rear and wrestled it free, then spread it out on the soggy ground. Still holding the padder's reins in one hand, he sat, cross-legged, waiting for darkness to fall. The animal grumbled and complained, and once or twice, he had to tug firmly on the reins again to still it, but eventually it subsided and its head dropped as it dozed, standing in place.

Darkness fell earlier now that Storm Season was truly with them -- not that the daylight was more than gloom, day after day. Its oppression sat heavily in the back of his mind, like the discomfort, the drizzle and the constant orange-gray smudged coloration that lay over everything like a pall. He squatted watching the camp, noting the way the men's movements were sluggish, lacking enthusiasm. Finally, one by one, lanterns sprang into life, and before long, the large central oil fire was set up in the middle of the