“Yes, I suppose you’re right. So go on. . . .”
“There is not much more to tell. The Genonese was the victors, but at a terrible price—the eventual end of First Age dominion over the World. There has been decline ever since. A Pyrrhic victory, it is called.”
“What does that mean?”
“Look it up in your history books. Ever go to Voluspa? Yes, of course you do. They have a library there. Visit it sometime instead of a brothel. You might learn something.”
“Very amusing, old man. I should—”
“You should listen to me, and pardon an old man for his attempts at humor. The point of all that I have told is quick upon us. Listen. There exists still in the World one last functioning relic of the First Age, of the Last War.”
“What?!”
“A Guardian. Still performing its function. Still waiting.” Kartaphilos nodded, then looked into Varian’s blue eyes.
“That’s impossible! Why has it never been found? Where could it possibly be?”
“If something exists, it cannot be impossible. And who really knows what lies within such places as the Black Chasm, the Manteg, or even the Ironfields?”
“Do you know the location?” Varian’s pipe had gone out; he knocked the burned plug roughly from the bowl, not taking his gaze from Kartaphilos.
“I did. At one time, I knew more of the story than I have been able to tell you. It was my . . . my mission to go out from the Citadel and bring help. I was not to return until I brought the assistance.”
“What are you talking about?” Varian felt his heart pounding, felt the growing tightness in his chest. There was no reason why he should believe this old man. But he did believe. “What’s the ‘Citadel’?”
“The place of the Guardian. Don’t you see yet? The Guardian sent me for assistance. I . . . I failed it. There was a machine column and Riken support troops. They shot me out of the sky, tracked me. I was . . . injured, and it took all my skills and few defenses to escape, to re—to heal myself. But afterward, I discovered that something was different. Amnesia, I think it’s called. An impairment of the memory, the mind. I could not remember everything! For a long time, I could remember nothing, then gradually the pieces of the puzzles began to fall back into place, but never all of them. I did not know where to go to find assistance; I did not know how to go back. . . .
Varian studied the old man’s face. The features were cracked, seamed with age and fear and sadness. He was telling the truth, this Kartaphilos.
“I believe you,” said Varian. “But why are you telling me this?”
“Time has passed and still I remember no more. I have decided that I would never find my way back to Guardian alone. The World is too large. Instead, I have set out across the face of nations, searching out men who are bright enough, curious enough, and strong enough to take up the search.”
“You mean I am not the only one you’ve told?”
“Do not be offended, but no. Hundreds, I’d figure. There were other ways. I could have propped myself up as a prophet or some other type out of Odo, then spent years gathering a crowd of disciples, instilling some religious rigamarole around the facts—a little magic, some fables—and just like that I’d have had a . . . crusade going. Thousands of pilgrims and believers scouring the lands for the Lost God, or some such rot. But then, I don’t think that’s what Guardian had in mind when he sent me out for reinforcements. . . .” Kartaphilos smiled weakly.
“But that must have been a long time ago! You can’t be who you say you are? You can’t be that old!”
“But I am.”
“The war is over. Everyone’s dead. Long dead! The Guardian’s got to be gone—”
“No!” Kartaphilos screamed the word with such power that Varian was humbled into silence, as if he had spoken a blasphemy. “No, it lives! I know it! I feel it!”
Varian smiled. It had been a very convincing tale. The old man was quite an actor, full of detail and nuance, of gesture and just enough information to spring the curious appetite, to allow the imaginative mind to fill in the missing parts. It had almost worked.
“No, old man. You talk foolishness. What you say cannot possibly be.”
A look came into the eyes of Kartaphilos which could be read as anger, or hatred, or perhaps madness. Whatever it was, Varian did not like it. Slowly his hand drifted toward the hilt of his sword.
But the old man did not move toward him. His face twisted into a hideous mask and the voice which now spoke was low and not very human. “It is true. And I shall prove it to you.”
“What’re you talking about?”
Varian stepped back involuntarily as Kartaphilos reached for the clasp at the neck of his robe. His wrinkled, blue-veined hands grasped at the folds of his cloak and jerkin, ripping them away.
“No . . .” said Varian, hearing his voice trail off, a weak whisper. “It’s not real. It can’t be. . . .”
Reaching out, he forced himself to touch the exposed chest of Kartaphilos. The rest of the world went away—the sounds and colors of the Mentor docks—as he focused on the smoked-amber glass of the old man’s chest. It was clear and deep as a natural spring, and it danced with the lights of LEDs and microprocessors. Myriad circuits and pathways laced the chest cavity like thousands of roadways in a miniature city. It was a hypnotic display of light, power, magic.
“It’s a trick,” said Varian, hoping that he was correct.
Kartaphilos shook his head as he let the folds of his clothing drop, covering the body which shone like a precious gem. “No trick,” he said, reaching for his neck, pulling up an edge of flesh which had been
