Part 51 (2/2)

And Clearwater. He needed to see her too. His first run from his new base had taken him along the sh.o.r.e of the lake with the island on which she was held. At the ronin's camp he had made a rash promise to pay her a visit and, despite her pleas to him not to risk his life on such a foolhardy venture, it was a promise he intended to keep. On becoming a roadrunner he'd discovered that it was possible to 'go over the wall'

during off-duty hours, but so far he'd been denied the opportunity.

Since he had arrived on the scene, the pattern of deliveries had obliged him to spend his nights in other, more distant post-houses putting her beyond reach.

The act of running swept away the stupefying effects of the sake.

Steve felt a sense of elation as he kicked into top gear. Yeah... All in all, not a bad day's work.

A few days later, Steve found himself heading south again, along the western sh.o.r.e of Two Island Lake. In pre-Holocaust times, it had been known as Sudbury Reservoir. The lake, some three and a half miles long and a mile and half across at its widest point, lay on a north-south axis. Its meandering coastline was shaped like a floppy, high-heeled boot, like the toe of Italy, but nipped in tight at the ankle'.

Clearwater was housed on the larger island which lay in the crumpled leg of the boot, close to the eastern side where a small jetty had been built. The second island lay just above the slim ankle, where the opposing sh.o.r.es swung inwards to within some three hundred yards of each other.

Steve cursed his luck at being so close and yet so far.

He had no qualms about swimming across from the west bank, but it was crazy to attempt it in broad daylight.

There was also his present job to consider. If he lost that through being late with his deliveries and wound up shovelling s.h.i.+t he might ruin his chances of getting into the Heron Pool. He let off a string of breathy obscenities and ran on down the trail that led to Wunasaka, the first of several mail-drops he would make on the way to Nyoporo.

Near the ankle of the lake, the trail swung away from the sh.o.r.e and climbed through a stand of tall pines. The morning sun cast slanting shafts of light and shadow across his path, turning the red gra.s.s into pools of fire.

Motes of dust and pollen, caught in the golden beams, drifted aimlessly through the air like newborn fireflies mesmerised by the beauty of the world around them.

This was one of the riches of the overground; the play of light and shadow, varying in colour and intensity through the day, the month, the year. In the Federation, there was an artificial twilight but there were no shadows, no cool dark corners, nowhere to hide. The illumination, which shone down from all sides, was cunningly balanced to match the essential components of sunlight but it could never replace the real thing, just as despite the genius of the First Family - the manmade rock-roofed underground world with its gleaming marbled piazzas and cool landscaped deeps could never compete with the vastness and splendour of the overground, its beckoning blue-hazed horizons and ever-changing cloud-filled skies.

Steve's thoughts were jolted back to the present by the sight of an approaching rider decked out in red and black armour and with two tall narrow banners fixed to his back. A samurai - and from the look of him, no ordinary one at that.

Stepping off the trail, Steve went down on his knees, then bent forward, forearms on the ground, palms together, nose pressed between his thumbs. As someone ranked below the bottom strata of Iron Master society, he was required to stay there, eyes averted, until the samurai went past, then count very slowly to ten before getting up.

To his surprise, the hoofbeats stopped before the rider reached him.

Oh-oh... what's all this about?

Glancing sideways, he caught a brief glimpse of the samurai as he dismounted and looped the reins of his horse round the trunk of a sapling about fifteen yards away. The animal, which was between Steve and the rider, blocked off a view of the j.a.p's face. Not that it mattered all that much. They all looked alike to Steve, and the rules about when and when not to make eye-contact made it even harder to tell one d.i.n.k from another.

Steve turned his attention back to the ground and waited, all six senses finely tuned for the samurai's next move. His eye caught the moving pattern of light, and shade as the j.a.p strode slowly towards him and, cutting across the sound of a moving suit of armour, he heard the faint, chilling swish of a long-sword being drawn from its scabbard.

Ohh, s.h.i.+t...

The shadow cast by the samurai stopped directly in front of him, darkening the gra.s.s on either side of his fingers to a deep blood-red.

Steve mentally invoked the name of Talisman but didn't move a muscle as the ice-cold blade brushed against his right cheek, then slid under his ear. He didn't need to see it to know that it was sharp side up.

After pausing there for a brief, agonising moment, the tip of the blade traced a chilling line across the back of his neck and came to rest under his left ear. He didn't feel the cut as the blade was withdrawn, just the trickle of blood warning his skin as it flowed down the line of his jaw.

'So... how's it going, sport?”

It was the Man in Black. Only this time, he was wearing fancy dress.

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