第69节

ights 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 shore 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 shores 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 shit 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 shore and

climbed through a stand of tall pines. The morning sun cast slanting

shafts of light and shadow across his path, turning the red grass 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 Jap'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 dink 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 Jap 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, shit...

The shadow cast by the samurai stopped directly in front of him,

darkening the grass 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.