The Archivist Read Online Free PDF

typically hire foot-soldier mercenaries for protection. The drivers nod to us warily as they pass. Their mouths smile, but their eyes narrow and dart around, looking for any signs of a trap.
    Not that I can blame them. There is no governance outside the towns and small cities in this region, and Disciple territory lies to the southeast across a couple of hundred miles of lawless wilderness and a small mountain range.
    The Disciples like to claim that they rule with an iron rod of Justice, which is just one reason my missions there have been few and brief and always under deep cover. I have to concede that the only offenses I have seen occur in their region are the fanatical ones they themselves perpetrate.
    The lack of law and order outside the vicinity of towns like Port Sadelow is mitigated by the severe countryside and the fact that there just is not enough wealth to attract any serious criminal elements. Not yet, anyway. That will change in time, if human history is any guide.
    Doc calls a halt and Danae sneaks a sideways glance at me while she takes a swig from her water skin, but when our eyes meet, she looks away. She has barely spoken to me all morning. If Doc has noticed anything odd between us, he keeps it to himself. Not that I am sentimental—the lack of any messy attachments works for me—but I am still annoyed, for some reason.
    Even under the woodland canopy, the temperature has warmed enough that I hang my duster on the back of my pack. When we resume, Doc leads us into the forest on the right side. A sparse game trail winds through brush and pine trees. I suspect that an underground spring runs through this small valley, because the ground is moist.
    An occasional squirrel barks at us and birds flitter back and forth in the trees, which Danae eyes warily, for some reason. Otherwise we do not see any wildlife, but that is not surprising given the amount of noise we make.
    Doc manages a slow but steady pace while we follow the animal track along a gentle rise up to where it circles a small lake. When the trail begins to wind back and forth up a hillside, he begins to wheeze and has to take frequent breaks. By the time the vegetation thins out I am half-pulling him up the hill.
    When we reach the ridge I estimate we have gained at least 2000 feet in elevation. Danae helps the old man to the side of the trail and he collapses against a tree trunk to catch his breath. As she helps him sip some water, I have to admit that Danae was right to be concerned.
    We take a leisurely snack and water break, then follow the crest for half an hour, until Doc halts for another water break in the shade of a pine tree. Now we are back in the direct sun and the morning chill is long gone, so I would guess it must be at least eighty-five degrees.
    I rarely see a thermometer these days outside of the Archives. It is not just that most of them were electronic and no longer worth the silicon used to make them. Few people have a practical reason for them now.
    “It happened just up that hill,” Doc says, pointing to a spur off to the right. We sling our water skins over our shoulders and scramble along a narrow, rocky ridge that leads onto an open outlook, where a freshly-built cairn stands in the distance.
    “What exactly happened?” I ask as we pick our way along the ridge. “Something that seems like a minor detail to you may have great bearing on our safety.”
    Doc pauses to look at the ground, then steals a glance toward Danae before responding. “We were on our way back. Your friend said he needed a few minutes alone, so I rested in the shade under that tree back there. As you’ve seen, I’m an old man and not the hiker I used to be. Anyway, a while later I heard him cry out, once. That was it, just once. When I got there, he was already dead and I didn’t see what killed him.”
    “Papa!” Danae exclaims, her eyes wide and face ashen. “You told me he had an accident. That he slipped and fell.”
    “I’m sorry,