Seeker

“What makes you think I would give you such a thing?” Master Tan asked Shinobu. He was standing at a table in his office, grinding up a bright green plant with a mortar and pestle, his hands moving with the sure motions of an expert, his eyes free to study his shamefaced visitor.

“Our lives are a choice,” Shinobu said. “I heard you say that to Quin.”

“When did I say that?” With two fingers he tested the consistency of the plant, then continued to work it with the pestle.

“You know.”

“Ah,” Master Tan said, remembering. “Perhaps I did say it then. It was an eventful evening. Of course, she chose life.”

The man was ancient, with gnarled hands that were both strong and soft, yet his face was almost unlined. He was staring at Shinobu with interest, as he might have studied a new herb for sale in the Kowloon market.

“You would have let her die if she wanted. You gave her the choice,” Shinobu insisted stubbornly. “I heard you.”

“Is that what you think? I am always letting people die?” the old man asked, as though fascinated with the idea. “Is that why so many come to see me in my shop? Because I am such an easy path to the undertaker?”

“You like to help people, old man,” Shinobu responded, his voice low and sullen. “You should help me and give me what I’m asking for. I have …” He was going to say, I have let good people down when it counted, and furthermore, I’m a killer. But he couldn’t make those particular words come out. They died somewhere in his throat before they were anywhere near the surface—just as his admission about Alistair in the disruptor field had died in his throat before he could tell his mother.

He had no wish to argue with the man. He had already decided what he needed to do, and he was experiencing a sense of peace at the dark inevitability of what was to come. I should have done this a year ago, he thought.

He stared at his feet, tried another tack. “I will not be missed, Master Tan, except by the owners of the drug bars—and they won’t miss me much. They ask me to bathe, and I almost never do.”

“What sorts of drugs, typically?” Master Tan asked with interest. “The ones you like to take—what sorts? Opium? Ivan3? Which drug bars will miss you the most?”

“What does it matter?” These questions were disturbing his even temper. He didn’t want to talk anymore.

“I don’t do this sort of thing every day. I have to have a reason to help you. Please explain how bad you’ve been. Which sorts of drugs?”

With a sigh, Shinobu came up with a long list. Master Tan patiently wrote everything down, all the while shaking his head and mumbling comments like “Terrible, terrible. Cigarettes as well? My, my. Vodka? Really, young man …”

Eventually, Shinobu felt they were getting off track. His hands shoved deep in his pockets, he said, “Look, I … My father …” He stopped, tried again: “My mother and brother and Fiona. I … want to protect them. This will protect them. Can you help me do one thing without failing?”

“Tell me. This one thing—killing yourself—it will fix the other things?”

Shinobu shrugged. “I can’t fix those things. They’re done. But I can stop everyone from relying on me. I can keep myself from wrecking things again. Because I will wreck them. Can you understand?”

Master Tan continued to study him in silence for some moments, as though weighing his decision.

“I’m afraid you do make a good argument,” he said at last. “I won’t try to stop you.”

Shinobu, who had been looking at his shoes, was a little disappointed by the sudden agreement. But it was, after all, what he had hoped for.

The old man set down the mixture he’d been working on and moved to the enormous cabinet that stretched all the way to the room’s vaulted ceiling. This cabinet was full of tiny drawers, more than a thousand of them, each labeled with Chinese characters. Master Tan accessed the drawers with a rolling ladder, which he pushed back and forth as he moved up and down, filling a large plastic bag. Every time Shinobu thought he was finished, Master Tan remembered something else and went back up. After nearly half an hour, the bag was almost overflowing. The healer was humming under his breath as he added the last ingredient and stepped off the ladder.

“I could have died of boredom faster,” Shinobu muttered. He was grateful for Master Tan’s help, but the man’s cheerfulness was really getting on his nerves. Was it too much to ask for the healer to be a bit upset about the situation?

Still humming faintly, Master Tan walked past Shinobu and began to brew a tea with the heap of herbs.

“It is my wish that you not kill yourself,” he told Shinobu, as though discussing the weather. “Actually, it doesn’t matter much to me. But the medical authorities of the Transit Bridge require me to say that I would prefer you didn’t kill yourself. It looks bad if healers are openly helping people commit suicide. I’m sure you can understand.”

Shinobu nodded.

Soon the tea was ready and Master Tan was pouring it into a large thermos.

“You must drink this all at once,” he said, “leaving no evidence for someone to find. I suggest you go somewhere quiet and safe, but near city waste disposal facilities. Perhaps a dumpster? Then your corpse will be easy to handle. And do it soon—the tea will not stay potent for long.”

Shinobu snatched the thermos from Master Tan, and a very short while later he had it clutched to his chest as he worked his way outward along the Bridge’s steel girders. He was near the Kowloon side and from his current position could see the lights of the city glowing through a deep fog off to his right. As he walked along a narrow beam, traveling away from the heart of the Bridge toward the edges of its structure, he began to see the water far below. It was inky dark tonight beneath the fog.

“ ‘It is my wish that you not kill yourself,’ he says as he scoops out the poisonous herbs,” Shinobu said to himself. “He couldn’t wait to get rid of me. You’ve sunk as low as you can go when a healer wants you gone.”

The harbor was not as deep here as it was in the center of the Bridge. Shallower water would be better, he thought. They would find his body quickly, and his mother would not be left wondering what had happened to him. True, a dumpster would allow Mariko to be notified sooner, but jumping was insurance—two simultaneous methods of death were better than one. And he preferred not to die in a dumpster, no matter how charming Master Tan seemed to find the idea.

When Shinobu reached the end of the girder, he took a seat and let his feet dangle over the edge. Carefully unscrewing the top of the thermos, he sniffed the tea and gagged. It gave off an awful aroma and was nearly as thick as molasses. It was too bad this would be the last thing he ever tasted. He should have bought an ice cream cone to eat after drinking it. I’ll have to plan better the next time I kill myself, he thought. Ha ha.

He looked down below his feet to ensure he had a clear path to the water—he didn’t fancy bouncing off steel beams on his way down. The girder upon which he sat stuck out farther than its neighbors; below him were a hundred and fifty feet of empty air. Perfect.

There was no point in delaying. If he hesitated, he would change his mind, and he would end up betraying someone else—probably Quin this time. He refused to do that. Now that I’ve found you, Quin, I can’t trust myself to stay away.

Shinobu plugged his nose and gulped down the contents of the thermos without stopping for a breath.

The effects were immediate. His stomach cramped so suddenly and so intensely, he doubled over and had to grab for the edge of the beam to avoid pitching off.

When the first round of cramps eased up, he crawled to his feet. He was beginning to shake. Violently. Another fit of cramping hit him, and it was all he could do to stay upright.

Propping himself up against another girder, he stripped down to his underwear. Then he threw away the empty thermos and his clothes, and several moments later heard a splash distantly below him.

His body was shaking and cramping so fiercely by now that he was forced to move his feet just an inch at a time, worried that he would lose his balance before he was ready. Finally he reached the farthest point of the beam and his toes were hanging off the edge. He took a deep breath, ready for the end.

And he jumped.

His stomach leapt up into his throat; adrenaline rushed into his veins. He was falling! He was going to die!

It was a long way down. Long enough for him to watch the steel skeleton of the Bridge flying by. Long enough to watch the dark water racing up to meet him through the fog. He had intended to hit the harbor in a flat belly flop, which would have killed him instantly. Instead, as he plummeted to the water, instinct took over. He had, in fact, jumped off bridges before—for fun. Unintentionally, he hit the water in a perfectly vertical stance, feetfirst, and he sliced down through the surface like a cliff jumper showing off for tourists.

His backup plan was to hit bottom so violently that he was killed by the second impact. Unfortunately, he was mistaken about the water under this portion of the Bridge. It might have been shallower here than it was at the center, but by the time he stopped plunging through its depths, he still hadn’t reached the bottom. A few moments after jumping, Shinobu found himself alive, deep beneath the surface, with all limbs intact. The cold was a shock, but it was also making his stomach feel better.

His diving experience told him his body would soon force him to inhale, but right now, because he’d taken a breath before impact, he had half a minute of air left in his lungs, maybe more. So instead of surfacing, he dove deeper, swimming blindly down.

Stroke after powerful stroke, Shinobu pulled himself forward, and something strange was happening, something more than the terror and adrenaline of the jump. His stomach was twisting itself into knots and his muscles were shivering, but a more powerful sensation than either of these was taking over. His body was humming.

That was an odd word, yet it seemed to fit. He kept swimming toward the bottom, and as he did, it felt as though every cell were vibrating of its own accord, and in doing so they were shaking loose all sorts of things, some physical, some not.

First, the drug haze that had lain upon him for the last year and a half was rattled out of his head. As his arms pulled him through the dark water, he experienced a mental sharpness he hadn’t felt in ages. Next his heart was shaken into furious motion, and it began to pump blood wildly, like a guerrilla warrior firing a machine gun on New Year’s Eve. Shinobu’s lungs began to complain, but he was still moving deeper.

Finally, memories started to shake loose:

He was on the estate, by the barn above the cliff. He had looked everywhere for Quin, had finally realized she must be here. They had done their first assignment as Seekers the night before. His new brand, the athame burned into his wrist, was throbbing beneath its bandage. He’d been sick to his stomach for nearly twenty-four hours.

He was going to find Quin and take her away with him. He would convince her to leave the estate today, with nothing but the clothes they were wearing. They could cross the river at the base of the cliff, and make their way down the opposite shore to the nearest village.

Quin probably still loved John, but Shinobu would make her see. John was leaving. Briac was getting rid of him. She and Shinobu were the two who should be together. They could put last night behind them, put the estate behind them, go somewhere where they would never look at their parents again. And one day, when they were safely away and alone together, she would turn to him and see him differently. And he would kiss her …

Reaching the barn doorway, he was startled to hear voices inside. He stopped at the threshold, listening. Quin was there and John was with her. John had gotten there first.

Moving silently, Shinobu stepped into the shadows of the barn. The two of them were up in the sleeping loft. They were speaking softly, but it sounded like they might be arguing. Shinobu thought they might be breaking up. He moved along the wall, and after a few moments, he could see John, standing by the round window up on that high platform.

He would wait in the shadows. She would send John out, and when he left, Shinobu would climb the ladder and convince her. Even if he were still just her cousin, that would be all right. The two of them could make a new life.

But John did not leave. As Shinobu watched, Quin stood up and moved over to him. In a moment, John’s lips were on hers and their arms were around each other.Property belongs to Nôvel(D)r/ama.Org.

Shinobu was in the manor house, on their first assignment. He saw Quin moving down the grand staircase, the two children from the nursery following close behind her. He knew immediately what she intended. He and Quin had already been forced to participate in killing the parents, but Quin was refusing to do more. She was taking the children away, she was helping them escape. She was defying Briac. The idea gave him strength.

Shinobu turned to look for his father. He could steal Alistair’s athame and lightning rod and join Quin. With those, they could save the children and then go anywhere.

But when he looked, his father was nowhere to be found. And when he returned to the staircase, Quin was sitting with her head in her hands, and the children were gone.

Shinobu was in the commons, practicing with John. They were using ancient metal swords, and the clang of the blades echoed off the trees. Shinobu was twelve years old, and John thirteen.

Shinobu was a better fighter than John, but not by much—John had learned to fight even before coming to the estate.

John made a good parry, then struck out nicely at Shinobu. He blocked the blow, but its force was enough to drive him back a step.

“You’re learning,” Shinobu told him, a bit arrogantly.

“I’m stronger than you,” John replied.

“But I’m faster.”

He slapped John’s leg with the flat of his sword, causing him to jump backward.

“You grew up here,” John said. “Of course you’re faster.”

“My father says the estate is the best place for a Seeker to grow up. There’s something in the air, in the water, in the rocks.”

“Could be,” John said, “but my home’s safer.” At that age, John was always looking for ways to appear stronger, better, or more important—anything to make up for the fact that he’d come to his training four years late.

Shinobu neatly disarmed him and sent John’s sword flying into the grass. Then he let his own sword fall to his side.

“Why is your home safer?” he asked, curious now. “How could anything be safer than the estate?”

John got a look in his eyes like he’d made a mistake and wasn’t supposed to be talking about this, but the temptation to brag was overwhelming.

“Traveler was made for me,” he said, searching through the grass to retrieve his sword. “A Seeker can’t get onto it. So I’ll always be safe from Seekers. Anyone could come onto your estate.”

“But they’d have to fight my father if they did,” Shinobu said, putting a hand to his chest. “And me.”

Then John found his sword and they were fighting again.

Shinobu was younger, in the commons again, sitting hidden at the edge of the meadow in grass that was nearly four feet tall. Bees were moving from flower to flower among the tall stalks, and there was a smell of honeysuckle in the air. Summer was beginning and the day was warm. Quin sat next to him cross-legged, her dark hair tied with a ribbon. They were nine years old.

Without warning, Shinobu leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek.

“Are you allowed to kiss me?” she asked, giggling.

“Why not?” he said. “Our parents are related, so we are too, and I always kiss my family. And we’ve started our training now, so we’re practically grown up.”

Quin thought about this, then leaned over and kissed him back.

“Och,” he said. “That’s disgusting.”

“Is not.”

“Aye, it is.”

He kissed her again. The two of them were eating bread and honey they had snuck from Fiona’s kitchen, so the kiss was a bit sticky.

Shinobu lay back, looking up at a sky framed by the tall grass. “My da says as long as there are two of you together, things are all right. My ma is dead, but there are still two of us, Father and me. And we’re two,” he said, taking her hand. “You and I make two, so that’s all right.”

With that, Quin kissed him one more time, and this time her lips brushed against his own.

“You got my lips!” he exclaimed.

They broke apart, and each began spitting furiously on the ground.

“Why do grown-ups like it?” she asked.

“They’re strange.”

“Will we be strange when we grow up, do you think?”

“Definitely,” he said, and he kissed her again.

Shinobu’s arm struck something as he swam. He felt mud and silt squeezing through his fingers. He had reached the ocean floor. He’d arrived at the bottom of the harbor and at the beginning of his feelings for Quin.

His lungs were burning. In a few moments, his body would force him to gulp in seawater and he would drown. Yet his body had stopped shaking and his head was clear.

You bastard, he thought, that wasn’t poison at all!

At nine years old, lying in the commons with Quin, things had been good. Perfect, really. Between then and now, there had been a long list of very bad mistakes.

If I die now, he thought, they will always be mistakes.

If he took in a lungful of water, he would freeze the past just as it was. But if he lived …

Shinobu brought his feet down against the harbor floor and pushed upward with as much force as his muscles would give. He struck up through the water, his arms pulling him, his legs kicking. His lungs were at the end of their tolerance. He would have to take a breath, even if it killed him. His body would inhale whatever was available—seawater, silt, small fish, old diapers, anything. He must breathe, he must breathe.

And then he did. He drew in a great gulp and found that his face had broken the surface and he was sucking in the foggy night air of Hong Kong.