Free The Archivist by Tom D Wright Page A

and removing fishhooks, what else was your father up to?”
    Danae shakes her head slowly as she surveys the room. “I honestly don’t know. He said the device you were bringing was very important, even more important than his life. And if anything happened to him, I should get it to my uncle in Entiak. But he never told me why.”
    “So that’s why you want to go to Entiak,” I state.
    “No, I’m not holding anything back,” she hisses. “I figured now that Papa’s dead you were going to keep that reader thing. So taking it to my uncle never occurred to me.”
    If there was anything of value hidden here, the Disciples would have already found it, so there is no point in our searching the home. Every minute we stay here makes me more nervous.
    “Is there anything you absolutely can’t live without?” I ask Danae. “We need to leave, now, and we’re not coming back.” She hurries into a side room and a couple minutes later she emerges with a small bundle of clothing and a torn scarf.
    “My mother made this for me, just before she died,” Danae explains as she ties the scarf around her neck. We make our way back out through the kitchen and into the brush.
    When we get to the center of the stand of large, thick shrubs where it looks like some kids have built a small fort, I gesture for her to sit. I need time to think, and we are well-hidden within the vegetation behind rows of houses. No one will find us unless they stumble through here.
    I knew the Disciples would come after Danae, but not this quickly. The only way they could have reacted so fast is if they know what happened up there in the hills, when it happened. They revile any communication technology more sophisticated than smoke signals, yet they must have descended on this town the moment their brother Disciple was killed.
    I am seriously tempted to head straight out of town and return to the location of the cave to search for clues. This development represents an unprecedented threat to the Archives. But my planning for another countryside excursion is interrupted by the sound of shattering glass from the house.
    Danae gasps as she scrambles to her knees. I follow her to the edge of the brush, then pull her back down just as the first flames start licking through one of the side windows.
    Tugging her sleeve, I shake my head and gesture for her to follow me as I crawl away from the house. At the far end of the sheltering brush, I pause to give Danae a chance to compose herself before we head out of this town. She takes several deep breaths, wipes away her tears and nods at me. For someone who has just seen her whole life literally go up in flames, she shows remarkable fortitude. More than the average civilian.
    We regain our feet behind the neighbor’s shed and stroll out onto the street. I glance back at a growing column of flames as we walk away, while a fire alarm bell begins to ring, a block over on the main street.
    Ahead of us, standing at the end of the road leading out of town, two caped figures watch these events. When they see us, they begin to walk in our direction.
    I slip my arm around Danae’s waist and pull her close so we look like a couple, and lean into her as I whisper in her ear, “You know this town. Where can we find a public place nearby, but not too public?”
    “The seaman’s chapel,” she whispers back as we reach a street corner. Then she guides me to turn left toward the main street. “It’s always open during the day, but it’ll be empty except for a widow or two. I should know, I spent enough time there myself.”
    Black smoke billows in a rising column above us, growing in size as we stroll arm-in-arm over to the main street. As we turn left, I steal a casual glance back, just in time to see the two Disciples reach the corner we recently vacated. They hesitate, and then the taller one gestures toward us and leads the short one our way.
    Several dozen black-garbed figures roam in clusters along the main