City Wars by Dennis Palumbo Read Free Book Online Page B

made a point of not catching her eye.
    Below, the darkness had come to blanket the remains of E Sector.
    Bowman said, “Seen enough, sir?”
    “Yes. Enough to last me.”
    Bowman pulled back on the stick.
    Meyerson swallowed the last of his beansteak and patted his now-doughy paunch and decided abruptly that he’d never get used to the idea of Scholars.
    He said so.
    Clemmie Della Sala was surprised. “An old turd like you, Meyerson? I’d think we’re your last link to the past. You know … nostalgia.”
    The Scholar was grinning at him.
    Meyerson shifted uneasily in the booth. The diner was half empty, serving late suppers to hurrying Urbans and stragglers. Meyerson counted himself among the latter.
    “I don’t know, Clemmie.” He warmed his coffee mug with two thick hands. “Seems to me there’s gotta be a better way to make a living. I mean, it ain’t like the old times—”
    The woman shrugged.
    “Not the old times, no … just different times.” She rubbed her lyre carefully with a cloth. “We sing different songs.”
    “Don’t see why we need ’em anyway.”
    “Cities need people. People need heroes. Heroes need Scholars to remember their deeds, and sing of them. And make them legends.”
    Meyerson laughed shortly. “They sure trained you good and proper, Clemmie. But I don’t buy it. Time was, a man could—”
    “Pre-War man,” Clemmie said. “Almost as extinct as grain alcohol.” She plucked a few clear notes on the lyre. A few people at other tables glanced over in their direction.
    “Face it, Meyerson,” she said brightly. “You’re a page out of a book. An old book.”
    Meyerson frowned. “How long we known each other, lady?”
    “We go back about a dozen years, I think. I don’t keep records.”
    “Well, it’s just a good thing I love ya, or I’d strangle that perfumed neck of yours.”
    Clemmie strummed a chord and began to hum softly. Her voice was clear, resonant. Meyerson knew she’d been singing a long time, even though she hadn’t left her forties. Her robes were many-layered, a myriad of colors. She wore fire jewels, turquoise, baubles that caught the light.
    There was much tradition in her, and in her song.
    She lifted her fingers from the strings, looked up.
    “Why’d ya stop, Clemmie?” he asked.
    “Not in the mood.” She glanced around the small diner. People were hunched over their meals. Voices were low. “This is not the place for me, Phil. The feel is wrong.”
    “Shit. Who figured you for artistic temperament?”
    “Scholars are not artists.” She put aside the lyre. “We’re in service to Government, just as you are.”
    “
Were
, Clemmie. Not anymore.” He drained his mug of coffee.
    Clemmie studied his drawn features, thinking at the same time of the dozens of songs that told of old soldiers and being away from the fighting and what that could mean.
    “Have you been all right, Phil?”
    “Yeah. Yeah, I’ve been okay.”
    “That’s fine. That’s fine.”
    “Clemmie?”
    “Yes?”
    “Sing one.”
    “I thought you didn’t approve.”
    “That was before. I seen the light. Scholars are terrific. Now sing one.”
    “Not now. Not here. The feel is wrong.”
    “C’mon, Clemmie. You know the rules.”
    “For Christ’s sake, Phil, you of all people—”
    Meyerson raised his forefinger. “If a citizen requests it, the Scholar’s gotta sing. Ain’t that right?”
    “That’s right.” Sighing.
    “Then sing me one.” He leaned back, and looked away. “Sing me a good one.”
    Clemmie looked at him for a long moment. As much as she cared for him, she wished she were home with William. She and Meyerson had shared a lot of rough times since she’d met him at a Service Center just after the death of her husband. The War had taken something from both of them. Soon they’d learned to comfort one another; the right words, the right silences, the right touching when there’d been a need. They’d grown apart in recent years, she to the