Chapter Five

The balcony broke, taking Autor with it. Fakir lunged for him, screaming his name in agonized desperation and horror, but to no avail. Autor hit the ground with a sickening thump. Everything fell to black.

Fakir crashed to his knees in the nothingness, trembling. "Autor," he choked out. "I've killed him. Autor. . . ."

"Hmph. I hope you're satisfied."

He looked up with a start as a light shone in the distance, casting a glow on him and the surrounding area. Autor was standing over him, his expression unreadable. One arm was crossed over his chest, while with the hand of his other he pushed up his glasses.

"Satisfied?" Fakir repeated, pushing himself to his feet. "What do you mean?" He could not see it, but the color was gone from his face. "I didn't want to kill you! I didn't even want to hurt you. Before, I . . . I didn't control my temper. . . ."

"So I noticed." Autor frowned in confusion and then removed his glasses. "I won't be needing these now." He held them out to Fakir, who took them with shaking hands. "Let Ahiru do with them as she pleases."

Fakir stared at them blankly, his heart's speed increasing.

"You will give them to her, won't you?" Autor said. "Or will you withhold them in your jealousy?"

Again Fakir looked up. "No!" he cried. He swore in his anguish. "Of course I'll give them to her! Autor . . ." He reached for the other boy. "Autor, I'm sorry. . . ."

Autor was already turning away. "So am I," he said. He glanced over his shoulder for a brief moment. "I never intended to die by the hands of a former friend." He looked away, facing the light as he began to walk towards it.

"Autor!" Fakir screamed. He tried to make himself move, but he was frozen to the spot. He could only watch in helplessness as Autor walked away from him.

Fakir started awake, sitting up straight with a jerk. In an instant the scene around him came into focus. They were still in the car, going down the road, but the vehicle was shaking in an unpleasant and almost nauseating way. Fakir whirled to face the man next to him, about to demand an explanation, but the thug was occupied looking out the window at the rear right tire.

"Maybe we really shouldn't have taken the car through the forest," he said. "It's been getting worse the last hour!"

The driver gritted his teeth. "It can take it," he retorted.

"Yeah, but I don't know if I can!" the other gangster said. "The kid's looking a little green too."

Fakir frowned. If he was feeling any kind of bad effects, was it really from the quaking car . . . or from his nightmare? He ran a hand into his damp bangs. How he had even fallen asleep in here was beyond him. He had thought he was wide awake and would not be able to sleep at all in his sickened agony.

Was Autor really gone? Had Fakir left Ahiru alone with a dead body? He swallowed hard. It had just been a nightmare, right? It had not actually been Autor trying to communicate with him before crossing over to the other side. . . .

But whether Autor was dead or alive, he would never forgive Fakir for this, would he? What if he even believed that Fakir had known about the balcony and had deliberately knocked him into it so he would fall?

Of course Autor would never forgive him. Fakir would never forgive himself, either.

"Look, the car's going out on us," the man next to him was saying now. "We're coming up to a village or a town or something. Let's stop for the night and see if we can get the thing fixed."

The driver cursed. "We need to get further away than this!" he said. "Just in case that girl does chase after us with the police."

"And what if the car starts shaking itself apart?" the other thug countered. "What then?"

"Maybe he's right," the man in the passenger seat said, sounding worried. "It is getting bad. I'm actually getting dizzy."

The driver swore again. "Call Anton and tell him the problem," he said. "If he okays it, we'll stop."

Fakir watched as the passenger took out a cellphone and dialed a number. Was Anton in the other car? These men had been careful not to reveal their names around him, but that could surely not continue indefinitely. He frowned more. He only knew that the one who had seemed like the leader was the driver of this car. But he could not really be the leader, or why would Anton have to be the one to give permission?

Was Anton the boss over this entire operation, at a location they were all trying to reach? Fakir had thought he knew what was going on, but now he was stymied.

The man hung up the phone. "Anton says if it's as bad as I'm saying, we should stop," he said. "And maybe we should change license plates anyway; there's a chance the girl saw at least one of them."

The driver's eyes narrowed. "Fine then," he said. "We'll go around the back of that barn and stop. Heinrich will follow us with the other car. Then we'll just have to hope the people here will take in overnight guests without asking questions. We can't risk going to an inn."

He turned the wheel to the right, guiding the shaking vehicle along a dirt path that led next to a barn off the side of the road. When they were out of sight of anyone who might pass by, he shut off the engine and removed the key.

The man next to Fakir waved his gun at him. "Get out," he said. "And if you try anything funny, don't trust that I'll let you live even though you are Ambrosius's kid."

Fakir glowered. "I'm not a comedian," he said. After snapping the seatbelt loose, he opened his door and climbed out of the car. The thug followed, keeping his gun pointed at Fakir's back.

"Are you going to show your guns to whoever's in there?" Fakir asked as they walked towards the house.

"We'll see," the man answered.

The one in the lead had already reached the door. He knocked urgently, then leaned back and waited for a moment. When no one came right away, he pounded again.

At last the door creaked open. An older man stood there, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. "What on earth is the trouble, coming here so late?" he half-mumbled.

"We're businessmen on our way to an important convention," the gangster told him, "but our car is acting strange and we don't dare drive it any further tonight. We wondered if it would be at all possible that we could stay here until morning, when we can take it to a mechanic?"

The homeowner frowned, still looking confused. "Businessmen?" he repeated. "Convention? And you're passing through here?" He glanced behind the other to the rest of the group waiting on the walk. "Who's this boy? Surely he's not a businessman too," he added, seeming to be more awake now.

"He's . . . the son of an old friend of ours," was the reply. Fakir stiffened in anger. "We're taking him with us to the convention."

The man frowned. "I see. Well, far be it from me to keep you out in the cold. But . . . I'm not sure there's room enough for all of you. I'm just a simple farmer, you see, and I live alone."

"We can stay on the floor," the criminal said. "We don't want to trouble you."

The farmer scratched his head. "Alright then, if you're sure," he said, opening the door wider. "I've tinkered with cars; maybe tomorrow I can have a look at yours. But for now, come on in."

The gangster stepped forward. "Thanks." He gestured to the rest. "Come on."

The others filed ahead, entering the house after him. The farmer stepped to the side, keeping one hand on the edge of the open door.

Fakir glanced at the thug behind him. "Hey, when you're done here, what are you going to do with him?" he hissed.

"That depends on how nosy he gets," the gangster said.

Fakir clenched his teeth. "It's a small place," he said. "Killing him would be just about the stupidest thing you could possibly do. Everyone would know in a couple of hours."

"You're right," was the cold reply. "So it'd have to look like an accident. You'd better start praying that he minds his own business." The gun tapped him on the back. "Get moving."

Of course the weapon would have to be put away before their hapless host could see it. Fakir was not worried about it being used on him, but now he had another life in his hands. And the farmer was starting to look wary as he saw the sheer number of "businessmen" he had agreed to house. It looked doubtful that he would continue to believe their cover story. Fakir did indeed pray as he walked to the door.

If I can do anything to save his life if he gets it in danger, please let me. And . . . wherever Autor and Ahiru are, please keep them safe too.

He looked into the farmer's still-sleepy but suspicious eyes, saying nothing aloud as he walked past and into the house. After the man behind him was inside as well, the door was closed.

It sounded thunderous to Fakir's ears.

xxxx

"Autor! Autor, I didn't mean to cause your death! AUTOR!"

Autor's eyes flew open in the darkness of the bedroom. He breathed heavily, his hands slipping from his chest to his sides.

"Fakir," he whispered.

Where was he now? Did he really think Autor was dead? Did he just fear it, but was still trying to believe Autor was alive? When would Autor get the chance to show him the truth?

It was not just Autor's fear that Fakir was agonized, was it? No, it could not be. Not after the way Fakir had looked when he had tried to save Autor. And Ahiru had already said that Fakir felt horrible about the argument. Fakir still cared about him.

And Autor still cared about him too. In spite of the hurt and the anger, Fakir was his friend. That would not change, even though for a while he had believed it had.

It was strange to come to that realization, especially after the deep wounds he had suffered after he had been betrayed as a child. He had never again considered those people his friends and had not wanted to see them any more, ever. He still did not, really—though now it was mainly because he had moved on and discovered true friendships. They had truly betrayed him, revealing that they had never thought of him as a friend to begin with.

He and Fakir had been on the rocks with each other more than once. But it was true, what Ahiru had said—surely this hurdle was not worse than the time Autor had lost his mind. In fact, surely it was not nearly as serious as then. And there had been no lie in Fakir's eyes when he had lunged to try to save Autor from falling. He had been stricken with horror and agony. Surely that proved Fakir was not like the children who had displayed such open hostility. They never would have looked like that. They probably would have laughed if Autor had fallen due to a fight with one of them.

Ahiru was also right that Autor had really felt hurt by Fakir's actions and words, rather than merely insulted. And the hurt still lingered because of how Autor felt about Fakir. He wanted to have a chance to resolve this mess, and to offer to try again, if Fakir was willing. Because some part of him believed that their friendship was real and true, he could not bring himself to simply give up and throw it away.

But . . . even if Fakir did not want to try again, Autor could not condemn him to this fate, could he? Especially when Ahiru cared so much about him.

He sighed. If Fakir was his mortal enemy—which he was not—Autor supposed he still could not abandon him in this mess. At any rate, he could not let Ahiru try to deal with it all on her own.

"Autor?"

He started, looking to the side. Ahiru had been kneeling at the side of his bed, her arms crossed on the mattress. Now she was standing and leaning over him, regarding him worriedly.

"Autor, are you okay?"

He managed a nod. "Yes," he said.

"And you know your name?" Ahiru asked.

"I'm Autor." He looked at Ahiru in concern. "How long has it been?"

Ahiru bit her lip. "Um, I'm not sure," she said, guilt in her eyes. "I was over here so I could check your watch, but I must've gone to sleep. . . ."

Autor rose up on one elbow. "I didn't mean to cause you not to sleep," he exclaimed. "I only wanted you to wake me if you were still awake. And you won't get much of a decent sleep there like that." He regarded her kindly. "Go back to the other bed."

She stayed where she was. "But what about your concussion?" she said.

"If I have one, it's probably mild," Autor said. "I woke up on my own; I should be alright."

Ahiru bit her lip. "If you're sure," she said.

"I'm sure," Autor said.

Ahiru half-turned, then hesitated again. "Aren't you cold, Autor?" she blurted. "There's no heat in this old house and you're on top of the covers and . . ."

Autor glanced over the edge of the bed. It looked like the quilt was loose, yet not touching the floor. "I'm not cold," he said. "But if it would make you feel better, I could draw up one of the comforter's edges like this." He reached and pulled up the side of the quilt, draping it over him.

Ahiru smiled. "That almost looks cozy," she said. "Maybe I'll try it too." She walked to the other bed and sat down, unbuckling her shoes. Then she paused, staring at her stocking-feet. "I feel kind of guilty, sleeping when Fakir is in so much trouble. . . ."

"You have to sleep," Autor returned. "You look ready to drop right now."

Ahiru looked up at him. "You made Fakir stand there for three days without sleep," she said.

"Yes, well . . . that was to help train him to focus on his gift," Autor said. "I don't see any sense in trying to stay awake now."

"I guess." Ahiru tried and failed to stifle a yawn. She laid down on her right side, facing Autor. Reaching behind her, she pulled up the side of the quilt and burrowed under it.

"I remember when Fakir thought he was Lohengrin and we had to follow him to Mytho's kingdom trying to save him," she said softly. "I was so worried, and so many times everything seemed so hopeless.

"I can't remember if I ever told you, Autor, but you gave me strength then. Sometimes . . ." She blinked back tears. "Sometimes you were the only thing keeping me from breaking down."

Autor looked to her, turning a bit red at her confession. "I . . . I'm glad I was able to help you," he said. "There were times I didn't know what to think myself."

"But we'll save Fakir again, just like before," Ahiru said. "And everything will be okay."

"Yes," Autor said after a brief silence. "I certainly hope and pray so."

Now Ahiru was silent. Autor began to think she had fallen asleep. He closed his eyes and was preparing to doze when she suddenly spoke.

"Um, Autor?"

He could not help the sigh that escaped his lips at the disturbance. "What is it?" he asked.

"Is there . . . a certain kind of way you're supposed to pray?"

Autor blinked in surprise. Of all things Ahiru could have said, that was something he never would have guessed. Then again, she was often unpredictable.

"What do you mean?" he said.

"Well . . . they teach you prayers and stuff to say in church," Ahiru said. "But is that the way you're always supposed to do it?" She looked down. "I'm so worried about Fakir, and I've been praying for him, but I got wondering if I'd even be paid attention to if I don't do it like they teach." She bit her lip. "I haven't been able to memorize any of the prayers and . . ."

Autor frowned, contemplating his answer. "I certainly don't claim to be able to speak for God," he said at last. "But if He's truly just, doesn't it seem logical that He would listen to every sincere prayer, no matter what the words are?"

Ahiru thought on that. "Yeah," she said. "I guess. . . ."

"Good. Now go to sleep."

Ahiru nodded. "Okay."

As Autor began at last to slip back into slumber, whispered words met his ears and mixed with his semi-conscious state.

"Please protect Fakir and help us find him. I'm so worried about him and I know Autor is too! And Fakir must just be feeling so horrible about the fight. I wish he could know that Autor isn't dead. . . ."

Somewhere in his mind, Autor added his own plea for Fakir's safety.

"I hope Autor really is okay, like he keeps telling me he is. He acted like he was worried wondering if he was hurt bad too. And I don't want anything awful to happen to him, either! I want him and Fakir to be able to be friends again, so much. . . ."

Autor thought he was telling Ahiru that he was fine. But as sleep completely blanketed his senses, he was no longer sure if he had actually managed to say it aloud.

xxxx

Fakir sank down on the floor against the wall, bringing his legs up near his chest. The gangsters were scattered across the modest living room wherever they pleased. The leader had even decided to claim the old and tattered couch. He was currently stretched across it, apparently dozing. As near as Fakir could tell, all the rest were asleep too.

He leaned forward, letting his bangs hide his eyes. No matter how much he thought on the subject, he could not stop being haunted when he thought of the argument with Autor and the subsequent fight on the balcony. Ahiru was right about everything turning out so wrong. And she was probably still blaming herself back at that wretched house. Fakir half-wanted to scream in her face.

You're wrong, idiot; it's not your fault. It's mine! Mine.

And now that he was awake again, going back to sleep sounded impossible. He had not meant to do it the first time; it would have to sneak up on him once more before it could happen a second time.

"Are you alright?"

He looked up with a start. That had certainly not been one of the crooks talking. The farmer was bending down, studying him in concern.

"You look peaked, lad," he said. "Have you had anything to eat?"

Fakir blinked. Actually he hadn't, but he was only fully remembering that now. He had been far too upset to think of something like food before.

"No," he admitted. "But I'm really not hungry."

The man frowned in concern. "Most boys your age are shoveling down food like there won't be any more. Are you ill?"

I'm sick at heart, Fakir thought to himself. Aloud he said, "Not really. It's just . . . been a long day and night."

"I hope you're not planning to hold off on food until you get to that gathering," the farmer said. "Haven't the people you're with eaten either?"

"I don't think so," Fakir said. Not unless they had done so away from him at the mansion. But he knew that the one appointed as his guard had not eaten anything.

"I have some leftovers from dinner," his host said now. "You need to eat something. I'll bring you some on a plate and you just eat whatever you feel like. Okay?"

Fakir regarded him in surprise. "Thanks," he said, but the farmer was already turning away and going into the kitchen.

He was hungrier than he had even believed. Just the mention of food had started his stomach growling. And when the man returned with the plate, everything looked incredible. Fakir accepted it with another thanks and began to eat.

"You were half-starved," the farmer declared, shaking his head. "Are you from around here?"

I have no idea, Fakir thought, not knowing how far they had driven. He shrugged. "I fell asleep in the car," he muttered. "I'm all turned around."

"There's not another village in this direction for quite a while," he was told. "We're pretty isolated here."

"How far away is Kinkan?" Fakir asked.

The man blinked. "It's back there oh, I don't know—maybe a hundred kilometers? Maybe two hundred?" He peered at Fakir. "Are you from there?"

Fakir glanced back at the crooks. One of them stirred but did not wake up. None of the others moved. But could he take the chance that at least one of them was not eavesdropping on the conversation? If he said too much, he would put this innocent man's life in danger.

"I just wondered where it was," he said.

A slow, unconvinced nod. "Are you excited for this . . . convention thing?"

"No," Fakir said flatly.

"A bunch of people sitting around talking about their companies does sound pretty boring," the farmer said. "But maybe they'll have some good food, eh?"

"Yeah, maybe," Fakir said, his tone noncommittal.

He finished eating and handed back the empty plate. "That was good," he said.

"When you're hungry, anything tastes good," the man said with a crooked smile. He accepted the plate and pulled himself to his feet. "Now how about you try to get some sleep? You'll need to be rested for the drive tomorrow . . . if it's even possible to rest sitting up like that. I'm sorry I don't have any spare rooms to offer, but . . ."

"This is fine," Fakir said. He leaned his head against the hard wall. "I'll go to sleep if I can."

"I'll leave you alone so you can try," the farmer told him. "If you need anything, I'm in the one bedroom back there." He jerked his thumb towards a darkened hall.

Fakir nodded. Closing his eyes, he tried to relax his body.

Relaxing his mind was a far more impossible task. Even though the physical exhaustion was all the more apparent now that he had fallen into silence, his thoughts were still turning and developing and he could not seem to stop them.

"Autor," he whispered. "I'm sorry."

If only I hadn't got angry. If only I'd listened to Autor and stayed calm a few minutes longer. If only I hadn't knocked him into that balcony when we were forced to fight. . . .

He did not even remember sleeping. But suddenly from out of nowhere he was being kicked in the side.

"Wake up, punk," his guard growled. "It's morning. Let's get out of here."

Fakir's eyes opened slowly, in spite of the assault. Sunbeams were shining through the window, playing on the floor and on his legs. He shook his head in surprise. There was a space of time that was a complete blank to him. He must have slept, even though he had no memory of it.

He pushed himself up, stumbling unsteadily from the long hours on the hard floor. It was so quiet in the room. The other gang members had already left. And where was the farmer? Fear clenched his heart.

"Where's . . ."

"The old man's outside," the thug interrupted, suspecting Fakir's question. "He fixed the car. Now come on."

"He's going to be alright, isn't he?" Fakir's voice was harsh and demanding.

"We can't waste the time figuring out how to kill him and then doing it," was the cold reply. "Besides, he's too trusting. He doesn't suspect anything."

Fakir was not as sure of that, but he did not offer a contradiction. If they thought the farmer was not a threat, then that was a relief.

Their host was talking to the driver of the car as the two of them came outside. "Now, if at all possible, try to stay off rough roads," he said. "This car just wasn't made for backwoods travel. Where did you say this convention was?"

"I didn't say," the driver told him. "But it's a long way from here."

"I hope you have a good map," said the farmer. "I'd be happy to give you one if . . ."

"We have a good one," the gangster interrupted. "Thanks for your trouble. We'll be going now." He opened the door, climbing into the car. The second car, which had previously pulled in behind it, had already been driven out to the road so as not to be an obstruction.

Fakir did not have to be prodded further to know that he needed to get in the car now. He walked over, nodding to the farmer.

"Have a good time at your convention!" the man said. "And if you take the same road coming back, stop in and let me know how it went."

"Yeah, sure," Fakir said. He doubted that they would be coming back the same way, let alone coming back at all.

The farmer watched as the car turned around and drove out from behind the barn. As it sped off down the road, the other swiftly following, he frowned.

"I wonder if that boy is really supposed to be with them," he mused aloud. "They sure seemed to be keeping him close. And something just seemed off about the lot of those men."

He shook his head. Maybe he was just imagining things up in his solitude. The boy might just be a bit rebellious and not like the idea of going to the convention. But still, he had seemed nice enough, albeit subdued somehow. He had acted like something was deeply bothering him yet he had not wanted to say so.

Half turning to go inside the farmer said, "I wonder if I should find out if there's been any kidnappings in Kinkan Town."