A Thief in the Night (37 page)

Part V

The First Duty of Prisoners

Interlude

A
elbring climbed the stairs to the top level of the Vincularium, dreading what he would find. Like most elves, he hated the cemetery of the dwarves. The elves lived in a relatively small section of the lower levels and shunned the rest of the underground city, and for good reason. There were too many memories up high. When one got too close to the world outside the mountains, the ancestors refused to be quiet in one's head. They remembered that world, even if Aelbring didn't. They wanted so badly to escape the darkness and the dust. Maybe the Hieromagus could bear their whispering voices, but for a low-ranking soldier like himself, they threatened to overwhelm his senses. It just wasn't fair.

And today of all days to draw this duty! There were humans down below—humans! After all this time. He wanted to see them. Wanted to know if they were as ugly as the ancestors said, or as hairy. Maybe the old legends were wrong. They said there was a female human among them. Aelbring had a secret yearning, a half-formed hope that maybe she would be different from the others. Maybe she would have an exotic beauty unfound among his own people. He burned with curiosity. Maybe he could arrange to have himself assigned to guarding her. Maybe he could show her some small kindness, some bit of unexpected compassion that would cause her to look on him with whatever humans had that resembled affection . . .

He had his orders, though. Something had stirred up the revenants on the top level. Well, of course it had—the humans who broke in through the seal, yes? But no, he had been told this was some new intrusion. The eternal guardians had calmed down since the humans arrived, but now some new excitement was brewing among them. The revenants did not speak, nor did they have any way of sending a message down to the lower levels. The queen, however, was in tune with them in some arcane fashion, and she said she'd felt their rage burning stronger than ever. Which meant something had set them off. And someone had to go up and find out what had so upset them.

And of course that someone had to be him.

At least it wasn't nighttime up there. The red sun burned as it did every twelve hours, and this high its light went everywhere, illuminated every dark corner. Its beams were almost too much for Aelbring's eyes to bear, accustomed as they were to the gloom of the lower levels. The geometric tombs of the dwarves draped long shadows along the far walls.

At first he could see nothing out of place, no horrid surprises waiting for him in that haunted region. No revenants waited to greet him, but of course they wouldn't make it that simple, would they? He checked the bronze sword he wore at his side and went to look for them, intent on getting this over with as soon as possible.

Up ahead, just to the side of a tomb shaped like a marble column, he saw something scattered on the ground. Some refuse left behind by the invading humans, most likely. Animals that they were, they could hardly be expected to pick up after themselves. He jogged over to see what it was, but before he'd taken half a dozen strides he tripped and nearly fell on his face.

“Human bastards,” he said, catching himself with his hands. He got one knee under him and rose gracefully to his feet, then turned to see what he'd stumbled on. For a moment terror gripped him when he saw it was a length of bone, ending in a skeletal hand.

Then the hand twitched, the bony fingers contracting on rotten sinews, and he laughed out loud. “Did one of you fall down and hurt himself?” he called out, thinking to draw the revenants. It would not be the first time they had grown excited over nothing. One of them would walk too close to the edge of the central shaft and fall into the water below, and the whole lot of them would panic, thinking they were under attack.

The revenants were strong, and nearly indestructible, and they burned with a desire for vengeance. But they weren't very bright.

Aelbring kicked the bony arm away and headed again for the columnar tomb. The smile on his face faltered—but only a little—when he saw that what he'd taken for human garbage was in fact all that remained of a revenant. Its skull had been smashed in and its rib cage broken into a hundred pieces. One of its legs still kicked feebly at the cobblestones. The other had been ground nearly to powder.

“You haven't been fighting amongst yourselves, have you?” he called out. They'd never done such a thing before.

“I'm afraid not,” someone said. Someone standing very close.

Aelbring gasped in surprise and whipped out his sword. He'd had no sense of anyone nearby, had heard no footfalls, seen no movement. And that voice—it had a human accent. Another of them? Maybe the first three had just been the advance guard of an invading army. The elves had been living in terror of such a thing for centuries. “Show yourself!” he demanded.

“Certainly.” The human moved into view, and Aelbring was glad to see it was no knight in iron armor. Instead this one wore a colorless robe, with a hood to hide his features. This the human pushed back, and Aelbring was surprised to see not the savage ape-face he expected, but the refined features of a scholar.

“You're a human,” he said.

“And you're very perceptive. I see you speak my language, too. Wonderful! That will make things so much easier.”

Aelbring licked his lips in confusion. It had not surprised him when the human addressed him in the elfin tongue. It had never occurred to him before that there could
be
more than one language.

“Hark, I'm really very sorry about what I did to your guardian there.” The human gestured at the broken bones on the floor. “I did what I could to communicate with it, but it wouldn't stop attacking me.”

“They have reason to want your blood,” Aelbring told the human. He lifted his sword. “As do I.” He readied himself to charge, to run this human through. He would need to strike hard and fast. The ancestors were quite clear on the fact that humans felt no pain, and that they could survive injuries that would slaughter three elves with one stroke.

“Wouldn't you rather take me captive?” the human asked, his voice quite calm. He sounded as if he were asking if Aelbring would like his wine served hot or cold.

For a moment the elf could only stare at the human, unsure what was happening. Luckily for Aelbring, there were certain forms one followed, certain protocols one learned as a soldier, for dealing with just such situations. None of them were particularly complicated.

If you caught an enemy defenseless, for instance, you threatened him into submission. It was just how these things were done.

“You fear me? You should,” Aelbring shouted. “I will strike you down if you show me the slightest sign of resistance.”

“I will be as meek as a little lamb,” the human said. And then he smiled. It was a gentle, kindly smile, the kind of smile one would give to a child.

So then why did it make his blood run cold?

“You should take me to your superior officer,” the human said. “Right away. I have much to discuss with him.”

“I'm sure he'll—he'll want to—” Aelbring didn't like this at all. “He'll have questions for you, I can guarantee it.”

“And I hope I have answers he'll like,” the human replied.

Aelbring tried to remember the protocol for this situation. Ah, right. “This way,” he barked. “Walk ahead of me, where I can see you, and don't try anything!”

“But of course,” the human said, chuckling to himself.

Chapter Seventy-one

O
nce the Hieromagus had withdrawn, the revelers in the great elf hall seemed to lose all interest in the humans and the dwarf. They barely moved out of the way as the soldiers pushed the prisoners through the hall. “They don't seem as surprised to see us as we were to meet them. You'd think they were expecting us,” Malden said to Cythera.

An elfin lady, exquisite in gemstones and a mauve dress, failed to get out of the way at all. The soldiers begged her to move but she just laughed at some jest made by her companion, a warrior wearing a silver circlet.

“Rather it seems that they already know us, and have for so long that they've discounted our value as curiosities,” Cythera said, while they waited for the soldiers to make a new path around the lady. “I think they're feigning, though. Do you feel like someone is watching you?”

Malden had a thief's instincts for such things, but he'd been ignoring it until she spoke. Now he let the hair on the back of his arms rise up and felt the muscles of his back shiver. “Interesting.” He tried an experiment. Turning his head, he tried to catch the eye of the first elf he saw—a juggler. But the performer was, at that moment, turning away to make some saucy comment to a mailed warrior. “Ah,” Malden said. He turned his head again and looked right at an elf who was tuning a lute. The musician's head fell forward as he studied his strings. “Yes, yes, I see it now. They are watching us, all of them, and most closely. Yet they're doing their level best to seem as if they don't even know we're here. Very interesting.”

“Fucking fascinating,” Slag muttered. “In a few minutes, I wager the torture's about to start. You think maybe there are more pressing mysteries to solve?”

There was no time for further conversation. Malden was shoved forward by the elf behind him and the three of them were hurried out of the hall and down a side corridor. The walls of this passage were as rough as the winding tunnel that brought them to the elf hall, but its ceiling was at least high enough that they didn't need to keep ducking.

Alcoves and doors opened on the passage at irregular intervals. In most of them, elves stood waiting to watch them pass. These elves, at least, shared nothing of the bizarre affected quality of their cousins in the hall—they gawked openly, and whispered with agitation among themselves. They also lacked the finery of the hall, instead being dressed in the tattered patchwork of the Hieromagus's assistant. They must be servants, Malden thought, or peasants, or whatever passed for slaves in elf society. Yet they were as beautiful as the others, radiantly, transcendently beautiful, their skin creamy and perfect, their limbs of perfect proportion on their lanky frames. He tried smiling at one, a tall elf woman with beads in her hair. She looked terrified and ducked back into her alcove as if running from a demon.

“They're all as mad as their Hieromagus,” Malden said with a sigh. “I can understand being tortured to death for breaking and entering, that's just how society works. But if it turns out we're going to be killed for wearing the wrong color tunics, or for some offense we made against the invisible giant tortoise they worship, then—”

“I think you were wrong about him,” Cythera said. “The Hieromagus.”

Malden turned to look at her. “Oh?”

“He isn't mad. At least . . . I don't think so.” She shook her head. “The sacrament he took, did you see it? That was a cap of death's helm mushroom. A very rare fungus, and very, very dangerous. It's used sometimes in witchcraft, though my mother claims it's a crutch for those who lack the proper gift of second sight. A few shavings, when steeped properly in a tea, will grant visions of other times. Vivid, terrifying visions—powerful glimpses of other lives. The visions are not phantoms either, but true memories of those who lived before. It's a seductive drug. Take too much of it and your—well, call it your soul—can become lost and not be able to find its way back to its own body. If he eats entire caps at once, on anything like a regular basis, I don't know how he could ever know what time he was in. Did you see his eyes?”

“The pupils were different sizes.”

“Yes,” Cythera said. “I think his individual eyes were looking into different times. If I'm right, that explains the merrymakers as well.”

“An unusual lot,” Malden said.

“All there for his benefit. Playing out a scene, a great torrent of sensual delights, to entice him to stay close to his own body.”

“Let's hope they don't falter, then,” Malden said. “At least, not before he remembers what he wanted us for.”

Slag snorted. “More like, not until he fucking forgets again. The longer it takes him, the longer we don't have to find out what our fate is to be.”

That sent a new twinge of fear and pain up Malden's spine.

The side corridor ended in another hall, this one much smaller. It opened via a narrow window onto the central shaft. Spiral staircases pierced its floor, leading down to a lower level.

“I'll ready the gaolers,” one of the elf soldiers said, and descended with a torch.

For a moment, then, they were allowed to just stop and stand there. It was a blessed relief. Malden considered sitting down on the dusty floor to give his legs a rest but didn't want to risk the displeasure of his captives.

Slag started walking toward the window. One of the elves drew his sword, but Slag didn't stop. When he reached the opening, he placed his hands on the sill and Malden thought he might intend to climb over and jump out. Instead the dwarf just looked upward, his body shaking with sobs.

Malden realized that this was the first time Slag had seen the manufactured sun of the Vincularium. He went over to look up at it with the dwarf. “It came to life a while back, like dawn breaking.”

“It's fucking beautiful,” Slag said.

“Your ancestors made it?” Malden asked.

“It's certain as shitting the elves did not. Look at those pipes coming out of the top. They must carry flammable gas to the lamp . . . there are pockets of such vapors everywhere underground. They're a hazard when you're digging a mine—but the builders of this place must have found a way to harness the stuff. I'll be buggered.”

The thief smiled. “Strange. I was always under the impression that dwarves hated the true sun and shunned its light. Isn't it odd they should make their own, here under the ground?”

“ 'Tis a puzzler,” Slag agreed. “True sunlight burns my skin and dazzles my eyes. Yet this is a different color, and somehow that makes a difference. It's almost soothing to look upon. Hah. Thur-Karas. Place of Long Shadows. I understand now.” He glanced up at Malden. “Lad, leave me be a moment, will you? I want to see this by myself a bit. I have a feeling I won't get another chance.”

Malden squeezed the dwarf's shoulder, then went back to stand next to Cythera. The elves eyed him warily but offered no threat. When Cythera slipped her hand into Malden's, two of the guards nudged each other and traded leering winks.

Malden ignored them, and focused his attention on the soft hand in his. Cythera's fingers trembled along with her pulse. He tried to meet her gaze, but she just looked straight ahead, lost in her own thoughts.

It was not much longer before the elf returned from below to announce that the gaol was ready to receive them.