Hawkmoon: The Jewel in the Skull (63 page)

They moved on. Every so often the long streets would broaden out into squares. They crossed the squares, choosing another street at random, looking up at the building which gave the appearance of infinite height, which disappeared into the strange, golden haze.

Their voices were hushed; they feared to disturb the silence of the great city.

"Have you noticed," murmured Hawkmoon, "that there are no windows?"

"And no doors." D'Averc nodded. "I am certain that this city was not built for human use—and that humans did not build it!"

"Perhaps some beings created in the Tragic Millennium," Hawkmoon suggested. "Beings like the Wraith Folk of Soryandum."

D'Averc nodded his head in agreement.

Now ahead of them the strange shadows seemed to gather closer together and they passed into them, an impression of great well-being overcoming them.

Hawkmoon smiled in spite of his fears, and D'Averc, too, answered his smile. The glowing shadows swam around them. Hawkmoon began to wonder if perhaps these shadows were, in fact, the inhabitants of the city.

They passed out of the street and stood in a huge square without doubt the very centre of the city. Rising from the middle of this square was a cylindrical building. In spite of being the largest building in the city it also seemed the most delicate. Its walls moved with coloured light and Hawkmoon noticed something at its base.

"Look, D'Averc—steps leading to a door!"

"What should we do, I wonder," whispered his friend.

Hawkmoon shrugged. "Enter, of course. What have we to lose?"

"Perhaps we shall discover the answer to that question within. After you, Duke of Koln!"

The two mounted the steps and climbed until they reached the doorway. It was relatively small—of human size in fact and within it they could see more of the glowing shadows.

Hawkmoon stepped bravely forward with D'Averc immediately behind him.

THEIR FEET SEEMED to sink into the floor and the glowing shadows wrapped themselves around them as they advanced into the scintillating darkness of the tower.

A sweet sound now filled the corridors—a gentle sound like an unearthly lullaby. The music increased their sense of well-being. They pressed deeper into the strangely organic construction.

And then suddenly they stood in a small room, full of the same golden, pulsing radiance they had seen earlier from the boat.

And the radiance came from a child.

He was a boy, of oriental appearance, with a soft, brown skin, clad in robes on to which jewels had been stitched so that the fabric was completely hidden.

He smiled and his smile matched the gentle radiance surrounding him. It was impossible not to love him.

"Duke Dorian Hawkmoon von Koln," he said sweetly, bowing his head, "and Huillam D'Averc. I have admired both your painting and your buildings, sir."

D'Averc was astonished. "You know of those?"

"They are excellent. Why do you not do more?"

D'Averc coughed in embarrassment. "I—I lost the knack, I suppose. And then the war..."

"Ah, of course. The Dark Empire. That is why you are here."

"I would gather so—"

"I am called Jehamia Cohnahlias." The boy smiled again. "And that is the only direct information about myself I can offer you, in case you were going to ask me anything further. This city is called Dnark and its inhabitants are called in the outer world The Great Good Ones. You have encountered some of them already, I believe."

"The glowing shadows?" Hawkmoon asked.

"Is that how you perceive them?"

"Are they sentient?" Hawkmoon queried.

"They are indeed. More than sentient, perhaps."

"And this city, Dnark," Hawkmoon said. "It is the legendary City of the Runestaff."

"It is."

"Strange that all those legends should place its position not on the continent of Amarehk, but in Asiacommunista, said D'Averc.

"Perhaps it is not a coincidence," smiled the boy. "It is convenient to have such legends."

"I understand."

Jehamia Cohnahlias smiled quietly.

"You have come to see the Runestaff, I gather?"

"Apparently," said Hawkmoon, unable to feel anger in the presence of the child. "First the Warrior in Jet and Gold told us to come here and then when we demurred we were introduced to his brother—one Orland Fank..."

"Ah, yes," smiled Jehamia Cohnahlias. "Orland Fank.

I have a special affection for that particular servant of the Runestaff. Well, let us go." He frowned slightly.

"Ah, first you will want to refresh yourselves and meet a fellow traveller. One who preceded you here by only a matter of hours."

"Do we know him?"

"I believe you have had some contact in the past"

The boy seemed almost to float down from his chair.

"This way."

"Who can it be?" murmured D'Averc to Hawkmoon.

"Who would we know who would come to Dnark?"

THEY FOLLOWED JEHEMIA Cohnahlias through the winding, organic corridors of the building. Now they were lighter, for the glowing shadows—the Great Good Ones as the boy had described them—had vanished. Presumably their task had been to help guide Hawkmoon and D'Averc to the child.

At last they entered a larger hall in which had been set a long table, presumably made of the same substance as the walls, and benches, also of the same stuff. Food had been laid on the table—relatively simple fare: fish, bread and green vegetables.

But it was the figure at the far end of the hall who attracted their attention, who made their hands go automatically to their swords while their faces assumed expressions of angry astonishment.

It was Hawkmoon who got the words out at last, between clenched teeth.

"Shenegar Trott!"

The fat figure moved heavily towards them, -his plain, silver mask apparently a parody of the features beneath it.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen. Dorian Hawkmoon and Huillam D'Averc, is it not?"

Hawkmoon turned to the boy. "Do you realise who this creature is?"

"An explorer from Europe," he said.

"He is the Count of Sussex—one of King Huon's righthand men. He has raped half Europe! He is second only to Baron Meliadus in the evil he has wrought!"

"Come now," Trott said, his voice soft and amused.

"Let us not begin by insulting each other. We are on neutral ground here. The issues of war are another matter. Since they do not at the moment concern us, then I suggest we behave in a civilised manner—and not insult our young host here ..."

Hawkmoon glowered. "How did you come to Dnark, Count Shenegar?"

"By ship, Duke of Koln. Our Baron Kalan—whom I understand you have met . . ." Trott chuckled as Hawkmoon automatically put his hand to the black jewel Kalan had earlier placed there . . . "he invented a new kind of engine to propel our ships at great speed over the sea. Based on the engine that gives power to our ornithopters, I gather, but more sophisticated. I was commissioned by our wise King Emperor to journey to Amarahk, there to make friendly advances to the powers dwelling here ..."

"To discover their strengths and weaknesses before you attacked, you mean!" Hawkmoon shouted. "It is impossible to trust a servant of the Dark Empire!"

The boy spread his hands and a look of sorrow crossed his face. "Here in Dnark we seek only equilib-rium. That, after all, is the goal and reason for existence of the Runestaff, which we are here to protect. Save your disputes, I beg you, for the battlefield and join together to eat the food we have prepared."

"But I must warn you," Huillam D'Averc said in a lighter tone than Hawkmoon had used, "that Shenegar Trott is not here to bring peace. Wherever he goes, he brings evil and disruption. Be prepared—for he is considered to be the most cunning lord in all Granbretan."

The boy seemed embarrassed and merely gestured again to the table. "Please be seated."

"And where is your fleet, Count Shenegar?" D'Averc asked as he sat down on the bench and pulled a plate of fish towards him.

"Fleet?" Trott replied innocently. "I did not mention a fleet—only my ship, which is moored with its crew a few miles away from the city."

"Then it must be a large ship indeed," murmured Hawkmoon, biting at a hunk of bread, "for it is unlike a count of the Dark Empire to make a journey unprepared for conquest."

"You forget that we are scientists and scholars, too, in Granbretan," Trott said, as if mildly offended. "We seek knowledge and truth and reason. Why, our whole intention in uniting the warring states of Europe was to bring a rational peace to the world, so that knowledge could progress the faster."

D'Averc coughed ostentatiously, but said nothing.

Trott now did something that in a Dark Empire noble was virtually unprecedented, for he cheerfully pushed back his mask and began to eat. In Granbretan it was considered gross indecency both to display the face and to eat in public. Trott, Hawkmoon knew, had always been thought eccentric in Granbretan, tolerated by the other nobles only by virtue of his vast private for-tune, his skill as a general and, in spite of his flabby appearance, a warrior of considerable personal courage.

The face revealed was the one caricatured on the mask. It was white, plump and intelligent. The eyes were without expression, but it was plain Shenegar Trott could put whatever expression he chose into them.

They ate in relative silence. Only the boy touched none of the food, though he sat with them.

At length Hawkmoon gestured to the count's bulky silver armour. "Why do you travel in such heavy ac-coutrement, Count Shenegar, if you are on a peaceful mission of exploration?"

Shenegar Trott smiled. "Why—how was I to anticipate what dangers I should have to face in this strange city?

Surely it is logical to travel well-prepared?"

D'Averc changed the subject as if he realised they would receive nothing but smooth answers from the Granbretanian. "How goes the war in Europe?" he asked.

"There is no war in Europe," Trott answered.

"No war! Then why should we be here—exiles from our own lands?" Hawkmoon said.

"There is no war, because all of Europe is now at peace under the patronage of our good King Huon,"

Shenegar Trott said, and then he gave a faint wink—almost a comradely wink—which made it impossible for Hawkmoon to reply.

"Save for the Kamarg, that is," Trott continued. "And that, of course, has vanished altogether. My fellow peer Baron Meliadus was quite enraged by that."

"I'm sure he was," said Hawkmoon. "And does he still continue his vendetta against us?"

Indeed he does. In fact when I left Londra, he was in danger of becoming a laughing stock at court."

"You seem to feel little affection for Baron Meliadus," D'Averc suggested.

"You understand me well," Count Shenegar told him.

"You see we are not all such insane and greedy men as you would think. I have many disputes with Baron Meliadus. Though I am loyal to my motherland and my leader, I do not agree with everything done in their names—indeed, what I myself have done. I follow my orders. I am a patriot." Shenegar Trott shrugged his bulky shoulders. "I would prefer to stay at home, reading and writing. I was once thought a promising poet, you know."

"But now you write only epitaphs—and those in blood and fire," Hawkmoon said.

Count Shenegar did not seem hurt. Instead he replied reasonably. "You have your point of view, I have mine.

I believe in the ultimate sanity of our cause—that the unification of the world is of maximum importance, that personal ambitions, no matter how noble, must be sacri-ficed to the larger principles."

"That is the usual bland Granbretanian answer,"

Hawkmoon said, unconvinced. "It is the argument that Meliadus used to Count Brass shortly before he attempted to rape and carry off his daughter Yisselda!"

"I have already disassociated myself from Baron Meliadus," Count Shenegar said. "Every court must have its fool, every great ideal must attract some who are motivated only by self-interest."

Shenegar Trott's answers seemed more directed at the quietly listening boy than at Hawkmoon and D'Averc themselves.

The meal finished, Trott pushed back his plate and resettled his silver mask over his face. He turned to the boy. "I thank you, sir, for your hospitality. Now—you promised me I might look upon and admire the Runestaff. It will give me great joy to stand before that legendary artefact..."

Hawkmoon and D'Averc glanced warningly at the boy, but he did not appear to notice.

"It is late, now," said Jehemia Cohnahlias. "We shall all visit the Hall of the Runestaff tomorrow. Meanwhile rest here. Through that little door," he gestured across the room, "you will find sleeping accommodation. I will call for you in the morning."

"Shenegar Trott rose and bowed. "I thank you for your offer, but my men will become agitated if I do not return to my ship tonight. I will rejoin you here tomorrow."

"As you wish," the boy said.

"We would be grateful to you for your hospitality,"

Hawkmoon said. "But again let us warn you that Shenegar Trott may not be what he would have you believe."

"You are admirable in your tenacity," Shenegar Trott said. He waved a gauntleted hand in a cheerful salute and strode jauntily from the hall.

"I fear we shall sleep poorly knowing that our enemy is in Dnark," said D'Averc.

The boy smiled. "Fear not. The Great Good Ones will help you rest and protect you from any harm.

Goodnight, gentlemen. I shall see you tomorrow."

The boy walked lightly from the room and D'Averc and Hawkmoon went to inspect the cubicles containing bunks and bedding that were let into the side of the walls.

"Shenegar Trott means the boy harm," Hawkmoon said.

"We had best make it our business to look after him, if we can," D'Averc replied. "Goodnight, Hawkmoon."

After D'Averc had ducked into his cubicle, Hawkmoon entered his own. It was full of glowing shadows and the soft music of the unearthly lullaby he had heard earlier.

Almost immediately he was sound asleep.