Into the Labyrinth (36 page)

M
ARIT SAT WITH HER BACK AGAINST A CHILL STONE WALL
, watching the human assassin keep watch over her. He was leaning back against the wall opposite, a pipe in his mouth and a most foul-smelling smoke issuing from it. His eyelids were closed, but she knew that if she so much as brushed a strand of hair out of her face, she’d see the black glitter of his deep-sunken eyes.

Lying on a pallet on the floor between the two, Haplo slept fitfully, uneasily, not the healing sleep of her kind. Beside him another set of eyes kept careful watch, dividing their attention between her and the master. Hugh the Hand sometimes slept. The dog never did.

Growing irritated at the unrelenting scrutiny, Marit turned her back on both the watchers and, hunkering down, began to hone her dagger. It didn’t need honing, nor did it need the sigla redrawn. But fussing with the dagger gave her something to do besides pacing the chill floor—around and around, around and around until her legs ached. Perhaps, though she didn’t really expect it, if she quit watching them, the watchers might relax and grow careless.

She could have told them they were worrying over nothing. She wasn’t going to harm him. Not now. Her orders had been changed. Haplo was to live.

Knife sharpened, Marit thrust it into a minute crack between two of the large blocks of white polished stone that formed the floors, walls, and domed ceiling of the strange room in which they’d been imprisoned. She slid the dagger along the crack, probing, testing for a weakness
she knew wouldn’t be there. Sartan runes were engraved on each block. Sartan runes surrounded her, were on the floor, everywhere she looked. The runes didn’t harm her, but she avoided touching them. They made her nervous, uncomfortable, just as this room made her nervous and uncomfortable.

And it was impossible to leave.

She knew. She’d tried.

The room was large, well lit, with a diffused white light that shone from everywhere at once and nowhere in particular. A maddening sort of light—it was beginning to annoy her. There was a door, but it was covered with Sartan sigla. And though again the runes didn’t react when Marit came near, she was loath to touch the door they guarded.

She couldn’t read the Sartan writing; she’d never learned. Haplo could, though. She’d wait until he woke up to tell her what it said. Since he was to live.

Haplo was to live. Marit made a vicious stab into the crack, levered the dagger against the block in a completely futile attempt to wiggle the stone loose. It didn’t budge. She was likely to break her dagger first. Angry, frustrated, and—though she refused to admit it—frightened, she snatched the dagger from the crack and hurled it away. The blade skidded across the polished floor, caromed off the wall, and slid back to the center of the room.

The assassin’s eyes opened, two glittering slits. The dog lifted its head, regarded her warily. Marit ignored them both, turned her back on them.

“Is Haplo dead?”

“No, Lord. I am afraid I failed in my—”

“He is
not
dead. Has he escaped you?”

“No, Lord. I am with him—”

“Then
why
is he not dead?”

A knife, she could have said. A cursed Sartan knife. He saved my life, she could have said. Saved it even though I’d tried to kill him. All these things she could have said.

“I have no excuse, Lord,” was what she did say. “I failed.”

“Perhaps this task is too difficult for you, Marit. I have sent Sang-drax to deal with Haplo. Where are you?”

Marit blushed again, hotly, at the memory of her shame-filled reply. “In a Sartan prison, Lord.”

“A Sartan prison! Are you certain?”

“All I know, Lord, is that I am in a white room covered with Sartan runes and there is no way out. A Sartan is here, keeping guard on us. He is the one you described, Lord, the one known as Alfred. A friend of Haplo’s. This Alfred was the one who brought us here. Our ship was destroyed on Chelestra.”

“The two are in this together, undoubtedly. Tell me what happened.”

She told him: the strange weapon with the Sartan runes, the tytan, the waters of Chelestra, the steering stone in her hands, the dragon-snakes.

“We were brought here, Lord—by the Sartan.”

“He
brought
you? How?”

“He … he put his foot in the gate. That’s the only way I can describe it.

“I remember the water rising; the ship was breaking apart, our magic failing. I took hold of the steering stone. It was still dry, its magic still working. Images of the worlds flashed before my mind. I grasped the first I saw and clung to it and Death’s Gate opened for me. Then the water was washing over me, drowning me, drowning the magic. The gate began to close. The ship began sliding beneath the water; the dragon-snakes were coiled around it.

“A serpent head smashed through the wood, dove straight for Haplo. I reached out, caught hold of him, and dragged him out of the creature’s jaws. The horrible red eyes swiveled until they found me. The gate was closing fast, too fast for me to stop it. And then the gate stuck about halfway, as if something had jammed it open.

“A bright light shone on me. Silhouetted against the light was the figure of a stooped and gangling man, who was peering at us worriedly. He reached out his hands to Haplo. I hung on to him and I was pulled through the gate. Just as it began to shut again, I fell and kept on falling.”

There had been something else, but it was a vague shadow, on the fringes of her consciousness, and so she did not think it proper to mention it to Xar. It was unimportant anyway. Nothing more than a voice—a kindly voice—saying to her, “There now, I’ve got him. He’s safe. You can let go.” She remembered being relieved of a dragging weight and of sinking thankfully into sleep.

“What is the Sartan doing to you?”

“Nothing, Lord. He comes and goes like a thief, creeping in and out of the room. He refuses to look at me or talk to me. The Sartan’s only concern is for Haplo. And no, Lord, I have not spoken to the Sartan. Nor will I give him the satisfaction!”

“True. It would make you look weak, vulnerable. What is this Alfred like?”

“A mouse. A scared rabbit. But I assume this is only his disguise, Lord, intended to lull me into a false sense of security.”

“Undoubtedly you are right. I wonder one thing, though, Wife. You
saved
Haplo’s life on Chelestra. You could have left him to die, it seems.”

“Yes, I saved him, Lord. You wanted his corpse.”

No mention of the fact that the dragon-snakes terrified her. That it had seemed likely
she
would die on Chelestra, along with Haplo. Xar trusted the dragon-snakes. He knew them better than she did. It was not her place to question …

“The dragon-snakes would have brought him to me,” Xar returned. “But then I suppose you could not have known that. Describe this prison.”

She did so. An empty room, made of polished white stone, covered with Sartan runes. “And thus my magic will not work here,” she said ruefully. “I am surprised we are still able to communicate, Husband.”

“That is because such magic is internal. It does not attempt to reach into the possibilities, and thus the Sartan magic does not affect it. As you say, Haplo will be able to read the Sartan runes. He will know where you are. Or perhaps his ‘friend’ will tell him. Haplo won’t kill you, will he? Since you tried to kill him?”

“No, Lord. He will not kill me.”

It was well Xar could hear only words through the magic. He could not hear her sigh.

“Excellent. On second thought, I think it would be best if you stayed with him.”

“Are you certain, Lord? Once I escape this place, I can find a ship. I know I can. I—”

“No. Stay with Haplo. Report to me what he and his Sartan friend say to each other about this room, about Pryan, about any of the other worlds. From now on, Marit, report to me everything Haplo says.”

“Yes, Lord.” She was now a spy. Her final humiliation. “But what am I to say to him? He’ll wonder why I don’t try to kill him—”

“You slept with him. You bore his child. He loves you still. Do you need me to elaborate, my dear?”

No, she didn’t. And that was how their conversation ended.

Marit’s stomach clenched. She was almost physically ill. How could Xar ask such a thing of her? To pretend to make love to Haplo! To ingratiate herself to him, cling to him and, while she was clinging, suck his blood like a leech. No! Such an insidious scheme was dishonorable! No Patryn would agree to it. She was disappointed, bitterly disappointed in Xar, that he could even suggest such a repulsive—

Her anger, her disappointment seeped away.

“I understand. You don’t think I would be pretending,” she said softly to the absent Xar. “I failed you. I saved Haplo’s life.
You
think I am still in love with him, don’t you, Lord! Otherwise you would never have asked me to do this.”

There had to be a way—another way—to convince Haplo that she was, if not exactly for him, at least no longer against him.

Patryn law! Marit lifted her head, almost smiled, but checked herself, with a stealthy glance at the mensch assassin. It wouldn’t do to look suddenly pleased with herself.

She continued to sit quietly in the prison; she had no idea how long. Alfred came and went. She watched him distrustfully. Hugh the Hand watched her distrustfully. The dog watched them all (with the exception of Alfred) distrustfully, and Alfred appeared extremely upset and unhappy about the whole thing.

At length, bone-tired, Marit lay down to sleep. She had nearly drifted off when a voice jerked her to wakefulness.

“Haplo, how are you feeling?”

Hugh the Hand was asking the question. Marit shifted her position slightly so that she could see. Haplo was sitting up on his pallet, staring around in amazement. The dog, with a pleased bark, was on its feet, nosing its master eagerly. Haplo petted it, rubbed its muzzle and jowls. The animal’s tail wagged furiously.

“How long have I been out?” Haplo asked.

“Who knows?” the Hand answered with disgust. “How can you tell in this place? I don’t suppose you have any idea where we are now?”

Haplo glanced around again, frowned. “I’ve seen some place like this before … but I can’t remember …”

His gaze flicked over to Marit, held. He’d caught her staring at him. Too late to try to pretend she was asleep. She stiffened, looked away. She was aware suddenly of her dagger, lying in the middle of the floor, lying between them.

“Don’t worry,” Hugh the Hand grunted, following Haplo’s gaze. “Between the dog and me and Alfred, we haven’t let her get close to you.”

Haplo propped himself up on one elbow. He was weak, far too weak for a Patryn who had been through the healing sleep. The wound on the heart-rune. Such a wound would have doomed him in the Labyrinth.

“She saved my life,” he said.

Marit could feel his eyes on her. She wished there was someplace to hide in this damn room, some way to escape. She might even try the door, but she’d look a fool if she couldn’t break out. Gritting her teeth, keeping a tight hold on herself, she sat up and pretended to be absorbed in lacing her boot. After all, what Haplo had just said was going to work to her advantage.

The assassin grunted. Removing the pipe from his mouth, he knocked the bowl against the wall, dumped ashes on the floor.

Haplo’s attention shifted back to the human.

“Did you say Alfred?”

“Yeah. I said Alfred. He’s here. Off somewhere, getting food.” He jerked a thumb at the door.

Haplo took in his surroundings. “Alfred. Now I remember what this place reminds me of—the mausoleum, on Arianus.”

Marit, recalling Xar’s command, listened carefully. The words meant nothing to her, but she felt a chill go over her. Mausoleum. It reminded her of Abarrach—a
world
that was a mausoleum.

“Did Alfred say where we are?”

Hugh smiled—a terrible smile that tightened his lips,
darkened his eyes. “Alfred hasn’t had much to say to me. In fact, he’s been avoiding me.”

“I’m not surprised.”

Haplo sat up straight, looked down at his hand—the hand that had picked up the cursed Sartan knife. It had been black, the flesh burned off. Now the arm was whole, uninjured. He looked over at her.

Marit knew what he was thinking as well as if he’d said it aloud. She was still close to him, and that irritated her.

“You track my thoughts like a wolfen tracks a wounded man,” he’d said once, teasing her.

What she had never told him was how closely he’d been able to track hers. At first she’d hungered for such closeness, one reason that she’d stayed with him so long, longer than any other man she’d ever been with before. But then she’d found herself liking him too much, counting on him, becoming dependent on him. And it was then she’d realized she was going to have his child. It was then she’d left.

Bad enough knowing she’d lose him to the Labyrinth; to have to face losing the child, too …

Be the one who leaves. Don’t be the one left.
It had become her credo.

She looked at him and knew exactly what he was thinking.
Someone has healed me. Someone has closed the circle of my being.
He looked at her, wanting it to be her. Why? Why couldn’t he realize it was over?

“The Sartan healed you,” she said to him. “Not me.” Slowly and deliberately, she turned away again.

Which was all very well and all very dignified, but sometime soon she was going to have to explain that she wasn’t out to kill him anymore.

Marit wove the runes, hoping to snare her dagger, which was still lying in the center of the floor. Her magic fizzled, petered out; the damn Sartan magic in this dreadful room was unraveling her spells.

“Tell me what happened.” Haplo had turned his attention back to Hugh the Hand. “How did we get here?”

The human sucked on his pipe, which had gone out. The dog lay at Haplo’s side, crowding as close as it could get, its eyes gazing anxiously into its master’s face. Haplo gave it a reassuring pat, and it sighed and nestled even closer.

“I don’t remember much,” the Hand was saying. “Red eyes and giant serpents and you with your hand on fire. And terror. Being more afraid than I’ve ever been in my life. Or death.”