Into the Labyrinth (49 page)

“Yes, Lord.” Marit was relieved, vastly relieved. The burden was to be lifted from her shoulders.

“When you reach the village, Wife, this is what you will do.…”

It was now extremely dark; Haplo could barely find his way back to the group. Hugh the Hand looked up at him
hopefully, a hope that died when he saw that Haplo’s hands were empty. “I thought you’d gone to get us something more to eat.”

Haplo shook his head. “There is nothing more. We have a saying: ‘The hungrier you are, the faster you’ll run.’ ”

The Hand growled, and—scowling darkly—he went to the stream to fill his stomach with water. He moved silently, stealthily, as he always moved, as he had trained himself to move. Marit didn’t hear him coming, apparently, and when he drew near, she gave a violent start.

“A guilty start,” the Hand told Haplo later, describing the incident. “And I could have sworn I heard her talking to someone.”

Haplo brushed it off; what else could he do? She was hiding something from him, of that he was certain. He longed to be able to trust her, but he couldn’t. Did she feel the same about him? Did she want to trust him? Or was she only too happy to hate him?

Marit walked over to join the circle of Patryns, tossing down her water skin among them as an offering. Perhaps she was out to prove that she, at least, was still one with her people.

Kari looked over at Haplo, extending an invitation. He could have joined them if he had wanted, but he was too tired, too sore to move. His leg ached and the scratches on his face burned like fire. He needed to heal himself, to close the circle of his being—as best he could, considering the circle was torn and would be forever.

He scraped together a bed of dried fir needles and lay down.

Hugh the Hand sat down beside him.

“I’ll take the first watch,” the assassin offered quietly.

“No, you won’t,” Haplo told him. “To do so would be an insult, would look as if we didn’t trust them. Lie down. Get some rest. You, too, Alfred.”

The Hand thought he was going to argue; then he shrugged and stretched himself out on the ground, propped up against the curved bole of a tree. “Anything says I’ve got to fall asleep?” he asked, crossing his legs and taking out his pipe.

Haplo smiled tiredly. “Just don’t make it look too obvious.” He petted the dog, which had curled up beside him.
It raised its head lazily, blinked at him, went back to its dreams.

Hugh the Hand stuck the pipe between his teeth. “I won’t. If anyone asks, I’ll say I’m troubled with insomnia. Eternal insomnia.” He cast a dark glance at Alfred.

The Sartan flushed, his face reddening in the glow cast by the fire. He had been attempting to find himself a place to sleep, but first he’d struck his head on a buried rock; then he’d apparently sat down on an anthill, because he suddenly leapt to his feet and began slapping at his legs.

“Stop it!” Haplo commanded irritably. “You’re drawing attention to yourself.”

Alfred collapsed hastily to the ground. A faint expression of pain crossed his face. He reached underneath him, removed a pine cone, and tossed it away. Catching Haplo’s disapproving glance, the Sartan hunkered down in the dirt and attempted to look comfortable. Surreptitiously, his hand slid underneath his bony posterior, removed another pine cone.

Haplo closed his eyes, began the healing process. Slowly the pain in his knee receded, the burning cuts on his face closed. But he couldn’t sleep. Eternal insomnia, as Hugh the Hand had put it.

The other Patryns set the watch, doused the fire. Darkness closed over them, lit only by the softly glowing sigla on the skin of his people. Danger was around them, always around them. Marit did not return to her group, nor did she stay with the other Patryns, but chose a place to sleep about halfway between both.

Hugh the Hand sucked on the empty pipe. Alfred began to snore. The dog chased something in a dream.

And just when Haplo had decided that he couldn’t sleep, he slept.

THE CITADEL
PRYAN

X
AR HAD REACHED A DECISION, HIS PLANS WERE FORMED; NOW
he set about putting them into action. He had arranged with Marit for the Patryns of the Labyrinth to deal with Haplo, keep him safe until Sang-drax reached him.

As for Sang-drax, Xar had concluded that the question of the dragon-snake’s loyalty was not a factor. After much thought on the matter, Xar was confident that Sang-drax’s primary motivation was hatred—the dragon-snake hated Haplo, wanted revenge. Sang-drax would not rest until he had sought out Haplo and destroyed him. That would take some time, Xar reasoned. Even for someone as powerful as Sang-drax, the Labyrinth was not easily traversed. By the time the dragon-snake had his coils wrapped around Haplo, Xar would be there to see to it that his prize was not damaged beyond usefulness.

Xar’s immediate problem was the killing of the mensch. Given the lord’s power and skill in magic, the murder of two elves, two humans, and a dwarf (none of them overly intelligent) should not be a concern. The Lord of the Nexus could have destroyed them all simultaneously with a few gestures in the air and a spoken word or two. But it was not the manner of their dying that worried him, it was the condition of the corpses after death.

He studied the mensch under various circumstances for a day or two, and concluded that, even dead, they would never be able to stand up to the tytans. The elven male
was tall, but thin, with fragile bone structure. The human male was tall with good bones and muscle. Unfortunately, this male appeared to be suffering from pangs of thwarted love and consequently had let his body go to ruin. The human female was stocky, but muscular. The dwarf, though short in stature, had the strength of his race and was the best of a bad lot. The elven female was hopeless.

It was essential, therefore, that the mensch in death should be better than they were in life. Their corpses had to be fit and strong. And, most important, they had to be endowed with a strength and stamina the wretches did not currently possess. Poison was the best way to murder them, but it needed to be a special concoction—one that would kill the body and at the same time make it healthier. A most intriguing dichotomy.

Xar began with a flask of ordinary water. Working the rune-magic, considering the possibilities, he altered the water’s chemical structure. At last he felt confident that he had succeeded; he had developed an elixir that would kill—not immediately, but after a short period, say an hour or so, during which the body would begin a rapid acceleration of muscle and bone tissue, a process that would later be further enhanced by the necromancy.

The poison had one drawback: the bodies would wear out far faster than ordinary corpses. But Xar did not need these mensch long; they had only to buy him enough time to reach the ship.

The elixir finished, including the final additive of a pleasing flavor of spiced wine, Xar prepared a feast. He concocted food, then placed the poisoned wine in a large silver pitcher in the center of the table, and went to invite the mensch to a party.

The first one he came across was the human female—he could never recall her name. In his most charming manner, Xar asked her to join him that evening for a dinner of the most wonderful delicacies, all compliments of the lord’s magical talent. He urged her to bring the others, and Rega, excited by this break in their dull routine, hastened to do just that.

She went hunting for Paithan. She knew, of course, where to look for him. Opening the door to the Star Chamber, she peered inside.

“Paithan?” she called, hesitant about entering. She
hadn’t gone into the chamber since the time the cursed machine had nearly blinded her. “Could you come out here? I have something to tell you.”

“Uh, I can’t leave right at the moment, sweetheart. I mean, well, it might be a while …”

“But, Paithan, it’s important.”

Rega took a tentative step inside the doorway. Paithan’s voice was coming from an odd direction.

“It will have to wait … I’m not really able … I’ve gotten myself in a bit of a … Can’t quite figure out how to get down, you see …”

Rega couldn’t see, at least not at the moment. Irritation overcoming her fear of the light, she walked into the Star Chamber. Hands on her hips, she glared around the room.

“Paithan, quit playing games this instant. Where are you?”

“Up … up here.” Paithan’s voice drifted down from above.

Astonished, Rega tilted her head, stared in the direction indicated. “Name of the ancestors, Pait, what are you doing up there?”

The elf, perched on the seat of one of the enormous chairs, peered back down at her. He looked and sounded extremely uncomfortable. “I came up here to … um … well … see what it was like from up here. The view, you know.”

“Well, how is it?” Rega demanded.

Paithan winced at the sarcasm. “Not bad,” he said, glancing around and feigning interest. “Really quite nice …”

“View—my ass!” Rega said loudly.

“I can’t, dear. Not from this angle. If you could bend over—”

“You climbed up there to try to figure out how the damn chair works!” Rega informed him. “And now you can’t get back down. What did you have in mind? Pretending you’re a tytan? Or maybe you thought the machine would mistake you for a tytan! Not but what it might. You’ve got all the brains of one.”

“I had to try something, Rega,” Paithan excused himself plaintively. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.
The tytans are the key to this machine. I just know it. That’s why it’s not working properly. If they were here—”

“—we’d all be dead,” Rega inserted grimly, “and there’d be nothing to worry about, least of all this stupid machine! How did you get up there?”

“Going up was easy—the chair legs are sort of rough with lots of footholds, and elves were always pretty fair climbers and—”

“Well, just come down the same way.”

“I can’t. I’ll fall. I tried once. My foot slipped. I was barely able to hang on. I could just picture myself pitching head first into that well.” Paithan clutched the edge of the chair seat. “You can’t believe how deep and dark that well looks from up here. I’ll bet it goes clear into the center of Pryan. I could imagine myself falling and falling and falling …”

“Don’t think about it!” Rega told him irritably. “You’re only making it worse!”

“It can’t get much worse,” Paithan said miserably. “Just looking down, I feel like I might throw up.” His face did have a greenish tinge.

“This whole business makes me feel like
I
might throw up,” Rega muttered, taking a step or two backward, just to be out of range. She eyed him thoughtfully. “The first thing I’m going to do—if and when I ever get him out of here—is lock the door to this damn room and throw away the key.”

“What did you say, dear?”

“I said what if Roland tosses up a length of rope? You could secure it to the arm of the chair, then shinny down it.”

“Do you have to tell your brother?” Paithan groaned. “Why can’t
you
do it?”

“Because it’s going to take a strong arm to throw the rope that far,” Rega returned.

“Roland will never let me live this down,” Paithan said bitterly. “Look, I’ve got an idea. Go ask the wizard—”

“Eh?” came a quavering voice. “Someone call for a wizard?”

The old man wandered into the room. Seeing Rega, he smiled, doffed his decrepit hat. “Here I am. Glad to be of service. Bond’s the name. James Bond.”

“The
other
wizard!” Paithan hissed. “The useful one!”

“Great Scott!” The old man froze. “It’s Dr. No! He’s found me! Don’t be afraid, my dear.” He reached out trembling hands. “I’ll save you—”

“I can’t get Lord Xar.” Rega was explaining to Paithan. “That’s what I came to tell you. He’s busy planning a party. We’re all invited—”

“A party. How wonderful!” The old man beamed. “I’m quite fond of parties. Have to get my tux out of mothballs—”

“A party!” Paithan repeated. “Yes, that would be great fun! Aleatha loves parties. We’ll get her away from that strange maze where she spends all her time now—”