Into the Labyrinth (56 page)

She spoke so calmly and with such authority that Roland, amazed, let go.

Aleatha turned, continued walking down the street.

“What’s the matter with her? Where’s she going?” Paithan asked breathlessly, coming level with Roland.

“You can see where she’s going!” Rega gasped. “The gate.”

“And she’s carrying Drugar’s amulet …”

The three caught up with Aleatha. This time Paithan stopped her. “Thea,” he said, his voice shaking, “Thea, take it easy. Tell us what happened. Where’s Drugar?”

Aleatha looked at him, looked at Roland and Rega, seemed at last to know who these people were. “Drugar’s dead,” she said faintly. “He … died saving me.” She held fast to the amulet.

“Thea, I’m sorry. It must have been terrible for you. C’mon, now. Back to the citadel. It’s not safe out here.”

Aleatha pulled away from her brother. “No,” she said with that strange calm. “No, I’m
not
going back. I know what I have to do. Drugar told me to do it. They’re real, you see. Their city is real. And their dresses are very beautiful.”

Turning, she started off again. The city gate was in plain sight now. The starlight beamed out from the Star Chamber; the odd humming vibrated in the air. Explosions and crashes shook the citadel from inside. Outside the walls, the tytans stood in a hypnotic trance.

“Thea!” Paithan called desperately.

The three leapt to catch her.

Aleatha whipped around, held the amulet up before her, as she had seen Drugar hold it up before Xar.

Startled, the others fell back. Either the magic of the amulet stopped them, or else it was Aleatha’s commanding presence.

“You don’t understand,” she said. “That’s what this whole thing has been all along. A misunderstanding. Drugar told me. ‘The tytans will save us.’ “ She looked at the gate. “We just … didn’t understand.”

“Aleatha! Drugar tried to kill us once!” Rega cried.

“You can’t trust him! He’s a dwarf!” Paithan shouted.

Aleatha gave him a pitying glance. Sweeping her tattered skirts up in her hand, she walked over to the gate, placed the amulet in the center.

“She’s gone mad!” Rega whispered, frantic. “She’s going to get us all killed!”

“What does it matter?” Roland asked suddenly, with a reckless laugh. “The dragon, the wizard, the tytans … One of them’s bound to kill us. What the devil does it matter which?”

Paithan tried to move, but his body seemed extremely tired, unwilling to support him. “Thea, what are you doing?” he cried, anguished.

“I’m going to let the tytans in,” Aleatha replied.

The amulet flared. The gate swung open.

ABRI THE LABYRINTH

E
SCORTED BY VASU, HAPLO AND HIS COMPANIONS WALKED
through the giant iron gates that led into the streets of Abri. No other Patryns guarded them; the headman had taken this responsibility on himself. He told Kari and her people to go to their homes, rest after their labors. But the Patryns gathered—at a respectful distance—to view the strangers. Word spread swiftly and soon the streets were crowded with men, women, and children, more curious than hostile.

Of course, Haplo thought grimly, the lack of guards doesn’t mean they trust us. After all, we’re trapped inside a walled city, with only one way out—rune-guarded, man-guarded gates. No, Vasu’s not taking much of a chance.

Abri was, as its name meant, a shelter of rock. The buildings were all made of stone. The streets were dirt, little more than wide tracks, hard packed by long use. But the roads were smooth and level, well suited to the wagons and handcarts that trundled up and down. The buildings were utilitarian, with square corners and small windows that could be sealed up swiftly when the city was under attack.

And, in case of dire necessity, there were caves in the mountains to which the population could flee for protection. No wonder the Labyrinth had found it difficult to destroy Abri and its people.

Haplo shook his head. “And yet it’s still a prison. How
can you choose to stay here, Headman? Why don’t you try to escape?”

“You were a Runner, I am told, Haplo.”

Haplo glanced at Marit, on the other side of Vasu. Marit kept her eyes forward, her chin jutted out. She was cold and impenetrable, solid and forbidding as the stone walls.

“Yes,” Haplo replied. “I was a Runner.”

“And you succeeded in escaping. You reached the Final Gate.”

Haplo nodded, unwilling to talk about it. The memory was not a pleasant one.

“And what is the world like beyond the Final Gate?” Vasu inquired.

“Beautiful,” said Haplo, his thoughts going to the Nexus. “A city, immense, enormous. Forests and rolling hills, food in abundance—”

“Peaceful?” Vasu asked. “No threat? No danger?”

Yes, Haplo was about to respond; then, remembering, he kept silent.

“There is a threat, then?” Vasu persisted gently. “Danger?”

“A very great danger,” Haplo replied in a low voice. He was thinking of the dragon-snakes.

“Were you happy there, in your Nexus, Haplo? Happier there than you were here?”

Haplo glanced again at Marit. “No,” he said quietly.

She still did not look at him. She didn’t need to. She understood his meaning. A flush as of a burning fever rose from her neck, suffused her cheeks.

“Many of those walking free are in prison,” observed Vasu.

Haplo met the headman’s eyes, was startled, impressed. The eyes were brown, soft as the body. But they were lit from behind by an inner light, intelligence, wisdom. Haplo began to revise his opinion of this man. Ordinarily, the headman in the tribe is chosen because he is the strongest, a survivor. Thus the headman or headwoman is often one of the oldest members of the tribe, hard and tough. This Vasu was young, flabby, and could never have withstood a challenge from another tribal member. Haplo had wondered, on first encounter, how a weak, soft man
like Vasu had managed to retain his hold over a proud, fierce people.

He was beginning to understand why.

“You are right, Headman!” Alfred spoke up. His face was radiant; he was regarding Vasu with awe. And, Haplo noted, the Sartan was actually managing to walk without falling over himself. “You are right! I’ve been keeping myself prisoner for so long … so long.” He sighed, shook his head. “I must find a way to set myself free.”

“You are a Sartan,” Vasu said, the wonderful eyes turning on Alfred, turning him inside out. “One of those who cast us in here?”

Alfred blushed.

Haplo gritted his teeth, expecting stammering, apologies, the usual.

“No,” Alfred said, pausing, drawing himself up to his full height. “No, I am not. I mean, yes, I am a Sartan. But no,
I
am not one who cast you in here. My ancestors were responsible, not me. I take responsibility for myself, for my own actions.” The blush increased; he looked over sadly at Hugh the Hand. “Those are burden enough.”

“An interesting argument,” said Vasu. “We are not responsible for the crimes of our fathers, only for our own. And we have one here who is an immortal, or so I’m told.”

Hugh the Hand took the pipe from his mouth. “I can die,” he said bitterly. “I just can’t be killed.”

“Another prisoner.” Vasu was sympathetic. “Speaking of prisons, why did you return to the Labyrinth, Haplo?”

“To find my daughter.”

“Your daughter?” Vasu raised an eyebrow. The answer had taken him by surprise, though he must have heard as much from Kari. “When was the last time you saw her? What tribe was she with?”

“I never saw my child. I have no idea where she is. Her name is Rue.”

“And this is the reason you came back? To find her?”

“Yes, Headman Vasu. That is the reason.”

“Look around, Haplo,” said Vasu softly.

Haplo looked. The street in which they stood was filled with children: boys and girls at play and at work, stopping to stare with bright eyes at the strangers; babes riding in harness on a parent’s back; toddlers getting underfoot,
tumbling down, only to stand up again with the stubborn persistence of the very young.

“Many are orphans,” Vasu said gently, “who come to us by way of the beacon fire. And many of them are named Rue.”

“I know my search seems hopeless,” Haplo argued, “but—”

“Stop it!” Marit cried suddenly, angrily. She rounded on him. “Stop lying! Tell him the truth!”

Haplo stared, truly astonished. All of them stopped walking, waited to see what would happen next. Crowds of Patryns moved near, watching, listening. At a gesture from Vasu, the Patryns moved back a discreet distance, but still they waited.

Marit turned to face the headman. “Have you heard of Xar, the Lord of the Nexus?”

“Yes,” said Vasu, “we have heard of him. Even here, in the center of the Labyrinth, we have heard of Lord Xar.”

“Then you know that he is the greatest one of our people ever to have lived. Xar saved this man’s life.” Marit pointed at Haplo. “Xar loves this man like a son. And this man has betrayed him.”

Marit flung back her head, regarded Haplo with scorn.

“He is a traitor to his own people. He has conspired with the enemy”—her accusatory gaze went to Alfred—“and with the mensch”—her eyes shifted to Hugh the Hand—“to destroy Xar, Lord of the Patryns. Haplo’s true reason for coming to the Labyrinth is to raise an army. He plans to lead that army from the Labyrinth in a war against his lord.”

“Is this true?” Vasu asked.

“No,” Haplo replied, “but why should you believe me?”

“Why indeed, traitor?” came a voice from the crowd. “Especially since your minion carries an ancient knife of foul magic, wrought by the Sartan for our destruction!”

Astonished, Haplo looked to see who had spoken. The voice sounded vaguely familiar, perhaps that of the man who had accompanied Marit on the trail. Oddly, though, Marit herself appeared startled, perhaps even troubled by this latest accusation. She, too, it seemed, was trying to locate the person who had spoken.

“I had such a weapon.” Hugh the Hand took the pipe
from his mouth, spoke up boldly. “But it was lost, as
she
well knows!” He pointed the pipe stem at Marit.

Only it wasn’t a pipe.

“Blessed Sartan!” cried Alfred in horror.

The assassin held the Cursed Blade, the iron knife, inscribed with Sartan runes of death.

Hugh the Hand flung the weapon from him. The knife fell to the ground and lay there squirming, wriggling like a live thing.

The sigla tattooed on Haplo’s skin flared to life, as did the runes on Vasu and Marit and every other Patryn in the vicinity.

“Pick it up!” Alfred said through pale and trembling lips.

“No!” The Hand shook his head vehemently. “I won’t touch the damn thing!”

“Pick it up!” Alfred commanded, his voice rising. “It feels threatened! Quickly!”

“Do it!” Haplo said grimly, dragging back the dog, which was trotting over to take a sniff.

Reluctantly, gingerly, as if he were preparing to grab a poisonous snake by the back of the head, Hugh the Hand bent down, retrieved the knife. He glared at it.

“I swear … I didn’t know I had it! My pipe …”

“The blade would not let him go,” Alfred intervened. The Sartan looked miserable. “I wondered at the time, when you said it was lost. The blade would find a way to stay with him, and it did so, by changing its form to that of his most valued possession …”

“Headman Vasu, I would most respectfully suggest that you disperse your people,” Haplo said, tense, his gaze on the knife. It was still glowing, although not quite as brightly as before. “The danger is very great.”

“And it grows proportionately,” Alfred added in a low voice, his face flushed with shame. So much for the crimes of the fathers. “With all these people around it …”

“Yes, I sense that,” Vasu said grimly. “You, return to your homes. Take the children indoors.”

Take the children. One little girl was trying to see, moving near, not understanding the danger. Her face was oval, her chin pointed—not unlike Marit’s. The child would be about the right age …

A man came to the girl, laid his hand protectively on
her shoulder, drew her back. His eyes met Haplo’s for a brief instant. Haplo felt his face burn. The man led the child away.