The Dragon of Despair (83 page)

“It would hardly be convenient,” Derian protested. “Our families know where we went. Most of us have been writing home. We were negotiating with local merchants before the city’s mood got so ugly. Anyhow, Xarxius came to our aid when Firekeeper got tangled up with those men and their dogs. I’m inclined to trust him.”

Firekeeper watched anxiously, not certain what she would do if the decision went against the plan, and was relieved to see each head dip in a nod of agreement.

“Then we are committed,” Elise said, rising from her chair. “Xarxius told me to put a lantern turned up bright close behind the shutter where its glimmer could be seen from the street.”

She rose and did so.

“The next move is theirs.”

SNEAKING AFTER MOTHER
took a great deal of courage, but Citrine’s curiosity had become so all consuming that she could not sleep. Nor was the girl watched as closely at night. Rillon slept in the servants’ quarters. For her own reasons, Melina discouraged the servants from wandering.

Citrine had been told to ring for Mother’s servant, Tipi, rather than Rillon if she needed anything at night—an instruction that had been accompanied by a clear hint that such summons would be unwelcome unless the need was serious.

So after she had been washed for bed, Citrine had the night to herself. There were earth-toned robes among the garments in her new wardrobe. Her dancing slippers were soft yet strong and made no sound against the floor. She cast a dark scarf over the red-gold light of her hair, smudged paint over the fairness of her skin, and played at being a shadow.

Dancing was honing the remaining baby fat from her, revealing, if Citrine had known what to look for, the first similarities between her mother’s features and her own. Dancing had made the girl lighter on her feet as well. She amazed herself the first time she skirted a night guard and he didn’t see her. Within a few nights of such games, Citrine grew more confident.

Perhaps knowing Firekeeper and regularly witnessing the seemingly miraculous way the wolf-woman slipped in and out of shadows gave Citrine confidence. Perhaps it was merely that the girl had grown accustomed to no one paying her any heed and so no one did. For whatever reason, Citrine soon developed sufficient confidence in her abilities that she did not hesitate to follow Consolor Melina on her nocturnal prowls.

The first time Citrine stopped short of following Mother through the trapdoor in the cellar floor. The next she tested the door and discovered that not only could she lift it, the door had been recently oiled and moved without a sound.

Citrine had heard the tale of how Grateful Peace had led the others into Thendulla Lypella via such tunnels the winter before. It did not surprise her that her mother, always the mistress of so many secrets, should use similar routes. What Citrine desired was not the knowledge that her mother had secrets, but to know what those secrets were.

Citrine could not see in the dark, but then neither could Mother. Several lanterns, all filled with oil, waited at the base of the ladder. There were a few candle lanterns as well.

Citrine took one of these along with one of the tinder boxes so conveniently provided, but she did not light the candle. Instead she trusted to her mother’s light and her own shadows. After all, her reason for descending beneath the Earth Spires was to learn what Mother was doing. Why should she stray?

Melina never looked behind her, but moved as purposefully as if she were walking through more conventional streets. Citrine followed, skirting heaps of stone that concealed nearly invisible tunnels, ducking through doors that opened into corridors that gradually changed in character from the normal cellars and corridors of the city above to caverns and tunnels sculpted by primeval heat.

Eventually a dull glow shone from ahead. Noises—first unrecognizable, later revealed as scraps of conversation carried by the unpredictable acoustics of the underground—broke the relative silence through which they had traveled. Citrine dropped back, unwilling to lose her mother, but even less willing to be discovered.

Peeking around a corner, Citrine glimpsed what could only be called an underground town inhabiting a vast cavern dimly lit by hundreds of lanterns.

No one seemed surprised to see the Consolor of the Healed One in such a hidden place. Indeed, Melina was greeted with—if possible—even more deference and respect than she was in the upper world. A stiffly elegant lady emerged from a roofless hut set slightly apart from the other structures, many of which were little more than spaces marked off from those surrounding them by lines of rocks or some other largely symbolic barrier.

Citrine was reminded of the way she and her friends had played house just like this, and how their imaginations had made the pretend walls so real that they felt a shiver when someone stepped over and through a wall, rather than using the gap that stood for a door. The stiff lady must be very important if she had real walls instead of pretend.

Mother and this woman walked into one of several tunnels that branched off from the larger cavern. Citrine longed to follow, but didn’t dare. The “town” was not thickly populated, but there were enough people moving about that Citrine felt certain she would be seen. There seemed to be few children here, and most of these were infants tied to their mother’s backs or resting in makeshift cradles, rather like the dolls with which Citrine and her playmates had populated their pretend houses.

She waited, torn between a desire to follow Mother and fear of discovery for what seemed like an eternity. She had just decided that discovery was preferable when Mother and the stiff lady re-emerged. Mother carried several rolled pieces of paper in her hand. They paused under a cluster of lanterns to consult over these, then Melina handed the lady one of the rolls.

Each woman collected a pair of the townspeople, each of whom carried a lantern. Then, after exchanging formal New Kelvinese farewells, they went their separate ways. The stiff lady went off to yet another tunnel while Melina, to Citrine’s infinite relief and satisfaction, returned the way she had come.

The next several hours had been spent creeping along behind while Mother followed what was written on the rolls of paper. She hadn’t said much, so Citrine had only the vaguest idea of what they were doing. It reminded her of a scavenger hunt, though, and she wished she knew what they were after so she could help.

This first venture laid the pattern for the next several nights. Citrine even took to sneaking ahead to the room in the Cloud Touching Spire with the trapdoor so she wouldn’t miss Melina’s departure. Melina never noticed her shadow, but being in her company somewhat satisfied the gaping hole in Citrine’s heart. The voices in the girl’s head stopped arguing so much.

The only person who wasn’t happy was Citrine’s dance instructor. He was so frustrated by her exhaustion and inability to follow his instructions that he risked Toriovico’s anger and demoted the girl from a graceful skittering leaf to a dumpy apple who did little more than stand near the edges of the stage and rise and fall with the music.

Citrine didn’t even care. She pretended that Melina knew her daughter was accompanying her and made up elaborate conversations between them. The hard part was when Melina did or said something that didn’t fit in with Citrine’s imaginings. That was what happened on the night Citrine remembered about Edlin and Peace.

The two men had become like dreams to her since her arrival in Thendulla Lypella. All her companions had, all part of some uncomfortable version of reality she didn’t care to recall. It raised too many questions.

But during this particular night, Citrine was forced to remember. She knew that something had not been right the night before. Mother had climbed up a series of rungs set into a cellar wall with the same brisk confidence with which she had essayed a dozen similar sets. This time, however, she raised the trapdoor over her head and let it down so quickly that, had the hinges been better oiled, it would have slammed.

Mother had then motioned the lantern bearers to a retreat so rapid that Citrine, half drowsing in her dream conversation, had nearly been discovered.

Other nights Mother had parted from the lantern bearers and gone back to the Cloud Touching Spire unescorted. This time she went back to the subterranean town and popped down one of the side tunnels. When she had returned, she had looked less angry.

The next night, Citrine was padding along behind in a fashion that was rapidly becoming routine when her daydream was interrupted by the sound of voices. They were speaking so quietly and guardedly that she immediately knew they were not inside her head. Those voices were never less than outspoken.

She expected to see Mother hide or run or motion for a retreat, all things she had done when they had unexpectedly encountered some servant or laborer in the more trafficked sections of the tunnels. This time Mother merely paused, listened, then nodded in a sharp, self-satisfied fashion and motioned for her lantern bearers to step lively.

Within a few twists of the tunnel they had encountered a group twice the size of their own headed by the stiff woman. Citrine had learned that her name was Idalia. Her name seemed vaguely familiar, but it was a familiarity associated with discomfort so Citrine didn’t think too hard about where she’d heard it.

Idalia was accompanied by several people who, at first, Citrine believed were lantern bearers like Mother’s. She noticed differences right away.

These were all men—big men—whereas Mother’s lantern bearers were often women, and often seemed chosen for their lightness of foot and willingness to take orders without question. Idalia’s escort all wore leather armor and carried in addition to their lanterns short spears.

These were being used to prod along the last segment of the group, two figures in kilted robes who moved with a strange, halting gait. When they drew closer, Citrine realized that they walked funny because they were hobbled about their ankles. With mild curiosity, she looked more closely, wondering what they had done to merit such treatment. That was when she realized that she was looking at Edlin Norwood and Grateful Peace.

Both men looked thinner than when she had last seen them and more pale. Edlin carried a writing tablet and a short pencil. Peace was empty-handed, his one arm bent behind his back and bound. He moved as if he hurt and there were reddish lines near his mouth.

In a moment, Citrine understood why. As Idalia’s party paused to greet Consolor Melina, the guard closest to Peace took a hank of twisted cloth that hung around the former Dragon’s Eye’s throat and used it to gag him.

“I didn’t want him to try anything clever,” Idalia explained in a stuffy, puffed-up fashion that made Citrine really dislike her. “There are all sorts of levers and pressure plates down here as we’ve discovered—often to our loss. I didn’t want him hitting one or calling out through some hidden speaking tube.”

Even Citrine could see how stupid Peace would need to be to do any of these things, hobbled as he was and with Idalia’s spear-holding guards behind him, but Melina only nodded approvingly, as if what Idalia had said was the smartest thing in the world.

“We cannot be too cautious,” Mother agreed, “especially with a proven traitor. Have you located anything?”

“We have mapped several more tunnels and Grey Pee has shown us a shortcut to one of the interior parks,” Idalia replied, “but that is all.”

A new voice cut in, kept soft so it would not carry but nonetheless vibrant and assured.

“I say,” said Edlin Norwood, “it would be easier to find what you’re looking for if we knew what it was, don’t you know?”

Idalia struck him across the face with the same casualness Citrine had seen applied to puppies or other overly enthusiastic young creatures. Mother frowned.

“How do you know I am looking for something? I may only wish to understand the extent of my kingdom.”

“True,” Edlin replied, licking at a trickle of blood from one corner of his mouth. “Just seems that you’re putting a lot of energy into it all of a sudden, given you have a life tenancy and all, what?”

Mother’s eyes narrowed and Citrine held her breath thinking Mother, too, was going to hit Edlin, but she only glowered at the young man.

“What do you think I might be seeking, Lord Kestrel?” she asked in silky tones as dangerous as another woman’s shout.

“Treasure,” he said bluntly. “The Founders couldn’t have taken it all with them. Must cost a lot to run a place like you have down here. Not just the slaves—lantern oil, food, clothing. Adds up, what?”

“It does indeed,” Mother agreed. “And I am looking for treasure—of a type.”

Interested as Citrine was in what Edlin and Mother were saying, Citrine could hardly hear them for the sudden ruckus raised by the voices inside her head. She gripped her ears and squeezed them as if she could drown the angry voices out.

“Edlin was bleeding! She hit him like you’d hit a dog.”

“Like a dog! Edlin would never hit a dog. Remember how he cried when he saw that Firekeeper and Blind Seer had killed those bandit dogs? He didn’t think anyone saw him, but you did. Edlin’s really very sweet.”