The Myst Reader (86 page)

Aitrus went out onto the bridge, Gehn beside him. The heat was fierce but not yet overpowering. As Anna came up onto the bridge, she smiled and held out something for Gehn to take. He ran to her and took the strange box, then scuttled back inside, into the shade. Anna pulled back her hood, then stepped up to Aitrus.

“You should wear something on your head,” she said, touching his brow. “Ten minutes in this and you will get sun-stroke.”

“Sunstroke?” He did not understand her.

“The heat,” she said. “It will affect your brain. You will collapse and be ill.”

“You are jesting with me,” he said, smiling, as if he understood she was joking, but she was not smiling.

“It is very dangerous out here,” she said simply. “Both you and Gehn must keep covered up as much as possible. The desert sun is unforgiving.”

He nodded, then. “Where have you been? And that cart …”

Anna half-turned, looking across at the cart, then she turned back to Aitrus. “I went to get it. It had all my books and journals on it. And other things. Fortunately I hid it well, and the desert did the rest. It was untouched, as if I’d left it yesterday.”

“And that song. What was that?”

Anna smiled. “Did you like it?” She quickly sang a verse. “It’s something my mother taught me. I could not sing it before. But now …” Again she smiled, then took his arm, leading him back into the shadows of the Lodge.

As they came into the main room, Gehn looked up at them, his eyes wide. “What is this game?” he asked, pointing to the checkered board, the black and white pieces that were laid out beside it.

“It is called chess,” she said, squatting beside him. “My father taught me how to play, and I shall teach you.”

Gehn beamed. “So I am not going to go to the Guild Hall after all?”

Anna looked down. “No, Gehn. You must go. But not yet. We will stay here for a few days, yes? Just you and I and Father.”

Gehn looked away a moment, struggling with his disappointment, then he nodded and, turning back to Anna, picked up the white queen. “So what is this piece and what does it do?”

“THINBLOOD …”

“Who-man …”

“No-dunny …”

The whispers surrounded Gehn in the darkness of the dormitory; endless, taunting whispers that filled the lonely nights. Gehn lay there, facing the bare stone wall, the knuckles of his right hand pressed into his mouth, trying to shut it all out, but still the whispers came.

The mattress was too thin beneath him, the blankets rough and scratchy. But worst of all was the sense of abandonment that came each evening as the great door to the dormitory was closed and absolute darkness fell.

It was awful. More awful than he had ever thought possible. They had heard him crying the first few nights and had laughed at him for it. And then the whispers had begun, playing upon his fears and insecurity, making his life even more of a misery than it already was.

At home he was used to his own room, his own smooth sheets and blankets. There, a night-light rested in the corner, warm and reassuring. And he knew that his mother was always there, next door, in case bad dreams came and disturbed his sleep. But here there was nothing. Nothing but the darkness and the endless hurtful whispers.

Why had they done this to him? Why? Had he been bad? If so, he could not remember what it was that he had done. Or did they no longer love him? For to leave him here, among these awful, spiteful boys, was surely some kind of punishment.

He could remember his father’s face, unnaturally stern, as he spoke to him the night before he had come here.

“You must be brave, Gehn. It is the D’ni way. It might seem hard at first, but you will get used to it, I promise you.”

So much for promises. But the worst had been the parting from his mother. He had kicked and screamed, refusing to go with them, so that eventually they had had to pick him up and carry him to the waiting carriage.

That had been two weeks ago now. Two weeks of endless homesickness, and the torment of the nights.

Yet even as the whispers multiplied, Gehn found himself thinking of the lesson earlier that day. He had begun to think himself a fool; had begun to believe that the boys were right when they called him “No-dunny” and said he had sand in his head instead of brains. But today he had begun to understand what he was doing here, for today he had seen Master Urren.

Gehn was taught in a group of eight, the eldest aged seven, the youngest himself. Most of it was basic, the kind of stuff his mother had taught him back at home, but some was specific stuff about ink and writing; today’s lecture in particular.

Master Urren, the visiting tutor from the Guild of Ink-Makers, was a big, ungainly, birdlike man, with a long, thin face and huge bushy eyebrows that seemed to form a continuous line across his upper face. He had the habit of staring into the air as he spoke, as if in a trance, then looking directly at one or other of his pupils, startling them. But it was not this habit but his words that had woken Gehn this morning.

With his eyes closed, Gehn could see Master Urren now, his right hand clenched into a fist as he spoke the Ink-Maker’s litany.

“What binds the Word to the World? The Ink!

“What burns the bridge between the Ages? The Ink!

“What forms the living darkness between two lights? The Ink!”

Then, to the astonishment of them all, he had brought out a great tub of ink—lifting a handful of the fine dark granules so that they could see.

“The manufacture of this is a secret. A very grave and great secret, like the secret of the paper, which in time each of
you
will learn. But you must first prove yourself worthy to be trusted with such a secret, for the making of these two things is the key to immense power—the power to make worlds!”

And there was more, the words issuing thunderously from Urren’s lips, so that Gehn had found himself staring at the guildsman openmouthed, amazed by the power of the words. This, he realized, was what his father had been talking about. This was what it meant to be a guildsman. Until that moment he had thought it a senseless thing to want to be, but suddenly, in one single, blazing moment, he understood.

Gehn turned and lay upon his back, letting his hand fall onto his chest. The whispers had stopped now. Soft snoring filled the silent darkness of the narrow room.

Secrets. He was to be the heir to great and wonderful secrets. Twenty years it might take, but then he would know, as Master Urren knew, and maybe then his eyes would burn with that same ferocious knowledge, that same certainty.

Gehn shivered, then, wiping his hand across his face, formed the words silently in the darkness.

It is the D’ni way.

THE INK-WORKS WERE BURNING. GREAT FLAMES
curled up into the darkness, lighting the roof of the cavern almost a mile overhead. Gehn stood on the stone ledge, staring out the window across the rooftops of the upper city. Surrounding him, his fellow students jostled to see, but he stood at the very front, both hands tightly grasping the great central bar of the paneless window, looking out across the dark toward the massive blaze.

They had heard the explosion twenty minutes back, but at the time they had not understood just what was happening. Now they knew. Someone had placed a bomb in the very middle of the Ink-Works. Many were dead. Many more were missing.

For the past eight weeks there had been incidents. Senior guildsmen had been mysteriously attacked. Offices had been ransacked. In the worst of the incidents, three Kortee’nea—blank Books—had gone missing, along with a whole stock of smaller Linking Books. The Maintainers had been placed on constant alert; no one knew yet who was behind the outbreak.

And now this.

There was a shout in the corridor behind them. Gehn turned, along with the others, to see the Duty Master hurrying down the corridor toward them, his hands waving madly.

“Boys! Boys! Get down from there at once!”

They climbed down, obedient to their Guild Master, yet as Gehn went to walk away, he saw how the Master hung back at the window, staring out at the blaze, the glowing orange light reflected in his pale eyes, a look of pure fear etched in his face.

AITRUS DID NOT WAIT TO BE SUMMONED BUT
went straight to the Guild House. All but two or three of the Emergency Council were already there, the others arriving very shortly after Aitrus. As Lord R’hira called the meeting to order, a Master from the Guild of Maintainers hurried in and, bowing to R’hira, gave him the latest report from the Ink-Works.

Fifteen had died. Another eight were missing. It was too early to know for certain, but it seemed that a large stock of ink had been taken.

“But how was this possible?” Master Jadaris asked, when his man had finished.

“Someone is linking to places throughout D’ni,” Guild Master Jerahl answered him. “Someone with special knowledge of the guilds.”

“Some
one
?” R’hira queried, looking about the table. “Or are there several miscreants? Look at the pattern of the attacks. Not one but six separate guilds have now been targeted. And who knows where they will strike next? The only thing these incidents have in common is that they know the intimate workings of the guilds. They know where we are vulnerable. They know precisely where to attack and when.”

“Veovis?”

All eyes turned to Aitrus, who had spoken the name.

“Impossible,” Jadaris said, after a moment. “He is more than safe where we have put him.”

“Is he?” Lord R’hira asked, leaning toward the Grand Master. “When did you last check on him?”

“Three weeks ago. After the first of these incidents.”

“But before the remainder, yes?”

Jadaris nodded. Then, shaking his head, “No. I refuse to believe it. But if my fellow guildsmen would like me to check?”

“Do so, Master Jadaris,” R’hira said. “And let us know what you discover.”

Jadaris bowed to R’hira and left.

R’hira looked about the table. “Whoever this is—and we must not leap to
any
assumptions without full and proper knowledge—they aim to create a climate of fear, and what better way than to engage in a meaningless sequence of violent events?”

“Do you think that is what’s happening here?” Master Jerahl asked.

“I do. But there is something none of you know about. Something that has been kept a secret among the Five. In view of this latest outrage, however, we feel you ought to know of it.” R’hira paused significantly, then, looking down at his hands, said, “One of the Five great Books has been desecrated. That of Master Talashar. In fact, the structure of the text was so damaged and distorted that the Age has become unstable and we fear it will shortly self-destruct.”

There was horror about the table. This was one of their worst fears—that their Ages would be tampered with and destroyed. And here was news that such a thing had happened, and not just to any Age but to one of the five “Classics,” those ancient, beautiful Ages made by the greatest of D’ni’s Writers.

“Who would do such a thing?” Hajihr of the Stone-Masons asked, his face mirroring the shock everyone felt at that moment.