The Well of Darkness (6 page)

Except
, I thought,
that her “edge” is gone
—
she
‘
s revealed the strength of her mindgift to Indomel, and he
‘
ll guard against it. She
‘
s truly helpless now.

And are we any better off?
I wondered. Apprehension closed in around my chest, weighing it down so that it was hard to breathe.
Tarani talks about escaping as if it were already done. But Indomel knows her power, too, and will take precautions. As for me
—
I don
‘
t have Keeshah, and I don
‘
t have Rika.

Obilin has Rika. Sharam was too tired to notice that Obilin had a different sword, and when the others arrived, Obilin hid my sword in one of the packs.

We do have information
, I remembered, thinking of Obilin’s involvement with Molik and Worfit, and his possession of what amounted to one of the greatest treasures in Gandalara. Then the hope of bargaining with that information died.
And Indomel has the means to get any information we have—the Ra’ira.

I fought back my despair to return Tarani’s hand-squeeze. The column had spruced itself up and picked up the pace. We were beginning the long climb to Lord City. Obilin came up on the other side of Tarani and cupped his hand protectively, possessively around her elbow.

Obilin won
‘
t tell Indomel Tarani
‘
s history
, I thought.
He hasn
‘
t given up wanting her for himself.

The small troop marched up the hill and through the arched gateway that separated the Lords of Eddarta from the society which supported them. I expected that we would be taken directly to Lord Hall, the octagonal building which commanded the center of attention immediately on entering Lord City. I suppose I was remembering the old Western movies of Ricardo’s world, and the mock trials that were set up for “hoss thieves and russlers”. I think I expected Indomel to be eager to gloat over his triumph. I know I just wanted it to be settled as fast as possible.

But my expectations and the High Lord’s plans had little in common. Tarani and I were led along the entry path which approached Lord Hall. Instead of going in, we were taken around the periphery of the hall, under the continuous portico, to the covered walkway which led to the dwelling section assigned to the Harthim family.

I should have expected this
, I thought, as we moved along the stone-laid walk.
Indomel will treat this as a personal score, rather than take a chance of exposing Tarani
‘
s power to other members of the Council.

When the guards had passed into the Harthim entry, which was formed by the sides of buildings, there was a perceptible change in mood. The doorways opening from the entry led into the living quarters of the High Guard or to sentry stations. Either way, it felt like home to these guys, and I found my own mood lightening with theirs. Ever since our capture—hell, since Keeshah had left me—I had felt suspended, drifting, unable to anchor myself. Now, at least, there would be an end to that sense of disassociation. Once I learned what Indomel’s plans were, I could begin to figure out how to defeat them.

I still had some notion that Tarani and I would be dragged into a courtroom-style audience with Indomel; he would gloat and preen and pronounce sentence; then we would either be killed (
resolution of an unsatisfactory sort
, I thought) or left alone to plot our escape. I was eager to find out which, to get this first step over with.

Obilin halted the column and waved the men with dralda off in the direction of the garden where I had first met Zefra. The handler was wearing a frown of concentration as the men grinned and tugged hard on the leashes of their animals. It came as no surprise that they would be glad to be rid of the beasts. But the dralda followed sullenly, dragging back against the pressure of the leashes. I glanced at Tarani, but her face was a perfectly composed mask. She had said that using her power on the dralda could produce some side effects. But what did I know about dralda? This could be their normal, “What fun, it’s back to captivity!” reaction.

Obilin still had hold of Tarani’s arm. He waved again, and two of the guards moved in on me and started to “usher” me out of the entryway.

I dug in my heels and brought the guards up short.

“We’re together, Obilin. You can’t split us up like this!” I said.

Obilin only laughed, and the guards pulled at me again.

I drove the elbow of my good arm into one man’s midriff, then swung the same fist at the other guy’s chin. A lot of frustration found release in those simple movements. That, combined with the men’s fatigue, sent them down for the count.

I stepped toward Obilin, but he had his sword out, and we both knew he really wanted me to advance against him.

“No,” Tarani cried, and started toward me. Obilin’s hand on her wrist pulled her back, leaving one of her arms extended in my direction. There was pleading in her voice as she said: “There is no purpose in this. I will be safe, and so shall you.” She lowered her eyes, and a transformation took place.

I had already surmised that some of the discussion our passing had stirred in Eddarta had centered around Tarani. Her physical resemblance to the Lords was startling. That’s not to say that no lower Eddartans had her unusual height or smooth black headfur or delicate and graceful facial planes. I had seen several individuals with similar physical characteristics, though they were more rare than I would have expected, assuming the natural passions and power of the Lords and what little I knew of genetics.

But Tarani had something no mere combination of genes could create: style. Perhaps it was her years of cultivating a stage presence. It could have been an imitation of Zefra, who knew thoroughly the subtle uses of power. Whatever the source of the change, it was visible and effective. Tarani turned back to Obilin and the little man stepped backward in surprise. He looked around quickly, and paled slightly when he saw that we were, for this passing moment, alone.

“By birth,” Tarani said, “I am the natural daughter of Zefra and Pylomel.”

“Indomel’s
sister
?” Obilin breathed. “No wonder he was so anxious to have you brought back here.”

“Indomel’s
elder
sister,” Tarani corrected, and waited for the significance of that statement to penetrate Obilin’s thinking. “I see you understand that there is no affection between me and the present High Lord,” Tarani said, with the slightest extra emphasis on the word
present.
“Understand, also, that I am not an ordinary prisoner.
Rikardon is not to be harmed.
“

Obilin’s thin face flickered with plots and calculation, but in the end he seemed to decide that Tarani had won this round. He smiled sardonically.

“You have my word,” he said softly, “that
as far as it lies within my power
, your friend will be cared for well. As for you—” He shrugged. “—I expect you will see to your own safety.”

He called for two more guards, and didn’t relax his defensive stance until they each had one of my arms.

These men were fresh and strong, and the effort of clobbering the other two had drained the last of my strength. The one I had elbowed was getting his breath back. He stood up and gave me a look so nasty that my gut muscles tightened in anticipation of his blow.

“Give him one of the smaller rooms,” Obilin ordered. “Two men will be posted at his door in four-hour shifts—you two take the first shift. He is not to be talked to or allowed to leave his quarters. But neither is he to be injured. Clear?”

The two new guards nodded. The third one checked his fist in mid-swing.

“Clear?” Obilin repeated. The third one nodded and stepped back, obviously unhappy. “Tend to Mossan, then get some rest. Tell the others who were with us that they have three days off.”

He turned to Tarani as Mossan was fireman-carried into the barracks area. “Will these arrangements be suitable?” he asked, with just a touch of sarcasm.

“Yes, they will do for now,” Tarani said as she crossed the few paces between us, this time shaking off Obilin’s restraining hand. She put her hands on my chest, and her touch was oddly comforting. “We will meet again soon,” she whispered and, right there in front of God and everybody, kissed me.

She went with Obilin, then, and the memory of her kiss was made sweeter by his parting look.

That’s another round you’ve lost, Obilin
, I thought as I was led to my “quarters.”

The room I was led to was just like the one in which Willon had installed me, when I had hired into the High Guard as a mercenary named Lakad. One wall was covered with pegs and lashed-reed shelves for my nonexistent wardrobe. There was a small table and a couple of chairs, and a fluffy pallet for sleeping. This room had two features the other one had lacked, however.

Sturdy shutters covered the window. Small sliding panels had been arranged to allow light and air to flow through latticed reeds. The shutters were braced from the outside, making the shutters not much less effective at containment than the stone walls around the window.

One of the guards returned with the other new item: the Gandalaran equivalent of a chamberpot.

I had a feeling I was in for a long, dreary wait, and I wasn’t disappointed. I had always believed that it’s impossible for a thinking person to be bored, that even in enforced physical idleness, one’s mind could be active. The trouble with that theory is that certain mental “activity” can be much worse than boredom.

There were two natural directions for my mind to turn: Tarani and Keeshah. Was one all right? Would the other come back?

I had been installed in my “cell” close to dusk. When I watched the red light of dawn creep in its latticed pattern across my unused pallet, I realized that I was hurting everybody by worrying. One more day of concentrated anxiety and I’d be so physically drained as to be useless to Tarani in any attempt to escape.

So I resolved
not
to think about them any more. (Except that I couldn’t stop reaching out for Keeshah each time I lay down to sleep. The pain of finding emptiness never diminished.) And boy, was I bored.

The first couple of days were okay. I set up a disciplined calisthenics program to counteract my restlessness. I explored every inch of the room, looking for something to use in aid of escaping. I channeled my thinking toward my favorite unsolvable riddle: where, how, and why?

Where was Gandalara? Its physical features and its inhabitants were both like and unlike those of Ricardo’s Earth; the coincidence tantalized me and the impossibility of a definite answer frustrated me.

How did Ricardo’s personality wind up in Markasset’s body?

There was more than one “why”. Why was I here? Why Markasset’s body? Why me at all?

I knew the Ra’ira was bound up in the answer to that third part of the riddle. I doubt that anyone but Tarani and me could have defeated Gharlas, because of our individually unique human/Gandalaran minds. Gharlas had planned domination over all of Gandalara, but he would have produced only strife and the eventual destruction of a centuries-old civilization.

But, with Thymas’s help, we had defeated Gharlas; the man was dead and no further danger to us or Gandalara. But was the Ra’ira safely back in Raithskar? No. Was that our final purpose—to get that blasted, beautiful gem to safety? It seemed logical. But, then, I had been logical twice before: first when I deduced that my Gandalaran obligation was to prove the innocence of Markasset’s father, Thanasset, and again when screwing up Gharlas’s crazy plans seemed enough to do. Logical I had been, and wrong both times.

I couldn’t help feeling there might be something more, something I didn’t know yet. That suspicion generated frustration and a renewal of the cycle: why the hell had I been stuck in the middle of this?

Two days of that kind of thinking convinced me it was as bad as worrying about Tarani and Keeshah. So I made another resolution: one step at a time. And the next step was, if possible, to get the Ra’ira out of here and back to Raithskar, where it could be guarded by men of honor. Focus on that, I told myself, and quit bugging yourself about things you can’t possibly control.

Having thus made the decision not to think about the things worth thinking about, for the next three days I was bored past imagining. I asked my silent guards for a set of mondeana. After three hours, I seemed to have exhausted all possible combinations of the six dice-like pieces. I inquired about reading material, but Gandalaran books are handwritten and precious; my guards snickered at the request. I did continue the calisthenics; they were all that kept my spirits up.

On the morning of the sixth day, I was told I would be seeing the High Lord.

I was allowed to bathe and given a change of clothing. It was an inexpressible relief to be clean. The loose-fitting desert outfit I had been wearing—dark green trousers with a tan tunic—resembled well-used dusting rags.

I knew, from its performance in my daily activities, that my arm was mostly healed, but it was still a pleasant surprise to wash away the dirt and find only a tracing of a scar zigzagging the area where the dralda’s teeth had scored.

It was hardly surprising that I was given a guard’s uniform to wear, considering where I was being held. All Gandalarans wore a variety of styles in trousers and/or tunics made from woven fabric. The elegance of any outfit was determined by the softness of the fabric, the quantity and delicacy of decorative work, and coordinated color combinations. Uniforms—that is, look-alike dress identified with a particular group—tended to be monotone. The Fa’aldu wore long white tunics. The Peace and Security Officers in Raithskar were identified by gray leather baldrics. The Sharith wore tan desert tunic and trousers, with the addition of colored sashes for rank identification.

The High Guard uniform was no exception: trousers slightly more fitted than the flowing desert style, and a sleeveless tunic, both in a mossy green. It was dressed up a bit more with boots and baldric of a dark leather that didn’t match badly with my belt, which I was allowed to keep.