Into a Dark Realm (8 page)

“Already you paint a grave picture,” said Sinboya. “If
you
can’t find him, he will be very difficult to find, indeed.”

Pug nodded, taking a sip of his hot drink. The four years he had abided with the Assembly, being trained as a Great One of the Empire, had given him a fondness for the bitter brew, which tasted like nothing so much as a very bitter tea found in Novindus. “He has the power to possess another’s body and it will be hard even for those closest to the host to detect him.”

“Ah, a possessor. I have heard tales of such, but so often such tales are nothing more than that: stories without any truth.” Sinboya was a magician of the Lesser Path, much like Pug’s first teacher, Kulgan, a magic that Pug was never suited for by temperament until much later in his education. Pug was conversant in all forms of magic, but unlike Sinboya he was not a specialist in this area. “I assume this visit, then, is not so much for the pleasure of my company, but for what device or trinket I can fashion for you?”

“I apologize for my failure to stay in touch.”

“Not necessary. If half of what I hear about you through rumor is true, you are a man in need of twice the hours in the day.”

Pug said, “I need something to detect necromancy.”

The old magician sat quietly for a moment. “It is forbidden, as you know.”

“I know that, but some men are driven by more than the fear of being discovered.”

“It is true that the lure of the dark arts can be powerful. Animation and control of the dead, the use of others’ life energies, and the creation of false life are abominations in the eyes of every temple; and magicians at the time of the Assembly’s founding feared such men.” The old man chuckled. “You’ll never hear a Tsurani Great One admit this, but those of my ‘lesser’ calling can reach levels of power terrible to contemplate. It takes time to learn either path, but the Greater Path is the quicker path to power. What few know is that the Lesser Path is the slower path to greater power. I can create devices, given enough time and materials, that can do things none of the Greater Path—with
you being the possible exception, Milamber—can duplicate. Give me what I need, and I can build a box that will hold great storms until opened, or a flute that can command obedience in a thousand animals at once. There are many things we of the Lesser Path can accomplish that are often overlooked by the Assembly.

“What do you wish this device to do?”

“I need something that will identify any significant manifestation of necromancy, say the seizing of a soul or the animation of the dead.”

The old man was silent for a few minutes, then he said, “Difficult. These are subtle manifestations to detect if you’re talking about a single life taken, or a single body animated.”

“Can it be done?”

Sinboya was contemplative. At last he said, “Of course it can, but it will take time and I will need help.”

Pug stood. “I will have someone contact you within a day, and he will provide you with everything you need. Set your price for the work, and you will be rewarded, as well.

“The man I seek may be the herald of the gravest danger the Empire has encountered in its long history.”

The old man chuckled. “No disrespect, my old friend, but there have been many grave dangers in our history.”

Pug leaned closer. “This I know, for we of the Greater Path study the Empire’s history as part of our training. I do not exaggerate this, Sinboya. This may be the unleashing of the Eater of Souls.”

The old man sat silently as his guest left. The Eater of Souls was a being of extraordinary power, one of the foundation myths of Tsurani religion. It was written in the temples that in the last days, before the destruction of the world of Kelewan, a being known as the Eater of Souls would appear and begin to harvest the unworthy before the gods unleashed their final war in the heavens.

As the door closed behind Pug, Sinboya felt an unexpected need to visit the temple of Chochocan, the Good God, to say a prayer and make a votive offering, an impulse he had not experienced in fifty years.

As Pug left Sinboya’s modest home, he felt a strange sense of familiarity, a sort of déjà vu. He hesitated, looked quickly about, and after seeing nothing amiss in the darkness, hurried along.

He had cast a rift from a deserted spot on Sorcerer’s Island to a place he knew near the City of the Plains, where the original Tsurani rift into Midkemia had existed, almost a century past. He had then employed a trick he had mastered in reaching the Eldar under the polar ice cap of Kelewan years before: simply transporting himself by line of sight, a method which was occasionally tedious, but ultimately effective.

He needed no such trick to return to the world of Midkemia, only a deserted place where he might depart undetected. He moved quickly along the dark street, looking for an alley into which to disappear.

From around the corner, a figure emerged from deep shadow, watching as Pug vanished from sight. The stocky man in the black robe waited for a minute, then sighed. “What were you doing in that little house, Pug?” he muttered under his breath. “Well, best go find out, hadn’t I?” The man walked purposefully, using a large staff to bear a little of his weight when he stepped forward with his right leg. He had hurt his knee a while back, and found the walking staff a comfort.

Without knocking, he pushed open the door and stepped inside.

P
ug retreated.

He could see the caravan wending its way along the Hall of Worlds and knew from experience that anything was possible here. The Hall was the great thoroughfare between worlds, a place where a mortal man could walk between planets if he knew the way and possessed the necessary skills, or power, to survive. He glanced at the doors nearest his position, but none offered a convenient place into which he could vanish. Two led into worlds he knew were inimical to human existence, with poisonous atmospheres and crushing gravity, and the other two led to very public places of disembarkation. Unfortunately he lacked the means to anticipate local time for places where appearing in the public square at noon was a bad idea.

He had no choice but to stand his ground, for advance guards had already espied him and were hurrying forward, weapons drawn, in case he was some sort of threat—which he would be should they give him cause.

The guards were human, or at least appeared to be from a distance, and they came to a position about halfway between Pug and the lead wagon—pulled by something that looked somewhat like a purple needra, the six-legged beast of burden familiar to Pug from his years on Kelewan. Four guards were dressed in plain grey uniforms, with small turbans of the same color, their only armor golden-colored chest plates. They bore black shields and wicked-looking scimitars. Two of the guards carried some sort of projectile weapon, Pug judged, for they pointed long cylindrical tubes mounted on shoulder stocks at him.

Pug stood his ground.

After a moment in which neither side made a move, a short man dressed in light blue robes and a white turban came forward and stood behind the guards. He looked at Pug then called out a question.

Pug did not understand the language. The Hall of Worlds apparently gave access to and from every planet in the universe, or at least that was the theory. No one had ever found the end of the Hall and news of new worlds being found was constantly filtering back to Honest John’s, Pug’s intended destination. As a result, denizens of hundreds of thousands of nations could be encountered, all speaking different languages.

There were basically three types of individual one encountered in the Hall of Worlds, denizens, sojourners, and the lost. The last were hapless souls who had somehow blundered into an entrance to the Hall on their homeworlds, lacking any knowledge of what had happened to them, or how to return. Often they were victims for the more predatory inhabitants of the Hall. Most who traveled the Hall were, like Pug, sojourners: merely using it as a means of quick access across a vast distance. But an entire culture had arisen in the Hall formed by those who chose to live in it. These were not just humans
but all manner of intelligent species, and they had developed, if not rules, then conventions.

One of these conventions was the Trading Tongue. Pug spoke that language with some skill and he answered in that: “Could you repeat your question, please?”

The little man glanced back at a figure sitting on top of the first wagon, then returned his attention to Pug. “I asked,” he began in the Trading Tongue, “where are you going?”

Pug pointed ahead. “That way.”

The little man looked perplexed, then said, “Where are you from?”

Pug pointed back over his left shoulder with his right hand. “That way.”

“What is your business?” demanded the little man.

Pug was growing weary of the exchange. He was only five doorways away from the closest entrance to Honest John’s and he was impatient to be on his way. Trying his best to hide his annoyance, he answered, “My own.”

“You walk the Halls alone, yet I see no weapons. You are either a man of great power or a fool.”

Pug stepped forward, and the guards’ weapons rose slightly. “I have no need of weapons. Now, do you intend to bar my passage?”

“My master seeks only to ensure we move among one another with the least amount of difficulty,” answered the little man with a toothy grin.

Pug nodded. Sweeping his hand across his chest, he said, “Then go that way, and I shall go this way.”

“How are we to know you will not turn and attack us once we’ve let you pass?”

Pug let out a breath of exasperation. “That’s enough.” He waved his hand and a ripple that was visible in the air swept forward, knocking the six guards and the little man over. He started to walk past when one of the guards leaped to his feet, drew back his sword, and struck downward. Pug raised his hand and the sword struck an invis
ible barrier that sent a shock up the guard’s arm as if he had struck a bar of iron.

One of the men holding the tube device pointed it and released a mechanism, sending a rapidly expanding net at Pug. He had expected a missile of some type and the netting caught him by surprise. Suddenly entangled, he had to pause long enough for other guards to reach him. He closed his eyes and used the transporting skill Miranda had taught him, coupled with what he had learned years before from the Tsurani Great Ones, and picked a place on the floor a dozen paces farther along the Hall. One moment he was entangled in the net with a half-dozen guards attempting to pull him to the ground, and the next he stood twelve paces away looking at the confusion.

Pug turned to the obvious master of the caravan, a richly dressed fat man sitting atop the lead wagon who blinked in astonishment as Pug walked toward him, and said, “If you would rather I reduce you to smoking ash, I can do that.”

“No!” shouted the man, holding up his hands in supplication. “Do us no harm, stranger!”

“Do you no harm?” asked Pug in an exasperated tone. “I’m just trying to walk that way.” He pointed. “What’s the boggle?”

Seeing that the robed man was not continuing the attack, the caravan master lowered his hands and said, “My agent acted, perhaps, in haste. He shall be rebuked. He sought, perhaps, another item of merchandise, thinking you, perhaps, of some value.”

Dryly, Pug said, “Perhaps.” He looked down the length of the caravan, a dozen wagons and a line of individuals following them. “You’re a slaver?”

“Only in the sense, perhaps, you might say…yes.” He spread his hands palms up and then said, “But it is a minor sideline, perhaps a source of some small income, but not my major trade.”

“And that would be?” asked Pug. He disliked slavers, having spent four years as a slave on the Tsurani world before his magical ability had been detected. But there was an unwritten law in the Hall that you troubled no man’s trade without cause. Granted, he had been
attacked, but from any slaver espying an unaccompanied individual in the Hall, it was only to be expected.

The man said, “I deal in items of rare antiquity, unique magical devices, and holy relics. Perhaps you are seeking something of the sort?”

“Some other time. I must be off,” said Pug. He looked at the fat trader consideringly. “But you might be able to sell me some information.”

Putting his right hand over his heart, the man smiled, bowed, and said, “Perhaps.”

“Have you traded with anyone who knew the way to the second plane?”

The man’s face became a mask of confusion. “Perhaps I do not speak the Trading Tongue adeptly enough, stranger. The second plane?”

“The second circle. The second realm. That which lies below?”

The man’s eyes widened. “You are mad, but if such a one exists, seek him at John’s Without Reproach. Ask for Vordam of the Ipiliac.”

Pug bowed slightly. “I was going to John, but thank you for the name.”

“Perhaps we shall meet again…?”

“Pug of Midkemia. Also called Milamber of Kelewan.”

“I am Tosan Beada. Of the Dubengee. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

“Sorry,” said Pug, as he resumed his walk. “Good trading, Tosan Beada of the Dubengee.”

“Good traveling, Pug of Midkemia also called Milamber of Kelewan,” answered the trader.

Pug gave scant attention to the wagons and forced himself to ignore the slaves. At least fifty were chained together in a coffle, looking universally miserable. Most were human, and the rest were sufficiently humanlike to be able to move as one with the humans as they marched. Pug could have freed them, but at what cost to his scant time? And
what would he do with them? Most would have only the local name for their world, and the chances were good that none would have even the remotest idea of where their homeworld’s door would be found. Pug had learned a long time ago that when entering the Hall, it was best to leave all ethical and moral imperatives at home.

Pug easily reached the nearby entrance to Honest John’s. He hesitated for an instant, for no matter how many times before he had done this, stepping off the Hall floor between doors always gave him a second of near-panic. He recognized the glyphs above the doors on either side and knew he was in the right location. Still, no one knew what happened if one stepped off between doors—no one had ever done so and returned to talk about it. He ignored the sudden twinge in his stomach and stepped down, as if descending a staircase.

Suddenly he was in an entryway, a small room with a false door behind it. He knew the door was only painted on the wall, but it served to reassure a certain percentage of the clientele at Honest John’s.

A large creature, around nine feet in height, looked down at him with enormous blue eyes. It was covered in white fur and bore a slight resemblance to an ape, save for the face, which was more canine in appearance than anything else. Black patches on the fur would have given the creature an almost jolly appearance, if it wasn’t for its huge claws and teeth…“Weapons?” asked the Coropaban.

“One,” said Pug, producing the dagger he had secreted in his robe. He handed it over and the creature motioned for Pug to enter. Pug stepped into Honest John’s.

The saloon was immense: more than two hundred yards across, and a quarter mile deep. Along the right wall ran a single bar, with a score of barmen. A pair of galleries, one above the other, overhung the other three sides of the hall. The galleries were cluttered with tables and chairs, offering vantage points from which those above could gaze down upon the main floor.

There, every imaginable game of chance was under way, from cards to dice to games involving wheels and numbers; there was even
a small sandpit for athletic contests and duels. The customers were of every race and species Pug had ever encountered, and any number that were new to him. Most were bipedal, though a few had more limbs than usual, including one creature that looked oddly like a man-sized, skinny dragon with human hands at the end of its wing tips. The serving staff hurried through the throng bearing trays covered with a variety of pots, platters, cups, buckets, and bowls.

Pug wended his way through the press and found the inn’s proprietor at his usual table. John of Unquestioned Ethics, as he was known on the world of Cynosure, sat at a table by the near end of the bar which provided him with an excellent view of the entrance. Seeing Pug approach, John stood up. His face was unremarkable: brown eyes, an average nose, and a gambler’s smile. He was wearing a suit of shining black cloth. The trousers broke without cuffs at the top of shiny black boots with pointed toes. The jacket was open at the front, revealing a white shirt with ruffles, closed by pearl studs and sporting a pointed collar, set off by a purple cravat. This ensemble was topped by a wide-brimmed white hat with a shimmering red silk hatband.

He extended his hand. “Pug! Always a pleasure.” He glanced past him. “Miranda not with you?” They shook hands and he indicated that Pug should take the seat opposite him.

“No,” said Pug, taking the seat offered. “She has other business occupying her at the moment.”

“It’s been a while.”

“As always,” said Pug, sharing the joke. Time didn’t pass in Honest John’s. Those who resided in the Hall were somehow spared the ravages of time’s passage. In this place without days, weeks, months, or years, time was measured in hours, one passing after another, endlessly. Pug wagered that John had the means to tell him exactly how long it had been since Pug’s last visit, but he suspected it had nothing to do with the man’s memory.

“It’s not that I’m unhappy to see you again, but I suspect there’s a purpose to your visit. How may I be of service?”

“I seek a guide.”

John nodded. “There are any number of competent guides in my establishment as we speak, and a far greater number who could be here swiftly if I summon them, but which is appropriate to your needs is determined by one question: where do you want to go?”

“The Dasati homeworld, in the second realm,” Pug said.

John was a man of ageless experience. He had heard almost everything imaginable during his years in the Hall. For the first time, he sat speechless.

Miranda walked slowly beside an elderly man in a black robe through the garden on the south side of the great Tsurani Assembly of Magicians. It was a beautiful afternoon with a light breeze coming down from the distant mountains to the north, tempering the usually hot Tsurani day.

The massive Assembly building rose up to dominate the island, but the shore across the lake had been left untouched and provided a soothing vista for Miranda’s troubled mind. She hated it when Pug was absent.

The elderly magician said, “As happy as I am to see you, Miranda, you’ll understand that many of my brethren are still…”

“Old-fashioned?”

“I was going to say ‘traditionalists.’”

“In other words they dislike taking advice from a woman.”

“Something like that,” said Alenca, the most senior member of the Assembly of Magicians. “We Tsurani have endured a lot of change in the last century starting, coincidentally, with our first encounter with your homeworld; and yet more thrust upon us by your husband, but we are still a hidebound bunch.” The old man’s face was a collection of crags and ridges, lines and age spots, and only the wispiest echo of white hair graced his pate, but his eyes were a vivid blue and sparkled when he talked. Miranda liked him a great deal.

“This business with the Talnoy has become something of a bone of contention between various groups among us, and word of it has made it all the way to the Imperial Throne in the Holy City.”