Into the Labyrinth (50 page)

“
And
get her away from the dwarf,” Rega added. “I haven’t said anything because, well, she
is
your sister, but I think there’s something sort of odd going on there.”

“What are you implying?” Paithan glared down at Rega.

“Nothing, but it’s obvious that Drugar adores her and, let’s face it, she’s not really choosy about men—”

“Oh, yes. After all, she
did
fall for your brother!” Paithan said viciously.

Rega flushed in anger. “I didn’t mean—”

The old man, following Rega’s gaze upward, gave a violent start. “I say! It
is
Dr. No!”

“No—” Paithan began.

“You see!” Zifnab yelled, triumphant. “He admits it!”

“I’m Paithan!” Paithan shouted, leaning farther over the edge of the chair seat than he’d intended. Shuddering, he slid hurriedly backward.

“The fool is stuck up there,” Rega explained in icy tones. “He’s scared to come down.”

“I’m not either,” Paithan retorted sullenly. “I have the wrong shoes on, that’s all. I’ll slip.”

“You’re sure he’s not No?” the old man asked nervously.

“Yes, he’s not No. I mean no, he isn’t … Never mind.” Rega was starting to feel dizzy herself. “We’ve got to get him down. Do you have any spells?”

“Dandy spell!” the old man said immediately. “Fire … Fire … Fireball! That’s it! We set the chair legs on fire and when they burn up—”

“I don’t think that will work!” Paithan protested loudly.

The old man snorted. “ ’Course it will. The chair goes up in flames, and pretty soon the seat doesn’t have a leg to stand on and whoosh! Down she comes!”

“Go get Roland,” Paithan said in resigned tones. “And take
him
with you,” he added, with a dark glance at the old man.

“Come on, sir,” said Rega. Trying not to laugh, she guided the old man, protesting, out of the Star Chamber. “Yes, I
do
think it would be fun to set the chair on fire. I wouldn’t even mind setting Paithan on fire. But maybe some other time. Perhaps you could go help Lord Xar with the party arrangements …”

“Party,” the old man said, brightening. “I do
love
a good party!”

“And hurry!” Paithan’s voice cracked in panic. “The machine’s starting up! I think the starlight’s about to come on!”

As Paithan had said, Aleatha had been spending most of her time with Drugar in the maze. And, as she had promised, she had told no one about her discovery. She might have, if they’d been nice to her; Aleatha rarely troubled herself with the bother of keeping secrets. But the others, including Roland (especially Roland), were all just as idiotic and juvenile as always.

“Paithan’s involved with that stupid machine of his,” Aleatha told Drugar as they traversed the maze. “Rega’s involved with trying to uninvolve Paithan with the stupid machine, and, as for Roland, who knows—or cares—what he’s doing.” She sniffed. “Let them hang around with that horrid, ugly Xar. You and I have found
interesting
people. Haven’t we, Drugar?”

Drugar agreed. He always agreed with everything she said and was more than willing to take her into the maze anytime she wanted to go.

They had gone the very next morning, when the star machine was on, but, as Drugar had warned her, the fog-people weren’t around. Aleatha and the dwarf waited for a long time, but no one came. The starburst mosaic in the amphitheater remained deserted.

Aleatha, bored, wandered around the mosaic, staring down at it.

“Why, look, Drugar,” she said, kneeling. “Isn’t this pattern the same one that’s on the city gate?”

Drugar bent over to examine it. Yes, it was the same pattern. And in the center of the runes was an empty place, the same as the empty place on the city gate.

Drugar fingered the amulet he wore around his neck. When he placed that amulet in the empty place, the gate opened. His fingers grew cold; his hand shivered. He backed away from the starburst hurriedly and glanced at Aleatha, fearing she had noticed, would have the same idea.

But Aleatha had already lost interest. The people weren’t here. The place was—for her—boring. She wanted to leave, and Drugar was quite ready to leave with her.

That afternoon, however, the two came back. The light from the star machine was on and shining brightly. The people were walking around the same as before.

Aleatha sat and watched them in mingled frustration and joy, tried to listen to them.

“They’re talking,” she said. “I can see their mouths move. Their hands move when they talk, help shape their words. They’re real people. I know they are! But where are they? What are they talking about? It’s so irritating not to know!”

Drugar fingered his amulet, said nothing.

But her words stuck in the dwarf’s mind. The two returned to the maze the next afternoon, and the afternoon after that. The dwarf now began to view the fog-people the way Aleatha viewed them—as real people. He began to notice things about them; he thought he recognized some of the dwarves from the day previous. Elves and humans looked alike to him; he couldn’t tell whether they were the same or not. But the dwarves—one in particular—he was certain had been there before.

This dwarf was an ale merchant. Drugar could tell by the plaiting of his beard—it was knotted in the guild braids—and by the silver mug. Hanging from a velvet ribbon around the dwarf’s neck, the mug was used to offer customers a taste of his brew. And apparently his ale was good. The dwarf was well-to-do, to judge by his clothes. Elves and humans greeted him with respect, bowing and nodding. Some of the humans even dropped down on one knee to talk with the dwarf, putting themselves at his eye
level—a courtesy Drugar had never in his life imagined a human offering a dwarf.

But then, he’d never in his life had much to do with humans or elves, for which he’d always been grateful.

“I’ve named that elf right there Lord Gorgo,” Aleatha said. Since the fog-people wouldn’t talk to her, she’d started talking about them. She’d begun to give them names and imagine what their relationships were to each other. It amused her, in fact, to stand right next to one of the shadowy men and discuss him with the dwarf.

“I knew a Lord Gorgo once. His eyes stuck out just like that poor man’s eyes stick out. He
does
dress well, though. Much better than Gorgo, who had no taste in clothes. That woman he’s with—frightful. She must not be his wife—look how she’s clutching him. Low-cut dresses appear to be the fashion there, but if
I
had
her
bosoms, I’d button my collar up to my chin. What very handsome human males they have there. And walking about as freely as if they owned the place. These elves treat their human slaves very carelessly. Why, look, Drugar, there’s that dwarf with the silver mug. We saw him yesterday. And he’s talking to Lord Gorgo! And here’s a human coming up to join them. I believe I shall call him Rolf. We had a slave once named Rolf, who …”

But Drugar had stopped listening. Taking hold of the amulet, the dwarf left the bench where he’d been sitting and for the first time ventured out into the midst of the people who seemed so real and were so false, who talked so much and were so silent.

“Drugar! You’re here with us!” Aleatha laughed and whirled in a dance, her skirts billowing around her. “Isn’t it fun?” Her dance ceased; she pouted. “But it would be more fun if they were real. Oh, Drugar, sometimes I wish you’d never brought me here! I like it, but it makes me so homesick … Drugar, what are you doing?”

The dwarf ignored her. Removing the amulet from around his neck, he knelt down in the center of the starburst and placed the amulet in the empty spot, just as he had placed it in the same empty spot in the center of the city gate.

He heard Aleatha scream, but the sound was distant, for distant, and he wasn’t certain he was even hearing it at all …

A hand clapped him on the back.

“You, sir!” A voice boomed, speaking dwarven. A silver mug waved in front of Drugar’s nose. “You’ll be a stranger to our fair city, I’m wagering. Now, sir, how would you like a taste of the finest ale in all of Pryan?”

THE LABYRINTH

H
APLO WOKE THE NEXT MORNING, HEALED AND RESTED, AND LAY
quietly for long moments, listening to the sounds of the Labyrinth. He had hated this place while he was trapped here. It had taken from him everything he had ever loved. But it had given him everything he had ever loved as well. Only now did he realize it; only now did he come to admit it.

The tribe of Squatters that had taken him in when he was a boy, after his parents had been killed. He couldn’t remember any of their names, but he could see their faces in the pale gray light that was little more than a brightening of the darkness, but was morning to the Labyrinth. He hadn’t thought about them in a long time, since the day he’d left. He’d put them out of his mind then, as he’d assumed they must have put him out of their minds. Now he knew better.

The men who’d rescued that frightened little boy might still think about him. The old woman who’d housed and fed him must wonder about him, wonder where he was, what had happened to him. The young man who’d taught him the art of inscribing the sigla on weapons might be interested to know that his teaching had proved valuable. Haplo would have given a great deal now to find them, to tell them, to thank them.

“I was taught to hate,” he mused, listening to the rustle of small animals, the bird calls he’d never truly heard until now, never truly forgotten. He rubbed the jowls of the dog, which was snoozing with its head on its master’s chest. “I was never taught to love.”

He sat up suddenly, disturbing the dog, which yawned, stretched, and dashed off to annoy foraging squirrels. Marit lay by herself, apart from Haplo and his group, apart from the other Patryns. She slept as he remembered seeing her sleep, curled up in the same tight ball. He remembered sleeping beside her, his body wrapped around hers, his stomach pressed against her back, his arms cradling her protectively. He wondered what it might have been like, sleeping with her and the baby, the child between them, sheltered, protected, loved.

To his astonishment, his eyes burned with tears. Hastily, embarrassed and half-angry at himself, he rubbed the moisture dry.

A stick snapped behind him.

Haplo started to turn, but before he could hoist himself up, Hugh the Hand had leapt to his feet, was confronting Kari.

“It’s all right, Hugh,” Haplo said, standing up. He spoke human. “She let us know she was coming.”

True enough. Kari had stepped on the stick on purpose, courteously calling attention to her nearness.

“These you term mensch, don’t they require sleep?” she asked Haplo. “My people noticed your friend was awake all night.”

“They have no rune-magic to protect them,” Haplo explained, hoping she hadn’t taken offense. “We have been through many dangers. He … that is,
they
”—Haplo had to remember to include Alfred—“are naturally nervous, being in such a strange and terrifying place.”

And why have they come to this strange and terrifying place?
was the question on Kari’s lips. Haplo could hear the words as surely as if she’d spoken them. But to ask such a question was not her duty. She gave Hugh the Hand a pitying look, spoke a few words in Patryn to Haplo, then handed over a chunk of hard bread.

“What was that all about?” the Hand wondered, glowering darkly after Kari.

Haplo grinned. “She says that you must be able to run like a rabbit, otherwise you’d never have lived this long.”

Hugh the Hand wasn’t amused. He glanced around grimly. “I’m amazed anything lives long around here. There’s a bad feeling to these woods. I’ll be glad to get out
of them.” He stared morosely at the lumps of colorless dough Haplo held in his hands. “That breakfast?”

Haplo nodded.

“I’ll pass.” Pipe in his mouth, the assassin wandered over to the stream.

Haplo glanced to where Marit had been sleeping. She was awake now, doing what a Patryn always did first thing in the morning—checking old weapons, making new ones. She was eyeing a spear, a full-sized one with a sigla-engraved rock head. It was a fine weapon, most likely a gift from one of the Patryns. Haplo recalled the man who had met her by the stream. Yes, he’d been carrying a spear like that.