The Cellar Beneath the Cellar (Bell Mountain) (25 page)

Martis crossed over to the New City by night, in an old boat that he’d left in a safe hiding place a few years ago. He’d been careful about hiding it, and it didn’t leak.

The children didn’t like being left behind at the ruined Temple.

“What are we supposed to do if you don’t come back?” Jack said.

“You’re much safer here than you’d be in Obann,” Martis said. “Besides, I’ll be back before sunup. It’ll take me a few days to find a scholar and work out how to bring him here without a fuss. Judge Tombo’s men will be patrolling the streets, on the lookout for trouble. Much better for you to stay here, where the Omah can watch over you.”

So Jack and Ellayne remained in camp, huddled over their campfire—which they each wished, silently, they hadn’t built so close to the hole leading down into the ancient cellar. Ham and Dulayl were still outside the Temple, but Wytt saw to it that they had water, and his friends protected them.

“Abombalbap stayed in a ruined castle overnight,” Ellayne said, recalling a story from her book of adventures. “In the middle of the night, a beautiful lady came up out of the floor and made love to him; but the next morning, when he came out of the castle, he found out that a whole year had passed in a single night. The lady was an evil spirit, and a holy hermit had to come and drive her away. When he did, the whole castle crumbled into dust. My father read me that story when I was sick in bed.”

“When I got sick, Van made me keep on working,” Jack said, not missing his stepfather even a little bit. “Nobody ever told me a story.”

“I just told you one.”

“I’m not a little kid. I don’t need stories.”

“Everybody likes stories,” Ellayne said. “Your mother would have told you stories, if she hadn’t died.”

In truth, Jack liked Ellayne’s stories and liked having her tell them to him; but he wouldn’t admit it.

“I wonder if there are any stories on that sheepskin in the jar,” he said. “I wish we could read it. But Ashrof never taught me how to read that kind of writing.”

“Do you trust Martis, Jack?”

“That’s a silly question. Of course I trust him, after all this time. Don’t you?”

“I suppose I do. But he says such terrible things about the Temple! If the First Prester was really as bad as all that—”

She never finished her sentence. Somewhere in the sprawling ruins, some creature howled. It wasn’t quite like the howling of a stray dog on the streets of Ninneburky, or the howling of a wolf on the plain. This was a howl that belonged to some kind of animal that didn’t have a name. Both of the children startled badly when Wytt and a couple of the City Omah burst unexpectedly into the circle of their firelight.

“Burn it, Wytt—don’t do that!” Jack said.

“What was that howling, Wytt?” Ellayne asked. “Do you know?”

The Omah chattered together, then tried to answer.

“Big animal lives in a hole, comes out at night sometimes. We think it cries for a she-animal, but gets no answer.”

“What kind of animal is it?” Jack asked.

“New kind, never seen before. Comes from outside. Big, with big teeth. Hunts rats. Black hair, but smells like snake. Omah stay away from it.”

“So it’s not a wolf?” Ellayne said.

“Not wolf. More like lizard. We have no name for it: new animal, no one ever see it before.”

Jack added more vine-chunks to the fire.

Martis came back just before sunup, bringing some oil lamps, a bag of apples, a small jug of wine, and a couple of loaves of bread.

“I think I’ve picked out a scholar for us,” he said. “I’ll watch him for a few nights, find out all I can about the route he travels to and from the Temple, and where the patrols are in his neighborhood. When I can do it safely, I’ll bring him here. But I’ll have to be careful: the city’s in a very uneasy mood.”

“Why’s that?” Ellayne asked.

“Everybody’s worried about the war, and they hanged a prophet the other day. There are still a lot of prophets preaching in the streets, and the oligarchs don’t like it.”

“You can’t hang a prophet!” Ellayne cried.

“That’s what most people seem to be saying. The hanging was supposed to settle the people’s minds, but it’s done more harm than good.”

They built up their fire, and as the night faded into dawn, made an early breakfast. One of the City Omah had his first taste of bread, and loudly chirped his approval. It wasn’t such a bad place to camp, Ellayne thought, now that Martis was back. So it must be I do trust him, after all, she thought.

“I don’t think there’s much point in opening any more of the jars until we have our scholar present,” Martis said. “Tonight I’ll pick up some good, strong rope for us. We may as well make ourselves comfortable; we’ll probably be here for a while.”

“But not forever,” Jack said. Ellayne and Martis didn’t understand. “What I mean is, what do we do if it’s true that these are the missing books, under the Old Temple, and we’ve found them? What do we do after we read them? Do we just let the scholar go? He’ll tell everybody about us.”

Martis answered with a sickly smile. “He will certainly tell Lord Reesh,” he said, “and the patrols will come for us. When I kidnapped someone for my master, that was usually the last anybody ever saw of him.”

“But we can’t do that!” Ellayne said. “We can’t murder anyone. We shouldn’t even kidnap anyone!”

Jack had thought of that, too. But how could they just let a kidnapped scholar go, once they didn’t need him anymore?

“She’s right,” he said. “We need an honest man, who’ll help us because he wants to. We need someone like that old blind prester we met—except he couldn’t see to read.”

“You want me to just
ask
someone to come across the river with me?” Martis said. The idea had never entered his head. “It seems I picked up some bad habits in Lord Reesh’s service. I never thought of trying to find an honest man in Obann—certainly not anywhere near the Temple.”

“There must be someone we shouldn’t have to kidnap!” Jack said.

“God never sent us here to commit crimes,” Ellayne said.

“No—I don’t suppose He did,” Martis agreed.

He caught a few hours’ sleep, then returned to Obann late in the afternoon. “Skulking around in the dark, and acting like a man who doesn’t want to be noticed, is the best way to get noticed by the patrols,” he said.

Martis knew the city better than anyone. He grew up on its streets, fatherless. He’d been a thief and a cutpurse. As long as he could get a good start, he could escape any pursuit: he knew all the hiding places, and how to navigate the maze of streets and alleys.

He browsed the shops, keeping his ears open. Outside a fishmonger’s, he found a little group of citizens huddled around a prophet. They had to huddle because this prophet was whispering, almost. She had no desire to be hanged. Martis edged closer so he could hear her.

“They can say what they please in the chamber house,” the old woman was saying, “but this is what the Lord God says—He has forsaken them! Behold, their hearts are closed to me, says the Lord; but I shall open the gates of their city and give entry to the sword and pestilence. They shall all die in their sins.”

A young man interrupted. “But the prester says we’re going to win the war! God wants us to conquer the Heathen all the way out to the edge of the earth and do away with all their idols.”

“Woe to them that preach a lie,” said the old woman, “and to lying prophets who fill the people’s ears with vanities! Cursed is that prophet who says, ‘The Lord has said,’ when I have not said, nor spoken to him.”

“Keep your voice down!” said a younger woman. “Do you want to be hanged?”

Martis moved on. The city’s mood was full of doom, and as yet the Heathen hosts were far away. The mood the people were in now, they’d never stand a siege.

He came within sight of the Temple. The rays of the setting sun turned into blood against the golden dome. People trudged slowly up and down its great stone steps, as he himself had done so often. But how many of them knew the secrets of the Temple as he did?

And then he froze, because a man who knew many of those secrets, and knew him, came walking down the steps straight toward him. It was Dicken, one of Lord Reesh’s secretaries, a man who’d sometimes given him Lord Reesh’s orders. If Reesh were to learn that his assassin lived and was in the city—well, that would be the end.

Martis relaxed, made way for Dicken to pass, and even caught his eye. And Dicken, seeing him but not recognizing him, nodded politely and walked right past him, intent on whatever errand sent him forth.

Martis wondered: have I changed so much that old friends don’t know me—or had God dulled Dicken’s sight? He sighed. There was no answering that question. But one way or another, he supposed, it was safe for him to talk to people, even to servants of the Temple.

The next day, with the aid of some of Ellayne’s money and the clean, respectable clothes it bought, Martis had his supper at a public house in the shadow of the Temple in the company of reciters, archivists, and students of theology. He’d eaten there many times before, with Temple servants who knew him only as a lowly clerk of inventory. A few of those old acquaintances were there now, but no one recognized him. He introduced himself as a clerk for the prester’s office in Durmurot, come to Obann to tie up a few loose ends left by the resignation of Prester Jod.

“Prester Jod, yes—he’ll be missed,” said a man at the other end of the table. “Pity about him.”

“I confess I never understood why he had to resign so suddenly,” Martis said. “But I was visiting one of the outlying chamber houses when it happened, and by the time I returned to Durmurot, he was out of office.”

“It’s no secret,” a reciter said. “He didn’t like the new Scripture Dr. Occus found tucked away in the archives.”

“Don’t let your prester hear you saying that,” a student said.

Another student butted in. “Burn all that! Anyone can see it’s just a forgery. Occus is the laughingstock of the seminary.”

Martis generously bought a round of ale to keep them talking. They didn’t need much encouragement. Without asking too many questions, he heard the tale of a scholar named Occus who’d discovered a hitherto unknown fragment of the Book of Batha the Seer—a few fascicles exhorting the people of Obann to destroy the Heathen and prophesying, so it seemed, the current war. A special committee under Prester Orth—Martis knew him as a sly one—authenticated the fragment; it was added to the Scripture and now being preached in every chamber house in the land. But Prester Jod and a few others had resigned rather than accept it. At least among his fellow scholars, Occus’ reputation lay in ruins. This could be the man we need, Martis thought.

“But why?” he asked. “Was he not an able scholar? But perhaps he’s in this room somewhere …”

“He doesn’t show his face here anymore,” said a student. With subtlety, so that they hardly noticed he was asking, Martis learned where the disgraced scholar lived.

He’s the one, Martis thought, and discarded all the other names he’d considered. No one will think it strange if he leaves the city for a while. And maybe he now has a grudge against the Temple hierarchy: something I can play on.

He decided to pay the man a visit.

The following evening found Martis loitering on a street under the north wall of the city, where Dr. Occus rented rooms in a respectable but inexpensive rooming house. He got a description of the scholar from a neighborhood shopkeeper, and so he knew him when he saw him come walking slowly up the street, home from his duties in the Temple archives. Martis scanned up and down the street with a trained eye, pleased to discover that Occus wasn’t being followed. He walked alone with his thoughts, a little, bald fellow with little, bald thoughts—or so Martis imagined him to be.

As the man was about to walk past him, he spoke.

“Dr. Occus!”

The scholar stopped, looked him up and down.

“Yes—but do I know you, sir? I don’t think I do.”

“I know you by reputation, doctor. May I speak with you?”

“My reputation is not what it was, and I’m late for my supper.”

“Forgive me for intruding,” Martis said. “My matter is of some importance, and must be discussed in privacy. You won’t be sorry you listened, I can promise you that. Permit me to buy you something to drink.”

It was the pot of ale that got him a hearing. Martis bought it at an alehouse across the street, then accompanied the scholar to his rooms. Occus had a sitting room and a bedroom on the second floor of the rooming house, with a flight of rickety wooden stairs in the back leading to his own private entrance. He had bread and smoked fish waiting for him. For all he hungered for knowledge and prized scholarship, Martis reflected, Lord Reesh was miserly about remunerating scholars. Occus sat down to his meal and didn’t offer Martis anything to eat. He had none to spare.

“Suppose you start by telling me who you are and what you want with me,” he said.

“My name’s of no importance,” Martis said. “What is important is that I need the help of a scholar, a man skilled in reading ancient documents—and who will think twice about running to the presters with any new discovery he might make.”

Occus glared at him. “What makes you think I’m interested in making any new discoveries at all?”

“You’ve devoted your life to the pursuit of learning. I doubt you’re ready to give it up. But you’re probably disillusioned with the way the Temple handles new discoveries, and inclined to be cautious in your dealings with the presters. I’m looking for a man who can keep a secret, if necessary.”

“What kind of secret?”

Martis leaned over the table and lowered his voice. “What would you say if I offered to show you some scrolls from the First Temple, still sealed in their original storage jars? What if you could be the first to read them?”

“I’d say it was poppycock,” Occus answered. “I’d say anything like that was bound to be a forgery.”

“I think, when you see them for yourself, you’ll conclude that they are genuine.”

“Let’s see them, then.”

“I didn’t bring them with me,” Martis said. “I’ve left them where I found them, jars unopened, except for two. If you come with me, I’ll show them to you. But I’ll ask you to swear an oath not to mention them to anyone else until I say you can.”

“And why should such a find be kept secret?”

“Because I can’t read the scrolls, and I have no idea what they’ll say. It may be something that the Temple would pay a great deal of money for. It may even be something they would choose to suppress—something embarrassing to the powers that be.”

Occus chewed his fish and sipped his ale, thinking. He would very much enjoy embarrassing those who had embarrassed him, Martis thought.

“May I be candid, doctor?”

“I think you’d better be.”

“I came to you because you’re the one who discovered, in the archives, a long-lost fragment of the writings of Batha the Seer,” Martis said. “As was your duty, you passed it on to a higher authority. The presters authenticated it, proclaimed it Scripture. But among your colleagues there are serious doubts about it.

“Through no fault of your own, those doubts have come to rest on you. Those who believe the fragment is a forgery suspect you lent yourself to a dishonest purpose. Your good name has suffered. Not daring to criticize the Temple, the doubters criticize you. They even suggest you forged the document.

“You’ve suffered from this incident, but the Temple has neither defended nor rewarded you. You have reason to resent it—reason enough, maybe, to permit me to trust you.

“But if you don’t want to see the scrolls, just say so, and I’ll take my leave of you. I’ll find someone else to read them for me. There are many scholars in Obann.”

He’d seen a man’s eyes light up like this before, for money. Occus had the same reaction to the prospect of obtaining knowledge—knowledge that no other scholar would possess, and that came with a subtle aftertaste of revenge.

“Where are the scrolls?” he asked.

“I’ll take you to them.”

A worldly man would not have gone along with him; but Occus had spent most of his life holed up in a cubicle with ancient documents or in a classroom, teaching. He was more like a child than any of his students were. Before the night was out, Martis had him in the boat and was rowing across the river. Occus hadn’t even asked Martis his name.

“I’ve always believed there were great finds to be made in the Old City,” he said. “I shouldn’t be surprised you found something there. One of these days I meant to go over myself, with some of my students, and see what we could dig up. There must be troves of valuable material awaiting discovery.”

“Why didn’t you go?” Martis asked.

“Oh, there’s always something else to do. One gets caught up in one’s work. But I remember when we found King Azzam’s signet ring—there was quite a bit of excitement over that.”

He prattled on as Martis rowed. It was a clear night, with starlight glinting off the black water. Obann displayed clusters of lighted windows; but the ruins of the Old City brooded dark against the starry sky. Occus had had enough ale to fortify him against superstitious musings.

Martis lit a lantern and led him carefully through the rubble. He was sure Omah were watching them, but the little hairy men stayed out of sight. By now Martis knew the way even in the dark, and they reached the Empire Temple before the night was very old.

“Is it safe to go in there at night?” Occus asked.

“We have our camp within the Temple. It’s perfectly safe.”

Jack and Ellayne were waiting by the campfire. Wytt was nowhere in sight.

“Is this the scholar?” Jack asked.

“These are my grandsons, Jack and Layne,” Martis said. “We came from the east, from the mountains. Boys, this is Dr. Occus. He has come to read the scrolls. Sit down by the fire, doctor.”

“If I might see a scroll …”

“Sit, and we’ll show you.”

When he was comfortable, Martis put the jar in his hands. Jack and Ellayne watched suspiciously as he examined it.

“You had to break the seal?”

“The seal was intact. The scroll is inside, rolled up, in an excellent state of preservation.”

“May I take it out?”

“Of course.”

With slow and delicate movements, he withdrew the scroll and set the jar aside. He handled the treated sheepskin as if he feared it might crumble to dust in his fingers. He’d probably had that experience, Martis thought.

By light of fire and lantern, he spent some long minutes poring over it.

“The paleography is perfect for the Late Kingdom period,” he said, mostly to himself. “Of course, there are dozens of men in Obann who can imitate that kind of writing. But surely a forger would have aged the skin, or used a bit of ancient material that had no writing on it.”

“But can you read it?” Jack said. “What does it say?”

“I’ll read it better by the light of day,” the scholar said. “The ink has faded just a little; and, as is typical of this period, there are no breaks between the words. But it appears to be some kind of itinerary—I think these must be the names of towns along a route traveled by the writer. But I can’t do it justice by this light.” He sighed and put the roll back into the jar. “You say you have more of these? In sealed jars like this one?”

“Lots of jars—thirty-seven of them, counting this one,” Ellayne said.

“Where are they?”

“Under the Temple,” Jack said, “in a cellar underneath the cellar.”

Occus stared at him. “But that would be part of the original Temple!” he said, as if he thought it impossible that any part of the First Temple could exist.

“We think it is,” said Martis.

“But this is incredible! You’re not scholars. You’re refugees in Obann, a man and his grandsons, chased out of your country by the Heathen. And yet you came here, to the Old City, to the ruined Temple—and found the remains of the First Temple. I think you ought to explain how you came to do that!”

“There’s not much to explain,” Jack said. “A prophet sent us.”