Eric Van Lustbader is the author of the bestselling novels The Ninja, Sirens,
Black Heart, The M
and Jian. He graduated from Columbia University in 1968, majoring in
Sociology, then joined
entertainment industry as a journalist. He went to take publicity and
marketing posts for Elek
Records, Dick James Music, NBC-TV and C Records, working with Pink Floyd, Blue
Oys Cult and
Elton John.
By the same author
The Ninja Black Heart The Miko Jian Sirens Shan Zero
Shallows of Night
Dai-San
Beneath an Opal Moon
ERIC VAN LUSTBADER
The Sunset Warrior
Volume 1 of the Sunset Warrior Sequence
GRAFTON BOOKS
A Division of the Collins Publishing Group
LONDON GLASGOW TORONTO SYDNEY AUCKLAND
Grafton Books
A Division of the Collins Publishing Group
8 Grafton Street, London W1X 3LA
Published by Grafton Books 1988
First published in Great Britain by W. H. Alien & Co. Ltd 1980
Copyright © Eric Van Lustbader 1977 ISBN 0-586-20206-4
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Collins, Glasgow
Set in Bembo
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in
a retrieval system, or transmitted, in
any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or
otherwise, without the prior
permission of the publishers.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade
or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired
out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form
of binding or cover other than that
in which it is published and without a similar condition including this
condition being imposed on the
subsequent purchaser.
                                                       To R.A.L. and M.H.L.
who were there through the best and,
especially, through the worst.
And To Henry Steig, more than the master artisan.
PART ONE
Echoes
To survive is not enough. - Bujun saying
Ronin was dying and he did not know it.
He lay quite still and completely naked on the centre of an elliptical stone
slab which
occupied roughly the centre of a square, cold chamber. Despite this, tiny
beads of sweat glinted
in the bristles of his short, black hair. His fine features held no expression
whatsoever.
Standing over him, bent, eyes intent, was Stahlig, the Medicine Man. Ronin
tried to relax,
thinking, This is all a waste of time, as Stahlig's fingers probed and pushed
at his chest, moving
slowly down towards his ribs on the left side. He tried not to think of it but
his muscles had a
will of their own and they betrayed him, jumping in pain under the thick
fingers.
'Uhm,' Stahlig grunted. 'Very recent'.
Ronin stared at the ceiling; at nothing. What was bothering him? It was merely
a fight.
Merely? His lips curled in distaste. A brawl; rolling in the Corridor like a
common - abruptly
remembrance blossomed . . .
His bare arms slick with sweat, his thick sword just sheathed, heavy at his
side, his hands
light after almost a full Spell of Combat practice. Walking alone and
distracted out of the Hall of
Combat into a knot of people, all at once surrounded by loud voices
disclaiming hotly, stupidly,
and he paid no attention. Something pushed against him and a voice cut through
the din.
'And where are you going?' It was cold and affected and belonged to a tall,
thin, blond man
who wore the obliquely striped chest bands of the Chondrin. Black and gold:
Ronin did not
recognize the colours. Behind the blond man on either side stood five or six
Bladesmen wearing
the same colours. Apparently they had stopped a cluster of Students on their
way from practice.
He could not think why.
'Answer, Student!' the Chondrin commanded. His thin face was very white,
dominated by a
waxy nose. His high cheeks were pocked and a scar ran down like a tear from
the corner of one
eye so that it appeared lower than the other one.
Ronin was momentarily amused. He was a Bladesman and therefore practised with
other
Bladesmen. But these days he did not have much to do and boredom had led him
to practice
with the Students also. When he did that, as now, he wore plain clothes and
those who did not
know him took him for a Student.
'Where I go and what I do is my own affair' Ronin said blandly.'What is your
business with
these Students?'
The Chondrin goggled at him, stretching his neck forward like a reptile about
to strike, and
two spots of colour appeared high on his cheeks, accentuating the whiteness of
the pockmarks.
'Where are your manners, Student?' he said menacingly. 'Speak with deference
to your betters.
Now answer the question.'
Ronin's hand strayed to the hilt of his sword but he said nothing.
'Well,' sneered the Chondrin, 'it appears this Student is in need of a
lesson.' As if the words
were a signal, the Bladesmen rushed at Ronin. Too late he realized that he
could not draw his
sword rapidly within the confines of the crowd. Then they were piling into
him, the sheer force
of their combined weight bearing him to the ground, and he thought, I do not
believe this is
happening. Instinctively he kicked out as he was borne under, and had the
satisfaction of
feeling his boot smash into flesh that gave way. Almost at the same moment, a
blow along the
side of his head disrupted his enjoyment. Adrenalin spurted and he punched up
and out, and
even though he was on his back and the leverage was not there, he felt his
fist connect as it split
open skin, cracked into bone. He heard a brief wail.
Then the boot caught him in the side and a thick gauze came down over his
brain. He tried to
hit again, could not, struggled with an enormous weight on his chest. His
lungs were on fire
and he felt ashamed. When the boot hit him again, he passed out . . .
The wave of pain came again but this time he had it under control and there
was only the
slightest movement. He looked at the wide head bent over him with its shaggy
brows, rheumy
eyes, and creased forehead.
'Ach!' exclaimed the Medicine Man, as much to himself as to Ronin. 'What have
you been
up to, ah?' He shook his head and, without looking at
Ronin, turned and put a dark, furry cloth against the mouth of an opaque
white-glass bottle, and
turned it upside down. He applied the cloth to Ronin's side. It was cold and
the pain subsided.
'So. Dress and come inside.' He threw the cloth over the back of a hard chair
and disappeared
through a doorway. Ronin sat up, his side stiff but now without pain, pulled
on his leggings and
shirt, then his low leather boots. He stood to strap on his sword, then
followed in the wake of
Stahlig's body into a warmly lighted cubicle in sharp contrast to the starkly
geometrical surgery
outside.
Here all was a jumble. Shelves of bound papers and tablets rose like wild ivy
from floor to
ceiling along three walls. Occasionally gaps appeared in the contents of the
shelves, or markers
stuck out at odd angles. Stahlig's desk was set close to the far wall, and it
was covered
completely by mounds of papers and tablets, as were the two small chairs set
before the desk.
Behind the Medicine Man lay glass cases filled with phials and boxes.
Stahlig did not look up from his work as Ronin entered but he reached out
behind him and
got a clear bottle of amber wine, and from somewhere produced two metal cups,
which he blew
into perfunctorily before filling them halfway. He looked up then as he held
one out. Ronin took
it, and Stahlig sat back and waved an arm expansively.
'Sit,'he said.
Ronin had to set his cup down in order to clear away the masses of tablets
from the chair. He
hesitated with them in his arms.
'Oh, drop them anywhere,' said Stahlig with a flick of his thick hand.
Ronin sat and sipped, felt the sweet wine unroll its carpet of warmth along
his throat and
into his stomach. He took a long swallow.
Stahlig leaned forward, elbows on the masses of tablets, fingers steepled, his
thumbs tapping
absently at his upper lip. He said: 'Tell me what happened.'
Ronin, swirling the wine slowly in his cup, said nothing. He sat very straight
because of his
side.
The Medicine Man dropped his eyes, crumpled a sheet of paper, and threw it
into a corner
apparently without caring where it landed. 'So.' He sighed audibly, and when
he spoke again
his voice had softened perceptibly. 'You do not wish to speak of it, yet I
know something
troubles you.' Ronin looked up. 'Oh, yes, the old man still sees and feels.'
He hunched forward
over the desk again.
He stared at Ronin. 'Tell me, how long do we know each other?' His fingers
moved along the
desktop. 'Since you were very young, since before your sister dis - ' He
stopped abruptly and
colour came to his worn cheeks. 'I - '
Ronin shook his head. 'You will not hurt me if you say it,' he said softly. 'I
am beyond that.'
Stahlig said quickly, 'Since before her disappearance,' as if, even in speech,
it was a terrible
thing to linger over. 'A long time we know each other. Yet you will not speak
to me of what
troubles you.' His hands came together again. 'You will leave here and go and
talk to Nirren' -
his voice had acquired a hard edge - 'your friend. Ha! He is a Chondrin,
Estrille's Chondrin, and
what is his first concern? You are without affiliation - you have no Saardin
to order you or protect
you. He is without feelings, that one. He pretends friendship, for
information. That is after all one of his
functions.'
Ronin put down his cup. Another time he might have been angry with Stahlig.
But, he thought, he
truly likes me, watches out for me, he does not realize - yet I must remember
that he fears many
things, some justly, others not. He is wrong about Nirren.
'No one knows better than I the deviousness of Chondrin,' he said. 'You know
this. If Nirren seeks
information from me, he is welcome to it.'
'Ach!' Stahlig's fingers flailed the air. 'You are not a political animal.'
Ronin laughed. 'True,' he said. 'Oh, how very true.'
The Medicine Man frowned. 'I do not believe you realize the precariousness of
the situation.
Politics is what rules the Freehold. There has been much friction among the
Saardin recently, and it
becomes worse daily. There are elements within the Freehold - very powerful
elements - who, I
believe, want a war.'
Ronin shrugged. 'I could think of worse things happening.' He sipped his wine.
'At least the
boredom will be relieved.'
Stahlig was shocked. 'You do not mean that, I know you better. Perhaps you
think you will be
unaffected.'
'Perhaps I will be.'
Stahlig shook his head slowly, sadly. 'You talk without thinking because there
is little for
you to do. But you know as well as I that none shall remain unscathed by an
internal war.
Within this confined space such a foolhardy action can only have disastrous
consequences.'
'Yet I am uninvolved.'
'You are without a Saardin, yes. But you are a Bladesman, and when the time
comes you
cannot be uninvolved.'
There was a small silence. Within it, Ronin took another swallow of wine. He
said, finally: 'I
shall tell you what occurred today.'
Stahlig listened to Ronin through half-closed eyes, his blunt thumbs again
idly tapping his
upper lip. He could have been falling asleep.
'I find it incredible that I should be attacked in such a manner - and by
Bladesmen. If I were
Downshaft in the Middle Levels - you know the Code as well as I. Fistfights
are not for
Bladesmen. Any grievances are settled by Combat; it cannot be otherwise. For
centuries it has
been so. And today I am attacked by Bladesmen led by a Chondrin - as if they
were urchins who
did not know any better.'
Stahlig sat back now. 'It is as I have said. Tension, and something more, is
in the air. A war is
certainly coming, and with it a breakdown of all the traditions that have
allowed this Freehold,
among all other Freeholds, to survive.' He shuddered, just once, a pathetic
gesture. 'The victors,
whoever they may be, will change the Freehold.
Nothing will remain the same.' He gulped his wine, poured more. 'Black and
gold, you said. That
would be - Dharsit's people. He is one of the relatively new Saardin. A new
Order they want; new
ideas, new Traditions, so they say. Their ideas, / say.' He was suddenly
vehement, slamming his cup
down so hard that the contents flew across his desk, staining the tablets. 'It
is power they want!' He
jumped up in exasperation, flinging the wet tablets away from him, heedless of
where they fell.
'Oh, Chill take it! Ask your friend Nirren,' he said darkly. 'He will know.'
'We do not normally talk of politics.'
'No, of course not,' Stahlig said contemptuously. 'He would not divulge the
strategies Estrille
thinks upon. But I will wager he gathers Corridor gossip from you.'
'Perhaps.'
'Ah!' Stahlig paused, sitting down once again, and then rushed on as if
surprised at having elicited
this from Ronin. 'As for this incident today, I trust you are not
contemplating a precipitous action.'
'If by that you mean that you are worried I will use this' - he partially
withdrew his blade from its
scabbard and slammed it home with a whack -'rest assured I am not interested
in being drawn into
the world of the Saardin.'
The Medicine Man sighed. 'Good, because I doubt if Security would believe
you.'
'What about the Students who witnessed the attack?'
'And jeopardize their chances to be Bladesmen?'
Ronin nodded. 'Yes, of course. Well, it is no matter to me. And who knows,
sometime I may
run into Dharsit's Chondrin at practice.' He grinned. 'He will have cause to
remember me then.'
Stahlig laughed then. 'I daresay he will.'
Boots sounded in the surgery and two figures filled the doorway of the inner
cubicle as
Ronin and Stahlig turned to look. They did not enter the room. They wore
identical grey
uniforms with three daggers held in scabbards attached to black leather straps
buckled obliquely
across their chests: Security daggam. Both had short, dark hair and even
features; faces one would
never look at twice, faces one would have to study closely to remember.
'Stahlig?' said one. He had a crisp, clear voice.
'Yes?'
'Your presence is required. Please pack your healing bag and come with us.' He
handed
Stahlig a folded sheet. The other one did absolutely nothing except watch
them. Both his hands
were free. Stahlig read the sheet.
'Freidal himself,' he murmured. 'Most impressive.' He looked up. 'Of course I
shall come, but
you must tell me something of the nature of the summons. I must know what to
bring.'
'Bring everything.' The daggam eyed Ronin suspiciously.
'That is quite impossible,' said Stahlig impatiently.
'I am his assistant. You may speak freely in front
of me,' said Ronin. The daggam's eyes swung darkly upon him, then back to
Stahlig.
The Medicine Man nodded. 'Yes, he is helping me.'
'A Magic Man,' the daggam said slowly, reluctantly, 'has gone mad. We have
been forced to
restrain him - for his own safety as well as the safety of others. He had
already wantonly attacked
his Teck. But his health seems to be failing, and -'
Stahlig was already busy cramming phials and paraphernalia into a worn leather
bag. Seeing
this, the daggam stopped, and instead of finishing his thought he stared
stonily at Ronin.
'You are no assistant,' he said icily. 'You carry a sword. You are a
Bladesman. Explain.'
Stahlig ceased to fill his bag but remained with his back to them. That does
not help, Ronin
thought.
'Yes, of course I am a Bladesman, but as you can see I am unaffiliated and so
have much free
time. So I help the Medicine Man from time to time.'
Stahlig finished filling his bag. He turned. 'All set,' he said. 'Lead the
way.' He looked at
Ronin. 'You had better accompany me.'
Ronin stared at the daggam. 'It would certainly relieve the boredom.'
The Corridor swept away from them in a smooth, gently curving arc. The walls
were painted a
grey that at one time had been uniform; now, through years of wear and
neglect, there were
patches made oily and dark by dirt, areas crusty with grime, sections bleached
almost white.
Here and there spiderweb cracks extended their fingers like tenacious plants
seeking sunlight.
Doorways marched by them on either side at regular intervals. Those with doors
were invaria-
bly shut. Occasionally an open doorway revealed cubicles dark and musty,
debris piled in
corners, refuse strewn about the floor. But, beyond the evidence of human
detritus, they were
empty save for the brief flash of small scurrying bodies: click-click of claw,
whip of tail.
Gradually the grey of the walls gave way to a tired lustreless blue. The
daggam turned left into
a dark passageway in the interior wall of the Corridor and the pair behind
them followed. None
of them gave a second look at the stalled Lift across the Corridor.
They were on a landing of the Stairwell that ran vertically along the rim of
the core of the
Freehold. One of the daggam, the one who talked, reached up into a niche in
the wall and
removed a torch of tarred reeds bound tightly with cord. He held it in front
of him while the other
daggam produced flint and a tinder box, got a flame going, and touched it to
the torch. It flared
and crackled as it caught. Sparks jumped in the air and fell blackly at their
feet.
Without a backward glance, the daggam proceeded down the concrete steps. Ronin
was sur-
prised to find that they were descending rather than ascending. The little he
knew of the mysteri-
ous Magic Men indicated that they held a lofty position in the hierarchy of
the Freehold. Their
talents and wisdom were constantly courted by the
Saardin despite their traditional vow for ever to work towards the good of the
entire Freehold. But it
was possible that they were not immune to politicization. By all rights the
Magic Man should be
quartered on one of the Freehold's Upper Levels, yet they were descending.
Ronin shrugged
mentally. No one knew much about them except that they were rumoured to be
strange individuals.
If one chose to reside on the fringes of the Middle Levels with the Neers it
was no concern of his.
Between each Level the Stairwell doubled back on itself at a landing. They
traversed the Levels
silently, the shivering torchlight distorting their shadows into grotesque
parodies of human shapes,
shambling things that danced along the walls and low ceilings, expressionless,
unthinking, desire-
less, receding from and approaching their human counterparts disconcertingly.
At length they reached the proper Level and emerged into a Corridor identical
to the one they had
quit above, save that here the walls were painted a drab green. They waited
while the daggam
snuffed the torch and placed it in the niche in this landing.
There was more activity on this Level. Men and women passed them going in
either direction and
the low hum of distant conversations filled the air like a tidal wash. Perhaps
two hundred metres
from where they emerged, they came upon a door painted dark green. All the
others they had seen
on this Level were the same colour as the walls. Before the door stood two
daggam.
A brief, muffled exchange passed between the four daggam. The shorter of the
pair guarding
the door nodded curtly, turned, and rapped a peculiar pattern on the door. It
was opened by
another daggam, and the messengers and Stahlig stepped through. Ronin moved to
join them
but was stopped short by the palm of one of the guards pressed against his
chest. The
daggam's jaw jutted. 'Where you goin'?' His voice managed to sound bored and
contemptuous
at the same time.
'I am with the Medicine Man.' Ronin met his eyes with a steady gaze. He saw a
round, jowly
face too large for the small, fat nose and close-set eyes the colour of mud.
But, thought Ronin,
an efficient machine that will respond instantly and unfailingly to orders. I
have seen so many.
The square mouth with its thick red lips opened like a reluctant gate. 'Don't
know anything
'bout it. Move along 'fore you get into trouble.'
Ronin felt the pressure from the other's hand and stood his ground. Surprise
showed briefly
in the daggam's eyes: he was used to a certain response to the application of
his power. He
recognized fear in others easily, loved creating it, seeing it burn before him
as if it were a
sacrifice. He saw no fear now, and this disturbed him. Anger flared within
him, and his fingers
plucked at the top dagger strapped across his chest.
Ronin's hand was on the hilt of his sword when a face appeared from around the
still partially
open door. 'Stahlig, you absentminded - '
The Medicine Man's eyes widened. 'Ronin. Wondered where you were. Come along
in.'
Ronin stepped forward but the daggam still barred his way. The daggam, anger
still beating
within him, shook his head, and the blade of the dagger gleamed in the
Corridor's light.
At that moment Robin saw another face appear. Long and lean with a cleft jaw
filled with
determination, a very high, narrow forehead topped by coal-black hair so slick
and shiny it had
blue highlights, it was dominated by wide-apart eyes of a clear piercing blue,
whose
penetrating gaze appeared to take in everything while giving away nothing.
'Qieto, Marcsh. Let the fellow through.' The voice was deep and commanding.
Marcsh heard the words and automatically moved aside, but the anger refused to
die, beating
ineffectually at the cage of his burly chest. He glared in silent resentment
as the figure moved
past him, careful that his Saardin should not see, and thus punish him.
Ronin found himself in an antechamber off which he saw two rooms set at
angles. The one on
his left was furnished starkly and functionally with a large work table and
smallish writing desk
along one wall, and a narrow bed along the opposite wall. The room was dark
but he could
make out a figure sprawled on the bed. Battered and scarred cabinets lined the
upper areas of
three walls. A lone chair squatted empty in the middle of the cubicle.
The room to the right was less utilitarian. Two walls were lined with low
couches and
cushioned chairs. The daggam, including the two who had been sent for Stahlig,
sat on the
couch farthest from the door, amid a meal. In the anteroom two more daggam
stood flanking
Stahlig and the man who commanded the daggam. Ronin thought they must have
torn down
some walls in order to make these quarters. Two-cubicle quarters were rare
enough Upshaft,
but Down here -
'Ah, Ronin,' said the Medicine Man. 'This is Freidal, Saardin of Security for
the Freehold.'
Freidal inclined his long body from the waist in a gesture that was somehow
theatrical. He did
not smile, and his eyes were blank beacons that studied Ronin for another
brief moment before he
returned his gaze to Stahlig. They resumed their discussion.
Freidal was dressed all in deep grey save for the knee-high boots of the
Saardin and the
oblique chest stripes of the Chondrin, both of which were silver. Ronin
wondered at this:
overlord and tactician, eyes and ears, all rolled into one.
'Nevertheless,' he was saying now, 'do you take responsibility for this man
being here?'
'Ach!' Stahlig rubbed his forehead. 'Do you think he will walk out with
Borros? Nonsense.'
Freidal eyed the Medicine Man coldly. 'Sir, there is much here that is of the
gravest import to
the Freehold.' The brass hilts of his daggers winked in the light as he
shifted easily. 'I cannot
take unnecessary risks.' He spoke in a curiously formal, almost anachronistic
manner. He stood
very straight and he was very tall.
'I assure you there is nothing to fear from Ronin's presence,' Stahlig said.
'He is merely
observing my techniques, and is here only because I invited him.'
'I trust you are not so foolish as to lie to me. That would lead to dire
consequences both for
you and your friend.' He glanced briefly at Ronin and the light turned his
left eye into a silver
dazzle. Ronin started slightly as the Saardin turned back to Stahlig. A
reflection, he thought.
But it cannot be, not a flash as bright as that. Then he had it, and now,
because he was looking
for it, he saw that Freidal's left eye did not move in its socket.
Stahlig put up his hands. 'Please, Saardin, you have misunderstood me. I
merely thought to
reassure -'
'Medicine Man, permit me to make clear my position. I did not wish to summon
you. Your
presence here disturbs me. Your friend's presence here disturbs me. I am
thrust deeply into the
midst of a highly volatile Security matter with grave ramifications. Had I my
way, no one but
my hand-picked daggam would have access to these quarters. However, I am now
resigned to
the fact that such a course is no longer possible. Borros, the Magic Man, is
seriously ill, so my
Med advisers tell me. They can no longer help him. They say it is beyond them.
Hence, a
Medicine Man must be summoned if Borros is to live. I wish him to live. Yet I
have little
patience with your kind. Please attend to him as quickly as possible and
leave.'
Stahlig inclined his head slightly, an acknowledgement of Freidal's authority.
'As you wish,'
he said softly. 'However, may I ask you to recount
the events immediately prior to Borros's illness?' Ronin bristled inwardly at
the Medicine
Man's obsequious tone.
'May I ask what for, sir?'
Stahlig sighed and Ronin observed the lines of tiredness in his face.
'Saardin, I would not ask
you to defend the Freehold with one arm bound to your side. I ask only that
you give me the
same courtesy.'
'It is essential, then?'
'The more information I have, the greater the chance of helping the patient.'
'All right.' The Saardin beckoned and a daggam appeared. He had been standing
just inside
the threshold to the room on the right and they had not noticed him before. A
writing tablet lay
along the inside of his forearm. In his other hand was a quill with which he
drew symbols on
the tablet. 'My scribe is never far from me,' said the Saardin. 'He takes down
all that I say, and all
that is said to me. In this way there can be no - misunderstanding at a later
time.' He looked
from the Medicine Man to Ronin and back again with a neutral gaze. It was
impossible to guess
what he was thinking. 'He shall read from the report made to me earlier
today.'
'That will be fine,' said Stahlig. 'But let us go in first, so that I may see
Borros's condition,'
Freidal bowed stiffly and they moved silently into the shadowy cubicle and
over to the cot on
which the figure lay. 'I apologize for the lack of light,' Freidal said
without a trace of regret.
'The Overheads have recently failed, hence the lamps.'
Two of the familiar clay pots sat on the work table across from the bed, their
flames
illuminating the room with an uncertain smoky glow.
The figure lay lashed to the bed - an otherwise unremarkable affair consisting
of a wooden
frame and large, soft pillows - with leather straps around chest and ankles.
Both Ronin and
Stahlig leaned closer to get a better look in the low light.
In all ways he appeared singular. He was long-waisted with a thick barrel
chest and
peculiarly narrow hips. His hands had long delicate fingers tipped with
protracted, translucent
nails. However, most unusual of all was his face. The head, an elongated oval,
was entirely
without hair, and the skin, drawn tightly over the scalp and high cheekbones,
was of a most
peculiarly sombre hue with a yellow tinge. His eyes were closed and his
breathing was
shallow. Stahlig bent at once to examine him.
At that moment the scribe began to recite: '"Recorded on the twenty-seventh
Cycle of Sajjit-"'
Freidal raised a hand. 'Just the text, if you please.'
The scribe inclined his head. '"Statement of Mastaad, Teck to Borros, Magic
Man. We had been
working for many Cycles on the final phases of a Project, the goal of which
Borros steadfastly
refused to confide in me. I did the mixing and controlling of elements, that
is all. For several Cycles
Borros had been working nonstop. I would leave him at the end of the sixth
Spell and when I returned
at second Spell, he would be as I had left him, hunching over his table. Three
Cycles ago I arrived
to find him immensely agitated. But he would tell me nothing, though I begged
him for the
sake of his health to - "'
'What are these, Saardin?' Stahlig interrupted. Throughout the scribe's
recitation, he had been
hard at work probing and listening, trying to ascertain the seriousness of the
Magic Man's con-
dition. So he had missed them at first. But he had seen them at last and now
he pointed. Ronin
bent and saw three small spots, like dark smudges of charcoal, forming a
triangle, imprinted on
each temple of the hairless head.
Freidal too was looking at the spots, and for the first time Ronin felt a
heavy tension fill the
room. The Saardin continued to stare at the recumbent body. 'You are the
Medicine Man, sir,'
he said carefully. 'You tell me.'
Stahlig seemed about to answer, then apparently thought better of it. In the
silence, Freidal,
looking satisfied, lifted his hand again.
The scribe's voice once more took over: '" - let me let him more fully. He
refused, becoming
abusive. I withdrew. The next Cycle his agitation had increased. His hands
trembled, his voice
cracked, and on more than one occasion he found cause to insult me. Second
Spell this Cycle,
when I arrived, he screamed at me to leave. He said he no longer required a
Teck. He began to
rant incoherently. I feared for his health. I tried to calm him. He flew into
a rage and assaulted
me, throwing me into the Corridor. I came directly here to - "'
The Saardin made a brief sign and the scribe was silent. Stahlig stood up and
turned to Freidal.
'Why has this man been restrained?'
The Saardin's good eye blazed. 'Sir, I wish to know if Borros will live and,
if so, whether his
faculties have been impaired. When I have the answers to these questions I
shall entertain your
queries.'
Stahlig wiped the back of a hand across his perspiring brow. 'He will live,
Saardin. That is, I
believe he will. As to his faculties, I cannot tell you until he has regained
consciousness and I
have had a chance to test his reflexes.'
The Saardin thought about this for a moment. 'Sir, this man was quite violent
when my
daggam arrived. He fought them although they wished him no harm. They were
forced to
subdue him and to make certain he would stay that way. It was as much for his
protection as
for others'.' For the first time Freidal smiled, giving his face the look of a
predatory animal. It
flashed and was gone, leaving no trace that it had ever been there at all.
Stahlig said: 'It is an inhuman way to treat anyone.'
Freidal shrugged. 'It is necessary.'
He left them abruptly, posting two daggam at the threshold to the room and
admonishing
them to leave as soon as the Medicine Man had satisfied himself as to Borros's
condition. 'If he
dies, I hold you personally accountable,' he told Stahlig, and this served as
his farewell.
Stahlig hissed softly when they were alone in the room with Borros, the
nervous sound of
released tension. He sank into the cubicle's lone chair and his shoulders
slumped. He clasped
his hands in front of him. They trembled slightly. Ronin thought that he
looked very frail and
very old and he felt pity stir inside him.
'I am a fool.' Fatigue. 'I should never have asked you to come here. I thought
for a moment as I
thought many years ago, when I was young and foolhardy. I am an old man and I
should know
better.'
Ronin put a hand on his shoulder. He wanted to say something but no words came
to him.
Stahlig looked up into his face. 'He has marked you now, do not forget that.'
Ronin tried to smile,
found he could not. Stahlig rose then, and returned to his ministration of the
Magic Man,
turning his back on Ronin, who stood, immobile and silent, regarding the dark
countenance of
the singular man with yellow skin, strapped to the bed, smoky orange light
flickering now and
again along the considerable lengths of his translucent fingernails, like the
traces of some
unimaginably mysterious animal.
So it was that when Borros opened his eyes Ronin saw it first, and he called
softly to Stahlig,
who was at that moment searching his bag.
The eyes were long, that was all he could tell, for they were in deep shadow
and Stahlig was
bent over him. 'Ah,' the mouth said. 'Ah.' He blinked slowly several times.
His eyelids drooped.
His lips were dry.
Stahlig lifted a lid, peered at the eye. 'Drugged,' he said very softly.
'Ah,' the Magic Man said.
Ronin leaned over so that they could talk without fear of being overheard.
'Why drug him
like that?'
'The Saardin would tell us it was to calm him. But I do not believe that was
the reason.'
'Why not?'
'Wrong drug, first of all. Borros is semiconscious, but he is still affected
by whatever it was
they gave him. Had he been sedated, he would either be out completely or awake
and
wondering what had happened to him.'
'Ah. Ah.'
Stahlig said quite clearly: 'Borros, can you hear me?'
The lips ceased their noises and a tension came over the figure. 'No,' the
lips said weakly.
'No, no, no no - ' A bubble of spittle had collected at one corner of the
mouth, and now it
inflated and deflated with the piteous cry. 'No, no.'
'By the Frost,' breathed Ronin.
The head moved from side to side as the mouth worked. Tendons stood out along
his neck
and he strained against his bonds. Stahlig reached into his bag and
administered something to
Borros. Almost at once he quieted. His eyes closed and his breathing became
less laboured.
Stahlig wiped his sweating brow. Ronin began to say something but the old man
stopped him
with a hand on his arm.
'Well, I have done all I can now,' he said in a normal tone. He picked up his
bag and they left
the room. At the door, he left a message for Freidal with one of the daggam.
'Tell your Saardin
that I shall return during the seventh Spell to check the condition of the
patient.'
'What did you find out?'
The homey clutter was somehow comforting. The dim Overheads threw a dismal
light. The
clay lamps were in a corner, resting precariously on a pile of tablets,
waiting to be used. The
crumpled paper lay where it had been tossed. Across the room, the darkness of
the surgery
filled the open doorway.
Stahlig shook his head. 'I do not wish to involve you further. It is enough
that you have encoun-
tered the Saardin of Security.'
'But I was the one - '
'I gave the assent.' He was angry at himself. 'Believe me when I tell you that
I am going to
forget what I have seen. Borros is just another patient in need of treatment.'
'But he is not just another patient,' said Ronin. 'Why will you not tell me
what you have
learned about him?'
'It is far too dangerous - '
'Chill take that!' Ronin exclaimed. 'I am not a child who needs protection.'
'I did not mean - '
'Did you not, then?'
In the small silence that built itself around the two, Ronin recognized a
potential danger. If
one of them did not speak soon, they would be irrevocably separated. He did
not understand why
this was and it bothered him.
Stahlig lowered his eyes and said softly: 'I - have always thought of you in a
certain way. As
Medicine Man, many things in life - things that at one time I perhaps wanted
for myself - were
not allowed me. Both you and - your sister - were very close to me when you
were young. And
then - there was only you.' He said it in a halting, protracted manner, and it
was obvious that it
was difficult for him. Yet Ronin could not find it in himself to make it any
easier. Or perhaps this
was not possible. 'But I understand that you are a Bladesman now. I know what
that means. But
every once in a while I remember - that child.' He turned and poured himself a
drink, swallowed it
at once, poured another and one for Ronin, handing him the cup. 'And now,' he
said, as if nothing
had happened, 'if you insist, I shall tell you what I have learned.'
Stahlig told him that from what he had observed he was sure that Security had
had Borros for more
than a Cycle. 'Possibly as long as seven Cycles, it is hard to say with that
particular drug.' Further, it
seemed fairly clear that in defining the drugs used and Borros's reaction to
Stahlig's voice, Security
had been interrogating him.
'"Interviewing" they call it,' he said. 'One of the effects of this drug is to
submerge the will. In
other words - '
'They were picking his brain.'
'Attempting to, yes.'
'What do you mean?'
'Well, these things are very tricky and they are certainly not foolproof.'
'But why not just confiscate his notes? Surely that would have been easier.'
The Medicine Man shrugged. 'Perhaps they could not decipher them, who knows?
In any
event, most of what Freidal told us and allowed us to hear was false.'
'But why go to all that trouble? And if what you say is true, that means
Security has deliber-
ately interfered in the work of a Magic Man.'
'Quite so.' Stahlig nodded. 'And then there is the matter of the Dehn spots -
' He stopped
abruptly. They both heard soft footfalls in the darkness outside. He said in a
louder voice: 'Time
is passing. It is near to Sehna.' In an undertone, he added: 'You must be at
board. You understand?'
Ronin nodded.
'And tomorrow and tomorrow.' Then louder: 'Good, I shall see you later. I will
need to take
another look at that bruise.' He flicked his eyes and, with the briefest
movement of his head,
Ronin again nodded. He rose and left. In the surgery he passed two daggam
groping through
the dark on their way to see Stahlig.
He passed up the only working Lift in this Sector because the queue was far
too long and he lacked
the patience to wait. He was hailed several times and he smiled distractedly
and raised a hand per-
functorily but he did not stop to greet anyone formally or to talk.
His body went on automatic, as it often did, so that he was only just aware of
his surroundings.
He was deep in thought but his body knew where to walk to get to the proper
Stairwell leading
Upshaft to his own Level.
Consequently, he went right by Nirren without seeing him. He was a talk,
dark-complexioned
man with an aquiline nose and deep-set eyes. He turned, not in the least
surprised and, grabbing an
arm impulsively, spun Ronin around. Ronin felt the shadow of the approach
before the Chondrin
had touched him, and there was no resistance in him. He spun with the
momentum, and as he did
so, he drew his sword with such lightning swiftness that his arm was no more
than a blur. The blade
was up and ready, light spilling along its width, before he had even seen who
had grasped him.
Nirren's blade was barely out of its scabbard.
Nirren laughed, showing white, even teeth. 'One day I swear I shall best you.'
Ronin smiled bleakly and sheathed his sword.
'Not a day for one of your tricks.' The smile faded and died.
But the Chondrin was in good humour. His eyes widened and he said in a parody
of a whisper:
'Ah, secrets to share with your wise and witty friend.' He put his arm around
Ronin. 'Tell all and
unending happiness shall be yours.'
Ronin thought fleetingly of Stahlig's admonition and was instantly annoyed
with himself.
There were questions that puzzled him and Nirren might have the answers to
some of them. In
any case, he was a friend. My only friend, he thought with a start.
He smiled. 'All right. My quarters?'
They entered the Stairwell and Nirren lit a torch. 'Double practice again
today, eh?' He shook
his head as they made their way Upshaft. 'When are you going to be sensible
and turn your
mind to useful activity?'
Ronin grunted. 'Such as?'
The Chondrin grinned. 'Well, it just so happens there is a fine position under
Jargiss - '
'I knew it - '
'Now wait, he is really all right, for a Saardin -quick, and a brilliant
strategist. I know you
would get along. And he knows the meaning of defence, too.' This was a
favourite topic of his.
He never tired of sketching hypothetical battle plans, outlining tactics for
attacker and defender.
Given the choice of ground, he would say, the defender will triumph nine out
of ten times, even
with less men.
'I have never met a Saardin I liked,' Ronin said.
'Tell me, have you ever met Jargiss?'
Ronin shook his head. 'This is like a game with you. No, not to talk to. How
many times do you
have to hear it?'
Nirren shrugged and grinned. 'I keep believing that one of these times you
will ask to meet him.'
Ronin reached out and touched the orange and brown chest bands strapped over
the Chondrin's
brown shirt. 'I think not,' he said very softly.
'Listen, if it's about the Salamander, you have to expect -'
'That is not it at all.'
'If you do not mind my saying so, I believe it is.'
They were both very still then, regarding each other unwaveringly in the
uncertain, sparking
light. The reeds of the torch crackled softly and the minute clash of tiny
paws on concrete sounded
intermittently. The noises were remote, from another world. Somewhere, very
far off, boots sounded
and then faded. Darkness lapped at their feet.
At last Ronin heard himself say: 'Perhaps you are right.' And the surprise
stayed with him long
after they emerged on to his Level.
His quarters were actually two cubicles, considerably more space than that of
any other Blades-
men. Chondrin were allotted this much room; Saardin had of course quite a bit
more.
K'reen was there when they arrived. Her thick, dark hair was up and coiffed
for Sehna but she still
wore her work clothes: close-fitting leggings, and shirt loose through the
torso to de-emphasize the
body underneath, with light sleeves. She was tall,
fully Ronin's height, with a long, graceful neck, generous mouth, and
wide-set, dark eyes.
When they came in, she smiled and touched Ronin's hand.
He was momentarily surprised because she should have been either finishing up
her work on
the Med Training Level or in her own quarters dressing for Sehna.
She breezed past them, on her way out. 'I spent too much time searching for
these in my
quarters' - she waved silver bracelets at them - 'until I realized I had left
them here.' She stuck her
tongue out at Nirren and he grinned. 'Unless I run I will never make Sehna on
time.' She closed
the door behind her.
Ronin crossed to a cabinet, reached out a flagon of wine and goblets, poured
them both drink.
Already K'reen was gone from his mind.
They sat facing each other on low stools covered with fur. The harsh, white
light of the
Overheads washed over them, draining the colour from their faces. Nirren
sipped at his wine.
Ronin's lay untouched at his feet. He told the Chondrin about his meeting with
Freidal. The
other's eyes flashed briefly.
'What do you think?'
Nirren stood and paced the small room. 'I think I must find out why Freidal is
so interested in
that Magic Man.'
They claim he is mad.'
'If that is so, perhaps they made him mad.'
'But the spots.'
Nirren turned. 'What?'
'The marks on Borros's head.'
'Ah, yes. The Dehn spots. That could have been it, you see. And all the more
reason for me to
find out what Freidal is planning as quickly as possible. Few people know of
the Dehn. It is a
machine of the Ancients. Like so many of the mysterious artifacts that keep us
alive here -
provide us with air and heat and light, more than three kilometres below the
surface of the
planet - we know only what it does; the how is beyond us.' His voice took on a
bitter edge. 'Yet
we have knowledge enough to use it. Wires are attached to the head - at the
places where you
saw the spots - and shocks are delivered to the brain by the same method by
which our
Overheads function. Do you remember the Neer who opened one up some time ago
and
touched the wrong wire? He was black when they found him, and he stank. They
had a lot of
trouble identifying him became his plate had melted.' He sipped his wine and
sat down again.
'In any event, the Dehn is very painful, so I am told. Consequently it can be
quite reliable in
obtaining information from recalcitrants. But there is trouble in controlling
it; what can you
expect when you are in the dark.' He paused for a moment, lost in thought.
'What is Freidal up
to?'
Ronin felt something stir within him. He rose. 'Let me understand this. Are
you saying that
the Saardin of Security has interfered in the work of a Magic Man, has - what,
tortured him, to
gain information that he will use for himself?'
Nirren stabbed a finger in the air and his eyes sparkled. 'Precisely, my
friend. I see there is
hope for you yet. The time of battle draws nigh, and when it comes Freidal and
Jargiss shall be
on opposing sides. We are enemies, he and I.' He grasped Ronin by the
shoulders. 'Listen, my
friend, the time for neutrality has passed. All shall be affected by the
struggle. You must help
us. Ask Stahlig to talk to Borros while there is still time. It is the only
way, I cannot get at
Freidal quickly. And if we gain knowledge of his secret, it will give us much
strength.'
'Perhaps Freidal has learned nothing.'
'I cannot afford to think that way.'
Ronin looked at him. 'You do not care what they have done to him. I do not
even know
whether he will be able to talk coherently after what they have subjected him
to.'
There was a warmth in Nirren's eyes. 'Be realistic, my friend. I am talking
about something
that is larger than any one individual. We are all merely pieces. The Freehold
is disintegrating
before our eyes because of dissension among the Saardin. You are unaffiliated,
so perhaps you
are not so aware of it, but believe me when I tell you that much work must be
done if we are to
survive. But right now, no decisions are being made on behalf of the Freehold.
You see? They
are all too busy scheming to consolidate their power. This will cause our
destruction.'
'Perhaps it will be your battle which causes our destruction,' said Ronin.
Nirren dropped his arms and made a face. 'I will not argue with you. I debate
with our people
at every Spell. I do not come to you for this.'
He grinned suddenly and gulped down the remainder of his wine. 'Think on what
I have said.
I will say nothing further on the subject. I have sufficient trust in you.
Agreed?'
Ronin smiled and shook his head. He thought: When he grins, his enthusiasm is
hard to
ignore. He made a mock bow. 'As you wish.'
Nirren laughed and rose. 'Good. Then I will be off. I barely have enough time
to change.
Until Sehna, then.'
Alone in his quarters, Ronin picked up his untouched wine and sipped it. It
was cool and
deliciously tart. It could have been brackish water for all he tasted it.
Sehna. The evening meal. A sacred time. So many traditions, Ronin thought as
he entered the
Great Hall. And how many generations preceded us, lying now in dust,
remembered by the
traditions they handed down and nothing else.
The heat and noise hit him simultaneously, a vast kinetic wave, startling and
bright.
Continuous random motion. The Great Hall stretched away, its farthest reaches
obscured by a haze
of fragrant steam and smoke and heat. Long tables with low-backed benches
filled with men and
women proliferated in precise rows into the distance. Momentarily his hand
strayed to his hip. It
felt light and strange without the weight of his sword, but weapons of any
kind were forbidden at
board.
He moved to the right, then turned and strode down one of the narrow aisles.
He wore soft
cream-coloured leggings and shirt; no Saardin used that colour. Servers made
room for him to
pass, lifting huge trays laden with steaming food or tankards of thick ale,
flagons of sweet,
amber wine. He smelled the mingled aromas of foodstuffs, light perfumes, and
thick sweat.
He came at length to his table and took his accustomed place between Nirren
and K'reen. She
was deep in conversation with a Bladesman next to her, so that he saw only the
dark and
shining helmet of her hair. He smelled her perfume. Across the table, Telmis
lifted a goblet in
silent greeting, and next to him G'fand, a very young, blond man, was busy
directing a Server.
'Well, how is our Scholar this Spell?' Ronin asked him.
G'fand turned and his blue eyes dropped under Ronin's gaze. 'The same, I
expect,' he said softly.
Nirren laughed. 'Now what could be the trouble this Cycle - lost one of your
ancient manuscripts?'
He laughed again and colour rushed into G'fand's face. By this time K'reen had
turned towards
them, and, seeing the young man's discomfort, she reached out and covered his
hand with hers. 'Pay
them no heed, they enjoy teasing you. They think swordsmanship is the most
important skill in the
Freehold.'
'You have evidence to the contrary, my lady?' Nirren said formally, and
grinned. 'If so, I should
like to hear it.'
'Quiet, you,' she admonished.
G'fand said rather stiffly, as if no one would hear him: 'It is all right. I
expect it from him.'
'And not from me?' Ronin leaned back as a Server filled his plate. He
indicated that he wanted
wine, not ale.
G'fand said nothing, his eyes still averted.
Ronin began to eat, his mind far away. 'I shall endeavour, in the future, not
to tease you.'
At that moment Tomand and Bessat arrived. They were seated amid a great uproar
from the
table, partly because it amused them to make a fuss over Tomand's corpulence,
partly because
they felt they must ease the tension. Sehna was a time for relaxation, no
matter what else was
happening throughout the Freehold.
Slowly the table settled down and the food was served. Noise increased and the
heat became
oppressive. 'Chill take me,' Nirren said, 'why is it so hot in here?'
Tomand stopped eating momentarily and, wiping his heavy, sweating jowls,
gestured for him
to lean forward. 'Just between us,' he glanced from Nirren to Ronin, 'we are
having problems
with the ventilation system.' He took another forkful of food. 'In fact, that
is why we were late
to Sehna. We were working until the last moment, trying to figure out the
cursed thing.'
'With very little success, I notice,' said Nirren.
Tomand grimaced. 'It is simply impossible. We have lost too much knowledge.'
He chewed,
then continued. 'The most we can do is to try to clean up the mess. I mean how
are we
supposed to fix something if we don't know how it works? So little of what the
Ancients wrote
has survived. Only their Machines - '
'No,' interrupted G'fand, 'we could not destroy their Machines without
destroying ourselves.'
Tomand paused with a forkful of food halfway to his greasy lips. 'What are you
saying?'
'That the writings of the Ancients were deliberately destroyed in the early
days of the
Freehold.'
Tomand shoved the fork into his mouth, and said around the food: 'What
nonsense. Who
would wilfully destroy knowledge? Certainly not civilized folk.'
G'fand said carefully: 'The Ancients invented many things. A number of them
were quite
lethal. And they were inveterate graphologers. It appears that our forefathers
had little faith in
those who would come after them. In any event, they took no chances. They
destroyed the
written wisdom of the Ancients. Destroyed it indiscriminately, so that I, a
Scholar, cannot learn
their history, and you, a Neer, cannot understand the workings of the Air
Machines, and the
Saardin cannot learn how to destroy each other and the Freehold.'
Tomand wiped his mouth.
Nirren said: 'How came you by this?'
'A fanciful story, that is all it is,' sniffed Tomand. 'A speech to impress
us. Everyone knows -'
'What the Frost do you know anyway?' G'fand flared. 'You cannot even perform
your job!'
Tomand choked and began to cough. Bessat looked over in alarm as Telmiss
thumped him
on the back until the coughing subsided somewhat. His face was red and his
eyes were tearing.
'How -dare you!' was all he could manage to get out.
G'fand was rigid. 'You fat slug! All you do is eat. You serve no useful
function. All you
Neers are alike, ineffectual and - '
'Enough!' Ronin said sharply. 'I think you owe Tomand an apology.' He knew it
was the
wrong approach as soon as he said it.
G'fand turned on him, eyes blazing. 'Who are you to tell me anything!' His
voice had risen,
overtones of rage and hysteria combining. Cords stood out along his neck. He
rose, his arms
tense columns, fists tight clumps pressed whitely against the tabletop. 'It is
you who owe us an
apology. You don't care a bit about us' - his arm swung in a tight arc - 'any
of us. Your training
keeps you above all that.' He was spitting the words out, and Ronin could tell
without looking
that heads at adjoining tables were beginning to turn in their direction. But
the myriad minute
motions of the Great Hall had faded like a painting exposed to the rays of the
sun. The hundreds
of conversations and separate lives had ceased to exist.
'G'fand - ' K'reen began, but he swept on without even noticing.
'You're special because the Salamander took you and trained you. For what? To
sit here with
the likes of us, without the affiliation of a Saardin? He must be sorely
disappointed in you!'
Ronin sat impassively, and allowed it to flow past him. Even so, he was
abruptly thinking of
K'reen, her white skin. And then he saw quite clearly the face of a man
strapped to a bed, two
smudgy triangles high on his temples. He could hear screaming, a terrible
pain-filled noise.
Consequently he did not move fast enough to completely avoid G'fand's mad
lunge across
the table. Plates and goblets burst apart, sending their contents showering in
all directions as
they tumbled over backward into the narrow aisle. Servers scattered and people
along the
adjacent row were sent reeling into their own tables.
G'fand tried to yell but all that came out were grunts as he pummelled the
body beneath him.
For his part, Ronin was of two minds, as he defended himself. He did not want
to hurt the Scholar
but neither did he wish to prolong the scuffle and thus risk the intervention
of Security daggam.
Then, as G'fand shifted, a knee caught him in the side and he felt the lattice
of pain lance up into his
shoulder. The breath went out of him and he thought, Should have had Stahlig
bandage the thing.
And the instinct of his training took over. He lashed out with his free hand,
slamming his fist into
G'fand just below his ear. The Scholar's eyes bulged and his head danced like
that of a puppet.
Ronin took a. breath and, in that instant, felt a searing pain. He twisted his
head, saw the hilt of a
small dagger protruding from his shoulder, tore it out, cursing, heard dimly
the clatter as he
dropped it, balled his hand, and swung into G'fand's midriff at the low point
of the sternum. He had
a momentary glimpse of the other's eyes, open wide, terror burning in them
like an uncontrollable
fire, before he doubled over. Ronin felt the spurt of adrenalin and he became
aware that his fist was
raised again. Then he was in control, panting, sweat stinging his eyes,
hearing the strange sound of
G'fand vomiting on to the floor. He touched him on his bowed back. With that
came an
understanding of what he had done, and what he had almost done. Then he swung
about, searching
for the dagger.
Nirren was beside him. 'I had better see about poor G'fand,' he said softly.
Ronin nodded. He put
his palm up to his shoulder because it was still numb and he would not feel
the pain for a while, but
he wanted to stop the blood.
Then he felt K'reen behind him, and she knelt and he saw her face. Wisps of
hair had come
undone so that she looked as if she had been standing in a high wind. Her
cheeks were slightly
flushed, her lips parted. Down deep in the awful stillness at the core of his
being, he felt an
inexplicable movement, as if he were a stringed instrument and something he
could not see had
plucked a thawed chord. He shivered involuntarily and K'reen,
misunderstanding, put an arm
across his shoulders. He shrugged it off, and she crouched like that, very
quickly, so that only
he could see, bent her head, flash of pink tongue, and licked at the crack
between two of his
fingers at the oozing stripe of blood. He stood up then, but not before he had
seen her eyes
shining.
'Clear away! Clear away!' called a commanding voice. The gaping crowd parted
reluctantly
and Ronin saw two daggam push their way towards him. Someone at the fringe of
the crowd
must have summoned them. He cursed silently and wished he knew where G'fand's
dagger was.
They came up to him. If they found it -
'What caused the disruption?' The one who was not talking stood with his hands
free. There
was some space around him. Neither of them bothered to look at G'fand as
Nirren helped him to
his feet.
Ronin took a deep breath, let it go slowly. 'Nothing at all,' he said calmly.
'Just a slight
misunderstanding.'
The daggam grunted. 'Huh! Awful lotta people staring at a "slight
misunderstanding".'
'You know how people are.'
'Yeh, sure. Listen, you Bladesmen know better than to disrupt the Sehna. You
got a problem,
go work it out at the Hall of Combat, not here. Get me?'
Ronin nodded. 'Sure.'
The other one had not moved at all. He stood watching Ronin. His eyes looked
opaque, as if
they had been painted on. 'Names,' said the one who talked, and Ronin gave
them while he
wrote. Then he took down Ronin's account of the argument.
'What happened to your shoulder?' asked the other one, and the first one
looked up.
'I was getting to that,' he said with some annoyance.
'Wanted to make sure, is all,' said the other.
'Well?' The stylus was poised.
'I must have cut it on the edge of a plate when I fell. Quite a lot of them
broke.'
'Yeh, so I see.' He turned. 'All right, nothing going on here,' he called to
the crowd, and they
began to disperse. 'Go on,' he told the other one, and as he turned to leave,
he said to Ronin:
'Clean up this mess.'
K'reen stood silently beside Ronin, her hand on his back. He looked at Nirren,
who shook his
head. 'I can manage.' He still had to support G'fand almost totally. 'Look
after yourself.'
Ronin nodded. He turned and saw Tomand, face white and sweaty. Bessat was
comforting
him as if he were a small child. They came up to him and Tomand said, 'I do
not know what to
- ' He eyed the blood. 'But he had it coming to him.'
'It was about time someone stopped that kind of talk,' said Bessat. 'We are
grateful.'
Ronin felt annoyed. 'That is simply what it was. Talk. He meant none of it.'
'He insulted me all right,' whined Tomand. 'But he feels differently about it
now, I'll warrant.'
Very softly K'reen said: 'I had better clean you up. Now.'
Ronin looked at her. She had recognized the drift of the conversation.
'Yes.' He sighed. 'I suppose you had better.'
'And no one saw you pick it up?'
'I rather think not. They were all too busy.'
'Yes. I can see that.'
'How far did it go in?'
To the hilt.'
He sat on the bed, with his shirt off, turning G'fand's dagger over and over
in his open palm,
staring at the blade with its dark smear. K'reen bent over him, working on the
wound. Occasionally
she rummaged in an open bag beside her.
They had gone at first to Stahlig's, even though he knew it could have been
awkward. But the
surgery was dark and the cubicle behind it, and there was no telling where the
Medicine Man had
gone or when he would return. So they had come to K'reen's quarters because of
her bag.
She began to stitch the wound closed, having already cleaned it thoroughly.
'What is wrong with
that boy? A weapon at Sehna! What was he thinking of?'
He kept his body very still. 'He is not a boy, firstly,' he said. 'And he
takes his work seriously -
perhaps too seriously. They do not exactly make it easy for the Scholars, and
it affects him. Per-
haps.' He forgot and shrugged.
'Keep still.' Her hands were suddenly motionless, then began again.
'I do know that what I said to Tomand is true: he meant none of it.' She
finished the stitching
and laid a dressing over it.
'But he attacked you.'
'Yes,' said Ronin, 'and that is what bothers me.'
She took cream from the bag and began to massage it on to the bruise over his
ribs, which
was slightly swollen, with the skin turned dark colours.
'Why?'
He shrugged.
'Do you really care?'
He said nothing. Her fingers felt good against his skin. Along the ridge of
swollen flesh she
tenderly stroked the inflamed muscles. She wondered what he was thinking
about, fancied it
was her. She wiped her hands, and unbound her hair so that it fell thick as a
forest, long,
swirling about her pale face. Traces of the cream glistened in her hair,
iridescent and unreal. Her
fingers scooped into the bag, came out, set to work again.
'I had never seen you fight before,' she said softly. And something in her
voice recalled the
image: swift pink tongue on bright scarlet. He flung the dagger from him so
that it cartwheeled
in a bright arc and stuck in the floor, quivering. He turned his hands over,
staring at the backs,
fingers clenched, knuckles white. He slammed them together.
'It's all right,' she whispered.
The adrenalin was not quite gone. 'I am trained,' he said slowly and softly,
'to kill and to stay
alive. All Bladesmen learn this, some better than others.
But those years with the Salamander were different, and now there are times
when instinct
takes over - very pure and very lethal - because there is no time to think:
Hesitate and you are
dead.' He paused and spread his hands, and, perhaps, at that moment he was not
aware of her at
all. 'I almost killed him - it was so close. He was defenceless and terrified
at what he had done.'
'I know,' she said.
His back arched slightly as he felt her breasts press into him as she leaned
over. Her fingers
worked. 'To see you in Combat,' she whispered at his ear. 'I want that.' She
moved her hands up
to the nape of his neck and began a circular motion that drew the tension from
his tired muscles.
'I think about that.'
'Somehow I cannot imagine you spending your free time that way.' His body
relaxed.
She moved her breasts from side to side against his back. 'I am full of
surprises,' she said
with a light laugh. Then her fingers moved down along his spine, slowly
circling. The stroking
became rhythmic. 'Do you win?'
'Yes. All the time.' He was aware that she very much wanted to hear him say
it. It was
something she already knew.
Her fingers moved lower and again he felt her presence more closely. He
breathed her
perfume. Strands of her unbound hair brushed lightly against him in concert
with her hands. He
heard breathing in the silence of their attenuated conversation; became aware
that it was his
own as well as hers.
Her fingers were at the base of his spine; she touched the tops of his
buttocks. Her lips were
so near his ear that he could feel her warm breath. 'You fought magnificently.
You fought and
you bled and through it all I was thinking of only one thing.' Her fingers
made wider circles on
his body; the pressure more insistent.
He felt his blood pounding. He said nothing.
Her lips touched his ear. They were moist, and she made a sound.
He twisted then, oblivious of his pains, and pulled her into his lap. His
hands were lost in the
night forest of her hair, clung there. He pressed his lips savagely against
hers. Her mouth
opened. His hands moved slowly, sinuously down her body, and she moaned into
his mouth.
And he reached for the fastening of her robe.

They were thin and tall and quite young. The hilts of the triple daggers
across their grey shirts shone
dully in the cold lights of the Overheads, still in reasonably good condition
this far Upshaft. One
said: 'Freidal wishes to see you.' He seemed very sure of the identification,
although Ronin had seen
neither of them before.
He felt a brief worry as he thought of Borros. It was very early, first Spell
not half gone, and he
was back on his own Level. They had got him as he had walked to his quarters,
appearing abruptly
from around the far turning, stepping in front of him before he reached his
door. Important to
remember, he thought, in this Stahlig was right: Freidal is very dangerous.
'At once,' the daggam said.
Security had an entire Sector Upshaft. He had never been there, but for as
long as he could
remember there had been stories told and retold along the Corridors Up- and
Downshaft of the
strange and secretive doings there. He had automatically discounted most of
that talk; now he was not
so sure.
He was surprised, however, to find that the forbidding dull grey exterior,
with its massive doors
and gates manned by faultlessly garbed
daggam, gave way to quarters remarkably bland in appearance. Cubicles that
were lit contained
daggam pursuing innocuous functions: stacking tablets, desk work, and such.
They passed many
rooms dark and empty. Some were clearly storage areas, others obviously not,
and this was puzzling.
A door opened on his right and a daggam emerged. Behind him a glimpse in pale,
flickering light of a
central table with something pinned on top: scored lines. The door closed
swiftly and they moved
on. Image remaining: heavy shadows, many daggam. And what was on the table?
'In here.' They went through a doorway into a small cubicle lit by Overheads.
'Wait here.' The
daggam left him through a large door. Blank grey walls stared back at him
dispassionately. Two
chairs, bare floor. Dark shapes moving over the table, pointing. He waited,
conscious of fatigue and
the dull throbbing in his shoulder. He badly wanted to wash, and he was
hungry.
The door opened and a daggam emerged. Eyes the colour of mud regarded him with
dull antipa-
thy: Marcsh. Deliberate, Ronin wondered, or is he part of the Saardin's
personal staff? Marcsh cocked
his thumb at the door. 'In,' he said laconically.
Ronin said, 'What else do you do besides stand at doors?' because he was tired
and annoyed.
Marcsh's animal eyes squinted as he made a face. 'Least I got a Saardin.'
Ronin advanced. 'To give you orders.'
"Course. What else?' His jaw clenched. 'Orders is what counts, good orders.
An' we got 'em.'
Ronin was very close now. 'That's why we -Marcsh's eyes got cunning.
'You what?'
'Nuthin'.' He went sullen. 'Just got my orders. Make sure you behave.'
Is that so. Ronin stepped around him and into the room. The door closed behind
him, as Marcsh
pulled it shut. It was deep grey with very murky Overheads. No carpet, but two
unusual wall hang-
ings in dark, muted colours. An ornate desk cut the cubicle off obliquely.
Behind it, in a high-
backed chair, sat Freidal. He was dressed as before, in dark grey. Silver
chest bands glittered. A large
lighted lamp squatted on a low cabinet behind him, so it was difficult to see
the features of his
face. The Overheads illuminated only the top of his head. He did not look up.
Across from him sat
the scribe, tablet crooked on arm, quill poised. He seemed oblivious to
anything except the spoken
word. There was one chair before the desk. Ronin ignored it.
After a time, Freidal shuffled some sheets, put aside a scroll, and raised his
head.
'Sir?'
The scribe's left hand moved, a tiny scratching.
'You sent for me,' Ronin said in an even tone.
'Ah yes, so I did.' He did not ask Ronin to sit down. The false eye was white
and terrible in the
reflected bright light. 'You had better tell me all about it.'
'I do not-'
'You most certainly do,' snapped the Saardin, 'know very well.' The scribe's
hand made patterns
on the tablet. 'Begin, sir.' Freidal's hands were perfectly still, clasped
together on the desktop,
white blobs of colour. Except for the unblinking eye, his face was a shadow,
unreadable. Ronin
thought furiously.
'An argument -'
'I do not believe you, sir.'
But at least he had got it right. 'All right,' he said resignedly. 'I had
hoped this would be passed
over, but - well, remarks were made about the Salamander, about -'
'One finds it difficult to believe you are so thin-skinned.' A white hand
flicked and light caught
the polished nails.
What does he want to hear? A bit of the truth, perhaps. 'We - did not part on
the best of
terms, as you no doubt know.' Sweat had begun to break out on his forehead,
and that was good.
'Many think, therefore, that they may insult him, believing that it will
please me. But he was my
Sensii and I owe him a great deal.'
There was a pause and Ronin knew that the Saardin was referring to the report.
'He made
numerous - unhealthy remarks,' Ereidal said.
'Who did?'
The Scholar.'
'I do not - '
'Other people have given witness.'
This is such a minor matter. What is he interested in? 'Under the
circumstances, I should think
the Saardin would understand.'
'You are defending him?'
Careful. 'He is quite harmless, Saardin. He is, after all, a Scholar.'
The papers rustled. 'One cannot be too careful,' the Saardin said
pedantically, 'when it comes
to Tradition. Such a disturbance at Sehna is cause for an investigation, I am
sure you understand
that. Order must be maintained at all costs - at any cost. Sehna is the time
of obeisance to the
Saardin and thus to the Freehold itself. Without the Freehold's structure, we
are nothing. Without
Tradition, discipline, order, we become barbarians. You understand this
clearly, sir?' The hands
separated, spread themselves upon the desktop, an implicit threat. 'I am aware
that you are
without affiliation. Is that one of the principles you were taught Upshaft?'
The eye winked out
for a moment, shone again. 'One wonders, sir, what the Salamander would think
of one of his pupils
- pardon me -ex-pupils who was involved in a disturbance at Sehna.' His tongue
clicked against
the roof of his mouth.
His head turned then, just enough so that Ronin could see that he was smiling.
'I am most
apologetic at having to disturb you so early, but' - he shrugged - 'the
routines of Security must
be maintained.' The white eye winked out as he looked down again. He moved
papers off to the
side, seemed to be studying something.
'You forgot your sword,' he said.
Ronin almost said something then, but understanding came just in time. He
stood very still and
stared at the shiny cap of the Saardin's hair. Far off
a door slammed, and nearer, booted feet tramped down a hallway, setting a
cadence.
'There's a good boy,' said the Saardin. And Ronin knew he was angry, felt some
small satisfac-
tion. The sounds of the boots faded, and the silence came again. His shoulder
ached.
'That is your own business.' The Saardin's head came up, flash of white light.
'Other things
are my business.' His voice took on a pedantic tone again. 'Do you know why
Security was
created, sir? For two reasons. One: to protect the Freehold from invasion from
the Outside.
Two: to protect the Freehold from those within who would seek to destroy it.'
His hands
steepled before him, fingers interlaced like white blades. 'Now we are the
last. The earth above
us is frozen solid and no one can survive there. All other Freeholds perished
long ago. Perished
because they forsook the Traditions. Perished because they lacked our
discipline, sir.
'And so we are the last. And by the Chill, I shall ensure that we remain and
flourish.' The
hands came apart. 'While there is no one from Above who can harm us, there are
still members
of the Freehold, hiding among us, who wish us ill.' The hands came down hard
on the desktop.
'That I will not tolerate! Do you understand me, sir?' Ronin nodded. 'Good.
Very good.'
He turned suddenly in his chair and pointed behind him at a wall hanging. 'You
see this? A
fine piece of work. Excellent. Better than anything we can do. How old do you
estimate it is?
Hmm? Two hundred years, three? A millennium. At least. What do you think of
that? And we do
not have the faintest idea who made it. What kind of people, even. Could have
been our forefathers.
Perhaps not. No records. Very mysterious, yes?' He turned back. 'There are
many mysteries within
the Freehold. Most people do not know about them. No time. Would not care
about them, if they
did. Then there are those few people who cannot resist poking around things
they have no business
being near. They get hurt that way.'
A small silence built itself in the room and the air seemed to get thick and
difficult to breathe. 'I
trust you have good sense.'
The white eye went out once more as Freidal returned to his papers. The
scratching of the quill
had ceased. After a time, the Saardin said, without looking up, 'Sir, I
believe you are late for
Combat practice.'

Extend the leg twist block thrust forward and down. All in one motion. Return
to position. This one
will never make it, he thought, as his opponent bent to retrieve the sword he
had just flicked out of
his hand. No more than a blur.
Not far away Nirren posted, a deceptively slow movement, which his opponent
reacted to,
making him vulnerable to the difficult solenge, which Nirren executed with
terrifying speed. The
point of his blade hooked, bit and thrust, and it was over. Ronin wiped his
forehead with the side of
his wrist as he watched Nirren step back and bow to his opponent.
Black shadows moving slowly around a table, orange flame flickering, sending
shards of light
glinting from deadly dagger hilts.
The din of two hundred men boomed off the walls of the Hall of Combat. The
place reeked of
sweat, hanging heavily on the hazy air. Ronin could not allow himself to miss
practice, although he
wanted to see Stahlig. He felt instinctively that he must maintain his routine
as much as possible.
He did not take Freidal's warning lightly.
All eyes on the table in the centre of the room: lines drawn in a familiar
pattern. But there had
been no time. He had just a split second and he had not been looking directly
at the tabletop. The
pattern had registered on the periphery of his vision, so that now he could
not force it, it would
have to surface on its own.
Nirren walking over, very little sweat on him. He grinned. 'How about a real
workout?'
Ronin smiled, bowed to his opponent, turned to face Nirren. They took up
position, searching
for an opening.
On the other hand, he had no more doubts as to his course of action. In fact
it was the
Saardin's warning that had decided him. Not that he had ignored his friend's
plea. But in the
end it was because this very powerful and dangerous man with the false eye and
the smile of a
cold animal had warned him away, that he was going to find out all he could
about Borros, the
mad Magic Man. The authority principle: it rankled.
Nirren found it first, and Ronin, his reaction time down because his mind had
been
elsewhere, was hard pressed to turn the attack aside: thefaeas, low thrust,
blade extended far
forward, flicking up at the last instant, ready to disembowel, and if it was
successful, that was
the end. Ronin did the only thing he could, turning sideways and plunging his
blade straight
down just in front of his forward thigh. It was instinct and speed. The
inexperienced Bladesman
would retreat and that would be it. Attack thefaeas. Their blades clanged
sharply and Ronin
swung immediately out and up, attempting to take advantage of Nirren's
extension - the
drawback of the faeas if it does not work -but the Chondrin countered.
By the end of practice, Ronin had disadvantaged
Nirren twice, but, as usual, neither had gained a decisive victory. But then
neither was looking
for victory. They had been trained differently and thus had vastly individual
styles. In practice they
learned from each other, keeping their reflexes sharp and their minds ready
for the unexpected.
Ronin knew many tricks that he simply would not use during a practice; he
supposed Nirren had
some too.
Into the Corridor and on the way Upshaft, the tarred reeds fitfully
illuminating the scarred
and cracked concrete walls of the Stairwell. Patterns of lines rippling past
him, and he had it, the
latent image impressed through the retina on to the brain suddenly giving
meaning.
When Nirren had asked him to have a drink after practice he had declined,
thinking of Stahlig
and Borros. Now he wanted a talk with the Chondrin.
His quarters were much like Ronin's several Levels Upshaft: two sparsely
furnished cubicles.
'Sirreg's not in, so we need not worry about what we say,' Nirren told him,
reaching out a flagon
and goblets from a cabinet. They drank the deep red wine, their sweat drying,
muscles relaxing.
Ronin sat back in the cushions of the divan, feeling the spreading warmth
within him. 'I have
never asked you this, but how did you become affiliated?'
Nirren looked at him reflectively and sipped his wine. 'You mean the belief?'
He cocked his
head. 'Um, so it is not true what they say about you?' He said it with a
smile.
'You know perfectly well what is true and what is not.'
'Whatever gave you that idea?' He shook his head. 'My friend, there are many
stories - perhaps because
you have so few friends, perhaps because you are unaffiliated-they cannot
understand that -'
'Neither can you,' said Ronin not unkindly.
'Ah, not true, my friend. Your choice. I respect that, but - well, one must
try - '
'If one has the belief.'
Nirren shrugged. 'Or not. Many do not have it, deep down. But the world of the
Saardin is all
they know. In any event, they fear you - yes, fear is the correct term -
because you are a mystery. That
and the Salamander, of course. They believe you shun them because of some
terrible deed you once
committed. Very interesting. But I digress. You asked how I became
affiliated.' He refilled the
goblets. 'Very well then.
'When I was a Student I had a friend, never mind his name, and he was very
ambitious. He
dreamed of becoming a Chondrin and thence a Saardin. Now the world is a
complex place - you
and I understand that now - my friend did not. He craved power but refused to
acknowledge the
Traditional paths to that end. I saw what was happening, and although I had no
clear idea of the
world at that time, still I knew down here' - he pointed to his stomach -
'that he was wrong in his
approach. I spoke to him but he would not listen. He nodded his head, said,
"Yes, that is good
advice," and then went out and did the opposite.'
His voice had taken on overtones, the words hanging vividly in the air. He
sipped his wine
and regarded Ronin. 'And then one Spell we filed into the Hall for practice.
We found him
spread out on the floor in the shape of a star. Five points in a dark and
evil-smelling pool:
head, arms and legs. And none of them connected.'
He finished off his wine, poured them both more. It was very quiet in the
cubicle; outside,
the Corridor was still.
Ronin cleared his throat. 'And then?'
'And then I knew I must affiliate myself as quickly as possible.'
'After what you saw?'
'Precisely that, yes. One moment he was there, full of life and bluff
disregard for the
Traditions of the world, the next - nothing. A mote of matter. They had gone
through him,
discarded him as if he were a pile of rubble they had hauled from here to
there. The results were
public so that we should not mistake his death. They wanted us to know.
'I saw very clearly what I must do. I am a realist, my friend. I understood
what he wanted. He
was not an evil man. And he was right to want power. Without it we are
nothing; worse, we
achieve nothing. Power is the link between dream and reality. He understood
its nature as do I.
But he lacked foresight and patience, and he paid for those deficiencies. I do
not mourn for him.
'The world is reality, any fool can see that. One does not have to agree with
it, but one must
allow oneself to work within its structure, do you see. To obtain the power.
From there,
anything is possible, my friend. Anything.' He was finished and Ronin knew he
was waiting for a
response.
Nirren rose and went to the cabinet for another flagon. As if divining Ronin's
thoughts he said:
'I do not expect anything from you. I want that quite clear.'
'Why say it?'
Nirren smiled then. 'Are you surprised that I should tell you all this?'
Ronin shook his head. 'You know the answer to that.'
The Chondrin laughed. 'My friend, I know you not at all.'
'Because you know nothing of my background. Is that so important?'
'A man is forged by his background, Ronin,' Nirren said with some force. 'And
you are only
fooling yourself if you believe otherwise.'
'All of us are different.'
'Aye, up to a point.'
'At the centre, I mean. At the core of the being.'
'At the centre all men are linked by their spirit.'
Ronin looked at him with dark eyes. 'Do you really believe that?'
'Yes.'
He said very softly, 'I am not,' and it rushed at him on a chill wind down
deep where he feared
to go, and knew not why but felt a rushing in his ears and a wetness on his
face and body,
pinpoints of pressure, and very far off a gasping sound distorted and
inexplicably terrifying, and
he tried to see but something was in his eyes like mist, so that nothing was
clear, and . . .
' - do you know?' Nirren was asking. He leaned over to pour more wine. Ronin
cleared his
throat again, put his hand over the top of his goblet. 'Enough,' he said
thickly.
Nirren laughd. 'Aha, yes. I believe you are right. Too early for more.' He
stoppered the
flagon, put it away, turned. 'You did not answer.'
'What?'
'Did you know that Jargiss is my second affiliation?'
'No, I - '
'It does not often happen. That is, not many are able to break affiliation and
live.'
Wisp of mist, still. 'But you did.'
'Yes, but I was lucky. Jargiss knew of me, my situation, and he approached
me.'
'Who was the first?'
'Ah. Dharsit.'
The Chondrin's skin like wax, white scar pulling at one eye, colours of black
and gold. He
told Nirren of the incident.
'Just like his Saardin. I am not surprised. They treat Combat without respect.
They are
Freidal's men.'
'But he is such a Traditionalist.'
'Yes, but it does not matter. He uses them only. After he is finished with
them - he will use
Dharsit's men first in battle, they will make the first assault and they will
die - both Saardin and
Chondrin will cease to exist.'
'I saw Freidal today,' said Ronin. 'He sent for me.'
Nirren went very still. 'Really.' His tone was neutral but as Ronin related
what had happened
he could see that the Chondrin was excited.
Nirren frowned. 'Either he is being overly cautious or he has some interest in
you. I do not
like it.'
'I saw something while I was at Security. A room filled with daggam studying a
large tablet.
I only got the briefest glance but I am sure now. They were looking at a map.'
Nirren did not move and his face was lit by a tense concentration. He said:
'You could not be
mistaken?'
'No.'
He nodded. 'Very well. Anything else you can remember? Details of the map - '
Ronin shook his head.
The Chondrin sat back for a moment, then stood up. 'Come,' he said. 'We shall
go to Jargiss.'
'There are other matters that require my attention.'
They were at the door. Nirren knew better than to press it. 'Later, then.'
'Yes,' said Ronin. 'Later.'
Because of his shoulder wound, he felt confident in approaching Stahlig, even
if his visit was
reported to Freidal. Sirreg was just coming out of the Medicine Man's quarters
when he arrived.
His brown and orange shirt was stained and one arm was bandaged near the
wrist. 'Ronin. Good
to see you.' He was blond with a fine square face and direct dark eyes with
long lashes. His face
darkened. 'I heard what happened at Sehna.' He shook his head. 'What are we
coming to. Brawls
at Sehna, really!'
Ronin pointed. 'What happened to you?' He had no wish to discuss the fight,
especially in the
Corridor.
Sirreg grimaced. 'A souvenir from one of Dhar-sit's Bladesmen.' He laughed
shortly. 'It is noth-
ing, really. You should see what I left with him.'
'This happened in Combat?'
'No, in the Corridor - Downshaft. One must get used to these inconveniences
now.' He shook
his head again. 'But at Sehna! Would that I had seen it. Nirren has all the
best of it, being able
to sit at any board he chooses, while we Bladesmen are stuck - have you seen
him this Spell by
chance?'
'He was off to see Jargiss not a few moments ago.'
'Ah. Well, then.' He lifted his good arm and walked off.
A Neer was waiting to see Stahlig when Ronin entered. She was neither
attractive nor unattrac-
tive, with short brown hair and a lined face like a ripe fruit. She stared at
him unashamedly. 'I
don't get to see many Bladesmen,' she said in a thin dry voice. 'That's
because I'm Downshaft at
the eighty-fifth Level.' Ronin had never met anyone who had been that far
Downshaft. 'Huge
Machines Down there - larger than you can imagine, I'll warrant.' She began to
stroke her leg and
Ronin saw that the foot and ankle were bandaged. There seemed to be something
wrong with
the foot's angle to the leg.
She saw where he was looking. 'In one of them,' she said. 'Frost, it hurt!'
Her shoulders
slumped. 'We were working on one of the Air Machines -the primary ones, you
know? - and
they tell us first thing when we go Down there to mind the Machine fluids
because they're
slippery. I guess that's what happened. I stumbled and slid along the hot
metal and' - her face
screwed up - 'oh, it was awful, the foot in the Machine! It took them almost
an entire Spell to
decide what to do and get me out.' She stroked the shin above the mangled
foot, not looking at
it. 'After a while I couldn't feel anything at all, so I didn't care when they
talking about sending
for a Medicine Man to cut off the foot. They were afraid of damaging the
Machine in some way,
because we still don't know how it works or even why, only that it does and
keeps us alive.' She smiled a beatific smile. 'But in the end they managed to
get it out by
breaking the ankle and it was all right.'
Stahlig came out to help her into the surgery and she looked back over her
shoulder at him
for as long as she could. He had never shared the Bladesman's contempt for
Neers and Scholars
and, of course, the Workers. Frost, it was not their fault, and someone had to
-
Stahlig called him. There were several exits from the surgery and, for an
obscure reason,
Ronin was glad that the Neer had been sent another way. He went through the
half-lit deserted
surgery, the elliptical stone slab dominating the room. Its polished top and
sloping pebbled
sides caught the orange lamplight in such a way that for a startling moment it
seemed to him to
be covered with bright glistening blood, pooling thickly in the slight hollows
of the top,
running in complex networks down its sides. He blinked and looked again, saw
light purple-
grey stone marbleized with white striations. He moved slowly past high cases,
into the inner
cubicle.
If anything the clutter had increased. Stahlig was on the couch, sorting
tablets of all sizes.
'Mind those,' he said as Ronin removed a pile from a chair.
'How long have you been treating Neers?'
The Medicine Man waved a hand. 'Ah, they are overworked Downshaft. We - ' He
fought to
keep the tablets from sliding off his lap, finally gave it up and dropped them
to the floor. 'We
are expected to handle everything Up here without a word of complaint,
otherwise they think
we are getting ideas.' He used his hands to brush off his leggings. 'I heard
about the mess at
Sehna. That is just the kind of notice you do not need now. What happened?
Take off your
shirt.'
As Ronin told him, Stahlig took apart the bandage and inspected the wound.
'That idiot
Scholar!' he said with annoyance. 'Of course he is frustrated. They burned all
his books centuries
ago.' With great care he worked a cream on to the area. 'Mine too, for that
matter, only - Who
worked on this for you?' He looked up quickly, then went back to the shoulder.
'Not much for
me to do here, just put on a new dressing and in several Cycles you will not
even know it is
there.'
'K'reen did it.' Why did he have to ask? 'We came by after Sehna but you were
not here.'
'Uhm, no. As I have said, they are giving me the overflow, and - ' He
shrugged. 'Were the
daggam called? At Sehna, I mean.'
'Yes, but it was nothing. They took down a statement.'
He seemed relieved. 'Good. At least Freidal did not summon you.'
Ronin thought: He seems changed. 'But he did summon me - very early, during
first Spell.'
Sweat had come out on the Medicine Man's broad forehead. 'I told you! By the
Frost you
were warned!'
'Calm yourself.' Stahlig was finished with the dressing and Ronin stood up.
'He only wanted
me to corroborate the daggam's report. What is the matter with you?'
Stahlig turned and went behind his desk. There was no colour in his face. 'I
want you to forget
you ever went with me yesterday.' He stared at Ronin, his rheumy eyes sunken
and worn. A
tablet slipped off the desk and fell to the floor with a muffled crash. He did
not appear to
notice. 'It never happened.'
There was silence in the room, but still he was pleading.
'I cannot.'
'Oh, Frost!' Ronin might just as well have hit him. His face crumpled and he
collapsed on to
the couch. His lips trembled. Ronin went and got some wine, knelt in front of
him, made him
drink it.
After a while he whispered. 'I know you. I can do no more.' But it was as if
he were talking
to himself.
'Stahlig,' Ronin said softly. 'You must help me. I want to talk to Borros.'
'How can you ask me to help you to die?' His voice was feeble and there was no
resolve
behind it.
'I will not die,' Ronin said carefully, because he had to make Stahlig
understand. 'And this
may be very important for the Freehold. Remember the talk we had?'
He sat up at last and looked into Ronin's eyes. 'Why do you wish to do this?'
But it had
worked and the answer did not matter now.
Ronin shrugged.
'But you must have a reason!'
'How can I tell you when I do not know what it is myself?'
The old man sighed and shook his head. 'I knew,' he said sadly. 'I knew all
along.' He stood
and turned away. 'Come back after Sehna. I need to look at that shoulder
again.'
At that moment he experienced an acute and inexplicable sense of loss.
'Stahlig, I - '
The Medicine Man raised his hand. 'Mind the tablets on the way out.'
'Enter.'
The door remained closed, and the soft knocking came again. He set down his
wine, went across the
room, and opened it. G'fand stood there, head down. Ronin could see the
bandage across his chest
under the shirt.
'I - ' He cleared his throat. 'I am not disturbing you?'
'Not at all, I was just thinking of- '
'Because if I am, I can - '
He touched the Scholar. 'Come in.' G'fand seemed rooted to the spot and Ronin
had to draw him
inside. 'Sit. Please.' He crossed the room and picked up something from the
top of a low table. 'I was
about to return this to you.' He held it out.
G'fand shrank from it as if it were alive. 'I never want to see that thing
again!' he cried.
Ronin set the dagger down next to him. 'Ah, but someday it may save your
life.'
G'fand broke down then and sobbed into his hands. Ronin poured him some wine
and this too
he set beside him. At length G'fand stopped and his hands came away. 'I am so
ashamed,' he said.
Ronin sat across from him. 'And I too,' he said quietly.
G'fand's head came up. A light came back to his eyes. 'You? What have you to
be ashamed of?'
He held out his hands. 'I am a Bladesman. But, as you pointed out at Sehna, I
have studied
with the Salamander.' Spots of colour stood out on G'fand's cheeks. 'I learned
many skills from
him, many techniques few other Bladesmen know. You see, I almost killed you -
with these.'
G'fand stared at his hands. 'But I thought Combat is with the sword and the
dagger.'
'Combat is very ancient and has many layers.'
'Yes, I see.' G'fand knelt. 'Oh, Ronin, I am so sorry. Please forgive me.'
'Pick up your dagger and put it away.'
The Scholar wiped his face. 'I want you to know what happened.'
'G'fand, I know that you were not attacking me.'
Surprise, relief, puzzlement, all flickered across his face. 'But how? I was
not sure myself
what I was doing.'
Ronin smiled. 'Yet it was quite apparent to me that you were extremely upset,
and not by any
of the things you were saying.'
Color crept into his face again. 'I am in your debt.' He was silent for a
moment, staring into
the depths of his wine. He had not touched it, and now he picked up the goblet
and sipped at it.
It meant more to him than taking a drink.
'I will tell you something,' he said slowly, 'although it is very difficult
for me. I have envied
you for a long time, wanting to be a Bladesman and not - not having the
chance.' He laughed
nervously. 'I suppose I am too small in any event.' He brought the goblet to
his lips again, a
swift convulsive movement, as if activity were a necessity now. 'I yearn to
know how we came
to be as a people - and what took place before us. They were a great people,
centuries ago, and
they built many Machines - huge and awesome.' He put the wine down, gripped
himself at the
elbows as if he were cold. That is all beyond us now. We have lost everything.
But I have
reached a - I have read all that remains, that meagre pile of knowledge.'
His voice lowered. 'They do not know it, but I have partially deciphered the
glyphs of the
very ancient writing that comes from the time when all people were
surface-dwellers. But it is
not nearly enough, just odd fragments - it is nothing, really. I have been
able to read just enough
to know what an unforgivable thing they did.'
He broke off and wrung his hands. He had not yet said what he had come to say.
'So I
thought after all I have chosen to be something that is worthless. Oh, I have
grown used to the
taunts -1 had work to keep me busy. But now I have read everything, so they
tell me.'
He took out the dagger, watched light play along its stubby blade. 'So some
time ago I went
to Combat practice' - he lifted his head, half afraid that Ronin would laugh -
'just like that. The
Students joked about it at first and made fun of me, and finally, when I kept
coming, wanted to
throw me out. But in the end the Instructor came over and gave me this and a
short sword and
said that since I was trying so hard at least I should have some weapons. And
now I work with
the Novices, but' - his head sunk again - 'I know I will never be a
Bladesman.'
'There are other things to be,' said Ronin.
'Nirren says nothing is as important.'
'Nirren enjoys teasing you, but you must not believe everything he says.'
'He is a Chondrin and he does not see!' G'fand blurted suddenly.
'See what?'
'That we are dying! You cannot see it? You heard Tomand. He does not know the
workings
of the Machines, no Neer does. Yet the Great Machines are all that keep us
alive. The Instructor
talks to us of Traditions, the Code of Combat. But what good are Traditions if
the air fails or
the food goes or no more water comes to us?'
He stood abruptly. 'I cannot stand it! I do not want to remain here. There is
nothing for me,
nothing for anyone. And soon - soon the banner of Tradition shall wave over
our rotting bones!'
They went to Sehna together and that seemed to settle everything. There was an
awkward
moment until Tomand stood and said, 'You are forgiven, this is Sehna after
all.' Nirren looked
at them and smiled to himself, and K'reen squeezed G'fand's hand.
There was much laughter and spirited talk amongst the group, but a lot of it
had a hard brittle
edge; the topics of conversation were of little consequence. And as the
courses came and went
and the wine flagon was emptied and refilled, they were gripped by a kind of
desperation that
caused their laughter to ring louder, as if noise and tumult would keep them
safe from their inner
thoughts.
Ronin understood this early on, and, while he ate and drank and laughed with
the rest
because any other course would have been suspect, this knowledge only deepened
the gloom
that had settled upon him. The Neer's story had started it, he supposed, and
he cursed her and
then himself. What does it matter to me? he thought angrily. Not my concern.
A Bladesman wearing orange and brown wove his way towards them. He bowed to
his
Chondrin, whispered briefly in his ear. Nirren nodded and leaned over to
Ronin. 'Estrille,' he
mouthed silently, rose, and made his excuses to the table.
In some way, although it might have been coincidental, his departure was the
signal for even
greater revelry. Tomand called to the adjacent tables and soon they were
exchanging wine
flagons and goblets, talking of inconsequential matters.
The seventh Spell expended itself and the eighth commenced. With it the Great
Hall began to
empty. Slowly, the tables became less crowded, the heat diminished, and the
haze became less
dense.
Ronin sat with legs outstretched, swirling the dark dregs of wine in the
earthenware goblet,
watching the twisting reflections on its opaque surface. The general din of
conversation had
slackened and the clatter of the Servers clearing the tables could be heard.
They hurried along
the narrow aisles, huge trays filled now with the remnants of Sehna held high
above their
heads, out of the way of passing Bladesmen. Ronin was asked if he wished more
wine and he
shook his head.
He itched to leave but felt the necessity of anonymity: he did not want to
depart too soon. It
was possible that no one was watching, but in any event he did not want to
give the impression
that he had somewhere specific to be off to.
Then he saw Nirren approaching and was suddenly glad that he had stayed this
long. The
Chondrin sat down close to him, pouring himself a drink from the last of the
wine still on the
table. He smiled and looked about them. There was no one near and plenty of
background
noise. Still smiling, he said softly, 'I think you will be inter-
ested in this. That Teck of the Magic Man's. Maastad? You remember? He works
for Freidal.'
Ronin put down his goblet. 'A daggam?'
Nirren sipped his wine slowly, did not look directly at Ronin. 'No. A Teck,
all right. But
affiliated with Security. They do it all the time. When they are interested in
something or some-
one, it is sometimes the only way in.' He paused while a Server picked up the
empty flagon.
'They tried to affiliate Borros a while ago but he refused. So they sent the
Rodent in to learn what
he could.'
'Apparently it was not enough.'
'Uhm hmm. Listen, I have been given a special assignment. I have to find a
Rodent of my
own. I cannot tell you more now, but' - he looked at Ronin, a momentary
flicker, and then his
eyes were again roaming the Great Hall - 'I may need your help soon, even
though you may be
reluctant to give it. As for the other matter - ' He smiled and said in a
louder voice, 'Later.'
Ronin watched his back as he departed and was lost finally in the vast sea of
moving bodies.
A soft snore passed from his open mouth. He lay sprawled on the couch, his
legs crossed at the
ankles, his arms embracing a pile of tablets. His seamed face was drawn, and
pouches of grey
skin hung under his eyes. Even in sleep he looks tired, thought Ronin.
He crossed the room, gently shook Stahlig's shoulder. Immediately the eyes
flew open, blood-
shot but alert. He pulled himself up, heedless of the tumbling tablets, and
cleared his throat.
'Uhm, just resting for a moment.'
Ronin turned, hunted for the wine. 'You look like you have lost a lot of
sleep.'
'Just' - Stahlig pointed - 'over there behind those tablets.' Ronin poured the
wine and he drank
gratefully. 'Mm, it's that overload from Down-shaft, Frost take it!' His eyes
shifted about the
room. 'A fine state when there are not enough Medicine Men in the Freehold. We
may have to
start using promising Students like K'reen.' He finally saw the tablets on the
floor. 'Well.' He
cleared his throat again.
Flicker.
Down the Corridor and around a turning, very still and silent and watchful,
they were caught
in the periphery of his vision like rodents in a web.
Flicker: dark shadows against the light.
And he did not stop: he moved neither faster nor slower because they had not
seen him and he
did not want to do anything to attract their attention. Stillness within the
organism, not without.
Into the darkened surgery as fluid rolls within a jar. Now pause, let eyes
adjust, and move again
only when all the shadows are in their proper place. Because two daggam stand
guard just down
the Corridor.
'I shall take you to Borros.' Stahlig drained his cup and stood.
He has not mentioned them, Ronin thought, as they went across the room and
into the
surgery, aware that Stahlig did not light a light or make a sound.
They stopped at the far wall and the Medicine Man reached out and touched
something in
the gloom. An opening appeared in the wall, automatic and perfectly silent,
and they stepped
into the small cubicle and beyond.
It was dimly lit by two lamps, flames flickering in the draught created by the
opening. Cabinets
lined one side wall, a door cut into the centre of the other. And Ronin had
it, the pieces fitting
all at once: the daggam, Stahlig's silence, the hidden door. And he looked to
the far wall, at the
two narrow beds, knew one was filled even before his eyes registered it, knew
too that it contained
a man with yellow skin, the nexus of an obscure power struggle within the
Freehold.
Stahlig's arm waved like a flag. 'Behold,' he whispered. 'Borros.'
'How did you manage it?'
The Medicine Man's eyes lowered. 'It was not -uhm - all that difficult. Borros
had not
regained consciousness when I returned the last Cycle, and I told Friedal that
if he was not
brought here immediately he would never again be conscious. Freidal had ho
choice, really.'
'Would Borros have died?'
Stahlig rubbed his eyes. 'Perhaps. But the important thing is that he has
since awakened and
talked to me.' He sank on to the empty bed. 'I have not yet told Freidal
because I do not under-
stand any of this. What can his value be to Freidal now? He is quite mad.
Perhaps at one time -
' He shook his head, and Ronin crossed the room, stood over Borros. 'Such a
terrible waste,'
Stahlig said wearily. 'Human life means nothing to them. They had him for much
too long - his
mind is not the same.'
But he did not tell them what they wanted to know, thought Ronin, or Freidal
would not care
whether he lives or dies now. He must have been a strong man. 'Still, I would
talk with him,'
Ronin said.
Stahlig shrugged. 'You can learn nothing from him. He is so full of drugs - '
Ronin turned. 'Then how can you tell that he is mad?'
'It is not - '
The sound was tiny but distinct, coming from the anteroom. Stahlig jumped up,
his face pale,
his eyes wide. 'Oh, Frost,' he whispered hoarsely, 'this was a mistake. I
never should have
agreed to it. Do not move.' He passed through the doorway to the surgery, and
it closed silently
behind him.
Ronin stared down at Borros, at the high gleaming pate the colour of old
bones, at the long
closed eyelids. His breathing was deeper.
The stillness was palpable. Outside he heard the low murmuring of voices. He
bent over
Borros, gripped the sides of his jaw in his hand. The skin felt smooth and
dry. The eyelids
fluttered, opened slowly, gazed blankly up at him with unfocused pupils.
Still, the eyes were so
extraordinary that Ronin almost failed to react to the sound behind him.
He straightened and whirled in time to see Stahlig stepping through the
doorway. 'Freidal
wants to see me immediately,' he whispered. 'Probably concerned about Borros,'
he added
needlessly. 'Remain here until I have left with the messenger. I have reminded
the daggam
outside that their presence in here would be harmful to the patient's health.
But even so, you
must leave as quickly as possible. Borros has not awakened?'
'No.'
'Good. Better for him to rest. And there is nothing he can tell you. You would
be wasting
your time.' He turned to go. 'Remember, as soon as you hear us leave - ' He
went through the
doorway and disappeared into the shadows of the surgery.
Grey they were. But light grey, with golden flecks swimming in their depths
like chips of bright
metal. The muffled tramp of boots against
concrete, diminishing. And then only the soft silence enshrouded them, with
its fine susurration
of breathing. The world reversed: the figures immobile, the pale flames of the
lamps licking at
the moving shadows they created. Still the eyes held him.
And then as if through a force of will Ronin moved silently to the closed door
to the surgery,
put his ear to the cool metal. He could hear nothing moving out there. He
returned to the Magic
Man, sat on the adjacent bed, elbows on knees. He was aware of the other door,
across from
him, beyond which the daggam stood guard.
'Borros,' he said quietly. 'Borros, can you hear me?'
There was only the sound of his breathing, lips slightly parted. His eyes
stared at the ceiling,
seeing nothing.
Ronin repeated the question.
Silence. No movement of the pupils.
Repeat the question: closer, louder, more insistent.
Silent but: eye movement. Blink.
Lips trembling.
'What? What did you say?'
He had to repeat it.
'So blue-'
He had to strain to hear, and thought: No sense, but contact. Repeat.
'Impossible blue. I - know it is there, I - '
Eyes focused now, golden flecks glinting. Breathing rapid. Ronin felt himself
sweating,
glanced quickly at the door to the Corridor. Had
he heard a movement? He wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist, turned
back quickly.
Too late to get out now. 'Borros, what are you saying?'
'An arch - yes, it - it must look like an arch, so vast, so - ' He jerked as
Ronin touched him,
head whipping around, eyes bulging. His lips drew back in a laugh that was
more an animal
snarl, bared teeth gleaming. 'Ahahaha! But there is nothing there, you have
nothing no notes and
now no more head brain squeezed until it's dry and that's what it is dry so
it's no use why don't
you st - ' His eyes drooped momentarily, then the lids flew up and he started
as if just coming
awake. 'No -no more I' - shake of the head - 'do what you want, all use! -
ugh!' - he shivered
down the length of his body - 'the land brown and rich and plants growing
green and free with
no tanks and the heat of the bare sun hang - hanging in all that space!'
He stopped there like a mechanism run down and incapable of beginning again.
And Ronin
thought: It's no good this way, no good at all. He does sound like a madman.
His words are clear
but they have no meaning. He wiped away more sweat, knowing that there was
very little time.
Missed something, he thought. But what? Think.
He leaned forward, said urgently: 'The land, Borros, tell me more about the
land.' The Magic
Man had thought Ronin was one of the Security interrogators. So his approach
had been wrong.
Get into his mind: what if he was not mad? Only thing to try.
And he saw Borros's mouth working. 'Yes, the land.' The faintest whisper like
a dry wind,
and Ronin felt a surge of adrenalin. 'The fields, food to eat, great flowing
waters, new life for the
people but - ' He gasped as if struck by a blow, and Ronin reached out to hold
him.
The long eyes were deep pools where golden fish swam frenziedly. 'Oh, Frost,
no! Not
again!' Eyes popping, face very pale, white lines netting the sides of the
mouth, a living skull. As
if staring into the face of Death - or a being more terrible.
He strained to sit up but Ronin held him down as gently as he could, feeling
the flight of
forces within the thin frame. 'Must, must!' Beads of sweat clung to the tight
yellow skin of his
head. It gathered on his upper lip, ran into his mouth, and the tongue came
out, licked at the
moisture. Sweat dripped along the sides of Ronin's face as he stared at the
twisting, tortured
countenance. It rolled along his wrists and on to the backs of his hands,
seeping between his
fingers, and he tightened his grip. Borros's hands were like claws, the
tendons corded and raised
just beneath the skin, held out in front of him as if warding off his agony
and terror. Then he seized
Ronin's arms.
They were locked, immobile, and Ronin, caught in the pull of the grey-and-gold
eyes, felt that
he had lost volition of independent movement.
'It is coming!'
Bound within the moment, he felt the writhings of Borros's mind-
'I have seen - It - '
- knew with an awful certainty suddenly flooding his being that Something was
there - ' - draws
closer - the people cannot st - '
- not a presence but merely the threat of a presence, and that was enough to
-'Must go to them
- help - hel - ' 'Who, Borros, who? We are the only - ' The jaws snapped
closed, the eyes saw
him, perhaps for the first time, and the terrible ivory grin came again and
now Ronin felt as if he
faced -what?
'Fool!' hissed Borros. 'They want no one to know. A secret!' And he laughed
without humour.
'Their secret!' The eyes took on a glossy depth, the pupils huge. Veins stood
out along his
temples where the Dehn spots pulsed as if alive. 'Fool! We are not alone on
this world!' Eyes
bulging alarmingly, teeth grinding in effort. 'But it - will mean nothing. It
comes - comes to
destroy everything. Unless - ' His head whipped from side to side, with a
spray of sweat. His
throat convulsed and it appeared that he cried out, although the sound was low
and strangled and
seemed barely human. 'Death - death is coming!'
Borros jerked again and went limp, his eyes fluttering closed. Ronin let go of
him then, his
hands and arms numb. He put his ear to Borros's chest, then quickly pushed
rhythmically with
his palms. He listened again. Pounded his fist once, twice, over the heart.
Listened again.
He wiped his dripping face and stood up. Moving to the doorway to the surgery,
he pressed a
part of the wall and darkness bloomed before
him. He stepped through, out of the light. The door closed. He listened for a
moment. His eyes
adjusted. All shadows in their place. Then, like Stahlig before him, he
disappeared into the
shadows.
'What do you know of the Magic Men?'
'What brought that to mind?'
'You are always answering a question with another question - Oh yes! There.'
The hand
moved, flesh on flesh, orange and light brown in the low guttering lamplight.
Black pooled in
the hollows.
'Just a peculiar topic to bring up now,' Ronin said softly.
K'reen moved slowly, gently against him. Cascading dark hair, soft and cool,
accentuating the
heat of their bodies. 'Not at all. They are purported to be - oh! - the
saviours of the Freehold,
divining ways for us to live in case the Great Machines cease to function. Is
that not true?'
Hands moving from orange to black, light to shadow. 'So it is said.' Their
lips met and
opened.
K'reen licked the sick of his neck. 'With all the political talk going on -
the rumours of the
Saardin - mmm - it's natural to be thinking of the future.'
'I know very little of them,' he whispered. But the temptation was very strong
within him.
She rolled away from him, the lamplight licking at the indentation of her
spine, the crease of
her buttocks. 'Won't you ever talk to me?' she said in a small voice.
'There is nothing to talk about.' He reached out and she drew away.
'You mean you have nothing to say to me.'
Ronin sat up in the bed and stared at the dark bell of her hair sweeping
across the pillows.
'That is not at all what I meant.'
She turned on him, eyes flashing. 'But it is!' she cried.
'You are twisting what I say. Why do you do that?'
'I will not play this game.'
'There is no game.' There was an edge to his voice now.
'I will not let you turn this back on me. You're the one who - '
'K'reen, this is not the time - '
'Not the time?' She sat up too. 'You must be joking! There is nothing more
important for us
to do.'
'Yes, there is,' he said sharply.
She glared at him for an instant and he felt the charge build within her. She
lunged, her open
palm striking him across the face with considerable force. 'Chill take you!'
she hissed.
He caught her extended arm at the wrist, pulled it forward and down with some
violence so
that she was suddenly on her back beneath him. He lowered himself. The soft
light gleamed off
the whites of her eyes. Her breasts heaved under him, the nipples hard, and
she brought her
knee up into his hip on the edge of the pelvic bone, but he pressed the nerve
on the inside of
her thigh, numbing it. 'Frost!' she breathed, and pulled his head down to
hers, arching her body
against him, thighs open.
He made love with a strange kind of desperation, trying, in his confusion and
anguish, to lose
his mind in his body. And so involved was he in this that he failed to notice
a similar despair in
K'reen.
He rolled away from her sleeping form, sat on the edge of the bed, and lit the
lamp. Its pale flame
sent the darkness skittering away in all directions. He kept the light low so
as not to wake her. He
heard nothing but the white noise of silence in his ears as he stared into the
flame and saw again
the dream from which he had awakened . . .
He is in the Freehold, yet it is of a different construction from that of the
real Freehold. It is
under the earth but it is a City, with massive structures that rise through
the air to such heights
that they almost touch the rock vault above. Dreamscape: suprareal.
He is in one such structure, high up, with K'reen. They are preparing to
leave; he cannot
think where they are going to. Suddenly the structure trembles heavily. Cracks
appear in the
walls, and he feels the rumbling in his bones. He looks outside. Structures
all around are coming
apart and collapsing as the earth continues to heave and split. He hears
screaming and sees the red
belch of columns of flame.
He cannot find K'reen. He runs out into the Corridor and is met with the choke
of smoke and
falling rubble; the structure is tearing itself apart.
He calls her name. Over and over. He hears echoes, echoes only. He runs then
down the Stairwell,
fearing at any moment it will collapse under him.
He reaches the Outside at last and finds - He is in a cool glade of green
foliage, dark and moist. A
rich, unfamiliar scent comes to him from the earth. His face is wet. And his
arms. Drops of water
from above hit him all over. Across a river he sees the Freehold disassemble
itself and come crashing
down amidst huge fires. Bright sparks twist in the air. But he is not there
and he wonders at this as
he opens his eyes and finds that he is lying beside K'reen in the dark . . .
He sighed now, once, a long inhalation and exhalation of breath, to help rid
himself of the last
strands of the dream. It had been very vivid. He lay back in bed, put a pillow
behind his back, and
thought about Borros. For half the length of a Spell he replayed over and over
in his mind what the
Magic Man had said.
And at the end of that time he thought that perhaps his dream had not after
all been dispelled.
Time, Ronin decided, to see the Salamander.
In the Sector the Lift was out, its sliding doors frozen irretrievably half
open. Deep parallel
lines were scored down one door, as if some large and angry animal had been
frustrated by its
stasis. The other one was crumpled like an old Bladesman's Combat wound. So he
took to the
Stairwell and, on the way Upshaft, had time to recall his first meeting with
the Salamander.
Combat had always been a game to him. Like every other element in his young
life, it was
too inconsequential to be taken seriously. On what had come to be known as the
Combat Level,
the normal Freehold cubicles had, some time before, been scooped out and
replaced by a series
of large indoor courtyards that now served as training grounds for Combat.
Each Cycle at his
allotted time, he would file into the Hall of Combat, the largest of these
courtyards, along with
other Students of his age. Half a Spell of strenuous exercise would eventually
give way to a
lecture on the art of killing and maiming through ritual moves, after which
the Students would
be paired off for actual practice.
He had never given much thought to the art one way or another, he was a
Student because he
had been told to be a Student, therefore he was at best mediocre. Often his
mind would wander
and his opponent would easily disarm him. This never appeared to bother him,
but for the Instructor
it was a different matter entirely. Ronin's indifference infuriated him, and
it would not be uncom-
mon for the Student to bear the brunt of his wrath in front of the assembled
Class.
During one practice, Ronin observed a heavy man, almost gross-looking, stride
easily into the
Hall. 'Students,' called the Instructor, and the sounds of iron striking iron
ceased immediately. He
turned to the newcomer, and with a flourish of his hand introduced him.
'Students, the Salamander.'
There was a buzz of excited whispering amongst the boys, which the Instructor
contrived to ignore.
'As you know - ' He waited impatiently for silence. 'As you know, the
Salamander is the Sensii of
Arms of the Freehold. He is here to observe your progress.' There was more
whispering, and the
Instructor was forced to cover another pause by clearing his throat. He looked
sternly around the
Hall. 'Some of you may be lucky enough to be chosen to study with the
Salamander himself.'
Ronin was aware of the undercurrent of envy that ran now through the
Instructor's voice, and he
turned to look at the Salamander, but his face, with its heavy jowls, oddly
high cheekbones and
glossy black eyes, remained impassive. At this moment, the Salamander raised
one hand, encrusted
with flashing jewels, and in a rich, slightly nasal voice said, 'Pray continue
your practising, boys; do
let me see what you are made of.'
'Come, come, Students,' called the Instructor nervously, clapping his hands,
'on with it now.'
Almost as one, they turned each to his partner, and once again the walls rang
with the clash of
metal.
Out of the corner of his eye, Ronin tried as best he could to keep the
Salamander in sight as he
commenced his round of the Hall, the Instructor a pace behind him.
'Listen, you,' growled his practice partner, a huge, brutish Student of mean
temperament, 'it was
just my ill fortune to be paired with you this Cycle.' He grunted as he swung
his sword in a vicious
arc at Ronin's stomach. Ronin stepped back, took the brunt of the blow on the
edge of his own
blade, the force turning it, and there was a sharp scraping sound. A shiver
raced up his arm and his
fingers went momentarily numb.
'But you will give me a good fight,' the Student said menacingly, 'when the
Salamander comes
our way. I have been waiting - unngh!' he grunted again as he swung, 'for this
chance for a long
time.'
Ronin, who had been thinking also of the Salamander, said, 'Korlik, is that
his real name?'
Korlik snorted, as close to a laugh as he could come. 'Fool! - unhg! - no one
knows.' The blade
came whistling at him once again. 'Why don't you ask him - unngh! - when he
passes by?' Ronin
continued to defend himself against Korlik's pressing attack.
'Haw! - ungh! - I will tell why you won't - unngh! - because you are going to
be flat on your
back, looking at the bottom - ungh! - of my boot. I mean for him to see me and
- uhnn! - take me
Upshaft. Understand?'
But Ronin's attention was focused on the approaching figure of the Salamander;
only part of
himself was given over to the automatic defence of his person. The Sensii was
a mountain of
flesh garbed in cloth of jet and crimson. How much was muscle, he wondered.
And what of his
reflexes? His weight must be enormous. Still, he was the Sensii. The Master of
Combat.
Korlik growled at him. 'He is coming this way. Chill take you, have you heard
what I said? -
unhg! Put on a good show, Ronin, I'm warning you- uhnn!'
The two figures were almost abreast of them as Ronin turned his full attention
to the Combat.
'Show?' he said. 'There will be no show. Not for you, not for the Salamander.'
Cursing, Korlik bore down upon him and, seeing the Salamander and the
Instructor reach
them, began to hammer Ronin with blows.
'Now this one, Sensii,' said the Instructor obsequiously, 'is Korlik. Big and
strong and he shows
fine potential. Unfortunately, he is paired this practice with an inferior Stu
-'
'Pray cease,' said the Salamander, lifting a jewelled hand, 'your useless
chatter. Do not presume
to make judgements for me.' Ronin was pleased to see the Instructor's eyes
bulge in his narrow
face and his tongue working in his open mouth as he fought to control himself.
During this time Korlik had not lessened his attack upon Ronin, who neither
put up a concerted
defence in any of the prescribed ways nor counterattacked. He preferred to
move, using his own
blade only when absolutely necessary to turn aside his opponent's sword.
The Instructor, seeing potential disaster for himself in Ronin's refusal to
conform to the lessons,
made noises for the Salamander to move on. But the Sensii graced him with a
momentary glance,
frosty and disdainful, and he was silenced.
'Boys,' the Salamander said, 'desist for the moment.' Korlik, sweat rolling
down his arms,
soaking his shirt, dropped his sword with great reluctance and glowered at
Ronin.
The Salamander stroked the end of his long nose between thumb and forefinger,
his dark eyes fixed
on Ronin. 'And what is your name, dear boy?'
'Ronin.'
'Ronin, sir,' corrected the Instructor.
The Salamander's eyes rolled up briefly towards the ceiling. 'Kindly be good
enough to take your
person across the Hall so that I will not be obliged to suffer your presence.'
He said it with a sighing
exhalation of breath, not at all forcefully, Ronin thought. Nevertheless, the
Instructor stalked off
without another word, the muscles at the sides of his jaw working
spasmodically.
Around them, the din of practice continued unabated, crashing off the walls
and echoing back
upon the ear. The acrid stench of sweat and fear hung in the vast Hall,
staining the air.
'Sensii,' said Korlik. 'I have waited for this time, working long and hard in
the hope that I would
please you. It is my greatest wish to be taught by you.'
The eyes of the Salamander, black and hard as chips of stone, turned upon
Korlik. 'My boy,'
he drawled, 'only the most special Students, those who exhibit extraordinary
merit, work with
me.' The eyes flicked up and down his body. 'Rest assured that you are not one
of those. Now
pray be still.' Korlik strangled a gasp and ground his teeth in fury, but he
remained silent.
The Salamander turned to Ronin and said as if they were in a room alone, 'Tell
me why you
do Combat in such a manner.'
He wondered what the Salamander wanted; wondered what sort of answer would be
best to
give. In the end, he told the truth. 'Combat bores me,' he said evenly.
'Then why do you bother with it?'
'I do it because I have to.'
The Salamander rubbed his nose again, the rings on his fingers catching the
light. 'Hmm, yes, I
suppose you do.' Abruptly he said: 'You think of other matters.'
'Sir?' He was startled.
'When you do Combat,' the Salamander expounded patiently, as if explaining an
obvious
fact to a child, 'your mind is thinking of other things.'
'Why, yes,' he replied, somewhat surprised. 'Yes, my mind is often elsewhere
when I fight.'
'Please.' A pained expression muddied his features momentarily. 'To do Combat
is not to
"fight", dear boy. "Fighting" is done by animals.
Combat is a ritualistic art performed by civilized men.'
'I never gave it much thought,' Ronin said snidely. Because he was growing
interested in spite of
himself and this perplexed him.
The Salamander was not at all ruffled. 'Ah well, motivation is everything,
dear boy. You have
natural ability, as any halfwit can see. But motivation - ah! - now that is
another matter entirely.
What can we do to elicit your interest, hmm? We shall have to attend to that.'
So saying, he retreated a
pace. His long sword hung at his side, encased in its ornate
jet-and-scarlet-lacquered scabbard. 'Yes, we
must work on that. Defend yourself, dear boy.'
His hand went not to the hilt of his sword but to the folds of his wide
scarlet sash, producing a
burnished-metal fan. Ronin could not believe his eyes, but still he put up his
sword. The fan wove
complex patterns in the air, opening and closing.
The Salamander's attack was over almost before it had commenced, or so it
seemed to Ronin. At
its swift completion, he was left weaponless, the extended top edge of the fan
a bright arc at his
throat.
'Hawhawhaw!' Korlik bellowed at his humiliation, but Ronin's thoughts were
elsewhere, on the
fan's mysterious dances.
Observing the inwardness of Ronin's colourless eyes, the Salamander smiled
slightly. He folded
the fan and replaced it within his sash. 'Report to my Level in three Cycles'
time,' he said briskly.
'Do not bring any personal items.'
He turned on his heel and strode powerfully across the crowded Hall to advise
the Instructor of
the Students he had chosen, and disappeared down the Corridor in a swirl of
jet and crimson, like
some elegant and untouchable bird.
He reached the cool Corridor without passing anyone; visitors were rare this
far Upshaft. The
tan walls arched away from him clean and empty. Here the usual cement floor
had been covered
in resilient wood planking, enamelled a rich deep brown.
As he walked, the walls lightened until they had reached a cream colour, and
he stopped in front
of huge double doors with thickly carved panels along their edges. Heavy metal
knockers in the
likeness of a thin twisting lizard, needle tongue exposed, flames writhing at
its feet, were hung
in the centre of each door. Tiny ruby eyes glinted in the strong light of the
Overheads. He stood
in front of the doors and did not touch the knockers.
'Yes?' a flat filtered voice said from nowhere.
He did not stir: he knew the routine. He pronounced his name clearly.
There was nothing for a moment, then the disembodied voice said: 'Former
Student?'
'Yes.'
A crackle. A brief hum.
'Enter,' the voice said.
It was large and gave the appearance of being light and airy and open without
actually being so;
no room in the Freehold could, by definition.
The deliberately rough-finished walls were painted a light blue, the ceiling a
soft white. The
planking on the floor was lacquered a deep lustrous blue. Low chairs were
scattered about the
front part of the room. The walls were devoid of any ornamentation. Double
doors, the twins of
the ones he had just come through, broke up the far wall.
He went across the room and stood in front of a desk that appeared to be very
old. Behind it
sat a woman with light wavy hair, and a face broad and flat enough to make it
interesting. She
wore a robe the same colour as the walls.
He looked into her disinterested grey eyes.
'You wished - ?' The cool question hung in the air like a beaded curtain.
'To see the Salamander,' he said.
'Ah.' She said it as if it were a word with meaning. She gazed at him and let
the silence
stretch itself like a yawn. Her small neat hands fluttered over the desktop,
the lacquered nails
glistening in the light.
Eventually she said, 'I am afraid he is unavailable at the moment.' There was
no trace of regret
in her voice.
'Just give him my name, please.'
'Perhaps if you returned during a later Spell.'
'Have you given him my name? Have you told him that I am here?'
The nails scratched their way along the wood. 'He is extremely busy and - '
He leaned over,      captured her hands in his, pressed them down.      She
stared at them as if
fascinated, and raised her eyes to his.
Tell him,' he said softly.
'Still - ' She continued to look at him, searching his face. Her tongue showed
briefly between her
white teeth like a coral snake.
He released her and she got up and went out through the doors behind her. She
left a soft
humming and a breeze wafting from a sudden source. Borne upon it was a gentle
hint of cloves,
and if he had not spent so much time on this Level, he would have supposed
that it came from the
woman.
She took her time coming back and when she emerged her grey eyes were round,
as if she were
a bit startled. She held one door open.
'You may go in now,' she said a little breathlessly.
Ronin smiled to himself and, as he passed her, he saw something moving in her
eyes, an ambigu-
ous emotion. She stared after him.
'The last door on the right,' she called as if it were an afterthought.
The hallway was painted the lightest blue imaginable over the same
rough-textured base. The floor
repeated the dark blue. He passed doors on either side at regular intervals.
It ended in a blank wall. Doors to right and left. He rapped with his
knuckles. It opened.
The odour of cloves was sharper now. A young man stood in the doorway so that
Ronin could not
see beyond him. He wore close-fitting breeches
and a shirt of a soft tan colour and short dark gleaming boots. He was slim
and had unnaturally
red cheeks, as if he had just spent a full Spell scrubbing his face. His lips
were full and pink. His
short curly blond hair shone. Over his heart he wore a jewel-hiked dagger in a
scabbard of
blood-red leather; another rode on his right hip. He had the appearance of
never having done
anything in his life.
He stared hard at Ronin and his lips parted slightly. They remained that way
for a long
moment and then, abruptly, he stood aside and Ronin entered.
It was darker than in the hallway and it took him a moment to adjust. He was
in a huge room,
panelled in wood. Thick carpets of dark swirling patterns covered the floor.
One wall was lined
from floor to ceiling with books. Functional leather chairs were grouped
casually. A long plush
couch was set against one half of the back wall. Open double doors with
separate iron-
grillwork gates took up the other half. The sounds of water flowing came to
him and the scent
of cloves came heavily to his nostrils.
There were many men in the room, all dressed, as far as Ronin could tell in
the uncertain
light, similarly to the man with the red cheeks. They contrived to ignore him
with an affected
languor.
'Drink?' the red-cheeked man asked, and when Ronin shook his head, he drifted
off, looking
rather pleased.
Ronin was very interested in the wall of books and he went over to look at
them. He ran his
fingertips along the rows of spines and thought of G'fand. They were all
extremely old, of course,
with worn leather bindings. Some, he saw, had required repairs. He opened one
at random. The
characters were unfamiliar and he tried another. Glyphs: still unreadable. Ah,
G'fand, how you
would revel in this: an entire world for you. Books! And all they had
Downshaft were fragments. A
sudden sadness gripped him.
The red-cheeked man beckoned to him, stretched his arm towards the doorway in
the far wall.
Ronin passed him. He put a delicate forefinger to his lower lip.
It looked to be an open patio, but that was impossible. Even so, it was a
square room whose very
high ceiling and diffused lighting gave it a tremendously open feeling. He
went across the stone
flagging while a breeze stirred his hair. Quite suddenly, he was curious. All
of this was a part of the
Salamander's quarters that he had not seen before.
He heard strange sounds: a small high trilling, a repeated whistling, others
he could not isolate.
They seemed to emanate from high up in the air.
He passed, in the centre of the room, a square pool of water, which bubbled
and gurgled, fed
from some hidden source.
On the far side of the pool, some distance away, was the Salamander. He sat on
a bare wooden
chair with thick arms. A small stone table with crystal flagon and goblets was
on his left side. A
second chair stood near, empty and waiting.
He was wearing a dull black robe under which he wore jet leggings and loose
shirt. His high
black boots were polished to a gloss. A scarlet sash banded his ample waist.
Just below his
throat, like a startling splash of fresh blood, lay an uncurling lizard carved
from a single ruby,
its body graceful and rich in colour, slightly translucent. Its eyes were of
jet, and onyx flames
danced around it, arching up into its mouth.
He looked not a moment older than the day Ronin had first met him. Large,
squarish face
with highly pronounced cheekbones that, had he not heavy jowls, would have
given him almost
an alien cast. Thick black brows shielded deep-set eyes as jet-black and
shiny-hard as those on
his brooch. His hair was thick and dark and long, brushed back away from his
high forehead to
give the impression of small wings.
'My dear, dear boy!' the Salamander exclaimed from his chair. 'How pleasing it
is to see you
again after all this time!' He smiled his jowly smile, the skin at the corners
of his eyes crinkling.
Ronin gazed into the onyx eyes and was not fooled. They were heavy-lidded, the
lashes long,
but he knew what lay behind that effete exterior.
'Come, come. Do sit down beside me.' With a diffident wave of his thickly
ringed fingers he
indicated the empty chair. Ronin went up two wide flat steps and sat.
The Salamander reached over to the crystal flagon, but Ronin declined.
'And what do you think of my atrium?' asked the Salamander.
Ronin looked around, said blandly, 'Is that what it is?'
The Salamander laughed deep in his throat; the corners of his eyes crinkled
and he showed
his white even teeth. But the eyes remained unchanged. 'Many centuries ago,
when people lived
on the surface of this planet, they built houses, low, separate dwellings, you
see, with a central
room open to the natural elements: the sun and the rain and the stars, and
there they gathered to
relax and talk of pleasant matters and smell the fresh air. A marvellous
custom, do you not
agree?'
He changed tones abruptly. 'My dear Ronin, I have told you a thousand times
that you must
be more well read.'
'If I may say so, it is quite out of the question without access to a library
such as yours.
Books are a rarity Downshaft.'
At that moment the red-cheeked man stepped through the far doorway and the
Salamander
looked over. 'You have met Voss, my Chondrin.' It was not a question.
'He seems quite attracted to doors,' Ronin said.
The Salamander shifted minutely in his chair; the jet eyes were unblinking.
'Dear boy,' he
said without inflection, 'one of these times you will make a remark like that
to a person without
a sense of humour - a person with power - and then you will be in most serious
trouble. Voss
can do a great many things very well indeed.'
He gestured and the Chondrin dropped to a crouch. Both hands became a blur and
Ronin was
aware of an angry humming cutting through the background sounds. The brickwork
of the wall
to the left and behind him crackled and he turned to look. Two very deep
incisions had been cut
barely a centimetre apart. On the stone floor directly below lay the two
jewel-hiked daggers
that had, up to a moment before, been sheathed at Voss's heart and hip. A
split second was all
that he had needed to throw both with deadly accuracy.
Ronin turned back to the Salamander.
'He has no sense of humour.'
Again the big man's deep laugh echoed off the walls. 'You always had peculiar
ways of letting
me know the people you disapproved of.' He rubbed his nose. 'Which was almost
everyone, I
might add.' With a flick of his fingers he dismissed the Chondrin, who, after
retrieving his
weapons, withdrew, closing the gates after him.
The Salamander breathed deeply. 'Ah! Feel that! It is almost like being on the
surface three
centuries ago. Do you hear the birds? Did you recognize the calls? You are
sufficiently
knowledgeable to have heard of birds.' He waved, a curiously brusque movement
for such a
normally expansive gesture. 'All of this is not wasted on you, I trust,' he
drawled.
Ronin forced himself to sit completely still and say nothing.
The Salamander's right arm, lying thickly along the arm of his chair, was
somehow
menacing. 'Let me tell you something. It has been many years since you have
been here.
Everything has changed.'
He cocked his head to one side as if listening to a far-off but important
conversation. 'How
peaceful it is here,' he said after a time, his tone soft and reflective. 'How
comfortable, how
secure. It took me quite a long time to build this. For instance, this room
was under construction
when you were last here. It has taken an enormous effort to get all the
elements gathered and
integrated. The lighting was difficult but, as you can see, not
insurmountable. But the birds, the
birds, dear boy! For a while I thought I would never hear them in here.' He
cocked his head
again. Their sweet singing sounded over the music of the water. 'Ah, listen!
In the end it was
worth it. This place gives me great pleasure.'
There was silence for a time, at least a cessation of human speech, during
which a kind of dreamy
peacefulness descended upon them.
Broken. 'And you have changed the most, dear boy. You are no longer my
Student. You are a
Bladesman. That is in itself significant.'
Ronin let out the breath he had been holding. 'Yes?'
'It means that you have been extremely fortunate in not having run across a
Saardin without a
sense of humour.' Once more he laughed. Ronin thought he liked to hear the
sound of it.
The laughter died suddenly. 'Or have you? One hears the most distressing
stories. You seem to
have put yourself into a somewhat embarrassing position.' One eyebrow arched,
giving him a
vividly predatory look.
'What have you been told?'
He shifted his bulk in the chair. 'Enough to wonder how much of your training
here you still
remember. Freidal distrusts you, that is not a good thing.' He looked down at
his jewelled
hand, then up again. 'He can become quite - um - annoying.'
Ronin sat rather stiffly. 'I did not come to you for that reason.'
'Indeed? But I daresay that you will have to adjust to the fact that you
blundered. He has
marked you; perhaps he is having you watched. I need only -'
'No.'
'I thought not. It makes no sense, but then - ' He shrugged. 'Perhaps then you
will tell me
why you came.'
Ronin nodded. 'It is about a Magic Man,' he said.
For a time after he had finished, the Salamander said nothing. He laced his
fingers, resting
them on his thighs. The scent of cloves came very strong on the air. The
'birds' sang. Along one
wall, moss had been encouraged to grow, moist and green. Ronin found it hard
to believe that
they were underground. He felt isolated, quite disconnected from the world
Downshaft, and he
recognized this as a form of offering. It was no accident that the Salamander
had received him
here.
'How do you suppose,' the Salamander said, 'I am able to maintain all of
this?' His hands
unfolded like a fan.
Ronin thought: So it has been a mistake after all. He got up.
The Salamander's eyes opened wide. 'Ah. What is it?'
'There was a time when this was necessary,' Ronin said angrily. 'Now - '
'Indulge me.'
'As you said, everything has changed.'
'Did I not teach you all explanations in their proper time?'
'I am no longer your Student.'
'You made that quite clear some time ago.'
The onyx eyes were all pupil, black and glittery, locked with Ronin's. An
electric charge built
itself in the room.
'All right,' the Salamander said finally. 'All right. Sit down. Be assured
that I have an answer
for you. At least let me reach it at my own pace.'
The gates opened across the room and Voss appeared as if by a signal. He came
immediately
across to them and stood in front of the Salamander, who said, 'Open the
Lens.'
Voss shot Ronin a quick glance, then nodded and went out through a narrow door
behind
them that Ronin had failed to notice before.
'Now where were we?' The Salamander cocked his head. 'Ah, yes, my not so
humble
quarters. They are extensive. When you were last here, you saw only what all
my Students are
allowed to see. You could have - ' He shook his head. 'But old ground is
pointless.' He rubbed
his hands down the smooth wood of the arms. 'I have an entire Sector, you
know.'
Ronin was surprised in spite of himself. 'No, I did not.'
He nodded. 'But that is only part of it, an insignificant part. Decoration,
one might say. One
impresses those who must be impressed. For the rest, it is all pleasure. And
it is only the tip,
having it. Getting it, that is what counts. To do that, one needs but one
item: Power.' He leaned
forward. 'I have it.'
'So it is said.'
The onyx eyes bored into him.
'You do not fear it,' the Salamander said, not without some contempt. 'That is
a mistake.'
'I do not worship it.'
'You would do well to heed me.'
'That time - '
'Yes, quite.' The Salamander rose gracefully. 'If you will follow me.'
He crossed to the narrow door and led Ronin into darkness.
Light that bloomed in front of him was dim and faded, the colours smeary and
washed out, as
if, having been painted quickly and tentatively on canvas, they were now
covered in a fine film
of dust.
He saw himself as a small child, and everything looked too large for him to
use. He was in a
room filled with stifled silence. It was very hot and he pulled at the collar
of his shirt. It seemed
he could not breathe. He wished his sister were here. She was very young, her
features still
forming, but he loved her. She would come to him when she was sad or lonely or
had had a
fight, and he would comfort her, help her, protect her. And then she would
laugh and hug him
around the waist and her happiness would transmit itself to him. She
could make him smile. Why isn't she here, why are all these people here,
what's wrong?
Someone said: 'It is no use, they have called it off.' A figure loomed over
him. What's wrong,
what's wrong? The figure said: 'Your sister is dead. Can you understand that?
Dead.' He began
to cry. The figure slapped him hard. Someone said: 'He is too young.' The
figure hit him again
and again until he stopped.
' - in this room.' It was small, lit only by points of glowing green light,
winking like jewels
from some far-off city. Ronin rubbed briefly at his eyes.
'Very few people have been in this room,' the Salamander continued. 'Very few
people even
know of its existence.' Voss was sitting before a metal box, low and wide,
from the centre of
which an oval cylinder projected perhaps a metre into the air. His hands were
busy moving across
a complex control panel. 'Do you follow me?' The Salamander moved behind Voss,
put a
jewelled hand on his shoulder. 'I think that you were wise to stay a while
longer.'
He turned and the tiny jet eyes at his throat flashed, reflecting flatly the
hard green light. The
lizard's body had taken on a dull, dusky hue, like the film on stagnant water.
'This Magic Man,
is he sane or mad? You are unsure.'
He lifted his arm, the palm of his hand standing out dead white against the
dense black of his
robes - even the scarlet sash was turned black by the strange light. 'This is
the Lens. We do not
know how it works, or even its original purpose, but in a moment you shall see
what few men
in our lifetime have ever seen. Look. Look upward.' And he squeezed Voss's
shoulder.
At first Ronin thought that the ceiling had in some way opened. A swirling
opalescent oval lit
the darkness. Then he saw that it was a projection from the cylinder of the
Lens.
Pearl greys and the lightest of violets swam blurrily above them. Then quite
suddenly the
scene was sharply delineated. And Ronin stared in awe. This cannot be, he
thought. How is it
possible?
Thick banks of magenta cloud and pearled, frigid mist whipped by them,
forming, and then
were gone. The light was diffuse and cold. It seemed infinite.
'Yes,' said the Salamander softly and dramatically, 'we are indeed observing
the sky above our
planet. This is the outer shell of the world, Ronin.'
Slowly the layers moved upward and out of their field of view as the Lens
shifted its focus.
They became lighter, finer, shredding before their eyes like gossamer robes.
'We shall now take a look at the surface of the world.'
A whiteness, a terrible frosty barrenness. Sheets of snow and ice picked up by
the heavy winds,
dragged across the frozen mountains and crevasses, raking the terrain. Ice and
snow and rock
and not a hint of anything else. It was impossible for anything to live Up
there.
'This is the world,' the Salamander intoned. 'Destroyed by the Ancients.
Devastated beyond
any hope of redemption. A desolate, decaying hulk, useless now. You are seeing
what is directly
above us, Ronin. This is why we remain encased three kilometres below the
surface. To reach
the surface is to die. No food, no shelter, no warmth, no one.'
'But is it all this way?' asked Ronin. 'The Magic Man spoke of a land where
the ground was
brown and green plants grew.'
The Salamander's rings glinted as he squeezed Voss's shoulder again. The scene
above them
dissolved, shifted, yet all was the same. Ice and snow.
'The range of the Lens is finite. However, for our purposes here, it is more
than enough.
What you see now is over fifty kilometres distant. And now - ' Dissolve. 'One
hundred and fifty
kilometres distant.' Dissolve. 'More than five hundred kilometres away. As you
can see, it is all
the same. Nothing lives on the world, save us. We are the last. The other
Freeholds are gone,
contact lost many centuries ago. The Magic Man is quite mad. Perhaps his mind
snapped from the
constant pressure he was under - they are a strange breed. Or perhaps - '
Ronin turned. 'What do you know?'
The Salamander smiled. 'My dear boy, I know as much of this matter as you have
seen fit to
tell me. But I know Security. And their methods can be somewhat - ah -
debilitating at times. It
is all according to what Freidal wants.'
'But Security has no right to - '
'Dear boy, wielding power is the only right,' he said sternly, then softening:
'It is all very
personal, surely you have learned that by now.'
He removed his hand and the window on to the bleak world above winked out. The
green
glow came up again.
'In any event, this Magic Man has been known from some while to be most
difficult; quite a
dissident, at times. But then they all are when time-allotment rolls around.'
The velvet darkness enclosed them snugly. From out of it, Ronin heard the
Salamander's voice,
soft and reassuring. 'I trust, dear boy, that this extraordinary demonstration
has eliminated all
your doubts.'

'It is the twenty-ninth Cycle.'
He was wide-shouldered and slightly smaller than average, a fact to which,
many believed,
he had never quite adjusted. His hair was short and dark, coming low on his
forehead, giving
him a forbidding countenance which he cultivated and used to full effect. Deep
lines scored
downward from the corners of his ungenerous mouth even when his face was in
repose.
He stood on a small raised platform, dressed in white robes, believing the
colour made him
appear larger, and addressed his students - Bladesmen who were arrayed before
him in precise
rows -under the high vault of the Hall of Combat.
'This Cycle, iron strikes iron,' the Instructor continued, in the prescribed
manner, his head
swivelling on his thin neck. 'For this is the Cycle of the Arm and the Wrist
and the Sword. This
Cycle we are called by the Horn of Combat.'
His stentorian voice took some time dying away in the vast Hall. In the
silence, there was a
rustling as the Bladesmen, in perfect cadence, opened a square space in the
centre of the Hall.
On all four sides they stood rigidly then, facing inward towards the opening,
waiting.
There came a note upon the air. Both deep and shrill, it echoed off the walls,
seeming to pick
up overtones so that it increased in volume before ending. It came again. And
a third time.
'It is the twenty-ninth Cycle,' repeated the Instructor. 'The Horn of Combat
has been
sounded. It is both a reminder and a warning. A reminder of our past, of what
we must strive to
preserve with our last breath. A warning to all foes present and future that
we are ever vigilant
in our sacred trust to guard the Freehold from all who would seek her
destruction . . .'
The words of Tradition droned on, as they had, Ronin supposed, for centuries.
They were
meaningless to him now. And he wondered if that had not always been so. The
Salamander was
correct in one matter: it was indeed all personal. Freidal's carefully phrased
words of sacred
Tradition were as much a fraud as his fabrication of the detention of the mad
Magic Man. Yet
Ronin was well aware that the Security Saardin's belief in Tradition was
unwavering. Personal.
'. . . your pledge that we shall ever remember our sacred duty to the
perpetuation of the
Freehold above all else.' But for the soft rustle of cloth, the occasional
creak of new leather,
silence descended on the Hall.
The Instructor's round eyes narrowed and he thrust out his jaw as he scanned
the multitude
before him. He relished the power he held over the Bladesmen. This was his
domain, and for as
long as they were within it, they performed as he bade them. His nostrils
flared and he
delicately sniffed the air. Cutting through the stench of ten score bodies
fresh from half a
Spell's exercise, as separate, as distinct as if it were the perfume of
flowers in full bloom, was
the peculiar odour of fear. His nostrils dilated again as he drank in the
heady smell, almost
dizzying in its intensity. His mouth curled up slightly and he gripped the
railing before him.
Ronin, who had been trained to observe faces in his years Upshaft, saw the
Instructor's secret
smile and felt as if he were spying on something unclean. His mouth curled in
distaste and he
thought on the complexities of power and how, however much he tried, he could
not evade its
sphere of influence.
'Ronin,' called the Instructor. 'Step into the Square of Combat.'
Without surprise, Ronin moved from his position within the multitude of
Bladesmen into the
open Square. He turned and faced the Instructor.
'Bladesmen, are you prepared to do Combat?'
'Instructor, I am.'
The Instructor addressed the Class. 'This Cycle, as a demonstration for you
newer Bladesmen
as well as the veterans, we are privileged to be allowed a Bladesman from
another Class, so that
you may observe other techniques and compare them with your own.' He paused to
allow the
murmuring of the Bladesmen to subside. Ronin was completely alert now.
Students generally
fought within their own Classes primarily to forestall the creation of grudges
that might involve the
honour of Classes as a whole. Among Bladesmen, the resolution of quarrels was
encouraged
through individual Combat matches.
'We have a Bladesman from the eighth-Spell Class.' The Instructor raised an
arm. 'Marcsh, step
forward.'
A thick, stolid figure now parted the throng and made its way into the Square.
He walked purpose-
fully with just a hint of a swagger, brushing aside Bladesmen too close to
him. A smile was
tacked on to his square mouth.
Skill at ritualism, thought Ronin, and prepared himself mentally for Combat.
One of Nirren's
favourite topics was that of coincidence: he rejected the concept completely.
Ronin did not share
this belief, although it seemed an inarguable point. Yet here, at this moment,
he must side with the
Chondrin. The Instructor could not possibly have picked Marcsh by chance; it
would certainly be
dangerous to think along those lines.
Marcsh's greedy close-set eyes stared at him with undisguised malice. Then he
turned and faced
the Instructor.
'Bladesmen, are you prepared to do Combat?'
'Instructor, I am.'
Ronin wondered what would happen if he asked the Instructor to tell the Class
who Marcsh
really was. But he did not consider actually doing it because the adrenalin
was already rising
within him like a great and powerful animal. He wanted this match.
'As a Student of the eighth-Spell Class, do you agreed to be bound by my
judgement in this
Combat?'
Marcsh was staring again at Ronin. 'I do,' he said.
The Instructor gestured to a thin pale boy on his right who stood perfectly
still beside a small
burnished-metal gong. He held a short mallet in his hand. The Instructor
addressed both
Combatants. 'You will commence when you hear the Tone. You will cease only
when the
Tone sounds again. Is this acknowledged?'
The Instructor gestured again and the boy swung the mallet in a shallow arc.
The crystal tone
hung in the air for seconds, refusing to die.
Combat had begun.
Sight, then sound, repeating. And Ronin began to retreat under the frenzied
onslaught, first one
step, then another. Several. A predatory grin split Marcsh's face as he bore
down even harder,
grunting and panting with tremendous effort, sensing that the end was near.
As soon as the Tone had sounded, Marcsh had withdrawn his sword and, instead
of taking
the Position, it had continued its blurred arc out and then down, aimed for
the triangular
juncture of Ronin's neck and shoulder. But almost simultaneously Ronin was
lunging forward,
shoulders twisting, and the blade whistled past him so close that he felt its
hot wind. Thus
extended, he slammed the heavy hilt of his still-sheathed sword into Marcsh's
fists. He regained
his ground and his blade flashed out.
The Bladesmen shifted in anticipation and excitement, crowding one another,
craning their
necks to see more clearly. They felt it in the air now, knew this was not an
ordinary Combat.
Marcsh    had   stood,  feet   wide   apart,   knees slightly bent, sword
before him. His
knuckles were red and slick with blood and he glared at Ronin, hating him even
more for the
rebuke.
Ronin had faced him with his hip and his shoulder, right foot forward and
extended, left
behind him. He held his sword out at stomach level, point slightly higher than
hilt.
Marcsh had leapt and again the blade flew down and Ronin caught it on the
hilt, the heavy
shock coursing through them both. They strained against each other, breath
hissing through
clenched teeth. The veins along Marcsh's thick biceps and inner forearms stood
out, pulsing,
from the muscles. His face and neck grew red with the effort.
He was extremely powerful, and he used his brute strength to break the
deadlock, moving
immediately into a series of horizontal thrusts, slashing and cutting. Ronin
had parried it all,
neither retreating nor advancing. Marcsh's close-set eyes blazed and his mouth
opened with the
heaving of his chest.
He had turned a horizontal slice into a feint, reversing his motion very
rapidly but still
having to overcome momentum, his weight working now against him, attempting to
use his hilt
as Ronin had before. The blade of Ronin's sword glinted and took the force of
the attack, and
he began a counter but Marcsh retreated. Sweat glistened along Marcsh's arms
and down his
sides and his shirt clung to him like a loose second skin.
And he had leapt forward, once more on the attack, and his sword lifted and
fell, lifted and
fell, his full power behind each stroke. The blade was a white blur obscuring
the Combatants so
that the Bladesmen were obliged to press closer in order to make out the
course of Combat.
Still Ronin retreated under the assault, the shocks reverberating even into
the first rows of
onlookers, so that they imagined they could feel the terrific force being
generated and were
happy that they were merely watching. Motion blended as the attack resolved
itself into the
shape of repetition. The heavy blade lifted and fell, lifted and fell. Blue
sparks flew upward and
the constant clang of metal against metal was deafening. The air was acrid and
leaden. Lifted
and fell, lifted and fell, and time unravelled.
It was a form of hypnosis and not at all limited to Combat. That was its
strength, because
one tends to forget under the narrowed concentration of Combat. Narrower still
is the deep
concentration of the attack, of bringing Combat to its completion. And now
Ronin saw it in
Marcsh's eyes and he timed the counter perfectly, abruptly holding his ground
as Marcsh, intent
on the retreat as a gauge for his victory, swung again forward and down with
all his strength.
He came up on Ronin instantly, sword descending in a blur, eyes just beginning
to open in
surprise, as Ronin, feet planted firmly, bent into his knees, twisting his
torso at the last possible
instant. He pivoted his left foot away, and Marcsh, his body made ponderous
and overbalanced
by momentum, rushed past him. Ronin brought both arms around, following the
pivot of his
own momentum, using it, locking his elbows so that his arms were rigid with
force, and
smashed the flat of his sword against the daggam's back.
There came a cracking sound, muffled and thick, as of the rending of a
foundation under
immense pressure, and Marcsh's body arched horribly, his arms thrust above his
head in reflex,
as if in supplication. His sword clattered to the floor. The body hit the
floor with great force
and was still. It lay there, unnatural and ugly, grotesque in its sudden
parody of human form, as
a great shout went up from the Bladesmen, and the Square of Combat was
suddenly filled with
milling people.
Ronin did not see the Instructor gesture but he heard over the tumult the
clear Tone of the
gong that signalled the end of Combat.
He stood and breathed deeply, the still centre of a raging storm. He wiped
sweat from his
colourless eyes.
As if from far away he heard a voice cry, 'Moment! Moment! I will have silence
here!' The
din continued. 'Silence, I said!' roared the voice. The shouting died to low
murmurings and
then ceased altogether.
From his platform the Instructor glowered down at his students. 'Stand
silently where you
are!' His face was red and his small eyes flashed. 'This conduct is
outrageous! Unthinkable!
Rank Students would behave better. I shall not tolerate such an outburst in my
Class againl' he
bellowed at them. He pointed to two Bladesmen. 'See to Marcsh.' They bent to
their task, trying
to lift him gently, but a sound came from him so filled with agony that they
left him and ran to
fetch a litter.
Seeing this, the Instructor's gathering fury exploded, and he turned upon
Ronin. 'You fool!' he
screamed, barely in control. 'You have half killed him! How shall I explain
that to his Instruc-
tor? How shall I explain that to his Saardin!' His voice had become shrill,
rising in pitch. 'This
will reflect on me! On me! Do you understand what you have done! What gives
you the idea
you can use your weapon in such a manner?' He shook his fist at Ronin. He was
trembling.
'As of this moment you are barred from this Combat Class, and I can assure you
that it will
be the same for all Classes, because I shall see to that personally. In
addition, a full report of
your irresponsible behaviour shall be made to the Saardin of Security!'
There was a great tumult in the Hall now, sounds of voices and movement
echoing and re-
echoing off the walls and ceiling, gaining in volume. Dimly, Ronin was aware
of Nirren,
somehow miraculously beside him in the crush.
The Instructor's voice rose to peak volume to be heard. 'You will pay for this
incident, and
pay dearly!'
Ronin, adrenalin still pumping within him, crossed the line. He took a step
forward and lifted
his sword. 'We will see who shall pay!' he yelled, but it was borne away on
the tide of sound.
Nirren gripped him from behind. 'Are you mad? What are you doing?'
Still Ronin advanced through the throng towards the elevated figure of the
Instructor. Nirren
clung to him, trying to gain a purchase to restrain him, as he fought his way
through the tightly
pressed, jostling bodies. They clung to Ronin like weights impeding his
progress and he was
only halfway there when he saw the Instructor, fearful now that he had quite
lost control of the
situation, wheel off the platform and, with his boy trailing in his wake,
stride from the Hall.
Nirren got hold of him at last. The noise had increased and the heat was
unbearable. He had
to turn his head and stare at Nirren's working mouth before he understood, and
even then it
took a while. 'Come on! Come on!'
Soon after, the Bladesmen came with the litter and bore Marcsh away.
'They have all miscalculated.'
'How do you know?'
He sighed. 'I do not. It's a feeling.'
'Based on something, surely. All the Saardin could not miss - '
He made a fist. 'But they have, I know it! All they see are their own bits of
power - '
'It is personal with them.'
Nirren ceased his pacing long enough to stare at Ronin as he sat on the bed,
stripping off his
soaked shirt. 'Why, yes, it could be put that way.' He cocked his head
quizzically. 'You have been
to see him then.'
Ronin threw the shirt over a stool. 'Yes.'
Nirren stood in front of him, frowning. 'But not to go back.'
Ronin laughed humourlessly. 'No, not at all.'
'Were you not even tempted?'
Ronin looked up. 'Well, he did try.'
'Really.'
'No need to worry about it.'
Nirren relaxed somewhat. He looked down at the bruise down Ronin's side. 'I
have sent for
her,' he said.
Ronin touched the bandage over the wound at his shoulder. There was still some
pain. 'That
was hardly necessary.'
He flicked a hand. 'Nevertheless it has been done.'
'Where is Stahlig?'
'Ah, attending to Marcsh, I believe,' he said with a thin smile. 'Why did you
go then?'
'To see the Salamander?'
'Yes.'
'Advice.'
'From him?' Nirren laughed. 'He is a Saardin. Why should he tell you the
truth?'
'There are ties,' Ronin said.
'Yes, and even after - '
'I expect so.' Very quickly.
Nirren shook his head. 'What did he tell you then?'
Ronin sat back on the pillows, resting. 'That Borros is indeed mad.'
'Did he? And how would he know that?'
Ronin took a pillow, wiped the sweat from his body. 'He showed me a kind of
proof It left dark
streaks on the fabric.
'What, exactly?' asked Nirren, his eyes watchful.
'What if I told you that Borros is not mad?'
'Are you?'
'I do not know.'
'What of the Salamander's proof?'
'I talked to Borros myself
'You will not tell me.'
'I am telling you.'
'Not about what he showed you.'
Ronin threw the pillow from him. 'How do you know he showed me anything?'
'Words would not have been sufficient.'
Ronin nodded. 'Yes.' He went across the room and opened the wardrobe. 'But I
am not sure it
is a proof.' He brought out a shirt with loose silk sleeves and no collar.
'What do you think is
Up there, above the Freehold?'
'What?' Nirren shrugged. 'Nothing. Nothing worth talking about at least,
unless you are partial
to the idea of a kilometre of solid ice and snow. Why?'
He put on the shirt. 'Because Borros believes that there is a civilization Up
there, living in a
land without ice or snow.'
Nirren stared at him. 'This is what he told you?'
'Yes.'
'Did you ask him what he was working on?'
'It did not happen like that. I got what I could. But I am fairly certain of
one thing. Freidal
does not know much more than we do, otherwise Borros would not have been
talking to
anyone. Besides, at one point the Magic Man told me that he had not revealed
anything of
significance.'
Nirren shook his head. 'I can make sense of none of this. Surely nothing lives
on the surface -
the planet is too cold to sustain life.'
'So it would seem.'
'And where does that leave us?'
'It leaves you nowhere.'
'Ah, Ronin - '
'I want no part of any Saardin.'
'But you will try to see Borros again.'
'Yes.' He lifted a hand for a moment.    'But because I wish to do it.' He sat
on the pillows
again. 'What about your assignment?'
The Chondrin frowned. 'It is a puzzle seemingly without a solution. Perhaps I
am closer to my
goal, perhaps not. Still, I cannot shake the feeling that -'
Ronin looked up. 'What?'
'That there is more to it than any of us know.' He ran his hand through his
hair distractedly.
'Sometimes - sometimes I could almost believe that there is a third force
secretly at work - almost
waiting for the other Saardins to make the first move.'
'But there are only Saardins. Nothing beyond.'
'Of course. That is what makes it so puzzling.'
'And you have no facts.'
Nirren sighed. 'If I did, I would be with Estrille now.'
'Have you told him?'
'Some.'
'And?'
'He will not act without facts.' He turned. 'K'reen will be here at any
moment.'
'What of your Rodent?'
'What?' Nirren momentarily looked startled. 'Oh - that is where I am off to
now. Perhaps I am
closer to finding him.' He shrugged. 'He is buried quite deep, that is the
only fact of which I am
certain at the moment. Do not be alarmed if you cannot locate me for a while -
wait for me to
contact you.' And he was gone.
Ronin lay back on the pillows and waited for K'reen to come.
They came for him after Class, during first Spell, when there were less people
about. He went with
them without resistance because he was pragmatic enough to know that it had to
come sooner or
later, that they were just waiting for a valid excuse, because they hated him.
They marched swiftly through the Corridor and perhaps they were surprised that
he came so will-
ingly. Into a deserted Stairwell and Upshaft. To the Hall of Combat.
Empty shadows and dusty silence. Grey air hanging in sheets on the dim light,
bars of dark
and light. The presence of ancestors unseen and forgotten, talking of bygone
millennia, the descent
into earth, a legacy of- what?
'Draw it,' grated the voice. 'All my plans done in by you.'
Korlik faced him while the others looked on. Perhaps Korlik wanted an
audience. More likely
they wanted to be here when it happened. He did not think about that.
'I wanted to go Upshaft with him more than anything else. Because of you - '
It was as good as
anything else.
Silence.
'Draw it," Korlik said again, grinding his teeth. 'Come on.' He waved his
sword. 'Well, what are
you waiting for? Afraid?' He advanced. 'All right, I'll show you what to do
with this.' He waved it
again as he came on. 'I am going to turn you around and shove this up you!'
Ronin unsheathed his sword and, for the next quarter Spell, turned aside all
Korlik's attacks,
standing his ground, refusing to counterattack.
Korlik bellowed in frustration and threw his sword to the stone floor. Perhaps
it was a signal,
because they all fell upon him then and he went down. Someone tried to step on
his neck and
he grasped the ankle, twisted it violently until he heard the snap. They
pummelled his stomach
and tried to turn him over. He lifted his legs, straining against the tangle
and the pressure,
protecting his groin, and knew that he had to regain his feet now or they
would have him
pinned with his chest to the cold stone. They could not get a firm grip on his
legs, and he did it,
all the way up, gasping for air.
He found that Korlik and the others did not matter. He heard a low groan from
somewhere
near him. Korlik bent and retrieved his sword and, crouched, body shiny,
advanced in an arc.
Ronin moved laterally but Korlik kept his sword point and body between Ronin
and his
weapon, shining dully on the stone, so that there were no more options - it
had to be done. And
the daydreaming was gone all at once.
He rushed straight at Korlik, saw the wide blade raised, its size magnified,
come whistling
down, and knew that it would be all right because it was a vertical blow. He
got in, past the
point as it came arcing blurrily down, slammed his fist into the side of
Korlik's head. And by
the time Korlik had regained his balance and turned, he had the sword. He
crossed a bar of light
and it shone like silver.
But   he    was   overconfident,  buoyed   by   the success of the tactic, and
he misjudged
Korlik's recovery time and so was unprepared for the rush. He got his blade up
but not
enough, and the angle was all wrong, so that Korlik's sword cut through his
like fabric.
Korlik laughed when he saw the stumpy blade sheared through obliquely.
In truth he obviously did not get a good look at it in the dimness or he would
certainly have
been more cautious. As it was, he moved in, heedless of the shorn weapon still
gripped tightly in
Ronin's hand, and was thus surprised to feel it enter his chest.
Ronin had lunged, pushing the truncated blade in to the hilt, the force
smashing Korlik
against the wall, where he now stood, dark blood running all across him. Still
he tried to get at
Ronin, lurching up, pushing against the wall with his palm, then jerkily
swinging his sword one
last time, all co-ordination gone, before he toppled face down on the stone.
They left him there, standing over the corpse in the stillness, not daring to
look into his dark
and unreadable eyes.
And now he opened his eyes to find K'reen bent over him, face filled with
worry. 'I have heard
about it,' she said. 'It is all over the Sector.' She looked at him, pushing
aside his shirt. 'At least
you were not hurt, and the wound has not reopened.' She sat beside him. 'What
will happen
now?'
He shrugged. 'It is not so serious.'
'But banished from Combat - ?'
He sat up. 'If what Nirren is concerned about happens, it will not matter.'
'I do not - '
'The Saardins.'
'Oh. Yes. What does he say? I so rarely see him now except at Sehna.'
'The two factions appear to be very close to a confrontation - but this is
nothing you do not
already know.'
'He is with Estrille then.'
'No. He has been given a special assignment.'
She went across the room to the mirror of beaten brass, hanging on the wall at
head height, just
over the cabinet. 'It is near to Sehna,' she said.
Robin thought: Not enough time to see if Stahlig is through treating Marcsh.
She began to put up her hair, glancing at him from time to time in the mirror.
'What is it that
makes you so sad?' she said abruptly.
He sat on the edge of the pillows. 'Why do you ask me such questions?'
'Because - ' Her eyes stole away from his in the mirror and she touched a hand
to her face.
'Because I love you.'
He caught the glint of the tears rolling slowly from the corners of her eyes.
'What are you doing?'
She turned away and squeezed her eyes shut. 'Nothing.' Water trembled,
glistening along her
lashes.
He went across to her and spun her around so that her hair, still unbound on
one side, floated in a
dark arc, momentarily obscuring her cheek.
'Why are you crying?' he asked with some anger.
With her free hand she wiped under her eyes, and he saw within them a brief
hint of- fear?
He could not be sure.
'I hate that. Why are you crying?'
Anger flared and the thing within her eyes was gone. 'You mean I am not
allowed to cry?' He
turned away from her. 'What is it with you?' Her eyes were magnified by the
water. 'Does it
upset you when I show any emotion? You cannot, is that it? Because I accept
that. I do. Can you
understand that? Why must you act like this? I cannot under -Don't you ever
feel anything?
How is it when we go to bed? Is it just - biological?' She turned back to the
mirror, put her head
in her arms, leaning on the cabinet.
He went into the other room and began to change his clothes. After a time,
K'reen raised her
head and stared into the mirror. She wet her fingers with her tongue, wiped
away the tear-
streaks. Then she finished putting up her hair.
They had to walk farther down the Corridor than was usual because the
Stairwell closest to his
quarters was newly blocked by a slide of rotting concrete and brittle crusty
orange metal. The
next one was clear and they began their descent to Sehna, Ronin holding before
them the
flaming torch. The stairs were cracked and pitted and appeared to be little
used. Once or twice
they had to jump stumps of stairs that had crumbled or had been sheared away
by some force.
They did not talk and perhaps that is why they heard the sound. It was very
soft and came
from somewhere in front of them. Ronin stopped immediately and held K'reen
still with his
free hand. Slowly he extended the torch in front of them. The stairs stretched
downward to the
landing where they doubled back on themselves. They were deserted.
There was silence. Dust motes danced in the flickering heat of the torch,
writhing as they
were consumed by the fire to which they were drawn.
They moved slowly downward and it came again. A low moan, a half-whimper of
pain.
They were at the landing. Around the turning, the Stairwell stretched darkly
away. She
started to say something but he cut her off. He strained his ears, thinking
now not about the
sound below them but - He heard it again and he was sure. At first he thought
that the soft
scrabbling noise he had detected at the threshold of hearing was the movement
of the small
animals that lived in the walls, which everyone heard in the soft silences.
But the sound had
come again, closer, and he knew it for the patient pad of boots, how many he
could not tell, on
the stairs above them.
He grabbed K'reen's hand and they fled down into darkness.
Abruptly, the whimpering seemed nearer. Ronin thrust the torch before them and
saw that
the entire inner wall of the Stairwell had collapsed and, for many Levels, a
dark pit yawned
vertiginously.
They   pressed    themselves   against   the secure
outside wall, and saw a figure below them. Dishevelled and filthy, long hair
falling lankly down its
back, dressed in rags without colour, it huddled pitifully in a corner away
from the pit.
He stepped closer, could now discern a wan face covered with muck and sweat.
Haunted, fright-
ened eyes stared back at him, the shivering flame from his torch reflecting in
the enormous
pupils. The figure shrank from him.
He bent slowly, touched it gently. 'Who are you?' And then, 'We will not harm
you.'
He heard the bootsteps on the stairs, nearer, and he stood, turning towards
them, ears straining
again to gather more information. K'reen had crouched down, close to the
figure, trying to talk
to it. And he heard her choked gasp.
'Ronin!'
He turned back, lofted the torch, saw that the figure's right arm was a stump,
torn and clotted
with dried blood and newly forming skin, so it was not as recent as he had at
first thought.
Shadows danced madly around them, the central pillar of the flame.
Then. In the hollow of the creature's neck a glint of metal. Slowly,
carefully, so as not to alarm
it, Ronin reached for it: a crusted square on a grimy chain. He rubbed his
thumb across the
surface and brought it into the light.
'"Korabb; Neer; Ninety-Nine,"' he read.
K'reen said, 'This is a Neer? But how - If she was assigned to the
ninety-ninth Level, what is
she doing this far Upshaft?'
'And   with    an   arm   recently   taken   off   He
thought of the Neer in Stahlig's quarters. 'The largest and most complex
Machines are on that
Level -'
'It's the lowest Level, isn't it?'
'Yes, and only the best Neers work Down there - '
Boots echoed more urgently along the walls, stopped at the landing above them.
Ronin
thought he could hear the low murmuring of voices.
'Ronin, who - ?'
He put his finger to his lips, turned to the Neer, whispered, 'Korabb, can you
understand me?'
The figure looked from him to K'reen and back again. It nodded, and at that
moment he became
aware that the Neer was a female. A combination of the uncertain light, her
position, and her
filthiness had prevented him from seeing her clearly.
The Neer raised a thin finger, nailless, the end torn and black with blood.
'Ronin. Ronin, you have reached the end!' a cold voice called from above. 'We
have come for
you!' There came to them the grate of metal on stone, a singular sound that
they could not mis-
take, and K'reen gasped, realizing what Ronin had understood all along: they
were on their way to
Sehna, and he was weaponless.
He felt something touch his shoulder. The Neer's finger pressed against him
urgently. She
pointed at him and then K'reen, then down into the pitch of the stairs.
He shook his head and said, 'We cannot leave you; you will surely die here if
we do. Do you
understand?' She shook her head and her mouth
worked soundlessly. It struck him then that something was wrong. Apparently it
had occurred to
K'reen also, for she reached out and gently opened the Neer's mouth. Her eyes
grew round and
frightened and she jerked her head, trying to pull away, but K'reen held her
firmly.
'Oh, Frost!' she whispered, and involuntarily swallowed. Ronin looked, saw a
mouth with
teeth and gums and palate and a dark bit of flesh that was trying to move.
Where the base of the
tongue should have been. And was not.
K'reen let go of the mouth and turned her pale face to Ronin's. 'What could
have happened?
How could this -'
'Ronin. Ronin, we know the Med is with you!' There was a mocking tone to the
voice.
'K'reen? Yes, K'reen, that is her name.' There was scraping again from above
as someone
shifted. 'Do not delude yourself into believing that you will die quickly and
honourably. No
Bladesman's death for you, my friend. We shall cut the tendons in the backs of
your legs so that
you will stay and watch us while we find out what the woman is made of. Cut
your eyelids and
we will all take turns holding your head so that you get the best view. We
would not want you to
miss a moment while we see how many of us she can take!' And the voice
laughed, high and
piercing and unpleasant. 'I mean at a time!' The laughter echoed about them
and K'reen shivered.
There was a sudden scuffle of boots and the still air eddied, sending a chill
through them. Ronin
flipped the torch away from them, down into the
pit of the Stairwell. Shadows became visible above them, shuffling and moving.
Red light from
the torch played far below them but they were wrapped now in darkness.
Hulking shapes advanced down the stairs, the shadows closing in. Ronin counted
four and
knew that there was little hope. Orange light flashed briefly on an upraised
sword and Ronin
readied himself for the desperate charge up the stairs.
A thin shadow blurred past him, hurled itself like a bolt, leaping obliquely
up the stairs,
crashing into the now quickly descending figures. The Neer!
There were shrieks, and for a terrible instant, a clawing mass of arms, legs,
and torsos was
limned in the shuddering illumination of the dying torch, and it seemed as if
the bodies hung
suspended in the air. Then they all hurtled into the black well of the pit,
gaping and irresistible.
He tried to catch a glimpse of a face, any face. The Neer's face. But the mass
had dropped out
of sight and they heard very loud the sickening wet smacks like giant sacks
ripped open far
Downshaft, reverberating up the ragged sides of the pit.
K'reen huddled against the outer wall, her body convulsed in long racking
sobs.
Ronin turned away from the well.
She came into his arms then and clung to him, trembling. 'I cannot,' she cried
through the
tears. 'I cannot - ' He stroked her hair and hugged her to him, learning
something important
about himself.
The elliptical stone slab, squat and changeless, dominated the darkness. He
stood just inside the
threshold, waiting for his pupils to dilate. They were still out there, around
the sweep of the
Corridor: daggam.
And Nirren had not been at Sehna.
Afterward, K'reen had left him to finish her Cycle's work on the Med Level.
'It will be best for
me,' she said.
There was no light anywhere, and it was very quiet, so that he would have to
be extremely
careful in his movements. The surgery looked all right. The back cubicle was
deserted.
In the Corridor, G'fand had caught him up.
'Going Upshaft?'
He nodded. 'Back to my quarters.'
'Do you mind if I accompany you part of the way?'
He did not see how he could avoid it. He was thinking only of Borros. Time was
suddenly
very important. 'Come along then.'
They passed a Stairwell and Ronin thought he could hear the lentitudinous drip
of viscous
fluid. They took the next one, climbing in silence for a time. There was a
fine dust in the air
and every now and then they heard small sounds from inside the walls.
G'fand cleared his throat. 'I just - wanted to say that - umm - no one wanted
to bring up the
subject of Class at board. In case you were wondering.'
'I was thinking on other matters.'
'Oh. Well. Everyone was a bit worried because -you know - of you perhaps being
out of Class
and-'
'I appreciate your concern.'
'We are all concerned,' G'fand said carefully.
Ronin glanced at him and smiled thinly. 'Yes. You can tell them then not to
worry.'
'But Combat is your life! I would be inconsolable!'
'You talk about it as if it were a disgrace,' said Ronin. 'I acted honourably.
It is others who
have bent the Code.'
'But it is what the Instructor says that matters,' G'fand protested,
misunderstanding him.
'Only to some people.'
'Yes,' he said bitterly, 'the ones that matter.'
Another shadow; he moved silently and swiftly across the room, touched the
wall. The
hidden door opened and he stepped through.
The small room was as it had been before: the narrow beds, the low lamps,
Borros.
He was sitting up now, staring down at the backs of his hands. The yellow
hairless head whipped
around on its long neck. The grey eyes were dull and expressionless. He stared
again at his hands.
Ronin sat beside him. 'Borros - '
'Go,' said the Magic Man in a tired voice. 'Go and tell your Saardin that the
answer is still no. It
can only be no.' The long fingers strayed to his forehead, touched the fading
Dehn spots. 'Tell
him that there is nothing left worth having. He has tried it all and failed.
All the shiny bits
gone -I can no longer remember. So his attempt to affiliate me fails, too. I
cannot help him,
even if I wanted to.' He made a gesture. 'Now go and report on what the Magic
Man has said;
perhaps he will believe you, he does not believe me.'
'Borros, you must listen to me carefully,' Ronin whispered. 'I am not a
daggam; Freidal is not
my Saardin. Frost, look at me! I was here last Cycle. You were very ill.'
The grey eyes glanced at him, dull gold in their depths. He laughed grimly.
'That is what they
call it now?' The eyes blazed briefly. 'You do not fool me. Deceit without
end; I expect it from
him. But your time is up. Let him send in the next one; but you can tell him
when you leave. It
will not work. He has failed.'
This did not sound like the man he had tried to talk to just a Cycle ago; the
man whose life
he preserved. And now he was worried because Borros no longer sounded like a
madman.
Freidal would recognize this immediately; perhaps he already had. Ronin
himself could see that
if the Magic Man had held on this long he would, finally, tell Freidal all
that he wanted to know
before he went mad, if the Saardin wanted the knowledge badly enough. Freidal
could do it, he
knew that.
'What can I do to convince you?'
Borros heard the urgency in Ronin's voice and he smiled thinly, secretively.
'All right. I direct
it. I ask, you answer. Any hesitation - any hint whatsoever that you are
fabricating your answers -
and it is over.'
'We have no time for this.' Ronin glanced at the door to the Corridor.
Borros shrugged, his lips curling. 'It is the only way.'
Ronin made a gesture. 'Get on with it then, if it will satisfy you.'
The grey eyes were cold and watchful, perfectly clear. 'I did not say that it
would.'
Ronin made an exasperated noise.
'What are you?' Borros said shortly.
'A Bladesman.'
'Who is your Saardin?'
'I have none.'
The eyes narrowed. 'What?'
'I am unaffiliated.'
His hands were like white flowers against the dark fabric of the blanket. 'An
interesting
response.' His head jerked once, involuntarily. 'Which faction will you side
with?'
'Freidal is my enemy.'
'Huh! Is that so.'
'He has already tried twice to have me killed.'
'Do you expect me to believe that?'
There were limits. Ronin grabbed the front of his shirt, jerked him forward
until their faces
were very close. 'I should have let you die last Cycle. It does not appear to
have been worth the
effort to save you.'
'Let me go.' Ronin sat back and the Magic Man pulled at the bottom of his
shirt. 'Tell me,'
Borros said, 'what happened.'
Ronin recounted the Combat with Marcsh and a wistful smile creased the Magic
Man's
countenance. 'You broke his back?' he asked. 'Are you sure?'
Ronin shrugged.
The Magic Man closed his eyes briefly. 'Oh, if it were so.' He looked at
Ronin. 'Go on.'
Ronin told him how he and K'reen had been forced to take a rarely used
Stairwell because of
the rubble, which, he believed now, had been planned; how they had found the
Neer. 'Her tag
was marked "ninety-nine" but I have no idea what she was doing that far
Upshaft. She was -
mutilated. Perhaps the loss of the arm had been an accident, but not the
tongue. She - '
Gold flecks danced in the grey eyes, and the head twitched again. He shivered.
'We could not leave her, and in the end - '
The yellow head whipped from side to side. 'I think I -'
' - she took them with her - '
'It cannot be.'
' - down into the pit.'
'No, it cannot - Her tag, you saw her tag. What was her name?'
'I do not see what - '
'Just do it!' Cold grey boring into him.
'Korabb,' said Ronin. 'Her name was Korabb.'
And abruptly, like a sword being sheathed, the eyes softened. Then the head
turned away.
'Chill take them! What have they done?'
Ronin shook his head. 'I do not understand any of this.'
'Yes,' the Magic Man said in a whisper. 'I believe that.'
'I believe at first they felt that I would never actually get so far as to
actually be able to build it,'
said Borros quietly. 'After all, Mastaad was there reporting on every step I
took. In the
beginning I paid him no notice, let him do as little as possible because that
is the way I am. But
he lacked patience and because of his singlemindedness I became suspicious.
'There are always stories, you know, of Security keeping track of all the
Magic Men, but' - he
lifted his hands - 'one is never sure what to believe. But once I was sure
that the construction
was possible I became suspicious of everyone. Then I caught him going through
my notes and I
was sure. I threw him out and burned the notes.
'He could not read them, of course, but he already knew enough to tell them
that I would
build it. So they came in directly.'
'But you said that this - Machine you had devised would be able to detect
temperature and
winds on the surface. Why - ?'
'Why are they so afraid? Because it would have proved that there is life Up
there. Human
life. They do not want that.'
He sighed. 'The old order is entrenched in its power. Never mind the
confrontation. If it
happens it will not matter who is victorious. The Saardins are secure in their
control over all
the peoples of the Freehold. The ancient patterns have been set; they are
changeless. If war
comes, there will be destruction and loss of life. But then there will be
stabilization, and the
structure will remain.'
He stared at Ronin. 'Imagine what would happen if people knew that there were
men on the
surface, that it could support life. There would be a movement to go Up, open
the Freehold,
live Above. That would blow everything apart, and their power would be gone.
Confined here,
we have no choice.'
'But we are slowly dying,' Ronin said. 'That surely must be obvious to them.'
Borros nodded. 'Oh, it is. But it is a death by slow attrition. As they view
it, death may not
truly come for a century, perhaps two. By then - ' He shrugged. 'They live in
an eternal present.'
The hands moved over the dark blanket.
'I have seen the surface,' said Ronin.
'Ah.'
'A Machine called a Lens. The surface is -covered in ice and snow.
Completely.'
The Magic Man smiled without warmth. 'Above us, yes. The ice is quite solid
for a kilometre
or more, I believe, although there is no real way of determining that. But I
have learned that the
Freehold is located near one end of the planet' -he gestured - 'like this, and
we are here, near the
top. Ice covers the planet at top and bottom. Millennia ago it was more
confined, I believe, now
it covers more of the planet. But not all. You see?
Near the centre it is warmer, the land is brown, the sun shines out of a clear
sky and heats the
land and the people.'
'How do you know this?'
Borros shrugged again. 'It is all pointless, this knowledge, for before long
we will all of us -
Freehold and surface dweller alike - be destroyed.'
'You spoke of this when you - '
'Yes, you were here, saw the state I was in. I was then more susceptible to
the emanations.'
'It was -1 felt a kind of presence.'
The Magic Man nodded. 'Entirely possible. There have been Cycles lately when
it was cer-
tainly strong enough.'
'But what is it?'
'As yet I cannot answer that. I have not the knowledge.'
'It is real.'
'Oh, yes. Just, I believe, a long way off.'
'And now - ?'
'Now we both have a decision to make. I must get to the surface, to the people
Above. There
is very little chance that this - force can be stopped. But I must try. And
so, I believe, must
you.' He said it rather smugly. Ronin disliked him, did not trust him, and yet
he knew that he
was right. It was irksome.
The thin frosty smile came again, unpleasant and inevitable. 'I see that I am
correct. All right.
It is settled. Now for the second part. Before we attempt to leave, you must
go Downshaft.'
The smile dissolved like ice in a hearth. 'You must go,' he said slowly,
'below the ninety-
ninth Level.'
'I have no ink,' he said, pricking it. 'I will give you the best description I
can but I am afraid
that my knowledge is limited.'
The blood oozed out as he squeezed the finger. 'Still, it is better than
nothing.' And he began
to draw on the fabric.
Ronin had said, 'But the ninety-ninth is the lowest Level. Below that is the
rock foundation
of the Freehold.'
'Another deception,' Borros said didactically. 'They are quite expert at it.
The remnants of
another civilization - the civilization of our ancestors - lies below the
Freehold. I am quite sure.
I know because Korabb went there.
'She was my wife. They told me she was dead, killed while working on one of
the massive
Energy Converters. Shredded beyond a hope, they said. That was six Sign ago,
and all that time I
believed - ' He shook his head. 'I do not know what I believed.'
'But what happened?'
'I shall never know. But my opinion is - Look, ten Cycles before they reported
her death, she
told me that she had found what she believed to be an entrance to a world
below the Freehold
on the ninety-ninth Level.
'I was beside myself with excitement. Why, when I thought of the secrets, the
knowledge that
such a world might contain! They couldn't very well have burned everything -
some books and
plans that had been brought Up, yes, but not the actual Machines themselves.
'I knew I could never get to that Level myself, so I urged her to do a bit of
exploring on her
own. She made one brief foray Down there and I knew I had been right.
'I believe now that they must have caught her going Down there a second time.
They would
have wanted to know what she found. Freidal would want that very much; you saw
how much.
Perhaps they let her go, afterward.'
There was silence for a while. Ronin watched the Magic Man's movements on the
scrap of
fabric.
'The answer to what comes is Down there,' Borros said. 'I know it. You must
find it and bring
it back. Only then can we leave.' He continued to draw. 'It is written on a
scroll; written in
peculiar glyphs. Here, I am writing glyphs in that mode so that you will
recognize them. The
scroll will have a heading. Look, this is it. That is all I know. It will tell
us much about that
which comes, perhaps even describe a method of defence. Who knows?' He
shrugged again,
and looked up for the last time. 'It is our only hope.' And gave him the scrap
of fabric, stiff now
with the drying blood.
'And, Ronin,' he said blandly, 'try to get back before they rend me to
pieces.'

The panel seemed easy enough to understand; if only it worked.
They heard the sounds of boots, soft voices, indistinct but drawing closer
from beyond the
Corridor's turning.
Ronin pressed a button and the Lift's massive metal doors slid shut, sealing
them in velvet
blackness and total silence.
'We are not moving.'
He groped in the darkness, pushed a sphere marked for ninety-five. Close
enough. It glowed a
cold blue and they began to descend.
He had been in one before and immediately he knew it was all wrong. Instead of
the steady
humming descent, the Lift plunged in jerks and starts, so that they had
trouble keeping their
footing and were forced to brace themselves against the walls.
They continued to drop with increasing speed now and the vibrations became
more
pronounced, the swinging of the Lift more erratic.
They felt the • lurch then and their stomachs seemed to rise sickeningly. They
felt light. The
cable had snapped, he realized. They were hurtling down the Lift shaft at
tremendous speed.
Their ears blocked, and he heard a moaning beside him.
There was a time when he would not have been able to tell. Certain
fundamentals had to be
pointed out, explained, and then incorporated so that they became reflexive.
And then it was a
matter of sharpening the instincts. It took time.
He stood at the threshold of his quarters and knew someone was inside. He
realized it as he
was reaching for the Overhead panel. He left the rooms dark and, conscious
that he was a perfect
silhouette in the glow of the Corridor Overheads, went swiftly, silently in.
Across the room, hanging on the wall, was his scabbarded sword. It seemed very
far away.
He went across to it and no one stopped him. Slowly he withdrew the blade,
keeping the
doorway to the rear room in his line of vision.
He came into the rear room very quickly, crossing the threshold and lighting
the Overheads
simultaneously, his sword above his eyes to shield them from the first bloom
of the light.
G'fand blinked at him, squinting. He wore dark leggings and a light shirt of
heavy material.
'What are you doing here?' Ronin said with some annoyance, to cover his
relief.
The Scholar was pale and drawn, as if he had not slept for some time.
'I came to talk to you. To tell you something.' Despite his obvious tiredness,
there seemed a
certain resolution about him, perhaps in the way he stood, which Ronin had not
seen before.
'Why are you hiding back here then?'
'I heard someone about to come in and I suddenly thought that it might be
K'reen.'
Ronin could not help smiling. 'I am quite sure she would have understood.'
G'fand flushed slightly. 'I - it might have been embarrassing.'
Ronin turned and went into the larger room. G'fand followed.
Ronin lit the Overheads and took the scabbard off the wall, strapped it on.
'Tell me what is so
important.'
G'fand ran his fingers through his long hair. 'I cannot bear to be here a
moment longer. I must
leave. I know what you must think! But at least you can understand why I. must
go. If leaving
means freezing on the surface, then I tell you I find that preferable to the
living death of the
Freehold. At least I shall be free for a time, my own master. Here, I am
encased, unable to breathe.'
Unaccountably, Ronin found himself thinking of the Salamander's vast library.
Rows and
rows of books that G'fand would never have an opportunity to read.
'Calm yourself,' he said. 'I do not think you truly mean that.'
'But I do!' There was a sadness now in the Scholar's voice. 'You are like all
the rest. You do
not think I am a man. But I have some proficiency with weapons now - I can use
sword and
dagger - ' '
'And how will you eat?' Ronin asked, reaching into the high wardrobe and
withdrawing a
light mailed corselet.
'With these,' G'fand said proudly. From under his shirt he produced two bands
wide enough to
fit snugly around a man's upper arm.
Ronin paused. 'Food bands. Where did you get those?'
'I stole them. And do not worry, they will not be missed.'
Ronin donned the metal corselet. 'You are serious then?'
G'fand nodded. 'That I am.'
Abruptly something the Scholar had said floated up from the recesses of his
mind: / have partially
deciphered the glyphs of the very ancient writing. It had meant nothing to him
at the time, but now -
'A journey is what you need. Is that correct?'
G'fand gave him a puzzled look. 'Ronin, I must get out now - this Spell.'
He took something out of the wardrobe, held it in his hand. 'Come with me
instead.'
'With you? But what - ?' The Scholar was staring at the food band Ronin was
holding. He
watched, fascinated, as Ronin worked it on to his arm.
'What do you say? I leave now.'
'But where - ? I don't - '
'With luck, out of the Freehold. I will explain it on the way. Fetch your
weapons.' He reached for
his dagger.
The close air was filled with a high keening sound that wavered in tone but
built in intensity. The Lift
shook as it dropped, trying to shake itself apart.
Ronin pressed the other floor spheres on the panel in front of him. They lit
up in twos and rees
as his fingers touched them. The Lift contin--d its mad flight, their cold
blue glow mocking.
He remembered, then. The red sphere at the top of the panel. He hit it.
The Lift slammed to a halt and their legs buckled like fabric. The car hung,
quivering, suspended in
the shaft, the broken cable above them singing as it snaked on to the top of
the Lift. Ronin regained
his feet, took several deep breaths. G'fand was still on his haunches, sobbing
in great lungfuls of air.
'Ronin, we -'
'No time. We have got to get out of here quickly. I have no idea how long this
brake will
hold.' His hands worked at the panel but the doors remained shut. He drove his
fingers at the centre
seam of the doors. 'Come on! We must open it up.'
G'fand was on his knees. He put his hands on his thighs and lifted his head.
Sweat had
matted his long hair across his forehead and along his cheeks. He looked as if
he were bound to
the floor.
'We - we almost died - '
'G'fand, the doors!'
'Crushed like vermin - bones to jelly - ' His eyes were glazed; he was dazed
by the force of his
imagination.
Ronin turned and pulled him to his feet, attempting to transmit some of his
strength. 'G'fand, we
are not dead!' Their faces were very close. 'But we soon may be unless we get
out of here! I
cannot do this myself. I need your help.'
His eyes focused then. 'Yes. Yes. We will open the doors. The two of us.'
They dug their fingers into the centre seam, both pulling from the same side.
They heaved and
strained until their arms ached and their stretched shoulder joints burned and
the water rolled
down their faces and into their eyes, making them sting and clouding their
vision. Muscles
popped and their legs stiffened with the effort. They clenched their teeth and
the cords along
their necks stood out.
And minutely they felt the door move. They panted like animals but speech was
too much
added effort and they pulled with renewed determination. And slowly, slowly,
the door slid back.
They stooped when it was open wide enough for them to get through, dropped
their arms,
which felt as heavy as iron, and gasped at the air. Their mouths were dry.
They looked up then and found that they were between Levels. But they were in
luck. Perhaps
a metre above them beckoned the open entrance to a Level, the protective doors
having been
sheared away at some previous time, stumps hanging like rotted teeth.
There came an ominous groaning as of tortured metal, and the Lift lurched
sickeningly. Ronin
put his hands together and G'fand stepped on to them, launching himself upward
until he could grasp
the lip of the entrance. The groaning came again and he strained, lifting one
knee, finally levering
himself up on to the Level.
The Lift lurched again and, below him, Ronin's ears were filled with a
metallic shrieking. The
Lift trembled and slid and he saw the walls of the shaft rise as the brake
began to give way.
The Lift lurched sideways, caught on a protrusion in the shaft, and Ronin
coiled his body and
leapt. The screaming of hot metal was all that he could hear. His fingers
caught the lip of the
Level, but one hand, slick with sweat, slid off and he hung for a moment,
swinging with
unwanted momentum by one arm until G'fand reached down, grasped the free hand,
and
pulled up. He felt the Lift shudder once again and the top of the car slid
down. He pushed
with his arms, propelling himself on to the Level, and G'fand pulled him from
the lip of the
entrance, as with a terrible grinding the Lift plummeted down the shaft, the
car's top several
centimetres from cutting Ronin in two.
They were assaulted by the combined stench of rotting garbage, excrement, and
myriad
unwashed bodies. The odour grew as they passed doorways, black and gaping.
G'fand peered
into one and gasped, choked. Ronin held his breath and pulled him quickly
back. Still he caught
a glimpse of white bone, a staring human eye, blackness where the other should
have been. There
was the impression of much movement along the floor, the sounds of soft
scuttling.
'Where are we?' G'fand whispered.
Ronin shrugged. 'Far Downshaft, anyway.'
'What do we do now?'
'Find another way Downshaft to the ninety-ninth.' He pointed. 'We will try
this way.'
The corridor curved away from them, dim and grimy with disrepair. Ronin
thought, Could we be
as far Down as the Workers' Levels? The Overheads were going. They glowed
dismally, sputtering
at spots, completely burned out at others. Apparently they had been dark for
some time, because
torches crackled and flared in makeshift niches carved crudely into the walls.
So what light there was
was a bizarre blend of fiery orange and cold blue-white.
They paused once to listen but all they could hear was the background drone of
dripping water
and tiny scurrying feet.
They went quickly and quietly. The walls here had lost all semblance of
colour. Theoretically all
Levels were colour coded so that one could tell at a glance what Level one was
on. But these walls
were covered with a thick coating of filth on to which obscene words and
grotesque pictures had
been drawn or roughly carved. Their obvious anguish was appalling.
They spied no one. Now and again they passed cracks in the ceiling and walls,
extended networks
of neglect, the damage once or twice so extensive that the sections on either
side no longer matched.
Several times they were obliged to clamber over blocks of rubble where parts
of the Corridor had
collapsed. The light grew perceptibly dimmer.
Ronin paused, extending an arm, holding G'fand back. He peered ahead. They
went forward
slowly about six metres and stopped abruptly.
It looked as if a gigantic fist had smashed into the Corridor. Something
apparently had exploded
with tremendous force from the inner Well, tearing open the wall, crumbling
the floor for a
space of a metre and a half. They peered cautiously into the gaping hole.
There appeared to be a
fire burning below on what they took to be the next Level.
G'fand wiped at his forehead. 'Frost!' he whispered. 'What is happening?'
Ronin said nothing. He looked across the face of the pit.
'Perhaps we should see if we can help.'
'These Levels appear to be deserted,' Ronin said somewhat distractedly.
'Still -'
'Our problem is how to cross this pit. There is nothing we could do in any
event.'
G'fand looked up out of the flickering light. 'Why not retrace our steps and
traverse the Corri-
dor from the opposite direction?'
'Too much time lost, and the Corridor might be in worse repair. We press
onward here; there
is no turning back.'
He stepped into the dark of the blown wall and, after a moment, called to
G'fand. He had
found a metal beam, set free of its foundations by the collapse. They set to
work manoeuvring
it through the gap in the wall and setting it down in the Corridor. Then they
pushed it across the
diameter of the pit, found that it was long enough to reach the floor on the
other side. He stood
on it, bounced slightly, testing it.
He went first.      It was narrow,    barely seven centimetres wide, but it
was twisted very little,
so that the surface was fairly smooth and even.
The pit blossomed before him, lurid orange light twisting in the darkness like
a bloated ser-
pent, alive and deadly, far, far below. Swinging in short arcs, light receding
and approaching,
forming patterns. And vertigo lapped at the edges of his vision, waves
forming. After that he
did not look into the depths, but concentrated on his booted feet as they
inched along the beam.
One step at a time. Centimetre by centimetre, arms outstretched for balance.
And at last he was
across.
He turned and beckoned to G'fand, who stepped up on the beam and moved out
over the pit.
Ronin called to him: 'Concentrate on your movement; feel your feet against the
metal. That's
right, one at a time. Slowly now. Careful, feel your balance. There. Now.'
G'fand was almost halfway across when his back foot slipped as he put his
weight on it and he
lurched to one side, over the yawning pit. He fell. And reached up
desperately, in reflex, one
hand hitting the beam, the fingers finding purchase. He swung dizzyingly in
short arcs, his
other hand scrabbling to find the beam.
Ronin first thought of pushing himself out on his stomach to get to him, but
he did not trust
the beam to hold them both and there was no time to find out. 'G'fand,' he
called, 'let your legs
hang, do not move them, you must stop the swing. All right, now reach up. No,
to the left. Yes,
more; now stretch.'
G'fand now gripped the beam with both hands, and hung like a vertical bar,
arms stretched
above him. He looked at Ronin. Hair was in his eyes and he shook his head in
an attempt to free
his vision, and his slippery hands skidded on the metal. He caught himself
just in time.
'Easy, easy,' said Ronin. 'Listen to me, G'fand, and do exactly as I tell you.
Put one hand in
front of the other. Look up, not down.' The strain showed on the Scholar's
face. 'Good. Now
again. Think of only the next movement. One at a time. Good. Again.' He spoke
to him in a
steady stream and in this way G'fand made his painful way across the remaining
length of the
beam, until, reaching out, Ronin was at last able to pull him up from the edge
of the abyss.
G'fand's body shook and he turned away from Ronin and was violently sick.
And now dark smoke and choking fumes rose in thin swirling clouds from the
Level below.
And now the fitful glow appeared brighter through the gaping rent. And now
they heard the
muffled pounding of running feet, and under it a dry, crackling sound,
abnormally distinct and
clear on the close air.
Ronin, crouched along one slimy wall, dragged G'fand along the Corridor, well
clear of the
rubble surrounding the hole. He pulled him off the floor and said, gently,
very close to his face,
breathing the sour smell, 'I am sorry but we must move on -at once.'
G'fand wiped his mouth and nodded. 'Yes, yes,' he whispered. 'I am all right.'
They moved on
as swiftly as they could.
Presently they encountered "the first people either of them had seen on this
Level. They were
all dead. Bodies were strewn about the Corridor as if hurled through the air
by some titanic
force. They lay burned - some so badly that they could not make out their
features - maimed
and broken, amid viscous puddles of dark seeping blood. G'fand stared
wide-eyed. 'By the
Chill! What has happened here?'
Ronin said nothing, and they plunged on into the murk of the curving Corridor,
away and
away, over the stinking mounds of the bodies. No Bladesmen here, and Ronin
knew that he had
been right; they were far Downshaft, among the Workers.
He paused as a small indistinct shape fled from out of a doorway, running at
full speed into
him. He grabbed hold, almost losing his balance, and looked down to see a
small girl
struggling in his arms. He picked her up and looked closely at her, the first
sign of life they had
encountered on this Level. She had thin pinched features visible
intermittently beneath long
lank hair whipping about as she writhed against his grip. She was sobbing, and
through her
tears Ronin saw that her eyes held a measure of torment that startled him.
'Are you hurt?' he asked, but she would not or could not answer.
G'fand touched Ronin and pointed ahead. A figure had reeled out of the
doorway from which
the girl had run. A tall gaunt woman with short hair and a hungry mouth and
dull eyes. She
saw them.
She ran unsteadily towards them. She screamed, 'What are you doing to her?'
She rushed down the
Corridor at them. The child cringed and screamed as the woman reached out one
long clawlike
hand, dirty, the nails broken far down their length. The child clung to Ronin
with a strange
desperation. Then the woman took her.
She raised her right hand, brandishing a long curved blade, crusty with dried
blood. 'Animals!
You're not content with me, you take her too - '
'She ran into - ' Ronin began, but the woman was not listening.
'Taking her off to some dark room, were you? Get away!' she screamed, and
whirled, pulling
the girl behind her back along the Corridor, disappearing through the doorway
from which they
both had emerged. Ronin still felt the clutch of the girl, felt from far away
his lost sister's arms
around him.
He began to run, calling, 'Come on!' over his shoulder, and heard G'fand
coming after him.
Bursting through the doorway.
Dim and smoky. Rooms much smaller than Upshaft. Three rooms to a quarters, two
or three
families. The rooms were a shambles. Broken furniture, shards of pottery,
ripped fabric, the floor
slippery-sticky with an indistinguishable amalgam of liquids. Nothing moved
here and they went
on into the second.
Ronin saw an arm protruding from a pile of refuse. He drew his blade and
uncovered the body.
It was a Worker, thick chest and arms, squat. By his outstretched hand was a
heavy lever,
ripped from a Machine, obviously used as a club. He turned the body. The
Worker's chest was
a pulpy mass and there was so much blood that they could not count the number
of times he had
been stabbed.
'Frost!' he muttered. 'Have they all gone mad?'
G'fand turned his head away.
They moved into the last room. A lamp burned, hung from the ceiling, swaying
slightly so
that shadows moved and perspective was shattered.
The woman knelt on a bed at the rear wall. A washstand had been knocked over.
The
woman grasped the sobbing girl in one hand, and with the other arm, the hand
still gripping the
blade so hard that the knuckles were white, she held a limp figure to her. Her
eyes were wide
and staring blankly. A thin line of spittle drooled from a corner of her
mouth. They paused just
inside the doorway.
'Fiends!' she cried. 'One more step an' you'll get what your friend out there
got!'
G'fand stared at her and choked. 'You did that?'
She laughed, a throaty, chilling sound, and her eyes rolled madly in their
sockets. The girl
struggled to get free. 'Aye, that. Surprised, are ya, well so was he!' Her
eyes wavered and
dropped for an instant to the head of the small figure she was cradling.
'See,' she wailed. 'Look upon your work! Fiends' work!' And she turned the
limp figure, and
they saw a thin young boy, perhaps somewhat older than the girl, same dark
pinched features.
'See how you have defiled my son! See how you have taken his life!' Her voice
rose, and
quickly she clutched the boy back to her. Strength seemed to flood into her
then, and she drew
herself up defiantly. 'You'll get no satisfaction here! Not this time!'
Too late Ronin realized that she had spied his drawn sword. Too late he
divined her intent.
She pulled the girl to her, the child's eyes round and staring, a high keening
coming from her
open mouth, and as Ronin leapt she drew the long curving blade across the
girl's trembling
throat. A gout of blood erupted and the keening became a thick gurgle, and she
twisted the
body behind her so that he fell atop her.
But the blade was now behind him, out of his line of vision. He dropped his
sword to free his
hands. He twisted to find the knife before it found him.
He was aware of her arm moving swiftly and then he felt her convulse violently
under him,
arched and stiffened. A smile came to her face at the same time the trickle of
blood did. He
looked down to see the knife plunged hilt deep into her side. He tried to
withdraw it, but her
fist, locked in a death grip, would not give up the hilt. A kind of relief
suffused her face. Then
he felt a spreading wetness, hot and sickening.
He backed off the bed on his knees. A sudden dizziness threatened to overwhelm
him.
Reflexively, he retrieved his sword. G'fand moved to the edge of the bed.
'What - ?' But Ronin
waved him wordlessly away. 'Out!' he managed to gasp.
'But
'Out!' he bellowed. And they stumbled through the reeking rooms out into the
Corridor, raced
along its curving length.
They almost overran the familiar bulge of a Lift's doors, and heaving them
apart they pitched
inside, closing the doors behind them.
In warm darkness they sat, panting, and listened to the soft silence as their
pulses slowed and
breathing returned to normal. It seemed like a long time.
Presently Ronin heard G'fand stir.
'I have that trapped feeling again, as if the walls are closing in on me. The
Freehold is dying, it's
all coming apart.' He shifted. 'How far Downshaft are we?'
Ronin stood and moved his fingers over the Lift's control panel. He pressed a
sphere and the
doors opened, closed again. 'According to the Lift, the seventy-first Level.
Perhaps we can take it
all the way to the ninety-fifth.'
'Is that all you can think of,' G'fand said accusingly, 'after all we have
witnessed. The Lower
Levels are going - the Workers murdering one another - total madness!'
There was no response from Ronin. 'By the Chill, you are like ice,' G'fand
said bitterly. 'Noth-
ing affects you! We have just seen things that have
wrenched my stomach. What flows through your veins? Surely not blood!'
Ronin looked down at him, his colourless eyes barely discernible, and said,
'You are free, as
you always were, to return Upshaft, to attempt even to reach the surface.'
G'fand put his head down and would not meet Ronin's gaze. Their harsh
breathing was all
that could be heard for a while.
When he was certain that G'fand would stay, he punched the sphere marked
'ninety-five'. It
glowed and they commenced to sink rapidly and smoothly Downshaft. G'fand stood
up. The
Lift hummed. Ronin drew his dagger. The Lift sighed to a halt. The doors
opened soundlessly.
He had assumed that since no Lift they had been in went as far as the
ninety-ninth Level, they
would be obliged to take a Stairwell the rest of the way. He saw now that he
had been
mistaken.
There was no Corridor. They stood instead upon a metal-grillwork scaffold
arcing away from
them on either side until it was lost to view in the haze.
Space. Where the inner wall of the Corridor should have been was enormous
space. Ronin
had never seen so much open space. G'fand stared with his mouth partly open.
They moved slowly to the low metal railing that ran around the inner edge of
the scaffolding.
And looked down.
Immense geometric shapes, some simple, others extremely complex, all
stupefying in size,
studded
the vast gallery below them. And now Ronin knew why the Lifts descended only
as far as the
ninety-fifth Level. They were peering down into an area four Levels high.
Perhaps the sides of
the gallery themselves were Machines. The life of the Freehold, he thought.
Without these we die.
A deep humming filled the air, permeating it so that it seemed to flutter
before their eyes. Soft
blue haze hung in the air, trembling minutely. Light came from an
unidentifiable source, lost
somewhere above them. It was very warm, and a sharp, pungent smell, not at all
disagreeable,
floated on the air. Over the droning of the Machines they could just make out,
now and then,
the faint chatter of voices. Oddly, the sound heartened them.
They began to walk along the scaffold and at length they came upon a square
opening cut
into the outer edge abutting the sheer wall. Ronin looked down. A vertical
ladder stretched
away into the haze. It appeared clear. They descended, Ronin holding the
dagger in his mouth,
teeth locked on the hilt. As they went, they passed other scaffolds at regular
intervals. They were
deserted. He counted seven before they reached the floor of the gallery.
The thrumming was more insistent here, seeping up through the soles of their
boots into their
legs. The close air smelled of artificial heat and what Ronin knew to be
lubricant. He had
smelled it enough on Neers. The Machines rose all about them, a lush humid
forest, strange and
compelling. The light was dimmer, the blue haze thicker.
Off to their left, three Neers stood debating, their voices smeared by the
background sounds.
The air hung like sheets.
They hunkered down by the purring side of a Machine, aware of its warmth, and
Ronin
unfolded the crude map the Magic Man had drawn for him. G'fand ate several
mouthfuls of food
while Ronin studied the piece of fabric.
The trouble was that the map had been drawn assuming that they had come to the
ninety-
ninth Level via the designated Lift, the one that had failed. Although he knew
in which
direction they had gone on the seventy-first Level, he had only a rough idea
of the distance they
had travelled before coming upon the second Lift. The map covered very little
of the geography
of the ninety-ninth Level. He would have to estimate the difference in their
position, a dangerous
but necessary action.
G'fand, still chewing, wiped a greasy hand across his mouth and rubbed it on
his breeches.
He swallowed. 'Do you know where we have to go?'
Ronin pointed away from the group of gesticulating Neers. 'This way. No
noise.'
They slipped from Machine to Machine, the bulky shapes looming out of the haze
to offer
transitory shelter. He took them on a zigzag course out across the floor of
the gallery.
Rapidly the walls receded from their view, and G'fand, glancing up, fancied
they were adrift
in an ephemeral, forbidding world. He felt an odd discomfort without the
security of walls
about him.
They had covered almost a kilometre and had begun to sweat profusely in the
damp heat,
when Ronin brought them to a halt. In the shadow of a squat Machine they stood
very still and
listened to the voices just ahead of them.
'This is leading nowhere.'
'Don't I know it! We've been here for over a Spell. Are you certain you
checked the generator
in Block Twelve?'
'Checked and rechecked. If there is any connection it is beyond me.'
'Beyond all of us, I am afraid.'
There came the sounds of metal against metal, a light scraping, and then a
sigh.
'I don't know. What if we tried the second Level with all the power on?'
'Um, it might work at that. Just make sure - '
The conversation receded as they crept away. Following their short detour
around the Neers,
they resumed their oblique course across the gallery.
The huge circular Machine stood at the end of a broad area, wider than most of
the spaces
between the hulking shapes. They dared not approach it directly for fear of
being detected
either by Neers or by daggam.
They moved cautiously along a narrow aisle parallel to the one leading to the
Machine. The
heat increased and they had to will themselves not to pant. They were obliged
to stop twice to
let Security patrols pass them on perpendicular but intersecting routes. Each
time Ronin waited
long minutes after they had passed before proceeding. Once they almost ran
into the back of a
daggam who stepped out into their aisle, and they shrank back into the
shadows, waiting
breathlessly until he moved away.
Crouching low, they made their way, skirting the Machine, until, having seen
it from all
sides, Ronin judged the way to be clear. Once more he consulted the map, to be
certain that
they approached it from the right direction. They moved towards it.
It cast its own long shadow, the promise of a haven, a towering structure of
incomprehensible function, wider at the bottom than the top, all sharp angles
and crenellations.
Lights flashed along its summit, smoky in the haze. It seemed to be
vibrationless.
They paused in the meagre shadow of a small Machine, about to make the final
approach.
Ronin held them there. It did not feel right. They sweated.
Three daggam converged on the Machine that was their goal. Their conversation
dissipated
on the active air. Presently, they split up, went out of his sight. Still he
waited-
A black cloud bloomed to their left, the way they had come. A crash filled the
air and they
felt the floor tremble slightly beneath them. They heard the sound of running
feet. They
ventured a look. The cloud had ballooned out, staining the haze. Lemon flame
licked below it.
'What happened?' G'fand whispered.
Ronin smiled thinly. 'I believe the two Neers we passed knew less about that
Machine than
they thought.' He saw daggam running towards the fire, and touched G'fand.
They dashed across the open area and into the shadow of the towering Machine
marked on the
Magic Man's map. Ronin put a palm flat against the metal side. It was still.
Perhaps it was the
structure's quiescence that had led Korabb to begin her clandestine
exploration. They moved along
the side.
It did not look like an entrance but then it did not look like much of
anything save a wall of
metal. There was a wheel to turn, it was that simple. Ronin turned it
withershins as far as it would
go. A disc approximately a metre and a half wide was now raised from the
surface of the Machine.
They grasped the right edge of the ellipse and pulled. An opening yawned
before them.
Without hesitation Ronin stepped in; G'fand followed. As soon as they were
across the threshold,
the oval closed of its own accord.
They were in impenetrable blackness.
A vertiginous sense of space, echoing minutely. Silence, almost. A damp rich
smell. Far away, a
sound: persistent but so very distant that it was indefinable: a kind of
seething.
G'fand fumbled out his tinder box, and lit a torch he produced from his belt.
An oval tunnel danced before them, black with age. Underfoot the floor sloped
gently downward.
They went down into the dark and presently they began to feel a chill breeze
on their faces and
G'fand was obliged to protect the now-whipping flame from extinguishing. Beads
of moisture
clung to the walls and fairly soon they encountered cones of what appeared to
be ice growing
down out of the ceiling. Some were mottled grey but others contained streaks
of orange and light
green, magenta and deep blue. They became more numerous until Ronin and G'fand
had the
discomforting sensation of being turned upside down, as if they were walking
on the ceiling
instead of on the floor.
At first they had paused every so often to listen behind them until Ronin was
satisfied that
they had not been observed entering the portal and that there was no pursuit.
After more than
half a Spell, the tunnel commenced to slant more sharply downward and they had
to be more
careful of their footing. The walls grew slimy and different in texture and
Ronin had G'fand
bring the light closer to the side. Masses of a grey-blue lichen completely
covered the walls,
glinting oddly in the light.
Ronin told G'fand to gut the flame. At once they were engulfed in an eerie
bluish glow. 'The
lichen is phosphorescent,' G'fand exclaimed. 'I have seen the like in some of
the food-growing
vats. It's thrown away.' They found that they had to get used to the new
light. Light colours -
G'fand's shirt, for instance, where the fabric showed through the grime and
dried sweat -jumped
out disconcertingly; other dark colours vanished altogether unless one was
very close to them.
The low seething sound that had been with them since they first entered the
tunnel grew more
distinct although they were still at a loss to define it.
They paused once to eat and rest, pulling at the tough pressed food from the
bands, backs
against the cushiony walls, legs stretched out before them. They talked of
inconsequential matters,
deliberately avoiding certain topics that were all too much on their minds.
They resumed the march and presently the sound increased in volume with such a
rush that
they felt as if they had opened an unseen door. It washed over them,
reverberating down the
tunnel, and they perceived a slight change in the light.
Just ahead they found a gigantic aperture in the wall to their right. There
was a glow beyond;
coloured lights swam. A promontory beckoned to them.
They looked out into a cavern so vast that it seemed to have no end. Streaks
of pastel light
drew themselves upon the air, and by their uncertain illumination Ronin and
G'fand were able to
make out the enormous arch of the waterfall thundering out from a rock face,
cascading down in
a froth of turbid silvery spray into the bed of a snaking river glinting far
far below. The echoing
boom of the kinetic water reflected back at them like a physical presence
enfolding them. They
stood transfixed at the sight.
G'fand said something but Ronin could not hear him for the noise. He leaned
closer and repeated,
'I never knew such a thing still existed. I had read -it is something out of
legend!'
Ronin turned to him. 'Time to go,' he yelled over the roar.
Apparently the glowing lichen needed a great deal of moisture in order to
survive, for as they
left the waterfall behind them, they noticed that the breeze was now less
damp. With that the
light became dim and they began to encounter patches of bare wall with
increasing frequency
until G'fand was forced to relight the torch.
Ronin had estimated that they had descended over a kilometre - although they
had actually
walked many times that - when he spied something ahead. A lighter patch of
darkness. Cau-
tiously but with an increasing sense of anticipation, they approached it. And
at last they found
themselves standing at the end of the tunnel.
Before them a wide ramp led down to a broad avenue that seemed to be roughly
the centre of a
dizzying jumble of buildings extending away on all sides, vanishing in the
thick air. The
structures were bewildering in their construction, each one a complex of
styles and shapes
apparently mortared together at random. Large windows crowded upon small ones,
balconies
cut into rooftops of abutting buildings, what they took to be doorways hung
suspended five and
six storeys above street level.
G'fand gaped. And for an instant Ronin experienced a vertigo so intense that
he almost fell. He
blinked. And breathed slowly and deeply, exhaling more than he inhaled to
empty his system and
replenish it.
Beside him, G'fand whispered in an awed voice, 'It is. It must be. The City of
Ten Thousand
Paths.' Ronin looked at his transfigured face. 'The city of our forefathers,
where everything was
possible. Ronin, I could have been anything I desired here. They knew - so
much, so much.' He
shook his head and gripped Ronin's arm. 'You do not know what this means! It
is like a dream -
all that I wished for and had no hope of obtaining. It is all here!'
Ronin smiled briefly. 'Do you remember when we were young they used to
frighten us when
we were mischievous with tales of the City of Ten Thousand Paths?'
G'fand could not tear his eyes away from the cityscape. 'Yes.' He nodded.
'They tried to scare
me, but I paid them little heed. As a child I was afraid of nothing.'
'And now?'
His breath quickened. His voice was a whisper. 'And now - now I am frightened
of a great
many things.'
The sweet smell of ancient decay was in the air, and the soft dry tickle at
the back of the throat
caused by aeons of fine dust floating like gravid spores, cloying, as if they
had entered a garden
filled with dying flowers.
And they went down the broad ramp into a dense and appalling silence. The
creak of their
leather, the soft slap of their boots against the rough metal, seemed to be
swallowed whole in that
vast bowl of quietude.
They tried to use the central avenue but found that, inexplicably, no doorways
or windows were
to be found on the sides of the buildings facing them. So they were obliged,
perforce, to choose at
random one of the narrow, twisting streets of which there were a bewildering
profusion.
Numerous balconies of all sizes sculpted with decorative cementwork hung above
their heads
and very little light filtered through the maze of architecture. Yet it was
enough to see satisfactorily
without the aid of the torch.
And the city was not without an aura, promising a mysteriousness like the
aroma of an exotic
spice sniffed from far away: powerful, elusive.
The streets were cobbled in stone, slightly rounded down the centre so that it
was higher than the
sides. They shone dully in the diffused light.
There was no sign of refuse or decay out here although sections of the cobbles
appeared to be so
dark that it seemed as if dirt had been ground into them for centuries until
it was now part of
the stone.
They heard it at the same time, their heads lifted, questing. It had sounded
like the tail end of
a growl. They stopped and listened but the silence had closed down upon them
again so that even
the sounds of their breathing seemed muffled and peculiar to them. They drew
their swords,
glint of light on polished metal.
Ronin pointed with the tip of his blade to a small wooden door set in a
two-storey building
just behind them. G'fand nodded. They moved carefully along the cobbles, aware
that they
were not used to the surface. G'fand flattened himself against the wall of the
building just
beyond the door as Ronin inched it open with the toe of his boot and stood
back.
The interior was dark. They heard no sound. Ronin made a sign and G'fand
nodded again
and they went swiftly and silently through the doorway. Ronin immediately
stepped to one
side so that his body would not be silhouetted by the light from outside. He
turned, and shoved
G'fand to the side, into the shadows.
The room appeared to be much larger than he had anticipated because it was
very deep. He
could make out wooden beams set at intervals along the low ceiling and the
deep shadows of
heavy furniture. Nothing moved.
Then there came a low cough from a corner and
now they could make out two red pinpoints, low, glowing, remote. Outside, the
golden light filtered
down and the silence hung like a thick winter's shroud. The pinpoints moved
and there was
another cough, louder, more menacing. The red eyes stared unblinkingly at him,
black pupils at
their centres very small. They advanced on him. Outside, the silence was a
protection against danger,
the light spilling like thick honey assuring safe passage. It was part of
another world, as remote
and unattainable as the Salamander's atrium.
Ronin crouched, turned sideways, gripped his sword with both hands, muscles
along his arms
and thighs tensing as he heard the soft scraping.
The eyes, half a metre above the floor, were not human, of that he was
certain. He moved slowly
to the left, attempting to coax the thing into the light from the open
doorway, but it kept stead-
fastly to the darkness. The scraping came again. Ronin was now almost shoulder
to shoulder with
G'fand.
The thing moved towards them and below the baleful gaze of the eyes a very dim
glow of
long yellow teeth appeared and then winked out. A soft clicking. The cough
came again, and Ronin
advanced to meet the shape, moving into the deeper shadows.
'Come back - ' G'fand whispered, but he was cut short by a clear dry laugh.
Light blazed in front of them, illuminating the room: a torch.
'Frost!' breathed G'fand.
Ronin looked first at the little man, because he held the torch. He was on a
staircase off to
their right, which they had not been able to see before. He walked down the
wooden stairs and
over to the thing, which crouched two metres in front of them, touching a hand
to its back. He
had an odd gait.
'Ahahaha! Hynd guards the way,' said the little man in a peculiar raspy voice.
He grinned
ingenuously.
He was not over a metre in height, his gaunt face belying his thick barrel
chest. He had long
white hair held in place by a dark leather band and a grizzled beard with more
grey than white
in it. He had a high forehead and cheekbones, a long thin nose, dark green
eyes set wide apart.
Ronin was certain that his skin had a yellowish tinge. His mouth split again
as he laughed.
The thing, which he now scratched behind its small ears, and to which Ronin
now directed
his attention, had a different countenance entirely. It had a long
wicked-looking snout covered
in short brown fur and its large red eyes gleamed from out of a long tapering
skull. Its body
was perhaps two metres in length, its four legs ending in clawed toes. It had
a long thin tail that
whipped back and forth like a piece of wire. The body was shiny, covered in a
hide ridged and
scaly. The whiskers on its snout flicked the air continuously. In all, it
partially resembled the
rodents that inhabited the Freehold's walls. Except for the size.
'Allow me to introduce myself,' said the little man. 'I am Bonneduce the
Last.' He bowed,
then cocked his head quizzically. 'And you are - ?'
Ronin told him.
'And of course you have already met Hynd,' laughed Bonneduce the Last, 'my
friend and
protector.'
The animal coughed again, and Ronin saw clearly the sharpness of its teeth.
The little man
bent to its ear. 'Friends.' It was like an exhalation. 'Friends.'
'You take a great deal for granted,' G'fand said. Ronin sheathed his sword.
Bonneduce the Last lifted his thick eyebrows. 'Is that so? You are from up
there.' He gestured.
'There is no reason for you to wish me harm. Quite the contrary.'
'Huh,' grunted G'fand. 'You have not met with our Security daggam.'
'How did you know we were from the Freehold?' asked Ronin softly.
'Bones told me,' the little man answered, his head still cocked.
'What!' G'fand sheathed his blade.
'But I have forgotten my manners,' said Bonneduce the Last. 'You must forgive
me setting
Hynd out. After all, one cannot be too careful; no indeed, not these days.' He
sighed, walked to
a wall, and set the torch in a blackened metal niche. Ronin saw then that one
leg was shorter than
the other. 'Times past it was different, oh my, yes. One could walk the paths
with no need of
protection at all.' He turned back to them. 'But that was a long time ago, a
long time' - he shook
his head -
'before the Dark Sections. But now - ' He shrugged resignedly. 'Well, times
change, bringing with
them their own fortunes.'
He waved an arm. 'But come, make yourselves comfortable, for I know that you
have travelled
hard and far this day. And please, do not be concerned with Hyrid.' He touched
the animal on the
snout and it lay down with a sigh. 'You see, he knows you now - your scent -
he will not harm you.'
They sat in wide comfortable chairs while Bon-neduce the Last closed the front
door and went to
fetch wine and food.
The dark panelled walls, the tall heavily carved cabinets, the huge stone
fireplace filled with fra-
grant black wood and white ashes, the massive plush chairs in which they
reclined, all exuded age
and a singular kind of dignity.
Hynd had put his long snout on his forepaws and was now asleep. From somewhere
within the
depths of the house they heard a soft precise ticking. G'fand rose and moved
about the room,
peering at objects of unreflective metal and polished stone, running his
fingertips along the edges of
the sculpted wood. His face was dark and worried.
Ronin looked at him. 'What troubles you?'
G'fand tapped distractedly at the wood. 'I am ashamed to tell you. I - do not
know. You told me
what the Magic Man said, about there being people on the surface, people on
the planet other than
those in the Freehold. You know, to be told all your life that one thing is
true, to believe it, even
though it is not what you want to believe -oh, this is not making any sense.'
He turned to Ronin.
'But now that we have actually met another being, I - ' He glanced quickly at
the sleeping
animal. 'Can we trust him, do you think?'
'Pull up that chair,' Ronin said softly. 'Now listen carefully to me. This
discovery is quite
incredible but there are too many ramifications for me to be able to spend any
time being
shocked. It is true that we know virtually nothing about this man, who he is,
where he comes
from - although it is certain he is not from here despite the fact that he
seems familiar enough
with the city. Which is the point. I was sent here to find a manuscript. The
Magic Man told me
it would be difficult, but Chill take him! he did not explain just how
difficult it would be. I think
he knew precisely how much to tell me in order to keep my interest. This city
is so huge that we
could spend countless Cycles here and not find the manuscript.' He turned his
head momentarily
to make sure that they were still alone. 'Now this can be invaluable to us. I
know what to look
for, where it resides; perhaps he can tell us how to get there. He - '
They heard a small noise, and the subject of their discussion returned
carrying an enormous,
silver tray with finely etched sides loaded with plates of fired clay, glazed
and shiny, wooden
bowls of food, and skins of wine.
'I trust that I have brought you enough to eat,' he said. 'But there is more
inside.' He set the
tray down on a low table in front of them.
While they ate hungrily, the little man talked.
He turned to G'fand. 'I perceive that you are still somewhat wary of Hynd. I
do not want that,
so perhaps an explanation is in order. You see' - he patted his short leg as
he walked over to a
high wooden stool - 'I cannot move as swiftly as I once did.' He chuckled. 'I
disagreed with
something that tried to eat me.' He pulled over the stool and sat near them,
his short leg
swinging back and forth. 'He saved my life - '
'From what?' interrupted G'fand.
The little man's face darkened. 'You would not believe me if I told you.'
'Oh, I would be most in - '
'Do you know what he is?'
'Part rodent,' Ronin said.
Bonneduce the Last nodded, obviously pleased. 'Yes, indeed. Quite correct. But
as you can see,
he is a hybrid, a cross - '
' - between two different species of animals,' finished G'fand.
The little man raised his eyebrows. 'Aha, we have a scholar in our midst,' he
exclaimed,
delighted. 'Oh, yes. Hynd is part crocodile, a water creature which I believe
died out centuries
ago. You see before you the product of millennia of change.' He leaned down
and gently stroked
the horny back. It rippled slightly and Hynd made a small sound in his sleep.
'Many peoples
believed that crocodiles were gods,' he said.
G'fand wiped his hands. 'Will you aid us, we have come in search of- '
'Please.' Bonneduce the Last held up his hands.
'Whatever it is will wait now. You are tired. Rest first. Then we shall talk.'
'But we have little time,' said G'fand.
Bonneduce the Last slipped down off the stool and walked in his odd gait to
the front door.
'One does not hurry here.' He slid a thick bolt across the door. 'Darkness is
here. It brings things
on its heels, things you are better off not encountering.' He turned and went
to the fireplace.
'That is why you met Hynd first. I knew of your coming but not when you would
arrive.' He
knelt and began to light the fire. 'Night was falling as you came and I take
no chances, not these
days anyway. Had you come in my yesterdays you would have encountered me
first.' The
flames shot up all at once and the room glowed with light and warmth. They
began to feel
drowsy with their stomachs full, the heat beside them, and the tensions of the
journey finally
dissipating. 'But now, we are in a different age, and nightmares stalk the
world.'
Ronin, at the edge of sleep, came awake. 'What do you mean?'
Bonneduce the Last stood up with his back to the fire and stretched. 'More
anon. Now sleep
must come. Blankets are in the cupboard and here is a pitcher of water and a
basin. These
chairs are large and Hynd is here.' He started up the stairs, then stopped and
turned. 'In the
morning we shall talk of your purpose in coming to the City and I shall aid
you as best I may.'
They heard his uneven footsteps climbing the stairs after he was lost to
sight.
'What do you think?' G'fand asked as he opened the cupboard and pulled out two
woven
blankets.
Ronin was splashing water on to his face. He shrugged. 'We have little choice.
This seems to
be a safer place than we could find on our own.' He removed his corselet and
shirt, pouring
water over the shirt in an attempt to get out the dried blood that had seeped
through the
corselet's mesh. 'I cannot see that he means us harm, despite what you may
think of the animal.
He is right, best to get some sleep. The morning will take care of itself
Something reached down and pulled him out of sleep. At first he thought it was
a sound and he
was at once fully awake. The quiet sonorous ticking, the gentle collapse of
ashen logs in the
fireplace. Nothing more.
G'fand slept peacefully in the chair across from him. He looked at Hynd. The
creature was
awake, staring intently at the front door, as if he could see through it. He
gave a low cough.
Ronin uncovered himself. The blanket slipped to the floor with barely a
rustle. Hynd's ears
twitched but he did not turn his head. Ronin grasped the hilt of his sword and
stood quietly
next to the creature. He strained his ears but could hear nothing outside.
After a time, Hynd's ears twitched twice, then he lowered his head, closed his
eyes, and
apparently went to sleep. Ronin exhaled a long breath.
His shirt was still wet but he donned his corselet and went back into the
recesses of the room. He
had it in mind to discover the source of the ticking, but as he passed the
foot of the stairs, he
heard a tiny sound from above. He paused. Oddly, the sound carried clearly on
the heavy air.
He turned and silently climbed the stairs.
There were two rooms, roughly the same size, both accessible from a square
hallway. Light
danced in one room and Ronin went to the doorway, peered in.
Bonneduce the Last knelt on a small rug of intricate and peculiar design with
his back to the
doorway. 'Come in, Ronin, come in,' he said without turning.
Ronin knelt beside him. The little man held several small objects in his fist.
He shook them
lightly.
'Did you hear me on the stairs?' asked Ronin.
'I knew you would hear the sounds.' And the white shapes tumbled from his
opened palm on
to the bare floor. He stared intently at them for long minutes. There were
seven in all. Glyphs
were etched into their many sides. He scooped them up, shook them again. Ronin
heard the tiny
rattle.
'I think something was at the door,' Ronin said softly. 'Hynd was up.'
The little man nodded. 'I have no doubt. His hearing is quite keen.' He flung
the pieces on to
the floor once again.
'Those are the Bones,' Ronin whispered.
Bonneduce the Last studied them with his green eyes but said nothing until he
had gathered
them up into his hand.
'The Bones, yes,' and his voice was like the tolling of a far-offbell. 'I roll
the Bones.' A
sadness came into his eyes, a terrible light shining far back in their
recesses, like the agony of
ages. 'I am aptly named, you see.' He rolled the Bones upon the floor and
their tiny clatter
seemed now to echo with tantalizing intimations. He scooped them up.
'They are so ancient that even I cannot trace their lineage. They are used and
passed on. It is
said that they are fashioned from the ivory teeth of the giant crocodile, a
godlike creature that
was purported to have lived in a certain valley, along the banks of a wide
rich muddy river.' He
shrugged. 'It is quite possible. Indeed, they are carved of a singular ivory.'
Very softly Ronin said, 'And what do they tell you, the Bones, when you roll
them?'
Bonneduce the Last shook them in his fist and cocked his head to one side.
'Why, I should
think that would be obvious,' he answered. 'I see what is to be.'
The Bones rattled in his hand. 'Of course they cannot tell me everything and
frequently the
outcomes of those occurrences which interest me most are denied me. Some
events are clear,
others are merely vague outlines.' He shrugged. 'But it is what I do.'
There was a long silence after he had rolled the Bones once more. And then,
for the first
time, he spoke while they were upon the floor. 'They talk about you,' he said
slowly.
Ronin felt a moment of irrational chill. 'It is nonsense,' he said. 'I do not
wish to hear it.'
The little man stared at the pieces of ivory. 'You do not fear it,' he said
simply. 'Why then?'
The question had such innocence that Ronin was momentarily taken aback. Then
something
crawled within him again. 'I do not know.' His palm strayed to the gleaming
hilt of his sword.
'You do not fear death,' Bonneduce the Last said, with a peculiar intonation.
'That is good,
for soon you shall understand its impermanence. Yet deep within you lies a
fear which you - '
'Enough!' cried Ronin, lurching to his feet and striking out at the grouping
of ivory with his
boot. It skittered across the floor. Bonneduce the Last did not move, nor did
he speak. He knelt
in the same position and did not turn as Ronin angrily strode from the room,
even after the
sound of his boots could be heard descending the ancient stairs.
Eventually, Bonneduce the Last sighed deeply and got up, made his limping way
across the old
wooden floorboards. He bent here and there, retrieving the scattered Bones,
piece by piece, until
he had them all in the palm of his hand. They had never felt so heavy to him,
and he gripped
them until his knuckles shone as white as the ivory.
He paused then, as if he were to be allowed a choice. He shook his head, and
limped slowly
back to the rug of intricate and peculiar design, kneeling as before. Very
slowly and very
deliberately he rolled the Bones upon the floor, and read what their
configuration revealed. He
wiped the warm sweat from his palms by rubbing them down his breeches.
He scooped up the Bones and rather more quickly now rolled them six more
times, so that at
length he had rolled them a total of seven times. To see if it would make any
difference.
It did not. And he shivered involuntarily.
Golden light streamed down, its slanting rays interrupted and diffused by the
ornate structures
on all sides. The alleyway was narrow and cramped and mysterious as it wended
its meandering
way through the bewildering labyrinth of the City.
Dust motes danced in the pale light and the silence had a thickness that he
now wore with a
grateful intensity. He had gone past the sleeping G'fand and, ignoring Hynd's
curious stare, had
unbolted the door and strode quickly but at random along the alley until he
could no longer see
the house.
He stopped at last and sat on an old and dusty wooden keg, outside the open
doorway to a shop,
its time-beaten sign swinging from a black metal pole above his head. The sign
was virtually blank
now, scrubbed of all but a few scraps of glyphs, mute but unbroken.
He drew one leg up against his chest, letting the other hand, the heel rapping
softly against the side
of the keg. It sounded hollow. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back
against the small-paned
window of the shop. He tried to think of why he had stopped the little man
from speaking, but
nothing came to him. He thought, At least I should be curious. He was. But -
'Where is he?'
G'fand looked up and dropped the cold bone from last night's meal into the
other remnants of
the food that had not been cleared away. He wiped his greasy lips on the back
of his sleeve. He
shrugged. 'I just got up. I thought perhaps he was upstairs.'
The little man descended the stairs, saw that the bolt was off the door. 'Out
then,' he said, and
set about gathering up the dishes.
'Is it safe?' asked G'fand, getting up. He put his hands at the small of his
back and stretched.
'Oh, perfectly. Hynd will see to him.'
G'fand frowned. 'What does that mean?'
The voice drifted in from the recesses of the house. 'I imagine he is out
catching breakfast
while keeping an eye on our friend.'
G'fand walked about the room restlessly until the little man returned carrying
a fresh skin of
wine. 'You seem quite familiar with this city.' He made a sharp gesture at the
windows with the
edge of his hand. He turned. 'It is the City of Ten Thousand Paths, as Ronin
said.'
Bonneduce the Last poured wine for G'fand. 'It is,' he said without pause.
The Scholar crossed the room, looked out of a window. Dust clouded his view.
He wiped a
small leaded pane with his sleeve but it did little good; the glass, like the
cobbles of the streets,
seemed ingrained with dirt. 'So ancient.' It was almost a whisper, as quiet as
a tear falling. 'Yet
you know all about it.'
Bonneduce the Last placed the wine skin on the low table before him.   'I
know many things.'
Perhaps too many, he thought.
'Then tell me,' G'fand said with great bitterness, 'how we could evolve from
the people who
created these wonders.'
'You are a scholar, are you not?'
G'fand's eyes blazed briefly but his voice held a note of despair. 'Now you
mock me.'
The little man crossed to him with his peculiar stride. He seemed genuinely
grieved. 'No, no,
lad. You must not think that.' He touched G'fand, indicated that he should
sit. They went back to
the middle of the room and G'fand reached compulsively for the wine. 'No, you
see, I wanted to
be sure.'
The Scholar looked up. 'Of what?'
'That you really did not know.'
'I could have been lying,' G'fand said with some indignation.
The little man's face creased as he laughed. 'I think not.'
Eventually G'fand allowed himself to smile for a moment. 'You will tell me
then?'
Just a boy, thought Bonneduce the Last. And he said, 'Yes.' He sat down across
from G'fand,
the large chair towering over him comically. He crossed his ankles, rubbed his
maimed leg
along the thigh. 'When the time came,' he began quietly, 'to quit the surface
of the world, when
there was no other choice but to perish - which many did, by the way - the
remnants of the states
and nations sent the leading proponents of their cultures to
work on the enormous project of carving out a hospitable home beneath the
planet's crust.'
G'fand was transfixed by the little man's voice, which held tremendous force
despite its
softness. He was startled when the voice ceased and Bonneduce the Last cocked
his head as if
listening to a far-off sound. G'fand listened also but all he could hear was
the dark and sonorous
ticking from the interior of the house.
After a time, the little man continued. 'The mages and the men of science -
you call them
Magic Men, I believe . . . were forever at war because, I suppose, the
foundations of their work
are diametrically opposed. At the time of the city's formation, the mages held
sway, and so with
the unwilling help of the men of science they created the City of Ten Thousand
Paths.'
Bonneduce the Last sighed a little and his extraordinary emerald eyes turned
inward
momentarily. 'It could have been the beginning of dreams; there was room
enough for all here.
Perhaps they did not work at it, who knows?' He stood abruptly and went to a
glass cabinet
along the far wall. His hands moved and he returned holding two bits of dull
metal. He threw
them casually towards G'fand, who caught them instinctively. 'Press them
together,' said the
little man. And although the bits seemed identical, G'fand could only keep
them together by
exerting a great deal of pressure; they naturally pushed each other away.
Bonneduce the Last sat once more and gestured with his head. 'Like the metal,
the different
factions repelled each other. Gradually, the mages began to lose control and
the men of science
gained ascendancy. In the end, they would have nothing to do with the city
their forefathers had
helped build under duress, and so they led those that would follow them - a
goodly number -
upward into the virgin rock above the city because it was fabulously rich in
the ores and metals
they required, and because it was easier to seal off the city from above. And
they constructed
the Freehold. And now, over time - ' He shrugged expressively.
There was soft silence for a long time, heavy and lustreless, laden with
thoughts of fallen
history and forgotten faces.
G'fand shivered involuntarily and got up, leaving the bits of metal apart on
the table. Several
times he appeared about to say something and each time changed his mind.
Finally he said in a
choked voice, as if it were difficult for him to articulate, 'We are told that
no one lives on the
surface of the world. The elements will not allow it.'
The little man, who had been watching him, smiled bleakly. 'So. It depends
where you are.'
He went and returned the bits of metal to their case. 'The ice reaches farther
every day.'
G'fand stared at him, his heart racing. 'Then it's true. Men do walk the
surface.'
'Naturally. Did you think I live down here? I must come from time to time - '
'Why did you come this time?'
'To meet some people.'
G'fand leaned forward. 'Who?'
Bonneduce the Last was silent.
The Scholar gave a tiny exclamation of sound, as if he had been hit in the
stomach, and he
relaxed back into the chair. 'I do not want to know,' he said, his lips barely
moving. And he was
talking to himself.
Bonneduce the Last was as still as a statue, his eyes lost in shadow beneath
his bushy brows.
'What is it like Up there?' The question floated on the air like unused smoke
and quite
suddenly it was most important that he know.
'Perhaps you will see for yourself soon,' said the little man, knowing that it
was not enough.
G'fand stood over him and said in anguish. 'I must know now.'
'This is a desperate time,' said Bonneduce the Last. 'I have not been to the
City of Ten
Thousand Paths in a long while. In that time, many things have died and many
things have
come into being. Evil things.' He shook his head.
G'fand knelt before him. 'Look, I want some answers. Is that really so much to
ask?'
Bonneduce the Last stared at G'fand for a time and there was a sadness in his
eyes that the
Scholar did not understand. He looked suddenly older. Around them, the ticking
sounded like a
constant admonition. At length the little man said, 'I will tell you what I am
able.'
G'fand nodded. 'What are you doing here then?'
He spread his hands. 'I will know that only after it is done.'
The Scholar's face twisted. 'You make a fool of me.'
'Believe me, I do not. It is the truth.'
'All right. Suppose I can believe that. I am beginning to see that perhaps
anything is possible.
Tell me then who you are.'
'You do not want to know that.'
G'fand's annoyance grew. 'I just asked you, did I not?'
The sadness came to Bonneduce the Last's eyes again. 'Yes,' he said softly.
'You have asked.'
Ronin's eyes snapped open. He sat very still and inhaled again to make sure of
the direction.
The sharp smell came from behind him: the interior of the shop. He lowered his
leg slowly so
that they both were against the side of the keg. He heard movement now,
stealthy and difficult to
discern.
He drew his sword and leapt to the street, whirling. He heard scufflings, then
scratchings and
small pantings. He went inside.
It was cool and dark and it took him a moment to adjust and he knew that it
was a mistake
because anything or anyone smart enough would have attacked him immediately.
Nothing rushed him. There was a heavy snap as of a wooden board being split
and then a brief
inhuman cry. He moved warily between huge wooden casks. Wine? He pulled
cobwebs off his
face.
Directly ahead of him he heard a cough. He crouched, sword ready, and saw the
red eyes, the
long muzzle. The mouth split suddenly, oddly akin to an absurd grin. The long
teeth were dark,
appeared wet.
Hynd padded up to him and coughed again, softly. Behind the animal, in the
darkness, he
could just make out the twisted mass of a broken carcass. He put a hand out,
tentatively
touched the soft fur of the muzzle.
They went out together into the alleyway and the light, and Ronin saw the
blood still
dripping from the long snout.
'Well,' he said, walking alongside the creature, in and out of the bars and
patches of shadows,
'I trust you have eaten your fill.'
For more than a Spell they followed the little lane as it made its crooked way
through the city.
For a while dark, narrow alleys led off the lane to right and left - often at
peculiar angles. Then
abruptly, solid walls lined their path, unbroken, window-less, and doorless.
Long narrow
balconies with fluted scrollwork ran above their heads, so what illumination
they had was thin
and watery. The walls were of rough stucco, chipped here and there,
discoloured near the
bottom, or unglazed brick with pronounced striations, as if they had been
manufactured in
layers.
The lane was fairly straight, which only increased their uneasiness. Should
they encounter
any hostile life - according to Bonneduce the Last, there was an abundance of
that - they would
have no room to manoeuvre and only one path of retreat.
However, nothing approached them, and at last they began again to pass
wandering side
streets. Sometimes after this they encountered a fork in the lane.
The triangular building directly ahead of them created the fork. Off to the
right they could make
out a wide street that nevertheless seemed quite cluttered with what looked to
be collapsed
building materials. Dusty light dappled the ancient cobbles and, perhaps
because of the haze,
the
shadows seemed to shift and waver. To the left, tall arabesqued buildings cast
deep shadows
into the street for as far as they could see.
As they moved into the mottled shadows of the street on their left, Ronin
recalled what the
little man had said: 'I shall describe your route but I must warn you that it
takes you through a
Dark Section. It cannot be avoided if you are to make the journey and return
by nightfall. You
must return by nightfall, it that clear? Too many things abroad at night, too
many. Stay to the
path I give you and do not falter. Remember, speed is of the essence because
the city keeps
changing now. I trust this will get you through.'
The cobbled street was cool and they shivered a little. Stone creatures,
grotesque and fantastic
of visage, leered down at them from cornices and buttresses.
'How I wish there was more time,' lamented G'fand, his eyes moving over the
architecture,
drinking it in. 'There is so much to learn here.'
'You know we cannot tarry.'
'Yes.' He nodded sadly. 'Bonneduce the Last is right. There is so much danger
now.'
Ronin glanced at him, on the point of asking him what had changed his mind
about the little
man, when the faint susurration reached his ears. One moment the silence
seeped sluggishly
along the walls of the high buildings, muffling the creaking of their leather,
the soft chink of
metal on metal from their gear, the next they seemed to be surrounded by
sound. It was as if
they were hearing, through some trick of architectural
acoustics, the combined voices of a multitude. The murmuring as it came upon
them, like
waves upon a lone and desolate shore, words blurred and indistinct, held
overtones, a presence,
a super-reality.
They looked in all directions but could make out nothing in the gloom. There
was no
doorway close to them, no window; the narrow balconies were empty.
'What is it?' G'fand asked.
Ronin said, 'We are in a Dark Section.' His hand strayed to the hilt of his
sword.
They moved on, and still the stone carvings regarded them, lips pulled back
from bared
teeth, and the sea of sound licked along the humped length of the crooked
street, increasing in
volume.
There was no space between buildings here, although they obviously were
separated by walls
on the inside, for they passed numerous doors now with individual, excessively
carved fronts
that seemed somehow unsteady, as if about to give way and expose the bare
skeletons of the
structures. As they advanced, an increasing number of windows opened on to the
street. There
appeared to be no order in their placement. They crowded one another in
profusion, some just
centimetres apart, others overlapping in chaotic riot.
Often, at the periphery of their vision, the pair thought they could detect
movement behind
the windows, furtive and unnatural, but each time their eyes darted to the
spot, it was gone.
G'fand particularly seemed disturbed by this.
The    muttering   continued  unabated   from all about them, which,
unaccountably, increased
the sensation they had of being watched. It occurred to Ronin then that there
was a cadence
to the sounds and, beyond a rhythm, melody.
They rushed on, almost at a trot, the jangle of metal against metal all but
drowned in the
pulsing sound. Chanting, Ronin thought. He told G'fand, who listened through
his mounting
unease, and nodded. But, he said, it was nothing he had ever read about. The
words, long
meaningless syllables, nevertheless chilled them. And as if one were the cause
of the other, the
shadows deepened and a cold wind blew along the street.
The chanting was louder now, swelling like an engulfing tide, and Ronin
increased their pace
until they were running headlong down the lane. The Bladesman in him abhorred
this flight; his
training was for Combat and his immediate reaction was to turn and find the
source of the
chanting, which seemed somehow to be affecting their senses.
They were running slowly, too slowly, the dark windows crawling by, the air so
gluey and
sticking to them that they had to cleave a path through it. And all the while
the sound advanced
on them from behind, rolling over them heavily.
But through the murk Ronin realized that Combat now was time-consuming and
useless. At the
back of his brain a tiny voice screamed and screamed: Get out! The trouble was
that it was
getting softer, and he had to strain to hear it, to remember what it was
screaming.
Once or twice G'fand paused, panting, moving and - his head lifted - yes,
sweet silence
descended on to his aching ears.
Old shops lined either side of the avenue, their doorways open, small-paned
windows dusty
and dim. Above, their signs, of scarred wood and beaten brass, creaked in the
warm breeze.
Higher still, where one might expect windows to be, were solid walls of fired
brick and mortar,
broken at regular intervals by deftly carved stonework.
'They are not decorative.'
'What?'
The Scholar pointed. 'The carvings on these buildings. Those are glyphs, very
old, but still - '
'Messages?'
'Their history, perhaps. If I only had time - '
The avenue described a turning to the left and they followed this at a fast
pace and abruptly
found themselves at the edge of a vast plaza. The warm light shone unhindered
here and G'fand
scanned the vault above them in an attempt to discover the source. Near them
now were only
low buildings, but in the distance tall structures rose, their outlines
blurred in the haze.
As they walked out into the plaza they noted that it was floored with
alternating segments of
deep brown and light tan stone, the former laced with chips of a mineral that
caught the light
and threw it back at them in dazzling pinpoints. The stones were precisely cut
in shapes roughly
like a triangle with its top point cut off so that it formed a four-sided
figure, wider at one end.
They were larger along the perimeter of the plaza and grew
gradually smaller as the pair progressed towards the centre.
They came upon several low wide benches of a textured sandy stone, polished
along the
seat, grouped in a semicircle around a low oval structure. They sat gratefully
down and rested
for a time in the heavy molten light.
Ronin took a long pull from the waterpipe and ate some food without really
tasting it. G'fand
went to inspect the oval in front of them. It was perhaps a metre in height,
lidless and hollow.
G'fand stooped, found a small piece of rubble, dropped it down. After a long
time there came a
faint splash.
Ronin got up and joined him.
'A well,' said G'fand. 'But judging by the water level, it has not been of
much use lately.'
The walls of the well, constructed from the same sandy stone as the benches,
were covered by
the same style of carving as they had seen on the avenue. G'fand sat on his
haunches to get a
better look.
'Can you make anything of it?'
G'fand frowned in concentration. 'Uhm, well, it is quite a sophisticated
language - more than
our own.' He pointed with a forefinger. 'You see here, judging by the
relatively infrequent
repetitions, the glyph range must be enormous.' He shook his head sadly. 'Give
me, oh, twelve
or fourteen Sign and the right texts - although I suppose I could make do
without - given more
time, and I might be able to read this. Now - ' But he was still excited and
would not leave the
side of the well
until Ronin, deciding that it was time to move on, spoke to him.
He looked up then, reluctantly, and seemed about to say something, when a
movement
caught his eye and he motioned to Ronin.
Off in the distance, three or four animal-like shapes moved among another
grouping of
benches. At first Ronin thought that they would move in another direction, but
then the breeze
freshened and he knew that they were downwind, and if the animals had not
noticed them by
now, they soon would.
The animals came out from under the benches, started hesitantly towards them.
There were
five of them, four-legged, long muzzles, dingy yellow fur, matted and dirty.
They crept closer,
and now he could make them out clearly: long forelimbs, hind legs short and
thick with
bunched muscles, so that they appeared to be crouching as they moved. Squat
necks merged
into wide powerful-looking shoulders. Their snouts were all mouth.
As they approached from the far side of the well, they spread in a rough
semicircle. G'fand
stood. He could see their eyes now, hot lemon circles with tiny black pupils.
Ronin slipped his sword from its scabbard. 'Take the right side.'
At the same instant, they stepped from behind the cover of the well.
Black lips drew back from blood-red gums to reveal long curving fangs,
blackened, wet with
saliva, set in triple rows. The animal nearest Ronin yawned nervously, its
jaws hinging open to
an scraping the air, great jaws snapping, eyes rolling. Jerking his left hand,
raking the dagger
through the thing's insides, knowing his right arm was useless as long as the
animal was on him,
and still it writhed desperately against him. Then something smashed into his
side and all the breath
went out of him. Flesh came off in strips and he crashed to the stone tiles of
the plaza.
On the right of the well, G'fand faced two animals. Nervousness and
exhilaration combined
within him. Both hands on his sword hilt, he feinted to his right, swung to
the left, catching a beast
in mid-spring, opening its chest and deflecting somewhat its body. At the same
time, he did his best
to keep out of the second animal's way.
Ronin had reflexively let go of the dagger. Still he sprawled in the black
blood and slime of the
dying animal. Pain raced along his side and dimly he wondered how the blow had
got through the
mail corselet. He turned on to his back and saw the beast - the third one -
poised to smite him again
with its powerful forepaw. He struggled to get up as the animal crouched low,
recognized that there
was no time, and channelled all his energy into a mighty two-handed cut. He
did not have the
leverage that he would have had on his feet, but it was timing and swinging
sword and arms as one,
using the pivot of his wide shoulders as the power base. The beast leapt at
him, so close that he felt
the warm puff of fetid breath as the enormous jaws swung wide, heard the thin
whine of the talons
ripping the air before his head. He swung from right to left, the blade
whistling for an instant
before it struck the hide, bit into flesh, and Ronin leaned his torso to the
right, using the added
leverage as the blade cracked the beast's spine and the carcass danced lazily,
black blood
pumping in spurts, fluttering in the air like funereal lace. The animal
toppled in a twisted heap to
the paving.
G'fand could not concentrate on both so he ignored the wounded one, attacking
the second
beast. He knew it was a mistake when he felt the weight of the first one crash
on to his back.
He staggered, went to his knees, his vision a blur. Then, miraculously, the
thing was off him
and he felt lighter than air, springing up and slicing into the neck of the
advancing second
animal with his bloody blade, oblivious to the impact of its fore-paw against
his shoulder,
swinging again and again even after the creature ceased to twitch.
After a time he was dimly aware of a hand on his shoulder, and he turned,
staggering slightly
to see Ronin standing over the animal he had wounded and forgotten about, the
one that had
almost killed him. He saw then that Ronin was grinning and he knew that even
through his
tiredness, his spent exhilaration, he was returning it.
They wiped their wet weapons on the matted pelts and, leaving the corpses
where they had
fallen, went across the vast plaza, reluctant in the end to leave it, to
plunge back into the midst
of narrow streets, dark and confined: the recesses of this enigmatic city.
They worked their way down a crooked alley-way, turned right, then right
again. They were
in a section of the city containing low rambling houses with some space
between them. As a
result, this area was divided fairly evenly into square blocks. It was lighter
here, though not as
light as in the plaza, and for once the streets appeared to run quite
straight.
They saw small animals, some looking much like the rodents of the Freehold,
others bearing
no resemblance to any creature they had encountered before. But all seemed
small and likely
presented little threat to them.
Occasionally they spotted large slitted eyes peering out at them from a dark
doorway or a back
alley, but there seemed to be no aggressiveness in the stares, only fright.
G'fand commented on
this, his spirits high, but Ronin was unaccountably worried by what lurked in
those eyes. He
tried to shake off the feeling, reasoning that they were now quite near the
house of glazed brick.
Yet it continued to grow.
Ahead lay the last few turnings. It was deathly still. The small skitterings
and occasional
chatter of the animals had ceased. In the abrupt absence of sound, he fancied
he heard the
chanting from the Dark Section. But there was nothing on the air.
They moved around a corner and, at last, caught sight of the house of glazed
brick, its canted
copper roof glowing in the late light. For a long moment they drank in the
sight. G'fand gave a
short cheer and Ronin smiled. Then they went down the street, Ronin leading
the way.
Ronin, intent on his goal, had just passed a doorway, oversized and gaping
blankly, when he
simultaneously smelled a sickly wet stench and felt a wave of coldness at the
back of his neck.
He drew his blade, spun, its tip catching the light, saw G'fand slammed
against the doorframe
as he was whipped into the interior of the building. A muffled scream brought
him up short as he
hurtled through the doorway.
G'fand had not even had time to withdraw his sword. His arms were pinioned at
his side. A
huge shape gripped him, its dimensions ill defined. Ronin rushed the shape. He
had a flashing
glimpse of hooded orange eyes, a protrusion, black and strange underneath, and
then his sword
swung into the thing.
He grimaced as needles of fire raced up his arms like vibrations. His fingers
went numb and
only by pulling with his free hand on the hilt was he able to disengage the
blade. Immediately,
the pain subsided.
He panted, wiping the sweat from his eyes, peered into the gloom. The hulk
took on some
form. It was at least three metres high, with muscled truncated legs
terminating in some form of
clawed paw or hoof. The light was too dim for Ronin to be sure. A thick and
sinuous tail
whipped from the rear of the body. The thing's outline kept changing, pulsing
like a heartbeat.
Then its head swivelled and he saw its face. His breath was a sharp hiss
through clenched teeth.
His skin crawled.
It had long slitted eyes with narrow inhuman vertical pupils that pulsed with
the creature's
outline. Two irregular gashes in the flesh served as nostrils. Underneath
yawned a mottled
hideous beak, wickedly curved and honed, a stunted rigid tongue throbbing
grotesquely.
G'fand still struggled feebly in its terrible embrace. Ronin lunged, slashing
with the sword. It
sank into the scaly flesh and again he gasped as the agony raced through him.
He pulled free,
swung again and again. And sound came from that frightful maw, a swift
ululation, and he knew
that it had not been harmed by his attack. G'fand was limp now within the
thing's grasp, and cold
sweat broke out on Ronin's face as, heedless of the paralysis weakening his
arms, he attacked
once again.
Alien orange eyes blasting out of the darkness, and the air became thick with
the fetid stench
of the thing, clotting in Ronin's throat so that his stomach heaved and his
lungs laboured as he
put all his strength into the arcing blade that clove the air again and again,
ceaselessly, and he was
a machine now, a machine of death and destruction, the adrenalin pumping
through his veins
holding against the pain. He ground his teeth, his muscles jumped as he pushed
them to their limits.
And still the creature stood before him, the shell of its beak working.
His vision began to blur and he was dimly aware that his reflexes had become
slowed.
Something thick and heavy was moving towards him; he felt the hot wind of its
approach, but
the connections refused to work and he could not move away, and it whipped
into him, rough
and scaly, along the side of his head, and his body was thrown violently
forward. He fought
desperately for balance, lost, reeled into a wall. Just before unconsciousness
came, he thought
the creature looked towards the recesses of the interior, then he dropped down
an endless
stairwell into pitch-blackness.
How beautiful it looked, so far above him. Freed by the distance, floating
warm and safe.
Watching the pale amber light striking obliquely so far away, his detachment
was complete. The
stippled patterns wavered in the uncertain light. How nice to be lying here at
the bottom of the
well, watching the world through the distant oval window, dreamily, drifting.
He thought idly
of rising up and climbing towards the smoky brightness, but he felt too tired.
Alone, adrift.
And then he blinked and it broke apart like a bubble rising through water to
the surface. He
stared blankly at the circle of amber light thrown against the ceiling. He
blinked again and full
awareness swept over him.
He tried to sit up. Too fast. Made it halfway before his head pulsed with
pain. He edged
himself along the floor until he put his back against a wall. He sat like that
with his head in his
hands, relaxing his muscles through force of will, allowing the ache to flow
out of them.
He looked for G'fand, found him stretched out on the floor two metres away,
deathly pale.
Dragging the body slowly over and it felt like two kilometres. Feeling faint
breath still within
the chest, unstrapping the waterpipe, feeding him
water so that he choked a little and the lungs began working more fully. Only
then did Ronin
gulp thirstily at the pipe. He felt immediately refreshed and went to retrieve
his sword.
When he returned, G'fand was sitting up. He rubbed his palms across his face.
'Frost, I feel
like I've been crushed,' he whispered. 'Is that thing gone?'
Ronin helped him to his feet. 'Yes. Are you dizzy?'
G'fand waved away his support. 'No. No.' He walked slightly stiff-legged to
the doorway,
leaned against it. 'The end of our journey. After all this, I trust that the
scroll we seek lies
within.'
The house of green-glazed brick beckoned in lazy quietude. It stood at the end
of the street, a
cul-de-sac, and it was unusual enough in this city of unusual architecture to
command the
entire area. For one thing, it appeared to be many-sided. For another, the
sides sloped inward as
they rose, so that the second storey was smaller than the first. The glossy
bricks were of
singular construction: they showed no age; the house looked as if it might
have been built last
Cycle for all the wear visible.
There were no windows on the sides that faced them. A giant wooden door banded
in thick
iron strips dominated the front side of the house. Broad steps of black stone
with pink and gold
veins' running through it, polished to a high sheen, led up to the door,
which, they saw now that
they were close to it, was in fact a slab of red copper.
Perhaps a trick of the oblique light had caused it to take on the appearance
of wood.
A ring of black iron, twisting in an endless circle, formed the handle of the
door. Ronin
grasped it firmly and, putting his shoulder against the copper slab, pushed
inward.
There came a soft dry click, as distinct and close as the sound of an insect
in a field of high
grass on a quiet summer's day, and the door opened.
The odour of spices greeted them, pungent and ingrained in the air as if
someone had lit a
fragrant fire of aromatic leaves and green twigs and kept it burning for many
Sign.
They were in a long high hallway, the ceiling an arch above them, the floor a
narrow path of
dark polished wood planks laid straight down the centre. Open spaces, deep and
dark, between the
floor and the walls on either side, gave them the feeling of being suspended
in space.
The hallway terminated in three doors of a peculiar polished wood with
deep-red grain,
banded in beaten brass. Glyphs were carved into each door. Ronin turned to
G'fand. 'Can you
make anything of these?'
G'fand studied each door. 'I lack the knowledge to be sure. But - ' He peered
again at the
glyphs. 'Try the third one.'
Turning the burnished brass handle, Ronin found that it opened easily enough.
The first level consisted of six rooms. Thin, exquisitely woven rugs covered
the floors, small
dark wooden cabinets stood against the walls, which were hung with tapestries
of singular
manufacture depicting the hunting of strange and grotesque creatures, the
paying of tribute to
ornately costumed men and women who appeared to be some kind of Saardin. Upon
the
carpets were numerous low tables of glass and brass within which resided
myriad small
treasures of cut jewels, ivory, and faience. There was no sign of age, not
even a trace of dust.
Within the fourth room, Ronin found an ornate stairway to the second storey.
G'fand was
busily moving from glass table to glass table, plainly fascinated by the
artefacts. Ronin looked
about him. 'Make certain you have seen everything down here,' he called to
G'fand. 'Then come
upstairs and join me.' So saying, he ascended the stairs.
There were three rooms. One was obviously a sleeping chamber, and one, Ronin
surmised,
an alchemical chamber of some sort, judging by the equipment. The last room
was the one he
was searching for. Books lined two walls from floor to ceiling - he saw with
some surprise that
the room was hexagonal. Another wall contained only a six-sided mirror of
beaten and polished
silver rimmed in deep-green, black-veined onyx, lustrous, translucent. The
adjacent wall was
filled with racks of scrolls, some rolled on polished wooden dowels, and he
crossed to them at
once, searching for the glyph heading the Magic Man had written down.
A quicksilver flash caught the periphery of his vision. He turned his head. It
seemed to have
come from the mirror, but when he looked around he
could find nothing in the room that was likely to cause a reflection.
He went over to the mirror and stared at his face. And the flash came again,
like light on
moving water, dazzling him momentarily.
He no longer stares at himself, but at a formlessness of light and colour,
absorbing and infinite.
Motion. Hurtling through the patterns, forward, headlong. He experiences a
slight sensation of
vertigo, the exhilaration of flying, and he hears a soft rustle, as of a
forest of leaves blown on a
quickening wind.
Abruptly he is in a cool place made all of richly veined marble, lit warmly
but dimly. And
vast, for he hears the echoes: perhaps voices, the quiet slap of sandals, the
rustle of fabric
against flesh, tones of discord and harmony.
From a height he drifts through columnated hallways and high-vaulted chambers
and gradually
he becomes aware of the molten throb of unfamiliar instruments, pounding
skins, trip-rolled and
muffled, lazy dark chords under gyring melody, hears the peregrine music
unfurling, haunting,
electric.
A great night-black bird swoops down upon him, wide wings beating the liquid
air, and he
tries to cover his face, a reflexive motion, and discovers he has no body. He
floats, insubstantial,
an essence. And still the bird, long feathers shining, stares at him with
unblinking crimson and
black eyes. Its talons are enormous. Gripped within one is a writhing lizard.
The talons open
and the creature drops into a fire burning far below. The
bird opens its long beak and human laughter booms out.
He sees K'reen then. Her back is to him as she talks to a dark figure which
towers over her,
but he recognizes the soft bell of her hair, a forest of texture, the shape of
her body, silken of
skin, hard of muscle, the orbits of her gestures. The figure screams silently
at her, slaps her
across the face, again and again. Her head whips from side to side. She turns
suddenly and looks
up at him, and he starts in shock. She has his face, tearful and saddened.
He is in another place within the marble building. Or perhaps it is another
building all of
marble. A long hallway. Far away at the other end is a tall figure clothed in
black lacquered
armour ribbed and banded in sea-green jade and twilight-blue lapis lazuli.
Perhaps he wears a
helm, for his head is oddly shaped, at once chilling and familiar, although he
is too distant and
the light is too uncertain to say why. Two swords of unequal length hang from
his sides in
scabbards so long that they almost touch the marble floor. His hands glitter
as the figure looks
about as if searching for something. Then he strides from the hallway.
Something cold comes. The incense braziers shudder on their bronze chains. A
wind is
rising. He feels a presence, very close. A frigid wisp, a seeking tendril - of
what? - writhes and
touches his mind. He recoils, as if seared by a blade burning like ice. Below,
in the hallway of
eternal marble, frigid fires begin to rage, pale and insatiable. He cannot
breathe. He gasps and
chokes on the dread creeping into him, washing away all resolve. He feels weak
and powerless,
a child storm-tossed and alone.
Abruptly, within the chaos of his being, through the terror and desperation,
he feels sparks of
water against his face and body, and he lifts his head to the roiling of
purple clouds. An electric
clashing is in his ears, and the surface upon which he stands trembles. White
light rings the
opening sky. He reaches for the pale hand.
The flash comes again, like light on moving water, dazzling him momentarily.
' - not downstairs,' said G'fand from directly behind him.
He started.
'Say, what are you doing? The scrolls are over here.'
Ronin blinked, licked his dry lips. 'I thought - I saw something in the
mirror,' he said thickly.
G'fand stepped closer. 'What mirror?'
Ronin focused and saw a six-sided plate of iron, perfectly plain and
unreflective. The onyx
border seemed to wink at him in the light. He shook his head. The house of a
magus.
Then he shrugged and turned. 'Come,' he said.
They took them systematically, by rows. Once, as he worked, he glanced at the
six-sided
thing on the wall. And thought of what he had experienced, of what it meant.
He was certain,
now, that Borros spoke the truth: there was a habitable world on the surface.
But why the
Salamander should choose to lie to him, he had no idea. However, it was clear
to him that he
was amid a drama of enormous proportions. He understood its nature not at all,
yet he would
be a fool to ignore the hints at its scope. Up until now boredom and curiosity
and a curious
perversity, which he always recognized in himself yet was like quicksilver,
his strength, and,
he imagined, perhaps his ultimate downfall, had guided him to this strange
place. Why else was
he here? He gave a mental shrug and got on with the search.
The scroll was not there. It seemed inconceivable to them that they could have
come so far,
overcome all that they had, for naught. Returning empty-handed was not an
eventuality Ronin
had spent any time considering. To him it was not a matter of the value of the
scroll.
He sent G'fand to search the other rooms on this storey while he looked around
here. The
floor was bare, the dark wood planks rubbed to a high gloss. Again no dust or
wear was
evident. Over by the walls of books were a pair of low stools unlike any he
had seen before.
They were constructed of buffed leather, stiff but worn beneath the polish.
They were convex,
two sides sloping down, the narrower ends curving up, and were attached to
crossed wooden
legs by a heavy leather strap with an adjustable brass buckle.
Along the wall most closely opposite the door, several glass cases gleamed
dully in the light.
He crossed to them, saw there were three. The first was empty, although two
indentations on
the green felt of the bottom indicated that at one time two objects about the
size of a large
man's hand had lain there. The second case contained an
oversized book, from all appearances quite old, opened midway through. A blue
fabric marker
ran down one page. Both pages were blank. Ronin moved to the third case, where
he saw what
seemed to be a replica of a hallway, roofless so that one could easily view
the interior. It
appeared to be constructed of marble. Twelve columns lined the hallway, tiny
metal braziers
hung at intervals. The model was extraordinarily detailed, the workmanship
superb. Ronin
leaned closer and the shock of recognition hit him at once. This was a replica
of the hallway in
the mirror that was not a mirror! He glanced over his shoulder at its blind
face once again.
He turned back to the miniature. Here was where the armoured warrior had
stood, and there
was the entrance through which the terrible presence had been about to enter.
He heard again in
his mind the lure of the music. He lifted the glass top. As soon as he did so
something caught
his eye. A sliver of light yellow from under the marble floor. He stared at it
for a moment until it
struck him what it must be.
He drew his dagger and slipped the point under the side of the replica,
lifting slowly, but it
did not give. He tried along one end, and was able, after moments of
experimentation, to pry it
up.
With mounting excitement, he drew out the sheet, knowing somehow that at the
top would
be written the line of glyphs for which they had been searching. The miniature
fell back into
place as he released it, and he called to G'fand, as he stared at the black
line of their inscription.
Below, the scroll
was covered from top to bottom with close-written glyphs.
They clapped each other on the back. G'fand held it as they descended the wide
curving stair-
case. He shook his head. 'It is a language I cannot even begin to understand.'
Ronin took it from him. 'Someone will have to decipher it.' He rolled it into
as tight a
cylinder as he was able. 'Now that we have it, I shall make sure that we do
not lose it.'
The shadows were long, the slanting light deep amber as they went down the
black stone steps,
the gold veins iridescent. The city seemed peaceful; the dense quiet acquiring
a languorous lustre
as the day waned. They set off back the way they had come, tired but jubilant
at the success of
their quest.
Perhaps it was the sounds of their voices or the buoyancy of their mood or the
vista of the
jumbled city, somehow more familiar, that lay before them bathed in the warm
light.
Or perhaps it was something else altogether that caused him to fail to see the
movement
behind them. It came swiftly. A sharp cloying odour. He whirled and his sword
was out in the
same motion. But it was too late. He was slammed as if by a giant's fist and
he reeled into the
gutter, tumbling upon the cobbles. Crimson fire was in his lungs and all the
breath went out of
him. He tried to inhale, gasped weakly.
Through a haze he saw the creature that had attacked them just before they
reached the
magus's house. Its thick sinuous tail lashed back and forth
continuously as it reached curved talons towards G'fand. He had drawn his
sword and was
doing his best to defend himself. It was ineffectual.
Ronin tried to rise but it was as if he were paralysed. He lay in the gutter,
striving to raise his
sword, struggling to breathe, watching the thing close with G'fand. The
hideous beak opened
and closed spasmodically, and then it took hold of G'fand's sword along the
blade. The metal
crumbled within the grip of its six-fingered hands.
With a mighty effort Ronin came up on his knees, leaning on his sword, head
shaking like that of
a wounded animal. He gained his feet, staggered, searched for balance. His
sword clanged on to the
cobbles. Drawing his dagger, he ran at the creature from behind.
Its talons were at G'fand's throat, squeezing. He looked helpless and stunned.
Ronin smelled the
awful stench and the coldness just before he slammed into the thing's back. It
was like hitting a wall.
It ignored him. He climbed upon its back, saw dimly G'fand's legs dangling in
the air, his eyes
bulging. Then the pain engulfed him. Bolts of fire penetrated his flesh and he
fought back a scream.
Time shifted.
He was a microbe upon a mountain, climbing hopelessly. The dagger in his hand
writhed uncon-
trollably and he almost let it go, but the sight of G'fand's twisted,
pain-filled face was before him,
and it drove him on. The pain moved through his body and his lower half began
to go numb. His
legs and feet still churned for purchase on the scaly hide but he could not
feel them, they were parts
of someone else's body. Still he clawed upward with his free hand and
dagger-filled fist. He gasped
at the stinking air, but his lungs would not hold the foulness, and he
retched, eyes watering. He con-
centrated on the shining point of the short blade.
All strength seemed to flow out of him. The numbness began to creep upward.
Soon it would be
at his brain and he knew he would be finished. Far away in another world he
heard a terrible sound,
horribly malformed, as if a human voice were being forced through an alien
larynx. Far away in
another world his body was freezing. Far away into another world he was
slipping -
Desperately he forced his eyes open, stared into an infinity of orange
coldness, black irises like
shards of obsidian, as large as planets. Laughter.
He drew upon his last resources of will, and with a supreme effort, with his
final surge of
strength, he forced the blade through the air. Pale hand slipping into his at
the centre of his being.
And he ripped it point first into the gaping maw.
Renewed foulness smote him and he retched violently. Dimly he was aware of a
thin screaming
like the unbearable tension of a singing wire. He rammed it in with all his
power, twisting the blade
mightily. Brought both hands on to the hilt.
Abruptly there came a sharp snap, a vibration, and an enormous convulsion, and
the howling
reached a peak. With that he sank down into a velvet blackness against which
he at first tried to
struggle, and then from which he was too tired even to return.
He awoke all at once with the terrible stench of the thing still in his
nostrils. He coughed,
wiped his mouth. All around him the cobbles were shining and slippery with
streaks of crimson
and viscous pools of black. There was no sign of the creature but G'fand lay
several metres
from him. He got up slowly and carefully, went over, knelt beside him.
G'fand's eyes bulged
and his tongue protruded thickly from his blue lips. There was pink foam on
his chin, drying
now. His skin held a faint luminescence. His neck was canted at an unnatural
angle. His throat
had been rent into ribbons of red cartilage.
Ronin's colourless eyes were opaque as he reached out and gently closed the
Scholar's eyes. He
sat on his haunches amid the offal of the battle and stared at G'fand. Many
thoughts ran through
his mind but they were as confused and unreach-able as a school of darting
fish in deep water.
The shadows lengthened slowly, wheeling about the ancient enigmatic buildings,
staining the
aged cobbles. Far off an animal barked, a short, sharp, startling sound, and
close by, small
creatures, perhaps attracted by the scent of fresh blood, could be heard, tiny
claws skittering
along an alleyway.
To all these sounds Ronin was oblivious. He stared, his breathing laboured, at
a torn and
bloody corpse that had once thought and talked and felt joy and sorrow.
He got up. The ache of his muscles seemed very distant. He bent and gently
picked up G'fand's
body, eased it over his shoulder. It felt as light as a feather. He went
across the glittering cobbles
to get his sword. The toe of his boot kicked something that went clattering
over the street. The
hilt of his dagger, shorn of its blade. He sheathed his sword.
In the plaza the glint of the tiles was dull in the fading light. He found the
corpses of the animals
they had killed already half-eaten. He looked around, but nothing moved over
the broad expanse.
He went to the well and, without pausing for a moment, dropped G'fand's body
down the
shaft. After a long time, he heard the splash and it seemed to him no louder
than the sound the
piece of rubble had made.
Darkness was falling, its thick shawl snuffing the last of the long amber
shafts of light, the
encroaching shadows now dominating the streets, when at last he stood before
the scarred door of
Bonneduce the Last, and leaned his weary body against the warm wood. He could
not remember
how he had got there. He heard a snuffling from behind him, near, in the lane.
It sounded
somehow familiar, as if it had accompanied him for a while, but he was too
exhausted to turn his
head and look.
Through the door he heard Hynd's low cough, and then it was thrown open and he
collapsed
at the feet of Bonneduce the Last.
Bonneduce the Last had already been on his way down the stairs when he heard
Hynd's cough.
In one hand he held an old leather double shoulder bag. He put something into
it and said,
'Almost time.' Then he threw the bag across a chair, crossed the room with
remarkable alacrity,
his shoulder dipping with each stride of his short leg. He pulled open the
front door.
Hynd rushed out into the lane, growling, jaws working. He bit into something,
tore away a
tremendous chunk of flesh. Bonneduce the Last heard the yelp of pain as he
dragged Ronin
across the room and settled him into one of the large soft chairs. Hynd
trotted in, licking his
lips, and used his long muzzle to close the door. Then he lay down and watched
the little man
minister to Ronin.
By the time he had spent some minutes stripping off Ronin's corselet, the
metal blackened and
ripped, and removed the tattered remains of his shirt, his eyes had gone cold
and hard. The
lines on his face seemed to be more pronounced.
'Already the Makkon are abroad,' he said. 'Even here they have come.'
Hynd's head came up, and now he stood at the door, a silent sentinel. The
little man pulled
his leather bag to him, drew out a packet of ointment, which he applied to
Ronin's chest and
arms. He spoke to Hynd. 'The Bones can tell me only so much. The young one I
knew would
not come back.' His hands worked swiftly and surely. 'I am past feeling for
them, the Bones
have seen to that, else I would have gone mad. It is what I must do.'
Bonneduce the Last went into the interior of the house, returned with a goblet
of water. Into this
he dropped several grains of a coarse brown powder, which he fed to Ronin as
best he could. As
much ran down his chin as went into his mouth.
'He will sleep now as his body recovers.' He threw the remains of the liquid
into the cold ashes
of the fireplace. 'He has suffered much, now. And he will suffer more. Yet it
has to be. Out of pain
he must be forged.'
He got up then, went briefly again into the interior. When he came back he
held a small object of
brown onyx and red jade. He slipped it into his bag. 'And now, one thing yet
remains to be done
before we quit this city.' He reached something out from his leather bag, held
it for a moment,
feeling its texture with his fingertips. 'Yes,' he said softly, 'it becomes
clearer, piece by piece.' He
placed the object on the table beside the sleeping Ronin.
He awoke to silence, deep and complete. But it was somehow hollow and empty
and he spent
some time attempting to determine why. He knew precisely where he was. Then he
had it: the ticking
was gone.
With that he rose and called out. No one answered. He went across the room and
quickly up
the stairs, aware that most of the pain had gone from his body. The rooms were
bare. It was the
same downstairs. No signs remained that either Bonneduce the Last or Hynd had
ever been there.
He sat down again in the chair. Morning light was streaming in through the
dusty grimed
windows, bright and fresh and new. Idly he traced the beams of light, slanting
in, and his eyes
came to rest on a gauntlet spangled by the light, lying on top of the table
next to the chair; the
only foreign object in the house.
He picked it up and immediately he was struck by its singularity. It was heavy
and there
appeared to be no seams except along each fingertip, almost as if the closings
of the apertures
had been made by shearing off nails. Then two bits of information came to him
at once: the
scaly texture of the gauntlet and the fact that it had six fingers. It cannot
be, he thought with a
shock. But the longer he examined it the more convinced he became. He was
holding a gauntlet
made from the hand of the creature he and G'fand had fought; the thing that
had killed the
Scholar. Something blazed far back in his eyes. He recalled the trek to the
plaza, the small
splash of the body, knew that at that precise moment an irrevocable step had
been taken. And
he had done it.
Without further thought, he pulled on the gauntlet with his left hand, flexing
his fingers. The
light turned the scales to silver, reflective and brilliant.
He left the house then, and strode down the crooked lane, the air cool and
fresh against his
face, to start his return to Borros and the Freehold far above him.
They were glittery. Wet-looking yet opaque. They were an entire universe,
seeing everything now;
seeing nothing. What struck him most deeply, however, were the lines of fear
etched into the
features. And the red marks. Must it come in such a manner? He was becoming an
expert on it: Death.
He stood in the lamplight of the Medicine Man's side room. He had come there
to see Borros and
had not found him.
He stared down at the body on the bed. The heavy, lined face so frightened in
life. The rheumy eyes
were glazed. He thought, What have they done to you, Stahlig?
The flame from the sole lamp flickered in the draught. The door to the
Corridor opened and
Ronin's hand went instinctively to the hilt of his sword.
'I truly wish you would try it,' said Freidal softly. Ronin turned slowly, saw
the Security Saardin
and three daggam. Freidal went over to the concealed door, opened it. Four
more daggam stepped
through.
His mouth curled in the parody of a smile. 'Come, come. Where are the heroics
that a Blades-man
should be famous for?' His voice was silken with subdued triumph. 'Will you
not fight your way out?
Take us all on?' His good eye stared with intensity. 'Take his weapons,' he
barked, and they
disarmed him. Freidal had chosen the place well, he thought. No room to
manoeuvre in such a
small area. No chance.
Freidal's face was a mask. His slick hair glistened. He looked relaxed, almost
happy. 'Did
you believe for a moment that you could drop from our Levels without my
knowledge?' The
ghost of a smile played along his thin, white lips. 'Stupid boy!' His tongue
clucked reprovingly
against the roof of his mouth. 'You were warned. A courtesy which you chose to
ignore.'
Freidal stepped closer to him, and daggam on either side gripped Ronin's
wrists, although he had
made no movement.
The Saardin reached out and removed Ronin's corselet, stared at the welts
along his chest.
'As I knew you would.' He ran a finger across the bruised flesh. 'You see, I
could not get what I
wanted from that accursed Magic Man. The fool! But it was purely accidental.'
He laughed, a
sharp, disquieting sound. 'I knew it would work then, throwing you and Borros
together.'
His finger was at Ronin's waist. 'Ah, and what is this?' He grasped Ronin's
right arm and the
daggam on that side let go. He brought the forearm and hand up. The gauntlet
shot silver
through the tiny room. Freidal pulled it off Ronin's hand, examining it.
'Could this be it? What
he sent you Downshaft to find?' He looked up, into Ronin's face, said sharply,
'Is it?' The false
eye flashed. 'It has begun, you know, the struggle for power.'
Ronin thought of Nirren. Where was he now? He had not been able to locate him
before he
had left, and now this weighed heavily upon him, as if he had violated a
trust. But, he told
himself, I had no idea it would begin so soon. Could my knowledge of Borros's
project have
helped him? There was no way to tell now.
Freidal grasped his elbow and swung him around. 'He did not die well. He tried
to protect you
but his fear won out. He helped.' Ronin recalled his agitation, his warning.
The old man had
tried to tell him. 'How does that make you feel? And you see what he is now. A
piece of meat,
stinking and putrefying.' His nostrils dilated and he sniffed delicately.
'Dead things offend me.
But Stahlig was put here for a reason. Even a stupid boy like you can see
that.' He jerked Ronin
around and motioned to two daggam, who removed the corpse. Freidal fondled the
scaled
gauntlet. 'Be sensible. If you have no interest in power, at least look after
your life.' He stroked
Ronin's chest with a cold palm. 'It would be a great pity to destroy this
body.' He slapped the
gauntlet against the side of his leg. 'Can the Machine work?'
Abruptly there was a commotion outside in the dark surgery. Freidal started,
as if he had
forgotten that beyond these walls, the intimacies of the moment, existed the
world of the
Freehold. He turned his head, as did Ronin.
They saw that three men in close-fitting breeches and jerkins of a soft tan
colour had pushed
past the daggam who had just returned from disposing of the body. The man in
front was slim,
with red cheeks and full lips. The jewel-hiked daggers glittered over his
heart and at his hip.
'Saardin,' he said blandly.
'Voss,' Freidal acknowledged coldly. 'What is the meaning of this intrusion?'
Voss saw Ronin. 'Ah, there you are! We have all been quite concerned about
you.' He smiled
winningly. 'None the worse for your interview with Security, I trust!'
Freidal's good eye flicked in its socket and a muscle spasmed in his cheek.
'This behaviour is
inexcusable! Bakka! Turis! See these people out immediately!'
The Chondrin held up his hand. 'One moment, Saardin. The Salamander wishes to
see Ronin.
He has been distressed over his whereabouts. His safety, you know - '
Two spots of colour burned on Freidal's cheeks. 'What are you saying?' He was
trembling
with suppressed rage. 'Have you taken leave of your senses? This is strictly a
Security matter.'
Voss smiled icily. 'No. I am afraid you are mistaken.'
The good eye blazed at the Chondrin, then Freidal turned abruptly, making a
cutting gesture
through the air with the edge of one hand. 'Take him then,' he said thickly.
'Take him and get
out!'
Voss motioned to one of his men, who took Ronin's weapons from the daggam.
Then he
stepped up to Freidal and said, 'He will want this too.' He slipped the
gauntlet from the
Saardin's hand, and the four of them departed.
The woman with the broad face was gone. A Bladesman sat in her place. They
went through
the inner double doors and down the hallway. At the end, the Bladesman
carrying Ronin's
weapons handed them to Voss and he and his fellows disappeared through the
door on the right.
Voss opened the opposite door and led Ronin into a low-ceilinged room lit by
lamps. There
were no Overheads. The walls were dark and bare. Across the room was another
door. There was
a single wooden chair in the centre of the room. Voss indicated that Ronin
should sit. Ronin
shrugged. He had no illusions as to why he was here. He had been witness to
too many events;
and too many people were gone.
The sharp smell of cloves foretold the approach. He had not heard a door open.
The
Salamander stood over Ronin. He wore black shirt and breeches and gleaming
thigh-length
boots. A fine mesh vest of red gold winked in the light. He wore a wide
crimson leather belt
from which a scabbarded sword hung. The ruby lizard was at his throat.
Voss, leaning on Ronin's sword, handed the Salamander the gauntlet. The big
man grunted,
turning the thing over in his large hands. 'So?'
Voss shrugged. 'Apparently he brought it from Downshaft.'
The Salamander stared at Ronin. 'How far did you go?'
'All the way.'
He glanced at Voss. 'No wonder Freidal was interested.'
Ronin heard a tiny sound behind him, as if someone had slipped into the room,
but the Sala-
mander did not turn and he could not twist in the chair. Perhaps it was
nothing.
'My dear boy, I hope you appreciate the great service I have done you. Freidal
can be most
unpleasant when he has a mind to.'
Ronin stared into the eyes like black coals. 'So I noticed. He killed the
Medicine Man.'
'Oh?' The Salamander's eyebrows raised. 'What a pity. You knew him a long
time.' He spread
his hands. 'I am most sorry.'
'The Magic Man too, I imagine.'
'Oh, dear me, no. He could hardly afford to do that. No, Borros is much too
valuable. He is
being detained several Levels below us.'
'I was not aware that you knew so much about him.'
'Oh, I see.' The Salamander frowned. 'That was careless of me.' Then he
shrugged. 'But one
hopes, my dear boy, that you can be treated as a friend, an ally - '
'You are as desperate as he is - '
'Not at all, dear boy, not at all. I merely think that you should be back
where you belong.
There has always been room for you here.'
Voss moved minutely, and Ronin said. 'To be your Chondrin? You already have
one. In any
event, we have been through this before. What if I should turn you down a
second time?'
The Salamander's expression changed. His eyes smouldered and he smote Ronin
across the
face. 'What an abysmal fool you are. I offered you
everything and you spit at me. Did you believe that I could forget?'
'At the time I believed that you would understand - '
'Oh, I understood! I trained you to be the greatest fighting machine in the
Freehold. I saw the
ability lurking within you. It took a master to bring it out, nurture it, let
it blossom. An Instructor
could never have accomplished it.'
'You make it seem as if it was all your doing.'
'But it was! You were there and I moulded you. You became what I wished you to
become.'
'Not quite.'
The Salamander bristled, and his voice was as smooth as silk. 'I trained you
to be my Chondrin;
an unbeatable warrior. Did you think that I was wasting my time in picking
boys and training
them? A reason behind it all. And what was your response? You return the care
lavished upon you
with insult.'
'There was no - '
'Silence!' the Salamander roared. His face was coloured by rage. His enormous
bulk loomed over
Ronin, the threat of death. 'Do not presume,' he said quietly, icily, 'to tell
me what I already know.'
He bent forward and Ronin felt Voss very close at his side and slightly behind
him, out of his peripheral
vision. 'I should have seen it; you lacked the initiative. It all came so
easily to you, you never
regarded the mental processes as important. That was a mistake; a fatal
mistake.' The stygian eyes
were glittery and fever-bright as they stared at Ronin. 'Now Voss has
initiative. He - eliminated
two other Students of mine in order to ensure his position as Chondrin.' He
laughed, a short
strange sound. 'I would not trade him for you. What conceit!' He stood up and
looked past
Ronin's head for a moment before his eyes returned. 'Now we shall see how long
it takes for you
to tell me what I want to know.' He signalled to Voss. 'Bring the-'
At that moment the door to the hallway was thrown open and a Bladesman came
hurriedly
in. The Salamander looked up.
'The Magic Man,' the Bladesman said, 'has escaped from Security.'
The Salamander's eyes flicked again behind Ronin, and he heard a slight
movement. 'Oh, that
fool!' He looked at Voss and threw him the gauntlet. 'You know what to do.' He
whirled and
followed the man from the room.
'On your feet,' Voss said coldly. He tucked the gauntlet into his leather
belt.
He got up and they went out the way they had come in. Six men were in the
outer room, two
guarding the double doors to the Corridor, and Ronin thought, In that Freidal
told the truth: it
has begun.
They went out through the doors and Voss prodded him to the right, down the
Corridor. He
heard a distant clamour, the pounding of boots, the clang of metal,
intermittent shouts. He felt
the tip of Voss's dagger at his back.
'Where are we headed?' Ronin asked.
'You do not expect an answer to that.'
Ronin shrugged.
'How could you have done it?'
Ronin turned his neck, felt the bite of the iron tip, 'What?'
'Gone away from him.'
'I am what I am.'
'Huh! He is right, you are a fool! Did you not realize that you were bound to
him?'
Ronin said nothing.
'You had a moral obligation - '
And he almost missed it. The sliver of shadow along the wall ahead of them,
around the arc
of the Corridor, so that he did not think that Voss had seen it. He kept his
pace steady, and
thought, Any diversion must be used; he is most vulnerable here in the
Corridor. Once we get to a
destination, there will be little chance. He thought then of the whirring in
the air, angry and hot,
cutting through the sounds of the birds, the accuracy of Voss's throws.
A man was in front of them, and Voss still had not seen the small slice of
shadow. He must
be pressed against the wall, Ronin thought.
'You owe him your life,' Voss said. 'Including your loyalty.'
The figure came out from the wall and Ronin dropped, rolling to the right,
across the
Corridor, came up with right arm extended to ward off the expected dagger
blow. But Voss was
not even looking in his direction. He stood facing the figure, his face
registering shock.
And Ronin felt the adrenalin pumping. Nirren! Nirren stood before Voss, bright
sword
unsheathed, held before him.
Voss unfroze. 'What are you doing so far Upshaft?'
Nirren grinned, his mouth a tight line. 'Where were you taking Ronin?'
'That is no business of yours. Out of the way!'
'And if he chooses not to accompany you?'
'The choice is not his to make.'
'I say it is.'
Voss's hands became a blur and simultaneously Nirren lunged like a dancer,
extending his front
leg very low. The sword shot out as the air hummed. Voss's face held a measure
of surprise. His
eyes were still looking at the jewel-hilted dagger lodged head-high in the far
wall as the blade
pierced his chest. He stood that way for a moment, his blood running hotly
along Nirren's blade.
Then his right hand twitched once and, as Nirren withdrew the sword, he
crumpled over as if he
were made of fabric.
Nirren touched the face with the toe of his boot, the head turned slackly. He
swung to face Ronin
and grinned. 'It is too bad. I would have enjoyed seeing you take him.' He
shrugged. 'Well, where
have you been? And G'fand's gone missing.'
Ronin went across the Corridor, took his weapons from Voss's corpse. He pulled
the gauntlet free
from the other's belt. 'I have been on a journey Downshaft, for the Magic Man
-'
'Then you got through to him!'
'Yes, and I have much to tell you,' Ronin said, strapping on his scabbard.
They moved towards a
nearby Stairwell. 'But first I must find the Magic Man. He has escaped from
Freidal.'
Nirren nodded. 'All right. I am in the midst of following that Rodent. At last
I believe I know
who it is, fantastic though it may seem - '
Ronin cut him off. 'Listen, fantastic is the word for what I have learned. The
Magic Man is
correct; we are not alone on this planet - '
'What?'
They both caught the flash at once, but the thing was already in the air.
Nirren's jaws swung
wide and he threw his hands up in a vain reflexive motion. A gout of blood
erupted along his
neck. He staggered back and fell clumsily to the floor.
Ronin raced into the Stairwell but the commotion of running feet and raised
voices echoing
in the Stairwell made it impossible to tell which way the assailant had fled.
He ran back into the Corridor and knelt beside Nirren. The front of his jerkin
was soaked in
blood. He ripped off a length of the Chondrin's shirt, withdrew the dagger at
his neck, his
fingers cold on the jewelled hilt. He put the fabric against the wound. White
cloth stained red.
Nirren's eyes were still clear and bright with intelligence. Ronin expected
him to ask about
the Magic Man's project. Instead he said, 'What happened to G'fand? You know.'
There was pain in Ronin's eyes. 'I took him with me. I thought he would be of
help with his
knowledge of the glyphs.'
'And was he?' The breathing was laboured as the body struggled with the shock.
'Yes.' Ronin looked into his eyes. 'He was killed. He - '
Nirren's body trembled. The cloth at his neck was entirely crimson now. He
gripped Ronin's
arms and a sadness that Ronin could not understand danced behind his eyes.
'The Rodent,' he
managed to get out with difficulty. 'I am sure now, the dagger, go Upshaft,
after - ' His head fell
and Ronin held it. 'Last time, follow Up - ' He tried to laugh then, choked
instead. The light in
his eyes was fading; they were opaque, like stones. 'Just thinking - team -
what a team.' His
eyes closed as if from fatigue. 'All gone now - Ronin, I am sorry.' Then the
blood, which he had
been holding back with a last effort, came out of his mouth.
Up and up and up. The darkness rushing by and the clamour from below fading,
but it was as if
a strong wind rushed in his ears and he heard Nirren sighing again, All gone
now, and knew it was
true. The world had collapsed and he was adrift in the dark, directionless.
But his legs did not
understand. They pumped strongly, up the Stairwell. Follow Upward, Nirren had
asked, and he
would do it now, and he felt the burning within him, the hate growing and
pulsing, fed from the
secret fires of many events. Surely it was the Rodent who had slain Nirren,
for he had been on
his trail and had been very close. Closer than he knew. His lungs worked as he
raced through
the Levels of the Freehold. Upward, ever upward. Once he stared down at his
hands, saw with
some surprise that he had slipped on the silvered gauntlet and that he
clutched the dagger that
had killed the Chondrin. Jewels on the hilt? And then Borros came into his
mind. Escaped and
gone where? Upshaft surely.
He climbed the stairs as far as they would take him. He emerged into a bright
Corridor
painted a brilliant yellow. Dust lay thickly along the floor, clung to the
walls. He looked down.
Bootprints in the dust, confused, but certainly more than one pair.
He sprinted down the Corridor and gradually
the colour of the walls deepened. There were no doors. On he ran, the hate a
living thing within
him now. Existence narrowed.
And the Corridor ended. Here near the summit of the Freehold, the Corridor did
not describe
a complete circle. He faced the black bulge of a Lift's doors. He stabbed at
the black sphere and the
doors yawned. He stepped inside. Up, ever up. There was one sphere and he
pressed it. He
ascended. Eyes like stones. Ronin, 1 am sorry, he said. What had he meant? I
am the one who is
sorry, Nirren. But death comes and there is no way to stop -
The Lift sighed to a halt and the doors opened. Above him the surface of the
planet, so near.
Perhaps just steps away? He went into the room before him. It was an ellipse,
painted red. In
the centre was a black platform from which a metal ladder ran vertically into
a round section
cut out of the ceiling. Low doors in the solid platform were open, and he saw
what looked like
neat piles of clothing. One stack had been tipped over. And the thought grew
in his mind. Borros
-
A tiny whistle in the air, like a tickle at his ear. He drew his sword and
spun. The dagger was
in his belt. A sword drove into his, scraping down the length of the blade,
smashed into the hilt.
Slight, deceptive twisting of his wrist and disengagement was accomplished.
He looked at his opponent and a shock ran through him. Blood pounded in his
temples and
for a split second the scene before him seemed to blur.
She stood before him, in leggings and jerkin of a soft tan colour. Across her
chest ran a thin
leather strap to which was attached a red leather scabbard that hung between
her breasts.
She stood before him in the oblique combat position, legs apart, knees bent,
leading with her
shoulder to present a narrower target. Her pale hands gripped a sword the same
length as Ronin's.
The black torrent of her hair was held back from her face by a plain gold
band. It had the
appearance of a helm.
She stood before him, small beads of sweat glinting at her hairline. Her eyes
were unnaturally
bright, the pupils contracted so that they seemed to be all iris. She smiled
and it was like the
coming of the frost. Her white teeth gleamed, small and even. She looked quite
deadly.
'K'reen,' he breathed.
She laughed sharply, a bitter sound. 'How I have waited to see you at this
moment!' she said in
a tight voice. She swung at him and he parried solely by instinct. He felt as
if the floor had
suddenly become molten. He was sinking into it. He could not move. He could
not take his eyes
from her. She circled him, and they moved out on to the floor, like slow
dancers moving to
metalled music. She struck again and he parried.
'A Bladesman,' he said softly. 'Can it be?'
'Come,' she said thickly. 'Come and find out.' She slashed again and again at
him, drawing
him out, and her eyes flashed coldly, triumphantly as he moved towards her.
He stared at her and realization suddenly flooded him. Because now she was not
beautiful or
pretty or any of the other words he would normally associate with her. She was
naked to him
now, stripped of the layers of femininity. She was at once more and less than
she once was,
pared and honed and transformed.
She was elemental.
Metal rang against metal in the small oval.
'Here is what I really am!' she said savagely. 'Not what you made me out to
be. The
Salamander saw the potential in me - to be a Bladesman. He was not afraid to
reject Tradition.
Years we worked in secret, lest the other Saardin suspect and forbid it.'
They moved around the oval, she advancing, he retreating. She struck at him
continuously,
testing, probing.
'Why?' asked Ronin. 'Why did he train you?'
She smiled coldly. 'Part of the gathering of power.' Then she sneered.
'Something you would
know nothing about.'
But it was not right, somehow, and he heard the Salamander saying, A reason
behind it all.
But there was no time; she swept it away. 'You could have been his Chondrin!'
she hissed,
striking at him. 'You would have been with him when I came. He would have put
us together,
and then we could have had everything!'
There was an odd sensation inside him, and he looked at the feral glow in her
eyes, the sweat
running down her cheeks, her heaving breasts. And he saw what he had not
wanted to see
before: the jewel-hiked dagger between her breasts. And his gaze moved, as if
of its own
accord, to her flank, to the scabbard hanging empty there.
'It was you,' he whispered. 'The Rodent. You killed Nirren. Why? He was our
friend.'
She shook her head. 'The enemy,' she said deliberately. 'He was the enemy.
Just as you are
now the enemy - '
'But this makes no sense - '
'You turned your back on him. After he taught you and trained you, you would
not serve
him. You would not aid him now.'
Still he retreated under her blows. 'I serve no one,' he said softly. 'It is
the only fact of which
I am certain.' Then, as if suddenly realizing what she had said: 'You were in
the room, behind
me!'
'Yes!' she hissed. 'Ready to embrace you, if you joined us.' She swung at him.
'He gave you a
chance to amend your insult. You mocked him instead.'
Where was the woman he had known? Whence had she fled? Could she have felt
any
fondness towards him? But the emotions he knew, when they had been there, had
been genuine.
He recognized the fault within himself. Surely he could have seen this side of
her, had he only
looked. But he had turned from her too many times, and this, he knew, as much
as her training,
as much as the purpose set for her by the Salamander, was the cause of this
confrontation.'
'But Nirren -'
'He delayed me,' she cut in. 'I had not expected him to be so close.' He wiped
the sweat from
his forehead, stood his ground. Sparks flew from the
meeting of their weapons. 'The delay cost me,' she said bitterly. 'The old man
was faster than I
had imagined. I missed him by seconds.'
'You mean Borros is on the surface?'
'What is that to you? He will be dead soon enough, frozen and buried under the
snow.'
But part of him exulted and he knew now what he must do. He shook his head.
'You are
wrong. He will live. And I will follow him.' And he thought, But she is
Nirren's killer. In
friendship he asked for revenge. / serve no one. Sweat rolled along his neck,
and he felt a chill.
Ronin, I am sorry.
She snarled and her teeth looked like those of a small predatory animal. 'Oh,
no,' she said.
'This is your tomb.' And she lunged at him, arching her blade with all her
might, catching him
off guard with the unexpectedly powerful blow, and he realized at once that he
had
underestimated her cunning. They locked blades, and he twisted again, moving
his wrist. But
she countered and the blades ground together at a peculiar angle. Her sword
snapped abruptly,
the released force causing his weapon to jump away. She reached between her
breasts,
withdrew the jewel-hiked dagger. His palm closed over the hilt of the sister
blade and he held it
before him. This is what she wants, he realized. She is most proficient with
the smaller weapon.
They circled each other in the confined space, judging distances and the
switch to lighter
blades. He wished his head were clearer, but conflicting emotions darted like
lightning in his
mind, squirting too fast to catch.
Perhaps she saw a hint of this confusion in his eyes, and perhaps that is why
she threw
herself against him unexpectedly. They tumbled to the floor, locked together,
hand clutching
wrist, rolling over and over.
Her hot panting breath was against his face and he smelled her scent as their
legs twined and
their bodies heaved. They grunted and clung to each other, desperately
fighting for position. He
stared into her eyes. They were large and deep and liquid and he felt a
stirring inside. He
thought of what she had done, of what she wanted, and knew the hate was there.
He fought to
push down the edge of the other emotion. Her enigmatic eyes stared at him and
he could not tell
whether there was hate or hunger there.
Her heat and her sweat melted into him. Her long hair whipped his face. Her
flesh was both
hard and soft as it writhed against him. Til kill you,' she hissed. Til kill
you.' Her thigh was
between his legs, imprisoned. She moved it against him and her other leg came
over his hip and
her calf pressed his buttocks. Desire rose in him like a great feathered bird
gaining the air
currents. Her voice was low and thick as she said it again, 'I want to kill
you.' But it was almost
a moan. Their bodies ground together. He was aware of the press of her breasts
against his chest.
Something slammed into the back of his head and a red film clouded his vision
as pain
lanced through him. He had fetched up hard against the platform at the centre
of the oval.
Dazed, he still clung tenaciously to her wrist, but using all her strength she
wrenched.it away
from him and the honed blade of the dagger seemed to pulse in the light.
She was panting through her open mouth, the lips pulled back from the pearl
teeth, and her
thighs gripped him convulsively as she rocked hard against him. He wanted to
lie back and
embrace her. He shook his head but it would not clear. She began to shudder.
'Kill you,' she
choked. 'Kill you.' And with an effort she stopped her eyes from closing. She
gripped the
dagger, knuckles as white as bone, and she moaned a little as she drove the
blade point first
towards his throat. Her pelvis ground against him in waves and he looked up to
see that her
eyes were wet. He saw dimly the terrible flash of light along the moving blade
and wondered
that he still felt the power of her groin moving against him. He felt
suffocated by a great heat
and instinctively he put up his hand. As Nirren did; vainly, he thought.
The point of the blade caught his palm. It was his gauntleted hand. The honed
tip hit the
scales, skidded off harmlessly. Within, his hand never even felt the force of
the blow. He shook
his head again, and grasped the obliquely moving blade, trying desperately to
hold it. But she
had both hands on the hilt now and she had the leverage and he had none and
she began to force
the gleaming point back at him. The cutting edge creased his throat, broke the
skin. Blood
welled up. But his left hand was free now and it scrabbled along the floor at
his side until he
found the hilt of the dagger he had dropped. And it was all reflexive now, no
thought involved at
all. He brought it up very quickly between their bodies, the blade quivering
at his throat now,
and buried it hilt-deep in her stomach.
Her eyes opened so wide that the whites showed all around the edges, and she
grunted thickly,
a brief guttural noise that seemed somehow terrible to him. Blood pounded
against the back of
his eyes and he jerked powerfully on the hilt so that it sliced up between her
breasts.
Her head dropped abruptly, as if she had been hit on the back of the neck, and
her lips came
down over his, warm and soft.
He felt a great hot pool of wetness between them and convulsively he threw her
off him and,
panting, swayed to his feet.
She lay on her back, eyes still very wide and shiny, with the jewelled hilt
protruding
obscenely from between her breasts, sending shards of harsh light reflecting
in the blood that
covered her.
What have I done? he thought, as he stared at her. All gone now. It
reverberated in his mind.
Waves of blackness seemed to reach up, ready to engulf him, but he fought them
off. He
staggered across the oval to his sword, sheathed it. Then he went back to the
platform, reached
into one of the open doors. He let the fabric unfurl. It was silvery, slightly
iridescent, and it was
very light. It was a close-fitting suit of some sort. He believed he knew its
purpose. Quickly
now he stripped off his tattered clothes and donned the suit. As he had
suspected, it fit him
snugly and was very warm. It must retain all the body heat, he thought.
Pockets
along the sides bulged with concealed packets. Food. He strapped on his
weapons belt.
He heard a sound and whirled, blade ready. The doors of the Lift hissed open
and a whiff of
cloves came to him. He tensed. Something moved within the shadows of the Lift
and the
immense jet figure of the Salamander stood half illumined in the doorway. His
hooded eyes
scanned the scene before him.
'Come to stop me yourself?' Ronin snarled, flicking the tip of his blade.
The Salamander smiled with the corners of his mouth, almost contentedly. He
did not step
into the room. 'Oh, no,' he said silkily. 'Others were to have done that. I
see that they have been
unsuccessful.'
Ronin came forward. 'I am leaving,' he said slowly and deliberately. 'You have
lost. You
have neither the Magic Man nor the information I possess. Go fight your battle
alone.'
The Salamander sighed theatrically. 'You have become a real menace, dear boy,
and must be
dealt with. But you still have much to learn.' And now he smiled once again.
He was delighted
with himself. 'You have lost quite as much, in your own way, as I. Perhaps
more.'
Ronin stared at him, blinking back the sweat that rolled down his face, and
cursed silently.
He inched closer. I'll get you yet, he thought. And said thickly, 'Yes, I
know.'
From deep within the shadows of the Lift, cloaked in his mantle of jet and
crimson, the carved
ruby lizard a blood splash duskily visible at his
throat, the Salamander laughed long and deep. Then he said, 'Oh, no, dear boy,
you do not
know. Yet.' His arm extended briefly. 'Look at the face at your feet. What do
you see? The woman
you slept with - '
'And you trained.' He was closer now.
'Yes, quite. But all for a purpose.' His eyes were dark and unreadable. 'We
were close, you and I.
Until you - But why bring up old hates?' The Salamander seemed oblivious to
Ronin's move-
ment. 'My men found her on the Middle Levels. They had heard rumours, you see,
of a child found
by the Workers. She was regarded as special, they believed that she sprang
from the Freehold itself.
They told me of this, not a Sign after you had left. And it occurred to me who
she might be. But I
dared not believe it. It was too improbable, too wonderful a coincidence. I
sent them to fetch her
and when I saw her I knew. It had to be, for she was no Worker's child. And
her age was right. In
secrecy I found her and in secrecy I trained her.' His voice was thick with
triumph now and Ronin
shivered in spite of himself. 'And then I sent her out. And she was good, very
good. She did
precisely as I had instructed her. And now she has fulfilled her purpose.' He
laughed again. 'Of
course she never knew. Never even suspected. And that made it more delicious!'
He was gloating
now.
Ronin frowned. 'What are you saying?'
'I may not have Borros, or his knowledge. But you,' he said delightedly. 'You,
in obtaining your
freedom from this place - you have slain your long-lost and beloved sister.'
His laughter
boomed again, echoing in the oval, as if it had been pent up for centuries.
He tried to reject it but the vision in the Magus's mirror swam up through his
mind, and he saw
again K'reen turn around to stare at him, turn around with his face. And then
small things,
minute things, fell into place with the clanging of great metal doors.
He screamed wordlessly and lunged at the Salamander, but his blade scraped
along the closed
doors and faintly he heard, 'Not now, not now.' And echoes of the laughter
came again.
In a frenzy, he pried at the closed doors with blade and fingers until his
nails were torn and
bloody, but they would not open. And the time for descent had passed.
After a while he turned and eventually he was able to gaze again upon K'reen's
face. Something
wailed inside him and he sank to his knees beside her. He touched her face.
Can you ever
forgive me? he thought. Will I ever be able to forgive myself?
Gently, he closed the eyes. Carefully he stepped over the body and commenced
to climb the
vertical metal ladder that led to the Access Hatch. The entryway, so many
centuries unused, to
the surface of the planet. He did not look back.
And had anyone been in the oval to see him, they would not have recognized his
face.