Into the Labyrinth

12

“What position do you seek?” The elf lieutenant barely glanced up at Hugh the Hand as he shuffled forward.

“Wingman, Master,” Hugh answered.

The lieutenant kept his eyes on his crew lists. “Experience?”

“Aye, Master,” Hugh replied.

“Any references?”

“Want to see me lash marks, Master?”

Now the lieutenant lifted his head. The delicate elven features were marred by a frown. “I don’t need a troublemaker.”

“Only bein’ honest, Master.” Hugh chuckled, grinned. “ ‘Sides, what better references could ye want?”

The elf took in Hugh’s strong shoulders, broad chest, and callused hands—all marks of those who “lived in harness,” as the saying went—humans who had been captured and forced to serve as galley slaves aboard the elven dragon ships. The elf was apparently impressed not only with Hugh’s strength, but with his candor.

“You look old for this line of work,” remarked the lieutenant, a faint smile on his lips.

“Another point in me favor, Master,” Hugh returned coolly. “I’m still alive.” At this the lieutenant definitely seemed impressed. “True. A good indication. Very well, you’re... um... hired.” The elf’s lips pursed, as if the word was difficult to say. Doubtless the lieutenant was thinking with regret of the old days when all that wingmen earned was their food and water and the whip. “A barl a day, plus your food and water. And the passenger’s paying a bonus for a smooth trip there and back.”

Hugh argued a bit, just to make it look good, but couldn’t eke out another barl, though he did win an extra water ration. Shrugging, he agreed to the terms and put his X on the contract.

“We set sail tomorrow when the Lords of Night pull back their cloaks. Be here tonight, on board, with your gear. You’ll sleep in harness.” Hugh nodded and left. On his way back to the squalid tavern where he’d spent the night, again keeping in character, he passed “the passenger,” emerging from the crowd of people who were standing on the docks. Hugh the Hand recognized the passenger—Trian, King Stephen’s wizard.

Crowds of people stood gawking at the unusual sight of an elven ship swinging at anchor in the human port city of Grevinor. Such a sight had not been seen since the days when the elves occupied the Volkaran Islands. Children, too young to remember, stared in excited awe and wonder, tugged their parents closer to marvel at the brightly colored garb of the elven officers, their flute-like voices.

The parents watched with grim faces. They remembered—all too well. They remembered the elven occupation of their lands and had no love for their former enslavers. But the King’s Own stood guard around the ship; their war-dragons circled overhead. What comments were made were made beneath the breath, therefore; all took care that the Royal Wizard should not hear them. Trian stood among a knot of courtiers and noblemen who were either accompanying him on his journey, seeing him off, or attempting to make last-minute deals with him. He was pleasant, smiling, polite, hearing everything, seeming to promise all in return, but actually promising nothing. The young wizard was adept at court intrigue. He was like the rune-bone player at the fair who can play at any number of games at the same time, remembering every move, beating handily every opponent.

Almost every opponent. Hugh the Hand walked right past him. Trian saw him—the wizard saw everyone—but did not give the ragged sailor a second glance. Hugh smiled grimly, shoved his way through the crowd. Showing himself to Trian had not been an act of bravado. If Trian had recognized Hugh as the assassin the wizard had once hired to murder Bane, the wizard would have shouted for the guards. In that case, Hugh wanted a crowd around him, a city to hide in. Once on board, it was not likely that Trian would descend into the ship’s belly to hobnob with the galley slaves—or rather, the wingmen, the term now being officially used—but with the wizard, one never knew. Far better to test the disguise here in Crevinor than aboard the small dragon ship, where all the guards had to do was wrap Hugh’s legs and arms in bowstrings and toss him overboard into the Maelstrom.

Having obtained a weapon to kill Haplo, the assassin’s next problem had been reaching Haplo: The Kenkari had told him that the Patryn was in Drevlin, in the Low Realms—a place nearly impossible to reach under the best of circumstances. Ordinarily, flying to somewhere in Arianus would not be difficult for Hugh, who was expert at handling both dragons and the small, one-person dragon ships.

But small ships did not fare well in the Maelstrom, as Hugh the Hand knew from bitter past experience. And dragons, even the giant ones, would not venture into the treacherous storm. It had been Ciang who had discovered, through her numerous contacts, that the wizard Trian would be flying down the day before the ceremony that would mark the starting up of the Kicksey-winsey. The wizard, one of the king’s most valued counselors, had remained behind to keep an eye on the rebellious barons. When king and queen returned to renew their iron grip on power, Trian would sail to Drevlin to make certain that human interests were represented when the giant machine started up and did whatever it was supposed to do.

Hugh had once served as a galley slave aboard an elven dragon ship. He guessed that the elves would likely need replacement men when they stopped in Grevinor to pick up Trian. Operating the wings of the dragon ships was dangerous and difficult work. A voyage rarely passed without a wingman being injured or killed.

Hugh had not judged wrong. Once in port, the first thing the elven captain did was post a notice stating that he needed three wingmen—one to work and two for spares. It would not be easy to find replacements to fly into the Maelstrom. No matter that the pay was a barl a day—a fortune to some on the Volkaran isles.

The Hand returned to the tavern, made his way to the filthy common room where he’d spent the night on the floor. He gathered up his blanket and knapsack, paid his bill, and sauntered out. He paused to study his reflection in the dirty, cracked windowpane. Small wonder that Trian hadn’t known him. Hugh barely knew himself.

He had shaved every hair from his head—face, scalp, all completely bare. He’d even—at the cost of pain that had brought tears to his eyes—yanked out most of his thick black eyebrows, leaving only a scraggly line that slanted upward to his forehead, making his narrow eyes look abnormally large. Having been protected from the sun by his hair and beard, his chin and scalp had stood out in pallid contrast to the rest of his face. He’d used the boiled-down bark of a hargast tree to stain brown the pale skin. Now he looked as if he’d been bald all his life. There hadn’t really been a chance Trian would recognize him.

There wasn’t a chance Haplo would recognize him. Hugh the Hand returned to the ship. Sitting on a barrel on the docks, he observed closely all who came and went, watched Trian boarding, watched the other members of the wizard’s party boarding.

Once assured that no one else he knew had gone onto the ship, Hugh the Hand boarded as well. He’d been faintly concerned (or was it faintly hopeful?) that Iridal might be among the party of mysteriarchs accompanying the king’s wizard. Well, Hugh was just as glad she wasn’t. She would have recognized him. Love’s eyes were hard to fool.

Hugh put the woman firmly out of his mind. He had a job to do. He reported to the lieutenant, who turned him over to a mate, who led him into the ship’s belly, showed him his harness, and left him to meet his fellow crewmen. No longer slaves, the humans now took pride in their work. They wanted to win the offered bonus for a smooth trip and asked Hugh more questions about his experience than had the elf lieutenant who hired him.

The Hand kept his answers short and to the point. He promised he’d work as hard as any of them, and then made it plain that he wanted to be left alone. The others went back to their boning and dicing; they’d lose the bonus to each other a hundred times before they had it in their pockets. Hugh felt to make certain the Cursed Blade, as he had dubbed it, was in his knapsack; then he lay down on the deck beneath his harness and pretended to sleep. The wingmen didn’t earn their bonus that trip. They didn’t even come close. There were times when Hugh the Hand guessed that Trian must be sorry he hadn’t offered more for simply setting him down on Drevlin alive. Hugh needn’t have worried about Trian recognizing him, for the Hand saw nothing of the wizard during the voyage, until the ship finally came to a shuddering landing. The Liftalofts[19] were located in the eye of the perpetual storm that swept over Drevlin. The Liftalofts were the one place on the continent where the storms would swirl away, let Solarus beam through the scudding clouds. Elven ships had learned to wait to land until such times—the only safe times. They set down in relative calm and during this brief period (another storm was already massing on the horizon) swiftly offloaded the passengers. Trian appeared. His face was partly muffled, but the wizard looked decidedly green. Leaning weakly on the arm of a comely young woman who was aiding his faltering steps, Trian stumbled down the gangplank. Either the wizard had no magical cure for airsickness or he was playing on the young woman’s sympathy. Whatever the case, he glanced neither right nor left, but departed from the vicinity as if he couldn’t leave the ship fast enough. Once on the ground, he was met by a contingent of dwarves and fellow humans, who—seeing the coming storm—cut short the speeches and whisked the wizard away to a place of dryness and safety.[20]

Hugh knew how Trian felt. Every muscle in the assassin’s body ached and burned. His hands were raw and bleeding; his jaw was swollen and bruised—one of the straps controlling the wings had snapped loose in the storm and struck him across the face. For long moments after the ship had landed, Hugh lay on the deck and wondered that they weren’t all dead.

But he didn’t have time to dwell on his misery. And as for the swollen face, he couldn’t have paid money for a better addition to his disguise. With luck, the ache in his head and the ringing in his ears would go away in a few hours. He gave himself that amount of time to rest, wait for a lull in the storm, and rehearse his next course of action.

The crew would not be allowed ashore. Nor, after having sailed through the horrific storm, would they be at all eager to venture out into it. Most had dropped from exhaustion; one—who’d been hit in the head by a broken beam—was unconscious.

In the old days, before the alliance, the elves would have chained up the galley slaves when the ship landed—despite the storm. Humans were known for being reckless, foolhardy, and lacking in common sense. Hugh wouldn’t have been much surprised to see the guards descending into the belly anyway—old habits die hard. He waited tensely for them to show up; their presence would have been an extreme inconvenience to him. But they didn’t. Hugh thought it over, decided it made sense—from the captain’s viewpoint at least. Why put a guard over men who are costing you a barl a day (payable at the end of the voyage)? If one wants to jump ship without collecting his pay, fine. Every captain carried spare wingmen, the mortality rate among them being high.

The captain might well cause a furor when he discovered one of his crew missing, but Hugh doubted it. The captain would have to report the matter to a superior officer on shore, who would have his hands full with the dignitaries and would be highly annoyed at being bothered over such a minor problem. Likely the ship’s captain himself would be the one reamed out.

“Why in the name of the ancestors can’t you hang on to your humans, sir? High Command’ll have your ears for this when you get back to Paxaria!” No, Hugh’s disappearance would probably not even be reported. Or if it was, it would be conveniently forgotten soon after.

The storm winds were dropping; the thunder was rumbling in the distance. Hugh didn’t have much time. He dragged himself to his feet, grabbed his knapsack, and staggered off to the head. The few elves he passed never gave him a second glance. Most were too exhausted by the rigors of the flight even to open their eyes.

In the head, he made most convincing retching sounds. Groaning occasionally, he pulled from the knapsack a lump that looked like nothing so much as the insides of the knapsack. Once Hugh brought the cloth out, however, it began immediately to change color and texture, perfectly matching the wooden hull of the ship. Anyone looking at him would think he was acting very strangely, seemingly dressing himself in nothing. And then he would, to the observer’s eyes, disappear altogether.

Much against their will, the Kenkari had provided him with the magical chameleon-like clothing of the Unseen. They didn’t have much choice except to accede to Hugh’s demands. After all, they were the ones who wanted him to kill Haplo. The clothes had the magical power to blend in with their background, rendering those who wore them practically invisible. Hugh wondered if they were the same clothes he’d worn into the palace that ill-fated night when he and Iridal had stumbled into Bane’s trap. He couldn’t be sure, and the Kenkari wouldn’t tell. Not that it mattered.

Hugh discarded his own clothes—crude homespun that befitted a sailor—and dressed himself in the long, flowing pants and tunic of the Unseen. The clothes, made for elves, were a tight fit. A hood covered his head, but his hands remained bare; he could not hope to fit human hands into elven gloves. But he had learned, the last time he wore the garments, to keep his hands hidden in the folds of the tunic until time to use them. By then, if anyone saw him, it would be too late.

Hugh retrieved his knapsack, which held one more disguise and his pipe, though he would not dare use the latter. Few people smoked stregno, and both Trian and Haplo were likely to notice someone who did, recall Hugh the Hand to mind. The Cursed Blade, safely tucked into its sheath, he wore slung over his shoulder, concealed beneath his clothing.

Moving slowly, allowing the magical fabric time to adjust itself to its surroundings, the assassin glided past the elven guards, who had come up on deck during the lull in the storm to take advantage of the brief moment of sunshine and fresh air. Talking among themselves about the marvels soon to be witnessed when the great machine came on, they once looked straight at Hugh and saw nothing. He glided from the elven ship with as much ease as the freshening wind glided over it.

Hugh the Hand had been on Drevlin before, with Alfred and Bane.[21] He knew his way around as he knew his way around any place he’d ever been and more than a few he hadn’t. The nine gigantic brass and golden arms thrusting up from the ground were known as the Liftalofts. The elven ship had landed right in the center of a circle formed by the arms. Near the circle’s perimeter stood another arm, this one shorter than the rest, known as the Short Arm. Inside this arm was a circular staircase that led up to the nine drooping and lifeless hands atop the nine arms.

Darting inside the stairwell, Hugh cast a quick glance around, ascertained that the place was empty and he was alone. He shed the clothes of the Unseen, made what would be his final change of costume.

He had ample time; another storm had crashed down on Drevlin, and he dressed with care. Examining himself in the polished metal interior wall of the staircase, he decided he was too dry to be believable, and stepped outside. In an instant he was drenched to the rich fur lining of his embroidered cape. Satisfied, he returned to the safety of the Short Arm and waited with the patience that all successful assassins know is the true foundation of their craft.

The curtain of rain parted enough so that he could see the elven ship through it—the storm was blowing over. Hugh the Hand was just about to venture out when he saw a female dwarf heading in his direction. He decided it would be more in character to wait for her arrival, and stayed where he was. But when she drew near, Hugh began to curse softly.

Of all the luck! He knew her! And she knew him!

Jarre—Limbeck’s girlfriend.

There was no help for it now. He would have to trust to his altered appearance and considerable acting ability.

Splashing heedlessly through puddles, Jarre was peering upward continually at the sky. Hugh deduced that another ship must be expected, probably carrying the elven contingent of dignitaries. Good, she would be preoccupied and might not pay much attention to him. He braced himself. She opened the door, bustled inside.

“I say!” Hugh rose haughtily to his feet. “It’s about time!” Jarre skidded to a halt, stared at him in astonishment—Hugh was pleased to note that she showed no recognition. He kept his hood up, casting his face into shadow but not hiding it, which might have looked suspicious.

“Wha—what are you doing here?” the dwarf stammered in her own language.

“Don’t gabble at me in that strange tongue,” Hugh returned pettishly. “You speak human. I know you do. Everyone who is anyone does.” He sneezed violently, took the opportunity to draw up the collar of his cape around the lower part of his face, began to shiver. “There, you see, I’m catching my death. I’m wet to my skin.” He sneezed again.

“What are you doing here, sir?” Jarre repeated in passable human. “Did you get left behind?”

“Left behind? Yes, I was left behind! Do you think I sought shelter in this beastly place because I wanted to? Was it my fault I was too sick to walk when we landed? Does anyone wait for me? No, no, and no. They’re off like arrows, leaving me to the tender mercies of the elves. By the time I staggered onto deck, my friends were nowhere in sight. I made it this far when the storm hit, and now look at me.” Hugh sneezed again.

Jarre’s mouth twitched. She was about to laugh, thought better of it, and changed it into a polite cough instead.

“We’re meeting another ship, sir, but if you’ll wait, I’ll be happy to show you to the tunnels—”

Hugh glanced outside, saw a whole group of dwarves trudging through the puddles. His sharp eyes picked out the leader, Limbeck. Hugh scanned the rest of the crowd intently, thinking Haplo might be with them. He wasn’t. Hugh drew himself up in offended dignity. “No, I will not wait! I’m halfway to dying of poomonia. If you will simply have the goodness to point me in the correct direction...”

“Well...” Jarre hesitated, but it was obvious she had more important things to do than fool with a sopping wet human numbskull. “See that enormous big building way, way over there? That’s the Factree. Everyone’s inside.” She cast an eye at the distant storm clouds. “If you hurry, you should just about make it before the next downpour hits.”

“Not that it would matter.” Hugh sniffed. “I can’t get much wetter, can I? Thank you, m’dear.” He offered her a hand that resembled a wet fish, lightly twiddled his fingers near hers, and retrieved the hand before she could actually touch it. “You’ve been most kind.”

Wrapping his cloak around him, Hugh stalked out of the Liftalofts to meet the startled stares of the dwarves (discounting Limbeck, who was gazing around in blissful myopia and didn’t see him at all). Giving them a look that consigned them all unfavorably to their ancestors, Hugh flung his cape over his shoulder and strode past them.

A second elven dragon ship was descending, carrying the representatives from Prince Rees’ahn. Those meeting it soon forgot Hugh, who splashed his way to the Factree, ducking inside just as another storm swooped down on Worn be. Throngs of elves, humans, and dwarves were gathered in the enormous area that had been, so legend had it, the birthplace of the fabulous Kicksey-winsey. All present were eating and drinking and treating each other with the nervous politeness of longtime enemies now suddenly friends. Again Hugh searched the crowd for Haplo.

Not here.

Just as well. Now was not the time.

Hugh the Hand made his way to a fire that was burning inside an iron barrel. He dried his clothes, drank some wine, and greeted his fellow humans with outflung arms, leaving them to think confusedly that they must know him from somewhere.

When anyone tried to ask—in a roundabout way—who he was, Hugh looked faintly insulted, replied vaguely that he was “in the party of that gentleman over there, Baron [sneeze, cough], standing by that thingamabob [wave of the hand]”.

A polite bow and wiggle of the fingers to the baron. Seeing this obviously wealthy, well-dressed gentleman bowing to him, the baron bowed politely back. The questioner was satisfied.

The Hand took care not to talk to one person too long, but he made certain that he said something to everyone.

By the end of several hours every human in the Factree, including a pale and ill-looking Trian, would have been prepared to swear that he or she had been friends with the richly dressed and politely spoken gentleman for eons. If they could just think of his name...

The dignitaries gathered in the Factree, forming a circle around the statue of the Manger. The High Froman of the dwarves, Limbeck Bolttightner, would have the honor of opening the statue, being the first to descend into the tunnels, leading the way to the heart and brains of the Kick-sey-winsey. This was Limbeck’s moment of triumph. He held the precious Sartan book[22] in his hand (not that the book was necessary; Limbeck had memorized it completely, besides which he couldn’t really see it unless he held it up level with his nose), and with Jarre at his side (now Madam High Froman), accompanied by a host of dignitaries, Limbeck Bolttightner approached the Manger. The dwarf, who had started this wondrous upheaval by simply asking “Why?”, gave the statue a gentle shove. The figure of the robed and hooded Sartan turned on its base. Before descending Limbeck paused a moment, stared down into the darkness.

“Take it one step at a time,” Jarre advised him in an undertone, conscious of the dignitaries gathered around, waiting for them to proceed. “Don’t go too fast and hold on to my hand and you won’t fall.”

“What?” Limbeck blinked. “Oh, it’s not that. I can see fine. All those blue lights,[23] you know, make it quite easy. I was just... remembering.”

Limbeck sighed and his eyes misted over, and suddenly the blue lights were more blurred in his vision than before, if such a thing was possible. “So much has happened, and most of it right here in the Factree. They held my trial here, when I first realized that the Manger was trying to tell us how the machine worked, and then the fight with the coppers—”

“When Alfred fell down the stairs and I was trapped in there with him and we saw his beautiful people, all dead.” Jarre took hold of Limbeck’s hand and squeezed it tight. “Yes, I remember.”

“And then we found the metal man and I found that room with the humans and elves and dwarves all getting along together.[24] And I realized that we could be like that.” Limbeck smiled, then sighed again. “And after that came the horrible fight with the dragon-snakes. You were a hero, my dear,” he said, looking at Jarre with pride. He saw her clearly, if he could see nothing else clearly in this world.

She shook her head. “All I did was fight a dragon-snake. You fought monsters that were far bigger and ten times more horrible. You fought ignorance and apathy. You fought fear. You forced people to think, to ask questions and demand answers. You are the true hero, Limbeck Bolttightner, and I love you, even if you are a druz sometimes.” She said the last in a whisper and then leaned over to kiss him on the side-whiskers, in front of all the dignitaries and half the population of dwarves on Drevlin.

There was much cheering, and Limbeck blushed to the roots of his beard.

“What’s the delay?” asked Haplo softly. Quiet, keeping to the shadows, away from the other mensch, he stood near the statue of the Manger. “It’s safe. You can go down there now. The dragon-snakes are gone.”

At least they’re not down in the tunnels anymore, he added, but he added it to himself. Evil was in the world and would always be in the world, but now, with the prospect for peace among the mensch races, evil’s influence was lessened. Limbeck blinked in Haplo’s general direction. “Haplo, too,” he said to Jarre.

“Haplo’s a hero, too. He’s the one really responsible.”

“No, I’m not,” Haplo said hastily, irritably. “Look, you’d better get on with this. The people on the other continents above will be waiting. They might start to get nervous if there’s a delay.”

“Haplo’s right,” said Jarre, ever practical. She tugged Limbeck toward the entrance to the stairway.

The dignitaries crowded around the statue, preparing to follow. Haplo stayed put. He was feeling uneasy and could find no reason for it. He looked, for the hundredth time, at the sigla tattooed on his skin, the runes that would warn him of danger. They did not glow with their magical warning, as they would have if danger had threatened—if the dragon-snakes were lurking somewhere below, for instance. But he felt the warning still, a prickling of the skin, a tingle of nerve-endings. Something was wrong. He retreated into the darkness, planning to take a close look at everyone in the crowd. The dragon-snakes might disguise themselves effectively as mensch, but their glinting red reptile eyes would give them away.

Haplo hoped to remain unnoticed, forgotten. But the dog, excited by the noise and activity, was not about to be left out of the celebrations. With a cheerful bark, it bounded away from Haplo’s side and dashed for the stairs.

“Dog!” Haplo made a lunge for the animal and would have caught it, but at that moment he was conscious of movement behind him, movement felt rather than seen, of someone drawing near him, a whispered breath on the back of his neck. Distracted, he glanced around and missed in his grab for the dog. The animal joyfully leapt for the stairs and promptly entangled itself among the august limbs of the High Froman.

There was a perilous moment when it seemed that the dog and Limbeck would mark this historic occasion by tumbling down the stairs in a confused tangle of fur and beard. But the quick-thinking Jarre grabbed hold of both her renowned leader and the dog, each by their respective napes, and managed to sort them out and save the day.

Keeping firm hold of the dog in one hand and Limbeck in the other, Jarre glanced around. She had never really been all that fond of dogs.

“Haplo!” she called in a stern and disapproving tone. No one was near him. He was quite alone, not counting the various dignitaries all lined up at the head of the stairs, waiting for their chance to descend. Haplo stared at his hand. For one instant, he had thought the runes were about to activate, to prepare to defend him from imminent attack. But they remained dark.

It was a strange sensation, one he’d never before experienced. He was reminded of a candle flame, extinguished by a breath. Haplo had the disquieting feeling that someone had, with a breath, extinguished his magic. But that wasn’t possible.

“Haplo!” Jarre called again. “Come get this dog of yours!” No help for it. Everyone in the Factree was looking at him and smiling. Haplo had lost all opportunity of remaining comfortably anonymous. Scratching at the back of his hand, he made his way to the top of the stairs and, with a grim expression, ordered the animal to his side.

Aware from its master’s tone that it had done something wrong, but not quite certain why all the fuss, the dog pattered meekly up to Haplo. Sitting in front of the statue, the animal lifted a contrite paw, asking to be forgiven. This proceeding highly amused the dignitaries, who gave the dog a round of applause.

Thinking the applause was for him, Limbeck bowed solemnly, then proceeded down the stairs. Haplo, the crowd pressing behind him, had no choice but to join the procession. He cast one quick glance backward, saw nothing. No one was lurking about the statue. No one was paying any particular attention to him. Perhaps he’d imagined it. Perhaps he was weaker from his injury than he’d thought.

Puzzled, Haplo followed Limbeck and Jarre, the Sartan runes lighting their way into the tunnels.

Hugh the Hand stood against a wall, in the shadows, watching the rest of the mensch file down the stairs. When the last one was down, he would follow—silent, unseen.

He was pleased with himself, satisfied. He knew now what he needed to know. His experiment had been successful.

“A Patryn’s magic is said to warn him of danger,” Ciang had told Hugh, “much as what we call our sixth sense warns us of danger, except that theirs is far more accurate, far more refined. The runes they have tattooed on their skin flare with a bright light. This not only warns them of danger, but acts as a defensive shield.”

Yes, Hugh remembered—painfully—the time in the Imperanon when he’d tried to attack Haplo. A blue light had flared and a jolt like a lightning bolt had shot through the assassin’s body.

“It would seem to me logical that for this weapon to work, it must somehow break down or penetrate the Patryn’s magic. I suggest you experiment,” Ciang had advised him. “See what it does.”

And so Hugh had experimented. That morning, when the group of dignitaries assembled in the Factree, Hugh the Hand was among them. The assassin spotted his prey immediately on entering.

Recalling what he knew of Haplo, the Hand guessed that the quiet, unassuming Patryn would keep to the background, out of the sunlight, as the saying went, staying hidden in the shadows—making Hugh’s task relatively simple. The Hand was not wrong. Haplo stood apart, near that huge statue the dwarves called the Manger. But the dog was with him. Hugh cursed himself softly. He had not forgotten about the dog, but he was simply amazed to find it with its master. The last Hugh had seen of the animal, it had been with him and Bane in the Mid Realms. Shortly after saving Hugh’s life, the dog had disappeared. The assassin had not been particularly grateful to the dog for its action, and hadn’t bothered to go looking for it.

He had no idea how it had managed to make its way from the Mid Realms to the Low Realms, and he didn’t much care. The dog was going to prove a damn nuisance. If need be, he’d kill it first. Meanwhile, Hugh had to see how close he could get to the Patryn, see if the Cursed Blade reacted in any way. Drawing the knife, keeping it hidden in the folds of his cloak, Hugh drifted into the shadows. The glimmerglamps, which would have turned the Factree’s night into bright day, were dark, since the Kicksey-winsey that ran them was not working. The humans and elves had brought oil lamps and torches, but these did little to penetrate the darkness of the cavernous building. It was easy for Hugh the Hand, dressed in the clothes of the Unseen, to join that darkness, become one with it.

He crept silently up behind his quarry, came to a halt, waited patiently for the right time to make his move. Too many in Hugh’s trade, driven by fear or nervousness or eagerness, rushed to the attack instead of waiting, observing, preparing mentally and physically for the correct moment, which always came. And when it came, you had to know it, you had to react—often in only a splinter of an instant. It was this ability to wait patiently for that moment, to recognize it and act upon it, that had made Hugh the Hand great. He bided his time, thinking as he did so that the knife had adapted itself wonderfully to his hand. He couldn’t have hired a smith to design a hilt that suited him as well.

It was as if the blade had molded itself to his flesh. He watched, waited, keeping his attention more on the dog than on its master.

And the moment came.

Limbeck and Jane were starting down the stairs when suddenly the High Froman stopped. Haplo leaned over to talk to him; Hugh couldn’t catch what they were saying, nor did he care. Then the dwarves started down the stairs.

“I wish,” Hugh muttered to himself, “the damn dog would go along.” At that moment, the dog sprang after them.

Hugh the Hand was startled by the coincidence but was quick to take advantage of the opportunity. He glided forward. His knife hand slid out from beneath the folds of his cape.

He was not surprised to notice that Haplo was suddenly aware of him. The Hand had a healthy respect for his opponent, had not expected this to be easy. The knife writhed in Hugh’s grip—a repulsive sensation, as if he were holding a snake. He advanced on Haplo, waiting grimly for the telltale runes to flare to life, in which case he was prepared to freeze, letting the night-blending magic fabric of the Unseen protect him from sight.

But the runes didn’t react. No blue light flared. This appeared to discomfit Haplo, who had sensed a threat and looked to his body for confirmation, only to see nothing.

Hugh the Hand knew in that instant that he could kill Haplo, that the Patryn’s magic had failed him, that the knife must have affected it and would affect it again.

But now was not the time to strike. Too many people. And it would disrupt the ceremony. The Kenkari had been most precise in their instructions—on no account was Hugh the Hand to disrupt the turning on of the Kicksey-winsey. This had been a test of his weapon. He now knew it worked.

It was a pity that he’d alerted Haplo to possible danger. The Patryn would be on his guard, but that was not necessarily a bad situation. A man looking over his shoulder is a man who will trip and fall on his face—a common jest among the Brotherhood. Hugh the Hand wasn’t planning to ambush his victim, take him by surprise. Part of the assassin’s contract—again, a part on which the Kenkari had been most specific—was that he was to tell Haplo, in his final moments, the name of the man who had ordered his death.

The Hand observed the procession from the darkness. When the last elf lord had disappeared down the stairs, the assassin followed, unheard, unseen. His time would come, a time when Haplo was cut off from the crowd, isolated. And at that moment, the Patryn’s magic would fail him. The Cursed Blade would see to that.

Hugh the Hand had only to follow, watch, and wait.