Into the Labyrinth

30

“I don’t like that horrid wizard, Paithan, and i think you should tell him to leave.”

“Orn’s ears, Aleatha, I can’t tell Lord Xar to leave. He has as much right to be here as we do. We don’t own this place—”

“We were here first.”

“Besides, we can’t send the old gentleman out into the arms of the tytans. It would be murder.”

The elf’s voice dropped, but not low enough that Xar couldn’t hear what was being said.

“And he could prove useful, help protect us if the tytans manage to break inside. You saw how he got rid of those monsters when he first came. Whoosh! Blue lights, magic fire.”

“As to that magic fire”—this was the human male, adding his small modicum of wisdom—“the wizard might do the same to us if we make him mad.”

“Not likely,” Xar murmured, smiling unpleasantly. “I wouldn’t waste the effort.”

The mensch were having a meeting—a private, secret meeting, or so they supposed. Xar knew all about it, of course. He was seated at his ease in the Sartan library in the citadel. The mensch were gathered down by the garden maze—a good distance away, but Xar clearly heard every word they were saying.

“What is it you don’t like about him, Aleatha?” the human female was asking. What was her name? Xar couldn’t recall. Again, he didn’t waste the effort.

“He gave me this lovely necklace,” the human was continuing. “See. I think it must be a ruby. And look at the cunning little squiggly mark cut into it.”

“I got one, too,” said the elf Paithan. “Mine’s a sapphire. And it has the same squiggle. Lord Xar said that when I wore it, someone would be watching over me. Isn’t it pretty, Aleatha?”

“I think it’s ugly.” The elf female spoke with scorn. “And I think he’s ugly—”

“He can’t help how he looks.”

“Something I’m certain you can understand, Roland,” Aleatha interjected coolly. “As to those ‘gifts,’ he tried to give me one. I refused. I didn’t like the look in his eye.”

“Come on, Thea. Since when have you turned down jewels? As for that look, you’ve seen it a thousand times before. Every man looks at you that way,” Paithan said.

“Then they get to know her,” Roland muttered.

Either Aleatha didn’t hear him or she chose to ignore him. “The old man only offered me an emerald. I’ve been offered better than that a hundred times over.”

“And taken them up on their offers a hundred times over, I’ll wager,” Roland said, more loudly this time.

“Come on, you two, stop it,” Paithan intervened. “What about you, Roland? Did Lord Xar give you one of these jewels?”

“Me?” Roland sounded amazed. “Look, Paithan, I don’t know about you elves, but among us humans, guys don’t give necklaces to other guys. As to guys who accept jewelry from other guys, well...”

“What are you saying?”

“Nothing, Paithan,” Rega intervened. “Roland’s not saying anything. He took the necklace; don’t let him fool you. I saw him asking Drugar about the jewel, trying to get it appraised.”

“What about it, Drugar? How much are they worth?”

“The gem is not of dwarf-make. I cannot tell. But I wouldn’t wear one. I get a bad feeling from them.” The dwarf’s voice was low and gruff.

“Sure you do,” Roland scoffed. “Such a bad feeling you’d gladly take every one of them for yourself. Look, Drugar, old buddy, never try to swindle a swindler. I know all the tricks. It has to be dwarf-made. Your people are the only ones who dig deep enough below the leaf-level to find jewels like this. Come on. Tell me what it’s worth.”

“What does it matter what it’s worth?” Rega flared. “You’ll never get a chance to cash in on it. We’re trapped in here for the rest of our lives and you know it.”

The mensch all fell silent. Xar yawned. He was growing bored, and this mindless chatter was starting to irritate him. He was beginning to regret giving them the magical gems, which brought every word of what they said to him. Then suddenly he heard what he’d been wanting to hear all along.

“I guess that brings up the real reason for our meeting,” Paithan said quietly. “Do we tell him about the ship? Or keep it to ourselves?” A ship! Sang-drax had been right. The mensch did have a ship hidden around here. Xar shut the Sartan book he’d been attempting to read, concentrated on listening.

“What difference does it make?” Aleatha asked languidly. “If a ship really does exist—which I doubt—we can’t reach it. We have only Cook’s word on it, and who knows what she and her brats thought they saw out there? The tytans have probably smashed it to toothpicks anyway.”

“No,” Paithan said after another moment’s silence. “No, they haven’t. And it does exist.”

“How do you know?” Roland demanded, suspicious.

“Because I’ve seen it. You can—from the top of the citadel. From the Star Chamber.”

“You mean all this time you knew that the others were telling the truth about what they saw? That a ship was out there and still in good shape and you didn’t tell us?”

“Don’t shout at me! Yes, damn it, I knew! And I didn’t tell you for the simple reason that you would have acted stupid the way you’re acting now and rushed out like the others and gotten your fool head bashed in—”

“Well, and so what if I did? It’s my head! Just because you’re sleeping with my sister doesn’t make you my big brother.”

“You could use a big brother.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah!”

“Stop it, both of you, please—”

“Rega, get out of my way. It’s time he learned...”

“You’re all behaving like children.”

“Aleatha! Where are you going? You shouldn’t go into that maze. It’s...”

“I’ll go where I please, Rega. Just because you’re sleeping with my brother—” Imbeciles! Xar clenched his fists. For an instant he considered transporting himself down to them, shaking the truth out of them. Or perhaps choking it out of them. He grew calmer, however, and soon forgot about them. But not about what they’d said.

“You can see the ship from the top of the citadel,” he muttered. “I’ll go up there and look for myself. The elf might well be lying. And they’re not likely to come back soon.”

Xar had been meaning to take a look inside what the mensch referred to as the Star Chamber, but the elf—Paithan—had the annoying habit of hovering around the room, treating it as if it were his own personal and private creation. He’d very proudly offered to give Xar a tour. Xar had been careful not to evince too much interest, much to Paithan’s disappointment. The Lord of the Nexus would examine the Star Chamber in his own good time—by himself. Whatever Sartan magic happened in the Star Chamber was the key to controlling the tytans. That much was evident.

“It’s the humming sound,” Paithan had said. “I think that’s what’s drawing them.”

Obvious enough that even a mensch had seen it. The humming sound undoubtedly did have a startling effect on the tytans. From what Xar had observed, the humming sent them into some sort of trance. And when it stopped, they flew into a frenzy, like a fretful child who will only be quiet when it hears its mother’s voice.

“An interesting analogy,” Xar remarked, transporting himself to the Star Chamber with a spoken word of magic. He disliked climbing the stairs. “A mother’s soothing voice. A lullaby. The Sartan used this to control them, and while they were under this influence, they were slaves to the Sartan’s will. If I could just learn the secret...”

Reaching the door that led into the Star Chamber, Xar peered cautiously inside. The machine was shut down. The blinding light was off. The machine had been running erratically ever since the lord’s arrival. The elf thought it was supposed to work this way, but Xar guessed not. The Lord of the Nexus knew little about machinery; he truly missed the child Bane at this moment. The boy had figured out how to work the Kicksey-winsey; he could undoubtedly have solved the mystery of this far simpler machine.

Xar was confident that he himself would solve it in time. The Sartan, as was their custom, had left behind innumerable volumes, some of which must contain something other than their constant whining—complaints about how tough things were, how awful their lives had become. He grew irritated every time he tried to read one.

What with wading through books of useless twaddle, listening to the mensch bicker and quarrel, and keeping an eye on the tytans, who had once again massed outside the citadel’s walls, Xar had found very little information to help him.

Until now. Now he was beginning to get somewhere.

He entered the Star Chamber, stalked over to the window, and stared outside. It took him several moments of intense searching to find the ship, partly hidden in the thick jungle foliage. When he located it, he wondered how he could have missed it. His eye was instantly drawn to it—the only ordered thing in a world of wild disorder.

He examined it intently, excited, tempted. The ship was in plain view. He could whisk himself there at this moment. Leave this world, leave the mensch. Return to the Labyrinth, return to find Haplo.

Haplo—who knew the location of the Seventh Gate on Abarrach. Who wanted nothing more than to take his lord with him...

Sartan runes.

Xar narrowed his eyes, brought the ship into tighter focus. He could not be mistaken. The hull of the vessel—it was built to resemble some type of giant bird—was covered with Sartan runes.

Xar cursed. The Sartan magic would keep him out as effectively as it had kept him out of the citadel.

“The mensch...” he whispered.

They had managed to enter the citadel; they could certainly enter the ship. That dwarf with his amulet and his puny little bit of Sartan rune-magic. The mensch could get inside the ship, take Xar with them. The mensch would be thrilled to leave this place.

But between the mensch and the ship, between Xar and the ship, was an army of tytans.

Xar cursed again.

The creatures—hundreds of them—were camped outside the walls. Whenever the machine flared to life, they swarmed out of the jungle, surrounded the citadel, blind heads turned in the direction of the gate, waiting for it to open. This transfixion lasted as long as the humming and the brilliant starlight. When the machine shut off, the tytans came out of the trance and attempted to break into the citadel.

Their rage was truly frightening. The tytans beat on the walls with their fists and tree-branch clubs. Their silent shouts reverberated in Xar’s head until it almost drove him mad. But the walls held; Xar gave grudging thanks to the Sartan for that much at least. Eventually, worn out, the tytans would shuffle back into the cover of the jungle and wait.

They were waiting now. He could see them. Waiting to question the first living being who came out of the citadel, waiting to club him to death when they didn’t get the right answer.

This was maddening, truly maddening. I know now the location of the Seventh Gate—back on Abarrach. Haplo could lead me to it. He will lead me to it. Once Sang-drax finds him...

But what about Sang-drax? Does Sang-drax know? Has the dragon-snake deliberately lied—

Movement outside the door. A shuffling sound. Drat those snooping mensch!

Couldn’t they leave him alone an instant?

A rune flared from his hand; the door dissolved. A startled-looking old man, clad in mouse-colored robes, with his hand raised to the now nonexistent door handle, was staring into the room in amazement.

“I say,” he said. “What’d you do with the door?”

“What do you want?” Xar demanded.

“This isn’t the men’s room?” The old man glanced about in wistful expectation.

“Where did you come from?”

The old man shuffled into the room, still looking about hopefully. “Oh, down the hall. Take a right at the potted palm. Third door on the left. I asked for a room with a bath, but—”

“What are you doing here? Were you following me?”

“I don’t believe so.” The old man considered the matter. “Can’t think why I would. No offense, old chap, but you’re not exactly my type. Still, I suppose we should make the best of it. Two girls left at the altar, aren’t we, my dear? Abandoned at the church door...”

The old man had wandered over near the well. A magical shove and Xar would be rid of this irritating fool for good. But Xar found what the old man was saying intriguing.

“What do you mean... abandoned?”

“Dumped is more like it,” said the old man with increasing gloom. “So I won’t get hurt. ‘You’ll be safe here, sir,’” he mimicked, scowling. “Thinks I’m too old and frail to mix it up in a good brawl anymore. I’ll show you, you hyperthyroid toad...”

He shook a scrawny fist in the general direction of nothing, then sighed and turned to Xar. “What was the excuse yours gave you?”

“Who gave me?” Xar was playing along. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Why, your dragon. Geriatric? Feeble? Slow him down? I—Ah, of course.” The old man’s vague expression grew disconcertingly sharp. “I understand. Quite clever. Lured you here. Got you here. Left you here. And now he’s gone. And you can’t follow.”

Xar shrugged. The old man knew something. Now to keep him talking. “Are you referring to Sang-drax?”

“On Abarrach, you’re too close. Kleitus has already talked too much. He might say more. Sang-drax is worried. Suggests Pryan. Wasn’t expecting my dragon, though. Opposing team. Rip side. Change in plans. Haplo trapped in Labyrinth. You here. Not perfect, but better than nothing. Takes ship. And people. Leaves you—lurch. Goes to Labyrinth. Kills Haplo.”

Xar shrugged. “Dead or alive, it doesn’t matter to me.”

“That’s true.” The old man pondered. “So long as Sang-drax brings you the body. But that... that’s the one thing he won’t do.”

Xar stared out the window. He stared long and hard out the window. Stared long and hard at the ship guarded by the Sartan runes, an army of tytans between him and escape.

“He’ll bring him,” said Xar at last.

“No, he won’t,” the old man replied. “Care to wager?”

“Why wouldn’t he? What would be his reason?”

“To keep you and Haplo from reaching the Seventh Gate,” the old man said triumphantly.

“So,” Xar said, turning to face the old man. “You do know about the Seventh Gate.”

The old man tugged nervously at his beard. “The fourth race at Aqueduct. A horse. Seventh Gate. Six to one. Prefers a muddy track.” Xar frowned. He advanced on the old man, stood so close that his breath disturbed the wispy gray hair. “You will tell me. If you don’t, I can make the next few minutes very unpleasant for you...”

“Yes, I’ve no doubt you could.”

The vague look left the old man’s eyes, leaving them filled with an inexpressible pain, a pain Xar could never hope to replicate.

“It wouldn’t matter what you did to me.” The old man sighed. “I truly don’t know where the Seventh Gate is. I never went there. I disapproved, you see. I was going to stop Samah, if I could. I told him so. The Council members sent their guards to bring me by force. They needed my magic. I am powerful, a powerful wizard...”

The old man smiled briefly, sadly.

“But when they came, I wasn’t there. I couldn’t leave the people. I hoped I might be able to save them. And so I was left behind. On Earth. I saw it. The end. The Sundering.”

The old man drew in a trembling breath. “There was nothing I could do. No help. Not for them. Not for any of them—the ‘deplorable but unavoidable civilian casualties.’... ‘It’s a question of priorities,’ Samah said. ‘We can’t save everyone. And those who survive will be better off.’

“And so Samah left them to die. I saw... I saw...”

A tremor shook the old man’s thin body. Tears filled his eyes and a look of horror began to contort his face—a look so dreadful, so awful, that despite himself, Xar recoiled before it.

The old man’s thin lips parted as if he would scream, but no scream came out. The eyes grew wider and wider, reliving horrors only he could see, only he could remember.

“The fires that devoured cities, plains, and forests. The rivers that ran blood-red. The oceans boiling, steam blotting out the sun. The charred bodies of the countless dead. The living running and running, with nowhere to run to.”

“Who are you?” Xar asked, awed. “What are you?” The old man’s breath rattled in his throat; spittle flecked his lips. “When it was over, Samah caught me, sent me to the Labyrinth. I escaped. The Nexus, the books you read—mine. My handiwork.” The old man looked faintly proud. “That was before the sickness. I don’t remember the sickness, but my dragon tells me about it. That was when he found me, took care of me...”

“Who are you?” Xar repeated.

He looked into the old man’s eyes... and then Xar saw the madness. It dropped like a final curtain, dousing the memories, putting out the fires, clouding over the red-hot skies, blotting out the horror.

The madness. A gift? Or a punishment.

“Who are you?” Xar demanded a third time.

“My name?” The old man smiled vacantly, happily. “Bond. James Bond.”