Into the Labyrinth

7

Hugh slept late the next morning, the wine dulling his mind, permitting exhaustion to lay claim to the body. But it was the heavy, unrefreshing sleep of the grape, which causes one to wake with the brain sodden and aching, the stomach queasy. Knowing that he would be groggy and disoriented, the Ancient was there to guide Hugh’s stumbling steps to a large water barrel placed outside the fortress for the refreshment of the lookouts.[11] The Ancient dipped in a bucket, handed it to Hugh. The Hand dumped the contents over his head and shoulders, clothes and all. Wiping his dripping face, he felt somewhat better.

“Ciang will see you this morning,” said the Ancient when he deemed Hugh capable of understanding his words.

Hugh nodded, not quite capable yet of replying.

“You will have audience in her chambers,” the Ancient added. Hugh’s eyebrows rose. This was an honor accorded to few. He glanced down ruefully at his wet and slept-in clothes. The Ancient, understanding, offered to provide a clean shirt. The old man hinted at breakfast, but Hugh shook his head emphatically.

Washed and dressed, the throbbing in his temples receding to an ache behind his eyeballs, Hugh presented himself once again to Ciang, the Brotherhood’s “arm.”

Ciang’s chambers were enormous, sumptuously and fancifully decorated in the style elves admire and humans find ostentatious. All the furniture was of carved wood, extremely rare in the Mid Realms. The elven emperor Agah’rahn would have opened his painted eyelids wide with envy at the sight of so many valuable and beautiful pieces. The massive bed was a work of art. Four posts, carved in the shapes of mythological beasts, each perched on the head of another, supported a canopy of wood decorated with the same beasts lying outstretched, paws extended. From each paw dangled a golden ring. Suspended from the rings was a silken curtain of fabulous weave, color, and design. It was whispered that the curtain had magical properties, that it accounted for the elven woman’s longer than normal life span.

Whether or not that was true, the curtain was marvelously lovely to look on and seemed to invite admiration. Hugh had never before been inside Ciang’s personal quarters. He stared at the shimmering multicolored curtain in awe, lifted his hand and reached out to it before it occurred to him what he was doing. Flushing, he started to snatch his hand back, but Ciang, seated in a high-backed monstrosity of a chair, gestured.

“You may touch it, my friend. It will do you some good.” Hugh, recalling the rumors, wasn’t certain that he wanted to touch the curtain, but to do otherwise would offend Ciang. He ran his fingers over it gingerly and was startled to feel a pleasurable exhilaration tingle through his body. At this he did snatch his fingers back, but the feeling lasted and he found his head clear, the pain gone.

Ciang was seated on the opposite side of the large room. Diamond-paned windows, which stretched from ceiling to floor, admitted a flood of sunlight. Hugh walked across the bright bands of light spanning the ornate rugs to stand before the high-backed wooden chair.

The chair was said to have been carved by an admirer of Ciang’s, given to her as a present. It was certainly grotesque. A skull leered at the top. The blood-red cushions that supported Ciang’s frail form were surrounded by various ghostly spirits twining their way upward. Her feet rested on a footstool formed of crouching, cringing naked bodies. She waved a hand in a gracious gesture to a chair opposite hers, a chair which Hugh was relieved to see was perfectly ordinary in appearance.

Ciang dispensed with meaningless pleasantries and struck, arrow-like, at the heart of their business.

“I have spent the night in study.” She rested her hand, gnarled and almost fleshless but elegant in its movement and grace, on the dusty leather cover of a book in her lap.

“I am sorry to have disturbed your sleep,” Hugh began to apologize. Ciang cut him off. “To be honest, I could not have slept otherwise. You are a disturbing influence, Hugh the Hand,” she added, looking at him with narrowed eyes. “I will not be sorry to see you go. I have done what I could to speed you on your way.” The eyelids—lashless, as the head was hairless—blinked once.

“When you are gone, do not come back.”

Hugh understood. The next time there would be no hesitation. The archer would have his orders. Hugh’s face set hard and grim. “I would not have come back in any case,” he said softly, staring at the cringing bodies, bent to hold Ciang’s small and delicate-boned feet. “If Haplo doesn’t kill me then I must find—”

“What did you say?” Ciang demanded sharply.

Hugh, startled, glanced up at her. He frowned. “I said that if I don’t kill Haplo—”

“No!” Ciang’s fist clenched. “You said ‘If Haplo doesn’t kill me... !’ Do you go to this man seeking his death or your own?”

Hugh put his hand to his head. “I... was confused. That’s all.” His voice was gruff. “The wine...”

“...speaks the truth, as the saying goes.” Ciang shook her head. “No, Hugh the Hand. You will not come back to us.”

“Will you send the knife around on me?” he asked harshly. Ciang considered. “Not until after you have fulfilled the contract. Our honor is at stake. And therefore, the Brotherhood will help you, if we can.” She glanced at him and there was an odd glint in her eye. “If you want...” Carefully she closed the book and placed it on a table beside the chair. From the table she lifted an iron key, which hung from a black ribbon. Extending her hand to Hugh, she allowed him the privilege of helping her to stand. She refused his assistance in walking, making her way slowly and with dignity to a door on a far wall.

“You will find what you seek in the Black Coffer,” she told him. The Black Coffer was not a coffer at all but a vault, a repository for weapons—magical or otherwise. Magical weapons are, of course, highly prized, and the Brotherhood’s laws governing them are strict and rigorously enforced. A member who acquires or makes such a weapon may consider it his or her own personal possession, but must apprise the Brotherhood of its existence and how it works. The information is kept in a file in the Brotherhood’s library, a file which may be consulted by any member at any time.

A member needing such a weapon as he finds described may apply to the owner and request the weapon’s loan. The owner is free to refuse, but this almost never happens, since it is quite likely that the owner himself will need to borrow a weapon someday. If the weapon is not returned—something else that almost never happens—the thief is marked, the knife sent around. On the owner’s death, the weapon becomes the property of the Brotherhood. In the case of elderly members, such as the Ancient, who come back to the fortress to spend their remaining years in comfort, the deliverance of any magical weapons is easily facilitated. For those members who meet the sudden and violent end considered an occupational hazard, collecting the weapons of the deceased can present a problem.

These have sometimes been irrevocably lost, as in cases where the body and everything on it have been burned in a funeral pyre or tossed in rage off the floating isles into the Maelstrom. But so prized are the weapons that once the word goes around that the owner has died (which it does with remarkable swiftness) the Brotherhood is quick to act. All is done quietly, circumspectly. Very often grieving family members are surprised by the sudden appearance of strangers at their door. The strangers enter the house (sometimes before the body is cold) and leave almost immediately. Usually an object leaves with them—the black coffer.

To facilitate the passing on of valuable weapons, members of the Brotherhood are urged to keep such weapons in a plain black box. This has become known as the black coffer. It is thus natural that the repository for such weapons in the Brotherhood’s fortress should have become known—in capital letters—as the Black Coffer.

If a member requests the use of a weapon kept in the Black Coffer, he or she must explain in detail the need and pay a fee proportionate to the weapon’s power. Ciang has the final say on who gets what weapons, as well as the price to be paid.

Standing before the door of the Black Coffer, Ciang inserted the iron key into the lock and turned it.

The lock clicked.

Grasping the handle of the heavy iron door, she pulled. Hugh was ready to assist her if she asked, but the door, revolving on silent hinges, swung easily at her light touch. All was dark inside.

“Bring a lamp,” Ciang ordered.

Hugh did so, catching up a glowlamp that stood on a table near the door, probably for this very purpose. Hugh lit the lamp, and the two entered the vault.

It was the first time Hugh the Hand had ever been inside the Black Coffer. (He had always taken pride in the fact that he had never needed enhanced weaponry.) He wondered why he was being accorded this honor now. Few members were ever permitted inside. When a weapon was needed, Ciang either fetched it herself or sent the Ancient to do so.

Hugh entered the enormous stone-lined vault with quiet step and subdued heart. The lamp drove the shadows back but could not banish them. A hundred lamps with the brightness of Solarus could not banish the shadow that hung over this room. The tools of death created their own darkness.

Their numbers were inconceivable. They rested on tables, reclined against the walls, were sheltered beneath glass cases. It was too much to take in all at one glance.

The light flashed off the blades of knives and daggers of every conceivable shape and type, arranged in a vast, ever expanding circle—a sort of metal sunburst. Pikes and poleaxes and spears stood guard around the walls. Longbows and short were properly displayed, each with a quiver of arrows, undoubtedly the famous elven exploding arrows so feared by human soldiers. Rows of shelving contained bottles and vials, small and large, of magical potions and poisons—all neatly labeled.

Hugh walked past one case filled with nothing but rings: poison rings, snake-tooth rings (containing a tiny needle tipped with snake venom), and magical rings of all sorts, from rings of charming (which grant the user power over the victim) to rings of warding (which protect the user against rings of charming).

Every item in the Black Coffer was documented, labeled in both the human and elven (and, in certain rare cases, dwarven) languages. Words to magical spells—should any be needed—were recorded. The value of it all was incalculable. Hugh’s mind boggled. Here was stored the true wealth of the Brotherhood, worth far more than all the barls and jewels of the elven and human royal treasuries combined. Here was death and the means to deal it. Here was fear. Here was power.

Ciang led the way through the veritable maze of shelves, cabinetry, and cases, to an unimportant-looking table shunted off to a distant corner of the room. Only one object rested on that table, an object hidden under a cloth that might once have been black but, covered with dust, looked gray. The table appeared to be chained to the wall by thick cobwebs.

No one had ventured near this table in a long, long time.

“Set the lamp down,” Ciang told him.

Hugh obeyed, placing the lamp on a case containing a vast assortment of blow-darts. He looked curiously at the cloth-covered object, thinking there was something strange about it, but not certain what.

“Look at it closely,” Ciang ordered, echoing his thought. Hugh did so, bending cautiously near it. He knew enough about magical weapons to respect this one. He would never touch it or anything pertaining to it until its proper use had been carefully explained—one reason Hugh the Hand had always preferred not to rely on such weapons. A good steel blade—hard and sharp—is a tool you can trust.

Hugh straightened, frowning, tugging on the braided strands of beard dangling from his chin.

“You see?” Ciang asked, almost as if she were testing him.

“Dust and cobwebs over everything else, but no dust or cobwebs anywhere on the object itself,” Hugh replied.

Ciang breathed a soft sigh, regarded him almost sadly. “Ah, there are not many like you, Hugh the Hand. Quick eye, quick hand. A pity,” she ended coolly. Hugh said nothing. He could offer no defense, knew that none was invited. He stared hard at the object beneath the cloth, could make out the shape by the fact that dust lay all around it but not over it—a dagger with a remarkably long blade.

“Put your hand on it,” Ciang said. “You may do so safely,” she added, seeing the flash in Hugh’s eye.

Hugh held his fingers gingerly above the object. He wasn’t afraid, but he was loath to touch it, as one is loath to touch a snake or a hairy spider. Telling himself it was just a knife (yet wondering why it was covered with a black cloth), he rested his fingertips on it. Startled, he jerked his hand back. He stared at Ciang.

“It moved!”

She nodded, unperturbed. “A quivering. Like a live thing. Barely felt, yet strong enough to shake off the dust of centuries, strong enough to disturb the web-weavers. Yet it is not alive, as you will see. Not alive as we know life,” she amended.

She plucked away the black cloth. The dust that caked the edges flew up, formed a nose-tickling cloud that caused them both to back off, wiping the grime and the horrible clinging wispy sensation of cobweb from face and hands. Beneath the cloth—an ordinary metal dagger. The Hand had seen far better-crafted weapons. In shape and design, it was exceedingly crude, might have been made by some smith’s child, attempting to learn his parent’s craft. The hilt and crosspiece were forged of iron that appeared to have been beaten into shape while it was cooling. The marks of each hammer blow were plain on both hilt and crosspiece.

The blade was smooth, perhaps because it was made of steel, for it was bright and shiny in contrast to the hilt’s dull finish. The blade had been affixed to the hilt with molten metal, the traces of soldering plain to see. The only things that made this knife at all remarkable were the strange symbols etched on the blade. The symbols were not the same as—yet they were reminders of—the one traced on Hugh’s chest.

“The rune-magic,” said Ciang, her bony finger hovering above, carefully not touching the blade.

“What does the thing do?” Hugh asked, regarding the weapon with disdain mingled with disgust. “We do not know,” Ciang answered. Hugh raised an eyebrow, regarded her questioningly. She shrugged. “The last brother to use it died.”

“I can understand why.” Hugh grunted. “Trying to go up against a mark using a kid’s toy.”

Ciang shook her head. “You do not understand.” She raised her slanted eyes to his, and again there was that strange glint. “He died of shock.” She paused, looked down at the weapon, and added, almost casually, “He had grown four arms.”

Hugh’s jaw sagged. Then he snapped his mouth shut, cleared his throat.

“You don’t believe me. I don’t blame you. I didn’t believe it myself. Not until I saw it with my own eyes.” Ciang stared at the cobwebs as if they wove time. “It was many cycles ago. When I became ‘arm.’ The dagger had come to us from an elven lord, long ago, when the Brotherhood first began. It was kept in this vault, with a warning. A curse was on it, so the warning went. A human, a young man, scoffed at the notion. He did not believe in the curse. He took the knife—for it is written that ‘he who masters the knife will be invincible against all foes. Not even the gods will dare oppose him.’” She eyed Hugh as she said this. “Of course,” she added, “this was in the days when there were no gods. Not anymore.”

“What happened?” Hugh asked, trying not to sound skeptical. He was, after all, talking to Ciang.

“I am not certain. The partner, who survived, could not give us a coherent account. Apparently the young man attacked his mark, using the knife, and suddenly it was not a knife. It changed to a sword—enormous, whirling, many-bladed. Two ordinary arms could not hold it. Then it was that two more arms sprouted from the young man’s body. He stared at his four arms and dropped dead—of terror and shock. His partner eventually went mad, threw himself off the isle. I don’t blame him. I saw the body. The man had four arms. I dream of it still sometimes.”

She was silent, lips pursed. Hugh, looking at that hard, pitiless face, saw it blanch. The compression of the lips was to hold them firm. He looked at the knife and felt his stomach crawl.

“That incident could have been the end of the Brotherhood.” Ciang glanced at him sideways. “You can imagine what rumor would have made of this. Perhaps we—the Brotherhood—had cast the dreadful curse upon the young man. I acted swiftly. I ordered the body brought here under cover of darkness. The partner also. I questioned him before witnesses. I read the tract to them——the tract that came with the knife.

“We agreed that it was the knife itself that was cursed. I forbade its use. We buried the grotesque body in secret. All brothers and sisters were ordered, on pain of death, not to speak of the incident.

“That was long ago. Now,” she added softly, “I am the only one left alive who remembers. No one, not even the Ancient, whose grandfather had not yet been born when this occurred, knows about the cursed knife. I have written the injunction against its use in my will. But I have never told the story to anyone. Not until now.”

“Cover it up,” Hugh said grimly. “I don’t want it.” His frown darkened. “I’ve never used magic before—”

“You have never been asked to kill a god before,” Ciang said, displeased.

“The dwarf, Limbeck, claims they’re not gods. He said Haplo was almost dead when the dwarf first saw him, just like any ordinary man. No, I will not use it!”

Two red spots of anger appeared in the woman’s skull-like face. She seemed about to make a bitter rejoinder, then paused. The red spots faded; the slanted eyes were suddenly cool. “It is your choice, of course, my friend. If you insist on dying in dishonor, that is your own affair. I will not argue further except to remind you that another’s life is at stake here. Perhaps you have not considered this?”

“What other life?” Hugh demanded, suspicious. “The boy, Bane, is dead.”

“But his mother lives. A woman for whom you hold strong feelings. Who knows but that if you fail and fall, this Haplo would not go after her next? She knows who he is, what he is.”

Hugh thought back. Iridal had said something to him about Haplo, but the assassin couldn’t remember what. They’d had little time to talk. His mind had been on other things—the dead child he had carried in his arms, Iridal’s grief, his own confusion at being alive when he was supposed to be dead. No, whatever she’d said to him about the Patryn, Hugh had lost in the horror-tinged mists of that terrible night. What had it to do with him anyway?

He was going to give the Kenkari his soul. He was going to return to that beautiful, peaceful realm...

Would Haplo try to find Iridal? He had taken her son captive. Why not her?

Could Hugh afford to take the chance? He owed her something, after all. Owed her for having failed her.

“A tract, you said?” he asked Ciang.

Her hand slid into the large pockets of her voluminous robes, withdrew several sheets of vellum held together by a black ribbon tied around them. The vellum was old and discolored, the ribbon tattered and faded. She smoothed it with her hand.

“I read it again last night. The first time I have read it since that dreadful night. Then I read the tract aloud, to the witnesses. Now I will read it to you.”

Hugh flushed. He wanted to read it, study it in private, but he didn’t dare insult her. “I have put you to so much trouble already, Ciang—”

“I must translate it for you,” she said with a smile that indicated she understood. “It is written in High Elven, a language spoken after the Sundering, a language that is all but forgotten now. You would not be able to understand it.”

Hugh had no further objections.

“Bring me a chair. The text is long and I am weary of standing. And put the lamp close.”

Hugh brought a chair, set it in a corner beside the table on which rested the “cursed” knife. He remained standing outside the circle of lamplight, not sorry to keep his face hidden in the shadows, his doubts concealed. He didn’t believe it. Didn’t believe any of it.

Yet he wouldn’t have believed a man could die and come back to life again either.

And so he listened to the tale.