Selected Scenes from the Ecologies of the Labyrinth

V

Down goes the basket and Yrmegard just knows they’re not going to be happy with something in it. They’re never satisfied, bloody lunatics.

Yrmegard grunts and thinks uncharitable thoughts as she lets more rope out via the pulley she has rigged just above the broken skylight leading into the cursed labyrinth under the hill the folk have always called the Kal’s Mound (or Kalgrave, in a few cases, though Yrmegard has never met anyone who knew this Kal or had any notion what he was about). Forty feet below, one of the lunatics is standing in the circle of light from the aperture and waving her on, as though a basket sent straight down a rope might go anywhere but directly into the fool’s arms.

Soft summer flatbread, liver-and-oat sausages, baked yams stuffed with crackling black pepper pods, cinnamon pie, and straw-colored sweet wine: this is Yrmegard’s contribution to the endeavor, and this is as close as she gets for the midday delivery. Mullion and Tylo and her aunt’s cousin’s friend Arna might poke about in the dark as if they were lunatics themselves, but when Yrmegard brings the catered luncheon, it goes down by rope and she remains in daylight. The thought that one of these days she might hear the last fading screams of those below is both frightful and just the slightest bit secretly attractive-a scold loves nothing more than to have their habits validated (and anyway, Yrmegard’s aunt’s cousin has a lot of friends).

“Hey! Hey up there!” The waiting lunatic has received the basket and started pawing through it.

Yrmegard peers down. She thinks the figure below might be the sorceress, though she doesn’t recall the woman wearing red robes. With a start, she realizes the clothes are drenched in fresh blood. The adventurer seems completely unbothered. “What is it?” Yrmegard shouts.

“There’s supposed to be wine with this!”

“There is!” Yrmegard massages her temples. Last thing she needs is lunatics clawing back coins from their accounts, claiming nondelivery when she knows full well she set a cool clay jar of the stuff in the basket not a handful of minutes ago. Yrmegard might fantasize about some memorable horror erupting below, but the hard truth is she needs the money, same as everyone. “Had it fallen from the basket, surely you’d have caught it right in the face, so it must be there! Look again!”