by Ian Irvine
Mendark’s mouth had gone as hard as a steel trap, but he said no more. The relationship between Mendark and Yggur was changing. The defeat in Havissard had undermined Mendark, but Yggur was slowly consolidating his power after Katazza and the loss of Maigraith.
Mendark briefly spoke about his encounter with that unidentified woman in Havissard, though he glossed over how easily she had humiliated him. Nor did he tell how Tallia had rescued him from the brambles. He showed the book that the woman had dropped in her flight. “It must be important; why else would she have taken it? But I can’t read it.”
“What a strange script!” said Llian. “You say that Yalkara wrote this?”
“It would appear so, just before she left Santhenar. Can you read it?”
“I don’t know. It…” Llian flipped the pages. “It’s like a primitive version of the Charon script, which no one can read. And at the same time it has elements in common with the Faellem writing, which I can read haltingly. How can that be? The origins of the two are utterly different. It’s also similar to the script engraved on the Mirror, though not the same.”
The book was passed around the room but not even Nadiril could shed any light on it.
“What about Shand?” said Mendark, suddenly realizing that he was not there. “Where is Shand?”
“He’s gone,” said Nadiril. “He went back to Tullin this morning.”
Mendark swore, but there was nothing to be done about it. “Well, Llian, this can be your next labor. Have a go at deciphering this script.”
“You get ahead of yourself,” said Yggur coldly. “First we must debate Llian’s behavior.”
Karan held her breath, thinking that Shand had informed on Llian, but Yggur continued, “After we’ve finished with Havissard, Mendark.”
“Before you get onto Havissard you should know what Karan and I learned in Chanthed,” said Llian.
“Yes, Shand told me that, but the meet needs to hear it from your own lips.”
Llian told the story, beginning with Faelamor’s behavior in Katazza that had first aroused his suspicions, then telling how the original sketches, that showed who had first gone into the burning tower, had been stolen, apparently by Faelamor.
“Oh, well done, chronicler!” said Yggur. “You may yet redeem yourself. You can confirm this, Karan?”
“In every particular,” she replied.
“So, we have more enemies than we thought. We’d better come back to Faelamor. On with your tale, Mendark. What have you not told us about Havissard, apart from how you got in and back out again? Let’s see what you found there. Bring out the gold!” Yggur leaned back with an expectant smile.
Mendark shivered. “How I got in is my own business,” he said gracelessly. Then he took command of himself and bowed to Llian. “You have indeed done well, but unfortunately too late. The gold was in Havissard but I was beaten to it by an hour. When I recovered the woman was gone and the place where the gold had been was empty.” He told that story, save for parts that showed him in a bad light.
“A convenient tale!” said Yggur. “Don’t be insulted, but of course you can prove it?”
“Of course I can’t prove it! But if you care to make the journey you can check it yourself.”
“Who was the woman? That’s the important question.”
“We can only guess. My guess is Faelamor.”
“Very likely. Well, our plans are scuppered,” he said to the meeting, “if Mendark is telling the truth. We can’t discount the possibility that he’s hidden away the gold for himself.”
“We can’t,” Nadiril agreed. “Though I am inclined to believe him.”
Mendark bowed ironically. “But you two are doing Rulke’s work for him,” Nadiril said. “So let’s get on.”
“How could Faelamor get to Havissard so quickly?” asked Malien, who had hitherto said nothing. “And how did she get in?”
“To both, the same answer. She made a gate.”
“And she was not alone!”
“I think not.”
“Hmmn,” said Yggur, squinting at a calendar through a magnifying glass. “Faelamor was seen in the camp in Bannador just before,”—his voice cracked—“Maigraith disappeared, and that was only weeks before you encountered her in Havissard. This supports the gate theory. Well, later on we can address ourselves to the question of what she will do with it and where to find her. I think I might take charge of that myself.
“Now we come to the matter of Llian,” Yggur continued. “I found him going through the Council archives. What were you really doing there, Llian?”
“I was looking for papers about Kandor.”
“Liar! You were found in the secret archives. The vault!”
Llian hesitated.
“Well?” said Yggur. “Your life may depend on how you answer.”
“The door was open,” Llian said weakly. “All the doors were, even the vault.”
“Entrapment!” said Nadiril. “Really, Yggur! This rather poisons your case, not to mention your own credibility.”
“I don’t know the layout of the archives,” Llian continued. “I was looking for the right place when you found me.” He reminded them of his suspicions about the death of the crippled girl, and told of Kandor’s letter that he had found at the citadel a year ago.
“Why did you not tell me this at the time?” Mendark shouted, banging his fist on the table. A vase of wine toppled, sending a yellow flood everywhere. Papers were rescued hastily. “Show me the letter.”
“I destroyed it in Katazza,” said Malien. “I thought that box was best left unopened.”
“But Faelamor has opened it now. We need to know what the letter said.”
“I have a copy,” Llian said. “I found it in Kandor’s bedroom. As well as a later one to Yalkara.”
Karan produced the letters that she had safeguarded all this time and they were passed across the table. Yggur scanned them and tossed them aside.
“A distraction! Let’s get back to Mendark. I don’t believe—”
Mendark read the letters and nearly tore his hair out. “Why did you not show me this before, Llian? If I had known Kandor’s suspicions of Rulke I would have gone straight to Havissard. I could have been there weeks before Faelamor. I would have the gold!”
He was consumed by bitterness at the disasters in Havissard and the failure of all his hopes. Yggur’s accusations of treachery were unbearable.
Then Yggur stood up and his face was as still as a mask. “I see another possibility,” he declared grimly. “Look at the evidence—documents that Llian mysteriously comes across but only tells us about when we force it out of him; conversations that he has with our enemies; things that no one else has ever remarked upon. It’s very plausible, as we would expect from such a talesmith. But is it true? Would you trust someone who had spent days alone with Rulke and Faelamor?”
Mendark tugged his beard anxiously, looking to Nadiril and Malien. “And Faelamor arrived at Havissard looking for the gold at exactly the same time as I did. An unlikely coincidence.”
“No coincidence at all,” Yggur said coldly. “Llian knew what you were after. We know that he had dealings with Rulke, and Tensor and Faelamor in Katazza. This is the last straw. I accuse! I say he betrayed us to Faelamor!”
Llian was speechless with fear. Karan jumped to her feet. “This is outrageous,” she shouted. “We didn’t see Faelamor in all the months between Katazza and Chanthed.”
“She was here only days ago,” cried Yggur. “Right here, spying on us at our first meet.”
“What?” cried Mendark.
“Indeed,” said Yggur, “She and Llian could be speaking together right now, as Rulke did to him in Tullin.”
Karan went white. “Who told you that?” she asked softly, thinking that Shand had gone back on his word.
“I did,” said Nadiril.
“Deny it if you dare!” Yggur raged.
Karan was silent. “Do you deny it?” Mendark asked h
er.
“I cannot, but—”
Mendark held up his hand. “Then I must take Yggur’s accusation seriously, for all that I know his true purpose—to distract us from his own villainy.”
“If you so mistrust Llian, why did you admit him to your councils?” Nadiril pointed out. “And if you do not, where is the profit in this charade? I am not convinced. I see Llian as a pawn between the two of you: each twisting everything to your own designs.”
“Llian was in the archives to spy for his master,” raged Yggur. “Remember the treachery of Hennia the Zain.”
“You call it treachery, when she betrayed us to you?” cried Mendark.
“I will not be swayed,” swore Yggur.
The interrogation went on for hours, until Llian was a white-faced wreck and the whole room wanted it to end. But Yggur would not allow it. “And there is the business in Tullin. It seems he has betrayed us, and Faelamor, to Rulke as well. The scope of his treachery is truly breathtaking. Once a traitor…”
Karan was called upon to tell what had happened that night.
“You cannot force me to give evidence against Llian,” she said.
“We can,” said Nadiril, “though we would prefer not to.”
Llian jumped up. “Tell it, Karan! Bring it all out! Then they’ll see that I’ve done nothing wrong.”
He was fatally in error. After Karan told of that night in Tullin, the meet was as shocked as Shand had been. Yggur paled; his cheek began to twitch uncontrollably.
“I was right the first time! We should have finished him back there in the Dry Sea.”
“Why is he doing this?” Karan whispered urgently to Malien, who was beside her. “I don’t understand.”
She whispered back, “Yggur was possessed by Rulke once. He’s terrified that Rulke will do it again, through Llian.”
“No!” cried Llian, stumbling toward Yggur with his arms outstretched. “Examine me yourself, you’ll see that it’s all a terrible mistake.”
Yggur recoiled in terror. “Back, traitor!” he cried. “Guards, take this man.”
A guard stood on either side of the doorway, hard-bitten soldiers each the size of Osseion. The nearest sprang forward and took Llian by the collar. Llian flung himself backwards, the shirt tore and he landed flat on his back.
“What shall we do with him, lord?”
“Put him down,” Yggur screamed. “Do it here, where I can see it done!”
The guard put his foot on Llian’s neck and drew his sword.
Before anyone else could twitch a finger, Karan hurled a flagon of wine unerringly at the guard. It smashed against his ear. He fell backwards over a bench. She knocked the bottom out of another flagon and darted between the tables, holding out the jagged end.
The second guard drew his weapon. Karan feinted at him with her flagon. He raised the sword to hack off her arm. Nadiril hobbled between them. “Put down your weapons,” he roared.
The guard hesitated, looking to his master. “Give the order, Yggur!” Nadiril rasped.
“Go back to your posts,” Yggur said, and the guard withdrew, though he did not sheathe his sword.
Nadiril made a quiet hand-movement in Mendark’s direction.
The Magister roused. “The threads are tangled, and we are too agitated to sort them out. Take him to my apartments where he can do no harm nor come to any.”
“Over my mutilated corpse!” Yggur shouted. “Take him to my cells. The lowest ones.”
A squad of Whelm marched in, led by Vartila. They gripped Llian by the arms and led him out.
“No!” cried Karan, running after them, brandishing her bottle. She was remembering how Llian had tried to defend her at the Conclave, when the guards came to take her away. A burly guard took her from behind and disarmed her.
“No need for your guards to assume the whole burden, Yggur,” Mendark said smoothly. “Mine will do duty by their side.”
He clapped. “Osseion, Torgsted, guard this fellow, turn and turn about. See that no harm comes to him.” They followed the others out.
Yggur was furious, but without bloody battle there was little he could do about it. The Council broke up in disarray, its plans seeming no further advanced than when they were conceived months before at the base of Katazza.
41
* * *
THE BEGGAR’S
CURSE
The guards hurried Llian through the dark, two Whelm gripping his elbow in a paralyzing hold. They need not have worried. Numb inside, Llian could not even think of escaping.
Osseion came up beside him. “I’m sorry, Llian,” he rumbled.
“Where are they taking me?” Llian asked faintly.
“To the citadel dungeons.”
Llian fell silent. The guards tramped on either side, their steps echoing off the walls. They clattered down stair after stair, along corridor after corridor, past the cells where Thyllan had incarcerated Karan last winter, then deeper still into a damp basement with a low roof held up by massive columns. The walls were blotched brown by seeping water, and here and there crystalline efflorescences grew out of roof or wall. They passed many a dank and dismal cell, most occupied. Dirty faces peered out of gratings as they passed. Their stench hung in the air like mist.
“What a terrible place,” said Llian. “Am I going to be put in one of these?”
Osseion opened his mouth then shut it again. Never had duty been more onerous. One of the Whelm spoke from behind him.
“These cells are for ordinary criminals. You go to the dungeons reserved for the blackest traitors, chronicler.”
They splashed through slippery puddles, then headed down another stair covered in trickling water to a low-roofed level that was completely unlit. Osseion’s big boots thudded against the stone, echoing off the hard walls. The noise woke one of the inhabitants. A scream of despair issued from some subterranean crypt.
“Help me! Let me out! Help me! Let me out!”
The cries came from a grating in the floor, rusty iron bars bolted down over a square hole about the width of his shoulders. Llian shivered. They passed another hole, equally dark and horrible, from which came a frightful stink as if someone had been forgotten and died down there. At the pit after that the leading Whelm stopped. Vartila opened the brass padlock—the only thing down here that was not decayed and rotting—with a long key. Another Whelm appeared with a ladder.
The grating crashed open, the black pit yawned, the ladder was banged in. Llian stared at Osseion, almost vomiting in despair.
“Best go down, Llian,” said Osseion, with clenched jaw.
Llian got on the ladder and went hand over hand down into the dark. It stank of mold, damp and old human waste.
“Get off,” the Whelm shouted. Llian slipped on the slimy floor and fell to his knees.
His tormentor stuck his head down the hole, holding the lantern in so that, briefly, Llian had the opportunity to inspect his surroundings. The cell was quite large and completely empty. “Better stay on your knees, if you hope to get out again.”
The ladder was drawn up. The grating was slammed closed. The light disappeared. Llian was left alone with only the screams for company.
The dungeon contained nothing; no bed, no chair, not even a toilet bucket. Just stone walls two spans high, oozing damp, and a drain in one corner to stop it filling up with seepage and his own waste. It stank as if it had been used as a privy for a thousand years, and it had.
It was as dark as tar now. Not even the grating above was visible. Llian paced across the cell, and back again. Four paces; four the other way too. He felt the walls, every ell of them, but of course there was no possibility of escape. Walls and floor were stone in massive blocks. The drain was too small for any human to crawl through.
In his time Llian had told many tales of prisoners held in dungeons, but none of them prepared him for the hideous discomfort and misery he experienced there. It was impossible not to dwell on stories of infected rat bites, of prisoners wal
king on festering stumps because their feet had rotted off, of madness and torment and death. It was evident that Yggur intended to break him as quickly as possible.
After some hours a dim light appeared above.
“Water, water!” Llian shouted.
The light moved slowly down to his grating. “Dinnertime,” said a Whelm voice.
Llian was seized by violent impulses. As soon as the fellow came down the ladder he would smash him in the face and swarm up it; he would do anything, he would kill to get out of here. He stared up at the shadow.
A deluge of cold slops struck him in the face. Llian fell down, clawing the muck out of his eyes. A bone cracked him on the back of the head. He cleared his eyes as well as he could, but the stuff had coated him from head to toe, clotted in his hair and ran down his back. He was saturated in the greasy, half-rotten muck.
“What am I supposed to do, eat it off the floor?” he screamed.
His tormentor laughed.
“Please give me some water,” Llian pleaded.
“Lick it off the wall,” the Whelm shouted back, then the light moved away again.
His further cries were not answered. Absolute darkness replaced the light. Eventually Llian became so thirsty that he did lick the limy water off the wall; so hungry that he scraped slop off the floor and tried to eat it. It was revolting. He choked it back up into the drain. Llian lay down on the wet floor and vainly attempted to sleep.
A long time later he woke to find himself crawling—his matted hair was alive with dining cockroaches. His body crawled with fleas and lice, biting him everywhere, while something rasped at his ear, emitting little squeaks of pleasure. He smacked it away, sending it skittering across the floor. It was a scrawny, flea-ridden rat, and it soon came back.
After an agonizingly long time, Llian realized the futility of trying to shoo the pests away. He lay down, allowing them their way with him. The dining roaches made strange crackling sounds that traveled down into his skull. The lice and fleas made no sound while they ate, but he felt the pinpricks all over.