by Donald Tyson
Tearing the papyrus into small fragments, I scattered them behind a bookshelf where, if discovered, they would be dismissed as the gnawings of mice.
Not long after gaining entrance to the monastery, I had discovered the correspondence of this agent, and had on a sudden impulse added a coda to the bottom of the latest communication from Rumius, informing the agent that King Huban was a secret worshipper of the Old Ones. This was wholly untrue. It was my certain knowledge that Huban was a faithful follower of the teachings of the Prophet. The false addendum to the letter of Rumius had been an act of speculation on my part, a casting of bread upon the waters if you will, for I had no way of knowing what the outcome would be. It was gratifying to find it so richly rewarded.
The first occasion I found to talk to Martala came when we prepared for sleep that night within our room.
“What do you know about a weapon of lights?” I murmured. It was necessary to speak in a low voice in the evenings.
She pulled her robe upwards and off her head, then shook out her dark hair, combing it with her fingers. It was a relief for her to let down her hair, since throughout the day it remained tightly coiled beneath her turban.
“Why should I know anything about a weapon?”
“You spend most of your time in the workshop. If a weapon is being constructed, surely that is where they are making it.”
“I spend most of my time in a small room on the lower level, seated at a loom. They have me weaving linen cloth.”
I made a sound of disgust as I lay on the bed.
“Where’s your curiosity? You should know everything that goes on in that soot-shrouded building by now.”
“Twice last week I tried to go up the stair,” she said, sliding onto the bed beside me. “Both times an elder asked me what business took me to the upper levels, and did I know they were forbidden to all but those monks assigned to work there. It would be dangerous to try a third time.”
I related the conversation overheard in the scriptorium.
“They have been talking about lenses a great deal lately,” she mused. “How they cannot get the right kind of glass, and the difficulties in coloring it, and how the lenses must be ground and polished.”
“See what you can discover tomorrow, but don’t take any foolish risks,” I told her.
That night, the dark man came to me. We stood in the scriptorium at twilight, when gloom lay piled like folds of transparent black silk in the corners and beneath the tables. He walked around the room, examining everything with mild curiosity mingled with an air of contempt. He pulled a book from a shelf, and I noted that it was a book I had looked into several days before. He read through the secret communications of the agents that I had studied the previous afternoon.
“We are not in the scriptorium,” I said with sudden conviction. “We are in my memory of the scriptorium.”
For the first time, he turned his hooded shadow of a face toward me.
“What have you learned about the plans of these warrior monks?”
I related the scraps of information I had overheard or read, without adding my own conjectures, which I judged of no interest to Nyarlathotep. He remained indifferent until I spoke of the weapon of lights, and the thing in the vault.
“So it is not dead,” he murmured in so low a voice that I barely heard. “You must gain entrance to its prison and examine the bonds that bind it.”
“What is this creature?”
He turned and spoke, but for some reason his words failed to reach my ears. Before I could ask again, my eyelids opened on the pale glow of morning. It was the practice of the monks to rise before the sun at first light, in order to extract the most use from the day. For this reason alone I would have felt little fondness for them. I preferred to rise at my leisure, when it suited my own purposes.
After the morning meal I was assigned to sweep the library stairs, as was my usual practice. The scribes that passed up and down with their scrolls and books had grown so accustomed to the sight of me, they barely noticed my presence. I contrived to work my way to the foot of the staircase, and when unobserved, slipped into the east wing past the door of the school room, where Martala and the other young brothers listened to a lesson on Roman history, to judge by what words of the speaker echoed into the hallway. If nothing else, our stay within the monastery would profit her education, I reflected.
The brooms, mops, and wooden buckets were kept in the cellar, which was reached through a door at the end of the east wing that was never locked. I had been shown how to open it and where to find my broom and other cleaning tools not long after our coming to the monastery. It was unlikely anyone would notice my absence from the stairs, and if they did, the cellar was a reasonable place for me to wander in my idiocy.
Descending the rough steps, I paused to listen for the sound of footfalls on the brick floor of the cellar, which ran the full length of the library foundations. The only light came from four oil lamps that hung from the ceiling on chains, and were kept perpetually filled and burning. Above each, a great patch of black soot attested to the diligence of the monks in this matter.
When I perceived that I was alone, I cast the broom aside and began a thorough search for a trap door in the floor. The air felt cool and dry on the back of my neck as I bent and peered downward, but carried less dust than might be expected. The floor bricks were almost as cleanly swept as the marble tiles of the level above. Uncleanliness was equated by the monks with evil. They hated the sight of any dust or stain, even in the concealed places of their little world.
I had searched the cellar several times in the past, but never with this degree of thoroughness. Even so, I almost missed the door. It was located in the extreme western end, where the shadows were blackest. I discovered it by touch. Chancing to run my fingers across the stone blocks of the cellar wall, I felt wooden planks, and traced the heavy frame of a door that was no higher than my shoulders. It was bound with thick straps of metal that had the chill of iron. I felt the projection of its hinges, and knew from this that it opened toward me. On the right side, midway down its length, a latch stood out above a square iron plate with a keyhole at its center.
Gently, I tried to lift the latch. It clicked but the door remained fast in its frame. I laid my ear against its boards. Was it my imagination, or could I hear a voice on the other side? I straightened and withdrew to the other end of the cellar, where I retrieved my broom and ascended the steps to resume my task of sweeping the already spotless floor of the front hall.
The young brothers filed out of the school room at the usual time. They wandered past me, talking amongst themselves in pairs and small groups, ignoring me as usual. When Martala failed to emerge through the open door, which I could see from my place at the foot of the stair, I wondered if she had remained behind in order to communicate to me in private some information of importance. I swept my way down the hall, and when no monk was in sight, glanced into the school room. It appeared deserted, but I heard a faint sound that caused me to project my head around the frame of the doorway.
In the corner, beyond the benches, Martala and Baruch stood in a close embrace, kissing with obvious passion. I had neglected to look for the teacher of the lesson among the emerging students, or I would have realized that there must be two remaining in the room. With half my mind, I reproved myself for carelessness, while the other half gaped at the spectacle.
By good fortune, Baruch stood with his back to the door. I saw Martala’s face over his shoulder but her eyelids remained closed. I withdrew, and with my thoughts in confusion, went to sweep the far end of the great hall. How could I have missed the evidence of her growing affection for the smooth-cheeked cow-eyed monk? His infatuation with her had always been apparent, but never had it occurred to my thoughts that she would reciprocate. Did he know that she was a woman? No, it was impossible. His vow to the order would
force him to report her deception to Rumius. He must still believe her to be a youth.
For the first time since awakening to my second life, I contemplated the inconvenience of losing her. So accustomed had I grown to her presence, I found the idea of her absence distinctly unpleasant. Nothing bound her to me, other than her desire to learn the forbidden wisdom of the necromantic arts, and her need to get as far away as possible from the malice of Farri. Yet I felt betrayed. I almost laughed aloud at my own folly. Was it possible that I held affection for the faithless little slut? I was a man without manhood. I should not have expected her to behave in any other way.
It was some consolation that she could not betray me to the order without betraying herself. Rumius was a compassionate man, but he had a will of iron. We would both be put to death were our true purposes discovered.
I gave no sign in the dining hall of anything amiss. When we retired to our room that night, she faced me with an expression of excitement.
“I saw the weapon,” she breathed in a quiet voice.
Without making a reply, I continued to wash my face over the basin. My lack of response disappointed her.
“Alhazred, did you hear? I saw it. A machine of shining brass with wheels revolving inside wheels, and polished gems that glow with their own inner fire. Their light is projected through sets of glass disks that are mounted on revolving brass plates.”
When I continued to say nothing, she looked at me strangely.
“How did you get close to it?” I asked, merely to say something that would lull her unease.
“One of the monks is an alchemist.” She laughed. “He is always talking about his sealed vessels, and his experiments. When I pretended to be interested, he almost dragged me by the arm up the stairs to show me his work. The machine sat in the corner, partly covered by a piece of sail cloth.”
“Give me your dagger,” I said in a dull voice.
“Why do you want my dagger?”
“I have a use for it.”
Shrugging, she drew the blade from its ivory sheath and passed it to me, hilt first. My fingers closed around the hilt. I saw my knuckles go white, and made the effort to relax my hand. Not a word about Baruch. Well, what should I expect?
I slid the gently curved blade under my linen belt and sat on the side of the bed, staring at the black square of the open window. Voices carried in the night air. It was natural that Martala would be heard to murmur to her idiot brother, but it would not do for the other monks to hear her brother make an intelligible response. She sat beside me.
“What did you discover in the cellar?”
Bending my head close to hers, I described the door in the western wall.
“It can only lead downward. There is nothing on the other side of the foundation but open lawn.”
“How will you get the key to the lock?”
I touched the hilt of the dagger.
“This is my key. The lock is heavy, but of the simplest kind. There were locks like it in the palace at Sana’a. I used to move from locked room to locked room, with nothing more than a dagger.”
The memory recalled the face of the princess Narisa, and the pain of her absence stabbed like a needle through my heart.
“Do you wish me to come with you?”
I shook my head. Tonight, I wanted to be alone. That was impossible within the confines of our room. I gave silent thanks for the excuse to leave it.
It was necessary to wait until midnight. Most of the monks who observed the heavens from the towers of the monastery and from the library roof retired then, in order to keep to their usual custom of rising before the dawn. Only when some special observation was needed that did not appear in the heavens in the early hours would a scattering of them remain awake all night, peering upward along the edges of their enormous protractors and measuring the separation of stars with their dividers. I hoped that no such special observation was planned for tonight.
The girl undressed and lay on her back on the bed. She draped an arm across her eyes and pretended to sleep. She had been hurt by my coldness, but did not know its cause, or how to speak about it. She would dismiss it as nothing more than a mood, I told myself.
Hours passed slowly. I listened to the movements within the dormitory as they grew increasingly few. From time to time, a monk rose and the sound of piss striking the bottom of a copper pot carried clearly through the open shutters. The separation between the windows of the rooms was not great. I crossed to the opening and looked up at the night sky. The moon in her first quarter had already fallen below the western horizon, but the stars themselves illuminated the lawn well enough to distinguish gray outlines of the buildings and dark masses of trees.
Lamps burned at the sides of the towers that stood at the corners of the great wall. Somewhere between the towers paced guards with their black bows, ever watchful, always listening. I could not see them on the battlements, and with luck that meant they would not see me. I doubted they would be able to hit a moving target in the darkness, but even to arouse an alarm would be fatal to my purpose.
I left the window and walked with quiet steps toward the door.
“Alhazred?”
I stopped.
“Take care.”
Opening the panel slowly so that its hinges did not squeal, I left the room. No one passed me in the hall or on the stairs. I knew the steps well enough to avoid those that creaked. The front door was never locked, but I let myself out through the kitchen door as there was more concealment on that side of the dormitory. The smells of the animals in their pens that hung on the warm night air gave an odd reassurance, they were so familiar.
It was easier to reach the library than I expected. Shade trees offered hiding places from the towers. When necessary to dart across an open patch of grass, I took the chance that the guards had their attention directed outward, not inward, and hoped they would hesitate to shoot at a moving shadow without knowing its identity. Even so, my imagination painted vivid pictures of those long black arrows passing completely through my chest and pinning my corpse to the lawn. My turban I had left in the room, but the white linen of my robe shone pale in the starlight.
The cellar beneath the library had an exterior door that enabled stores to be moved in and out without the necessity of carrying through the great hall. As was true of almost all the doors in the monastery, it was never locked. I made my way into the courtyard. The statue of Ishtar seemed to frown down upon my back. The cellar door was located in the west wing near the inner corner, deep in shadow. It creaked when I tried to open it, and I cursed my carelessness in not having applied a little butter to its hinges earlier in the day. I found it impossible to open without noise. Every time I drew it back an inch, it gave a loud crack. After each I waited in silence, the sweat beading on my face, and listened for a cry from one of the towers.
It was almost with surprise that I realized I had opened the door far enough to slip my body through without alerting the sentries on the walls. The lamps still burned in the cellar with low steady flames. Once, Martala asked Baruch why lights were kept burning throughout the night in all buildings, and the monk had replied that it was to ensure that during any surprise attack, there would not be confusion. It had always seemed to me foolish to carry this extravagance as far as the cellar of the library, but that was before I knew that the cellar served another purpose beside the storing of brooms and mops.
Entering the gloomy western end of the cellar, I located the small door by touch and tried the latch. As I expected, it remained locked. The keyhole was large enough to admit my little finger, which I used to explore its wards. It was of the simplest design. A bent piece of wire could have been used to open it. The narrow tip of the dagger served admirably for the purpose. I took care inserting it to avoid scratching the plate, even though it was unlikely scratches would be seen in this murk.
The door opened without noise.
Light burned from somewhere below, enough to reveal the outlines of a narrow flight of stone steps that wound their way downward. Trailing my left hand along the curve of the wall, with the dagger held ready in my right, I descended the steps with care. They were so steep, a fall might result in a crippling injury, or even death. The light grew stronger at the base of the stair. It came from a lamp hung on chains from the vaulted ceiling of a corridor. I advanced with soft steps in what I judged to be an easterly direction, listening for the sound of voices or footfalls. The floor of the corridor sloped downward at an angle revealed by the chains of the hanging lamps, which burned at intervals and cast barely enough light to banish the shadows between them. The reek of their untrimmed wicks clogged my throat, and something else, a more repulsive stench.
The corridor ended on an archway that opened into a vast circular chamber with a domed roof. Lamps flamed in brackets on the wall, illuminating a cage of black iron shaped in the form of a ball composed of three interlocking rings. It was a massive thing of many tons of weight, yet it hung suspended high above the center of the floor on three iron chains bracketed into the stones of the dome. Each link of these chains was big enough that I might easily have slipped my hand through its opening, had I been able to reach them.
The curve of the dome, as well as the antiquity of the stonework, suggested to my eye that it had been built by Romans, but what the armies of Rome might have wanted with this distant land, and why they would build so large a chamber beneath the ground, would puzzle the wits of an antiquarian. The surface of the dome was painted with numerous arcane symbols in various colors. Similar tokens of magic adorned the stones of the floor.