Eye of the Labyrinth

by Jennifer Fallon

  “How much money do we have left?” Tia asked as they stopped on the rise of the last of the foothills to look down on Bollow. The many-spired city sat on the shores of Lake Ruska, the long, narrow body of water that stretched from Talenburg in the south, all the way to Omaxin in the north, some two hundred miles away yet. Dirk thought the inland sea must have been a river once, which was trapped during some cataclysmic geological event in the distant past. Perhaps the same volcano that destroyed Omaxin had been responsible for turning the Ruska River into the Ruska Lake.

  “What?” Dirk asked absently, when he realized Tia had spoken.

  “I want a bath. Badly.”

  “There’s a whole lake down there,” he pointed out. “Why not just go for a swim?”

  “Because I want to be clean, Dirk, not just wet. I want to wash my hair with real soap. I want to put on clean clothes.” She looked him up and down. “You’d seriously benefit from a bath, too, my lad. And a shave. Don’t ever grow a beard, by the way. You’d look ridiculous.”

  “I suppose we can spare the coin, if it means that much to you,” he said, self-consciously scratching at the stubble on his chin.

  “We’re going to eat at a decent inn, too,” she declared. “I’m sick of rabbit. I’m sick of pigeon. And if I never see another piece of black bread or goat’s cheese as long as I live it will be far too soon.”

  “That, I have to agree with,” he said with a smile. “Although once we get past Bollow, we may look fondly on our days of rabbit and black bread. It’s supposed to be pretty barren up north.”

  “We’ll worry about it later,” Tia shrugged. “After we’re clean.”

  By late afternoon they were in Bollow. They looked around with interest as they headed toward the center of town, searching for somewhere to stay. The city was one of the oldest on Ranadon and it wore its great age like an elegant but declining old maid desperately clinging to her last vestige of beauty. The streets were paved with granite and bordered by sheltered walkways, their vine-covered trellises held up by slender, fluted pillars linked together by archways carved with a strange script that Dirk couldn’t read.

  “You’re gawping again,” Tia warned, as his head swiveled in amazement. The city was in decline, but it must have been glorious once. He couldn’t help staring.

  “This place must have been stunning when it was first constructed.”

  “I suppose,” she agreed disinterestedly.

  The day was bright, the weather much less humid this far north. The people of Bollow had a purposeful air about them, as if everyone had something to do or somewhere to be. Although it was almost first sunrise, the street markets were still in full swing, and showed no sign of ending any time soon. They crossed the busy streets, two anonymous travelers in a city that was full of them, heading toward the majestic domed temple that was the centerpiece of the whole city. The dome reached up twelve or thirteen stories and was visible from almost everywhere in the city. It reminded Dirk of Elcast Keep.

  “Who do you suppose built Bollow?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I don’t really care, either.”

  “But don’t you ever wonder?”

  “About who built Bollow? It’s never even crossed my mind.”

  “Not just Bollow. Elcast Keep. Parts of Avacas. The Elcast levee wall. The old library in Nova before it was destroyed. Omaxin. All of those places have been around for thousands of years. Don’t you ever wonder how they came to be there?”

  She looked at him for a moment, then rolled her eyes. “You are so like Neris sometimes.”

  By the tone of her voice, Dirk realized she didn’t mean it as a compliment. “It’s not an unreasonable question,” he said, a little defensively.

  “Dirk, this may come as something of a shock to you, but most people don’t spend their every waking moment trying to solve all the riddles of the universe. In fact, some people even go as far as not caring about things like that at all.”

  “How can you not wonder about it, though? I mean it’s—” Dirk stopped midsentence as he stared up the street and caught sight of several yellow-robed Sundancers walking toward them. The figure in the lead was slightly stooped, his long beard brushing the jeweled belt at his waist. Dirk didn’t know the two aides that walked behind him, but he certainly knew who the old man was.

  “Dirk? What’s wrong?”

  “We’d better get out of sight.”

  Tia spotted the approaching Sundancers and understood immediately. She glanced around, then grabbed Dirk’s wrist, and pulled him into a shadowed alcove between two shops on the other side of the street. Dirk pressed himself against the wall, turning his face to the shadows. Tia’s short curls tickled his nose as he tried to dissolve into the masonry. He was all but breathing in her ear.

  “Don’t you even think of kissing me,” she warned in a whisper as the Sundancers passed by. Dirk hid his smile. Apparently, she had not forgotten the last time they had hidden in an alley together. They waited for a moment or two, then Tia turned to look at him.

  “So why are we dodging Sundancers now?” she asked.

  “The old man in the lead? The one with the beard? That was Paige Halyn.”

  “The Lord of the Suns himself?”

  He nodded, glancing down the street to make certain the Sundancers had not turned back. “I’ve met him before. In Avacas.”

  “Your list of friends grows ever more frightening, Little Antonov. Do you think he saw you?”

  “No. But we shouldn’t hang around Bollow too long. I forgot that he lives here.”

  She adjusted the pack she was carrying and frowned. “I don’t care if the High Priestess has decided to build a summer house here. I’m not leaving this place until I’m clean and fed. The Lord of the Suns doesn’t know me from a bottle of vod’kun. I don’t have to hide from anyone.”

  “We just need to be alert.”

  “You be alert,” she muttered impatiently as she pushed past him, back into the street. “I’m going to be clean.”

  They found an inn not long afterward that met Tia’s exacting standards, in that it had good food, clean beds and baths so deep you could swim in them. Dirk left her happily soaking away the grime of their last few weeks on the road and slipped out to take care of an errand of his own.

  By the time Dirk left the inn the second sun had begun to set. He headed toward the center of the city slowly, hoping to appear nothing more than another visitor, overwhelmed by Bollow’s beauty and diversity (or gawping, as Tia would have said). It was not difficult to find what he was looking for. The dome of the massive temple was like a beacon. Every road in the city eventually led to it.

  He had quite deliberately not bathed yet, guessing that if he accidentally bumped into anybody who remembered Dirk Provin from Avacas, they would not associate this grubby, unshaven peasant with the well-dressed young man who had lived under Antonov’s patronage in the palace. It was a reasonable assumption. He had caught a glimpse of himself in the window of a shop a couple of streets past the inn and barely even recognized himself.

  As he neared the plaza that surrounded the temple, the stalls grew more numerous, the merchants more boisterous. Bollow, it seemed, did much of its commerce after first sunrise, which meant Dirk would have to wend his way through countless stalls and a dense crowd to reach his destination. After the solitude and open spaces of the last few weeks, he found the task quite daunting. It was nerve-wracking, being in such close confines, surrounded by strangers, never knowing if someone had recognized him. There was the added worry that Tia might have decided to follow him, too, although when he left her, he doubted she would emerge from her bath anytime soon. But he would not put it past her. Perhaps not unwisely, Tia did not trust him much, and he was quite certain he would not be able to offer a satisfactory explanation if she discovered where he was heading now.

  Dirk crossed the broad paved plaza in front of the temple with his head down, deliberately slowing his pace as he reached the steps leadin
g up to the gilded doors that stood open and welcoming to all who wished to offer the Goddess their prayers. He stepped into the temple and halted just inside the entrance. At the other end of the massive hall, Paige Halyn stood with his arms outstretched, offering a prayer of thanks to the Goddess for another day that the second sun had risen, beseeching her to ensure that it rose again tomorrow. Dirk had seen Brahm Halyn perform the same ritual in Elcast every sunrise since he was a small child. It was the Shadowdancers who had perverted what was an essentially harmless creed that promoted respect for all living things into something that required human sacrifices.

  He worked his way around the edge of the circular hall until he was close to the door of the antechamber where Paige would retire when he finished his prayers. The old man’s voice was rasping and unenthusiastic as he went about his ritual. Dirk suspected that the Lord of the Suns had long ago given up hoping that he would ever have control over his religion again, and if he could not control that, what hope did he have of making a Goddess heed his words?

  Paige finished his prayers and leaned forward to kiss the two beaten gold suns on the altar, then turned and smiled at the smattering of worshippers who still kept their faith in the Sundancers. He had long ago lost most of his followers to the Shadowdancers. Why follow an old man who offered nothing but vague promises, when they could follow a priestess who brought back the second sun? Why subscribe to a religion that required you to stop and pray at sunrise, twice a day, when you could follow one that required nothing more of you than to rut like a stallion once a year at an orgy?

  There was no contest, really.

  Paige Halyn made his way slowly toward the antechamber. Dirk waited until the door had almost swung shut before he slipped in behind him.

  The Lord of the Suns turned at the sound of the door closing. He squinted a little at Dirk, as if he was shortsighted, and then gasped in surprise. “You!”

  “My lord,” Dirk greeted him, taking a step farther into the room.

  Paige Halyn backed away from him in fear. “One shout from me and my people will come running,” he warned.

  “I’m not here to harm you, my lord.”

  “Then why are you here? I want nothing to do with you, boy. Leave!”

  Dirk stepped a little closer. Maybe it was a good thing Paige Halyn was frightened of him. “I need your help, my lord.”

  “My help?” he scoffed. “What could the Lord of the Suns do to aid the Butcher of Elcast?”

  “I need you to get a message to the High Priestess for me,” Dirk said.

  Chapter 42

  Dirk emerged from the temple a little over an hour later, feeling relieved that he had finally done what he probably should have done two years ago. He felt more than a little guilty, too. It was going to be hard on Tia when she realized what he had set in motion. Perhaps he should warn her ... then again, she would probably slit his throat before he got halfway through his explanation, so maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to mention it.

  The second sun was gone, and the evening market in the square was well under way in the red light of the first sun as he pushed his way back through the stalls toward the inn. He was about halfway across the plaza when he spied a troop of Senetian soldiers heading in his direction.

  The stalls around him were mostly silversmiths and gem merchants, but over to the left was a multicolored pavilion filled with people. They all appeared to be watching some sort of contest in the tent, and occasionaly would break out into an enthusiastic cheer. As it was the most crowded place nearby, Dirk slipped between the two nearest stalls and ducked into the tent. He pushed through the crowd until he was certain he was hidden from view, and then turned his attention to the contest he had inadvertently come to witness.

  There was a small podium in the center of the tent where two men sat. One of them was a heavyset man with an impressive beard, dressed in a flamboyant robe of purple embroidered with golden sigils. The man sitting opposite him at the table was much younger, dressed in a simple shirt and trousers. His fingers were stained with black ink, as if he was a scribe or some sort of clerk. He was staring intently at a large checkered board that sat on a table between the two men, which looked like two chessboards placed edge to edge. Behind the scribe stood another young man similarly dressed, and the two consulted each other frequently before making a move.

  The pieces on the board were made of carved wood, painted black on one side, white on the other, and marked with numbers. Some of the pieces were squares, some were circles and others were triangles. There was also a stack of pieces on the board in front of each player. As Dirk watched, the young scribe finished his discussion with his friend and then moved a white circle to capture a black one next to it. He then turned the piece over so that it was now white and another cheer rose from the crowd.

  “Fools!” the man next to him remarked scornfully. “They’ll never win by assaulting.”

  “What are they playing?” Dirk asked.

  “Rithma,” the man told him, glancing at Dirk curiously. Then he pointed to the large bearded man in the theatrical purple robe. “That’s Ingo the Invincible. Nobody’s ever beaten him.”

  “So why do they keep trying?” Dirk asked.

  The man pointed to the opposite corner of the pavilion where another large bearded man stood guarding a small chest sitting on an upturned barrel. “ ’Cause there’s a pot of over three hundred dorns to the first person who can beat Ingo with a greatest triumph.”

  “What’s a greatest triumph?”

  The man shook his head. “You’re not from around here, are you lad?”

  “I’m from Avacas,” Dirk explained.

  The man nodded in understanding, as if anyone from Avacas would automatically be stupid. “A greatest triumph is the hardest win,” his companion explained. “You need to wipe out your opponent’s pyramid with your four pieces lined up on his side of the board to form all three progressions at the same time.”

  Dirk looked at the game thoughtfully then glanced over at the chest. Three hundred dorns was an awful lot of money. He and Tia barely had ten dorns left and they still had to buy supplies for the rest of the journey north. Returning to the inn with more money than they could possibly spend might also assuage his guilt a little ...

  “Explain the rules to me,” he said.

  “Well, white always goes first,” the man told him. “The circle pieces can move one square in any direction, horizontally, vertically or diagonally. The triangle pieces can move two places and the squares move three. Now, those stacks that each player has are called pyramids and they’re made up of other pieces, but they can only move the same way as their base piece can go.”

  “Can you jump your opponent’s piece?”

  The Bollow man shook his head. “No. You need a clear path. And you’re not allowed to shorten it, either, or make turns.”

  “But you can capture them, right?” Dirk guessed, watching the young scribe turn over yet another piece belonging to Ingo so that the white side was uppermost.

  “Aye. A captured piece can be turned over and used by you.”

  “So the object of the game is to capture as many of your opponent’s pieces as possible?” Dirk asked.

  “Sort of,” the man agreed. “You see, there are four ways to capture your opponent’s pieces: assault and ambush or sally and siege. In assault, you can capture and replace any piece of equal value. Now an ambush is when you have any higher-numbered piece next to his lower-numbered pieces whose sum or product are equal to it.”

  Dirk nodded and listened as the man explained the rest of the rules, and began to understand why Ingo the Invincible had never been beaten. The man spoke of sallying and sieges, of captured pieces and attacking pyramids, and of pyramids that could be captured by their total, the value of their bases, one layer at a time, or the sum of several layers at a time.

  “So how do you win?”

  “Well, there are eight possible ways to win, five lesser victories and three
greater victories. The first lesser victory is called—”

  “But you don’t win the pot for the lesser victories, do you?”

  “No, of course not, I just thought ...”

  “Tell me about the greatest triumph then.”

  The man shrugged. “All the greater triumphs require lining up at least three pieces in an arithmetical progression or a geometrical progression or a harmonic progression, and it can’t be done until Ingo’s entire pyramid has been captured. A great triumph is when you have three pieces lined up to form one of the progressions. The greater triumph is if you manage to get four pieces lined up to form two of the progressions simultaneously. The greatest triumph—and the pot—is four pieces lined up on Ingo’s side of the board to form all three progressions.”

  “Does it matter if he manages to recapture any of the pyramid pieces?”

  “No. Pyramids can’t be reassembled.”

  Dirk thought about if for a moment. It seemed fairly straightforward. He just needed to remember the rules. The mathematics involved in the game did not faze him in the slightest, but the rules were rather convoluted. The problem was he didn’t want to draw any undue attention to himself by climbing up onto a podium in a crowded tent and taking on the unbeatable Ingo the Invincible.

  “Have you ever played?” he asked the man beside him.

  “Aye,” the man nodded with a smile. “Quite a bit. But Rithma’s a game for mathematicians and philosophers. Ask anyone in Bollow and they’ll tell you I’m a bit of a philosopher, but I’ve not got a head for the numbers.”

  “But you’re allowed an adviser, aren’t you?” he asked, pointing to the young man giving the scribe directions about where to place the pieces.

  The man looked at him quizzically. “You’re not suggesting I play with you advising me, are you, lad? You don’t even understand the rules.”

  “No, I don’t,” Dirk agreed. “But I understand the mathematics. Care to give it a try? We can split the pot if we win.”