Beyond the Hanging Wall

by Sara Douglass

  “No!” Vorstus’ voice cut cross his sharply, although his tone was still soft. He dropped his hand from Joseph’s arm. “Do not say it.”

  Joseph shifted his eyes to his son. “Garth?”

  “It’s all right, father,” Garth said. “Please. Trust us.”

  Oh gods, Joseph thought, stunned, leaning back against the rough ironwork of the cage and barely managing to stop himself sliding to the floor. Garth is involved in this too!

  Then, as the first trickle of water through a gap in a dyke augurs destruction, memories flooded Joseph’s mind. He remembered how much Garth had matured this year. He remembered how withdrawn he’d been after returning from the Veins last year, and how he’d suffered weeks of nightmares. He remembered how Garth had fought to be allowed back to the Veins this year and the curious—and idiotic—question he had asked of Cavor.

  And he remembered how Garth’s mind had seemed consumed with Maximilian, although he had mentioned him only rarely.

  “Oh gods,” he whispered, his brown eyes wide and distressed. “Oh gods!”

  “We’re here,” Jack grunted, and reached for the controls. The cage screeched to a halt, and it swayed violently as the brakes kicked in. “Section 205.”

  The excitement and nervousness were now almost too much for Garth to bear. Where was Maximilian? How was he? He shifted from foot to foot, trying to disguise the movement as one of catching his balance as the cage finally settled, but Joseph stared at him.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispered as they filed out into the Veins.

  “I wasn’t sure what to do,” Garth replied, his eyes flitting over the sentry waiting for them. “I didn’t want to get you into trouble.”

  “Too late for that now!” Joseph snapped, angry at Garth—not so much for involving him in what was apparently a plot to free one of the prisoners (Maximilian?), but because Garth had not confided in him.

  “Jack?” The sentry on duty by the shaft stepped forward. “We weren’t expecting you.”

  “Got to go to Section 205,” Jack mumbled. “With the physicians.”

  The guard looked about the group suspiciously. “Who were…?

  Then his shoulders slumped slightly. “Of course,” he mumbled. “They’re working close to the sea shaft.”

  Garth felt Vorstus tremble slightly beside him. Concerned, he glanced at the man but did not touch him. Vorstus had told him that the order could control men’s minds to some degree, but not for long and at great cost to themselves. How long could he and the other two keep all of these guards in thrall?

  Jack stumped off down the yawning tunnel without a further word, Vorstus hurrying their group after him.

  It was darker and more confined than Garth remembered and within a few minutes he found he was gasping for air—but perhaps that was because excitement had gripped his chest in tight bands. Behind him he could feel his father, and Garth wished he’d told Joseph about Maximilian before they’d got this far. Well, too late now for confessions.

  The two regular guards walked behind Joseph, and behind them Morton and Gustus. Pray we reach the gang relatively soon, Garth thought, before the monk’s control of these men slips.

  The hanging wall scraped at their heads, and the walls of the tunnel sometimes crowded about to bump and bruise their bodies. No-one spoke, but the sound of heavy breathing and even heavier boots surrounded them in the gloom.

  Every step was an effort, but every step brought them closer to Maximilian.

  Jack led them eventually to a spot close to where Garth had first encountered the gang that worked Section 205. The gang were working in an offshoot from the main tunnel, and the spaces were even more confined than normal.

  Jack paused, and those behind him jostled and stumbled as they halted.

  “There,” he grunted, and indicated with his head.

  Vorstus, and Garth behind him, peered over Jack’s shoulder.

  “Where?” Vorstus asked, his voice tight.

  It was Garth who replied. “There. See? That’s the light of the torch carried by the guard.”

  “Ah.” Vorstus paused, glancing over his shoulder at Morton and Gustus, then spoke to Jack again. “Commander, best that you order the guard to bring the gang into this space here. That offshoot is too narrow for the physicians to work in. Bring them all out…the guards included.”

  Garth heard the monk’s voice crack a little at the end. “Vorstus?”

  “I’m all right, boy,” Vorstus whispered as Jack shouted for the guards to bring the gang back into the main tunnel. “But best we do this as quickly as possible.”

  Surprised by Jack’s orders, the two guards assigned to the gang hurried them back to the tunnel. “Jack?” One of them asked. “What’s up?”

  “The fungus,” Jack said. “Out of control. Production has slipped.”

  The guard exchanged puzzled glances with his companion. “Fungus? This gang’s clear of fungus, Jack.”

  Garth realised that the monks’ abilities must be so over-stretched that they could not manipulate these two guards’ minds. “Then it must have been a mistaken order,” he said brightly. “Oh well, might as well examine them while we’re here. Father?”

  Joseph took the hint. “Yes, ah, line them up against that wall, guard. Yes, that’s good. Under the torch. Yes, thank you.” Which one? he thought frantically, which one? His eyes raced along the line, but he was careful to keep his face neutral. “Garth? Come.”

  The men had sunk down to the ground as soon as the guards had pushed them back against the wall, taking the rare opportunity to rest. Covered in tarry dust, only the whites of their eyes showed that they were living men and not inanimate statues carved out of a single block of gloam.

  As the guards—and pseudo-guards—sank to the floor for a game of dice, Joseph let Garth lead him to the last man in the line.

  Garth squatted down, excitement making him stumble slightly. “Maximilian?”

  Lot No. 859 glared at him resentfully. What was this boy doing? Had he come back to annoy him again? His dreams had been uncomfortable ever since this boy had whispered such disturbing things at him when he was last here…when? A month or two ago, perhaps.

  Joseph sank down besides his son. Haltingly he reached out a hand and grasped the man’s chin. He turned the prisoner’s head slightly so that the light fell more evenly across his features.

  “Maximilian!” Joseph whispered. “Gods…Maximilian!” His voice broke. “Maximilian, don’t you know me?”

  FIFTEEN

  ESCAPE!

  “Go away,” Lot No. 859 snarled. “Leave me in peace!”

  “He will not admit to who he is,” Garth murmured. “Father? Here, Touch his arm.”

  But Lot No. 859 wrenched his arm to one side before Joseph could touch him. “Get away from me!” he hissed.

  The prisoner to his left murmured and shifted.

  “Maximilian,” Garth said quietly, “be still. I am Garth, remember? And this is my father, Joseph Baxtor. Perhaps you remember him from your childhood.”

  “Maximilian?” Joseph muttered again. How had this happened?

  “I am Lot No. 859, boy! Now leave me be!”

  “We have come to free you,” Garth said determinedly.

  It was the worst thing he could have said.

  Lot No. 859 visibly recoiled. “Free?” he whispered, appalled. “No. No!” Freed to roam unfettered and lost within the warm darkness? To be driven to madness by his aloneness? “No!”

  He took a great breath. “Guard!” he shouted. “Take these men away!”

  Garth flinched as he saw Jack rise, but the next instant Vorstus had laid a hand on his shoulder and Jack sank down.

  Vorstus scrambled across. He squatted in front of the small group—the rest of the prisoners were now regarding them with wide, frightened eyes—and, shockingly, inclined his head at Lot No. 859 in a gesture of deep respect.

  “Prince Maximilian,” he whispered. “I am Vorstus. See?” And
he extended his hand slightly.

  Lot No. 859 had not appeared to recognise Joseph, but his eyes widened at the sight of the quill tattooed on Vorstus’ finger. He took a sharp intake of breath.

  Yet still he cringed against the prisoner to his left, as far away from the three as he could get. Still his body was tight and tense, and his eyes fearful and hostile at the same time.

  “Maximilian,” Garth whispered. “I found the Manteceros. He has a message for you.” Beside him his father stirred in amazement.

  Lot No. 859 stared at Garth, a thin film of sweat covering his blackened face. He appeared to have stopped breathing completely.

  “Listen, Maximilian,” and Garth recited the verse the Manteceros had given him.

  “In crystal do drown me,

  And drape me with truth.

  Draw death up about me,

  Loose blood o’er the silk.”

  “No,” Lot No. 859 whispered. “Please stop.”

  “With courage beneath me,

  Let light bind me tight.

  Find one who will name me—

  One more to add weight,

  Then show me inside,

  The green shadowed parlour.”

  “Stop!”

  “With the ring of my fathers

  I carve deep into stone,

  Trace life into lines,

  Turn floor into bone.”

  Lot No. 859 whimpered, and covered his face with his hands. “No!”

  “Who comes to Claim?

  Who dares the Dream,

  And, daring, ------”

  Garth took a deep breath and reached across to take the man’s hands. “Dare the dream, Maximilian, and stake your claim. Let the Manteceros decide whether you have a true claim or not.”

  Maximilian let Garth envelop his grime-encrusted hands in his. Silent tears streaked down his face, carving deep channels into its covering of gloam. He was trembling. “In crystal do drown me,” he whispered, then choked on his tears, half smiling, half crying. “Oh, gods! I could surely do with a good wash!”

  Vorstus took a shaky breath, emotion threatening to overwhelm him. Only a prince and an heir could have known what that line alluded to.

  “Maximilian,” he said, “we have come to take you home.”

  Then he rose to his feet and stared at the hanging wall.

  “Ravenna!”

  She slipped unseen through the impenetrable sea fog. It had thickened steadily throughout the morning, until those above moved carefully—if at all—with upraised lamps that blinded them as the light reflected off the moisture in the fog.

  Ravenna had slipped the hood back from her head, and now her hair streamed black down the red wool of her cloak. Her feet were bare.

  Her grey eyes were now almost colourless as she prepared to wield her magic.

  Smiling, she skipped down the path leading to the poppet head above the main shaft, and opened her mouth in song.

  Skip, trip, my pretty man,

  Skip, trip, into my hand.

  Her voice was clear and sweet, and her hands threw back her cloak so that it flew out from her shoulders like the wings of a great red bird.

  About the ironworks and buildings that sat above the Veins, men slowed and rubbed their eyes. Some yawned, some glanced, curious but not anxious, into the surrounding mist—was it tinged blue now?—but all sank down where they stood, curling their arms under or about their heads as they closed their eyes in dream.

  Skip, trip, be frank and fair,

  Skip, trip, through the air.

  In his office, Furst’s head sank down onto his desk and he emitted a rasping snore.

  Skip, trip, into the sky,

  Skip, trip, linger and die.

  Now Ravenna stood at the very mouth of the shaft itself and she stared down into its blackness.

  About her the fog swirled, and strange shapes moved noiselessly through its depths.

  The surface of the Veins was silent as men slipped deeper into their dreams.

  Fingers of mist dipped into the shaft itself, and Ravenna smiled.

  Skip, trip, my pretty man,

  Skip, trip, into my heart.

  Her eyes were completely white now.

  Vorstus waited until the first vestiges of the enchanted fog drifted into the chamber in which they waited, then he moved.

  He handed Joseph a hammer, then indicated that Garth should take Maximilian’s pick from where he had dropped it into the dust and rock at their feet.

  “Unchain him,” he said, and briefly turned back to the group of guards. Jack’s head, as did those of the four other guards, drooped in weariness.

  Garth looked at his father. Joseph’s mouth was hard and determined. “The pick!” he snapped, and Garth fumbled about for a moment before he slipped the point of the pick into one of the links of the chain that bound Maximilian’s left ankle to that of the man next to him.

  Maximilian stirred in agitation once more, although the other prisoners, like the guards, had fallen into a profound sleep. “No,” he murmured, his heart racing as he saw Joseph raise the hammer. “No.”

  Joseph struck the pick as hard as he could. “We have to, Maximilian. We have to get you out of here!” And he raised the hammer again.

  Maximilian stirred restlessly once more, and Garth thought he might attempt to pull his ankle away. He glanced at him anxiously, but even though the prince was clearly upset, he kept his ankle still.

  Joseph struck again, harder this time, and the point of the pick slipped almost completely through the link. One more time, and it would snap.

  Garth blinked, thinking for a moment that his vision was blurring, then realised that the small chamber in which they crouched had almost filled with sea mist.

  Ravenna.

  He looked at the hanging wall briefly, and smiled. Without her Maximilian would not have a chance. None of them would.

  Joseph struck again, and the chain fell apart.

  Maximilian whimpered, his eyes wide and frightened as they looked between Garth and Joseph. “Please, don’t leave me alone. Not in the darkness.”

  “We’re going to get you out, Maximilian.” Vorstus had reappeared. “He’s free? Good. Maximilian, come, lean on me.”

  “Out?” Maximilian mumbled, letting Vorstus pull him to his feet. “Out where?”

  Garth laughed with sheer relief and exuberance. “Beyond the hanging wall, Maximilian!”

  “No,” Maximilian shook his head, his face weary and sad once more. “No, there is nothing beyond the hanging wall. No. Please don’t leave me alone in the dark…please!”

  “We’ve no time for this, boy,” Vorstus grunted as the prince leaned his weight on his shoulder. “Do you remember the plan?”

  Garth nodded. “Yes. We’ll follow you to the chamber by the shaft with Jack and the two guards who came down with us. There, you—with Morton and Gustus—will take Maximilian to the surface and to the hiding place you’ve arranged. My father and I will stay down here.”

  Joseph narrowed his eyes. When he had Garth alone the boy would surely have a lot of explaining to do.

  “After two or three hours the effects of the dream fog will lift,” Garth continued. “Jack—as everyone else affected by it—will wake. He will think that we have only just descended the shaft and will lead us down to Section 205 to treat the prisoners for fungus…and while we are still only partly down the tunnel I have no doubt that we’ll meet one of the two guards assigned to this gang rushing to raise the alarm that one of the prisoners has escaped.”

  “Good. Join us when you can—but be careful! I don’t want suspicion falling either on you or on your father. No-one will remember a few guards who were here one day, gone the next.”

  “How long have you been planning this?” Joseph said as they made their way back down the tunnel, Gustus and Morton prodding the virtually sleepwalking Jack and his two companion guards behind them. Ahead of them Vorstus half supported, half carried Maximilian; the prince seemed da
zed and confused without the eight other men chained to his left ankle.

  “Long enough,” Garth said. “Look, father, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about this before…but while we wait for the guards to wake after Vorstus has taken Maximilian above I will tell you everything. I promise.”

  Joseph shook his head, trying to be cross with his son, but like his son he was too excited to feel anything but exultation at finding Maximilian. And the Order of Persimius were involved, too! That reassured Joseph. If Garth had come up with this plan all by himself then Joseph would have wondered at its sanity.

  His eyes slipped to the mist that drifted through the tunnel. It was surely an enchanted thing, and Joseph stared at Vorstus’ back with vastly increased respect. He did not know much about the Order of Persimius only that they were devoted to the royal family and that they commanded subtle arts—but they must be infinitely more powerful than he had supposed if they could wield such power as this.

  When they reached the shaft—the cage still waiting there—Garth was relieved to see the sentry crumpled in sleep at his post. Surely the entire Veins were asleep by this stage!

  Garth grinned to himself as they waited for the others to catch up. Well, the prisoners deserved a good sleep for a time. He would have liked to have been able to free all of the men, but realised that not all of them were as innocent as Maximilian (although some surely were; how many other men had been conveniently “lost” down the Veins?) and, in any case, a mass escape was out of the question.

  Not when the priority of all concerned was to get Maximilian as far away from the Veins as fast as they could.