by Tad Williams
"The Xixies have used blasting powder of their own!" Calomel said, tugging Vansen back across the camp. "They have knocked down an entire wall of the Maze and they have trapped my tada!"
"Perin's beard!" Vansen said, "I feared this. The autarch has finally decided he is tired of making his way inch by inch! Copper-bring your men. Sledge, you and Dolomite get the rest up and moving after us…"
"Hurry!" shouted the boy. "Hurry-oh, they will kill him! They will kill my tada!"
Vansen could think of no words to console the child. He had hoped the southerners would not break through until at least tomorrow. Was this the end, then? Had the Funderlings fought so long and hard for nothing? Cinnabar deserves a better death than to die alone, whatever else happens, he thought. If we must go down, let it be with our hands filled by our sword hilts. He was fearful for his comrade, but also felt a wild sort of optimism that had nothing to do with the truth of things. Let be what will be, he thought as he raced after little Calomel. The gods alone know a man's end. If it had not been for the terrified boy, he would have shouted it out loud. As my father used to say about his ancestors… if you're not a coward, a good death beats a bad life any time!
Briony had captured perhaps an hour of hard-earned sleep, but the shock of seeing her brother still dizzied her as she pulled her boots back on and staggered to her feet. What could have happened to him? How could Barrick simply walk away from her as though they meant nothing to each other-as though their lives growing up together in Southmarch had never happened? She felt as though her heart had been pierced by one of the battle's arrows, that she had been murdered but no one had told her to lie down.
It was still dark out, but all around her the Temple Dogs and their followers were hastily tearing down what little camp they had bothered to raise. The beach was covered with torches. At least one seemed to be pushed into the sand beside every one of the long, low boats that had been grounded along the shore of the bay, so that Briony felt as though she passed through a forest of light. Dozens of Skimmer men waited beside the boats, many of them in armor made (as far as she could tell) of pungent dried fish skin, carrying bows and long forks and spears-weapons that she thought looked better suited for spearing sharks.
But these Skimmers had done more than their share, she realized, and far more than simply killing a few southern soldiers. The firing of the autarch's fleet, some of which still burned out on Brenn's Bay, little left above the waterline but charred, sparking hulks, was a deed that might mean everything in the hours ahead.
Eneas strode across the sand. "I have had men scouring the city. I feel certain now that the rest of the Xixies truly have retreated into the hills. Not a sniff of them to be found anywhere…" He reached her side. "You look unwell, Briony."
"How could I feel otherwise? You saw my brother act as if we did not know each other."
The prince looked as though he didn't know what to do. He doesn't like problems he can't solve, she thought, although she suspected she was being unfair. Still, just now she didn't care. "I have seen men badly taken by war in the past, Princess…"
"He is not mad. It is not war that has done this to him; it is that Qar woman, Saqri. She's put a spell on my brother." She looked around. "Where are they?"
"Gone," said Eneas. "Back into the caves in the hills. Back into the ground beneath the castle."
For a moment the lights of the torches and Eneas' face and even the few stars blinking miserably behind the smoke all blurred as tears came to her eyes yet again. She dragged her fist across her lids. "No more," she said. "No more talk. Let us get on with what we must do."
"All is nearly ready," he said. "I have only a few matters yet to see to…"
"Then see to them," she said. "Don't fear for me, Eneas. I will not run into the bay and drown myself. I am made of sterner stuff."
"But I never…"
"Go on." She turned her back on him and walked toward the waiting boats without looking back. When she reached the nearest she turned along the strand and began walking from torch to torch, trying to ignore the angry, miserable thoughts that swarmed through her weary mind like bees. The Skimmers watched her pass, eyes bulging and faces expressionless.
"Princess Briony?"
She turned and found herself before one of the armored Skimmers, although something about the fellow's hairless face was not quite right. A moment later Briony realized that the he was in fact a she.
"Do I know you…?" She squinted in the dim light. "Zoria's mercy, is that you? Aren't you Ena, the headman's daughter?"
The girl nodded. "I am pleased you remember me, Highness. It was only a night or so that we spent in each other's company."
"The most frightening of my life-at least up until then." Briony shook her head. "But what are you doing wearing armor and fighting with the menfolk?"
Ena laughed. "I might ask you the same! It seems we both wished to play a greater part in these final days."
"Final?"
The Skimmer girl shrugged. "One way or another. Egye-Var has made that clear." With her helmet off she was much more recognizable, her solemn, heavy-lidded eyes and her high brow reminding Briony of things and times she would have rather forgotten. "And how is Lord Shaso?" Ena asked.
That was the memory Briony had been trying to keep at bay. "Dead, may the gods rest him. He was a good man. He was killed in a fire in Landers Port, when our house was attacked." At the will of Hendon Tolly, she felt sure; someone had to have put the local lord up to the attack. Briony was furious with Prince Eneas' decision to let the Qar queen Saqri have her way, but at least now there was a chance Briony would meet Tolly the traitor again, preferably with them both free to settle things. She owed him something on behalf of the entire Eddon family, not to mention her own honor-she could think of no other word for it.
"I am very sorry, my lady," Ena said. "Lord Shaso was a brave old man and always a friend to the Ocean Children."
"To be honest, I'm surprised your people knew him so well. When he walked into your father's longhouse it seemed as if they were old friends."
"There are many stories to be shared, that is certain," the girl said. "But not now, I think. We must cross the bay before dawn. At the very least, that will stop the Xixians firing on us with the guns that they were able to drag back into the hills. Do me the honor of letting me be the one to bring you back to your home."
"Thank you, Ena. Let me go and gather up my belongings."
Briony made her way back across the shingle to the temporary camp where Eneas and his men were making the last arrangements with the Skimmers. She supposed she should have remained-she was certainly one of Eneas' advisers, if nothing else-but she found it too painful. The tall player Dowan Birch had told her she would speak to her father at least one more time, and she had. Could that hour in the prison tent have been the last time? And now she had found Barrick, and he had turned his back on her. Seeing the two of them again was all that had kept her going through her darkest days. Now she was near them both but could not have them. The pain threatened to overwhelm her.
I must believe I will see them again-that Heaven means for it all to come right. What else can I do?
But Briony had not convinced herself. You can go on pretending you're living in a story, with gods and spirits watching over you, she told herself, or you can accept that you're living in a much different sort of world-that the gods are dead or hateful, that someone else will have to save your father, and that nobody, least of all you, knows how this story will end.
Chert hurried up the narrow path, angry and frightened in equal measure. He and his workers were already hard-pressed to the point it seemed impossible that his undertaking would ever be ready, but now an urgent message had arrived from Brother Antimony insisting he come at once to the site of the digging. Half a day would be lost-more if they were unlucky.
He passed at least a dozen other Funderlings coming down from the dig, most of them pushing barrows of soil, but others on missions whose
purpose he could not easily discern, and Chert began to feel a little better; at least things were still happening. At least Antimony had not let this urgent matter stop work entirely. Still, as he searched for Antimony, he took a good look around the site to make certain things were as they should be. The Funderling workers moved past, mostly in two crowded lines, one going to the site and one coming back. All of those moving away had barrows full of rock and earth to be dumped. Many of those who had already emptied their loads were returning to the nearest site carrying the newest sacks of blasting powder.
He found Antimony at the center of the workings, near the first and largest tunnel which would connect to the broad crevice leading down into the Sea in the Depths-"Chert's Chimney," as some of the workers had mockingly dubbed it-the Pit, as he thought of it. The End of the World. The tall monk looked harried beyond his years, but it was the identity of the two Funderlings who stood with him that hit Chert like a body blow. One was Nickel, the abbot-to-be of the Metamorphic Brothers' temple, a humorless fellow Chert had disliked from their first encounter, but the other… the other was Chert's own brother Nodule, magister of the Blue Quartz clan, and one of the few people in the world he could honestly say he liked less than Brother Nickel.
"Well, well, and well," said Nodule as Chert walked up, "how fortunate it is that our father is dead. He would have been furious to see how you have scratched and marred the family name."
"A pleasure to see you, too, brother." Chert nodded to Brother Nickel, who only scowled back, then turned to Antimony. "I am here at your call, Brother, but I can wait if you have business with these two… worthy fellows."
"In truth…" Antimony began.
"We are here because of you," Nickel said. "Or rather, because of what you are up to. What you are doing here is dangerous, and it is especially a danger to the temple. If you bring down so much stone, you will kill us all. I have decided I will not allow it. It must stop today."
For a moment Chert could only stare at him. "What… what do you mean? Stop? Stop what?"
"This. All this." Nickel waved at the men rolling barrows of stone and dirt. "You may not undertake such a risky project so close to the temple."
Chert almost grabbed the man by the collar of his robe. "But… but you know why we are doing this!" Or did he? Was Chert himself going mad? He could have sworn that Nickel had sat through all the discussions, arguing bitterly against it but having to agree with Cinnabar's decision in the end. "It may be our only chance to save ourselves! Cinnabar has put the Guild's seal on it…!"
"Has he?" Nickel smiled unpleasantly. "I do not remember such a thing. I vaguely recall that you had some farfetched plan for using blasting powder to knock down stone and defeat our enemy, but I do not believe that Magister Cinnabar would ever agree to such madness."
"You… you liar! You were there! You heard it all and you heard and saw Cinnabar and Vansen agree!"
"Here now!" said Nodule, his broad jaw working in indignation. "You cannot speak to Brother Nickel that way. He is an important fellow. You shame me again, Chert."
Chert had wanted to hit his brother in the eye for years, and for a moment felt certain this was the time, but he decided that the risks were too great, the work here too important. "Others were there. Malachite Copper-he is a well-known and honorable man! And some of the other commanders."
"Are they here now?" Nickel spread his hands. "I don't see them. If you claim to be doing the Guild's business, and with Cinnabar's permission, where is the Astion?"
Chert was dumbfounded. A replica of the Astion, the star-shaped sigil of the Stonecutter's Guild, was the ultimate arbiter of who served Funderling Town… but Nickel was right. He didn't have one. "Cinnabar and the rest had to fall back and protect the Mysteries before he could give it to me-you know that!"
"I know nothing of the sort." Nickel shook his head. "At the moment there is only your word for it, and the risk is far too great to trust one man's word."
"Especially a man like my brother," Nodule said officiously, "who has already been called up in front of the Highwardens once for his foolish, risky behavior." He nodded. "But since Cinnabar is not here, I am the highest-ranking Guildsman, and I rule that Nickel's complaint is valid. No work will be done here until an Astion is produced." He smirked. "Good luck, Chert."
"Please, let me take you back to the temple, Magister," Nickel said. "We are grateful to have you here, but you have had a long journey. I have a very nice old mushroom jack in my cupboard-we call it by the old name here, mykomel. You must share a cup with me."
"It would be an honor." Nodule's round face flushed with pleasure. "I love a good jack! But my brother cannot join us, I'm afraid. He will have too much work to do closing down the job here." He looked sternly at his younger brother. "But I will return, and if even one apprentice sweeper is at work here, the full weight of the Guild's power will fall on you, Chert!"
When the monk and the magister had gone, Chert sank to the ground and put his hands on his head. "That cursed fool, my brother! And Nickel-what is he doing? He knows what we are doing here and why we are doing it! Elders know we pray it isn't needed, but it might be our only hope." He looked at the workers milling around in confusion and distress. "Still, it will be a terrible, mortal tragedy even if it succeeds." He blinked. "Fracture and fissure! I cannot believe Nickel would be so short-sighted."
Antimony sighed and sat next to him. "He is not shortsighted, I can tell you that. Nickel is the cleverest of all the Brothers. That is why, despite being young, he is going to be the abbot soon." He chewed on his lip for a moment. "I think he doesn't believe that Vansen and the others can win, but he doesn't want you to succeed, either. He may be gambling that he can make some kind of peace with the invaders…"
"Or that Hendon Tolly will." Chert frowned. "I cannot help wondering just how much of a liar he is. Enough to turn traitor?"
"Nickel?" Antimony was clearly surprised. "Selfish and dishonest, yes, but anything more seems hard to believe…"
"Enough." Chert shook his head in disgust. "There is no use trying to puzzle it out this way. We must get the Astion from Cinnabar, or my brother will shut down the work, just as he said, and then even this faint hope is lost to us. The Guildsmen have all scattered to their homes since the siege began. I could never round them up in time to have them vote a new Astion! Cinnabar is our only powerful protector, and his younger supporters are mostly fighting with him and Vansen, but my brother and his faction are not the kind to join in any war unless their own houses are threatened." He made a growling noise in his throat. "And by the time that happens, it will be too late!" He stood up. "I'll have to get the Astion from Cinnabar, somehow…"
"But if you can't round up the Guild in time, there's no possible way you can reach Cinnabar," Antimony said sadly. "He's at least as far away, and there are thousands of the autarch's soldiers between him and us."
Chert felt like an overloaded arch; one small crack and the whole thing would tumble. "How is the work here? Would we have succeeded?"
"In what, two more days? Three?"
"According to Vansen, it might be as little as one."
Antimony snorted. "No offense, Master Chert, but I doubt we'd have managed it. We still have several more yards of stone to cut and move in Mudstone Reach before we can lay the charges, and twice that in Last Reach. Too bad we couldn't use blasting powder to open the holes to put in the blasting powder…" He chuckled.
Chert's gloom turned to a moment of pure terror. "By the Elders, Antimony, don't even jest! If we knocked down the walls at Last Reach before we were ready…"
"I know, I know." The young monk rubbed his big hands together. "But I wouldn't mind if we did it and forgot to tell Brother Nickel, I'll confess. Does that make me a bad Metamorphic Brother, do you think?" He laughed again, but it had a morose tone. "And how are your wife and the other ladies doing?"
"Very well, actually. They surprise me." Chert knew he should get up and try to solve some of his many p
roblems, but he felt weak and brittle, as if all his supporting struts had burned away. "I do not think we will have corned sixty barrels worth of blasting powder by tonight, but we will be close to it. That Vermilion is at least as much of a general as her husband, if not quite so sweet-natured. She and Opal have not just the other women jumping to their drumbeat, but Ash Nitre and his men, too. Do you remember when part of the guildhall fell down a few years ago, how the men stood in lines passing stone hand to hand all through the first night? That's what it looks like down by the ladies' camp. Never doubt that women can sweat, Antimony."
"I never did," the monk said. "I come from a big family. Our mum had nine to feed, but she still always had a hand free to give me a clout on the head if she thought I was out of line."
Chert smiled. "Ah, well. I have sat here like a lump of flint in a limestone bed for long enough. We'd better make sure things are safely secured here while I think of what to do next. Where's Salt?" Although Antimony was Chert's eyes and ears, Salt Nitre, Ash and Sulphur's nephew, was the job's foreman. "And for that matter, where's Chaven?"
Antimony looked at him strangely. "What do you mean? Isn't Chaven back in Powder Camp with you and the women?"
"No." Chert felt a clutch in his chest. "Of course not. He said he was coming here to give you what help he could-told me he was too big and clumsy and would only be in the way among all those nimble little ladies. You know how he talks. Didn't he come here?"
"Never." Antimony shook his head emphatically. "We have fewer than a hundred men here, all of them retired Guildsmen. We take our meals together here and we sleep each night back at the temple. I've seen no sign of Chaven either place and he's hard to miss, being twice as tall as the rest of us. He's been gone since the Xixians invaded our tunnels."
"By the Elders," Chert groaned. "He is wandering lost down in the depths somewhere, with the autarch's men all around, and those horrible clawed monsters, and… and…"
A sudden, even more frightening thought occurred to him: Chaven had been acting strangely since he had come to Funderling Town-perhaps his obsession with the mirror had turned him traitor. Perhaps the physician had sold his allegiance to the one man who could help him get the mirror back, the mirror that he yearned for like a drunkard craved mossbrew. Perhaps even now he was taking news of Vansen's and Cinnabar's plans-and even of Chert's own farfetched scheme-to their greatest foe, the Autarch of Xis…
