The Well of Darkness

by Randall Garrett

  “By birth,” Tarani said, “I am the natural daughter of Zefra and Pylomel.”

  “Indomel’s sister?” Obilin breathed. “No wonder he was so anxious to have you brought back here.”

  “Indomel’s elder sister,” Tarani corrected, and waited for the significance of that statement to penetrate Obilin’s thinking. “I see you understand that there is no affection between me and the present High Lord,” Tarani said, with the slightest extra emphasis on the word present. “Understand, also, that I am not an ordinary prisoner. Rikardon is not to be harmed.“

  Obilin’s thin face flickered with plots and calculation, but in the end he seemed to decide that Tarani had won this round. He smiled sardonically.

  “You have my word,” he said softly, “that as far as it lies within my power, your friend will be cared for well. As for you—” He shrugged. “—I expect you will see to your own safety.”

  He called for two more guards, and didn’t relax his defensive stance until they each had one of my arms.

  These men were fresh and strong, and the effort of clobbering the other two had drained the last of my strength. The one I had elbowed was getting his breath back. He stood up and gave me a look so nasty that my gut muscles tightened in anticipation of his blow.

  “Give him one of the smaller rooms,” Obilin ordered. “Two men will be posted at his door in four-hour shifts—you two take the first shift. He is not to be talked to or allowed to leave his quarters. But neither is he to be injured. Clear?”

  The two new guards nodded. The third one checked his fist in mid-swing.

  “Clear?” Obilin repeated. The third one nodded and stepped back, obviously unhappy. “Tend to Mossan, then get some rest. Tell the others who were with us that they have three days off.”

  He turned to Tarani as Mossan was fireman-carried into the barracks area. “Will these arrangements be suitable?” he asked, with just a touch of sarcasm.

  “Yes, they will do for now,” Tarani said as she crossed the few paces between us, this time shaking off Obilin’s restraining hand. She put her hands on my chest, and her touch was oddly comforting. “We will meet again soon,” she whispered and, right there in front of God and everybody, kissed me.

  She went with Obilin, then, and the memory of her kiss was made sweeter by his parting look.

  That’s another round you’ve lost, Obilin, I thought as I was led to my “quarters.”

  The room I was led to was just like the one in which Willon had installed me, when I had hired into the High Guard as a mercenary named Lakad. One wall was covered with pegs and lashed-reed shelves for my nonexistent wardrobe. There was a small table and a couple of chairs, and a fluffy pallet for sleeping. This room had two features the other one had lacked, however.

  Sturdy shutters covered the window. Small sliding panels had been arranged to allow light and air to flow through latticed reeds. The shutters were braced from the outside, making the shutters not much less effective at containment than the stone walls around the window.

  One of the guards returned with the other new item: the Gandalaran equivalent of a chamberpot.

  I had a feeling I was in for a long, dreary wait, and I wasn’t disappointed. I had always believed that it’s impossible for a thinking person to be bored, that even in enforced physical idleness, one’s mind could be active. The trouble with that theory is that certain mental “activity” can be much worse than boredom.

  There were two natural directions for my mind to turn: Tarani and Keeshah. Was one all right? Would the other come back?

  I had been installed in my “cell” close to dusk. When I watched the red light of dawn creep in its latticed pattern across my unused pallet, I realized that I was hurting everybody by worrying. One more day of concentrated anxiety and I’d be so physically drained as to be useless to Tarani in any attempt to escape.

  So I resolved not to think about them any more. (Except that I couldn’t stop reaching out for Keeshah each time I lay down to sleep. The pain of finding emptiness never diminished.) And boy, was I bored.

  The first couple of days were okay. I set up a disciplined calisthenics program to counteract my restlessness. I explored every inch of the room, looking for something to use in aid of escaping. I channeled my thinking toward my favorite unsolvable riddle: where, how, and why?

  Where was Gandalara? Its physical features and its inhabitants were both like and unlike those of Ricardo’s Earth; the coincidence tantalized me and the impossibility of a definite answer frustrated me.

  How did Ricardo’s personality wind up in Markasset’s body?

  There was more than one “why”. Why was I here? Why Markasset’s body? Why me at all?

  I knew the Ra’ira was bound up in the answer to that third part of the riddle. I doubt that anyone but Tarani and me could have defeated Gharlas, because of our individually unique human/Gandalaran minds. Gharlas had planned domination over all of Gandalara, but he would have produced only strife and the eventual destruction of a centuries-old civilization.

  But, with Thymas’s help, we had defeated Gharlas; the man was dead and no further danger to us or Gandalara. But was the Ra’ira safely back in Raithskar? No. Was that our final purpose—to get that blasted, beautiful gem to safety? It seemed logical. But, then, I had been logical twice before: first when I deduced that my Gandalaran obligation was to prove the innocence of Markasset’s father, Thanasset, and again when screwing up Gharlas’s crazy plans seemed enough to do. Logical I had been, and wrong both times.

  I couldn’t help feeling there might be something more, something I didn’t know yet. That suspicion generated frustration and a renewal of the cycle: why the hell had I been stuck in the middle of this?

  Two days of that kind of thinking convinced me it was as bad as worrying about Tarani and Keeshah. So I made another resolution: one step at a time. And the next step was, if possible, to get the Ra’ira out of here and back to Raithskar, where it could be guarded by men of honor. Focus on that, I told myself, and quit bugging yourself about things you can’t possibly control.

  Having thus made the decision not to think about the things worth thinking about, for the next three days I was bored past imagining. I asked my silent guards for a set of mondeana. After three hours, I seemed to have exhausted all possible combinations of the six dice-like pieces. I inquired about reading material, but Gandalaran books are handwritten and precious; my guards snickered at the request. I did continue the calisthenics; they were all that kept my spirits up.

  On the morning of the sixth day, I was told I would be seeing the High Lord.

  I was allowed to bathe and given a change of clothing. It was an inexpressible relief to be clean. The loose-fitting desert outfit I had been wearing—dark green trousers with a tan tunic—resembled well-used dusting rags.

  I knew, from its performance in my daily activities, that my arm was mostly healed, but it was still a pleasant surprise to wash away the dirt and find only a tracing of a scar zigzagging the area where the dralda’s teeth had scored.

  It was hardly surprising that I was given a guard’s uniform to wear, considering where I was being held. All Gandalarans wore a variety of styles in trousers and/or tunics made from woven fabric. The elegance of any outfit was determined by the softness of the fabric, the quantity and delicacy of decorative work, and coordinated color combinations. Uniforms—that is, look-alike dress identified with a particular group—tended to be monotone. The Fa’aldu wore long white tunics. The Peace and Security Officers in Raithskar were identified by gray leather baldrics. The Sharith wore tan desert tunic and trousers, with the addition of colored sashes for rank identification.

  The High Guard uniform was no exception: trousers slightly more fitted than the flowing desert style, and a sleeveless tunic, both in a mossy green. It was dressed up a bit more with boots and baldric of a dark leather that didn’t match badly with my belt, which I was allowed to keep.

  As I walked between my two guards out
of the barracks toward the huge structure that was the traditional family home of the Harthim Lords—who, according to Eddartan law, were usually the High Lords, as well—it wasn’t lost on me that I looked a whole lot like any other High Guard member.

  Except that my companions each carried sword and dagger, and I didn’t have a weapon. Any sword would have felt good in my hand, but I wanted Rika back.

  Thinking about the steel sword reminded me of Obilin, which turned my thoughts to Indomel, which made me wonder about Zefra, which generated a pang of anxiety over Tarani, which brought me full circle to Obilin again. I hadn’t seen the man since he’d ordered my imprisonment. Absence hadn’t made me any fonder of him. And that made me think of Rika again.

  Quit fretting, I ordered my subconscious, which ignored me. Indomel has some of the answers you want, and we‘re nearly there.

  We went into the Harthim house by the front door. I found I was surprised to find it fairly ordinary, though scaled slightly larger and richly furnished. My time in this house on my last trip had been spent in Zefra’s quarters, in a back wing which bordered Pylomel’s beautiful garden. Ricardo was expecting the High Lord himself to live like Louis XVI, surrounded by courtiers and flagrant wealth.

  Maybe this was just Pylomel‘s influence, I thought. All that gorgeous stuff hidden away in the treasure vault—Gharlas called it. Pylomel certainly was a hoarder. And Indomel hasn‘t had time to change anything, even if he wanted to.

  We went through the huge center room—in a more modest home, it would be called the midhall—and entered a small parlor. I was facing a huge double-doored entryway. The guards saw me into the parlor, then left me alone.

  Not for long. Obilin opened the double doors and bowed mockingly.

  “Do join us, Lakad.”

  Lakad was the name I had used to get into the High Guard. It was also the only name by which Indomel knew me.

  So you‘re keeping my secret, are you, Obilin? I thought as I edged past the High Guardsman. For your own purpose, of course. But I won‘t spoil it for you. The less Indomel knows about me, the better.

  6

  Indomel was seated in a room that tried to create the illusion of informality and failed dismally. For one thing, the standard stone ledges were missing. The chairs—seven of them—had frames of wood, not the more common Eddartan material of bamboo-like reeds. The fabric which served as seat and back was thickly embroidered. Thread ends, poking up here and there, betrayed age and wear.

  For another thing, the chair arrangement was designed to make Indomel the focus of the room.

  Seven chairs—this must be an “unofficial” Council chamber, where the Lords really make their decisions. I‘d certainly be able to think more clearly here than in the shadow of that tall bronze panel.

  For me, the focus of the room wasn’t Indomel—it was Tarani, standing with Zefra behind the young High Lord’s chair.

  I let out a great sigh of relief. Tarani looked well, if a little tense. The only thing that mattered to me right then was seeing the flash of joy that crossed her face as I came into the room. She regained her composure quickly; I took that as advice, and controlled my impulse to run right over Indomel and scoop her up in my arms.

  A couple of other factors counseled me to restrain myself. This “parlor” felt like a courtroom. It spelled danger I couldn’t predict.

  It doesn‘t look as though Tarani‘s on trial here, I thought. The way she‘s standing there with Zefra, both of them dressed formally, she seemed more part of the jury. That would indicate that Indomel—trusts her? Not in a million years. At least that she‘s protected in some way. I don‘t want to screw that up for her.

  So between shame and speculation, I merely walked into the room and stood calmly in front of Indomel.

  The boy had changed little since the last time I had seen him.

  He bore a family resemblance to Tarani and Zefra. The delicacy of bone structure was less noticeable, in Indomel’s face, than the flatness of his cheeks and the sharpness of his widow’s peak. The tusks which occupied the position of human canine teeth seemed extraordinarily large because the other teeth were slightly smaller than normal. His eyes dominated the face, looming dark and large from underneath the minimal supraorbital ridge that seemed to be a Harthim characteristic.

  Physically, he was nearly identical to the Indomel I had met in Lord Hall. But there was a subtle difference in his bearing. Then he had been a spoiled child—not a harmless one, as his secret connection with Obilin attested—but a child.

  As the High Lord, he had more mature and cautious a bearing, but no less nasty a nature.

  “Do sit down,” he said. “One should not learn the manner of his death while standing.”

  It was an obvious attempt to rattle me, but I wasn’t buying. I’d been living with the prospect of immediate death for the last six days. And I had the feeling he was just goading me.

  “You aren’t going to kill a man who just had his first bath in weeks,” I said, taking the chair that was offered. Obilin remained standing by the door, looking extra alert. Tarani was watching us with interest. Zefra was staring out the window. Indomel and I were the only ones sitting.

  “Perhaps we have fastidious executioners—had you not considered that, Lakad?”

  Indomel really believes my name is Lakad. Not only has Obilin kept his mouth shut, but neither Tarani nor Zefra has been forced to reveal anything about me. I looked again at Zefra, who hadn‘t moved since I‘d come into the room. She stared off out the window I faced, a disturbing blankness to her face. Can that be an act? I wondered. Whatever it is, captive or not, Tarani still has some power over the High Lord.

  For the first time in six days, I started to feel hopeful.

  “You forget, High Lord,” I said, managing not to pronounce the title sarcastically, “that I’ve had dealings with the High Guard. I’d say that, given the chance to kill somebody, they’d be much less interested in style than in efficiency.”

  Indomel laughed at that, and relaxed back into his chair.

  “You have described yourself, my friend. For did you not enroll in the High Guard, just before the unfortunate death of my father? You are not yet released from that duty and you shall be placed, at Obilin’s request, directly under his supervision.”

  I looked at Obilin, who couldn’t quite hide a smirk of satisfaction.

  “Obilin appropriated … the sword I was carrying,” I said. “May I have it back?”

  “A bold request,” Indomel said, not missing the fact that Obilin and I weren’t the best of friends. “Especially from a man who could as easily be executed as hired. Were it not that the lady Tarani has convinced me that the third member of your group, a man whom Zefra identified as Sharith, was actually and independently responsible for Pylomel’s death—”

  “Sharith?” Obilin interrupted, taking a step into the room. “Then there were sha’um?”

  Obilin‘s surprise was welcome. It‘s clear that Obilin and Indomel haven‘t talked to each other much. Now, if I can just keep it straight about who knows what …

  “A sha’um,” I corrected him. “It left with Thymas.”

  “Your friend abandoned you so readily?” Indomel said, then smiled. “Ah, I think I see. The lady Tarani was a source of conflict between you. As I believe she is between you and Obilin. Am I right, Guardsman?” he asked, looking at the little man with amusement as Obilin’s face darkened. “Of course I am right.”

  Indomel stood up and paced slowly inside the wide semicircle of chairs. He was wearing a floor-length tunic and vest, tied with a jeweled rope; there was a soft clinking as the rope ends swung against each other in response to his movement.

  “I welcome the attachment between you and the lady Tarani,” he said. “Because it offers me certain assurances. She has been most persuasive in her efforts to keep you alive, and has made certain—uh—concessions on your behalf.”

  “Concessions”? I wondered. I had a heart-sinking memory of P
ylomel and his peculiar appetites. Surely not his own sister, I argued with myself. Or would he have taken Obilin‘s part … God, no!

  “You will have heard that I am of a thrifty nature, Lakad. It seemed wasteful to provide food and shelter to a strong and healthy man, whose fighting skill has been well proven—hence the decision to, um, extend your enlistment in the Guard.”

  He paused in front of my chair. “The lady Tarani is being treated with honor,” he said, “but that could change at any time. Only those of us in this room—yes, I am aware of Obilin’s knowledge—know that I have a natural elder sister. Should even a rumor of this reach beyond the five of us, Tarani’s comfort will be threatened. Should you fail your assigned duties as a High Guardsman, she will suffer. If you try to escape, she will die. Is that stated clearly enough?”

  “Yes,” I said. I was trembling. I dared not look at Tarani.

  Indomel nodded, seemed to relax, and then smiled broadly.

  “As to your specific assignment,” he said, “I was faced with a dilemma, caused by Obilin’s personal feelings toward you and the lady Tarani.”

  Obilin stiffened at the sound of amusement in the High Lord’s voice.

  “On the one hand,” Indomel continued, “Obilin is totally loyal to me, and will in all things obey my wishes.” The High Lord moved over to the small man, at least fifteen years older than himself, and put his hand on Obilin’s shoulder.

  Ricardo had once seen a human pat a dog on the head with just that air of condescension. Obilin reacted in just about the same way—except that his ears wouldn’t fold back.

  “On the other hand,” said Indomel, “I have a great deal of sympathy for his admiration of my sister and his hatred of you, and I would prefer to spare him the embarrassment of letting his feelings violate his loyalty. I have promised, after all, that you shall live.