The Well of Darkness

by Randall Garrett

  “Of course the death rate here is higher,” he growled. “Every other mine works their people to death, and then—then, as a gesture of kindness—they send the dying ones here to ‘recover’. They might recover, with total rest and constant care, but I can’t afford that—not in wasting them as manpower and not in the resentment of the other slaves. So I put them on the lightest duty I can, give them extra food portions and as much rest as possible—and, of course, they die anyway. And a ‘death’ that belongs somewhere else shows up on my record!”

  “You’re not worried about your record,” I said.

  “What?” Naddam demanded. He must have seen something of what I was thinking in my face, because he repeated the word less belligerently. “What?”

  “You’re concerned for them,” I said, waving my arm in the direction the slaves had gone. “I’d have seen it before, if I hadn’t been looking at everything from the slaves’ point of view, hating the work and the place and the confinement. I’ll bet your record for slaves who survive their sentence and go free is higher than anywhere else, too.”

  “That’s right,” Naddam said. “And you’re here to change all that, right?” But there was less conviction than question in the remark.

  “Wrong. I’m here because Indomel sent me. I can’t tell you why, because doing that will endanger somebody I care about.”

  Naddam nodded. “I thought Obilin’s letter sounded a little out of joint. I’m not being thrown out, is that it? You’re being thrown in?“

  “That’s about the size of it. I think you’ve figured out that I don’t like the idea any more than you do. But it seems as though you’re giving the slaves the best break they can expect. I want to keep that up, Naddam. Show me how to do things your way.”

  He was quiet for a moment, studying me. “I been doing this for ten years,” he said at last. “It’s not bad duty—the women are grateful for decent treatment.” He put his hand on my shoulder, the first time he had touched me. “But now that I know these folks won’t see much change for the worse, I’m kinda looking forward to city duty. I’ll tell you all I can,” he promised.

  In the remaining few days of his tenure, Naddam showed me every phase of the mining operation, explaining with some pride that Lingis was unique among the copper mines.

  There were seven mines located from Lingis northward along a line that followed the base of the steep mountain range that marked this portion of the “wall” around Gandalara. Only the Lingis ore lode was close to the surface and reasonably shallow. The others used the same techniques I saw at Lingis, but to less advantage as they followed narrow lodes into the sides of mountains.

  In Lingis, the people worked in air and daylight, and most of what they did was directly related to mining ore. The mine itself was a series of trenches, six to twenty feet deep, that ridged a hillside, with the newest trench also the highest. The effort of the work crews was divided about equally into three parts. A third worked the current trench, breaking the mountainside into large chunks with stone hammers and bronze pick-like tools. Another third hauled the chunks downhill and broke them down into manageable pieces. That was done by brute force; four people lifted a huge column of rock and dropped it, lifted and dropped, until a big rock was pulverized into pieces no bigger than my fist.

  The rest of the crews worked at opening the next trench, and that process was intricate and time-consuming. Once the rock had been laid bare of topsoil and salt layer (much thinner here than it seemed to be in the Gandalaran deserts, where the Fa’aldu built their homes of three-foot salt-block cubes), an engineer studied the face of the hillside and marked a line with mild acid. Drilling crews placed a six-foot rod of bronze, mounted in a wood frame to stay vertical, over a point on the line. The rod was about six inches in diameter, and its tip was crusted with rock powder. It started digging into the acid scar when the crew pushed the shoulder-high turning spokes, and didn’t stop until a hole fifteen inches deep had been drilled—except for breaks to flush out the rock debris with water. Then it moved on to a new spot.

  When there were holes at two-foot intervals all along the line the engineer had drawn, the holes were stuffed tightly with three-foot reeds that had been split, wet, and tightly rolled. The reeds were allowed to dry until they were stiff and hard.

  I happened to be there on a “new trench” day. All other work stopped, both for the safety of the rest of the crew and because it was an impressive sight to watch.

  The trench-opening crew stood above the reed-stuffed holes and worked in close coordination with one another. At each hole, two or three people placed a thin bronze rod with a pointed tip into the center of the stiff reeds, waggled it carefully until it was well seated, then forced it deeper into the opening by measured taps with a rock hammer. The ringing sound of stone on bronze was the only noise on the hillside. The workers didn’t strike simultaneously, or even in any detectable rhythm, but there was an inescapable feeling of teamwork to the sound. The blows seemed to slow, become heavier—and then another sound drowned them out. One crack, two, then a series of popping and cracking sounds that grew into a deafening noise.

  The work crew jumped backward as, all along the line the engineer had etched, the hillside split open.

  I felt like cheering, but I seemed to be the only one, and I realized that, for the rest of them, the feat of engineering just meant more work.

  Still, it took only one talk with the engineer to convince me that Lingis duty was, truly, the easiest of all the mines. Elsewhere the “trenches” were only part of the job—as they led into the mountain, the over-hanging rock, too, had to be dismantled. At Tarnel, the oldest of the mines, the working trench was a combination chasm and unsupported tunnel, and the crews worked in dust-choked, dangerous conditions that provoked the coughing disease that claimed so many of the slaves.

  So Lingis was blessed with easy access to its ore, as well as a humane manager. Under those circumstances, it didn’t surprise me that it was the most productive. And that made it no surprise that the Lingis profits went to the High Lord’s family.

  Naddam spent several days showing me around and introducing me to guards—a group Ricardo would have named a “motley crew”. On his last night at the mine, he invited me to his rooms for a few glasses of barut, the Gandalaran equivalent of whiskey, made from a fermented grain and not bad as booze went. I left his rooms—soon to be mine—late, with the remainder of the bottle as a farewell gift, grateful for Naddam’s sympathy and hopeful that the barut would help me get to sleep.

  My Gandalaran “inner awareness” had been telling me I wasn’t sleeping enough, but it could only warn. It couldn’t force compliance on a mind bent on self-pity and worry.

  During the days, the company of Naddam and the mental activity of learning what he had to tell me had kept me pretty well occupied. But even then, examining production charts or viewing the mining operation, I frequently found my breath snatched away and my chest squeezed by a flash vision of Tarani, alone in Eddarta. At night, there were no distractions.

  Tonight I was so tired that I found it difficult to worry about one thing at a time, and I was swept through a dizzying assortment of images, each one plunging me deeper into depression. Tarani as I had last seen her—in control but threatened by Indomel and Obilin, Zefra an unknown quantity offering little hope. Keeshah turning away from me. Naddam, a friendly figure, but threatening in that his protection would be absent tomorrow.

  One of the most tormenting visions—the memory of Obilin in the desert, tracing the outline of Tarani’s breast with the point of his sword—had me in its grip when I heard a noise outside the closed shutters of my bedroom window. The shutters didn’t rattle. There was no real sound to the noise at all, merely a whooshing, like wind.

  But the only wind I’d encountered in Gandalara was in the high passes that formed the Chizan crossing.

  I heard it again and, grateful for the distraction, I went to the window and opened the shutters. I had to clamp dow
n a shout of surprise and pleasure—Lonna was hovering, patiently waiting to be admitted. The sound I had heard was the sweeping of her big wings.

  The white bird sailed past me into the room, and I closed the shutters. She swung around the room once, her wing-spread making her seem to fill the room, then she slammed into my chest, knocking me over. She made one sound—the soft, hooting sound I had learned to associate with pleasure—then remained silent. But it wasn’t the bird’s nature to be inexpressive; for a few seconds I was blinded by flapping white feathers, the skin of my ribs and legs both tickled and pricked by her claws as Lonna jumped all over me.

  For my part, I was nearly as happy to see her. She would have been welcome in herself as a “friendly face”, so to speak. But the manner of her approach—so silent, so’ wary—could mean only one thing. Tarani had sent her to me. The bird’s arrival meant that I wasn’t as alone as I felt, and neither was Tarani.

  I took all the time necessary to calm and cuddle Lonna, since that was the only reward I could offer her. Then, so eagerly that I was shaking, I took the bulky band from her leg and opened the letter from Tarani.

  Rikardon,

  I cannot risk sending Lonna to you often, but this one time I must. The situation in Eddarta is not what it seems. Indomel believes that his cruel punishment of my mother has damaged her permanently, and he no longer fears her. But in this he is deceived. Even before I returned, Zefra‘s daze was partly pretended; with my power to aid her, she is herself again. Indomel underestimates us both.

  Free yourself, and take no thought for my safety, my love. No matter what Indomel said, I am in no danger from him. Zefra and I together can protect ourselves from his mindpower, should it come to that. But my brother keeps me well for his own reasons—he has failed in every attempt to use the Ra‘ira. He believes I used its power when I read the Bronze, and though I have convinced him that I must have done so unconsciously and cannot school him in skills I do not have, he wishes to win my willing assistance in mastering the gem. I have let him think I am trying, and so have traded something worthless for the thing most precious to me—your life.

  In doing this, I gained some time for us all, though it dwindles daily as Indomel grows more impatient. I say again that Indomel cannot harm me; I fear only that his spite will separate me from my mother, or that his vengeance will strike at you. Zefra and I have talked and planned; there is a way to defeat Indomel, but we must act soon. Free yourself, and come to me. Through Lonna‘s eyes I will know when to expect you, and I will send her to guide you to me.

  It will seem years before we meet, my love.

  —Tarani.

  I thought a lot of things about that letter as I read it and re-read it by lamplight.

  Our names are on it, I thought. What if Lonna had been caught? Then, sentimental as a schoolboy, I was shocked and thrilled by two words: “My love”. She called me “my love”.

  But mostly, the words in the letter confirmed what would have been my own hunch, if I’d been able to lasso all the wandering thoughts together in some logical order. Indomel hadn’t acted like someone who had just laid his hands on a worldkiller.

  He must have tried to read the Bronze himself, I decided. Probably really burns him that Tarani could do it and he cant. Tarani said that any help from the Ra‘ira came subconsciously, and I believe her. Considering the fact that Indomel‘s gift is pretty strong, and he‘s having trouble, it must take a little time to get the hang of using that thing when and how you want to.

  I‘d like to think it has the fairy-tale quality of only working for the good guys, but what I know of Gandalaran history proves that idea‘s a crock. The reason the Ra‘ira was in Raithskar in the first place was because it had been misused by the last of the Kings.

  Indomel‘s direct ancestor. It figures.

  Now don‘t say that, I chided myself. Harthim was Tarani‘s ancestor, too—in blood, if not in spirit. It‘s ironic, really, that the only person who might lead the way the good Kings did doesn‘t want any part of the Ra‘ira.

  So there‘s a balance of power in Eddarta, in many levels of meaning. And Tarani says she‘s safe. Can I believe her?

  That question helped me put my finger on one of the things that had been bothering me most. In the desert, I had stubbornly dragged Tarani into captivity. Afterward, another pendulum swing of my irrational mind had let me dump all the responsibility on her. I hadn’t questioned her leadership continuing in Eddarta because Tarani could deal from a stronger hand than mine. But squirming away in the back of my mind was a nasty little thought, a suspicion that I had won Tarani’s undying contempt.

  What am I thinking? I wondered. Be logical, at least. If she were really trying to sacrifice herself for me, she‘d have said: “Break out of that there hoose-gow and high-tail it for home!” But she said to get away and come to Eddarta. Therefore she‘s safe, logically.

  But logic be hanged, damn it! I thought. What about trust? She said she‘s safe; therefore she is safe. I‘ve got to get rid of this guilt complex; it‘s making me see Tarani‘s motives through a mirror.

  What did she say in the letter? I wondered, searching for the remembered line.

  “Free yourself soon,” she says.

  Not “if you can.”

  “When to expect you.”

  Not “if you survive.”

  Bless her, I thought, my throat so choked that I’d have been crying, if Gandalarans could weep for emotional reasons. She still believes in me.

  Then I‘ve got to believe in myself.

  The problem is, how do I get out of here? I‘m not guarded, but if I leave, you can bet I‘ll be followed. That wimp Tullen—the clerk Obilin mentioned, an unlikable person—will notify Indomel first thing, of course. There‘s nothing I can do about that, and Tarani seems to think she can handle Indomel. All I have to do is get my body away from here in one piece.

  I walked to the wall pegs where my belt was hanging. I touched it, let it fall across my palm. I was sure the circular shapes would escape the notice of anyone who didn’t know the belt was filled with memorial Eddartan gold coins.

  There‘s more than one kind of power, I thought.

  For the first time since I’d come to Lingis, I spent a sleepless night profitably.

  I sent Lonna back with a brief note. It didn’t say much more than Thanks for writing; I‘ll get there as soon as I can.

  Everything else I wanted to say kept phrasing itself gushily, and I decided I’d save Lonna the weight, me the frustration, and that message for personal delivery.

  9

  The next morning, the camp-duty guards and I turned out to wish Naddam a good trip and pleasant duty. When he had gone, I looked over the group I now “commanded”.

  “I know it’s no secret to you,” I said, “that my coming here wasn’t my choice. But that fact is, I was put in charge, and I am in charge.“

  I watched them carefully. Several sets of eyes looked away from me and seemed to watch what one man would do—a tall guy named Jaris.

  “For the time being, things will continue exactly as Naddam set them up,” I said. “I’m not about to mess with success, at least not until I’m sure any changes will be improvements. Jaris, bring the work schedule and duty roster to my office. The rest of you—back to your assignments.”

  I walked away, my spine tingling from the weight of their stares.

  Jaris came into the room in Naddam’s quarters that was designated as his office—a broad table and a few chairs, shelves on one wall for rosters, and production records. Jaris was a youngish man for mine work, barely into his twenties, I thought. He was tall and kind of thin, but his slim frame carried whipcords of muscle. I hadn’t been able to figure out whether it was a gesture of unity or one of defiance, but the Lingis guards consistently wore only the trousers of the High Guard uniform. Two baldrics—one for sword, one for dagger, lay across Jaris’s smooth chest. He adjusted his dagger to rest on the top of his thigh when he sat down at my invitation.<
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  I took the rosters he offered me, but set them aside unread. I let him fidget for a few seconds while I stared at him.

  No reason, I thought, that he shouldn‘t be as nervous as I am. This has to be right; it doesn‘t figure any other way.

  “Ever heard of the Living Death, Jaris?” I asked.

  “Who?” he said, almost casually. But I had seen the fractional start he had quickly controlled.

  I guessed right, I thought with relief. Now if I can just handle this right …

  “I thought so,” I said, and stood up to walk over to the window. The slaves who had today’s “domestic” assignment were moving about, collecting night waste from the barracks, tending the vleks. One of the men who had arrived recently staggered out of the barracks to which he’d been sent, tried to call to one of the guards, and fell to coughing. His voice had been nearly inaudible at that distance, but the harsh rasping of his cough crackled across the space.

  “All the dying ones come here first,” I said, “which means the Living Death—recruited from among the dying slaves—have to escape from here. Lingis has a high death toll; I’ve seen the records. How many of those corpses are still alive, Jaris? I know Naddam well enough that he wouldn’t have the stomach to handle the bodies himself—so you do it, and you don’t check real close, do you?”

  Jaris dropped the pretense of ignorance. He also dropped his other hand to the hilt of his sword.

  “What about it?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “Not much, really. I just like to understand things, that’s all. And there’s something that puzzles me. Molik paid Obilin, and Obilin paid you, right? And now it’s Worfit who’s footing the bill?”

  “Yeah,” he said, then repeated: “What about it?”

  I hooked my fingers in my belt, crossed my legs, leaned against the windowsill. “I said I’ve seen the figures,” I answered. “And between Molik and Worfit, there was no change in the death rate. Now, I have a proposition for you, but I’d hesitate to do business with a man who might have killed ten or twenty innocent people, just so that a change in statistics wouldn’t make the wrong people suspicious.”