“What do you need now?” someone yelled. Then, as he opened the door, “Who are these foreigners?”
Corenn, Léti, Rey, and Bowbaq looked at each other, astonished. The way it looked now, Hulsidor could have been the master of the house, and Sapone his valet.
The librarian was a small, bent man, with a deformity on his face that made him look menacing. His gray hair was cut very short, in stark contrast to his long, pointy beard, where a piece of torn parchment clung. The man shamelessly wore the symbol of the Gyole dolphin, showing his loyalty to the Presdanians—those who were most hostile to the Uranians. For Sapone to put up with his considerable oddities, Hulsidor must be very competent indeed.
Sapone repeated his question. “Can we come in for a moment?”
The librarian stepped aside, grumbling that if Sapone kept interrupting him, none of his work would get done.
The heirs followed their host into his personal library. It might not have been as impressive as Zarbone’s, but it was much better maintained. The volumes were perfectly aligned on impeccable shelves. A worktable was covered in bookbinding and cleaning tools, which indicated that Hulsidor was working on refurbishing some new acquisitions.
Sapone explained the situation with all the tact he could muster, imploring his employee to wait until he had finished talking to answer, but Hulsidor’s response was quite clear.
“No! It’s too dangerous. The phantoms are more active than ever. Last time, a strangler almost got me. Your presence will make them even more excited.”
“We won’t give you any trouble, Master Hulsidor,” Corenn said. “We will follow your advice perfectly.”
“And worse, they are foreigners! Brulin would never let them pass.”
“Who’s that?” Rey asked.
“He is the Tower’s only guard, and he’s only there during the day,” Sapone assured them.
“What!” The librarian jumped out of his seat. “You’re not about to suggest that we go in at night? You’re crazy!”
“I negotiated a deposit for you,” the Rominian said, trying to reassure him. “If you die, Lady Corenn here will owe me twenty-five monarchs.”
“Good for you! Take a torch and go ahead then! There is no way I will go down there at night.”
Léti walked up to the man and tenderly took his hand, her face composed into a suppliant mask.
“Master Hulsidor . . . please,” she said softly.
The man feigned disinterest for a long moment while everyone else stayed quiet. Finally he gave in.
“All right, all right,” he said regretfully. “I’ll take advantage of the opportunity to have a look at the ninth floor. A colleague has forbidden me to see it. But I will guide the entire operation.”
Léti gave the man a kiss on the cheek and walked out of the room, Frog at her heels. The others stared after her, admiringly.
Rey opened his mouth to make a joke, then thought better of it. Instead, he went to find Maz Lana.
When Lana had walked into Grigán’s room and discovered Yan silently crying, she called out to him, but he couldn’t hear her. An instant later, he realized she was there and looked at her with a terrified expression. Then he turned his gaze to the wall and a hole appeared, just as he fell unconscious.
By the time she reached his side, he had awoken. Weak, and with a glazed expression, but conscious.
“Yan, you were crying,” she said, for no reason.
The young man nodded. He had realized, when he came back to reality, that he had made an error that could have been fatal. Corenn had warned him: Never call upon your Will under the influence of rage, suffering, or liquor. Now he understood why. In his emotional state, he had lost all reservations and pushed too much force through his body. If Lana hadn’t accidentally interrupted his concentration, Yan might not have survived the shock that returned to him.
He stared at the hole he had made in the wall and blushed in confusion. Not a single brick had fallen, and there had been no explosion. But a few bricks had clearly just disappeared. There was no way he could hide the damage before someone else would notice. Though he would have confessed his error to Corenn either way.
He approached Lana, who was already praying. The Maz had not asked him a single question, and for her discretion, Yan was sincerely appreciative. After a brief hesitation, he sat next to her on the floor and prayed with her. He had not prayed to Eurydis since Norine had died, but after confronting Usul, his faith had been reinforced. The gods existed, as real as stone. And they listened to people.
“He is not in danger, Yan,” Lana said after meditating. “In Ith, we had a few cases of Farik sickness. I never heard of anyone dying from it directly.”
The young man nodded sadly. The Maz was sincere and was trying to reassure him. Yan knew that Grigán suffered from worse than a bite, though, and he wasn’t sure what to believe.
“Usul, he foretold . . . some things,” he finally admitted, his heart pounding. “Mostly terrible things. That’s what it is, the curse of inhuman knowledge. I know the future, and I don’t know what to do to change it. By trying to stop it, I could instead cause it.”
The Maz took a deep breath and reflected. Yan needed her. He needed Eurydis. He needed peace.
“One of the poems in The Book finishes with this: The idiot is happy, the sage lives long. I have debated this passage with my students for many decidays, but we can avoid this long discussion because I know the lesson that we can learn from it,” she began. “Everyone is looking for happiness, Yan, but if the idiot is happy, it’s because he doesn’t understand the world. He is satisfied with his own lot in life, as miserable as that may be. He doesn’t fight it. He accepts all the pain and sadness so readily that he doesn’t suffer much from it. He doesn’t understand the implications, and he forgets quickly. The idiot leaves the world young, because he doesn’t know when to fight for his own life. He went through life with a smile, but he leaves no trace of his existence.
“The sage is also looking for happiness,” she continued. “But his happiness is more complex; he understands the lives of his friends, his family, his people, even of all humanity. His happiness is more difficult to attain, but oh so much more pleasant. He rarely feels this happiness completely, but each victory fills him with a joy a hundred times more powerful than the idiot’s pleasant acquiescence. Because the sage fights for himself, Yan. He works. He fights for his ideals and never succumbs to fatalism.
“Yan,” she said, “don’t be a sage living like an idiot. We can’t change the past, but the future? That is yet to be decided. Will you rest prisoner to a future that only you know?”
Yan stood up and walked over to Grigán’s bed, a grave expression on his face. The Maz had troubled him.
“Where are we?” Grigán said in a thick voice. He tried to sit up. “Where are the others?”
Yan smiled at Lana and ran into the hallway. He wanted to announce the good news. He wanted to act. He wanted to fight.
He wanted, more than anything, to talk to Bowbaq. What he had seen in Grigán needed clarification. If Yan was right, he was about to study a new magical specialty.
Zamerine waited for his master in the officers’ tent. The Zü had once again challenged a strategic decision made by Gor the Gentle, the chief of the barbarian army. This convocation probably had nothing to do with it, but Zamerine had to calm himself when he imagined Saat’s rage. He never wanted to face that anger again.
He took a few nervous steps, caressing the handle of his hati, knowing full well that the poisoned dagger was worthless against his master. Saat no longer suffered wounds. It was as if nothing hurt him. Fatigue too seemed an affliction that never ailed him—Zamerine had never seen him sleep. This was in stark contrast to the master’s son, who left his sleeping quarters only on rare occasions.
Outside, Zamerine could hear the slaves chanting, singing of the glory and power of the god Saat had forced on them. The barbarian queen Chebree had written the songs, following Saat’s
will. Hearing the words, it was hard to believe a woman had written them. Somber was He Who Vanquishes, He Who Conquers, He Who Rules. Not a compassionate god.
Rumor had it that Chebree had become Saat’s mistress, though Zamerine had ordered anyone who repeated these rumors to be punished. Even if they were true, it didn’t much matter. The Judge might have ordered the gag rule in jealousy, for he had never been much interested in the pleasures of the flesh, and Chebree was the first woman he had ever met who merited his interest. Saat already had so many concubines. Couldn’t he have left her alone?
The master finally appeared, and the Zü stiffened. As always, Saat was wearing a thick mail coat, as well as a Goranese helm girded with a black band. Zamerine had never seen him wear anything else. His master’s face was hidden behind his customary helm. All who had ever tried to look upon the master’s visage had been killed on the rack, or buried alive, depending on Saat’s whims.
The Zü had seen only his hand, and that only rarely. Upon it ran deep wrinkles, and it was spotted with age. It was the hand of a centenarian, but as vigorous as that of a man at the peak of his powers. It was a dead hand that held a firm grip on life.
“My loyal Zamerine,” Saat began with obvious scorn. “You will send fifteen of your men to Ith. We will have some work for them soon.”
“Fifteen?” the Zü exclaimed before he could stop himself. He tried to recover. “Yes, master,” he said dutifully.
The Judge knew it was a misstep, but it wouldn’t prove to be a fatal one. Saat seemed to be in a pleasant mood. Maybe now was a good time to learn more of his plan.
“What counsel should I give them?”
“None. They will wait for our signal, which you will give once I have decided. We are finally going to get rid of the last fugitives,” he added, his voice tense.
“Master,” Zamerine insisted. “How do you know they will go to Ith? Where do you get this information?”
The Zü examined the finely wrought helm, only two feet from his face. What expression did Saat have on underneath his iron mask? Was he contemptuous? Amused? Wrathful?
Zamerine took an unconscious step backward, though he knew it was useless. At any instant Saat could take control of his body and force him to stab his hati through his own chest.
“I do not know if they will go to Ith,” the High Diarch corrected him. “I only know that for now, they intend to go there. In fact, they are currently in Romine, but the Old Country is too far to send your little red men in time.”
“You can . . . you can . . . read their minds at such a distance?” the Zü stammered, stupefied.
Saat put his hands on his hips and stared at his subordinate. Though his master’s face was shielded, Zamerine understood that he should leave, and that he would never, ever betray his master.
Hulsidor categorically refused to start their descent into the Deep Tower that same night, so the adventure would be put off until the next day. Corenn hoped that he wasn’t stalling and that they would, in fact, leave tomorrow night. The librarian’s reason for hesitation reeked of superstition rather than reason.
According to him, the specters that haunted the library were most dangerous on the eighth day of each dékade. Harping on about this superstition, he managed to scare off the gullible Bowbaq and the fearful Lana. Even Corenn had to admit that she had lost her confidence. The others, if they felt strongly either way, kept it to themselves.
The heirs discussed their plans in Grigán’s room, where the rapidly healed warrior paced, his impatience boiling over. A slave to his habits, he often brought his hand to his face as if to caress his mustache, before he realized it was no longer there. Each time he did this, he would resume his vigorous pacing.
Corenn listened to the conversations while her gaze shifted between Yan and the fissured wall. She looked at once disapproving and dismayed. The young man knew he was about to get a lecture. He wondered if it would be worth it to explain the whole story.
“So you are saying that we are going to lose another day,” Grigán grumbled. “I’d prefer it if we could pass as Rominians and enter the library by ourselves.”
His friends silently nodded. They had already discussed it, and had come to the same conclusion. They needed a guide, if for nothing more than to simply show them to the most fruitful bookshelves.
“I hope that we’ll at least get something out of this,” said the warrior. “I don’t know anything about libraries, but it would surprise me if we could learn more in one night about Nol, the portals, and Jal’karu than our ancestors gathered in a century.”
“The Deep Tower has been closed for more than a century,” Corenn reminded him gently. “And it’s the largest library in the world. Imagine what a treasure trove of knowledge must be hidden there. There are works that predate Romine itself!”
“Hmm, I guess,” conceded Grigán, struggling to share the Mother’s interest.
After his long period of rest, an uncommon luxury for him, Grigán felt a great need to act. His fever had passed, his weakness had disappeared. He felt fully recovered. He tried to think of something to pass the time, and his eyes fell on Léti.
“Should we get back to work, Mistress Léti?”
The young woman jumped to her feet and led Grigán into the hallway. Just before exiting, the warrior froze, in front of Yan. Grigán seemed to remember, when he was sleeping, a presence . . .
The young man returned Grigán’s stare, looking surprised. The warrior shook his head, embarrassed, and followed his student out the door.
Yan and Bowbaq hid themselves in the mansion for the rest of the day, so well that Corenn never had the chance to ask what had cut through the brick wall, though she suspected a mistaken spell. There was a chance that Sapone, who was already trying hard to ignore his visitors, hadn’t yet heard of the destruction. If he had, he probably would have thrown them into the street after rightly demanding compensation.
It wasn’t in the Mother’s nature to scold her student, and she had no intention of doing so. She simply wanted to understand what had happened, and, if needed, explain certain principles of Will that Yan had not yet mastered.
She never got her chance to sit with the young magician, though. The next day, Yan and Bowbaq disappeared again without any explanation, both seeming quite excited. The heirs, who had not seen Yan smile since he had confronted Usul, chose to leave their friends alone to work on their secret project.
The rest of the group did their best to keep occupied until nightfall. Grigán advised them all to rest before the coming sleepless night, but he had no intention of following his own advice. In fact, as the warrior recovered, his energy seemed to redouble, and in an attempt to do something to pass the time, he cleaned, sharpened, and oiled all of their weapons and then checked the equipment. Finally, too impatient to suffer the waiting, he decided to travel to town, to prepare for their voyage to Ith. Since he barely spoke Romine, Rey offered to accompany him, and Léti joined the group.
Maz Lana spent several decidays discussing theology with Sapone. His patience was hardly commendable. Even though the priestess consciously listened to his stories praising Odrel, He Who Cries, the Rominian made no effort to even listen to the principles of Eurydis’s Moral. Quietly the Maz remembered her teachings—A seed in the wind sometimes becomes a tree—and she held out hope that the Rominian might reflect on her words. It was a distant hope, but she thought perhaps, after many days, he might at least follow one of her three virtues—knowledge, tolerance, peace—even if he never became a devout follower.
She remembered that her ancestor, Maz Achem, had contested this theory upon his return from Ji. The priests should launch a crusade of massive conversions, he had counseled. And annihilate the demonist cults, with force if necessary.
Of course, he had just seen Jal’karu.
Alone, Corenn decided to fill out her journal. The exercise allowed her to sort out the multiple threads that wove together to form their quest. They knew their enemy, but that
only brought up more questions. How could Saat possibly still be alive? Why such a relentless desire to exterminate them? Where did he get his powers? What were their limits?
It seemed to her that the only way to pierce through the layers of secrets would be to solve the mystery of the portals. And that they might accomplish at nightfall, in the Deep Tower.
Corenn then asked after Hulsidor; learning more about the library might help them organize their search. But the man had barricaded his study, refusing to see anyone. He claimed his preparation was long and difficult, and that he needed to be left in peace, gods be damned! The Mother did not insist.
Grigán, Léti, and Rey returned toward the end of the day, looking smug. The actor had met one of his old partners, a poor artist who loved his art, and therefore someone they could fully trust. His troupe of street performers would leave in two days, headed for Pont, in Lorelia, for the Day of the Earth festivals. The troupe immediately accepted Grigán’s offer to accompany them after the heirs’ business in the Deep Tower was complete. The route from the Wet Valley through the Murky Mountains was not the safest, so Léti’s and Grigán’s swords would be reassuring. The rest of the heirs could travel inconspicuously in a mixed troupe of musicians, jugglers, and comedians.
Rey had also brought Lana a change of clothes. The Maz’s robe, covered in Eurydian symbols, was much too visible in the Old Country’s capital. The actor, with his newfound fortune, had bought her a brand-new traveling outfit.
Lana was embarrassed by the gift. First, because she wasn’t used to gifts, and second, because the new clothes seemed horribly revealing. She never knew that without Grigán’s and Léti’s vigorous objections, Rey would have chosen an even shorter outfit. She thanked him sincerely, but didn’t go so far as to try on the new clothes.
Night fell, and the heirs gathered around a table in the service quarters. Sapone, as lord of the manor, would never share his own table with foreigners, whose presence he could barely stand, and whose persons he would already have thrown in prison if it weren’t for their lucrative agreement. Yan and Bowbaq skipped dinner, as did Hulsidor, who was still locked up in his study. There was a strange mood at the table that night.
Shadow of the Ancients Page 5
