"Meanwhile, avail yourself of this opportunity to rest. I will inform you of the King's decision regarding your person."
They were dismissed, a new set of soldiers taking them back to their rooms.
John's party now installed in their quarters, the military remaining in the hall, the door shut, the Stil-de-grain group gathered to sit at John's end of the table, Coluth on John's right, Golden to the left.
"Not much of a welcome," John said dryly.
"Are we prisoners here?" Golden.
"A possibility. As you heard, the situation has changed between the time we set out and our arrival."
"Malachite troops coming behind us." Coluth.
"Yes."
The sailors said nothing, looking to John and to Coluth for leadership.
"Are we agreed that the rulers of Realgar want to stay out of any conflict that might develop?"
Coluth nodded.
"Then, as I see it, it's our job to help them do that."
"How?" Golden.
"By finding a way to get out of here. After that, follow this 'silk road' the man mentioned so casually. My guess is that Helianthin was thinking even as he spoke; that he mentioned the direction we should take because he'd be pleased to see us gone. Doubly pleased if we take out Pfnaravin. After all, our earlier communications indicated bad blood between Pfnaravin and their King.
"On the other hand, the Mage speaking of 'my Band' could mean competition between Mage and King, Helianthin wanting nothing so much as to keep from fouling up. (At "fouling up," John saw men's eyebrows raise -- but no matter.) "What came through," John pushed on, "is that he wants to preserve what, in the politics of my country, is called "deniability," that is, to be able to maintain his innocence should something go wrong. Right now, the eventual winner in the Stil-de-grain/Malachite conflict would seem to be Malachite. Their Mage is on the loose. Troops are coming, and we're too few to make much of a show. The situation remains fluid, however, a fact he must consider.
John thought this over. "It could even be that Helianthin sees the winning strategy as holding us here until he can turn us over to the Malachites. Our capture would mean a Malachite win, Helianthin taking credit for finding the only safe way through this muddle."
Muscled forearms on the table, hands clasping and clasping, Coluth nodded.
"On the other hand, if we 'escaped' ...."
Again, the Coluth nod.
"We are not helpless," Golden said. "I have certain skills ...."
"And I'm counting on them, Golden," John agreed. "Though few in number, we're also stronger then these fat folks. And we know from previous communications that Pfnaravin is disliked. It's my guess that one of the reasons Pfnaravin was given assistance to continue his "cross band" trip was to get rid of him."
"We need food, clothing," Golden said, more to himself than to John. "Packs. As for weapons ....?"
"If we could get out of here, we might be able to pass ourselves off as traders. Buy supplies down the trail." John had also begun to think ahead. "For now, we've got to make our escape. After that, find this silk road."
"I know of that road," Coluth said, so quietly he could have been speaking in his sleep.
"What?"
"Long ago, I traveled the silk road. With my crew and pack ponies. Leading cross band from the third Claw."
John did seem to remember Coluth talking about that. "Was that the time you went to Cinnabar?"
A shudder passed through the Admiral as it often did when people mentioned the outer band of Cinnabar -- generally called "The Cinnabar."
"You were trading for silk, if I remember right."
"Yes. When I was younger. At the border, I stepped into The Cinnabar." Said as someone forced to cross a mine field.
It was coming back to John. "You called the people of Cinnabar 'the flyers,' I believe."
"Yes."
"Because they can fly?" Cinnabar had the reputation of being the weakest gravity band of them all, gravity in this place going from heaviest in the center, to lightest at the rim. Beyond Cinnabar was what people here called "down-land" where the unwary could fall off the edge of the world. "Did you see them fly?"
"No. No one sees them. It is that they ... know. When a trader comes, he finds bundles of silk on a stone trading floor ... just within The Cinnabar. Take the silk, leave behind items for payment, and there will be silk bundles for further trade at a later date. That is what is said, though I do not know of my own experience. It is for men braver than myself to venture twice into The Cinnabar." Again, the involuntary shudder. "If a trader leaves too little in value for the silk taken, the cheater will find no silk on the trading floor when he returns -- forever and forever."
"So the supposition is that the Cinnabarians -- or however they call themselves -- have a way of knowing who is a cheat and who is not?"
The Admiral nodded, Coluth as sober as John had seen him; grave, an even better word to describe his demeanor, every sea-weathered line in his broad face sagging.
"You think the citizens of Cinnabar must be flying overhead, to observe trade transactions?"
"There are birds that fly so high, no man can see them."
"Your theory is that, because the gravity is almost non-existence in Cinnabar, its people can actually fly?"
While Coluth didn't nod yes, he didn't nod no.
"It does seem that Pfnaravin and Ellen are headed there." No one disagreed. "Why?"
"Unwelcome here, Pfnaravin must leave. With us blocking his way to Sea Minor, where else could he go?" Golden.
John thought about that. "He could have traveled around the band; gotten to some place where people didn't know him, then doubled back into Stil-de-grain."
"Taking passage on a stolen ship, the crew seeming to have deserted him here, he is alone with only the woman, and she unwillingly. He might feel safer in The Cinnabar, few with the courage to follow him there." Common sense from Coluth.
"Sounds reasonable. Is it agreed, then? That we make a run for it?"
Nods all around.
"After down-light, I will provision us." Golden, getting back to practical matters.
"You still know the way to this silk road, Coluth?" John.
"Yes."
"Then if Golden can 'appropriate' what we need for the trip, we leave at first light!"
* * * * *
His orphaned life lived by thievery, Golden had learned the layout of most buildings, public and private. Food was to be found in kitchens, pantries. Clothes stored in closets, chests, and laundry rooms. Weapons locked in strongholds close to soldiers' billets.
When foraging for what he needed, Golden generally started with a disguise, the better to slip past others on his way to round up useful items. This time, of course, the first thing he must do was get past the two "honor" guards the Realgar Mage has left outside the door as a "courtesy" to the foreign guests, Golden opening the hall door to indicate by nods and gestures -- down-light settled in -- that he was going to the necessity room down the hall.
Once inside the elimination room, he peered out the door crack until finding both guards in conversation. No one looking his direction, Golden slipped into the hall and was soundlessly out of sight down a parallel corridor. How long the guards would ignore his absence, he didn't know. Long enough, he hoped.
Even when on their way for an audience with the castle Mage, Golden had been looking for a way out, doing this by taking note of the movements of the crowd around them. It was rather like finding honey. If bees were flying at random, they were searching for flowers -- a necessary ingredient in honey making. If most bees were flying in a single direction, however, they were returning to their hive. In like manner, people followed similar patterns. The Military men escorting John-Lyon's party -- newly relieved of their watch duties by other soldiers -- had stocked off to their quarters, in this case, taking the same hall Golden was traversing now, going down the stairs at the far end.
Flitting from shadow to shadow -- not mu
ch traffic at this sleeping hour -- Golden found the same stairs, descending to a floor where many feet had scarred the tiles. Clearly, the marks of soldiers' boots.
Rounding a turn, there it was, an alcove shielding a fortified door, soldiers barracks beyond.
An iron braced door. Locked tight to everyone except for a man of Golden's skills.
Palming a fork he'd concealed in his sleeve, bending the tines to make a lock pick, he soon defeated the outer lock and two smaller restraints at the ends of slide bars, Golden quickly inside, someone conveniently leaving a flaming torch within. To find the expected armory. Shelves of weapons. Spears, scabbards, belts, slings, bows, swords (short and long), maces, helmets, shields, body armor, hobnailed boots, backpacks.
He'd need swords for the sailors -- short ones since sailors used similar tools in their work. A star-mace for a bludgeon. A short bow and six arrows. (As fast as he could draw and fire, he could only loose six arrows before an onrush of troops overpowered him, making a seventh arrow more hindrance than help.
The girl was worthless in a fight. But what about the Mage? Since John-Lyon had showed no fighting skills, either with sword or bow, Golden decided the Crystal-Mage would do better with a bludgeon than any other weapon. And in particular, since the other-worlder was the strongest man Golden had ever know. Something about coming from a heavy-pulling planet, John-Lyon said -- the Mage's mysterious, original home. Skull cracking would be John-Lyon's specialty.
Armed -- over armed -- Golden left the weapon storage room, turning to fork-jam the lock to make it difficult for others to retrieve their own arms, Golden then slipping down end-of-the-hall stairs and more stairs until he smelled hot water ... and soap.
Laundry.
Finding stacks of clean clothes ready for the morning's distribution, he "lifted" the right number of Realgar robes -- pumpkin colored cloth with marigold stripping, over-sized, as was suitable for the fat nature of this Band's citizens. He even found a child's robe that should fit the girl.
Bow over his head, string slashed across his chest, arrows stuck in his under-tunic belt, other robes draped over his shoulders to pad his body, he donned an over-robe, now looking like any slavey in the castle. Fat. Disheveled.
Food came next, Golden continuing to "put on weight" as he pouched sausages and hunks of cooked meat. No room for bulky food. Bread could be purchased after escaping from the castle.
And escape, they must. On that point, Golden agreed with John-Lyon.
Something was wrong here. So wrong, it was a danger to them all, the unspoken signals he was receiving in this place -- movement of the mouth, eye twitches, finger snaps, foot scraping -- foreshadowing misfortunes in his own life. The Mage was unwelcome here; arrest and execution sure to improve the position of Helianthin. Golden could imagine John-Lyon's severed head, pickled in a barrel of brine, the cask rowed out to the incoming Malachites as proof that Helianthin favored Malachite. Golden could also see his own head, similarly preserved, delivered to the agents of Lithoid for return to Malachite, there to be set upon a pole as an example to other would be "traitors."
The only remaining question was what falsehood he would tell to John-Lyon, a lie impressive enough to motivate the young Mage to order an immediate escape.
Mages had extraordinary powers, John-Lyon no exception. Still, Golden had told lies to the young Mage and had not been withered on the spot. He had even stolen John-Lyon's Mage-disk at one time -- to save it -- but stolen it nevertheless, the Mage in ignorance of who had looted it.
Truly, the Mage was remarkable, both for his vast learning and for his daily ignorances.
One thing was certain above all certainties. What Golden had done this night would be discovered. And once discovered, blamed (rightly) on John-Lyon's party.
Headed back to the prison room -- for that was what it was -- passing cleaning drudges without receiving suspicious looks, Golden's mind raced to devise a strategy. First, to out smile the guards in order to bash them, then drag their "sleeping" bodies inside the "guarded" room.
After that, no matter what myth Golden created, perhaps one saying Golden had overheard Helianthin tell soldiers to kill John-Lyon and his party before up-light, Golden must convince the Mage to leave the castle -- now!
The sailors would balk at going out into the dark, frightened to face the fearsome animals loosed by down-light -- the horrors of the night that longed for human blood.
And the men would be right to be afraid, as Golden, himself, would be afraid. It was just that certain death within, made the possibility of down-light death the better choice!
* * * * *
Chapter 21
Coluth shaded his eyes to look at the sky; finding that blocking out glare was unnecessary in this dark place, Realgar's ocher smudging into the next band's burgundy. This close to The Cinnabar he was cold, the outer Bands cooler than the inner ones, Coluth's shiver augmented by the quake of fear.
For days, starting with the down-light danger of their escape from Helianthin's Castle, the cross Band trip had the portent of disaster, evil news received at the first inn on the Silk Road. Glimpsing the tavern ahead, taking every precaution, the Mage had ordered them to desert the trail, the group trudging through thick, off-road bushes until reaching the woods across from the inn. There, giving Golden money for supplies, Golden crossed the track to enter the hostelry, returning with a push cart containing rope, food, and robes (common ones of brown wool.) And of more importance, telling of the rumor wagging every tavern tongue: that a messenger in a fast, three pony cart had already passed by, the driver instructed to alert all hostels to the possibility of foreigners in the neighborhood. In addition, that Malachite soldiers -- with Helianthin's permission -- would soon be mustered to pursue these intruders, the dangerous outsiders thought to be taking the Silk Road to The Cinnabar.
Though Golden himself was alien to these parts, the inn owner had showed no concern at his presence, perhaps because Golden was a single traveler when a group was sought. Or more likely, that the glint of gold in Golden's hand had blinded the inn's owner to the presence of a stranger.
Much disturbed, John-Lyon ordered everyone to stay well back of the pathway, the party to pack the goods in carry-alls, everyone to stay hidden behind the bushes and tall trees paralleling the Silk Road.
The major difficulty, of course, was the down-light problem, John-Lyon's party risking discovery at every accommodation they might seek.
"Would we be safe from the creatures of the night if we climbed a tree?" the Mage had asked Golden, the young man knowing more about land-travel than any in the group, Golden -- as entertainer -- occasionally forced to journey overland at night.
"Yes," Golden said, but looking up to shake his head at the loftiness of the trees' branches where they might sleep in safety.
"My bet is that these are fast growing trees," the Mage said. "And because of that, of soft wood."
To demonstrate his meaning, John-Lyon borrowed Philelph's short sword, the Mage hacking at the nearest tree trunk, each blow slicing out a sizable wedge of wood. "It'll take some effort, but we can cut steps into these tree trunks to use for climbing -- like going up steep stairs."
And just before down-light of every day, they had done that, hacking and climbing until all were safe in the branches, safety ropes securing the Mage, Golden, and the girl, Coluth and the other sailor-monkeys at home at any height.
Allowing no pause at up-light for the warming of dried meat, they would set out again, their increasing nearness to The Cinnibar causing Coluth to recall his former trip through this terrain.
It was at that earlier time -- Coluth the captain of a group of sailors from the Roamer -- that he had come to this bleak and barren border, only to discover that he, alone, could force himself into The Cinnabar, the stone trading floor at twenty paces further on.
His sailor's tunic sweaty despite the chill, a much younger Coluth in those distant days had left the others to creep into that mystic band, his feet c
runching the brittle grass below, a blood red sky above.
Easing ahead, he'd discovered the expected bundles of Cinnabar silk on the thick stone trading floor, Coluth picking up the feather weight packages to toss each to his sailors still in the Realgar band, his men strapping the silk to the backs of rented pack ponies.
To complete the transaction, his crew had thrown bags of trade goods back to him, wheat from Stil-de-grain, fruit from Realgar, and bundled rods of metals from Malachite, these packages made light by the weak pull of The Cinnabar, the parcels seeming to contain little more than air.
The transaction complete, chilled to the bone, trembling like a frightened child, Coluth was glad to creep back to Realgar, the slightest pressure of each Cinnabar step threatening to hurtle him into the scarlet sky.
Profit from that single trip -- after sharing with his men -- had paid off the Roamer, Coluth careful to prevent the need for money from forcing him to return ... here!
Now, against his will, he'd been compelled to plod toward that frightful, ruby band, Coluth looking up through thinning trees to find the sky dome shading into crimson.
They would soon be at the border!
"Coluth?" It was the Mage, John-Lyon coming up to walk beside him. "Does it seem to you that the sky here is lower than in the other bands; that it's not that far above our heads?" Without waiting for Coluth's answer -- something John-Lyon often did -- the Mage continued. "Or is it like the moon seeming larger on the horizon than when high in the night sky?"
Surely, the Mage was talking to himself, when doing so using words like moon and sun. Also other unknown words.
"Never mind. We're almost there, right?"
Coluth nodded, wishing not even to think of their dreaded destination.
"Let's go."
And they started again, another fifty paces taking them to the place where the trees and bushes ... thinned.
Ellen Under The Stairs Page 17
