A Shadow on the Glass

by Ian Irvine

  39

  * * *

  THE PRISONER

  Some days later Mendark called Llian in. “Shut the door,” he said. “Go through that business about the Forbidding again. The ending to your tale, and what you learned from Tensor. I’m really worried now, what with Yggur marching to war, Faelamor turning up, Karan’s dreams of Rulke—it’s too much of a coincidence.”

  Llian told the story again. “I don’t even know where to begin,” he said at the end.

  “I don’t know either.” Mendark rubbed a hairy cheek. “Well, Rulke’s archives are here in the Magister’s scriptoria.”

  “And you never looked at them?”

  “Remember who you are speaking to,” Mendark growled. “His records fill many rooms, but most are undecipherable. I’ve looked at everything that could be read. But then, not having your new evidence, no one was looking for this. Better take a fresh look.”

  “You said the citadel was barred.

  “It is, to me and those in my employ. A barrier that we cannot cross. But he cannot bar everyone in Thurkad. Do you dare attempt it?”

  So! thought Llian, there is a way inside, and still Karan lies in chains. “How would you get me in?”

  “I have ways.”

  “Then why can’t you get Karan out?”

  Mendark sighed. “Leave me to do my business. She will be well guarded, by human guards and by wards like the Sentinels in Shazmak. Besides, Thyllan must bring her to the Conclave in three days. And don’t get any clever ideas- you’re going in for one reason only.”

  He doesn’t care, thought Llian. Well, if I get the chance…

  “I will do it,” he said.

  “Good. Come back in a couple of hours, and I’ll have the maps and catalogs for you to study.”

  “Do you think this is a good idea?” Tallia asked after Llian had gone. “Breaking the truce of the Conclave? If he’s found out, Thyllan can refuse to come.”

  “It’s a risk, but nowhere near the risk of not finding out. I’ve go it to know!”

  It was three in the morning. Carrying food and water for two days and a night, a map and catalog, a lantern and two skins of oil under his cloak, for as usual it was raining, Llian set out with Tallia through the back streets to a nondescript building. He wore anonymous servant’s garb: dark-blue pantaloons, blouse and cap, a short cape, sandals.

  At the back Tallia raised a trapdoor, climbed down into a cellar, did something that Llian didn’t see, bits of earth-stained plaster fell and part of the wall swung out with a groan.

  “This hasn’t been used for a very long time,” Tallia said, holding the lantern out before her and stepping through into an earthy passage.

  Llian followed her through the darkness, feeling claustrophic. There was nothing to see save earth and rock or, in places, stonework weeping damp. The tunnel undulated, but more up than down, which made sense, since the citadel was near the top of a hill. A few curves, sharp and shallow, a right-angle bend, a long up-sloping straight, then Tallia stopped suddenly.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I thought I felt something. No, it’s nothing.” She went on more slowly, then stopped as though she had run into an invisible barrier. “Aah!”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I ran right into the ward. It hurt. This is as far as I can go, but it’s probably safe for you. See if you feel anything.”

  He crept forward a pace, then another. “Nothing!”

  “Good luck, chronicler.” She held out her hand, drew it back smartly as though stung, then saluted him.

  Llian waved an arm at her; then, feeling most uneasy, he made his way up the passage. When he looked back a minute later Tallia’s lantern was lost to sight. He was utterly alone, under the ground.

  A few minutes later he came, after a series of right-angle bends and a steep up-slope, to a blank wall. Tallia had told him what to do—find three separate depressions in the wall, and press a finger into each at the same time. That took a lot of trial and error for the walls were quite uneven. After twenty or thirty tries he got it right and a slab rotated without a sound, leaving a space large enough to wriggle through. As soon as he had done so it closed again, just as silently. He was in the cellars of the citadel!

  It was all rather easier than he had hoped. The tunnel brought him out close to his destination. Llian was outside the door in less than ten minutes, without seeing a soul.

  He had been given a key, a flat strip of metal. He simply pushed it in the slit in the door and waited. After a full minute the door clicked. Llian slipped inside, shut the door and shot the bolt.

  He had expected a low-roofed, moldy crypt, a wider version of the tunnel, but the room Llian found himself in was more like a library—huge, high-ceilinged and dry. Obviously designed to protect important documents. There were rows and rows of bookshelves and scroll racks, and, down the far end, cupboards from floor to ceiling. The place was vast—thousands of files and volumes that no chronicler had ever seen.

  Llian consulted the catalog that Mendark had annotated for him. He walked up and down the shelves, seeing how they were organised, taking down a book here, a scroll there, dipping into each then putting it back, trying to catch the flavor of the archives. Where to start? To read the contents of the room would take months.

  He began on the most interesting category, documents from the time of the Forbidding. Hours later he realized what a hopeless task it was. The heading actually covered hundreds of years, thousands of documents, but none was relevant. He had his lunch, topped up the lantern and tried to work out a better approach. The whole business now seemed pointless. What fool had made the catalog? An apprentice chronicler would have done better.

  He searched files on Shuthdar, on the flute—these were the earliest of all; on the Clysm; the Faellem and the Aachim. By the end of it he could have filled in many missing gaps in the Histories, but had found nothing that helped him with his quest.

  He looked through the catalog again. Something stood out this time. A section entitled Correspondence—other Charon. Subheadings included Kandor, Yalkara, as well as other names, some of which he knew to be blendings, interbreeds between Charon and Aachim, or Charon and other races. What would they write about? Llian spent more tedious hours going through letters, treaties, reports on agriculture, mining, weather, roads and a thousand other mundane issues. Each of the Charon had an empire, and the amount of correspondence generated was prodigious.

  Now the lamp began to flutter yellow. It was nearly out of oil. Already the first skin was used up. How long had he been here? Had Tallia said twelve hours from one skin of oil, or eighteen? Surely the latter, for he was worn out. Llian laid an armload of ledgers on the floor for a mattress. He had slept badly ever since Karan had been taken. He snuffed the lamp and slept.

  The second day passed in much the same way as the first. The work was tedious and frustrating. There was far too much to look through, and the catalog entries usually contained shelves full of records under a single heading. His last skin of oil was running low, and some must be saved for Karan, and to get back out again.

  He went back to the correspondence files. Anything explicit would probably have been destroyed, but there could be a hint in letters or dispatches that would mean nothing to anyone but him. Here was a sheaf of letters between Rulke and Kandor. Llian riffled through them. There were hundreds, many hours of reading. On impulse he stuffed them in his bag. What else? Letters between Rulke and Yalkara, not as many. The first crime made the next easier. He took these as well.

  He unfolded the map, tracing the way out with his finger to imprint it on his mind. He had never been good with maps. Now, where would Karan be? He examined the plans of the floors above. There were nine levels, marked in tiny writing. Kitchens, pantries, halls—seemingly dozens of them—libraries, map room, servants’ quarters, dormitories, hundreds upon hundreds of rooms. Further down, storerooms, armories, guardrooms, cellars, cells!

  Be calm!
he told himself. Karan need not be in the cells at all—she could be locked in any room of the citadel. And even if she was down there, she would surely be guarded.

  But the thought of finding her was lodged immovably in Llian’s mind. No matter what misgivings arose, and there were many—of being caught, of Thyllan finding out what he was looking for, of interfering in whatever plans Mendark had made—he cast them all aside. Mendark could go to blazes!

  The cells were right across the other side of the citadel. How could he get down there without being discovered? Llian worked out a route on the map and memorized it. After a few minutes he came into lighted ways, extinguished his lantern, clutched a sheaf of papers in one hand and tried to make himself look like any messenger boy. It must have been very late for he saw only two people on the way, and neither showed any interest in him.

  Here was the stair he was looking for, running steeply down to the lower level. Llian crept down and stuck his head round the corner. He saw a gloomy corridor with only one or two lamps along it, but there was enough light to see that there were cells both to the left and right. He eased his way along the wall, keeping away from the light. Further down was an open room like a cell without bars, closed off from the corridor by a long bench. It looked like a guardhouse, and it was empty. Where was the guard?

  Just then he heard a gurgling snore and, peering over the bench, he saw the guard flat out on a long stool. The room stank of stale beer. Llian marched past and was not challenged.

  Beyond were many cells both small and large, most occupied by sleeping prisoners, probably retainers loyal to Mendark. He had to light his lamp again to see whether Karan was among them. She wasn’t, and one or two stirred irritably under his light. He continued past more cells and came to another guard post. This one was unmanned. All of the cells here were empty, save the one with the lamp outside.

  “Karan!” he whispered, gripping the bars.

  She lay on a heap of straw on the floor, a dingy blanket clutched about her shoulders, red hair at one end, bare feet at the other. She did not move.

  “Karan,” he said more loudly.

  She stirred, shivered, and ever so slowly raised her head, looking at him without recognition.

  “Karan! It’s me, Llian. Come quickly!”

  She got up, dripping straw, and shambled across to the door. She stared up into his face, then turned and went the same indifferent way to her bed. Her cheek was badly bruised. The look on her face made his heart break.

  He called her back again, and again she ambled up to the bars as though he was of no significance. Llian took her hand. She looked down, then up at his face. A spark lit in her eyes, but it went out again.

  He reached through the bars and caught her in his arms. Again she almost recognized him, then her eyes went blank. She came unresistingly, as though she had no will of her own, but on touching the bars she shrank away. Llian let her go and shook the door. It didn’t even rattle. He scooted across to the empty guardhouse. No keys there! Back at the other, the guard still slept secure in the knowledge that the whole citadel was warded. Where were the keys?

  Ah! A bunch dangled from a peg on the wall. Llian crept in. The guard stirred, belched beery fumes and put his head back down on his arms. Llian reached around behind him and grabbed the keys. Not carefully enough-they rang together. The guard groaned, rolled over and almost fell off the stool. Llian held his breath but soon the man was snoring as before.

  Back at Karan’s cell he tried the first key in the lock. It didn’t work. Neither did the second, nor the third, nor any of the others. Karan walked across and watched what he was doing with an expressionless face. He tried each key again, three or four times; he wiggled the door, but to no avail.

  “Wrong keys,” said Karan and went back to her straw.

  How would she know? Llian ran back to the guardhouse. The guard was still snoring, his hand groping around blindly for something. The beer jug stood on the floor just out of reach. Eventually he gave up and slumped back again, making a whistling snore through his teeth. Where could the keys be? The guardhouse was spartan, just a few pegs in the wall, one holding up a threadbare cloak, empty shelves below, more shelves under the bench. Llian got down on hands and knees. It was hard to make anything out in the gloom. He crawled under the bench, groping around in the dark, but could find nothing. Then the guard turned over and Llian heard an unmistakable jingle.

  The man was now sitting slumped over, breathing noisily. Yes, there they were, half-covered by a belly as big as the barrel he’d got it from. Llian reached his hand up into the doughy sack but at the first pressure the guard groaned and leaned further forward. Llian had to whip his hand out of the way before it was trapped. Now the hand was groping again. Llian put the jug within reach and the guard lifted it to his lips and took a great swig with his eyes closed. Beer ran down his chin, he gasped, belched and slumped sideways, exposing the keys. In a flash Llian had them off his belt and scuttled out into the corridor.

  The second key snapped Karan’s lock and he was inside. He ran across and folded her in his arms. She hung there like a rag doll. She was terribly thin.

  “Come on!”

  She followed him to the door, then stopped and would go no further, just kept pointing out into the corridor. Llian was about to sling her across his shoulder when he heard a voice raised up in drunken song. Something smashed, the guard cursed, flat feet flapping on the stone, then the song began again.

  Llian almost panicked. “It’s the guard.” He ran back and forth, unable to decide what to do.

  Karan, who had shown no signs of intelligence all this time, suddenly jerked as though she had been stabbed with a red-hot needle. Indifferent to her own fate, the danger to Llian had roused her. Her eyes rolled back and forwards, her pinpoint pupils dilated.

  “Llian!” she whispered, a gaunt version of her old self again. “Oh, Llian, you came for me.” She flung her arms around his neck and kissed his face. Just as quickly she let him go. The guard was now bawling out his sentimental dirge.

  “Get out, before you’re locked in too. Oh, Llian,” she said, staring at him as though he was the most precious thing in her life. “Please go. He’ll kill you.”

  Llian tugged at her hand. “Come on! There’s still time to get away. He’s drunk!?”

  “I can’t. Quick, into my bed. Under the straw.”

  How could anyone hide in that miserable pile? Nonetheless he ran over, lay down and Karan piled rank, moldy straw over him. She lay down in front, flung the blanket over them both and snuggled in. A cold hand wormed its way down into the straw and gripped his hand.

  None too soon. The guard lurched into view, shining his lantern into the cells on the other side of the corridor.

  “Twelve… thirteen…” He skipped the empty cells opposite, continued down to the end, then they heard him shuffling up this side. He appeared before Karan’s cell, swaying, trying to remember what number he was up to.

  “Fourteen!” he cried triumphantly, raised the jug to his mouth to celebrate, realized that it was broken and cast it aside with a crash. He swayed, grabbed the cell door to hold himself up and it swung open, scraping the skin off his toes.

  The guard cursed and banged it shut, trying to sober up, trying to remember. Had he locked the door or not? Of course he had. He never forgot a thing like that, even though this cell, in any case, was warded. He looked down at the squat black Sentinel, rather like a witch’s hat but with fluted sides, that stood against the wall just beyond the bars. Through a slit a yellow light glared watchfully. It was comforting to see it. He had been warned about this prisoner. Clever, they said.

  He held up his lantern. The red-haired woman lay listlessly on the straw, as she had for most of the time she had been here. She didn’t look so clever. Still, better lock her in at once, before anyone found out. If she did escape, Thyllan would have his ears, and he’d be in the front line by lunchtime tomorrow. He put the lantern down and felt on his belt for the k
eys. They weren’t there! Now that was strange. He never took those keys off, save to give them to his relief.

  The guard ran off in a panic, sandals flapping. Karan stood up, kissed Llian’s mold-smelling cheek, brushed straw off his shoulders, squeezed his hands. Llian flinched.

  “What’s the matter?” She examined his hand, which had an angry red gash across the palm. “Who did this to you?”

  Llian hesitated. “You did. Don’t you remember? After Emmant…”

  Karan looked as though she had been struck. “I knifed you? Emmant?” She moaned, her eyes crossed and Llian thought she was going to relapse. But his peril dragged her out of it. “Oh, Llian, forgive me. I don’t remember.”

  “Later! We’ve got to go. The guard will be back in a minute.”

  “Yes. Go quickly. Even drunk he’s more than a match for you.”

  “You’re coming with me,” he said. “I’m not going to leave you behind this time.”

  She pointed to the Sentinel. “It’s set to me; I can’t get past it.”

  “Maybe we can break through it,” said Llian, opening the door. Karan looked doubtful. He took her hand. “Now, fast as you can!”

  He took off and she ran too. Llian passed straight through. Free! he exulted, then the hand that held Karan’s encountered sudden resistance, a jerk that almost pulled his arm out of its socket, and a numbing shock like the one Vartila had struck him with in the house in Name. He crashed on his back and heard a tinkle from his pack, the lamp breaking. At the same moment the corridor was seared by a yellow glare from the Sentinel that flared up the spectrum to blue and to violet. It began to clang furiously, a racket like standing underneath a temple bell.

  Llian picked himself up. Karan lay on the floor, wringing her hand, which was swelling visibly as though it had been stung. She looked at him blankly for an instant, then she was herself again.

  “I didn’t think we could,” she said, ghastly in the violet glare. “Please go. They have to bring me to the Conclave tomorrow, but they don’t even have to keep you alive.”