by Brian Daley
The watch maintained there was vigilant. No outsider who entered the region, much less the valley, could avoid encountering a Klybesian. That monk would, in casual but pointed conversation, draw the visitor out and inquire after his intentions. Failing to satisfy the monk’s curiosity, the outsider would be informed gently that the monastery could not entertain him. Persisting, the outsider would find that the winding way to the redoubt had become an impossible labyrinth, wrought by the engineering genius of the sect. Resorting to more direct or violent methods, the unwelcome visitor would be fortunate to end up in a tastefully adorned pitfall, but was more likely to meet death or injury. Walls might topple, bridges give way, or trees fall.
No one blocked their way or questioned the riders who wore the medallions, however. They rode in under the pavilion that spread out about the skirts of the redoubt, masking the barbican and providing yet another line of protection. Crassmor wondered if it were true that there were enormous underground reservoirs of volatile liquid that could conveniently catch fire, burning and suffocating and poisoning anyone who assaulted the gates there. The riders passed through the enormous gates and across a drawbridge spanning a moat. The murky water down below swirled with large swimming things that preferred to stay beneath the surface. The company passed in under the bailey.
In the spacious courtyard, meticulously clean and well paved, silent monks rushed forward to take their horses, seeming to avert their eyes from the outsiders. The sourpuss Racklee carefully took down his boxes, unwillingly surrendering them to other Klybesians who, Crassmor saw, also wore the medallion. Then the group ascended long staircases, worn with ages of shoe leather and bare feet, into the main structure.
Crassmor tried to keep track of their progress without appearing to, as monks passed wordlessly in both directions. The other four hired rogues gaped without pretense at their surroundings, making the knight’s reconnaissance less conspicuous.
They passed galleries of religious relics, vast rooms crowded with manuscripts and books and scrolls smelling of age. The knight wondered what his companions thought of the winged serpent, wrought in brass wire, suspended over an entire length of corridor; or of the door of blue crystal, heavily locked and secured with a gigantic, time-encrusted waxen seal; or of the other enigmatic appointments of the place. None of them asked any questions, he noticed. Every so often, complicated bell-tone signals chimed, meaning what, Crassmor had no idea.
They came to an extensive room, its brown stone walls bare, its floor uncovered, but its high, groined ceiling crammed with elaborate inscriptions and symbols on every surface. A broad row of wide windows on the opposite side gave a view of the long valley protected by Virtuary. It contained neat and carefully tilled fields and terraces, granaries and pastures, workshops and barns, chapels, vineyards, and orchards. Crassmor saw the tiny figures of monks laboring in one of the wealthiest fiefdoms in the Singularity. The room contained only one item of furniture, a mammoth table of beechwood whose legs were fashioned like monks in heroically pious poses. There was only one occupant.
Crassmor’s uncle, the abbot Furd, turned to face them.
The knight tilted his head down a bit, the now-black hair dangling over his eyes, and drew back into his hood. He shuffled into the room more slowly than the others, to stand at the back of the group, berating his luck, trying to puzzle out what was going on. He was caught by the heart-squeezing realization that Shhing protruded over his shoulder in silent betrayal. He edged his body around to put the hilt as much out of sight as he could. His uncle had never shown much interest in weapons, and there were many who wore their swords as Crassmor did. Nevertheless, he set himself for battle or a try at flight, but held small hope for success at either.
Furd, however, after a brief look at the armed men, had eyes only for the old servitor-impostor Racklee and the boxes he’d fetched. The abbot, too, now wore the eye-in-pyramid. “Worthy Racklee, loyal fellow, welcome!” Furd said heartily. He took the man’s arm as the monks set their burdens on the beechwood table with holy care. “How was your journey?”
“Wearying.” Racklee frowned, distracted by his precious cargo.
Furd tut-tutted. “I myself was forced to endure the entire night in a jouncing coach and reached here only a short time ago. But great endeavors demand some sacrifice, is that not so?”
Racklee merely grunted. One monk had produced a short pry bar. Before he could put it to use, the old man grabbed it from him and undertook the job of opening the boxes himself, with remarkable delicacy. He muttered, “An intricate and exhaustive assignment, perhaps my finest work.”
“You will find us grateful,” Furd assured him with a well-fed smile. The abbot spared enough attention to instruct the monk guide. “Show these new men across the hall, where the rest wait.”
Crassmor was the first to turn and follow the young monk out. The group crossed the corridor and passed under an archway. In the room beyond waited perhaps a score of heavily armed men in a variety of costumes and armor, some striking the knight as natives of the Singularity, others having the look of wanderers-in. He saw no one he recognized.
He followed his fellow travelers into the room. “You will be summoned,” the monk announced for them all to hear; then he went back out into the corridor and took up position as sentry. Crassmor reached up to stroke a beard that was longer there, then chewed at a thumbnail, speculating and worrying as the others in the room gave one another appraising glances. They shared a common aura of outlawry, a desperate hardness of spirit.
It hadn’t occurred to Crassmor that his uncle would be there; Furd went seldom to Virtuary, and had been at Gateshield only the night before. Looking around now, he asked himself, Mercenaries? Why else, but for battle at House Comullo? Crassmor had seen Willow’s guardsmen in their true shapes, though, and judged that the men before him, tough as they looked, would be no match for Fordall Urth’s crew of massive grim reapers.
Conversations in the room were low and general, an occasional harsh laugh or obscenity thrown in. Much of it was about when and where various battles had taken place, both in the Beyonds and in diverse Realities. Crassmor kept his shoulders to the wall, arms and legs crossed and head down, to make it plain that he wished no fellowship. Once or twice, he heard the monk pacing the corridor.
He wondered why this company was gathered in Virtuary. Surely some other place would have been more convenient, particularly one closer to the Jade Dome. Recalling the Klybesians’ frequent dabblings in the supernatural, he concluded that the monks would want to insure that their hired champions would fight to the fullest and that there would be no wagging of tongues afterward. He shuddered as he thought how desperate these wolves’ heads with their swords-for-hire must be, to agree to undergo a compulsion. His fear grew that he might be trapped.
Voices in the corridor distracted him. Positioned near the door, he heard Furd’s heavy steps and Racklee’s shuffling ones. The abbot said, “Most admirable! Racklee, you are a master craftsman in truth! Please go down to my suite and await, me; you know the way.”
At the same moment a man in the room, decked out in a costume of turban, baggy trousers and tunic, pointed-toed boots, and scimitar, muttered, “By the holy! It’s hours now that we’ve been here waiting. Is there no food or drink in the whole of this rock pile?” Others grumbled concordance.
The situation inspired Crassmor. Hooking a thumb toward the corridor, head still lowered, he growled, “Food and drink in plenty, I just heard someone say, for that fat abbot. He doesn’t look like the sort to go long in between stuffings.”
That was more than enough. The man who’d spoken and a half-dozen more strode into the corridor, spied Furd, and went off after him to press their complaint. Crassmor peeked out a moment later to see his uncle surrounded by irate hirelings, the young monk guide doing his best to shield the abbot. More mercenaries were filtering out to join the group. Racklee, still stiff from his ride, hobbled off in the opposite direction to await Furd. The kni
ght strolled casually across the corridor.
Pieces of the crates lay on the floor. On the table rested what Crassmor thought at first to be some peculiar container or machine. Drawing closer, he saw that it was a model, a precise reconstruction of House Comullo and its grounds. In its midst, like a gem in a setting, was a Jade Dome the size of a large mellon half.
He inspected it closely, keeping an ear cocked for anyone who might discover him there. The model set forth every room and detail precisely, along with the doorway to the Dome. Here and there were arcane symbols which he knew corresponded to the various glamours and spells of confusion located throughout the place. Racklee’s willingness to work for Willow without pay made distressing sense now; Crassmor hit a fist on the table, for Willow’s insistence on carrying on her pretext of poverty so thoroughly.
The choice of Virtuary for the bringing-together of the hired swords was now even more logical. The compulsion under which they would surely be placed for service to di Cagliostro and the Klybesians could now include exact instructions made possible by the model, glamours or no.
Crassmor cudgeled his brain for an idea. Destroying the model would almost certainly mean his capture and avail nothing; Racklee was present to repair or duplicate it. There seemed no way to steal or otherwise get rid of it. Then a thought came to him and he almost sniggered. Crassmor reached out for, the model…
He heard steps in the corridor and whirled away from the model in alarm. He could see no place to hide. He had taken several paces toward the door when Furd and the young monk entered. Crassmor saw his uncle’s eyes bulge with indignation.
“Out, knave,” the abbot barked, adding, “You were to wait across the hall with your comrades. What are you doing in here?”
Crassmor had his head tilted down and drawn back into his hood once more. His inflection gruff and raspy, he improvised. “Someone told us there is food and drink to be had. I’m hungry.”
Furd snorted, “You’d do well to think on your job, all you hellions, and less on your bellies! Go back; you will eat after certain aspects of your mission are—are made clear to you.”
Crassmor touched a forefinger to the edge of his cowl by way of acknowledgment. “Aye, m’lord.” He shuffled toward the door, waving the hand in a gesture of obedience to block his face. “I go.”
Swift as a snake, Furd seized the hand and held it, to make sure he’d seen the heir’s ring of House Tarrant. Crassmor realized at once the mistake he’d made. The abbot recognized him now; Furd’s vehement outpouring was first of shock and surprise at seeing his nephew still alive, then degenerated to strangled, outraged sounds.
Tugging his hand free, Crassmor spun to confront the monk guide, who hadn’t yet grasped what was going on. The knight struck him a blow to the side of the head with all the strength he could muster. The Klybesian wobbled for a moment; Crassmor dealt him a second.
As the monk collapsed to the floor, Shhing came rasping from its scabbard. Furd, though no man of action, wasn’t slow to save his own skin. He was hurrying around the long table as rapidly as his fleshy frame permitted, bawling for assistance.
Crassmor waved his sword, threatening, “Silence; or I’ll give you some of this!”
He saw that the threat wouldn’t quiet his uncle. All Furd had to do was keep clear of him for a few moments; the alarm would draw help in droves. Bounding over the groaning monk, Crassmor dashed into the corridor. At the far end, Klybesians and some of the hirelings were still arguing over the promised meal. Furd’s commotion had begun to attract their attention, though; the monks broke off and came at a run, all of them wearing the medallions. Weapons appeared among the mercenaries.
In that direction lay the route by which the party had come, the one Crassmor had attempted to memorize. But he had no wish to try his luck among the monks and mercenaries. He turned on his heel and raced off in the opposite direction. He could already hear the clang of a distant gong, proof of the monastery’s elaborate security arrangements. He rounded a corner and darted through a locutorium and the necessarium beyond it, into another corridor, and down the first stairway he came to. He fled three steps at a time. Intermittent window slits gave scarcely adequate light for his descent.
So abruptly that he had no chance to slow, he came upon another man on the steep, winding stair. It was Racklee. The old modeler had heard the knight coming; he’d turned with drawn dagger.
Crassmor had an instant’s glimpse of Racklee’s face, its habitual scowl of bad humor now twisted into surprise and hatred as the old man presumed he was under attack. The knight shifted his sword around in mid-stride, unable to alter course. Largely through luck, he deflected the dagger. Racklee bounced off his shoulder and slammed into the wall.
Crassmor nearly lost his footing. He dropped Shhing, clawing at the wall in a frenzied effort to avert a headlong fall. He went down against the outside wall to roll and thrash to a stop, and immediately began pulling himself up again, hearing his sword bouncing and falling down the steps. He was nearly bowled over again as Racklee, his screams punctuated by the brutal thuds of body on stone, tumbled past. The modeler was lost to sight down the curve of the stair.
Crassmor, regaining his balance, started down again, intent on recovering his sword and escaping. He pulled his parrying dagger and ran as fast as he dared, hating the feeling of being without Shhing. He didn’t hear the ascending footsteps until he was on top of their source.
By wild effort, he jarred to a stop just as a squad of monks appeared around the coiled steps and threw themselves at him. They, too, wore the eye-in-pyramid. He made an off-balance thrust with the dagger, but missed. As he lurched forward, his arm was seized. All went down in a struggling pile, sliding downward to fetch up on a landing.
The knight beat at them and kicked, trying to slash at them. Two monks wrestled his hand around, twisting the weapon from it. The Klybesians grabbed and clutched; once fastened to an arm or leg, they refused to be dislodged despite a broken nose or loosened teeth. No doubt they’re bored with meditation, Crassmor’s brain yammered, and ready for a spot of excitement. They were also calling for aid as loudly as they could. He squirmed around for a better grip on two cassocks.
Summoning all his strength in a surprise move, he rammed two heads together. One monk loosened his grip, but the other somehow persevered. Crassmor struck that one square in the face with an almost freed hand. That one, too, lost his hold. The knight, better trained and more experienced than his antagonists, began to batter and writhe his way clear.
His remaining foes tried to redistribute themselves to forestall him. It was a close contest until reinforcements arrived. Crassmor found himself buried under a hill of cassocks. None of the Klybesians purposely struck him; that wasn’t their way. Yet somehow, restraining him, they managed to cut off his wind effectively enough. Very shortly, things went black.
Chapter 20
BELEAGUERED
The next thing he knew was hearing the sound of voices. He looked up as bodies moved aside—though he was kept well pinned—and a light was brought closer to his face.
“Ah, nephew, you are a trial to me.”
His vision had cleared sufficiently for Crassmor to see Furd hovering over the tangle of Klybesians and knight. Looking back over his shoulder to someone Crassmor couldn’t see, Furd snapped impatiently, “And just where is Brother Tomat, then? Well?” The reply satisfied him, though Crassmor didn’t catch it. Furd grunted and turned back to his immobilized nephew.
Crassmor heaved once, trying in vain to bridge himself on heels and the rough stone floor that abraded his head. “Weight him steady, blessed lads,” Furd encouraged the monks. “See what evidence of evil he carries.” Crassmor’s pouch was taken from him; a small satisfaction was that he’d left Furd’s incriminating letter with Willow.
“Shall we take him up to the mercenaries, Lord Abbot?” ventured one of those not directly involved with the project of holding Crassmor down. “Surely they know how to deal with such a
one.”
Furd rejected the notion with the slash of a fat hand. “The deed might not lie secret with them; those adventurers are all weak and wicked men. And if Combard were to hear—” It came to Crassmor that there was only debate as to means; killing him seemed to be a foregone conclusion. “No, my son,” Furd was saying. “We shall handle this matter in our own manner.”
“The garden maze?” another proposed. “We could set him out there.”
Furd pulled on his lip. “No; this must be confined strictly to those of us who wear the eye. It shall be the catacombs. I’ve already sent for Brother Tomat and the key.”
There were gasps among the monks. Crassmor redoubled his efforts but accomplished nothing, dreading the catacombs of Virtuary without any clear idea what Furd had in mind. There came footsteps, and a jangling of keys.
“And what of poor Racklee here?” someone asked. “He is dead.”
“Two of you take him to my private chambers,” Furd said. “We shall make proper disposition of his mortal remains later.”
Crassmor felt himself lifted up by many hands. “Sprightly, carefully now!” Furd ordered. “Bear him downstairs, holding him fast. Two of you with those torches, go before; two more come behind. One of you fetch along his sword there. We want no trace of him about.” Shhing, lifted from where it had come to rest, chimed softly.
The knight was carried down the spiral stairway headfirst, watching the monks who held him and the ceiling overhead. His objections, pleas, and insults were ignored. In time, a hand clamped across his mouth to silence him. At long last there was a halt, as a key grated in a reluctant lock. Hearing the difficulty with which the door was forced, Crassmor knew that many years had passed since its last use.
