Haplo had no doubt in his mind who would win a contest between the two of them, and he guessed that Alfred didn’t either. But a contest would take time and the fighting magicks generated by these two beings—the closest beings to gods the mensch would ever know—would proclaim their presence to everyone within eyesight and earshot.
Besides, on reflection, Haplo didn’t particularly want to leave the Sartan on his ship. The dog would prevent Alfred from breathing, if Haplo ordered it. But the Patryn hadn’t liked the Sartan’s reference to the animal. I know about the dog, he’d said. What did he know? What was there to know? The dog was a dog. Nothing more, except that the animal had once saved Haplo’s life.
The Patryn docked the ship at the silent, empty pier. He kept close watch, more than half-expecting some type of welcome—an official demanding to know their business, an idle straggler, watching their arrival out of curiosity.
No one appeared. Haplo knew little of wharves or shipyards but he took this as a bad sign. Either everyone was fast asleep and completely uninterested in what was happening at their docks or the town was, as Alfred had said, deserted. And towns that were deserted were generally deserted for a reason and that reason was generally not good.
Once the ship was moored, Haplo deactivated the steering stone, placed it once more on its pedestal, its glowing runes extinguished. He began to prepare to disembark. Rummaging in his supplies, he found a roll of plain linen cloth and wound it carefully around his hands and wrists, covering and concealing the runes tattooed on the skin.
The same runes were tattooed over most of his body. He kept himself covered with heavy clothing—a long-sleeved shirt, a leather vest, leather trousers tucked into tall leather boots, a scarf tied close around his neck. No sigla adorned the grim, square-jawed, cleanshaven face, no runes appeared on the palms of the hands or the fingers or the soles of his feet. The rune-magic might interfere with the mental processes and those of the senses: touch, sight, smell, hearing.
“I’m curious,” said Alfred, watching the proceedings with interest. “Why do you bother to disguise yourself? It’s been centuries since ... since ...” he faltered, not certain where to go from here.
“Since you threw us in that torture chamber you called a prison?” Haplo finished, glancing at Alfred coolly.
The Sartan’s head bowed. “I didn’t realize ... I didn’t understand. Now, I do. I’m sorry.”
“Understand? How could you possibly understand unless you’ve been there?” Haplo paused, wondering again, uncomfortably, where Alfred had spent his journey through Death’s Gate. “You’ll be sorry, all right, Sartan. We’ll see how long you last in the Labyrinth. And to answer your question, I disguise myself because there could be people out there—like yourself, for example—who remember the Patryns. My Lord does not want anyone to remember—not yet, at least.”
“There are those such as myself, who would remember and try to stop you. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?” Alfred sighed. “I cannot stop you. I am one. You, from what I gather, are many. You didn’t find any trace of my people alive on Pryan, did you?”
Haplo looked at the man sharply, suspecting some sort of trick, though he couldn’t imagine what. He had a sudden vision of those rows of tombs, of the young, dead corpses. He guessed at the desperate search that had taken Alfred to every part of Arianus—from the high realms of the self-accursed wizards to the lowly realms of the slavelike Gegs. He experienced the terrible grief of coming to realize, finally, that he alone had survived, his race and all its dreams and plans were dead.
What had gone wrong? How could godlike beings have dwindled, vanished? And if such a disaster could happen to the Sartan, could it also happen to us?
Angry, Haplo shrugged off the thought. The Patryns had survived a land determined to slaughter them—proof that they had been right all along. They were the strongest, the most intelligent, the fittest to rule.
“I found no trace of the Sartan on Pryan,” Haplo said, “except a city that they’d built.”
“A city?” Alfred looked hopeful.
“Abandoned. Long ago. A message they left behind said something about some type of force driving them out.”
Alfred appeared bewildered. “But that’s impossible. What type of force could it have been? There is no force, except perhaps your own, that could destroy or even intimidate us.”
Haplo wound the bandages around his right hand, glanced at the Sartan from beneath lowered brows. He seemed to be sincere, but Haplo had journeyed with Alfred in Arianus. The Sartan wasn’t as simpleminded as he appeared. Alfred had discovered Haplo to be a Patryn long before Haplo had discovered Alfred to be a Sartan.
If he did know anything about such a force, he wasn’t talking. The Lord of the Nexus would have it out of him, however.
Haplo tucked the ends of the bandages neatly beneath the shirt cuffs and whistled to the dog, who leapt eagerly to its feet.
“Are you ready, Sartan?”
Alfred blinked in surprise. “Yes, I’m ready. And, since we’re speaking the human language, it might be better if you called me by my name instead of ‘Sartan.’ ”
“Hell, I don’t even call the dog by name and that animal means a lot more to me than you do.”
“There might be those who remember the Sartan, as well as the Patryns.”
Haplo gnawed his lower lip, conceded that the man had a point. “Very well, ‘Alfred.’ ” He managed to make it sound insulting. “Although that’s not your real name, is it?”
“No. It’s one I adopted. Unlike yours, my true name would sound very strange to the mensch.”
“What is your real name? Your Sartan name? If you’re wondering, I can speak your language—although I don’t like to.”
Alfred drew himself straighten “If you speak our language, you know then that to speak our names is to speak the runes and draw on the power of the runes. Therefore, our true names are known only to ourselves and to those who love us. A Sartan’s name can be spoken only by another Sartan.
“Just as your name”—Alfred raised a delicate finger, pointed suddenly at Haplo’s breast—“is marked on your skin and may be read only by those whom you love and trust. You see, I also speak your language. Although I don’t like to.”
“Love!” Haplo snorted. “We don’t love anyone. Love is the greatest danger there is in the Labyrinth, since whatever you love is certain to die. As for trust, we had to learn it. Your prison taught us that much. We had to trust each other, because that was the only way we could survive. And speaking of survival, you might want to make certain I stay healthy, unless you think you can pilot this ship back through Death’s Gate yourself.”
“And what happens if my survival depends on you?”
“Oh, I’ll see that you survive, all right. Not that you’ll thank me for it later.”
Alfred looked at the steering stone, the sigla etched on it. He would recognize each sigla, but they were arranged in far different patterns from those he knew. Elven and human languages use the same letters of the alphabet, yet the languages are vastly dissimilar. And although he might be able to speak the Patryn language, Haplo was certain the Sartan couldn’t work the Patryn magic.
“No, I’m afraid I couldn’t manage steering this ship,” Alfred said.
Haplo laughed briefly, derisively, started for the door, then stopped. Turning, he held up a warning hand.
“Don’t try that fainting trick with me. I warn you! I can’t be responsible for what happens if you pass out.”
Alfred shook his head. “I can’t control the fainting spells, I’m afraid. Oh, in the beginning I could. I used it to disguise my magic, like those bandages you wear. What else could I do? I could no more reveal I was a demigod than you could! Everyone would have wanted to use me. Greedy men demanding I give them wealth. Elves demanding I kill the humans. Humans demanding I rid them of the elves ...”
“And so you fainted.”
“I was beset by robbers.” Alfred lifted
his hands, looked down at them. “I could have obliterated them with a word. I could have turned them to solid stone. I could have melted their feet to the pavement. I could have charmed them utterly ... and left my mark indelibly on the world. I was frightened—not of them, but of what I had the power to do to them. My mental turmoil and anguish was too great for my mind to bear. When I came to myself, I knew how I had solved the dilemma. I had simply fainted dead away. They took what they wanted and left me alone. And now I can’t control the spells. They simply ... happen.”
“You can control it. You just don’t want to. It’s become an easy way out.” The Patryn pointed over the ship’s hull to the blazing lava sea, burning bright around them. “But if you faint and fall into a puddle in this world, that fainting spell’s liable to be your last!
“Let’s go, dog. You, too, Alfred.”
CHAPTER 11
SAFE HARBOR, ABARRACH
[HAPLO] LEFT THE SHIP moored at the dock, its magic keeping it afloat in the air above the magma flow. He was not concerned over anything happening to the vessel, runes of protection guarded it better than he could have guarded it in person, would permit no one to enter in his absence. Not that this appeared likely. No one approached the ship, no dock authority demanded to know their business, no hucksters swarmed over to push their wares, no sailors lounged about, idly eyeing the cut of their jib.
The dog leapt from the deck to the pier below. Haplo followed, landing almost as silently and lightly as the animal. Alfred remained on deck, dithering nervously, pacing back and forth.
Haplo, exasperated, was on the point of leaving the man when suddenly, with desperate courage, Alfred launched himself into the air, arms and legs flailing, and landed in a confused heap on the rock pier. It took him several moments to sort himself out, looking for all the world as if he were endeavoring to decide which limb went where and making mistakes as he went along. Haplo watched, half-amused, wholly irritated, inclined to assist the clumsy Sartan simply to expedite their progress. Alfred at last pulled himself together, discovered no bones were broken, and fell into step beside Haplo and the dog.
They wandered slowly down the pier, Haplo taking his time investigating. He stopped once to stare closely at several bales stacked on the docks. The dog sniffed around them. Alfred gazed at them curiously.
“What are they, do you think?”
“Raw material of some sort,” Haplo answered, touching it gingerly. “Fibrous, soft. Might be used for making cloth. I—” He paused, leaned closer to the bale, almost as if he were sniffing it, like his dog. He straightened, pointed. “What do you make of that?”
Alfred appeared rather startled at being thus addressed, but he leaned down, squinting his mild eyes and peering distractedly. “What? I can’t—”
“Look closely. Those marks on the sides of the bales.”
Alfred thrust his nose nearly into the product, gave a start, paled slightly, and drew back.
“Well?” Haplo demanded.
“I ... can’t be sure.”
“The hell you can’t.”
“The markings are smudged, difficult to read.”
Haplo shook his head, and walked on, whistling to the dog, who thought it had found a rat and was pawing frantically at the bottom of a bale.
The town of obsidian was silent, the silence was ominous and oppressive. No heads peered out of the windows, no children ran through the streets. Yet it had obviously once been filled with life, as impossible as that might seem, so near the magma sea whose heat and fumes must kill any ordinary mortal.
Ordinary mortals. Not demigods.
Haplo continued his scrutiny of the various goods and bundles piled up on the pier. Occasionally, he paused and shot a closer glance at one and when he did this, he often pointed it out silently to Alfred, who would look at it, look at Haplo, and shrug his stooped shoulders in perplexity.
The two moved into the town proper. No one hailed them, greeted them, threatened them. Haplo was certain, now, that no one would. The pricking of certain runes on his skin would have alerted him to the presence of anything living; his magic was doing nothing more than keeping his body cool and filtering out harmful properties in the air. Alfred appeared nervous—but then Alfred would have appeared nervous walking into a children’s nursery.
Two questions were on Haplo’s mind: Who had been here and why weren’t they here any longer?
The town itself was a collection of buildings carved of the black rock, fronting a single street. One building, standing almost directly opposite the pier, boasted thick-paned, crude glass windows. Haplo looked inside. Several globes of soft, warm light ranged around the walls, illuminating a large common room filled with tables and chairs. Perhaps an inn.
The inn’s door was woven out of a heavy, coarse, grasslike substance, similar to hemp. The fiber had then been coated with a thick, glossy resin that made it smooth and impervious to weather. The door stood partially ajar, not in welcome, but as if the owner had left in such haste he’d neglected to shut it.
Haplo was about to step inside and investigate when a mark on the door caught his attention. He stared at it, the doubt in his mind hardening into finality. He said nothing, his finger jabbed at the door, at the mark on the door.
“Yes,” said Alfred quietly, “a rune structure.”
“A Sartan rune structure,” Haplo corrected, his voice grating harshly.
“A corrupted Sartan rune, or perhaps altered would be a better choice of words. I couldn’t speak it, nor use it.” Head bobbing, shoulders hunched, Alfred looked singularly like a turtle, emerging from its shell. “And I can’t explain it.”
“It’s the same as those marks we saw on the bales.”
“I don’t know how you can tell.” Alfred wouldn’t commit himself. “Those were almost worn off.”
Haplo’s mind went back to Pryan, to the Sartan city he’d discovered. He’d seen runes there as well, but not on the inns. The inns of Pryan hung out signs of welcome in human, elven, dwarven. He recalled, too, that the dwarf—what had been that fellow’s name?—had known something of the rune magic, but only in a crude and childlike fashion. Any three-year-old Sartan could have bettered the Pryan dwarf in a rune-scrying contest.
This rune structure may have been corrupted, but it was sophisticated, runes of protection for the inn, runes of blessing for those who entered. At last, Haplo had found what he had been seeking, what he had been dreading to find—the enemy. And, if he was to judge by appearance, he was standing in an entire civilization of them.
Great. Just great.
Haplo entered the inn, booted feet padding softly across the carpeted floor.
Alfred crept along behind, looked about in amazement. “Whoever was here certainly left in a hurry!”
Haplo was in a bad mood, not inclined for conversation. He continued his investigation in silence. He examined the lamps, was surprised to see that they had no wicks. A jet of air flowed from a small pipe in the wall. The flame burned off the air. Haplo blew out the flame, sniffed, and wrinkled his nose. Breathe that too long without benefit of magic and you’d quietly cease to breathe.
Haplo heard a noise, glanced around. Alfred had automatically and without thinking carefully righted an overturned chair. The dog sniffed a hunk of meat left lying on the floor.
And all around the Patryn, everywhere he turned his glance, were Sartan runes.
“Your people haven’t been gone long,” he observed, noting the bitterness in his voice, hoping it covered the crawling, twisting knot of fear, of anger, of despair.
“Don’t call them that!” Alfred protested. Was he trying hard not to build his hopes too high? Or did he sound as frightened as Haplo? “There’s no other evidence—”
“Like hell! Could humans, no matter how advanced in magic, live long in this poisonous atmosphere? Could elves? Dwarves? No! The only people who could survive are your people.”
“Or yours!” Alfred pointed out.
“Yeah, well, we
all know that’s not possible!”
“We don’t know anything. Mensch might live here. Over time, they might have adapted ...”
Haplo turned away, sorry he’d brought it up. “It’s no use speculating. We’ll probably find out soon enough. These people, whoever they are, haven’t been gone long.”
“How can you tell?”
In answer, the Patryn held up a loaf of bread he’d just broken. “Stale on the outside,” Haplo said, poking at it. “Soft in the center. If it’d been left out long, it would be stale all the way through. And no one bothered to put runes of preservation on it, so they expected to eat it, not store it.”
“I see.” Alfred was admiring. “I never would have noticed.”
“You learn to notice, in the Labyrinth. Those who don’t, don’t survive.”
The Sartan, uncomfortable, changed the subject. “Why do you think they left?”
“My guess is war,” Haplo answered, lifting a filled wineglass. He sniffed at the contents. The stuff smelled awful.
“War!” Alfred’s shocked tone brought the Patryn immediately to attention.
“Yes, come to think of it, that is odd, isn’t it? You people pride yourselves on peaceful solutions to problems, don’t you? But”—he shrugged—“it sure looks that way to me.”
“I don’t understand—”
Haplo waved an impatient hand. “The door standing ajar, chairs overturned, food left uneaten, not a ship in the harbor.”
“I’m afraid I still don’t understand.”
“A person who leaves his property expecting to come back generally shuts his door and locks it, to keep that property safe until his return. A person who flees his property in fear for his life just leaves. Then, too, these people fled in the middle of a meal, leaving ordinarily portable goods behind them—plates, cutlery, pitchers, bottles—full bottles at that. I’ll wager that if you went upstairs, you’d find most of their clothes still in their rooms. They were warned of danger, and they got the hell out of here.”
Death Gate Cycle 3 - Fire Sea Page 9
