Pug retreated.
He could see the caravan wending its way along the Hall of Worlds and knew from experience that anything was possible here. The Hall was the great thoroughfare between worlds, a place where a mortal man could walk between planets if he knew the way and possessed the necessary skills, or power, to survive. He glanced at the doors nearest his position, but none offered a convenient place into which he could vanish. Two led into worlds he knew were inimical to human existence, with poisonous atmospheres and crushing gravity, and the other two led to very public places of disembarkation. Unfortunately he lacked the means to anticipate local time for places where appearing in the public square at noon was a bad idea.
He had no choice but to stand his ground, for advance guards had already espied him and were hurrying forward, weapons drawn, in case he was some sort of threat—which he would be should they give him cause.
The guards were human, or at least appeared to be from a distance, and they came to a position about halfway between Pug and the lead wagon—pulled by something that looked somewhat like a purple needra, the six-legged beast of burden familiar to Pug from his years on Kelewan. Four guards were dressed in plain grey uniforms, with small turbans of the same color, their only armor golden-colored chest plates. They bore black shields and wicked-looking scimitars. Two of the guards carried some sort of projectile weapon, Pug judged, for they pointed long cylindrical tubes mounted on shoulder stocks at him.
Pug stood his ground.
After a moment in which neither side made a move, a short man dressed in light blue robes and a white turban came forward and stood behind the guards. He looked at Pug then called out a question.
Pug did not understand the language. The Hall of Worlds apparently gave access to and from every planet in the universe, or at least that was the theory. No one had ever found the end of the Hall and news of new worlds being found was constantly filtering back to Honest John’s, Pug’s intended destination. As a result, denizens of hundreds of thousands of nations could be encountered, all speaking different languages.
There were basically three types of individual one encountered in the Hall of Worlds, denizens, sojourners, and the lost. The last were hapless souls who had somehow blundered into an entrance to the Hall on their homeworlds, lacking any knowledge of what had happened to them, or how to return. Often they were victims for the more predatory inhabitants of the Hall. Most who traveled the Hall were, like Pug, sojourners: merely using it as a means of quick access across a vast distance. But an entire culture had arisen in the Hall formed by those who chose to live in it. These were not just humans but all manner of intelligent species, and they had developed, if not rules, then conventions.
One of these conventions was the Trading Tongue. Pug spoke that language with some skill and he answered in that: “Could you repeat your question, please?”
The little man glanced back at a figure sitting on top of the first wagon, then returned his attention to Pug. “I asked,” he began in the Trading Tongue, “where are you going?”
Pug pointed ahead. “That way.”
The little man looked perplexed, then said, “Where are you from?”
Pug pointed back over his left shoulder with his right hand. “That way.”
“What is your business?” demanded the little man.
Pug was growing weary of the exchange. He was only five doorways away from the closest entrance to Honest John’s and he was impatient to be on his way. Trying his best to hide his annoyance, he answered, “My own.”
“You walk the Halls alone, yet I see no weapons. You are either a man of great power or a fool.”
Pug stepped forward, and the guards’ weapons rose slightly. “I have no need of weapons. Now, do you intend to bar my passage?”
“My master seeks only to ensure we move among one another with the least amount of difficulty,” answered the little man with a toothy grin.
Pug nodded. Sweeping his hand across his chest, he said, “Then go that way, and I shall go this way.”
“How are we to know you will not turn and attack us once we’ve let you pass?”
Pug let out a breath of exasperation. “That’s enough.” He waved his hand and a ripple that was visible in the air swept forward, knocking the six guards and the little man over. He started to walk past when one of the guards leaped to his feet, drew back his sword, and struck downward. Pug raised his hand and the sword struck an invisible barrier that sent a shock up the guard’s arm as if he had struck a bar of iron.
One of the men holding the tube device pointed it and released a mechanism, sending a rapidly expanding net at Pug. He had expected a missile of some type and the netting caught him by surprise. Suddenly entangled, he had to pause long enough for other guards to reach him. He closed his eyes and used the transporting skill Miranda had taught him, coupled with what he had learned years before from the Tsurani Great Ones, and picked a place on the floor a dozen paces farther along the Hall. One moment he was entangled in the net with a half-dozen guards attempting to pull him to the ground, and the next he stood twelve paces away looking at the confusion.
Pug turned to the obvious master of the caravan, a richly dressed fat man sitting atop the lead wagon who blinked in astonishment as Pug walked toward him, and said, “If you would rather I reduce you to smoking ash, I can do that.”
“No!” shouted the man, holding up his hands in supplication. “Do us no harm, stranger!”
“Do you no harm?” asked Pug in an exasperated tone. “I’m just trying to walk that way.” He pointed. “What’s the boggle?”
Seeing that the robed man was not continuing the attack, the caravan master lowered his hands and said, “My agent acted, perhaps, in haste. He shall be rebuked. He sought, perhaps, another item of merchandise, thinking you, perhaps, of some value.”
Dryly, Pug said, “Perhaps.” He looked down the length of the caravan, a dozen wagons and a line of individuals following them. “You’re a slaver?”
“Only in the sense, perhaps, you might say…yes.” He spread his hands palms up and then said, “But it is a minor sideline, perhaps a source of some small income, but not my major trade.”
“And that would be?” asked Pug. He disliked slavers, having spent four years as a slave on the Tsurani world before his magical ability had been detected. But there was an unwritten law in the Hall that you troubled no man’s trade without cause. Granted, he had been attacked, but from any slaver espying an unaccompanied individual in the Hall, it was only to be expected.
The man said, “I deal in items of rare antiquity, unique magical devices, and holy relics. Perhaps you are seeking something of the sort?”
“Some other time. I must be off,” said Pug. He looked at the fat trader consideringly. “But you might be able to sell me some information.”
Putting his right hand over his heart, the man smiled, bowed, and said, “Perhaps.”
“Have you traded with anyone who knew the way to the second plane?”
The man’s face became a mask of confusion. “Perhaps I do not speak the Trading Tongue adeptly enough, stranger. The second plane?”
“The second circle. The second realm. That which lies below?”
The man’s eyes widened. “You are mad, but if such a one exists, seek him at John’s Without Reproach. Ask for Vordam of the Ipiliac.”
Pug bowed slightly. “I was going to John, but thank you for the name.”
“Perhaps we shall meet again…?”
“Pug of Midkemia. Also called Milamber of Kelewan.”
“I am Tosan Beada. Of the Dubengee. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”
“Sorry,” said Pug, as he resumed his walk. “Good trading, Tosan Beada of the Dubengee.”
“Good traveling, Pug of Midkemia also called Milamber of Kelewan,” answered the trader.
Pug gave scant attention to the wagons and forced himself to ignore the slaves. At least fifty were chained together in a coffle, looking universall
y miserable. Most were human, and the rest were sufficiently humanlike to be able to move as one with the humans as they marched. Pug could have freed them, but at what cost to his scant time? And what would he do with them? Most would have only the local name for their world, and the chances were good that none would have even the remotest idea of where their homeworld’s door would be found. Pug had learned a long time ago that when entering the Hall, it was best to leave all ethical and moral imperatives at home.
Pug easily reached the nearby entrance to Honest John’s. He hesitated for an instant, for no matter how many times before he had done this, stepping off the Hall floor between doors always gave him a second of near-panic. He recognized the glyphs above the doors on either side and knew he was in the right location. Still, no one knew what happened if one stepped off between doors—no one had ever done so and returned to talk about it. He ignored the sudden twinge in his stomach and stepped down, as if descending a staircase.
Suddenly he was in an entryway, a small room with a false door behind it. He knew the door was only painted on the wall, but it served to reassure a certain percentage of the clientele at Honest John’s.
A large creature, around nine feet in height, looked down at him with enormous blue eyes. It was covered in white fur and bore a slight resemblance to an ape, save for the face, which was more canine in appearance than anything else. Black patches on the fur would have given the creature an almost jolly appearance, if it wasn’t for its huge claws and teeth…“Weapons?” asked the Coropaban.
“One,” said Pug, producing the dagger he had secreted in his robe. He handed it over and the creature motioned for Pug to enter. Pug stepped into Honest John’s.
The saloon was immense: more than two hundred yards across, and a quarter mile deep. Along the right wall ran a single bar, with a score of barmen. A pair of galleries, one above the other, overhung the other three sides of the hall. The galleries were cluttered with tables and chairs, offering vantage points from which those above could gaze down upon the main floor.
There, every imaginable game of chance was under way, from cards to dice to games involving wheels and numbers; there was even a small sandpit for athletic contests and duels. The customers were of every race and species Pug had ever encountered, and any number that were new to him. Most were bipedal, though a few had more limbs than usual, including one creature that looked oddly like a man-sized, skinny dragon with human hands at the end of its wing tips. The serving staff hurried through the throng bearing trays covered with a variety of pots, platters, cups, buckets, and bowls.
Pug wended his way through the press and found the inn’s proprietor at his usual table. John of Unquestioned Ethics, as he was known on the world of Cynosure, sat at a table by the near end of the bar which provided him with an excellent view of the entrance. Seeing Pug approach, John stood up. His face was unremarkable: brown eyes, an average nose, and a gambler’s smile. He was wearing a suit of shining black cloth. The trousers broke without cuffs at the top of shiny black boots with pointed toes. The jacket was open at the front, revealing a white shirt with ruffles, closed by pearl studs and sporting a pointed collar, set off by a purple cravat. This ensemble was topped by a wide-brimmed white hat with a shimmering red silk hatband.
He extended his hand. “Pug! Always a pleasure.” He glanced past him. “Miranda not with you?” They shook hands and he indicated that Pug should take the seat opposite him.
“No,” said Pug, taking the seat offered. “She has other business occupying her at the moment.”
“It’s been a while.”
“As always,” said Pug, sharing the joke. Time didn’t pass in Honest John’s. Those who resided in the Hall were somehow spared the ravages of time’s passage. In this place without days, weeks, months, or years, time was measured in hours, one passing after another, endlessly. Pug wagered that John had the means to tell him exactly how long it had been since Pug’s last visit, but he suspected it had nothing to do with the man’s memory.
“It’s not that I’m unhappy to see you again, but I suspect there’s a purpose to your visit. How may I be of service?”
“I seek a guide.”
John nodded. “There are any number of competent guides in my establishment as we speak, and a far greater number who could be here swiftly if I summon them, but which is appropriate to your needs is determined by one question: where do you want to go?”
“The Dasati homeworld, in the second realm,” Pug said.
John was a man of ageless experience. He had heard almost everything imaginable during his years in the Hall. For the first time, he sat speechless.
Miranda walked slowly beside an elderly man in a black robe through the garden on the south side of the great Tsurani Assembly of Magicians. It was a beautiful afternoon with a light breeze coming down from the distant mountains to the north, tempering the usually hot Tsurani day.
The massive Assembly building rose up to dominate the island, but the shore across the lake had been left untouched and provided a soothing vista for Miranda’s troubled mind. She hated it when Pug was absent.
The elderly magician said, “As happy as I am to see you, Miranda, you’ll understand that many of my brethren are still…”
“Old-fashioned?”
“I was going to say ‘traditionalists.’”
“In other words they dislike taking advice from a woman.”
“Something like that,” said Alenca, the most senior member of the Assembly of Magicians. “We Tsurani have endured a lot of change in the last century starting, coincidentally, with our first encounter with your homeworld; and yet more thrust upon us by your husband, but we are still a hidebound bunch.” The old man’s face was a collection of crags and ridges, lines and age spots, and only the wispiest echo of white hair graced his pate, but his eyes were a vivid blue and sparkled when he talked. Miranda liked him a great deal.
“This business with the Talnoy has become something of a bone of contention between various groups among us, and word of it has made it all the way to the Imperial Throne in the Holy City.”
“Someone’s tattled to the Emperor?” Miranda raised an eyebrow.
The old magician waved a dismissive hand. “With something as potentially dangerous as the Talnoy on this island, you didn’t think it was going to remain a secret from the Emperor for long, did you? Remember, our first mandate is still to serve the Empire.”
Miranda looked out across the garden at the still waters of the lake. “I am not surprised, really. My reason for being here is to see if you’ve made any progress.”
“I assume then that Milamber and Magnus are away on some business that prevents them from coming themselves?”
Dryly, Miranda said, “You forgot to mention Nakor.”
The old man laughed. “That fellow amuses me no end.” He took a deep breath. “I believe he may know more about the Greater Art than I do, though he insists there is no such thing as magic and we all do…tricks.”
“Nakor is a constant source of amusement, yes, but let us go back to the topic at hand: has the Emperor made any comment about the Talnoy?”
“Other than wanting it gone from our world, no.”
Miranda crossed her arms even though the breeze off the lake was warm. “Has he made that a command?”
“Had it been, the Talnoy would have been returned to you already,” said Alenca. He rubbed his hands together as if in anticipation of a task. “Many of our brethren are convinced we are at an impasse, and the rising occurrences of random rifts are a cause for concern. One of us is already dead as a result of one.”
Miranda nodded. “Pug told me: Macalathana. But I don’t know what happened.”
“Some little creature or another came through and, as I understand it, exploded! If you can believe that.”
“I can believe a lot.”
“Wyntakata, who was with him, was so distraught that he retired to his estates in Ambolena for nearly a month before returning to us.�
� Lowering his voice, Alenca added, “He hasn’t seemed quite right since then, if you ask me.”
“Is the Assembly going to request we remove the Talnoy?”
“If you can’t work out a way to stop these damned rifts, yes,” said Alenca.
Miranda was silent for a moment. She had only visited Kelewan and had no particular affection for it: the men were too stiff-necked in their attitude toward women—especially those who wielded magic—the weather was always too hot, and the cities were too crowded. She gazed out across the lake to the distant shore and majestic peaks of mountains—the High Wall—beyond. On the other hand, she had to admit that the landscape was magnificent. After a long moment of contemplation, she asked, “How long was the Talnoy here before the reports of rifts began to reach you?”
“Why, several months, I believe.”
“Then we should take the Talnoy back to Sorcerer’s Isle,” said Miranda.
“Why?” asked Alenca.
“Because the rifts are either following the Talnoy to this world for some natural reason; or some intelligence is manipulating it. If there is some intelligence behind it, it may take months for it to find the Talnoy back on Midkemia.” She looked at Alenca. “I wonder if we might just drop it on some uninhabited world Pug knows of, and study it there.”
Since this seemed to be a rhetorical question, Alenca did not comment.
“You said one of your members was destroyed by a creature exploding. Pug was vague on the details; what can you tell me?”
From behind them a voice spoke. “Better I tell you, Miranda.”
Miranda turned to see a stocky man in a black robe, carrying a staff—which was unusual for a Tsurani Great One—approaching across the garden. He had obviously overheard some of the conversation as he neared. Miranda didn’t recognize him, but the man said, “It is good to see you.”
“Have we met?” she asked. She was not in the habit of using the honorific “Great One,” as was common in this society, since she was also a magic-user of great skill.
The man hesitated only for a second; then he smiled. He wore his grey-shot black hair unusually long, almost to his shoulders, and his face was cleanly shaven in the Tsurani fashion. “No, I believe we have not, but your reputation precedes you. Perhaps it would have been better if I had said, ‘It is good to meet you.’” He inclined his head, slightly, in deference. “I am Wyntakata. I was witness to Macalathana’s death.”
Into a Dark Realm: Book Two of the Darkwar Saga Page 9
