Mountain of Black Glass

by Tad Williams

  "The Grand River Stairs," the monk announced. "It is shocking how long it has been since I have visited this."

  Renie saw that the broad landing did indeed mark the bottom of an immense staircase whose shadowed interior wound up and away from the river. The more recent structures on either side of it, slapdash constructions of wood and rough stone, almost swallowed the splendor of the stairs.

  "But . . . but people have built all over it," said Renie, surprised. "Look, they've even built little huts on the stairway itself."

  Brother Factum Quintus goggled at her shrewdly, and for a moment a look of amusement quirked his angular, ugly face. "And who is to prevent them?" he asked mildly. "The House is for those who live in it, surely. Surely. The Builders, if such exist, have never protested against later residents."

  "But you love old things. Doesn't it make you sad to see them built over like this?" Renie was missing something, but she couldn't tell what. "Shouldn't it be . . . preserved or something?"

  The monk nodded. "In an ideal House, we brethren would perhaps pick and choose where people could live. Yes, preserving the finest sites for study." He appeared to consider it for a moment. "But perhaps that in itself would lead to abuses—only the House itself is perfect, while men are fallible."

  A little chastened, Renie could only lower her head and follow as Factum Quintus led them up the stairs, which were grossly narrowed by various flimsy constructions secured to the walls and the sweeping marble banisters. Only a few of these hovels were obviously occupied, but Renie could see lights and hear voices in the depths of the pile. It was something like a colony of coral, she thought. Or, to give it a more human shape, like one of the shantytowns or honeycombs of Durban.

  People will find a place to live, she thought, and that's all there is to it.

  The stairway dwellings became more infrequent as they climbed, and by the time they had mounted what Renie guessed to be three or four tall stories, the stairwell was pristine. The carvings now revealed were splendid, like something out of a Baroque church, although only a fraction were of things Renie could identify—human shapes, but other less familiar forms as well, and many objects whose models she could only guess.

  "Who made this?" she asked.

  Factum Quintus was clearly happy with the question. "Ah. Yes, well, I know there are many who believe this to be the actual work of the Builders themselves, but that is an old wives' tale. The House is full of such nonsense. The stairwell is ancient, of course—dating perhaps as far back as the First Crockery Wars or earlier—but certainly it was created within recorded history." He pointed at the balustrade. "See? There was gilt there once. Long gone, of course, long gone. Scavenged and melted down for coins or jewelry, no doubt. But the earliest building we know of happened long before such decoration. Ages ago. All stone it was, quarried blocks, joined without mortar—fascinating stuff. . . ." And with that he was off again on another discursive ramble, rattling off facts about the House as Renie and the others trudged after him up the stairs.

  The morning turned into afternoon. Although they eventually left the great staircase behind, it was not before they had climbed much farther than the few stories Factum Quintus had implied. Renie found both her spirits and her feet dragging. Only !Xabbu, with his quadrupedal advantage, seemed to find the climbing and walking easy.

  Florimel still traveled with the air of one prepared to be sprung upon at any moment, although the feeling she and Renie shared had eased. T4b and Emily followed close behind her. The youthful pair had spent much of the day in quiet conversation. Emily's initial antipathy to the boy seemed to have eased considerably, and Renie wondered how long it would be until they were, in the old-fashioned phrase, "going steady," whatever that might mean in this bizarre universe, in this bizarre situation. She found herself missing Orlando and Fredericks, the other two teenagers, and wondered where they were, if they were even alive. It was a shame that Orlando, with the illness Fredericks had described, was missing out on this small chance for romance, since Emily certainly seemed ripe for some kind of relationship.

  Her brother Stephen's small face and insolent grin suddenly came to her thoughts, bringing with it a pang of sorrow. Unless something changed dramatically, Stephen wouldn't even get the chance to be a teenager. He would never fall in love, never experience the joys and sorrows it brought, nor any of the other bittersweet pleasures of adulthood.

  Renie could feel tears forming and overspilling. She reached up quickly to wipe them away before any of the others noticed.

  "The Campanile of the Six Pigs is just a few stories above us now," Factum Quintus announced. He had halted the group in a great circular gallery whose wall was entirely covered by a single faded mural, figures being born out of clouds and flashing sun, striving and gesticulating in great muddled figure-groupings before being subsumed into the cloudstuff as the curving picture began again. "We should pause and rest, because there is one last climb. Very nice balusters coming, by the way." He looked around the group; his large eyes were wide, as though he still could not quite believe the company he was forced to keep. "And perhaps you would like to discuss strategy, hmmm? Something like that?" He spread his robe and sat, folding his long legs beneath him like a piece of campground furniture.

  Not being able to talk to !Xabbu was beginning to chafe, and Renie particularly did not want to plan an assault on the Quan Li thing without his input. She looked at her friend helplessly. He stared back, his distress mutely obvious.

  "One other matter," began Factum Quintus as the others slumped to the ancient carpet, which had been bleached to nearly nothing over the years by the sun that angled in through the gallery's high windows, so that its design was now little more than a pastel swirl. "Oh, mark that," he suddenly said, distracted by the base of the wall. "A figured plaster skirting. I have never seen that noted in any of the designs. And clearly added on later, too. I shall have quite a laugh at Factum Tertius. . . ."

  "You said 'one other thing'?" Renie tried to keep her voice pleasant, but her patience was rubbing thin. For one thing, she was worried about them chattering on like a picnic party when the Quan Li thing might be close by. "One other thing?" she prompted.

  "Ah. Yes." The monk steepled his fingers on his knees. "I suspect that the ape can talk, and if it is staying silent for my benefit, there is no need."

  Renie was stunned, but managed to say, "Baboon. He's a baboon. They're monkeys." What she really wanted to say was that !Xabbu was a man and a very fine one at that, but she had not lost all her caution. "Why do you think such a thing?"

  "Monkey, ape. . . ." Factum Quintus shrugged. "I have watched you passing significant glances all afternoon. It is like watching the two lovers whose tongues have been cut out in that play . . . what was it?" He frowned. "Love's Larder Lessened, something like that, an old Kitchen melodrama—very popular with the Market crowd. . . ."

  !Xabbu sat up on his haunches. "You are right, Brother," he announced. "What do you intend to do about it?"

  "Do?" Factum Quintus seemed to think the question stranger than !Xabbu's human voice. "What should I do? Is it heretical for monkeys to speak where you come from? Is that why you have run away?" He smiled. There was more than a trace of self-satisfaction. "Because it is as clear as a glazier's dream that you are from some very distant part of the House. Hmmm. Perhaps even from one of the wild Preserves that legends tell of, the huge gardens wide as entire wings. Yes, indeed. Perhaps you have never even seen the interior of the House before, eh?"

  Florimel stirred nervously. "What makes you say these things?"

  "It is as clear as a . . . it is obvious. Things you say. Questions you ask. But it means nothing to me. Primoris has sent me to help you. There are many marvelous sights to see. If you were some demon creature from another House entirely, I would not care as long as you offered me no harm, and did not molest the wallpaper or chip the pilasters."

  They had underestimated him, Renie realized. Although it made her nervous to se
e how easily they had been recognized as foreigners, it also gave her a little hope for their own quest as well. Brother Factum Quintus was not quite the idiot savant she had assumed; perhaps he would indeed help them find Martine, and even be some use getting her free again.

  Silence fell in the wake of these revelations, but it did not last long. Factum Quintus stood, a process similar to a marionette being jerked upright. "I will explore the Campanile while you plan your strategies." he said.

  "You?" Florimel asked suspiciously. "Why?"

  "Because I am the only one your kidnapper does not know," he said. "Yes, that is right. I do not think I have ever met any of the dusting acolytes—we use more experienced hands in the crypts. Wouldn't trust the small ones among the parchments, do you see?" He shook his head; clearly it was a grim thought. "So if I happen to come across this . . . person you seek, I have a chance of being allowed to walk away. Everyone in the Library knows Brother Factum Quintus is mad for old structures. They're right, of course." His smile was crooked.

  Renie found herself unexpectedly moved. "Be careful. He . . . he is small, but very, very dangerous—a killer. Several of us together could not hold him."

  The monk drew himself up to his full gangly height. "I have no intention of scuffling with a bandit. I need these hands undamaged, to feel lacquer and test wood grain." He started toward the gallery's far doorway. "If I'm not back by the time the sun goes below the window. . . . Well, trouble, I suppose."

  "Just a moment," Florimel called after him, "you can't just. . . ." But Factum Quintus was gone.

  What must have been close to an hour spent imagining different scenarios and how they might respond to them did little to assuage the small company's mounting worry. The longer the monk was gone, the more it seemed certain they would have to go looking for him, and the more Renie felt they'd made a serious mistake not giving more consideration to the martial side of things.

  They had no weapons and had not obtained any at the Library Market when they had the chance, although she had no idea what they would have used for money or barter. Still, just to throw themselves at Sweet William's murderer when he had nothing to lose except his place online, but they stood to lose everything, was too foolish for words.

  They had just decided to break up some of the furniture they had seen back down one of the near corridors, so that they would at least have clubs, when they heard a sound at the door where Factum Quintus had vanished. A moment of heart-racing panic eased when the monk appeared in the doorway, but his expression was strange.

  "The Campanile . . . it is occupied," he began.

  "Is Martine there?" Renie demanded, clambering to her feet.

  "Don't get up!" Factum Quintus lifted his hands. "Truly, it is better if you don't."

  Florimel's voice held the same dull horror Renie was feeling. "What is it? What has happened to. . . ?"

  The monk abruptly lunged forward, flinging himself to the ground in a ludicrous motion that Renie only realized had been involuntary when the other figures began crowding through the doorway after him. There were at least half a dozen, and Renie thought she could see more in the room just beyond. Their clothes were an assortment of coats and furs and scarves so filthy and ragged that they made the borrowed garments of Renie's troop look like dress uniforms. Most were men, but a few women stood with them, and every one of the strangers had at least one weapon and an unpleasantly gloating expression.

  The tallest man, whose thick beard gave him even more of a piratical air than the others, stepped forward and leveled what looked like a flintlock pistol at Florimel, who was the closest person standing. He had a chest almost as wide as a door and not a single visible tooth. "Who are you?" she asked the bearded man coldly.

  "Bandits," Factum Quintus groaned from, his spot on the floor.

  "And you are meat for Mother," the bearded man said, swiveling the pistol from Florimel to the other companions. His rasping laugh was echoed by his cohorts; many of them sounded even less stable than he did. "It's festival night, y'see. The Mother of Broken Glass needs blood and screams."

  "Code Delphi. Start here.

  "I cannot even whisper. These silent, subvocalized words will only be retrievable by me, yet I think I will not live to collect them. And if I do not, what will it matter? I will pass from the world like a shadow. When this creature Dread kills me and my heart stops, or however the virtual death will manifest itself in reality, no one will find my body. Even should someone search for me deep in the Black Mountains, they will never pass the security systems. My empty flesh will lie entombed forever. I thought earlier that I had much in common with the person who had built this vast house, but perhaps it is the Brotherhood's master, the one my captor says appears only in the guise of a mummified Egyptian god, who is my true soul mate. Lying for eternity in a huge sepulchre of stone—that is what my unwillingness to enter the world has gained me.

  "These death thoughts will not leave me, and it is not only the presence of my murderous captor sleeping in the chair only meters away, the stolen Quan Li sim even more deceptive in the false innocence of slumber. No, death is even closer to me than that.

  "What he brought back from his errand was a corpse. He trundled it through the door with all the casual good cheer of a salesman wrestling a heavy sample case into someone's living room. Perhaps because that is what he has brought me—a sample.

  "It is the body of a young woman which sits propped against the wall beside me. I think it must be the girl of the Upper Pantry Clerks who Sidri said had run away, but I cannot be sure. The creature has . . . done things to the body, and for once I am thankful that my senses are not visual. The outer silhouette alone, the altered shape of the thing as it sits with splayed legs and sagging head, is enough to tell me I do not want to know any more. The only saving grace is that it does sag—it is apparently not the frozen sim of a murdered user, but the corpse of a purely virtual person. Still, I have only to remember the sound of Zekiel and Sidri as they talked of their doomed, overwhelming love for each other, or the pride in the voice of Epistulus Tertius as he described his Library, to wonder what would separate the horror and death-agony of one of these Puppets from that of an actual person. I am sure it would be just as terrible to witness; which is doubtless why my captor has turned a harmless Puppet with well-simulated fears and hopes into the mangled trophy he has dragged back, like a cat displaying its prey.

  " 'Just cleaning up,' he told me as he set the thing in place and arranged the floppy limbs. He is a monster, truer to the black heart of evil than any invented ogre or dragon. The only thing that keeps hopelessness at bay is my desperation to see this creature punished. It is a slim hope, but what hope is not if the long run is taken into account? 'Happily ever after. . . ." is only true if the story stops at that moment. But real stories never do—they end in sadness and infirmity and death, every one.

  "Oh, God, I am so terrified. I cannot stop talking about what I feel coming. Without laying a finger on me since I have come here, he has tormented me until I feel like rats crawl beneath my clothes. I must . . . I must find the center again. All my life since I was plunged into darkness, I have sought the center—the place where a blind person knows what is what. It is the unknown and perhaps never-ending outskirts where fear takes hold.

  "He wanted to know how we had followed him to the House simulation. I did not tell him our secret, of course—he can terrify me until I weep and beg, but I cannot let him turn me traitor. Instead I said that another gateway had opened in the same place as that through which he escaped and that we all went through. I could tell from body and voice that he did not entirely believe me, but the truth is so incredible—a baboon used a piece of string to show me how to summon the portal—that I have no fears he will guess it.

  "With the mute example of his victim slumped against the wall, so close I could reach out and touch her with my foot if I wished, he produced the lighter from his pocket and reminded me that I was only useful if I could help him
learn its secrets. I suspect he has examined the instrument in some detail already—perhaps even received advice of some kind, because for all his predator's intelligence he does not seem particularly schooled in technical matters—and much of what he asked at first seemed meant to test me, as though he would make sure I was giving him my honest best. Its shape and energy signature was so clear to my senses that I did not even need to face in its direction to know it was the same device on which I had spent so much time in the patchwork world—a thing of mostly locked potentialities, cryptic and powerful.

  " 'One thing seems clear,' I told him. 'There are not many such objects on the network.'

  "He leaned forward. 'Why do you say that?'

  " 'Because there would not be a need for them. These Grail people have built the most phenomenal virtual network that can be conceived. Surely they have direct neural connections, and their interface with the network is such that they can make things happen simply with a thought or at most a word. The Brotherhood, at least here, must be gods of a sort.'

  "The monster laughed at that, and told me something of his patron, the Lord of Life and Death also known as Felix Jongleur. Contempt fueled his description, and he spoke at surprising length. I sat silently so that I did not disrupt him—it is new information, and there is much in it to consider. At last he said, 'But you're right—I can't imagine someone like the Old Man needing something like this. So who would? Why?'

  "I did my best to consider the problem—I might lie to him about how we arrived, but he had made it clear what would happen if I failed to give him answers to this question. 'It must be one of two things,' I said. 'It may be a guest key of some sort—an object given to a short-term visitor, if you see what I mean—or it may belong to someone who is more than a guest, but who spends little time in the network,' I explained. 'For most of the Grail Brotherhood, all the commands would surely be second nature, like whistling for a hovercab or tying one's shoes.' Despite my terror and disgust, I think I began to become a bit excited—I am someone who craves answers, and it is hard for me not to follow a trail once I have found it. For that brief moment, it was almost as though the monster and I were partners, researchers sharing a goal. 'This could well belong to someone who spends less time on the network than the others, but still has the right to access everything. Perhaps he or she also has many other codes and commands to remember in everyday life, and so it is simpler to keep the entire Otherland access system in one package, to be picked up online and then put away again.'