by Martha Wells
Khat's guide had vanished. A breeze moved through the large chamber, making the lamps flicker, stirring papers and dust. Small sounds seemed magnified, as if this wasn't a chamber in a Patrician palace but some huge subsurface cavern. Somebody had to break the silence. Khat said, "I'm here. Are you happy now?"
Constans turned toward him. "It's always gratifying to have a vision fulfilled, but I wouldn't describe myself as happy, no."
His voice was amused, but Khat couldn't read his expression in the half-light. Khat said, "Why did you send her after me?"
"Why did you come here when I asked?" Constans countered.
You mean, why did I come here and put myself completely at your mercy? Khat thought. He said, "All along, you were trying to stop Riathen. That's why you wanted the book."
"I could've wanted it to open the Doors of the West myself."
Khat's mouth was dry, but he had considered that possibility too, while still outside the Citadel. He said, "Why, when all you had to do was wait?"
Constans didn't comment. He stepped forward, under the somewhat brighter illumination of the lamp that hung over the table. Khat had a brief battle with an impulse to back away, though there was still a good fifteen feet between them. Constans was folding a square of paper back into a leather message case. Khat wondered if he had been reading it by starlight. The Warder said, "You've seen the Inhabitant?"
Reminded, Khat glanced at the row of windows, open to the night and the hot breeze.
"No, it can't come here. At least for the moment."
That was as good a reason as any to hold this little meeting on Constans's own terms. Khat answered, "In a fortune-teller's house, at the Academia, at the palace." He hesitated. "And out in the Waste that night, there was an air spirit. Was that it?"
"It was, acting as the Heir's spy." Constans tossed the letter case onto the low table. "Riathen had already shown her the crystalline plaque, hoping to convince her to support him in his search."
The letter case fell among the scatter of papers, landing near a battered iron brazier and a bowl filled with white chips and ash. Seeing it, Khat took an involuntary step backward. You forgot about that, didn't you, he told himself. It was easy to imagine what would happen if Constans decided he didn't need his help after all.
Either Constans could soul-read him despite the fact that Khat was kris, or the Warder was just very good at reading faces. "That?" Constans said, one eyebrow arching. "It's a well-kept secret, but the bones that give the very best result in reading the future are the bones of Warders." He smiled. "I never use anything else."
"Oh." That's so reassuring, Khat thought, but his heart wasn't pounding against his chest quite so hard now. Considering the source, it was just odd enough to be true. Constans turned away from the table, pacing idly into the dimness, and Khat couldn't tell if he was being given a moment to calm himself or if the old Warder simply felt no sense of urgency. Well, I do, Khat thought. He asked, "How long did you know about the Inhabitant?"
He thought Constans wouldn't answer, but when he did his voice sounded oddly matter-of-fact. "Since the Heir first discovered it, roughly two years ago. I felt its presence growing closer many years before that, but I didn't understand what it was that I sensed approaching." Constans spoke as if they had all the time in the world. "The details on how she made her little trader's bargain with it are unclear, but make one she did. It was weak then, and needed her help. Riathen always said she would have made a superlative Warder. But that's Riathen." He paused, not looking back at Khat. "He has everything he needs now, doesn't he?"
Khat hesitated. "Yes."
"For what it's worth," Constans said slowly, "he doesn't realize he's her pawn. He's blinded by sheer greed. Greed for knowledge, for ephemeral power. So is Kythen Seul, for that matter. I detect a theme, don't you?"
Khat didn't care about their motives. He took tight control of his temper, and asked, "Why didn't you tell Riathen?"
"About Seul? I'd given up on rational discussion by the time he became involved. Do you really think Sonet Riathen would have believed me?"
That was a point, much as Khat would have liked to see all this as Constans's fault. He didn't reply.
Constans was silent again for a time, then said, "From the beginning the Heir used the Inhabitant for her own ends. At first as an invisible, undetectable spy among the Patricians at Court. Her defenses against soul-reading are excellent-as are the Elector's; I suppose it's a family trait-so no one realized what she was about. As the creature grew stronger she used it to eliminate her enemies and rivals. We had to send her half-sisters and brother out of the city."
Khat remembered Riathen saying that the Elector's children by his second wife had been sent away. "Then it grew strong enough to make demands on her," Constans continued, pacing again. "She had the relics stolen at its insistence. Then, not knowing who their Patrician employer was, the thieves betrayed her and sold the relics away, necessitating vengeance on her part. The Inhabitant hadn't quite the strength yet to force her to fulfill her part of the bargain, but she must have felt some danger, because she recruited Kythen Seul to help her control it. But within the past ten days its strength has increased a hundredfold. It has even been able to masquerade as human now, for short periods of time."
"I know." Khat shifted uneasily. The increase in strength was evident, even from his short acquaintance with the creature. At Radu's house it hadn't been able to follow them when they ran from it, but a day later at the Academia it had stalked them with ease. And at the palace ... He asked, "Does she understand what it is?"
"She simply doesn't realize the danger." Constans paused by the center window to lean on the casement, looking toward the palace lights. "She's never seen anything more powerful than a Warder, so she thinks the Warders will be able to control the Inhabitants. She thinks Seul is controlling this one, you see, which is a ludicrous notion. But it allows her-and him-to think so."
Behind Khat there was a hollow bang. He almost jumped out of his skin, spinning around to see the door being thrown open. A man in the court robes and brief veil of a high-ranking Patrician was striding forward into the glow of lamplight, followed by the lictor arch-commander who had tried to stop Khat in the corridor, and a dark-robed Warder. The Patrician was saying, "I for one have had enough of waiting. What do you mean to do, Constans?"
Constans came back to the table, regarding them with mild annoyance. "This couldn't wait?"
The mildness was dangerously deceptive, but the Patrician replied angrily, "No, it could not. Your conference with your spy can wait." He threw a glance at Khat, who had backed out of range of the lamps and was glad to be mistaken for someone else. "You must tell us your plans."
Constans's eyes glittered. "And why must I do that?"
The veil hid much of the Patrician's expression, but his voice and his eyes left no doubt of his feelings. He said, "What do you mean to do about the Heir?"
"I mean to stop her."
The Patrician swore in frustration. The archcommander said, "Surely you mean to retake the palace? The Elector will tell us nothing. Does he intend to order the arrest of the Heir?"
"Perhaps he means to let it pass," Constans said, apparently serious. "After all, it was only one small assassination attempt."
"Very well, you warned us and no one heeded you and here we are," the archcommander said, more reasonably. "I admit that. But we must counterattack. You are the only one the Elector listens to."
"Flattering, but hardly accurate."
The talk wasn't telling Khat anything he didn't already know, and he looked around the dim chamber again.
Something about this place was familiar. The fall of starlight through the windows, the height of the ceiling, and the angle and curve of the arches . . . He couldn't remember any of it, but he couldn't shake the feeling that somehow he knew this room. He remembered having the same sense of vague recognition at Radu's house, in the room used for fortune-telling, and he couldn't think whe
re it was coming from. The feeling was far stronger here, almost as if he had mistaken Radu's house for this place ... Khat shook his head, dismissing that far from comfortable thought.
He was looking toward one of the bronze cabinets stuffed with books, more than tempted to examine a few, just to see what volumes Constans owned. Many of the leather or fabric cases seemed to have been left untied, as if they had been consulted recently.
Then something moved in the shadows near the cabinet.
It was a hunched form, covered with ratty hair like a man-sized dustball. It moved into the light a little, squatting on its haunches and scratching itself.
It was the oracle from Radu's house.
Khat tensed, watching it warily. Naturally Constans wouldn't want to let the creature go to waste, haunting the ghostcallers' quarter. But being Constans, he let it have the run of the house when its services weren't needed.
Its hair was still a mass of tangles, but no longer filth-matted; someone had cleaned it up, or perhaps when it had access to water it cleaned itself. Its wild eyes found Khat, and it started toward him. He pulled his knife half out of the sheath at his back, so the blade caught the light, and the creature halted abruptly, its long nails scrabbling on the floor tile. Taking the hint, it withdrew back into the shadows.
Khat slid the knife back and straightened. This last surprise, mild though it had been in comparison to everything else, was making him feel a little light-headed. This was a fine time for the events of the last few hours to catch up with him. He looked toward the others, wanting to see the Patricians' reactions if they had noticed the creature, and found himself meeting Constans's cold gaze. Khat felt his back stiffen.
Constans looked back to the two men. "That's enough," he said, interrupting the loudest one in midrant. Constans's expression of vague benevolence didn't change, but his presence suddenly seemed to fill the room. He said, "I know you spent two hours with the Elector earlier today, trying to convince him to support you in what I must say is a rather awkward plan to oust the Heir from the palace." The Patrician started in surprise, and Constans smiled. "Of course he told me. He's not a fool, no matter how much he likes to play at being one, and he can see your motives as well as I can. But this is all more serious than you think, and I haven't time to play your petty games."
The Patrician glared, a dangerous mix of anger and indignation. "So this is how you repay the Elector for saving your worthless life."
The archcommander caught his arm and tried to draw him away, counseling caution, but the enraged Patrician shook him off, saying, "He gave you this place that should have been your prison and turned it into a palace, let you work your damned unnatural magics wherever you pleased, let you recruit more of your own kind . . ." The Patrician was confronting Constans rather more aggressively than most people would have thought wise. Brave, or stupid, or both, Khat thought. But then he supposed the same thing could be said, and probably was said, about himself.
"And your point is ... ?" Constans said, cool and mild again.
The Patrician started to answer, but the archcommander caught his arm and shook him sternly, saying, "No, don't press it." The Patrician hesitated, torn between attack and retreat, sense and rage, then turned abruptly and strode toward the door. The lictor followed without a word.
As the two passed through the tall doors, Constans commented, "That man has no sense of humor." He looked to the Warder who had followed them in and was still waiting calmly, and said, "Did I tell you to keep them out of here?"
"You told me not to hurt them," the Warder countered, and Khat recognized the voice of his guide.
Constans eyed him a thoughtful moment, then turned to Khat again, and said suddenly, "This place is familiar to you?"
Khat stepped back into the lamplight, taking a deep breath. Refusing to admit it would be the safest course, but that wouldn't get him an answer. Curiosity overcame caution, and he admitted, "A little."
Constans turned away to the windows again, as if he was watching for something, and perhaps he was. "I've looked into the future again and again, sometimes with Shiskan's help. I saw you when Kythen Seul first approached you to take him into the Waste with Elen. I've seen you in the shadows of all the events leading up to this moment. This establishes a connection between the watcher and the watched. Sometimes the connection can go both ways."
Khat didn't know if he believed that or not, if he even wanted to believe it, or if he had any choice about it at all. He heard the oracle's long nails skitter on the tiled floor in the corner, and said, "Is that how you knew I'd come here?"
"I didn't need to look into the future to know that. You have a combination of intellectual curiosity and courage that makes you dangerous and puts you in constant jeopardy." Constans shrugged and leaned against the casement. "You were bound to end up here sooner or later."
Khat shook his head. Well, thank you so very much. "Tell me one thing. Why didn't you destroy the book while you had the chance, out at the Remnant?"
"I suspected it contained the knowledge to open the Doors. I hoped it also included the knowledge needed to close and seal them permanently." He paused. "Did it?"
"Not that I could tell," Khat admitted.
"I see." He didn't even sound mildly disappointed, as if it really mattered little in the end. "The connection between our world and the place we call the West..." He looked back at Khat, brows raised. "Why do we call it the West?"
Khat shifted uncomfortably. "We think it's what the Ancients called the land of the dead."
"Ah. The corridor must be a great feat of architecture, existing as it does partly in our world, partly in the West, but mostly in that unknown land in between. I think this particular Inhabitant was trapped in that corridor when the Doors to the West closed, and that it has taken all these past years to travel back here, in the hope that it could reopen the Doors for the others." Constans faced him, looking thoughtful. "The Ancient Mages must have suspected its existence. They left an arcane engine to warn us of its arrival."
Khat looked up, but Constans waited, smiling. Khat cursed under his breath. The last thing he needed now was a guessing game. Then he had it. "The Miracle." It had started to produce its bursts of light twenty years ago, perhaps when the Inhabitant had come close enough to be detected.
"Yes, but by the time it began to deliver its warning there was no one to see who understood."
"Except you."
"Not at first." Constans's gaze seemed to turn inward. "The visions and furies we call ghosts and air spirits ... they are ghosts, but they are the ghosts of Inhabitants left behind, whose minds were blasted by the closing of the Doors or who degenerated slowly and helplessly over the years when there were no Mages of skill to hear them. When this one arrived, even sadly weak as it was, and drained of its power, it was like lightning on the Waste. It spoke in its true voice to me and to one other."
Constans shook his head with a trace of regret. "It was my fault entirely. He was a friend, and I had convinced him to help me search for the creature. Unfortunately for him, we found it. I listened to it long enough to know its intentions. He listened to it just a little too long. I killed him." He frowned. "If you have to kill one of your friends, I feel it's always better to make it sudden. It's the least you can do. But he has made a strong contribution to my efforts to stop the thing that was partially responsible for his death." His eyes went to the bowl with the bone fragments. Khat followed his gaze, then glanced back to make sure he still had an unimpeded path to the door. Constans continued, "I don't know where Riathen is. I know he intends to open the Doors to the West, but I don't know how or where. I suspect. . . but I don't know for certain. Only you can tell me that."
Khat took a deep breath. Now they had come to it.
One had to keep in mind that Constans was still mad. Perhaps not as dangerous as everyone thought, at least, and not dangerous to the Elector, but still mad. If you felt something frightening and unnatural coming toward you, but no one would
believe it existed, if you felt this literally for years, as the whatever-it-was drew slowly and inexorably nearer ... What magic does is open the mind to the world, Elen had quoted to him, so long ago, and sometimes the world isn't what we think it is...
He could be lying, the voice of reason said again. Are you going to fall for this just because he's asking you nicely? Except that it all fit so well with what he knew to be the truth. Khat had no reason under the sky to trust this man. But there was no one else to trust.
He couldn't stand here jittering forever. Khat cleared his throat and said, "The Tersalten Flat Remnant."
For the first time, Constans hesitated. Holding Khat's eyes, he said, "I went there. I felt nothing. Are you sure?"
"I'm sure." It was the only thing he was sure of.
"Very well." There was a pause, and Khat waited, aware he had cast the last die and there was nothing he could do to help himself. Then Constans said, "Estorim."
The young Warder who had remained behind when the Patricians left stepped forward. Khat had forgotten he had stayed in the room.
"Estorim," Constans said again, "conduct our guest out."
***
Elen was dreaming.
In her dream she lay on the floor of the central chamber of a Remnant, her eyes half-open, her limbs so heavy she couldn't move. It was night, and somewhere a fire was lit. She could hear it and smell it, though it was too far away for her to be bothered by its heat. The stone was gritty with sand, and grated against her cheek, and she could see shadows dance on the walls. Even though her view of the place was limited by her position on the floor, she knew, with the knowledge that comes to one in dreams, that this was the Tersalten Flat Remnant, the one that she had gone to with Khat. But she didn't seem to be dreaming of the time she had spent there; this was something new.
The Remnant felt different to her Warder's senses. It was no longer bare, and empty, and waiting. Something had come to occupy it.
The other odd part of the dream was that she could hear, or almost hear, voices. Soft, musical voices, as if flutes and tambrils were speaking to one another. Sometimes one voice, sometimes several, sometimes hundreds. She couldn't make out the words, because a single deep voice was drowning them out. The single voice sang one low, constant note, and seemed as vast as the Waste and the great sky above it combined. It was preventing her from hearing what the other voices were trying to say. And she knew, with the knowledge that comes to one in dreams, that the single voice was the voice of this Remnant, perhaps of all the Remnants. And that if it ever once faltered and she did hear what the other voices said, something terrible would happen. She knew too, that the voices were coming from that place all power came from, from that place where you sent yourself to see the inner workings of locks, or to see the future, or to soul-read. And that these things were not done inside the mind of a trained Warder, as everyone thought, but in that other place.
