A Shadow on the Glass (65 page)

She stopped then, glaring ferociously at Maigraith.

Maigraith was nonplussed. “Yes,” she said at last, her cheeks pink, “she has Aachim blood, from her grandmother. I did not tell you before because of your bitterness to her. What of it?”

Faelamor controlled herself with an effort. “That makes her triune,” she said, her lips a white line. “Descended from three human species, Three Worlds. When first I met her I saw a threat to me; now I know why.” And she mused on the irony—that she had taken such pains to create such a one, then out of the grass should spring another, fully formed but wild, unbroken, and treacherous. Perhaps it was the balance trying to restore itself. This new one had subtlety but no power. Hers was the better.

“I have come back to you,” Maigraith said, “but do not press me too far. If Karan hinders your plans you must find a way round her. Harm Karan and you will never see me again.”

“
I will
not harm her,” Faelamor replied, turning away to
her pack. She sat up with a pair of glasses in her hand. “Wear these! They will disguise the color of your eyes.” Maigraith put them on. “Now, about the Mirror.”

“I found how she carried it,” and Maigraith showed the metal tube.

“Then where is it now?” cried Faelamor. “That cast was not in the clearing when first we went to the campsite. But when I returned, four hours later, it lay broken. Someone came, neither Aachim nor Whelm, and took the Mirror away. Ah! The one you mentioned. I heard of him in Shazmak. Her companion, Llian. He must have it. And he is Zain! This is a sorry mess. What will he do with it?

“He will go to Thurkad,” she said thoughtfully after a while. “There’s nowhere else to go. We must go there too. A critical moment in time draws near, and I am afraid and un ready. Come, I must recast my plans yet again.”

T
he old part of Name lay on a flat section of the ridge overlooking the river. It was surrounded by a stone wall, broken in many places, and was old in name only, for most of the original stone buildings had long been torn down. In their place stood a curious mixture of squalid shacks, terraces and ornate but decaying mansions.

Mill Street ran from the market square back toward the river, ending in a blank wall behind a wool warehouse. All the houses in the street were built of roughly sawn boards and were quite irregular; rooms, verandas and patios jutted from each building in every possible arrangement, and seemingly in total indifference to the principles of construction. Most were raised on piles because of the floods.

The house that Pender had mentioned was near the wall, an area where the dwellings were mostly derelict and the streets empty. It was large and rambling, distinguished from its neighbors by a tall conical turret at the front, like a
witch’s hat, only leaning somewhat and with the shingles coming off. Even in the darkness the house had a forlorn, decayed appearance, with its sagging roofline and roughly boarded windows.

Llian strolled up the street, stopping two doors away in deep shadow. There was no sign of anyone at the house, al though light showed through cracks in the boards. Once a youth walked unsteadily up the street, a wineskin dangling from one hand. Sometime later, in a house behind him, there was screaming and the sound of glass breaking, then silence. The night was cool.

Llian flexed his fingers and wriggled his toes. As he did so he saw a movement at the front of the house. Someone stood guard there in the darkness. The figure was outlined against the lighted interior for a moment, then disappeared, leaving only a thin line of light from the partly open door.

Bending low, Llian crept the distance to the house, slid down the side passage and ducked under the veranda. The house was a warren underneath, the front part raised on piles about half a span, the older rear part lower and set on foundations of crumbling brick or stone. The ground was littered with the forgotten things of other years: broken pots, rotten bags spilling sand, decaying timber, rusting iron.

Llian spent the tedious hours of the night exploring the underneath of the house, exquisitely cautious lest he send an ancient hoard crashing down in the absolute darkness and stillness. Sometimes he just lay there, ear pressed to the floorboards to catch whatever sounds were made above. There were few: the sentry at the front occasionally paced back and forth or went inside the house; doors were closed and opened; footsteps; low voices. Nothing to indicate that the occupants were Whelm or that Karan was inside. Finally he made himself as comfortable as possible in his cramped position and slept for what remained of the night.

He was awakened in the morning by the sound of feet running across the front veranda and a pounding at the front door. The door was opened and the ensuing conversation, in its low, urgent tones, came clearly through the floorboards.

“I was attacked from behind. Two at least, maybe three. They bound me,” the man gasped out.

“Compose yourself, Tarlag,” came a chill woman’s voice. “Do not draw attention to yourself or this house. Tell what happened.”

“I was standing guard. At the ferry landing. As you ordered. The late-morning ferry was coming. I heard a noise in the trees nearby. I went to investigate. They hit me from be hind, tied me and left me there. I got free only last night. There was no ferry until this morning.”

“How many were there? What do you know of them?”

“Nothing. They left no trace that I could see in the dark.”

“Could it have been her companion, Llian,” she hesitated over the name, “that Idlis spoke of? The one who met her near Tullin and helped her to escape?”

Tarlag was scornful. “How could that be? All reports say that he is a fool and a coward. No, it must have been those skretza,” he pronounced the word in a vulgar way, “those Aachim. We should destroy them, Vartila.”

Beneath the house Llian smiled grimly, pleased to be underestimated. His actions would prove his worth.

“Perhaps you are right, Tarlag. The guard must be doubled, we are close to breaking her. Soon we will have it. We must: the need is great. Go now.”

Llian heard a heavy set of footsteps going toward the rear of the house. When they died away Vartila said softly, “Watch him, Gend. Tarlag is careless, and there is a wrong-ness in his story. Pay off the boatman, and watch him too. I do not wish for more killing, but do it if there is no other way. Now, what news of the rest of our band?”

“They went up the river, following the Aachim.” Gend’s voice whirred like a flat stick swung though the air. “Would you really break her mind, Vartila?”

“Of course not. Such a talent we might never find again. I would keep her whole as long as possible. But she can suffer: that will keep the talent focused.”

Footsteps went in two directions. Distantly came the sound of Vartila issuing orders, though Llian could not make out the words. But at least he knew that Karan was here.

The morning light seeped under the house; he resumed his vigil. Finally it was rewarded. In a room at the rear he found her. Vartila was talking in her rasping voice about Maigraith. She spoke of torture and cruelty such that Llian could not bear to hear, and of what they would do to her next, but Karan only sneered.

“I know you lie,” she said. “Maigraith is free; even now she searches for me.”

Silence, then the voice again.

“One last time I will ask you, what have you done with the
pash-lar
, the Mirror? I have no wish to destroy your mind, but I must have the Mirror.” Her voice took on what she imagined to be a cajoling tone. “It is no dishonor to tell me now, for I will have it anyway.”

A shred of a voice, Karan’s voice still, replied haltingly: “You can break my mind but you won’t get it, for it’s gone beyond your reach. Llian has taken it down the river. He will be in Sith in two days, and the Mirror will be in safe hands. Go back to your master and tell him that.”

Vartila laughed, like grit rubbing between metal plates. “You are lying, Karan of Bannador. The Great Betrayer, the Aachim call you. What is left of them. This Llian of yours attacked one of my men at the ferry yesterday. Already he is in Name, seeking you.”

It was Karan’s turn to laugh, a lifeless, squeaking, horrible
sound. “It was to Rulke that they gave the name: the Great Betrayer—even you bog swimmers should know that. By comparison I am the merest pinprick. As for Llian, he has not the strength, nor the courage. He ran away from you that night. He would not come here; he has no love for me. It was the Mirror he came for. Mendark sent him, even you must know that.” There was the hiss of a sharply taken breath. “Yes, Mendark! The Magister will know what to do with the Mirror. But it is Tensor you must worry about now. He is in Name too, and he never forgets.”

“Enough,” cried Vartila, her voice rising. “Do not play your games with me. Tell me where the Mirror is hid.”

Karan must have spat at her. Vartila’s reply was a meaty thump. Karan gave a short cry. Llian, beneath the floor boards, ground his fists against his forehead.

Twice more that day Vartila came to Karan’s room; twice the wisp of a voice defied her; twice she went away again. It was late afternoon now and the house was quiet. Again Llian explored the underside, until from the layout of the foundations and the sounds from above he knew where every room and corridor lay. The beginnings of a plan came to him. From the voices it appeared that there were at least six people in the house: Vartila, Tarlag, Gend, and three others who took watches at front or rear. The guard was rotated every two hours, changed every six. He would wait until after the midnight change—no, until two in the morning—the guards would be tired then, and the others, with luck, asleep.

The day faded. When it was fully dark Llian crept out and made his way down the street. The chimneys on both sides of the house were smoking. He bought food, a skin of nut oil used for cooking, a large sack and clothes and boots for Karan. The boots were the hardest to find; he wanted them to be as comfortable and as strong as the ones she’d lost.

In his previous wanderings he had passed a sawmill. He filled his sack with sawdust from a pile near the waterwheel, and staggered back up the street with the bag on his back. Being but one of many human beasts of burden, he excited no attention. In the dark he thrust the bag of clothes under an overgrown hedge and regained his refuge beneath the house.

At last it was midnight. There was a murmur of conversation from the front of the house, then the door closed with a soft click. The cane chair on the front veranda squeaked. There was no sound from the rear. Under the house the dark ness was absolute. Llian dragged his sack to a place where the floorboards were cracked and gappy, and scooped out the sawdust until there was a pile knee-high and an arm’s length across on the ground. He made a depression in the center of the pile and poured the contents of the skin into it. Then he waited.

At two in the morning the guards rotated. He almost missed it. An intermittent squeak told him that the sentry at the front was in his chair. The guard at the rear paced around the house several times, then Llian heard him no more. He struck sparks into the sawdust.

The oil-soaked pile caught with a yellow flame that burned up brightly for a minute then died down to an orange glow. When the fire was established he pushed sawdust on to it, and it began to smolder and give out thick belching smoke that hopefully would continue for hours. If his plan worked they would be overcome in their sleep. That would leave only the two guards.

If only he could link with Karan and warn her. He cupped his hands to his temples and squeezed, willing her to wake and know he was there, but in his mind’s eye there was nothing but fog and soon the smoke broke his concentration.

He crawled out from beneath the house, took a piece of
cord from his pocket and stretched it between the fence and a pier of the house at ankle height. Then he positioned him self behind a water tank made of wooden staves bound with iron, and waited. It was only a few minutes before the sentry came, though it seemed longer. The man tripped, stumbled and fell to his knees cursing, then Llian clapped him across the ear with a length of wood and he lay still. He tied the man as well as he could in the darkness and rolled him with an effort, for he was heavy, against the fence. Smoke was beginning to billow out from under the house.

Llian crept along the side of the house, the frosty grass crackling beneath his feet. At the front, the other sentry was sitting with his feet on the rail, staring across the street. He did not look around as Llian raised his stick.

I can’t do it, Llian thought suddenly, not like this; then the sentry turned, saw the shape with stick upraised and leapt out of his chair. The club came down on his head, cut ting off the shout bursting from his lips, and he flopped onto the veranda, moaning softly.

Llian stared at his work for a moment, then walked through the front door, his sleeve over his nose. The room was full of choking smoke and lit only by an oil lamp turned low. He threw the bolt of the front door and took the lamp in his left hand. Smoke was belching up through the gappy floorboards. Down the hall he went on tiptoe. The layout of the house was engraved on his mind; he could have found his way around with his eyes closed.

Llian was halfway down the hall when there came a furious banging and rattling at the front door, followed by a thump as though someone had put a shoulder to it. He looked in the open doorway of the room he was passing. Dimly through the reek he saw a figure lying on the floor, overcome by smoke. The thumping continued from behind him.