Ellen Under The Stairs (25 page)

Once inside the elimination room, he
peered out the door crack until finding both guards in
conversation. No one looking his direction, Golden slipped into the
hall and was soundlessly out of sight down a parallel corridor. How
long the guards would ignore his absence, he didn't know. Long
enough, he hoped.

Even when on their way for an audience
with the castle Mage, Golden had been looking for a way out, doing
this by taking note of the movements of the crowd around them. It
was rather like finding honey. If bees were flying at random, they
were searching for flowers -- a necessary ingredient in honey
making. If most bees were flying in a single direction, however,
they were returning to their hive. In like manner, people followed
similar patterns. The Military men escorting John-Lyon's party --
newly relieved of their watch duties by other soldiers -- had
stocked off to their quarters, in this case, taking the same hall
Golden was traversing now, going down the stairs at the far
end.

Flitting from shadow to shadow -- not
much traffic at this sleeping hour -- Golden found the same stairs,
descending to a floor where many feet had scarred the tiles.
Clearly, the marks of soldiers' boots.

Rounding a turn, there it was, an
alcove shielding a fortified door, soldiers barracks
beyond.

An iron braced door. Locked tight to
everyone except for a man of Golden's skills.

Palming a fork he'd concealed in his
sleeve, bending the tines to make a lock pick, he soon defeated the
outer lock and two smaller restraints at the ends of slide bars,
Golden quickly inside, someone conveniently leaving a flaming torch
within. To find the expected armory. Shelves of weapons. Spears,
scabbards, belts, slings, bows, swords (short and long), maces,
helmets, shields, body armor, hobnailed boots,
backpacks.

He'd need swords for the sailors --
short ones since sailors used similar tools in their work. A
star-mace for a bludgeon. A short bow and six arrows. (As fast as
he could draw and fire, he could only loose six arrows before an
onrush of troops overpowered him, making a seventh arrow more
hindrance than help.

The girl was worthless in a fight. But
what about the Mage? Since John-Lyon had showed no fighting skills,
either with sword or bow, Golden decided the Crystal-Mage would do
better with a bludgeon than any other weapon. And in particular,
since the other-worlder was the strongest man Golden had ever know.
Something about coming from a heavy-pulling planet, John-Lyon said
-- the Mage's mysterious, original home. Skull cracking would be
John-Lyon's specialty.

Armed -- over armed -- Golden left the
weapon storage room, turning to fork-jam the lock to make it
difficult for others to retrieve their own arms, Golden then
slipping down end-of-the-hall stairs and more stairs until he
smelled hot water ... and soap.

Laundry.

Finding stacks of clean clothes ready
for the morning's distribution, he "lifted" the right number of
Realgar robes -- pumpkin colored cloth with marigold stripping,
over-sized, as was suitable for the fat nature of this Band's
citizens. He even found a child's robe that should fit the
girl.

Bow over his head, string slashed
across his chest, arrows stuck in his under-tunic belt, other robes
draped over his shoulders to pad his body, he donned an over-robe,
now looking like any slavey in the castle. Fat.
Disheveled.

Food came next, Golden continuing to
"put on weight" as he pouched sausages and hunks of cooked meat. No
room for bulky food. Bread could be purchased after escaping from
the castle.

And escape, they must. On that point,
Golden agreed with John-Lyon.

Something was wrong here. So wrong, it
was a danger to them all, the unspoken signals he was receiving in
this place -- movement of the mouth, eye twitches, finger snaps,
foot scraping -- foreshadowing misfortunes in his own life. The
Mage was unwelcome here; arrest and execution sure to improve the
position of Helianthin. Golden could imagine John-Lyon's severed
head, pickled in a barrel of brine, the cask rowed out to the
incoming Malachites as proof that Helianthin favored Malachite.
Golden could also see his own head, similarly preserved, delivered
to the agents of Lithoid for return to Malachite, there to be set
upon a pole as an example to other would be "traitors."

The only remaining question was what
falsehood he would tell to John-Lyon, a lie impressive enough to
motivate the young Mage to order an immediate escape.

Mages had extraordinary powers,
John-Lyon no exception. Still, Golden had told lies to the young
Mage and had not been withered on the spot. He had even stolen
John-Lyon's Mage-disk at one time -- to save it -- but stolen it
nevertheless, the Mage in ignorance of who had looted
it.

Truly, the Mage was remarkable, both
for his vast learning and for his daily ignorances.

One thing was certain above all
certainties. What Golden had done this night would be discovered.
And once discovered, blamed (rightly) on John-Lyon's
party.

Headed back to the prison room -- for
that was what it was -- passing cleaning drudges without receiving
suspicious looks, Golden's mind raced to devise a strategy. First,
to out smile the guards in order to bash them, then drag their
"sleeping" bodies inside the "guarded" room.

After that, no matter what myth Golden
created, perhaps one saying Golden had overheard Helianthin tell
soldiers to kill John-Lyon and his party before up-light, Golden
must convince the Mage to leave the castle -- now!

The sailors would balk at going out
into the dark, frightened to face the fearsome animals loosed by
down-light -- the horrors of the night that longed for human
blood.

And the men would be right to be
afraid, as Golden, himself, would be afraid. It was just that
certain death within, made the possibility of down-light death the
better choice!

* * * * *

Coluth shaded his eyes to look at the
sky; finding that blocking out glare was unnecessary in this dark
place, Realgar's ocher smudging into the next band's burgundy. This
close to The Cinnabar he was cold, the outer Bands cooler than the
inner ones, Coluth's shiver augmented by the quake of
fear.

For days, starting with the down-light
danger of their escape from Helianthin's Castle, the cross Band
trip had the portent of disaster, evil news received at the first
inn on the Silk Road. Glimpsing the tavern ahead, taking every
precaution, the Mage had ordered them to desert the trail, the
group trudging through thick, off-road bushes until reaching the
woods across from the inn. There, giving Golden money for supplies,
Golden crossed the track to enter the hostelry, returning with a
push cart containing rope, food, and robes (common ones of brown
wool.) And of more importance, telling of the rumor wagging every
tavern tongue: that a messenger in a fast, three pony cart had
already passed by, the driver instructed to alert all hostels to
the possibility of foreigners in the neighborhood. In addition,
that Malachite soldiers -- with Helianthin's permission -- would
soon be mustered to pursue these intruders, the dangerous outsiders
thought to be taking the Silk Road to The Cinnabar.

Though Golden himself was alien to
these parts, the inn owner had showed no concern at his presence,
perhaps because Golden was a single traveler when a group was
sought. Or more likely, that the glint of gold in Golden's hand had
blinded the inn's owner to the presence of a stranger.

Much disturbed, John-Lyon ordered
everyone to stay well back of the pathway, the party to pack the
goods in carry-alls, everyone to stay hidden behind the bushes and
tall trees paralleling the Silk Road.

The major difficulty, of course, was
the down-light problem, John-Lyon's party risking discovery at
every accommodation they might seek.

"Would we be safe from the creatures
of the night if we climbed a tree?" the Mage had asked Golden, the
young man knowing more about land-travel than any in the group,
Golden -- as entertainer -- occasionally forced to journey overland
at night.

"Yes," Golden said, but looking up to
shake his head at the loftiness of the trees' branches where they
might sleep in safety.

"My bet is that these are fast growing
trees," the Mage said. "And because of that, of soft
wood."

To demonstrate his meaning, John-Lyon
borrowed Philelph's short sword, the Mage hacking at the nearest
tree trunk, each blow slicing out a sizable wedge of wood. "It'll
take some effort, but we can cut steps into these tree trunks to
use for climbing -- like going up steep stairs."

And just before down-light of every
day, they had done that, hacking and climbing until all were safe
in the branches, safety ropes securing the Mage, Golden, and the
girl, Coluth and the other sailor-monkeys at home at any
height.

Allowing no pause at up-light for the
warming of dried meat, they would set out again, their increasing
nearness to The Cinnibar causing Coluth to recall his former trip
through this terrain.

It was at that earlier
time -- Coluth the captain of a group of sailors from the
Roamer --
that he had
come to this bleak and barren border, only to discover that he,
alone, could force himself into The Cinnabar, the stone trading
floor at twenty paces further on.

His sailor's tunic sweaty despite the
chill, a much younger Coluth in those distant days had left the
others to creep into that mystic band, his feet crunching the
brittle grass below, a blood red sky above.

Easing ahead, he'd discovered the
expected bundles of Cinnabar silk on the thick stone trading floor,
Coluth picking up the feather weight packages to toss each to his
sailors still in the Realgar band, his men strapping the silk to
the backs of rented pack ponies.

To complete the transaction, his crew
had thrown bags of trade goods back to him, wheat from
Stil-de-grain, fruit from Realgar, and bundled rods of metals from
Malachite, these packages made light by the weak pull of The
Cinnabar, the parcels seeming to contain little more than
air.

The transaction complete, chilled to
the bone, trembling like a frightened child, Coluth was glad to
creep back to Realgar, the slightest pressure of each Cinnabar step
threatening to hurtle him into the scarlet sky.

Profit from that single
trip -- after sharing with his men -- had paid off the
Roamer
, Coluth careful
to prevent the need for money from forcing him to return ...
here!

Now, against his will, he'd been
compelled to plod toward that frightful, ruby band, Coluth looking
up through thinning trees to find the sky dome shading into
crimson.

They would soon be at the
border!

"Coluth?" It was the Mage, John-Lyon
coming up to walk beside him. "Does it seem to you that the sky
here is lower than in the other bands; that it's not that far above
our heads?" Without waiting for Coluth's answer -- something
John-Lyon often did -- the Mage continued. "Or is it like the moon
seeming larger on the horizon than when high in the night
sky?"

Surely, the Mage was talking to
himself, when doing so using words like moon and sun. Also other
unknown words.

"Never mind. We're almost there,
right?"

Coluth nodded, wishing not even to
think of their dreaded destination.

"Let's go."

And they started again, another fifty
paces taking them to the place where the trees and bushes ...
thinned.

"That's not what I expected,"
John-Lyon said, peering through what remained of the foliage, the
young Mage rarely seeming puzzled. "That's the border, isn't
it?"

Coluth could barely nod.

"Golden?" The loose limbed youth
flowed forward. "I thought there'd be even more vegetation in
Cinnabar than elsewhere. I thought the extra light gravity that's
supposed to be across the border would make for taller plants in
general."

"I have never been here, sir," Golden
said.

"Coluth?"

"There is ... nothing in The
Cinnabar."

This answer unsatisfactory to the
Mage, John-Lyon again set out, but at a crawl, signaling them to
halt behind the last, few trees.

Looking ahead, there was nothing but
an empty, undulating land of brown and brittle weeds, Coluth
recalling his former trudge through dried out vegetation. Nothing
to be seen except the rock slab trading table twenty steps beyond
the border ... a platform strangely changed; chunks of stone
cracked from its corners, the ground around the table blasted as if
by Mage-Magic, the dry grass scorched to bare dirt, the earth
exploded into great, gray piles!

"I'd say that Pfnaravin has been
here," said the Mage in his dust-dry voice. "And that he wasn't in
the best of moods."

"But ... why?" Coluth could not put a
reason to this destruction.

"Just a guess, but since the stone
pieces that were knocked off the slab appear to be missing, I'd say
that Pfnaravin is using them to weight himself down so he can walk
without fear of floating to the sky dome."