Mountain of Black Glass (39 page)

But by this point some of the younger Tribe members had been very frightened indeed. Things got worse when one of the littlest, a girl called Shameena, had begun to shriek in terrible pain. The screaming had stopped after a short time, but the little monkey had gone still and silent and she never moved again. Orlando guessed she had been pulled offline by concerned parents. Remembering Fredericks' experience, and thinking of that horror being visited on a very young child, Orlando was coldly furious.

There was not much more to the Tribe's story. They had waited, soothed by occasional visits from the Lady, drowsing like caged animals, until Orlando and Fredericks had broken the urn and set them free. How or why they had come to be inside it was impossible to discover.

“But how did you take us past the temple?” Orlando asked.

“That was major, major bad,” said Fredericks, shuddering. “Never anything like that again. Never. I'd rather someone pulled my plug out than ever do that again.”

Zunni made a face, clearly irritated by these older comrades' inability to understand even the simplest things. “Didn't go
past,
went
through.
Too strong to go away. Have to go at it, then through before things close again. But you went slow, slow, slow. Why you do that?”

“I don't know,” Orlando admitted. “Something happened while I was . . . in there, I guess, but I'm not sure what it was.” He turned to Fredericks. “It was like children were talking to me. No, like they were inside of me. Millions of 'em.”

Fredericks frowned. “Scanny. Do you think it's the kids like Renie's brother—the ones that are in comas . . . ?”

“Can you boys come over and talk to us?” Bonnie Mae called. “Mr. Paradivash has some questions he'd like to ask you.”

Orlando sighed. He'd been hoping to get a little rest—every muscle was throbbing and his head felt as heavy as the stone blocks of the temple—but he and Fredericks crawled over to join the others.

“Mrs. Simpkins has told me your story, or what she knows of it,” the stranger said. “But I have some queries of my own, if you will indulge me.”

Orlando couldn't help smiling at his overly precise way of talking, but instead of being asked about their experiences with the goddess Ma'at, or their first meeting with Sellars, the man called Nandi seemed primarily interested in how they'd entered and exited each simworld they visited. Some of it was vague in Orlando's memory—it was disturbing to realize how often he'd been sick—but Fredericks helped him over the rough places.

“What are you so interested in this stuff for?” Orlando asked at last. “Where are you from?”

“I have been in many parts of the network,” Paradivash said without a trace of bravado. “Most recently I escaped from one of Felix Jongleur's simulations, although more by luck than my own skill, it must be said.” He shrugged. “I was a prisoner in Xanadu, but a sort of earthquake started an uprising among the more superstitious of Kublai Khan's guards, and since the Khan himself was not present, things got rather out of hand.” He shrugged. “But this is not important. What matters is that we may have been wrong about two, perhaps even three crucial things, and we in the Circle cannot afford any more mistakes.”

The young man named Vasily stirred. “You should put your trust in God, friend. He is watching us. He is guiding us. He will make sure that His enemies are brought low.”

Nandi Paradivash smiled wearily. “That may well be, sir, but He has never yet objected to His faithful servants trying to help themselves, and it is equally certain that some who have waited for God to save them have found themselves less central to His plan than they thought they were.”

“That is close to blasphemy,” Vasily growled.

“Enough.” Bonnie Mae Simpkins turned on the young man like a grumpy mother bear. “You just keep your mouth shut for a bit, then you'll get your turn. I want to hear what Mr. Paradivash has to say.”

“It is this.” Paradivash stared at the piece of tile, thick with writing. “We had assumed that when the Grail Brotherhood sealed the system a few weeks ago, that was their final step—that they had finished what they planned and now meant to reap the rewards. It was a reasonable guess. They alone had freedom of the system, while other users were banned, or—if they were already on the system like our Circle members—they were somehow trapped online. But the Grail Brotherhood have not finished, it seems. One crucial aspect of their plan remains incomplete, although we know it only by the coded designation, ‘the Ceremony.'”

“These Grail people must have spent like, centuries hanging out in the Palace of Shadow,” Fredericks whispered to Orlando, citing a particularly melodramatic part of their old Middle Country simworld. “They just keep throwing utter creepy all around.”

Orlando was fighting hard to overcome his fatigue. This seemed like real information, the first he had been given in a long time. “You said there were two crucial things. No, three. What are the others?”

Paradivash nodded. “One is the involvement of this person Sellars. He is no one we know, nor have I ever heard of him before this, at least not by that name. It is curious—someone who claims to be opposed to the Brotherhood, and who has spent so much time and energy on this project, but has not contacted the Circle. I do not know what to think.”

“Are you saying he's dupping?” Fredericks was angry, something Orlando hadn't heard for a while. “Just because he's not playing the game the way you think he's supposed to?”

The older man named Pingalap stirred. “Who are these young people, these strangers, to come and question us?”

Nandi Paradivash ignored his Circle comrade, but held Fredericks' stare for a long moment. “I do not know what to think, as I said. But it troubles me.”

“Number three?” Orlando prompted. “Third mistake?”

“Ah. That is perhaps one we will be pleased to discover, if true.” Paradivash held up his scribbled-upon tile. “Since the network has been sealed, we have believed the gateways between simulations, at least those which are not permanently linked to other worlds by the river, were operating at random. This has made it cruelly hard to plan, or even to communicate between Circle groups in different parts of the network. But I am no longer sure it is true—there may be an arrangement that is simply more subtle than we could grasp. With the information I myself have gathered, and that which you two have given me, it is possible I can finally discern the pattern which now controls the gates. That would be a major victory, if true.”

Orlando considered. “And it if
is
true? What good will it do you?”

Paradivash looked up from his calculations. “You must have noticed that many of these simulations are breaking down in some way or other—collapsing into chaos, as though the system were going through some phase of instability. What you may not know is that the dangers here are real. The closing-off of the network from the outside did not happen all at once—it took the better part of two days. Before the last chinks were shut, it became clear from those who had been offline that the perils of this place were no longer just virtual. Several members of our organization who have been killed in simulations have also died in real life.”

Something Orlando had long expected was now confirmed. He felt a cold lump in his stomach, and avoided looking at Bonnie Mae Simpkins. “So what good will figuring out the gates do us?”

The stranger gave him a hard look, then turned his eyes back to his figures. “It will allow us perhaps to stay a step ahead of the worst destruction—to stay alive as long as possible. Because otherwise there is no hope at all. The Ceremony is coming, whatever it is. The Grail Brotherhood have launched their endgame, and we have nothing yet with which to counter it.”

Orlando looked at the man, who seemed to have stepped through some mental gateway of his own and was already miles away. Little yellow monkeys stirred uneasily on Orlando's shoulder.

We're going to get herded like animals,
he could not help thinking.
From world to world until there isn't anywhere else to run. Then the killing will really start.

F
OR a moment Renie thought she had actually screamed—caught in the tail end of a dream in which both Martine and Stephen were sealed in some kind of barrel that was rapidly sinking into the depths of a dark river, Renie herself unable to reach them no matter how hard she swam—but when she opened her eyes, the girl Emily was rocking back and forth beside her and T4b was still sleeping, his head lolling on his wide, armor-bulked chest. The angled light revealed acne scars on his dusty cheek; Renie wondered why any teenage boy would choose to have
that
feature made part of his virtual presence.

She was furious with herself for falling asleep, although since she and the two young people had returned first after hours of fruitless searching for Martine, there was nothing better to be done at present. Still, to have allowed weariness to tug her down while Martine remained lost seemed a form of betrayal.

So many people needing help,
she thought with more than a little bitterness,
and we haven't helped one of them yet.

Renie brushed reflexively at her eyelids and wondered about her real face under the bubble-mask in the V-tank. Was sleep crusting the corners of her eyes? Collecting around the inner edges of the mask like tailings from a mine? It was a disgusting thought, but oddly fascinating. It was hard not to think of her own body as something completely separate from her now, although it must be responding to her neural commands, flexing when she made her virtual joints flex to lift something, thrashing in its vat of plasmodial liquid when she felt herself to be running through the insect-jungles or freight yards of the Otherland network. It made her feel sorry for her body, as though it were something discarded—a toy with which a child had grown bored.

She shook off the gloomy thoughts and sat up, struggling to remember in which of the gigantic house's countless rooms she had landed. It came to her after only a moment's survey of the spare, functional furniture, the long table and several dozen chairs, and the icons propped in niches along the wall, each illuminated by its own candle.

Brother Epistulus Tertius had been horrified by their companion's disappearance, although he seemed a little doubtful that it had been a kidnapping—perhaps not a very common happenstance in this enclosed, semifeudal society. He had rounded up several of his fellows to help search the Library precinct, and had sent another to request an interview with Brother Custodis Major on the subject of the dusting monk Renie suspected had been their enemy in disguise. Epistulus Tertius had also kindly insisted that Renie and the other newcomers use the Library Cloisters as their base of operations.

Renie struggled to focus on the problem. Every moment that Martine was in the monster's hands the risk increased. She looked at Emily and wondered why the Quan Li thing had not snatched her instead of Martine, as it had back in the unfinished simulation. Merely a case of opportunity, or for some purpose more complicated? Did that mean there was a chance the thing would keep Martine alive?

Steps clattered in the hallway outside. T4b stirred and made a drowsy questioning noise as Florimel and !Xabbu entered.

“Any news?” Renie was relieved to see them back safely, but she could tell already by their postures and expressions what Florimel's headshake confirmed. “Damn! There must be something we can do—they can't have just vanished.”

“In a place like this?” Florimel asked heavily. “With thousands of rooms? I am afraid that is just what they
can
do.”

“The young monk wants us all to come to the . . . what is the word?” !Xabbu wrinkled his brow. “Abbot's chambers. He seems very concerned.”

“Brother Epistulus Tertius,” Florimel said. “My God, what a mouthful. We could just call him ‘E3'—our friend over there could make him an honorary Goggleboy.”