“I learned,” said the Fon. “Tonight. When the Seer learned. We had not been told that the young Demon, Huld, was ward or thalan or what have you of the Archghoul, Blourbast, holder of Hell’s Maw.”
The Armiger lifted off the ground, hung in the air, burning with annoyance. “Don’t say that. Don’t say that word.”
“Hell’s Maw,” repeated Twizzledale. “From which no good thing comes. Is that not the saying here in Pfarb Durim? I have heard it seven times since entering the city, Guardmaster. Come now. Settle. You are using power to no purpose. We will leave you in peace.”
He took Mavin by the shoulder and led her out of the room. “Mavin, what possessed you to try that here? The place is guarded like an old pombi’s one kit.”
“I know,” she whispered, reaching for his hand. “Listen, Fon. There’s plague in Pfarb Durim ...” And as they walked she murmured rapidly of all that had brought her to Mudgery Mont.
When they came to the door of the suite of chambers which were occupied by the Seer and his students, Twizzledale opened the door softly, peering around it before entering. He drew her into a side room, shut the door behind them, and then went to still another door, half hidden behind a hanging. “I didn’t want Valdon to see you,” he explained. “It was he who sent Huld down to identify you. There was much sympathetic feeling between the two.” He passed through the door, leaving it ajar, and she heard a rapid murmur of voices, Windlow saying “No! Here!” and more rustling of clothing as the voices went on. The Seer came into the room, belting a robe around him.
“Where is the place young Mertyn lies ill?” he demanded.
She went to the window, oriented herself by the slope of the hill and the line of distant towers, pointed. “There. Near the round-roofed building. Perhaps six or seven streets over. The woman who runs the place—who ran the place. She left—said not to move him.”
“I doubt it would hurt him to be wrapped well and carried here, if it were done quickly. Twizzledale will go, and I’ll send men from the Mont.”
“Valdon won’t like it,” said the Fon. “He grows more annoyed with every passing hour.”
“Valdon is frustrated that the world has not yet lain at his feet,” said Windlow. “His expectations of this journey were unrealistic. He awaited some great event, some recognition of himself. He must blame someone. Well, we will not speak of it to him.”
“What will they think?” Mavin murmured. “About your going out to get a boy, just a boy.”
“Why, Mavin.” Windlow was surprised. “What would they think if the Wizard Himaggery did not go out to rescue his thalan? Since the Fon has said he is the Wizard Himaggery—and who am I to say he is not, particularly if both you and he say he—and since everyone, including Boldery, knows that Mertyn is the Wizard Himaggery’s thalan, why then of course he must be rescued.” He turned to Twizzledale, frowning. “Though how you will explain it all to Valdon, I do not know. I leave it to your necessarily fertile imagination.”
And from that moment it was only a short time before they came to the empty lodging house with a troop of the Mont’s guards and carried Mertyn back to that place, up the back way, quietly, into a room separated from the body of the hotel, where the Seer awaited them. Only Twizzledale had touched him, though the Seer now laid a hand upon his forehead and sighed.
“The woman said ghoul-plague, did she? And that is what the host outside the gate is besieging us for? Then I am deeply worried, lad.”
“What is this disease?” Mavin asked. “I had never heard of it.”
“It begins, some say, with the eating of human flesh. For this reason it is called ghoul-plague. In my reading of history, however, I have found that it may not be human flesh but the flesh of shadowpeople which causes the disease. Once begun, it is like other plagues, crossing from those who have eaten the forbidden flesh to those who have not. It is carried from place to place, and none know how.”
“Mertyn touched the sick man, in the alley. The man drooled on him. On his face.”
“That may have been enough. A very ancient book spoke of disease being spread by the bites of small creatures, little blood suckers or flitter bats. I have seen plagues of similar kind. Some do recover.” He did not sound hopeful.
“The woman said the shadowpeople are said to cure this plague,” said Mavin. For the past hour she had been making plans, moving pieces of information about in her head. “I’m going to go find them, Gamesmaster.”
“Find the shadowpeople?” The Fon was amazed. “They can’t be found by anyone wishing to do so.”
“Perhaps not. But I must try. Will you care for Mertyn while I am gone? I would not ask this thing of you, except that you are kindly and good, and you cannot leave the city anyhow.”
“And you,” murmured Windlow. “How will you leave the city?”
“The way that Demon did,” she said. “The Armiger said he went through tunnels.”
“By all the Gamegods, child. Those tunnels lead to Hell’s Maw. And I do not know, nor do any in this city know for all I can tell, whether there is any way out of Hell’s Maw at all.”
Chapter Six
Though both of them tried to dissuade her, speaking quietly so as not to disturb Mertyn, she would not be moved.
“I must go. Never mind about Poffle. I’ll get through Poffle. Never mind about shadowpeople, I’ll...” And still they argued.
Until suddenly old Windlow stiffened where he stood, his face turning rigid and pale, his hands stretching out as though to touch something the others could not see.
“He’s having a vision,” whispered the Fon. “Quiet. It affects him in this way sometimes when he is very upset.” They watched, not touching him, as he swayed upon his feet, his eyes darting from side to side as though watching some wild movement or affray they could not see. Then his eyes shut, he swayed, caught at the bed to keep himself from falling, and gasped deeply, like a man coming from under water and desperate for air.
“We must let her go, Twizzledale,” he said at last.
“Let ... her go? Mavin? Oh, come now, Windlow. Or have I been unwizardly?” He turned to give Mavin a keen look, swiftly up and down.
Mavin, staring at the Seer, knew that the Fon had penetrated at least part of her identity, but let the feminine identification go by without protest. “You saw something. What was it?”
“I’m not sure,” he sighed. “It was dark and there was a great deal of confusion. But Mertyn was there, and his sister, Mavin. And Mavin had a trick or two in her left ear, or so Mertyn said. There was something evil. Valdon was involved. Something terrible, huge. Lords, Twizzledale, but at times I hate being a Seer.” He grabbed at his head with both hands as though he would tear it off. “Sometimes I think I am not a Seer at all, but something else.”
The Fon accused her, quoting Windlow. “His sister Mavin, eh? What are you, young person? Charlatan, as Huld accused us of being? Or something else?”
“Hush,” said Windlow distractedly. “Don’t snarl at her, Wizard. Whatever she has done, she’s done for the boy. Go with her. Help her if you can. But don’t snarl. Don’t worry about Mertyn more than you can help, Mavin. Whatever can be done for the boy, I’ll do.”
“You won’t move him, Seer?”
“No farther than he’s been moved, child. Go with Twizzledale. Take what you need from our goods, food, whatever. There’s a puzzle about you that my Seeing didn’t do a thing to solve, you know. Until we meet in happier times, then.” He embraced her. She felt a dew of clammy perspiration on his cheeks, a trembling in his hands, but his mouth was firm as he turned her out the door, Twizzledale following, still in his mood of irritation.
“I don’t like it when people don’t tell me things,” he grumbled. “Particularly important things.”
She sighed, moved by his exasperation, not to an answering anger but to some soothing words, some kindliness. He looked so spiky, hands rooting at his hair, eyes sparking with annoyance.
“Wizard. I kno
w you are angry with me, but how could I trust you? Someone just met on the road? I barely felt I could trust the Seer, and I wouldn’t have come to him if I had had any choice. Please.” She stopped, holding him by his arm. “Where are we going?”
“Back to our rooms. To pack you some—whatever you need. Food, I suppose. A change of clothing.”
“I won’t need any of that. Wizard, if you want to help me, come with me to the entrance, the tunnels, the way to go through that place ... Poffle. Don’t go on being angry. It has nothing to do with you, truly.”
They stood in confrontation, he clenching and unclenching his fists, shifting his weight as though he wanted to hit her; she, head cocked, poised, prepared for flight if he decided to grab her. So they stared, glared, until he began to smile, then to laugh. “I’d like to strangle you.” He coughed. “You’re impossible.”
She smiled warily. “I’m really doing the only thing I can.”
“You’re shifter, aren’t you? I should have guessed. The minute Windlow said ‘sister,’ I should have guessed. I did guess. Except that ...”
“Except that you don’t like shifters,” she said in a flat, emotionless tone. “Other Gamesmen, yes. But not shifters.”
“Hold! I’ve never known a shifter. Surely, shifters are supposed to be—well, what are they supposed to be. Stranger than the rest of us? Less understandable?”
“Less trustworthy?” Her smile was sweet, poisonous. “Less reliable? Less honorable?”
“More tricky,” he said, amused again. “More devious, more challenging, more entertaining.”
“Less destructible,” she said in a firm voice, putting an end to the catalogue. “Which is why I think I can get through Poffle to the outside world. Which is why I think maybe I can find shadow-people, though others possibly have been unable to do so.”
“How old are you?” he asked, apropos of nothing.
“Fifteen,” she said, before she thought.
“Young. Have you had talent long? I mean ...”
“You mean, have I had it long enough to learn to use it. Yes, Wizard, I have. Probably better than you have learned to use your own. I had to.” And she turned away from him to march out into the dark through a side door, he following mutely, feeling it a better idea to hide his curiosity than to annoy her with any more questions. Once outside he led her in a circuitous route through the grounds of the Mont and onto a narrow walkway curving along the rim of the escarpment. The way was unfrequented, littered with small trash, ending in a parapet surrounded by a low wall.
“Down there.” He pointed.
She looked over to see the narrow crevasse which fell below the wall, a walkway there lined with needled, misshapen trees. At the end of the walkway a lonely lantern burned beside a grilled arch, and outside the grill a platoon of guardsmen moved restlessly back and forth. The archway led into darkness.
“This is the Ghoul Blourbast’s private highway into Pfarb Durim,” said the Fon. “It was pointed out to us by Huld. The Seer was not happy to learn of that young man’s true identity.”
“How was it that you did not know?”
“The arrangements were made through third parties, Negotiators and Ambassadors. That alone should have warned Windlow that something was amiss. What use has an honest Gamesman for Ambassadors!”
“It seems Huld didn’t care much for the arrangement either.”
“Valdon is an example of humility compared to Huld. After some time in Valdon’s company I thought him the epitome of arrogance, but I was wrong. I believe Huld has never asked for anything, no matter how outrageous, which he has not been given. Who is he, really? No one seems to know, except that Blourbast holds him dear. And he went back down that hell hole, Mavin, so watch out for him.”
“He will not see me,” she said soberly, then, taking him by the arm, “Fon, can you help me? With the shadowpeople? What language do they speak? What would they ask of me in return for healing Mertyn?”
He shook his head. “I wish I knew, Mavin. I would help you in any way I could, if only because you tricked me and teased me and made my mind work in odd ways. You must find them first and then try to do them a service, as you would for anyone, Gamesman or pawn. If they are peoplelike—and I have heard that they are in some ways—then they will seek to do you a service in repayment. How you will speak with them, I do not know. I have never seen one of them. At times I have doubted they exist.” He pulled her to him and squeezed her, quickly releasing her, so that she felt only breathless and wondering at the suddenness of it. “Let us make a pact, however. If you have need of me, you will send word—let me think! The word shall be the name of that place you stayed, BALD BADGER. Or, if there is no way to send word, then the first letter of your name in fire or smoke or stone or whatever. Given that word, that signal, I’ll get to you somehow.”
“You can’t get out,” she said. “The city is closed.”
“You can’t get out either,” he replied. “And yet you are going. So. Strange are the Talents of Wizards. Leave the way of it to me.” And he released her, standing away from her, and looking at her in a way no one had looked at her before. Mavin shook her head, trying to clear it, then gave it up and turned from him to slide over the low parapet at the edge of the declivity. She cast one look over her shoulder to see him walking steadily away. She had not wanted him to watch her as she changed. Seemingly he had understood that.
She shifted into something which could climb walls, rather spiderlike if she had thought about it, which she had no time to do. At the bottom of the ditch, she skulked along behind the twisted trees until the light of the torches splashed amber on the stones before her. She had already decided what to do next. Using an arm much stronger than her own, she heaved a paving stone high onto the opposite bank, some distance behind her. It crashed through the branches with a satisfactory sound of someone thrashing about. The guards ran toward it, not looking behind them, and she slipped through the bars of the gate into darkness, resuming her own shape once hidden in shadow. Only a shifter could have come through the gate—a shifter or a serpent. The bars had been set close together.
There was no light in the tunnel. Far ahead she thought she could see a faint grayness in the black. She fumbled her way forward, stopping close to the walkway, feeling a slimy dampness on her hands where they touched the walls or floor. Furred feet made no sound. Soon she was walking four-footed, making a nose which would smell out trails and paths. A sharp sound broke the silence, echoed briefly like a shout into a well, and was gone. Still, it had given her direction in the darkness. The grayness grew more light. She turned toward it, out of the widened corridor and into a side way. It was torchlight, reflected off wet walls around several sinuous turns. The torch burned outside another barred gate which was no more trouble than the first had been. Now the corridor was lighted, badly, with smoky torches at infrequent intervals.
She became aware of sound, a far, indefinite clanging, an echoing clamor, a whumping sound as though something heavy fell repeatedly into something soft. Through it all came a thin cry of song, high, birdlike, quickly silenced. She shivered, not knowing why. The sounds were not ugly or threatening, and yet heard together they made her want to weep. She sneaked along the way, now finding windows cut into the stone which looked out into black pits. As she went, she tossed bits of gravel through the openings, listening for the sound. Her ears told her some were merely small rooms or closets while others were bottomless. The sounds came closer, and suddenly—
“Wait a minute, will ya. I’ll be with you. Run, run, So impatient. Wait a minute!” The voice screeched, whined, almost at her shoulder, and Mavin fell against the wall, crouched, ready to be attacked.
“I’ll be right with ya,” the voice screamed.
She reached out, patting the air around her. Another of the openings was just above her head, and hung inside it, far enough inside that no light struck it at all, was a cage. Mavin found the ring on which it was hung, drew it down and into the
light. Inside it crouched a ragged-looking beasty, eyes dilated into great, brown orbs, teeth bared, patches of its hide missing as though they had been burned away. “Run,” it screamed at her. “Run, run.”
Without thinking, Mavin opened the cage and shook the creature out onto the stones where it lay for a moment, too shocked to move. Then in one enormous leap, it crossed the corridor and disappeared down a side way, shrieking as it went. Thoughtfully, Mavin hung the open cage back where she had found it and followed. “Run, run,” it screamed, fleeing at top speed into darkness. “I’ll get to ya.”
“I hope you do,” she muttered. “To one Pantiquod, one strange, gray woman. To one someone who talks, who can be overheard, who knows the way out of here.”
She had need of her nose again, for the little animal lost itself in darkness. The stench of it—part illness, part dirty cage, part the beasty itself—lingered on the stones, however, and Mavin tracked the little animal through dark ways into lighter ones to a heavy door upon which the little creature hung, still trying to shriek, though its voice had wearied to a whisper. “Run,” it whimpered. “Run. I’ll get to ya.”
Mavin stood to one side, pressed down upon the latch and let the door swing open. The thrilpat was through it in an instant. Hearing no alarms, Mavin followed. She was now in a well lit corridor ending in a broad flight of stairs. A small balcony protruded to her left, half hidden behind embroidered draperies. She oozed into the cover of these, hearing voices from below.
“I thought I told you to get rid of that animal!” The voice was heavy gasping, full of malice and ill humor. Peering between the railings, Mavin could see where the voice came from—a vast, billowy form lying in a canopied bed. Only the bottom half of the form was visible to her. She could see all of the other persons in the room, however, and was unsurprised to recognize the gray woman from the lodging house, now dressed in an odd, winged cap with a feathered cape at her shoulders. It was Pantiquod, the mangy animal now clinging to her ankle as it sobbed and pled.