“I gave it to one of your servants, brother, and told him to dispose of it.”
“Which servant was that?”
“I don’t really know. One of those who stand outside this room from time to time.”
“Well, find out which one. Have hin chained to the long wall in the tunnel. If you can’t find out which one, have the whole lot of them chained. Let them hang there till they rot.”
“Which they assuredly will. Have you not had enough of rottenness, brother Ghoul? Has it not brought you to this pass? Perhaps it would be well to dwell less on rottenness for a time?”
“Shall a trifle of sickness make me forsake my life’s work?” The bulk upon the bed heaved with laughter, and Mavin, watching it, found a kind of fascinated nausea in the sight. The figure heaved itself upright, and the sight of its face made her stomach heave, for it was covered with hideous growths from which a vile ichor oozed. The hands which stroked an amulet at the creature’s throat were as badly afflicted. “My bone pits are not yet full, Panty, my sister, my dove. Panty, my dear one, mother of my delicious twins, Huld and Huldra, my dear boy and his delightful sister. And though she has obviously learned aplenty about the world—and will soon enough bear us yet another generation—my dear boy is not yet fully educated. Though it seems he does not want to go into the world to mix with his inferiors.”
“It was a foolish idea,” she said calmly, seemingly unafraid of this monster on the bed. “You have not reared him to care what others do, or think, or say. How then should he care for education, for is that not the study of what others care about? Hmmm?”
“He says we have taught him enough, you and I. Har, ahrah, enough, he says. Enough that he can use what we have taught him to conquer the world. Harar, aha.” The vast figure shivered with obscene laughter, and Mavin trembled upon the balcony.
“I have taught him to dissemble, my lord. To pretend. To play the Gamesman of honor. To mock the manners of others, if it seems wise—or amusing—to do so. What have you taught him?”
“To care for nothing, my love. To be sickened by nothing, repelled by nothing, to be capable of anything at all. Between us, he has been well educated.”
“Well then, why this mockery? Why all this effort expended to put him in the company of Prionde’s sons? He cared not for them. Should he have?”
“Softly, my dove, my cherub. He did all that was needed. He found in Valdon’s mind the way to the King, to Prionde. That was all he needed to do for now. It will be useful for some future Game. They will not suspect him of plotting, not at his age. But he and I—we have planned, sister. We have planned.”
“But does it not seem now all those plans are for naught?”
“Araugh,” the man screamed in rage. “Beware, sister. Do not be quick to condemn me to death. Blourbast does not die of ghoul-plague. My thalan made me immune to ghoul-plague when I was younger than Huld. I have eaten forbidden meat all my life, and the plague has not touched me!” The bulk heaved, quivered, drew itself upright, then collapsed once more.
“It has not touched you until now,” she said, her face as cold and empty of emotion as a mask. “Until now. It amused you to hold the shadowpeople to ransom for their relic. So they came at your command. I told you they were sick, but you sent them to your kitchens nonetheless. You gave the meat to those destined to be sent above, to Pfarb Durim. Well enough. But it was foolish to dine from the same dish, brother. You have not had ghoul-plague before, but you had not used the disease to empty a city before, either. In fact,” she turned an ironic glance upon him, “there had been no ghoul-plague for some tens of years. For most of our lifetimes, yours and mine, Blourbast. Now the disease comes again. Perhaps it is a new strain to which you are not immune.”
“Ghoul-plague is ghoul-plague,” he growled. “I am immune, I say. I ate only what was necessary so that they should not suspect what meat I fed them. I have eaten this meat many times before.”
“No,” she contradicted him. “You have not. I tell you again, brother, this is not any disease which has come upon us before. You are not immune, and now the Healers have spread the ban against you. You should not have tried to force healing out of them.”
“In Hell’s Maw, Gamesmen play as I will.”
“But in Hell’s Maw they did not. I told you that shadowpeople are reputed to cure this disease. What have you done to learn the truth of this?”
“I have a few dozens in my cellars, madame. Since they speak no tongue I can understand, what good to question them? I had a little man once who spoke their tongue, but he is dead now. My Demons have attempted to Read their little minds, to no end. So let them hang there and starve.”
“You have given up eating them, then? You do not fatten them in their cages?”
“Let them starve, I say. I hold their relic here,” and he stroked his breast once again, the motion of those horrid hands holding Mavin’s eyes fixed. “Here. So let them starve. Let them all die. It is nothing to me.”
“Nothing? What if you are ill to death, Blourbast?”
“I will recover, woman. I will recover, shadowpeople or no. This is only a temporary inconvenience.”
“But there is Huld, brother. If he sickens, will he recover?”
“You are late with your motherly concern, sister. He is gone to the far reaches of Poffle where the ways open upon the woodlands. I sent him thence, with his lovely sister-wife. He will be served only by his own people. Then, when Pfarb Durim is emptied and the winds have washed it clean, I will give it to him for a gift, as I promised him. He may fill it with his Mowers, and the revenues will be his and his fortune great, for no city garners more from trade than Pforb Durim.” Exhausted by this speech the bulky form seemed to collapse in upon itself. “Leave me, woman. You were ever contentious.”
The woman bowed, moved out of the chamber through a door at the far side, taking one of the torches with her as she went. A kind of gloom fell in the chamber, a heaving dusk, the thick breathing of Blourbast filling it as might the petulant waves of a foul and polluted sea.
Mavin waited for that breathing to soften before creeping down the stairs and into the chamber. She was invisible against the shadows, silent as a shadow herself, as she crept around the chamber and to the door Pantiquod had left through. She eased it open, but it shrieked at her, and she found herself confronting the mad eyes of the little thrilpat, shut in with the Ghoul and dying on the floor.
“Harrah?” from the bed. “Who’s there? Come into the light, you vermin.”
She did not wait, but oozed through the crack and pulled it shut behind her, hearing the whisper, “Run, run, run,” as she ran indeed, down the long way which arched into emptiness before her. What she had heard had been enough to give her an idea. Now she had only to find the place the shadowpeople were kept. After all, had not the Fon told her to do some service for them? What better service than to save them from this place?
Which was easier thought of than accomplished. Pantiquod walked for a great distance, through balconies which stretched over vast audience halls, down twisting corridors, up curved flights of stairs and down similar ones, but at the end of it she came only to a wing of the place devoted to suites of ordinary rooms, small kitchens, servants’ quarters, more luxuriously furnished bedrooms and sitting rooms among them. Here there was a certain amount of coming and going, and Mavin’s journey was interrupted by the constant need to hide. After the fifth or sixth such occasion, she decided that too much time was being wasted. It took only a little creeping and spying to see what livery the servants of the place wore, and then only a brief time more of experimentation to shift into that livery and guise. Thereafter she walked as a servant, obsequious and quiet, so ordinary about the face as to be anonymous. Pantiquod entered a set of rooms which were evidently set aside for her use, and did not emerge from them. She was obviously alone, and there was nothing Mavin could overhear or oversee to her advantage.
Well then, one must risk something. She returned the
way she had come, stopping at the first large hall in which there was any appreciable traffic. “I have taken a wrong turning,” she said to an approaching servant. “I was told by the woman, Pantiquod, to carry a message to the guard of the chambers ... below. Where the shadowpeople are.”
The servant stopped, stared, at last opened his mouth to show a tongueless cavity there. Mavin’s first reaction was to run, or to vomit. She restrained herself, however, and grasped the man firmly by one shoulder. “Do you understand what I say?”
He nodded, terrified.
“Do you know the place, the door?”
He nodded again.
“Then lead me there. You may return here and none know the difference.”
Still fearful, shivering, the man set out at a run, Mavin striding alongside. They twisted, turned, then the man stopped just before coming to a corner and pointed around it, keeping well back, face white and contorted. Though she had no Demon’s talent for reading minds, his was easy to read. “You were down there? That’s where they cut out your tongue? I understand. Go.” And he scurried back the way they had come, in such frantic haste that he stumbled, almost falling.
Mavin lay down upon the floor, peeked around the corner from floor level. At the end of the hallway was another of the guarded grills like those at the tunnel entrance to Hell’s Maw. Before this gate however, was no casual assembly of guardsmen but an armed line of Armigers, shoulder to shoulder, naked swords gleaming in their hands, a line of lounging Sorcerers behind them, blazing with power in that silent place.
“Oh, pombi piss,” she muttered. “Filth and rot and foul disaster.” Then she simply lay against the wall, exhausted, unable to think what to do next. How long had it been since she had had anything to eat? How long since she had slept? Probably a full day. They had had breakfast the day they entered Pfarb Durim. She had not eaten after that. Nor slept. She sighed. Well enough to know the way into the dungeons, but no help if one were too weak to go there. “Food,” she murmured. “Food first. Then whatever comes next.”
Chapter Seven
She cursed herself tiredly for not having brought the food which Windlow had offered. What food she might find here in the depths of Hell’s Maw had little likelihood of being healthful. “You are too rash, my girl,” she lectured herself in silence. “You have done well so far, but what have you had to oppose you? A few old lechers in Danderbat keep, that’s all. Now, here you are, run off in a sudden frenzy without any thought at all.” Sighing, she rose and went skulking off in search of something to fill her empty belly.
The woman Pantiquod had looked more or less normal, that is, unghoulish, and she had seemed to live in a part of the caves and tunnels which was cleanly, not smelling of rot and mold. Mavin returned there, staying out of sight, poking about until she found a larder with fruit in it and loaves of bread smelling of the sun. Evidently not all those who lived in Hell’s Maw were of Blourbast’s persuasion. Perhaps only a few were, or none except the Ghoul himself. She wondered what diet the arrogant Huld had eaten, whether he had been cossetted with dainties from Pfarb Durim or fed from childhood on the horrors of the pit. None of this wondering did anything to destroy her appetite, which was ravenous. The tunnels were chill, and her shifting had drawn what power she carried with her, leaving her weary and weak. After a short rest, she began to feel stronger. “Able to shift for yourself again, girl,” she said. “Able to shift.” She created a capacious pocket to carry some of the food with her, knowing it might well be a long time before she would find more. She thought longingly of sleep, then rejected the idea. There was no time, not with Mertyn lying sick in Pfarb Durim and the image of Blourbast’s ravaged face before her as a threat. Mertyn might come to this if she did not find help for him.
When she returned to the guarded hall it was to find the entrance to the lower realms unchanged. The line of Armigers still stood shoulder to shoulder; the Sorcerers behind them still lounged against the wall. They seemed not to have moved while she had been gone, as though some power she could not sense kept them in that utter stillness and concentration, entranced to their duty. It did no good to speculate. She had to get past them, preferably without alerting the warren to her presence.
Nothing came to her. She peered down the sides of the corridor, searching for any gap in the line. There was none. None. Except above the guardsmen’s heads where the corridor arched into gloom above the glare of the shaded lanterns. Stretching from side to side below the vaulted ceiling was a line of wooden beams which tied the walls together, knobby and convoluted in the shadow, for they had been carved into likenesses of thick vines and bulbous fruits with pendant sprays of leaves fanning across the stone walls at either end. She examined them, then began to thin herself, to flow upward, to draw in upon herself while stretching out, becoming limbless, earless, hairless, softly scaled and quiet as a dream, relentlessly pouring up and onto the beam where she twisted about it in a bulky knot no different in outline from the carved vines.
The beam on which she rested was in the cross corridor. Now her serpent’s head reached out into the guarded corridor, hidden in the gloom above the light, weaving out a little, silent, silent, until it rested on the next beam and anchored there. A long loop of body followed, knotting and unknotting slowly, moving forward as the sinuous body bridged the shadowy space, beam by beam. At last she lay above the guardsmen, twined onto the last of the beams, her endless neck reaching into the shadow behind them, over the Sorcerers heads. There was nothing to hold her there except the lintel of the arch itself, and she descended by tiny tentacles sent deep into the mortar between the stones, holding herself to the wall as a vine holds, pulled tight to the rock until her serpent’s head could pass through the iron grill, fingerlength by fingerlength. She lay at last beyond the grill and behind the guards, they not having moved during all that time. When the last scale of her tail slipped through the grill, her head was halfway down the flight of stairs behind, body stretched between the two points like a single reaching arm. Now she heard again the sounds she had heard on first entering Hell’s Maw, the clangor, the heavy pounding, the fragment of birdlike song, cut off abruptly. The stairs wound around a pit, down onto the floor of a well from which more of the arched corridors spread in all directions. The place was lit by the omnipresent torches. There were torches and lanterns everywhere in Hell’s Maw, an insufficiency of light in all those depths, a gelid half shade thick with fumes and smoke. After a time she had stopped noticing the light, had only moved through its dusky inadequacy like a fish moving through water, not noticing the medium. Now, however, as she came to the bottom of the well, she saw that one of the tunnels to her left was lit in a stranger way, by a flickering which receded and advanced, receded and advanced, accompanied by a sound as of clattering wooden twigs upon stone. She stared toward this way, then stopped as a stench poured out of the tunnel toward her, an effluvium so dense as to seem impenetrable. The wisp of birdlike sound came from behind her, and she turned, seeking the sound, finding any excuse not to go toward that flickering light.
Song led her into a darker way, one smelling of soil, but a cleaner stench than the corruption behind her. Roots dangled through the ceiling stones, brushes of dense hairy fiber dragging across the lean furred form she had taken. Snakes were all very well, she told herself, but stone was cold upon belly scales and the placement of the eyes left something to be desired. A twitter sounded ahead, and she melted into the darkness behind a pillar, searching. Nothing. No, perhaps a tiny movement. A scampering. Song again, a single, disconsolate trill. Then again. Silence. She snaked out a lengthened arm and grabbed into the gloom, then bit back a howl as needle teeth sank into her hand. Fighting down her instinct to drop whatever it was and run, Mavin toughened the flesh around the small thing she had caught and dragged it into the half light.
To stare in wonder, for it was like nothing she had ever seen before. Huge, fragile ears; wide lipless mouth; large dark eyes wild with fury and fear; teeth bared, slender f
orm fluffed with soft fur, crying, crying words ... words. She knew in an instant that it was no mere animal she held. The eyes, while frantic, were full of alert intelligence, and the sounds were too consecutive, too varied to be mere animal cries of panic. She sat down on the chill stone and crooned to it, without thinking, using the same tone she had used to Mertyn when he had hurt himself. “Ahh, ahh, it’s all right. I won’t hurt you. Shh. Shh. See, I’ll hardly hold you at all. Now, who are you?”
She asked the question with an interrogative lilt and a cock of her head, waiting for an answer. The little creature stopped shaking and regarded her quietly, chest heaving with enormous sobs, quieting until only an occasional tremor ran through the muscular limbs she held so gently. “Mavin,” she used one hand to point at herself. “Mavin.” Then she pointed to her captive and cocked her head once more. “Who?”
“Puh-leedle-addle-proom-room-room,” it warbled. “Puh-leedle-addle-proom-room-room.”
Mavin shook her head, laughing. “Proom!” she pointed to him, relaxing her grip. “Mavin. Proom.” This matter settled, she sat with the manikin on her lap, wondering what to do next. A final, sobbing breath passed through the creature, then it collapsed into her lap, sighing, such a sigh of despair and sadness as she had never heard. “What’s the matter, little one?” she asked. “Are you as lost in this terrible place as I am?”
Proom tilted his head—Mavin was sure it was a “he,” though she could not have said why—and thought about this for a moment. Then he reached up to lay one slender, three-fingered hand across her lips. The other he held behind his ear, the delicate pink nails curved above it. More clearly than with words he said, be still and listen. Then he sang, birdlike, a clear warble of sound in the ponderous dusk of the cavern. Mavin held her breath. She thought she heard a reply, or was it only an echo? No, it was a reply, for Proom’s hand whipped away from her ear to point into the dark. A reply. There were others here, others in this place, and she knew already that they were not here by chance. Something tickled at her mind, fled away.