Into the Labyrinth

17

Alone in the hallway, Haplo took a look inside the Automaton’s room. The mensch were talking excitedly among themselves, moving from one glass eye to the next, gazing out at the marvels of the new world. Limbeck was standing squarely in the center of the room, giving a speech. Jarre was the only one listening to him, but he never noticed that he had such a small audience, nor did he much care. Jarre regarded him with loving eyes—her eyes would see quite well enough for the two of them.

“Good-bye, my friends,” Haplo told them both from the hallway, where they couldn’t possibly hear him. He turned around and left.

Arianus would be at peace now. An uneasy peace, riven with cracks and splits. It would break and crumble and threaten more than once to fall down and crush everyone beneath. But the mensch, guided by their wise leaders, would shore the peace up here, patch it up there, and it would stand, strong in its imperfection.

Which was not what he’d been ordered to do.

“It had to be this way, Lord Xar. Otherwise the dragon-snakes...” Haplo’s hand went, unknowing, to his breast. The wound bothered him sometimes. The scar tissue was inflamed, painful to the touch. He scratched at it absently, winced, and snatched his hand away, cursing. Looking down, he saw his shirt spotted with blood. He’d broken the wound open again. Emerging from the tunnels, he climbed the stairs, halted at the top, stood before the statue of the Manger. It reminded him more than ever of Alfred.

“Xar won’t listen to me, will he?” Haplo asked the statue. “Any more than Samah listened to you.”

The statue didn’t respond.

“But I’ve got to try,” Haplo insisted. “I’ve got to make my lord understand. Otherwise we’re all in danger. And then, when he knows the danger of the dragon-snakes, he can fight them. And I can return to the Labyrinth, find my child.”

Oddly, the thought of going back into the Labyrinth no longer terrified him. Now, at last, he could walk back through the Final Gate. His child. And her child. Perhaps he’d find her as well. The mistake he’d made—letting her go—would be rectified.

“You were right, Marit,” he said to her silently. “ ‘The evil inside us,’ you said. Now I understand.”

Haplo stood staring up at the statue. Once, when he had first seen it, the statue of the Sartan had seemed to him awful, majestic. Now it looked tired, wistful, and faintly relieved.

“It was tough being a god, wasn’t it? All that responsibility... and no one listening. But your people are going to be all right now.” Haplo rested his hand on the metal arm. “You don’t have to worry about them any longer.”

“And neither do I.”

Once outside the Factree, Haplo headed for his ship. The storm was letting up; the clouds were starting to roll away. And so far as Haplo could see, there wasn’t another storm in sight. The sun might actually shine on Drevlin—all of Drevlin, not just the area around the Liftalofts. Haplo wondered how the dwarves would cope.

Knowing dwarves, they’d probably be opposed to it, he decided, smiling at the thought.

Haplo slogged through the puddles, taking care to keep clear of any part of the rumbling Kicksey-winsey that looked as if it might swing, trundle, roll, or smash into him. The air was filled with the various sounds of the machine’s intense activity: whistles and hoots, beeps and grindings, the zap of electricity. A few dwarves had actually ventured outside and were peering up at the sky with doubt.

Haplo looked swiftly to his ship, was pleased to see that no one and nothing was near it—this included the Kicksey-winsey. He was not so pleased to note that the dog wasn’t around either. But then, Haplo was forced to admit, I haven’t been very good company of late. Probably the dog was off chasing rats. The storm clouds broke up. Solarus burst through, streaming down between the breaks in the clouds. In the distance, a cascade of rainbow colors shimmered around the spouting geyser. The sunlight made the great machine suddenly beautiful—it gleamed on the bright silver arms, glinted off fanciful golden fingers. The dwarves stopped to stare at the amazing sight, then hurriedly shaded their eyes and began to grumble about the brightness of the light. Haplo stopped, took a long look around.

“I won’t be back here,” he said to himself suddenly. “Ever again.” The knowledge didn’t cause him sorrow, only a kind of wistful sadness, much as he’d seen on the face of the Sartan statue. It wasn’t a feeling of ill omen. But it was a feeling of certainty.

He wished, after all, that he’d said good-bye to Limbeck. And thanked him for saving his life. Haplo couldn’t remember that he ever had. He almost turned around, then kept going straight ahead, toward his ship. It was better this way.

Haplo removed the runes from the entrance, was about to open the hatch when he stopped again, looked around again.

“Dog!” Haplo called.

An answering “whuff” came from inside. From far inside the ship. Say, around the hold area, where the sausages were hung...

“So that’s what you’ve been up to,” Haplo called out grimly. He opened the door and stepped in.

Pain burst at the base of his skull, exploded behind his eyes, and propelled him, struggling, into darkness.

Chill water, splashing on his face, brought Haplo instantly to consciousness. He was wide awake and alert, despite the ache in his head. He found himself lying on his back, his wrists and ankles bound securely with a length of his own rope. Someone had ambushed him. But who? Why? And how had whoever it was gotten on board his ship?

Sang-drax. The dragon-snake. But my magic should have warned me... Haplo’s eyes flicked open involuntarily when the water hit him, but he closed them almost immediately. Groaning, he let his head loll sideways. Then he lay still, pretending to black out again, hoping to hear something to tell him what was happening.

“Come off it. Quit shamming.”

Something—probably the toe of a boot—prodded Haplo in the side. The voice was familiar.

“I know that old trick,” the voice continued. “You’re awake, all right. I can prove it if you want me to. A kick in the side of the knee. Feels like someone’s driving a red-hot poker into your flesh. No one can play dead through the pain.”

The shock of recognizing the voice, more than the threat—which to Haplo, with his protective runes, was no threat at all—caused him to open his eyes. He stared up dazedly at the man who had spoken.

“Hugh the Hand?” he said groggily.

The Hand grunted in acknowledgment. He was seated on a low wooden bench that ran along the bulkheads. He had a pipe in his mouth, and the noxious odor of stregno wafted through the ship. Although he looked relaxed, he was watchful and undoubtedly had a weapon ready.

Not that any mensch weapon could hurt Haplo. But then, no mensch could possibly break through his magic, sneak on board his ship. Nor could any mensch ambush him.

He’d figure this out later, once he was free of these ropes. Haplo called on the magic that would remove his bonds, dissolve the ropes, burn them away... Nothing happened.

Astounded, Haplo tugged at the ropes, to no avail.

Hugh the Hand watched, puffed on his pipe, said nothing. Haplo had the odd impression that the Hand was as curious as the Patryn about what was going forward.

Haplo ignored the assassin. He took time to analyze the magic, something he hadn’t bothered to do, since a routine spell of this sort was second nature. He scanned the possibilities, only to discover that there was only one possibility—he was bound securely with strong rope. All other possibilities had disappeared.

No, not disappeared. They were still there; he could see them, but they were unavailable to him. Accustomed to having innumerable doors open to him, Haplo was shocked to find that now all but one were shut and locked. Frustrated, he pulled hard at the bonds, tried to free himself. The rope cut painfully into his wrists. Blood trickled over the sigla on his forearms. Sigla that should have been burning bright red and blue, sigla that should have been acting to free him.

“What have you done?” Haplo demanded, not afraid, just amazed. “How did you do this?”

Hugh the Hand shook his head, removed the pipe from his mouth. “If I told you, you might find a way to fight it. Seems a pity to let you die without knowing, but”—the assassin shrugged—“I can’t take the chance.”

“Die...”

Haplo’s head hurt like hell. None of this was making sense. He closed his eyes again. He wasn’t trying to fool his captor anymore. He was simply trying to ease the pain in his skull long enough to figure out what was going on.

“I’ve sworn to tell you one thing before I kill you,” Hugh the Hand said, rising to his feet. “That’s the name of the person who wants you dead. Xar. That name mean anything to you? Xar wants you dead.”

“Xar!” Haplo’s eyes flared open. “How do you know Xar? He wouldn’t hire you—a mensch. No, damn it, this doesn’t make any sense!”

“He didn’t hire me. Bane did. Before he died. He said I was to tell you that Xar wants you dead.”

Haplo went numb. Xar wants you dead. He couldn’t believe it. Xar might be disappointed with him, angry with him. But want him dead?

No, Haplo said to himself, that would mean Xar is afraid of me. And Xar isn’t afraid of anything.

Bane. This was his doing. It had to be.

But now that Haplo had figured that out, what did he plan to do about it?

Hugh the Hand stood over him. The assassin was reaching into his cloak, probably for the weapon he was going to use to finish the job.

“Listen to me, Hugh.” Haplo hoped to distract the assassin with talk while he tried surreptitiously to loosen his bonds. “You’ve been tricked. Bane lied to you. He was the one who wanted me dead.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Hugh the Hand drew a knife out of a sheath strapped behind his back. “A contract’s a contract, no matter who made it. I took it. I’m honor-bound to carry it out.”

Haplo didn’t hear. He was staring at the knife. Sartan runes! But how?... Where?... No, damn it, that didn’t matter! What mattered was that now he knew—sort of—what was blocking his magic. If he only understood how the runes worked...

“Hugh, you’re a good man, a good fighter.” Haplo stared hard at the knife. “I don’t want to have to kill you—”

“Good thing,” Hugh the Hand remarked with a grim smile. “Because you’re not going to have the chance.”

Concealed in Haplo’s boot was a rune-covered dagger of his own. He acted on the probability that the dagger wasn’t in his boot but in his hands. The magic worked. The knife was in Haplo’s hands. But at the same instant the knife in the assassin’s hand was suddenly a double-bladed ax. Hugh fumbled, nearly dropped the heavy weapon, but quickly recovered, held on to it.

So that’s how the magic works, Haplo realized. Ingenious. The knife can’t stop my magic, but it can limit my choices. It will let me fight, because it can counteract whatever weapon I choose to use. And the weapon works on its own, obviously, judging by the look on Hugh’s face. He was more shocked than I was. Not that this helps much, since the Sartan knife will always give him the upper hand. But does it react to all magic? Or just to a threat...

“I’ll make your death quick,” Hugh the Hand was saying. He gripped the ax in both hands, raised it over Haplo’s neck. “If you people have any prayers to say, you’d best say them.”

Haplo gave a low whistle.

The dog—sausage grease on its nose—trotted out from the hold. It paused to regard its master and Hugh with amazed curiosity. Obviously this was a game... Take him! Haplo ordered silently.

The dog looked puzzled. Take him, Master? He’s our friend! I saved his life. He was kind enough to feed me a sausage or two. Surely you’re mistaken, Master.

Take him! Haplo ordered.

The dog might have, for the first and only time in its life, disobeyed. But at that moment Hugh raised the ax.

The dog was baffled. The game had suddenly turned ugly. This couldn’t be allowed. The man must be making a mistake. Silently, not growling or barking, the dog jumped for Hugh.

The Hand never knew what hit him. The animal struck him solidly from behind. The assassin lost his balance; the ax flew from his hands, thudded harmlessly into the wall. Hugh stumbled, fell. The human’s heavy weight crashed down on top of Haplo.

Hugh the Hand gave a great groan. His body stiffened. Haplo felt a rush of warm blood cover his hands and arms.

“Damn!” Haplo pushed on the assassin’s shoulder, rolled him over onto his back.

Haplo’s knife protruded from the man’s gut.

“Damn it! I didn’t mean—Why the hell did you—” Cursing, Haplo crouched over the man. A major artery had been severed. Blood was pulsing out of the wound. Hugh was still alive, but he wouldn’t be for long.

“Hugh,” Haplo said quietly. “Can you hear me? I didn’t mean to do this.” The man’s eyes flickered open. The Hand seemed almost to smile. He tried to speak, but the blood rattled in his throat. His jaw fell slack. The eyes fixed. His head rolled to one side.

The dog trotted over, pawed at the dead man. Game’s over. That was fun. Now it’s time to get up and play again.

“Leave him alone, boy,” Haplo said, shoving the dog back. The dog, not understanding but having the idea that this was all somehow its fault, flopped down on its belly. Nose between its paws, it gazed from its master to the man, who was now lying quite still. The dog hoped someone would tell it what was going on.

“You of all people,” Haplo said to the corpse. “Damn it!” He beat gently on his leg with a clenched fist. “Damn it all. Bane! Why Bane—and why this? What cursed fate put this weapon into your hands?”

The Sartan weapon lay on the blood-spattered deck beside the body. The weapon, which had been an ax, was now again a crude knife. Haplo didn’t touch it. He didn’t want to touch it. The Sartan runes etched into its metal were hideous, repulsive, reminded him of the corrupt Sartan runes he’d seen on Abarrach. He left it where it was.

Angry at Hugh, himself, fate—or whatever one might call it—Haplo stood up, stared grimly out the ship’s porthole.

The sun was pouring down on Drevlin with blinding intensity. The rainbow geyser sparkled and danced. More and more dwarves were coming up to the surface, staring around them in dazzled bewilderment.

“What the devil am I going to do with the body?” Haplo demanded. “I can’t leave it here, on Drevlin. How would I explain what happened? And if I just dump it out, the humans will suspect the dwarves of murder. All hell will break loose. They’ll all be back right where they started.”

“I’ll take him back to the Kenkari,” he decided. “They’ll know what to do. Poor bastard—”

A great and terrible cry of rage and anguish, coming from directly behind him, froze Haplo’s heart to awed stillness. He was unable to move for an instant, his brain and nerves fused by fear and disbelief.

The cry was repeated. Haplo’s icy blood surged through his body in chilling waves. Slowly he turned around.

Hugh the Hand was sitting up, looking down at the knife hilt protruding from his stomach. Grimacing as if in memory of the pain, the assassin took hold of the hilt and pulled the blade out. With a bitter curse, he hurled the weapon—stained with his own blood—away from him. Then he let his head sink into his hands.

It took only a moment for the initial shock to wear off, for Haplo to understand what had happened. He said one word.

“Alfred.”

Hugh the Hand looked up. His face was ravaged, haggard; the dark eyes burned.

“I was dead, wasn’t I?”

Wordlessly Haplo nodded.

Hugh’s hands clenched; fingernails dug into flesh. “I... couldn’t leave. I’m trapped. Not here. Not there. Will it be like this always? Tell me! Will it?” He sprang to his feet. He was nearly raving. “Must I know death’s pain and never its release? Help me! You have to help me!”

“I will,” Haplo said softly. “I can.”

Hugh halted, regarded Haplo with suspicion. His hand went to his breast, tore open the bloodstained shirt. “You can do something about this? Can you get rid of it?”

Haplo saw the sigil, shook his head. “A Sartan rune. No, I can’t. But I can help you find the one who can. Alfred put it there. He’s the only one who can free you. I can take you to him, if you have the courage. He’s imprisoned in—”

“Courage!” Hugh gave a roaring laugh. “Courage! Why do I need courage? I can’t die!” His eyes rolled in his head. “I don’t fear death! It’s life I’m scared of! It’s all backward, isn’t it? All backward.”

He laughed and kept laughing. Haplo heard a high, thin note, of hysteria, of madness. Not surprising, after what the human had endured, but he couldn’t be permitted to indulge in it.

Haplo caught hold of Hugh’s wrists. The assassin, scarcely knowing what he was doing, struggled violently to free himself.

Haplo held him fast. Blue light shone from the runes on Haplo’s hands and arms, spread its soothing glow to Hugh the Hand. The light wrapped itself around him, twined up his body.

The Hand sucked in his breath, stared at the light in awe. Then his eyes closed. Two tears squeezed out from beneath his lids, trailed down his cheeks. He relaxed in Haplo’s hold.

Haplo held him, drew him into the circle of his being. He gave his strength to Hugh, took Hugh’s torment into himself.

Mind flowed into mind; memories became tangled, shared. Haplo flinched and cried out in agony. It was Hugh the Hand, his potential killer, who supported him. The two men stood, locked in an embrace that was of spirit, mind, and body.

Gradually the blue light faded. Each man’s being returned to its own sanctuary. Hugh the Hand grew calm. Haplo’s pain eased.

The Hand lifted his head. His face was pale, glistening with sweat. But the dark eyes were calm. “You know,” he said.

Haplo drew a shivering breath and nodded, unable to speak.

The assassin stumbled backward, sat down on a low bench. The dog’s tail stuck out from underneath. Hugh’s resurrection had apparently been too much for it. Haplo called to the animal. “Come on, boy. It’s all right. You can come out now.”

The tail brushed once across the deck, disappeared.

Haplo grinned and shook his head. “All right, stay there. Let this be a lesson about purloining sausages.”

Glancing out the porthole, Haplo saw several of the dwarves, blinking in the sunlight, looking curiously in the ship’s direction. A few were even pointing and beginning to wander toward the ship.

The sooner they left Arianus, the better.

Haplo put his hands on the steering mechanism, began speaking the runes, to make certain that all were unbroken, that the magic was ready to take them back through Death’s Gate.

The first sigil on the steering stone caught fire. The flames spread to the second, and so on. Soon the ship would be airborne.

“What’s happening?” Hugh the Hand asked, staring suspiciously at the glowing runes.

“We’re getting ready to leave. We’re going to Abarrach,” said Haplo. “I have to report to my lord...” He paused.

Xar wants you dead.

No! Impossible. It was Bane who wanted him dead.

“Then we’ll go find Alf—” Haplo began, but never finished. Everything that was three-dimensional suddenly went flat, as if all juice and pulp and bone and fiber were sucked out of every object aboard the ship. Without dimension, brittle as a dying leaf, Haplo felt himself pressed back against time, unable to move, unable to so much as draw breath. Sigla flared in the center of the ship. A hole burned through time, broadened, expanded. A figure stepped through the hole: a woman, tall, sinewy. Chestnut hair, tipped with white, flowed around her shoulders and down her back. Long bangs feathered over her forehead, casting her eyes in shadow. She was dressed in the clothes of the Labyrinth—leather pants, boots, leather vest, blouse with loose sleeves. Her feet touched the deck, and time and life surged back into all things.

Surged back into Haplo.

He stared in wonder. “Marit!”

“Haplo?” she asked, her voice low and clear.

“Yes, it’s me! Why are you here? How?” Haplo stammered in amazement. Marit smiled at him. She walked toward him, held out her hand to him. “Xar wants you, Haplo. He has asked me to bring you back to Abarrach.” Haplo reached out his hand to her...