Into the Labyrinth

36

The tiger-men set up a howl of disappointment when the Patryns entered the woods.

“If you and your friends can manage to go on a little farther without healing,” the woman told Haplo, “we should push ahead. The tiger-men have been known to follow prey into the forest before now. And in such large numbers, they won’t give up easily.”

Haplo looked around. Hugh the Hand was pale; blood covered his head; but he was on his feet. He couldn’t understand the woman’s words, but he must have guessed their import. Seeing Haplo’s questioning glance, the assassin nodded grimly.

“I can make it.”

Haplo’s gaze shifted to Alfred. He was walking on two feet as well as he ever walked on two feet, which meant that even as Haplo looked at him, Alfred tripped over an exposed tree root. Regaining his balance, he smiled; his hands fluttered. When he spoke, he spoke human. As did Hugh the Hand.

“I took advantage of the confusion... When they went out to help you, while no one was looking, I... well... The idea of riding on the dog again ... I thought it would be easier...”

“You healed yourself,” Haplo concluded.

He also spoke human. The Patryns were watching them. They could use their magic to understand the mensch language but they weren’t doing it; probably out of politeness. They wouldn’t need their magic in order to understand Sartan language, however—a language based on the runes. While they might not like it, they would have no difficulty recognizing it.

“Yes, I healed myself,” Alfred replied. “I deemed it best. Save time and trouble...”

“And unfortunate questions,” Haplo said softly.

Alfred glanced sideways at the other Patryns and flushed. “That too.” Haplo sighed, wondered why he hadn’t thought of this sooner. If the Patryns discovered Alfred was a Sartan—their ages-old enemy, an enemy that they’d been taught to hate from the moment they could understand what hatred was—there was no telling what they might do to him. Well, Haplo would try to keep up the pretense that Alfred was a mensch, like Hugh the Hand. That would be difficult enough to explain—most Patryns living in the Labyrinth would have never heard of any of the so-called “lesser” races. They all would have heard of the Sartan.

Alfred was looking sideways at Marit.

“I won’t betray you,” she replied scornfully. “At least not yet. They might take out their wrath on the rest of us.”

With a scathing glance at the Sartan, she left Haplo’s side. Several of the other Patryns were moving on, to act as scouts for the trail ahead. Marit joined them.

Haplo dragged his thoughts back to the immediate, dangerous circumstances.

“Keep near Hugh,” he ordered Alfred. “Warn him not to mention anything about Sartan. We don’t want to give them ideas.”

“I understand.” Alfred’s gaze followed Marit, walking with several of the Patryn men. “I’m sorry, Haplo,” he added quietly. “Because of me, your people have become your enemies.”

“Forget it,” Haplo said grimly. “Just do as you’re told. Here, boy.” Whistling to the dog, he began to limp on down the trail. Alfred fell back to walk beside Hugh the Hand.

The Patryns left the two strangers alone, though Haplo noticed that several Patryns took up places behind, their eyes on Hugh and Alfred, their hands never far from their weapons.

The woman—the leader of what Haplo assumed was a hunting party—joined him, walked along beside. She was burning with questions; Haplo could see the glittering light in her brown eyes. But she would not ask them. It was for sven the the headman of the tribe to question a stranger-strangest of strangers.

“I am called Haplo,” he said, touching briefly the heart-rune on his left breast. He wasn’t required to tell her his name, but he did so out of courtesy and to indicate his gratitude for her rescue.

“I am Kari,” she replied, smiling at him, touching her own heart-rune. She was tall and lank, with the hard-muscled body of a Runner. Yet she must be a Squatter; otherwise what was she doing leading a hunting party?

“It was lucky for us you came when you did,” Haplo remarked, limping along painfully.

Kari did not offer to assist him; to do so would have been an insult to Marit, who had made it clear that she had some sort of interest in Haplo. Kari slowed her own pace to match his. She kept quiet watch as they walked, but she didn’t appear particularly concerned that they were being followed. Haplo could see no indication from the sigla on his skin that the tiger-men were trailing them, “It was not luck,” Kari replied calmly. “We were sent to find you. The headman thought you might be in trouble.“ ‘

Now it was Haplo’s turn to burn with questions, but—out of politeness—he dared not ask them. It was the headman’s prerogative to explain his reasons for doing something. Certainly the rest of the tribe would never consider offering explanations of their own, putting their words into another’s mouth. The conversation lagged a bit at this point. Haplo glanced about with a nervousness that was not all feigned. “Don’t worry,” said Kari. “The tiger-men are not following us.”

“It wasn’t that,” Haplo answered. “Before we met them, we saw flames. I was afraid that perhaps a dragon was attacking a village nearby—” Kari was amused. “You don’t know much about dragons, do you, Haplo?” Haplo smiled and shrugged. It had been a nice try. “All right, so it isn’t dragon-fire—”

“It is our fire,” Kari said. “We built it.” Haplo shook his head. “Then apparently you’re the ones who don’t know much about dragons. The blaze can be seen a long way off—”

“Of course.” Kari continued to be amused. “It is meant to be seen. That’s why we light it on the tower. It is a welcome fire.”

Haplo frowned. “Forgive me for saying this, Kari, but if your headman has made this decision, it seems to me that he must suffer from the sickness.[37] I’m surprised you haven’t been attacked before now.”

“We have been,” Kari said nonchalantly. “Many, many times. Far more in past generations than these days, of course. Very few things in the Labyrinth are strong enough or daring enough to attack us now.”

“Past generations?” Haplo’s jaw sagged.

Who in the Labyrinth could speak of past generations? Few children knew their own parents. Oh, occasionally some large Squatter tribe might date itself back to a headman’s father, but that was rare. Generally the tribes were either wiped out or scattered. Survivors joined up with, were absorbed into other tribes.

The past, in the Labyrinth, went back no further than yesterday. And one never spoke of a future.

Haplo opened his mouth, shut it again. To ask any more would be insulting. He’d already overstepped the bounds as it was. But he was uneasy. He glanced more than once at the telltale sigla on his skin. None of this made sense. Were they being lured into some sort of elaborate trap?

We are, he reminded himself, in the very heart, at the very beginning of the Labyrinth.

“Come, speak freely, Haplo,” Kari said, sensing his discomfort, perhaps his suspicion. “What question is in your mind?”

“I’ve come here for a purpose,” he said to her. “I’m looking for someone. A little girl. Her age would be seven, maybe eight gates. She is called Rue.” Kari nodded calmly.

“You know her?” Haplo’s pulse quickened with hope. He couldn’t believe it. He had found her already...

“I know several,” Kari answered.

“Several! But how—”

“Rue is not an uncommon name in the Labyrinth,” Kari said with a wry smile.

“I... I suppose not,” Haplo mumbled.

Tb be honest, he’d never thought about it, never considered the possibility that there might be more than one child in the Labyrinth named Rue. He was not used to thinking of people in terms of names. He couldn’t recall his parents’ names. Or the name of the headman in the tribe that had raised him. Even Marit. She had been “the woman” to him, when he thought about her. The Lord of the Nexus was just that—his lord.

Haplo looked down at the dog trotting along next to him. The animal had saved his life—and he’d never bothered to give it a name. It wasn’t until he had passed through Death’s Gate, wasn’t until he had entered the worlds of mensch, that he’d really become conscious of names, come to think of people as separate beings—important beings, distinct and individual.

And he wasn’t the only one who had a problem with names. Haplo slid a glance back at Alfred—traipsing down the path, stumbling over any obstacle that presented itself, tripping over smooth ground if nothing else was available. What’s your true name, Sartan? Haplo wondered suddenly. And why haven’t you ever told anyone?

The Patryns had covered a long distance. Haplo’s leg was giving him increasing trouble, causing him increasing pain before Kari finally called a halt. The gray gloom was darkening; night was coming. It was dangerous to travel through the Labyrinth at any time, but far more dangerous after dark. They had reached a clearing in the forest, near a stream. Kari examined it, consulted with her party, then announced that they would camp here for the night.

“Heal yourselves,” she told Haplo. “We have food for you. Then sleep in peace. We will keep watch.”

The Patryns brought them hot food, cooking it over a small fire that they built in a clearing. Haplo was astounded at their boldness, but said nothing. To have registered any sort of protest would have been to question Kari’s authority, something that—as a stranger and one who’d been rescued by her—he had no right to do. He was relieved to note that they were at least sensible enough not to allow the blaze to smoke.

Once her guests were served, Kari asked courteously if there were other comforts she could provide for them.

“Your two friends do not speak our language,” she said, with a glance at Hugh and Alfred. “Are their needs different from ours? Is there anything special we can bring them?”

“No,” Haplo replied. “Thank you.”

He had to give her credit. That, too, had been a nice try.

Kari nodded and left. She set the watch, posting lookouts on the ground and in the trees. Then she and the rest of her people sat down to eat. She did not ask Haplo and the others to join her circle. This could be taken for a bad sign—one didn’t share food with one’s enemy. Or again, it might be courtesy, an assumption that since the two strangers did not speak the language they would be more comfortable alone with their companions.

Marit returned, silently joined them. She kept her eyes on her meal—a mixture of dried meat and fruit wrapped and cooked in grape leaves. The dog shared Haplo’s meal, then flopped over on its side and, with a tired sigh, fell sound asleep.

“What’s going on, Haplo?” Hugh the Hand questioned, keeping his voice low.

“These people may have saved our lives, but they don’t seem overfriendly. Are we their prisoners now? Why are we hanging around with them?” Haplo smiled. “It’s nothing like that. They’re uncertain of us. They’ve never seen people like you two and they don’t understand. No, we’re not their prisoners. We could leave anytime we wanted and they’d never say a word. But it’s dangerous traveling in the Labyrinth—as you’ve seen. We need to rest, heal our wounds, build up our strength. They’ll escort us to their village—”

“How do you know you can trust them?” the Hand demanded.

“Because they’re my people,” Haplo returned quietly. Hugh the Hand grunted. “That little murderer Bane was one of my people. So was that accursed father of his.”

“It’s different with us,” said Haplo. “It’s this place, this prison. For generations, ever since we were sent here, we’ve had to work together to simply survive. From the moment we’re born, our lives are in someone else’s keeping—either father or mother, or maybe complete strangers. It doesn’t matter. And it continues like that throughout our lives. No Patryn would ever hurt or kill or... or...”

“Betray his lord?” Marit asked.

She flung her food to the ground. Jumping to her feet—startling the sleeping dog to wakefulness—she stalked off.

Haplo started to call her back, faltered, and fell silent. What could he say?

The other Patryns had stopped talking to stare at her, wondering what was wrong, where she was going, Marit grabbed a water skin and walked down to the small stream, where she made a pretense of filling it. There were no stars or moon in the Labyrinth, but the firelight reflected off the leaves of the trees, glanced off the surface of the stream, providing enough light to see by. She took care to keep within the light—to do otherwise was to invite trouble.

The other Patryns went back to the meal and their talk. Kari followed Marit with her eyes, then turned a cool, thoughtful gaze on Haplo. He was cursing himself for a fool. What had he been thinking about? My people—so superior. He was beginning to sound like a Sartan. Well, the late Samah, at least. Certainly not Alfred—a Sartan who had difficulty feeling superior to dirt worms.

“So what’s your point?” Hugh the Hand asked, filling in the awkward silence.

“Nothing,” Haplo muttered. “Never mind.” Maybe they did in fact have to worry about these Patryns. We were sent to find you. The tiger-men had been sent to find them, too. And Haplo was lying to his people, deceiving them, bringing the ancient enemy into their midst.

A Patryn male, who had accompanied Marit during the day, went to the stream, started to sit down beside her. She turned her shoulder to him, averted her face. Shrugging, the Patryn walked off.

Haplo stood up painfully, limped down to the stream. Marit was sitting alone, shoulders hunched, knees drawn up, her chin resting on her knees. Rolling herself into a ball, Haplo had once teasingly described this position. Hearing his footsteps, she glanced up, frowning, ready to repel any intrusion. Seeing that it was him, she relaxed somewhat, did not drive him away, as he had more than half-expected.

“I came for some water,” he said stupidly.

She made no comment. The inane remark certainly didn’t deserve one. He bent down, cupped his hand, drank, though he wasn’t really thirsty. He sat down beside her. She did not look at him, but stared into the water, which was clear and cold and fast-running.

“I asked about our daughter,” he said. “There are several girls in the village about her age named Rue. I don’t know why, but I didn’t expect that.” She said nothing, stared at the water. Picking up a stick, she thrust it into the stream. The water altered course, swirled around it in whorls and ripples, kept going.

“I hate this place,” she said abruptly. “I loathe it, fear it. I left it. But I never really left it. I dream of it, always. And when I came back, I was frightened, but a part of me... a part of me...” She swallowed, frowned, shook her head angrily.

“—felt as if you’d come home,” he finished for her. Her eyes blinked rapidly. “But I haven’t,” she said in a low voice. “I can’t.” She glanced over her hunched shoulder at the Patryns, gathered together. “I’m different.” Another moment’s silence, then she said, “That’s what you meant, wasn’t it?”

“About Hugh and me being alike?” Haplo knew exactly what she was thinking, feeling. “Now I’m beginning to understand how the Sartan came to name Death’s Gate. When we passed through Death’s Gate, you and I both died, in a way. When we try to come back here, come back to our old life, it isn’t possible. We’ve both changed. We’ve both been changed.”

Haplo knew what had changed him. He wondered very much what had happened to change Marit.

“But I didn’t feel like this when I was in the Nexus,” Marit protested.

“That’s because being in the Nexus isn’t truly leaving the Labyrinth. You can see the Final Gate. Everyone’s thoughts are centered in the Labyrinth. You dream about it, as you said. You feel the fear. But now, you dream about other things, other places...”

Did Hugh the Hand dream? Did he dream about that haven of peace and light he’d described? Was that what made it so hard, so very hard to come back?

And what did Marit dream?

Whatever it was, she obviously wasn’t going to tell him.

“In the Labyrinth, the circle of my being encompassed only myself,” Haplo went on.-“It never really included anyone else, not even you.” She looked over at him.

“Just as yours never really included me,” he added quietly. She looked away again.

“No names,” Haplo continued. “Only faces. Circles touched, but never joined—” She shivered, made a sound, and he stopped talking, waited for her to say something.

She kept silent.

Haplo had hit some vital part of her, but he couldn’t tell what. He went on talking, hoping to draw her out. “In the Labyrinth, my circle was a shelf protecting me from feeling anything. I planned to keep it that way, but first the dog broke the circle, and after that, when I went beyond Death’s Gate, other people just sort of seeped inside. My circle grew, expanded.

“I didn’t intend it. I didn’t want it. But what choice did I have? It was either that or die. I’ve known fear out there, worse than any fear in the Labyrinth. I healed a young man—an elf. I was healed by Alfred—my enemy. I’ve seen wonders and horrors. I’ve known happiness, hurt, sorrow. I’ve come to know myself.

“What changed me? I’d like to blame it on that chamber. That Chamber of the Damned. Alfred’s Seventh Gate. A brush with the ‘higher power’ or whatever it was. But I don’t think that was the cause. It was Limbeck and his speeches and Jarre calling him a druz. It was the dwarf maid Grundle and the human girl, Alake, who died in my arms.”

Haplo smiled, shook his head. “It was even those four irritating, quarreling mensch on Pryan: Paithan, Rega, Roland, and Aleatha. I think about them, wonder if they’ve managed to survive.”

Haplo touched the skin of his forearm; the tattoos were glowing faintly, indicating danger, but a danger that was far away. “You should have seen how the mensch stared when they first saw my skin start to glow. I thought Grundle’s eyes were going to roll out of her head. Now, among my own people, I feel the way I did among the mensch—I’m different. My journeys have left their mark on me and I know that they must be able to see it. I can never be one of them again.”

He waited for Marit to say something, but she didn’t. She jabbed the stick into the water and huddled away from him. Obviously she wanted to be alone. Standing up, he limped back to his bed, to heal himself—as far as possible—and try to sleep.

“Xar,” Marit pleaded silently after Haplo had gone. “Husband, Lord, please help me, guide me. I’m so afraid, so desperately afraid. And alone. I don’t know my own people anymore. I’m not one of them.”

“Do you blame me for that?” Xar questioned mildly.

“No,” Marit answered, poking the stick into the stream. “I blame Haplo. He brought the mensch here, and the Sartan. Their presence puts us all in danger.”

“Yes, but it may work for us in the end. You say you are at the very beginning of the Labyrinth. This village, from what you describe, must be an incredibly large one, larger by far than any I ever knew existed. This suits me well. I have formed a plan.”

“Yes, Lord.” Marit was relieved, vastly relieved. The burden was to be lifted from her shoulders.

“When you reach the village, Wife, this is what you will do...” It was now extremely dark; Haplo could barely find his way back to the group. Hugh the Hand looked up at him hopefully, a hope that died when he saw that Haplo’s hands were empty. “I thought you’d gone to get us something more to eat.”

Haplo shook his head. “There is nothing more. We have a saying: ‘The hungrier you are, the faster you’ll run.’”

The Hand growled, and—scowling darkly—he went to the stream to fill his stomach with water. He moved silently, stealthily, as he always moved, as he had trained himself to move. Marit didn’t hear him coming, apparently, and when he drew near, she gave a violent start.

“A guilty start,” the Hand told Haplo later, describing the incident. “And I could have sworn I heard her talking to someone.”

Haplo brushed it off; what else could he do? She was hiding something from him, of that he was certain. He longed to be able to trust her, but he couldn’t. Did she feel the same about him? Did she want to trust him? Or was she only too happy to hate him?

Marit walked over to join the circle of Patryns, tossing down her water skin among them as an offering. Perhaps she was out to prove that she, at least, was still one with her people.

Kari looked over at Haplo, extending an invitation. He could have joined them if he had wanted, but he was too tired, too sore to move. His leg ached and the scratches on his face burned like fire. He needed to heal himself, to close the circle of his being—as best he could, considering the circle was torn and would be forever.

He scraped together a bed of dried fir needles and lay down. Hugh the Hand sat down beside him.

“I’ll take the first watch,” the assassin offered quietly.

“No, you won’t,” Haplo told him. “To do so would be an insult, would look as if we didn’t trust them. Lie down. Get some rest. You, too, Alfred.” The Hand thought he was going to argue; then he shrugged and stretched himself out on the ground, propped up against the curved bole of a tree. “Anything says I’ve got to fall asleep?” he asked, crossing his legs and taking out his pipe.

Haplo smiled tiredly. “Just don’t make it look too obvious.” He petted the dog, which had curled up beside him.

It raised its head lazily, blinked at him, went back to its dreams. Hugh the Hand stuck the pipe between his teeth. “I won’t. If anyone asks, I’ll say I’m troubled with insomnia. Eternal insomnia.” He cast a dark glance at Alfred.

The Sartan flushed, his face reddening in the glow cast by the fire. He had been attempting to find himself a place to sleep, but first he’d struck his head on a buried rock; then he’d apparently sat down on an anthill, because he suddenly leapt to his feet and began slapping at his legs.

“Stop it!” Haplo commanded irritably. “You’re drawing attention to yourself.” Alfred collapsed hastily to the ground. A faint expression of pain crossed his face. He reached underneath him, removed a pine cone, and tossed it away. Catching Haplo’s disapproving glance, the Sartan hunkered down in the dirt and attempted to look comfortable. Surreptitiously, his hand slid underneath his bony posterior, removed another pine cone.

Haplo closed his eyes, began the healing process. Slowly the pain in his knee receded, the burning cuts on his face closed. But he couldn’t sleep. Eternal insomnia, as Hugh the Hand had put it.

The other Patryns set the watch, doused the fire. Darkness closed over them, lit only by the softly glowing sigla on the skin of his people. Danger was around them, always around them. Marit did not return to her group, nor did she stay with the other Patryns, but chose a place to sleep about halfway between both.

Hugh the Hand sucked on the empty pipe. Alfred began to snore. The dog chased something in a dream.

And just when Haplo had decided that he couldn’t sleep, he slept.