The Hand of Chaos

6

Troubled, Haplo left his lord’s house and walked without any very clear idea where he was going. He wandered the forest paths; there were several, crisscrossing, leading to different parts of the Nexus. Most of his mental processes were given to reconstructing the conversation with his lord, trying to find in it some hope that Xar had heeded his warning and would be on his guard against the serpents.

Haplo wasn’t very successful in finding hope. He couldn’t blame his lord. The serpents had seduced Haplo with their flattery, their attitude of abject debasement and fawning servility. They had obviously fooled the Lord of the Nexus. Somehow, Haplo had to convince his lord that it was the serpents, not the Sartan, who were the real danger.

Most of his mind running on this worrisome topic, Haplo watched for any sign of the serpent, thinking vaguely that he might catch the creature in an unguarded moment, force it to confess its true purpose to Xar. Haplo saw no false Patryn, however. Probably just as well, he admitted to himself morosely. The creatures were cunning, highly intelligent. Little chance one would permit itself to be coerced.

Haplo walked and considered. He abandoned the forest and headed across twilit meadows for the city of the Nexus.

Now that Haplo had seen other Sartan cities, he knew the Nexus for one of theirs.

A towering, pillared, crystal spiral balanced on a dome formed of marble arches in the city’s center. The center spire was framed by four other spires, matching the first. On a level beneath stood eight more gigantic spires. Large marble steppes flowed between the spires. Here, on the steppes, were built houses and shops, schools and libraries—those things the Sartan considered necessary to civilized living.

Haplo had seen this identical city standing on the world of Pryan. He had seen one very similar on Chelestra. Studying it from a distance, looking at the city with the eyes of one who has met its siblings and sees a disconcerting family resemblance, Haplo thought he could at last understand why his lord did not choose to live within the marble walls.

“It is just another prison, my son,” Xar had told him. “A prison different from the Labyrinth and, in some ways, far more dangerous. Here, in their twilight world, they hoped we would grow soft as the air, become as gray as the shadows. They planned for us to fall victim to luxury and easy living. Our sharp-edged blade would turn to rust in their jeweled scabbard.”

“Then our people should not live in the city,” Haplo had said. “We should move from these buildings, dwell in the forest.” He had been young and full of anger then.

Xar had shrugged. “And let all these fine structures go to waste? No. The Sartan underestimate us, to think we would be so easily seduced. We will turn their plan against them. In these surroundings that they provide, our people will rest and recover from their terrible ordeal and we will grow strong, stronger than ever, and ready to fight.”

The Patryns—the few hundred who had escaped the Labyrinth—lived in the city, adapted it to their own use. Many found it difficult, at first—coming from a primitive, harsh environment—to feel settled and comfortable inside four walls. But Patryns are practical, stoic, adaptable. Magical energy once spent fighting to survive was now being channeled into more constructive uses: the art of warfare, the study of controlling weaker minds, the building up of supplies and equipment necessary to carrying a war into vastly differing worlds.

Haplo entered the city, walked its streets, which glimmered like pearl in the half-light. He had always before experienced a pride and fierce exultation when he traveled through the Nexus. The Patryns are not like the Sartan. The Patryns do not gather on street corners to exchange high-minded ideals or compare philosophies or indulge in pleasant camaraderie. Grim and dour, stern and resolute, occupied on important business that is one’s own concern and no other’s, Patryns pass each other in the street swiftly, silently, with sometimes a nod of recognition.

Yet there is a sense of community about them, a sense of familial closeness. There is trust, complete and absolute.

Or at least there had been. Now he looked around uneasily, walked the streets warily, with caution. He caught himself staring hard at each of his fellow Patryns, eyeing them suspiciously. He’d seen the serpents as gigantic snakes on Arianus. He’d seen one as one of his own people. It was obvious to him now that the creatures could take on any form they chose.

His fellow Patryns began to notice Haplo’s odd behavior, cast him dark, puzzled glances that instinctively shifted to the defensive if his suspicious stares appeared about to invade personal boundaries.

It seemed to Haplo that there were a lot of strangers in the Nexus, more than he’d remembered. He didn’t recognize half the faces he saw. Those he thought he should know were altered, changed.

Haplo’s skin began to glow faintly, the sigla itched and burned. He rubbed his hand, glared furtively at everyone passing by him. The dog, pattering along happily, noticed the change in its master and was instantly on guard itself. One woman, wearing long, flowing sleeves that covered her arms and wrists, passed by too closely, or so Haplo thought.

“What are you doing?” He reached out, grabbed her arm roughly, shoved the fabric up to see the sigla beneath it.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The woman glared at him, broke his grip on her arm with a practiced, easy twist of her wrist. “What’s wrong with you?”

Other Patryns halted in their pursuit of private affairs, banded instantly and instinctively together against the possible threat.

Haplo felt foolish. The woman was, indeed, a Patryn.

“I’m sorry,” he said, lifting empty hands, bare and unprotected palms facing out, the sign of harmless intent, a sign that he would not use his magic.

“Hush, dog. I—I thought maybe ...”

He couldn’t tell them what he’d thought, couldn’t tell them what he’d feared. They wouldn’t believe him, any more than Xar had believed him.

“Labyrinth sickness,” said another, older woman in flat, practical tones.

“I’ll take care of him.”

The others nodded. Her diagnosis was likely correct. They had seen this type of reaction often, especially to those newly come from the Labyrinth. A mindless terror takes possession of the victim, sends him racing into the streets, imagining he is back in that dread place.

The woman reached to take Haplo’s two hands in her own, to share the circle of their beings, restore his confused and wandering senses.

The dog glanced up at its master questioningly. Should I allow this? Or not?

Haplo caught himself staring fixedly at the sigla on the woman’s hands and arms. Did they make sense? Was there order, meaning, purpose in them? Or was she a serpent?

He backed away a step, shoved his hands in his pockets.

“No,” he mumbled. “Thank you, but I’m all right. I’m... I’m sorry,” he repeated again, to the first woman, who was regarding him with cool pity. Hunching his shoulders, keeping his hands in his pockets, Haplo strode away rapidly, hoping to lose himself in the winding streets. The dog, confused, fell into step behind him, its unhappy gaze fixed on its master. Alone and unseen, Haplo leaned against a building and tried to stop his body’s trembling.

“What is wrong with me? I don’t trust anyone—not even my own people, my own kind! The serpents’ doing! They’ve put this fear in me. Every time I look at anyone from now on, I’ll wonder: Is he an enemy? Is she one of them? I won’t be able to trust anyone anymore! And soon, everyone in all the worlds will be forced to live like this! Xar, my lord,” he cried in agony, “why can’t you see?”

“I have to make him understand!” Haplo muttered feverishly. “I have to make my people understand. How? How can I convince them of something I’m not certain I understand? How can I convince myself?”

He walked and walked, not knowing where, not caring. And then he found himself standing outside the city, on a barren plain. A wall, covered with Sartan runes of warding, blocked his way. Strong enough to kill, these sigla prohibited anyone coming near the wall on either side. There was only one passageway through the wall. This was the Final Gate.

The Gate led out of ... or into ... the Labyrinth.

Haplo stood before the Gate, without any very clear idea why he was here, why he’d come. He stared at it, experiencing the mingled sensations of horror and fear and dread that always assailed him whenever he ventured near this place. The land around him was silent, and he imagined he could hear the voices of those trapped inside, pleading for help, shouting in defiance, screaming curses with their dying breaths on those who had locked them in this place. Haplo felt wretched, as he always did whenever he came here. He wanted to go in and help, wanted to join the fight, wanted to ease the dying with promises of vengeance. But his memories, his fear were strong hands holding him, keeping him back.

Yet he’d come here for a reason, and certainly not to stand staring at the Gate.

The dog pawed at his leg and whined, seemed to be trying to tell him something.

“Hush, boy,” Haplo ordered, shoving the dog away.

The dog became more frantic. Haplo looked around, saw nothing, no one. He ignored the animal, stared at the Gate, feeling increasingly frustrated. He’d come here for a reason, but he hadn’t the slightest idea what that reason was.

“I know what it’s like,” someone commiserated, a voice booming right behind him. “I know just how you feel.”

Haplo had been quite alone. At the sudden utterance, spoken directly in his ear, he sprang back, instantly on the defensive, runes tingling, this time with a welcome sensation of protection.

He faced nothing more alarming than a very old man with a long scraggly beard, dressed in mouse-colored robes and wearing an extremely disreputable-looking pointed hat. Haplo couldn’t speak for astonishment, but his silence didn’t bother the old man, who carried on with his conversation.

“Know exactly how you feel. Felt that way myself. I recall once walking along, thinking of something extremely important. It was, let me see, ah, yes! The theory of relativity. ‘E equals mc squared.’ By George, I’ve got it! I said to myself. I saw the Whole Picture, and then, the next moment, bam! it was gone. No reason. Just gone.”

The old man looked aggrieved. “Then some wiseacre named Einstein claimed he’d thought of it first! Humpf! I always wrote things down on my shirtsleeves after that. Didn’t work either, though. Best ideas... pressed, folded, and starched.” He heaved a sigh.

Haplo recovered himself. “Zifnab,” he said in disgust, but he didn’t relax his defensive posture. The serpents could take any form. Though this was not, on second thought, exactly the form he would have chosen.

“Zifnab, did you say? Where is he?” the old man demanded, extremely irate. Beard bristling, he whirled around. “This time I’ll ‘nab’ you!” he shouted threateningly, shaking his fist at nothing. “Following me again, are you, you—”

“Cut the crazy act, old man,” Haplo said. Putting a firm hand on a thin and fragile-feeling shoulder, he twisted the wizard around to face him, stared intently into the old man’s eyes.

They were bleary, rheumy, and bloodshot. But they did not glint red. The old man may not be a serpent, Haplo said to himself, but he certainly isn’t what he passes himself off as, either.

“Still claim to be human?” Haplo snorted.

“And what makes you think I’m not?” Zifnab demanded, highly insulted.

“Subhuman, perhaps,” rumbled a deep voice.

The dog growled. Haplo recalled the old man’s dragon. A true dragon. Perhaps not as dangerous as the serpents, but dangerous enough. The Patryn glanced quickly at his hands, saw the sigla on his skin begin to glow a faint blue. He searched for the dragon, but could see nothing clearly. The tops of the wall and the Final Gate itself were shrouded in pink-tinged gray mist.

“Shut up, you obese frog,” shouted Zifnab. He was talking, apparently, to the dragon, but he eyed Haplo uneasily. “Not human, eh?” Zifnab suddenly put his wizened fingers to the corners of his eyelids, pulled his eyes into a slant.

“Elf?”

The dog cocked its head to one side. It appeared to find this highly diverting.

“No?” Zifnab was deflated. He thought a moment, brightened. “Dwarf with an overactive thyroid!”

“Old man—” Haplo began impatiently.

“Wait! Don’t tell me! I’ll figure it out. Am I bigger than a bread box? Yes? No? Well, make up your mind.” Zifnab appeared a bit confused. Leaning close, he whispered loudly, “I say, you wouldn’t happen to know what a bread box is, would you? Or the approximate size?”

“You’re Sartan,” stated Haplo.

“Oh, yes. I’m certain.” Zifnab nodded. “Quite certain. What I’m certain of, I can’t remember at the moment, but I’m definitely certain—”

“Not ‘certain’! Sartan!”

“Sorry, dear boy. Thought you came from Texas. They talk like that down there, you know. So you think I’m Sartan, eh? Well, I must say, I’m extremely flattered, but I—”

“Might I suggest that you tell him the truth, sir?” boomed the dragon. Zifnab blinked, glanced around. “Did you hear something?”

“It might be to his advantage, sir. He knows now, anyway.” Zifnab stroked his long, white beard, regarded Haplo with eyes that were suddenly sharp and cunning. “So you think I should tell him the truth, eh?”

“What you can remember of it, sir,” the dragon remarked gloomily.

“Remember?” Zifnab bristled. “I remember any number of things. And you’ll be sorry when I do, lizard lips. Now, let’s see. Berlin: 1948. Tanis Half-Elven was taking a shower, when—”

“Excuse me, but we haven’t got all day, sir.” The dragon sounded stern. “The message we received was quite specific. Grave danger! Come immediately!”

Zifnab was downcast. “Yes, I s’pose you’re right. The truth. Very well. You’ve wrung it out of me. Bamboo sticks beneath the fingernails and all that. I”—he drew a deep breath, paused dramatically, then flung the words forth—“I am Sartan.”

His battered pointed hat toppled off, fell to the ground. The dog walked over, sniffed at it, gave a violent sneeze. Zifnab, miffed, snatched the hat away.

“What do you mean?” he demanded of the dog. “Sneezing on my hat! Look at this! Dog snot—”

“And?” prodded Haplo, glaring at the old man.

“—and dog germs and I don’t know what else—”

“You’re Sartan and what else? Hell, I knew you were Sartan. I guessed that on Pryan. And now you’ve proved it. You would have to be, in order to travel through Death’s Gate. Why are you here?”

“Why am I here?” Zifnab repeated vaguely, glancing up at the sky. “Why am I here?”

No help from the dragon.

The old man folded his arms, placed one hand on his chin. “Why am I here? Why are any of us here? According to the philosopher Voltaire, we are—”

“Damn it!” Haplo exploded. He grabbed hold of the old man’s arm. “Come with me. You can tell the Lord of the Nexus all about Voltaire—”

“Nexus!” Zifnab recoiled in alarm. Clasping his heart, he staggered backward.

“What do you mean—Nexus? We’re on Chelestra!”

“No, you’re not,” Haplo said grimly. “You’re in the Nexus. And my lord—”

“You!” Zifnab shook his fist at the heavens. “You sorry excuse for an omnibus! You’ve brought us to the wrong place!”

“No, I did not,” retorted the dragon, indignant. “You said we were to stop here first, then proceed to Chelestra.”

“I said that, did I?” Zifnab looked extremely nervous.

“Yes, sir, you did.”

“I didn’t happen to say why I wanted to come here, did I? Didn’t happen to suggest that it was a great place for barbecued chaodyn carapace? Anything of that sort?”

The dragon signed. “I believe you mentioned, sir, that you wanted to speak to this gentleman.”

“Which gentleman?”

“The one to whom you are currently speaking.”

“Aha! That gentleman,” Zifnab cried triumphantly. He reached out, wrung Haplo’s hand. “Well, my boy, nice seeing you again. Sorry to run, but we really must be going. Glad you got your dog back. Give my regards to Broadway. Remember me to Harold Square. Nice chap, Harold Square. Used to work in a deli on Fifth. Now, where’s my hat—”

“In your hand, sir,” observed the dragon with long-suffering patience. “You have just turned it inside out.”

“No, this isn’t mine. Positive. Must be yours.” Zifnab attempted to hand the hat to Haplo. “Mine was much newer. Better condition. This one’s all covered with hair tonic. Don’t try to switch hats on me, sonny!”

“You’re going to Chelestra?” Haplo asked, casually accepting the hat. “What for?”

“What for? Sent for!” Zifnab stated importantly. “Urgent call. All Sartan. Grave danger! Come immediately! I wasn’t doing anything else at the time, and so—I say,” he said, eyeing Haplo anxiously. “Isn’t that my hat you’re holding?”

Haplo had turned the hat right side out again, was keeping it just out of the old man’s reach. “Who sent the message?”

“It wasn’t signed.” Zifnab kept his gaze on the hat.

“Who sent the message?” Haplo began revolving the hat round and round. Zifnab stretched out a trembling hand. “Mind you don’t crush the brim ...” Haplo drew the hat back.

Zifnab gulped. “Sam-hill. That was it. As in ‘What the Sam-hill are you doing with my hat?’ ”

“Sam-hill... You mean ‘Samah’! Gathering his forces. What’s Samah intend to do, old man?”

Haplo lowered the hat until it was about level with the dog’s nose. The animal, sniffing at it cautiously this time, began to nibble at the already shapeless point.

Zifnab gave a sharp cry. “Ah! Oh, dear! I—I believe he said something... No, don’t drool on it, there’s a good doggie! Something about... Abarrach. Necromancy. That’s... that’s all I know, I’m afraid.” The old man clasped his hands, cast Haplo a pleading glance. “May I have my hat now?”

“Abarrach... Necromancy. So Samah’s going to Abarrach to learn the forbidden art. That world could get rather crowded. My lord will be quite interested in this news. I think you’d better come—”

“I think not.”

The dragon’s voice had altered, rolled on the air like thunder. The sigla on Haplo’s skin flared bright. The dog leapt to its feet, teeth bared, looking all around for the unseen threat.

“Give the doddering old fool his hat,” commanded the dragon. “He’s told you all he knows anyway. This lord of yours wouldn’t get anything else out of him. You don’t want to fight me, Haplo,” the dragon added, tone stern and serious. “I would be forced to kill you... and that would be a pity.”

“Yes,” agreed Zifnab, taking advantage of Haplo’s preoccupation with the dragon to make a deft grab. The wizard retrieved his hat, began to sidle backward, heading in the direction of the dragon’s voice. “It would be a pity. Who would find Alfred in the Labyrinth? Who would rescue your son?” Haplo stared. “What did you say? Wait!” He lunged out after the old man. Zifnab shrieked, clutched his hat protectively to his chest. “No, you can’t have it! Get away!”

“Damn your hat! My son ... What do you mean? Are you saying I have a son?” Zifnab regarded Haplo warily, suspecting designs on the hat.

“Answer him, fool,” snapped the dragon. “It’s what you came to tell him in the first place!”

“I did?” The old man cast a deprecating glance upward, then, blushing, said, “Oh, yes. Quite.”

“A son,” Haplo repeated. “You’re certain?”

“No, I’m Sartan. Hah! Caught you!” Zifnab cackled. “Well, yes, you have a son, dear boy. Congratulations.” He reached out, shook Haplo’s hand again. “Unless, of course, it’s a daughter,” the old man added, after giving the matter some thought.

Haplo waved that aside impatiently. “A child. You’re saying a child of mine was born and... that child is trapped in there.” He pointed at the Final Gate.

“In the Labyrinth.”

“I’m afraid so,” said Zifnab, voice softening. He was suddenly serious, grave. “The woman, the one you loved... She didn’t tell you?”

“No.” Haplo had little idea what he was saying, to whom he was saying it. “She didn’t. But I guess I always knew.... Speaking of knowing, how the hell do you know, old man?”

“Ah, he’s got you there,” said the dragon. “Explain that, if you can!” Zifnab appeared rather flustered. “Well, you see, I once... That is to say, I ran into a chap, who knew a chap, who’d once met...”

“What am I doing?” Haplo demanded of himself. He wondered if he were going mad. “How would you know anything? It’s a trick. That’s it. A trick to force me into going back into the Labyrinth—”

“Oh, dear, no! No, my boy,” said Zifnab earnestly. “I’m trying to keep you out of it.”

“By telling me that a child of mine is trapped inside?”

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t go back, Haplo. I’m saying that you shouldn’t go back now. It isn’t time. You have much to do before then. And, above all, you shouldn’t go back alone.”

The old man’s eyes narrowed. “That is, after all, what you were thinking about when we found you here, wasn’t it? You were going to enter the Labyrinth, search for Alfred?”

Haplo frowned, made no response. The dog, at the sound of Alfred’s name, wagged its tail and looked up hopefully.

“You were going to find Alfred and take him to Abarrach with you,” Zifnab continued in a soft voice. “Why? Because there, on Abarrach, in the so-called Chamber of the Damned, there’s where you’ll find the answers. You can’t get into the chamber on your own. The Sartan have it well guarded. And Alfred’s the only Sartan who would dare disobey the orders of the Council and unlock the runes of warding. That’s what you were thinking, wasn’t it, Haplo?” Haplo shrugged. He was staring moodily at the Final Gate. “What if it was?”

“It isn’t time, yet. You must get the machine working. Then the citadels will begin to shine. The durnai will awaken. When all that happens—if all that happens—the Labyrinth will start to change. Better for you. Better for them.” Zifnab gave the Gate an ominous nod.

Haplo glared at him. “Do you ever make sense?”

Zifnab looked alarmed, shook his head. “I try not to. Gives me gas. But now you’ve interrupted. What else was I going to say?”

“He is not to go alone,” intoned the dragon.

“Ah, yes. You’re not to go alone, my boy,” said Zifnab brightly, as if he’d just thought of it himself. “Not into the Labyrinth, not into the Vortex. Certainly not into Abarrach.”

The dog barked, deeply wounded.

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” said Zifnab. Reaching out, he gave the animal a timid pat. “Sincere apologies and all that. I know you’ll be with him, but that won’t be enough, I’m afraid. I was thinking more in terms of a group. Commando squads. The Dirty Dozen. Kelly’s Heroes. The Seven Samurai. Debbie Does Dallas. That sort of thing. Well, perhaps not Debbie Wonderful girl, Debbie, but—”

“Sir,” said the dragon, exasperated, “need I remind you that we are in the Nexus. Not exactly the place I’d choose to indulge in prepubescent fantasies.”

“Ah, yes. Perhaps you’re right.” Zifnab clutched his hat, glanced about nervously. “Place has changed a lot since I was here last. You Patryns have done wonders. I don’t suppose I’d have time to pop over and look at—”

“No, sir,” said the dragon firmly.

“Or maybe—”

“Nor that either, sir.”

“I suppose not.” Zifnab sighed, pulled the shapeless and battered hat over his eyes. “Next time. Good-bye, dear boy.” Groping about blindly, the old man solemnly shook hands with the dog, apparently mistaking it for Haplo. “Best of luck. I’ll leave you with the advice Gandalf gave Frodo Baggins. ‘When you go, go as Mr Underhill.’ Worthless bit of advice, if you ask me. As a wizard, Gandalf was highly overrated. Still, it must have meant something, else why would they have bothered to write it down. I say, you should really consider clipping your nails—”

“Get him out of here,” Haplo advised the dragon. “My lord could be along any moment.”

“Yes, sir. I believe that would be the best idea.” An enormous green-scaled head swooped out of the clouds.

Haplo’s sigla flared, he backed up until he stood against the Final Gate. The dragon ignored the Patryn, however. Huge fangs, protruding from lower and upper jaws, caught hold of the wizard by the back of his mouse-colored robes and, none too gently, heaved the old man off his feet.

“Hey, let go of me, you twisted toad!” Zifnab shouted, flailing about wildly in midair. He began to wheeze and cough. “Ugh! Your breath is enough to flatten Godzilla. Been in the cat’s tuna again, haven’t you? I say, put me down!”

“Yes, sir,” the dragon said through clenched teeth. He was holding the wizard about twenty feet off the ground. “If that’s really what you want, sir.” Zifnab lifted the brim of his hat, peered out from underneath. Shuddering, he pulled the hat back over his eyes.

“No, I’ve changed my mind. Take me ... where is it Samah said we were to meet him?”

“Chelestra, sir.”

“Yes, that’s the ticket. Hope it isn’t one-way. To Chelestra, there’s a good fellow.”

“Yes, sir. With all dispatch, sir.”

The dragon, carrying the wizard, who looked, from this distance, very much like a limp mouse, disappeared into the clouds.

Haplo waited tensely to be certain the dragon was gone. Slowly, the blue light of the sigla faded. The dog relaxed, sat down to scratch.

Haplo turned to face the Final Gate. He could see, through the iron bars, the lands of the Labyrinth. Barren plains, without a tree, shrub, bush, or any type of cover, stretched from the Gate to dark and distant woods. The last crossing, the most deadly crossing. From those woods, you can see the Gate, see freedom. It seems so close.

You start to run. You dash into the open, naked, exposed. The Labyrinth allows you to get halfway across, halfway to freedom, then sends its foul legions after you. Chaodyn, wolfen, dragons. The grasses themselves rise up and trip you, vines entangle you. And that was getting out.

It was far worse, going back in.

Haplo knew, he’d watched his lord battle it every time he entered the Gate. The Labyrinth hated those who had escaped its coils, wanted nothing more than to drag its former prisoner back behind the wall, punish him for his temerity.

“Who am I kidding?” Haplo asked the dog. “The old man’s right. Alone, I’d never make it alive to the first line of trees. I wonder what the old man meant about the Vortex? I seem to recall hearing my lord mention something about that once. Supposedly the very center of the Labyrinth. And Alfred’s there? It’d be just like Alfred to get himself sent to the very center of the Labyrinth!”

Haplo kicked at a pile of broken stone, rubble. Once, long ago, the Patryns had attempted to tear down the wall. The lord had stopped them, reminded them that though the wall kept them out, it also kept the evil in. Perhaps it’s the evil in us, she’d said, before she left him.

“A son,” said Haplo, staring through the Gate. “Alone, maybe. Like I was. Maybe he saw his mother die, like I did. He’d be what—six, seven, now. If he’s still alive.”

Picking up a large, jagged-edged chunk of rock, Haplo threw it into the Gate. He threw it as hard as he could, wrenching his arm, nearly dislocating his shoulder. Pain flashed through his body, felt good. At least better than the bitter aching in his heart.

He watched to see where the stone landed—a far distance inside. He had only to walk in the Gate, walk as far as the stone. Surely, he had that much courage. Surely, he could do that much for his son....

Haplo turned, abruptly walked away. The dog, caught flat-footed by his master’s sudden move, was forced to run to catch up.

Haplo berated himself for a coward, but the accusation was halfhearted. He knew his own worth, knew that his decision wasn’t based on fear but on logic. The old man had been right.

“Getting myself killed won’t help anyone. Not the child, not his mother—if she’s still alive—not my people. Not Alfred.

“I will ask my lord to come with me,” Haplo said, walking faster, his excitement, determination mounting. “And my lord will come. He’ll be eager to, when I tell him what the old man said. Together, we’ll go deep into the Labyrinth, deeper than he’s ever gone. We’ll find this Vortex, if it exists. We’ll find Alfred and... whoever else. Then we’ll go to Abarrach. I’ll take my lord to the Chamber of the Damned and he will learn for himself—”

“Hullo, Haplo. When did you get back?”

Haplo’s heart lurched. He looked down.

“Oh, Bane,” he muttered.

“I’m glad to see you, too,” said Bane, with a sly smile that Haplo ignored. He was back in the Nexus, he’d entered the city without even knowing it. After his greeting, Bane raced off. Haplo watched him go. Running through the streets of the Nexus, Bane dodged the Patryns, who regarded him with patient tolerance. Children were rare and precious beings—the continuation of the race. Haplo was not sorry to see the boy leave. He needed to be alone with his thoughts.

He recalled vaguely that he was supposed to take Bane back to Arianus, start the machine working.

Start the machine working.

Well, that could wait. Wait until he came back out of the Labyrinth... You must get the machine working. Then the citadels will begin to shine. The durnai will awaken. When all that happens—if all that happens—the Labyrinth will start to change. Better for you. Better for them.

“Oh, what do you know, old man?” Haplo muttered. “Just another crazy Sartan...”