Tower of Doom

Nine

It was after midnight. Alys opened her eyes with a start to see the quicksilver light of the moon pouring through the window of her attic bedroom. The cottage was silent. She sat up in bed, wondering what it was that had woken her. In her hands she cradled a small box filled with letters and poems Robart had written her. She must have cried herself to sleep, after she had argued with her father once again.

"We are a respectable family, Alys," he had thundered. "I will suffer no more talk of traitors in this house! Do you understand?"

"Robart was no traitor!" she had cried defiantly. Ignoring his shouts, she had climbed to the attic and had flung herself on her bed, sobbing and hugging the box of letters.

Now she carefully set down the wooden box. As if drawn by some irresistible force, she padded to the window. The cottage stood on the edge of the village, facing the fields her father owned and tilled. Beyond the fields was the rippling sea of shadows that was the moor. In the distance, looming atop a rise far out on the heath, she could just make out the jagged stump of the mysterious half-finished tower. Shivering, Alys moved from the window and traded the gray homespun dress she yet wore for a night gown. As she turned to climb back into her bed, her gaze once more roved outside the window.

"It cannot be!" she whispered.

She raised a hand to the open circle of her mouth. Then, without thinking, she threw open the window and climbed out. Quickly, as she had so often as a child, she scrambled down the ivy-covered trellis. Her nightgown flowing behind her like pale wings, she ran barefoot across the barren late-autumn fields.

There! Op ahead. She had not imagined it. Impossible hope flooding her chest, she ran after a tall, lanky figure who marched steadily toward the open moor. In the brilliant moonlight she had caught a familiar glimpse of red hair. She laughed for joy, not knowing how it could be possible, only that it was, must be.

"Robart!" she cried as she neared the figure of the man. "Oh, Robart, somehow it is you!"

Alys threw her arms wide as the young man turned to greet her. A frown creased her forehead. Did he not recognize her? He shambled forward listlessly.

"Robart, it's me!" she shouted. "Alys!" There was a strange, earthy scent on the air. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

As Robart neared her, moonlight stroked his face. Crumbs of moist dirt and bits of mold clung to his tattered clothes and bloated flesh. A dirt-caked wound, sewn together with crude stitches, ran all the way around his neck. One of his familiar green eyes stared at her blindly, but the other had fallen from its socket and dangled at the end of its nerve like a putrid grape. The stench of rot radiated from his body in choking waves. Shaking her head in mute terror, Alys tried to back away. Her legs wouldn't move. He reached his arms toward her.

"My love," he groaned in a slurred voice, as writhing worms dropped from his mouth. Alys felt his spongy flesh press against her own as his arms closed about her in the hideous mockery of an embrace.

A scream of utter madness rent the chill night air. Then the moor was silent, save for the haunting calls of owls.

"Alys!"

The cries rang out across the rolling heath, drifting with the gray mist that swirled along the ground.

"Alys, where are you!"

A stout peasant man stumbled across the moof, calling hoarsely. His wife trudged after him, her broad face swollen from weeping.

"It is my fault, Marga," the man said despondently. "I drove her away."

"I won't listen to such foolishness, Hannis," she reproached him wearily. He seemed not to hear her.

Urgent shouts pierced the leaden fog. "They've found her!" Hannis exclaimed.

The two broke into a dead run. They burst through a bank of mist to find several villagers gathered around a pale heap slumped at the base of a skeletal tree. Only after a stunned moment did Hannis realize indeed it was his daughter. He knelt down.

"Alys?"

Gently, he reached out and lifted the young woman's chin. He heard Marga's stifled cry behind him. Alys stared with blank eyes, her skin as gray and clammy as the mist. Bits of moss and earth were tangled through her hair; her nightgown was filthy and tattered. After a moment Hannis realized she was muttering something under her breath, a weird, sing-song rhyme:

"Where is my love?

Far under the earth

Crowned by the worms

The mold gives birth.

"Who is my love?

The scion of Death

Whose kisses drown me

With sweet, cold breath."

"Why it's… it's a poem!" Marga choked. "Alys!" Hannis said fiercely. He shook the young woman's shoulders in desperation. "Alys, wake up. Please" The young woman only rocked back and forth, clutching her knees to her chest as she stared blindly with mindless eyes. And hummed. "Where is my love? Far under the earth…"

In the dank shadows of the inquisition chamber, Sirraun gave the iron wheel one more turn for good measure. The peasant man strapped into the machinery of pain let out a high-pitched scream. Sirraun nodded in satisfaction. He had created this particular instrument of torture himself. It was a complex device, with myriad wheels and levers, designed to bend the limbs of the client into agonizing contortions. It was one of the lord inquisitor's idiosyncracies that he never referred to the prisoners on whom he tested his machines as victims. The word seemed to imply some sort of malicious intent on his part, when in truth he bore them none. Pain was simply his craft, and one in which he took great pride. Sirraun preferred to call his subjects clients. They in turn never called him anything. They simply screamed.

"Excellent," Sirraun said, running his bony Fingers over the peasant's sweat-slickened brow. His "client" today was a young man with a broad chest and strong limbs. A perfect subject. The peasant moved his lips, but only a few feeble whimpers managed to issue from his mouth. "No, do not speak," Sirraun admonished gently. "Do not try to fight it. Just feel the pain."

The man stared in mute horror. Abruptly his eyes rolled into his head. Sirraun sighed. Now he would have to wait until the man regained consciousness to continue the fun. He made some minor adjustments to the apparatus, then strode out of the inquisition chamber. As he locked the iron door something caught his eye. Wedged in a crack in the stone archway of the door was a dark and glossy tuft of black fur. He pulled it out to examine it. Interest sparked in Sirraun's eyes.

"It looks as if someone has tried to visit my inquisition chamber unannounced," he murmured. "A perilous mistake."

Sirraun stroked the archway with a slender hand. For a moment the stones quivered, then were still. He had discovered the magical doorway by accident some years ago. Since then he had trained the ancient artifact to recognize his presence-his and no other's. Sirraun tucked the fur into the pocket of his close-fitting tunic, then headed swiftly down the corridor.

"Are you certain she didn't gain entrance to the inquisition chamber, Sirraun?" Caidin demanded a short while later. The baron paced the length of his richly appointed private chamber, regal in his perfectly tailored coat of blue and crimson.

Pock marched behind his master, his purple face screwed up in comic imitation of the baron's angry mien; The knave wore a coat to match the baron's, along with a ridiculously ruffled shirt. "Yes, Sirraun," Pock mimicked in his piping voice. "Are you certain?" The gnome stuck his purple tongue out at the lord inquisitor, popping it back into his mouth before the baron noticed.

Sirraun fixed the gnome with a sharp look. Mot for the first time did it occur to him that it would be very interesting to test some of his Inventions on a client the diminutive size of a gnome.

"I am quite certain, Your Grace," Sirraun answered. "Yet we must not underestimate the resources of the Kargat. It may be only a matter of time before Jadis finds a way past the obstacles that surround the inquisition chamber."

Caidin struck his palm with a fist. "Then create new obstacles, Sirraun."

"Yes, Sirraun-new obstacles," Pock proclaimed pompously. He struck his own palm, then shook his fingers frantically, hopping about in exaggerated pain.

"I want you to delay her investigation as long as possible," Caidin went on. "By the time the Lady Jadis learns my plans, I want it to be far too late for her to do anything to stop me."

An idea occurred to Sirraun. There was a fascinating experiment he had wanted to try for some time. Mow might be the perfect chance. "There is something I could arrange, Your Grace. However, it would require several… bodies, immediately. Can you spare some 'traitors,' Your Grace?"

Caidin considered this. He had used the Soulstone to drain the life essences of dozens more prisoners these last days. The magical stone had greedily drunk in the souls of its victims, and now it was nearly full. Soon it would contain all the life energy he required to defeat Azalin. After a moment, he nodded. "Very well,' Sirraun. Take what you need."

"Excellent, Your Grace."

"If you need bodies, Sirraun, why not use Contessa Sabrinda's?" Pock chirped helpfully. "I imagine it's still quite fresh."

Caidin's visage darkened. "Pock!"

Sirraun raised a speculative eyebrow. "Of what does the knave speak, Your Grace?"

Caidin gritted the words between clenched teeth. "The poor contessa was found dead in her chamber this morning."

"It seems she suffered a fatal loss of good fashion sense," Pock chortled wickedly, "when she tried to put on all her gowns at once." He puffed up his face foolishly, bugging out his big eyes as if he was smothering.

"That will do, Pock!" Caidin thundered.

"Thank you, Your Grace," the gnome replied with a sweeping bow, like an actor after a bravura performance.

"I am sorry for your loss, Your Grace," Sirraun said diplomatically.

Caidin shrugged noncommittally. "If you 'need her body for your plans, it's yours. It's of no use to me any more."

Sirraun nodded gravely, the gesture concealing a satisfied smile. For the experiment he intended to perform, the fresher the corpses the better. Something told the lord inquisitor this was going to be his greatest triumph yet.

"Thank you, Your Grace," he said with genuine sincerity.

In the courtyard of Nartok Keep, Caidin climbed into ji waiting carriage. He had decided to make a tour pf the village. It was never a good idea to wait too long between appearances below the tor. The peasants might lose their fear of him. He could not bear that.

"Mind if I come along, Your Grace?" a voice squeaked. Pock scrambled nimbly into the carriage. The gnome perched on the bench opposite the baron, his frilly attire making him look like a peculiar purple bird. "If you wish, you can abuse me in public to show everyone how ruthless you are."

"An excellent idea, Pock," Caidin mused with an evil smile. "You do have your uses."

The gnome grinned broadly. "I enjoy being used, Your Grace."

"I know, Pock. That's why I tolerate you."

The driver cracked his whip. The carriage rolled through the gates of the keep and careened wildly down the winding road. Rounding a sharp bend, it bore down on a group of peasants. They were clad in grimy rags, stooped under heavy bundles of firewood. With cries of alarm the.peasants flung themselves out of the path of the hurtling craft. The horses did not even slow as the carriage rattled by. Caidin glanced back through the carriage's window and saw the peasants shouting and running after the vehicle.

"Animals," he spat in disgust.

Soon the conveyance rolled into the village, slowing so the baron could survey his domain.

"Everyone appears to be rather well fed, Pock." He stroked his oiled beard thoughtfully. "I must not be taxing them enough. Make a note to double their tithes at harvest time."

With a plumed pen, the gnome scribbled merrily on a piece of parchment. "Of course, Your Grace."

A sudden commotion erupted outside the carriage.

"Your Grace!" a haggard voice shouted. "Please, Your Grace!"

Caidin looked out the window and saw that one of the ragged peasants they had passed earlier now ran alongside the carriage. He was pointing frantically to the craft's wheels.

"What now?" Caidin muttered angrily. He pounded on the ceiling, signaling the driver to stop. Flinging open the door, he stepped out. A huddled mass of villagers scurried backward, cringing fearfully. Quaking, the peasant man stepped forward.

"Well, vermin, what is it?" Caidin snapped.

With a shaking hand, the peasant pointed at the wheels of the carriage. Caidin turned and saw that a gray mass of tattered rags was wound about one of the axles. Only after a moment did he realize it was a trampled human body.

"It… it is my son, Your Grace," the man choked.

Caidin clenched a fist. "Then I expect you to remove the sorry trash from my carriage!"

The man scrambled forward with several other peasants. A minute later he stumbled down the muddy street, weeping and bearing a limp gray bundle in his arms. Caidin watched with a bored expression, then turned to sweep through the village as peasants scurried out of his path. How like a flock of mindless sheep they all were. He sheared taxes from them like wool, and slaughtered them when he required their carcasses. If it were not for these benefits he would gladly raze the village to the ground, permanently removing the dismal eyesore that it was from the land.

An hour later Caidin's tour of the village was done. As he made his way back to the gilded carriage, he noticed numerous mute, terrified faces peering at him from dim windows and doorways. It appeared he had accomplished what he had come here for.

"Pock, assist me!" he barked, pointing to a deep mud puddle before the carriage's steps.

"Yes, Your Grace!" The gnome scurried forward and bent down to spread his crimson cloak gallantly over the puddle.

Ignoring the proffered cloak, Caidin gave Pock a rough push. Arms flailing wildly, the gnome plunged face-first into the foul-smelling muck. Using Pock's back as a stepping stone, the baron climbed with great dignity into the carriage. The driver cracked his whip above the ears of the horses, and the carriage lurched into motion. Pock sprang onto the craft's running board, clutching the door's handle to keep from falling and being crushed under the spinning wheels. He managed to boost himself up and inside. They were nearly to the edge of the village when Caidin banged a the roof of the carriage, signaling the driver to halt.

"Pock, who is that?" Caidin whispered intently, leaning to peer out the window of the carriage. A woman clad in a plain black dress walked down the street carrying a leather satchel. Even from a distance, the rare violet hue of her eyes was visible.

"Her name is Mika," Pock informed his master. "She arrived in the village some days ago. Folk say that she's a doctor."

"Is that so?" Caidin mused, a hungry expression on his face. "She is quite beautiful, this doctor."

Pock shrugged, apparently unimpressed. "I suppose so, if you like high cheekbones, full lips, and perfect skin."

Caidin shot him a black look.

"Er, which I'm assuming you do," the gnome added hastily.

As the two watched, the golden-haired woman disappeared through the doorway of the Black Boar. Caidin knocked again on the ceiling, and the carriage rocked once more into motion.

"Perhaps I should invite the good doctor up to the keep for dinner tonight, Pock." Caidin's eyes glittered speculatively. "I really should give her a formal… welcome to my barony. After all, I wouldn't want her to think I have been neglecting my duties as a good neighbor."

The gnome let out a round of bubbling laughter. " 'Good neighbor?' That's a rich one, Your Grace!"

Caidin glowered dangerously. "I wasn't joking, you maggot." Pock hastily shed his grin. "Er, I knew that."

Clad in an elaborate gown of lavender silk, Mika. stepped into the Grand Hall of Nartok Keep. Everywhere she looked there was light, refracted by the myriad crystals of a dozen chandeliers. It shimmered off silver plates and spun glass goblets and gilded wood. The people who filled the room were, even more brilliant than the furnishings. Silk and velvet of a hundred different shades glowed richly. Jewels glittered against bare throats, ears, and fingers. Ornamental swords and daggers gleamed as if they had been polished with diamonds.

"It's beautiful," she whispered softly.

"Do you truly think so?" a man's voice asked behind her.

She whirled in surprise, silk rustling, to find an unusually handsome man standing behind her. He was regally clad in a blue coat with silver buttons, gray breeches, and boots as black as his hair and neatly trimmed beard. Realizing this must be Baron Caidin, Mika hastily attempted a curtsey.

"Good evening, Your Grace," she murmured.

"My lady." His voice was rich and deep. "I am so glad you could come." He took Mika's hand, kissing A gentfy. The warmth of his lips against her skin sent a shiver up her spine. She snatched her hand back. It felt as if all eyes were on her.

"Pay no attention to them, my lady." The baron, gestured subtly toward the nobles of his court who milled around the vast hall, casting surreptitious looks in Mika's direction. "I'm afraid that all of them find you utterly mysterious and fascinating."

"Oh?" There was a faint quaver in her voice. "I find that hard to imagine, Your Grace."

"It is your skill as a doctor, my lady. You see, they aren't accustomed to ladies-т-ог gentlemen, for that matter-who make their way through the world by doing something useful. Being nobles, they aren't required to be of much use."

Mika found herself laughing. Perhaps this wouldn't be as difficult as she feared. Still, she could not imagine why the baron had thought to invite her to his keep. Perhaps it was simply that nobles took sick like everyone else, and thus he wished to make her acquaintance.

"If they think me interesting, then I'm certain they'll be sorely disappointed, Your Grace," she said ironically. "I'm afraid I'm one of the very dullest of people." Suddenly she remembered her manners. "I must thank you for the gown, Your Grace. It is… er… quite lovely."

In vain, she attempted to smooth down the silk gown, but the wide hoops beneath the skirt only sprang back, puffing the dress out to absurd dimensions. Mika had the distinct notion thatsfie looked like an overstuffed chair. But the gown had come to the inn along with the baron's surprising invitation. It would have been an insult not to wear it for the occasion.

His eyes glittered. "It suits you well, my lady."

Her cheeks flushed, and for this she scolded herself silently. It was an idle compliment, Mika, and nothing morel "Thank you, Your Grace," she said aloud. "You know, you have a beautiful voice. It makes me think of horns."

His smile revealed uncommonly white teeth. "How nice of you to say so."

The courtiers were edging toward the long table that dominated the center of the hall. It was time for the feast to begin. The baron guided Mika to a place halfway down the table. Nodding his leave, he moved to take a seat at the head.

Mika felt distinctly out of place among the ranks of viscounts, duchesses, and other nobles. Before her was a dizzying array of gold forks, silver bowls of scented water, and curious utensils whose purpose she couldn't begin to fathom. Unsure what behavior court etiquette dictated, she surreptitiously observed the nobles around her, attempting to mimic their actions. More than a few disapproving frowns and mocking glances indicated she was less than successful.

A silver pitcher poured wine into the crystal goblet before her. She turned to thank the servant, then gaped in astonishment. No one was holding the pitcher. It hovered in midair above her glass, red wine streaming from its spout. The liquid filled the glass to the brim, then overflowed onto the table.

A nearby nobleman in a rancid-smelling wig glared at her. "You're supposed to tell it when," he said curtly as if she were a simpleton.

"When!" Mika said hastily.

Immediately‹fhe silver pitcher stopped pouring and floated to the next empty glass. None of the courtiers paid any attention. Apparently flying pitchers are commonplace here, Mika thought wryly. She allowed herself a nervous laugh as she sopped up spilled wine with her napkin.^.

"Would you be so kind as to pass the saltcellar?" a plump woman to her left asked.

Mika reached for an ivory saltcellar carved in the shape of a spider. It scurried nimbly beyond her grasp. She bit her tongue to keep from crying out in alarm. Given the flying pitcher, no doubt a walking saltcellar was to be expected. The ivory spider scuttled behind a bowl of plums. Forming a strategy, Mika picked up a fork in her left hand and carefully prodded behind the bowl. The ivory spider dashed from its hiding place, and she'deftly snatched it up in her right hand. She passed the wriggling saltcellar to the waiting woman.

"Thank you, my dear."

"You're welcome," Mika said with a forced smile.

At the foot of the table, two servants set down a ponderous serving dish. They lifted the silver lid, and the woman to Mika's left clapped her plump hands.

"Roast partridges!" she exclaimed. "My favorite!" She picked up knife and fork expectantly.

Mika was wondering how the roasted birds were to be served when her question was answered for her. One of the steaming partridges leapt off the silver platter and began hobbling down the table on crisp legs covered with curly roasting papers. Its roasted compatriots followed behind. In moments a line of headless cooked partridges were marching jerkily down either side of the table and plopping themselves onto empty plates. One of the roasted birds scuttled onto Mika's dish. It twitched several times, then lay still. She stared at it, wondering if it would be polite to stab it a few times to make certain it was ready to eat. The nobles around her fell on the feast, meanwhile, tearing into the birds and gobbling meat, wiping greasy fingers on silk and velvet. Mika picked unenthusiastically at the partridge and the rest of the food placed before her. She found everything to be lavishly prepared, exquisite to behold, and utterly tasteless.

After a time her thoughts drifted to her encounter with Wort the day before. The man in the bell tower was a riddle to her. It had been brave of him, even noble, to protect her from the mob of villagers. Yet when she had hinted that she might be able to heal his back, he had grown so terribly defensive. Mika sighed. She was suddenly struck by the contrast between the opulence of the Grand Hall and the bleakness of Wort's tower home. It made her feel strangely guilty. Despite his rage yesterday-maybe even because of it-she wanted more than ever to help him. Nartok's mysterious bellringer seemed so lonely, and loneliness was something she understood. But did she dare visit his tower again? Mika almost wished she were there now. Wort's face might be homely, but the garishly rouged and powdered visages laughing all around her suddenly seemed far uglier.

Finally the magical feast was over. As the courtiers drifted from the hall, Baron Caidin bade Mika farewell.

"You see, Your Grace?" she said with a wavering smile. "I warned you that I was terribly dull."

"Indeed, my lady." He raised a single dark eyebrow. "And when will I have the pleasure of your tedious company again?"

Mika felt a pang of worry in her heart. The light in his eyes suddenly seemed so… feral.

"I'm not certain…"

"But I am, my lady. Return to the keep tomorrow." He reached out and took her hand. "Say yes…" He pressed his lips against her upturned palm.

A shiver ran up her arm. That was exactly the way Geordin used to kiss her hand. With a choking sound, she pulled away.

"Please, don't!" she gasped.

Caidin looked up in surprise. His face seemed now more daemonic than handsome. He reached for her.

"No, don't come any closer." In panic she backed away, gripping the golden locket about her throat. "Don't you see? It's too soon. My husband is…"

Caidin's emerald eyes bore into hers. "Your husband is what, my lady?"

Mika gaped at him. Her lips could not form the words. Pulling the lavender gown up above her ankles, she turned and fled the hall.

Caidin paced before the blazing fireplace in his private chamber, a glass of wine held loosely in his hand, his coat unbuttoned.

"I don't understand it, Pock," he said furiously. "Before she ran off, she looked at me as if I were some sort of monster. How could she possibly resist me? No one is as handsome as I."

"You'll never seduce the good doctor, Your Grace," the gnome snorted, lounging on his back before the roaring blaze. "She's still faithful to her dead husband, you know. You'd sooner melt a glacier with your kisses."

The baron grinned devilishly. "Oh, my kiss can melt things far greater than glaciers, Pock."

"Really, Your Grace?" the gnome piped. "You know, my toes are rather cold at the moment…"

The baron ignored him. "I will light a fire in her such as she has never known. I will win her love, Pock. Or if nothing else… her lust." Tilting his head back, he drained the glass of wine, then ran a tongue across his crimson-stained lips. "I am not about to let a dead man best me."