Beyond the Hanging Wall (12 page)

And perhaps not he thought, keeping his face as expressionless as his father’s. Perhaps not.

Joseph did not know why Garth was so keen to get to the Veins, but perhaps it was not such a bad idea. Cavor might well forget about them once they had left. Three weeks was a long time to sustain a royal whim.

“I don’t know what you can learn down the Veins that you can’t learn here,” Cavor snapped.

“Well,” Joseph began, but Garth broke in, visited by sudden inspiration.

“Sire, the prisoners—curse their venomous souls—are subject to curious fungal diseases in the Veins. Perhaps…perhaps, sire, your arm has been infected with such as that.”

“I’ve never been near the Veins!” Cavor all but shouted, and both Joseph and Garth recoiled at the strange light in his eyes.

“No, of course not,” Garth hurried on, his previous suspicion of the king now flaring into near certainty, “but fungal spores are carried by the wind easily enough, sire, and who knows? On a day when the northerlies blew perhaps you were unlucky enough to have caught such a spore.”

“My son has a point,” Joseph murmured deferentially. Where had Garth learned to lie that well? “I would like one further chance to examine the fungal diseases of the Veins. It might help me discover a final remedy for your arm.”

Cavor subsided. “Three weeks, you say? Well, your Touch healed my arm for close on two months the last time you came through, so perhaps I can spare you for three weeks. And it would be worth it if you discovered a final cure for this damn mark.”

To one side Garth visibly relaxed, and Joseph risked a glance his way.

“But I shall send for your lady wife and your household goods while you are gone, Joseph. When you return your home shall be
here.
”

Joseph inclined his head in a show of acceptance, mentally cursing.
Damn!

Cavor watched him carefully. “Perhaps after a week or so of the Veins, Joseph, you will regret your decision to see out your service. I shall provide you with a letter which will enable you to return early, should you so wish.”

“As you will,” Joseph murmured, then stepped back, and indicated that Garth should Touch the king.

Garth delicately laid his hands on the king, and only narrowly avoided flinching as he felt the foul corruption of the infected flesh flood through his fingers and palms. Joseph nodded quietly as he saw and recognised his son’s struggle.

Garth closed his eyes and tried to loose as much healing through his hands as he could—but it was hard, very hard, because the arm he wanted to do this to currently laboured down the Veins, and some part of him wanted to harbour his energy for that battle ahead.

He hoped he would never have to return to Ruen until Maximilian sat the throne.

But here he stood with his hands on the current and, according to the Manteceros,
legal
king and it
presented a dilemma that Garth had avoided thinking about until now.

What to do about Cavor? In a boyish way, Garth had somehow assumed he would rescue Maximilian from the Veins, and the country would welcome him back with open arms and parades through the centre of Ruen.

But would Cavor welcome him back? No, Garth did not think so. Not at all. So what could he do?

Garth started slightly, realising the power of his Touch was faltering along with his concentration, and he put the question to the back of his mind. Maximilian and Vorstus would know what to do. He frowned, bending his attention to his task, and let the Touch flow unhindered through his hands.

“I’ve had bad dreams,” Cavor whispered. Startled, Garth opened his eyes.

Joseph paused in the act of laying out fresh dressings. “Yes?”

The king had his eyes closed, leaning back in his chair. “Very bad dreams,” he said, and his voice had a singsong quality about it.

Joseph stared at the king, wondering what haunted the man’s soul so badly it bubbled forth in his dreams. Joseph hoped it wasn’t anything too dark. Not if he was going to be forced to finish his working life in this artificial world.

“I dream of dark places,” Cavor muttered. “Of rock faces splintering with the pressure of an ocean of water.” He shuddered.

Shocked, Garth’s grip loosened about the king’s arm. Joseph opened his mouth to remonstrate with him, then saw the expression on his son’s face.
He slowly closed his mouth and shifted his gaze back to the king.

“I dream of being lost in this dark place. Unshackled and free, and yet not free. I despair.”

“Gods,” Joseph murmured, “the infection has touched his mind.”

But Garth knew better. He let go of the king’s arm.

“I raise my pick and strike the rock, then strike it again, and I know I am home.”

Tears filled Garth’s eyes and he had to turn away. Was the bond between Maximilian and Cavor so strong they shared dreams and experiences? Did Maximilian dream of wandering the palace corridors, smiling and bowing to the courtesans in flowing silk dresses as they passed?

“And sometimes I dream of the Manteceros.”

Garth turned back again, evading his father’s eyes.

“I dream I claim, and the Manteceros appears and asks who dares the dream, who comes to claim…but this time it refuses me, and it turns away into the mist, and I feel the mark flare into fire, and I wake screaming.”

Cavor’s voice had risen so that by the end he was shouting into the quiet chamber.

But his eyes were still closed, and so Garth dared the question, hoping the king would reply automatically. He wanted to gain Maximilian every bit of information he could to enable him to succeed.

“How did you claim, sire? How do you dare the dream? I—”

He got no further. With a roar Cavor lunged into full wakefulness and seized Garth’s arm in powerful hands.

“
Who do you think you are, boy?
” His hands twisted viciously, and Garth cried out and sank to his knees. “
Only kings are privy to that information! How dare you!
”

“Sire!” Joseph lifted his hands, appalled, but hesitated to actually touch the king. “Garth meant nothing by the questions. He is but a curious boy.” His eyes flared and he hissed at Garth. “An utterly
irresponsible
boy who should apologise right
now
!”

“Sire,” Garth was almost crying with the pain now. “I meant nothing by the question! Truly! I apologise if I have trespassed into forbidden knowledge.”

Cavor’s grip lessened slightly. “Foolish boy.”

“Yes,” Garth’s voice cracked, through fear as much as pain. “I knew not what I said.” How could he have been so
stupid
?

“He is but country-bred,” Joseph said, his face pale as he watched Cavor’s grip gradually lose its intensity. Gods, but Garth had come as close as he could to a broken arm without actually experiencing it! “And witless for it, sometimes.”

Cavor recovered his composure. “Well,” he said, and let go completely. Garth almost slipped to his knees in relief. “He’ll have to learn some manners if he’s to survive at court. Now,” Cavor’s mood swung in the blink of an eye, and now he radiated bonhomie again. “I have some sweetmeats here. Sure to please both you and the boy, Joseph. Here, taste. Now, which apartment would you prefer to live in, Joseph? The airy quadrangle suite that you had once before, or perhaps one of the remodelled apartments in the main building itself?”

“You stupid,
stupid
boy!” Joseph repeated once he had Garth alone. “What came over you?”

Garth was still pale. “Curiosity, father. I’d heard gossip about this claim, and I…”

“Well, stifle your curiosity boy, before it gets us both killed! The secret of the claim is shared between king and heir only! Not to a dim-witted physician’s apprentice whose artlessness will yet see him on the executioner’s block!”

And Joseph turned and stalked off, leaving Garth to hurry after him.

They arrived at the Veins on one of those spring days that harkened back to the winter, for cold winds blew in heavy sea clouds, and they hung a veil of mist and drizzle and sadness about Myrna and the complex of buildings and machinery above the Veins themselves.

The weather matched Garth’s mood. He had not stopped cursing himself since he had left the king’s apartment with his life still miraculously intact. After a day of ignoring him, Joseph had appeared to forget the entire episode, and had chatted to his son about this and that along the lonely, northerly road to Myrna. Garth had replied in monosyllables, but Joseph had let that go as well, and left his son alone when it became apparent that Garth would prefer to ride in silence.

Joseph surely had enough to think about himself. How was he going to extricate himself from the
king’s order to relocate himself to Ruen? The last thing he wanted was to move back to court and spend his time treating diseases caused by imbibing too much wine and food, and dallying too long in the wrong boudoirs.

And what would Nona say when the king’s men arrived on her doorstep with the order to move? Poor Nona. Joseph shuddered. Poor Joseph.

They arrived at the Veins as they had the previous year, at dusk with the day closing in about them and the noise and the smell of the shafts settling about their shoulders with cold, heavy hands.

Garth huddled close within his cloak as his father reported to Furst. Was Maximilian still alive down there? Had Ravenna and Vorstus arrived?

Would he be able to find Maximilian again?

Would their flimsy plan be enough to free him—and escape themselves?

After his experience with Cavor in Ruen, Garth knew none of them could hope for much mercy if they were caught. The more he thought about it, the more Garth became convinced Cavor would do whatever he had to, by whatever means he could, to prevent Maximilian’s return.

“Garth?”

His father had returned, and Garth shook himself out of his lethargy.

“We have the same lodgings as before. Come on boy, let’s go get something to eat and then crawl into our bunks. We’ll have an early start in the morning.”

Joseph climbed back onto his horse, waved briefly at Furst, who watched from the lighted window of his office, then he and his son swung their horses
towards the quarters set aside for visiting physicians. The building was about fifty paces away from Furst’s office, set between two bleak mounds of gloam. Even though air would have been welcome, its windows were sealed shut so that the gloam dust could not penetrate inside; Garth remembered how hot and stuffy the building had been the previous year. Well, with luck, he would not have to endure the conditions either above or below the Veins for very long this year.

They left their horses with a groom in the lean-to stable behind the physicians’ quarters, then entered the front door. Another physician, a spare grey-haired man who introduced himself as Liam Bent, told them that every other physician currently at the Veins was down below.

“On nightshift,” he said, then chuckled at his own joke. “As if it’s anything else below this cursed soil.”

Joseph introduced himself and Garth, and then a servant emerged from the kitchen and took their cloaks.

“Sit, masters,” he murmured, his pale, round face turned aside deferentially, “and I will serve food.”

Joseph and Garth sat down at a table well away from the over-stacked fire and waited. Silent now, Liam Bent had slouched into a chair beside a lamp, reading a week-old edition of Ruen’s newssheet.

Joseph glanced at Garth and tried to smile, but the boy looked as if he were consumed by a stomach gripe, and Joseph looked away again. No doubt wondering why he wanted to come back, he thought.

The servant emerged from the kitchen carrying a laden platter and a stack of plates. Halfway across the room his toe caught the corner of a rug and he
tripped, the stack of plates sliding from his hand and shattering across the floor.

Everyone in the room jumped, and the servant himself gushed effusive apologies as he sank to his knees and tried to stack what remained of the plates with his free hand.

Garth stood up and went to help, feeling for the man. “Here, let me take the platter,” he said as he bent down by the now red-faced and perspiring servant.

Patently grateful, the servant gave Garth the platter, but as Garth took hold of it, the man’s eyes caught at his.

“There’s an abandoned poppet head a hundred paces behind this building,” he whispered, and Garth froze. “Be there by the time the moon rises tonight.”

For an instant longer he stared at Garth, then he dropped his eyes and let the platter go.

As he did so, Garth noticed the faint tattoo on his index finger, and his breath caught in his throat. Was Vorstus here?

He nodded imperceptibly then rose to his feet, returning to the table and setting the platter down.

Neither Joseph nor Liam Bent had noticed a thing.

Garth lay in his bunk, every nerve afire, staring at the ceiling above his head. Every now and then he would turn and look out the window, waiting for the telltale glow of the moon—but would he notice it in this fog that now huddled so close and intimate between buildings and mounds?

Eventually he could stand no more and slid as silently as he could to the floor, hoping his father was asleep.

But as he slipped on his cloak, Joseph turned over and opened his eyes.

“Garth? What are you doing?”

“Oh,” Garth said in as relaxed a voice as he could manage, “I cannot sleep and thought I’d take a walk.”

Joseph frowned and made as if to push his blankets back.

“No,” Garth stepped over to the door and opened it. “I won’t be long, father.”

Then he was gone.

He slipped quietly out of their quarters, grateful that Liam Bent had gone to bed, and walked quickly along the narrow path behind the building. It led between the two great mounds of gloam that reared to either side, and Garth’s feet crunched on the thick layer of rock and dust that blanketed the path.

He glanced anxiously to the sky, his heart pounding when he saw a vague luminescence shining through the fog. The moon was already well risen! He hurried his steps…would they still be there?

Garth thought he had gone at least three hundred paces before the skeleton of the old poppet head reared out of the fog before him. Its iron wheel hung drunkenly askew and broken chains swung in the slight breeze, clinking mournfully.

“Vorstus?” he whispered as he stepped underneath the structure, leaning to one side to avoid one of the swinging chains. His eyes scanned the night anxiously. “Ravenna?”

“You’re late, boy,” a gruff voice said behind him, and Garth swung around.

“Vorstus!”

Despite his rough tone, Vorstus smiled and gripped Garth’s hand in welcome. He was well cloaked and hooded, but underneath his thin face and sharp eyes smiled. “I’m glad to see you, boy.”

Garth smiled, then glanced behind him. “Ravenna?”

“Here, Garth Baxtor,” her soft voice said, and she loomed out of the fog at Vorstus’ back. Like the monk, she had her red cloak pulled tightly about her, but she smiled and leaned forward to give Garth a brief kiss of welcome on his cheek.

Garth took a deep breath. “Did you have any problems on your journey north?”

Vorstus shook his head. “No, all went well.”

Several figures emerged from the shadows about them, and Garth froze.

“It’s all right,” Vorstus hastened. “Several other Brothers of the Order of Persimius are here. You met Brother Rial this evening.”

Garth relaxed. “Yes,” and he nodded at the man who was masquerading as the servant to the physicians.

“And this is Gustus and Morton.” Garth nodded and shook their hands.

Vorstus smiled. “Both of whom seem to have obtained employment here in the Veins as guards.”

Garth’s eyes widened. “Then our plan
does
have a chance!” he breathed, and Vorstus laughed.

“Yes, I believe so. Now, listen, boy. There are, all told, some half a dozen members of the order secreted about the mines. All is in readiness.”

“When?” Garth said tightly.

His eyes were on Vorstus, but it was Ravenna who answered. “Tomorrow, Garth Baxtor. None of us
want to linger about this pit of corruption,” and for an instant her eyes flashed, “and Maximilian has already spent long enough below, methinks.”

Excitement flowered in Garth’s chest, yet at the same time his heart thumped with nervousness. “Tomorrow…after all this time,” he whispered.

“Garth,” Vorstus’ tone was urgent, and Garth swung his eyes back to the monk. “Where was Maximilian when you went down last year?”

“Section 205.”

Vorstus turned and looked at Gustus. “Can you access Furst’s office tonight?”

Gustus nodded. “Yes. I’ll check the detail books. Make sure he’s still in the same gang.”

“Lot No. 859,” Garth said.

“I know, boy. Vorstus has passed on your information.”

Vorstus placed a reassuring hand on Garth’s shoulder. “We’ll all do the best we can boy, and, in the end, that’s all we can do. We’re as set to go as we can be.”

“And in the morning?”

“In the morning? Why, you go down the Veins as planned, Garth Baxtor. And think not to look startled when you notice the guards assigned to your detail.”

Garth took a sharp breath of excitement. “Ravenna?”

“As planned, Garth Baxtor,” she smiled, and took his arm. “As planned. Wish me luck and wait for the dream.”

Joseph frowned at his son as they made their way across to the waiting cage. Garth had been demonstrably
nervous this morning, fumbling with his cutlery at breakfast, and then laying it down after only two or three bites of breakfast.

“Are you sure you want go down?” Joseph asked as they approached the waiting group of silent guards. “It’s not too late to—”

“No,” Garth broke in, and when he turned to look at his father Joseph’s frown deepened. Was that nervousness or excitement shining from his eyes? “No, I’m fine. Ah! Here we are. Jack? Is that you? Good to see you again.”

Joseph stared at Garth a moment longer, then turned to greet the guards huddled by the ironworks. Below them he could hear the cage rattling and screeching its way to the surface.

Jack had stepped forward to greet them, but Joseph’s frown—if possible—deepened yet further. What was wrong with Jack? The man had a slightly distracted air about him, as if his mind was elsewhere. And his eyes seemed…well, almost vacant.

Garth glanced at the guards behind Jack and grinned. The Order of Persimius might not command much in the way of magical arts, but apparently they commanded enough. He ran his eyes over the group. Gustus and Morton were here, both looking the part in their brief leather wraps and armour, but Vorstus was also masquerading as a guard, and Garth hoped that their group would not be scrutinised too clearly when they went below; Vorstus was patently far too thin for guard duty.

Behind Vorstus were two regular guards, their eyes as vacant as Jack’s.

“Fine,” Jack mumbled in a non-convincing way to Joseph, and the cage finally rattled its way to the surface.

“Well,” Garth said over brightly, “shall we get in?”

“Garth,” Joseph began, now running his eyes over the other guards. “Something’s not—”

“Into the cage we go,” Jack said, and he placed a meaty hand in the small of Joseph’s back and shoved.

Garth grinned quickly at Vorstus, then they were all in, the door closed, and the cage was spinning its way into the depths of the Veins.

As Garth only too well remembered, as soon as they sank below ground level the stench of the damp gloam mixed with the aroma of fear and pain and death rose about them like a noxious miasma.

“Section 205 needs our attention today, commander,” Vorstus mumbled almost inaudibly. Joseph stared at him, deep lines creasing into his forehead.

Vorstus noticed his stare, but said nothing. Joseph Baxtor would realise soon enough.

“Section 205?” Jack said, his voice querulous. “205? Yes, that’s right. It does need attention, doesn’t it…doesn’t it?”

Now Morton spoke quietly. “The fungus has spread among 205’s gang, Jack, and they can hardly work. Gloam production has fallen in Section 205 and Furst is angry.”

Behind Jack the two other regular guards nodded. Yes, the fungus had spread.

“Yes,” Jack whispered. “The fungus. Dreadful. Production has slowed. Yes. The physicians must go to Section 205. Yes.”

“What is going on here?” Joseph said angrily. Had he and Garth become involved in some plot of the prisoners to escape? He did not like the look in Jack’s eyes, and those other guards…what
was
it about them?

“Father,” Garth murmured, but it was Vorstus who stepped forward, seemingly unaffected by the cage’s continued wild plunge.

“My friend,” he said softly, and laid a hand on Joseph’s upper arm. “There has been an injustice done here and today we aim to set part of it to rights.”

Joseph, too shocked to reply, dropped his eyes to the guard’s hand clutched about his arm, thinking to wrench himself free.

Then he stilled, his eyes riveted by the faint tattoo of a quill on the man’s forefinger.

“Trust me,” Vorstus said quietly. “Believe in me.”

“By all the gods in heaven,” Joseph whispered. “You’re of the Order of—”

“No!” Vorstus’ voice cut cross his sharply, although his tone was still soft. He dropped his hand from Joseph’s arm. “Do not say it.”

Joseph shifted his eyes to his son. “Garth?”

“It’s all right, father,” Garth said. “Please. Trust us.”

Oh gods, Joseph thought, stunned, leaning back against the rough ironwork of the cage and barely managing to stop himself sliding to the floor. Garth is involved in this too!

Then, as the first trickle of water through a gap in a dyke augurs destruction, memories flooded Joseph’s mind. He remembered how much Garth had matured this year. He remembered how withdrawn he’d been after returning from the Veins last year, and how he’d
suffered weeks of nightmares. He remembered how Garth had fought to be allowed back to the Veins this year and the curious—and idiotic—question he had asked of Cavor.