Servant of the Dragon (32 page)

The sand on the floor was unmarked except for whorls drawn by the moving air itself. Garric looked back. The three of them had left clear prints. The wind would erase them eventually, but the air was too thin to shovel sand grains quickly.

"Will he be growing crops," Garric asked. "Or does he get his food through wizardry?"

"I can't say for a wizard as powerful as Alman," Tenoctris said with a wry smile. "But the amount of effort to create or transmute matter by art on the scale that a human needs it to live would take most of the waking hours of most wizards."

She looked behind her, out the open doorway toward the barren plaza. "It might be equally difficult to grow things here, though. I'm not an expert on farming. Or much else that doesn't involve a book."

Garric laughed. "I can't tell you much about raising crops in this desert myself," he said, "but if Alman chose to come here we can assume he had a plan to keep himself fed. Let's walk straight through—"

He stretched out his arm.

"—and see if we come to another courtyard on the other side. I don't see how he could be farming in the building itself."

"The roof of the right wing may have fallen in," Liane suggested. "It looked as though it had from where we stood when we arrived."

Garric stamped his foot. "The floor's still stone," he said mildly, "even if plants could get light."

He remembered how confused he'd been the first time he entered a city; how confusing he
still
found cities. City-dwellers snarled or sneered at people who asked them questions they thought were obvious. Liane simply explained without ever suggesting that Garric was stupid because he was ignorant. That attitude was one of Liane's many virtues that Garric was trying to copy.

They walked down the hallway, their footsteps echoing. Tenoctris' toes dragged audibly; Garric paused to shift his grip, spreading his hand on the old woman's hipbone to lift her without making it harder for her to breathe.

"Tenoctris?" Liane asked. "Why didn't Alman's acolyte come here with him?"

"What?" said the wizard. "I'm not sure, Liane; none of the preserved fragments of his account say anything about that, though...."

She looked toward the younger woman. Garric, glancing over Tenoctris' head, was surprised to see how solemn Liane's expression was.

"I expect, since Alman's purpose was to leave his world completely," Tenoctris resumed carefully, "that he never intended his acolyte to accompany him."

"That seemed likely to me too," Liane said. "I wonder how the acolyte felt about being abandoned."

It wasn't really a question, so Garric didn't say anything in reply. If Tenoctris hadn't been between them, though, he would have hugged Liane.

Doorways—some with their metal panels closed, others standing ajar—were spaced every twenty feet on either side of the passageway. Occasional rents in the outer walls let in light. The rooms were as empty as the hall, though sometimes the vividly carved wall reliefs startled Garric into thinking people were watching him.

For the most part the only illumination was the ghostly haze from above. Garric's eyes adapted to it, but he felt as though he were walking through a cave by the light of glowing fungus.

"Tenoctris?" he said. "There weren't any windows in the rooms originally. How did the people see? By wizardry?"

"They didn't call it that," Tenoctris said. "They had arts they thought were as natural as you do lighting a candle. Of course, the spell that brought us here was perfectly natural also. I suppose anything's unnatural if you can't do it yourself."

She laughed. "And I certainly couldn't light these halls the way the builders did," she added.

When they'd come a quarter mile from the anteroom, Garric saw a rotunda opening ahead. They walked on. The hall and the rooms lying off it had twenty-foot ceilings, making the rooms perfect cubes. The rotunda was over a hundred feet in diameter and as high as it was wide. Another giant doorway gaped on the other side. Some light spilled through it, but more came from the hatch in the ceiling to which a flight of metal steps climbed in a tight helix.

"He's been coming in and out of that door," Garric said, nodding toward the smudged sand. "I'm going to look closer."

Without being asked, Liane took Tenoctris' weight. Garric strode quickly across the circular space with both hands free. He didn't expect danger to come at them through the doorway—the beetle was still the only animal he'd seen in this world—but he didn't need Carus' vivid memories of ambush and surprise to remind him that he didn't
know
anything about this place except that he'd never seen anything similar in the past.

The wind moaned, echoing in the high cylinder. Nothing else moved. Around the walls was a relief of men using the body of an enormous serpent as a capstan bar to turn millstones centered on the doorway. Two-legged creatures with gills and scales were gobbling the parts of men who'd fallen into the mill.

Stuffed into the carvings of the lower register were bulbs the size of a man's head and seed pods like those of the locust tree. What Garric had taken for rubbish was actually a collection of gathered food.

Garric turned. The women had followed him at a pace set by the old wizard's frailty. "I think we've found Alman," he said. "If his larder's here, he can't be far away."

All three looked at the silvery spiral rising to the ceiling. It was as delicate as spiderweb, and they'd seen repeated proof that the metal weathered here more quickly than the stone around it. The steps bore fresh scratches from feet grinding sand-grains into the treads.

"Then I think we should go see him," Tenoctris said, starting for the stairs on Liane's arm.

"Let me lead," Garric said quietly. He slid his sword a finger's breadth up in its sheath and let it drop back.

The wind moaned.

Not that there was any danger....

* * *

Cashel stretched, first raising his arms and standing on tiptoe, then bending backward with his staff planted behind him as the third leg of a tripod to keep him from falling over. He felt unusually—

Well, he wasn't sure what to call it. Not unusually
strong
, because strength was something Cashel took for granted the same way he did sunrise. You wouldn't talk about an unusually rising sun, would you?

'Clean' was more like the right word. He'd slept like the dead after Colva fled from him, but there was more to it than a good night's rest. He felt like all the dross had been burned out of him the way a fever would do. He guessed that was Colva's doing.

Cashel grinned. Maybe he ought to thank her, but he guessed that like a fever she was at least as likely to kill as cure.

"What are you smirking about?" Krias demanded. "Have you realized you'd better turn and run the other way?"

Cashel looked down at the ring. Usually the figure was a blur inside the stone, but just now the little demon glittered like a purple spark on the surface.

"No," Cashel said, "I was just about to start down. Should I close the door behind me?"

"The door won't keep the monsters out," Krias said. "Only the Guardian could do that, and you've killed him!"

"So I did," Cashel agreed mildly. He checked his wallet once more, then laced the flap tightly over the bread and cheese he'd brought from Valles—and the little wafer of Landure's life. The disk seemed sturdy enough, but he'd wrapped it in moss nonetheless and tied the bundle with a stem of rye grass.

"I guess I'll close it anyway," he said as he stepped through the bronze portal. He didn't understand why people—and generally little people, though never before anyone as little as Krias was—tried to get him angry. Mostly it was after they'd had more ale than was good for them.

"Do you drink, Krias?" Cashel asked. "Drink ale and cider, I mean?"

"What?" Krias shrilled. "Of course not, you ninny! I'm a demon, don't you remember?"

Just naturally cantankerous, Cashel decided. Well, a lot of people were. He sighed and looked the portal over.

The door had no latch or bar, just a vertical staple on either side for a handgrip. The lower half of the grip was polished by use. Landure hadn't spent his time outside with his sword drawn. He must have ruled his Underworld the way Cashel tended sheep, always present to keep an eye on them and to take care of things when they got into some foolishness or other.

Cashel stepped into the cavern. For as far as he could see there was just rock with no marking except for a patch of damp just at the edge of the light. That was going to be a problem, now that he thought about it: the light. Still, Landure had gotten along—and Colva too, it seemed like—so Cashel would. Maybe Krias would guide him.

Cashel put his left hand on the inner staple and pulled the door closed. The door swung easily once he got it moving to start with. He wondered what the builders used for hinges to carry so much weight without binding.

Come to think, he wondered who the builders
were
.

The bronze door closed with a soft thump. The fit between jamb and valve was so close that they trapped air in-between for a cushion.

It wasn't a cave any more. Light as red as rusted iron shone all around him. Everything had changed.

Cashel stood on an outcrop overlooking a pine-covered valley. He could see for, well, as far as he'd ever seen. It was like looking out to sea from the pastures south of Barca's Hamlet, but he was a lot higher up here.

He glanced over his shoulder. Now the door was set into the face of a bluff that pretty much mirrored what he'd seen from the outside. Stunted pines and rhododendrons grew from the rock face, though they didn't look quite right. The limbs were a little too sinuous, and he'd never seen a pine with bark as smooth as the one bobbing just above his head. Well, you had to expect differences when you travelled.

"I suppose you're wondering where the light comes from, aren't you?" Krias said.

Cashel thought about it. "No," he said, "but I'm glad it's here. I'd been wondering about that."

He coughed, clearing his throat. The air still had a touch of sulphur to it; it nipped at the back of nose when he breathed. He guessed he'd get used to it. The trees looked healthy enough, even if they were a bit funny.

"Do I just head down there and follow the river?" Cashel asked, pointing his staff toward what looked like a reasonable track into the valley. He didn't see a river, but that was what you got at the bottom of valleys.

Cashel could get around on the rocks, but he wasn't an enthusiastic climber. It wasn't a matter of strength or a head for heights; it was simply weight. He crumbled niches and knobs that supported smaller fellows just fine.

"You don't care, do you?" Krias said. The demon sounded really amazed instead of just being peevish. "Here you go into what you think is a cave and you don't care where the light comes from! It doesn't come
from
anywhere! It's a part of the Underworld, like the rocks and everything else except the monsters. It's part of their cage!"

"Oh," said Cashel. It didn't sound like he was going to get an answer to his question, so he started down the slope. He'd thought carrying the quarterstaff might be a problem, but when he butted it in the roots of trees below him, it braced his body as he climbed down.

"You're going to drive me mad!" Krias said.

Cashel didn't say he was sorry—which would've been a lie—but he tried not to smile too broadly either. That happened a lot, people going into shrieking rages because Cashel wouldn't get mad at them. Krias didn't realize that he was playing an old tune that Cashel had learned long since to counterpoint.

Things chattered in the trees, but they didn't sound much like the woodland creatures Cashel knew from home. They didn't sound like anything he wanted to get to know, either. One sort clicked like rattling bones, and the rest hooted like owls that knew something nasty about you.

Cashel gripped a little dogwood, gave it a firm tug to make sure its roots would stay anchored, and let himself down another long step. Just below was a proper ledge, so big it had grass growing. After that the slope eased enough that he'd be able to walk normally.

He thought about Landure the Guardian, who hadn't been dressed for rock climbing during the brief time he and Cashel knew one another. Of course he might have changed into a short tunic and taken off those silly boots before he entered the cave, but the long sword was at best going to get in the way.

"What did Landure do, Master Krias?" Cashel asked as he stepped onto the ledge and caught his breath for a moment. "Climbing down into the valley, I mean? Did he have a different route?"

He wriggled his toes. The roots of the plants who'd first colonized the rock trapped grit and windblown dust, creating a more welcoming terrain for later comers. You couldn't call the result sod, but it felt pretty good nonetheless.

"Landure didn't walk like a sheep-boy!" Krias said. "He was a great wizard. He floated through the air with his arms crossed."

"Ah," said Cashel, nodding. He should've guessed it'd be something like that.

He stepped off the end of the ledge carefully, thrusting his staff in front of him. It might not be steep enough now that he'd break his neck, but he could still make himself no end of fool if he slipped. Rolling downslope like a round of cheese wouldn't be the way to meet any of the locals either. Colva had been bad enough, and Cashel didn't doubt there could be worse where she came from.

"You could fly too, you know," Krias piped unexpectedly. "Sail majestically over the treetops."

"What?" said Cashel. "This is fine. I'm not a wizard."

He walked on, keeping his staff pointed well out in front of him, but he didn't worry any more that he was going to fall. He was just being careful, as usual.

"I'm a demon with powers beyond your imagining!" Krias said. "
I
can make you fly!"

Cashel grinned. He might not have much imagination, but he'd seen things since he left home that he didn't think a puny little fellow like Krias was going to better. Aloud he said, "Oh, I don't mind walking. I just wondered about Landure."

Krias gabbled to himself. He sounded like a cote full of doves going to sleep, only madder.

If he'd asked, Cashel would've explained that he wanted to have his feet planted if it came to trouble, and from what Krias himself had said it was going to do that sooner or later. Cashel didn't volunteer that because Krias was the sort who'd jeer at whatever reason Cashel gave him; and anyway, Cashel didn't generally volunteer what he was thinking.

He'd gotten down into the forest proper. It was mostly pine like it had seemed from above, but there were red maples too and dogwoods where the taller trees let light through. There were outcrops of bare rock, too, as well as places where moss had found a lodging but nothing larger was able to. The moss wriggled under Cashel's toes in a fashion that struck him as a little too active for a small plant.

He heard music. It was a fluting sound, very pure and sweet. Usually high notes like those didn't travel far in a forest, but Cashel was pretty sure that this wasn't a usual forest.

"What's that noise, Krias?" Cashel asked. He'd been about to rest the staff over his shoulder as he walked, but the sound made him change his mind. He kept the sturdy length of hickory in both hands, slanted crossways.

"I know and you're going to learn, sheep-boy!" the ring cried gleefully. "Oh! you will! You're going to wish you'd never come down to the Underworld!"

Cashel thought about that. The horn—or was it just a throat, a singer loud enough to sound like a horn?—continued to call. The golden notes seemed to come from several different directions, but that might have been tricks of echoes.

Cashel could imagine he wouldn't like what he found in the Underworld, that was true. But that he'd regret coming? No, that wouldn't happen. This was the direction that took him closer to Sharina. He couldn't imagine going any way but that one.

"Well, aren't you going to ask me what it is?" Krias said, pouting because Cashel hadn't begged or yelled or whatever for the information.

"That's all right," Cashel said. "I guess I'll learn before long."

Sure, he'd have liked to know what was calling—that's why he'd asked in the first place. But you didn't get anywhere by playing silly games with folks who wanted to be difficult. Trying to wheedle the ring into telling would be as big a waste of time as chasing a chicken around the house when you wanted dinner. Much better to drop a pinch of oats between your spread feet while you sat on the back step.

And wring the bird's fool neck when she came to peck up the food.

Cashel grinned. He wondered if you could stew a demon. Krias would probably taste worse than a fish crow.

This was an open forest, not much different from the woodland owned in common by the householders of Barca's Hamlet. There dead limbs were gathered—and dead trees felled—for fuel, while hogs rooting for mast kept the undergrowth clear. Maybe the same thing was going on here, but Cashel would've smelled woodsmoke if he'd been anywhere close to Barca's Hamlet.

He didn't smell the sulphur either, but his throat was dry and getting drier so he knew it hadn't gone away. That was the thing about a really bad stink: it didn't take long before you didn't notice it any more. Ermand or-Pile didn't mind how his tanyard smelled, but any other villager who came close gagged at the stench of urine, alum, and rotting fat.

Cashel caught movement out of the corners of his eyes. Things were flitting between the trees, though it seemed more like they were flitting
within
the trees some of the time. Were they women? But then, Colva had looked like a woman when he first met her.

The horns had stopped calling. Now Cashel heard plucked strings and somebody singing to the tune. He couldn't make out the words.

Cashel gave his quarterstaff a practice spin, in front of him and then over his head. The ferrules swept in a graceful figure-8, smooth as butter. Cashel crossed his wrists, swapped hands, and repeated the set of movements to bring the staff back just as it was when he started.

He was glad there wasn't much undergrowth. A quarterstaff takes up a lot of room even at rest, and when seven feet of iron-capped hickory is moving at the speed Cashel's thick wrists could bring it to—Duzi knew, you wouldn't be able to see for ivy leaves and splinters of saplings!

"So, you're going to fight them with your stick, sheep-boy?" Krias said.

"I'm not going to fight anybody if I can help it," Cashel said, slowing his breathing back down to where it ought to be. It wasn't so much the exercise of whirling the quarterstaff that made Cashel's heart race as the chance he was coming to the fight he'd told Krias—truthfully—that he wasn't looking for.

Cashel never had gone looking for a fight. But he'd never turned his back on one that came to him, either.

Ahead of him was the gurgle of water moving over rocks at a good clip. That was the sort of sound that fooled you. It didn't seem loud, but it smothered all the other noises usually warned you about things you couldn't—