Wardragon (21 page)

To allay any suspicion on her part, he suggested they meet for dinner. Daretor felt uncomfortable having used the woman’s interest to extract information, but he had to admit that Zimak’s methods of doing things seemed to work in
some
circumstances. Daretor actually found it difficult to keep his thoughts off Tashar. There was no doubt that he had an excellent chance of following dinner with a tour of her bedchamber. Then an image of Jelindel flashed in his mind and his heart lurched. He cursed himself for a fool and forgot about Tashar. He hoped Zimak was having a
really
awkward time with the Sacred One.

Zimak was furiously trying to think of ways to handle the situation. His options were to outwit, out think, or outrun the Sacred One. How does one trick a creature that is thousands of years old and can read one’s mind? How does one lie?

Zimak’s mind reeled. His whole life had been built on the single, simple premise that you could fool most of the people most of the time, so it made sense to lie. Until now. Nobody fooled the Sacred One … nobody
lied
to the Sacred One … nobody –

Then the glimmering of an idea came to him – an idea that was so outlandish to him he struggled to comprehend it.

He could tell the truth.

Almost as fast as it occurred to him, Zimak ditched the notion. Truth was for children, for mystics, for gullible travellers in the marketplace. Anybody who told the truth all the time ended up dead, or worse. Mind you, it seemed to work for Daretor. Sometimes. And it certainly worked for Jelindel. What was he going to do?

‘Where is Daretor?’ asked a deep, booming voice. That’s when he got the idea. Do as Daretor would do.

Zimak looked up. The Sacred One was coiled upon a stone dais some ten feet above the floor of the chamber. His head lifted slowly, and he peered at Zimak.

‘I’m –’ Zimak caught himself about to say Daretor. The lie had come so easily that he had been barely aware it was a lie. ‘I’m Zimak. Daretor is gone.’

Zimak looked down at his feet, unable to meet the dragon’s intimidating gaze. He waited. Nothing happened. He had told the truth and he was still here. He looked up again, doubtfully. The dragon was still staring at him.

‘We have met before, Zimak,’ came the rumbling voice.

‘Er … yes. Some time ago. Different circumstances. I was a prisoner then.’

‘You are still a prisoner.’

‘Oh,’ replied Zimak, somewhat taken aback by the revelation. ‘Who’s holding me prisoner?’

‘You are.’

‘Me? I’m holding myself prisoner?’ Must be one of those mystical statements that you never work out till you’re on your deathbed, Zimak decided.

‘Like all your kind, you are a prisoner of your past.’

‘Oh, that.’ Zimak felt extremely relieved. It could have been much worse: King Amida could have returned, for instance.

‘Where is Daretor?’ the Sacred One asked.

‘He’s …’ Zimak fought the temptation to make up a story about Daretor betraying and tricking him – the Sacred One would see right through any lie. ‘We … ah … that is, our bodies got swapped a long time ago – by accident. Now we’ve just been swapped back. I didn’t know it was going to happen right now. I don’t think Daretor did either.’ He was sweating. The effort of telling the truth was unsettling. Well, there had been one little white fib in his statement. The body-swap had not been an accident. Not as such.

‘Why did Daretor seek this audience?’

Although the strain was immense, Zimak decided to keep telling the truth – as much as his nature would allow. Despite all the odds against it, the truth was keeping him out of trouble. Who could have imagined it?

Zimak told the Sacred One everything, sparing no details. He felt better for it, which was curious. Obviously though, one wouldn’t want to make a habit of it.

Daretor stood with his ear to a door. Inside he could hear muffled voices, although he could not make out what they were saying or how many people were present. He had found a way down to sub level 4, but it was guarded so closely that he had not been able to move far from where he had entered. According to one of the maps he had stolen, there was a large workshop on the other side of this level. It seemed logical that the workshop would explain whatever the Preceptor was up to here.

Daretor knew what Zimak would do. He made his way back to the chief engineer’s office and donned one of the man’s spare suits. Then he stopped. A man of importance would not need to carry a ‘note’. He would need a key.

He had embarrassingly stumbled upon a bath-house in his explorations, and quickly he made his way back there. It was filled with steam and the echoing voices of its bathers. He went through the pockets of clothes hanging on the wall, finding trinkets, purses, amulets, writing markers – and things labelled ‘passes’.

The passes in use on this sub level weren’t pieces of paper. They were made of a shiny flexible substance that was unfamiliar to Daretor. He had already seen several men slide the rectangular cards into slots outside restricted doors. The doors themselves had no handles or latches, yet the rectangles caused them to slide open with a soft hiss. Daretor found four such passes, and took all of them. He also changed into a new set of clothes, of a type that was fairly common down here, and which fitted his huge shoulders better than the engineer’s suit.

Daretor found a door with RESTRICTED written on it in several languages. He had ignored it earlier, as he saw no way of getting it open, but according to the engineer’s map it also led to the workshop.

Making sure the way was clear, Daretor inserted one of the little rectangular passes. The door whooshed open. It led to a narrow corridor. He stepped inside – and had a moment of panic when the door slid shut behind him. He could see no obvious way to open it from this side. Another security precaution, he thought glumly. People could not exit the same way that they had entered. That was not a good sign.

He walked down the corridor, trying to look as if he belonged. The corridor opened onto a metal catwalk suspended from the ceiling of a vast workshop, a workshop bigger than the throne room of a mighty king. The map had indicated a large chamber, but nothing prepared Daretor for the reality.

There were over five hundred men and women working down on the main floor, each standing at a long bench with a moving top. Incomprehensible objects glided along the top, and at various points workers scooped them up, did something to them, then put them back on the slide-way. The overall effect was like watching ants at work: incredibly efficient, yet oddly repulsive. It was like watching a huge cold science machine, made of smaller machines, each busily carrying out some arcane task. He found it profoundly disquieting.

‘So, this is where cold science leads us,’ he said softly.

At the end of the slide-way a man retrieved each object, and pointed it at a barrier. The newly made machine spat flame, and the bunker gained another hole. Cold science weapons, Daretor realised. Thousands of them, which could mean only one thing. The Preceptor was building an army of cold science warriors.

‘That’s him.’

Daretor turned. Tashar was standing there, her face contorted. She was pointing at him. A dozen guards, weapons ready, converged on him. Had this been the old Daretor, he would have fought them. And he would have died, because these weapons spat death over a distance. Remaining ‘in character’ as Zimak, he let them arrest him without a fight.

A man stepped forward. Daretor had met him somewhere before. He was one of the Preceptor’s right hand men. Kaleton.

‘And you are?’ asked Kaleton grimly.

Without thinking Daretor said, ‘Zimak.’

‘Yes, you fit the description.’ He turned. ‘Thank you, Tashar. You will be rewarded.’

‘Does this mean dinner’s off?’ Daretor asked. The woman flicked a scathing sneer in his direction, and strode off.

‘I’m afraid you have an appointment elsewhere,’ said Kaleton. ‘A long, long way from here.’

‘Is dinner included?’ Daretor asked, in his best Zimak manner.

‘Yes, but I doubt you’ll have much of an appetite. Not on Golgora …’

Chapter 14

Zimak Opens His Heart

J
elindel had tried her incantation several times, but each time it had failed. The guard captain they had just captured sat lashed to a chair, eyes wide with apprehension. He muttered softly to himself; his words sounded like prayers, as if he believed he had fallen into the pit of hell.

‘It’s not working,’ Jelindel sighed.

‘Relax,’ said Taggar. ‘Try again.’

Jelindel took a deep breath. She spoke the ancient words of change, knowing she uttered them correctly. In a mirror, she saw faint changes begin: her hair darkened to the same shade as the captain’s, her eyes altered shape, her skin became swarthier, and she grew two inches … then in a rush everything reverted to the way it was.

The guard captain’s praying intensified, though he was careful to keep his voice low. There was no point in annoying daemons.

‘It’s not working,’ Jelindel said again, this time with a touch of irritation.

‘What is the problem?’ Taggar asked. ‘The problem is this damnable world. It’s done something to the magic. Changed it.’

‘Or you.’

She stared at him, defiant, then sagged a little. ‘All right. Me then.’

‘So change the magic to fit.’

‘Now why didn’t I think of that?’ said Jelindel sardonically. ‘Just change millennial old magic to suit myself …’ She paused. Actually, there was something in what Taggar said. But it would still take time, and much trial and error.

Taggar seemed to sense her thoughts.

‘So you cannot infiltrate the Wardragon’s fortress through disguise. Accept it, move on. Do not expend your strength on what cannot be accomplished. Expend it on what can.’

Jelindel eyed him sourly. ‘Did anyone ever tell you that you can be really annoying at times?’

‘Tch. I ceased worrying about that a thousand years ago.’

‘See? That’s what I’m talking about. You’re almost as annoying as Zimak, and that’s saying something.’

At the name ‘Zimak’ the guard captain started ever so slightly. Jelindel did not see it but Taggar did. The captain swallowed then found himself compelled to look up. His eyes met Taggar’s and he swallowed again.

‘Tell me, Captain, how long has Zimak been a prisoner in the Wardragon’s fortress?’

They were on the march, and Jelindel had a plan. It was based on what she had learned from the guard captain about Zimak’s capture.

The squad she hand-picked was small, able to move fast. At the same time, a larger contingent of Hellholers was positioning itself for strikes against key parts of the Wardragon’s infrastructure. Only at the last moment would these strikes be suddenly turned into a massive assault on the fortress itself, and she hoped that even in its wildest nightmares the Wardragon would not think such a plan possible.

Two of the squad, carried on the backs of large men trained for the task, were telepathic Korsa; another was the securely bound guard captain. Jelindel had told him that he would not be harmed and that he was part of a prisoner exchange deal with the fortress. He believed her, and what she had told him was more or less true. The Wardragon had instructed its officers to convince their troops that Jelindel impaled her prisoners on stakes, then roasted them over beds of glowing coals. The captain had experienced nothing but a kind of rough courtesy and was beginning to suspect he had been the victim of propaganda.

A mile from the fortress, the captain was untied. He looked at Jelindel, wondering what would happen now. Jelindel spoke some archaic-sounding words, and the guard captain turned away at once and made his way towards the fortress. When he reached the edge of the jungle, he broke into a headlong dash. He was particularly careful to crash through several briar patches, almost as if he wanted his flesh scratched and his clothes shredded.

The captain burst into the view of the fortress guards, shouting hoarsely and waving his scratched and bloodied arms. Those on guard duty turned at the commotion and immediately trained pulse weapons on the small frantic figure racing towards them. Only the fact that he carried no weapons saved him from being vaporised.

The duty sergeant commanding the main gate ordered that the man be allowed to approach. After all, he was wearing what might once have been an officer’s uniform, and people got into trouble for shooting officers. Moments later the sergeant recognised Guard Captain Ekler, and the gates were thrown open.

By now Jelindel and Taggar were squirreled away in a tree from which to observe the drama at the main gate. They watched as the sergeant pushed his way through his men, so that Ekler could collapse into his arms.

‘Never hurts one’s career to aid one’s superior officer,’ commented Taggar.

Ekler was carried inside. Then the gates were hastily shut.

‘Now we wait,’ said Jelindel.

‘You’re sure it will work?’ asked Taggar.

‘It was your idea,’ Jelindel reminded him.

‘I’m not saying it was a bad idea.’

‘It should work. It’s too simple not to.’

They watched and waited. Some time after midnight a light flashed in a guard tower about three hundred yards from the main gate. Jelindel gathered her group, and they made their way along the jungle’s edge to a spot opposite the light. After some further anxious moments of waiting, a figure appeared at the top of the tower and a knotted rope was let down.

‘I want the truth!’ demanded the Sacred One.

Zimak shuddered at that booming demand, not knowing what to do.

‘I tell the truth, and you don’t believe it!’ he yelled. ‘You’re supposed to read minds. Well, read mine! There’s nothing to hide in there.’

‘You must open your
heart
to me, Zimak, not your mind,’ said the Sacred One.

‘Can’t we do this some other way?’ Zimak pleaded.

‘It is a sad thing when one misses one’s destiny,’ said the Sacred One.

Zimak frowned. ‘What destiny have I missed?’

‘Perhaps it is in the past, perhaps in the future. We dragons exist at all times in our lives, at the beginning, the middle, and the end. The finite lives of humans are – confusing to us. You have a far greater destiny than many – if you choose wisely the path to tread.’ The old dragon paused, as if exploring that great corridor of time it called its life. ‘You have asked for my help, Zimak. Dragons may go to their deaths. I must know that trickery is not involved.’

‘Could you take my word for it?’

The Sacred One did not reply. ‘I’ll take that as a no.’ Zimak thought frantically. There were things in his heart and in his past he did not want anyone to know, things that he barely wanted to remember himself. And now this overgrown fruit bat wanted him to bare all.

But they needed the Sacred One’s help. Q’zar needed it. Jelindel needed it.

Zimak gave a theatrical sigh. Paraworld monsters, slavering beasts, fearsome four-armed warriors, and even assassins seemed trivial threats compared to this. On the other hand, people already had a fairly low opinion of him, so what did it matter?

‘Go ahead,’ Zimak declared. ‘Read my mind or whatever it is you do. Have a really long, hard look, and enjoy yourself.’

‘I read part of your mind last time, Zimak,’ said the Sacred One gently.

Zimak felt himself slide into a kind of trance. He felt neither happiness nor sadness, or much of anything. Afterwards he wondered if this was what a babe in the womb felt: freedom from worries and needs, just a sense of being
held
.