A Thief in the Night (41 page)

Chapter Seventy-nine

“S
top, please,” Cythera begged. “I feel I might burst!” She put her hand over her goblet before Aethil could pour her any more wine.

“More fish?” the queen of the elves asked, picking up a flat-bladed silver knife.

“No, no, thank you, your highness, but I really couldn't swallow another bite.” Cythera laughed happily and dabbed at her mouth with a beetle-silk napkin.

It matched the dress they'd put her in, an elegant gown of the same cut and style as the ones Malden and Slag wore. Aethil had told them that the silk was made from threads secreted by cave beetles. The thought had discomfited Malden considerably, even after Slag told him where real silk came from.

The fish bothered him as well. Its flesh and skin were both snowy white and it had no eyes—the dome of its forehead was just smooth skin from the dorsal fin all the way to its toothy mouth. It looked unnatural to him, especially after being roasted and swimming in thin mushroom gravy. But it didn't bother him enough that he didn't eat it. He was still hungry after days of wandering in the dark and being locked up in a filthy gaol.

Every food the elves had brought for their queen's special supper was questionable in one way or another. The wine was good but smelled of damp earth. The bread—far better than the mealy loaves they'd been given in the stockade—was the wrong color. The filets of cave beetle even tasted different underground, not nearly as gamey as the one he'd had up on the surface, in the forest, before they'd come to this benighted place.

But at least Cythera was there to share it.

Her release from the gaol had been the occasion for this feast. When she arrived, Slag—or rather, Sir Croy—actually smiled and wept a little. That had made Aethil so happy she ordered a grand celebration for the four of them. The feast was served by elves in patchwork shifts carrying platters of tarnished silver, while a musician playing a lute made of cave beetle shell serenaded them softly from one corner.

It almost felt like they weren't prisoners anymore.

Yet when the musician had been sent away, and Aethil excused herself from the table to make water, Cythera drew up her gown to show Malden one of her legs. A tattooed vine ran up her calf, spreading spiky leaves and studded with tiny, vividly purple flowers. “He couldn't cripple me,” she said in a very low voice. “But I know what he was trying to do. You, as well?”

Malden nodded and hauled his own hobbled leg up onto a bench. “If I move my foot at all the pain is unbearable.”

Cythera reached for his ankle before he could pull it away. “Be still,” she told him. “This won't hurt.” She pressed her hands around his calf and gasped a little. “It's a strong enchantment,” she said, and sank back into her chair.

The muscles in Malden's leg relaxed instantly, and a wave of pure relief flushed through him. When he recovered, he grabbed Cythera's hands to look at them. On the palm of each a violet flower bloomed, and as he watched they started to send out creepers.

“It's all right,” she told him. “Just try to remember to limp, or they'll know something's up.”

“You worry too much,” Slag said. He was drunk on mushroom wine and smiling quite a bit. “She's in the palm of my hand, I tell you. She'll do any fucking thing I say. If I tell her to let you two go—”

“I don't advise trying that,” Cythera said. “This is an improvement in our situation,” she whispered, “but not a reversal of fortunes.”

“You mean they're still going to kill us,” Malden said.

“Yes. But not immediately. Which means we have some time to work out how we're going to escape. First we need to—”

But she had to stop then, because Aethil was coming back.

“Oh, this is so nice,” Aethil said, looking at her charges. “It can get so lonely in these rooms. But now—now we're like a happy family. Like a human family! The mother,” she said, pressing a hand to her bosom. “The pretty children,” she went on, gesturing gracefully at Malden and Cythera, “and of course,” coming over to put her arms around Slag's shoulders and put her lips next to his ear, “the daddy.”

She cooed and leaned her head on Slag's chest, her ringlets of coppery hair tangling in his greasy dark beard.

Cythera shot him a querulous look, but the dwarf could only raise his eyebrows to indicate his own confusion.

Getting up from her place at the table, Cythera walked over to where Aethil was trying to climb into Slag's lap. Slender as she was, it was still too small for her to fit properly. “Your highness,” Cythera said, “you have such lovely eyes. May I look at them more closely?”

Aethil laughed musically, pleased by the flattery. She let Cythera peer deep into her pupils and even pull one eyelid to the side. Then Cythera took one of the queen's hands in her own and studied the lines on her palm.

“Thank you,” Cythera said, and went back to sit by Malden.

“This was a perfect feast, was it not? I'm so glad you three came along. You're going to make me so happy, until you have to go away.”

Malden frowned. “Perhaps we could stay here forever,” he said. “If your highness wills it.”

Aethil frowned and looked away from him. “I've told you, there are limits to my power. The Hieromagus has plans for you three, and I can't gainsay him. You have . . . other enemies as well. The lords are not happy about having humans in our midst.”

“Maybe you just don't know how much authority you truly wield,” Malden beseeched. “Maybe if you talked with him, tried to find a way to—”

Aethil started squirming on top of Slag as soon as Malden began speaking again. His words were clearly causing her great distress. Slag sat up suddenly, nearly dumping the queen onto the floor, and said, “Squire, be still. Your words are an annoyance to our fu—to our hostess.”

Malden closed his mouth.

“Let's speak no more of such things,” Cythera said quickly. “Instead, let's think of what pleasures this day may bring. Your highness, your kingdom is lovely, but we've seen so little of it. Do you think it might be possible for us to walk about a bit, and view the triumphs of elfin society?”

“Now that suggestion,” Aethil said, “is pleasing to my ears. Yes! I shall give you all the grand tour of my domain. I'll show you everything! Oh, you'll be amazed and delighted by our mushroom farms, I'm sure. They're so cleverly made. And you must see some of our better tunnels. Oh! Wonderful!”

She jumped up and ran to the door. “Wait here while I arrange for our escort,” she told them. Before she left she turned around and looked at them. “What fun!”

“Good thinking,” Malden said when she was gone. “We can look for an escape route while she's showing us where they turn beetle brains into soup.”

“Indeed.” Cythera got up and went over to Slag, as if she'd barely heard Malden. She peered deeply into his eyes, then grabbed one of his hands. “Hmm. You're not affected. You don't find her attractive at all, do you?”

“Who? Aethil? She's a nice enough brat, but no, my tastes run shorter and more generous in the arse.”

“Just as I thought.” Cythera let go of his hand. “She's completely in love with you, though.”

“So I noticed. Well, can you blame her? I am a fucking perfect specimen of manhood. As far as dwarves go, anyway. Or very short humans.”

“Don't flatter yourself. She's been enchanted.”

“What?” Slag demanded.

Cythera scowled. “Someone gave her a love potion. Probably just before you met her for the first time—whoever walked in through that door would have looked to her like her ideal husband, the person she couldn't live without. I don't know what kind of potion they used, but it was strong enough to make her fall in love with a cave beetle if it knocked on her door.”

“I'll choose not to be insulted by that comparison,” Slag said.

“Such philters are dangerous to brew, much less to consume. Too strong a dose and she would have—well, she would have attacked you, rather than doted on you. She would have exerted herself,” Cythera said, blushing a little, “until you both were exhausted unto death.”

“Lass, come now. I wouldn't have let her do that,” Slag pointed out.

“You wouldn't have had a choice.” Cythera rubbed at one eye with the heel of her palm. She looked quite tired, perhaps from the work of absorbing Malden's curse. “She would have had her guards strip you and hold you down. She would have had you crippled for real, just to keep you where she wanted you. On your back and helpless.”

“I suppose I'm glad they got the dosage right. But why, lass? Why do this bloody stupid thing? Just to play a trick on her? On me? And if it's magic—you don't suppose it's going to just stop working at some point, do you? Fucking magic.”

“Such potions can be made to work for a single night, for a year and a day, or for a lifetime,” Cythera said. “It's been long enough that I think we can rule out the mildest form. I doubt this one's going to wear off anytime soon.”

“That's a relief, I suppose,” Malden said. “At least we know we'll have one friend here we can count on.”

“Indeed.” Cythera stroked her chin. “It makes me wonder, though. A deep game is being played here. Why would anyone want her to fall in love with—with Sir Croy? Clearly that was the intention. They believed they had Croy in their gaol, so they sent him to her just after she took the potion. It must have been some elf or other who did it. But why in the world would they want that?”

“By the sound of it, there's some kind of power struggle between her and the Hieromagus,” Malden suggested. “If it got out that she was sleeping with a dwarf—”

“Very short human!” Slag reminded him.

“—it would make her look bad,” Malden finished.

“Perhaps. Though it sounds like the Hieromagus has little to fear from Aethil. I'd think it more likely they would give the Hieromagus the potion, to make him look silly so that Aethil gained power.” Cythera shrugged. “It must be something of the sort, though. Politics. Elfin politics. I don't claim to understand. But we can make it work for us, I'm sure of it.”

Chapter Eighty

“E
ight hundred years ago,” Aethil told them, as they trooped through one of the winding, unfinished passages through the rock, “my ancestors came here seeking a better life. The war with the humans was dragging on and we had tired of always fighting. We're a gentle, peaceful people by nature.”

Except for all the torturing and evil magic, Malden thought. Though he had to admit that it was difficult to look at Aethil and imagine her torturing anyone. Croy had made the elves sound like sadistic bastards. The Hieromagus fit that description pretty well, but perhaps—like humans—elves weren't all of a sort. Maybe only some of them were cruel and decadent villains. Malden had always found there was more than one way to look at any given story. Certainly Aethil's version of the events leading to the elves being driven into the Vincularium and buried there to rot differed considerably from the historical accounts he'd heard.

“We sealed ourselves in, because we didn't wish to be followed. In the early days we expected always to be invaded. The humans really had treated us very badly.” She stopped and put a hand to your mouth. “Not that I blame you for that, Sir Croy!”

“It's all right, lass,” Slag told her. “All water under the fu—under the bridge, right?”

“You're so generous and forgiving,” Aethil said. She slid her hand under his gown and touched his chest with her fingers. “Such a good heart.”

“These tunnels,” Cythera said. “The dwarves didn't build them. I assume the Elders dug them?”

Aethil blinked and looked at the human woman. “What? Oh. Yes—as I said, we expected at any time to be attacked. We fortified this place as best we could, and our ancestors built secret tunnels so that we could surprise any invaders. The entire Vincularium is riddled with them now. We can go anywhere we like, to any hall or chamber, without being seen.”

Slag slapped the wall with one hand. “Not the best plan, honestly. You've weakened the mountain, like worms digging their way through a moldy apple. I'm surprised the whole place hasn't fallen on your heads by now.”

Aethil shrugged prettily. “Sometimes there are cave-ins. But they're very rare, and I try not to think about the ones who get hurt.”

Malden remembered to pretend to limp as she led them out of the tunnel and into a long hallway where mist wreathed the floor and the stink of manure was thick in the air. “In the early days there was no food down here,” Aethil told them. She wrinkled her nose but didn't lift her gown from where it trailed on the wet floor. “We never had to cultivate crops before—always we lived on the produce and game of the forests up on the surface. Our ancestors had to teach us what kind of plants would grow down here, so far away from the sun, and how it could be done.”

She showed them endless racks of wrapped cylinders, and had an elf in a patchwork smock unpeel one to show the mushrooms growing inside. Other workers were busy cleaning up a mess in one part of the farm corridor. Malden saw manure splashed across one wall, and some of the racks had been knocked over. “What happened there?” he asked.

“Vandalism,” Aethil said, her voice thick with sadness. “It's—not my favorite thing about our life here. But sometimes we get very bored, with so little to do. The soldiers and especially the nobles sometimes break things or make messes just to alleviate the tedium. And then, of course, my little friends have to clean up after them.”

One of the workers came over and knelt before Aethil. “It is our joy to work in your service, highness,” he said.

Aethil let him kiss her hand. He seemed near tears when he rose to his feet again and went back to work.

“They do work so very hard, and get so very little for their labors,” Aethil said. “I try to make their lives easier when I can. But with so many nobles and soldiers to support, there's always more work to be done than we have workers for.”

“How many nobles are there?” Malden asked, frowning.

“About half of us come from ancient stock,” Aethil explained. “And of course, any elf whose ancestor was a lord or lady is exempted from all labor. Is this not the way in human lands as well?”

“Our highborns are shiftless parasites, yes,” Malden said. “But only one in a thousand, say, can make that claim. Are you saying, though, that an entire half of your people are doomed to endless servitude? Is there no way for them to improve their station?”

Aethil seemed confused by the question. “How would they do that?”

“By proving themselves in battle, perhaps.” That was the traditional way for commoners to become knights in Skrae, and once a man was a knight there was no limit to how far he could rise.

“We have nothing to do battle with down here,” Aethil replied. “Except our memories.”

Malden ignored the wistful look on her face. “But there are other ways, surely. In the city where I was born—it is called Ness—men are free to improve their lot through labor, and they can leave their wealth to their children, to try to give them a better life than they knew.”

Aethil gave him a smile that clearly was meant to be pitying. To Malden it just looked condescending. “Wealth. You're speaking of money. I understand the concept from my books—and that it seems to be the main source of unhappiness among humans.”

“Fair enough,” Malden granted, “but it also allows us to better ourselves.”

“Such distinctions are unknown among the Elders. We are each born to our rank, as appointed by our ancestors.”

Malden thought of the elf soldier he'd spoken with, who said his father had been a soldier and his son would be one, too. He'd assumed the soldier merely hoped for his sons to take up the family trade, but it sounded as if they had no choice.

In Skrae they had the Lady—the Goddess Croy worshipped—who was supposed to place everyone in their appropriate station. It was a pleasing theology if you happened to be born to high estate. There was good reason why the poor of Ness tended to worship Sadu the Bloodgod instead, who judged both the high and the low. “This system leaves no room for ambition, for talent, for merit,” he pointed out. “The poor are all doomed to work like slaves, while the rich—”

“Quiet, boy!” Slag said.

Malden looked up in surprise. He saw for the first time that Aethil looked distinctly uncomfortable with this turn of conversation. He bit back angry words for fear of offending her. No good could come of that.

Slag quickly apologized for him. “You'll have to forgive him. He's from a poor family, and one not known for its wisdom. He doesn't understand how hard it can be to be the one in power, the one who has to make all the decisions.”

The one with all the servants, Malden thought, but he kept his peace.

“Ah. Well, your race is very young, still. In time I'm sure you'll all find a way to accept the natural order of things, as we have. Come this way—I want to show you our flocks.”

She took them down to the end of the tunnel, to a wide room that got very little of the red sun of the Vincularium. A herder lit torches for them so they could see better. They were on the lowest dry level of the Vincularium, and its gallery was half submerged in the pool of water at the bottom of the central shaft. Hundreds of giant cave beetles had congregated there, grazing on the green scum that coated the walls and floor.

“Can you imagine,” Aethil asked, “that before we came here, Elders actually considered insects to be inedible? They even thought they would sicken and die if they accidentally swallowed a gnat or a spider!” She laughed. “We would have starved centuries ago if that was actually the case. Our ancestors must have been very stern with us back then, to be able to convince us that we could actually eat beetle steak.”

Or her forebears were just that hungry, Malden thought. How desperate had that first generation gotten, he wondered—had they considered cannibalism? Had they come down here themselves and gnawed at the green stuff on the walls? He shuddered at the thought. Yet he knew that people would eat anything if there was no choice. He'd seen it plenty of times in Ness, where the poorest of the poor lived off the kitchen scraps of the wealthy, all the small bones and bits of stringy hide that proper folk considered worthless garbage.

“You've mentioned your ancestors a few times now,” Cythera observed, “as if they were creatures separate from yourselves. Do you mean the revenants we've seen? Were they the ones who taught you what was good to eat?”

“The revenants?” Aethil asked. She laughed uproariously. “You mean the undying bodies we use as guards? Oh, no! Those are only the empty vessels of the ancestors. I speak of the
souls
of those who went before.”

“Their memory, then, written down in books, or passed down orally from one teller to the next,” Cythera pondered.

“Hardly. I'll show you what I mean, at the end of our excursion. It really is a wonder to finish with. First, though, come this way. I want to show you our nursery, where our little elf babies are raised and trained to their stations. They're so cute!”