Beyond the Hanging Wall (7 page)

In his dark, sticky eternity, Lot No. 859 raised his pick and buried it in the rock-face before him. Gloam tumbled to the floor—already he was up to his ankles in the tarry substance, and 859 hoped that the gang whose job it was to cart the gloam back into the tunnel would shovel it away from his legs before he drowned in it. At his left shoulder Lot No. 65 toiled away; to his right loomed the tunnel wall.

It was a measure of his seniority—earned simply through his ability to keep on surviving—that 859 had the privilege of working at the head of the line. It gave him added freedom and privacy, for he could always turn his head to the right and encounter nothing but his own thoughts.

And the black rock.

He raised the pick again and again, his muscles bunching rhythmically, black dust floating about him and covering his body. The bandage about his right arm was so coated that it was indistinguishable from his equally blackened flesh.

Lot No. 859 had not removed the bandage since the day the boy had placed it there. He had not known why, for the boy had been irritating, and had probed painfully with his questions and assumptions. His insistence that there was a world—and a world worth returning to—beyond the hanging wall unsettled 859, and in those brief hours when he was permitted to sleep he dreamed of vistas and breezes that must have been the product of his imagination.

For Lot No. 859
knew
there was no world beyond the hanging wall. He
knew
it. There was nothing, nothing, nothing but the rhythmic swing of the pick
and the crumble of the gloam. Nothing but the rock-face before him and the blackness to his right. Nothing but the cursing and the sweating and the dying chained to his left ankle.

Lot No. 859 had no comprehension of the time he had been shackled beneath the earth. Had anyone muttered seventeen years to him he would have gone mad and buried the pick in his own skull.

He stood for a long time, his hand grasping the medallion through the material of his tunic, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

Release the dream, Maximilian had said.

Help him find the dream, the strange dark man had urged.

And had given him this medallion with the outline of the Manteceros emblazoned across its surface.

Making sure no-one was looking, Garth slipped the medallion free of his tunic and gazed at it. It was of plain workmanship, but striking because of it. He ran his finger around the blue outline of the Manteceros, idly thinking that it was a strange creature for a royal line to take as its emblem. Almost ugly, certainly ungainly, the Manteceros surely was no creature of war, nor even of pageantry. Roughly the size and shape of a horse, the creature had a bloated
body and legs that were thick and trunk-like. A shapeless head sat on a neck too thin for the body. There was a faint suggestion of a spiky mane and a thin, tufted tail. Garth shook his head slightly. He’d heard of royal houses that took bears or dragons or even one of the great cats as their emblems, but the royal line of Escator had apparently decided on this strange creature.

For the first time Garth found himself wondering at its true nature, then laughed at himself for assuming the creature existed.

But even to his ears, his laughter sounded forced, and Garth fell silent again, his hazel eyes reflective.

So, all he had to do was to find a dream.

“Well,” he muttered. “Where am I going to find a dream?”

He looked up, and for the umpteenth time that day, jumped in surprise.

His headlong flight from the marketplace had brought him to rest before the great library of Narbon. It was an imposing building, colonnaded in gleaming white marble and with scrolls and quills carved deep into the great portico at its entrance. Garth had never been inside, although he knew his father had. It was owned by the town itself, and run by an obscure religious order that kept the books and scrolls free from dust and sticky fingers.

Garth stared at the building, slipping the medallion back inside his tunic. Any citizen was supposedly allowed access to the building—although access to the books and scrolls themselves was controlled by the monks—but Garth had never had any excuse nor any desire to enter. What books
he needed were shelved in his father’s surgery, and his mother’s store of legends and tales were enough to keep him entertained at night.

And what boy ever entered the library when an exciting game of hoopball called?

Garth shifted from foot to foot. To free Maximilian he had to find the Manteceros—and yet, as far as he knew, the beast lived only in legend. Well, what better place to start hunting a legend than inside the library? Perhaps one of the monks could help him.

And perhaps they’ll as soon chase me out of their beloved reading rooms with brooms and dusting cloths, he thought dryly as he slowly crossed the street and stood before the sweep of marble steps that led under the portico and to the door. It stood open, and ultimately that was what decided Garth to try his luck inside. If the doors had been closed, he would have turned his back and gone home to help his mother for the afternoon.

The monk who approached Garth as he hesitated in the cool and spacious entrance chamber surprised the youth. He had thought all monks to be old, fat and slightly demented, but the man who now strode towards him was only five or six years older than himself, and had a friendly grin that was reflected in his light brown eyes. Beneath such apparent friendliness, his austere habit looked slightly out of place.

Garth gaped, then recovered his manners as the monk halted before him and half bowed. He jerked his upper body in reply, not truly knowing if the monk expected it or not, then hesitated awkwardly.

“It is a fine day outside,” the monk said. “Perhaps too warm if you’ve come inside to read what inadequate material we can offer you. My name is Brother Harrald,” and he extended his hand.

Garth quickly shook it. “Garth Baxtor.”

“Well, Garth Baxtor, you stand there looking slightly lost. How may I help you?”

“Well,” Garth barely managed to avoid handling the medallion through his tunic again. “I’m possessed by a curiosity.”

“Well and good,” Brother Harrald said, his voice warm. Garth could not spot the faintest trace of condescension in it, and he relaxed.

“About…well, about a legend, really.”

Brother Harrald raised his eyebrows.

“About the Manteceros,” Garth said, and tensed, waiting for the inevitable question about why he was interested in the Manteceros.

But it did not come. “Ah,” Brother Harrald replied, and his eyes deepened in interest. “A fascinating legend. What exactly do you want to know about it?”

Garth smiled sheepishly. “Well, just about everything really. But,” he added hastily, “what I’d really like to find out is if the creature ever existed. Do you know?”

“Not personally, Garth, but your question promises an enthralling hunt through the afternoon. Come, and we’ll explore further.” He stepped away, and motioned Garth to follow him. “Come.”

Garth followed the monk across the foyer, raising his head to run his eyes across its magnificent emerald-enamelled dome as he went. Their feet scuffed softly across the floor, and from a small
antechamber to one side Garth could hear the murmur of several voices in discussion—but for that distant murmur, Garth could have sworn that he and Harrald were the only ones in the building.

Harrald led him through a doorway on the far side of the foyer and Garth stopped and stared in sheer wonder the moment he stepped through. Before him was an immense hall, lit by great rectangular windows that stretched from the ceiling some fifty paces above his head to the floor, and a skylight in the silvered dome that occupied the centre space of the ceiling. Soft golden light fell from the windows, dust motes dancing in its broad rays, illuminating rows upon rows of books in the centre portion of the hall. To the sides were ranks of cases that held scrolls stacked higgledy-piggledy behind glass doors. Somehow seeing those scrolls piled so casually reassured Garth; they made the library seem friendly and inviting, itching for some hand to come along and discover their secrets.

The hall was all but empty; to one side Garth could see several monks grouped about a large open book on a stand, exclaiming over a portion of text, and further down the hall there were two older men, perhaps scholars, examining the rows of books.

“You and I are the youngest by half a century in the library this afternoon,” Harrald said softly, but his eyes grinned merrily. “Just think, whatever secrets we discover we will remember long after the others in here are dead and gone to enjoy the afterlife.”

“Has anyone ever read
all
these books?” Garth asked, hurrying after Harrald as he turned down an aisle to their left.

“No-one ever reads all books, or even all of a book,” Harrald said, his tone now reflective as he walked slowly down the aisle, running a finger across the spines of the row of books as he passed. Their bindings glowed deep blue, red and green in the light, golden lettering skittering at odd angles down their spines. “Books are like keys, or doors. You begin to read one, then halfway through you find that it gives a clue to yet another door. So you leave that book without discovering all of its secrets, because the lure of yet another discovery, another door, leads you further down the aisle. Soon your life is littered with half-read books and open doors.” He smiled. “One of the monks here, Brother Nestor, calls it the lure of the threshold. Once caught by the lure, you are never free. There is always another threshold to cross.”

Garth glanced at the books with new-found respect. He stretched out a hand and ran his fingers lightly along a row of spines as Harrald was doing. They felt warm and alive, not dry and musty as he had thought. What secrets did they contain? What addictions lay awaiting?

“Ah!” Harrald’s voice broke into Garth’s reverie. “This will prove as good a starting point as any.”

Garth gazed curiously at the volume that Harrald lifted down. It was bound in the royal blue, and had
The History of the Kings of Escator
embossed across its front cover.

Harrald carried it down the aisle and set it on a reading table to one side of the hall. Garth hurried after him, impatient to start reading. Already the lure of the threshold had sunk its hooks deep into his flesh. He slipped onto the bench beside Harrald.

The monk opened the front cover, muttering to himself as his eyes skimmed the table of contents. Garth had only barely begun to read the titles of the first chapters before Harrald had folded back some forty or fifty pages.

“Here!” he exclaimed at last. “Folio forty-nine verso. ‘Origins of the Rites and Customs of the Escatorian Monarchy.’” He muttered to himself again, his finger skimming down the page faster than Garth could follow.

Garth wriggled a little in impatience. “Well?”

“Wait, wait,” Harrald murmured. “Ah, yes, here it is. ‘The Manteceros: Its Derivation and Procedures.’ ”

“Procedures?” Garth asked, puzzled, but Harrald ignored him.

“Curious,” he said, his voice slow. “Listen,” and he read from the text.

Eight generations after the family of Persimius
…“That’s the family that only recently died out,” Harrald explained in an aside, and Garth nodded impatiently. He would have read the text himself, but Harrald’s hand partly obscured the faded writing.

…
succeeded to the throne of Escator, they adopted the Manteceros as their emblem. Nennius of ancient memory was the first king to adopt the Manteceros—he claimed it spoke to him in a dream
—
and he was the first to display the mark that only the reigning king and his heir are enabled to bear. He talked to it, sometimes. Historians disagree on the reasons Nennius chose the Manteceros to represent and protect his family. Nennius himself remained obstinately silent on the matter—even on his
deathbed—and it is said that he only laughed whenever anyone asked him
.

Harrald stopped, and tapped the page with his hand.

“Is that all there is?” Garth asked, disappointment clouding his voice. “That tells me nothing at all.”

Harrald glanced at Garth, but he bit back his questions. “It continues on for a line or two more only.”

Since Nennius’ reign the Manteceros has remained the symbol of the proud Persimius family, fluttering from masthead and castle door over the generations. Only the king and his heir are party to its secrets (and then only Nennius knew them all), and thus this writer holds his silence lest he betray his ignorance
.

Garth sat back, bitterly disappointed. That meant only Cavor and Maximilian among all men alive knew any of the secrets of the Manteceros; yet Maximilian huddled lost within the Veins, denying even his own identity, while Cavor was hardly likely to let slip secrets that would see him lose the throne.

“But this is just a dry history,” Harrald said softly, watching the disappointment etch sharp lines into Garth’s face. “And perhaps we can do better for you. Come.”

Placing the book back on its shelf, Harrald again roamed up and down the aisles, Garth following him with a little less enthusiasm now. Finally Harrald selected a book, a much smaller volume than previously, with water marks splotching its ancient, faded crimson surface. Harrald tut-tutted as they sat back down at the reading table. “Someone in the past has done his duty to the library poorly, it seems. Now, let us see.”

He opened the book up and Garth read its title,
Escatorian Bestiary—Facts and Conundrums. Examined and Recorded by Gregorius the Wise, Historian and Adviser to Kings and Gods
.

Harrald smiled as he watched Garth read the title page. “Gregorius had a high opinion of himself it seems. Not one of our more humble brethren. Still, he lived during the time of Nennius, so perhaps he can cast some light on this mystery.” He quickly scanned the contents, then turned to a page towards the end of the book.

The Manteceros:

A creature of mist and dream, the Manteceros roams the byways of our imaginations even as it rides the battle standards of our kings. A product only of Nennius’ imagination, for none but he has ever claimed to have seen it, and any mention of it in his presence generally only elicited a giggle—a strange reaction from such a battle-hardened man. Once, when I pressed the issue of the Manteceros, Nennius informed me that a king’s sense of humour was his most valuable asset, and then he winked, but Nennius was old then, and I think his mind was addled by dementia. I would advise the reader to give his remark no credence. I consider it unworthy to waste more space, ink or time upon this ridiculous beast. I spent the last five years of his life counselling Nennius to pick a Flaming Dragon or a Raging Bear as the emblem of his family
.

Why did he not listen to such sound advice?

Why?

Gregorius’ sad lament seemed to echo over the centuries and through the great library.

“Perhaps our trail ends here,” Harrald said, trying to soften the blow. “I can think of no more places to—

“Wait,” Garth said. “Does this verse mean anything to you?

‘Come wind and fire and swollen sea,
Come fates that tear the sky from earth.
Release the dream; come, set him free,
So he can test the king’s true worth.’”

Harrald frowned. “Where did you hear that? It sounds like something women use to lull their babes to rest. No, wait, I didn’t mean that. Let me think.” His fingers tapped on the now-closed bestiary, and his brow furrowed in thought. Finally he rose in an abrupt motion. “Wait here,” he said, and picked up the bestiary and disappeared among the stacks of books again.

This time he returned with a scroll. It was bound with a cord of faded purple, and when Harrald undid the cord and unrolled the scroll, Garth saw the creamy parchment was so old it had crumbled about its edges and its surface was fractured with tiny fault lines.