Into the Labyrinth (18 page)

But Marit heard none of this. It might have made no difference if she had. Once on board her ship, as violent storm winds buffeted the vessel, she placed her hand over the mark on her forehead and closed her eyes.

A vision of Xar came to her mind.

“Husband”—she spoke aloud—“what the dragon-snake says is true. Haplo is a traitor. He gave the Sartan book to the mensch. He plans to help the mensch start this machine. Not only that, but the mensch have offered him the rulership of Arianus.”

“Then Haplo must die,” came back Xar’s thought, his response immediate.

“Yes, Lord.”

“When the deed is done, Wife, send me word. I will be on the world of Pryan.”

“Sang-drax has convinced you to travel to that world,” said Marit, not altogether pleased.

“No one convinces me to do what I do not choose to do, Wife.”

“Forgive me, Lord.” Marit’s skin burned. “You know best, of course.”

“I am going to Pryan in company with Sang-drax and a contingent of our people. While there, I hope to be able to enslave the tytans, use them to aid our cause. And I have other matters to pursue on Pryan. Matters in which Haplo may be helpful.”

“But Haplo will be dead—” Marit began, and then stopped, overwhelmed with horror.

“Indeed, he will be dead. You will bring me Haplo’s corpse, Wife.”

Marit’s blood chilled. She should have expected this, should have known Xar would make such a demand. Of
course, her lord must interrogate Haplo, find out what he knew, what he’d done. Far easier to interrogate his corpse than his living person. The memory of the lazar came to her; she saw its eyes, which were dead, yet dreadfully alive …

“Wife?” Xar’s prodding was gentle. “You will not fail me?”

“No, Husband,” said Marit, “I will not fail you.”

“That is well,” said Xar, and withdrew.

Marit was left alone in the lightning-blue darkness to listen to the rain thrumming on the ship’s hull.

GREVINOR
VOLKARAN ISLES
ARIANUS

“W
HAT POSITION DO YOU SEEK?” THE ELF LIEUTENANT BARELY
glanced up at Hugh the Hand as he shuffled forward.

“Wingman, Master,” Hugh answered.

The lieutenant kept his eyes on his crew lists. “Experience?”

“Aye, Master,” Hugh replied.

“Any references?”

“Want to see me lash marks, Master?”

Now the lieutenant lifted his head. The delicate elven features were marred by a frown. “I don’t need a troublemaker.”

“Only bein’ honest, Master.” Hugh chuckled, grinned. “ ‘Sides, what better references could ye want?”

The elf took in Hugh’s strong shoulders, broad chest, and callused hands—all marks of those who “lived in harness,” as the saying went—humans who had been captured and forced to serve as galley slaves aboard the elven dragon ships. The elf was apparently impressed not only with Hugh’s strength, but with his candor.

“You look old for this line of work,” remarked the lieutenant, a faint smile on his lips.

“Another point in me favor, Master,” Hugh returned coolly. “I’m still alive.”

At this the lieutenant definitely seemed impressed. “True. A good indication. Very well, you’re … um … hired.” The elf’s lips pursed, as if the word was difficult to say. Doubtless the lieutenant was thinking with regret of the old days when all that wingmen earned was their food and water and the whip. “A barl a day, plus your food and water. And the passenger’s paying a bonus for a smooth trip there and back.”

Hugh argued a bit, just to make it look good, but couldn’t eke out another barl, though he did win an extra water ration. Shrugging, he agreed to the terms and put his X on the contract.

“We set sail tomorrow when the Lords of Night pull back their cloaks. Be here tonight, on board, with your gear. You’ll sleep in harness.”

Hugh nodded and left. On his way back to the squalid tavern where he’d spent the night, again keeping in character, he passed “the passenger,” emerging from the crowd of people who were standing on the docks. Hugh the Hand recognized the passenger—Trian, King Stephen’s wizard.

Crowds of people stood gawking at the unusual sight of an elven ship swinging at anchor in the human port city of Grevinor. Such a sight had not been seen since the days when the elves occupied the Volkaran Islands. Children, too young to remember, stared in excited awe and wonder, tugged their parents closer to marvel at the brightly colored garb of the elven officers, their flute-like voices.

The parents watched with grim faces. They remembered—all too well. They remembered the elven occupation of their lands and had no love for their former enslavers. But the King’s Own stood guard around the ship; their war-dragons circled overhead. What comments were made were made beneath the breath, therefore; all took care that the Royal Wizard should not hear them.

Trian stood among a knot of courtiers and noblemen who were either accompanying him on his journey, seeing him off, or attempting to make last-minute deals with him. He was pleasant, smiling, polite, hearing everything, seeming to promise all in return, but actually promising nothing. The young wizard was adept at court intrigue. He was like the rune-bone player at the fair who can play at any
number of games at the same time, remembering every move, beating handily every opponent.

Almost every opponent. Hugh the Hand walked right past him. Trian saw him—the wizard saw everyone—but did not give the ragged sailor a second glance.

Hugh smiled grimly, shoved his way through the crowd. Showing himself to Trian had not been an act of bravado. If Trian had recognized Hugh as the assassin the wizard had once hired to murder Bane, the wizard would have shouted for the guards. In that case, Hugh wanted a crowd around him, a city to hide in.

Once on board, it was not likely that Trian would descend into the ship’s belly to hobnob with the galley slaves—or rather, the wingmen, the term now being officially used—but with the wizard, one never knew. Far better to test the disguise here in Grevinor than aboard the small dragon ship, where all the guards had to do was wrap Hugh’s legs and arms in bowstrings and toss him overboard into the Maelstrom.

Having obtained a weapon to kill Haplo, the assassin’s next problem had been reaching Haplo. The Kenkari had told him that the Patryn was in Drevlin, in the Low Realms—a place nearly impossible to reach under the best of circumstances. Ordinarily, flying to somewhere in Arianus would not be difficult for Hugh, who was expert at handling both dragons and the small, one-person dragon ships.

But small ships did not fare well in the Maelstrom, as Hugh the Hand knew from bitter past experience. And dragons, even the giant ones, would not venture into the treacherous storm. It had been Ciang who had discovered, through her numerous contacts, that the wizard Trian would be flying down the day before the ceremony that would mark the starting up of the Kicksey-winsey.

The wizard, one of the king’s most valued counselors, had remained behind to keep an eye on the rebellious barons. When king and queen returned to renew their iron grip on power, Trian would sail to Drevlin to make certain that human interests were represented when the giant machine started up and did whatever it was supposed to do.

Hugh had once served as a galley slave aboard an elven dragon ship. He guessed that the elves would likely need replacement men when they stopped in Grevinor to pick
up Trian. Operating the wings of the dragon ships was dangerous and difficult work. A voyage rarely passed without a wingman being injured or killed.

Hugh had not judged wrong. Once in port, the first thing the elven captain did was post a notice stating that he needed three wingmen—one to work and two for spares. It would not be easy to find replacements to fly into the Maelstrom. No matter that the pay was a barl a day—a fortune to some on the Volkaran isles.

The Hand returned to the tavern, made his way to the filthy common room where he’d spent the night on the floor. He gathered up his blanket and knapsack, paid his bill, and sauntered out. He paused to study his reflection in the dirty, cracked windowpane. Small wonder that Trian hadn’t known him. Hugh barely knew himself.

He had shaved every hair from his head—face, scalp, all completely bare. He’d even—at the cost of pain that had brought tears to his eyes—yanked out most of his thick black eyebrows, leaving only a scraggly line that slanted upward to his forehead, making his narrow eyes look abnormally large.

Having been protected from the sun by his hair and beard, his chin and scalp had stood out in pallid contrast to the rest of his face. He’d used the boiled-down bark of a hargast tree to stain brown the pale skin. Now he looked as if he’d been bald all his life. There hadn’t really been a chance Trian would recognize him.

There wasn’t a chance Haplo would recognize him.

Hugh the Hand returned to the ship. Sitting on a barrel on the docks, he observed closely all who came and went, watched Trian boarding, watched the other members of the wizard’s party boarding.

Once assured that no one else he knew had gone onto the ship, Hugh the Hand boarded as well. He’d been faintly concerned (or was it faintly hopeful?) that Iridal might be among the party of mysteriarchs accompanying the king’s wizard. Well, Hugh was just as glad she wasn’t.
She
would have recognized him. Love’s eyes were hard to fool.

Hugh put the woman firmly out of his mind. He had a job to do. He reported to the lieutenant, who turned him over to a mate, who led him into the ship’s belly, showed him his harness, and left him to meet his fellow crewmen.

No longer slaves, the humans now took pride in their work. They wanted to win the offered bonus for a smooth trip and asked Hugh more questions about his experience than had the elf lieutenant who hired him.

The Hand kept his answers short and to the point. He promised he’d work as hard as any of them, and then made it plain that he wanted to be left alone.

The others went back to their boning and dicing; they’d lose the bonus to each other a hundred times before they had it in their pockets. Hugh felt to make certain the Cursed Blade, as he had dubbed it, was in his knapsack; then he lay down on the deck beneath his harness and pretended to sleep.

The wingmen didn’t earn their bonus that trip. They didn’t even come close. There were times when Hugh the Hand guessed that Trian must be sorry he hadn’t offered more for simply setting him down on Drevlin alive. Hugh needn’t have worried about Trian recognizing him, for the Hand saw nothing of the wizard during the voyage, until the ship finally came to a shuddering landing.

The Liftalofts
¹
were located in the eye of the perpetual storm that swept over Drevlin. The Liftalofts were the one place on the continent where the storms would swirl away, let Solarus beam through the scudding clouds. Elven ships had learned to wait to land until such times—the only safe times. They set down in relative calm and during this brief period (another storm was already massing on the horizon) swiftly offloaded the passengers.

Trian appeared. His face was partly muffled, but the wizard looked decidedly green. Leaning weakly on the arm of a comely young woman who was aiding his faltering
steps, Trian stumbled down the gangplank. Either the wizard had no magical cure for airsickness or he was playing on the young woman’s sympathy. Whatever the case, he glanced neither right nor left, but departed from the vicinity as if he couldn’t leave the ship fast enough. Once on the ground, he was met by a contingent of dwarves and fellow humans, who—seeing the coming storm—cut short the speeches and whisked the wizard away to a place of dryness and safety.
²

Hugh knew how Trian felt. Every muscle in the assassin’s body ached and burned. His hands were raw and bleeding; his jaw was swollen and bruised—one of the straps controlling the wings had snapped loose in the storm and struck him across the face. For long moments after the ship had landed, Hugh lay on the deck and wondered that they weren’t all dead.

But he didn’t have time to dwell on his misery. And as for the swollen face, he couldn’t have paid money for a better addition to his disguise. With luck, the ache in his head and the ringing in his ears would go away in a few hours. He gave himself that amount of time to rest, wait for a lull in the storm, and rehearse his next course of action.