A Thief in the Night

chapter Seventy-one

Once the Hieromagus had withdrawn, the revelers in the great elf hall seemed to lose all interest in the humans and the dwarf. They barely moved out of the way as the soldiers pushed the prisoners through the hall. “They don’t seem as surprised to see us as we were to meet them. You’d think they were expecting us,” Malden said to Cythera.

An elfin lady, exquisite in gemstones and a mauve dress, failed to get out of the way at all. The soldiers begged her to move but she just laughed at some jest made by her companion, a warrior wearing a silver circlet.

“Rather it seems that they already know us, and have for so long that they’ve discounted our value as curiosities,” Cythera said, while they waited for the soldiers to make a new path around the lady. “I think they’re feigning, though. Do you feel like someone is watching you?”

Malden had a thief’s instincts for such things, but he’d been ignoring it until she spoke. Now he let the hair on the back of his arms rise up and felt the muscles of his back shiver. “Interesting.” He tried an experiment. Turning his head, he tried to catch the eye of the first elf he saw—a juggler. But the performer was, at that moment, turning away to make some saucy comment to a mailed warrior. “Ah,” Malden said. He turned his head again and looked right at an elf who was tuning a lute. The musician’s head fell forward as he studied his strings. “Yes, yes, I see it now. They are watching us, all of them, and most closely. Yet they’re doing their level best to seem as if they don’t even know we’re here. Very interesting.”

“F*cking fascinating,” Slag muttered. “In a few minutes, I wager the torture’s about to start. You think maybe there are more pressing mysteries to solve?”

There was no time for further conversation. Malden was shoved forward by the elf behind him and the three of them were hurried out of the hall and down a side corridor. The walls of this passage were as rough as the winding tunnel that brought them to the elf hall, but its ceiling was at least high enough that they didn’t need to keep ducking.

Alcoves and doors opened on the passage at irregular intervals. In most of them, elves stood waiting to watch them pass. These elves, at least, shared nothing of the bizarre affected quality of their cousins in the hall—they gawked openly, and whispered with agitation among themselves. They also lacked the finery of the hall, instead being dressed in the tattered patchwork of the Hieromagus’s assistant. They must be servants, Malden thought, or peasants, or whatever passed for slaves in elf society. Yet they were as beautiful as the others, radiantly, transcendently beautiful, their skin creamy and perfect, their limbs of perfect proportion on their lanky frames. He tried smiling at one, a tall elf woman with beads in her hair. She looked terrified and ducked back into her alcove as if running from a demon.

“They’re all as mad as their Hieromagus,” Malden said with a sigh. “I can understand being tortured to death for breaking and entering, that’s just how society works. But if it turns out we’re going to be killed for wearing the wrong color tunics, or for some offense we made against the invisible giant tortoise they worship, then—”

“I think you were wrong about him,” Cythera said. “The Hieromagus.”

Malden turned to look at her. “Oh?”

“He isn’t mad. At least . . . I don’t think so.” She shook her head. “The sacrament he took, did you see it? That was a cap of death’s helm mushroom. A very rare fungus, and very, very dangerous. It’s used sometimes in witchcraft, though my mother claims it’s a crutch for those who lack the proper gift of second sight. A few shavings, when steeped properly in a tea, will grant visions of other times. Vivid, terrifying visions—powerful glimpses of other lives. The visions are not phantoms either, but true memories of those who lived before. It’s a seductive drug. Take too much of it and your—well, call it your soul—can become lost and not be able to find its way back to its own body. If he eats entire caps at once, on anything like a regular basis, I don’t know how he could ever know what time he was in. Did you see his eyes?”

“The pupils were different sizes.”

“Yes,” Cythera said. “I think his individual eyes were looking into different times. If I’m right, that explains the merrymakers as well.”

“An unusual lot,” Malden said.

“All there for his benefit. Playing out a scene, a great torrent of sensual delights, to entice him to stay close to his own body.”

“Let’s hope they don’t falter, then,” Malden said. “At least, not before he remembers what he wanted us for.”

Slag snorted. “More like, not until he f*cking forgets again. The longer it takes him, the longer we don’t have to find out what our fate is to be.”

That sent a new twinge of fear and pain up Malden’s spine.

The side corridor ended in another hall, this one much smaller. It opened via a narrow window onto the central shaft. Spiral staircases pierced its floor, leading down to a lower level.

“I’ll ready the gaolers,” one of the elf soldiers said, and descended with a torch.

For a moment, then, they were allowed to just stop and stand there. It was a blessed relief. Malden considered sitting down on the dusty floor to give his legs a rest but didn’t want to risk the displeasure of his captives.

Slag started walking toward the window. One of the elves drew his sword, but Slag didn’t stop. When he reached the opening, he placed his hands on the sill and Malden thought he might intend to climb over and jump out. Instead the dwarf just looked upward, his body shaking with sobs.

Malden realized that this was the first time Slag had seen the manufactured sun of the Vincularium. He went over to look up at it with the dwarf. “It came to life a while back, like dawn breaking.”

“It’s f*cking beautiful,” Slag said.

“Your ancestors made it?” Malden asked.

“It’s certain as shitting the elves did not. Look at those pipes coming out of the top. They must carry flammable gas to the lamp . . . there are pockets of such vapors everywhere underground. They’re a hazard when you’re digging a mine—but the builders of this place must have found a way to harness the stuff. I’ll be buggered.”

The thief smiled. “Strange. I was always under the impression that dwarves hated the true sun and shunned its light. Isn’t it odd they should make their own, here under the ground?”

“ ’Tis a puzzler,” Slag agreed. “True sunlight burns my skin and dazzles my eyes. Yet this is a different color, and somehow that makes a difference. It’s almost soothing to look upon. Hah. Thur-Karas. Place of Long Shadows. I understand now.” He glanced up at Malden. “Lad, leave me be a moment, will you? I want to see this by myself a bit. I have a feeling I won’t get another chance.”

Malden squeezed the dwarf’s shoulder, then went back to stand next to Cythera. The elves eyed him warily but offered no threat. When Cythera slipped her hand into Malden’s, two of the guards nudged each other and traded leering winks.

Malden ignored them, and focused his attention on the soft hand in his. Cythera’s fingers trembled along with her pulse. He tried to meet her gaze, but she just looked straight ahead, lost in her own thoughts.

It was not much longer before the elf returned from below to announce that the gaol was ready to receive them.