Sagaria (76 page)

The blows of the whip on bare flesh, the whistle of its lash through the air – here in the confined space of the tunnel, they sounded louder and infinitely more vicious than outside in the compound, and they’d sounded horrible enough there. Everyone except Webster and Sir Tombin winced each time the whip fell.

Blazing torches in sconces along the mineshaft’s walls offered enough light for them to see where they were going, but not much more.

“Where to now, boy?” said Sir Tombin after they’d penetrated the tunnel by perhaps thirty or fifty yards.

“Just a little farther,” Webster replied.

He fell back until he was walking alongside Sagandran. “Say, you wouldn’t believe how astonished I was to see you here, Sag.”

Sagandran bridled. “Webster, let’s get one thing straight. Back in school, you could call me Sag because if I objected too much, you and your sidekicks could beat the stuffing out of me. But the shoe’s on the other foot here, get it? In the Earthworld, in the school yard, you had the cronies and the power. Here, there’s just one of you, while I’m among friends – and pretty tough friends at that. So, if you want to be one of them, give up calling me Sag, okay? I don’t like it. I don’t like Saggy or Sad Sacks either. I especially don’t like Frogface. Just call me Sagandran and we’ll get along. Understood?”

Webster didn’t answer directly. Instead, he surveyed the other companions. “They don’t look so goldarned tough,” he commented. “Yeah, the guy in the metal suit, he’s strong. I know that. But the others are just a skinny old bat and a couple of girls.”

Sagandran raised his eyebrows theatrically. “You ever seen either of those girls fight?”

“Well, no, obviously not.”

“Believe me, Webster, you don’t want to. Not if it’s you they’ve decided to fight.”

Webster whistled. “Like that, is it?”

“It’s like that. Either of them could turn you inside out like you were a glove before they’d even started.”

“Not the classy black broad, surely? She’s a babe, but she’s so snotty and hoity toity it don’t look like she could tie her shoelace without spraining a finger. Unless she had a chambermaid to help her.”

“Princess Perima of the Royal House of Mattani, you mean? She’s the fiercer of the two, I guess.”

Sagandran wondered why he was advising Webster like this. It would be fun to see the bully suffer the consequences of trying to domineer either Perima or Cheireanna. Maybe it was male solidarity. Maybe it was because he’d have felt
like a heel watching Webster walk unsuspecting into a thrashing. Or maybe it was just because, for the moment, the companions needed Webster to help them find their way to the dungeons and Grandpa Melwin. Afterward? Well, Sagandran didn’t really care what happened to Webster afterward.

The bully stared at him with a blank resentment, the depths of which Sagandran couldn’t fathom. Then Webster was pushing himself to the front of the group again, to where Sir Tombin had once more taken up the lead.

“There’s a doorway in the mineshaft wall just a little farther along here,” said Webster in a clear voice. “It’s easy enough to miss it, so keep your eyes peeled.”

As it happened, it wasn’t as hard to spot as he’d said; the vertical rectangle of darkness was quite obvious even in the erratic torchlight. Sir Tombin reached up and plucked the nearest of the brands from its sconce.

Sagandran furtively peered around. If any of the overseers had seen Sir Tombin do this, surely suspicions would be aroused, but there seemed to be nobody else around. The doorway was empty, which puzzled Sagandran a little at first. Surely slaves must constantly be trying to bolt for it through here? Then he realized that any slaves this far inside the mineshaft were under constant supervision as they heaved the ore wagons. It was only because Sir Tombin was with them that the companions hadn’t been challenged a dozen times since entering the shaft.

By the light of the torch Sir Tombin held high above his head, they could see they were in another artificial passageway, but this one couldn’t have been more different from the one King Brygantra had directed them into. Rather than walls of sheer, featureless white marble, this one was flanked by crudely hewn black rock – the same coal-like rock the cliff was made from. The stone shone wetly; the idea of touching it made Sagandran think of the corners at the deep end of the school swimming pool where mysterious fungal growths stained the tiles. The ceiling was high above them, lost in gloom. Sagandran’s eyes began to stream from the pungent stench of bat guano. Every now and then, a little commotion of leathery wings told him that colonies of bats were indeed hanging there, invisible in the darkness. He hoped that those were the only creatures occupying this place.

The dust and litter of centuries, and occasional heaps of crumbling bones were underfoot. Sagandran tried not to think too hard about the bones or to step on them.

“Hush,” said Perima suddenly, stopping.

The others came to an untidy halt and looked at her expectantly.

“Did you hear it?” she said once they were still.

Webster put his hands impatiently on his hips. “Hear what?”

“It was like … like a
scraping
noise. Coming from somewhere behind us.” She peered back along the dark passageway. “I can’t see anything, but I’ve got this horrible feeling that we’re being followed.”

“Girls,” muttered Webster under his breath.

Perima heard him but pretended not to.

Lucky for Webster,
thought Sagandran.
Or maybe she’s just saving it up and he’ll pay later.
He reached out and, now that they were no longer out in the open compound for all to see, took her hand. Her fingers squeezed his.

“It’s not at all impossible,” decreed Sir Tombin matter-of-factly. “We can’t be the only ones to use this passage to get from the mines to the castle. It’s probably one of the overseers going up there to—ah, with a message, perhaps, or for a bit of peace and quiet. Let’s just keep up a good pace and not worry about what to do if he catches us, unless he actually does. Agreed?”

None of them liked it very much, but they nodded and began walking more briskly. They’d been panting and puffing along behind Sir Tombin for about half an hour, Sagandran estimated, when they came to a fork in the passageway.

“Left,” said Webster without hesitation. “Take the left branch. That’s the way to the palace.”

“You sure?” Perima queried. It was clear that she didn’t trust Webster an inch.

Neither, come to think of it, did he. The concerns he’d had about the boy’s story of an easy breakout from the dungeons resurfaced – this time with a vengeance. No prison in the world could be that vulnerable to escape, could it? There was something wrong with the whole tale – a lot wrong with it. On the other hand, there was nothing Sagandran could do except follow Webster and keep a sharp eye on him for any sign of betrayal.

“Sure I’m sure,” Webster told Perima. “I remember this bit well from when they were bringing us down to the mines.”

“Are you sure you were really in the palace dungeons?” she persisted.

“What do you mean by that?” Webster retorted, leading the way into the left passage.

“It’s just that …” Perima began. “Oh, never mind. Leave it ’til later.”

Sagandran completed her line of thought in his head. Maybe she’d hit on it. If Webster had been merely bragging to impress them about having been incarcerated; if Shadow Knights had just taken him straight to the slave mines after they’d seized him, then all there was to worry about was that the boy might get them lost. No, that didn’t make sense. Webster had known about the fact that the Shadow Knights were seeking a boy with a valuable jewel, and he’d known where the doorway in the mineshaft was. He could hardly have
known either of those two things if his story weren’t basically true. Sagandran shrugged. His sense of orientation was telling him that they were going in the right direction for the Palace of Shadows, so at least they were making progress. Unless this passage came to a dead end.

A couple of hundred yards later, it came to a dead end.

“What’s this?” cried Samzing, who’d been silent since long before they’d entered the mineshaft. “Treachery?”

So Samzing’s been suspicious of Webster too? wondered Sagandran.

Webster laughed.

“It’s just a door,” he said. “Look.”

He pushed against what looked like a solid stone wall. It behaved like a solid stone wall too. It didn’t move. In the light from Sir Tombin’s torch, Sagandran could see Webster frown deeply, suddenly alarmed. The reaction lessened his distrust of the boy a little.

“That’s weird,” said Webster. “It was open when I came through here, I swear. It’s definitely a door.”

It very strongly resembled a stone wall.

“There’s writing on it,” observed Perima.

Sir Tombin held the flaming brand closer and they could see semi-pictorial characters carved into the black surface. The illumination also showed that the barrier facing them was made not of rock, but some intensely black, tight-grained wood, Sagandran saw with relief. It was as if the substance had been burned, but had somehow retained its structure.

“It’s just gibberish,” declared Webster, dismayed.

To add to their consternation, the furtive noises Perima had heard from behind them were now becoming audible.

“Memo,” said Sagandran suddenly to Samzing.

“What?” The wizard looked confused.

“Memo may be able to read this.”

“Oh. Yes. Jolly good idea.”

Samzing delved into a pocket and brought out a little curled-up ball of fur that was either the memorizer or some peculiarly antique piece of food the wizard had forgotten about. It was Memo, all right. As the memorizer turned over, groaning and stretching, his spectacles came into view.

“Wake up,” hissed Samzing. “There’s a job for you.”

“What?”

“Now!”

Paws screwing into his eyes to wipe the sleep from them, the memorizer was held up close to the inscriptions on the door.

“Ah, yes,” he said pompously. “Good to see one of the ancient scripts. You hardly ever see a nicely executed piece of Kralandran ideography any more. Such a shame. It was a very pretty language while it lasted. At least, the written form was. No one knows what the spoken form sounded like, of course, because the language has been dead as a doornail, I tell you, for so many thousands of years that—”

Cheireanna growled. Sagandran thought she was growling at the growing sounds of approach from the passageway, but Memo obviously recognized a threat to his personal integrity.

“Well, we can leave the history lesson – fascinating though it is, I do assure you – for another day when perchance we have a little more time. What you want to know is what these inscriptions say. Am I right?”

A chorus of growls indicated that indeed he was.

“Right you are, then.” Memo stared at the characters a few seconds more, moving his lips as he assured himself that he’d got the meaning right. “Now, this is a rather free translation, I hope you understand, and I have to declare in advance that—”

More growling.

“What it says, in the most basic terms,” said Memo, exasperated with them all, “is AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.”

“We’re authorized,” said Sir Tombin bluntly. “I’ve just authorized us. What else?”

“You have to press one of the ideographs and then the door will open.”

“Well, press it then, you idiot,” whispered Samzing.

Whoever was behind them was very close now. Sagandran didn’t know whether it was reassuring or the opposite that the follower was making no effort to disguise the sound of his approach.

Memo turned reproachful spectacles toward the wizard.

Samzing grunted. “Oh, I see what you mean. Just point to the right one then.”

The memorizer pointed a paw at a symbol that looked to Sagandran rather like a man with a parsnip growing out of one ear.

Without hesitation, the wizard stabbed a finger forward.

The door creaked open.

At that moment, a Shadow Knight rounded the bend behind them. “Ho there!” he called, reaching for his sword.

Sir Tombin ushered the others through the still opening door, practically throwing Cheireanna after them.

“Well met,” he said to the oncoming Shadow Knight.

His bluff didn’t work this time. The handsome face was already creased with outrage and anger.

“Who are you?”

“We’re—” started Sir Tombin, then, realizing that it was useless to prevaricate, he drew Xaraxeer from its scabbard. The pulsing glow of the golden blade made the light of the torch in his other hand seem dim.

The sudden appearance of the shining sword momentarily stopped the Shadow Knight in his tracks.

Before the armored man could gather himself to rush forward, Sir Tombin stepped smartly back through the doorway.

Sagandran looked around desperately. Was there another ideograph they were supposed to press to get this damnable entrance closed again? No time to think about it. He threw his full weight against the door. It juddered, but seemed inclined to stay ajar.

A high-pitched shout froze them all, companions and Shadow Knight alike.

“Alsiso! Baransprota! Dinbelbulus!”

Samzing.

The wizard had his arms held above his head. Now he threw them forward, like a toreador jabbing at a bull.

Magic sizzled in the air.

The door slammed shut.

Samzing ran one hand along the top of the doorway and down the side. The hand was gleaming with an unearthly vermilion light that slowly faded as the wizard finished stroking the crack between door and wall.

“I’ve sealed it for eternity,” he announced to his startled audience. “We won’t be able to come back this way unless I can conjure up a counter-spell to blast this door out of its frame, but by the same token, nobody will be able to follow us through here. Especially not that surly brute who was so keen to reduce us to mincemeat.”

Sir Tombin passed the torch to Perima, pushed up his visor and tried to mop his brow with the back of his hand. It was only when the metal spikes on the back of his armored glove dug into his flesh that he realized what he’d been about to do.