It was as if the blade had molded itself to his flesh. He watched, waited, keeping his attention more on the dog than on its master.
And the moment came.
Limbeck and Jane were starting down the stairs when suddenly the High Froman stopped. Haplo leaned over to talk to him; Hugh couldn’t catch what they were saying, nor did he care. Then the dwarves started down the stairs.
“I wish,” Hugh muttered to himself, “the damn dog would go along.” At that moment, the dog sprang after them.
Hugh the Hand was startled by the coincidence but was quick to take advantage of the opportunity. He glided forward. His knife hand slid out from beneath the folds of his cape.
He was not surprised to notice that Haplo was suddenly aware of him. The Hand had a healthy respect for his opponent, had not expected this to be easy. The knife writhed in Hugh’s grip—a repulsive sensation, as if he were holding a snake. He advanced on Haplo, waiting grimly for the telltale runes to flare to life, in which case he was prepared to freeze, letting the night-blending magic fabric of the Unseen protect him from sight.
But the runes didn’t react. No blue light flared. This appeared to discomfit Haplo, who had sensed a threat and looked to his body for confirmation, only to see nothing.
Hugh the Hand knew in that instant that he could kill Haplo, that the Patryn’s magic had failed him, that the knife must have affected it and would affect it again.
But now was not the time to strike. Too many people. And it would disrupt the ceremony. The Kenkari had been most precise in their instructions—on no account was Hugh the Hand to disrupt the turning on of the Kicksey-winsey. This had been a test of his weapon. He now knew it worked.
It was a pity that he’d alerted Haplo to possible danger. The Patryn would be on his guard, but that was not necessarily a bad situation. A man looking over his shoulder is a man who will trip and fall on his face—a common jest among the Brotherhood. Hugh the Hand wasn’t planning to ambush his victim, take him by surprise. Part of the assassin’s contract—again, a part on which the Kenkari had been most specific—was that he was to tell Haplo, in his final moments, the name of the man who had ordered his death.
The Hand observed the procession from the darkness. When the last elf lord had disappeared down the stairs, the assassin followed, unheard, unseen. His time would come, a time when Haplo was cut off from the crowd, isolated. And at that moment, the Patryn’s magic would fail him. The Cursed Blade would see to that.
Hugh the Hand had only to follow, watch, and wait.
14
“Look!” Limbeck exclaimed, coming to a halt with a suddenness that caused several people traipsing along at his heels to stumble into him. “There’s my sock!”
The Sartan tunnels were shadowed and eerie, lit only by the blue rune-lights that flickered along the base of the wall. These runes were leading the party to its destination—or so all of them devoutly hoped, although more than a few were beginning to have serious doubts. No one had brought torches or lamps, Limbeck having assured them all that the tunnels were well lighted. (So they were, to a dwarf.)
Since the departure of the dragon-snakes, the feeling of evil that had wafted through the tunnels like the foul smell of something dead and decaying was no longer prevalent. But there remained in the tunnels a sensation of lingering sadness, regret for mistakes made in the past, regret that there had been no future in which to correct them. It was as if the ghosts of the builders of the Kicksey-winsey walked among them, benevolent but sorrowful. We’re sorry. The words seemed to whisper from the shadows. So very sorry... Hearts were subdued. The dignitaries bunched together in the darkness, glad to feel the touch of a warm hand—be it human, elven, or dwarven. Trian was visibly moved, and Jarre was just beginning to feel a choke in her throat when Limbeck made his discovery.
“My sock!”
Eagerly the dwarf hurried over to the wall, proudly pointed out a bit of string running along the floor.
“I beg your pardon, High Froman?” Trian was not certain he’d understood the words, which were spoken in dwarven. “Did you say something about a... er...”
“Sock,” Limbeck said for the third time. He was about to launch into the exciting tale, which had come to be one of his favorites—all about how they had discovered the metal man, how then Haplo had been captured by the elves, and how he, Limbeck, had been left alone, lost in the tunnels with no way out and only his socks standing between him and disaster.
“My dear,” said Jarre, giving his beard a tweak, “there isn’t time.”
“But I’m certain there will be after the machine is up and running,” Trian hastened to add, seeing that the dwarf appeared extremely disappointed. “I would really enjoy hearing your tale.”
“You would?” Limbeck brightened.
“Most assuredly,” said Trian with such eagerness that Jarre regarded him with suspicion.
“At least,” said Limbeck, starting out again, Trian at his side, “now I know we’re going in the right direction.”
This statement appeared to comfort the vast majority of the procession. They hurried after Limbeck. Jarre lagged behind.
She was sad and grumpy on the day that should have been the most joyous of her life, and she didn’t understand why.
A cold, wet nose prodded her in the back of the leg.
“Hullo, dog,” she said dispiritedly, timidly patting its head.
“What’s wrong?” Haplo asked, coming up beside her. She looked startled. She’d supposed he was in front, with Limbeck. But then Haplo was rarely where you thought he ought to be.
“Everything’s changing,” said Jarre with a sigh.
“That’s good, isn’t it?” Haplo asked. “It’s what you wanted. What you and Limbeck worked for. What you risked your lives for.”
“Yes,” Jarre admitted. “I know. And change will be good. The elves have offered to let our people move up to our ancestral homes in the Mid Realms. Our children will play in the sunshine. And, of course, those who want to stay down here and work on the machine can stay.”
“Now your work will have meaning, purpose,” Haplo said. “Dignity. It won’t be slave labor.”
“I know all that. And I don’t want to go back to the old days. Not really. It’s just... well... there was a lot of good mixed in with the bad. I didn’t see it then, but I miss it now. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” said Haplo quietly. “I understand. Sometimes I’d like to go back to the way things used to be in my life. I never thought I’d say that. I didn’t have much, but what I did have, I didn’t value. Trying to get something else, I let what was important get away. And when I got what I wanted, it turned out to be worthless without the other. Now I might lose it all. Or maybe I’ve already lost it past finding.”
Jarre understood without understanding. She slid her hand inside Haplo’s. They walked slowly after Limbeck and the others. She wondered a little why Haplo should choose to stay in the back of the procession; it was almost as if he were keeping watch. She noticed he glanced continually this way and that, but he didn’t seem to be afraid—which would have made her afraid. He just seemed puzzled.
“Haplo,” Jarre said suddenly, reminded of another time when she’d walked hand in hand with another person down in these tunnels. “I’m going to tell you a secret. Not even Limbeck knows.”
Haplo said nothing, but he smiled encouragingly down at her.
“I’m going to see to it that no one”—she stared hard at the wizard Trian as she spoke—“that no one ever bothers the beautiful dead people. That no one finds them. I don’t know how I’m going to do it yet, but I will.” She brushed her hand across her eyes. “I can’t bear to think of the humans, with their loud voices and prying hands, barging into that hushed tomb. Or the elves with their twitterings and high-pitched laughs. Or even of my people clumping about with their big, heavy boots. I’ll make certain that it all stays quiet. I think Alfred would want it that way, don’t you?”