Arianus would be at peace now. An uneasy peace, riven with cracks and splits. It would break and crumble and threaten more than once to fall down and crush everyone beneath. But the mensch, guided by their wise leaders, would shore the peace up here, patch it up there, and it would stand, strong in its imperfection.
Which was not what he’d been ordered to do.
“It had to be this way, Lord Xar. Otherwise the dragon-snakes...” Haplo’s hand went, unknowing, to his breast. The wound bothered him sometimes. The scar tissue was inflamed, painful to the touch. He scratched at it absently, winced, and snatched his hand away, cursing. Looking down, he saw his shirt spotted with blood. He’d broken the wound open again. Emerging from the tunnels, he climbed the stairs, halted at the top, stood before the statue of the Manger. It reminded him more than ever of Alfred.
“Xar won’t listen to me, will he?” Haplo asked the statue. “Any more than Samah listened to you.”
The statue didn’t respond.
“But I’ve got to try,” Haplo insisted. “I’ve got to make my lord understand. Otherwise we’re all in danger. And then, when he knows the danger of the dragon-snakes, he can fight them. And I can return to the Labyrinth, find my child.”
Oddly, the thought of going back into the Labyrinth no longer terrified him. Now, at last, he could walk back through the Final Gate. His child. And her child. Perhaps he’d find her as well. The mistake he’d made—letting her go—would be rectified.
“You were right, Marit,” he said to her silently. “ ‘The evil inside us,’ you said. Now I understand.”
Haplo stood staring up at the statue. Once, when he had first seen it, the statue of the Sartan had seemed to him awful, majestic. Now it looked tired, wistful, and faintly relieved.
“It was tough being a god, wasn’t it? All that responsibility... and no one listening. But your people are going to be all right now.” Haplo rested his hand on the metal arm. “You don’t have to worry about them any longer.”
“And neither do I.”
Once outside the Factree, Haplo headed for his ship. The storm was letting up; the clouds were starting to roll away. And so far as Haplo could see, there wasn’t another storm in sight. The sun might actually shine on Drevlin—all of Drevlin, not just the area around the Liftalofts. Haplo wondered how the dwarves would cope.
Knowing dwarves, they’d probably be opposed to it, he decided, smiling at the thought.
Haplo slogged through the puddles, taking care to keep clear of any part of the rumbling Kicksey-winsey that looked as if it might swing, trundle, roll, or smash into him. The air was filled with the various sounds of the machine’s intense activity: whistles and hoots, beeps and grindings, the zap of electricity. A few dwarves had actually ventured outside and were peering up at the sky with doubt.
Haplo looked swiftly to his ship, was pleased to see that no one and nothing was near it—this included the Kicksey-winsey. He was not so pleased to note that the dog wasn’t around either. But then, Haplo was forced to admit, I haven’t been very good company of late. Probably the dog was off chasing rats. The storm clouds broke up. Solarus burst through, streaming down between the breaks in the clouds. In the distance, a cascade of rainbow colors shimmered around the spouting geyser. The sunlight made the great machine suddenly beautiful—it gleamed on the bright silver arms, glinted off fanciful golden fingers. The dwarves stopped to stare at the amazing sight, then hurriedly shaded their eyes and began to grumble about the brightness of the light. Haplo stopped, took a long look around.
“I won’t be back here,” he said to himself suddenly. “Ever again.” The knowledge didn’t cause him sorrow, only a kind of wistful sadness, much as he’d seen on the face of the Sartan statue. It wasn’t a feeling of ill omen. But it was a feeling of certainty.
He wished, after all, that he’d said good-bye to Limbeck. And thanked him for saving his life. Haplo couldn’t remember that he ever had. He almost turned around, then kept going straight ahead, toward his ship. It was better this way.
Haplo removed the runes from the entrance, was about to open the hatch when he stopped again, looked around again.
“Dog!” Haplo called.
An answering “whuff” came from inside. From far inside the ship. Say, around the hold area, where the sausages were hung...
“So that’s what you’ve been up to,” Haplo called out grimly. He opened the door and stepped in.
Pain burst at the base of his skull, exploded behind his eyes, and propelled him, struggling, into darkness.
Chill water, splashing on his face, brought Haplo instantly to consciousness. He was wide awake and alert, despite the ache in his head. He found himself lying on his back, his wrists and ankles bound securely with a length of his own rope. Someone had ambushed him. But who? Why? And how had whoever it was gotten on board his ship?
Sang-drax. The dragon-snake. But my magic should have warned me... Haplo’s eyes flicked open involuntarily when the water hit him, but he closed them almost immediately. Groaning, he let his head loll sideways. Then he lay still, pretending to black out again, hoping to hear something to tell him what was happening.
“Come off it. Quit shamming.”
Something—probably the toe of a boot—prodded Haplo in the side. The voice was familiar.
“I know that old trick,” the voice continued. “You’re awake, all right. I can prove it if you want me to. A kick in the side of the knee. Feels like someone’s driving a red-hot poker into your flesh. No one can play dead through the pain.”
The shock of recognizing the voice, more than the threat—which to Haplo, with his protective runes, was no threat at all—caused him to open his eyes. He stared up dazedly at the man who had spoken.
“Hugh the Hand?” he said groggily.
The Hand grunted in acknowledgment. He was seated on a low wooden bench that ran along the bulkheads. He had a pipe in his mouth, and the noxious odor of stregno wafted through the ship. Although he looked relaxed, he was watchful and undoubtedly had a weapon ready.
Not that any mensch weapon could hurt Haplo. But then, no mensch could possibly break through his magic, sneak on board his ship. Nor could any mensch ambush him.
He’d figure this out later, once he was free of these ropes. Haplo called on the magic that would remove his bonds, dissolve the ropes, burn them away... Nothing happened.
Astounded, Haplo tugged at the ropes, to no avail.
Hugh the Hand watched, puffed on his pipe, said nothing. Haplo had the odd impression that the Hand was as curious as the Patryn about what was going forward.
Haplo ignored the assassin. He took time to analyze the magic, something he hadn’t bothered to do, since a routine spell of this sort was second nature. He scanned the possibilities, only to discover that there was only one possibility—he was bound securely with strong rope. All other possibilities had disappeared.
No, not disappeared. They were still there; he could see them, but they were unavailable to him. Accustomed to having innumerable doors open to him, Haplo was shocked to find that now all but one were shut and locked. Frustrated, he pulled hard at the bonds, tried to free himself. The rope cut painfully into his wrists. Blood trickled over the sigla on his forearms. Sigla that should have been burning bright red and blue, sigla that should have been acting to free him.
“What have you done?” Haplo demanded, not afraid, just amazed. “How did you do this?”
Hugh the Hand shook his head, removed the pipe from his mouth. “If I told you, you might find a way to fight it. Seems a pity to let you die without knowing, but”—the assassin shrugged—“I can’t take the chance.”
“Die...”
Haplo’s head hurt like hell. None of this was making sense. He closed his eyes again. He wasn’t trying to fool his captor anymore. He was simply trying to ease the pain in his skull long enough to figure out what was going on.