“I don’t believe you!”
The lord’s ship was now nothing more than a speck in the sky.
“He’s taken your form, Lord of the Nexus,” said the gentleman. “Your people think Sang-drax is you. They’ll obey all his commands—and he’ll probably repay them with death.”
“If what you say is true, then he must have some urgent need for the ship,” Xar said confidently, trying to calm himself, though he cast a swift and frowning glance at his disappearing vessel.
The gentleman was speaking to Zifnab. “You don’t look well, sir.”
“Not my fault,” the old man said, pouting. He pointed an accusing finger at Xar. “I told him I was Bond. James Bond. He didn’t believe me.”
“What else did you tell him, sir?” the gentleman asked, looking severe.
“Nothing you weren’t supposed to, I take it?”
“Well, now, that depends,” said Zifnab, rubbing his hands together nervously, not meeting the gentleman’s eye. “We did have such a nice chat.” The imposing gentleman nodded gloomily. “That’s what I feared. You’ve done damage enough for one day, sir. Time to go inside and have your warming drink. The human female will be happy to make it for you, sir.”
“Of course she’d be happy to! Make her day! But she won’t!” Zifnab whined querulously. “She doesn’t know how. No one makes it the way you do.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I’m very sorry, sir, but I won’t be able to... fix your drink tonight.” The gentleman had gone extremely pale. He managed a wan smile. “I’m not feeling very well. I’ll just take you to your bedchamber, sir...”
Once they were gone, Xar could give vent to his anger. He glared around the city’s walls, walls that were suddenly prison walls, for though he could walk out of that gate with ease (not counting the tytans, which were suddenly the least of his worries), he had no ship, no way to travel back through Death’s Gate. No way to reach Haplo—either dead or alive.
That is, if he believed what the old man had told him. Feeling weak and old and tired—unusual feelings for the Lord of the Nexus—Xar sat down on a bench in the strange gathering darkness that appeared to be falling on the citadel and nowhere else. Xar tried again to reach Marit, but there was no answer to his urgent summons.
Had she betrayed him? Had Sang-drax betrayed him?...
“Would you believe my enemy?” The whisper came from the night, startling Xar. He stared into the shadows, saw glowing there a single red eye. Xar rose. “Are you here? Come out where I can see you!”
“I am not here in actual physical presence, Lord. My thoughts are with you.”
“I had much rather my ship was with me,” Xar said angrily. “Bring my ship back to me.”
“If you command, Lord, I will.” Sang-drax was humble. “But may I present an alternate plan? I overheard the conversation between you and that old fool, who may not be as foolish as he would have us believe. Allow me to search for Haplo, while you go on with your business here.”
Xar pondered. Not a bad idea at that. He had too much to do, too much at stake to leave now. His people were on Abarrach, poised for war. He had to continue looking for the Seventh Gate; and he still needed to determine whether he had learned the art of bringing life to the dead. Several of those goals might be accomplished here.
In addition, he would find out whether Sang-drax was loyal. He was beginning to see the outline of a plan.
“If I agree to let you search for Haplo, how do I return to Abarrach?” Xar demanded, not wanting Sang-drax to think he had the upper hand.
“Another ship is available to you, Lord. The mensch know its location.” Probably inside the city somewhere, Xar reasoned.
“Very well.” The lord gave his permission magnanimously. “I will let you know the moment I hear from Marit. Meanwhile, do what you can to find him on your own. Remember, I want Haplo’s corpse—and in good condition!”
“I live only to serve you, Lord Xar,” Sang-drax said humbly. The single eye closed in reverence, and then the presence was gone.
“Excuse me, sir,” came a voice, speaking elven.
Xar had been aware of the young elf’s presence for some time, but, absorbed in his mental conversation with Sang-drax, he hadn’t paid any attention. Now was the moment, however, to start putting his plan into action. The Lord of the Nexus gave an affected start of surprise, peered through the shadows.
“I beg your pardon, young man. I didn’t hear you come up. What was your name again? Forgive me for asking, but I’m old and my mind wanders.”
“Paithan,” said the elf kindly. “Paithan Quindiniar. I came back to apologize for the way we behaved. We’ve all been under a lot of strain lately. And then, what with the dragon and that horrible serpent and Zifnab... That reminds me, have you seen the old man lately?”
“No, I’m afraid not,” Xar answered. “I must have dozed off. When I woke up, he was gone.”
Paithan looked alarmed. He glanced around anxiously. “Orn take him, the crazy old bugger. I wonder where he’s got to? No good searching for him tonight, though. You must be tired and hungry. Please, come, share dinner with my sister and me. We... uh ... usually eat with the others, but I don’t suppose they’ll be joining us tonight.”
“Why, thank you, my boy.” Xar reached out a hand. “Would you mind assisting me? I’m somewhat feeble...”
“Oh, certainly, sir.” Paithan offered Xar his arm. The Lord of the Nexus clasped the elf close to him, and together—the elf supporting the lord’s faltering steps—they proceeded slowly along the streets toward the citadel.
And while they were walking, Xar received a response to his summons.
“Marit,” he said silently. “I have been waiting to hear from you . . ,”
27
Marit sat with her back against a chill stone wall, watching the human assassin keep watch over her. He was leaning back against the wall opposite, a pipe in his mouth and a most foul-smelling smoke issuing from it. His eyelids were closed, but she knew that if she so much as brushed a strand of hair out of her face, she’d see the black glitter of his deep-sunken eyes. Lying on a pallet on the floor between the two, Haplo slept fitfully, uneasily, not the healing sleep of her kind. Beside him another set of eyes kept careful watch, dividing their attention between her and the master. Hugh the Hand sometimes slept. The dog never did.
Growing irritated at the unrelenting scrutiny, Marit turned her back on both the watchers and, hunkering down, began to hone her dagger. It didn’t need honing, nor did it need the sigla redrawn. But fussing with the dagger gave her something to do besides pacing the chill floor—around and around, around and around until her legs ached. Perhaps, though she didn’t really expect it, if she quit watching them, the watchers might relax and grow careless. She could have told them they were worrying over nothing. She wasn’t going to harm him. Not now. Her orders had been changed. Haplo was to live. Knife sharpened, Marit thrust it into a minute crack between two of the large blocks of white polished stone that formed the floors, walls, and domed ceiling of the strange room in which they’d been imprisoned. She slid the dagger along the crack, probing, testing for a weakness she knew wouldn’t be there. Sartan runes were engraved on each block. Sartan runes surrounded her, were on the floor, everywhere she looked. The runes didn’t harm her, but she avoided touching them. They made her nervous, uncomfortable, just as this room made her nervous and uncomfortable.
And it was impossible to leave.
She knew. She’d tried.
The room was large, well lit, with a diffused white light that shone from everywhere at once and nowhere in particular. A maddening sort of light—it was beginning to annoy her. There was a door, but it was covered with Sartan sigla. And though again the runes didn’t react when Marit came near, she was loath to touch the door they guarded.