“Marit knows better. She knows the truth. And I’ve no doubt she’s told them. I just wonder,” Haplo added somberly, staring into the forest, “what else she’s told them.”
“Are we just going to stand here?” Hugh the Hand demanded, scowling.
“Yes,” said Haplo quietly. “We’re just going to stand here.”
“We could run—”
Haplo pointed. “A good idea. I’ve been trying to convince Coren here to—”
“Alfred,” the Sartan corrected meekly. “Please. That is my name. I... I don’t know that other person. And no, I’m not going back.”
“I go where he goes,” said Hugh the Hand. The Patryns were in sight now and moving closer. “We can fight.”
“No,” said Haplo, not pausing, not even considering, “I won’t fight my own people. Bad enough...” He stopped, let it hang.
“They’re taking their own sweet time. Maybe you made a mistake about her?” Haplo shook his head. “They know we’re not going anywhere.” His mouth twisted in a grim smile. “Besides, they’re probably trying to figure out what to do with us.”
Hugh the Hand gave him a puzzled look.
“You see,” Haplo explained, “they’re not used to taking another Patryn prisoner. There’s never been any need.” He looked around at the gray sky, the dark trees. When he spoke, it was softly, to himself. “This was always a terrible place, dangerous, deadly. But at least we were united—one against it. Now, what have I done... ?”
The Patryns, led by a stoic Kari, surrounded the three.
“Serious charges have been leveled against you, Brother,” she said to Haplo. Her gaze went to Alfred, who flushed clear up his bald scalp and managed to look extremely guilty. Kari frowned, glanced back at Haplo. Probably she was expecting him to deny everything.
Haplo shrugged his shoulders, said nothing. He began walking. Alfred, Hugh the Hand, and the dog followed. The Patryns closed ranks behind them. Marit was not among them.
The group moved silently through the forest, the Patryns ill at ease, uncomfortable. When Alfred fell—as he did repeatedly, circumstances and his surroundings combining to make him clumsier than usual—the Patryns waited grimly for him to regain his feet. They did not offer help, nor would they permit Haplo or Hugh to go near the Sartan.
At first they’d regarded him with grim-faced enmity. But now, after he’d tumbled headlong over a tree root, walked into a bog, and nearly brained himself on an overhanging limb, they began exchanging questioning glances among themselves, even as they redoubled their watchfulness. It could, of course, all be an act, designed to lull them into complacency. Haplo recalled thinking exactly the same thing himself the first time he’d met Alfred. Boy, did they have a lot to learn. As for the human assassin, the Patryns treated him with disdain. Most likely they had never heard of mensch; Haplo himself had not learned of the existence of these “lesser races” until Xar informed him.[38] But Marit would have told them that Hugh the Hand lacked the rune-magic, was therefore harmless. Haplo wondered if she had thought to tell them that this man could not be killed.
When his fellow Patryns looked at Haplo at all, which was rarely, they were shadow-eyed and angry. Again he wondered uneasily what Marit had told them. And why.
The trees began to thin out. The hunting party was nearing the edge of the forest, and at this point, Kari called a halt. Before them stretched a vast open field of short-cropped waving grass. Haplo was astonished to see signs that some animal had been grazing in the area. If these were mensch, he would have guessed they were raising sheep or goats. But these weren’t mensch. They were his people and they were Runners, fighters—not shepherds. He would have liked very much to ask Kari, but she wouldn’t answer any question of his now; wouldn’t so much as tell him whether it was day or night. Across the grass, about a hundred paces away, a river of dark water churned and hammered through steep banks. And beyond that...
Haplo stared.
Beyond the river, with its black and ugly water, was built a city. A city. In the Labyrinth.
He couldn’t believe it. But there it was. Blinking didn’t cause it to disappear. In a land of Squatters, nomads who spent their lives trying to escape their prison, was a city. Built by people who weren’t trying to escape. People who were settled, content. Not only that, but they’d lit the beacon fire, the call to others: come to us, come to our light, come to our city. Strong buildings, made of stone, covered with rune-markings, stood stolidly on the side of a gigantic mountain, on the top of which burned the beacon fire. Probably, Haplo guessed, these buildings had started as caves. Now they extended outward, the floors of some resting on the roofs of others. They marched down the mountainside in an orderly manner, gathered together at the bottom. The mountain itself seemed to stretch out protective arms around the city built on its bosom; a large wall, made of the mountain’s stone, encircled the city. Rune-magic, inscribed on the wail, enhanced its defenses.
“My goodness,” said Alfred, “is... is this usual?” No, not usual.
Marit was here. She was obviously not pleased at being here, but with the dangerous river crossing to be made, out in the open, a prey to any enemy, she’d been forced to wait for the rest of the party. She stood apart from the others, her arms crossed over her chest. She did not look at Haplo, pointedly avoided looking at him.
He would have liked to talk to her. He took a step toward her, but several Patryns moved to block his way. They appeared uncomfortable; perhaps never in their lives had they feared or distrusted one of their own. Haplo sighed, wondered how he could make them understand. He raised his hands, palms outward, indicating he meant no harm, that he would obey their rules. But the dog was under no such constraints. The trip through the forest had been a boring one for the animal. Whenever it had sniffed up something interesting, prepared to set off in pursuit, its master had called it sharply to heel. This would have been bearable if the dog had been made to feel that its presence was appreciated. But Haplo was preoccupied, wrapped in dark and gloomy thoughts, and refused to pat the dog’s head or acknowledge its friendly licks.
If it hadn’t been for Alfred, the dog would have considered this trip a waste of footpad. The Sartan, as usual, had proved highly diverting. The dog had recognized that it was going to be responsible for steering Alfred safely through the forest. Certain minor disasters couldn’t be helped—a dog can only do so much. But the animal successfully averted several major catastrophes—such as pulling Alfred out of the tangles of a loathsome bloodvine and knocking him flat when he would have otherwise walked into a spike-lined pit, a trap set by roving snogs.
At last they had reached level, unobstructed ground, and while the dog knew that this didn’t necessarily mean Alfred was safe, the Sartan was, for the moment, standing perfectly still. If anyone could get himself in trouble standing still it was Alfred; but the dog considered that it might relax its vigil.
The Patryns gathered at the edge of the forest, while several of their number fanned out to make certain that they would be safe crossing the river. The animal looked at its master, saw—with regret—that nothing could be done for him beyond a licked reminder that a dog was here and available for comfort. An absentminded pat was the animal’s reward. The dog glanced about for new diversion and saw Marit.
A friend. Someone not seen in a few hours. Someone who—by the looks of her—needed a dog.
The dog trotted over.
Marit stood in the shadow of a tree, staring at nothing that the dog could see. But what she was doing might have been important, and so the dog padded up softly, so as not to disturb her. The dog pressed its body against Marit’s leg, looked up at her with a joyful grin.
38
Xar learned of the existence of the mensch in the Nexus, reading the literature left behind by the Sartan.