There were lights as well—oil lamps fastened to the beams overhead and the walls beneath, filling the rooms with a vague brightness, the residual smoke venting through airholes that disappeared at the corners of the room into the rock above.
The Valemen looked about expectantly. There was no one there.
Damson did not seem surprised. She led them into a room, dominated by a trestle table and eight highback chairs of carved oak, and motioned for them to sit. There were animals occupying all the chairs, and the Valemen looked inquiringly at the girl.
“Choose your place, pick up the animal that’s seated there, and hold it,” she advised and proceeded to show them what she meant. She selected a chair with a worn, stuffed velvet rabbit resting on it, lifted the tattered creature, and placed it comfortably on her lap as she sat down.
Coll did the same, his face empty as he fixed his gaze on a spot on the far wall, as if convinced that what was happening was no stranger than what he had expected. Par hesitated, then sat down as well, his companion something that might have been either a cat or a dog—it was impossible to tell which. He felt vaguely ridiculous.
They sat there then and waited, not speaking, barely looking at each other. Damson began stroking the worn fur backing on her rabbit. Coll was a statue. Par’s patience began to slip as the minutes passed and nothing happened.
Then one after another, the lights went out. Par started to his feet, but Damson said quickly, “Sit still.”
All of the lights but one disappeared. The one that remained was at the opening of the first room they had entered. Its glow was distant and barely reached to where they sat. Par waited for his eyes to adjust to the near darkness; when they did, he found himself staring at a roundish, bearded face that had popped up across from him two seats down from Damson. Blank, dilated ferret eyes peered at him, shifted to find Coll, blinked, and stared some more.
“Good evening to you, Mole,” Damson Rhee said.
The Mole lifted his head a shade; his neck and shoulders came into view, and his hands and arms lifted onto the table. He was covered with hair, a dark, furry coat. It grew on every patch of skin showing, save for where his nose and cheeks and a swatch of forehead glimmered like ivory in the faint light. His rounded head swiveled slowly, and his child’s fingers locked together in a pose of contentment.
“Good evening to you, lovely Damson,” he said.
He spoke in a child’s voice, but it sounded queer somehow, as if he were speaking out of a barrel or through a screen of water. His eyes moved from Par to Coll, from Coll to Par.
“I heard you coming and put on the lights for you,” he said. “But I don’t much like the lights, so now that you are here, I have put them out again. Is that all right?”
Damson nodded. “Perfectly.”
“Whom have you brought with you on your visit?”
“Valemen.”
“Valemen?”
“Brothers, from a village south of here, a long way away. Par Ohmsford. Coll Ohmsford.”
She pointed to each and the eyes shifted. “Welcome to my home. Shall we have tea?”
He disappeared without waiting for an answer, moving so quietly that, try as he might, even in the almost utter silence, Par could not hear him. He could smell the tea as it was brought, yet failed to see it materialize until the cups were placed before him. There were two of them, one regular size and one quite tiny.
They were old, and the paint that decorated them was faded and worn.
Par watched doubtfully while Damson offered a sip from the smaller cup to the toy rabbit she held. “Are all the children fine?” she asked conversationally.
“Quite well,” the Mole replied, seated again now where he had first appeared. He was holding a large bear, to whom he offered his own cup. Coll and Par followed the ritual without speaking. “Chalt, you know, has been bad again, sneaking his tea and cookies when he wishes, disrupting things rather thoroughly. When I go up to hear the news through the street grates and wall passages, he seems to believe he has license to reorganize things to his own satisfaction. Very annoying.” He gave the bear a cross look. “Lida had a very bad fever, but is recovered now. And Westra cut her paw.”
Par glanced at Coll, and this time his brother glanced back.
“Anyone new to the family?” Damson asked.
“Everlind,” the Mole said. He stared at her for a moment, then pointed to the rabbit she was holding. “She came to live with us just two nights ago. She likes it much better here than on the streets.”
Par hardly knew what to think. The Mole apparently collected junk discarded by the people of the city above and brought it down into his lair like a pack rat. To him, the animals were real—or at least that was the game he played. Par wondered uneasily if he knew the difference.
The Mole was looking at him. “The city whispers of something that has upset the Federation—disruptions, intruders, a threat to its rule. The street patrols are increased and the gate watches challenge everyone. There is a tightening of the chains.” He paused, then turned to Damson. He said, almost eagerly, “It is better to be here, lovely Damson—here, underground.”
Damson put down her cup. “The disruption is part of the reason we have come, Mole.”
The Mole didn’t seem to hear. “Yes, better to be underground, safe within the earth, beneath the streets and the towers, where the Federation never comes.”
Damson shook her head firmly. “We are not here for sanctuary.”
The Mole blinked, disappointment registering in his eyes. He set his own cup aside and the animal he held with it, and he cocked his rounded head. “I found Everlind at the back of the home of a man who provides counting services for the Federation tax collectors. He is quick with numbers and tallies far more accurately than others of his skill. Once, he was an advisor to the people of the city, but the people couldn’t pay him as well as the Federation, so he took his services there. All day long, he works in the building where the taxes are held, then goes home to his family, his wife and his daughter, to whom Everlind once belonged. Last week, the man bought his daughter a new toy kitten, silky white fur and green button eyes. He bought it with money the Federation gave him from what they had collected. So his daughter discarded Everlind. She found the new kitten far prettier to look upon.”
He looked at them. “Neither the father nor the daughter understand what they have given up. Each sees only what is on the surface and nothing of what lies beneath. That is the danger of living above ground.”
“It is,” Damson agreed softly. “But that is something we must change, those of us who wish to continue to live there.”
The Mole rubbed his hands again, looking down at them as he did so, lost in some contemplation of his own. The room was a still life in which the Mole and his visitors sat among the discards and rejects of other lives and listened to what might have been the whisper of their own.
The Mole looked up again, his eyes fixing on Damson. “Beautiful Damson, what is it that you wish?”
Damson’s willowy form straightened, and she brushed back the stray locks of her fiery hair. “There were once tunnels beneath the palace of the Kings of Tyrsis. If they are still there, we need to go into them.”
The Mole stiffened. “Beneath the palace?”
“Beneath the palace and into the Pit.”
There was a long silence as the Mole stared at her unblinking. Almost unconsciously, his hands went out to retrieve the animal he had been holding. He patted it gently. “There are things out of darkest night and mind in the pit,” he said softly.