At a signal from the leader two men brought forward what Thorn had taken to be cudgels and presented them, groveling cravenly. From a pocket in his ragged cloak the leader took out a small cylinder and pressed the button on its side. In an instant both of the torches were ablaze. The two men stood back, holding them aloft.
Thorn peeled the strip from his eyes and looked. The twin flames burned fiercely, steadily, throwing a warm orange glow across the surrounding fields. From the floor of the City, thirty ch'i overhead, the image of the flames was thrown back at them, as though in a giant, silvered mirror. Thorn looked up and saw the group of them, reflected, inverted in the dust-free surface: dark shapes with double shadows. Looking down he saw the leader anew, in normal vision. Small, dark eyes sat in a gaunt, bloodless face that even the warm flames could not animate—more corpse now than demon.
They set off, heading north on the road, Thorn naked in the midst of them, the torches at front and back. They moved fast, at times trotting, keeping a tight formation that had more to do with fear than discipline. Nearing Camborne they slowed, skirting the ruins cautiously, expecting an attack at any moment. But the torches kept the scavengers at bay.
Past the town they headed north, onto the old coast road, then made a track across an old disused airfield. The old tarmac was cracked and pitted and the men skirted it almost superstitiously. On the far side the land rose almost to the floor of the City. In places they had to get down and crawl, the smooth, geometrically regular surface above, the rough uneven earth below.
And as they journeyed on, so Thorn's conviction grew stronger. These weren't the Myghtern's subjects, these were outsiders. He watched them, sharply attentive now, knowing just how valuable this knowledge was. It meant there was another route into the Clay, another unguarded entrance. He smiled to himself, then straightened as the land began to fall away again.
It was almost four hours before they halted. They were two li southwest of Perranporth, on the floor of a steep-sided valley. The underside of the City, more than two hundred ch'i overhead, reflected the torchlight faintly. Darkness seemed to plug each end of the valley.
How much farther? he wondered, and for the first time began to think that maybe they'd been expecting him.
They rested, binding his hands and feet and placing two guards to watch him. He lay on his side, pretending to sleep, listening to their talk, but it was only idle chatter. There was no clue as to who they were or where they'd come from. One fact alone caught his interest— they were to have a feast that night to celebrate. Which confirmed that this had been planned, his capture anticipated.
When they set off again Thorn could sense the thread of pure fear that circulated among the men, like a live wire joining them. Even the brightness of the torches couldn't drive back that inner darkness. To their north was a densely populated area. South was the Myghtern's capital. Between all was his land, held by his chiefs in his name. These lands were hostile.
They went a long way east then turned north again. They had changed the torches several times, but now the leader ordered them doused. For a time they stood there, huddled in a close group, accustoming themselves to the darkness, then set off again, cutting across a field, avoiding the old roads. This stage of the journey had taken them over five hours but now they were nearing their destination. Thorn could sense their relief. Despite the darkness there was a growing confidence among the men.
They were crossing the ruins of old buildings, picking their way carefully over fallen walls, heading southwest toward the waste. As they neared the coast it grew lighter, imperceptibly at first, but then markedly. It was still dark but the darkness was much softer and he could make out vague shape of gray against the black. There was a predawn sense of impending brightness. For a time he was puzzled, then realized what it was. Light was leaking through the translucent walls of the City.
They moved along the cliffs edge, the vastness of the wall to their right, the trapped sea dark and silent below them, the floor of the City a good hundred ch'i overhead. Echoes sounded eerily in this strange, twilit place, here where the City ended and the sea began. Sound carried back and forth between the still surface of the water and the roof overhead. Between moved the men, in silence, fearful of each small noise that sounded in that emptiness.
Dead voices spoke here. Falling rocks, the steady slop of the current.
They moved on, in single file now, descending, until they came to a wedge-shaped ledge of rock. There, where the wall of the City made one of its great folds, was the entrance.
It was a small, cavelike opening; a mere depression beneath the edge of the City's walls. Large slabs of fallen stone lay to each side of the opening. Pools of water had formed between them. At high tide, he realized this ledge would be underwater, but the rock was kept free of moss or weed.
Two of them went through first, while the others crouched, shielding their eyes, growing accustomed to the brightness. Then, abruptly, they pushed him forward. He ducked under, feeling the smooth, thick edge of the wall with his hand as he edged between the rocks. Then, suddenly, he was outside. Out into freshness, brightness. Brilliant, blinding freshness. Involuntarily he put his hand up to his eyes, squeezing them tightly shut, reaching out with his other to keep his balance. A rough and bony hand grabbed his arm, then another. Blind, he was led unceremoniously up a steep slope, then thrown down roughly.
He smiled, feeling grass beneath his naked buttocks. He picked a stalk and put it to his lips. Cool and wet it was. Something living.
He had been inside the Clay less than eighteen hours, yet it had seemed much longer. The absence of light, the fetid stillness—such things played tricks with one's sense of time. Now time ran normally once more. Gulls wheeled and cried overhead, nearby his captors murmured softly among themselves, but beneath all he could hear the regular wash of the sea against the rocks below, the ageless rhythm of the tide. A gust of wind blew coldly across his skin, but he made no move to cover himself. He simply sat there, his head bent forward, his arms folded across his knees, at ease, listening, waiting to see what they would do.
After a while he opened his eyes. From where he sat he could not see much. A thick, rough grass grew on all sides, interspersed with thistle and gorse. The men were nearby. They had changed and put on warmer clothing—patchwork skins of leather and fur and cloth. For the first time he saw them smile, not in mockery but in good humor. They were at ease here in their own place.
Thorn smiled. He knew now where he was. In the old times this had been called Trevelgue. Two, maybe three thousand years before there had been an Iron Age fort here, built on the great hump of rock that jutted out into the bay—a tiny island, linked by a narrow wooden bridge to the mainland. Those days had returned, it seemed. Trevelgue had been resettled, the bridge rebuilt.
THEY LED HIM UP a slope of grass toward a palisade of stone and wood and rusted iron. It was a junk heap of a wall, more a symbol than a genuine barrier. At the gate he turned and looked back, seeing how the City's walls followed the curve of the coast to north and south. This place—this tiny island of earth and rock and grass—was dwarfed by that huge, unnatural edifice.
For the first time since his capture, Thorn laughed.
The guards turned and stared at him surprised. Since his capture he had made no sound, and his bearing had won their respect. He had been proud and uncomplaining in his captivity—a man, for all that he was not of their tribe. But now his laughter changed things. One or two of them squinted at him, suddenly afraid. Their leader came across and pushed him roughly through the gate, making him stumble.