Текст книги "The Wide World's End"

Автор книги: James Enge

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

CHAPTER FIVE

Evening in A Thousand Towers

Stations of the Graith did not normally end with most of its members being examined by binders from the Skein of Healing, but this had been an odd one. It was necessary to know that there was no lingering dragonspell in those who kept the Guard. Many had bruised throats to look after as well, but no one had been fatally injured.

“And I, for one, am disappointed,” remarked Jordel, lounging with calculated nonchalance on a window ledge in Tower Ambrose, where the recently set sun still lit the sky behind him with chilly red. “All these great warriors,” Jordel complained, “and not one had a grip strong enough to break his own throat.”

Baran, his brother, sitting on a couch nearby, grunted. “Neither did you.”

“I know!” Jordel said, pointing at his heavily bruised skin. “I’m deeply ashamed!”

“We’re all ashamed of you, J,” Aloê responded from a nearby chair. “Though not all for the same reasons.”

“I’ll do better next time,” Jordel promised.

After the Station broke up in chaos, Lernaion had led the vocates who openly belonged to his faction away to some sort of private meeting. The members of Bleys’ faction, in contrast, were still consoling their leader, sobbing over the broken Witness Stone. Noreê and Illion had put a wilderment on the dragon-haunted stranger, Kelat, and conducted him to one of the nearby Wells of Healing for purposes they did not say. The remaining vocates not aligned with any summoner’s faction had scattered to their own places of refuge.

One of these was Tower Ambrose, where the group of friends and peers Jordel called “the Awkward Bastards” frequently resorted after a Station. There were some of the usual faces missing: Thea, who would never be seen again, and Illion. But Jordel and Baran were there, and Naevros and Keluaê Hendaij and a few others. The tower’s staff had all gone home for the night, so Morlock and Deor were down in the kitchen whomping up something like a meal.

Aloê sat, wrapped in her red cloak, in the chair that had always been Thea’s when she visited, and listened more than she talked. She had a sense that something was ending—the world, of course, was growing colder, and everything was very bad. But the thing she feared, and part of her longed for, was standing nearer than the end of the wide world outside these walls. She could not say what it was, and did not wish to. But she could think about nothing else.

Three pairs of footfalls grew closer: the long, steady stride of her husband; his harven-kin Deor’s quicker, shorter steps; and a third, the wooden strokes of the Walking Shelf.

The three entered in that order, to general cheering. The Awkward Bastards were hungry—hungry enough that there had been serious talk of walking down to the Speckles, the infamous rusty-ladle cookshop just a few hundred steps down the River Road. The scents and sights carried in by the Walking Shelf were enough to banish such thoughts forever.

“Please hold your applause to the end!” Deor said. “This may not be up to Tower Ambrose’s usual level of catering. You don’t know the meaning of danger until you’ve worked in a kitchen with Morlock.”

Morlock shrugged and said, “Walking Shelf, go: offer trays to people.”

The brass eye atop Walking Shelf revolved in a circle and then the shelf stumped over to Jordel. It grabbed a tray off the shelves in its interior and offered it to him.”

“All the trays are the same,” Deor said apologetically. “Fell free to swap around whatever you don’t want.”

“It’s like school,” said Keluaê to Naevros, who smiled suavely. There had been no school in the three-boat port town where Naevros grew up, Aloê knew, but she doubted that Keluaê could tell. Naevros could handle any conversation—except the ones that mattered most. He was a mirror image of Morlock, who never seemed to be able to speak unless the conversation was a matter of life or death. Often she wished she could make one whole man out of their scattered traits, and not only in this context.

Morlock served out wine, red or white, whereas Deor busied himself with the tea urn. When Walking Shelf had given everyone a tray, Morlock said, “Walking shelf, go: stand in a corner.” It looked around with its brass eye, stumped over to the nearest corner, and stood still.

Morlock had a tray of his own by that time and a mug of tea. He came and sat on the floor next to Aloê. He knew why she was sitting there, of course. She reached out the hand she wasn’t eating with and tangled it in his crazy hair. She saw Naevros looking, saw him look away. She didn’t bother to stop on his account. She had made her choice, the right choice, a century ago.

There was contented semisilence for a while, as the Guardians slew their hunger with weapons of food and drowned their thirst in oceans of drink.

“Morlock,” said Sundra Ekelling after a time, “you are the master of all makers.”

“Injustice!” sputtered Deor. “In the kitchen, I am the master. Eight parts of what you are eating is my work, and one of the others is either underdone or overdone.”

“You lay wonderful eggs, Deor,” Jordel remarked.

“You may laugh, Vocate, but laying an egg is relatively easy compared to cooking it properly—neither seared paste nor raw, slippery glook.”

“Whoever made these wonderful little filled flushcakes has my eternal gratitude,” Sundra said.

“Oh. Well. I suppose they’re not so bad. Those are Morlock’s, to tell the truth. Master of all makers of pancakes, you should call him. But apart from that: what a menace! Morlocktheorn, won’t you have some wine?”

So Deor had noticed that, too. It was a little thing, but connected to the deep fear within her.

Morlock shook his head: he would drink no wine.

Deor persisted: “If you don’t like the ones we brought up I could run and get you something else from the cellar. We have some golden Plyrrun, from that sunny island off the coast of Southhold. Salty and sweet and refreshing all at once. Or Barkun, from Westhold. That’s a fine, bold red wine.”

“No, Deortheorn,” Morlock said. “The day’s work isn’t done. I never drink while I’m working.”

“There!” shouted Deor. “I made you say it! Go on, then, Morlock: what’s your evening’s work, and how many precious talismans of the Graith’s magical armory will it destroy?”

“Deor,” Naevros said mildly, “give the man a rest. We all had a long, bitter day.”

Deor’s flat, gray face looked wounded. “It’s him that doesn’t want to rest. I meant no criticism of my senior in the Order—” he rolled his eyes at this “—and in Theorn Clan.” He did not roll his eyes. “I enjoy breaking things, personally, and it is many hours before I must sleep. Come on, Morlock!”

Morlock shook his head. “Thinking now,” he said. “Talk later.”

“This may take a while, then,” Jordel said. “These people who are particular about thinking always take so long to choose their words! Now, me, I never bother to think before I talk, which reminds me of the time—”

He was instantly pelted with rolls, bits of stray bread, and catcalls.

“I’m going to ignore that,” he said, “partly because I know you don’t mean it, and partly because your suffering is to me merely the butter on this delicious bread. This was back when—you’ll remember this, Naevros—”

Jordel’s stories at their best—and this was a pretty good one—required audience participation: cries of disgust or disbelief, exclamations of confirmation or denial, alternate versions of events in more temperately colored prose, occasional doses of applause. It served Jordel’s end of making everyone forget their troubles—except Morlock, who sat eating and drinking his damned tea and thinking, thinking, thinking.

They were sitting in the roseate aftermath of Jordel’s ridiculous anecdote when Illion appeared in the doorway, his apple-nosed jester’s face looking unwontedly serious.

“I tried to ring the bell,” he said, in apology, “but this big eye just opened in the door, and then the door opened to let me in. I thought it was really weird, and I want one.”

They shouted for him to come in, and they got him a cup of wine. They were going to make up a tray for him out of their leavings, but Walking Shelf woke up when he came in, reached inside itself and brought forth from a hidden warming box a tray for Illion. It stumped over and handed it to him.

“Thank you,” Illion said to it bemusedly.

“Walking Shelf, go: go back to the corner,” said Deor in a singsong voice, then he glanced at Morlock. “So you were right. How did you know Illion was coming?”

“I didn’t know,” said Morlock, “but I did ask him to.”

“I’m glad you did,” said Illion, perching on a chair and setting down his food and drink on a nearby table. “The hospitality of Tower Ambrose is strangely excellent and excellently strange.”

“Like the compliments of Illion the Wise,” Jordel said wryly.

“Let him eat! Try the rolled flatcakes, Illion. They’re good.”

Illion ate and drank, and the conversation became general. Morlock didn’t partake in it unless someone addressed him in particular, and then he answered as briefly as possible. He got up to pour himself some more tea, then came back to sit by Aloê and drink it. He was waiting.

Eventually Illion pushed away his food, accepted a refill of wine, and turned to Morlock. The waiting was over. “Listen,” he said, “why did you break the Stone rather than kill Kelat? Either would have broken the hostile rapport.”

“Something in him,” Morlock said.

“There was, and it was still in contact with Rulgân. You have no doubts about who the speaker was?”

“None.”

“Well. I didn’t say so earlier, but: good work, Guardian. My throat thanks you, from the bottom of my heart.”

Morlock opened his free hand and waited.

Illion sighed and drew something from his pocket. It was like a gem, the kind often used as a focus of power. It looked like a white diamond veined with red ruby. “Here it is,” he said. He tossed it to Morlock.

Morlock held it up to the light, and thought, and said nothing. Aloê watched him.

“You cut it out of his brain?” Deor asked. “Is he dead? Oh, of course he is.”

“No,” Illion said, “he didn’t die. Not permanently, anyway. We sealed his brain, his skull, and his skin and Noreê took him off to the lockhouse in the west side where the surviving Khnauronts are being kept.”

“Will he die?” Morlock asked.

Illion shrugged and drank. “We all will, Morlock.”

“Some sooner than others, if that icy witch has her way,” Deor remarked. “Telling truths, Guardians,” he said when some protested.

“Is he sane?” Morlock asked Illion.

“Yes. He remembers things about his life, for instance, that he didn’t before. He’ll remember more, in time. And we inscribed a protection against dragonspell in kharnum letters on his naked skull, so he won’t fall prey to that trap again.”

“Good of you.”

“It was Noreê’s idea.” He turned to Deor. “I know why you say what you say. But there is more to her than you know.”

Deor raised his mug in salute. “I honor you for defending your friend, Illion.”

“It’s not just that. It’s about justice.”

“Aha, but what about that thing you people are always saying? ‘I don’t judge; I defend.’”

“Perhaps I’m in the wrong line of work,” said Illion. “I like justice, when I can get it.” He turned back to Morlock. “What do you think of the thing, Morlock the Maker?”

“I think this gem did not grow in the veins of the ground,” Morlock said thoughtfully. “There are makers in the unguarded lands who can do work like this, but they are mostly dwarves.”

“Unlikely that they would take a commission from a dragon. Or do you think this was stolen?”

“No, I think it was crafted to be a vessel of power for Rulgân in particular. It vibrates with draconic force.”

“And therefore . . .” Illion said, and waited.

Morlock didn’t speak.

Jordel said, “You can’t suppose that someone in the Wardlands made it for him?”

“I have supposed it,” Illion said, “and it’s not impossible, you know. The Wardlands are wide and there are many people in them, thinking their own thoughts and going their own ways. Maybe someone’s path brought them to this. But no, I think there’s something else even likelier.”

“Old Ambrosius, of course,” said Sundra. “What do you say, Morlock?”

“Yes. I think so.” Morlock tossed the dragonstone back to Illion.

Illion was startled, but quick of hand. He caught the stone and said, “That’s odd. I thought you would want this.”

“Keep it,” Morlock suggested, “in case Rulgân launches another attack against the Wardlands. But I think Kelat will be of more use to me. That is, if he can travel.”

“Oh ho!” Deor said. “The evening’s work has taken shape, I guess. We’re going to break into the lockhouse, kidnap Kelat, and carry him back to the unguarded lands for a dragon hunt. Am I wrong, harven?”

“No,” said Morlock.

“Yes,” said Aloê, “about one thing. That is the night’s work, not the evening’s. If my husband is going on a deadly mission into the unguarded lands, you will need to spend a pair of hours preparing for the journey. And he needs to spend that time with me.”

“Ath, rokhlan!” Deor said, bowing low. “Ev xemennen akkram hav!”

Aloê stood and offered Morlock her hand. He rose and took it. She led him from the room, heedless of Naevros’ carefully averted eyes.

CHAPTER SIX

A Parting; a Meeting

Among other things, Aloê said, “I love you” and “You are in danger” and “They think you could be king.”

He did not answer the first in words at all, nor did she need him to. To the second he said, “There is no safe place anywhere. It may be we only choose where and when to meet the end.” To the third he said, “What?”

“Lernaion said it, after the Battle of Tunglskin. Earno called him a liar. I was half dead at the time, but I remember hearing it.”

Morlock sat silent, thinking. “This explains some things Lernaion has said to me of late.”

“Such as?”

“False courtesies, as if I were his senior in the Graith. As if he need ask my permission for things. As if I were king, I guess.”

“Who do you think the Graith listens to more—especially after today?”

“Let them listen. When I talk, I have things that need saying. But I am not king, nor am I even Summoner of the City. I don’t wish to be, Aloê.”

She turned away from him on the bed and drew a coverlet over her naked shoulders. “Why not?”

“Why not?” he repeated, astonished.

“You heard me!” She turned and glared at him. “It’s not like you to waste words, beloved. I say, ‘Why not?’ and I want your answer.”

“No one person should have supreme power in the land. Attempting it is grounds for exile. It is why my ruthen father was exiled, Aloê.”

“So what?”

“It doesn’t matter to you? It matters to me.”

“Say, then, you will not be king. You will be High Vocate of the Wardlands, leader of our Graith, and no more.”

“King in all but name? Why would I want that?”

“Don’t you want people to see that you are. . . .”

“That I’m what?”

“Better than everyone else!”

“I’m not. And I will not follow in my father’s footsteps.”

“You followed them into the Graith.”

“To be a better Guardian than he was. A better man.”

“And you are. Don’t you think I know that? Don’t you think everyone does?”

He was silent for a long time and she said, “I’ve shocked you.”

“No,” he said slowly. “We have lived together for a century, Aloê. We have met, heart to heart and mind to mind in rapture many times. I knew you were ambitious. I didn’t know it took this precise form, though.”

“You should think about your choices, beloved.”

“I have made my choice, Aloê.”

“No, beloved. You may have one before you that you don’t understand yet.”

“Tell me.”

Her golden eyes searched his face. “You’re not angry at me? If we’re going to fight, let’s fight. I don’t need an ironic fencing match just now.”

“I’m not angry. You see many things I would never see. Tell me.”

“What if your choice is between ruling the Wardlands or being exiled from them, with no third option? What then?”

“I can’t see how that would happen.”

“If people think you could breach the First Decree, they may exile you before you have the chance.”

“Not without giving me a chance to defend myself.”

“Are you joking?”

“No. That’s what I think.”

She was silent for a while. Then she said, “I won’t go with you.”

He shrugged uneasily. “Of course not. You must stay here to avenge Earno.”

“Thank you for that, too, but that’s not what I mean. If they exile you, I’ll stay here. My life is here.”

He bowed his head and thought long before he spoke. Finally he said, “That is what I would want for you. To be here, to do your work, to have your life.”

“That’s what you would want for me. What would you want for yourself?”

“You,” he said, smiling.

“Then we both can’t have what we want.”

He shook his head. “It won’t come to that.”

“If it does. . . .”

“If it does, you have told me. Have you nothing else to tell me before I leave for the end of the world?”

She did, but not in words. Their mouths were busy otherwise for an hour or so.

Morlock took a run through the rain room, put on clean clothes, and descended to the atrium of Tower Ambrose. Deor was waiting there with two packs. Morlock looked at them dubiously. One seemed too large. The other was larger.

“You always leave it to me to pack,” Deor began.

“And some call Illion ‘the Wise.’”

“Yes and—Was that irony at my expense, harven?”

“Everyone is accusing me of irony.”

“That doesn’t seem to be an answer. Oh, never mind. I want you to look over your pack. I don’t want any snide looks if I forgot to pack your favorite razor or something.”

Morlock grumbled at the gigantic backpack, evidently meant for him. “I hate a heavy backpack,” he said.

“Who doesn’t? I’ve given you the barest necessities.”

Morlock unlaced the pack and began to search through it. Then he just dumped the contents on the floor of the atrium and began selecting items for repacking. He took flatbread, dried meat, and a waterbottle and put aside all other foodstuffs. A firemaker, a few tools, three books, and a bedroll completed his kit. He laced up the considerably lighter backpack and called for Walking Shelf to gather up the rest and take it away.

Deor sighed. “I suppose you’ll want to go through mine as well?”

Morlock shook his head. What Deor carried was his business. But Morlock did not propose to spend the rest of his life wandering in the unguarded lands: the barest necessities would do.

“Shall we wait for Aloê?” Deor said uncertainly, as Morlock bound his sword and a stabbing spear in their scabbards to the frame of the backpack.

Morlock thought of Aloê as he had last seen her: her dark face angry under a bright glaze of tears. He shook his head.

Deor shrugged and shouldered his own backpack. They went out through the front door, which closed and locked behind them.

As they stepped into the street they both looked back and saw Aloê standing on the balcony above the door, a shadow framed by the dim light behind her.

“Hurry back,” she said.

“All right,” said Morlock, and turned away. He felt then he was walking away from everything that mattered to him.

Around the side were the modest stables of Tower Ambrose, and when Morlock stopped by them Deor said, “Oh, no. Not on one of those things.”

“We must cross the city as fast as we can. What do you propose?”

“What do I propose? I propose that you, the master of all makers, fashion some sort of device that enables a man or a dwarf or even both to travel a decent distance in some way that preserves their dignity and comfort and that in no way involves contact with vicious, sweaty, herbivorous beasts!”

As Deor raved, Morlock was already opening the stable doors. Reluctantly, Deor assisted in saddling a couple of herbivorous beasts, a horse named Nimber for Morlock and a pony named Trundle for Deor. They cantered west along the River Road southwest for a while, then took the Vintners’ Way due west. The road was unlit except by Chariot and Trumpeter, both red and gloomy over the western horizon: it was the last day of the month of Marrying. But the way was clear and they travelled steadily until Tower Ambrose was lost among the thicket of towers reaching into the starlit sky.

Vintners’ Way ran west into mountain country, and they followed it through the ruinous western wall of the city into the neighborhoods beyond as far as the nightmare-painted streets of Fungustown.

“I never like coming here at night,” Deor whispered. “Or in twilight. Or in the daytime.”

Morlock grunted.

The only building lit up in Fungustown was the lockhouse. It had been a block of apartments when it was built. Noreê and her attendant-thains had not changed the walls at all, but simply put the prisoners in the windowless basement.

Morlock reined in Nimber two streets away from the lockhouse, or tried to. The horse didn’t seem to want to stop, so in the end he simply undid the bindings on his pack and jumped off with it. Deor, with an undeniable degree of smugness, brought Trundle to a halt. He was about to give Morlock a demonstration of how to secure his steed with reins to a lampless lamp post, but before he got a chance to speak Trundle shook loose and followed Nimber up the dark street.

“Where did you get those ridiculous beasts?” he asked Morlock.

“Borrowed them from Illion,” said the other quietly.

The horses, Westhold bred and trained, had enough sense to get home. Deor shrugged and decided not to worry about them. He was a little worried about how they would tackle the next stage of the journey, but at least it wouldn’t be on horseback.

They soft-footed up the street but turned before they reached the crossroad that would bring them to the front of the lockhouse. They snuck up the street behind it and approached the house from the rear.

It was too much to hope for that the back of the house would be completely unguarded. But, in fact, there were only two thains there, and they were less than attentive. Their spears were standing against the wall of a nearby house, and they sat on the curb playing dice in the pale glow of a coldlight.

“Three crosses,” said the shorter of the two, a woman seemingly. “That’s twenty-one to you.” She handed the dice and cup to her watchmate.

He took them and shook them and said, “I don’t like this duty.”

“I don’t enjoy looking at your face, either.”

“It’s nothing to do with that. You said no grudges, Krida.”

“So I did. Are you going to roll, or just make knuckly music all night long?”

“Rolling.” The dice clattered onto the streetstones and grew still. “Night and day. Top that, wench.”

“I topped your mother,” said Thain Krida, accepting the dice cup and dice.

“Who hasn’t? Shake ‘em up, Guardian.”

Krida rattled the dice in the cup and threw. “Spider-face. Chaos in shiny nuggets! Go again?”

“Sure. Why not? For another meat pie?”

“I’m tired of buying you meat pies. How about a bowl of red cream?”

“Sure. You go first: loser’s privilege. I’ll tell you what it is with this duty, Krida.”

Krida, shaking the dice cup, guessed, “No, let me guess. Nightmares from the evil walls? Stink from the prisoners? Guilt from profiting by your watchmate’s bad luck?”

“No. It’s this: I joined the Graith to keep the Wardlands safe. But now we have a prison. What’s next? Tax collecting? Treason trials? We get to genuflect before some self-styled king and laugh at his stupid jokes?”

“Throwing,” said Krida flatly. After the dice skittered to a halt she said, “A snake and a bird. Not so bad.”

“But you’re not saying anything, so I guess you think I’m a bung-biter.”

“I do think you’re a bung-biter, but that’s not why.”

“Answer me straight or keep the dice and play against yourself.”

She handed him the dice and the cup, and she said, “I don’t know, Garol. I don’t like guarding a prison, either, but no one said it was permanent. Noreê says that a king is what she’s trying to prevent—those Ambrosiuses.”

“Doesn’t she seem a little crazy to you on the subject?”

“You didn’t know Old Ambrosius? I guess not. Listen, if Noreê, who walked against the Dark Seven, is scared of that guy, there’s reason for it. He had reason to hate Earno, and now Earno is dead, dropped dead, murdered in the middle of the Wardlands in the sight of three Guardians, and no one knows who did it! That tells you who did it. Old Ambrosius, or maybe the young one.”

“Ah.”

“They say he was there. I don’t like all this stuff. Dwarves and mandrakes and God Sustainer knows what else walking around the place like they belonged here. I remember when this was a free country for people—just people, not every weird shtutt that wandered over the mountains. It started to get bad when the Northhold came under the Guard. And who was responsible for that?”

“The Graith.”

“Who really? It was that Old Ambrosius.”

“You weren’t even born back then. What do you know about it?”

“I hear things. You would, too, Garol, if you bothered to listen.”

“All I know is, I didn’t sign on to be a prison guard.”

Krida groaned. “Shut up and roll.”

Standing in the shadows, Morlock mimed tossing something. Deor would have preferred a clearer clue, but he nodded and gestured at his eyes. Morlock nodded and closed his eyes.

Deor crouched and groped on the ground for a suitable rock. It took him a while to find one, but when he did he tapped Morlock on the elbow to let him know it was almost time to act, and then he threw the rock as hard as he could at the watch-thains’ coldlight.

The glass shattered and the light went out. Deor saw the two goggling at each other in the glow of the dispersing lightwater.

Morlock brushed by him, running up the alley in his soft shoes, his eyes still tightly closed. A man’s eyes would not adjust as quickly to darkness as Deor’s did, but the dwarf thought his harven-kin was overdoing the caution a bit. He followed him into the fray.

There was a scramble under the wall of the lockhouse as the guard-thains tried to find their spears in the dark. They hadn’t yet thought to call for help, then Morlock and Deor were on them.

Morlock seemed to be throttling Garol, which to Deor’s mind was a little extreme. The attack also wasn’t really an option for Deor, as Krida was an armlength or so taller than him.

He set his feet and punched her as hard as he could in the stomach. But his aim was a little off and his stone-hard fist fell on her pubic bone. She bent over, gasping for air, and he hit her hard under the chin when it came into reach. She rolled unconscious on the street next to the dice and cup. Morlock lowered Garol there beside her—still breathing, Deor was glad to see, but quite unaware of the world.

Morlock took a wedged digging tool from a pocket in his sleeve and Deor did the same. They went to work on the base of the wall.

The first inch or so was painted stucco; after that they started getting into the dried fungus. Deor wondered whether they should cut breathing masks for themselves from their cloaks, but Morlock didn’t even seem to consider it, so he didn’t bother to make the suggestion. The nightmares were not physical; they were just trapped in the dried flesh of the fungus, like an old man’s soul in a dying body.

The feeling of dread that he had dreaded came over Deor with startling suddenness. For a dwarf, digging is usually a happy occasion, but this was not like digging through honest dirt and rock. The outer layers of fungus were oddly crispy, like mummified human flesh. The core of the wall was harder, less layered, like ancient dried-out bone. Deor knew that he was lying there next to Morlock digging through a wall. But at the same time he felt that he was digging into a gigantic skull. Soon they would break through and confront the gigantic carnivorous maggots that had devoured the giant’s brain and were ravenous for new flesh.

“You’re not my father and never were!” Morlock snarled, holding his digger like a knife. “My father is dead! His ashes rest in the Holy Halls under Thrymhaiam!”

That startled Deor out of his skull nightmare. Morlock was having a nightmare about Merlin, of course. He knew his harven-kin often did.

“I wish Oldfather Tyr was with us now,” he whispered to Morlock. “There was nothing that he feared.”

Morlock shook his head—not like he was disagreeing; like a man waking. Then he whispered, “We must be close to the interior. The nightmares will be thickest there.”

“Joy of joys.”

They dug.

The horror that Krida felt for mandrakes and dwarves was not hard for Deor to understand. He himself felt it for Other Folk at times, especially when they were dead. A dwarf’s soul, he knew or believed, mounted into the sky and fled the world through the gateway in the west on the morning after its body’s death. But there was nothing in any teaching about the souls of men and women doing the same thing. They lingered, like mist, in the dark places of the earth; they haunted graveyards and possessed dead bodies.

Deor knew where he and Morlock were and what they were doing, but at the same time he became convinced that they were digging into the mausoleum of a human graveyard. He had seen them, great buildings just like this but full of corpses rotting in boxes. And Other Folk went there and left flowers and had picnics and engaged in their bizarre and ugly mating practices on grass fed by the filth of rotting flesh. It was deeply disgusting. He hated those places and he couldn’t imagine why he had come to this one. Soon they would break through to the interior and it would be filled with bodies. But they would not be dead bodies. Not anymore. . . .

His digger broke through into empty darkness. Not far away were staring eyes, gleaming silver in the moonlight.

“Stand away,” Morlock directed, and Deor didn’t need to be told twice. When Deor was clear, Morlock swung around so that his feet were facing the pitted wall. He braced himself and kicked until the hole was big enough to crawl through.

“Rope,” he said.

Deor was a little surprised that Morlock was about to hang himself, but on reflection he decided that it was really the only escape. He handed Morlock the bight of rope hanging from his belt.

Morlock drove his digger between two paving blocks and anchored the rope to it. Then he loosed the bight and, with the free end in hand, slithered feet first into the hole.

Morlock saw eyes—dozens of them staring at him in the bar of moonslight falling after him into the cellar. He heard the hiss of many mouths breathing, smelt the stink of many bodies and their waste.