the passage was just wide enough for Corson and Nyctasia to walk abreast. They moved slowly, uncertain of their footing in the dim glow of the lanterns. Even their words were hushed by the dense gloom that stretched ahead of them endlessly, unbroken by any light or noise. They soon fell silent, listening, but heard only the sound of their boots scuffing the stone. They had not been walking long before the passage branched into two corridors, one continuing straight ahead but narrowing, the other angling off to the left. Corson turned into the roomier passage, but she soon regretted her choice.
It was clear that this part of the tunnel had served a definite purpose. On either side of them, long rectangular niches had been cut into the walls, some left empty, some closed over with clay tiles, their edges sealed with mortar.
Although Corson had never seen their like before, she immediately knew that they were graves.
“‘And we came to the city of the dead,’” Nyctasia recited, “‘wandering long among those dark corridors, and past the innumerable and silent host that dwell there. How humbled we were and awe-struck. What were all our travels but a path to this last, final journey before which all our adventures paled to country jaunts on a summer’s day?’”
“What are you babbling about?”
“That’s from the memoirs of the Lady Ghystralda. She was always going to one place or another, and then filling scores of books with her experiences and the old travelers’ tales she heard. The woman had the most commonplace ideas, and she talked about them as if they were gems of learning and understanding, but when I was a child I thought them most profound. I read her works over and over, wishing I could run away from Rhostshyl and see the world… This place is very similar to one she described, though, except that it was teeming with ghosts, according to her. It’s interesting to see some of the same customs in such different parts of the world.” She held her lantern close to one of the graves to study the tile, which was decorated with the sign of the Cymvela. Some of the tombs bore portraits of the departed, showing them sleeping serenely in a boat on calm waters, or reunited with their loved ones in a sunny garden. Others were ornamented with colored porcelain, brass medallions or terracotta lamps.
There were even small crystal perfume flasks pushed into the mortar, and a sweet scent still lingered in the air, as faint and fragile as the memory of a long-faded flower.
“You don’t suppose there really are ghosts here, do you?” Corson asked.
Nyctasia grinned at her. “‘Who can say what restless spirits walk these shadow-haunted halls?’”
“Stop spouting bad verse at me!” Corson was glad of her rising anger, which made her forget how the place frightened her. “Here’s one I’ll wager you don’t know,” she said, and sang in a cracked, off-key voice:
“Sing hey, sing ho, if we will or no,
To the worms below must our journeys go.
If you can’t pay, then you must owe.
And death makes equal the high and the low.
“I learned that in the army. Write it down, why don’t you?”
“I shall. Corson, if you want to go back-”
“No! Why should we? Let’s see what there is to see.” She wanted desperately to go back, but she would rather risk the ghosts than admit it to Nyctasia. The place seemed more eerie and unnatural to her with every step-and less likely to lead to any treasure. The ditty she had sung for Nyctasia ran through her head in a mocking refrain. Unbidden, images of death rose before her, not the peaceful death these tombs promised, but the cruel, bloody death of the battlefield. Her own ghosts haunted her, if no others.
“Corson, come look at these!” Nyctasia called.
“What now?” Corson demanded. “If it’s not coin or loot I don’t want to see it.”
Nyctasia had come to the end of the passage, a smooth wall on which a remarkably realistic arched doorway had been painted. An inviting landscape of meadows and mountains lay beyond, and far in the distance a procession of men and women could be seen approaching. But Nyctasia was pointing to the ceiling of the crypt-chamber, which, Corson now saw, was also painted.
“More of their cursed daubs,” she snarled.
“These are different. They’re much older, and I don’t think they were done by the Cymvelans.”
The drawings were of grotesque beasts, much like those in the temple, but even more vivid and alive. They were drawn in a helter-skelter fashion all over the ceiling, and each figure seemed absorbed in some private but violent dance. The light of the lanterns plucked the painted surfaces from the darkness and the distorted, wildly gyrating creatures appeared to move, as if they had come to life.
Nyctasia softly said, “The Cymvelans lived in the light, but it was the darkness that secretly nourished them. It was that they were trying to show in their temple paintings, I think. The tree was the sign of their belief, which was rooted in darkness but spread its crown wide under the sky, and throve in the sunlight. And all the while these crypts, with their prancing monsters, lay beneath the temple, and perhaps their rhythms were really the heart of the dance.”
“I know which side I’d wager on,” Corson said harshly, “in a contest between these”-she gestured toward the capering figures-“and those dancing poppets the Cymvelans painted. These speak for what’s truly in the blood. The rest is just some sort of children’s game, like your muzzy notions about the Indwelling Spirit. Suppose the Indwelling Spirit is really like one of these here?”
Nyctasia caught her breath. It hardly seemed to be Corson who spoke, but some malignant stranger who sought to turn her own deepest fears against her. Forcing herself to speak lightly, she said, “Well, now I’m frightened too, Corson. I hope you’re satisfied.”
“I’m not,” said Corson. “Frightened, I mean. Or satisfied either, for that matter. I don’t want the bones of idiot wizards, or the scrawls of lunatics-it’s treasure I’m after. Let’s quit this place and try the other tunnel. These lanterns are good yet for a while.”
They began to retrace their steps, but just before they reached the main passageway, Corson stopped in her tracks and looked back. “Nyc, you don’t think the treasure’s buried back there, in one of those graves?”
Nyctasia hesitated. “I confess, the idea did occur to me, but I don’t think it would have occurred to the Cymvelans. They had more respect for the dead than that. I think that burial chamber was a sacred place to them, not just a convenient spot to use as a treasury. And nothing in the riddles suggests it.
But even if I thought it likely, nothing would induce me to open those tombs and look. You can do as you like, of course.”
“Thanks,” said Corson drily, “but you’re probably right. Let’s go on.” They entered the narrower branch of the corridor, with Corson in the lead. Here they had to walk single-file. “Still, they wouldn’t be the first, you know,” Corson continued. “During the Battle of Aylrhui, they looted the tomb of one of the old kings. There were riches in there beyond anyone’s belief. Plates of gold, chains of silver, jewels, all sorts of rich things.” She ticked them off on her fingers like a householder’s marketing.
“All part of the spoils of war, I suppose?”
“No. The robbers were caught and buried alive, as a sign of goodwill. That war was settled by truce, you see, since neither side looked like winning. It was all for nothing. A minor skirmish, they called it.” She shook her head. “Scores of us were killed. But I’ve no right to complain. I was well-paid… You probably think it’s wrong to rob the dead, but what harm could it do them, answer me that.”
“It could not harm them,” said Nyctasia seriously, “but perhaps it could harm you.”
“Ghosts, do you mean?” said Corson, frowning. Had she heard something in the tunnel, just ahead of them? Not listening to Nyctasia’s answer, she peered into the dark corridor, trying to pierce the shadows, but there was nothing to be seen. She stopped and slowly drew her sword, motioning for Nyctasia to do the same. “I think there’s someone ahead of us,” she whispered, no louder than a sigh. “I hear breathing.”
Nyctasia heard nothing at first, but as they both held their breath to listen, the sound of heavily drawn breathing came to her out of the darkness. “Shall we go back?” she asked softly.
“No. I think I know who’s skulking down here, and I want to meet them face to face,” Corson said, with an almost wolfish grin, “This is no crew of whispers and shadows. Ghosts don’t breathe.” She blew out her lantern. “There’ll be light ahead, I wager. Stay behind me.”
As she strode eagerly up the passageway, all her fears seemed to drop away from her. For an instant, Nyctasia lost sight of her in the gloom. As she hurried to catch up, she heard Corson’s shout and the unmistakable clang of blade against blade. Someone screamed.
Corson was framed by the entrance to a large cavern lit by wall-torches. A body lay sprawled at her feet, and she was fighting with a squat, strongly built man.
Nyctasia could only stop and watch in fascinated horror. She knew who would win this battle, and so did Corson’s opponent. He had the face of one who sees his own death plainly before him and knows there is no escape. Corson’s back was to Nyctasia, but she had no doubt that Corson was smiling.
There was a flicker of steel, and the man’s sword struck sparks from the stone as it dropped to the floor. He seemed to Nyctasia to take an impossibly long time to fall.
Corson stooped over him. “Take the sword from the other one, Nyc,” she said, without turning around. She was removing a ring of keys from the dead man’s belt. “Here’s the mystery of these ruins-it’s a slavers’ den. No wonder folk have disappeared here. Disappeared right into the slave markets of Celys, that’s my guess.” Swinging the keys jauntily at her side, she walked into the large cave.
Nyctasia followed, marveling at the mystery that was Corson herself. One moment she was trembling because she’d found a few graves, and the next moment she was putting other folk in their graves as carelessly as a cat killing mice. She was obviously reluctant to plunder the tombs, despite her bravado, but she stripped the bodies of her own prey without a qualm.
“See for yourself,” she said to Nyctasia, sounding very pleased with herself.
The cavern was large and cold, and the roof was very high-beyond the reach of the guttering torches. Another passageway entered it at the left. The chamber could easily have held fifty people, but there were only five, three men and two women, manacled to the wall. All of them were looking back at Corson and Nyctasia with frightened, apprehensive eyes.
Corson raised the keys and smiled. “Don’t worry, those vermin are dead. We’ll set you free.”
The prisoners twisted their necks to look at each other. A woman said something to them in a language Nyctasia couldn’t understand, but Corson’s years in the Imperial Army had made her familiar with more than one eastern dialect. Much to Nyctasia’s surprise, and rather to her annoyance, Corson answered the woman fluently, and the two began talking rapidly to each other. The others listened avidly, and one of the men started to cry. Nyctasia grabbed the keys and hastened to unlock their chains.
A slight, fair-haired man, shorter than the others, said to her, “I thank you, mistress Edonaris. How did you come to find us?” He rubbed his wrists slowly.
“By chance,” said Nyctasia shortly, busy with the clumsy locks.
He followed her. “But what are they saying?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” she admitted.
Corson, looking more pleased than ever, told her, “They’re from beyond the Spine. Can’t you understand anything of what they say? With all your learning, I thought you’d surely be easy with their tongue.”
“I have, of course, studied both Ancient and Modem Liruvathe from texts, but one learns only the literary forms that way,” Nyctasia said, in obvious frustration.
“If they wrote down their words, I believe I could read them, but it’s not likely that they can write.”
“That’s not much use, then,” said Corson smugly. “Now this lass tells me that all of this group except him”-she jerked her thumb at the man who’d spoken to Nyctasia-“are from Mount Eilas, in Liruvath. They were on their way to Amron Therain when they were ambushed and brought here. Probably they’d have been smuggled to Osela and sold.”
One of the men broke in, gesturing wildly and shouting. The others seemed to agree with whatever it was he was saying.
Corson translated, “There’s at least three more of the bastards about. He also says that they’re dung-caters, the spawn of scrofulous pigs, and that they rut with dogs in the gutter.”
Nyctasia shook her head, smiling. “Even if he did write that down, I don’t think I could follow it. Unquestionably the vernacular, and probably a corrupt dialect. Let’s get these people out of here before the rest of the misbegotten offspring of unhealthy swine return.”
Her words made no impression on Corson. “They want to kill them,” she said simply, handing out the weapons that had belonged to the dead guards. “Let’s wipe out this rat’s nest now. Why not?” The four easterners took down the torches and gathered a few large rocks.
“I can think of any number of good reasons why not, but surely-”
“Nyc, these folk want vengeance, not reasons.”
“I don’t,” said the fair-haired man tensely. “I want to leave, and if you’ve any sense you’ll tell them to do the same.”
“He’s right, Corson. Why take the risk?”
“Because if we don’t catch those scum now they might get away!”
“Yes, but so might we. We’re probably outnumbered. They’ll be better armed than we are, and they know these tunnels.” She pointed at the knot of haggard, grim-faced prisoners. “They must be weak, they’re in no shape to fight. Tell them to come away now, and we’ll send others to hunt down the slavers.”
Corson translated her advice to the Liruvathid, but she did not need to translate their answer. One woman spoke for all of them, and Nyctasia understood her well enough. They all clutched at their weapons and stood firm. Nyctasia sighed and drew her shortsword. The woman smiled.
“Fools!” exclaimed the other man. “You’ve no right-”
“Go, if you want, no one’s keeping you here,” Corson told him sharply, but a moment later they all knew it was too late for that. There were heavy footsteps approaching down the tunnel on the left.
Barking a few curt orders to the prisoners, Corson grouped them on either side of the opening. The fair-haired man caught Nyctasia’s eye, and she shrugged.
They joined the others and waited.
“We should have gone while we had the chance,” he muttered.
“If you don’t mean to fight, stay out of the way,” Corson said softly, “or you may find a knife in your gut by mischance. Now keep still.”
They listened, barely breathing, as the footsteps came closer.
Despite herself, Nyctasia began to feel the same eagerness to strike that inflamed the others. She recognized the thrill of waiting, with an arrow on the string, for the great eagle to swoop lower, waiting for the perfect moment to loose the arrow and bring down the bird that would harry her flocks no longer
…
But it was people they waited to slaughter here, she reminded herself. For, although she had urged caution, Nyctasia did not really doubt the outcome of this fight. Yet the bird of prey carried off a lamb only to feed its young, while the human raptors they were hunting preyed on their own kind, for gain. If it had been her duty to kill the one, why should these be spared? Were such people fit to live?
It had seemed to Nyctasia from the beginning that these caverns somehow called forth thoughts of death and destruction, nourished them, fostered them… But, right or wrong, her choice had been made, and she was determined to see it through.
Then the first of the slavers entered the cave. Instantly, one of the foreigners clubbed him over the head, and the others fell on him. Nyctasia turned her head-clearly, they didn’t need her help. It was soon over.
She looked up to see four more of the bandits at the tunnel’s mouth, and for a moment her eyes met theirs. They were heavily armed, but to Nyctasia’s surprise they suddenly turned and fled back up the passage. Corson and some of the others gave chase, but they soon returned. The one large tunnel had split up into a maze of smaller ones, Corson reported, and their quarry had scattered and quickly disappeared. “Rutting cowards!” she spat. She hated to let the slavers escape, but she knew better than to run blindly into those twisting tunnels.
“It was the sight of an Edonaris that chased them off,” the fair-haired man explained. “They know their game’s up if the Edonaris have found them out.”
“That’s why they turned tail so quickly the morning they attacked us, Nyc. They saw you. And I thought it was my mighty prowess that drove them away!”
Nyctasia nodded slowly. “The Edonaris would search the ruins stone by stone if one of their own disappeared. No wonder the ghosts have never troubled them.”
She began to laugh and could hardly stop, despite the puzzled looks the others turned upon her. The fight was over, and she’d not had to do a thing. Nothing at all!