Black arms rose and then plunged down—
Now she would have been glad – delirious with relief – to encounter a guard. An old codger hunting for the public lavatories. A servant. Anyone to witness what was happening, distract Gilbur. But the corridor was deserted. Master Gilbur spat curses as he pursued her. She was young, and running for her life; slowly, she widened the gap. But the air had already become fire in her lungs, and he didn’t seem to be tiring.
Plunged down—
In one way, she had no idea where she was going. She didn’t know these passages, had never been down here without a guide. The only thought in her mind was to find help. Before she faltered. She could feel her strength ebbing now. In another way, however, her instinctive sense of direction was sure, and she followed it unhesitatingly. To escape the fierce Imager, she tapped resources in herself that she didn’t know she possessed.
She took the route to Adept Havelock’s quarters.
There: the side passage. A thick wooden door, apparently the entrance to a storeroom. Yes, the entrance to a storeroom. A storeroom which hadn’t been appropriated to help house Orison’s increased population. She heaved the door open, pulled it shut behind her. It had a bolt. Didn’t it have a bolt? It had to have a bolt – had to have – but she couldn’t find it, couldn’t see, there was no light in the storeroom, no illumination except thin yellow slivers from the cracks around the door.
Master Gilbur’s bulk blocked even that light—
—and her fingers found the bolt, slapped it home just as he crashed against the door, trying to crush her with the weight of the wood and his own momentum.
The bolt twisted against its staples. But it held.
It wasn’t going to hold for long. Gilbur hit the door again, raging at it and her. She couldn’t see the bolt – but she could hear the metallic screaming noise as iron rusted into wood was forced out. The staples were going to give. It was only a matter of time.
Ignoring her frantic need for air and rest, she groped across the storeroom toward the door hidden at the back – the entrance to Adept Havelock’s secret rooms.
Because she was moving by instinct rather than conscious thought, she didn’t remember the possibility that the hidden door might be bolted until she found it open. Master Quillon had probably left it that way. He had probably intended to bring her here himself. Weak with relief and need, she opened the door and hurried into the lighted passage which led to Havelock’s domain.
The first room she came to was cluttered with mirrors.
Nothing had changed since her last visit here. The disarray was composed of full-length mirrors so uneven in shape and color that they showed Images she couldn’t begin to interpret; bits of flat glass that would have fit in her pocket; mirrors the right size for a dressing table, but piled on top of each other and scattered as if to keep anyone from seeing what they showed. All of them had been gleaned by King Joyse during his wars and never restored to the Congery; all of them were set in rich or loving frames which belied the neglect of their present circumstances. And all of them were useless. The Imagers who had made them were dead.
They didn’t have anything to do with her. She rushed past them.
The passage took two or three turns, but she didn’t lose her way. In a moment, she reached another door. She thought she could hear Master Gilbur still pounding to get into the storeroom – or perhaps the sound was simply caused by panic beating in her ears – so she pulled the door open and stumbled into the large, square chamber which Adept Havelock used as a study, and which gave him access to Orison’s networks of secret passages.
The air was musty, disused – something had gone wrong with the ventilation. There were too many people in the castle. Smoke from lamps with wicks that needed trimming curled lazily around the pillar which held up the center of the ceiling.
The Adept was there, lurking in his madness like a spider.
Master Quillon had asked Terisa to believe that Havelock had helped King Joyse plan the destruction of Mordant. Quillon had expected her to believe it – expected her to believe that the old Adept’s insanity didn’t prevent him from wisdom or cunning. And perhaps her dead rescuer was right. Perhaps only a madman like Havelock could have conceived a strategy which relied for its sole chance of success on Castellan Lebbick’s stability.
Nevertheless Terisa had nowhere else to turn now. Surely Quillon would have brought her here, if he had lived. The Adept had to help her. He had helped her in the past. He had tried to answer her questions. And Master Gilbur might catch up with her at any moment. He might kill the Adept as well, if he got the opportunity. And the Castellan was still after her.
“Havelock!” she gasped, wracking her lungs to force out words, “Gilbur killed Master Quillon. He’s after me. I need help. You’ve got to help me.”
Got to. As soon as she stopped running, she knew that she wouldn’t be able to stay on her feet much longer.
The Adept stood beside his hop-board table, hunching over it as if he had a game in progress, studying the board intently even though there were no men on it. He didn’t look up until she spoke; then, however, he raised his head and smiled amiably. Smoke eddied around him. One eye considered her casually; the other began a scrutiny of the wall behind her.
“My lady Terisa of Morgan,” he said in a tone of loopy mildness. “What a pleasant surprise. Fornicate you between the eyes. I trust you are well?”
“Havelock,” she insisted. “Listen to me. I need help. Gilbur killed Master Quillon. He’s right behind me.”
The Adept’s smile showed his teeth. “I’m glad to hear it,” he replied as if she had just indulged in a pleasantry. “You certainly look well. Rest and peace do wonders for the female complexion.
“Now, tell me what you would like to know. I’m completely at your service today.”
Horror welled up in her; she could hardly control it. The strain of defending Orison had finished him. He was gone, entirely out of touch with sanity. The air was too thick to give her lungs any relief. Quillon had been killed, and she was going to be killed, and the Adept himself was probably going to be killed. She didn’t know how to get through to him. Nearly weeping, she cried, “Don’t you understand? Can’t you hear me? Gilbur just killed Master Quillon. He’s coming here.”
Abruptly, he switched eyes, regarded her with the orb which had been staring at the wall. His nose cut the air like the beak of a hawk. On the other hand, his fleshy smile didn’t waver.
“My lady Terisa of Morgan,” he said again, “it would be my very great pleasure to rip the rest of your clothes off and throw you in a pigsty. Today I can answer questions. Ask me anything you want.
“But,” he commented as if this particular detail were trivial, “I can’t help you. Not today.”
She stopped and stared at him, almost retching for air and aid. I can’t help you. Not today.
Oh, Quillon!
“Almost everybody,” he went on in the same tone of relaxed good cheer, “wants to know why I burned up that creature of Imagery who tried to get Geraden. Timing, that’s the answer. Good timing. It doesn’t matter what you look like. It doesn’t even matter what you smell like. Anybody will lick your ass if you’ve got good timing. We weren’t ready. If Lebbick found out who our enemies are from that creature, it would all collapse. We wouldn’t be weak enough to defend ourselves.”
“Havelock!” Terisa wanted to hit him, curse at him, tear her hair. “Master Quillon was your friend! Gilbur just killed him! Don’t you even care?”