“He might have stepped out only moments ago,” said Fallis softly. “There’s no dust—no disarray—” He glanced at the loose sheets on the work-table. “Look, Connaught. Supply lists—names—and here’s a watch-schedule of some kind: south outpost, east outpost, north—”
“I wonder what happened,” murmured Amberion. “I feel no evil here at all, only great peace and good, but—some sleep, and others are gone—”
Connaught sighed. “Amberion, we wouldn’t know if Falk himself slept out there with the others. Who knows what he looked like? The legends say he was thinner than Gird—and none of us ever saw Gird. I don’t suppose,” he said, turning to Ardhiel, “that you happen to be of an age to know what Falk looked like—”
Ardhiel shook his head. “Sir Marshal, I am sorry that this is not a mystery I can solve for you. Only I agree with Sir Amberion, that this is not a place of evil. Whatever happened here, happened for good.”
“So—now what?” asked Fallis. “I feel strange, rooting around in these things that seem untouched. If it were a ruin, and everything half-destroyed—but here, I feel like a—a robber, almost.”
“We asked Gird’s grace, and the High Lord’s power, Fallis. They know our need, and the needs of this place. We will be warned, I daresay, if we trespass where they do not wish us to go.”
Fallis nodded. Connaught turned to the others. “Amberion, if you don’t mind, you might lead a group looking for a lower entrance. They must have had a way to get animals in and out, and heavy loads.”
“With all the magic this place holds,” said Amberion dryly, “perhaps they simply wished them inside.” Connaught chuckled, then sobered abruptly. “By Gird, Amberion, I hope you’re wrong.”
Before Amberion got out of hearing, however, Fallis had found a map of the complex, in the wide desk drawer. They called Amberion back.
“Look—this is the main Hall—”
“And this is Luap’s office, as we thought. So that corridor, if we’d gone on, would lead to the kitchens—”
“I wonder what they do for firedraught, so far down,” said Fallis. “Master Balkon, do dwarves have any trouble with that?”
“Firebreath? No, it is important to make a hole for it, that is all.”
“Look at these red lines, Amberion—could that be shafts?”
“It could be anything until we go and look. Let me—ah. Look here. Is there another sheet?”
“Yes. Two more; I put them on the table there.”
“Good. Let me see—yes, look at this. I thought so. This keys to the other sheet, and this must be the ground level—if his mapmaker followed Finthan tradition, then this sign means a spring.”
“But we saw springs coming out of the rock very high,” said Connaught.
“Yes, but look—isn’t that a trail sign? And it’s twisting here, as in natural land, not straight or gently curved like these corridors.”
Paks, looking over their shoulders, could make little of the brown, red, and black lines on the maps. She had found the Hall easily enough, and Luap’s study, but the maze of corridors, and the strange marks that Amberion insisted meant ramps or stairs, confused her.
“I only hope,” Fallis was saying, “that your trail isn’t like that rockclimb we had.”
Amberion laughed. “No—I’m sure it’s not. We’ll go down that way and see. How many would you like left with you?”
“Who has a good writing hand?” asked Connaught. “We should make copies of what we find.” Paks and one of the men-at-arms, who was known to write clearly, stayed with the High Marshals.
Paks heard later that day how Amberion had led the little group through echoing passages of stone, ever deeper, down gentle ramps. They had found a stone stable, clean but for a few ancient bits of straw, and the deep-grooved ruts of the carts that had carried in fodder and carried out dung. They had found great kitchens, three of them, and Balkon had told them why—that whatever way the wind blew, one of the hearths would draw perfectly. They had found storerooms still full of casks and bales—but across the doors lay a line of silvery light that Amberion would not try to pass. And finally, when the last wide corridor ended in a blank face of stone, Amberion had touched it with one glowing finger, and the stone vanished in a colored mist. The cold, pine-scented air of the canyon blew in, swirling a little dust around their feet. Some of the men were reluctant to go out, fearing the passage would close again, but it stayed open like a great grange door behind them.
Paks spent that time copying what seemed to her a very dull list of names. She supposed that the High Marshals had some reason to need a complete list of Luap’s followers, with the years of their coming, but she could not understand it. Behind her she could hear them at the shelves, gently taking down one scroll or book after another, and murmuring to each other. She used up the small amount of ink that Fallis had had, and asked him for his inkstick. He reached over to Luap’s desk, where a bowl of ink sat waiting, as it seemed, and handed it to her.
“Use this?” Paks asked.
“Why not?” He hardly looked at her, face deep in a large volume bound in cedarwood.
“But it’s—it might be—”
“It’s just ink, Paksenarrion. What else could it be?” Paks felt her shoulders tighten at the sneer she thought she heard in his voice, and ducked her head. How did he know it was just ink. Ink doesn’t stay wet for years—all the years this place had been—whatever it had been. She stabbed at the ink with the pen, and felt vindicated when it clicked on the surface.
“It won’t write,” she said. “It’s dried up.”
“Oh?” Fallis put the book down, picked up the bowl, and tilted it. “That’s odd. It looked wet, and I’d have sworn it shifted. Hmm. Well, here’s the inkstick and—yes—here’s a bowl for it.”
Silently, Paks mixed a measure of ink with water from her flask. She pushed it over so that Elam could use it too.
Amberion reappeared to say that he had found the lower entrance, and had started moving the animals and others toward it.
“It’s nearly dark, though, so I thought it better to camp for the night—that trail is barely passable in daylight. Will you come out, or shall I have food sent in?”
“We’ll come out,” said Connaught. “Everyone needs to hear all about this, and we should be together.”
“I thought you might want to set sentries on the old guardposts.”
Connaught shook his head. “Until we know more about how this place works, that would simply call attention to us. Paks—Elam—that will do for today. Let’s go have some supper.”
And Paks, rising from her seat, realized how stiff and hungry she was. She followed the others out without a word.
In the next two days, some of the party explored as much of the old fortress as the light would allow. One rash yeoman tried to pass a doorway barred with silver light, and fell without a cry. Amberion touched his head, and did nothing more.
“He’ll wake with a headache, and more respect for these things. Someone stay with him, until he wakes.”
Paks spent her time copying records. She wished she could roam around, seeing the things others spoke of in the evenings; it didn’t seem fair that she had to act as scribe all the time. But no one had asked her what she wanted to do, and she refused to bring it up. Surely they could tell, if they thought about it, she thought bitterly. Finally, when one of the yeomen was describing a long climb up a narrow corridor to an outlook on the very top of the mountain, among the trees, Paks exploded.
“—and you could see so far,” the man said, gesturing. “North of here, and west—what a view. Of course it was cold up there, and after climbing all that way my legs quivered like jelly.” He grinned at Paks. “You’re lucky, lady, that you get to sit all day in the warm, just wiggling your fingers with a pen.”