“What do you want? And make it quick,” Haplo muttered.
“We … uh … Rega and I … we want to be married.”
“Congratulations.”
“We think it will draw the people together, you see—”
“I think it’ll more likely touch off a riot, but that’s your problem.” Rega appeared a bit downcast, looked at Paithan uncertainly. The elf drew a deep breath, carried on.
“We want you to perform the ceremony.”
Haplo couldn’t believe he’d heard right. “You what?”
“We want you to perform the ceremony.”
“By ancient law,” struck in Zifnab, “a ship’s captain can marry people when they’re at sea.”
“Whose ancient law? And we’re not at sea.”
“Why … uh … I must admit, I’m rather vague on the precise legal—”
“You’ve got the old man.” The Patryn nodded. “Get him to do it.”
“I’m not a cleric,” protested Zifnab, indignant. “They wanted me to be a cleric, but I refused. Party needed a healer, they said. Hah! Fighters with all the brains of a doorknob attack something twenty times their size, with a bizillion hit points, and they expect me to pull their heads out of their rib cages! I’m a wizard. I’ve the most marvelous spell. If I could just remember how it went. Eight ball! No, that’s not it. Fire something. Fire … extinguisher! Smoke alarm. No. But I really think I’m getting close.”
“Get him off the bridge.” Haplo turned back to his work. Paithan and Rega edged in front of the old man, the elf put his hand gingerly on the Patryn’s tattooed arm. “Will you do it? Will you marry us?”
“I don’t know anything about elven marriage ceremonies.”
“It wouldn’t have to be elven. Or human, either. In fact it would be better if it weren’t. That way no one would get mad.”
“Surely your people have some kind of ceremony,” suggested Rega. “We could use yours… .”
… Haplo didn’t miss the woman.
Runners in the Labyrinth are a solitary lot, relying on their speed and strength, their wits and ingenuity to survive, to reach their goal. Squatters rely on numbers. Coming together to form nomadic tribes, the squatters move through the Labyrinth at a slower pace, often following the routes explored by the runners. Each respects the other, both share what they have: the runners, knowledge; the squatters, a brief moment of security, stability.
Haplo entered the squatter camp in the evening, three weeks after the woman had left him. The headman was there to greet him on his arrival; the scouts would have sent word of his coming. The headman was old, with grizzled hair and beard, the tattoos on his gnarled hands were practically indecipherable. He stood tall, though, without stooping. His stomach was taut, the muscles in the arms and legs dean cut and well defined. The headman clasped his hands together, tattooed backs facing outward, and touched his thumbs to his forehead. The circle was joined.
“Welcome, runner.”
Haplo made the same gesture, forced himself to keep his gaze fixed on the squatter’s leader. To do anything else would be taken for insult, perhaps would even be dangerous. It might appear that he was counting the squatter’s numbers.
The Labyrinth was tricky, intelligent. It had been known to send in imposters. Only by adhering strictly to the forms would Haplo be allowed to enter the camp. But he couldn’t help darting a furtive glance around the people gathered to inspect him. Particularly, he looked at the women. Not catching, right off, a glimpse of chestnut hair, Haplo wrenched his attention back to his host.
“May the gates stand open for you, headman.” Hands to his forehead, Haplo bowed.
“And for you, runner.” The headman bowed.
“And your people, headman.” Haplo bowed again. The ceremony was over. Haplo was now considered a member of the tribe. The people continued on about their business as if he were one of themselves, though sometimes a woman paused to stare, give him a smile, and nod toward her hut. At another time in his life, this invitation would have sent fire through his veins. A smile back and he would have been taken into the hut, fed and accorded all the privileges of a husband. But Haplo’s blood seemed to run cold these days. Not seeing the smile he wanted to see, he kept his expression carefully guarded, and the woman wandered away in disappointment.
The headman had waited politely to see if Haplo accepted any of these invitations. Noting that he did not, the headman graciously offered his own dwelling place for the evening. Haplo accepted gratefully and, seeing the surprise and somewhat suspicious glint in the headman’s eyes, added, “I am in a purification cycle.”
The headman nodded, understanding, ail suspicion gone. Many Patryns believed, rightly or wrongly, that sexual encounters weakened their magic. A runner planning on entering unknown territory often entered a purification cycle, abstaining from the company of the opposite sex several days before venturing out. A squatter going out on a hunting expedition or facing a battle would do the same thing.
Haplo, personally, didn’t happen to believe in such nonsense. His magic had never failed him, no matter what pleasures he had enjoyed the night before. But it made a good excuse.
The headman led Haplo to a hut that was snug and warm and dry. A fire burned brightly in the center, smoke trailing up from the hole in the top. The headman settled himself near it. “A concession to my old bones. I can run with the youngest of them and keep pace. I can wrestle a karkan to the ground with my bare hands. But I find I like a fire at night. Be seated, runner.” Haplo chose a place near the hut entryway. The night was warm, the hut was stifling.
“You come upon us at a good time, runner,” said the headman. “We celebrate a binding this night.”
Haplo made the polite remark without thinking much about it. His mind was on other matters. He could have asked the question at any time now; all the proper forms had been observed. But it stuck in his throat. The headman asked about the trails, and they fell into talk about Haplo’s journeying, the runner providing wh;>t information he could about the land through which he’d traveled.
When darkness fell, an unusual stir outside the hut reminded Haplo of the ceremony about to take place. A bonfire turned night to day. The tribe must feel secure, Haplo thought, following the headman out of the hut. Otherwise they would never have dared. A blind dragon could see this blaze. He joined the throng around the fire.
The tribe was large, he saw. No wonder they felt secure. The scouts on the perimeters would warn them in case of attack. Their numbers were such that they could fend off most anything, perhaps even a dragon. Children ran about, getting in everyone’s way, watched over by the group.
The Patryns of the Labyrinth share everything—food, lovers, children. Binding vows are vows of friendship, closer akin to a warrior’s vows than marriage vows. A binding may take place between a man and a woman, between two men, or between two women. The ceremony was more common among squatters than runners, but occasionally runners bound themselves to a partner. Haplo’s parents had been bound. He himself had considered binding. If he found her … The headman raised his arms in the air, the signal for silence. The crowd, including the youngest baby, hushed immediately. Seeing all was in readiness, the headman stretched his hands out and took hold of the hands of those standing on either side of him. The Patryns all did the same, forming a gigantic circle around the fire. Haplo joined them, clasping hands with a well-formed man about his age on his left and a young woman barely into her teens (who blushed deeply when Haplo took her hand) on his right.
“The circle is complete,” said the headman, looking around at his people, an expression of pride on the lined and weathered face. “Tonight we come together to witness the vows between two who would form their own circle. Step forward.”
A man and a woman left the circle, that instantly closed behind them, and came to stand in front of the headman. Leaving the circle himself, the old man extended his hands. The two clasped them, one on either side, then the man and the woman took hold of each other’s hands.