“Just as your name”—Alfred raised a delicate finger, pointed suddenly at Haplo’s breast—“is marked on your skin and may be read only by those whom you love and trust. You see, I also speak your language. Although I don’t like to.”
“Love!” Haplo snorted. “We don’t love anyone. Love is the greatest danger there is in the Labyrinth, since whatever you love is certain to die. As for trust, we had to learn it. Your prison taught us that much-We had to trust each other, because that was the only way we could survive. And speaking of survival, you might want to make certain I stay healthy, unless you think you can pilot this ship back through Death’s Gate yourself.”
“And what happens if my survival depends on you?”
“Oh, I’ll see that you survive, all right. Not that you’ll thank me for it later.”
Alfred looked at the steering stone, the sigla etched on it. He would recognize each sigla, but they were arranged in far different patterns from those he knew. Elven and human languages use the same letters of the alphabet, yet the languages are vastly dissimilar. And although he might be able to speak the Patryn language, Haplo was certain the Sartan couldn’t work the Patryn magic.
“No, I’m afraid I couldn’t manage steering this ship,” Alfred said.
Haplo laughed briefly, derisively, started for the door, then stopped. Turning, he held up a warning hand.
“Don’t try that fainting trick with me. I warn you! I can’t be responsible for what happens if you pass out.”
Alfred shook his head. “I can’t control the fainting spells, I’m afraid. Oh, in the beginning I could. I used it to disguise my magic, like those bandages you wear. What else could I do? I could no more reveal I was a demigod than you could! Everyone would have wanted to use me. Greedy men demanding I give them wealth. Elves demanding I kill the humans. Humans demanding I rid them of the elves . . .”
“And so you fainted.”
“I was beset by robbers.” Alfred lifted his hands, looked down at them. “I could have obliterated them with a word. I could have turned them to solid stone. I could have melted their feet to the pavement. I could have charmed them utterly . . . and left my mark indelibly on the world. I was frightened—not of them, but of what I had the power to do to them. My mental turmoil and anguish was too great for my mind to bear. When I came to myself, I knew how I had solved the dilemma. I had simply fainted dead away. They took what they wanted and left me alone. And now I can’t control the spells. They simply . . . happen.”
“You can control it. You just don’t want to. It’s become an easy way out.” The Patryn pointed over the ship’s hull to the blazing lava sea, burning bright around them. “But if you faint and fall into a puddle in this world, that fainting spell’s liable to be your last!
“Let’s go, dog. You, too, Alfred.”
11
Left the ship moored at the dock, its magic keeping it afloat in the air above the magma flow. He was not concerned over anything happening to the vessel, runes of protection guarded it better than he could have guarded it in person, would permit no one to enter in his absence. Not that this appeared likely. No one approached the ship, no dock authority demanded to know their business, no hucksters swarmed over to push their wares, no sailors lounged about, idly eyeing the cut of their jib.
The dog leapt from the deck to the pier below. Haplo followed, landing almost as silently and lightly as the animal. Alfred remained on deck, dithering nervously, pacing back and forth.
Haplo, exasperated, was on the point of leaving the man when suddenly, with desperate courage, Alfred launched himself into the air, arms and legs flailing, and landed in a confused heap on the rock pier. It took him several moments to sort himself out, looking for all the world as if he were endeavoring to decide which limb went where and making mistakes as he went along. Haplo watched, half-amused, wholly irritated, inclined to assist the clumsy Sartan simply to expedite their progress. Alfred at last pulled himself together, discovered no bones were broken, and fell into step beside Haplo and the dog.
They wandered slowly down the pier, Haplo taking his time investigating. He stopped once to stare closely at several bales stacked on the docks. The dog sniffed around them. Alfred gazed at them curiously.
“What are they, do you think?”
“Raw material of some sort,” Haplo answered, touching it gingerly. “Fibrous, soft. Might be used for making cloth. I—” He paused, leaned closer to the bale, almost as if he were sniffing it, like his dog. He straightened, pointed. “What do you make of that?”
Alfred appeared rather startled at being thus addressed, but he leaned down, squinting his mild eyes and peering distractedly. “What? I can’t—”
“Look closely. Those marks on the sides of the bales.”
Alfred thrust his nose nearly into the product, gave a start, paled slightly, and drew back.
“Well?” Haplo demanded.
“I... can’t be sure.”
“The hell you can’t.”
“The markings are smudged, difficult to read.”
Haplo shook his head, and walked on, whistling to the dog, who thought it had found a rat and was pawing frantically at the bottom of a bale.
The town of obsidian was silent, the silence was ominous and oppressive. No heads peered out of the windows, no children ran through the streets. Yet it had obviously once been filled with life, as impossible as that might seem, so near the magma sea whose heat and fumes must kill any ordinary mortal.
Ordinary mortals. Not demigods.
Haplo continued his scrutiny of the various goods and bundles piled up on the pier. Occasionally, he paused and shot a closer glance at one and when he did this, he often pointed it out silently to Alfred, who would look at it, look at Haplo, and shrug his stooped shoulders in perplexity.
The two moved into the town proper. No one hailed them, greeted them, threatened them. Haplo was certain, now, that no one would. The pricking of certain runes on his skin would have alerted him to the presence of anything living; his magic was doing nothing more than keeping his body cool and filtering out harmful properties in the air. Alfred appeared nervous—but then Alfred would have appeared nervous walking into a children’s nursery.
Two questions were on Haplo’s mind: Who had been here and why weren’t they here any longer?
The town itself was a collection of buildings carved of the black rock, fronting a single street. One building, standing almost directly opposite the pier, boasted thick-paned, crude glass windows. Haplo looked inside. Several globes of soft, warm light ranged around the walls, illuminating a large common room filled with tables and chairs. Perhaps an inn.
The inn’s door was woven out of a heavy, coarse, grasslike substance, similar to hemp. The fiber had then been coated with a thick, glossy resin that made it smooth and impervious to weather. The door stood partially ajar, not in welcome, but as if the owner had left in such haste he’d neglected to shut it.
Haplo was about to step inside and investigate when a mark on the door caught his attention. He stared at it, the doubt in his mind hardening into finality. He said nothing, his finger jabbed at the door, at the mark on the door.
“Yes,” said Alfred quietly, “a rune structure.”
“A Sartan rune structure,” Haplo corrected, his voice grating harshly.
“A corrupted Sartan rune, or perhaps altered would be a better choice of words. I couldn’t speak it, nor use it.” Head bobbing, shoulders hunched, Alfred looked singularly like a turtle, emerging from its shell. “And I can’t explain it.”
“It’s the same as those marks we saw on the bales.”
“I don’t know how you can tell.” Alfred wouldn’t commit himself. “Those were almost worn off.”