At first he thought the boy was ignoring him again, but then he saw a just perceptible nod.
“The Stone-Cutter’s Guild did as wise Stormstone told them. They took money from the treasury and over the next dozen years found a few of the Big Folk who liked gold more than questions, and so secretly bought a number of houses in the poorest neighborhoods on the edges of Southmarch. Then they began to dig tunnels down from just beneath these properties and connect them to passages on the outer reaches of Funderling Town, out at the far ends of certain nameless roads which the Big Folk knew nothing about, and that they could not have found if they did, even with a map. At last the roads were ready. A group of our people who had permission from King Kellick the Second to be aboveground after sunset because they were working in a royal granary that was in use during the day brought an extra-large crew to work, mainly by confusing the uplander guards with much coming and going. After nightfall half of them left the granary and made their way by back alleys to the houses the Guild had secretly bought and there broke through the last cubits of earth and stone to the tunnels below. When they were finished they covered the holes in the earth with flagstone floors, each with a stone that could be lifted to reveal a doorway to distant Funderling Town.
“Not all these new passages ended in the outer keep, although that is where many were located. Some even led directly under the water to houses and other places on the mainland.” He could have mentioned that he himself had traveled such a road to the Qar camp when he had taken Flint’s mirror to the Twilight folk, but didn’t for fear of upsetting Opal. “In fact,” he went on, “it is said Stormstone even had one tunnel built that came up somewhere in the inner keep—on the grounds of the Throne hall itself!
“By the end of a few months, when our folk were finished with rebuilding the granary, they had also finished all the entrances to these New Gates, as the Guild elders called them in whispers. And ever since there have always been secret ways in and out of Funderling Town. The fairy folk stayed quiet for a hundred years or more after that, so many of the hidden passages fell into disrepair, but I’m told we have kept the houses and other places aboveground that hide them.”
“You had better not be telling us this because you plan to make us walk all the way upground from here,” Opal warned him.
“No. We’re almost there, my love. The reason I’m telling you all this is that we’re in one of those passages right now.”
“Almost where?” asked Flint.
“The place we’re going—the Metamorphic Brothers’ temple.”
“But why did we walk so far? ” Flint didn’t sound like he minded much: he was just curious.
“Because soldiers from upground are waiting at the regular gate and on some of the main roads of Funderling Town itself,” Chert explained. “And they’re all looking for a fellow called Chert and his wife Opal, as well as a big boy named Flint who stays with them.”
“Those are our names,” said Flint seriously.
Chert wasn’t sure if he was joining in on the joke or not. “Yes, that’s what I’m saying. It’s us they’re looking for, son—and they don’t mean us anything good.”
Brother Antimony was waiting for them in the middle of the path across the wide expanse of the temple’s fungus gardens, his young, broad face creased with unfamiliar worry. Behind him other worried faces peered out of the shadows of the pillared facade of the Temple of the Metamorphic Brothers.
“The brothers aren’t happy,” Antimony told Chert. “Just to let you know. Grandfather Sulphur’s been up all night bellowing that the Days of Inundation are coming soon.” He nodded to Opal. “Greetings, Mistress, and the Elders’ blessings on you. It’s good to see you again.”
Chert looked around for Flint, who had wandered off, following a cave cricket’s erratic path across the garden. “Is it the boy they’re worrying about? ”
Antimony shrugged. “I would guess it’s the other two Big Folk causing them the most fret, wouldn’t you?” He laughed, but not too loud: faces were still peering out at them from the facade. “Not to mention what’s happening upground, the war with the fairies and the idea we might be drawn into it. Still, some of us don’t mind things being stirred up a little.” He nodded vigorously. “It might surprise you, Master Blue Quartz, but the temple is not always the most exciting place to live. Not complaining, mind you, but you have certainly brought us a few welcome distractions over the last season or two.”
“Thank you… I suppose.”
Opal had finally recaptured the boy. Chert beckoned them both toward the temple’s front door. His wife’s eyes were wide as she looked up at the columned facade. “I’d forgotten how big it is!” Her pace slowed as she neared it, as if she fought a strong wind. In a sense, she did, Chert thought: the centuries of unspoken tradition that insisted the temple was only for the Metamorphic Brothers themselves and a few important outsiders.
Although Chert had been here twice before, he had not yet seen the inside, and as Antimony led them through the portico and into the pronaos hall he had to admit he was impressed by the size and craftsmanship of the temple’s fixtures. The ceiling of pronaos was almost as far above their heads as the famous carved ceiling of Funderling Town itself, although not half so intricate. The temple’s creators had instead taken austerity as their watchword, striving to make every line as clean and simple as possible, as had been the custom during their long-ago era. So the groined vault was decorated not with leaves or flowers or animals, but with broad lines and beautifully rounded edges. It made the hall look like something liquid that had been suddenly frozen, as if the Lord himself had poured the temple from a vast bucket of molten stone that had cooled in an instant.
“It’s… beautiful,” Opal whispered.
Antimony grinned. “Some like it, Mistress. Me, I find it a bit… stern. Day in, day out, it’s nice to have something to look at that holds your gaze, but I find my eyes sort of slipping and sliding…”
“Antimony,” someone said sharply, “have you nothing better to do than prattle?” It was the sour-faced Brother Nickel Chert remembered from his first visit, not looking any sweeter than before.
The young monk jumped. “Sorry, Brother. Of course, yes. Better things to do…”
“Then go and do them. We will call you if we need you.”
Antimony, looking sad now—not so much at having been caught having a pointless conversation, Chert guessed, as at having that conversation curtailed—gave a little bow and lumbered off.
“He’s a good lad,” Chert said.
“He’s a noisy one.” Nickel frowned. He nodded briefly toward Opal and ignored Flint completely. “I suppose he told you the sort of uproar the place is in.” He led them to a door in one wall of the great hall and through into a side corridor lined with alcoves. The shelves were empty but the smudged dust suggested something had rested in each and been recently moved. “We had more peaceful times before we met you, Chert Blue Quartz.”
“The blame is not all mine, surely.”
Nickel scowled. “I suppose not. Unpleasant things are happening all over, that is certain. These are the worst days since Highwarden Stormstone.”
“Yes, I was just telling my family about him…”
“It is a pity that the Big Folk cannot simply leave us alone. We do them no harm,” Nickel said angrily. “We wish only to follow our old ways, to serve the Earth Elders.”
“Perhaps the Big Folk are part of the Earth Elders’ greater plan,” Chert said mildly. “Perhaps they are only doing what the Elders wish of them.”