Marko made Sinthi repeat her complicated directions slowly several times, until he thought that he had them memorized. She had the exasperating female habit of saying “up” or “down” a passage when referring to horizontal movement, and it cost Marko some mental gymnastics to translate her directions into compass points. She said:
“You are not planning to hurt Katlin, I hope? Even though I don’t like her, I should not wish to be a party to her murder.”
“Not at all,” said Marko. “If I can get something with a sharp point, I’ll persuade her to order her people to help us off.”
He held out his hand for the keys, but Sinthi moved back from the bars, saying: “Oh, no, there’s a condition.” “So?”
“You must take me with you.” “Oh?” Marko exchanged looks with Halran, who said:
“I fear, my dear, our balloon will not carry that much weight.”
“It would raise me and one of you, wouldn’t it?” “Neither of us would leave the other,” said Marko. “No ride, no keys,” said Sinthi. “Oh, come,” said Marko. “Why are you so anxious to leave?”
“Because I hate this place. I’m bored to death. I don’t want to be a pyromancer and spend my life staring into fires to see visions. I think that is all a lot of nonsense anyway. I want to be a housewife, like the mainland girls, and have a man and a home to myself …” A tear glimmered. Marko thought, then said: “I should be glad to take you, but Dr. Halran knows what he’s talking about. There is no point in our all taking off, only to come down in the sea five minutes later. I’ll tell you …”
“Tell me what?” she said as Marko paused.
“I swear by all the gods that if you help us to get out of here, I will do my best to come back and fetch you too.”
“Well…”
“Look,” said Marko. “I’m a Vizantian. You have heard, haven’t you, how punctilious Vizantians are about keeping their word?”
“Y-yes, though I suspect you aren’t always so careful as you claim.” She hesitated again. “All right, I’ll do it. But if you play me false, I’ll cast every kind of spell in the arsenal of Mnaenn, from envoutement down.”
Marko smiled. “I thought you didn’t believe in them?”
“I don’t exactly disbelieve in them either. One of them just might work. Here, take your keys, but give me time to get back to my dormitory before you break out. I don’t want to be connected with your escape.”
“If I count five hundred, will that be enough?”
“I think so, if you don’t count too fast. Goodbye and good luck.”
Marko and Halran waited until Marko had counted. Then Marko tried keys until he found one that unlocked the door of their cell. He started out, then turned to the philosopher.
“We can’t go clumping through the halls this way,” he whispered, indicating his own heavy boots and Halran’s low but substantial shoes.
They removed their footgear and issued forth cartying them. Marko, following Sinthi’s directions, led his companion up nights of stone steps and around bends and turns in never-ending corridors. There was no sound, and the only light was that of occasional lamps turned down for the night.
They halted at a pair of large closed doors. Halran murmured: “I am sure this is where she said to turn right, which would take us through these doors.”
“No, no,” said Marko. “She meant to continue north until the corridor itself turned.”
They argued in whispers. Finally, Halran said: “Well, let us at least look to discern what is beyond this door.”
Marko cautiously tried the handle. The right-hand door opened with a faint squeak, and behind him Hal-ran drew in his breath.
They had blundered into the cella of the temple. The only light was that of a single lamp, on what Marko recognized as the talisman table. Its light did not reach far. From the darkness above, faint reflections winked back from the jewels and precious metals of the decorations.
Marko shut the door behind them and tiptoed to the center of the structure. Behind them ranked the pews; before them stood the table with its lamp. “Beyond the talisman table was a big, massive railing. Marko glanced at Halran and made a chopping motion with the edge of his palm. He laid down his boots and climbed over the rail.
Behind the rail rose the altar, a pyramidal structure with a half-do/en steps going up on each side. Another table or similar support rose from its top. Something else stood atop this. The thing on the support and most of the support itself were hidden by a cloth of gold draped over them.
Marko pulled off the cloth and saw the Great Fetish. Just as Sinthi had said, it consisted of a stack of small boxes of transparent substance, each a little bigger than a pack of playing cards. The boxes themselves were arranged in pyramidal fashion. Marko guessed that there were forty or fifty boxes.
Marko said: “Let’s take these with us.”
“All of them?”
“Why not?”
“For one thing, we cannot afford the weight. For another, if you take them all, the witches will notice the loss and will probably tear us to pieces, even if we hold their high priestess as hostage. If you put a couple in your pockets…”
Without further argument, Marko worked the two topmost boxes of the top stack out of the golden string that bound the stack together and stowed them in his sheepskin. The removal of the boxes left the string limp and loose. To make his theft less patent, Marko gathered up a loop of it and tied it. Then he replaced the cloth of gold.
They stole out of the cella and closed the door behind them. Marko whispered:
“I know where I am now. Down that corridor is the office where the Stringiarch interviewed us. Come on.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see.”
Marko hastened down the corridor and into the office. There was no light inside, but enough came through the door so that his eyes, now accustomed to the dimness, made out the furnishings. He hunted for his ax, but it was not on the desk and not suspended from the walls. Finally he began opening desk drawers, which stuck and squeaked until Halran emitted a terrified hiss:
“Curse you, Marko, be quiet! You will have”
At that instant Marko tried the last drawer, which stuck, then gave with a piercing squeal. His hand, groping in the dark, found the hilt of his ax just as the door opened wider and a female voice cried:
“Ho! What”
A glimpse showed Marko the silhouette of a witch in half armor, with a spear over her shoulder. He plunged around the corner of the desk and at the woman, knocking Halran flat in his rush. Before she could say a third word, he struck.
The Vizantian culture pattern included rough chivalry on the part of the men towards their women, as long as the women adhered to the sexual code. Therefore Marko smote the watch-woman with the flat of his ax, not the blade. The blow crashed down on her brazen helmet and knocked her to the floor, with the clatter of a hundred overturned fire irons.
“Oh, gods!” breathed Halran in the silence that followed. “We are done for!”
Marko dragged the woman’s body all the way into the room and softly closed the door. Now they were in total darkness. Marko pressed his ear to the door. He thought he heard a voice call a question; then nothing but silence.
“She is still alive,” came Halran’s whisper.
“I only tapped her with the flat to stun her. Take her sword.”
“Butbut I know nothing of weaponry …”
“Oh, Earth!” Carry my boots then. Here. Had I known I should meet her…”
Marko took the little sword himself. “Come along.”
After another long stalk and climbing another flight of stairs, they found themselves outside the room of the Stringiarch. Marko tried the door of dwarf-stupa wood. It was locked.
He fumbled at it without effect, then said: “It doesn’t look very strong. I think I could burst it with a good lunge. But if I miss the first time …”