For law-abiding citizens, the belief was a comforting one. Miscreants—thieves, murderers, and other social misfits—had a convenient way of simply disappearing. No fuss. No bother. None of that spectacle elves associated with the strange human habit of granting criminals a public trial that might result in their being set free (why arrest them in the first place?) or execution in the middle of the village square (barbaric!).
Rebel elves claimed that the dungeons existed. They claimed that the Unseen were not bodyguards but the emperor’s own personal assassination squad, that the dungeons held more political prisoners than robbers and murderers. There were those among the royal families who were beginning to think, in their hearts, that Prince Rees’ahn and his rebels were right. The husband who woke after a strangely heavy sleep to find his wife gone from their bed. The parents whose eldest son vanished without a trace on his way home from university. Those who dared make open inquiries were advised, by the head of their clan, to keep their mouths shut.
Most elves, however, dismissed the rebel claims or would reply with a shrug and the popular proverb that if the Unseen smelled a dragon they had probably found a dragon.
But in one matter, the rebels were right. The dungeons of the Unseen did truly exist. Haplo knew. He was in them.
Located far below the Imperanon, the dungeons were not particularly terrible, being little more than holding cells. Long-term imprisonment was unknown among the Unseen. Those elves permitted to live long enough to see the dungeons were here for a reason—the main one being that they had some sort of information the Unseen needed. When that information was extracted, as it invariably was, the prisoner disappeared. The cell was cleaned and readied for the next. Haplo was a special case, however, and most members of the Unseen weren’t sure quite why. A captain—an elf with the peculiar name of Sang-drax—took a proprietary interest in the human with the blue skin, and word went around that he was to be left in the captain’s hands.
Cycle after cycle, Haplo sat in an elven prison, whose iron bars he could have melted with a sigil. He sat in his prison cell and wondered if he were going mad.
Sang-drax had cast no spell over him. The shackles that bound Haplo were those of his own choosing. Imprisonment was another ploy of the serpent-elf to torment him, to tempt him, to force him into taking some type of rash action. And because he believed that Sang-drax wanted Haplo to do something, the Patryn decided to thwart Sang-drax by doing nothing.
At least, that’s what he told himself he was doing. It was then he would ask himself bitterly if he might not be going insane.
“We’re doing the right thing,” he assured the dog. The animal lay on the floor, nose on paws, gazed up at its master dubiously, seemed to think that it wasn’t so certain.
“Bane’s up to something. And I doubt if the little bastard has his ‘grandfather’s’ interests in mind. But I’ll have to catch him in the act in order to prove it.”
To prove what? the dog’s sad eyes asked. Prove to Xar that his trust in the boy was misplaced, that he should have trusted you alone? Are you that jealous of Bane?
Haplo glared at the animal. “I’m not—”
“Visitor!” rang out a cheery voice.
Haplo tensed. Sang-drax appeared out of nowhere, as usual stood just outside the cell door. The door was made of iron, with a square grate in the upper portion, a grate covered by bars. Sang-drax peered through the grate. He never asked, on his daily visits, that the cell door be opened, never entered the cell.
Come and get me, Patryn! His presence—just out of reach—taunted Haplo silently.
“Why should I?” Haplo wanted to shout, frustrated, unable to cope with the feeling of panicked fear that was building inside him, rendering him increasingly helpless. “What is it you want me to do?” But he controlled himself, to outward appearances, at least, and remained seated on his cot. Ignoring the serpent-elf, he stared at the dog. The animal growled and bared its teeth, its hackles raised, lip curling back over sharp fangs, as it did whenever the serpent-elf was either within sight or smell.
Haplo was tempted to give the dog the order to attack. A series of sigla could change the animal into a gigantic monster. Its bulk would burst open the cells, its teeth could rip off a man’s—or a snake’s—head. The powerful and fearful aberration Haplo could create would not have an easy battle. The serpent-elf possessed his own magic, stronger than Haplo’s. But the dog might distract Sang-drax long enough to give Haplo a chance to arm himself. The Patryn had left his cell one night, the first night of arrival, to acquire weapons. He picked up two—a dagger and a short-bladed sword—from a cache the Unseen kept in their guardroom. Returning to his cell, he spent the remainder of the night etching runes of death upon each blade, runes that would work quite well against mensch, less well against the serpents.
Both weapons were hidden in a hole beneath a stone he’d magically removed, magically replaced. Both weapons would come quickly to hand. Haplo moistened his mouth. The sigla on his skin burned. The dog’s growl grew louder; it understood matters were becoming serious.
“Haplo, for shame,” said Sang-drax softly. “You might well destroy me, but what would you gain? Nothing. And what would you lose? Everything. You need me, Haplo. I am as much a part of you”—his gaze shifted—“as that animal is a part of you.”
The dog sensed Haplo’s resolve waver. It whined, begging to be allowed to sink its teeth into the serpent-elf’s shins, if nothing better offered itself.
“Leave your weapons where they are,” said Sang-drax, with a glance at the very rock under which they were hidden. “You’ll have use for them later on, as you will see. I’ve come this very moment to bring you information.” Haplo, with a muttered curse, ordered the dog into a corner. The animal obeyed reluctantly, first venting its feelings by rearing up on its hind legs, lunging, barking and snarling, at the door. Its head came to the level of the barred grate. Teeth flashed. Then it dropped down, slunk off.
“Keeping that animal is a weakness,” the serpent-elf remarked. “I’m surprised your lord permits it. A weakness in him, no doubt.”
Haplo turned his back on the serpent-elf, went over and threw himself down on his cot. He stared grimly at the ceiling. He saw no reason to discuss either the dog or his lord with Sang-drax, or to discuss anything at all for that matter.
The serpent-elf lounged against the door, began to make what he termed his “daily report.”
“I’ve spent the morning with Prince Bane. The child is well and in high spirits. He appears to have taken a fancy to me. He is permitted to come and go about the palace as he chooses, with the exception of the imperial suites, of course, so long as I escort him. In case you were wondering, I’ve requested and been granted reassignment to this duty. An elven count named Tretar—who has the ear of the emperor, as the saying goes—has also taken a fancy to me.
“As for the dwarfs health, I’m afraid I cannot say the same. She is extremely wretched.”
“They haven’t hurt her, have they?” Haplo demanded, forgetting he wasn’t going to talk to the serpent-elf.
“Oh, dear, no,” Sang-drax assured him. “She is far too valuable for the elves to mistreat her. She has a room next to Bane’s, though she is not permitted to leave it. In fact, the dwarfs value grows, as you will hear shortly. But she is desperately homesick. She can’t sleep. Her appetite dwindles. I’m afraid she may die of sorrow.”
Haplo grunted, put his hands under his head, settled himself more firmly on the cot. He didn’t believe half of what the serpent-elf told him. Jarre was sensible, levelheaded. She was probably fretting over Limbeck more than anything else. Still, it would be beneficial to get her out of here, leave with her, return to Drevlin...
“Why don’t you escape?” asked Sang-drax, with his infuriating habit of intruding on Haplo’s thoughts. “I’d be delighted to assist you. I can’t think why you don’t.”
“Maybe because you serpents seem so damn eager to get rid of me.”
“That’s not the reason. It’s the boy. Bane won’t leave. You don’t dare leave him. You don’t dare leave without him.”
“Your doing, no doubt.”
Sang-drax laughed. “I’m flattered, but I’m afraid I can’t take the credit. This scheme is all his own. Quite a remarkable child, that Bane.” Haplo yawned, closed his eyes, grit his teeth. Even through the closed lids, he could see Sang-drax grinning.
“The Gegs have threatened to destroy the Kicksey-winsey,” the serpent-elf said.
Haplo flinched involuntarily, cursed himself for doing so, and forced himself to lie still, every muscle in his body rigid.
Sang-drax continued talking in a low voice, meant for Haplo’s ear alone. “The elves, laboring under the delusion that the dwarves have shut down the machine, have delivered an ultimatum to that dwarf leader—what’s his name?” Haplo remained silent.
“Limbeck.” Sang-drax answered his own question. “Odd name for a dwarf. It never sticks in my mind. The elves told this Limbeck that he either starts operating the Kicksey-winsey again or they will send his female dwarf friend back to him in various assorted pieces.
“The dwarves, laboring under a similar delusion that it is the elves who have caused the machine to cease operations, were understandably confused by this ultimatum, but eventually came to decide, by reason of a few hints, passed on by us, that the ultimatum was a trick, some sort of subtle elven plot against them.
“Limbeck’s reply—which, by the way, I’ve just heard from Count Tretar—is this: If the elves harm one whisker on Jarre’s chin, the Gegs will destroy the Kicksey-winsey. Destroy the Kicksey-winsey,” Sang-drax repeated. “I fancy they could do it, too. Don’t you?”
Yes, Haplo was damn well sure they could do it. They had worked on the machine for generations, kept it running even after the Sartan had abandoned it. The dwarves kept the body alive. They could make it die.
“Yes, so they could,” agreed Sang-drax conversationally. “I can picture it now. The Gegs let the steam build up in the boilers, they send the electricity running amok. Parts of the machine would explode, unleashing such a terrible destructive force that the dwarves might unwittingly destroy the entire continent of Drevlin, to say nothing of the machine itself. And there go Lord Xar’s plans for conquering the four worlds.”
He began to laugh. “I find it all so amusing. The true irony in all this is that neither dwarves nor elves could start the fool machine if they wanted to! Yes, I did some investigating, based on what Jarre told me on board the ship. Up until then, I believed—as do the elves—that the dwarves had shut off the Kicksey-winsey. But they didn’t. You discovered the reason. The opening of Death’s Gate. That’s the key, isn’t it? We don’t know how, yet, or why. But, to be honest, we serpents really don’t care.
“You see, Patryn, it occurred to us that the destruction of the Kicksey-winsey would plunge not only this world into chaos but the others, as well.
“ ‘Why don’t you destroy it yourselves, then?’ you ask.
“We could. Perhaps we will. But we much prefer to leave the destruction to the dwarves, to feed off their rage, their fury, their terror. As it is, Patryn, their frustration and anger, their feelings of helplessness and fear have been strong enough to sustain us for a cycle, at least.”
Haplo lay unmoving. His jaw muscles were beginning to ache from the strain of keeping them clenched shut.
“The emperor hasn’t made up his mind what to do yet,” Sang-drax informed him.
“Limbeck gave the elves two cycles to decide. I’ll let you know what the decision is. Well, sorry to leave, but duty calls. I’ve promised to teach Bane to play rune-bone.”
Haplo heard the serpent-elf’s light footfalls walking away. They stopped, came back.
“I grow fat off your fear, Patryn.”