It seemed to Ruiz that Einduix laid his cheek against the stony ground in a strangely tender manner.
“Take charge of him,” Ruiz said to Gunderd. “Get him to the transport.”
“As you say,” Gunderd answered. He helped the cook to sit up. “Despite your unflattering opinion of me, I wish you good luck, Ruiz Aw.”
“Yes,” said Dolmaero grudgingly, but the Guildmaster didn’t look up.
Molnekh waved, waggling his fingers, then returned to the remnants of his supper.
Ruiz turned to The Yellowleaf. “We’re ready,” he said cheerfully.
Chapter 9
AT first the three of them climbed through a pathless jumble of stone and scrub. Nisa followed at the hetman’s heels, stumbling frequently, but falling only occasionally. When she did, Ruiz picked her up without ceremony and gave her a light push.
The hetman’s helmet lamps shed a dim red light at their feet, just bright enough to keep them from stepping in any deep holes.
A few minutes later, they came upon a faint track. Other footpaths joined the track, which gradually grew broader and smoother, so that they were able to walk less cautiously. Walls rose up on either side, almost intact. Soon they were walking in an ancient lane, worn deep by countless footsteps.
“I don’t understand where we’re going,” whispered Nisa after a while.
“Doesn’t matter,” said Ruiz lightly. “But I’ll tell you. I’m going to consult a man-eating library. Our hosts are afraid to do it themselves.”
“Why are you doing anything for these monsters?” She seemed more puzzled than angry now. “After what they’ve done to you.”
Ruiz forced a laugh. “The hetman has no tongue, but you should remember that there’s nothing wrong with her ears. You’re not so casually attached to your life as I am to mine. But to answer your question: Why not? Is there anything you wouldn’t do to get off Sook? And after all, what did they do to me?”
She didn’t answer for a bit. When she finally spoke, her voice was very low. “They made you a butcher, Ruiz.”
“No,” he said, in a foolishly gentle tone. “I was already a butcher. They showed me what I was. That’s all they did.”
Eventually the lane led to a portal in a basalt cliff. The gate had once been impressive. A tall bronze slab, half-open and slumped from some ancient fire, hung drunkenly from corroded hinges. Carving in shallow relief had outlined the dark rectangular opening… but it had long ago worn to an unidentifiable suggestion of pattern.
The Yellowleaf paused for a moment, as if listening for some faint sound, and then went inside.
Ruiz and Nisa followed, and he held her arm firmly. He told himself that it looked right, as though he merely took precautions against her bolting… though actually he just wanted to touch her. Well, why not? In a short time they would likely both be dead or crazy and it seemed an innocent indulgence. She gave no sign that she detested his touch, though he would have found such detestation understandable. Perhaps she simply hid her feelings well.
The floor of the tunnel was damp and spotted with patches of phosphorescent slime, so he picked his way carefully, staying close to the pool of light shed by the hetman’s lamps.
Once Nisa slipped and only his grip kept her from falling. He took the opportunity to pull her a little closer — and felt a guilty twinge of pleasure.
A hundred meters inside the mountain, the roof lifted and they came into a great circular hall. A shoulder-high band of small lume panels gave a sickly green light, and the floor was dry and level.
The hall seemed full of an impalpable presence, and after a moment Ruiz recognized the sad unmistakable aura of vanished magnificence. Time pressed down from the blackness above and muffled the sound of their steps. Here Ruiz fancied that the ghosts watched more openly, disdaining concealment, as if they were specters of aristocratic rank.
Ruiz wondered how long the island had been dead. Carpets had turned to dust, the paneling on the walls had decayed to a few splinters of dark punky wood. Amazing, he thought, that the island’s machinery had survived so long untended.
“What now?” he said. His voice echoed and died.
The Yellowleaf pointed, then led the way toward the far side of the hall and a curtain wall, where three low openings glowed with a stronger light, which shone up the high walls behind.
As they neared the wall, a strong smell of death met them. It was enough like the stink of the slaughterhouse to stop Ruiz in his tracks. “No,” he said, his will deserting him.
The Yellowleaf stood by the arch of the center niche and made a peremptory gesture. Ruiz shook his head, unable to speak. He felt his face writhing with some betraying expression.
Nisa moved to stand in front of Ruiz, and she looked up into his face. “What’s wrong?” she asked in a soft voice.
“I’ve changed,” he muttered, as much to himself as to her. “Too late or too soon, but it’s happened.”
She touched his shoulder, then turned and went into the niche. Ruiz felt compelled to follow, then.
The niche seemed at first glance to be the den of some fearsome mythical beast, an ogre perhaps, or a dragon. Bones littered the floor, broken and scattered. In the center of the niche a softstone couch rose waist high.
The couch was currently occupied by a corpse in an ugly stage of decay. It wore Roderigan armor of some silvery alloy. It lay in a relaxed posture, head tipped back, arms flung wide. Maggots crawled over its exposed face, and the eyes were gone.
The Yellowleaf unceremoniously rolled the corpse aside and it fell with a clatter. The softstone was stained and crusted with the products of decomposition, and the thought that he must soon lie there made Ruiz’s skin crawl.
“Where does this go?” he asked, lifting the energy cell.
The Yellowleaf indicated a bank of circular sockets in the left-hand wall, all filled with discharged cells.
Ruiz jerked one out; it released with a cloud of dust and a waft of acidic corrosion. At The Yellowleaf’s nod, he slid the fresh cell in and gave it a turn to lock it into its contacts.
For a moment the lights wavered, and then a faint hum filled the niche.
The Yellowleaf pointed urgently to the couch.
Ruiz turned to Nisa, who stood along the wall, arms wrapped around herself. He felt an impulse to go to her, to press himself against her, to ask her to put her arms around him. He couldn’t. Even were the hetman not watching, alert to any exploitable weakness… he was too dirty, he would never be clean enough to hold Nisa, never. But he smiled and spoke cheerfully. “Keep a close eye on the hetman. Remember everything she does, so you can tell me when I come back.”
She nodded. “So you plan to come back?”
“Why not?” he said, and lay down, ignoring the stink that enfolded him, ignoring the slimy surface of the couch. He thought, This is what I deserve, to receive Death’s decaying kiss. I’ve served so faithfully.
The niche grew brighter, the hum rose up the scale.
The lights flared a brilliant white, and he was elsewhere.
Ruiz opened his eyes, which he had shut against the painful glare of the virtual’s activation. He seemed to lie on the same couch… but the carrion smell was gone, and the bones. A soft radiance streamed down, colored in a thousand subtle shades, as if by stained-glass windows high above. He squinted his eyes, but the lofty ceiling was obscured by a misty brightness.
He levered himself upright and saw that he was alone.
The niche was hung with heavy tapestries, worked with red and gold designs, angular abstractions. The floor tiles were an interlocking pattern of umber and cerulean, inlaid with sunburst medallions of polished bronze. A pure white coverlet draped the couch.