That was enough. Morlock wiped his sword carefully and sheathed it, then walked away. The stone belly told an interesting tale: that the beast had killed and eaten Velox before attacking Morlock. And the tale was a lie. Most black horses have brown eyes, but Velox did not, and there simply was not enough bulk in the stone beast's belly to account for an entire horse.
Morlock boiled water, washed his hands, made tea, and thought.
Every lie is shaped by the truth it is meant to conceal. What did the lie in the stone beast's belly tell him?
That Velox was probably alive, for one thing-seized by a maker skilled enough to make the stone beast and ruthless enough to use it. He knew of only one such, but there might be many; it would be best to keep an open mind.
Normally he would have sought out a crow who might have seen something, for he had an affinity for crows, but they were rarer in this region than they had been once. Using his Sight to search for the maker and his stolen horse might be a mistake, though. There were traps that could be set in the realms of vision that could capture or harm even the wary. Still, he needed more information before he set out in search of Velox. And there might be a way …
He went to his pack and sorted through it until he found a certain book.
He had written it himself in the profoundly subtle "palindromic" script of ancient Ontil. Each page was a mirror image of the one it faced; both pages had to be inscribed simultaneously. There was a page for each of the days of the year, and one for each day of the "counter-year" that runs backward as time moves forward. It was useful for reading the future or the past; merely to possess it sometimes gave one clairvoyant experiences. He had fashioned it over a long period, beginning last year, after he had some indication that he might have to confront a maker as gifted as himself whose talents in the Sight were even greater than his.
He turned to the day's date and read the palindromes for that day and its counter-day. Most of them meant nothing to him. But there was one that he came back to again and again.
Alfe runilmao vo inila. Alinio vo amlinu refla.
Which might be rendered: From the skulls, he walked south. A maker goes into the north.
"The skulls" might be "the River of Skulls": the Kirach Kund (to give it the Dwarvish name by which it was generally known). It was the high pass that divided the Whitethorn and Blackthorn ranges, the only way past those towering mountains …for those who had the courage to take it.
This didn't make his decision for him: like any omen it might mean anything or nothing. But his intuition confirmed it: he would go north.
Another man might have weighed the odds on recovering the horse against the fact that he preferred to walk. He would have thought twice about whether getting the horse back was worth it.
But there was a bond of loyalty between Morlock and Velox, and Morlock was not the sort to question that bond, or the obligations it might entail.
Also, he had nothing else to do. He struck camp and, before the sun had descended much from its zenith, he was walking along the river northward to Sarkunden.
IV
PAYMENT DEFERRED
THERE IS THE HOUSE WHOSE PEOPLE SIT IN DARKNESS; DUST IS THEIR FOOD AND CLAY THEIR MEAT.
The thug's first thrust sent his sword screeching past Morlock Ambrosius's left ear. He retreated rather than parry Morlock's riposte; then he thrust again in the same quadrant as before. While the thug was still extended for his attack, Morlock deftly kicked him in the right knee. With a better swordsman this would have cost Morlock, but he had the measure of his opponent. The thug went sideways, squawking in dismay, into a pile of garbage.
The point of Morlock's blade, applied to the thug's wrist, persuaded him to release his sword. The toe of Morlock's left shoe, applied to the thug's chin, persuaded him to keep lying where he was.
"What's your story, Slash?" Morlock asked.
"Whatcha mean?"
Morlock's sword point shifted to the thug's throat. "I'm in Sarkunden for an hour. You pick me out of a street crowd, follow me into an alley, and try to kill me. Why?"
"Y're smart, eh? See a lot, eh?"
"Yes."
"Dontcha like it, eh? Dontcha like to fight, eh?"
"No."
"Call a Keep, hunchback!" the thug sneered. "Maybe, I dunno, maybe I oughta-" He raised his hand theatrically to his mouth and inhaled deeply, as if he were about to cry out.
Morlock's sword pressed harder against the thug's neck, just enough to break the skin. The shout never issued from the thug's mouth, but the thug sneered triumphantly. He'd made his point: Morlock, as an imperial outlaw, wanted to see the Keepers of the Peace-squads of imperial guards detailed to policing the streets-even less than this street punk with a dozen murders to his credit. (Morlock knew this from the cheek rings in the thug's face. The custom among the water gangs was one cheek ring per murder. Duels and fair fights did not count.)
"Ten days' law-that's what you got, eh?" the thug whispered. "Ten days to reach the border; then if they catch you inside it-zzccch! When'd your time run out, uh, was it twenny days ago? Thirty?"
"Two months."
"Sure. Call a Keep, scut-face. By sunrise they'll have your head drying on a stake upside the Kund-Way Gate."
"I won't be calling the Keepers of the Peace," Morlock agreed. The crooked half-smile on his face was as cold as his ice-gray eyes. "What will I do instead?"
"You can't kill me, crooky-boy-" the thug began, with suddenly shrill bravado.
"I can kill you. But I won't. I'll cut your tendons and pull your cheek rings. I can sell the metal for drinking money at any bar in this town, as long as the story goes with it. And I'll make sure everyone knows where I last saw you."
"There's a man; he wants to see you," said the thug, giving in disgustedly.
"Dead?"
"Alive. But I figure: the Empire pays more for you dead than this guy will alive."
"You're saying he's cheap."
"Cheap? He's riding his horse, right, and you cross the road after him and step in his horse-scut. He's gonna send a greck after you to charge you for the fertilizer. You see me?"
"I see you." Morlock briefly weighed his dangers against his needs. "Take me to this guy. I'll let you keep a cheek ring, and one tendon, maybe."
"Evil scut-sucking bastard," hissed the thug, unmistakably moved with gratitude.
"The guy's" house was a fortresslike palace of native blue-stone, not far inside the western wall of Sarkunden. Morlock and the limping thug were admitted through a heavy bronze door that swung down to make a narrow bridge across a dry moat. Bow slits lined the walls above the moat; through them Morlock saw the gleam of watching eyes.
"Nice place, eh?" the thug sneered.
"I like it."
The thug hissed his disgust at the emblems of security and anyone who needed them.
They waited in an unfinished stone anteroom with three hard-faced guards until an inner door opened and a tall fair-haired man stepped through it. He glanced briefly in cold recognition at the thug, but his eyes lit up as they fell on Morlock.
"Ah! Welcome, sir. Welcome to my home. Do come in."
"Money," said the thug in a businesslike tone.
"You'll be paid by your gang leader. That was the agreement."
"I better be," said the thug flatly. He walked back across the bronze doorbridge, strutting to conceal his limp.
"Come in, do come in," said the householder effusively. "People usually call me Charis."
Morlock noted the careful phrasing and replied as precisely, "I am Morlock Ambrosius."
"I know it, sir-I know it well. I wish I had the courage to do as you do. But few of those-who-know can afford to be known by their real names."