Isgrimnur watched Lector Velligis leave the throne room. The huge man's litter was carried by eight grimac ing guards, and was led out, as it had been led in, by a procession of priests bearing sacred objects and smoking censers. Isgrimnur thought they resembled a traveling fair on its way to a new village. Spared kneeling by his injuries, he had watched the new lector's performance from a chair against the wall.

Camaris, for all his n.o.ble look, appeared uncomfortable on the high ducal throne. Josua, who had kneeled beside the chair while Lector Velligis offered his blessing, now rose.

"So." The prince dusted his knees with his hand. "Mother Church recognizes our victory."

"What choice did Mother Church have?" Isgrimnur growled. "We won. Velligis is one of those who always puts his money on the favorite-any favorite."

"He is the lector, Duke Isgrimnur," said Camaris sternly. "He is G.o.d's minister on earth."

"Camaris is right. Whatever he was before, he has been elevated to the Seat of the Highest. He deserves our respect."

Isgrimnur made a noise of disgust. "I'm old and I hurt and I know what I know. I can respect the Seat without loving the man. Did taking the Dragonbone Chair make your brother a good king?"

"No one ever claimed a kingship made its possessor infallible."

"Try telling that to most kings," snorted Isgrimnur.

"Please." Camaris raised his hand. "No more. This is a wearisome day, and there is more yet to be done."

Isgrimnur looked at the old knight. He did look tired, in a way that the duke had never seen. It would have seemed that freeing Nabban from his brother's killer should have brought Camaris joy, but instead it seemed to have sapped the life from him.

It's as if he knows he's done one of the things he's meant to do-but only one. He wants to rest, but he can't yet. The duke thought he finally understood. The duke thought he finally understood. I've wondered why he was so strange, so distant. He does not wish to live. He is only here because he believes G.o.d wishes him to finish the tasks before him. I've wondered why he was so strange, so distant. He does not wish to live. He is only here because he believes G.o.d wishes him to finish the tasks before him. Clearly any questioning of G.o.d's will, even the infallibility of the lector, was difficult for Camaris. Clearly any questioning of G.o.d's will, even the infallibility of the lector, was difficult for Camaris. He thinks of himself as a dead man. He thinks of himself as a dead man. Isgrimnur suppressed a shudder. It was one thing to yearn for rest, for release, but another to feel that one was already dead. The duke wondered momentarily whether Camaris might, more than any of them, understand the Storm King. Isgrimnur suppressed a shudder. It was one thing to yearn for rest, for release, but another to feel that one was already dead. The duke wondered momentarily whether Camaris might, more than any of them, understand the Storm King.

"Very well," Josua was saying. "There is one person left we must see. I will speak to him, Camaris, if you do not mind. I have been thinking about this for some time."

The old knight waved his hand, uncaring. His eyes were like ice chips beneath his thick brows.

Josua signaled a page and the doors were thrown open. As Count Streawe's litter was carried in, Isgrimnur sat back and picked up the mug of beer he had hidden behind his chair. He took a long sip. Outside it was afternoon, but the chamber's ceiling-high windows were barred against the storm that lashed the seas beneath the palace, and torches burned in the wall sconces. Isgrimnur knew that the room was painted in delicate colors of sea and sand and sky, but in the torchlight all was muddy and indistinct.

Streawe was lifted from his litter and his chair was set down at the base of the throne. The count smiled and bowed his head. "Duke Camaris. Welcome back to your rightful home. You have been missed, my lord." He swiveled his white head. "And Prince Josua and Duke Isgrimnur. I am honored that you have summoned me. This is n.o.ble company."

"I am not a duke, Count Streawe," said Camaris. "I have taken no t.i.tle, but only revenged my brother's death."

Josua stepped forward. "Do not mistake his modesty, Count. Camaris does rule here."

Streawe's smile broadened, deepening the wrinkles around his eyes. Isgrimnur thought he looked like the most grandfatherly grandfather that G.o.d ever made. He wondered if the count practiced before a looking gla.s.s. "I am glad you took my advice, Prince Josua. As you see, there were indeed many folk unhappy with Benigaris' rule. Now there is joy in Nabban. As I came up from the docks, people were dancing in the public square."

Josua shrugged. "That is more to do with the fact that Baron Seriddan and the others have sent their troops into the town with money to spend. This city did not suffer much because of Benigaris, difficult as times are. Patricide or no, he seems to have ruled fairly well."

The count eyed him for a moment, then appeared to decide a different approach was warranted. Isgrimnur found himself enjoying the show. "No," Streawe said slowly, "you are correct there. But people know, know, don't you think? There was a sense that things were not right, and many rumors that Benigaris had slain his father-your dear brother, Sir Camaris-to achieve the throne. There were problems that were certainly not all Benigaris' fault, but there was also much unrest." don't you think? There was a sense that things were not right, and many rumors that Benigaris had slain his father-your dear brother, Sir Camaris-to achieve the throne. There were problems that were certainly not all Benigaris' fault, but there was also much unrest."

"Unrest which you and Pryrates both helped to kindle, then fanned the flames."

Perdruin's ruler looked genuinely shocked. "You link me with Pryrates!?" For a moment his courtly mask fell away, showing the angry, iron-willed man beneath. "With that red-cloaked sc.u.m? If I could walk, Josua, we would cross swords for that."

The prince stared at him coldly for a moment, then his face softened. "I do not say you and Pryrates worked in concert, Streawe, but that you each exploited the situation for your own ends. Very different ends, I'm sure."

"If that is what you meant, then .I name myself guilty and throw myself on the mercy of the throne." The count seemed mollified. "Yes, I work in the ways I can to protect my island's interests. I have no armies to speak of, Josua, and I am always prey to the whims of my neighbors. 'When Nabban rolls over in its sleep,' it is said in Ansis Pellipe, 'Perdruin falls out of bed.' "

"Well argued, Count," Josua laughed. "And quite true, as far as it goes. But it is also said that you are perhaps the wealthiest man in Osten Ard. All the result of your vigilance on Perdruin's behalf?"

Streawe drew himself up straighter. "What I have is none of your business. I understood you sought me as an ally, not to insult me."

"Spare me your false dignity, my good Count. I find it hard to believe that calling you wealthy is an insult. But you are right about one thing: we wish to speak with you about certain matters of mutual interest."

The count bobbed his head solemnly. "That is better to hear, Prince Josua. You know that I support you-remember the note I sent with my man Lenti!-and I am anxious to speak about ways that I can help you."

"That we can help each other, you mean." Josua raised his hand to still Streawe's protest. "Please, Count, let us avoid the usual dancing. I am in a fierce hurry. There, I have given up a bargaining token already by telling you so. Now please do not waste our time with false protestations of this or that."

The old man's lips pursed and his eyes narrowed. "Very well, Josua. I find myself oddly interested. What do you want?"

"Ships. And sailors to man them. Enough to ferry our armies to Erkynland."

Surprised, Streawe waited a moment before replying. "You intend to set sail for Erkynland now? After fighting fiercely for weeks to take Nabban, and with the worst storm in years sweeping down on us out of the north even as we speak?" He gestured toward the shuttered windows; outside, the wind wailed across the Sancelline Hill. "It was so cold last night that the water froze in the Hall of Fountains. The Clavean Bell barely rang over G.o.d's house, it was so icy. And you wish to go to sea?"

Isgrimnur felt a clutch of shock at the count's mention of the bell. Josua turned for a moment and caught the Rimmersman's eye, warning him not to speak. Obviously he, too, remembered Nisses' prophetic poem.

"Yes, Streawe," said the prince. "There are storms and storms. We must brave some to survive others. I will take ship as soon as I can."

The count lifted his hands, showing open, empty palms. "Very well, you know your own business. But what would you have me do? Perdruin's ships are not warships, and they are all at sea. Surely Nabban's great fleet is what you need, not my trading vessels." He gestured to the throne. "Camaris is master of the Kingfisher House now."

"But you are master of the docks," Josua replied. "As Benigaris said, he thought you were his prisoner, but all the time you were gnawing him away from within. Did you use some of that gold they say fills the catacombs below your house on Sta Mirore? Or something more subtle-rumors, stories... ?" He shook his head. "It matters not. The thing is, Streawe, you can help us or hinder us. I wish to discuss with you your price, whether in power or gold. There is provisioning to do as well. I want those ships loaded and on their way in seven days or less."

"Seven days?" The count showed surprise for the second time. "That will not be easy. And you have heard about the kilpa, have you not? They are running like quinis-fish-but quinis-fish do not pull sailors over the rails and eat them. Men are reluctant to go to sea in these dark days."

"So we have started the bargaining?" Josua asked. "Granted and granted. Times are difficult. What do you want, power or gold?"

Abruptly, Streawe laughed. "Yes, we have started bargaining. But you underestimate me, Josua, or you undervalue your own coffers. You have something that might be more use to me than either gold or power-something that in fact brings both in its train."

"And what is that?"

The count leaned forward. "Knowledge." He sat up, a slow smile spreading across his face. "So now I have given you you a bargaining token in return for your earlier gift." The count rubbed his hands in barely restrained enjoyment. "Let us speak in earnest, then." a bargaining token in return for your earlier gift." The count rubbed his hands in barely restrained enjoyment. "Let us speak in earnest, then."

Isgrimnur groaned softly as Josua sat down beside Perdruin's master. Despite the prince's stated hurry, it was indeed going to be a complicated dance. This was clearly something Streawe enjoyed too much to do quickly, and something Josua took too seriously to be rushed through. Isgrimnur turned to look at Camaris, who had been silent during the whole discussion. The old knight was staring at the shuttered windows as if they were an intricately absorbing picture, his chin resting on his hand. Isgrimnur made another noise of pain and reached for his beer. He sensed a long evening ahead.

Miriamele's fear of the dwarrows was dwindling. She was beginning to remember what Simon and others had told her of Count Eolair's journey to Sesuad'ra. The count had met dwarrows-he called them domhaini-in domhaini-in the mines below Hernystir's mountains. He had called them friendly and peaceful, and that seemed to be true: except for s.n.a.t.c.hing her from the stairs, they had not harmed her. But they still would not let her go. the mines below Hernystir's mountains. He had called them friendly and peaceful, and that seemed to be true: except for s.n.a.t.c.hing her from the stairs, they had not harmed her. But they still would not let her go.

"Here." She gestured to the saddlebags. "If you are so certain that something I am carrying is harmful, or dangerous, or ... or whatever, search for yourselves."

As the dwarrows conferred in anxious, chiming voices, Miriamele considered escape. She wondered if dwarrows ever slept. But where had they brought her? How could she find her way out, and where would she go then? At least she still had the maps, although she doubted she could read them as efficiently as Binabik had.

Where was Binabik? Was he alive? She felt almost ill as she remembered the grinning thing that had attacked the troll. Another friend was lost somewhere in the shadows. The little man had been right-this had been a foolish journey. Her own stubbornness had perhaps brought death to her two closest friends. How could she live with that knowledge?

By the time the dwarrows had finished their discussion, Miriamele did not much care what they had decided. Gloom had settled on her, sapping her strength.

"We will search among your possessions, by your leave," Yis-fidri said. "In respect of your customs, my wife Yis-hadra only will touch them."

Miriamele was bemused by the dwarrow's circ.u.mspection. What did they think she had brought down into the earth, the dainty small-clothes of a castle-dwelling princess ? Tiny, fragile keepsakes? Scented notes from admirers ?

Yis-hadra approached timidly and began to examine the contents of the saddlebags. Her husband came and kneeled beside Miriamele. "We are sorely grieved that things should be thus. It is truly not our way-never have we pressed our will by force on another. Never." He seemed desperate to convince her.

"I still do not understand the danger you fear."

"It was the place you and your two companions walked. It is ... it is-there are no words that I know in mortal tongues to explain." He flexed his long fingers. "There are ... powers, things which have been sleeping. Now they awaken. The tower stairwell in which you climbed is a place where these forces are strong. Every day they become stronger. We do not yet understand what is happening, but until we do, nothing must happen which might upset the balance...."

Miriamele waved for him to stop. "Slowly, Yis-fidri. I am trying to understand. First of all, that ... thing that attacked us on the stairs was not a companion of ours. Binabik seemed to recognize him, but I have never seen him before."

Yis-fidri shook his head, agitated. "No, no, Miriamele. Be not insulted. We know that what your friend fought was no companion-it was a walking hollowness full of Unbeing. Perhaps it was a mortal man once. No, I meant that companion who followed a little behind you."

"Behind us? There were only two of us. Unless ..." Her heart skipped. Could it have been Simon, searching for his friends? Had he only been a short distance away when she had been taken? No, that would be too cruel!

"Then you were followed," Yis-fidri said firmly. "For good or ill, we cannot say. We just know that three mortals were upon the stairs."

Miriamele shook her head, unable to think about it. Too much confusion was piled atop too much sorrow.

Yis-hadra made a birdlike sound. Her husband turned. The she-dwarrow held up Simon's White Arrow.

"Of course," Yis-fidri breathed. The other dwarrows leaned closer, watching raptly. "We felt it, but knew it not." He turned to Miriamele. "It is not our work or we would know it as verily as you know your own hand at the end of your arm. But it was made by Vindaomeyo, one of the Zida'ya to whom we taught our skills and craft. And see," he reached to take it from his wife, "here is a piece of one of the Master Witnesses." He pointed to the cloudy blue-gray arrowhead. "No surprise that we felt it."

"And carrying it on the stairwell was a danger somehow?" Miriamele wanted to understand, but terror had battered her for a long time, and weariness was now pulling at her like an undertow. "How could that be?"

"We will explain if we can. Things are changing. Balances are delicate. The red stone in the sky speaks to the stones of the earth, and we Tinukeda'ya hear the voices of those stones."

"And these stones tell you to s.n.a.t.c.h people off the staircase?" She was exhausted. It was hard not to be rude.

"We did not wish to come here," Yis-fidri said gravely. "Things that happened in our home and elsewhere drove us ever southward, but when we reached this place through the old tunnels, we realized that the menace here is even greater. We cannot go forward, we cannot go back. But we must understand what is happening so that we can decide how best to escape it."

"You're going to run away?" Miriamele asked. "That's why you're doing all these things? To give yourself a chance to run away?"

"We are not warriors. We are not our once-masters, the Zida'ya. The way of the Ocean Children has always been to make' do, to survive."

Miriamele shook her head in frustration. They had trapped her and torn her away from her friend, but only so they could escape something she did not understand. "Let me go."

"We cannot, Miriamele. We are sorry."

"Then let me go to sleep." She crawled away toward the wall of the cavern and curled herself in her cloak. The dwarrows did not hinder her, but began talking among themselves again. The sound of their voices, melodious and incomprehensible as cricket calls, followed her down into sleep.

22.

A Sleeping Dragon

Oh, please, G.o.d, G.o.d, don't let him be gone! G.o.d, don't let him be gone!

The wheel carried Simon upward. If Guthwulf still spoke in the darkness below, Simon could not hear him above the creak of the wheel and the clanking of the heavy chains.

Guthwulf! Could it be the same man Simon had so of ten glimpsed, the High King's Hand with his fierce face? But he had led the siege against Naglimund, had been one of King Elias' most powerful friends. What would he be doing here? It must be someone else. Still, whoever he was, at least he had a human voice.

"Can you hear me?" Simon croaked as the wheel brought him down again. Blood, regular as the tide at evening, was rushing into his head once more.

"Yes," Guthwulf hissed. "Don't speak so loudly. I have heard others here, and I think they would hurt me. They would take away all I have left."

Simon could see him, a dim, bent figure-but large, as the King's Hand had been, broad shoulders evident despite his stoop. He held his head in an odd way, as though it hurt him.

"Can I have ... more water?"

Guthwulf dipped his hands into the sluice beneath the wheel; as Simon swung low enough to reach, he poured the water over the prisoner's face. Simon gasped and begged for more. Guthwulf filled his palms three more times before Simon rose out of reach. "You are on ... on a wheel?" the man said, as though he could not quite believe it.

His thirst quenched for the first time in days, Simon wondered at the question. Was he simple-minded? How could anyone who wasn't blind doubt it was a wheel?

Suddenly Guthwulf's odd way of holding his head made sense. Blind. Of course. No wonder he had felt at Simon's face.

"Are you ... Earl Guthwulf?" Simon asked as the wheel headed downward again. "The Earl of Utanyeat?" Remembering what his benefactor had said, he kept his voice low. He had to repeat the question when he was nearer.

"I ... think I was." The earl's hands hung limply, dripping. "In another life. Before my eyes were gone. Before the sword took me...."

The sword? Had he been blinded in battle? In a duel? Simon dismissed the thought: there were more important things to think about. His belly was full of water, but nothing else. "Can you bring me food? No, can you free me? Please!? They are tormenting me, torturing me!" So many words rasped his tender throat and he broke into a fit of coughing.

"Free you... ?" Guthwulf sounded distinctly shaken. "But ... you do not wish to be here? I'm sorry, things are ... so different. I have trouble remembering."

He's a madman. The only person who might help me, and he's mad!

Aloud, he said: "Please. I am suffering. If you don't help me, I'll die here." A sob choked him. Talking about it suddenly made it real. "I don't want to die!"

The wheel began to carry him up again.

"I ... could not. The voices will not let me do anything," Guthwulf whispered. "They tell me that I must go and hide, or someone will take everything I have from me." His voice took on a horribly wistful tone. "But I could hear you there, making noises, breathing. I knew you were a real thing, and I wanted to hear your voice. I have not spoken to anyone for so long." His words grew faint as the wheel took Simon away. "Are you the one who left me food?"

Simon had no idea what the blind man was talking about, but heard him hesitating, troubled by Simon's pain. "I did!" He tried to be heard above the wheel without shouting. Was the man out of hearing? "I did! I brought you food!"

Please let him be there when I get back, Simon prayed. Simon prayed. Please let him be there. Please. Please let him be there. Please.

As Simon neared the bottom again, Guthwulf reached out his hand once more and let it trail across Simon's features. "You fed me. I do not know. I am afraid. They will take everything from me. The voices are so loud!" He shook his s.h.a.ggy head. "I cannot think now. The voices are very loud." Abruptly, he turned and lurched away across the cavern and vanished into the shadows.

"Guthwulf!" Simon cried. "Don't leave me!"

But the blind man was gone.