Into the Second World Page 25

  We followed, but not without misgivings. As long as I walked on the portions that were cloud white, I was merely uneasy. The hard part was to step onto what the eyes declared emphatically to be empty space and a long drop to death.

  “Here,” Kalut said, and halted.

  In the midst of a cloudless spot. We stood in mid air, hundreds of feet up. Nik took hold of my hand, the only touch of reality in that moment. I squeezed his hand in gratitude. Bessarion stood on my other side; I put my hand on his shoulder. He did not shrug it off.

  Then the entire space—room doesn’t properly describe it—began to change shape. Our area began to sink, or else the rest of the place rose, until the most distant tables were thirty or forty feet up from us. They ascended in levels. Steps appeared to connect them. In a matter of minutes, we were at the lowered center of an amphitheater. As the transformation proceeded, most drow found tables and were now seated, facing us.

  “I hope they don’t do bullfights,” Nik remarked under his breath.

  “Don’t speak,” Kalut hissed. “In a moment, all will hear you.”

  More drow magical science. Who were these people who had the power of gods, yet were as petty as pixies?

  Voices sounded in every direction.

  “Only now we hear them,” Queller said.

  He was right. Several hundred drow were arrayed around us. We’d passed through them without hearing a sound. Another marvel.

  Now, though, came the familiar buzz of an audience awaiting a performance. We were on stage. Our lives depended on the performance, and we didn’t even know our lines.

  The audience had arranged itself by color. On one side were earth tones, on the far other side, watery blue. The bulk, however, was in various shades green and occupied the center. And at the center of that, a man and woman, seemingly dressed in emerald.

  “Agedat,” Nik whispered, “and the woman’s the one we saw before. Marde?”

  The woman spoke. “And these carry barbarian names. The shortest is Bessarion; the tall grotesque is Cosmas.”

  “She must be able to hear us,” I whispered.

  “Of course I can hear you, when I wish. The one with the face hair is Henrik. The female is Gabrielle, and the fifth is Niklot. Absurd names, difficult to pronounce without harshness, but no better can be expected.”

  I couldn’t tell if it was her own voice—it certainly sounded feminine. It also sounded contemptuous. I had to take firm hold of my temper.

  “These are mine,” Kalut said. “I have purchased them for our amusement.” He was trying to project confidence and casual authority, but he was straining for it. Underneath, he was cautious, unsure.

  “Tell us of your world,” someone said from over on our left. The omnidirectional voice made it difficult to identify an individual speaker. “What are your great accomplishments?”

  We exchanged glances. Were we to sum up all of civilization in a sentence or two?

  “We know every corner of our world,” Professor Queller said. “And now we know yours as well.”

  This caused a ripple of colors and of murmurs.

  “Why do you have armies?” A voice from somewhere in the blue area of the audience.

  “To defend ourselves,” I said.

  “From what? Do you have wild beasts?”

  “We do, but we tamed them long ago,” Professor Queller said.

  “Then why have armies?”

  “To defend ourselves, as the lady said,” Nik said.

  “From what? As the gentleman said.”

  A ripple of motion ran through the greens. Was that laughter? I felt a quick flash of anger at the thought of being laughed at.

  “Anyone who might attack,” Nik said.

  “They have their internal disputes,” Kalut said, intervening in a clumsy way. “This is documented. They are petty.”

  “They are violent,” came the reply. “They admit it. This, too, is documented. They boast of it.”

  “We’re only violent if violently attacked,” I said. This wasn’t true, but I felt compelled to defend the reputation of the Five Folk. I hoped no one would bring up orcs.

  “No one dares attack us,” Nik said, proudly. “We are well armed with machines of war and mighty armies.”

  Machines of war? What is Nik up to? Mischief, certainly, but to what end?

  “Your armies have not been tested, then. Not for generations.” The speaker was sure of his information. I wondered how.

  “This is straying from our purpose,” Kalut said, but defeat chewed at the edges of his words. He was losing ground where he had expected to gain it.

  Agedat now spoke. “Tell us of your armies,” he said.

  “Only in the broadest terms,” Professor Queller said. “We cannot give you specific numbers or dispositions, naturally.”

  “Why naturally? Why would you hide this information? Do you regard us as your enemy?”

  “Not at all,” Kalut interjected.

  “You will speak at appropriate times,” said Marde. Her robe pulsed three times, and Kalut’s pulsed in seeming reply.

  By the Unseen, I thought, do their robes talk, too? But Queller continued the agitation.

  “We can’t give you specifics because there are many armies across all the folk. And we are scientists, not military men. Such details are not known to us.”

  Bessarion had been growing more and more agitated during the exchange. He could contain himself no longer.

  “A plague on all this,” he burst out. “We have twenty times your strength. Besides, you’re trapped down here in Urland.”

  Marde stared in reproving disbelief.

  “You will reprove the lesser creature. Was it not properly instructed?”

  “Lesser creature!” Bessarion’s patience evaporated in heat. He shrugged off my hand and took a step forward. His hand went to his belt, but no hammer hung there. “Come down here and I’ll give you a lesson in greater and lesser!”

  Kalut stepped in front of Bessarion, but the dwarf would not be silenced.

  “I’ve had enough of hints and jibes. I am descended of the First Dwarves—the ones who build your world. All this,” he waved one arm in a circle, “is only a pale shadow of those great works. You elves have no reverence. You create baubles. Easy to shatter. The Surface has the strength of the Five Folk. Down here you have only elves.”

  It was a passionate speech, but unwise. The entire audience shimmered like the northern lights. I wished I knew if that signified shock or anger. I wanted to throttle all the men—Cosmas excepted, as he was the only sensible one among them. Our lives hung by the slimmest of threads. These drow might kill us on a whim, and the very last thing we ought to be doing was to aggravate them.

  “These beings are powerless,” Kalut declared loudly. “They strut and brag because they are afraid. The armies of the Surface are only a fraction of the people. Most are not soldiers, no more dangerous than shadows.”

  There was a lag before that last word. I think he meant the gnomes. The translator couldn’t bear to utter the word, or maybe shadow was their name for gnome.

  “No more dangerous than yourselves.”

  Nik! I almost shouted it, coming so close I clamped my hand over my mouth, then pretended to cough. Why was he trying to anger them?

  Marde sneered, a broad gesture intended to be seen by all.

  “You have seen miracles,” she said, arrogance stringing the words together like sinews. “You have seen things for which you don’t even have words.” She made a gesture of contempt.

  “What’s your word for railroad?” Nik said. His uncle joined.

  “Do you have an optical telegraph? A steamship? Submarines?”

  Each word caused the translation device to stumble, uttering only gibberish.

  “I haven’t seen much beyond some amusing tricks,” Nik said.

  “Tricks!”

  “Now, Niki,” Queller said. He patted Nik’s hand. He was enjoying this. “Let us be generous; these peopl
e are doing their best.”

  Nik shrugged. He gave me a wink.

  By the graces, I thought, these two are playing a dangerous game.

  “Oh some are very pretty. But I see no cannons, no armories. Only baubles, as Beso has said.”

  He smiled affably at Nik. He was serving a shot up for his nephew. For his part, Nik took aim directly at the green robe faction.

  “I’ve not seen much either, Uncle. I’d say their reputation is exaggerated, and therefore unmerited.”

  That statement set off such a chorus, the unseen translator couldn’t keep up. It wasn’t needed anyway. The reaction was the same as would be found in any parlement or Reichstag. There were drowish shouts of “outrageous” and “infamy” from every quarter. I only hoped “kill them at once” wasn’t among the shouts. I really expected the floor to vanish beneath my feet.

  The swirl of voices corresponded with swirls of color throughout the whole stadium. One voice became gradually more distinct. It was a man’s voice. He seemed to be speaking normally, but it cut through the general roar. More than that, other voices either fell silent or seemed somehow to support and augment that one voice, raising it above the others, as if it were a ray of light piercing darkness and all others were dust motes serving to define the beam.

  Color in the place reinforced this impression. From the painful intensity of the mob, colors began to move in harmony with the voices to create a range of green hues. Slowly at first, then gaining in momentum, the thousands of robes and jewels shifted, forming a halo of color with an intense emerald. At the center of the voices and the colors stood a man.

  Agedat.

  “The question is not whether these creatures ought to be believed. The question is what are the consequences of belief and disbelief?”

  His voice rang out strong and resonant. It carried, as if magically amplified, not to a high volume but to a high presence. When he spoke, he might have been standing at my shoulder. The sensation was eerie and alarming.

  “Suppose first that we disbelieve, but they are telling the truth, that there is no danger from outside. The Sun World will believe them lost, met with some tragic end. In such an event, more will come, even as they themselves followed the first group. Assume they are liars. Then surely we are wise to disbelieve, and they should never be allowed to leave.”

  I put a hand over my mouth lest I cry out. I had contemplated such a fate many times, but to hear it said by one of the drow, and one with such obvious influence, pressed upon my heart and turned my blood icy.

  “Now suppose, my friends, we believe them. If they are liars, we have fallen into their snares, for no one lies without evil purpose. Finally, if we believe them and they are telling the truth, we might be allies.”

  A ripple of discordant colors ran through the crowd.

  “Four possibilities,” Agedat said, “three of them speak of danger. Where lies wisdom? Do we risk our homes and lives on the one chance in four?”

  Green ran toward like Agedat like rivers to a sea. His robe glowed until it was nearly bright as the sun and I had to look away, but his voice remained close, like an intimate friend giving advice.

  “You have heard from these five, but here I present a different testimony. Fournier himself!”

  The last two words boomed throughout the stadium in a shout. The brilliant light engulfing Agedat dimmed to become a circle. There, as if alone on a bare stage, stood Étienne Fournier.

  He was older than I imagined him. He had beautiful white hair that had not been cut in months; it swept down over his shoulders like some old cavalier. His clothing hung on him, filthy and torn. He had lost so much weight, even from this distance he looked like he’d stolen the clothes from some larger man. He stood unbound but unmoving, except for slight movements now and again that might have been intended as bows but looked more like spasms of pain. He seemed to be trying to apologize to everyone at once. I don’t think he saw us at all.

  “He’s starving,” I muttered.

  “Beaten, too,” Cosmas said.

  “Criminals,” Nik snarled.

  “More like gods,” Henrik said calmly. “Gods who are indifferent to the sufferings of mortals.”

  Agedat spoke again. His voice now filled the stadium, spreading outward like a wave, but in a perfectly normal speaking volume.

  “This one is from the first wave of enemies. His comrades have paid for the harm they caused.”

  “Hah,” Nik said softly, “the Fourniers did not sell themselves for free, then.”

  “But this creature has conspired with Kalut’s ornaments. We heard every word of their plot.”

  “We did no such thing,” Henrik cried loudly. “Étienne! Étienne!”

  “He cannot hear you,” Kalut said, as quiet as Henrik had been loud. “Nor see you.”

  “Gods have mercy,” I said.

  “My friends and citizens, all these creatures are spies of the Sun World, infiltrators, scouts for what can only be called an enemy. You have heard their boasts. If only half of it is true, they are a greater threat than all the beasts beyond the Collar.”

  Agedat paused. The subtle rhythm of his robe was repeated by a thousand others. It was like watching blood course as one through the crowd. He prowled around Fournier like a cat around a dying mouse.

  Étienne himself sank to his knees. He kept up a steady stream of inaudible words. He stretched out his arms, palms up, brought them to his chest, then back out again. The gesture was pathetic when made by a gnome. It tore at my heart to see the same performed by so great an explorer. Tears of sympathy started in my eyes even as my heart raged with impotent fury.

  “I know how to deal with threats to my home,” Agedat said. He stepped back a few paces and spread his arms wide, like an actor welcoming applause. At the same moment, the floor beneath Fournier disappeared. The explorer’s arms and legs flailed like a thrown doll, then he fell straight down.

  The whole side of the tower became clear as glass. Those nearby looked to be standing in empty air. All save Étienne Fournier. Everyone had a clear view as his body gyrated, his arms fluttered, and he plunged downward, becoming smaller until he was a dot far below that no longer moved.

  “Murderers!” The cry came from all of us at once.

  “Come,” Kalut said.

  “What? No!”

  “You must come away with me. It is not murder, for he was not drow.” Kalut sounded tired of making explanations to us. “If you do not come at once, I shall leave you to the Greens.”

  Guardian

  We returned in silence. Kalut did not turn around even once, but the colors of his robe rioted with colors, mainly dark, and I thought I could hear him muttering. In a human, I would say he was angry and embarrassed. And frustrated.

  I kept to myself, in part because I knew the only possible topics were ones we dared not speak where Kalut could hear. Beso at one point leaned to whisper something to Nik, but both he and Henrik shook their heads and Beso pulled away again.

  I stayed silent for another reason, though. I was sickened by the murder—by the obvious cruel treatment of poor Étienne, by the arrogance and obvious influence of Agedat and his faction, and most of all by the abrupt casualness of the execution. I could not stop thinking of the fall, of the long seconds. Had I let even one word escape my lips on the ride back, I wasn’t sure I could ever stop. I would pass irresistibly from grief to despair to hysteria. Tight lipped was safest.

  There was no escape for us that I could see. We would perish at some casual whim, at the hands of these cruelly casual monsters. Had they been evil, our deaths would gain a certain nobility, for it is ever noble to resist evil. The drow, though, were merely indifferent. They would kill us without malice. They fed us as one might feed a stray animal, but they would kill us as thoughtlessly, with neither compassion nor cruelty, as one kills vermin. They had listened to our stories and protests as if we were dogs that had learned language. There could be no reasoning with them.

  F
ournier, the poor man, had shown me what lay in store. There in the Tower Crystal I had wanted him to stand up, to be proud and not to beg. But without doubt he had done so, more than once, and had paid the price. Through suffering he had come to know the bitter truth, and now I knew it too. When the inevitable end came, we could only beg.

  Poets speak of dark despair, but I have found despair is often well-lit in every detail. It is, moreover, cold and silent, like the afterlife is said to be. I felt this in my blood and bones. Even my thoughts went cold as I contemplated our fate. Death was the most hopeful eventuality. The drow might just as readily consign us to prison and forget about us, or drop us across the Collar to hide and flee from nightmares. Each of these thoughts settled in my brain like a fall of ice.

  I saw, or fancied I saw, the same despair on the faces of my friends. A blankness smoothed their features, even on Cosmas, as if grief had burned away every strength and blemish. Strange to say, it was their very lassitude that roused me. I had grown accustomed to Nik’s confidence, the ebullience of the professor, Cosmas’s stoicism, and yes, even the morose countenance of the dwarf. To see them so struck down, stunned into inaction, becalmed, as it were—it struck a fire in my own belly. How dare they quail? I was depending on them!

  By the time we had returned to quarters, Kalut having given us over to the gnomes without a word, I was in sharp temper. Nik and Henrik seated themselves on their sleeping couches, Beso leaned against one wall, and Cosmas squatted next to him.

  “We have to get out of here,” I said. I confronted the four of them in the manner of an angry schoolteacher.

  “That was always the plan,” Henrik said.

  “It’s urgent now, though, isn’t it,” Nik said. There’s no telling when Kalut will grow tired of us.”

  “And then he’ll execute us as Agedat did poor Étienne,” I said. “These people are monstrous.”

  “You are young,” Henrik said. “I am old enough to remember public executions.” He held up a hand as I started to protest. “Let me finish, Miss Lauten. Executions were regarded as a form of entertainment, an event to be attended, followed with food and beer. These drow are no more cold-blooded than we.”