“Fools! What do they think is happening here? The roots of our society are being nibbled away, and they say to ignore it?”
“It seemed very—innocent.”
Ilze barked. It could have been a laugh. Like a stilt-lizard, ha-ha, ha-ha. “When all the fliers are dead and the elixir gone forever, then tell me how innocent it was, fool.” Ilze, like many of the lower ranks of the Chancery staff, was naive enough to suppose that all Tower Superiors received the elixir. Haranjus Pandel did not disillusion him. Belatedly, firmly, he shut his mouth.
In an hour the fliers arrived with a large basket clasped in their claws. Moments later, the Laugher was gone, carried away in that same basket. Shortly after that, Haranjus sent a full account of his visit, via the signal towers, to Gendra Mitiar, knowing it would reach others as well.
Ilze was unceremoniously tumbled from the basket to sprawl upon a high, dung-streaked shelf of stone. Half a dozen fliers stood about, shifting from foot to foot and darting their heads at him as though he were prey. Ilze drew his knife and made a darting motion in return, at which there was a great outcawing of mockery. This, in turn, brought a Talker, who dismissed the fliers—to their evident annoyance—and escorted Ilze through a jagged opening in the cliffside along a rough, narrow corridor that appeared to be a natural cleft in the stone only slightly improved by artifice. A number of small rooms opened from this cleft, rooms with smoothed floors and blackened corners showing where fires had been laid in the past. Rough hangings closed each of these niches from the corridor, and piles of nigs along the walls made it clear the rooms were for the use of human visitors. Or slaves, Ilze told himself. Or meat.
He was left alone here, the Talker taking himself off without a word. Ilze was content with this. If they were interested in what he had to say, they would listen to him sooner rather than later. Though he feared them, it was worth the gamble to find and hold Pamra Don. He could not go on living until that was done.
A scrape at the doorway drew his attention, and he regarded the pallid man who entered with suspicion.
“Who are you?” They both asked it, at once. It was impossible for both of them to answer, and there was an itchy pause during which each waited for the other.
“You!” grated Ilze with an impatient gesture. “Who are you?”
The pallid man answered, words tumbling over one another as though long dammed up behind the barrier of his throat. “My name is Frule. Which tells you nothing much. I am a scholar. A student, you might say. I live here. I study the Thraish.”
Ilze snorted. “And they allow that?”
“They might not, if they knew that’s what I was really doing. However, I am an acceptable stonemason and a fair carpenter. The Thraish have a need for both.”
“For what?” Ilze stared around him, making an incredulous face. “Do they live better than their guests?”
“Differently.” The other shrugged. “Who are you?”
“I am Ilze, formerly of the Tower of Baris. I’ve come to bring the creatures news of something that much affects them,” he said in a challenging voice. “In return for which I hope they will help me with my business.”
“Which is?”
“Finding and avenging myself on one Pamra Don.”
“Oh. The crusade woman.” The pallid man nodded wisely. “We’ve heard of that business, even here. What has she done to you?’’
“That’s my business.” Had ha tried, Ilze would have been unable to answer the question. It was one he had never asked himself. Pamra had been the cause of pain and unpleasantness. She was, therefore, fit subject for vengeance, no matter that she had done nothing at all to him. “My business,” he repeated abstractedly.
“Let it be your business, then,” said Frule. “I only asked because it helps to know what brings humans here. The Thraish have few human visitors. I have seen only one or two. There are a few others like me, who pretend to be craftsmen. And a few who really are craftsmen, not that the Thraish can tell the difference.” ‘