And now the weeks were sliding away. In his first few hours down the Veins Garth had prayed that he could escape as soon as he could; now he was desperate to stay…stay until he had something, some understanding of what it would take to get Maximilian out.
The first time he’d thought that, Garth had paused over the prisoner’s arm he was currently scraping free of the red and orange fungus that thrived among the gloam. Free Maximilian? Yes, that’s what he wanted to do. Get him out.
How?
Garth needed to talk to Lot No. 859 again. Maximilian must have some idea of who it was that had cast him down here, and might even have some idea of what it would take to escape.
Then why hadn’t he tried before now?
Yes, he had to talk to Lot No. 859 again. But Garth would only lose himself if he tried to find Section 205 by himself. What…ah!
“Jack,” he said on his third to last day as they were waiting for the cage to take them down; Joseph had already been down the Veins an hour. “Do you remember that first night I arrived?”
Jack grinned. “It made a man of you, that night.”
Garth forced a smile to his face. “You took me to a number of gangs. The first. I left a good pair of suturing forceps there.”
“By the gods!” Jack swore. “No doubt one of the prisoners swiped them! You’re a young idiot, boy. They’re undoubtedly planning to stick us with those forceps in an attempt to escape. Why didn’t you mention this earlier?”
“I only just missed them,” Garth lied, hoping Jack would believe him. “Section 205, wasn’t it?”
Jack narrowed his eyes at the youth as they waited for the cage to rattle and screech its way to the surface “You’ve an uncommonly good memory for a boy.”
“Oh,” Garth said brightly, “Father always makes me recite lists of herbs and powders every day. A good memory saves me from a good beating.” He stepped inside the cage.
It satisfied Jack, but he was still disgruntled. Section 205 was a good walk through the Veins. “Are you sure we can’t send one of the guards after them?” He slammed the cage doors closed and set the contraption in motion. In an instant they were hurtling downwards.
Garth swallowed. No matter how many times he travelled this cage he could not get used to its crazed dive through the earth—nor to the stench that met his nostrils when he reached whatever level he had to work on that day. “My responsibility,” he said. “Besides, I’d like to check some of those wounds. One of the men had a particularly bad knee. I’d like to make sure they’re healing well.”
Jack mumbled to himself, but he nodded his head, and Garth relaxed in relief. He hoped that Lot No. 859 hadn’t been moved to another gang.
Luck was with him. They found the gang working a slope relatively close to the main shaft.
“Halt!” Jack called to the two guards standing watch over the gang. “Is this the Section 205 gang?”
They nodded, and Jack waved Garth forward. “The lad claims to have lost some forceps back a couple of weeks or so when he treated this lot. Search them.”
Garth winced, but there was nothing he could do. The two guards searched with enthusiasm, although there were few places a man could hide a pair of forceps wearing only a loincloth. Frustrated, eventually the guards stood back.
The line of prisoners stood sullen and resigned. Such searches were not uncommon.
Jack shrugged. “They could have hidden it anywhere along this tunnel.”
“Well,” Garth said slowly, “perhaps I dropped it elsewhere.”
“What?” Jack exploded. “I am not going to drag you about the entire cursed Veins looking for your forsaken pair of forceps!”
“No,” Garth hastened. “No, I don’t expect you to do that, Jack. I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused. Well,” his eyes slipped along the line to the last man, “perhaps I’ll just check their wounds while I’m here. Make sure there’s no fungus.”
Jack threw up his hands in despair, but he did not stop him.
Garth sidled past before he could change his mind. He examined each man thoroughly, laying his hands on their half-healed wounds, sending as much healing through his Touch as he could manage. They’d had to go through the ignominy of a search for the sake of his lie, and it was the best he could do for them as recompense.
There, the last in line, as before.
“Maximilian,” he whispered.
“I am Lot No. 859,” the man replied woodenly as Garth probed his wound with his fingers. Surprisingly his wound had completely healed, unlike those of the other men in the gang.
“You wear the Manteceros underneath the scar,” Garth said rapidly, softly, “and I, at least, believe in the world beyond the hanging wall. I am going to get you out of here. Back into the world where you belong. Tell me what to do.”
“I am not—” the man started to say again, but now it was Garth who interrupted.
“Tell me!” And the Touch burned fiercely from his fingers.
“I am not worthy,” the man mumbled reluctantly, his blue eyes wide.
“Why not?” Again the Touch flared.
Something in Lot No. 859’s mind stirred. “I am not Maximilian. I am a changeling.”
“A what?”
But now Jack was shifting impatiently and waving at Garth to leave the man, and Garth could not waste any more time. “You are Maximilian and I am going to get you out of here. Now, what can I do? Tell me!”
The man’s head dropped. “Find the Manteceros,” he mumbled, reluctantly and almost inaudibly. “The Manteceros will confirm the true king, none other.” He lifted his head, and Garth thought he could see a gleam of teeth. “He will not help me, though.”
“Who put you down here?” Garth whispered frantically, wondering when Maximilian would give him something to work with. “Who? You must know something!”
Lot No. 859 hesitated, resenting the strange memories that flickered at the touch of this boy’s hands. “There were voices. Shouts.” He shuddered. “But only one name. Furst.”
“What are you doing down there, boy?” Jack called. “Are you coming or not?”
“The man’s wound has broken open again,” Garth called in what he was amazed to hear sounded like a relatively normal tone. “I’m almost done.”
“Furst,” he said, his tone low now as he bent back over Lot No. 859’s arm. “All right, I have that. But what do you mean, ‘find the Manteceros’? The creature is only a legend…isn’t it?”
A muscle twitched beneath the man’s eye, and he mumbled a strange verse that Garth only barely caught.
“Come wind and fire and swollen sea,
Come fates that tear the sky from earth.
Release the dream; come, set him free,
So he can test the king’s true worth.”
“The dream?” Garth quickly wound a rough bandage about the man’s arm, even though his wound had healed cleanly.
Lot No. 859 grinned, but his smile was dark and humourless. “The Manteceros is a dream, boy. As is everything beyond the hanging wall. Everything is a dream. Everything. Nothing exists any more.”
There was a step behind him and Garth felt a rough hand on his shoulder.
“Boy?” Jack’s voice was tight, almost angry. “How much more of my time must you waste?”
“A dream,” Lot No. 859 whispered. “Nothing but a dream.”
“Sometimes dreams wake into reality,” Garth murmured, then he straightened up and turned about to face Jack. “I’m done,” he said.
Lot No. 859 turned away and grasped his pick more firmly in his hand, putting the boy and his words out of his mind as the feel of the Touch faded on his skin. The memories flickered and faded and he relaxed in relief. They’d been nothing but a dream. Nothing was real but the darkness.
Garth slept badly that night. Every time he drifted off he slipped into nightmares where Maximilian laboured in the Veins below him, the muscles in his arms and shoulder bunching and then relaxing as he swung his pick time and time again into the sticky black gloam-face before him. Towards morning Garth slipped into a deeper sleep, but his dreams only became more vivid, and he woke with a horrified shout when he saw Maximilian’s pick bite once more into the gloam-face only to break through into the glassy green sea beyond. The water surged forth with a vengeful roar, as if angry at this intrusion, and Maximilian bowed his head futilely as he was consumed by the maddened water.
“Garth!” Joseph, who occupied the bunk below his son’s, was on his feet and had his hand on Garth’s shoulder in an instant. “What is it?”
Garth swallowed, then tried to smile for his father. “A bad dream, father. Nothing more.”