Jack paused, and those behind him jostled and stumbled as they halted.
“There,” he grunted, and indicated with his head.
Vorstus, and Garth behind him, peered over Jack’s shoulder.
“Where?” Vorstus asked, his voice tight.
It was Garth who replied. “There. See? That’s the light of the torch carried by the guard.”
“Ah.” Vorstus paused, glancing over his shoulder at Morton and Gustus, then spoke to Jack again. “Commander, best that you order the guard to bring the gang into this space here. That offshoot is too narrow for the physicians to work in. Bring them all out…the guards included.”
Garth heard the monk’s voice crack a little at the end. “Vorstus?”
“I’m all right, boy,” Vorstus whispered as Jack shouted for the guards to bring the gang back into the main tunnel. “But best we do this as quickly as possible.”
Surprised by Jack’s orders, the two guards assigned to the gang hurried them back to the tunnel. “Jack?” One of them asked. “What’s up?”
“The fungus,” Jack said. “Out of control. Production has slipped.”
The guard exchanged puzzled glances with his companion. “Fungus? This gang’s clear of fungus, Jack.”
Garth realised that the monks’ abilities must be so over-stretched that they could not manipulate these two guards’ minds. “Then it must have been a mistaken order,” he said brightly. “Oh well, might as well examine them while we’re here. Father?”
Joseph took the hint. “Yes, ah, line them up against that wall, guard. Yes, that’s good. Under the torch. Yes, thank you.” Which one? he thought frantically, which one? His eyes raced along the line, but he was careful to keep his face neutral. “Garth? Come.”
The men had sunk down to the ground as soon as the guards had pushed them back against the wall, taking the rare opportunity to rest. Covered in tarry dust, only the whites of their eyes showed that they were living men and not inanimate statues carved out of a single block of gloam.
As the guards—and pseudo-guards—sank to the floor for a game of dice, Joseph let Garth lead him to the last man in the line.
Garth squatted down, excitement making him stumble slightly. “Maximilian?”
Lot No. 859 glared at him resentfully. What was this boy doing? Had he come back to annoy him again? His dreams had been uncomfortable ever since this boy had whispered such disturbing things at him when he was last here…when? A month or two ago, perhaps.
Joseph sank down besides his son. Haltingly he reached out a hand and grasped the man’s chin. He turned the prisoner’s head slightly so that the light fell more evenly across his features.
“Maximilian!” Joseph whispered. “Gods…Maximilian!” His voice broke. “Maximilian, don’t you know me?”
FIFTEEN
ESCAPE!
“Go away,” Lot No. 859 snarled. “Leave me in peace!”
“He will not admit to who he is,” Garth murmured. “Father? Here, Touch his arm.”
But Lot No. 859 wrenched his arm to one side before Joseph could touch him. “Get away from me!” he hissed.
The prisoner to his left murmured and shifted.
“Maximilian,” Garth said quietly, “be still. I am Garth, remember? And this is my father, Joseph Baxtor. Perhaps you remember him from your childhood.”
“Maximilian?” Joseph muttered again. How had this happened?
“I am Lot No. 859, boy! Now leave me be!”
“We have come to free you,” Garth said determinedly.
It was the worst thing he could have said.
Lot No. 859 visibly recoiled. “Free?” he whispered, appalled. “No. No!” Freed to roam unfettered and lost within the warm darkness? To be driven to madness by his aloneness? “No!”
He took a great breath. “Guard!” he shouted. “Take these men away!”
Garth flinched as he saw Jack rise, but the next instant Vorstus had laid a hand on his shoulder and Jack sank down.
Vorstus scrambled across. He squatted in front of the small group—the rest of the prisoners were now regarding them with wide, frightened eyes—and, shockingly, inclined his head at Lot No. 859 in a gesture of deep respect.
“Prince Maximilian,” he whispered. “I am Vorstus. See?” And he extended his hand slightly.
Lot No. 859 had not appeared to recognise Joseph, but his eyes widened at the sight of the quill tattooed on Vorstus’ finger. He took a sharp intake of breath.
Yet still he cringed against the prisoner to his left, as far away from the three as he could get. Still his body was tight and tense, and his eyes fearful and hostile at the same time.
“Maximilian,” Garth whispered. “I found the Manteceros. He has a message for you.” Beside him his father stirred in amazement.
Lot No. 859 stared at Garth, a thin film of sweat covering his blackened face. He appeared to have stopped breathing completely.
“Listen, Maximilian,” and Garth recited the verse the Manteceros had given him.
“In crystal do drown me,
And drape me with truth.
Draw death up about me,
Loose blood o’er the silk.”
“No,” Lot No. 859 whispered. “Please stop.”
“With courage beneath me,
Let light bind me tight.
Find one who will name me—
One more to add weight,
Then show me inside,
The green shadowed parlour.”
“Stop!”
“With the ring of my fathers
I carve deep into stone,
Trace life into lines,
Turn floor into bone.”
Lot No. 859 whimpered, and covered his face with his hands. “No!”
“Who comes to Claim?
Who dares the Dream,
And, daring, ——”
Garth took a deep breath and reached across to take the man’s hands. “Dare the dream, Maximilian, and stake your claim. Let the Manteceros decide whether you have a true claim or not.”
Maximilian let Garth envelop his grime-encrusted hands in his. Silent tears streaked down his face, carving deep channels into its covering of gloam. He was trembling. “In crystal do drown me,” he whispered, then choked on his tears, half smiling, half crying. “Oh, gods! I could surely do with a good wash!”
Vorstus took a shaky breath, emotion threatening to overwhelm him. Only a prince and an heir could have known what that line alluded to.
“Maximilian,” he said, “we have come to take you home.”
Then he rose to his feet and stared at the hanging wall.
“Ravenna!”
She slipped unseen through the impenetrable sea fog. It had thickened steadily throughout the morning, until those above moved carefully—if at all—with upraised lamps that blinded them as the light reflected off the moisture in the fog.
Ravenna had slipped the hood back from her head, and now her hair streamed black down the red wool of her cloak. Her feet were bare.
Her grey eyes were now almost colourless as she prepared to wield her magic.
Smiling, she skipped down the path leading to the poppet head above the main shaft, and opened her mouth in song.
Skip, trip, my pretty man,
Skip, trip, into my hand.
Her voice was clear and sweet, and her hands threw back her cloak so that it flew out from her shoulders like the wings of a great red bird.
About the ironworks and buildings that sat above the Veins, men slowed and rubbed their eyes. Some yawned, some glanced, curious but not anxious, into the surrounding mist—was it tinged blue now?—but all sank down where they stood, curling their arms under or about their heads as they closed their eyes in dream.
Skip, trip, be frank and fair,
Skip, trip, through the air.
In his office, Furst’s head sank down onto his desk and he emitted a rasping snore.
Skip, trip, into the sky,
Skip, trip, linger and die.
Now Ravenna stood at the very mouth of the shaft itself and she stared down into its blackness.
About her the fog swirled, and strange shapes moved noiselessly through its depths.
The surface of the Veins was silent as men slipped deeper into their dreams.
Fingers of mist dipped into the shaft itself, and Ravenna smiled.
Skip, trip, my pretty man,
Skip, trip, into my heart.
Her eyes were completely white now.
Vorstus waited until the first vestiges of the enchanted fog drifted into the chamber in which they waited, then he moved.
He handed Joseph a hammer, then indicated that Garth should take Maximilian’s pick from where he had dropped it into the dust and rock at their feet.
“Unchain him,” he said, and briefly turned back to the group of guards. Jack’s head, as did those of the four other guards, drooped in weariness.
Garth looked at his father. Joseph’s mouth was hard and determined. “The pick!” he snapped, and Garth fumbled about for a moment before he slipped the point of the pick into one of the links of the chain that bound Maximilian’s left ankle to that of the man next to him.
Maximilian stirred in agitation once more, although the other prisoners, like the guards, had fallen into a profound sleep. “No,” he murmured, his heart racing as he saw Joseph raise the hammer. “No.”
Joseph struck the pick as hard as he could. “We have to, Maximilian. We have to get you out of here!” And he raised the hammer again.