the minutes slipped past. They were deep beneath the city by
now, well within the core of rock and earth that formed the
plateau on which Tyrsis rested. The Valemen had lost all sense
of direction.
When they reached the bottom of a dry well with an iron
ladder that led up, Damson paused. “It is not far now,” she
said quietly. “Just another several hundred yards when we reach
the top of this ladder. We should find him then-or he us. He
brought me here once long ago when I showed him a bit of
kindness.” She hesitated. “He is very gentle, but peculiar as
well. Be careful how you treat him.”
She took them up the ladder to a landing that opened into a
series of passageways. It was warmer there, less dusty, the air
stale but not malodorous. “These tunnels were bolt holes once
for the city’s defenders; at some points they lead all the way
down to the plains.” Her red hair shimmered as she brushed it
back from her face. “Stay close to me.”
They entered one of the corridors and started down. The pitch
coating on the torch head sizzled and steamed. The tunnel
twisted about, crisscrossed other tunnels, wound through rooms
shored up with timbers and fastening bolts, and left the Valemen
more confused than ever as to where they were. But Damson
never hesitated, certain of her way, either reading signs that were
hidden from them or calling to memory a map mat she kept
within her head.
At last they entered a room that was the first of several, all
interconnected, large chambers with wooden beams, stone block
floors, walls from which hangings and tapestries dangled, and
a storehouse of bizarre treasures. Piled floor to ceiling, wall to
wall, there were trunks of old clothing, piles of furniture
crammed and laden with clasps, fittings, writings gone almost
to dust, feathers, cheap jewelry, and toy animals of all sorts,
shapes, and sizes. The animals were all carefully arranged, some
seated in groups, some lined up on shelves and on divans, some
placed at watch atop bureaus and at doorways. There were a
few rusted weapons scattered about and an armful of baskets
woven from cane and rush.
There were lights as well-oil lamps fastened to the beams
overhead and the wall beneath, filling the rooms with a vague
brightness, the residual smoke venting through airholes that dis-
appeared at the comers of the room into the rock above.
The Valemen looked about expectantly. There was no one
there.
Damson did not seem surprised. She led them into a room,
dominated by a trestle table and eight highback chairs of carved
oak, and motioned for them to sit. There were animals occu-
pying all the chairs, and the Valemen looked inquiringly at the
giri.
“Choose your place, pick up the animal that’s seated there,
and hold it,” she advised and proceeded to show them what she
meant. She selected a chair with a worn, stuffed velvet rabbit
resting on it, lifted the tattered creature, and placed it comfort-
ably on her lap as she sat down.
Coil did the same, his face empty as he fixed his gaze on a
spot on the far wall, as if convinced that what was happening
was no stranger than what he had expected. Par hesitated, then
sat down as well, his companion something that might have been
either a cat or a dog-it was impossible to tell which. He felt
slightly ridiculous.
They sat there then and waited, not speaking, barely looking
at each other. Damson began stroking the worn fur backing on
her rabbit. Coil was a statue. Par’s patience began to slip as the
minutes passed and nothing happened.
Then one after another, the lights went out. Par started to his
feet, but Damson said quickly, “Sit still.”
All of the lights but one disappeared. The one that remained
was at the opening of the first room they had entered. Its glow
M was distant and barely reached to where they sat. Par waited for
his eyes to adjust to the near darkness; when they did, he found
himself staring at a roundish, bearded face that had popped up