“It would seem that the bodies of those reflected on the mirrors are preserved,” Myrik commented. “Does that also mean that the process can be reversed? If so—what of those who made the patterns for the false Ift? Ayyar recognized one as a comrade of the last days. And the girl in the false wood, she was also one he could put name to.”
“That line of Larsh,” Jarvas mused. “I cannot think but in that lies the key, or perhaps one of the keys that, if we might turn them, would make us free of what we should know. But for the rest, are we now all sure of the ways?”
They gave assent. But still the sun was too high, keeping them prisoners in this valley. And time marched so slowly.
When Jarvas did give the signal to issue forth, in the early evening, Ayyar broke into a run along the rutted road, hardly aware of what he did until Rizak caught up with him and threw out an arm against his chest.
“Do you want to break your neck, brother, before you have a chance to break one of theirs? Give a thought to your footing here and to the saving of strength for what must lie before us.”
Prudence was a hard dose, but he swallowed it. And they came at last into the valley of the mounds. Ayyar looked for some sign of the women and the children. But no one, nothing—not even the driverless machines—wandered here now, though they proceeded with caution along the rows of heaped-up earth. Kelemark paused by one, scraped off a little of that sour-smelling soil, and brought it closer to his nose. Then he flung it from him and stooped to scrub his fingers in the sand.
“That is not of Janus,” he said, “or if it is, it has been changed by some process.” He spoke with authority. As one-time medico from the port, he had first been drawn into the Forest of Iftcan in search of native herbs for experiment. Though his Iftin memories were different—those of a lord of growing land—yet in part his interests remained the same and had blended into a whole as a healer.
Drangar looked about with a shiver, drawing closer his cloak.
“All the Waste is changed after the coming of That. There is naught here that is clean.”
Resolutely, because he knew he now must, Ayyar passed the mound that had given him first entrance into the burrows. He made them pause there and pointed out the hold that opened the inner way. There were numerous scuffings and markings in the sand, but the powdery stuff held no clear prints. He guessed there had been much traffic through here recently.
They continued on to the other mound, climbed to its crest. Ayyar dug away the soil he had replaced to cover the entrance. And then they descended the ladder to the first level. Myrik swung off to investigate the other openings, and a moment later he was back.
“Slagged shut—and by more than just a blaster job. Melted tight.”
The passages of the second level ran a little farther but ended abruptly in the same destruction. Then they came to the one where the stopper had been so firmly applied to the stairwell itself. Myrik knelt and ran his hands over the congealed mass.
“Same kind of job as that above,” he commented. “And this was done a long time ago, I believe. Wonder why they did not close off the top of the stair as well.”
“Who can understand any of That’s motives?” demanded Drangar. He, too, knelt by the stopper. “This cannot be stirred. You would need such a blast as would topple one of the Great Crowns.”
“Or a ship torch,” supplied Rizak. “Well”—he tossed back his cloak and set his hands on his hips—”what about this repair door Jeyken spoke of?”
Ayyar brought them into the passage that led to the hall of the stacked mirrors, and Drangar, Myrik, and Rizak began to search for the opening that might or might not be there, while Ayyar shifted unhappily from foot to foot, eager to be on his way in search of Illylle.
“Right in this much!” Drangar pressed his hands to the wall and outlined an oblong space. “Ayyar, has your sword power returned?”
He drew his sword, but no sparks flew from its tip; he felt none of the answering flow within him. “No.”
“Then we try these. It will make a long job, if we can do it at all.” Drangar took from his belt a roll of soft bark cloth. He opened this wide on the floor, revealing small tools fashioned of the same metal as the Iftin swords, intended for working in wood. Could any of them serve against metal?
“Do your best.” Jarvas turned to Kelemark and Lokatath. “Do we go?”
Their answer was quick. With Ayyar well in the lead, they climbed the ladder and came out again on the top of the mound where the dusk of night had settled. Lokatath’s head was up. He sniffed as might a hound.
“Smell that!”
Stink of false Iftin, strong enough to suggest the Enemy was close.
“There—!”
The flitting of a shadow from one mound to another. But that was not the only one out there. Some must be closer, or that warning would not reach their noses so strongly. Ayyar searched the sides of the mound by eye.
Lokatath shared his suspicion, crawling along the small level space on which they had come forth, heading in the opposite direction, while the rest waited, alert for what might come.
There—Ayyar spotted a shape flattened on the wall of the mound, still escaping any eye from above. It was three-quarters of the way up to their perch. That climber would not attempt to use a bow. He must depend upon a sword, did he go armed with Iftin weapons. But the robot Illylle and he had killed in the Waste had been furnished with a hand arm of a new type.
The spidery figure was frozen on the slope, as if it were aware that its presence was known to those above. Ayyar dared to look away, along the rest of the mound wall. Another, he was sure, that was another just there—
“Around us”—Lokatath’s whisper was soft—”and moving up—”
“Back”—that was Jarvas—”into the passages—”
Against his wishes Ayyar obeyed, but he was the last to seek the ladder and drop as far as the second level with its sealed-off exits.
“How many of them?”
“Six at least!” Lokatath made answer. “Doubtless more. What do we do?”
“The other way—” Ayyar’s thoughts clung to Illylle and his own mission. “Back through the hall of mirrors, the false wood—” He had one foot on the ladder when Kelemark caught him.
“The others must have time to work—”
“Your cloaks,” Jarvas ordered. “Off with them!”
Ayyar fumbled with the neck clasp and freed the length of cloth.
“Flat. This way.” Jarvas threw his own cloak on the space about the ladder, to be followed by Lokatath, Kelemark, and Ayyar. Together they now covered the floor and encircled the ladder.
“Now, each of you, into a passage!”
Jarvas’ plan remained a mystery, but Ayyar found himself obeying the order. The passage was a short one, the fused metal sharp at his back as he swung around to face the ladder area. He was just in time to see Jarvas toss onto the carpet formed by their cloaks what looked to be some common pebbles. Then he knew what surprise was intended for those who hunted them.
The Forest was not only the Iftin home. It also provided that race, born and bred in its shadow, nourished by its life, with many things. And there were oddities in the vegetable world of Janus that were as dangerous as some of the wild life that roamed the woodland’s aisles and glades. Those gray pebbles were not the stones they resembled but seeds that could be used as a weapon. Would they work against false Iftin as they had at times against the true?
Jarvas was in no haste to trigger them. Ayyar watched him across the space by the ladder, down on one knee, a flask of tree sap ready in his hand, his head up as he listened.
Waiting was always hard, but this was the kind that dried the mouth, set one to the need for moving, to break the tension. Ayyar must stay, sword ready, crouched in his small section of safety, listening for the sound of a boot on the ladder, glancing now and then at those small things lying innocently on the cloth, hardly to be seen in the gloom, save by Iftin eyes.
Sounds at last. Ayyar caught a small movement across from him. With one hand, Jarvas was worrying the stopper from the flask of sap.
Light, not as brilliant as a blaster ray yet deadly in promise, caught the cloak fabric, to be followed by a curl of smoke. Jarvas threw. The sap spattered over the pebble-seeds. There was an instant of anxious waiting, then soft plops, loud in the silence, steam rising where the sap touched the scorched cloth.