“Tomorrow, Lady. Tomorrow we strike.”
Twelve
The Name is Death
Moira didn’t know how far they had come. The flagged corridors twisted and turned in a way that made her head spin. The floor was uneven and the tunnels that led off usually sloped up or down.
The trickle of water down the center of the tunnel made footing treacherous, but she stayed to the middle nonetheless. To step out of the trail of slime was to risk ramming into a rough stone or dirt wall.
Worst of all, she cold not see. There was no light and her magic senses were blocked everywhere by the coarse, suffocating pressure of counter-spells. The magic was almost as nauseating as the stink of her goblin guards.
The dark was no hinderance to the goblins. They took crude amusement from her plight, forcing her along at a pace that kept her on the verge of stumbling. Finally, after she had fallen or run into the walls too often, they grabbed her arms and half-pushed, half-dragged her along.
By the time the goblins threw her in a small, mean cell and slammed the door, Moira was bruised, filthy and scraped and bleeding in a dozen places. Her palms were raw from falling and there was a cut on her head which turned her hair damp with blood. Her knees and shins ached.
She pulled herself into a sitting position and dabbed at the cut on her head with the least-dirty part of the hem of her skirt. She tried to ignore the small skittering sounds in the dark around her and refused to think about the future.
“Well, Sparrow?” Shiara asked as she ducked to enter the low door of Wiz’s workroom.
“I think we’re about there, Lady.” For the first time in days the crude plank table was clear. The rough wooden tablets which had been piled on it to toppling were now stacked more or less neatly in the corners of the room. The table had been pushed away from the small window and a bench had been drawn underneath it. A brazier in the center of the room made a feeble attempt to take the late-winter chill out of the air but neither Wiz nor Shiara doffed their cloaks. The door was open to let in more light.
“Are you sure you want to be here?” Wiz asked. “I mean it isn’t necessary and it may be dangerous.”
The blind woman shrugged. “It is dangerous everywhere and I would rather be at the center of events.”
Shiara came into the hut and almost bumped into the table in its new and unfamiliar position. With a quick apology, Wiz took her hand and guided her to the bench.
“When do you begin?”
“I’ll let you know in a minute. Emac!”
“Yes, master?” A small brown creature scuttled out of the shadows. It was man-like, perhaps three feet tall, with a huge bald head and square wire-rimmed glasses balanced on its great beak of a nose. A green eyeshade was pushed back on its domed forehead and a quill pen was stuck behind one flap-like ear.
“Are we ready?”
“I’ll check again, master.” The gnome-like being disappeared with a faint “pop.” Shiara winced involuntarily at the strong magic so close to her.
“I’m sorry, my Lady. I’ll tell them to walk from now on.”
“What was that?” Shiara asked.
“An Emac. A kind of magic clerk. They help me organize things and translate simple commands into complex sets of instructions. I have several of them now.”
“Emacs,” Shiara said, wrinkling her nose. “I see—so to speak.”
There was another “pop” and the Emac was back before Wiz. “We are all ready, Master.”
Wiz looked at Shiara, who sat with her head turned in his direction, beautiful and impassive. The pale, soft winter light caught her in profile, making her look more regal than ever.
Wiz took a deep, shuddering breath. “Very well,” he said and raised his hands above his head. “backslash” he intoned.
“$” replied the Emac.
“class drone grep moira”
“$” said the Emac again.
“exe,” Wiz said and the Emac’s lips moved soundlessly as he transmitted the order, expanding it into a series of commands to each of the drones.