A miracle – or magic.
Of course! Why not try magic? There was nothing to say that wizards had built this place, but, on the other hand, there was nothing to say that they hadn't. Togura promptly tried some of the tricks which the wizard of Drum had taught him, in defiance of all the laws, rules and regulations of the Confederation of Wizards. He tried a Word of Opening, a Word of Closing, then three or four Words which were supposed to do something, though he could not for the life of him remember what.
Nothing happened.
The brick remained brick, the dust remained dust, the glass remained glass, the bones remained bones. In frustration, Togura shouted aloud a Word of Ultimate Destruction, which he had been warned never ever to use except in the direst emergencies. Again, nothing happened. If wizards had left any power in this place, he had failed to find the right Words to activate that power.
What else could he try?
'Onamonagonamonth!' chanted Togura.
It was a Word of Location.
It worked!
In the distance, a ringing note, like that from a bell, sounded loud and clear, then died away to nothing. An artefact of power lay in that direction. Togura took a few paces, then spoke his Word of Location again. The bell- bright tone ignited once again. In this manner, he led himself through the maze, reaching, at last, a big, high- vaulted hall where the ringing tone was almost overwhelming.
'It's here,' muttered Togura, as the note once more died away.
But where?
The hall was cluttered with the most appalling jumble of antiquated lumber, spinning wheels, mirrors of startling brightness, decayed paintings, broken tiles, weapon racks, body armour, spokeless wheels of a black substance which was hard yet flexible, and assorted lumps of rust which perhaps had once been something flexible, together with old leather-bound books in indecipherable script, stone tablets, graven images of bronze and jade, coins made of lead and bits of seamless lightweight piping.
'Onamonagonamonth!' cried Togura.
The ringing note almost deafened him. As far as he could tell, it seemed to come from one particular corner. As the sound died away, he waded toward it, barking his shins on an ironbound chest, which served to diminish his enthusiasm. He cautioned himself not to get over-excited. When he found the whatever-it-was, he might find it incomprehensible. Or useless. It might be a wizard-made device for skinning onions by enchantment, a magic funnel for desalinating the sea, a novel weapon specifically designed for killing dragons, or any other of a thousand million unhelpful devices.
Once he reached the corner, he rummaged through various kinds of junk – more rocks, more bones, a crown made of a heavy metal which was possibly gold, a box decorated with the design of a heart and a hand, a couple of dirty stone jars, a feather cloak which fell to pieces when he picked it up, a lump of rock-heavy swamp kauri and a ship in a bottle.
The only thing which looked like it might be magic was the ship in the bottle, for it was a thing which was, on the face of it, an impossibility. Togura hated to break a piece of glass so large, so finely wrought and so rare, but, yielding to necessity, he smashed the bottle. Then, for good measure, dismantled the ship. Finding nothing. He ran through his Words again. There was only one he had failed to use, so now he used it on principle:
'Sholabarakosh!'
There was a sharp click.
And, in the dust, something moved.
Chapter 27
What had moved?
As far as Togura could see, nothing had changed.
Then he noticed that the casket bearing the design of a heart and a hand was ajar. For some reason, the decoration on the lid of the box seemed familiar. Of course! Now he remembered! Long ago, in the Wordsmiths' stronghold in Keep, Brother Troop had sketched that identical design for him. Later, the wizard of Drum had drawn the same. At his feet was the box which held the index!
Or so he hoped.
Togura stooped to secure the box. As he lifted the casket, the lid snapped shut. He could not pry it loose by any exercise of brute force.
'Sholabarakosh!' said Togura.
Raising the lid, he saw within a very curious device, which he removed, discarding the box. This device was, he presumed, the index which he had been questing for – on and off, with varying degrees of resolve – for so long.
It looked rather like three miniature harps stuck together, each harp string ending in a pearl-white button. The three layers of buttons, corresponding to the three layers of strings, were stepped, so they did not obscure each other. There were also a dozen multicoloured buttons which were not attached to any strings.
Cautiously, Togura plucked a harp string with one of his broken black-rimmed fingernails. It did not respond. Then he touched one of the buttons. A pure, clear note, sweeter than birdsong, sounded through the hall. Other buttons raided other notes, some low, some high. Togura was at first entranced, then disappointed. This could hardly be the index, for it did not speak. It was no more than a musical plaything from the days of antiqity – charming, but ultimately useless.
He tossed it aside.
Then he sat down in the dust, feeling despondent.
He must have been crazy to think that he had found the index. The index, as he knew full well, was at the bottom of a bottle guarded by a monster in Castle Vaunting, at Lorford, now many leagues to the north. So it could hardly be here. There was, after all, only one index.
Or was there?
Togura tried to remember precisely what he had been told about the index, but it was difficult. He lacked the scholarly impulse; if he was honest with himself, he would have to admit that he had never given his full attention either to Brother Troop or the Wordsmiths or to the wizard of Drum. His chaotic lifestyle, full of death, horror, disaster and sundry shocks to the system – sea serpents, walking rocks! – had not improved matters. It was hard to spare much thought for scholarly revision when one starving to the bone in a foreign land, or being hunted through the wilds by assorted rapists and butchers.
Nevertheless, after some concentrated thought, Togura did manage to remember something of the lectures he had endured. The wizard of Drum, Hostaja Torsen Sken-Pitilkin, had talked about the index in connection with the Old City of Penvash. Or was that the odex he had been talking about? Brother Troop had mentioned that there might be another index in Chi'ash-lan – or was it Galsh Ebrek? There had been some mention of other places, too. Androlmarphos? No. But some place in the south.
'Let's be honest,' said Togura, speaking aloud. 'To tell the truth, I've forgotten.'
His voice sounded so forlorn and lonely in that old, dusty hall that he wished he had not spoken. He gave the musical instrument a little kick. He was tempted to break it, but his mercantile instincts restrained him. In context, the triple-harp was a useless piece of junk, but in a cultured city like Selzirk it might well be worth a fortune. Togura put the triple-harp back in its casket. Harp and box were light and easy to carry.
'On your way, Togura Poulaan,' said Togura.
He left the hall by way of a high, arched doorway. The floor beneath was paved, not by bricks but by huge slabs of stone.
'Curious,' said Togura.
He advanced boldly down the passageway, then stopped when one of the huge slabs of stone seemed to shift underfoot.
'Curiousr still,' said Togura, sweating a little.
