He broke off, embarrassed. Harsan pretended not to notice. The Livyani began again in urgent, businesslike tones. “Come away, young man. Still must we find a path out of this labyrinth.”
“Jayargo? The Undead? The rest?”
“Crushed or fled.” Tlayesha touched his forehead. He was hot and feverish. She looked at the lights and knobs and wheels with undisguised awe-and not a little fear. “What does it do, my love? Does it live? Will it march forth to destroy demons?”
“The ‘Weapon Without Answer’ of Yan Kor…?” Taluvaz added anxiously.
“I do not know,” he answered. He concentrated, but the voices within his brain were mute now. He frowned, and puzzled over the flat panels for many minutes. Tentatively he touched the controls. Then he kicked the metal console, slapped a hand down across a row of black buttons. He was rewarded by a dance of coloured lights.
“I see nothing; it does nothing. I command it to rise and take us hence from here, but it does not reply. I tell it to go forth to slay the Yan Koryani and-and a certain terrible Goddess and Her He’esa — but it does not move.” He knit his brows and concentrated again until perspiration dripped down into his eyes. “Nothing. Oh, it makes pretty designs-a veritable treasure trove for a jeweller or one who delights in magical playthings! Our learned priests could exhibit it to awe the gape-mouthed rustics on feast days. Perhaps it is broken-too old. Perhaps-”
“You saw nothing-sensed nothing?” Taluvaz urged. “No powerful forces, no beams of light? No pressures upon your psychic self?”
“Nothing! Nothing! The carpet-thing, the Ngoro, either did not know or would not tell me! The. Globes of Instruction said only to do this much! I have done it. As you can see, this much is nothing at all. It glows and twinkles. It does not even make a sound.”
“This does not mean that it does nothing. The ancients-”
“Thumis hurl the ancients into the Unending Grey! See for yourself, I have enough psychic sense to know when the powers of the Planes are active close by-and so do you, I warrant. Lord Taluvaz Arrio! Some of its parts must have corroded away or become defective over time…”
He kicked the Man of Gold again in frustrated disappointment.
Mirure climbed onto the dais to report that Vridekka still lived but remained unconscious. Either the freezing wounds dealt him by the silvery rod were more terrible than they appeared, or else the Mind-seer’s trance-spell was very powerful indeed. Tlayesha joined with the N’luss girl in suggesting that they cut the old man’s weazened throat before he could awake. Taluvaz urged that they bind him tightly instead, blindfold him so that he could not cast spells with the power of his gaze alone, and leave him to be collected-or to die-later. If they could send a party back for him, Prince Eselne would be very grateful for a scholar as learned in the inner workings of the Temple of Sarku- and as knowledgeable in the doings of his brother, Prince Dhich’une-as Vridekka. The Concordat did not hold down here, and what had happened tonight would not bear scrutiny in the light of day. No, the Skull Prince would not dare complain to the Petal Throne over the disappearance of his house-wizard.
The others wrangled on, but Harsan paid no heed. Whether they lived or perished here was unimportant. Damn the Man of Gold! It might be arrogant to think oneself a blue or black piece upon the Den-den board, but to win through to the Sun Circle and then find that one’s crown was no more than gilded paper! To use one’s hard-won powers only to discover them as impotent as a child’s toy sword! It was more than one ought to have to bear!
A mighty mage, a hero of epics indeed! Cha, it was enough to sour the sweetest wine!
He smashed his hand down again and again upon the black buttons, turned wheels, pressed knobs. The Man of Gold made no response. It did not speak as the picture-box had done: it emitted no sound at all. The flicker of coloured lights and the wavering lines within its many little transparent panels told him nothing.
At last he put his head down upon the cold metal of the console and wept.
It was thus that Prince Eselne’s scarlet-armoured soldiers found them a Kiren or two later. They had Jayargo, bruised and much chastened, with them, and to the surprise of all, Morkudz. The little Heheganu babbled out a tale of using a spell of invisibility- really a sort of camouflage that worked best in semi-darkness-to befool the Undead in the tomb chamber. He had then pretended to be a corpse, his greyish skin and lumpy features enhancing that masquerade greatly. When everyone had gone from the upper cavern, he escaped. His adventures amused the others, but they were lost upon Harsan; he had gone once more to kick the Man of Gold and to urge it into life- something, anything, that would make all of this meaningful.
Nothing availed. Tlayesha and the others almost had to drag him away from the glittering console. They bore him forth, still cursing the poor Skein the Weaver of All had woven for him.
Chapter Forty
Arjuan hiDaranu of the Clan of the Victorious Globe was neither young nor handsome. He was certainly no match for the likes of Mrika, his new wife. His clan-elders had warned him against the marriage: the girl came from Hekellu in the far northeast, as far across the Empire from Tumissa as one could get, and her own Clan of the Barren Peak was unknown here. It was possibly not even a decent Tsolyani clan but one from the barbarous mountain tribes of Jannu or Kilalammu. Not a proper marriage at all, they said. But then Aijuan thought to detect a tinge of jealousy in their objections, just the sort of mix of envy and respect and recognition that made him suddenly stand out, no longer a balding, faceless scribe in the Palace of the Realm in provincial Tumissa, but someone to whom pretty women were attracted, a man whose talents were not all to be seen on the surface.
His clan-brothers told him he was a fool to wed one so young and so pretty. Mrika was Aridani, and once she had settled into Tumissan society-and tired of Aijuan-she would certainly go on to marry other, higher-placed, better looking, and younger husbands. Arjuan had no illusions; he was only a stepping stone-a fact he knew would one day cause him great pain. For now, however, Mrika was indisputably his bride. Men Looked after them and whispered admiringly. They attracted attention on the street, in the official receptions of the Palace of the Realm, in the temple of Lord Thumis, and everywhere they went together. For. the present he was happy to have her.
Perhaps, just perhaps, this marriage might revive Aijuan’s ailing career. Like an old and tattered scroll that is taken from its pigeonhole and given a new coat of shining varnish, he might still rise in the Palace of the Realm and be promoted to High Copyist when Genemu hiNayar, his superior, retired. (Already the old man had three young apprentices to clean up the blots and scrawls his aged fingers left behind!) With Mrika as the cynosure of all eyes, Aijuan could go on to Bey Sii, even to a post within the Chancery at Avanthar itself. A dream, indeed, but no longer just a fantasy to be yearned for in the grey hours before the Tunkul — gong called him to his morning chores at the scriptorium. The Weaver of Skeins might yet have a golden thread or two to spare for Aijuan hiDaranu.
Aijuan rattled the door-clappers. Mrika had not been well these last several days. Some depression, some nagging worry, had darkened her mood, and she had taken to lying abed longer than was her wont. Some slight by the gossiping, clacking wives of Aijuan’s colleagues, some female problem-he did not know, and she did not say.
The hook beside the door was empty; no Meshqu plaque hung there to inform visitors of the current disposition of the occupants of the house. Strange. No, worrisome. He fumbled with the latch and the door swung open. Mrika had not bothered to drop the bar from within.
The outer chamber was dim with the murky shadows of late afternoon. The acrid smells of inks and chemicals vied with the warm fragrances of reed-paper and Hmelu — parchment. Underlying all of these were the pleasantly remembered redolences of meats and spices and savoury cooking.
Aijuan left his sandals at the door and padded across to the dais upon which they sat to eat and rarely to entertain. It had only three tiers, as Mrika repeatedly reproached him, but was that not enough for a middle-level copyist of Imperial documents? A three-tiered dais was all they required to show respect to their social equals and to his immediate superiors; he could no more expect anyone higher as a dinner guest than he could hope for the company of the Lord Governor himself!
The silent room was oppressive. He stopped, hesitated in the middle of the floor, and bent to pick up a document. The scarlet and black scrollwork illuminations of the Temple of Lord Karakan were still not quite dry upon it.
The parchment drew his attention. What was it doing here? Mrika-? No, she had nothing to do with his work, and she was always tidy. She never asked, never pried, never read any of Arjuan’s tediously accurate accounts and records. He squinted. The paper was a requisition for scholars and materials for some projected voyage to Livyanu,
