Book 8: Chapter 36: Signs below
“Is there any reason it has to be at night? Why can these people not hold their gatherings at a reasonable hour during the day?” Eleanor asked.
“Style, I guess. If you’re a criminal, the night is the right time to do business.” Martel shrugged.
She sighed. “Are you certain this is a good idea? I dislike any notion of involvement with people of such sordid, unsavoury character.”
“I know how they think. A show of strength is necessary.”
“I understand as much. We do not want them to impede our venture. It is the… second part of your plan that I find distasteful.”
Martel shrugged. “We play by their rules.”
“Exactly. It makes us little better than criminals ourselves. I prefer more honest means and methods.”
“Any luck getting the cloth traders to meet with us?”
Another sigh. “Fine. Let us get this charade over with.” Both of them armoured and armed, they left The Firebrand and moved north.
They reached a small, unassuming temple. The Friar had extended his trust to them, granting them the knowledge of his entry to the Undercroft, since they needed one of the Nine Lords to take them to the gathering. Martel already knew about the entrance underneath The Copper Drum, but he did not feel inclined to deal with Weasel more than necessary. Besides, as the Friar had called the meeting, it was his responsibility to bring the outsiders. In addition to the old monk and a handful of his attendants, including Sisters of the Sun with their staves, Martel recognised a man in bright colours and inwardly groaned. He had forgotten about the fellow, but obviously, the Keeper of the Pact would be involved.
“The great wizard himself!” exclaimed the jester, and Martel already regretted his plan. “The Firebrand, or does he call himself the Blackstaff these days?”
“I call myself Martel,” came the curt reply. The mage looked at the Friar. “Let’s get underway.”
“Underway and underground,” the Keeper added, looking at Eleanor. “You arrive with only one companion, great wizard, but if it’s the lady of legend, you come better attended than any of the regulars!”
“Is he always like this?” Eleanor asked as they followed the others down into a crypt inside the small temple.
“Only when he’s awake,” Martel muttered. Together, they descended the stairs to an ancient door. The Friar took out a stone inscribed with a glyph; even from a distance, Martel could sense the trace of magic upon it. The old man placed it against the door, and it swung open. “Down we go.”
One of the sisters took point, carrying a torch, as did the sister bringing up the rear. Martel ignited the gem on his staff, and with these sources of light, they walked down a narrow staircase. Normally, having walls so close on either side would leave Martel uncomfortable, but he had Eleanor at his back, which calmed him.
As the passageway expanded into a great cavern, Martel felt actual unease for the first time. The light on his staff disappeared into the empty vastness above. Ahead, he saw the first row of the houses carved into the rock. Despite how many times he had been here before, it sent shivers down his spine to see the eerie city, abandoned and empty. And while years had passed, remembering his last time down here did not help either. He had fallen apart, crushed by the burden of his actions and responsibility in the civil war. And somewhere out there lay the bodies of Ruby and Flora, rotting away.
Martel felt a hand take his as the small party continued down the street. He was stronger now and had a handle on himself; all the same, he appreciated Eleanor’s presence and that she knew how this place affected him.
Staring straight ahead, Martel figured it best to avoid dwelling on his memories of the city. He distracted himself by thinking of their plans for Archen, why he was doing this, or letting his mind wander down other avenues of remembrance. The last time he had visited his family in Engby, attending Mira’s wedding. Watching Eleanor swim in the sea on the Western Isles. Quelling the blaze in the Khivan quarter. Seeing Keith’s children play, reminding him of his younger siblings when they were small. Many, many other memories added over the years since he was freed from the burden of being a soldier, a captain.
In the distance, Martel noticed the tower that lay in the centre of the Undercroft. He could not help but recall the encounter that he and Eleanor had experienced, going through it. Some manner of guardian had attacked them. Eleanor squeezed his hand, and he looked at her. “Yes. Don’t worry about me. I’m fine. You?” he spoke quietly.
“I remember something,” she replied in the same tone of voice. “You recall the tower?”
“Of course.” Not that he was keen to do so. “Why?”
“On the floor. We saw markings. Do you remember them?”
“Not really. Is that important?”
“Similar to what we saw in Archen. Markings from Phoenik.” She gave him a look before staring straight ahead, and they increased their pace a little to avoid falling behind.
Thinking back, Martel did his best to recall the encounter, especially what had happened before they got attacked. Try as he might, he could not remember such details. But he trusted Eleanor to be right. She had the better memory, especially for anything involving writing or symbols, even those she could not read.
Despite the oppressive atmosphere of the place, Martel’s curiosity was awakened. He wished they could go to the tower and confirm what Eleanor remembered; better yet, somehow copy the symbols and compare them to what they had found in Archen. Or maybe bring them to Fenrick, who would be the best bet at an expert in ancient matters.
But that was not tonight’s purpose, and deviating from it might cause problems with Martel’s original intent. He was dealing with the Nine Lords, and he could not afford distractions. Ahead, they saw the shine from torches and enchanted lightstones, illuminating the town square. The Nine had gathered at the word of a wizard, and the wizard would address them all.