CHAPTER 83

Before I can answer Rue, Crow approaches me and orders me to extend my arms out. I look at Roderick, who shrugs.

“Protocol,” he says.

I let the gangly young man search me for weapons. His hands are prodding and invasive, but unequal to the task of finding Rue under my clothes. My Familiar moves, razor-thin, over my skin, shifting from areas Crow hasn’t searched to areas he deemed safe. I strangle a smile. Murderous thoughts or no, our connection has improved in recent days.

“Please, sit,” Roderick says when Crow is done. There are empty chairs lined behind the first row, where Roderick’s group is sitting.

I take a wary look behind me, and find the line of children that followed us into he arena has scampered away without a trace. Only Crow remains, spidery and off-putting, but proper as a butler, standing a little to the side.

Wyl sits down on the offered chair and I follow her lead. The people in front of us turn curious faces, nodding to Wyl, eyeing me with the sort of appraising look I would have expect to see in farmers at a cattle fair.

But these people are far from farmers. Apart from Roderick, three others are gathered. A dwarf with bushy red eyebrows and a beard caught in stylized circles on both sides of his chin, a pale, sickly-looking human woman with long golden hair and rings around her fingers, and a goblin of indeterminate gender whose smile, vague and vacant, glows blue. Roderick takes the fourth chair, and turns it slightly so he can looks us both in the eye.

At me.

“To think,” he says, reminiscing. “That the ailing boy I attempted to lift a potion from could have caused such unrest.

“Unrest, sir?” I ask, testing the grounds with each word.

“Indeed,” the man said, pleased. “We hear a lot down here, and lately it’s been nothing but Malco this, Malco that. Tell me, did it feel satisfying winning that duel the way you did?”

“I escaped with my life against impossible odds,” I say. “I’d call it satisfying, yes.”

“No,” Roderick slices a hand through the air, cutting through my attempt at diplomacy. “Not that, not that. I mean torturing a Godtouched, especially one who hurt you so. How did it feel?”

Rao shaking in his bed, crying, begging, teeth broken and eyes bulging as the poison coursed like molten steel through his veins. Holding him down, stopping him from killing himself—

“Yes,” I say. “It felt good.”

Wyl shifts to my side, but it’s the dwarf who jumps in.

“Enough, Roderick. This is what you’ve brought us?” he says, crossing his arms. “A maimed pup, not yet a month out of his first Dungeon, likely to die in his second. Pah. A waste of time, and you know it.”

Roderick clicks his tongue.

“My friend is a nay-sayer, Master Malco,” he says. “As you’ll hopefully have opportunity to discover. And he gets ahead of himself. There is a protocol, old friend.” Roderick looks sternly at the dwarf before continuing in a somber, hushed tone. “I passed through the Broken Door, and beyond it I met the Ruinous.”

I try not to let the shock show in my face. A Champion. Wyl wasn’t lying, she really brought me to a Champion.

Unless they’re both lying, supplies the dungeon mind. And he’s just saying words that sound right, but have no substance.

Roderick is done. He nods to the goblin at his side. The blue-teethed creature giggles and stands on his chair theatrically.

“They passed through the Winged Door,” they say in a raspy, choking voice, like a cat with something stuck in its throat. I realize they’re talking about themselves “And beyond it they met the Messenger.”

My mouth hangs open. Two Champ—no, I realize suddenly what an idiot I’m being. I glance at the remaining two. They’re all Champions.

“And your name, too,” Roderick adds.

The goblin smiles at me, showing their teeth, which aren’t just painted blue, but actually aglow.

“They was getting there, they was getting there. Don’t rush ‘em now,” the goblin bows. “They’s called Tegg,”

The sickly lady standing on the edge of her chair clears her throat.

“I passed through the Palace Door,” she says. Her accent is slight, but present. She’s not from around here. “And I met the Monarch. I am Lady Pelena.”

All eyes turn to the dwarf, who scowls and shakes his head.

“Foolishness, Roderick.”

“There’s no danger to it, Grissa,” Lady Pelena says, bored. “Even if the boy were to betray us, what would he say?”

“He knows our faces!”

“I’m not here to betray you—” I begin.

“Grissa,” Roderick says, then clicks his tongue again. “We are not here to debate protocol. Merely to follow it.”

The dwarf’s scowl grows more pronounced, and Grissa seems to balance on the edge of walking out of the room. In the corner of my eyes, I see Crow moving on the edges of the partitioned section. But then the dwarf relents.

“I am Grissa of the Mountainheads. I passed through the Golden Door and met the Fool.”

“The Fool?” I can’t contain myself. The same door Reva passed through.

“Aye, lad, the Fool,” the dwarf repeats. “You have a problem with that?”

“I—” too many eyes on me. Too many of them looking for an angle, a weakness. You’re here for Lysander. “No.”

Roderick smiles, then nods to Wyl.

“I am named Wyl,” she says in an easy, confident tone. “I passed through the Silver Door, and beyond it I met the Watcher.”

“And now you, Malco,” Roderick says, sounding like a schoolteacher.

“I am Malco of Reach,” I say. “I passed through the White Door and met the Arbiter.”

Not the hint of hesitation. Not a sliver of the geas’ power, stopping me from disclosing what I saw to the uninitiated. Everyone here has truly been beyond the Doors.

“Doesn’t that feel better?” Roderick asks, good humored and scrunched up in his chair with a leg resting on top of the other. “Knowing that we’re all friends here?”

“You’re delusional if you think this charade is going further than this room, Roderick,” says Grissa. “These pups of yours are untested and soft. They’re not a revolution.”

“Shame to be thought so by a name as big as Grissa’s,” says Wyl. The dwarf turns an unfriendly eye to her. “Such a large, imposing name, whose exploits… Hmm,” Wyl taps her lip thoughtfully. “Remind us: what were your exploits, again?”

Grissa’s expression doesn’t change when he huffs out of his nose without a note of amusement.

“See, Rod?” he asks. “Pulling on my ego. No sense to read a man, nor to be silent when one speaks. Is this the best you have to offer?”

“Though they may be… impetuous,” Roderick says, waxy and smooth, though his eyes are cold as her looks at Wyl. “These are the new generation, Grissa. You ignore them at your peril. If you think a bunch of old farts such as us is going to turn the tide, then…”

“Excuse me,” I say. “Turn what tide? What do you mean?”

It’s a dangerous question, it seems. Immediately Lady Pelena drums nervous fingers on the back of her hand while Grissa scowls deeper, his displeasure plain to see. Only weird little Tegg, crouching on his chair, smiles cerulean at my asking.

“You didn’t tell him,” Roderick says to Wyl.

“He knows more than he’s suggesting,” she replies. “Though what he knows he didn’t hear from me. Other tongues are waggling about wars to come.”

“Other tongues,” Grissa repeats.

“Aye. Not tongues that I’d associate with. Godtouched tongues.”

I’m looking at Wyl, trying to silence her with gaze alone. It doesn’t matter; wouldn’t matter if I had the opportunity to shout in her ear to shut up. Wyl cannot easily be moved from her purpose.

“And here is the crux of the issue, gentlepeople.” It’s Roderick who speaks. “The reason why I’m arguing against our useless planning and senseless jabs at the power structure in place. There’s an opportunity here. It’s Godtouched warring against each other.”

“Pah,” Grissa spits. “Warring – nonsense. It’s a lovers’ spat. It always is, with them. They cannot die, so their differences cannot easily be resolved. Best not to have many differences.”

“For once, I agree with Grissa, Roderick,” Lady Pelena says. “You want us to change our ways, but all you’ve shown us so far are empty words. You must admit, dear, exaggeration is your way.”

“Like subtlety is yours, my lady,” Roderick murmurs pleasantly. He turns to Tegg. “And you? Nothing to say?”

“They waits,” Tegg says, still smiling, still crouching. “Roderick isn’t done, they thinks.”

“And they’d be right. Because things are different this time. Everything, and I mean everything, changed in the last few days, when my Spider brought me a crucial piece of new information.”

In the quiet that follows, Grissa is the first to groan loudly.

“For the gods’ sake, man. Spit it out.”

He’s gruff, but it’s plain to see he’s interested. If I know it, Roderick does too. The bald man smiles beatifically.

“The search has ended. The Godtouched have done what we failed at so many times. They have found a Dungeon.”

No.

I turn to Wyl, who’s studiously avoiding my gaze. Not embarrassed, no. Simply denying me the slightest bit of attention.

Everybody else, however, seems to be standing straighter in their chairs, Tegg included. Even weird, gangly Crow – or did I imagine it? – is tilting forward, hands behind his back, his eyes vacant and overlarge but too fixed by half for him to be lost in thought.

“What do you know?” Lady Pelena asks. Demands, rather; she’s agitated. “Roderick!”

The bald man raises his hands in surrender.

“The Godtouched Lysander found an old Dungeon. As of right now, you know as much as I do.” His eyes twinkle with amusement. “But not, I believe, as much as Malco knows.”

And all eyes turn to me.

This is going very badly.

My mouth is dry. Rue is picking up on my thoughts. His humming grows, sharpens. He flows like water up to my shoulder and then down my arm.

“I don’t know any more than that,” I say.

Roderick tilts his head with a slight frown.

“Come, boy. I can tell you’re lying and not a single one of my Perks relates to reading people.”

I shake my head.

“No. The elf didn’t tell me where. I only know his agents found one, but it’s distant. Which is why he hasn’t gone there himself.”

Roderick shares a glance with Grissa. They don’t believe me. I’m not sure I would believe me.

“Malco,” Wyl leans forward. Her face is set, hard and unflinching. “This is what I was telling you. Either you know who you’re with, or you don’t. Lysander is a Godtouched, and nothing will change that. Tell us. It’ll be easier if you tell us.”

“Easier?” I ask. “Lysander can be your ally. You’re throwing away a chance of going to war – real war, instead of hiding in the sewers like rats!”

“He’s protecting him!” the dwarf bellows. It sounds more like an incredulous laugh. “Lysander – fourth level this year, right? Slimes. Tell me, boy, did you see anyone get killed by mutt slimes? Did you see how the growths move under their skin, what happens when they burst? Your Lysander did that, you imbecile. You child.”

I stand. I feel more than I see Crow getting into position behind me. I can almost imagine his arm extended, ready to summon the long thin blade from its hiding place. Hidden by my cloak, Rue circles my wrist and sits there, in wait.

“Malco…” Roderick says.

This is wrong. You stupid, godsdamned idiot, you…

“I do not know who you are,” I say. “I do not know what you want. I do know that Lysander wants to give back the Dungeons, to replace what the Godtouched stole…”

“Good gods,” Lady Pelena interrupts. There’s a hunger in her eyes, something deeper and more intense. “You’re all useless.” She turns to me, and her eyes flash golden. “The truth drips from your lips like water upon a stone.”

Something comes over me. Something that reaches into my mind, finds my resistance, and smothers it without the least effort.

“Lysander hired Captain Olobo and his crew to find the Dungeon.” The words pass through my lips without my ordering them to. I panic, and Rue shapes himself into a dagger that I swing in a wide arc around me. The combination of what I’m unwittingly saying and what I’m doing is enough to catch Crow by surprise, who’s forced to duck and step away from me. But the truth doesn’t stop there. “They found it in the Domarian Islands!” In my attempt to shut my own mouth, all I manage is to scream. “Lysander planned to go there soon and run the Dungeon himself!”

I’ve conquered breathing room, stepping almost up to the partition. I cast Hunch, and ready myself to fire off an Incendiary Dart, something to cover my escape with.

But there’s no escape. There can’t be, because there’s no pursuit. Crow has only stepped protectively in front of Roderick, but everyone else has, at most, stood up.

“Malco,” Wyl says. “It’s done. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Let me out,” I say.

“Lysander,” says Grissa. He turns to Roderick. “That’s Valkas’ right-hand man, isn’t he?”

“Time and time ago,” Lady Pelena answers. “He’s retired, gone somewhere closer to Olvion. But he’s missing, I think. There are rumors. I’ll have to ask around.”

“Screw the elf, “Roderick says. “Personally, I’m worried about Olobo. Didn’t even know the man was still alive. Gods, the Domarian Islands! There’s only savages there, how can they have a Dungeon? We need to mount an expedition as soon as possible.”

“Won’t be easy.” Pelena again. “The area is infested with pirates and monsters, and no captain who wishes for his head to remain atop his shoulders would go there willingly.”

“We’ll have to be persuasive, then.”

They’re busy planning, turned inwards in a circle. Only Crow and Wyl are still looking at me, one waiting for me to strike, the other talking slowly, reasonably, an entire speech that I don’t want to hear.

She tricked me. I trusted her, and she tricked me. I need to warn Lysander. Need to… Need to…

“Let. Me. Out!,” I yell. “Call your guards off. Tell them to let me pass.”

Roderick looks over his shoulders and stares at me with a faraway look.

“Sorry, Malco,” he says. “Wish you’d be more sensible about your loyalties. Tegg, would you…?”

“Yes.”

The voice comes from behind me. I realize that in the confusion I lost the goblin from sight. I turn, and there he is, blue smile in full display.

“Hold,” he says, extending a diminutive hand to touch my leg.

“What—?”

The next moment, the blue is replaced with green. The world dissolves into a familiar emerald, like the one manifested by Lysander’s teleportation amulet, and the last I hear of the underground is Wyl’s voice.

“I’ll come find you—"

We vanish.

I land on cold stone, blasted by a stiff wind. For a second, I’m blind from the green after images, but it doesn’t take me long to recognize the height, the lights, the distant sea. We’re in Black Sword Keep, up in the battlements. Tegg smiles up at me.

“They’s sorry about that,” the goblin says. “Lots of scheming down there, lots of planning. Not enough heart.”

“I… How did you…?”

“They passed the Winged Door, met old Messenger fella. They’s Shortwalker now. Old fortress,” Tegg adds, jumping from one subject to the next. “They’s remember it from olden days, with Obrein lord.”

“Obrein? What do you mean?”

Tegg smiles a blue and happy smile, looking down at the city with hands gripped behind his back.

“You don’t see? Them people back down, they Obrein’s people, from before the Godpeople. Sad they don’t have all the power now. Aye, Tegg’s remember.”

“You made me tell!” I say.

“Nah. Lady Pel did. She good like that, making people do things. Shame she so power-sick she can only think o’ that. Nice lady, otherwise.”

“Please,” I say. “I need to go back to Hollow House.” I see the confusion on Tegg’s face. “Hum, Hollor’s Fall. It’s a village close to Olvion. Please, if you could take me there, then I could—"

“Nah,” Tegg interrupts. “Tegg, see, they’s got to go. Bye, Malco of Reach.”

And in a puff of green, he’s gone. I’m alone on the battlements, and the night wind blows cold against my skin.