Free Corambis by Sarah Monette Page B

structure.
Lost it in an argument with Thamuris, and how transparent an excuse had I thought I needed?
I heard Mildmay’s cane in the corridor. I rolled over, shut my eyes, and pretended as hard as I could to be asleep. After a very long time, it became true.
    G
    I was lost in all my dreams that night, which was symbolism I needed no help to understand. First the Mirador, then the dark beneath Klepsydra, and then I heard a slow, massive ticking, and I knew it was Juggernaut, the Titan Clock of the Bastion. I had heard it once waking, and had not forgotten. And then beneath it, I heard a voice cry out in pain and fear, and it was a voice I knew. My brother’s voice.
    I follow the voice, follow the sobbing and cursing, follow it down a twisting, tightening spiral until, somewhere far beneath the earth, among the roots of the monstrous clock, I find him.
    Every maze has a monster at its heart. Is that one of Ephreal Sand’s dicta, or one of the mysteries of Heth- Eskaladen? It doesn’t matter; it’s true, and the monster of this maze is Malkar Gennadion. He stands with his back to the door, but that doesn’t matter either. I know him instantly. His attention is fixed on the far corner of the room, where Mildmay is pressed back against the wall. Mildmay is bleeding from a series of cuts on his shoulders and upper arms, too thin and shallow to scar; I know the knife that made them. His face is bruised and terrible. There is a wild creature in his eyes.
    This is foolish, you know, Malkar says. He sounds amused, and I know his voice so well, there isn’t even any shock in hearing it again. It’s as if I’ve been listening for it all along.
    Mildmay says nothing. He is clutching a crowbar, and I know immediately that Malkar left it deliberately for him to find. As a game.
You can’t kill me, Malkar continues. All it would take is a single word from me, and that bar would burn hot enough to cripple your hands permanently. If it didn’t burn them right off. I don’t have to see his face to know he’s smiling.
I killed wizards before, Mildmay says, his voice slurred and dragging and distorted; I understand him because I can fill in the rest of the sentence around that word “wizards,” that word I have never heard Mildmay use.
What was that? Malkar says, although I’m quite sure he knows. It’s truly a pity you’re illiterate. This would go much faster if you had a little slate to write on.
Mildmay repeats himself, his voice growling and grinding in his throat. And twice more before Malkar affects to understand and agrees affably, Of course you have, my child. I saw what you did to Vey, remember? But you won’t do that to me. You can’t. He advances a step. Just think of what will happen to Felix when you fail.
Don’t care about Felix, Mildmay says, and it should be true. If there are gods, they can bear witness to that much. Mildmay should not care about me. But he’s lying. The bar is shaking in his grip.
Did anyone ever tell you you’re a terrible liar? Malkar says. Poor little murderer. Poor little monster. He’s almost crooning.
Mildmay doesn’t protest, doesn’t do anything but watch Malkar with fear and hate and hopelessness in his eyes.
I could make you give me your weapon, Malkar says, with just enough mocking emphasis on the word “weapon” to make it clear he doesn’t regard it as a threat. You know that.
Mildmay’s shaking gets worse.
I don’t know if I could make you hit yourself with it— it depends on your willpower. But it might be fun to find out. He takes another step closer. I could make you blind and deaf and helpless and leave you that way. I could take your body away from you again, the way I did in Mélusine. I could make you drop that crowbar and go down on your knees right here. He pauses, tilts his head, making a show of it. But I think I’d prefer you do it yourself.
Mildmay snarls soundless defiance, a ratting terrier cornered by a much larger dog.
Oh you will, little