The Long Reach of Night Read online

  Two gargoyle-like beings sat down at his table, grinning at him in such a way that he wondered if their minds were all they should have been, but they hailed him in friendly tones.

  “I am Ratripper,” beamed one.

  “And I am Skewerpole,” said the other.

  “Elfloq, at your service.”

  “New here?”

  “First session,” said Elfloq, keeping to Effelgung’s instructions. The Librarian had told him that no one would question his right to be there or pry into his personal details. Everyone in the Skullworks had other things to look for. Individual privacy was, ironically, shown great respect.

  “Ah,” said Ratripper. “Don’t be too put off. Some of us take a long time to stumble on anything worth finding. A lot of the really good stuff has already been tapped.”

  “True, true,” nodded Skewerpole, scratching his face as if it were alive. “I heard that someone found a blasting spell earlier. Down in the Vein of Echoes. Didn’t know what they had hold of until it blew their arm off! Hah!”

  “No!” said Ratripper in mock horror. “They have been repaired?”

  “Yes, but some idiot used totally the wrong fusion cantrip and the poor devil who was injured ended up with an arm as large as he was. Spent an age dragging it around complaining before one of the overseers put him out of his misery.”

  “And the blasting spell?” said Ratripper.

  “Nothing major. Probably deliberately hidden to cause a bit of a stir. Things are very dull in the Vein of Echoes.” Skewerpole scratched even more furiously.

  “I would like to be able to regale you with interesting tales,” said Elfloq, “but alas, my time here has been very tedious. Where would one look for something fresh? Who else is new here?”

  Ratripper gazed about the hall. “None of this lot.”

  Skewerpole was staring at Elfloq. “Something fresh,” he murmured. “New people are the last people you’d expect to get news from.”

  “You don’t find new people interesting?”

  “We don’t talk about our time before this,” said Skewerpole, his features screwed up as though a particularly nasty smell assailed his nostrils.

  Elfloq swigged at the ale. “Pardon me, I’m still learning the rules.” He had forgotten Effelgung’s warning. But not trying to find out about a person’s history went right against the grain of Elfloq’s essential being.

  Others came to the table, and they were almost indistinguishable from Ratripper and Skewerpole, who disappeared without ceremony. Elfloq learned nothing. The Laughing Facemaker could have been any one of them. It would have been a perfect disguise.

  How do I draw him out? Elfloq wondered. I have only myself as bait. He blanched at the thought. Better to try all the other tactics first. Except that there didn’t seem to be any. I can’t even use the book. He’ll see it as a threat. He stared into his tankard. Many more drinks and he’d slump into unconsciousness. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.

  “Stayin’ awake for the party?”

  Elfloq blinked. He must have nodded off, seemingly for longer than he would have liked. He looked up. Another squat being, not unlike Ratripper, was grinning at him in that demented way which seemed to characterise the inhabitants of this mad place. The Resting Hall was fuller now, bodies packing in, jostling, voices raised in a babble.

  “Party?” Elfloq muttered.

  “Yeah. Some taleteller is doing the rounds. The place is packed out already. I’d lay off the booze, fellow, or you’ll miss out. Our host does this from time to time. Gets in someone to liven things up. He’ll be here soon.”

  “Who is he?” said Elfloq, sobering quickly.

  “Dunno,” said the other. “Who cares? Long as he spins a good yarn or two. Most of it’ll be propaganda. To keep everyone’s spirits up. You know, promises that we’re all on the verge of finding something really important. Big secrets. But if he’s any good, it’ll be fun.”

  Like many of the others in the by now seething hall, Elfloq got up on to the table, his hunched companion joining him. Over by the bar, a space had been cleared. An air of anticipation hung over the space, a readiness. Slowly, rippling out like waves from it, silence spread, until the entire hall, stuffed though it was with living bodies, fell very still. Light dimmed theatrically. The captive audience gaped, the embodiment of eagerness.

  Then, like a breath of mist, the taleteller appeared. A uniform gasp went up, then silence fell again. A disembodied voice called from somewhere. “Give welcome, please, to the Laughing Facemaker.”

  Elfloq tried not to gape as the gleaners cheered. The man who now drifted to and fro across the makeshift stage was dressed in a long, grey robe, his white face partly hidden under a cowl. He lifted his hands dramatically, assuming the stance of a sorcerer or mage, and indeed, his audience was enrapt, held under his spell.

  “Citizens of the Skullworks!” he called, voice as piercing as a dagger. “This is your story. I tell of hard labour, determination in the face of frustration, a difficult, exhausting path. Ah, but what treasures lie at the end of it for he who searches, who gives his heart to the hunt!”

  Elfloq ducked down an inch or two, for he could have sworn that the eyes of the performer were focused very much in his direction.

  The Laughing Facemaker launched into a stirring tale of gleaners who, for ages untold, worked in the mines of the Skullworks, pulling from the bone shards of magic, lost lore, gems of sorcery. It was, as Elfloq had been warned, a tale designed to stir up gleaners’ pride, an assertion of their importance. In itself it was well enough spoken, though Elfloq saw through its pomp easily. But what amazed him was the way in which the actor changed roles. One moment he was the high sorcerer, towering over his audience, long fingers like wands directing stars of magic, the next he was half the size, bent over and knotted into the frame of a gleaner. His cowl fell away to reveal a gleaner’s face, features compressed, skin wrinkled. Several characters marched, hopped and hobbled to and fro across the stage. And each face changed as though sculpted from wax, the details extraordinary.

  Elfloq had to shake himself to avoid being drawn into the magic. Around him he could see and sense that the gleaners were bedazzled by it. Elfloq had seen religion discharge a similar function on many occasions. He wondered, however, what the Laughing Facemaker expected to get out of this. But at the end of the extravagant performance, he found out.

  The Laughing Facemaker, having described the glorious fate bestowed upon those gleaners who had discharged their duties effectively and efficiently (that is, they were released from serfdom and transported to a better life beyond the Skullworks) took the rousing cheers and applause with a smile that split his face from ear to ear. His laughter sparkled, infectious. Oh yes, mused, Elfloq, he is well named.

  “How may we pay you for such wondrous fare?” various gleaners were saying.

  “’Tis nothing,” laughed the actor modestly. “All I ask is a chance to swap tales with you as you relax and drink.”

  Yes, of course, thought Elfloq. They’ll tell him anything he wants to know. If there is a way out of this world, that’s how he’ll get to know of it.

  The familiar blended in with the crowd, sipping his ale carefully, keeping one watchful eye on the Laughing Facemaker. For a long time the actor was partially submerged under worshipping gleaners, but gradually their numbers thinned. They all had various places in the Skullworks where they slept, on ledges, in tiny chambers or in disused corridors. It was a loose but entirely satisfactory arrangement, the environment being perfectly safe. Still talking animatedly about what they had seen, they left the hall in groups, some singing, all convinced that life was rich and fulfilling.

  Elfloq was slumped back in his seat, feigning sleep, though he waited his chance. It came as the Laughing Facemaker himself sat at a nearby table, a platter of steaming broth and meat before him. As he tucked in, the last of the gleaners bowed to him and departed. Behind the bar, a shadowy figure stacked tankards quietly.

  “An interesting tale,” Elfloq ventured.

  The Laughing Facemaker turned his flashing smile upon the familiar. “You don’t have the look of someone who was impressed by it,” he said. He waved a fork in an imperious gesture that indicated Elfloq should join him.

  The familiar did so, but without displaying enthusiasm. He dropped tiredly into a seat and set his tankard down. “Not at all,” said Elfloq. “I compliment you on your delivery. You stirred the host.”

  “But you will not go to your rest happy.”

  Elfloq sighed. “In this place? Forgive me, master, but I cannot pretend to be happy in the empty head of a dead sorcerer who no one remembers any more.”

  “It sounds to me,” said the actor, wiping gravy from his chin, “as though you would like to breach the walls and go elsewhere.”

  “No point in denying that,” Elfloq smiled, sipping his ale. He had one eye on the shadow behind the bar, but it was too preoccupied in its duty to be listening in.

  “What would you give to get out, eh?”

  “Whatever I could.”

  The Laughing Facemaker observed him keenly. “What do you have?”

  Elfloq puffed out his cheeks. “Not very much. Information. Gossip. I glean more of that than old spells and other junk.”

  The Facemaker’s laughter rang out. “Well, my tale didn’t reach you at all!”

  “Your pardon, master, I did not mean to insult you – ”

  “Not at all. I prefer honesty. So, you have learned a few truths. Well, learn another, but guard it with your life.”

  “Master?”

  “I, too, seek a way out of this hellhole.” He tapped the bridge of his nose with his forefinger. “Keep it to yourself, mind.”

  “Of course. But you mea
n that you do not come and go as you please? You do not simply enter the Skullworks and leave it at will?”

  The actor shook his head. “No. I seem to have got myself trapped here. I was hoping that by winning the adoration of the gleaners, I might find a way out. Of course, if and when I do, I would be glad to consider taking someone with me.”

  “Someone, perhaps, who would make a good servant?” said Elfloq with a sly wink.

  Again the Facemaker laughed and this time the shadow behind the bar did look across, but only to smile tolerantly.

  “So, how do you advise me?” the actor said, face suddenly more serious.

  “Well, things are not necessarily what they seem here. For instance, master, certain facts have been deliberately obfuscated.”

  “And you have uncovered a few?”

  “Umm. Take, for example, the written word.”

  For once the Facemaker scowled, and his face was not pretty to look upon. It was as though Elfloq had pushed a spike of pain into his gut. “Oh?”

  “It’s nothing, master. Just that, well, we’ve always been given to understand that there are no written records here in the Skullworks. Everything that is found is passed on to the authorities by word of mouth. And they, we are told, simply remember it. There are no pamphlets, manuscripts, tablets of stone even.”

  “There is a danger in such things.”

  “Oh, I have no reason to doubt it, master.”

  “Hold to that. But what is your point?”

  “It is whispered that such things do exist here.”

  The Laughing Facemaker regarded his food as if it suddenly congealed into something unpleasant. He pushed it aside. “By whom?”

  “This is important?”

  The actor glared at him and Elfloq hid his terror with difficulty.

  “I see it is,” he said. “Books are evidently banned for a reason. I would rather not know the details – ”

  “You said they do exist here.”

  “Yes, only earlier I was talking to two gleaners.”

  The Laughing Facemaker leaned forward, and in his eyes, Elfloq saw the hunger of the demon, the true power behind the man. “Do go on,” rumbled a voice stoked in the fires of hell.

  “They said, and I merely pass on their babblings, master, no more than that, they said that they had a book. One they had unearthed in a part of the Skullworks that has long been overlooked.”

  “What about this book?” The actor spoke the word as if it were a curse.

  “They hinted that it might have been a means to – ”

  “To? To?”

  “Escape. Oh, I laughed, of course, master. Stupid thought. But I did wonder why the book should have been hidden away so remotely. Evidently no one was meant to find it. But it was, I gather, pure chance that it turned up.”

  “Their names?”

  “The gleaners. Oh, Ratpiddle, or something. And Scruple.”

  “You are certain?”

  “I can see this is of great weight to you, master – ”

  The actor’s eyes – demon’s eyes – blazed. “Oh, yes. Think hard! Their names.”

  “Ratripper! Yes, that was it. And, and – Skewerpole. I’m sure.”

  The Laughing Facemaker sat back, expression changing back to one of mirth. He swigged his ale, wiped his mouth and chuckled. “I didn’t mean to startle you. What is your own name, by the way?”

  “Elfloq, master. Lately of service to the mage, Quarramagus of Moonwater.”

  “Lately?”

  “He overreached himself. Particles of him are now spread far and wide throughout the omniverse.”

  Again the laugh. “So you have no master?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Well, perhaps your luck will change, Elfloq. We’ll talk again. Get some rest.” The actor rose abruptly and left with a dismissive wave.

  Elfloq emitted a gusty breath of relief. The small book inside his shirt burned like a beacon. This was going to be very tricky. The mere mention of the word ‘book’ was like issuing a personal curse to the Laughing Facemaker. How to get him to open one?

  * * * *

  Elfloq did retire from the Resting Hall, and having found a convenient, out-of-the-way ledge, slept off the last effects of the ale. Of course, there were no “days” in the Skullworks, but after a period of sleep that passed for a night, the gleaners went back to work. For the time being, Elfloq decided there was no other course for him to take either, so found a chamber where he could join an industrious gang who were glad to have an extra pair of hands.

  The work dragged on, and at the point when Elfloq thought he would petrify with boredom, a sudden commotion broke out at the far end of the chamber. Everyone ceased what they were doing and pressed forward.

  “What is it?” said Elfloq.

  “A disaster, in one of the side tunnels,” someone whispered, the message flitting round the company like a startled bat.

  The gleaners were reluctant to look into the matter, so Elfloq found it easy enough to slip through them to the end of the tunnel. Two gleaners slumped there, eyes wide in horror.

  “Problems?” Elfloq said.

  “Yes, yes. Ratripper and Skewerpole.”

  “Oh? I know them. Where -?”

  One of the gleaners pointed. “We heard two loud bangs.”

  “Like a very bad spell,” said the other.

  “I ought to investigate,” said Elfloq. No one demurred, so he shuffled uneasily up the tunnel. It was low, a dried artery, curving gently upward to a bend. Elfloq came to this and peered round. The smell hit him first. It was acrid, sulphurous. Yes, probably a spell.

  Then he saw the two heaps of ashes. They had a familiar look. It took him no more than a moment to realise why. He had seen such a heap of ashes in the chamber of Effelgung. Owlworm’s predecessor. Who had been blasted by the Laughing Facemaker.

  Elfloq turned and crept back down the tunnel.

  “Well?” said the gleaners who had gathered there in a little gaggle. Elfloq shook his head. “They have dug up their last treasure. I suggest you wall this tunnel up. Who knows what other gruesome magics it conceals.”

  “Yes, yes, wall it up!” said the gleaners and the cry became a chant, echoing back down the corridors.

  * * * *

  When he next visited the Resting Hall, Elfloq selected a quiet corner where he could observe without too many people being able to observe him. As it was, it proved a dull period, and apart from one or two large groups of gleaners, Elfloq’s peace was not disturbed.

  When the place was almost empty again, a strange figure appeared, almost out of thin air, and sat itself down opposite Elfloq. Short and squat, with features that would have turned an imp to stone, it scowled at Elfloq.

  “It’s me,” it said, thick lips drawing back in a shark’s smile.

  Elfloq pretended to be amused. “Really, master?”

  “Forgive the guise. But I find it easier to move about the Skullworks this way.” The actor’s voice was as transformed as his remarkable face.

  “You were right about the dangers of books,” Elfloq said, taking a long pull at his ale. He had had plenty of time to consider his next tactics with the Facemaker.

  “Oh?”

  “Ratsplitter and Skewerpole.” Elfloq replenished his tankard from a large jug. It was going to be necessary for him to appear more than a little drunk if his ploy was going to work. “Blown to ash.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Umm.” Elfloq drank again. “Ash. That little red book they were talking about – ”

  The eyes of the actor opened, their stare hot as a brazier. “Red book?”

  Elfloq did his best to describe one of the books in the set he had seen in Effulgung’s chamber.

  “So that meddling Librarian was trying to trap me,” murmured the actor.

  “Um?” said Elfloq from behind the tankard. His eyes appeared to glaze. “Librarian? They didn’t shay that. They shed Efful – Efful – ”

  “Effelgung? What of him?”

  “I think they worked for him.”

  “I should have guessed it. And what of this red book?”

  “Poof!” said Elfloq, flinging out an arm to indicate an explosion. “Musht’ve been blown to asheswishergleanersh.”

  “You are sure?”

  “Tunnelsh been warred up. Walled up.”

  The grotesque figure sat back. “Good. That’s very good. Let’s have no more talk about books.”