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“It used to be, when Darken Rahl was alive, that the staff primarily carried out his wishes having to do with hi
s father’s tomb. Darken Rahl was the one who ordered that the tongues of the crypt staff be cut out. He feared that, while they were down here alone, they might speak ill of his dead father.”
“And what if they did?” Verna asked. “What could it hurt?”
The man shrugged. “I’m sorry, but I wasn’t about to question the man. When he was alive there was a constant stream of new staff workers replacing those who had been executed for various reasons. It was unhealthy to be anywhere near the man, and the crypt staff often found themselves the object of his rages. New staff were rounded up from time to time and pressed into service.
“Darken Rahl only left me with my tongue because my work didn’t take me down here very often. I oversaw the staff. I need to interact with others on the palace staff, so I need to be able to talk with people. The rest of the staff, in Darken Rahl’s view, didn’t have anything worthwhile they needed to say, and no need for a tongue.”
“How do you communicate with them?” Cara asked.
Dario touched his lips again as he glanced at his staff slowly making their way farther on down the hall. “Well, the way you would imagine. They use signs. Grunt a little, or nod, to make their thoughts known. They can hear, of course, so I don’t need to use signs to speak to them.
“They share the same quarters and work together, so they are almost always alone among themselves. For that reason they’ve come to be quite conversant with signs they’ve invented among themselves. I’m not nearly as familiar with their unique language as they are among themselves, but for the most part I’ve come to be able to understand them. Enough to get by, anyway.
“Most of them are quite bright. People sometimes think they’re stupid because they can’t talk. In some ways they are more aware of the goings-on in the palace than most of the other members of the palace staff. Since people know that they’re mute, they often don’t even consider that they listen just fine. These people often know what’s happening around the place long before I do.”
Verna found their little world down in the tombs a remarkable, if somewhat unsettling, revelation. “Well, what about down here? What do they think is going on down here?”
Dario shook his head with a look of concern. “They haven’t brought anything to my attention, yet.”
“Why not?” Cara asked.
“Fear, probably. In the past crypt staff were frequently executed for the most trivial things. Such executions never made any real sense. They learned that to stay alive it was best to be part of the background, to be as invisible as possible. Bringing up problems was not the way to live a long life.
“To this day, they even feared to come and tell me things. Once, there had been a leak staining a wall. They never said a word, probably because they feared they would be put to death for the stain tainting the tombs of the ancestors of Lord Rahl. I only found out about the stain because one night I went to see them in their quarters and they were gone. I found them down here, all working feverishly to scrub the stain away before anyone saw it.”
“What a way to live,” Cara murmured to herself.
“What are they doing, anyway?” Verna asked as she watched several of the staff running their hands along the wall, as if feeling for something hidden in the smooth, white marble.
“I’m not sure,” Dario said. “Let’s ask them.”
Some distance back down the corridor a force of the First File waited. Some of them had their crossbows loaded with the special red-fletched arrows that Nathan had found for them. Verna didn’t like being anywhere near those wicked things. Their deadly magic made her sweat.
The crypt staff, made up of both women and men, was gathered in a clutch, inspecting the walls and every intersection along the way. They had all been down in the various tomb levels most of the day and Verna was tired. She was usually in bed by this time. That was where she wanted to be. As far as she was concerned, the meticulous inspection of nothing at all could wait until the next day.
Cara didn’t look tired. She looked intense. She had this “problem down in the tombs” bone in her teeth and she wasn’t going to let go for anything.
Verna would have left Cara to it, except that when they had searched out Dario Daraya, the man in charge of the crypt staff, to ask what he could tell them, he had not dismissed the inquiry, as Verna had expected. He seemed nervous that they had even asked the question. It turned out that he shared Cara’s uneasy suspicion but as of yet hadn’t mentioned it to anyone. He told Verna and Cara that he strongly suspected that the members of his staff were also aware of something being amiss.
Verna had learned that among the vast force that was the palace staff, the members of the crypt staff were considered the lowest of the low. Those with responsibility over important sections of the palace dismissed the work down in the tomb areas as simple, menial work for mutes. The crypt workers were also shunned because they spent their existence working among the dead, thus carrying the invisible taint of superstition.
Dario had explained that such attitudes had left them a shy and withdrawn lot. They didn’t eat in the common areas with other people on the staff. They kept to themselves and kept their own counsel.
Verna watched them down the corridor a ways, conversing among themselves in their strange language of signs. Having developed the language among themselves, no one else understood them except, perhaps, for Dario Daraya.
As much as Verna, and especially Cara, wanted to question the staff directly, they were forced to allow Dario to do it. The mere close proximity of an outsider—especially a Mord-Sith—sent the silent group into trembling and even tears. These were people who had been treated very badly by the last Lord Rahl, and probably the one before that. Many of their number, no doubt close friends and loved ones, had been put to death for allowing the petal of a white rose to lie too long on the floor of the tomb of Darken Rahl’s father. They had lived and died by the decree of a madman.
These people were, understandably, quite terrified of authority.
Verna had cautioned Cara that if she really wanted to get answers then she had to stay back and let Dario get those answers for them.
Verna watched Dario, standing in their midst, quietly asking questions. The people surrounding him became excited at certain points, pointing this way and that, and making signs to him. Dario nodded from time to time and gently asked more questions, which drew more of the silent language from some of the staff.
Dario at last returned. “They say that there is no problem in this corridor. Everything here is fine.”
Cara spoke through gritted teeth. “Well then if they don’t—”
“But,” Dario interrupted, “they say that in that corridor there”—he pointed ahead to the right—“there is something wrong.”
Cara studied the man’s face for a moment. “Come on, then, let’s have a look.”
Before Verna could hold her back, Cara marched in long strides right up to the knot of a dozen and a half people. Verna thought that several of them might faint of fright as they cringed back, fearful of what she was going to do to them.
“Dario says that you think there is something wrong in that corridor up there.” Cara gestured to the intersection ahead. “I think there’s something wrong, too. That’s why I wanted to have all of you come show me what you think. I’m the one who called for you. I called for you because I know that you people know more about this place than anyone.”
They looked uneasy about her intentions.
Cara looked around at the faces watching her. “When I was a little girl, Darken Rahl came to our home and captured my family. He tortured my mother and father to death. He locked me up for years. He tortured me to make me be a Mord-Sith.”
Cara turned a little and lifted the red leather at her waist, showing them a long scar along her side and back. “He did this to me. See?”
The people all leaned in ogling the scar. One man reached out and tentatively touched it. Cara turned his way to let him. She took a woman’s hand and
rubbed her finger along the bumpy length of the scar.
“Here, look at this,” she said, pulling her sleeves up and holding out her wrists for them to see. “These are left from the shackles when he hung me up—chained to the ceiling.”
The people all leaned in looking. Some of them gently touched the scars on her wrists.
“He hurt you, too, didn’t he?” Cara knew the answer, but she had asked anyway. When they all nodded, she said, “Show me.”
The people all opened their mouths wide for her to see their missing tongues. Cara looked in each mouth, nodding at what she saw. Some held a cheek aside, turning their heads to be sure she saw their scars. Cara carefully looked at each one until they were satisfied that she had really wanted to see.
“I’m glad that Darken Rahl is dead,” she finally told them. “I’m sorry for what he did to all of you. You all have suffered. I understand; I’ve suffered, too. He can’t hurt us anymore.”
They stood listening carefully as she went on. “His son, Richard Rahl, is not at all like his father. Richard Rahl would never hurt me. In fact, when I was hurt and dying, he risked his own life to use magic to save me. Can you imagine that?
“He would never hurt any of you, either. He cares that all people can have a chance to live their own lives. He even told me that I am free to leave my service to him any time I want and he will wish me well. I know that he’s telling me the truth. I stay because I want to help him. I want to help a good man for a change instead of being a slave to a bad one.
“I’ve seen Richard Rahl weep for Mord-Sith who have died.” She tapped her chest over her heart with a finger. “Do you understand what that means to me? In here? In my heart?
“I think Richard Rahl is in trouble. I want to help him and those fighting with him against people who harm others. We want to protect your lives from all those men outside, on the Azrith Plain, who would harm or enslave you all over again.”
The people were blinking tearfully at her story, a story they could understand in a way that others couldn’t.
“Will you help me? Please?”
