The boy shuddered. His mind wouldn't let him remember the face. That had been the first time he'd heard the whining sounds. The caravaneer had been a kindly man when he was sober. He'd had Keilin's mother teach the boy to read, and been proud of his stepson's cleverness. He'd started to teach him to use a sword. He'd tried to teach Keilin to swim, and kept Keilin spellbound by telling him tales of far-off places. If only Keilin could remember more of them, but most of it was lost in the vagueness of early childhood . . . But he could remember clearly how the man had changed into a vicious brute when he was drunk.
He'd beaten Keilin's mother . . . slapped her about, humiliated her, called her a whore and far worse. Well, she'd had little option once he'd died, but back then it had been untrue. Keilin hadn't even known what it meant then. The man had beaten Keilin, too. That had been bearable. It was when he'd tried to take Keilin's pendant that it had all happened. Firstly, his mother had flown to Keilin's aid, screaming like a fishwife, beating ineffectually at the big man. And Keilin remembered his own anger and fear, and the coldness of the amulet. It was his! It was all he had of his father. His real father. Nobody, but nobody, would take it from him. He'd clung to the dark jewel with all his strength. His stepfather could have jewels, other jewels, not his! He remembered how the flying tray of baubles had appeared out of nowhere. He remembered crawling away, and the eerie whine. He hadn't been scared of it, back then. It had just seemed strange.
Then he'd been knocked sideways by the drunken man clumsily and greedily sprawling after the stones. And the blast of purple fire meant for Keilin had blown away his stepfather's face. He'd run as fast as his little legs could carry him, squalling in terror. When he came cautiously back, his mother hastily gathered him up, with some of the stones, and fled to buy passage for them on an outbound freighter. She would never tell him just what she'd seen that had frightened her into this headlong flight. It never occurred to her that not knowing could be worse.
He felt at the jewel in the amulet. It was cold and oily feeling as always. His inheritance . . . along with two books. The one with the bright pictures which his mother had begged off a drunken highborn trick. Tales of King Arthur and His Knights of the Round Table. He'd loved that book. The other, Geophysical Survey of Planet IV, had been an incomprehensible thing of lists and strange words. He'd been taught to read from those two books. Before he'd found the library they'd been the only books he'd ever seen. He'd read both of them many times. The latter book had words his mother had said even his great-grandfather had not understood. But he'd been made to read them all, even the strange, burnt-edged pages glued into the back of Geophysical Survey—"Log of the Starship Morningstar." On the last page someone had scrawled:
"Even if everything else is lost, perhaps this will survive."
Suddenly the hideout seemed too small. He needed air, and space around himself, so that he could see them coming. On the lower floors they'd bricked up the chimney. Here on the top floor they'd just pushed the old-fashioned bookstand against it. He'd noticed it when he'd lifted the bookstand to crawl under it, and realized that it gave the hideout its most essential feature—a bolt hole.
He'd loosened the back planks ages ago, but it had taken him a while to brave the narrow, dark shaft. He'd been tempted to use it as a latrine, but instead had decided that digging out the bottom could give him access to the drains . . . his digging hadn't made much progress yet. He'd broken through into the rubble-filled foundations. There was a weary lot of broken bricks, rocks and concrete fragments to shift before he could get anywhere.
Upwards, however, had proved easier. There had been that tiny circle of sky to aim towards. He'd knocked the chimney pot off one stormy night, and come out into the sheeting rain onto the steep tiled roof.
The roof had a low balustrade. The library was one of the tallest buildings in the city, but, naturally, not as tall as the Patrician's palace. That many-turreted monstrosity hung over the harbor, like some tax-gathering vulture. However, on the landward side of the roof it couldn't even be seen. Instead, there was a view out across the desert, with the thin green line of the Tinarana River and the cultivated lands beside it stretching away to the distant, dusty hinterland. Since Keilin had cut away some of the rotting brick of the chimney below the level of the balustrade, and replaced it with a stolen sheet of tin, he came up here often. Sometimes he came to trap pigeons . . . and sometimes just to gaze out across the vast emptiness, and pretend that he was lord of all he surveyed.
After the sea wind had howled for days, and blown away the miasma of coal and dung smoke from the city hearthfires, he could make out the distant purple mountains. He thought again about the colored illustration that painted his mental picture of mountains. Tall trees around a rushing stream that wove through mossy rocks. Huh! Half of the boys in the city didn't even know there was anything beyond the desert. He'd seen the mountains on a map long before he'd come up here . . . That was it! Maps. They'd be watching the harbor. They'd watch the coast road, and the caravan trail. Perhaps there could be another way?