Secret of the Giants' Staircase (11 page)

“It's a burial crypt,” Jesse said. “Instead of putting them in the ground, they laid them out here, with their possessions.”

“Why didn't any of these dead people possess weapons?” Owen demanded, rummaging through the bones in one compartment. He glanced up at Jesse. “And
don't
tell me I'm being disrespectful to the dead. We can use all the help we can get down here.”

I guess he's right
. Still, stealing from a dead body seemed like a terrible thing.

“Just our luck,” Owen muttered, disgusted. “This girl had a scabbard, but no sword.”

“Girl?” Jesse asked, joining Owen at one of the compartments.

There lay a small skeleton draped in a torn dress of deep, rich blue with an empty scabbard at her side. An intricate silver necklace was around her neck, molded into the shape of a butterfly. It reminded Jesse of the token he carried for Barnaby.
I forgot to give it to him
.

“She wasn't much taller than me,” Owen said, a little sadly.

Jesse nodded. “I guess we'll never know what she was doing in the swamps.”

“She die here,” a loud voice said.

Startled, Jesse jerked around, but saw no one.
Are the bones talking?
Immediately, Jesse knew the thought was ridiculous.

“She one of the Vanished,” the voice continued. Now Jesse could tell the voice came from beyond the entryway. “Before I Watcher, when more die.”

“Shh!” Owen ordered the voice from the darkness. “You'll bring them down here.”

A pause. “Yes. I have to bring them.” The voice switched to the strange, guttural language of the giants.

Jesse glanced around. There was nowhere to go. Within seconds, they heard heavy steps and loud voices approach from the other direction.

“We're trapped,” Owen hissed. He climbed into one of the compartments.

“Owen, you can't hide behind a body,” Jesse said, pulling him back. He had decided to face the intruders.
After all, they didn't kill Silas, Rae, Parvel or Barnaby
.
Maybe they won't kill us either.

But what about the girl with the silver necklace and these ten others?
another part of him pointed out.

“They come to get you,” the voice explained.

Sure enough, the splashing footsteps became louder, and two giants stepped into the crypt. They didn't look like Jesse had pictured them. They didn't have to crawl into the room, although the first stooped slightly, his head nearly grazing the rock ceiling. Jesse's head only reached the giants' waists, and the effect was much like being a young child in the presence of large, strong adults.

The giants discussed something with each other for a minute, gesturing to Jesse and Owen. Neither of the voices matched the first one they had heard from the crypt.

One put a large hand on Jesse's shoulders, leaning down to look at him, then stopped, staring. He pointed to Jesse's neck with a thick finger.

It was the token, Barnaby's token, that lay against Jesse's torn, stained shirt. One of the giants snatched at it, breaking the cord in one swift motion. He held it up to his eye. Jesse knew that if the token seemed small to him, it was tiny to the giant.

“Bird,” he said, stroking its back with one finger. Then he looked down at Jesse, squinting, and spoke again.

He and the other giant spoke with each other hurriedly. Jesse heard one word repeated often:
castor
. He hoped that didn't mean “torture” or “death” in the giants' language.

One of the giants leaned down to face Jesse, a strange look on his face. It wasn't the wide, dull grin that Jesse had always pictured on a giant. It was crafty and greedy, and very intelligent. He gave the token back to Jesse.

“What are you going to do with us?” Jesse demanded, more for Owen than anything else.

He was surprised when the voice from the passageway spoke again, carefully pronouncing each word. “You are third son. Many years, we wait for you.”

The owner of the mysterious voice was another giant, one nearly a head shorter than the other two. He had reddish-brown hair and strong features that reminded Jesse of someone he had seen before. A peacock feather stuck out of his cloth cap.
It's the only feather that would be large enough for a hat like that
, Jesse realized.

“You two come with me,” he said, “to my home.”

He turned to the other giants and translated what he had said into the Westlund language. At first, they didn't seem to agree, growling something at the translator that Jesse assumed was an insult. They pointed down the hallway, and Jesse knew they wanted to take them to the prison with the others.

To be honest, Jesse would have almost preferred that. He had been without his squad members for too long. They could come up with a plan to escape.
But, for some reason, I'm no longer an average prisoner
.

After a heated argument with the other two giants, the translator smiled triumphantly. “Come,” he said. “Not stay in prison with others. Stay with me.” He began to walk in the opposite direction, away from the prison, gesturing for them to follow him.

For a moment, Jesse considered running back to the wine cellar staircase.
We'd never make it. Now that we've been found, we can't run.

“The third son?” Jesse said to Owen as they slogged through the water after the translator. “What does that mean?”

“Maybe you're related to the Westlunders somehow,” Owen said. “Barnaby told us that in the old days, some Westlunders left their tribe in the mountains and married average people.”

Jesse just stared at him. “Owen, look at me. Do I look like I have even one drop of giant blood in my body?”

Owen studied him critically, then nodded. “I guess you're right.”

The translator stopped before one of the archways set in the wall. “My home,” he said, letting them go in before him. There was no door, not even a curtain.
Apparently, the Westlunders don't care much for privacy.

Inside, the translator's home looked much like any house belonging to an Amarian, except a measurement or two larger. There was a brick oven in the corner with a chimney to release smoke above the ground.
That explains the smoke I saw coming from the grate in the city streets
, Jesse thought.

Interestingly, the translator had a writing desk in the corner of the room, next to a large bookshelf. Jesse walked over to it, glancing at the titles. All were written in a strange, thick lettering that mimicked the sound of the giant's language.

A table, a bench and one large stuffed chair made up the rest of the furnishings. There was a door leading into another room, where Jesse assumed the translator slept.

“Castor, son of Mardon,” the translator said, pointing to himself. “Welcome to Below-Lidia.”

“Clever name,” Jesse said dryly.

“Hello, Clever,” Castor said seriously, reaching out to shake Jesse's hand.

“No,” Jesse said quickly, realizing his mistake. “That's not my name. I was talking about the name of the….” He shook his head. “Never mind. I'm Jesse.”

“Owen,” Owen said.

“Who taught you how to speak Amarian?” Jesse said, making sure to talk slowly.

“Man named Gideon,” Castor said.

“One of our skeleton friends in the crypt?” Owen asked. “Did you kill him?”

Every time one of them spoke, Castor would stare down at them with serious brown eyes, listening with every fiber of his being. He must have understood the word “kill,” because as soon as Owen said it, he shook his head furiously, knocking it into the chandelier.

“No,” he said, rubbing his head. “He alive. In Westlund.”

Westlund. Hadn't the Westlund settlements in the mountains been abandoned?
Jesse exchanged glances with Owen, who shrugged.

“Where is Westlund?” Jesse asked.

Castor shrugged and pointed up and toward the far wall. “East,” Owen supplied immediately.

“How can you possibly know that?” Jesse demanded. He wasn't even sure which direction was up anymore.

“I'm sure,” was all Owen said.

Castor pointed toward the wall again. “East?” he asked.

Jesse nodded. “South. West. North,” he said, pointing in the other directions.

“West,” Castor said, laughing to himself like that was a good joke. He hurried over to a paper on the wall and scratched out the words, muttering them to himself. Jesse didn't even want to guess how he would spell them.

“So Westlund—the giants' main settlement, I'd guess—is in the east,” Owen said. “Probably past the swamps altogether and in the Wastelands. No wonder we never found it!” He paused. “If it's in the east, why is it called
West
lund?”

“Their word for the direction west isn't the same as ours,” Jesse reminded him.

Castor had finished his task and turned his attention back to his guests.

“So, this man Gideon,” Jesse said. “Did he go to Westlund willingly?”

“Yes, Gideon go to Westlund,” Castor repeated. “He is a….” He struggled for the word. “He make this.” He pointed to the glass around the lamp on his desk.

Since Castor seemed to have run out of things to talk about, Jesse decided to get a closer look at the bookshelf. All of the books were crammed onto the top four shelves. Only the lower two were within Jesse's reach.

Castor noticed Jesse staring at the bottom shelves. “Water,” he said miserably. He picked up a book from the top of a stack on a writing desk and showed them the damage the rising water had done to it, presumably before he had emptied the shelves.

“So, our friend can read and write,” Jesse said to himself. For some reason—probably the broken Amarian—he assumed the Westlunders were uneducated.

“Yes, I read,” Castor said, excited to hear words he recognized. He tapped the open book in the center of the desk. “I write a book of….” He paused, thinking. A look of frustration came to his face.

Suddenly, he slammed the book shut, clearly frustrated. “Words! I no have your words for say what I have here.” He pointed to his head.

Jesse tried to imagine how hard it would be to communicate with such a limited vocabulary. Once, in Da'armos, he had been among people who did not speak his language, but then he had traveled with Samar, an able interpreter who spoke both Amarian and Da'armon fluently.
We take the ability to talk to others for granted
, he realized.

Jesse walked over to the desk and flipped pages of the book. There were lines and lines, in fairly small print for someone so large with long, complicated-looking sentences. While Castor was forced to talk like a small child in Amarian, he was probably a scholar in the language of Westlund.

Within the pages, Jesse found a diagram of a very familiar city. “This is Lidia, isn't it?”

Castor nodded. “Lidia,” he repeated. “Book of Lidia and Westlund.” He looked pleadingly at Jesse. “Word please?”

“Boring?” Owen suggested.

Jesse hit his arm. “You'll confuse him,” he muttered. He glanced back at Castor's book. There were maps, but it was more than a book of geography. The Westlund letters were slightly different than those in the Amarian alphabet, but Jesse recognized some of the words: Amarias, Terenid, and in a list on one page, Jardos, Hyram, and Vincent. There was a neat block paragraph about each of them.

“History?” Jesse guessed, trying to supply Castor's missing word. “Things that happened a long time ago?”

Something about Jesse's definition seemed to stick, and Castor nodded. “Book of history. History of Watchers, most.”

That led to a new question. “What do the Watchers do?”

Castor just stared at him. “We watch.”

“Very helpful, thank you,” Owen said sarcastically.

“You're welcome,” Castor said, almost automatically. Gideon may have left out some grammar lessons, but he had clearly taught Castor his Amarian manners.

There was a loose page in the book. Its thin, spidery script contrasted with the thick, strangely formed letters of the pages around it. And it was in Amarian.

“It's the inscription from the entranceway,” Jesse said, taking it out of the book. “Only with the missing pieces filled in.”

Three give their all

For Lidia,s call.

Son of Amarias,

Lidias son,

Son of Westlund

Join as one.

Their sacrif ice

Of greatest price

Reveals the key

To Lidia,s wealth

And destiny.

Beneath the inscription were longer lines in the same handwriting.

These are the words of Parros deGuardi, unfortunate explorer from District Two, now among the Vanished, along with my company. This, as far as I could gather, is what the lines of the damaged Lidian inscription ought to read, although I have no way of knowing for certain. I speak limited Westlundish, but I have attempted to communicate these lines and their probable interpretation to the Watchers, the giants who live under the city and search it every night to f
ind any passing travelers.

“So that's what they are,” Jesse muttered. It made sense. All of the rumors of people disappearing in the swamp….

“I can't believe that no matter where you are, you can find something written down,” Owen said, flopping onto Castor's lone chair.

Jesse ignored him and kept reading.

As I understand it, the lines refer to some sort of ritual that must be performed in the presence of three people, one from each of the ancient people groups surrounding Lidia. Whatever that ritual might be, it would allow the discovery of the fabled Lidian treasure, long lost to the ages, which drew me to this godforsaken swamp.

Jesse remembered the stone carving around the entranceway's border: “Not all that is missing is gone.” Could the legend of treasure really be true?

Tomorrow the moon is full. I have chosen to go to Westlund rather than remain in this underground prison. All in my company have chosen similarly (though one perished in our initial struggle with the Watchers in the ruins). I will learn a trade, rebuild a life and perhaps, with time and research, uncover the secret of the Lidian treasure at last.

So, that was what Castor had been trying to tell them. His tutor, Gideon, had chosen the same fate as Parros deGuardi. All who entered the ruins were captured. Those who struggled died, but those who surrendered were allowed to live as citizens in Westlund.

That gave Jesse hope. If he and two others performed this mysterious ritual, they might be freed. Maybe they could even persuade the Westlunders to let them go. Castor, at least, seemed reasonable.

Owen yawned loudly.

“Tired?” Castor asked, giving him a strange look. Then he got a look of realization on his face. “Yes. You sleep at night. Watchers watch at night. Sleep at day.”

He threw open the door to the other room. “Sleep, son of Amarias and son of Lidia,” he said, patting Owen on the head.

Castor's bed was the only item in the room, besides a trunk at the bed's foot. Owen jumped up on it, bouncing around.

“I come back at day,” Castor said. He set their oil lamp, still lit, on the trunk and backed toward the door. “Goodnight. We wait for circle moon.”

Almost as soon as he closed the door, Owen stopped jumping. “As soon as he and his Watcher friends leave, we're getting out of here.”

“Quiet,” Jesse said, glancing at the door. “He'll hear you.”

“He doesn't speak Amarian,” Owen said.

“He's just as intelligent as you,” Jesse countered. “And he can understand more than you think.”

“Fine,” Owen lowered his voice. “We can bring one of his kitchen knives and pry the others' chains off, then run up the stairs and out of the city.”

“You forgot one thing,” Jesse said. “Even if we could free the others, which I doubt, we can't escape. The giants are leaving the tunnels…but they're going up into the city, probably to all of the gates. You think they'd just let six people leave?”

“So we split up,” Owen said, shrugging. “That way they won't spot us so easily.”

“And what if even one person gets caught again?” Jesse said.

Owen didn't say anything.

“Besides,” Jesse continued, “if we're the two sons they've been missing, they might let us go after whatever ritual we have to participate in.”

“What are you talking about?” Owen demanded.

Jesse quickly explained what he had read in the book. “You never told me you were from Lidia,” Owen said.

“I'm not,” Jesse said, blinking. “I'm from District One.”

“Well, so am I,” Owen said. He yanked off his shoes and threw them on the floor. “But Castor-the-giant called us the ‘son of Amarias and son of Lidia.' So one of us has to be Lidian.”

Jesse groaned, reaching up to touch Barnaby's token, the one the two giants had gotten so excited about. “The Kin,” he said. “Of course! They live near the swamps, and they act like their own tiny country. They must be descendants of the Lidians, and the giants saw Barnaby's pendant and assumed I was Lidian.”

“Well, you'll have to tell them in the morning,” Owen said, flopping down on the bed and burrowing under the blanket. “Right now, I'm ready for sleep.”

Jesse took off his wet shoes and socks and set them out to dry on the chest. He felt guilty getting into Castor's bed with tar caked all over his clothes, but he didn't have anything to change into.

Castor's words came back to him: “We wait for circle moon.” If Jesse remembered correctly, the full moon would come soon. He closed his eyes. Hopefully, by then they would be out of Below-Lidia alive.