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daughter in the literal sense of the word. Xar considers all Patryns his children, since he was the one who brought them forth out of the darkness of the Labyrinth. It is not known whether Xar fathered any natural children of his own. If so, the youngest would be old by Patryn standards, at least past their Seventieth Gate. Since few Patryns trapped in the Labyrinth live even half that long, we must assume that Xar’s true children, if he had any, are long since dead.
    2 Those who live in the Labyrinth are divided into two categories: Runners and Squatters. Runners live and travel alone, their only object to escape the Labyrinth. Squatters live in large groups. Their object is also escape, but they place greater value on the survival and perpetuation of their race.

CHAPTER 3
ABARRACH
    T HE OLD MAN HUDDLED IN HIS CELL, HE LOOKED PATHETIC AND rather pale. Once, when a bubbling cry of excruciating torment was wrenched from Samah, the old man shuddered and put the tip of his yellowed white beard to his eyes. Xar watched from the shadows, deciding that this wretched relic would probably collapse into a trembling heap if the lord stamped his foot at him.
    Xar approached the cell, signed Marit to use her rune-magic to remove the bars.
    The old man’s wet robes clung to his pitifully thin body. His hair trailed in a sodden mass down his back. Water dripped from the straggly beard. On the stone bed beside him was a battered pointed hat. The old man had from all appearances been attempting to wring the water from the hat, which had a twisted and maltreated look about it. Xar stared hard and suspiciously at the hat, thinking it might be a hidden source of power. He received the odd impression that it was sulking.
    “That is your friend you hear screaming,” said Xar conversationally, sitting down beside the old man, taking care to keep himself from getting wet.
    “Poor Samah,” the old man said, trembling. “There are those who would say he deserves this, but”—his voice softened—“he was only doing what he believed to be right. Much as you have done, Lord of the Nexus.”
    The old man lifted his head, looked intently at Xar with a disconcertingly shrewd expression. “Much as you have done,” he repeated. “If only you’d left it there. Ifonly
he’d
left it there.” He inclined his head in the direction of the screams and gave a gentle sigh.
    Xar frowned. This wasn’t precisely what he’d had in mind. “The same thing will be happening to you shortly, Zifnab—”
    “Where?” The old man peered around curiously.
    “Where what?” Xar was growing irritated.
    “Zifnab? I thought”—the old man looked deeply offended—“I thought this was a private cell.”
    “Don’t try any of your tricks on me, old fool. I won’t fall for them … as did Haplo,” Xar said.
    Samah’s cries ceased for a moment, then began again.
    The old man was regarding Xar with a blank expression, waiting for the lord to proceed. “Who?” he asked politely.
    Xar was strongly tempted to commence torturing him right then and there. He contained himself by a great effort of will. “Haplo. You met him in the Nexus, beside the Final Gate, the gate that leads to the Labyrinth. You were seen and overheard, so don’t play stupid.”
    “I never
play
stupid!” The old man drew himself up haughtily. “Who saw me?”
    “A child. His name is Bane. What do you know about Haplo?” Xar asked patiently.
    “Haplo. Yes, I do seem to remember.” The old man was growing anxious. He stretched out a wet and shaking hand. “Youngish chap. Blue tattoos. Keeps a dog?”
    “Yes,” Xar growled, “that is Haplo.”
    The old man grabbed Xar’s hand, shook it heartily. “You
will
give him my regards—”
    Xar yanked his hand away. The lord stared at his skin, displeased to note the weakening of the sigla wherever the water touched them.
    “So I am to give Haplo—a Patryn—the regards of a Sartan.” Xar wiped his hand on his robes. “Then he