Luck in the Shadows (64 page)

Alec felt ribs jutting beneath the coarse fabric, and the rapid tripping of her heart. Determined to play his role better, he took her in his arms. Kissing her just below the
left ear, he whispered an endearment Seregil had suggested. The girl gave a happy shiver and pressed closer.

“Where’s your room?” he whispered.

She giggled softly. “In the servant’s attic, you naughty pup! I sleep on a pallet at the foot of Aunt’s bed.”

“Have you a window to watch the sky?”

“There’s a dormer just over me. I’ll prop the shutter open.”

“Come to me when the stars begin to fade.”

“When the stars fade,” the girl breathed. Giving him a last squeeze, she hurried off.

Alec stayed put for a time, fearing she’d find some pretense to come back. The wait was hardly an onerous one; after two days without a fire, even the warmth of a banked hearth was something to be grateful for. The pantry also smelled wonderfully of smoked meats. It was too dark to see, but his groping hand soon found a rope of hard sausage.

Creeping out at last, he spied a long shawl hanging on a peg by the kitchen door. Throwing it on for a bit of extra camouflage, he tiptoed out to the postern and unbolted it. Seregil slipped in with their swords and Alec bolted the door after him.

Safely in the kitchen, Seregil eyed Alec’s makeshift disguise and wrinkled his nose. “You been eating garlic, gramma?”

“There’s a nice bit of sausage, if you want some.” Alec offered, returning the shawl to its peg.

“Take off your boots,” whispered Seregil. “Bare feet are quietest for this sort of work. Don’t forget your dagger, though. We may need it.”

Leaving their boots out of sight behind a row of cider casks, they padded off in the direction of the main hall.

All the stairways of the keep were contained in the towers, so as to be easily defensible in case of attack. It was the southeast tower they wanted, and they soon found a narrow passageway leading in that direction.

An archway at the far end let into a small antechamber. Using a shielded lightstone, they found a heavy oak door at the back of it. Seregil lifted the latch ring and eased it open.

Inside, they found a small, windowless landing. The back portion of the tiny chamber and what must have been the stairwell were completely blocked by broken stone and dusty, shattered timbers.

Alec took a step in, then froze in terror as a light, eerie caress
stroked along his cheek. The touch came again, accompanied this time by a low moan and a chill draft of air.

“The ghost!” Alec’s voice came out a strangled whisper.

“Ghost, eh?” Seregil waved his hand in the air above his head, then held it to the lightstone for Alec to see. Long black filaments, fine as spider web, hung tangled from his fingers.

“There’s your ghost—black silk combed fine and hung in a draft. As soon as I heard Stamie’s tale of ghostly touches I suspected as much.”

“But the cold draft?”

“We’re in the stronghold of master masons, Alec. There are tiny air channels somewhere in the walls here. They let in drafts from outside and those mysterious moans are the sound of it. We’ll need to be very careful here.”

“What about magic?”

“That’s one thing we probably don’t have to worry about. If Kassarie’s really a Leran, then she’d never stoop to using the unnatural methods of the hated Aurënfaie. But there
will
be traps, killing traps, and we’d damn well better not get cocky.”

A careful search found no sign of any secret openings or traps.

“Looks like we’ll have to look elsewhere for our entrance,” muttered Seregil.

“But where?”

“Upstairs, I think.”

Alec looked over at the pile of rubble. “How could there be anything above us? Look at this! The whole inside of the tower must have been destroyed.”

“Yet from the outside it appears that just one side of the top of the tower was broken; it shouldn’t have done this kind of damage.”

“You mean this mess is just a trick, a fake?”

“Either that or I’m completely wrong.” Seregil grinned crookedly. “But why leave the tower broken unless there was some reason?”

“So we go up?”

“We go up.”

“Micum! Come here!”

Snapping awake, Micum groped for the lightstone under his
pillow. The room—Seregil’s old apprentice chamber—was empty, but Nysander’s anxious voice seemed to hang on the air.

Pulling on his breeches, Micum hurried down the corridor to the wizard’s bedchamber. Nysander was dressed already in his old traveling coat and breeches; his face was dark with concern.

Micum felt a sudden coldness in his innards. “What’s happened?”

“We must go at once!” Nysander replied, throwing on his cloak. “They are in some terrible danger, or were—I pray Illior it was a premonition and not a seeing vision.”

“Of what?” demanded Micum. “What did you see, Nysander?”

Nysander’s hands shook as he yanked his cloak strings closed. “Falling. I felt them falling. And I heard them scream.”

Seregil and Alec crept up the northeast tower stairs to the second floor of the keep and found the door unbarred, though there were brackets set on both sides of the jamb. Covering their lights, they took a cautious peek at what lay beyond.

It was dark here, but there was the feel of open space around them. From somewhere nearby came the buzz and rumble of assorted snores, though it was difficult to judge exactly where the sleepers might be. As their eyes adjusted, they could make out a dim light faintly illuminating a broad archway in a far wall. The acrid smell of a forge, mingled with the tang of metal and oil, suggested that the room was an armory or smithy.

Seregil found Alec’s wrist and squeezed it, silently directing him to follow the wall to their left.

This direction proved fruitless, however. There was a door into the ruined tower, but a heavy forge had been set up in front of it. Returning to the other tower, they made their way up to the top floor.

At the top of the stairs they inched the door open and saw a long corridor. Some distance away, a night lamp hung at what appeared to be a juncture with another corridor. By its light they could see that the walls were richly frescoed in the latest style, and that the floors were inset with polished mosaics. Somewhere behind one of the many carved doors that lined the corridor lay their enemy.

Stealing up to the night lamp, they found that this upper story
was laid out in four quarters, divided by two diagonal corridors that ran between opposing towers. The corridors looked very much alike, including the doors, frescoes, and patterned floor. Three, including the one they’d come up, ended at tower doors. At the end of the southeast, however, the wall was covered from floor to ceiling with a large tapestry.

As hoped, the hanging concealed another door to the ruined tower and this one had been fitted with a heavy lock. Signing for Alec to hold back the tapestry and keep watch, Seregil began a careful inspection. The ornate mechanism was tarnished, but it smelled of oil, as did the heavy door hinges. Running a finger over the lower hinge, Seregil sniffed at it, then held it under Alec’s nose. The boy grinned, understanding at once; why maintain the door to a ruined tower so carefully?

The lock was swiftly dealt with, and cold night air struck their faces as the door swung out onto a moonlit rampart. The square, flat surface they stood had been repaired, but the southern and eastern parapets had been left in ruins. The paving flags sent an aching chill up through their bare feet and ankles.

The wind moaned through the broken stonework, whipping their hair across their faces as they edged over to the remains of the southern parapet. The keep backed directly onto the cliffs; from where they stood, there was a sheer drop into the shadowed river gorge below.

“Caught in a high place again,” Alec whispered nervously, hanging back.

“Not caught yet. Here’s what we want,” said Seregil, poking around in the shadows under the north wall, where the glow of his lightstone revealed another door. Scarred and weathered as it was, it, too, had a stout lock and hinges in excellent repair. Beyond it, a curving staircase spiraled down into darkness.

Seregil felt a familiar tightness in his belly as he peered down. “This place is dangerous—I can feel it. Draw your dagger and watch your footing. Keep count of the steps, too, in case we lose our lights.”

The steps here were smooth but narrow underfoot, reminding Seregil of those leading down to the Oracle’s chamber beneath the Temple of Illior. The curve of the smoothly dressed walls sliced away the view fifteen feet below at any point. Rusty iron sconces set into the stone at regular intervals held thick tallow
candles, but these were dusty. The whole place had an abandoned, disused smell.

Counting softly to himself, Seregil moved down the steps with a wary eye out for trouble. Fifty-three steps down, something caught his eye and he held up a warning hand. A length of blackened bowstring had been fixed tautly across the next step a little above ankle height.

“That could give you a nasty fall,” Alec muttered, peering over his shoulder.

“Worse than that, maybe,” replied Seregil, squinting into the shadows below. Taking off his cloak, he shook it wide and cast it out in front of him. It floated down a few feet, then caught on what appeared to be another string stretched at an angle across the stairwell. Examining it, they found it to be instead a thin, rigid blade.

Seregil tested the edge of it with a thumbnail. “Fall just right and this could take your head off, or an arm.”

They found three more pitfalls of similar design as they continued down. Then, rounding a final turn, they came to the top of the rubble pile blocking the first entrance.

“This doesn’t make any sense!” Alec exclaimed in frustration. “We must have missed something.”

“We found exactly what we were meant to find,” Seregil muttered, heading back up the stairs. “It’s another diversion, too obvious and too dangerous. It does prove one thing, though; this tower is in perfect repair. They’re hiding something here for certain.”

Toiling back up the stairs, they came out again on the rampart.

“We have to work fast now,” Seregil warned, glancing up at the stars, which had wheeled noticeably to the west already.

“What if the real way in isn’t here?”

“That’s a distinct possibility.” Seregil ran a hand back through his hair. “Still, everything we’ve found so far tells me that this is the place. Look around, check every stone. You start there, at that corner. I’ll begin here. Look for uneven stones, listen for hollow spots, anything. We’re running out of time.”

Shielding his light, Alec crossed back to the ruined wall while Seregil remained in the shadows near the door.

•     •     •

Despite Seregil’s confidence, Alec renewed his search with little expectation of success. The mortar was sound, the stones solidly set together. Crossing back and forth, he checked and double-checked his section without finding anything new, and all the while the moon sank lower.

He was crossing to the northern parapet when his bare foot struck a slight declivity he hadn’t noticed before. If he’d had his boots on he’d have missed it entirely, but the loose grittiness beneath his chilled toes felt distinctly different from the surrounding flagstones. Dropping to his knees, he found what appeared to be a patch of sand slightly larger than the palm of his hand.

“Seregil, come here, quick!”

With Seregil hunkered down beside him, Alec scooped out the sand and uncovered a square niche sunk into the stone. At the bottom lay a large bronze ring fastened loosely to a staple. It was large enough for him to get a good grip and he pulled up hard, expecting the resistance of a heavy slab. Instead, an irregular section of thin flags lifted easily, revealing the square wooden trap door fastened to their underside. Holding their lights down, they found a square shaft, with a wooden ladder leading down to yet another door.

“Well done!” Seregil whispered. Descending the ladder, they pulled the door closed over them.

The door at the base of the ladder had no lock, just a curved latch, green with age. In his excitement, Alec reached for it but Seregil caught his hand before he could touch it.

“Wait!” Seregil hissed. Pulling a bit of twine from his pouch, he tied a noose in the end of it and looped it over the handle, then stood back and pulled. As the handle lifted, there was an audible click.

Four long needles sprang out, spaced so that at least one would be certain to pierce the hand of an unwary trespasser. Their tips were darkened with a resinous substance. As the door swung open Seregil released the handle, and the needles retracted like the claws of a cat.

“Never trust anything that looks easy,” Seregil warned, giving Alec a reproving look.

From here, a steep wooden staircase followed the square shape of the tower walls down in a series of landings and right-angle turns.

“Of course! A double staircase,” muttered Seregil, taking the
lead again with dagger drawn. “One would have been for the servants, this one a secret escape route for the nobles in case of attack.”

“Then we can get out this way, without having to go back through the keep again?”

“We’ll see,” Seregil replied doubtfully. “It may have been blocked off to keep anyone from wandering in from outside.”

Unlike the other stairways, this one was wooden, constructed of thick oak that probably dated from the original construction of the keep. Seregil tested each step as he put his weight on it, yet they seemed sound enough.

There were no trip wires here, no blades. Knowing better than to let their guard down, however, they grew increasingly vigilant, anticipating something more devious in the offing.

This stairway had been used recently and often. The dust that had settled over everything was much thinner at the center of each step and showed footprints on the landings. The tallow candles in the wall sconces smelled of recent burning. There were also spots of finer wax on the stairs, which spoke of someone carrying a taper with them as they descended. Some of the spots were dull with dust, others still shiny and fragrant of beeswax.