Sartor (15 page)

Click!

Gratitude flooded through her for all those weeks of
practice over the summer. She shouldered the door open, slipped inside, and
then eased the door shut again. Her insides gripped painfully as she tiptoed
over to the table where that horrible scope thing rested. All day, while Zydes
had blabbered on and on about military stuff, she’d considered how to
break it.

Lilah approached fearfully, bracing against some kind of
terrible protective spell. Nothing happened. She bent close, staring down at
the round black shiny disc supported between the thin metal rods. She did not
dare touch it until she was ready to smash it. She was convinced she’d
only get one try before some nasty magic came right back at her.

She didn’t want to touch the thing. Better to use some
piece of furniture from Zydes’s room.

But when she peered close, the cold, sickening sense of
failure pooled inside her when she saw that it wasn’t made of darkened glass
after all. It was heavy, solid, metal. Metal wouldn’t smash.

Now what? As she stared at it, no,
into
it, the
blackness seemed to tug at her mind. She turned away quickly.

That horrible feeling was instantly familiar. The ring!

The ring did that same thing to your mind, except it made
light.

Was it possible that light and dark could mix each other up
somehow?

She’d learned last year, when she and the other
Sharadan Brothers were striving against Uncle Dirty-Hands’s forces, that
if she was already in danger, to keep on trying until she either succeeded—or
someone stopped her.

So she forced her trembling fingers to pull the ring free,
then jammed it onto her thumb. She whispered the words Atan had taught her, and
aimed the ring at the scope.

Light blazed from the ring straight into the shiny metal
disc—and did not reflect! Her scalp crawled as the light was entirely
swallowed
into the blackness.

The ring grew warm on her finger, then hot, but she gritted
her teeth and held it there, for the metal of the scope was also glowing, and
it smelled hot—like a blacksmith’s shop when the forge was being
used. She held the ring steady, ignoring the pain of heat as red light ringed
round the edges of the scope.

Hotter... hotter... tears ran down her face, and her arm
shook with the effort it took to hold it still, as pain licked up her muscles
and bones and jabbed right into her eyes—

—and the metal disc exploded into weirdly glowing
shards that winked out of existence, leaving white ash to drift down to the
floor.

She jumped back, not wanting even that to touch her, then
flung the ring down onto the floor and cradled her arm against her middle for an
agonizing time. When the throbbing had died down from red heat to a sharp pang,
she blinked teary eyes at the two curving rods, now holding up nothing, and
then finally forced herself to look down at her hand, expecting to see it
sickeningly charred.

But astonishment turned to shock when she saw her skin
unbroken—not even pink. Yet pain still sang up her nerves in throbbing
waves.

She wiggled her fingers. They worked, though the pain
intensified briefly. But as she wiggled her fingers the pain receded, leaving
only the ache of memory.

And a ruined scope.

It was time to leave.

She forced her shaky fingers to pick up the now-cold ring,
stuck it back into her pocket, and ran to the door. There she paused, enduring
the last inward struggle: Uncle Dirty-Hands.

She even knew where he was. After Zydes had released her
earlier that day, Kessler had sent her to execute some of the errands that
Zydes stuck on him. Before she could, Kessler had to explain how the castle was
laid out, and the rules for passing from one wing to another.

And so, while delivering a bunch of messages, she discovered
where the new “recruits” were housed, and who guarded them. She’d
glimpsed her uncle in a line of men leaving a barracks for one of the practice
yards. Had he seen her? If so, he certainly hadn’t shown any sign. No
telling what he thought, either.

She
hated
her uncle. In her mind, he was no better
than Norsunder, but Peitar did not agree. It would be so easy to just leave her
uncle here, where (she argued with herself) he belonged... but he didn’t
belong. She knew it, or there would be no argument.

And if I don’t do something, I can never go home
again,
she thought. Because there would be no facing Peitar.

That decided her.

She slipped out, closed the door, and ran down the hall
toward the stairway to the lower level where the recruits were housed. Before
she got to the last turning, she reached again into her pocket for the little
bag of Lure flowers. It had been many days, but she knew that as long as the
bag stayed tightly closed so the flowers did not dry out, they would stay
potent.

She untied the knot at the mouth of the bag. A faint whiff
escaped, smelling overwhelmingly sweet and enticing. And with such powerful
effect! The faint whiff seemed to brush her mind with soft cobwebs, obscuring
thought, emotion, almost obscuring consciousness. She crushed the bag closed
again, jamming it down inside her pocket.

Holding her breath, she walked a few steps on. Breathed out.
Sucked in a deep breath. Her head cleared as she rounded the corner.

Two bored-looking guards looked up and gripped their
weapons. When they recognized her, they relaxed a little.

“What now?” one of them asked her.

She sucked in a deep breath as she walked up to them, then
she silently pulled open the bag and held it out. They both bent to see what she
was offering.

When the men gasped and swayed, she ran around the corner
again, with the bag crushed closed. Dizziness twinkled darkly at the edges of
her vision as the two guards thudded to the ground, followed by the clatter of
their fallen weapons.

She whooped in another lungful of air and ran back to where
the guards both slumped, then pulled the edge of her coat over her nose and
breathed as she hopped over the men and let herself through the iron-reinforced
door. There she threw back her head and gasped in a deep breath, grateful for
the flat, stale, stone-scented but flower-free air.

She ran down the empty hall, past locked barracks rooms from
which came the low murmur of voices, until she reached the door at the very
end. She used her tool on the old-fashioned lock—for the men inside were
locked in at night—and cried in her home language, “Hold your
breath, Uncle Dirty-Hands!” then opened the door and tossed the entire
bag of Lure inside.

Thud! Thud!
Exclamation—
thud!

She opened the door to find her uncle standing just on the
other side. Reflexive terror almost made her slam it shut again, but in the
instant she wavered he got out and pulled the door shut, then let out his
breath in a long, shuddering sigh.

“The last time I smelled that odor I woke up to
discover that I’d lost a kingdom,” he murmured, his eyes closed.

Lilah stared up at him, heart-sickened. How could she have
forgotten that? It was
she
who’d used the Lure on her uncle and
his commanders, just before Peitar and his people had arrived. That had brought
the revolution to an abrupt close.
The easiest way to shipwreck a government
is to capture the leaders
, Atan had told her, and she’d done just
that.

She stared doubtfully up at him, wondering if he wanted
revenge. He was watching her, his familiar blue eyes both cold and amused, two
expressions she’d always hated.

“Well?” he asked, brows raised. “It’s
your move.”

She groped toward the door, still staring up at him. “I—I
need to get the Lure back. In case. Then we can escape.”

His expression changed. “Do it, then.”

Nothing about the past, about Sarendan, or kingship. Or
revenge.

She was so frightened, it was easier to follow commands than
to think of her next actions. She snorted air, opened the door, scooped up the
withered flowers, and then ran out, stuffing them into their bag.

She and her uncle ran down the hall. She pounded ten, twenty
steps, her vision twinkling. She gasped for air. Again she caught a faint whiff
of sweet flower scent, feeling the inside of her head going foggy, but fear and
the stale, dry air of the next corridor banished the weird cottony sense.

“Guards?” her uncle asked as they ran up the
corridor toward the entrance.

“Sleeping,” she said, patting her pocket. And
she turned to go, but he stood there, looking down at her, the torchlight from
the corner highlighting the sharp bones in his face, emphasizing his bleak
expression.

His question took her completely by surprise. “Why are
you here?”

“I got pinched,” she said, numb with too many
reactions coming too fast. “That nasty villain Zydes has this thingie
that spies on the land—used to, anyway. I hope. Well, um, anyhow, he sent
that Kessler to pinch Atan, and they thought she was me—”

“Never mind,” he said. “You’ve told
me enough.” He glanced along the halls, then said, “We will
exchange histories later. Do you have any weapons?”

“No. Just my thief tools. You know, when we were the
Sharadan Brothers.” She jerked her thumb toward a passing door.

“Effective.” He gave her an ironic smile. “But
I think we’ll require steel as well.” He gestured for her to
follow.

And the rest of the escape was under his direction.

Lilah complied, relief easing her fear just enough to keep
her from the nausea and trembling that had plagued her so far. Once upon a time
her uncle’s quickness to decision, his cold, dispassionate military
attitude had contributed to her dislike of him, but she discovered that it was
welcome now.
At least he seems to know what he’s doing
, she
thought as she pounded along behind him.
More than I do, anyway.

When they reached the outer access to the command wing, he
stopped, asked her to get the sleepweeds out, and she threw it when she was
told. Listened to the thud of falling guards. Retrieved it when he said it was
safe, as he relieved the guards of weapons.

Then they ran again, Lilah wondering worriedly,
Why are
we back here? Is he lost?
Her uncle seemed to be looking for something—or
for someone. He ran fast, and Lilah pounded along behind, doing her best to
catch up when he paused at corners to listen and then to look.

After three or four of these pauses she heard someone
walking, and dug her hand in her pocket, but Uncle Darian put out a hand to
stay her, and hefted the sword and knife he’d taken from the first pair
of snoring guards.

“This one has to die,” he murmured.

“But—” she squeaked. “But!”

Her uncle gave her a strained look. “I can’t
save the others, but at least I can spare them serving as entertainment when he
is in the mood for blood.” He jerked his chin toward the approaching
footsteps.

And what if you lose?
Lilah wanted to say, but it was
already too late. She already knew the answer: her uncle would not kill someone
who’d been dropped into sleep by Lure. Even his worst enemy, and maybe
this Norsundrian was, would be given the chance to fight for his life.

So she gritted her teeth and stayed silent, too terrified to
do anything but press herself flat against the wall as a big, brawny
Norsundrian tromped around the corner. Lilah caught a brief glimpse of a
habitually mean face that turned into an ugly sneer when the man saw Darian
Irad, who was so much shorter and lighter in build.

The Norsundrian pulled his weapons, and the fight began.

The hallway was about as wide as two men could stretch out
their arms. Plenty wide, until you are stuck within range of sharp-edged steel
arcing and swinging, and then it becomes close and confining. Trying to watch
the fight made Lilah dizzy, but at least it did not last long—that is,
she thought so afterward. At the time, it seemed to go on forever, until Darian
Irad disarmed the larger man with a fast stroke of the sword, and then with his
other hand ripped the knife across the man’s neck.

Lilah flinched away, though not before she saw a dark stream
jet out from the cut throat, and there was nothing to prevent her from hearing
the terrible gargling sounds of the man dying.

“This way,” her uncle said, and ran. She fled at
his heels, terror singing in her ears.

At the stable, he stood back and waved for her to put the
stable guards to sleep. Her hands shook terribly, and she almost dropped the
Lure, but she managed to do her job while her uncle leaned against the wall,
breathing hard, the knife still dark-smeared.

When the guards were asleep, they slipped into the stable.

“Get the headstalls and reins while I clean this
weapon and saddle us up.” He pointed with that nasty knife.

She turned away, fighting nausea again, and made it to the
long row of bridles and headstalls and blackweave reins before she bent over,
retching dryly as she whispered the Waste Spell. Dizzy, miserable, she
straightened up, forced herself to get what she’d been sent to get.
He’ll
get us out of here
, she kept repeating to herself.
Uncle Dirty-Hands will
get us out of here.

When she got back, it was to find that he had saddled both
horses and found a second sword, one of those heavy ones the cavalry warriors
used, and now he was waiting. He took the bridles and finished that job in
silence.

Then he looked around. No one. He said in an undertone, “We
are both dressed in uniform. Since no alarm has been raised, there’s a
chance we’ll be able to ride out unmolested. But you have to look as if
you have business to attend to. And do not speak. If they address us, you leave
the talking to me. Understand?”

Lilah jerked her head in a nod.