The Golden Key (Book 3) (11 page)

16

A massive albino kitten meowed politely into Angus’s ear
just before it nestled up to his right shoulder and took a playful little bite.
It gnawed gently at first, gradually eating away the flesh until its jagged
teeth crunched into the bone, snapping it lengthwise so it could gleefully lap
at the marrow. It purred incessantly in his ear the whole time, and the
vibrating rattle sounded almost like voices talking in the distance. He focused
intently on those sounds. They were important.

The purr gradually shifted into a jumble of sounds. Words
began to emerge from those sounds, as if being teased free and brought closer
by sharp gusts of wind. But they were just disconnected bits that made no sense
to him. Then the kitten latched firmly onto his shoulder and growled
menacingly, tugging on him as if it were trying to drag him away. He slid on
the rough ground for a space, and the sudden agony of his shoulder sent him
reeling. But it was a dream, and he knew how to manage pain in dreams. All he
had to do was still his mind. But he didn’t want to still his mind; something
about the pain
mattered
.

The kitten dropped his shoulder, hissed viciously, and
spat at something Angus couldn’t see. It crouched as if to spring and stared at
something approaching his feet. He turned his gaze that way and saw a brawny
old man towering over him. He had a belly-length bushy white beard that he
threw over his shoulder while he worked and a mop of white hair that hung down
to his knees. Leatherworking tools fitted into his belt within easy reach, and
he was shaking his head in admonition as he looked at Angus’s feet.
This
boot is too small,
he rumbled.
It needs to be resized.

Angus frowned. That wasn’t what Ungred had said when he
had visited him in Hellsbreath to have him fix his boots. Ungred had told him
they were too large. He had left them with Ungred, and when he had returned two
days later, they had fit perfectly. It was as if Ungred had
molded
them
to his feet. Ungred had also reinforced the heel and sole so they would last
longer. But what was Ungred doing here?

The kitten lashed out with its paws and pinned down his
left side. It was a
heavy
kitten, and he found he couldn’t move.

Ungred took out a sharp knife and knelt down next to his
left foot. He shook his head and pointed at Angus.
They are too big,
he
said.
I will have to resize them.
A moment later, he started whittling
away at Angus’s toes. The fresh burst of pain nearly overwhelmed him. He
gasped. He tried to push Ungred away with his right leg. He tried to lift his
left arm, but the kitten held it firmly in place. He tried to move his right
arm, but it didn’t obey him. He kicked again with his right leg, but it was a
feeble movement that did nothing to deter Ungred.

Ungred had his toes cut off, but he wasn’t satisfied. The
boot still wouldn’t fit, so he began trimming away strips of flesh from his
shin and chipping away at the bones in his ankle.

Angus kicked futilely, and then, sweating beads of ice,
he turned to the kitten and asked, “May I please have my arms back?”

The kitten turned to him, smiled, and licked his face. It
was purring again, and its claws bit into his left arm without breaking through
the skin. After a few more seconds, it resumed munching on his right shoulder.

It was some time before it lifted itself off his left
side.

17

Typhus paced with a fervor he seldom allowed to manifest. He
had made a mistake when he had cast the spell, and there was no point harping
about it. He had had no choice, and the risk had been worth taking. It had
gotten him out of the clutches of Argyle, and now he had time to deal with the
consequences of the spell. If he hadn’t cast it, Iscara would have tortured
him—gleefully, playfully—regardless of how readily he had answered their
questions. She still wanted to torture him, and her flirtatious advances didn’t
change that; the torturing would only enhanced her pleasure like it always did.
Perhaps he should kill her?

He frowned, keeping the corner of his eye on her as she
watched him pacing back and forth. She could see him, but only because of her
magic. She shouldn’t be able to see him even then, but the sienna—
Stop!
he
screamed at himself.
Find a solution!

But what could he do? He didn’t know enough about magic—he
didn’t know
anything
about magic—so how could he find a solution? He
would have to get help from a wizard who knows more about the spell he cast. He
glanced sidelong at Iscara and dismissed her from consideration. If she had known
what to do to correct his mistake, she already would have struck a bargain with
him. It would be a barely tolerable bargain that would greatly increase
her
pleasure while bringing him much pain. Another form of torture….
I can fix
you
, she would have purred as she stroked his cheek.
But it will cost
you dearly
.

Typhus thrust the thought away. He couldn’t afford the
distraction of Iscara’s entertaining imagination. He had to think. He needed to
figure out what to do. He hadn’t anticipated this problem, but could he turn it
to his advantage? If the Cloaking spell was permanent, how could he use it?
What good would it be for an assassin to be undetectable except by magic? He
smiled, walking more quickly, thinking of the many narrow escapes he had made,
especially those that left him rotting in a dungeon for a brief time. How many
of them would he have avoided if his pursuers hadn’t been able to see him at
all? Perhaps this was not as bad as it first seemed?

What if it was worse? What if it wasn’t just masking him
from others’ sight? What if the spell was biding its time before doing
something more hideous, something that would not be conducive to his welfare?
At the very least, he would have to find out, and that meant talking to a wizard.
If only Angus were here! It was his spell….

But Angus wasn’t here, was he? Typhus was alone with Iscara,
and neither of them knew enough about the spell to be of use to him. Iscara
could be a brief distraction, of course, and he paused in his pacing to take a
long, lingering look at her. He avoided her eyes, though, and focused on her delightful
body. Would it be worth it? He felt himself stirring, and shook his head. No,
there was no time. Argyle would know of his escape soon if he didn’t already
know about it, and he would realize Iscara was involved. He would send someone
to find out how involved she was.

Iscara seemed to read his mind as she said, “I have to go
tell Argyle where the key is.” She was grinning as she said it, and then
stepped forward, easily avoiding running into him. He watched her until she
stopped at the door and turned back toward him and licked her lips. Her eyes
grazed over him for far too long, and then she sighed and added, “You shouldn’t
be here when I get back. Argyle might be with me.”

Typhus frowned. She was right. Argyle would get the truth
out of her one way or another. Probably the easy way: she would tell him
everything. She, better than anyone, would know the cost of lying, of keeping
secrets. But she would tell her story in a way that would absolve her
completely and place all of the blame on Typhus—or someone else. He could even
hear her now.
I told them to leave my tools in the hallway, but
….

“I won’t be,” Typhus said.

“Good,” she said. “Perhaps after they have gone?” she
suggested, lowering her gaze and smiling. When she lifted her eyes again, the
pupils had contracted to normal. He knew what that meant: she had let go of the
magic. But she was still looking at him—through him. He stepped to the side, but
her eyes still followed him.

He glared at her, but said nothing. The pleasure had left
her smile, and she shook her head so slightly that he wouldn’t have noticed it at
all if he hadn’t known her so well. She was surprised—and troubled. Something unexpected
had happened, like the time her victim had become aroused when her little knife
sliced a long gash in his thigh. She hadn’t known what to do about that, and he
had to step in to finish the task.

“What is it?” Typhus demanded, knowing it would be something
he wouldn’t like. He followed her with his eyes as she shook her head and
walked up to him. She reached out with her hand and lightly grasped his elbow and
gently tugged on his arm as she led him toward a large, full-length mirror. He
looked into it—and gasped.
He could see himself!

“We can’t have you running around out there like that,” she
purred, standing closer to him than she needed to. “What would the priests
say?” She asked, hugging his arm as she leaned even closer and half-whispered,
her warm breath fluttering against his neck, “No, it wouldn’t be good at all.”

He stared at the strangeness of the image staring back at
him. It was thin, almost transparent, and much paler than usual, but other than
that it looked normal to him.
Spectral
, but normal. Why was she so
concerned about it?

She turned, her hair brushing against his naked shoulder as
she let go of his arm and went to her workbench. He kept her in the periphery
of his vision—she was capable of anything, and that was what excited him most—as
he studied his reflection. What was wrong? What had her so concerned? He shook
his head; he had never been able to see things the way everyone else did, and
this was no different. Usually, it didn’t matter, but once in a while….

Iscara had a handful of bandages in her hand as he turned toward
her. She shrugged and waited for him to approach her.
Why—

He glanced at the mirror again, and a troubling memory ran
through his mind. What was it Angus had said? If he had stopped the spell, he
would glow like a blue ghost? Was he
blue
? He studied the pale gray and
frowned. It could be the powder blue others spoke about, but there were other
colors that were a similar shade of gray. He had made mistakes like that
before, and some of them had been costly….

He walked over to her and held out his arm. She began
wrapping it, and she didn’t stop until the arm was completely covered. Then she
did the other one and then his legs. She slowed noticeably as she reached his
thighs and lingered on them for a long time before she finished. Then she turned
to his torso. Neither of them said anything; there was no need for it. They
knew each other well, and they knew the situation they were in even better. She
hurried, but only because she had to, and just before she strung the bandages
over his mouth, she kissed him. It was a long, eager kiss that ended with
reluctance, and they both knew he would return later, to let her remove the
bandages at her leisure….

When she had finished, he felt like one of the corpses he’d
seen wrapped in a shroud and thrust upon a funeral pyre. His mobility was
hampered—
severely
hampered—by the thick, tightly-wound layers of cloth,
and he wondered if all of them were necessary.

Iscara finally took him by the hand and led him up the
stairs. She paused at the top to grab a cloak, and then ushered him quickly
outside through the side door. Once they were on the street, she handed him the
cloak and said, “You’re on your own now. I will tell Argyle that Aggles has the
key where Sardach dropped him. He’ll like that.”

“Angus,” Typhus corrected, but he knew it was pointless. She
seldom called people by their names, and when she did, she often got them wrong.
She didn’t even bother to learn most people’s names, and those she did were the
ones that meant something to her. At least she knew
his
name….

Typhus wrapped the cloak tightly around himself and flopped
the hood to cover up his head. He waited until Iscara had turned away, and then
he went in the opposite direction. He shuffled forward at a frustrating pace;
he was so used to moving with spryness and certainty, but the bandages were too
tight for that. Did they have to be so tight? Or was it just one more playful
little torture to torment him?

It didn’t matter. He needed to make plans, and that meant he
needed resources, resources he didn’t have. He had called in all the favors
owed to him when he had fled Tyrag the first time, and he had used up all his
treasure to convince Voltari to help him. There was nothing left to do but
steal and kill. He didn’t like those prospects, but he had no other choice.
Iscara was one of the few people he hadn’t used up, and that was only because
she
hadn’t used
him
up yet. It would only be a matter of time before that
happened; she only did what
she
wanted to do, and then only for
her
reasons. Why she had done what she had done so far was beyond him, but he was
glad—sort of—that she had done it. Now, though, it was up to him, and the first
order of business was to find something better than bandages to hide his
spectral sheen. He needed clothes, and he knew where he could get some.

18

Hobart plodded along at a slow, dogged pace, even for him.
The travois wasn’t particularly heavy, but he had been injured enough as a
soldier to know unnecessary motion caused more pain, even after the injury had
been immobilized. He tried to avoid bumps in the road, kicked aside small
rocks, and kept his hands as level as he could to avoid jostling Angus. If it
was Angus; he still wasn’t convinced of that.

The road tapered and narrowed to about half its width as it curved
north around the mountain. As it did so, Hobart looked for an easy slope down
to the snow-covered canyon. The mountainside had been fairly steep on the south
side, so steep that he was still amazed that Angus had gotten up it in his
condition. But then, if it were Angus, Ortis was right: he probably flew up it.
Hobart frowned. He
did
look a lot like Angus, but it wasn’t
enough
like Angus to suit him. He had been fooled by impersonators when he had dealt
with the bandits, and the man on the travois was a little too tall and, even as
thin as he was from his recent ordeal, he was a good twenty pounds too heavy.
But he had the robe and he had the wand.

As they moved north on the road, they got closer to the
lift. It was waiting for them on the other side of the snow-packed canyon, and
even though the distance across the narrow canyon was only a few hundred yards,
the slope down to it from the road was twice that distance and over loose rock.
It would be easy enough to slide down, but not with Angus strapped to the
travois. They needed to find a more gradual slope.

“It will be dark soon,” Ortis said. “We should camp on the
road and cross in the morning.”

Hobart nodded. “Scout ahead and see if there is a place we
can take him down. We’ll camp there. You didn’t bring the tent down with you,
did you?”

“No,” the other Ortis said. “But I didn’t use all of the
branches we gathered for the travois. I’ll cross over to get them for a fire.
We can cook some of the meat from that thing Angus killed.”

“We should try to get Angus to eat something,” Hobart said.
“He’s been out here by himself for several days, and I doubt he’s eaten much in
that time.”

“Broth, then,” Ortis agreed, “and a little stew.” Ortis
lingered for a few seconds longer and then hurried forward at an easy jog.

Hobart slogged forward, focusing on the road in front of
him. An hour later, the long shadows of the setting sun cast a dreary pall over
him. It was growing colder, and his hands were beginning to cramp from gripping
the travois poles too tightly. His breathing was steady, but there didn’t seem
to be enough air to fill his lungs. His heartbeat was a bit too strident. He
should be able to handle the travois with ease, but the thin air was wreaking
havoc on his reserves.

He lifted his head and saw the glint of flames not far
ahead, and plodded toward it. By the time he reached the fire, the rich aroma
of Ortis’s stew had already filled his nostrils. It had the familiar twang of
too much seasoning, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to eat the stew—it
was for Angus—he was going to eat the meat roasting beside it. He gently
lowered the travois, and then flexed his hands and arms for nearly a minute.

“I threw down a couple of ropes,” Ortis said as he moved to
Angus’s side. “We can tie them to the travois and lower it down the slope that
way.” He loosened the straps he had fashioned to hold Angus to the travois and
opened his robe.

“Good idea,” Hobart said. “How is he?”

Ortis fiddled with the bandages and then said, “About the
same.” His other self dragged a cloak, heavy-laden with chipped ice, over to
them and they began to pack ice around Angus’s foot and shoulder. When he
finished, he wrapped the robe around the ice and secured the belt in place again.
“The ice I brought with the travois should have lasted longer. It’s melting too
fast. It’s as if he has a raging fever, but his skin doesn’t feel any warmer
than normal. It
should
feel colder.”

They went about the business of preparing for a short night
while the meat and stew continued to cook. When the stew was ready, Ortis tried
to wake Angus to eat it, but Angus didn’t stir when he gently shook his healthy
shoulder. “We may as well finish the stew,” Ortis said. “He isn’t even aware of
us right now. It will do that slab of meat good to cook through the night
anyway.”

After the meal, Hobart took the first watch and gave Ortis a
chance to rest. It was an uneventful watch, but he had difficulty staying
awake. It had been a long time since he had nearly fallen asleep while on
duty—not since his first year of service—and he was glad when it was over. He
was completely drained and slept more soundly than he had in a very long time.

When he woke late the next morning, Ortis had already tied
the ropes to the travois and packed away most of the gear.

“Any change?” Hobart asked, yawning as he rose stiffly to
his feet. He could have used a few more hours’ sleep, but there wasn’t time for
it. Instead, he worked to stretch the sluggishness out of his sore muscles. He
winced as they protested and wondered why he ached so much; it hadn’t been that
demanding of a task to tote Angus around. He had done far more strenuous labors
in his time, and the way he was feeling at the moment reminded him of the worst
of them.

“No,” Ortis replied. “He didn’t stir the whole night. If it
weren’t for the puffs of breath, I would think he was dead.”

Hobart nodded and moved to the fire. He took out his knife.
It felt heavy in his hand as he cut off a slice of roasted meat. The outer skin
was crispy from cooking over the fire all night, but the meat beneath it was
tender and juicy. It had a slightly bitter flavor, as if Ortis had sprinkled
one of his spices over it, and he quickly lost his appetite. He felt a little
better afterward, but it didn’t last long.

Ortis put out the fire, and they carried the gear to the
edge of the road, setting it down beside the travois. There was a trail of
water leading back to a pool where the travois had sat by the fire the night
before, and a new pool was forming under Angus as the ice continued to melt.

Hobart flexed his arms and twisted his back to prepare for
the upcoming task of lowering Angus to the snow below. Normally, his muscles
responded almost immediately, but not this time. They were stiff and sore, and
he grimaced, wondering what was wrong with them. Then he shrugged it off;
lowering Angus wouldn’t be very difficult, and the effort would do his aching
body some good. The stiff joints in his fingers, though, troubled him; he
didn’t want to lose his grip on the ropes and send Angus pummeling recklessly
to the bottom. He set his jaw, determined that he would not let it happen.

A few minutes later, Ortis took up a position on either side
of the travois and picked up the handles. He stepped onto the slope and began a
slow, steady sliding walk down. As he went, Hobart let the ropes slide through
his hands. He didn’t watch them descend; he kept his eyes on the ropes to make
sure they didn’t slip through his fingers too quickly. A short while later, the
ropes settled and grew still. He looked down and saw Ortis at the bottom of the
slope putting on his snowshoes.

Hobart dropped the ropes and looked at his hands. They were
quivering and he couldn’t close them all the way. He frowned and tried to shake
it off, like he had when Thrumble had gotten under his shield during a sparring
match and slapped his elbow with the flat of the blade. He had dropped his
shield and it had taken several minutes for him to regain the feeling in his
hand. Thrumble, a rapscallion if there ever was one, kept at him the whole
time, chattering away about fishmen not giving any quarter so why should he? Thrumble’s
tenacity was one of the best lessons he had ever learned, and it had saved his
life on more than one occasion.

Hobart shook his head and reached down to pick up the rest
of the coiled-up ropes. A sharp pain shot through his lower back as he bent
over, and he almost staggered over the side as he slumped forward. His breath
hesitated as he composed himself, and then he leaned backward until he was
upright on his heels. The pain eased somewhat, and he let his breath out
slowly.
What’s wrong with me?
he wondered, a surge of anger flaring to
life. He reached down for the coiled ropes and picked them up. He pushed
himself to his feet and hurled the ropes down the slope as far as he could make
them go. He
thought
that would be the end of it, but it wasn’t. He
thought
he could override his uncooperative muscles by brute force of will. He
thought
he could ignore the sudden wave of fatigue, as he had done so many times
before. He thought wrong and found himself falling weakly forward and tumbling
down the slope behind the ropes. He passed them long before he came to a stop near
the bottom of the slope. He knew how to avoid being injured by the roll, and
aside from making him dizzy, the somersaulting descent did little more than
scrape his armor and give him a few bruises. When he settled, he lay still and
made no effort to rise. He couldn’t get up anyway; he was too weak.

Ortis was at his side in moments, tugging off his helmet and
demanding to know what was wrong.

“Weak,” Hobart muttered, a bit out of breath. “Sore muscles.
Stiff joints.”

Ortis frowned. “When did it begin?”

Hobart tried to remember when he had felt the first signs of
a problem. He knew when he had noticed the problem—when he had set the travois
down the night before—but it had to have begun before that. “Yesterday,” he
said, trying not to be too specific. “When I was pulling the travois.”

Ortis was tugging at his gauntlet, and Hobart tried to pull
his hand free. “Hold still,” Ortis scolded, “and tell me what happened first
and where.”

Hobart scowled and let Ortis release the straps holding his
gauntlet in place. “My hands,” he said. “They cramped up. I was holding the
travois poles too tight.” No, that wasn’t it. He hadn’t felt right before that.
“I was tired. I thought it was because of the thin air. Now….” Now he was
having trouble moving, and standing up was out of the question. He had never
felt like this before, and he didn’t know what to make of it.

“Then?” Ortis prompted.

Hobart replied, his tone sheepish and apologetic, “I almost
fell asleep while on watch.”

Ortis nodded. “You slept more deeply than usual, and longer.
And this morning?”

“My back hurt,” Hobart said, “and I couldn’t work the kinks
out of the muscles. It got worse after that. My hands were shaking when I
belayed the rope, and when I threw the coils over, I couldn’t stop myself from
falling. Now,” he shook his head, “I can barely move my arms and legs.” It was
a puzzling situation, but he wasn’t worried yet. He had seen soldiers who
couldn’t move their arms or legs, but that was always after having their spine
severed or crushed. His spine was fine, but his body was acting as if it
weren’t fine. What else—

“Poison!” he gasped. It had to be that—or magic. He frowned
and struggled to look sidelong at the man who looked like Angus. He seemed to
be unconscious…. “Magic?” he grumbled.

Ortis frowned and shook his head. “If it is magic, it isn’t
him. He hasn’t moved since I found him.” He paused and then asked, “Have you
eaten or drunk anything I don’t know about?”

“No,” Hobart said, “and the only thing that I’ve never eaten
before is the meat from that thing Angus killed. You ate it too, didn’t you?”

Ortis shook his head. “No; I ate the stew. I used the last
of the meat we brought with us from Dagremon’s.” Ortis reached for the straps
holding Hobart’s armor in place.

“No,” Hobart said. “I’m not injured.”

“That tumble….”

Hobart forced his arm to raise enough to wave dismissively.
It was a feeble gesture, and it probably looked like a tiny tremor in his
fingers. Then he said, “Nothing breached my armor.”

“You can’t expect me to carry you
and
your armor,”
Ortis said, continuing with the straps.

Hobart tried to gesture him off again, and said, “Use the
rope and drag me. My armor should slide easily enough on the ice.”

Ortis paused, nodded, and refastened the straps. By the time
he was finished, his other self was there with one of the ropes. He made a loop
and draped it around Hobart’s chest, just under the armpits. It took much
longer than it should have; Hobart’s efforts to help proved to be an impediment
that slowed the process. Once he was secured, Ortis pulled Hobart over to the
lift and managed to get him up onto it. Then he turned to the winch mechanism
and the lift started rising.

They were halfway up when Angus opened his eyes.