‘The barrels on the cart,’ said Aren. He remembered Garric had been interested in which storeroom they’d be taken to. ‘There’s something in them, isn’t there?’
Garric stared at him levelly, and that was answer enough. ‘I’m leaving now, to do what I must. Any man or woman who wishes to stop me, make your play. Elsewise, step aside.’
No one spoke. Even if they had sure grounds to oppose him, none of them wanted to. They hadn’t forgotten the man who’d led them all this way. They heard the dull conviction in his voice and saw the sword in his hand. He’d kill them if they tried to stop him, and they had enough enemies without fighting among themselves.
He snatched up a helmet and pushed past them, back the way they’d come. Aren held his gaze as he passed.
‘You’re not the man I thought you were, Cadrac of Darkwater,’ Aren said coldly.
‘Nor are you, Aren of Shoal Point,’ said Garric, and there was no hatred but rather a rough tenderness in his voice that made Aren’s heart hurt. ‘I’ve never been so glad to be wrong.’
Then he was gone, up the corridor and out of sight.
Vika was the first to recover. ‘We should not dally. Time is against us.’
‘We’re still … er … We’re still going for the Ember Blade, then?’ Cade asked.
‘Of course we’re going for the Ember Blade, mudwit!’ Aren snapped. ‘Why else do you think we’re here?’ He stalked off towards the stairs, his mind swirling with black thoughts.
‘Alright, good,’ said Cade, a cheery grin springing to his face. ‘Just checking!’
96
The quiet of the Master of Keys’ study was punctured by the delicate tinkle of breaking glass.
A desk stood in the moonlight next to a window set deep into the stone and covered by miniature curtains. From behind them came the soft sound of a bolt sliding back. The window squeaked open and cold air blew in, stirring the curtains. There was grunting, scraping, a muffled curse. Tattooed fingers dashed the curtains aside.
There, squashed in the tiny window recess like some grotesque frog, was Grub, his face stretched in a sour grimace.
‘Mudslug never said … window was … so small,’ he huffed as he forced himself by stages through the gap before finally slithering to the floor like a particularly recalcitrant turd.
He got to his feet, rubbing his hands together to chase away the icy chill. His fingers were numb and the muscles in his arms and back ached. He glanced at the hearth, prepared but unlit, and wished for a fire there.
No time to waste. Bossychops was supposed to be keeping the Master of Keys busy, but who’d want to talk to her for long?
There was a door on the far side of the study, which Grub reckoned led to the corridor outside. A quick scout through the other doorway revealed a bedroom with a shrine to the Primus. From there, a small door opened into a privy, with a bench of polished wood and a nosegay of pungent herbs and flowers to mask the faint scent of night-soil.
The study seemed the most likely place to start. In short order, he found a reinforced lockbox on the mantelpiece and set to work with his picks. His fingers were clumsy with the cold, but he got it open in the end.
Inside was a bewildering assortment of keys arranged in stacked wooden trays. Each had a small paper label attached, with the door that it matched written there in tight, neat Krodan.
Grub frowned as he pawed through them. Mudslug had made him memorise the Krodan word for ‘vault’, but he didn’t see it here and even without the labels, Grub’s instincts said none of these were right. Even the largest keys didn’t look, well, vaulty enough.
Somewhere else, then. This key was too important to keep with all the others. He began to search the desk, but the sound of approaching footsteps stopped him and he froze as he heard voices outside the door.
‘Can I help you, er …?’
‘Overwatchman Klyssen,’ said a moist voice. ‘You are a hard man to find, Master Bann.’
‘I was … I went to the kitchens to fetch myself a dish. Is there some problem?’
‘Let us in, please.’
Grub felt a jolt of alarm as he realised that Klyssen had been standing outside the door the entire time, waiting. Frost and bones, if he’d been heard …
‘Um, of course. Can you … Could one of your men hold this while I get my key? Careful, it’s hot. Am I … Am I in some kind of trouble?’
‘Just open the door.’
One of your men. There were more of them outside.
Grub rushed over to the window with its broken pane, closed and bolted it. He’d never be able to squeeze back into that recess in time, but he could pull the curtains and cover it up, sweep the glass under the desk with his boot. The window had a lattice design, so he’d only needed to knock out one small square to reach the bolt. The architects hadn’t anticipated burglars clinging to the wall high above a fatal drop, but those architects hadn’t met Grub.
The key rattled in the lock as he hurried into the bedroom, searching for a place to hide. Under the bed? Too obvious. In the wardrobe? Just as stupid. There was nowhere a cursory search wouldn’t reveal him.
The door in the study opened. With no other choice, Grub darted into the privy and pulled the door shut behind him. Maybe they wouldn’t look in here.
‘Search the place,’ said Klyssen.
Grub rolled his eyes and swore under his breath. He heard armoured men clump into the study, the screech of a chair as it was pulled aside. The Master of Keys’ chambers were small; they’d only take moments to find him. In desperation, he went to the privy-hole, stared down into the blackness as if it might offer him escape, but there was no way he’d fit in there.
They were in the bedroom now, opening doors, looking into the wardrobe and under the bed. His heart thumped against his ribs as they came closer. He cast about for some way to avoid discovery, hoping for a miracle to present itself. But he was in a tiny room not much wider than he was, with only a narrow bench of polished wood and a hole for the master’s doings. There was nowhere to go.
A thought struck him. Unless …
‘Look in there!’ said a voice from outside.
The door was pushed open. An Iron Guardsman, sword in hand, poked his head into the room. He lingered there a moment, perhaps tickled by some sense that something was wrong, but it was an empty room with no corners to hide in. He grimaced and pulled the door shut.
‘Privy,’ he said. ‘There’s no one here.’
Grub listened to their footsteps move back into the study, then let out his breath through lips drawn taut with effort. He was pressed against the ceiling above the door, having jammed his feet against one wall and his shoulders against the other. Silently, he dropped down to the floor.
‘Heh, heh, heh. Grub is the greatest,’ he whispered to himself, and made an obscene gesture at the door and the guards beyond.
‘Now perhaps you can tell me what this is all about?’ The Master of Keys’ voice was shrill with worry.
‘When did you last examine the vault?’ Klyssen asked.
‘At sixth bell, as usual.’
‘And everything was in order?’
‘Of course.’
‘Where is the key?’
Grub pressed his ear to the privy door. This he was eager to hear.
The master began to bluster. ‘The location and nature of the key are closely guarded secrets!’
‘Is it safe?’ Klyssen demanded.
‘Assuredly!’
‘Show it to me.’
‘Overwatchman, I cannot! It’s simply that—’
‘The Iron Hand take a dim view of those who impede their efforts to protect the Empire,’ Klyssen said. ‘Are you a loyal subject, Master Bann?’
Grub felt a grin spread across his face. That was a nice piece of bullying. He had to respect a fellow artisan.
‘Um … Perhaps I could just show you?’ the master wheedled.
‘Very well. You two, guard the door. No one comes in or out b
ut me. The Master of Keys is confined to his chambers until further notice.’
‘But I … But—’
‘You have a meal, don’t you? Books?’
‘Well, yes—’
‘Then you should be well entertained.’
The door opened and closed as the guards left. No escape that way, Grub thought. Lucky that was never the plan.
‘Now,’ said Klyssen. ‘Show me the key. I want to know that the Ember Blade is safe.’
‘Why is everyone so concerned with the Ember Blade today? Nobody can reach it in the vault.’
‘Who else has been concerned?’ Klyssen asked sharply.
‘An odious woman who latched on to me. She was obsessed that thieves might steal it. A terrible bore. Rude, too.’
‘What was her name?’ Klyssen’s voice was like creeping frost. ‘And what did she look like?’
‘Lady Harforth of Harrow. Tall-ish, I suppose. Grey hair, short, you know how women cut it when it gets straggly? Sad when they go to seed that way.’
Grub’s grin widened. Even in his predicament, it was fun to hear somebody abuse Bossychops behind her back.
‘Here is the key,’ said the master.
‘That’s the key?’ Klyssen sounded surprised.
‘Indeed. You see, if I twist it like this …’
‘That is like no key I have ever seen.’
‘It fits in a recess in the door, and you turn it. There is only one and I wear it at all times, hidden in plain sight. It cannot be taken without my knowledge, and no thief would recognise it for what it is.’
‘Ingenious,’ said Klyssen, reluctantly impressed. ‘Your medallion is the key. I never would have guessed it.’
‘That is precisely the point,’ said the master. ‘I trust you are reassured, Overwatchman.’
Klyssen made a concessionary noise, already focused elsewhere. ‘Stay in your chambers,’ he said. ‘Lock the door. I will speak with this Lady Harforth.’
Grub heard the door open and close, and the key turned in the lock.
‘Yes, Your Spectacled Magnificence,’ the master sneered venomously as soon as Klyssen was safely out of earshot.
Grub heard the master muttering to himself as he lit the fire in the study. He arranged his platter and cutlery to his satisfaction on his desk. Then he came striding into the bedroom, straight to the privy, where he opened the door.
Grub stabbed him in the throat, bearing him backwards onto the bed. With his hand pressed over the master’s mouth, he stabbed him again and again, his knife darting in and out. Flabby flesh ran with blood, sliced into gory blubber. The master’s eyes gaped comically wide. The only sound was Grub’s heavy breathing, the creaking of the bed and the thud of the knife.
When the master went still, Grub took his hand away from his mouth. The silk sheets were sodden red and he was waxen now, his mouth in a slack gape and his eyes faraway. Grub snorted. If ever proof were needed that men were just mannequins of meat constructed by the Bone God, it was there in death. All that mattered were the stories you left behind.
The master’s medallion was on a heavy chain around his neck. Grub tugged it over his head and wiped away the blood with his palm. He had no eye for design but didn’t think much of it. A falcon – the Krodans liked that bird – was set inside a border decorated with the motto of the Sanctorum. He’d seen it about enough to know it.
Diligence. Temperance. Dominance. Well, the last one sounded good to him, at least.
He turned it this way and that, examining it with his clever hands. He found one hidden clasp, and another, and then he pulled it apart, separating the medallion into a pair of thin discs. One had two dozen metal teeth, like the teeth of keys, protruding from its flat inner edge. The other had holes to accommodate them.
‘Huh,’ he said. He’d found the key to the vault. It wasn’t quite what he’d expected, but it would do.
He tucked it into his pocket and went into the study. The guards hadn’t looked behind the tiny curtains during their search, which was sloppy work. He pulled them open again, revealing the broken window beyond. He was just readying himself to squeeze back outside when his eye fell to the platter of food still on the desk.
Roast beef. Crispy potatoes cooked in goose fat. Quail on truffled aspic. Bull’s brain pie. Candied fruits on the side, and a jug of heavy red wine.
He licked his lips and glanced at the door. Well, it was locked, wasn’t it? And the only key was on the dead man in the bedroom. No reason for Klyssen to be back any time soon, and Mudslug was likely nowhere near the vault yet.
The fire was growing in the hearth and the room was getting warm. He thought of the climb ahead, and the bitter wind blowing through the broken pane.
It was no decision at all, really.
Grub wiped his bloody hands on his trousers, sat down at the desk and jammed a chunk of roast beef in his mouth. Being a hero was hungry work.
97
What about your oath?
Cade’s question whispered in Garric’s mind as he walked through the hive of scampering servants beneath the main feasting halls. Scrubber-boys hurried this way and that, butlers snapped orders at their subordinates and cooks sweated over cauldrons of soup, all in the light of a huge fire that cast the shadows of turning hogs across the grey brick walls. Those who noticed Garric looked away at the sign of the double-barred cross. Nobody hindered the Iron Guard.
What about your oath?
What if Aren was right? What if they could spirit the Ember Blade away? Wasn’t that slim hope worth the gamble? Didn’t he have to try?
Perhaps, perhaps not. The wording of the Dawnwardens’ oath was muddy and archaic, updated piecemeal over the centuries as the language evolved. It had been interpreted many different ways. The Dawnwardens’ decision to depose King Danna the Moon-Touched was only taken after some masterful rhetoric from Kalen the Rhymist persuaded them they were not breaking their oaths by doing it.
But Garric was no scholar, and there were no other Dawnwardens to advise him. All he knew was that he couldn’t risk the Ember Blade falling into Prince Ottico’s hands. Let Aren try for the grand prize, flush with the naïvety and enthusiasm of youth. Garric would hedge their bets in case he failed. He’d protect the Ember Blade by returning it to the bosom of the land from which it sprang, to lie beneath an incalculable weight of stone for future generations of Ossians to unearth. If the legends were true, it was indestructible. And if they were not, it was still better than the alternative.
The Krodans wouldn’t have it. At all costs, never that.
He tugged his collar up over his throat and strode on. The memory of torture stabbed him with each step, the pain in his body as nothing next to the pain in his mind. His jaw set hard as he thought of Klyssen, the bright tip of a burning poker reflected in his round spectacles. That soft, breathy voice asking questions, questions, questions. Promising to stop the agony if he gave up the others, if he’d betray all he was and all he’d ever been.
Garric’s mouth twitched in a bitter smile. Small chance of that. He’d welcomed the pain. Wanted it.
He passed through the sweltering kitchens into the corridors beyond, which led to pantries and storerooms. Racks of meat hung in cold chambers, and there were shelves lined with hundreds of jars of honey and jam, bread and cheese. He counted the doors until he reached the one he wanted. Behind it, he expected to find a dozen Amberlyne barrels, each of them two-thirds full of elarite oil. Enough to destroy a sizable chunk of Hammerholt and burn the rest. Certainly it would kill everyone in the feasting halls above, including the prince and General Dakken. Maybe the chaos would ease Aren’s task, or perhaps the blast would bring down a tower on their heads. Either way, it wouldn’t stay Garric’s hand. He’d been too long on this course to change it.
Unless the barrels had never made it out of the vintner’s yard. Unless they’d been delivered to a different storeroom. Unless he was too late, having been delayed too long in his cell, and they’d already been move
d elsewhere.
Aspects, if you ever had any love for this land, if you’re there at all, be with me now. Azra, Lord of War, let those barrels be where I need them to be.
He opened the door. A servant emerging from a pantry down the corridor gave him a curious look and Garric glared at him until he hurried off.
Beyond the door was a chilly stone chamber lit by a lantern hanging near the entrance. Racks of bottles ran along one wall and ale barrels were stacked wherever they’d fit, with a narrow, winding aisle left between them.
He shut the door behind him, took up the lantern and made his way in, searching for the telltale crest of the Amberlyne vineyards. Walking through a crowd of servants disguised as an Iron Guardsman hadn’t worried him in the least, but anxiety tightened his guts as he cast his light about and saw no sign of what he was looking for. But those barrels had to be here. They had to!
There! A dusty blanket had been thrown over a small stack of barrels against one wall. Amberlyne didn’t like the cold; they must be the barrels he sought. He hurried over, took up the corner of the covering and ripped it away with desperate hope.
His face fell slowly as he looked on what was beneath.
More ale barrels. That was all. The Amberlyne wasn’t here. Maybe it never had been, or maybe it lay in a different storeroom, one of a dozen scattered throughout the keep. It didn’t matter. He’d never find them now. He had no map, and had only memorised the small part of it that he needed. He could search all night and find nothing, and when his escape was discovered – as it would be soon – no disguise would save him.
Black despair turned to boiling rage. All his planning, all his life had come to naught, thwarted by a friend’s betrayal and a twist of fate. All he wanted was to free his people. All he wanted was to make them stand up for themselves.
Damn you, Azra! he thought furiously. Damn you, and the rest of the Nine. Your people cry out for you, and you do nothing. Well, if you will not, then I will!
Nothing left. No grand destruction, no heroic end. No escape. Just like Salt Fork, he’d been undone by the fears of weak men. But he knew where the prince and General Dakken feasted, and he still had his sword. If he couldn’t have victory, then he’d still have red vengeance.
The Ember Blade Page 78