by Dave Dobson
We paused, taking stock. Three was too many for us to take on. The rear door was probably guarded again as well, and it was getting light enough now that any sneaking around would be painfully obvious. They might have found the guard Boog took out. If not, we might be able to talk our way up to the door, but certainly not through it. I wished we’d brought more inspectors, but Gueran was right to take everyone he could to Marron’s house. The murder of the Prelate was a much larger matter than my hunch that a subterranean passage here led anywhere important.
There was a gentle touch on my shoulder. It wasn’t Boog. He was standing in front of me, studying the house. I spun, pulling at my dagger, ready to fight or kill if necessary.
“Easy, there, Marten,” said Clarice. “No need to get testy.” She smiled.
I know it was tactically foolish, and perhaps bad form given the recent murder of the Prelate, but I stuffed my dagger back into its scabbard and hugged Clarice as hard as I could. My throat hurt, and hot tears flowed down my cheeks. “You’re alive," I murmured. “I love that you’re alive.”
She gave a low laugh and hugged me back. “Me too, Marten, me too.”
57
In We Go
The arrow flew in a high arc, its fletching a bright red orange in the morning light. It descended gracefully, then buried itself in the chest of one of the guards. He fell backwards, his arms flailing.
“Nice shot,” said Boog.
“Thanks,” said Clarice. She’d already shot a second arrow and was nocking a third. The second arrow hit a second guard as he was turning to look at the first. He stumbled back, clutching at the arrow in his neck. Her third shot missed as the third guard ducked for cover. Too much to ask, I supposed. Boog and I sprinted toward the house
It was beyond wonderful to see her again. In the rational part of my mind, I had known she was all right. I’d seen her image in the pool, received her note, heard about her from Gueran. But now I knew first-hand she was healthy and alive, and I had a new memory to replace my last one, the one where she lay bleeding and dying on a dusty trail as I was carried away as a prisoner. We hadn't taken much time to catch up, obviously, but she said she’d been watching the house for most of the last few days, and there had definitely been an unusual amount of traffic heading in and out. Marron and Brand had come several times a day. Today, like us, she’d come to try to break in and see what was going on. We were out of time. Waiting and watching needed to give way to action.
We told her about the Prelate’s murder. She hadn’t been here last night, and she said she hadn’t seen the Prelate here before. Perhaps he had kept his distance from Marron, receiving reports at the court. Maybe he’d finally had a change of heart last night and had come to shut the operation down. Or maybe she’d just missed his earlier visits. We did not know the whole story. We likely never would.
The third guard was yelling for help. “Intruders! Attackers!” The noise would draw attention. We needed him silenced. He had his sword drawn, and he hid behind a column, one of several that held up a small portico that sheltered the house's front door. He could see us coming, but he didn’t break from cover, probably for fear of being shot. A fourth guard came around from the back door, but Clarice hit him at once, and put a second arrow in him for good measure. He lay still.
Boog waved me around the right side, along the front of the house, while he took the left, running up the gravel path leading to the front door. The remaining guard, clearly scared, looked from one of us to the other. He glanced over his shoulder, checking the terrain, but escape that way would be difficult. He ducked back and pounded on the door as Boog and I closed on him.
Boog got there first, as my route had some shrubberies and bushes to navigate. He swung his staff in a ferocious arc, but the guard dashed away, his sword slicing the air near Boog’s head. Boog swung again, and the soldier took the blow on his sword blade, grunting at the impact. The sword embedded itself in the wood of the staff, and the two of them struggled to get their weapons free from each other.
As I came upon them from the side, I slapped the bottom of my warding rod, and it hummed to life. I could feel a hint of coolness in it now that my senses were attuned to it, but I was much too excited and distracted for the calm meditation I had used for the pool and with the collars. I reached the guard, and as he wrenched his sword free from Boog’s staff, I struck him squarely on the arm with my rod. He cried out, dropped the sword, and fell to the ground, his limbs twitching uncontrollably.
Boog and I stood breathing hard as Clarice arrived. She checked the downed guards and recovered her arrows. They lay still. “Boog,” she said, “can you drag these bodies under the tree there? The longer they stay unnoticed, the better for us. I’ll keep watch. Marten, can you get the door open?”
I pressed my ear to the door. I could hear nothing, but the guard had obviously thought someone inside might help. Boog dragged two of the downed guards away, grabbing their tabards, one in each hand. I tried the door handle, and it was unlocked. I pulled the door open just a bit and peered in. Nothing. Just an empty house. I waited, watching, but nothing happened. Finally, I pulled the door open a little wider and stuck my head in to look.
A strong hand grabbed my jacket and pulled me roughly through the doorway, hurling me to the floor. My rod went flying as I landed. Behind me, I heard the door slam and the bolt shoot closed. As quickly as I could, I rolled over and pushed myself up, scrabbling for my dagger.
Before me, in front of the door, stood three people, weapons drawn. Two were dressed in chain armor over padded leather jerkins. They wore helmets, visors down. The third, the one in the center, was bareheaded, with light brown skin, black hair, and a long black braid hanging down the left side of her head. Her blade, shorter than the others, had garnets set around the hilt. I recognized her at once. Tolla.
“You!” she said. “What are you doing here?”
“You three are under arrest,” I said.
Tolla laughed. I continued. “And you owe me a pair of boots.”
“Kill him, please,” said Tolla, and lunged at me. I barely got my dagger up in time, but I knocked aside her blow. I heard pounding at the door, and the handle rattled, but it was clearly locked. Tolla’s two companions were not as quick as she. The one on the right glanced at the door. I realized from the curve of the mail that it must be a woman. The one on the left circled around me, two steps behind Tolla, his sword point swinging in small, threatening circles.
Mistress Fennick had taught us several maneuvers for use when facing multiple opponents. Wind Through the Reeds. Mantis Waits. Cornered Rat. I could remember them, mostly, but I did not think I could pull them off against someone as skilled as Tolla, and certainly not in a small space without a proper weapon.
Tolla swung again, three times. I jumped back, parried, and ducked, but I was far outclassed. My warding rod lay on the floor behind Tolla, but it was a world away. I swung my dagger at Tolla, but she sidestepped easily, flowing across the floor as a sparrow in flight, and her sword found my forearm on the way by. I yelped and saw bright red drops of blood spill onto the floor. I backed up, and Tolla advanced.
“Why are you doing this?” I cried. “They killed the Prelate.”
“Not my Prelate,” replied Tolla, feinting with a quick stab at my gut. The man behind her was letting Tolla take the lead, but he was closing on my left side, pressing me, closing off my options. Not that it mattered. I think we all realized Tolla really didn't need the help. “And Faera will provide for us, better than your fool Prelate.”
The woman on the right then did something I really did not expect. She crossed quickly behind Tolla, her sword out. She moved over to my left side, behind both Tolla and her male companion. Whom she then stabbed viciously in the back. He cried out, then sank to the floor.
Tolla swung at me again, and as I stumbled back, she shot a glance backward. “What—what are you doing?” she yelled. The other woman shoved the fallen man with her foot, pulling her s
word free of his back, and stood ready, her sword pointed at Tolla’s head.
I thought I should use the moment of surprise, so I lunged at Tolla, my dagger aimed, I hoped, at her heart. Although, really, I’d have settled for anywhere on her person, even a minor digit or appendage. Tolla struck me on the head with the pommel of her sword, a quick stroke but very hard, keeping the blade at the ready for the other woman.
My head rang with pain. I winced and tried to keep my dagger up, but my arm throbbed with pain from the cut Tolla had made, and my fingers were starting to feel numb and fumbly. Tolla saw her opportunity and swung at me. I tried to roll away, but her blade caught me in the shoulder and bit, perhaps a half-inch deep. I staggered with the force of her blow, and she took a quick step toward me to finish me off.
As she did so, the woman behind her cried out, a terrible scream of rage, and brought her blade suddenly up high above her head, then down in a flash of blood-stained steel. Tolla tried to throw herself aside, but the other woman shifted her aim as Tolla dodged, and the blade struck her at her collar. So strong was the strike that the sword passed several inches down into her neck. Blood welled up immediately, and Tolla fell to the ground, gasping, taking the sword with her. Her legs kicked out, and she clutched at her shoulder, trying to remove the blade, but I could see her movements slowing and weakening. Eventually, she let out a long rasping breath and lay still.
I stumbled, collapsing to a seat on the floor. I found I lacked the strength or the will to stand. My head ached and danced with pain where Tolla had struck me. I tried to press hard enough on my left shoulder to keep from losing more blood, but that made the cut on my right arm bleed more. I was pondering this irony and wondering fuzzily what to do about it when the woman wrenched her sword out of Tolla and advanced on me, crimson blood dripping from her blade.
I dropped my dagger and held up my hands. There was no more fight in me. She’d helped me, so maybe I had a chance throwing myself on her mercy.
She laughed. Then she lifted her visor a crack and spat on the floor between my feet. It was a good-sized blob of spit, and she expelled it with passion and artistry. It made a loud, satisfying wet splat on the floorboards. She pushed her helmet back up and off her head, revealing a tangled mass of black hair done up behind her neck.
“I told you, little man,” said Lucianna Stout, daughter of Mileno Stout. “I need to teach you sword fighting. You get hurt otherwise. See?"
58
Suture Self
“Augh!” I shouted. My shoulder blazed with pain, and the expensive brandy splashed all over me burned my nose and eyes. I smelled like a gutter drunk, albeit a wealthy one.
“Hold still, Marten,” said Clarice. “I’m sorry to be hurting you.” She jabbed the needle into my arm again and drew the thread through. My shoulder was on fire – the wound was bad enough, but the brandy rinse followed by the field sutures was tremendously painful. Boog was binding it with strips torn from an expensive-looking linen sheet he'd found upstairs, and the tighter he wrapped it, the better it felt.
“You’re going to have some impressive scars,” he remarked. “Girls like scars.”
Clarice looked at him and snorted. “You know even less about girls than you do about Gortian courtly etiquette.” She pulled the thread taut again. “It looks like the bleeding is slowing down, but you’ll need to be careful.” She looked at me, her eyes full of concern.
“I’m not staying behind,” I said. They didn’t protest.
Lucianna was standing at the door, looking through a small square window set in its center. “Why did you help me?” I asked.
“I owe you my life,” she said.
“Not really,” I said. “They let you out early. They saved you.”
“Might not be the best time to get into this, Marty,” said Boog. “How about tomorrow?”
She spat on the ground. “They let me out because they need a fighter. For greed. For them. You stop death sentence. Save me. For mercy. Not for you.”
It had turned out to be for me in the end. “Thank you,” I said. She laughed.
“That should do,” said Clarice, “until we can get you to a healer.” She wiped the needle clean on a section of Boog’s sheet, then tucked it back into a kit at her belt. Boog started wrapping my arm with sheets. I pulled my torn jacket back up over my shoulder awkwardly with my left hand, and my shoulder sparked with pain in protest. I’d have to do things carefully, with both arms injured.
“Let’s go,” I said. “We're losing time.” We had heard second bell as we approached the house, and the fight and sewing me up afterward had taken some time. We probably had not much more than five hours, maybe less. “Faerans or Marron's guards could arrive anytime.”
“I’ll barricade the doors,” said Boog. “Might slow them down a little. Lucianna, can you hide the bodies in the closet over there?” She grunted and grabbed up Tolla’s ankles. Boog left to find furniture for his barricade.
I stood up, adjusted my clothes, felt my bandages, and winced as I checked my range of motion. Not great, but I’d be all right. “Thanks, Clarice.”
“I’m glad you weren’t hurt worse, or…” she trailed off. "Let’s get this door open.”
She went over to the hidden door we’d found in the floor back during our first visit, months ago. The floorboards were already removed, presumably by Brand and Marron. She pulled at the door. It opened easily. I peered down through the hole. Someone had replaced the wooden ladder Gueran broke with a steep set of steps, and the cesspool was now walled off from the small landing by wooden panels. It smelled a good deal better. The tunnel mouth still gaped at the edge of the platform, beckoning.
After a moment, Boog returned and lit two of the torches Gueran had provided, passing them around. I asked Lucianna if she’d ever been down here, but she hadn’t even known of the door. Clarice slid down the ladder, listened for a moment, and then waved the rest of us down. I went last, figuring I would take the longest. The descent was difficult and painful. As I got to the sixth step down, I reached up and closed the door over my head. At last, we were in.
The tunnel curved off to the right, as I remembered. With the torches, we could see that it was well-traveled. There was some dust off to the edges, but it was disturbed by all sizes and shapes of footprints in the center and occasional drag marks. We worried that we might meet someone coming back towards us. Eventually, after a few hundred yards, we came to a large metal door blocking the tunnel, but I was able to get it unlocked after a few tense minutes with my picks.
Beyond the door, the tunnel floor transformed from paving stones to a series of flights of stone steps leading both upward and downward, mostly downward. The width of the tunnel varied, sometimes easily wide enough for four across, sometimes only for two, with some bigger chambers along the way. I wasn’t sure why the builders of this tunnel had made it so irregular, but I had no expertise in mining or engineering. Perhaps the tunnel followed a natural cavern or seam in the rock layers. The stairs were treacherous in the guttering torchlight, and they made my injuries hurt more than they had already. Both bandages now showed red with blood, but the spots did not expand much after they made their appearance. I tried not to study them too closely, keeping my eyes on the stairs.
My sense of direction wasn’t great underground, and the turns in the tunnel and the staircases had confused it further. But I knew the tunnel had started near the edge of the inner keep wall and was heading northward. That should lead us under the main keep itself, and if we went beyond the northern inner keep wall, we’d have to either come to the surface or head downward, following the steep cliff on which the keep sat into the northern quarter of the main part of the city below. For all I knew, we’d keep going, and end up in Gortis after days of aimless subterranean travel. But we didn’t have days. I didn't know how long we’d been underground, but it must have been half an hour, maybe even an hour after my session with the lock picks.
Clarice raised a fist, and we all st
opped. I strained to hear, although as the last one in line, I wasn’t likely to hear anything in front of us. I tried to slow my ragged breathing and quiet my pounding heart. As I did so, I sensed something — not a sound, but a hint of coolness, the same feeling I got from the warding rods and augury pools when I focused on them. But this was a much larger source than those, faint only because it was distant from us – perhaps three hundred yards ahead, and significantly below our current position. I’d never detected anything so large or so far away before.
Clarice held a hand up next to the torch she carried, making it clearly visible to all of us. Sound ahead. Two, three, four people. Her fingers made the signs quickly but carefully. I doubted Lucianna understood, but she probably got the gist of it. Danger. We stood still as stones. Finally, Clarice signed again. Going away. Clear now. Move quietly. Dropping light. Keep other. She placed her torch on the ground and started moving again, much more slowly. Lucianna passed her torch back to Boog, but he didn’t make me carry it. I was grateful.
Clarice signaled for us to stop several more times. Once I thought I heard voices, but it could have been some trick of the tunnels, or of my anxious imagination. When we stopped, and I concentrated, I could tell we were nearing the cool magical presence. Each time, after a pause, we moved onward. Lucianna was surprisingly quiet in her chain armor, though it jangled a loud disturbance on occasion. She’d left the helmet behind, and she let her hair down to fall over her shoulders.