by Frank Morin
"I think that man's lost all pretense at sanity," Camonica commented after one exceptionally bad poem. "Rory should put him out of his misery."
"I think you're the one who needs to put him out of his misery," Connor said.
"I can't go around breaking the heads of Rory's company," she protested. "That would be bad manners."
"But breaking hearts is not off limits?" Aonghus chortled. He'd been in rare good humor all day, and seemed to take great pleasure in Cameron's odd behavior.
Camonica glanced toward Cameron, who had paused on a nearby hill to look back at her. She groaned. "I don't see how to make it any more clear that the fool is wasting his time."
"You're right, he's completely cracked," Aonghus said, then exploded into the air on a column of fire.
Connor decided to join him and leave the angry Spitter alone for a moment. The two of them practiced intense Firetongue maneuvers high above the plain. That basically meant they tried to immolate each other while falling toward the ground, then blasted themselves back into the air to try again.
It was a lot of fun.
At one point, Connor sprouted fiery wings again and soared in a graceful arc out over the little lake. Of course, Camonica tried to rip his wings off with grasping water hands that erupted from the surface, but Connor was ready.
"Ha!" he shouted as he morphed his wings into spears of fire that severed the watery hands. "You can't get me with that one again!"
"About time," Camonica said when he settled to the ground nearby. "Your head gets so muddled when you're flying."
"He flies well though," Aonghus said. "I never could get the hang of gliding. I always found it too. . .what's the word?"
"Sensible?" Camonica responded.
"Underexciting," Aonghus countered.
"I'm not sure that's a real word," Camonica said.
Aonghus shrugged. "It's not half as bad as some of the stuff Cameron's been making up to fit his rhymes."
"Don't ever mention him again."
Connor did manage to find time to meet briefly with Ailsa and Gisela and ask them to find out where Hector's quarters were located so he could sneak in there after dark. By sunset, they had not yet sent word, so Connor dressed in nondescript clothing and prepared to leave his Dawnus suite. Every passing moment increased the sense of growing urgency he felt to search Hector's quarters. There had to be something there to shed some light on the mystery.
He was surprised when Jean exited the secret door to the undercity just before he opened it from his side.
"Just who I was looking for," she said.
"It's good to see you, but why are you here? Shona said she was going to keep you busy."
"She thinks she is," Jean said with a grin. "But she really has no concept of how long it actually takes to get things done, so I managed to slip away."
"You just barely caught me," Connor said. "I'm on my way to the Sculpture House."
"Don't bother. I came from there. I know how to reach Hector's quarters, but we need to hurry. The cleaners could arrive any time."
"You're coming?"
"Of course," she said. "I know the way. Besides, two sets of eyes can search a lot faster than one."
Connor followed her onto the long stair leading to the undercity. With a flicker of thought, he re-lit her lantern. He had removed the marble from his mouth earlier as part of an experiment to see how long the power he absorbed from the stone lingered. He'd managed to sustain it for over two hours so far.
"I hope this isn't a wild eoin hunt," Connor said. "If there was really something important in his rooms, why wait until now to clear them out? They've had weeks."
"Maybe it was overlooked," Jean said. "High Lord Dougal has to be busy with overseeing the war effort, and Shona doesn't even want to think about Hector."
"Or maybe he was just waiting for Camonica to arrive so someone trusted could deal with it," Connor said.
"I just hope we find something," Jean said.
The narrow beam of her lantern seemed pitiful against the darkness between the far-flung fixed lights, but it didn't feel right to risk a lot more light on this mission. Sneaking needed to be done in the dark.
"I hope we get there in time," she said.
"We have to. We need answers."
"Then let's hurry."
So Connor scooped her into his arms, not needing to tap granite to handle her slender weight. "Hold on," he grinned, then tapped basalt.
Jean managed to not cry out as he sped through the undercity, but she clung to him. With his senses enhanced by quartzite, he could see well enough not to run into a wall. He could feel the pounding of her heart and matched his footsteps to its rapid staccato.
He had to slow a few times at complex intersections for Jean to determine the way, then tore off again. They traveled toward the center of the Carraig, and at one point, they stopped to creep through a creaking wooden gate that led from the dusty, seldom-used passages of the secret undercity to an entirely different world of underground halls.
The wide, well-lit corridors were clearly used daily, and Connor wondered if most of the people who traveled those happier halls even knew about the dark undercity he was learning to traverse so well? With his enhanced ears, he easily identified other travelers of the deep and avoided them, just in case.
In a remarkably short amount of time, he slowed before yet another long stair leading back to the surface.
"This is it," Jean said, gesturing at a tiny placard on the wall that declared the destination of that particular stair. "Hector's apartment is in a residential tower right on the river."
"I thought the teachers all lived in the teacher dormitory."
"Most of them do, but Hector must have amassed some wealth before becoming a teacher. This is a prestigious area."
"Which is why he would need to be here." The man was one of the vainest people Connor had ever met.
Jean seemed relieved when he set her down to lead the way up the stairs. After emerging through a basement, they climbed a central staircase that circled a beautiful atrium in the center of the tower. Wide, stained-glass windows topped that hollow core of the building, and must have bathed the atrium in beautiful colors during the daylight hours. Hector lived on the third floor.
They passed no one as they jogged up the wide, mahogany staircase with its carpeted runner and fancy brass lanterns. The atrium included a well-manicured garden, and the entire central nave of the building smelled faintly of flowers. A little waterfall created a pleasant background noise that helped mask their furtive steps.
When they reached the third landing, they found Hector's quarters at the end of a short hall. A heavy set of wooden doors, covered with engravings of fanciful creatures and scenes of battle led into the suite. Connor prepared to break the lock, but Jean gestured him aside.
"We can't leave any trace that we've been here," she cautioned.
"Then how do you suggest we get in?"
Jean pulled a long pin from her hair and produced what looked like an ice pick from a pocket. She deftly worked them into the lock and jiggled them around.
"Where did you learn to pick locks?"
"My research isn't all theoretical," she said, her brow furrowed in concentration. "Although I haven't practiced as much as I should have."
After twenty long seconds, during which time Connor was convinced someone was going to walk by and discover them, he grew impatient. "I'll melt the lock. No one will be able to tell from the outside."
With a loud click, the lock snapped back. Jean grinned. "Will is the strongest force."
"Will you stop being so smart and open the door?"
She twisted the handle and eased the left-side door open enough for them to slip inside, then carefully closed the doors again. Connor let out a soft whistle as he surveyed the dim expanse of Hector's rooms.
"This is going to take half the night."
They had entered a large, high-ceiling salon, richly decorated in thick rugs and comfo
rtable furniture. A cold fireplace sat in the right-hand wall, with a wide mantel barely large enough to hold all the trophies and memorabilia that Hector had accrued through his years as a teacher.
Two larger-than-life portraits hung on either side of the fireplace, both of Hector, of course. The first depicted him in a set of his favorite tight-fitting leathers, with every muscle clearly defined beneath. The second showed a much younger Hector wearing standard battle leathers, max-tapping granite. He had been intimidating in his youth.
Even though no one had inhabited the rooms for weeks, they didn't smell stale and abandoned. Connor wondered if someone tended the rooms still.
A short hallway led off the entry salon, with doors opening to either side. On the right, the first door opened into a study full of books, a heavy desk, and two reading chairs. The second door led into a huge closet that might have been even larger than the study, packed with Hector's favorite leathers. No less than five mirrors positioned strategically around the room guaranteed he could admire himself from every angle. The only exception in clothing was his bedclothes, which were made of puffy, soft cotton in various pastel colors.
On the left side of the hall, they found an armory and trophy room, filled with glass cases that held plaques and trophies with his name engraved in gold. He had owned an astonishing array of weapons. Most Boulders preferred simple, heavy weapons or just fought with battering-ram fists. Connor wondered if Hector had actually known how to use all the weapons he displayed.
A garderobe, complete with washbasin and an extensive counter of oils and lotions was the last door on the left side of the hall, which terminated in a bedroom as big as the entry salon. Hector's bed was perhaps the biggest sleeping platform Connor had ever seen. His entire family could have slept on it with room to spare. Thick, carved posts rose from every corner, supporting a slender wooden lattice that held silk drapes, drawn aside to reveal the puffy, down blankets.
"That's really too much," Jean muttered.
"It fits his personality," Connor said, scanning the rest of the giant room. It held an assortment of cabinets, trunks, and chests, any of which might conceal something important. One entire corner of the room was dedicated to painting, but he couldn't really judge Hector's talent because the only thing he seemed to like painting was himself.
"If Hector had been the last man alive in the world, would he have loved himself just as much without other people to impress?"
Jean giggled. "Focus, Connor. We don't have enough time as it is."
Long, curtained windows ran the length of the outer wall, overlooking the river. The building was built right against the bank, across from one of the parks that broke up the tight cluster of palaces, towers, and immense buildings of the Carraig. Hector must have paid a fortune to live there.
Connor stepped through a pair of glass doors and out onto a long balcony where several comfortable chairs and a chaise lounge would have allowed Hector to enjoy the view, or the cool evenings. Three stories below, the narrow river meandered directly under the balcony. The soft sound of gently moving water would have been a soothing melody to help him sleep. A gentle breeze blew through the Carraig, generating a soothing melody from the many gargoyle flutes attached to many of the towers.
Hector had lived well. Too bad he had died so badly.
"Let's get to work," Connor said.
They split up and began searching the apartment, looking for anything that might shed some light upon what had driven Hector or turned him unclaimed. The deep shadows made searching a challenge. Jean used her small lantern, shielding most of the light, allowing only a glimmer to illuminate her work.
For Connor, it was a great excuse to practice with quartzite. He popped the little stone into his mouth, tucked it into his cheek, and sucked hard. The liquid warmth of quartzite pooled in his head and he directed it to his eyes. He blinked against a stab of pain and rubbed the now-faceted crystal orbs that his eyes had become.
The dimness of the night no longer bothered him, although the vibrant colors that usually infused his Pathfinder vision were muted. With the benefit of enhanced vision, Connor worked through the apartment, but found nothing helpful.
He wasn't sure what the clue might be, although it would be really nice if one of the golden plaques held the inscription, "This is the secret you're looking for!" or one of the elegant trophies contained a glowing scroll explaining everything.
They didn't. He checked.
He did find many documents in the study and piled them on Hector's desk. A quick scan of their contents suggested they weren't important, but he might still take them with him when they left.
After fifteen minutes, they met in the entrance salon.
"Nothing," Jean said. "You?"
"Me neither. Just need to check this salon."
Jean looked around. "I doubt he'd hide anything under the cushions."
"Maybe he's got a hidden stash somewhere," Connor suggested, trying to maintain his optimism as he tapped quartzite.
Connor slowly crossed the room, scanning for any telltale hints of concealed secrets, hoping for a last minute lucky throw of the stones. He actually found one on the far side of the room twenty seconds later.
He should have known.
Behind the painting.
"You've got to be kidding me," he muttered as he pulled at the painting of Hector in his favorite leathers. "That's about as subtle as a Firetongue farting in a volcano."
Jean giggled and rushed over. "I hope you found something."
Connor pointed at the wall beside the painting. "There are little scratch marks on the wood, like he moves this painting regularly, but it's securely fastened to the wall."
"Try twisting it."
That worked. If he wasn't so eager to find out what was concealed behind the wall-mounted safe hidden behind the painting, he would have been annoyed at how often she was right.
"Can you open it?" Jean asked as they studied the small, steel door. It lacked a handle, and only sported a rotating dial on the front face.
"This I might have to melt."
Before he could reach for a piece of marble, the silence of the suite was broken by a rattling at the door.
The handle began to turn.
Chapter 26
Jean snapped the painting back into place, then grabbed Connor's hand and yanked him after as she fled the salon and darted down the short hallway.
"But that's got to be it," Connor protested in a fierce whisper, hating every step they took away from the little safe.
"We can't get caught in here," Jean said, slowing in the deep shadows near the bedroom.
Together they glanced back. The outer door opened and Camonica entered, followed by two men and a woman wearing Lord Dougal's colors. The men carried lanterns, and they moved to light the lamps in the salon.
"Search everything," Camonica told them. "Bring me anything that looks important."
As the group spread out, Connor and Jean slipped into the bedroom and out onto the balcony. They closed the doors after making sure the drapes were down to conceal their presence, and Connor tapped quartzite again.
He applied it to his ears, impatient for the lobes to elongate and for the rush of sounds to pour into his mind. He ignored the night sounds of the Carraig and focused on the soft noises inside Hector's apartment. Jean pulled one of the lounge chairs closer, and the two of them sat together to listen.
"What are they doing?" Jean whispered.
"Searching, just like we did."
"So they're not here just to clean out his things after all," Jean said. "But what are they searching for?"
"Maybe they're trying to figure out how he turned unclaimed so fast," Connor suggested. "Lord Dail had seemed shocked by it."
"Maybe," Jean agreed.
Connor listened as the group moved through the apartment. The woman assistant brought the stack of documents Connor had amassed to Camonica, but she dismissed them after a moment.
He silently hope
d they'd find nothing and begin removing furniture. They probably had a wagon waiting. If they all left to take a load of Hector's possessions downstairs, he'd risk sneaking back in for a crack at that safe. It wouldn't take long to melt the hinges. He only hoped he didn't burn whatever might be concealed in there.
His hopes were dashed when he caught the faint scraping sounds that he recognized as the same sounds the painting had made when he'd slid it aside.
Sure enough, Camonica called excitedly to her team. Either they knew the combination, or one of them was skilled in figuring out how to bypass the wheel because only a moment later, he heard a loud click, followed by the shuffling of several papers.
Quartzite hearing was so amazing! He wondered how often the Pathfinder students got distracted by all the little secrets they could learn from people who thought they were alone. Then again, they probably had to get really good at filtering out the sounds of people using the privy. Hamish might love rating farts, but the Pathfinders were all girls, and they would probably find those noises disgusting.
"I have what I need," Camonica declared, and Connor picked up the sounds of papers shuffling. "Burn these, and everything else flammable."
"Oh, no," Connor breathed, gripping Jean's hands. "She found some papers in that safe, but she's ordered someone to burn them."
"We have to do something." Jean looked terrified, but determined. "That's our only clue."
Connor stood, planning to rush into the suite and fight Camonica for the papers. Hopefully Shona's influence would help shield him from the consequences of that rash act. But even as he reached for the door leading back into the suite, he heard a rush of fire and the crackle of burning paper.
"She's got a Firetongue," he grimaced, sagging against the door. "We're too late."
"What are we going to do?" Jean asked.
In the suite, the sound of flames was growing as the Firetongue swept through the apartment, consuming everything flammable. They could prevent the flames from spreading beyond the suite, and would destroy anything that might have clued Connor in on Hector's past.