She started seeing guards when she was about halfway to the manor. It was hard to see color in the darkness, but the pattern and the shades of their uniforms told her these were Valant guards. None of them looked up. People hardly ever looked up. But she was cautious all the same, keeping her magical senses trained on the guards as her eyes and feet sought purchase on the roofs.
The streets surrounding the park were twice as wide as the rest, impossible to jump even if there’d been a roof on the other side. Beyond the park, the manor with its imposing gray façade towered over the nearest houses, which were rarely more than two stories tall. Its blue slate roof glimmered in the pale moonlight. Dozens of black rectangles, windows of clear glass, were blank holes in the façade through which anyone inside might watch the guards milling around the door. The faintest yellow glow tinged some of them, candles or lanterns deeper within the house. With all the glass, it was the most modern house Willow had ever seen, and she wished she had time to explore it.
She worked her way around to the southwest, nearest the tower, and stopped to rest in the moon-shadow of a chimney. She could sense the guards, just at the limit of her range, clustered around the main gate and patrolling the streets. Based on what she could sense, they were staying close to the lights as if they were afraid of monsters coming at them in the dark. Did they expect to be assaulted by Felix’s army? That had been a possibility, a frontal assault, but only if they’d been either stupid or desperate, and they were neither.
A few guards patrolled the streets near her. Those might be Magrette guards, familiar with the city and unafraid of anything that wandered its streets. They certainly seemed uninterested in the tower, walking a beat that didn’t overlap, but crossed the streets in a tight pattern. The tower, for its part, did look dilapidated, with stones missing from its wall here and there—not enough, or in the right pattern, to make climbing easy. But there was a door at the base of the tower, a small one banded with iron, whose lock she could sense even at this distance. That would be her best way in.
The Magrette guards’ pattern was bringing them back to the park. She took the opportunity to climb down from the roof and find a hiding place. The row of houses nearest the tower all had stone steps going up to their front doors, which were about three feet above ground level. Willow hid behind one of these and let her magic do the seeing for her.
There was the first guard, strolling along placidly. He came as far as the street surrounding the manor, then turned and walked back along a different street. The second guard moved more briskly, and he…oh, sweet heaven, he was coming along Willow’s street. She pressed herself as close to the stairs as she could and turned her face to the wall. Sword, iron studs in his leather armor—she was wrong, these weren’t guards, they were soldiers, and now Willow was even more grateful they hadn’t tried a direct assault, because the casualties would have been too high.
Footsteps echoed on the cobbles. Willow made herself breathe normally and prepared to leap up and attack. The silvery streak of a sword neared, came even with her hiding place. No shouts, no demands for her to come out. The sword moved on at the same rapid pace, not pausing. Willow waited for the soldier to turn a corner, then left the shelter of the stairs and ran for the tower.
The lock on the door was old and rusty, and it took longer than she liked to open it, but aside from the soldiers returning, she wasn’t on a deadline. Finally it groaned open, and Willow slipped inside and shut the door behind her. The large room beyond was dead black and smelled musty. She stood still, letting her senses build up a picture for her, but aside from the thousands of iron nails, the room seemed empty.
Iron stairs made an icy constellation circling the room and rising high above, out of her range. She carefully made her way up into the darkness, feeling at every turn for a landing and a door, but it simply spiraled to the top. Willow contemplated the final door, then turned and went back down without opening it. From what she’d seen, it opened only on a walkway circling the top of the tower—some kind of watch station, probably—and would not provide a way into the manor.
Back at the tower’s base, she found a second door and went to work with her lock picks. Nobody had opened this door in a long time, based on how stiff the tumblers were. She paused to cast about for other people, specifically guards, but felt no other metal. Her heart was beating a little too rapidly, and she calmed herself. Yes, this was a risk, because not everyone carried enough metal to be noticeable, but it was a calculated risk, and one Kerish would understand.
The lock ground open. Willow pulled on the door and it swung gently inward. The hall beyond wasn’t quite as dark as the room, but there were still no visible lights. Ahead, what she judged to be northward, was a mass of copper and iron and steel. The kitchen. She slipped through the doorway and hurried in that direction.
The fires were banked low for the night, giving off the faintest red glow to illuminate the kitchen. One door to the north probably led to the kitchen garden, which she’d barely been able to see earlier that day. Another door to the southeast opened on a pantry. The third door wasn’t a door, just an opening through which Willow saw a hall. She moved silently down the hall, noting offices, the housekeeper’s room, a servants’ dining hall, and finally reached a much heavier door that would keep all sounds from this part of the house from escaping.
Willow leaned against it and reviewed her mental map. Beyond this door was the manor proper. There were stairs almost immediately past the door, servants’ stairs she could use to access the second and third floors, where the guest rooms were. The problem was, Lord Heath (of course) couldn’t tell her which rooms the Ascendants were in. He knew Lord Frazier’s room, but that would be guarded. So going after either Gillian Kent or Lord Frazier was a bad idea.
On the other hand, freeing the hostages might tip the balance in their favor. And while Lord Heath hadn’t known exactly where the storage rooms were, he’d made a good guess. If Willow could locate the hostages, and lead a team of soldiers secretly into the manor, they could free Lady Frazier and her children and remove most of the hold Kent had over the Baron. It would leave the Baron still at her mercy, but it was the best plan they’d been able to come up with.
Willow pushed the heavy door open and held it so it couldn’t slam closed. The kitchen annex had been warm and friendly, smelling of the ghosts of dinners past. The main hall of the manor, on the other hand, was cold, dry and sharp-smelling like old steel and dust. Lanterns burned dully here and there along the walls, which were painted cherry-red and lined with portraits of dour-looking men and women. The glossy floor reflected the lights and diffused them into a glowing haze. Nothing moved, even out of sight around the corner at the far end of the hall.
Willow’s feet tapped noiselessly across the shining wooden floor to the narrow stair tucked into a corner. The portraits of long-dead Barons and Baronesses peered down at her along stern noses. Willow passed a blazing steel suit of archaic plate armor, posed with halberd held between both mailed hands. It was hard to imagine anyone ever wearing it, let alone being able to hold that pose for more than ten minutes. She resisted the urge to make a face at it and ascended the stairs.
Past the doors to the second floor, where most of the entertaining happened…past the third floor, where people lived and slept…all the way to the fourth floor, where the servants lived and the storage rooms were. This was going to be difficult, getting a troop of soldiers all the way up here without alerting Kent or her minions. Willow crept along the first hallways she came to, sensing the detritus of everyday life. She could only guess as to whether the rooms were occupied. It was nearly midnight, so it was a reasonable guess that they were; it was unlikely that Lord Frazier would be entertaining under these circumstances.
The hallway took a turn to the left, then to the right, and beyond that Willow felt the silvery streaks of steel swords, the iron studs of leather armor. Of course it would be almost all the way at the end of the floor, the way her luck ran. Was
there another stair that led here, at the other end of the hall? It didn’t matter, because they’d still have to sneak all the way up the stairs. Well, she’d found her target, and now she could hand the problem to Soltighan and let him come up with tactics.
She waited at the corner until she was certain of her enemy: three swords, a confused mass of armor that said they were huddled close together, maybe playing cards or whatever it was guards did to entertain themselves. She heard snatches of conversation, some odd thumping noises, a couple of unpleasant laughs, but they weren’t moving. Nothing beyond the brass-hinged door to tell her if the Fraziers were inside…no, there was a burning glint like a wedding band. So, Lady Frazier at least. Now she had to move.
She turned and went swiftly back the way she’d come, so swiftly that when a door opened practically in her face, she nearly ran into the woman emerging from it. The woman was short and stout, with a long braid of gray hair falling down her back, and she gaped wide-mouthed at Willow, her hand still on the doorknob. Willow froze. Then she clapped a hand over the woman’s mouth and dragged her, unresisting, back into the room.
The woman started struggling, but by that time Willow had the door shut and the woman pressed against the wall. “Don’t scream,” she said. “I’m here to help. If you bring the house down upon us, it may kill the Fraziers and maybe everyone who serves them.”
She fixed her eyes on the woman, silently begging her to see sense. A moment’s tension, then the woman stopped fighting. Willow gingerly removed her hand from the woman’s mouth, poised to silence her again if this was a ruse, but the woman remained silent. “Thanks,” Willow said.
“Who are you?”
Willow didn’t feel like having that conversation. “I’m here to see about helping the Fraziers escape. They’re in that room at the end of the hall, right?”
“They are,” the woman said, but she looked uncomfortable.
“Something else is wrong.”
“The guards…they’re talking themselves up to rape. I was going down there to make sure it didn’t happen.” She had a defiant, mulish cast to her mouth.
“Sweet heaven,” Willow said. “I was going to bring…but there’s no time, is there?”
“Let me go. I’ll keep them from acting until you can bring help. Not that I can see what help you can provide.”
Willow shook her head. “Ma’am—what’s your name?”
“Bethany Oliver.”
“Mistress Oliver, men like that don’t care about witnesses. You might even find yourself a victim.” Willow’s mind was ticking over rapidly like a Device with a fully charged motive force. So what would they respond to? “I have an idea. Go down to the kitchen annex door and wait. I’ll send Lady Frazier and her children to you. Tell them to run for the city gates, then outside to King Felix’s camp. They’ll have to be careful because there are soldiers patrolling. Then—do you have a pinafore I can borrow? A smock? Anything you’d wear to work in?”
“I don’t understand.”
“I don’t have time to explain. I need something to make me look like a servant. Hurry, Mistress Oliver.”
Mistress Oliver, still confused, went to the wardrobe and removed a long-sleeved smock that wrapped around and tied in the front. It was too small for Willow; her arms stuck out a few inches beyond the cuffs, and the hem fell to above her knees, but it was close enough to fool a guard who didn’t know anything about servants. Let’s hope these are that kind of guard.
“Now, down to the kitchen door. Do you remember what I told you?”
“Run for King Felix—King Felix? Isn’t he dead?”
“He’s here to free you from the tyranny of the Ascendants. Now, go!”
She watched, followed the progress of Mistress Oliver’s heavy silver pocket watch until it descended out of her range. Then she tucked her gloves and her knit cap inside the smock, drew in a deep breath, and let her body sag. How would someone serving Gillian Kent behave? Fearful, timid, lacking in initiative, but completely committed to following her mistress’s orders. She let her head droop a little more, then walked down the hallway, treading heavily so they’d hear her coming.
The laughter was louder this time, and to her horror she heard a higher-pitched voice, pleading and crying. The thumping was someone pounding on a heavy wooden door, and Willow could barely hear muffled cries from that direction. She moved faster until she came around the corner at a near run and had to slow again before the guards took notice of it. “Excuse me,” she said in a dull voice, but loudly enough to cut across the laughter and the crying. She didn’t dare raise her head.
The laughter stopped. “What?” said a deep male voice. “Shut that girl up.”
Willow heard a crack, the sound of flesh striking flesh, and the crying turned into muffled sobs.
“I’m bidden to bring the prisoners to Mistress Kent,” Willow said, praying this was how the woman was addressed.
“We ain’t heard nothing,” said another man.
“O’course we ain’t, ain’t no other way up but that one,” said the first man. “You’re a damned idiot, Barker.”
“Am not,” Barker said, weakly, while the other two laughed.
“Get the others,” the first man said. “Sorry, girl, guess you’ll have to wait. Mistress Kent don’t like being ignored.”
Willow glanced up as the door opened. A woman launched herself through it, flailing and kicking. “Take your hands off—”
One of the men, a big, burly fellow with black hair on the backs of his hands, grabbed hold of Lady Frazier and held her at arm’s distance easily, laughing. “Oh, you’ll have a turn soon enough,” he said. Willow recognized the first man’s voice. “Come along then.”
Another guard dragged a boy of about ten or eleven out of the room. He’d been crying and there were traces of blood on his face and the beginnings of a bruise. Willow looked away. Time enough to be furious when they were all safe. “I’ll take them to Mistress Kent now,” she said.
The black-haired man drew his sword. “Lead the way.”
“Mistress Kent didn’t say bring the guards,” Willow said, though the truth was she’d had a feeling she wouldn’t be able to shed them all.
“And I won’t risk having them get away. It’d be my life else.” He made a little gesture with the sword. “Walk on, miss.”
Willow caught a glimpse of Lady Frazier’s face. It said she was the kind of woman who knew every one of her servants and didn’t recognize this one. Willow prayed she wouldn’t do anything foolish. She maintained her subservient posture down the hall and onto the landing. “She said bring them to the main drawing room,” she said, praying again that there was such a room and that it was on the ground floor.
“What the lady wants, she gets,” the man said.
Willow kept up a slow pace, casting about furiously for a solution. The man was bigger than she was and almost certainly better trained, but he wasn’t expecting her to be anything more than a servant and she still had her knife. They descended past the third floor landing, then the second floor, and turned the corner to the final long flight of stairs to the ground floor. Silvery light blazed from the suit of armor. It was right out in the open where anyone might be blinded by it…all right, anyone with her magic….
Behind her, Lady Frazier whispered, “What are you doing?” Willow ignored her. She had the glimmering of an idea, but it required luck and careful timing, neither of which she liked to count on. But it was the only thing she could think of.
Their little procession was nearing the armor. Willow took a couple of sideways steps, bringing her closer to it. Then she stumbled, cried out, and grabbed the armor, bringing all her weight down on it. The thing collapsed in a horrendous clatter of metal, with Willow sprawled partly on top of it. She closed her eyes against the silvery brightness, then forced them open and looked away from the disaster. Careful timing, and now, luck…
“Clumsy little wench,” the guard said, but he was approaching, he had h
is sword sheathed and his right hand outstretched to offer her help—
The Frazier daughter bolted, fleeing down the hall toward the front door. The guard cursed and drew his sword. Willow lurched upright and drove her knife into the gap between his armor and the top of his trousers. It caught on something before it went all the way in, and as Willow tried to withdraw it for another blow, the guard turned toward her, dragging the hilt out of her hand. “What are you—”
Willow snatched up the halberd and brought it around in a heavy two-handed stroke. The thing weighed a ton. It glanced off his upper arm and she nearly dropped it before getting a better grip. The guard howled, and Willow saw blood seeping down his arm. He sliced at her with his sword, forcing her backward. “Stop her!” Willow said. If the idiot girl made it out the front door, into the arms of all those soldiers, it would all be over.
She swung the halberd again, choking up on the grip so she had better control, and caught the guard’s sword coming the other way. It made a clanging sound nearly as loud as the falling armor. She jabbed toward the guard’s belly with the wicked point at the end of the halberd, only to have the blow brushed aside. The Fraziers, mother and son, had vanished, but Willow didn’t have attention to spare for them. So much for her brilliant plan. Now this guard was going to skewer her, and that would be it.
The guard’s blows weren’t as powerful as they could have been, she guessed, and he was favoring the arm she’d struck, which was why she wasn’t dead yet. She feinted left, swung right, and caught him in the side, making him grunt with pain. Where was her knife? It was smaller than the sword, true, but she knew how to use it, unlike this ungainly polearm that tried to throw her off balance with every swing.
She spotted the knife just as his sword connected with her side, a thrust that tore through the borrowed smock and her own clothes beneath and sent fire burning through her flesh. She dropped the halberd and stepped back. The guard, grinning, followed her with his sword upraised. Willow took another preparatory step, then flung herself forward, tumbling past the guard and his sword and coming to her feet behind him. She spun around as he belatedly tried to follow. With her left hand she snatched up her fallen knife. With her right, she grabbed the thick hair beyond his forehead and yanked his head back, exposing his throat for a swift blow. Blood spurted, staining the silvery steel of the collapsed armor, and the guard fell atop it, making the metal squeal as the plates ground against each other.
Champion of the Crown Page 10