Slipping inside, I closed the now latchless door behind me as best I could and slid along the wall in pitch-blackness. Even in the deep shadows I could tell the storeroom was big, my softest steps sounding hollowly on the stone floor. No light shone, but the night's less absolute dark slipped in through the ceiling's narrow skylights, outlining awkward stacks of crates along with the silhouettes of furniture, framed artwork, and less recognizable shapes. Gradually my eyes adjusted and I felt capable of moving without bungling into a pile of boxes or toppling some unsteady curio case. From what I'd already seen it seemed Omberbain's was too cheap to have a watchman, but there was no reason to attract any attention with suspicious noise. So I made my way carefully through the treasures and trash of Ardis's former princes.
The warehouse wasn't what I'd expected. I'd imagined neat rows of chests, organized staging grounds for the next day's auctions, sub-areas for like inventory, and shelves of precisely tagged baubles. Instead: chaos. If there was any organization it existed entirely in some mad stock-master's mind. Crates dared each other to dangerous heights, stacks rising treacherously wherever there was space. The contents of entire estates were dropped wherever there might be room, piled in careless heaps. The shelves of baubles did exist, but packed with boxes of clutter and collections of junk. If these were Ardis's treasures the city might be worse off then even I realized.
But as the state of things dawned on me, all I could do was stare into the maze of shadows. How was I supposed to find a single dagger in all this? I cursed, then winced at hearing it echo back at me, but there was nothing for that either. Best to just get started. I wasn't keen on going through the auction house's entire inventory, but maybe there was a chance my luck hadn't run out for the night.
Weaving and worming my way across the cluttered work floor, I slipped amid the rows of smaller ephemera, of shelved books, stray decorations, and guady knickknacks. The gloom from the skylights hardly penetrated here, leaving me squinting at outlines in the dark. I felt like a blind woman, leaning close and scrutinizing every trifle, trying to tell a seashell from a soupspoon more by intuition than my dim impression of its silhouette. Then there were clusters amid the commonplace objects that baffled me utterly, weird amalgams of handles, piping, wire, and whatever else—tools for lunatics hidden in the dark. This wasn't going to work. I'd hoped to avoid it, hoped to seem somehow a little less sinister in my trespassing, but I was going to need actual light.
It wasn't hard to find a candle amid the junk heaps, and by way of a gentleman's flint lighter, I struck a light and restarted my inventory. Even though the tiny wavering flame felt like nothing more than a spark amid the vast room, it far from comforted me. I was instantly visible should anyone wander in, and with all the disarray, I wasn't even sure from which direction an investigator might come. All the more reason to make this fast.
I practically raced amid the shelves, scanning, checking, doing my best to upset the collections of junk as little as possible. More than once a bumped a rack or unbalanced heap clattered at my passing, the noise ringing clearly and echoing back. The groans and shifting of old furniture and whatever tiny things skittered back and forth from hidden dens elsewhere in the storehouse tormented me, all too often sounding like slow footsteps, or a creaking door, or any of a hundred other preludes to an arrest. My sense of urgency grew.
At one point I found a stand for canes filled with bent fencing foils, rusted cutlasses, swords tested only in showrooms, and other weapons of dubious quality and thought I might have found some semblance of order amid the confusion. Yet I was disappointed—no daggers. Turning the corner around a particularly packed row of shelves near the room's rear I made a strange sort of discovery. I found myself looking into a filthy, yellow window beaded with moisture and facing into the building. Shadows pushed up against the glass from beyond in formless shapes and web-like patterns, and for a moment I was baffled by what the auctioneers might be keeping hidden in the depths of their storeroom. A bit of cracked glass gave it away, a leafy tendril escaping to creep into the dusty warehouse. A sort of indoor greenhouse—or green-room, anyway—I supposed. I hadn't anticipated such a thing, but with the nobility's proclivity for elaborate gardens and exotic decorations I suppose it made a sort of sense. Dust and earth clung to a glass paned door leading inside, but doubting that even the unruly workers responsible for the mess around me would keep weapons in amid the flowers and shrubs, I turned back to my search.
The long creak of rusty door hinges caused every hair on my skin to bristle, and the echoing bang of the rear door slamming carelessly against the far wall jolted through me. Gods be damned, they actually did have a watchman! I huffed out the candle's flame and froze, trying to gauge from across the big room who had joined me.
"What the hell had a hold of me?"
"Eh! Anyone in here?" the gruff voice echoed, a threat, not a question. I felt that suicide reflex squirm in my stomach, the sensation that dares you to leap from high places, challenge me to reply. Oh, so sorry sir, I must have gotten lost. Good evening to you.
Yeah, perhaps next time.
Instead, I slowly moved to the greenhouse door, careful now more than ever not to disrupt anything at my feet. I could hear the guardsman's footsteps, careless of the noise he was making, echoing with dull slow thuds. A beacon of light cut through the shelves around me. I was sure the clutter hid me that time, but I needed to get out of sight if I didn't want to test my ludicrous little lost girl routine.
The door to the greenhouse was a simple thing, with nothing more than a spring and a basic metal latch to keep it in place. It took all my restraint to resist yanking it open and darting inside, but I pulled it slowly, keeping the creek and agitated twangs of the spring as muffled as possible. As soon as it was open more than a crack, I squeezed inside and eased it shut behind me. There was no way to tell if the guard had heard any of it, but I didn't think the complaining metal had been any louder than his boot falls—at least, so I hoped.
The greenhouse's warm, heavy air made breathing uncomfortable, especially with the acrid combination of a thousand thick herb smells. The room had none of the skylights of the larger storeroom, leaving me in near total darkness, just able to pick out the leafy specters of dozens of withered tree and brush shapes. Somewhere amid the indoor jungle something rustled, something small and probably annoyed that I'd intruded upon its foraging.
I pressed my way deeper into the room, terrified of shattering some unseen planter or overturning a box of hidden tools, trying to hunker down amid the thickest decorative bushes. My camouflage felt weak at best, and while I was sure it would disguise me should someone merely glance through the murky glass, there was no way it would stand under direct scrutiny. I tried to make myself small, hunching against the rear wall. This seemed to alarm whatever scavenged in the shadows even more, and perhaps its family from the panicked sounds of the rustling nearby. I had other concerns than rats, though.
The beam of light sliced through the greenhouse, tainted yellow by the filthy glass. I could hear the guard's ominous footsteps from beyond. I imagined that I could tell his purpose from his steps, that he sounded like he was still unsure and not striding with intent. I filched as a stray leaf—or worse, maybe a rodent—brushed my ankle in the dark. Biting down on the inside of my cheek, I refused the impulse to jerk away and investigate. Just a few minutes more and I'd be out of here, and if I kept calm, maybe not in the grip of some two-copper lot watcher.
Then it grabbed me. Not a rat. Whatever it was had hands, rough, strong hands that were instantly on my ankles, pulling on my claves, and tugging upon my belt. Too many hands even, small but tenacious with their many tight grips. I stared into the dark furiously as I squirmed, unable to see what had me. Instantly I forgot the precariousness of my situation and thrashed, kicking out, but feeling only the rustle of leaves and the snapping of twigs under my boots. What the Hells had a hold of me!
I managed not to give voice to my rising panic or the strea
m of curses coursing through my mind. Conflicting fears vied for priority, one demanding silence lest I be discovered, the other seeking only escape from whatever had me.
The latter won. I'd gladly take a few nights in jail over being dragged off in the clutches of whatever was trying to claim me.
Rolling onto my back and kicking both legs up something came loose, and I was able to squirm a little ways from my attacker. The whole greenhouse seemed to be shaking, and around me I could just make out leaves and some thorny bush that had toppled over me, disguising even the barest hint of the thing with a hundred hands. Then it was back at my feet, pulling away at my right boot. I slammed down hard with the heel of my left and I felt something crack, but that was all. Nothing cried out, nothing relented, still it grabbed and grasped, relentlessly climbing my body, seemingly seeking my throat.
Some part of me screamed as light fell upon me outside, hazy through the glass, but enough to give me a glimpse of what had me. Confusion mingled with panic as all I saw was a toppled vine, a thick, winding creeper covered in broad leaves, fallen across much of my legs. What kind of fool was I to get so tangled in some common root?
Then it moved. As if detecting the light in its own senseless way, several leaves rising in attention like the heads of alerted serpents. It didn't seem to relish competition for its prey, and suddenly the deadly vine jerked forward, flinging an arm covered with snapping, grasping leaves at my face. I grabbed for it as best I could, and instantly three bloodless grips locked upon my arm, tendrils and underdeveloped sprigs knotting around me like dozens of tiny constrictors.
I heard the greenhouse door screech open, saw the watchman's light fall full upon me, felt the dozens of leafy hands yanking me down, pinning me so the thing might more easily squeeze the life from my body. My frayed composure shattered. Throwing my head back I screamed in the face of the perplexed watchman, "Get it the hell off of me!"
Chapter Five: Fateful Lot
My escort, one of an army of dour black-clad clones that tromped automatically through the Ardis Department of Constables, surprisingly unhanded me a step before reaching the station's heavy front doors. The first thing I'd learned after my utterly dispassionate arrest and processing was that not only did no one here care that I'd committed a crime, no one especially cared about my reasons. Or me at all, in fact. Every patrolman I encountered—a difficult number to guess considering their identical uniforms—went about their duties in the same malaise. It was like the whole department suffered from a reoccurring boil, the habitually lancing of which had changed from a matter of medical care to a boring chore.
Wherever we were going, at least it wasn't the crushingly boring communal cell I'd spent the night in. Soon after arriving I'd quickly confirmed what I'd long suspected: a life behind prison bars was not for me—especially if habitual toot-grinders and sobbing drunks to flank your sleeping pallet were fixtures of all jailhouses. Regardless of the noise, I must confess it was the first night in months I can remember not worrying about having my throat slit in the dark. Still, I'd prefer not to repeat the experience. The clone-constable hadn't seen fit to speak more than my name before rousing me and marching down the hall. I'd followed silently out of bored dread, not expecting any answers out of this solider ant, but also not expecting any real danger. I'd figured wherever we were headed had to be better than a day of listening to the petty tragedies of addicts and failed pickpockets.
I was wrong.
Brass rivets seemed angled to reflect the morning sun's already piercing rays directly into my eyes. The rare contraption of polished wood, shining filigree, and sturdy wheels appeared at once both ingenious and maniacal, descriptions also fitting its occupant.
"Ah, there we are at last," came the bored voice, hiding a hint of a witch's cackle. "I thought they might have lost you wherever they keep you hooligans filed away."
I'd kept Miss Kindler waiting apparently. She sat there grinning in her wheeled chair, a much more compact device than the bath chairs that typically carried swaddled invalid loads from quack to coffin. I resisted the urge to smack the wrinkles from her condescending look.
"Funny how often spirit hunting leads to petty theft," she went on. "You've been up to quite a bit of mischief, my dear. I'd have thought you would have learned your lesson after your last trespass turned out so poorly."
The clattering of my gritting teeth sent a shiver through my sneer. I started down the steps, restraining myself of setting her chair rolling down ahead of me.
"Manners, young Lady Cylphra," she tutted. "Your freedom didn't come cheap. At the very least you can repay me by wheeling an old woman home."
Both my heels and back teeth ground into what were below them. As furious as I was at the woman for sending me into the den of that nightmare at Barttley Manor, and for indirectly contributing to last night's arrest—from a point of view—the chains of my upbringing tightened mercilessly and dragged me back up the steps to my elder's aid. As I took the handles on the back of her chair I took some measure of bitter delight in knowing how many stairs and rough cobbles lay between here and Kindler's home, and the foreknowledge that we'd be hitting every one.
To her credit, Kindler minded her tongue on her backward avalanche down the station stairs and we were soon holding up foot traffic on Willowbank Avenue. Nearly half of our journey passed in silence before she returned to her musing.
"I was awfully surprised to hear you'd been arrested—a clever girl like you."
Her voice needled my patience. "You're awfully well connected for an old lady. Lots of grandkids, or are they just all admirers of your stories?" I shot back.
"Spend your life doing favors for others and they'll do favors for you when you no longer can. It's an arrangement that's played out quite well for me this far." She waited a moment before adding, "And admirers. I'm quite good you know."
The semi-peace of our silent stroll broken, I had to know. "Did you know about Barttley?"
"Yes," she responded flatly, unapologetically.
"And you sent me there anyway?!" I accused, speeding the chair over a particularly deep pothole and taking a moment's bitter pleasure in her gasp of surprise.
"Don't fuss," she said, readjusting her dark sun hat. "You obviously came through it. Barttley's mostly molded away and sometimes it's useful to have firsthand accounts of old news—even if the worms have gotten at most of his sanity. He's dangerous to all the right people out there in his rot."
"He tried to rip me apart!" I protested.
"You're the one who went chasing after corpses and you're upset you found one? If Bartley upset you so then why are you here? Why didn't you just go home?"
Their validity made her questions all the more frustrating, and good answers didn't leap to mind. "I'm no coward," was all I could come up with, and it sounded weak and hollow even as I said it—especially knowing how often the urge to flee had gripped me in the past days.
"No your not, are you." Her candid response surprised me and we wheeled on in silence for several minutes. I could tell something was percolating under the bonnet bobbing in front of me and I eyed it suspiciously, increasingly unsure of what to make of its wearer.
"So you obviously turned up something in your visit with Mr. Barttley. What did he have to say about your ghost?"
I told Ms. Kindler of my encounter at Barttley Manor, of the patchwork dog-thing, my discussion with Mr. Barttley, how he tried to attack me, and how I inexplicably wound up face down in the mud outside—ignoring her chuckle. I went on, telling her how I tried to warn Lord Halboncrant and was thrown out, only to encounter Prince Lieralt outside. Finally I explained meeting with Rarentz Troidais, how he'd come by the dagger that had once imprisoned the prince's soul but had since pawned it, and how I'd been trying to recover it when I was arrested.
Ms. Kindler listened but didn't remain quiet as I told my story, interjecting that Lord Halboncrant hadn't been found dead, as I'd expected, but had vanished entirely, the same with both Lord and
Lady Geirais. She also frequently interrupted to ask questions or further explain details as I went on, not only about what I'd discovered, but about what I thought of certain things or how I felt in situations. At some point during the discussion I started to feel as though I were being interviewed for a job—one I was relatively sure I didn't want.
By the time everything was said I was dragging the wheeled chair up the steps of Ms. Kindler's earwig-infested porch. As she unlocked her door I mumbled something by way of thanks and turned to take my leave.
"Where do you think you're off to?" Kindler said as she wheeled herself inside. The condescension that had vanished midway through our walk had crept back into her voice. My look back and half shrug were apparently all the comment she needed, as she didn't wait for more of a response. "Come in Ms. Cylphra, you have some studying to do."
"Excuse me? What for?" I was thoroughly perplexed, and didn't really have the time to visit with the old woman any longer—not that I had any clue as to how I might get the prince's dagger after last night's debacle.
"There's work to be done before tonight," she said, rising shakily to her feet. "It's funny how often spirit hunting leads to petty theft."
∗ ∗ ∗
Having seen it from both sides, I have to admit I find Omberbain's Auctioneers much more welcoming from the front. The lobby was abuzz with conversations and laughter, and while men doffed their coats and gave stern instructions to courteous valets, ladies cooed over ones another's gowns and coiffures. Over it all hung a chandelier the size of a modest sailing ship, it pearl fixtures and glass prisms scattering miniature rainbows across the wood paneled floors and walls, the colors playing like sprites over portraits of dour strangers and displays of heavily polished but entirely virginal armaments. Servants in the black and orange livery of Omberbain's circled the assembled nobles with trays of refreshments and programs detailing the highlight's of the evening's auction.
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