That did it. Screams and a surge for the door were enough to spread panic down the ramp and across the area below faster than fire across a sun-baked field of grass. Most couldn’t hear the shouts of ‘Cannibals!’ and ‘Already at the walls!’ but terror and unseen danger are an infectious combination, and a full-scale stampede broke out.
Brann’s group were through the door as the first of the crowd started to stumble in behind them.
‘Quick, shut the doors before we are overwhelmed,’ Cannick shouted to the startled guards as he tripped and knocked to the floor the first one to start to obey. The delay was all it took for the crowd to begin to stream through in earnest and the chance to close the huge doors was lost. Cannick winked at Brann.
The people were milling around the foot of the enormous sculptures and Brann cast an eye at the fake Star Stone on the shield. It was as Sophaya had left it, and he felt a surge of pleasure as his hand dropped to his sword. The people were by now filling the hallway and countless more were running and falling into the building, shouting and crying and screaming as they came. It was pandemonium and the few guards on hand were pressed back as they sought to establish any sort of control.
Gerens looked across the room appraisingly. ‘Confusion and hysteria will do our chances no harm at all.’
Brann grinned. ‘Exactly.’ He looked at Marlo. ‘Cannibals?’
The boy smiled sheepishly. ‘It did work.’
‘It did. Let’s go.’ He led them up the sweeping staircase and into the start of the royal area of the keep.
Instantly, the atmosphere changed. Bustling activity and hurried movement still engulfed them, but brittle nerves and volatile anxiety were replaced by purposeful haste and determined focus. The end result, to their relief, was similar, however: too many bodies moving in too many directions and all too concerned with their own priorities to pay any attention to, or even notice, the half-dozen soldiers passing through on their own task.
Bran cast his mind back to the directions whispered in that old hoarse voice. ‘This way.’ They found a further stairway, and climbed quickly, finding that the faster they moved, the less attention they attracted in the current state of alert. They removed their helmets as the confined space and exertion soaked their hair in sweat and streamed it into their eyes.
Hakon noted the narrow, plain design. ‘Not quite so grand.’
Brann spoke back over his shoulder. ‘Remember the rising passages we walked when we first came here? They ascend too slowly for the duties of servants. These stairs are quicker, and as far as we are concerned more befitting soldiers, although at this time it seems that soldiers are welcome anywhere.’
‘Much further?’ Breta grunted.
Brann shook his head. ‘Three more floors, no more.’
The stairway ended at a simple doorway that took them into a large hall filled with calm aristocrats in groups, sipping cool drinks and taking small pastries from the trays held by slaves who moved serenely among them. It could have been an evening soiree but for the soldiers and serving staff who also moved across the room, their pace hastened by a mission, task or directive driven by the events outside. A line of arched windows opened onto the large terrace they had seen earlier, a vast area of manicured shrubs, fountained ponds and elegant nobles lit by delicately wrought lanterns rather than the crude torches allowed to the areas thronged by the masses. At the far end of the hall, where two pairs of slim pillars fashioned as slender trees framed a doorway to a more elaborate staircase – one more befitting people of rank and privilege – stood a full platoon of two score elite royal guards, ten of them archers, the rest heavily armed infantrymen, and all in armour gleaming with the attention of fanatics. Fronting them was a lean officer, with glowering eyes above a hooked nose and the look of a man eager for someone to challenge his authority. The sort of man who communicated with hard words and harder blows.
Cannick grunted. ‘Might be three more floors too far.’
Hakon cocked his head in consideration. ‘I reckon we could take them.’
Brann looked at him with a grin that faded as he realised the boy was serious. ‘It could draw more attention than we would ideally like, though.’
Hakon frowned. ‘True. Pity.’
Brann touched Cannick’s arm. ‘There.’
The older man followed his gaze to spot Alam’s slave waiting quietly to the side of one of the windows to the terrace, and nodded. ‘Right, helmets back on and follow me, boys.’ He glanced at Breta and winked. ‘And girl.’ He paused, and looked round the group. ‘Remember to carry yourselves like drilled soldiers. That big-nosed bastard over there looks ready to pick a fight with his own shadow.’
He squared his shoulders and raised his chin with an air of assurance and strode across to the window where the slave waited. They followed closely, trying to look like professional soldiers and hoping that those around them had too much on their minds already to look too closely.
The slave said not a word as they stopped beside him. Standing side on to the wall just next to the window, he had a view of the room and the terrace, and he stared straight ahead as though the affairs of royals and soldiers were above him and he merely awaited instructions from any who may have need of him. Where he stood was clever, Brann thought, and not just as a vantage point: few, if any, passed him and so few, if any, would demand his service, catching instead whatever slave was closest to them.
Brann scanned the scene. Apart from the phalanx blocking the stairs, guards could be seen in every direction: at the two wide doorways to the terrace, around the perimeter of the garden area itself and, as would be expected, in close attendance to the Emperor as he stood at one wall, surveying the city beyond and expounding to a coterie of admirers. Despite a military presence greater than the one that normally surrounded Kalos, it was a scene of tranquillity at odds with the chaos only a few floors below. Brann could even feel himself relaxing slightly. Almost.
‘So.’ Breta broke the silence. ‘How do we go to your friends, then? The collection of soldier boys over there would seem to be an unexpected problem.’
Brann and the slave exchanged a look and the slave nodded slightly. ‘We have time,’ the slave murmured. ‘He is not there yet.’ Brann had agreed with the old man to share certain crucial aspects of the plan with the others step by step as they became necessary. That way concentration was focused purely on the task in hand, and should any be captured, there was little that could be divulged. Loku may not be in town, but his people still were and they were known to be brutally persuasive.
Brann looked around the group, suddenly feeling the weight of responsibility descending on shoulders that were younger than those of the others, and in two cases considerably so. Marlo, Hakon and Breta were openly expectant, while Cannick waited calmly for instructions, as befitted a veteran of military experience. Gerens alone was not looking at him, his dark eyes flitting around the room. Brann knew well that the boy would have only two things on his mind in a situation such as this: protecting Brann and unquestioningly accepting anything Brann said. He had grown used to it without ever understanding it.
‘Those soldiers over there are a problem, but an expected one. It is standard procedure in times of attack. So we do not get to them, we have them brought to us.’ Brann grinned at their mystified faces. ‘In times of threat to the city, the citadel is sealed, as now. But there is a suite of rooms – self-sufficient with a well, provisions and a source of air, and able to be completely sealed to intruders – in the very heart of this building. It is virtually impregnable, as far from one side as another, and at the base of the building to protect it from missiles from above, but entered only from a stairway that starts halfway to the top, to render access for outsiders as hard as possible. The rock beneath makes it impossible to tunnel to it and should the building be collapsed upon it, it has its own tunnel, formed from a natural fissure and enhanced by engineering long forgotten. It is there that the royal family and any prisoners of great value a
re protected in times of direct threat to the Emperor’s life.’
Gerens turned to him. ‘So their escape tunnel is our escape tunnel.’ Brann nodded. He should have known that Gerens would see his thoughts first. ‘But we would need them to be moved there.’
‘We would need,’ Cannick said softly, ‘cause for them to be moved there.’
‘Indeed,’ said Brann. ‘We would need exactly that.’
He looked at the slave, who was watching the Emperor, who had taken the arm of a tall, slender but remarkably buxom matron in expensive robes of dark and light blue and was walking her along the wall. ‘When he reaches the furthest point,’ the man said simply.
‘Why there?’
‘Furthest for help to reach, and furthest to bring him back. The longer it takes, the greater the panic, and while they panic, they have little regard for aught else.’
‘Did you know,’ Gerens said to the slave, ‘that there is a man over there watching you? A slave with long dark hair and a red tunic. Do you know him?’
‘Possibly,’ said the man, his eyes never leaving the Emperor.
‘He has stared at you all the time we have been here. He still does.’
‘I hope so. We have a problem if he does not.’
The Emperor and his companion reached the front extreme of the terrace. The slave turned calmly and looked directly at the youth with the red tunic, and nodded once. The lad turned and moved as a soldier ran across the room, his shoulder colliding with him just enough to knock his balance and send him hurtling towards a life-sized statue of a maiden with a basket of polished stone fruit. The body encased in heavy armour was almost airborne as it struck the figure and the statue was knocked flying from its plinth to crash and shatter against the shining tiles of the floor with a sound that could not have been louder or more shocking to the unsuspecting if it had been dropped from the highest storey.
Screams of shock and a scattering of people away from the source of the crashing noise were accompanied by the rattle of armour as spears were lowered and the scrape of swords being drawn. All eyes in the hall and from the terrace turned in that direction. All except those of the slave, who now directed his gaze back out along the line of the building’s wall to a small storage alcove from which slipped a cloaked and hooded figure, slightly shorter than average and broad shouldered. The slave nodded confirmation to him and the man slid over the sill of the nearest window into the gardens and moved with little fuss behind the assembled nobles, out of the line of sight of those turned towards the scene of the commotion.
At the sight of the exchange between the slave and the hooded man, Brann beckoned the others closer. ‘Listen,’ he said quietly. ‘Remember we are Imperial soldiers and whatever happens next, we must act as such. When I say, move to those doors over there that lead to the lower level, as if to guard against intruders. When Einarr and Konall are taken to the safe area, the place they call the Sanctuary, we will follow and intercept them when their route is quiet.’
‘And should they decide they are not important enough to be taken there?’ Cannick asked.
‘My well-connected source assures me they are considered as crucial to political strategy. They will be taken.’
Around a score-and-a-half paces from the Emperor the hooded man moved in front of a soldier who was craning his neck in trying to see what the fuss was about and, without a hint of warning, placed both hands on the guard’s breastplate, running him backwards and over the wall and grasping the spear from the man’s hand as he fell with a scream that turned from shock to horror. The clamour from below attested to the horrified panic caused by the plummeting body and, as those closest turned to discover this latest disturbance, the assailant ran a few paces to launch the spear with a desperate roar at the Emperor.
The spear flew true and fast and the Emperor flinched to the side and flailed an arm in panic, knocking the weapon by nothing more than chance and deflecting it to strike the unsuspecting woman just below her chest with enough force to protrude the length of a forearm from her back and propel her to sit against the parapet. She clutched in disbelief at the wooden shaft extending from her front as her robes turned dark around it and dark-pink froth bubbled from her mouth and nose.
Shock brought a sharp silence for a moment long enough for the Emperor’s nonchalant tone to be clearly heard across the terrace: ‘Well, that was close.’
The guards, like their ruler, ignored the wide-eyed woman’s gurgling and agonised horror and surrounded the Emperor, a group pulling him low between them while the rest turned on the source of the danger. Before the hooded man could draw another breath, arrows transfixed him. Still he stood, swaying, as a huge bearded guard ran at him with a spear, impaling him upwards from his belly and lifting him clean off his feet. As the soldier’s arms bulged and the man was flung from the spear and over the wall, the hood fell back to reveal pale Northern skin and a face already bereft of life.
Brann watched from the window with the others. ‘And that would be the decoy,’ he said softly to himself. The cost was great. But it was paid, and hesitating would not bring back the man.
The officer commanding the soldiers at the staircase, helmet tucked under his arm to allow his orders to be clear, was already directing them at a run to the terrace, danger to the Emperor superseding all other orders. He kept back a small squad and shouted to them to help any other guards on the upper levels to sweep them for any members of the Emperor’s family and escort them to the Royal Sanctuary.
‘Quick,’ Brann said urgently. ‘To the door, now.’
As they moved, however, they caught the eye of the hook-nosed officer. ‘You men,’ he barked. They stopped, and Brann tensed, his left hand finding itself on the hilt of his sword, ready to start the draw for his right. ‘Fetch the Northern hostages. Take them to the Sanctuary.’
‘Oh,’ came Marlo’s low but bright voice from within his helm. ‘That would be even better, no?’
‘Indeed,’ Brann smiled as he turned with the others to comply.
The officer turned his back to them to watch with everyone else the main part of his squad racing across the terrace towards the Emperor, and Brann’s group moved immediately behind him, heading to the stairs at a hurry that both suited them and was in keeping with their adopted characters. As Hakon passed the man, a huge fist crashed into the side of the officer’s unprotected and unsuspecting head. He was already unconscious as he hit the floor and Brann wasn’t even sure if his neck remained intact.
A snort emanated from Hakon’s helmet. ‘Well, you didn’t really expect me not to, did you? You have to admit, he had the sort of face that deserved it.’
Brann couldn’t argue against it.
Cannick turned and gestured to Alam’s slave. ‘You,’ he shouted. ‘Lead us to the room where the hostages are kept.’
The man bowed his head in acquiescence. ‘At once, sir.’
He ran to join them and led them rattling up the stairs. This was grander than their last ascent, wider, airier, decorated in style as it switched back and forth to allow royal feet a quicker trip to the terrace area should they so desire. Four levels they climbed until the slave led them onto a landing and turned down a passage. The thumping of boots and faint shouts could be heard from the floor above where the squad sent to fetch any nobles remaining in their chambers were carrying out their duties, but in the corridors of their level the silence hung heavy, broken only by the stomping of their thick soles and the clanking of their armour.
‘That man who attacked the Emperor,’ Cannick said. ‘He had a remarkably similar build to you, young Brann.’
He thought back to the beaten figure he had seen when he had met The Triplets. ‘I don’t think that was coincidence.’
Hakon spoke up from behind. ‘He must have known he was going to his certain death, though. Why would a man do that for us?’
‘Not for you,’ the slave said. ‘For his family. He stole from The Triplets. He was given a choice: be taken to the r
oof of his home, have his belly sliced and his guts nailed to the roof and be pushed off to hang and die while he watched his family butchered before him in the street below – or do this.’
‘That is no choice,’ Hakon said, his voice dark.
‘Nevertheless,’ said Cannick, ‘what everyone saw was a man of light complexion and lower-than-average height killed in the process of trying to assassinate the Emperor. As the Emperor himself has publicly stated that he believes at least one of our party came here to kill him, it will be widely believed that the would-be assassin was our Brann.’ He glanced at the boy. ‘It does no harm in them thinking you dead. And the fear of murderous Northerners in the palace will do no harm to the confusion and panic we hope will aid our endeavours.’
Rounding a corner revealed two guards standing before a heavy wooden door, their eyes tense and anxious through the gaps in their helmets. ‘What’s happening?’ said one, a squat dark-skinned man. ‘All we hear are screams and shouts. You are the first we have seen.’
‘There has been an attempt on the Emperor’s life,’ Cannick snapped. ‘All of note are to be taken to the Sanctuary at once. We are here for the hostages.’
The man’s eyes widened. ‘The Emperor? Is he…?’
‘He’s fine,’ Cannick reassured him. ‘Not a scratch. But every sword is needed down there. Get yourselves there and help as you are directed.’
The men nodded. ‘Of course, Sergeant. Right away.’ They turned to hasten down the corridor.
‘Eh, lads?’ Cannick stopped them. ‘The door? The keys?’
‘Oh, of course, Sergeant. Sorry.’ The squat one pointed to a key on a large ring, hanging from a hook an arm’s length to the side of the door. ‘Right there, Sergeant.’
Cannick nodded. ‘Very good. Now off with you.’ They left.
Breta frowned. ‘I do not like this. When it is easy, I am uneasy.’
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