Chapter Twelve
By late afternoon, Davin was starting to worry about Verona, and by the time the sun went down, he’d started to wear grooves in the floor with his pacing. While Rajon meditated in the room’s corner chair, which seemed to Davin to involve little more than sleeping with one’s eyes open, Davin’s heart seemed to race a little more with every lap that he paced.
Finally, when the dinner bell rang from downstairs, Rajon finally broke his trance enough for the two of them to go down to find a bite of food. But when Davin, out of desperation, asked the house matron about whether Verona had come back from the social yet, she got a puzzled look on her face.
“Dearie, the Aston’s social was cancelled,” she said. “Mrs. Wiggam returned from there just an hour ago for a spot of cold soup. She went down hoping to catch the sewing committee before the end of the meeting, but the house was closed and dark. So she came back with Heather and Bonnet for a bit of late lunch.”
“Might I ask what kind of business Lord Aston engages in?” Rajon asked.
“Of course,” the house matron said. “I’m actually kind of shocked you don’t know. He’s the Warden down at Stonegate. He’s a stern old chap, hard as a stone, but has lovely manners and a wife as sweet as sugar. Old money you know, and lots of it.”
Davin and Rajon exchanged the same knowing look. After getting directions to the house from the proprietor and a hastily-packed lunch-basket to sate their hunger and thirst, they headed for the stables as quickly as their feet would take them. Within minutes, they were in the cab of the steam-coach, with their driver singing them on at all speed for the row of rich estates that lay over the northern bridge.
“I knew something like this was going to happen,” Davin said, as he looked out into the rushing darkness. “Socials and all. Pure evil, that.”
“Verona can take care of herself,” Rajon replied, even as he checked the efficiency of the release mechanism on his sword-cane. “You’ve seen what she can do at Florin’s when she puts her mind to it. No matter where she’s been taken, she’ll leave a trail of destruction that we can follow, one way or the other.”
“I’m still worried,” Davin said. “Now that we know the Warden is in on the plan, I’m afraid what he might do if he gets his clutches on Verona.”
“Few men that enter Stonegate in chains ever leave alive. It’s a place full of desperate, wicked men living out their trump to their final days. Assuming that you’re correct, that the Warden somehow got wind of Verona’s presence and picked her up, it would be best if we were expedient in getting her back as quickly as possible. For being a prison today, it was once a military fortress centuries ago, back before the Empire had come into its own. It is likely as hard to break into as it is to break out.”
Within a few minutes the fast-moving coach rattled across an old bumpy covered bridge, then turned up and headed alongside the Thorny at speed. After passing a few majestic old houses overlooking the stream, Rajon made a sad sigh, as if he had discovered something unpleasant.
“What is it?”
“I suspect I know where we’re going,” Rajon said. “This may be more difficult that I originally thought.”
“Have you been here before?” Davin asked.
“Not exactly,” Rajon replied, as the coach turned up the little lane to the Aston place. “This will be a first for the both of us. Keep your eyes sharp. This could get tricky.”
After rapping on the ceiling of the cab with his cane, the driver followed Rajon’s instructions and sung the steam horse to a quick halt, pulling the brake and skidding all four wheels to a halt in the dusty gravel. As Davin followed Rajon out of the cab into the chill night air, he saw they were still a hundred yards from a gigantic manse, which was completely dark save for one lamp-lit window at the exact center of the third floor.
Together, without a word, they skirted off to one side of the tree-lined road and made their way for the stables and outbuildings along one side of the property. As they made their progress forward, the driver carefully sung the carriage backwards, one wheel-length at a time, expertly taking his place on the road just out of sight of the house.
“So, how do you know this place?” Davin whispered when they were a stone’s throw from the front porch.
“I’m sorry to tell you this,” Rajon said, “but this is your grandfather’s mansion, the very one that your father sold every stick of furniture out of to pay his gambling debts.”
“To you,” Davin asserted coldly.
“Amongst others,” Rajon said. “Back then, I’d hoped to own the place, but the price your father named was too high, no matter how much I wanted the place. The last I saw on the creditor’s notice, a number of parties were hotly bidding on the place, all far out of my own range to pay.”
“I see,” Davin said a little coldly. Like a splash from a pool of ice-chilled water, the full breadth of Rajon’s involvement and treachery in his father’s life struck him.
“It’s nothing personal,” Rajon continued. “Just the thought of living in the very house where Mercuri created so many of his inventions…” Rajon stopped himself, realizing that he was being rude at Davin’s expense. “My apologies. That was uncalled for.”
“Apologies accepted,” Davin said, even though he still felt more than a trace angry about the whole thing. “Well, we know for certain now that the Warden is using my ancestral home his base of operations.”
“It’s likely.”
“Well, what do we do, then?”
Rajon scanned the house again, taking in the myriad of darkened windows. “The fact that the house is quiet is very unusual, especially so early in the evening. For a house this size, there should be servants bustling about, or at the very least, fires lit in the hearths to keep out the damp. The silence indicates to me that this is a trap, very likely set for our benefit. So, instead of going in, we go up.”
“Up?”
“To the third floor. If the lamp is burning there, then there must be something they want us to see.” Gesturing with his cane, he pointed towards the rose trellis bolted along the south wall. “That will be our means of ascent.”
“But what if there are guards?”
“There will surely be guards,” Rajon said. “As a matter of fact, the more armed presence we encounter, the more it will show that we’re on the right track.”
Davin nodded nervously, and then followed in Rajon’s wake for the trellis, moving as quickly as he could over the grass. With the grass cropped and padding their steps, the two arrived within the shadow of the house without being detected. Davin, without hesitation, started his way up the trellis, placing his feet carefully on what he hoped were the most solid of wooden slats.
After he’d made his way up a dozen feet, Rajon started up after him, with the squeaking protest of trellis nails being their only sound. But just as Davin reached the lip of the third floor there was a terrible crunching sound as a slat beneath Rajon’s foot broke beneath his weight. Before the larger man could stop himself, Rajon crashed down through half a dozen more slats, and then landed heavily in the dirt below.
“Are you ok?” Davin whispered, once the rain of wooden pieces had stopped falling.
“Keep climbing,” Rajon said, even as both of them heard the sound of the front doors being thrown open.
Davin nodded, and pulled himself up and over the third floor ledge, just as two men, little more than shadows in the darkness, came around the corner of the house to engage Rajon.
“Surrender or die,” said one of the men, with a trace of a Teutonic accent tangling his speech.
“And a good evening to you,” Rajon said. “Your trellis here, is in need of some significant repair. I demand to talk with the man of the house, immediately.”
In response, both of the men unsheathed small, curved knives from their belts, each holding the wicked, thick-bladed weapons in their right hands.
“Ah,” Rajon said, unsheathing his own sword. “So that’s how it’s
going to be.”
“As you like, sir,” said the other one, also with a Teutonic noble accent coloring his syllables. “Either lay down your sword, or lay upon it. Those are your choices.”
As silently as he was able, Davin moved along the roof, being careful to keep his footing and prevent a disastrous three story fall. Even as he heard the sound of ringing swordplay starting behind him, he approached the lamp-lit window — only to see Verona’s travelling cloak tossed haphazardly over a plush rose-colored chair set by the open pane.
Sensing a trap, Davin pulled back. Moving carefully along the slick tiles, Davin tried the adjacent room’s swinging window and found it locked, but not tightly so. Bracing himself with one foot against the jamb, he tried to force it, once, twice, then thrice, before the latch finally gave way with a snap. Swinging the window open on its hinges, Davin stepped through the window and down into the darkened interior within, his path lit only by the shine of light coming in from the crack beneath the door to the next room.
Making his way around a writing desk and the corner of a quilt-covered four-poster bed, he snuck right up next to the door, listening for whatever sounds he could hear. At first, he couldn’t hear anything at all, save for what might be a touch of breathing, real or imagined. But when there came a cry of anguish from outside, of a foreign man being gutted on two feet of Rajon’s dueling blade, the sound of pounding footsteps in the next room gave Davin the chance he’d need.
Throwing the door open, Davin charged into the adjoining space, ready for to save Verona from whatever danger she was in. But Verona wasn’t in the room. There was only other occupant, who was leaning half-in, half-out the window, obviously trying to make sense of the terrible scream he’d heard from the grounds below. With a shock, Davin realized it was old, gray-haired Father Altius from the Abbey, now dressed in a gray gentleman’s suit rather than monastic robes.
“You!” Davin yelled, upon recognizing the man.
Spinning at the sound of the accusation, Altius glanced at Davin, then at the young man’s clenched fists — and promptly bolted for the opposite door. Vaulting the bed, Davin nearly caught the false priest, but the old man was more agile than he’d counted on. By the time Davin crunched off-balance into the plaster wall beside the door, Altius had already thrown the portal open and fled through, yelling at the top of his lungs in a foreign language that Davin didn’t recognize.
Charging down the darkened hallway after the man, Davin had the advantage of youthful speed, but Altius knew where he was going. Dodging down one hallway, turning into another, slamming doors behind him, he steadily gained ground on the younger man. More than surprised that he’d encountered no other armed resistance other than the priest, and knowing that the old man was his best means of finding Verona, Davin kept up his top speed.
But after descending two floors through a twisting maze of rooms and hallways, Davin thundered down the last few steps into the kitchen. Just out of the corner of his eye, he saw a closet door closing just over by the pantry shelves — and reached it just as it finished easing shut on its hydraulic hinges.
Throwing open the door, he expected to find Altius cowering in the small space within. But the closet was mysteriously empty except for brooms, shelves of rags and bottles, and a haphazardly placed mop bucket. Confused, Davin stopped cold, trying to listen to where else the old man might have gone — only to hear the sound of footsteps echoing from just beyond one of the closet walls. He tried pulling on hooks and trying to find a hidden latch of some kind. But without more light, without more careful examination, he would never find the secret passage, and Altius was already beyond his reach.
Resisting the urge to kick the mop bucket over, Davin pulled back out of the closet and got his bearings amidst the sizable kitchen. A modern kitchen, it included a sizable cooking hearth, a pair of copper preparation counters, a sink with a pair of taps, and a kitchen table with a few chairs scattered about it for good measure.
When he heard the front door open, followed by the sound of approaching footsteps, Davin concealed himself in the shadows over by the hearth. Hoping he wouldn’t have to use it, he pulled a butcher’s knife from the block and readied himself for battle.
“Davin?” came Rajon’s voice.
“In here,” he replied, more than a little relieved that he wasn’t going to have to fight. A few moments later, Rajon entered the kitchen from the dining room doorway with his bloody sword still held in hand. He was limping, but not terribly so, and he didn’t seem to be suffering from any other great injuries.
“Are you all right?” Rajon asked him.
“I’m fine. I chased that old priest, Altius — ”
“Altius? Well, I was wondering when he’d turn up next.”
“Yes, well I chased him all the way down from the bedrooms upstairs through that closet door there. I think that there’s a secret passage of some kind contained within.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Rajon said. “Certainly in this house. Is there any sign of Verona?”
“I only found her travelling cloak upstairs.”
“We should search the house, then. I believe the two men I dispatched were the only two guarding the house — aside from your fake priest — but we should check every room in any case.”
“But Altius is getting away?” Davin implored, gesturing towards the closet door with his borrowed knife.
“It can’t be helped. Come, let’s tour the house as quickly as we are able. If Verona is actually here, we’re far better with her than without her.”
Nodding at the gambler’s wisdom, Davin came over to Rajon, who was already fussing with a kitchen lantern and a box of infernals. As he got the lamp lit with one of the matches and Rajon toweled the blood off of his sword so he could sheath the blade, the two of them started a quick sweep of the house. They went from room to room, floor to floor, and even up into the largely empty attic set atop a steep flight of stairs. While the house was furnished with the essentials, with more beds and chairs and little antique tables than Davin could count, the place still seemed largely bare. With only a few portraits and the occasional tapestry tacked in areas where visitors would commonly frequent, the rest of the house seemed abandoned and unused.
Finally, Rajon was satisfied that Verona wasn’t present, and Davin helped him limp back down the stairs to the kitchen, where they confronted the confounding puzzle of the broom closet.
“Does this whole thing make sense to you?” Davin asked.
“In a manner it does. While Mercuri had his public laboratories in the out-buildings, to ensure the house wouldn’t burn to the ground because of an accident, nobody ever figured out where he was keeping his more important experiments. Since Altius seems to know the secret of the pantry closet, and this is the Warden’s house, I think we can be sure that this place is the center of the larger plot.”
While Rajon held up the lantern, Davin stepped inside the closet, searching through the brooms, pans, and shelves for any kind of hidden switch or latch. But after a few minutes of searching the shelves, all he found was a little brass tube, tarnished nearly to black, bolted to the back wall.
“What’s this?” Davin asked Rajon.
“That,” Rajon replied, “is a primitive form of a singing lock.”
“Great,” Davin said. “That rules me out. I can’t sing a note.”
“Neither could your grandfather,” Rajon said. Davin blinked at the revelation.
“Seriously?”
“Ironically, yes. It’s why he married your grandmother, a singer, or so the story goes. Otherwise he couldn’t get anything done. I have a small talent for tavern singing, but nothing that will help us with this lock.”
“So, we’re looking for a way to open the door, without using our voice?” Davin asked.
“Exactly,” Rajon responded. “And if I was Altius, if there were a pipe or whistle in here that could have been used to crack the lock, I would have taken it with me without hesitation. Verona could h
ave probably sung this lock open within a minute, but I fear without her we’re at a dead end.
“Not necessarily,” Davin said, looking back towards the kitchen hearth. “How quick do you think we can get a fire going?”
A few minutes later, with the aid of some dry wood from the bin outside and a dash of smelly kerosene from the closet jug, the two of them had a furiously hot fire built up in the fireplace. Carefully moving the hearth’s spitting rack into place with a long-handled poker, Davin adjusted the device so the central hook was positioned right in the heart of the flames. Lifting an old thick-bottomed metal tea-kettle up, he filled it with a draught of water from a standing pitcher then put it on the spit. Once the initial hissing and gurgling was done, and the splashes of water dancing down into the flames subsided, the two men took chairs from the solar table and sat silently by the fire, catching their breath as the tea-kettle gained its steam. Rajon rubbed his knee a bit, still tender from where he’d toppled off of the trellis.
Finally, as the kettle began to shriek, Davin got up, acquired a trio of tea-towels, and lifted the device off of its hook. Taking it over to the metal counter, he placed red-hot screaming kettle on the surface, then took an ice-pick from the block. With a couple of quick overhand strikes he finally punctured a small hole by the back of the kettle’s handle.
“So, what exactly are you doing?” Rajon asked, obviously confused by Davin’s methods.
“Yori and I used to do this all the time,” Davin replied. “Back when we were ‘exploring’ some of the older closed-up houses up in Oaks, we came across older singing locks that weren’t as finicky as the newer ones. I figured out by punching a hole in the back of the kettle, and pouring through that hole instead, you allow the steam to continue to escape through the piping vent.”
Picking the hot kettle up again, using the tea-towels to keep from burning himself, Davin moved quickly towards the broom closet door, with Rajon following close-after with the lamp. Carrying the still-noisy device into the tiny room, being careful not to scald himself, Davin poured boiling water from the kettle’s new hole into the mop bucket at his feet. As the heavy metal device gave up its water, the timber of its scream fluidly changed, plummeting down through the full range of notes until the last gust of steam escaped from the portable chamber.
The Fire Cage Page 14