“You know fucking well I’m not telling my woman anything!” Garrick snapped.
“Then how are the rebels staying one step ahead of us?”
“How the fuck do I know?” Garrick asked. He wrenched a hand through his hair, his frustration giving him the beginnings of a migraine.
“Okay, let’s step back and look at this logically,” Marc suggested. He perched on the corner of Garrick’s desk. “We are reasonably sure there are no bugs in the office. The scrambler is in place. I seriously doubt the Volakisians have the capability of possessing any devices that could override the scrambler even if they managed to place some newfangled listening device in here that we can’t discover.”
“And there are no invisible men lurking about,” Garrick said. “Even if a Scaan were to have allied himself with the rebels, either you or I or Oran would be able to detect his presence.”
“True,” Marc agreed. “There are no phantoms at Castle Blackthorn.”
Garrick turned with his back to the windows. He stared across the room, deep in thought. It took him a moment to realize he was staring at the butt-ugly portrait of one of the baron’s ancestors hanging over the desk. He hated the portrait of the pompous bastard with his thick, drooping jowls, beady eyes that…
“Blinked,” Garrick said.
“What?” Marc asked.
Realizing there was someone standing behind the portrait, behind the wall, watching their every move, hearing everything they said, Garrick looked away. It wouldn’t do to let the spy know he’d been discovered.
“I said plinked,” Garrick replied. “We’re plinked.”
Marcus was giving him a look that asked what the hell plinked meant. There was only one way to alert his friend to the situation and that was on the psychic plane they shared.
Sit very still, do not turn around, look only at me and do not react to my words, he sent to Marc. Converse only as I do.
All right, Marc agreed.
There is a painting of that wretched former baron hanging over my desk. I just saw the eyes of the portrait blink.
Someone is behind the portrait, Marc said.
And listening to every word we say.
So that’s how they’re doing it!
He has a good view of the desk and if there are plans spread out there, he can see them.
“Maybe we should just call it a night,” Marc said. “I’m fairly plinked myself.”
“Aye,” Garrick said. “But I could do with some fresh air.”
“Sounds like a good idea to me,” Marc granted.
They left his office, speaking of inconsequential things. Taking the stone stairs to the battlements they waited until they were in the cold, sharp wind blasting over them, a light drizzle pebbling their faces as the storm advanced toward them. Moving to a section of the battlements where there were no guards, Garrick leaned his forearms on the crenulated wall and stared out across the damp landscape.
“That’s how they’re learning about our plans,” he said.
“We need to get inside those passageways,” Marc stated. “Pisses me off that we hadn’t thought of it before now.”
“I should have insisted Tonia show me how to get inside there when she disappeared on me that day,” Garrick replied through clenched teeth. “If I hadn’t been thinking with the wrong head, I would have!”
“You think she knows the rebels are lurking around in there?”
“I hope to the goddess not but the odds are she does,” Garrick replied.
“Then you should go to her and have her take us into them tonight,” Marc said. “We’ll take a contingent of guards with us. We’ll rout those bastards and hang them from the barbican.”
* * * * *
Reading in a chair beside the window, Antonia looked up as the door to their bedchamber opened. The happy smile of greeting slipped from her face when she saw Garrick and Marc standing in the hall—a bevy of armed men behind them.
She slowly got to her feet, the book in one hand. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
Garrick advanced into the room. “I need you to tell me how to gain access to the passageway behind the walls.”
He watched her face turn pale. “Why?” she asked, her eyes darting nervously from him to Marcus and back again.
“I think you know why,” he answered.
Lips parting, she dropped the book to the floor. “Has something happened?” she questioned.
He went to her, took her by the arm. His grip was strong, tight, and she flinched. “Show me,” he ordered.
“Garrick—”
“Show me!” he shouted.
“There isn’t an entry point in this room,” she said, wincing from the constriction of his fingers.
“Show me.” This time the words were soft though forceful, spoken from a tightly clenched jaw.
Phosphor lights beaming in the darkness, Marc led the way down the passageway with Garrick and his wife following. Behind them were five guards—each armed with laser pistols.
“How far are we from my office?” Garrick asked in a low voice. He didn’t want to warn the spy they were coming.
“Another twenty feet or so,” Antonia replied. He still had a firm grip on her arm. He hadn’t released her when she led him to one of the passageway access panels a few doors down from his bedroom. Not even when she reached out to push the panel that would activate the opening.
“Smell that?” Marc asked, sniffing the air.
“Aye,” Garrick answered. He’d caught the scent of male perspiration before his friend had.
“Gone now,” Marc said. “Must have heard us coming.”
“There,” Antonia said. “Pull aside the canvas. The spyholes are behind it.”
Marc stopped, turned his beam on the wall. A two-foot-square black canvas was positioned at eye level. When he pushed it to one side, the cutouts that would line up with the eyes of the portrait shown from the light inside the office.
Having sent Oran to his office, Garrick nudged Marc aside and placed his eyes to the spyholes. Oran was sitting in the chair facing Garrick’s desk, looking bored. The young man hadn’t been told why he’d been sent to the office, only that he was to lock himself in and not allow anyone inside.
“Oran, can you hear me?” Garrick asked.
Oran jumped as though someone had goosed him. He leapt to his feet, his head snapping side to side. “General?” he squeaked.
Garrick smiled then stepped back. He thrust two fingers through the cutouts. “Look at the painting,” he said, wiggling his fingers. “Tell me what you see.”
“Gawr,” Oran said. “Will you look at that?” He walked around the desk. “I see your fingers, General.”
“Well, that answers whether or not a spy could hear anyone talking in there,” Marc said. He was three feet away and had clearly heard Oran’s words.
“You can leave now, Oran. Lock the door behind you,” Garrick ordered.
“Aye, Sir!” Oran acknowledged.
Turning from the spyhole, Garrick leveled his stony stare on his wife. “How many such viewpoints are there within the castle?”
“I don’t know exactly how many,” she said in a listless voice.
“Barrison,” Garrick said to one of the armed men. “Take my lady-wife back to our quarters and make sure she stays there.”
“Garrick…” Antonia began but he let go of her arm, pushed her toward Barrison then turned his back on her.
“I’ll deal with you later,” he said stonily. “Marc, let’s see where this passageway ends.”
He’d already learned from his wife that the passageways were like arteries through the keep. They bisected one another with ramps instead of stairways leading from one floor to the next.
“It never occurred to me you were being spied on. I know that sounds like a lie but I swear to you, it isn’t,” she said and he heard the truth of her words but chose to ignore it.
“Let’s go, milady,” Barrison said.
“Please be c
areful!” she called out.
“She knows they are in here,” Marc commented.
“Of course she does,” Garrick snapped. “Why the fuck we didn’t think of it pisses me off.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“I know what I’d like to do about it but I vowed not to lay a hand to her in anger,” Garrick said. “But if ever a woman deserved to have her ass lit up, it’s mine!”
“Spare the palm and spoil the bride,” Marc said with a chuckle. He swung his light from side to side. “Intersecting passage ahead.”
* * * * *
Antonia waited a good five minutes after Barrison closed the bedchamber door before she rushed to the hidden panel that would give her entrance to the passageway behind their bedchamber wall. She had hated to lie to Garrick but common sense warned that he didn’t need to know there was a way into the passageways from his own room. She pushed against the panel and it sprang open on well-oiled hinges, so silently she knew the guard could not have heard. Slipping into the opening, she quietly pulled it shut behind her then fumbled on the wall to find the phosphor light so she wouldn’t blunder in the darkness. Although Garrick and his men were on the other side of the keep she knew it wouldn’t be long before they started traversing the interconnecting passageways. She had a narrow window of time to get down to the lowest level. There was no way her husband could find the entry point to the shelter where she knew Alyx and his men were safe from discovery. She had to get down there, warn them then get back to her room before Garrick discovered she was gone. She prayed none of the rebels were lurking about in the passageways. There was no doubt in her mind if Garrick caught them, they would hang.
“I can’t let you hurt my people,” she whispered. “No matter how much I love you.”
She stopped dead in her tracks.
“I love you,” she repeated and realized it was true. She had never spoken those words to him though he had said them to her many times.
Thinking about the times when he had told her he loved her, the regret in his eyes when she did not reciprocate, she wondered if he thought she had no feelings for him.
And now he suspected she had betrayed him if not in action then in keeping secrets from him. There had been a moment before he’d turned away from her when she’d seen his disappointment, the disenchantment, and growing hurt.
“I haven’t betrayed you,” she said. “I haven’t.”
But she doubted he saw it as anything but betrayal.
Feeling like the worst kind of traitor, she continued on her way.
* * * * *
“By the goddess there must be ten miles or more of tunnels through this goddess-be-damned keep,” Marc complained. “The rebels could be anywhere.”
“Aye, and we’ll ferret them out,” Garrick told him. He armed away sweat from his brow for it was hotter than hell where they stood. The rest of the passageways had been cold but they were close to the castle’s solar generators that fed the lighting system.
“Where to now?” Marc inquired.
Garrick surveyed the six passageways that led away from the area where they stood. “I don’t have a fucking clue,” he replied. To say he was discouraged would to put it mildly. Already they’d been down in the musty tunnels for well over two hours.
They’d found evidence that spies had trekked repeatedly from Garrick’s office to one of the main passageways. The evidence of their passing was the pathways clear of cobwebs and the numerous footprints through the dust. There was also the stench of unwashed bodies and the sour smell of piss.
“Well, it can’t be either of those passageways,” Marc said, turning his light on the two he indicated. “The dust is an inch thick on both of those.” He switched to the next two. “Same there.”
That left the two openings closest to them and each one had signs of being tramped.
“We could split up,” Garrick suggested. “I’ll take Foster and Heath. You take Newbert and Somes.”
“Seems as good a way to cover them as not, but what if my passageway splits off like this one did?”
Garrick shrugged. “Chances are it will. If there are too many of them, let me know.” He gave Marc a long stare. “Quietly.”
Marc nodded. The four men with them were Modarthan but none of them had psychic ability.
Setting off down the passageway directly in front of him, Garrick’s mind was a seething nest of angry vipers. Each viper had a name and it hissed at him with every step he took.
There was the viper called distrust. It was coiling around and around his brain, hissing warnings. It slithered over the one named doubt that kept striking at him over and over again. The secretive one wound its scaly body around his brain stem, trying to squeeze out rational thought. Disillusionment writhed in there too, sending pangs of hurt to his heart.
Then there was the deadliest viper of all—jealousy. It raised its horny head and struck repeatedly.
He knew as surely as he followed the beam of the phosphor that she was protecting Alyxdair Clay. They’d learned he was in charge of the rebel forces and no matter how many men he sent out to find the bastard, he was nowhere to be found.
“Because he’s here,” Garrick mumbled.
“Beg pardon, General?” Foster asked.
“He’s here,” Garrick stated. “Their leader. He’s somewhere down here.”
They came to the end of the passageway but it split into a right and left path. Both paths showed signs of travel. Sighing heavily, he hung his head and put his free hand up to rub tight spirals at his temple. He had a blinding headache that the musty air and claustrophobic feel of the tunnel did not help.
His men were waiting for him to make a choice of which way to go but his head hurt so badly he couldn’t think straight. Instinct told him to take the left path and he stared to head that way when he felt the icy numbness invading his being.
Rick? Marc sent to him.
Aye?
“You need to see this,” Marc said. “The footprints disappear into a fucking wall but we can’t find any way to open it.”
“On my way,” Garrick replied.
* * * * *
The section of bedrock that was the entrance into the shelter was almost open when Antonia heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Whipping her head around, she saw the play of phosphor light sending its green glow along the ceiling of the tunnel. Fear reached out to clutch her heart with icy talons. She extinguished her own as fast as she could. Blood pounding in her ears, she hurried inside the shelter and quickly pushed the lever that would close the door.
“Come on, come on, come on!” she hissed. The door wasn’t closing fast enough for her. When it finally slid into place, she sagged against it—knowing full well her husband and his men were on the other side.
Not that they could find the hidden lever that would activate the door. There was no way they would know she had been there.
* * * * *
“What do you think?” Marc asked.
Garrick continued to run his hands over the rock but had yet to find anything that resembled a pressure point. “I think,” he said—his vision beginning to blur from the agony ripping through his skull—“that we’re wasting our time.”
“So what now?”
“Now we post guards here and the opening to the tunnel. They come out, we have them. They enter the passageway, we have them,” Garrick answered. He lowered his hands, put them on his hips, hung his head and closed his eyes.
“Again?” Marc again. He reached out to put a hand on his friend’s shoulder.
“Aye and it’s boring a hole through my brain.”
“Get to bed. Let your wife take care of you,” Marc told him. “I’ll see to things here.”
“Contact command and see if they can’t get us a Scaan merc or two who’d be willing to make an obscene amount of money working for us. Tell them if the treasury won’t cover it, I’ll use my own money. I want to find Alyxdair Clay so badly my teeth ache.”
/> “That’s the migraine,” Marc said. “Go. Lie down and—for the love of the goddess—curb your itch to throttle the missus until you’re feeling better. Leave your talking to her until you can actually think straight.”
“Aye,” Garrick agreed. He dragged his shirt sleeve over his sweaty face, got a good whiff of the odor coming from his armpits and winced. “You smell it too, don’t you?”
Marc nodded. “The moment I reached the wall,” he replied.
“I wish I hadn’t made that vow.”
“So do I,” Marc said.
Trudging back through the passageways, it was necessary for Garrick to stop twice to throw up. The pain in his head was so excruciating every step he took was sheer torture but the retching doubled the pressure inside his skull and tripled the agony. Lights played at the periphery of his vision and the sick green glow of the phosphor light sent bursts of fresh torment from temple to temple. Being photophobic—an intense aversion to light—generally didn’t bother him. He had a cat’s night vision but the tunnel was pitch black around him. Not even his natural ability to see in the dark helped when all he could see was a sizzling haze of red-hot pain. Combine that undulating crimson haze with the puke-green light from the phosphor and the sickening smells coming from the tunnel itself, his trek back into the keep was sheer hell. By the time he reached the curving staircase that led to the second floor, he was drenched in sweat and dry heaving with every fourth breath.
“General?” Barrison questioned as soon as he saw Garrick staggering down the hall. “Sir, let me help you!” He rushed forward, slipped an arm under Garrick’s shoulder to support him. “Another headache, Sir?”
All Garrick could do was grunt his answer. He was clenching his teeth so tightly together his fangs were cutting into the soft tissue of his lower lip.
The moment Barrison opened the door, Garrick knew his wife was in the room. Her perfume permeated the air and at that moment she came out of the bathing chamber. She stopped rubbing a towel through her wet hair when she saw him. She rushed forward, dropping the towel.
“What happened?” she asked. “Who hurt him?”
“No one, milady. He has one of his sick headaches,” Barrison said.
DeliveredIntoHisHands Page 11