by Dave Luckett
He stood for a moment in thought, then took the mail and slipped out again. It went into one of Jane's panniers in the tack room behind the stable, with the food and the other goods he'd bought. He checked on her, counting steps to her stall, making sure he could find her. He'd be getting her ready in the dark. If they didn't come for him before that.
In fact he was now expecting a voice in his ear any moment, the tap on the shoulder, quickly followed by a come-along hold, and after that... But it didn't happen. He was fairly sure that all the pieces that would condemn him were known now. What was keeping them?
Guilt is a great fearmaker. He wondered where he had heard that. One of old Bill Sniggen's saws, perhaps. It was true enough. One man - the one who'd searched his belongings - knew that Nela Laurentian's apprentice had a fine sword with a matching dagger, and a mail shirt, and that was slightly odd. Another man - a Kihree sailor - had a knife with the same maker's mark as the 'prentice's dagger, from the smithy in the Commandery of the Western Knights. A third man - the wounded Kihreean nobleman - had sworn blood feud against the Company. Those items were fatal if they were put together. What were the chances of that happening?
Impossible to say. The longer Gerd waited, the more the chance that the pieces would somehow collide. It had to be tonight.
Supper again. Nela was watching him, and Gerd could give no sign that anyone might be able to read. He waited, seeming to eat, seeming to drink, until Maethlis rapped and rose. The ceremonial never varied. The Guildmaster rose and withdrew and was followed by the Khireean who sat at his right hand. They turned their backs. In that moment, Gerd nodded to his own master, who had the honour of sitting on the Guildmaster's left. Nela made no answering gesture.
When the mages had receded, Gerd pleaded infirmity. He went to his room and slept for four hours, habit and the timing of watches claiming him. That was one thing you learn in the Company, apart from marching and drill. The hours of the watches are ground into your soul. The other two apprentices he shared the room with didn't even disturb him when they came in, undressed and went to bed. He was vaguely aware of their presence, and presently of their snores, but he slept on until it was time, and then he woke and rose. It was just short of midnight.
He was fully dressed. The sword he had slipped down the side of the cot, the pack hung from the head. He picked up his boots and slipped silently out of the room. The corridor outside was fully dark. He counted steps to the stairhead and ghosted down the back stairs. This was the less well-appointed part of the Guildhall. The kitchens lay below.
There was a guard on the outer gate, and two pairs patrolling the grounds, as on every night. But the kitchens were large, with two doors leading to the yard and another leading to a washhouse. He knew them well by now.
The doors were locked. Not just barred on the inside, locked. Gerd tried the washhouse window. It was glassless, with the shutter latched on the inside. He could get out this way, but if a particularly industrious guard tried it, he'd know someone had passed.
Nothing else for it. Gerd lifted the latch and pushed the shutter out a crack. The scullery yard, with the well and the sluice, was empty. Already the eastern sky was starting to silver. The moon would be up in a few minutes, almost half-full now. He eased himself over the sill. The shutter he pushed back into place. The night was still. If a breeze sprang up, someone would hear the thing banging. He propped it with the handle of a mop. It was the best he could do. He pulled on his chainmail, buckled his sword and dagger over it, and laced up his boots.
He stole to the wicket-gate giving on to the grounds. The guards within the wall had to keep on the move from enclosure to enclosure, which was the great thing. Movement is something you can't conceal. Gerd had no real notion of their pattern, though. It was just a matter of avoiding them. He suddenly grinned, almost. Surely he wasn't the first apprentice who'd sneaked through the grounds in the dead of night, off to see a girl...
That was no proper thought for now. He waited, quartering the dark grounds beyond the wicket. No movement, and it was still very dark. The stable yard was just along this wall, through an opening. He opened the waist-high wicket, tensing against a creak that didn't come, slipped through and closed it. Then he sidled along the wall and into the stable yard.
The stable's main door was locked on the inside, but there was a side door. That was only latched, because it was too small for a horse. Not, however, for a donkey, and it had the further advantage of being behind and round a corner, not in line of sight from the gate.
Jane was slightly surprised to see him, but she made no outcry. None of the other beasts - horses, ponies - were bothered. They were used to him. He led her out, then harnessed her in the growing moonlight and loaded her. He bribed her to silence with a nosebag of sweetgrass, and tethered her.
That was the largest risk. Someone might happen by and see her. Not likely, because they'd have to come right to the back of the stable yard, but possible. He'd have to make the next part as fast as he could. In fact, everything depended on speed, now.
He negotiated the scullery window again, this time latching it from inside. Now for the tricky part.
He let himself into the formal part of the Guildhall through the kitchen door into the dining hall. Nobody there, and the darkness almost impenetrable. Following the wall, he felt his way around the carving sideboard and then to the entry to the front room and front entrance. He tried the latch. Not locked. He eased it open.
The front room was the enormous open space behind the front door, suitable for receiving whole delegations. It was three stories tall, with a broad staircase at the rear that ascended to a landing, and then divided to reach the second floor gallery.
Gerd could see most of it, though there were no lights. The tall windows above the massive door made bars of moonlight on the floor. The moon was still waxing, and it was rising. That would help him. Time to find out how well he had learned his new trade.
He stole across the floor, reflecting that there was something to be said for marble. It might be cold, but there were no boards to creak under his feet. The door opposite led to offices and a library - and another set of back stairs. Gerd put his hand on its lever, eased it down, breathed in - and then stopped. His fingertips were tingling.
Something was wrong. He let the lever up again, not allowing the door to move. The feeling persisted, a prickling like pepper feels on the tongue. He closed his eyes and moved the palm of his hand over the surface of the door. No. No. Weaker. Stronger. Stronger. There. It was on the latch itself.
He stood back, biting his lips. The spell would certainly trip an alarm if the door was opened. Probably a silent one, but someone would hear it. Maethlis? Perhaps. Gerd must not trip it. But he knew no dispelling magic.
He stared at the door, then glanced backward. There might be another way through, up the stairs and across, but he didn't know it. Anyway, there would probably be other spells on other doors and besides, he'd told Nela to be at the outer one.
He would have to find a way to pass the spell. Spells have patterns, he knew that much, echoing the words that made them. Find the pattern and change it, then. He put his hand on the doorplate and closed his eyes, the better to see.
The room was still there in his head, a presence, hollow, around him. He concentrated, and the door grew up before him, the whorls and grain of its oak seen as patterns, but patterns that filled the wood, patterns of life. The bars of moonlight behind him (and he could feel those, too, without turning his head) were pale shafts of energy that he could reach and use. The locking-spell was slowly resolving itself, showing as a mesh of scarlet threads under his fingertips, the touch building a picture up in his mind, a pattern like a grid made of red-hot wire. And his eyes were still shut.
There was his own hand, a pale cloud of light, hard-edged. He moved it slowly over the door, feeling the patterns of the tough old wood, the way the tensions and densities of the hard-ribbed old oak wove together, and the dead, inert texture
of the iron of the latch. Then he reached in.
There was no other way to say it. He reached into the door with a hand that wasn't a hand, and he began to unpick the pattern of glowing lines. He couldn't break them, that he knew, but he could cast them loose them from their holds, slacken them off, untie them, let them dangle.
He worked as if they were spiderweb and he wished to preserve its pattern undamaged. One by one the lines relaxed and released. One by one. How much time it took he could never say afterwards. But the moonlight, of which he was intensely aware, hardly seemed to move.
The pattern drew back, fell away, but the tingle in his fingers did not stop. He turned the lines back on themselves, not allowing them to break. When they were all free and clear he withdrew his hand and opened his eyes.
He still stood by the door, his hand flat on the heavy doorplate, his fingers tingling. Nothing else seemed to have changed. He took a long, careful breath in, grasped the lever and moved it down. The latch clicked softly. He pulled, and the door swung open silently. The spell still thrilled under his fingers, unbroken, marking no change, giving no alarm.
He stepped through, closing it behind him. Time was getting short. It would be change of watch in three hours, first light in five. The nights were slowly getting longer, praise be.
Here were the back stairs for this wing, the same as he had used before. This time he had to climb them silently, stilling even the faint rasp of his mail, keeping his shoulders from swinging. There was dim light above. He took his time, letting the chant build in his mind, before he began whispering it. It was simple and short, and just as well at that. But... he had hardly started it. Wasn't that a snore?
His eyes came level with the upper floor. There was a rail, to protect the stairwell. He eased his head up between the uprights and looked through.
A light guttered, a single lamp on a bench by the wall beside the inner door, which was open. The two Kihreeans were slumped across the threshhold, snoring. And there was Nela, still whispering the chant, waiting for him, wearing her travelling robe, her pack on her back. He joined his words to hers, as in the garden.
She heard him, or felt the strengthening of the pattern. She stepped over the prone bodies, closing the door behind her with no more than a soft snick. Still whispering the chant, he beckoned, and she crept away to the stairhead and down to meet him. The Kihreeans slept on.
There was no need for speech. They descended one step at a time, Gerd feeling for the creaking stair, stepping close to the wall, Nela following. It was diving into a pool of darkness, for even the dim flicker of the lamp above had taken the fine edge off Gerd's darksight. He reached the foot of the stairs and reached behind him. Nela would be even less able to see. Her hand came into his.
If he concentrated, the deep blackness of the hall showed shapes, open places. Narrow windows let in a dim wash of light, and this was not only moonlight and starlight. Forty paces to the door, past other doors, shut and locked. These were offices, records depositories, a library, a materials store, a scriptum.
He led off, and she followed, her hand in his. He could feel the tiny inequalities in the floor beneath his feet, the edge that stood a little proud and would creak if he stepped on it, the slight weaknesses, the obstructions. She followed, trusting, stepping where he stepped.
They came to the door, its glowing pattern still evident, but hanging. He opened it, feeling the point where the hinge would cry a little, easing through, stepping past. The floor changed to marble, smooth, cool. Nela followed. He closed the door. The entry now seemed filled with moonlight. They crossed it, moving fast, then through the open doorway to the dining hall, still empty, dark and silent, then the servery, the kitchen, finally the washroom.
Gerd unlatched the shutter. His mail rasped a little as he bent forward, but there was no movement in the yard outside. He swung himself through it, found footing and stepped down. Nela followed. He propped the shutter again.
The moon was clearing the etched line of the trees, over beyond the park. Silver light made black shadows. There was a moment for speech.
"It has to be the front gate," muttered Gerd. "There's no other, but there's a pair of guards there. We might be able to sleep them."
Nela's eyes moved, liquid in the moonlight. "But if not?"
"Then I kill them. Silently." He stared back at her. She shuddered, and nodded.
He moved to the house wall, peered around the corner. The park within the outer wall was dark and silent. He waited, and there was still no movement. He beckoned. Night sight was returning.
They slipped though silver and shadow to the stable yard. Jane was standing as Gerd had left her. He removed the nosebag and took the leading rein.
"I'll take her," murmured Nela. "You watch ahead." He nodded.
It was only a few hundred paces to the gate. For the first hundred, they could move in the moonshadow of the wall of the main house, watching for movement in the open ground. Then, when they reached the corner, there was a choice: across open sward to a stand of trees, then to the outer wall and so on to the gate, or risk the contrast of their moving shadow on the face of the building.
No contest. He watched for a minute. Then: "I'll go first. Wait for me to beckon."
He waited a slow count of ten. Nothing moved. He straightened his shoulders, stuck his thumbs in his belt, and stepped out, walking with a seaman's roll and swagger. If anyone was going to challenge him, they might take him for a Kihreean.
Twenty paces. Thirty. Nothing. Here was the group of trees. They'd been cut back from the wall, but even so provided some cover. He reached them and dived into the shelter of their black shadows. The gate was in sight now. He couldn't see anyone near it, but he knew it was guarded. That was a problem. Either they were outside, or else they...
No. Neither one. There was one of them now. Movement could be seen. The guard had just walked away from the near gatepost. Voices reached Gerd, and further movement could be seen. There was another guard there. Thirty paces to cross. It might be possible to get within ten, moving in the shadow of the wall, but not if he made any noise.
The night was not completely silent. A slow wind had sprung up, sighing in the leaves. And there was someone on the road. Hooves sounded at a walk.
Never be a better moment. Gerd waved, and saw Nela set off, moving towards him, leading Jane. On the other side of the wall, the rider approached, nearing the gate.
Nela and the traveller on the road arrived at the same moment. The guards at the gate challenged, and there was a low-voiced answer, and then an exchange. The gates opened. The traveller entered, a man wrapped in a mage's long robe, mounted on a tall horse. He didn't appear to be in a hurry - he moved as if he were saddlesore and weary, and his horse was tired. He moved towards the stables, going around the side of the main building. He'd put up his horse there - that would take some minutes - and then waken the steward in the lodge at the far end of the house and demand a bed. He would, most likely, be shown to the upper floor, where the masters' quarters were. What then? Would the steward conduct a mage around the front, through the marble foyer, and up the front stairs? Or would he take the short way?
Problem. Gerd waited. The horseman, at least, had to be out of sight for this. The rider reached the corner of the house, just before one of the gate guards said something to the other, and then turned and came trotting towards where Gerd and Nela stood silent and still in the cover of the trees.
Gerd pulled breath and groped for his dagger. The other guard hadn't moved. What ...?
And then he saw that the man coming towards them was fumbling with his hose and pulling up his tunic. The guard reached the dark shadow of the trees and leant against the nearest one, intent on undoing his points.
Clearly, he wasn't staring around him. He even provided enough noise for Gerd to slip unheard behind him. The dagger had a solid bronze pommel, and Gerd swung it hard. Perhaps it cracked the man's skull. He didn't know. The guard dropped without a sound.
> One man in a dark cloak is much like another, especially walking back in the shadow of the wall. Gerd held his dagger's hilt now. This time, there would be surprise, but this time he must strike from in front, and he must make sure of his man.
Another Kihreean. Seemed like they were taking over. Gerd walked towards him, keeping to the shadow, rolling in his gait. The other cracked one of the ancient jests, and turned his back to swing the gate closed again.
Uncovenanted mercy. The guard might have saved his own life. Gerd could reverse the dagger again, and strike with the pommel.
Hard, but the man didn't go down. He stumbled, dropped his spear, and grunted; but he swung around, his mouth opening in shock. He might have given vent to a roar in another moment, but the pommel whistled in again, this time right between the eyes. Gerd winced, feeling the bone give under the blow. The man collapsed, still in the moonshadow of the gate pillar. Gerd caught the folding body around the chest and hauled it behind the pillar. Here was Nela.