The Mages of Bennamore

by Pauline M. Ross

  Dragon’s teeth. I’d long since realised that it was safer to say nothing at all about locks. Tarn must be the one person in the world I’d half-confessed to. And now she expected me to break into this Bell Tower. I could do it, of course, but it wasn’t that simple.

  “Am I supposed to just walk into the Hold? I have a pass for the library but—”

  “Oh, I will take you in, dear. There is a gallery with some kind of art display. I will take you to see that. There is bound to be something from Shannamar there if anyone questions it.”

  “And the guards?”

  “Some of my people will arrange a brief diversion, just to distract them while you do whatever it is. What do you use, a hairpin, or some such?”

  A hairpin! Of course, that would work. Relief washed over me. I could do this!

  “Yes, that’s right. You make it sound so simple, Honourable.”

  “Nothing to it! So you will do it? Excellent! Shall we go at once?”

  Deep breath. I nodded.

  Why ever not? Two middle-aged women breaking into a locked tower watched by armed guards – what could possibly go wrong?

  18: The Bell Tower

  The air was heavy and humid. I could feel sweat trickling between my breasts. I wished I had the jade pendant with me, although I wasn’t sure what protection it could give me against the guards and their swords.

  Tarn kept up a patter of talk as we strode through the town. At this hour of the day, many shops and businesses were closed for the traditional afternoon rest period. Some workers rested, no doubt, but most carried on working in back rooms or cellars, while the business owners stole out to visit lovers or wrote up their accounts or strolled along the harbour wall with other owners to discuss trade and make deals.

  The Hold was almost deserted, too, with just a couple of bored guards watching the gate. They bowed to Tarn and waved us through. One of the guards smiled at me in recognition, then scuttled into the gate house to make a note of our arrival.

  We walked across the entrance yard, then through an archway to a small tree-lined courtyard with a water-spout in one wall, a place I’d never seen before. Then through a gap between a barracks and a brewery into another, larger courtyard. Low walls surrounded beds of herbs which filled the air with enticing scents. Fruit trees were trained against one wall, surrounded by the dried stems of moonroses long past flowering. Insects hummed busily. In one corner, a group of children were chasing each other around a fish pool. Judging by the abandoned buckets, they had been sent out to fetch water.

  “That is the Bell Tower,” Tarn said in a low voice, nodding towards the opposite corner of the courtyard. The tower stood alone, unattached to any other building. Unlike most of the Hold, it was made of dark stone, a glinting grey type. It was round, perhaps seven stories high with narrow windows, with a staircase spiralling around the outside for access to the bells at the top which marked the hours. The large wooden doors at ground level were shaded by a portico, where two guards stood, fully mailed despite the heat, wearing swords.

  “Don’t be alarmed,” Tarn whispered, taking my arm and tucking it firmly into hers. “This is the signal for my distraction.”

  We crossed the courtyard to the square building opposite, dazzlingly white in the sun, and entered by a high wooden door. It swung open for us noiselessly. Inside, it was blessedly cool.

  “These are the art works, but we need not linger.” She waved a hand indifferently over an array of paintings and sculptures and wall-hangings laid out in the large room. With swift steps, she crossed to the far side, and whisked aside a tapestry of some monumental sea-battle. I hoped it was historically important, for the execution was very poor, with garish colours and badly proportioned ships. Dristomar had never been noted for artistry.

  Behind the tapestry was a small door, the lintel so low I had to duck to pass through. Then we were in a dimly lit passage, smelling of dust and stale smoke. Perhaps it gave access to the chimneys in this building. Tarn led the way around a corner, where a lamp burned sullenly in a niche. A box hid a number of torches. She took one and lit it from the lamp. Then we went through another door and down some uneven steps to a dank, disused cellar, littered with broken barrels and chairs and, oddly, a chandelier.

  “Are we going to come up inside the Bell Tower?” I asked.

  Tarn stopped abruptly, and I almost crashed into her back. “Oh! Why did I not think of that? Of course there ought to be a link to the escape tunnels. All the towers have an access stair. Never mind. Too late now.”

  Up another flight of steps less worn, through a door, along a corridor and then one final door to the outside. We slunk out, and crouched behind a great bush covered in vivid pink flowers. Not ten paces away was the portico where the two guards waited. They were chatting in low voices, but their eyes scanned the courtyard in front of them, and periodically they turned round to look behind the tower, too. From our hiding place, we could see them well enough, but we were, I sincerely hoped, completely hidden.

  “Now what?” I whispered to Tarn. I had to fight to suppress a giggle of excitement. This was more fun than plodding through paperwork for the mages. I felt like a child again, hiding from my mother and the tutors, sneaking around the Hold through the heating vents and chimney maintenance shafts, or lurking beneath open windows, listening to secret conversations. It was surprising how many hiding places a small girl could fit herself into, if she tried.

  Tarn’s grin reflected my own. “Patience! Now we wait.”

  I used to be good at keeping still, but I was out of practice. Twice I had to ease my limbs into a more comfortable position, trying not to rustle the dried up leaves carpeting the ground. It seemed an age we hunched there, waiting for whatever diversion Tarn had devised.

  At last I heard shouts from the courtyard – the children, by the sound of it. Then men’s voices, raised in anger, and the clash of wood against wood.

  “There!” Tarn whispered. “Not long now.”

  The two guards were focused on the fracas going on near the fish pool. More shouts, the clatter of buckets against the cobbles, then a loud splash and female shrieks. One of the guards shouted at the combatants, and both of them took off at a run towards the fish pool.

  “Now!” Tarn hissed in my ear.

  I leapt up and ran for the tower door under the portico. I had already retrieved a hairpin, but as soon as I got within sight of the door, I knew it wouldn’t do. The lock was the height of a man’s hand, at least, and there wasn’t a hairpin made that could open it. I stuffed the hairpin in my mouth and grabbed my kooria, jiggling the blade in the lock in what I hoped was a convincing manner, while my fingers felt for the metal. It called to me, as always, every pin as clear to me as if the door were made of glass.

  “Quick as you can,” Tarn murmured. “It won’t take them long to sort things out.”

  “Are they coming back yet?”

  She turned to check, and while her back was turned I snicked the lock open with a satisfying clunk.

  “No, they— Ah! Very good, dear.”

  We whisked through the open door and clicked it shut behind us. It hadn’t occurred to me until that moment that there might be more guards inside the door, but thankfully the vestibule was empty. I tucked my kooria into its sheath and the useless hairpin went back under my cap.

  There was a fusty smell about the place, and something less pleasant. Dead rat, I suspected. Dust hung in the air, motes drifting across the narrow band of light admitted by a window high up the wall. There were stairs leading up and down, and two heavy doors, but no furnishings of any kind. It was not promising.

  Neither door was locked, but they hid only empty chambers, filthy with dust and littered with heaps of unidentifiable decaying things – old wall-hangings or blankets, possibly. Rats scuttled away when we entered.

  The descending stairs smelt of mould and sewage, so we went upwards, finding ourselves on another identical floor, only without the rats. We trudged upwards.<
br />
  “I do not think she can be here,” Tarn said despondently. “No one could be living here.”

  “There are several more floors,” I said. “And have you noticed? There are many footprints in the dust on these stairs.”

  We were almost at the top floor when we found signs of habitation. Two rooms were fitted with low pallets and mattresses, a table and chairs, and a pot stand on the fire. There were a couple of rag rugs on the floor. The ashes in the hearth had not yet disintegrated to dust.

  “A guardroom?” I wondered.

  On the floor above, the doors stood open, with signs of turmoil. Chairs were overturned, a beaker smashed, several blankets on a narrow bed scattered about. A tray of food was abandoned, so coated with green mould it was impossible to say what it once was. Flies buzzed around our heads as we moved about the room.

  “Well, she was here, certainly,” Tarn said.

  I wasn’t quite so confident. “Someone was here, anyway, and put up a fight about it, too. But whoever it was, they were held in some comfort.” Thick rugs softened the floor, and the walls were draped with good quality hangings. The prisoner had a desk, a shelf of books, silver drinking goblets, fat yellow candles.

  “Something bad happened here.” Tarn chewed her lip, looking at the devastation.

  “There is no sign of blood anywhere. I think we must assume that if Lady Mage Hestaria was here, she has been taken somewhere else. Where would she go, do you think?”

  “That is just the problem, I cannot imagine. She is definitely not in the holding or punishment cells, and I have checked all the other possible towers. That is why I thought she must be here. How annoying. I was hoping we could find her and settle the matter before this delegation arrives from Bennamore.”

  I looked at the books on the shelf, hoping for a clue to the prisoner’s identity, but they were simple histories or religious texts, all coastal books.

  One wall boasted a narrow window with a view over the harbour, where a hundred ships bobbed in the incoming tide. Along the shoreline, a score of boats were in various stages of construction.

  “Where are these sword ships? I can see nothing so large being built.”

  “Hmm? Oh, they are in the old harbour – on the far side of the promontory. You cannot see them from here.”

  “What is that odd tower on the promontory? It looks wrong for a light tower.”

  “Just a monument of some sort. Pointless. Not even a door into it. It glows at night – most peculiar. Too far from the rocks to be any use as a light tower, though.” She leaned round me to peer out of the window. “It is a fine view from up here, I must say. If there was a prisoner up here, it would have been a comfort to look out at the sea in all its moods.”

  Not for Hestaria, probably. Did she long for the forests of her home? And what about her magic? Presumably her captors had taken her vessel away from her, and left her as helpless as any other prisoner. These mages could do nothing without the source of their power – a vessel, or a jade belt. When I wore the jade pendant, I could feel the magic from it against my skin, reassuring me with its constant tingle of energy. When I took it off, I felt bereft. How much worse must it be for a mage to lose her magical power?

  Dispirited, we descended again, then stood irresolute in the vestibule. No sound penetrated the thick stone walls.

  “Do you think the guards are back?” I whispered.

  Tarn shrugged. We really hadn’t planned this adventure very well. We’d got inside all too easily, but we’d given no thought at all to getting out again.

  A murmur of masculine voices told us the guards were in position once more.

  “Should we try the cellars?” Tarn said.

  There was an abrupt silence outside, then more talking, a higher tone, questioning. Then silence.

  We held our breath.

  A jingle of keys right outside the door, then an outraged voice. “It’s not locked!”

  The handle turned.

  We ran for the stairs, scuttling down into the fetid darkness. At first a little light penetrated from above, but soon we were feeling our way, one hand on the rough stone wall, the other held out in front, treading carefully down and down.

  Behind us were shouts and boots clumping, the ominous rasp of swords being drawn. Then the pursuit faded, and silence fell.

  “Have they given up?” Tarn asked, her breath short.

  “Probably gone for torches. How well do you know your way in these tunnels?”

  “Not at all. Why would I ever come down here?”

  “Because this is your escape route in a disaster,” I said acidly. “There will be marks on the walls to show the way to safe exits, but I suppose you cannot read them.”

  “Can you?”

  “The Shannamar ones, of course. These are probably different. There, we must be in the basement now. We need to let our eyes adjust so we can see the signs.”

  “How do you know where we are?”

  “The air has changed. We are in a more open space. Wait a little, let me look around.”

  From above, clattering noises suggested that the chase had been resumed. A flickering light emanated from the top of the stairs, getting stronger all the time.

  “Over there,” I said.

  “I cannot see anything.”

  “Here, take my hand.”

  In truth, I couldn’t see anything either, but the metal hinges, handles and nails in the doors were clear in my mind. There were two doors matching in size and position the ones on every floor above, presumably concealing identical chambers. There was no use entering those. There was another door, though, smaller and narrower, which must lead out of the tower and into the underground tunnel system.

  I led Tarn through the door, and shut it firmly. From the other side came shouts as the guards reached the bottom of the stairs.

  The door had a rusty old lock, but no key. For a heartbeat I hesitated, but there wasn’t time to reach for a hairpin. Besides, for some unfathomable reason I trusted Tarn. I knew my secret would be safe with her. I put my fingers on the lock and willed it shut. It was so old it resisted for a moment before the pins engaged with a long-drawn-out scraping sound.

  I heaved a sigh of relief. I had no wish to come face to face with irate plainsmen brandishing swords. Probably Tarn could have talked her way out of the situation, but it seemed sensible not to risk it.

  The passage beyond was dimly lit by luminous markings on the walls, which seemed bright after the absolute blackness of the basement. Tarn’s face was half lit by a sickly green glow, the other half lay in ghostly shadow. She gave no sign of noticing what I had done with the lock.

  I looked up and down the passage. In one direction lay darkness, in the other a line of marks led off into the distance. We set off following the marks, leaving the guards rattling the door handle helplessly.

  The dank air and foul smell became stronger. Before long we were splashing through a trickle of water, or worse. Apart from the markings on the walls, softly glowing in a long line ahead of us, nothing could be seen, but there were odd noises, scuttlings, drippings, little clinks and patters, and the occasional distant rumble. Tarn clung to my hand, panting more with fear than exertion, her eyes wide. I was only marginally more comfortable. I was used to dark hiding places, but the Shannamar tunnels were broad and dry, lined with brick and well ventilated, not like these evil holes.

  We came to a crossing point, with the luminous marks leading off in four directions. We couldn’t go back the way we’d come, and the passages ahead and to the right sloped downwards, so with barely a thought I chose the left. It proved to be a good decision. Soon we had left the sewage stream behind, and the air was fresher. I smelled smoke at one point, so it seemed we were passing under another building. There were no side passages, however, and a turn led us in a different direction.

  We stopped for Tarn to catch her breath.

  “Have you any idea which way we might be going, or where we might come out?” I aske
d.

  “None at all. Every major building in the Hold has a basement or cellar, so it could be anywhere within the walls.”

  “Or beyond them.”

  “Beyond? Somewhere in the town?”

  “Maybe. The usual exits from the escape tunnels were the harbour and a safe place beyond the edge of town, where the family could get away if the Hold was attacked. Were you never taught this?”

  “Well, of course, dear, but that is all old history. No one attacks Holds these days.”

  “Not since Greet Bay thirty or so years ago,” I said cheerfully, and she fell silent. “And if you had not settled with the Bennamorians last year…”

  “Yes, yes, yes! I get the point. We should know how to escape. I will dig out the old plans when we get out of here. If we get out of here.”

  I laughed, and the sound echoed hollowly. “Of course we will. Come on, let us keep moving.”

  Another short stretch of tunnel and a couple of sharp turns brought us into a completely different passage. The rough stone walls became smooth brick, arching far above our heads, and the air was clean and dry at last. There was light, too, filtering round the edges of a line of wooden doors, and through skylights above them.

  At the first door, we heard voices talking, women murmuring with an occasional burst of laughter. The air was humid.

  “The laundry, I think,” Tarn whispered. “Not a good place to appear.”

  I agreed. The next door concealed men’s voices, as did the third, then silence at the fourth.

  “Shall we try this?” Tarn whispered.

  I shook my head. “There is light showing, so there must be people there. The next door is dark.”

  We moved on. The room beyond was silent, although there was an aroma I couldn’t quite identify.

  “What do you think?” I said.

  “If I have counted correctly, we have reached the first of the storage cellars. I doubt there will be anyone in there at this time of day. Try the door.”