Lessek's Key

by Rob Scott; Jay Gordon

  Pffft! The arrow took the grettan in the throat. Pffft! Another sank deep, inches from the first, until only the fletching protruded. The grettan shrieked, rose up on its hind legs and growled. Pffft! Thud! Another hit. Pffft! Thud! Yet another, and this one was a miracle shot, into the soft flesh behind the animal’s ear and below the curve of its skull; there weren’t a handful of people in the world, any world, Eldarn included, who could have made that shot.

  Garec kept the arrows coming, but they were unnecessary, for the miracle shot had finished the grettan. Only adrenalin kept it coming at Mark, dragging its injured legs, screaming at each new arrow that pierced its hide, determined to kill, even in its final moments. Finally, just a few paces away, the creature slumped to the ground and lay still, growling a warning as its life drained away.

  Mark wisely gave the dying grettan a wide berth as he climbed back up the hill to join Garec, who was standing by the ravaged carcase of the roan horse, his rosewood longbow still drawn.

  ‘Here,’ Garec handed him the bow. ‘You finish it.’

  Mark shook his head. ‘No. It’ll be dead in a moment anyway.’

  ‘You don’t want a shot?’

  ‘No.’

  Garec understood; shouldering his bow, he offered a hand to Mark and laughed. ‘What did you say earlier? We have two good legs between us?’

  ‘Something like that.’ Mark took his arm. Together they pulled themselves up the hillside.

  THE BARSTAG RESIDENCE

  When Orindale fell to Prince Marek, the imperial gardens surrounding the Barstag family residence became a tent-camp for the occupation forces maintaining order in the city. Tidy rows of delphiniums, larkspur and hollyhocks were trampled to the ground; lilac and buddleia bushes, full to bursting with sweet-smelling blossom, were chopped down for the watch-fires, and thousands upon thousands of rosemary and lavender plants were used to soften the ground beneath many a soldier’s blankets. The fragrance of the bruised stalks perfumed the air for weeks.

  The civil unrest that marked the early Twinmoons of Marek’s dictatorship gave way to a more prosperous era. The busy seaport saw a decrease in Malakasia’s military presence, especially as commerce and trade recovered. For hundreds of Twinmoons following Marek’s takeover the imperial palace served as a barracks for the soldiers charged with patrolling the city and overseeing customs and shipping along the wharf.

  Orindale was the natural choice for those supervising the steady export of goods and taxes to Malakasia, and most of these officials chose the upper floors of the opulent Barstag family palace for their private quarters. On the few occasions when a significant threat to the Malakasian hegemony rose in the east, the old structure became a command centre for the officers deploying troops to put down whatever grass roots uprising was taking shape in the Eastlands. When civil war broke out, the imperial gardens – a city park in more peaceful Twinmoons – reverted to its former guise as an encampment for foot soldiers securing the city and once again whatever flowers and shrubs had reclaimed the greensward were trodden into the mud, burned in campfires and used to soften the ground where soldiers slept.

  Sallax, approaching the imperial grounds from the south, noticed that the broad, tree-lined park was full of square eight-person tents, wooden carts, fire-pits and buried latrine trenches. A half-rotten, half-eaten mound of hay lay abandoned beside a ramshackle corral, though none of the soldiers still quartered on the palace grounds appeared to have been assigned horses, and the army’s work-horses were stabled in a far larger enclosure out near what remained of the eastern pickets.

  ‘A Moon ago, this whole park was tents,’ Brexan said.

  ‘They don’t know what they’re doing,’ Sallax replied. ‘Malagon’s carriage hasn’t moved all Twinmoon. Most of the generals probably think he died in the explosion.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that be nice?’

  ‘They must be bickering about what to do by now.’

  ‘But surely it must be obvious to them that no major attack is coming?’ Brexan wondered. ‘Why stay dug in now that it’s so cold?’

  Sallax knelt to slip through a breach in a hedge that looked like some enterprising squaddies had enlarged a natural break to gain easier access to the street. ‘There was an assault on the lines not too long ago,’ he said. ‘At the docks Sallax heard them saying several thousand partisans threw themselves on the Malakasian lines, after word spread that the prince was en route from Pellia.’

  Brexan stopped. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes – why?’

  ‘You said Sallax.’

  ‘Never mind that.’ He thumped the side of his head. ‘I think I’m going to be just left of centre for a long time. I need to learn to live with it.’

  ‘What happened to the partisans?’ Brexan slipped through the hedge behind him.

  ‘Torn to ribbons, by Seron mostly, but there were rumours of worse: killer winds or rains, or something weird. It sounded bad.’

  ‘They were routed?’

  ‘I don’t know even if it went that well. I wasn’t terribly healthy at the time. I think I remember hearing that calling it “driven back” was too generous.’

  Brexan looked pale in the moonlight. ‘There were many more soldiers here then, though.’

  ‘True. Actually, I’m surprised. I expected we’d have to work our way past more than this crew to reach the palace tonight. I’m glad many of these divisions have moved on.’

  Brexan ducked behind a stack of hay bales near the first of the tent-camps they had to pass on their way to the palace’s southern gate. ‘More than this?’ she whispered. ‘I think there are soldiers here enough to capture, torture and hang us if we’re caught.’

  ‘We won’t be,’ Sallax said. ‘Jacrys can’t be planning on staying here much longer. Sallax hit him – there, I did it again – I hit him hard, but he’ll be recovered by now, and if we let him get back in the field, we’ll never find him again. He’s a ghost; you know that.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right.’ She craned her neck to see over the bales. No one moved inside the encampment. ‘Come on. Let’s go.’

  Skirting the silent tents, avoiding the token guard posted near the watch-fires, they ran along the tall hedge that enclosed the park and closed out the noise and crowds of the city beyond.

  ‘At least we’re already inside,’ Brexan said when they slipped behind an enormous old oak tree that looked as though it had been there long before King Remond started construction on his Orindale home.

  ‘I didn’t think they’d have much of a guard posted, especially at this aven.’ Sallax pointed towards the south entrance. ‘They’ll have guards at the gates, and again at the doors, but from here we may only have to pass one sentry.’

  ‘Because no one would be stupid enough to plan an assault on the palace that meant getting through the entire Malakasian Army first?’ Brexan’s voice rose with her anxiety.

  ‘Crafty and brave enough, you meant to say.’

  ‘That too.’

  ‘When we get up there, we have to take the guard out silently. If there are two, we’d better do it together. Remember to be quick and quiet.’

  ‘What if there are three ?’

  ‘Then we’re dead.’ Sallax crouched low to the ground and disappeared, soundless and deadly, into the shadows.

  He was wrong. There were several guards posted along the stone walk running between the south gate and the tent-camp. Young, tough-looking, the three men and two women paced back and forth, talking amiably. Some smoked pipes, while others ate from a canvas bag open on the ground between them, fruits or nuts, maybe. The south entrance to the palace was well secured: they were obviously on watch duty for the night; despite whatever disagreements Prince Malagon’s generals might be having, this group were taking their night watch seriously. None of them even looked tired.

  As Brexan watched them from behind a holly bush, she scowled. ‘We can’t go in here,’ she whispered.

  ‘That window near the back,’
Sallax answered, ‘that may be our only chance. We can worry about getting out once we’re inside.’

  ‘This is insane,’ Brexan said. ‘There has to be another way.’

  ‘We’ll be fine. This is the hard part. No one will expect us to be inside, because no one can get in. Once we’re in, we’ll be able to move about easily.’ He reached over and squeezed her shoulder. ‘Trust me.’

  Brexan stifled a giggle. ‘We’re going to die.’

  ‘Someday, and far from here.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘As absurd a request as that is, I will grant it.’ He placed a hand over his heart, ‘I promise.’

  ‘How do we get in the window—? Stay put,’ Brexan said suddenly. ‘I have an idea.’ Without waiting for him to answer, she slipped away.

  Sallax waited, straining to see back the way they had come. Save for the watch-fires, spaced unevenly where islands of tents remained after the mass military exodus, the park was in darkness. He could see no movement, and he couldn’t find Brexan in any of the shadows. ‘She has learned to vanish when she needs to,’ he said to himself. ‘A very talented spy.’

  Soon Sallax began to grow uneasy. He had just about decided to go back and look for his wayward partner when he thought he saw a glow brighten the near side of the park, behind the first row of tents. He thought perhaps his eyes were fooling him, too much straining to see things that weren’t really there, and he shook his head and turned back to trying to work out a path between the sleeping soldiers – then Brexan was beside him.

  ‘Great whores, but you scared me,’ he whispered, certain the hammering of his heart was loud enough to wake the entire camp.

  Brexan grabbed his wrist. ‘Back to the holly bush, quickly,’ she ordered.

  Sallax didn’t argue, but followed her silently back to their vantage point. He looked at Brexan expectantly.

  ‘Just another moment now,’ she whispered.

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Hopefully, I managed to get us inside. The last sentry we passed, I think that’s him over there; he left his post back near that first row of tents to come up here and eat whatever that stuff is they’re gobbling down. He left that near patch of tents unguarded.’ Brexan looked back over her shoulder.

  Sallax saw it now, an orange glow, only a few paces from where they lay nearly face down in the snow and mud. ‘You started a fire?’

  ‘I had a taper in my pack. I was worried that it might be dark when we got inside the palace. I went for one of the big tents,’ Brexan whispered, keeping as low to the ground as she could. ‘I tried to make it look like an accident—’

  She was cut off by the first of many shouts from inside the tent; pandemonium followed. Soon the entire encampment was alive with soldiers rushing here and there, some carrying water and others simply moving about, uncertain what was happening and whether they should put out the fire or prepare for battle.

  Is it an attack?

  Where are they?

  Partisans?

  The fire, fools, the fire!

  Over here, we need water over here!

  The cries overlapped, creating a nearly incoherent wall of noise. Sallax watched, enjoying the fiery carnage, especially when the big tent finally toppled and ignited its neighbour. ‘You got two.’ He elbowed Brexan in the ribs, but the young woman ignored him; her attention was focused on the guards posted beside the south gate. Three had already dashed back into the camp to assist their comrades.

  ‘Two more to go,’ she said to herself. ‘Just another moment—’ She rose up on her elbows. ‘Now,’ her voice was harsh, ‘let’s go.’

  Sallax was surprised when Brexan stood up and began running towards the palace gate. An iron fence, rusted nearly through, separated them from the stone archway and the shadowed doors beyond. If they could get inside the gate, the darkness beneath the arch would hide them until they determined if the door was unlocked, or if they had to try the window near the back of the building. Without slowing, Brexan pushed on the gate with all her strength, praying it wouldn’t creak and give them away – but it did grate, a long, whining squeal that made Sallax hold his breath. ‘Pissing demons, Brexan, stop!’ he whispered. ‘We don’t have to fit a grettan pack through here, you know.’

  She stopped pushing, let him step through and then closed the gate, clenching her teeth at the piercing creak that rent the night and cried out for them to be captured and hanged right then and there. ‘Sorry,’ she muttered.

  ‘No matter,’ he said, ‘none of them heard it. Look at them, scurrying about like mice!’ Some fought the burgeoning fire, while others brandished weapons and crept warily from shrub to shrub. ‘We’ll have to stay inside until all this quietens down again,’ he said.

  ‘We have about an aven before dawn,’ Brexan said. ‘That should be enough time.’

  ‘Let’s hope no one is posted inside the door.’ Sallax moved past her.

  ‘Why would there be with five standing sentry out here?’

  ‘To ruin my night.’

  ‘Try the latch,’ Brexan forced herself to whisper.

  Silence. Then—

  ‘It’s unlocked, thank all the gods of the Northern Forest.’ Sallax pulled the door open a crack and slipped through. Brexan followed. No one guarded the foyer.

  They could see five smoothly worn stone steps leading to a landing and a second door, but there were no windows and when Sallax pulled the door closed behind them, they were left in total darkness. He felt his way up the steps and across the landing. ‘This is unlocked as well.’

  A leather strap threaded through the door released the latch with a click! that echoed through the chamber. Brexan held her breath, waiting to hear the sound of boots clacking on the floor as guards came to investigate the noise.

  Nothing.

  Sallax opened the door just far enough for them to slip through into a long chamber with high buttressed ceilings and wooden support beams. The smooth floor was carpeted in places with the remnants of old rugs and tapestries the Barstag family had imported from Praga, though not nearly enough of them to mask the sound of two intruders moving through the hall. A lone torch burned in a sconce at the base of a stairwell.

  ‘That must lead up to the south wing,’ he breathed into Brexan’s ear.

  ‘Where Jacrys is staying,’ she answered.

  ‘It’s a good place to start looking.’

  ‘How are we going to get out of here afterwards?’

  ‘I’m working on it.’ He was already creeping on tiptoe towards the pool of light and the stairs to the upper floors of the south wing.

  The wide stone stairs, like the main floor, were polished smooth from use, carpeted down the middle with a thin layer of woven wool. Brexan kept to the carpeted pathway, imagining generations of King Remond’s descendants walking up and down this same ribbon of fabric.

  At the first landing a torch illuminated a few paces in either direction along a corridor lined with wooden doors. Sallax mimed soldiers sleeping in awkward gestures and Brexan nodded. Anything they did to call attention to themselves meant they would have to make their way down through a full platoon of groggy, upset soldiers. As if reading their minds, one of the far doors opened, and a half-dressed young man emerged carrying a chamber-pot.

  They fell back into the shadows, watching as the soldier walked to a window at the end of the hall, opened it with a shoulder and emptied the pot into the shrubbery below. As soon as he disappeared back into his room, Sallax turned the corner and started up the next flight of stairs, which narrowed into darkness.

  Uneasy at the sight of the narrow passageway, Brexan slipped back to the landing and lit her taper from the torch; it wasn’t much light, but it was better than nothing. Sallax nodded thanks and gestured that she lead the way upstairs.

  As Brexan sidled past, she heard him slip his knife from its sheath. Sallax wore a rapier, compliments of Carpello, but that remained in its scabbard for the moment. Neither of them were keen on a sword-fi
ght with Jacrys, who was obviously well trained with blade. They would be quite content just to knife the spy in his sleep, if only they could find him without waking the entire residence.

  Brexan felt her pulse begin to throb in her temples. She had been nervous coming through the Malakasian encampment, nervous enough to make a potentially costly mistake with the wrought-iron gate, and although they’d been lucky, her failure to think of the rusty hinges haunted her. How had she been so stupid? Were her nerves clogging up her brain? She was desperately worried that she might be overlooking something lethal, right now.

  She couldn’t hear anything above her heartbeat; she hoped Sallax wasn’t whispering anything to her. Even though he was just a pace behind, she was certain this was the loneliest she had ever felt. Despite the chill, Brexan started to sweat.

  She turned the corner at the next landing and started up what she hoped was the final set of stairs. Ahead, she could see light from another torch illuminating a tiny landing, just wide enough for two or three people to stand together, with a wooden door at the back. Brexan hoped it led into Jacrys’ quarters.

  She couldn’t see the torch, but assumed it was suspended above the stairwell – until she heard the sound of a wooden chair sliding across the floor above. Oh gods, a sentry! She held her breath; every muscle in her body was poised to take her back, but instead of bolting for the lower level, she stood frozen, paralysed by fear.

  ‘Who’s there? Who is that?’ The man had obviously been drowsing at his post and was fighting to sound official. The yawn ruined the effect.

  Think of something. Think of something. Think of something. She opened her mouth, but nothing emerged, she couldn’t even gasp with any authority.

  Then she felt Sallax reach for her, his hand firmly on her back. His touch calmed her enough that she was able to draw a stabilising breath.

  ‘Who is that?’

  The torchlight flickered and the ancient sconce creaked as the sentry withdrew the burning bundle and brandished it down the stairwell.