by Dave Duncan
As he started up the stairs, another window exploded and another missile shattered flagstones and ricocheted into a fireplace. Paintings and stag heads tumbled from the walls. A ballista was not accurate enough and could not be rewound fast enough, so this was conjury at work. The Vamky equivalent of Chivial’s Destroyer General was assaulting Donehof. A trumpet blew outside. This was no sneak attack.
The door to the women’s room stood open and Ranter was in there, shouting. Other voices were raised in the corridor, and footsteps drummed overhead. Ranter came out with a bundle of cloaks over his arm. Ringwood told him what he had seen. The trumpet blew again, fainter here.
“Dogs?” Ranter said. “Guards?”
There had been no barking. “Dead, I think. Or chained up. We’ve been betrayed, brother.”
Lights showed in the corridor as doors flew open and men stumbled out. Count János appeared, roaring furiously, clutching a naked sword and almost naked himself, seemingly clad only in boots and a fur cloak. Then Max’s great bulk materialized out of the shadows, shouting orders.
Johanna and True were next, dressed but unfastened, trailing laces. The Blades wrapped cloaks around them and shepherded them downstairs within a torrent of János’s guards, a mob of half-dressed, sword-waving maniacs. Somewhere beyond the shattered windows someone was bellowing through a speaking trumpet. The words were indistinguishable, but Ringwood could guess that the terms offered would start with the surrender of the Duchess—perhaps not by name. “Women and children” would suffice. There was one person who must not be allowed near the state wedding and enthronement.
Crossbows and halberds had mysteriously appeared. János climbed onto a table and began screaming orders. He probably had a nasty hangover, but he knew what he wanted—everyone to assemble here in the great hall, around the fireplace, and lots of light.
Ringwood worked it out and understood. “Quick!” he said. “This way.”
“No!” Johanna protested. “The Count wants us to stay—”
“This way!” Ringwood grabbed her arm and dragged. “You never argue with your Blades, you hear me?” (Not even a Blade who had never finished training and made mistakes?) He ran his shocked ward into the corridors that led to the back of the house, looking back only to confirm that True and Ranter were following. They had only one light between the four of them, but he led them through the kitchens to the pantry where he had set up his stock of candles and lanterns.
“Light!” he said. “We must have lots of lights, too.”
“Just what do you think—” the Duchess began.
“Quiet!” He leaned close, so they were eye to eye. “Do not speak a word! János is a traitor and there are killers out there looking for you. Say nothing and do exactly what I say.” Johanna recoiled in amazement. True grinned at him as if this were great fun. Ranter was lighting lanterns, not arguing at all.
They were all depending on Sir Ringwood of the Blades to keep them alive, and so far he had failed their trust miserably. He had better do better this time, or he would never get another chance.
He placed himself by the door, keeping it open a crack so he could see along to the other door, the cellar door. He wasn’t totally blocking the light behind him, but the Count would certainly bring lights with him, and would probably not notice the knife-edge of brightness coming from this door.
Ranter whispered, “Who’s attacking?”
“Vamky,” Ringwood answered, just as softly. No one else would be using military conjuration on that scale.
“And whose side is János on?”
“His own. He’s Vamky, too, but this is a double-cross.”
Another impact shook the house. Muffled battle noises from the great hall suggested the attackers were starting to move in, so if János was planning what Ringwood thought he was, he would have to move soon.
And he did. Two voices arguing came first. The darkness of the corridor began to brighten, slowly at first, then suddenly, as the source of the light turned a corner.
Ringwood pushed the door to and turned to smile encouragingly at the others’ frightened faces. He said “Draw!” and Ranter blinked in surprise at seeing Invincible in his hand, as if she had jumped there all on her own.
The argument went past and ended. The Count had won, of course. Ringwood opened the door just enough to peer out with one eye. They were not opening the back door, which he had expected them to do first. Max was standing in front of it, a lantern in each hand, two more at his feet, while the massive, low slung János worked on the cellar door with a crowbar. Wood creaked and splintered.
“I wish I knew where Johanna and the Chivians went!” Max said.
“They can fend for themselves!” With a mighty heave, János snapped off the last of the bars. “Ready?” He jerked the door wide and at the same time moved backward to the safety of the lanterns. The shadowmen must have been packed in on the other side, because they came pouring out of the cellar like smoke.
“Stay where you are!” Bellman roared, pointing his sword at the would-be fugitive. His voice echoed through the barbican. “And dismount.” Drawing a real sword on horseback was strictly forbidden in Ironhall. The irrelevance of that thought made him want to giggle, and he realized he was balanced on a knife edge of panic. He drew deep breaths.
“Put up your sword!” said a voice from overhead. “Both of you dismount and move away from your horses.”
Bellman slid Bravado into the sheath on his saddle and dropped clumsily to the ground, almost falling. He hobbled to the far side of the barbican, feeling the usual illusion after a day on horseback that his legs had shrunk. Must be how Count János felt all the time.
Metal clattered, hinges squeaked, and a postern gate began swinging open. It was high enough and wide enough to admit a man on horseback, but the squad of men-at-arms who entered came on foot. They wore padded cotton armor and carried halberds with evil, shiny points. The gate closed behind them.
They took Bellman first, perhaps just because he was nearer, but hopefully because he was not the one who had triggered the alarm. Their leader consulted a card in his free hand.
“Password?”
“Spinning Wheel.”
“Signed by?”
“Cantor Samuil.”
“Cell?”
“White 5, D 21. And don’t bother asking me the date because I don’t remember exactly. Early in Fourthmoon.”
“Do you know the man you rode in with?”
“No. We met on the hill.”
“Then welcome back, brother. Excuse the delay.”
Was the man a “sir” or a “brother”? The badge on his helmet must denote his rank, but Bellman couldn’t read it. Fortunately his own rank was a mystery, because he was wearing no insignia. “It’s been that sort of day,” he said.
Without a backward glance, he led his horse to the postern, which opened to admit him. Almost certainly he and Radu would be reunited in adjoining dungeons before very long. Radu had briefed him for this disaster as well as he could, but he must have overlooked many, many things.
Beyond the barbican is the bailey and you ride over to the quartermaster’s store…to your right…
It didn’t look like a bailey and he was already dismounted, standing bewildered in an arcade where a few lanterns burned, shedding light on bare stonework and arches curtained by rain like shimmering white lace. The yard was out beyond that. How far did he have to go? Should he remount or lead his horse?
A man in an ankle-length white gown came running—an adolescent, face and scalp shaven. Hood down and white belt mean he’s a novice. Call him “Novice” or nothing at all.
“Sir!”
“Take her,” Bellman said. All he had to do then was follow. They went to the right, came to a big door with lantern light inside, obviously not a stable. He hoped it was the quartermaster’s, not the bakery or the apothecary’s. “Wait a minute!” He began to fumble at the saddlebags with frozen fingers.
“Sir! I will br
ing them for you.”
He could overrule a novice—assuming this was a novice and not some higher rank sent to watch over him. “I need something out of this one, is all. But I want that sword.” You can ask to keep the same sword. You’re allowed a favorite sword unless your commanding officer doesn’t like the look of it.
The novice said “Sir!” and opened the bag for him. “I will bring the sword, sir.”
“Do that.” Bellman lifted out the bulky wallet of lock picks. In Chivial a man could be hanged for owning those without good reason. The kid led the horse away. What sort of sadist made stablehands work in white gowns?
The hall was large and dim, rows of shelves visible at the back, open-fronted cubicles to the left. This was the right place. By the time he reached the nearest cubicle, two more novices were running to help.
“Sir. Towels, sir?”
About to begin by removing his helmet, Bellman recalled the rules about not showing faces and left it for last. Eager hands unfastened his cuirass and lifted a ton of steel off of him. If they noticed his trembling they would attribute it to the cold. It was a great joy to chafe himself with the rough towels.
He was handed a white gown. His sword was laid on the bench. “Sir. What color?”
What color what?
“Er, orange.” He donned the gown, removed his helmet, pulled the hood forward. “Oh…Novice! I need a lantern.”
If the powers were watching over him, he had just signed his own death warrant, but the lad Sirred him and ran. Obedience, obedience, obedience.
He accepted an orange sword belt and girded on Bravado, which he had certainly not misnamed. The sandals fit quite well. He remembered to keep his head lowered as he walked out of the cubicle and accepted a lantern, unlit. Carrying that in his left hand and the lock picks in his right, Senior Knight-brother Bellman strode out of the store to begin his hunt for the mysterious prisoner.
And nobody challenged him.
He found the start of the ramp Radu had described and took his time walking up it, letting his eyes grow accustomed to darkness again. There are seven hubs, roughly in two rows back from the entrance—Red, Green, White, Blue to the north, Yellow, Orange, Violet on the south, but they cross-connect. Mostly they do. They can have up to six levels. You go from one hub to another by a ramp, usually. And usually from one level to another by going across to another hub and back. Corridors are level. But it’s a lot less regular than I’ve just described.
He retrieved Johanna’s conjured locket from the wallet where he’d placed it, fastened the chain around his neck, and tucked the locket itself inside his gown. The face it gave him might or might not be instantly recognized around the monastery, but if he ran into trouble he would be able to change his appearance very rapidly.
Momentarily, something passed under the light far ahead. In a minute his heart started beating again, even faster than before. Two men were coming down toward him. They were armed, of course. If anyone asks you anything, just say you have your orders. That even goes for your hair. He needed to look behind him more than he had ever needed anything in his life. Two opponents might be manageable, but one against four or more was not worth the sweat.
They swished by him without looking up.
He continued shakily up the ramp to the next light. He ought to be in Red Hub now, but he did not stop to confirm that. He had a choice of one ramp up, two down, and several corridors, which were smaller and narrower. He chose the up ramp, hoping it would lead him to Green. It was steeper than the last one. At the top he walked a few paces along a corridor and stopped to wait.
Nobody came after him. A follower would have to stay close, very close, but there was no one. He ran his fingers gently over a door as Radu had described, and found “G 2, C 1,” which made sense. He headed for what he hoped would be White.
It wasn’t. It was Orange 4, which confused him. The only comforting thing about this labyrinth was that they would never find him before he starved to death. Next hub ought to be Violet 3.
It was White 3. He had a choice of two upward ramps.
Blue 4. Back to White 3 and try the other. Violet 4.
Now he understood why the brethren hid their dirty secrets on Blue 3—there was no Blue 3. He went back to White 3. Then Blue 4 again and a down ramp. Violet 3. Keep going…
Blue 3! Got it. Corridor H and Corridor K. No Corridor J. Playing hard to get. The maze was even less regular than Radu had said. H and K were dark, no speck of light at the far end. He was about to light his lantern from the wall lamp when he heard voices and light appeared at the far end of K.
He fled along H as fast as he dared go in the dark, trailing one hand on the wall, until he came to a dead end and stopped in panic. He had passed several doors. There were two beside him now, but he had no idea what lay behind them—harmless old books or insomniac knight-brothers. Lanterns turned the corner into Corridor H, shining on white gowns. He was just reaching for the nearest latch when they stopped and the first man opened a door.
He counted them going in—two brethren, Radu with his hands tied, four more brethren. The guards on the gate had been relieved of their prisoner, who was too important to be entrusted to low-ranks.
They had left the door ajar. Bellman sprinted. It was door Blue 3, K 1, and it led into an octogram with another door open at the far side. The outside of that one was numbered B 3, J 5. Perhaps this maze was a smartness test for novices. He saw the last of the escort vanish into what he assumed was the fake broom cupboard, opened B 3, J 6, opposite, and found the octogram Radu had mentioned, dark and empty. He left his lantern there, but kept the wallet of lock picks. Hoping he would be safe enough following the brethren as long as he could keep their lights in view, he started down the stairs.
He reached the hub at the bottom without breaking his neck, but then he was in pitch darkness. This would be Blue Level 2. He tried to remember Radu’s story—another stair-way and several corridors? He found the stair the hard way, wrenching an ankle but saving himself before he pitched headlong. He thought he could hear voices now, so he worked his way down to a landing, found a turn. From there he saw light, filtering around another corner.
Just as it had been described, the second flight descended to a barred gate, which presently stood open, and the room beyond it was so bright that Bellman hesitated to go any closer. He could hear voices beyond, many voices, but he could not make out the words. Six guards had delivered Radu, and the other prisoner would not have been left unattended. There might be a dozen brethren down there, all warriors trained to use the swords they bore. Even a Durendal would not take on those odds. And if anyone else came to inspect the spy, Bellman would be trapped with nowhere to go.
He retraced his steps to Level Two and explored the hub, confirming the two stairs and locating three corridors. He walked along one until he thought he would be invisible from the stairs, then flopped down and leaned back against the cold stonework. Exhaustion sifted over him and engulfed him like a wagonload of sand.
How many hours until the monastery awoke to a new day? People would come trooping along this corridor and find an intruder snoring on the floor. That would certainly attract suspicion. He didn’t think he could stay awake any longer.
To sleep was to die. He dragged himself upright and began staggering up and down the corridor just to stay awake. His whole body ached and quivered with fatigue. Physical exhaustion he could deal with, for about another hour maybe, but he needed his wits now as he had never needed them before, and he knew they were failing. If he had Radu with him they could find a safe place to rest, keep watch by turns, find food and drink to sustain them—and that thought gave him a raging thirst. By himself he was close to helpless as long as Blue 1 A was held by so many brethren.
Voices and lights…men coming up the stairs…grumbling as if their sleep had been broken for no real purpose…carrying on up to Level 3, not noticing the watcher in the dark. Six of them. Silence and darkness returned. Radu remained bel
ow with however many guards had been there before. On the night he had discovered the prisoner there had been at least four, possibly more. When no one else appeared, Bellman went to the stairs and started down.
The Count and seneschal were well illuminated and hidden behind the flap of the open cellar door. Ringwood, similarly, had only one eye showing and even more light behind him. The walking dead ignored them all and went scuffling and shuffling along the corridor in search of easier prey. Solid and lethal in the near darkness, they emitted foul odors of corruption. There were more than a score of them, some bearing weapons or tools, a few clad in antique armor, others ragged or almost naked, and even a couple of women. Many showed death wounds horrible enough to turn Ringwood’s stomach.
“That must be all,” the Count said, emerging. “No, wait. I can hear something else coming.”
“Leave it! Why bother?” Max demanded.
“Because I want them all out and then I’m going to shut the door so they can’t find their way back in. Daylight kills them, or didn’t you know that?”
“This is a terrible thing you have done!”
“I am defending my house!” János roared. “Those brigands attack me by night, without warning? Smash my property, slay my dogs, my guards—”
“You don’t know that!”
“Then why did I get no warning? Serves them right. Listen! It’s started.”
Distant screams echoed faintly through the mansion as the attackers discovered their peril. However perverted the Count’s strategy, Ringwood had to admit that it was worthy of the Brotherhood. János had ordered his own people into a well-lit area and loosed the shadowmen on the attackers, who were outside in the darkness of this especially black night. The cellar of death had never been an escape route, only a secret defense.
“Come, then!” Max said. “We must make sure people don’t panic. And we must find the Schale woman and the Chivians.”
“Why bother? Dead is dead.”
“Not always!” Ringwood threw the door open and emerged with Bad News in his hand. Ranter was at his back and the corridor grew brighter as the women followed with more lanterns.