Unlike the night she killed Geldon, Satine was dressed in peasant garb. She wore a short tunic, brown breeches, and a pair of very worn knee boots—all purchased that morning at a secondhand shop. A battered leather belt was cinched around her middle. She wore no hat; her dark braid was tucked inside the neck of her tunic. Except for a single hip dagger, she carried no weapons. She felt naked without them, but for her plan to work, she had to appear as one of the innocent citizenry in all respects.
She had wound white bandages spotted with blood around both her left forearm and her right thigh. The stray dog she had killed earlier that day had gone quietly, and it was his blood, rather than her own, that adorned her bandages.
She reached around to the leather bag slung across her back and felt for the small grappling hook. It came out easily, along with the black knotted line tied to it. After slowly coiling the line, she laid the neat circle of rope by her side. Using both hands, she quietly snapped open the three-pronged hook and laid it alongside the rope. Then she looked back to the wall.
As expected, the two warriors were still marching their mind-numbing drill. She would give them two more passes, she decided, and then she would make for the wall. She waited patiently, her heart hammering in her chest and her muscles coiled and ready.
The warriors approached again, and then turned away. Reaching out for the handle of the grappling hook, she waited. She coiled the free end of the rope around her left hand.
Again the warriors came. Once she left the security of the bushes, there was no going back. As the warriors approached one another for the final time, she started counting.
One.
The moment the warriors turned and started back, she left the bushes. She ran lightly but quickly, her boots hardly making a sound as she raced for the wall. At the same time she began to swing the hook, letting the line out bit by bit as she went. When she was just over halfway there she sent the hook flying, and she prayed.
Ten.
Her throw was perfect. The hook caught securely to the top of the wall with barely a sound. To make sure of its purchase she gave it a sharp yank, and it held. Bracing her feet against the wall, she began her climb upward, hand over hand against the knots in the rope. Using every ounce of skill and strength she possessed, she made her way quickly, like a spider.
Twenty-six.
The height of the wall seemed greater now that she was upon it, and the rope began burning her naked palms. The climb was tougher than she had envisioned, and her time was running out.
Thirty-four.
Scrambling as fast as she could, she finally neared the top. The last few knots dug viciously into her hands, and the sweat burned her eyes.
Thirty-six.
With a final heave she lifted herself atop the wall. But the knotted rope still dangled in plain sight, its end swinging gently in the wind.
Thirty-eight.
She reached down and gave the line a silent snap. The end obeyed, and flew up to reach her. She grabbed it with one hand and quickly pulled the line up. Then she lay as still as death on top of the dirty wall.
Forty.
The pacing warriors met in the center, turned, and then walked away again.
Closing her eyes, Satine sighed with relief. But this was no time to tarry. She lifted the hook free of the wall and turned it around to secure it against the other side. She took a moment to look down. There was no one about. She lowered the rope, then started down.
When she reached the inner ward of the palace, she snapped the rope again and lifted the hook free. It fell securely into her outstretched hand.
She closed the prongs of the hook and rewound the line. She removed the leather bag from across her back, taking out several small items, which she placed into her tunic. She then returned the hook and line to the bag and closed it.
With her dagger, she dug a shallow hole and buried the bag. If her plan worked, she wouldn’t need it again. Replacing the dagger in its thigh sheath, she pulled Bratach’s map from between her breasts. Looking around, she verified her position.
Hundreds of fires cheerfully burned before the tents of the sleeping wounded. Even at this time of night, many of the palace windows were lit from within. Minion guards patrolled among the tents, but they now held little fear for her. After all, she was no more than one of the hundreds of other wounded citizens who had yet to leave the security of the palace.
She pulled her braid free. Mindful of her pretended wounds, the Gray Fox walked out onto the palace grounds with an exaggerated limp.
The manicured grass was wet beneath her feet; the crisp evening air smelled pleasantly of the smoke rising from the campfires. A moon had emerged from behind the clouds. Satine was surprised by how many people still milled about at this hour. Yet another advantage, she thought. The larger the crowd, the easier it would be to become lost in the scene.
As she walked among them, she smiled and nodded. An elderly man of about eighty Seasons of New Life offered her a mug of warm ale and a seat beside him before the warmth of his fire. He wore a blood-soaked bandage around his head, and his creased face showed the creeping fatigue of his years. Satine smiled and graciously begged off, saying that she had no wish to disturb his sleeping family. Nodding, he bid her on her way.
After strolling between the tents for a time, she found a small clearing and stopped to look across the ward to the drawbridge. As she expected, the massive wooden gate was raised and locked. Several Minions stood guard beside it.
Should more of the wounded arrive, the warriors would of course lower the bridge to allow them entrance. Otherwise, during the night the bridge would remain raised in the interests of security—especially with the wizards away. Her timing couldn’t have been better. Smiling to herself, she changed direction and walked toward the castle.
She had heard that much of the great structure’s interior always remained lit at night. Given the large number of wounded still being tended inside, she was sure that it was illuminated even more than usual. Walking up the granite steps, she saw that the entire place seemed much more like some huge hospital than it did a royal dwelling. She crossed the giant patio, then entered the Chamber of Supplication.
The beds of the wounded filled the checkerboard floor, the hall having been reclaimed as a healing ward soon after the prince had given his speech to the citizens. She smiled briefly to herself. Bratach’s suggestion that she attend had been invaluable. She continued on between the beds.
Minion healers, the white feather emblazoned upon their body armor, tended the wounded. The place smelled of blood, antiseptic, and freshly bleached linen. Acolytes of the Redoubt helped the healers, the azure glow of the craft sometimes surrounding the beds and the victims lying upon them. Standing torches and wall sconces threw flickering light across the walls, creating magnified shadow vignettes of the ongoing pain and suffering. Low moans and the urgent orders of the Minion healers and the acolytes rose into the air.
To Satine’s relief, no one took any particular notice of her as she made her way among the beds. When she reached the far wall of the room she walked out into a long hallway. “Twenty more paces and you will see an alcove,” Bratach had told her. “Stop there to consult your map.”
She continued on, the crowds thinning as she went. The farther she proceeded into the castle unescorted, the more likely she was to be questioned by an acolyte or a Minion guard. She understood perfectly why Bratach had not told her the name of his confederate here. Should she be captured and later forced to talk by the wizards’ use of the craft, he would lose only one, not two valuable allies.
Soon the alcove loomed. She looked up and down the length of the hall, then stepped in. The arched niche was fairly shallow and didn’t provide much cover, but she wouldn’t need to be in it for long. An oil sconce attached to the wall overhead granted her a small amount of light. Just below it hung an oil portrait of
the prince, presumably painted during his younger, happier days. She snorted a soft, derisive laugh down her nose as she again removed the map from its hiding place.
After another hundred paces or so, she would take the hallway on the left, which led to the sleeping quarters. She would need the third door on the right.
She put her map away and peered out into the hallway. Satisfied that no one was near enough to concern her, she strode down the hall.
That was when she heard the crisp strikes of boot heels. Minion boot heels—she was sure of it. Looking around, she saw no place to hide.
Because surprise would be on her side, she might be able to kill them before they could react—except that the only real weapon she carried was her dagger; the items in her pockets needed to be saved for use on her target. Besides, if she killed them, their bodies would be evidence that an intruder had been in the palace. She couldn’t afford that. She would simply have to try and bluff her way past them.
Then she remembered something she had seen on the map. She took it out, tore away a small section, and hid the rest away. Taking a deep breath, she walked on.
When the patrolling warriors came around the corner, she literally walked into them. Assuming a look of astonishment she held up her hands in a gesture of surrender.
“What are you doing here?” one of the guards growled. “This area is off-limits to the general populace.”
He was especially tall, even for a Minion, and he was glaring at her. The other warrior had red hair, and his gaze was no less suspicious.
Satine quickly shifted her expression from one of astonishment to that of apology. “I’m here on behalf of Sister Katherine,” she said, desperately hoping that her ruse would work. “I was walking through the Chamber of Supplication when she asked me to fetch more linen and to tear it into bandages,” she went on. “They need them immediately, and they cannot spare a healer to fetch them. I was glad to help.”
Holding up the section of map, she gestured at it. “She drew me this map, but I think I might have gotten lost anyway,” she added anxiously.
Giving them no time to think, she pointed urgently down the hall. “She told me that there was another linen closet, a little farther down.” Without asking permission, she began limping away. “It’s this way, is it not?” she demanded, as she brazenly kept on going.
The taller warrior turned to look at his companion. He shook his head.
“There must have been another influx of wounded,” he said. “The healers have reached the point where they need extra help.”
Seizing the initiative, Satine put a worried look on her face as she continued to limp down the hall. “You’re holding me up!” she fairly shouted at them. “People are bleeding to death! Now, is the linen closet down this way or not?”
The tall warrior nodded. “It’s near the next corner. The door should be unlocked. But be quick about it, woman.”
With a wave, Satine turned her back to them and hurried down the hall. Only when the sound of the warriors’ boot heels became distant enough did she finally turn around and look. The patrolling warriors were rounding the next corner, moving out of sight.
Stopping for a moment, Satine leaned up against the cool marble wall. She closed her eyes and did her best to calm her heartbeat. Nearly there, she thought. Hiding the torn map again, she walked on.
The corner she was looking for was just ahead. She slowed her pace, rounded the corner, and crept silently to the third door on the right. She placed her ear to the door. Silence.
She dropped to the floor, turned her head, and peered through the narrow gap under the door. Only moonlight illuminated the room.
She stood, reached into a pocket, and produced a pair of narrow iron tools, each about as long as her hand. One had a flat end, the other a hook. Slipping them both into the keyhole, she worked them carefully back and forth until she heard the lock quietly turn over. She placed the tools back into her pocket.
After checking to make sure she was still alone, she grasped the gold, cantilevered handle and gave it a turn. She gently pushed open the door. To her great relief, the hinges did not creak. She silently stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.
Moonlight drifted in through the open stained glass windows. The figure in the four-poster bed lay unmoving. Satine quietly crept to stand by the side of the bed. Identifying the face in the moonlight, she smiled.
From her pockets, she produced one of the vials she had purchased from Reznik and a short line of string with a small, lead plumb bob in the shape of a teardrop tied to one end.
She held the vial to the moonlight and gave it a gentle shake. The violet fluid and the magenta swirls blended quickly.
She carefully opened the vial. Her nose picked up the scent of the Eutracian bees’ honey she had ordered the fluid laced with. Unrolling the line, she let the plumb bob drop to a point directly over the victim’s lips. She placed the open end of the vial near the other end of the string, and very carefully poured a small amount of the fluid onto it. As the violet liquid silently crept its way down the string, she watched and waited.
Soon the fluid gathered on the bob and started to form a perfect droplet. Holding the line steady, she watched the droplet grow in size until it finally became too large to sustain itself. It fell directly onto the victim’s lips, not an iota of it wasted.
The sleeping person scowled then unconsciously licked the sweet poison. Another drop soon followed. Again it was automatically licked into the waiting mouth.
Satine closed the vial and silently returned both it and the plumb line to her pockets. She made her way to the door, then turned around to take a final look at the sleeping figure in the bed. Her victim stirred, then lay still.
Satine opened the door and peered out. No one was about. She slipped out and headed back the way she had come.
Her limping walk back to the courtyard was uneventful. She did not see the warriors who had stopped her in the hallway, nor did she pause to speak to anyone else. Soon she was outside again threading her way between the tents of the wounded.
She looked at the sky. Dawn would arrive soon. There was still one more task to complete, and she would need to hurry.
As she casually limped back over to the remote section of wall by which she had arrived, she removed her dagger. Quickly she buried the plumb bob, the lock picks, and the deadly vial. After scraping the dirt back over the hole, she wiped her hands down the length of her trousers and limped back into the camp.
The drawbridge was still up, but she was not concerned. She knew that it was lowered each day at dawn to allow the wounded to pass in and out of the courtyard. The warriors would take little notice of someone who was mostly healed and wanting to be on her way.
As she wandered through the camp, she again came upon the old man who had spoken to her. He smiled, the creases in his face showing in the glow of the firelight.
Sitting down on the stump beside him, Satine smiled and told him that she was finally ready for that mug of warm ale.
CHAPTER XLVII
_____
HIS NAME WAS DAX. AT THIRTY-TWO SEASONS OF NEW LIFE he was relatively young to be a Minion officer. His bravery and skill in the aerial campaign against Nicholas’ hatchlings and the recent sea battles with Wulfgar’s demonslavers had quickly brought him to the attention of his superiors. With that had come a well-deserved promotion.
Now a captain, he had been honored when Ox selected him to command the warriors left behind at the base of the Tolenka Mountains. It was his task to observe the rampaging Orb of the Vigors and to send regular reports to the Conclave. Eager to make his mark, Dax took his first command seriously.
After the departure of Geldon and Ox, his first order had been to move the camp farther away from the newly created canyon. The intense heat lingering there had vastly accelerated the deterioration of the animal carcasses
that lay within. His greatest concern had been disease, but the rising stench alone was enough incentive to move. As it was, even from the relative security of their new campsite, he could sometimes detect the telltale odor of rotting flesh.
Near dawn, Dax stood up from his camp stool and slowly stretched his wings. He did not look like a typical Minion. Clean-shaven like commander Traax, he was fairer than most. His eyes were a rare light blue and he had light brown hair and wings. Although still unmarried, he hoped to one day take a mate and have children.
Rufio, his aide-de-camp, lay asleep at the edge of the campfire, an empty akulee jug by his feet. Twenty years Dax’s senior and possessing the battle scars to prove it, Rufio was a great bull of a warrior. He was nearly as large as Ox, and his loyalty was just as unshakable.
As the sun scratched its way up over the eastern horizon, the camp bugler sounded his horn and the troops woke up and exited their tents. Shortly, the usual sounds of grumbling and the smell of warm food began to greet Dax’s senses.
He suddenly noticed shadows passing over the grass. Looking up, he saw the night patrol returning. Dax picked up his dreggan and he secured the weapon’s baldric over one shoulder. After checking the blade to make sure it wouldn’t stick in its scabbard, he attached his returning wheel to his belt. Smiling, he gave Rufio’s meaty shoulder a short kick.
“Wake up! The patrol has returned.”
With a groan, Rufio rose up onto his elbows. Grimacing, he narrowed his dark eyes against the rising sun. Then he looked at the akulee jug and he shook his head regretfully.
Eager to speak with the leader of the patrol, Dax walked over to where the warriors would land. Rufio slowly stood to find his head still swimming. Stretching his muscles, he stiffly followed along.
The six exhausted warriors landed. Their wings drooped, and their bodies and faces were blackened with soot. It was all their leader could do to snap his heels together in the customary salute. They carried extinguished torches, which they unceremoniously dropped to the ground. Concern showed on the leader’s face.
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