Even in the poor light of the flickering torches, Alexander could see that Adriana's face was pale. “I'll check the workroom myself,” he said.
Adriana shook her head and gave a grateful, if wan, smile. “Quickly, if you can. I need to get back and report. His Righteousness will be furious that we've just learned of this."
Alexander took the torch from Gerder and wound his way through another curving passage, which ended in another sizable chamber. In one corner the top of a ladder protruded from a yawning hole. Alexander kept well away from the mineshaft as he counted the bodies strewn about the wreckage of tables and mining tools. He gazed about the carnage for a few moments, then rejoined Adriana and Gerder.
“If you two'll head out, I'll snuff the lanterns behind,” said Gerder. “My eyes are a bit better suited for the caves than yours."
“How could it be so long since the attack, yet the Emperor's advisors haven't realized something's amiss?” Alexander asked as he and Adriana passed through the ruined gate. They each avoided looking at the slain guards.
“The flyer was here to report any emergencies or significant findings,” Adriana said. “If he'd made it out, he could've returned to Hurst in twenty minutes. Other than that, we wanted as little traffic as possible between the city and the mine. It was the decision of the Emperor's advisors that the less attention this place drew, the better. In hindsight, we should've had the flyer reporting regularly."
“We'd best come up with a story on the ride back,” Alexander said. They reached the bend in the tunnel quickly; the exit seemed to take far less time than the entrance had. “We're best served if your peers think I'm ignorant of the mining team's purpose."
Adriana sighed. “I regret the need, Alexander, but if you—"
“I understand completely,” the Huntsman said. “Besides, I've got some personal motivation to keep my knowledge secret. I have an odd feeling that if anyone finds out how much I know I could wake up minus my head."
CHAPTER FOUR
Music and shouting poured from the windows of the Snarling Hound Inn. The large common room on the ground floor overflowed with customers of all races. Gnomes perched on high stools next to the bar, while a group of dwarves mixed freely with the human patrons. A pair of ogres sat on reinforced benches, hunched over a table far too small for their massive, misshapen bodies. They argued with one another in their guttural tongue and drank from huge mugs. The other customers kept a wary eye on them, some muttering unhappily about their presence. Two dwarves and a man played fast-paced music from a platform set before the empty fireplace. A slender young woman danced and whirled before them. Copper coins littered the stage beneath her feet. Serving girls threaded their way through the crowd, delivering food and pouring ale from clay pitchers. They paid particular attention to the party next to the band. When the Emperor's younger son was kept happy, the evening's profit often surpassed the entire remainder of the week.
“We need more beer!” shouted Prince Darien. Feet propped on a table, he leaned back in his chair and spread his arms wide above his head, as if delivering an imperial proclamation. The chair threatened to fall over and spill his slender frame to the floor, but a strong, short arm reached out and steadied it. The prince laughed and brushed long, blond hair away from his face. He tucked a stray lock back under his wide, golden coronet.
Darien's handsome, chiseled features betrayed the first signs of softening from his over-consumption of mead and ale. His pale skin currently bore the red flush of tonight's contribution to his chronic drunkenness. Wet stains marked the front of his velvet doublet. A heavily jeweled dagger and matching sword hung from his belt, but the belt itself was skewed around the young man's waist so that the longer blade entangled his legs. Darien dropped his feet to the floor and twisted helplessly against the impeding weapon, raising his half-filled mug fast enough that the remaining ale sloshed out onto the table and his trousers.
“More beer, damn you!” shouted the prince.
Two serving girls nearly tripped over one another in their haste to replenish Darien's mug. The cuff of his sleeve was soaked and gave off the pungent odor of too many alcohols mixed together. The prince nudged the figure seated next to him. It was a dwarf, the one who'd righted Darien's chair.
“That's how you get service when you're royalty, Stamovan,” the prince explained. His words were slurred almost beyond comprehension, but the dwarf nodded enthusiastically.
Standing, the bodyguard reached only four and a half feet. His shoulders, however, spanned half that distance easily. Despite the warmth in the tavern, Stamovan wore a heavy chain mail shirt and thick leather boots. His hair was the color of dried blood and fell from beneath a metal cap in tight braids. Though a number of empty tankards sat on the table before him, the dwarf's narrow eyes were alert as they darted about the room and one hand never strayed far from the mace on his belt. He alternated between watching for potential threats and checking the positions of his men, who were spread throughout the crowd. Though it was common knowledge Prince Darien's only contribution to the city government was draining the treasury, he remained a member of the royal family and warranted guarding.
The prince staggered to his feet and solved the problem of the sword by unbuckling his belt. It fell to the floor, the jeweled hilts hitting with a heavy thud. One of his men passed behind them and retrieved the discarded weapons while the dwarf steadied his charge with a hand on Darien's back. The prince climbed onto his chair, raising both arms above his head to draw attention. The band stopped playing, and the noise level in the tavern lowered to a buzz.
“The next hour is on His Righteousness if she strips,” shouted Darien. He pointed to the dancer.
The tavern fell completely silent for a half-second, then a rain of copper coins fell upon the startled girl. She looked toward the bar, where a grizzled, pot-bellied man in a greasy apron was filling tankards from a keg. The bartender nodded curtly, and the band resumed at a fast pace. The girl hesitated for a moment, then shrugged and started dancing wildly. She spun and whirled, teasing the audience with glimpses of smooth flesh as her skirt flared and she lifted and dropped her blouse. The walls shook as the crowd roared with approval and mugs were hoisted in Darien's direction. The prince waved, and Stamovan gestured to one of his men. A bag of coins made its way to the bartender, and the girl's gauzy clothing began drifting out over the stage like errant clouds.
“How's that for rallying the troops?” asked Darien. Stamovan helped him down from his perch, but the prince remained standing for a better view of the stage. “I'd wager my blessed brother doesn't get a reaction like that when he orders his men on the march. How about it, Stamovan?"
“His Highness is truly a leader of men,” said the dwarf. He grinned, then stepped away from the prince as the bartender approached. Stamovan stood between the prince and the approaching man, forcing the bartender to remain more than an arm's length from the royal son. In the front of the room, the girl was nearly naked.
“Is His Highness enjoying the evening?” asked the barkeep. The cheers and whistles from the crowd nearly drowned out the query.
“Yes, yes,” said Darien absently, keeping his gaze fixed on the stage. “That's a fine daughter you have there, Morris. How old is she?"
“Seventeen,” said Morris. He wrung his hands together and added, “Far past old enough to make some man a good wife, Your Highness."
Stamovan chuckled, though he wasn't sure whether to credit the bartender with incredible bravado or unmatched stupidity.
“Or a concubine,” Darien shouted back.
Morris froze for a moment, then tossed the towel across his shoulder and backed away, bowing and stammering. “Anything His Highness wants just pass along with one of the girls. We've got a keg of the new Charlainian mead, fantastic stuff, I'll send a girl right out with it, of course."
Stamovan returned to his station next to the prince. “Groveling idiot,” said Darien.
“Aye, but he spawned a fine daugh
ter."
“I thought your tastes ran to shorter women?"
“She's short for your kind, sir."
Darien laughed heartily and raised his mug to the bodyguard, then downed the contents in one long draw. He clutched his stomach for a moment with his free hand, and Stamovan feared the ale was about to reappear on the table. Darien fought himself under control, however, and shouted triumphantly.
The band came to the end of their song and the patrons howled for more, while the completely unclothed girl scrambled to collect the small fortune at her feet. A fistfight broke out in one corner, apparently over possession of the dancer's blouse. Stamovan's men tightened their perimeter slightly, contracting toward the prince.
Opposite the prince's table, the crowd parted to allow a man through. A few patrons turned angrily as they were shouldered aside, but all bit back their anger at a glance from the hulking brute who made his way across the room. He stood close to seven feet, taller than any man in the room save the ogres in the corner.
Like Stamovan, he wore chain over his leather doublet and steel greaves on his legs. Even through the thick armor his muscles rippled visibly as he walked. One massive hand rested on the hilt of a long broadsword. The man's black hair was twisted into small braids, much like the dwarf's. His nose had obviously been broken many times, and one of his cheekbones actually lay at an angle asymmetrical to its opposite number. A golden clasp was his only ornamentation—it held closed a cloak of dark purple velvet. The outer side of the cloak, Stamovan knew, sported the golden lion emblem of Emperor Theodoric's personal guard.
As the man drew to a halt at Darien's table, the crowd collapsed back in on the tunnel he'd made. Still, the closest customers took care to leave the giant soldier plenty of room.
“Highness,” said the man. His voice was so deep it was more felt in the stomach than heard by the ears.
“Oh, yes, hello Sirgar,” said the prince. He dropped heavily into his chair, staring into space as his mug slipped from his fingers and rolled under the table. Stamovan stepped away carefully, knowing full well that the sudden collapse heralded either a puking fit or snores. Which it would be was completely up to chance.
“Good timing, Sirgar,” he said. He signaled to two of his men, who hurried around the table to lift the unconscious Darien.
“Prince Fenric wishes the presence of his brother,” said Sirgar. He watched the prince with flat, unblinking eyes.
“A good night for you, so far?” Stamovan asked.
Sirgar shrugged and alternated flexing and closing his fists. “Disappointing. The Sandlanders come in peace."
The dwarf laughed. “Aye, if there's a match for you in this town, it'd have to be one of them."
“Or you, little man."
The soldier grasping Darien's right arm sucked in his breath and nearly dropped the prince. Stamovan, however, merely laughed.
“You'd make a good dwarf, if you were only shorter, Sirgar."
Sirgar grunted and his mouth twitched, the closest approximation he'd make to a smile. A path cleared again as he spun and stomped from the tavern. Stamovan jerked his head toward the door and led the way around the table, followed by the men bearing the slack weight of their prince.
“Ay, Morris,” he called as the small procession made their way after Sirgar, “keep that daughter handy. His Highness may wish to come courting when he awakens!"
The bartender cringed and began to mumble a reply, but the dwarf and his charge were already gone.
* * * * *
The cool, slick walls of the airway seemed to close in tighter with every breath Kandys drew. She waited near the opening, watching the Sandlander storeroom silently. The Kandys of this dream remembered the previous day's experience vividly. With the grimoire tucked safely between her stomach and shirt, she'd lain in the tight passage for what seemed like eternity. Though she knew it was a dream, she dreaded returning to the storeroom and facing the strange Burning Man again.
Nothing moved below; the barrels and cloth sacks were undisturbed even by the sand mice that abounded inside the crag. Kandys wasn't fooled, however. She knew that the second she set foot on the storeroom floor the Sandlander would appear. Finally, she could stand the waiting no longer. With a quick push of her feet she shot from the vent, turning in the air to land in a crouch.
When she looked up, he was there. The red-skinned demon grinned at the thief's involuntary cry. Before the sound finished echoing around the chamber, Kandys was moving. She darted sideways, putting a stack of large barrels between herself and the Burning Man. A glimpse of red appeared between the containers and she reversed direction, rounding the barrels and heading for the exit. A hand clamped around her arm and stopped her dead, nearly wrenching the limb from her shoulder. She turned immediately and beat at her attacker, but her blows fell harmlessly on granite-like muscles. The Sandlander slammed Kandys against the stone wall and the breath rushed out of her lungs. He pinned her there with a hand on her neck.
“Now then, thief,” he said, “let's see your face."
Instead of compelling her to remove the hood, the Burning Man reached for it himself. Kandys kicked and fought, trying vainly to deflect the hand reaching for her face. Though she squeezed her eyes shut, the Burning Man's gaze bored into hers. Strong fingers found a grip on the face cloth.
In a last-ditch effort, Kandys grabbed the hood with both hands and tried to rip it loose from her attacker. The air returned to her lungs and she screamed as loud as she could.
The thief's howl still rang in her ears when she realized she'd awoken. Light from the streetlamp outside shone around the edges of the window shutters. She stumbled from the bed and into the tiny lavatory, barely making it to the water basin before her stomach emptied. Coughing, she leaned over the basin and held herself up by gripping an iron pipe the protruded from the wall. Five spots on her chest and neck burned where the Sandlander had held her fast. Kandys fought the urge to break into tears, choosing instead to pound on the side of the basin with her open palm. When the tirade was over she slumped weakly against the wall.
The acid taste in her mouth finally convinced her to move. She reached up and pulled a small lever, thanking the gods for gnomish ingenuity as a valve opened and the contents of the basin were washed away. A separate lever brought cool, clear water in, and Kandys rinsed out her mouth. She returned to the main room and dressed quickly. Though the door and window were both bolted, the small space felt suddenly unsafe, as if her apartment had become some sort of trap. She wondered what time it was and listened for a crier. None sounded, so she headed for the street, wanting to be anywhere away from her bed.
After a few minutes of mindless wandering, Kandys slipped into a darkened doorway and watched a giant soldier exit the Snarling Hound. He was followed by a group of not too subtle bodyguards—though they wore no uniforms, the men were too quiet and too heavily armed to be simple revelers. The unconscious fellow they carried looked familiar, though the dim streetlamps made for poor illumination. She waited, watching the dwarf behind the party turn and shout through the open door. He gave a manic laugh before catching up to the others, chain mail clinking with every step.
Kandys stepped away from her hiding place and hurried toward the Hound. She paused halfway across the street. Even with the door closed, the thief clearly heard the sounds of music and shouting. She shook her head in frustration. She wanted to sit, drink and relax unobtrusively. The Snarling Hound was obviously not the place for it tonight.
A flicker of motion from the opposite side of the street caught her eye. She caught just a glimpse of a pale face and a shifting of shadows as someone backed into a narrow alley. Kandys hurried across the street after him.
The walls lining the passage blocked the moonlight, allowing only slight illumination from the streetlamp. The reek of rotting garbage assaulted Kandys's nostrils. In a month or two the summer heat would make the odor unbearable, a sure deterrent to the average burglar. Beside a pile of broken crates,
a figure detached from the wall as she approached.
“It's a bad night for thieves,” said the man. His slight frame, just a bit taller than hers, was wrapped tightly in a black cloak. The garment seemed to swallow what little light reached the back of the alley, so that his head appeared to float disembodied.
“Hello, Sylvain. Does that mean you're no longer a thief?"
“Not this moment.” The head smiled and shook side to side. “Someone's riled the ire of His Righteousness, so I've chosen to merely observe tonight."
“Nice cloak. Taken to robbing wizards?"
Sylvain chuckled and a white hand appeared from beneath the cloak to stroke the tip of his mustache. The cuff of his sleeve was trimmed in gold and white. The dapper thief's penchant for expensive, well-tailored clothing was an endless source of amusement for Kandys.
“Not I. This was purchased legitimately. It was my good fortune to stumble upon the necessary funds in some sailor's pouch."
Both thieves laughed, though they kept their mirth to a low volume. Sylvain let the cloak fall open as he stepped forward and laced his arm through Kandys's. He led her deeper into the alley, then cut behind one of the buildings. Ahead, a dim glow marked the intersection of the alley with a larger street.
“There must be triple the standard number of flying squirrels up there,” he said. Kandys glanced upward, but nothing appeared in the narrow space between the roofs. “Also, the city watch is out in force. Rumor has it they're nosing about after the mastermind of some great heist. All in all, this is a good night for the intelligent thief to take a rest."
“Someone make off with the Emperor's crown?” asked Kandys. She hoped Sylvain didn't notice the waver in her voice.
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