Adam started to lift the chain over his head then hesitated. He regarded the amulet for a moment before casting his gaze about the workroom. Spying the empty hook next to the outer door, Adam dragged his chair over and stood on it to put the charm in place. When he got done he looked at Nikkolynda, who smiled.
“A very wise boy,” the wizard said. The frog croaked in agreement.
* * * * *
Alexander and Kandys entered the room at the Sign of the Raving Knight and bolted the door behind them. They'd collected his belongings from his original lodging and rented this one in the dead of night against the chance that the thief's pursuers had seen them together at Shipman's Plaza. Alexander had followed her through back alleys and side streets in the darkness, struggling to keep up with his nimble companion as she drifted through the darkness. When they'd arrived at the Raving Knight he was quite satisfied that no one could have trailed them from one inn to the other.
His shins ached from banging into discarded trash and crawling twice through the windows of abandoned buildings. He threw his extra clothes into the warped wardrobe and looked around the room, wondering if the same architect had planned every inn in Hurst. Like the previous, this room boasted a single bed, a small desk and a chair. A curtain separated the lavatory from the main room. Next to it, the door that was supposed to be attached to the wardrobe leaned against the wall.
“So,” Alexander said, “you were hired by an unknown party to steal a magic book from a Sandlander crag, with no help at all."
“Some help,” Kandys corrected him. “They gave me a generalized map of the crag layout and a description of the air tunnels I used to get into the grimoire room. Also, they knew which night the Burning Men would be celebrating and when the guard would be lightest."
“And the shroud,” Alexander said.
“Yes. I was told that without it the Sandlander magicians would know when the grimoire left the room. And they'd be able to find it within the caravan."
“I can't believe you pulled this off. I don't think I'd have the nerve to even try."
Kandys shrugged. “It was just like any other job. You can get killed here for stealing things, too."
“Why'd you come to me?"
“Because I don't know what to do. Adriana won't help me, and I can't get out of the city. The Sandlanders are looking for me, the City Guard's looking for me, and I can't trust anyone from Hurst. I'm sure there's a price out for me."
Alexander dropped into the chair and put his feet up on the windowsill. At Kandys's request, they'd gotten a room on the second floor. She sat on the bed, at the end, which put her out of sight of the window, he noticed. He considered moving over to sit next to her, then thought better of it. Instead, he reached out with his sheathed sword and closed one of the shutters, then dropped the sword on the small table.
“Okay, so your contact must've gotten his information from a Sandlander,” Alexander said. “Nobody else gets beyond the outer rooms of a crag, so it had to be a native."
“There's an exiled Sandlander here in town. He's been around for a few years, doing guard jobs and stuff like that."
“He was exiled? How do you know?"
“He wears an iron band around his neck. I heard that that's what they do to people they banish. If he tries to go back to his clan they'll execute him."
“Sounds like he's your mysterious employer,” said Alexander. “What about the Sandlanders camped outside the southern gate? I take it they're here to get their book back?"
“Yes.” Kandys bit her lip. “They've got a magician with them, and he found me.” She described the ordeal of the nightly dreams. “There are plenty of people in the city who can identify me, if they ask around."
“They've been asking around. I've been interviewing pawnbrokers and moneylenders all over town. Not getting a damned useful thing from them, but plenty've mentioned being questioned by Sandlanders. They must've gotten the Emperor to put the City Guard after you, too."
Kandys shook her head. “I don't think so."
“Um, how so? You do remember the soldiers chasing you this afternoon?"
“Yes, but I don't think it's the Guard. They had Prince Fenric's emblazon. Also, when the first bunch came to arrest me they were led by this horrible dwarf, Stamovan. He's Fenric's man, though he spends a lot of his time babysitting Prince Darien."
“I've seen him,” Alexander said, thinking back to the Theater of Giants. “But why's it strange that Stamovan would come to arrest you? Maybe Fenric's trying to help the Sandlanders."
“No. Stamovan wasn't really going to arrest me. He was there to kill me; he wasn't going to ask about the grimoire."
“How do you—?"
“I just know, all right? I could tell by the look in his eyes, the way he talked, the way he moved. Just like I can tell you don't believe me. I don't care what you think, Huntsman. If I hadn't gotten past him, that damned dwarf would've killed me. I'm going to change.” So saying, the thief snatched up the clothes she'd pilfered on their way to the inn and disappeared into the lavatory.
“I'm sorry,” Alexander said to the waving curtain. “I believe you. He didn't look like too pleasant a fellow when I saw him, either. But if he was ready to outright murder you, that must mean—"
“That he's involved in the theft of the grimoire.” She reappeared seconds later, clad in a thick cotton shift. Her still-damp clothes hit the floor in a ball at the foot of the bed. She slid a long dagger under the mattress so that the handle protruded slightly.
“I need to tell all this to Adriana,” Alexander said, shaking his head. He massaged his temples wearily. “She knows the ins and outs of the court; she'll be able to make more sense of this. Right now, though, I desperately need some rest.” He looked at Kandys, who perched on the edge of the bed with a wary look on her face.
“Do you want the bed or the chair?” the thief asked.
“We could—"
“I don't mind the chair.” Her face pinked slightly.
Alexander sighed. “No, please.” He gestured to the bed. She lay down immediately, dropping one arm over the edge such that her fingers rested on the dagger hilt. Within seconds she was asleep.
“I hate this city,” said Alexander quietly. He watched the thief sleep for a few minutes, entranced by the drying brown locks that framed her face. Even the thick fabric of the stolen shift did little to hide the curve of her body atop the blankets. He finally stood up and blew out the candle on the desk. He crossed the darkened room and lowered himself to the floor, back to the door with his sword close at hand. His body ached from the small bruises and scrapes he'd attained back in Shipman's Plaza, and the wooden floor helped little. After a few minutes he gave up on finding a comfortable position and lay on his back, listening to Kandys's rhythmic breathing until his own joined in.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The day after the spider's attack, Prince Darien held court at the Snarling Hound early in the afternoon. He wore a fine robe of spun blue silk, embroidered heavily with gold and silver thread. A gem-encrusted staff lay on the table before him, part of his impromptu costume for his celebration of the Imperial wizards’ victory.
By the third hour past noon, however, both the staff and the cause of the festivities were long forgotten by the celebrants. Beer, wine and ale flowed in a seemingly endless river in the inn's storeroom and two bands were crammed into the end of the common room, one relieving the other as they tired. The innkeeper was ecstatic, though his daughter was nowhere to be seen. Darien promised repeatedly in his drunken slur that the party would last through the night, and already the inn held far more than the practical limit of patrons.
In the eddies of revelers that flowed past the prince, Stamovan was an island of barely controlled anger. He'd been unable to foist this duty on someone else and was not looking forward to continuing into the evening, much less the later hours. The dwarf chafed to be searching for the thief. Though he had scores of men looking for her, he knew that with every passing hour the ch
ance of her slipping from the city increased.
“We need girls!” shouted Darien. “Stamovan, send a man out for girls. Let's not die without enjoying our final days!"
“Right away, Highness,” said Stamovan. He simply stood and glared about the room as the prince turned away, latest command already forgotten.
A reed-thin man dressed in torn pants and a filthy shirt gave Darien a largely toothless grin. “We don't die that easy, Highness,” he said, spraying spittle across the space between them. “Those Addamantians shot their best bolt, you know, and we're still here an’ drinkin'."
“And drinking!” Darien said, raising his mug. Half its contents sloshed over the edge and doused the other man's unkempt hair. A cheer arose from those closest.
“The mountain folk are with ya, Highness,” said a red-bearded dwarf with a cup in each hand. “We got no friends ‘mongst spider lovers, eh, friend?” He nudged Stamovan heartily with his elbow then froze before the malevolent stare he received in reply.
“If they fight like ole Stam, we'll take ’em all,” said Darien. “Hell, with enough of those, my brother won't even need to send you men out to your deaths."
More cheers, accompanied by laughter. Stamovan tensed as someone brushed behind him, but it was only the innkeeper with a freshly opened bottle of wine. The man topped off Darien's mug with it, heedless of what the vessel already held. Darien didn't seem to mind. He drained the contents and belched loudly, to the delight of his fellow patrons. The innkeeper beamed as though he'd discovered a latent talent.
“Will it really be war, Your Highness?” Though the question was posed in a relatively quiet voice, the volume in Darien's immediate area dropped considerably as the revelers strained to hear the answer. When the prince spoke, he sounded surprisingly sober.
“It won't necessarily be war. We may yet stay huddled behind our walls, hidden in our homes, hoping for a change of heart by our bastard neighbors. It's quite possible that the Baron of Addamantia will come to his senses and send an official apology, perhaps carried by a giant dove or accompanied by flowers the size of a man."
A few members of Darien's audience giggled, but they were quickly shushed by their friends. Nearly the entire room had fallen silent as those in the back strained to hear the prince speak.
“Perhaps their allies in Forthaven will lose heart, and the Baron will quail with no one to guard his fat back. Or maybe the Western Sea will reach out and drag Addamantia to its depths, or the sky'll rain lightning on the Addamantian troops as they march north. Perhaps some exotic disease from the elf-ridden marshlands will drift forth on the winds, rotting the Addamantians’ bodies until only their skeletons stagger on to Hurst. Perhaps a miracle will save us from their avar ... avariciousness.
“If you're not the kind to rely on miracles, however, I suggest you oil your armor and polish your swords. I've seen no storm clouds gathering over the southern hills, and I haven't heard the rumble of an angry sea in my dreams. The only storm I see is gathering behind the walls of Addamantia. It's a storm of swords ands spears and shields, with foul magicians at the forefront and that cursed Baron Alfrid in the back. Fat Alfrid has rejected our fair trade offers for their fabrics and silver; his piggish eyes are set on your crops and lumber, and the question is, do we fight for them, or let the bastard fill his wagons and head for home?"
“We fight,” said a voice from the back of the room. A few others muttered agreement.
Darien grabbed a tall flagon from a dwarf and gulped heavily at it. He wiped a sleeve across his mouth and continued his tirade, speaking now to a captivated crowd that included every person in the inn's common room. Stamovan stared at him, seeing for the first time the familial tie between Darien and Fenric. The older prince was a master of command, able to motivate an army with a short speech and lead men against overwhelming forces without hesitation. Though Darien's army might be composed of drunks and vagrants, the dwarf saw the same sparks in their expressions that he'd witnessed in the faces of troops being addressed by Fenric. He began to wonder in what other ways he'd underestimated the younger prince.
“Of course, we fight!” said Darien. The last of his alcohol-induced slur dropped from his voice as it rose in volume. “No man walks into Hurst and pilfers from our hard-worked fields. What southerner has the right to steal the hardwoods felled by our lumbermen?"
Someone shouted “None!” and a clamor of general agreement rose.
“We'll fell the lot of ’em, first,” said the dwarf who'd nudged Stamovan, swaying slightly.
“Let Alfrid hide behind his walls and send his bugs north!” cried Darien. “We have the power of Nikkolynda and his wizards to break the puny conjurings of the southern charlatans. We needn't fear Addamantia's laughable attempts to frighten us. The cowards simply show their true nature, fearful to take on the fighting men of Hurst!"
Cheers began to fill the inn, and men and dwarves were chattering excitedly amongst themselves again, but Darien wasn't finished.
“Let Alfrid hide,” he shouted again. “The army of His Righteousness will carry the fight to the gates of Addamantia if need be. For every spider Alfrid sends over our walls, we'll send ten thousand men over his! Since Alfrid covets our beautiful city so much, let him enjoy his last days in a cage of Hurst ironwood, in the center of Shipman's Plaza!"
“Your Highness,” someone shouted over the roar of approval, “what about Forthaven? Some say Forthaven will—"
“Let Forthaven do as they will,” said Darien. “You fear they'll ally with Addamantia? Let them! Baron Alfrid's cowardice is rivaled only by that of Baron Johanasen. Let them sit behind their walls and send their pigeons to and fro. Let them negotiate alliances and advise strategy. By the time they've spelled each other's names correctly, both Forthaven and Addamantia will be part of the new Empire of Hurst!"
Stamovan blinked and shook his head, then stepped in front of Prince Darien as the room erupted into cheers and calls for war. Men spilled out into the street to call curious passersby to arms, while others fought to enter the Snarling Hound and find the source of the cacophony. A fight broke out in one corner, sluggish punches thrown back and forth by inebriated men who passed out without causing any serious damage to one another. The prince weaved unsteadily with one hand on Stamovan's shoulder. He allowed the dwarf to lead him behind the bar and into the relative safety of the storage room.
Stamovan was still shaken by the prince's effect on the crowd, but he managed to seat the man on a tall keg. Darien's cheeks were flushed and his skin bore a waxy, yellowish sheen.
“I don't feel so well, Stam,” he said. “In fact, I—” He finished the sentence by vomiting all over the dwarf's boots before his eyes rolled back into his head.
Stamovan caught the unconscious prince before he could hit the ground and laid him out across sacks of flour. The innkeeper looked inside and started to offer his assistance, but one growl from the dwarf was enough to send him scurrying away. Stamovan wiped his boots on the flour sacks as best he could, his wonder at Darien's unexpected oration being replaced rapidly by his former dark mood. The frenzy in the common room hadn't diminished one whit when he checked the door. He settled on a wooden crate and glowered at the wall. The thump of his mace against the floor startled a rat, which dashed out through a hole in the baseboard. Stamovan watched its departure with a twinge of envy and thought of a certain thief, still loose somewhere in the city.
* * * * *
Adriana met Alexander at the entrance to the keep, waving away the guards posted there. Their number had doubled since his last visit, he noticed, obviously a reaction to the previous day's attack. One of the spear-wielding soldiers eyed him suspiciously, and Alexander wondered if the man somehow knew his origin. He hesitated for a moment before following Adriana into the massive keep. A nervous foreboding nagged at his thoughts; he briefly pictured the tall atrium as a great toothless mouth, ready to swallow him whole into its inner depths. When Adriana looked at him questioningly, he chided hi
mself for being melodramatic and stepped alongside her.
“You look tired,” she said.
“Late night,” said Alexander.
“One that left a bruise on your jaw?"
Alexander rubbed the tender spot and grimaced. “I thought my beard covered it. Anyway, I met your sister again yesterday."
Adriana stumbled a half-step but regained her composure quickly. “And she hit you in the mouth?"
“Not so much,” said Alexander, smiling slightly. He described his chase through the back alleys and the fight with the spider, as well as his conversation with Pellorin. Though he relayed Kandys's story of the grimoire's theft, he neglected to mention that he'd switched inns, and that Kandys was hidden back in his room even now. By the time he finished, Adriana had led him through a number of passageways and up a flight of stairs to a pair of wooden doors banded by iron. She took a key from a peg on the wall and unlocked one.
“Interesting method of locking up,” said Alexander. “Does it deter many burglars?"
She returned the key to its spot and pushed open the door. “No, but the guards at the gate do. It'd be difficult to get anything out of this room without them noticing."
Alexander stepped inside behind her and whistled. They stood in a museum, at the start of an aisle lined with paintings on easels. Most were framed with finely worked gold or silver and ranged in size from a standard sheet of parchment to murals three times longer than his height. Immediately to his left stood one such masterpiece, a depiction of the dwarven hero Tarrmarin leading a strike against a host of elves. The enemy boiled out of a forest, merging with the trees as if they were one and the same. At the opposite end, dark clouds rolled over the army of men and dwarves. A temple magician held aloft a glowing staff, from which a beam of light pierced the sky. Above him, a massive hand reached from the clouds to fan great sheets of fire toward the elves.
The painting's detail leaped from the canvas , drawing Alexander closer. He could see the fine spray of blood droplets over Tarrmarin's arm as his hammer landed on an opponent's helm. The tendrils of cloud vapor whirled together so convincingly that he experienced a falling sensation in his stomach and had to glance away. He steadied his gaze by examining the painstakingly wrought links of chain in the dwarves’ armor. Even the insignia on the warrior's banners seemed comprised of individual stitches rather than solid lines of paint. Alexander imagined the sounds of battle echoing around him: the shouts of men over the high-pitched gibberish of the elves, the crackle of fire and thud of thousands of feet against the ground, the chants of the wizards and magicians as they cast their spells.
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