I am the only one in a position to stop d’Albret. And even my chances are slim, since my plan relies on a grievously injured knight and my own limited skill.
Nearly all the servants and men-at-arms in the palace are asleep as I make my way from my chamber to the courtyard. It did not come easily, and has taken every drop of poison in the pearls from the hairnet and glass beads on my crucifix chain. I slipped all of it into the men’s dinner while the stew still bubbled in the pot hanging at the fire. Such a diluted dose will put the entire garrison to sleep, but only for a few hours. When they wake, they will feel as if they have been trampled by a herd of oxen, but at least they will be alive.
I would have loved to poison them all, for if they are loyal to my father, they do not have an innocent bone in their body. But killing so many men reeks too much of one of d’Albret’s schemes. Instead, I satisfy myself with the knowledge of how much trouble they will be in when morning comes and the full impact of my night’s activities becomes clear.
Only the guards on duty at the eastern gate will present trouble, for they have not had their suppers yet. I will have to deal with them in order to get the prisoner to the waiting cart.
The cart cost me dear, as the night-soil man was loath to lose the source of his livelihood. But when presented with enough jewelry, he finally agreed to empty the cart and drive its mysterious load out the east gate. Of course, I did not pay him with my own finery but with Jamette’s. It was easy enough to slip into her room and take a handful of the baubles her betrayal of me had brought her.
As I draw closer and closer to the tower, the weight of secrets and careful movement, of illusions maintained and lies convincingly whispered, falls from my shoulders, leaving me so light I wonder that I do not float across the courtyard.
I reach the old tower and slip the key into the lock. My blood is moving so wildly through my veins that I hardly even notice the waiting spirits as they rush toward me, their chilling presence barely penetrating the heat of the moment.
At the foot of the stairs, I pause long enough to pull my hood close to shield my face from view, then nearly laugh at the gesture. After tonight, it does not matter any longer. Even so, old habits do not die easily, and I leave the hood in place.
I have thought long and hard on what to do with the jailor. I am surprisingly reluctant to kill him, for every kill I make without Mortain’s blessing is but one more step to embracing the very evil I loathe in d’Albret. But I cannot risk his ruining my plans, for if the knight is too wounded to ride to Rennes, I will have no choice but to put him out of his misery, as undoubtedly he has suffered enough.
Besides, if I fail and d’Albret lives through the night, any punishment he bestows on the jailor will make the little man wish he had died. Looking at it that way, it is clear I will be doing him a favor by killing him.
When I peer through the grille I think perhaps some god is smiling on this venture after all, for the old jailor lies on the floor, sound asleep. If I can get to him without waking him, he should be easy enough to deal with.
I step quietly into the dungeon. There is no sound from the prisoner’s cell, and the gargoyle does not stir. Perfect. I creep closer and lift my knife, ready to slit the man’s throat. But before I can strike, the little demon leaps up and swings at me with his empty tankard.
I hiss and dodge the blow. The jailor grunts and then faces me, and any chance I had for surprise is gone.
“Surrender and be done with this,” I tell him, careful to pitch my voice low. “You cannot stop me.”
I lunge for him, but he twists away—how can one so clumsy and awkward move so quickly?—and throws himself in front of the cell door.
Keeping my eyes on his contorted little face, I change my plan. “I will not kill you. Just put you to sleep for a while. Just long enough to free the prisoner. You will have a goose egg on your head and can explain to the others how you were overpowered and were helpless to prevent the escape.”
At the word escape the little man stills and cocks his head. He pauses for a long moment, then carefully steps away from the door and motions me toward it.
I frown. What trick is this?
The little man gestures at me to open the door while he nods and smiles. At least, I think it is a smile, for it is hard to tell in his creased, misshapen face. “You want me to free him?” I ask.
He nods vehemently, then takes another step back.
I cannot begin to fathom what his purpose is, but time is not standing still for me to figure it out. D’Albret will be on his way to visit Madame Dinan’s chamber, if he is not already there, and that will afford me my greatest chance of catching him unawares. “Very well, come with me.” I motion toward the cell. I will not risk his shutting me in with the prisoner, then crying for help. He nods happily but scuttles away like a spider.
Keeping one eye on him, I withdraw the key again and unlock the cell door. The ripe stench makes me blink but I ignore it and hurry over to the corner where the prisoner lies on the floor.
He is the size of a giant. Any hope I had of being able to drag him anywhere, let alone up a flight of stairs, evaporates. He does not stir at my approach, but neither did the little gargoyle, so I remain on my guard. When he still doesn’t move after a few moments, I reach out and nudge him with the toe of my boot. Nothing.
At a sound behind me, I spin around, dagger at the ready. But it is only the gargoyle standing there, watching. I narrow my eyes. “Is he dead?”
An emphatic shake of the head, then the man places his hands against his own cheek as if sleeping. Ah, I think. “Can he walk?” I ask sharply.
The old man hesitates, then puts his hand out and wiggles it back and forth. A little. Maybe. My heart sinks. There is no way I can drag him. Merde. How will I ever get word to the duchess?
I kneel down next to the knight so I can see just how injured he is. A large cut bisects the left side of his face. I think, but cannot be certain, that it is an old scar rather than a fresh one. The rest of his face is battered, and old crusted blood still clings to it in places. It is also a strange yellow and green color. At first, I fear it is putrid flesh, then realize his entire face is one giant bruise. A great wound festers in his left leg, and another two in his left arm. I take a deep breath, then put my hand on his shoulder. “Hsst! Wake up. We must get moving.”
He stirs, then groans, but that is all. Muttering a string of curses, I reach out and try again, this time grabbing his arm in a pincer-like grip and tugging on it. “Come on, you great ox. I cannot carry you out of here.”
His massive head rolls to the side, then lifts a few inches from the floor. The eyes open and squint in my direction. I cannot tell if his vision is blurry from his head wound or if he cannot see me at all. I look over my shoulder at the jailor who is no jailor. “Get over here and help me.”
He scuttles forward, hops onto the other side of the knight, and grabs his arm. With much grunting and urging and swearing, we manage to get the prisoner to a sitting position, but that is all. Despair begins to fill me, more chilling than the touch of the spirits hovering nearby. The man’s injuries are inflamed and he himself is feverish. If I am able to get him out of here, I am not certain—not certain at all—that he will not die of blood fever on the way to Rennes. Even so, I must try. I nod to the gargoyle and we both stand, trying to pull the prisoner up with us, but it is no use. We might as well be attempting to move the dungeon itself.
I nearly weep with frustration. If I were more certain of my ability to kill d’Albret tonight, I could just put the prisoner out of his misery, but I am not. D’Albret is uncanny in his instinct for survival, and if I fail, someone must warn the duchess of his plans.
Besides, what sort of cruel god robs a man of a glorious death on the battlefield and leaves him to rot—or worse—in a dungeon? If I close my eyes, I can still see him on his magnificent horse before they brought him down; how valiantly he fought, never stopping, not even when the odds were overwhelming.
That’s it! I must find a way to tap into his battle lust. The very thing that drives him to such unholy feats on the battlefield is the only thing that will get him out of here.
I glance over at the jailor, give him a nod of reassurance, then turn back to the injured man. “Get up,” I hiss. “The duchess is in danger.” His head snaps up. “If you do not get up right now, they will be upon her within minutes. Get up.” I pull on his arm and he growls. “Will you cower here on the floor like a whimpering babe while your duchess is in peril?”
The jailor looks at me, horrified, shaking his head, for the beast is rising in our knight. Blood rushes into his face, and fire kindles in his eyes. “You would never have been chosen to protect the duchess if they’d known how weak you truly are,” I whisper in his ear.
And then it happens: like a great wave rolling up from the ocean floor, the knight propels himself to his feet. He sways for an instant, regains his balance, then lets loose with a mighty roar and lunges in my direction.
I dance nimbly out of his reach. As soon as I leave his side, he nearly topples over onto his face, but the small gnome of a jailor wedges himself under the knight’s arm and keeps him from falling.
Furious and befuddled, like a bull in a field, the prisoner swings his head from one of us to the other, not sure whom to attack first. “Come,” I say before he can collect his wits. “The duchess is this way. If we hurry, we can get to her in time.” And in truth, it is no lie I offer him.
The words act like a lance to his backside. He takes a step forward, then grunts as his face turns white with pain. As his leg gives way beneath him, I realize I have no choice but to help him again and hope he will not kill me on the spot. I return to his side and insert myself under his arm to prop him up. But he is huge and weighs twenty stone at least and nearly drags me to the ground with him. I brace my knees and my back, and between the jailor and me, we keep him upright. As he sags against us, I know we cannot carry him the entire way, but it is as if all the fight has seeped out of him. Already my own shoulders and arms grow numb from his weight. We will all die here like rats in a trap if we cannot get him moving.
Fear and anger lend urgency to my voice. “Would you let your duchess be taken while you rest your lazy bones and thick head? Move!”
With a deep-throated growl, the man lurches forward, a great shuffling step that brings us nearly to the door. I snag the lone torch from the wall with my free hand and pray that I will not set myself—or the prisoner—on fire. But we need it, as the stairs are in pitch-darkness and there is no way we can maneuver him up by feel alone. Indeed, as we stop at the first step, it is not clear than we can maneuver him up at all.
The gargoyle mutters and grunts and motions me to get in front. As I move around them and hold the torch so they may see where to place their feet, I see that the jailor has inserted himself under Beast’s arm, a human crutch for the prisoner to lean on. His right leg is strong and he is able to climb the stair with it, even though his left arm hangs limp and useless at his side. He braces his right arm against the wall and hops up onto the next step, and the weight his arm does not take is supported by the jailor. The prisoner’s face contorts with pain and I pray he will not faint before we reach the cart.
“Hurry,” I whisper urgently. “They are circling her even now.” The agony of not being able to reach his duchess is plain upon his face, and my heart aches for him, but I harden it. Softness will not serve either of us now.
He pauses, sweat beading upon his face, his lungs working like a blacksmith’s bellows.
Only four more steps. “How will you kill them,” I call out softly, “these men who have threatened your duchess?” He lunges forward another step. “With your bare hands, is my suggestion, so you may look into their bulging eyes as you drive the air from their lungs.” From beneath the giant’s arm, the little jailor squints up at me with faint horror, but I do not care, for we have gained another step and I can feel the cool night air upon my back. “Mayhap tear them limb from limb.”
With a faint growl, he lunges up the last step. I put my hand out to stop them both, afraid Beast will barrel out the door and straight into a passing sentry.
But he leans against the wall and closes his eyes while the jailor pets at his arm.
I peek out into the courtyard. There is nothing there but darkness. “We must make for the east gate. There are only two sentries posted there, and once I have dispatched them, we will be able to get across the bridge unseen. A cart with horses waits there to carry you to the duchess.” The gargoyle’s eyes widen in surprise, then he smiles. At least, I think it’s a smile. It looks far too much like a grimace for me to be certain.
“Can you do it?” I ask, hating that I must trust this mysterious jailor with such matters. “Can you get him to Rennes?”
He nods so hard I fear his neck will snap.
It is easier going outside. For one thing, there are no more stairs, and for another, there is a thick solid wall for the knight to lean against. We make slow, shuffling progress, the skin along my shoulders urging me to hurry, but we cannot. Indeed, it is a miracle we have come this far.
I glance once behind me. A light shines from one of the upper chambers. Good. D’Albret still lingers with Madame Dinan. I wonder whom he will have guarding the door tonight, for he always posts two sentries when he visits her chamber. I find myself hoping that one of them is Captain de Lur, as I would dearly love an excuse to kill him.
When we reach the end of the wall, I see the small gatehouse and the two guards there. They are not standing at attention but instead are speaking together in low voices. “Here.” I thrust a small square of yellow and black fabric at the gargoyle. “You will need this to get out of the city. There are some supplies in the cart, and also some jewels that you can use to purchase what you need. Put the plague flag on the wagon and no one will stop and search you. Understand?”
When he nods his understanding, I motion for him to stay put until my signal, then creep forward.
The guards are grumbling that the others have not come to change the watch and are trying to decide whether they should stay here or go fetch the captain.
Clinging to the wall like a shadow, I move into position behind the first guard. I must kill him—I cannot risk them raising the alarm and I have no idea how long the sleeping draft will last or how deeply the others sleep.
I remind myself that these deaths are necessary. There is no way we can get the knight past the sentries, and if they are d’Albret’s men, they are no doubt guilty of some terrible crime.
The weakest link in my plan is killing the first guard without alerting the second guard to my presence. Speed and stealth are my greatest weapons, for if the second guard sees me, there is a good chance he will call out a warning before I can silence him.
One thing at a time, I remind myself, then slip silently out of my hiding place. I take the cord from my waist and wrap it around my fists as I creep toward the first sentry, looping it once, twice, to be sure it will not slip. When I am directly behind him, I make my move. Sensing me, the guard starts to turn my way, but I step up, quickly slip the cord around his neck, and yank with all my might.
The man jerks in surprise, his weapon clattering to the ground as he scrabbles for the rope at his throat. I pull harder and drive my knee into his back for leverage, dodging his elbow as it tries to connect with my ribs.
But the clatter of his weapon has called the second guard’s attention. His eyes widen when he sees me and his hand goes for his sword as he takes a step forward. I swear, for the first man is still struggling and taking far too long to die. I cannot even let go to reach one of my throwing knives and defend myself. The alerted sentry draws his sword and rushes toward me. I put the dying guard between us to afford myself some protection. There is a small thud, and the attacking guard stiffens in his track, then keels over like a felled tree. I glance up to see the gargoyle, a sling dangling from his right hand and a look of satisfa
ction on his twisted little face. Just then, my victim finally slumps into death. I do my best to block my mind to his soul as it slithers from his body, and I release the cord from his neck.
The jailor gives me a nod as if to say You’re welcome—even though I have not said thank you—then motions for me to get moving, as if it is he who is leading this rescue.
I tamp down my irritation, and we both hurry back to where the knight leans against the wall. His eyes are closed, and his face is bleached white by his efforts to get this far. I cannot tell if his battle fever has left him or if it still simmers quietly in his veins. Pray Mortain the latter, else we will never get him across the bridge.
Even so, now that his mind is no longer clouded, it is the best time to give him my message. “Listen to me, for this is important. When you get to Rennes, you must get word to the duchess. D’Albret has men inside the city’s walls, men who will open the gates to him when the time comes. Can you remember to tell her that?”
Merde! I cannot tell if he nods in agreement or if his head is simply lolling to the side. Frustrated, I turn to the gargoyle. “Did you get all that?” He nods and I sigh. It will have to do.
I adjust the massive arm around my shoulders, then begin the long torturous journey across the courtyard. At the bridge, the knight pulls his arm off me and uses the side of the bridge as a crutch. I do not argue with him but instead slip ahead to be sure the promised cart is there and to give the driver his instructions and the rest of the payment he was promised.
At first I do not see the wagon, and my heart jolts in dismay, for we cannot coax this man much farther. But when I look again, there it is, tucked deep in the shadows against the city wall, two decrepit-looking mules dozing in their harness. The driver, however, is missing. He must have decided that half the promised payment was better than the entire amount, for at least he’d live long enough to spend it.
I turn back to see the men’s progress across the bridge, but they have paused midway. Do they not realize how closely we have shaved this? We do not have time to stop and admire the scenery. I glance back at the palace windows and see that the light is out in Madame Dinan’s chamber, and renewed urgency fills me. I must get there soon, while he is still tangled in her sheets and distracted.
Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2) Page 10