Iscara seemed to read his mind as she said, “I have to go tell Argyle where the key is.” She was grinning as she said it, and then stepped forward, easily avoiding running into him. He watched her until she stopped at the door and turned back toward him and licked her lips. Her eyes grazed over him for far too long, and then she sighed and added, “You shouldn’t be here when I get back. Argyle might be with me.”
Typhus frowned. She was right. Argyle would get the truth out of her one way or another. Probably the easy way: she would tell him everything. She, better than anyone, would know the cost of lying, of keeping secrets. But she would tell her story in a way that would absolve her completely and place all of the blame on Typhus—or someone else. He could even hear her now. I told them to leave my tools in the hallway, but….
“I won’t be,” Typhus said.
“Good,” she said. “Perhaps after they have gone?” she suggested, lowering her gaze and smiling. When she lifted her eyes again, the pupils had contracted to normal. He knew what that meant: she had let go of the magic. But she was still looking at him—through him. He stepped to the side, but her eyes still followed him.
He glared at her, but said nothing. The pleasure had left her smile, and she shook her head so slightly that he wouldn’t have noticed it at all if he hadn’t known her so well. She was surprised—and troubled. Something unexpected had happened, like the time her victim had become aroused when her little knife sliced a long gash in his thigh. She hadn’t known what to do about that, and he had to step in to finish the task.
“What is it?” Typhus demanded, knowing it would be something he wouldn’t like. He followed her with his eyes as she shook her head and walked up to him. She reached out with her hand and lightly grasped his elbow and gently tugged on his arm as she led him toward a large, full-length mirror. He looked into it—and gasped. He could see himself!
“We can’t have you running around out there like that,” she purred, standing closer to him than she needed to. “What would the priests say?” She asked, hugging his arm as she leaned even closer and half-whispered, her warm breath fluttering against his neck, “No, it wouldn’t be good at all.”
He stared at the strangeness of the image staring back at him. It was thin, almost transparent, and much paler than usual, but other than that it looked normal to him. Spectral, but normal. Why was she so concerned about it?
She turned, her hair brushing against his naked shoulder as she let go of his arm and went to her workbench. He kept her in the periphery of his vision—she was capable of anything, and that was what excited him most—as he studied his reflection. What was wrong? What had her so concerned? He shook his head; he had never been able to see things the way everyone else did, and this was no different. Usually, it didn’t matter, but once in a while….
Iscara had a handful of bandages in her hand as he turned toward her. She shrugged and waited for him to approach her. Why—
He glanced at the mirror again, and a troubling memory ran through his mind. What was it Angus had said? If he had stopped the spell, he would glow like a blue ghost? Was he blue? He studied the pale gray and frowned. It could be the powder blue others spoke about, but there were other colors that were a similar shade of gray. He had made mistakes like that before, and some of them had been costly….
He walked over to her and held out his arm. She began wrapping it, and she didn’t stop until the arm was completely covered. Then she did the other one and then his legs. She slowed noticeably as she reached his thighs and lingered on them for a long time before she finished. Then she turned to his torso. Neither of them said anything; there was no need for it. They knew each other well, and they knew the situation they were in even better. She hurried, but only because she had to, and just before she strung the bandages over his mouth, she kissed him. It was a long, eager kiss that ended with reluctance, and they both knew he would return later, to let her remove the bandages at her leisure….
When she had finished, he felt like one of the corpses he’d seen wrapped in a shroud and thrust upon a funeral pyre. His mobility was hampered—severely hampered—by the thick, tightly-wound layers of cloth, and he wondered if all of them were necessary.
Iscara finally took him by the hand and led him up the stairs. She paused at the top to grab a cloak, and then ushered him quickly outside through the side door. Once they were on the street, she handed him the cloak and said, “You’re on your own now. I will tell Argyle that Aggles has the key where Sardach dropped him. He’ll like that.”
“Angus,” Typhus corrected, but he knew it was pointless. She seldom called people by their names, and when she did, she often got them wrong. She didn’t even bother to learn most people’s names, and those she did were the ones that meant something to her. At least she knew his name….
Typhus wrapped the cloak tightly around himself and flopped the hood to cover up his head. He waited until Iscara had turned away, and then he went in the opposite direction. He shuffled forward at a frustrating pace; he was so used to moving with spryness and certainty, but the bandages were too tight for that. Did they have to be so tight? Or was it just one more playful little torture to torment him?
It didn’t matter. He needed to make plans, and that meant he needed resources, resources he didn’t have. He had called in all the favors owed to him when he had fled Tyrag the first time, and he had used up all his treasure to convince Voltari to help him. There was nothing left to do but steal and kill. He didn’t like those prospects, but he had no other choice. Iscara was one of the few people he hadn’t used up, and that was only because she hadn’t used him up yet. It would only be a matter of time before that happened; she only did what she wanted to do, and then only for her reasons. Why she had done what she had done so far was beyond him, but he was glad—sort of—that she had done it. Now, though, it was up to him, and the first order of business was to find something better than bandages to hide his spectral sheen. He needed clothes, and he knew where he could get some.
18
Hobart plodded along at a slow, dogged pace, even for him. The travois wasn’t particularly heavy, but he had been injured enough as a soldier to know unnecessary motion caused more pain, even after the injury had been immobilized. He tried to avoid bumps in the road, kicked aside small rocks, and kept his hands as level as he could to avoid jostling Angus. If it was Angus; he still wasn’t convinced of that.
The road tapered and narrowed to about half its width as it curved north around the mountain. As it did so, Hobart looked for an easy slope down to the snow-covered canyon. The mountainside had been fairly steep on the south side, so steep that he was still amazed that Angus had gotten up it in his condition. But then, if it were Angus, Ortis was right: he probably flew up it. Hobart frowned. He did look a lot like Angus, but it wasn’t enough like Angus to suit him. He had been fooled by impersonators when he had dealt with the bandits, and the man on the travois was a little too tall and, even as thin as he was from his recent ordeal, he was a good twenty pounds too heavy. But he had the robe and he had the wand.
As they moved north on the road, they got closer to the lift. It was waiting for them on the other side of the snow-packed canyon, and even though the distance across the narrow canyon was only a few hundred yards, the slope down to it from the road was twice that distance and over loose rock. It would be easy enough to slide down, but not with Angus strapped to the travois. They needed to find a more gradual slope.
“It will be dark soon,” Ortis said. “We should camp on the road and cross in the morning.”
Hobart nodded. “Scout ahead and see if there is a place we can take him down. We’ll camp there. You didn’t bring the tent down with you, did you?”
“No,” the other Ortis said. “But I didn’t use all of the branches we gathered for the travois. I’ll cross over to get them for a fire. We can cook some of the meat from that thing Angus killed.”
“We should try to get Angus to eat something,” Hobar
t said. “He’s been out here by himself for several days, and I doubt he’s eaten much in that time.”
“Broth, then,” Ortis agreed, “and a little stew.” Ortis lingered for a few seconds longer and then hurried forward at an easy jog.
Hobart slogged forward, focusing on the road in front of him. An hour later, the long shadows of the setting sun cast a dreary pall over him. It was growing colder, and his hands were beginning to cramp from gripping the travois poles too tightly. His breathing was steady, but there didn’t seem to be enough air to fill his lungs. His heartbeat was a bit too strident. He should be able to handle the travois with ease, but the thin air was wreaking havoc on his reserves.
He lifted his head and saw the glint of flames not far ahead, and plodded toward it. By the time he reached the fire, the rich aroma of Ortis’s stew had already filled his nostrils. It had the familiar twang of too much seasoning, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to eat the stew—it was for Angus—he was going to eat the meat roasting beside it. He gently lowered the travois, and then flexed his hands and arms for nearly a minute.
“I threw down a couple of ropes,” Ortis said as he moved to Angus’s side. “We can tie them to the travois and lower it down the slope that way.” He loosened the straps he had fashioned to hold Angus to the travois and opened his robe.
“Good idea,” Hobart said. “How is he?”
Ortis fiddled with the bandages and then said, “About the same.” His other self dragged a cloak, heavy-laden with chipped ice, over to them and they began to pack ice around Angus’s foot and shoulder. When he finished, he wrapped the robe around the ice and secured the belt in place again. “The ice I brought with the travois should have lasted longer. It’s melting too fast. It’s as if he has a raging fever, but his skin doesn’t feel any warmer than normal. It should feel colder.”
They went about the business of preparing for a short night while the meat and stew continued to cook. When the stew was ready, Ortis tried to wake Angus to eat it, but Angus didn’t stir when he gently shook his healthy shoulder. “We may as well finish the stew,” Ortis said. “He isn’t even aware of us right now. It will do that slab of meat good to cook through the night anyway.”
After the meal, Hobart took the first watch and gave Ortis a chance to rest. It was an uneventful watch, but he had difficulty staying awake. It had been a long time since he had nearly fallen asleep while on duty—not since his first year of service—and he was glad when it was over. He was completely drained and slept more soundly than he had in a very long time.
When he woke late the next morning, Ortis had already tied the ropes to the travois and packed away most of the gear.
“Any change?” Hobart asked, yawning as he rose stiffly to his feet. He could have used a few more hours’ sleep, but there wasn’t time for it. Instead, he worked to stretch the sluggishness out of his sore muscles. He winced as they protested and wondered why he ached so much; it hadn’t been that demanding of a task to tote Angus around. He had done far more strenuous labors in his time, and the way he was feeling at the moment reminded him of the worst of them.
“No,” Ortis replied. “He didn’t stir the whole night. If it weren’t for the puffs of breath, I would think he was dead.”
Hobart nodded and moved to the fire. He took out his knife. It felt heavy in his hand as he cut off a slice of roasted meat. The outer skin was crispy from cooking over the fire all night, but the meat beneath it was tender and juicy. It had a slightly bitter flavor, as if Ortis had sprinkled one of his spices over it, and he quickly lost his appetite. He felt a little better afterward, but it didn’t last long.
Ortis put out the fire, and they carried the gear to the edge of the road, setting it down beside the travois. There was a trail of water leading back to a pool where the travois had sat by the fire the night before, and a new pool was forming under Angus as the ice continued to melt.
Hobart flexed his arms and twisted his back to prepare for the upcoming task of lowering Angus to the snow below. Normally, his muscles responded almost immediately, but not this time. They were stiff and sore, and he grimaced, wondering what was wrong with them. Then he shrugged it off; lowering Angus wouldn’t be very difficult, and the effort would do his aching body some good. The stiff joints in his fingers, though, troubled him; he didn’t want to lose his grip on the ropes and send Angus pummeling recklessly to the bottom. He set his jaw, determined that he would not let it happen.
A few minutes later, Ortis took up a position on either side of the travois and picked up the handles. He stepped onto the slope and began a slow, steady sliding walk down. As he went, Hobart let the ropes slide through his hands. He didn’t watch them descend; he kept his eyes on the ropes to make sure they didn’t slip through his fingers too quickly. A short while later, the ropes settled and grew still. He looked down and saw Ortis at the bottom of the slope putting on his snowshoes.
Hobart dropped the ropes and looked at his hands. They were quivering and he couldn’t close them all the way. He frowned and tried to shake it off, like he had when Thrumble had gotten under his shield during a sparring match and slapped his elbow with the flat of the blade. He had dropped his shield and it had taken several minutes for him to regain the feeling in his hand. Thrumble, a rapscallion if there ever was one, kept at him the whole time, chattering away about fishmen not giving any quarter so why should he? Thrumble’s tenacity was one of the best lessons he had ever learned, and it had saved his life on more than one occasion.
Hobart shook his head and reached down to pick up the rest of the coiled-up ropes. A sharp pain shot through his lower back as he bent over, and he almost staggered over the side as he slumped forward. His breath hesitated as he composed himself, and then he leaned backward until he was upright on his heels. The pain eased somewhat, and he let his breath out slowly. What’s wrong with me? he wondered, a surge of anger flaring to life. He reached down for the coiled ropes and picked them up. He pushed himself to his feet and hurled the ropes down the slope as far as he could make them go. He thought that would be the end of it, but it wasn’t. He thought he could override his uncooperative muscles by brute force of will. He thought he could ignore the sudden wave of fatigue, as he had done so many times before. He thought wrong and found himself falling weakly forward and tumbling down the slope behind the ropes. He passed them long before he came to a stop near the bottom of the slope. He knew how to avoid being injured by the roll, and aside from making him dizzy, the somersaulting descent did little more than scrape his armor and give him a few bruises. When he settled, he lay still and made no effort to rise. He couldn’t get up anyway; he was too weak.
Ortis was at his side in moments, tugging off his helmet and demanding to know what was wrong.
“Weak,” Hobart muttered, a bit out of breath. “Sore muscles. Stiff joints.”
Ortis frowned. “When did it begin?”
Hobart tried to remember when he had felt the first signs of a problem. He knew when he had noticed the problem—when he had set the travois down the night before—but it had to have begun before that. “Yesterday,” he said, trying not to be too specific. “When I was pulling the travois.”
Ortis was tugging at his gauntlet, and Hobart tried to pull his hand free. “Hold still,” Ortis scolded, “and tell me what happened first and where.”
Hobart scowled and let Ortis release the straps holding his gauntlet in place. “My hands,” he said. “They cramped up. I was holding the travois poles too tight.” No, that wasn’t it. He hadn’t felt right before that. “I was tired. I thought it was because of the thin air. Now….” Now he was having trouble moving, and standing up was out of the question. He had never felt like this before, and he didn’t know what to make of it.
“Then?” Ortis prompted.
Hobart replied, his tone sheepish and apologetic, “I almost fell asleep while on watch.”
Ortis nodded. “You slept more deeply than usual, and longer. And this morning
?”
“My back hurt,” Hobart said, “and I couldn’t work the kinks out of the muscles. It got worse after that. My hands were shaking when I belayed the rope, and when I threw the coils over, I couldn’t stop myself from falling. Now,” he shook his head, “I can barely move my arms and legs.” It was a puzzling situation, but he wasn’t worried yet. He had seen soldiers who couldn’t move their arms or legs, but that was always after having their spine severed or crushed. His spine was fine, but his body was acting as if it weren’t fine. What else—
“Poison!” he gasped. It had to be that—or magic. He frowned and struggled to look sidelong at the man who looked like Angus. He seemed to be unconscious…. “Magic?” he grumbled.
Ortis frowned and shook his head. “If it is magic, it isn’t him. He hasn’t moved since I found him.” He paused and then asked, “Have you eaten or drunk anything I don’t know about?”
“No,” Hobart said, “and the only thing that I’ve never eaten before is the meat from that thing Angus killed. You ate it too, didn’t you?”
Ortis shook his head. “No; I ate the stew. I used the last of the meat we brought with us from Dagremon’s.” Ortis reached for the straps holding Hobart’s armor in place.
“No,” Hobart said. “I’m not injured.”
“That tumble….”
Hobart forced his arm to raise enough to wave dismissively. It was a feeble gesture, and it probably looked like a tiny tremor in his fingers. Then he said, “Nothing breached my armor.”
“You can’t expect me to carry you and your armor,” Ortis said, continuing with the straps.
Hobart tried to gesture him off again, and said, “Use the rope and drag me. My armor should slide easily enough on the ice.”
Ortis paused, nodded, and refastened the straps. By the time he was finished, his other self was there with one of the ropes. He made a loop and draped it around Hobart’s chest, just under the armpits. It took much longer than it should have; Hobart’s efforts to help proved to be an impediment that slowed the process. Once he was secured, Ortis pulled Hobart over to the lift and managed to get him up onto it. Then he turned to the winch mechanism and the lift started rising.
The Golden Key (Book 3) Page 11