Seymour used oil from the little bottle, a wad of tinder, and the flint-and-steel scratcher to ignite the stack. As the wood caught, the room filled with light, the shadows chased away.
“Such a sad story,” said a figure who stepped out from behind the drapery.
Sephryn staggered backward until she hit the far wall, clanging a set of three copper ladles that dangled from hooks. Seymour jumped up, retreating to stand beside her. The two focused wide-eyed on the figure wrapped in a long cloak who moved forward and settled onto the bench near the window. A large hood hid most of the face, so it was hard to tell if he, she, or it was human.
This is who killed Mica and took Nurgya. Time’s up!
Sephryn glanced at the bow. It had been years since she’d used it. The idea was rendered pointless because the arrows were sealed in a box upstairs. She looked back at the figure on the bench. “Who are you?” she summoned the courage to ask.
The hood lifted no more than an inch. “Name’s Errol Irwin. I was told that you wanted to speak to me about a job.”
“You’re . . . you’re Errol?” She was so convinced it was the kidnapper, the monstrous killer who had invaded her home and her head, that she refused to accept any other idea. “Arvis’s Errol? How—how did you get in here?”
She still couldn’t see his face well, but she heard him laugh. “None of your doors or windows are locked. I didn’t check them all, but I’m confident of that statement. Mostly because you don’t have locks. Not even one on the front door. That’s more than lazy. It’s negligent, especially given that you have an infant—or did. Your two-month-old boy was kidnapped, and I think that’s enough evidence of your irresponsibility and lax parenting.”
Sephryn’s mouth dropped open in shock. “How do you know that?”
“Well, you’re not exactly unknown around these parts. And it’s no secret you have a child. But the nursery upstairs is empty, and you have the look of a terrified mother.”
“How long have you been here?”
“That ought to be obvious. You’re Sephryn Myr Tekchin, the Director of the Imperial Council—half Fhrey and on alert, which means if I had entered while you were here, you’d have seen or heard me. I’m quiet, but perhaps not so silent as to escape Fhrey ears. But I doubt even a full-blooded Fhrey could hear just my breathing or heartbeat. Yet to answer your question, let me say, I’ve been here long enough. And as entertaining as the two of you have been, life’s too short to waste, so I’ll be going.” The thief stood up.
“What?” Sephryn blurted out. “No! I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Yes, I know. You want to hire me to help get your son back, but that’s not going to happen.”
“Why?”
“I don’t do charity. I’m a highly compensated professional, and you can’t pay me.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve been through your house. There’s nothing here of value, which is actually to your benefit because if I’d found anything worth stealing, I’d have already done so and disappeared. I only lingered this long to satisfy my curiosity as to why a woman like you would seek out a thief such as me. As it turns out, your story is sad, pathetic, and dreary. I’m guessing the father made off with the boy or perhaps tax collectors? They likely have him imprisoned somewhere—Arvis said you needed me to open a locked box. She implied sex as a payment. It’s not that I have no interest, but I suspect that wasn’t a serious offer. So . . .” He spread his hands. “Since there is nothing here for me—”
“It’s not his father, and it’s not tax collectors,” Sephryn said.
“Fine. I was wrong on that part. I’m not perfect, never claimed to be, and I knew I was reaching, but I wasn’t wrong about the rest. I don’t work for free, and you have nothing to offer.”
“How can you say that? You know who I am, and—”
“Yes, yes, I know all about you. You loved your father, hated your mother, apparently adopted a pet monk the moment you lost your son, just like the way families get new puppies when their old dog dies.” He pointed at the monk. “Your name is Seymour. One of those Monks of Maribor, a member of that lunatic sect, right? You’re the fellows who live in caves together. Here is what I don’t get. How does isolating yourself in the wilderness help you understand the world? Sort of like moving to the desert to become an expert swimmer.” He stepped toward the door. “Now, I’m certain there’s someone somewhere who has far too much wealth and needs my assistance. So, if you don’t mind, I’ll be—”
Sephryn moved quickly to block him. “Wait! I can get money.”
Once more, the thief paused and frowned, then shook his head. “Look, I get it. Your child was taken. You’re insane with worry, but think of it this way, kids die all the time. If it isn’t pox, it’s a breaking tree branch or an icy pond. Odds of your son reaching maturity were poor at best.”
She opened her mouth to protest.
“Epp-epp-epph,” he muttered, holding up a hand to stop her. “If you don’t believe me, look at how many locks you have protecting your son from abduction. And of course, he’s gone, isn’t he? So let’s not argue a point already proven. Now, if you’d get out of my way . . .”
“I can’t. I need you to—”
“What did I say about talking to others?” The Voice joined them.
“I’m sorry, but I need help,” Sephryn said, looking up at the ceiling out of habit.
“That much is quite clear,” Errol said. “But that’s not my problem. Now if you would just get out of my way.”
Sephryn continued to block him. “This is Errol. He’s a master thief. I’ll need him to get the vault opened. I told you I can’t do this myself.”
Errol looked at Seymour. “Who’s she talking to?”
“I don’t think I’m allowed to say,” the monk replied.
“Okay, I’m gone. Have a nice hallucination.” He dodged right, then spun left and stepped past, reaching the exit. “Sorry for your loss. I’m referring to my services, of course. I am the best.” He pulled open the door, but before he could step out into the night, it slammed shut.
The thief stared at it, then glanced back at the two of them. “What’s that about?”
Neither Sephryn nor Seymour spoke.
Errol eyed both of them carefully. He grabbed the handle and pulled. The door didn’t budge. He bent over and studied the latch. Then he straightened up and tried the door again. “Okay, so I can see why you don’t need locks. Your house is so shoddily built that the door jams after closing.”
Just then, the spice pots on the table exploded one after another, bursting from left to right in perfect precision. Ceramic shards ricocheted off the walls and salt, ginger, cloves, nutmeg, basil, rosemary, and sage rained across the table and floor.
No one moved. No one spoke. All three looked left then right, eyes shifting, waiting.
“You have a ghost problem, too?” Errol said slowly.
All three ladles tore themselves from the wall. They flew at the thief, and in mid-flight, they changed into sharpened blades. Their points struck the door, stabbing the wood to either side of Errol’s head.
He stood frozen, not daring to so much as blink as he stared at Sephryn.
“All right. You can involve him,” the Voice said. “And if he wants a reward, ask him how much his life is worth.”
Sephryn recounted the events that had transpired since the previous day. She was as thorough and accurate as possible while keeping in mind that the Voice was listening, and any mistake might cause their deaths. Well, perhaps not hers, but she imagined the Voice found Seymour and Errol expendable. The story took several minutes, and in that time, Errol Irwin didn’t move a finger. She couldn’t even be sure he was breathing.
“I’m sorry,” she said after concluding her tale. “I didn’t mean to put you in jeopardy. I just needed someone to help me open the vault. I would have found some way to pay you.”
The thief looked around, warily. “And you don’t know anyth
ing about this Voice?”
She shook her head, warning him with her eyes. Looks were poor tools for communicating complicated messages, but from what little she knew about his profession, she guessed he was fluent in subtle body language.
The thief looked at the transformed ladles still stuck in the door. “Has he ever talked to you, Seymour?”
The monk shook his head.
“So you’ll help us?” Sephryn asked.
Errol’s brows raised with surprise. “Is there a choice? I mean, beyond the obvious.” He looked toward the broken pottery and the piles of spice residue on the table and grimaced.
Again, Sephryn shook her head. “He told me to say, ‘If he wants a reward, ask him what his life is worth.’”
“Oh, well that’s just—” Errol paused, his eyes narrowing. “He told you? The Voice is male?”
“In my head, it sounds like a man.”
“Is there an accent? A dialect perhaps?”
The poker near the hearth fell over with more force than a mere toppling would grant. Errol stared at the iron rod as if it were a deadly snake.
Apparently, the thief wasn’t as fluent in warning glares as Sephryn had hoped. Either that or Errol’s curiosity had simply gotten the better of him. In any case, she thought for the good of everyone it was best to be blunt. “I don’t think he likes those questions.”
“Clearly,” Errol said, not taking an eye off the fire iron.
“So? What do we do next?”
Errol looked at the door that was still closed.
Don’t, she thought. The sharp end of the poker slowly rotated until it was pointing in the thief’s direction. So far, the Voice hadn’t given her the impression of being patient.
Errol sighed. “Okay, listen. What you’re describing is a dwarf-made safe—a carefully built box to keep valuable items, well . . . safe. Therefore, it is most certainly gemlocked.”
“What does that mean?”
“That it can only be opened with a specific key, a gem. These dwarven locks are famous for their impregnability. If you don’t have the gem, you can’t get past them. Simple as that. And since you appear oblivious to the very existence of gemlocks, I’m guessing you have no idea where the gem is or what kind it might be.”
“The emperor isn’t really the jewelry-wearing type. He does have a few rings, but none of them have any gems. But there is a gold chain around his neck that holds a pendant that has a red crystal.”
“I’ve seen the emperor many times at festivals and proclamations, and I don’t recall seeing that bit of jewelry,” Errol said. “And I tend to notice such things.”
Sephryn tapped a finger to her lips. “Now that I think about it, only saw it on a few occasions when visiting the empress. These weren’t formal occasions, and Nyphron was just dropping by to ask Persephone a question. I only remember because when he saw there were others in the room, he tucked it inside his tunic. At the time, I took offense, thinking he was making a judgment on my character. So maybe the necklace is something too important to leave lying around but too secret to show off.”
Errol considered her words. “Well, if I had to guess, and at this point it really isn’t just idle speculation, I would say the necklace is the key to the safe in his private quarters. All you have to do is get it, tap it against the safe’s door, and it will open.” The thief dusted his hands ceremonially, then focused on the poker. “There you go. You’re all set. Glad to be of service. Don’t bother sending a bill. I was happy to help. Now would you mind releasing the door?”
“I can’t take the necklace off the emperor,” Sephryn said quickly, to both him and the poker. “The last time we met face-to-face was at the empress’s funeral. That was over eight hundred years ago, when I was sixteen. Even if I could get close to him, what am I supposed to do, reach up and rip it off? Ask to see it and run away?”
“Look, I told you what needs to be done,” Errol said. “The rest is up to you.”
The poker rattled on the wooden floor, making all of them flinch.
“I think the poker disagrees,” Seymour said, inching away from both it and the thief.
“You have to help us,” Sephryn demanded. “My son—”
“Yes, yes, of course. Wouldn’t want anything happening to little Nuggy,” Errol said, without taking his eyes off the poker.
“Nurgya.”
“Whatever.”
“She’s right,” Seymour said. “Nyphron isn’t an idiot. History makes it abundantly clear the emperor is extremely clever. He’s an accomplished swordsman and the leader of the Galantians who are known to be the greatest warriors the world has ever seen. According to the writings of Bran, Nyphron won the Great War by defeating the Fhrey prince, who was a powerful sorcerer. This isn’t a person who could be hoodwinked or fall victim to a slash-and-grab.”
“Right,” Errol said. “So that leaves you—”
The poker slid and inched forward.
“I mean, that leaves us needing another solution.”
“Is there such a thing?” Sephryn asked.
“You could kill him.” He pointed at the bow. “Are you any good with that?” The thief smiled sardonically.
“I don’t think assassinating the emperor is a smart plan,” Sephryn said. “Think of something else.”
Errol pursed his lips and rubbed his hands together. “I honestly don’t know anything else that has a chance of success.”
The poker rumbled, but Errol put out a wait-a-minute finger. “However, while I know about safes and gemlocks, I’m not an authority on the subject. Turns out, I know a guy.”
“And is this guy an expert?”
“He is.”
“Wonderful!” Sephryn said. “When can we see him? Can we go now?”
“No. He keeps business hours. It’ll have to wait until tomorrow. I’ll take you in the morning.” Errol grabbed the door latch and tugged. The door held firm.
“I think the poker wants you to spend the night,” Seymour said. “Must be your affable personality.”
Sephryn offered the thief a sympathetic smile. “Sorry.”
“I don’t feel that quite covers it,” Errol told her.
“Looks like we’re in this together,” Seymour said.
“That doesn’t sound at all ominous.”
They all jumped when the poker leapt back into place beside the hearth.
“I was being ironic!” Errol shouted at the fire iron. “Gallows-style wit, if you will. Don’t be so touchy.”
Seymour looked at the black metal rod tilted slightly against the stone. The bottom end was still coated in ash. “I don’t think the poker has a sense of humor.”
Chapter Eight
Escape from Urlineus
The city of Urlineus was a work in progress. Little more than a stone fortress haphazardly built into the jagged cliffs at the headwaters of the Estee River, it suffered from a profusion of domes. Stone towers and grand rotundas were roofed with copper caps. These fanciful cupolas had quickly surrendered to the steamy miasma of the jungle, forming bluish-green patinas that no amount of cleaning could reverse. Although men and goblins fought within its depths, the wild and untamed region held dominion over all of them. Carving civilization out of the harsh environment of the Erbon Forest was chore enough; insisting that the newly founded city adhere to the universal building style of the empyre was pointless arrogance.
Isn’t hubris always pointless? Is wondering about the value of arrogance useful?
There were times, far too often lately, that Nolyn felt long life was equally pointless. An indicator of that realization was when he began pondering the value of such things as arrogance and worth. Only someone who had lived far beyond his usefulness could waste time evaluating such things. Purebred humans never bothered with such trifles. They were racing the sun, hurrying to reproduce before their brief dash was over. Only people like Bran and Sephryn sacrificed home and family to reach for greater things because they must choose between one or the
other; no time was granted for the luxury of both. Nolyn was born with the nature of men and the longevity of the Fhrey.
A horrible cocktail, he mused, all mixer, no alcohol.
Returning to the city in the protective bosom of the Fifth Regiment, the members of the Seventh Sikaria Auxiliary had only stopped long enough to eat. While the remaining survivors of the squad were given leave to clean up, Nolyn and Amicus were eager to report.
The clerk outside the governor’s office watched as Nolyn and Amicus entered. That was Legate Lynch’s palatus, his chief secretary and quartermaster whom Nolyn had met only once. As usual, the man’s name escaped Nolyn. The palatus made no effort to stop them, didn’t say a word, nor did they ask for permission before entering the office of the legate.
Recalling the fuss the palatus had made on his previous visit, Nolyn had expected a protest, but the little man stood silently by as they walked past him. Filthy and covered in blood, they marched directly into the legate’s office. Mud splattered their calves. Stiff and oily, their hair lurched at odd angles, pressed into position by sweat and hours beneath helmets. The two appeared both a mess and impressive, as only soldiers fresh from the bush could. Lean, dirty, alert, and raw, they had the look of animals—wild and dangerous.
In stark contrast, Lynch sat at a broad desk, white-haired and plump. The aging legate had the dull, sedentary sag of a man who smiled only at hangings. Nor did he dress like a soldier, having given up his leather and bronze in favor of more comfortable robes. His frown only deepened as he beheld them.
“You’ve returned,” the legate said, his voice betraying a bit of nervous concern. “Could have cleaned up a bit before presenting yourself, don’t you think? What is your report?”
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