by Dave Duncan
“You didn’t live up to that, my lady,” he said. “Not if you became part of the spoils. But we’ll see you go home to Ironhall to hang in the Sky of Swords, and they’ll know there who your owner was. Meanwhile, I have a use for you.”
The postal satchel was made of tough leather, so he folded it tightly and jammed it into the wide end of the gap. Then he slid Garbeald’s sword in and worked it as far as he could toward the thin end. And heaved. It was a horrible way to treat a fine weapon, and any lesser one would have snapped. If he just broke the point, it could be re-ground, and once it was hung in the Sky, that wouldn’t show.
Thinking he could feel the slab move a minute amount, he banged on it several times with the side of his fist. Suddenly it came loose, so he hastily kicked the satchel farther in to hold it open. Success!
Sitting straight, the panel moved easily in its grooves, although it was a heavy mass of timber. He brought the lamp closer, knelt down and raised the hatch. A rush of an abominable stench made him reel backward.
What in the world was rotting in there?
Again, the day had managed to get worse.
Chapter 16
The Ciarán must have bribed some of the guards to let him in.
lord hedgebury
Tom Twelvish had vanished, possibly taking one hundred crowns and a lantern, but definitely leaving his clothes. Niall was almost certain that he was now close to Twelvish’s corpse, and knew he would never go to sleep without investigating the macabre smell beyond that panel. He hastily dressed again, checked the level of the oil in the lamp, and then took a chair over to the closet.
He managed to raise the panel and hold it open while using one foot to push the chair in to hold it so. The resulting opening was about three feet wide and one seat high. Beyond it was a tunnel, cut out of the bedrock on which the castle stood, chisel marks on the walls showing that it was artificial. The floor was hidden by a puddle, whose surface was a little lower than the floor tiles in the closet. Water falling into it from the roof was the source of the persistent dripping noise he heard every night. If he closed the panel properly when he left, he should not hear it in future.
He decided that there might have been a natural seepage in the rock, and the builders had managed to drain it so that it would not flood the castle. Or they had hoped to supply the room with constant running water, but had not found an adequate flow. Or there might be other explanations.
The puddle seemed to be shallow, and it petered out about four feet away. Beyond that was only bare rock and darkness. Niall wanted to explore farther, but without suffering the same fate as Twelvish had. He backed out of the closet and returned with the empty wine flagon, which he used to plumb the puddle as far out as he could reach. Nowhere was it more than a finger-length deep. Not trusting his boots to be perfectly waterproof, he removed both them and his hose. Then he crawled into the tunnel, carrying the lantern. The puddle and the air in there were surprisingly warm. The floor was rough enough to hurt, and he lost some skin from his knees. Although the ceiling was equally rough and irregular, he was able to stand up without banging his head.
Just beyond the end of the puddle, the tunnel widened and became a hole in the wall of a huge natural cavern, whose walls and roof sparkled white in the lantern light. The floor was well below where Niall now knelt, but he saw no puddle or lake down there to reflect his lantern. What there was, though, was a bridge of rough planks, spanning a gap between his perch and a knoll about a dozen feet away. Beyond that was only darkness.
The odious stench was even stronger here, but he had no intention of exploring farther, at least not now. He should report his discovery to the Marquis, because he remembered from Stalwart’s history of Thencaster Castle, how the Wylds had taken it, early in the reign of the late King Ambrose: “The Ciarán must have bribed some of the guards to let him in.”
Perhaps not, Brother Stalwart, perhaps not! Maybe he led his men in through a secret tunnel? Had the Wylds forgotten that handy back door? Whatever was giving rise to the stench of decay must be fairly close, but the bridge was several feet wide, so it was hard to imagine what might have caused Twelvish to fall off it. Too many unknowns, too late at night. To go farther into this burrow without help would not be courage, just rank insanity.
And yet.... Unable to resist his curiosity, Niall lay down, half on the bridge, half on the wet rock, and lowered his lantern as far as he could reach. Mm? The floor was half a hundred feet below him, and, yes, there was a dark patch down there that might be a human body, but he could not be certain.
He backed out, removed the chair, lowered the panel, leaving the mail bag to stop it from closing completely. The storm had left his room very cold earlier, but now the draught from the cave had warmed it a bit. It had probably made the reek of decay much stronger, too, but his nose had given up noticing that. He closed the closet, doused the lantern. He must have lain down and put his head on his pillow, but he failed to remember doing so.
He awoke at dawn, sweating under two blankets. He soon confirmed that they were his, from a tear in the corner of one, and an ancient stain on the other. That crazy, meddling, stupid little floozie! Had Fizz dared to sneak into his room herself, or had she sent someone else? Either way she had risked betraying the secret. Almost certainly she had brought them back herself. Who else would have dared to come in and spread them over him? As the Marquis’s do-it-all, she had a lot more keys on her ring than his secretary did.
The sun was up, and today was likely to be at least as harrowing as yesterday. By now the Marquis might have heard of the attempted rape of his cute little daughter. Depending on the informant, he might also have learned of his secretary’s attempt on the Crown Prince’s life. It was even harder to believe that anyone would have told him the whole truth.
As he dressed, Niall tried to guess what trouble would hit first. He did not know Neville well enough to predict how he would react to the assault on Fizz. Had a commoner done what Athelgar had, he would likely be in chains already, awaiting a fast trial and execution. That even the Marquis of Thencaster would dare treat the Queen’s eldest son like that seemed highly unlikely.
Lately Niall had stopped wearing Denial every day, assuming that the chances he would need her were less than that someone might jostle him and detect her; he had not anticipated Fizz’s hug. Yesterday he had worn her because he would be going to Swaid. If Fizz ever let slip what she knew about the invisible sword or Niall’s fencing skills, he might have to fight his way out, so today he buckled his magical scabbard on again.
For those who wanted it, breakfast at Thencaster consisted of pastries and mugs of small beer, available in the hall, which was more than Ironhall had provided. Niall grabbed one of each. As he looked around for a place to sit, he was accosted by a slender young man with amber eyes, blond curls, and a sly grin. He held a mug and two pastries: Lord Danark, Neville’s youngest.
He said, softly, “Thank you for last night, Master Cleaver.”
No effort was required to guess what had provoked this. Curse the little chatterbox!
Unable to bow with his hands full, Niall inclined his head politely. “It was my pleasure, my lord.”
“Sit.”
They sat on separate benches, facing across a table.
The grin remained. “I trust you were not too warm in the night?”
“I am relieved to hear that she was not reckless enough to return the goods personally.”
Danark extracted a huge mouthful from his right-hand pastry. “Fizz can be as wild as a boar with toothache, but there’s usually method in her madness.”
“She promised me she wouldn’t tell anyone.”
A warning frown replaced the grin. “Fizz and I have always been very close. We were born in the same week. Most of the time she rampages like a bored kitten, but she has an uncannily sharp mind. She can pick up a language in a couple of days.
She tells me that the, er, chief Bael accused you of being a Blade.”
Niall ate pastry and said nothing.
“My sister agrees. She has watched the garrison training with swords, and she says they are tortoises compared to the Prince, but you made him look like a snail with gout.”
This interrogation was making Niall fume, but he dared not antagonise any of the Marquis’s children, especially Danark. Unlike his father or next brother, Kranith, the youngest male Fitzambrose seemed willing to treat the secretary as human. To Kranith and their father, he was furniture. Stanesh, of course, was still absent, wife-fishing.
“She was incredibly lucky that I happened to be passing the door when she cried out. I am very happy that I was able to help.” Niall hoped the juvenile Lord Danark would now take the hint and shut up. “What are His Odious Highness’s plans for today, do you know?”
“He will be leaving when his ship returns, continuing his journey to Grandon. He only stopped in here to wait out the storm. What he should be doing is writing a letter of thanks to you.”
“For spitting on him?”
“For stopping him. Had he succeeded in raping my sister, my father would have sent the Queen his head.”
“That would mean civil war.”
Danark shrugged and drank beer. Suddenly Stalwart’s wild fancies seemed much more believable than hitherto, although for a completely different reason. King Athelgar might be even less acceptable to the gentry than Queen Malinda would ever be. Killing him last night might have been a very good idea, a favour to a future Chivial, and a chance forever missed.
Trying to imagine the lout as the future King Athelgar, Niall murmured, “Long live Queen Malinda.”
“Amen to that.” Lord Danark swallowed the last fragment of his pastry and wiped a sleeve over his mouth and Site of Future Moustache.
Now what? Niall had been expecting his regular morning meeting with the Marquis in the office, with today’s agenda including the presumed grave of Tom Twelvish. The dark side of that program was that the Marquis might very well decide to send someone else to investigate the death cave and leave Niall attending to routine matters. He had found the crypt: he felt he had a right to explore it. And Danark represented a solution, although a risky one.
As his companion began to rise, Niall said, “Last night, my lord, when you so graciously returned my blankets, did you notice an unpleasant odour in my room?”
Danark paused. “Now that you mention it, I did wonder if you kept piglets somewhere. To use as midnight snacks, maybe?”
“I wish it were as easy as that. I now believe that the origin of that stench must be the corpse of the previous tenant, Tom Twelvish.”
Eyes wide, Danark sank back down on the bench.
Niall told him the story of the drips.
He showed small interest. “The hills here are all limestone. They have more holes in them than a loaf of bread.”
“Hidden behind secret panels? With chiselled walls? And this one has bridges in it, making a road.”
That shot the ginger eyebrows higher than skylarks. Niall gave him the details.
“You think that was how Ciarán Pfari invaded the castle back in fifty-six?”
“I don’t know, but I do suspect. Why not?”
“And why are you telling me this, instead of my father?”
Niall had been sixteen once. He turned on what he hoped was a challenging smile, and held it for a moment. “I decided that it might be better for all concerned if Neal Cleaver stayed out of sight until Prince Athelgar resumes his voyage, but to explore the cave alone would be reckless. Of course, there is an element of danger in—”
The bait was taken. “And Darling Daddy has been known to lose his temper, but he is much less likely to boot me out of the castle than he would you.”
That seemed like a very leaky boat to Niall, since he had no possible excuse for having told the kid about the tunnel in the first place, but it was what he was counting on.
“It could be dangerous. If I’m right, it killed Tom Twelvish.”
Danark laughed. “All the more reason why I should go, instead of my father.”
Who ever suggested that the Marquis would go risking his own neck by crawling into an unexplored cave? He would surely send some Master-at-arms Bonehead and a squad of donkeys. “I’ll need to leave a note to explain why I’m not at my desk.”
“Right! The sooner the better. Come!” Danark jumped up and led the way to the door.
Chapter 17
The hills here are all limestone. They have more holes in them than a loaf of bread.
lord danark
Before they even reached the Post Office door, Niall was having serious second thoughts. His duty was to report what he had discovered. Only the Marquis should decide what would be done about it and by whom. The chances that either Niall or his companion would meet with the same fate as Twelvish were probably very slight, but even if either suffered an injury as slight as a broken arm, Niall would certainly find himself in serious trouble. If he lost his job as Neville’s secretary, he would have failed in his mission. By letting Fizz into the secret, he had probably done that already.
But then he would be free to join the Royal Guard, meet his mother and sisters... Which meant a betrayal of his duty to the Queen and Stalwart.
No pages were had assembled on the bench yet, but ancient Chancellor Barden was already in his chair at the top of the staircase.
Danark said, “Ha! Don’t you ever eat or sleep, Chancellor?”
The old man showed gums in a smile. “Not much of either these days, my lord. But here I can still be useful, in a small way.”
“Not so small. Is the Marquis here yet?”
“Not yet, my lord.”
“When he shows up, please tell him I have borrowed Master Cleaver for an hour or so.”
“Yes, sir.” There was a hint of hesitation in that answer, which undoubtedly meant that Barden did not believe that a third son without a beard had authority to “borrow” the man in question. Doubtless Danark understood that perfectly, but was currently hint-proof, being sixteen.
He said, “Thanks,” but instead of heading for the stairs as Niall expected, he circled around Barden and opened a door that Niall did not know. Curious, he followed, and found himself in a minor armoury. It did not compare with the arsenal down in the fortress, but there were enough swords, spears, bows, and armour to equip a dozen or two men for a desperate last stand if an enemy stormed the gates.
“Try this for size.” Danark handed him a helmet.
Niall tried it on and it fit well enough. “If you’re expecting to run into the Wylderland army, kindly forgive my absence.”
“No, but I’m fond of my scalp—don’t want to leave any of it decorating rocks. And boots, I think. It’s wet in there, you said.”
And two lanterns, both much grander than the one in the Owl Room, plus a flagon of oil for them. Danark paused at a rack of swords, glanced thoughtfully at Niall, and then turned away from it. Fizz had been spilling secrets to her favourite brother. He knew not to mention swords.
Seeing a coil of rope, Niall took it and hung it on his left shoulder. It was thinner, but in much better condition, than the rope he had used to rescue Brat Cat. “You’ve had caving experience?”
“We all have. It’s good fun in really cold weather. Stanesh used to be crazy about it. Fizz says Earth is his dominant manifest element.”
So, she was not just a natural sensitive; someone had taught her the jargon, and had probably coached her in how to use her talent.
Unaware of that verbal lightning bolt he had just hurled, Danark gathered up his loot. Niall took the rest, and managed to close the door behind them without having to use his teeth. They detoured around Barden again, but two pages had arrived, both panting as if they had run all the way up from th
e riverside. Youthful bright eyes were staring at the helmets, boots, and other plunder being removed. The secret spelunking expedition was being well advertised.
On reaching the Perch, Niall’s first act was to peer over the balustrade and scan the estuary. He was happy to see the Baelish ship heading seaward already. With sail furled and oars swinging, it seemed like some monstrous millipede, dwarfing the tiny fishing boats.
“Good riddance,” Danark muttered.
“Someday you’ll have to kneel to that swine.”
Danark’s response might have been classed as treasonous. Niall wondered if he must report the events of the Prince’s visit to Lord Hedgebury.
When they had reached the Owl door, he paused before inserting the key. “One thing I must insist on, my lord, is that I go first, always, and you follow.”
For a moment Danark seemed about to argue, but then he saw the logic, and nodded. “You think there may be booby traps?”
“I think what we’re about to do killed Twelvish.”
On that cheerful note they went in. The familiar musty smell was absent. Niall locked the door, hoping the housemaid would not interrupt their escapade. It took only moments to shed shoes and don boots—his were big on him. Then he showed Danark the secret panel, and fetched the chair to hold it.
“Why do you need that?” Danark was already half into the tunnel, face up, one leg still in the closet, and the other holding the panel up.
“To keep the panel open. There’s no handle on your side.”
“Yes, there is. There’s a strip of wood going all the way across, but it’s so slender that it may need more than one man to use it. You’d have to pull it up with your finger tips, then push it higher with your thumbs. Come in and let it close, just in case someone comes looking for us. You, I mean.”
