by Ian Irvine
“What are you doing?”
“Making a diversion. When I break these, they burn with a small fire and vast amounts of smoke. Most of Snoat’s treasures are here so it’s bound to bring him and his guards, thinking the place is on fire. We’ll sneak out the other side and look for Unick’s workshop.”
Ussarine picked up a chair and hurled it through the first window. As she ran for the second, Shand lobbed a smoke egg at the wall. It burst with a small boom, a lick of crimson fire, then thunderheads of white smoke exploded out of it. She joined him at the door. He hurled his second egg. She kicked in the door leading into the museum.
“The same here,” said Shand.
She smashed the windows and he hurled the eggs. The room filled with choking smoke clouds within which small crimson flames glowed. They ran out into the darkness and headed for the other wing.
“This is too easy,” said Ussarine.
A door along the long side of the South Wing was wide open; they went in and down.
“What’s that horrible smell?” said Ussarine.
Shand sniffed. It was like a mixture of sulphur, grog and vomit and stale sweat, and oil of vitriol which would normally only be found in an alchemist’s workshop.
“The place we’re looking for.”
As he took the last two smoke eggs from his pack a little glass phial fell out. He snatched at it but missed and the top broke off as it struck the floor, releasing an enchanting fragrance that reminded him of Aviel. He swore.
“What was that?” said Ussarine.
“Aviel asked me to give it to Wilm, a young lad Llian escorted to the college. But after Llian was accused of murder, Wilm disappeared. Oh well.”
They searched the workshop, gagging at the stench, but there were no papers or journals, and no sign of the devices Unick had made.
“It was a long shot,” said Shand.
As they turned to go, a colossal boom rocked the South Wing. Several benches overturned, the equipment piled on others was hurled onto the floor, and Shand heard the crackle of fire.
They ran out into the hall and through the open outside door. One end of the main house was enveloped in flames, roaring forty feet high.
“All things considered,” said Shand, “I’d say it’s time to go.”
55
WE RUN LIKE BLAZES
Wilm lay in Dajaes’s arms, staring up through the branches at the starry sky. After their lovemaking she had drifted into asleep, but he could not. Whatever happened tonight, their world would change and he did not want it to. The past five days, toiling with her to dig the rescue tunnel, and the past five nights, clinging together in his sleeping pouch, had been the happiest he had ever known. He wished this time could continue for ever.
But in a few hours they might be dead, or captured and tortured. Or they might fail and have to run, knowing they could not try again. Dajaes might come to her senses and realise that she could have no future with a feckless youth without money or skills.
He squeezed her tightly. She murmured in her sleep and hugged him back. His eyes prickled.
The wheeling stars told him that it was after midnight, almost time. This last quarter-hour might be all they would have together. A great sadness crept over him, a feeling that it was almost over. He let out an involuntary whimper. Dajaes rolled over and stroked his brow.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
“What for?”
“For showing me that life doesn’t have to be about drunks who beat you, and endless, useless, loveless toil. And thank you for helping me find a purpose. Every aching hour underground I knew we were doing something right and good.”
“Me too.”
“I suppose we’d better get up.”
He checked the stars again. “We’ve got five minutes. Do you think—”
“There isn’t time.” He sensed her sad little smile.
“I was going to say, do you think we should rehearse our attack?”
“We go to the end of the tunnel, clear away the dirt I packed against the cellar wall, push the loose block out and crawl through. After that we’ll have to make it up. We haven’t got a clue where Llian will be.”
“What if we’re discovered? And attacked?”
“I light the fuse on my blasting charge and we run like blazes.”
A fist clamped around his entrails. He almost choked.
“Wilm?” she said anxiously. Her small hand clenched on his upper arm.
“It’s… not much of a plan.”
“It’s almost hopeless,” said Dajaes. “What were we thinking?” Her fingers unclenched, clenched again. “We don’t have to go in.”
No one could blame them if they did not.
“Say something, Wilm.”
“You first.”
“No, you first.”
“I’m really, really afraid…”
“But?” said Dajaes.
“Nothing has changed, has it? Llian’s life is in more danger with every passing hour, and we’re the only ones who can save him.”
“If we thought it was suicidal, though, we’d be mad to go.”
“We could leave with honour.”
“But?”
“You first,” said Wilm.
Her fingers went clench-clench, clench-clench on his upper arm, like a beating heart.
“I say we go in,” said Dajaes.
Ten minutes later she crawled into the tunnel. Wilm stopped outside for a moment, sweating. It felt like an earthen tomb and could well become one. His pulse accelerated and his breath thickened in his throat.
“Could you light the lantern, please?” he said hoarsely.
Dajaes did not reply.
“Is something wrong?” said Wilm.
“Someone’s been here,” she whispered.
His heart buried itself in his intestines. “How can you tell?”
“The handcart is on its side. That’s not how I left it.”
“I’ll bet Snoat’s guards are waiting at the other end.”
Dajaes sniffed. “The air’s fresh. No one’s lit a lantern in here in hours.”
“They could have used mage light. I think we should get out.”
Dajaes did not argue. They crawled out.
“What now?” she said quietly.
“We walk away, making a little bit of noise. If the guards are in the forest, watching the tunnel, they’ll come after us. Then we run for our lives.”
They walked away for a hundred yards. The forest was silent.
“I don’t know what to do,” said Dajaes. “They could still be waiting at the other end.”
Wilm knew what he wanted to do. Run with her and never look back.
“Let’s go in,” he said. “Very carefully. If anyone is ahead, we bring the tunnel down between them and us and back out.”
“All right,” she said doubtfully.
Dajaes slung the miner’s blasting charge over her shoulder and crawled in. She had made it with charcoal, sulphur and an unspecified ingredient she’d obtained from an alchemist in Chanthed, carefully mixed and packed into a hollowed-out piece of wood the size of a small tankard.
Wilm followed, his shoulders brushing the sides and his head the roof. Dirt fell in his hair and down his neck. The darkness was absolute and so was the silence. The earth felt as if it was closing around him. This was madness. If the guards knew they were here they could cave the tunnel in. Or wait until they emerged and spear them.
Snoat had a terrible reputation; he would certainly torture them to find out what they knew and who had sent them. He would never believe that two kids had done all this of their own accord.
It felt as though Wilm had been crawling for hours, as if he had gone miles. Where was Dajaes? Had she been taken? What was he supposed to do?
Ahead he heard a series of miners’ oaths.
“What’s the matter?” he said, crawling towards her.
Shortly a faint light appeared. Grey light – starlight! A shaft had
been dug nine feet up to the surface, and whoever had done it had thrown the dirt further up the tunnel, almost blocking it.
“It’s got to be robbers,” said Dajaes.
“Why didn’t they go through into the cellar?”
“Maybe they didn’t discover it. What do we do now? It’ll be a lot more dangerous with robbers in the grounds. If they’re seen, the place will be swarming with guards.”
“We’d better check.” Wilm stood up in the shaft. “Climb onto my shoulders.”
She squeezed up past him, knelt on his shoulders and eased her head up. “All quiet.” She clambered down and wriggled through to the end.
“Let’s go in.”
Dajaes lit the lantern and scraped away the packed earth to reveal a block-work wall. She had previously sawn the soft mortar out around one block. They pushed it inwards. It made a loud scraping sound, then thudded to the floor.
“If there’s anyone in the cellar…” Wilm fretted.
“It’s after one in the morning!” She carefully put the blasting charge inside, then the lantern, and wriggled in. “Come on!”
Wilm had to hunch his shoulders to get through, and scraped a lot of skin off his outer arms. He flopped into the cellar. The lantern revealed a flagstone floor, hundreds of large barrels along the far wall and bare stone on this side. The place was remarkably clean, though the flagstones were stained where barrels had leaked, and it smelled of red wine.
Dajaes looked left, looked right, closed her eyes for a moment as if casting her mind back to the old cellar plan, and turned to the right.
“This way. Hurry, Wilm!”
He did not need to be told. With the robbers somewhere in the villa, the risk of being discovered grew with every passing second. They reached the end of the cellar and a large, solid door, which was locked.
“Blast it!” said Dajaes.
“Snoat’s a greedy man,” said Wilm. “We should have expected he’d lock his wine up. What are we going to do?”
“Blast it!” she repeated. “Run back to the hole and get a big handful of clay.”
He did so. When he returned she was sitting cross-legged on the floor, scooping powder out of the blasting charge and wadding it into a square of rag torn from her shirt to form a small cartridge. She inserted a short length of her home-made fuse and tied it tightly.
After taking the bung out of the nearest barrel, Dajaes moistened the clay with a few drops of wine, then shoved it as far into the large keyhole as it would go. She inserted the cloth cartridge and held it in place with more packed clay, careful to keep the fuse dry, then put the top back on the blasting charge and replaced the shortened fuse.
“Don’t stand in front of the keyhole,” she said. “I’ve seen my father do this, but I’ve never tried it before.”
Dajaes lit the fuse from the lantern and retreated. The little spark sputtered its way along then winked out at the clay. Wilm stirred.
“Stay back!” she snapped.
BANG! Clay blasted across the cellar, the hinges groaned and the door sagged. It had split from top to bottom at the lock. She yanked it open; they went up a flight of steps and looked out into a long corridor that was in darkness save for starlight coming through tall windows. Again Dajaes seemed to be consulting her mental map.
“We go right.”
She shuttered the lantern. They hurried down the corridor.
“What if we run into the robbers?” said Wilm.
“Shh!”
Dajaes turned at the end and went up one hall, then another. Wilm had no idea how she knew to find her way. Perhaps she was just searching randomly in the hope of finding a clue to Llian’s whereabouts. Having no better idea, he kept silent.
They were passing another set of windows when he saw a light flash, some distance away. “What was that?”
She looked out. The light flashed again. “The robbers?”
“Careless robbers! They’re bound to be seen.”
They continued, Dajaes now opening each door they passed, looking in and closing it again. The third door emitted a sweaty, unwashed stench and a reek of stale grog, and Wilm felt such a premonition of danger that he yanked her back by the shoulder.
“Don’t go in there!” he said and closed the door again.
She rubbed her shoulder, looked up at his face and shivered. “Thanks.”
They headed away as fast as possible, climbed a set of stairs and turned into a wide hall. There was no one about but they trod carefully and checked around each corner before they turned it. Dajaes was opening doors again, and at the next one Wilm caught the faintest whiff of brandy. He had never tasted brandy, or any strong drink, but he’d smelled it once or twice when helping out at Shand’s place.
He looked into a panelled room. At the far end a series of display cases contained brandy bottles and decanters, each different in shape and design, plus a number of small wooden barrels. The room was faintly lit by light coming down a curved satinwood staircase. Then Wilm heard a man’s voice, rich and melodious, up above.
“That’s Llian!” he whispered in Dajaes’s ear. “And he’s telling.”
They slipped into the brandy room and closed the door. Dajaes set the shuttered lantern down.
“It’s the Tale of the Mirror,” she said, eyes wide with awe. “Almost the end. Wilm!” She clutched his hand. “I’m actually hearing Llian tell it!”
There were tears in her eyes, tears of joy, and more than anything Wilm would have loved for her to hear the end of the tale, but it could not be risked. How to get Llian out? Surely he could only be telling to Snoat himself.
“Hide behind the stairs,” he said in Dajaes’s ear. “Get ready to whack Snoat when he comes down.”
She did so, putting the blasting charge down beside her. “What are you doing?”
He darted to the nearest barrel and prised out the bung. Glug, glug, glug went the contents. The aged brandy was a deep, golden red-brown, and the smell was intoxicating, almost overpowering. Wilm’s head spun. He lifted down a cut crystal decanter, an exquisite object with a solid silver stopper and a base of silver basketwork. He tapped it against the panelled wall, hard, then ducked behind the stairs beside Dajaes.
Above them Llian broke off in mid-sentence.
“What the hell was that?” said another voice. Wilm heard footsteps on the stairs. “Why can I smell brandy?” Then the man cried out in outrage. “It’s… it’s the Beacons barrel!”
A slim middle-aged man came storming down the steps, resplendent in a dress uniform and wearing a ceremonial sabre in a jewelled sheath. It had to be Snoat. He reached the bottom of the steps and stood there, staring at the flood pouring from the barrel and the bung lying on the floor.
“The tale is ruined!” he cried.
His right hand groped for the hilt of his sabre. Wilm rose and swung the heavy decanter at the back of Snoat’s head, connecting with a soggy thud. The decanter did not break but he toppled into the pool of brandy and lay still.
Dajaes gasped. Wilm stood there, looking down the body in horror. Suddenly his hands and feet were freezing and he began to shake.
“Is he… dead?” said Dajaes, pressing up against him.
“I think so.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Wilm!” Llian said in evident astonishment. He was looking down over the rail. “Did you do that? Well bloody done! But… what are you doing here?”
“We broke in to rescue you.” Wilm paused, his head whirling, then remembered his manners. “This is my friend, Dajaes. She dug the tunnel.”
“Did she?” said Llian. “Dajaes, I’m deep in your debt.”
She was too overcome to speak.
“She’s a big fan of yours,” Wilm added. “She’s read your tale fifteen and a half times.”
Llian smiled and extended his hand. “When we get out of here I’ll dedicate a tale in your honour.”
She flushed, looked down, then up again. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“We’d better go,” said Wilm.
“One second.” Llian ran up the stairs. “I’m ruining the bastard’s perfect collection.”
Snoat lay unmoving. In the slanting lantern light the brandy surrounding him looked like blood. Wilm’s stomach churned and he ducked behind the stairs and threw up.
Llian reappeared, carrying his journal and his Tale of the Mirror in one hand and a sheathed knife and Snoat’s leather manuscript bag in the other. He slipped his journal and the manuscript into the inner case, which was made of waxed cloth to protect the contents against the elements, closed the waterproof seals and hung the bag over his shoulder by its strap.
Dajaes opened the door and looked out. “No one in sight. Let’s go.”
“You armed?” Llian said to Wilm.
Wilm shook his head.
“Take his sabre. We may have to fight our way out and I’m hopeless.”
Wilm unbuckled the belt of the magnificent, gleaming weapon rather gingerly, and strapped it on. He had never held anything more dangerous than his mother’s carving knife.
“I suspect he planned to have me beheaded with it once my tale was finished,” said Llian.
Dajaes stifled a cry.
“What about you?” Llian said to Dajaes. “Got a weapon?”
“Um, no.”
Llian gave her the knife, then picked up the cut crystal decanter Wilm had used to strike Snoat down. Dajaes belted on the sheath and led them out, so overcome by all that had happened that she forgot the lantern and the blasting charge.
Before Llian’s telling began, Thandiwe had secreted herself in the darkness at the back of the Little Theatre. She wanted to hear the telling for herself, partly as an act of defiance because Snoat believed it was only for him, and partly to learn from Llian, who was the best teller she had ever met. But the telling was a long one and she had been working eighteen hours a day, and halfway through the tale she drifted into sleep.
Snoat’s cry, “What the hell was that?” shocked her awake. Had she been discovered? She was creeping along behind the seats, keeping low, when she heard footsteps on the stair down to Snoat’s brandy room, then a thud.
