She went slowly and carefully, firming her grip before risking her weight on the hold. Halfway up she slipped. She had her feet braced wide on the corner lip of the wall and for a moment she swayed, thirty feet above the ground. She threw her weight forward and scrabbled for handholds, legs shaking with the strain of holding herself up. She found a new grip and breathed a sigh of relief between gritted teeth and started up again.
She clambered onto the slate roof, her heart thudding as she rolled onto her back. She flexed her cramped fingers and breathed deeply. But there was no time for rest. She rolled up onto her feet. The servants’ quarters were at the top of the house and most of them would be downstairs working. Many had left their windows open for the fresh air.
Margaret walked across the roof. The rain was coming down harder, making the slate slippery. She skidded and slid, landing on her side and grabbing a chimney pot to keep from sliding off the edge of the roof. She pulled herself back up and finished her journey with no more incidents.
She crouched beside a dormer window. The shutters were open wide. Margaret peered inside. There were four beds spaced around the walls. Three were neatly made and the last one was beneath the window and was unmade. Margaret slid inside. She rubbed her feet clean on the sheets and then dropped to the floor. She folded the coverlet up and tucked in the bed, hiding her mess. With any luck, its owner would think it was a practical joke by one of her fellow maids.
Margaret went to the door and eased it open. Now was the hard part. She had to find a place to hide for a few glasses until the house went to bed for the night. Then she would try to locate Carston. She planned to return to Nicholas and Keros before the house stirred to life again.
She went out into the corridor and made her way to a narrow stair. These passages were austere, designed only for servants. There was nowhere to hide except inside the rooms behind the plain doors. Margaret hurried as fast as she dared. She wanted to get down to the first floor, and below, into the kitchen level. Carston would be hidden there somewhere, she was sure. The upper levels were too public. The regent would keep him underground where there were no windows to allow an easy escape or rescue. It would also keep too many servants from becoming aware of the boy.
She passed two floors of guest rooms and reached the family floor with only two encounters. The first time she was able to run back up the stairs until the two maids passed. The second time she was trapped. She started through one of the doors, twisting the knob, then heard voices on the other side. A pair of footmen were coming up the stairs and another opened a door farther ahead. Margaret didn’t hesitate. She ran down the corridor and slid in behind the opening door, sliding a stiletto free as she did. The footman stepped out and shut the door with his foot. He held a tray of dishes, which he set on a sideboard. He stopped to adjust his cuffs and dab at his vest with a napkin, muttering a curse as he did.
Margaret chewed her lip. So far he hadn’t seen her, but in less than a minute, the footmen on the stairs would appear and she’d be caught. That left her no time.
She stepped up behind the griping footman. He was tall with broad shoulders. Perfect. She slipped around in front of him, grasping his waistband and digging her knife sharply into his cods.
“If you ever want to enjoy another woman again, you will do what I say,” she whispered. “Understand?”
His face was pale and he nodded.
“Come with me.” She pulled on him, stepping back until they fetched up against the wall. She pressed herself into the corner and pulled him after her. “Now kiss me.”
His eyes widened and lips dropped open.
“Now,” she said, pushing her knife harder into his groin. The other footmen had stepped out onto the landing. “Be convincing or I’ll cut your prick off.”
He hesitated only a moment, then obeyed. He bent, his mouth pressing against hers, his arms coming up to circle her stiffly. She couldn’t have that. She needed this to look natural. She opened her mouth and licked her tongue against his lips. He started, and then pressed closer, his tongue tangling with hers. Men were so easy. He moaned as she sucked gently and slanted his head, deepening the kiss. Margaret rolled her eyes. He seemed to have totally forgotten her knife against his prick. He ran a hand down over her breast and squeezed. She made a loud sound of pleasure and he responded with a low growl.
Behind him she heard silence and then a chuckling. “Look at Davey. Who’s he got there?”
“He’s about to roast her on his stick. Maybe he’ll give us a taste.”
Davey’s back stiffened and he started to pull away. Margaret held him and wriggled, pressing her breasts against his chest. He forgot their audience as his lust ignited again. He kissed her, harder this time.
Under other circumstances, Margaret would have enjoyed his attentions. He knew what he was doing and a tumble in bed with him would have been more than enjoyable. And it would help put all distracting thoughts of Nicholas from her mind. But she was on business. She heard the other men tromp up the stairs, leaving her alone with her companion. Gently she pushed Davey back. He stared down at her. He was handsome, with a cleft chin and lovely green eyes. He brushed a hair from her forehead.
“You don’t belong here,” he said, then glanced down at the knife still prodding his cods, then back up at her. “I’d have kissed you without such encouragement,” he said with a grin.
“I can’t let you give the alarm,” she said. She should kill him.
“I wouldn’t be able to if I was busy, say, with you.” He lifted his brows and bent, kissing her again.
Margaret smiled beneath his lips. He was brash and arrogant. She liked that. And his suggestion held certain charm. She could pass the time with him until the house was quiet enough to explore. He might be just what she needed to cure herself of her attraction for Nicholas Weverton.
“Where do you suggest we spend our evening together?” she asked seductively.
“There are empty guest rooms. We wouldn’t be disturbed.”
“Someone would miss you.”
He shrugged. “I’ll think of an excuse.” He kissed her again and pulled away. “I would very much like it if you eased up on that knife. I’ve got a bit of swelling down there.”
She hesitated. It was a risk. But an empty guest room was a good place to hide. She could tie him up and leave him there, and he wouldn’t soon be found. Then she wouldn’t have to kill him. She slid the knife into her waistband. “Lead the way.”
He grinned more broadly and grasped her hand. They went up a flight and then wound through the crisscrossing corridors. At last they ended up on the south side of the house. He stopped two doors from the end, turned the knob, and eased the door open, peering inside. He pulled her within and shut the door. Instantly he drew her close and began kissing her, his hands fisting in the back of her shirt. He rubbed his hips into hers. His eagerness was catching. Margaret pushed off his coat and pulled at the buttons of his vest. In moments his chest was bare. She rubbed her fingers over his skin, delighting in its smooth warmth. He groaned and tugged at her clothing, then swung her up impatiently and carried her to the tall four-poster bed.
They passed the next few hours in delightful activity. Davey was both enthusiastic and energetic. Margaret did not think about Ellyn, Keros, her brothers, or her mission inside the house. Nicholas crept into her thoughts a time or two, and each time she banished his image with firm determination.
Davey had fallen into a deeply contented sleep and Margaret lay curled beside him. By her estimate, it was close to midnight. She should begin her search. She eased out of the bed and cut strips of cloth from the sheets. She braided them together into sturdy ropes, then tied Davey hand and foot without waking him. It wouldn’t hold him forever, but long enough. It took her but a few minutes more to dress. She eyed his livery, then shook her head. If she needed a disguise, she’d steal one later.
She was on the first guest floor. Below was the family rooms and on the first two floors were the ente
rtaining rooms. Sylveth lamps lit the corridor with a soft glow, brightening as she moved past them, their majick working as if nothing was wrong. She went quickly, careful not to make any noise. There was no one in the halls. She passed a billiard room where a man stood over a woman who lay seductively on the table, her skirts bunched around her waist.
She slid past the arched door opening and went through a long gallery. It overlooked a large ballroom. The scent of the night’s dinner permeated the air and made Margaret’s stomach grumble. She paused at the top of the sweeping stairway. It was the fastest way down, but footmen stood inside the front doors. She couldn’t get past them unnoticed.
She retreated, going back through the gallery and threading her way round to the rear of the ballroom. It ran the length of the manor, dividing the great house in half. Below it were the kitchens and various food cellars, and on the sides were offices, salons, sitting rooms, and small intimate dining rooms. Margaret chanced entering the servants’ passages again and dropped down to the first floor.
She came down onto the landing at the same moment a yawning scullery maid rounded the corner. The curly-headed girl stopped short, her eyes springing wide. Her mouth opened and Margaret leaped to clamp a hand over the emerging scream. She spun the girl and held her tight against her chest. She flipped free a poison needle in a ring and started to drag it across the maid’s neck. She stopped suddenly, feeling the girl’s chest rising and falling rapidly. The girl was innocent—a maid. One of the people she was supposed to protect. She’s working for the wick-sucking regent! But a maid still must feed her family and buy her clothes, and that meant working for whoever would pay her.
Margaret flipped the needle back into the ring and then pulled her dagger and cracked the girl across the back of the head. The maid slumped to the ground.
Margaret hooked the maid’s body beneath her arms and dragged her to the closet beneath the stair. She pushed aside the buckets, brooms, and mops and pulled the body inside. She found a pile of rags and used them to bind and gag the girl. She stood, considering the closet critically. It was clearly used frequently. She did not want the girl to be found too soon. Margaret grabbed three mops and pushed their butt ends against the bottom of the shelving on the far wall. Pulling the door around, she squatted and reached through the opening to settle the damp heads against the back of the door. She pulled her arm out and snicked the latch closed. The mops dropped down to the floor with a thump. She turned the handle and pushed. They didn’t budge. That would buy a little time. Eventually the girl would wake up and find a way to make a racket that would bring rescuers. Hopefully not too soon.
She shook her head. She was going soft. She should have left neither Davey nor the girl. Both were expendable. The future of Crosspointe was at stake. For a moment she hesitated, then shook her head. It was too late now.
She began a systematic exploration of the first floor. She found the regent’s office empty. She went inside, her fingers itching to pick the locks and rifle through the drawers. But she had no time. She continued her search, finding nothing of interest. At last she slunk down into the kitchens. She had to be more careful here. The cook slept in an attached room and her helpers were scattered about on thin straw mattresses. The room was hot from the day’s cooking and the oven fires were banked. Sylveth didn’t work for cooking—somehow food didn’t cook evenly with majick.
She stepped carefully around the exhausted bodies and stroked a cat who purred loudly into her hand. She took a small cake from the basket on the counter before going through to the buttery and out into the cold cellar. Beyond that was a cold storage for vegetables and herbs and another for wine and liquor. Margaret wandered through, looking for a door into the rest of the basement area but found nothing. There had to be more. The kitchen and cellar took up no more than half of the manor’s main floor area. That meant there was another half where Carston might be imprisoned.
She was retreating back to search for another passage out of the kitchen when she found what she was looking for. It was a door hidden behind a rack of whiskey casks. It was well disguised, and if she hadn’t been looking for it, she wouldn’t have seen it. There was only about a six-inch gap between the rack and the hidden door. Margaret pushed against the heavy wood frame but it didn’t budge. She ran her fingers over the wood, pressing and digging into crevices and knotholes. She went around and reached as far as she could down the gap, then began on the casks. She brushed past a rough spot on the bottom of the third cask. She felt the tingle of a ward and then a click. The rack shifted slightly and she pushed against it. It swiveled away from the wall and Margaret smiled.
The door wasn’t warded. She picked the lock with ease and turned the handle. The hallway on the other side was paneled with polished wood. The floor was black and white marble and the walls were decorated with paintings, sculptures, and a variety of other bric-a-brac. Margaret peered both directions and saw no one. But the corridor was brightly lit, which likely meant that people had passed by recently.
Margaret slid out into the passage. She turned left for no better reason than it went deeper into the space and she figured the regent would bury Carston as far back in this warren as he could.
She found a number of empty rooms and kept going, pushing deeper. Ahead she heard the rumble of voices and dodged into a room on the right. She glanced around, shutting the door behind her. An odd chill ran up her spine. This was a sitting room of a princely variety. Everything was ostentatiously sumptuous. The carpets were deeply piled, the furniture layered with gold leaf, the decorations rare treasures from around the world. Beyond were equally luxurious bedchambers. The place was fit for any king, but what was it doing hidden in the basement?
Margaret tensed. Instinct told her something was very wrong about this.
Another rumble, this time of laughter. Margaret eased back out into the hallway. She moved silently, her heart pounding. She slid a knife into her hand. At the corner she pressed close to the wall and peered around the edge, only to yank herself back.
Holy Mother of All!
She licked her lips and looked again. The hall spread into a large, lofty room. It was filled with stuffed chaises and chairs, and the walls were lined with books, statuary, paintings, porcelain, and bronzes. They were clustered haphazardly, without any sense of taste, more like a storage warehouse than anything else. Something else caught her eye. She sucked in a startled breath. The floor was layered with white bearskin rugs from Ayvreshar, each dyed in the rich colors of the tribes. They were impossible to buy and even one was almost priceless. There were at least fifty of them.
In fact—
She ducked away. It was a pyrate’s treasure trove in there. There were pieces there from Relsea and Tapisriya—countries that the Jutras had rolled over and squashed. Margaret rubbed the back of her hand over her trembling lips. If those things were here, then it meant the regent was involved with the Jutras. Though Avreshar remained free, rumors had it that the Jutras had begun raiding within its borders. It was only a matter of time until it fell.
Her stomach churned and she fought the urge to throw up. Ryland and Vaughn needed to know this. Again a burst of laughter. She shifted and peeked around again. Now she saw that there was a salon through an arched opening on the left. On the right were a series of closed doors. Each was barred from the outside with a small slot window at eye level. Prison cells.
She frowned. The entire arrangement was strange. Such luxurious accommodations side by side with a dungeon. She chewed the inside of her cheek. She should get out of Molford and back to Sylmont as quickly as possible. Ryland needed to know the regent was consorting with the Jutras. Her gaze slid to the cells. Inside one of those, Carston was trapped, terrified. She was sure of it. Her attention went back to the archway. She couldn’t make out any of the conversation, but she’d give her teeth to hear it. So would Ryland. A tight smile tightened her mouth. If she got caught, she very well might be giving her teeth, and maybe the rest of her too. S
he was creeping across the opening even before she finished the thought.
The thick jungle of treasure lent her concealment even as it provided a field of danger where she risked revealing herself by knocking things over. It took half a glass to cross through the gauntlet. By the time she was done, sweat was trickling between her breasts.
She stopped beside a wide-bellied cabinet that was carved to resemble an open-weave basket. The wood was fragrant—sweet and spicy at the same time. A set of squat frog statues carved from a gray-green stone were set in a semicircle in front of it, and several bolts of cloth were stacked to the side. She wriggled in behind and settled in to listen.
She could hear the speakers clear enough now.
“. . . have done remarkably well,” said a deep, raspy voice. “The Dhucala is pleased.”
Margaret went cold. The Dhucala was the Jutras king. If she needed any confirmation that the regent was colluding with the Jutras, she had it.
“However, you have promised to open Blackwater Bay to our ships, and compasses and Pilots to keep us safe on the sea. When can I tell the Dhucala to expect them? He is most eager. He hopes the gifts he sends will encourage you to go more quickly with your plans.”
“I have already taken steps,” came the regent’s smug voice. “Nicholas Weverton will soon be powerless to stop me. I will seize his property and put his family in chains. His allies will drop him like a handful of hot coals and switch allegiance to me. He has underestimated me and will pay the price for it. He has no idea what is about to happen to him.”
“And what about the Ramplings?”A different voice, younger, more agile.
“Toothless.”
“Are they? I have heard young Prince Ryland is stirring up resistance against you. It is said that many of your people disapprove of you.”
The Hollow Crown: A Novel of Crosspointe Page 17
