by J. V. Jones
As he spoke, Jack noticed that Tawl was the only man in the room who was not sitting down. He hadn’t eaten his food, either. It lay untouched on a cloth on the floor.
Crayne shook his head. “No, Tawl. I say we wait. We’re all bone weary; we’ve had seven days in the saddle without one good night’s sleep between us. We need to rest.”
“Crayne’s right, Tawl,” said Borlin, picking his huge teeth with a chicken bone. “We’ve been up since before dawn this morning. If we go in tonight none of us will be at our best—you know that.” Borlin waited for Tawl to acknowledge the truth of what he was saying. A mere tightening of lip was all the response he got. Borlin wasn’t put off. “Besides, if we wait until tomorrow night, there’s a chance there’ll be fewer trained men in the palace.”
“Why? What have you heard?”
Borlin let Crayne answer the question. “You were right about the blackhelms, Tawl. They all went south to Camlee with Kedrac. The ones left in the city are a mixture of mercenaries, new recruits, farmers, and fortune hunters. Kylock’s ordered a four-day training exercise for them just north of the city. They leave in the morning.”
“A training mission like that won’t affect the palace guard count.”
“I think it will.” Crayne’s voice was firm. The candlelight brought out the gray in his hair and threw deep shadows across his face. Jack realized he had never seen Crayne laugh or share a joke with anyone: the leader of the knights was a serious man.
Crayne continued, his eyes focused steadily on Tawl. “Who are the best-trained men in the city now that Kedrac has taken the blackhelms?” He answered his own question. “The palace guards, that’s who. Kylock is going to need highly skilled men to train these upstart blackhelms, so he’s bound to send some of the best guards from the palace on the training mission.”
Behind Crayne, one of the horses nickered softly. They had brought six mounts to the city between them, and Andris had laid a makeshift ramp down to the storage bay so their presence could be concealed.
Before Tawl had a chance to say anything, Borlin spoke up again. “There’s things we’ll need to purchase tomorrow,” he said. “New bridles, stirrup straps, saddles. At the moment the horses are a dead giveaway. Everything on them is yellow and black. If one of us is going to wait outside the palace with them, then their tack needs to be changed.”
Everyone grunted in agreement with this. “Same with us, too,” continued Borlin. “We took a big chance coming into the city looking the way we do. We all need to get some discreet clothes, and you and Jack need some chain mail for under your tunics.”
Tawl looked at Jack. “What do you think? Should we wait until tomorrow night?”
Up until now, Jack had just been an observer at the meeting. The knighthood was a closed rank and he was just an inexperienced outsider. He knew nothing of tactics and predawn raids. He wasn’t a fighter—though he could fight—he was someone with one specific job to do. He had to murder Kylock. Up to this point, Jack had deliberately pushed the details to the back of his mind; details were the things that frightened him, the things that made the whole situation seem real. And hopeless.
What Crayne and Borlin said made good sense, and Jack agreed with them, but they hadn’t come up with the real reason why they shouldn’t enter the palace tonight. Only he knew that.
He wasn’t ready.
The journey here had been one mad, breathless gallop, and Jack hadn’t had a moment to think. He rode, he slept, he rode some more. Always there was the knowledge he was drawing closer to Bren, but never once had he stopped to consider what he would do once he arrived. He needed tonight to prepare himself. Not for the details—there was no way to plan for the unknown—but the reality of the situation. It was time he came to terms with what had to be done. The responsibility was his alone.
“I say we go in tomorrow night,” he said.
Tawl looked down, disappointed, but the faces of the other men visibly relaxed, and Jack realized he had misjudged them. They didn’t think he was an inexperienced outsider after all: they would have moved tonight on his say-so. It was a sobering thought, and as the night drew on and plans were made, refined, and then finalized, it became the first of many.
Thirty-two
They left the dyemaker’s shop at midnight: Jack, Tawl, Crayne, Nabber, and Hervo who, besides Borlin, was the best marksman in the party. By turns, it had been sleeting, raining, spitting, and drizzling all day, and the streets were thick with sludge. Like they did when they entered the city, they had split up into groups to avoid any unwanted attention. Andris was head of the second group, Borlin head of the third.
Only half an hour before, Jack had put chain mail on for the first time in his life. It was heavy, confining and it itched like mad. It was like wearing a rack of cutlery next to your skin. Tawl said it would have helped if the mail had been custom-made, but personally Jack couldn’t see it: if anything, it was a relief that the metal rings ended at his stomach, not his vitals.
Nabber had been forced into wearing mail, too, and was currently walking with an exaggerated stagger. “It’ll be wet in the dungeons,” he said, holding his palms up to catch the rain. “All the water that can’t find its way around the palace ends up running through it.”
“That’s good,” murmured Tawl. “No guards will want to be down there if it’s running with water.”
Hervo grunted. Like Borlin, he wasn’t a large man, but his arms were as thick as a butcher’s block and his eyes were as sharp as a cleaver. He was carrying his bow in an oilskin bag under his arm, and his arrows were tucked into his tunic. Jack had watched Hervo preparing himself earlier: he had kissed each arrow before putting them into his quiver. Crayne said he had chosen Hervo because although he was first and foremost an archer, he was also an expert with the long-knife.
Crayne himself was a study in concealed weaponry. Subtle but deadly bulges broke the line of his tunic, his britches, his sleeves, and his boots. Knives, throwing spars, a sword, a small crowbar, and a coil of metal rope were just the items that Jack had spotted. The leader of the party was quiet as they walked through the city, his face drawn into hard-earned lines, his gaze never resting in one place. On the few occasions he did speak, it was to whisper terse, one-line orders in a voice well used to command.
Tawl seemed content to let him take the lead. Whether that would remain the case when they were actually in the palace was another matter entirely. Jack couldn’t imagine Tawl even listening to orders once he caught sight of Melli.
“Are you sure you know how to get to the nobles’ quarters?” asked Tawl for what must have been the fourth time that day.
“’Course I do,” said Nabber with an indignant squeak. “I even think I know the annex old Thornydraws mentioned. There’s quite a few areas leading from the nobles’ quarters, but if I remember rightly, only one of them is out of the way enough to conceal furtive coming and goings.”
Tawl was quiet after that. The remark Madame Thornypurse made about Melli being near her time had affected him deeply. Jack had seen it last night in the alley, and he saw it now as they made their way across the city. The knight’s face was a shield of taut flesh, and on both sides of his body, his hands were curled into fists.
Like Tawl, Jack had chosen not to load himself down with weapons. A sword and two knives, one concealed. Jack had strapped his second knife against the lining of his boot. He could feel it there now, the covered blade pressing into his skin with every step forward.
“Andris will be starting out any minute now,” said Crayne. “He should be less than an hour behind us.”
“Aye, he’ll keep good time,” said Hervo in his soft, drawling voice. “It’s Borlin who’ll be dashing ahead of the game. He hates to be kept waiting.” Hervo laughed softly and even Crayne managed a smile. Obviously a tale or two there, thought Jack.
Borlin and the other two men in his group would bring the horses across the city. Two archers and one swordsman, their job was to wait
at the entrance to the tunnels—the swordsman with the horses and the archers concealed at shooting distance—and provide cover for the escape. Andris, Gervhay, and the last archer were to wait on a prearranged street corner near the palace until Nabber appeared, gain access to the tunnels, and follow Crayne’s party up through the palace, covering their backs, keeping the escape route clear and watching out for trouble.
That was the plan. Everyone knew it, most of the night had been spent in fine-tuning and coming up with various contingencies, and now they were about to put it into action.
They made good time crossing the city. There were fewer blackhelms to avoid than the night before, and the bad weather and the lateness of hour combined to make the streets almost deserted. Nabber was in charge of choosing the route, and Jack had to admit it was a good one: dark alleyways, sleazy back streets, deserted courtyards. The pocket knew his stuff. Earlier Jack had pulled Nabber aside and asked him where Baralis and Kylock’s chambers might be located. Nabber, always pleased to show off his knowledge, had told him the exact location of Baralis’ chambers and the possible location of Kylock’s—the old duke’s quarters. Jack had asked Nabber not to mention this to the others, and the pocket had sworn an oath to that effect, spitting upon his palms and calling upon Borc to strike him down with the ghones if he broke it.
Jack didn’t so much mind the others knowing, it was more that he didn’t want to distract them from their mission. They had enough to deal with already. His plan was simply to slip away once Melli was safely in hand.
“Almost here now,” said Nabber with a theatrical whisper. “Remember, it’ll be wet down here, so hold all your necessaries above your heads.”
They came to a halt at the end of an alleyway. The two walls to either side were running with water, and the eaves of overhanging buildings were sending streams of run-off pouring onto the road. It was very dark. The surface of the road was more dirt than cobbles, and it was heavily cambered.
“Are you sure Andris will be able to find this place?” The dark form that was Crayne’s head moved from side to side. “It’s further out of the way than I thought.”
“No problem,” said Nabber. “He knows where Cabling Street is, and as long as he makes it there, I’ll find him.” As he spoke, Nabber handed his sack to Tawl. Inside were two oil lamps, and Tawl set about lighting them. Nabber crouched down and started brushing away the dirt near the wall. “The drain’s here, I know it,” he murmured. “Must have got clogged up. Here, Jack, give me a hand.”
Jack knelt down beside him and thrust his fingers into the mud. After a moment, he felt the cold hardness of metal. By this time Tawl had the lamps lit and everyone helped to clear the drain. “How far are we from the palace?” asked Jack, trying to pry the drain grille open.
“Not far at all. Less than a quarter league due east.” With his little finger, Nabber cleared the mud from around the edge of the drain. “Got the bar, Crayne?” he said. “This is going to need a good wrenching. Last time I was here, all of this dirt was on the other side of the alley. Must have moved south for the winter like the birds.”
Crayne whipped out the contents of one of his bulges and went to work. Jack and Tawl helped him get a grip, Nabber supervised, and Hervo stood watch at the end of the alley. After a while the grille was loosened, and Crayne managed to pry it open. Everyone was soaked and muddy. Crayne took a hand of mud and rubbed it into his face. He ordered everyone else to do likewise. “Once we hit the palace, it’s lamps out. Understood?” He waited for each of them to nod. “You go first, Jack. After that it’s Nabber, me, then Tawl. Hervo, you’re bringing up the rear.”
Tawl held the lamp out while Jack lowered himself into the murky darkness of the drain. A sharp, rotting smell wafted upward. Jack felt a cold stream of air whipping around his ankles. He gripped the ground to either side of the drain more firmly and lowered himself deeper. His feet plunged into icy water, sending a shock wave coursing up his spine. Feet, ankles, calves, knees, thighs were all engulfed by the freezing flow. Jack didn’t want to release his grip. He still couldn’t feel the bottom with his feet.
“Go on, Jack,” cried Nabber. “It can’t be much deeper.”
Jack took a deep breath and let go. He dropped less than a hand’s length before hitting the bottom. His feet landed in a thick layer of mud. Reaching up, he took the lamp from Tawl, and then stepped away to give Nabber room to be lowered. The lantern revealed a roughly circular passage. Stone slabs lined the walls and ceilings, and earth and roots had forced their way through the masonry, splitting stones, and providing runways for seeping mud and rainwater.
The water level reached Jack’s hips, and already he could feel his toes numbing. The water itself was dark brown and thick with mud and refuse. As Jack moved away from the opening, the mud on the bottom sucked at his feet, turning every step into a struggle of balance and coordination. Pull too slowly and he wouldn’t be able to break free from the bottom, pull too fast and he could go splashing head-first into the water. And from the smell of it, he most definitely didn’t want that to happen.
By the time the others were down, Jack was shaking from head to foot. It was freezing. Nabber’s teeth were chattering loudly—he was up to his chest in water—and even Tawl was showing signs of the cold, crossing his arms over his chest to stop himself from shivering. Hervo held his bow and quiver above his head, and Crayne’s many bulges had apparently moved upward toward his neck.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“Right,” said Nabber in Jack’s ear. “We wade down here a while till we come to the first passage on the left.”
Jack nodded and began to make his way forward. Each step was a fight against the suction of the mud and the numbness of his limbs. The surface of the water was thick with grease. White gobs of animal fat bobbed up and down with each ripple. Jack felt top-heavy and awkward. He took great lurching steps like a drunkard. Below the water he was almost weightless, but above his chest was artificially heavy due to the chain mail.
The sound of water dripping was everywhere. Echoes seemed louder than the noises they mimicked, and the wind howled through the tunnels like a wolf.
The light from the lantern bounced off the moss-covered walls, picking up a green glow. Jack’s hand was shaking and the lantern shook with it, sending quick shadows and light flashes careening from ceiling to water.
“Here!” cried Nabber. “Turn left.”
Jack had been lost in his own thoughts, hypnotized by the light. He had stepped right past the turnoff. Backtracking a few steps, he was aware that the numbness in his limbs was moving upward. He suddenly realized that the journey was a lot harder on Nabber: half his chest was submerged in the freezing water. Once the pocket had guided them to the palace and shown them the way up to the nobles’ quarters, he had to come back through the drains for Andris.
Jack sped his pace up after that. He found that a light running step actually stopped his feet from miring in the mud. It got his blood pumping, too, and helped stop the numbness from spreading up his legs. The water in the second tunnel was a fraction lower than the first, and as they made their way along it, the level dropped even farther.
Suddenly Jack’s foot hit stone. He stopped dead, raising his hand to halt the others. “There’s something blocking the way.”
“It’s all right, Jack,” came Nabber’s breathless voice from behind. “It should be the steps leading up to the dungeons.”
Jack brought his lantern forward. It was impossible to see anything below the surface. He moved his foot upward, grazing the stone with his toes until he found a ledge. Nabber was right, it was a step. A step tall enough for giants. Jack hauled his tired body up through the water, swinging around after each step to lend a hand to Nabber.
“We’re here now,” said Nabber, as Jack dragged him up the last step. “We’re in the palace.”
As soon as Nabber said those words, Jack realized that he hadn’t done nearly enough to prepare himself. One night was no
thing. Somewhere above him lay Baralis and Kylock, and somehow, tonight, he was supposed to destroy them. The full enormity of the task hit him like a dead weight. He felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. How could he possibly get to Kylock? And once there, how could he destroy him? He didn’t know the answers. All he knew was that he had to try.
Melli had pulled the curtains back and opened the shutters. The window was, she judged, large enough for her to squeeze through. It was high, though, and she dragged the chest across the room to give herself something to stand on. The splint was back against the broken bone, and as she worked the chest from its position against the back wall, her left arm trailed at her side. Sweat poured down her forehead, dripping off the end of her nose and soaking the neckline of her dress.
The chest was made of oak a wrist thick, and it was large enough to store a sheep. It took Melli many minutes and many rests to position it below the window.
Sleet drifted down through the open shutters, landing on Melli’s face as she pulled herself up. The stones forming the wall had been smoothed only to man height, and the masonry around the window was coarse and unfinished. Melli made a grab for the stone frame, and she felt a quick burn on her wrist as her skin brushed against the rough surface. “Damn,” she hissed. It was too dark to tell if there was blood.
Melli had taught herself to ignore pains a lot more serious than a scraped wrist, and she didn’t miss a beat. Standing on her tiptoes, she leant out of the window and looked down to the world below. The cold air made Melli’s eyes sting, and she could see nothing at first but a black pit. Then, as she blinked away the tears, she began to pick out a few details: light escaping from shutters, stretches of white snow nestling between eaves, the wet sheen of the courtyard below. Melli leant out a fraction farther so she could see what lay directly beneath the window. It was a dead drop: no ledges, no broken levels, no low roofs.
