Morticai's Luck

by Darlene Bolesny

  Nelerek nodded. “No wonder you’ve been broodin’. Sounds like you need to move about more. I don’t know if the Snake Pit is the place to do it, though. Promise me that if you decide to go there, you’ll let me know so I can go with you.”

  Morticai nodded, if not too enthusiastically. “Yeah. Usual message drop?”

  “Aye.”

  “Y’know, Nelerek, I think that’s part of what’s bothering me so much—having to be so damned dependent on other people. It was bad enough before all of this began.”

  Nelerek’s brow furrowed. “What are you talkin’ about?”

  “Oh,” Morticai waved a hand, “my damned patrol—and Heather. I guess I just never noticed it before, but Coryden’s patrol has turned me into some kind of mascot. I’m tired of them constantly watching out for me. And Heather treats me like a stray pet that she wants to chain. Only now, I’m gettin’ it from all sides—the Inquisitor, my patrol, Heather. Everybody is tellin’ me to stay off the streets, to let them be my eyes and ears. I hate this helpless feeling.”

  Nelerek nodded. “Oh, I understand that, especially comin’ from you. But things have a way of changing, Dyluth. It won’t stay like this forever.”

  Nelerek began packing up the table’s contents. “Well, Carlton’s apprentice should be arriving before too long, and I suppose we should be gone before he arrives. Carlton hasn’t decided if he should make his apprentice an Arluthian Brother or not.”

  Morticai stared out the window as Nelerek packed up. Maybe it was his destiny to fight the Droken. Wasn’t that what he had been trying to tell Heather? So why was he so upset? Wasn’t it what he’d always wanted?

  And Nelerek was right. Things did change. It was the one constant—and one of the strongest precepts of Glawres, the unpredictable, ever-changing Levani of the sea.

  “Dyluth? Are ye all right lad?”

  “Oh, uh yeah, I’ll be alright,” Morticai replied. “I was jus’ thinkin about what you said.”

  Nelerek smiled and blew out the last lamp.

  Chapter Twelve

  Two days later, Watchaven finally began to dry out. The western night sky still flashed with a spectacular display of lightning as the storm rained its last against the Great Mountains west of Dynolva. The sloped roof upon which Morticai lay gave him a grand view of the lightning, as well as Sir Ellenwood’s manor. For more than an hour, Morticai had watched the sky and waited for sleep to fully claim Ellenwood’s household.

  His decision to come here tonight had been a sudden one. He had been faced with another dull evening once Rylan and Geradon had left for evening service at the Sanctorium. In frustration, he had decided he had to get out, and he’d left Rylan a note saying just that—that he had gone ‘out’. He’d been wandering aimlessly when one of his urchin friends, Slip, had found him. Slip had overheard a conversation in a tavern—a conversation between Ellenwood and some other corryn. Ellenwood had complained about having lost Burnaby Manor, and because something had been moved into his own home, but he’d said that it wouldn’t be a problem by the end of the evening. At that point they had spotted Slip, but Slip, as his name indicated, was very good at getting away.

  Morticai had paid Slip a royal for the information and had given him a note to take back to the Inn telling Rylan that he would hit Ellenwood’s before any evidence could be removed. He had almost expected Rylan to have joined him by now with his own people, but there was a chance that Rylan was still at the Sanctorium. Morticai actually hoped that Rylan was still gone—he much preferred being able to do this his own way.

  It would be an easy assault. The two-story house was wrapped around a combination garden and coach yard. No wall surrounded Ellenwood’s small lot, and no guards were visible. Morticai could enter through a ground floor window, or easier yet, he could hop the four-foot gate that led into the coach yard and take his pick of the several doors that opened onto it.

  Deciding he had waited long enough, Morticai grabbed his pack and carefully slid down the roof. He walked silently along the top of a garden wall to a large tree and stepped onto a sturdy branch. A violent fluttering erupted near his head. He jumped, but he avoided falling, as the bird he’d surprised took flight. Cursing to himself, he climbed down to the dark alley below.

  He paused in the alley, listening and watching for any sign that the bird’s panicky flight had been noticed. He could not be too cautious here—this was a human neighborhood. With emotions running so high, Morticai doubted the humans would allow a corryn thief the pleasure of making it to the gallows.

  He reached the coach-yard gate without incident and, within moments, was over it. He decided to enter the house through the most ornate door—it had the highest chance of being maintained, oiled and silent. The lock was an old style, but one of the first types he’d been taught to pick. It clicked softly and opened silently.

  Once inside, the Northmarcher let his eyes adjust as he listened to the sleeping household. He had apparently entered through Ellenwood’s formal sitting room. He jumped as something touched his leg, and then smiled as he recognized the soft shape that rubbed against him. Reaching down, he scratched the now purring cat behind the ears, and then, picking it up, placed it on a nearby chair. It wouldn’t do for him to step on it, after all.

  The room was sparsely decorated with traditional furniture. Everything was in its place. A perfectionist, he thought. He gave the room a quick search. He found nothing of interest, but hadn’t truly expected to find anything incriminating in his formal sitting room. The petty noble’s bedroom, study, or library, if he had one, would be the most likely locations for such things. He hoped to find something in the study or library. He’d never been one for rummaging around in a room while someone was sleeping in it.

  The doorway that led from the sitting room opened onto a rectangular entry hall. Halls stretched away to both Morticai’s right and left, and stairs swirled up from both sides of the front door. Marble statues adorned both sides of the room. He stood still and listened. The house seemed almost too quiet, but then, some were that way naturally. His ears picked up the faint ticking of a clock, somewhere to his right. The sound of the clock surprised him; for a petty noble with such a small manor, Ellenwood certainly seemed to have furnished it well.

  The ticking did simplify Morticai’s decision of which direction to choose. From the outside, he had guessed that the kitchen and dining areas would be on the left. The ticking reaffirmed his notion that anything of interest would be to the right.

  He cautiously made his way down the hall. The first room proved to be the library. Its door stood open, which Morticai found uncomfortable. He preferred to search with doors closed, but closing the door behind him, if it normally stood open, could be disastrous should someone come downstairs and notice the change.

  The library was more ornate than the sitting room, but once again, everything was in its place. He began his search. The cat had followed and sat on top of a reading table, cleaning its paws. The first search produced nothing.

  “Well?” Morticai whispered to the cat. “Where is everything? The study?” The cat nudged forward to be petted. “That’s not what I asked!” Morticai whispered. He eyed a closed door in the room’s far wall, wondering if the library had an attached study or if it were merely a closet. He went to it and carefully examined the knob and hinges.

  Suspicious of the hinges, he quietly rummaged in his pack until he produced a small, stoppered bottle. Carefully unstopping it, he used the glass rod attached to the top to oil the door’s hinges.

  A door opened upstairs somewhere, then closed again. Morticai paused only briefly before using the door he had so carefully oiled. It swung open without a sound. As he closed the door behind him, the cat, in a fit of feline perversity, dashed into the room behind him. Morticai sighed with relief that he’d not caught the cat’s tail in the door.

  The door led into yet another room,
something the cat had obviously known.

  Just what I’ve always wanted, he thought wryly, a stupid mascot to follow me while I work. “You’d best not be a demon,” he whispered to the cat. The cat, however, had already jumped into a chair, where it chose a plump cushion to shape into a bed, closed its eyes, and ignored him.

  Morticai surveyed the dark room. It was, indeed, the study, cluttered with baroque Lorredrian furniture. His attention, however, immediately fixed on the rest of the clutter that filled the room. Several large pieces of paper lay scattered across the desk, a nearby chair and a couch.

  His curiosity drew him to the papers, which turned out to be maps—of Watchaven, Dynolva, the coast north and south of Watchaven, and the area north of both kingdoms. The map that showed the area to the north appeared to contain some type of additional markings. He listened a moment for footsteps, and hearing none, took the northern map to the window to better examine it. The still moonless sky provided just enough light for him to make out the symbols.

  He swallowed hard as comprehension sank in. The map showed the planned movements of an army—a Droken army. His hands began to tremble as the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. He took a deep breath. This was real evidence, the proof he’d come seeking.

  A floorboard squeaked in the hall. He glanced at the window’s lock. The key was missing—he couldn’t count on having the time to pick it. Throwing the map back onto the desk, he scanned the room. His best concealment would be against the opposite wall, in a space between a bookcase and a chair. As he crossed to the wall, he nearly stumbled on something leaned against the far side of the desk—a sword.

  Even in its scabbard he recognized Ducledha; without hesitation he picked up the vile sword and unsheathed it. He positioned himself close beside the bookcase, flattened against the wall, with the sword held upright before him. Don’t let it slip! his mind screamed at him. Realization came immediately after: Oh Glawres, if this is here …

  The wall behind him suddenly gave way. Morticai jumped full circle, automatically landing en guard. A dark shape stood before him; the Northmarcher instinctively thrust with the sword, even as his mind recognized the man’s features. Luthekar did not move as the sword thrust cleanly through him, sinking up to the hilt. Slowly, Luthekar smiled.

  Morticai gaped. Luthekar grabbed the short corryn by the throat and slammed him against the bookcase.

  “You didn’t think I could be hurt by my own sword, did you?” Luthekar asked, his voice dripping with contempt.

  Gagging, Morticai struggled.

  Still impaled by the sword, Luthekar pulled Morticai away from the bookcase and slammed him against it again.

  “Stop fighting, or I’ll kill you here and now!”

  Morticai’s head rang. The room, still swimming before his eyes, brightened with lamplight. Morticai tried to kick out, but the strength of his limbs seemed to desert him, his legs going numb as Luthekar tightened his grip.

  “Guards!”

  The voice was Ellenwood’s.

  A strong backhanded blow landed across his face. The room darkened momentarily. As his vision returned, Morticai realized his feet were on the ground, though his legs had seemingly lost their power to hold him up. It was only Luthekar’s strong grip, still around his throat, that supported him.

  Suddenly, other hands grabbed at him. Morticai struggled, but he was shoved face down onto the desk, and his arms were pulled roughly behind him. There was shouting, and talking, but it kept blending into a monotonous buzz as the room faded in and out of existence.

  Finally, someone grabbed his hair, pulled him back, and forced him onto his knees. His wrists were bound behind him, and his arms were also tied above the elbows. Someone splashed cold water into his face. He blinked and gasped as the room slowly began to, once again, take shape around him.

  Ellenwood stood before him, with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face. A guard stood beside him with an empty pitcher in his hands. Morticai blinked against the pain in his head and wished whoever was pulling his hair would let go. Luthekar leaned against the desk, casually wiping his sword. Squinting, Morticai could see a clean cut in Luthekar’s silk tunic. That was the only sign that the Droken prince had been run through by the sorcerous blade.

  The man who held Morticai’s hair released it. He wanted to shake his head to clear the water out of his eyes, but knew he’d regret it if he did. He slowly looked around the room. Several more guards clad in full chain armor and full-faced helms stood about the room.

  “Well, what now?” Ellenwood asked, turning toward Luthekar.

  Oh, Glawres, Morticai thought, where’s Rylan?

  Luthekar looked around the room at the guards. “Leave us,” he ordered.

  Two of the guards began to move toward Morticai.

  “Leave him here,” Luthekar commanded. “I will call you when we need you to come get him.”

  Without a word, the guards moved out of Morticai’s sight. He assumed they left through the secret passage he had so unfortunately hidden in front of. Luthekar carefully inspected the edge of his sword.

  In a sudden flash of movement, Luthekar swept down to his knees before Morticai and brought the edge of his sword up underneath the Northmarcher’s chin. Gasping, Morticai automatically pulled away from the deadly sword.

  The corners of Luthekar’s mouth lifted in a sly smile. “Your memory seems to be working well, little thief,” he said. “I think we shall see just how well.”

  A light knock sounded on the door.

  “Come,” Ellenwood ordered.

  A servant and yet another armored guard entered the room. “There are none outside, Your Eminence,” the guard announced.

  Morticai closed his eyes briefly and fought the fear that gripped him. The desperate nature of his situation was becoming painfully apparent.

  “Good,” Ellenwood answered.

  “You are certain you checked thoroughly?” Luthekar asked.

  “Yes, Prince Luthekar.”

  “Go then, and tell the others to prepare the temple platform. When it is ready, return here with three others.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.” The guard moved out of Morticai’s sight.

  Ellenwood walked to the desk and emptied the contents of Morticai’s pack.

  “There is nothing here,” the petty noble announced as he rummaged through the pile of gear. Ellenwood handed the now empty pack to the servant. “Take all of this,” he said, gesturing to the pile, “down to the docks tomorrow and toss it away.”

  “Yes, m’lord.” The servant hastily repacked Morticai’s bag and left them.

  “Perhaps it is time for ‘Sir Ellenwood’ to drop out of sight,” Ellenwood said.

  “Perhaps,” Luthekar replied. “Perhaps not. Let us not jump too quickly. We know that we have at least an hour, perhaps longer. Let us learn what we may and then decide.”

  The nobleman moved to a section of wall behind the desk and opened yet another secret panel. Morticai was aware of Luthekar’s cold stare, but he concentrated on Ellenwood, who withdrew a red Droken robe, broidered in black and gold, from the secret closet and slipped it over his head. Red? Morticai wondered. All the Droken he’d ever seen wore black robes.

  “Do you really think we can get useful information in such a short time?” Ellenwood asked Luthekar.

  Luthekar caught Morticai under the chin and forced the Northmarcher to meet his eyes. Morticai stared into the ice blue eyes and found his fear oddly subsiding as his mind filled with hatred.

  “I think we shall need the jevano, but yes, I think we can learn a few things,” Luthekar said, releasing his hold.

  The jevano? Morticai thought, briefly closing his eyes again. When he reopened them he found Luthekar still standing in front of him, still smiling coldly. Once again, Morticai shoved the fear aside, allowing his hatred to take its place.

>   Guards reappeared and hauled Morticai roughly to his feet. They took him into the passageway, which traveled only a few feet before ending in a flight of stairs, going down. Morticai looked down the stairs and suddenly found his head spinning and his legs giving way. He felt himself pulled back by his collar, and then a brief cry of pain escaped him as he was lifted off the ground by his numbed arms.

  “It shan’t end that easily,” Luthekar whispered to him. The Dark Prince had slipped an arm under Morticai’s bound arms and now carried him, like a shield, down the stairs. At the bottom, Luthekar released him. Morticai promptly sank to his knees and squeezed his eyes shut against the pain as his arms relocated themselves.

  He was hauled up by his collar and pushed ahead. The tunnel seemed to go on forever; Morticai felt that his unsteady legs would desert him at any moment. They finally stopped before an oaken door, and he was shoved through the doorway—into an office. Morticai looked around at the oddly normal room. He had expected a dungeon, something sinister. But an office? It soon became apparent, however, that the office was merely on the path to wherever they were going.

  They shoved him through another doorway on the opposite side of the room, into a small entrance foyer of some type. Despite the knot of fear in his stomach, Morticai found himself looking at the doors, wondering how easy they might prove to unlock, and memorizing how many doors stood in each room, in each wall. They pushed him through yet another door—and the small hope he had begun to build vanished.

  Morticai surveyed the large, octagonal room, and saw the large golden idol to Droka, the black walls covered with some type of carvings, and the gold candelabrums, whose light danced off of gold that wrapped around the carvings. But it was the center of the room that held the Arluthian frozen, which caused him to pull in a ragged breath, not caring if Luthekar was watching—it was the platform that dashed all hopes and affirmed all fears.