The strain of sideways movement tore at the calluses on Taziar’s fingers. He finished his descent, toe groping the dirt for a landing place clear of debris. Finding one, he lowered his feet to the ground and turned toward the castle. Again, he examined the sentries, and, this time, their pattern became obvious to him. They paced in overlapping, cloverleaf figures; the arcs had thrown him off track. But now that Taziar had deciphered their motions, he doubted he would have any difficulty pacing his own activity between them. Simple. Sudden realization ruined Taziar’s assessment and killed the joy of certain triumph before it even had a chance to rise. Except for the moat.
Taziar ducked behind the disarray of branches, hidden from the guards as his thoughts raced. He knew he could swim the brackish waters, but his plan required him to remain dry and only reasonably disheveled. Somehow, I have to cross over it. He dug through his pockets while he considered options. This early, the drawbridge will be up. It’s too wide to jump. Taziar’s fingers skipped over crumbs, splinters, and lint. He discovered his utility knife in his right hip pocket along with a striker and a block of flint. The left held only the sailor’s sewing needle he had used to rescue Astryd from a locked berth on the ferry boat the day he met her. He had left his other possessions with Silme and Astryd in anticipation of losing everything to the guards. Now he wished he had at least brought his sword.
Stymied, Taziar picked idly at the bark of a tree branch. Thoughts distant, he glanced down at his fingers and suddenly felt stupid. The logs. He looked into the courtyard, watching a sentry complete an arc before him. Selecting a timber heavy enough to serve as a bridge, Taziar tugged. Wood shifted with a muffled thunk. Taziar bit his lip, immediately abandoning his efforts. He chose a different log, examining its length to make certain no other branches lay on top of it. He hefted an end. The sweet, cloying odor of wood lice wafted to him, and he realized the log would prove too heavy for him to do anything more than drag it. Unwilling to risk the sound of rustling grass and the ponderous clumsiness the log would lend to his gait, he chose a thinner limb. Uncertain whether it would serve his purposes, he tucked it beneath his arm, timed a sprint between the sentries’ routes, and positioned the branch across the surface of the moat.
A breeze ruffled the stagnant waters into white curls. Leaves skittered across the surface like tiny boats, many caught and anchored in a dense layer of algae. Lit by the diffuse glow of lanterns refracted through the windows of the keep, the branch seemed no thicker than Taziar’s wrists and fragile as a stem. But the pattern of the guards did not leave him time for hesitation. He stepped onto the wood. It sagged beneath his weight, but it held, and he crossed with nothing worse than damp boots. He eased the limb into the water. The risk of a splash seemed less worrisome than the guards finding his makeshift overpass. If things went according to plan, he would have no need to escape in the same fashion.
The log slid silently into the water and sank, disrupting the slime in a line that marked its passage. Taziar turned his attention to the wall. The sun still had not passed over the keep to light its western side, but dawn light sheened from the glassy surface of stone. Taziar’s heart fell into the familiar cadence that welcomed the coming challenge. He savored the natural elation accompanying it. In the depths of his mind, the memory stirred that he had promised to abandon all emotion, but to ignore the excitement inspired by years of addiction to danger seemed as impossible as a thirsty man refusing water or a man spurning sex an instant before the climax.
Taziar never hesitated. He explored the smoothed surfaces with his fingers, and he discovered tiny flaws in the mortaring that another man might dismiss. To Taziar, they were handholds. He wedged small fingertips into the impressions, hauled his feet into a minuscule cleft and reached for another grip.
Taziar climbed with a careless and practiced strength. Attuned to sounds of discovery, he could spare no attention to his climb. Instead, he relied on the same instincts a swordsman taps when a potential killing stroke comes at him faster than thought. Taziar kept his rhythm steady, a continual cycle of hunting crevices, grasping what his trained fingers deemed solid, and hauling his body along the polished surface of stone. He counted stories by windows, their sills like giants’ ledges compared with the stone pocks and mortaring imperfections that served as his other holds.
Absorbed in the pattern of movement, Taziar did not notice the baron’s balcony until its shadow fell over him. He heaved upward from a toehold, caught a grip on the supporting bars of a railing painted black to protect it from the elements. He examined the outcropping through the striped view the balustrade allowed. A wooden chair overlooked the courtyard, its seat cushioned with pillows, its feet, handrests, and back intricately crafted and wound through with gold filigree. Yet, despite the elegance, the legs were chipped and the fabric on the upright showed signs of wear.
A favorite chair, Taziar surmised. Probably too old for the throne room. Rather than repair it, Baron Dietrich had it placed here where courtiers and visitors would never see it. The thought ignited anger as swiftly as fire set to dry shavings. The man blithely executed his guard captain on contrived evidence after more than a decade of meritorious service, yet he remains loyal to a piece of furniture. The logic defied Taziar and brought all morality under question. I wanted to smother emotion and vulnerability for a cause. Yet to let Harriman change what I am is little different than letting him kill me. It’s Harriman against me and all my sentimental weaknesses and strengths. I’ll best him or die in the attempt. Taziar channeled his concentration back to the balcony, but one idea seeped through before he could banish it. I hope I have the opportunity to apologize to Astryd.
Beyond the chair, curtains rippled, revealing a glass door. Through the thick, uneven surface, Taziar caught a warped glimpse of another set of curtains just inside. Soothed by the double barrier, Taziar hooked his arm over the top of the rail and pulled himself to the balcony. Time was running short. He would have to move quickly to catch the baron still asleep. Soundlessly skirting the chair as he crossed the balcony, Taziar grasped the door latch and twisted. It resisted his touch.
Taziar hissed his frustration. A closer study of the handle revealed a keyhole beneath it. The locksmith’s tools he had described to Silme and Astryd would have proved useful now, but Taziar did not waste time wishing. Retrieving the sewing needle from his pocket, he slid the tip into the hole. He felt the raspy vibrations as the end eased over the mechanism and the jolt as it fell into the groove. He pinned it in place and turned it, rewarded by the click of the lock opening. Gingerly, he inched the door ajar. Silence met him. He spun the needle again, heard the answering snap as the mechanism was thrown back into locked position. Simply shutting the door would restore it to its former, secure state.
Taziar inched through the crack. Foot wedged in the doorway, he peered around the curtain. The material was thick; it lay heavy as sodden wool upon his shoulders. Once pushed aside, it admitted a roar that shook the door frame and set Taziar’s teeth on edge. He ducked back behind the fabric, heart pounding, hearing the rush of exhaled air as he moved. Snoring. Taziar gave the realization a moment to register. Then he placed the needle against the door frame to prop it so it could not close and lock behind him. Taziar crept around the curtain.
As the curtain dropped back into place, the room fell into a darkness untainted by sunrise. Taziar stared, standing still as his eyes adjusted to a deeper gloom than that he had come from. Soon he could make out a table with widely-splayed, decorative legs which was right in front of him. A cut-crystal carafe occupied its center. A pair of clear wine glasses rested upside down beside it. Relief washed through Taziar as he recognized the disaster narrowly averted by waiting rather than blundering sightlessly forward. Directly across the room, Taziar noted a teak door emblazoned with the baron’s crest, a lion’s head with mouth wide open. His ears ringing with the baron’s raucous breaths, Taziar found the symbol strangely appropriate.
A matched pair of ornately-crafted
dressers lined the walls, the curls of their pattern unrecognizable in the lightless interior of the baron’s chamber. A recess in the wall held clothing, a blurred collection of silks, brocades, and furs. The baron’s bed stood in the direct center of the room. Four pillars sculpted into the forms of shapely women supported a canopy. Beneath it, the baron slept on his side beneath a pile of blankets.
The scene registered instantly. Taziar crossed the room, his boots sinking soundlessly into a plush carpet. He knelt at the baron’s head. A snore thundered painfully through his ears, followed by a blast of malodorous breath. Saliva dribbled through the baron’s beard. Beneath the tangle of hair, the gold medallion of office hung sideways on the sheets, its chain twisted around the baron’s neck.
Like a noose, Taziar thought, and only then, thoughts of murder suddenly burned through him. Violence was not his normal reaction to anything, but the cruelties Baron Dietrich’s orders had inflicted upon his family went far beyond what any man should have to tolerate. Taziar paused, fingers clenched, jaw tight, mind filled with the frigid whisper of the wind which had stirred his father’s dangling corpse, the grim suffocation of his mother’s pride, then her own death in a pool of wine and blood and pain. Damn. Almost desperately, Taziar dispelled the images, angered by his lapse. The baron’s just a pawn, a figurehead who shouts orders like a king while other men wield his power. The idea of killing anyone repulsed Taziar; even his hatred and desire for vengeance had not been enough to make him slay the prime minister who had framed his father and goaded the baron into hanging the captain. The need for haste drove Taziar’s bitterness aside, and he knew that even had he carried a weapon, he would have had neither the experience nor the coldness to kill the baron. And it’s just as well. I’m not a killer. And the consequences would be dire. If nothing else, the guards would torture my friends viciously to learn the assassin’s name. Taziar shuddered at the memory of his own prison guard-inflicted agonies. Talk about betrayal.
Turning back to his task, Taziar reached around Baron Dietrich’s perfumed curls and undid the chain’s clasp. He kept both ends between his fingers, not allowing the slightest tickle of movement against the baron’s flesh. The routine was familiar to Taziar; once, on a dare, he had stolen three necklaces and an anklet from a dancing girl. But as he eased the last link free of its owner, the pattern of the baron’s breathing changed.
Taziar dove to the floor, jabbing the medallion into his pocket as he moved. He heard the rustle of straw as the baron rolled. The snoring dulled to normal breathing, revealing a deep rumbling previously drowned out by the baron’s snores. Taziar rose to all fours and found himself staring into the bared teeth of a huge, black mongrel.
* * *
CHAPTER 10 : Dust and Shadows
The jury, passing on the prisoner’s life,
May in the sworn twelve have a thief or two
Guiltier than him they try.
—William Shakespare Measure for Measure
The baron’s snores resumed. Taziar froze, gaze locked on the curled lips and yellowed teeth of the mongrel. He shifted his weight to his feet so slowly that his movement was almost imperceptible. Tearing his stare from the dog, he measured the distance to the table and its fragile burden. A crack of light from beyond the curtain touched the cut-crystal of the carafe, splintering rainbows across the glasses. From the corner of his vision, Taziar saw the mongrel tense to spring.
Taziar dove beneath the table. Snarling, the beast bounded after him. A furry shoulder crashed into a decorative, wooden leg. Taziar sprang free as the table tumbled, then broke into a hunched run. The splash of spilled wine and the chime of splintering glass filled his ears, followed by the dog’s surprised yelp. Taziar shouldered open the balcony door. Dashing through, he let the glass panel sweep closed, the click of its locking lost beneath the baron’s shout of anger.
Taziar never hesitated. Leaping to the banister, he ran his fingers over the mortaring above his head. Discovering irregularities, he skittered up the final story to the roof. He crouched on the tiles, catching his breath and waiting for his heartbeat to slacken to its normal rate. No sound pursued him. I don’t think the baron saw me. Taziar peeked over the ledge, studying the curtains stirring in a gentle current of air. He pulled his head beyond sight of the balcony and the guards in the courtyard. I left the outer door locked, and Baron Dietrich believes his walls “unscalable.” He can’t possibly suspect someone slipped in from the outside. Most likely, he’ll blame the incident on his dog. Taziar frowned, his plan gone dangerously awry. With his attention on the mess and the fact that no items were stolen from the room itself, the baron may not notice his medallion of office is missing. Taziar crept toward the northern side of the keep, aware any guards in the towers would probably watch over the courtyard rather than the rooftop. But I can’t rely on chance alone. I have to work fast, before word of my theft reaches the dungeon guards.
Taziar pattered around the northwestern tower, confident that the prison was the last place the sentries would search for a renegade thief. From experience, he knew guards filled the hallways nearest the dungeon, on the south side. So he scooted along the northern edge of the keep, seeking seventh story windows in the polished stretch of wall. Shutters covered the first two he discovered. He found the third open, but voices wafted from it, and his plan required that no one know he had entered through a window.
Taziar continued, rejecting each window with reluctant necessity. He had nearly reached the northeastern corner when a tiny, square opening attracted his attention. It appeared too narrow for even a man of Taziar’s size to slip through, but he refused to pass it by without a closer inspection. Clinging to the ledge, he lowered his feet over the side, defying gravity with only the strength of his fingers. His boots scraped stone as he groped for toeholds, found them, and lowered himself to the level of the opening.
A glance across the window revealed an area obscured by darkness. Aware the rising sun would make it easier for anyone inside to see him, Taziar peered over the sill with one eye. The opening admitted only a dim glow of dawn light. The space beyond seemed oddly-shaped, too long and thin for a normal-sized chamber. Taziar’s angle did not allow him a glimpse of the floor, but he found no movement or figures to disturb the gloom. He realized he had squeezed through equally tight spaces, the chimney of Aga’arin’s temple, for example. But he knew he would pay for such a maneuver with tears in his clothing and skin.
Not wanting to waste time searching for a more suitable entrance, Taziar accepted the challenge. Clinging with his feet and alternate hands, he worked his cloak off his arms and over his back. Freeing the fabric, he tossed it through the opening, tensed for some reaction from inside. When none came, he descended to a position just below the window, seized the sill in both fists, and poked his head and shoulders through the opening.
Taziar’s body blocked out what little light normally penetrated into the area beyond the window. He braced his palms on the inner wall, twisting to allow his chest the widest possible angle, from corner to corner. Unyielding stone wedged his shoulders. He wriggled and pushed despite pain, strengthened by the awareness that the harder he struggled, the sooner he would finish. He stuck fast, feet straining against stone. Then his shoulders popped through, abrading flesh beneath the coarse linen of his tunic. He worked one arm through the opening, creating more room for the other.
Taziar probed for the floor with his left hand, felt wooden planks, and steadied his fingers against them. Allowing his weight to fall forward, he dropped his right hand. It slammed against floor sooner than he expected. Surprised, he examined the area with his fingers. To his right, the level rose in increments. A staircase. Taziar worked the remainder of his body through the window, hugging the steps to keep from toppling down them. Once inside, he retrieved his cloak, and flung it across his back to hide the dirt and scrapes.
Taziar trotted up the staircase, making no effort to silence his movements. His shoulders throbbed, and the baron’s medal
lion bounced against his hip with every step. His footfalls echoed hollowly.
Two sentries armed with swords met Taziar at the landing. “Halt!” one challenged. “State your name and your business.”
Taziar made a gesture of impatience. “I’m Taziar Medakan, loyal citizen and informant to Baron Dietrich.” He used the same contrived facts that had worked against his attempts to become arrested to his own advantage now. “The baron sent me to interrogate the prisoner known as Allerum.”
The guard who had spoken shook back a mane of sand-colored curls and glanced at his larger companion. “We know nothing of this. Do you carry a writ?”
“No,” Taziar admitted boldly. “Baron Dietrich found this matter of such urgency, he didn’t waste time writing. Instead, he gave me this to show you.” He plucked the medallion from his pocket and displayed it for the guards.
The sentries exchanged startled looks. The taller one cleared his throat. “This is most irregular. I think we should check with the baron.”
Taziar adopted an expression of stern annoyance. He placed his hand on his hip, allowing the golden symbol of office to dangle from his fingers. “Very well. The baron found this matter critical enough to hand over his signet, but if you think it’s necessary to delay me with your curiosity, it’s your necks. I only hope the baron chooses to forgive as easily as I do.” He raised his eyebrows, demanding a response.
Mickey Zucker Reichert - Shadows Realm Page 24
