Colm studied the rogue’s pants. They weren’t the baggy silk breeches of the wealthy merchants who lined Felhaven square, so easy to dip into. They were sturdy and black, stitched tight and cinched with the rogue’s thick leather belt. More leather was patched at the knees, and the cuffs were buried down into the scuffed black boots. There appeared to be only one pocket on each side, the opening barely large enough for Colm to slip in a hand. He looked for the silhouette of the coin, the marked outline of a circle, but the outside revealed nothing. Colm would just have to take a chance.
He held his breath again, keeping his eyes on Finn’s face, looking for the slightest quiver as he wiggled one hand inside. A lip tremble, the flare of a nostril, his fingers digging, until . . .
Yes! That’s it! Colm bit his lip, pinching the coin between two fingers, pulling it free with one swift motion. He suddenly felt every muscle tense as a hand shot up, securing him around the wrist, causing him to lose his balance and topple backward. Still, he held on to the coin, holding it out between him and Finn for the rogue to see.
“Aha! I got it! See? See?”
Finn smiled. Silver and gold flashing quickly, and then retreating back behind his lips.
“You got something,” he said coolly.
Colm looked at the thing in his hand. It wasn’t his silver at all. It was a piece of wood, carved in a perfect circle, sanded to an almost steely smoothness. Colm shook his head. “What the blazes is this?”
“It’s a decoy. I whittled it myself last night while trying to fall asleep,” Finn said. “Enough to fool a blind man, I suppose. Or a boy who thinks he’s just discovered buried treasure.” He let go of Colm’s wrist with one hand and snatched the circle of wood from between Colm’s fingers with the other, flipping it and catching it, closing his palm around it. When he opened his fingers, it was, of course, gone.
“You tricked me,” Colm said bitterly.
“Said the pickpocket to his prey? ‘I stole your purse and there was nothing in it!’ Really, Colm, you cannot blame the man you pilfer from because he has nothing of value for you to steal.”
“But you do have it. You stole it from me!”
“And who did you steal it from?” Finn asked, sitting upright. “Do you even know? Do you have a name? Do you remember which coin came from which pocket? Did you bother to say ‘Thank you’ or ‘I’m sorry’? And who had it before that person? How many hands has that piece of silver known? Was it used to buy dinner from a hardworking fisherman on the pier? Did it trade hands at the mill for a bag of flour? Or did some pirate pry it from the hands of a dead seaman as his ship sank underneath him? I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than that.”
Finn looked around and saw the open padlock lying in the grass.
“I see you picked the lock, at least.”
“That was easy,” Colm huffed. He could still feel the coin between his thumb and forefinger. He’d been so certain he had succeeded.
“I imagine it was,” Finn said, looking up at the sticky branches of the pear tree that shaded them. “Well, come on, then, and stop pouting. There’s still several hours left in the day.” He bent down and picked up his cloak, clasping it around his neck. He tucked the open lock into one of the outer pockets, then snatched up the parchment, handing it to Colm. “Save this for later.” The rogue winked, then took off, heading in the same direction as before.
Colm rolled the contract and stuffed it into his own pants pocket, his hand brushing up against something smooth and round. He pulled out the little wooden token that, somehow, Finn had slipped in there.
“What’s yours is yours,” Finn said over his shoulder. Then he started humming again. Colm dropped the piece of wood in the grass.
The sun was exhausted, beginning its blushing descent, calling it quits. Finn had given him until the end of the day to get that piece of silver back. Time was running out.
“We are almost there,” Finn said more than once, though Colm couldn’t figure out where there was. They had tromped over hills, between stalks of wild wheat, past muddy creeks and mossy woods. At one point they crossed a decrepit stone bridge, Finn pausing, looking around, studying some imaginary map in his head, then nodding to himself before continuing.
They were walking along the edge of a forest now. Finn had said the name, but Colm didn’t recognize it. He didn’t recognize any of it. It wasn’t within six miles of Felhaven, so it wasn’t part of his world. He knew the names of some of the nearby hills and of the river that ran beside the town, knew the names of most of the neighboring villages—Blackhorn, Boughbridge, Wallford—but they didn’t seem to be close to any of those. In fact, Colm hadn’t seen a living soul since the encounter with the horsemen, unless he counted the mosquitoes that he mashed against his neck. If this castle of Finn’s was nearby, it was very well hidden.
To make it worse, in addition to sore legs and feet, Colm had already failed three more times to get his coin back. Once, when they stopped by the riverbed for a drink, he attempted to reach into Finn’s other pants pocket—but a swift move by the rogue caused Colm to lose his balance and fall into the water, soaking both pairs of socks. The other two attempts were equally sloppy: Colm pretending to stumble, claiming he was tired of walking (which was true) and bumping against Finn’s side, hoping to make a quick grab. The first of those Finn sidestepped easily. The second he not only managed to keep Colm’s hand from his pocket but also, somehow, got back into the bag slung across Colm’s shoulder and stole another apple before Colm even knew he had done it.
It was looking hopeless. Even if he got to this castle of Finn’s, it wouldn’t matter. Even if he wanted to become a dungeoneer—and he wasn’t at all certain—Finn wouldn’t allow it. After all, how can you steal a trove of treasure from under an ogre’s nose when you can’t pinch one coin from a sleeping man’s pocket? Colm would return home, empty-handed, an opportunity squandered, crawling back into his closet of a room to watch Celia restitch the seam of a dress worn a thousand times already.
Finn, for his part, hadn’t given up, continuing to lecture Colm on what to expect when they arrived. “The guild’s like a second family, I suppose,” he said, “except your uncle’s a barbarian and your second cousin summons lightning from the sky.”
Colm had never seen anyone summon a lightning bolt from out of nowhere. Or summon anything, for that matter, unless you counted his mother’s ability to summon them all to the table with the smell of bacon. “They must be very powerful,” he said. “Those second cousins.”
Finn shrugged. “I suppose. Though if you ask me, magic is worth no more than a quick wit and a sharp edge.” He looked down at Colm’s feet. “Or a good pair of boots to run in.”
Colm couldn’t imagine Finn Argos running from anything. Not after seeing what he’d done to those three men on horseback outside the village. But there was a lot about Finn that was a mystery.
“I’ve run from battles. From brawls. From giant boulders and balls of flame. From angry innkeepers and angry ladies and their angry fathers or husbands, or both, in one case. There’s something to be said for running if it means you get to keep your head, especially if your pockets are full. Ah. Here we are.”
The rogue walked up to a giant oak, easily three times the size of the elms that twisted for sunlight beneath its canopy. All manner of writing had been carved into it, strange letters in a language Colm couldn’t read. He ran his finger along the carvings whittled deep into the bark. “What does it mean?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Finn replied, walking past it toward a row of smaller trees. “It’s gibberish. They’re not even real words. The idea,” he added, “is that most people look at that tree and assume it’s hiding something, so they ignore this one.” He stood beside an unassuming elm with a small hollow at its trunk and reached inside, pulling out a small pink shard. He held the crystal out for Colm to see. “Do you know what this is?”
Colm shook his head. Obviously it wasn’t anything too special, or it woul
dn’t have been shoved inside the trunk of a tree in the middle of nowhere. “A pretty rock for marking nothing in particular?”
Finn snorted. “One of the things we will need to work on—in addition to your lying—is your assessment of value. This, Colm, is a key. A very special kind of key, in fact,” he explained. “It opens a portal a long way from here, two more days’ walking at least, and through somewhat treacherous territory. They are quite rare, these keys, their powers nearly impossible to harness. Tye Thwodin has spent most of his life collecting them, and I daresay we have more than our fair share. Most of them are used for dungeoneering, but we have a few scattered here and there to make our travels easier.”
Colm stared at the crystal. It certainly didn’t look magical. “How do they work?”
“I have no idea,” the rogue replied. “I told you, the arcane arts aren’t my forte. But I can tell you how you will feel when we use it.” Judging by the look on Finn’s face, Colm wasn’t sure he wanted to know. “It’s not painful . . . exactly. You might feel a stretch, and then your whole body may feel a little—how best to put this? Unraveled. But then, before you know it, pop, you are on the other side, good as new. Or at least good as you were when you started.”
“The other side of what?” Colm asked.
Finn didn’t answer. “Trust me. I’ve done it a fair dozen times myself. There is nothing to worry about.”
Finn held out the crystal and instructed Colm to grab his hand. “Hold on tight, and don’t let go.” They were standing close together now, bodies nearly touching, and Colm realized this might be his last chance. Finn’s other pants pocket, the one he hadn’t checked yet, was only inches away. He had to move fast. But before he could get so much as one finger of his free hand in, he heard Finn whisper something.
Then Colm’s head exploded.
Not literally, of course, but he understood what Finn meant by unraveled. He felt a tingling sensation and was suddenly aware of every particle of himself slowly coming unstitched. Blood and bones and skin and brains and muscle and sinew teased apart so that you could see how they were connected. Disorienting didn’t begin to describe it, this sensation of separation, as if he were a piece of glass hitting a stone floor, shattering into a billion bits. Not painful, no, but uncomfortable, and nauseating, and just strange. Every memory seemed to flash before him at once, his thoughts strung out along a million threads that circled around him.
And then it was over. It had lasted only a moment. Two seconds, at most. And Colm found himself standing in the middle of a forest—much denser than the edge of the woods he had been skirting the moment before—staring at the mouth of a small cave, pitch-black, barely large enough for a man to squeeze into. Finn was standing right beside him, the crystal in his hand.
“We made it,” he said, sounding relieved, which only made Colm more nervous. “See, I told you it wasn’t so bad.”
Colm didn’t reply. His head was spinning. He patted himself down to make sure he was all accounted for, then looked around. The trees were so thick here, you couldn’t see more than a half mile in front of you, their blanket of branches blocking out the sky and what was left of the pink horizon.
“What are you talking about?” Colm protested. “You said we were going to a castle. There’s no castle here.”
“Not that you can see,” Finn replied enigmatically.
Colm looked around. Nothing but trees and the coal-black mouth of the cave, looking like a pocket sewn into the earth.
A pocket. Colm looked at the pockets of Finn’s pants. They had arrived. The day was over. He had failed the test. Now he wasn’t at all sure what was going to happen.
Finn seemed to read his mind. “Oh, that,” he said. “Needn’t worry about that.” He pointed at Colm’s side, at Colm’s own pants pocket. Reluctantly Colm reached inside, past the rolled-up contract, where something cool stuck to his palm. He pulled the silver piece out and stared at it.
Finn held out both hands. “Always knew you had it in you,” he said.
Colm shook his head, bewildered. “But it doesn’t count. I didn’t steal it,” Colm protested, holding the coin out between them. “I mean, I didn’t steal it back. You gave it to me. I didn’t pass the test.”
Finn smiled, though he had that look in his eye. That same look Colm had seen right before the rogue told him to duck. Right before he had drawn his sword and disarmed three men.
“The test?” the rogue said, putting an arm around Colm, holding him there at the edge of the cave. “The coin wasn’t the test. This is the test.”
Colm felt a shove. And the next thing he knew, he was falling.
5
THE BARBARIAN, THE MAGELING, AND THE GIRL WHO TALKS TO BUGS
It was more of a slide than a fall, though the rocky ground did little to slow Colm’s progress, and the cold stone he eventually slammed his shoulder into jarred his teeth and sent a bolt of pain through his spine. Colm looked up, hoping that he hadn’t slid as far as it seemed and there was an easy way to climb back up and out, but his heart sank. The cave entrance, a small circle of fading light, seemed as distant as a full moon. He looked for the shape of a figure in the halo. He called out Finn’s name three times, though his echoes were the only response.
“This isn’t funny,” Colm called up. “I’ve decided I want to go back home. Stealing is bad. I’ve learned my lesson. Shoe cobbling is a very respectable profession. So if you could lower a rope or something . . .”
Still no response. Colm scrabbled up the slick surface of the stones, making it all of two feet before slipping back down to his knees. He called Finn’s name one more time, then called Finn a name he usually reserved only for his sisters, and even then only behind their backs. Finally Colm turned and gazed down the length of the cave.
The first thing he realized was that it wasn’t a cave. The floor was too smooth, the ceiling too uniform. It was more of a tunnel, the work of picks and shovels rather than nature and time. Someone had hollowed this space out of earth and stone on purpose, and someone else, maybe the same someone, had seen fit to leave a torch. Colm saw it fastened to the wall about fifty feet away, its light spreading along the cold, gray floor.
Colm looked around and then noticed a glimmer by his feet, peeking through a pile of loose rocks. He bent down and retrieved his silver coin, the one Finn had given back to him while he wasn’t looking. He held it up to the flicker of light from the lonely torch.
This was the test. To get out of here. By himself. To conquer his very first dungeon. The realization hit Colm like a horse’s hoof in the gut, but once it landed, there was no arguing with it. He didn’t have a lot of options anyway. He couldn’t climb back out, and even if Finn was up there, he obviously didn’t intend to help. Colm needed to find his own way or be stuck here forever.
He walked slowly, keeping one hand on the wall for balance until he made it to the torch. It hadn’t been burning for long, which meant someone must have lit it recently, which meant that there was another way out.
Unfortunately, it also meant that there was possibly someone else down here with him.
Colm removed the torch from its sconce and held it in front of him, stabbing at the darkness. He thought back to the pile of blades at the road and Finn’s insistence that they weren’t right for him. The dirty thief knew all along. He intended for Colm to come down here unarmed. If only Colm had had his father’s hatchet. Even the butter knife would have been some consolation.
Colm stepped slowly, looking behind him constantly, trying not to jump at his own shadow. He had been in dark places before. He had spent hours in cabinets, corners, and crevices, hiding from his gaggle of scheming sisters. But this was a different kind of darkness. In the flicker of the torchlight, the shadow seemed to move, as if it were skulking around, sneaking up behind him. Looking down the black tunnel, he felt it could go on forever.
But it can’t, he told himself. Every tunnel ends somewhere.
Colm paused as his tunnel
crossed paths with another, the new one looking narrower and darker still. Now there were choices. That made it even worse. Now there was the possibility he might get lost, though in truth he already had no idea where he was.
Colm started to continue straight ahead, then froze, his ears perked. He was certain he heard something. A loose rock. A whisper.
Stop it, he told himself. You’re just imagining things.
But he wasn’t. He could distinctly hear the sound of feet shuffling along the stone. Except they weren’t his feet.
Suddenly he felt something sharp and cold at his throat, followed by a voice.
“Go ahead,” the voice said. “Give me an excuse.”
It wasn’t a knife or a sword. He could tell by the feel of it beneath his chin. It was a rock. A piece of shale or limestone, long and skinny enough to act as a makeshift dagger. It certainly felt sharp, though, nipping into his neck.
Colm felt his torch wrested from his grasp, the circle of light retreating behind him, leaving him staring into the darkness. He wanted to turn and see who it was who was holding him there. It obviously wasn’t Finn. For starters, the person standing behind him had much smaller hands, with a full complement of fingers. And judging by the sound of the voice, it wasn’t even a him. The person who spoke to Colm dared him in a voice that was confident and commanding but still distinctly female. It almost sounded like Celia, though of all of his sisters, Celia was the least likely to want to behead him.
“Who are you?” the female voice demanded, pressing the stone knife up and in.
“Colm. Colm Candorly,” he choked, then realized his mistake. He should have said Mr. Black. Don’t let someone who’s about to kill you have your real name, Finn would probably caution, just in case he doesn’t pull it off the first time and decides to track you down for another go. But it was too late.
“What are you doing here?”
The Dungeoneers Page 7
