It was on that same day—the day Tyren got his body back to shape and Lena heard from home—that Colm did the seemingly impossible, picking six new locks in record time, Finn egging him on, Colm ignoring everything the rogue said, focusing on the cold metal that soon grew warm in sweaty hands, the sound of minute gears clicking, the smell of Finn’s old leather as he opened the door. His fingers were rubbed raw, his joints stiff. He was afraid his back had developed a permanent hunch. As lock number thirty unhinged and the door fell open, Colm nearly collapsed, exhausted.
Finn whistled and stroked his scar. “Incredible. It would take me the better part of an hour just to pick that last one. I’ve never seen anyone get through them so fast.”
“Not even Ravena?” Colm asked. She had been a member of Thwodin’s Legion much longer than him, after all. Maybe long enough to work through every lock on the door already.
“Being good at everything usually comes at the expense of being great at nothing,” Finn answered. “Even she couldn’t do what you just did.”
Colm arched his back and heard things snap and pop. His father made the same sounds when he stretched and bent. It was in the bones, Colm guessed.
“Why don’t you take a break?” The rogue fished around in his cloak and pulled out a plum, tossing it to Colm.
Colm sank his teeth into it, the juice seeping out and stinging the sores on his fingers. He pressed his aching back against the floor and stared at the ceiling as Finn leaned over his desk. The rogue was busy scratching away at a piece of parchment. Colm’s instinct was to steal a glance—to gather information, like every good rogue should—but this was Finn. The man who had saved his hand and his life and his father’s reputation. Also the same man who taught him how to pry. He would most certainly catch Colm peeking and then lecture him on why he got caught. Colm wasn’t in the mood for a lecture.
Instead he took a deep breath and gazed around the room, at the maps with their circles and lines and indecipherable scribbles. At the shelves of books, including the other two volumes of The Rogue’s Encyclopedia that he hadn’t been asked to read yet. At the door with more than half of its locks still unbeaten. And even after all of those, there was still one more.
Colm looked in the corner, at the chest that simply sat there gathering dust, untouched since the day he’d arrived. The simple shiny box with its single lock that Finn had never been able to open. How could something so simple be so confounding? From the outside it was just a hole, but the insides obviously held such complexity, such minute intricacy, that even after years of trying, the estimable Finn Argos hadn’t been able to pick it.
What would it take, Colm wondered, to solve this dusty puzzle? He had been fiddling with Finn’s confounded door for well over an hour. Every muscle in his hand had seized with cramps, and his eyes were going cross. The last thing he wanted to look at was another lock, especially one that was impossible to crack. Better to just close his eyes and forget about it.
But as soon as he did, one eye snapped open and found the chest again, its silver plate reflecting his own face back at him. He glanced over at Finn, but the rogue was still hunched over his desk, deep in thought.
He didn’t even know what was inside. That was the thing that Colm couldn’t get out of his head. With the door it didn’t matter—just Finn’s crusty old boots. The point was the lock itself. But this was different. There could be anything in there. Well, not anything. But something remarkable. Something more remarkable than boots, at least. Imagine having something like that sitting beside you your whole life and never knowing what secrets it held.
Colm quietly sat up and pulled his lockpicks over to him, then scooted closer to the chest, keeping his back to Finn’s desk. He ran his hand along the cold, smooth metal, trying to sense some semblance of magic, but it gave off no vibration, no aura or crackle of energy. It was foolishness, he knew. He still had over thirty locks on the door, including some of the toughest that had ever been dreamed of, but the more he thought about it, the harder it was to resist. It was as if the chest was mocking him. If you don’t want to know what’s inside, what are you even doing here?
He couldn’t stand it anymore. He grabbed his smallest pick and hunched over the chest, silently exploring the lock’s inner workings, the delicate mechanism that kept its jaws clamped tight. From the start, he could sense that this lock was different—its insides more like a labyrinth than a tunnel. He imagined it as a dungeon in miniature, almost impossible to navigate in the darkness. And he was blind, like Bartholomew Plink, the first dungeoneer to avoid the ogre’s hole. He had to feel his way around, but it seemed even his finest pick was too large to worm its way through the maze of tiny gears and levers, hammers and tumblers, that comprised the lock’s delicate composition. He would need something even smaller. Something thin and pliable, capable of weaving and bending, molding and maneuvering, but without breaking. He had no such pick. The only thing he could think of that was even the right shape and size was . . .
Colm reached into his sack and pulled out Celia’s hairpin, studying it carefully. No thicker than a bristle on a brush, but longer than any single hair he could pluck from his own head. It couldn’t possibly work. It was much too fragile. He wasn’t even sure exactly what kind of metal it was made of. It would be one thing if it had some kind of magical properties, but the Candorlys had never owned anything magical in their lives. Odds were he would try to force it through and it would snap off inside, making the nearly impossible completely impossible. Then what would his sister say?
And yet he found himself deftly threading the hairpin through the tiny black aperture, eyes closed, navigating on touch alone, pausing at the slightest sign of resistance, working with trembling fingers. He felt the pin maneuver through the curves, felt the subtle shifts, the most minuscule tremble at the end of the pin in his hand.
And he imagined himself back down in Renny’s labyrinth, navigating the dungeon, weaving his way through one corridor after another, stepping delicately, dodging traps, listening around corners, ferreting out his path until he came to the end. Colm licked his lips and pressed his eyelids closer together, blocking out even the sound of Finn’s scribbling. Holding his breath until he thought he might pass out.
Colm had wound his way through four of the lightest pins he’d ever manipulated, and the fifth was perhaps the most difficult he’d ever encountered. But soon it too gave way, and he felt the hairpin twist slightly. Then he heard a series of clicks, barely perceptible, like somehow hearing your own eyes blink. He froze.
“Did you just do what I think you did?”
Colm turned to see Finn staring at the chest, eyes wide. Colm nodded. “I think so.”
“But how did . . . ?” Finn stammered. “I mean . . . they said it was unpickable. For two years I’ve been trying . . .”
Colm started to hold up his sister’s pin, then thought better of it, tucking it under his leg instead. Celia had given it to him, after all. It was a treasure. Her only one. Not that he thought Finn would take it from him, but what was his was his. “I don’t know,” Colm said. “I just followed my instincts, did everything you taught me.”
Finn covered his mouth with one hand, as if he was afraid of what he might say. He just stared at the unlocked chest.
“Well?” Colm asked, giddily, pushing it toward him. “Aren’t you going to open it?”
The rogue shook his head. He looked almost shocked at the idea. Or maybe he was simply so surprised that Colm had done something he never could. “You solved the puzzle, Colm Candorly. You get to see what’s inside.”
Colm nodded, wiped his hands on his knees, then put one on either side of the lid. He wondered if Finn would share it with him, whatever it was. Wondered if half of it would have to go to the guild. His stomach twisted. He closed his eyes, afraid to look, then opened them, more afraid not to. He nearly fell backward.
“What?”
It was empty. Not empty like the chest in Renny’s dungeon, which at le
ast held the one silver coin and an awful poem, but actually empty. Colm leaned over the chest, dumbfounded. Maybe it was an illusion. Maybe it only appeared to be empty, but when you stuck your hand in, you buried it inches deep in gold. But a sweep of his hand along all edges of the box only kicked up motes of dust.
“There is nothing. It was all a complete waste of time.”
Colm looked imploringly at Finn, expecting a look that shared in Colm’s disappointment. Instead the rogue had a grin that was just starting to unwind. He wasn’t looking at the empty chest or its opened lock. He was looking at Colm.
“I have to disagree,” he said.
That night, after everyone else had gone to sleep, Colm lay in bed thinking about the dungeon, now only three days away, and Finn’s promise that there would be plenty of treasure to go around. At dinner, and even after, he and the others had discussed what they would do with their share, Lena describing a new set of practically seamless armor she had seen advertised and Quinn talking about buying a bigger house for his parents. Even Serene, who had once told them that gold is no replacement for the enormous bounty that nature provides, described how she would like to one day own her own farm and raise rabbits. Everyone had their own reason for being here, but none of them was at a loss when it came to thinking of ways to spend imagined loot.
But the more Colm lay in bed and thought about mountains of gold, the more he came back to Finn’s empty chest. Something about it didn’t seem right. How could Finn not be upset? For two years, he had been trying to open that chest, and for what? Just to find it empty? And yet, instead of being filled with disappointment, Finn’s eyes had sparkled with pride. He had called Colm a genius, said that they were destined for great things. And yet the chest itself held nothing. An empty promise.
Colm lay in bed and listened to the sound of the owls loosed from their cages up in the rookery, taking to the night sky, off hunting. Through the open window, he could hear the cicadas and the hushed whisper of tree boughs tussling with the wind, the whistle winding its way through the cracks in the castle’s stone.
And above all this, he heard the shout, followed by the clop of hooves on stone.
Someone was coming. In the dead of night. To the castle that nobody knew the way to.
Just go to sleep, Colm told himself. Whatever it is, it’s none of your business. But he could still hear the hooves pawing on the stone, the rider dismounting, verbal exchanges. He couldn’t keep himself from listening. He listened for the locks undone, the front doors creaking open.
Colm sat up straight, cursing Finn Argos for making him so high-strung and curious—though to be fair, the curiosity had been there long before they met. Still, the rogue had only made it worse, he was sure. Colm quietly slipped out from under his covers—there was very little he didn’t do quietly anymore—and donned a cloak but ignored his boots. On smooth floors, bare feet were best. The ball of blankets that contained Quinn didn’t move an inch as Colm opened the door. He whispered for the mageling not to worry. He wasn’t going to be gone long.
Colm sneaked down the vacant halls, past the shut doors, skirting the pools of light from the torches out of habit, ears perked for the slightest sound, until he found himself standing just outside the great hall, peering around the corner at the two figures standing inside the castle’s main entry. Colm recognized both of them instantly. The one by his yellow mane, dressed in too-tight satin pajamas that didn’t quite cover his hulking frame. The other by his swords, one resting on each hip, the man himself almost completely concealed by his hood.
The ranger had returned.
Colm pressed his back against the wall and crouched down, careful to stay in the shadows, wondering what Finn would say if he caught him here. Would he be angry at Colm for snooping or admire him for his stealth? Colm wasn’t sure, but he could easily imagine the rogue doing the exact same thing. Tye Thwodin was speaking softly, but his gruff voice carried down the cavernous hall; Colm had to strain to hear Master Wolfe, though. He could see the ranger’s face set in a scowl. It didn’t take long to discover why.
“An assassin?” Master Thwodin rumbled.
The ranger nodded. “Ambushed me outside Saddle Hills. There was no doubt of his intent. His dagger was poisoned. Quality stuff. He was not some random thug.”
Tye Thwodin pulled on his beard. “Did you get a name?”
“I’m afraid he was all out of breath by the time I got around to asking,” the ranger said slyly. “I asked around at some of the thieves’ guilds, but nobody would take responsibility. But I did learn something. . . .”
Colm watched as the ranger leaned in close and whispered in Tye Thwodin’s ear. The flame-bearded founder frowned, his eyes narrowed.
“Best to keep this to ourselves for now, until we know for certain. After all, someone out there clearly doesn’t like you very much.”
“Lots of people don’t like you,” Wolfe countered.
“But you don’t see them trying to stab me in the back, do you?”
“Only because they know they’d have to get through me first,” the ranger replied coolly.
Tye Thwodin looked as if he was about to say something else, but the ranger brought a finger to his lips, then quietly drew one of his swords. “I’m not sure all your mice are in their holes,” he said.
Colm quickly ducked back around the corner and stood up slowly, keeping his back to the wall, then started to tiptoe down the hall, toward his room, heart thundering in its cage. He wasn’t sure what the ranger would do if he caught Colm spying. Better to just not get caught. Ready for anything. Guilty of nothing.
Colm turned the corner leading to the boys’ dormitory.
And ran straight into Anywhere, the tip of the sword leveled square at Colm’s chest.
Master Wolfe stood in the middle of the hall with his hood thrown back, chin scruffed, black hair curled nearly into knots, and clothes layered with mud and dust and something darker. Two iron-gray eyes held Colm in place. Those, and the point of the ranger’s sword.
“Hello, little mouse,” the ranger said in a hoarse voice. “You’re up late, aren’t you?”
Master Wolfe lowered his blade, but he didn’t sheathe it. Colm wondered what wolves did to little mice. He had a guess. “Sorry, sir, I was . . . um . . .”
“Sneaking around? Eavesdropping? Or just searching for buried treasure?” The man’s voice was calm, but Colm could see the flash of anger in his eyes. Maybe wolves just ignore mice, Colm though. Maybe they consider them not worth the trouble. But it didn’t look as if Grahm Wolfe was going to let him scurry off. Colm thought about the assassin who couldn’t give the ranger his name because he was dead already. At least Colm got the courtesy of being asked questions first.
“Nobody buries their treasure, Master Wolfe. They just stash it behind locked doors,” Colm murmured.
The ranger smiled. “So just sneaking, then?” he concluded.
“Practicing, actually.”
Colm turned to see Finn standing at the other end of the corridor, blending with the shadows. The rogue’s voice was casual, ho-hum; he seemed to be fussing with a button on his shirt. “It’s part of our training.”
The ranger’s scowl returned. “In the middle of the night?”
Finn shrugged. “Every good rogue needs to know how to work at night. I was just showing Colm here how to walk in shadow—out of light, out of sight—though obviously he still has a lot to learn.” Finn looked at Colm for confirmation. Caught between the ranger and the rogue, Colm took three steps back toward Finn.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “A lot to learn. Sorry.”
Finn sniffed dramatically. “Of course, it might help if you took a bath every once in a while, Colm. I could smell you from a hundred yards, and I’m not half the hunter Master Wolfe is.”
“It’s been a while,” Colm said apologetically. He turned and offered a weak smile to the ranger. Grahm Wolfe didn’t look amused.
“There are plenty of shadowy places
in this castle to skulk about during the day, Master Argos. Perhaps you should save this lesson for another time.”
“Certainly,” Finn said. “He’s probably learned enough for one evening anyways. Why don’t we call it a night, Colm, and pick up where we left off tomorrow—if that’s all right by Master Wolfe?”
The two men gazed at each other across the corridor. Colm could hear the thunderous footsteps of Master Thwodin coming toward them through the great hall. Finally the ranger pointed down the hallway. “Scurry off, then. Quiet as you came.”
Colm turned back around to Finn, who nodded curtly. “It’s all right. Master Wolfe isn’t going to eat you,” he said.
Colm shoved his hands in his pockets and walked slowly down the hall, keeping his head bowed. As he passed alongside, though, the ranger reached out and put a hand roughly on his shoulder. Colm felt his whole body seize. He stared straight ahead, waiting for something terrible to happen, but Master Wolfe didn’t say a word, only squeezed. It didn’t hurt. If his father had done it, or Lena or even Finn, it might have been a comfort. But coming from Master Wolfe, it felt like something else. A message of some kind.
A warning.
The ranger let go with a little push, and Colm quickstepped down the hall with his head bowed, looking back only once, to find Finn and Grahm Wolfe still staring at each other.
Colm disappeared into his room just as Tye Thwodin rounded the corner, demanding to know what was going on, but with the door shut, he couldn’t hear a thing.
Even with his ear pressed against the crack at the bottom.
That night, Colm dreamed—as he often did—of riches. Glorious rivers and lakes of gold, as far as the eye could see. Glittering landscapes of jewels and gleaming arms and armor, and chests of coin deep enough to sit in, stacked from floor to ceiling, each and every one unlocked.
But he also dreamed of wolves.
The Dungeoneers Page 27
