“Looks like no way up from here, old man,” Mar informed dryly.
Waleck followed Mar into the room and hung the lamp in a sconce by the door.
“The old tower’s original stair was built into the outer wall,” Waleck disagreed. “Look about, it has to here somewhere.” The old man approached the desk, pausing for a moment as he crossed the rug.
“This is Irhfeii’n,” he commented distractedly, “from the land of Aehrfhaen at the other end of the Silver Sea. The outside design is actually several verses in Old Irhfa Script, from their sacred book -- I forget what they call it.”
“Once there were Men,” Waleck translated, “who played at being Gods. These evil usurpers waged war amongst themselves. Amidst their folly, the world was consumed in deluge and inferno. Only the Powerless survived, saved by the True Gods. So the Irhfeii, the Fortunate Ones, were born.”
Mar grunted noncommittally, never having heard of the Irhfeii, or the land of Aehrfhaen, and thinking that Old Irhfa Script looked like mindless squiggles. He crossed the room and examined the bookcase. Made of thick, white oak planks smoothed and varnished to a dull bone, the cabinet reached from the floor to just below the ceiling and was half again as wide. The books, all well used, were a variety: mostly history, some geography, a few literary works. It looked quite heavy. Nothing else in the room was large enough to conceal another exit.
“The Gheddessii,” Waleck added distractedly, “curiously enough, have a similar--”
“The book case, Waleck. Help me push it aside.”
“What? Ah, I see.”
Without waiting for the old man, Mar braced his back against the side of the bookcase. Unexpectedly, it slid smoothly about a fingerlength before he had settled his full weight against it.
Mar grinned triumphantly. “It’s sitting on casters.”
Waleck, also unexpectedly, grinned back. “Interesting.” He gestured for Mar to proceed.
Mar set his shoulder against the side of the bookcase and pushed solidly. It moved easily on the concealed, and apparently well-lubricated, wheels to reveal first a fitted-stone jamb and then the door it contained.
Mar stepped back and stared at it. “It’s made of bronze, old man.”
“Yes, I can see that! Who knows what the Gods play at? It is of no consequence. It must gain us the next floor. Try to open it.”
Mar turned back to the door and began a closer examination. Its face was gouged and dented, streaked with discolorations, and darkened by fire. Many people, over time, had tried to break the door down. None, apparently, had succeeded.
A voice boomed out suddenly, “STAND FAST!”
TWELVE
Mar spun about.
Three men stood blocking the door. Ages and features would have made them brothers. They were all big men, older and gone gray, but nonetheless hard in appearance. The one on the right held a small nocked crossbow of the standard Imperial manufacture. The other two carried iron-clad bludgeons.
Mar’s eyes flew to the sealed embrasure, then about the room. He dove to his left and rolled, pushing off against the floor to land standing on the balls of his feet. He had hoped that the man with the crossbow would have fired, wasting the quarrel, but as he rose he found that the bolt remained aimed determinedly at his mid-section.
“I said stand fast!” The center man barked again. “Thuylesh will not miss! He served twenty years in the Mhajhkaeirii’n Marines before he came back to us.”
Mar froze as Thuylesh’s finger tightened.
The man in the center -- the elder brother? – scrutinized his captives and then said, “M’nessch’te jhuhngt’n!”
When neither Waleck nor Mar responded, he barked a short laugh. “Thought so. I said drop your masks.”
Mar glanced at Waleck, saw the other give a slight nod and both untied their jhuhngt’n.
“Lest either of you harbor ideas about jumping three frail old men,” the centermost man continued, “I should point out that Thuylesh was the top marksman in his troop.”
Thuylesh grinned pleasantly. His grip on the crossbow was relaxed and steady.
“Our cousin and partner, Rynthrahl, was also a seaman of sorts, though he sailed from Lyreshton.”
Rynthrahl grinned as well, but there was nothing pleasant about it. “Aye.”
Lyreshton was infamously known, even as far from the sea as Khalar, as a brigand stronghold.
The elder brother tapped his bludgeon pointedly against the palm of his off hand. “And I – my name is Kahle by the way – have been settling brawls in this inn for better than twenty-five years. Will there be any more unpleasantness?”
Waleck shook his head.
“Now,” Kahle offered conversationally, “neither of you are Gheddessii, as we have already established, though you, boy, might have some in you. Amongst other things.”
The tavern master turned to Waleck. “But you, you carry yourself like you’ve had money. Some Patriarch’s son, are you? Though, as far as I can see, you don’t have the resemblance of any of the old families. It strikes me as a mite strange that you chose to break into this room. We keep all the money in the strongroom as anyone that’s familiar with the Inn knows. Are you just bad thieves or something else?”
The old man straightened and assumed a loftily dignified, almost regal, manner.
“Not thieves, good sir,” Waleck asserted proudly, “but Scholars!”
“Ah. Scholars.” A smile quirked the corners of Kahle’s mouth, though neither of his companions looked amused in the least. “Of what discipline?”
“We study the ethereal forces.”
“’Ihthyrl?’” Kahle repeated cheerily, clearly willing to play the game for the nonce. “And what might that be? I’ve never heard of such.”
“Ethereal forces are the invisible energies which exist outside this plane of reality.” Waleck explained exuberantly. “We study the fundamental powers which suffuse all objects, living and inanimate.”
Kahle raised his eyebrows skeptically.
“Some,” Waleck explained carefully, “speak of these forces as...magic.”
Kahle drew back slightly, an expression of revulsion springing to his face. “You are...sorcerers?”
“Of a sort, you might say, yes...”
All of the innkeepers stiffened at this admission and Thuylesh instantly swung the crossbow to point squarely at Waleck.
The old man raised his hands, empty palms outward, in a pacifying gesture. “No, no, no. Please forgive me. I misspoke. We are certainly not sorcerers in the common sense of the term. Well, actually, it is more accurate to say that we are not sorcerers at all. We are simple students of magic -- magicians. I assure you, we are not fiends! We do not sacrifice infants or consume human hearts! We simply apply the principles of rational thought to the discovery of these forces. Our work has no practical applications whatsoever!”
Kahle frowned. After a moment, he glanced significantly at his brother, who relaxed fractionally.
“All that does not explain why you are here in my study dressed as Gheddessii.”
“Ah, but it does, my good sir. As you have just demonstrated, our studies are not often well received. Even in this enlightened age, there are many who cling to the superstitions of the past.” Waleck grinned apologetically. “Oftimes, we are required to employ subterfuge in our pursuit of knowledge. Our investigations have indicated elevated levels of ethereal emanations from the apex of this tower. These emanations are of an unusual type and we believe a close study of them will greatly enhance our general understanding of the inherent axioms of the ethereal plane.”
“My assistant” Waleck continued to the innkeepers uncomprehending looks, “possesses certain skills --”
“Skills?” the tavern keeper interrupted.
“He, ah...gains us access to...materials otherwise unavailable.”
“He opens doors?”
“Ah, yes,” the old man begrudged. “That is one way of putting it.”
Kahle
shared a glance with his companions.
“Any door?”
“I have never known him to fail.”
Mar wondered at the old man’s calm confidence. Was it genuine or feigned?
Kahle looked thoughtful. “Can he open that door?”
Mar shot the old man a sharply negative look, but Waleck rather studiously ignored him.
“We have hope, yes.”
“Then open it.”
“Gladly, sir, but...”
“Or should I simply send for the Guard?”
“No need for that. I only wish to point out that it is evident that all of us have a desire to discover what lies above.”
Kahle waited.
“It is also evident that the door has not yielded to previous attempts to open it.”
Kahle shrugged. “What you say is true. That door has remained sealed since our grandfather came to work here as a boy. It was never spoken of by the family who owned the inn at that time. He only learned of its existence after he had purchased the inn from them as a grown man.”
Kahle paused, then went on, “You believe that some sort of magic is hidden above?”
“There are indications of ethereal forces, yes.”
“We want no part of that.”
“But you do want to see the room.”
Kahle looked to his brother and cousin, who each nodded seriously in turn.
“We have been waiting our entire lives for it,” Kahle admitted.
Waleck nodded somberly. “Yes, we could say much the same.”
Kahle waved his hand graciously. “Then proceed.”
“Perhaps a business arrangement would be in order?”
Kahle frowned. “You demand a fee?”
“Not a fee. An exchange. Simply allow us to remain in the room above to pursue our studies until the morning.”
“And then you depart.” This was not a question.
Waleck bowed. “Certainly. Our studies lead us elsewhere.”
Kahle considered for a moment. “Lodging only?”
“We have coin for our other needs.”
This drew a slight nod from Kahle. “Very well. Agreed.”
Waleck caught Mar’s attention. “The door, if you please.”
Cursing the old man silently and taking note of the fact that Thuylesh did not lower the crossbow, Mar turned and moved carefully to the door. Without the proper tools, it was unlikely that he could deal with any standard lock. Neither did he hold much hope of forcing the door open, if entire generations of innkeepers had failed to do so. However, under the circumstances, it seemed he must at least appear to be trying to open the door.
Unable to repress a thought, Mar turned to the innkeepers inquiringly. “Why didn’t you just have a stonemason cut through the wall or ceiling?”
All three men immediately adopted guarded expressions and for a long moment, it seemed that none would answer. Finally, though, Kahle admitted, “The walls of this room are very strong.”
“Aye,” Rynthrahl contributed, “chisels break.”
“Ah,” Mar commented neutrally and turned back to the door, wondering if Waleck’s particular brand of dementia might be common among older men.
For the innkeepers benefit, he made an obvious show of examining the bronze panel. In his experience, only locks were worthy of study, as the doors themselves were only as strong as the mechanisms that secured them. This one was close to a standard height and width and appeared to have been cast in one piece. The heavy bronze had been molded to resemble an untrimmed four-panel joined wooden door. Other than the prominent scars and stains, there was nothing else of note.
Abruptly, he grew still, realizing that he had overlooked the most obvious and quite unusual feature of the door. It had no visible hinges, lock plate, or keyhole.
How could it be opened? A hidden release? He had seen such in the Old City, complex and sometimes ingenious apparatus formed with wires and weights hidden within hollow walls. Nothing like that could be installed here; these walls were solid stone. Unless the mechanism had been fashioned within the door itself?
But where? The door face had no filigree or molding in which to conceal a button or latch.
The lintel was one solid piece, but the jambs were smaller alternately offset blocks with fine, unmortered joints.
None of those appeared to be likely candidates. Surely, every section of the frame would have been pushed, prodded, or bashed in every possible fashion over the course of three generations?
Nevertheless, Mar laid his hands on each of the blocks in turn, first on the right side, then the left. There were exactly ten blocks in each jamb and he could budge none in any direction. The third up from the bottom on the left though, struck him as somehow different. He trailed his fingers across it again, feeling intently. Its surface was cool and rough, spawled and pitted, exactly similar in texture to the surfaces of all the others. Still, there seemed something odd about this particular one. He examined the other blocks again, but found them all similarly unnoteworthy. He banged the peculiar block gently with the hammer side of his fist, producing a thickly solid sound, and then pried at it with his fingertips, but neither tactic succeeded in dislodging it. He pressed his palm against it, fingers spread, letting his thoughts roam in hopes of finding a clue to this puzzle.
Without warning, the door began to produce a grinding sound, as of gears meshing. Mar snatched his hand from the stone and leapt back. The grinding sound immediately ceased.
“It has never done that before,” Kahle offered.
Mar looked over his shoulder. Unnoticed, the innkeeper and his kin had moved within a few paces of the door. Thuylesh had allowed the crossbow to drop to his side. Waleck, also, stood near at hand.
“Yes,” the old man agreed quietly, “I think we have found the key.”
Mar was mystified. He had discovered no hidden latch. What had caused the mechanism to engage? He crouched and pressed his palm against the offending stone again. He was certain that the stone did not move, but after a moment, the grinding sound resumed. This continued at length, punctuated occasionally by clicks that might have been cams, and then a harmonious sliding sound began. Could that be the bolts? The door shivered and started to vibrate, dust settling from between its edges and the jambs. Finally, with a muffled sound rather like a counterweight coming to rest, the door fell silent.
Rather bemused, Mar removed his hand from the block and stood. He shoved the door and it responded by bouncing backward against his hands. Catching the edge carefully, he pulled it open. Beyond, the opening revealed a darkened stairwell.
For curiosity’s sake, Mar examined the rear of the door and its edge. The back panel was identical to the front, with whatever mechanism it might contain a mystery. The door itself was a full fingerlength thick, about half again as deep as an ordinary door. The edge betrayed the flat ends of six steel bars as wide as his hand. Along the jamb were six matching steel-clad slots.
Thuylesh spoke for the first time. “Huh.”
For his part, Rynthrahl spit out a meaty maritime curse.
Kahle, in an astounded tone of voice, simply said, “Amazing.”
Waleck danced gleefully around the three innkeepers and took the oil lamp from the sconce by the door. “Now, who shall be first?”
THIRTEEN
Mar climbed the worn spiral steps carefully, holding the lamp before him to light the way. The stair was barely wider than his shoulders with treads scalloped from use but covered in undisturbed dust. The innkeepers, after a short discussion in which much mention was made of “traps” and “Ihthyrl Magics”, had determined that a younger -- and undoubtedly more agile -- man deserved the honor of being first to enter the hidden room.
He paused and glanced back at Waleck.
The old man, carrying a second lamp from the main hall, followed at a respectable interval, and Mar could just glimpse his upturned face around the central column.
For just a moment, recognition failed. Puzzled, Mar lo
oked again. It was Waleck, but somehow not Waleck. The old man’s look was intense, neither that of the haughty scholar he pretended, nor the placid wasteminer Mar knew.
Mar caught himself frowning and resumed his climb. He had seen that face before, at the Temple of Seichu. It was not to his liking.
Ahead, a dark opening appeared by degrees from behind the central column. Mar thrust the lamp forward. The flame staggered, then settled without wavering. There was no draft. Evidently, the room remained sealed to the outside.
He stepped up to the opening and stopped, swinging the lamp to examine the stone framing. No obvious trigger revealed itself. He extended a tentative step into the room beyond.
Abruptly, the room brightened. Mar dropped the lamp and threw himself back into the stairwell, rolling bruisingly down several steps before he could right himself.
“Mar!” Waleck called. “What is it? What happened?”
Mar raised his head and peered into the room. His lamp had gone out when it struck the floor, but the room remained dimly lit in twilight grays.
“MAR!”
“Nothing!” Mar responded. “It was nothing. Wait where you are!”
He advanced back to the top of the stair and peered again into the room. There were no windows, but there was a light of sorts, a dim gray, shadowy light without apparent source. As he stood there, his eyes began to accustom themselves to the twilight and he perceived the vague outlines of the space. The room was of the same square dimension as Kahle’s study below, but appeared empty. He could make out the planes of the walls and the arch of the vaulted ceiling, but nothing further registered.
Mar eased a cautious foot forward, ready to bolt. When neither trap nor Ihthyrl magic assaulted him, he moved on into the room, skimming his boots just above the floor to feel for obstructions he could not see. He stopped at the indistinct blot that was his lamp and knelt to feel about. The globe had shattered, but the lamp itself seemed undamaged. Due to an ingenious sealing mechanism, none of the oil had spilled, but Mar had no means to re-light the lamp.
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