Angst (Book 4) (14 page)

27

After Embril left to get the provisions, Giorge counted off
a full minute before he reached into his pack and brought out the second candle.
He lit it quickly, picked up his pack, and ran down the corridors as fast as he
dared. He didn’t know if it would work or not, but he had to find out if he
could lower the floor and gain access to the nexus. Unlike before, he took the
shortest route to the room instead of going the long way around. As he
approached the room, the candle flame rose higher, and he held it further away
from him. He only slowed to a quick walk when he stepped into the room and
skirted the hole in the floor.

“Well,” he muttered as he circled the podium and came to a
stop behind it. He set the candle on the floor—its flame flared like a
torch—and muttered, “Where was the panel?” He pushed against the column where
he thought she had pushed, but nothing happened. He moved his hand several
times in the general vicinity, and still nothing. “I don’t have time for this,”
he grumbled. “Embril won’t be gone long.” He continued to press against the
podium for several more seconds, and then stopped in frustration. “What did she
see?” he wondered. “If I could see it—”

He rolled his eyes and dropped his pack. “Idiot,” he
muttered as he took out and opened Symptata’s box. He reached in for one of the
Viper’s Eyes, which came loose with ease, and brought it up to look through it.
He tried to ignore the glare from the strands of magic around him, and turned
his attention to the column. There was a red shadow, and it looked like the
Angst symbol—but part of it was missing.
Angus said that about the one in
the stairwell, didn’t he? And then he pressed
—

Giorge pressed against the spot where the third teardrop
should have been and waited.
How long before she gets back?
he wondered
as the floor began its slow, steady descent.
Do I have enough time?

He paced until the floor dipped below the top of the slit in
the wall that led to the nexus. When enough of the slit was revealed for him to
squeeze through, he dropped down on his hands and knees and slid feet first
into it. He lithely dropped down to the narrow ledge and turned around. He
lifted the Viper’s Eye. The magic was brilliant. A thick, steady stream rose
from deep below him and then it fractured into dozens of tendrils. He lowered
the Viper’s Eye and squinted. There was only a little light from the candle
reaching the room, but it was enough for him to get a vague sense of its
dimensions. Beneath him was a hole that fell into darkness. Above it was a
spherical cave. In the middle of the sphere was The Tiger’s Eye. It was huge,
easily as large as his head, but there was a problem. He couldn’t reach it from
where he was. If he tried, he would fall into the pit beneath him. If he tried
jumping, he would fall into the pit. If he tried to climb the walls—he reached
out to touch their glass-like smoothness—he would slip and fall into the pit.
It wouldn’t do any good, anyway; he couldn’t reach The Tiger’s Eye from the
wall because it was in the center of a sphere.

He turned around and climbed onto the still-lowering floor.
He clambered over to his pack and almost upended it.
The size of my head,
he thought with excitement, reaching out for The Viper’s Skull. He quickly slid
The Viper’s Eye back into its socket and paused. He took the skull out of
Symptata’s box and smiled.
It should fit nicely, shouldn’t it?
he
thought as he rummaged through his gear. He had half of it out before he found
the grapple hook and thin, strong rope. As soon as it was in his hands, he
turned and hurried back to the little spherical room. He took a deep breath and
paused.

Why am I doing this?
he wondered again.
What can I
do with the damned thing when I get it?
His hands seem to be moving by
themselves as he tossed the grapple with perfect aim. It clanked against The
Tiger’s Eye and its barbs caught on the sharp-edged facets of the humongous
ruby. He
almost
fought the urge to jerk it free, but his arms convulsed
of their own accord. The Tiger’s Eye broke free from whatever was holding it in
place and tumbled toward him. The grapple slipped free, and he dodged its sharp
prongs as it whizzed past him. He almost fell into the pit from his effort to
catch The Tiger’s Eye. It was warm and heavy in his palm as he staggered back
into the room.
Too
warm; its touch should have burned his fingers.

He didn’t hesitate. Embril would be returning soon, and he
needed to be in the right corridor when she passed if he had any hope of
escape. He dropped The Tiger’s Eye into Symptata’s box, closed the lid,
and
locked it
. He stuffed the gear back into his pack as best he could, then
set Symptata’s box on top of it. He had to jiggle the contents to make The
Viper’s Skull fit, and then strapped it shut. He picked up the candle—its flame
was even stronger and had burned through nearly half of it—and ran from the
room and down the corridors. Somehow, the flame seemed to grow, and he stopped
at a corner to set it down. He hurried up to the next corner and watched the
end of the dark corridor that ran parallel to the one he was in. As he waited,
he steadied his breathing and wondered why he had taken The Tiger’s Eye.

Candlelight rapidly approached the end of the corridor, and
a moment later, Embril hurried past. Giorge rushed back to retrieve his candle,
and then ran quietly through the corridors until he almost reached the
entrance.

He didn’t leave. That was pointless. There was no way he
could make it up the stairwell before Embril realized what had happened and
came after him. She could fly up the stairwell ten times faster than he could
run, and his only hope was deception. He had to convince her that he didn’t
take it, and it wouldn’t be easy.
She’s a Truthseer!
he suddenly
remembered.
When Darby interrogated me, she made me say things I didn’t want
to say!

The churning sound of the trap’s mechanism crackled from the
room housing it, and Giorge’s heart began to beat more slowly, the way it
always did when he was on the verge of getting caught. If the trap was
resetting, that meant—

Giorge scurried up to the entrance and into the stairwell.
The floor had nearly moved back into place, but it was still a foot from the
wall.

She knows I lied about Darby!
he realized.
She
won’t believe me!

The hollow, clanking echo of the stairs lifting back into
place above him sent a shiver down his spine. How long would it take for them
to finish? It didn’t matter. He had only one chance, now, and that was to run
up the stairs.

He started running.

28

Voltari woke with such sharpness that he immediately brought
into focus the magic he always kept at the edge of his awareness. He summoned
strands to himself and his fingers quivered as his mind bent those strands to
his will. The movement of his fingers was barely noticeable, and only those very
well-trained in magic would have recognized its purpose. The spell he wove was
his own creation—as most of the spells he used were—and he waited until he had
it at the ready before he opened his eyes to evaluate the mundane world beneath
the magical overlay.

As he studied what was around him, his breath eased in and
out of his lungs like the soft expansion of a recalcitrant bellows. His books
were as he had left them when he had settled down for a brief rest. The shadows
cast by the perpetual Lamplight were unmoving, as they should be. The air was a
bit staler than it had been, but that was to be expected; mustiness was quite
normal for his subterranean home.

He was alone.

He sat up and tested Blackhaven Tower’s defenses. Mut and
Gyf were standing silent vigil, and when he gazed through their eyes he could
see nothing out of place. The spells surrounding the door had not been tampered
with. There was no residual hint of someone passing along the threads of his
Teleportation spell. Everything was as it should be, and yet he knew there was
something wrong. Something had disturbed his slumber, but what was it?

His eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared as he realized
what it was. The magic around him was slightly different. Some of the flame
strands were stronger, more vibrant, more
alive
. The difference was
barely perceptible—no one else would have noticed it—but Voltari had become so
attuned to the array of strands in and around his tower that the shift in their
normal patterns of behavior was obvious. He smiled and reached out for the part
of the Teleportation spell that would take him into the depths of his complex,
to where the magic he drew upon originated. He tweaked it.

A moment later, he was standing in utter darkness,
surrounded by the magnificent pulsing of the death magic emanating from the
minor nexus far beneath his tower. The blackness of its strands was somehow
deeper, richer, more intense than the darkness of the empty, unlit cave. As he
studied it, a slow, toothless smile began to form. Instead of its normal slow,
steady upward thrust, the magic emanating from the nexus was fluctuating,
increasing and decreasing in power, wavering like smoke rising from a flame as
a slight breeze tickled it. The magic was
dancing
.

He reached out to touch the free-flowing stream, and a soft,
sinister chuckle rumbled through the small cave. He gripped the strand firmly,
letting it flow over his fingertips.
A nexus point has been disrupted,
he thought with glee.
The Taming has been broken!

He lingered for several seconds, bathing in the vitality of
the brief spurts of unencumbered magic. It wasn’t completely free, yet, but it
would not take long for the magic to escape from its bounds.
Soon,
he
thought,
I will return home.
He reluctantly released the magic and
reached for his Teleportation spell. How would the disruption in the nexus
affect it? Where would it send him? To the special room of the library that no
one knew existed? Or somewhere else? He didn’t bother to shrug. He didn’t
bother to hesitate. He didn’t bother to take precautions. He simply tweaked the
spell.

1

“Sire,” Phillip said as he walked into King Tyr’s private
chambers. “Rascal wishes to speak to you.”

“Indeed,” King Tyr said. “Have you made the preparations?”

“Yes, Sire. The screen is in place and the cleaning wench is
waiting.”

King Tyr nodded and strode up to his desk. He picked up one
of the neatly stacked, empty black coin purses and then turned to the row of
gold coins. There were ten stacks of ten coins evenly spaced on a narrow,
folded, black silk cloth. He took one gold coin from the top of each stack
without disturbing the coins beneath them and put that coin in the coin purse.
When he finished, he picked up the quill and made the appropriate notation in
his ledger. Then he made his way quickly through the corridors to the meeting
chamber he used for Rascal and the other rapscallions in his employ. As he
approached the screen, he wrinkled up his nose and asked, “What is it Rascal?”

“Well now, Sire,” Rascal began. “I bring news.”

King Tyr glowered at the screen and held his sleeve to his
nose. When Rascal didn’t continue, he added in his iciest tone, “I suggest you
tell it quickly, Rascal, without your usual deviations. I have other matters to
attend to this afternoon.”

“Oh, aye, Milord,” Rascal said. There was a shuffling sound,
and then Rascal continued. “It’s about
him
, Sire. He hasn’t been seen
since the hole appeared.”

I know that!
King Tyr wanted to snap.
Grayle won’t
let him out of his cage!
Instead, he replied in a calm, muffled tone, “I am
aware of that. If that is all you wish to report, you can leave now.”

“Oh, no, Sire,” Rascal protested. “It’s the stories. Some
say the thing that made the hole took him and he won’t be coming back. Others
say he made the hole and jumped in it. Now, that story can’t be true. I’ve seen
that hole, and it doesn’t go anywhere, so how could he have gone somewhere that
way? Some say he snuck out, but he’s too big to fit in the tunnels. There are
other stories too, but they all say he’s gone for good. Even the higher-ups are
starting to say it.”

King Tyr frowned. It wouldn’t be long before those
higher-ups stopped talking and started acting. “He will return,” he told
Rascal. “Assure them of that.”

“Oh, I’ve been telling them all right,” Rascal replied. “But
they don’t believe it. There’s too many who have been down there, Sire. They’ve
looked everywhere for him but his private rooms—and it won’t be long before
they look in them, too. He’s just not down there, Sire.”

King Tyr frowned. No one was permitted into Argyle’s private
rooms. Ever. That was where the change took place, and no one could know
that
truth. If it weren’t for Typhus…

He shook his head. The assassin didn’t matter anymore. He
was gone, and he wouldn’t be coming back again. But if someone else found a way
into those rooms…

“They’re worried, Sire,” Rascal almost moaned. “Too many
higher-ups are gone, Sire. The ones who replaced them aren’t natural leaders.
They don’t know what to do without him, and he’s been silent too long. They
need someone to tell them what to do.”

King Tyr shook his head. “He’s been gone barely a week,
Rascal.”

“Oh, aye, Sire,” Rascal said. “We all know that he likes to
take long naps. That’s not what worries them. It’s the way he left that has
them spooked. He was there, and then he wasn’t. And the bodies, Sire. They
can’t ignore them, either. Especially poor ol’ Pug. Such a nice little puppy,
too.”

King Tyr stared at the screen and shook his head again.
“Rascal,” he said. “I am already aware of the situation. It will be resolved
soon enough when he returns.”

Rascal was silent for a few seconds, and then said, “
If
he returns, Sire, he may not find many left to serve him.”

“What?!” King Tyr snapped, then continued in a harsh
whisper. “Explain yourself, Rascal.”

“It’s his men, Sire,” Rascal said. “A lot of them are glad
he’s gone and don’t want to go back. Too many have died of late, and the longer
Argyle is gone, the more appealing it becomes.”

“The more appealing
what
becomes?” King Tyr demanded.

“Why, going it alone, Sire,” he replied. “They’re tired of
paying tribute to him, and with him gone, they see it as an opportunity to
become free agents. You know what it’s like with their kind, Sire.”

Their kind?
King Tyr almost said.
Don’t you mean
your kind?
Instead he turned from the screen and started pacing. “How
long,” he called over his shoulder.

“How long, Sire?” Rascal asked.

“How long before they defect?” King Tyr growled.

“Oh, that,” Rascal muttered. “Well, Sire, a few have already
risked it, and if they don’t suffer from it, a lot more will follow.” He
paused, then added, “Soon.”

Soon,
King Tyr thought.
If only I had more time to
convince Grayle. She’ll go back eventually, but for now?
He shook his head.
He had to do something—but
what?
He paced for several seconds and then
came to a stop. He turned to the screen, moved very close to it, and whispered,
“Who are they?”

“Sire?” Rascal prompted. “I can barely hear you.”

“Shhh,” King Tyr hissed. “You said some of his men have
already defected. Do you know who they are?”

Rascal hesitated almost a second before he moved closer to
the screen and half-whispered, “Aye, Sire. A few of them.”

“Are you
certain
of them?”

“Aye, Sire,” Rascal whispered. “I know them well.”

“All right,” King Tyr said. “What are their names? What do
they look like?”

Rascal hesitated, and then sputtered, “Now, Sire. You know I
can’t tell you that. They’re friends of mine. If word got out—”

“Rascal,” King Tyr interrupted. “If you do not give me that
information, I
will
have you scrubbed clean and then spread word that you
are my informant.”

“Now, Sire,” Rascal protested. “There’s no need to make
threats.”

“Rascal,” King Tyr hissed. “I have other tasks to attend
to.”

“All right, Sire,” Rascal sighed. “There’s Little Billie.
She’s a deft one, and she wheedled some gems from a moneylender on Bank Street.
Not a lot of them, of course—she didn’t think he’d notice, and he hasn’t
yet—but I saw them myself. Pretty little rocks, they were. She’s young and
cleans up nicely when she chooses to bathe. Mostly, she’s a scruffy, dirty
blonde with wild blue eyes and a dainty shape. You can’t blame her for it,
Sire. Without
him
tossing a few coins her way—well, she has to eat,
doesn’t she?”

“The second?” King Tyr prompted.

“Ferdinand,” Rascal began. “He’s—”

“The assassin?” King Tyr interrupted. “The one with the
sharp eyes and beaklike chin?”

“Aye, Sire,” Rascal sadly agreed. “One of the lords sought
him out, and when he brought the contract to
him
—well, with him gone,
how could he get it approved? He decided to do it on his own.”

“All right, Rascal,” King Tyr said in his normal tone as he
backed quickly away from the screen. He
tried
to back away from the
odor, but it seemed to follow him, to permeate through his clothing. “Is there
anything else?”

There was a long pause, and then Rascal said. “No, Sire.”

King Tyr nodded and reached down for the coin purse. The
information was worth much more than what he had prepared, but there wasn’t
time to gather more coins. “Here,” he said, tossing the coin purse over the
screen. There was a shuffling and muffled clink as Rascal caught it. “Bring me
an update on the situation in three days,” King Tyr added. “There will be more
for you then.”

“Aye, Sire,” Rascal said.

King Tyr was already hurrying across the room. He was late
for an appointment, and that almost never happened. There would be questions,
but they would not be asked. Even if they were asked, he would wave them off
without answering them.
Something has to be done about Argyle
, he
thought.
And soon.