The Golden Key (Book 3) (28 page)

12

There was a fire in the tent, and the ground beneath Hobart
was soggy. His armor was still missing, but he wasn’t worried; either Ortis had
it and it was safe or Ortis didn’t have it and he would have to get it back
from the dwarves. He stretched and yawned, his weakened muscles straining
against the fatigue that always hit him after a prolonged battle. He hadn’t
felt so drained since the fishmen had almost overrun the outpost he was
stationed at when he first went to The Borderlands. He had helped hold the gate
against their battering ram for an eternity before the archers finally picked
enough of them off to chase them away. Once the fishmen were gone, he had
collapsed to the ground, unable to move for half an hour before his muscles
finally stopped shaking.

What happened to the dwarves?
he wondered as he
flexed his fingers and toes.
Why did they attack?
By the time he had
reoriented himself and sat up, he had forgotten about the strange dwarves. They
weren’t real—they
couldn’t
be real—and he was beginning to remember what
was
real. The fire was warm, and the tent looked familiar. It was the cheap
one made from hides stitched together that Ortis had bought from Dagremon when
they set out to cure Giorge of his curse. It had not gone well, and Giorge—

He clamped his teeth tight and growled back the chain of
thoughts that threatened to erupt in him. There was nothing that could be done
for Giorge now, and it was time to move on to the future. If there was one.

He looked around the nearly empty tent and wondered where
they were. The last thing he remembered, they had been heading up the lift, taking
Angus to the cave. They weren’t there any longer, and that meant he had been
out of his wits for a long time. But how long? What had happened? Why had they
left the cave?

Supplies. Ortis had said they were low, and he would have
headed back across the plateau to get some more from Dagremon. But he could
have done that on his own and come back to the cave. Why hadn’t he left Hobart
there?

His stomach rumbled and his bladder screamed for attention,
so Hobart struggled to his feet. His knees were unsteady, and he spread his
legs wide to keep from tottering. There wasn’t anything to hang on to, so he
stood still for several seconds before taking a step. It felt like he was
walking through hip-deep water, not ankle-deep snow.
Where is the ground
covering?
By the time he reached the tent flap, he was ready to sit down
again, but he couldn’t; he needed to know where he was and where they were
going. He gripped the flimsy tent flap hard and used it to steady himself as he
opened it up.

It was cold, and he almost dropped the flap back into place.
Instead, he gritted his teeth and stepped out into a chill morning. The snow
crunched beneath his feet as the thin layer of ice on top of it gave way under
his weight. The edge of the ice was sharp, and despite himself, he winced as it
scratched his bare ankles.
Where are my boots?
he wondered.
Did the
dwarves steal them?

He was facing south in a large clearing with long drifts to
either side of the tent flap. There was a strong north wind, but the tent was at
his back blocking it. A travois was nestled up against the tent flap, and he
saw bits of his armor peeking out from under the tanned hide strapped over it.
There’s
the ground covering,
he thought.
At least the dwarves didn’t get my
armor.
Then he frowned and shook his head. There weren’t any dwarves around
here; they didn’t like snow. They always huddled up in their holes when winter
came. No matter; he had his armor, and that meant he probably had the thick
padding too.

He reached for the travois and nearly toppled over as his
left knee buckled. The pieces of armor grated against each other as he leaned
against them to catch himself, and he knelt gingerly down on the icy crust of
the snow to fumble with the straps holding his armor in place. Most of it was
under a stiff blanket, and once he had it peeled open, he looked for the
padding—but it wasn’t there! He rummaged for a few seconds, and then pulled his
sword out from the pile. It felt ten times heavier than normal, and the tip of
the sturdy scabbard gouged into the ice as he used it to lever himself to his
feet again.

Hobart stumbled against the travois before he managed to
stand again, and his armor shifted noisily as it settled back into place. Once
he had some semblance of balance, he used his sword as if it were a cane and
turned away from the travois. He put his back to the wind, leaned on his sword,
and let his bladder have its way. He had barely started when Ortis hurried into
view from behind the tent. The triad was on the other side of the drift with an
arrow knocked in his bow. He let the tension out of his bowstring when he saw
Hobart and then nodded to him. “Good,” Ortis said. “I was wondering when you
would wake up.”

Hobart nodded back and asked, “Where’s my padding? I’m
shriveling up in this cold.”

Ortis shrugged. “Go back in the tent. The fire will keep you
warm enough while you wait.” Ortis turned to go back to where he had been.

“Wait for what?” Hobart asked.

Ortis paused and turned back. “Have something to eat while
you’re in there. The stew is warming near the fire.” Then he was hurrying away
again.

Hobart frowned, finished peeing, and then decided to go back
inside the tent. He had seen enough to know where they were—the clearing near
the well—and it troubled him a great deal. How long had he been sleeping?
Why
had he been sleeping so much?

As he hobbled back into the tent he felt around his head,
trying to find a cut, a bump, any kind of head wound that would explain his
sluggishness, but there was nothing there.

He stood inside the tent flap for a few seconds to adjust to
the dim light and then made his way up to the fire. He reached down for the
stew pot and moved it close to the blankets he had been sleeping on, and then
flopped down next to it. He took a bite of the stew and scrunched up his nose.
Too many herbs again. He ate quickly, chewed sparingly, and swallowed what he
could before setting it aside. Then he lay down again, pulling his sword up
under the blankets with him, the cold metal of the scabbard resting comforting
against his thigh.
If the dwarves come back
, he thought as he fell
asleep and dreamed he was dancing with the hind legs of a giant, headless cat….

13

Typhus held still until he heard Karas say the man’s name
was Angus. It was an uncommon name, and there couldn’t be many banners with an
Angus as a member. If it was the same one, would he have the key with him? If
he did, could he get it from him and take the key to Argyle?

He waited until the door closed before he lifted the
coverlet. The familiar glow filled the room, and he frowned.
Angus will know
how to fix it,
he thought.
He has to!

He had to know if it was the right Angus, and the only way
he could do that was to sneak up and take a peek at him. But the guardsmen were
there, and he was a frightful sight. How could he do it? He reached under the
bed for his clothes and the bandages he still needed to conceal his glow. He
left the cloak; he wasn’t going to need it this time.

When he was ready, he opened the door a crack and looked out.
The stairwell was dark until it reached the top, and there was no one there. He
stepped out and pulled the bandage low over his eyes. It wasn’t difficult to
move quietly up the stairs and into the shop proper, but he had to be careful.
It wasn’t as dark as he would have liked, and there were guardsmen around. They
would be alert.

Typhus scrounged around until he found a thin sliver of
metal on one of the benches, and then moved carefully over to the alcove where he
had seen Iscara put her patient’s things. It was audacious, but the lock was
easy to pick and the guardsmen were elsewhere. He looked over his shoulder to
make sure they weren’t there before opening the door just far enough for him to
slip inside. Then he pulled the door quietly shut behind him and waited to see
if anyone came to investigate. When he was satisfied no one was coming, he
unwound enough of the bandages from his eyes to light up the little alcove. There
was barely enough room to turn around, and the only thing on the shelves was a
backpack. He smiled; he recognized the backpack. It
was
Angus!

He flipped open the backpack’s flap and quietly, carefully, methodically
removed its contents. He set the scrolls on the table first, since there was no
point in looking through them. He couldn’t read them and he already knew what
they were. He continued to remove the familiar items until he found his tunic.
There was a lot of burn damage, but it didn’t matter; he could have a new one
made easily enough, and he could pay for it with one of the gems he found in
the pouch at the bottom of the pack. He only took a few of the gems, though,
and he didn’t know why. Normally, he would have taken all of them, but something
held back his hand.

At least the pockets in his tunic still had most of his
things in them, including the phial of green liquid. It would come in handy if
the guardsmen caught him. But Argyle’s key was not among those items, and
Typhus’s heartbeat raced. Had Angus lost it? Had he thrown it away? Had he sold
it?

Typhus rummaged through the rest of the backpack, but it
wasn’t there. Neither were his breeches, but he would get them back soon
enough. He would tell Iscara they were his, and she would get them for him. If she
didn’t.…

When he was satisfied the key wasn’t there and that he had
everything he wanted from the backpack, he replaced the other items he had
taken out of it and closed the flap. Then he put it back on the shelf where he
had found it. Then he turned around to the door, made sure he knew exactly
where the latch was, and covered up his eyes until it was completely dark
again. He took a deep breath, reached for the latch, and paused. This was the
most dangerous part of his little escapade because he didn’t know if anyone was
in the shop’s main room and there was no way to find out. He listened intently,
but all the noises seemed to be far enough from the door for him not to worry
about them. He lifted the latch and quickly stepped around the door when there
was enough room to do so.

No one was nearby, and he quickly shut it again. He made a
careful inspection of the room from where he knelt by the door, but there was
still no sign of the guardsmen. They were either outside or in Iscara’s
infirmary. He turned and made the efficient, expert movements that would lock
the door again, and when he finished, the room was still empty. He took a
breath and began working his way along the wall toward the infirmary. He wanted
to take a look inside, to see if Iscara was alone with Angus, but he never made
it that far. He was still a few steps away when the front door burst open and
Karas, carrying a lantern, hurried in with two healers and a handful of
guardsmen close on his heels. Typhus froze and pressed himself against the wall,
knowing it was pointless because Karas had already seen him.

But Karas said nothing as he hurried up to the tapestry and
held it open for the two women. He stared at Typhus for a long moment before
following them inside and letting the tapestry fall back into place. He heard
Iscara snap, “Ninny, fix his shoulder. You’re good at that sort of thing.
Momma,” she paused and asked, “Can you save the foot?”

There were a few seconds of silence, and Typhus moved in
closer to the tapestry, lifting it just far enough to see inside. The healers
were gathered around their patient, and he couldn’t see past them. He tried to
open the tapestry a bit further, and a hand grabbed his wrist and pulled him
inside. A moment later, his wrist was twisted around behind him, and a sword
was at his throat. “What have we here?” he wondered. “A thief, perhaps?”

“I’m not sure,” one of the women said. “There’s little left
alive. It would be better to remove it.”

“We must try to save it,” Iscara said. “That’s why I brought
you here.”

“What about his arm?” the other woman asked. “It will be
easier to tend the shoulder if the arm wasn’t twisted up like that.”

“I’m not a thief,” Typhus denied. Technically, it was true;
he was an assassin. Besides he hadn’t really taken anything that wasn’t already
his, had he?

“It all needs mending,” Iscara said. “I’ll keep the fever
under control while you do it.” She glanced up and saw Typhus. She smiled at
him, and then bent down to her patient again.

Typhus gave the guardsman no resistance as he held him
firmly in place. “I’m her patient,” Typhus said. “She’s trying to help me.
Can’t you see the bandages?”

The guardsman said, “I see them all right,” but he didn’t
release him. “But I want to see who’s underneath them.”

“Let him be,” Iscara said without turning or looking up. “He
is my patient and I am tending to him. His face is hideously disfigured by a
very contagious disease. I’ve been keeping him in my chambers to prevent him
from infecting anyone else. If you remove the bandages, I’ll have to keep you
there with him.”

The guardsman’s grip was tenacious, but after a few more
seconds, he released him and pushed him out of the infirmary. “Go back there
then, and don’t return until we’re gone.”

Typhus nodded vigorously and hurried toward the stairwell.
He wasn’t afraid, but there was no point in having a confrontation with all
these people about. Collateral damage was bad for business, and Iscara—despite
her charms—was necessary. Besides, he had found out what he needed to find out.
It was Angus, and he still had the breeches on.

He clomped down the stairs and then opened the door to her
chambers. He didn’t enter it, though; he simply shut it again, making a lot of
noise as he did so. Then he waited several seconds and soundlessly moved up to
the top of the stair again. The guardsman must have been satisfied enough not
to follow him to make sure he didn’t come back.

Typhus settled into the shadows at the top of the stair and
started thinking. He wanted his breeches back, and he
needed
to know if
Angus still had the key. If Angus did have the key then he wanted that back
too. But he couldn’t get it yet; there were too many people in the way. But
after Angus was healed and the others were gone? What could he do then?

As he considered the possibilities, he fondled the little
phial in his pocket. It was one of the possibilities, but only if he couldn’t
talk Iscara into helping him. Regardless, he would have to wait until the
guardsmen left—
if
they left. If they didn’t? His smile was grim as he
rolled the little phial between his fingertips. He
needed
the key.
Badly.