The Ships of Merior (42 page)

They reached the base of the keep. About to keel over from dizziness, jabbed in prevention by Mearn’s knife, Dakar grasped to find a creditable reply. ‘I’m a craftsman. Quite often great men neglect to guard their tongues in my presence.’

‘Great fools, more like.’ Bransian lowered a mailed shoulder and bashed through the outside door. ‘Why warn us? You could as easily have kept silent.’

‘Money,’ Dakar managed between his piteous, whistling effort to suck breath. ‘Wars play havoc with honest
trade. Armourers demand pay, and jewels get requisitioned as taxes.’

Keldmar bared his teeth. His partial emergence into sunshine kissed his restless steel like the flash of strayed lightning against the deeper shade in the bailey. ‘Won’t be spit for peace now.’ He sounded cheerful. ‘Whichever mayor sent this spy has bought himself a thumping bloody fight.’

Mearn worried the knife against the small of Dakar’s back. ‘By Ath, you’d better run instead of chatter. Or we won’t catch the slinking rat at all.’

The prisoner had yet to recover his wind. Unable to match the s’Brydion brothers’ long-strided sprint, he bobbed against his bonds like a flounder dragged on a trawl-line, while a dairymaid burdened with pails and settling pans dashed clear of their path in dismay. Bransian kicked through a flock of loose hens and scattered them into squawking flight. Feathers flew like torn leaves in a scirocco. Dakar, flushed purple, inhaled one and sneezed. The damnable red doublet throttled him, armpits to groin, until his guts felt crimped in a barrelhoop. Had Mearn owned a shred of natural pity, he could have used his nasty dagger to slit the back seam and relieve an undue share of human suffering.

But the s’Brydion would slacken pace for no man while the secret in their armoury stood in jeopardy.

The keep set aside for their weapon-stores loomed above a spiked ring of battlements, its lichened crenellations notched into sky. Panting, limp as sloshed cream in a bowl, Dakar expected to expire of exertion long before his captors could herd him to the top. Even Bransian’s ox thews would suffer from the strain to haul him up stairwells like deadweight. Firm in his plan to faint and gain a rest, then slip off the moment he was abandoned, Dakar groaned and lurched to his knees.

Two pairs of hands latched his armpits like meat-hooks and slung him wrenchingly onward; apparently
Parrien and Keldmar could ignore their bickering differences when presented with sufficient provocation.

While a muleteer freighting beer kegs to the lower district market jerked his team short of collision, Mearn’s chilling chuckle pierced through the clatter of sliding hooves. ‘Now, why should I have a strange feeling this pigeon we’ve caught isn’t quite pleased to come along?’

Nobody answered. Teeth latched tight in winded misery, propelled in a headlong dash across the noisome runoff from the butcher’s alley, hoisted over loose bricks to whacked shins and the howls of the infuriated mason left ankle-deep in the mortar upset from his handcart, Dakar wished the worst of s’Brydion ill temper upon the head of Arithon s’Ffalenn.

Ahead, in a bellow fit to split rock, Duke Bransian questioned the sentries posted by the arched upper postern. Dakar scarcely followed their round of emphatic denial. ‘We’ve seen nothing, my lord Duke. No intruders have passed in our watch.’

Four stares accusatory enough to scald skin, and a knife on the trembling edge of murder impelled Dakar clear of his muddle. ‘The spy’s mage-trained,’ he managed between gasps. ‘He’ll have ways to slip past unseen.’

‘Through six guards and
twelve locked posterns?’
Bransian’s brows knotted in fierce disbelief. His pale eyes fastened on Keldmar, who responded and jammed the sword he liked least through his belt.

Bransian hooked the ring that jangled at his hip, twisted off a key and tossed it into his brother’s freed hand. ‘The captain on duty is Tharrick. Let him into the keep through the guardroom and take a dozen men armed for skirmish. If the rest of us sally by way of the lower passage, we can flank this spy in the dungeon.’

‘Do you suppose Tharrick forgot his sword, too?’ Parrien murmured. He twitched at the belt that secured Dakar. ‘If so, I’ll just flay the intruder at my leisure.’

‘You say,’ Keldmar shot back. The leather tails of his fighter’s braid snapped to his vehemently turned head, his shout dwindling behind as he left to skirt the base of the keep. ‘What prissy bits of swordplay you practise are much better suited to helping the scullions shell peas.’

‘Hah! So we’ll see!’ Parrien flung back in challenge. Left no other outlet for his spirited temper, he gave another jerk at Dakar’s bonds.

Keys still in hand, the Duke of Alestron elbowed past his sentries and disappeared. The Mad Prophet blinked stinging sweat from his eyes. Snapped through a splay-legged stagger by the belt, he managed to make out a dank, narrow doorway under the shadow of the postern.

Within that maw of gloom, at the base of a shallow stairwell, Bransian’s lips split in unholy delight through his unkempt bristle of amber beard. Then he turned the oiled lock and tripped up the latch. ‘Come on. Or else Captain Tharrick and our brother are going to snatch all the fun.’

‘Over one spy’s dead body.’ Parrien dealt Dakar a neck-cracking push that plunged him down through the darkened doorway and into the throat of an underground shaft.

There followed more flights of stairs, ranged downward or up in patterns that seemed random; they crossed over landings discoloured from the slow seep of springs, or ones caked in dry-rotted fungus. The tunnel reeked of mould and stagnant water. Oil from the cressets that flamed in iron sconces threw off a murk of fine soot. Bransian helped himself from the casks filled with unlighted spares. Burning brands clamped upright in both fists, a dozen more thrust cold through his belt, he looked like a warder from Sithaer itself, primed for mayhem from his hobnailed boots to the crimped frizz that haloed his crown. Like demons, his two brothers pressed at his heels. They hauled their stout-bodied
prisoner in his flamboyant clothes over the streaked, black water that flashed molten bronze and crimson agate; past the whickering flames dragged flat and torn dim by their hasty passage down the corridor.

They stopped at short intervals to question the guards posted along the way. Men armed with daggers, crossbows, and swords who stood their turns of duty, locked in. An enemy who sought entry could kill them or try torture; their watch captain alone held the keys to the doors they defended. Bransian’s inquiries were hasty and rough. His impatience hammered echoes above the clang of locks and bars, while the sentries answered back in fearful care.

The last one to be pressured was emphatic. ‘My Lord, there’s been nothing alive in this passage. Not even a cockroach or a rat.’

‘Well that may be,’ snapped the duke. ‘But we’ve been told there’s a spy in the armoury. You’d better think well before you speak.’

The guard stared back in straight courage. ‘A spy? Dharkaron strike me dead, my Lord, I’ve seen nothing!’

‘Nothing is it? Blind and deaf, both, are you?’ Parrien launched forward, Dakar still in tow. He snatched the guard’s surcoat with his free fist and twisted until the man’s mail cowl crushed painful links into his throat. ‘Were you bribed, man? We’ll have the truth.’

‘Let up, brother,’ Bransian boomed in complaint. ‘How can he talk if you choke him?’

Parrien released fast and kicked the man sprawling on a floor slimed with silt from past flooding. ‘No bribe, Lord,’ the guard gasped. ‘No spy. On my life, I swear this.’

‘Your life
will
be asked, if you’ve lied,’ muttered Mearn, his blade withdrawn from Dakar’s hack as he thrust past to tongue-lash the guardsman.

In a rushed and grating jangle of iron, Bransian
unlocked the next portal. The steel-bound grille swung wide to admit sucking draughts. These flagged the torch-flames to sullen embers, and split shadows danced like cavorting gargoyles. Shaking with sick fear, Dakar flexed numbed muscles against the pressure of Keldmar’s belt. While still another lock, latch and bar were unfastened, and a braced oaken panel yielded to Bransian’s heave with a pealing rasp of stiff hinges, the Mad Prophet fretted that his spurious plot had placed him in more than dire straits.

For a man to slip past this keep’s defences defied the sane bounds of credibility.

Arithon was blinded to mage-sight; that left his masterbard’s gift to raise the pitch which Named steel. But any sound ventured in this underground warren would have stirred echoes to roust up a corpse. And even if such heavy defences
could
be jostled open by resonance; even given the vicious scope of s’Ffalenn cleverness, the last stretch of passage lay blocked by a massive, geared iron gate. This ground tortuously upward on tracks, assisted by mechanical counterweights and a windlass worked by brute strength that made Bransian’s sinews bulge like corded meat.

If the promised spy had not gained his entry, Dakar would be treated to the nasty sort of death he had angled to gain for Arithon s’Ffalenn.

Over the ratcheting din of rusted chains, Mearn ventured, ‘Will you look? I see no footprints in the moss.’ He shot a scathing glare at Dakar.

The portal screeched to rest with a reverberating clank. Bransian jabbed a chewed wedge of wood through the gears to lock the windlass, then stooped unperturbed to fetch his torches. ‘You want to take chances? That herb witch we hired made less sound than a spider. Likely sorcerers don’t leave any tracks.’

A more distant groan of steel and a crash through the upper bowels of the keep evinced Keldmar’s progress
abovestairs. Parrien sidled, impatient. ‘You’re blocking the passage, Mearn. If you don’t step aside to let this fat man squeeze past, I swear I’ll use your knife to end the problem.’

‘You may need to slit his throat anyway,’ Mearn said tartly. ‘If the armoury’s secure, the odds would suggest that perhaps this wretch
is
the spy.’

‘Stop talking.’ Bransian planted himself, bearded chin thrust forward. ‘I want to listen.’

No sound met his stillness. A catspaw of draught teased the torches, then passed. The weave of the flames crawled upright and held, sparkless and steady and hot. Crowded by his brothers with Dakar leashed in tow, Bransian plunged into the pit black cavern of the dungeon.

There followed another long pause, filled by the burning hiss of oil-soaked rags and half-suspended breathing. No other light or sound stirred the dust-laden air. The nearest racks of shelving loomed dark as catacombs, twelve feet high, and picked out in the teased play of light. Floor to ceiling, the velvet darkness lay stamped with dull gleams where steel, riveted, hammered, and forged in the myriad shapes used for war, chipped hack intermittent reflections.

‘Nobody’s in here,’ Parrien said in cracking, incredulous fury.

Bransian slapped him in the chest to make him quiet. To the prisoner who wheezed at his elbow, he said, ‘How long do you guess your spy’s had access?’

‘An hour or less,’ Dakar answered.

‘That’s if he exists at all!’ Mearn’s stiletto flashed a hot line in the dimness as he snared one of Bransian’s torches.

‘Oh, but he does,’ the Mad Prophet insisted in grim desperation. ‘Be careful, he’s clever as a fiend.’

Then, with a vindication that both maddened and humbled, a bright voice called answer from behind a
wedged pile of barrels. ‘Why Dakar, how wonderfully imaginative!’

Like windvanes in a stiff change of breeze, the brothers s’Brydion spun about.

Just beyond sight, the speaker was blithe. ‘What did you trade for my emeralds, my friend? Arbalests? Lances? Shall we count?’

Dakar gulped air to retort. Before he found words, a twist at his wrists bent him to his knees on the floor. A heartbeat later, he struggled to accommodate as Bransian thrust all three smoking torches between his nerve-dead fingers and rattled low orders to his brothers.

Their chase would be hampered: the low shelves were too tightly packed to step through; and the intruder could be armed with whatever style weapon he might find amid the stores to strike his fancy.

While the brothers fanned out in a stalking pattern, Arithon resumed his ripping satire. ‘A high king’s crown jewels for a load of tempered steel, or
Dakar!
Could my life be the stakes that you bargained for?’

A stitch of reflection in stygian dark revealed Mearn in position to pounce. The voice paused in its monologue. A barrel canted to a rasp of shifted contents. A slight hesitation, like a held-back breath; then the cask toppled, upsetting its contents in a cascading, earstunning crash. Steel helms bounced from straw nesting. Numerous as the sins of the damned, they rolled on in a burst of winnowed chaff, to scatter across the stone floor.

Parrien shied clear, swearing. Bransian’s path toward a lashed stock of spears was rudely disclosed as a nasal hooked on his instep. While the intruder’s dancer-light footsteps pattered back out of range, Mearn brandished his stiletto and pranced to keep his footing amid a glorious, belling clamour of raw noise.

‘Over there,’ Dakar yelled as a shadow crossed his sight. ‘He went right.’

‘What? No honour among spies?’ Nimble as a sailor, Arithon swarmed up the nearest rack to hand. ‘Well, look, what have we here?’ Poised near the ceiling, first his shoulders, then his feet vanished through a crack into gloom.

A spear bit the wood he had clung to. A second shaft cocked back to throw, Bransian skidded to a stop beneath the shelving, braced his stance, and took better aim. A sack of spare fletching ripped above. His cast went wild as a blizzard of feathers frothed down over his head. Spitting sour dust, snagged with small quills like a fox run amok in a goose pen, he roared out a blasphemy, while his airborne lance rapped jagged splinters off a post, and glanced off a hanging cuirass.

Metal screamed on metal, with Parrien forced to dive flat to escape the plunging fall of his brother’s weapon.

Furtive rustles sounded the length of the shelf. The fugitive was moving again. Mearn elected to try climbing, while over the cuirass’s diminished vibration, his brothers traded curses in tandem. Their imprecations were defeated as a banshee shriek creased the air. Arithon had discovered the sheaf of signal arrows. A short recurve bow designed for mounted archers strung and poised in his hand, he watched his first missile silence itself with a vengeful crack a fraction shy of Dakar’s posterior.