Theft Of Swords: The Riyria Revelations (64 page)

“Use your instincts. You opened the door to my prison and it had no latch either.”

“I was lucky.”

“You might be lucky again. Try.”

Royce shrugged. He stepped forward and placed his hands lightly on the stone, letting his fingertips drift across the surface, searching by feel for what his eyes might not be able to see.

“This is a waste of time,” Magnus said. “This is clearly a very powerful lock and without the key there is no way to open it. I know these things. I’ve
made
these things. They are designed to prevent thieves like him from entering.”

“Ah,” Esrahaddon said to the dwarf, “but you underestimate Royce. He is no ordinary lock picker. I sensed it the moment I first saw him. I know he can open it.” The wizard turned to Royce, who was quickly showing signs of exasperation. “Stop
trying
to open it and just open it. Don’t think about it. Just do it.”

“Do what?” he asked, irritated. “If I knew how, don’t you think I would have opened it by now?”

“That’s just it; don’t think. Stop being a thief. Just open the door.”

Royce glared at the wizard. “Fine,” he said as he pushed his palm against the stone wall and pulled it back with a look of shock on his face.

Esrahaddon’s expression was one of sheer delight. “I knew it,” the wizard said.

“Knew what? What happened?” Hadrian asked.

“I just pushed.” Royce laughed at the absurdity.

“And?”

“What do you mean,
and
?” Royce asked, pointing at the solid wall.

“And what happened? Why are you smiling?” Hadrian studied the wall for something he missed, a tiny crack, a little latch, a keyhole, but he saw nothing. It was the same as it had always been.

“It opened,” Royce said.

Hadrian and the dwarf looked at Royce, puzzled. “What are you talking about?”

Royce looked back over his shoulder as if that would make everything clear. “Are you both blind? The door is standing wide open. You can see there’s a corridor that—”

“They can’t see it,” the wizard interrupted.

Royce looked from the wizard to Hadrian. “You can’t see that the door is standing open now? You can’t see this huge, three-story double door?”

Hadrian shook his head. “It looks just like it always has.”

Magnus nodded his agreement.

“They can’t see it because they can’t enter,” the wizard explained. Hadrian watched Royce look up, following the wizard’s glance, and Royce’s eyes widened.

“What?” Hadrian asked.

“Elven magic. Designed to prevent enemies from passing through these walls. All they see, and all they will encounter, is solid stone. The portal is closed to them.”

“You can see it?” Royce asked Esrahaddon.

“Oh yes, quite plainly.”

“So why is it we can see it and they can’t?”

“I already told you, it is magic to stop enemies from entering. As it happens, I was invited into this tower nine hundred years ago. It was abandoned immediately after my visit, so I am guessing there was no one to revoke that permission.” He looked back at what Hadrian still saw as solid stone. “I don’t think I could have opened it, though, even if I had hands. That’s why I needed you.”

“Me?” Royce said; then a sudden shocked realization filled his expression and he glared at the wizard before him. “So you knew?”

“I wouldn’t be much of a wizard if I didn’t, now would I?”

Royce looked self-consciously at his own feet, then slowly turned to look cautiously at Hadrian, who only smiled. “You knew too?”

Hadrian frowned. “Did you really think I could work with you all these years and not figure it out? It is a little obvious, you know.”

“You never said anything.”

“I figured you didn’t want to talk about it. You guard your past jealously, pal, and you have many doors on which I don’t knock. Honestly, there were times I wondered if you knew.”

“Knew what? What’s going on?” Magnus demanded.

“None of your business,” Hadrian told the dwarf, “but it does leave us with a parting of the ways, doesn’t it? We can’t come in, and I can tell you I am not fond of sitting here on the doorstep waiting for the flying lizard to come home.”

“You should go back,” Esrahaddon told them. “Royce and I can go on from here alone.”

“How long will this take?” Hadrian asked.

“Several hours, a day perhaps,” the wizard replied.

“I had hoped to be gone before it returned,” Royce said.

“Not possible. Besides, this shouldn’t be a problem for you,
of all people. I am certain you have stolen from occupied homes before.”

“Not ones where the owner can swallow me in a single bite.”

“So we’ll have to be extra quiet now, won’t we?”

I
thought last night went well,” Bishop Saldur stated, slicing himself a wedge of breakfast cheese. He sat at the banquet table in the great hall of the manor along with Archbishop Galien, Sentinel Luis Guy, and Lord Rufus. The lofty cathedral ceiling of bound logs did little to elevate the dark, oppressive atmosphere caused by the lack of natural light. The entire manor had few windows and made Saldur feel as if he were crouching in an animal’s den, some woodchuck’s burrow or beaver’s lodge. The thought that this miserable hovel would see the birth of the New Empire was a disappointment, but he was a pragmatic man. The method was irrelevant. All that mattered was the final solution. Either it worked or it did not—this was the only measure of value. Aesthetics could be added later.

Right now they needed to establish the empire. Mankind had drifted too long without a rudder. A firm hand was what the world needed, a solid grip on the wheel with a keen set of eyes that could see into the future and direct the vessel into clear, tranquil waters. Saldur envisioned a world of peace through prosperity, and security through strength. The feudal system so prevalent across the four nations held them back,
chaining the kingdoms to a poverty of weakness and divided interests. What they needed was a centralized government with an enlightened ruler and a talented, educated bureaucracy overseeing every aspect of life. It was impossible to imagine the many goals that could be accomplished with the entire strength of mankind under one yoke. They could revolutionize farming, its fruits distributed evenly at a price that even the poorest could afford, vanquishing hunger. Laws could be standardized, eliminating arbitrary punishment by vindictive tyrants. Knowledge from the corners of the land could be gathered into a single repository where great minds could learn and develop new ideas, new techniques. They could improve transportation with standardized roads and they could clear the stench of cities with standardized sewage systems. If all this had to begin here in this little wood hut on the edge of the world, it was a small price to pay. “How many died?” he asked.

The archbishop shrugged and Rufus did not bother looking up from his plate.

“Five contestants were killed by the beast last night.” Luis Guy answered his question as he plucked a muffin off the table with the point of his dagger.

The Knight of Nyphron continued to impress Saldur. He was a sword manifested in the form of a man—sharp, pointed, cutting, and just as elegant in appearance. He always stood straight, shoulders back, chin up, eyes focused directly on his target, his face a hard chiseled mask of contention, daring, almost begging for a confrontation from anyone fool enough to challenge him. Even after days in the wilderness, not a thread lay out of place. He was a paragon of the church, the embodiment of the ideal.

“Only five?”

“After the fifth was ripped in two, few were eager to step forward, and while they hesitated, the beast flew off.”

“Do you think five deaths are sufficient to prove the beast is invincible?” Galien asked, looking at all of them.

“No, but we may have no choice. After last night, I’m not certain any more will volunteer,” Guy replied. “The previously witnessed enthusiasm for the hunt has waned.”

“And will you be ready, Lord Rufus? If no one else steps forward?” the archbishop asked, turning to the rough warrior seated at the end of the table.

Lord Rufus looked up. He was taking full advantage of the meal, chewing on a mutton leg that slicked his unruly beard with grease. His eyes stared at them from beneath the heavy hedges of his bushy red eyebrows. He spit a bit of bone out. “That depends,” he said. “This sword the dwarf made, can it cut the beastie’s hide?”

“We had our scribes check the dwarf’s work against the ancient records,” Saldur replied. “They match perfectly with the markings recorded on previous weapons that were capable of killing beasts of this kind.”

“If it can cut it, I’ll kill it.” Rufus grinned a greasy smile. “Just be ready to crown me emperor.” He bit into the leg again and ripped a large hunk of dark meat off, filling his mouth.

Saldur could hardly believe the Patriarch had chosen this oaf to be the emperor. If Guy was a sword, Rufus was a mallet, a blunt instrument of dull labor. Being a native of Trent, he would ensure the loyalty of the unruly northern kingdoms that most likely could not be gained any other way. That would easily double their strength going in. There was also his popularity, which extended down through Avryn and Calis. This reduced the number of protests against him. The fact that he was a renowned warrior would certainly help him in his first obstacles of killing the Gilarabrywn and crushing any opposition offered by the Nationalists. The problem, as Saldur saw it, was that Rufus, a rough, unreasonable dolt, had
not only the heart of a warrior, but the mind as well. His answer to every problem was beating it to death. It would be hard to control him, but it made little sense to worry about the headaches of administrating an empire before one even existed. They needed to create it first and worry about the quality of the emperor later. If Rufus became a problem, they could merely ensure that once he had a son, and once that son was safe in their custody, Rufus could meet an untimely end.

“Well then,” Galien said. “It would seem everything is in hand.”

“Is that all you called me here for?” Guy asked with a tone of irritation.

“No,” Galien replied, “I received some unexpected news this morning and I thought you might like to hear of it, Luis, as I suspect it will interest you very much. Carlton, will you ask the deacon Tomas to come in?”

Galien’s steward, Carlton, who was busy pouring watered-down wine, promptly left the table and opened the door to the hallway. “His Grace will see you now.”

In walked a plump, pudgy man in a priest’s frock. “Luis Guy, Lord Rufus, let me introduce Deacon Tomas of Dahlgren Village. Tomas, this is Lord Rufus, Sentinel Guy, and you already know Bishop Saldur, of course.”

Tomas nodded with a nervous smile.

“What’s this all about?” Guy asked as if Tomas was not there.

“Go ahead, Tomas, tell the sentinel what you told me.”

The deacon shifted his feet and avoided eye contact with anyone in the room. When he spoke, his voice was so soft they strained to hear him. “I was just mentioning to His Grace how I had stepped up and handled things here in the absence of the margrave. It has been hard times in this village, hard indeed, but I tried my best to keep the great house in order. It wasn’t
my idea that they should invade the place, I tried to stop them, but I am only one man, you see. It was impossible—”

“Yes, yes, tell him about the cripple,” the archbishop put in.

“Oh, certainly. Ah yes, Esra came to live here, I don’t know, about a month ago, he—”

“Esra?” Guy said, and glanced abruptly at the archbishop and Saldur, who both smiled knowingly at him.

“Yes,” Deacon Tomas replied. “That’s his name. He never said too much, but the villagers are a good lot and they took turns feeding him, as the poor man was in dire straits missing both hands as he is.”

“Esrahaddon!” Guy hissed. “Where is the snake?”

The sudden violent reaction of the sentinel shocked Tomas, who took a step back.

“Ah, well, I don’t know, he comes and goes, although I remember he was around the village a lot more before the two strangers arrived.”

“Strangers?” Guy asked.

“Friends of the Wood family, I think. At least, they arrived with Thrace and spend a lot of time with her and her father. Since they got here, Esra spends most of his days off with the quiet one—Royce, I think they call him.”

“Royce Melborn and Hadrian Blackwater, the two thieves that broke the wizard out of Gutaria, and Esrahaddon are all here in this village?” Saldur and Galien nodded at Luis.

“Very curious, isn’t it?” the archbishop commented. “Perhaps we focused on the wrong hound when we approached Arista. It looks as if the old wizard has put his trust in the two thieves instead. The real question is, why would they all be here? It can’t be coincidence that he turns up in this little backwater village at the precise moment when the emperor is about to be crowned.”

“He couldn’t know our plans,” Guy told him.

“He
is
a wizard; they are good at discovering things. Regardless, you might want to see if you can determine what he’s up to.”

“Remember to keep your distance,” Saldur added. “We don’t want to tree this fox until we know he’s led us to his den.”

Hadrian folded the blanket twice in length, then rolled it tight, buckling the resulting cloth log with two leather straps. He had all the gear left to them on the ground in neat piles. They still had all their camping gear, food, and feed. Royce had his saddle, bridle, and bags, but Hadrian had lost his tack along with his weapons when Millie had disappeared. It would be impossible to ride double and haul the gear. They would have to load Mouse up with everything and walk the trip home.

“There you are.”

Hadrian looked up to see Theron striding from the direction of the Bothwicks’, heading for the well with an empty bucket in his hand.

“We didn’t see you around last night. Was worried something happened to you.”

“Looks like everyone had a lucky night,” Hadrian said.

“Everyone in the village—yeah. But I don’t think them fellas up at the castle did so well. We heard a lot of shouting and screaming and they ain’t celebrating this morning. My guess is their plan to kill the beast didn’t go as hoped.” The farmer scanned the piles. “Packing, eh? So you’re leaving too?”

“I don’t see why not. There’s nothing keeping us here anymore. How’s Thrace?”

“Doing well, rubbing elbows with the nobility, she tells me. She’s walking around just fine; the headaches are mostly gone. We’ll be on our way tomorrow morning, I expect.”

“Good to hear it,” Hadrian said.

“Who’s your friend?” Theron motioned to the dwarf seated a few feet away in the shade of a poplar tree.

“Oh yeah. Theron, meet Magnus. He’s not so much a friend as an associate.” He thought about that and added, “Actually, he’s more like an enemy I’m keeping an eye on.”

Theron nodded, but with a puzzled look, and the dwarf grumbled something neither caught.

“What about my lesson?” Theron asked.

“Are you kidding? I don’t really see the point in a lesson if you’re both leaving tomorrow.”

“You have something else to do? Besides, the road is a dangerous place and it wouldn’t hurt to know a few more tricks, or is this your way of saying you want money now?”

“No.” Hadrian waved his hand at the farmer. “Grab the sticks.”

By noon, the sun was hot and Hadrian had worked up a sweat sparring with Theron, who was showing real improvement. Magnus sat on an overturned well bucket, watching the two with interest. Hadrian explained proper form, how to obtain penetrating thrusts and grips, which was hard using only rake handles.

“If you hold the sword with both hands, you lose versatility and reach, but you gain tremendous power. A good fighter knows when to switch from two hands to one and vice versa. If you are defending against someone with longer reach, you’d better be using one hand, but if you need to drive your sword deep through heavy armor—assuming you aren’t holding a shield in your off hand—grip the pommel with both palms and thrust. Remember to yell as you do, like I taught you before. Then drive home the blow using all your power. A solid breastplate won’t stop a sword thrust. They aren’t designed to. Armor prevents a swing or a slice, and can deflect the point of a thrust; that’s why
professional fighters wear smooth, unadorned armor. You always see these princes and dukes with all their fancy gilded breastplates and light thin metal heavily engraved—it’s like walking around in a death trap. Of course, they don’t really fight. They have knights do that for them. They just walk around and look pretty. So the idea is when you thrust, you aim for a crease, groove, or seam in the armor, something that will catch and hold the tip. The armpits are excellent targets, or up under the nose guard. Drive a four-foot sword up under a nose guard and you don’t have to worry much about a counterattack.”