Treachery of Kings (28 page)

He couldn't say how long he'd been staring at this incredible sight before he noticed the smell. He supposed it had been there all the while, but he had been so stunned and astonished by the horde of unclad nappers he had failed to notice the scent at all. It was a sweet, heavy scent, somehow familiar, though one he couldn't name.

The sound he had heard, even before the shadowy chamber came in sight, was still very present there. Now, though, as he came aware of the powerful scent, the source of this sound was clear. It was not an errant wind, but the solemn lament of the Gracious Dead, the song they sang for their masters, the royal sleepers of Heldessia Land, the Deeply—or somewhat deeply—Entombed. With the words of the Coldie fresh in his mind, Finn was unsure just what he was watching now. Whatever it was, it was surely an odd, disturbing scene.

On the other hand, it was really quite nice, peaceful and very satisfying. If one could simply rest for a while, breathe the sweet sedation and drift into long and pleasant dreams—

Finn caught himself, suddenly alarmed, and shook himself awake. He recognized that numbing scent before it dragged him under again. It was, for certain, a deadly drug of the East, the dark distillation of the poppy that enslaved men's minds!

This, then, was the source of the haze that hung in the air about these silent forms. It was not the sooty smoke of torches as Finn had perceived. The Gracious Dead kept
those they served in a trance, in a deep and timeless sleep, until it was time to wake them again.

And why did these cowled servants not succumb to the paralyzing fumes themselves? Were they somehow immune to the drug's effects?

A dozen questions whirled about in Finn's head. And, most puzzling of all:
Who was behind all this
? Who was responsible for the feeding, kneading, cleaning and constant care of these royal lunatics?

“Someone knows when to start this flummery, and when to stop… “

He realized, with a start, that he had spoken his thoughts aloud, that he had nearly fallen under the spell of the poisonous stuff again.

He knew he must keep his wits about him, leave, get away from this place at once. A wrong turn had brought him to this damnable chamber, and now he must find another way.

And which way might that be? Finn hadn't the vaguest idea. It could be any turn he'd passed, to the left or to the right, anywhere along the way—

Finn started. Someone moved within the dimly lit room, and he knew at once it was not the slack, lethargic manner of the Gracious Dead. It was a figure who slipped from one vaulted hollow to the next with sure and agile steps, scarcely leaving a shadow on the wall.

He watched, never letting his eyes off this nimble form, who darted from one patch of darkness to the next.

Someone in this dreary place is not napping at all. Someone is extremely lively, very much awake….

Even as the thought touched his mind, the figure stopped, paused in its flight, caught, for an instant, in the light of a flickering torch.

Finn drew a breath of the sweet and noxious air. The figure was a tall and slender beauty, lithe as a willow and
endowed with a haunting, sensuous grace. She was only there for a moment, hardly long enough for a shaft of amber light to brush across her naked flesh.

Long enough for Finn to see another figure reach out and embrace DeFloraine-Marie, and draw her into shadow out of sight. …

F
INN STUMBLED BLINDLY BACK THE WAY HE'D COME
,desperately drawing breaths of clean air, fighting the cobwebs in his head. The raw, heavy scent of the Eastern drug was still with him, and, for a while, he was certain he saw pale aureoles of light, witching globes of fire bobbing in the dark. Then, as his head began to clear, the lights quickly faded away.

That other vision, though, would not go away, and, in truth, he made no effort to erase it from his mind. The image of DeFloraine-Marie had nothing to do with endearment and love, but only of lust and desire. To deny that he could have such feelings would be a pointless lie.

And the other figure there, the one she ran to, who might that be
?

There was no question that she had, indeed, hurried to him and quickly accepted his embrace. He told himself he was merely curious, that it wasn't his concern. Still, he could not deny that he resented her actions, her willing consent. It was not a vision he could quickly forget.

F
INDING THE PROPER PASSAGE SEEMED A NEAR-
hopeless task. The Bullie's directions had long since scrambled in his head. All he could do was guess, sniff the flow of air at each dark entry, and imagine where it led.

“And where did that get me last time? To a roomful of bare-ass royals who imagine they're the sleeping dead.”

Two of the tunnels he felt were most promising came to dead ends. Another led him back the way he'd been.

Tunnel Four…

   Tunnel Five…

    Tunnel Six…

Tunnel Seven was an open sewer, his nose was dead certain of that.

Tunnel Eight smelled fine. It sent a chill of expectation up his spine. It smelled of smoke—it smelled exactly like the torches that lit every palace hall.

In spite of his relief at possibly finding a way, Finn crawled forward with caution, and even paused to listen when he saw the first flicker of light through an opening ahead.

Moving an inch or so at a time, the light grew brighter, and he saw that it came from a narrow slit directly in his path. Directly in his path and—

His heart nearly stopped when the tunnel came abruptly to an end. Taking a calming breath, he peered through the small hole, and knew at once he had stumbled on one of the many small alcoves common to the long granite halls.

And, if the tunnel ends here, at one time or another it was open to the other side…

Bracing one hand on the wall, he bent forward and slid his fingers through the small niche, getting a firm grip lest the barrier give way and fall. Then, he raised his knees to his chin and pushed firmly against the stone.

Nothing.

Not a splinter, not a break, not a crack in the thing. It simply wouldn't give. And, if he pushed too much, if he really struck it hard…

And if you don't, Finn, you'll likely sit here and rot, and what good will that do
?

He shut his eyes, pressed his palms against the wall, and kicked the rocky surface as hard as he could.

It broke, shattered, crumbled into fragments, shards, flying chips of stone. The great report of this event rolled like a clap of thunder down the hall.

Finn was up and out, on his feet and running, before the sound of his action echoed to a stop.

He hadn't the vaguest idea where he was, for the King's decorators had no imagination—every inch of the place looked exactly like the next.

“Letitia, I'll find you, love, I'll get you out of here!”

Proud, courageous words indeed. Just how did he intend to do that?

Once more he wished for Julia's uncanny sense of direction, instead of his own, which was feeble at best. How could a man create such a marvel and be such a stumble-foot himself?

Yet, it was often true that a craftsman's work outshone the craftsman himself. Finn knew a builder of ships, one Karpus Keel, who was terrified of the sea. Even a tub of water would make the fellow retch…

Finn stopped, numbed, taken a'fright by the sound that reached his ears.
Boot steps!
There could be no question of that. Two, three, and maybe more. Plenty, whatever the number, more than enough to run him down. Closer, and coming at a faster pace as well.

Reason this out. Panic is your greatest enemy, Finn. You can tell which way they're coming by the way sound bounces off the floor, off the polished stone walls.

Three bounces, one on the heels of the next. Divide by two, carry your four…

Taking a deep and heady breath, he darted to the left, took the next turn to the right. His pursuers were still behind him, but not much closer than before. Somewhere there'd be a door. Wherever it went, it would get him out of the hall. Nothing offered more peril than these
damnable corridors. Take each problem as it comes. Some clever soul had said that.

Finn almost ran them down.

Badgies, four of them, mean-eyed fellows in green cloaks and mail. They weren't surprised to see him at all. They had heard him coming and had their swords drawn.

Now how could this be? He could still hear heavy boots pounding down the hall.

“Not my fault, really,” he said aloud. “I couldn't hear this bunch, the fellows were standing still.”

One of the Badgies, the broadest, hairiest of the lot, almost grinned, which was not a Badgie thing to do at all.

“If I don't get me a day off for this, I'll eat my socks and my shorties as well!”

“At least,” Finn said, too weary, too wretched to even be scared, “I won't have to watch that. …”

H
E COULDN'T SEE HER, BUT HE HEARD HER CRY
out, heard the tremor, the fear in her voice, but he also heard the bold tenor of defiance, and he was proud of her for that.

“I'm all right,” he shouted, his words nearly muffled in the thick, odorous sacking his captors had bound ‘round his head. “I'm fine, I'm right here, my love!”

Not too reassuring, but the best I can do for now….

The Badgies tossed him roughly to the floor. He tried to duck his head between his shoulders, protect himself from the fall. The brutes would have none of that—one tripped him up, while another buried a fist in Finn's gut. He went down hard, gasping against the pain. A soldier kicked him savagely in the head. Another sat on his back while his comrade straddled Finn's legs.

They were quick and thorough, and clearly enjoyed their work. His arms and legs tightly bound, they lifted him roughly and slammed him down on a stool. A noose was looped about his neck, the free end tied to some object in the wall.

No one had to explain this arrangement to Finn. If he moved his head forward or side to side, he'd quickly choke himself. If he struggled and upset the stool, he would strangle quicker still.

Someone jerked the sacking off his head. The Badgie
who'd pledged to eat his socks studied Finn for a moment, then turned and followed his comrades out the door. “Finn…
Finn!”

His heart nearly stopped at the sight, for she was bound to a stool across the room, in much the same manner as he himself.

“If they've harmed you in any way, by damn they'll answer for it,” he said, “and they'll get no mercy from me!”

“No one has hurt me, Finn, no more than you can see. I suppose they will, though, for I've not been shown any kindness since they brought me here. I don't expect much from those who'd treat a being like this.”

“Who was it, who did this?” he asked, though he was near certain that he knew.

“The same bunch that brought you here, I think, though they all dress the same. Maddigern, though, he was the only one I knew.”

“Obern Oberbyght. Was he here as well, or only Maddigern?”

“I don't know any person with a name like that. Who's he?”

“Sorry, I forget. You don't know him, and that's no regret.”

Though he tried not to show it, Finn was greatly alarmed by Letitia's appearance, by her sad demeanor. While Maddigern hadn't done her bodily harm, he had clearly broken her spirit, left her too weary, too shorn of all feeling to even be frightened anymore. The luster was gone from her eyes, the dark, iridescent Mycer eyes that brought Finn a love of living he had never known before.

“Don't, Finn, please,” she said, with the weary shadow of a smile. “I can guess your thoughts as clearly as if they were printed in a book. You're bursting with anger, and that will do us no good at all.”

“A chance will show itself, Letitia. And when it does,
anger may well prove a most effective weapon to set us free, for surely—