The Element of Fire, Martha Wells [books for new readers .txt] 📗

main gauche. It dropped and he saw that Aviler had gotten it from behind with their late guard’s dagger. It struggled wildly on the steps, its claws scrabbling on the wood, a random swipe of one long arm sending Thomas staggering back into the wall. Then it froze into immobility.

They stared at one another, breathing hard, then Aviler wiped the blood from the scratches on his forehead. He said softly, “That was rather a noisy episode. Do you think anyone heard?”

After listening for a moment, Thomas shook his head. “No, they’d be hacking through the wall by now.” He leaned back against the stone, considering their options. They would have to make for one of the rooms along the outside wall. And they could go no lower than this floor: the levels below had no windows. And what was Kade doing now? That she was planning something he had no doubt. Fortunately Grandier would have as little chance to guess what it was as he had. Kade made her strategy on the run, which was poor planning in a chess game, but in real life tended to make opponents waste time bumbling around wondering what in hell she was thinking. The only problem was her inclination to the dramatic. Would Grandier consider that?

He looked up to find Aviler watching him narrowly. At his look of inquiry Aviler said, “You haven’t yet pointed out that I was wrong about Denzil and you were right.”

Thomas said dryly, “I thought the consequences so obvious that calling further attention to it was unnecessary.”

Aviler snorted and shook his head. “Even though you’ve saved my life, I can’t seem to bring myself to like you.”

“That’s probably just as well.” Thomas was thinking of ways to rooms with outside windows, and that the nearest could only be reached by using this wall passage to travel directly through the part of the palace Denzil had made his stronghold. And why not? They won’t be searching for us there. And there’s less chance of running into more fay. There was also another possibility in that direction to be explored. “Did you know about the spyhole near the third-floor council chambers?”

Aviler’s eyes widened. “No, I did not.”

“Denzil doesn’t either. When Dontane took me to those chambers, they had their maps laid out, so it must be where they plan their troop movements at the very least.”

He could tell the notion appealed to Aviler. “You think it would be worth it, for what we might hear?”

“Perhaps not, but it is on our way.”

*

There were voices coming from the direction of the faint glow of light. “Why you?”

It’s my plan, Thomas started to say. Instead, he put a properly sardonic note in his voice and said, “Another noble impulse? You’re the only one who has a chance of convincing Roland of any of this; don’t you consider that a little more important than your pride?”

They were crouching in the narrow darkened wall passage, beside a gap in the baseboard just large enough for an agile spy. But someone had been through this servants’ passage at some point strewing the floor with iron filings, so they couldn’t afford to waste time here. The hole in the baseboard had an extra helping of iron sprinkled around it, but there was no sign that its real purpose had been discovered.

Aviler glared, and gestured reluctantly. “All right, damn you.” As Thomas bent to scramble under the lintel, Aviler added, “Eventually that little tactic is going to fail, then what will you do?”

Thomas grinned to himself. “Hit you over the head.”

From inside the cramped spyhole, he could see the gap carefully cut into the planks below the wall, leading into a narrow crawl space below the first council room. They were there, right enough. He recognized Dontane’s voice, but it was impossible to distinguish individual words. He would have to try to get over to the next room.

The crawl space was perhaps two feet high, the bottom made of planks supported by the thick wooden rafters of the room below, lit by soft candlelight finding its way through the cracks in the floorboards above. On the far side, where the wall of the second council room had been erected, another hole had been torn in the baseboards, allowing access to the crawl space below the next room. That was where the voices were coming from. Well, it would be, Thomas thought. He sat back, pulling off and laying aside the baldric and rapier, which would be far more trouble than it was worth in the narrow space. He hesitated over the main gauche, which would be equally unhandy at his back where it could catch on things or in the front of his sash poking him determinedly in the stomach. He settled for wedging it down into his boot, though he knew if he encountered anything more hostile than a rat, he was a dead man.

He worked his way slowly across the crawl space, trying to keep from choking on the dust, gasping in pain when his bruised ribs encountered the sharp corners of a rafter.

About halfway across, something sharp bit through the leather of his glove and he jerked his hand back. It was only a nail loose on the planks. Then he took a closer look and saw the boards of the crawl space were sprinkled with them. They must have fallen down through the cracks from above. Denzil did not trust his fay allies at all.

Thomas edged closer to the gap. The voices were distinctly louder here. And louder. Damn them, he thought; they’re coming in here. There was no time to move as a door squeaked open nearly overhead. He froze as heavy footsteps sounded on the floorboards of the room above and Denzil’s voice said, “God, you’re such a fool.”

“I didn’t have to tell you,” Dontane replied, his tone surly.

You prick, you’ve been so splendidly stupid, why did you have to ruin it by thinking? Thomas had counted on Dontane being fool enough to try to hide their escape from Denzil as well as from Grandier.

“You did if you wanted to live. You idiot, I would have gotten rid of him in time.” Footsteps paced overhead, a long winter cloak brushed the floor. Thomas winced as Denzil came to stand by a dark area that must be a cabinet or other large piece of furniture, the Duke’s boots almost directly over his hiding place. He was cramped and his shoulders were aching, but he dared not shift his position.

“They can’t escape,” Dontane protested.

“Of course they can. Boniface knows the palace very well; he’s been spying on everyone in it for years.”

“I’m not a fool, damn you, I was—”

“It doesn’t matter, not at this point.” There was a hesitation, then Denzil asked softly, “What position do you want when I take the throne? Court Sorcerer?”

Ah. I should have known Denzil would contrive to sell everyone to everyone else, Thomas thought. He’s lured Dontane away from Grandier, that was why our mercenary friend was so afraid.

“Will the nobles accept me?” Dontane spoke slowly, diverted by visions of the future.

“They will if I order it.”

They might at that. Anything to keep Denzil away from home and family.

The door opened again, and a young man’s voice, shy with hero worship said, “My lord, there’s a message.”

“Thank you.” Denzil’s voice warmed, probably out of habit. He would keep no one close to him who was not his absolute slave. How it must gall him that Grandier remained his own man. Dontane had probably been an easy conquest.

Paper crackled, then with a smile in his voice, Denzil said, “Villon has reached Bel Garde.”

Thomas caught his breath.

“No.” Dontane sounded horror-stricken. “The cavalry—”

“The siege engine cavalry,” Denzil corrected gently.

“How could he get here so quickly?”

“If the messages went to the Granges yesterday, if Villon left his Train of Ordnance behind and traveled through the night, it could be done easily.”

“Without Grandier’s help I couldn’t possibly hold him off.”

“Yes, if Evadne hadn’t failed I’d have Roland by now.” Denzil was silent for a moment, possibly calculating the time as Thomas was. It would have been impossible to conceal the cavalry’s movement up the plain to Bel Garde; they would have been spotted easily from the city wall. But it would have taken time to send the message through the dangerous snow-choked streets. And Villon was a cautious general, preferring maneuver and siegecraft to pitched battle. He had taken Bel Garde as a base from which to stage his attack.

Denzil said, “It’s unfortunate. If I can’t keep Bisra from attacking us in what they will perceive as our weakness, Lord General Villon would be useful. But he won’t deal with me. I hope he has more amenable officers. You’ll have to send the Host against him.”

“Grandier won’t allow it. He’s counting on Villon to help lead the attack against Bisra.”

“And counting on me to convince Villon to support my claim to the throne. But I can’t… I won’t do that. He is an old friend of Ravenna’s, you see.”

Denzil was not going to allow a war with Bisra. He wouldn’t want a kingdom locked in struggle, war torn and poor. And he really didn’t need a war to put him on the throne; he only needed the threat of it. He’s going to hold Bisra off somehow. If he can. If he gets past Grandier, Thomas thought.

“I want you to speak to your friends in the Host and persuade them to attack Villon tonight,” Denzil said.

“I’ll go now, but—”

“Don’t go now; wait until dusk. I don’t want Grandier to learn of it. We can scarcely ask him to arrange the cloud cover for us, so they will have to wait until dark anyway.” Footsteps crossed the floor to pause near Dontane. “Take care. Everything depends on you.”

Does it? Thomas thought. Does it really?

He heard them move toward the door. As soon as it closed he rolled away from his painful position over the rafter and began to work his way back toward the hole in the baseboard, half-formed plans turning in his head. He had almost reached it when there was the thump of a chair pushed aside, hurried steps crossed the floor, and the door banged open.

Thomas swore and scrambled through the opening into the spyhole. Dontane and Denzil had departed, but he had never heard the messenger boy leave. He grabbed up his sword and baldric and ducked under the lintel back into the passage.

“Well?” Aviler demanded.

“Move. Someone heard me.”

They made their way through the twists and turns of the passage and up a narrow flight of rickety stairs. “Villon’s reached Bel Garde,” Thomas said.

“Thank God. The court got through.”

“It’s not over yet. Denzil’s sending the Host against him tonight—despite Grandier’s orders to the contrary. Villon will have to be warned.”

They came to a door with a thin line of chill daylight leaking under it. Thomas listened at it, then carefully prized it open. The room outside was a long formal dining room lit by slanting gray morning sunlight from tall windows opening onto a portico. It was undisturbed except for a little snow that had blown in through a window left carelessly open; the scene had the strange still quality of a painting.

Thomas crossed the room and opened the window further, stepping out onto the portico. The tiled floor was heavily laden with ice, and he held carefully to the light railing and looked out on a view of the garden courts and the siege wall, the bastion rising up beyond. To the north was the open