Midnight Quest (3 page)

They changed roofs several times, leaping and climbing as needed. Rialt went up and down with no apparent effort, which amazed Sarvell considering how big the man was. He moved as if he were half-cat. Sarvell scrambled just to keep up with him, getting a bit winded in the process, if he were honest with himself.

They shadowed the guard for several moments, waiting for him to turn the corner into a more deserted area. Sarvell started to think they were doomed to shadow the man all the way to the castle when he finally turned into a deserted street.

It was one of the older, more distinct neighborhoods, so the street lamps were lit. They would have to time this carefully, catching him when he passed through one of the shadier areas on the sidewalk. Both men went two houses ahead, moving cautiously in an effort to muffle their footsteps.

They found the perfect place to ambush the guardsman. The light was dimmer here, with a narrow alley between both houses that would give them a place to retreat. Sarvell sank into a low crouch and murmured to his companion, “Do you want to snag him, or should I?”

“I will do it.”

He hadn’t expected a different answer.

Taut moments slipped past in silence as they watched their quarry walk unknowingly toward them. He was indeed very close to Sarvell’s size, and even similar in coloring with his sandy blond hair and tanned skin. The Goddess was indeed smiling at them.

He passed through the circle of lamplight. Sarvell counted it down in his head,
five more steps, four, three, two—

Rialt dropped from the roof’s ledge, the edges of his coat flapping up a bit as he sliced downward. His feet hadn’t even properly touched the ground when he clamped a hand around the startled guardsman’s mouth, wrapped a restraining arm around his chest, and hauled him into the alley. It had all been so smoothly done the guard didn’t look like he knew what had hit him.

Sarvell dropped quickly down after them, following Rialt as he dragged the man several feet into the alley. He was relieved at this sign of expert prowess. The Ramath Clan was known to be excellent fighters—some people claimed they never had toys as children, just daggers and shields—but rumors weren’t always accurate. He’d doubted that the goddess would send anyone on such a dangerous mission that didn’t have excellent fighting skills, either. Sarvell just didn’t like diving into high risk situations with people he barely knew.

The guardsman jerked in delayed reaction, eyes wide with sheer panic.

“Now, now,” Sarvell murmured to him soothingly, “no need to panic. We’re not here to kill you. We just need some information and your uniform.”

“I be no as nice,” Rialt rumbled in warning near the man’s ear. “You try to alert anyone, and I be breaking your fool neck.”

Judging from the nervous swallow, the man believed the Ramathan would do just that.

Rialt slowly took his hand away, allowing the guardsman to speak. The man kept wisely silent, eyes darting between both men.

“First,” Sarvell asked calmly, “your name.”

“Adair. Ihan Adair.”

Just a first rank man, eh? Sarvell hadn’t expected differently since the man was slotted for night patrols. “Who is your supervisor?”

“Nihan Stamons.”

“Is he on duty tonight?”

“Yes.”

Sarvell kept asking him questions as Rialt methodically stripped the man of his coat, pants, and shirt. By the time that Sarvell had put the full uniform on over his own clothes, he knew the names and basic descriptions of every man on duty tonight that he was likely to meet. He also knew the basic layout of the castle and where he could likely find the priestess.

The only problem with this whole plan was that the pants were a good inch too long. Well, hopefully it wouldn’t be noticed this late at night. Sarvell looked at Rialt, brow cocked in question. He couldn’t think of anything else they needed to know.

“Are there any usual troublemakers in this city that get hauled to the castle?”

“Just a few drunks from the downtown taverns,” the guard responded, uncomfortable now that he wore just his long drawers and undershirt in the chill night air. “They normally are gathered up and taken to the holding cells at Belthain about midnight.”

Midnight was only a few hours off.

Sarvell thought the implications through. It would be easier to bring in a “prisoner” along with a group instead of alone. He’d get more questions if they came in alone. Even just the usual drunks being hauled in would do. “If I wanted to get a small cart and horse to haul a prisoner in, where would I get one?”

It wasn’t just being in his underwear and at the mercy of a Ramathan that made the man uneasy. He could tell, from the questions being asked, that something serious was being planned. Haltingly, he described a stable near the castle that the guards used.

Rialt, apparently satisfied that they had enough information, cold-clocked the man in the jaw. He crumpled to the ground with only a short moan of pain, slumping to rest in a haphazard sprawl against the bricks.

“Why the cart?” Rialt inquired.

“If I had to haul in a Ramathan, by myself, I’d want him safely behind thick iron bars. I certainly wouldn’t try to march him in,” Sarvell explained with a slight shrug. “And these men are more cautious than I.”

“Hm. Good point.” Rialt drew the cloak’s hood up over his face, trying to hide his distinctive features a bit better. “Then let us go snag a cart.”

~*~*~*~

They waited in the shadows, crouched at the bottom of the main thoroughfare, staying out of sight until the town drunks made an appearance. Sarvell used the time to carefully study what he could see of the castle. Belthain rested on top of the largest hill in the area, with only one main road leading up to it. The structure itself had been built with a dark grey stone, giving it an even more formidable look. Around the castle on every other side were large boulders of every possible shape, forming a rocky barrier. Only the truly desperate would try to scale the hill from that direction.

All along the tops of the castle walls there were men walking in patrols, scanning for possible threats. There were two towers by the front gate, giving an even better vantage for a watch.

“Well guarded,” Rialt observed calmly. He sat cross-legged in his iron cage, iron cuffs on his wrists that were carefully set to where he could shake them off in a moment if he needed to.

“Very well guarded,” Sarvell agreed. The quiet of the night wrapped around them. With a wooden bench under him, reins in his hands, and the smell of leather and horse in his nose, Sarvell felt strangely comfortable. He’d been in this position many times in his life, and it was so familiar that despite the circumstances, he found himself at ease. He kept his eyes trained on the castle, tracking people as much out of habit as anything. It didn’t keep his mind from clicking away on a different matter. “Did Elahandra say anything to you about why the priestess was locked away?”

“No.”

That was not very enlightening. Sarvell darted a look at him. Rialt sat nearly hunched in on himself in order to fit inside the short, narrow confines of the cage. Far from making him look defeated, the position instead conveyed irritation. Actually, Rialt had acted like a man faced with an unpleasant duty since the moment they had met. Sarvell gathered the impression that the Ramathan had been dragged kicking and screaming into this, and was very unhappy about the whole situation.

There was nothing that Sarvell could do about the other man’s attitude. Rialt had still done everything necessary without complaint. It was clear he had a professional enough attitude to not let his personal opinion interfere with the mission at hand. As long as it stayed that way, Sarvell decided he wouldn’t say anything to the man.

“I hear our drunks.” Rialt inclined his head toward the main road.

It took a few moments—Rialt’s hearing was apparently better than his—before he heard it, too. The sound of drunken demands too slurred to make out, yells, cries and exasperated orders from the guards to shut up. Yes, that would be their drunks, right on time.

Sarvell snapped the reins against the gelding’s back, urging the horse into motion, which he did with a tired huff. They moved placidly along the side street, coming up behind the cart holding the drunks and lingering a good ten paces back.

They clopped along, the drunks getting louder and more insulting the closer they got to the castle. Some of the insults were rather creative. Sarvell, despite his nerves, found himself smiling at some of the wittier expletives.

It took nearly a quarter of an hour to ride up to the main gate. There were two guards standing on either side of the portcullis, spears in hand, bored expression on their faces. They gave only a cursory glance to the drunks, a slightly more curious look at the Ramathan “prisoner” as they passed them, but made no challenge. Sarvell heaved a covert sigh of relief as they passed the outer walls.

Belthain Castle’s inner courtyard was very similar in design to his home clan’s castle, so it held no surprises. Fortunately. There was the usual guards’ barracks on one side, holding cells for prisoners on the other, as well as a single well, stable and smithy crowded in. A clear courtyard stood in the center with the main doors to the castle beyond that. They gathered quick glances from the guards, but most were focused on the drunks as they were unloaded. With their sodden heads and uncoordinated limbs, the drunks were tripping over everyone and everything, calling out blandishments as they did. It was quite the show. Sarvell couldn’t have asked for a better diversion.

He pulled the cart around to the far side of the holding cells, near the stables, and hopped lightly off the seat and to the ground. As he came around, an officer frowned and started for them. “You there! What’s this?”

“Nihan Manalo, sir, Third Division,” Sarvell lied glibly. “We caught this Ramathan out on the edge of the city, skulking about. He wouldn’t state his purpose and put up a bit of a fight when we tried to press him. Sahan Stanger said I was to put him in the dungeons for holding until we can figure it out.”

The officer gave Rialt a thorough look. He played his part beautifully, hunching around his stomach as if he were coddling injured ribs, glaring through sullen eyes. They’d taken the time to muss up his hair and clothes earlier, making it look like he’d been taken in a fight, so on first inspection the story looked plausible. “Shouldn’t we just put him in one of the holding cells?”

“Only if you want to take responsibility for it when he breaks out later, sir,” Sarvell stated neutrally. It was exactly the tone someone would use when their superior officer had just made a stupid suggestion.

A brief expression of panic crossed his face. “There’s room in the dungeons for him. Tell Nihan Bos that I authorized it.”

Sarvell put his fist against his chest in sharp salute. “Yes, sir.”

Still a little uneasy, the officer turned on his heel and went back to dealing with the drunks. Sarvell waited until he was gone to undo the “locked” cage door and pull Rialt out of it. They kept up the act of being “guard” and “prisoner” as they made their way across the courtyard and to the side entrance that would lead down into the dungeons.

At this time of night, the narrow stairs leading down were deserted. Two men abreast could make their way down, barely, which made the area a little claustrophobic. With each step down, the air grew colder, with that distinct smell of dampness and mold that all dungeons had.

“You play the part of guard quite well,” Rialt muttered to him, voice pitched to where it was barely louder than their footsteps. “Did you learn how during one of your ‘scrapes?’”

“It’s a long story,” Sarvell responded quietly. “I’ll tell you all about it some other time.”

They reached the bottom.

The stairs branched out into an open area that doubled as a processing station for prisoners and a break room for the guards. Only one guard was there at this point, sitting behind a desk mounded over with paper, reports, and several empty mugs. The guard looked as if he were one step away from falling asleep right there in his chair. He became more alert at their entrance, and sat up completely when he spied Rialt.

“Nihan Bos?” Sarvell asked, as if he already half-knew the answer. “I’m Nihan Manalo, Third Division. The watch officer has authorized that this Ramathan be placed down here for holding.”

Bos shifted a stack of papers, pulled out a new sheet, and scribbled the names and time down on it. “Understood, Nihan. Place him in Cell 16.”

“Yes, sir.” Sarvell put a hand on Rialt’s shoulder and pushed him forward.

Rialt made a show of turning to glare at him while reluctantly moving.

They went through the first set of iron doors, passing out of sight of Bos. From the quick sketch that the ambushed guard had given him, he knew that the dungeons split off into two different directions at the end of this short hallway, both angles perfectly visible to each other. What they didn’t know was how many guards were down there.

Sarvell paused at the cross section, looking both ways. No one to the left. Two guards were to the right, sitting on the floor outside of a cell door, playing some game of chance. “Bet she’s in there,” he murmured to Rialt as they turned and started walking that direction.

“Odds be good,” he agreed.

“Those manacles still loose?”

“I have no let them close,” Rialt assured him.

One of the sitting guards looked up. On seeing a Ramathan heading his direction, he heaved himself to his feet. “Hey, you can’t bring him down here.”

“I was told to put him in Cell 16,” Sarvell answered, still walking forward.

“Cell 16 is the
other
way,” the man responded in exasperation. “He can’t be down here, we have a political prisoner on this end.”

“Oh, sorry,” Sarvell apologized with a contrite smile. “I’ve never been down here before.” The words had carried them to within a few feet of the guards. Sarvell tried to think of something else to say to get them a little closer when Rialt abruptly shed the manacles and darted forward. Before the guards could do more than blink, he’d clopped one hard on the back of the head, knocking him forward and buried his fist in the other’s chest, knocking the breath out of him.