Oberon's Dreams (22 page)

“We saw the dwarves come in, didn’t we?”

“They’re here,” Avery said. “Keep your focus. And, for your fear of reason, keep quiet.”

He threw a glare at Kellen, then slipped away down the hall.

“Why is he so mad at me?” Kellen asked, in a tone too near a normal speaking voice.

“He has a gift for stealth,” Corin said, pointing down to Kellen’s heavy boots. “You do not.”

The yeoman looked crestfallen, but before he could apologize, Corin shook his head. “You’re doing your best. Just…keep doing better.”

Corin darted after Avery, down the corridor and past a busy kitchen, unnoticed. The hallway branched to left and right, and Corin followed the flash of Avery’s black boots to the left. That felt right, anyway, moving toward the mansion’s heart, somewhere sturdy and secure. Somewhere far from windows and other prying eyes. But for a treasure like this sword, somewhere wide and tall. A library or some inner den.

He caught up with Avery at the threshold of a sitting room. The elven thief hid in the shadows of the doorway, but Corin could see what had given him pause. The room beyond offered stairways up and down—to the private chambers up above and the sturdy cellars down below. Corin whispered, “Down.”

Avery’s mouth tightened in a grim smile. “I was just thinking up.”

“It could be either,” Corin said. “But downstairs we are less likely to get caught. We might have time to search, and even if we come up empty, we’ll still be able to make another attempt.”

Avery shook his head. “That’s well considered, but it costs too much in time. We can’t afford it. We should split up.”

“Absolutely not,” Corin said. “We risk too much as it is.”

“But less without the lumbering ox around,” Avery said, rolling his eyes back down the hall behind them. “I swear, if Kellen keeps that up—”

“Keeps what up?” Kellen asked, from right behind them.

Corin was as surprised as Avery. He’d heard the same heavy, clomping boots just down the hall behind them.

“Guards,” Corin whispered.

Kellen’s eyes shot wide. “What do we do?”

Before Corin could find an answer, a pair of Ephitel’s house guards came around the corner behind them. They spotted Kellen instantly and froze in a moment’s uncertainty. Another pair appeared down the hall opposite, across the sitting room, and they were not as hesitant. They drew their swords and broke into a sprint.

Kellen bounced on his toes, almost whimpering. “What do we do?”

Corin and Avery answered as one. “We run!”

“You’ll get yourself killed,” Corin said. “Drop that thing and try to run!”

Kellen looked back over his shoulder, holding Corin’s gaze. “Find the sword,” he said. “Protect the king. And remember me a hero.”

Corin wanted to pummel Kellen then, to drag him bodily down the stairs, but there was no time. With that limp, the soldier likely wouldn’t have made it if he tried. He might buy Corin time to get away, though. Furious, the pirate captain tore himself away and threw himself down the narrow stairs and into the cellar’s gloom. A moment later, steel clashed on steel overhead, and someone cried in pain.

Corin forced himself to run on. He could not have fought five men. Not without some trick, and he was out of tricks. His only choice had been to run. Anything else would have only gotten two men killed or captured instead of one. It was Kellen’s noble right to sacrifice himself. And for the greater good.

Not a word of that made running easier. Corin fought himself for every step until the narrow passages and the heavy stone walls cut off the sounds of fighting behind him and above. Then for the first time, he took some stock of his surroundings. This was not the wide, airy wine cellar he had expected of such a mansion. These were catacombs, close and cold, walled with ancient stone. The corridor was not more than a pace across, and every dozen paces it branched off to the right and left, or else it opened on a room filled with old crates or moldering documents or bones.

Every crossing corridor looked just the same, every storeroom identical. This might be a fine place to secure a precious relic, but Corin couldn’t guess where to begin. He saw no sign of Avery, either. The gentleman was well and truly gone. Corin cursed, showing aggravation to hide his fear, and moved deeper among the passageways.

Corin stepped into one of the storage vaults at random, out of sight, and stood for some time straining to hear any useful noise over the pounding of his heart. He could imagine the distant clang and crash of weapons, but he heard nothing else at all. No footsteps. No voices. No pursuit.

Perhaps Kellen was winning.

Corin dashed the thought. It was not worth hoping for. Kellen the Coward? Cruel though the reputation was, a soldier didn’t win such a name through battle prowess. Corin forced down the hope and focused on making the yeoman’s sacrifice worthwhile.

For now, he was mostly hiding. The catacombs made an excellent place for that. Strange magic flames provided some illumination at every crossing corridor, but shadows lay heavy between them, and the darkness in the vaults was almost complete. Only Corin’s well-trained eyes allowed him to recognize the shapes of crates and shelves.

The darkness made for excellent hiding but lousy searching. So, too, the extent of the catacombs, which at a glance seemed to cover at least as much ground as the sprawling mansion. Corin could easily have spent days searching among the vaults before he could find the one that held his object.

But it was not so difficult a thing as that. He knew that Ephitel had moved quickly, rushing from the dungeons to his home and then back to the palace. If he’d come into the cellars, he would not have wandered far or aimlessly. He would have chosen some special vault, or one that was nearby and handy.

Corin didn’t dare return to the rooms nearest the stairs, but they seemed unlikely candidates anyway. Too easily accessed. Corin set his hope on a more secure stronghold and, still straining his ears for any recognizable noise, he set off deeper into the gloom.

He’d made two turns in his first hasty flight, just to get out of sight, but now that he was farther from the stairs, he worked his way back toward the central corridor. That did seem the most likely. As he approached it, he paused again and again, expecting some sign of searchers, but there was none. He peeked around the corner when he reached it, then eased his stolen sword within its sheath and slipped onto that path.

No one met him, but at the next room he passed, he felt a little thrill of vindication. While the doors of the others stood open through empty stone archways, the rooms along this hall were sealed with iron doors. He felt the pockets of his cloak, searching out the flimsy lockpicks he’d borrowed from Parkyr, and tried them against the first door he came to.

The lock’s mechanism was not a complicated one, but it was heavily made and tough to turn. Corin quickly found the combination to the lock’s tumblers, but when he tried to turn the lock, Parkyr’s miniature tension wrench snapped across its middle. For one long, miserable moment Corin stood staring down at the easiest lock he’d ever failed to open. Then he remembered the torn handle of old man Bryer’s tin cup. He found it in a pocket of his cloak and bent it to the task. With a little force and an unfortunate metallic
skreek
, the heavy iron door fell open.

Corin darted into the room and pushed the door very nearly closed. He dropped the tin handle into the gap to keep the door from closing all the way, then turned away from the door and waited for his eyes to adjust.

What he found, to his surprise, was paper. Stacks and stacks of the stuff. Most of it was tied in bundles, wrapped in coarser parchment and bound with twine, but nearer to the door he found some open packages. Paper. Expensive material, by the feel of it. Soft and thin. Corin might have expected it for some manner of counterfeiting—perhaps to draft more of those writs of provender—but the sheets were too small. Any given piece was barely larger than Corin’s hand.

He wasted no time puzzling over it now. His goal was to find the sword, and it wasn’t in this room. The corridor outside was still deserted. Corin was able to force the next lock much more quickly, but inside that room he found only barrels. They were heavily sealed, and none of them tall enough to hold the sword, so he left them unexamined.

The next door opened smoothly, its lock newer or more carefully maintained, and Corin found a little workshop. A table against one wall held a set of heavy tools, an extinguished lantern, and a scattered pile of the small sheets of paper. On the left side of the table, stacked in a neat pile, were small bundles of the paper, wrapped into careful little cylinders that Corin could have easily concealed within his palm. He picked one up, surprised at the weight, and gashed the paper with his thumbnail.

Heavy grains spilled out across the back of his thumb, and the sulfur scent immediately warned him of danger. Dwarven powder. Not the fancy starlight stuff Corin preferred, but the explosive black powder that drove his ship’s huge cannons.

Tucked inside the paper packet, with a neatly measured dose of powder, was a single iron ball. This was a shot. Every packet was a shot, ready to cut a man down at sixty paces, and easier to load than anything known even in Corin’s time.

Corin remembered the stacks and stacks of paper. He remembered the crates he’d seen nearer the stairs. Were those full of musket shot? He groaned under his breath. The barrels. How much powder did Ephitel already have? How much more did he need from the dwarves to arm his regiments?

Too many questions. Corin had to carry word to Oberon. There was no more time for farces, no more time to play at madness. If the king did not act quickly, he was doomed. Corin grabbed a handful of the packets to take back as proof, but something panicky and hot burned behind his breastbone as soon as he did. He had no love for dwarven powder. Especially this sort. It had only burned him once, and only superficially, but it was devilish stuff. He settled for one packet and tucked it carefully into an inner pocket. Then he tore the rest apart, some minor strike against Ephitel’s plans, and scattered their dust across the floor.

For a heartbeat he wished he had some flint and steel, some spark, that he could use this bit of powder to reduce all the precious paper to so much expensive dust. But paper was not hard to come by, and Corin’s heart quailed at the very thought of lighting the powder. No. He would settle for this scattering. He gulped a calming breath and turned back to the door.

And saw the shadow of a man. His panic redoubled, but Corin fought it down, stealing closer to the door for a better view. He just had time to recognize Avery before the figure began to move again, back toward the stairs where they’d left Kellen.

Before he could go more than a step, Corin whispered, “
Pssst
. Nimble Fingers.”

Avery spun, stopped himself from crying out, then dove toward the door. Corin let him in, then eased the door almost shut again. He waited for a count of ten, then heaved a weary sigh and asked quietly, “Avery…why are you crying?”

The gentleman didn’t sob. He dabbed a handkerchief to his eyes and answered gravely, “Because we’re going to die. Ephitel gets to be a god, and we all have to die. There’s no justice in it.”